A&L Nov_2018

DLF 2018
Literary jollies:
My experience of Dhaka Lit Fest
cricket match irrelevant when talking about a literary festival? I don’t think
so, given how many writers love the game.)
All literary jollies like this become emotionally intense; when they
take place thousands of miles from one’s home, even more so. They give
the events an extra charge; and the friendships are forged at a higher
temperature than in familiar surroundings (I mean this figuratively, not
literally. The weather in Dhaka in November is, as readers of this paper will
know, deliciously balmy. Well it was when I was there, and it suited me). As
for what I could tell about the country itself, which was not much, admittedly,
well, let me put this tactfully: some Westerners can have misgivings
about visiting Muslim countries, for all sorts of reasons, many of them bad
ones, but at no point, not even for a second, whether in our plush hotel or
just wandering through the city itself, did I experience anything other than
civility, friendliness, and genuine welcome. Nor did it seem like a population
suffering under (I name no names) a stern or oppressive regime.
As for the literary part of the Festival, I do not have much to say, because
PHOTO: MAHMUD HOSSAIN OPU
• Nicholas Lezard
16
It is now coming up to two years since I attended the Dhaka Literary Festival,
and yet my memories of it are fresh and pleasant. I am not normally
a fan of literary festivals, preferring to operate from the safety of my
own living room, but the chance to visit the subcontinent (not a phrase I
like using that much; that “sub-” has something of a condescending air, even
though it’s not meant to) was a powerful allurement, and London in November
can be grim.
The first surprise was the military escort. I’d never had one of these before,
but the organisers were keen to allay any anxiety the guests might have had
following the terrorist outrage on the Holey Artisan Bakery the previous July.
This was not a trivial anxiety, but we were assured that everything possible
would be done to guarantee our safety and, also, I (and, I suspect, many of my
fellow guests) felt that if literature is to mean anything, or do any good in the
world, then it must be brave, or the people who serve it must be prepared to
stick their necks out on its behalf.
But because most of the guests, as far as I could tell, were British, we
never talked or even thought about these fears much, except to joke about
them. It became clear, very quickly, that we were in safe hands. Our only
real worry was of dying of old age in one of Dhaka’s celebrated traffic jams.
(I gather it is the most congested city in the world; whether this is true or
not, it stopped me from complaining about London traffic for a long time
afterwards.)
As for Dhaka itself, I fell in love with it. I don’t think any cricket-lover
can feel wholly out of place in a country where the game is played, and as we
crawled past the park on the way to the campus where the events took place, I
looked with deep approval at the way every spare inch of it was taken up with
what looked like overlapping impromptu cricket matches. I even got to play
in one (on a proper pitch, not in the park), for a scratch team of the Authors’
XI, scoring a streaky single before being bowled by one of the opposition’s
rare bad balls: a full toss which clipped the top of off-stump. I was slow to
start my walk back to the pavilion because I was hoping that the umpire’s
raised finger was actually a sign for a no-ball. It wasn’t. (Is mentioning a
As for Dhaka itself, I fell in love with it. I don’t
think any cricket-lover can feel wholly out of
place in a country where the game is played
there is little mileage in reporting an event which ran so smoothly. The events
were stimulating, intelligent, good-humoured, and, astonishingly, entirely
free of tedium (this is why I am not normally a fan of literary festivals, which
can suffer from an excess of smugness. Not this one). If there was any panic
behind the scenes, I never heard about it; in fact, the more I think about it, the
more I marvel at the professionalism and competence of the organisers. Not
only are you having to arrange dozens of events, stalls, dinners, guides, and
the co-operation of the military, for crying out loud (Hay and Cheltenham,
the two main literary festivals in the UK, do not have that particular logistical
problem) and whatnot, you have to deal with writers, who are not all
known for being the least demanding and unfussy of people. Writers love
a good gripe, and will often go looking for things to gripe about if nothing
immediately offers itself, but we had nothing. Even V.S. Naipaul, who graced
the Festival, looked genuinely happy to be there. The smile on his face was
unforced, and so were ours. I very, very much want to go back there again,
and envy those of you who are going to attend.•
ARTS & LETTERS
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 6, 2018 | DHAKA TRIBUNE