indian literature

Sunday, May 22, 2011



Classic retold
Reviewed by Uma Vasudeva

Playground: Rangbhoomi
By Premchand. Trans. Manju Jain. Penguin Books. Pages 641. Rs 550.

THE title itself means, "The arena of life" — which is so apt to the entire book. It is life playing itself in its arena and in many shapes, forms and emotions. The novel is a resounding proclamation of a resolve that the battle of freedom from the British Empire will continue notwithstanding the absence of prominent leaders, including Gandhi. As Soordas soliloquises on his deathbed, they will continue to fight with renewed strength and unity and will recoup their forces even though they are defeated. The very title of the novel is a metaphor taken from a song that Soordas sings in Chapter 18:

"Bhai, why do you turn your face from the battle?

You have come to rangbhoomi, to show your glory,

Why do you break the law of Dharma?"

Set against the backdrop of colonial India—characterised by a brutal state, opportunistic, feudal landlords and ruthless capitalists—this novel is a grim account of the blind beggar Soordas’s struggle against the acquisition of his ancestral land.

The plot of the book is simple as the case is in most Premchand’s works: oppression of the working classes, namely in Rural India, which would mean — the farmers. We encounter the blind Soordas and his chronicle from life to death and the hardships he suffers on the account of his place in the society — that of a farmer.

The novel provides a radical alternative to colonial historiography as well as to colonial literary representation. It constantly compels readers to engage with plurality, evoking the fluidity and polyphony of the creative imagination at work, in a dialogic mode, through several often-contradictory perspectives. The author in this novel behaves like a storyteller in a village chaupaal.

The author has been critical of hypocritical communism of the upper classes as in the case of Mahendra Singh who is a staunch Communist, despite being an affluent taluqdar, but is motivated by his self-interest. For Prabhu Sevak, communism is merely a topic of entertainment, and Vinay’s communism is comically transformed into selfishness as soon as he boards the train.

The author endorses the satyagrah and non-cooperation when the sepoys refused to open fire when they were ordered by the Superintendent of Police, Mr Brown, that is shown as a unique history of the Army. This seems to be author’s assertion that the struggle against the colonial powers and their cohorts will continue at the grass-roots level.

The most significant aspect of Rangbhoomi is that Premchand chose a blind, crippled beggar as his protagonist, for Soordas is the epicentre of the struggle against the combined vested interests of the colonial state, its bureaucracy, the feudal landowning classes and the mercantile bourgeoisie. Premchand perceived the class interests at work within the national movement well as the role of the British in consolidating those interests.

The author at a number of places in the novel has been found guilty of lumpenising and stereotyping the Dalits. In one of the episodes Bhairo and his cohorts go around the muhalla lewdly dancing and singing. But it was Soordas who is a protagonist and the repository of the positive values in the novel. In fact, Soordas is probably the first Dalit hero in Hindu fiction.

The contradictions between author’s reformist ideals and his often-reactionary views are dramatised in the depiction of the predicament of women in the novel.

Sophia, the first Indian Christian heroine in Hindi fiction, rebels against the patriarchy of her family and the religious oppression inflicted on her and leaves home with the desire to find independence and autonomous identity. She asserts her agency in her support of Veerpal and dacoits and in her rejection of Vinay, when he becomes complicit in the brutal repression of the riyasat. Her repressed sexuality is suggested, but not fully explored. Sophia commits suicide at the end not because of demands of the conventions of romantic tragedy but because of ideological compulsions that dictate the end of sati for her.

Capturing Premchand’s masterful handling of a variety of linguistic registers, Manju Jain’s evocative translation shows us the deep humanism of one of India’s greatest writers in Rangbhoomi.
source:
www.tribuneindia.com

from a literary magazine on the net
Bharati Mukherjee : In Conversation with Marilyn Clark

Bharati Mukherjee

block quote
Indian-born American novelist Bharati Mukherjee won the National Book Critics Circle Award in 1988 and is currently Professor of English at the University
of Southern California, Berkeley. This conversation with Marilyn Clark focuses specifically on her 1975 novel Wife and the impression readers often get
that it was heavily influenced by the work of French novelist Gustave Flaubert. 

Clark's inspiration for the interview with Bharati Mukherjee grew out of questions she and some of her students had about Wife, included in a class Prof.
Clark designed focusing on the theme of "Marriage." Studying Wife afforded students the opportunity to consider the topic of arranged marriages. However,
little critical explication was available on this novel, so Clark went directly to Mukherjee with her questions. To her delight, Mukherjee was generous
in thoroughly answering numerous questions about the inspiration for and the themes expressed in the novel.

block quote end

Marilyn Clark : There are so many parallels between Dimple Dasgupta in Wife and Emma Bovary in Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary (for example, each woman
has an overly-romanticized, unrealistic view of marriage based on the romance novels she has read while growing up, and each woman moves away from her
home and family shortly after marrying). Students have asked me if you were influenced by Flaubert’s work when you created Dimple.

Bharati Mukherjee : I have become a great admirer of Flaubert, especially of his novels, L’Education Sentimentale and Madame Bovary over the last ten years,
but I wasn’t familiar enough with his works in 1973-1974 when my husband, Clark Blaise, and I were in Calcutta, now Kolkata, on sabbatical leave, and I
was writing Wife and gathering notes for Days and Nights in Calcutta (non-fiction, co-authored with Clark Blaise; published by Doubleday in 1976).

So what would you say was the inspiration then for Wife?

We were staying at the Ramkrishna Mission International Center, a place popular with international scholars. Among the scholars we got to know very well
during our extended stay were Amartya Sen (Nobel-Prize winning economist) and Leonard Gordon (world’s leading expert on the history of Bengal, and professor
at Brooklyn College-CUNY). Wife was inspired by a dinner-table questions Professor Gordon asked about what Bengali women between the ages of sixteen to
twenty-two think and do. That’s why the novel is dedicated to him as well as to my sons, Bart and Bernard.

I have read where you stated that you, like Flaubert, put yourself into your writing. Is that true in Wife?

There is no autobiographical element in Wife. However, I think Dimple reminds your students of Emma Bovary, because like Emma, upper-middle class young
women of my generation, especially those who went to elite women’s schools and colleges run by Irish nuns, were encouraged to only read and value British
novels, including Victorian para-literature and 1950s Barbara Cartland-type “romance” novels, and to model girlish daydreams and adult lives though the
prism of literature.

You gave your protagonist such an unusual name—Dimple. How did that come about? 

The name “Dimple” is a play on the popularity of that name in the 1970s India when the “It Girl” of Bollywood was a young actor named Dimple Kapadia. The
actor named her two daughters Twinkle and Simple.

Obviously Wife is a novel with a feminist theme; however, its message differs from much of what was written about the status of women in the United States
during the time of the novel’s publication (1975) in that it also takes on the unique issues faced by women who are immigrants to America.

…the 1970s was a time in the history of the US Feminist Movement (think Ms. Magazine), when white American women were imperiously dictating to non-white
women in the US and especially to women in developing countries that their methods—consciousness-raising groups, etc.—were the only valid methods of being
feminist. I hope Dimple’s reservations about Leni reveals my distrust of Ms Magazine-type doctrinaire, neo-colonial feminism in the mid-1970s.

And the novel portrays the unique issues faced at the time by women whose experiences were similar to Dimple’s in terms of marrying someone in India who
had been chosen by their parents and then immigrating to the United States.

In Dimple’s generation of the 1970s in Calcutta, such young women’s romantic daydreams about marriage were tinged by the new social/economic phenomenon
of Immigration to the US. Once Robert Kennedy had liberalized immigration laws young men who were ambitious, well-educated, urban professionals began to
arrive in cities like New York on “immigrant” visas. Parents of unmarried women from middle class families sought such young men, earning in dollars, as
desirable sons-in-law.

Sadly, though, when Dimple marries and immigrates to America, she is ill-equipped to deal with all of the issues confronting her: adjusting to marriage
and a new country where the language, the food, the dress, the customs are so very different from what she is accustomed to. Dimple seems completely unable
to cope with her new life and to find a way of making her own happiness.

Among the issues I hoped to dramatize in Wife was the failure of the convent school education and family traditions to provide young women like Dimple
growing into adulthood/wifehood/motherhood with the grammar to articulate to themselves their desire for self-discovery and self-empowerment; in other
words, to pursue happiness on their terms rather than the colonial or the traditional ones.

Another subject that comes up in Wife is arranged marriages, a topic that has received more attention in the last few years following the release in 2007
of the movie Arranged, written and directed by Stefan Schaefer. Were marriage and specifically arranged marriages something you wanted to comment on in
the novel?

Meditation on marriage as practiced by Indian women in India and outside India was certainly central to Wife. All the women, except Pixie, have had arranged
marriages (as was the middle class custom for both Dimple’s mother’s generation and Dimple’s generation. For Mrs. Basua and Amit’s mother, marital happiness
is dependent on following the traditional Hindu marriage models, as demonstrated by Sita in the Hindu epic, Ramayana. They have the sanctity of Hindu tradition
to fall back on; and they have companionship of the extended family living in the same house. They do not suffer the anxieties of transitional times as
do Dimple and Pixie, who are growing up in sovereign India that has a Constitution, newly established women’s rights, such as divorce and the right to
inherit property.

Dimple is the embodiment of the transitional figure; she starts to question her traditional society’s values and taboos, but she doesn’t yet have the confidence
to blend what she values in the two cultures and make that blended culture her own. In India, unhappy wives commit suicide; Dimple asserts herself (albeit
misguidedly) by committing murder, not suicide. Pixie became an important minor character for me, a foil for Dimple. Pixie, too, is steeped in Bollywood
films and fanzines. But she has the guts to stay in India, break the taboos, fall in love with a film star and marry him and claim happiness.

Your next novel, Miss New India, will be published in mid May of 2011. Any similarities between this one and Wife?

It presents a very different India and a very different kind of “pursuit of happiness” by a young Bengali wife than Dimple’s.

TRIBUTE

‘Under a pillar of rain, thinking goodbye'

DEVINDRA KOHLI

Remembering and celebrating Kamala Das not only as a friend but as a poet who drew courage and strength from the writing of poetry.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Kamala mythologised absent or lost love, “the only religion I ever recognised”...

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Photo: Mahesh Harilal

Search for love:Kamala Das.

‘Remember me,/under a pillar of rain/thinking goodbye' are among the 54 miscellaneous lines and six sketches Kamala Das inscribed in my copy of The Old
Playhouse and Other Poems in July 1978 when we first met in her flat in Bank House, Back Bay Reclamation, Mumbai. That was 11 years after my articles on
Summer in Calcutta and The Descendants, and three years after my book on her poetry appeared. Barring four letters we had exchanged we had never met before.

Meetings

We met again in Mumbai in October 1978 and April 1980, and subsequently several times in Delhi and in Kochi. In 1994, after her poetry reading at the South
Bank Centre, London, Kamala stayed with us in Germany (November 6-19) while she gave poetry readings at the University of Bonn (where I was teaching) as
well as at the German Foundation of International Development, Bad Honnef, and the universities of Duisburg and Essen. The last time I saw her was in August
2006 in Kochi after she telephoned me in Delhi and asked me to meet her.

Sadly, after she moved to Pune, we could not meet owing to restrictions placed by illness on my own travel. We stayed in contact by telephone or by e-mail
messages conveyed through Jaisurya, her youngest son. “The bond…that exists between us shall go on,” she said in a letter (February 26, 1982). Our correspondence
came to a halt with her wobbly handwritten letter of July 31, 2008 from Pune, announcing: “Arthritis has stopped my writing. A new spirit has come to live
in my body.”

Such interplay of metaphor, humour, and sadness that characterised Kamala's letters also enlivened her conversations through what always struck me as her
“bird-in-flight' voice. We saw this during her stay with us in Essen. Although suffering from health problems and uncomfortable in cold weather, she remained
in good humour. “I had a marvellous time at your place,” she wrote, and a “sense of security”. Later, back in India, she genially remembered how she had
relished the German cheeses, the pretzel (“the cumbersome thing”, not like potato wafers as she had expected), “the little loaves resembling rocks with
barnacles sticking to their sides”, and of course sekt – the German equivalent of champagne – that always brought a smile to her! I remember the evening
after her reading at Bonn when, travelling in the restaurant of the train to Essen, we imbibed the silvery sekt while the timid November sun filtered through
our glasses.

***

In 1968, 10 years before I first met her, in response to my rather harsh criticism of some of the poems in The Descendants in comparison with what I considered
the more accomplished Summer in Calcutta, Kamala wrote to me attributing the falling-off of her poetry, paradoxically, to a “curled like an old mongrel”
contentment in love. Significantly, this posited a connection between discontentment and poetry.

Is poetry, and love poetry in particular, nourished by dissatisfaction, a sense of unattained or unattainable love and happiness? The question, “ Does the
imagination dwell the most/ Upon a woman won or woman lost?” haunted W. B. Yeats throughout his poetic career; and Maud Gonne, his unrequited Muse, applauded
him for making “beautiful poetry out of what you call your unhappiness and you are happy in that”.

Love as a muse

To take another example, Robert Graves attributed his poetic “health” to his “mistrust of the comfortable-point-of-rest”: his best poems inspired by Laura
Riding read like poetry of dissatisfaction. In similar vein, instead of folding “ my wayward limbs to crawl into/Coffins of religions”, Kamala mythologised
absent or lost love, “the only religion I ever recognised”: “ When I loved,/I became pure love,/when I lost/I became pure loss, /nothing else”. She explored
this through the polarities between the body and the soul, lust and love, words and silence; and these reflect the ambivalences of the individual in relationship
with her parents, husband, lover, and children, as well as to social and cultural norms.

***

“It is the looking that makes the poet go on writing, searching. If you find someone, the search is over, poetry is over,” Kamala once remarked. Her personal
search, as she told me, might have ended on at least two occasions; in the 1970s and 1990s. In an uncollected poem, “Hairpins and Rubber-Bands”, which
she had sent me for The Indian Literary Review (Vol. III, No. 2, April 1985), her longing for a love, “jinxed by fate”, its rawness and its fantasy, all
come alive in a manner reminiscent of Thomas Hardy:

All through the past sobering years, krait-like/I shed dead cells of skin and found at last/In the oldest of bonds most attractive/Legitimacy. And yet,
when I comb/To unsnarl my greying hair at night, soothed/By solitude, your slim body's pressure/On mine is felt, all is remembered then:/Your leonine tresses,
the sparkle of/That smile and the passion that lingered throughout/A jasmine-scented season. Yes, I jinxed/Your life, …/There was then no choice/But to
flee your orbit in haste, put your/Love away and grow older, and silent./The hair that sailed backward does not move now,/When I walk the same darkening
shore,/Although the wind rises from the sea as before./I've learnt the use of hairpins, rubber-bands.../In virginal sleep your body's slimness/Intrudes
and a vast hunger racks my limbs like a storm.

In some of her later poems inspired by another love in the 1990s and published in Encountering Kamala (2008) and Closure (2009), once again ‘the woman glimmers
in the noonday sun' like a ripened field of paddy. And in “The Maples are Green Still”, both the sexual and spiritual energy of the ‘hurricane of desire'
achieves a synthesis of the inner and outer landscapes that is characteristic of Kamala Das at her best.

Role model

Kamala's likening of poets to ‘snails without the shell' may have been subjective, but essentially her notion that the search for the absent or unattainable
love was the main impulsion behind her poetry was not. She was more like the swallow of one of her poems who constantly pushed against the bars of the
cage and tried to make it a bit bigger. She became a role model not only for Indian women writers but also for post-colonial women poets outside India
such as Shirley Geok-Lin Lim who wrote to me: ‘I never met her, but her poetry and life story had a major influence on my way of thinking.' I wonder how
Virginia Woolf would have viewed her, considering that Kamala did not actually possess ‘a room of her own', having gifted away even her ancestral house
in Thiruvananthapuram to Kerala Sahitya Akademi. For someone who began writing poetry only as tool to win love, it must have been both a painful and rewarding
journey to conclude: ‘It [writing poetry] is a sad occupation but I wouldn't choose another?'

I remember and celebrate Kamala not only as a friend but as a poet who drew courage and strength from the writing of poetry. It sustained her even when
nothing else did, while from ‘the ruffled sea of my past' she fished out poetry that “ can cut/Precisely the gut/To wake you/Out of dreams”. I believe
it is Kamala's poetry ultimately, which was her richest belonging and will remain her abiding legacy.

Kamala Das' birth anniversary falls on March 31.

Ambedkar week

White and bright



Identities and voices long suppressed are crackling their way through the literary terrain of India. Dalit writers are now a recognised force. An exclusive excerpt from Cho Dharman's novel, translated by Vasantha Surya.





Illustration: C.P. Krishnapriya


Muthukkaruppan and Mookkan could hardly contain their jubilation. Their desire, their dream of many days, was about to be fulfilled, and they were in a festive mood. Already at dawn, while the sky was still streaked with black, they were beating their vaittis clean upon a big rock at the washermen's ghat. ‘White and bright' they dressed themselves, and set off.

Men and women were already on their way to attend the mourning ceremony at Melapatti, streaming along the footpath like a row of ants. Some of the women had veiled their faces, and bore on their heads boxes of woven palm-fibre filled with rice-grains to put in the mouth of the deceased. As they walked along the canal bank, between the rows of toddy palms, the shapes of their shadows could be vaguely perceived frolicking in the water.

Kaakkaiyan, who had left the path to ‘sit' in the ditch for a bit, saw the two of them standing on the washermen's rock. “What's all this soaping and scrubbing? Looks like you've taken quite a nice bath! Is it a funeral, or a wedding?” he remarked, rising from the water in the ditch and knotting his loincloth tight around his waist.

“Is there a law saying ‘No soaping before going to a mourning'? Are you telling me I should go about like you, looking like some fellow from an oil-mill, in a sticky vaitti stinking like rotting reeds?”

“All right, all right, come however you want to, but hurry up… Already the people from our village have left, haven't they?”

“Elei, Kaakkaaya, you go on with the rest. We'll be coming slowly, sooner or later.”

Kaakkaiyan ran off down a side-path to join the others.

The sun had begun to give off a kiln-like heat. Having bathed pleasantly in the cool waters of the washermen's ghat, they set out, holding their wet vaittis above their heads like fluttering tents, the breeze wafting through and caressing their cool torsoes. In a short while they both wrapped their vaittis completely around themselves and walked on, the cloth feeling like a cool poultice on their now heated bodies. Flock after flock of cranes rose up like soaring kites from the tapioca creepers spreading on both sides of the path where they had been hovering, pecking at worms with which to stuff their gizzards. Close to a thousand flew up, the first of them turning into dots in the far distance.

At the bend of the brackish creek, in the shade of a manjanathi bush they wound their now-dry vaittis around themselves. “Listen, Karuppa…We just go there, quickly ask about the death and leave. Or they'll complain that you went to your big-brother's wife's place, or you went only to your wife's sister's place… That will spoil the whole plan — it'll vanish from the palm of the hand and never get to the mouth!”

“You keep quiet, now, and come , ‘pa…Just for formality's sake, we show our faces and then we move out towards the west. ”

“Teeth shouldn't even touch cold water…Stomach must just stay empty as a hole — nothing in it but a killing hunger. ”

“Right! Three quarters of a rupee, isn't it? No joke, is it? If already you've drunk any water, the food on that three-quarter rupee leaf 'll just go to waste…There it'll be in front of you, and all you can do is sit there staring up at the roof-beams….”

“I'm saying there's another snag. Listen, suppose there's a red chilli in the kuzhambu or the koottu, watch out for it and don't eat it! You eat it, and….Finished! The spicy-hot taste will yank out your tongue and make you drink more and more water till your stomach gets all filled up. Then all you can do is pay up and walk out.”

“All cool and calm we are going to sit down there. – And then only we will eat. Why any hurry? If it takes the whole day today, let it be! When are we ever again going to sit and eat in a ‘club'?”

“That's it! And you don't go and tell anyone, or the job will get all messed up. If anybody asks, we should just say we're going to Koyilpatti on some other business and quietly slip away…”

From the house of mourning came the faint thrumming of drums. They reached for the shirts that they had carried all this time slung on their shoulders and put them on. In the distance were some men, standing around in a group. One was squatting on the ground, next to a can of arrack. The path they had to take lay alongside.

“Ei…Karuppaa, we'll go around the bank to the south side and get to our street. Those lords there, at the arrack place , if they catch sight of us…Finished! Buy us two glasses ‘da! they'll say. Saying ‘No!' isn't possible…if we say ‘No!' they'll drag us into some useless fight. And on top of that, if there's a little peep or squeak out of us , they'll say, ‘“Then we'll buy you some! Drink up! they'll say!” And then if we say ‘Okay!' they'll say, ‘Go on drinking, don't stop until it's gone to your head !' Why go and buy trouble like that – it's a devil!”

“What you say is quite right. We can't go crazy like that fellow Kaaliappan who acts like a spirit of god has got into him, can we? If we do that, they'll say ‘Put down all your money and get out!' ”

“Which Kaaliappan?”

“Our Pig's-Gut Kaaliappan.”

“From which village?”

“Some place he mentioned, it's right here in my mouth but won't come out in a hurry…Just like this time, our people were going to a ‘ thutti'. There, lying right across the street was a piece of cane, you see — and a fellow stepped over it. Some kind of magic it must have been, crossing that cane, because four-five fellows who were lurking around hiding there came rushing out and grabbed him. They all surrounded him and picked a fight. ‘You have to answer for crossing the cane before we'll let you go,' they said, ‘ Otherwise we will cut off your arms and legs !'”

“If a cane is lying across the path, what else can they do but step over it?”

“Stepping across that cane is the same as stepping past them, it seems.”

“Then?”

“Then what…? Thirty rupees he had in his bag, and they grabbed it and chased him away, empty-handed. That was the poor fellow's coolie-money for all his work making seed-beds. Just for nothing, he lost it. Went mad with the shock.”

“Fellows who do no work at all, and just go on catching and snatching like that will never come to any good.”

“We fellows will be drifting around saying such things — but fellows like that are doing very fine. What rings they wear! They put gold chains on their wives' necks — bunches of them! What do they ever lack? ”

“Don't talk like that. Some day or other their sins will catch up with them.”

veLLaiyum choLLaiyum, an excerpt from Cho Dharman's novel Koogai (Kalachuvadu, 2005). Translated by Vasantha Surya for the forthcoming OUP Anthology of Tamil Dalit Writing (2011).
source:
http://www.hindu.com/mag/2011/04/10/stories/2011041050190400.htm

How books fared this year
January 02, 2011 5:05:46 PM

Debraj Mookerjee


While we are busy celebrating Indian writing in English, a new generation of readers looking for racy, quick reads has come up. This new readership — and to a smaller extent the new writers catering to this readership — is the literary story of the year

Doing a year-end survey is an occupational hazard for all (putative) experts. Writing about the universe of books and literary goings-on is a strange kettle of fish, rendering this hazard a little extra hazardous. Finding the centre is a challenge. Where to begin and what to choose as your point of departure? Even VS Naipaul’s books by that name (Finding the Centre) had a twisty sub-title — ‘Two Narratives’! Maybe we can begin by answering a semi-hypothetical question: Who is the next big name in the Indian literary firmament? The question itself is interesting. It is no longer a question of when but who. That Indian writing in English has arrived is widely accepted. Writers across the globe writing in English bemoan the fact that they cannot write the way Indians do. India writes itself. Its rich diversity, muddled politics, aspirational middle classes, throbbing underclass, myriad cultural traditions, and yes, its spiritual richness (who can ever escape this stereotype) provide inexhaustible fodder for creativity, especially of the literary kind. So, to return to our (semi-hypothetical) question: Who indeed?

The question is semi-hypothetical because, on the one hand, we have a host of writers from whom to choose a few who will in the years to come climb to the top of the order now occupied by the likes of Vikram Seth, Amitav Ghosh, Salman Rushdie, Rohinton Mistry and so on. There is little hypothesis involved in choosing from among a list of available talent. The hypothesis lies in speculating on the type of literature that will flourish in the decade to come, and the type of writers who will occupy centre stage among the readers. While it is clear that Indian writing in English has wide readership across the English-speaking nations of the world, it is also becoming clearer that the market for English novels is expanding exponentially in India. The real story for me is this question of who. Also, it is important to recognise the new readership that will determine the new talents in the block.

Bestsellers are, by and large, an American institution. They flourished particularly in the period of rapid economic expansion. The explosion of the services sector created a flood of new readers. This new reader was the lift operator who read science fiction while he went up and down all day. She was the secretary who read popular romance between taking calls. He was also the salesman who killed time reading thrillers while he criss-crossed his territory. New industrial culture provided the impetus for popular culture, buoyed by an emergent mass readership. A similar cycle is playing out in India. Book publishers recognise this. Independent publishing houses realise the popular trend (no pun intended). Rupa, which turned 75 this year, published only ‘serious’ literature when I attended college. Renuka Chatterjee, a veteran in the field of publishing, said in an interview: “While we were busy celebrating Indian writing in English, a new generation of readers looking for racy, quick reads was coming up.” This new readership — and, to a smaller extent, the new writers catering to this readership — is the literary story of the year.

In one of my earlier pieces in this newspaper, I had argued that Mira Nair’s interpretation of the Namesake in celluloid was far more accomplished and intuitive than Jhumpa Lahiri’s book. The point I was making was this: Societal concerns and emergent discourses are today established by popular cultural forms, films notably featuring at the top of the arrangement. Which meant that the issues raised by the book/film would find wider circulation through the moving medium. That Mira Nair’s portrait was sharper than Lahiri’s was a good thing therefore. I had uttered blasphemy it seemed. But at the heart of that observation was a recognition that today has become abundantly apparent. I personally am not too happy with the Chetan Bhagat phenomenon. The fact, however, remains that in 2010 Indians do not want lessons in English. They are not looking for literary merit. Joseph Conrad would have been hard put to pay his monthly rent were he writing in contemporary India (and mind you, he learnt English at the age of 21!). The new fix is simple. Have a story to tell. Make sure the average reader can identify with the tale. A little romance and loads of realised aspiration in the face of seemingly insurmountable obstacles could be the substance of a hit plot. Forget the language and poetic eye. No need to grab the thesaurus. And no need to fret over the difficulties involved in perfecting descriptive exactitude. Let the story flow. Malapropisms be damned. I am no fan of what is today called ‘campus lit’, or ‘chick lit’ (or, in my dictionary, ‘kid lit’). Yet, I cannot but fail to marvel at the phenomenon.

Fortunately, the centre often does not comprise the core. The year 2010 also witnessed the emergence of new talent, besides some delightful novels by writers of redoubtable talent. Manu Joseph’s Serious Men is my personal pick. It has a bit of slum lit (the Slumdog Millionaire — based on diplomat Vikas Swarup’s Q&A; — genre; Aravind Adiga’s White Tiger and Kavery Nambisan’s The Story that Must Not Be Told are cut in a similar mould), but also a little more. It registers the tension of India in which different classes (and castes) having to confront their historically-determined animosities while they attempt to mark their place amid a plethora of opportunities. Another remarkable book was Tabish Khair’s The Thing About Things. The book is a great read, peopled with memorable characters and reminiscent somewhat of the type of brilliant characterisation we last saw in Ghosh’s Sea of Poppies (2008). Mistry, of course, for the wrong set of reasons. His Such a Long Journey (1991) was hefted off the Mumbai University shelves because he reportedly bad-mouthed Bal Thackeray. The Congress Chief Minister concurred with the ban. Why? Read the book. Mrs G is panned as the worst possible everything. So now we know.

What do we look forward to in 2011, apart from the never-ending list of kid lit productions? I am a great Ghosh fan. I want to know how the Sea of Poppies narrative develops. What happens when the motley crew finally reached Mauritius? River of Smoke (expected in 2011) will tell. What after that? Stream of Consciousness? Who knows!


--The writer is associate professor, University of Delhi
source:
http://dailypioneer.com/306256/How-books-fared-this-year.html

Sunset saga
Humra Quraishi

Khushwant Singh’s new novel, The Sunset Club, looks at life through the eyes of three cronies in their twilight years

As you hold this latest book, The Sunset Club, from Khushwant Singh you simply marvel at his writing prowess — at 95, he is writing not just two weekly columns but also one book after another. No, no giving up. No slowing down. No retiring.

On the contrary, he is writing for hours at a stretch, day after day no computers and laptops or any other connected bandobast. Till date, he pens down each word. Begins writing early in the morning and continues through the day putting down the realities of the day in his characteristic style — one that is not just readable but relays the ground realities, the everyday happenings, the aspirations-cum-wants of the people out there, those thoughts that hit us all but few are equipped with the courage to talk aloud, to put them down on paper

And in this latest book, he has relayed just about anything and everything that confronts each one of us. Webbing and inter-webbing them through three ageing men, who meet every evening at a park. Sitting on a bench, they comment and converse, discuss and dissect, offload and do much more along the strain. Through these three characters, Khushwant Singh takes you through an entire array, a journey of sorts. In fact, its bewildering how their conversation touches every possible aspect that one can imagine. You seem to flow with their conversation till the very end, when you get some sort of a jolt, as the two of them depart, leaving you yearning for more from these three.

"Meet the members of The Sunset Club — Pt Preetam Sharma, Nawab Barkatullah Baig and Sardar Boota Singh. Friends for over 40 years, they are now in their eighties. And every evening, at the sunset hour, they sit together on a bench in Lodhi Gardens to exchange news and views on the events of the day, talking about everything from love, lust, sex and scandal to religion and politics


Khushwant Singh with (left) Prime Minister’s wife Gursharan Kaur

In fact, what is amazing is that Khushwant has also weaved in seasons of the year in his tale. So much so, that each chapter has a heading to go along with the varied seasons that come along — The Month of Flowers, Spring into Summer, Now that April is Here , May of the Laburnums, Month of the Scorcher, Summer Merges with Autumn, December of the Blue Moon

But though the seasons change, the format remains unchanging, as these characters talk and keep on discussing what you and I could talk — perhaps in our drawing rooms or in our bedrooms.

And another highlight is that Khushwant has dedicated this book to Reeta Devi — ‘For Reeta Devi of Tripura, Maharani of Sujan Singh Park, Delhi’s own Mother Teresa.’

Yes, Reeta Devi is one of those working from morning to sunset — caring for the disadvantaged living in Delhi’s slums, tending to the ill and needy in the various lanes and bylanes of this Capital city.




source:
http://www.tribuneindia.com/2010/20101205/spectrum/book6.htm`

A TRUE PIONEER

One-man show

SHASHI DESHPANDE

Professor P. Lal, whose Writers Workshop was the stepping stone to success to many of the big names in Indian Writing in English today, passed away recently.
Three eminent writers pay tribute to his path-breaking spirit.

PHOTO: SHUBA BHATTACHARJEE

PROFESSOR P. LAL.

P. Lal was an institution who made a varied and voluminous contribution to IWE says award-winning novelist.

Decades back, someone suggested I get my short stories published by P. Lal of Writers Workshop. I knew neither P. Lal nor the Writers Workshop then, but
I sent the stories. A very businesslike reply agreed to publish them. Days later, another letter arrived saying that he wanted to write a blurb for my
stories, something ‘I almost never do'. And then one more saying that one of the stories would be read at the Sunday morning meetings in his home. I had
never had such appreciation and encouragement before — nor have I had it since. But that was P. Lal — his love was for literature and he never hesitated
to push writing that he thought good.

In time I came to know P. Lal the scholar, the writer, the teacher, the translator, but my first interaction was only with the publisher. The list of writers
he published then is like a ‘who's who' of Indian English writers, but most writers soon moved on to bigger publishers. He told me of a young writer he
had published, who soon found a major publisher. He went for her book launch, but he said ‘she did not see me. She had stars in her eyes.' A matter-of-fact
statement, holding no rancour. P. Lal was that rare thing in the literary world, a generous man, whose generosity manifested itself in many ways. When
I asked for permission to have my stories republished by Penguin, I was gently rebuked. ‘You know we don't do things that way. The stories are yours.'
When I asked to use his words as epigraph for my novels, he said ‘you are free to use what you want.'

But P. Lal, more than a publisher, was a pioneer of Indian Writing in English (IWE). He speaks of IWE having begun in 1947 with a group of undergraduates
in a Calcutta college writing in English. One does not know who the others were, but Lal went on to become an institution of IWE. It will be long before
we realise the extent of his voluminous and varied contribution to the literature. He wrote poetry, essays, criticism, and above all translations — sorry,
transcreations, the word he coined himself. There are transcreations of the two great epics, of the Gita, the Dhammapada, the Upanishads, the Rg Veda,
of Sanskrit plays, of poetry, from the Raghuvamsha to little known Sanskrit verses, of Tagore, Premchand and much more. I have a great many of the books
with me, some I asked for, many sent by him with great generosity, with heart-lifting inscriptions on the fly leaf written in his beautiful hand. Books
I have read and re-read and quoted from extensively. Like his words on translation: ‘One is always translating for one's contemporaries. Creative writing
may be done for a hundred years, but not translation.' The translation of a Sanskrit poem of unknown date shows he put this into practice:

Oh yes, I'm good at stitching and darning

And half my life's

Spent giving good dinners to guests who come

without warning

– I am a wife'

‘Touche!' one is tempted to cry out.

Many of his statements on IWE can't be bettered. ‘If we look after the honesty of our feelings and the skill of our craft,' he says, ‘the Indianness will
look after itself.' Words that should be chanted by an IWE writer every day before beginning writing.

A great defender of Indians writing in English, he was on the side of what he called ‘home-grown writers' as opposed to the expatriate variety. A letter
after I got the Sahitya Akademi Award praises the Akademi for ‘not running after expatriate excellence'. His letters were marvels of brevity, wit, beautiful
language and handwriting — treasures worth preserving.

I was fortunate to visit his home in Calcutta a few times. To see him sitting among piles of books, to hear him talk, was an experience. During my last
visit, he looked frail, but gave us a brilliant exposition of Keats' “Ode to a Nightingale”. When leaving, he gave me a book written by his grandfather
in 1817, a chance discovery. In the preface to the book he writes, ‘It is not always one finds a lost ancestor with lotus-feet worthy of being touched.
Good karma, I suppose'.

All Indian English writers should say ‘Good Karma' too for having a literary forebear like Prof. P. Lal.

Grim tale of human suffering
Reviewed by Harbans Singh

This is not that Dawn: Jhootha Sach
By Yashpal.
Penguin Books.
Pages 1119. Rs 599.


ALMOST 50 years ago, when Yashpal’s Jhootha Sach was serialised by the then most popular Hindi magazine Dharmyug, it made the readers anxiously wait for the next issue. Much of the Hindi reading populace of the country had for the first time read an authentic and humane narration of life in Lahore and the trauma of the exodus that had struck Punjab. The author, till then better known as a revolutionary and a writer, instantly carved a niche for himself among literary giants.

Today, for those of us who are aware of the trauma that the partition of the country inflicted upon them or their parents, Yashpal’s Jhootha Sach, christened as This is not that Dawn in its English avatar, is not just a novel dealing with the cataclysmic event. Many authors, including Saadat Hasan Manto, Bhisham Sahani from Punjab and Rahi Massom Raza and Gulsher Khan Shani from the Hindi heartland, have written about the trauma that was Partition, but none touched the epic reach and expanse of Yashpal’s two volumes of Jootha Sach.

It is truly the history of the times. Historians interpret and explain events on the basis of the documented views of the leaders and rulers of the day, Jhootha Sach narrates the events of Partition through the lives of the people who suffered a thousand deaths before they were actually torn away from their motherland to become sharnarthis. The story of their transformation from sharnarthis to purusharthis in the second volume is equally riveting, more so because the author, like his characters, is hard-pressed to provide some moral moorings to an increasingly amoral society in the new nation.

Jhootha Sach is a huge canvas that needed not only large brushes with huge strokes but also the delicate handling of a watercolour artist. Thus, he deals with the politics of Partition wherein the dubious role of the much-lauded Khizir Hyat government and the British bureaucracy in Punjab is exposed as also deftly examining the socio-economic composition that gave birth to inequities and consequently the need felt by Muslims to have Pakistan. As Pakistan begins to emerge as a distinct reality, many of the Hindus remain baffled, clutching at straws of hope, arguing that since 80 per cent of the property of Lahore was held by Hindus and the vast majority of the industrial workers in Amritsar, Jalandar and Ludhiana were Muslims, the creation of Pakistan was an unrealistic goal.

Yashpal breathed life not only in the characters of Bhola Pandhe’s Gali but also brought alive a life, where the neighbours demonstrate their solidarity and concern in matters of both life and death. Thus, when Jaidev Puri returns home after being unjustly locked up in police custody, the neighbours express their relief by sending a bowl of the dish that they had cooked for themselves but which they knew Jaidev was fond of!

The first part of the novel, Homeland and Nation, narrates the lives, hopes and fears of the characters in the shadow of the powerful tempest that was about to strike and when it does overwhelm Lahore and the rest of the Punjab, it fathoms the pits of degeneration and depravity that mankind descends. Among the victims are the families of Masterji, Pandit Girdhari Lal, Ramjawaya and many more who rebuild their lives and in doing so bring about change in values not only in their own lives but notably in Delhi and other cities where the displaced population thronged.

Many readers might find, as many did when the novel was first published, that the second volume, The Future of the Nation, lacks the intensity of the first and that it unjustly treats the character of Jaidev Puri. A case can be built in favour of Puri, for in the build-up to the fall that he is made to undertake, Tara is as much flawed as he is. While he does not live up to his intellectual credentials in sorting Tara’s problem, she herself does not cover herself in glory by injuring herself to make her brother quiet. His need to match Kanak’s family in financial and social success is not reason enough to falter and treat Tara the way he is made to do by the author. These were issues that have been endlessly debated in the past and the debate can still continue in endless evenings.

What the reader cannot fail to notice, though, is the resolve and resilience of the female characters. Whether it is the journey of Tara from her humble livings in Lahore to the Secretariat of New Delhi, the struggle of Kanak to explore herself in the new world after Partition or the fate of illiterate Banti, whose search for her husband’s family meets a gory end, they all have steel in their character. In contrast, while some of the males fade away as footnotes, others falter and stumble to earn pity and contempt.

It goes without saying that reading 1,119 pages is no easy matter, but then it must be remembered that it is the definitive story of Partition. The result is worth the labour. Finally, a word about the title: many of us may not be very comfortable with it but it really does not matter for whatever its rechristened name, this epic work will always be known for what it is—Jhootha Sach.
source:
http://www.tribuneindia.com/2010/20101107/spectrum/book3.htm

Shahira Naim chats up the poet, who has won the 44th Jnanpith Award
for his contribution to Urdu poetry




Waqt teri yeh ada main aaj tak samjha nahin
Meri duniya kyon badal di mujh ko kyon badla nahin
(Time I have not fathomed your ways
Why change my world but not me)

FAME rests easy on his shoulders, as Shahryar, in his own words, regrets not being able to change with the times. Leaving his native place of Chandera Sharif in Bulandshahr, Akhlaq Mohammad Khan, who was to be known as Shahryar, had come to Aligarh not to be associated with its literary luminaries teaching at Aligarh Muslim University and dominating Urdu poetry. In fact, he had come to play hockey as AMU then boasted of the best hockey team.

Sitting in his rather cluttered two-bedroom flat on the Medical College road in Aligarh, the poet is surrounded by books, trophies, citations and photographs of his near and dear ones, including poets and literary giants like Moin Ahsan Jazbi and Khalilur Rahman Azmi, who took him under his wing.

Admitting to having no precise roadmap to his literary pursuit, Shahryar’s 74-year-long meandering journey has just bestowed him with the most prestigious literary award in the country — the 44th Jnanpith Award for his contribution to Urdu poetry.

Even after lyrics like ‘Dil cheez kya hai aap meri jaan lijeye’ in films like Umrao Jaan, Gaman and Anjumaan made him a household name, he refused to leave his academic job in Aligarh for the tinsel world of Mumbai that was beckoning him.

"My father had told me that you may take a long time to know exactly what you want to do in life but you will know by instinct what you can’t do. I wanted money and fame but with dignity and self-respect. That is why I did not leave the secure teaching job and laidback lifestyle of Aligarh for the fast life of Mumbai. I knew that it was not my cup of tea. And in hindsight, I’m glad of my decision".

Yet this son of a police inspector belonging to a Muslim Rajput family that had most family members serving either in the police or the Army honestly confesses of having no inborn passion for either literature or poetry.

It was the company of his mentor, guide and teacher the famous Urdu poet Khalilur Rahman Azmi that forced him to take interest in literature.

"By the time, I was doing my graduation I had started writing poetry and was being published in the leading literary journals. It was sheer chance that I had started writing at a time when the progressive movement was over the hill and I was considered one of the representative voices of a new kind of modernist writing".

Talking of his creative process, Shaharyar says that his brief stint in Urdu journalism helped him master the art of editing that helped him chisel his poetry. No two poems happen in the same manner while one may come easily for the other one may struggle very hard.

"There are many miscarriages before one successful delivery", is how he describes his creative process. Unlike the popular notion of a poet, he never writes after a drink. His first collection Ism-e-Azam appeared in 1965 and received raving reviews.

Still not sure that his destiny was in Urdu poetry, he joined post-graduation in psychology and never went to watch a film in the matinee show as those were the hours dedicated to practicing hockey.

But soon, he switched to taking a Master’s degree in Urdu and by the end of his course in 1966, he was already teaching in the department. "Somehow, I never taught poetry. My Ph. D was on ‘Significant trends of Urdu criticism in the 19th century’ and I taught literary criticism and would rate myself as an average academician," laughs Shahryar, while quoting a critic who had said that even Shakespeare was not qualified for a university job.

But the turning point in his life came in 1978 when Muzaffar Ali decided to use his poems for his directorial debut called Gaman. The songs — ‘sine mein jalan, ankhon mein tufaan sa kyon hai `85’ and ‘ajeeb saaneha mujh par guzar gaya yaaro, main apne saaye se kal raat dar gaya yaaro’ remain popular to this day.

"Muzaffar Ali was almost 10 years junior to me at the university but took my poetry very seriously", recalls Shahryar.

In Muzaffar Ali’s words, Aligarh, I was inspired by Faiz and many other poets of his time. Shahryar, however, struck a new chord with his modern sensibilities. He made me think and open new vistas in my creative thought. I began to live life through his work. He made poetry come to life and touch an inner self. I did not want him to write for my first film Gaman as I felt poets should not be commissioned to write poetry. I felt it was too demeaning to do that. And I did not respect poets who had compromised in life." Ali had used two existing poems for this film.

During the LP release of the Gaman’s songs in Mumbai, Ali told Shahryar that he wanted to make a film recapitulating the culture of Lucknow. Shahryar, who taught Mirza Muhammad Hadi Ruswa’s literary gem Umrao Jaan in the Urdu syllabus at AMU, recommended the novel.

According to Ali, Shahryar agreed to work on Umrao Jaan and along with him worked out a character graph of the courtesan-poet Umrao Jaan. Acknowledging Shahrayar’s contribution to the creative venture, Ali recalls, "Shahryar, Khaiyyam, Asha Bhosle and I made a beautiful team. He had begun to blend in with my vision of films, finding parallels in his poetry and sharpening it with its positioning in the screenplay and the predicament of the protagonist. Truly, this was an unusual relationship that has rarely happened in cinema".

The joint creative venture won both critical and popular acclaim and a National Award for Rekha. The songs remain a classic till this date.

But Shahryar has his own take on the success of the film. "I think what the film did was to make even non-Urdu-knowing readers sit up and read my poetry. All my books appeared in Devnagari scripts and have run into several additions. This curiosity about my poetry helped me gain immense popularity. This instant recognition helped me win the AMU staff association election and subsequently the executive council one and eventually a place in the university court", Shahryar recollects jokingly.

In a lighter vein, he adds that his newfound charm gave him a VIP status through which he managed train reservations and even hospital treatment. "In AIIMS, I was treated like a star and given the best possible treatment by the doctors".

By then, his 1969 book Satvan dar had been followed by Hijr ke mausam`A0 (1978). But soon after the success of his film, came his most celebrated work,`A0Khwab ke dar band hain in 1987 that won him the`A0Sahitya Akademi Award`A0in Urdu.

Fourteen years after retiring from his teaching job, Shahryar refuses any academic work like reading papers at seminars, setting questions, taking viva voices or any such work. He only has time for his writing.

"I occasionally take part in mushairas (poetry reading sessions) at my own terms. I demand a hefty fee and perks like airfare and good hospitality. If it had not been for these ‘mushairas,’ I would not have been able to see the world which includes visiting the USA five times and performing the umrah in Saudi Arabia thrice".

More than content with what life has offered him, Shahryar humbly says that if his own effort had been taken into account, he would have been living in a cave.

"God has been very kind. Not only awards and recognitions have come my way but my children are also doing well and are nicely settled. The eldest two are in Dubai — the son making money in investment finance and daughter as a doctor. The youngest — Faridun — is in Mumbai writing poetry and jingles for a company. He innocently tells me that ‘aap toh chaa gaye hain’," recounts the proud father with a glint in his eyes.

When not globetrotting, he lives in Aligarh very much the kind of life he always wanted — reading, writing, meeting friends and spending evenings in the university club.

Confident of the future of the Urdu language, Shahryar says its survival depends entirely on the will of its lovers. "When two Bangla-speaking people meet anywhere in the world, they automatically speak in Bangla. The day Urdu and Hindi-knowing people break out of their mental bondage and show the same love and respect for their language, its future would also be secure".

Shikwa koi dariya ki rawani se nahin hai
Rishta hi meri pyaas ka paani se nahi hai
(I have no grudge with the flow of the river
My thirst has nothing to do with water)

This is Shaharyar chalking out a different paradigm with his poems.



source:
http://www.tribuneindia.com/2010/20101107/spectrum/main2.htm

Shahira Naim chats up the poet, who has won the 44th Jnanpith Award
for his contribution to Urdu poetry




Waqt teri yeh ada main aaj tak samjha nahin
Meri duniya kyon badal di mujh ko kyon badla nahin
(Time I have not fathomed your ways
Why change my world but not me)

FAME rests easy on his shoulders, as Shahryar, in his own words, regrets not being able to change with the times. Leaving his native place of Chandera Sharif in Bulandshahr, Akhlaq Mohammad Khan, who was to be known as Shahryar, had come to Aligarh not to be associated with its literary luminaries teaching at Aligarh Muslim University and dominating Urdu poetry. In fact, he had come to play hockey as AMU then boasted of the best hockey team.

Sitting in his rather cluttered two-bedroom flat on the Medical College road in Aligarh, the poet is surrounded by books, trophies, citations and photographs of his near and dear ones, including poets and literary giants like Moin Ahsan Jazbi and Khalilur Rahman Azmi, who took him under his wing.

Admitting to having no precise roadmap to his literary pursuit, Shahryar’s 74-year-long meandering journey has just bestowed him with the most prestigious literary award in the country — the 44th Jnanpith Award for his contribution to Urdu poetry.

Even after lyrics like ‘Dil cheez kya hai aap meri jaan lijeye’ in films like Umrao Jaan, Gaman and Anjumaan made him a household name, he refused to leave his academic job in Aligarh for the tinsel world of Mumbai that was beckoning him.

"My father had told me that you may take a long time to know exactly what you want to do in life but you will know by instinct what you can’t do. I wanted money and fame but with dignity and self-respect. That is why I did not leave the secure teaching job and laidback lifestyle of Aligarh for the fast life of Mumbai. I knew that it was not my cup of tea. And in hindsight, I’m glad of my decision".

Yet this son of a police inspector belonging to a Muslim Rajput family that had most family members serving either in the police or the Army honestly confesses of having no inborn passion for either literature or poetry.

It was the company of his mentor, guide and teacher the famous Urdu poet Khalilur Rahman Azmi that forced him to take interest in literature.

"By the time, I was doing my graduation I had started writing poetry and was being published in the leading literary journals. It was sheer chance that I had started writing at a time when the progressive movement was over the hill and I was considered one of the representative voices of a new kind of modernist writing".

Talking of his creative process, Shaharyar says that his brief stint in Urdu journalism helped him master the art of editing that helped him chisel his poetry. No two poems happen in the same manner while one may come easily for the other one may struggle very hard.

"There are many miscarriages before one successful delivery", is how he describes his creative process. Unlike the popular notion of a poet, he never writes after a drink. His first collection Ism-e-Azam appeared in 1965 and received raving reviews.

Still not sure that his destiny was in Urdu poetry, he joined post-graduation in psychology and never went to watch a film in the matinee show as those were the hours dedicated to practicing hockey.

But soon, he switched to taking a Master’s degree in Urdu and by the end of his course in 1966, he was already teaching in the department. "Somehow, I never taught poetry. My Ph. D was on ‘Significant trends of Urdu criticism in the 19th century’ and I taught literary criticism and would rate myself as an average academician," laughs Shahryar, while quoting a critic who had said that even Shakespeare was not qualified for a university job.

But the turning point in his life came in 1978 when Muzaffar Ali decided to use his poems for his directorial debut called Gaman. The songs — ‘sine mein jalan, ankhon mein tufaan sa kyon hai `85’ and ‘ajeeb saaneha mujh par guzar gaya yaaro, main apne saaye se kal raat dar gaya yaaro’ remain popular to this day.

"Muzaffar Ali was almost 10 years junior to me at the university but took my poetry very seriously", recalls Shahryar.

In Muzaffar Ali’s words, Aligarh, I was inspired by Faiz and many other poets of his time. Shahryar, however, struck a new chord with his modern sensibilities. He made me think and open new vistas in my creative thought. I began to live life through his work. He made poetry come to life and touch an inner self. I did not want him to write for my first film Gaman as I felt poets should not be commissioned to write poetry. I felt it was too demeaning to do that. And I did not respect poets who had compromised in life." Ali had used two existing poems for this film.

During the LP release of the Gaman’s songs in Mumbai, Ali told Shahryar that he wanted to make a film recapitulating the culture of Lucknow. Shahryar, who taught Mirza Muhammad Hadi Ruswa’s literary gem Umrao Jaan in the Urdu syllabus at AMU, recommended the novel.

According to Ali, Shahryar agreed to work on Umrao Jaan and along with him worked out a character graph of the courtesan-poet Umrao Jaan. Acknowledging Shahrayar’s contribution to the creative venture, Ali recalls, "Shahryar, Khaiyyam, Asha Bhosle and I made a beautiful team. He had begun to blend in with my vision of films, finding parallels in his poetry and sharpening it with its positioning in the screenplay and the predicament of the protagonist. Truly, this was an unusual relationship that has rarely happened in cinema".

The joint creative venture won both critical and popular acclaim and a National Award for Rekha. The songs remain a classic till this date.

But Shahryar has his own take on the success of the film. "I think what the film did was to make even non-Urdu-knowing readers sit up and read my poetry. All my books appeared in Devnagari scripts and have run into several additions. This curiosity about my poetry helped me gain immense popularity. This instant recognition helped me win the AMU staff association election and subsequently the executive council one and eventually a place in the university court", Shahryar recollects jokingly.

In a lighter vein, he adds that his newfound charm gave him a VIP status through which he managed train reservations and even hospital treatment. "In AIIMS, I was treated like a star and given the best possible treatment by the doctors".

By then, his 1969 book Satvan dar had been followed by Hijr ke mausam`A0 (1978). But soon after the success of his film, came his most celebrated work,`A0Khwab ke dar band hain in 1987 that won him the`A0Sahitya Akademi Award`A0in Urdu.

Fourteen years after retiring from his teaching job, Shahryar refuses any academic work like reading papers at seminars, setting questions, taking viva voices or any such work. He only has time for his writing.

"I occasionally take part in mushairas (poetry reading sessions) at my own terms. I demand a hefty fee and perks like airfare and good hospitality. If it had not been for these ‘mushairas,’ I would not have been able to see the world which includes visiting the USA five times and performing the umrah in Saudi Arabia thrice".

More than content with what life has offered him, Shahryar humbly says that if his own effort had been taken into account, he would have been living in a cave.

"God has been very kind. Not only awards and recognitions have come my way but my children are also doing well and are nicely settled. The eldest two are in Dubai — the son making money in investment finance and daughter as a doctor. The youngest — Faridun — is in Mumbai writing poetry and jingles for a company. He innocently tells me that ‘aap toh chaa gaye hain’," recounts the proud father with a glint in his eyes.

When not globetrotting, he lives in Aligarh very much the kind of life he always wanted — reading, writing, meeting friends and spending evenings in the university club.

Confident of the future of the Urdu language, Shahryar says its survival depends entirely on the will of its lovers. "When two Bangla-speaking people meet anywhere in the world, they automatically speak in Bangla. The day Urdu and Hindi-knowing people break out of their mental bondage and show the same love and respect for their language, its future would also be secure".

Shikwa koi dariya ki rawani se nahin hai
Rishta hi meri pyaas ka paani se nahi hai
(I have no grudge with the flow of the river
My thirst has nothing to do with water)

This is Shaharyar chalking out a different paradigm with his poems.



source:
http://www.tribuneindia.com/2010/20101107/spectrum/main2.htm

Shahira Naim chats up the poet, who has won the 44th Jnanpith Award
for his contribution to Urdu poetry




Waqt teri yeh ada main aaj tak samjha nahin
Meri duniya kyon badal di mujh ko kyon badla nahin
(Time I have not fathomed your ways
Why change my world but not me)

FAME rests easy on his shoulders, as Shahryar, in his own words, regrets not being able to change with the times. Leaving his native place of Chandera Sharif in Bulandshahr, Akhlaq Mohammad Khan, who was to be known as Shahryar, had come to Aligarh not to be associated with its literary luminaries teaching at Aligarh Muslim University and dominating Urdu poetry. In fact, he had come to play hockey as AMU then boasted of the best hockey team.

Sitting in his rather cluttered two-bedroom flat on the Medical College road in Aligarh, the poet is surrounded by books, trophies, citations and photographs of his near and dear ones, including poets and literary giants like Moin Ahsan Jazbi and Khalilur Rahman Azmi, who took him under his wing.

Admitting to having no precise roadmap to his literary pursuit, Shahryar’s 74-year-long meandering journey has just bestowed him with the most prestigious literary award in the country — the 44th Jnanpith Award for his contribution to Urdu poetry.

Even after lyrics like ‘Dil cheez kya hai aap meri jaan lijeye’ in films like Umrao Jaan, Gaman and Anjumaan made him a household name, he refused to leave his academic job in Aligarh for the tinsel world of Mumbai that was beckoning him.

"My father had told me that you may take a long time to know exactly what you want to do in life but you will know by instinct what you can’t do. I wanted money and fame but with dignity and self-respect. That is why I did not leave the secure teaching job and laidback lifestyle of Aligarh for the fast life of Mumbai. I knew that it was not my cup of tea. And in hindsight, I’m glad of my decision".

Yet this son of a police inspector belonging to a Muslim Rajput family that had most family members serving either in the police or the Army honestly confesses of having no inborn passion for either literature or poetry.

It was the company of his mentor, guide and teacher the famous Urdu poet Khalilur Rahman Azmi that forced him to take interest in literature.

"By the time, I was doing my graduation I had started writing poetry and was being published in the leading literary journals. It was sheer chance that I had started writing at a time when the progressive movement was over the hill and I was considered one of the representative voices of a new kind of modernist writing".

Talking of his creative process, Shaharyar says that his brief stint in Urdu journalism helped him master the art of editing that helped him chisel his poetry. No two poems happen in the same manner while one may come easily for the other one may struggle very hard.

"There are many miscarriages before one successful delivery", is how he describes his creative process. Unlike the popular notion of a poet, he never writes after a drink. His first collection Ism-e-Azam appeared in 1965 and received raving reviews.

Still not sure that his destiny was in Urdu poetry, he joined post-graduation in psychology and never went to watch a film in the matinee show as those were the hours dedicated to practicing hockey.

But soon, he switched to taking a Master’s degree in Urdu and by the end of his course in 1966, he was already teaching in the department. "Somehow, I never taught poetry. My Ph. D was on ‘Significant trends of Urdu criticism in the 19th century’ and I taught literary criticism and would rate myself as an average academician," laughs Shahryar, while quoting a critic who had said that even Shakespeare was not qualified for a university job.

But the turning point in his life came in 1978 when Muzaffar Ali decided to use his poems for his directorial debut called Gaman. The songs — ‘sine mein jalan, ankhon mein tufaan sa kyon hai `85’ and ‘ajeeb saaneha mujh par guzar gaya yaaro, main apne saaye se kal raat dar gaya yaaro’ remain popular to this day.

"Muzaffar Ali was almost 10 years junior to me at the university but took my poetry very seriously", recalls Shahryar.

In Muzaffar Ali’s words, Aligarh, I was inspired by Faiz and many other poets of his time. Shahryar, however, struck a new chord with his modern sensibilities. He made me think and open new vistas in my creative thought. I began to live life through his work. He made poetry come to life and touch an inner self. I did not want him to write for my first film Gaman as I felt poets should not be commissioned to write poetry. I felt it was too demeaning to do that. And I did not respect poets who had compromised in life." Ali had used two existing poems for this film.

During the LP release of the Gaman’s songs in Mumbai, Ali told Shahryar that he wanted to make a film recapitulating the culture of Lucknow. Shahryar, who taught Mirza Muhammad Hadi Ruswa’s literary gem Umrao Jaan in the Urdu syllabus at AMU, recommended the novel.

According to Ali, Shahryar agreed to work on Umrao Jaan and along with him worked out a character graph of the courtesan-poet Umrao Jaan. Acknowledging Shahrayar’s contribution to the creative venture, Ali recalls, "Shahryar, Khaiyyam, Asha Bhosle and I made a beautiful team. He had begun to blend in with my vision of films, finding parallels in his poetry and sharpening it with its positioning in the screenplay and the predicament of the protagonist. Truly, this was an unusual relationship that has rarely happened in cinema".

The joint creative venture won both critical and popular acclaim and a National Award for Rekha. The songs remain a classic till this date.

But Shahryar has his own take on the success of the film. "I think what the film did was to make even non-Urdu-knowing readers sit up and read my poetry. All my books appeared in Devnagari scripts and have run into several additions. This curiosity about my poetry helped me gain immense popularity. This instant recognition helped me win the AMU staff association election and subsequently the executive council one and eventually a place in the university court", Shahryar recollects jokingly.

In a lighter vein, he adds that his newfound charm gave him a VIP status through which he managed train reservations and even hospital treatment. "In AIIMS, I was treated like a star and given the best possible treatment by the doctors".

By then, his 1969 book Satvan dar had been followed by Hijr ke mausam`A0 (1978). But soon after the success of his film, came his most celebrated work,`A0Khwab ke dar band hain in 1987 that won him the`A0Sahitya Akademi Award`A0in Urdu.

Fourteen years after retiring from his teaching job, Shahryar refuses any academic work like reading papers at seminars, setting questions, taking viva voices or any such work. He only has time for his writing.

"I occasionally take part in mushairas (poetry reading sessions) at my own terms. I demand a hefty fee and perks like airfare and good hospitality. If it had not been for these ‘mushairas,’ I would not have been able to see the world which includes visiting the USA five times and performing the umrah in Saudi Arabia thrice".

More than content with what life has offered him, Shahryar humbly says that if his own effort had been taken into account, he would have been living in a cave.

"God has been very kind. Not only awards and recognitions have come my way but my children are also doing well and are nicely settled. The eldest two are in Dubai — the son making money in investment finance and daughter as a doctor. The youngest — Faridun — is in Mumbai writing poetry and jingles for a company. He innocently tells me that ‘aap toh chaa gaye hain’," recounts the proud father with a glint in his eyes.

When not globetrotting, he lives in Aligarh very much the kind of life he always wanted — reading, writing, meeting friends and spending evenings in the university club.

Confident of the future of the Urdu language, Shahryar says its survival depends entirely on the will of its lovers. "When two Bangla-speaking people meet anywhere in the world, they automatically speak in Bangla. The day Urdu and Hindi-knowing people break out of their mental bondage and show the same love and respect for their language, its future would also be secure".

Shikwa koi dariya ki rawani se nahin hai
Rishta hi meri pyaas ka paani se nahi hai
(I have no grudge with the flow of the river
My thirst has nothing to do with water)

This is Shaharyar chalking out a different paradigm with his poems.



source:
http://www.tribuneindia.com/2010/20101107/spectrum/main2.htm

Pratibha Ray : The Cave. Tr. by Bikram K Das

Late Sanjukta Panigrahi, Odissi dancer of repute. Courtesy - seeodissi.com

Translated by
Bikram Das

That cave, older than time …..

Two human forms have lain here for centuries. One male; the other female. Resting close together, bodies touching, concealed from time and prying eyes.
Time has stood still for them.

Some unknown property in the soil and the atmosphere has turned those bodies, through a natural process, into mummies. The faces are still glowing, flawless.
Death has not dimmed the radiance of life; rather, its serenity has heightened the brightness of those two faces. As though the luminescence of some mysterious
dream had descended on them.

Can human bodies retain their freshness for centuries without the help of chemical substances ?

Is it the sanctity of the cave or their spiritual power that has enabled these two to conquer time?

The team of researchers from the Department of Sociology had dispersed. Only two remained behind, guarding the mummies. The study tour had culminated in
this exciting discovery in the unknown, inaccessible cave. The mummified bodies were perhaps five thousand years old. What had brought them here; what
intent had made them lie down in that cave and embrace death; and again, what relationship existed between them? Many were the questions raised.

Examination revealed that the woman was of somewhat greater age and size than the man. Certainly not old, if not young.. Death had frozen and immortalized
the glow of youth in her before its decline. The man, however, was in the prime of youth.

What could the relationship be?

Mother and son?

Impossible. The period to which those bodies could be assigned had witnessed the dawn of a glorious civilization in the area, characterized by the rise
of great cities. As for the cave, it antedated the beginning of man. Then why should a mother and son choose to lie down in that cave ? The ornaments found
on the woman’s body revealed her affluence and good taste. However, time had robbed her of her garments; the two bodies were nude. What could have brought
the man and the woman to the cave, to meet their death in such mysterious circumstances ?

An ancient university was known to have stood not fifty kilometers away, in the days when they had been living. They could have been teachers or researchers
at that university. But women had not taken to education then; certainly, there was no evidences of women studying at the university.

Or, could they have been Buddhist monk or nun ? The ruins of the monastery nearby suggested that possibility.

Inside the cave, the venerable Professor Siddhanta Sekhar and his research scholar Ms Jigisha were lost in their respective thoughts. The unique discovery
had amazed as well as inspired them. The title of Jagisha’s still incomplete dissertation was The nature of Social Relationship between the Sexes in Prehistoric
times : a Socio-psychological Inquiry.

Although Jigisha had worked under the professor’s guidance for years, she had not been able to reach any significant conclusions. Her research had drifted
from a sociological and psychological to a philosophical orientation, which precluded any facile generalizations. Her guide did not try to restrain her
meandering; in fact, he offered every encouragement.

In a modern civilization, physical needs have priority over spiritual propensities. Even the gods have had to succumb to the power of materialism, and
so the relationship between Indra, mightiest and most benevolent of the gods, and that paragon of womanhood, Ahalya, consort to the sage Gautam, has been
reduced to mere physicality. Although Ahalya was redeemed by the touch of Ram’s divine feet, she had not acquired the social standing of the chaste Sita
or Savitri.

Is beauty born of the flesh or the mind ?

Is beauty truth, or illusion?

Is beauty real, or is it imagination ?

Several philosophical questions arose in Jigisha’s mind. Is the man-woman relationship totally physical, totally emotional, or a balance of the two ?

While the other professors and students in the team returned before nightfall to the Rest House in the city, five thousand feet below, Jigisha insisted
on spending the night in the cave with the two bodies. There was no rational explanation for her insistence. She felt herself chained to the mountain,
the trees and creepers, the birds and sky, bound to them through an undiscovered relationship. She was totally enmeshed in the warm, primitive odour of
that cave, felt completely familiar with its darkness, its cool aloofness; had known them for ages. When and where? She could not remember. But something
held her shackled to the cave. Not an invisible hand, but an unknown attraction, overpowering her. She felt she had to spend at least a night here. What
if the two mummies should vanish in the darkness of night? All her labour would be wasted.

The others had dissented. The forest was tiger infested. No place to spend the night. Besides, if the two mummies had remained undisturbed for centuries,
why would anyone steal them on that particular night?

Surely, they though, Jigisha was greedy for fame.

It was true that she was responsible for the discovery. The team from the university had climbed up the mountain to admire the gorgeous waterfall hurtling
down the cliffs. Two local guides had agreed to lead them across the unfamiliar terrain; however, instead of climbing to the top, they decided to go up
to a ridge where the splendour of the sunset could be admired and a clear view of the waterfall obtained. It could also be possible to descend easily to
the bottom.

As planned, the team halted at the bend in the mountain track,. Only Jigisha and Prof. Siddhanta Sekhar quickly climbed to the top, against all advice.
On reaching the peak, Jigisha shouted down to her colleagues “We still have some hours to sunset. You will be able to see the rainbow forming against the
waterfall. So stay where you are ! I get the smell of a cave nearby and I am going to investigate”. And she disappeared into the foliage, followed by the
professor.

At first the others were anxious for their safety; but the next moment, ironic smiles appeared on their lips. Someone said “Yes, a dark cave is essential
for a fruitful exploration of man-woman relationship !” There was a chorus of meaningful laughter.

A little later, Jigisha had triumphantly announced the discovery of the two mummies in the cave. It seemed to be less a discovery than a return of her.
Sunset was still slow to arrive. The entire team clambered up to the top to confirm Jigisha’s announcement. She guided them to the cave.

The entrance to the fifteen-meter deep cave was concealed by shrubs and creepers. Within, there was almost total darkness. The air was dank and stifling.
The mummies could be clearly seen, however, in the beam of Jigisha’s torch. They seemed to be sleeping on straw beds. Time’s brush had painted mysterious
designs on the stones which marked their beds. Two ancient styluses of rusted metal lay near the mummies. Something had been inscribed on the walls of
the cave in a barely legible script, partly obliterated by time. It was not possible to decipher the inscription. But clearly, the man and the woman, who
seemed to have carved out those inscriptions, had been possessed of profound learning. But why had they come here to die?

It was not safe to remain long in that cave. The level of oxygen was inadequate, and the gathering darkness had severely restricted vision. The descent
would become hazardous unless they returned at once.

But Jigisha refused to leave the two mummies. Wild animals would devour them or carry them away. She insisted. A colleague said “when nothing had happened
in hundreds of years, why should prowling tigers attack them tonight?”

“There was no human scent in the cave before our arrival”, Jigisha replied. “The wind had carried it away. That was why the wild animals did not find the
cave. But tonight,. Our scent is bound to attract them. Moreover, it is not just the scent of bodies that is trapped within the walls of this cave; the
sound of human voices is stored here too, within the particles of these stones. The scent gradually disappeared with time, but the imprint of voices is
preserved forever. If one concentrates in silence, it is possible to here those sounds. Perhaps we will be able to listen tonight to the last conversation
that these two had in this cave. We may be able to find out who they were, what relationship existed between them and what brought them here. My search
may get a new direction. I am confident that tonight I will be able to retrieve the secret of these mummies from the symphony that lies buried within these
stones!”

A colleague said skeptically “What psychic power told you all this, Jigisha?”

Jigisha was not ruffled. She said, as though stating an incontrovertible truth, “I know it from my dreams. I have been to this cave many times before,
seen these two mummies. Everything here is familiar : the mountain, the waterfall, the rainbow. That was why the smell of the cave led me to it immediately.
I have narrated my dreams to Prof. Shekhar several times. The mystery I am trying to unravel through my research lies in this cave. I knew that I would
come here someday: that the mummies were calling me here, that they would tell me everything when the time came ! Of course, I was not sure of the exact
location of the cave”.

Amazed, the other members of the team looked at Prof. Siddhanta Sekhar for confirmation.

“Yes,” he said, “it’s true! She first saw this cave and the mummies in a dream about six months after she began her research. She described everything
so graphically that I was able to share her dreams! I too saw the mummies. That’s why we find nothing new here. Everything seems familiar. Like Jigisha,
I have the feeling that tonight this cave will echo to the voices of these two. I propose to keep vigil here along with Jigisha”.

“But the wild animals….”

“We will find a way to tackle them”, the professor said. “If not, we will turn into mummies ourselves”. He laughed.

But Jigisha looked grave. “Sir, why should you put yourself in danger ?” she said. “I can spend the night here alone, with the two mummies to keep me company.
Somehow, I feel they are old friends. I have no fear”.

But Prof. Siddhanta Sekhar replied, as though revealing an ultimate truth “No, Jigisha, I am not staying behind to protect you. Remember, I have been a
partner in your dreams. I am just as keen to hear the voices trapped in these stones as you are. So I am determined to keep watch here tonight, even if
you should decide to leave”.

The other members of the team left. They did, however, manage to see the glorious rainbow that Jigisha bad described to them. They planned to return the
next day, with journalists and photographers in tow.

However, they were all concerned about the safety of Prof Siddhanta Sekhar and Jigisha. No one slept that night. Various speculations were set afloat regarding
the two mummies and their custodians. This diversion was useful in keeping the anxieties away.

“What is the relationship between the mummies ?” someone started.

“Socially ? Who knows ? But emotionally, the could only have been lovers, bonded together in forbidden love. Like Indra and Ahalya”.

“But how come the woman is older ?”

“What difference does that make ? Can you imagine a man and a woman spending a night together in a dark cave without developing an emotional tie ? It would
be highly unnatural !”

“What if they were mother and son ?”

“Look, even a mother and son do not sleep together after a certain age. So that makes your hypothesis unlikely. Every other man-woman relationship, except
this one, is likely to change its course, given the opportunity”.

“Do you mean to say that the relationship between teacher and pupil is likely to lose its innocence ?”

“Most certainly !”

“So those two keeping watch in the cave… “

“Are busy writing the final chapter of the thesis !”

“But the professor loves her like a daughter…”

“Yes, because their relationship has been confined to the world of the classroom. The primal darkness of the lonely cave transports all relationships to
a single, elemental point”.

“You mean…”

“Without a doubt !”

It took them more than half the night to reach this unanimous conclusion.

Surely, the cave must be echoing tonight to the sounds of unrequited passion !

Inside the cave, Prof Siddhanta Sekhar and Jigisha were seated on cushions made of leaves, in postures of yogic meditation. Solitude has a voice too, but
our ears cannot hear it; only the heart can.

As the stones began to resonate to the sounds of that last conversation between the ancient man and woman, Jigisha trembled all over with some spectral
sensation. Prof Siddhanta Sekhar gripped her cold hands strongly.

Freeing her hands she said “I’m not frightened; only exhilarated ! Please relax, Sir; that’s the only way you can hear the stones conversing.”

Prof Sekhar looked at her face intently.

Her eyes were focused on the expressionless face of the sleeping man. The mummies seemed to have come alive in the ale light of Jigisha’s torch.

“Madam ! I am most grateful that you have allowed me to accompany you to this cave, to help you decipher the ancient writing on the walls. Your skill in
decoding ancient scripts is unparalleled. Even Gurudev, our great teacher, depends on your supreme skills ! But I am afraid we have stayed here too long.
We should have returned before night fall. Gurudev will be worried about your safety!”

“Young man, your Gurudev knows how difficult it is to reach this cave. It is already evening when we arrived here and found the writing on the walls. We
were so spellbound by the rainbow that we forgot to passage of time. It will be too dangerous to go down the mountain in the dark; we will be quite safe
here tonight in this cave. Moreover, you Gurudev ordered us to decipher this inscription. The task remains unfinished. How can we go back ?”

“But, Guru Mata, if we spend the night here together, Gurudev and other members of the university will suspect…”

“Suspect what?”

“The nature of our relationship. That eternal doubt!”

“Are you mad, young man ? I am the wife of your Gurudev. You are like a son !”

“But you are a woman. And I am a man”.

“What are you afraid of ? Yourself ? Me? Or the darkness ?”

“Are you not afraid of the darkness, Madam ? Then why did you compel me to stay here in this cave with you, when there was another cave ? Why did you lose
yourself in admiration of the rainbow ? why are we here together in this cave tonight ?”

“Yes, I planned it that way ! You have guessed it right. But what’s this ? Why are you holding my hand? Why are you becoming so intimate ?”

“For the same reason that made you stop here with me”

“Restrain yourself, young man ! I stopped here for a trial of strength”.

“Whose ?”

“A woman’s strength. And a man’s.”

“I may be ten years younger, but physically I am your superior. You cannot defeat my strength”.

“You have only known the strength of the body, not that of the mind, the reason, the soul. Tonight I shall rid you of your illusion”.

“But Madam, why this trial of strength ? Who is here to witness it ? The ability to enjoy this solitude, this darkness, is itself a sign of strength. No
one will see, no one will know what happens here tonight. Everything will look innocent in the light of day !”

“Young man, neither of us is blind. You and I will see everything; your conscience, your soul, will be the witness”.

“But Madam, will society accept this witness ? Will even Gurudev trust it ? What would happen if we were to die here tonight, and our bodies were to be
discovered a thousand years from now ? What relationship would society establish between us ?

“You are silent ! I know you have no answer. Who will understand the sacredness of our relationship ? In a society based on fear – fear of breaking the
rules at each step – who listens to the voice of conscience ?”

“The rules of society are not those of the soul. Where there is fear and suspicion, there is secrecy and falsehood. But there are some rules that arise
in the soul, and these endure. Some voices are never stilled; they echo among the stones, the trees, the infinitesimal pores of nature. Only, not everyone
can here them !”

“Madam, I feel my breath growing faint.”

“I feel it too”.

“How will history record our relationship then ?”

“Only the trust of the heart and the strength of the soul will shape our relationship. Our remains will testify to the mortality of the body and the union
of souls”.

“But society ?”

“Society is not founded on aberrations alone; it is built on emotions too.”

“Madam, you brought me to this airless cave, where I shall meet my death, for a trial of my strength. But, unknown to you, I too was testing your strength
! only time will tell whether we have been winners or losers of the trial”.

“This trial extends over many births, not just one”.

The darkness in the cave grew more intense. The conversation ended.

In what words would society define, on the next day, the relationship between the two who had kept watch in the cave ?

They were lost in their own thoughts, eyes focused on the mummies. In the dying light of the torch, Prof Siddhanta Sekhar saw the face of the female mummy
slowly assume the features of Jigisha. And as Jigisha watched, the male mummy took on Prof Siddhanta Sekhar’s face.

Night ended. Clear sunlight pierced the choking miasma that permeated the cave. By noon, a crowd of researchers and journalists had gathered outside. Blinding
flash-bulbs lit up the cave. The two mummies were gone. In their place lay Prof. Siddhanta Sekhar and Jigisha.

Manu Joseph bags The Hindu Best Fiction Award 2010

Special Correspondent FILE PHOTO: VIVEK BENDRE

Manu Joseph.

CHENNAI: Manu Joseph has bagged TheHindu Best Fiction Award 2010 for his debut novel Serious Men.

Writer and historian Nayantara Sahgal presented the award, which carries a cash prize of Rs.5 lakh and a plaque, to Mr. Joseph, who is the Deputy Editor
of the Open magazine.

The award was instituted by TheHindu Literary Review as a prelude to celebrating its 20th year in 2011.

The winner was chosen from the 11 works shortlisted from 75 entries of Indian fiction writing in English.

Shashi Deshpande, novelist and juror for the award, said the jury decision was unanimous.

Serious Men was an “original and surprising novel” that ventured into the unusual area of science and institutional research, Ms. Deshpande said.

The book was a “wonderful read” and the author had avoided literary gimmicks in a narrative style where “everything is subordinated to the telling of the
story,” she said.

In his acceptance speech, Mr. Joseph said “an award is only as good as its shortlist,” and that it was an honour for his book to be judged alongside the
works of good writers.

The jury also comprised Mukul Kesavan, author and essayist; Brinda Bose, academic and critic; and Jai Arjun Singh, literary critic.

The shortlist was finalised by a panel of Chennai-based judges comprising Shreekumar Varma, novelist; K. Srilata, poet-academic; Parvathi Nayar, artist-critic;
and Ranvir Shah, founder of the Prakiriti Foundation.

The event was sponsored by Ford along with associate sponsors Shriram Chits, VGN, Parker, UniverCell, reading partner Landmark, and TV partner NDTV Hindu.

Poet of the masses


A.J. THOMAS


O.N.V. Kurup, who has been awarded the Jnanpith Award for 2007, is a literary icon with a universal appeal.





C. RATHEESH KUMAR

O.N.V. Kurup. The way he has reached out to people through poetry remains unique.

O.N.V. KURUP grabbed the headlines on September 24 as the Jnanpith Award graced Malayalam for the fifth time. The entire Malayalam-speaking world is in a celebratory mood at the moment, forgetting differences. This is, therefore, the time for a stocktaking of the poet's work.

It will be difficult for anyone to define O.N.V. Kurup's poetry through any single approach – academic, popular, aesthetic, and so on. Because ‘ONV' – the initials identify the literary/cultural/social/political figure venerated in the niche of the Malayali psyche for the past six decades – appeals to people from all strata of society. Not only Malayalis but many people from other parts of India, especially Tamil Nadu, Andhra Pradesh, Orissa and the Hindi-speaking States (Bhisham Sahni was his close friend from the Progressive Writers' Association days; so are Namwar Singh, Sitakant Mahapatra and many others), and the Malayali diaspora around the globe recognise these three letters. It will not be an exaggeration to say that the special issue of a magazine without an ONV poem has been unthinkable over the last six decades in Malayalam. Malayalis have this habit of keeping close to their heart what they adore. This fond affection for ONV has not diminished after all these years; it has only grown stronger.

To understand this phenomenon, one has to look at the socio-political and cultural scene of Kerala around the period leading to Independence. In Travancore, which now forms part of the State, peasants and labourers had risen in revolt in Punnapra and Vayalar, which was put down by the army, causing a bloodbath that was unprecedented in the history of the princely State. In the British Malabar part of Kerala, the peasant rebellions of Kayyur, Morazha and Karivelloor had also been crushed. Agricultural and industrial workers were oppressed and exploited and were in general thraldom. The voice of the Progressive Writers' Association had been heard all over India for a decade by then. In Kerala too, the movement was active.

In such a milieu, the message of liberation was so sweet to the ears of the common man that when ONV started writing poetry championing their cause [at the age of 15, in 1946, he published his first poem, “Munnottu” (Forward)], he found ready acceptance. By the 1950s, ONV and poets such as P. Bhaskaran and Vayalar Rama Varma were writing poetry spreading socialist ideals of egalitarianism, justice and freedom. The Communist Party was gaining quick ground amongst the masses through the medium of popular performances like drama that contained the message of resistance and liberation. ONV's famous drama-lyric beginning with the lines “Ponnarivaal ambiliyil kanneriyunnoley” (O lass! Who dart your eyes/towards the golden sickle-moon) is on the lips of the common people of Kerala even to this day. So are his film lyrics – evergreen through all these years.

The rural spirit

Apart from the ideological factor, there are other aspects of his poetry that endeared him to his admirers. His mellifluous diction, blessed with natural word-music, mesmerises the masses. He draws his vocabulary and usages from the folk songs and idioms of the common people. Every poem of his carries the rural spirit. Look at the alluring alliteration in the following lines of another evergreen drama song:

Illimulam kaadukalil lallalalam paadivarum

Tennaleeee, tennaleeee…

Allimalarkkaavukalil vallikalilooyalaadum

Tennaleeee, tennaleeee…

He employs similar word-effects in his poetry as well. The way he has reached out to people through poetry remains unique, except perhaps for the fiery, power-packed diction of Kadammanitta Ramakrishnan in the 1970s.

Thus enthroned in the hearts of the people, the poet's image has never waned.The Muse had taken up residence in the poet's heart very early on. ONV had an extraordinary childhood. In a literary discussion with M.T. Vasudevan Nair, who had won the Jnanpith Award earlier, he recollects:

“In early childhood I had – let me describe it thus – the ‘good fortune' of living in a family atmosphere filled with poetry and music. My father's interest in poetry and his craze for Kathakali and music had certainly contributed a lot to it. I had the occasion to listen to great musicians who sat in the verandah of our house and sang. Our house in Kollam was a haven for poets and musicians. My father was a member of the Municipal Council and, more importantly, a Member of the Travancore State Assembly founded by Maharaja Sree Moolam Tirunal – indeed a social worker. I had met many great persons thus in my childhood. That has certainly created positive vibrations in my heart….”

The father, whom he idealised thus, died suddenly, and young ONV's life plunged into a period of darkness. “Poetry was a drop of light that came to me in the dark solitude of my childhood,” he says of those days.

Gradually, his personal grief gave way to a deep concern for the poor and the oppressed, which he had begun to express in his early poems. Along with this, he began to address problems arising out of industrialisation in a predominantly rural set-up, beginning with his own native village Chavara near Kollam where mineral sand-based industries had started to deface the agrarian edifice of rural life through various factors including the devastation it caused to the land and its environs. ONV's eco-consciousness, thus germinated, would, in future, lead to the writing of poems like “A Requiem to Mother Earth”, which featured prominently – along with those of leading poets Sugathakumari, K. Ayyappa Paniker, Kadammanitta Ramakrishnan, K. Satchidanandan and others – in the environmentalists' struggle to save the Silent Valley rainforests in the 1970s.

The ideological upheavals the Communist Party underwent towards the late 1950s led to a deep disillusionment amongst progressive poets and writers in general. The dream of a humanist paradise was lost; ONV wrote poems like “Broken Bangles” (1960) around this time. He mourns:

Passion that came to woo

this virgin earth!

How could you

take Indra's gorgeous bow

and shatter it so!

Throughout the 1960s, a kind of ideological and philosophical restructuring was taking place in the literary consciousness of ONV. By 1968, when he wrote the poem “The Promised Land”, he had poised himself to stand his ground and question the false gods:

As the electric shock of a shattered dream

signals the message of death

through tottering feet, searing soul and limpid eyes,

here, standing in this desert bleak I cry,

“O, tell me! Where's that Promised Land?”

Universal concern

We see from now on, the poet who bases his writing on a personal philosophy, the main tenets of which are humanism, justice, compassion, eco-consciousness and universality. He began to travel all over India and to different parts of the world. He could see for himself that humanity was one and the same everywhere – the same hopes, aspirations, fears, joys, sorrows. This vision of his brought about poems of universal concern.

The formal experiments carried out by some poets and the inundation of new ideas that came in through literary windows from around the globe had taken Malayalam poetry to the modernist phase as early as the late 1950s. A whole new generation of poets grew around it, succeeded by their younger generations moving on to different phases. Today Malayalam poetry is identified with this modernist mainstream and its latest reaches, which can be described as various levels of “uttara-aadhunikam” (for want of a better word, as ‘postmodern' doesn't fit in, in our context; it is ‘after-modernist' approximately). History is the record of reality in evolution. One cannot ignore the reality of history, even literary history for that matter!

However, ONV remained where he was, in his own “school”, as he chooses to call it, but always coming up with innovative themes and his own latest modes of expression. He has, from time to time, commented on the difference between him and the modernist school, in various moods, drawing sharp reactions. However, I am also aware of the fact that certain senior modernist poets warmly respond to ONV privately when he comes up with a strikingly fresh new poem. Academic critics look at the ONV phenomenon in different ways. However, one can also look at it this way: in the magnificent garden of Malayalam poetry, let there be banyan trees that spread their branches, and also jack-fruit, mango, tamarind, sandalwood, guava, neem and what not! Why should one subscribe to linear logic in literature alone and consider that progress is from point A to point B?

Poetic stance

Let me illustrate ONV's poetic stance further, by quoting from my “Editor's Note” to This Ancient Lyre:

“In ‘A Requiem to Mother Earth' and ‘A Hymn to the Sun' in which he has reached heights hitherto not scaled, ONV breaks the mould of his usual style and employs shocking, angry, and pathetic images that strike directly at the root of one's consciousness. Analysing the two poems as well as their inter-relatedness in an essay in the collection Phoenixnte Sangeetam (The Music of the Phoenix), K. Jayakumar, noted poet, establishes the fact that ONV had accomplished the task of creating a new language and of using it to reflect contemporary realities in a supreme poetic manner; where modernists failed, this poet, through his integrity towards the poetic art, gave birth to a new kind of poetry that responded to the times. He says that it is not entirely unexpected in a poet – who is an honest and inveterate practitioner of the art – for an emotional issue to be developed gradually into an ideology and then into an entire philosophy. The above two poems prove that ONV attained such a holistic vision. As his love for human beings is developed into humaneness, and his patriotism into universal love, the awareness about his own past and his love and concern for nature combine to evolve into a haunting vision of a bleak future for the earth, which is systematically degraded by rapacious humans.”





Given below are the representative Malayalam poets from the subsequent generations, to show how they look at him, though their paths are different.

T.P. Rajeevan, a poet in the second generation down from ONV, has this to say in his review of This Ancient Lyre that appeared in the Hindu Literary Review: “He deserves our admiration for the gravity of the issues addressed in poems such as ‘A Requiem to Mother Earth' and ‘A Hymn to the Sun' and the apocalyptic views on man and nature in them, and for the formal accomplishment in verse narratives like ‘Mrugaya: The Royal Hunt' and ‘Ujjayini'. But, the lyric is his forte. Specifically, his uncanny gift to draw out the hidden music in words without distorting meaning.”

Anvar Ali, a poet of the third generation from ONV's, says:

“Synthesising the romantic lyric and a Left-oriented civil awareness within the framework of an established metrically/allegorically structured writing technique, and keeping the strings of his poetic lyre ever taut for the past six decades, the poet could lead the process of the democratisation of the idiom from the forefront, whereas none of the other poets who were his peers or contemporaries could ever achieve this.”

Anitha Thampi, in the same generation as Anvar Ali, says about ONV's poetry:

“Though there have been poets whose works have tossed me about through deep and intense emotions, it is ONV's lines that disturbed and distressed me for the first time in my life. He's the only poet who has read the poems I wrote while still a small child, and affectionately corrected them. I bow before him on this occasion when he gets this prestigious national recognition.”

Lekshmy Rajeev, a young poet, columnist and editor, who has also translated ONV's poems, comments:

“I still remember my first meeting with ONV Sir. He has the gift of inner grace and peace and he is the only person on earth who told me that he is absolutely happy about life and living. He spreads that feeling to everyone he meets, encourages youngsters and remains dedicated and disciplined. In Kerala it is impossible to spend a day without listening to his verse and it mesmerises the learned and the commoner alike with its romance and sweetness. He treats all his poems with affection and is very passionate about them like a parent and rejoices like a child when it is appreciated. His poems express his humanistic ideals. His contribution as a Malayalam movie lyricist is also valuable.”

In the four decades from the 1970s to the present, the banyan tree that is ONV has spread and branched out, forming a gigantic canopy of foliage all around, encompassing the Malayali consciousness.

With 35 books and several prestigious awards to his credit, crowned now with the Jnanpith, ONV is definitely at the pinnacle of his glory.

I have had the unique privilege of being the main translator of the poet's works. My translation of his novel in verse, Ujjayini, based on the life of Kalidasa, was first published by Sanchar Publishers, New Delhi, in 1997, and a revised edition came out from Rupa & Co in 2002. In 2005, I compiled and edited for Sahitya Akademi This Ancient Lyre, a collection of his poems, a considerable number of which I translated. I am now translating his latest book, Dinaantam (The End of the Day).

A.J. Thomas, poet, fiction-writer, translator and editor, voluntarily retired from Sahitya Akademi as Editor, Indian Literature, in August 2010. He now teaches English at Garyounis University (Benghazi, Libya), in its Ajdabiya Branch.

source:
http://www.frontlineonnet.com/stories/20101105272209100.htm

Aspects of Indian English drama


S. SRIDEVI




EXPLORATIONS IN INDIAN ENGLISH DRAMA: Edited by T. Sai Chandra Mouli, M. Sarat Babu; Authorspress, E-35/103, Jawahar Park, Laxmi Nagar, Delhi-110092. Rs. 675.

This is a collection of 23 research papers highlighting the “various aspects of plays spread over a period of hundred years.” The plays covered include those by Rayappa Pattar, Tagore, Tanvir, Tendulkar, Karnad, G.P. Deshpande, M.M. Kalburgi, Gurucharan Das, Dattani, and Basava (whose writing actually goes back to the 12th century). The authors, who are from the contemporary academia, bring out the distinctive aspects of the way in which different dramatists perceived experiences: Rayappa Pattar deals with human relationships; Tagore uses symbolism blended with mysticism; Tanveer argues “man is the amalgamation of good and evil”; Tendulkar is known for his “stark realism”; Karnad is a “cultural administrator” and “an emissary of Indian culture in foreign lands”, as he goes back to Indian traditions to evoke social dynamics; Deshpande brings the politics of India to drama; Kalburgi's Fall of Kalyana is a visual presentation; Gurucharan Das's Larins Sahib is a significant historical play; Dattani deals with the urban middle class society; and Basava is a “blazing star” who triumphed in transforming the social and religious contexts in Karnataka.

Saumitra Chakravarty discusses the similarities between Tendulkar and Badal Sircar. She argues that while Tendulkar's “over-emphatic stage directions” present an “unmitigated horror” and his recurrent theme is “childlessness within the bounds of marriage,” Sircar's plays deal with “human personality trapped within the periphery of a mundane existence.” Sircar's answer to the “pain of existence”, Chakravarty says, is the “identification of himself with something beyond the narrow limit of his self-centredness, though momentary.” S. John Peter Joseph, who questions the authenticity of spoken English in Indian theatres, feels that Indian English drama is no more than an area of translated texts, lacking the vigour of action. Unless the audience is English-knowing and matured, a drama in English is unlikely to elicit a proper response. Of course, the playwrights have taken up contemporary issues in the social and political arenas — such as corruption, evils of the caste system, widow marriage, and psychological conflicts. But the point is that “some of their dramas lack stageability”, despite their using innovative techniques.

The plays discussed in this book are mostly the English translations of works written in Indian languages. The question arises whether they can be truly called ‘Indian English dramas'. Maybe, one should differentiate between ‘Indian plays' and ‘Indian plays translated into English.'

Integral

Translation, says T.S. Chandra Mouli, is “integral to Indian psyche,” arguing that our epics have been translated into all Indian languages. Translating “culture and literature from one speech system into another” has been an integral quality of the Indian mind and India has the ability to absorb, contends Mouli.

The book is replete with the views of academics. To cite a few: “the people of India still are led away by the saints and religious heads who meddle with politics”; “monster globalization ... is spreading the fire of materialism”; and “a rational mind always longs for perfection, and tries to establish order in everything.” Such sweeping, biased, and unsubstantiated opinions reduce the papers to the level of naïve school essays. Any criticism must be based on a scientific, objective, and thorough examination of texts — not be a mere value judgment — if it is to be taken seriously. The editors say they “deliberately made no attempt to interfere with the expression or content of any paper.” This perhaps explains why the essays are left crying for attention in respect of copy-editing and proof-reading.

source:
http://www.hindu.com/br/2010/10/12/stories/2010101251661400.htm

Saadat Hasan Manto' (May 11, 1912 ? January 18, 1955) was a South Asian Urdu short story writer, most known for his Urdu short stories , 'Bu' (Odor), 'Khol Do' (Open It), 'Thanda Gosht' (Cold Meat), and his magnum opus, Toba Tek Singh'.

He was also a film and radio scriptwriter, and journalist. In his short life, he published twenty-two collections of short stories, one novel, five collections of radio plays, three collections of essays, two collections of personal sketches.

He was tried for obscenity half-a-dozen times, thrice before and thrice after independence in Pakistan, but never convicted. Some of his works have been translated in other languages.

Combining psychoanalysis with human behaviour, he was arguably one of the best short story tellers of the 20th century, and one of the most controversial as well. When it comes to chronicling the collective madness that prevailed in the Indian subcontinent, during and post the Partition of India in 1947, no other writer comes close to the oeuvre of Saadat Hasan Manto.

Since he started his literary career translating works of literary giants, like Victor Hugo, Oscar Wilde and many Russian masters like Chekov and Gorky, their collective influence made him search for his own moorings. This search resulted in his first story, Tamasha, based on the Jallianwala Bagh massacre at Amritsar. Though his earlier works influenced by the progressive writers of his times showed a marked leftist and socialist leanings, his later work progressively became stark in portraying the darkness of the human psyche, as humanist values progressively declined around the Partition. So much so that his final works that came out in the dismal social climate of post-partition Indian subcontinent and his own financial struggles reflected an innate sense of human impotency towards darkness that prevailed in the larger society, cultivating in satirism that verged on dark comedy, as seen in his final great work, Toba Tek Singh, that not just showed a direct influence of his own stay in a veritable mental asylum, but also a reflection of collective madness that he saw in the ensuing decade of his life.


He is often compared with D. H. Lawrence, and like Lawrence he also wrote about the topics considered social taboos in Indo-Pakistani Society. His topics range from the socio-economic injustice prevailing in pre- and post- colonial subcontinent, to the more controversial topics of love, incest, and the typical hypocrisy of a traditional subcontinental male. In dealing with these topics, he doesn't take any pains to conceal the true state of the affair - although his short stories are often intricately structured, with vivid satire and a good sense of humour. In chronicling the lives and tribulations of the people living in lower depths of the human existence, no writer of 20th century, came close to Manto. His concerns on the socio-political issues, from local to global level are revealed in his series, Letters to Uncle Sam, and those to Pandit Nehru [3]. On his writing he often commented, "If you find my stories dirty, the society you are living in is dirty. With my stories, I only expose the truth" .

Saadat Hasan Manto was born in a Kashmiri Muslim family of barristers, on May 11, 1912, in Samrala in the Ludhiana district of the Indian state of Punjab.His father, Ghulam Hasan Manto was a Sub-Judge in Amritsar, while his mother, Sardar Begum, a prior widow, was the second wife to Ghulam Hasan.This never gave the Saadat and his sister Nasira, the requisite place in the Manto clan, and things took a turn for the worse for them, when their father,took an early retirement in 1918.

He received his early education at Muslim High School in Amritsar, but he remained a misfit throughout is school years, rapidly losing motivation in studies, ending up failing twice in matriculation. His only love during those days, was reading English Novels, for which he even stole a book, once from a Book-Stall in Amritsar Railway Station.

In 1931, he finally passed out of school and joined Hindu Sabha College in Amritsar, which was already volatile due the independence movement, soon it reflected in his first story, 'Tamasha', based on the Jallianwala Bagh massacre as witnessed by a seven-year old boy.

After, his father passed away in 1932, he sobered up a bit to support his mother, though the big turning point in his life came, when in 1933 at age, he met Abdul Bari Alig, a scholar and polemic writer, in Amritsar, who encouraged to him find his true talents, and read Russian and French authors.

Within a matter of months he produced an Urdu translation of Victor Hugo's 'The Last Days of a Condemned Man', which was published by Urdu Book Stall, Lahore as Sarguzasht-e-Aseer (A Prisoner's Story) [16] and soon joined the editorial staff of 'Masawat', a daily, published from Ludhiana. His 1934 Urdu translation, of Oscar Wilde's Vera, got him due recognition amongst literary circles. Still at the continued encouragement of Abdul Bari, he published a collection of Urdu translation of Russian stories, as 'Russi Afsane'.

This hightened enthusiasm pushed him to pursue graduation at Aligarh Muslim University, where joined in February 1934, and soon, got associated with Indian Progressive Writers' Association (IPWA). It was here that he met, writer Ali Sardar Jafri and found a new spurt in his writing, got his second story, 'Inqlaab Pasand', published in Aligarh magazine in March 1935.

There was no turning back from then on, and his first collection of original short stories in Urdu, 'Atish Pare' (Sparks; also Quarrel-Provokers) was published in 1936, at age 24.

He left Aligarh within a year, initially for Lahore and ultimately for Bombay.

? "A writer picks up his pen only when his sensibility is hurt."
-- Manto to a court judge ?

After 1936, he moved to Bombay, where he stayed for the next few years, editing 'Musawwir', a monthly film magazine, and also started writing scripts and dialogues for Hindi films, including 'Kisan Kanya' (1936) and 'Apni Nagariya' 1939). Soon he was making enough money, though by the time he married Safia on 26th April, 1939, he was once again in dire financial conditions. Despite financial ups and downs he continued writing for films, till he left for Delhi in January 1941.

He had accepted the job of writing for Urdu Service of All India Radio. This proved to be his most productive period as in the next eighteen months, he published over four collections of radio plays, Ao (Come), Manto ke Drame (Manto's Dramas), Janaze (Funerals) and Tin aurraten (Three women). He continued to write short stories, and his next short story collection Dhuan (Smoke) was soon out, followed by, 'Manto ke Afsane' and his first collection of topical essays, 'Manto ke Mazamin'. This period of, with the publication of his mixed collection 'Afsane aur drame' in 1943. Meanwhile, due a quarrel with then director of the All India Radio, poet N. M. Rashid, he left his job and returned to Bombay in July, 1942, where he started working with film industry once again, and entered his best phase in screenwriting, giving films like 'Aatth Din', 'Chal Chal Re Naujawan' and 'Mirza Ghalib', which was finally released in 1954 ; some of his best short stories also came from this phase, including, 'Kali Shalwar', 'Dhuan' (1943) and 'Bu' which was published in 'Qaumi Jang' (Bombay) in February 1945. Another hightlight of his second phase in Bombay was the publication of an important collection of his stories, 'Chugad', which also included the story, 'Babu Gopinath'. He continued to stay in Bombay, till he moved to Pakistan, in January 1948, much after the partition of India in 1947.

Saadat Hasan Manto arrived in Lahore sometime in early 1948. In Bombay his friends had tried to stop him from migrating to Pakistan because he was quite popular as a film writer and was making reasonably good money. Among his friends there were top actors and directors of that age -- many of them Hindus -- who were trying to prevail upon him to forget about migrating. They thought that he would be unhappy in Pakistan because the film industry of Lahore stood badly disrupted with the departure of Hindu film-makers and studio owners. But the law and order situation post-partition of British India was such that many Muslims felt insecure in India, just as many Hindus felt insecure in newly created Pakistan. That was the reason that Manto had already sent his family to Lahore and was keen to join them. Manto and his family were among the millions of Muslims who left present-day India for the newly created Muslim-majority nation of Pakistan.

Manto had at least one consolation. His nephew Hamid Jalal had already settled his family in a flat next to his own in Lakshmi Mansions near The main Mall. The complex was centrally located. From there every place of importance was at a stone's throw. These flats were occupied by families of some of the people who were destined to become important in the intellectual and academic fields. Manto's next door neighbour was his nephew Hamid Jalal who later became an important mediaman. In another flat, lived Professor G M Asar who taught Urdu at Government College, Lahore. Hailing from Madras, he wrote and spoke excellent English as well. Then there was Miraj Khalid who was to play an important role in the politics of Pakistan. Writer Mustansar Hussain Tarar's family also lived in one of the flats there after shifting from Gowalmandi, though Tarar's presence cannot be referred to as a contribution to literary ambience as Tarar was just an adoloscent at that time and hadn't even started to write.. Thus when Manto arrived in Lahore from Bombay he found an intellectual atmosphere around him. His only problem was how to cater for his family. Sadly for him, Lahore of that period did not have many opportunities to offer.

After the writers who had migrated from various Indian cities settled in Lahore, they started their literary activities. Soon Lahore saw a number of newspapers and periodicals appearing. Manto initially wrote for some literary magazines. These were the days when his controversial stories like Khol Do (Urdu: کھول دو Open it) and Thanda Gosht (Urdu: ٹھنڈا گوشت Cold Meat) created a furor among the conservatives. People like Choudhry Muhammad Hussain played a role in banning and prosecuting the writer as well as the publishers and editors of the magazines that printed his stories. Among the editors were such amiable literary figures as Ahmad Nadeem Qasmi, Hajira Masroor and Arif Abdul Matin. Soon the publishers who were more interested in commercial aspects of their ventures, slammed their doors shut to Manto's writings. He, therefore, started contributing stories to the literary supplements of some newspapers. Even this practice could not go on for long. Masood Ashar who was then editing the literary page of "Daily Ehsan" published some of his stories but the conservative owner of the paper soon asked him to refrain from the practice.

During those days, Manto also tried his hand at newspaper column writing. he started off with writing under the title Chashm-e-Rozan for daily Maghribi Pakistan on the insistence of his friends of Bombay days Ehsan BA and Murtaza Jillani who were editing that paper. But after a few columns one day the space appeared blank under the column saying that due to his indisposition Manto couldn't write the column. Actually Manto was not indisposed, the owner was not favourably disposed to some of the sentences in the column.


But the necessity to earn his livelihood consumed him very fast. In a few years, his complexion became pale and his hair turned grey. We saw him reading his story Toba Tek Singh at YMCA Hall at the annual meeting of Halqa-e-Arbab-e-Zauq. He looked older than his years wearing an overcoat with collars turned up. The big eyes that darted out of the thick-rimmed glasses looked pale and yellow. But he read his story in his usual dramatic style and when he finished reading it there was pin drop silence in the hall and there were tears in everyone's eyes.

In later days, though Manto appeared in the Pak Tea House and other literary functions regularly but he seemed to be in great stress. Earlier, he was known for his witty remarks in literary gatherings. However, in later days he would present his writings in literary meetings but would not tolerate any criticism. He had become extremely touchy and would shout back at his critics. There were days when he was welcomed everywhere and literary organisations clamoured for his participation in their meetings. But then came the days when people started avoiding him because he would not hesitate from borrowing money from them.

Manto lived in Dayal Singh Mansion, The Mall Lahore for seven years. For him those years were full of a continuous struggle for his survival. In return, he gave some of his best writings to the literary world. It was in Lahore that he wrote his masterpieces that include Thanda Gosht, Khol Do, Toba Tek Singh, Iss Manjdhar Mein, Mozalle, Babu Gopi Nath. Some of his characters became legendary.

Simultaneously he had embarked on a journey of self-destruction. The substandard alcohol that he consumed destroyed his liver and in the winter of 1955 he fell victim to liver cirrhosis. During all these years in Lahore he waited for the good old days to return, never to find them again.He was 42 years old at the time of his death. He was survived by his wife Safiyah and three daughters.

Manto's collection (Books)

*Atishparay -1936
*Manto Ke Afsanay-1940
*Dhuan-1941
*Afsane Aur Dramay -1943
*Lazzat-e-Sang-1948
*Siyah Hashiye-1948
*Badshahat Ka Khatimah-1950
*Khali Botlein-1950
*Nimrud Ki Khudai -1950
*Thanda Gosht-1950
*Yazid-1951
*Pardey Ke Peechhey-1953
*Sarak Ke Kinarey- 1953
*Baghair Unwan Ke-1954
*Baghair Ijazit-1955
*Burquey-1955
*Phunduney-1955
*Sarkandon Ke Peechhey-1955
*Shaiytan (Satan)-1955
*Shikari Auratein - 1955
*Ratti, Masha, Tolah-1956
*Kaali Shalwar-1961
*Manto Ki Behtareen Kahanian-1963 [1]
*Tahira Se Tahir-1971
__________________

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The Truth About Me: A Hijra Life Story By A. Revathi, Penguin, Rs 299

A Revathi tells her story gently, lucidly, with an undertone of deep sadness and no melodrama. She was once Doraisamy, the youngest son in a family of four brothers and one sister, living in a small village in Namakkal in Salem district in Tamil Nadu. Doted upon as the youngest son, she did not at first realize how odd it was in a strictly gendered society to want to play only with girls or to help her mother sweep the yard and cook. As understanding dawned, her anguish grew. She was a beloved boy who only wanted to be a girl in a family in which her brothers beat her up whenever they saw girlish behaviour in her.

Her journey in search of the truth of her own being began early, when she was barely out of school, from initial confusion, fear and terrible loneliness to a gradual awakening to the existence of others like herself, marginalized in society, till she too became a member of the hijra community, first in a parivar in Delhi, then in ones in Mumbai and Bangalore. In many ways, the story is typical, recording the stages of life and the changing emotions of a transsexual who must ultimately undergo castration to become a woman. From an objective point of view, Revathi’s tale has a bitter perfection. Unlike many among the hijras who castrate themselves out of a need to belong, or because of peer pressure, Revathi’s desire to be a woman was passionate and implacable. Although her operation was performed by a doctor, and not by her peers as was traditional (she was offered a choice and her guru decided for her), it was a hideously painful experience. Like a second birth, this nirvaanam gave her true prestige in the community.

Yet, Revathi’s story reaches far beyond the typical. Her sad, unadorned voice, translated with unwavering clarity by V. Geetha, underlines, all over again, the cruelty of society to the sexually different being. As she journeys from city to city, happy to be a woman yet suffering acutely in the traditional occupations of a hijra, visits her family repeatedly till her siblings and parents are forced into accepting her acquired femaleness, is driven into painful sex work because she is unable to suppress her sexual desire, she also strips the life of a hijra of myth and false beliefs and creates a deeply moving human document that resonates with emotional truth. Her gift of detail brings to life not only the hijra community and its customs, its tensions and compassion, but also the society beyond that, from her birthplace to the cities she lives in. Her refusal to accept that a transsexual must be denied normal emotions leads her to develop a strong relationship with her own family, but on her own terms. That is an astonishing achievement. From the experience of everyday abuse, insult, poverty and physical suffering, from the suicide of a chela and the murder of her guru, from rape and police torture, from a happy marriage to the man she loves and its tragic dissolution, she ultimately becomes an activist and a writer, working for an organization fighting for the rights of sexual minorities.

Revathi makes the reader share her suffering. Yet, she does ultimately find some succour and dignity, purely because she lives in a part of India that is the home of movements keenly aware of the tragedies of existence in the third gender. But what happens to sexual minorities in other regions, in West Bengal and Orissa, for example? Can their suffering be even imagined?

BHASWATI CHAKRAVORTY

source:
http://telegraphindia.com/1101008/jsp/opinion/story_13029420.jsp

A straightforward sardar


NIRUPAMA SUBRAMANIAN


It is a book of short write-ups of his thoughts on a number of subjects, some of it autobiographical








ABSOLUTE KHUSHWANT: Khushwant Singh, Humra Quraishi; Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11, Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi-110017. Rs. 250.


Khushwant Singh has been such a presence in our lives — as the editor of The Illustrated Weekly of India and the author of Train to Pakistan; as the sardar in the Mario Miranda cartoon of him sitting in a light bulb, pen in hand, with a pile of books and a bottle of Scotch by his side; all those Banta-Santa jokes; his candid speak on sex and whiskey — that it is difficult to imagine a day when he won't be peppering us with his wit and humour.

This is why in the medley of bite-sized essays the 95-year-old sardar dishes out in his latest book, Absolute Khushwant, the first to grab your attention is the one titled “On Death”. True to type, there is nothing gloomy about his musings on the inevitable curtain call, only the wish that when it comes, it should be painless and swift.

As an agnostic, he does not believe in a life hereafter or in reincarnation. He wanted a Baha'i burial but gave it up because they would not give him the corner spot he was first promised. So he has settled for the electric crematorium now.

His epitaph

Having never believed in the convention of not criticising the dead, it is safe to assume he will not be bothered by any unkind obituaries. He says he has never taken himself seriously, and the epitaph he wrote for himself many years ago — just the kind of Khushwantism we will miss when he is no longer around — has the self-deprecation of a learned sophisticate.

“Here lies one who spared neither man nor God/Waste not your tears on him, he was a sod/Writing nasty things he regarded as great fun/Thank the Lord he is dead, this son of a gun.” But for a man who, years ago, wrote a modest little obituary of himself as he imagined it would appear in The Tribune — “among those who called at the late sardar's residence were the PA to the chief justice, several ministers, and judges of the high court” — Khushwant can leave this world in the knowledge that the send-off for him will be grander than that, considering his sizable footprint on Indian journalism and writing.

His editorship of the Illustrated Weekly saw its readership soar; the magazine was never the same under the two editors who came after him. His weekly column, With Malice Towards One and All — a mix of current affairs, political and social gossip and the mandatory sardar joke — continues to be widely read. He has authored more than 50 books, among which Train to Pakistan is an acknowledged tour de force. His History of The Sikhs remains the definitive work on the subject. And these days, he is working on a novel.

Write-ups

Absolute Kushwant though is clearly a quickie. A joint project with journalist-writer Humra Quraishi, it is a book of short write-ups of his thoughts on a number of random subjects, some of it autobiographical, much of it already well-known. It is evidently more of an “as-told-to” type of book. Even so, it is engaging and readable.

Aside from death, he talks about religion, on life as an old man, on his daily routine, on himself, his heroes, his battles against religious fundamentalism, and of course, sex. There is an essay in which he tells us he does not rate himself too highly as a writer, but says “I can and have written as well as R.K Narayan, Mulk Raj Anand, Malgaonkar, Ruth Jhabvala, Nayantara Sahgal and Anita Desai.” About his controversial support for Indira Gandhi, her son Sanjay and the Emergency, Khushwant has no regrets. “Even now after all these years, I think it was necessary at that time. I had no idea then that it would be misused and abused.” He talks about his close friendship with Sanjay Gandhi, and says had he lived to rule India, the country would not have remained a democracy.

“Would I still have supported him? Oh, I don't know. He would have probably got around me. He could be real charmer. He had been good to me. He put me in Parliament. Even The Hindustan Times — it was he who called up Birla and told him to give me the job.” Political confusion? Opportunism? Perhaps. But at least he is honest.

source:
http://www.hindu.com/br/2010/10/05/stories/2010100551821600.htm

Hello,
I m very happy to read and find out about India through this channal. I am in India right now and I am sure it will be a wonderful journey for me both now and after return to mycountry. Warm regards for all of you. Joanna,

[Who says, loners (single children) are selfish? Here is the story of one who decides to do what he has all along resisted and detested – for the benefit
of another.] 

block quote end

I love being with my books and toys. I love it more than anything else in the world. It’s so much better than hanging out with silly boys of your own age.
A classmate once called me a loner. Would you believe it? Because I don’t have any sisters or brothers. Because I like my own company. Because I am happy
just the way I am. I don’t think that’s true. Really. I mean I certainly don’t miss having a sister or brother. How can you miss something you have never
had? That classmate (silly boy that he is) also called me selfish. What he actually said was something like "all single kids are selfish". But the way
he said it (with a little smirk and all) left me in no doubt that he was talking about me. Me!

I don’t think I’m selfish at all. I share stuff all the time. With whom? Well, with my cousins to start with. Oh, I have a bunch of cousins. We visit each
other from time to time. We have a lot of fun together during the summer hols. We go to Bhagalpur. Every year. I’m not sure if you have heard of it. You
see, it is a small village in Bihar. My granny, my mum’s mum lives there. In a big white house with fields all around.

She doesn’t live by herself, of course. She is way too old for that. She lives with my uncle, aunt, and my cousins. The ones I was telling you about. To
tell you the truth, I like my cousins. They are kind of sweet. They don’t act bossy nor do they pretend to know everything. And they never ever boast about
their clothes. They never ask me "which car do you have" or "which TV do you have" like my friends at school. Bah!

Back to my cousins, their names are Jyoti and Ojas. We are a team. And oh, they have a boy who looks after them. His name is Siaram and he is not much older
than us. I like Siaram a lot. It’s really good to have him around. When we can’t play a game because three is an odd number, he is happy to join us. He
is usually on my team and is ever ready to listen to my command. That makes me happy. I wish I were class monitor and everybody listened to me in school
too. Sigh!.

Siaram came to work for granny as a little boy. Ask him for his mother or father and he points upwards, “They have gone to the sky, Vishnu bhaiya."

"Arre, buddhu," I correct him, "People don’t go to the sky."

He is all ears. "Then where do they go?"

"Oho, Siaram. They don’t go anywhere. And they definitely don’t become stars. They just stay in our hearts."

"But…" he trails off. He doesn’t argue with me. He just stands there. Looking small and utterly lost.

That makes me feel so guilty. I try and make up by distracting him, "Let’s play a game." And the sad look disappears from his face.

Every morning Siaram brings me a glass of milk. And every morning I make faces before gulping it down. That is the only thing I don’t like about mornings.
I wish nobody watches me but Siaram does. Like a hawk. He doesn’t take no for an answer. He merely threatens to raise an alarm.

And that worries me. I sure don’t want granny to know that I’m wasting her precious milk. That will mean another long boring lecture. Somehow granny’s lectures
always begin with "When I was a little girl…." Blah, blah. Oh, I can’t bear to hear another one of those stories.

So I do the next best thing. I make a great show of gulping the awful thing, leaving a sizeable amount back in the glass. And then I back it up with an
excuse. Too much malai. Too thick. Too hot. Too cold.

But something happened last year which made me change my mind. Made me look at milk differently.

Tired of having that disgusting liquid day after day, I decided to rebel. That fateful day, I marched up to granny and declared in my best grown-up voice,
"I am not going to have milk hereafter. It’s always way too hot. It smells. And I just hate it." I dragged the syllables of ‘hate’ for good measure.

Granny replied calmly, "Okay, there’s a glass of chilled milk in the fridge. You can have that."

"No, granny, I’m too full."

"Have it after a little while, dear."

"Granny, you don’t understand. I am not going to have milk. Not now. Not ever. I will never have milk again."

Of course, granny wasn’t too thrilled about my decision. She wailed, "If you don’t have milk, you will become pale and thin and unhealthy. What will your
people say? That he came back from his granny’s place looking like a bag of bones. When I was a little girl, I used to come back roly-poly from my granny’s
place," she broke off and started singing one of her silly songs, in her sweet voice.

Nani ke ghar jaayenge

Doodh malai khaayenge
Nani ke ghar jaayenge
Mote hokar aayenge

We will go to granny’s place. We will have milk and cream there. And come back nice and fat … Or some such nonsense it means.

Granny tried every trick in her book but to no avail. I was determined. From that day, I refused even to look in the direction of milk. Every morning Siaram
brought the tall glass to my room and several hours later, he carried it back to the kitchen, untouched.

My stubborn behaviour really upset granny. Strangely enough, Siaram looked more affected than her! As if he was a relative or something. Drama king!

For one whole week, he walked around with a sad expression on his face. What’s his problem," I thought, thoroughly irritated. "It’s not as if he is my relative.
So why is he so concerned about my health?"

Days passed. One afternoon as I lay on my bed, there was a meek knock at my door.

"Bhaiya, it’s me, Siaram."

It wasn’t like him to disturb me in the afternoons. I sat up.

"What is it, Siaram?"

He walked in looking very timid, pale and tired.

Without warning, he burst into tears. "Bhaiya, this is a humble request. Please, have milk from tomorrow."

I sighed. I should have known.

"I know you are concerned about my health, Siaram. Don’t worry, I will get my nutrition from other, far more tastier sources like chicken, fish, eggs,"
I explained patiently.

Tears filled his eyes. "It’s not that, bhaiya. It’s just that…."

I was really puzzled. It wasn’t like Siaram to be this emotional.

He continued amid loud hiccups, "… when you used to have milk, you used to leave a little amount behind…"

"I was a bad boy, wasn’t I?" I said, trying to lighten the mood.

"No, no, bhaiya. It’s just that…it’s just that I used to mix water in it and carry it home for my little brother. So, when you stopped drinking milk, my
brother did too."

You can imagine how I felt. Terrible. Stupid. Selfish. I tried, very hard, to say something, anything but I just couldn’t. From the next day, I decided
to have not one but two glasses of milk much to my granny’s delight. The second glass, of course, was for Siaram’s brother. But I couldn’t tell granny
that, now could I? But yes, one day, I’d like to share this story with all those ‘friends’ who call me selfish.

  

Profile

Vibha Batra

Vibha Batra is a writer and poet based in Chennai. She has done her Masters in Communication from the University of Madras. She has worked as a copywriter
in several reputed advertising agencies and has 3 published books to her credit: Ishaavaasya Upanishad, an English translation of my grandfather's work
(published by Rupa Publications in 2007), Tongue-in-cheek, a collection of poetry (published by Writers Workshop in 2008) and A Twist of Lime, a collection
of short stories (published by Think Big Books in 2008). Her short stories and poems have appeared on various e-zines. She is a regular blogger on Sulekha
and is currently working on her next book, a novel.

She can be reached at her email-
vibhy.batra@gmail.com

Assamese prose was truly born in the hands of another bright star of the Sankaradeva Movement, Vaikunthanātha Bhattācāryya or Bhattadeva as he is popularly
known. Bhattadeva was the last great Vaisnavite writer of genius whose contributions give him a unique place in the history of literature. True it is that
Assamese prose began about a century before him (in the dramas of Sankaradeva). But he must be credited with using Assamese prose as a regular vehicle
for essays and for making the vehicle popular enough for the use of his posterity. Bhattadeva was also called Kaviratna Bhāgavata Bhattācāryya in recognition
of his profound scholarship in the Bhāgavata learning.

Brief Biographical Account

Vaikunthanātha Bhattadeva (1558-1638) was the second son of Kavi Saraswati and grandson of Candra Bhārati (not to be confused with the illustrious poets
having the same titles), who resided in the village Bhara of Barnagar. Little is known about the early life of Bhattadeva. According to the account of
Rāmacarana, Vaikunthanātha was at first a Tāntric and anti-Vaisnavite, but was influenced by Sankaradeva's personality and sought initiation from him.
Sankaradeva sent him to Dāmodaradeva saying that there was little difference between himself and Dāmodara. So he came to be initiated by Dāmodaradeva.
Other biographers give a slightly different version.

When the ruler of Koch Kāmarupa, king Raghudeva (1581-1603) died and his son Pariksit Nārāyana (1603-13), who now came to the throne, began to oppress the
Vaisnavas and arrested Dāmodaradeva also, for being anti-ritualistic, the latter proceeded to Koch Behār, leaving his Satra in charge of Bhattadeva with
further advice to translate the Bhāgavata into Assamese prose (kathābandha) referring respectfully to Sankaradeva's renderings in verse:

āru eka jagat-Isvar ājnā dharā:
kathā bandhe ek khanda Bhāgavat karā.
purve Mahāpuruse karile dasa skandha:
kirttan, bhatimā, chabi, dulari sucanda.
tāta kari sugam kario Bhāgavata :
stri-sudra sarvaloke bujhe yena mata.

Assamese Prose So Early

Bhattadeva abided and finished the work. It was not an easy task as there was no regular prose vehicle before him. However, he rendered the venerable text
with exemplary precision into a prose (Sri-Bhāgavata-Kathā) laden with Sanskrit, harnessing a little of spoken Assamese of his time. He gave a summary
of each and every chapter of the 12 Cantos of the Bhāgavata. Scholars assign 1593-97 as the period of composition of Bhattadeva's Sri-Bhāgavata-Kathā,
popularly referred to as the Kathā (prose) Bhāgavata. There is nothing to inform us as to the exact date of composition of the Kathā Gitā - the other monumental
prose work of his - but that he began it soon after the composition of the Kathā Bhāgavata can be inferred from the caritas.

According to Rāmrāya, Bhattadeva sent the Book I of the Bhāgavata extensively taking into hand the original and the commentary by Sridhara Svāmin and showed
it to Dāmodaradeva. But Dāmodaradeva did not prefer the elaborative nature of the work and asked his disciple to be more precise as the elaborate work
will need more time and paper (bark leaves). Bhattadeva was very much disappointed as to cut short his work. However, he obeyed his Guru's direction. And
after Dāmodaradeva left for Koch Behār, Bhattadeva completed the work of rendering of the Bhāgavata with exemplary precision as we find it today.

Though Bhattadeva's works are popularly known as Kathā-Bhāgavata and the Kathā-Gitā, Bhattadeva calls them as Sri-Bhāgavata-Kathā and Sri-Bhagavad-Gitā-Kathā
respectively.

Besides these two works, Bhattadeva is known to have rendered Bhakti-Ratnāvali and Sātvata Tantra into Assamese prose. He also compiled 3 works in Sanskrit,
Bhakti-Sāra, Bhakti-Viveka, and Sarana Sangraha. Two other works, Prasanga Mālā and Guru-Vamsāvali in Assamese verse, more or less, of sectarian type,
are also attributed to him.

The Bhakti-Viveka is considered to be Bhattadeva's last work.

The Prose Style of Bhattadeva

From Bhattadeva's first prose work, Kathā Bhāgavata, Book 7, Chapter 6, Prahlāda giving instructions to the fellow-children of the demons, about love of
God, we quote the following, which has an echo in it of the prose-speeches of Sankaradeva and Madhavadeva:

Prahlāde kahanta: He daitya bālaka sava: buddhivanta jane chavāla kālare parā Harit bhakti karok. Yato durlabha manusya janma ketiksane pare tār thān-thiti
nāi. Eteke jānibā: purusar Hari sevāyese kartabya. Yato Hari savāre ātmā priya suhrid: bisay sukh punu sakal yonite pāy: yene nukhujileo dukh mile, temane
sukh miliba. Eteke sukhar arthe yatna karok. Yāto āyu bifale nayāi: yāto sarir baikala natu hove, tāve Hari sevāk lāgi yatna karok: Purusar satek batsar
paramāyu: tār ardhek nidrāt bifale yāy: bālak kālat krirhā kariteo kuri batsar yāy: Pāche jarā avasthāto kuri batsar yāy: Mājhar āyuo bisay karite bifale
yāy: Kon no purusa grhat thāki dhan-janat āsakti kari āpunāk mukta kariba. Eteke torā savāre sanga eri Nārāyanak bhajā: tāhānte priti karite kicho prayās
nāi. Yāto Hari savāre Ātmā, savāte pāy: Torāo sakal prānik dayā karibā. Teve alpa kālata Hari tusta haiba. Hari tusta haile purusar sakal purusārtha aprāpya
nahe. Tathāpi ekānta Bhaktar tāt kicho prayoyan nāi. Ei jnān kathā purvat Nārāyane Nāradat kahilā; mayo Nāradar mukhe sunilo: ehi jnān Hari ekānta Bhaktar
pada-renu laile savāre haiba.

[Prahlāda says:] O Daitya boys, let the intelligent people be devoted to God since childhood, since there is no certainty as to when this human life, so
hard to acquire, finishes. So do know that it is the duty of men to serve God, since He is the dear intimate friend and soul of all, and worldly pleasures
are available in any animal life. As miseries come even unasked, so happiness will also come. So make efforts to attain happiness. So that the life may
not end in smoke, in order that the body be not tottering yet, till then may men strive to serve God. Men's duration of life is one hundred years. Half
of it goes in sleep for nothing. Twenty years also pass in sports of childhood. Then another twenty years go in the infirmities of age. The duration in
between them passes in worldly affairs for nothing. What man is there who can free himself remaining addicted to wealth and people at home? So do ye dedicate
yourselves to God cutting off connections to all these. To love Him there is no trouble. Since God is the soul of all, available everywhere, ye too show
love to all beings. Then God will be pleased in no time. If God is pleased, men's all efforts (virtue, wealth, desire, salvation) cannot be unattained.
Yet selfless devotees feel no need of them. This wisdom was first given to Nārada by Nārāyana. Myself have heard it from Nārada. This wisdom shall come
to all who take the dusts of the feet of Hari's selfless devotees.

Bhattadeva's prose style reveals a magnificent display of variety, flexibility and persuasiveness. While reading his Sri-Gitā-Kathā, one feels as if one
were in the midst of a religious congregation with a Bhāgavati (Bhāgavata reader or interpreter) explaining the texts with comments on and answers to possible
queries to his interpretation. On the other hand, no one can fully appreciate the compositional skill of the Sri-Gitā-Kathā without entering into the atmosphere
of dialogue that prevails throughout. Bhattadeva also adopted the same style in the Sri-Bhāgavata-Kathā in which the famous Saint theologian and devotee
Suta explained the Bhāgavata to the large congregation in the Naimisa forest, and he was singularly successful. In the 2nd chapter of the Kathā-Gitā where
Krishna puts forth reasons after reasons why Arjuna must fight, Bhattadeva writes:

Sanjaye kahanta: ei bākya Govindaka buli Gurhakesa Arjun nujujhim buliā mauna rahilā. Hrishikesh Bhagavanto hāsya badane dehātmā bibhed dekhāi tāhān moh
dur karite ei bākya bulilā: He sakhi Arjun, tumi sokar abisay bandhusavak sok karā: tāt mai bodh dileo pandit savar bādsav kahā; tumi punu pandit nahavā:
yi punu pandit hay si jivanta maranta duiko sok nakare. Tār hetu sunā: yen mai anādi Isvar lilā tanu dharite erhiteo nāika naho, kintu sadāye thāko. Tumi
ei Rajāsavo mor amsa pade nāikā nahavā: kintu satate thākā. Paramārthat janma maran nāi nimitte sok nakaribā. Yadi bolā, tumi Isvarar janma maran nāi:
E satya hay: jivar punu janma maran prasiddha āche: tāta sunā. Yen dehi purusar ei dehate deh nivandhan kaumār yauvan jarā avasthā hay, dehāntar prāptiko
temane bujhibā. Eteke yi dhir hay, si dehar utpatti bināsat moh nayāy. Yadi bolā mai bandhusavak sok nakaro, kintu tārāt biyoge duhkha pāibo buli āpunāko
sok karo, tāta sunā. Yen anitya asthir bisay sambandhasav svabhāve purusak sit usma sukh dukh dei, tāk sahan dhirar ucit hay, pratikār karanato kari mahāfal
sādhe pade sahanese bhāla dekhā.

[Sanjaya related:] Saying these words to Govinda, Arjuna maintained silence being determined not to fight. Krishna, with a smiling face, in order to remove
his illusion by showing him the difference between the body and the soul, said, “ O my friend, Arjuna, you grieve for friends who (in reality) are not
to be grieved for. When I give you sense against it, you put forth opinions of scholars. And you are not (yourself) a scholar. And he who is a scholar
never grieves for the living and the dead alike. Listen to the reasons thereof. For instance, I who am God having no origin: whether I hold or give up
this illusory body, I do not cease to live, but I always exist. Yourself and these kings being parts of myself can (similarly) never cease to live, but
shall ever exist. In the spiritual sense, there is no birth or death, hence grieve not. If you would argue, 'Thou art God; thou hast no birth or death,
it is true: but birth and death of all beings are well known:' Hear my reply thereto. As bodied people experience childhood, youth and old age in the same
body, do appreciate change of body (death) in the same way. So he who is wise can never be deluded by the emergence or annihilation of the body. If you
would still argue: ' I do not grieve (for) my friends: I grieve for myself thinking that their separation will pain me': hear my reply thereto. As ephemeral
and fleeting things by their very nature inflict the sensations of coolness and heat, pleasure and pain, and toleration of them befits the wise, (so) you
see that to put up with them is better, since worthier fruits can be plucked by it, than by attempting at any remedy.”

The conversational and argumentative prose style of Bhattadeva's Sri-Gitā-Kathā served as a model and pattern to the metaphysical Vaisnavite prose-writers
of later years, and the simple free light-sailing style of Sri-Bhāgavata-Kathā greatly influenced the writers of the caritas.

At some places of his renderings, notwithstanding his best effort to minimise the intricate philosophical contents, Bhattadeva could scarcely do away with
what constituted some of the most radiant parts of the original work. And in such places his prose naturally tends to be argumentative:

Vidura puchanta, he Maitreya, nirguna Bhagavantar gunamay srsti ādir lilā kemone hay? tumi kahichā, miccā jivar arthe karanta siyo naghate/ des kālādiye
aluptabodh brahma rup jivar kene avidyāmay samsār hay mor ei manar samsay dur karā/

[Vidura asked:] O Maitreya, how do the sports (lilā) like the creation of the universe which is subject to the limits of qualifications, accrue from the
Lord Who is beyond qualifications? You say that the sports are done for the sake of the unreal individual selves (jivas), but that is not possible. Will
you please remove the doubt of my mind why the individual self which is no other than Brahman, whose consciousness is never suspended by space and time,
is subjected to the cycle of rebirths wrought by nescience.

Maitreya kahanta, jānā Vidura, eiito Harir māyāi vicār nohe, yāhānte michā samsāro jivat dekhi/ yena svarupe āpunār sir āpuni ched dekhi; bolā yadi, Isvarat
kene nedekhi, āta drstānta sunā, yene candrar pratibimbatese kampādi guna dekhi, bimbat nedekhi, temane jivarese samsār, Isvarar nāi, eteke Isvarat bhakti
karile āpuni samsār guche.

[Maitreya said:] Know you this O Vidura, that it is Hari's māyā which remain inexplicable, because of which the unreal cycle of rebirths is seen in the
individual self, just as one's head is seen falsely as severed. If you seek to argue, why do we not see it (the unreal cycle of rebirth) in Isvara, have
a parallel phenomenon: just as one sees trembling and other phenomena in the image of the moon, but not in the moon itself, so also it is the individual
self (jiva) and not Isvara who undergoes the cycle of rebirths. Therefore, if one practises devotion towards Isvara, the cycle goes away automatically.

In these passages, some of the expressions attempt to assuage the suspicions of the audience, put up questions and objections and again to reply to such
questions and sum up the discussion. And thus the expository style of the writer also becomes impersonally argumentative and persuasive.

A Profound Grasp

Bhattadeva had a profound grasp of the Gitā and the Bhāgavata, which earned for him the title of Bhāgavata Bhattācāryya (versed in the Bhāgavata). Bhattadeva
has several original Sanskrit works to his credit.

Bhattadeva, in his second prose work, Kathā-Gitā, writes about the commentaries he uses:

Yadyapi āmi Sri Krishnar prasāde Sridhari Sankari Dāmodari Bhāskari cārio tikā bicār karico, tathāpi prāy Sridhari tikār mate kathā nivandhibo: tāhār yukti
sunā. Sankari tikā jnānak pradhān kari byākhyā kare: Bhāskari karmak pradhān kare: Sridhari bhakti mātra nirupan kare: Dāmodari tinio yog sama kahe. Eteke
Vaisnav savar pritir arthe bhaktipradhān tikār matake prāy likhibo. Bhaktir anukul dekhi kicho kicho tārār matako nivandhibo. Jnān karma rakhitese Sankari
Bhāskari bibād, bhakti kicho bibād nakariche: Eteke Bhaktipantha savaro sammāt.

Although by the grace of Sri Krishna I have enquired into the four commentaries Sridharite, Sankarite, Dāmodarite and Bhāskarite, yet I shall write mostly
according to the Sridharite commentary. Hear the reasons. The Sankarite commentary interprets giving predominance to knowledge, the Bhāskarite to rituals,
the Sridharite to devotion, and the Dāmodarite to all as equal. So for the satisfaction of the Vaisnavas I shall mainly write according to the cult predominating
devotion. When found favourable for devotion, I shall include some opinions of the others also. The Sankarite and the Bhāskarite commentaries dispute only
on predominance of knowledge or of rituals. They do not question devotion at all. So the cult of devotion is agreed upon by all.

Rich Encomiums

Bhattadeva's prose especially the Sri-Gitā-Kathā brought encomiums to Assamese prose literature from savants like Ācārya PC Roy and Rabindranath Tagore.
Ācārya PC Roy of Bengal wrote on the Sri-Gitā-Kathā:

Indeed the prose Gitā of Bhattadeva composed in the 16th century is unique of its kind. It is a priceless treasure. Assamese prose literature developed
to a stage in the far distant 16th century, which no other literature of the world reached except the writings of Hooker and Latimer in England.

And Rabindranath Tagore in his letter to Hem Chandra Goswami who first edited the Sri-Gitā-Kathā, wrote:

It is a very striking book, interesting from many points of view. You may very well be proud of the author of this book who could handle prose in such a
remarkable lucid style more than a century before we had any prose book in Bengal.

In the same manner as the translation of the Bible by John Wycliff marked the beginning of English prose literature, and as George Philip Crapp has called
Wycliff the father of English prose, so Vaikunthanātha Bhattadeva is celebrated as the father of Assamese prose.

Linguistic Features of Bhattadeva's Writings - A Discussion

Though Bhattadeva's prose marks a departure from the Vrajāwali form of Sankaradeva and Madhavadeva, he could not free himself from the great poetry tradition
left behind by the two Masters. So Bhattadeva's prose, especially the Sri-Bhāgavata-Kathā is highly surcharged with poetic diction.

In the Sri-Bhāgavata-Kathā, for instance, one noticeable feature is that the writer occasionally drifts into rhythmic expressions or almost rhymed verses
in the midst of usual prose narratives. Of course, such rhythmic expression is limited to a few select topics, such as the description of Krishna's physical
charm and beauty:

syāma sundara / pitāmbara /
prasanna vadana / kamalanayana //
nāsā tilaphula / adhara rātula //
mukhe manda hāsa / kataksa vilāsa //
parama niruja / cāru caturbhuja //
samkhacakradhara / gadāpadmakara /

Bhattadeva's sentence construction is usually short and simple, but occasionally he revels in using long compounds and complex sentences. The influence
of Sanskrit, the use of compounds and sandhis of not more than two or three words are also occasionally noticed in his prose compositions:

He mahāvāhu [...] tomāra ākāsavyāpi diptitejayukta aneka varna, vyktamukha, visāla netra-mukha dekhi vyathitacitta huiyā sānti-dhrti duyoko napāo/
[Arjuna to Krishna, on seeing the all-pervasive cosmic form of Krishna, Sri-Gitā-Kathā, 11th chapter]

A Judicious Blending

While applying himself to the task of evolving a new prose medium, Bhattadeva must have felt that retaining the dignity of religious texts and the adequate
expression of the subtle and philosophical ideas of the originals were not feasible if the exact replica of the spoken dialect were adopted for the purpose.
He therefore adopted a via-media course by judiciously blending the forms of the spoken dialect with those of the literary forms of the verse-translations
of the epics and Purānas. In such a light, the complaint of certain scholars that Bhattadeva's language is over-loaded with Sanskrit words seems to be
unwarranted. More so when one judges the simpler narration and comparatively homelier diction in the Sri-Bhāgavata-Kathā.

“The judicious use of Sanskrit words has only invested these religious writings with dignity and grace. In syntactical structure also, his writings are
disciplined by Sanskrit grammar. In his Sri-Gitā-Kathā, however, the sentences hobble at places running to complex lengths due to the piling up of clause
on clause for illustrating the knotty points. In spite of these, the syntax is regular, the verb is not dropped or shifted at will, the infinitive is not
split, and clauses are not thrown in in a higgledy-piggledy fashion with the utter disregard of the principles of clarity and precision.” [BK Barua]

Bhattadeva created a “sure-footed expository prose-style with an eye to grammatical perfection”.

Varied and Versatile

Bhattadeva scrupulously avoids the repetition of words or verbs even when he is called upon to express the same meaning. In the following sentences, we
notice the use of different verbal forms to express the sense of blowing a conch:

suklavarna cāri hayayukta mahārathata uthi Krishna-Arjune divya samkha bāilā / Sri-Krishne pāncajanya samkha phunkilā / Arjune devadatta samkha phukilā
/ ananta nāma mahā samkhaka Yudhisthire vādya karilā / Nakule sughosa nāme samkha bāilā / Sahadeve manipuspaka vāni karilā / paudarka nāme mahā samkha
Bhime sabada karilā/

Similarly, to express the sense of the verb 'to desire' he uses 3 different verbal forms in the same sentence as follows:

yuddhata svajana vadhe kichu phala nedekho, vijayako ākāmsā nakaro, rājyaka icchā nāi, sukhako navāncho/

A Trendsetter

The way paved by Bhattadeva for the use of prose was followed by a host of religious writers of the 17th and the 18th centuries. Bhattadeva set the ball
rolling by boldly adopting prose as the medium of his literary works in the 16th century itself. Since then, prose became one of the principal vehicles
of expression of the early Assamese writers. From the advent of Bhattadeva till the British occupation, we notice the emergence and use of 3 distinct styles
of prose in early Assamese literature. These were the prose of the religious texts, the prose of the hagiographies of the Vaisnavite saints (caritas) and
the political chronicles known as the 'buranjis'.

Dr. Indira Parthasarathy
A Titan In The World Of Modern Tamil Letters
A Student's Tribute by V. Sundaram
Dr. Parthasarathy has been decorated with the title of Padma Shri by the President of India on the eve of this year’s Republic Day on 26 January, 2010. As an outstanding novelist, he has written several novels in TAMIL that have been translated into several Indian and world languages. He has carved a special niche for himself in Tamil literature - his characters, mostly urban intellectuals, speak very openly and analyze deeply what others say. Most of his novels are set in Delhi, where he lived during his working years, from 1955 to 1986 or in Tiruchirappally or Thanjavur District in Tamil Nadu, where he spent his childhood. He has won several awards including the Sangeeth Natak Academy, Sahitya Academy and Saraswathi Samman Award. He is the only Tamil writer to have won both the Sangeeth Natak and Sahitya Academy Award. He won the Sahitya Academy Award as early as 1970. He is now more than 79 years old.

Against this background, I cannot help observing that the title of Padma Sri has come to Dr. Parthasarathy rather late in his life. Too little and too late has been the main plank of the policy of the Government of India in the field of State recognition of outstanding merit in the field of Tamil Literature. Even all the Gods do not know the standards followed by the Government of India for the determination and gradation of excellence in different fields of creative endeavor. Dr. Parthasarathy is the second Tamil writer who has been honored with the title of Padma Shri. Shri Jayakanthan, another equally outstanding and original Tamil writer, was the first Tamil writer to be decorated with the title of Padma Shri last year. In my view, the Government of India ought to have conferred upon both of them the Award of Padma Vibhushan for their original, rich, magnificent and varied contribution to modern Tamil Literature. The tragedy - and also the comedy - of Indian democracy is that carpenters would be treated as violinists and vice versa with stately aplomb by the Government of India in the matter of grant of Padma Awards.

Indira Parthasarathy (commonly known as Ee. Paa.) is the pen name of R. Parthasarathy (the first name being his wife's which he uses as his pseudonym) He was born on July 10, 1930 in Chennai in a traditional Iyengar family and brought up in Kumbakonam in Tamil Nadu. After his graduate and post graduate studies at the Annamalai University he did doctoral work in the University of Delhi and obtained his Ph.D. degree on 'Vaishnavism In Tamil Between Seventh And Ninth Centuries'.

I had the rare privilege and good fortune of learning Tamil at the feet of Dr. Parthasarathy between 1955 and 1958 in the Madrasi Higher Secondary School in New Delhi where he was working as a Tamil teacher. I had just completed 16 years in 1958. As my teacher, he gave me a feel for world literature, which has lasted for a life-time. He often taught by his example. His mastery over Tamil, English and indeed world literature was very evident in the classroom. His intellectual and cultural influence upon me have lasted for a lifetime.

Henry Adams in his famous book The Education of Henry Adams wrote on behalf of teachers like Dr. Parthasarathy: “A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops.” Goethe had teachers like Dr. Parthasarathy in mind when he said: “A teacher who can arouse a feeling for one single good action, for one single good poem, accomplishes more than he who fills our memory with rows and rows of natural objects, classified with name and form”. Virginia Woolf in her explosive book A Room of One’s Own (1929) rightly declared: “The first duty of a lecturer—to hand you after an hour’s discourse a nugget of pure truth to wrap up between the pages of your note-books and keep on the mantelpiece for ever”. Dr. Parthasarathy gave me countless nuggets of truth for three years in the school classroom from 1955 to 1958 which were the most impressionable years of my life.

Later, when I joined the Dyal Singh College in Delhi University as a lecturer in Economics in 1963, Dr. Parthasarathy became my colleague as lecturer in Tamil in the same college. We parted company when I joined the Indian Administrative Service (1965) and moved to Madras. Notwithstanding this I have been in close personal touch with him and his family for nearly half a century. Few days ago when I met him at his residence in Chennai, he gave me the thrilling news that the students of Madrasi School in New Delhi belonging to the 1960 Batch and now living in different parts of the world are going to meet in New Delhi to celebrate the Golden Jubilee of their days in that school and that all of them have extended an invitation to, Dr. Parthasarathy to honor him specially on that nostalgic occasion.

I have always drawn my inspiration from the soaring words of Swami Vivekananda (1863-1902) who painted the relationship between the Guru and his Sishya in radiant words of everlasting beauty and wisdom: "The Guru must be worshiped as God. He is God, nothing less than that. The Gur is the bright mask which God wears in order to come to us. As we look steadily on, gradually the mask falls off and God is revealed. He is the embodiment of the bliss divine, the personification of the highest knowledge and the giver of the greatest beatitude, who is pure, perfect, one without a second, eternal beyond pleasure and pain, beyond all thought and all qualifications, transcendental. Such is in reality the Guru. No wonder the disciple looks upon him as God himself and trusts him, reveres him, obeys him, follows him unquestioningly. This is the relation between the Guru and the disciple". I have always looked upon my Guru Dr. Parthasarathy in this light.

As an academician Dr. Parthasarathy had a distinguished career in Delhi University for nearly 25 years from 1963 and later in the Central Pondicherry University. When Pondicherry University was started in 1985, he organized the School Of Performing Arts and was the Director for Culture in the same University until he retired. He was visiting professor of Tamil Language and Literature from 1981 to 1986 in Warsaw University, Poland, and devised specialized courses for teaching Tamil for the non-Tamils and foreigners. He was a visiting Fellow to various Canadian Universities and gave lectures on Indian philosophy and culture during 1984. He was also a visiting lecturer on Indian Literature at Institute Voortalen, Utrecht, Holland.

As a creative writer, he has carved a niche for himself in Tamil fiction. He has published 16 novels, 4 anthologies in novelettes, 6 anthologies of short stories and eight modern Tamil plays. He won the Sahitya Academy Award for his novel Kurudhi Punal (The River of Blood) in 1977. It focuses on the savage burning of Dalit farm laborers. The novel is outstanding in its realistic portrayal of the rural scenario with all its petty rivalries, casteism and vested interests.

Dr. Parthasarathy is one of the brilliant writers of modern fiction in Tamil. Unconventional in approach, his works deal with different aspects of social existence. I have met people from different cultural backgrounds from different parts of India and the world who have told me about Dr. Parthasarathy's pervasive cultural influence upon their psyche and consciousness. The value of great fiction is not that it entertains us or distracts us from our troubles not just that it broadens our knowledge of people and places but also that it helps us to know what we believe in, reinforces the qualities that are noblest in us and leads us to feel uneasy about our failures and limitations.

Literature is the only human activity that makes the fullest and most precise account of the variety, possibility, complexity, beauty, banality, bestiality, agony, ecstasy and difficulty of human existence. A writer’s problem does not change. He himself changes and the world he lives in (and observes) changes, but his problem remains the same. It is always how to write truly and having found out what is true, to portray and project it in such a way that it becomes a part of the experience of the person who reads it. Viewed in this light Dr. Parthasarathy has evolved, changed and grown in his own way during the last 50 years. Great literature is an answer to the questions that society asks about itself but this answer is almost always unexpected. The special feature of Dr. Parthasarathy’s creative writing lies in his ability to give unexpected answers to many well known questions. Through his great writings he has consistently shown that literature is not mere juggling of words, what matters is what is left unsaid, or what may be read between the lines.

Some of Dr. Parthasarathy’s novels are:

Kuruthi Punal (Sahitya Academy Award winning novel)
Akaya Thamarai Helicoptergal Keezhe Irangi Vittana
Mayaman Vettai
Theevukal
Yesuvin Thozharga
Krishna Krishna
What is most significant is that Indira Parthasarathy is primarily a theatre-man. He has published eight plays so far: Pasi (Hunger), Mazhai (Rain), Kala lyandirangal (Time Machines), Nandan Kathai (Story of Nandan), Koil (Temple), Porvai Porthiya Udalgal (People with Hidden selves), Aurangazeb and Ramanujar. Some of his earlier dramas were written under the influence of the Absurd Theatre. He got Saraswathi Samman Award for his Ramanujar in the year 2000.

Most of his plays have been translated into English and Hindi. His novelette Ucchi Veyyil (The Noon Sunshine) has been filmed by director K Sethumadavan as Marupakkam, which won the President of India Gold Medal in 1991 as the best feature film. He was the honorary editor of the monthly literary journal Kanaiyazhi and contributed a number of critical essays on modern Tamil literature.

There are two distinct schools of drama — the idealistic and the realistic, the classic and the romantic. It is the object of the ideal and classic school to ennoble and elevate reality upon the stage. It curbs the wilder outbursts of passion; it eliminates the vulgar and the commonplace; it raises life into a serene and lofty region, from which all low, crude, vulgar and unlovely elements are carefully excluded. On the other hand, the natural and romantic school 'holds the mirror up to nature'. It is satisfied with things as they are. It does not select the beautiful and eliminate the 'unbeautiful’; it does not fasten on the noble and repudiate the base, but presents both as they are manifested or seen in real life. The discerning student of the drama, at his best, may indeed have a natural preference for one school over the other. I hold that the cultured and appreciative mind will have adequate room for both, and generally recognize the distinctive merits of both. As an avant-garde playwright in Tamil literature, Dr. Prathasarathy belongs to the second category. In my view, he is a conscience-keeper and book-keeper of modern Tamil dramatic art. No one can question his position as a pioneer in the drama of social problems. His plays go straight to the basic questions of human conscience. He has disturbed the accepted concepts of conduct, proposed new moral values, and in his dramas of disaster and defeat, suggested the imperative need as well as the inevitable triumph of truth.

When Dr. Prathasarathy was interviewed some years ago and asked to comment on the early years of his entry into the field of creative Tamil writing, and what makes him write and what are his own favorites, amongst his creations, he replied: “My writing is a reflection of my responses to a specific event. The expression of some responses may turn out better than others, in retrospect. But all of them have sincerity, because they are my true, genuine reactions at that particular moment when I write. So it will be hard for me to pick a favorite among my own works.

“I wrote my very first story "Manidha Iyandhiram" in 1962/63. This and the next five stories were published by ‘Anandha Vikatan’ as "Muthirai Kadhaigal". This was the same time period when Writer Jayakanthan’s short stories also appeared in ‘Anandha Vikatan’ as "Muthirai Kadhaigal". This gave me a lot of confidence in my ability to write, and I knew then I was going to be a writer. "Thandhira Bhoomi", which appeared in Na. Parthasarathy’s ‘Dheepam’ magazine, earned me the credentials as a serious writer. "Kurudhippunal" and "Sudhandhira Bhoomi" both appeared as serials in ‘Kanaiyazhi’, and "Vendhu Thanindha Kadugall" in Kalki. The very first novel I wrote was "Kalavellam". It was written during my student days but got published much later. It is a romance novel ... very different from the rest of my works.”

This is how Dr Parthasarathy talks about his years in New Delhi. “I loved my years in Delhi. At that time ‘Kanaiyazhi’ magazine was run from Delhi; possibly the first time a Thamizh magazine was run from outside Thamizh Nadu. ‘Kanaiyazhi’ was owned & edited by Mr. Kasturirangan who was also a correspondent for ‘The New York Times’ at that time. Thi. Janakiraman, who was also my school teacher, and I had a second connection through that magazine. Writers Ka. Naa. Subramaniam, Athavan, Sujatha and Vaasanthi were in Delhi too, besides Thi. Janakiraman. We all used to get together and have literary discussions every month. I am very happy to have been part of it. At that time I had a distant outsider’s view of Chennai, and everything seemed fine. Once I was in Chennai itself, I felt a small degree of alienation; there is definitely less creative freedom in the Chennai environment. There seems to be a hierarchical system which is non-existent in Delhi. Even though ‘Suyamariyaadhai Iyakkam’ started in Thamizh Nadu, human dignity seems to have less of a premium in Thamizh Nadu. I think it is basically because of an intrinsic, rigid caste system that existed in the Thamizh society, which the British were able to exploit by dividing the people broadly into Brahmins and non-Brahmins. In the North, the British reinforced the Hindu-Muslim division…all for their own purposes, very clever of them!”

The real glory of Dr. Parthasarathy’s style of Tamil writing lies in its artless simplicity. Whenever I read his writings, I get braced by the breath of invigorating fresh air. In this context the sublime and timeless words of Walt Whitman (1819-1891) are absolutely relevant: “The art of art, the glory of expression and the sunshine of the light of letters is simplicity: nothing is better than simplicity.”

When a literary correspondent asked Dr. Parthasarathy to comment on his simple style of Tamil writing, he gave this answer: “I believe that when you are sharing your thoughts with people, your goal should be to communicate. As I told you earlier, because of Tamil's antiquity, the pundit style is to revel in old and archaic language, absolutely they were not bothered about the readers, who are going to be the readers. I was not bothered by it, because my only goal was to communicate. Writing, like theatre, is a social institution. When a kite is flying, you see, it needs an opposition of air to fly. Likewise, I need a reader with whom I want to communicate. That is why, when I write, I am very conscious of the fact that I must write as simple as possible, but not in a simplistic way”. Basically, it is very difficult to adopt a simple style. It is not so easy. When you see a very well-trained musician play an intricate taal, it comes so easy and effortlessly. You would think it is spontaneous. But there would have been a lot of hard work already done, and he would have worked it out in his mind. Same way, you work out a simple style in your mind, constantly thinking of it. I would say that a simple style has its own complexities.

I am only inspired to quote what that great American jurist and shaper of American Law, Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes (1841-1935), had to say about ‘The Secret Isolated Joy Of The Thinker’: ‘No man has earned the right to intellectual ambition until he has learned to lay his course by a star which he has never seen—to dig by the divining rod for springs which he may never reach. In saying this, I point to that which will make your study heroic. For I say unto you in all sadness of conviction, that to think great thoughts you must be heroes as well as idealists. Only when you have worked alone—when you have felt around you a black gulf of solitude more isolating than that which surrounds the dying man, and in hope and in despair have trusted to your own unshaken will,—then only can you gain the secret isolated joy of the thinker, who knows that, a hundred years after he is dead and forgotten, men who had never heard of him will be moving to the measure of his thought,—the subtle rapture of a postponed power, which the world knows not because it has no external trappings, but which to his prophetic vision is more real than that which commands an army. And if this joy should not be yours, still it is only thus that you can know that you have done what lay in you to do,—can say that you have lived and be ready for the end.’

Dr Parthasaraty’s great books have added a new dimension to literature. In an era of lost security they represent a search for certainties. Technically he has explored the limbos of Tamil language which no prose writer before him had ever envisioned. Indeed this writer of creative genius has demonstrated through his creations the fundamental truth that in order to achieve a multi-dimensional effect, you have to use a multi-dimensional language.

Before I conclude, I cannot help striking a personal note as one of his school students in the days of my youth. When I was leaving the Madrasi High School in February 1958, he gave a testimonial to me in long hand, which is still in my treasured possession. My close personal association with him has been steady and continuous for 55 years from 1955 till today.

table with 3 columns and 34 rows
Year
Writer
Book 
1960
R. K. Narayan
The Guide (Novel)  
1963
Raja Rao
The Serpent and the Rope (Novel)  
1965
Verrier Elwin
The Tribal World of Verrier Elwin (Autobiography)  
1967
Bhabani Bhattacharya
Shadow from Ladakh (Novel)  
1969
Niharranjan Ray
An Artist in Life (Study of Tagore) 
1971
Mulk Raj Anand
Morning Face (Novel)  
1975
Nirad C. Chaudhuri
Scholar Extraordinary (Biography)  
1976
S. Gopal
Jawaharlal Nehru (Biography)  
1977
Chaman Nahal
Azadi (Novel)  
1978
Anita Desai
Fire On the Mountain (Novel)  
1979
Rama Mehta
Inside the Haveli (Novel) 
1980
K.R. Srinivasa Iyengar
On the Mother (Biography)  
1981
Jayanta Mahapatra
Relationship (Poetry)  
1982
Arun Joshi
The Last Labyrinth (Novel)  
1983
Nissim Ezekiel
Later-Day Psalms (Poetry)  
1984
Keki N. Daruwalla
The Keeper of the Dead (Poetry)  
1985
Kamala Das
Collected Poems (Poetry)  
1986
Nayantara Sahgal
Rich Like Us (Novel)  
1987
Shiv K. Kumar
Trapfalls in the Sky (Poetry)  
1988
Vikram Seth
The Golden Gate (Novel in verse)  
1989
Amitav Ghosh
The Shadow Lines (Novel) 
1990
Sashi Deshpande
That Long Silence (Novel)  
1991
I. Allan Sealy
The Trotter-Nama (Novel) 
1992
Ruskin Bond
Our Trees Still Grow in Dehra (Short stories)  
1993
G.N Devy
After Amnesia: Tradition and Change in Indian Literary Criticism  
1994
Dom Moraes
Serendip (Poetry) 
1996
Sunetra Gupta
Memories of Rain (Novel) 
1998
Mahesh Dattani
Final Solutions and Other Plays (Plays) 
1999
A. K. Ramanujan
The collected poems of A. K. Ramanujan (Poetry) 
2000
Kiran Nagarkar
Cuckold (Novel) 
2001
Rajmohan Gandhi
Rajaji : A Life (Biography) 
2002
Amit Chaudhuri
A New World (Novel) 
2003
Meenakshi Mukherjee
The Perishable Empire: Essays On Indian Writing In English (Essays)

2004

Upamanyu Chatterjee

Mammaries of the Welfare State (Novel) 

2006

Rupa Bajwa

The Sari Shop (Novel) 

2007

Malathi Rao

Disorderly Women (Novel) 

table end