The Commonwealth – in other words (2010)

 

Admittedly I was a little bemused.  My pupils widened as the stunningly attractive woman approached me.  You are married, you ARE married said a persistent voice at the back of my hormone ridden brain ...you are married.  The young lady came to me, smiling.  I’m not sure what dialogue I expected, but I certainly didn’t expect her to say...‘Do you know that you have a very sharp nose’.  If I had a crest, it would have fallen.That one ego crushing line was my introduction to one Nigerian writer and from those few words I gathered that my wife had nothing to worry about, and her man was indeed safe from temptation. 

 

At that brief moment of interaction, I had just stepped down from the dais and, along with three others, had finished reading some of my work at the 6^th of October ‘Writers Meet’ for the 2010 Commonwealth Writers Festival, held in conjunction with the Commonwealth Games, New Delhi, for ten days in October.

K.S. Maniam

I was honoured to be there along with another Malaysian writer, playwright/poet - K.S.Maniam.  Together we had been invited over to Delhi to take part in a series of readings and seminars, from 4^th October to 13the October, dedicated to writing throughout the Commonwealth of Nations, formerly known as the British Commonwealth.

Delhi is a far country and, when not raining, the sun rebounded off minarets as auto-rickshaws, seemingly invulnerable to accident, sped their chaotic ways through streets crowded with Delhites and tourists visiting for the 19^th Commonwealth Games.  At that time Delhi was going through a make-over, sprucing itself up to be centre stage for the world’s press and sports tourists and, in so doing, was only adding to the already existing chaos on the previously congested streets.  Various road races, a by-product of the Games, did not help much to quell the disturbances either.  

But it was not the Games that we had come for, at least not the physical but perhaps more the verbal games of poetry and finely wrought prose brought to Delhi by the Sahitya Akademi  - the National Academy of Letters for India.  For it was they (Sahitya Akademi)  who held the Commonwealth Writers Festival - inviting writers and poets from the far reaches of the Commonwealth of Nationals to strut our stuff in front of a most appreciative  Delhi audience - and strut we did indeed.

Subodh Sarkar

And it was all thanks to poet and photographer Ankur Betageri, renown Bengali poet, professor Subodh Sarkar (editor of Indian Literature) and Deputy Secretary of the Sahitya Akademi - Geetanjali Chatterjee, who were instrumental in bringing together writers and poets from Nigeria, Bengal, Manipur, Malaysia, South Africa, Canada, Guyana, Samoa, Bangladesh, Botswana, Pakistan, U.K., The Gambia, New Zealand, Punjab, Kashmir, Cyprus, Australia, Gujarat, Mauritius and many other places, backed by Commonwealth funding and India’s Ministry of Culture  to interact, read, recite and debate.

I was most grateful to be on the same bill as Malaysia’s K.S. Maniam  - recipient of the Raja Rao Award for outstanding contributions to the literature of the South Asian Diaspora, in 2000,  author of In a Far Country (1993), The Loved Flaw (2001) and many other works.  I was also privileged to be included with international writer Kunal Basu, author of The Japanese Wife (2008) made into a beautiful film by Aparna Sen (2010) and together with Nigerian writer Abaobi Tricia Nwangbani (already mentioned in connection with the sharp nose incident).  It was a highly successful series of events running (pun intended) alongside the more physical endeavours normally associated with the Commonwealth Games, held every four years.

And that was the week that was, well 10 days, and later in the week our very own Mr Maniam read an adaption of his story The Loved Flaw, written to include many ‘voices’ in the telling of his tale of love and marriage.  However, that evening, the evening of my Delhi debut, Bengali poet Yashodhara Roychoudhury highlighted man’s, and woman’s, relationship to household objects in her stunning series of quirkily brilliant poems while the quiet Ibomcha Singh read and wowed us all with the intonation of poems in his beautiful language – Manipuri.  For those not in the know Manipur is a state in North Eastern India and borders on Myanmar (Burma) hence the uniqueness of its language.

When it came to my turn to read, I had already decided against wearying listeners in the 5-7pm slot by reading any of my short stories, instead I produced a number of shorter pieces, poems included, to tantalise literary taste buds and hoped not to let the minutes drag too much before the next reader – the wonderful Sukrita Paul Kumar, took to the lectern.

For one brief second, albeit closer to Andy Warhol’s infamous 15 minutes than seconds, I had my moment of near rock star fame - but not rock star fortune.  Galloping groupies galumphed from out of the crowd - or was that my imagination running on overdrive, and one solitary poetess remarking on my nose.  I was mobbed, well asked to sign my autograph by at least a couple of members of the audience – probably students, and to this day I am not too sure exactly why but apparently it has become a custom at such events in India for students to acquire scribbling of such hapless writers .

So it was worth it.  The cramped seat in the silver cigar tube loosely called an airline, the heat and the billowing dust of Delhi’s eternally dusty streets, the near kills in auto-rickshaws dodging cattle, trishaws, cars, motorcycles, trucks and just about any object, animal, vegetable or mineral which may chance to be on a Delhi street anywhere and at any time.

Of course it was worth it to be cosseted for three nights in five, yes five-star luxury, transported to and fro to read, watch, listen and comment on current Commonwealth literature from Urdu poets to those from the African continent and scattered all around the world in what is loosely called the Commonwealth of Nations – comprising of fifty four independent member states.

My regret and regrets ...I have but a few, but then again, too few to mention are all concerned with separation anxiety.  It was a marvellous time, friendships forged and old friends re-met, and an exciting time to meet so many people with similar ideas and interest – like writing and the eternal innocence of the writer wondering why he/she has no money.  

But it had to end.  We each hastened off to our loved ones, dissipated throughout the world with, no doubt, thoughts and feelings not too dissimilar to those hard working athletes who also had come together for a few days in the exotic location of Delhi, India, no longer part of the Empire or the Raj but remaining a distinguished member of the Commonwealth.

  It would be nice if we were able to do it all over again in another four years time and, who knows, in these times of increasing awareness of writers and poetry it may just happen.  If South Korea can have an ‘Olympics of Literature’ in Seoul (2010), in conjunction with the International Comparative Literature Association (ICLA), anything can happen.