No country for middle-aged men - notes from the Jaipur Literature Festival

JLF on the weekend was exhausting. The crowds poured in, unmindful of the furious discussions churning behind the scenes about the absence of you-know-who, the readings from The Satanic Verses by Hari Kunzru, Amitava Kumar, Ruchir Joshi and Jeet Thayil, the subsequent departure from the festival of those four writers as well (they were requested to leave for their own safety), the statements of solidarity being made from the stage at most events.

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The lines to the registration desk alone snaked backwards as far as the main road. Every event was packed to overflowing. The organisers claim 18,000 people entered on Sunday, and I believe them. And the enthusiasm was major. That Chetan Bhagat would have a full house was a given. That Oprah Winfrey's session had mammoth attendance was only expected. But to have a thousand-odd people wait patiently for A C Grayling to reach the venue ("Delayed flight" ... "He's landed!" ... "He's out of the airport" ... "He's on the road" ... He's here!") so his already postponed conversation with Steven Pinker could start, now that's something. Your correspondent was lucky enough to find a crate to sit on by the sidelines for that one. And that's all the sitting he did for the day.

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The crowds meant that people just stayed put through breaks between sessions, just to have a seat. It meant genteel stampedes between each set of events as those who didn't have seats at the event they just came from trudges hopefully to other venues, bumping into those who were doing the same thing from those venues. Authors, however, were whisked efficiently from one stage to the next, then to the book-signing tent and then their next engagement, so efficiently that one suspects that Diggi has secret underground passages known only to the organisers.

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It seems clear that the Festival has far outgrown Diggi Palace. As charming as the venues are, and though there was now more than 30% more space than last year, though entry was restricted to those who registered, though security was tight, the popularity of the event has meant that everyone has less of a good time, except possibly the book store and the folks with the kullad chai concession.

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By Sunday night, I was tottering — and that had nothing to do with the Glenlivet consumed at the Penguin party on Saturday and the mulled wine at the Hatchette do on Sunday — and had the beginnings of an upset tummy, thanks, I suspect, to the festival food, which swam in oil and spice. A recent knee injury barely recovered from only made matters worse. And the final straw was finding my notebook missing. Somewhere in the grounds of Diggi Palace, my notes from three days have been trampled into the dust by all those 18,000 people. I wound up in bed for most of Monday.

The thoughts and opinions shared here are of the author.