It rained one day during the Jaipur Literature Festival. I expected the worst; I expected rain-sodden lawns, an empty venue, drenched writers and ruined books. But nothing of the sort happened. Thousands braved the rain to stand — some without umbrellas — and listened to writers that they had perhaps never heard of earlier. Everything ran on time, no venues were evacuated — in spite of the fact that almost all of them are in shamianas — and the books were safe.
The contrast from a similar rainy day almost a decade ago was stark. The books tent had flooded, talks
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