Where stories breathe easily the Shillong Literary Festival and the search for the truth of the tale

“Literature is where I go to explore the highest and lowest places in human society and in the human spirit, where I hope to find not absolute truth but the truth of the tale, of the imagination, and of the heart.”

Salman Rushdie’s words drifted easily across Shillong this week—carried by autumn winds through pines and cherry blossoms, settling gently over Ward’s Lake where writers, poets, storytellers and lovers of language gathered for the fifth edition of the Shillong Literary Festival. It felt as if the city itself—vines intertwined with old stone, clear skies flushed with early winter—had been waiting for such a line, a reminder of why stories matter and where they take us.

The three-day festival, which began on November 20, was conceived as a meeting ground for minds from across the world and from within Meghalaya’s own hills—a place where global voices mingled effortlessly with local storytellers. True to Rushdie’s belief in literature as a space of spiritual and societal exploration, Shillong became, for a few days, a living page where the truth of imagination could be sought.

Although the opening day drew a modest crowd, the city’s young faces returned in greater numbers on Day Two. The aroma of local food, the warmth of handmade wine, and the artistry of craft stalls added texture to the festival’s conversations. Every corner seemed to hold a story, and every voice carried one forward.

Khasi literature and the journey of a people

Among the sessions, one in particular resonated deeply—Making Khasi Literature Travel—a gentle yet profound exploration led by Basilica Nongpluh. At its heart was a reflection on the long journey of Khasi literature, a tradition that existed orally for untold centuries before the arrival of written forms. The session traced how stories once carried by memory and song found their way onto paper through the work of missionaries and scholars. Professor Streamlet Dkhar reminded the audience that “the birth of Khasi literature itself occurred within translation,” its written life intertwined with the efforts of those who first attempted to bring the language into script.

Translation, as the speakers collectively affirmed, is both bridge and burden. Dr. Bandarilin Bairo described it as an unavoidable part of daily life, a delicate transfer of meaning from one cultural world to another. The challenge lies in holding intact not just the words, but the essence—the thought, the intention, the layers that hover beneath language. A literal translation can betray an entire worldview; as an example, we were reminded how a phrase like Simlaidieng—literally ‘bird and three sticks’—loses its cultural poetry when flattened word for word.

Yet Khasi, far from being limited, is a language rich in nuance. Its abundance of related words and its depth of adverbs and adjectives give writers immense freedom to shape images, emotions and landscapes. John Roberts, one of the early translators of biblical texts into Khasi, had once remarked on the language’s richness. The festival echoed his sentiment: Khasi is not poor—its speakers simply carry an inheritance that demands attentiveness and care.

Stories that connect hills and horizons

Beyond the conversation on Khasi literature, the festival unfolded like a tapestry woven with many threads. While global writers, cultural thinkers, and regional voices filled the programme, what lingered most was the spirit of exchange—the sense that Shillong was not hosting a festival, but breathing one.

Banu Mushtaq, Booker International Prize-winning author of Heart Lamp, captured this feeling with lyrical precision. “To stand in Shillong today feels like walking into a page that has been quietly waiting for me… this festival, here in these hills, is a reminder of how deeply stories connect us.” Her words felt like an invocation, a blessing for the days ahead.

Spanish writer Francesc Miralles, known worldwide for Ikigai, spoke of India as the place that first taught him he was meant to write. His journey—from publisher and translator to author—intertwined with the kind of serendipity that festivals like Shillong often celebrate.

And in a session that drew considerable attention, Sam Dalrymple explored the five partitions that carved the Asia we know today, weaving history with narrative in a way that made the political suddenly intimate, almost fragile. It was impossible not to realise how borders—whether linguistic, political or emotional—shape stories and yet are constantly reshaped by them.

A festival of imagination and belonging

What the Shillong Literary Festival ultimately offered was more than panels, readings or book launches. It offered a return to the reasons we first fell in love with stories. In the conversations along Ward’s Lake, in the laughter echoing under blooming cherry trees, in the hush that settled when a poem was read aloud, there was a shared understanding that literature is not simply written—it is lived.

The festival gently reminded everyone, especially the young, that imagination is not an escape but a way back into the world. Stories do not divert us from reality—they deepen our ability to see it, to question it, to cherish it.

Rushdie’s line lingered till the very end. The truth of story, imagination, and heart found their place over these two days in Shillong—a city that has always known how to hold stories lightly, like music drifting through its hills. And long after the last session ended and the lights dimmed over the lake, it felt as though the festival had not concluded at all, only scattered itself into the breeze. It brought back the lines many of us write quietly and tuck away, lines that feel truer here than anywhere else:

I search for my own dreaming
in the stories that arrive in these hills—
Shillong lifts every voice
and invites the world to listen
to the quiet truths imagination reveals.

With inputs from Bidhayak Das