Mamta Kalia - Mahatma Gandhi Antarrashtriya Hindi Vishwavidyalaya

A Journal ofMahatma GandhiAntarrashtriyaHindi VishwavidyalayaL A N G U A G EDISCOURSEW R I T I N GVolume 4January-March 2010EditorMamta KaliaKku 'kkafr eS=khPublished byMahatma Gandhi International Hindi University

Hindi : Language, Discourse, WritingA Quarterly Journal of Mahatma Gandhi AntarrashtriyaHindi VishwavidyalayaVolume 4 Number 5 January-March 2010R.N.I. No. DELENG 11726/29/1/99-Tc© Mahatma Gandhi Antarrashtriya Hindi VishwavidyalayaNo Material from this journal should be reproduced elsewhere withoutthe permission of the publishers.The publishers or the editors need not necessarily agree with theviews expressed in the contributions to the journal.Editor : Mamta KaliaEditorial Assistant : Madhu SaxenaEditorial Office :Regional Extention Centre (Distance Education)E-47/7, Ist Floor Okhla Industrial Area, Phase-IINew Delhi-110 020Phone : 09212741322Sale & Distribution Office :Publication Department,Mahatma Gandhi AntarrashtriyaHindi VishwavidyalayaPost Manas Mandir, Gandhi Hills, Wardha-442001 (Maharashtra) IndiaSubscription Rates :Single Issue : Rs. 100/-Annual - Individual : Rs. 400/- Institutions : Rs. 600/-Overseas : Seamail : Single Issue : $ 20 Annual : $ 60Airmail : Single Issue : $ 25 Annual : $ 75Published By :Mahatma Gandhi Antarrashtriya Hindi Vishwavidyalaya, WardhaAll enquiries regarding subscription should be directed to theMahatma Gandhi Antarrashtriya Hindi Vishwavidyalaya, WardhaCover : Awadhesh MishraPrinted at :Ruchika Printers, 10295, Lane No. 1West Gorakh Park, Shahdara, Delhi-110 0322 :: January-March 2010

L A N G U A G EDISCOURSEW R I T I N GJanuary-March 2010ContentsHeritageMamta Jaishankar Prasad 7Puraskar Jaishankar Prasad 11Jaishankar Prasad: A partisan view Rajendra Prasad Pandey 21FocusPriya Saini Markandeya 25Short StoryBagugoshe Swadesh Deepak 47PoetryFalling Naresh Saxena 59Moods of Love Upendra Kumar 67DiscoursePremchand as a short story writer: Gopichand Narang 81Using irony as a technical DeviceJanuary-March 2010 :: 3

The Theatre arising from Devendra Raj Ankur 100within the StoryDalit Literature : Some Critical Issues Subhash Sharma 108Observations on Dharamvir Bharati’s Avirup Ghosh 118‘Suraj Ka Satvan Ghoda’History In Hindi Literature : Hitendra Patel 1241864-1930LanguageHindi’s Place in the Universe Yutta Austin 138Hindi And Indian Studies In Spain Vijayakumaran 147now on internet at www.hindivishwa.com4 :: January-March 2010

Editor's NoteHindi has its own treasure-chest of classic writers. They are read and re-read, researched andreviewed, remembered and forgotten only to come up yet again. Time, the old gypsy man, anointsthem with the rare salve of timelessness. We go to them repeatedly for that vintage voyage ofexploration and discovery. Very often we are stunned by their simplicity of expression and complexityof thought.Jai Shankar Prasad is one of such authors who offers us a variety of literary forms– short story,novel, poetry, drama and criticism. He worked tirelessly on all these forms and evolved a world ofhis own art and craft. Prasad and Premchand were contemporaries but no two writers could bemore different. Prasad often picked up his content from history and let his imagination colour itwith romantic idealism. Premchand’s source of inspiration was the common man pitted against adehumanised socio-economic system. They respected their differences and showed no bitternesstowards each other. Prasad passed away in 1937 whereas Premchand died in 1936. They wereprolific writers and had their own brand of patriotism at heart. Prasad was younger to Premchandby nine years. His contribution to Hindi literature was noteworthy in spite of his untimely demise.‘Chhayavad’ movement found in him its best spokesman.We carry Prasad’s short stories and articles on Prasad and Premchand in this issue. SincePremchand wrote in Hindi as well as Urdu, Prof. Gopichand Narang was our apt choice for thestudy. Prof. Narang excels as an exponent of Urdu and Hindi criticism.Markandeya has been a very significant author of the late fifties’ nai kahani movement. He surpassedthe movement by creating a new troika in Hindi– Markandeya, Amarkant and Shekhar Joshi. Thethree were as different as original. Markandeya not only wrote but influenced future writing, suchwas his spell in the sixties and the seventies. He is struggling for life in the emergency ward ofRajiv Gandhi Cancer hospital in Delhi while we carry his famous short story ‘Priya Saini’ in thisissue.Swadesh Deepak is another wayward genius whose short story ‘Bagugoshe’ was much landed inHindi when it first appeared in the monthly ‘Vagarth’ edited by Ravindra Kalia. We hope its sensitivityis communicated to you, albeit in translation by Eishita Siddharth. He lives at an unknown addressthese days.January-March 2010 :: 5

Dalit writing has emerged as a force to reckon with. Subhash Sharma traces its development inhis candid study Dalit Literature : Some critical issues.Naresh Saxena and Upendra Kumar are senior poets who bring their own energy and is insight intowhatever they write. Naresh can infuse new life into any ordinary subject whereas Upendra Kumarexplores love in an otherwise loveless situation.Hindi language is lending attraction to all India-lovers. Our mythology and movies have contributedmuch to its popularity. The articles included endorse the contention.Some of the fellow writers whom we lost in the past months are– Dr. Kunwar Pal Singh, DilipChitre, Asha Rani Vohra, Rama Singh, Rajendra Awasthi, Kalyanmal Lodha and Dina Nath Rai.We condole their loss and extend our sympathy to the bereaved families.6 :: January-March 2010

HeritageMAMTAJaishankar PrasadTranslatedP.C. JoshibyFrom her apartment in the Rohtas fortress, young Mamta watchedthe sharp and majestic movement of the river Sone. She wasa widow. Her youth surged like the turbulent waters of Sone.With anguish in her heart, storms in her mind and unceasingshowers in her eyes, Mamta found in the very affluence of herhome a bed of thorns. She was the only daughter of Churamani,minister of the King of Rohtas. She had everything. But she wasa widow– and is not a Hindu widow the most condemned andhelpless being in the world– so where was the end of her sorrow?Churamani quietly entered her apartment. There she sat forgetfulof her being while the waves of Sone rolled on with a musicof their own. She remained unaware of her father’s presence. Churamaniwas pained beyond measure. What would he not crave to dofor his daughter brought up in such affection? He left as quietlyas he had come. Such feelings welled up within him very oftenbut today he was more agitated than ever. His feet shook ashe retraced his steps.After a short interval he returned again to her. He was followedby ten attendants carrying something in big silver trays. The soundof the footsteps disturbed the quiet of the sanctum and Mamtaturned to look. Churamani motioned to the attendants to putthe trays down. The attendants withdrew thereafter.“What is this, father?” Mamta asked.“For you, my daughter! A present!”Churamani said and removed the covering from the trays. AndJanuary-March 2010 :: 7

lo amidst the golden evening there spreadthe radiance of the uncovered gold.Mamta was startled.“So much of gold? Where did it comefrom?”“Silence! my dear, it is for you!”whispered Churamani.“So you accepted the enemy’s bribe?It is criminal, father it is ominous. Returnit! We are Brahmins. What shall we dowith so much gold?”“This ancient and feudal dynasty seemsto be nearing its end. Little girl, anydayShershah can annex Rohtas and I shallbe a minister no more. It is for then,my darling!”“O God! For the rainy day! Suchcaution! Such daring against thecommands of the Almighty! Father, willthere be none to give us alms? Won’tthere be a Hindu alive under the sunto give a morsel of food to a Brahmin?It is impossible! Return it. I am frightened.Its glitter is blinding!”“Stupid!” exclaimed Churamani andwent away.Next day Churamani watched thepalanquins entering the palace with atrembling heart. At last he could notrestrain himself. He asked for the coversto be removed from the palanquins atthe gates of the fortress. The Pathansgrowled.“It is an insult to the honour of theladies of the royal family.”Hot words were exchanged. Swordswere unsheathed and the Brahmin waskilled on the very spot. The King andthe Queen and the treasury– all fell intothe hands of the treacherous Shershah.Only Mamta escaped. From inside thepalanquins appeared Pathan soldiersarmed to the teeth and they capturedthe fortress. But no trace of Mamta wasto be found.To the north of Kashi the dilapidatedDharma Chakra Vihar had survived asa remnant of the glory of the Mauryaand Gupta kings. Its steeples weredamaged; the walls were covered bygrasses and shrubs– and the onetimesplendour of the Indian architecture wasbeing soothed by the moonlight of thescorching summer.Under the dark shade of the sameStupa— now in ruins— where the fivedisciples of Buddha were the firstrecipients of the sacred message ofenlightenment– there, in a hut a womanwas chanting the holy scripture in thelight of the lamp.“Those who worship me with singlemindeddevotion.....”All of a sudden her reading wasinterrupted. A fierce and dejected figurestood before her in the faint glow ofthe lamp. The woman got up in frightand rushed to shut the door.But the stranger muttered.“Mother! I want shelter.”“Who are you?” asked the woman.“I am a Moghul. Defeated by Sher8 :: January-March 2010

Shah in the battle of Chausa I seekprotection. I can’t find my way onwardsin this dreary night.”“From Sher Shah!” The woman wasbiting her lips.“Yes, mother.”“But you are equally brutal– the sameferocious thirst for blood and the samesavage expression is on your face. Soldier!There is no place in my hut– go andfind a roof elsewhere!”“My throat is choking. I have losttrace of my companions. My horse hascollapsed. I am tired, dead tired!” Heuttered these words and dropped downon the earth and the whole world seemedto be turning round before his eyes.The woman was dumb for a whileat this fresh calamity! Then she gavehim water to drink and life returnedon the Moghul’s face.She was thinking– “No alien deservesany sympathy! The cold-bloodedexecutioner of my father!!” Hatred,burning hatred hardened her heart.The Moghul burst aloud– “Mother,shall I go away?”The woman again became thoughtful.“.....I am a Brahmin girl. Am I notdutybound to offer shelter to any guestat the door! .....No.....Not to all.....Mysympathy is not for aliens.....But it isnot sympathy.....It is the call of duty.Then?”The Moghul got up with the supportof his sword. Mamta said, “No wonderyou may also turn out to be a traitor!Wait!”“Traitor! Hm. Then let me go! Temur’sdescendant will betray a woman! I willhave to go. Strange are the ways ofdestiny!”Mamta was speaking to herself. Thisis no fortress. But only a hut. Let himgrab it if he likes. I must not fail inmy duty. She went out and told theMoghul, “Go inside, O famished and fearstrickensoldier! Whoever you be, I giveyou shelter. I am a Brahmin girl. Evenif the whole world fails in its duty, Imust not!The Moghul saw that majestic facein the faint light of the moon and bowedto her in silent reverence. Mamtadisappeared behind the adjoining walls.And the tired Moghul entered the hutand breathed a sigh of relief.In the morning from a chasm in thewall, Mamta saw hundreds of mountedsoldiers roaming about in the compound.She cursed herself for her folly.The stranger came out of the hutand said! “Mirza! I am here!!”And the whole place resounded witha happy clamour of voices. Mamta becamefear-stricken. The stranger said– “Whereis that woman? Trace her out?” Mamtabecame more vigilant and vanished withinthe Mrig Dao and remained there thewhole day. In the evening soldiers werepreparing to leave and Mamta heardthe stranger mounting his horse andsaying!January-March 2010 :: 9

“Mirza! I could give nothing to thatwoman. I found shelter in her hut whilein distress. Remember this spot and builda house for her.”And then they left.Years have elapsed since the battleat Chausa between the Moghuls andPathans. Mamta is now an old womanof seventy. One day she was lying inher hut. It was a cold winter morning.Her skeleton-like frame was shaking withcough. Some village women were presentto nurse her for Mamta had shared theweal and woe of everyone all her life.Mamta asked for water to drink anda woman offered it to her in a conchshell.And then suddenly a mountedsoldier was seen at the door of her hut.He was muttering to himself: “This mustbe the spot to which Mirza has referred.That old woman must be dead by now.Who will now tell me in which hut oneday Emperor Humayun had taken shelter?Forty seven years have passed sincethen!”Mamta heard it with suspense. Sheasked the woman sitting by her side“Call him!”The mounted soldier came towardsher. She said in faltering tones, “I don’tknow whether he was the Emperor himselfor an ordinary Moghul. But he stayedfor one night in this very hut. I heardhe had ordered to build a house forme. I remained inside all these yearsin the fear that my hut will be destroyed.God responded to my prayer. I leaveit now for you to build a house or apalace whatever you like. I go to myeternal resting-place.”The mounted soldier stood bewilderedwhile the old woman breathed her last.A magnificent octagonal temple wascreated at that spot with the followinginscription:“Humayun, the Emperor of sevenlands stayed here for one night. His sonAkbar has constructed this toweringtemple in his memory.”But Mamta’s name was missing fromthat inscription.Jaishankar Prasad (1889-1937) was a great heralder of the romantic era inhindi literature. He wrote in almost every genre. ‘Kamayani’ is his most famousepic poem. His short stories were a blend of history and fiction. Prasad wrotenovels such as Kankal, Titli and Iravati. His plays Dhruvaswamini, Chandragupt,Skandgupt and Vishakh reflected his humanitarian and philosophical attitudeto life. He spent a major part of his life in Varanasi where he breathed his last.Dr Puranchandra Joshi, born 1928 in Almora, is an eminent sociologist andacademician. His areas of specilisation range from culture, literature, politicalideology to rural development, communication and economic growth. Some ofhis well known books are: Bhartiya Gram, Parivartan aur Vikas Ke SanskritikAyam, Azadi Ki Adhi Sadi, Avdharnaon Ka Sankat, Mahatma Gandhi Ki ArthikDrishti, Sanchar, Sanskriti Aur Vikas and Yadon Se Rachi Yatra. His memoirs inhindi quarterly ‘Tadbhav’ have been highly appreciated. He has received lifetime achievement award from Indian Social Science Council along with otherhonours elsewhere. He lives in New Delhi.10 :: January-March 2010

HeritagePURASKARJaishankar PrasadTranslatedP.C. JoshibyThe soliteary Ardra star! Dark and black clouds rolled and rumbledin the sky with the beat of celestial drums. The god of lightpeeped from a cloudless corner in the East as if to watch theroyal procession. A soft, fragrant odour rose from the earth inthe lap of the mountains. The gate of the town opened for theroyal elephant to appear towering among the crowds. The mightycongregation surged forward like an ocean of gaiety.The sky poured on the earth– tiny, sunlit drops like mallikaflowers. People hailed them as tokens of heavenly blessings.Chariots, elephants, mounted soldiers stood arrayed on theground. Visitors and spectators poured in. The royal elephantbent low and the King got down the stairs. Handsome virgins,and happy brides came to the fore carrying auspicious Kalashbedecked with fresh mango-buds, big trays of newly-plucked flowers,Kumkum and parched rice and sang melodious songs.A gentle smile played on the King’s face. The priest chantedhymns from the holy scriptures. Holding the golden handle ofthe plough, the King motioned to the lovely and robust pair ofbullocks to move.The blowing of trumpets and the showering of flowers by youngmaidens heralded the opening of this renowned festival of Kaushal.It was a unique event, the festival, when the King himselfacted the peasant for a day and worshipped Indra, Lord of cloudsand rains with pomp and grandeur. People of the town rejoicedJanuary-March 2010 :: 11

and young princes from other kingdomsjoined in this rejoicing.Arun, Prince of Magadh, watched thefestival from his chariot. His eyes werefixed on Madhulika while she helped theKing with seeds from the big tray thatshe carried in her hands. The plot ofland belonged to Madhulika and alsothe privilege of offering seeds for sowingwas hers. She was a virgin unexcelledin her charms in her lovely saffroncolouredattire. The wind sported withher and now she put her garments inorder and now her unruly locks. Womanlydignity and modesty gleamed in her smile.But despite her tenderness, she remainedunfaltering in her duty.People hailed the King as he ploughedthe field. But Prince Arun– he was standingunder the spell of the peasant girl. ‘Whatexquisite grace and innocent looks!’ hemurmured to himself in silent adoration.The main item of the festival wasover. The King presented Madhulika afew gold Mudras in a tray. It was thereward for her land and a token of King’sgenerosity. Madhulika touched the traywith her forehead in reverence andscattered them away thereafter in honourof the King. Her majestic looks left thespectators spell-bound.But the King was about to flare up,when Madhulika’s tender voice was heard:“Maharaj! I got this land from myforefathers. How can I sell it and accepta price in return?”Before the King could say anything,the old minister intervened:“Silly girl! What do you mean? Spurningthe royal present!” His tone wasindignant.“It’s worth four times your land. Andthen, don’t you know it is the customof Kaushal? From today you are underthe King’s protection. Thank your starsfor this good fortune, Madhulika!”“All subjects are under the King’sprotection”, Madhulika retorted in anexcited but firm voice. “Happily I offeredmy land to the King. But to sell it, no,it is not my right!”The king turned to the minister witha questioning look and the ministeranswered:“Maharaj! She is the only daughterof Singhmitra, the hero of the battleof Varanasi.” “Singhmitra!” the Kingexclaimed. “The saviour of Kaushal fromMagadh! And Madhulika is his daughter?”“Yes, Maharaj!” replied the minister.“What are the rules of this festival?”the King asked after a moment’sreflection.“The rules are simple, Maharaj”,replied the minister. “A good plot ofland is chosen for the festival and theowner is paid in the form of a gift bythe King. The owner himself takes careof the crop for a year and the landis known as King’s land.”The King could not come to a quickdecision. He kept quiet in perplexity.12 :: January-March 2010

The assembly dispersed meanwhile andthe King also returned to his mansion.But Madhulika was not to be seen inthe festival again. Absently she sat underthe shade of the tender green leavesof the towering Madhuk tree close tothe boundary of her land.The festival was over– the calm ofthe closing night reigned all around.Prince Arun had kept away from thecelebrations. He was restless in hissanctum. Sleep had vanished from hiseyes. A redness glowed in them likethat of the rosy dawn in the East. Notfar from his view was a dove standingon one foot in a cornice. Gently spreadingher wings, she yawned. Arun stood up.His horse was ready at the door andin a flash he galloped to the gates ofthe town. The sentries were in deep sleep.They started when the noise of hoofbeatsassailed their ears. But the youngprince shot forth like an arrow andvanished from sight. The robust stallionwas bubbling with vigour in the morningbreeze. Arun roamed hither and thitherand at last he reached the spot wherelay the troubled Madhulika asleep withher head resting on her palms!Like the tender Madhavi creeperdetached from the branches of a tree,she lay on the earth. Flowers were abloomand bees were tranquil and calm.Arun motioned to the horse to bequiet. And his eyes were steathily feastingupon the beauty of the sleeping youngdamsel. But the naughty cuckoo brokethe calm. It cried as if in reproof ofa strangers’ impertinence. Madhulikaopened her yes. She saw the figure ofan unknown young man before her.Hastily she gathered herself.“Young girl! You were in charge oflast day’s festival, isn’t it?” The strangerwas asking.“Festival? Yes, it was a festival”,Madhulika said and heaved a sigh.“Yesterday…..”“Why does the memory of yesterdayhaunt you, young man?” interruptedMadhulika. “Won’t you let me be in peace?”she added.“Since that day, Madhulika, I adoreyou. Your beauty has captured my heart.”“My beauty or the display of myplight that day?..... Ah, how cruel isman! Go your way, stranger and leaveme alone.”“Innocent girl! I am Prince of Magadh.I beseech your favour. My heart’s desiregushes out for you…..”“Young prince! You come from thepalaces and I am a peasant girl fromthe soil. Yesterday I lost even my land.I am unhappy. Does it behove you tolaugh at a girl’s plight?”“I will help you get back your landfrom the King of Kaushal.”“No. It is the custom of Kaushal.I don’t wish to break it whatever distressit may mean to me.”January-March 2010 :: 13

“What is the secret of your grief then?”“Ah, it is the secret of the humanheart. Young prince! Were the heartbound by laws, the prince of Magadhinstead of going to a princess wouldnot come to offend the dignity of apeasant girl!” Madhulika got up.The prince left with injured pride.His pearled crown gleamed in the tenderlight of the dawn. The horse gallopedaway with great speed. But hadn’tMadhulika hurt herself too? Her heartgnawed with sharp pain. With tearfuleyes she was watching the dust risingfrom the horse’s hoofs.Madhulika did not accept the King’soffer. Instead she chose a hard life–she would work in the fields of othersand after the days labour return to hersmall hut under the Madhuk tree. Shehad only coarse food to eat. Hard toilhad made her thin and weak but herdevotion imparted a radiance to hercountenance. Peasants held her in highesteem for to them she was an idealgirl. Days, weeks and years passed by.It was a cold winter night once andlightening flashed now and then in theovercast sky. The thatched roof ofMadhulika’s hut was leaking. She didn’thave enough covering to keep her warmand she was shivering in the biting cold.Her want today pained her more thanever. Man’s material needs are limited.But the sense of loss varies in intensityin tune with the stress of changingcircumstances. So was the case withMadhulika. She recalled the past– It wastwo, nay, three years back when onemorning under the same Madhuk treethe young prince had said…..”What? Yearning for those flatteringwords, she asked– what did he say? Thosewords were so very well imprinted inher storm-tossed mind. And yet in thatdreary night she dared not allow hisimage to appear in full bloom beforeher minds’ eye.She yearned to revive that preciousmoment. Her suffering had taxed herendurance to the breaking-point. Thepalaces of Magadh and their affluenceseemed to dance before her in the flashesof lightning in the sky. Like a child runningto and fro to catch the fire-fly on acloudy evening, Madhulika was, as itwere, chasing her dream! Cloudsthundered with a terrifying roar and afurious downpour began. Was it theprelude to a hail-storm? Madhulika wasstricken with fear for her hut. Suddenlythere was a noise outside.“Is there anyone to give shelter toa traveller?”Madhulika opened the door and inthe blaze of lightning she saw a manholding the reins of a horse. She wasstunned.“Prince Arun!” she exclaimed.“Madhulika!”There was a moment’s silence.Madhulika saw her dream come true.She was dumb.14 :: January-March 2010

“Oh, only if you had listened then…..”said Arun.Madhulika didn’t wish to give hima chance to comment on her sorry plight.She interrupted and asked:“And what brings you here in thiscondition?”“I rebelled and was expelled fromMagadh. I have come to Kaushal formy living.” Arun said with his head bentlow.Madhulika was laughing in the darkand remarked.“The rebel prince of Magadh! Guestof an unfortunate peasant girl! I welcomeyou, young prince, all the same to myhumble dwelling.”It was the grim silence and chill ofthe wintry night with the moon-lightfrost-stricken and the wind piercingthrough the bones and giving one creeps.Even then Arun and Madhulika talkedto each other sitting outside at the doorof a mountain-cave under the banyantree. There was unrestrained ardour inMadhulika’s voice while Arun wascautious and restrained in his speech.Madhulika asked:“Why do you keep your soldiers withyou when you yourself are so hardpressed?”“Madhulika! They are my companionswho will stand by me in life and death.How could I leave them?”“Why, we could toil and labour, youand I and earn our living. Now…..”Don’t be mistaken! I have faith inmy sinews. I will carve out a new Kingdom.Why should I lose heart?” Arun’s voicewas trembling as if he was afraid tosay freely what was in his mind.“A new Kingdom! What daring? Buthow? Tell me and let me also delightmy fancy with it”.“Not fancy, Madhulika! I will reallymake you the queen. Why do you worryover your lost land?”A moment passed and Madhulika’smind was running riot. Her deep-rootedyearning surged up in her heart. “YoungPrince,” she said. “I have pined andwaited for you all these years!”Arun could not check himself. Pressingher hands impertinently he asked:“Then was I mistaken? You reallyloved me then!”Madhulika was speechless. Her bosomswelled with rapture and excitement.Arun sensed what was passing throughher mind and like a quick-witted personhe burst out:“If you wish, I can risk my life andmake you the queen of Kaushal.Madhulika! I mean it. Would you seethe terror of my sword?”Madhulika trembled. She wished tosay ‘no’ but only exclaimed– “What!”“It is true, Madhulika. The King feelssorry for you since the festival and hewon’t have the heart to decline yourJanuary-March 2010 :: 15

equest. And I know for certain thatthe army-chief of Kaushal has gone faraway to crush the hordes of hilly bandits.”Madhulika was dazed by the proposaland a violent emotion seemed tooverpower her. “Why don’t you speak.”said Arun.“I will do whatever you say”,Madhulika said as if in a stupor.Half-asleep as if with half-open eyesthe King of Kaushal reclined on his goldenthrone. A woman attendant was swingingthe Chanwar over his head while anotherstood at some distance in obeisance withbetels and nuts in her hands.The sentry came and announced:“Maharaj! A woman has come with somerequest.”Opening his eyes, the King replied:A woman! Show her in.”The sentry led Madhulika to the King.She greeted him. The King fixed a steadygaze at her and said: “It looks I haveseen you somewhere.”“That was three year’s back, Maharaj,when my land was taken for the festival.”“Oh! All these years you passed inhardship and now you come for its price.Alright, you will be amply rewarded forit.”“No, Maharaj, I don’t want itspayment.”“Silly girl! Then what?”“About so much land from the barrenearth to the south of the fort– grantme that, Maharaj, and I will plough it.I have a partner now who will helpme with his men. The ground will haveto be levelled.”“Peasant girl!” replied the King. “Thatis waste-land. Moreover, it has strategicimportance because of its proximity tothe fort.”“Shall I return disappointed then,Maharaj?”“Singhmitra’s daughter! What can Ido? Your request…..”“Well, as you wish, Maharaj!”On second thought the King said–“Go and engage your labourers on thejob. I am directing the minister to issuea formal sanction.”Towards the south of the fort onthe bank of the rivulet, there was adense forest. Its habitual calm todaywas ruffled by the movements ofmultitudes of men. Roads were beingmade by clearing shrubs and bushesovergrown all over. The town was faraway and people hardly visited thisdeserted place. Even now no one botheredabout what was happening. For hadn’tthe King himself made a gift of the landto Madhulika?Standing in a thick bower Arun andMadhulika rapturously looked at eachother. Evening was drawing near andflocks of birds returning to their nestsnoticed a new stir and bustle in thatdreary forest and responded with a happyuproar.16 :: January-March 2010

Arun’s eyes glistened with exultation.The rays of the setting sun, softly playedon Madhulika’s flushed cheeks. Arun said:“Only a night more! In the morning youwill be crowned as the queen in Sravastiand though banished from Magadh, Iwill be the King of an independent state.”“Terrible! Arun, I am amazed at yourdaring. With a band of a hundred soldiersonly…..”“In the middle of the night will beginmy triumphant expedition.”“Then you are sure of your success.”“Yes, Madhulika! Spend your nightin the hut. From the morning the palacewill be your dwelling place.”Madhulika was happy. But she wasafraid for Arun. She would get excitedand scared like a child. Suddenly Arunsaid:“It is pitch dark now. You have togo a long way and I have to finaliseour plans. Adieu for the night,Madhulika!”Madhulika got up. Struggling her waythrough thorny bushes, she walkedtowards her hut in the dark.The road was dark and dismal, gloombegan pervading Madhulika’s heart too.Some unknown force seemed to besqueezing out her heart’s sweetness andher dear dream was vanishing in thegloom. A fear grew in her soul for Arun–“Well, if he fails in his venture, then?”All of a sudden she asked herself– “Whyshould he win? Why should the Srawastifort pass into the hands of a foreigner?Ah, his victory…..!..... But the King wasproud of her, – of Singhmitra’s daughter.Singhmitra, the saviour of Kaushal! Andhis daughter, a traitor? No. No.“Madhulika”, “Madhulika”, she heard herfather calling her in the dark. Shescreamed like a hysterical woman andlost her way.It was nearing midnight but Madhulikafailed to reach her hut. She was movingonwards aimlessly– she was in a turmoil.In her mind now the image of her fatherand now that of Prince Arun would flashalternately. A light was visible beforeher. She stood in the middle of the road.A hundred soldiers were marching withtorches in their hands at the head ofwhom walked a middle-aged, bravelookingsoldier! He held the reins ofthe horse in his left hand and in hisright a naked sword. The detachmentadvanced with firm steady steps. ButMadhulika barred their way. The chiefof the detachment came near. Even thenshe stood fixed to the ground like astatue. The soldier stopped his horseand said– “Who is there?” There wasno reply. The other mounted soldierthundered: “Who are you? Speak out!”He was the army chief of Kaushal. Thewoman shouted as if in a fit of insanity.“Arrest me! Kill me! My crime isso grave.”The army chief laughed: “Madwoman!”January-March 2010 :: 17

“Ah, If I were mad, I wouldn’t haveany agony. Arrest me and take me tothe King!”“What’s the matter? Speak out.”“The Sravasti-fort will be capturedby bandits within a few hours. Theywill launch their attack from the southernrivulet.”The army-chief was dumb-founded.“What do you say?”“What I say is true. Hurry up.”The army-chief ordered a hundredsoldiers to march towards the rivulet.And he moved toward the fort with twentysoldiers. Madhulika was tied to a mountedsoldier.The fort of Sravasti— the centre ofthe Kaushal kingdom— is plunged as itwere in the reminiscences of its gloriouspast. Several dynasties have usurped anumber of its provinces. It has onlya few villages now to call its own.Nevertheless, it carries the halo of itspast glory and that is what rouses thejealousy of others.The sentries of the fort were amazedto find the mounted soldiers coming.They recognized the army chief andopened the gate. The army-chief got downfrom the horse-back and asked– Agnisen!How many soldiers are there in the fort?”“Two hundred” was the reply.“Collect them without any noise.March with a hundred toward the south–let there be no stir and no light.”The army-chief turned towardsMadhulika. She was released and takento the King. The King was about to retirefor the night when he saw the armychiefand Madhulika and was restless.The army-chief said: “I had to comebecause of this woman!”The King paused for a moment andsaid:“Singhmitra’s daughter! What bringsyou here again? Any obstacle to yourplan? Senapati! I have granted her theland near the southern rivulet. Do youwant to say anything about that?”“Maharaj”, replied the army-chief,“Some secret enemy has planned to attackand capture the fort from that side.”The King looked at Madhulika. Shewas trembling and sinking in selfcontemptand shame. He asked: “Is thattrue, Madhulika?”“Yes” was the reply.The King told the army-chief “Collectthe soldiers and I will follow.”After the army-chief had departed,the King said: “Singhmitra’s daughter!You have saved Kaushal a second time.You deserve a reward again. Well, youwait here. Let me first take care of thebandits.”Arun was caught in his subversiveadventure and the fort was glowing inthe light of the torches. The crowdshouted in great ovation. Joy pervadedall around. The Sravasti fort had been18 :: January-March 2010

saved from bandits. There was joy andgaiety all over and the meeting groundechoed with the clamour of multitudesof people. Seeing the prisoner Arun, therewas a furious uproar from the crowd.“Death to the traitor”. The Kingordered in agreement– “Death to thetraitor!”Madhulika was called. She came andstood like a tattered woman. The Kingsaid: “Madhulika, you will get whateveryou desire.” She was quiet.The King said again: “I give you allof my personal land.”Madhulika threw a glance at thecaptive Arun, and said: “I want nothing”.Arun laughed.The King said: “No, you must havesomething. Come, tell me what you want?”“Ah, what is there for me now!” shemurmured to herself.After a moment’s pause she spoke aloud:“Then reward me also with death!” Andstood by the side of the captive Arun.January-March 2010 :: 19

HeritageJAISHANKAR PRASAD:A PARTISAN VIEWRajendra Prasad PandeyWe have had a very few writers and poets in Hindi literaturewho have made their significant contribution to mulitple areasof literature. Jaishankar Prasad is one of them, a poet, short storywriter, novelist, critic and playwright, all rolled into one. He isequally competent in writing novels and short stories. A multidimensional creator and artist in the true sense! We have a fewother such names like Bhartendu Harishchandra, Muktibodh andAgyey. Jaishankar Prasad has made a distinct mark in Hindi poetryby his amazing images, imagination and aestheticism with romanceand passion. His poetic-diction is unique in itself.Jaishankar Prasad has made his contribution in visualizing thesocial reality in the form of poetry; combining the real and theunreal, worldly and other worldly into a fabric of compassionand humanism. He has often been misread by many scholars asa poet of depression and escape. Hindi criticism has made a consciousattempt in marginalizing such poets and authors whose writingsare not very vocal and loud in articulating and propagating ideasand reality in a profound fashion.The poetry of Jaishankar Prasad also falls in this category.It is very unfortunate that Jaishankar Prasad and Suryakant TripathiNirala; Agyeya and Muktibodh are poised and presented in contrastand as opposed to each other. What we should have done wasto analyse and assert the contribution and works of the respectivepoets in their own sphere with their own distinctive features anduniqueness.20 :: January-March 2010

Here we will be discussing some ofthe unique features of the writings ofJaishankar Prasad. Prasad is creditedto have propounded the Hindi romanticpoetic movement called ‘Chhayavad’. Thecollection of poetry published in 1918‘Jharna’ by Jaishankar Prasad is rightlycredited as new poetry full of freshnessof language, and diction, voice of a changein perspective and presentation. Thishappened for the first-time in the historyof Hindi poetry that nature was so closeto man; moreover the treatment wasalso different. Nature was not treatedas a stimulating factor for love andpassion but in ‘Chhayavadi’ poetry naturewas presented in a live form; as a livingbeing. ‘Jharna’ is symbolic of expressionof revolt against social and poeticconventions. By crediting ‘Jharna’ asa pioneer of true romanic poeticmovement in Hindi poetry, called‘Chhayavad’; I am not underestimatingthe importance of poem ‘Uchchwas’ bySumitranandan Pant which was writtenin 1917. Of course, this poem came outwith a new and fresh poetic diction andidiom. There was reflection of ‘first-ray’–‘Pratham Rashmi’. This expression hasmany connotations of meaning at variouslevels in Indian and world perspective.In spite of this fact ‘Jharna’ is a morecohesive and concrete reflection ofromanticism in Hindi.Here we must remind ourselves thatHindi romantic poetry ‘Chhayavad’ hasmany components of modernity unlikeEnglish romantic poetry. We can veryeasily notice the contemporary freedomstruggle of India as an under currentin Chhayavadi Hindi poetry. HindiChhayavadi poetry is spread over twodecades broadly 1918-1936. Intrestinglythis may be traced from ‘Jharna’ to‘Kamayani’ (1936). Prasad may be saidto be the true representative ofChhayavadi poetry for many reasons,the Chhayavadi poetry with earnestnessand distinctive features is present inthe writings and collections of Prasad.The other prominent Chhayavadi poetsNirala, Pant and Mahadevi could surviveeven after Chhayavadi poetic movementwas over and they chose their differentpaths. Nirala was inclined towards morerealistic and socially committed poetrywhereas Pant embraced progressivemovement and thereafter adoptedAurobindo philosophy; Mahadevi alsocould not add anything new in poetrybeyond ‘Kamayani’ era.Ranging between Jharna andKamayani, there comes ‘Ansoo’, ‘Lahar’,‘Kanan Kusum’, ‘Karunalaya’ etc.Jaishankar Prasad is significant for hisnew images, fresh and innovative poeticdiction, wonderful imagination, lucidityof language and stylistic approach,aesthetic sense and so on at the levelof form but he is more significant forhis vision and understanding of humanrelations, treatment of love, probleematizingand analylizing humansufferings in a broader perspective.Prasad chose to relook into the pastand mythology of India and by visitingJanuary-March 2010 :: 21

and revisiting Indian history, he foundsome solutions to the problems ofcontemporary India; these solutions weremore visibly and prominently reflectedin his plays like ‘Dhruvaswamini’,Chandragupta snd Skandgupta. I willtake this aspect later on. Here I wouldlike to mention that ‘Kamayani’ is sucha great attempt made by JaishankarPrasad that it could become a classicalwork of all time and all places becauseof its holistic approach and understandingmankind in totality. The broad rangeof problematics gives ‘Kamayani’ a statusof great modern Indian epic. Startingfrom ‘Chinta’ and ending with ‘Anand’Prasad mentions different dimensions ofHuman psychology. Based onmythological elements of Manu andShraddha or Kamayani and the terrificdisaster of floods; this is infact the workof creation and evolution of modern manwith all his goodness and evil.‘Kamayani’ has invited great attentionof Hindi critics. Many readings andattempts of appropriation, denouncementhave been made. Kamayani could notreceive a sufficient amount ofappreciation of the great critic of thetime Ram Chandra Shukla. Though heappreciates the epicality andpresentation, language and diction ofKamayani, he was not convinced withthe focus on Ida, representing rationalityand wisdom, in comparison to Shraddha,representing heart i.e., feelings andemotions. Referring to the line ‘SIRCHADHI RAHI PAYA NA HRIDAY’ (Shewas carried away by mind and had noheart (emotions), it was referred to Idaas if Prasad was in favour of emotionor say Shradhha who has had emotionsand feelings embodied with her. Shuklaji suggests that it could have equallybeen said that (Shradha) ‘RAS PAGI RAHIPAYEENA BUDDHI’ (She was embodiedwith feelings and passions and had norationality). The fact lies in this perceptionthat ‘Chhayavadi’ poets have leaningstowards emotions and passions; they wereall carried away by RASATMIKA VRITTI(the emotive instinct).Of course, there, can be no denialof the fact that Chhayavadi poetry isexpression of feelings, emotions, passionand love in a form of lucid languageand refined diction. Prasad being arepresentative of Chhayavadi poetry (hemay be so, because of his poeticdistinction), has expressed so many thingsin his poetry which refer to these features.His musicality of language, fascinatingimages, sensuousness and passionateexpression in an amazing fashion makehis poetry lasting and unique. ‘Kamayani’is a great manifestation of modernity.Here is a man (Manu) who has lost allhis belongings, he is the only survivorof his generation and the entire SaraswatPradesh. He is sinking into worries oflife, lamenting upon loss of what he had;an immortal world! the world which wasassociated with all the wealth andpleasure, may be sad like ‘Eden Garden’.His encounter with Kamayani is a hopeof life and opens an area of creation22 :: January-March 2010

and love. Beginning from worry andending into ‘Anand’ (The absolutepleasure) is the horizon of the epic. Thisin fact is a process and search ofphilosophy of life. The world view ofthe poet is very clear– ‘SHAKTI KEVIDYUTKAN JO VYAST, VIKAL BIKHAREHON HO NIRUPAY, SAMANVAY UNKAKARE SAMAST VIJAYINI MANAWATABAN JAAY’ (By synthesizing the sparksof energy, wherever they are, all together,we can make the mankind victorious,that can win over all the evils andobstacles).This, indeed, is a great vision, a greatdesire for the betterment of human beings.This can never be a desire of a pessimistpoet (as he is often described). Of course,there are elements of pessimism inPrasad’s poetry, but a substantive amountis of faith, hope and love towards lifeand human values. One of the verysignificant studies of Jaishankar Prasadhas been made by eminent poetMuktibodh in his critical work‘KAMAYANI : EK PUNARVICHAR’.Muktibodh described his poetry as afailure in totality. A great fantasy. Awork which has been presented in emotiveform but has had reality within it(BHAVVADI SHILP MEINYATHARTHVADI RACHNA). The entirediscourse made by Muktibodh is basedon Marxist paradigm. To some extenthis evaluation can be accepted butKamayani is much more than a fantasyand failure of feudalism (Manu and hisempire, divinity). This cannot be simplyviewed in terms of stages of evolutionof human history as has been narratedby Muktibodh. Kamayani needs a relookto be given the parameters of its own.It is such a great work which deniesto be evaluated on the canons of eitherIndian or Western literary theories ofa particular kind, in fact a number ofcanons are required for evaluation of‘Kamayani’ in particular and JaishankarPrasad in general. Like his images andlanguage, the characteristics of his poetryare also very complex; having a numberof layers. His poetry is difficult, to reveal.The meanings can perhaps never beexplored. The statement of T.S. Eliot‘Meaning is a continuous process’ maybe applied in case of poetry of JaishankarPrasad.In contrast, Prasad is much moreopen and suggestive in his prose. Hisexpression and depiction of reality ismore visible in his novel ‘KANKAL’. Hisloudness can more easily be heard inhis plays ‘DHRUVASWAMINI’,CHANDRAGUPTA, VISHAKH,SKANDGUPTA and others. Thecontemporariety of Prasad can beunderstood by the views and problemsraised in these plays. The issues whichhe has raised are quite relevant eventoday. He was in true sense a greatvisionary, forward looking artist. Theproblem of women’s liberation, love andstruggle for independence (inChandragupta), tracing the testimony andevidences from myths and theUpnishadas, he proposes clear andJanuary-March 2010 :: 23

categorical solutions to the problems.His women characters are not very ‘overbearing’ but in spite of their lyricality,they express their opinions as well.On the whole Jaishankar Prasad isa great achiever of Hindi literature.His contributions were immense andlasting for times to come and forcenturies.Dr Rajendra Prasad Pandey is reader in school of translation, studiesand training at IGNOU, New Delhi. He has written on several Hindiauthors in English.24 :: January-March 2010

FocusPRIYA SAINIMarkandeyaTranslatedJai RatanbyI have kept it to myself far too long and can’t bear it any longer.I must tell you about my woes, for it’s getting too much for me.Decrepit with age and undermined by disease, this body of mineis now incapable of carrying its burden. It’s a wonder that I havecarried on for so long; my body should have broken down muchearlier. Its sap of life was gone the very moment I deserted Priyawhile she was in the throes of childbirth. Since then I have beenfeeling as if someone has plunged a knife in my liver, leaving itflaring with pain. The pain does not subside even for a minute.Whenever I am confronted ‘With an unsavory situation I feel asif my life is going to burst at the seams. That’s why I keep peepinginto people’s sad and troubled eyes like a mad man. I have seenmy sense of duty and pride dying a lingering death and believeme, I have carried them over my shoulders like a corpse, Withoutany compunction, to be thrown into some blind gorge. To my chagrin,these seemed to have drawn a wedge between me and Priya, bringingus to the brink of disaster. Otherwise what was that something thatshook me to my very core? When boys and girls live and growup together they are bound to be drawn towards one another; there,is nothing unusual about it. It is only a question of opportunityand fate, which people are prone to magnify out of all proportions.But for these, there was not even a remote possibility of my andPriya’s coming together. We had not known each other before, norhad we any common contacts. We had stood there looking at eachother. After a minute’s awkward silence she must have realized theJanuary-March 2010 :: 25

absurdity of the situation, for she lookedsideways and said, “Are you looking forsomeone?”“No one in particular. Maybe you!”“Me?” She shot the question at meand laughed. I almost quaked under hergaze I had spoken to her ‘With a greatshow of bravado, hoping that my brazenreply would make her blush. But keepinga straight face, she just stepped aside inthe narrow passage, making way for meto come in. Her behavior was matterof-factas if I was no stranger to her.As I sat down in her room, I decidedto take a firm grip over the situation.“Do you live here with your father?”I asked.“Yes,” she said, sitting down in frontof me. “But why do you want to know;If you could state the purpose of yourvisit it may help.”“I’m a student of Psychology. I’m doingresearch on the manifestation of fear inchanging situations. I’ve drawn up aquestionnaire on the basis of which I’minterviewing young men and women.” Whiletalking with her, I threw guarded lookstowards the door, expecting that someonemay turn up and demand to know witha lurking suspicion as to what was goingon here.“Take it easy,” Priya said with an effusivesmile.” There’s no one here. You wouldn’thave found me here either but for thefact that my school is closed today. It’sjust a coincidence that we happen to meet.Since July I’m teaching dance in a girls’school. Mother died ten years ago. Fatheris working with the Akashvani as an artiston contract basis for the last thirty years.I’ve a younger brother studying in college.This room has been in our occupationfor the last two generations. My grandfatherran away from his village and tookup a darwan’s job with a seth who gaveus this room and a long mezzanine runningalong the whole length of this room andending up in the room in front, The sethhad the windows of the other room closedand improvised a kitchen and a bathroomfor us. This room though small is anywaybig enough for me to spread a cot init. After mother’s death I’ve been livingin this small room. During the rainy seasonand particularly in summer its windows...”Priya suddenly fell silent, showing signsof restlessness. “You know what I mean,”she continued. “I’m explaining the situationto you.”“You were going to tell me somethingabout the window,” I said as if touchingon her sore spot and intently watchedher face.Priya did not betray any signs of embarrassment.“The thing is that if I keepthe door of the mezzanine closed in summerit becomes like a box,” she said withoutfaltering. “Then I put out the lights andopen the window and get a feeling asif I’m sleeping in the open. Since we liveon the upper storey, it’s peaceful and quietover here. You can see how uncongenialthis locality looks. The railway line cutsacross the road which is swarming withtrucks, buses and cars day and night. And26 :: January-March 2010

then there are the thelwalas, coolies andfactory workers raising a din all the time.All sorts of people live here. Do you seethat big gate over there? It’s the millgate. There is trouble at the mill almostevery day- sometimes marked by violence,even police firing.”She paused for breath. I thought shewas doing this as a cover-up to her thoughts,especially about the window. The way shehad opened out to me seemed to signifyan inner contradiction, which did not accordwith the impression that I had formedabout her personality. In spite of the broadhints thrown to me I was cautious enoughnot to jump to any unwarranted conclusion,which would be like retracing yoursteps when you were almost within sightof your destination.“This is hardly the place for the pursuitof dance and music,” I said. “The noisysurroundings must be a great distraction.”“You’re right in a way,” she said. “Butwe cultivate these arts as professionals,in keeping with our tradition. Father isa man of saintly disposition. In other words,he considers art as the highest expressionof all that is noble in man. And man,according to him, is one who is poor,defeated and full of suffering.” Priyahesitated, fearing that I was not gettingat her real meaning, and decided to bemore explicit. “Noise and din, povertyand unhappiness— if you exclude thesethings what else is left in my poor country?This house is therefore no bar to the pursuitof our vocation. We don’t go after thatsort of art which culminates in divinemiracles. We live on a different plane,not divorced from our normal life. Fatherhas not taught me dancing as an infliction.He knows that I have a liking for it andhe has tried to put me on my feet.”Priya paused for an instant and I feltas if a dream had abruptly snapped midwaywhich on waking up whetted the appetiteall the more for it to have continued.I got up. It was clear that Priya wasfeeling apologetic. She feared that she hadbored me with her talk. “Forgive me, Iseem to have talked a lot of rot. I startedoff all right and then drifted into irrelevances.”“I’m not surprised. You’re an artiste,after all. Apart from basic human propensities,an artiste has another dimensionto his personality, based on an agglomerationof acquired talents which are thefirst to disintegrate under the stress andstrain of life.” I swayed my head, lookingvery thoughtful and sad.“Yes, the stress and strain of life...”she echoed my words and her face turnedred with embarrassment. We stood therewithout looking at each other. It lookedso odd, like something out of the blue.I could not lift my feet while Priya stoodbefore me wordless. Then the tap hissedand water started dripping from it.“It’s 3’o clock!” Priya suddenly said.“So the tap is on.”“We get water only in short spellsand store it in vessels for use.” She againfell silent as if she had said all that thereJanuary-March 2010 :: 27

was to be said. I felt as if I had foundmy feet. “I’ll go;’ I said looking grave.She had only a small gesture to make- an imperceptible nod of the head,signifying that I could go. But she stoodthere mute, as if the words that she wantedto utter were caught in a whirlpool. Herunsaid words, “How can I ask you togo,” rang in my ears. “I’ll come someother day,” I said and turned to go.“No, no, no,” pat came Priya’s reply.“You won’t find me here. I’m away mostof the day, teaching in the school. Pleaselet me have your address. I’ll send youword”Now we were both on firm ground.Taking my visiting card from my pocketI handed it to Priya. Without as muchas glancing at it she folded her handsin farewell. Coming to the edge of theroof she stood there watching me climbingdown the stairs.“I’ll wait for your message,” I saidfrom below.x x x x xA doubt assails my mind. You mustbe thinking that I’m doling out fiction.I would urge upon you not to take itas the fabrication of my imagination.Otherwise we would get involved in therigmarole of what is true and what isimaginary, what is real and what is tinsel.You may lay the charge against me thatthe whole thing sounds cinematic. Anunknown young student enters the houseof an unknown young girl without anyintroduction. And strangely enough, thatgirl starts talking to him without anyinhibition. She does not stop at that. Sheeven thinks of writing to him. To tell thetruth, I discern many false notes in thewhole episode and today when I look backon the whole thing I wonder how it allcame to pass. But at that time I wasobsessed with only one thought - to lookforward to Priya’s message. Would sheoblige? May be, maybe, not. No, no, Imust hear from her.In the next few days when I saw thepostman my mind was filled with a strangeexpectancy bordering on trepidation. Butwhen no letter came I felt utterly dejected.I had stopped going to the library andspent my time at home, organizing thematter that I had received in responseto my questionnaire. One day an invitationcard arrived in my mail and I openedthe envelope disinterestedly. It was apersonal invitation from the most prominentgirls’ school, situated only a shortdistance from my house. Why personal?I started studying the card. The star itemon the programme was a dance by PriyaSaini— ‘The Quest for Man’. Below it wasthe Principal’s name and in the cornerin very small letters was scribbled PriyaSaini’s name. There was also another smallcard - an invitation to dinner after theperformance. Everything became clear tome at the first glance and I eagerly startedlooking forward to that evening.x x x x xI vividly remember it. It was the 5thof February. The winter was on the way28 :: January-March 2010

out and the weather had become lively.I reached the main gate of the schoolpunctually at seven. Not that the placewas unfamiliar to me. I used to pass bythis side almost every day and saw theNepalese gate-keeper sitting on his highstool, dozing.It came as a bit of a disappointmentto me to not find a crowd there, noteven girls who are supposed to form thebulk of the audience, it being a girls’ school.The darwan told me that the main functionwas over in the afternoon. Now there wouldbe a dance by the dance teacher of theschool for the exclusive benefit of theelite of the town including the managementof the school. The students of the schoolhad been debarred from seeing the dancefor it was considered to be rather boldfor them. I was shown into the enclosuremeant for VIP’s. The lights started fadingand soon the auditorium was plunged indarkness.Misfortune overtook me at the veryfirst step. I had never thought that thepath of love was strewn with so manytroubles. On the one hand I was eagerto meet Priya after the performance andon the other I was feeling subdued andout of place in a girls’ school which hada proud tradition of conservatism. Howwould Priya react to the situation? Maybe,the right thing would be to slip awayafter the performance, instead of feelingput out in the midst of prying, inquisitiveeyes. My reverie broke with the tinklingof the second bell. I saw the curtain risingagainst the cyclorama comprising thedistant backdrop of street lamps silhouettedagainst a gray sky. The whole scenecreated an illusion of the stage extendingitself onto the audience except in the leftcorner where stood a house with a windowopen on the second storey and beyondit a chimney belching smoke. First I couldn’tmake out anything and remained engrossedin a tune emanating from a flute. ThenI saw a shadow-play of pedestrians andprocessions emerging on the road. Andlo, there was what looked like a nakedfigure framed in the window of the upperstorey, trying to adjust her clothes. Itwas only then that I realized the significanceof the whole setting. It was Priya’sown mezzanine window, Then came acommentary over the mike in an easy,flowing language, ‘The Quest for Man’ wasPriya’s own creation: a blend of manydance styles, which according to herinnovations broke loose from classical tradition.The purpose of dancing is notdetermined by pre-conceived regulatoryprinciples. The dancers often associatethemselves with the dance-form and beingmechanical in their actions and being devoidof feelings they are unable to interpretthe inherent cosmic significance of thedance. As it is, dance is an independentmedium of self-expression in which onecan delineate one’s feelings from the verydepth of one’s being,Here the meaning of ‘The Quest forMan’ was not a search for any particularindividual who had disappeared from thescene. The searcher may not even be awareof what she was in quest of. The objectJanuary-March 2010 :: 29

of search may be right in front of thedanseuse or even lodged in her heart andshe may be blissfully unaware of its identity.Soon a rosy light gently rippled acrossthe stage to the soft strains of the jaltarangand from behind that light emerged thescantily clad figure of Priya.For the next hour and a half, peoplewatched her dance with bated breath. Suchsharp but rhythmic movements, lyricalin their conception seemed to be beyondthe pale of imagination. People watchedher spell-bound and Priya would standstatuesque gazing at the audience infascination. In its totality of impressionthe performance was unique which wordscannot describe adequately. But I cannothelp saying that at the end of the perfomancemy mental condition had radically changed.Somewhere deep inside my attitude towardsPriya had hardened. When the lights cameon, I scrutinized the audience. That senseof excitement and hesitation had vanishedfrom my mind. I saw some women comingtowards me, among them a gray-hairedwoman, who was introduced to me asthe Principal of the school. A faint smilelurked round her lips. “Won’t you liketo go and congratulate Priya?” she said.But before I could guess what was at theback of her mind, two girls !ed me tothe back of the stage where I found Priyasurrounded by a large number of her femaleadmirers and friends. They went away asthey saw me approaching. Joining togetherher palms she smiled with the simplicityof a child. I knew she wouldn’t ask meanything about her dance, “It was amagnificent performance,” I said.“Don’t be so laudatory. People willlaugh. As you must have observed nomen had been invited except membersof the managing committee and theirfamilies. The Principal though strict is quitemodern in her outlook.” Priya turnedaround to accept someone’s greetings.“I think your Principal suspects there’smore to it than meets the eye,” I said.“She knows we are friends. What’s wrongabout it?” There was an edge to Priya’svoice though it did not lack warmth.We were talking freely as if we hadbeen friends for years. We moved to thedining table. Profuse in their praise, peoplegathered round Priya. But she did notneglect me. On one or two occasions, sheeven held my hand as if absent-mindedlyand then let go of it immediately.I found myself in a quandary. Notthat I was not enjoying myself. But thewhole atmosphere seemed to be againstmy grain. Everyone cast curious looksat me, thinking I was Priya’s lover.We were still at the dining table whenthe Principal swiftly came to us and placingher hand on Priya’s shoulder said, “Priya,you must look after your guest and yes,”she leaned over, “You may stay back andtake the staff car on the second trip. I’lltell the driver.”After the dinner was over, many gjrlsof Priya’s age gathered around me andstarred badgering me. Priya, I found haddiscreetly slipped away. Evidently, the girlsthought I was Priya’s would-be husband.30 :: January-March 2010

“You must be careful,” one of themsaid. “She’s no ordinary bird. There arescores of eyes set upon her.”“You must do some physical exercise,”another said. “Priya can make twentyfivespins on her heels without losing herbreath.”The gjrls cut all sorts of jokes withme which rattled me no end, especiallybecause the jokes were lacking in sophistication.The sound of a car horn cutshort our meeting. The girls scattered asthey saw Priya coming towards us, holdingbouquets of flowers. “Let’s walk up tothe road,” she said. “The car should behere any moment.” I walked by her sidein silence.“Why are you looking so glum?”’shesaid turning to me, “By the way, howare you getting on with your research?”From her easy manners I could guessthat she had extricated herself from thewhiripool in which she had found herselfa short while ago. But I was still havinga hard time of it. Priya’s talent and theample recognition of it at the hands ofthe elite of the town made me feel smallbefore her.“I seem to have come to a dead end,”I said in a listless voice. I had to saysomething just to keep the pretense ofgood manners. My ordeal was cut shortby the tooting of the car horn.The driver opened the door for us.I stood aside for Priya to get in and thenI sat down in the back seat, a little apartfrom her. What would have ordinarily lookedcommonplace suddenly assumed a newsignificance. I was overwhelmed by hersmell and the casual touch of her body.“I’ll see you home,” she said. “Tellthe driver the way to your house.”After the car had taken one turningI asked the driver to stop.“So soon?” Priya looked at me surprised.“That’s where I live. I can see thesouthern wall of your college from here.’’Priya got down and looked around.“My rooms are upstairs. On the secondfloor.”‘Who else. . ‘?”“I live alone.” I invited her to comeup.“Yes, I’ll come up for a minute. Justto have a look.”Walking ahead of me she climbed upthe stairs. I unlocked my house. She steppedin, cast a cursory glance at the courtyardand then entering my room sat down ina chair. Again a gulf seemed to yawnbetween us. I found myself in a predicament,not knowing how to set the ballrolling. I gingerly sat down in a chairin front of her, but I felt like pluckingmy hair and running down screaming. Igot up and her eyebrows went up. “Whereare you going? Do sit down.” I sat downagain. She looked up at me. She had notcompletely cleaned the make-up from herface and her eyes were looking like slicesof mango on her blotchy face. Her eyesafter rolling like the fathomless sea rico-January-March 2010 :: 31

cheted against the door and grazing pastthe window came to rest on the smalltable in front.“You live very close to our school.”I was silent.“I’ll drop in again sometime.” She raisedher head.I was still silent.“Don’t you like me to visit you?” Shelooked at me. There was pain writ largeon my face.“What’s happened to you?” She drewcloser to me. I shook my head, sayingthat there was nothing the matter withme and got up again. Wordlessly, we walkedup to the car, standing on the road. Iopened the door, helping her into thecar.“You want me to go alone?” she said.“At this hour of the night?”I looked at my watch. It was nearingeleven-thirty. I got in and sat down byher side and the car proceeded towardsher house. This time she looked very livelyand would not cease talking. Unknowingly,her hand would fall upon mine and shemade no effort to withdraw it. Once Iheld her hand and she let it remain inmy grip. Then she edged closer to meand I could feel that her body was tremblingwith excitement. It was an awkward momentfor me, the infant-like self-confidence thathad taken birth in me was throwing aboutits arms and legs, making its presencefelt. Priya had suddenly leaned forwardand her face had momentarily disappearedbehind her long hair. I put my left handround her waist and as I tried to drawher to me the car blew its horn and stopped.I tried to remove my hand. “Sit still,”she said and asked the driver to go andring the doorbell.As the driver got down from the carshe sat up straight and the next momentI found her between my arms. After aquick embrace and a kiss she hurriedlygot down from the car. All this had happenedswiftly, like a flash of lightning or likea spurt of pain across the heart, leavingme aghast.I still remember her passionatelyquivering voice, “Won’t you get down?”But as I leaned forward towards the doorshe seemed to have realized the delicacyof the situation and asked me to remainseated. She pressed my hand between herhands and swiftly climbed up the stairs.When the car started I saw her shadowyfigure leaning through the upstairs window.For a fleeting moment it reminded meof the setting of the ‘The Quest for Man’.Mywhole world was transformed where withthe passage of each moment I found myselfdrifting towards a close preserve of minewhere I lived with Priya. I was so muchtaken up with my own thoughts that Iwas not even conscious as to when Ireached home and entered my room. Fora fleeting moment my attention was rivetedto the chair in which Priya had sat ashort while ago. I changed and got intobed.To tell the truth, I had found these32 :: January-March 2010

events most bewildering for they had beenbeyond the periphery of my experience.Otherwise they could have opened newvistas of happiness for me. The glimpsethat I had got of Priya’s art and herpersonality were so exhilarating and themanner in which I had been introducedto that new world of hers so captivatingthat now after such a lapse of time ithas become difficult for me to believethat all this had really happened.Your expectations must have soaredhigh. But before your imagination runsriot, let me warn you that if you arehoping to witness kissing and embracingas a prelude to what would be comingnext, you are in for disappointment. Infact, as my experience shows, reality isgenerally divorced from rank imagination.Had I been a hedonist, a story of thistype would have had no novelty for me.Even if I had been a hedonist, the storywould have been cast in a different mold,making it difficult for you to recognizePriya as a protagonist of this story. Mypredicament however was of a differentnature. An intelligent and promisingstudent, born in an ordinary peasant familywho had worked his way through collegeon scholarships and was now associatedwith renowned scholars on a researchproject, could not break away from hispeasant background. I had kept myselfscrupulously away from girls and feltuncomfortable in their presence. Beingimbued with certain ideals and mores oflife, I had rigidly disciplined myself andclaimed to be all-knowing. So the excitementI had felt on meeting Priya for thefirst time at her house had now wornoff and I had again withdrawn into myshell. I was therefore reluctant to acceptat its face value what had transpired betweenus. Wasn’t all this make-believe an extensionof ‘The Quest for Man?’I kept tossing in bed the whole nightand got up late in the morning. The eagernessto meet Priya became overbearing.Certainly, she could have dropped in fora minute on her way to school. I kepthovering between hope and despair.Sometimes I felt angry at Priya and thensuddenly relented, realizing that she wasup against many difficulties herself. Inthe midst of this mental dilemma, I fellasleep. I had even overlooked to closethe door.At about three in the afternoon I felta hand over my forehead and I wokeup. It was Priya sitting in a chair bymy bed. “What’s the time?” I asked.“It’s going to be three-thirty,” she saidconsulting her watch. “Since when haveyou been sleeping?” she asked in a gravevoice.“I’ve been lying in bed since morning,”I said. “I didn’t sleep the whole night.In the morning while lying in bed I thoughtyou may drop in on your way to school.Then I fell asleep and slept on and on.I woke up just now when you came,”“You mean you didn’t even have yourbreakfast?” Priya gave me a concernedlook “Get up. We’ll have tea somewhere,”We went to a nearby restaurant whereJanuary-March 2010 :: 33

we sat for a long time, talking. Our previousmeeting, brief as it was, had kept us pinnedto one small point. But this meeting seemedto have thrown us in a welter of humanity.I had never imagined that a woman couldbe so simple and naive and yet hard asflint. Fear and irresoluteness seemed tobe foreign to her nature.As we were coming out of the restaurantshe said, “I’m suddenly confrontedwith a serious problem. I would like tohave your advice about it. I’ll talk it overwith you in detail tomorrow”At my insistence she said: “Today whenI was taking my high school class thePrincipal sent for me. You know the kindof institution I’m teaching in. Owing tothe patronage of the rich people of thetown the school enjoys all sorts of privilegesand we are paid well in keeping with theuniversity pay-scales. Well, when I enteredthe Principal’s office, I found the presidentof Manjari Trust sitting there along witha couple of other persons. On the tablelay photographs of my last night’s performance.The president was profuse inmy praise.Miss Mirdha, the Principal is very fondof me. She is a kind hearted woman andvery learned too. She was educated inLondon, you know. The fact is that ifshe had not been there I could not havegot this job. The president wanted to givethis position to a film artiste to whomhe was partial. But at the interview whenthe girl swayed her hips outrageously thePrincipal was so incensed that she closedher eyes with both her hands and refusedto take part in the proceedings.Anyway, today Miss Mirdha greetedme with a smile and introduced me tothose present in the room, including acine photographer, an actor, and a director,besides a dance specialist. As youknow, I lay no store by rich people andam averse to publicity. I refused scoresof offers to dance in films. Father waspleased. “My child,” he used to say, “Thereis no point in dancing before people whocan’t appreciate this art.”“As I looked at the people in the room,I suspected that something was brewingand my suspicion was confirmed whenthe photographer told Miss Mirdha thathe had made a film of my last night’sperformance which he would like to showfor the benefit of the visitors. I askedto be excused as I had to go back tomy class. Miss Mirdha hesitated for amoment and then said, “Please stay on.There’s no harm in seeing your handiworkin the film.”“I watched the film for some timebut by ears were attuned to those fourprofessionals who were explaining the finerpoints of the film, to Seth Ghinawan, thePresident of the school, in their own lightand putting forward interpretations to suittheir own ends.“It’s an eyeful, Sethji, isn’t it?”“And what suppleness and agility!”“There is only one thing missing.Eithershe should wear more diaphanous clothesor we should add a sequence of rain togive a drenching to her clothes.”34 :: January-March 2010

“The photographer kept babbling.“Sethji,” he said, “If I had known I wouldhave given such a swell to her contoursin this very film that people would havejumped in their scats. I would have madeit a first-class money spinner.”“I got up midway and went back tomy class. It was too much even for MissMirdha. “I fear Sethji may come up withsome outrageous suggestion,” she said tome later, looking worried. “I sensesomething fishy in the whole affair. Butyou need have no apprehension so faras I am concerned. I’ll stand by you.I’ve an inkling that they intend to arrangea special showing of this film on acommercial scale to all the rich peopleand collect a cool lakh or two. Sincc theschool supposedly had a hand in preparingthe film and it is being sponsored on behalfof the school, it will not be possible forme to oppose the scheme.”“Miss Mirdha, why are you exercisedover this matter? It’s no problem for me.Though I’m the daughter of a poor fatherI’ve my own pride. I’ll refuse to dancefor them.”“She seemed to have liked my remarkand affectionately caressed my head. “It’sjust the beginning, my child,” she said.“I fear there is more to it than meetsthe eye. But you need not worry. We’lltake things in our stride.” .We had gone far, talking and it wasgetting late. Priya asked me to see herhome. “Everything will crystallize in a dayor two,” she said. “We’ll wait till then.As for me, I know my mind very clearly.I won’t mind renouncing my job, if itcomes to that. Once I get embroiled inthis rigmarole, it will be difficult for meto extricate myself from it. I know whereit’s going to land me. Not that...” Shepaused to emphasize her point, ‘‘...l don’twant to dance or that I’m averse to dancingon the public stage. I am prepared todance by the roadside, in the fields, evenbefore factory workers and the peasants.My life and my art are dedicated to them.Sometimes I feel that; I’m an ignoramusso far as art is concerned. But I knowthe suffering which is the hard lot of millionsof my countrymen and also the glory andthe pride they feel in upholding the greattradition of their country. When I danceI become one with them. They are thesource of my inspiration and therefore,my dances in a way reflect their struggleand are dedicated to the new order theyare striving to establish.” As I listenedto Priya, her dance-drama, The Quest forMan’ came to have a new significancefor me.—You can bore through the heart ofthe most rugged mountains.—You can confine the most turbulentstorms within your arms.—You are the creation, the power,the movement, the very breath of mylife-my PriyaA curtain of darkness was whisked awayfrom before my eyes and every movementof Priya’s last night’s dance descendedinto the depth of my heart like a melody.The same invocation to the gods, the sameagony, the same thirst, the touch andJanuary-March 2010 :: 35

the embrace, the same pain of separationand the intense longing to be one withPriya: I had got lost in myself.Now that I am recapturing thosemoments after the lapse of such a longtime, I feel that I am wallowing in myown forgetfulness. I had decided to telleverything in a matter-of-fact way andnot be swept away by the torrential flowof my own feelings. Now when I thinkof it, I wonder what had made me watchPriya’s dance like one under some spell.Why didn’t I have a foreboding of whatwas in store for me? Now I can see thisin retrospect in a manner of speaking withmy hindsight. But that night after seeingthe dance, even though I had only a noddingacquaintance with Priya, I had found myselftransported to a new world where beauty,faith, devotion and simplicity were nolonger abstractions but embodied forms.After talking to Priya’s father I wasabout to leave when he called out to Priyaand wouldn’t let me go till I had partakenof some snacks. He came down to seeme off and asked me to visit them again.Past the stage of formalities Priya andI had now become friends. A bold girl,Priyalooked askance at social fads and suchlikeorthodoxies. I had also shaken offmy inhibitions and soon we became sofree with each other that my house becamea second home to her. I would daily escorther to her house. Kissing and embracinghad become the common expression ofour love but we never crossed the limitsof propriety. I have a feeling that Priyawould have resolutely set her face againstsuch indiscretion.Days passed. One day Priya returnedfrom the school much before the closingtime, looking tired and dejected. WhenI asked her, she said that what she fearedhad happened. “Today the seth came fullyarmed and put two proposals before me:a play for the benefit of the school anda short film which would be the first artproduction under the auspices of the school.The official stationery is ready, the contracthas been drawn up and all other formalitieshave been completed. Only my nameremains to be signed along the dottedlines. Since the film will be produced inthe name of the school, the school wouldhave the sale right over it; which in otherwords means that as the producer theSeth will be entitled to half the profitsaccruing from the film.”“And what will you get for your pains?”“Nothing. I’m only a commodity.Besides I’ve no entity apart from the school.By building up my image in other countriesthey want to enhance the glory ofwomankind. They also want to demonstratethe superiority of Indian dance over theother dance forms. Sethji will accompanyme to London and the States.” Priyasuddenly stiffened and started laughing.I had never seen her laugh so uproariously.“What’s wrong with you?” I asked, startled.“It has given me a terrible jolt,” shesaid. “Not that they have said anythingharsh to me but because they think peoplelike us to be so trite, insignificant andcontemptible. My father used to say thatthe rich, when they reach a certain stage,36 :: January-March 2010

throw overboard all the values of life.They assess everything in terms of money—even the heart. We mean nothing to them.They don’t rate us even equal to theirpet dogs. You know they have also engageda dress designer who will design dressesfor me according to their own notionsof what will go well on my body. Theidea is that I should in turn cast off myclothes while dancing for a new wave film”Covering her face with her hands, sheburst out crying. I tried to console herbut she wouldn’t stop crying.A womanis a woman after all, I told myself - weak,sentimental and foolish.“You should have refused outright,”I said.“Do you think I’ve agreed?” she said.“No. I threw the papers in their faces.I’ve also quit my job.”She had regained her composure.Taking a handkerchief from her handbagshe wiped her eyes. “I’m astounded thatthey should have taken everything forgranted without as much as throwing ahint to me. That hurt me more than anythingelse.”“Only a short while ago, you had saidsomething about the character of thesepeople. If you think you are so perceptiveas to know them under their skin, theirmove should not have caused you anysurprise. In fact you shouldn’t have feltso riled as this gave you yet anotheropportunity to confirm your beliefs,” Isaid timidly, weighing every word of mine.“Of course, I knew what was comingshe said. “Otherwise, how could I havegot out of this morass?” As she gainedher composure, my anxiety decreased.To get out of this gloomy situation, Iinvited her to go out and have tea withme.She washed and was ready to accompanyme. Though a heavy load was offmy mind, sadness had taken its place.Till now I had not been able to lay myfinger at that part of her heart whereshe was like the common run of women- foolish, sentimental and indulgent. SoI was always careful not to tread on hercorns. Her crying like a child had disillusionedme. Though this was a godsentopportunity for me to profess mylove to her, I was also overwhelmed bya desire to break away from the beatenpath and launch forth on my own. I,however, didn’t allow such feelings to standbetween us and my relations with herremained unsullied as before. But sometimesI couldn’t desist from giving hera bit of my mind. I would raise my voiceand blatantly contradict her, which onlyprovoked her to come closer to me. Afire that had been kindled in my hearthad gradual!y burst into flames. I wouldpress her hand and she would wince withpain. Once when we were passing througha lonely spot I put my hand round herwaist and drew her closer to me. Shewas surprised. I could feel her bodytrembling. Aifer walking some distance shesuggested that we go to my room. “I’mnot feeling well,” she said.We remained closeted in my roomJanuary-March 2010 :: 37

for three hours. I vividly remember theoccasion. Not only remember - later Iwrote everything down and when Iconfronted her with what I had writtenher face turned red with shame. ‘’It conformsto facts, doesn’t it?” I asked. “You see,I hate using force.” She blushed again.“You write so well. I was thrilled,”she said.Gradually, without our being awareof it our bodies had become the focalpoint of our lives and aspirations. Soonwe felt that we were getting too muchinvolved with our bodies and drifting awayfrom the chartered course of our lives.But we knew of no natural constraint whichcould deflect us from our waywardness.On the contrary, we talked with great relishon the goings-on between us.Early one morning Priya dropped inand told me that they were organizinga function in honour of Birju Maharaj atwhich she had been asked to dance. Theinvitation had been brought by her fatherat the instance of Miss Mirdha and thePresident of the Municipal Committee. “Butlisten...” she cast an anxious look at me.“.. .my legs shake. This morning whenI tried to do some footwork my legs refusedto bear the burden of my body. And youknow what intricate footwork ‘The Questfor Man’ requires. I’m really worried.”‘’You just try again,” I said trying tobe helpful. “You keep imagining things”She had taken up a two-hour parttimejob in a dance academy for whichshe was paid reasonably well. She wasgetting late and she got up gingerly. “Pleasesee me downstairs,” she said.I accompanied her up to the Academy,impressing upon her to have some practiceto limber up her body. But as I soonlearnt, not to talk of pulling herself throughher paces, she couldn’t even cope withher dance class and left the girls midway.She burst into tears as she enteredmy room.“I wish I could do something aboutit:’ she wailed. “My body has become stiffand useless,” Resting her head against mycoat collar, she started sobbing.I was myself feeling very low, at thattime. But I held her in my arms. “Youneed some rest,” I said. “You look sotense and keyed up. A rest will do yougood and after that some practice willput you back on your feet.”But she kept moaning and shaking herhead. “You just don’t understand,” shesaid. “Practice can only give form to adance. Mere footwork and beating to timeand body movements do not make a dance.A dance must have a soul too, And adance like ‘The Quest for Man’.. .I.. .I...”She fainted.While lying unconscious she kept mumbling:“Where are you? Who are you? Howare you?”I was greatly perturbed. To tell thetruth, she put me in a huff. What wasgoing on here? I couldn’t even call a doctor.She opened her eyes after half an hourand looked around. Then she held myhand. “I’m all right,” she assured me and38 :: January-March 2010

sat up, looking her usual self and withan air of satisfaction as if she had achievedher purpose. Her behavior opened thedoors for me onto a mysterious world.“You were mumbling all the time whilelying in a faint,” I said.‘Was I?” she grimaced. “It couldn’thave meant anything.”‘’Of course, it did!” I said. “I’m a studentof Psychology and know what is what.”I was pained, all the more now whenI think it was unbecoming of me to stoopso low and indiscriminately ask her suchtell-tale questions unmindful of her stateof mind and physical condition. But Iseemed to have freed myself of allconstraints. As if impelled by some innerurge, I harried her with a barrage ofquestions.“You’re at war with yourself,” I cried.“Some inner conflict has taken hold ofyou. Oh God! The demonic power thatyou displayed in. The Quest for Man’! Noordinaty woman can be capable of it.”She was silent. Her silence infuriatedme all the more. I was beginning to seethings in a new light and it appeared thesituation was now getting out of my hand.As it transpired, Priya could not takepart in the function. I was delighted toknow that she was with child. At the sametime I was assailed by the doubt thatPriya had been hiding things from me.“You don’t love me with all your being,”I said. “There is someone else betweenus.” I pushed her aside and got up ina huff. But she wouldn’t let go of me.“I’ll tell you everything.” she sobbed. “Yes,everything!”Even a hint from her, like a ray ofhope was reassuring. I hoped she wouldopen out to me. I used all the tricksI knew, to make her confess by implicationthere was someone else in her life, eventhough in my heart of hearts I wishedthat it were not so - that she should saythat it was all a canard, that I was theonly man that she loved.It was a period of great mental turmoilfor me. I felt we were slowly disintegratingin that maelstrom of doubt and mistrust.At the same time, strangely enough, wecould not brook each other’s separationeven for a minute. I would often knockat her door, not caring that the nighthad far advanced. She would promptlyopen the door for she knew that I wouldcome. At times I felt so restless that Isat through the night writing a letter toher and then personally took it to herhouse, although I knew that there wasno point in writing to her for there wasno ban on our meeting; we could meetas and when we liked. For that matterthe letters were crammed with foolishthoughts which made her weep. Then Iwould try to mollify her and tell .herto forget about those letters and insteadpose a question to her: “Tell me, what’sthe significance of that window in yourdance-drama?”“It has no special significance,” shewould reply. “I will explain to you someother time.”One day when she repeated this reply,January-March 2010 :: 39

I was so infuriated that I caught holdof her and as she fell on her bed I triedto strangle her. “Tell me the truth,” Icried, “Or I’ll knock the life out of you.You gloat over my misery while I burnin hell fire.”But she said nothing. She didn’t eventry to release herself from my clutches.Then I clung to her and started crying.“Tell me, my Priya, my darling. Tell methe truth. I’ve a suspicion you are notmine alone. Or you would not have takensuch savage delight in my suffering. Believeme, I’ll not be angry with you. Withoutyou my life is like an arid waste. Whydo you hide things from me?”In spite of my importunities when shedid not come out of her shell I wouldstart abusing her. The situation was gettinggrim, day by day, making us increasinglyindifferent to each other.She came to my house one morningand went headlong for me. “The thingwhich is causing you so much heart-burningis no more than an accident,” she said.“You know there is a textile mill rightin front of my house. Every day theyhave some sort of rumpus over there—a strike, a drama or a fracas. One nightthey were having a demonstration outsidethe mill gate when there was a policefiring. I woke up in alarm and soon afterI saw a shadowy figure entering my roomthrough the window. Before I could leapout of bed I sensed that the police wasmaking for our house. I was so frightenedthat even my voice died in my throat.I heard voices in the mezzanine and guessedthat the police was looking for some person.It struck me that if they laid their handson the person who was hiding in my roomhe would be hauled up as the culprit evenif he was not guilty.”“Of course, of course!”I mocked ather. “How could he be branded as a culprit?Hadn’t he passed the night in your bed?Now stop passing on fibs to me!”’ I keptsaying what came into my head whileshe sat there statuesque, listening to me.“So he stayed in your room the wholenight?” I continued. “Must have been oneof those dirty, wicked, factory workersfor whom you flung open your treasurechest. Now I have understood yourdramatics. Maybe he was an old flameof yours.”I selected the choicest words to runher down while she sat there gaping atme, as I have said before., Then tearsstreamed down her eyes. I feared shewould get up abruptly and go away, neverto return. How will I live without her?Oh, I was really being cruel to her,castigating her for nothing. Maybe thatfellow had not spent the night in her room.“Priya, speak to me. Say that he departedfrom your room at the first opportunitywhen he found the coast was clear. Whyare you silent?” I groaned in mental agony.Priya got up. “I feel so helpless!” shesaid. “I don’t know how to quell yoursuspicion. Even if I knew you would runabout on the road yelling like a lunatic.I wish I knew how to restore your confidencein me.”She was repeating the same old question.40 :: January-March 2010

‘’Priya, you’re driving me mad,” I cried.“My heart will burst.”It was getting too much for me. Ididn’t know how to create those conditionsagain in which we could live in peaceand amity. To my question she had astock answer. But I wanted to hearsomething different from her lips - ananswer in conformity with my preconceivednotions. That answer, I knew, couldturn me insane and I wished Priya wouldshout out a loud ‘No’ But all the sameI wanted to force her to say what I wantedto hear from her.Not only that, I would have givenher a long questionnaire, asking her togive the answers in ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Aftershe had set down her replies, I wouldhave argued with her, ralsed a squabble,kissed her, wept and we would again comeinto our own in that harrowing solitude.But my question would still keep chasingher with the result that we would againfall apart and refuse to talk with eachother.We teetered between hope and despair,like shifting between sun and shade. Onemoment the sky would clear up, bringinggolden sunshine and the next momentdark clouds would overcast the sky asharbingers of a storm, bringing disasterin its wake.Priya’s physical condition had startedundergoing a change. Considering our socialnorms she was getting worried over it.Her father had met me a number of timesand wanted me to abide by our socialconventions which would have reconciledto everyone’s advantage. But Priya wasreticent. She wanted to go to Varanasiwith me for a few days. She was harboringan idea that with a little maneuveringshe would be able to change my mind.Every day she would remind me aboutmy research project. But the stalematecontinued and we remained entangled inour own problems.We had gone to Sarnath at the onsetof the monsoons. We were happy andspent hours together studying the imagesof the Tathagata and went to the cityat nightfall. We returned late and remainedcooped up in our room in the TouristHotel. A light rain fell. Priya, who wastired of the muggy weather, was pleased.I removed her sari, and threw it asideand slowly started treading the path tolove. Her body, smooth as glass, slowlysubmitted to my caresses. Over her slimwaist there was just room enough for tworounded contours as there is for two kadamflowers on a narrow canvas. Over thoseorbs, upswept like the breast of a pigeon,her neckline had joined up with hershoulders and then tapered down towardsthe arms which rippled like gold. The linesrunning down her navel towards the pubeshad become more pronounced as a resultof which her thighs and buttocks lookedmore alluring. She had indeed undergonea sea change.The clouds thundered in the distanceand the windows rattled. It started rainingheavily.“Please open the window,” Priya said.“And if he comes in?”January-March 2010 :: 41

Priya was taken aback. Her handsbecame limp.“Whom will you opt for in that case?”Priya lay still, watching me. My tonguebecame more acidic. “I’m not saying thisto you out of spite or anger. Priya, ifyou were faced with a dilemma of thistype how would you cope with it?”Her face turned pale but she kept lookingat me, wordlessly.“He must have slowly removed hisclothes,” I said, carried on by my ownpassion , “No?” I said hugging her andtrying to draw her closer to me. “Whayare you silent? Say something. Tell mewhether he removed his clothes or not?“Yes, yes, yes!” she screamed, tryingto get out of my arms. I pushed her awayand she fell down on the floor. Her handsbegan to tremble and a shiver ran throughher body as if life was ebbing out of it.I was scared. I quickly massaged her bodyand kissed her face. “Priya, I’ll never askyou again,” I said in a pleading voice.Just then her words, ‘yes, yes’ echoedin my ears and I felt as if they had searedmy ears.I rushed out of the room and, withoutcaring for the inclemency of the weatherI kept walking in the pouring rain unmindfulof the direction in which I was going.My feet refused to walk and life flutteredin my throat but I did not stop. In thenext few months I kept wandering fromplace to place and then went away toBengal. Owing to exposure to rain thatnight I happened to catch a chill andkept coughing for months and even spatblood but I refused to submit myself totreatment. Nor could I induce myself toreturn to Priya.Maybe you are thinking that my troublesare imaginary and you must be feelingbored, taking my story to be an imposition.But sometimes life goes off the rails andeverything comes to naught. But beforeyou decide to forget this painful storyI would request you to read a letter ifonly to see things in their proper perspective.So, to continue with the story— callit a narration or autobiographical noteof an individual— after six months whenI returned to town and opened my roomI found a number of letters lying on thefloor. One of them was Priya’s.My dear...x x x x xIt was for your good that I did nottell you what you were so eager to hearfrom my lips. I knew that none of theanswers would please you. If it could Iwould have even sacrificed my life to pleaseyou. I am not blind. I remember howyou caught my feet and started crying.Then you took me in your arms and rubbedyour forehead against my bosom. Youassured me that if I told you the truthyour love for me would not diminish.Believe me, I spent long nights thinkingwhat I could do to restore your faithin me and bring you peace of mind. Iwas worried for I could not live withoutyou. When you were not there the smellof your clothes permeated my mind and42 :: January-March 2010

I would talk to you by addressing yourthings.I vividly remember that when youprobed me ceaselessly and refused to eat,I confessed as a matter of expediencythat that man had spent the night in themezzanine room. At this you had felt sooutraged that you had ripped apart yourshirt. You even tried to plunge the kitchenknife in my breast. I had understood thestate of your mind. You were an idealistwho wanted to see your Priya as an imageof purity which even the sun had nottouched. Your ego kept writhing as awounded snake at the thought that anunknown person had spent a night in mymezzanine room. You had deluged mewith questions: why didn’t I scream? Whydidn’t I wake up father? If you wantedto save his life you could have as wellleft him there and yourself come out. Whydidn’t you do so? He must have takenliberties with you. Where did he touchyou? Here? Here? The light must havebeen off. What did he look like? His age?He must have sat down on your charpoy.Did he, really? If you find my questionsembarrassing you may reply in ‘yes’ or‘no’. Or just indicate your answers witha shake of your head.To tell you the truth, I was gettingapprehensive. I feared you may take yourown life in despair. So, like a statementto the police, I had devised a reply, shornof all feelings and made myself inert likea stone. But now it’s all over. I’m satisfiedthat I am going to be the mother of yourchild.During the day I stand in the window,watching the people’s faces on the road,especially of those going in a procession,or holding a dharna or a gherao andof those who are poor and afflicted. ThenI reprove myself for such madness. Thatnight I could see nothing in the dark.I couldn’t find what kind of clothes thefellow was wearing, much less his age.Of course, he must have been young. Iremember the tautness of his thighs andthe prickly feel of his moustache. Norhave I been able to forget the smell ofraw milk emanating from his body evenafter having lived with you for such along time. The hold of his arms was sopowerful and yet so tender that I wantedto swoon in his arms.You had asked me whether he hadrepeated his visit. That has been my onlyregret which I have not been able to getover even after a lapse of one year. Ifonly he had come! You repeatedly remindedme that he couldn’t have forgottenme after having basked under my patronage.The plain fact is that I fear he mustbe dead; may be he was shot by the policethat very night.Today I’ll not hide anything from you.It is time that you knew the truth asit is, for now we lack the strength toplay hide and seek with the grim rea!itiesof life. You may not know that seeingyour mental conflict and suffering I hadmany a time thought of annihilating myself.But then I realized that my absence mayprove too much for you and I desistedfrom taking this drastic step.January-March 2010 :: 43

My mental anguish is no less thanyours. Added to it, your persistentquestioning has riddled my heart. SinceI am the cause of your misery, I shouldfeel terribly guilty. But I am bereft ofany such feeling. I’m not guilty. I havenot betrayed my conscience.That cold December night I lay shiveringin my room, trying to woo sleep. Thewindow of the mezzanine room whichoverlooks the mill opposite our house waspartially open. A big crowd had gatheredoutside the mill since morning. I couldsee everything clearly under the glare ofthe electric light. They had fixed a mikeat the gate but its sound was so loudand booming that I could not make outanything distinctly. Since morning therehad been many scuffles which ultimatelynecessitated police intervention. At abouteleven I had just dozed off when I wokeup at the sound of firing. Pushing awaymy quilt I got out of bed and stood inthe window. People were running aboutin panic with the police chasing them andfiring at them indiscriminately. Some peopledashed past our house and in the twinklingon an eye I saw one of them merginginto the darkness and then suddenly showingup in the mezzanine window. He plungedforward, struck against my charpoy andfell down on my quilt. I tried to screambut a hand gently gagged my mouth. “Keepquiet!” the man said in a firm voice. “I’lldo you no harm.” He rose to his fulllength and stood facing me. As I stretchedmy hand to reach for the electric switch,a powerful hand fell upon my arm andpushed it away. I shuddered. While backingaway from him I crashed against a stooland I could feel the man’s warm breathagainst my face. “Don’t be scared. Quietlylie down in bed,” the man said. “I’ll clearout as soon as I can. If I did not havea pistol on me I wouldn’t have botheredyou, seeking a place to hide. I’m in danger.”Then I heard the sound of heavyfootsteps on the stairs. I trembled withfear, not knowing how to get rid of theman. Holding his hand I gestured himto slip under my bed but he stepped backand stood against the window, trying tothink of some way of escape. There wasa furious banging on the other door andas I heard shuffling feet, I knew Fatherhad gone to open the door. I broke intoa sweat, and frantically gestured to theman to get under the bed but he refusedto budge from where he was standing.I heard Father asking the police ina hard voice what they had come up for.“Has anyone come up?”“No, none that I know of.”“But we saw someone going up.”“Why not find for yourself? I wassleeping with the doors closed and wokeup when I heard you coming up.”“He has shot the security officer andescaped. I recognize him. He’s from U.P.We had warned the Mill management timeand again to be careful of him but theypaid no heed. It’s we, who have to facethe music all the time.’ Well, is this theonly room you have in your possession?’“Yes.”44 :: January-March 2010

“And who lives here?” The police officerbanged a lathi against my door. The manhiding in my room jumped up in frightand slunk away towards the window ofthe mezzanine room and hid behind itwhile I held him with one hand, my earsattuned to what was going on in Father’sroom.“What do you do?” I heard the policeofficer asking Father.“I’m working with the Akashvani.”“We’re sorry to have bothered you,”the officer’s tone had suddenly changed.As the police departed Father closedhis door and I stood in my room wonderinghow to cope with the situation. My firstimpulse was to tell father everything butI knew what the police officer had saidand was afraid of the consequences.“You go to sleep,” the man said ina feeble voice. “I’ll wait till the coast isclear and then go.”Stepping forward he threw open thewindow of the mezzanine and looked down.People were still running about in thestreet and fighting among themselves. Theman climbed on the window sill but Itried to pull him down. “There’s still danger,”I warned him and proceeded to close thewindow. I again found him breathing onmy neck. Then I felt some pressure frombehind and while closing the window hisarms grazed past my cheeks. They werepowerful arms and instead of turning myhead away I rested it against those arms,relishing the sense of security providedby them. I don’t know what transpiredafter that. It was like a dream, whereI felt some pain, marked by a pleasantsmell, as if when everything had beencrushed and trampled upon, its allurementstill remained, epitomizing a perceptiveartist’s concept of ‘life’, with all its colors,atmosphere, rhythms and melody.As the morning came, the turbulenceof the flooded river had abated. Only itsmemory remained, coupled with the body’sweariness and a crumpled and messedup bed. As I sat there I looked around.There was nothing new. Everything wasas I had been seeing for the past twentyfiveyears. As I tried to get to my feetmy legs shook. At last when I managedto get up I realized that unlike everyday, I lacked the strength to go out. Imust change whatever I could except mycursed body which looked softer and morealluring than on other days. As I lookedat myself in the mirror I discovered darkspots on my cheeks. I creamed my faceand as I turned round I saw footprintsunder the window. My heart missed abeat. Picking up a rag, I covered thefootprint with it. It may come to youas a surprise that I have preserved thatfootprint, even today.‘The Quest for Man’ will give you aninkling of what happened subsequently.I have striven to reflect my mind in thisdance-drama. There is little more left tobe said in words. I’ve no regrets, no remorse.Maybe another woman in my place wouldhave felt differently. But I can say withoutany qualms of conscience that I was awilling participant in this inter-play ofevents, with body and soul. And it isJanuary-March 2010 :: 45

the truth as I know it. I don’t want totake you in the world of make-belief foryou are dear to me as my own life. Ido not want to cause you further pain.For me there is difference between truthand education. ‘The Quest for Man’. isthe quest for truth. How can I say thatI am repentant? I’ve no truck with untruth,lies and myths. I equate thought withcharacter, the form cannot be separatedfrom the contents. To be devoid of thoughtis as painful as for a fish to be out ofwater. Those who understand the realitiesof life have the key to that wisdom whichmakes them seers.You have disillusioned me. I wasmistaken in thinking that you had alignedyoursell with the suffering humanity andit would, therefore be easier to bring youface to face with truth.I hope you have got the reply to yourquestion and it will set your mind at rest.For all I know it may take you on theroad to fulfillment. As for me I wouldbeseech you not to torture yourself. Iam conscious of the fact that this is notpossible so long as you are with me. SoI have no hesitation in saying that fromnow on we must go our separate waysand never try to meet each other again.Farewell,YoursPriyaLove stands for something subtle andmysterious which cannot be rationalizedor argued about. Otherwise there was noreason that the situation should not havebeen retrieved. But whenever I have triedto solve this enigma the mystery has onlydeepened and in the end I have foundmyself striking against a wall. Priya’s ‘TheQuest for Man’ is still continuing but Ifind myself at the end of my tether. Priya’sletter has put the stamp of finality overeverything My metaphysical belief like anunending pain has become the mainstayof my life.Markandeya, born 1930 is a prominent author of progressive movementof literature in the twentieth century. He writes about the have notsof rural India. Has been at the centre of literary polemics. Markandeyhas always been a free lance writer and spends most of his time inAllahabad. His major works of fiction are : Saimal ke phool, agnibeej(novels), hansa jayi akela, priyasaini, halyog (short story collections).Apart from writing, he has influenced an entire generation with hsiideas. His book of criticism ‘Kahani ki baat’ reflects his energy of thought.He has always welcomed young writers in literature. Has been editinga literary quarterly entitled ‘katha’ since 1969. He lives in Allahabad.Jai Ratan, has built a bridge between Hindi and English with hisexcellent choice of important Hindi texts. He is known to have translatedmost of the famous writers of Hindi into English. He now lives inDelhi.46 :: January-March 2010

Short StoryBAGUGOSHESwadesh DeepakTranslatedbyEishita SiddharthWhen I returned from college Maa was sleeping on the bed inthe verandah. She used to sleep with her dupatta drawn overher face anytime, anywhere. Many a time I thought that I shouldask her–Is the sleep hiding somewhere in her dupatta! Didn’t ask!When she didn’t understand something she used to abuse. Shehad an immense treasury of abuses.She used to live with her middle son. She always used tocome unannounced. She can neither read nor write. Whenevershe asked her son to write a letter, she used to get the sameanswer– “What will you do at Veerji’s place. Everybody speaksEnglish there. Are you having some problem here?”“Oh! Don’t argue so much. How did this problem get in between?I’m missing Kake, what if he is unwell?”The time to which Maa belongs was of unlimited number ofchildren. Children– a yearly harvest. Maybe two died before Iwas born. When I was born she was determined that she won’tlet me die. She took the help of all the gods and goddesses.Locket in the neck, colorful threads in the wrist. If someone cameto see me, she used to cover me with a sheet and say– “Kakais sleeping. See him some other time.” Papa used to tell us aboutMaa’s actions for the sake of amusement.“When somebody comes why don’t you let them see him? Evenmy sisters…”“They will cast an evil eye. Do you wish to kill him? YourJanuary-March 2010 :: 47

sisters are complete witches. Even theflowers will wither if they stare hardand long. If something happened thenI’ll give poison to everybody and havesome myself.”“Don’t speak nonsense all the time.Nothing will happen to him. Let themsee. People will talk all kinds of…”“And what is this that you are pointingat. Give him a sweet name. Of whatuse will be your studies. And listencarefully. The name should be small andpleasant to the ears.”In those times papa was a matriculate.He was very educated for his relatives.He was a reputed hakim. The nextmorning before the patients came; hemade Maa sit next to him.I have thought Kake’s name–SARTHAK.Maa kept staring at him with eyeswide open. Then she shouted.“Keep this Arabic-Persian name ofsomebody else. Sarthak.huh!”“Bibi, Sarthak is a Hindi word. It’svery meaningful. In a day or two youwill get used to it. And tell everybodyfrom my side. If anybody will distortthe name, I’ll break his legs. Some bastardswill say Sathu, some Sath. Punjabis don’tfind peace unless they damage things.”Maa knew that he will really breaklegs. He has done it many a time. Everyevening he gets on his horse in searchof hostile relatives.The day the name was kept, afterthe pooja, Maa gave a warning toeverybody with folded hands– “I havea request. Listen with complete attention.Kake’s name is Sarthak. Do not distortit. It’s an order by Hakimji. If he willget angry even god will not be ableto save anybody. ”Everybody got to know the threatbehind the folded hands. I was savedfrom becoming Banti, Titu, etc.Maa came after some days of mywedding and the first thing she askedwas,“What does your wife call you?”“Sarth.”“Where’s the “K”. Give herinstructions. She should take the fullname. Your dead father will get annoyedeven there. He was a bastard. He willdo something even from heaven. Lookat this educated one! She has shortenedyour name.”I kept quiet. Nobody argues withMaa. How would have I explained itto her that when the body gets excitedthe name gets shortened first.I thought that I should make teawhile Maa is asleep. She woke up bythe movement of the chair. I touchedher feet. After saying, “May you havea long life”, she asked “Why have youbecome so weak?”“Mata, actually I have gained weight.”“Let the weight go to hell. Your faceis like dried flowers. Listen, are yousleeping too much with your wife. One48 :: January-March 2010

gets weak.”Maa can talk on any topic. She hasbeen listening to the news on radio twicea day since years. She even knowseverything about the dictatorship ofAmerica and Russia.I thought, that I should tease Maa.It’s been years to have listened to hymnsfrom her mouth. Hymns! The juicy abusesof our Punjab.“Mata I don’t even tread near her,leave aside lying…”“You are no good even after beingeducated. A woman is happy till thetime she is in bed with a man. Latershe starts to bite.”“Leave it Mata. You’ll have milk orshould I make tea?”At once there appeared worry onMaa’s face. She asked in a frightenedvoice, “Kaka! Why don’t you work fulltime like others? People come back inthe evening from work. You are homeat ten. No son. Have sense. What willyou do if they will expel you? We havehad enough troubles. If a man is joblessthen all his qualities are just a waste.Like a thorn pricking in everybody’seyes.”“Mata, when you don’t knowsomething then keep quiet. I teach MAclasses. Two periods of one hour each.”“It’s ok. English people always workless. Do some other work also. Yourbody will rust.”Mata starts with her book ofinstructions when she is with me. WhenI was small she considered all seasonsmy enemies. Don’t go out in summers,you will catch loo. Your uncle wentmad after catching loo. You will be downwith Pneumonia in winters. You will beconfined to bed for a year. I had askedher once– “Mata when should I go out?”“You just sit beside me. Both of uswill talk. These women are all villainous.See the way they observe your lookswith eyes wide open. If anybody willdo some magic on you then even Hakimjiwill not have a cure for it. Take myword. When you will get older, it iswomen who are going to harm you. Menare born idiots. They never listen toanybody. They will always listen to theadvice of their hearts.”When I got up to make tea Maaexplained me.“Kaka, pour the milk freely and alsothe sugar. I don’t want to drink blackboiled water.”While making the tea I thought thatthe brothers and sisters and the relativesalways dislike Maa’s talkativeness butI know that there are so many talesand stories inside her squatting withlegs folded. Then she knows so muchabout the world. She has a habit oflistening to the news on the radio twicea day. When man reached the moonshe got the news first and Hakimjiafterwards. He was reading some bookwhen Maa told him, “You know something.Man has reached the moon.”January-March 2010 :: 49

“Whether a man lives on the moonor on earth he will get hardships andpain.”“You spoil the flavor of the talk.Maybe one will not have to work onthe moon. No need to get married. Nochildren at all. Then how will there bepain. ”“You remained a fool. Where therewill be man, there you will have allthe work.”I like Maa’s habit of talking. Whenshe talks about the past days then manya time the shadows from the childhoodtake form.I kept biscuits along with tea. Shefelt them by pressing them with herfingers.“Kaka it’s hard.”“Eat it after dipping it in the tea.”Maa doesn’t have teeth.I proposed to get them fixed. Shehas just one answer– “Hakim Saheb gothis teeth fixed. He used to leap all thetime and give weighty abuses to thedentist. When he used to get one grindedthe other used to start pricking. Finallyhe kept them in his pocket. He usedto fix them when somebody came. Andthen the distress started. Once I advisedhim– “to hell with the teeth. Which womanare you going to bite now?””“Don’t speak nonsense all the time.No patient comes to a doctor who istoothless.”“Hakimji, patients do come but notLADY patients.”Hakimji folded his hands– “Nobodycan get away with you.”Maa had the truths earned from herlife. Not just the bookish knowledge.I like listening to her from the beginning.The fault of my brothers and sistersis that they often ask why and what.Maa gets started without any reference.Had she been literate she would havewritten anti-poetry.“Kaka, you don’t drink THOOTHA,do you?”THOOTHA is a word coined by Maafor alcohol. I kept looking at her. It’snot necessary to answer Maa in words.She understands the answer by thenodding of the head.“Don’t drink. Your brother drinks.The clothes are hanging on his body.His mouth is like those who eat betelleaves.”Maa has an amazing treasury ofsimiles. Many similes are made by her.I made tea and kept the cup on thetable. I woke her up.“Your eyes have become weak. Drinktea. We will get new spectacles for you.”“I don’t need them–I have alreadybroken three. I don’t find it when Ikeep it down. Your father used to searchthem. He always used to mutter becausehis book reading was hindered. He usedto get angry and say– If you don’t knowhow to handle a child then there’s noneed to give birth to it. He was a very50 :: January-March 2010

harsh man. Never feared anybody. Noteven god. All his life he never kept hisfoot in the temple. But he never stoppedme from praying.”The height and stature of my fatheris still clear in my eyes. An absolutelycarved out body. He told me once thathis waist at the age of sixty measuresthe same inches as it did when he wastwenty years old. When I asked himabout getting frightened he had explainedme– Fear is visible first of all in theeyes and the enemy gets to know aboutit instantly. The eyes must show thereflection of a weapon.Papa used to talk very little. Evenif he was angry he never used to abuse.He used to open his eyes take aim andget converted into a monster. When wewere small his eyes used to be an entirearmoury for us.The gate clanked. I know, these arethe boys and girls from the college. Theycome in their free period to have teaand a chat. The house is very closeto the college. It’s Ashi, Kulu and Rekha.Baljeet also. Ashi is very familiar; sheasked straight away, “Who is this oldieSir?”“My mother.”“We will call her dadiji.”First Ashi touched Maa’s feet andthen everybody else followed. Maabecame very happy. She asked Ashi whatdoes she study.“Dadi, English. Sarthak Sir teaches.”“Does Kaka teach well?”“He teaches well but doesn’t speakwell in English.”“Oh! Get away. My son turns intoan express mail when he starts speakingin English.”Ashi never refrains from teasinganybody.“Dadi where are all your teeth? Arethey taken away by rats?”“Silly girl, as one grows older thebody parts start to betray one by one.”“I’ll get you a new set of teeth. Myfather is a dentist.”“No way! I don’t want any teethweeth.Kake’s father had got them. Theyused to pain so much.”Rekha asked, “Dadi, you want to eatsomething?”“Yes, I’m a bit hungry. Get somethingsoft for me.”“Sir, does she take eggs?”“Yes! What will you make?”“Just wait and see.”Rekha went to the kitchen along withKulu. Maa said to Baljeet–“Kaka, study with all your heart. Onlythen will you become a big man.”Asha–“Dadi he never studies. Justwatches girls.”Maa–“Ashi rani, when boys don’t sleepat night it’s absolutely sure that somegirl has made her way in their hearts.”Ashi asked me–“Should I tell her thestory of the new serial?”January-March 2010 :: 51

I said just one episode, and not thewhole serial.Rekha bought eggs for Maa and teafor all others. Maa ate a piece of eggand was astonished.“What sort of an egg is this, Kaki!It just melted in the mouth. ”“This is scrambled, Dadi.”“Now what is this?”Everybody looked at me. I told Maathat this sort of an egg is made in milk.Baljeet–“Dadiji, listen to a song fromAshi. She sings very well.”It’s Ashi’s speciality that one doesn’tneed to beseech her much to sing asong. She started singing a Punjabi song–“GUD NALO ISHQ MITHA.”After listening Maa said–“Ashi bete,you are a storehouse of talent, beautifuland intelligent. From where we will geta suitable match for you?”Ashi‘s eyes were shining. Knew thatshe will babble.“Dadi there is a boy. Only if yougive the permission…”“Who is such a boy! Let me alsoknow.”“Your son,Sarthak sir.”“What! Kake is already married.”“So what? Madam will do the joband I’ll tell him stories.”“When a man starts taking interestin another woman’s stories he himselfbecomes one. A story of grief.”I didn’t know then that Maa is tellingmy future.Maa drew the dupatta over her faceand went off to sleep. During this stageof life one goes off to sleep anytime.The body is doing a rehearsal for acontinuous long sleep.I was first surprised, and thenfrightened when I started dreaming aboutthe sweet references of Ashi Sharma.I abused myself and she vanished. Girlsare frightened by abuses.I got up. I sliced the papaya intosmall pieces. I pressed them flat withmy thumb. Now Maa will not face anyproblem while eating these. I spreadsome cream over the pieces.Maa removed the dupatta. She atea piece of papaya.“Kaka, you eat. It’s very tasty.”“I don’t eat sweet.”“That’s why you never speak sweetly.Don’t be angry all the time. All yourblood will burn. Leave it, no point inexplaining you. Does water ever stabilizeon oil?”I kept quiet.“Tell me one thing. You don’t holdAshi’s hand!”I stared at her continuously. She knewthat I was offended.“Kaka, what’s there to be angry?Nature has made the man a villain. Evenif all his body parts are laid waste, hislust for a woman never goes.” Hakimjiwas over 60. A woman like an overflowingpitcher came to take medicine. She wastalking with her eyes. Hakimji sat there,holding her wrist for a long time. He52 :: January-March 2010

had become very elated. I asked himafter she went away– “Listen! It washer stomach that was paining. Why wereyou holding her hand?”He said “In Greek therapy one getsto know about the ailment after observingthe pulse.”“You never observed my pulse. Justgave the medicine.”“Bibi, even if God examines your pulsehe won’t be able to know anything.”“My intelligent Hakimji, justremember one thing. When a manundresses himself, it is he who is leftnaked.”She started eating the pieces of thepapaya. Then she looked at me and said–“Postman Ramlal has gone mad.”I looked at her silently. She willexplain herself.“Kaka, you send me money everymonth. Postman Ramlal comes to givethe money order. He stops his cycleoutside the house and starts makingnoise– “Shobha Rani come outside. Themoney sent by Ramji has come.” I alwaysgive him tea. Give him money forcigarette. Now since the past few monthsyour student Bheem Singh comes to givethe money. One day the postman stoppedhis cycle outside the house. Rang thebell. When I came he said– “ShobhaRani, your Ramji has become a Ravana.Now he doesn’t send the money order.”I looked at Maa. I asked withoutspeaking, “Then what happened?”“You know it. When somebody speaksagainst you I get furious. I gave thesweets to the whole family of Ramlal–“You bastard Ramlal! Don’t open yourmouth when you don’t know anything.Your father sends money with a boywhom he has taught. My Ram will remaina Ram.””“Shobha Rani it was a mistake. Ramjiwill remain Ramji. Then I gave him tea.Money for cigarette. He became happy.”After Papa’s death Maa stopped meonce from sending the money. Hakimjihad deposited money for her in the bank.She used to get 1500 per month. Maa’sargument was that I have small children,their expenses…Thought I should silence her forever.“Mata, it is only after my death thatyou will stop getting money.”She held my ear.“Kaka! You spit fire! Speak a bitsweetly sometimes. Sometimes a sparkis enough to start a fire. Even if everythingis tried it will not be extinguished. Youare even ahead of Hakimji when it comesto anger.At that time I didn’t knew that Maais making a prophecy for me. A fire–seven years long. Leave alone doctor,even ascetics failed to extinguish it. Thenall the scenes had ended.I asked Maa, “Should I give yousomething to eat?”“Yes Kaka, get bagugoshe (pears) fromthe market. I really want to eat them.”I was completely surprised. I washearing this word for the first time.January-March 2010 :: 53

“What bagugoshe? Say directly–Nashpatti.”“Nakhas are round. Bagugoshe arelong from the tail’s end and juicy. Whenwe were in Pindi, Hakimji used to geta bag full of bagugoshe. Now a womanhas her own temper. When I said nohe used to explain– “Eat Bibi. Maybeyour tongue gets a bit sweeter otherwiseyou are an armory.””“I have never seen them.”“Go ask for them.”“I will feel shy.”“If one doesn’t know something,what’s there to feel shy in asking? Playthe small radio. I haven’t listened tothe news since morning.”She had never been able to speakthe word transistor.I never went to the fruit shop. Whatif the fruit seller asks what are bagugoshe?Then what should I take for Maa? Ipurchased chhole kulche. I thought asbefore why doesn’t Maa live with us?She is ready to leave even before shehas come.Actually, till this day her dialoguewith this house is missing. She is thequeen of conversation. And after beingeducated we have forgotten the languageof conversation. We manage many thingswith yes and no. The water of our rivershas dried up. For Maa, we are foreigners.She has seven oceans in her heart andour oases have vanished in the sand.For advanced people a delightfulconversation is a waste of time. Shehad the talent of talking. But she is livingin an extremely cruel time. She is alwaysin search of a magical time. Laughingfreely. Crying freely. Why will shelive with us? Our doors are always closedfrom within.I gave chhole-kulche to Maa in aplate. She looked at them and asked,“You didn’t find bagugoshe?”I didn’t answer.“You must not have asked.”I didn’t answer.She started eating the chhole first.“Wonderful! What taste! My tongueis swirling. Such chhole can be foundin Pindi.”The people of Rawalpindi never speakthe full name of the city. They haveshortened it like the name of a beloved–Pindi.“Give me more Kake .I’m relishingit. Why aren’t you eating?”I lit a cigarette. I kept quiet.“Don’t keep the agarbatti burning inyour fingers all the time. You will rotfrom inside.”She ate the chhole, drank water andasked, “Kaka! Do you remember the nameof Jawaharlal’s sister?”“Vijaylaxmi Pandit.”“Yes! She was very beautiful. I wentto meet her.”I got frightened a bit. Why does Maahave to return to the old days againand again? Time is revisited during thelast days of one’s life. It seemed that54 :: January-March 2010

she is parting away from herself. Thepresent ends when one starts meetingthe people from the past.“Why did you go to meet her?”“Kaka, we came from Pakistan in abad condition. Jawaharlal kept us in tentsin the Kulchhetar camp. He came tosee us twice. All the medications of yourfather were left in Pindi. And then whohad the sense to purchase the medicinesfor fever and cold. People put up pettyshops. But your father didn’t know anywork.”Why didn’t he know?“Kaka, he was the son of a zamindar.The whole day he used to press a cigarettein his fingers and take a puff and usedto shake off the ash with a pinch. Awell developed body. His flesh startedmelting because he used to eat a limitednumber of chapattis. Somebody stolehis big, green umbrella. His body rottedand he caught tuberculosis.”“You never told me…”“He was a very harsh and uncouthman. He never shared his grief. Youhave the same habit as your father. Heexplained me– See Bibi, tuberculosis isa royal ailment. It is called rajrog. Firstof all there is no cure. And even ifthere is any then it may take years tobe cured. I am telling you go to yourbrothers. The children will be lookedafter.”“I won’t live with the brothers. Theirchildren are all vagrant and villainous.My children will be spoiled. You getadmitted in the hospital. I’ll manage.”When Hakimji used to be sad he spokevery difficult language.“Bibi, it has been a long famine. Therelatives come biting on if a womanis without the protection of her husband.Pakistan and Pindi are just a sadinheritance now. We cannot go a longway by holding onto past memories.Now children’s life yours and will befull of pain and misery.”He got admitted in a TB hospitalnear Patiala. It took five years for himto get well.“What did you do? How did you bringus up?”“Those were very hard days. Thepast life cannot be a support. Somebodytold that the government has openedan ashram for widows. I met the incharge– Kamala Behanji. In those dayspeople used to listen to others’ painand grief with compassion. She kept quietfor some time. Then said, “Shobha Rani,you are not a widow. How can I admityou? You go to Delhi and meet VijaylaxmiPandit. She is looking after theresettlement of women.”Maa reached Delhi. Didn’t ask how?In those days there were no buses. Andjust about a handful of cars. She reachedthe bungalow of Vijaylaxmi Pandit.“Kaka, in those days one did nothave to stand in a line and go one byone to meet the leader. The leader usedto come out. He used to listen to thesorrows of everybody. I told her myJanuary-March 2010 :: 55

name, the story of your father’s illnessand his admission to the hospital. Shewas lost in thought. She got worried.”Vijaylaxmi– “Only widows are takenin the asharam. Your husband is stillliving Shobha Rani.”“Bahanji, he is almost dead. He mayor may not get out of the hospital. Mycondition is no less than that of a widow.I have four children. What will theyeat? How will I support them? ShouldI let them die with hunger?”She was lost in deep thought. Shetold a man standing next to her thatwhat Shobha Rani was saying is correct.What should be done? That man saidthat Shobha Rani must live outside. Sheshould be given the stipend of a widowtill her husband gets well. She askedme then. I brought the application.Kamala Bahanji had written theapplication in English. Vijaylaxmi Panditread it. She wrote something on it andexplained it to me.“Give it to your Kamala Bahanji. Youwill have to live in a rented house. Thegovernment aid will be rupees Onehundred per month. Do educate yourchildren. Don’t be frightened at all. Alongwith freedom one also gets some pain”.It’s been years but Maa didn’t come.It’s been years I didn’t go to Maa. Mydreams had retired. I was a bird, butwas unable to fly. I didn’t pay heedto Maa. I didn’t even pay heed to myself.I repented just in words, I didn’t repentfrom the heart. My hell is with me. Ilive in a terrifying house of prey.Brother called up to say that I shouldmeet Maa, she can die anytime.I reached. Younger sister placed thechair next to Maa’s bedstead. I sat down.Younger sister said that I can smoke.Maa won’t be affected anyhow.Shobha Rani has turned into a bundle.A wasted corpse. Her body languagehas ended. There grew a makeshift bridgein my eyes, with Maa walking on it.The decision to break down this bridgehas been taken. She wants a release fromthe whipping.I cannot pray.I want to speak English.I saw an adorned reflection in theopen door. There was the sound of thebangles. Some new bride. My youngersister asked from there, “Bibi are youawake or not? I am making halva.”Sister said, come after some time.Then told me,“Veerji, its Ambarsarni. Got marriedhere two months before. She attendson Maa all the time. She talks a lot.Don’t you speak out something!”In my knowledge Amritsar is the onlyplace where the people are called bythe name of their city.I am trying to think about some sweetmemories with regard to Maa. But thewhole story of love had ended a longtime back. All day, all night only thecurtains of ashes are visible. Since longmy non-bailable warrants have beenissued. I always write postcards. I forgetto write the name and address on them.56 :: January-March 2010

Ambarsarni came inside. Carryinghalva in a plate. Sweet vapors are comingout from it. She looked at me. Shekept the plate on the table and bentdown to touch my feet. I blessed her.I should talk to her about something.“Are you fine? What does yourhusband do?”“There is total comfort Veerji. Hehas a Dhaba. He goes at five in themorning. He sends the lunch in theafternoon. He comes back around tenor eleven in the night along with thedinner. I just sit beside Mata and keeptalking. I like talking very much.”It is good to see a woman who issatisfied physically and mentally.She shook her shoulder and said toMaa, “Getup Mata, eat halva. It’s gettingcold.” Maa replied without opening hereyes, “Don’t want to eat.”“Death is inevitable. Eat it Mata. Enjoythe taste before death.”She opened her eyes. Seeing a dullshadow sitting on the chair she asked,“Who is it? Is it my younger brother?”Sister told her, “ Sarthak Veerji hascome.”Ambarsarni brought the halva platein front of her. She sided the plate withher hand.“Give the halva afterwards. First Ineed to talk to this good son. Makeme sit.”She was made to sit by placing pillowsat the head of the bed.“Your blood turned out to be white.You have come after so many yearsto see your dying mother. Younger airforce turned out to be better than you.Comes to meet me. Pays for the doctors.Sahabji, you should have come just oncebefore my death.”I kept quiet. Maa turned into apulsating wave. All strengths, allmemories came back. But, the lighterthe wave rises, the sooner it settles down.“Why don’t you speak– you uncouth.”I kept quiet.Ambarsarni spoke, “ Veerji was veryill. Narrowly escaped death…”Younger sister kept her finger onher lips. The younger brother also kepthis finger on his lips. But Ambarsarnihas already started.“He was there in the hospital formany months.”She asked the younger brother asto why she was not told about it. Brothersaid that it would have been problematicfor her to travel.Maa– “From when has it become aproblem for a mother to see her ailingson? Do you all live in foreign land?I would have put oil in his hair. I wouldhave massaged his legs. My son wouldhave been cured quickly.” She winkedand called me closer. My face was nextto her face. She could see me now. Shegot totally terrified.“Kaka, where are your hair?”I kept quiet.“Kaka, where is the fire of youreyes?”January-March 2010 :: 57

I kept quiet.“Kaka, Who has stolen yourcomplexion?”I kept quiet.“Kaka is there something which stillhas a grip over you. Say something,speak something.” How should I tell ofsomething which is invisible! Which isalways with me and cannot be seen?How should I tell? There is no languageof dire misfortune. I have each and everydistinctive mark. A small, fair ear whichhas a black mole on the backside. Idon’t even know the name of that femmefatale.Maa– “Kaka, do you take the nameof Ramji or not?”I kept quiet.Maa– “When Ramji closes one doorhe opens two others.” I lit a cigarette.The cruelty of the past days came back.I– “Listen Mata. You will not sayanything regarding my illness. You willnot ask anything from anybody. Do youunderstand or not?”Maa spoke with folded hands– “Okmy Hakimji.”She started crying noiselessly. Sheis crying continuously. From a womanshe turned into misery. And now, therecame a rattling sound from her throatalong with the weeping.Ambarsarni asked us to bring herdown, prepare the lamps, Mata is leaving.The younger sister caught hold of myhand, made me sit in the courtyard.She went inside. I am in the habit ofobserving pain from an ambush– always.Sister came to take me inside. Said,the breath is being hindered.I sat down. I held both her hands,pressed them. She opened her eyes andasked, “Kaka, Have you brought theBagugoshe?”I kept quiet.“Never mind. I’ll purchase them whenI reach Pindi.”She closed her eyes. Her eyes wereclosed forever.Swadesh Deepak, born in 1942 in Rawalpindi, has been professor of Englishat Gandhi Memorial College, Ambala. He writes plays, short stories andmemoirs. Has published fifteen books so far. He is known for intensityof expression and originality of thought. From 1991 to 1997 he remainedin wilderness. His present address is again untraceable though his familylives in Chandigarh. Deepak’s famous plays are Court martial, Sabse udaskavita, kaal kothri. Another book that earned him much renown is ‘MaineMandu nahin dekha : khandit sapnon ka collage’.Eishita Siddharth, born 1984, is pursuing a post graduate course inEnglish Literature at Lucknow University. She has already completedher Diploma in French. She is interested in literature and translatesat will. Lives in Lucknow. Eishita is writing her first novel ‘sabkomaaf kiya’ these days.58 :: January-March 2010

PoetryFALLINGNaresh SaxenaTranslatedbyAmitabh KhareThere are rulesAbout falling of things,There are noneFor falling of human beings.But, things can’t plan anything about their own fall,Human beings can.Ever since childhood such commandments have been pouring,That if you have to fall,Fall inside home,Not outside;i.e.Fall in the letter, but be safe in envelop,i.e.Fall in the eyes, but be safe in blinkers,i.e.Be safe in the words-Fall in intent!January-March 2010 :: 59

I fell-Internally,Thinking that‘Being of an average height,How much moreThan five and a half feetShall I fall’?But what a height it was!That my fallhas no end.The truth of the fall of thingsWas exposedIn the middle of 16th and 17th century,When Galileo climbedOn the topmost step of Pisa’s leaning towerAnd announced shouting“Residents of Italy!Aristotle’s saying is thatHeavier things fall rapidly, lighter rather slowly.But just now,You will see this dictum of AristotleFalling.You will see falling-Heavy canons of iron andLight feathers of birds and papers andshreds of clothtogether,In one speed, in one direction,Falling.60 :: January-March 2010

But beware!We’ll have to free them from the interference of air”And then he actually demonstrated it.Four hundred years later...Nobody needs to shout from the Qutub MinarAnd tellHow is today’s air and how is its interference,How the laws of falling of thingsHave become applicableOn the falling of human beings.And peopleOf every size and significance,People- overfed and bored,You and weTogether,Are seenFallingWith one speed,In one direction only.Therefore I say, watch carefullyAll around yourselfFalling of thingsAnd fall !Fall !As falls the snow,On lofty peaksFrom where flow the sweet watered rivers;January-March 2010 :: 61

Fall !Like a draught of water down a thirsty throat;Like water in the empty vesselFall,Brimming it with the music of fulfillment !;FallLike a drop of tear,In someone’s sorrow;FallLike a ball,Amidst the children playing;FallLike the first leaf of autumn,Vacating space for a new leaf to sprout;Singing the ‘song of weathers’“Where leaves don’t fall,Spring doesn’t follow there”;FallLike the first brick in the foundationBuilding someone’s home;FallLike a waterfallTurning turbine fans;FallLike lightOn darkness;FallLike sunshine on watery windsDrawing rainbows.But hold on!62 :: January-March 2010

Only the rainbows have been drawn till date,Not a single arrow for them, designed;FallLike an arrow, shooting from rainbowTurning barren land multi huedWith vegetation and flowers;FallLike rainOn parched earth;Like a fruit ripened,Bestowing your seeds to earth,Fall !Hair fell,Fell the teeth,Eyesight dropped, andFrom the hollow of memories, are fallingNames, dates and towns and faces andBlood pressure is falling,Temperature is falling,Ratio of hemoglobin in the blood,Is falling.Why are you standingLike a scarecrow,Naresh ?Before your whole existence falls,For once,January-March 2010 :: 63

Plan your fall,Right cause and time of your fall, andFall on some arch enemyLike thunderboltFall!Like- meteor showerFall!Like- stroke of lightningFall!I sayFall!Nice ChildrenA few children are extremely niceThey don’t demand balloons and ballsThey don’t demand sweets,They are not stubborn,Nor do they ever throw tantrumsThey obey the elders,They obey the youngsters evenSo nice are they.We are on the lookout for such nice childrenAnd immediately on finding them,Bring them home,Often,On thirty rupees a month and two meals.64 :: January-March 2010

WaterFlowing waterHas left marksOn the stones.Surprising!That the stonesHave left no marksOn the water.IdentityBe sure to be by my side, my children !At that timeWhen I would be returning,Finally,Towards fruits and flowers and greenery.From the fire of my bodyThe air aroundWill become hot,And will then go on changing the temperature of the airsTill eternity.Along with smoke, I’ll rise upwardsTurned into what you study as carbon dioxideAnd will spread over plants and vegetationJanuary-March 2010 :: 65

Which, if they absorb,They’ll become a little greenerIf there will be fruits somewhere,Those will ripen a little better.Whenever the sweetness of fruits reaches you,Greenery looks prettier,Or you feel the difference in airYou’ll knowAnd will sayOh !Papa.Naresh Saxena, born 1939, is engineer by profession and poet by aptitude.He is unique in recording everyday encounters in simple text andthoughtful texture. His rhythm of words is a challenge for the translatorbecause it embodies universal discourse. His collection of poems ‘samudrapar ho rahi hai barish’ was very well received and widely reviewedfor its novelty and sensitivity. He is interested in audio-video mediaand has written for television. Has received Sahitya Bhushan Sammanfrom U.P. Hindi Sansthan. He is also a flute player. He lives in Lucknow.Amitabh Khare, By profession, a highranking railway official, by passiona poet, he is an avid reader of literature. Amitabh Khare translates onlywhen he likes a work of art intensely. He makes an attempt to transcreatethe internal rhthym of the original poems. He lives in New Delhi.66 :: January-March 2010

PoetryMOODS OF LOVEUpendra KumarTranslatedPremlatabyNow endure it;You smiled at me(1)Of course without any reason,Thereby invitedAn evergreen pain(2)The overwhelming presence of yoursMakes me forgetWhat all I thought;Any way–The expression of my speechlessnessBrings a smile on your lipsWith all its crueltyAnd tendernessGushes the sea of love!(3)January-March 2010 :: 67

Compelling in its assuranceJust to be yourselfWhen you were lookingFor a shady treeIn the bright sun of the dayWhy could you not see me?(4)(5)Wearing colours of my likingThese daysOn your lips and nails;Sure you are going to make me cryone day.(6)Salt in a dishBrightness of the floorColours of the curtainsAesthetics of the living room;Are the small thingsThat makeLife’s most beautiful moments.It gives a beautiful glowAnd an everlasting ‘love’Yet at climax(7)68 :: January-March 2010

Every song of lifeIs silent.In the evening of lifeOver and over againI rememberThe romance of love!(8)(9)No restlessnessNo complaintNo waitNo other images or idioms of loveNo arguments from the belovedNo entreatyYour love is so sweetDenying all the rulesOf the bookLooking for you in springI went across theWhite clouds and blue skyAlong with the sunTalked to GodAnd came backAfter a while.(10)January-March 2010 :: 69

(11)Anything is possibleIn this wonderful forestYou coming out of a lovely water fall;Or you metamorphosingInto a beautiful creeperLove and natureAren’t they alike!Man on earthThinks about loveAnd plans to reach Mars;People on MarsMay not think about earthBut certainlyMust be in love(12)The banks of an endless streamMemory of the vast woodsAs I watchedTurned slowlyInto a picture of yours(13)Standing without youAlone and sadI found myself(14)70 :: January-March 2010

At a window of the pastOf’ ‘lost and found’ luggage.(15)The law of gravitationWas understoodNot after seeingThe fall of an appleFrom a tree;It resulted from the gravitationof a beloved’s bodyfelt by the enchanted earth.(16)Before I met youMy past was vast and endlessNow it is limitedSince the time you met me.I was climbing upAnd upCharmed by the beauty;Reaching the summitI foundI was a cloudGetting merged withOther clouds.(17)January-March 2010 :: 71

Do you still write love stories?You asked meMeeting after years,Yes I do, I do...But you had goneFar awayBefore I finished.(18)A flower is beautifulWhen it blossoms,But withers away with time;Yet it keeps on blossomingIn memory.(19)(20)Boasting about my knowledgeI said, “still water gets rotten”You gave a mischievious smileAnd asked“and still love?”(21)We were sitting hand in handWhen we watched the fall of a star,We did not make a wishLest it may get fulfilled!72 :: January-March 2010

We sat down by theside of the rivertired of walking and feltthe river had also dried uptired, reaching there.(22)(23)Don’t know whereBut we were togetherWhen along with the rainbow coloursOf hope;The setting sun’s hopeless andColourless colourWas spreadingIn the back ground.Often I did thisWhenever I missed you;Dialed your numberListened to your voiceAnd replaced the receiverSilently.(24)“When does a river stop?”You said with sadness;And I let myself goWith the current of life.(25)January-March 2010 :: 73

(26)Excited, I was gatheringLittle tremblings of rainAnd gathering them in my soul;While you were watchingworriedThe leaking of the roof.(27)After you leftI asked your ‘Bindi’With a smileIf there would have been no mirrorWhere would have youStuck it?(28)You got a little fadedWhen your friend laughed with meThen for nothingYour friend went on laughingThat evening.(29)If you are thereIn each of my poreThen where am I?“Search in me” you blushed.74 :: January-March 2010

(30)The rays of the sunOf your beautyTook me to sky like water dropsThen with cloudsI poured on earthLike rain of love.In my memoriesIt came again and againAnd continued increasingYour loveLike ‘fixed deposit’(31)Sitting on the dining tableFork and knife in handMy foot upon your footFelt the taste of this touchOn my tongue as well.(32)Enjoying in a weddingI suddenly ponder;Do you still look for meBy your sideWhile dancing.(33)January-March 2010 :: 75

(34)In the darkness of a cinema hallFlowing from the tips of your fingersMutual pleading, denying and lovingThe story of the filmI remember no more.(35)In place of covered bullock cartsBrides going to villageIn a jeep–Raising dust cloudsOn people like usOn path.You could never sleepWithout talking to meNow you sleepThe moment I start talking.(36)(37)Would you call meOr would you go to the templeAs usualTomorrowOn my birthday?76 :: January-March 2010

How many times I felt ashamedOf myselfFor having doubts about youYou don’t even know.(38)(39)Don’t knowHow and what you rememberNowOn the date of our marriage.In a car accidentDue to a mistakeOf your ownYou gaveSuch a furious lookThat not only meAny stoneWould hare melted.(40)(41)Though we had consecutive numbersOur plane seats–Fell far apartYou kept looking all nightAt the ladySitting next to me!January-March 2010 :: 77

In the middle of a lakeOn a paddle boatThe strong windsScared us of dyingDespite the ‘love’.(42)You love the colour ‘blue’It was a surprise to know,As most of my thingsAre patterned ‘blue’.(43)(44)Neither you nor the handkerchiefI only rememberThe way you picked up quietlyThe handkerchief I left behind.Sounds and their echoesHow suddenly they cameSpreading the light of meaningTo our voiceless silence.(45)(46)Love is like warAggressive and extremely givingIt also ends like a warSilence, repentanceAnd finally forgiveness.78 :: January-March 2010

(47)There are hundreds of sand particlesIn the moments of my memoryI am asking the lightTo allow me to gatherSome of the momentsLike a garland of flowers.Distance between life and deathWas calling meLying near my stone like feetYes, I also wantedTo meet the windsBut soonYou changed the scene(48)The ‘milky way’ had sprinkledIts water on your heartThirsty for agesI drank a sip of fire(49)(50)In the ruins of a deserted templeI am a small flickering lampOf the sanctum– sanctorum;Where signs of your comingAre scattered like the flowersOf worship.January-March 2010 :: 79

(51)It was a great excuseTo go far, bathing together in a river;Slowly, with the erosion of timeThe river moved awayFrom the village.(52)The wind has swallowedCruelly, all your wordsYou intended to send.Rain is drinking awaySome of themAnd others will be covered by clouds.Upendra Kumar is a well known poet in Hindi. Has published manycollections of poems. He has been in the civil services and retiredfrom the ministry of defence. On one hand he writes strong earthypoems like sattu and on the other, love poems like premprasang. Someof his books are chup nahi hai samay, udas pani, apna ghar nahiaya and gahan hai yeh andhkara. He lives in New Delhi.Premlata, born 1946, teaches history at Maitreyi College. Has writtenseveral articles and research papers. She translates occasionally.80 :: January-March 2010

DiscoursePREMCHAND AS A SHORT STORYWRITER : USING IRONY AS ATECHNICAL DEVICEGopichand NarangTranslatedbyS.S. ToshkhaniI am not writing this article as an apologia; what has promptedme to write it is the feeling that even after 44 or 45 years ofhis death, Premchand has not been made acceptable by peoplein his entirety. Writes Radhakrishna, a Premchand expert, at oneplace: “Sharatchandra Chattopadhyaya in Bengali and Premchandin Hindi were greatly renowned in their time…Sharatchandra appearedsuddenly in Bengali literature and dominated the literary scene.His arrival was an event, with the Bengali speaking people identifyingwith him and receiving him readily with great warmth. As againstthis, Premchand did not make his appearance in the Hindi literaryworld as a phenomenon. He found his place in it only throughuntiring efforts and exceptionally hard work… In the Hindi literaryworld, he did not get the respect he deserved during his lifetime.On one hand titles like “upanyas samrat” (emperor of novelists)and “kahaniyon ka shahanshah” (king of kings of short story writers)were conferred upon him, and on the other he was given nomore importance than a king of playing cards. It was only afterhis death that people started paying sufficient attention to him.”These are words of a Hindi writer, occurring in a book publishedin 1978. In the first instance, the Hindi-Urdu tussle regardingPremchand is not yet over. Most Hindi speaking people are stillJanuary-March 2010 :: 81

unaware of Premchand as an Urdu writer,and a majority of Urdu speaking peopledoes not have any curiosity aboutPremchand as a Hindi writer. This inspite of the fact that Premchand’spersonality and his art cannot beunderstood unless one knows about hisoriginal initiation, the background of hiswriting and editing work, the consciousor unconscious influence that Urdu hadupon him. Later he switched overto Hindi and adopted it as a mediumof his creative expression, and thereforeso far as Urdu is concerned it is notpossible for one to understand Premchandfully unless one understands hisattraction towards Hindi and hiscontribution to it. No significant criticalwork has so far appeared which doesjustice to Premchand’s concurrent Hindi-Urdu personality with full impartialityand objectivity. Secondly, even withinthe sphere of a single language, thereis no unanimity of views regarding manyessential things concerning Premchand.In this respect, what to speak of thecontroversies regarding him among Hindispeakers, the situation in Urdu is notany less regrettable. People have dividedPremchand into parts and havedistributed these parts amongthemselves. At least on the occasionof Premchand’s birth centenary one couldhave expected the Premchand expertsto present Premchand as a whole withoutany kind of intellectual reservation, biasor partiality. As a reader of Premchandit pains me to note that appreciationand recognition of Premchand’s creativepersonality has become prey to variouspolitical, semi-political, religious, socialand linguistic differences and prejudices.And the hostilities instead of beingsubdued are being more and moreprovoked day by day. Friends seem tohave mostly forgotten what Premchandactually was and what he was not. Theyare expending their powers of descriptionon recounting his political and religiousaffiliations. This means that Premchandthe politician and Premchand thereformer have gained more prominenceand importance than Premchand thecreative writer. In these controversiesmaximum help is obviously taken fromthe prefaces, letters, articles andnarratives written by Premchand, andfrom his creative writings the least. Asthis procedure is essentially non-literary,the reaction to it has also been verysharp. So, what is happening for thelast few years is that some friends areregarding Premchand as an area of theirpolitical fiefdom. They have reservedall rights of praising Premchand in theirname and have isolated Premchand fromthe rest of the world, that is, the creativeworld of fun and frolic, happiness andsorrow, high and low, black and white,denial and acceptance in which an artistcan put a question mark against his ownfaith and commit contempt of even God’scourt or can see the highest truth inthe world drown in the mist in thecircumambulatory path of thought. Theseignorant friends of Premchand have cut82 :: January-March 2010

off Premchand’s association with this“untrustworthy world”. Once it is decidedthat judgment is to be made on thebasis of plain political commitment alonethen of course Premchand is greater thanthe greatest artist of the world. He isa communist and a revolutionary fromhead to foot. Whatever he has in himis true, auspicious and beautiful. Noweakness or error of his is actually aweakness or an error. There are otherswho think that well, if this is whatPremchand really is, they have nothingto do with him creatively. PerhapsPremchand’s soul itself may be feelingdistressed by such a state of affairs.And if he gets a chance to revisit thisworld he may not perhaps recognizehis own image as it is being presentedat some semi-political, semi-literary‘international seminars’ and symposia.A bad consequence of such a monopolisticattitude and ideological obsession is thatsome people have begun to feel anaversion for Premchand in their minds.If at all there is a discussion onPremchand, it is usually limited to hisshort story ‘Kafan’ (The Shroud) or, ifsomeone is more generous he maycondescend to discuss ‘Godan’. Apartfrom ‘Kafan’ and ‘Godan’, Premchandis all defects and nothing more. Hewas a realist and an idealist, he hadno artistic sensibility, his realistic writingis superficial and puerile, his reformistand moralistic points of view show upeverywhere preventing him from carryingout his obligations as a high class artist.In short, there is hardly a defect whichPremchand does not have. Obviously,this attitude is totally negative and asnon-literary as the earlier one. If theearlier attitude arises from politicalreservations and stretches advocacy tounconditional eulogizing, the otherattitude too is a result of intellectualreservations – to the extent of denialand contradiction as well as fault-finding.What was real Premchand? How vigrousis his participation and contribution increating and giving shape to the Urdushort story tradition? What is hiscontribution and importance and whatis his intrinsic quality? We cannot escapefrom this by simply saying that he isthe father of the Urdu-Hindi short story.The purpose of the present article isnot to define what Premchand was asa whole, nor to investigate all aspectsof his important contribution and hisintrinsic qualities. My purpose is justto give expression to the feeling thatwe cannot do justice to Premchand unlesswe focus on Premchand as a creativewriter detached from pressures ofpolitical ideology or partly ideologicalissues.Premchand made his appearance asa creative writer at the turn of the centuryand after working hard day and nightfor thirty-six years he made the barrenfield of Urdu-Hindi novel and short storywriting perennially green and enrichedit with a splendour whose colourfulnessis increasing day by day. Every workcreated by a great artist is not of theJanuary-March 2010 :: 83

same level and we find a constantintellectual evolution taking place inmature writers. As Premchand died ata young age, his latter day writingsinvariably present the best examples ofhis art. It is said that Premchand wantedSharatchandra to write a preface to hisfirst short story collection ‘Sapta Saroj’.He went to Calcutta for the purposeand met Sharatbabu. It is said thatwhen Sharatchandra heard his shortstories he was greatly impressed andremarked, “No one apart from Ravi Babucan write such short stories in Bengali.At least I am not capable of writinga preface to your short stories.” GenerallyHindi-Urdu critics present this event asSharatchandra’s compliment toPremchand. In my view this is a goodcomment on Premchand’s art of thatperiod. Sharatbabu was an extraordinaryartist. His refusal must not have hadto do with humility alone. Probably ithad something to do with a feeling oflack of intellectual closeness too. WhatI mean to say is that Premchand wasno bright star. His art learnt to bloomlittle by little like a bud that is buffetedby winds and bathes in dewdrops andthen blossoms into a flower. InPremchand’s creative journey we finda gradual progression to maturity. Hesowed the seed in the soil and wateredit for years. This was a painful, patientand also encouraging process of whichwe have examples throughout his creativejourney. What I want to emphasize hereis that a short story like ‘Kafan’ doesnot have the status of an event in thehistory of Premchand’s art. It has itsroots spread far and wide in his shortstories. In order to illustrate my pointI would like to briefly discuss ‘Kafan’first and analyze his other short storieslater so as to draw attention to the artisticroots of ‘Kafan’ which run deep intohis creative and intellectual journey.In the initial period, Premchand wasinfluenced by the daastaan (longromantic narrative) genre of Urdu. Thenthere was a period of stories which hada feudalistic setting. After stories of thisperiod like Rani Sarandha, Gunah kaAgnikund (The Fire-pit of Sin), RajaHardaul, etc, with honour as their theme,pieces of art which show that he didindeed know human psychology and wascapable of portraying reality flash forthat many places. For constraints of space,we shall search for realism in his shortstories only and of these investigate onlythose few which are illustrative of thefact that high creativity is a widespreadphenomenon in his short stories.Here a detailed analysis of Kafan isnot our objective. Everyone knows thatin Kafan reality has been ruthlessly andrelentlessly depicted. But those whotry to explain this symbolically, thatis interpret childbirth as the coming timeor the future generation, relate a womanin labour to Afro-Asian societies ordescribe the intoxication caused by toddyas revolutionary fervour – that sort ofcriticism can at best be regarded as asimplistic attempt born out of ignorance,84 :: January-March 2010

and needs to be ignored. These peopledo not know that the essence of theshort story lies in the irony of a situationthat has not allowed a human being toremain a human being but has debasedand dehumanized him. To highlight theimpress of the artistic perfection of Kafanand its essence one need not necessarilydwell upon its symbolism but read itat the level of irony. In irony wordsdo not have the same meaning as appearson the surface; their objective is to pointsarcastically to some painful aspect ofunseen reality or some tragedy inherentin the situation. The way the uppercastes and ruling classes have wrungthe very soul out of man and deprivedhim of even his ordinary humansensitivity, or forced him to live at thelevel of an animal, this short storypresents a painfully ironical picture ofthat. The painfulness of the situationand its irony are brought out at thevery beginning when Madhav’s youngwife Budhiya is shown writhing in labourinside the hut while the father-son duois sitting outside in silence before a burntout fire. The woman is in agony inthe dark autumn night with such hearttouchingsounds of moaning emanatingfrom her mouth again and again thatthe two are frightened, but no one isprepared to go inside because of thesuspicion that if he does the other personwill make off with a large part of thestolen roasted potatoes they are eating.Although this short story is an excellentexample of economy of words and depictsa horrifying reality in extremely harshwords, yet the words Premchand hasused to explain Ghisu and Madhav’smental processes go against the grainof the irony and ironical suggestionpresent in the whole short story, forthe short story is complete even withoutthese.This family of chamaars (leatherworkers) had a bad name in the wholevillage. Both shirked work. That is whythey did not get work anywhere. Untilthey would starve for a couple of daysthe two wouldn’t move out of their homefor work or for theft. Writes Premchandabout Madhav’s ways, “Madhav was notonly following in his father’s footprintslike an obedient son, he was even bringingname to him.” For, if he worked forone hour, he also smoked the chillumfor another long hour. This undercurrentof irony can be discerned everywherein the short story – in the situation,in the attitudes of the characters andtheir behaviour and in the words usedin the dialogues. Here is an exampleof the irony that we find in employmentof words:They own no property excepta couple of earthen pots andcover their nakedness with tornrags. They are free of anyworldly worries. Loaded withdebts, they tolerate abuses andare beaten up by people, butthey damn care about allthat…Had they been ascetics,they had no need to practiseJanuary-March 2010 :: 85

suppression of desire orresignation before God’s will.The short story is centred on thedeath of Budhia. The tragedy of thishelpless and distressed woman casts itsdark shadow on the entire short story,but apart from the sound of her moaningwhich rises again and again as a throbbingpain, Premchand does not give anyaccount of her actions or reactions. Andthough he has described the heart movingscene of her death, it is only indirectlyand in just three lines:“In the morning Madhav wentinside the room and saw thathis wife was dead. Flies werebuzzing over her face. The gazeof her petrified eyes was fixedupwards. Her whole body wassmeared with dust. The childin her womb had died.”From the middle part of the storythe tragedy of her death and the ironyof words fully grip the mind. In thepart that follows this grip becomesstronger and the situation becomesintensely grave. The shamelessness andinsensitivity of the characters is fullyrevealed. However much degraded aman may be he cannot do without someoutward show to live even at the levelof an animal. When Budhiya was dying,what to speak of getting her medicine,father and son had not uttered evena word of sympathy or comfort to her.And now when it was time to collectsome money for performing her last ritesand buying her a shroud, Ghisu goesto the zamindar’s house and prostratingbefore him, says with tears in his eyes–“Master, I am in great distress.Madhav’s wife passed away.Poor woman, she was in agonyfor the whole day – for theentire night we sat by herbedside. We did whatever waspossible, gave her medicine,but she left us, giving us theslip. Now we have no one togive us even one piece of bread.We’re ruined, master! Ourhousehold has been destroyed!Sir, I’m a slave of yours. Thereis no one except you to seethat she gets a proper funeral.Whatever we had was spenton her medicine. Master, if youare kind, then alone will sheget a proper funeral.”What a yarn, this, on sitting by herbedside for the whole night and spendingon her medicine!In fact the whole structure of theshort story is based on irony. It is throughmeaningful sentences such as these thatPremchand exposes the seamy aspectsof human life. Had he done so in asimple and obvious manner, it wouldnot have made such an impact. The moneycollected for giving her a decent funeralis not spent for that purpose. The elementof grim irony introduced in the shortstory with the father and son eatingroasted potatoes and letting Budhiya die86 :: January-March 2010

moaning and crying assumes an enormousdimension when the climax is reached.That’s how Premchand weaves its climax.Ghisu and Madhav manage to collecta ‘neat sum’ of five rupees by goingfrom door to door and then go to themarket for buying a shroud. HerePremchand refers to Budhiya’s dead bodyin just one sentence so that the imageremains in the mind and helps inaccentuating the tragedy of the situationand creating a high paradox:“The kindhearted women of thevillage came, looked at the deadbody, shed a tear or two andwent away.”In the last part of the story the ironyof the situation reaches its high pointwhen looking for cloth for the shroudthe two instead of purchasing it findthemselves in front of a liquor shopand go inside, ‘as though it was somethingthat was previously decided’. There isa dead body lying at home and herewe have these two drinking with themoney meant for buying the shroud.But the image of the dead body remainsin their minds and so they justify theirbehaviour in various ways. In thesedialogues most of the words do not meanwhat they apparently seem to convey.They are lancets immersed in satire thatexpose man’s hypocrisy, selfishness andcovetousness and strike at the entiresituation to show in how many wayshe deceives himself and what sort ofcompromises he makes in order tosurvive. In the end the shroud too burnsup with the dead body and turns intoashes, they both think. She couldn’t havetaken it with her. “Had we received thesefive rupees earlier, we would have spentit on her medicine.” After drinkingindiscriminately and gorging puris andfried liver, the two bless Budhia, “Howgood she was, poor woman. Even asshe died she got us such good thingsto eat and drink”, and also, “If our soulsare pleased, won’t she too earn religiousmerit?” But Madhav, who was the oneto have applied vermilion to her hair(married her), feels occasionally anxious:“We too shall get there some day orthe other, Dada. If she asks why youdidn’t get me the shroud, what shallwe say?” There is an argument betweenthe two. The father says, “She will geta shroud and a good one at that… Doyou think I am a jackass? Have I beenwasting time all these sixty years ofmy life? Why, the same people who gaveus the money will get her a shroud.But of course, we’ll not be able to layour hands on money.” Premchand hassustained this pitch in the last part ofthe story as much as he could so thathe is able to raise the sensibility ofgrief to its maximum intensity andsharpen the lancets of satire as muchas possible. Both father and son drinkto their heart’s content and give the purisleft over on the leaf-plate to a beggar:“Here, have this. Eat your filland bless her. She whose moneybought this has died… Blessher with all your heart. TheseJanuary-March 2010 :: 87

are really hard-won earnings.”Madhav says:“She’ll go to heaven, Dada.She’ll be the queen of heaven”Inebriated, Madhav’s heart is movedand he begins to cry. Then Ghisu consoleshim:“Why do you weep, son? Beglad that she has escaped thisweb of illusion – the snare thatthe world is. She was verylucky to have broken the bondsof illusion and attachment soearly.”After drinking, the two begin to singand drop down dead-drunk right on thespot. So in this manner the short storypresents through the situation it depicts,the behaviour and conduct of itscharacters and their dialogues as alsothrough its jabs of satire a sense ofintense pain and deep shock. Theatmosphere in the entire short storyis charged with irony. Premchand unveilsa grim reality and for the last time doesit so well that the entire short storybecomes a whacking slap on the faceof so-called ‘humanity’ and ‘nobility’.This too is a fact that in Kafan the shroudis but a symbol. There is one shroudfor which the search is on and whichwill be draped around Budhia’s body.The other shroud is Budhia herself–sheshrouds the child who has died in herwomb even before it is born.For a dispassionate depiction ofreality it is necessary for the artist tomaintain an objective distance from itso that he does not let it be obscuredby the glow of morality and idealismwhich he envisions as a sunrise forhumanity. He should show only thecompassionate face of reality throughhis act of surgery. This thread of candiddepiction of reality can be discernedin Do Bailon ki Kahani (The Story ofTwo Bullocks), Idgah, Miss Padma,Shatranj ke Khiladi (The Chess Players),Dudh ki Kimat (The Price of Milk), SavaSer Genhun (A Kilogram of Wheat), NaiBiwi (The New Wife), Pus ki Raat (JanuaryNight), Jurmaana (Penalty) and manyother good short stories of his. In NaiBiwi Premchand shows a young wifesliding towards immorality. She is marriedto a wealthy old man decrepit with agewho thinks that love can be purchasedwith money. But the new wife is moreattracted to the rustic young servantthan her aged husband. This is somethingagainst Premchand’s ideals of morality.In Premchand’s short stories we usuallycome across notions of karam-dharam(piety), pativrata stree (faithful wife)and pati parameshvar (‘God’ in the formof husband), but in Nai Biwi compulsionsof realistic writing make Premchanddaringly depict an ironical situation:“She (the new wife) drew heranchal (fringe of the sari) overher head and went towards herroom, saying to the servant– “Lala will leave after he takeshis meals, why don’t you come88 :: January-March 2010

over…”Artistic objectivity can be seen inIdgah also, although in this short storyit is present as an inner impulse. Thisshort story is significant in the sensethat at one end Premchand has drawnin it a picture of Islamic egalitarianismand at the other explained the perniciousfact of social inequalities, showing thatat the instinctive level a close connectiondoes actually exist between richness andpoverty, high and low, and socialdiscrimination. Till they were in theIdgah grounds, all were equal, but oncethey come to the stalls put up at thefair, even the small children, not to speakof their elders, begin to feel the distinctionbetween high and low. Actually, theshort story ends with the purchasingof toys. But Premchand is given tocommitting one excess or the other evenin the best of his short stories. Sohe (the boy Hamid) is willy-nilly takento his granny Ameena and an attemptis made unnecessarily to change Hamid’snatural behaviour as a child to that ofan old person and old Ameena’s behaviourto that of a child.The scene at the Idgah grounds formsthe core of the short story:“Suddenly the Idgah groundscome into view. They areshaded by dense tamarind treesfrom above. Below, a jajim(a floor covering of chequeredlinen cloth) has been spreadon the paved floor with endlessrows of people, standing oneafter the other, offering namaz(prayers). People are standingin rows which extend evenbeyond the paved floor wherethere is no jajim; whoevercomes, stands behind those infront. No one is asked abouthis status or position,everybody being regarded asequal in Islam. The villagerstoo washed and joined thecongregation. What a wellorganized gathering it is. Lakhsof people bow in tandem andsit down in tandem and thisis repeated a number of times.It appears as if lakhs of electriclamps are going on and offsimultaneously. What a uniquescene in which uniformity andexpansiveness create anecstatic effect on the mind.There is some attraction whichbinds these people together inone bond.”But soon after the prayers when thechildren come to the bazaar at the fairand pounce upon the stalls of toys andsweets, a painful scene of socialdiscrimination unfolds. Mahmud,Mohsin, and everyone else go up in thesky in the merry-go-round and comedown, riding on the wooden elephants,horses and camels and poor Hamid isleft standing alone. At the toy stallssomeone buys a soldier, someone a king,someone a holy man, Hamid can purchaseJanuary-March 2010 :: 89

neither toys nor revadis or sweets. Whathe purchases is a pair of iron tongsbecause he thinks of his grandmotherwho does not have a pair of tongs andburns her hands while picking up rotisfrom the griddle.Sava Ser Genhun, like Balidan(Sacrifice), is among the several shortstories which read more like a prologueto Godan. This short story is about asimple farmer, who minds his ownbusiness and is concerned with no oneelse, who knows no trickery and isabsolutely free from dodge and deceit.One day or the other he is bound tofall into the clutches of a priest or amoneylender. He gets so stretched onthe rack of exploitation that he toilsthroughout his life, spits blood but isunable to free himself from the burdenof a ser and a quarter of wheat. Hethinks that all this is the consequenceof the bad deeds he may have committedin his previous birth. His children starveand he dies in great agony, but likethe curse of a god not only he but hiswife and his children are not able toget rid of the burden of a few grainsof wheat from one birth to another.Similarly, Do Bailon Ki Kahaani (TheStory of Two Bullocks) is apparently astory of animals, but in actual fact eventhis story is deeply ironical and realisticand the irony that it brings out is thatanimals give proof of having a betterunderstanding of things than self-seekinghuman beings. Jhuri is no idealisticfarmer, his in-laws are also farmers butthey do not treat Hira-Moti well. Thisis the case with the watchman of theanimal pond and also the man whopurchases the bullocks at the auction.Apart from the fact that it beautifullypoints to the central position that abull occupies in our everyday life, itis actually about relationship, that is,if a human being is devoid of sympathydespite being a human being and knowsonly how to exploit, then he is inferiorto an animal. On the other hand ifa down-trodden man or an animal istreated with sympathy then the oceanof his heart overflows with love.Jurmaana is a small story. It toohas realism and irony as its essentialelements, and the irony it highlightsarises from the simplistic nature of itscharacters. The short story lashes outat exploitation and servitude. Allarakkhinever gets her full pay. This is somethingthat happened half a century back andhappens even today. Allarakhi is crushedunder the millstone of injustice andcontinues to be crushed even today.Sometimes she accepts this as her fate;sometimes she knowingly prefers to keepquiet lest she is deprived even of thishalf pay. But on one occasion she getsher full pay and suddenly she blurtsout a small sentence, “But this is thefull amount!” The cashier asks –“Whatis it that you want? Do you want less?”And she replies with the same simplicityand candor, “There is no penalty thistime.” This one word ‘penalty’ is thesoul of the whole story. The sense of90 :: January-March 2010

fear and helplessness it carries, the painand subdued defiance it points to, iswhat makes the short story immortal.The essential elements in the craftof Doodh ki Kimat (The Price of Milk)are also based on irony, a significantvalue that all these short stories havein common, a value that has made Kafanimmortal. It is not a matter of techniquealone, even some of the opening wordsof the songs in Kafan are found in earliershort stories also. The song ‘Thagini kyonnainaa jhamakaave’(O deceitful one, whydo you dazzle with your eyes?) at theend of Kafan exists as a full fledgedbhajan in Agni Samaadhi (Selfimmolation)which is sung while goingtowards the fields during the … night.In Kafan it is the toddy that intoxicates,in Agni Samaadhi the song is sung ina mood induced by charas:In Doodh ki Kimat when a child isborn to the village zamindar BabuMaheshnath, everything is taken careof by Gudad and his wife Bhungi, whoin fact are untouchables. Bhungi actsboth as a midwife and a wet nurse. Asher mistress has no milk, Mahesh Babu’schild drinks Bhungi’s milk and Bhunginurses her three month old child onoutside milk. Premchand sayssarcastically, “It’s another thing whenwe are ill and can’t help it. We dressup or eat khichadi, but once we recoverwe have to follow principles. As thoughmorality keeps changing, sometimes it’sthis and sometimes it’s that. There’s onemorality for the king, another for thesubjects, one for the rich and for thepoor another. The rich can eat withanyone they like, enjoy with anyone theylike, there are no bindings for them.Bindings are for others.” Gudad dies inan outbreak of plague. One day Bhungifalls victim to a black snake while cleaningthe gutter at Mahesh Babu’s house. Herson Mangal, who wasn’t fortunate enoughto be brought up on his mother’s milk,and who looked a pigmy compared toMahesh Babu’s son Suresh, now beginsto hang around Mahesh Babu’s door andlives on the leftovers of the house. Hebuilds his shelter under the neem treein front of the house–“… a torn piece of jute matting,two earthen bowls and a dhoti,which had actually beendiscarded by Mahesh Babu, theplace made him equallycomfortable in every season— winter, summer and therains.”If Mangal had any friend it wasa dog who being fed up with his fellowdogs had come to seek shelter withMangal. Both ate the same food andslept on the same jute matting. InPremchand’s short stories dogs, bullsand other animals do not pitch in fornothing. They help him expose the brutalselfishness of man which has made himmore degraded than animals. In ironycontradictions and similarities ofbehaviour get highlighted. Look at thisattack:January-March 2010 :: 91

“The religious-minded peopleof the village were surprisedat this generosity of MaheshBabu. That Mangal slept rightin front of his door, hardlyfifty cubits away from it, wassomething they felt went againstreligion. True, the sweepertoo has also been created byGod, but social decorum toois important.”One day Suresh allows Mangal to takepart in the game ‘riders and horses’ outof pity, as no one will come to seewho is touchable and who is untouchablein a play. Mangal asks, “Will I alwaysbe the horse and never be the rider?”But why should Suresh let a sweeper’sson ride on his back even if Mangal’smother had fed him on her milk? Mangalis caught and forced to be the horse.Naturally, it led to a quarrel. Whenthe mistress of the house comes to knowabout it, she scolds Mangal as muchas she can and asks him to get outfrom his shelter under the neem tree.Mangal picks up his clay bowls, foldsthe piece of jute under his arm andgoes away weeping, thinking that he willnever come back to the place again.So what if he dies of hunger? Butas evening approaches and hungerbecomes intense, his sense of humiliationweakens. A dog in any case is an animal,but poor Mangal’s condition is no better.The two have no choice but to go backto the same door and lick the leavingsand leftovers of food. Mangal goes andstands hidden in the shadows. Just thena kahaar (utensil cleaner) came out witha plate of leftovers and they both couldresist no longer. Mangal came out ofthe darkness and stepped into the light.The dog was already in the light. “Here,eat this, I was about to throw it away.”Both Mangal and the dog began to eatthe leftovers sitting there under the neemtree. Mangal stroked the dog’s headwith one hand and ate with the otherand the dog sat wagging its tail. Thiswas the price of the milk that no onecould pay.The sensitivity and compassion thatmark Shatranj ke Khilaadi (The ChessPlayers) have been grasped and broughtout with great effect by Satyajit Ray.Interestingly, we find only a few sentencesin the original text of the short storyabout the decline of the Oudh state:“The clock had just struckfour when footsteps were heardof the army marching back.Nawab Wajid Ali Shah had beentaken captive and the army wasnow taking him to someunknown destination. Therewas no commotion in the city,no violence. No brave-heartspilled even a drop of blood.The Nawab took leave of hisfamily just as a daughter goesto her father-in-law’s house,weeping and wailing. Thebegums wept, the maidservantswept, the Mughalladies wept and so the kingdom92 :: January-March 2010

came to an end.”But the shadows of this historicaland cultural tragedy can be seen wavingover the entire story. Like Kafan, ironyis an essential element in the techniqueof this short story also and like Ghisuand Madhav, Mirza Sajjad Ali and MirRaushan Ali too have become hollow.In the former man has become debasedand in the latter he has becomeinsignificant after touching the heightof wretchedness. There is also a sardonicundercurrent in the story – all Indianprincely states are no more importantthan pieces on the chessboard of theforeign imperialist establishment. Asfor the social situation this is how itwas like:“Early in the morning, the twofriends would sit down afterbreakfast and set up thechessboard. The chess pieceswould be arranged andmanoeuvres for the encounterwould begin. And then theyweren’t aware when it was dayand when evening. Word wouldbe sent time and again frominside the house that dinnerwas ready and the answer wouldbe, “Get along, we’re coming,lay the table”. Exasperated, thecook would have no option butto serve their meal right intheir room and the two friendswould do both the things–eatingand playing chess–simultaneously.”In this atmosphere of degenerationwhat was going on in the harem hasalso been exposed by Premchand throughcontrasting characters and their ideas.There is the incident in which MirzaSajjad Ali’s Begum calls him to thebedroom on the excuse that she hasa headache. Meantime, Mir Sahib (MirRaushan Ali) shifts some chess piecesto suit his requirement and strolls onthe terrace outside to demonstrate hisinnocence. The Begum, already furious,dashes into the room, overturns thechessboard and throws the pieces away.She has still the vitality in her. Onthe other side, Mir Sahib’s Begum wouldlike her husband to stay away from home.She never complains about his chessplaying. Rather, if he is late sometimes,she reminds him of it. But, on beingturned out of Mirza’s house when theyset up the chessboard at Mir’s house,Mir Sahib’s constant presence becomesa hindrance to the Begum’s freedom.Finally she lays a plot and a cavalryofficer of the royal army comes inquiringfor him. The call scares the wits outof Mir Sahib, for “the summons couldwell mean that we have to go to thefront and die an untimely death”. Thetwo friends agree that they will not meetat Mir Sahib’s house any more. Fromthen on they start playing the gamein a desolate place near Gomti, whilethe Begum pats the horseman on hisback for putting up the disguise andsecretly starts to indulge in debauchery.In the last scene we find Premchand’sJanuary-March 2010 :: 93

artistic skill at its peak, his incisive satirereaching the bottom of the decadencethat marked the political situation andsocial atmosphere of the times. If ‘irony’is understood as the use of words thatsay exactly the opposite of what theyseem to mean, then what unfolds itselfis the aesthetic meaning of irony. Thetwo friends, carrying with them smalldurries under their arms and boxescontaining paans would go and sit insidean old deserted mosque on the otherside of the Gomti river. On their waythey would buy a chillum and tobaccoand after that they had no worry aboutthis world or the other. No word wouldcome out of their mouths other than‘check’ and ‘checkmate’. In order to letthe inner meaning have a sharper impact,Premchand makes a slight symbolicreference to the political game that theBritish were playing. It was a gamein which ‘check’ was always reservedfor the empire and ‘checkmate’ for India.Viewed from this angle, the short story,like Kafan and Poos ki Raat, is alsomarked for its economy of words towhich Premchand usually pays scantattention. One day when the two friendswere sitting inside the ruined mosque,playing chess, they suddenly saw theCompany’s soldiers passing by. MirzaSahib made repeated pleas for help fromthe British army, but Mir Sahib was awareof nothing else apart from the gameof chess.Mirza: By Allah, you are a veryhard-hearted fellow! Such acatastrophe has taken place andyou don’t even feel shocked!Alas, poor Wajid Ali Shah!Mir: First try to save your kingand then mourn for the Nawab.Here, this is check and thisis checkmate! Come on, giveme your hand!After this, Premchand just writes:“The army passed by taking the Nawabalong.”At last it was evening. The sun hadalready set on the kingdom of Oudh.In the ruins, the bats began to screech.The swallows returned and settled intheir nests. But the two players werestill at it, like two bloodthirsty warriorsengaged in a deadly battle.” This “deadlygame” was being played at all levels– individual, social, political as well ashistorical. Throughout this part of thestory irony has been incisively used asa technique. Words here are not justwords but signifiers pointing to socialdecadence, to a political tragedy. Theydisplay a subtlety of meaning and deepcreativity that can eternalize a truthat the level of art. Time and again theymake their moves and change theirstratagems, but the game already standscheckmated. Finally they come to abuses,their wrangling gets worse. They go tothe length of abusing each other’sforefathers. Rusted swords are drawnout. Both display their flourishes; thesound of clanging is heard. Both getwounded, fall down and die writhing in94 :: January-March 2010

pain. At the bottom of this horrifyingscene is an intense perturbation and aheart rending irony:“These two, who had not sheda single tear for their king, gaveup their lives to protect a chessqueen. Darkness had descended.The game was laid out. Thetwo kings graced theirrespective thrones … There wasdead silence on all sides. Thecrumbling walls, thedilapidated turrets andminarets of the ruins lookedat these corpses and lamented.”Who doesn’t know that these corpsesare deeply and meaningfully related tothe atmosphere in mid-19 th century India,or that the dilapidated walls andcrumbling turrets and minarets of theruins remind us of the tottering andenfeebled Mughal rule? Or that ‘thekings who graced their respectivethrones’ were only wooden chess pieces?The connection between ‘the chess queen’and ‘jaan-e-aalam’ (the king), is asintensely painful as it is ironical andthis is what shows how successful thestory is. ‘Darkness’ is symbolic of decline.At the end of the short story, the gameis checkmated but the chess-boardremains laid out. This is the chess-boardof life on which the game thoughcheckmated is yet not checkmated andthe historical game of winning and losingcontinues to be played.This whole analysis will remainincomplete if we do not mention Pooski Raat. In this short story too Premchandhas presented a very painful situationwith awesome objectivity, scraping thewound inflicted by landlordism with thelancet of irony. Irony breathes life intothis short story also. The plot has beenso constructed and the dialogues sowoven one after the other as to presenta situation that is essentially ironical,but the effect it creates makes our heartsache over man’s helplessness. At thevery beginning Halku coaxes and cajoleshis wife to give the three rupees collectedfor buying a blanket to ‘Sahna’ and theteeth-shattering cold of winter beginsto grip our soul right then. The flatteringtone that Halku adopts again and againwhile talking to Munni and the way Munniretorts angrily and aggressively remindus of Girdhari’s wife Subhagi in Balidaanand Dhania in Godaan who in heroutspoken and garrulous tone unveilsthe condition of the exploited classesof the society. Isn’t it true that if thereis life in Premchand’s characters it isonly in his women? If anyone hasthe strength to fight injustice it is thesewomen or if there is a flash of resistanceor struggle it is in these very characters,who may be biologically weak but theimpulse of humanity in them has notyet died, nor have the compulsions ofcircumstances yet been able to shatterthem.“I say, why don’t you give upfarming? You toil so hard,and whatever you produce goesJanuary-March 2010 :: 95

to pay up the arrears, and that’sthe end of it. We are bornonly to pay the arrears – No;I won’t give the money, never.”“Should I then let him abuseme?”“Why should he abuse you?Is it his kingdom?”At the end also she speaks with thesame gusto: “I won’t pay the land-revenueof this field. Let me say, if we cultivatethe land it’s to live and not to die.”The dog in Kutte ki Kahaani (The Dog’sStory) who boasts of Mangal’s friendshipin Dudh ki Kimat (The Price of Milk)and in Budhi Kaaki becomes the causeof joy for Ladli, is also the dog whois Halku’s only companion and helperon the field. On a night when even thestars in the sky appear to be numb withcold, Halku lay shivering on his bamboocot, wrapped in his old coarse cottonsheet at the edge of his field; with hiscanine companion Jabra lying crouchedunder the cot, his mouth pressed intohis belly, making moaning noises in thecold season. With the westerly windpiercing the body, neither of them wasable to sleep.“Halku got up and took someembers from the pit to fill hischillum. Jabra too got up.Smoking the chillum Halku said,‘Would you like to have a puff?The cold doesn’t go, but themind is diverted a little.”We have already referred to therelationship we find between man andanimal in several short stories ofPremchand. When they talk they talkin a silent language, but the attachmentand communication between them areperfect. When Halku cannot sleep atall, he wakes Jabra up and stroking hishead puts him to sleep in his lap.“There was a strange stinkcoming from the dog’s body,but hugging him close gaveHalku a happiness that he hadnot experienced for months.”Here Premchand needn’t have clarifiedthat “Halku was troubled by his povertywhich had got him into such a state”.But you can’t be sure about Premchand,even in the best of his short storiesa weak sentence or two are liable tocome from his pen.The cold increases and there is stillone watch left for the night to end. Halkugathers some dry leaves from a nearbyorchard and makes a fire. The flamesrise and begin to touch the leaves ofthe tree. At last, warming himself ina vast ocean of darkness, he stretchesboth his feet. In the last scene theleaves have all burned and darkness hasagain enveloped the orchard; Halku issitting by the warm ashes, but as thecold increases, he is overpowered bylanguor. All of a sudden, Jabra beginsto bark loudly and runs toward the field.Halku feels that a pack of animals hasbroken into the field. Sounds of jumping,running and grazing begin to be heard,96 :: January-March 2010

ut Halku consoles himself saying, “No,with Jabra around, no animal can enterthe field. Perhaps I had an illusion.”Jabra goes on barking and does not comeback to him. Sounds of animals grazingcontinue to be heard, but Halku doesnot move from his place.“Warmed up, he was sittingthere in cozy comfort and didnot move from his place.Finally, he wrapped his sheetaround himself and fell asleepon the ground near the ashes.”This is how irony of the situationfully unfolds before us. Premchand weavesthe last scene with the strands of ironylaced with pain:“In the morning when he woke hesaw the sun was high and Munni wasstanding there saying, “What the hellare you doing here, the whole field hasbeen ruined.” Halku got up and said,“So you are coming from the field?”“Yes”, said Munni, “it is all devastated.How can anyone sleep like that?” Halkumade up an excuse, “I narrowly escapeddeath and you are worried about thefield. I can’t describe what a terriblestomach ache I had.”Jabra was lying flat on his backunderneath the shelter.“Jabra is still sleeping. He has neverslept so much.”It is easy for an animal to get awayfrom things, but difficult for man todo so. Jabra put his life at risk andonly after he did his duty he went andslept. It is only man whose destinyit is to get crushed under the millstoneof oppression, deceit, greed, selfishnessand profiteering — and also to confrontthese. Sometimes he wins and sometimeshe loses. Sometimes he makes a fire,spreads light in darkness, warms himselfup, continuously fights cold and isvictorious over it, but is alsooverpowered by the warmth of his ownbody. Man is a melange of strength,weakness, courage, and adventure. Theremay come a moment when, in the midstof his greatest struggle or fight, he maylay down his arms and let death passover his head. Summer and winter,darkness and light and life and deathcontinue to peep into his life just likethis. To see a crop destroyed beforeone’s eyes after it is sown and nurturedand is ripe for harvesting and not beingable to do anything about it is a situationpainfully ironic and depicts man’shelplessness. Premchand’s sensibility andlove for humanity are more successfulat places where he has woven his plotafter picking it from situations full ofelements fostered by irony, using barbsof satire to give voice to the behaviourand conduct of the characters.This discussion on these few shortstories proves at least that Premchandwas aware of human psychology. He notonly had a heart full of sympathy andlove for humanity, he also had the visionto recognize reality and the pen todescribe it. The way a true artist restitutesJanuary-March 2010 :: 97

eality, lights lamps with it at the levelof thought, and the way he transformspast reality and eternalizes it at thecreative plane with the help of his artisticskill, of this there is no dearth of examplesin Premchand. He could see thingsbeyond morality and emotionalism Theideals of truth and justice, courage andheroism that he chiseled, at some places,he has shown his own charactersshattering them. He had the artisticcourage and the dispassionateness thatthis required. Some of his writings arecandidly realistic and structured aroundirony. Even so, Premchand cannot shrugoff the allegation that he displays strongmoralistic and reformist tendencies insome of his earlier as also latter dayworks. At the beginning of this articlewe had quoted Sharatbabu’s views aboutPremchand. In Bengali language thetraditions of psychological expressionand social realism that had beenbequeathed to Sharatbabu were very highand significant. Premchand was not sofortunate. He himself prepared the soil,sowed the seeds and raised the crop.This was the situation that prevailedin novel and short story in both Hindiand Urdu languages. After dastaans (longnarrative stories) and Abdul Halim Shararand Nazir Ahmad, this was a very bigstep. As big as that of Vishnu’s Vamanincarnation who had measured the entireworld in three steps. It was no ordinaryfeat of Premchand that he introducedan entirely new world, an entirely newman in Urdu-Hindi fictional literature.But of course he was not so great arevolutionary as not to have made anycompromises at any level. He had learnedto tread slowly; his morality was middleclass morality and it was natural thathis writings should have borne itsmarkings. Perhaps it was not possiblefor him to avoid this. From tales ofdemons and fairies he had moved onto the womb of the earth, to fields andbarns and huts and bowers and fromprinces and princesses to the poor,wretched and distressed, helpless,destitute people, ploughmen andlabourers, people who pass whole lifewearing nothing but torn clothes, andto animals who lick their hands and givethem company. In that age it was notwithin his power, or within the powerof any other Urdu or Hindi writer forthat matter, to take a greater risk thanthis. Premchand spent his entire liferemoving obstacles from his way. Heserved Urdu as well as Hindi. Whathe wrote in Hindi he publishedsimultaneously in Urdu. The foundationson which later writers raised highmansions of Urdu-Hindi short stories andnovels were actually laid by him.Premchand’s mental, intellectual andartistic evolution had been a continuousprocess. Coming out of the environmentof daastaans he moved on to theenvironment of Rajput valour andchivalry and then venturing beyond thathe understood India’s suffering,experienced its yearning forindependence and also learnt tounderstand man. In this he took thehelp of his earlier ideals as well, tried98 :: January-March 2010

Gandhian ideology and relied oncommunism too. But like a true artisthe knew how to move forward, how toaccept and to reject, to spurn someoneas well as to treat someone as one’sown. He never turned away from thisright of his. The greatest fact about hisart is that he always outgrew himselfand did not remain confined to one spotor one phase during his creative journey.The point to ponder is if he had livedlonger would he in his future creativejourney have taken a flight on the wingsof romantic revolution or givenexpression to coarse realism after theobjectivity of Kafan.Gopichand Narang, born 1931 at Dukki, Baluchistan, is a prominentscholar and critic of Urdu who has more than 56 published worksto his credit. He has been honoured with Sahitya Akademi award.He has received honours from Italian, Canadian and Pakistan governments.Recipient of Padmshri and Padmabhushan, he has been vice chancellorof Jamia Millia Islamia university and professor at Delhi, Wisconsinand Oslo Universities. He has been president of Sahitya Akademi andVice President, National Council for promotion of Urdu. Some of hisfamous books are : Beeswin shatabdi ka Urdu sahitya, Urdu par khultadaricha, Manto : punravalokan ki bhumika, Urdu : hamari zuban.He lives in New Delhi.Dr S.S. Toshkhani, freelance writer, poet and translator. Writes in Hindiand English. Published many books in original and in translation. Chiefeditor of Malini quarterly journal. He lives in Delhi.January-March 2010 :: 99

DiscourseTHE THEATRE ARISING FROMWITHIN THE STORYDevendra Raj AnkurTranslatedbySatya ChaitanyaEvery play has a story in it and every story, a play inside it.If we stretch this saying a little more, then we can say thatevery art is theatrical in its original form and conception. If thisis true, then why do we have to adapt the story into a separateplay? Is it because the play inside the story is in such abstractform that to bring it out in solid form it has to be adaptedinto a play? Is it because from the standpoint of the elementsof pure theatre, the story is an incomplete medium and in orderto take it to its fullness, we have to resort to the theatre? Isit because the birth of a new genre through the consonance ofthe separate structures and grammars of two genres contains drama?More important than the answers to these questions wouldbe trying to find out in what form and shape the theatre thatis already present inside the story exists in it. One theatre iswhat is visible in the various events of the story, in their sequenceand tensions and resolutions. A second theatre related to thisis born of the structure of the story, because each storyteller,in order to make his message as intelligible, as communicableand as effective as possible, weaves it with a singular warp andwoof, a singular pattern. The elements of both these theatres areessentially available in the narration of the story itself. But thereis also a theatre that takes place outside the story or apart fromit, and this process goes on at least at two levels-between the100 :: January-March 2010

storyteller and the listener, or elsebetween the reader and the story itself.If we go back to the birth of thestory, we see it is born originally outof the process of telling and listening.It will not be out of context to mentionhere that in fact the credit for the birthof the theatre goes to the tradition oftelling stories, in which over time theelement of acting out entered, meaninggradually the process of telling storiesgot converted into ‘showing’ stories. Thistelling-listening was a social process, inwhich the entire community participated.Even if the storyteller was a singleindividual, it is certain that those wholistened to it were always more thanone in number.In different parts of the country, wedo not even know for sure how manystyles of storytelling and listening existeven today, such as the Pandavani inMadhya Pradesh, Kirtan in Maharashtra,lai Haroba in Manipur, Batposh andPabuji ka Phadh in Rajasthan, Akhyanin Gujarat, and Alha Udal in Bundelkhand.Even if we do not go that far, the practiceof elders like grandpa and grandma tellingstories still exists in our families, thoughjoint families have no doubt been slowlyreduced to the point of extinction.All the styles and traditions ofstorytelling that have been referred toso far, beginning with ancient times totoday, are based on the oral narrationof stories. Here, stories are not writtenor printed in advance. It is also quitepossible that the storyteller is creatingthe story on the spot as he is tellingit, while he is passing through the processof narrating it, [if what is being toldis not known in advance], but what isworth mentioning is that a theatre andstage world of the story begins to takeshape here too. First of all there is thelive presence of the storyteller, his voice,his narrative style, his gestures, his facialexpressions and at times his suddenlystanding up spontaneously with the flowof the story, his beginning to dance,or beginning to act - meaning his reachingthe stage of ‘showing’ whatever he isnarrating. Even though the audience hasnothing concrete before them, don’t theysee that world of sight, don’t theyexperience it, and don’t they, throughthe medium of their immediate reactions,establish an inner relationship with thosenumerous characters and incidents? Thisis the theatre that might quite possiblynot be too far present in the story itselfbut depends on the art of the storytellerand the receptivity and imagination ofthe listener.A totally different form of thisexperience comes into being when thestory is available to the reader in writtenor printed form. No doubt, here theprocess of experience is diametricallyopposite, because whereas during thefirst process an entire community ispresent, in the second process this islimited to a single reader. In fact, eventhe living presence of the writer, creatoror narrator no more exists here. In placeJanuary-March 2010 :: 101

of words being spoken aloud, the readerin his solitude reads their silent presencewith his eyes, and perhaps also listensto them inside himself. But the visualuniverse of the story takes shape heretoo, even if it is only for that singlereader. If this process is given yet anothershape, where eiher the author himselfor someone else reads out that story,then that experience becomes a thirdpossibility between the extremes ofcommunity listening and the reading ofa published story in solitude.In brief, from the analysis so farit becomes entirely clear that thetheatricality of a story could be foundin the original composition itself, andin order to discover it, it is not at allnecessary to deform and distort the shapeof the story by transforming it into aplay. Since we are today concerned mainlywith modern composition of the storythat appears before us in the form ofpublished words, let us take ourdiscussion forward, keeping that in frontof us.All the different kinds of relationshipsconnected with stories that I have talkedabout so far are mostly in the contextof listening to and reading stories. Afresh new link in this relationship is‘seeing’ the story. One could ask if thelistener or the reader was not seeingthe story in the first two processes too.Of course he was seeing it, but thatseeing was as abstract and formless aswords themselves. Whereas in the firsttwo processes the reader or listener keepsseeing before the eyes of his mind apicture of the words he is hearing orreading, in this process, in contrast, hesees the story taking place before himin a solid, living and real form - hesees it, he hears it, and he as thoughreads it, along with the original wordsand form of the story. Without displacingthe grammar and mould of a visual genrelike the drama.Thus this process is of course thenext link in the experiences related tothe story, but at the same it is alsoin some way or other totally differentfrom them all. And this distinction, thisnewness and difference, is born fromthe entry of the actor in the place ofthe storyteller or writer, which neverbefore happened in any style or traditionof storytelling, and perhaps there wasno need for it either. After the comingof the actor, the story became mainlyacting out and not mere telling. It shouldbe underscored here that whereas a genrelike the story in its printed form remainedaddressed to a single individual, withthe intervention of the actor it was onceagain transformed into a communityexperience- and this is not by any meansa very small journey. And the mostsignificant aspect of this is that the storycompleted this journey on its own, andon its own terms, and from within itselfbrought to life a theatrical world forthe audience.It is natural to be curious about whatnew things begin to happen when anactor presents on the stage in its original102 :: January-March 2010

form a story that has been written andpublished - what are the new aspectsthat come into being in that processthat we call the emergence of the theatreof the story from within the story? Inorder to know this, in order to understandand experience this, what could be abetter alternative than to keep beforeus a few stories as examples and tryto create this theatrical world out ofthem?With this purpose in mind, I havetaken up Premchand’s Kafan [The Shroud]and Agyey’s Gangrene. The two storiesare totally different from each other intheir plot and structure. Whereas Kafandeals with the story of characters likeMadhav and Ghisu in the third personnarrative style, in Gangrene the firstperson narrator presents before us aheavy atmosphere filled with monotonyand sadness, and within that atmospherepresents before us pictures of themundane life of characters like Maltiand her husband and children.Kafan is divided into three parts–night, day and again night; The hut inwhich they live, the market and the liquorshop.This is how the story begins– A fatherand his son are sitting in silence in frontof a hut, before a fire that has diedout. Inside Budhia, the wife of the youngson, is writhing in labour pain. As shelies there, she lets out such bloodcurdlingcries that the hearts of both freeze. Itis a winter night, the world is envelopedin deep silence and the whole villagehas become one with darkness.If we transform the story into theatre,there will be no need to say any ofthe words in the above description. Wecan easily have a hut constructed, andhave a small died-out fire placed in frontof it; we can have from inside the huteither live cries of a woman in travailor the recordings of a woman’s crieson a tape recorder; and we can havein the middle of the whole scene thephysical actions and reactions of twopeople who are shivering in the cold.We can show all this happening in hazylight. But this whole visual world is amere depiction or reproduction of thenarration of the story. If the directoris very imaginative, he would deductone or two items from the above, oradd to them. There is no doubt thata play will be created by this, but thesights, feelings and drama that is naturallyavailable in the story in just words willbe more interesting and richer than this.But imagine we keep each word ofthis narration as it is without alteringany - then several alternatives openbefore us to transform them into atheatrical experience on the stage. Justtwo characters can sit in a corner ofthe stage and address this whole passageto the audience, or say it to each other.We can have three characters in placeof two - two men and a woman. Eachman can speak the narration related tohim, and the woman can say the narrationrelated to her. Another alternative isJanuary-March 2010 :: 103

that the woman can do the narrationrelated to the men, the men can dothe narration related to the woman, andthe narration related to the ambiencecould be done by all three together.In any case, whatever means we adoptto present this short scene in so manywords, apart from the presence of theactors on the stage, we do not requireany property or other external elementson the stage. The actor is now free andindependent as his own self, meaningwhatever he is– describer, storytelleror commentator or whatever– he is notthe character, unlike what happens rightfrom the beginning of a play.The next four paragraphs appear asconversation.“Ghisu said, ‘looks like she’ll notsurvive. It has been a whole day. Go,take a look. inside.’”“Madhav said, irritated, ‘If she hasto die, why doesn’t she die fast? Whatwill I do taking a look?’”“‘How pitiless you are! You spenta whole year in pleasure with her, andnow such callousness!’”“‘What am I to do? I can’t standher agony. I can’t watch her flingingher arms and legs about.’”Of the actors who were just tellingus the story, one says, “Ghisu said,”and instantly he gets transformed intoa character. The same kind ofdisplacement takes place in the othercharacter when he says, “Madhav said,irritated.” If we study the story so faron the basis of existing styles andtraditions or in the context of drama,it becomes perfectly clear that thetheatrical experience is totally differentfrom all these. Here we do not havejust a single narrator who keeps changinghis role, nor do we have a theatricaldevice like the sootradhar present, orthe invisible separation like that of awriter and the reader. In other words,we have the writer present here, andeach and every word of the story; wehave a team of two or three actors presenthere, and a stage - and on that muchis happening in the form of solid eventsfor the eye to see, but in spite of allthese, ‘there is the same amount of spaceand freedom for the imagination of thespectator, listener or reader. Don’t allthese things together make the stagepresentation of the story more dramatic?What more theatricality do we need ina story written in a third person narrativestyle than that the character is speakingabout himself, but keeping the role ofthe other person before him? The criticmight immediately respond by sayingthat this has already been demonstratedbefore us long ago by Brecht throughthe medium of techniques like alienation.They are quick to forget from whereBrecht took this technique: from the verysame story in which it was present fromthe beginning.This process of the transformationof the actor— at times pure storyteller,at times narrator, at times commentator,104 :: January-March 2010

and at times listener, spectator, readerand finally character— goes on constantlyfrom the first to the last scene, withan effortless, easy, natural flow. Withoutany prop, technique or grammar notbeing imposed upon its original formby force.I have deliberately chosen to clarifywhat I want to say by taking up a singleshort scene from Kafan. There wouldbe no point in taking up the whole storyto say this, nor will it be desirable.My intention was merely this: to enquireinto how a story, even when we do notmake any changes in the original words,on its own, assumes the form of a visualessay. Whatever stage-possibilities I havewritten about here are all there beforethe staging. It is possible that duringthe staging many other new things takeplace. And this possibility will alwaysbe there that another director will createsome other unknown magic even whilekeeping the story as it is. Since Agyey’sstory Gangrene is written in the firstperson narrative, it appears before usbringing with it a totally different worldof experience. The story begins like this:“The moment I set foot in that emptycourtyard in the afternoon, I sensed asthough the shadow of some curse ishovering over it. Something unspeakableand intangible but heavy, solid andquivering was spreading over it...”“As soon as she heard me approaching,Malti came out. Seeing me, recognisingme, her wilted facial expression bloomedjust a little in sweet amazement andthen became as before. She said, ‘Come,’and then, without waiting for an answerwalked inside. And I followed her.”“Reaching inside I asked, ‘Is he nothere?’”“‘Hasn’t come yet. He is in the office.Will be here in a short while. He usuallycomes around one-thirty or two.’”“‘How long has he been out?’”“‘He leaves as soon as he wakes upin the morning.’”“I said ‘Hmm,’ and then I was aboutto ask, ‘And what do you do all thewhile?’ but then I thought it was notright to question her the moment I came.I started looking around the room.”“Malti fetched a fan and startedfanning me. I objected and said, ‘No,I don’t need it.’ But she did not listento me and said, “Vah! How come? Youhave come from such hot sun. Here...’”“I said, ‘Okay, give it to me.’”“Perhaps she was about to say no.But at that moment she heard the soundof a baby crying in the other room andgave the fan to me without protest andputting her hands on her knees andsupporting herself, rose up and wentoutside, her exhaustion coming out ofher mouth in a ‘hmh’.”So this is the opening scene of thestory, which has been presented in thefirst person narrative using “I”. It isevident that the moment the change intothe ‘I” takes place, it is as though theJanuary-March 2010 :: 105

actor effortlessly produces the presenceof the author on the stage. Now twopaths are clearly open before him - shouldhe get into the role of becoming thecharacter from the beginning till theend, meaning should he merge himselftotally with the personality of the writer,or should he, instead of becoming thewriter, remain the actor that he is inreal life and along with it keep onperforming the role of the character inthe different situations presented by thestory? In which case, he will get moreopportunities to seek the possibilitiesof a second or third dimension in hisacting and present them.In the same way, what process ofacting should the other character Maltiadopt? Should she keep on behaving asasked by ‘Me’? Should she pick up somenarration from the story in hand andshare it by herself with the audience,even if it is about herself? Should theverbal narrations of the story betransformed into gestures of mundaneliving? It is certain whichever one ofthe above options we choose, its effectwill be to make the stage presentationof the story as imaginative and attractiveas possible.The two stories that have beendiscussed above have both narration anddialogue. But imagine a story in whichthere is only narration and no dialogue.How should the actor treat such a story?Should he treat it as a long monologueor as a long dialogue? But the challengebecomes even more complex if thenarration is not in the form of spokenwords. What I mean by not being inthe form of spoken words is that thewords are not the vehicle for thecharacter’s thoughts or memory. Becausethe words that are born in our mindor brain when we think about something,or when we remember something - canthose words have a tone? If yes, thenof what nature?Supposing we compare this with astory which is written exclusively indialogue, in which there is no separatenarration as such? Can we consider thata play? For instance, Ramesh Bakshi’sstory Talghar, or Krishna Baldev Vaid’sstory Sab Kucch Nahin or Krishna Sobti’sstory Aey Ladki. All three stories arewritten in dialogues - can we call themplays? What is it that, in spite of bothbeing in the dialogue style, makes onegenre story and the other, play? Is theessential nature of the dialogue appearingin stories the same as the essential natureof words used in the dialogue of a play?According to me, these are such pointsas can be helpful in the direction ofanalysing these two genres separately.It is necessary to have a briefdiscussion or analysis here from the pointof what the contributions of other theatreelements like music, lighting, costumeand so on are in the stage presentationof a story. If the story depends toomuch on these aspects, will it not ceaseto be a story and become a play?Remember that experience in which acommunity of listeners or readers,106 :: January-March 2010

listening to or reading Kafan andGangrene, create for themselves thevisual universe hidden in it. This visualuniverse is different for each listeneror reader, including the music, lighting,costume and so on, and has its ownindependent existence and identity. Onthe contrary in the stage presentationof a play, the moment all those elementsare seen in concrete form, the samesingle picture and imagery is createdfor the entire community of audience- meaning, in spite of there being nothingpresented on stage in the story,everything is present in it; and in theplay in spite of everything being present,what it does is to limit the expansesof our vision and imagination.For this reason the discussion ofwhether in the staging of a story theatricalelements have been used or not appearsmeaningless to a large extent. If whilereading a story it can create in ourmind and in our brain its impact, thereis no reason why when we see it happeningon the stage in exactly the same form,this impact will not be created.It has also been seen many timesthat when a story has been read in theprinted form it is not discussed widely,but when it reaches people through themedium of the stage, the audience isinvariably affected by its impact. It doesnot happen just like that - it happensdue to all those elements that transformthe story into a stage experience. Inthis process the words of the writer doget recognition, but the actor too getsthe opportunity to come to the forebringing with him all his competenciesand potentials. If all these are possibleby presenting on stage the story in itsoriginal form or as the theatre emergingfrom it on its own, then why wouldit be essential to transform the storyinto a play and present it on stage -what will be the meaning and fitnessof doing so?Devendra Raj Ankur, Renowned theatre academician, writer and formerdirector of National School of Drama. He initiated the movement ofpresenting short stories on stage without disturbing their content andform. Has written numerous books on the subject kahani ka rangmanch.Ankur has directed any number of plays, short stories and novelson stage. To name a few, andher nagri, mrichhkatikam, akeli, anaro,wapsi, usne kaha tha, kafan, poos ki raat, malbe ka malik, dajyu,mahabhoj, ajnabi beech bahas mein, ai ladki etc. He is professor atNational School of Drama. He lives in New Delhi.Satya Chaitanya, born 1952, he has his management consultancy. Heis visiting professor at XLRI and several other management studies’ institutions.He knows Hindi, Malayalam, Sanskrit and English and translates multilingually.He lives in Jamshedpur.January-March 2010 :: 107

DiscourseDALITS AND DALIT LITERATURE :SOME CRITICAL ISSUESSubhash SharmaVarious sociologists have underlined the relationship between literatureand society through mediation in different ways. Adorno emphasizedmore on aesthetics while Herbert Marcuse focused on philosophicaldimensions of existence. Leo Lowenthal views literature as an historicalstore of individual experiences that are influenced by social contexts.To him, the life experiences gained from literature are both individualas well as socio-historical as a writer either supports or opposesthe historical conditions of his time and place. He also valued thepopular literature. Unlike empiricists, he does not propose a sociologyof production and distribution nor accepts literature as an institution.He focuses on class basis of text under production aspect, socialcontext under distribution aspect, and readers’ reception to the textunder consumption aspect. Lucien Goldmann emphasises on worldvision that is inherent in the life of social class but is expressedin philosophy, art and literature only. Therefore, according to him,the search for world vision begins in the study of a text, not inthe study of a class. But he has not given due importance to authorwho is simply a medium (for him). But, in practice, a writer’sunderstanding, vision and stand has a significant bearing on the depictionof social reality.The terms ‘dalit’ and ‘dalit literature’ are highly contentious andcontroversial. What is dalit literature? Its answer depends more onthe perspective and attitude of replier (subjectivity) than on theobjectivity. Om Prakash Valmiki, a dalit Hindi writer, in his book“ Dalit Sahitya Ka Saundarya Shashtra” 1 (Aesthetics of Dalit Literature),108 :: January-March 2010

propounds that the situations of uncertaintyin the minute wearing of idealismstrengthen only the statusquoism and themasks of idealism desharpen the strugglefor fundamental change. There he criticisesvarious critics of Hindi literature to whomto be a born dalit is not mandatory forwriting dalit literature. He quotes KashinathSingh: “ To write about horse, one neednot be a horse”. But he disagrees withSingh saying that one may write aboutouter features of a horse (gait, organsof body, buttocks, voice) only, not histiredness, hunger, thirst, pain and feelingsabout his master-these are exclusively inthe internal domain of the horse. However,Valmiki escapes from answering the keyquestion: how will the horse expresshimself? Similarly how can an illiterateperson express his feelings in writing?Though, at least theoretically, one maysay that even an illiterate person mayexpress orally (oral tradition is rich inthe forms of folk songs, folk dances, puzzles,sayings etc) yet it is further relevant toask why most of the literate persons don’twrite creatively or why most of the illiteratepersons don’t express orally? Thesequestions clearly indicate that literatureprimarily requires a certain kind and levelof creativity and artistry, which is usuallynot expressed by all human beings.However, for elaboration, Valmikifurther quotes S.S.Bechain, “Dalit is onewho has been given the status of a scheduledcaste” 2 , But Kanwal Bharti goes one stepfurther “Dalit is one upon whom the ruleof untouchability has been imposed, whois compelled to do hard and dirty work;who was prevented from getting educationand doing independent profession and uponwhom the touchables imposed the codeof disabilities: herein only those castesare included who are called ScheduledCastes” 3 . Mohan Das Naimishrai thinks dalitsto be almost equivalent to Marx’s proletariat,but he finds the term dalit broaderas it includes social, religious, economicand political exploitation whereas the termproletariat is limited to only economicexploitation. Therefore, to him, the proletariatis basically the victim of economicinequality whereas dalit is basically thevictim of social inequality. Thus dalits arethose who are on the lowest ladder ofa hierarchical social system. Narayan Surve,a Marathi dalit poet, broadens the termdalit by including not only Bauddha orbackward castes, but also all the victims.Another dalit Marathi writer, Baburao Bagul,thinks that the term dalit signifies revolution.To social scientist E.Zelliot, theterm dalit implies, “those who have beenbroken, ground down by those who areabove them in a deliberate and activeway. There is in the word itself an inherentdenial of pollution, Karma and justifiedcaste hierarchy” 4 . To Rajendra Yadav,in addition to untouchables even womenand backward castes, are dalits. ButS.S.Bechain disagrees with him “By this(including women and backwards) thecorrect picture does not emerge in literature.Dalit literature is the literatureof those untouchables who do not getJanuary-March 2010 :: 109

espect socially. The harassment of those,who are victims of caste discriminationat social level, is expressed in words andis becoming dalit literature” 5 . Similarlyanother dalit writer Kanwal Bharti definesdalit literature as one in which “dalitshave themselves expressed their painwhatsoever reality dalits have experiencedin their life-struggle, dalit literature is aliterature in that expression. It is not anart for art’s sake but literature for lifeand desire to live. So, needless to say,in reality, only the literature written bydalits forms the category of dalit literature”6 . Again another dalit writer, C.B.Bhartidefines it in this way: “It is a broad,scientific, realistic, sensitive literary intervention.Whatsoever logical, scientific,free from the prejudices of tradition isliterary creation, we call it dalit literature” 7 .Further to Baburao Bagul, “Dalit literatureis the literature that accepts the liberationof man, that accepts man as great andthat opposes the greatness of dynasty,varna and caste” 8 .O.P. Valmiki criticises two categoriesof non-dalit writers’ views regarding dalitliterature. First view does not accept theexistence of dalit literature-thus it is biasedwith anti-dalit varna-caste mentality.Second view accepts the existence of dalitliterature but opines that its forefathers/leaders were ‘savarnas’ (higher casteHindus). To him, the second category ismore dangerous than the first, becauseit does not think essential for dalit writingsto be done by a born dalit writer. Similarly,he also criticises a section of dalit writerswho consider dalit literature as disgracefulbecause by writing autobiographies, dalitwriters are expressing themselves-theseautobiographies entertain the non-dalitreaders, on the one hand, and createinferiority complex among the dalits, onthe other. But, Valmiki calls them ‘Brahmanicdalits’ who grab the benefits ofreservation provided under Indian Constitutiondue to the efforts of B.R.Ambedkartheycompete to become ‘Brahmans’ andtheir ideational infertility makes themopportunists. To him, dalit writers tookinspiration from the autobiography of B.R.Ambedkar ‘Me Kasa Jhalo’ (How I WasMade) and developed the genre of autobiographythat showed the mirror tosociety. Therefore, he is of the opinionthat dalit writers should make a thoroughstudy of the available non-dalit literaturedespite disagreement and ideologicalopposition, only then they can reach atcertain conclusions. Second, dalit literatureshould stand like a hard wall againstinjustice, exploitation, oppression and socialinequalities, only then its social responsibilityand ideological commitment wouldbe proved.Thus most of dalit writers considerdalit literature as one written by dalitsthemselves. To put it differently, it is aliterature ‘of dalits, for dalits and by dalits’!However, both terms dalit and dalitliterature, are contentious. The term ‘dalit’is a generalistic category but in realityan identity is rooted in history as a ‘specific’110 :: January-March 2010

category, not as a general category. InIndia, it is historically proved that ‘specificidentities’ (in terms of sub-caste, community,residence, dynasty, language, etc)have existed. Therefore ‘dalit’ as an umbrellaterm for all scheduled castes does notfit in the actual social reality. Second,there has been major social changes interms of ‘upward’ and ‘downward’ mobilityamongst various castes. Some untouchablecastes, in due course of history, wereaccepted as ‘savarna’ and, on the otherhand, some upper castes lost their prestigeand position in the caste/varna hierarchy.For instance, Nadars in Tamil Nadu andEdawas in Kerala took the benefit of upwardmobility and discarded their previousuntouchable status. Similarly in SouthBihar(now Jharkhand) and Bengal Cherosand Bhuians became Rajputs in early 19 thcentury. Here the lesson learnt is thatif an untouchable caste discards itstraditional (dirty) occupation and takesup modern occupation, it improveseconomic status and is linked to the powerstructure, its social status may changefrom untouchable to touchable one. Third,there occur intra-dalit conflicts due tooppositional interests between differentex-untouchable sub-castes (due to specificidentities). A cobbler boy would not liketo freely mix-up (sitting and diningtogether) with a sweeper boy, not to sayof inter-marrying between these two specificdalit sub-castes. Fourth, for taking benefitof protective discrimination (reservationof jobs, seats in educational institutions,stipend) most of the ex-untouchables usetheir ‘specific identity’ (sub-caste) and aftertaking the benefit, talk of ‘general dalitidentity’ elsewhere; thus there exists somekind of ambivalence and dualism on thepart of most of dalits in this regard. Fifth,it is not true that these dalits have alwaysbeen the sufferers and deprived in everyway in all aspects in all regions in India:for example, Dusadhs in North Bihar,Bhars/Rajbhars in eastern U.P., Cheros andBandhawats in Chhotanagpur (Jharkhand)and others in different parts of India inmedieval period have been the rulers.Finally, it is also evident in different partsof India that after taking the benefit ofprotective discrimination, many of the dalitswith higher prestige/post try to distancethemselves from their community masses(both general and specific identities) onthe one hand and try to be closer tothe elites of the upper castes, on the other,due to some form of ‘sanskritisation’. Thistendency also falsifies the generalistic dalitidentity.As far as the issue of dalit literatureis concerned, the position taken by mostof the dalit writers ‘of, for and by thedalits’ is also not acceptable because offollowing reasons:In O.P. Valmiki’s view, dalit literaturehas following features:(a) Dalit literature requires aseparate aesthetics and it will add to theaesthetics of Hindi literature. Dalit literatureis a ‘literature of negation’, born fromJanuary-March 2010 :: 111

the struggle and revolt and there is equality,freedom and fraternity, on the onehand, and opposition to caste and varna 9 ,on the other.(b) It is optimistic for a better lifein future, despite adverse circumstancesitis a ‘literature of future’ 10 .(c) Earlier during Bhakti movementperiod there were saint poets from amongstdalits, but they had no dalit consciousnessfor social change. Similarly during 1960-90 some dalit writers were active witha class perspective, away from the caste/varna struggle, and they were day-dreamingwithout real dalit concerns, hence theirwritings don’t fit in dalit literature 11 . Dalitconsciousness requires acceptance of B.R.Ambedkar’s philosophy, Buddha’s atheismand non-existence of soul, and oppositionto feudalism, Brahmanism and communalism12 . It tries to redefine the idealsand outcomes of Hindi literature 13 ..(d) Self-experience is the key todalit literature-expression without fetters.It emphasises on the intention and contentof writing, not the form and style. It negatesimaginary standards 14 .(e) In dalit literature there is notmerely a copy of reality but realistic recreationof ordinary characters in ordinarycircumstances 15 . Here philosophical andartistic show is not needed.(f) Dalit writers struggle on twofronts: first, their poverty-ridden settlementsand darkness therein; second, theouter system that has poisoned their lifethrough social inequalities and discrimination16 .(g) Dalit literature is against theincarnation of gods and god-like heroeswho are protectors of Brahmans, but antiwomenand anti-dalit, they are war-lovers.It treats past as a black chapter. Hencedalit literature focuses on the greatnessof every individual 17 . It re-establishes Karna,Shambuk and Eklavya as true heroes whowere ill-treated in mainstream literature.(h) Dalit literature criticises the inegalitarianland distribution 18 and relatedissues like panchayati raj system, whichin the view of Ambedkar, is ‘the workshopof casteism and varna system’.(i) Dalit literature negates sanskritisedlanguage and its poetics, rather it useseasy and simple Hindi language, whichis used by the common people in everydaylife. Dalit literature does not mind usingabuses and bitter words- it negates thetraditional principles of ‘purity’ and ‘greatness’in literature because it considerspurity and greatness in language as artificialand elitist 19 .First, as Marx and George Lukacs haverightly observed that a top rate literaryproduction is done only when the writertranscends his class. This is to say, hehas to ‘declass’ himself. In Indian context,in addition, it is required of a writer to‘decaste’ himself, as in western contextit is required of him to ‘derace’ himself.It is very interesting to note that mostof dalit writers criticize non-dalit writersfor being biased, for seeing thing ‘fromabove’, for justifying the hierarchical varna/ caste system, therefore they demand,112 :: January-March 2010

in different ways, that non-dalit writersshould ‘decaste’ themselves in order tograsp the nuances of dalit experience aswell as dalit perspective. But, unfortunately,they themselves do not ‘decaste’,rather they portray one-sided hyperbolic,narrow and limited picture of social realityand experience. Thus most of dalit writerspractise ‘reverse caste discrimination’.Second, if non-dalits’ writings arecondemned on superficial grounds (say,the use of term’ Chamar’ by Premchandin his novel ‘Rangbhumi’ led to the burningof his significant social novel ‘Rangbhumi’by several dalit writers in 2004 in Delhi)or on the ground that non-dalits haveno moral right to write abut dalits, dalitliterature being the privilege and ‘exclusivecopy right’ of the dalits – the domainof dalit literature would be narrower,limited, one-dimensional, uncritical andnon-creative due to lack of dialogue betweendifferent conflicting views / perspectives.And thus this tendency is highly harmfulto the literary creation in general andto dalit literature in particular.Third, most of the dalit literature islimited to autobiographies (and to someextent short stories) based on childhoodexperience of several decades long longago. Thus instead of portraying the contemporarysocio-economic and politicalreality realistically, they depict outdatedso-called self-experiences.Fourth, with a narrow and limited worldview,Hindi dalit writers have not beenable to write quality literature in generaland quality novels in particular as a noveldepicts the whole life in an era, mostof dalit writers have not been successfulin depicting a great novel. Differentcharacters speak differently on a specificissue as happens in true life-situations.As a noted critic Ian Watts rightly observesthat reality lies in the way in which anovel presents the kind of life (‘how’ ratherthan ‘what’). But most of dalit literaturedoes not go beyond ‘what’.Fifth, most of dalit writers focus oncaste as ‘a prime mover of social behaviour’,‘a powerful force conditioning social mindsetof dalits’ (Punalekar). Thus for them casteis an all-pervasive institution- it determinesthe position and direction of Hindusociety, hence the entire society issubsumed by the caste, and other aspectslike economic, political and cultural aresecondary and subsidiary to the caste.But it is not true historically. Sometimespolitical factor, sometimes cultural factor,sometimes economic factor and sometimessocial (caste) factor, or more than onefactor, becomes decisive in Indian society.Actually there lies a dynamic and dialecticalrelationship between these facetsof life. Therefore dalits ‘ view of castedeterminism (society in caste) is not alwaystenable in practice. Many dalit writerslike Baburao Bagul are of the view thatin India the Hindu view of life is allpervasive-evennon-Hindus’ (Christians,January-March 2010 :: 113

Muslims, Sikh, Bauddhas, Jains etc)mentality is likewise believing in soul,rebirth, sin, reincarnation etc. Hence theydeclare the entire Indian literature as ‘Hinduliterature’ 20 . Bagul further observes: “Powerstruggle,victory-defeat, sublimation of thevictorious and devilisation of the defeatedis the specificity of the culture and literatureof Hindu society” 21 . He further adds thatthe form of Indian democracy is ordinarilycasteist, a caste in majority rules in anarea and once reaching the top of thepolitical power, that caste finds the powerof religion conducive. He observes: “Thosewho see the sorrow, providers of sorrowand the guardians of sorrow-givers, theirwritings were expressed in the form of‘parallel literature’ in Hindi. It is strangethat ‘dalit literature’ in Marathi and ‘parallelliterature’ in Hindi came at the same time” 22 .But these observations are not fullycorrect. In fact, the entire Indian literatureis not Hindu literature. There have alwaysbeen different types of Hindi literatureand the ‘parallel literature’ (especiallystories of Rajendra Yadav, Kamleshwar,Mohan Rakesh and Madhukar Singh) hasbeen different from the mainstream literature.Two verses from Sanskrit literature,the classical ancient language of India,also support my point: First verse says:Let all be happy, let all be disease-free,let all see…“Sarve Bhavantu Sukhinah, SarveSantu Niramayah,Sarve Bhadrani Pashyantu, MaKashchit dukh bhagbhaveta”.Second verse says: Ayam NijahParovetti Gadna Laghuchetsam,Udar charitanam tu vasudhaivakutumbakam.(This is mine, that is yours, is thetendency of a small person; to great personsthe entire earth is their family). Furtheran ancient book ‘Vajrasuchi’ (by Aswaghosh)written in Sanskrit has been quite revoltingand liberating.These two Sanskrit verses composedin ancient period clearly see all as humanbeings only, not as ‘we’ versus ‘they’. Thatis, there is neither religious considerationnor caste consideration, neither powerstruggle nor victory-defeat consideration.No doubt there has been caste discriminationin India in theory and practice,yet caste does not encompass everything.Had the society been absolutely rigid, howthere were processes of upward anddownward mobility in the caste hierarchy,change of castes, emergence of new castesin an era and disappearance of old castesin another and different status of differentcastes in different parts of India (in someparts higher status, in other parts lowerstatus). Further some ancient scriptureslike Manusmriti talked of discriminationin the arena of occupation, education, law,economy and polity on the basis of Varnabut Varna was textual while caste wascontextual.Sixth, it is not out of context to mention114 :: January-March 2010

here that most of dalit writers are intolerantto others writing about dalits. Thoughsome of the dalit characters of Premchand(say Ghisu-Madhav in his story ‘Kafan’)have not struggled and revolted againstthe prevailing system, his other dalitcharacters (like Surdas in his novel‘Rangbhumi’ or Siliya in ‘Godan’, or dalitwoman in ‘ghaswali’) have taken a strongstand against exploitation of various sortsranging from individual to gender tocommunity to the nation. One cannot forgetthe fighting spirit of Surdas against thecolonial system, bureaucracy and capitalisticindustrialisation. He fully understandsthat he lost the struggle becauseof disunity against the united enemies(British empire and Indian capitalist class)but he declares he will fight again andagain unitedly as well as re-construct hishut again and again. Thus Surdas is likemodem Raidas (respected by all).Premchand took a stand for dalits’ all roundliberation (social, economic and political)and went beyond treating them sympathetically,rather applied empathy. ButPremchand too was marked by limitationsof that era, and it has to be kept in mindto be fair to him. As Sadanand Shahi rightlyobserves: “It was not Premchand’s faultthat by his age Kabir had reached thereto give consolation to Ghisu-Madhav (of‘Kafan’ story), not Ambedkar. Thereforeit seems to me that protest to ‘Kafan’(by dalit writers) means protest to Kabir” 23 .Seventh, dalit literature, especially inHindi, has been less creative, artistic andimaginative rather more vocal, bold andaggressive. The so-called self-experiencepervades at the cost of creativity andaesthetics. Often populistic slogans, abuses,emotional outbursts, opposition for oppositionsake, revengeful depiction of uppercaste characters, fatwas to non-dalitcharacters, repetition, depiction of outdatedpractices as present ones and thusthese dalit writers make dalit literaturemore a ‘natural stock’ or ‘raw materials’of sociology than artistic literary creation.As Manager Pandey perceptively remarks.“Literature is an art and it takes timeto mature. Having feeling is not enough... The quality of literature that has atradition of five thousand years can notbe sought in the literature of dalits thathas barely any past. On the other hand,the dalit should understand that literatureis an art” 24 . Further Lowenthal in histhree books ‘Literature, Popular Cultureand Society’, ‘Literature and Image of Man’,and ‘The Art of Narrative and Society’rightly emphasises that in creative literatureexperience of reality and a perspectiveto it is more significant than depictionof reality. He rightly disagreed with WalterBenjamin’s observation that in history onlythe voice of the victorious is expressed– to him, actually in true art often thevoice of the defeated and desire of theirvictory are expressed in history.Eighth, most of dalit writers have alimited vision and worldview, hence theywrite/publish second rate autobiographiesor third rate novels. O.P. Valmiki’s ‘Juthan’January-March 2010 :: 115

is a third rate autobiography but it gotundeserving publicity inside and outsideIndia due to media hype and promotionby some western scholars with an imperialisticview of dividing Indian writerson the basis of caste. Thus though thereis more public space for dalit writers (manyjournals have fixed columns for dalitdiscourse, or have published special issueson dalits like ‘Hans’ and ‘Kathadesh’) yetthere is no depth. Actually any creativeliterature requires ‘internal, essential andindivisible unity between form and content’(Lowenthal), but most of dalit writers harpon content at the cost of form.Ninth, most of dalit writers havedeliberately ignored the intra-caste conflictand gender conflicts among dalits intheir writings because then they wouldbe exposed from within at various levels.Dalit writers like Dharmvir have been antidalitwomen due to his feudal mentalityto condemn dalit women. But KaushalyaVaishyantri (‘Dohra Abhishap’) has shownthat dalit woman also suffers from malechauvinism at the hands of dalits themselves.Actually a dalit woman has triplecurses: economic (poverty), social (untouchability)and gender (patriarchy).Tenth, most of the dalit writers areintolerant to criticism and are ‘victimsof immediacy’ (‘here and now’- asphenomenologists call). They are almostblind followers of dalit politicians (especiallyB.R. Ambedkar), hence their thinkingand understanding is not broadened. Arevolutionary writer shows the way tothe politicians and others ( literature asa guide) but dalit writers have been playinga role secondary to dalit politicians. Theyare victims of ‘identity politics’ too butin reality national culture remains alwaysgreater than the sum total of sub-cultures(identities), though I recognise the freeplay of great / national and local / littlecultures at a given place and time, bothhaving autonomous as well as interdependentspheres.Finally, as I have shown elsewherein detail after analysing four Hindi novels(by Premchand, Ugra, Giriraj Kishore andJagdish Chandra) to realistically depictdalit characters in a novel, it does notseem to be necessary for the writer tobe a born dalit. Rather his world visionand the capacity to empathise with thedalits by transcending his social (caste)and economic (class) backgrounds canprove to be helpful for enabling him incarrying out his mission 25 . Actually certainkinds of mediation are required fordepiction. That is why Raymond Williamsemphasises on social totality, mediationand hegemony. His ‘cultural materialism’focuses more on generation than on socialstructure, community than class, andexperience than ideology.However, to be fair, one may saythat dalit writing is a facet of a broaderdemocratisation of Hindi literature in termsof number, voice of dissent, and coverageof some unexplored areas. The inclusive-116 :: January-March 2010

ness and perspective from below is leadingtowards a new social process of creativitywith a ‘Paradigm Shift’ from ‘objects ofwriting’ to ‘subjects of writing’. This isan appreciable tendency but they shouldnot only welcome and tolerate criticismfrom outside (non-dalits) but should alsodo introspection and self-criticism so thata matured and critical dalit-writing mayflourish in Hindi literature. Dalit writershave to broaden their perception aboutnon-dalits writing about dalits, becauseultimately the range and depth of art mattersthe most in creative writing, in the interestof the dalits as well as Hindi literature.Actually, following Mikhail Bakhtin, wemay conclude that neither the internalworld of the creative writing is fully selfdependentnor fully dependent on externalworld, rather the dichotomy of internaland external worlds is false. The dialogicallanguage, creative communication andimagination are the essential pillars ofcreative literature, but unfortunately mostof dalit literature lacks these qualities.1. O.P.Valmiki (2001),”Dalit Sahitya KaSaundarya Shastra”, RadhakrishnaPrakashan Pvt.Ltd., New Delhi.2. Ibid, P.133. Ibid, P.134. E.Zelliot (1996),”From Untouchableto Dalit”, Manohar Publications, New Delhi.P.2675. Cited in O. P. Valmiki, op. cit, P.156. Ibid PP 14-157. Ibid P.158. Ibid. P.169. Ibid P.1610. Ibid P.2111. Ibid P.3012. Ibid. P.3113. Ibid. P.3314. Ibid. P.5015. Ibid. P.5916. Ibid .P.6817. Ibid. P.7418. Ibid. P.7919. Ibid. P.8120. Baburao Bagul (2003), “DalitSahitya”, Vasudha, NO.58, July-September,P.2821. Ibid, P.2422. Ibid, P.3823. Sadanand Shahi (2005), “BhartiyaSamaj Mein Dalit Ki Davedari: PremchandSandarbh”, Vartman Sahitya, July, 2005,P.8924. Manager Pandey, (2005), “HindiCurriculum with a Perspective of Dalit Studies”,in Arun Kumar & Sanjay Kumar (eds),“Dalit Studies in Higher Education,” DeshkalPublication, Delhi.25.Subhash Sharma,(2009), “Text andContext: A Sociological Analysis of DalitCharacter in Hindi Novels”, Hindi, July-Sept,2009.Subhash Sharma, born 1959, educated in J.N.U., author of ten booksincluding books in English ‘why people protest, dialectics of agrariandevelopment.’ His main interest include culture, environment, educationand development. He works in Ministry of Defence and lives in NewDelhi.January-March 2010 :: 117

DiscourseOBSERVATIONS ON DHARAMVIRBHARATI’S‘SURAJ KA SATVAN GHODA’Avirup GhoshThe most successful stories are those that tell themselves.Themost telling of all tales are those that, instead of evoking anillusory world of fiction around the reader, question the validityand veracity of reality itself and thereby erase the fine, fecundline that separates fact from fiction. By drawing attention to themateriality and palpability of its own medium and by dissolvingits metaphorical and symbolic devices into its narrative synchronicity,Dharamvir Bharati’s Suraj Ka Satvan Ghoda makes it difficult totell where facts end and fiction begins. To any reader it is abouttelling stories that eventually get written. To any reader whois acquainted with critical terminology, it is an acute instanceof metafiction in Indian literature. To any critic armed with weaponsof literary and extra-literary jargons, it is a canvas on whichshades and not colours are played off against one another. Butsomehow, in spite of being unconventional and somewhatidiosyncratic, the story remains essentially simple.The part of the difficulty that is produced during a readingof Suraj Ka Satvan Ghoda is the fact that an ordinary reader,much like a critic, would pay more attention to the form of thestory, rather than its content. In critical terms, the ‘sujet’ gainsa pre-eminence over the ‘fable’ that is automatic and perhapsdeliberate. At the heart of the novel we have the character ManekMullah, who is also the storyteller. He is only a character inhis own stories and stands out of them when he is telling them.118 :: January-March 2010

There is, obviously, a lapse in timebetween the events that he narrates andthe here-and-now when he narrates them.We may say that with the passage oftime his emotions have been recollectedin relative tranquillity. Let us map outsome of the co-ordinates of this storytelling/writingprocess: why does Manektell his stories? How does he chooseto tell them? And finally, is he reallytelling from his own experiences? Of thesequestions, the issue of narration wouldbe the most tempting one for critics.In spite of the impression that SurajKa Satvan Ghoda is largely anexperimental frame narrative whoseemployment of metafictional strategiesleads it towards post-modernistictendencies, follows a conventionalnarrative order. This can be validatedby Manek Mullah’s own preference forthe Aristotelian legacy. He defines ‘thebeginning’ as that which is preceded bynothing and is followed by ‘the middle’;‘the middle’ as that which is precededby ‘the beginning’ and is followed by‘the end’; and, ‘the end’ as that whichis preceded by ‘the middle’ and is followedby nothing. To logically extend Manek’sposition is to infer that a story issomething that is situated betweennothing and nothing. What then is thisalchemy that links nothing unto nothingand impregnates it with fires of creation?The story is chronological. The authorchooses to present it as told by Manekwithout moral injunctions. The author,like Manek, is split into two- the observant,often-commenting listener who, alongwith Omkar and Shyam, is lured by thestoryteller and his tales; and the objectivereporter of the stories as told by Manek.The sequence of events clarifies thechronology. The women who come andgo in Manek’s life— Jamuna, Lily andSatti- form the lynchpin around whichthe stories turn and advance. They arechapters in Manek’s life which is somewhatcomplicated by the fact that one chapterspills over on the next and competewith each other, figuratively, forprominence and impression. An episodebegins before another has ended. Thecharacters mostly know each other andare even related: Manek feels anunconscious adolescent attraction forJamuna; Jamuna loves Tanna; Tannamarries Lily with whom Manek hadestablished an idealised sort of love;Tanna’s father, Mahesar Dalal is crazedwith Satti whom Manek loves but, whenthe time comes, cannot muster courageenough to save her. The impression thatwe get from the inter-relationship ofthe characters is one of a microcosmthat represents a larger theatre wherethe subjects of love, betrayal, guilt and,most importantly, humanity are playedout.Perhaps a lot of people will recognizethat Suraj Ka Satvan Ghoda is a lovestory in spite of Manek’s warning againstthe inanity of what he calls the ‘negativelove story’ scheme. (The despair andthe sense of loss can only be diminishedafter the sufferer has lived through themJanuary-March 2010 :: 119

and refined them into art or maxims.)The three women in Manek’s life representthree different kinds of love. The strangefascination that grips Manek suddenlyone day for the same Jamuna with whomhe grew up can be ascribed to friendlylove devoid of sexual content or evenpossessiveness.The idealised relationshipbetween Lily and Manek is transcendentaland a figment of beautiful impossibility—an impassioned celebration of a moment’sdivinity. There are, on the other hand,sensuous overtones in the way Satti isdescribed which evinces the mildphysicality in Manek’s attraction towardsher intertwined with thrill of dangerembodied in the perpetual presence ofher knife. The three women fade in andout of Manek’s memory but retain aghostly presence in his consciousness.The ‘bildungsroman’ evolves through aseries of experiences of economical,societal and personal shifts and as Manekgoes along he lives his story, or stories,writing and re-writing it, always halfconsciousthat he is a character in anovel.In Satyajit Ray’s Apur Sansar (TheWorld of Apu), Apu tells his friend aboutthe strange, enchanted novel that heis writing, apparently based on his ownlife. But we find later in the film thathis life becomes so intense andincandescent with vicissitudes swathedin episodes out of his novelisticconception that he disseminates hismanuscripts from the top of a hill. Thepages that contained bits and pieces ofhis life, imagined and lived, scatter floatand descend like pollen-grains and atthat moment of intersection of life andfiction, reality and romance, an acuteperception is affected. Life, with all ofits ontological cliches, is meaningful butthat meaning is lifeless in spite of art’sconstant effort to re-vitalise it and exhumesome essence whereby the great dualityof mutability and immortality may beresolved. And it is a situation wherethe protagonist stares straight into adarkness of incomprehensibility. At onepoint in Suraj Ka Satvan Ghoda, Manekfinds it difficult to express his love forSatti and briefly considers resorting tohis poetic abilities to convey his feelings.But poetry is a language that Satti hardlyunderstands and her painfully sensitiverendition of songs drowns the artistryin Manek’s poetry. Even Manekacknowledges the superiority of Satti’ssinging in terms of emotional impact.One day, when he is on his way to apublisher with the intention to get hispoems (originally intended for Satti)published Manek is interrupted by Satti.This has an emblematic valence becauseit suggests a momentous instance whenart is over-powered by life. In the end,Manek’s love poems remain unpublished,perhaps destroyed by their creator, withtraces of them as residual remains inhis mind: when asked to recite, he beginsbut is unable to recollect. Manek Mullahdoes not write his story; he tells it.He may have forgotten his poems butnot his story. Why does he tell it?120 :: January-March 2010

Tennessee Williams’ The GlassMenagerie begins with a stage darkenedand the narrator Tom Wingfield emergingfrom that darkness to tell his story (or‘history’) which has sat on his soul likea heavy load and has become increasinglyburdensome with the itinerary of timebecause it is a story of guilt un-atoned,guilt half-understood. Like Conrad’s LordJim, it is a story of abandonment andcrisis. When Tom ends his story he askshis sister Laura, whispering unto thepast, as it were, to blow out the candle,to terminate memory. Manek’s act oftelling his stories should be seen notjust as an effort to ease his guilt— aninvocation to Mnemosyne— and cometo terms with his past but also, moreimportantly, his attempt at understandingthe deeper mysterious patterns of hislife. Once understood, they can be thawedinto didactic conclusions with socialmeanings and dressed in the garbs ofMarxism to cater to the disciplines ofsociological thought. Manek’s insistenceon morals and didacticism acts as a cuefor story-telling and an excuse forobjectivity but with the completion ofthe story-cycle, and with the explanationof the significance of the title of thestory, an emphasis on meaning returnsand it is not entirely personal: at theend Manek’s story is connected with theexperience of the lower-middle class,their daily struggle with things beyondand within their control. But life goeson, Manek seems to say. There issomething that drives life forwardthrough the sound and fury of the world.It may be the Hegelian historical agencyor the evolutionism of the socialDarwinists; the Platonic yearning for theForms or the Shelleyan imagination: thereis no doubt that it is a kind ofconsciousness that is always manifestingand re-incarnating itself in time, spaceand memory. It is embodied in the figuresof the future, the child of Tanna, thechild of Jamuna. The allegorical soundingphrase ‘seventh horse of the sun’ bringsto mind a plethora of myths includingSocrates’ allusion to the symbolic horsesdrawing the chariot of the soul inPhaedrus. Within the story it also recallsthe horse-carriage driver Ramdhan, abriefly outlined but significant characterwhose assistance to Jamuna in time ofher need can be seen as either humanisticor symptomatic of climbing the socialand economical ladders. The formerinterpretation is the dominant one, nodoubt. It is a strategic play on the partof Manek Mullah to untie the meaningof his story from its specificity in hisown life and free it to the realms ofuniversal humanity. In other words, theexplication of the myth of the seventhhorse is devised to take the readers intoseveral directions of history, mythmaking,philosophy and obviouslystorytelling.The reliability and legitimacy of hisstory is brought into question by Manekhimself. If we discuss the pragmaticaspect of the story, we can clearly seethat the story is a purgative medium:January-March 2010 :: 121

y telling it, Manek purges his memoriesand he purges the literary consciousnessof his audience that is dominated bythe romance genre (such as SharatChandra Chatterji’s Devdas). If the storyis ‘true’, it is evident that Manek’s betrayalof Satti and her supposed death pusheshim to the edge of despair and fills himwith existentialist angst and incapacitateshim toward any positive exploration ofhis life because it forces him to lookinward, into his own self, severed fromthe ordinary ties with society and friends,and confront the shadows in the darkwoods of Dante’s Inferno. It is only afterhe realizes that Satti is alive, his guiltis partially reduced, if not atoned. Andthat reduction helps him relate theincidents. If the story is not true, thenarrator is playing Proteus, creatingelaborate illusions only to demolish themin order to exercise his authorial controland didacticism. Either ways, the novelis fiction about a fictional character tellingstories. Manek’s yearning for ‘nishkarsh’is a simplistic endeavour to find waysin which life -not just his own- can belived and come to terms with. Manekalso illuminates that the reader,depending on his literary disposition,can see the ending as either a sad oneor a happy one in view of the destinyof the main characters. The novelist ishanded down the responsibility to writethe novel because he has a certain kindof imagination- evident from his rathergraphic dreams - that, however, hechooses not to employ. He does notinvest the story with symbolism andclarifies, more than once, that the novelis presented as told by Manek Mullah.The absurd issue of a sequel to the storycycleis rendered cleverly invalid bythe disappearance of Manek. The filmversion directed by Shyam Benegal endswith a union of fact and fiction when,while having tea with his companionsManek meets none other than Satti andas she retreats and fades into thebackground, he follows her anddisappears. Thus the narrator erases himout of the story and precipitates himselfas the central character. This can becalled a narratorial suicide that bringsabout a closure and at the same timefeeds answers to open-ended questionsrelated to the possibility of the exhaustionof storytelling, if not stories.There are quite a lot of literaryreferences in the text: from SharatChandra Chatterji and RabindranathTagore through Little Red Riding Hoodand Oscar Wilde to Dante and Chekhov.These references suggest the deferenceand importance of literature in life andlife in literature: the two cannot bedivorced and are dependent on eachother for expression and evolution albeittheir constant divergence. It is significantthat in spite of his interest in storytelling,Manek would keep no book inhis room. Instead, he has material tokensculled from his own life, such as a knifeand a horseshoe which are symbols fromthe past that speak louder than words.What makes the novel somewhat immune122 :: January-March 2010

to criticism is that it has an in-builtcriticism that constantly refers to thestory being told. Manek and his listenersoften intrude the story-telling processby making observations, commenting butnever quite digressing. In fact, the entirestory can be seen as an elaboratedigression which only ends with thedisappearance of Manek Mullah, thedigresser, leaving and leading us toquestion the basic mimetic status of thestory.William Styron once said that onecomes out of reading a great work witha slight sense of exhaustion which isthe result of the feeling of having livedseveral lives. Suraj Ka Satvan Ghoda,in a brief space, makes us re-think aboutseveral things that we have come totake for granted like relationships, beauty,art, failure and most importantly,ourselves.Work(s) CitedBharati, Dharamvir. Suraj Ka Satvan Ghoda. 29th ed. Delhi: Bharatiya Jnanpith,2006.Avirup Ghosh, born 1984, teaches English at Vidyasagar College forwomen and is working for his M.Phil on themes of melancholy andsuicide in the works of William Styron. He has an academic interestin the study of death and suicide in arts and literature, holocaustfiction and visual arts. He lives in Kolkata.January-March 2010 :: 123

DiscourseHISTORY IN HINDI LITERATURE :1864-1930Hitendra PatelIn India, history writings developed at two levels. In the nineteenthcentury some Indians had internalised the western modern perspectiveof history writing and their history books were more or less inline with the history writings produced by the British historians inIndia. These books got crucial institutional support when historybooks were needed for school and college education in the yearsafter 1857. On the other hand, at another level, a different kindof popular history writing began which articulated the visions ofthe growing intelligentsia in the age of nationalism. The age, consideringthe popular aspirations from the past, needed to retell the talesof Indian past as well as a vision of better Indian society. Afterour independence, academic history writing tradition flourished dueto continued government support and access to modern educationalinstitutions and these history books were considered proper historybooks whereas the latter remained powerful in public discourse outsideacademics. It would not be incorrect to say that popular historiescould not be eclipsed by the academic histories even after independence.Both types of histories have developed along different paths, maintainingtheir autonomy. 1 This paper seeks to prepare an account of historieswritten in Hindi in the years between 1864 and 1930. As everysociety has its own singers, poets and writers it has also its ownhistorians who prefer to see the past the way community wishesto. The tensions emerging due to the pressures of scientific andacademic history writing had often been resolved through a complexmanoeuvring of literary, historical, popular and traditional spacesand idioms. In this paper some aspects of complexities involved124 :: January-March 2010

in this history in literature are discussed.In Hindi, the intelligentsia had beenconscious of their social responsibilitiesfrom the days of Bharatendu Harishchandrawhen this language emerged as a modernlanguage. The writers of Bharatendu era,the period between 1874 and 1900, alsoshared the concerns with their Bengalicounterparts like Bankimchandra,Ishwarchandra Vidyasagar andRabindranath Tagore for writing properhistory books in their own language forgiving their readers a proper nationalperspective of their past. Hindi writerstook inspiration from Bankimchandrasaying that the history written by theEnglishmen must not be taken as validhistory of Bengal and those Bengalis whotook these as valid ones were not trueBengali. 2Like the icons of Bengali renaissance,leading Hindi writers of Hindi renaissance-Babu Shiva Prasad, BharatenduHarishchandra, Keshavram Bhatt, PratapNarayan Mishra and others wrote on Indianhistorical past. But, the number of Hindihistorical books had not been as impressiveas that of Bengali since the tradition ofwriting history books in Bengali had beenmuch earlier than Hindi. 3 After 1857, manyHistory books in Bengali were written forschool and college students. 4It is obvious that these academic historybooks were qualitatively different fromthe popular history books penned by writerslike Rajanikanta Gupta. In 1860s, the trendof writing historical stories began whichwas inspired by James Todd’s tales ofRajput warriors of Rajasthan.Bankimchandra’s novels made this genremore popular. Some of these books werehistorical in form and literary in content.Some books followed historical accountsbut at the level of narration some subtleliterary devices were employed. Of thesemost representative books includeRajanikanta Gupta’s Arya Kirti and VirMahila, Chandi Charan Sen’s Jhansir Raniand Maharaja Nanda Kumar, NagendraNath Gupta’s Amar Singh and SakharamGanesh Deuskar’s Baji Rao. Some otherslike Girish Ghosh, Dwijendralal Mitra andothers made historical fictions and playspopular.In Hindi, the beginning of historyof writing can be attributed to BabuShivaprasad Singh who wrote three volumesof Itihas Timir Nashak between 1864 and1873. In this, Singh, following the colonialhistoriographers, discarded puranictradition of history-writing to writeevidence based authentic history. In this,he, like British historians, painted MiddleAge as the period of darkness in whichthe Muslims destroyed Hindu temples andcared little for the progress of the land.He attributed the credit of freeing thisnation from the hands of Muslims andputting the nation on the path of modernityand progress. Singh, however, did not findfault with Muslims alone; he also wrotepassages against the Brahmins whichinfuriated some orthodox Hindus. 5 Singh’sanother history book Vir Singh Vrittantwas also taught in schools for decadesJanuary-March 2010 :: 125

along with Itihas Timir Nashak.Some other history books were alsowritten in Hindi. Of these, mention canbe made of Keshavram Bhatt’s Hindostanka Itihas, Shivnandan Sahay’s Bharat Varshka Itihas and Bengal ka Itihas, Deen DayalSingh’s Bharat Varshiya Itihas(1890),Gokarna Singh’s Bharat Varsha kaSamast Itihas (1899), Uma Nath Mishra’sHindustan ka Itihas Pratham Bhag, SaryuPrasad Mishra’s Nepal ka Prachin Itihas(1909), etc. Apart from these well knownhistory books some lesser known translationof history books were also made available.A biography of Mughal emperor Akbar-Badshah Akbar ka Sankshipta JivanCharitra, written by Dr Brauer in the formatof a novel, originally published in Dutchfrom Hague in 1872 seems to have beentranslated into Hindi around 1872. 6 Itis interesting to note that in a time whenmany historical books were written whichhad expressed anti-Muslim sentiments, inthis book Akbar was shown as a greatIndian ruler.Many history books were written inHindi in the early twentieth century whichaimed to please the government. Of thesea representative book is Pandit LajjaramSharma’s Victoria ka Charitra, publishedin 1901 from Shri Venkateshwar Press.The language was fortunate that it hadeditors and writers who knew Bengali andMarathi as well. So, a number of bookswere translated as soon as it came inthese languages. Among Hindi readersRomesh Chandra Dutt’s book was translatedinto Hindi by Baldev Mishra which waspublished by Shri Venkateshwar Press in1901. Rammohan Ray’s biography waswritten by Yadunandan Mishra in 1917.To keep Hindi readers aware of eminentpeople of India a useful encyclopedia ofwell known people titled Madan Kosh waspublished by Madan Lal Tiwari of Itawain 1907. This can be used as an importantsource for knowing contemporary historicalassessment of different greats of India.Life sketches of one thousand greats wereprepared in this collection. Mahavir PrasadDwivedi, great editor of Saraswati,published a book on the lives of greatIndian women in 1909. In this he hadpraised women like Lakshmibai as a divine,jewel of a lady whose valor was unmatched. 7In these history books the academicand literary perspectives were mixed toprepare accounts which blended modernhistory with communal and casteistperspectives to colour a national narrative.This was more explicit in the history booksprepared by Hindu organisations. In ahistory book which was widely circulatedthe chapters were1. Contents2. Universe and Bharatvarsha3. Map of the Universe4. India as the Guru of the World5. Episode of Creation and Wheelsof Time6. Original Place of the Creation ofMankind and the Varnashram Bonds7. Social Organisation of Bharatdweep8. The Eternity of the Vedas and the126 :: January-March 2010

Shastras9. The Religion of Bharatdweep andthe Glory of its Knowledge. 8The impact of this type of historywriting was such that these histories werein circulation even in 1930s. Even duringthe heydays of the nationalist movementin 1939 Mishra Bandhu, Dr Shyam BihariMishra and Pandit Sukdev Bihari Mishra,wrote a 423-page history of India. A lookinto the chapterisation scheme gives anidea of how Puranic history writing wasat work.1. Geography and Some KnowableThings2. The Main Pillars of Indian History3. The Significance of Indian History4. Ancient Kingdoms5. Bharat of Pre-Buddha Times6. The Rigveda – First Mandal7. The Rig Veda – The RemainingMandals8. Four Vedas9. Chronology10. Treta Yuga – The Kingdom of Surya11. Treta Yug – The Dynasty of Paurva12. Treta Yug – Different Branches ofChandra Vansha13. Treta Yug – Bhagwan Ramchandra14. Dwapar Yug – First Half15. Dwapar Yug – Mahabharata16. Early Kaliyug17. Brahman Literature Yug18. Sutra Sahitya Yug 9An example of the kind of historywriting which was in existence in theBhojpuri-speaking region can be seen fromthis excerpt: “Believing in four Vedas, sixshastras, eighteen purans and thirty-threecrore devata Hindus to begin with,differentiated according to bhav-bhaeshbhasha (language, beliefs and customs),and then the Mahabharata caused furtherhavoc. The one or two gems of valourthat remained were finished off by LordBuddha’s ahimsa…our ferociousness simplydisappeared, our sense of pride desertedus, and as for anger, all sorts of sinswere laid at its door. The result: we becamedevatas, mahatmas, or for that matter nicefellows [bhalmanas], but we lost our spunk.No fire, no spark, simply cold ash, that’swhat we became: ‘nihashankam deeptelokaih pashya bhasmchye padam.’And on the other sidein the desert of Arabia a soul appearedwho was as brave as his word, and inwhose new religion killing, slaughtering,fighting and marauding were the principalelements…” 10The History textbook taught at thematriculation level in Bihar schools in 1921was written by Pandit Ramdahin Mishraand revised by a famous scholar Prof.Ramawatar Sharma. In this book too thechapters were arranged in such a waythat Aryan times, non-Aryan times,Manusamhita, Muslim times andindependent Hindu and Muslim states weretaught as different chapters. In describingJanuary-March 2010 :: 127

the events the writer had no hesitationin saying that Hindus were fighting againstthe Muslims. In the context of a war betweenAnang Pal and Mahmood he wrote in thefollowing manner: “Raja Anang Pal … facedthe enemies at Peshawar. But, the labourof the Hindus proved futile.” 11 Hisassessment of Mahmood was: “ Mahmoodwas a plunderer, greedy and idoldemolisher.”12 Obviously, even this modernhistory that was taught in Bihar’s schoolsgave the Hindus and Muslims historicalcategories through which one couldunderstand the history of India. 13 Thetextbook was not out and out a communalinterpretation of Indian past and therehad been some passages that gave theimpression to readers that there was anassimilation of cultures in the ‘Muslim’period. 14 But, what was crucial was thatthe impression that Muslims were attackingHindus and the peace-loving Hindus wagedwar against the cruel Muslims survivedeven in this narrative. The writer wasparticularly harsh on Aurangzeb. 15A survey of the novels written onhistorical themes reveals that these novelswere written to support the morals ofNissahay Hindu ( Helpless Hindu) byproviding stories to make them feel good.A title- Nissahay Hindu sums up the mindsetof the religious Hindus of the Hindiintelligentsia of the nineteenth and earlytwentieth centuries. This novel was writtenin 1881 by Braj Ratna Das, a well-knownHindi writer, and the plight of the vulnerableHindus was narrated in it.During the post-Mutiny period whenthe British Government considered theMuslims the main culprits for the revolt,the emergence of this threat perspectiveis very significant. Perhaps the helplessnessof the old elite to absorb the forces ofchange could be a possible explanation. 16The story of Bankimchandra’s Anand Mathcan help to understand this. WhenBankimchandra wrote Anand Math in aserialised form for his journal BangaDarshan the sanyasis were fighting theBritish. As Bankimchandra was agovernment official, writing a novel onthis theme could have caused a problem.So he decided to make the sanyasis fightthe Muslims without changing the storyline.The main concern of the writer was toarouse national consciousness. For thisthe Hindus needed to be supplied withstories from history in such a way thatthey could be seen with the qualities ofa brave and dignified community. 17There are a number of Hindi novelsthat were written between 1870 and 1917.The books written by Kishori Lal Goswami,Gangaprasad Gupta, Jairam Gupta duringthis period are most significant. KishoriLal, the father of historical romances, wroteHridaya Harini va Adarsha Ramani, 18Lavang Lata va Aadarsh Bala, 19 Gulbaharva Adarsh Bhratrisneha 20 , Tara vaKshatrakulmalini 21 , Kanak Kusum vaMastani 22 , Hirabai va Behayayi ka borka, 23Sultana Razia beghum va Rangamahalmein halahal, 24 Mallika Devi va BangaSarojini 25 , Lucknow ki kabra va ShahiMahalsara, 26 Sona aur Sugandha vaPannabai 27 , Lal Kunwar va Shahi128 :: January-March 2010

Rangamahal, 28 Noorjehan,29GuptaGodana. 30All these novels were not purehistorical romances as the second titlesuggests. These books were written withHindu Brahmanical sensibilities where theman-woman relationship and therelationships between mother and son,master and slave, father and son, brothersand sisters were depicted as ideal, usingthe values of Hindu families. The Muslimsentered these stories either as cruel villainsor as beautiful women who were dyingfor their Hindu lovers. In some cases Muslimwomen like Noorjehan and Razia Sultanwere written about but it seems that thesestories generally highlighted the intriguesat the courts of Muslim rulers rather thanthe qualities of these powerful Muslimwomen. Some other writers followed thispattern of writing. Ganga Prasad Guptafollowed this pattern of writing in Noorjehanva Sansar Sundari (1902), Veer Patni(1903), Kunwar Singh Senapati (1903),Veer Jaimal va Krishna Kanta (1903),Hammeer (1904). Jairam Das Gupta wroteKashmir Patan (1906), 31 Kishori va VeerBala (1907), 32 Mayarani (1908), VeerVarangana va Aadarsha Lalana (1909),Rani Panna va Raj Lalana (1910).The other more significanthistorical novels that depicted the greatnessof the Hindus inhistorical times are: MaharajaVikramaditya ka jivan charitra, 33 MaharjaChhatrapati Shivaji ka jivan charitra, VeerNarayan, Jaya, 34 Anarkali, Barahvi Sadika veer Jagdev Parmar, PrithwirajChauhan 35 , Kotarani, Tantia Bheel, Panipat,Veer Bala, Naradev,Rani Bhavani,Noorjehan va Jahangir Begum, Padmini,Roothi Rani, Veer Maloji Bhonsale,Maharana Pratap Singh ki veerata,Saundarya Kusum va Maharashtra kauday, Veerangana, Veer Bala, Jaishreeva Veer Balikam Maharani Padmini, RanaSanga aur Babar, Mewar ka uddharkarta,Maharashtra Veer, Razia Begum 36 ,Pranapalan 37 , Veer Churamani, BheemSingh, Krishna Kumari Bai, Anangpal,Rajput Ramani, Lalcheen 38 Vichitra Veer,Veer Mani, Sone ki Rakh va Padmini,Rani Durgavati, Swapna Rajasthan, andAadarsha veerangana Durga.In these novels the storyline followssomewhat predictable patterns. Invariablythe Hindu characters are struggling toachieve the ideal. Between these charactersand their ideals are the Muslim characters.In almost all stories the cruelty andselfishness of Muslims is invariably present.In those novels where the Muslims areto be retained for the authenticity of thestory the whole situation was depictedas if all characters are seen intriguingagainst each other. The moral of the storywas that Muslims are cruel, selfish,intriguing and dishonest.If we add the large number of workstranslated from Bengali to Hindi, 39 whichwere alsohistorical novels, we have a substantialamount of literature produced during the1870s and 1920s which can be consideredJanuary-March 2010 :: 129

literature whose objective was to arousenational sentiments by pitting Hindu heroesand heroines against Muslim villains. Inaddition, a number of Bengali works weretranslated by the writers of Bihar, likeIshwari Prasad Sharma, in which the Hinduperspective was quite obvious. 40About these history writings a scholarhas aptly observed that these historicaltexts were prepared by those whothemselves were not historians; they werewriters as well as creators of a new ideology.41In these texts, the present remainedalways present and the concerns of thewriter determined his entire narration. Thedescription itself conveyed the message.Even in the narratives which had to concedethe defeat of the protagonist, the historywriter gave the moral victory to thevanquished. In some histories like thehistory of struggle between Alexander andPorus the history was narrated in sucha way that the result of the war becameimmaterial and the moral victory of aHindu king was writ large on the historicalnarrative. As long as the historical accountswere useful for promoting the ideologyof the intelligentsia these were acceptable.The problem areas were left out. The caseof history in dreams is interesting to seehow the desired history was written withthe device of dream situations. The trendwas initiated by Bhudev Mukhopadhyayin ‘Swapnalabdh Bharater Itihas’ and thiswas followed, in Hindi, by RadhacharanGoswami, Ambikadatta Vyas etc. This kindof history was read with great interestby contemporary Hindi readership.It would be desirable, however, tokeep in mind some other efforts of historywriting which strangely remain ignoredby historians. In vernacular history writingthree books should be mentioned: ShadAzimabadi’s Tawarikh e Suba Bihar (1870),Bihari Lal Fitrat’s Aina e Tirhut (1883)and Munshi Binayak Prasad’s Tawarikhe Ujjainia 42 .Some other sources suggest that weshould pay attention to some lesser knownpeople like Sahamat Ali Khan and hiswritings. Scholars are familiar withBharatendu Harishchandra’s Ballia addressand its significance for its modern contentsbut a book, published in 1882 has citedsome passages of this remarkable Muslimscholar to suggest that he was equallypragmatic in his approach much earlier. 43Some other writings, which appeared inthe contemporary magazines likeHarischandra Magazine in 1870s suggestthe existence of modern pragmatic ideasin the writings of Hindi writers. 44It can be suggested that the historicalwritings of late nineteenth century Hindiwritings had been very different fromwritings of 1920s and after, when a newperspective had emerged due to massmovements and enlargement of politicalspace. It is true that we come acrossvarious examples of radical views expressedin Hindi literary space 45 but, on the whole,it can be admitted, the Hindi literary spacewas heavily dominated by people withtraditional ideological mindset. Historywritings of this phase also reflect similarideological orientations.130 :: January-March 2010

In the early history writings we find amix of scientific and traditionalperspectives. Writers had, in general,hoped to see progress in society but theyalso criticised the way this progress hadbrought a cultural degradation in society.As early as October 1893 a respected papercarried an article- ‘Is this Progress orDecline?’ which can be seen in this contexthow aware writers had been about theadverse impact of British rule. ^^vkt ?kj esagkgkdkj ep jgk S] iztk vUu ds d"V ls Hkw[kksa ejjgh gS] ftls ns[kks fo"kkn onu gh ikvksxsA fdlh ds eq[kij g¡lh ugha gS rc D;k blh dk uke mUufr gS\ ckgjtSlk fn[kkbZ iM+rk Fkk vc Hkh T;ksa dk R;ksa fn[kkbZ iM+rkgS] ijUrq ftl Hkko ds fodkl esa Hkkjr okfl;ksa dk xkSjoFkk ml ij vkt HkkokUrj gks x;k gSA ftl 'kfDr dho`f) ls euq"; dk euq"kRo c

tkrh gS fdUrq muds Hkjksls ge viuk loZLoNksM+ cSBs gSaA ;fn foyk;r ls fn;klykbZ dhvken u gks rks nhid tykuk dfBu iM+tkrk gS] xehZ vkSj tkM+ksa ds diM+s ;fn fons'kls u vkosa rks uaxk jguk iM+sA fiYl vkSjfeDlpj ;fn vesfjdk vkSj baXySaM ds MkWDVjksads cuk;s u gksa rks chekjh dks vkjke uigq¡ps--- vius ns'ktkr nzO;ksa dks ge ?k`.kk djNksM+ gh cSBs--- geesa vc Lotkfr izse ughajgk] blh ls bruh 'kkspuh; n'kk gks jghgS] ugha rks ns'kh; dkjhxj mRlkgghu gksdjviuk O;kikj NksM+dj D;ksa nwljh nwljh o`fÙk;ksadk voyEcu djrs! fons'kh inkFkks± esa ftruhgekjh vfHkyk"kk cuk pkfg,fd geyksx mUufr ds ewy esa dqBkjk?kkr djrspys tkosaxs!” 48There can not be any denial thatin the writings of Hindi intelligentsia ofthe period between 1880 and 1920 wecan discern strong Varnashram ideal biasbut the writers had been quite democraticin their language and approach. Theywanted to make an impact on the largemajority of people by informing them aboutthe past and make them aware of theirresponsibilities. The writings of this periodare significant for enriching Hindi and tryingto make use of Bengali and Marathipublications for the benefit of Hindi writers.A large number of Bengali texts weretranslated into Hindi in these years. Therole of press like Khadagvilas Press andShri Venkateshwar Press was crucial inthis. Some history books also tried touse a language which was understandableto both Hindi and Urdu users. Shiv PrasadSingh’s history book was written in thelanguage of everyday use. For examplesee this description- “gSnjvyh ls vaxzstksa dktks lqygukek gqvk Fkk] mlesa 'krZ Fkh fdcpko ds fy, nksuksa ,d&nwljs dh enn djsaxsAysfdu tc ejgBksa us gSnjvyh ij p

had been trying to do what Walter Scott,Bankimchandra and Harinarayan Apte hadachieved in English, Bengali and Marathilanguages. 50 The popularity of Bengaliliterary historical books was particularlynoticeable. Kashi Prasad Jayaswal in 1899,then a young man, had observed thatthese imitations of Bengali novels lackedthe spirit of Hindi and these should notbe considered novels of Hindi. 51 He wasalso concerned about the fact that theunhistorical features of Bengali historicalnovels, like showing the Muslims as barbaricand cruel people, were creeping in Hindinovels as well. 52 But this kind of writingcontinued for many years. A large numberof Bengali books were translated into Hindiand later novels written in Hindi werereceived with enthusiasm. RajanikantGupta’s book Arya Kirti was translatedas Bharatiya Veerata by Baidyanath Sahayin which a favourable history of the rebelleaders like Kunwar Singh and Lakshmibaiwas particularly highlighted. This book hadbeen published in 1923. By this time therevolt of 1857 had started to be takenfavourably by Hindi writers. This shift,signalled by Ghadar party publications andarticles of Prabha was crucial for a newkind of history writing in India. 53 Eventhe translations of the books of earliertimes were done with a different mindset.This subtle change is particularly noticeablein Iswari Prasad Sharma’s Sipahi Vidrohya San Sattavan ka Ghadar. This bookwas based on Rajanikanta Gupta’s volumeson the history of 1857 but it showeda shift in the evaluation of 1857 rebellion.In conclusion, it can be said that weneed to take into account a large numberof Hindi tracts which had shaped thehistorical sense of educated people of Hindispeaking regions. We find that a largenumber of these historical tracts wereworks of fiction disguised as history.Scholars have discussed about itihas raswhich produces historical flavour but whichdoes not actually contain valid historicalaccounts. Ever since the historical textsare open to discussion like a literary textwith literary devices, a trend which hadgained ground after Hayden White’sMetaHistory, the question of historicalimagination has become a big concernfor historians. It is interesting as well assignificant that when issues like Ayodhyaor 1857 come up, academic history findsitself facing a popular history often backedby historical fictions and oral traditions.It is important that we study in historyhow things actually happened but it isequally important why people want toremember things in their own way. Weprobably need more dialogue between thesedisciplines to answer this question.1. Partho Chatterjee argues that theacademic histories, written in English,are meant for only those who sharecommon concerns and idioms. See ParthoChatterjee, ‘History and the Domainof the Popular’, Seminar, 2002.January-March 2010 :: 133

2. For a detailed discussion on this seeRupa Gupta, Sahitya aur Vichardhara:Bharatendu evam Bankimchandra (Delhi:Yash Prakashan, 2006), pp. 229-31.This book convincingly discusses howviews of Bankimchandra had been takenfavourably by Bharatendu and others.She also adds that Hindi writers alsotook inspiration from Marathi historicalbooks.3. In Bengali, first history book waspublished in 1808 when MrityunjoyVidyalankar wrote Rajabali which wasbased on Purans. The scientific historicaltexts were produced in Bengali after1857. Ishawarchandra Vidyasagar andRamgati Nyayratna transalted anEnglish history book- History of Bengal.4. Among these textbooks most notablebooks were Bhudev Mukhopadhyay’sPuratattva Sar, Banglar Itihas, RomerItihas, Englander Itihas and SwapnalabdhBharater Itihas, Krishna Chandra Ray’sBharatvarsher Itihas (its ninth editioncame in 1870), Kshetra NathBandyopadhyay’s Sishu Path BanglarItihas (1872), Khirod ChandraRaychaudhary’s Samagra BharaterSamshipta Itihas (1876), and Bhola NathChakravarty’s Se Ek Din aar Aei EkDini arthat Banger Purbo O VartamanAvastha Bharater Puravritta (its fifthedition came out in 1875) etc.5. For a sympathetic account of BabuShivaprasad Singh’s Itihas Timir Nashaksee Vir Bharat Talwar, Rassakashi.6. Its one available copy gives details ofits translation in German in 1972 butthere is no mention of its Hinditranslation. I am grateful to the librarianof Bhagwan Pustakalya, Bhagalpur formaking this rare copy available tome.7. Generally Mahavir Prasad Dwivedi isreferred as a great Hindi editor whohad criticised the leaders of 1857 revoltas murderers but in this book the toneof his writing is different. Particularlyhe had picked Lakshmibai for praise.According to this book the piece onthe queen of Jhansi was writtenoriginally in 1904. See Mahavir PrasadDwivedi, Vanita Vilas (Lucknow: GangaPustak Mala Karyalaya, 1926 [1919]),pp. 39-67.8. This book had its year of publicationmentioned as Kalegartabda 5037, perhapsindicating a calendar for Kaliyuga.9. Dr Shyam Bihari Mishra and PanditSukdev Bihari Mishra, Buddha Purvaka Bhartiya Itihas, 1939.10. Mannan Prasad Dwivedi, MusalmaniRajya ka Itihas, Pahila Bhag, ShyamSundar Das (Varanasi: Kashi NagariPracharini Sabha, 1920), pp.1-2, citedin Shahid Amin, ‘On Retelling theMuslim Conquest of North India,’ inHistory and the Present, ParthaChatterjee and Anjan Ghosh (eds.),(Delhi: Permanent Black, 2002) p.25.11. Ramdahin Mishra, Bharat ka MatriculationItihas (Bankipore (Patna):1918),p.49.12. Ibid, p. 51.13. Pandit Ramdahin Sharma, Bharat kaMatriculation Itihas, ( Bankipore, 1918).14. Ibid, p. 129.15. Ibid, pp. 129-30.16. We have already discussed KarlMannheim’s views on the transitionalphases from pre-modern to modern situations.In these turbulent times “Justas nature was intelligible to primitiveman, and his deepest feelings of anxietyarose from the incalculability of the134 :: January-March 2010

forces of nature so for modern industrializedman the incalculability of theforces at work in the social systemunder which he lives, with its economiccrises, inflation, and so on, has becomea source of equally pervading fears”.See Chapter 2 for more discussion onthis.17. For details see Rupa Gupta, Sahityaaur Vichardhara (Delhi: Yash Prakashan,2006).18. This novel was published in 1890 inHindustan. The editor, Pratap NarayanMishra, was the man who created thefamous slogan, ‘Hindi, Hindu,Hindustan’. It got published as a bookin 1904.19. It was also written in 1890 but asPratap Narayan Mishra had left thepaper it could not be published inHindustan. It was published in 1904.20. It was published in Saraswati in 1902.21. Published in 1902.22. This book was based on Bajirao andMastani written by Sakharam GaneshDeuskar, the famous Maharashtrianwriter born in Bihar, who wrote manyBengali books. It is difficult to knowwhether the original book had beenas anti-Muslim as the Hindi book was.It was published in 1904. This narrativeline was reused somewhat differentlyby a Hindi journal Manoranjan some10 years later.23. Written in 1904, published in 1905.24. The first part of this novel was writtenin 1904 and the second part in thenext year.25. Written and published in 1905.26. Published in 1906.27. Published in 1909.28. Published in 1909.29. Published probably in 1909.30. The first part of this novel was writtenby Devakinandan Khatri. Kishorilalwrote the other three volumes in theearly 1920s.31. The background in this novel is thecruelty Mohammad Azim Khan andhis brother Zubbar Khan, the Muslimrulers of Kashmir, showed to theinnocent Hindu people. Ultimately, thenovel tells us, that Punjab KeshariRanjit Singh emancipated the Hindusfrom their rule.32. In this novel even Akbar the greatwas depicted as luring a princess ofMewar. Ultimately all his conspiraciesfailed. Gopal Rai, an authority on thenovels of modern India, sums up thenovel by saying that its main themis the depicton of Akbar’s baseness andthe princess’ bravery and devotion toher husband. (Akbar ki neechata tathakishori ki veerata aur pativratta ka chitranupanyas ka mool pratipadya hai.) GopalRai, Hindi Upanyas Kosh Khand ek (Patna:Grantha Niketan, 1968), p.131.33. This book was written by Kartik PrasadKhatri and was published fromMuzaffarpur in 1893.34. This was also written by Kartik PrasadKhatri of Muzaffarpur in 1897.35. Two books with the same title PrithvirajChauhan were written, by Jayanti PrasadUpadhyay and Pandit Baldev PrasadMishra.36. This was written by Brajnandan Sahay,a famous Hindi writer of Bihar in 1915.37. This novel was written by SiddhanathSingh and was published by IshwariPrasad Sharma of Arrah in 1915.January-March 2010 :: 135

38. This book was written by BrajnandanSahay in 1921. Sensing its popularitythis book was translated into Gujaratiin 1926.39. For an idea of the amount of literaturewhich was translated and publishedin Bihar we can see the list of bookspublished by Khadagvials Press, Patna.In the period between 1889 and 1907these important historical works weretranslated from Bengali to Hindi andpublished :Rajsingh (Bankimchandra), translatedby Pratap Narayan Mishra, 1894.(Another translation was done byKishorilal Goswami in 1910)Indira (Bankim): translated by PratapNarayan Mishra, 1894.Yuglanguriya (Bankim): translated byPratap Narayan Mishra, 1894. (Threeeditions were published.)Radharani (Bankim): translated byPratap Narayan Mishra, (improvisedby Hariaudh), 1897.Kapalkundala, (Bankim): translated byPratap Narayan Mishra, 1901. (Threeeditions.)Durgesh Nandini (Bankim): translatedby Radhakrishna Das, 1901.Amar Singh (Nagendranath Gupta):translated by Pratap Narayan Mishra,1907.Chandrasekhar (Bankim): translated byBrajnandan Sahay, 1907.Indira (Bankim): translated by KishorilalGoswami, 1908.Devi Chaudhurani (Bankim): translatedby Akshevat Mishra, PrabhudayalPandey, 1913Madhumati(PurnachandraChattopadhyay) : translated by VyasRam Shankar Sharma, 1886.Rajendra Malati (Prasiddha Mayavi),1897.(For the complete list see DhirendranathSingh, Aadhunik Hindi Ke Vikas MeinKhadagvilas Press Ki Bhoomika (Patna:Bihar Rashtrabhasha Parishad, 1986),pp.298-99.40. Ishwari Prasad Sharma was one of themost important Hindi writers of Biharuntil he died in 1927 at the earlyage of 34. He wrote more than 30books. In the present context his workswhich helped in the creation andglorification of the Hindu past we canmention San Sattavan ka Ghadar, SipahiVidroh, Shakuntala, Sati Parvati,Chandrakumar va Manorama. Hisaccounts would tilt towards the Hinduversion of history given the slightestopportunity. Even when he was writinga biography of Dadabhai Naoroji hestarted mourning the sad state of theHindus.41. Sudipto Kaviraj, The Unhappy Consciousness;Bankimchandra Chattopadhyay andthe Formation of Nationalist Discoursein India (Delhi: OUP,1998[ 1995]), pp.107-11. For some more discussion onthis see Partha Chatterjee, ‘Introduction’in Partha Chatterjee and AnjanGhosh eds., History and the Present ,(New Delhi: Permanent Black, 2002),p. 10.42. Binayak Prasad started writing thisbook in 1883. The Maharaja of Dumraonhad invited scholars to suggest themethod of writing proper history. Many,including Bharatendu Harischandra,suggested use of local sources like familyhistory and oral history for a properhistorical account. See Surendra Gopal,Urdu Historiography in Bihar (Patna:136 :: January-March 2010

K. P. Jayaswal Research Institute,2004), pp. 79-80.43. Babu Ramdin Singh, Bihar Darpan.Dhirendra Nath Singh ed., (Darbhanga:Babu Kameshwar Singh Kalyani Foundation),1994.44. See Dhirendra Nath Singh, Bihar Darpan.45. For a remarkably radical critique ofcaste system see Hindi Pradip, April1889, p. 4.46. Bihar Bandhu, October 1893.47. Ibid.48. Ibid.49. Babu Shiva Prasad, Itihas Timir Nashak-2, p.16, cited in Vir Bharat Talwar,op. cit., p. 69.50. Madhuresh, op. cit. p. 230.51. K. P. Jayaswal, ‘ Hindi Upanyas Lekhakoko Ulahan’, Hindi Pradip, January, 1899.For details on this see Gopal Rai, HindiUpanyas ka Itihas ( New Delhi: RajkamalPrakashan, 2005[ 2002]),pp. 79-80).52. Ibid.53. This shift is dealt with in details inHitendra Patel, ‘Gadar ke PrathamRashtriya Andolan Banane ki Katha’in Devendra Choubey, Badrinarayanand Hitendra Patel eds., 1857 : Bharatka Pahala Mukti Sangharsha , Delhi:Prakashan Sansthan, 2008, pp. 29-35.Hitendra Patel, born 1968, obtained his doctorate from JNU and joinedRabindra Bharti University, Kolkata to teach modern history. He haspublished books and articles in Hindi, English and Bengali. Has recentlypublished a book in English on Khudi Ram Bose and a novel in Hindi‘haaril’.January-March 2010 :: 137

LanguageHINDI’S PLACE IN THE UNIVERSEYutta AustinTranslatedbyRavindra Narayan MishraThe age of globalizationWe all hear, read, and know - our age is age of globalization.The world shrinks. There remains no unknown place, country orrace, where the influence of other country is not visible. Likea small village the world has become a place where we all knoweverything about one another, talk to one another, work withone another and influence life mutually.Since the time people started to discover unknown areas andcountries by traveling they used to wonder at the strangeness.But nowadays this word has become almost unnecessary. Is itbecause we know everything about everything or is it becausedifference is becoming uniformity? When we are talking aboutglobalization do we even ask what does it mean and what is itsconsequence? Is globalization of today introduction of one another,mutual exchange between equals, from which every country mightbenefit? Or it is imperialism of this age whose benefit would goto western countries and loss—economic, cultural and linguistic–to the developing countries.Does this globalization alleviate inequality or exacerbate it ?Doesn’t it force poor countries to become like western countriesby suppressing diversities?By looking at the world it becomes clear that globalizationis only western atrocity, exploitation. And to get a share ofits benefit a good many developing countries happily give up138 :: January-March 2010

a big chunk of their literary wealth,which could have been there contributionhad it been equal globalization.The method and consequence of thisglobalization is clearly visible in thespread of the English language. In theObserver newspaper of March 2001Robert Macramé has deliberated on thistopic at length. He showed that the spreadof the English language was the resultof administrative, cultural, scientific andbusiness expansion. English language,British rule, American culture spreadall over the world together withinternational scientific cooperation andinternational trade, because it was thelanguage of the rulers in all these politicalcultural, scientific and commercialtransaction. English was not any easierand Macramé believes in spite of mythsEnglish is extremely a wrong selectionto be main language of the world frommany points of view. He says Englishis neither easier nor more beautiful thanother languages and due to its phrasalnature learning it is not so easy. Hecalls its arbitrary diction andpronunciation source of weakness, notstrength.In spite of that English has becomelanguage of authority, the language ofinformation, language of advertisement.Majority of the people in the poorcountries take it as key to educationand prosperity. Busy in the struggle tofeed their kids, do these people get timeto take interest in their culture-tradition?But in this world people talk to eachother through the medium of fivethousand different languages, and eachof these languages is an image of a uniqueculture and history. Each one of themhas words for whose meanings onedoesn’t get even words in other languages.Today’s imperialistic globalizationsuppresses and destroys the fruits ofthese diversities of the human race. Andhere in the west only few peopleunderstand that the loss of those othercultures would be our loss as well becausethe dangerous disease of our greed isnot letting the world advance but isruining it.Because of previously being the colonyof England even India has been the victimof the illusion of the greatness of thewest. But India is no small developingcountry. It is one of the biggest countriesof the world and has the ability to becomea major player in the power games. Soit has the ability to alter the situation.Had it wished it would have tried tochange the direction of globalization.It can work to get entry to more playersat the stage and can protect diversity.But would it have to do this workthrough English language only? Thenational language of India is Hindi andit is the contact language. Crores ofpeople use Hindi naturally, is there anyspecial role to language in this shrinkingworld of today?The family of Indian languagesTo gauge the role of Hindi we shouldlook at its source and nature. It is oneJanuary-March 2010 :: 139

of the Indo-European languages but thisclassification is not old. In Europelinguistics is not an old science. Stilleven before its inception people couldsee the similarities between languages.They used to find a lot of words ofone language having similarities to wordsof some other language. Even beforethe planned study of the languages inthe sixteenth century people had agreedabout Germanic, Roman and Slavcategories of the European languages.Those days interest in these languagesremained limited but when printing andspread of books started and manyexplorers used to return from distantcountries with information of unknownactivities, fresh interest in languages wasgenerated. While studying languages somelinguists soon noticed great similaritiesbetween Sanskrit and the Europeanlanguages. In the sixteenth century itselfSussety of Italy found some commonwords in Sanskrit and Italian. Ineighteenth century many scholars workedon this subject. For example in 1725Benjamin Shultz, a German missionaryworking in India expressed in a letterthat Sanskrit and European languageshave similarities to a great extent.When the British were ruling India,many of them started studying cultureand history of the country. William Jones,a judge at Fort Williams wrote a letterin 1786 which has been severelycriticized. In this letter on the one sidehe established deep relationship amongSanskrit, Greek and Latin on the otheramong Sanskrit, Kelt and Persianlanguages. He wrote about Sanskritlanguage:Its structure is unique. It is moreenriched than Greek and vaster thanLatin. It is more refined than the twolanguages together. And all the threeof them have the same source.Gradually the interest of the scholarsincreased. In 1791 the German translationof Kalidas’s Shakuntalam got published.In 1816 France Bap compared Dhatuforms of Greek, Latin, Persian and Germanwith that of Sanskrit and laid thefoundation of Indo-European linguistics.Now while studying languages scholarsstarted paying attention to relationsamong them. First efforts of preparingthe family tree of languages started.There are many ways of groupinglanguages. Relations among languagescan be determined on the basis ofsimilarities or differences in constructionof words and sentence structure oflanguages and sound arrangements.Surely, such comparisons face manyproblems. Because like human beingseven their languages are progressing withinimitable activities and behavior. Inspite of this a lot of work has beendone for hereditary classification oflanguages.The scholars have found that thelanguages that are spoken in Europe andmost of the West Asia belong to thesame family. There is some disagreementamong scholars about the place where140 :: January-March 2010

those who spoke original language ofthis family used to stay. The predominantview of the archeologists and linguistsis that perhaps these people used toreside in Anatolia or Southern Russia.Spreading with farming on the one sidethe language reached Europe and onthe other side it reached Iran andNorthern India. Changing in its own wayat different places the language took theform of lingual family.Hindi LanguageThe linguists have divided the Indo-European languages in four stagesaccording to their evolution and changesallthe contemporary European languageshave been kept in the fourth stage orcategory but Latin Greek and Sanskritbelong to second category, and beingthe oldest language the Vedic languagehas been kept in the first stage, nearestto the original language of the Indo-European languages. Many ancient wordsare still found in different Indo-Europeanlanguages, and ancestors are being seenin descendents.Hindi is a member of Indo-Iranianbranch of the Indo-European languages.These languages were being spoken inIran and northern Indian region threethousand years ago. Either it had reachedthere with the migration of the Aryantribe or according to new research ofthe archeologists it was the dialect ofthe inhabitants of this area who hadbeen living there for a few thousandyears. More knowledge has been acquiredabout Indian languages of this time thanabout Iranian languages, because in boththe camps old scriptures and writingsthat have been found in the Indian booksand writings are older and they are alsolarger in number. But from the acquiredsources it is clearly visible that theSanskrit language of the Vedas and thelanguage of ‘Avesta’ [Ancient IranianScripture] have lots of similarities.The evolution of Indian languagesis known. The ancestors of Hindi wereSanskrit, Prakrit and Apbhransha. Butwhen Muslims adopted Shurseni dialect[Khari Boli] they started using it togetherwith Persian and Arabic words. Themodern image of Hindi which has beenformed in process is not only thedescendent of the Indian branch of theIndo-Iranian but it has deep relationshipwith the Iranian branch. This extremelybeautiful and powerful reflection of theinterconnection is seen in the Hindiliterature of hundreds of years. But inthe Hindi dictionary more diversity oflinguistic sources is found. Due to Dravidinfluence—vowels, many words, wordforms and some constituents of sentencestructures have been adopted. Later onmany words of English and manyconstituents of sentence structure couldalso be seen.There are two consequences of thishistory. On the one hand because oflarge numbers of words being fromSanskrit they resemble Indo-Europeanancestors. Their relationship with mostof European languages is obvious. Thisway Hindi links European languages ofJanuary-March 2010 :: 141

present times with ancient heritage ofIndo-European languages. On the otherhand by absorbing the languages anddialects of the rulers and common menof all the ages Hindi emerges as a livingimage of Indian history and manycultures. Therefore Hindi’s image lookslike multi-sided prism- at one timeSanskrit language reflects the other Indo-Iranian mixed heritage. At times it alsoappears to be real sister of the Europeanlanguages. At one moment it is marchingwith self respect of the ancient languageat the other it becomes ever adolescentand talks of contemporary life withunlimited freshness and novelty. Ithappily benefits from other languagesand adopts some of their words andthen conditions them according to itsown nature. An open language acceptsthe contribution of the other but in spiteof the changes it continues to be thesame language. Hindi is a beautiful andpowerful language. Its systematicgrammar and imaginative dictionary canclearly reflect even minute differences.Its script writes words from otherlanguages more logically and effectivelythan in their own languages. Where wouldone get a better medium ofcommunication?Relation between Hindi and otherEuropean languagesWhen one looks at Hindi and Europeanlanguages one finds such words inEuropean languages every now and thenwhich clearly resemble some words inHindi. Besides this there are many suchwords whose similarity is not visiblebut becomes clear when one paysattention to standard rules of historicallinguistic change. This way the linguistshave found that the word ‘Chakra’ inHindi, ‘circus’ in Latin and the Englishword ‘wheel’ were born from same originalword which is called ‘kuekulo’. But herethere is scope to show only some exampleswhich can establish relationship ofdifferent European languages with Hindiwith natural equality.The vocabulary of post Germaniclanguage is very old. Time and againI have found similarity between someof their words and Hindi words. Theycall ‘Aur’ ‘Aa’ or ‘Aankh’ and Nai for‘Nahi’. Prefix ‘Sam’ is called ‘Sam’ only.This suffix is found in other Germaniclanguages. In Dutch Sath- Sath is called‘Saman’. In German it is called Tasujaman.While in English language the word samemeans ‘Saman’ only.Not only the words but also itsgrammar and phrases appear to be likethat of Hindi. In both the languages thefact of not harming is called ‘Bal bankana hone dena’. And both put dust orsoil in the eyes. In Hindi when the meaningof verb is experience of some feelingthe person undergoing the experienceis presented in the form of verb. It isless in the form of subject. For exampleit is said ‘mujhe dar hai’, mujhe afsoshai etc. It happens in German languagealso. mujhe acha lagta hai is expressedin German in the same way. In the formof subject in English– ‘I like’. The meaning142 :: January-March 2010

of the German word ‘Atam’ was earlier‘Atma’ now it has become Sans. Hridayis called ‘Hearts’ and ‘Halka’ is called‘Hell’. Similarities are seen every where.In Slav languages ‘Meh’ is called ‘Meja’or ‘Meda’ and ‘Din’ is called ‘Den’ or‘Dan’. The thing people wear is called‘Vesh’ or Vastra in Hindi or ‘Vas’ whichis a Sanskirt word that is Indo-European.What is it called in European languages?The form that the words of Romancelanguages have acquired through LatinVestis resemble Hindi words. For examplein French it is called ‘Vetmo’ and inItalian it is called ‘Vestity’. A form ofthis word Vest is found in many Europeanlanguages. It is found in French and alsoin all the Germanic languages. Here itsmeaning appears to be shrunk. It becomeswaistcoat or ‘Baniyan’ and now-a-daysthis word has arrived even in Hindi inthis form. In Germanic languages ‘Vastra’is called Kya kya its origin is in Hindiword Gli whose meaning is ‘Lipatna’. InSlav language the word for Vastra Thodasaresemble Hindi word ‘Ojhal’. It makesrelation possible. In this way in Hindione can find the sources of _ or_ formsof words of all the European languages.Hindi and EnglishThe relationship between Hindi andEnglish is also the same, but now theyhave another relation as well becausefor last three hundred years English hasinfluenced Hindi which continues eventoday. Earlier because the British wereruling over India and afterwards becauseEnglish was seen and continues to beseen even today as the language ofeducation, authority, prosperity andcommunication. The words have madetheir way in Hindi like this were notthe result of any fundamental linguisticchanges but were adopted because ofsocial and political conditions. They havenot distorted the natural constructionof Hindi. For example they use Hindi-English verbs not according to Englishforms but according to Hindi grammar.They say ‘Main Use miss Karta Hoon’[I miss him]. The British had broughtmany unknown machines for which therewere no words in Hindi. This led tomany words of English being adoptedin Hindi. This is how in Hindi we findmany words determined by differentevolution but having origin in the sameIndo-European word. These words havedifferent meanings for example the word‘Gadi’ or ‘Kar’ are offspring of sameoriginal word but ‘Kar’ is a form evolvedin English then entering Hindi.These days English language ispenetrating other languages all over theworld. The influence of English overmediums of media and global networkis so strong that it appears to bethreatening the use of other languages.In spite of this living language is anopen language. Hindi has been showingit for hundreds of years in the formof its own realization that it has noweakness in adopting words from otherlanguages. Actually it gives strength,vibrancy and life. That is why it runsno danger of losing its identity.January-March 2010 :: 143

The features of Hindi and its roleWe have seen that the word ‘Vastra’is related to some words of manylanguages. But in addition to this don’tpeople use the word ‘Kapda’ in Hindi?And this is not an Indo-European word.Actually it has entered Hindi from Austro-Asian language. This is one small examplewhich clearly illustrates vast nature andstructure of Hindi.The Hindi of our age is the productof a long chain of old and new sources,starting from Vedic Sanskrit coming toEnglish through Prakirt, local dialects,Persian and Arabic. Its Europeanrelations are spoken in all the continentsof the world. Its Iranian relation is spokenin some countries of Asia and Europe.And its Arabic element has relation withmiddle east. Due to the influences ofall these factors Hindi is a fresh andlive language, in which past, presentand many cultures become intimatecompanions.Hindi is mirror to many cultures ofthe world. It is true about many religionsalso. It is both image of Indian Historyand element of Indianness. which is calledunity in diversity. It is a unique purelanguage also and appears to be bastardtoo and both its forms are so wellconnected to other languages that intrue sense it should be called the worldlanguage.But there is no parity between featuresand ability of Hindi and India and itsplace in the world. According toauthorized sources as mother tongueHindi occupies second place in the world.But the respect Hindi gets is not evena shadow of its position.In India in addition to being mothertongue of most of the Indians Hindi iscalled national language and contactlanguage. But its publicity is hindereddue to many historical and political andcommercial factors. But when there wasBritish rule the British planted this ideain the minds of Indians that in spiteof everything British culture, language,education was of a higher class. Eventoday India suffers from this mindset.How common is the idea that Englishlanguage is key to progress andprosperity. It is a trick but Indian peopleare supporting it. This condition wouldcontinue till Indian people wouldthemselves change the role of English.Those in business like to do their workmainly in English. In south politiciansand businessmen create hurdles for Hindi.These days India has become capableto take care of its growth. But the gapbetween English knowing urban educatedpeople and poor villagers is wideningbecause of this linguistic difference andit stops the development of the wholecountry.Many people worry about thissituation. They express their views andsuggest remedial measures. In 1999 inthe special issue of ‘Gagnanchal’ publishedon the eve of the Sixth World HindiConference famous writers and scholarshad written about the role and place144 :: January-March 2010

of Hindi. Hindi writer Girdhar Rathi hasto say–“If you would wish to teach Englishfrom class one then which language wouldgrow. About Hindi communalism startsmainly because of Hindi and Urdu. Itstarts from both sides. By dividinglanguage into community one morepolitical weapon is made.”Describing the condition forcefullyAbdul Bismillah has written–When students [from Poland] studyingHindi come to India they are surprisedto see that people out here talk to themin English not in Hindi while in PolandEnglish is spoken very little. This thinkingthat without English we can’t be modernand civilized is a contribution of slavementality.Suresh Uniyal, a story writer of Hindihas expressed his views about theinfluence of English over Hindi–There is nothing wrong in acceptingthe words from English which haveentered common lingua franca. But itshould be only as much which can benaturally digested in the language. Itshould not happen that the languageitself should appear to be alien, as ishappening in case of ‘Hinglish.’But this is not something new ratherit is old, Mahatma Gandhi had alreadysaid, I know an Englishman does nottalk to another Englishman in any otherlanguage but English. When I find anIndian talking to another fellow Indianin foreign language I am greatly pained.And what we see at the national levelis also true about international level.Balram, a story writer and journalisthas clearly written–Like many other countries of the worldinternational dialogue between India andits neighboring countries is also carriedonly in English. It may be wrong orright but this is reality. And so longas Hindi does not become a recognizedlanguage of the United Nations thecondition is going to continue like this.Then the question arises why not theUN give this place to Hindi? Whateverbe the political reason, it may be becauseof the condition of language or due toignorance or neglect about itsimportance. Because of this the officersmay not have interest in this work. Isit that the western eyes look at Hindias an unimportant language as if it wasthe language of an ex colony? Particularlywhen the inhabitants of the ex colonylike to speak the language of the exrulers and think of that language assuperior to their language.But the importance of Hindi is genuineand true. All its features should be keptin mind.– It is spoken by lots of peopleall over the world.– Being relative of all the Indo-European languages it is alsoconnected to English andlanguages of West Asia.– Its vocabulary is an image ofIndian, European, Persian andJanuary-March 2010 :: 145

Arabic culture.Its script is uniquely based on humanspeech. It can show most of the soundsof all the languages in a proper andstraight manner.With the help of systematic grammarand great imaginative vocabulary Hindihas special power.If this speciality is not accepted inwestern countries this is because of thementality of not treating others as equal.If one approaches it with clear heartthen it comes out that Hindi which isthe language of so many people andwhich resolves cultural and linguisticdiversity seems to be appropriate forglobalization. Particularly of such aglobalization which honors the principleof equality in the world. A globalizationin which one country does not exploitanother country, instead all the countriesrespect one another. Whatever be thespread and popularity of English it wouldalways be the language of imperialismand exploitation. Hindi is language ofpeople, is language of living andcoexistence. One should use andadvertise it with perseverance.Courtesy: ICCRRavindra Narayan Mishra teaches Political Science in Khalsa College,University of Delhi. He writes in original as well as likes to translateat will. He lives in Delhi.146 :: January-March 2010

LanguageHINDI AND INDIAN STUDIES INSPAINVijayakumaranORIGIN AND THE SEAT OF HINDIUniversity of Valladolid, an ancient university in north of Spain,193 k.m. away from Madrid, the capital of Spain, dates back to 13 thcentury. This is an exceptional heritage, reflected in its stone wallsand numerous historical artifacts. Around its almost 425.000 squaremeters of buildings, spread over faculties, university schools, institutes,central services, accommodation and sport facilities are hiddenarchitectural treasures and other works of art, which have becomepart of the university’s heritage throughout the nine centuries (fromthe 13th to the 21th) Valladolid has shared its destiny with the threeother cities which form part of the university: Palencia, Soria andSegovia. Thus the University is a multi campus university.It is one of the prestigious universities of Europe, which hasa patronage of Kings and noble men and the Palace of Santa Cruzis converted as the seat of the chancellor’s office. The universitylooks onto the city through an exceptional Baroque façade built between1717 and 1718, following the design of Pedro de la Visitación. Itleads to the Historical Building, constructed on the site of the originalmedieval Studio, which was demolished and rebuilt several timesuntil, at the beginning of the 20th century, the architect TeodosioTorres gave it its current form, conserving only the façade due toits exceptional architectural and symbolic value. Its central bodyis crowned by the emblem of the university, a sculpture of the Victoryof Wisdom over ignorance and the representation of the monarchswho where most prominent in their protection of the University ofJanuary-March 2010 :: 147

Valladolid; Henry III, who donated hisTercias (ecclesiastic taxes) to theUniversity; John I, who exempted itsmembers from payment of taxes; and PhilipII, who awarded the university fulljurisdiction. Other buildings complete thehistorical-architectural heritage of theuniversity. Outstanding in the city ofValladolid is the House of Los Zúñiga,one of the first examples of Renaissancestyledomestic architecture in Valladolid,home to the Buendía Centre and thePublications Department Secretary’s Office,and the so-called Casas de la Beneficencia(Houses of Social Welfare), two splendidexamples of 16th century palatialarchitecture, today housing universityadministration offices. Equally treasuredis the late 17 th century Prison of the RoyalChancery, currently the Reina SofíaUniversity Library, and the former Hostelryof Santa Cruz College (now a hall ofresidence), which dates from the last thirdof the 17 th century. Palace of Santa Cruz,declared a Historical-Artistic Monumentin 1955 and now the seat of the Chancellor’sOffice.Founded as a College by CardinalMendoza in 1484, work was begun in lateGothic style and continued until 1488.CENTRE OF ASIAN STUDIESUniversity School of ManagementStudies was found in the year 1857,corresponding to the year of the firstindependence war of India against Europeancolonialism. It has the department of Centreof Asian Studies, which was inauguratedin 2000 but was formally established on23 May 2001, constituted a governingbody with the Director of the centre asProf.Jose María Ruiz Ruiz and Secretaryas Luis Oscar Ramos Alonso. The otheroffice bearers such as the Indian and SAARCstudies went in the hands of GuillermoRodriguez Martin, the present GeneralSecretary of CASA de la India. Mrs. PilarGarces Garcia, the present Vice Chancellorof the University for Institutional Relationswas in charge of the Japanese Coordinatorand Mrs. Blanca Garcia Vega was handlingthe Chinese studies. Thus a full-fledgedAsian Study Centre got to function in theUniversity from 2001 and it’s the beginningof the course of study of Hindi in theUniversity also. The present director ofCEA is Mr. Luis Oscar Ramos Alonso.HINDI CHAIR IN THE UNIVERSITYAccordingly cultural exchangesprogrammes between India and Spain gotrealized from the year and workout tillday. The first Hindi Professor to teachat academic level in the University wassent in 2004, and the Hindi Courses weredesigned by him according to the academiccalendar of the University. Hindi isrecognized as a language course of theuniversity, and the degrees and validcertificates for doing Hindi, were beingawarded to the students of Hindi, as itwas customary in other language studiesof the Centre of Languages of the Universityof Valladolid.The enthusiasm to study Hindilanguage was generated by the ongoing148 :: January-March 2010

cultural programmes which took place inthe CEA (Centro de Estudios de Asia),right from its beginning. When the studentsof Hindi were asked their aim to studythis language, the response was and isto know further into the composite cultureof India through this lingua franca.According to them India is Hindu andHindi is the tongue of the Hindu. We couldremember the verses of the national poetof Pakistan Muhammad Iqbal, who wrotehis’ Taran-e -Hind’, a patriotic song forthe undivided India :“Hindi hai ham vatan hai, hindostanhamara, hamara—’’The present student in a developingcountry like India could not dream ofan academic course merely designed foracquiring knowledge or information in thereal sense. Here the Occidental Educationaims at the enhancement of knowledgeof the intellectuals, and not more thanthis pragmatic work on their education.But the third world country student isstarving to make an academic career outof his education and find the way to makeboth ends of his life meet. Especially inmodern India, we could find this pragmaticbenefit, behind the student education.Anyhow, in Spain the students of Hindiare not only from the right stream ofacademic education, but 80 % of themare from the employed hands, who wantto enjoy the Hindi films, songs, tour Indiaand try to read the literary and culturaltext books of India. They are also awareof the multilingual situation prevalent inthe country, but are not aware that Hindicould not become the unique nationallanguage of the country. They do comparetheir national language Castellana - Spanishout of the four national languages of thecountry the other three being Cataluña,Galicia, and Basque.HINDI CLASS TIMINGS AND THEOFFICE OF THE HINDI PROFESSORIn Spain there is hardly any Universityhaving a permanent department of Hindi,as in some of the western countries. Butthe Hindi chair is maintained throughoutby the deputed professor of Hindiconsecutively substituting one afteranother. Therefore, academic Degree orPost graduate level courses or researchin Hindi is not to be expected in thenear future. However, the present Hindiclasses are designed considering the timeof the majority of the employed studentsageing from 40 to 60 years. The appropriatetime for the study is thus fixed for theevenings except for the holidays Saturdayand Sunday. Even for a household labourer,construction worker or most of the officepersonnel in Spain, we could see thesetwo weekend holidays executed as a rightof the employed. Spain has the reasonfor naming these days as holidays accordingto the mythology. All around the worldthe etymology (word history) of most ofthe days of the week is linked to Romanmythology. In Spanish, the coinage of theterms Saturday and Sunday weren’t adoptedusing the Roman naming pattern. Spanishword Domingo, the word for Sunday, comesJanuary-March 2010 :: 149

from a Latin word meaning “Lord’s day.”And Sábado, the word for Saturday, comesfrom the Hebrew word Sabbath, meaninga day of rest (in Jewish and Christiantradition, God rested on the seventh dayof creation (Genesis.1: 1-28)). Thus theactual day of rest happened on Saturdayand the holiday came as Sunday. So thecustom to have both days without workin a week is benefitted for almost all ofthe working community in Spain, and whichis realized in the academic field also. Butfor the research students and theinvestigating professors of the University,they can have access to their departmentsirrespective of these holidays. Anyhow,the department is kept open on Saturdaysfor having some special consultations withthe teachers or seminars with some specialarrangements.Hindi professor is consulted in his officein Casa de la India on anytime excepthis class hours in the University by thelocal public and those interested in culturalstudies of India. Hence, he has to do adouble role in this academic world, andhe has to maintain his office in Casa dela India, far from the University wherehe teaches. Taking for granted that thepresence of a permanent Indian in Casade la India, (house of India) constructedfor maintaining the cultural harmony withIndia and Spain, this arrangement is viewedin a healthy state. Regarding theperformance of the Hindi professor in CasaIndia, it can be read in a separate discourse.The public is very much keen on learningand having touch with Hindi for, theyapproach the professor for getting scribedtheir names in Hindi or getting somegreetings scribed in Hindi with the professor.Sometimes they do have some of the filmsongs in Hindi with Spanish translationsor transliterations, but not at all satisfiedwith the interpretation, seek the help ofprofessor. For compensating this meeting,the professor has started the meeting ofthe interested public and the Indian culturelovers of Spain along with students ofthe course, a cultural association in thename of “Hindi Sangh”, which is citedseparately.The duration of the classes will notbe more than 2 or two and a half hours,either with a break or without. But forsome time, the Intensive Hindi Coursesfor One month duration could also bemade where four or five hour per dayclasses can be held with an interval inbetween. That course is designed only forthe particular group of persons who planfor a tour to India. There will be a charmfor Indian Film Festival or ‘Image India’programme. The present Oscar Song ‘JaiHo…’, sung by A.R.Rahman is acceptedby the students of Hindi and for translatingthe film’ Slum dog Millionaire’ into Spanishthe translator was keen to keep the nuancesof the original Hindi songs withouttranslating them in Spanish even thoughthe film went with spirit in the country.George Weber 1 made a study of the10 most influential languages of the world.According to that in the order of languagenative speakers of the world China is number150 :: January-March 2010

one followed by English and Spanish andHindi is placed in the fourth place. Itis also evident from the records that Americais a country nourishing Hindi in almostall academic courses and some of theadministrative uses like that of Pentagon.UNO has given Hindi the sixth place nextto Spanish as its official language. It isestimated that the combined total numberof Spanish speakers in the world is between470 and 500 million (spreading in 20countries), making it the third most spokenlanguage by total number of speakers (afterChinese, and English). Spanish is the secondmost-widely spoken language in terms ofnative speakers. Global internet usagestatistics for 2007 show Spanish as thethird most commonly used language onthe Internet, after English and Chinese.Where as Hindi is spoken by 487 million(366 million with all varieties of Hindiand Urdu + 120 million as a second languagein 1999) according to Indian Census 2001.Currently the population of India is 1,173million and 168 million is currently thepopulation of Pakistan. (294.4 million speakproperly Hindi as a first language): 258million of 1,028 million speak Hindi accordingto the 2001 Indian census. Interms of 10 top world languages Hindiis estimated as 5 th next to Spanish. ButSpanish people normally under estimateHindi as very difficult to learn. Still thereare a lot of Hindi learners and writersin Spain and they are translating fromHindi and Sanskrit texts to their mothertongue.For learning Hindi there are three booksof Grammar texts in Spanish. The firstone is written by Ana Thapar 2 (1987),the second a translation from the Englishversion of his own English book “Beginners’Hindi” into Spanish by Rupert Snell 3(2007), and the third one and the mostcomplete grammar byVijayakumaran.C.P.V co-authored by JesúsArribas Lazaro 4 (2010). In these seriesRupert Snell has provided two CDs, andVijayakumaran has given one CD forsupplementing the book for self study.There are two more texts related to Hindifor daily use and for the use of travellers.GeoPlaneta 5 published the latter bytranslating from the book ‘Hindi, Urdu,Bengali Phrase Book’ and the former isby Ana Thapar 6 in the year 2009 withthe title ‘Hindi de cada día’ literallytranslated as ‘Hindi for everyday use’ (thebook got printed with a Hindi caption-“batchit ki Hindi”) with illustrated CD. Itis paradoxical to see that the CD is notof conversational Hindi, but of monologueand each and every oration got its Spanishtranslation. Just for avoiding this ambiguitythis author has experimented with truedialogues in Hindi in his audio CD suppliedwith the book – ‘Hindi Fácil’ -‘Saral Hindi’where the conversations are taken fromthe Bus stand, Bus Stop, Railway station,vegetable market, doctor-patient dialogueetc. appending the 14 lessons. Thetheoretical study of Hindi and Spanishwas done by Vasant Ganesh Gadre 7 (1996),but which was in Spanish and the Hindipart in Spanish transliteration.By referring to the above books ofJanuary-March 2010 :: 151

grammar and daily use the self study ofHindi is really not materializing as thestudents find the language very difficultand they require a proper guide in personfor them. Most of the students who haddone the course and got enrolment arethe occasional tourists and business menin India. The literature of Hindi also isquite highlighted in the Spanish books andjournals. In addition to that there areseveral journals in India and abroad whichare dedicated for the publication of Indianlanguages and culture in Spain like “IndiaPerspectiva” and “Papeles de la India”.As stated the Hindi syllabus of theUniversity of Valladolid is structured forthe pragmatic use of the students to reachtheir goals. Hence three levels of educationare planned. First level initial or primaryfor learning from alphabets to syntax leadingto the conversational use of Hindi withreading and writing skills, and much focusis given to the conversational side ratherthan the grammar. Here the student shouldtry to master the script as soon as possible.The second level or intermediate is wherethe real grammar teaching is made andmore and more emphasis is given to thestructure of Hindi. In the first and secondlevel media help is sought like videos orcinemas and film songs, for supplementingthe classes. The third level or advancedHindi is to provide skills for learning theliterature., and the real charm of theliterature of Hindi is imparted to thestudents. The selected poems of Kabirdas,Surdas, Tulsidas, and modern Hindi shortstories and poems are taken for granted.More attention is given to the translatedversions of the Hindi literature in Spanish,so that the students will be able to comparethe original with their translation. But theproblem with almost all translationsavailable is they are made from theintermediary sources of French or Englishand the translations are not reliable. Whileexplaining the meaning of the literary pieceif the translation is referred, some sortof under expression is felt in the classrooms.The language orthodoxy of Spanishpeople is to be mentioned on the occasion.The people communicate and do everythingin Spanish as if they breathe in Spanish.So the Hindi professor has to make strainto teach through their tongue. Some ofthe language teaching experts mention theteaching of a language through the samelanguage for immediate effect of the same.That is this author’s experience whilestudying intensive Spanish courseconducted by the University of Valladolidfor foreigners during the month August2007. The date is mentioned because thepresent professor of Hindi in this Universityreplacing the former Hindi professor, wasto start his career in September 2007with his unbearable Spanish tongue toteach Hindi. Thanks to the students whowere very liberal to correct the professorin learning good Spanish. Anyhow, themodern teaching tools like the power pointpresentations, the CD, DVD, recorded voicesusing the language laboratory could not152 :: January-March 2010

solve completely the problem of teachingHindi through its own tongue. Teachingof Hindi using pictures, gestures, songs,and games also supplement this exercise.COMPARATIVE AND CONTRASTINGANALYSIS OF BOTH LANGUAGES INCLASS ROOMSThe linguistic origins of Hindi andSpanish are quite different, since both arecoming from essentially diversebackgrounds.. These languages of Indo-European have the common ancestry ofSanskrit, but the Iberian-Latin root ofSpanish is different from that of the Indo-Aryan origin of Hindi language. Spanishis a Romance language which evolved fromLatin, a highly inflected language with anextremely flexible word order. BecauseSpanish is directly derived from Latin andbecause its verbal forms are so clearlymarked for person, number, tense, aspect,and mood, it allows considerable flexibilityin the ordering of elements in its sentences.The Indian teacher who has a basicknowledge of English would be confusedto use his knowledge in Spanish – Hindiclass, since the same sound of Englishis not observed in Spanish. Spanish peopleclaim that they sound the phonemesaccording to the script. This has someresemblance with some of the Hindiphonemes also; hence ‘a’ is the primaryvowel in Spanish and Hindi, but ‘aa’ alow central unrounded vowel is absentin Spanish. Similarly high front roundedvowel ‘ii’, back rounded vowel ‘uu’ (‘oo’)are absent in Spanish. The two latter vowelsmentioned sound in Hindi ö ‘∃’.Similar is the case with digraphs ‘ai’ and‘au’, which are taken as diphthongs inthe language. The basic five vowels cannotreplace the thirteen vowels of Hindi. Theconsonants are grouped in Hindi as ‘velar’,‘palatal’, ‘retroflex’, ‘dental’, and ‘labial’.But the Spanish guys have problem inidentifying the ‘retroflex’ from ‘dental’.Similar is the case of those consonants,where only sound ‘s’ is possible in Spanish,and nasal vowels ‘anusvar’, ‘anunasik’ andnasal consonants. On the implicationalaspect of the teaching of both of theselanguage, separate essays are written butto mention that more than commonnessin these two languages contrasts are inabundance. Except the proper nouns allother nouns in Spanish are supported byarticles such as definite article which isalso not the structure of Hindi. The teacherhas to be careful while translating someof the words into Hindi, for the genderis expressed according to the definite orindefinite article preceding the noun word.The common personal pronoun ‘tu’ inSpanish has the same significance in Hindi,but the functional and semantic aspectsin both languages are quite distinct. Thesecond person and third person pronouns,which are by and large used in Hindidenoting respect, but the cultural andcognitive level of Spanish learners, cannotdigest this very soon. For example ‘tum’expresses moderate divergence from highhonorific reference. It is used by Hindispeakers in addressing many relatives(especially those not senior to the speaker),January-March 2010 :: 153

quite often in addressing close friends,and regularly in addressing persons oflower social status than the speaker. Toquote R.S.Mc Gregor: 8 “Care must beexercised in using the pronouns ‘aap’, ‘tum’and ‘tu’, which have different honorificvalues. In normal educative usage ‘aap’is the pronoun of address to one’s seniors(though not usually to close femalerelatives), and also very generally to one’speers and others whom one addresses onequal terms. ‘aap’ is used with a thirdperson plural verb, whether the referenceis to one person or more than one.”Outside the class room the Spaniardswill address the Indians and foreignerswith the honorific pronoun ‘usted’, andthe class room teacher also addresses thelearners with the corresponding Hindi usage‘aap’. Even though the learners take thisfor granted, they could not maintain thisaddress throughout, for according to themthe progressive thinking of the people andthe students take to treat one and allas equal and personal pronoun ‘tu’ inSpanish is common in and outside class.Hindi professor got a little bit ashamedof this address in student-teacherrelationship.The use of adjectives in both languagesfollows the other difficulty since Spanishcarries adjectives followed by the wordto be qualified while in Hindi usage itis reverse. Word order and emphatic usagesare common both in Hindi and Spanishand their meaning differ in each oration.The basic syntactic pattern of Spanish issimilar to English i.e. SVO, whereas Hindihas always the rendition in SOV. The Spanishverbs have three patterns of conjugation,those infinitives ending in ‘ar’, ‘er’ and‘ir’, of course with some exceptions ofirregulars verbs as well. But Hindi doesnot have this, and the irregular verbsin Hindi are very much limited to 5-6and only signify in their past tenseconjugations. Similar is the case withcompound and auxiliary verbs in boththe languages. To teach the conjugationof the tenses in Hindi is most easy butto compare and contrast them with theSpanish structure is a Himalayan task. Theaspects, moods, imperatives, subjunctivesetc. are changeable according to thestructure. Even for paraphrasing both thelanguages care is to be taken to scribean exclamatory sentence or interrogativesentence in Spanish to replace similar onesin Hindi. For the exclamation mark isto be put in the beginning and end ofthe sentence, but in the beginning it willbe upside down. So is the case of a questionmark at the head and tail of a Spanishsentence. To sum up, the contrasts inboth the languages are enormous as Hindihas its own linguistic and grammaticalsigns and Spanish has its own, withexceptional similarities on some of theSanskrit based vocabularies in both thelanguages and some of the pronouns,gender, number and phrases.The first professor of Hindi got threeand a half years to replace with his follower,in July 2007. He had done two level154 :: January-March 2010

teachings- the primary and secondary fromFebruary 2007 to June 2007. The presentprofessor Dr.Vijayakumaran of PayyanurCollege of Kannur University started withan Intensive Hindi language learning coursein the month of September 2007,immediately after acquiring basiccommunicative skill in Spanish languageby doing an “Intensive Spanish Coursefor the Foreigners” conducted by the Centreof Languages of the University in the monthof August 2007. Owing to the absenceof students for the secondary level, hehad to do first long duration course inHindi at the primary level from October1, 2007 to January 23, 2008. The enrolledstudents were 20 who continued with theprofessor for the consecutive courses ofintermediate and advanced studies in Hindi.Accordingly the future courses wereplanned from February 2008 to June 2008,October to June 2008, October 2008 toJune 2009 and September 2009 to May2010 for primary level or ‘prathamik’.The secondary level or ‘madhyamik’ wasscheduled from October 2007 to January2008, October 2008 to June 2009 andSeptember 2009 to May 2010 withoutoverlapping one course with the other.For advance course Hindi for the firstbatch to continue for the third level theduration was from October 20, 2008 toJune 15, 2009. For the students of highinterest in Indian culture and Hindiliterature the topics selected were versesfrom Kabir, Surdas, Tulsidas, Mirabai,modern poems in addition to the shortstories of Premchand, Jaishankar Prasadetc. Part of epic poem Ramcharitmanasis selected as well as the other selectionsof Bhakti poetry to get introduced intothe Hindi Bhakti Literature. One of thestudents Mr. Jesús, in this batch is termedco-author to the book ‘Saral Hindi’ dueto his dedication to the language and cultureof India.POST GRADUATE COURSE IN INDIANSTUDIES AND HINDITill now, three post-graduate courseson Indian studies were held in ValladolidUniversity. The first was during the year2004-05, the second in 2005-06 and thelast 2008-09. Initially there was anenrollment of 30-40 but gradually it isdecreased and in the year 2009-10 thecourse was suspended due to the shortageof students. The main course objectiveis to provide a better understanding ofsociety, culture, and history of India. Thatknowledge can be applied in the Spanishlabor market where there is a new opennessto Asian countries as well as addressingissues of intercultural nature, institutionalsectors, social services, NGOs, secondaryschools and so on.The course is intended to provide anoverview of the many facets of traditionaland modern India. The interest that existsin Spanish society over the subcontinentnow encourages us to offer a detailedpicture of the realities that often are treatedtoo superficially in the media.The course objectives are: to provideJanuary-March 2010 :: 155

an update on the many facets of India,to show cultural social and religiouscomplexity, to analyze the economic,scientific and intellectual stages in Indiain recent decades and contributing toimproving the dialogue between cultures.The curriculum offers a total of 24 creditsthat students must enroll in a minimumof 20 corresponding to 200 hours.The venue of the course was selectedas the Faculty of Arts, University ofValladolid, in front of the School ofManagement Studies where the Hindi classeswere being held. Some of the classes arearranged in Casa de la India also.Occasionally some parallel activities werelocated elsewhere. The subjects and topicswith their corresponding credits are asfollows:I. History, culture and geography ofIndia with 4 credits. The topics introductionto history, civilization and geographyof India.ii. Economy, society and contemporarypolitics with 4 credits. The correspondingtopics are the rules of the currenteconomic system, society and identity inpost-colonial India, current political structure,foreign international politics and tradeand legal system.iii. Philosophy and religion with 4credits, and the topics being philosophicalsystems, history of religious thought, andreligions in India today.iv. Hindi language with 4 credits on thetheme of writing and pronunciation,grammar, conversation of Hindi.v. Aesthetics and literature with 4 credits.The topics dealt are aesthetic theory andliterary criticism, classical literature,medieval literature, and Indian literaturein English language.vi. Art and culture with 4 creditsincluding the topics history of art andarchitecture, performing arts, music, moviesin India Thus a total of 24 credits. Amongthis the first part of the history, cultureand geography of India was marked ascompulsory subject and the contents ofperforming arts, music and movies aretheoretical and practical.Some of the professors and thespecialists in India all over the world alongwith the specialist professors in theUniversity of Valladolid, the Hindiprofessor, the director of Casa de la IndiaDr. Guillermo Rodriguez and Mrs. Monicade la Fuente who got diploma in IndianClassical Dance by Kalakshetra College ofFine Arts in Chennai, used to teach thesecourses.‘HINDI SANGH’As said, the formation of Hindi Sanghwas to unite the students of Hindi of theUniversity and the public who are interestedin Indian culture and the language andliterature of Hindi. The permanent venueselected for this is the Indian House orCasa India, but occasional meetings andworkshops etc. were being held outsidethis office, anywhere in theMunicipal premises of Valladolid. Monthly156 :: January-March 2010

meetings were proposed and a voluntarysecretary was elected from the audienceto assist the professor in arranging themeeting and communicating the noticeof the programme to members. All weredone voluntarilyThis organization started working inHouse of India in the patronage of thedirector of India House and under thedirectorship of the deputed Hindi professor.The outstanding programmes held by theSangh are: “the workshop of AshtangaYog:theory and practice” for 4 consecutiveweeks in the month of January-February2008, “Baisakhi, Vishu-Pongalcelebrations”, “Indian cooking show”,“Indian dress styles”, “celebrations ofChristmas and New year in India”,“Deepavali celebrations””Onamcelebrations”, etc. are to mark some. Therewere a series of presentations on thetopics like “Hindu mythology”, “Hindu andChristian pilgrimage in India”, “IndianSociety”, “Bhakti movement in India”,“Indian Literature” etc. The participationof the public apart from the students ofHindi lead the programme to a grandsuccess. Therefore, the professor is invitedto nearby villages and Municipality Civilcentres to perform some of the workshopsand presentations. Some of the leadingcooks of the area, could also take noteson the special Indian cooking, and mostof the ladies liked wearing saris whichwas realized in the demonstration in theworkshop. Hindi film songs, dances, filmsetc. were leading cultural entities thatattracted many of them. For the promotionof these Indian cultural identities the roleof House of India, Embassy of India, Madridand the University of Valladolid ispraiseworthy.Some institutions like the Universityof Navarra, Casa Asia, Barcelona and Madridprovide high opportunities for thepromotion of Indian culture and spreadof Indian literature in Spain. The Universityof Navarra had a plan of translating andpublishing the classics of Miguel Cervantes,the father of modern Spanish literaturein Hindi. Vibha Mourya 9 (2006), Professorof Spanish in the Department of Germanicand Romance Studies at Delhi Universityhas the credit of publishing the masterpiece“Don Quixote” in Hindi where as herresearch student Sabyasachi Mishra 10(2009) translated “Novelas Ejemplares”into Hindi direct from Spanish. ModernHindi short stories are being publishedin the contemporary Spanish journals. Inaddition to these, Barcelona and Madridhave some specific institutions andautonomous universities for Indian studiesand for the promotion of Indian cultureand translation of Hindi literature. Someof them are highlighted in the bibliographyappended. Some of the earlier translationsto Hindi were held from indirect sourcesfrom French and English and recent trendsare to get the direct translation from andinto Hindi.Altogether, the use of Hindi and Indianstudies in Spain is very attractive. As thespirit of learning Hindi and Indian literatureis day by day increasing in Spain, thanksJanuary-March 2010 :: 157

to the House of India and the Universityof Valladolid in particular for promotingthe best of their interest in maintainingthe statuesque. Casa India used to receiveIndians on State Government or SpanishGovernment Scholarship or from theMunicipality of Valladolid India-Spainprojects to assist the institution in someproject works, or literary and culturalactivities of India which are realizing timeand again. On occasions of India-Spanishtribunal, India-Spain summit, Indian Filmfestival, Image India festival, Hindi andIndian culture is highlighted to the peak,apart from the technological scientificdiplomaticrelations between the twocountries. Sometime a whole team of Indianstudents from the University of Salamancaor from the capital Madrid arrive in casaIndia to witness the Indian day, wherethe whole Hindi atmosphere is created.Whenever, the actors or cultural activistsreach Spain, they also prefer to use Hindiin their conversation rather than English.On the Indian festive days, the Bollywoodfilms will be screened in Hindi, and acycle of such films will be arranged forthe public, with or without the subtitlesin Spanish. In the near future we canexpect a full fledged Hindi departmentfunctioning in the University. The authoris proud of his excellent students in Hindi,who were assisting the professor in writinghis book on “Saral Hindi” (Hindi Fácil)and the Audio CD supplementing the book,to record their voices as Spanish naturalspeakers.1. George Weber, 1997,.The World’s 10most influential Languages, LanguageMonthly, 3, December 1997 pp.: 12-182. Ana Thapar, 1987, Gramatica deHindi, Madrid, Editorial Alahambra,3. Rupert Snell, 2007, translation, Hindipara Principiantes, (Libro + Cd);HerderEditorial,Spain,4. Vijayakumaran.C.P:V, Jesus ArribasLazaro, 2010, Hindi Fácil’ (Saral Hindi);(Libro + Cd), Valladolid, Universidad deValladolid, (in print)5. Geo Planeta, 2007, translation: Hindi,Urdu Y Bengali, BarcelonaDía6. Ana Thapar, 2009, Hindi de Cada(Libro + Cd); Rústica Editorial: DifusiónCentro de Investigación y Publicaciones.7. Vasant Ganesh Gadre, 1996,Estructuras Gramaticales de Hindi yEspañol’, Madrid, Agencia Española deCooperaciónInternacional.7. R.S. Mc Gregor, 1995, Outline ofHindi Grammar, Oxford, Oxford UniversityPress, Pp. 13-14.7. Miguel Cervantes, Don Quixote (lamancha ke shurvir ki gatha) HindiVibha MouryaInternational.translator2006), New Delhi, Confluence7. Miguel Cervantes,”NovelasEjemplares” translator: Sabyasachi Mishra(2009), New Delhi, Confluence InternationalVijaykumaran is professer of Hindi at the Centre of Asian Studies,Valladolid University, Spain. He has traced the spread of Hindi inthat country in a historical perspective.158 :: January-March 2010

CONTRIBUTORS’ ADDRESSES1. Naresh Saxena,Vivek Khand 215,Gomti Nagar, Lucknow.2. Dr Hitendra Patel,Chetna, 493, ParnashreeKolkata-700060.3. Amitabh Khare242/A-3, Basant Lane,Railway Officers’ ColonyNear Panchkuiyan RoadNew Delhi-110001.4. Upendra KumarF-73, East of KailashNew Delhi-110065.5. Dr Ravindra N. MishraA-26, Shakti ApartmentsSector-9, RohiniDelhi-110085.6. Dr P.C. JoshiFlat 109, Sakshara ApartmentsA-3, Paschim ViharNew Delhi-110063.7. Eishita Siddharth537/121, PuraniyaNear Railway Crossing, AliganjLucknow-226024.8. Dr Gopichand NarangD-252, Sarvoday EnclaveNew Delhi-110017.9. Dr S.S. ToshkhaniFlat 8050, D-8, Vasant KunjNew Delhi.10. Dr Vijay KumaranCentre of Asian StudiesValladolid UniversitySpain.11. Dr Subhash SharmaD-71, Nivedita KunjR.K. Puram, Sector-10New Delhi-22.12. Dr Rajendra Prasad PandeyA-99 (GF) FreedomFighters Enclave IGNOU RoadMaidan GadhiNew Delhi-68.13. Avirup Ghosh10 Rammohan Roy RoadKolkata-700009West Bengal.email: ghosh.avirup@gmail.com14. Devendra Raj AnkurNational School of DramaBahawalpur HouseBhagwan Das RoadNew Delhi-110001.15. Satya Chaitanya151, New BaradwariJameshedpur-831001.email: satyachaitanya@yahoo.com16. MarkandeyaAD/2, Ekanki Kunj, 24, Muir RoadAllahabad-1.17. Dr Premlata8, DakshinapuramJawaharlal Nehru UniversityNew Delhi-67.January-March 2010 :: 159

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