god is in the details (I)

a bangalore literature festival 2023 series

Dec 09, 2023

on the 2nd and 3rd of december, i attended the bangalore literature festival. i had such a lovely time, and the panels were so amazing, that i decided to serialise everything i wanted to say.

for a few weeks, thodi will follow a blf theme, where i discuss the things that truly spoke to me during the two-day festival, and i’m very, very excited about it. i cover broader observations like the all-pervading sense of community experienced in events like these, as well as specific phrases and points covered by authors that i instantly knew i wanted to sit with and elaborate on when i heard them.

i hope you enjoy this little deviation from the regular programme. or, you know, tolerate it with an indulgent sort of smile and slowly shake your head in a very fond and exasperated manner. there you go. onward!

ps (pre-script?): the title of the series is from Dr. Abraham Verghese’s keynote address on the 2nd, where he mentioned the quote, and it has stuck with me every since i heard it on that sunny morning.

this week’s Thought (singular)

to any higher powers reading this (the rest of you can look away this doesn’t concern you) - can we come to an agreement about giving me a blocked nose? one breathable nostril for five minutes at a temple? two for ten, perhaps? please leave your counter-offer in the comments.

a very warm welcome to all new readers. i love new readers so much that whenever i get an email about a new reader, i manifest that they never burn their tongue on a hot beverage again. thank you for joining us. may you remember to blow into the cup, have the strength to exercise patience and caution, and enjoy intact tastebuds after. i can’t taste anything.

welcome to part I of god is in the details, a three-part series where i discuss my time at and thoughts on the bangalore literature festival 2023. this installment is all about the feeling of community experienced at the event, the small interactions with strangers that contributed to the togetherness, and how lovely it was that in the midst of all the diversity in the crowd, there was synthesis in a deep love for words. i also briefly elaborate on the nourishment provided by engaging with art like this, and how it feels like a spiritual sort of sustenance to be steeped in culture for an extended period of time.

it’s still early, not yet 10am. before we can step out of the metro station, a woman asks us which exit to take for the shuttle to the lit fest. we travel together, and separate once we reach the venue. we don’t get her name, and we don’t see her again on either day.

in the first session, before the speaker has arrived for the keynote address, as the crowd begins to gather, the regulars greet each other. they wave old friends down, and make space for them in neighbouring chairs. parents and children, partners, large groups of friends pore over the schedule deciding which panels to attend, when to go to the bookstore, who is signing what, how to time lunch in between sessions. two women sit in front of us, and effortlessly strike up conversation with us. we discuss which novels we’ve read recently and which sessions we’re excited to attend. they tell us about their travel-based book club. we take a picture for them, careful to capture the backdrop of BANGALORE LITERATURE FESTIVAL 2023 on the still-empty stage. we don’t get their names, and we don’t see them again on either day.

we go to the bookstore. there’s a counter for zines. i flip through the one on display, and the man behind the counter gives me a free bookmark for my efforts. i don’t get his name, and i don’t see him again on either day.

throughout the festival, we cross paths with thousands of people, rushing to their next sessions, making marks on their schedules, debating missing this for that or that for this, reaching venues an hour early so they get a seat for the one they desperately want to attend. we run into friends and acquaintances from school, college, work, some whom we haven’t spoken to in years. the children’s section is full of kids sitting in rapt attention and engagement as authors read out their stories, lying on the grass after lunch in the beautiful bangalore winter, replying in loud and excited unison when they’re asked a question.

the first day is sunny, and it rains on the second, but the feeling of community is a constant, palpable presence. it thrums below every innocuous interaction, every ‘do you know where the lawns are?’ and ‘which sessions look interesting to you?’.

there are grandmothers in wheelchairs with clearly loved books on their laps and listening to the author speak. there are five-year-olds holding books that have animated lions on the cover as their parents dotingly take photos of them with the author. there are students who’ve come straight from college with their ID cards still slung over their neck. there are accents from different parts of the world mingling in vibrant conversation. there are readers and there are writers and there are those who simply like how words work in any media.

the common denominator is a deep passion for reading and literature, birthing an easy feeling of being a part of a group so large that loves a thing so much that they will spend two days braving the sun and the drizzle and the over-priced food just to hear their favourite author speak for half an hour. it’s a feeling of community that makes my heart full, connected to every single other person in that crowd.

there’s a nourishment that art provides. i don’t have a better word for it, it’s just…nourishing. it feels like soul food, it feels like you’re feeding a part of yourself that you either didn’t really pay much attention to or simply didn’t know even existed. it’s tending to a garden that’s just waiting to be watered, it’s feeding a gut that didn’t realise it had to be fed.

i had mentioned the word ‘sustenance’ above, while introducing this section. i truly believe that to be engaged in creativity keeps you awake to wonder, alive to hope, and open to joy. every internal shift that occurs when you listen to an incredible song, or marvel at a piece of art, or read that one stanza of your favourite poem is providential, characterised by those charming bodily reactions like goosebumps on your arms and the feeling of something crawling up your neck.

i remember thinking of these words, on nourishment and sustenance, at the end of day 1, when i was equal parts tired and excited. smack dab in the middle of the thing, and observing the curious sense of some store in me being replenished, some undefinable insufficiency being slowly but surely and thoroughly addressed, busily working in the wings off-stage even after i had reached home, even as i was in bed and setting my alarm for the next morning, even today, nearly a week after the thing is done. it sustains.

i swore to myself that i wouldn’t deviate from the festival itself, but thinking about how the healing provided by art is a long-term consequence of engaging with it drives me to include a caveat about the immortality of art itself. i’ll spare you for now and make a separate edition out of it in the future, but you best believe that it’s coming soon to a thodi near you.

if you had attended the festival as well, or any literary festival at all recently, or honestly any festival, i’d love to hear all about it. did you get to interact with your favourite author? did you spend the day avoiding an old friend that you didn’t want to talk to because you were a different person when you used to be close? did you watch a discussion about playwriting and instantly dream of going home and opening a draft and typing ‘CHARACTER X ENTERS FROM THE LEFT, LOOKS SAD’? let me know!

next week, i’ll be discussing some key thoughts that were brought out in my favourite panels, including the ideas that a story is a collaboration between the author’s words and the reader’s imagination, and how everything you create is constantly tinged with your judgment and emotional state. thank you for reading!

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