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

Hindi : Language, Discourse, WritingA Quarterly Journal of Mahatma Gandhi AntarrashtriyaHindi VishwavidyalayaVolume 4 Number 7 July-September 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 :C-60, Shivalik, I Floor, Malaviya NagarNew Delhi-110 017Phone : 41613875Sale & 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, WardhaPrinted at :Ruchika Printers, Delhi-110 032Phone : 92127962562 :: July-September 2010

L A N G U A G EDISCOURSEW R I T I N GJuly-September 2010ContentsHeritageCaptain Rashid Upendra Nath Ashk 7Dachi Upendra Nath Ashk 18MemoirThe Graceful Charmer, Ashk Rajinder Singh Bedi 25Qissa Khan :A Coloureful Storyteller Named Ashk Phanishwar Nath Renu 3 7Muktibodh Harishankar Parsai 45PoetryTen Poems Badri Narayan 5 1DiscourseHindi Literary Journalism SinceBhartendu Age Bharat Bharadwaj 59Dalit Saint Poets of Bhakti Movement :Pride and Prejudice Subhash Sharma 69Some Great Indian Literary Theorists Ravi Nandan Sinha 86July-September 2010 :: 3

Short StoryThe Bamboo Kashinath Singh 94The Brats Manisha Kulshreshtha 9 7Saaz Nasaaz Manoj Rupra 108Pages From A NovelAnitya : Thoughts in Jail Mridula Garg 134FilmsMeena Kumari Kanan Jhingan 1 4 7Book ReviewAbbu Ne Kaha Tha :Unpacking Swag of Pangs Rohini Agrawal 1554 :: July-September 2010

Editor's NoteOn a recent visit to Goa, I had the occasion to be present at the conferringof Jnanpith award upon Konkani author and national activist Ravindra Kelekar.It was an event in which the Government of Goa not only took activepart but mobilised the entire literati to participate in it. Jnanpith laureateRavindra Kelekar was not in the best of health that day. He remainedseated during the award function. However the audience of 2000 strongaccorded him a standing ovation for full five minutes. Lovers of Konkanilanguage and literature thronged the auditorium to have a glimpse of theirvenerated writer.The Hindi world could learn a lesson or two from this experience. Hindihas a great number of writers and scholars who have given a lifetimeof service to the enrichment of the language. In Hindi, books are publishedin bulk and marketed all over the world. Considering the vast numberof people who speak Hindi and no less who read it, the returns of thisharvest to the writer are meagre. Even worse is the output in terms ofsocial status. This history repeats itself from Nirala to Nagarjun and fromPremchand to Amarkant.Upendranath Ashk whose centenary occurs this year was one brave authorwho broke free from the clutches of commercial injustice to set up hisown publishing house in 1949. His writer wife Kaushalya Ashk took overthe reins of Neelabh Prakashan and relieved him of all humdrum businesschores. Except for a few short term jobs, Ashkji remained a freelancerthroughout his life. He formed an ideal family with an understanding, sensitivewife and an intellectual son Neelabh. The three shared great vibrationsand ruled an otherwise difficult literary town– Allahabad. Ashkji’s life wasnot luxurious but self dependent.We carry two of his famous short stories in our heritage column andtwo memoirs on him by his contemporaries. His son Neelabh has obligedus by giving us this archive material. It is noteworthy that the level ofJuly-September 2010 :: 5

mutual appreciation among writers was exemplary fifty years ago. Bedi andRenu were writers of a different genre but they warmly acknowledged Ashkji’sindividuality. This type of tolerance is totally missing in present times.Other short stories by Kashinath Singh, Manoj Rupra and Manisha Kulshreshthaare very significant for their content and style.Badri Narayan is known for his simplicity of diction and richness of content.We bring you some of his poems. In discourse Bharat Bharadwaj haspainstakingly chalked out the history of Hindi literary journalism. We alsohave a candid study of dalit saint poets by Subhash Sharma and an analysisof poetic theory by Ravinandan Sinha. Our readers are well familiar withboth of them.Hindi has a rich treasure chest of memoirs and we bring you one byHarishankar Parsai. He recalls Muktibodh in all his shades of personality.Mridula Garg’s novel Anitya has been translated into English recently andwe present one chapter from the same. Chandrakanta’s collection of shortstories ‘abbu ne kaha tha’ is reviewed by hindi literary critic Rohini Agrawal.In films column, Kanan Jhingan’s portrayal of Meena Kumari speaks volumesabout that superb suffering artiste.Friends, you can well assess that the number of women writing in hindiis no less than that of men, in fact it may be greater. But this isincidental. After all gender is not important in literature. Women writerscan not wear it like a badge or a banner. Every writer has to face thetest of time.6 :: July-September 2010

HeritageCAPTAIN RASHIDUpendra Nath AshkTranslatedJai Ratanby“I was thinking of Hanif. Why don’t you find a place for himin your new scheme?”Captain Rashid had his tunic on and was pacing the roomas usual, while buttoning it. At the same time he was feverishlythinking of giving a face-lift to his weekly. His imagination ranriot. He had already appointed new, able and experienced subeditors;had asked the press to cast new type-faces; had prevailedupon the headquarters to supply better quality news stock; hadincreased the number of pictorial pages and during his editorship,the paper had undergone a vast change and had become far moreuseful for the armed forces...His wife’s words fell dimly upon his ears as if he were ina state of somnambulism. He knit his brows and turning round,he looked at her in surprise.She was sitting on the edge of her bed, preparing a cup oftea for him. Capt. Rashid’s office started at nine, but he hadmade it a point to be in the office fifteen minutes before time.It was his belief that an officer should be at his desk beforethe clerks arrived. He would set the alarm clock for an earlyhour and the servant had instruction to bring the morning teain the bed room, so that he would be ready to leave for officeby 8:15.As she stirred the sugar in the cup, a faint smile played acrossher face, like the first reluctant streak of an autumn dawn, andJuly-September 2010 :: 7

her face gradually reddened with theordeal of a request. She looked at herhusband from the corner of her eyes.Stirring the tea, she repeated her request.“I was telling you about Hanif...”“You are a fool. “Capt. Rashid snapped.There was a scowl on his face. Pickingup the cup, he again started pacing theroom.His wife watched him silently as hestrode to the other end of the room.Her gaze sliding down his fast baldinghead, the back of which ended inpronounced bulge, took in his thin neckand rounded shoulders and came to reston his feet. She realised that his gaithad undergone a great change. For thatmatter, she had noticed the change sincethe day he had been appointed to hisnew position. His thin neck was alwaysstiff as if he had pulled a muscle. Hewalked on his toes and on reaching thewall he pirouetted on his toes, like atop taking a sharp spin.Not only his gait, even his mannershad undergone a change. His gaze, whichpreviously was always subdued and borea puzzled and helpless expression, hadnow changed into a bold stare, brimmingwith confidence. While talking, he wouldsmile ironically, thinking the other personto be a damned fool or curl up hislips, as if the other fellow was indulgingin some silly prattle, unworthy of hisnotice.For sometime Mrs. Rashid watchedher husband sipping tea and pacing upand down the room. She did not mindthe ‘title’ that her husband had bestowedupon her for asking him to fix up hercousin’s husband with a job under hiscontrol. When Rashid had donned themilitary uniform for the first time, hiselder brothers had laughed at him.“What’s the army coming to these days.”his eldest brother would say with a merrytwinkle in his eyes, “that even such prizespecimens have come to find a placein it”. The elder brother would recitea couplet saying:‘Seeing my photo said that impishbeauty.This cartoon is fit for a newspaper.’Their wives stuffed handkerchiefs intotheir mouths to keep them from burstinginto laughter and Mrs. Rashid hung herhead with embarrassment. This was thereason, that now her husband’s stiff neck,his short temper, his droll appearanceand irascible nature gave her a sort ofsatisfaction. She knew that his elderbrother felt sorry for having made himthe mark of his witticism and that theeldest brother felt awkward at this reedthinman having made the grade. Hadn’the lived up to his boast that withoutthe recommendation and help of his KhanBahadur father, he would come up inlife. Through his own ability andperseverance he had risen to the rankof capt. and been selected for thisimportant post. His words still rang inher ears: “I am the first Indian to bemade the Editor of this weekly. For the8 :: July-September 2010

past half century this position has beeninvariably held by Britishers alone.”Mrs. Rashid looked at her husbandwith great pride. He had finished hiscup and after putting it back on thetea-tray was now nibbling at a biscuit.She drained the cup in an empty glassand pouring the tea for a second cupbroached the topic again. “You knowhow much regard I have for Shamim.She’s a distant relation, no doubt, butI hold her dearer than a sister.”She paused. Capt. Rashid was stillpacing the room. She said again, “Auntieis worried about shamim. It’s now fouryears since she was married. She hastwo children. But Hanif Bhai is still withouta decent job.”She put a spoonful of sugar and halfa spoon of milk. Capt. Rashid continuedto walk. He knitted his eye-brows whichfurrowed his forehead and his gait becameheavy. His wife continued: “In theseexpensive times one cannot feed evenone mouth on sixty rupees a month.”She sighed. “And then Shamim has twochildren and father and mother to carefor.”She stirred the sugar. Capt. Rashidmade no reply. His lips twisted and thescowl on his face deepened. “Peoplewithout even the rudiments of Englishare these days earning a salary of Rs.200/-” she continued, without noticingher husband’s expression who stoodfacing the wall. “Hanif, as you know,has done his B.A. with Honours. Buthe is poor and lacks contacts to pullthe right strings.”Capt. Rashid could not hold backhis anger. ‘You foolish woman,’ he saidto himself, tantalised, ‘did I get whereI am through anybody’s help? Hard work,ability, honesty– these are the keys tosuccess. I have not made this schemeto give asylum to worthless creatureslike Hanif. I have no use for drones.I want diligent and experiencedjournalists, who know the ropes!’ Buthe did not say all this to her. He casta pitying glance at his silly wife, andlooked at the watch. It was going onto be eight. “I want journalists, not clerks,”he said shortly, and without touchingthe cup of tea, he strode out of theroom.Mrs. Rashid didn’t get up. She satstunned and although she had stirredthe sugar, she went on stirring the teaabsentmindedly.Capt. Rashid was the third and theyoungest son of a military contractor,whom the Government had honouredwith the title of Khan Bahadur. Incomparison with his two brothers, hewas not much to look at, but he hadan alert and agile mind. Although hewas no match to these two ‘bulls’ (who,he used to say, had fattened themselveson the ill-gotten wealth of their father)he was fired with the ambition ofoutstanding them in some other fieldof activity. That was the reason, whileJuly-September 2010 :: 9

his two brothers were busy squanderingtheir father’s money, earned throughlegitimate or illegitimate means, he hadput his heart and soul into acquiringan education. After completing his collegeeducation he went in for a course ofjournalism. He had hardly finished hiscourse when he was offered a commissionin the army. Although his father hada big hand in getting him this position,Capt. Rashid however, attributed hisachievement to his own talent anddiligence; he was fully convinced thathe was worthy of this position.The weekly journal, of which he hadbeen made the editor, was not one ofthose countless newspapers, which hadsprouted overnight like mushroomsduring the second World War. The paperhad been established about fifty yearsago and was intended for the armedforces engaged in fighting the tribalson the Afghan border. When Capt. Rashidtook over its editorship, it was beingpublished in several vernacularlanguages.The armed personnel do not haveaccess to the general run of newspapers.Hundreds of miles away from home theyhave to fight in jungles, difficult mountainterrain, forlorn deserts and isolatedpockets. Although even in those daysevery effort was being made to providewholesome diversion through games andrecreations to fill the leisure hours ofthese semi-literate soldiers, yet it wasfelt that they must have a newspaperof their own, which should help themto beguile the tedious hours which hangheavy on them after a full day’s ordeal;when their thoughts turn to their homes,when they pine to know about the welfareof their near and dear ones, the conditionof the land and the crops. The paperhad been started to fill this need. Inthe beginning, the newspaper wasconfined to a bare two sheets, and itseditorial staff limited to a few persons.Although the two world wars sawthe addition of number of translatorclerksto the journal, and its establishmentalso expanded considerably, yet its modeof editing was as hackneyed andstereotyped as that of the earliest days.The bulk of its material was suppliedby the Government InformationDepartment. The sub-editor and the typistbetween them vetted the text, whichwas then typed out and distributed tothe vernacular sections for translation.The vernacular sections were faithfulversions of the parent English edition.The gossip columns and tit-bits werefirst written in English and then translatedinto the various vernaculars, where thejokes failed to come off, and thetranslations, often made quaint reading.The English edition was actually intendedfor the Officers, so that they could makesure, that nothing objectionable orseditious was going into the vernaculareditions. Not a line was changed, noteven the captions, to suit the vernaculartexts.As soon as Capt. Rashid came tothe helm and examined the paper with10 :: July-September 2010

the eyes of a professional journalist, hefrowned and curled his lips. “It’s a rag.”he said in disgust, flinging it down onthe table. Within a week he had drawnup a scheme to infuse new blood intoits degenerate body.The eye-brows at Headquarters wentup. Would the finance Departmentapprove Capt. Rashid’s scheme? Whatcould be wrong with a paper which hadstood the test of time for fifty years?To admit that there was something wrongwith the paper amounted to acceptingthe fact that Capt. Rashid’s predecessorshad been a pack of fools.Capt. Rashid had gone to theHeadquarters fully prepared to meet hisadversaries on their own ground. First,he patiently explained to them thesignificance of the newspaper. This paper,he said, was the only organ of its typefor the other ranks and could play animportant role in moulding their wayof thinking. Then he impressed uponthem that the soldier today was notthe same as his compatriot fifty yearsago. Today, he was politically consciousand sensitive to what was going on aroundhim. It was, therefore, necessary to showa greater degree of astuteness in framingthe policies of the paper so as to caterto his new requirements. He also ridiculedthe idea of entrusting the editing to pettyclerks, who were not only innocent ofthe rudiments of journalism, but alsoincompetent translators. He picked upthe Urdu edition and pointed out somehowlers.“I can look after the English editionmyself”, he said, “And the Urdu editiontoo. But what about the Hindi, Gurumukhi,Tamil, Telugu and Marathi editions? Arewe to leave them at the mercy of pettyclerks?”Capt. Rashid’s proposals wereaccepted. It was decided in the firstinstance to appoint Sub-editors for thefour vernacular editions at Rs.250/- amonth and also a Sub-editor for theEnglish edition.It was a deep winter morning.Although past eight, there was nosunshine, as if like the inhabitants ofthe surrounding bungalows, the sun wasalso reluctant to fling aside its quilt.In the sky’s slumberous eyes traces ofsleep still lingered. A cold wind blewscattering the dead leaves along the roadand the foot-paths. But the earth wasawake. In the bungalows, on both sidesof the road, eucalyptus, jamun, mango,silk-cotton and neem trees kissed thesky in their nude apology.But Capt. Rashid was oblivious ofthe indolence of the sky or theexhilaration of the earth. He was obsessedwith only one thought, how to changethe garb of his journal. In his mind’seye he was already seeing his journalshuffling off its skin like a snake. Withhis hands thrust in his trouser pocketshe was mentally interviewing candidates,who had been called for interview tofill the newly created jobs.July-September 2010 :: 11

Although there were only four jobs,the number of applications wasinordinately large. Out of these, Capt.Rashid had called only twenty candidatesfor interview– five for each section, outof which he would select the most eligiblefour. Of these applicants, some werealready working in responsible positionson well-known dailies; he personally knewthat they were competent. This was onereason why he was having so muchdifficulty in making up his mind. Onhis way to the office, he vacillated betweenone candidate and the other, not knowingin whose favour to throw his weight.The orderly was sitting on a stooloutside his office. He jumped to attentionand saluted Capt. Rashid.Lost in thought, Capt. Rashid passedhim; slid into the chair and then rangthe bell.Like a puppet pulled by a string,the orderly briskly strode into the room.“Yes Sir.”“Give my salaams to Panditji.” Hesaid and picked up the latest editionof the journal.Of those clerks, who, taking a cuefrom their officers, arrived before openingtime, Pandit Kirpa Ram was the foremost.Fifty five years of easy going life hadmade him soft and rotund. Now baldheaded, with his front-teeth missing, hehad joined service at a young age, andacted as the translator of Gurmukhi, Urduand Hindi sections respectively from timeto time. He was now incharge of theDepartment. Not that he was any goodat this job. Far from being an efficienttranslator, he was still raw at the game.But he was a past-master in the art ofhumouring his superiors, which is aninvaluable asset in a Government Officeand helps one clerk to score over hisfellow clerks, gaining him quickpromotion. He would bully his lessfortunate colleagues into grappling withthe work of translation, while he tookupon himself to hail a taxi for the Sahebs;procure rations and poultry for them;or ingratiate himself into their wives’favour by doing odd jobs. He had madeit a point to be the first to greet hisofficer on arrival, and bid him farewellat the time of departure. He would breakinto a broad grin at the faintest traceof a smile on his officer’s face and startfrowning when his officer became grave.It was because of these sterling qualitiesthat by gradual stages he had risen tobe incharge of a section. Before theorderly could convey the Captain’smessage to him, he was standing beforehis boss, teeth bared in a smile.Ignoring his smile, Capt. Rashidacknowledged his salutation with animperceptible nod of the head.Unable to plumb the mind of hisnew Indian master, whose ways wereso different from those of the Britishsahebs, Pandit Kirpa Ram gave anotherbland smile and then stood there lookingblank.“How many people are coming forthe interview?”12 :: July-September 2010

Pandit Kirpa Ram ran out to fetchthe files.Capt. Rashid picked up the latestedition of the journal. The very firstpage carried such a rich crop of misprintsthat his mind boiled with rage. He wasabout to pick up the telephone to callup the press, when the telephone bellrang.“Hello” His voice had a touch ofasperity. “Chaddu.” It was his father atthe other end. “Your mother has alreadyspoken to you about it. It’s about Hanif.Yesterday he came to see me in thisconnection. And besides, he’s our relationyou know...”“I can’t do anything about it, abbajan*,” Capt. Rashid said interrupting hisfather. “Hanif won’t make the grade. He’sunfit for this job.”“What do you mean by unfit? He’sB.A. (Hons.)”“A B.A. (Hons.) does not necessarilymake a good journalist, abba. I wanta journalist, an experienced hand, whocan give a face-lift to our paper. Hanifdoes not know even the ABC ofjournalism.”“He’ll learn. Given a chance, a diligentman can learn anything.”Capt. Rashid felt exasperated at thebrazen demand of his father. “This isa newspaper office, abba jan,” he saidcontrolling his temper, “Not a schoolof journalism. If I recruit a raw hand,what will my superior officers say? Hanifwill not be able to pull his weight withothers. They’ll laugh at him.”“The government offices are full offools– one worse than the other.” TheKhan Bahadur who knew all about theset up, said.“You are inducing me to actdishonestly,” Capt. Rashid bellowed intothe mouth piece. His voice was so loudthat the clerks in the other rooms heldtheir breath.“You are a fool.” He heard his fatherbang down the receiver.Pandit Kirpa Ram placed the file ofthe candidates before Capt. Rashid andstood before him smiling. Capt. Rashid’seyes blazed like live coals. The Pandit’ssmile died on his lips.‘er...er... may I...?”“Yes, you may go.”Holding the collar ends of his tunicCapt. Rashid started pacing in the room.The image of his father and that ofthe other Khan Bahadur, the owner ofthe press, where his newspaper wasprinted, flitted across his mind. Hewanted to vent his spleen on this otherKhan Bahadur, for turning out such ashoddy job on his newspaper. He saton his chair and was about to lift thetelephone receiver when a car stoppedoutside and next moment Major Saleem,wearing a languid smile, entered the room,with a young man in tow.Capt. Rashid got up from the chairand saluted major Saleem. Instead ofJuly-September 2010 :: 13

eturning the salute the Major, who wason friendly terms with him in privatelife, held out his hand. “Please, please,don’t be so formal.” He sat on the oppositechair and before Rashid could take hisseat, introduced the youngman to him.“Here is Mr. Jyoti Swaroop Bhargava,B.A. He’s a well-known Hindi writer anda journalist. He’s equally at home withUrdu. He’ll help you with the Hindiedition.” Again putting on thatlanguorous smile, he rang the bell andasked the peon to give his salaam toPandit Kirpa Ram.But seeing the car, Pandit Kirpa Ramwas already on his way to pay his respectsto Major Saleem.“Panditji, this is Mr. Jyoti SwaroopBhargava, B.A.” Major Saleem said, “He’llassist you with the Hindi edition.” Henodded to the youngman to go withPandit Kirpa Ram. Both of them leftimmediately.“He’s Col. Chopra’s man,” Major said.You’ll have to accommodate him. You’llhave no trouble with him. He knowshis job.”“On which paper is he working?”“He has come from Burma and isnow working as a canvasser for a businessfirm. But while in Burma, he broughtout a paper by the name of ‘BurmaSamachar’.“But translation...”“He has translated two English booksinto Hindi. One of them is Col. Hurdon’sPoultry Farming. You know, how acutethe problem of supplying eggs to thearmy has become these days. All unitsare being encouraged to run their ownpoultry farms. You’ll do well to serializeCol. Hurdon’s book in your journal. Mr.Bhargava can prepare Hindi and Urduversions.”As if a big load was off his chest,Major Saleem leaned back in his chairand lit a cigar. “The book will be ofimmense interest to our jawans,” Headded. “Most of our Jawans are peasants.Many of them may take to poultry farmingafter the war.”Capt. Rashid found himself in a seriouspredicament. He had already made uphis mind to offer the job to a renownedjournalist, who was working on a leadingHindi daily. It became difficult for himto sit in the chair; the strain was gettingtoo much for him.Do you think this fellow will do justiceto the job?” he said at last hesitatingly.“Even our translators have somegrounding in journalism. I was lookingfor a really capable journalist.”Major Saleem ignored his remark.“Col. Chopra has recommended yourcase,” he said after taking a few leisurelypuffs at the cigar.“My case?” Capt. Rashid looked up,surprised.“He was saying, you should bepromoted to the rank of a Major. Yourpredecessors, who were in charge of this14 :: July-September 2010

newspaper were all Majors.”Capt. Rashid wanted to have moreparticulars about Mr. Bhargava, but henever came to the point of asking morequestions.“Aren’t you coming to the meeting?”Major Saleem suddenly asked.“What meeting?”“With the Brigadier of course. Hehas returned from the front and wouldlike to discuss a few important thingsin that connection. Come along. I’ll giveyou a lift.”“But I have to interview thecandidate.”“At what time?”“Between eleven and four.”“Oh, don’t worry. You’ll be back ingood time.”Capt. Rashid had no alternative.Leaving word with his assistant editor,Lieut. Ali Gul Khan to take care of thecandidates, while he was away, he leftfor the Headquarters with Major Saleem.In the evening when Capt. Rashidreturned from the Headquarters, A sikhSubedar accompanied him.At the meeting the Brigadier had madea pointed reference to the technicalmistakes that abounded in the paper.He was particularly sore at the ridiculousrendering of the military jargon intothe vernaculars. For instance, ‘fox holes’was being translated as ‘fox’s dens.’ Suchhowlers were strewn all over the pages.To safeguard against such mistakes theBrigadier had suggested that thenewspaper should have an officer onits staff, who had seen actual fightingand was fully conversant with militaryterminology. The other officers presentat the meeting heartily approved theBrigadier’s proposal and told him thatin fact they were themselves thinkingalong these lines. Col. Chopra went onebetter and pressed for the immediateappointment of an officer of the staffof the newspaper.After the meeting the Brigadier calledCapt. Rashid to his room and introducedhim to a Sikh Subedar. “He is a seasonedofficer,” the Brigadier said, “And is fullyconversant with all the military terms.Put him in charge of the Gurmukhisection.”“My good sir, I know next to nothingabout journalism,” the old Subedar hadsaid as he sat by Capt. Rashid’s sidein the Car. “I worked with the BrigadierSaheb a long time back and he is verykind to me. I requested the BrigadierSaheb to put me on some other job,as I had never seen the face of anewspaper, much less edited it. But theBrigadier saheb won’t listen to me. Hesaid, “well Subedar, you just try yourhand at it. It’s not difficult. I’ll ask theeditor to teach you the game. I wantan officer who has seen actual fightingto serve on the newspaper.”“Which front were you at?” Capt.Rashid asked.July-September 2010 :: 15

“My good sir,” the old Subedar saidnaively. “If I had to die a dog’s death,what was the point in coming here.Unfortunately, I had enlisted in theEngineer’s Corps. I have no experienceof this line. And what is worse, ourCorps is shortly being drafted to theBurma front. I ran to the Brigadier Saheb,“Sir,” I said, “If you want to help me,it is now or never. There’s no one tolook after my wife and children. If Iam packed off to the front, what goodwill your kindness be to me there? TheSaheb has a soft corner in his heartfor me. He took pity on me and shuntedme off to you. I’ll do my best to learnthe job. If I make a success of it, theSaheb has promised to recommend mefor decoration.”Reaching his office, Capt. Rashidimmediately sent for Pandit Kirpa Ram.But the Pandit was already coming toCapt. Rashid. He wanted to pay hisrespects to his boss and was eager toknow what had transpired at theHeadquarters. He stood before Capt.Rashid and smiled ingratiatingly.It was for the first time in threemonths that Capt. Rashid responded tohis smile.“Subedar Saheb is the Brigadier’srecommendee,” he said. “He’ll be theSub-editor of the Gurmukhi edition. TheBrigadier Saheb wants us to have a manfrom the Military wing on our staff. Pleasetell the Gurmukhi translators not to makethings difficult for the Subedar sahib.”“Please do not worry,” Pandit KirpaRam said effusively. “Your instructionswill be carried out. As long as I amthere, my officers need have no worry.”And when he came out with theSubedar the smile on his face hadbroadened into a grin.Capt. Rashid again rang the bell forthe peon. “Give my salaam to Lieut Ali.”“Did you get my instructions?” heasked Lieut. Ali, when the latter cameto him.“Yes Sir.”“Have you interviewed thecandidates?”“Yes Sir, only for the Hindi andGurmukhi sections. The others, I haveasked to report tomorrow.“You should have disposed them oftoo. The selection has been more orless finalised.”“Who has been selected for English?”“He’s the Director General’s man. TheBrigadier told me that the DirectorGeneral wants the English assistant tobe a man of the highest calibre. It’sthe English Edition that feeds the othersections. Probably he is a man fromthe Headquarters.”“And the Urdu man?”“He too has been selected.”Capt. Rashid picked up a file andgot engrossed in it.Although the file was before him,he could not sign even a single paper.16 :: July-September 2010

Pushing away the file he got up fromthe chair, and holding his tunic collarshe started pacing the room.It was past seven. Hesitatingly thepeon peeped into his room. Capt. Rashidwas still pacing the room as before.Next morning when Pandit Kirpa Ramcame to Capt. Rashid’s room to pay hissalaams, he found a youngman sittingby his side. “This is Mr. Hanif, B.A.Hons.’’ Capt. Rashid said introducing theyoungman to Pandit Kirpa Ram. “He’lllook after the Urdu section.”Pandit Kirpa Ram bared his teethin a smile and bowed to Mr. Hanif.As they were leaving the room, heheard Capt. Rashid saying, “Please tellthe translators to help him with the job.”Upendra Nath Ashk (1910-1996), renowned authorwhose creative output like Premchand was first in Urdu and laterin Hindi. He was born and educated at Jalandhar, Punjab and settledat Allahabad in 1948. Except for a few short term jobs in All IndiaRadio and films, he was a whole timer in creative writing. He wroteplays, novels, short stories, poems, essays, memoirs and literary criticismbesides editing the famous literary volume ‘sanket’. He was a progressivewriter who led an eternal struggle against reactionary forces. He wroteregularly from 1926 to 1995. Most of his works were published byhis writer wife Kaushalya Ashk from their own publishing house NeelabhPrakashan, named after his illustrious son who is a major poet andan intellectual in his own right. Ashkji’s major works are ‘girti deewaren’,‘pathharal pathhar’, ‘garm rakh’, ‘badi badi ankhen’, ‘ek nanhi kandil’,‘bandho na nav is thanv (novels); ‘anjo didi’, ‘tauliye’, ‘sookhi dali’,‘lakshmi ka swagat’, ‘adhikar ka rakshak’ etc. (collections of plays);‘akashchari’, ‘judai ki sham’, ‘kahani lekhika aur jhelum ke saat pul’,‘chheente’, ‘ubaal’, ‘dachi’, ‘kale saheb’, ‘palang’ etc. (short story collections);‘deep jalega’, ‘chandni raat aur ajgar’, ‘bargad ki beti’ (poetry collections);‘manto : mera dushman’, ‘chehre anek’ (memoirs); ‘hindi kahaniyanaur fashion (lit. criticism).Jai Ratan : born Dec. 6, 1917 Nairobi, veteran scholar of Hindi andEnglish who has devoted a life time to translation. He worked as P.R.O.in a prominent business firm in Kolkata and was founder memberof Writers’ Workshop. Hindi owes him a tribute for numerous prestigiousEnglish translations including Premchand’s Godan way back in 1955.He now lives in Gurgaon.July-September 2010 :: 17

HeritageDACHIUpendra Nath AshkTranslated by the authorBakar– the Muslim Jat from the hamlet Pi-Sikandar-was greedilyeyeing the dachi (She-camel). Chaudhary Nandu, who was restingbeneath a tree roared, “You there! What are you doing?” Andhis six-foot tall massive body, which lay propped against the trunk,suddenly grew tense and his broad chest and rippling biceps showedbeneath his buttonless kurta.Bakar came a little nearer. His eyes flashed for a brief momentfrom the dark, sunken hollows and his face lit up in the blackand dusty frame of his pointed beard. His moustache, closelytrimmed over the upper lip according to his religion, quiveredslightly and he said with a faint smile, “I was just looking atyour dachi, Chaudhari. What a lovely, spirited animal she is!”Hearing his dachi praised, Chaudhari Nandu relaxed. Smilinghe enquired, “Which one do you mean?”“There, you see. The fourth one from the left” Bakar said,pointing to the dachi.There were about eight or ten animals tethered under the shadeof a tree; the dachi in question was craning her long and beautifulneck to pluck at the leaves.In the cattle fair, so far as one’s eyes could travel, nothingwas visible except a large number of tall camels, black and uglybuffaloes, hefty bullocks and cows. There were quite a few donkeystoo. But the camels predominated in this fair, which was being18 :: July-September 2010

held in the desert near Bahawal Nagar.Camels in this region were put to workin a number of ways, mainly for transportand agriculture. In the past, when cowscould be bought for ten rupees andbullocks for about fifteen rupees, a goodcamel fetched no less than fifty rupees.Even now, when this area received anadequate water supply, camels have notlost their usefulness; in fact, those usedfor riding are sold for anything betweentwo to three hundred rupees, and thoseemployed for agriculture and transport,for not less than eighty rupees.Advancing a little closer, Bakar said,“To tell you the truth, Chaudhari, I havenot seen a more beautiful dachi in thewhole fair.”“Why just this one? Nearly all mycamels are equally fine, because I feedthem properly,” Nandu said proudly.“Would you like to sell it?” Bakarasked with diffidence.“That’s what I have brought it herefor.”“Then tell me a reasonable price forit.” Nandu’s penetrating eyes surveyedBakar from top to toe and he said, smiling,“Do you want to buy it for yourselfor for your landlord?”“For myself!” Bakar answeredemphatically.Nandu nodded his head somewhatindifferently. He could not think of thispoor labourer being able to afford acamel. He said nonchalantly, “I’m afraid,my man, you won’t be able to affordit.” With 150 rupees in his pocket Bakarexcitedly said, “It is none of your businessto ask me for whom I am buying it.Your only concern is the price of thecamel. Now tell me.”Nandu again looked critically atBakar’s weather-beaten face, the dirtyclothes and the rough pair of homemadeshoes. And to get rid of the fellow,he indifferently demanded a high price,“You must look for an ordinary camelelsewhere man, for I shan’t accept apie less than a hundred and sixty rupees.”A quiver of joy crossed Bakar’s seamedand weary face. He was afraid thatChaudhary might suggest a price beyondhis capacity, but now he felt happy.He was short of only ten rupees andthought, if Chaudhary does not yield,I will ask him for credit for this smallsum. He was simple and naive, ignorantin the ways of bargaining and haggling.Hopefully, he whipped out the foldedbundle of notes from his pocket andflung it at Chaudhary, saying “Well, youmay please count these. I’m sorry Idon’t have more. It is entirely up toyou to finalize the deal.”Nandu started counting the moneyrather indifferently, but as he finishedit, his eyes brightened. He had quotedan exorbitant price only to avoid Bakar.One could get good camels for less thanhundred and fifty rupees and for thisone he had not expected anything morethan a hundred and thirty rupees. Buthe artfully wore a grave expression onJuly-September 2010 :: 19

his face and told Bakar in a patronizingtone, “My camel could easily fetch twohundred rupees, but I will give it toyou for a hundred and fifty rupees.”Saying this he got up, untied the cameland handed the bridle-string over to him.For a brief moment, Nandu’s hardheartednessmelted instinctively and gaveway to a rush of natural tenderness.The camel was born and bred at hisplace; and today, after all the years ofaffectionate rearing, he was no longerits master. His heart was inundated withthe same feelings that come to a fatherat the time of sending his daughter tothe bridegroom’s place. He murmuredsoftly, “I needn’t remind you to takegood care of this camel. I brought herup with great love and devotion.”“You need not worry, Chaudhary.I’ll tend it with the greatest care possible,”Bakar replied, his heart surging with joy.Nandu put the money carefullybetween the folds of his waist-cloth, andthen filled an earthen cup with waterfrom the pitcher to slake his thirst.Everywhere in the fair, huge columnsof dust rose towards the sky. Dust isa common feature even in fairs heldin the cities. The temporary pipes thereand the water-bearers sprinkling waterthe whole day long do not help much;it was no wonder then that in this desertfair, dust reigned supreme: on the vender’ssliced pieces of sugar-cane, on the halvaand Jalebi of the sweetmeat-seller, andon the spiced delicacies at the stalls–everywhere a thick layer of dust hadsettled. The drinking water was carriedfrom the canal, but by the time it reachedthe fair, it invariably became muddy.Nandu had thought of drinking somewater after the dirt had settled. But histhroat was dry and parched. He gulpedthe water greedily and pursing his lipsasked Bakar if he would like a cup ofwater. Though Bakar was thirsty now,he had no time to drink water. He wasin a great hurry to return to his villagebefore nightfall. Holding the bridle ofthe camel in his hand, he gently ledthe animal through the blinding dust.Kameens by caste, Bakar’s ancestorswere potters; but Bakar had given uphis ancestral occupation and eked outa meager living in the fields, workingas a landless labourer. He had alwaysbeen lazy, and he could afford to remainso, because his wife, who loved himand cared so much for his comfort andhappiness, worked very hard.His carefree days, however, endedwith his wife’s passing away about fiveyears ago, leaving behind a doll-likedaughter. On her death-bed, she hadwhispered to him, “I am now leavingRazia all alone in your care. My lasthope is that you will save her fromall troubles.”This last wish of his wife altered thecourse of Bakar’s life. After her death,Bakar brought his widowed sister fromher village, and throwing off his slackness,devoted himself conscientiously to20 :: July-September 2010

fulfilling his wife’s wish.He worked hard so that he mightbe able to buy good things for his daughterto make her happy. Whenever he returnedfrom the market, little Razia would clingto him, and fixing her eyes on his dustyface, ask, “What have you brought forme, Abba?” Bakar would lift her ontohis lap and planting a kiss on her cheek,give her many toys and sweetmeats.As soon as Razia got these, she wouldjump down and run away to show hertoys to her friends.When she was eight years old, oneday she asked her father, “Abba, I wanta dachi. When will you buy one for me?”Poor, innocent child! How could sherealize that she was the daughter of apoor landless labourer who could notafford a dachi? But lest he hurt thetender feelings of his daughter, Bakarsmiled and said, “My darling Razzo, whatwill you do with a dachi?”But he failed in attempting to distracther. Razia had seen the landlord comingto their hamlet riding on his dachi, withhis little daughter seated in front of him.It was then that Razia had begun tolong to ride one herself. And realizingthe intensity of her longing, the lastvestige of Bakar’s laziness had vanished.Although he had somehow succeededin diverting the attention of his daughterthat day, he took a vow to buy hera dachi before long. To earn enoughmoney in order to fulfill his daughter’swish, he started going to the neighbouringvillages seeking more work. Very soonhis daily wages increased with the volumeof labour he was putting in. During theharvest season, he used to reap the cornin the field, thresh and cleanse the grain,and prepare fodder for the cattle duringthe sowing season; he ploughed in thefields and did many odd-jobs. Wheneverhe could not find work in the villageitself, he would get up early in themorning and go to the market, trudginga distance of 16 miles on foot, to doodd-jobs there. All the time he was intenton saving a good slice of his incomewith a miser’s frugality. Sometimes hissister would say, “How much you havechanged, Bakar! Never before you workedso hard in all your life.”“You want me to remain a lazy loutthroughout my life? Hmmm...?”“Oh no! I don’t mean that you shouldremain lazy, but I don’t want you toearn money at the cost of your health.”And always, on such occasions, Bakarwould almost instinctively be remindedof his dead wife and her last wish. Hewould then throw an affectionate glanceat his daughter playing in the courtyard.A tremor of inexpressible bliss would touchthe inner-most core of his heart and acontented smile would play across hislips; and a renewed sense of energy andenthusiasm would pervade his whole being.Today, after a long spell of hard workfor nearly a year and a half, he hadat last fulfilled his long-cherished desire.July-September 2010 :: 21

He held the bridle-string of the dachiin his hand and was returning homealong the path skirting the edge of thecanal. It was evening. The rays of thesetting sun had daubed the scene intints of gold. The air had turned dampand in level fields, far away, a ‘redwattledlapwing flew low over the groundrepeating its shrill cry : tihu-tihu-hut...tihu-tihu-hut. Bakar was howeveroblivious of the surrounding beauty. Hismind roved through the meandering alleysof his past. Sometimes a farmer ridingon his camel would pass him. At timesthe children of the farmers sitting onbig stacks of hay in the carts wouldaffectionately urge on the pair of bullocksand sing a broken line or two of a folksong, or play with the ungainly camelswho followed the carts.Swaddled in his own dream, Bakarthrew an indifferent glance at theenchanting landscape touched by thelast rays of the setting sun. His villagewas still a long way off. He looked backmomentarily at the dachi mutelyfollowing him, and then, with a surgeof unutterable delight, hastened his stepsto reach home before Razia went to bed.With his landlord’s village in sight,Bakar’s own hamlet was only some fourmiles away. His pace slackened a littleand as he neared his destination hisimagination began to run riot. Bakarvisualized his daughter clinging to hislegs joyously, her eyes full of wonderand curiosity as she looked at him holdingthe bridle of the camel... He imaginedhimself riding the dachi along the canalbankwith Razia seated in front of him.It was evening and mild wind was blowing.At times a jungle crow cawed and flewabout, flapping its heavy wings. Razia’sjoy knew no bounds. She felt as if shewere flying in an aeroplane... Again, heimagined himself visiting a market atBahawal Nagar with his daughter. Shelooked curiously at the mountainousheaps of grain and innumerable hackneycarts. A gramophone was playing at ashop and Bakar took her there. Poorgirl! She was at a loss, not knowing wherethe sound came from, wondering if therereally was a man singing from withinthat box. Bakar went on explaining butshe did not understand a word of whathe said and her eyes gleamed with wonderand excitement...While he was lost in these dreams,his mind was arrested by a sudden thoughtas he entered the village of his landlord.This was not a big village. All the villagesin this part of the country were alike.Even the biggest one had not more thanfifty houses. Tiled roofs or brick wallswere not to be found in this area. InBakar’s own hamlet there were only fifteenhouses. They were in fact small thatchedhuts. His landlord’s village was slightlybigger with nearly twenty-five huts. Thelandlord’s house was made of brickalthough the roof was thatched.Bakar stopped before the house ofNanak, the carpenter. Before going tothe fair he had asked Nanak to preparea saddle for a camel, and now on his22 :: July-September 2010

way home he was reminded of it. ShouldRazia insist on riding the dachi howcould he manage without a saddle? Hecalled out the carpenter’s name onceor twice but his wife’s shrill voiceanswered from inside that he was notat home, and had gone to the market.Bakar’s heart sank. If Nanak had goneto the market, he could not possiblyhave prepared the saddle. Bakar drewsome comfort from the thought that hemight have just found time to attendto it and he enquired again, “I had askedhim to prepare a saddle for my camel,I wonder if he has made it.”“I don’t know”, came the curt replyfrom inside.Half of his enthusiasm ebbed away.It was no use taking the camel homewithout a saddle. Had Nanak been there,he could have taken an old one fromhim, even if he had not prepared theone he had ordered. Then suddenly hiseyes twinkled as he thought of a solution.He could see his landlord who had manycamels and might spare him an old saddletill he got his own. And he took a turntowards his landlord’s house.The landlord had amassed a hugefortune while in government service, andwhen the canal was extended to thisarea he had at once bought many acresof land cheaply. He was now earninga handsome rent from his lands afterhis retirement.He was smoking a hookah as hereclined there in his courtyard and waswearing a white turban, a matching whiteshirt, a milk-white tehmad and a velvetjacket over his shirt. When he saw thedust-smeared Bakar, holding the stringof a dachi, he enquired, “Where areyou coming from Bakar?”Bakar bowed a little and saluting himsaid, “Sir, I’m just returning from thecattle fair in Bahawal Nagar.”“Who owns this dachi?”“It’s mine, Sir. I bought it there.”“What price did you pay for it?”Bakar felt like telling a lie that hehad paid Rs. 160/-, because he felt surethat such a handsome dachi was worthRs. 200/-. But he could not tell a lie.“He was demanding a hundred and sixtyfor it,” he said with utter naiveté, “butreduced ten rupees for me.”The landlord threw a searching glanceat the dachi. He was desirous of buyinga beautiful dachi for himself. Althoughhe had a good dachi for riding, shehad contracted a disease last year andhad lost her former gait. Bakar’s dachiappealed to him tremendously. Howlovely and well-proportioned were herneck and features, her white and greycomplexion adding to her beauty.“Well, you take Rs. 160/- from me.I’ve been on the lookout for a camelmyself,” the landlord said.“Sir, I am sorry. I have bought thecamel to fulfill the long-cherished desireof my little daughter,” Bakar mumbled.A chill of fear ran through his wholeJuly-September 2010 :: 23

eing, but his lips trembled to form aweak smile.The landlord rose to his feet, andcoming near the camel, he gently pattedits neck. “Oh, what a lovely dachi youhave bought, Bakar! You may take Rs.15 extra. Agreed?”He called for Noore, his servant, whowas cutting grass for the buffaloes. Hecame running with the scythe in hishand. The landlord told him, “Take thisdachi and tie it over there. I am buyingit for Rs. 165/-. How do you like it?”Noore snatched the bridle-string fromBakar’s hand, who stood dumbfoundedand sorrowful, and eyeing the camel said,“She is indeed very handsome, Sir.”The landlord took out Rs. 60/- fromhis pocket and gave them to Bakar witha crafty smile, “Just now a tenant hasgiven me this money and perhaps itwas destined for you. Keep it now andI’ll send you the rest in a month ortwo.” And without waiting for a replyhe turned away. Noore had once againstarted cutting grass. The landlord againshouted “O you, Noore! Better leave thefodder for the buffaloes now. Go andfeed the dachi at once. She looks sohungry.”And coming closer to the camel heappreciatively patted it.The moon had not yet risen. Therewere a few stars twinkling in the clearazure sky, and in the distance the dumbacacia trees took on the appearance ofdark patches. When he reached his hamlet,Bakar lurked behind a bush and lookedbreathlessly at the dim light that issuedfrom his hut. He knew that Razia wouldstill be awake in anxious expectationof his return. And he waited for thelamp to be put out, so that he mightenter his hut after she had gone to sleep.courtesy : Neelabh24 :: July-September 2010

MemoirTHE GRACEFUL CHARMER, ASHKRajinder Singh BediTranslatedbyS.S. ToshkhaniThe year was 1936. A condolence meeting was held at a localhotel in Lahore to pay homage to Munshi Premchand.It was just the beginning of my literary career. I must havewritten about a dozen short stories or so, which slowly beganto appear in literary magazines after minor difficulties. The entirebatch of us new writers was influenced by Premchand. That iswhy all of us were feeling as though we had lost our godfather.That was the reason why I too went there to make my sorrowknown to others and make the sorrow of others my own. Italso occurred to me that this would enable me to meet the realinheritors of Premchand’s legacy, whom I knew indirectly buthad never met.The programme of the condolence meeting began. It is rarelythat good writers are also good speakers. Some people madevery good speeches. Some such people too were in the meetingwho beat their breasts and created a mournful atmosphere. Theyall were ‘pamphleteers’. This reminded me of Sharatchandra Chatterji’sDevdas who, when his father died, asked customary mournerswailing and weeping in a corner of the house to go to his worldlybrother, saying, “Over there. That side.”There were some “this-siders” also in that meeting. One ofthem– a brown complexioned guy with his forehead as if a slateplaced slantingly against the wall, his hair arranged in TusharkantiGhosh style, his eyes covered by Harold Lloyd glasses– got up.July-September 2010 :: 25

He was dressed in dhoti-kurta– a mosqueabove, a temple below– tired-looking;distracted; sad; dead ages before death...“I want to say something”, he said,joining his fingers to his thumb andextending his hand towards the chairman.Even though the chairman had notyet given the permission, he went tothe table and began to speak in a coarsevoice and rough accent. It appearedas if he was straightening the humpsof Hindi and Urdu with a Punjabi hammer–Now he set out for London, arrived inCalcutta; then people saw—“Oh, he isroaming in Coimbatore!”; no he is inDelhi; and just then he arrives at hisdestination in an imaginary jet plane.As for his speech, it was like the gaitof a person who has boozed a little toomuch to drown his sorrow. But he didn’tbother about anyone. He went onspeaking in the “nalaa paaband-e-naynahin hai” 1(“the gushing water is notbound by the pipe”) mode and, standingat one side of the table, looked as ifhe was father of the whole universe andall else were his children who were playingand should be allowed to play.In spite of all this, his speech waseffective, because it came straight fromthe heart, which does not accept rulesof grammar. It was suffused with a painand restlessness which falls to the shareof the devastated and the geniuses only;its illogical reasoning leaving the‘pamphleteers’ dazed. He was referringto the letters that Premchand had writtento him during his lifetime, which gavethe impression of emotional intimacywith a fellow writer rather than “guidance”or “solution of problems”. In thosemoments of grief, these letters hadbecome more of a literary treasure thanmere letters.This was Ashk. I had not even methim before this. I had no doubt readhim in Sudarshan’s magazine ‘Chandan’,but not seen him. I had not even seena picture of his. Those who know Ashkwill say that this cannot be possible,for Ashk, besides writing and editing,also believes in publicity and regardsthe writer who knows merely how towrite not only as a fool of the firstorder but also stupid.Later, I too noticed – with absoluteinformality, Ashk foists an absurd-lookingphotograph of his on an editor or apublisher and the poor fellow has topublish it willy-nilly. And what aphotograph it is. Front one fourth, threefourthsor profile with the locks fallingon the shoulders or if the face is wellshaven, then hair is very skillfullyfashioned into curls. After closely lookingat it for sometime, one thinks it is ofa man... now bare, now covered … Ifearlier there was a Gandhi cap on thehead, now he has a felt hat placeddeliberately aslant on the head, makinghim look foppish. What is more, evenhe himself is smiling. Or else he is donninga black curlew cap … with his eyes halfopen,trying to look very much like a26 :: July-September 2010

coquettish charmer– which is irritatingto the eyes of thousands of his readers,yet finds a place in their hearts. Inthe words of Hafiz 2 , ‘he is relaxing inthe private chamber of the heart andthe world is under the illusion that heis sitting in the assembly’. I, who wantto see a beard only on the face of anenemy, and because of that phobia donot even look into the mirror, see aFrench-cut goatee on his face. Nobodyknows what Ashk will look like in hisnext photograph, not even Ashk. Because,despite his slender body and mind assharp as a razor’s edge, Chanakya’sintelligence and far-looking eyes, Ashkfully respects only the present momentin which he is living at that time. Heenjoys life not only through the sensesbut his consciousness too is involvedin it in full measure. If anybody haswrongly understood Krishnamurti’s 3discourse on the present, it is Ashk.May be in one of his next photographshe may appear in a Jogi’s dress withone hand raised to pronounce ‘chhu’ 4on the spectator. The matter does notend here. The photograph may evenbe published in some novel ‘tender asa flower bud’, but strong enough to ‘cutthrough the heart of a diamond’.May be some primeval friendship orlasting relationship was destined to beestablished that even though notintroduced to Ashk, I was convincedthat this man could be none else thanAshk. Ashk was the only one amongthe writers of that era who was closeto Munshi Premchand and yet he wasdifferent. Munshi Premchand must havewritten letters to so many other peoplein his life, but the letters to which Ashkwas referring pointed to something thatthey both shared…The meeting came to an end. Thosedays I was working as a postal clerkand was, hence, greatly afraid of publiccomplaints. I, therefore, approachedAshk slowly and gingerly. He wasdiscussing something with some editor.Discussion for discussion’s sake has beenAshk’s hallmark to this day. It is notthat what he wants to say has no logicor weight. It has everything, and yetit has nothing. Ashk derives some sortof a vicarious pleasure from it and usesall the weapons of argument and debateto make his point heard. A man maybe saying something quite sensible, butAshk tells him that it is two differentthings they are talking about and putshim in such a dilemma, such a quandary,that he goes off the track and you knowwhat follows once a train goes off thetrack. The opponent is left smartingwith impotent rage. If he is clever anddoes not want to be drawn into a wrongkind of discussion, then Ashk can beseen bursting into a loud laughter andsaying, “You’ve become serious, yaar!”And while the opponent has still notunderstood him fully, Ashk holds hishand and says – “Actually, I too amsaying the same thing as you are.” Andwhat else can the other person do afterthis but feel stunned and think whatJuly-September 2010 :: 27

a silly person he is or feel angry thathe has been unnecessarily made toexercise his tongue. The result in boththe cases is the same. If someone isdispleased, Ashk wins the day, if someoneisn’t displeased, then too Ashk wins theday – it is a win-win situation for himevery way. As I slowly went towardsAshk, the editor had already faced themusic. Now it was my turn. I steppedforward and said –“Ashk Sahib…!Ashk swiftly turned round and fixinghis gaze upon me started looking rightthrough me. Now, if you fit a camerawith x-ray light instead of the ordinaryone, what will even the best romanticscene be like? What else than a skullcollides with another skull, a skeletonraises its arm and it gets stuck intoanother skeleton’s throat, and it comesto be known that a member of the othersex has been pulled closer not to hugbut to smother. And then where isthe throat? …“Ashk Sahib, for a longtime it has been my desire to…”“You…?” And then, (dropping thehonorific aap) the next very moment,he was saying, “You are Rajendra SinghBedi, I presume?”Suddenly I felt as though I hadforgotten my name. At least I certainlyfelt that Rajendra Singh Bedi was someother person, and I just happened toknow him. Then coming to my own,I said, “Yes, Mr. Ashk, Rajendra SinghBedi is what they call me.”How far does a man’s ego reach?Indeed, what a big forest this world is,what a vast desert in which he wandersas though lost, wishing every momentthat someone should recognize himsomeone should call his name. And ifthat happens, how happy he feels. Achild slowly learns to say his name andbegins to distinguish himself from others.But when he grows up, acquiring hisworldly name, how hard does he striveto know his real name and after beingidentified by it cannot distinguish it fromGod’s name. And then in spite of hisdesire to merge in Him, he wants toretain his own separate identity as well.If I recognized Ashk without anyintroduction, he too recognized me atone glance. I was a very small writerand such a big writer knew me by myname.… No, no, he even mentioned thetitles of one or two short stories ofmine, which had appeared those daysat short intervals in some Lahorejournals… He was even admiring them.… Can it be true? Is there a placefor an incapable postal clerk like mein this vast desert?…Whether a place was there or not,whether even now there is a place ornot, that is not to be argued. If Ashklikes someone, he also accepts him andmakes a conscious effort to create aplace for him in this world of nameand address. This is something thatI have found abundantly in Ashk. Todaywhen I look back at the thirty years28 :: July-September 2010

of my literary career, I bow my headwith regret – I for one have not helpedany new writer as Ashk has. I too couldhave praised someone, criticizedsomeone, and made someone’s path easyfor him. But Ashk is Ashk and Iam I! Even now when I meet Ashkand find him mentioning some newwriter’s name, I feel surprised. Thelove that one has for oneself all thetwenty-four hours turns into hate, andbecause a man loves himself in allcircumstances, one feels annoyed withAshk. … What is the reason for thisweakness that I have? It may perhapsbe difficult for me to explain this andfor someone to understand! To makethings simple, I will confine myself tosaying that from the beginning I havebeen suffering from some kind ofinferiority complex, and despite all myefforts, despite being praised and admiredby others, I have not been able to shakeit off. For instance, I do not haveconfidence in myself… Why do I nothave confidence? If someone wants tounderstand it, he shall have to live mylife, and to know why Ashk has it, heshall have to live Ashk’s life.Next very moment we were talkinglike two friends, as though we had knowneach other for years. … It was summer,perhaps, and the sky was covered bya cloud of dust. The dust had risenfrom the dirt tracts below and carriedupward by tramping of countless horsesand unbridled winds and was now comingdown slowly, particle by particle. Wewere walking on foot. Ashk was theone who was doing the talking and Iwas listening. He wanted to say so manythings. Why was it so, I came to knowlater. At that time, we were talkinglike a newly wed couple, who say alot many things to each other for thewhole night and on the next day wonderwhat they had said. Walking on footand chatting with each other, we reachednear Anarkali where Ashk showed mehis house.Ashk’s house was a little away fromthe Anarkali Market in a denselypopulated back lane where women couldbe heard talking with one another faceto face from their houses: “Sister! Whathave you cooked today at your place?”She replies, “I haven’t cooked anythingtoday as he is going to eat out. Couldyou please send me a katori 5 of daal.”And if you happen to pass by lost inyour thoughts, garbage is likely to fallon your head from above and set yourmood right. The lane is not wide enoughfor one to jump over and stand on oneside. And then there are windows facingeach other. A boy standing at a windowholds the hand of a girl bending fromthe opposite window and scratches herpalm. This is a common scene in Lahore,showing that in matters of amour thereis no place in the world that beatsLahore!... And it was in this very lanethat Ashk lived. There is a differencein the way you pronounce ‘ashk’ (meaning“tears’ in Urdu) and ‘ishk’ (meaning ‘love’),but it comes to the same thing. WhoJuly-September 2010 :: 29

knows when ‘ishk’ will change into ‘ashk’and vice versa? … Ashk had a twostoreyhouse, with his dentist brotherDr. Sharma living in the upper storeywith his wife and children, and Ashkand his library – his workplace – locatedin the lower. To reach it you hadto pass through “heaven for the thinman” and “hell for the fat man” typeof stairs. There was a rope, soiled bypeople’s hands repeatedly holding it. Ifyou did not hold it for going up thestairs, there was every danger of yourtumbling down. … It was in this narrowand dark house that Ashk lived. It washere that he would write in the wishywashystyle of an artist, cross what hewrote, and then write again — erasingold lines and drawing new ones. Writingwas a habit for him and an act of worshiptoo. It was something that transcendedlife, and transcended death as well!Ashk began to earn his livelihoodfrom his childhood. His father was astationmaster, who had the habit ofdrinking and neglecting home. Wheneverhe would proceed towards home, it wasfor reprimanding or thrashing someone– quarreling with his wife, thunderingat her, or suspending a child upsidedown and beating him up mercilessly.He looked like a tyrant and thought likea tyrant. A decision once taken wasfinal and irrevocable. To this cruel manwas married an extremely gentle woman,Ashk’s mother. Her husband’s atrocitieshad left permanent lines of sorrow onher face. In addition to domestic quarrels,Ashk’s writings have characters thatrevolt against their parents. And it wasbecause of the overbearing personalityof his father that Ashk left paternal shelterto find a place for himself in life. Theson threw a challenge, the father tookit up, and both were victorious. For,he who was buffeted by storms and hadfaced hostile winds of life, who fell avictim to a mortal illness like tuberculosisbut mocked death and escaped it, whodespite utter poverty and indifferenceof friends and kith and kin steadfastlyran the business of writing andpublication in a jealousy ridden city likeAllahabad, could have been the son ofsuch a father only.Ashk’s parents had brought six sonsinto this world (actually they had broughtseven but one of them died in infancy),and all of them males. They were broughtup in Jalandhar, a zone which producesgems of men; where every person isa poet or a singer; where the Harvallabhfestival is held every year; a place towhich maestros of classical music aredrawn from the whole of India and yetare afraid to sing because every childthere is a ‘connoisseur’, knows wherea note has gone wrong and so feels noneed for showing deference to anybody.In whichever corner he may be sitting,he will call out from there with aninvitation to kneel submissively beforehim or his guru and learn music fromhim for several years. During winternights, he will sit around a fire andstart recitation of couplets, which will30 :: July-September 2010

go on until morning hours. … Everyperson of that city considers himselfa genius, and if anybody does not accepthim as one, then a hand will rise andgo straight towards the turban of theperson who does not accept itstraightforwardly, and then it could cometo even abuses and blows. … All thesix brothers were products of that cityand it is not surprising that each oneof them was a well-known figure in hisown field – possessor of a personalitythat only he will deny who wants toinvite trouble. It so appears that apunch is also a part of an argument.And, if for some reason he is unableto land a punch, he will at least beraising hue and cry without any reason.Cries of, “Oh I’m dead! They’ve killedme!” will be heard, with people pretendingnot to have heard them. It is not justone-day’s affair that one can dosomething about it. Every day the roarof someone or the other is heard fromthis house. They are all lions, the sixof them. If an elder brother pins theother one down under his weight, theyounger one too will not desist fromgrowling. If nothing, he will raise anoutcry. Nothing here happens withoutnoise. There is commotion all around.Two of them will be going hither, threeof them thither. They are coming outof their den; someone is being beatenup for allowing himself to be beatenup. This is followed by everyone comingout to roar. A roaring voice is drownedby a still louder roar— “Silence!” Thisis father’s voice – the roar of a lion,hearing which the whole jungle falls silent.In this mountainous zone, there is nofox — not one sister (one was born,but did not survive). Gentle as a cow,mother trembles when father sits withthe bottle in front of him. He commitsa mistake but being a Brahman, he alsoknows how to obtain pardon. He sings:“O lord, do not mind my vices!”Ashk’s father was proud of being aBrahman. He was the descendant ofthat Parshuram who had decimatedKshatriyas twenty one times, axe in hand.These descendants of Parshuramintimidate Kshatriyas, whose professionit was to kill and be killed and whowere not subdued by anyone, and arenot even today. It seems that boozingby Ashk’s father increased after the birthof a couple of children. …After fairlygood names like Surendra Nath, UpendraNath, he came to Parshuram, who wasthe third among these brothers. Thereason for this was that they lived inthat quarter of Jalandhar whereKshatriyas (Khatris) were always atdaggers drawn with Brahmans. Abouta year back the Kshatriyas of the localityhad mercilessly beaten up their mentallyunsound uncle in absence of Ashk’s fatheras Ashk’s gentle mother and greatgrandmotherlooked on helplessly withsuspended breath. Since then Ashk’soutwardly weak and gentle mother hadtaken a vow in her mind, and it wasbecause of this vow that the new- bornbaby was named Parshuram. From hisJuly-September 2010 :: 31

childhood the child was told: “What! …You cry although you are Parshuram,he who decimated the entire Kshatriyaclan and did not bat an eyelid?” …And the child would stop crying, thinkingthat he will destroy all Kshatriyas whenhe grows up. … Ashk’s father namedthe fourth son as Indrajeet – son ofthe Brahman Ravana, who subdued Indra,the king of gods, and made the KshatriyaLakshman unconscious by shootingshakti-baan (arrow consecrated in thename of Shakti, the goddess personifyingdivine power) at him. Were it in thepower of Ashk’s father, he would rewritethe whole of Ramayana wherein it wouldbe proved that the Brahman Ravana wasthe hero and the Kshatriya Ramchandrathe villain.About Ashk’s mother, astrologers hadpredicted that she would be the “motherof seven sons”. In the first place shewould never have a daughter, and evenif she had one it would not survive,the joy of kanyadaan (giving away adaughter in marriage) was not writtenin her fate. And that is exactly whathappened. Only boys fell to her shareand, because of the teaching theyreceived, each one was a brasher, morebelligerent than the other was. Thevengefulness of the Pathans is well knownin the history of the world, for theybequeath their feuds, like their property,to their children in inheritance. ButAshk’s parents were no less vengeful.In the end, a day came when Ashk’sbrothers had thrashed all the Kshatriyasof the locality and sent them to hospital.It is obvious that Parashuram was thehero of this war. He single-handedlyvanquished all his enemies. Althoughhe himself was wounded and also fellinto the clutches of law, everybody wasglad that the soul of the mad grandfatherwould be feeling happy watching all this.These then were the main charactersof Ashk’s play ‘Chhatha Beta’ (The SixthSon) and his voluminous novel ‘GirtiDeevaren’ (The Crumbling Walls). Ashkwas the second of these brothers. Thenthe wives of these brothers startedarriving. Goats began to be tetheredby the sides of lions. Now, you sayhow they could have any food or drink.Even if they did have food or drink,would it at all be wholesome for thebody in such an atmosphere of mutualviolence and commotion that prevailedin the whole house? Before the housein Anarkali, Ashk lived with his elderbrother in an extremely damp, narrowand dark house in the Changad localitywhere they did not have air but eachother’s breath to inhale. In this‘Hairatabad’ or ‘place of surprises’, theutmost that the women could do wasto cry or feel choked.When Ashk’s wife Sheela came as abride, she was a plump girl of tawnycomplexion laughing about everything.She began to feel choked in theatmosphere of this house. Still, shewould laugh at the earliest opportunity.It appeared that nothing could suppressher laughter. I have not met Sheela,32 :: July-September 2010

ut in Ashk’s room in Lahore and laterin the room of his elder son Umeshin Allahabad, I surely have seen herphotograph in which she is smiling. Evendeath could not suppress her laughter…. Ashk would remain very busy thosedays. He would take a close look athis writings, take them to the marketto see if they were selling or not. Someof them sold while some did not. Somemoney was realized and some was not;but it was because of these very writingsthat he got a job of an assistant editorin the Urdu daily “Bhishma’ and laterin the ‘Bande Mataram’. During leisuretime, he would engage himself in ghostwriting – manuals written by Ashk soldin thousands but all he got for themwas peanuts. Then another incident tookplace. Ashk’s father-in-law becameinsane. His mother-in-law began towork as a maid in the house of a richman. For her even taking water at herson-in-law’s house was taboo, and shewanted to be near her husband. Thishurt the sentiments of Ashk and Sheela.Ashk decided that he would give Sheelasuch a position and status socially thather inferiority- complex would go. Hedecided to sit for the examination fora sub-judge’s post.Now he began to study law. Literarywork, college studies, tuitions during theday and personal study and reflectionin the evening. He had books as largeas mansions, but the stuff of which Ashkwas made, the bone of which his spinewas formed, could withstand any hardwork. Meanwhile, Sheela gave birthto Umesh –Ashk’s eldest son. She fellill because of the atmosphere in thehouse and lack of nutritious diet. Ashkhad not yet taken his F. E. L. examinationwhen the doctors suspected it to betuberculosis. Ashk did not accept defeat.He passed his F. E. L in the first division.During his L. L. B. he took her to Lahoreand got her admitted there to the GulabDevi Hospital, eight miles away fromthe city. Now he would do literarywriting on one side, study law on thesecond, and on the third side visit Sheelatwice or thrice a week in the hospital,which was situated away from ModelTown even. He did not believe thatfate would take this cruel joke to thelimits of baseness. He thought that Sheelawould get well, but even as he passedhis law exam with distinction, Sheelapassed away. God gave with one handand took away everything with the other.Now there was no order, no purposeleft in life. Ashk gave up the idea ofbecoming a sub-judge. She for whosesake he wanted to become a sub-judgewas no more. … He picked up his penin a state of terrible sorrow, terriblegrief, endless exhaustion and engagedhimself in literary creativity, as it wasby burying himself in literary creativityalone that he could forget, to some extent,that terrible tragedy of his life. It wasdomestic quarrels, dreadfulcircumstances, social injustice which heformed the subject matter of his writings.During this period he had already startedJuly-September 2010 :: 33

writing his novel ‘Girti Diwaren’ (‘TheCrumbling Walls)’, which can also bepartly regarded as Ashk’s autobiographyand which is his greatest attainment.Along with this, he also wrote the ministories–Konpal (The Sprout), Gokhru,Sangdil (Stonehearted), Nanha (LittleChild), Pinjra (The Cage), which beara clear imprint of his extreme dejection.Perhaps Ashk will bear witness tomy statement that he had been in lovewith only one woman in his life andthat woman was Sheela, because for allhis awareness, he did not know in thatage what love is. Nor did Sheela know.Both of them were living, sometimesfor their own sake, sometimes for eachother. And it was a love which waseffortless in its every act, which wasn’tdependent on any name or quality. ... Even after this Ashk was in love, butit was love from which the passion wasmissing. He had acquired a certainmaturity that made it possible for himto leave Maya, his second wife, onlyone month after marriage and say toKaushalya, his present wife, “Darling!I am tired in this journey of life. Ido not have anymore that flare of youthin me. If you are looking for that inme, then it is futile. I am not worthyof that love which flashes like a flame.I can give you the love that cooks onlow heat and therefore tastes good.”Thus it was that Ashk took me tohis house and talked about a hundredthings. He revealed to me all about himselfwithout any reservation. Experiencedpeople do not normally tell everythingabout themselves and that too to a personwho is meeting them for the first time.But Ashk wanted to say so many thingsto me. It was good that he found me,otherwise he would have talked to thewalls, unburdened himself before the lamppost on the street. …Till then it waspast midnight. The dust had settled, butthe sky hadn’t cleared yet. At some places,a star in its keenness to show off hadstarted displaying its twinkling beauty,piercing through the layers of fog, dustand smoke. While listening to Ashk, Isometimes laughed and sometimes myeyes brimmed with tears. ...Now I hadbegun to feel a bit bored. The thoughtthat Satwant—my wife—would be waitingfor me at home also crossed my mind.Until convinced that he is a wanderer,every woman dispatches some horsesafter her husband. Some of them turnout to be asses, and among them wasa relative of mine who was sent to lookfor me. Ashk came down to give mecompany for some distance so as tosee me off. He couldn’t go far for hehad taken off his dhoti-kurta and changedinto his undershirt and tahband 6 afterhe had reached his home. But lettingoff squibs of talk, we came out of thebig market of Anarkali and emerged infront of Church Society, and from thereto Mall Road… towards my home… Aswe reached Golbagh, the same relativeof mine passed by us, singing (as wecame to know afterwards):Chitthiye dard firaq waliye34 :: July-September 2010

Laija laija sunehda sohne yaar da(O letter of pangs of separation, carry,oh carry, my message for my charmingLove)We sat down on a bench, free fromall cares. Slowly, I began to feel somewhatperturbed on account of my wife. Itried to get up, but Ashk was recitinga poem:You will depart, this very moment,this very nightLeaving my cottage desolateEntrusting me with the task of burningfor agesAnd I was admiring him. I certainlyliked the poem, but was also worriedabout home. Now the situation was thatI ‘wanted to leave hold of the blanketbut the blanket was not leaving holdof me’. At last, I mustered courage,but the words I uttered were nothingless than an apology. As I got up,Ashk too got up and walked along withme… Talking with me all the way… hewas standing in front of my house.My child opened the door and I wentquickly inside, opened the door of mydrawing room and asked Ashk to beseated there. In spite of the hot weather,my wife, Satwant was waiting for medownstairs. She was the wife of anordinary clerk, who wanted to see herhusband sitting near her knee withinhalf an hour after office and now it wasalready past midnight and, “bad thoughtswere coming to my mind.” She Said.“Where have you been so long inthe night?” she asked me.“In hell”, I replied, “Come with mefor a moment to the drawing room. Avery distinguished writer has come tomeet me.”“At this hour?”“Yes. You just come.”Holding Satwant’s hand I took herinto the drawing room. Till then Satwanthad started thinking about writers withsome respect. She quickly overcameher anger and putting on her face themake-up of “as if nothing happened”,she followed me into the drawing roomand was frightened to see a man dressedin that manner. At that time, Ashk waslooking like a hoodlum of Bhati Darwazaof whom all women of Lahore were afraidand if he appeared before them theywould leave the road and stand on oneside. .I did not like this gesture of Satwant.But what could I do. I extended myhand towards Ashk first – “This is UpendraNath Ashk!”—and, then towards my wife–“My wife Satwant.”At once Ashk called my wife by name–“Don’t mind, Satwant,. I have comecasually dressed”, he said, pointing tohis undershirt and tahband. ”You see,I am a careless sort of fellow.…”Then striking his hand on my handwith force, he laughed — so loudly thathis lungs could have burst. A sparrowthat had made its nest on the corniceflapped its wings. Someone switchedJuly-September 2010 :: 35

on the light in the house opposite andlooked from the balcony. Before mywife could say anything, Ashk was tellingher – “Satwant, I am very hungry.”Courtesy Neelabh1 A line from a ghazal by Mirza Ghalib2 Hafiz Shirazi, a 14th century Persian poet.3 Well known modern thinker4 A blowing sound pronounced after incantation5 A shallow metal bowl6 A cloth worn by men round the waistRajinder Singh Bedi (1915–1984), his mothertongue was Punjabi buthe wrote in Urdu. Equally accepted in Hindi as a foremost writerof short stories and novels. He worked for some years in the postoffice and All India Radio. Later he became a full time writer. Hewas interested in cinema and made an art film ‘garm coat’. His novel‘ek chadar maili si’ was adapted for cinema and fetched him sahityaakademi award as well. His other famous works are ‘apne dukh mujhede do’, ‘haath hamare kalam hue’ and ‘bejan cheezen’.Dr S.S. Toshkhani, freelance writer, poet and translator. Writes inHindi and English. Published many books in original and in translation.Chief editor of Malini quarterly journal. He lives in Delhi.36 :: July-September 2010

Memoir“QISSA KHAN”— A COLOURFULSTORYTELLER NAMED ASHKPhanishwar Nath RenuTranslated byS.S. ToshkhaniAshk’s name was heard for the first time by the people of ourvillage from Bhimmal Mama– “az Upinder Nath Ashk.” 1Those days our village library did not get any Urdu journaland Mama had taken a vow to read Urdu. No, not a vow, callit a fit—it was a fit of Urdu.Bhimmal Mama gave an ultimatum that he would launch anagitation for it – Why aren’t we getting any Urdu journal here?If some member wants to read a short story by ‘az Upinder NathAshk’, where will he go to read it? How will he read it? …Don’tcall it a public library. It is now a library of ‘Vivahit Anand’ 2(‘Conjugal Bliss’) readers only.For several days Mama had launched a tirade against the libraryauthorities in the name of Ashk in every lane, street and marketof the village.But when Ashk ji started writing and publishing in Hindi, Mamawas busy in propagating the Kaithi script 3 . He had developedan aversion for Devnagari script and Hindi language. Once wesent a story by Ashk published in the Karmayogi, or some otherjournal, to him for his information and perusal.Mama was overwhelmed. So, it was Upendra Nath Ashk now?After full seven and a half years Mama had enjoyed a literarywork in Hindi and Devanagari script, reading it aloud. Then heJuly-September 2010 :: 37

had noted down some lines from thestory in his huge ‘wonder casket’ aliasnotebook, and said, “It’s Ashk and notAshak!” A miscellany of things was beingcompiled in the notebook. BhimmalMama had several personal opinionsabout literature:a) No novel was ever written inany Indian language after‘Chandrakanta’.b) Gulabratna Vajpeyi is the onlyfiction writer in the whole of India.But after reading a series of bestshort stories of Urdu, he had addedAshk’s name to Vajpeyi’s and happilymade the proclamation—now they aretwo. Fiction writer Vajpeyi and storyteller(qissakhwan) Ashk!“All others are nobodies. They’reall phony!”It did not take time for ‘qissakhwan’(story-teller) Ashk to change to‘Qissakhan’! Today, Bhimmal Mama isno more, but all readers of our village,both new and old, know that Qissakhanis another name of Ashk ji.Nobody has ever seen such a devotedreader of Ashkji, or of any other writerfor that matter, like Bhimmal Mama. Hewould say– “When my writer writespoetry, short story, drama, one-act plays,memoirs, travelogue, personal essay,criticism, everything, why should I readany other writer’s writings? …Does awriter of any other language have sucha lovely name?”One day he opened his ‘wonder casket’and said, “Let someone tell me whoselines are these: ‘Badshaho! mainu teparichay-varichay da koyee tajarba neyi,...Badshaho kutte di maut marna hondate itthe aavan di ki lod si! Main saabnu aakhiya– Bhayee, je meharbaani karnihai te hun kar ...Main kamm sikkhandi puri koshish karanga. Jo main kamyabho gaya te saab ne mere naal vaadakitta hai ki mere leyi tagme di sifarishkarega’...(I don’t have any experience ofintroduction etc. Had I to die a dog’sdeath, why would I have come here?I told my Boss— Brother, if you haveto do me a favour do it now. I willdo my best to learn the job. In caseI am successful, Boss has promised methat he will recommend me for a medal.)Now, tell me which author’s linesare these?”“Guleri ji’s.”“No, Yashpal’s”“Then, J.P. Shrivastava’s.”Bedhab Ba…’“Should I tell— Qissa Khan’s!”Bhimmal Mama took out a new bookfrom under his gamchha 4 and said—‘Ek srot se phut bah rahin kab se yehdo dhara’ (‘Since long these two streamshave been gushing out from the samesource!’) …Ashk Made Easy … After goingthrough it, it will be easier for you tounderstand Ashk’s writings.Giving the book to the winner of38 :: July-September 2010

this riddle, Mama said— “Read it andmake out what Ashk is.”“Seems like I’ve already read somestories of this collection. For instance,‘Tableland’.”“You aren’t yet in the position ofgiving your opinion about a book withoutreading it.”Before our eyes the number of Ashk’sardent readers in the village had grownfrom one to eleven. That day therewere one dozen members present atBhimmal Mama’s ‘Ashk vivechan goshthi’(Symposium on Evaluation of Ashk),besides Bhimmal.Mama began to say— “First of allhear this admission by an affectionatelady. What does this lady write? Shewrites, ‘I hadn’t finished my morningbath yet when his (that is Ashk ji’s)younger brother arrived and I came toknow that Ashkji has arrived four orfive hours back. He (that is Ashkji)is not well; he has fever and has beenbadly hit on the eye while playing hockey.I said, please go and tell Ashkji thatI will be coming in half an hour.”Brief Commentary: “This is abouttheir very first meeting; till then theiracquaintance was confined to anexchange of a few letters. The sketchwriter further writes—‘Partly because of veneration andpartly because I had come all the wayto meet him, I remained silent. Comingto know that this poet who plays withwords can also play hockey with suchdevotion that he has his eye wounded,… Because of this strange carefree mannerof his I grew more eager to know abouthim.’”Further Commentary: “I think, andrightly so, that the name of this bookis based on this sentence– ‘I had comeall the way to meet him’. Ashkji toohas written in a poem:And I am a river which started onits course long backSo, let us hear what this ‘river whichstarted on its course long back’ has tosay about this lady– “Before seeingKaushalya (the sketch writer), I saw herletters. I had decided to marry herafter receiving her very first letter. HadKaushalya not been so unusually skilledin writing letters and, whether wronglyor rightly, pouring out the entire feelingsof her heart into the written words, theextremely tangled chords of our life wouldnever have become disentangled.’Now have a glimpse of their domesticlife during the early days of their marriagein the words of Mrs. Kaushalya Ashk–“Once when suddenly more than theexpected number of guests came, I calledhim into the drawing room and said.‘While everything else is all right, bainganka bhurta 5 may not suffice for all. ShouldI quickly get a brinjal or two from themarket and roast them? ‘Don’t worry’,he said, ‘everything will be all right’....When at the appointed time everyonesat at the table, he took plentiful ofbhurta on his plate and said, ‘Look hereJuly-September 2010 :: 39

friends, this dish is only this much, pleasedo think of others when helping yourselfwith it.’”A member got up to say somethingbut Bhimmal Mama did not allow himto speak– “I know what you want tosay. What else than that I do not takebrinjals. Really this lady, Mrs.KaushalyaAshk, has an unusual skill of pouringher heart out in her lines.” After abrief interval Mama said– “The last lineis, ‘Now, for the last one year he islying in the seclusion of Panchgani,suffering from tuberculosis.’”Mama’s voice choked with emotion.The pupils of his eyes rolled un-naturally.I said, “Mama, that’ll do for today.”It seemed that a spark had igniteda keg of gunpowder. God knows forhow long he had been smouldering insideagainst me. He exploded– “I know alot of old guilt has accumulated in yourheart. You people wish ill of Ashk,because he is with the ‘Hansvadis’ 6 . Haveyou allowed even a single copy of NayaSahitya 7 to be kept in the library? Nobodyhas even had a glimpse of Pakka Gana,not even cursory. …There’s a limit tomeanness. …You think yourself to bea very big reporter …You aren’t evena petty writer. …You heartless fellows!…History will be witness…This was followed by some rusticabuses... When even this did not satisfyhim, it came to political abuses— YouMensheviks! You social termites (SocialDemocrats)! Traitors! And so on. Weunderstood that this shower of abuseswill go on for three- four days... Wenever took offence at his abuses.For three-four days he promotedAshk’s works along with two dozenfollowers of his... ‘Buying Ashkji’s booksmeans saving the precious life of a writer’.When he came after about a weekhe was relatively calm. He said, “I havecome to talk to you in private. ...Myrequest to you is that please go to Patnasoon. Get yourself checked up. I amafraid to look at your face. Have youseen Ashk’s photograph in ‘Do Dhara’?I felt that Mama has touched myweakest spot. Mama said, “Why doesyour face turn pale on hearing Ashk’sname?”I probed and found that for the lasttwo or three years I had been readingAshk’s works but only superficially. Thisindifference, this disregard had intensifiedsince I had come to know that Ashkwas suffering from T.B. The momentI took Ashk’s name the thought of thatdisease growing in my lungs would cometo my mind. I had developed thickenedpleura in jail. At the time of beingdischarged from the hospital, a famousdoctor, T.N. Bannerji, had cautioned me–“No exertion. Sitting in your armchairyou may slay any king or queen, it doesnot matter.” My weight was decreasingday by day.I brushed away Bhimmal Mama’s goodadvice immediately from my mindbecause many great things were going40 :: July-September 2010

to happen... It was ambition versus thegerms of the disease!In Nepal the bugle of revolution hadsounded. Thousands of Nepali youngmen had taken part in India’sindependence struggle. Is there nothingI must do for Mother Nepal who hadbrought me up on her nectar since Iwas eight years old? ...Yes, I must dosomething. …C-in-C Eastern Commandhas written a letter to me. ‘Come hereand see how desirable death is. Manyfathers, many sons are ready to dietogether? Come…’Then all fear vanished. It is betterto die like comrade Kuldeep on the frontthan to die wretchedly of illness.I was directed to go to Patna forsome urgent work. When I arrivedin Patna, I had to halt there for fourfivedays. Dear friend NarmedeshwarPrasad said– “Come to my place thisevening. Ashkji has come on a visit toPatna. We have invited him to tea thisevening... Vishwamohanji, Gopiji etc. willalso be there.Ashkji came dressed in a blacksherwani, 8 brandishing a walking stick.The conversation began with socialistrealism and ended with the opening wordsof a classical song appearing in the NayaSahitya: Sajni-i-i tadpat hun main nisdinrajani... O sajani. O rajani! (O belovedone! I am restless for you day and night).“I just wanted to ask whether youhave completely recovered now.”Two months later I suddenly beganto vomit blood. While spitting bloodI would sometimes talk of ‘Tableland’,sometimes of Panchgani… Ashk… DinaNath… Qasim Bhai. At that time Ifound unprecedented pleasure in absurdtalk. Who knows why?For the last five or six months BhimmalMama is again obsessed by spells andincantations. From hocus– pocus,sorcery, witchcraft to even performingcertain rites in the cremation grounds.As I was coming to Patna, I lookedback to have a glimpse of my village.Everything appeared blurred. I caughtsight of Bhimmal Mama. He was returninghome after ten or twelve days. Aftertying an amulet on his arm, he tookout a number of ten rupee notes anda handful of small change from his pocketand said– “I was thinking of sendingthis money to my ailing friend Ashk.But the amount I had to pay to ‘Chiragi’during these seven-eight months cameto one hundred one rupees. Ashk jihas recovered now... Don’t worry, youtoo will return with your cheeks redas apples.” The four anna, eight anna,two anna coins were all smeared withvermilion. Once again I looked backat the village– it was no longer blurred.The whole village was smeared withvermilion.Whenever I got Bhimmal Mama’s letterin the hospital, Ashkji was invariablymentioned. Ashkji has published a newplay. …A short story of his has againappeared.July-September 2010 :: 41

Having recovered, I returned to myhome completely healthy in body andsoul. At the station itself I learnt thatBhimmal Mama was no more. I havenever seen such a reader of any writer,a character who has proved worthy ofhis creator.During 1953-54, I again had thechance to see Ashkji in Patna. He camewith Virendra and stayed for about fiveminutes at my place. But in those veryfive minutes he laughed away all thequestions of health, literature and theworld.That day an unpleasant incident tookplace in the evening at the tea partyarranged in honour of the novelistYagyadatt Sharma, who had come fromDelhi. Yagyadatt Sharma began to speakon the problems raised in his forthcomingnovel. He was speaking very well whenhe noticed Ashk and Chhavinath Pandeywhispering to each other. Yagyadattbegan to tremble with anger. He said,“Ashkji, please finish your conversationfirst so that I can also speak.” A flashof annoyance appeared on Ashkji’s facefor a while, but it soon disappeared.Licking a little lime, he said politely–“I was telling Chhavinath about you only,I was praising you.”Perhaps, Yagyadatt did not rise tospeak again. When I recall that day’sincident, a question or two ariseconstantly in my mind. Was it a merecoincidence that Ashk Bhai’s andrespected Pandeyji’s chairs were placedside by side. Ashkji tried to convinceYagyadattji to the last, but Pandeyji didnot utter a word. Why?I am going to Delhi with the Ashksand recalling all these things, one byone. Kaushalya Bhabhi 9 is repeatedlyticking off her husband and son softly—“Nilabh, don’t open the windows, sonny.…Ashkji, please be considerate. Howcan the poor fellow lie down on themiddle berth so soon?” The poor copassengerlooks at Kaushalya Bhabhi withgratitude, but Ashkji goes on— “But Renu,Bhairav said…” Ashk expresses his‘second opinion’ in the name of the absentBhairavprasad Gupt– “But, Bhairav said…”After dinner we went to lie downon our respective berths. Before goingto sleep, the father gave the cry— “Heychai garam.” 10Lying on the topmost berth, the sonresponded with – “Moongphali hai, aye.”Kaushalya Bhabi warned both in thesame breath—“Hey, what’s going on!”And believe me, after that the fathersonduo did not utter a word.I couldn’t sleep for the whole night.…This evergreen writer! The other daya jovial publisher friend had said inPatna– “This man keeps doing peculiarkind of business. … To obtain writingsfor an anthology he has engaged a ladyliterary agent.” ...An unhappy writerfriend sat for hours trying to convinceme that Ashk was an opportunist. Iask myself, am I not an opportunist?42 :: July-September 2010

Am I not selfish? …It is my good fortunethat I am travelling with such a greatwriter.On the day of the first session I didn’tfind Ashk ji sitting in ease. There wasrestiveness in the atmosphere. It wasnecessary to pacify it. A friend fromAllahabad itself said— “So you thinkAshkji is worried about pacifying theatmosphere? ….You’re foolish!”Our host has invited Yashpal, Ashkand Bhagvatsharan Upadhyay. On hearingthis we did not fix any other programme.Ashkji and Yashpalji startedconversing. Upadhyayji would also chipin occasionally. I have nothing to dobut to listen. It does not behove usto smile or shake our neck much atanything that either side was saying.Two renowned fiction writers of Hindiare engaged in a discussion. It is themerit of my previous birth that I amsitting near them and hearing and seeingall this. …This is no small thing.Ashkji has referred to the discussionthat took place on the occasion of thatdinner party in a personal essay of his.Yashpal ji may also have written aboutit. I do not remember the topic ofthe discussion. …To keenly observe theway and the manner in which these twovenerated and elderly persons chat isno easy job. I repeatedly happen toglance at Kaushalya ji’s watch. Thenat Prakshvatiji’s watch.While eating, both kept on crossingswords with one another. Both areartists; both know how to make use ofsharp or mild invective as the need maybe. From the beginning I occasionallylooked at Yashpalji’s face from Ashkji’sviewpoint– a spoilt Christian officer!At Allahabad itself I heard a newwriter criticizing Ashkji. I told himcourteously— “Imagine Ashkji leavingAllahabad and settling elsewhere.”The new writer smiled and closedhis eyes. “The literary scene there willbecome very dull.”Strange things come to light aboutAshkji every second or third month.Every time Ashkji will burst out laughingand pat someone on the back, saying–“Brother, I have said what I had tosay, did what I had to do. Now I amsitting back and enjoying the whole thing....People are worried. …I am having fun.”“Badshaho kutte di maut marnahonda to itthe avan di ki lod si?” (‘IfI had to die a dog’s death then whywould I have come here?’ …‘And I ama river that started long back’ ‘…. Stupid!…Dissolve green vitriol in water or giveit with curds’ … Hearing these mannerismsfrom Ashk’s mouth hundred times a dayyou will still want to hear them onceagain. And then Ashk will burst intolaughter and say– “But friend, Bhairavhad said…July-September 2010 :: 43

Muktibodh was always filled withaffability, with friendliness. He used tosay a lot of things addressed to ‘thefriend’. Poems, essays, diary - ineverything the friend could be seen, eitherexpressly or in some hidden form. Hehad a unique style of his own. He calledfriends partners. This is how he spoke:“Say what you like, partner, but yourhumour is mighty indeed!” Or, “Youmight feel bad, partner, but I just don’tlike that man,” –this taking the nameof someone. And if he was in a veryloving mood, he would say, “Just youwait, sahib, you will see all this passingaway!”Muktibodh spoke as though lost inhimself, “Where you are sitting now–royal mahfils used to take place there.With dazzling lights everywhere, withsongs and dances. In those days thisplace would blind you with its splendour.Say what you like, partner, feudalismhad its own grandeur... You come hereduring the rains and sleep in this roomat night! The pond would be full to thebrim and the winds would be blowingstrong. The whole night the water wouldlap against the walls and you would hearthe sound all through the night... Attimes you would feel it is a beautifulwoman dancing and what you hear isthe sound of her anklets. Last yearShamsher was here. And we sat listeninguntil two or three in the morning... Andpartner, a pretty owl– what can I sayabout that owl! I have never seen anowl as beautiful as that. And at timesbats come in...”He was talking animatedly about theatmosphere there. Not in the leastconscious of his illness.We had reached the place in theafternoon. When Muktibodh saw us, hewent on saying “How great, how great!’and kept laughing heartily. But the nextmoment you could see tears flowing fromhis eyes.He had come to Jabalpur a monthor a month and a half ago. His eczemawas giving him trouble. He had becomequite weak. In the middle of speaking,he became breathless. At that time Ihad felt he was quite apprehensive abouthimself. As though he was scared. Thentoo his eyes had filled up with tearswhen he told me, “Partner, I amcompletely broken now. The cart cannotbe pulled along much longer. lf I getsome five or ten years, I could do somesolid work.”I had never seen tears in his eyesearlier. We friends became quiteconcerned about it. We put a lot ofpressure on him to stay here and havehimself treated. But he had to go toNagpur to see his sick father. He tookleave of us promising to return in aweek’s time. He never came back afterthat.In a moment he was back in control.46 :: July-September 2010

“Where is your luggage?” he asked.“In my house,” Sharad Kothari said.“How come, sahib? What does thatmean? Aren’t you my guests?” he asked.We looked at one another. Sharadsmiled. We were in the habit of teasingMuktibodh about this. “Guru, yourthinking might be very progressive, butin your habits you are very feudal’’“They are my guests, they will sleepin my house, will eat in my house, noone will go without having a cup oftea, I am going to pay the hotel bill,I’ll feed the whole city in my house...What is all this?”Seeing Sharad smiling, he too smiled.He said, “You have no right to do that!In fact, this is a plot against me!”This was not mere formality. Therewas never mere formality in any ofMuktibodh’s emotions– not in his love,not in his hatred, not in his anger. lfhe did not like someone, he would stareat him for an hour without uttering aword. The man would become verydistressed.When he spoke of his disease, it waswith scientific objectivity - as thoughhis hands and legs and head were nothis, but belonged to someone else. Veryimpersonally, as though he was bisectingthe body limb by limb and explainingwhere the disease was, how it developedand what the result would be.“So, sahib, this is my disease.” Sayingthat, he became silent.Then he began to speak again. “lget letters inviting me to one place oranother. But how can I go? Is it inmy hands to go? ...Oh yes, I have writtena gruesome poem. I wouldn’t let youhear it. I am myself terrified of it.Extremely dark, very gloomy! There arefrightful imageries. I don’t know in whatkind of mood I was. I have sent thepoem to Vatsyayan ji ...But now I feelthings are not that bad. Life is a powerfulthing. And there are very good peoplewith me. How many letters of concernhave come! And how many people wantto make me healthy again! So much love,so much affection! ...Partner, now I shallwrite another poem. I mean, I shall nowwrite the right things.”Gyan Ranjan said, “The earlier poemwas right and this one will be right too.”He looked relaxed. We explained tohim that the disease was not seriousand in Bhopal he would become all rightin a month or two.Brightness returned to his eyes. Hesaid, “l will be all right, won’t I? That’swhat I feel too. And even if I am notcured fully, it does not matter. I’ll dragmyself around. All I want is that I shouldbecome well enough to continue myreading and writing.”In the meantime, Pramod Varmareached there. The moment Muktibodhsaw him, he burst out laughing. “Look,July-September 2010 :: 47

see there! He has also come! Wow, it’sgoing to be great fun now sahib!”Pramod and I went to the other roomto consult Shanta Bhabhi and Ramesh.Muktibodh began to talk to Gyan Ranjanabout new publications.It was decided that he should betaken to Bhopal immediately.A few friends had sent some moneyfrom different places. We suggested thatthis money be deposited in the bankin Ramesh’s name.Muktibodh’s reaction to this was verystrange. He became annoyed exactly likea child. And he said, “Why? Why can’tan account be opened in my name? Itshould be deposited in my own name.Why? Do you people think that I’mirresponsible?”He became unyielding on the issue.“The account will be opened in my ownname.”“The thing is, partner,” he said, “that’show I want it. I wish it. I do not knowhow it feels to have a bank account.It will be a new experience to me. Itis a silly desire. But I want to havethe experience of having my own bankaccount once. Let me have that pleasuretoo.”Muktibodh was always in financialdifficulties. There was no end to thelist of what he did not have. He wasalways under the burden of debt. Hewanted money, but he also rejectedmoney. He never bid anything that wasagainst his credos merely for money.It was amazing how the man who lackedmoney desperately used to say no tomoney without the least hesitation. Anaccount would be opened in the bankin his name– that was a very excitingthought to him. A bank account thatbelongs to Gajanan Madhav Muktibodh–he wanted to experience what that wouldfeel like. Maybe, that would also perhapsbring him a greater sense of security.It was then that a letter came froma senior writer. The letter askedMuktiboth not to worry; he and someof his friends were soon going to releasean appeal in the newspapers for his help.Muktibodh became very disturbedafter reading the letter. He lifted himselfup slightly on pillows and said, “Nowwhat is this? An appeal will be releasedseeking people’s charity! Now they willbeg for my sake? Collections will be takenin my name! No! I say, that will nothappen! I am not about to die! I willaccept help from my friends. But anappeal for donations on my behalf? No!That will not happen!”We made him understand that hisfeelings would be communicated to thesenior writer and no appeal would bereleased.That evening Ramesh brought a letterand gave it to him. Inside the envelopewas a twenty rupee note. The letter wasfrom a student of his. The letter said48 :: July-September 2010

that he was working in some place andmaking money to meet his study expenses.It said, “l feel great reverence for you.I notice that a writer like you is notgetting proper treatment for want ofmoney. I have saved these twenty rupees.Kindly accept it. This is my own earning,so please do not feel any hesitation toaccept this. I do not have the courageto give you the money in person, soI am sending it this way.”Holding the letter and the moneyin his hand, Muktibodh kept looking outthrough the window for a long time.His eyes welled up. He said, “This isa poor boy. How can I take money fromhim?”There was a school teacher sittingthere. He said, “The boy is sentimental.lf you return the money, he would feelhurt.”Muktibodh was moved by the boy’slove. He remained lost and silent fora long time.Preparations began for going toBhopal. His affableness was awake onceagain. He told me, “Partner, I want totell you something very clearly. See,you make your livelihood by writing.You too should come to Bhopal withme. We both will stay there. lf you donot write, you will be in financial troubles.I am asking you to consider my moneyas yours and use it.”Muktibodh was very solemn. We keptlooking at each other for a while. Hiseyes were on me, waiting for my answerand we were all struggling to controlour laughter.Then I said, “I am willing to consideryour money as my money. But whereis the money?”Pramod burst out laughing.Muktibodh too laughed. And then hebecame serious all of a sudden. Andhe said, “Yes, that is the problem. Thatis indeed the trouble!”The little money that had come tohim was making him restless. He wasremembering the things he ought to do–a long list of them. Some friend wasin trouble, someone’s wife was sick,someone else’s daughter was ill, someonehad to get clothes made for his child.He was himself incapacitated and sufferingfrom money troubles, but he wantedto spend that money on others. Laterin Bhopal we had a proper battle withhim over this. It was with great difficultythat we were able to make him understandthat a patient had no responsibilitytowards anyone; everyone’s duties weretowards him.And that night when we started, therewere reams of paper with us. Muktibodhforced us to load all his finished poems,unfinished poems and ready manuscripts.He said, “All this will go with me. WhenI will be well enough to do some workafter a week or two, I’ll complete thepoems, write new ones and revise theJuly-September 2010 :: 49

manuscripts. I cannot just lie in thehospital bed without doing anythingpartner! ...And you have kept thatpassbook, haven’t you?”But Muktibodh never wrote anotherword on those papers, nor did he writea single cheque.His life was over without a chanceto see his collection of poems and withoutwriting a cheque.Harishankar Parsai (1924-1995), was a renowned satirist who commentedon post-independence Indian society. He was equally involved with humanconcern about his peers and partners. His essays are available in manyvolumes, prominent among which are ‘sadachar ka taveez’ and ‘jaiseunke din phire’. He lived in Jabalpur.Satya Chaitanya, born 1952, has his management consultancy. Heis visiting professor at XLRI and several other management studies’institutions. He knows Hindi, Malayalam, Sanskrit and English andtranslates multilingually. He lives in Jamshedpur.50 :: July-September 2010

PoetryTEN POEMSBadri NarayanTranslatedbyMausumi Mazumdar1. GenealogyIn the ancestry of trees there were also leaves,But the leaves are not there in the genealogy of the treesNeither are there birdsSquirrels are not thereIn it Buddha, who spent many years meditating under a treeIs also not thereFor so many years I wept under itBut I am also not there in its genealogyThere should have been in it that girlWho killed herself hanging on itAnd whose soul that has transformed into a bird’s nestIs still hanging on its branchesWhere are those female saints in its genealogyWho broke the four walls of their houses and came to it?In it that man is also not thereWho, to still his pangs of hunger, pluckedIts first fruitJuly-September 2010 :: 51

That’s why I say it is a mistakeA grave mistakeFor in the trees’ genealogyThere is one stumpThat has changed everyone else into stumps2. Searching forI am a little twigSearching for treesI am a treeSearching for birdsI am that birdWhich is searching for the half-eatenBowl shaped guavaI am also the guavaSearching for the unending perennial seedsI am a seedSearching for myselfIn the deeply etched lines of a farmerSifting grain.I am that deeply etched handSearching for the husks of grainLying scattered in the fieldsAfter the grains have been cut.I am also that huskSearching for the scattered seeds of grain.3. For A little whileSo spread out, so thickly branchedIts roots strewn on so many sidesI wonder who made this family treeThat has spread into my existenceIts branches have filled up my bodyIts roots have reached upto my finger tips.52 :: July-September 2010

O my woodcutters!For a little while chop off from its rootsThis family treeAlthough by doing this my own blood will spillMy own veins will be cutMy own arteries will bleedBut what can I doFor a little while I want to be free from this family treeSo that for a little while my soul can fill with pure waterAnd the sand inside it can be shaken offFor a little while I want freedom from this imposed orthodoxy.I am tired of incessantly imitating traditionFor a little while I want to be original.4. Why will anyone take me?Even if I offer myself as a giftWho will take meWhy will the Dom of Kashi take meWhy will Rishi Vishwamitra take meWhy will Gautam Rishi give the gift of immortality to the worldIf he gets meIf I had been a milch cow may be someone would have taken meTo obtain milk for his sonIf a desperate Dronacharya had been goldSome greedy Brahmin would have taken himIf he had been a torn blanketAn ascetic would have taken him.I am like that wordThat is used to fill up the lies of wisdomLike the ‘dus paisahi’ in aluminiumThat is completely powdered.Not as a gift, even if I give myself as an offeringWhy will Bhama Shah take meWhy will Queen Padmavati take meAnd why will Queen Victoria?The caged parrot will also drop me from his beakJuly-September 2010 :: 53

Why will critics, why will editors and why will my poet friendsAccept meWhen I am not worthy of any useAnd when usefulness also asks for valueThen why will anyone take me?These thoughts led me to forsake my contemplationOn usefulnessAnd covering my face I fell asleep.5. I’ve thrown away the eternal fruitEarlier I used to thinkI’ll become immortalBut after seeing the result of Buddha’s immortalityI’ve dropped the idea of becoming immortal.Many days in my dreamsI saw Jesus Christ praying for deathAnd poor mythical AshwatthamaGrief stricken by his immortalityWailing piteouslyAnd whenever he wailsA quake hits the earthAnd a storm rises in the seasThat is why I have dropped the idea of becoming immortalAndFrom the window I threw awayThe eternal fruit.6. BeliefI am fragileBut more fragile than me is my bookWhich I write with so much dedication.I am fragileBut no less fragile than meIs my photograph kept in the album54 :: July-September 2010

For my fragile selfMore fragile are these diariesThat were written over so many yearsAnd so flimsy is my beliefThat I will go beyond time with themDuring my lifetime I commission my own statuesThese myriad statues of mineThat are immersed just after the auspicious daysAre no less fragile.The letters that I writeThat are burnt with matchsticksAt the end of the yearThey are even frailer.All the gifts that I giveBreak in a few yearsThe age of presents is only one yearThat of good wishes is only four daysWhatever I possessInanimate words, tearsThat I am engaged in justifyingThroughout my lifeSlowly melt awayLike snowballsSome sayWords are immortalBut how can I believe my wordsThat dissolve with two drops of water.7. Love SongMy kurta has collars of moonAnd buttons of stars.On my kurtaAre faint imprints of deer running on the slopes of mountainsOn my kurtaJuly-September 2010 :: 55

Are my desires of meeting the girl with golden hair.On my kurtaAre the fury of fathersAnd the rage of social beings.The romantic feel of summer eveningsAnd the passion of sharadAre on my kurtaOn my kurtaAre the musical instruments of the seasonsYes beloved, on my kurtaAre the drum beats of thunder.8. DefencelessNeither am I a favourite of the GodsNor of the criticsAnd not even of the editorsI do not get to meet the award givers oftenI do not have the power of wineI do not have any officer friendNo strong hand of a paper mill ownerIs there on meI neither have the power to benefit nor to cause loss to anyoneI have never had any relationship with AgyeyaI do not follow the tradition of TrilochanThen who will be my shieldWho will be my swordHow will I survive in this battlefield defenceless?9. While thinkingThinking about birds and deerMeans ultimately thinking about huntersThat is why I see each narrative popular about themIn the context of hunters56 :: July-September 2010

In trees, mountains, forests, wherever, whenever I meet themI tell them to doubt every narrative popular about themAnd whenever I think about deer I believeThat till there is no historian of the deerThere is every possibility of the hunters being glorifiedAnd to save the birds from the hunter’s net it is very importantThat the birds have their own philosophers.10. LibraryNext to my libraryThere is a house of sorrowsIn which live our ancestorsShackled in chainsThey visit me when I readAnd say- See! The marks of whips on our backsOur tongues have been piercedSee the black stain of bloodCan you distinguish them from the awareness of time?I want to escape from themAnd in reply pick up a book on colonialismOne of them screams loudly-See! While pulling the carriages of the AngrezMy shoulders have become skinned.Some show their fingersThat have cracked by polishing the shoes of English ladiesSome come up and snatch away the bookAnd say- See, my lipsThat are still stitched up.Some show the marks of hot iron rods etched on their backsSome come to me and say-Why are you sitting like an important person with booksCome! See the nails pierced in your ancestors’ feet.July-September 2010 :: 57

Some bring out my pastThat has been shredded to bitsSome display evidences of hot canes rained on them at that timeWhile going towards my futureI think- Come! To save myself from themLet me search for salvation in a poetry collectionAnd I pull out from the shelf a book of poemsBut how can I read the book?Right next to me lives my past.Badri Narayan, born 1965, feels like writing poetry when he visitshis village. He is a scholar of history, language and culture. Has beenvisiting fellow of Mason de Sciences, Paris and Indian Institute of AdvancedStudies, Shimla. Received Bharat Bhushan award in 1991. He worksin G.B. Pant Institute of Social Sciences, Jhusi, Allahabad.Mausumi Mazumdar, born September 8, 1963, and educated at Delhi.M.A. in English from Delhi University, she works occasionally for G.B.Pant Social Science Institute, Jhusi, Allahabad. She writes for journalsin English and Hindi and lives in Allahabad.58 :: July-September 2010

DiscourseHINDI LITERARY JOURNALISMSINCE BHARTENDU AGE TO THETWENTIETH CENTURYBharat BharadwajTranslatedbyRavindra Narayan MishraThe economic, political and social exploitation of the British Rajwas behind the political consciousness that visited the Hindi speakingstates after the mass struggle of 1857. This mutiny had shakenthe entire Hindi speaking area. On the one side the British rulehad consolidated itself, on the other its cruel oppression started.The Hindi renaissance that started with Bhartendu Harishchandhad in its background, consolidation of the Indian colony andthe expansion of the British rule. Together with the new politicalconsciousness the restlessness for the growth of Hindi languageinspired Bhartendu for social economic and educational reformationof the Hindi- speaking people. Bhartendu had lived in the companyof social reformers of Bengal like Ishwarchandra Vidyasagar,Keshavchandra Sen etc and archealogy- lovers like Rajendra LalMishra. Not only was he fully aware of the Bengal renaissancebut he used to read the contemporary journals and magazinesalso. He was restless to change the destiny of the Hindi-speakingpeople. He had known not only Urdu, Persian,Hindi, Brajbhasha,Bangla but also English. So he was familiar with western literatureas well. Bhartendu had inherited his literary inclination from hisfather. He used to compose poems not only in Brajbhasha butalso in Khari Boli. He used to enjoy sittings with his literaryfriends who lived close by. He encouraged Hindi writers by publishinga monthly letter named ‘Kavivachan Sudha’. In the beginning itused to have collection of poems by poets but before long thisJuly-September 2010 :: 59

magazine started appearing fortnightlyand contained prose too. In the year1875 ‘Sudha’ became weekly. Till 1885it kept appearing in both Hindi andEnglish.By publishing Sudha Bhartendu hadstirred us when we were deep in slumber.The talk of male – female equality wasa very big issue. There was a hint atfuture independence of India, this viewwas expressed at a time when Congresswas not even established. We shouldnot forget that after 17 years whenCongress came into being it used to beginits resolution with display of devotionto the British rule. The government usedto buy a hundred copies of‘Kavivachansudha’.Babu Balmukund Gupt has writtenthat when this magazine, after becomingfortnightly, started publishing politicsrelated and other essays freely, a bigmovement was created. People startedcalling Bhartendu disloyal after publicationof his essay ‘Levi Pran Levi’ and‘Mersia’. People started inciting thegovernment against him. Some ofBhartendu’s friends reasoned with juniorofficer, Sir William Kyore, that ‘Mersia’is an attack on the government. On theother side even before governmentassistance could be stopped Bhartenduresigned from his post as honorarymagistrate. Bhartendu published themagazine Harishchand in the year 1873.Later on it was published as HarishchandPatrika. Bhartendu had inherited devotionto the British. He composed poemsnot only in praise of the English andEnglish beauty but also composed poemson queen Victoria and her son the Dukeof Edinburg. He even prayed to Godwhen Prince of Wales had become unwell.But at the same time he severely criticizedthe British rule. He also expressed hisconcern for his motherland by writing‘Swatva Nij Bharat Gahe’ and the progressof his language Hindi ‘Nij Bhasha UnnatiAhe Sab Unnati Ke Mul’ (the progressof one’s language is route to all progress).Only those people who don’t wantto approach Bhartendu in totality withthe inner contradiction of his age accusehim of devotion to the British rule. Amongthe contemporaries of Bhartendu werenot only Pandit Badrinarayan Chaudhary,Premdhan, Pratapnarayan Mishra, BabuRadhacharan Goswami and PanditBalkrishan Bhat but also Keshavram Bhat.‘Biharbandhu’ edited by Pandit KeshavRam Bhat was published from ManiklalStreet, Calcutta. In the year 1874 thispaper started getting published fromPatna. For forty years (1912) thismagazine kept getting published, sometimes as monthly, some times as fortnightly,at other times as weekly. Thispaper played a great role in promotingthe tendency of learning Hindi.Keshavram Bhat’s friend Hasan Ali usedto edit the paper in Patna. This paperhad a tragic end. In 1908 a retired policeinspector was made editor of this paperby some owner. He gave the title ofthe main essay How I was appointed?In 1878 an important paper‘Bharatmitra’ came out under theeditorship of Rudradatt Sharma.Bhartendu himself has mentioned this.It was a political paper. Although itused to contain other- subjects also.From the year 1899 to the first halfof 1907 Babu Balmukund Gupt remainedits editor. A debate started over theword ‘Ansthirta’ with the editor of‘Sarswati’ Pandit Mahavir Prasad Dwivedi.In this debate this paper played animportant role. Everyone has praisedthe editorial language of Bharatmitra.Actually in answer to a question Pandit60 :: July-September 2010

Mahavir Prasad Dwivedi had said, onlyone person used to write good Hindi- Babu Balmukund Gupt. Confrontingtradition, statusquoism and aversion tochange, Pt Balkrishna Bhatt publishedHindi Pradip from Prayag in 1877. Hekept its flame alive for 33 years. Bhatji defined literature for the first timesaying -literature is growth of the heartof people. Acharya Ram Chandra Shuklaenriched this definition in the beginningof his History of Hindi literature.Calcutta played a leading role inpublishing Hindi papers and magazinesnot only in the Bhartendu age but evenafterwards. Third famous paper fromCalcutta Uchitvakta was published underthe editorship of Durga Prasad Mishra.This brilliant paper used to generallypublish essays of Bhartendu. In 1881Anand Kadambni got published fromMirjapur under the editorship of Pt BadriNarayan Chaudhary ‘Premdhan’ a closefriend of Bhartendu. The inaugural editionof this magazine had come out in July1881. It was priced at Rs 2 and contained24 pages of royal size. The magazineused to be full with poems and essaysof Premdhan ji. That is why Bhartenduwrote this is not a book that you useit for yourself, actually it is a paper.It is necessary that it should have essayswritten by people and it should not haveonly writings of the same type. ‘Bramhin’published in 1883 from Kanpur underthe editorship of Pt. Pratap NarayanMishra was a brilliant newspaper ofBhartendu age. The annual price of thismagazine was one rupee. But it did nothave many subscribers. Even the twohundred subscribers it had did not paytheir subscription on time. The helplesseditor Pt Mishra had to beg in poetry-^vkB ekl chrs tteku vc rks djks nf{k.kknku* ‘O master it has been eight monthsplease give the donation now.’But it hadno impact on the subscribers. In spiteof that it kept coming out from Kanpurtill 1887. Later on a littérateur andgenerous hearted Ramdin Singh the ownerof Khadagvilas Press, Bankipur, Patnatook the responsibility to publish thispaper. Mishra ji used to say about himthat Ramdin is so benevolentThe paper and magazines publishedin the Bhartendu age marked thebeginning of poems in Khari Boli andalso many genres of prose. Main amongthem are drama, novel and review. HindiPradip,Anand Kadambini and Bramhanthe editors of which were Bhat ji,Premdhan and Pratap Narayan Mishrarespectively were main literary papersof the Bhartendu age. They used to publishreviews of books. Generally these bookreviewsused to be brief and used tohave merely the introduction of the workunder review. Three such reviews were-‘Nil Devi’( Review of Bhartendu writtenhistorical tragedy- published in ‘AnandKadambni’, ‘Ekantvasi Yogi’(The translationof Pt Sridhar Pathak writtenGoldsmith Hermit in Khari Boli in HindiPradip of May 1886) and review of SatiNatak in Bramhan. Not only this thetwo detailed reviews of SanyogitaSwayamvar first published in HindiPradeep (April1886) and second in AnandKadambni (second series - 10-10-12,1886) still have historical importance.The flood of publications of papersand magazines that came in the Bhartenduage led to not only the spread ofconsciousness among Hindi-speakingpeople it also exposed the exploitationunder the British rule.In this phase manyother papers-magazines were also publishedbut their target was not Englisheducation. But I must mention NagriPracharni Patrika published in 1896 onJuly-September 2010 :: 61

ehalf of Kashi Nagri Pracharni Sabhaand Venkateshwar Samachar publishedfrom Mumbai.Babu Ramdin Singh wasbehind the publication of papers andmagazines of Bhartendu age and eventhe complete works of Bhartendu. RamdinSingh established the first Hindi press-Khadagvilas Press in 1880 in the Bankipurarea of Patna from a tile roofed house.The work had started by installing atreadle machine. He had established thepress after the name of his intimate friendLala Kharag Bahadur Malay. Babu RamdinSingh was very close to Bhartendu andnow and then he used to help himeconomically. Hindi literature is highlyindebted to Khadagvilas Press Patna andits owner Ramdin Singhji. Not only helooked after Bhartendu in his last daysbut he took upon himself the responsibilityof publishing dozens of papersand magazines of Hindi. KhadagvilasPress started the tradition of publishingcomplete works in Hindi by initiallypublishing the complete works ofBhartendu. In my knowledge ‘the roleof Khadagvilas Press in the growth ofHindi’ is first such doctoral thesis onrole of press on which doctoral degreewas awarded in the decade of eighties.This Ph.D was awarded by B.H.U. Thisresearch not only reflects the creativetension of the Bhartendu age, it mentionsa great deal on Bhartendu himself.Sarswati was perhaps the first publicmagazine of Hindi which was publishedby Chintamani Ghosh in 1900 from IndianPress of Allahabad. It had got sponsorshipfrom Nagri Pracharni Sabha. Itseditorial board included BabuRaikrishnadas, Babu Kartik Prasad Khatri,Babu Jagannathdas Ratnakar, Pt KishorilalGoswami and Babu Shyamsundar Das.In 1903 Pt Hazari Prasad Dwivedi gotassociated with its editorship. He wasa rigid editor. In one of the issues hecriticized the research done by the KashiNagri Pracharni Sabha. The tragicconsequence of this incident was thatthe ‘Sabha’ withdrew its sponsorship.Dwivedi ji wrote his comment with greatexcitement in the form of a poem -Anumodan Ka Ant (the end of sponsorship).This poem is very hearttouching.Dwivedi edited Sarswati tillaround 1920 with great proficiency. Thenew consciousness that he spread insociety and culture made the third phaseof Hindi renaissance possible. Althoughscholars have written that his aim wasto abolish feudal and colonial systemand establish democratic system in everysphere of life, but Sarswati magazineenjoyed some kind of governmentpatronage also because of which itavoided openly criticizing the Britishrule. Despite being an advocate ofjudiciousness and concern for peopleunder the British rule Dwivedi ji didnot lack patriotism. He had love forthe country even then but had notforgotten the objective of the owner ofthe paper either. After 1906 Dwivediji corrected these mistakes. He praisedthe British government less. So muchso that he even criticized the Britishwhen he felt it necessary. In December1906 while writing on Murshidabad hewrote that the English and some Indiansshowered adjectives like sex maniac,ocean of heartlessness, master of badpassions, greedy, human-demon onSirajudaula but Babu Akshaya KumarMaitreya almost washed this black spotby writing life sketch of Sirajudaula inBengali. Dwivedi did a great work inSarswati- by continuing to publish thepoems of Maithlisharan Gupt he madehim a poet. He advised Nirala and Pantand then published them also. So long62 :: July-September 2010

as Dwivedi ji kept editing Sarswati hepromoted his contemporary writings byusing his editorial rationality. Dwivediji did another great work by refiningthe essay what is poetry by newlyemerging critic like Ramchandra Shukla.How many authors Dwivedi ji nurturedcan not be counted. But Dwivedi ji wasan aggressive editor and used to keepgun under his pillow. Sarswati continuedbeing published for decades after Dwivediji. But after losing its shine and flavourperhaps closed in the eighth decade.Its last editor was Srinarayan Chaturvedi.In the year 1900 only ChattisgarhMitra was published from Bilaspur(nowChhattisgarh). Its editors were RamraoChincholkar and Madhav Rao Sapre andthe publisher was Munshi Abdul Gafoor.Sapre had literary taste and had interestin economics as well. He wrote the initialstory of Hindi- Ek Tokri Bhar Mitti(abasket full of soil).In 1907 Abhyudayawas published from Allahabad under theeditorship of Pt Madan Mohan Malviya.In 1915 this paper became biweekly tobegin with; later on it became a daily.In 1909 a monthly of poetry ‘Kavi’ waspublished by Ramnarayan Sarhari underthe editorship of Rupnarayan Singh andGayaprasd Shukla ‘Trishul’(later on Snehi)After Bramhan a brilliant and revolutionaryweekly Pratap was publishedfrom Kanpur. Its editor was young anddynamic Ganesh Shankar Vidyarthi.Pratap was the paper of the revolutionarieswhich had the longing and restlessnessfor independence. This papernot only gave a revolutionary dimensionbut also an aggressive gesture.In the beginning ‘Prabha’ came outunder the editorship of Kaluram Gangradeand Makhanlal Chaturvedi in 1913 andcontinued till 1917.Later on in 1919 itstarted coming out from Pratap Pressof Kanpur. Ganesh Shankar Vidyarti andNaveen remained its illustrious editors.Prabha was also a committed magazineand it stood in the freedom struggle.The weekly Swadesh started beingpublished from Gorakhpur in 1919 underthe editorship of Pt. Dashrath PrasadDwivedi a disciple inspired by GaneshShankar Vidyarthi. Dwivedi was a brightnationalist and a follower of Tilak. Firaqand Ugra were also associated with thismagazine.This magazine continued beingpublished till 1938. Because of itsattacking editorials its editor and Ugrajihad to go to jail. The tradition of guesteditor also started from Swadesh becausethe editor had gone to jail.From theperspective of Swadesh literature wasas important as politics. ‘Karmvir’ waspublished from Jabalpur by MakhanlalChaturvedi and it was edited byMadhavrao Sapre and Chhedilal. In 1925Makhanlal Chaturvedi took it to Khandwa.‘Karmvir’ kept being published even inpost independence years under theeditorship of Makhanlal Chaturvedi.The year 1922 is important from thispoint of view that two literary magazinescame out in this year. Adarsh waspublished from Calcutta. It was editedby Shivpujan Sahay. Its annual subscriptionwas two rupees. Madhuri waspublished from Lucknow. It was amonthly published by Sri VishnunarayanBhargav the owner of Navalkishore Press.It was edited by Dularelal Bhargav. Itsshape and size were just like Madhuri.Its annual subscription was six and ahalf rupees and the editorial board ofthis magazine included RupnarayanPande, Krishanbihari Mishra, MunshiPremchand and Ramsevak Tripathi. Thiswas a famous magazine of its time inwhich Nirala used to write a columnin the name of Kaka Kalelkar. This wasJuly-September 2010 :: 63

included in the second edition of NiralaRachnavali (edited by Nand KishoreNaval).The monthly magazine ‘Chand’ waspublished from Allahabad in1923. Itseditors have been Nandgopal SinghSahgal, Mahadevi Varma and NandkishoreTiwari. For some time it was even editedby Navjodkilal Srivastav.Problems relatedto women’s life were central tothis magazine. The Marvari issue,Nandkumar’s hanging issue and prostituteissue became much talked about.Chand was an important magazine ofits time. It did not play any less rolein the freedom struggle. The famous bookBharat Men Angrezi Raj(three volumes)came out from here. It was instantlyconfiscated by the British but stillthousands of copies of this book reachedevery nook and corner of the country.The beginning of the publication ofthe weekly Matvala from Calcutta onAugust 26 1923 was a remarkable eventfor the Hindi world. Nirala, MahadevPrasad Seth, Shivpujan Sahay, PandeyaSri Bechan Sharma Ugra and NavjodkilalSrivastav were associated with itseditorial board.Matvala was a smartmagazine of humour and satire. It usedto comment on not only the British rulebut also on Hindi authors. Its sharpcomments used to have deep impact.For nearly six years it kept beingpublished from Calcutta and kept walkingon razor’s edge. In the fourth decadeMahadev Prasad Seth brought it to hisown town Mirzapur.Ugra edited it butby then it had lost its sheen andcommittee of its writers had got scattered.Nirala’s poems used to be prominentlypublished on the front pages ofMatvala. On Matvala’s pattern SuryakantTripathi’s - name was kept Nirala. Thereis culmination of Ravindranath Thakur’sinfluence in Nirala’s poems publishedin Matvala—In 1926 the publication ofthe monthly ‘Veena’ started from Indore.Central Indian Hindi literature committeehad contributed to its publication.Itseditors have been respectively KalikaPrasad Dixit, Kusumakar, AmbikaduttTripathi, Rambharose Tiwari, ShantipriyaDwivedi, Prakash Narayan, Chandrani andGopiballabh. Veena is still coming outbut it is lifeless.Vishal Bharat got published fromCalcutta in 1928. Its founder wasRamchandra Chatterji. Pt Banarsi DasChaturvedi became its first editor andkept editing it till 1937. In 1938 Agyeyaaccepted the post of its editor. AlthoughVishal Bharat has been the most famousmagazine after Sarswati yet it had a tragicend.Probably Shreeram Sharma was itslast editor. This magazine closed towardsthe end of the sixth decade.The first half of Premchand’s life wasthe phase of extremism in Indian politics.The Jalianvalabag Massacre had alreadytaken place and the Simon Commissionhad returned. The slogan of completeindependence was already given. BhagatSingh had been given death sentence.This was the background in whichPremchand started the publication of‘Hans’ from Benaras in 1930.He painstakinglybrought out its special issueon Kashi. He continued as its editorfrom 1930 to 1936. After that Jainendraand Shivrani Devi became its editors.Among its special issues Premchandmemorial issue, drama issue(1938) storyissue and autobiography issue are worthmentioning. Actually the autobiographyissue of Hans raised some controversyin the Hindi world. Shivdan SinghChauhan, Sripat Rai and Narottam Nagarcontinued to be associated with itseditorship. After a long gap on October64 :: July-September 2010

8, 1957(Premchand’s memorial day) Hanswas published as a compilation of literatureunder the joint editorship ofBalkrishna Rao and Amrit Rai. From thepoint of view of establishing new valuesfor modern Hindi literature Hans hasa historical importance. In the editorialessays of Hans Premchand ridiculed theBritish rule.Together with HansPremchand also published a weekly‘Jagran’. He became object of the angerof the British. He paid a fine also. Anywaythe weekly was closed down but Hanscontinued being published during his life.Premchand is among those writers ofHindi who continuously commentedagainst the British rule in his writingscravedfor the freedom of the Indianpeople from the colonial slavery of theBritish.In the last issue of Hans of hislife time Premchand’s essay MahajaniSabhyata was published. This essay bearstestimony to Premchand’s revolutionaryconsciousness becoming sharper.The first issue of ‘Rupabh’ waspublished in July 1938. As editor togetherwith Sumitranandan Pant, NarendraSharma was there. It was published fromPrakash Grih, Kalakankar(Awadh). Theannual subscription was four rupees. Onthe front page it was written-representativeof the age : monthly paper. VishalBharat of Pt Banarsidas Chaturvedi evenobjected to it. As clarification the newissue of ‘Rupabh’ wrote “Rupabh’s claimis not in the form of dictatorship. Inthe age of democracy for giving voiceto different classes and parts of societyand literature there are and can bedifferent representatives and Rupabh isone of them.’ This good magazine closedin 1939. According to Dr Namvar Singh‘I have seen only ten issues of Rupabhand have heard that it could bring outonly eleven issues. In the library ofthe Hindi Sahitya Sammelan BhavanPrayag the file of Rupabh is securelykept.In 1945 the publication of the monthlyAaj Kal started from Delhi and exactlyone year before independence under theeditorship of Shivpujan Sahay thepublication of ‘Himalaya’ started fromPustak Bhandar, Laheriasarai(Darbhanga). Only few issues of this papercame out. ‘Himalaya’ was a purely literarymagazine. From another publishinginstitution Granthmala the magazineParijat was published in Patna, in whichfor the first time some instalments ofthe novel Charuchandralekh were published.Later on they were publishedin ‘Kalpana’.In the summer of the year of independence1947 the publication of abimonthly compilation of literature Pratikstarted under the editorship of S.H.Vatsyayan, Nagendra Nagaich (DrNagendra), Sripat Rai and Nemichand(Jain). On looking at the list of contentsof the inagural issue it becomes clearthat it was a purely literary paper. Thisissue had an essay by Ramchandra Tandonon Amrita Shergil, an essay by Nagendraon the condition of Ras and Marxistreview of art- and in addition to VishnuDe on some problems there were poemsby Naveen, Suman, GK Mathur, PrabhakarMachve, Nemichand Jain, NarendraSharma and Sumitranandan Pant. It alsohad three reviews by Devraj Upadhyay,Prakash Chandra Gupta and ChandrguptaVidyalankar of Bhagvaticharan Varma’snovel ‘Tedhe Medhe Raste’. The sameissue had famous story Hilibon KiBatakhen by Agyeya. It is perplexingthat in his compilation he has not onlydilated upon the crisis in magazinepublication but also searched the realform of the English synonym of ‘Sanskirti’July-September 2010 :: 65

– culture. He has tried to trace its originto Sanskirt— but ignoring the newly foundindependence of the country he onlywrote in the editorial-Pratik is not apaper or planning of any party. It issymbol of the free spirit of the country.Only this sentence hints at freedomattained by the country. Some issuesof this magazine were published. Lateron Agyeya published ‘Naya Pratik’. Butit did not have the original aura.In 1948 under the editorship of MohanSingh Saingar the publication of NayaSamaj started.Saingar had been associatedwith the editing of ‘Vishal Bharat’.That is why Naya Samaj kept beingpublished for years regularly maintaininga rich standard of taste. It was apopular monthly magazine of the easternregion.The publication of bimonthlymagazine Kalpana started fromHyderabad in August 1949. Since itsbeginning its nature had been literary.Its principal editor was Aryendra Sharmaand the editorial board included DrRaghuvir Singh, Pro Ranjan, MadhusudanChaturvedi and Badri Vishal Pitti. Lateron Maqbul Fida Hussain, Raghuvir Sahayand Prayag Shukla also got associated.After 1952 this magazine became amonthly. In 1959 the magazine completed100 th issue. On this occasion itbrought out a special issue titled ‘Kalpanake Sau Varsh’ . The Navlekhan ( NewWritings) issue of Kalpana was talkedabout. Kalpana was an importantmagazine of its time. To get publishedin it was to become famous in the literaryworld. It can be said that in spite ofall limitations this magazine representedHindi literature for nearly two to twoand a half decades. Even Agyeya usedto write comments in this magazine inthe name of ‘Kuttichatan’. After 1970this magazine declined and lastly it closedin May 1978. But it was such a magazinethat it stayed in the memory of peopledecades after it closed. Kalpana’s Kashiissue was proposed by Badri Vishal Pitti(1928-2003) and got published underthe editorship of Prayag Shukla in 2005after the death of Pitti .Even thisunderlines the importance of Kalpana.After getting Jnanpith Award when NirmalVerma was asked as to when did heknow that he has been accepted as awriter? Then he answered that aftergetting published in Kalpana he thoughtthat he had got the recognition.In 1950 the publication of twoweeklies started one after the other. Thepublication of Dharmyug started underthe editorship of Ilachandra Joshi bythe Times group from Bombay. Lateron Hemchandra Joshi became its editor.In 1960 Dharmvir Bharti became itseditor. It was an immensely popularweekly and was deeply associated withcontemporary literature. Nai Kavita seriesand many instalments of RamvilasSharma’s book Nai Kavita aur Astitvavadgot published in this weekly. Dharmyugpublished many story writers of its timesincluding extracts of many importantnovels in ‘Kathadashak’. In 1990Dharmvir Bharati dissociated himselffrom its editorship and after only fewyears this weekly closed down. In 1950the publication of a weekly SaptahikHindustan started under the editorshipof Banke Behari Bhatnagar. This weeklybecame popular under the editoship ofManohar Shyam Joshi. In publishingcontemporary literature this magazinetogether with Dharmyug played anunforgettable role.Towards the lastdecade of the century even this magazineclosed down.In 1950 from Ashok press,Patna of66 :: July-September 2010

Raja Radhika Raman Prasad Singh underthe editorship of Rambriksh Benipuri thepublication of Nai Dhara started. In thismagazine not only the poems of Nirala,Pant and Mahadevi but also the poemsof Dinkar, Suman and Bachchan werepublished. As Benipuri was associatedwith the socialist movement it publishedthe writings of authors associated withthat movement. This magazine publishedissues on Bernard Shaw (January 1951),Nalin reminiscence issue (Nov-Dec-1961),Shivpujan Sahay reminiscence issue(April-July-1963). This magazine publishedspecial issue on contemporarystories which was greatly talked about.For some years Vijay Mohan Singh alsohad been its editor. He straight awayassociated with young writing. Then notonly Dhumil got published but also itscolumns on papers and magazines arousedinterest. This way or that way themagazine is still being published in its58 th year.The history of quarterly magazine‘Alochna’ is very interesting and excitingfrom the angle of literary history aswell as evolution of criticism. That meansthe history of post independence literarywriting, ideological struggles and thepolitics of ding dong battles. Theinaugural issue of Alochna came inOctober 1951, it was published fromRajkamal Prakashan, Faiz Bazar, Delhi.Its associate editors werekshemendra Suman and Gopal KrishanKaul. ShivdanJi had entered literary fieldby writing the introduction of progressiveliterature. Eight issues of Alochnacame out under his editorship, amongthem Ithihas Ank and Upanyas Ank wereworth mentioning. The much talked aboutreview of Renu’s Maila Anchal by AcharyaNalin Vilochan Sharma was publishedonly in Alochna. Afterwards DharmvirBharti, Raghuvansh, Vijay Dev NarayanSahi and Brajeshwar Varma also becameits editors. The glimpse of the ideologicalwar between right and left could be seennot only in Alochna but was also availablein the essays of Ram Vilas Sharma andNamvar Singh. Bharti and Sahi madeit an ideological platform of cold war.Then for some time Nand Dulare Vajpayeebecame editor of Alochna. Once againin the beginning of the seventh decadeShiv Dan Singh Chauhan became its editor.But by then the scenario of Hindi literaturehad changed so much that he could nothandle it. Lastly amidst allegations andcounter allegations the command ofAlochna fell in the hands of NamvarSingh. From 1986 Nand Kishore Navalgot associated with Alochna as anassociate editor. Namvar Singh editedthe magazine efficiently for 23 years.In 1990 this magazine was closed down.Among the important special issuespublished under his editorship were issuesfocused on Bhartendu, MaithlisharanGupt, Premchand, Acharya Shukla, HazariPrasad Dwivedi,Ram Vilas Sharma,Nagarjun, Muktibodh, Dhumil and Marx.Alochna has been a brilliant ideologicalmagazine of Marxist critics. Republicationof Alochna started in the year 2000from Rajkamal Prakashan New Delhi. Thisway Alochna rejuvenated. The magazineis still coming out irregularly.The publication of Nai Kavita startedin 1954 under the editorship of JagdishGupt and Ramswarup Chaturvedi. In allonly eight issues of this magazine cameout. The last issue came out in 1966.In the last issue Vijayadev Narayan Sahihad also got associated with its editorship.This magazine has also played its rolein establishing ‘Nai Kavita’ . In 1956Nikash a compilation came out underJuly-September 2010 :: 67

the editorship of Dharmvir Bharti andLaxmikant Varma. Generally the beginningof Nai Kavita is traced to DusraSaptak and it is assumed that with thepublication of ‘Tisra Saptak’ in 1959 itended after attaining its culmination. Theinteresting fact is that Jagdish Gupt whopublished books and magazines in thename of Nai Kavita and made it amovement was not considered worthpublishing in Agyeya’s compilationSaptak. Simlarly Laxmikant Varma whowrote a book on Standards of Nai Kavitawas not considered a new poet by Agyeya.To be continuedBharat Bharadwaj : born 1945 Gyanpura, Vaishali, Bihar. He is aliterary critic, essayist and editor of various books. He writes a regularcolumn in the literary magazine ‘Hans’. He has edited the controversialvolume ‘hamare yug ka khalnayak : Rajendra Yadav’. His originalworks include. ‘Sahitya Ka nepathya’, ‘Parikrama! Hindi Sahitya’, ‘Samkalinsrijan Sandarbh and Betartib’ (all literary essays). He retired fromI.B., Govt. of India. He lives in Delhi.Ravindra 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.68 :: July-September 2010

DiscourseDALIT SAINT POETS OF BHAKTIMOVEMENT: PRIDE AND PREJUDICEDr. Subhash SharmaBhakti (devotion) movement began in South India as early aseighth century CE. However, the idea and action of bhakti movementspread all over India in coming centuries (especially in fourteenthto seventeenth centuries). Interestingly saint poets from all castesranging from Brahmin to dalits and even non-Hindus (Muslims)joined it with full enthusiasm. In Tamil, Marathi and Hindi languagesand literatures many dalit saint poets composed poems and songs/ hymns expressing their joys and sorrows in different ways. Someof them (like Marathi saint-poet Chokhamela and Hindi saint poetRaidas or Ravidas) expressed their self-experiences in daily life,especially their lower place in a hierarchical stratified society.As Eleanor Zelliot and Rohini Mokashi – Punekar in ‘UntouchableSaints, (2005) rightly point out, “Although time and the oral traditionhave undoubtedly changed their songs, one still has a sense thatthese are the first authentic voices of untouchables, those outsidethe four-fold Varna system, and the only voices until the nineteenthcentury. In the South, there are no such voices. All that hassurvived from Tiruppan Alvar and Nandanar is one ecstatic songof praise of Vishnu.”Here we take up three dalit saint poets: one each from Tamil,Marathi and Hindi languages / literatures. In Tamil languagethe oldest dalit saint – poet was Tiruppan Alvar (eighth centuryCE). He composed only one poem of eleven verses in praiseof Lord Ranganatha (Vishnu) at Srirangam. His poem is beingrecited both at Srivaishnav temples as well as at homes sinceeleventh century. His poem represents the typical ‘sanatan’ HinduJuly-September 2010 :: 69

tradition without any protest orquestioning the hierarchical social order.Actually, the title ‘Alvar’ was given bythe Srivaishnavas to twelve saint – poets,meaning ‘who are deeply immersed inthe love of Vishnu’. The term Tiru refersto ‘Shri’ and ‘pan’ means untouchable.But ‘pan’ also means music and ‘panan’means Tamil minstrel. Unlike otherAlvars, Tiruppan does not use his namein the last verse of his poem. The oldestbiography of Alvars is found in ‘DivyaSuri Charitam’ in Sanskrit; then ‘GuruParampara Prabhavam’ I and II(thirteenth and fifteenth centuries);Alvarkal Vaibhavam (in Tamil in 15 thcentury) and ‘Periya Tirumudi Ataivu’(in Tamil in 16 th century). Accordingto all traditional hagiographies (mix offact and myth), Tiruppan Alvar was anincarnation of Srivatsa (the mole onVishnu’s chest). He was born as Pancham(fifth varna). His divine nature washidden by the surroundings, it isdescribed, he was given pure food, henever wept, etc. Vasudha Narayanancomments on this aspect : “ It is verysignificant that in all these ways the‘higher’ caste authors of these biographiestend to insulate and protect the poetfrom his untouchable birth. The pointis seen to be a divine incarnation, arecipient of Lord Ranganatha’s grace,not tainted by impure food orsurroundings.” By 18, he is said toplay ‘veena’ sweetly but cannot enterLord Vishnu’s temple, so goddess Lakshmiasks Lord to bring him to inner sanctumsanctorum. Lord tells priests that theoldest and highest clan is that of thedevotees. But he again refuses becauseof being a sinner. Thus it is notablethat argument shifts from ‘lonelinessthrough birth’ to ‘lowliness due to sin’.Finally, Lord directs a Brahmin priest,Loka Saranga Muni, to bring Tiruppan.But he again refuses, so he along withothers forcibly brings him on hisshoulders – still not putting his footinside the temple and maintains the purityand sanctity of the temple.In a later hagiography, it is mentionedthat Loka Saranga Muni went to riverKaveri to bring water for ritual bathof the deity. There Tiruppan was singing;the priest asked him to move away butTiruppan was deeply engrossed in singingand did not hear him. Then he threwa stone at Tiruppan whose foreheadstarted bleeding. When Muni reachedthe temple with a pitcher of water, hefound Lord’s forehead bleeding. Lord’svoice told him about his sin and hewas directed to bring Tiruppan on hisshoulders. But this story is not includedin old hagiographies, hence it is aninterpolation in modern versions ‘whenprejudices were even stronger’. Nowthe question arises who inserted this.Since such hagiographies weretraditionally with Brahmins, they seemto have interpolated it “to convince thenon-Shrivaishnava Brahmins that LokaSaranga Muni did after all have a‘politically correct’ attitude towards the‘Untouchables’ at least unless commandedotherwise by the Lord” (Vasudha70 :: July-September 2010

Narayanan). Further Amar Chitra Kathatells that Tiruppan was abandoned byhis parents and was brought up by thesweepers but panans are described assingers in early Tamil literature. Hencethis distortion is probably due to northIndian stereotype. Further, this classicmentions that when Tiruppan was allowedby the Brahmin priests to enter thetemple, he was full of anger and sorrow:“The priests have made my Lords aprisoner, he cannot see those whom hewants to see.” Further he utters, “Iwish I were dead, Lord! With death thequestions of birth and impurity ceaseto exist. No one can separate us then.”Furthermore it portrays senselessviolence heaped on Tiruppan. Sincethese details are not in older versions,these are interpolations. The agendaof social reform is visible when AmarChitra Katha mentions: “Even as earlyas the time of Buddha, Hinduism wasalready vitiated by the hierarchy of thecaste system… the caste system is stilla blot on Hindu society despite therelentless campaigns carried on againstit by enlightened social reformers andthinkers through the ages….”However, all hagiographies mentionthat when Tiruppan sang inside thetemple, Lord accepted him, Tiruppanultimately disappeared into the sacredfeet of the Lord. Actually only twoAlvars, Antal (woman bhakta) andTiruppan disappeared into the deity.Antal had refused to marry a humanbeing and insisted to get wedded to theLord as incarnation of Goddess Earth.So Tiruppan was also seen as a uniquesinger (all singers could not get entryinside the temple). Here the paradigmis a divine being, not a social role model.In his poem Tiruppan’s depiction is aparticular and local manifestationidentifying with the Vishnu manifestationin the sacred hill of Tirumala Tirupatiand with the generic Vishnu of thePuranas. First verse of his poem showshumility to Lord:‘Pure LordPrimordial LordFaultless oneWho made me a servant?of his servants’Here ‘servant of servants’ is VasudhaNarayanan’s realistic translation whereasSteven Hopkins translates the phrase as‘slave of slaves’ but slavery has absolutelya different connotation in western world.Further he depicts in fifth verse:‘Destroying the bondsof my ancient sinshe made me his own, his lovekeeping me so,the other dayhe entered inside me’Here the poet Tiruppan admits thatLord had exonerated him of his old sins.He made him his own and he enteredinside him – that is, he not only embracedhim outwardly but also absorbed himinwardly. In tenth verse he expresseshis desire and inner voice:‘Dark as the stormy cloudJuly-September 2010 :: 71

Cowherd whose mouthSwallowed butter.Lord who captured my heartKing of the sky lordsLord of the jewel, ArankamMy ambrosia.My eyes, which have seen himCannot see anything else.’Here the poet, Tiruppan is of theclear view that he does not want tosee worldly things after seeing the Lordclosely and inwardly. But, unlike manydalit saint poets of that era, Tiruppandoes not mention social status ofuntouchable caste. He is spell boundby the Lord’s beauty, love, benevolence,powerfulness, purity, faultlessness,righteousness, sacredness, brightness,fragrance and so on. One may be puzzledwhy an untouchable poet, consideredimpure and profane, frequently talks ofLord’s purity and sacredness. Thisdescription, of contrast and assimilationwith a Hindu God does not fit in withthe current dalit assertion where typicalHindu tradition is questioned andabdicated, rather an alternative Buddhisttradition (of B.R. Ambedkar) is adoptedby a substantial section of dalits. Butalso notable is the fact that during Bhaktiperiod many dalit poets did not questionthe Hindu social order and its religioustexts, temples and rituals – as did nondalitpoets like Tulsidas, Surdas, MirabaiDadu, Malukdas, etc. He praises Lordfor destroying the bonds of his ‘ancientsins’ but these works are generic in nature,not specific about low social status andwickedness. Similarly, he does not wishto serve other devotees, priests and soon – rather he wants a direct relationshipwith the Lord as well as equality withhumans. Needless to mention here thatanother Alvar of that time Nammalvarprefers the devotees of the Lord as hismasters (even if they are untouchables).Further, Tiruppan talks of Lord ofArankam being the same as the Lordin Venkatam. Like other Alvars, hepresumes the primacy of Lord Vishnu.If we analyse the legacy ofSrivaishnava community, we find thatTiruppan (and Andal too) was consideredexception to normal social system butother untouchables were not allowedtemple entry to worship Lord or Tiruppan(whose idol was installed in temples andworshipped). Srivaishnava scholars likePillai Lokacharya observes in’Sri Vachana Bhushanam’ that TiruppanAlvar is higher than other devoteesbecause being the servant, the lowly,his lowliness was ‘natural’ while otherdevotees’ lowliness is ‘assumed’. Similarlyit is said that Andal’s love for the Lordwas ‘natural’ because of being a womanwhile men’s love was ‘assumed’. A mythis prevalent in South India that onceRamanuja and his disciples were lostin wilderness, and some untouchablesgave them shelter and showed the way.Ramanuja called this group ‘tiru Kulattar’(clan belonging to goddess Lakshmi).These people, living in Bangalore, areallowed temple entry but they preferto worship in their community shrines–72 :: July-September 2010

some kind of assertion and alternativeworship. There are twelve shrines (firstone built in honour of Tiruppan Alvar)-four for Lord Vishnu and eight for allAlvars. Many followers (ex-untouchables)wear sacred thread, believing thatTiruvaymoli, composition of Nammalvarand the Sacred Collection of FourThousand Verses are the Tamil Veda.According to Sri Vipranarayana, thereis a biological chain of Srivaishnavadevotees on the one hand and a directlink to Alvars, on the other. ButSrivaishnava devotees, as VasudhaNarayanan observes, have agreed intheory that bhakti (devotion) transcendsall religious prescription but not inpractice.[II]Chokhamala was a fourteenth centuryuntouchable saint-poet in Maharashtra.He belonged to Varkari community thatworships Vitthal (Vithoba) at Pandarpur.The pilgrims, during on foot journeyto Pandarpur, sing songs and hymns(abhangas). Vitthal is identified by thestories about the saint-poets, not bymyths & stories about himself. He standswithout terrifying arsenal carried by manyarmed Hindu deities. He is a ‘swarup’(not avatar) of Vishnu, and sometimesidentified with the child Krishna. As FredDallmayre says, the identity of Vitthalcontributes to a feeling that it is“intriguingly placed at the crossroadsbetween the manifest and the nonmanifest,between revealment andconcealment, familiarity and nonfamiliarity,or, in Indian terminologybetween ‘saguna’ and ‘nirguna’conceptions.” Further Rohini Mokashi-Punekar is rightly of the view thatChokhamela’s life ‘captures theparadigmatic ambiguity of Hinduism: itsliberating intellectual plurality and itsequally restricting social construction.’He belonged to Mahar (the lowliestcaste) community of untouchables whoseidentity in Hindu society is shapedthrough a bunch of negations. Maharswere considered untouchable becausethey were dragging out carcasses,considered impure & polluting. He was,like other untouchables, denied education,scriptures, use of wells and tanks, entryinto the temple; hence these themesbecame themes of his poetry. Chokhaacknowledges Namdev (a lower casterebel saint poet) as his guru. Chokha’s‘samadhi’ is located at the foot of stairsto the Vithoba temple (Pandharpur).As per weaving of one legend andpoem, one day Chokhamela stood thewhole day in front of the temple andat night the priests locked up the doorof the temple and went away. ThenVithoba himself came out & embracedChokhamela and led him by hand tothe innermost sanctum sanctorum.Vithoba took out his ‘tulsi’ garland andput it around Chokhamela’s neck. SoChokhamela being pleased lay down onthe sands of river Chandrabhaga. Onthe other hand, the priests found goldennecklace of Vithoba missing. So theysuspected Chokhamela who was wearingJuly-September 2010 :: 73

the golden necklace while lying on therivers sands. So he was punished bybeing tied with bullocks but these bullocksdid not move despite being lashed.Finally, Vithoba revealed the truth.Chokhamela’s poem is remarkable:They thrash me, Vithunow don’t walk so slow.the Pandits whip,some crime,don’t know what:How did Vithoba’s necklace comearound your neck?They curse and strikeand say I polluted you.Do not send the cur at your dooraway,Giver of everything,You,Chakrapani,Yours is the deed.With folded hands,Chokha begsI revealed your secret, Don’t turnaway.’This poem reveals that Vithobatouches and eats with Chokhamela andgave him the garland – these favoursare not done to Brahmin priests. Sincethen the devotee untouchables of Vithobawear tulsi beads as a mark of respectto Chokhamela. Even today pilgrimsto Pandharpur belonging to all castesrecite this abhanga but he is not aspopular as Namdev or Tukaram (lowercaste saint poets) – probably becauseof his Mahar identity. But at presentthe dalits – Buddhists – have not givenChokhamela a due place because hisprotest ‘is contained in bhakti’ and alsobecause ‘he accepts his karma, his birthas an untouchable due to his previousdeeds’ (Rohini Mokashi – Punekar).Chokha had died along with otherMahar labourers when a part of a wall(they were repairing) collapsed on them.When Namdev went to pick up his remains,he found his bones chanting ‘Vitthal’.Hence his bones were buried at the footof the stairs of Vithoba temple – wherehe used to stand all day long in worship.Now all devotees have to visit Chokha’sshrine first before entering the maintemple. Chokha’s poem relates to ruralprofessions of labourers:“The saviour of his devotees,who never turns away.hurries to help themwith their choreshe dusts and cleansand fetches water,the upholder of dharma;saves from the searingflames of nirvana.He keeps the cowsat the milkman’s houseand happily with othersbreaks the pot of curd…says Chokha, he is so tender:his devotees know himas a fond mother.”In many abhangs Vitthal is addressedas mother (mauli). According toA.K.Ramanujan, in bhakti poetry not onlythe poet is a woman before god butalso god is a loving mother but, as says74 :: July-September 2010

Rohini Mokashi-Punekar, ‘has littlecontrol over the injustices and crueltiesof the patriarchal family. Divinitybecomes a powerless feminine principle,thus turning the traditional hierarchytopsy – turvy’. Further, there isegalitarianism only in theory because,in practice, while going to Pandharpurdifferent castes walk and eat togetheramongst their own groups. As thesociologist Irawati Karve rightlyobserves, the ‘dindi’ (group) in whichshe was walking sang Chokha’s abhangsbut observed all purity rituals of theBrahmins, not eating together with otherlower caste members of the dindi. Thusone may say that this varkari movementcould not yield much result, yet thisquiet movement has been more flexibleand durable. Actually dalit movementoriginated and took roots here and itsoral tradition contributed to Marathiliterature in a dynamic way with irony.For instance Chokhamela’s followingabhang is radical:‘The Vedas and the Shastraspolluted;the puranas inauspicious, impure;the body, the soul contaminated;the manifestBeing is the same.Brahma polluted, Vishnu too;Shankar is impure, inauspicious.birth impure, dying is impuresays Chokha,pollution stretcheswithout beginningand end.’Similarly in another abhangChokhamela recites and questions thevery conception of impurity,untouchability and thus the caste systembased on it:‘Five elements compound the impurebody;all things mix,thrive in the world.Then who is pure and who impure?The body is rooted in impurity.From the beginning to the end,endless impuritiesheap themselves.Who is it can be made pure?Says Chokha,I am struck with wonder.Can there be any suchbeyond pollution?’But in the following Abhang,Chokhamela accepts the ‘karma’ theoryof Hindu religion (destiny guided byactions in previous birth) which is rejectedby present day dalit writers, intellectualsand social reformers:‘I will give you a key:what must be, will be;what will not, cannot.All joy and sorrow you will seeare based in karma.Don’t fret Chokha, says God,this is my promise:you are the best of devotees.’Thus about 400 Abhangas (ofChokhamela and his family – wife, sister,sister’s husband, and son) have spiritualimpulse first and literary creations onlyJuly-September 2010 :: 75

later. Chokha’s voice has a combinationof both spiritual aspirations and physicaldeprivations. Since Abhangas are oralin nature, there is no final version (likeKabir’s Sakhis, Sabads and Ramainis).Chokhamela’s wife Soyrabai, their sonKarmamela, his sister Nirmala and herhusband Banka composed Abhangas. Toknow the importance of Chokhamela, oneneeds to see his impact on latergenerations of untouchables, especiallyMahars. When B. R. Ambedkar openlyfavoured conversion of Mahars in 1935,Kisan Fago Bansode (1879-1946) opposedhim. He named one of his newspapers‘Chokhamela’ and urged protest throughthe following poem:‘Why do you endure curses?Chokha went into the templeresolutely.You are the descendents ofChokha.Why do you fear to enter thetemple?Brace yourself like a wrestler,Come, together let us conquerpollution.’Though B. R. Ambedkar had a differentpath from Chokhamela, yet he dedicatedwith honour his book ‘The Untouchables’to Chokhamela, Nandanar and Ravidas(Raidas). Ambedkar’s dissenting viewwas that the untouchables had beenBuddhists, forced into degradation whena Brahminical revival in fourth centuryCE had marginalized that religion.Chokhamela is seen throughout as aMahar (no myth of being born as aBrahmin as in case of Raidas). Earlierno Mahar could go beyond ‘samadhi’of Chokhamela but in 1947 a BrahminGandhian, Sane Guruji fasted in frontof the temple for dalits’ entry into thetemple and since then temple entry isopen to all. Pandharpur pilgrimage isactually more a democratizing andhumanizing tradition than a revolutionaryone. We tend to agree with EleanorZelliot: “It is difficult to see Chokhamelaas a revolutionary figure; it is easy tosee him and his family as a proof oftwo things: first, creativity dwells at alllevels; second, the idea of pollution isrejected in no uncertain terms by eventhe most devout of untouchables.”Chokhamela’s tradition is still livingand changing. He has been representedin poetry, drama, music and film bycontemporary creative persons. VeerSavarkar wrote a musical play ‘SangitUhshap’ (Antidote to the Curse) byutilizing the image and character ofChokhamela to project his views aboutsocio-political reforms. Its firstperformance was done on 9 April 1927but at the suggestion of the Censor Boardits tragic ending was changed to happyending. The anti-Islamic and anti-Christian sentiments were combined withthe message of eradication ofuntouchability in this play Savarkar drawsan affectionate picture of Mahar childrenby invoking a sense of pride as Mahar– it is more glorious to love and dieas a Hindu than to convert to Christianityor Islam. The greatness of Hinduism76 :: July-September 2010

is expressed through the character ofChokhamela who hails Hinduism as asuperior religion and provider of salvationto the downtrodden. Chokhamelaexplains to fellow untouchables aboutcleanliness, devotion and willingness toserve God. He praises Brahminism bytelling his son Karmamela: ‘don’t makesuch unbecoming poisonous remarksagainst the Brahmin caste. A Brahminis the third eye of knowledge of LordMahadev of our great Hindu Dharma.’Further one female character, a Mahargirl Kamalini hates her Mahar loverShankar because he renounces Hinduismin favour of conversion. She claimsto be a follower of Chokhamela and forher Hindu dharma she is willing to laydown her life. Finally some opportunisticBrahmins, Kshatriyas and Vaishyascomplain to the Muslim king thatChokhamela is corrupting Hindu dharmaby trying to enter the temple. Muslimking encourages him to convert to Islambut Chokhamela confirms his loyalty toHinduism: “Yes, I am a Hindu. I ama Mahar, a sweeper who cleans thetraditional circular path around LordVitthal’s shrine”. Thus, Savarkar showsdivine justice to be preferred byChokhamela to social justice (Anil Sapkal).In another play, ‘Yugayatra’ (by M.B. Chitins, an assistant of B. R. Ambedkar)in 1956, the character of Chokhamelais depicted realistically with oppressionof the time. He is shown as a bondedlabour of the village headman but notallowed to enter Vithoba temple thoughstanding on its door for long. Thenhe sends a message to Lord throughJanabai, who is from a lower caste butnot an untouchable and allowed to enterthe temple: My last johar (Mahar greeting)to God. Tell him that this devoted servantremained loyal to him till the end.” ThereChokhamela accepts the destined karmatheory by even quoting Sant Gyaneshwar.But Chokhamela is casteless representingthe huge oppressed masses and heemerges to see the Lord but he is awareof casteism. He says that the life ofthe untouchables has become defilementembodied throughout. The play depictsthe exploitation of Chokhamela at thehands of ‘deshpande’ and ‘patil’ (uppercaste village officials). It also showsthat he was crushed under a wall whileworking. Thus Chitins has realisticallydepicted the deep devotion ofChokhamela, on the one hand, and thehypocrisy of the upper castes towardshim, on the other (Anil Sapkal).A Marathi film ‘Sant Chokhamela’ wasdirected by D. K. Kale in 1941 showinghim working dutifully as a Mahar butengrossed in devotion to Vitthal. Oncehis shadow falls on a Brahmin BinduMadhav who treats this as an act ofdefilement, hence denies him entry intothe street leading to Pandharpur temple.But he continues his prayer.Consequently Bindu Madhav’s son AnantBhatt becomes Chokhamela’s follower.Chokhamela stops Mahar tradition ofsacrificing a male buffalo before the deityMariai. But Mahars regard it a blowJuly-September 2010 :: 77

their pride. They along with upper castesoppose Chokhamela but Vithal helps himby appearing as a Mahar to share hismeal. Thus while underlining the casteconflict, this film highlights the storyof Anant Bhatt in a progressive way.In the end, the bones of Chokhamelarepeat the names of Vithoba and Namdevdeclares that Chokha has become Godincarnate. In the film the characterof Chokhamela says, “What kind of aBrahmin is he if he has no mercy, nocompassion.” He feels the pain of Maharcaste but accepts the theory of Karma,“It is our credo, our duty to serve.The son serves his parents, thebreadwinner serves his family, and thelowest of society serves the Brahmin.One community serves the other. Iserve you, you serve me – This is thebasis of the credo of service.” (AnilSapkal).Another Marathi film, ‘Johar Maybap’(1950) was directed by Ram Gabale andfamous Marathi writer P. L. Deshandeplayed the role of Chokhamela andSulochana acted the role of his wifeSoyrabai. Its story was written by thewriter Venkatesh Madgulkar, andscreenplay, dialogue and verses by writerG. D. Madgulkar. Poverty as well asaffection in the family are vividlydepicted. Vithoba’s early appearancebefore Chokhamela reflects a sign ofapproval of his devotion. Chokhamelais shown as a bonded labour of the villageheadman doing all odd jobs, Thoughin poems Banka accepts Chokhamela ashis guru but in the film Banka introduceshim to ‘bhagvat dharma’. Though evilsof caste system are shown in the film,yet poverty is shown as the major causeof all troubles. Instead of inhuman castesystem, a liberal social situation is shown.Namdev declares to Chokhamela, “Allof you are Vitthal.” Chokhamela is avirtuous and moral person but is opposedby the village headman. However, thepriest Anant Bhatt is close to him. Thecharacter of Bindu Madhav is absent.Rather Chokhamela is shownaccompanying Anant’s mother toPandharpur. Chokhamela was engrossedin devotion when village headman dragshim away to construct the boundarywall around Manglevadhe. But the wallcollapses and he dies. Vithoba directsNamdev to bring his bones to be placedin ‘samadhi’, to be constructed in frontof his temple. Here is the effectiveuse of music and moving performancesabout devotion. However, casteisthumiliation is missing in the film. (AnilSapkal).Thus a comparative analysis oftwo plays and two films shows thatChokhamela’s devotion to Vithoba is wellrepresented but other aspects of his lifeand perspective were depicted withspecific ideology or partial understandingof his persona.IIIRaidas, Ravidas or Rohidas (inMaharashtra) was a dalit saint-poet bornin Varanasi. His caste of tanners(charmakar) was considered physically78 :: July-September 2010

and socially impure because in theiroccupation dead animals were carriedoutside the village and were deskinned,and finally they made leather shoes.Further because of Karma theory it wasbelieved that people were destined byactions of the previous birth. Thereare six sources of Raidas, coloured bytheir writers’ religious, social, economicand ideological views. The first sourceis Nabhadas’ ‘Bhaktamal’ (garland ofdevotees), written at the turn of 17 thcentury (1600 AD). There it is describedthat the ‘banis’ (verses) of Raidas wereskilled in the knots (granthis) of doubt,but were not opposed to the Vedas,shastras, and the practice of good people– that is he did not rebel against Hinduorder. Further, through God’s graceRaidas attained the ultimate goal in thisbody. Finally, he showed pride in hislineage, caste and ashram – i.e. he wasnot ashamed of his birth. But Nabhadas’description lacks specific concrete details.Second portrayal by Anantdas in‘Raidas Parichai’ (1588 but unpublished)is full of magic and miracles to provethat Raidas was a great saint. He declaresthat Ravidas was a Brahmin in previousbirth but he ate meat and kept anuntouchable co-wife. Further, his parentsin present birth were irreligious, Raidasdid not suckle mother’s milk for fourdays. Then Ramanand, directed byheavenly voice, appears and initiateshis entire family, then Rabidas suckles.His parents don’t share his devotion andhe is deprived of his share of property.Raidas’ devotion makes him a saintdespite his lowest social standing (JamesG. Lotchtefeld).In third portrayal by Priyadas in‘Bhaktirasabodhini’ – a commentary on‘Bhaktamal’ – in 1712, shows that birthin a Charmakar caste is not the resultof Raidas’ previous birth’s actions (karma)but because of a curse in previous birth.Then he was a Brahmin and discipleof Ramananda, and he served food tohis guru by begging from some specificfamilies. But one day due to stormhe did not move out and accepted foodfrom a merchant who did business withCharmakars. Knowing it, Ramanandcursed him to be born as a Charmakar.Thus Priyadas’ account reinforces theconventional view that Charmakars arepolluting and lowliest – even doingbusiness with dalits is considered impure.Further, as per Priyadas, Raidas did notsuckle his untouahble mother’s milk dueto her touch. Again, Raidas is savedby Ramanand who initiates Raidas alone.Since initiation is considered ‘secondbirth’, and one’s guru a parent, Ramanandbecomes Raidas’ ‘real’ father – thus Raidasis born in a lowly family but does notbelong to it in reality. In addition,Raidas is kicked by his father.If we compare the accounts ofAnantdas and Priyadas, the followingpoints emerge (Lochtefeld) : first,regarding Raidas birth, Priyadas showsgreater ambivalence than Anantdas –for the latter Ramanand’s appearanceis merely dramatic, for Priyadas it isJuly-September 2010 :: 79

continuation of an established gurudisciplebond, confirming that Raidasis not a Charmakar. Second, as perAnantdas, Ramanand initiated the entirefamily of Raidas – availability of devotionto all - but Priyadas uses initiation foronly Raidas as a way to remove thestigma of being a charmakar. Third,both writers mention that Raidas wastreated badly by his family, Anantdas’account reflects their individualshortcomings but Priyadas tries toestablish that Raidas never reallybelonged to them. Fourth, both writersshow him as a saint. Both writers showthat Raidas did not suckle for four days,but Priyadas adds that Raidas regrettedhis error and refused to suckle untilinitiated by Ramanand – hence Raidaswas not an ordinary child. Fifth, bothwriters describe tales in which Raidasdisplays superhuman powers. e.g. Raidasgoes to his disciple Jhali, queen of Chittorebut Brahmins refuse to take food withRaidas who goes in a corner but allBrahmins see the figure of Raidas inbetween them and later Raidas peelshis skin to reveal a golden sacred thread!This established his devotion, sacrednessand Brahminhood. Sixth, both writersshow him to worship with an image(Anantdas explicitly describes him a‘saguna’ devotee) but Raidas actuallyworshipped (and also in poems) ‘nirguna’(formless) God. Eighth, Anantdas showsthe tension between dharma and bhakti,between a hierarchical social system andessentially egalitarian religious practice.He tries to subvert the social systemcompletely but Priyadas tries torehabilitate Raidas as an individual,leaving the social system intact. Thoughboth accounts are hagiographic but whilePriyadas’ ambivalence is about Raidasbeing both a saint and Charmakar, Anatdasfocuses on devotion.Fourth portrayal of Raidas byChandrika Prasad Jigyasu in his ‘SantPravar Raidas Sahib (1956) is deliberately“A Discriminating Biography: Writtenfrom a Buddhist point of view’ (as subtitlesays). According to its author, Raidaswas a Buddhist, drawn into the Hindutradition later. He mentions B.R.Ambedkar as an example of the factthat great spiritual leaders can comefrom any community. He appeals allto accept Buddhism and abdicateHinduism as ‘Urine and faeces’. In 1956Ambedkar had converted to Buddhism.Rejecting Priyadas’ account that Raidaswas Brahmin in previous birth, criticizingbirth due to curse, not suckling for fourdays and surviving, he emphasizes thatRaidas was a Charmakar and neverclaimed to be anything else. Brahminscannot accept that low caste people canknow God by themselves. He gives anaccount of Raidas’ birth: Oneday Raidas’father was passing through the deer parkat Sarnath where Buddha preached first.An ascetic there was very fond of ‘Khir’(pudding), so Ravidas’ parents suppliedit, so the ascetic promised them a son.Jigyasu claims that an old sadhu atVaranasi had told him this – but this80 :: July-September 2010

is equally irrational & unscientific.Second, criticizing Priyadas he furthersays that Raidas never mentioned in hispoems that he was a disciple of Ramanand.Third, disagreeing with Nabhadas, heargues that Raidas’ poetry was distantfrom Hindu tradition. But, surprisingly,he uses many mystical stories andmiracles from Bhaktamal to buttress hispoint that Raidas was a great saint thoughin his book Jigyasu keeps one chapter‘Buddhists are not convinced by miracles’!To him, miracles were harsh tests ofhis devotion. This contradiction is dulypointed out by James G. Lochtefeld, “Onthe one hand Jigyasu shows the rationalityand rejection of the miraculouscharacterizing in both early Buddhismand twentieth century scientific thought.But, on the other hand, he also fixesa full account of these miracles, as ifthese could provide further proof ofRavidas’ sanctity. It seems as if Jigyasuwants to simultaneously deny and affirmthese miracles.”Fifth portrayal of Raidas is in AmarChitrakatha (1988). There it is mentionedthat real problem is not poverty butlower status associated with tanning.Raidas’ teacher Sandan Swami tells himthat distinction between pure and impureoccupations are the product of ignorantpersons. Later Raidas tells his followers:“Do not be ashamed of yourself. Donot be afraid of your caste. Do yourwork with dignity and bow before noone but God”. This book shows thatparents of Raidas were taking bath inGanga and came daily for a ‘holy dip’.They pray to the sun God for son. Asper teaching of Sandan Swami he breakshis mental block – stops thinking himselfas a Charmakar and then destroys thedistinction between ‘self’ and ‘other’. Hesees God everywhere and says that seeingGod only in an image puts the imagebetween one self and God. To nameis to limit and particularize but Godtranscends human conceptual capacities.Hence, Raidas says, he refers to Godsolely as ‘Name’. Later, in the story,Mirabai visits Raidas and says that shecannot bear to be separated from LordKrishna. In response, Raidas says thatsince she is already with God, how couldthere be any separation? Mira, finally,sets the image down, feeling liberatedfrom slavery to a statue. Further theconflict between Raidas and his parentsarise due to his compassion for the poorfor whom he steals shoes and moneyfrom his parents.Sixth portrayal of Ravidas comes fromhis 39 poems included in Adi Granth(1604) and 8 poems in FatehpurManuscript (1582). These poems arebenchmarks defining the real Raidas.These poems, however, depict hisreligious concerns, mentioning littleabout his personal life. In one poemthe image of absolute identity with Godis depicted:‘What is the differenceBetween you and meMe and you?Like the gold and the braceletJuly-September 2010 :: 81

Water and waves.’In another poem the identificationis less direct, phrased in terms ofassociated things:‘If you are the mountain,I am the peacock;If you are the moon,I am the Chakora bird.’Third poem shows a humble manwith little faith in his capacities; hisonly hope lies in surrender to God:‘Tanner Ravidas says:My birth is lowMy people are lowMy caste is also lowRaja RamachandraI have come to you for refuge!’However, in one poem, he talks of‘begampur’ (the sorrowless city) wherethere is no anxiety, no jealousy, no taxesor trade; there is ‘no second or third’(social hierarchy) – all are equal. Peoplelive there comfortably – this is a utopianversion indicating what his society waswanting. However, he seems lessinterested in changing the society thanin transcending it altogether. In onepoem, he compares himself to a fishthat never forgets her home, even afterher body has been cut up for cooking,every piece still longs for water. Thisconveys a sense of alienation anddisplacement. Though he does notmention his guru’s name, Raidasrecognizes his significance: throughguru’s grace one attains God and doesnot go to hell; through true guru(sadguru) one can know the saints; heexhorts people to follow guru’s path.Often ‘sadguru’ is another way of referringto the Divine. He does not favour rituals:‘One cleans the outside body withwater, but inside there are variousfaults. How can one become pure,this is like the elephant’s bath.’In another poem he tells that a manof good family performing rituals withoutdevotion is no better than anuntouchable. Though he does not rejectVedas and shastras, (as Jigyasu thought)in one poem he says: ‘O Lord, the Vedascall you the Inner Knower, but theydo not know your glory’ – thus he isnot totally unopposed to Vedas (asNabhadas asserted). Thus he has somekind of ambivalence regarding Vedas.Thus against these six portrayals, hispoems express the authenticity. As hisone poem says about devotion as theultimate decider:‘In whatever family a goodvaishnav is found,Whether they be high caste oroutcaste, lord or pauper,the world will know the one byhis flawless fragrance.Whether one’s heart is Brahminor Vaishya,Shudra or KshatriyaDom, Chandal, or Mlechchathrough the worship of the Lord,one becomes pure and82 :: July-September 2010

liberates the self and both familylines.’In another poem he questions thevery conception of impurity:‘The baby calf makes the cow’sudder unclean,the bee spoils the flower and thefish, the sea.Oh mother! What can I bring tooffer in worship to Govind.There is no perfect flower to befound!The snake has spoiled thesandalwood tree;the poison and the nectar areone.Incense, lamps, offerings of food,fragrances:How can I, your servant, offerthese?I would offer my body, my mind;through the grace of guru I willfind the one without stain.I cannot worship you and offerrituals,So, Ravidas says: What is to bemy end?He declares his tanner caste but tellsthat devotion to God has brought uppercastes to bow down to him:Oh people of the city!My notorious caste is Chamar!In my heart is the essence ofall good qualities, Ram – Govinda…My caste is Kutabadhala. I carrycattle hidesAll around Benares always.Now the Brahmins and leadersbow down before me.Ravidas, your servant, has takenthe refuge of your name.In another poem he calls himself ‘theservant of servants’. It is noteworthythat Sikh’s Guru Granth Sahib consistsof forty one poems of Raidas – here‘a dalit forms part of the spiritualityof a major religion,’ says ChandrabhanPrasad, a dalit scholar who quotes Engels:“Every struggle against feudalism at thetime had to take on a religious disguise,”and Ravidas did that centuries back.Actually, Raidas has got a large numberof followers called ‘Raidasis’ or Ravidasis.’Raidasi Sikh migrants in US and Europehave built temples and gurudwaras inhis name and celebrate continuously byorganizing seminars, discourses andfestivals. His followers made first Raidastemple in Varanasi. But like Kabirpanthis,Raidasis, too, have indulged in rituals(instead of devotion) and different subsects,groups or individuals indulge infighting for the capture and control ofthe seat of power there.From above analysis, the followingcritical points emerge about dalit saint– poets in different parts of India duringBhakti movement:July-September 2010 :: 83

First, the voices of dalit saint-poetsare the first authentic voices of theuntouchable communities.Second, these saint-poets opened theirfollowing to all humans, irrespective ofbarriers like caste and creed, languageand residence. A sense of companionshipand brotherhood exists in their poems.Third, all saint-poets praise andworship God as ‘saguna’ (with qualities)or ‘nirguna’ (the formless) and see inthem the saviours of the oppression,untouchability and helplessness.Fourth, all dalit saint-poets areconscious of their lowest caste positionin a hierarchical social system. Theydislike and humbly protest against thecaste, impurity and pollution but theydid not rebel against the existing stratifiedsocial systems as such. They often seeindividual liberation through devotionto God, but not radical collectiveliberation from the socio-economic,political and religious inequalities.Contemporary dalit writers criticize themfor being liberal and not questioningthe caste system itself.Fifth, they are proximately associatedwith various myths, legends and anecdotaltales reflecting unrealistic magic andmiracles to establish their authority ofgreat sainthood. Contemporary dalitwriters usually question the Hindureligion and social order on the groundthat it has various miracles which arenot rational and scientific in everydaylife but they deliberately ignore similarmagic and miracles associated with dalitsaint-poets.Sixth, these dalit saint-poets oftendeveloped new sects like Ravidasis (likeKabirpanthis and Dadupanthis), or annualPandharpur pilgrimage or new temples(Raidas temple in Varanasi, Punjab, USetc.) or ‘samadhis’ at the foot of thestairs of ancient temples (Chokhamela)– reflecting some kind of latent and partialinclusion in the Hindu social-religiousorder.Seventh, these dalit saint-poets usedvernacular languages of the masses formass appeal through their poems, songsand hymns. This process ofdemocratization of regional literature isnoteworthy since medieval period indifferent parts of India. Their personalself-experiences with caste-linkedoccupations popularized new terms,idioms, tools & techniques of depiction,and metaphors from grassroots reality.Finally, a new trend of establishingpersonal bonds with the divine powerwithout any mediators (like priests)opened new vistas of word and deed.What feminists adopted in the secondhalf of twentieth century for ventilationof their grievances under the idiom of‘personal is political’, was expressed manycenturies back by dalit saint poets,though in a latent form that may beaccurately called ‘personal is social’because liberation from the casteprejudices could be achieved through84 :: July-September 2010

devotion to God and the so-called uppercastes also became their followers anddisciples in due course of time.Thus, the poems and songs as wellas the religious discourses of dalit saintpoetsdid bring functional andincremental (not fundamental) changesin socio-religious and cultural order ofHindu society in India during Bhaktimovement period (fourteenth toseventeenth centuries) in more than oneways.Subhash Sharma, born 1959, educated in J.N.U., author of ten booksincluding books in English ‘why people protest, dialectics of agrariandevelopment.’ His main interests include culture, environment, educationand development. He works in Ministry of Defence and lives in NewDelhi.July-September 2010 :: 85

DiscourseSOME GREAT INDIANLITERARY THEORISTSRavi Nandan SinhaIndian poetics is at least as old as Greek and Latin literary theory,and no less rich. From Acharya Bharat to Pandit Raj Jagannath(a contemporary of Mughal emperor Shahjahan) there was an almostunbroken tradition of literary criticism and theory in India.Among the greatest Indian theorists Acharya Bharat is regardedas the earliest. His Natyashastra has influenced all later writerswho have either re-stated Bharat’s theory of literature or havecommented on it. It is not possible to determine definitively theage in which he lived. All scholars, however, accept that Bharatmust have lived before Christ. It is certain that he lived beforeKalidasa, who has referred to him in his play VikramorvashiyamProfessor Keith believes that Bharat did not belong to an ageearlier than the 3rd century B.C. Harprasad Shastri, on the otherhand, believes that he lived in the 2nd century B.C. He musthave lived between these two centuries. Some scholars think thatthe Natyashastra was not written by one person but must haveevolved over centuries.There are thirty six chapters in the Natyashastra, thoughAbhinavgupta thinks that there are thirty-seven chapters in it.Abhinavgupta has commented on the thirty seventh chapter. Someparts of the Natyashastra are in verse, others are in prose. Thebook deals with various fine arts, but its main focus is on poeticdrama. Bharat is supposed to be the originator of the Rasa theoryin Sanskrit poetics, which simply stated, is an analysis of theprocess in which literature is experienced imaginatively. It dealswith the origin of drama, the stage, music and musical instruments,acting, dancing and the theory of Rasa. Bharatnatyam, the famous86 :: July-September 2010

Indian classical dance form draws mostof its theory and grammar from thisbook. Later scholars wrote commentarieson the Natyashastra. In the 7th century,Sri Harsha (606-647), the last Hinduemperor of north India and a dramatistof no mean ability, wrote a commentaryon it. The finest commentary on theNatyashastra, however, isAbhinavbharati written byAbhinavgupta, who lived between the10th and 11th centuries in Kashmir. TheNatyashastra is the original source bookfor Indian poetics.Bhamah occupies an important placeamong the earliest Sanskrit theorists.Not much is known about his life. Hepossibly belonged to Kashmir and livedin the 6th century A.D. Some peoplebelieve that Bhamah was a Buddhist,but since he has criticised the Buddhisttheory of apoha, it is difficult to believethat he was a Buddhist.His Kavyalankara is said to be thefirst independent and fully organized bookon Sanskrit poetics. It has six chaptersand 400 verses. Bhamah discusses thepurpose, nature and types of poetry,the three qualities- madhurya(sweetness), prasad (tenderness) and oj(energy) – of poetry. He gives a detailedaccount of various alankaras (poeticdevices) and also describes the defectsin poetry. It can be said that no otherpoetics in the world discusses the featuresof bad poetry in such great deatil asIndian poetics does. Bhamah’s greatestcontribution is that he was the first toconsider the combination of word andits meaning as poetry (shabdarthosahitau kavyam).Dandin, another great commentatoron literature, lived in the early partof the 7th century. Maxmueller, Weberand Mcdonald believe that he lived inthe sixth century, but a majority ofscholars today accept the view that hebelonged to the 7th century. He wasa member of the court of the Pallavaking Singhvishnu in South India. Threeof his works Kavyadarsh,Dushkumarcharit and AvantisundariKatha-are known. Dushkumarcharit, asthe name indicates is the story of tenprinces. Avantisundari Katha is in prose.Kavyadarsh is one of the most importantSanskrit texts on poetics. It has beentranslated into many languages includingTibetan. Dandin discusses the nature andkinds of poetry, riti, alankara, andvarious defects in poetry. Dandin wasnot only a theoretician but also a verygood poet. He is famous for his beautifulphrases (Dandinah padalalityam).Udbhat (his full name is Bhattodbhat)of the 8th century may be consideredto be one of the founders of the Alankaraschool of Sanskrit poetics. He was anative of Kashmir and was the chiefscholar in the court of Jayapida, theking of Kashmir. In his RajtaringiniKalhana mentions one Bhattodbhat whowas the chief scholar in the court ofking Jayapida and who was given a salaryof one lakh dinar a day.Kavyalankarasangraha, BhamahvivaranJuly-September 2010 :: 87

and Kumarsambhav are the only textsof Udbhat available today.Kumarsambhav is a short poetic workbased on Kalidasa’s Kumarsambhav.Bhamahvivaran is a commentary onBhamah’s Kavyalankara andKavyalankarasangraha is an expositionof various kinds of alankaras(embellishments of poetry or figures ofspeech). He has discussed forty one kindsof alankaras taking most of his examplesfrom his own Kumarsambhav.Vaman, who is said to be the foundertheorist of the Riti school of Indian poeticswas also a minister in the court ofJayapida. His only work is Kavyalankara.He has described riti as the soul ofpoetry. (ritiratma kavyasya). He saysthat the word (shabda) and its meaning(artha) constitute the body of poetryof which riti is the soul. By riti he meansa particular arrangement of words(vishishtapadarachna). Thesearrangements in turn depend on certaindefinite gunas or excellences ofcomposition. Riti connotes somethingmore than the English word ‘style’ inwhich there is always an element ofsubjectivity. Riti, on the other hand,suggests a proper agreement betweensound and sense that is based on clearlydefined gunas.Anandvardhan lived in the 9thcentury and was the chief scholar inthe court of Avantivarma, the king ofKashmir. He is one of the most importanttheoreticians associated with the Dhwanischool of Sanskrit poetics. Anandvardhanhas authored a number of books ongrammar, philosophy and poetics ofwhich the best known is Dhwanayloka.Dhwani is an extremely old principlein Indian poetics. Even beforeAnandvardhan, this principle had beendiscussed by scholars. Abhinavgupta saysthat this principle of dhwani was notpropounded by any single scholar.Anandvardhan also says that great poetslike Vyas, Valmiki and Kalidasa wereaware of this principle. He says thatdhwani can be seen in Bharat’sNatyashastra also. In the Natyashastrarasa has been accepted as the primaryelement in poetry. Dhwani seems to bean elaboration of rasa. Anandvardhanhas therefore accepted rasadhwani asthe soul of poetry. In the Agnipuranaalso dhwani has been mentioned, butnot as a principle but as a figure ofspeech (i.e. alankara).Defining dhwani, Anandvardhan haswritten in his Dhwanyalok, “Where thevachak (literal expression) and vachya(its literal meaning) make themselvesand their meaning secondary and expresstheir symbolic meaning, scholars callthat dhwani.” Poetry in which dhwanipredominates is called dhwani-kavya byAnandvardhan. He considers dhwani tobe the fundamental quality of poetry.He divides poetry into three kinds:vastudhwani, alankardhwani andrasadhwani. The first two may sometimesgive a literal meaning but rasadhwanialways has a symbolic or suggestedmeaning. The suggested meaning does88 :: July-September 2010

not depend on the individual meaningsof the constituent parts of poetry. Itis much more than that and constituteswhat is known as poetic beauty.Abhinavgupta says that some scholarsconsider the experience of beauty tobe the soul of poetry. He accepts thatdefinition because according to him thereis no difference between the experienceof beauty and dhwani.Anadvardhan says that poetry canhave many forms but it has the samebasic quality, and that is its power ofsuggesting a symbolic meaning. Heillustrates his point with the help ofan example. When a woman tells awandering ascetic, “The dog which barkedat you has been killed by the angrylion living in the forest of the Godavari”;it has both a literal and a suggestedmeaning. The suggested meaning is justthe opposite of the literal meaning. Theliteral meaning is that since the dogthat barked at you has been killed, youcan come here without fear. The suggestedmeaning (dhwani) is that now thoughthe dog has been killed by the lion,it is more dangerous for you to comehere as you too can be killed by thelion, so you should not visit this place.She says this so that the ascetic willnot come there and disturb her whenshe meets her lover in the forest ofthe Godavari.Acharya Kuntaka has propounded theprinciple of vakrokti. He is the authorof Vakroktijivita. Like most other Indianscholars of Sanskrit poetics, he toobelonged to Kashmir. He has cited fromthe works of Anandvardhan andRajshekhar which proves that he musthave belonged to a period after them,that is, the late tenth century and theearly 11th century. He saw dhwani asa part of vakrokti.Kuntaka called vakrokti the soul ofpoetry (vakroktih kavya jivitam). Theword vakrokti was first used by Bhamahin the 6th century. Bhamah considersvakrokti to be a synonym for hyperboleor exaggeration and considers it theprimary feature of poetry. He believesthat alankara, that is the element ofembellishment in poetry is not possiblewithout vakrokti. According to Bhamah,poetry without vakrokti is not poetrybut mere statement.Acharya Dandin divided poetry intotwo parts: swabhavokti and vakrokti.Swabhavokti alankar for him is a plainstatement. An expression that is differentfrom swabhavokti and is hyperbolic isvakrokti. He however does not acceptthat all eccentric or vichitra writing canclaim to be poetry. It should be tadvidahlad kari (that is, capable of givingpleasure to the sahridaya, that is, theconnoisseur). According to him allalankaras (figures of speech) are secondaryto vakrokti. Vaman considers vakroktito be just one of the many alankaras.Anandvardhan also equated vakrokti withhyperbole. According to him all alankarasbasically tend towards vakrokti.The description of vakrokti byJuly-September 2010 :: 89

Kuntaka is different from all other scholarsbefore him. He does not consider vakroktito be an alankara but the very soulof poetry. He established a new schoolof vakrokti. He says that when a thingor condition is expressed indirectly itis called vakrokti. It is the idea ofvaichitrya that creates extraordinarycharm in poetry. He calls it vichitraabhidha (a striking denotation). Thecommon man expresses something inan ordinary manner but a poet saysthe same thing in a manner that resultsin poetry. The quality of poetry dependson the skill of the poet. Elsewhere tooin Sanskrit poetics the poet’s skill isequated with the power of hisimagination. It is because of the skillof the poet that his expression acquiresa miraculous property or a special kindof charm. Thus, in his view vakroktiis different from ordinary language.Kuntaka has given a greaterimportance to vakrokti than rasa, dhwaniand auchitya (roughly translated as thequality of being right). He believed thatvakrokti includes in itself all the otherthree. He has identified six kinds ofvakrokti:i. Varna vinyas vakrta (vakroktiin the arrangement of letters).It includes alliteration andconsonance.ii. Padapurvardha vakrata(vakrokti in the substantive ofthe phrase). It includes thestriking uses of synonym, rudhi(conventionalwords),identification based onresemblances, attributive words,covert expressions, adjectives,affixes, bhava (roots of words),gender and verb.iii. Padottarardh vakrata (vakroktiin the terminal part of a word)Under this come the peculiar usesof kala (tense), karaka (case),sankhya (number), purusha(person), upagraha (voice) andparticles.iv. Vakya vakrata (vakrokti insyntax). Kuntaka says that askilled poet can arrange wordsin a sentence in innumerable ways.v. Prakaran vakrata (vakrokti in thepresentation of a particular topic).vi. Prabandh vakrata (vakrokti inthe organization of the parts ofpoetry into a whole). He saysthat vakrokti can have many othertypes also but he has indicatedonly the six main types.Abhinavgupta lived in the 10thcentury in Kashmir. He was a greatexponent of the Shaiva philosophy. Hehas written authoritative commentarieson the Natyashastra and Dhwanyaloka.Another great scholar from Kashmirwas Mammat who lived in the secondhalf of the 11 th century. We do notknow much about his life except thathe had studied in Kashi and that hewas a Shaiva. His most famous work90 :: July-September 2010

is Kavyaprakasha (written between 1050and 1100 A.D.). He was interested notonly in literature but also in grammaras he has quoted Panini’s Mahabhashyain a number of places. Kavyaprakashais a kind of compendium of all the earlierideas in Indian poetics and yet, all along,the entirely original voice of Mammatcan be heard.One of the remarkable things aboutIndian poetry is that it discusses in detailthe defects in poetry. Mammat’sKavyaprakash gives a detailed accountof what constitutes bad poetry. His adviceis timeless, from which poets writingtoday can learn a great deal. He saysthat when the primary meaning of apoem is not expressed properly, it isa fault. He also says that in poetry rasa(emotion) is the primary meaning andso when it is not expressed properly,it is a fault. He says, “That whichdiminishes the primary meaning is knownas fault in poetry.” In poetry rasa(generation of emotion, feeling etc.)constitutes the primary meaning. Theliteral meaning given by words too isinfluenced by the rasa and so that toois part of the primary meaning. Bothrasa and the literal meaning are causedby words and phrases, therefore theyalso may have this fault. Mammat’s viewis that any element of poetry thatdiminishes the rasa nishpatti (creationof emotion in the reader) is a fault init. Mammat considers three kinds of majorfaults in poetry: (a) faults relating torasa (b) faults relating to meaning and(c) faults relating to words. These threekinds of faults are interrelated.Probably it was Vaman who was thefirst theorist to discuss the faults ofpoetry. He said that the nature of faultsis the opposite of qualities. AcharyaAnandvardhan has not discussed thefaults of poetry separately, but in hisdiscussion of dhwani, he has mentionedthem.Mammat begins by discussing thefaults in the use of words. Accordingto him the following kinds of words arefaulty:i Those words that are not pleasantto the ear are faulty. A wordthat does not go with the musicof the other words in thecomposition are calledshrutikatu (that is, soundingunpleasant).ii Words not used according tothe rules of grammar.iii Words which have becomeobsolete must not be used inpoetry.ivvAsamartha are those wordsincapable of conveying theintended meaning. They arewords that are grammaticallycorrect but cannot beunderstood without help fromsome other source.A word may have a well-knownand a little known meaning. Ifa poet uses a word in its lessJuly-September 2010 :: 91

viviiviiiixxknown sense, it will be seen asa fault. Mammat gives an exampleto illustrate this. If the colourof the lips of a woman is indicatedwith the word shonit, thecommon meaning of which isblood and not red, it will beseen as a fault. When a readerreads such a line he thinks firstof blood, which is not theintended meaning of the poet.Those words are faulty whichhave an improper meaning. Itmeans that the word gives ameaning which instead of praisingsomeone ends up insulting him,despite the poet wanting to praisehim.Use of meaningless words is afault in poetry. It means words(such as ‘and’, ‘also’) that havebeen used just to complete themetre and which do not addanything to the meaning of theline.Those words that are obsceneare faulty. Words that create afeeling of embarrassment ordisgust may be called obscenewords.Words that give an uncertainmeaning are seen as a fault.Apratit is a word that has atechnical meaning in a particularsubject and does not have ameaning that everyone canunderstand. He gives the exampleof the use of the word ashayaas a synonym for vasana orsamskara. Ashaya is used in thissense only in the Yogashastraand not elsewhere.xi Words that are crude and areused by uneducated people onlymust be avoided.xii Difficult words that do notconvey their meaningimmediately must be avoided.Mammat says that similar faults canbe seen in the use of phrases and sentencesalso.Many other scholars like Rudrat (9thcentury), Rajshekhar (10th century),Mukulbhatta (10th century), Bhattanayak(10th century), Dhananjaya (10thcentury), Mahimbhatta (11th century)and Kshemendra (11th century) madeimportant contributions to thedevelopment of Indian poetics. The lastmajor literary theorist was certainlyPanditraj Jagganath, who is mentionedwith great respect by all the later writerson the subject. He was a South IndianBrahmin who spent many years in Delhiin the court of the Mughal emperorShahjahan, who honoured him with thetitle of Panditraj (the king amongscholars). He has written a number ofbooks two of which–Rasagangadhar andChitramimansa–are on poetics. He alsowrote a book called Jagdabharan onDarashikoh, the eldest son of Shahjahan.There is great originality in his literarytheory and his style is mature. He92 :: July-September 2010

considers talent to be the only causeof poetry, while Mammat considers talentas well as skill born of practice,observation and experience to be thecauses of poetry.Dr. Ravi Nandan Sinha, edits The Quest, a journal of Indian literatureand culture established in 1987. Sahitya Akademi and National BookTrust India have published books of Hindi poetry and fiction translatedby him. Presently, Head, PG Dept. of English, St. Xavier’s College(Autonomous), Ranchi.July-September 2010 :: 93

Short storyTHE BAMBOOKashinath SinghTranslatedbyMinu ManjariStories are to tell and to listen — be they of present or of past.And they are of many types. There are some we don’t hear evenwhile listening. Some take entry from one ear and get straightout of the other. Some come, stay for a while and leave. Butsome reside in our hearts and minds, forever.Such is this story. Very old— thousands of years old — ofthe time when Buddha! also called Shashta and Tathagata, wassojourning in Jaitvana near Shravasti.A person had gone somewhere for some work and was nowreturning home. Perhaps after a considerable time. The forestwas dense and the season was rainy.The month of Saavan-Bhadon.Lightning and thunder in the dense, bushed, dangerous, forest.He had to reach home before dark. Walking fast, he felt someonefollowing him. He looked, back. A fierce man-eater was followinghim. Hungry and ready to jump.The man ran with all his might. The lion also bounded. Butbehold the tricks of nature! He reached a place where in frontthere was a river. And the river not calmly flowing but friskingmadly. Not meandering, but plucking trees, crushing stones.Uncivilized mountain river,ready to crush anything. The currentso fierce that even an elephant would be swallowed.The lion behind, in front the bouncing river. Both sides deathwith its mouth gaping. If he stopped to think, he’d die. He jumped.If one has to die, why think!94 :: July-September 2010

When he became conscious again,he was on the other side of the river.Exhausted but alive. He did not rememberhow he got the bamboo that saved hislife. Even now his hands clutched it.He got up. This is not just a bamboo,this is my god’, he thought. ‘It has savedmy life. I must have drowned withoutit. Even my dead body wouldn’t be found’.His eyes filled with tears of gratitude.He pulled the heavy bamboo out of waterand joined his hands in devotion.He decided that he will take this ‘god’,his ‘god’ , to his house and worshipit.The green bamboo had become evenmore heavy soaked in water. It was hardto turn it. But the man carried it onhis head and went on;The way was uncouth. Black cloudsdescended and the jungle was dark beforenight. The burden was heavy. His legsfaltered. He breathed heavily, but neverfor a moment he left the bamboo.Tathagata was coming that way andhe saw the plight of this man. ‘Are youalright, Arya!’ Tathagata asked. The manstopped. He straightened his neck withdifficulty and saw — a hermit in ‘cheevar’,shaved head, calm and peaceful face.‘you did not answer, Arya! Eitheryou are worried or angry!’‘Bhante, I am neither worried, norangry. Forgive me for not answeringyou. I am tired with this heavy load,so I can’t speak.’ The man spoke withdifficulty.‘Where are you going Arya?‘Pattangram!’‘Is it near?’‘No, Bhante! Its quite far. On theother side of the jungle.’Tathagata looked at the vast forestand the bent man. He pondered.‘Arya, are bamboos not found inPattangram?’‘Bhante, Pattangram is situated amidstbamboo woods.’‘If this any special variety then?’‘No, it’s easily found.’Tathagata was silent. After a pausehe spoke —‘Arya, you are so tired;sweating, hungry. Pattangram is far away.You can’t even stand up, then why areyou carrying this bamboo?’‘Bhante, what you call bamboo ismy god’.‘Tell me in detail’.The man recounted the story andsaid in the end — ‘Bhante, this bamboohas saved my life, it helped me.’‘But Arya, now it is killing you.’‘But I am alive by its help only.’‘Arya, it’s work is over now. Now,it’s just a burden. Meaningless.’The man shook his head and lookedat the bamboo with tender gratitude.‘Arya , use your reason, put awaythis bamboo and go home.’ TathagataJuly-September 2010 :: 95

told him before going.‘Don’t ask me to become ungratefulBhante,’ said the man.‘Life is most important, Arya. I amwith life.’The man kept looking at Tathagatawho was vanishing in the dark.So this is the story — read or heardyears ago. I don’t remember what theman did after all. But I keep imagininghim — standing still with the burdenon his head, exhausted, moving this wayand that. He has to go miles, but whatto do with the bamboo?Kashinath Singh, born 1937, is a prominent author whose short stories,novels and memoirs have stirred the literary scene in Hindi. The presentshort story is a laghu katha that reads like a fable. Recipient of KathaSamman, Sharad Joshi Samman and Sahitya Bhushan Samman. Hewas professor and head of Hindi department in B.H.U. He lives inVaranasi.Minu Manjari, works in an office of the Ministry of Defence. She translatesin many languages. She is also doing her D. Phil. in English fromPatna University. She lives in Patna.96 :: July-September 2010

Short storyTHE BRATSManisha KulshreshthaTranslatedbyEishita SiddharthaThese three youths had boarded the Pink City train early in themorning at 6’o clock after me. It seemed as if the dormant breathof this last, deserted coach of the train had suddenly startedto move...talking loudly, interacting, carrying their luggage. Thoughimitating the foreign tourists, these tourists were clearly lookinglike natives. In their conversation, words like fuckin... fuckoff...fuckall abounded. All this was very annoying to me.As they came, they dashed down their entire luggage witha bang on the front seat. A kind of liberal, middle class buta modern sort of callousness was visible in their conversation,be it their way of talking, manner of throwing the luggage, walkingstyle or the hair, the slippers, the shoes without the socks orthe faded jeans. In their eyes whatever they were doing was thefashion, was modernity. This modernity was sometimes concealingtheir middle class poverty and sometimes exposing it.The pink city leaves from the Sarai Rohila station of Delhiexactly at 6’o clock and reaches Jaipur at 3 in the afternoon,so my son seated me in the train at 5:30 in the morning, settledmy luggage, gave me a cup of espresso coffee from the frontstall and left.Already seated...moreover a settled, free, Indian passenger,on top of that a woman passenger... and that too a creativepassenger like me, tries to investigate about the state of environmentJuly-September 2010 :: 97

according to the appearance— face, theway of talking, the kind of names ofevery newly boarding passenger, believeme I was also doing something similarto that. A sort of weird hobby isn’tit... the excessive liking of an Indianto interfere in others’ matters.The three were definitely the residentsof Goa. I didn’t take the decision bymerely looking at their faces...becauseit was written in the front of the shirtthat the girl was wearing, ‘My Goa, Heavenon Earth.’ A big silver cross in blackthread was hanging by her neck. Notonly this, they were sometimes talkingin English and at times in Konkanilanguage. All the three boarded withtheir guitar, camera, walkman, three oldbags, lots of chips and cold drink bottlesand some magazines... and now all threeof them were settled in the seat exactlyin front of me in a disorganised manner.The girl was there, the rest of the twowere boys. One younger, the other older.The three of them were bending overa tourist map of north-India and weremaking some programmes... in Konkani.Their camera was lying callously in thecorner of the seat, I whimpered in theheart, it seems as if they don’t haveany idea regarding the north-India...specially the pickpockets and the pettythieves of Delhi or they have never heardof it. I thought I should warn them...but their indifferent look on me hadoffended me and so I thought, ‘Ah! Whatdo I have to do with it”.They all settled in their respectiveplaces after seeing the map. The bagswere thrown callously in their upperberth. The older boy kept the guitarin his lap, as if it was a pet. The youngerput the walkman in his ear, the girlkept the eatables in the bag near toher.The girl though dark complexionedwas attractive, of average stature, slimand cute. Her hair was disorderly... Shehad coloured some of her otherwise curlyblack hair in dark red and golden hue.It seemed it was an effort to concealthe white hair by applying henna athome. I remembered Mrs. Batra of mycollege; she also looked like her afterapplying henna on her greying hair, butthis is today’s fashion, uncouth fashion!The adult woman inside me clenched.Among the boys, the younger oneby his face seemed to be her brother,(yes... the structure of his nose and lipswere exactly like the girl... the girl wasdark complexioned but charming andhe! Absolutely black) that... the one whohas the ear plug in his ear and is hummingwhile shaking his leg. Sometimes he usedto sing a bit louder completely ignorantof his environment... the girl then struckhim with her elbow.The hand of the elder boy was slowlycaressing the strings of the guitar, hewas humming some English song andlooking at the girl sweetly, and the girlsmiled and started looking outside the98 :: July-September 2010

window. The station started bursting withactivity. The window near which the girlwas sitting... some road side Romeosstarted wandering there. They said inHindi some purely roadside filthysentences that the girl was unable tocomprehend but as a girl she understoodby her sixth sense that something hasbeen said regarding her clothes.She was wearing a small, backlesstop which was showing her navel. Shewas wearing a silver belly -ring. Theelder boy instantly understood herhesitation and there was a light shadowof frenzy on his face. He gave her ashirt with long sleeves from the back.And then he made the younger boy sitby the window. He made the girl sitin between and placed his arm on hershoulders and sat very close to her.The girl was wearing the shirt carelesslygiven by him, but unbuttoned.The train had whistled now. Thosewho had to board the train... had boardedand had started locating their seats. Itwas a second class coach. And a middleaged man had seated himself next tome... and his wife also. The youngerboy was exactly in front of me now...he was wearing a green bermuda anda flowery shirt. The hair in front werebleached so much that they had turngolden. The younger boy had increasedthe volume of his walkman as the trainstarted. It was so much that even Icould listen to it. So much noise andin between the voice of some pop singer.After a minute when the noise gotunbearable I bent towards him and asked,‘Isn’t it Madonna!’ I thought he wouldunderstand the sarcasm in the sentenceand will lower the volume.‘Huh...’ he said.The girl nodded her head, made aface and said, ‘She is not for ourgeneration... he likes Shakira and Britney’.I was not able to read anythingfrom the set of books that I had broughtwith me. I kept listening to that deafeningmusic for fifteen minutes. The middleaged man understood my problem. Hepatted on the knee of the younger boy.He took off the earphones and startedlooking at him in an irritated manner.The music coming out of the earphonewas confronting the galloping sound ofthe train with full force.Forever... forever... tan tan tanToun... chak chak chuk chuk...da to.“Agar tum itana tez music sunogetumhare kaan kharab ho jayenge”, themiddle aged man said politely and quietly.The boy nodded his head, indicatingthat firstly he can’t hear anything andsecondly he cannot understand Hindi.He said in English in a relativelylouder voice that “if you listen to loudmusic your hearing will be damaged.”“What?”, he asked in a loud voiceand switched off the walkman.“He is saying... you are going to ruinyour hearing, if you will continue playingJuly-September 2010 :: 99

music so loudly”. I shouted loudly inthe silence.Suddenly all three of them startedlaughing loudly. The younger boycontrolling his laughter said in a sortof fragmented Goan Hindi “accha!Shukriya!” And he hung the earphonesaround his neck and kept his walkmanin the long hanging pocket of his Bermuda,because of which it hung even further.I got up embarrassed and taking myhand towel started preparing for goingto the bathroom. As I turned I heardthe voice “...what fuckin concern theseoldies have!” this was the girl’s voice.“Shut up Liza. She is right” this seriousvoice was of the older boy.When I came back from the bathroomthe older boy was looking at the centrespread of Debonair. The girl was alsobending with him... time and again shewas pulling his hair or giving a punchto the elder boy on his back for thecomments made by him in a low voice.That middle aged man and his wife werenow addressing me with sympathy.Through mutual acquaintance it cameto be known that he is a doctor. Hiswife is a teacher.“This is the condition of our younggeneration”. Doctor sahib was saying.“Day by day they are gettingdiscourteous. No values are left”. Hiswife said staring at the threesome whowere engaged in themselves. The youngerboy hesitated and in reaction pulled hisbermuda which was at his thighsdownwardsand started looking outsidethe window.“It is our mistake also...where dowe have the time to teach them thelessons of values”. I said taking a coldbreath.“Looking at them they seem to bemiddle class... but look at the fashionand manner of living. These Christiansare like that only. You just see, howshamelessly they are seeing those filthybooks, they have no respect for elders”.The doctor’s wife whispered.“It’s not about just one caste, ouryoung generation is completely like this.It is the effect of the western cultureand the rest has been completed bythe T.V. channels. They have so muchof freedom, did we have that?” the doctorsaid.“Yes, every generation has its meritsand demerits”.“Yes, but this generation...they haveno maturity whatsoever. Look at them...just useless passion. They have no talent,no brain, no courage to do something,or to become something. In terms ofsocial values-a zero. As she showed azero by joining her thumb with her indexfinger the young trio started lookingat her with surprise. Actually they allbelieve in enjoyment... enjoy what youare getting now... earn money anyhowand spend it... just spend it. Let the100 :: July-September 2010

est of the world go to hell”. The doctor’swife was cursing them. The three of themwere understanding that the topic ofour talk is them... may be because ofthis the younger boy had started singingloudly while listening to the walkmanand teasing the girl who sat close tothe boy. The boy had started playingsome Goan music on his guitar.“Call it enjoyment or materialism...we are also not left untouched. Yes butthis young generation is moreirresponsible. Whatever may be, ourfuture is based on them”.“Future! Except for the old age homeswhat can this youth give us? Thisgeneration is too selfish. Did we everhear the names of the old age homesin India before? Our mother-in-law keptvexing... I mean she kept staying withus.”The doctor nodded his head and waslost in thought. It seemed as if his wifehad said something very important. Hethen picked up the newspaper and startedreading it. His stupid wife startedpreparing the snacks.“Take something”.“No... I’ am fasting”. I clearly toldher. The assimilation of my mother’ssaying in my childhood ‘don’t takeanything to eat from a stranger whiletravelling’.The doctor asked the three youthsformally... the three took up a poorieach without hesitation and startedeating. The girl said with a mouthcrammed with poori, “very deliciousaunty, what pickle is this?” saying thisshe took up another poori and spreadthe pickle on it and started making aroll.“Teti” she said indifferently.“What T?”“A wild fruit.” The doctor explained.“Oh I thought... these are sea fish’seggs”.“No no we are pure vegetarian”.Saying this, the teacher madam drewher tiffin from them and started eatingfacing towards me. I sat close to thewindow.The train made the sound of creeee...kich and stopped. May be it was thechain pulling. This is the industrial areaoutside Delhi. This is everyday’s story,many local passengers board this trainand every train that leaves from Delhitill 8’o clock. Then there is chain pullingagain and again. The train is not ableto leave Delhi’s boundary even in twohours. It is the same case with the eveningtrains. Not only a lot of time is wasted,these people enter everywhere-from thefirst class to the reserved seats. Andthen they misbehave with the passengers.If they see a girl or a beautiful womanthey sit very close to her. If her guardiansdisapprove-then a fight... then thesepeople won’t let the train move. Willdamage the train. It’s such a hole inJuly-September 2010 :: 101

the administration that cannot be closed.This trend is many years old. I havebecome an adult from a youth seeingthis. Even today I am scared of thesepeople.It’s good luck that my coach is atthe very back because of which no crowdboarded it... as there would have beena massacre because of this girl’s clothesand gesture... and these two lanky guardsof hers would not have been able todo anything. I started thinking, isn’t thisopenness, this excessively callousbehaviour on their part pushing themtowards danger? Do they do any studiesor some job or not? Look at their age,they are hardly 18 or 19, the youngerone looks just 15. And to top it whatsort of irreverent parents send themin this world all alone. It seems thatthey are like that... kind of rebelliousspoiled kids. I felt like saying, ‘bloodyfuckin brats’.Our colleges, co-workers have alsobeen Christian... but this sort of opennessis never seen. Will they be able to solveany problem intelligently? Will they beable to save themselves from danger?Leave it... what do I care? Let themgo to hell. It’s good that I have broughtup my son and daughter with extremepatience and hard discipline. My sonis somehow fine, studying in I.I.T. Delhi,but Nishi...!!I took a deep breadth... the trainstarted moving slowly.I asked a question to myself... didI perform a great job by keeping mykids safe and in severe discipline? Isn’tNishi become very timid in this harshdiscipline and in an excessively secureenvironment. Did we make her safe justby marrying her?We didn’t allow our talented M.B.A.daughter to go to Bombay for amultinational job... both of us got scared.She cried so much... but we didn’t agree.Outside world... means a world full ofdangers. We had said... stay here anddo a job... or we said do a job aftermarriage, if the husband wants.Now! She is dependent on her husbandfor every penny, there is a big businessin her family no doubt, but her husbandbeing the youngest amongst the threebrothers is always fooled. There is noshortage of anything; it’s a big house,a joint family.But if Nishi wishes to purchasesomething or wishes to go somewhere...that cannot happen. She is scared tocome alone to her mother’s house bytrain; the son-in-law is not free to dropher. That is why I am going to bringher along, Nishi’s father is diabetic; hedoesn’t leave the house alone.If today Nishi would have beeneconomically independent... what if wehad allowed Nishi to marry out of herchoice! Then! Today Nishi’s face wouldhave shone just like the girl sitting infront! Doesn’t she look like 35 at the102 :: July-September 2010

age of 27... a permanent dejection wouldnot have been on her face... but... thisshamelessness! Openness, that is givinginvitation to dangers. I was confused.I felt like crying on Nishi’s situation.The older boy and the girl were leaningon each other and sleeping in the frontseat. Health and reader’s digest werekept on debonair... the chip magazinewas lying leisurely on the floor. So...today’s youth reads everything. Theyounger one had again played thewalkman but in a low volume. The doctorand his wife were dedicatedly playingrummy .Suddenly I felt very lonely. Myfeet were swollen... more so they weregetting numb... I pulled them up. Thetrain was running fast through the forests,it was the month of April and the weatherwas getting hot. It seemed like afternoonat 10’o clock in the morning. I was hungryalso... but what did I have? Three apples!A sandwich! I stopped a stray tea vendorpassing by.I didn’t have change. Asked theyounger one... his reply was... oneminute... he took out 3 rupees fromhis pocket and paid.I even said, ‘I need change only’.‘Come on mom’...saying this he startedlaughing.‘Sandwitch?’‘No thanks...’ saying this, he tookout some salted cashew nuts of lightbrown shell and put them in my plate.Filled with surprise I said gratefullythat I have seen such kind of cashewnuts for the first time which are bakedwith their shells on. He told me thathe has 4 trees of cashew nuts in thebackyard of his house... these cashewnuts are from those trees. Mom gaveit to him when they were coming. Animage of a motherly Christian womanwearing a dark frock, slim but havinga slightly bulgy stomach floated in myimagination. I wished to ask somethingmore... for example is this girl yoursister? Why would your mother sendan unknown boy along with you? Whereare you going? When will you go backhome? And just tell me... what all hasyour mother planted in the backyard.Are you Anglo-Indian Goan Christianor converted? Ah! Why will you askall that? What if he says you nutty oldie...what fuckin concern do you have withus? What’s her problem? Let him andhis sister go to hell. Wretched, just seethe way she is sticking to that youngboy.The younger boy said enthusiastically‘some station is coming’. One or twowere becoming visible. Somewarehouses... and another set of railwaytrack had started running alongside ourtrain. I said to myself, Alwar! Oh! Ina hurry I forgot to purchase some sweetsfrom Delhi... Nishi had suddenly calledup and said that mummy, my motherin-lawhas given me permission to gohome, send bhaiya tomorrow itself.July-September 2010 :: 103

‘How will bhaiya come Nishi, he ishaving his exams.’‘So mom...’. Poor soul, she was almostin tears.‘Why don’t you come by yourself.There are many trains from Jaipur thatcome directly to Delhi. Get thereservation.’‘You know, mummy, with two smallgirls he will not send me alone. He isnot free... then tell me... how can Icome, it will be difficult, both of themkeep bothering me. Oh! Mummy afterso much difficulty my mother-in lawhas agreed for my going to my mother’splace’.‘Ok ok... I will...’‘Come on Maa leave tomorrow itself.I am longing so much’.‘Let me see’.So early in the morning how couldI purchase the sweets. Let me take 2kilos of milk cake from Alwar itself. Therein Jaipur, my son-in-law will come toreceive me, will it seem good to purchasethe sweets in front of him? I saw Alwarapproaching and took out my purse.I said to the younger one to look afterthe luggage. The doctor couple were lyingon the empty berths on the top. Thegirl whined and leaving the boy she gotup. As she got up she started eatingchocolate.The train had stopped. The coachwas really at the very end. The milkcake vendor was far ahead. The stationwas very crowded. The whole crowd willgo in the pink city, thinking this I camedown from the train hurriedly and dashingagainst the people... taking long stepsI reached the shop, panting. Carrying2 boxes of sweets and carrying my purse...I was half way from my destination whenthe train gave the whistle... I wasdistressed. Cutting through the crowdI moved forward and I remembered anadvertisement of Doordarshan that inIndia there are more people on the railwaystations that come to drop their relativesthan the actual passengers. In thatmoment I realised that I was not ableto walk... my coach was not visible tome... then suddenly the scream of theyounger boy made me realise that Iam very near to the coach.‘Auntie’The door was crowded... there wascrowd behind me... I had somehow gothold of the handle of the door and hadmoved my foot than this train startedmoving faster, I fell on to the platformbadly, if my foot had moved further,then I would have been dragged betweenthe tracks. As I was falling I heard thescream of the younger boy. After thatthe crowd hanging over me seemed likea whirlpool and then somethingsomewhere drowned. I searched the endof my consciousness with a splash ofcold water and jumping the stairs ofsub consciousness ... in a hurry tocome back to my senses I was shouting104 :: July-September 2010

with my clenched fists under thetransparent lining of that injury... thatwas turning into an unclear sound. Finallythe lining was torn open by my blows...I was looking all around in a bewilderedmanner in that hot and humid railwayretiring room.“Auntie, are you ok! Doc, she openedher eyes.” The younger boy was sittingclose to me on the floor in an agitatedmanner. His voice was trembling withthe heat of care.“How are you?” bending, an unknowndoctor asked me, “There’s nothing toworry... If these youngsters wouldn’thave been there...! Say thanks to themand to God. It’s good fortune that thereis no serious injury. It’s because of thegood health.” Smiling, the doctor triedto bring me back to my senses.“The ambulance will be here soon.”When I tried getting up a little...that girl came forward... with the supportof her arm. I saw that a big portionof her shirt is drenched in blood. I feltpain on the side of my right eyebrow.When I touched it a wet scarf was tiedup, it was of the older boy. Twohandkerchiefs were tied up on both theknees.In the meantime the older boy came,drenched in sweat, carrying the medicinesand the bundle of bandages in his hands.“Don’t get up, you are still bleeding.”The elder boy said, pressing the scarfover my wound, “Doc, first give hertetanus injection.”“Youngman don’t teach me myduties.” The doctor replied smilingly andstarted preparing the injection. I sawthe doctor was a man of short height,black, crude sort of a person. MaybeMuslim. That’s why... again and again...was saying... Khuda ke liye... Khuda kashukra hai.Mustering courage I asked the girlin the ambulance.“Oh god aunty, that scene washorrible... not even an hour had passed...You fell badly onto the platform. Yourhand lost grip of the handle ...you draggedalong. It was my fiancé Roger... He pulledthe chain... then the three of us camedown with our bags... were not ableto reach you... all the people werecovering you, then my brother shoutedand scattered them and brought youto the retiring room. Roger rushed intothe station master’s room. Then thedoctor came and... .‘All three of you missed the trainfor me.’ I said.“Yes! It was necessary .We wouldn’thave left you amongst those stupidpeople. They were watching the scene,nobody was picking you up.”“The doctor who was in the train...”“That! bloody selfish fellow. ” Thiswas the younger one, “His wife scoldedhim not to come with us and he stayedJuly-September 2010 :: 105

ack. We literally prayed to him. Buthe told ‘I can’t... get down... I haveto reach today’.”“Leave it Keith. There are selfishpeople auntie. My mother told me thatto serve humanity is to serve Christ.You tell me, if we would have beenin your place! Wouldn’t you have stoppedfor us? ”I was lost in thought! What wouldI have done? Would I have come downfor an injured? In this age, with theseswollen feet what would I have donefor the injured? They are young. Theexcuse of elderliness would have servedgood purpose. The question was thesame... What would I have become amongthe ‘Man, sheep and wolf’ the story readin the childhood. Not the wolf, wouldI have mustered up the courage to becomea human being or maybe... like the doctorin a hurry to reach my destination Iwould have closed my eyes and movedon like the sheep.The girl was very close to me, herblood stained shirt was clung to her.The older boy was sitting next to thedoctor and was discussing about the nexttrain going to Jaipur.‘No we won’t leave her alone.’.... ....“Please complete all formalities andgive her proper medication. We haveto leave this place today only.”“Don’t worry... We will take care ofher.”‘... ....’“No...No. We want to leave for Jaipuras early as possible. Day after we havefurther reservation also.”‘... .... ’“Thanks doctor.”We had reached the railway hospital.Doctor Rasheed(I read his name fromthe name tab on his coat. Can’t helpit, this curiosity is by birth.) had donethe bandage. Two X-Rays were done...but according to dr. Rasheed by God’sgrace everything was fine. Now we couldcatch the 3 o’clock train. Those youngand kind angels were taking completecare of me. They were more worriedabout me than their future programme.They were holding my luggage alongwith theirs. I looked at the table nearby...There the two sweet boxes were lyingalong with my purse. My body with freshlycleaned and bandaged four or five bigand small wounds and the mind entangledwith varied thoughts was completely tired.I closed my eyes lying on the hospitalbed. The three of them had left to changetheir clothes after the doctor left.The four of us were again sitting inthe 3 o’clock train. The station masterhad done us a favour... He got us seatsin the A.C. compartment of this train.Dr. Rasheed had got the biryani packedfor us from his home, along with thecaution ‘Take care sister.’106 :: July-September 2010

“Whaoooh! This is my first chancewhen I’m sitting in A.C. compartment.”The younger one was very happy. Hetook out his walkman and started listeningto Shakira in low volume.“Keith, please raise the volume, letme also listen”. It was me.Those two youths were engrossedin one another. Liza was watching Roger’sfingers playing on the guitar.Manisha Kulshreshtha, born August 26, 1967 at Jodhpur, M.A., M.Phil.in Hindi, Manisha writes short stories and novels. Some of her shortstory collections are: ‘Kathputliyan’, ‘Kuchh bhi to romani nahin’ and‘Bauni hoti parchhayian’. Her first novel ‘shigaf’ has been releasedthis year by Rajkamal Prakashan. She is editor of web magazine–hindinest.com. Her e-mail ID : manisha@hindinest.comEishita 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.July-September 2010 :: 107

Short storySAAZ NASAAZManoj RupraTranslatedbyDhiraj SinghI was lying on the parapet that separates Nariman Point fromthe sea. There were many others like me there that evening. Somehad their eyes fixed on the city, others just sat and stared intothe vastness of the sea. I had my legs hanging on either sideof the parapet. Like a fence-sitter unable to make up his mind.My eyes were on the sky above me while my ears listened tothe waves crashing against the rocks on one side and the soundof the city whizzing past on the other.Hanging between the Devil and the deep sea I was suddenlygripped by the thought of my loneliness. Back home at my placeI had so many friends, people who I could depend on and relateto, but here despite the crush of bodies I felt distinctly separateand alone.I was reflecting on my life back home, when I heard someoneplaying the saxophone. I have always been crazy about the sax.Whenever I hear it on the radio or on a record player, it feelslike I’ve met a long-lost friend.As the familiar sound began to fill my ears I got up. I turnedaround and saw an old man playing the sax. It was a beautifultune. On his shoulder was perched a grey mottled pigeon. Thesun’s dying light shone through his long silver hair and beardgiving him the appearance of an archangel. A silver angel witha golden sax. It was a scene straight out of a movie.108 :: July-September 2010

He was also playing a very familiartune. And then it struck me that hewas playing Pete Tex’s ‘Blue Sea andDark Clouds’. First I thought he wasa foreigner, because I just could notbelieve that an Indian could play thesax so beautifully. It was like his musichad the power to lift the waves andturn them into foam or squeeze out rainfrom the clouds. In fact, the kind ofwild frenzy with which he was playingmade him seem like a Beatnik transportedfrom the past into present-day Mumbai.When I went closer I realised thathe had actually been living quite a Beatniklife. He seemed like he didn’t care muchabout what he wore or how he looked.He was like a madman. He looked likehe hadn’t been anywhere near a bathroomfor days. His clothes were patched withsweat stains, his skin was covered ingrime and his hair and beard had begunto matt.People were now starting to millaround him. But because he wasn’t playingany popular film song they didn’t staytoo long. Those who were drawn to him,listened to him for a while and thenwent their own way, only a few stayedlonger.Suddenly the wind began to gainspeed. Soon it seemed a storm was onits way. And before anyone could react,the dark clouds drenched Mumbai withthe first rains of the season. I had neverseen it rain so suddenly or in such adownpour. Until then I had only heardabout how unpredictable the rains inMumbai were. People started to scatter,as if there had been a lathicharge. ButI didn’t panic. What was the use, forthere was no shelter for as far as theeye could see. So there really was nopoint in running for cover because therain would ultimately get you.Everyone was running helter-skelterbut the old saxophonist kept playingwith the same single-mindedness andurgency. The change in the weather hadhad no effect on him, it only made himchange his tune. Where he was firstplaying the calm soporific sound of thesea, the storm outside seemed to havewhipped up a flurry inside his lungs.As the rains became heavier, the windmore furious and the waves seemed toswallow entirely the rocks at NarimanPoint the veins in the old man’s necktoo seemed to throb with a kinetic force.It seemed that the blood inside themwas boiling. And that if the storm didn’tstop the old man would erupt like avolcano.But before that, a giant wave roseand crossed the parapet spreading itshissing froth all over Marine Drive. Whenit receded I realised that the old manhad been hit. He was lying sprawledon the road like a rag doll. I ran towardshim and tried lifting him up, but hisbody had become too heavy and rigid.So I just sat down next to him andput his head on my lap. I brushed hisJuly-September 2010 :: 109

long hair away from his face and lookedat his face for the first time. There wasa certain puffiness to it, the kind thatgradually spreads over the faces of thosewho try and drown all their sorrowsin the bottle.I didn’t know what to do next soI just kept sitting. His breathing wasuneven, and with every breath he tookI was assaulted by the smell of stalealcohol. I tried to wake him up by pattinghis cheeks but it didn’t help much. Iwas scared that he might never wakeup. I looked around but no one seemedinterested in us. We could have beenstreet dwellers or those living off thecrumbs of the rich. The city, whizzingwith its fancy cars and taxis, had notime for people like us.The sea behind us had still not calmeddown. Above us, a new platoon of cloudswas getting ready for a fresh assault.I made no effort to move. Once againI looked into the face that lay on mylap. It must have been a handsome faceonce upon a time. Time, hard knocksand bad habits had taken away someof its beauty but lying like that it seemedfilled with a placid acceptance of itsfate, which in itself was quite charming.A few minutes later his eyes beganto move behind their lids. When he finallyopened them they stayed fixed blanklyon my face. Even though they hadgenerous lashes there lurked over hiseyes a dark shadow of a tragedy orsomething like it. But his face lightenedup soon and a flicker of a smile passedthrough it as he put his hand on myshoulder and sat up. In no time he wastalking to me as if nothing had happened.I hadn’t expected him to recover sosoon.Usually when people meet for thefirst time they ask each other thingslike: ‘What do you do?’ or ‘Where you’refrom?’ or ‘Where do you live?’ But hedidn’t ask me any of those questions.Instead he asked me:“Do you like to get wet in the rain?”“Can you talk to the wind?”“Do you feel a happy sadness whenyou’re drunk?”When I said ‘Yes’ to all his questionshe seemed pleased with me.“Then I am sure you also like music.”“Of course,” I said, “I especially likethe sax!”“That’s great. I think we’d get alongfine.” He said with a sudden burst ofwarmth as we high-fived to celebrateour new-found friendship.“You’re quite something… as a saxplayer. I never thought I’d find a goodIndian sax player.”But praise didn’t go down too wellwith him. He made a bitter face andturned to gaze at the frothing sea. Therain and the foam of the sea were togetherforming a dense mist over the area.110 :: July-September 2010

Suddenly a thought entered his headand he turned to face me: “Do you havesome money?”His question took me by surprise.I put my hand inside my pocket to check,wondering if he was one of those swindlerguys. But his face seemed to be devoidof any shame, embarrassment or greed,which to me was reassuring. I whippedout my wallet from my pocket and askedhim how much he needed. He said nothingbut took the wallet from my hand likesome old friend used to being indulged.He helped himself to four or five hundredrupee notes from it, and gave the walletback to me. Then he started to walkaway.“Hey, wait!” I ran after him. He turnedaround.“Take more if you need,” I said pointingto my wallet, “but you have to promiseme one thing… to spend the evening,maybe the night with me.”“Am not a fucking whore!” He saidthis with such vehemence that I wastaken aback.“I didn’t mean it like that… it’s justthat I have no friends here. So I thoughtwe could just hang out together.”“Hanging out with me is gonna costyou. I am not that cheap, you know.”“I am not trying to strike a bargainhere. I just thought it’d be a good ideato hang out with you.”“But why me?”“Because when I am drunk I feela happy sadness inside me. And I liketo get wet in the rain. And also talkto the wind. And yes, am a big fanof Pete Tex.”Hearing this, he relaxed, his lips beganto spread into a smile. He put his armaround me and started walking. “Howlong have you known Pete Tex?”“Five years ago I first heard thattune that you were just playing.”“No you’re wrong. I wasn’t playingthat tune,” he suddenly seemed veryserious, “that tune was playing me.”“What do you mean?”“You won’t understand… so soon…it takes time, you know.”His sudden presumptuousnessirritated me. But then I realised thateven if he was acting like my chumit was true that he was in age my doubleso why should I mind. “When did youstart playing the sax?” I asked him tryingto keep pace with him.“Twenty-five years ago a Hippy inGoa first gave me a taste of it. Andthen slowly I got hooked to it.”“Seems like you’ve been doing itforever.”“No, at first I used to treat my saxlike a bad ass rider treats his horse.But since I got totally into it I’ve becomethe horse and my sax is the rider. Idon’t know if you know this, but theJuly-September 2010 :: 111

sax is the worst son-of-a-bitch there everwas among instruments. You must havenoticed… just now… how the son of abitch was playing me. Had it not beenfor that wave that knocked me out itwould have just squeezed the life outof me.”“Then why do you keep the son ofa bitch with you all the time?”He looked at his instrument with astrange fondness and then smiled at it.“It’s a bloody twisted tale. C’mon, let’sgo and sit down somewhere and thenwe’ll talk.”He took my hand in his and we startedwalking through the puddles of rain water,and the gusts of sea breeze. The wetbreeze managed to awaken in us a suddenthirst—a thirst that could only bequenched by vast amounts of alcohol.His grip suddenly grew tight. He wasabout to change tracks: from thepromenade to the footpath runningparallel to the maniacally busy road.Soon, we were standing in front of apub. The doorman seemed reluctant tolet us in—two stragglers from god-knowswhere.He was actually quite a sightas his filthy clothes dripped and hisshoes squelched oodles of muddied water.But he had to, since we were guestsand not some stragglers from god-knowswhere.So he opened the door for us,at the same time made no attempts tohide his disgust at our appearance.Once inside we left behind us a crueltestimony of our rain-soaked adventureon the clean and gorgeous looking carpet.We had barely made ourselvescomfortable when a girl, gaudilydecorated like a Christmas tree, cameto our table. She shook hands with meand then without any formality sat downnext to my old friend, arm lazily restingon his shoulder.“Hey, Bhau Uncle! What’s up? Lookslike you’ve forgotten me…”“Don’t try and butter me up,” theold man shrugged her arm off hisshoulder, “just go and get me a rum.”The girl got up to go in mock angerand then she spun around to face me.“Would you also like a rum?” she askedme pushing her hair away from herbeautiful face. I quickly nodded. Shelooked at me very seductively, as ifnothing else mattered to her that evening,except the thought of devouring me.I felt very self-conscious and startedlooking at my feet.The old man didn’t find it necessaryto wait for his drink. Without any warninghe began his tale. He spoke as if therewas no necessity for any chronologicalorder or sequence to his life. As if hislife so far only comprised tales fromhere and there. Once while talking abouthis sax he began rambling about thegirls working in the bar. After the girlshe spoke at length about the importanceof drinking. And then we time-travelled112 :: July-September 2010

to a graveyard where his friend wasburied. We stood there in silence,mourning for his friend. Then rushingto a chawl in Dadar where he used tolive with some room-mates some 20-25 years ago. Together they used tomake background scores for Hindi films.Those were the days when they earnedwell and lived like kings.One hour of talking to him left mewith a graph that was full of ups anddowns. As if he and his friends werealways chasing one dream after another.They seemed like the kind of arty peoplewho neither give a damn about whatpeople think of them, nor respect anyboundaries. As a result they have noclear virtues nor possess an essentialwickedness. Instead, they inhabit alimning space that lies between sin andsinlessness.Most of his friends from that timewere victims of this sort of ‘musicmadness’. Some of the smarter oneshad established themselves in the filmindustry or become solo artists of somestature. The rest had remained prettymuch where they were in the old days,when the glamour and the blindingshimmer of the music market had soenamoured them that they had exhaustedthemselves both creatively andphysically. The market had in factsqueezed them into pygmy caricaturesof their former selves. Now they werejust expert drunks, gamblers, womanisersand borrowers but in their minds theywere still ‘artistes’. But they artisticcontribution could not be denied. Theirswas the generation of musicians whohad after Independence taken Indian filmmusic to great heights. They had in manyways described the Indian soul in music.In fact it can be said that these drunks,gamblers and womanisers had given voiceto the spirit of their times.When we came out of the bar nearlytwo hours later there seemed to be afresh conspiracy of gathering clouds. Butwe were now unafraid to face their music.We were actually looking forward togetting wet once again, having soakedup the storm and thunder of the previouscloudburst.The three stiff drinks that my oldfriend had consumed had given himrenewed energy. He now walked as ifhe owned the whole metropolis ofMumbai. But in his new avatar therewas no hint of the false liquor-soakedconfidence of a poseur or a coward butthe strident idealism of a bona fidesubversionist.We walked without a destination ora plan. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry,and neither was I impatient to getsomewhere. Our lack of plan seemedto be challenging the focused and drivenbusy-ness of the city. Close to the VTfootpath we struggled to walk againstthe flood of busy people. We were likelint caught in the straws of a massivebroom. In the face of the active mobJuly-September 2010 :: 113

our passiveness was not a result of ourinebriation or fatigue but sprung fromour will to let go of all kinds of controls.I was gradually coming around to theview that my old friend was a rebelwith a cause. ‘The cause’, being the activeenjoyment of ‘being’, of standing up tothe artificiality of goals and milestones.I tried to catch a glimpse of his faceas we walked, he seemed lost in histhoughts. His face and stride had takenon a clear purpose. Suddenly he stoppedin front of a shop. It was a music shopwhose glass window contained manydifferent types of musical instruments.The centre piece of the wholearrangement was an electronic keyboard.My friend seemed transfixed by thekeyboard. I thought it must contain atrigger for some old memory as his facedbegan to grow dark. His expressiondarkened further as if he had suddenlycome face to face with a bitter enemy.Soon he was trembling withuncontrollable rage.“Do you know this useless piece ofshit?” He asked me pointing towards thekeyboard.“Yes,” I said, a bit unsure of hisresponse, “it is a Japanese synthesizer.”“No,” he said in a loud and irritatedvoice, “this is a fucking despot, a bloodsuckingkiller. It is because of this thingthat Das Babu and Francis lost theirlives. It is because of him that we arein the dumps today.”His reaction had taken me by surpriseand I tried to look for signs of eviland malice in the piece of equipmentbut I couldn’t find any such signs inthe cold buttons and keys of the machinethat lay before me. My old friend’s faceon the other hand was contorted witha peculiar hatred. He was trembling asif he was experiencing the rigors of highfever. I got worried with his unnaturalreaction to what was to me just a pieceof equipment. I put my hand on hisshoulder and tried to egg him to moveahead. But he seemed immovable as ifhe had grown roots there. Then in aninstant he picked up a stone from thefootpath and was about to hurl it atthe glass window. I immediately caughthold of his hand but this angered himmore. He pushed me aside and railedagainst the crowd with a vengeance, ashe showered people left, right and centrewith the choicest of abuses. I had noclue why he was behaving in such amanner, except that behind his suddenchange of mood was a supposedlyinnocent instrument that he was callingthe vilest of names.He then started abusing the recordcompanies that had replaced musicianswith such agents of change, dishing outbald and tasteless film music that hadflooded the market. Then he showeredhis attention on the manufacturers ofsuch instruments that aimed atduplicating the sound of manmade music.In a way he was right because such114 :: July-September 2010

instruments had become hot favouritesof the music industry replacing thosemusicians whose livelihood depended onmaking music.“Now who is going to explain to thesebastards who can only think of profitand more profit that there is this thingcalled ‘art’. Who will? Because thesefuckers just don’t care about themusician. The man whose violin is hislife… can he be expected to drive abloody taxi? Can a tabla-player turninto a masseur? Can you ask a pianistto become a bloody butcher?”I don’t know who these questionswere directed at. I think he had by nowforgotten that I was with him. He waslike someone who had left his facultiesof logic far behind. And then he decidedto get down from the footpath and crossthe road. There was neither a zebracrossingthere nor a red light. His suddenentry into the traffic caused many brakesto be jammed. A city bus missed himby a couple of inches which caused ataxi to hit the divider. Many cars andtaxis behind it suddenly rammed intoeach other. The commotion resulted insome drivers getting out of their carsand surrounding the old man. When atraffic policeman got him out of theirhands I noticed that he was bleedingin two places. But he was unconcernedabout his wounds, he was still hurlingabuses at some invisible enemy fromhis past. The policeman took him bythe collar and deposited him at the otherside of the road.It took some time before the trafficcould resume. I was keeping track ofmy old friend from my side of the road.I saw him stumble through the crowdand turn a corner.When the pedestrian light turned greenI rushed towards where I’d seen himturn. I finally spotted his wet and angryform in the midst of all the cosy umbrellas.When I caught up with him I grabbedhold of his shoulder. He turned aroundand faced me. I saw his bruises andcut marks. Dark blood had congealedaround his nose and his jaw making himlook like a maniacal murderer. In thered light of the signal he looked likesomeone from a horror film.“Where is your house?” I asked him.But I don’t think he could hear meover the sound of traffic and blaringhorns.“Where is your house?” I said again,this time going closer to his ear. Hisface was still frozen in cold rage. Whenhe didn’t answer me the third time Irealised that the cocktail of booze, bloodand rain had somehow affected him morethan was apparent to me. And to leavehim alone would amount to knowinglypushing him to the brink.I was confused, as to what I shoulddo next. It would’ve been okay had hebeen just ill but his condition was moremental than physical. In fact, had itjust been mental also it would’ve beenJuly-September 2010 :: 115

okay but he had shown me a side ofhis that was pure genius and that madeit very difficult for me to leave himand move on. The dirt and squalor ofthe city had nipped whatever desire therewas in me to be a bleeding heart ora Mother Teresa to the homeless andthe crazies.I was racing my mind to think ofwhat to do next when a thought occurredto me. Maybe the girl at the bar knewwhere he lived. I quickly stopped a taxi,helped the old man into it, got in myselfand told the driver to take us to SandhurstRoad. It was 11:30 in the night whenwe reached the bar at Sandhurst. Theold man’s rigid body fell into my lapas soon as the driver applied the brakes.I don’t know whether he was asleep orhad passed out. I quietly arranged himon the backseat and got out.“I’ll be back in five minutes,” I toldthe driver. He was unsure of myintentions, after all this was Mumbaiand instances where people dumpeddrugged or passed out passengers in taxisand vanished into the night were notunheard of. I gave him a 50 rupee noteand quickly climbed the bar staircase.I was assaulted by some very loud musicas soon as I entered the bar. The loudsenseless beats were making holes inmy head. I had never heard such a vileuse of sound. It took me a few momentsto get used to the dim blue light insideand then I began to scan the bar forthat girl. I didn’t have to look too far,she was dancing with a bunch of othergirls on the dance floor in the centre.I tried to catch her eye but she wasbusy trying to hook a rich customer.He was seated on a chair facing thedance-floor and was covered in goldchains and rings that spelt new money.He was throwing 100 rupee notes ather whenever she so much as even movedher body.After much trying when I still failedto get her attention I whipped out somecurrency notes from my pocket. Themoney in my hand suddenly made mevery attractive… the centre of attentionfor everybody, from the waiters to thedancing girls. It didn’t take much forthe girl to gravitate towards me. Beforehanding the notes to her I loudly saidto her: “I need to speak with you!” Butwhatever she said was drowned in themusic. She grabbed my hand and tookme behind the door that connected thebar with the kitchen.“What is it? Quick, I have a customerwaiting.”“The old guy I’d come with earlier…do you know him?”“Yes, he’s not one of my regularsbut he’s good… makes everyone veryhappy when he comes.”“Well, he’s in a bad shape now. Doyou know where he lives?”“Am not sure. But I think he livessomewhere near the Dadar bird-shelter…116 :: July-September 2010

Ah, just can’t remember the name ofhis chawl.”“Look here, I am new to this cityand am afraid I don’t know places heretoo well. Do you think you could takeme there?”“No,” her flat refusal left mespeechless, “why don’t you understand…my customer is waiting…”I didn’t know what to do next. WhenI came back to the taxi I found theold man lying there as I had left him.He was just like a dead body. I openedthe car door and sank into the seat.“To Dadar,” I told the driver. Myvoice now seemed weak and remote asif it was coming from some far awayplace and not my mouth. Immediatelyhe started the car, went some distance,took a U-turn and we were back onthe main road zipping ahead in top gear.I lit a cigarette and began to playback the events of the evening insidemy head. The thinking made my headhurt yet nothing seemed to be comingout of it. Then the nothingness beganto get bigger and bigger and bigger tillit became a huge ‘zero’ that buried meunder its weight and I fell asleep.I woke up feeling the driver’s handshaking my shoulder. For a moment Ididn’t know where I was or how I gotthere. When realisation dawned I beganto shake the old man. But he seemedto have entered a place beyond dreamsfrom where he could neither feel norhear anything. Finally, I put my handsunder his shoulders and dragged himout of the taxi. While pulling him outof the taxi I noticed that he had notlet go of his bag from which peepedthe neck of his sax.I left him in sitting position againstthe grill of the bird shelter and wentto pay the taxi guy. It was 3:15 in themorning. It was the in-between hourin the life of the city when it stoodabsolutely still and silent. After pacingup and down for a few minutes I alsosat down next to the old man. Theunnatural silence and the sound of myheart beating pushed me into lookingback at my own life. Like the old manI too was a rebel. I was also rebellingagainst my father and his immense wealthby spending it in whatever way I thoughtfit. In my life there was also no placefor common sense and caution. I justwanted to be free. I was very proudof the fact that I had no career to speakof. But in the company of my old friendand his sax and perhaps the effect ofthe booze, blood and rain I felt lessstubborn and aggressive. And in thelightness of that feeling I fell asleep likea child who had exhausted all his tears.I woke up to the sound of flutteringwings. The old man was lying on thefloor of the bird-shelter. His entire bodywas covered with a blanket of grey thatfluttered every now and then. There washardly an inch of his body that wasnot taken up by the pigeons. Even hisJuly-September 2010 :: 117

face had pigeons squatting on it. Fora moment I thought he had died butI chucked the thought out of my head,when I realised that only crows comefor the dead, not pigeons.I jumped over the grill of the birdshelterand came to where the old manlay. The sudden thud scared the pigeonsaway. When I came close to his faceI saw that it had not even the slightesthint of the anger and violence of theprevious night. Instead it was bathedin a cherubic luminosity and had a smileto match. His clothes were covered inbird feed. It looked like he had sprinkledit on himself to attract the birds.When he opened his eyes he smiledand stretched his hand towards me. Itook his hand in mine and as he wasabout to get up a pigeon came and saton his hand. It was a grey mottled pigeonthat had a black string tied to its leg.It was the same pigeon that had comeand sat on his shoulder the previousevening.“Shhhh… don’t move,” he cautionedme, “don’t try to take your hand away…just stay still and slowly he will cometo you and become your friend too.”I nodded and looked at the bird witha new kind of fascination. The pigeonwas also looking at me directly fromits perch on top of our handshake. Icould see dilemma play hide and seekin its tiny eyes. Then it seemed to smileat me as if it had recognised me fromsomewhere. It nodded and then graduallytook two steps from our handshaketowards me. I felt a bit ticklish whereits padded feet rested on my arm butI tried not to move my hand. It lookedat me again and after a moment ofhesitation it took a few more steps. Iknew it was testing me to see if I wasa reliable perch. And I seemed to havepassed the test, as it moved closer tomy shoulder. Now there was no fearin its eyes. Then in an instant it justtook off and landed on my shoulder.I am not sure whether animals and birdscan take a leap of faith but it seemedthis one had done just that. I was soovercome with feeling for the pigeonthat I began to stroke its back.“It first used to be Robert’s friend,”the old man told me regarding the birdon my shoulder lovingly.“How long has it been?” I asked stillpetting the bird.My question seemed to have thrownhim into a thoughtful mood. The oldman didn’t say a word for some timeand then spoke distractedly, “Exactlya year, today.” With those words theprevious night’s dark anguish seemedto have returned. I didn’t want him toget melancholic again, so I grabbed hishand and pulled him to his feet.“Come, let me drop you home.”He looked up at me surprised. “Howdo you know where I live?”“Yesterday when you had passed out118 :: July-September 2010

I had gone to that bar again.”“But who knows me there... exceptfor... that... that girl...”“Yes, she’s the one who told me.”“Oh, did she say anything else...”“Nope. I guess she was too busy.”The old man sighed. Then his facedarkened, as if a bitter memory hadentered his head. He put his hand onmy shoulder and we started to walk.We crossed the road and then took aright turning into a narrow lane. “Doyou know who that girl is?” he askedwithout looking at me directly. I shookmy head and then looked at himexpectantly. He was trying to saysomething important but he stoppedhimself. The bitter memory seemed tohave come back to him.Once again we came to a turn. Thiswas a narrower lane, as wide as a smallroom, cramped with chawls on both sides.It seemed like we had entered an old,decrepit museum whose crumblingwoodwork, stale air, dampness andperpetual darkness had replaced all thetreasures it once contained.We climbed a creaking staircase toreach a second floor shack. It was thefourth one from the left. The old manwas panting heavily as he dug into hispocket to find the key to his kingdom.“I think I’ll take your leave now,” Isaid trying not to sound gruff or cold.“What? Do you think I am thatthankless a bum... come and have a cuppachai with me,” he grabbed my hand andpulled me inside.There was just a bed and a tablein the name of furniture. A filthy mattresslay on the bed like wrinkled skin. Butthe walls were something else. They werecovered with nails and on each nail hungmusical instruments in various statesof disrepair. The tabla for example hadbeen ripped open and now provided acosy nest for a family of sparrows. Theviolin’s strings had come apart like thehair of an angry woman. A sarangi inthe corner had been covered by veilsof cobwebs. The flute’s holes had turnedgreen and black with fungus while itsmouthpiece had been eaten away bytermites. A harmonium lay on the floorlike an ancient mummy violated by gravediggers.While I was taking in the assortmentof decay on the walls, the old man wentout and shouted out for some chai. Theboy who got the tea didn’t hand us ourcups but took out a tiny notebook andpen from his pocket. But the old mansnatched the ledger from him and beganturning its pages. When he came to hispage and was about to scribble somethingon it the boy interrupted. “These twocutting chais making 70 rupees. Bosstelling, taking money, then only givingchai…”The old man dug into his pocketsand took out the soggy notes I’d givenJuly-September 2010 :: 119

him the previous night. From them hetook out a hundred and another fiftyrupee note and gave them to the boy.Then he tore out his page from thenotebook, grabbed the tea cups fromhim and poured the tea into the streetbelow. The boy picked up the cups andleft as if nothing had happened.Suddenly, silence descended on ustill the old man’s mood came back tonormal. “You wait here… I’ll just beback.” His face took on a bitter expressionas he made a dash for the staircase.It’s funny how old age is often comparedto infancy but what most people don’trealise is that while one is cute andadorable the other is mostly a pain,both for the one going through it aswell as those who have to put up withit. I was now coming around to thebelief that this man meant big trouble.For a moment, I thought of quietlyslinking away but curiosity got the betterof me. I now really wanted to find outwhat was it that kept alive the musicin him.But I was also scared that this questof mine would take me to depths thatcontained very slippery ground, a tangleof weeds and many sharp-edged rockswhere I could seriously injure myself.However, despite the risk I was like apearl diver who, spurred on by a visceralgreed for the treasures of the sea, wouldcontinue to risk his life and limb. Thatwithout realising the essential nature ofhis desire.I don’t think that I am basically agreedy person. Curious, yes, but notgreedy. Or for that matter, small-minded.I think I am just a little mixed up,especially when it comes to people tryingto figure out their way around life.Perhaps, I have the gift of understandingconfusion.The wait was turning out to be endless.My head was also heavy from all thatnocturnal adventure. Before I knew itI was fast asleep.I was woken up by his sudden entryinto the room. He was standing in frontof me with two cups in his hands. Thecups smelt not of tea but of a strongflavoured local brew. He gave one cupto me and the other he raised to hislips. In one long swig he emptied allthe liquid in the cup into his mouth.Then he wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeve and looked up at me very strangely.His red eyes and the wild expressionon his face clearly told me that he wasin a better shape today than he wasthe previous night. His other hand, thatheld my cup, was shaking.“This isn’t my room. It is Robert’s.So technically you’re his guest. And inthe Robert School of Thought the daybegins with drinking. So if you wantto get initiated in to this School thenyou’d have to drink up.”I smiled and took the cup from himand like him gulped its liquid in onego.120 :: July-September 2010

“Very good… very good. You’re agood man. You and I will be greattogether.” He then poured two moredrinks. And we drank them up like thefirst ones. It was a great start to a daywhose end we had no way of predicting.The first drink had for me the effectof being lifted by a giant bird. The secondone made me feel like an eagle floatingon the thermals. I felt I was rising higherand higher without losing sight of thedetails below. After the second drink,I began to look at the instruments onthe wall. This time they looked a bitdifferent as if they now had things totell me that they earlier didn’t. “Aren’tyou going to introduce me to your friendshere,” I said pointing to the wall.The old man was staring into thetrembling glass in his hand. He raisedhis eyebrows and looked up at the wallwith a smile that wasn’t quite a smile.He quickly emptied the cup once againand went over to the wall and stoodnext to the torn tabla. “This is RafiqKhan, the prodigal son of UstadSalimuddin Khan sahib. He began byplaying in a brothel at Congress House.Then he moved on to films.” After thetabla he moved on to the sarangi. “Salimhere was also one of his pals. And hereI must add that their company also spoiledpoor Vasuki Prasad and Jamnadas (hesaid pointing towards the flute and theshehnai). These four were pretty goodin what they did but somehow theirlife didn’t have the necessary rhythm.In fact they went out of tune totallytowards the end. But they were goodblokes.” He looked at the four with asudden tenderness and then abruptlyturned to the harmonium on the floor.“This is Nitin Mehta’s harmonium. Hewas the most cunning of us all. Fiveyears ago he’d come to us to learn thebasics and today he is the top-most musicdirector of Mumbai. You know why?Because his fingers quickly jumped fromthe harmonium to the synthesizer andhe, from a musician became abusinessman. He started doing all sortsof scores till there came a time whenthere was no more music left in him.And then he found a Sindhi partner whoinvested big money in his business. Withthis money he replaced all the musicianswith machines. Did you know that inthe past there used to be more than100, sometimes 150 musicians for a singlerecording. Now electronic ‘effect’machines have taken over. Robert andI tried, many times to fight against theelectronic terror. We even approachedthe Film Artistes Association to placea ban on it. But sadly we were alonein our fight and even the Associationdidn’t support us.”After what had been a long harangueagainst the electronic terror he fishedout a cigarette pack from his pocket,placed a stick between his lips and litup. He offered one to me. I also followedhim and lit up. After a few drags hisJuly-September 2010 :: 121

attention was caught by the violin andhe turned to gazing at it very intently.“You know, Das Babu had the rawestdeal. An A-grade artiste forced to livea C-grade life. He was a shy and seriousman. He used to be especially calledfor tragic numbers. Bastards like NitinMehta really abused his trust. He usedto make him record four-five songs inone go and then he’d mix and matchthem in different songs and situations.This really hurt Das Babu, but he neversaid anything to anyone…”“Once during a recording he brokedown. I had to play a long sequencetowards the end but I just couldn’t. Icouldn’t see him like that so I took himout and we left the studio together.”Seething at the memory of that day heangrily stubbed out his cigarette andpulled a chair and stumbled on to it.“That night when the whole chawl hadgone to sleep Das Babu began to playhis violin. From the sound of it I couldmake out that he was not just playingit but also weeping. I was hypnotisedby his playing, I’d never heard suchsadness before. And then I picked upmy sax and played him a few cheerfulnotes. I could see that my sax had touchedhim for after that he was unstoppable.So I just let him play on and on andon. It seemed it would be a crime tointerrupt his violin that night. I can’ttell you, there was such an otherworldybeauty in his music that night. I stillcan’t get it out of my head. Even myusually cheerful sax was left speechless.And then out of nowhere Robert fromhis room joined in with his piano. Hisnotes seemed to rush towards us withopen arms ready to calm our rufflednerves.”“The three of us from our differentrooms began to create a beautiful moodin the chawl. And then from anotherroom came the wail of a sarangi. Itwas like a child left behind by its parents.Soon the sarangi also became part ofour orchestra. Who were we to denythis sweet and sad child an entry intoour group?”“Then it seemed the flute and theshehnai too had been woken up by ourmusic. At first they were listless andsleepy but gradually they came into fullform, catching up with us, afraid to beleft behind. Soon the whole chawl seemedto have been lit up like a cigarette.We were playing without a plan, withoutmusic sheets, we were just jamming witheach other, trying to break free of allthe chains that kept us to the ground.We were like small kids dancing in therain. Running and chasing and fallingand then getting up and running again.The piano was like an elephant toweringabove us all. But the sarangi would passthrough his legs and leave him panting.The shehnai, however was smarter forshe would trip the sarangi whenevershe wanted. But when the poor shehnaistopped to catch her breath the wilyflute jumped over her and bounded out122 :: July-September 2010

ahead of all of us.”“I thought I’d teach the flute a lessonso I picked up my sax, but then I realisedwhat had happened. The violin wasnowhere to be heard. First I thoughtthe sound of the violin had been drownedout by the others. But the violin hadgone absolutely silent. The othersprobably didn’t notice it because theywere having a lot of fun but I was worried.I strained my ears in the direction ofDas Babu’s room and then I heard thesound. It was the sound of murder. Thesound of an instrument thrashing againstthe wind. And then everything fell silent.I wasn’t sure what exactly had causedthat sound but I was sure of the ringof finality to it. And that it had comefrom Das Babu’s shack. I put my saxback on the table and came out intothe corridor. All the doors across thecourtyard were shut. Das Babu’s roomtoo was shut. The only difference wasthat light was coming out of the cracksin his door. This light was from timeto time being interrupted by a shadow.When the shadow seemed to begin movingfaster I realised that Das Babu was introuble. I rushed towards his room firstgoing down my staircase, then up his.My heart was in my mouth for I wassure something bad was happening tohim. The door opened in one push andthere lay Das Babu sprawled on the floor.His violin was ripped apart and he wasclutching at his heart. I leapt towardshim and held him in my arms. Seeingme, he seemed to be relieved but thatrelief was short-lived for suddenly anunseen arm wiped the weak smile offhis face. And I knew that Das Babu hadleft us.”Das Babu’s death stayed with me likea movie scene. As did the old man’svoice that kept ringing in my ears likean echo. When I emerged from whathad become for me a momentary cageof thoughts and emotions I found theold man too lost in deep thought. Ithought it best to not disturb his peace.I don’t remember how long we satthere in complete silence. We would’vecontinued had the mottled pigeon notcome and sat on the ledge outside. Hekept looking at us with its round eyeswondering what had caused us to beso still and silent. Then like a playfulchild he flew the short distance fromthe ledge to the old man’s lap and heabsently started stroking its back whilehis eyes remained fixed somewhere inthe distant horizon.“Why was he so sad?” I finally brokethe silence that had begun to get awkward.“Why? Who?” he looked at meconfused.“I mean Das Babu.”My question seemed to upset him.His mouth became bitter again and hestood up to go somewhere. His handswere trembling but he clenched theminto fists. His face had darkened andhis lips had begun to quiver. I had aJuly-September 2010 :: 123

strong suspicion that he would eruptany time and start raving and rantingagainst the world. But he didn’t sayanything. The mood in the room hadsuddenly changed. And I was scared,as was the mottled pigeon, who gaveus one terrified look and flew out ofthe room.I realised my bladder was bursting.So I got up and went to the other sideof the room that was parted by a dirtyold curtain. This part was the kitchen.Several utensils and odd instrument werethrown around in this part as if a stormhad just passed through it. I was notsurprised. Moreover my most urgentneed was to relieve myself. The toiletwas behind an old tin door. When Icame out I began to notice the thingsin the kitchen. They weren’t reallyseparate things, for they had lost allindividuality and merged into a collectiveheap of trash. The only exception wasthe piano which outwardly still retainedits shape and form even though it wascovered with old clothes and laundry.On closer inspection I realised that bothits foot pedals were broken. The keyboardtoo had many cavities. I lifted its topflap to look inside but quickly shut it.Its inside was as hollow as a well. Ithad been completely disembowelled. Nostrings, no flat-hammers, no key cushions,nothing was left behind. There also camefrom it a stench that reminded me oga dead animal.I lifted the curtain and came backto the other side of the room.“Does that piano belong to Robert?”I asked the old man.His mood had completely changednow. He was now looking at me witha broad and open smile.“Er… the piano inside? Did it belongto Robert?” I asked again.This time he nodded.“But why is it so badly injured?”I had once again asked a very stupidquestion. And I was cursing myself forhaving said those words. The old man’seyes were filled with rage. And I hadonly myself to blame for bringing it onso soon. He sprung up from the chair,leapt out of the room and stomped downthe staircase in a matter of seconds.I don’t know what came over me butthis time I too ran after him. WhenI reached the end of the staircase, Icould see him turning left, when I reachedthe end of the lane he was crossingthe main road. I made a dash for himfinally catching up with him. I wascompletely out of breath. I grabbed himby the shoulder and turned him around.“Listen, man!”“What the fuck?” he was white withrage, “Why are you after my life? Whydon’t you just fuck off and go your ownway? I don’t need your fucking charity.”“But where are you going?”“How does it matter to you? I cango where I fucking want.”124 :: July-September 2010

This time I was also angry.“It fucking matters, alright!” I don’tknow what came over me but I caughthold of his collar and was shaking himto and fro, “Do you think I am a fuckingidiot?”My sudden burst of aggression hada calming effect on him. He let out along sigh but I held on to his shirt.“I know you’re a big loser. In fact, you’rebloody useless. And what’s worse is thatyou don’t know it. ‘Coz you think you’rean unsung genius. I also know that youdon’t have very long to live. Coz youhave a death wish. You want to dielike no one else. You want it to bea fucking Greek tragedy. And I also knowthat you are in the dumps not becauseyou can’t do any better but becauseyou like it down there. This is yourfucking make-up that you put up to lurepeople to you. You’re no better thana fucking whore who paints her faceto go out at night.”I am not usually given to such strongwords but then I had been drinking.And the old man had driven me upthe wall. “Go and fuck your art!” I barkedat him and turned around and startedwalking towards the main intersection.I was about to turn from the bird sheltertowards the station when I felt a handrest on my shoulder. I stood still withoutturning around to see who it was.“It was not my intention to upsetyou,” his voice was soft, “I am trulysorry for whatever pain I’ve caused you…Let this be a lesson never to get involvedwith crazies like me.”Something in his voice and mannermade me turn around. “Look, I am sorrytoo. I know how hard it is for you tolive with the burden of knowing howRobert and Das Babu suffered. But don’tyou think you’re really belittling themby drinking yourself silly and makinga fool of yourself. Can’t you sublimateyour feelings through your art, yoursax?”He looked at me with bitterness asif I’d asked him to do something thatwas humanly impossible. I kept lookingat him waiting for his face to changeexpression. But it remained stubbornlyimmobile. To escape my gaze he turnedaway and started looking at the pigeons.They were busy picking at the bird-feed,unaware and distanced from the buzzingcity around them. He took a few stepsand grabbed the iron grill of the shelterand stood there staring at the pigeons,perhaps looking for a solution to hispresent problems in the feathery flutterof grey, mottled and white.He stood there for quite some time.Twice he wiped his eyes on his shirtsleeves. Since his back was towards meI wasn’t sure if he was crying or justwiping the sweat around his eyes. Thensuddenly he swung around and lookedstraight into my eyes. He was smilingas he came forward and put his armJuly-September 2010 :: 125

around my shoulder and we startedwalking together.When we reached his place he burstinto activity with an urgency I had notseen in him before. He took a pieceof cloth and started wiping and dustingthings around the house. He took a broomand swung it around the wall cornersto remove the cobwebs. After cleaningthe room in a frenzy he took anotherpiece of cloth and started wiping theinstruments on the wall. Throughout thisfrenzied activity he kept whistlingfragments of a tune. It was as if hewas trying to recall a tune he had longforgotten. By the time he had finishedcleaning up he had fully retrieved thewhole tune from the recesses of hismemory.Next he transferred his attention tothe part of the room that lay on theother side of the curtain. I could hearthe tap in his toilet run for a long time.I was most pleasantly surprised to seethe new look of his room. The instrumentsdespite their bad condition were shining.The whole room seemed to have beenresurrected from the dead. Everythinghad been restored to its original beauty,perhaps except for an old album thatlay on top of a table in the corner.Its cover was still coated with dust.Since it was the only object that hadnot been cleaned and dusted I took apiece of cloth and wiped it. Despite mynot being too curious about it I openedit and started going through it. It hadsome old pictures of him and his friends.Some of them were taken during stageperformances and some inside recordingstudios. There were also some prizedistribution and party pictures. Manyof these pictures were of his youngerdays. And I could see that he had beenquite a handsome guy in his time.But somewhere halfway in to thealbum the pictures started to change.They became quieter, sadder. Towardsthe end they had gotten so sad thatit was impossible not to cry. In thelast pages two dead bodies lay surroundedby a sea of mourners. One body wason the floor and the other, inside acoffin. The body in the coffin had hishands cut off. Was this Robert? Did thismean he died a violent death?Before I could speculate any further,the curtain moved and the old manemerged from behind it. I could notbelieve my eyes when I saw him. Hehad shaved and his face now had a strangeand ethereal glow. He was wearing brownsuede trousers and a clean white shirt.I was very happy to see him like that.It was a good sign. It meant he wasready to face the world. He turned thefan on to full to dry his hair. His silverhair framed his face in a way that itseemed other-worldly and angel-likeagain.“You look so much better,” I couldn’tresist complimenting him.He smiled and ran his fingers through126 :: July-September 2010

his hair. “So you’re saying I was fullof shit before?”“No, not really. I mean, maybe youwere somewhere in between.”He gave his long hair a toss andturned to face me, grinning widely. “Man,you are something. I am beginning toget jealous of your reserve.”“Well, it’s actually in my blood,” Isaid laughing, “you see I am a Bania’sson after all, so balance and reserveare in my DNA. But if you ask me Ireally hate that about myself. In factwhat drew me to you was your carefreeor should I say unbalanced life. Funnyisn’t it, how I like your ‘unbalancedness’and you, my reserve.”I knew he was growing to like meby the way he was looking at me. Andthen for the first time he asked mesomething about myself. “So tell me,what do you do?”“Right now, nothing,” I said.“Nothing? How can I believe that?Right now, you’re putting up with anold and crazy fart like me, no?” He startedto laugh.“Nope, not true,” I was laughing too,“How do you know that I am not havingfun as well. You are very good company.In fact, you’re so damn good that I’dgive anything to be around you.”This time he laughed even moreheartily. He then picked up his sax bag,pulled a gift-wrapped box out of a drawerand took me by the hand.“Your house, you know, reminds memore of a rehearsal studio than a house,”I said while going down the stairs.“Actually,” he said putting his handon my shoulder as we were coming downthe stairs, “we had taken up this placefor rehearsals. But in time it becamea den for us degenerates, especially thoseof us who had left home or were thrownout of their homes. Robert and I werepractically living out of this dump...”Once again he seemed to be lapsing intotime-travel, not the fevered anddisjointed kind that I had seen him doearlier. This time, he seemed very calmand at ease with the thoughts that werepassing through his head.“No matter what shit life was throwingour way,” he continued, “we stood byeach other. It didn’t mean we neverfought. In fact we fought like animals.But when we jammed together we weresomething else. Then when the marketbegan to change, our ‘happy days’ gotfurther and further away from us. Ourwhole group started splitting up. Thosewho had already made it to the A-Gradeclub were spared. Despite Robert andme being pretty senior, we didn’t havemuch to do. Most music directors werelooking for cheap imitations. No onereally had the sense or sensibility ofusing serious instruments like the pianoand the sax.”He suddenly stopped, caught holdJuly-September 2010 :: 127

of my hand and started running. Weentered a cafe and ordered somebreakfast. He was now completely silent.After a long pause he began mumblingto himself. “Bloody Nitin Mehta… youwere the smart one. And we were theidiots. Good, you kicked the tabla. Good,that you took to the new instruments,if you hadn’t you’d also be a loser likeus. We were fucking idiots to have caredabout our instruments and the purityof sound. Robert, he fucking thoughthe was god, just because there wasn’ta pianist like him in the whole of Mumbai.And that’s why he made fun of yournew machines. He said they were bloodytoys, electronic toys. But look what thesebloody toys have done to his jumbopiano. Why only Robert, in those daysevery artiste used to think no one couldtake his place. But they were fuckingblind not to see the huge gap that wasgrowing between their skills and themarket.”The old man was mumbling betweensips of coffee and bites of bread andbutter. And in this effort to eat anddrink and mumble alternately he choked.I quickly offered him a glass of water.The water dissolved the piece of breadstuck in his throat. He cleared his throatand coughed a little and then shookhis head vigorously. “It was their fuckingpride that took them down. Bloody idiots!None of them survived. They alldisappeared without a trace. Now evenwhen our paths cross, they avoid melike the plague. Like that Vasuki Prasad,who I saw selling flutes at Chowpatti.He was also playing one. I just keptlooking at him... and then a thoughtcame to my mind... what if the sax wasalso made of bamboo. Then I could goaround selling them like Vasuki Prasad.But I got no clear answer.”“And not having an answer is notgood for me. So what could I do, Ihad a few drinks, maybe more than afew. Then I stumbled across to CharniRoad, and was coming down the overheadpass when right at the bottom of thestairs I saw Robert. He was holding onto the railing and was looking very angry.It looked like he was having troubleholding it all together; his huge body,his blood pressure and his drunk andtired legs. He was in no condition tostand straight, how was he going to climbup? Yet I was sure he would, he wasnever a quitter, even if it was killinghim.“Then I saw him climb two stairsat a time. And in no time he was rightin front of me. So I stretched out myhand and pulled him up and asked him:‘Where are you coming from? Where haveyou been all these days?’“But he didn’t say anything, just keptpanting. Then he looked at my sax bagand asked, ‘You coming from the studio?’I shook my head. Had I said ‘yes’ hewould’ve put his hand in my pocketand taken out all the money. What could128 :: July-September 2010

I have done, it was not as if I wasmaking millions. But I am a very badliar. He just had to look at my faceand he knew that I was lying. He grabbedmy collar and with the other hand hestarted searching my pockets. ‘You lyingto me, bloody bastard. C’mon give mea hundred fast.’“‘Leave my fucking collar first.’ I wasalso angry. His grip on my collar eased.I took out whatever money was in mypocket and threw it at him. I was veryangry with him so I started walking awayfrom him. But he grabbed my collaragain and shoved the money back intomy pocket. ‘I thought I was borrowingfrom a friend... but you are a bastard.And you’re no friend of mine. Now getlost.’“This made me madder than before.I grabbed him with both hands andstarted dragging him down the stairswith me. ‘Two fucking years... from twofucking years I’ve been putting up withyour bullshit. Since two years I’ve beenpaying for your fucking habit. But nowyou’ve just crossed the limit. Now tellme what do you fucking want from me?’“He looked at me hurt and angryand then suddenly his face lost allexpression. He lowered his head andjust stood still. His silence made myblood boil more so I slapped him threefourtimes. But he didn’t duck or resistme. He just stood there like a prisoner.Then something came over him and hegrabbed my hand and started pullingme along… we were rushing down thestairs like a pair of madmen, any timewe could trip over and fall. He couldneither take care of himself nor washe letting me get steady. I wasn’t surprisedwhen we both tripped and rolled downthe few stairs that were left. We becamea sorry spectacle… funny thing was therewas no one to see us.“But Robert didn’t find it funny. Norwas he bothered about the cut on myforehead. He got up and then pulledme up by the collar and started to dragme through the evening crowd. I triedto get out of his grip but he was inno mood to let me go. Finally we stoppedin front of the One Night beer bar andhe shoved me in, like a policeman pushesa prisoner into the cell. The loud musicand the flickering strobe lights insidebegan to give me a splitting headache.I banged into a waitress and tried tosteady myself by holding on to a tableedge. I was confused why Robert hadbrought me to the bar. The only thingI could make out was that the musicplaying in the bar was composed byNitin Mehta. The same Nitin Mehta thatRobert hated with all his heart.“The music stopped suddenly andthere followed a few moments of completesilence before another disco numberbegan to grate on my ears. This songwas also from the same film. Thebrainchild of the great Nitin Mehta, makerof pathetic cocktails of Rajasthani folk,July-September 2010 :: 129

aunchy Bhojpuri, disco Garba and fakeBhangra. And to that came this beautywho’d set the dance floor on fire withher filmi dancing. She was wearing avery tight ghagra-choli. The choli wasmore strings and less cloth. She hadher backless back to us and she wasmoving like a seasoned seductress. Onthe cue of a drum beat she spun aroundand showed her face. I was stunned.This was Robert’s daughter, Vinny. Theguys were whistling, blowing kisses andthrowing money at her. And she wouldgo dancing to each one and take themoney from their hands smiling. Thewhole scene was so unbearable that Icouldn’t take it any more. I quicklyrushed out of the bar with a bad tastein my mouth. I threw up on the roadside. It struck me now why it was sotough for Robert to make peace withhimself.”We came out of the café when themorning had already turned to evening.The sun was setting and it was leavingbehind long shadows. Robert’s memoriesonce again left a dark shadow on theold man. Once again, old memories hadmade him go totally silent. He soon forgotthat I was there walking with him. Hewas also mumbling as he walked. Andthis time it was all gibberish to me.He had entered his own sweet Universe—a place that was his own and I or ourpresent time had no place in it.We were now close to the PortugueseChurch and he had slowed downsomewhat. I let him be. I didn’t wantto disturb him. Instead I kept observinghim; His brown suede pants and whiteshirt and the suspenders crossed on hisback, his black cap and his silver hairunderneath it and his bag with the goldenknob of the sax peeping from it. In facthis new avatar was so attractive thatI’d forgotten his former unwashed self.He stopped by the footpath after takinga left. He bought some flowers fromthe florist there and stood in the queueat the bus-stop. I didn’t find it necessaryto ask him where he intended to go.I also stood behind him in the queue.A bus came and we quickly boardedit. After a couple of stops we got downin what seemed like the middle ofnowhere. There was cemetery right nextto the bus-stop. We entered the place,walked some and stopped at a whitemarble grave. On it was written in blackletters Robert’s name, the dates of hisbirth and death and some lines abouthis stopover on this planet.The old man slunk his bag off hisback and placed the flowers on the grave.After a few minutes of silence he tookout his sax and the gift box from thebag. He unwrapped the box and insideit was a bottle of Peter Scot. I guesshe must have saved the bottle for aspecial occasion. His face, I noticed,had taken on the same dark shadow ofhis past. The only difference was thatnow his face was clean-shaved and hishair was washed. He opened the bottle130 :: July-September 2010

and emptied its entire contents into thesax. The whisky poured out of its keysand mouth piece in tiny streams. Soonit spread over the whole grave like agolden film. He flung the bottle withall his strength to the other end of thecemetery. The empty bottle seemed tofly through the air in slow motion tillit crashed against a marble crucifix witha shattering thud. Again he wentcompletely still staring without blinkingat his sax. His eyes had the hungrylook of someone trying to win a race.He picked up the sax and blew hard.The sound that came out of it was likethe blare of a horn. The old man cursedand rudely shook his instrument. Thewhisky trapped in its pores came outlike rain. He took out a handkerchiefand wiped the mouthpiece and then blewhard again. This time his breath workedits magic on the sax. He stretched hisbreath on and on making a zig-zag linethrough the silence of the cemetery. Hewasn’t in a hurry to reach anywhere,sometimes he would touch the highestoctaves, sometimes reach out to thelowest and broadest possible notes. Itwas pure jazz: beautiful and very hardto put into a box. Listening to him Ifelt that it wasn’t really him who wasplaying, but some wandering spirits thathad entered his sax. I had an urge tomake him stop but then I realised thathe wasn’t playing for me alone but forthe entire cemetery: its marble crosses,its ancient trees and its dead.Caught in the frenzy of hisperformance I lost all sense of time.It was only when the shadows beganto get longer and the birds began toreturn to their trees did I notice thatour remarkable day was soon comingto an end. The old man stopped playing.It seemed that some gigantic being hadsuddenly died after a long struggle withbreathing. The old man was breathingvery heavily. The veins around his neckwere bulging. Then he stumbled acrossto a tree nearby and sat down restinghis back against it. He motioned mealso to do the same.“That was a Beatnik tune,” he saidcatching his breath, “Robert was a bigfan of the Beatniks, the kind of life theylived.”“And you? Are you a beatnik too?”I asked.“Me, I am fusionist.... a fusionist ofjazz and Indian classical. It’s somethingI’ve always done and still do.”“And where do you think you’ll gowith it?”“Back again. Back to where I began.”“Meaning?”“Meaning it will find its own course.”“Doesn’t look like that to me.”“It doesn’t because, my instrumentis the sax while my lungs are pure desi.And together they make jazz, which isnot jazz but quite jazz. Meaning it isjazz but with a desi soul. Do you knowJuly-September 2010 :: 131

what I mean...”“But what you were just playing, itdidn’t sound desi to me.”“I know it didn’t.” He was once againlost in his thoughts.“On another note, don’t you thinkyour music has hit a blind alley...”This seemed to have touched a rawnerve because he jerked his head andturned to me. Once again he had thatbitter expression on his face. “I thinkit started with Robert’s death... I wasthe one who found him. He was lyingon the railway tracks... with both armscut and bleeding... I saw a dog run awaywith one arm. That scene did somethingto me. I think it killed the music in me.”“No it didn’t,” my words came outwith much too much force, “you haveas much music as any other artiste. Istrongly believe no amount of pain orloss can kill the music in an artiste,especially an honest artiste.”“You said ‘honest’,” he was staringat me now.“Yes, when we start blaming ourshortcomings on ‘time’, that’s anindication that we are not being honestwith ourselves.”He flew into a rage and grabbed mycollar. I thought he was going to slapme next but the next instant his gripover me loosened and he let go of me.It seemed as if he had suddenly accepteddefeat. Let go of an attitude that hehad carefully nurtured for years.“I have difficulty breathing,” he saidlooking at me with anguish in his eyes,“I can’t breathe in as well as I can breatheout...”“But how,” I asked surprised, “canyou blow for so long when you can’tbreathe in...”“I don’t know. I just know that withevery breath, I pass out a part of methat has rotted and dissolved.”Those words dissolved all hard feelingsthat I had for him until now. Instead,I felt a deep sorrow for him. I keptstaring at his face for a long time. Ihad finally understood what rot wasdissolving and passing out of him. I tookthe sax from his hands. “Don’t play thisfor a few days. Just breathe... in andout and in and out. Just get into yourselfand heal. Recharge your fire. Then you’llsee how restored you’ll feel. I’ll helpyou do that... really.”He smiled weakly. “I am beyond allhelp, my friend. Nothing you do canhelp me now.”“But let me try... at least.”“Try what... huh? What?” He wasgetting aggressive again.“I... I want to try and see...”“See what? See me rot in misery?See me puke blood and soil my pants?”“No that’s not what I want to see...I just want you to play the sax... not132 :: July-September 2010

let the sax play you.”His eyebrows stood up in angry archesagain. He kept staring at me like thatfor some time and then he looked awayat his sax. He stroked it with a lot oflove then put it back in the bag andstood up. He came to me and put hishand on my shoulder and we startedwalking. We left the deepening darknessof the cemetery and stepped out intothe illumination of the city.We were walking on the pavementand his hand was still on my shoulder.The weight and tautness of his handhad reduced and there was also a springin his step. Then in a low voice he saidsomething that made me very happy.“It seems like I am going home aftera long time... seems like I am finallygoing somewhere.”“So where is your somewhere?” Iasked hoping that he would mentionsome old almost forgotten dream thathe had given up long ago.“My sax,” he said and then wentsilent.I too became silent for these twowords, said lightly, were anything butlight. They meant everything that hewas and ever wanted to be. It wasprobably the most serious thing he hadsaid about himself in a long time.Suddenly, the city seemed like abrighter place and my old friend lessangry. Gone was his seething anger thatwanted to crush the city like a plasticcup. Gone was the need to rage againstthe world for all that it had denied him.In its place was a balance that I hadnot seen in him before. As I bid himgoodbye I felt reassured that my oldfriend and his sax would make it home…someday… somehow… in one piece.Manoj Rupra, born 1963 and educated at Durg, M.P. He is a novelistand a short story writer. Came into limelight with his very first shortstory ‘dafan’. He has two collections of short stories and a recent novel‘pratisansar’. He lives in Nagpur.Dhiraj Singh is a short-story writer (writing in English), essayist, journalist,abstract artist and translator. He has translated Asghar Wajahat’s celebratedplay ‘Jisne Lahore Nai Dekhya Woh Janmya Nai’ (‘Unborn in Lahore’,The Little Magazine, 2000). Currently he is Programming Consultantwith Lok Sabha Television. He lives in Delhi and his art and writingscan be seen on his blog: http://bodhishop.blogspot.comJuly-September 2010 :: 133

Pages from a NovelANITYA : THOUGHTS IN JAILMridula GargTranslatedSeema SegalbySomeone was at the gate.‘Anitya!’ Avijit cried out.‘What’s the matter, Bhai Saheb? You look as if you’ve seena ghost.’‘When did you come?’ he asked.‘When you saw me.’‘Anyone else with you?’ he asked warily.‘Yes, a friend, Shukla...’‘So, it is you...’ The words were out before he could controlhimself.Disconcerted, Anitya asked, ‘Is anything wrong?’‘Chadha is dead!’‘When?’‘Today.’By then Prabha and Shubha had come out.‘What are you saying Pitaji? Chadha uncle is really.. .?’ exclaimedPrabha.‘Yes.’‘You were with him?’‘No, he was in Meerut. I heard only a while ago... after thelast rites.’134 :: July-September 2010

They fell silent.‘I can’t believe it,’ Prabha broke thesilence, ‘he was so full of life... toldus such amusing stories when he washere last.’‘About the time he was working undercover. How we laughed! What happened,was he ill?’ asked Shubha.‘Yes,’ Avijit sighed, ‘he had been illfor twelve years.’‘Twelve years?’‘Didn’t he tell you about it?’‘I never dreamt he was ill.’‘What was he ill with?’ Prabha askedsombrely.‘Something or the other’, Anitya buttedin. ‘Isn’t death itself an illness. Whatdid Chadha talk about?’‘About his undercover work mostly.Told us how he broke his leg... thatreally had us in splits!’‘How did he break his leg?’‘He was working disguised as aChristian priest those days. Therehappened to be a wedding in the churchnearby when the real priest went downwith measles. The bride and groom werethere eager to be married but the padrewas missing! Someone thought of Chadhauncle... what name had he taken thosedays?’‘Father Chalice’, said Shubha.‘Yes, Father Chalice’, Prabharecounted the tale with the same gustowith which Chadha had, trying to keepthe man alive a while longer.‘Some people came to him and tookhim to the church. He realized whatthey wanted him to do only on reachingthere. He had mastered baptism but aCatholic wedding! He had no inkling howto go about it. He panicked. All he couldthink of doing, at the spur of the moment,was to twist his leg on the way to thepulpit and fall flat on the ground. Hewas saved from the trauma of conductingthe wedding but broke his leg!’‘He did not break it that way’ , Avijitblurted.‘How then?’‘It was in the jail.’‘You were in the jail with him, weren’tyou?’ Anitya interposed.‘That was in 1932. He broke his leglater in 1942 in Fatehgarh Jail, when...’‘What else did he tell you?’ Anityadid not let him finish.‘The story about Miss Bannerjee wasequally exciting’, said Shubha.‘It was incredible!’ added Prabha.‘Tell us’, said Anitya.‘She was also on the run in 1942.Where was she...?’‘Bombay.’‘Yes, Bombay. She was operating aPeople’s Radio there under the nameof Shahnaz. The day she found that thepolice were after her, instead of goinginto hiding, she went straight to theCollector’s house. Told his wife she wascollecting funds for a play by the Women’sClub. She spoke English fluently... theJuly-September 2010 :: 135

Collector’s wife was duly impressed andasked her to stay for tea. The Collectorturned up a while later. He lookedsurprised to see her but shook her handand sat down to tea. When she got upto leave, he said nonchalantly, “Pleaseuse the back door, Miss Shahnaz.”“You know my name?” she asked,surprised.“Yes. Also, that your real name isKajal Bannerjee.”‘She asked him if he had informedthe police. “Not yet,” he said,“I’m a student of history. How canI forego the thrill of watching historybeing made before my eyes? Get ridof the radio and leave town... I’ll informthe police after two hours.” MissBannerjee thanked him, left by the backdoor and escaped the police.’‘Miss Bannerjee never talks aboutherself. If you ask her anything, shewaves it away with a laugh.’‘Chadha never talked to you aboutthe jail?’ Avijit asked. It seemed he hadnot heard the story at all.‘No.’‘Did you know that all of them werein jail together,’ Anitya broke in, ‘Chadha,your father, Harish, Chatterjee, who elseBhai Saheb?’‘Saran.’‘That mole too!’‘Pitaji never tells us anything aboutthe jail either’, said Shuhha,‘What’s there to tell?’ said Avijitfeeling a little lighter. ‘Chadha was thetough one, ready to fight at the slightestpretext. We were arrested on the 4thof January while demonstrating outsideAnand Bhawan. All of us were put inthe same barrack.’Herded like cattle! Thirty people inone barrack. They had heard that thegovernment had created A, B, and Cclasses in the jail and had hoped tobe put in B–if not A–class as politicalprisoners.But that was for importantpeople. The government wanted to givethe rawest deal to the students; afterall they were the future of the nation!So they got C class.The iron gates of the prison closedafter them... their clothes were takenaway and they were asked to wear theregulation kurta and shorts of the jail.Avijit felt embarrassed. He was finickyabout clothes. He washed his khadi dhotiand kurta to such perfection, taking outthe wrinkles while drying them that hisfriends teased him, asking him who hisdhobi was! To be forced to wear thecrumpled kurta and shorts of C class!The kurta was still all right, but theshorts!Chadha had laughed, ‘Stand in a line,all of you. Let me see, who’s the biggestjoker of all?’Avijit could not join in his laughter.It was never easy to join Chadha inanything.‘What did Chadha uncle do there?’he heard Shubha ask and was dragged136 :: July-September 2010

ack to the present.‘We had proclaimed 26 January asthe future Republic Day. We knew wecould not celebrate it in the jail, butChadha was not one to give up...’He had stood up and raised the sloganof VandeMataram.The boys from his and the otherbarracks soon joined him. The words‘Vande Mataram’ resounded from eachand every barrack around them! It wasmagic! For a while they forgot everything–the walls of the barrack, the iron gatesof the prison, the threats of the warden,the disgust on the face of the jailer.It was magic indeed!Fleet-footed deer sprinting throughthe lush green forest... a caravan of wildcranes soaring high into the open sky...letter after letter unfolding its wings...vande matram... eleven cranes, soaringwith outspread wings, heads held high,ready to touch the sky! A flock in flight...the beat of melody in space... theresonance of... freedom!Then the warning bell clanged!Baton wielding sepoys... whistleblowing wardens... the jailer barkingorders! The melody turned intocacophony. But one voice soared onundeterred!How does one feel when blows rainon the head and one can run for coveronly within the four walls?Ten steps forward, ten steps back...lathi blows everywhere... forward...backward... wherever one turns... noescape anywhere... yet one coninues torun with hands covering the head tosave the skull from the blows. With whatpowerful yearning and hope does thewill to live function in each one of us;let the bones of the back or shouldersbreak... so long as the skull remainswhole, one may yet live, though halfdead.The blow had landed right on Chadha’shead... no, his leg did not break in 1932.The moment he fell, the flock of cranescame crashing down to earth. A stunnedsilence followed...‘You were forbidden from saying‘Vande Mataram’, weren’t you?’asked Shubha.Avijit’s yes was like a long drawnout sigh. ‘There was a lathicharge soonafter the slogan was raised; many wereinjured.’‘You too?’ asked Prabha.‘No.’She did not say anything but he feltcompelled to retort, ‘Not everyone hasto get hurt.’‘Chadha uncle was.’‘Yes. He didn’t try to save himself.He kept on shouting “Vande Mataram”.’‘What happened then?’ Shubha askedguilelessly.‘There was a delay in taking the injuredto the hospital, so we went on a hungerstrike.’‘You too?’ Prabha asked again.July-September 2010 :: 137

‘Why not me?’‘Prabha, go get a glass of water’, Anityacame to his rescue.‘You thought Chadha uncle was crazy,didn’t you?’ she insisted.‘Who said so?’‘I’m asking you.’‘Prabha, didn’t you hear what I said?Go get a glass of water.’‘I’m going. What’s the hurry?’‘There is. Get it.’She went in.‘God knows what Kajal teaches them’,said Avijit.‘Kajal... Bannerjee?’‘Yes.’‘She is here?’‘Yes, teaches Prabha.’‘Was she involved with Chadha?’‘No, she was involved with me andso is out to punish me. Chadha andshe both... as if I did not suffer in thejail...’Prabha brought the water and said,‘Mummy wants to know why everybodyis standing at the gate. Has somethinghappened?’‘God, I forgot!’ said Anitya. ‘I leftShukla with her. Was he there?’‘There was an odd looking guy.’‘Who’s Shukla?’ asked Avijit. It wasgood to talk of something else.‘A friend of sorts. Rather aninteresting type. I had another friendwho had a penchant for looking in thedistant future. Such farsighted people,as you know, are not good at seeingthings close up. He had a clever businessproject in mind, according to hisreckoning. He made some of his friendsinvest around twenty thousand each init. It was all above board, nothingdishonest, each an equal partner. Theproject started with a bang butunfortunately soon went bust. He thendevised an equally farsighted plan tosave himself from the wrath of thepartners. He committed suicide. Shuklawas one of the bereaved partners. I don’tknow how he got my address but hecame crying to me. What could I do?A man without money can only offerfriendship. So he became my friend.’‘You’ll now take him wherever yougo?’‘No, I’ll leave him here.’‘What!’‘Poor fellow sold off his wife’s jewelleryto become a partner. Now that he haslost everything, he is afraid to go home.Let him stay here for a few days... youcould get him a job as an insuranceagent or something... he’d go home aftera while.’‘Is this an alms house?’ Prabhaexclaimed before Avijit could respond.‘No, a mad house’, Anitya whisperedto her.‘He needs help, Prabha,’ Avijit rebukedher, ‘of course he can stay for a fewdays.’138 :: July-September 2010

‘There must be some four hundredmillion people who need help. Will you...’‘Let it go,’ Shubha spoke up, ‘Whydo you go on and on?’Taken aback, Prabha fell silent.‘Let’s go inside,’ said Anitya, ‘Bhabhimust be getting worried.’But Shyama was fine. She reclinedon the bed while Shukla sat in an armchairby her side, reciting the tale of Yayati’sdevoted son Puru. She was not the onlyone listening with rapt attention. Khokheesat at the foot of the bed and wonderof wonders, Sudhanshu was in Shukla’slap!‘He has eight children’, whisperedAnitya.Shukla had gone to Swarna himselfand taken Sudhanshu from her.He could be useful after Swarna left,thought Avijit. The introduction andgreetings did not last long as Shyamawanted him to carry on with the story.Avijit returned to the drawing room withAnitya. Prabha followed them. Shubhastayed on for a bit as Shukla’s narrationwas rather dramatic... more like a musicalplay. She was enjoying herself but feltthat Avijit might need her. So she wentback to the drawing room a while later.‘Why did Chadha uncle and MissBannerjee leave you?’ she heard Prabhaask as she came in.Prabha was really impossible; onceshe latched to something, she hung onlike a leech.‘Leave? What do you mean?’‘He left Gandhiji, did he not? Wasit because of the head injury?’‘Where was the question of leaving;there was nothing left to leave. Themovement was over by the time we werereleased from jail in 1934. Chadha wasnot one to leave anything because ofan injury. He didn’t even stay in thehospital beyond four days...’He stopped mid-sentence. Why didPrabha have to dwell on the days thathe had partially forgotten but was afraidto recall fully?Chadha had returned to the barrackafter four days in the hospital.They were surprised to see him backso quickly after a serious injury.‘Discharged... so soon?’ they askedhim.‘Not discharged, but they did notinsist on my staying.’‘Why would they? They are doctors,not your lovers’, Harish said.‘Don’t know about that but I do knowthere are no patients there.’‘What!’‘All of them are pretenders. Theyhave got themselves admitted to thehospital to escape the hardships of jail.Remember that businessman we met thefirst day...?’‘The goldsmith who was moaning forthe A class?’ asked Chatterjee.‘Yes, and all of you so sympathetic!Sethji, how come you got the C class?’‘He was bent on boring each oneJuly-September 2010 :: 139

of us with his story, so we thought hemight as well do it at one go.’ Harishlaughed, ‘Remember how he reared upat the sight of the prison roti as if hehad stepped on a snake!’‘He’s in the hospital these days’, saidChadha.‘I thought he must have got his classchanged’, said Chatterjee.‘He has put in an application. Hisrelatives, friends, lawyer are all tryingbut can’t breach the red tape. They haveput the biggie in C class by mistakebut can’t trace where the mistake wasmade. So he is hospitalized with thedreadful disease of piles.’‘And he pretended to be a devotedGandhian; spun the wheel without fail.’‘Still does that to pass time. He’snot fortunate like us to have twelve seersof wheat to grind, and not know whenthe day began and when it ended.’‘Fine,’ said Avijit, ‘but what has thatto do with your leaving the hospital.’‘An emergency case came in today.Everyone suddenly developed badstomachs, afraid they might be askedto give up their beds to him and returnto C class. I said shame on you all andwalked out.’ ‘Piles is actually quite adangerous disease’, came from Saran.‘You have it too?’ asked Chadha.Saran was embarassed momentarilybut soon found a way out. If not piles,an itch would do! He got hospitalizednow and then by giving a small bribe.But none of the others did. I passedmy full two years in C class. What righthas Kajal to cast aspersions on me? Itis true that I did not get beaten uplike Chadha... after all I was not competingwith him.In any case he was crazy. If oneman wanted to bash his head againsta wall, did that mean others had tofollow?That day...The jail Superintendent was to makehis rounds to inspect the jail, so it wasbeing thoroughly cleaned up. Theprisoners were moved from thegrindstone and put to washing floors.The Superintendent was rumoured tobe a fiend for cleanliness. He inspectedthe floors and walls inch by inch andwas especially disgusted by cockroachesand rodents. The prisoners were to keepthe cockroaches and rats out of his sight.He was also known to never speak toa prisoner.Chadha had the temerity to step upto him, throw his broom on the floor,and bellow, ‘Political prisoners are notmeant to sweep floors!’Everyone, from the warden to theSuperintendent, was dumb-struck. Theother prisoners stood petrified. Chadhahad turned and looked at them but noone had stirred. He was on his own.‘Twenty lashes’, barked theSuperintendent.They had held him down and...No, he did not want to remember.They had warned Chadha that once140 :: July-September 2010

he entered the jail, it was all the samewhether one was handed the loom orthe broom. The great politician,Kamalnain himself had come down fromhis B class quarters and explained tothem that chanting ‘Vande Mataram’,protesting, or inciting revolt had no placein the prison. All one had to do wasto follow the rules and regulations; otherthings did not matter.Everyone had tried to make Chadhaunderstand that but he did not care.He thought he just had to raise his voiceand the others would follow, the waythey had when he had chanted ‘VandeMataram’. He had forgotten that sevenor eight months in jail were enough tocool people’s ardour. In any case theyhad been burnt once. Moreover, everyother day the warden came up with afresh rumour. They had no access tonewspapers. Trapped in a cauldron, theyclung to whatever filtered through theholes in the lid. Sometimes it was aletter, sometimes a chance remark ofthe warden. A few days ago, he hadtold them that Gandhi planned to goon a fast to protest MacDonald’sCommunal Award. The agenda ofIndependence had been shelved and hewas intent on improving the lot of theuntouchables. The Congress had acceptedthe principle of participation in theGoverning Council. What possible ardourcould be left and for what after that?If Avijit had moved to Chadha’s side,what then? He too would have sufferedthe lash...The lash whistling over the nakedback ... one, two, three, the blood spurtingfrom the torn flesh, mingling to formbubbling streams! Four, five, six, seven...the streams merging in a rivulet, screamschallenging consciousness. Eight... nine...an ocean of blood... a last burst ofheightened consciousness! Fifteen,sixteen... delirium pounding on the sandof impending prostration... the brokenmass of flesh hanging from a woodenboard...From the board hung Chadha... notAvijit but Chadha!‘Miss Bannerjee was saying’ he heardPrabha, ‘Chadha uncle was tortured injail.’.‘So,’ thundered Avijit, ‘what’s newin that? What can you expect in jailif not torture?’ .‘Pitaji’ , Shubha cried out terrified.Blind to his surroundings, hisbloodshot eyes turned from Prabha andcame to rest on her.‘By the time you were released fromprison in 1934, the movement had beencalled off. Wasn’t that why Chadha andKajal Bannerjee drifted apart?’ saidAnitya.‘All of us did. Gandhiji called off theMovement’, Avijit took hold of himself,then added austerely to Prabha, ‘Youshould try to understand a situation fullybefore passing comments.’He remembered that day in April1934 when jailer Brown had personallytold them that Gandhiji had called offJuly-September 2010 :: 141

the Satyagraha.If you told someone to jump intothe river blindfolded and he did sobelieving that the river was full andlanded on sharp rocks, how would hefeel?Jailer Brown usually did not thinkit worthwhile to talk to the prisoners’in C class. But he could not keep thatstupendous piece of news to himself,so he had delivcred it to them personally.‘Impossible!’ Chadha had said.‘Impossible?’ Brown smiled mockinglyand placed the day’s editorial on thetable.A newspaper!A dozen hands grabbed it.The pages came apart. The front pagereached Avijit’s hands. He began to readit aloud to prevent others from snatchingit. Every word broke his heart over andover again.Gandhiji had called off the Satyagraha.Avijit read the reason he had given butcould not understand it. The listenerswere equally puzzled. He read it outonce, then started all over again.The information I received in thecourse of a conversation about a valuedcompanion of long standing was arevelation. He was not ready to performthe full quota of work in the jail andpreferred instead to engage in his privatestudies. This was undoubtedly contraryto the principles of Satyagraha. Morethan the imperfection of the friend whomI love dearly, now more than ever,this made me see my own weakness.My friend told me that he thought Ihad known of his weakness. I was blind.Blindness in a leader is unpardonable.I saw at once that I must, for the timebeing at least, be the sole activeSatyagrahi.That was all! Gandhiji had called offthe movement for an insignificant reasonlike that. A single person made a mistakeand he used it to bolster an ephemeralethical principle and withdrew a NationalMovement, leaving thousands of peoplestranded! At the end of his statementhe had counselled the Congressmen thatthey should try to learn the art andbeauty of self-denial and voluntarypoverty. They should engage in nationbuildingactivities; promotion of khadithrough spinning and weaving; spreadof communal unity throughirreproachable personal conduct towardsone another in every walk of life;eradicating untouchablity in every form;total abstinence from intoxicating drinksand drugs while working with addicts;and scrupulously cultivating personalpurity. The performance of these serviceswould mean living in poverty. Thosewho did not want to live in povertycould take up jobs in the cottage industrysector and earn minimal wages.They looked at each other stunned.‘Will we get Independence by doingall that?’ asked Harish.‘Gandhiji has always believed thatif one’s personal life was pure, otherthings will follow’, said Saran.142 :: July-September 2010

He was unshaken as always.‘How?’ asked Chatterjee.‘What’s our aim, Independence orcharity?’ an infuriated Harish asked.‘Gandhiji says take care of the meansand the end will follow.’‘Shut up!’ said Avijit. ‘Don’t repeathis words like a parrot! Whatever Gandhijimay say, the question is what wouldhappen to our goal of Independence nowthat the Movement has been called off?’‘Nothing’, said Harish. ‘This is theend.’‘No’, Chadha spoke up. ‘This is thebeginning of the end. The end of slavery!We don’t need Gandhiji. We shall fightand win freedom!’The determination in his tone lit aray of hope in their hearts when Brownbroke in with, ‘Why do you people needIndependence?’They had forgotten that jailer Brownwas in their midst.‘What do you mean?’ asked Avijit.‘This Gandhi of yours is really astute.He knows that India won’t survive fortwo days once the British leave, that’swhy he talks of reform, not war.’They fumed at his words but swallowedtheir fury and remained silent as noone had an answer.Jailer Brown had said in a fatherlytone fit for dealing with errant youngmen, ‘Why do you want to rot inprison?You are young; your future isbefore you; go home and study. There’llbe no dearth of jobs under the Britishrule.’‘We want freedom, not jobs.’‘Who cares what you want.’ Brownhad laughed contemptuously. ‘Thousandsof mad people like you have been hanged.We understand and the Congressunderstands that the British and Indiacan never be parted.’‘Shut up!’ Chadha had shouted.There was dead silence in thebarracks.The mask of decency dropped fromBrown’s face and a flush of contemptand cruelty suffused it.‘Twenty lashes were not enough tobring you to your senses, need more,you bastard!’ he said sharply and kickedhim hard. The heavy boot caught Chadha,who fell on his face.Then...No, he did not want to remember;nor become a stranger in his house again.Ever since he had met Kajal...something had happened which calledfor every ounce of his will power tostay in touch with the present.How could he live clinging to thepast like this?Twenty years was not a short timespan especially if one did not want toremember it. He had kept things in limbofor as many years... choosing toremember only that which was pleasantand comforting and did not weigh onthe conscience, as Anitya would say...July-September 2010 :: 143

ut he had not said anything... It wasAvijit himself who could not forget; withwhom the past lived every moment ofthe day...He did not want to remember butdid. Kajal had visited him in jail forthe last time, twenty years ago...The people seated in the room becameinvisible to him and leaving them therein the present, Avijit walked out to theverandah and back in time.Ten steps forward... ten steps back...then forward... he kept pacing, trappedwithin the four walls.A man trapped in the jail eagerlylooked forward to the Visiting Day...contact with the outside world couldmake him feel human for a while. Thatwas where his thoughts lay day andnight... in the outside world! Thecompanions inside could never fill thevoid; they only increased it.Ah for a touch of the outside world,however ephemeral!One night, around ten, he happenedto see a plane framed by the patch ofblue that the prisoners called the sky,from the skylight of his cell. The outerworld in flight! The prisoners ran asone man to the window... if only theycould see the plane disappear far intothe horizon! But how? The sky withinthe bars of the window was too minisculean area. Avijit had not moved from thewindow for a long while, his strong armspushing the others away... he had stoodand stared into the distance... till theadversary of the wind disappearedsomewhere from his view.He had left the window then, ranwildly to the door and started beatingon it. He would not stay shut in a momentlonger! Don’t release us from the jailbut let us at least go into the compound!Let us fly for a while with the planein the sky! But no, the prisoners werelocked in at night and let out only inthe morning. A huge lock hung outsidethe door.‘Are we pigs to be locked up likethis!’ he shouted.‘Why are you ranting?’ Chadharebuked him. ‘The plane did not comefor you.’He had gone listlessly back to thewindow and stood staring at the voidspread across the sky.Then came the Visitors’ Day... heheard the warden say, ‘You have avisitor.’‘Who is it?’ he asked and hoped itwas Anitya, not Pitaji who was alwayswhining and complaining.‘It’s one Kajal Bannerjee.’Ecstasy... then terror! He wanted torefuse to meet her but the yearning forcontact with the outside world madehim go to her.Had there been no grill between them,he was sure she would have run to himand thrown her arms around his neckas she had done two years ago... andequally sure, he would have held hertight and kissed her. The touch of her144 :: July-September 2010

warm body would surely have inflamedhim! When he saw a female form approachhim from a distance, he wanted to teardown the grill and run to herimpetuously– as he had on the nighthe saw the plane– and take her in hisarms! But the grill stood between them.They were saved from a great injustice!Avijit from committing it and Kajalfrom bearing its burden! They were oneither side of the barrier; not man andwoman, but Kajal and Avijit.She had never looked uglier. Sallowrough skin pitted with deep pockmarks!A foul smell from the toilet nearbyfilled him with disgust. There was somuch commotion in the room that hecould barely hear her or himself. If theyspoke loudly, everyone present wouldhear them.If they dropped their voices, not eventhe other would hear. What Kajal hadto say was not something to be shoutedfrom the rooftop. But it did not deterher. It was Avijit who was embarrassed.They had to talk standing as therewas no place to sit.‘How are you?’ she had asked.‘Fine.’‘Ma and Baba are going away to Patna.’‘Oh.’‘What do you want me to do?’‘What can I say?’ he had pretendednot to understand.‘Should I go with them or remainhere till you are released...’‘What does Baba say?’‘Never mind Baba. What do you say?’‘What can I say? It’s for you to decide.’‘I have given it enough thought; I’masking you now. This is not the timeto act coy. Tell me, will we be marriedafter your release?’He could not say yes or no.‘This is not the time to talk of thesethings.’‘Why not?’‘I’m in jail. Even if I’m released now,I’m sure to be arrested again, soon. Mylife is committed to the nation. I can’tthink of marriage.’As he said this, he could see thepockmarks on her face deepen, turningthe skin coal black.‘You don’t want to think or there’ssome other problem?’‘Gandhiji says we should be celibateto devote ourselves fully to the nationand...’ , he began but Kajal interruptedhim.‘Forget him. What do you want?’‘I want the nation to be free. I wantto get out of jail. Will it happen becauseI want it?’‘So ... should I ... go ... to Patna?’she asked in a tremulous voice.He knew that any other woman wouldhave been in tears.He took refuge in cruelty.‘You are free. You can do what youwant. I’m a prisoner. What advice canJuly-September 2010 :: 145

I give you?’‘I was also in jail, Avijit,’ she said,‘but unlike you I did not turn into...’‘Time’s up!’ A loud voice shatteredthe environs. Kajal’s sentence was lostin the cacophony.Avijit returned to his barracks butdwelt on what the unheard words mighthave been.What exactly had she said? Unlikeyou I did not turn into a coward... intoa hypocrite... into a selfish wretch...Avijit came to a stop before thecupboard in the wall. He opened thedoor gently and peered in. He saw allhis things, the needle and thread, thescissors and knife, the shaving kit, theplate and cup arranged neatly. He felta sense of relief and turned back.Why did I feel a sense of relief?Why would it not be arranged properly?This was not the jail after all, wherethe neat arrangement of his razor andmirror on the shelf, had angered theauthorities.The warden had confiscated hisshaving brush and soap, and devil takehim, his razor and even his preciousmirror, saying, ‘This is a jail. You arenot here to indulge your whims.’Bastard! Avijit would never forgivehim! He trembled with rage. The endlesslist of people he would not forgive! Notthat anyone had ever forgiven him either.He returned to the cupboard fromthe other end of the verandah.If I were to be imprisoned on thisverandah, I could last for years!True, Kajal, I found a good job andmarried on being released from prisonin 1934 but I was not to blame! Gandhijihad withdrawn the movement.I could not run the movement alone,could I? He tried to lift his spirits bypersuading himself to believe he hadbeen right. It was another matter toconvince Kajal.He could not return to the room.The evening turned to night. He keptpacing, never more than ten steps eachway...Courtesy : Oxford University PressMridula Garg, born 1938, contemporary Hindi writer. She is the recipientof a number of prestigious awards, including the Vyas Samman forher novel Kathgulab in 2004; the Sahityakar Samman awarded bythe Hindi Akademi; and M.P. Sahitya Parishad’s awards for her novelUske Hisse ki Dhoop and her play Jadoo ka Kaleen.Seema Segal, runs the Munshi Premchand Memorial School in Allahabad,Uttar Pradesh, focusing on the underprivileged.146 :: July-September 2010

FilmsMEENA KUMARIKanan JhinganTranslatedbyGhanshyam Sharma“Zindagi kya isi ko kehate hainJism tanha hai aur jaan tanha”(Is it what they call life?alien to each other is the body and the soul.)A very restless Alibux was waiting for the arrival of his thirdchild at the doorway of the clinic of Dr. Gadre in Mumbai. ‘Blessed’as he already was with two daughters ‘Khursheed’ and ‘Madhuri’,his sole desire was ‘only if Allah can show him the face of ason; when news broke he tried to come to terms with the thirdgirl child but could not. ‘This girl I shall not take home’, hesaid to himself. He headed straight to an orphanage after hiswife was discharged. They abandoned the newly born, derelict,on the staircase itself. Soon, within a couple of hours or so,the tears of the mother and his own self-reproaching conscienceforced him to go to the orphanage. The child was brought backhome.The helpless body of the little child, while it lay inert onthe staircase, had been infested with ants. Alibux condemnedhimself, and the mother embraced the baby to her heart. Later,whenever the girl committed any mischief, the vexed mother wouldshout at her, “Why did not those ants devour you.” Father christenedher ‘Mehjabeen’ — the one whose forehead is like the moon.Thus, ‘Mehjabeen’ set about her excursion of life on AugustJuly-September 2010 :: 147

1, 1933. Father Alibux was familiar withthe cinematic world, playing harmoniumand writing nazms. Occasionally, he wasoffered some mediocre roles. However,he could not carve out a potential placethat could sustain his family and hishousehold. Wife ‘Iqbal Bano’ was a stageperformer. Very few people know, infact, that ‘Prabhavati’ also knows as ‘IqbalBano’, the mother of ‘Meena Kumari’,hailed from the family of Rabindra NathThakur. Her mother Hemsundari wasmarried into this family. When herhusband died, she had to step out ofthe four walls. For survival of life, shehad to enter the world of dance and drama.Alibux and Iqbal Bano were privilegedthat they lived close to Rooptara studio,where they used to send the elderdaughter ‘Khursheed’ as a child artist.Having come of age, now she stoppedgetting work. Then, the mother startedtaking ‘Mehjabeen’ along with her. Thechild of six years wished to go to school,but her wishes could not prevail.She debuted as ‘Baby Meena Kumari’in Farjande Vatan, a film by DigvijayBhatt. Her role in the scene was notto utter anything as she was supposedto let a cat lick her cheeks silently.The child shrieked in fear. But grippedwith another stronger fear of the wrathof the mother, she completed the scene.At such a tender age, she could notmake out anything of acting. There wasa film in which she had to call out someoneas ‘father’. Baby Meena said many timesthat the person before her was not herfather. The role of brother was alsobeyond her understanding. She had nobrother of her own. And if the fellowout there was her brother, why did henot live at her home with them?The pain of not having attended aschool for education pinched her allthrough her life. At an age when kidsgo to school, enjoy themselves, whentheir pains and pleasures affect the prideand happiness of their parents, BabyMeena Kumari delivered dialogues givenby directors unknown to her, wearingartificial smiles and shedding glycerinetears. While talking to PresidentRadhakrishnan much later she had said—”Poverty never condoned me from lifeof destitution and want. The beautifulyears of education passed in vain forme.”Post shooting in the evening time,she would invariably enjoy the fun andfrolics of childhood with sisters at home.Her elder sister recalls how they allwould say that Munna (nickname) washaunted by some spirit; how she wouldscare them all, wearing rags of clotheslike a rosary round her neck. How once,when she asked her to do some domesticchores, she smashed her (sister’s) thumbin sheer mischief during grinding turmericon a ‘sill’, and then she wept so bitterlyherself, that all rushed to her rescue,rather than her sister’s. Her sister’sbleeding thumb was noticed later. Amaster was there who would teach herEnglish. After the teacher would leave,she would play a teacher herself forcing148 :: July-September 2010

them all to learn by rote; say MAT—mat. If the sister did not say, she wouldthreaten. Even when she was grown upenough, she would play hide and seek,hiding herself behind the closed doors,and then she would weep. Then she wouldcome after a while and fight, “why didn’tsomeone come to find me.”Films such as ‘Ganesh Mahima’ or‘Veer Ghatotkach’ and ‘Aladin and thewonderful lamp’, with which MeenaKumari started her career, were legendaryin nature. It was ‘Baiju Bawra’ with BharatBhushan as its hero that fetched herthe ultimate renown as an actress.Released in 1952 this film ran for ahundred weeks. She got ‘best actress’award in 1953, and her price soaredto rupees 1 lakh from a paltry rupees15,000. Meena Kumari had a narrowescape from drowning during theshooting of this film. During thepicturisation of the song ‘tu ganga kimauj mai Jamuna ka dhaara’ her boatwas trapped in a whirlpool. Many peoplefrom among the unit jumped into thelake and she was rescued. In films suchas ‘Dayraa’ and ‘Parineeta’ she playedthe roles of conventional Indian woman,as an embodiment of sacrifice, soalluringly that it become her own identity.In ‘Dayraa’ we have a 16 year old girlin the service of her ailing husband whois old enough to be her grandfather.the dialogues were fewer, but her eyesspoke a lot of her pain. In ‘Sharda’,‘Ek Hi Raasta’, ‘Aarti’, ‘Dil Apnaa aurPreet Parayee’ she played the roles ofthe same docile woman suffering in meeksilence which qualified her to be morepopularly known as ‘Tragedy Queen’. Shealso played some comic rolesoccasionally, such as in Azad andKohinoor. ‘Mai Chup Rahungi’, ‘Aarti’,‘Dil Ek Mandir’, ‘Kajal’, ‘Phool aur Pathar’fetched Meena Kumari awards in quicksuccession.‘Parineeta’, ‘Saheb, Biwi aur Gulam’and ‘Chitralekha’ are novels that areknown to be classics of Hindi and Banglaliterature. Meena Kumari breathed lifeinto the roles of ‘Lalita’, ‘Choti Bahu’and ‘Chitralekha’. Blessed with physicalcharm externally and cerebral eleganceinternally, she was a poetess at heart.That is why, she could infuse life intothe imaginative projections ofSharatchandra, Vimal Mitra and BhagwatiCharan Verma.Production of ‘Pakeeza’ that beganin 1958 had to be packed up halfway.Her separation with Kamal Amarohinotwithstanding, Meena Kumari decidedto restart the production. The blatantrejection by society, of a dancer andprostitute has been filmed verysensitively. Ghulam Muhammad’s music,Kamaal Amarohi’s dialogues and theportrayal of Muslim society, togethertake the art form to its zenith. MeenaKumari had grown very feeble. So muchso that she would collapse when dancingto the tune of, ‘Thade Rahio’ and ‘Sareraah chalte chalte.’ Kamaal Amarohiwould make her sit in front of him totake close-ups so that the danceJuly-September 2010 :: 149

performance could be taken from PadmaKhanna. Meena Kumari, even in thisweakness, helped Padma rehearse herwalking style upto her own satisfaction.Meena Kumari herself had designed thecostumes of ‘Pakeeza’. The Film wasreleased on February 4, 1972. The filmreceived a cold response. Death laid itsicy hands on Meena Kumari in SaintElizabeth Nursing Home on 31 st March1972 at 3:25. The film became sucha huge hit as the news of her deathbroke out that it looked as if peoplewere desperate to have one farewelglimpse of the departing Meena Kumari;who knows afterall whether or not theywill get an opportunity again to see herface.Having reached a certain height ofart, most artists find themselvesautomatically associated with scandalstrue and false. Meena Kumari was noexception to it. The pages in her diarycast light on her personality. Childrenwho are rejected since their very birth,who are pushed into strenuous workare like bonded labourers, who havestepped the ladder of innocent childhoodamidst false glamour away from the cozyambience of family life, who have beenvictims of lustful predators from theirown acquaintances, are injured for theirlife time, gripped with the feeling ofinsecurity.On one occasion, during a meetingwith film journalist Narendra Rajguru,Meena Kumari had given details of theindecent advances of director Mehboob.During the shoot of ‘Amar’, Meena Kumarifound his misdemeanours too excessiveto put up with. When she rebuked himnaggingly, she was expelled from thefilm, and Madhubala was called in tosupersede her. The feeling of revengedid not subside even after this, andMehboob in league with Zia Sarahadithe director of ‘Footpath’, hatched aconspiracy. A scene was devised in thefilm where Dilip Kumar was to slap MeenaKumari in her face. So many ‘retakes’were taken for the scene that herbludgeoned face swell. Jankidas, acharacter artist, had disclosed toNarendra Rajguru that Meena Kumarihad been a victim of rape when shewas 11 years old. (Dard ki khuli Kitab/Rajguru)Once Meena Kumari’s arm wasseriously injured in a car accident whenshe was on her way back fromMahabaleshwar, and her fingers weresmashed. In every film after the accidentshe would wrap her injured fingers verynimbly with her dupatta or the palluof her sari. When some one asked heronce about how her fingers were injuredshe replied, “This is only the fingers,I have given away my whole life tofilms.”It was during these days when KamaalAmarohi dropped in at the hospital tosee her. Meena fell for him at this gestureof affection. Against the will of the parentsshe married him furtively, when she was21 years and he was double her age.They fondly nicknamed each other as150 :: July-September 2010

‘Chandar’ and ‘Manju’. Meena Kumarishowered a lot of affection on Tajdar,the youngest son of Kamaal Amarohi.He still recalls fondly how he had goneto his Abba for a short trip of 15 daysand when Chhoti Amma would not lethim return till one and a half years.The marriage lasted for 13 years.There was no clue regarding how thespouses were distanced from each other.His envy with the growing fame of MeenaKumari, his capricious attempts to governher life forging his rights of superiorityas a husband, and Meena Kumari’s owninsatiable thirst for love, all these togetherturned the love between Chandar andManju into hatred and animosityWriter Madhup Sharma (Aakhri AdhaiDin) has referred to the excesses of KamaalAmarohi. Meena’s wish to experiencemotherhood remained unfulfilled becauseKamaal Amarohi was not prepared forthis. When she conceived once, he tookher to a doctor on the pretext ofcounselling. She was injected and abortedin unconsciousness. When Meenaconceived a second time, she kept ita secret for five months as KamaalAmarohi had started living inMahabaleshwar in the name of scriptwriting.Though he had deployed amanager named ‘Wakar’ to keep espionageon her — to note the people she wouldmeet, the places she would go — andhe was briefed about each and everydetail. This time when he returned hecaught hold of her hair, and draggedher down from the palang, beating hermercilessly till she fainted. He also hadher thrashed by his agent ‘Wakar’. Hetold the doctors in hospital that sheslipped in the bathroom many times,and therefore, was injured. When MeenaKumari gained her consciousness, shecame to know that her desire to bea ‘complete woman’ was crushed again.She was a champion of man-womanequality. Meena, in spite of herpropensity to fight for her rights,withstood all this atrocity in silentresignation. If she would be late fromshooting, Kamaal Amrohi would beat heragain with a flog and she would collapseinto injury and pain. But the very nextday she would resume her shooting asper schedule. And those who knew itwould be left with their eyes wide open.On one such occasion, Meena Kumarigrabbed the flog in her palm and herwhipping husband was all disbelief athis wife’s audacity. Vigilance on her wasstrengthened. Wakar would stand at thedoorway of her make up room. Oncehe prevented ‘Gulzaar’ from entering in.Meena ran out to hear the scuffle. Whenshe rebuked ‘Wakar’ to know his limitsand behave accordingly, Wakar slappedher in the face in front of all present.She did not go back to her home thatday, rather she went to her BehnoiMahmood’s home for shelter. KamaalAmarohi came up with many overturesof persuasion, but things had crossedtheir limits.Did divorce take place between thehusband and the wife? According toJuly-September 2010 :: 151

Meena Kumari–“Taqdeer ne mara wo patthar,meri kanch ki duniya toot gayee.”(The stone of my destiny shatteredthe marble hopes of my world)Kamaal Amarohi and his son rejectthis version of divorce outright. MeenaKumari did not mention either of thetwo in her will. Her last rites were,however, performed in line with thewishes of Kamaal Amarohi, and she wasburied into the place of her choice. Allrituals were performed in conformitywith ‘Shia’ community’s conventions.Kamaal Amarohi’s claims of ownershipon Meena Kumari are grounded in this.He also claimed that he could haveinvalidated her will in the capacity ofher husband, but that he kept silentgiving respect to her wishes. MeenaKumari completed ‘Pakeeza’ withwhatever power was left in her bodyeven after being estranged from herhusband. She did not want KamaalAmarohi to bear any loss on accountof her.While talking of love, She had saidonce“I tasted the honey of love in thelap of my mother, thereafter my shareof love in life was evaporated and waslost in the farthest skies.”Spicy stories of Meena Kumari’sfondness for Bharat Bhushan, PradeepKumar and Dharmendra were talked aboutnotoriously in the world of films andmagazines. Curious Journalists lookingfor spicy news made much fuss aboutthese rumours. Some even dared tochristen her ‘nymphomaniac’ because ofher lust for insatiable love.Dharmendra was a new artist. MeenaKumari tried her utmost to help himsucceed. She believed that “when a newlyborn baby learns to walk, his toddlingsteps need the support of an elder’sfingers. Every artist coming to filmindustry is like that newly born; he getsfirm footing when someone extends hishelp to him.”Having attained success once,Dharmendra sidelined the supportinghand. After all, he was married. MeenaKumari would have written these linesunder similar situations:‘Hans–hans ke Jawan dil ke humkyon na chune tukdeHar shakhsa ki kismet me inaam nahihota.’(Why won’t I pick the ruins of myheart and yet smile,Reward can’t be, after all, the kismetof all rank and file.)‘Tukde-tukde din beeta, dhajjeedhajeeraat milee.Jitna Jiska aanchal tha, utni hi saugatmilee.’(We lived our days in fractions, wehad our patched nights,We all had our endowments, thoughwith our fated rights.)Bitter experiences of her life endowed152 :: July-September 2010

eauty, delicacy and sweetness to hertongue, behavior and her overallpersonality. She never foul mouthedanyone. She was always the Meena Didiin the studio. She called everyone bytheir names, be it lightman, waiter oranyone else. People would remainwonderstruck to find her prodigiousmemory remembering so many namestogether. At their surprise she wouldlaugh and say, “If I can cram the dialoguesof Khalil Saheb, then what is so specialabout these small names.” She lovedto address Nargis as ‘Baaji’. who extendedher solacing shoulder to the aggrievedMeena Kumari whenever she needed it.Narendra Rajguru has underscoredsome idiosyncrasies of Meena Kumari’snature. If someone, for instance,happened to touch her evenunintentionally, she would immediatelyretaliate by touching them back in thesame part of the body. She believedthat all her diseases would pass on tothe person whose nose she would touchfirst.She was so fond of eating stale roti,cooked the previous night, with greenchilly that she would weep like a littlechild if she were not given the samein the morning.She was an all time Samaritan. Inan instance, a man asked her for 500rupees for the treatment of his daughter.She gave away 5000/- rupees. Howironical that, on the death of such amagnanimous and bountiful princess,there was no money in the account forthe payment of hospital bills. It wasDr. K.M. Shah who paid on her behalf.“Live or die whatever I must, it willbe only by your hands Doctor.” Shewould say to him. It still pains himto recall that he could not save herfrom the disease of ‘liver cirrohsis’. Sucha fatal disease was coupled with equallydangerous habits of Meena Kumari. Shenever took a ‘paan’ without ‘zarda’, whenspicy meat and wine joined the fray,the trio destroyed her heart irrevocably.Often she would remove the oxygen pipefrom her face and say, “Jara paan kigilori dena.”If Meena Kumari were not an actress,she would have been a complete Shaira(Urdu poetess). She always consideredthe art of poetry superior to acting.“This acting that I do has one disadvantageabout it — this art was not born inme from within the imagination. Theconcept belongs to one person, thecharacter to another, script to a differentwriter, and the direction to someoneelse. Only what I write is originally bornfrom within me, representing what I wishto say.” In her will Meena Kumari hasentrusted Gulzaar with the onus of gettingher nazms (songs) and diaries published.Gulzar still wonders why he was chosenfor it, though he carried out theresponsibility very well.In fact, her poetic couplets, and lyricsare attempts to give voice to pain. Thepain that had thawed in her heart likea Himalaya, and melted out like a riverJuly-September 2010 :: 153

in the streams of nazms. She was adreamer by instinct. She would say, “Iwould catch every star of the milky way.”How unfortunate that there was not evena single shining star in her share oflife. But this could not prevent her fromdreaming.“I weave dreams. I embrace themand go to sleep.I join them in their fanciful flights,and wander across the unlimited skies.”She was a self-annihilating womanwho had taken pain as the sole objectof her life, heading towards it withdeliberate steps, like a ‘thorn bird’ thatsings sweet melodies, though itself sittingon some thorny plant piercing everypore of its soft existence, and bleeding.“Chand tanha hai, aasma tanhaDil, mila hai kahan kahan tanhaRaah dekha karega sadiyon takchhod jayenge ye jahan tanha.”(The moon is lonely, and the skya wildernessAnd all along this heart has beenaloneThe world will look for me downthe ages, butI will leave it for good, and leaveit all alone.)Courtesy: Kadambini monthlyKanan Jhingan, born 1938, Karachi (undivided India), educated andworked at Delhi. Kanan was reader in Hindi at Daulat Ram College,University of Delhi from 1961 to 2003. Author of seven books, shespecialises in writing on films and philosophy. Kanan lives in Rohini,Delhi.Ghanshyam Sharma, is rajbhasha adhikari and deputy manager, StateBank of Hyderabad. He translates from Hindi to English. He lives inNew Delhi.154 :: July-September 2010

Book ReviewABBU NE KAHA THA: STORIESUNPACKING SWAG OF PANGSRohini AgrawalTranslated bySanjay DevThe evaluation of literary contribution of storyteller Chandrakantawho carved out a special niche in Hindi storytelling by poignantlydepicting the sufferings of Kashmiri migrants, is particularly importantfrom two angles. One, for an attempt at capturing the woman’sdestiny, pains and imagination by taking them beyond their immediate,routine surroundings and judging them in the context of stark,subjective, politically and socially sensitive situations, where sheencounters more the grotesque, horrific faces, activities andapprehensions than the experiences restricted to the safe confinesof her home and family. And two, for the evaluation of bodyblow to Kashmir which remains ever fragile because of internationalpolitical equations. Thus the ambit of Chandrakanta’s concernsis wider, so much so that it stretches beyond the known femininecaustic writing and conventional prescription for communalopposition. May be today poet Agnishekhar, story teller SanjanaKaul and Kshama Sharma may have registered their presence inHindi literature, but it was Chandrakanta who first took up thegauntlet of presenting the Kashmir problem, passing through criticalphase in the turbulent eighties, with courage and stout convictions.This socio-political, cultural journey of Chadrakanta reaches itsculmination in Katha Satisar, a voluminous novel conferring Vyasaward on which is as if the intelligentsia underscores the densityof and demand for solution to the Kashmir problem. The journeyJuly-September 2010 :: 155

is made via novels like ‘Eilan Gali JindaHai’, Jahan Vitasta Bahti Hai and spansnumerous stories. Chandrakanta’s recentstory collection, ‘Abbu ne kaha tha’ isan extension of the sensibility depictedin ‘Katha Satisar’. A collection of elevenstories, this book touches and moveshuman sensibilities from various angles.While from factual viewpoint, thesestories provide a glimpse into thetormented, alienated mindset tornbetween one’s own and aliens in theutterly impersonal and informal climateof foreign soil, they also keep introducingus to the dying, innocent, humanintimacies turning into victims ofnefarious designs born of terroristinsurrections, political chicanery andblinding cavern of selfishness within thecountry’s borders. In fact the diversityof Chandrakanta’s story writing is theperiodic extension of the same situationthat is unavoidable and urgent. ‘Abbune kaha tha’, ‘Shayad Sanvad’, Jalkundka rang aur Nusrat ki aankh’ and ‘Lajawab’these four stories bring alive the sufferingsof bruised ego, shattered dreams anddisorientation of Kashmiri Pandits’ livesin exile. Ending up at a dead end, thesestories make the situation pitiable andhorrific; complex and unresolvable bydepicting the sufferings as desperation;bruised ego as martyrdom and shardsof shattered dreams as petrifiedmelancholy. A stubborn situation ofmaking dialogue impossible despite desireto hold one, where nobody is allowedto open the blocked doors of pact oragreement, peace or brotherhood.Of course, the pangs of displacementare sharp as needles, sharpening therealization of having been renderedrootless and rudderless. Don’t the samepangs offer the reasoned passion to unitehumanity, know the core of humanityand play a human innings full of humanresponsibilities? Unlike the ‘indian’ refugeewho migrated to northen india uponbeing displaced from Punjab in Pakistanfollowing drawing of new geographicalborders during 1947 partition? They livedevery bit of having been robbed andbeaten, terror and everything, themoments and shades of them all, withoutletting their beings get subsumed bythe riverine flow of time. They pickedthemselves up, dusting off everysuggestion of grudge and rankle, evolvedthemselves anew, and made themselvesnecessary in changed state of affairs andenvironment. This is the way civilizationsget on, and shape past by putting italongside new changes in the name ofculture. Whatever in present is ourown;what lies beneath our feet is ourhome. The resilient human strength ofaligning doesn’t stay anchored toancestral soil, smell, air and other boons,rather it extends the symbolic homeand keep spreading humanity. Storiesof Chandrakanta deeply underline thecharacteristic structure and obviousdistinctness of Kashmiri migrants andPunjabi refugees. Nostalgia emerges asthe leitmotif in Chandrakanta’s entirewritings and what remains is an attempt156 :: July-September 2010

at justifying it. As the female protagonistsin ‘Jalkund ka rang and Nusrat ki Aankh’get back to grandeur of Kashmir valley,don’t they have reasons to rejoice? Theyhave justified reason to rejoice as theyrecall” I have passionately loved everynook and corner of the valley; havecried with falling leaves and kept dancingwith the smell of rejoice. The feelingof insouciance coming from” May theplains welcome those..whose..” is alsojustified, so what if this feeling was tingedwith shade of contempt? Contempt isin fact a projection of our insolent egothat tries to prove itself to be superiorby getting entrenched. “ The air of plainsonly robs the face of glow…with usKashmiris, neither air of plains, nor wateragree; and as food, what ? Dal, Roti,Bhindi, Tinde. Oh, Allah don’t have metell a lie, I feel a certain dryness. Ampining for my ‘hakh bat’. And moreoverit is hot. Ajhad bile, itchiness, oh no.As if someone has nettled with‘bicchubuti’. Besides there is also thisfeeling of having the distance stretchedby alluding to maintaining a certaindistance with ‘other’. In such a case,aloofness born of isolation is notwholesome matter, it wears thick withthe sense of insecurity and stress.Whether it is master Ratanlal, heldhaplessly captive by terrorists in ‘Abbune kaha tha’ or the oldie Neelkant whohas returned to the valley upon gettingreleased from Jammu refugee camp aftera twelve- year gap, in search of theirroots,relations, home land and sense ofbelonging, both have found in the valleyonly killing, estrangement, chilling silenceand life creeping in the dense, blacketernal abyss. One can derive the pleasureof creating a sharp contrast by placingthe picture of throbbing, vibrant,soft,verdure of the valley against thisdrab, dreary scenario, but those salutaryhuman options cannot be explored whichimplant new life in the parched existenceof Hiroshima tragedy. Perhaps the writerin Chandrakanta doesn’t want to see thisside as she herself wants to play-actthe part and live in nostalgia to keepher sufferings alive. Perhaps she isfamiliar with her emotional weakness,therefore particularly in story collection‘Abbu ne kaha tha’ she rises above thelamenting emotionality and createscharacters like Nusrat (Jalkund ka rangaur Nusrat ki aankh) andRahamatullah(Shayad Sanvad) andFatima(Abbu ne kaha tha) who unlikedisplaced pandits are facing the curseof terrorism, and coming in for a lotof flak as terrorists from internationalcommunity.The pangs and sufferings of thedisplaced Kashmiris of this remarkablestory bear a wonderful parallel withisolation of the Indian family in the story‘Raat mein sagar......Since there are ourphysical compulsions behind the optedisolation in America, it becomes easierto lacerate the isolation-encouragingAmerican culture in place of momentaryfoolhardiness of returning to one’s roots.Taking recourse to minute observationJuly-September 2010 :: 157

in an imaginatively artistic way, the waythe authoress has captured the loneliness,compulsion and guilt-conscience of man,is indeed commendable. The dying humanrelations in pursuit of mirage of materialcomforts in today’s globalized era, presenta supplementary on Kashmir problemwhere human relations have little valuein fulfilment of one’s supremacy andexistence.But the authoress wants to maintainthe beauty and strength of humanrelations in all her stories. She feelshurt that towering ego of the individualwants to trample each moment of thisboon of human life. Whether it is storylike’Lagatar Yuddha” or ‘Is daud meinkahani; ‘Puraskar’ or ‘Sapne mein Gulab’-somewhere the feudal structure inmarriage institution has trampled thewoman’s existence; elsewhere red tapehas broken man’s ego. Feudalism existsnot only within the system, but deepinside man too. It finds echo in placation,sycophancy and nepotism, and togetherthey take no time to trample a talentthat dares to stand on its own.Thus thestory ‘Puraskar’ turns into an attemptto trace the origin and solution of allproblems of human society.Among the interesting stories of thecollection, two stories ‘Lagatar Yuddha’and ‘Chuppi ki dhun’ need mention. Thestory ‘Lagatar Yuddha’ attempts to revealthe cracks within a happy, successfuland wealthy divorcee, and belittle herentire achievements, history of triumphs,in the same breath. Evaluated fromfeminist viewpoint, this story can possiblybe considered a misogynist story butwhat is required is to psyche out whatall goes on in the mind of a woman,or for that matter, any reasonable manis not any ‘ism’ or ideology, rather areasonable human insight. Who wouldn’twant to live a fulfilled life of mutualharmony, consent and intimacy? Whowouldn’t want to resist the unwantedbrutal invasion of feudal, domineeringforces on one’s self respect? Who wouldn’twant to establish one’s own self in thebattle of existence. Who wouldn’t wantto shape future to strengthen the groundbeneath one’s feet? Having been brokennobody wants to suffer the pains of selfexilein isolation, but if left with nooption, if the suffering comes to one’slot why not make it one’s strength?Gurpreet of ‘Laughter Yuddha’ couldn’tfree herself of the horrendous memoriesof her husband despite shaking off thebrutalities of her husband, but she isso conscious that she doesn’t allow herselfto be a poor dab even after sheddingblood. It is this positive assertivenessof hers that finds creative expressionin doing excellent work. Thisassertiveness makes this story includingGurpreet special and different from otherKashmir-centric stories. The obstinacyto live on one’s own conditions againstthe piercing adversities; the obstinacyto make one’s surroundings full of lifeand carefree.‘Chuppi ki dhun” is not a superficiallove story, rather it is a mature story158 :: July-September 2010

suggesting the kernel of love. Love isneither stark attraction, nor oblivion ofself. Love is the main factor of deliverance.But with the ultra-mundane feeling ofdeliverance, it links the glorious senseof man’s resposibility towards humanityto a tenuous link of intimate relations;it is here that fetters and deliverance,relation and interaction lose theirphysical meaning and start creating anew lexicon. Here silence speaks;distances unite, and absence makes itpresence felt every moment andpermeates the existence of the loverto every part of the beloved.All told, this story collection ofChandrakanta is worth reading.Repeating the momentum and style ofthe author’s writing for which she isknown!Rohini Agrawal : born 1959, Emerging as an important literary critic,Rohini has written widely on contemporary Hindi fiction. She is professorof Hindi at Rohtak University.Sanjay Dev, born 1964 hails from Jaipur. Has a master’s in Englishliterature and a bachelor’s in journalism. As a free-lancer, publishedin various national dailies. Has 20 years experience in translation.Works as Editor for Parliament of India. Resides in Delhi.July-September 2010 :: 159

CONTRIBUTORS’ ADDRESSES1. Neelabh : 219, Bhagat Colony, Block A/2, West Sant Nagar,Delhi-1100842. Jairatan : C-12/14, DLF City, Phase-I, Gurgaon-1220023. Badri Narayan : G.B. Pant Social Science Institute, Allahabad4. Mausumi Mazumdar : G.B. Pant Social Science Institute, Allahabad5. Ravinandan Sinha : 202, Preeti Enclave, Chandni Chowk, Kanke RoadRanchi-8340086. Mridula Garg : E-421, Ground Floor, Greater Kailash-II,New Delhi-1100487. Seem Segal : C-2/4061, Eros Garden, Charmwood Village Road,Faridabad, Haryana-1210098. Subhash Sharma : D-71, Nivedita Kunj, R.K. Puram, Sector-10New Delhi-110 0229. Bharat Bharadwaj : C-60, I Floor Shivalik, Malviya Nagar,New Delhi-11001710. Ravindra Mishra : A-26, Shakti Apartments, Sector-9, RohiniDelhi-11008511. Manoj Rupra : Rabnoor, Plot No. 165, Christian Colony, Bhikoos Bagh,Nagpur, Maharashtra12. Dhiraj Singh : 1/7D, Block C, III Floor Express View HIG Flats,Sector 105, Noida-20130413. Rohini Agrawal : 258, Housing Board Colony, Rohtak-124001(Haryana)14. Manisha Kulshreshtha : manisha@hindinest.com15. Ishita Siddhartha : 537/121, Puraniya, Near Railway Crossing,Aliganj, Lucknow-22602416. Sanjay Dev : A-9/38, Sector-18, Rohini, Delhi – 110085 Mob: 997100816517. Kashinath Singh : B-61, Brij Enclave Colony, Sundarpur, Varanasi (U.P.)18. Minu Manjari : C/o Sri Vinod Anupam, B-53, Sachivalay Colony, KnkarbaghPatna – 800 020; Tel - 0983569955819. Ghanshyam Sharma : Deputy Manager, State Bank of Hyderabad,Karol Bagh Branch Delhi20. Prof. Satya Chaitanya : 151 New Baradwari, Jamshedpur 831001.21. S.S. Toshkhani : Flat 8050 D-8, Vasant Kunj, New Delhi22. Kanan Jhingan : 48 Swastik Kunj, Sector 13, Rohini, Delhi-110085160 :: July-September 2010