The father, who is nearing the end of his life in this world, gave me his winter jacket. A black jacket he once wore with style, on which thick snowflakes piled on cold shoulders, a jacket that warmed itself by the stove in a soup restaurant.
A jacket with mismatched buttons, worn through a life marked by crooked paths, Unable to rest peacefully at the center of the universe, tossing and turning like a migratory bird that had lost its way, wandering through unfamiliar lands, spending sleepless nights in the cold. So that I may spend my winters warmly, so that I may button my life neatly and live upright, my father handed me his jacket, like an offering of regret. In the early winter that chills the heart again and again, wearing my father’s outdated winter jacket, I briefly trace the worn path of his difficult life.
Ihlwha Choi is a South Korean poet. He has published multiple poetry collections, such as Until the Time When Our Love will Flourish, The Color of Time, His Song and The Last Rehearsal.
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In the town of Kalyanapuram, there lived a wealthy man named Raghav. He had a daughter of marriageable age and was seeking a suitable groom for her.
Once, while Raghav was traveling to a nearby village called Bangaru Palem to explore a possible marriage alliance, he met Anand on the way. Anand introduced himself, saying he was from Machavaram village, well-educated, settled in business, and unmarried.
Raghav thought that Anand might make a good son-in-law, but he decided to test his intelligence and character before making a decision.
As they were traveling, the heat of the sun intensified, and Raghav felt thirsty. He asked a passerby, “Is there a well or a pond nearby?” The man pointed to a pond and said, “You can quench your thirst at that pond.”
Anand asked the man, “Is the pond water poisonous or life-giving?” The man replied, “I don’t know.” Raghav went ahead and drank the water from the pond. He thought to himself, “What a strange question Anand asked! Is he a fool?”
After some distance, two more travelers joined them. One was a farmer, and the other was a moneylender. The farmer was going to a neighbouring village to buy cattle, and the moneylender was on his way to collect old debts.
Anand asked the farmer, “Are you a provider of food or just greedy?” The farmer remained silent, unsure of how to respond. Then, Anand turned to the moneylender and asked, “Do you care for people’s well-being or just focus on squeezing them dry?” The moneylender also remained silent. Raghav now firmly believed Anand was indeed a madman and thought, “There’s no way I can accept him as my son-in-law.”
Even though Raghav continued walking with Anand, he kept his distance, disliking the way Anand spoke. The other two travelers also found Anand’s words odd and wanted to get rid of him as soon as possible.
A little further into the journey, it was noon, and the group felt hungry. They sat under a tree, unpacked their food, and began to eat. But Anand’s attention was drawn to a nearby bush. “It’s not safe to sit here. Let’s move away immediately,” Anand warned.
The other three ignored him and said, “We will eat here. If you don’t like it, go wherever you wish.” But Anand insisted, “I’m saying this for your safety. I sense a dangerous snake nearby. If we don’t leave quickly, it could be a threat.”
Raghav mocked him, “Did the snake come and tell you this in a dream? Or do you have some magical powers?”
Anand pointed to a snake’s skin near the bush and said, “Look at that freshly shed snakeskin. It’s about fourteen feet long and thick, which indicates the size of the snake. It must be nearby. I’m warning you based on this evidence.”
As soon as Anand finished speaking, the farmer screamed, “Look! There it is! The snake is coming toward us, just as Anand said.” In no time, all four ran far away to a safe place and had their meal.
Raghav ’s opinion about Anand began to change. He realised Anand wasn’t mad after all. However, Raghav was still curious why Anand had asked those strange questions earlier.
He asked Anand, “You seem to be a wise man. Why did you ask if the pond water was life-giving or poisonous?”
Anand replied, “Even if the water looks clean, it could be filled with dirt or dangerous creatures like crocodiles, which would make it deadly. On the other hand, water from a safe, clean source sustains life, making it like nectar. That’s why I asked.”
Next, Raghav asked, “Why did you ask the farmer if he was a provider of food or just greedy?”
Anand explained, “A farmer who grows food crops feeds others, so, he’s a provider of food. But if he only grows cash crops for profit, he is driven by greed. That’s why I asked.”
Hearing this, the farmer proudly declared, “I am certainly a provider of food!”
Then Raghav asked, “What was the meaning behind your question to the moneylender—whether he cared for people or just squeezed them dry?”
Anand replied, “There are two kinds of moneylenders. Those who consider the financial situation of the borrower and give them time to repay with understanding — they care for people. But those who are ruthless and demand repayment no matter what, are only focused on taking money and are like a burden on people’s backs. That’s why I asked.”
The moneylender, realising the wisdom in Anand’s words, said, “I am definitely the kind who cares for people!”
With all his doubts cleared, Raghav invited Anand to his home and expressed his desire to make him his son-in-law.
Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.
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My grandfather lies at the foot of an oak far from the beaten path, and never before has a spirit so free lain fettered in sleep.
But although he lies and walks no more, I see his eyes in the setting of the sun and I hear his voice when the sap runs, for these are an old man's hills.
Don't tell me the government "owns" them, for the government didn't live them and breathe them and know them— only he did.
Don't tell me the government "regulates" them, when seventy years of his sweat and his blood and his tears flow through the waters of these hills to nourish the trees ...
No, these are an old man's hills.
No one knew them as he did— every hole where the woodchucks hid, every nest where the blue jays lived— and nobody loved them as much as he loved them.
Only he cared when the flood waters killed the tiny buds and the blades of grass that grew beyond the fields.
And only he cared when the last bear died, caught killing livestock. "The oldest bear ever lived," he'd brag, "and the smartest." Though we'd often hear it trip and crash against the trash cans.
These are an old man's hills, and they will never be the same without his loving hand gently transplanting shrubs and trees that otherwise would have died in the rocky, shopworn land.
Yes, these are an old man's hills, and his eyes were the blue of the autumn skies he knew so well even after he went blind.
"There's a few wispy clouds to the west today, fadin' away, ain't they, boy?" he'd ask me, and of course he was right. "Sure are, 'pa," I'd reply, and a smile would crease his face and a warmth would pour out of his soul, for he loved his hills.
Don't say that someday the wind and the rain will weather away his mark from the land— the well that he dug and the wall that he built and the fields that he planted with his two callused hands.
A memory cannot wither away when it’s reborn in the songs of the raucous jays and heard within the laughing waters of the sea's silver daughters.
An old man lives within these hills, although he walks no more; I have often heard his voice within the winter's stormy snore; and I’ve seen his eyes flash, sometimes, in the bluest summer sky; and I’ve heard his knowing laughter in my newborn baby's cry.
Michael R. Burch’s poems have been published by hundreds of literary journals, taught in high schools and colleges, translated into fourteen languages, incorporated into three plays and two operas, and set to music by seventeen composers.
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The summit of the hill was crowned with a grove of lofty trees. They had stood thus for centuries, opposing their columned strength against wind and storms, against the onslaught of tropical rainfall, even in spite of earth tremors that made them shiver with apprehension. Their crowns were interlaced, so that they must stand or fall together; it was an effective alliance against the forces of nature, which no single tree could hope to withstand.
Within the grove, where the buttressed trunks rose suddenly from the soft earth, stood an ancient shrine, a hermit’s cell with rough stone walls, and a little temple in whose dim recesses might be seen vaguely some symbol of a demon or god, unknown perhaps to the outside world, but appealing to the hearts of the jungle folk, who, suffering patiently as the animals suffer, like them also blindly sought relief. That rugged track, which led from the hill-top into the depth of the forest below, had been marked out by the feet of the notaries of the shrine, who each, as he left after supplication, cast a stone on the slowly growing mounds at the entrance to the grove.
From the hill-top the forest spread on all sides as far as the eye could reach, and it lost itself in the distant horizon where the purple outline of the hills faded into the azure of the evening sky. There was wave upon wave of hills covered with trees, so that the earth lay hidden, and down in the valleys one saw nothing but the crowns of trees forming an impenetrable carpet of foliage; only along the ridges the light filtered in vertical streaks through the closed-up ranks of tree trunks. If there were villages they were hidden in masses of trees; the forest engulfed them and reigned supreme in this lonely corner of the earth.
The sun sank, and the brilliant light of day was followed by the soft illumination of the stars. The forest became dim and indefinite amid an intense and motionless silence. There was no sound of wind, or of animal life; the dew had not begun to drip from the foliage, and each leaf was still as if arrested in its task. Yet there was no sense of fear or oppression: rather the atmosphere was charged with the vitality of countless millions of plants rejoicing in their growth, struggling against the competition of their neighbours, and seizing every chance which offered to reach towards the life-giving light.
At such a time there came upon any human being dwelling in the forest, first, a conviction of nature’s absolute indifference to his proceedings, and next, the peace conferred by personal irresponsibility, to which, if a man succumbs, he joins the vast army of hermits, religious mendicants, and other parasites; while, if he resists, he is left to work out a strenuous existence in conflict with the wild beasts and against the pressure of overwhelming vegetation.
As night drew on, the cooler air became charged with moisture and wrapped itself in mist. The leaves of the forest trees were weighted with the dampness they exuded; it no longer passed away in invisible vapour, but trickled earthwards in heavy splashes, like the sullen sound of mindless rain. From hundreds of miles of forest came the sound of dripping water in a ceaseless murmur, which increased the weirdness of the scene, and even served to make any other sound more distinct. Thus it was that a movement became audible in the distance, at first so slight as to be indistinguishable; it was as if foliage was being quietly brushed aside, as if the dew-laden grass was being crushed by a gentle yet irresistible force. Standing on the summit pf the hill, one looked down on a pass between the mountains, a curved saddle that invited to an easier passage from valley to valley. Over this low pass the waves of mist eddied to and fro, just as if each valley in turn filled with cloud and overflowed into the next.
From the depths below a herd of elephants were ascending the pass in single file and in silence. The leader, an old female, first appeared in sight, walking quickly along the narrow trail. Her trunk hung limply from her broad forehead, touching the earth lightly alternately to right and to left, and with instant precision the fore-foot was placed on the spot which had been tested, and the oval print of the hind-foot immediately overlapped the rounder track. She passed through the eddies of fog, which at times seemed to swallow her up, at others allowed but the glistening outline of her back to become visible; or again hid all but the ponderous legs which moved with regularity through the dim air.
Following, came others who seemed careless of danger through confidence in their leader. Each set foot in the trail of its predecessor, so that soon there was but one track sunk deep in the soft earth, as if some old-time mammoth of enormous size had passed that way. Females, young calves, youthful tuskers, all passed in succession, each rising into sight and disappearing over the narrow pass, plunged into obscurity on the further side. There was silence in the ranks, for the animals were on the march, intent on changing their quarters ere dawn should break. They might have been so travelling for hours, and might continue their resistless way for many more ere they halted thirty or forty miles from their starting point.
Some hours later there was promise of daylight in the sky. The mist now lay thicker over the forest, it had sunk into impenetrable strata which rested heavily on the land. Above its sharp upper line the tops of hills stood out like islands in a sea of white; along the ridges the crowns of trees appeared as if floating in the waves, their stems were hidden in the fog. Again a movement was heard, and from below a single elephant approached, carelessly following in the trail of the herd.
About the Book
In the wild jungles of India, a tusker is born. Maula Bux—as he is later named—grows up loved and adored amongst his herd, learning all that a young calf must to become a majestic elephant. However, an unfortunate encounter with humans leads to his capture and he is sold. His mahout, Kareem, instantly takes a liking towards the tusker and considers him almost to be a brother. Maula Bux is courageous, agile and magnificent, and he and Kareem have many adventures together—from hauling timber deep in the forest to adrenaline-charged tiger chases. At his advancing age, Maula Bux is even appointed to carry an Indian Prince in procession!
Having spent much of his life in the jungles of India and Burma (now Myanmar) S. Eardley-Wilmot was a keen observer of wildlife and spoke out about the necessity to conserve India’s wild spaces and the mighty beings in them. The Life of an Elephant is a must-read for young and older readers alike—for it is not just an insightful story of one of nature’s noblest beings but also an important text about conservation, empathy, and the treatment of animals.
About the Author
S. Eardley-Wilmot (1852–1929) was a British civil servant, forestry officer and conservationist who worked primarily in India and Burma (now Myanmar) and served as Inspector-General of Forests. He joined the Indian Forest Service in 1873 and was appointed to the old North-West Provinces and Oudh region of colonial India. In recognition of his conservation-lead method and unorthodox approach to forestry in India and Burma, Eardley- Wilmot became a Knight Commander of Order of the Indian Empire in 1911.
Eardley-Wilmot’s published books include—Forest Life and Sports in India (1910), Leaves from Indian Forests (1930), and The Life of a Tiger and The Life of an Elephant (1933).
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Nusrat Jahan Esa muses on human nature keeping in mind Milton’s Paradise Lost
The Expulsion of Adam and Eve from Paradise by Benjamin West (1738-1820)
Just as dance unveils step by step moving each step towards a new movement to tell a story, so too does the forbidden thoughts. They dance like a flicker of shadow at the edge of our consciousness. They call us, not always with words, but with whispers that tempt, tantalise and stir the mind. To step closer is to cross a line, but is it not also inherently human? Do you think it is possible to categorise humans as purely good or evil?
I was struck by a sudden realisation, one that is not uncanny to my musings. Yet I had never tried to pose to myself. I was exploring the nexus between Satan’s allurement and criminal psychology with Paradise Lost (1677). But why were Adam and Eve ensnared by the temptation of Satan rather than the guidance offered by God? What is it that Satan bestows, and that God misses?
Human beings are frequently pigeonholed into two distinct categories: Good or Evil. To some extent, we may add nuances like “not-so-good” or “not-so-bad”. Yet can we truly define an individual as purely good or purely evil based on their face value? What if one nurtured the attraction of or bore malice, while concealing such tendencies from the world? How do we classify them, good, evil or somewhere in between? Do they forever exist somewhere in the shadowed space?
For instance, there exist a considerable number of individuals who are avid admirers of psychological thriller films, fictions, and documentary series. They appear to be not distasteful to scenes or words of bloodshed, dead bodies, and acts driven by vengeance. They find enjoyment from such scenes and words, and the visual or imagery feels entirely natural to them which astonishes me. So, why would these individuals refrain from imitating these actions in reality? If driven by vengeance, one of the seven deadly sins, why do not they resort to murder? It’s because they are confined with morality. These morals work as a barrier. It stops humans from evoking the sense of their inner darkness or denied feelings.
If one can suppress their repressed and dark desires, how then can they be lured by Satan’s allurement? Let’s say that we are constantly drawn to invitations. Why, then, do we not enthusiastically respond to God’s call? What is it that God fails to offer, while Satan has already taken the lead in his temptations? What thoughts crossed Eve’s mind before eating the forbidden fruit? Is it merely the word “no” that beckons us and draws us with irresistible allure? Or does Satan possess a unique technique to draw us in his magical world?
More importantly, can we truly call those who suppress their dark insides “good”? Or do we dare to believe that a person can possess completely good intentions both outside and inside, without any shadow lurking within?
Nusrat Jahan Esa is currently an undergraduate majoring in English literature at the University of Liberal Arts Bangladesh (ULAB). She writes on criminology, psychology, and education.
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I called you today after I was reminded it was Breast Cancer Awareness Month. You answered hurriedly and whispered like you do when you're in line at the market or Kohls. You were at your six-month checkup and would call me when you were done. It wouldn't be long, you said. Today, I worried your breast cancer came back, and you didn't want to tell me. Today, I worried you and Dad were home crying because you didn't know what else to do. Today, I worried I hadn't called or visited enough, and months had passed since I said, "I love you." Today, I worried the leaves are turning Thanksgiving colours, and I haven't driven the 45 minutes to see you since the summer. Today, my heart beat out of my chest with unyielding anxiety. I thought I would have to save your voicemails again like I did when you lost your hair so I could hear your voice whenever I wanted. Today, I worried I’d have to preserve your best ALL-CAPS texts in a safe place whenever I needed a chuckle. You said you would call, it wouldn't be long. I waited for one of your classic messages when you have nothing to say except that you're at home and Dad's at the gym, eventually and abruptly ending with OK, BYE. Today, I worried you would tell me you had breast cancer for the second time. Hours passed. My throat tightened and burned. Tears filled my eyes just enough to blur my vision. I called and you answered, breathless and happy. You were on the golf course with Dad. Everything went great, you said. OK BYE.
Michelle Hillman is a Boston-based freelance writer who lives with her husband, three children, two cats and a dog. She enjoys chaos and calm.
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Author: Afsar Mohammad (translated to Telugu by P Srinivas Goud as Upavaasa Padyaalu)
Publisher: Bodhi Foundation
In the best of poems, the barrier between word and prayer crumbles, and in the greatest of them, it is dissolved into a timeless song of being. To name a collection of poems Fasting Hymns would be one thing but to summon and craft poems out of the very act of fasting is to elevate both poetry and prayer to a level of transcendence that only be accomplished by a world vision of the human soul. A collection of thirty poems, Fasting Hymns is Afsar Mohammad’s second book of poetry and invites comparisons in its honest sublimity with Rumi, and in its political engagement with the sinewy Bhakti poetry of the Indian subcontinent.
The ritual of fasting is of great significance in many traditions of thought. Valorised as an act of cleansing, of virtuous self-abnegation, of rest, sacrifice, healing and strength, voluntary and compulsive fasting constitute an important element of practice in several religions of the world. In contrast to the acquisition of physical energy through the act of eating, the act of fasting is believed to produce spiritual energy while also making for the rejuvenation and sustainability of the resources of production, including the earth and the body. Just as home reminds us of homelessness, fasting reminds us of food, of nourishment, of the body, and of the ways in which the body is negated, abused, denied, violated, punished and decimated by most discourses of power.
Most importantly, fasting recalls its close kin—hunger, for while fasting is a voluntary act of deferring consumption, hunger is an enforced act of deprivation and a stern reminder of the rampant food-wars and strategic starvation that a large part of the world’s population is led to regularly undergo for political and economic reasons. Fasting Hymns contextualizes the act of fasting within the month-long holy fast of of Ramadan and in underlining the centrality of this fast to Islamic ethics and philosophy.
There is a tranquillity to the book’s appearance–a visual script that overlaps reality, hope, and dream as its thirty poems commemorate the thirty days of fasting in the Islamic calendar. A linear travel of the consciousness meets us here, heightening in poem after poem as it widens to embrace larger spaces of geography and spirit. With each advancing day of the roza or fast, the poems travel deeper, unearthing spirit from body, soaring from ‘I’ to ‘us’, granting and seeking the essential solidarity of existence:
The sunken moon like an empty stomach Praying for a piece of bread. (Poem 1)
This collection, as the reader will note, is as much a journey into the world of the self as it is into the self of the world. Each untitled poem here ranges between three lines to twelve and becomes a hymn not just by virtue of its length or in being written by a fasting body but in being written by a searching soul. As one travels through them, there is a gradual building up of compassionate force, a slow summoning of the resources of the self:
Fazar: I begin my self-talk Iftar: Not sure where my self-talk ends. If you can map my face, Time and space fail. (Poem 9)
One is struck by this intense vigilance on the soul, this consistent observation of its workings, and this thorough and starkly honest ransacking of its contents to discover what it holds. Religion and humanity confront one another with determination in these hymns, the poet content to let the greater force win:
Amma would say, “You earn ten nekis for Offering water to a Rozgar.”
What would Amma say if she knew an entire country was cut off from water and food during Ramadan? (Poem 17)
It is interesting to note that the Islamic holy month, in this book, is spelt in all its three major variants: Ramadan, Ramzan and Ramjan, pointing to the plural linguistic heritages of the Muslim community. However, what is assigned supreme value in these poems is not the ritualistic observation of fast but the profound spiritual experience that the month demands of its observers. The sharp interrogation of religion in the interests of humanity concludes, in this collection, with a complete subservience of the former to the latter. Between the first hymn and the last, the book covers a dense journey—physical, political, civilisational and human. There is no indignation in these poems, no overt moralising and no despair whatsoever. The book does not grieve an unliveable world or express helpless anger over its injustices. If anything, each of these thirty poems is a testimony to the spirit of human courage and endurance, its pace and measure acquired from a deep spiritual anchoring in the principles of humanity beyond religion:
I thought I know all my suras by heart. now, each verse is a stranger and, asks a hundred questions. (Poem 5)
If Afsar’s first collection of poems Evening with a Sufi sought to view the world through the Sufi gaze of oneness, these poems in Fasting Hymns seek to experience that oneness in the flesh and in the spirit through bonds of connection and empathy that the act of fasting fosters in the human body and soul. In Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence, Judith Butler talks about the “public dimension” of the body: “Constituted as a social phenomenon in the public sphere, my body is and is not mine. Given over from the start to the world of others, it bears their imprint, is formed within the crucible of social life; only later, and with some uncertainty, do I lay claim to my body as my own, if, in fact, I ever do.”
For Butler, the fact of physical vulnerability makes the body a shared public space, connected and accessible to others. This fact of vulnerability is also the focal point of Fasting Hymns that transforms blood into bread and vice-versa. Afsar reminds us how we pay for everything with the currency of the body—with hunger, disease, guilt, grief and how it is the body that ties us to each other in unalienable ways so that each one of us is equally vulnerable to the violence of hunger:
Yes, When I speak about the bread of Ramzan I also speak about the Blood of Muharram Bread and blood are never Separate in my world. (Poem 10)
Fasting Hymns is a distilled collection. There is nothing extraneous here in terms of either thought or language. The simplicity of diction in these poems makes for their steady luminosity–a subdued but patient burning that consistently lights up the fallible. While Evening with a Sufi was a translation from Afsar Mohhamad’s original poems in Telugu into English, this bilingual collection, born in English, has been expertly translated into Telugu by P. Srinivas Goud as Upavaasa Padyaalu, the very translation of ‘roza’ into ‘upavaasa’ bridging the aesthetic and ideological disparities between languages, cultures, and religions:
More than a hundred dishes Compete in a political iftar.
I walk into a muhalla.
I see an empty plate and a hungry face everywhere. (Poem 15)
While fasting, in general, might mean only the forgoing of food, the fasting during Ramadan is also a potent historical reminder of the scarcity of water and of thirst. While this collection offers rich food for thought, there is a grace to the poems that reminds one of water flowing from a tilted pitcher. A majesty of vision marks this collection along with a deep sense of personal responsibility to be accountable for the world and to account it, making this book both an intense soul-searching as well as an unsparing statement on things found.
At the day’s end Fasting Hymns brings both the calm of twilight and the restlessness of days to come–a restlessness that can be overcome only by the courage to struggle ceaselessly against undermining forces and, if necessary, alone.
Basudhara Roy teaches English at Karim City College affiliated to Kolhan University, Chaibasa. Author of three collections of poems, her latest work has been featured in EPW, The Pine Cone Review, Live Wire, Lucy Writers Platform, Setu and The Aleph Review among others.
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Afsar Mohammad teaches at the University of Pennsylvania, and he has published five volumes of poetry in Telugu. He has published a monograph with the Oxford University Press titled, The Festival of Pirs: Popular Islam and Shared Devotion in South India. His Remaking History: 1948 Police Action and the Muslims of Hyderabad, has been published from Cambridge University Press. His first poetry collection was Evening with a Sufi: Selected Poems. These poems are from his second collection, Fasting Hymns, which has been translated to Telugu by P Srinivas Goud as Upavaasa Padyaalu. You can read a review of the book by clicking here.
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Shyam Benegal (1934-2024)Street art: Shyam Benegal From Public Domain
“If I enjoy the film I have made, then I am quite certain viewers will too. And what business do I have to burden viewers with what I myself do not enjoy?”
–Shyam Benegal (in an interaction with Ratnottama Sengupta)
Art is not elitist. Nor is artistic experience one that only the elite can enjoy. The world’s greatest art has been accessible to all mankind. Taj Mahal was erected in memory of Mumtaz Mahal but it is for the world to access and admire. The cave paintings at Ajanta propagated a certain philosophy but thousands of years later too they mesmerise one and all. And, anyone who goes to Tanjore temple experiences its magnificence. Cinema too is capable of providing such universal experience. What is more, it is possible to provide such an experience without distorting or oversimplifying an idea.
Shyam Benegal (1934-2024) had dinned this belief into me when I interviewed with him for the first time — in Bombay of 1980. Seven years before that he had proved it to the world with his debut film, Ankur (The Seedling, 1974). It had announced itself to cineastes through its nomination for the Golden Bear at the 24th Berlin Film Festival and had gone on to win three National Awards. In the wake of stylised trendsetters like Bhuvan Shome (directed by Mrinal Sen, 1969), Uski Roti (Others’ Bread, directed by Mani Kaul, 1969) and Maya Darpan (Illusory Mirror, directed by Kumar Shahani, 1972), everyone expected Ankur to be another “arty” film. In other words, “pretentious”, “pseudo intellectual”, even “boring”. Far from refusing to peter out of theatres due to lack of footfalls, the Rs 5-lakh budget film went on to garner millions because it engaged audiences of every shade and strata. And it was hailed as marking a new beginning in Indian cinema that had roots in the narrative tradition of earlier masters such as Bimal Roy and Benegal’s own cousin, Guru Dutt.
No, Ankur was not a fluke, Nishant (Night’s End, 1975) had proven. Once again, Benegal had set his film in Telengana, that part of Andhra Pradesh which had seen him grow up with his siblings in the household of his father whose livelihood came from a photo studio. “Alwal was a semi-rural semi-urban area, so I had seen both sides of a feudal society coming to grips with modernity setting in,” Benegal had explained to me.
Ankur had touched upon several ills of the feudal system: class difference, caste inequity, sexual exploitation of women, of the physically challenged, and even alcoholism among the poor. It had a sequence of thrashing, and it closed with the indication of violent protest. Almost all these themes would flower into independent saplings in Benegal’s subsequent films. Because the important thing for him, as he once said to BBC, was that “post-Independence India was changing its feudal character to the kind of society we wanted to create. Industrialisation at one level, creation of the middle class at another level, and disappearance of the regressive values of the feudal life.”
At that time, when I was yet to step out of my teens, I was deeply impacted by the oppressive ‘liberty’ of the caste person who thought he had a right over the lowborn woman. The empowerment of women was a theme Benegal felt strongly about. “The idea had started during the national movement with Gandhi, who first talked about women having equal responsibility,” pointed out the director of The Making of a Mahatma (1996). “They have to become aware of their strength and empower themselves because 50 percent of your population comprises of women.”
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From the birth of a new nation to the birth of a nation, Benegal constantly grappled with these themes. With “the whole business of tradition and modernity,” to borrow his words. “In an ancient society like India where so much of tradition is still valued and revered, when will we get rid of the dubious virtues?” he wondered.
Benegal functioned with a sensibility that was native to the length and breadth of the land that was his canvas. “As long as one functions with one’s sensibility, it will resonate with every person of that sensibility,” he maintained.
To me the most endearing trait of a Benegal film is the simplicity of its narrative. His incidents came out of life, his characters were from his surroundings. And his unfolding, though devoid of gimmick, was not bereft of drama nor of violence. He learnt to steer clear of artifices while making ad films where, “because you have to make your point in one minute, you tend to fall back on gimmick.”
Clarity of purpose and simplicity of narration were the two rails that never let his script go off into a meander of ultra mystical or complex metaphors. Magic realism? Hyper realism? High pitched melodrama? Benegal had need for none of these ploys. “The most complex of ideas have a simple way of projecting themselves,” he’d say. That, and not its reverse, was the most valid mantra of his life.
Why did the Phalke or the Padma Bhushan awards like simple story telling? “Because I like to involve people, and that happens when there is a dramatic juxtaposition of characters.” The use of drama did not in any way dilute the significance of his subject — be it casteism (Samar, Conflict, 1999), women’s empowerment (Bhumika, Role, 1977), portrayal of the principles of national heroes (Making of the Mahatma), or the struggle to wrest power from an oppressor (Junoon, The Obsession, 1978). Be it in feudal Telengana (Nishant), in a Borgadar’s Bengal (Arohan, The Ascent, 1982), an industrial Bombay (Kalyug, The Age of Vice, 1981), in Bose’s Burma (The Forgotten Hero, 2005), or Mujib’s Bangla (Mujib: The Making of a Nation, 2023).
In the process he dispelled the notion that showing our reality in cinema cannot engross or entertain. In fact, he questioned the very definition of the word ‘Entertainment’. “If a serious talk or a news holds you spellbound, isn’t that also entertainment?” he had asked me.
So, in order to engage the viewers, Benegal plunged into problems and miseries of the marginalised Indian: the milkman (Manthan, The Churning, 1976) and the weaver (Susman, The Essence, 1978), the untouchable (Samar) and the glamorous (Bhumika), the royals (Zubeidaa, 2001) and the entertainer (Sardari Begum, 1996), the middle class households where women are mere birthing machines (Hari Bhari, 2000), or the illiterate voters of Sajjanpur (Welcome to Sajjanpur, 2008).
Through all these voters, men and women, landlords and servants, on the banks of Katha Sagar (A Sea of Stories, 1986, TV series) or in the arid Birbhum or in the Mandi (Market Place, 1983) of flesh, Benegal made spectators of us. “Even a road accident turns us into spectators, some mute, some aggressive, some caring,” he’d pointed out. “What is it we want to experience when we rush to the window when we hear a car screeching to a half?” he’d asked. “Why is an unanticipated death — or murder — part of the entertainment formula? Because the adrenaline rush, the excitement in these exorcises our fears,” he had explained.
But Benegal’s wasn’t a conventional definition of entertainment. Nor did he decry the use of violence in mainstream cinema. “Indeed, it helps society because viewers find vicarious release from the stress that builds up in the tension filled life in urban societies.” As for his own films rooted in the remote pockets away from the metros? “Sometimes we need to use force because some social problems have got so deeply entrenched,” he was unabashed about violence in his films. “Change in certain situations can come only from the use of violence. But be careful never to lose your moral compass,” he immediately warned me. “Violence cannot be indiscriminately justified nor universalised. And in no circumstance should it be glamourised.”
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So human impulses, and social well-being were his prime concern. The constant interaction between an individual and his or her milieu; suffering inequities, and standing up against exploitation — we gained insight into these when we sat in darkened auditoriums to watch Arohan, Sardari Begum, Mammo (1994), Well Done Abba…(2010)
Socio-economic. Socio-political. Socio-legal. No label of genre could own Shyam Benegal. Because? “That will restrict my own thinking. How can I keep pace with the galloping changes that come with the ticking of centuries? And when the march of science unleashes computers and cellular phones, Internet and digital filmmaking?”
But what prompted his choice of subject every time he sat down to work on a script — with Shama Zaidi or Girish Karnad, Satyadev Dubey or Khalid Mohamed[1]? “There’s an electic streak in me that will not let me go where I’ve been before or do what I’ve done before,” Benegal was clear. So historical patterns to saw him go from The Making of a Mahatma on Gandhi, the advocate of non-violence, to Bose, The Forgotten Hero who escaped home incarceration and travelled through Himalayan hurdles and joined the Japanese to fight the British colonisers of India. From the Junoon of the Sepoy Rebellion of 1857, to Bharat Ek Khoj (India, a Search, 1988 TV serial) exploring the roots of India. From my Samvidhan (2010, TV mini-series), the formulation of the Constitution that is the firm foundation of the nation he mapped through his films, to Mujib on the birth of Bangladesh.
This refusal to be contained in a box had seen Benegal go from making promotional ads to documentaries on Steel Authority of India and Artificial Insemination in Animal Husbandry, on Nehru and Satyajit Ray. Benegal’s refusal to be boxed and labelled saw him make
Manthan and Hari Bhari — two prime examples of turning a documentary subject into a feature film. Why, his varied interest saw him making a documentary that mapped the course of a raga which originated with Mallikarjun Mansur hearing a leaking tap in the kitchenette of a friend in Bombay – and went on to capture the spirit of the financial capital!
What explains the prolificity of the man who celebrated his 90th birthday on December 16 and bade goodbye a week later? His indomitable and indefatigable spirit.
Unusual Concerts: The documentary on Mallikarjun Mansur (1910-1992) and Bombay
Ratnottama Sengupta, formerly Arts Editor of The Times of India, teaches mass communication and film appreciation, curates film festivals and art exhibitions, and translates and write books. She has been a member of CBFC, served on the National Film Awards jury and has herself won a National Award.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Art by Sohana ManzoorCourtesy: Suzanne Kamata Some of our visuals in 2024
As we wait for the new year to unfold, we glance back at the year that just swept past us. Here, gathered together are glimpses of the writings we found on our pages in 2024 that herald a world of compassion and kindness…writings filled with hope and, dare I say, even goodwill…and sometimes filled with the tears of poetic souls who hope for a world in peace and harmony. Disasters caused by humans starting with the January 2024 in Japan, nature and climate change, essays that invite you to recall the past with a hope to learn from it, non-fiction that is just fun or a tribute to ideas, both past and present — it’s all there. Innovative genres started by writers to meet the needs of the times — be it solar punk or weird western — give a sense of movement towards the new. What we do see in these writings is resilience which healed us out of multiple issues and will continue to help us move towards a better future.
A hundred years ago, we did not have the technology to share our views and writings, to connect and make friends with the like-minded across continents. I wonder what surprises hundred years later will hold for us…Maybe, war will have been outlawed by then, as have been malpractices and violences against individuals in the current world. The laws that rule a single man will hopefully apply to larger groups too…
Courtesy: Ratnottama Sengupta Courtesy: Farouk GulsaraSome of our visuals in 2024
Amalkantiby Nirendranath Chakraborty has been translated from Bengali by Debali Mookerjea-Leonard. Click hereto read.
The Mirror by Mubarak Qazi has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click hereto read.
Homecoming, a poem by Ihlwha Choi on his return from Santiniketan, has been translated from Korean by the poet himself. Click here to read.
Pochishe Boisakh(25th of Baisakh) by Tagore (1922), has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.
Nazrul’sGhumaite Dao Shranto Robi Re(Let Robi Sleep in Peace) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click hereto read.
Jibananada Das’sAndhar Dekhecche, Tobu Ache (I have seen the dark and yet there is another) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.
Tagore’sShotabdir Surjo Aji( The Century’s Sun today) has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Clickhereto read.
A narrative by Rabindranath Tagore thatgives a glimpse of his first experience of snowfall in Brighton and published in the Tagore family journal, Balak (Children), has been translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal. Clickhere to read.
Suzanne Kamata discusses the peace initiatives following the terrors of the 1994 Rwandan Genocide while traveling within the country with her university colleague and students. Click here to read.
A story by Sharaf Shad, has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.
Conversations
Ratnottama Sengupta talks to Ruchira Gupta, activist for global fight against human trafficking, about her work and introduces her novel, I Kick and I Fly. Click here to read.
A conversation with eminent Singaporean poet and academic, Kirpal Singh, about how his family migrated to Malaya and subsequently Singapore more than 120 years ago. Click hereto read.
Borderless 