The Tamasha and the Totem, Literary Festivals, the Death of Book Pages, and the Uncomfortable Truth About How Books Survive in the Age of the Selfie
The shutting of the book pages of The Washington Post was greeted, predictably, with laments. This was the end of an era, the demise of a certain kind of literary culture, the triumph of commerce over criticism. Careers were lost; a section was closed. But as Nandini Nair observes in the accompanying essay, the same story has been playing out in India for a long while—only with far less frenzy, more insidiously. Over the last two decades, the features and literary sections of all major Indian newspapers have all but disappeared. Listicles have replaced analysis. Celebrity Instagram posts masquerade as news. Books are the postscript, scrambling for the margins.
The explanation offered by editors and proprietors is familiar and, on its face, plausible: no one wants to read a book review; no one cares what authors have to say. The space is better devoted to other things—to politics, to business, to entertainment that actually entertains. Books are a niche interest, an elite pursuit, a luxury that mass-market publications can no longer afford.
Yet even as the coverage of books has vanished from newspapers, something else has been happening. The literature festival in India has only grown. Year after year, in cities and towns across the country, thousands of people gather to hear authors speak, to buy books, to participate in conversations about literature. The crowds are large, enthusiastic, and diverse. They include the selfie-takers and the shoppers, the youngsters in Crocs and crop tops, the families looking for a weekend outing. They are, in the dismissive phrase of the sceptic, there for the tamasha—the spectacle, the show.
Nair’s essay is a passionate defence of these festivals and, by extension, of the crowds that attend them. It is also a sharp rebuke to the intellectual snobbery that dismisses festival-goers as mere consumers of spectacle rather than serious readers. The naysayers, she argues, “dismiss the hordes because of a sense of superiority. It is the nature of the intellectual to scorn the masses.” But if the crowds come for the tamasha and leave with a book, that is a win for literature. If they cheer for influencers and pulp writers, what of it? They are leaving their homes, travelling distances, showing up for an event anchored in books.
The contrast between the death of book pages and the rise of festivals is not a paradox; it is a diagnostic. It tells us something important about how books survive in the contemporary media ecology—and about what the literary community gets wrong when it bemoans the lack of readers, scorns literature festivals, and asphyxiates literary coverage.
The Death of Book Pages: What Was Lost and Why
The disappearance of literary sections from Indian newspapers is not a recent phenomenon; it is the culmination of a two-decade-long process. The reasons are not mysterious. Newspaper economics have shifted dramatically. Advertising revenue has migrated online. Print circulations have declined. Editors are under pressure to maximise every inch of space. Book reviews, which appeal to a relatively small and educated audience, are an obvious candidate for the axe.
But the loss is not merely quantitative; it is qualitative. Book pages provided a space for sustained reflection, for criticism that engaged seriously with ideas and arguments. They were where literature met journalism, where authors were held accountable, where readers could discover new work through the eyes of knowledgeable critics. Their disappearance leaves a void that has not been filled.
Nair’s reference to “listicles” and “celebrity Instagram posts” captures the nature of what has replaced them. The literary has been subsumed by the promotional. Authors appear in the news not because of what they have written but because of what they have said about politics, or because of their personal lives, or because they have been involved in some controversy. The work itself recedes from view.
This is not an accident; it is the logic of the attention economy. In a world of infinite content and limited attention, the algorithm rewards the sensational, the immediate, the shareable. Sustained engagement with a complex work of literature does not generate clicks. It does not go viral. It does not attract advertisers. It is, from the perspective of the platform, a waste of space.
The Rise of Festivals: Books as Experience, Not Commodity
If books have retreated from the pages of newspapers, they have migrated to a different kind of space: the live event. Literature festivals are not new, but their proliferation in India over the past two decades is striking. They have become fixtures of the cultural calendar, drawing crowds that would have been unimaginable a generation ago.
What explains this phenomenon? Nair offers a clue when she observes that festivals show us “reading is communing.” The act of reading is solitary, private, interior. The festival transforms it into something social, public, shared. It brings readers together with authors and with each other. It creates a sense of community around books.
This is not a substitute for reading; it is a complement to it. The festival-goer who buys a book after hearing an author speak may well go home and read it. The teenager who attends a session on young adult fiction may discover a love of reading that lasts a lifetime. The crowds that gather for the tamasha are not necessarily readers, but they are potential readers. They are people who have chosen, of their own free will, to spend time in the company of books.
The sceptic who dismisses these crowds as mere consumers of spectacle misses the point. The spectacle is the hook; the book is the substance. If the hook works, the substance has a chance.
The Intellectual’s Scorn: Why Elitism Hurts Literature
Nair’s critique of the intellectual snobbery that dismisses festival-goers is the most provocative and important part of her essay. It is easy, she acknowledges, to cavil about sessions that were held and topics that were avoided. It is easy to be cynical about the selfie-takers and the shops that mushroom across the venues. It is easy to believe that crowds emerge for reasons of show rather than substance.
But this cynicism, she argues, is a form of elite self-indulgence. It is the intellectual’s way of asserting superiority over the masses, of marking a distinction between the truly cultured and the merely curious. It is a posture that has real consequences. When intellectuals scorn festivals, they alienate the very people who might become readers. When they dismiss popular genres, they cut themselves off from the literary culture that actually exists.
The alternative is not to abandon standards or to celebrate everything uncritically. It is to recognise that literature has always had multiple registers, multiple audiences, multiple purposes. The great writers of the past were not all high modernists; many of them wrote for popular audiences, engaged with popular genres, and were read by people who would never have called themselves intellectuals. The distinction between high and low culture is not eternal; it is historically produced and constantly shifting.
The Future of Books: Why We Need to Make Noise
Nair’s conclusion is both a plea and a prediction. “The death of book pages and the rise of festivals show that we need to make much more of our books.” Books cannot afford to be quiet, to retreat into the margins, to accept their relegation to a niche. They need to be noisy, visible, present. They need to be seen as foundational, not as an exclusive elite pursuit.
The literature festival is one way of making that noise. It brings books out of libraries and authors out of their dustbins. It shows that books can be the centre of a good show, with the right mix of “pomp and gravitas.” It demonstrates that young people, in their Crocs and crop tops, understand the currency of books. If books have a future, Nair argues, it will be because of them.
This is not a naive optimism that ignores the commercial pressures and cultural trends that work against books. It is a strategic recognition that the old ways of sustaining literary culture—the book pages, the serious reviews, the elite publications—are no longer sufficient. New ways must be found. And the festivals, for all their flaws, are one of those new ways.
Conclusion: The Crowd and the Critic
The tension between the crowd and the critic is as old as literature itself. The critic worries about standards, about quality, about the erosion of taste. The crowd simply shows up, looking for something to enjoy. The critic fears that the crowd’s preferences will drive out the serious, the difficult, the worthwhile. The crowd proves, by its presence, that literature still matters, even if it matters in ways the critic does not always recognise.
Nair’s essay is an intervention in this enduring tension. It does not argue that critics should abandon their standards or that festivals should be immune to critique. It argues, rather, that the intellectual’s scorn for the masses is misplaced and self-defeating. The crowds that gather at literature festivals are not the enemy of literature; they are its future. They are the people who will buy books, who will talk about them, who will pass them on to their children. They are the ones who will ensure that books survive.
The death of book pages is a loss, and it should be lamented. But the rise of festivals is a gain, and it should be celebrated. The two phenomena are connected: as books have retreated from one space, they have advanced into another. The challenge for those who care about literature is not to bemoan what has been lost but to engage with what is emerging. It is to find new ways of making books matter, new ways of reaching readers, new ways of being noisy.
The critic who dismisses the festival crowd is not defending literature; they are abandoning it to its fate. The critic who engages with the crowd, who speaks to them, who learns from them, is doing the work that criticism has always done: mediating between the work and its audience, helping to create the conditions in which literature can flourish.
The tamasha is not the enemy of the totem; it is its vehicle. The crowd is not the destroyer of literary culture; it is its lifeblood. The festivals are not a distraction from reading; they are an invitation to it. That is the argument of Nair’s essay, and it deserves to be taken seriously by everyone who cares about the future of books.
Q&A Section
Q1: What is the central argument of Nandini Nair’s essay about the relationship between the death of book pages and the rise of literary festivals?
A1: Nair’s central argument is that the simultaneous decline of newspaper literary sections and the proliferation of literature festivals are not contradictory but diagnostic of a shift in how books survive in the contemporary media ecology. As books have retreated from one space (print journalism), they have advanced into another (live events). The disappearance of book pages represents a loss of sustained, critical engagement, but the rise of festivals represents a gain in popular engagement, community-building, and the democratisation of literary culture. Nair argues that intellectuals who scorn festival crowds as mere consumers of spectacle are engaging in elitist self-indulgence. The crowds, with their selfies and shopping, are potential readers; they are leaving homes, travelling distances, and showing up for events anchored in books. If they come for the tamasha and leave with a book, it is a win for literature.
Q2: How does Nair characterise the intellectual’s attitude toward festival crowds, and why does she consider this attitude counterproductive?
A2: Nair characterises the intellectual’s attitude as one of scorn rooted in a sense of superiority. It is easy, she acknowledges, to be cynical about selfie-takers, shoppers, and crowds drawn by spectacle rather than substance. But this cynicism, she argues, is a form of elite self-indulgence that alienates the very people who might become readers. It cuts intellectuals off from the literary culture that actually exists and dismisses the potential for festivals to serve as gateways to reading. The counterproductive consequence is that intellectuals who should be advocating for books end up undermining one of the few spaces where books remain visible and accessible. Nair insists that instead of scorning youngsters in Crocs and crop tops, we should celebrate them: “They understand the currency of books. If books have a future, it will be because of them.”
Q3: What does Nair mean when she says that festivals show us “reading is communing,” and why is this significant for understanding the social function of literature?
A3: The phrase “reading is communing” captures the idea that while the act of reading itself is solitary, private, and interior, the literary experience also has a social dimension that festivals activate. Reading a book is a private conversation between author and reader; attending a festival transforms that into a public gathering where readers meet authors, discuss books with each other, and share in a collective experience of literature. This is significant because it challenges the notion that literature is only an elite, individual pursuit. Festivals demonstrate that books can be the centre of community, that they can bring people together across differences of age, class, and background. They show that literature matters not only to solitary readers in private libraries but also to crowds in public spaces. The social function of literature—its capacity to create community, to generate conversation, to connect people—is as important as its aesthetic function, and festivals are one of the primary vehicles for realising it.
Q4: How does Nair address the common criticism that festival crowds are more interested in spectacle than in books?
A4: Nair addresses this criticism by refusing the dichotomy between spectacle and substance. She argues that the two are not mutually exclusive. The spectacle—the tamasha, the selfies, the shops, the buzz—is the hook that draws people in. But once they are there, they are in the presence of books and authors. They may buy a book, attend a session, hear an author speak. The experience may spark an interest that leads to reading. Nair’s position is pragmatic: “if they come for the tamasha and leave with a book, it is a win for literature.” She also challenges the elitism underlying the criticism. The sceptic dismisses the crowds because they cheer for influencers and pulp writers. But Nair asks: “what if they do?” The genre or the author’s popularity does not negate the fact that people are engaging with books. The festival’s role is to create a space where that engagement can happen, regardless of the motives that bring people through the gates.
Q5: What does Nair mean by the concluding statement that “books need to be seen not as an exclusive elite pursuit, but as foundational”?
A5: This statement is a call to democratise literary culture. The view of books as an “exclusive elite pursuit” has historically limited their reach and influence. It has confined literature to a small, educated, affluent class and has marginalised popular genres, new readers, and unconventional venues. Nair argues that books need to be seen as “foundational”—as essential to public life, as relevant to everyone, as a common resource rather than a private luxury. This shift in perception has practical implications. It means investing in spaces (like festivals) that make books accessible. It means celebrating new readers rather than scorning them. It means recognising that the future of books depends not on preserving elite enclaves but on expanding the circle of those who read. The “unwieldy raucous literature festival” is, for Nair, the best testament that books are for all—not because it meets elite standards of literary purity, but because it brings together diverse crowds in celebration of the written word. The festival’s very messiness is evidence of its democratic reach.
