Lit fests: by the elite, for the elite, of the elite

I used to love lit fests. The idea of spending a weekend surrounded by books, writers, and provocative discussions sounded like heaven to me. But over the years, as I have hopped from one lit fest to another, I have started to feel a bit disillusioned. They are everywhere. From big cities to quaint and quiet (not anymore) hill stations like Ooty, there is no escaping them.

Don’t get me wrong. I still think literature deserves to be celebrated. But at this point, lit fests seem less about books and ideas and more about the “who’s who” of social circles.

Have you noticed how it is almost always the same set of people at these festivals? The same authors giving the same speeches, the same performers recycling their acts and jokes, and sometimes even the same moderators asking the same predictable questions. It’s a loop of déjà vu. If you have been to one festival, you have been to them all.

And then there’s the crowd. These festivals are marketed as open celebrations of literature, but they are often gatherings of the elite. Most audience come from similar backgrounds, moving in the same social circles, often more interested in being seen than hearing something new. Always dressed to impress, sipping on overpriced artisanal coffee while discussing their next exotic vacation. I am not saying everyone who attends is part of an elite club, but it’s like a party where everyone already knows each other.

Where is the local flavour?

This one really gets me. So many literary festivals are named after the places they are held in, but they have almost nothing to do with those places. Take the Ooty Lit Fest, for example (my home, my heart). You would think at least a couple of sessions or performances would focus on the history and culture of the Nilgiris. The indigenous voices, local folklore, and its rich traditions. But nope. The spotlight is on bestselling authors, who discuss topics that often feel disconnected from the place and its people.

Where are the authors and poets who write in regional languages, the storytellers from indigenous communities? Where is the representation of the people who actually live and breathe the culture of these regions?

The place seems to be just a convenient backdrop. And it’s not just Ooty. Jaipur Lit Fest. The Bangalore Lit Fest. Swap the names and you wouldn’t know the difference. It feels like every city, every town, and every half-decent hill station has its own lit fest. When everything is branded as special, nothing feels special anymore.

Instead of being unique, meaningful events, they are starting to feel like factory products: mass-produced, bland, and indistinguishable from one another. I wouldn’t be surprised if my neighbourhood decides to start one next year.

There is some solace in knowing I am not the only one who thinks lit fests are overrated. Almost eight years ago, a Business Standard article, *Too many lit fests but few takers, pointed out the flaws in the current literary festival culture. Another satire article in Scroll called out the commercialisation of literature, the focus on celebrity authors, and overlooking genuine literary voices. Festivals that were once about meaningful engagement are now becoming hollow, repetitive, and sometimes even politically influenced (just check out some sessions from BLF 2024*).

I don’t want literary festivals to disappear. I believe in the power of literature to inspire, challenge, and connect us. And I think lit fests, when done right, can be truly transformative and revolutionary spaces. But right now, they’re stuck in a loop. Too many events, too much sameness, and not enough soul.