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                      The JLF and the election results

Dear Reader: You will probably feel a whiff of déjà vu as you read this. For, once upon a time – during the good, not-so-old, pre-corona days – I had been a weekly presence at your Saturday/Sunday breakfast as a footloose blogger. Having been bitten by the bug once again, here I am, albeit in a different avatar (with more grey hair and less wisdom) for my weekend rendezvous with you, hoping that you will forgive me if you find it an unwarranted, ill-mannered intrusion into your busy world of WhatsApp-ing, Twitter-ing, Facebook-ing and so on…

 

The last week (10 March-17 March) was all travel for me. While the Assembly election results were trickling in, accompanied by Saroj, my better- (and younger) half, I had already landed at Jaipur for the famous literature festival (JLF). Wow! The josh, the gaiety and the excitement particularly amongst the youth attendees had to be seen to be believed. It felt wonderful to see the gennext thronging the venues rapt in catching every spoken word, and vying with each other to pump questions at the speakers with such hunger and alacrity. Despite the toxicity of the present times, deepening communal fissures in the society, clogging of hearts and minds with hatred and venom, all was still not lost, I thought–  looking with pride at these young bibliophiles.

Among the speakers, it was a delight to hear William Dalrymple discuss his well-known, historical books with the evergreen, eternally dapper, lady-killer Shashi Tharoor (who I have always envied both for his looks and books), and speak about the brazen loot of this country by our colonial masters who ruled us once. Among others, I also loved Bollywood actor Neena Gupta’s bold takes on her life and loves, the male prejudices and the gender biases she had to contend with, while discussing her much acclaimed autobiography ‘Sach Kahun To’.

The sun had mellowed when we were back in the hotel. The evening draped in its spring trousseau was descending on the capital city of this history-soaked land of proud Rajput royals. Responding to its soft rustles, coos and whispers, as I sat sipping beer, the cacophony of TV anchors gone berserk over the election results began pounding my ears. Knowing only too well where their cringing loyalties lay and what partisan stuff most of them habitually churn out, I blanked them out without a moment’s delay. I knew what all the din and noise was about: that the Hindutva and bigotry have won; the core existential issues that impinge upon aam aadmi, haven’t– having been triumphantly steamrolled by the WhatsApp university’s (and other social medial channels’) propaganda war-machine. That the Goebbels has won; voices of reason, sanity, tolerance and inclusivity, haven’t.

With a deep sigh, I had taken my last sip and called it a day, with Sahir’s poignant lines of optimism reverberating in my mind’s ears:

वो सुबह कभी तो आएगी…

जिस सुबह की ख़ातिर जुग जुग से हम सब मर-मर कर जीते हैं

जिस सुबह की अमृत धुन में हम ज़हर के प्याले पीते हैं

इन भूखी प्यासी रूहों पर एक दिन तो कर्म फ़रमाएगी …

जब दुःख के बादल पिघलेंगे, जब सुख का सागर झलकेगा

जब अम्बर झूम के नाचेगा, जब धरती नग़मे गाएगी

वो सुबह कभी तो आएगी…

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