Projapoti or Butterfly by Nazrul, translated by Professor Fakrul Alam
Projapoti! Projapoti!
Butterfly, dear butterfly, From where did you get such colourful wings? Wings flaming red and blue, Such sparkling, wavy wings! I see you getting drunk sipping the honey of wildflowers. Be my friend; share some of the liquor with me. Lend me your pollen-tinted golden-silvery wings as well. My mind doesn’t like the idea of going to school anymore. Butterfly, dear butterfly—please, please take me along As your companion. You dance in the wind as you go… This day, why not share your delight with me too? I don’t want to wear the dress I have on anymore. Let me wear your flaming, sparkling dress from now on!
A rendition of the song in Bengali by a legendary singer, Feroza Begum (1930-2014)
Born in united Bengal, long before the Partition, Kazi Nazrul Islam(1899-1976) was known as the Bidrohi Kobi, or “rebel poet”. Nazrul is now regarded as the national poet of Bangladesh though he continues a revered name in the Indian subcontinent. In addition to his prose and poetry, Nazrul wrote about 4000 songs.
Ratnottama Sengupta in conversation with Sohini Roychowdhury, who uses dancing to build bridges across cultures
“Meet my daughter Sohini,” Uma Di was introducing the dancer who then lived in Madrid. And my first response was, “Why isn’t she in the movies?!”
Sohini Roy Chowdhury. Courtesy: Sohini Roy Chowdhury
Tall, fair, lissome, agile, Sohini Roychowdhury is the stuff beauty queens and show stoppers are made of. That wasn’t surprising: after all, Uma Roychowdhury herself is the picture of perfection in aesthetics.
It didn’t take me long to realise that, much like the well regarded sculptor’s bronzes, her daughter too was made of enduring stuff. One day she was teaching Bharatanatyam to French, Spanish, and Italian enthusiasts. The next day she was lecturing on mythology in New York. One day she was dancing to ‘Jai Ho![1]’ for the director of the Oscar winning Hollywood movie[2]. Another day she was delineating Durga in an Anthropology Museum…
None of these saw her run out of breath. Nor does she, ever, run out of time. When she’s not holding her fingers in a dance mudra, she is holding a metaphoric pen. This month she unveiled her second book, Dance of Goddess Kali. Yes, she has rings on her fingers and bells on her toes — and wherever she goes, there’s dance on the cards!
Here is what she had to say when I spoke to her:
The Dance of Kali follows Dancing with the Gods. How are the two books different?
Dancing With the Gods and The Dance of Kali are two distinct works, each focusing on different aspects of my artistic and spiritual journey.
Conceived by Monideepa Mukherjee and Sutapa Sengupta, featuring photos from Sohinimoksha
Dancing With the Godsis a pictorial, coffee-table book stemming from my journey as a classical Indian dancer with a multinational dance troupe. Its vivid visuals showcase my onstage performances and behind-the-scenes moments. These are highlights of my career as a dancer, both solo and with Sohinimoksha World Dance and Communications[3].
This visually captivating book focuses on imagery and aesthetics. It offers glimpses into my artistic expression through dance, celebrates my journey around the world, and highlights my life-mantra of connecting civilisations through my craft. This tracing of Sohinimoksha’s journey is for a broader audience: Indian dance enthusiasts, art lovers, and individuals interested in my achievements. The aim is to inspire through visually compelling storytelling.
In contrast, The Dance of Kali is a treatise on the ethos of Goddess Kali and Shaktism. It delves into the deeper spiritual and philosophical aspects associated with the goddess, exploring Kali’s symbolism, mythology, and significance within the context of Shaktism, a Hindu tradition of worshiping the divine feminine energy. The tone of this work is contemplative, as it delves into the profound symbolism and the spiritual aspects associated with the Goddess. It incorporates scholarly research, analysis, and interpretations from various perspectives. Hopefully it offers readers a deeper understanding of Kali’s significance in Hindu spirituality.
May I point out here that The Dance of Kali is not a religious book. It is for readers with a specific interest in Hindu mythology, spirituality, or the myths and legends around the resident Goddess of Kolkata. Those seeking a deeper understanding of Kali’s symbolism and philosophical underpinnings within the context of Shaktism, will find this book dispels disrespectful misrepresentations and unfounded Western misconceptions surrounding the images of Kali as a demonic goddess.
To sum up: both the books reflect different facets of my artistic and spiritual journey. However, they differ significantly in their subject matter, focus, tone, and intended audience. One celebrates my achievements as a dancer through captivating visuals. The other is an academic tome exploring the profound symbolism and spirituality associated with Goddess Kali.
What prompted you, an international dancer, to pick such a rooted in mythology subject?
I have always had a personal affinity with or inclination towards Goddess Kali. Many artistes draw inspiration from their own beliefs, experiences, and cultural backgrounds when choosing subjects for their work. I am no different. For me the depiction of the Goddess is an opportunity for artistic exploration. Kali, with her complex symbolism and multifaceted persona, offers rich material for creative interpretation through the arts, be it dance, literature or visual arts.
This book also celebrates India’s rich mythological heritage and the way it connects to other ancient cultures, in Mesopotamia, Egypt, Spain and France. Kali, with her global soul sisters Ishtar or Sara La Kali, holds significant cultural and religious importance, not just in Hinduism, but other cultures as well, particularly within the contexts of worshipping Mother Goddesses. I delve into Kali’s mythology and symbolism to honour this aspect of Indian life, and its universal resonance.
Yes, Goddess Kali is rooted in Indian mythology. But the themes she embodies — feminine power, transformation, and liberation —transcend cultural boundaries. I hope this book will serve to explore universal themes of empowerment and spirituality. It also aims to provide a deeper understanding of Hindu mythology, and the symbolism associated with the Dark Goddess. Effectively I seek to promote intercultural dialogue and foster greater appreciation for diverse religious traditions. Most significantly, I hope to dispel the uneducated interpretations of Kali as a horrific, savage, demonic goddess. How often she is typecast as a symbol of evil — in popular Western films, books and even as Halloween costumes for disrespectful celebrities like Heidi Klum!
I have witnessed your performance as Durga in an anthropology museum in Madrid. I have noted your commitment to meaningful, even profound themes in your endeavours. What has been your grooming in dance?
I started dancing at a young age under renowned Bharatanatyam Guru, Thankamany Kutty. Later I learnt from Kalamandalam Venkitt in Kolkata. I received rigorous training in Bharatanatyam, the dance that originated in the temples of Tamil Nadu. My dedication to classical art led me to delve deep into its nuances. I mastered intricate footwork, expressions, and storytelling techniques. Over the years, I refined my technique and expression through consistent practice and performance and came to embody the essence of Bharatanatyam.
Your father was a renowned sitarist living in Germany. Your mother is a reputed sculptor of Kolkata. Why did you, an only child, not take to any of these streams of creative expression?
Indeed I was born into a family of accomplished artists. My father, Pandit Subroto Roychowdhury was a renowned sitarist, and my mother, Uma Roychowdhury, is a reputed sculptor. But I chose a different path for myself.
As an only child, I was exposed to various forms of creative expression. But my passion for dance was ignited after watching a riveting performance by Yamini Krishnamurthy when I was about four years old. While I deeply respect my family’s artistic legacy, I followed my own calling and embarked on a journey to carve my niche in the world of dance.
What are the values you have imbibed from them individually?
My father’s sitar schools in Germany have produced hundreds of students — including distinguished sitar players. From him I imbibed a profound appreciation for music and rhythm. I learned discipline, dedication, and the importance of perseverance in mastering an art form. From my sculptor mother I inherited a keen love for aesthetics and eye for details. I learned the importance of expressing emotions and stories through visual and performing arts.
Together these values have steered me towards excellence and innovation in my journey as a dancer and communicator.
Mixed genre performance by Sohini Roychowdhury. Courtesy: Sohini Roy Chowdhury
You have lived in Moscow and Madrid. You are guest professor in far-flung Universities, in America and Columbia. You have danced Bharatanatyam and you have danced to Jai ho! at the premiere of Slumdog Millionaire. What have you gained through your international exposure?
My international exposure has enriched me both personally and professionally. Living in cultural environments as diverse as Moscow and Madrid have broadened my perspectives and deepened my understanding of global arts and communication.
More than 2000 students have ‘graduated’ through my two dance schools in Spain — Casa Asia and Sohinimoksha Artes de la India. In Moscow, more than 80 Russian students performed with me on stage at the Embassy of India and Nehru Centre at the end of their course. As a guest professor in universities across Europe, USA and Latin America, teaching dance, Natyashastra [theory of dance] and Indology, I have not only shared my expertise — I have learnt from students, artistes and scholars from different backgrounds.
Through my performances of Bharatanatyam, and collaborations with international artists, have bridged cultural divides. My dancing to Jai Ho! at the European premiere of Slumdog Millionaire showcased the universal appeal of Indian dance and music. It highlighted its ability to connect with people across borders. Today I can confidently claim to have promoted cross-cultural exchange globally.
Coming from an aristocratic, old Calcutta background, what merit do you see in Bollywood dancing?
Despite coming from an aristocratic background rooted in old Calcutta, I recognise the merit in Bollywood dancing which has become a global phenomenon. Not surprising. For, characterised by vibrant energy, expressive movements, and fusion of multiple dance styles — from Salsa to Tango, Twist to ChaChaCha – Bollywood dancing holds mass appeal. It serves as a platform for artists to showcase their talents to diverse audiences and has contributed to the popularization of Indian culture worldwide. It is rooted in traditional Indian dance forms, yet embraces modern influences. And it reflects the evolving tastes of contemporary audiences.
Since the 1960s, Bollywood has drawn inspiration from various musical traditions across the world. This imparted its films a rich tapestry of global influences. This fusion of world music and dance enriched the aesthetic of Bollywood — and in turn contributed to its cultural significance and global appeal.
In the 1960s, Indian cinema underwent a transformation with the emergence of filmmakers like Guru Dutt and Raj Kapoor, who infused their films with elements of Western music and dance. The most iconic example of this is seen in the song Mera joota hai Japani [my shoes are Japanese] from Shree 420 (1955): here Raj Kapoor’s character sings about wearing Japanese shoes, English pantaloons, and Russian caps — all of which symbolised the growing influence of the West in post-colonial India. And yet, as the song stresses, at core these films are Hindustani — Indian.
Throughout the ’60s, ’70s and ’80s, the industry witnessed the rise of dance and music directors who played a pivotal role in incorporating world music and dance forms into Hindi cinema. Composers like OP Nayyar, Shankar Jaikishan, SD Burman, C Ramachandran, Kalyanji Anandji, RD Burman, Laxmikant-Pyarelal, and Bappi Lahiri experimented with disparate musical styles. These ranged from rock-n-roll, rumba, flamenco to disco, reggae and jazz. This infused their compositions with international flavours.
Similarly, choreographers Sohanlal, PL Raj, Herman Benjamin, Suresh Bhatt, Saroj Khan, Chinni and Rekha Prakash, Shiamak Davar, Farah Khan, Remo D’Souza, Terence Lewis, Vaibhavi Merchant, and Prabhu Deva have blended Indian classical dance with Western styles. This has created the unique dance style that is now identified as Bollywood dancing. It has homogenised movements from hip-hop to salsa and contemporary dance.
Soon stars like Shammi Kapoor, Helen, Asha Parekh, Hema Malini, Rishi Kapoor, Mithun Chakraborty, Jeetendra, Govinda, Hrithik Roshan, Madhuri Dixit, and Sridevi became synonymous with Bollywood’s larger-than-life dance numbers. For, it showcased their versatility and flair for different dance steps. Embracing the twist and turn era of the ’60s to the disco craze of ’70s and the hip-hop-inspired moves of the 2000s, Bollywood stars captivated audiences with their energy and charisma.
Along with Western influences, Bollywood also drew from traditional Indian dances. Its choreography incorporated elements of Bharatanatyam, Kathak, and Odissi. Dance sequences like Dola Re Dola from Devdas (2002) and Pinga from Bajirao Mastani (2015) exemplify the fusion of classical and contemporary dances, blending intricate footwork with dynamic movements and expressions.
In recent years, Bollywood has continued to evolve, reflecting the changing tastes and preferences of global audiences. Directors, like Sanjay Leela Bhansali and Farah Khan, have pushed the boundaries of traditional filmmaking, creating visually stunning spectacles that showcase the diversity of world music and dance. Stars like Priyanka Chopra, Deepika Padukone, and Ranveer Singh have embraced this eclectic mix of styles, bringing their own unique interpretations to the screen.
Spanish, Bulgarian and other European dancers from my own troupe, Sohinimoksha World Dance, have performed specially choreographed fusion dance items set to popular Bollywood tracks. Kristina Veselinova danced toMere Dholnafrom Bhool Bhulaiya; Violeta Perez and Lola Martin to Senorita! from Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara and Maria Sanz on Padmavat’s Ghoomer on stages across India and the world. So I readily acknowledge the significance of Bollywood dance in preserving India’s cultural heritage while adapting to changing times.
Would you say our films are taking our dance traditions to votaries abroad? Just as Indian musicians of the 1960s had taken our ragas to the West?
In the 1960s, Ravi Shankar, Ali Akbar Khan and other maestros played a crucial role in initiating the West in the rich notes of Indian classical music — and that had enriched the global cultural landscape. My own father, Pandit Subroto Roychowdhury, spent more than 40 years in Germany and other European countries, spreading and popularising Indian classical music through concerts and classes. Today Indian films, particularly Bollywood, are carrying forward this legacy. They are showcasing the wealth that is Indian dance — often fused with world dance influences. Just as our musicians shared the wealth of ragas with the West, Bollywood films are spreading the infectious exuberance of Indian dance to enthusiasts around the globe. This is fostering cultural exchange on an international scale. Small wonder that Bollywood is now acknowledged as India’s most potent soft power.
What, in your opinion, is needed to make GenNext learn from our past traditions?
If we want GenNext to learn from our past traditions, we must provide them with comprehensive exposure to our rich cultural heritage. For this, we must integrate our arts and cultural practices into educational curricula. We must foster appreciation through interactive experiences — workshops, performances, cultural events. Additionally we must leverage modern technologies and platforms to disseminate information. Let’s make traditional arts more accessible and engaging for the young. Let’s cultivate mentorship programs and intergenerational exchanges. For, we must bridge the gap between past traditions and contemporary lifestyles, to ensure their relevance and continuity for the generations to come.
Sohini I have seen you at close quarters, as a mother, wife, daughter, and daughter-in-law even as you criss-cross the world for your dance. How do you still find time to write, which is such a demanding, reflective expression?
I am fortunate to be able to balance my roles as a mother, wife, daughter, daughter-in-law, and a performing artiste. My experience as much as my dedication to my craft honed my time-management skills. Despite crisscrossing the world for performances, lecture tours, and other professional commitments, I carve out time to write, for I recognise its significance as a reflective form of expression.
To effectively manage my time, I set priorities, create schedules, and maximize productivity during the available windows of time. I designate specific periods for writing, be it early mornings, late evenings, or during travel downtime. I try to integrate writing into my daily routine, seizing moments of inspiration and reflection to jot down ideas or draft passages.
My passion for writing is a driving force — it motivates me to make time for it amidst my busy schedule. Writing provides a creative outlet for introspection, and intellectual exploration. It complements my artistic endeavours and enriches my personal and professional growth.
I am grateful for the support I receive from the network of my family, friends, and collaborators. They play a crucial role in facilitating my writing pursuits. My latest book, The Dance of Kali, was co-written with my son Rishi Dasgupta, an Economics MSc from the University of St Andrews, UK.
However, at the end of the day, that I find time to write amidst my multifaceted life, reflects my passion for engaging in reflective expression. Because? It contributes to my holistic development as an artist and an individual.
[1] A song from the 2008 Bollywood movie, Slumdog Millionaire
[3] A dance troop started by Sohini Roychowdhury with presence in Madrid, Berlin and Kolkata
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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
Baraf Pora (Snowfall) by Rabindranath Tagore,gives 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.
Himalaya Jatra( A trip to Himalayas) by Tagore, has been translated from his Jibon Smriti (1911, Reminiscenses) by Somdatta Mandal from Bengali. Click here to read.
Bhumika (Introduction) by Tagore has been translated from Bengali by Ratnottama Sengupta. Click here to read.
The Fire-grinding Quern by Manzur Bismil has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Clickhere to read.
The Tobacco Lover by Ihlwha Choi has been translated from Korean by the poet himself. Clickhere to read.
Pochishe Boisakh(25th of Baisakh) by Tagore(1922), has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.
Pandies Corner
Songs of Freedom: Dear Me… is an autobiographical narrative by Ilma Khan, translated from Hindustani by Janees. These narrations highlight the ongoing struggle against debilitating rigid boundaries drawn by societal norms, with the support from organisations like Shaktishalini and pandies’. Click here to read.
Paul Mirabile gives a gripping tale about a young pyromaniac. Click hereto read.
Conversation
Ratnottama Sengupta in conversation about Kitareba, a contemporary dance performance on immigrants, with Sudarshan Chakravorty, a choreographer, and founder of the Sapphire Dance Company. Click here to read.
Centuries ago, April was associated with spring induced travel… just as pilgrims set out on a journey in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. Some of the journeys, like to Mecca, become a part of religious lore. And some just add to the joie de vivre of festivities during different festivals that punctuate much of Asia during this time — Pohela Boisakh (Bengali), Songkran (Thai), Navavarsha (Nepali), Ugadi (Indian), Vaisakhi (Indian), Aluth Avurudda (Sri Lankan) and many more.
A hundred years ago, in April 1924, Tagore had also set out to journey across the oceans to China — a trip which, perhaps, led to the setting up of Cheena Bhavan in Vishwa Bharati. Recently, Professor Uma Dasgupta in a presentation stated that Tagore’s Nobel prize winning Gitanjali, and also a collection called The Crescent Moon (1913), had been translated to Chinese in 1923 itself… He was renowned within China even before he ventured there. His work had been critically acclaimed in literary journals within the country. That arts connect in an attempt to override divides drawn by politics is well embodied in Tagore’s work as an NGO and as a writer. He drew from all cultures, Western and Eastern, to try and get the best together to serve humankind, closing gaps borne of human constructs. This spirit throbbed in his work and his words. Both towered beyond politics or any divisive constructs and wept with the pain of human suffering.
This issue features translations of Tagore’s writings from his childhood — both done by professor Somdatta Mandal — his first trip with his father to the Himalayas and his first experience of snow in Brighton. We have a transcreation of some of his lyrics by Ratnottama Sengupta. The translation of his birthday poem to himself — Pochishe Boisakh(his date of birth in the Bengali calendar) along with more renditions in English of Korean poetry by Ihlwha Choi and Manzur Bismil’s powerful poetry from Balochi by Fazal Baloch, add richness to our oeuvre. Bismil’s poetry is an ode to the people — a paean to their struggle. It would seem from all the translations that if poets and writers had their way, the world would be filled with love and kindness.
Yet, the world still thunders with wars, with divides — perhaps, there will come a time when soldiers will down their weapons and embrace with love for, they do not fight for themselves but for causes borne of artificial human divides. It is difficult to greet people on any festival or new year, knowing there are parts of the world where people cannot celebrate for they have no food, no water, no electricity, no homes and no lives… for many have died for a cause that has been created not by them as individuals but by those who are guided solely by their hankering for power and money, which are again human constructs. Beyond these constructs there is a reality that grows out of acceptance and love, the power that creates humanity, the Earth and the skies…
Humour is brought into non-fiction by Devraj Singh Kalsi’s narrative about being haunted by an ancient British ghost in Kolkata! Suzanne Kamata adds to the lightness while dwelling on modelling for photographs in the Japanese way. Ravi Shankar plunges into the history of photography while musing on black and white photographs from the past.
Tagore again seeps into non-fiction with Professor Fakrul Alam and Asad Latif telling us what the visionary means to the Bengali psyche. Starting with precursors of Tagore, like Michael Madhusudan Dutt, and post-him, Sarojini Naidu, Mandal has shared an essay on Bengaliness in contemporary poetry written by those born to the culture. Jared Carter has given discussed ‘the lyric temper’ in poetry — a wonderful empathetic recap of what it takes to write poetry. Exploring perspectives of multiple greats, like Yeats, Keats, George Santyana, Fitzgerald, Carter states, “Genuine lyricism comes only after the self has been quieted.”
Sengupta has conversed with a dance choreographer, Sudershan Chakravorty, who has been composing to create an awareness about the dilemmas faced by migrants. An autobiographical narrative in Hindustani from Ilma Khan, translated by Janees, shows the resilience of the human spirit against oppressive social norms. Our fiction has stories from Lakshmi Kannan and Shevlin Sebastian urging us to take a relook at social norms that install biases and hatred, while Paul Mirabile journeys into the realm of fantasy with his strange story about a boy obsessed with pyromania.
“It is an ironical reflection on our times that a prolific and much awarded Indian writer– perhaps deserving of the Nobel prize — should be excised from the university syllabus of a central university. This move has, perhaps paradoxically, elicited even more interest in Mahasweta Devi’s work and has also consolidated her reputation as a mascot, a symbol of resistance to state violence. A timely intervention, this volume proves yet again that a great writer, in responding to local, regional, environmental ethical concerns sensitively, transcends his/her immediate context to acquire global and universal significance.”
There is more content than I mention here. Do pause by our current issue to take a look.
I would hugely like to thank the Borderless team for their unceasing support, and especially Sohana Manzoor, also for her fantastic art. Heartfelt thanks to all our wonderful writers and our readers. We exist because you all are — ubuntu.
Hope you have a wonderful month. Here’s wishing you all wonderful new years and festivals in March-April — Easter, Eid and the new years that stretch across Asian cultures.
Looking forward and hoping for peace and goodwill.
Mahashweta Devi (1916-2016) was a renowned and much awarded writer-activist-translator who was reputed for her close observation and documentation of tribal life and its marginalisation and willed forgetting by dominant power systems. Among the many awards received by her were the Padma Vibhushan, the Ramon Magsaysay, the Jnanpith and the Sahitya Akademi Award. The stated aim of the present volume — in keeping with the overall objectives of the Writer in Context Series — is to present a more rounded, multidimensional image of Mahasweta Devi. This has been admirably accomplished by Prof Radha Chakravarty who is an eminent translator and academic herself.
In the ‘Introduction’, she unpacks the partial truths that underlie the stereotypical image of Mahasweta Devi as an activist. Highlighting the fact that Mahashweta’s representations of different forms of marginality bring together “the aesthetic and the political in ways that demand a more nuanced reading”, she reinforces the need to read Devi’s oeuvre as literature, and not only as “forms of social documentation or ‘witnessing’”. She interrogates the stereotype of the activist-writer and opens up the possibility of re-reading Mahasweta Devi’s life and work in “newer, more unsettling ways”. Further, Chakravarty highlights how her (Devi’s) creative writings in particular emerge as “ambivalent texts, simultaneously imbued with radical potential and a continued reliance on traditional forms of signification”.
Mahasweta Devi’s writings often demonstrate a tenuous divide between fiction and non-fiction. As a matter of fact, she emphasises on “the historical basis for her creative writings”, which is evident in many of her novels like Mother of 1084 (Hazaar Churashir Maa, 1974), and stories like ‘Draupadi’ and many others, which are based on the Naxalite movement. Simultaneously however, her literary works display a measure of social realism which, Chakravarty contends, is “offset by a visionary quality that enables the imagining of transformative possibilities.” The contents of this volume testify to the varied, diverse and sometimes “contradictory dimensions of her multifaceted genius”.
The book under consideration aims to set the record straight for readers outside Bengal whose views are based on the “tiny fraction of her Mahashweta Devi’s work available in English translation”. She was an extraordinarily prolific and versatile writer who wrote in multiple genres, including fiction, biography, drama, children’s literature, memoirs, travel writing, and literary criticism. She also occasionally translated her own work into English.
Chakravarty’s introduction and compilations in this volume foregrounds the aspect of Mahashweta’s political activism and how her writing itself becomes a form of resistance. Her early induction into Marxism was also partially attributable to her family background. Her family included Ritwik Ghatak (her father’s brother was a famed film maker) on her father’s side and on her mother’s, Sankha Choudhuri and Sachin Choudhuri, one a well-known sculptor and the other, the founder/editor of India’s foremost social science journal, Economic and Political Weekly, respectively.
Her early contact with Tagore and education at Santiniketan sensitised her to values of “inclusiveness, self-reliance, freedom of thought and expression, social responsibility, and environmental issues”. There, she also imbibed some of the spirit of the freedom struggle. Through her marriage to Bijon Bhattacharya, she grew familiar with IPTA[1] and the left ideologies. Later, she was associated with different radical movements in Bengal, Manipur, Jharkhand, Bihar, and Rajasthan, which find expression in many of her writings (Mother of 1084, ‘Draupadi’).
Her political commitment to these movements is evident in her use of language. Local vocabularies become central to the style and subject of Mahasweta’s writings. She wrote in 1983: “Since I remain immersed in indigenous myths, oral legends, local beliefs and religious convictions, I find purely indigenous words very potent and expressive.”
She was critical of writers in the Bangla literary establishment whose experiments with modernist aesthetics led to disengagement with the socio-political context. All the same, her writings evince special “linguistic, textual, and aesthetic strategies that can be compared to the practices of other writers who were experimenting with new approaches”, using non-linear time. Oral traditions fascinated her and she worked closely with Prof G.N.Devy in her later years, to campaign for the recognition of tribal languages.
She also translated and edited volumes on Indian folklore. In her own writings, she includes elements from the oral traditions, as in the snatches of local lore in Jhansir Rani (The Queen of Jhansi) or the lines from an untranslated Santhal song in ‘Draupadi’. As Chakravarty points out, “Heteroglossia, the use of language as an indicator of social hierarchies in multivocal, polyphonic texts, functions as a potent literary feature in her writings.” Alongside, many of her texts incorporate multilingual elements, as if to indicate the heterogeneities in South Asian societies and cultures.
The book is an comprehensive introduction to and reappraisal of Mahasweta Devi’s life and work. It is imaginatively conceptualised and organised into different sections, each highlighting diverse aspects of her work and the criticism thereon. Section 1 of the book called ‘Spectrum: The Writer’s Oeuvre’, offers the reader in English an overview of the full range of her oeuvre through brief samples of her literary writings across diverse genres to highlight her versatility. These include Jhansir Rani (1956), a fictionalised biography of Rani Lakshmibai, Queen of Jhansi, which amalgamates historical sources, folklore, and creative characterisation, to show up the contradictions in different versions of the Rani’s life and Hajar Churashir Ma (The Mother of 1084), her powerful novel about the political awakening of a mother after her son is killed by the police during the Naxalite movement of the 1970s, altered the trajectory of the Bengali novel. The extract from the final pages captures, in a style resembling stream-of-consciousness, the dramatic political power struggles in the outer world and the inner drama of the mother’s psyche.
The short story ‘Giribala’ narrates the plight of a girl married off at 14 to a man who sells their own daughters into the flesh trade to pay for the construction of his dream house. The play Bayen uses modern experimental techniques to present the story of a woman from the caste of Doms (cremation attendants), who becomes the victim of collective superstition and scapegoating and yet, in a final act of heroic self-sacrifice, saves the very community that has ostracised her. In a complete change of tone and style,’Nyadosh the Incredible Cow’, a delightful piece of writing for children, offers a witty anecdotal account of the devastating exploits of a cow in the author’s home. The extract from Tarasankar Bandyopadhyay, Mahasweta Devi’s English monograph on the iconic Bengali writer, reveals her incisiveness as a literary historian and critic and also provides a window to her own literary values.
As Chakravarty clarifies, given the vast body of critical readings on Mahasweta’s writings, a comprehensive compilation is beyond the scope of this book. Instead, the selected essays in Section 2 (‘Kaleidoscope: Critical Reception’) offer the reader (in translation) a sense of the paradigm shifts that mark Devi’s critical reception in Bengal, the rest of India, and in the international domain. Tensions, debates, and contradictions are highlighted, and overview of her critical reception over four decades –1957 to 1997 in Bengal is discussed by Arup Kumar Das. An essay by Dipendu Chakrabarti analyses the debates and controversies around her work. Dilip K. Basu’s account of Hajar Churashir Ma views itas a pathbreaking text that transformed the course of the Bengali novel in the 1970s.
The essays in English by other Indian critics include Sujit Mukherjee’s classic piece on Mahasweta and Spivak, Jaidev’s account of national allegory in Douloti, Arunabh Konwar’s comparative analysis of the creative use of fictionalised biography by Mahasweta and Indira Goswami, Shreya Chakravorty’s study of the politics of translation in the work of Spivak and Samik Bandyopadhyay, Anjum Katyal’s account of Mahasweta as a dramatist, and Benil Biswas’ reading of the transmutations of Mahasweta’s texts via stage and screen adaptations.
International contributions include an important new essay on Pterodactyl by Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, who interprets the rhetorical pointers in the text to speak of it as an activist mediation for the reader to learn about earning the right to intervene. Shreerekha Subramanian’s essay offers a comparative study of the discourse on motherhood in novels by three women writers across different languages, locations, and literary traditions: Mahasweta Devi, Toni Morrison, and Amrita Pritam.
Section 3 (‘Ablaze With Rage: The Writer as Activist’) includes some of Mahasweta’s activist writings, such as ‘Tribal Language and Literature: The Need for Recognition’, a passionate demand for the inclusion of tribal languages in official discourse; ‘Palamau is a Mirror of India’, where she critiques what she perceives the failures of the state to address the plight of the oppressed people in post-Independence India; and ‘Eucalyptus: Why?’, a scathing critique of the nexus between local powers and global market forces that have led to the replacement of natural forests in Bengal with eucalyptus plantations that have destroyed the local ecology that sustained human and animal life there. Alongside, in ‘The Adivasi Mahasweta’, Ganesh N. Devy reminiscences about his first encounter with Mahasweta Devi and their subsequent collaborations in activist campaigns and projects. ‘Haunted Landscapes: Mahasweta Devi and the Anthropocene’, by Mary Louisa Cappelli, connects Mahasweta’s activist writings and fiction on the subject of the Anthropocene to indicate the need to take a composite view of her writing and activism as twin manifestations of the same vision.
Section 4, ‘Personal Glimpses: A Life in Words’, includes extracts from Mahasweta’s memoir Our Santiniketan (2022), along with interviews (with Naveen Kishore and Radha Chakravarty) and reminiscences by her family members (Nabarun Bhattacharya, Soma Mukhopadhyay, Sari Lahiri, Ina Puri), friends (writers ‘Anand’ and Anita Agnihotri), and associates (Ranjit Kumar Das ‘Lodha’, Dakxin Bajrange), which highlight different facets of Mahasweta’s life and personality, bringing to life the woman behind the public image.
The book offers a comprehensive overview of Mahashweta Devi’s writing and will be of immense use to students, researchers and to general readers. As Chakravarty reiterates , “New trends in Mahasweta studies continue to evolve, including emphasis on her environmental concerns, ethics, planetarity and the Anthropocene, intersectionality, the use of incommensurate realities and registers of writing, comparative readings, and an emerging focus on her life”.
This is an ambitious attempt to give us an idea of the immense range of her work. While a full biography and a full bibliography of Mahasweta’s oeuvre is yet to be published, (encompassing the entire corpus of her work, including letters and other unpublished material) this volume is a vital step in that direction. In her excellent Introduction, Chakravarty charts the long-term impact of Devi’s work which continues to resonate in contemporary forms of activism and theatre. Through the actions of the many groups of people she inspired – the women of Manipur whose public protest imitated her fiction, to the performances of the Budhan theatre, and the rise to fame of the Dalit Bengali writer, Manoranjan Byapari— “Mahasweta’s impact and influence can be felt in many ways. She survives through the people she struggled to support all her life,”
It is an ironical reflection on our times that a prolific and much awarded Indian writer-perhaps deserving of the Nobel prize, should be excised from the university syllabus of a central university. This move has, perhaps paradoxically, elicited even more interest in Mahasweta Devi’s work and has also consolidated her reputation as a mascot, a symbol of resistance to state violence. A timely intervention, this volume proves yet again that a great writer, in responding to local , regional, environmental ethical concerns sensitively, transcends his/her immediate context to acquire global and universal significance.
[1] Indian People’s Theatre Association founded in 1943
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Dr Meenakshi Malhotra is Associate Professor of English Literature at Hansraj College, University of Delhi, and has been involved in teaching and curriculum development in several universities. She has edited books on Women and Lifewriting, Representing the Self and Claiming the I, in addition to numerous published articles on gender, literature and feminist theory. Recently, she co-edited The Gendered Body: Negotiation, Resistance, Struggle.
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Standing in the Expanse Under the Neem Tree Cluster
I wait with a bundle of tinder logs rolled in a hessian sack. It’s raining, the air humid, the dust in the air settled. I wait for the pilgrims to pass, the coast town is overfilled. I wait for today’s angels to avail my service, Angels who arrive with spices and groceries, They never bring the firewood. I cook their food with love.
I stand waiting at the crossroad with a jerrycan of petrol, The fuel’s brown looking like gold, no sediments in there, No decisions to be made by the private car users, Except to notice the quality of my fuel, And ask me if I could take over the wheels. I drive with love. Whatever I do, I do with love.
All this waiting is about being and the essence of being And finding means to make ends meet; When the need stops, you would no longer find me Standing in the expanse under the neem tree cluster; The hessian sack or the jerrycan would continue In the hands of another good person, waiting to learn.
Saranyan BV is poet and short-story writer, now based out of Bangalore. He came into the realm of literature by mistake, but he loves being there. His works have been published in many Indian and Asian journals. He loves the works of Raymond Carver.
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I sat in the railway station leaning on a chair.
The evening was pleasant with orange-violet cotton clouds.
The chairs were meant for the passengers waiting for the 5.45 pm shuttle.
The passengers carried veggies and sweetmeats in yellow bags to take home.
Most of the passengers were old and capable of coughing the phlegm of life.
One or two well-to-do walked up the refreshment stall and slurped the hot brew.
I never went to that side because it reeked of sour milk.
Aroma of guavas rented the air where I was seated. It is the season, though late.
The bill advertising the tabloid press said,
‘An engineer from the public works department was found dead in the reservoir.’
I have seen only fishes in those turbid waters, big and small ones snapping their tails.
Sometimes pachyderms appeared from the thick groove on the banks for a drink.
Doubts were raised if the engineer committed suicide, or was it a murder?
A crow wearing a grey collar flew under the roof. It pecked at crumbs fallen off
The potato wafers people bought, ate from polythene bags to kill hunger
While the wait pounded blue vessels and produced dreariness.
The fritters would be swept away before sunset
By the station cleaning staff enveloped in bellow-like overalls.
These particles would soon be part and parcel of the purple carboys in which garbage collects.
The crow has to make a quick dash for its supper. It did not pause to read the bill.
The news of the engineer’s death did worry the crow or anyone. We were not like the crow with the grey collar.
We sat craning our necks and knitting brows, not knowing what to do with what is left.
One of us returned and said the post-mortem is done. The pyre is lit without a trace.
Saranyan BV is poet and short-story writer, now based out of Bangalore. He came into the realm of literature by mistake, but he loves being there. His works have been published in many Indian and Asian journals. He loves the works of Raymond Carver.
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Translated by Vidyanand Jha from Maithili to English
Madhubani Painting or Mithila Art
TRANSLATION
My eyes made through swimming
in the waters of the pond full of algae
carry greenery, see greenery everywhere.
My blood made of the juice of Ladubbi mangoes,
flow in my veins continuously, sweet, juicy.
Made from pieces of Rohu fish,
made from Garai Garchunni fish,
my body is shimmering, slick.
The sound of the hooves of Salhesh’s* horses,
the reverberations of the sound of the Chaukitora dance,
the desolation of the consequences of Vidyapati*,
and my voice, my clear language
made from mixing all these —
Gets translated —
speaking an unknown language outside my home,
spending my life in an unknown place, some other place,
losing myself, making myself into someone else
making myself into a customer in a glittering market.
And my Maithil existence
gets translated
into Indian citizenship.
*Salhesh is a folk deity in Mithila(Nepal and Terai region in India)
*Vidyapati (1352-1448) was a Maithili poet
TOGETHERNESS
A filled in disused well reverberates with
the mumbled Sahajiya song of a Vaishanvi*,
mixed with your name whispered softly,
mixed with the sound of a thundering river flowing in full spate.
So many eager songs swirl,
straining to come out of our souls
to touch the heights of the sky.
Sounds are mumbled, words are mumbled
in a filled disused well.
On the banks of a water tank
under a tree with leaves falling,
in a locked old box
are kept for many years so many embraces, kisses so many,
pressed and folded for many years,
the touch of your skin on mine - quivering, exciting,
impulses so many, so many disappointments.
Everything is folded and kept inside.
A box that is rusting slowly is thrown away.
It’s becoming one with the earth slowly.
Routes to many cities utterly unknown,
paths to many villages deserted
wait to be measured
by your feet, by my feet.
Many fabulous scenes, strange scenes many,
sad scenes many, grotesque scenes many
await our eyes,
lost in an unknown corner of this Earth,
in a deathly silent lost village,
Or in an utterly unknown strange city.
Would my being be
yours?
Or maybe on the path of annicca*,
I would be, you would be
separately, alone.
Or is that that I wouldn’t be, you wouldn’t be?
*Sahajiya -- a form of Hindu tantric Vaishnavism; Vaishnavi -- a woman follower of Vishnu
*annicca—Buddhist principle of impermanence
Photo courtesy: Ira Jha
Vidyanand Jha is a poet, short story writer and literary critic in Maithili. He is also a translator translating texts from and into Maithili primarily to and from English. He has been publishing Maithili poems in literary journals since 1980s. He has three poetry collections to his credit: Parati Jakan (Like a Morning Song), published by Sahitya Akademi in 2002, now in its second edition; Bicchadal Kono Pirit Jakan (Like a Lost Love) published by Antika Prakashan in 2019 and Danufak phool Jakan (Like Danuf Flowers) published in 2021. He has received many prestigious awards for his poetry in Maithili. His translations from Maithili have appeared in journals like Indian Literature and Anthologies like The Book of Bihari Literature. He was awarded Katha Translation Award in 1998.
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Getting old is like climbing a mountain, you get a little out of breath
but the view is much better!
- Ingrid Bergman, actress
He arrived in the morning. He was carrying a small bag but enough to contain things to stay for three to four days. His visit was unannounced. Although he was cordial, I didn’t inquire into the purpose of his visit. I invited him inside and showed him the spare room where he could rest a while. He was seventy-nine years and could do with some rest. His body language showed he was grateful, yet he didn’t offer a reason for his presence in the morning. I went inside the kitchen so that I could prepare a cup of coffee for him. I heard him move inside his room, the footsteps of an old man. I could hear him take things out from the bag and push some back. After a while, the sounds stopped. The house turned silent. It sounded silent and silence sounds like death. My eyes roved over the kitchen table to check on the things available to make a decent breakfast for uncle. He was in need. He looked famished.
I pushed open the door leading to the backyard, in the kitchen garden, the plants were unkempt. It was a messy area of about forty-four square feet. I plucked brinjals and tomatoes to make the sambar respectable and to add on to the coconut chutney which was already done. There was also coriander, not ready for plucking, but at times like this it could be useful. I heard the sound of the cistern flush, the water drained without giving inkling of anger. I handed him the cup, he took it and kept looking at the floor. He drew an arc with the toe of his right foot. I could not understand what the act meant except he was disturbed. There would be time later to get to know. For the time being I let him feel at home. He didn’t inquire about my husband’s whereabouts. My husband was his nephew. Uncle might have assumed Shyam has gone to office. Actually, Shyam has gone to handover his Renault Kwid for the first unpaid service. He would be late today. Shyam too would have to have his breakfast before starting for work. Maybe they could have it together. We all could.
I hoped uncle would spruce himself and be ready before Shyam returned. I was not going to rush him.
Shyam would be in a terrible hurry. He could catch up with his uncle while he is pushing the idlis[1] down his throat. I have to keep requesting Shyam time and again to eat slowly. Food is meant to be enjoyed and not be dealt with as if it is a task to be completed. Breakfast is the only meal Shyam has at the dining table. He took his lunch in the office canteen and the night meal was invariably at the bar he frequented. I had rehearsals for the coming play at Ranga Shankara in Jayanagar. Most evenings, I was out. I think he ate only fritters and no proper dinner. I never questioned him about his activities. He found that convenient.
I went past the room in which the uncle was lodged. I pretended to go out under some pretext. The garbage collector had entered the street. The garbage needed to be in cans outside the gate. I peered in. The door was open. Uncle was seated on the mattress leaning back on his hands. He was looking up at the ceiling fan, at his own reflection on the chromium plated hub-cap. He had not switched the fan on, the weather was fine. I collected the compost bag and kept tossing handfuls on the potted plants in the courtyard. That was my weekly routine. The plants responded to the manure but the moment the plants shoot buds, insects destroyed them. I tried to give uncle some privacy by remaining in the garden. He looked rather pulled down. If he wanted to make some calls in my absence, I’d rather facilitate it; but he didn’t.
Uncle lived in Hebagoddi with his only son, his house overlooking the wholesale fruit market. Whenever we visited, I found him standing on the open terrace upstairs and watching the trucks loading and unloading. Ajay resigned his job in Hosur and had left to take up new assignment in Abu Dhabi. He told us he wanted to move with his family to Abu Dhabi. I wondered if he could take his father as well. Maybe that was what made uncle preoccupied – the thought of being left alone without his son, who was also his caregiver. Uncle had a handsome pension as a retired school master. He was not dependent monetarily, but he needed someone to assure him everything was going to be fine. An old man required assistance and supervision. My dad’s brother had dementia from being lonely they said. since He had no one to talk to. He was a bachelor with lots of money but dementia doesn’t check the wallet before setting in.
I went back to the kitchen. The decoction had filtered down. I mixed the coffee and took it along with two Marie biscuits. He took it and placed it on the table. His hand shook. He said, “Thanks.” He wasn’t curious about Shyam’s absence. I was surprised he did not inquire. He was Shyam’s uncle not mine.
I told him, “Shyam would be back shortly, I will serve breakfast when he comes.”
“That’s nice”, he said. “In that case I will have the coffee after breakfast. I took Pantacid just now. Let the medicine do the job.” He took the two biscuits, placed them on the paper napkin and returned the cup.
I said, “Fine.” I lifted my chin to scrutinize his face.
“Its difficult to live with Ajay’s wife,” he said. Uncle moved towards the window turning face away from me. The top two panes of the window were open. They overlooked the vegetable garden I was ambitious about curating. Beyond that was a small 30 feet road. I did not attempt to mollify him. I left the job to Shyam. He was Shyam’s his uncle.
Uncle said, “I can grow enough vegetables in my house in the terrace, I mean in Ajay’s house. People these days grow vegetables in plastic grow-bags you know. I can grow enough for the family or even more. She wouldn’t allow.” He meant Ajay’s wife. Growing vegetables is my passion. My conviction is one should try to grow food in lifetime instead of only consuming. It’s my desire to grow at least one kilo of rice with my bare hands at least once in my life, I told this to uncle in order to keep him cheerful until Shyam returned.
“We should find a place in our village and try doing growing the rice there. Being in city, you can’t”, he said and curbed his instinct say more. The conversation cheered him and I believed took his mind away from Ajay wanting to shift his family to Abu Dhabi. I was not sure if Ajay was planning to take his dad there. It may not have been a workable proposition.
I said, “Its good to try, to think on those lines. I guess Shyam would agree to the idea post his retirement. As of now I have this theatre group which pegs me here.”
A car entered the lane, the sound of its engine was echoing from the between the compound walls. The colony would have looked more impressive without the compound walls. The car stopped in front. The driver’s face seemed familiar but I could not place him. Shyam got down from the other side. He thanked the driver and entered. The car sped away, it was an old red-coloured Punto. The driver smiled on seeing I was trying to place him.
I was not sure if I should inform Shyam about the unannounced guest or leave him to find out for himself. Maybe he knew of the arrival and had forgotten to inform me.
Shyam said, “I must rush, Sundar has promised to pick me on the way. Can’t make Sundar wait.” He went straight into the washroom. He was the type who would expect his wife to keep his clothes ready when he came out of the bath. Before that, he would want the towel. I did that part of the chore, returned to the living room from where I could see uncle. He was not affronted by Shyam’s behavior. He seemed to understand. He smiled sympathetically upon seeing my distress.
“Let me set the table for breakfast,” I told him and went about doing so. I wanted to tell Shyam to eat slowly — to get up only when uncle finished. Uncle came out of the room for the first time. He sat quietly in front of the dining table where Shyam sat normally. He leaned using his elbows on the table. He saw me arranging the plates. He opened the lid where idli was stacked. He smiled again. There was plenty. I too sat pretending to remove the speck on my plate.
“I have to find an old age home,”he said nodding his head.
“It would do you good. you can be all by yourself,” I said.
“You don’t understand the point Kamala,” he said. I could hear Shyam coming out of the bathroom. He started dressing. He dressed himself first before using the hair drier and combing his hair. I knew as soon as he finished, he would head for the dining table. I waited for the sound of the drier being switched off. I had not informed Shyam about uncle’s presence as yet. Waiting at the breakfast table, I was not sure I should make the effort. He obviously was not expecting to find uncle. I hoped he would be polite to his uncle.
Shyam came in. He had heard our voices, if not the subject of our conversation. He was pleased perceptibly to see his uncle, he went behind him, put his hand over uncle’s shoulders and gave him a hug from behind. He said, “What a surprise! How is Ajay doing? Is he really liking it out there, it is a dangerous country, not meant for one with his kind of temperament.” Shyam rushed with his words, he wanted to convey whatever he wanted quickly without giving scope for his uncle to respond. He looked at me and said, “I promised uncle that I would find him a comfortable old age home. Better that Ajay takes his family quickly to Abu Dhabi. He has the knack of getting into trouble if left alone.”
Uncle didn’t want to prolong the conversation about his son. He said, “Something that fits my pension, not a paise more, I don’t want to take help from Ajay though he may be earning in Dinars now.”
He craned his neck to see when I would start serving. Shyam pulled the chair away from the table to sit, the chair made a grating noise on the floor. I switched the fan on and started serving. The three of us ate quietly. Shyam kept stuffing idlies as was his habit. He choked a bit but managed to swallow without any issues. I had only one idli. I got up to prepare coffee. Sundaram could arrive any moment, though Shyam had not stated the time of his arrival. Shyam took his uncle to the verandah in front. I could hear them talking, though I could not make out what they discussed. It sounded like they wanted to keep me out.
Uncle left our house after three days. He never went back to Ajay’s house. He went straight to the old age home. I felt sad. Shyam had arranged accommodation where uncle could stay in relative comfort. That’s what Shyam told me the previous night.
Whatever the comfort and care the old age home offered, such homes for the aged could not offer hope. Inmates kept falling sick, became invalids and sunk to death slowly. Besides they all had their own tales of woe which each would share, deepening the shadows in others lives. A home could not offer hope.
Shyam said the three days stay with us had restored uncle’s faith in humanity. It was a tall statement, though I suspected it was true. We tend to seek our own space in the kingdom of self-righteousness, we feed on such feelings. During the afternoons we had watched movies together on Netflix or Prime Video. Uncle made the selection. He always chose a crime thriller or science fiction, avoided movies focused on family relationships.
He took me into confidence and confessed on the last day. Shyam was to drop him at an old-age home named after Mother Theresa the next day. Uncle told me almost in whispers after the movie, as if he didn’t believe what he said, “Ajay’s wife is very loving, I can’t say she was wanting in that faculty.” I wanted to believe uncle.
When uncle left, there were tears in his eyes. He didn’t try to mask his feelings. I could not figure if it was on account of a feeling of gratefulness or of grief. He sprayed the insecticide on the rose plants in the courtyard while Shyam was loading his things in the car. I had presented him warm blanket in case the home didn’t provide one. Shyam promised to visit him often, though he did not specify how often.
Ajay’s family had left. He sent uncle photos of their new home. I had half a mind to tell uncle to stay with us, though I didn’t. He was not a bother, was really not a bother. He would have helped with the kitchen and courtyard garden as well as the proposed one in the terrace upstairs. During his brief stay, he helped to water the plants, folded the laundry, cut vegetables for cooking, he cut such perfect cubes. He enjoyed peeling garlic pods. He loved it. One day when the daily maid absented herself, I even found him doing the dishes quietly without letting me know. I had closeted myself in our room to memorise lines and cues of a new play.
Uncle could have stayed with us if it was not too long. Life looks interminable if we don’t know how long. We didn’t know how long all this would go on had he stayed. He looked healthy though he was seventy-nine. You never know. Love without willingness to take on the responsibility was an aborted child, that much I knew.
Saranyan BV is Bangalore based poet and short-story writer. His works are being published in Indian and Asian journals regularly. He came to the realm of English by mistake but loves being there. He is a big fan of Raymond Carver and Charles Bukowski. He thinks that the genre short story is going to rule literature in the days to come, if the writers are ready to take up the challenge.
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May I be so bold as to claim that I travelled in the footsteps of Sir Stamford Raffles? That agent of the East Indian Company’s visit to Calcutta (as it was known then, and for much later, till it resumed the phonetic spelling of its original name), led him to set up Singapore as an English trading settlement in 1819. “Footsteps” would be the wrong metaphor, of course. “Seasteps” would have been accurate, since Raffles travelled to Calcutta by sea and arrived water-borne to Singapura (as it was known then). In my case, however, I arrived in Singapore sky-borne, in an aircraft that conveyed me from what was then home to what would become home. Footsteps, seasteps or airsteps, I arrived in Singapore. The year was 1984. I was 27.
Today, at 65, I remember my passage from back home to this home as if it occurred yesterday. I had worked in Hong Kong briefly in 1984 and had been exposed to life in a successful British colony that was in the throes of its return to Chinese rule. Singapore was different. It had merged with the Malaysian Federation in 1963, had separated from it in 1965, and had gone on to carve out an extremely successful space for itself in the international sphere.
Prime Minister Lee Kuan Yew was a household word in Singapore. Not everyone loved him, but no one could deny his singular agency in having created a magnificent city-state that could sustain its independence in spite of its lack of natural resources. To arrive in Singapore was to embrace the possibilities of time.
Calcutta, too, was a historical city par excellence, but its rundown buildings and potholed streets, to say nothing of its potbellied children living on homeless streets, belied the promise of the future. To arrive in Singapore, it appeared, was to have exchanged failure for success.
That was an illusion, of course. All expatriates suffer from a global disease: They latch on to what they love in their countries of arrival by trying to erase what had loved them in their countries of departure. Take the potholed streets of Calcutta, for example. They had conveyed me to College Street on that glad day in 1974 when I joined the English Department of Presidency College. Without that first footfall in the corridors of the greats, I might never have come to Singapore, never got my Chevening Scholarship to Cambridge, my father’s university, and never won the Fulbright to Harvard. The potholes of Calcutta are not as numerous as the culturally blind allege them to be. Nevertheless, they led me on the way to be myself, wherever on earth I would ultimately be.
The way I see it, no matter how far or close wanderings might lead, one migrates ultimately to oneself. Hence, when I left my Calcutta for what would become my Singapore, I did no more than search for a version of my selfhood that would extend my material and imaginative boundaries. In the course of my journey, I discovered that the only borders lie within, borders between being and becoming. In the process of becoming by winnowing the unwanted aspects of being, one returns to a renewed if only autumnal sense of being. Time passes. One passes with it, letting go of the distant past as much as one does the receding immediate past. To live is to gather the passage of time within oneself, hoping that all borders will merge into a lasting apprehension of oneself in the expanding fullness of a single world.
Calcutta and Singapore are two sides of me. These two great imperial cities have outlived their provenance. Calcutta was once the capital city of colonial India: Today it remains the nation’s cultural capital but political power resides in Delhi (naturally) and there are at least two economic capitals, Mumbai and Chennai. This is why I, along with many of my hapless fellow-Bengalis, suffer from an incurable cultural fetish for the past. That was when the Almighty spoke Bengali – He appears to be switching increasingly to Hindi – and was busy creating top-class poets and formidable social reformers in Bengal. The divine supply of poets and composers has not ebbed but the demand-side having moved to Mumbai, many of the best composers have shifted there and to make a name for themselves. Never mind. Their names remain Bengali, and their fame spreads the vintage mystique of Calcutta like a lingering perfume in India and beyond. I feel happy for the Calcutta part of me.
Singapore, a great trading post, is a now a city-state. Statehood has allowed the nascent nationalism of the colonial era to flourish and grow into a genuine sense of political self. Sovereign Singapore was not expected to survive, but it has done so with a definitiveness that makes the prognoses of the 1960s laughable today. The national self-confidence of Singapore gives me confidence in my decision to take up Singapore citizenship in 1999. It had not been an easy decision, but I took it when I realised that I would be giving up my Indian citizenship but not my Indian-ness. My Singapore Identity Card records my race as Indian. I could keep the Calcutta part of me intact while adding to it a new Singaporean me.
So, yes, I am grateful that Raffles travelled to Calcutta to set up Singapore. Obviously, he did not do so with my fortunes in mind, but the umbilical connection that he created between the two great port cities has made it easier for me to migrate from India to Singapore. Ultimately, I have done nothing more than migrate to me.
Borderless 