Why I’m not boarding that flight to Sharjah

Every November, as the Sharjah International Book Fair comes alive, a peculiar migration begins from Kerala — of writers, or rather people who have decided to call themselves writers. They pack their bags with boxes of freshly printed books, and get on a flight to Sharjah to make literary history, or at least a Facebook post that looks something like it.

At the airports, they are impossible to miss. They wear colourful kurtas and carry tote bags filled with their own books. Some even hold handmade posters announcing their ‘international release’. There is a glow of achievement on their faces, as if they were departing to collect the Nobel Prize. Airlines must be silently blessing the tribe. For two weeks in November, the flights from Kochi to Sharjah are packed, not with traders or tourists but with poets, philosophers and literary performers.

Once they reach Sharjah, the real fair begins. The fair has two parts: one for books and another for egos. The second one is usually more crowded. Authors move through the aisles like hunters on a mission, their quarry a well-known face that might lend legitimacy to their latest creation. This is usually a senior writer but could just as well be a celebrity willing to ‘release’ their book, ideally in front of a small audience and a camera phone.

The ‘launch’ event could happen near a tea stall if not outside the main hall, or a photo-friendly corner of a corridor. A loyal friend or relative is usually at hand to click the photo. Within minutes, it appears on Facebook with a caption that might read, ‘Blessed moment! My latest book was released at the Sharjah International Book Fair by the legendary writer [insert name of quarry].’ The comments roll in: ‘So proud of you!’; ‘What an inspiration!’; ‘Next stop, Booker Prize!’

According to journalist Basheer Madala, who attended this year’s fair (6–17 November), about 1,200 books were released. Each release gets a grand total of 10 to 20 minutes before the next hopeful writer takes the stage. Of these, 890 books this year were from Kerala, most of them in Malayalam.

It raises an awkward question: what is happening in this small state that produces more writers than readers? Why is no other part of India feeling such an uncontrollable urge to publish? And why are the organisers in Sharjah not insisting on any quality checks?

The answers possibly lie in our times, in the power of social media to construct personas and its fantastic reach that grants everyone a shot at fame, however evanescent. Writing has become less of a calling and more of a performance. It no longer begins with solitude or discipline but with the thought, ‘What will look good on Instagram?’ For many, the book is just an accessory that props their ‘intellectual’ persona, a pretence that social media rewards.

Kerala’s self-publishing boom is proof that this is not an imagined scenario. Every café has a writer, every WhatsApp group has a poet, and every family has someone working on a ‘collection’ of short stories. Most of these books are printed at personal cost, under invented imprints that sound impressive. Soon as the book is printed, the predictable next stop is Sharjah — get there during the book fair, stage a photographed ‘release’, and wait for the ‘likes’ to reward the effort.

Sadly, not many of these books are read, not even by the authors’ closest friends. Reading has quietly gone out of fashion. Bookshops are shutting down, libraries are gathering dust, and literary discussions have been replaced by endless preening on social media. The state that once had a serious number of serious readers is now busily producing unreadable writers.

Women writers often outsmart the men in this new art form. They are quick to network, sharp in identifying the right angles for photographs, and skilled at locating passing celebrities for book releases. In the performance of authorship, they often win. Their sense of presentation, at least, is more refined.

Keralites living in Sharjah and the surrounding regions, tied to their professions and routines, often choose this period to holiday back home in Kerala. Nostalgia and a yearning for the homeland is a draw for sure, but there is another reason — they prefer to avoid encounters with writers from their extended families or friend circles in their adopted country.

Otherwise, they feel socially obliged to provide free food, lodging and hospitality. They may have to accompany these writers to the festival and become props in the social media spectacle, including but not limited to being in the frame for the ‘feeling blessed’ photo-ops. Over time, they have perfected the art of politely staying absent.

The phenomenon is both amusing and sad. The democratisation of writing is an attractive idea. It could’ve been a triumph of creativity, a way for writers to reach readers without having to rely on the high priests and middlemen of publishing. Instead, it has turned into a circus of vanity for pretenders. Writing is supposed to be a slow, meditative, often painful act of reflection. Today, it is a race to print faster than one can think.

Am I tempted to be on the flight to Sharjah? No, thank you! I do not want to turn literature into an airport event. Or see words turned into props. I’m happier waiting for the right sentence to arrive, not forcing one into existence for a social media caption. I’m quite contented on the ground, reading, thinking, cherishing the dignity of words that still mean something.