Tag: Nabendu Ghosh

Categories
Essay

The Story of a Land at War with Itself

If religion has bound people of different lands, religion has also crafted gulfs between people who shared the birthplace and spoke the same language. If religious hatred led to the holocaust, religion became the cornerstone of India’s Partition. The crimes against humanity in Bosnia also were rooted in religious intolerance, as Ratnottama Sengupta retraced when her brother, Dr Dipankar Ghosh wrote to her from Bosnia-Herzegovina, as part of the peace-keeping forces in 1996.

Map of former Yugoslavia in 1993. Courtesy: Creative Commons

The Bosnian War (1992-1995) was an immediate fallout of the break-up of the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia. It began to disintegrate when Slovenia and Croatia seceded in 1991. Serbia, the largest constituent in the Republic of Yugoslavia, did not want Croatia’s independence as a large Serb minority lived in Croatia. But the rest of the state declared national sovereignty in October 1991 (two years after the fall of the Berlin Wall) and held a referendum for independence on 29 Feb 1992.

Bosnia, the largest nationality, was home to Muslim Bosniaks – they wanted Bosnia to be a unitary multi-ethnic state. The Serbs wanted to be independent if not to unite with Serbia. Likewise, the Croats wanted significant autonomy for their majority areas or secession to Croatia.

The referendum favoured independence, but the Bosnian Serbs opposed this, as they aimed at creating a new state – Republika Srpska (RS) that would include Bosniak majority areas. So, their political representatives boycotted it. And a day before the outcome of the referendum, on 28 February 1992, the Assembly of the Serb People in Bosnia and Herzegovina adopted the Constitution of the Serbian Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina.

Eventually, the European Union formally recognised the newly constituted Republic, as did the UN. It was inhabited mainly by Muslim Bosniaks, Orthodox Serbs, and Catholic Croats. As this Republic gained international recognition, the earlier Cutiliero Plan proposing a division of Bosnia into ethnic cantons collapsed.

Now the Bosnian Serbs, led by Radovan Karadzic and supported by the Serbian regime of Slobodan Milosevic and the Yugoslav People’s Army (JNA), mobilised their forces inside Bosnia and Herzegovina in order to secure ethnic Serb territory. Soon war spread across the Balkan land, accompanied by ethnic cleansing.

Siege of Sarajevo (1992-1996): The Bosnian Serbs who would settle for nothing less than a new state, Republika Srpska (RS), now encircled Sarajevo, the capital of Bosnia-Herzegovina. With a siege force of 13,000 stationed in the surrounding hills, they assaulted the city with artillery, tanks, and small arms. The army of RS, which had transformed from the Yugoslav Army units in Bosnia, fought the army of the Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina (ARBiH).

Inside the city ARBiH, which was the Bosnian government’s defence force composed of Bosniaks and Croat forces in the Croatin Defence Council (HVO), was poorly equipped. It could not break the siege and for six months, the population of Sarajevo lived without gas, electricity or water. It is estimated that of the 13,952 killed during the siege, 5434 were civilians.

Within a year increased tension between the Bosniaks and the Croats led to escalation of the Bosnian war, in 1993. Here on, the war was characterised by bitter fighting, indiscriminate shelling of cities and towns, ethnic abuse, forcible transfer and systematic mass rape of Bosniak Muslim women – perpetrated mainly by Serbs and, to a lesser extent, by Croat and Bosniak forces. Events such as Markale massacre and Srebrenica genocide, perpetrated to raze the Bosniak’s morale and willingness to fight, became iconic of the conflict.

Markale Massacre: In February 1994, the open-air market in the historic core of Sarajevo. Mortars were shelled. This act of targeting civilians in the marketplace was carried out, it was later confirmed, by the Army of Republika Sprska (VRS).

Initially the Serbs were militarily superior due to the weapons and resources from the JNA. Eventually they lost momentum as the Bosniaks and Croats allied against RS following the creation of the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina in 1994.

The repeat shelling of the Markale Market in August 1995 prompted the NATO airstrikes against Bosnian Serb forces and eventually led to the Dayton Peace Accord. The peace negotiations were held in Dayton, Ohio and signed on 21 November 1995.

Srebrenica Genocide: In July 1995, more than 8000 Bosniak Muslim men and boys in and around the town in eastern Bosnia were killed by the Bosnian Serb Army of Republika Srpska (VRS) under the command of Ratko Mladic. Prior to the massacre UN had declared the besieged enclave of Srebrenica a “safe” area but had failed to demilitarise the area or break the siege of Sarajevo.  By 2012, close to 7,000 genocide victims were identified by DNA analysis of the recovered body parts.

Some Serb accounts say that the massacre was in retaliation of civilian conflicts on Serbs by Bosniak soldiers from Srebrenica. This claim has been rejected by the UN and ICTY as “bad faith attempt to justify the crime against humanity”.

US Inaction: The United States took no action till 1995 against the smuggling of arms that had become rampant. It was widely believed that the CIA funded, trained and supplied the Bosnian Army. EU intelligence sources maintained that the US organised arms shipment to Bosnia through its Muslim allies. Pakistan, for one, ignored the UN ban that declared it illegal for other Muslim countries to supply arms in the war. It not only supplied arms and ammunition to Bosnian Muslims, it also airlifted anti-tank missiles.

Serbia did not fight but supported RS with money, arms and volunteers. Croatia too did the same for Croats.

The war ended with the signing of the General Framework Agreement for Peace in Bosnia and Herzegovina in Paris on 14 December 1995. British soldiers were first deployed in 1992 to protect aid convoys in Bosnia during the vicious civil war. They stayed on for peacekeeping duty.

War Crimes: Radovan Kradzic, the first President of Sprska during the Bosnian war, was a trained psychiatrist who was also known for his poetry. But the co-founder of the Serbs Democratic Party was declared a War Criminal. He was hunted down after 12 years as a fugitive in Belgrade and Austria, and extradited to the Netherlands which was then heading EU. There the International Crimes Tribunal for Yugoslavia (ICTY) convicted him on 11 counts of crimes against Bosniak and Croat civilians. Found guilty of the genocide in Srebrenica, he was sentenced to 40 years imprisonment.

Reportedly hundreds of people had demonstrated in his support. Others pleaded that Bosnia and Serbia could not move ahead economically as long as he was at large.

By 2008 ICTY had convicted 45 Serbs, 12 Croats, and 4 Bosniaks of War Crimes against Humanity. Estimates suggest that around 12,000-50,000 – mostly Bosniak – were raped, mainly by Serb forces. About 1 million people were killed and 2.2 million were displaced. This makes the Bosnian war the most devastating conflict in Europe since the end of World War II.

Net Outcome: The Bosniaks accomplished their goal of independent Bosnia. But the Serbs preserved their territorial gains a change in the demographic and self-rule in Republika Sprska. Also, the ethnic cleansing led to changes in the demographic composition of the Bosnian region – with the Serbs gaining the most.

History of the Conflict: The roots of the Bosnian War lies in the history that dates back to the 6th and 7th century when the region came to be inhabited by Slavic tribes. Bosnia was conquered in 1463 by the Ottoman Turks. Under their rule, large sections of the population converted to Islam while the rest remained either Orthodox Christians or Catholics. The Christian Orthodoxy came to be associated with Serbian nationality and Catholicism with Croat nationality. It is interesting to note that all these people spoke the same Slavic language.

Ethnic violence has been endemic in Bosnia and Herzegovina that had been under Austrian rule (1878-1918) before becoming a part of Yugoslavia. Violence engulfed it during WW2 when it was under Croatia, a puppet of Nazi Germany. In 1943-44, most of Bosnia was conquered by Serb-dominated Communists. Consequently, when WW2 ended, Bosnia became a constituent of the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia. It was led by Josip Broz Tito (1892-1980), an ethnic Croat who tried  to create a common Yugoslav identity based on adherence to Communist ideology. When that glue wore off, the nationalist separatist forces surfaced again.

*

Dipankar Ghosh, since he went to Pune’s Shivaji Preparatory Military School as a teenager, was mentally equipped to face the tribulations a war brings in its wake. His graduation from Kolkata’s Neel Ratan Sircar Medical College armed him to care for the ailing. And, being the firstborn of celebrated writer Nabendu Ghosh, he had a flair for writing.

All three qualities surfaced whenever the doctor, who retired as a Colonel in Britain’s Royal Army Medical Corp, put pen to paper. And he did that whenever he felt the urge to touch base with his parents in Bombay. From wherever he was camping — Belize, Belsen, Brunei, Cyprus, or in the Gulf War…

In the process, he breathed life into the now lost art of writing letters — which often became travelogues… like this letter to his father:

*

Mrkonic Grad. Photo provided by Ratnottama Sengupta

Lt Col D Ghosh, RAMC

RMO, 1 WFR

SHOE Factory, Mrkonic Grad

BFPO 551.U.K.

5th July 1996

Dear Baba,

I have just received your last letter from Bombay. I was worried about your health, which is why I rang you last night. Sorry it was so late. There was quite a queue for the phone, so I had to wait for my turn, Lt Col notwithstanding! I am reassured that you are okay.  

I am sorry the line was so poor, but it is a satellite line, which travels from Bosnia to the USA then is beamed on to India — hence all the static. Mind you, it is full of static when I speak to Lesley and Children in the UK too. Sadly, it is only an outgoing line, which takes call out, but no incoming calls. If you need to get in touch with me urgently, the best thing would be for you to ring Lesley and she can get in touch with me via the Ministry of Defence. 

We have been out in Bosnia for just over three months now, and the problems here seem to be in a state of very uneasy peace, now that Dr Radovan Karadzic has finally handed over the reins of power (Oh Yes!?). We are somewhat concerned that the proposed elections in September might bring about fresh unease and disturbance, even without Dr Karadzic at the hustings, and we might be, willy-nilly, dragged into a situation of tension to try to maintain peace.  Nonetheless, the Bosnians are making some efforts to keep the peace, albeit because we are waving a big stick whilst holding out a carrot.  

The position is especially delicately balanced for us at the moment, due to the ICFWCB’s (International Commission for War Crimes in Bosnia) declaration of the good Dr Karadzic and his General, Ratko Mladic as ‘War Criminals’ for genocide against the Muslims of Bosnia. There’s little doubt, this is due to pressure from the countries with more than a few spare billions of petrodollar in western banks. We are hoping that we will not need to confront the Bosnian Serbs by having to arrest these two persons (since this was not a part of the Dayton agreement that has laid the framework last year for ending the war ravaging Bosnia for more than three years). These two still hold considerable political sway, and have a significant following in this country. 

It seems likely that we (British Army as well as the Americans, much as they might dislike it) will have to stay on in Bosnia for quite a while longer than we’d initially made allowance for. If the yanks want out, I hope we shall pull out as well. The Serbs seem to prefer having us around, to maintain the peace, than any other European nation, as they feel the British army of IFOR has, so far, been fair and reasonable in their dealings with them. (IFOR, you do know, is the NATO-led multinational peace enforcement force here under a one-year mandate). 

This was not the feeling they had about us last year though!

The biggest single problem at the moment, which might cause a major flare up for us, is Mostar. The people of this divided town straddling the river Neretva in south-east Bosnia have selected a Muslim majority council: this, the minority Croatian population are unwilling to accept, and have been boycotting. So far the town, which is known for its mediaeval arched bridge Stari Most, has been run by a peace committee from the European community with the help of IFOR, but they have threatened to hand over the council and resign from running it. 

This would effectively ring the death knell for the first election in Bosnia. Which would mean that the results of all the country-wide elections, due in September, may be an exercise in futility. 

The sad news this morning is that the iconic bridge, which connected the two parts of the city, was blown up by ‘unknown miscreants’ – very likely to have been Croats. Thankfully, Mostar is in the French sector of IFOR overall, so let’s hope and pray.

*

Now to give you some idea of all the other things that I’ve been up to, here in Bosnia. In May we started what we call a G5 project, a ‘Hearts and Minds’ operation to try and persuade the people at the grassroots about the benefits of Peace. This is in a small village called Podrasnica, with medical logistic support — essentially, medicines — from Medicine Sans Frontier (MSF), an international humanitarian organisation that provides medical assistance to people affected by wars, epidemics or other disasters.

Podrasnica is a village of some 950 people and is, like most places in the Balkans, nestled in a valley, about ten miles from our location in Mrkonic Grad. 

The people are mostly poor agrarians, eking out a living on small land holdings, or are involved in the logging industry. I run a Primary Health Care Clinic here, twice a week. The locals and also some people from the surrounding villages (though they never let on they are from another village!) are very grateful to have this facility, as they are very poor and many of them are unable to afford the price of medicine, or have transport to travel to Mrkonic Grad, and certainly not to their only surviving big hospital at Banja Luka. We do the basic medical care and also provide them with medicines which are given to us by MSF. 

Most of my patients are elderly people and small children, as the majority of young healthy men and women go to other places, bigger cities or towns, to earn a living  as best as they can. I’ve never come across so many people, in such a small community, with so much Hypertension amongst them. How much of that is the result of the stresses of war and how much of it due to the Turkish coffee they drink, would be interesting to investigate.

The majority of people are by and large sick of the war, and this is the first time, in five years, some of them will be able to harvest their own crops. The vast quantity of what they grew in the last few years was either commandeered by their own Army or looted by the opposition (Muslims and/or Croats). 

The clinic is now quite popular, but it is time consuming as we have to use an interpreter, and I am lucky if I can get through more than 15-20 patients per clinic.  

I have a special admirer called Milija (Serbian version of our dear Emily!) who brings us Turkish coffee. She was one of my first patients. She is sixty-two years old, and is a real darling. She doesn’t believe I’m fifty, which is wonderful for my morale! 

Later this month, possibly on the 16th, we will ‘hand over’ the clinic to the local Serbs, to continue the clinic with ongoing Medical support from MSF and support from us, if they want it. If they do take over the clinic completely, I shall miss seeing the patients. I’m hoping that they will be happy to allow me to continue the clinic, at least once a week. 

The clinic work sustains me through the boredom and the non-events (in real life terms) of the remainder of the week. So far I have had one bottle of ten-year-old Brandy, and a bottle of the local firewater called Sliivo — a fruit brandy they make out of plums). I’ve found out the hard way that it is safer to keep a hand over the little glasses they offer the slivovitz in, otherwise it gets automatically topped up! Even better, so that I don’t drink whilst on duty. 

The vegetables are coming on a treat in Milija’s garden, and the palm trees are loaded with fruits, as are the apple trees next to the clinic. Milija thinks they will have a decent harvest, if the peace holds, and she’s trying hard to dissuade her oldest son from drinking too much — otherwise, she says, she will force him to come and see me! 

The men who do not have regular employment, and there’s a lot of them about, have become apathetic. So alcoholism is rife, and hence, I think, Hypertension and Peptic disease. All my boys have now developed a taste for Milija’s Turkish coffee, but I try to dissuade Milija, as I am fairly certain that the coffee beans must cost quite a bit. 

We always have an interpreter for the clinic, who are generally Bosnian girls, or fellers. They are generally chary (maybe even contemptuous) of the local yorkels, as is normal in all developing nations, and certainly in India. But the vast majority of them seem to have developed a special protective shell, to help them cope with the business of dealing with the needs of their poorer country folks, as the vast majority of them (the interpreters) get paid some DM 1000–12,00/ a month. This is eight to ten times what the ordinary folks in the country earn.  

There are some really bright students amongst these interpreters, who have given up career courses in order to take up jobs with IFOR, so that they can look after their families. One of the girls we have with us in Mrkonic  Grad was a second year medical student when the war broke out. Another girl, the daughter of a Chemistry Professor (her mother), is a graduate Electronic Engineer. She is trying to get funds organised so she can do a Master degree, and then probably a PhD. What will happen to all these blighted lives eventually, who knows?

I am constantly amazed how well these girls cope with living amongst all of our sex-starved, often foul mouthed soldiers. Some, of course, cope better than others, the youngest being just over 16 years old! IFOR has arranged a free scholarship for her, to study in the UK after she’s done her stint with the Army.  

It is hard to be surrounded by so much tragedy and not be repulsed by war and the people who lead nations into them. But draw the experiences of N Ireland into the reckoning and you realise that humankind has still some way to go before being called truly civilised. Amongst all this, when one has to cope with the petty point scoring of the self-seeking people, and self-aggrandizement of personalities around you, then it can get somewhat wearying. 

So far I am managing to cope with the changes that have occurred in my life, and find it comforting to accept that “This too shall pass”. Your letter was a solace.

I hope that my dear mother is keeping well. Please convey my pronam and love to Maa. Hope you are both well when this gets to you. I’ve rambled on too long for now. 

With pronam and love, 

Yours, as ever, Khoka

From left to right: Nabendu Ghosh, Dipankar Ghosh and Ratnottama Sengupta. Photo provided by Ratnottama Sengupta.

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. 

.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Tribute

Satyajit Ray & the World

Satyajit Ray(2 May 1921-23 April 1992) in New York. Courtesy: Creative Commons

A film-maker, writer, musician and more, perhaps Satyajit Ray can best be described in the maestro’s lead actor (Seemabadha, 1971) Barun Chanda’s words:

[O]ne would like to remember Ray as one of the last truly great renaissance men of Bengal, moulded much in the tradition of Tagore, in the sense that his genius manifested itself in manifold directions: film-making, photography, writing, composing poetry, limericks, music, designing, drawing, developing new typefaces, you name it.

For a long time, he was also our most distinguished cultural ambassador to the world.

-- Barun Chanda, Satyajit Ray: The Man Who Knew Too Much

Barun Chanda, introduces Satyajit Ray, the film maker, to us in his book, Satyajit Ray:The Man Who Knew Too Much. This in-depth conversation with the author and a review of his book introduces us to the unforgettable world of Satyajit Ray. Click here to read.

In When ‘they’ Danced…, Ratnottama Sengupta discusses the unique Bhooter Naach or the Ghost Dance, in Satyajit Ray’s Goopy Gyne Bagha Byne. Click here to read.

Nivedita Sen reviews Upendrakishore Ray Chowdhury’s The Adventure Of Goopy The Singer And Bagha The Drummer, later made into a movie by the legendary grandson of the author, Satyajit Ray. Click here to read.

In Satyajit Ray’s Cinematic Universe: Can Isolation Lead to a New World?, Rebanta Gupta explores two films of Satyajit Ray, Kanchenjunga & Charulata to see what a sense of isolation can do for humans? Click here to read.

Satyajit Ray, Bibhuti Bhushan & Nabendu Ghosh and a Famous Triology: Pather Panchali (Song of the Road) by Bibhuti Bhushan Bandopadhyay was a classic novel, immortalised further by Satyajit Ray’s films, also known know as the Apu Triology. Here is a translation from Nabendu Ghosh’s autobiography which introduces how the film came to be. This portion has been excerpted from Eka Naukar Jatri (Journey of a Lonesome Boat) and translated by Ratnottama Sengupta as a celebration of the Satyajit Ray Centenary. Click here to read.

In The Kaleidoscopic World of Satyajit Ray, Anasuya Bhar takes us into the literary world of Satyajit Ray, the world famous film director. Click here to read.

Bhaskar Parichha has reviewed Satyajit Ray Miscellany: On Life, Cinema, People & Much More, a collection of the maestro’s writings and illustrations. Click here to read.

Categories
Contents

Borderless, April 2023

Painting by Sohana Manzoor

Editorial

Can Love Change the World?… Click here to read.

Conversation

Keith Lyons interviews Asian Australian poet Adam Aitken about cross-cultural identity, and the challenges of travel, writing, and belonging. Click here to read.

Translations

Gandhiji, a short story by Nabendu Ghosh, has been translated from Bengali by Ratnottama Sengupta. Click here to read.

Khaira, the Blind, a story by Nadir Ali, has been translated from Punjabi by Amna Ali. Click here to read.

Clothes of Spirits, a folktale, has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.

Many Splendored Love, four poems by Masud Khan, have been translated from Bengali by Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.

Birds are Alive, has been written and translated from Korean by Ihlwha Choi. Click here to read.

Nobo Borshe or on New Year, Tagore’s poem on the Bengali New Year, has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty for the occasion this April. Click here to read.

Poetry

Click on the names to read the poems

Michael R Burch, Vipanjeet Kaur, William Miller, Sutputra Radheye, Jim Landwehr, Namrata Varadharajan, Phil Wood, Akshada Shrotryia, Richard Stevenson, Abdul Jamil Urfi, Scott Thomas Outlar, Anasuya Bhar, George Freek, Malachi Edwin Vethamani, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Rhys Hughes

Poets, Poetry & Rhys Hughes

In My Love for RK Narayan, Rhys Hughes discusses the novels by ths legendary writer from India. Click here to read.

Musings/Slices from Life

Magic of the Mahatma & Nabendu

Ratnottama Sengupta shows the impact of Gandhi and his call for non-violence on Nabendu Ghosh as she continues to emote over his message of Ahimsa and call for peace amidst rioting. Click here to read.

Kindred Spirits

Anjali V Raj writes of an endearing friendship. Click here to read.

Colorado comes to Eden

Meredith Stephens sails to meet more people in Eden. Click here to read.

Us vs Them

Shivani Agarwal talks of sharing the planet with all creatures great and small. Click here to read.

Musings of a Copywriter

In To Be or Not to Be, Devraj Singh Kalsi muses on food fads. Click here to read.

Notes from Japan

In Olives and Art in the Inland Sea, Suzanne Kamata explores the island of Sodoshima. Click here to read.

Essays

Charlie and I: My Visit to Corsier-sur-Vevey

Nirupama Kotru talks of her trip to Charlie Chaplin’s home and writes about the legendary actor. Click here to read.

The Wonderland of Pokhara

Ravi Shankar explores, Pokhara, a scenic town in Nepal. Click here to read.

Stories

Sparks

Brindley Hallam Dennis captures the passing of an era. Click here to read.

The Moulting

PG Thomas brings us a glimpse of Kerala — the past merging to create a new present. Click here to read.

The Book Hunter

Paul Mirabile gives a tale about a strange obsession. Click here to read.

Book Excerpts

An excerpt from What Will People Say?: A Novel by Mitra Phukan. Click here to read.

An excerpt from The Wistful Wanderings of Perceval Pitthelm by Rhys Hughes. Click here to read.

Book Reviews

Somdatta Mandal reviews Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni’s Independence. Click here to read.

Rakhi Dalal reviews Song of the Golden Sparrow – A Novel History of Free India by Nilanjan P. Choudhary. Click here to read.

Basudhara Roy reviews Ukiyo-e Days… Haiku Moments by Bina Sarkar Ellias. Click here to read.

Bhaskar Parichha reviews Japanese Management, Indian Resistance: The Struggles of the Maruti Suzuki Workers by Anjali Deshpande and Nandita Haksar. Click here to read.

.

.

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Click here to learn more about our first anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Categories
Editorial

Can Love Change the World?

The night has nearly come to an end.
The old year is almost past.
Under this dust, it will lay down
Its worn-out life at last.
Whether friend or foe,      wherever you go,
Old wrongs cast
Away. On this auspicious day,
Old grievances shed as the old year parts.

— Nobo Borshe or on New Year by Tagore
Art by Sohana Manzoor

Mid-April, Thailand celebrates Songkran and Cambodia, Thingyan — water festivals like Holi. These coincide with the celebration of multiple New Years across Asia. Sikhs celebrate Baisakhi. Kerala celebrates Bishu and Tamil Nadu, Puthandu. Nepal celebrates Nava Varsha and Bengal Nobo Borsho or Poila Boisakh. A translation of Tagore’s poem on the Bengali New Year in spirit asks us to dispense with our past angst and open our hearts to the new day — perhaps an attitude that might bring in changes that are so needed in a world torn with conflicts, hatred and anger. The poet goes on to say, “I want to tie all lives with love” but do we do that in our lives? Can we? Masud Khan’s poems on love translated by Professor Fakrul Alam explore this from a modern context. From Korea, Ihlwha Choi tells us in his translation, “Loving birds is like loving stars”. But the translation that really dwells on love bringing in changes is Nabendu Ghosh’s ‘Gandhiji’, translated by Ratnottama Sengupta, his daughter. The short story by Ghosh highlights the transformation of a murderous villain to a defender of a victim of communal violence, towering above divides drawn by politics of religion.

Another daughter who has been translating her father’s works is Amna Ali, daughter of award-winning Punjabi writer, Nadir Ali. In ‘Khaira, the Blind‘, the father-daughter duo have brought to Anglophone readers a lighter narrative highlighting the erasure of divides and inclusivity. A folktale from Balochistan, translated by Fazal Baloch, echoes in the footsteps of ‘Emperor’s New Clothes’ — a story that can found in the Andersen’s Fairy Tales published in the nineteenth century. I wonder which narrative had come first? And how did it cross cultures retaining the original ideas and yet giving it a local colour? Was it with traders or immigrants?

That such narratives or thoughts are a global phenomenon is brought to the fore by a conversation between Keith Lyons and Asian Australian poet Adam Aitken. Aitken has discussed his cross-cultural identity, the challenges of travel, writing, and belonging. Belonging is perhaps also associated with acceptance. How much do we accept a person, a writer or his works? How much do we empathise with it — is that what makes for popularity?

Cross cultural interactions are always interesting as Rhys Hughes tells us in his essay titled ‘My Love for RK Narayan’. He writes: “Narayan is able to do two contradictory things simultaneously, namely (1) show that we are all the same throughout the world, and (2) show how cultures and people around the world differ from each other.” The underlying emotions that tie us together in a bond of empathy and commonality are compassion and love, something that many great writers have found it necessary to emphasise.

Mitra Phukan’s What Will People say?: A Novel is built around such feelings of love, compassion and patience that can gently change narrow norms which draw terrifying borders of hate and unacceptance. We carry an excerpt this time from her ‘Prologue’. Somdatta Mandal has reviewed Chitra Banerjee Divakurni’s latest , Independence. Starting from around the time of the Indian Independence too is Song of the Golden Sparrow – A Novel History of Free India by Nilanjan P. Choudhary, which has been discussed by Rakhi Dalal. The Partition seems to colour narratives often as does the Holocaust. Sometimes, one wonders if humanity will ever get over the negative emotions set into play in the last century.

Closer to our times, when mingling of diverse cultures is becoming more acceptable in arts, Basudhara Roy introduces us to Bina Sarkar Ellias’s Ukiyo-e Days…Haiku Moments, a book that links poetry to a Japanese art-form. While a non-fiction that highlights the suffering of workers by enforcing unacceptable work ethics, Japanese Management, Indian Resistance: The Struggles of the Maruti Suzuki Workers by Anjali Deshpande and Nandita Haksar has been reviewed by Bhaskar Parichha. The narrative, he writes, “tells the story of the biggest car manufacturer in India through the voices of the workers, interviewed over three years. They give us an understanding that the Maruti Suzuki revolution wasn’t the unmitigated success it was touted to be when they tell us about their resistance to being turned into robots by uncompromising management.” That lack of human touch creates distress in people’s hearts, even if we have an efficient system of management and mass production is well elucidated in the review.

To lighten the mood, we have humour in verses from Rhys Hughes and Richard Stevenson’s tongue-in-cheek dino poems. Michael Burch’s poetry explores nuances of love and, yet, changes wrought in love has become the subject of poetry by Malachi Edwin Vethamani and Anasuya Bhar with more wistful lines by George Freek highlighting evanescence.  Sutputra Radheye and Jim Landwehr bring darker nuances into poetry while Scott Thomas Outlar mingles nature with philosophical meanderings. We have more poetry by Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Abdul Jamil Urfi and many more exploring various facets of changes in our lives.

These changes are reflected in our musings too. Sengupta has written on how change is wrought on a murderous villain by the charisma of Gandhi in her father’s fiction, as well as this world leader’s impact on Ghosh and her. Devraj Singh Kalsi addresses food fads with a pinch of sarcasm. From Japan, Suzanne Kamata has written of a little island with Greek influences, a result of cultural ties brought in by the emperor Hirohito. Ravi Shankar takes us to Pokhara, Nepal, and Meredith Stephen expresses surprise on meeting a shipload of people from Colorado in the far reaches of the Southern Hemisphere while on her sailing adventures with beautiful photographs. Stories by moderns reflect diverse nuances depicting change. While Brindley Hallam Dennis writes of the passing of an era, PG Thomas integrates the past into the present to reflect how they have a symbiotic structure in the scheme of creating or recreating natural movements through changes wrought over time in his story. Paul Mirabile explores the darker recesses of the human existence in his fiction. As if in continuation, the excerpt from Rhys Hughes’ The Wistful Wanderings of Perceval Pitthelm seems to step out of darker facets of humanity with a soupçon of wit at its best.

To create a world that endures, one looks for values that create inclusivity as reflected in these lines from Charles Chaplin’s My Autobiography, “Mother illuminated to me the kindliest light this world has ever known, which has endowed literature and the theatre with their greatest themes: love, pity and humanity.” This quote starts off a wonderful essay from film-buff Nirupama Kotru. Her narrative carries the tenor of Chaplin’s ‘themes’ to highlight not only her visit to the actor’s last home in Switzerland but also glances at his philosophy and his contributions to cinema across borders.

Our issue rotates around changes and the need for love and compassion to rise in a choral crescendo whirling with the voices of Tagore, Charles Chaplin as well as that of twenty-first century writers. Perhaps this new year, we can move towards a world – at least an imagined world — where love will wipe away weapons and war, where love will take us towards a future filled with the acceptance of myriad colours, where events like the Partition and the Holocaust will be history, just like dinosaurs.

Huge thanks to all our readers and contributors, some of whom may not have been mentioned here but are an integral and necessary part of the issue. Do pause by our April edition. I would also like to give my thanks to our indefatigable team whose efforts breathe life into our journal every month. Sohana Manzoor needs a special mention for her lovely artwork.

Thank you all and wish you a wonderful April.

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

.

Read reviews and learn more about Monalisa No Longer Smiles: An Anthology of Writings from across the World by clicking here

Categories
Paean To Peace Slices from Life

Magic of the Mahatma & Nabendu

Ratnottama Sengupta shows the impact of Gandhi and his call for non-violence on her father, Nabendu Ghosh as she continues to emote over his message of Ahimsa and call for peace amidst rioting

Eka Naukar Jatri (Journey of a Lonesome Boat)
Gandhi. Courtesy: CReative Commons

The ferocity and senselessness of riots — Nabendu Ghosh had personal experience of both. In his autobiography, Eka Naukar Jatri (Dey’s Publication, 2008, Journey of a Lonesome Boat), he writes at length about grappling with the riots that had rocked Calcutta, Bengal — nay, the entire Subcontinent on 16th August 1946. 

The Direct Action Day call was given out by Mohammad Ali Jinnah to press the demand for a separate Muslim State, Pakistan. The epicentre was Calcutta, a flourishing centre of business and education, that had Suhrawardy of Muslim League as its chief minister. On that black Friday, they unleashed unprecedented bloodletting along communal lines. At least 4000 deaths were reported on the very first day of the ‘Great Calcutta Killing’ that continued for more than four days. Many women were raped, many were kidnapped, many killed and hung naked in public areas… Dismemberment, forced conversion, bustees set on fire… Violence spread to Khulna in East Bengal, and Bihar. Within a year the hatred ignited on religious grounds culminated in the Partition of India.

The savagery of the mindless bloodbath had left such a deep dent on the yet-to-be-thirty writer, that he wrote a number of stories and novels on the theme: Phears Lane, Dweep, Trankarta, Ulukhar, ‘Chaaka’(Full Circle), and ‘Gandhiji’.

 Gandhiji builds majorly on the author’s own memories of a darshan[1] of Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi while he was passing through Patna, sometime in early 1931. This is how he records his ‘encounter’ with the Saint of Sabarmati who worked magic on the masses with the mantra of Ahimsa, non-violence.

“By 1930 all of India and its British rulers too were uttering one name with awe: Gandhi. One evening it came to my ears that the Mahatma would reach Patna at 7 am the next morning, spend the day in the city and leave by the Punjab Mail at night. 

“I did not sleep well that night. I was up at the crack of dawn and left home at 5 am on the pretext of getting a book from a friend. But I could not get anywhere near the Patna railway station, which was teeming with people who had arrived before sunrise. It was no different along the path he would be driven down. I hung around at one end of the platform, eyes glued to the exit gate. 

“Policemen on horseback trotted past me. A police van was parked close by. Those patrolling the platform carried bayonets and batons. Because of my green years and my small built, I was allowed to inch ahead. From time to time the sky was rent with the cry of ‘Mahatma Gandhi ki jai! Long live the Mahatma!’

“All of a sudden, perhaps to steel myself, I started to whisper: ‘Vande Mataram!  I salute you, my Motherland!’ As if on a cue, the man next to me cried out aloud: ‘Vande Mataram!’ The crowd roared in an echo: ‘Vande Mataram! Vande Mataram!!’

“Suddenly a train rolled in with a long whistle. And people all around me broke into the cries of ‘Mahatma Gandhi ki jai!’ ‘Bharat Mata ki jai!’ ‘Vande Mataram!’ I found myself matching their voice…

“Soon people started saying, ‘There he goes…’ Some cars came forward with Gandhi-topi clad volunteers. And then, there was the face so familiar from the newspapers, peering out of a hood-open Ford. Mahatma Gandhi, clad in a knee-length khadi dhoti, a chadar draped over his bare torso, a volunteer on either side, was greeting everyone with folded hands. What an inspiring image!

“I also broke into the cry of ‘Mahatma Gandhi ki jai!’‘ The crowd had started running behind the moving car. I joined them, without a pause in the slogan. A few paces later, I bumped into someone and fell down by the wayside. As an elderly gentleman lifted me up and soothingly dusted me off. I felt a resolve surface in my thoughts: ‘Freedom must be won!'”

 *

Nabendu Ghosh may or may not have had another prototype for the protagonist Ratan in Gandhiji. But it is said there actually lived close to College Street — where Nabendu lived at the time — a person named Gopal Mukherjee who owned a meat shop. He was a devotee of Subhash Chandra Bose and a critique of Gandhi. Reportedly this ‘paatha‘ — butcher — was funded by some Marwari businessmen and he led his team to retaliate from the fourth day of riots. After Independence, when he was urged to surrender his guns, knives and sword to Gandhiji, he apparently refused, saying, “I would willingly lay down my arms for Netaji, but not for Gandhiji. Why didn’t he stop the killings in Noakhali?”

The author may have woven in some traits of Gopal Paatha but, like a mirror image that is identical yet opposite, his protagonist Ratan is transformed by the iconic personality so that he surrenders his weapons — expressed symbol of violence — at the feet of the Mahatma.

*

As I watched Kamal Hasan’s Hey! Ram (2000), I was reminded of this story, ‘Gandhiji’ that was published in the collection Raater Gaadi (The Night Train) in 1964. Perhaps unknowingly the character played in the film by Om Puri reflects the protagonist Ratan. 

In Hey! Ram, A rioteer who has snuffed out scores of lives walks up to the fasting Gandhi in Beliaghata, throws a roti towards him and says, “I have bloodied my hands with many lives but I will not have your death on my conscience.” He resonates Ratan, the butcher who finds his biggest high in draining out human blood but once he rests his eyes on the frail sage, something happens deep inside him. He who wondered why his taking a life should matter to ‘Gendo’, stakes his own life to protect a Muslim.

*

Nabendu Ghosh experienced the magic of the Mahatma at age fourteen, long years before he became my father. 

I felt the magic of the man whom Rabindranath Tagore gave the name of Mahatma when I was well into my forties, and was doing a Fellowship in Oxford, on a Charles Wallace award, on John Ruskin and his Influence on Gandhi and Tagore. 

Then, almost 20 years later, we were at the critical juncture in time when we were completing 70 years of Gandhi’s passing and approaching his Sesquicentennial Birth Anniversary. That is when I started wondering: “What does Mohandas Karamchand mean to those acquiring voting rights in India now? Is he only the face on every Indian currency note? Is he only ‘M G Road’ — the high street of every city in India? Is he a boring memory who forces every one of his countrymen to shun drinking on his birthday?” 

Or, is there any valid reason to recall what he said — in Natal and Transvaal and Pietermaritzburg; in Kolkata and Noakhali, Chowri Chowra and Dandi, Bombay and Delhi? Is there anything in his actions that can change the lives of not only Indians but everywhere in the world where people are tired of terror strikes and gunshots and discrimination in the name of caste or creed or colour?

For, influence he certainly did, the lives of so many personalities… Not for nothing was Mohandas of Porbandar to become Gandhiji, Mahatma, Bapu, Father of the Nation. 

[1] To go to view a great or holy man

.

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. 

.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Stories

Gandhiji by Nabendu Ghosh

Translated from Bengali by Ratnottama Sengupta

Gandhi (1869-1948)
The victims of the 1946 riots in Calcutta (now Kolkata)

The sun went down.

One after another the lamp posts in the winding lane sprung to life. Their brilliance was dimmed by the smoke from the homely clay oven, sigri. The darkening sky above got dotted by a glittering star or two. And that is when Ratan’s feet became unruly like a wild steed. Donning a mulmul kurta he got ready to go out for the evening.

Jasoda had entered the room to pick up something. She came to an abrupt halt. 

“Off?”  she asked, her voice laced with sarcasm. “Can’t stay put at home any longer, can you?”

Solemnly Ratan nodded his head. “Yes, just need to take a round.” 

Jasoda knitted her brow, “Just take a round? Chhee! Don’t do that. Pour some down your throat too, okay?”

“Jasoda!” 

“Why? Am I saying something wrong, haan[1]? Something not quite done?”

Ratan did not utter a word in reply. He only glared at Jasoda for a second before walking out in rapid steps.

He didn’t stop until he reached Jatin’s house. His friend Jatin who sells fish every morning and evening. He has no family save his aged mother – he had married but his wife died years ago, and he made no attempt to have another after that.

They all gather in his house – Haaru, Potla, Jaga, Radhu and a few others. Since most of them are in the business of selling fish or meat, they have cash in their pockets. They easily turn uproarious as mutton chops and prawn cutlets stream in to enhance the pleasure of downing country liquor. 

In a room foggy with fumes of cigarette, they settle down to a few games of card. They play as long as they feel like; when they don’t want to, they storm the cells of Gendi or Bunchi in the dark of the night. Or, when they are told to, they dive into the alleys of the Muslim neighbourhood and toss a few hand grenades. 

Yes, the responsibility to curb the riot – a euphemism for hunting down Muslims – has suddenly come to rest on their able shoulders. They didn’t anticipate or expect it to, but it did. All of a sudden the wealthies of their end of the city started to pamper them. They raised funds through donations, to arm Ratan and his friends with small weapons so that they could protect the prestige of the Hindus, and of the womenfolk.

The way things were going, this was bound to happen. They had outdone everyone in severing head from the torso of walking talking men. 

*

They were all there. Haaru, Potla, Jaga, Radhu – all of them had showed up. Ratan lent the final touch. 

“Come in saala[2], come!” Jatin affectionately welcomed him. 

Laughter and banter followed. 

There was a sudden lull in the spate of riots that had been on sporadically for a year since the Direct Action Day, and had got a spurt when the country won its freedom on 15th August. But God knows what went wrong? All of a sudden the darkness of hatred started to melt, and the two warring units that had been at each other’s throats, suddenly saw themselves in the mirror: they embraced each other in brotherhood.

Since that day their ‘work’ had gone down. Further calm has descended since Gandhiji appeared in the city. He is camping in Beliaghata. He has been saying that he will not go anywhere until there is peace. Why, he has even staked his life! He will give up his life if he has to, to stop the riots! That is why Ratan and his company are spending more hours in downing liquor and visiting the sluts in the forbidden quarters, singing in their hoarse voice and walking with unsteady steps. 

The chops and cutlets from Nitai’s shop were hot off the oven. The air thickened with the smell of blended oil. And their eyes sparkled with the spirit. 

“Abey Jatin, get the bottles out…” Ratan urged. 

“Haan bey,” Jatin was most willing to oblige.

A bitter-sharp smell spread through the room. The earthen cups filled to the brim were emptied in no time. The world before their eyes started dancing like a flame. Nasha… stupor.

“Bring out one more bottle, saala…” Ratan nudged Jatin.

“Haan bey, I will…”

“Arre call for more chops and cutlets.”

“O-K-K Sa-a-la…”

Jaga suddenly sprung to his feet. “I’m off, bye…”

“Where to?” Jatin wanted to  know.

“To Bimli’s…he-he-he…”

“Get back to your chair” – Jatin barked at him. “We will all go in a group.”

Jaga wasn’t too pleased, but he sat down again. “Okay baba, that’s what we will do. Meanwhile let me have a bite of the cutlets…”

The room was filled with the odour of country liquor and smoke. Reddened eyes and numbed  responses. Tidbits dropped on the floor, empty bottles and used cups and dishes piled up. Vegetable salad and sauces dripped to stain their clothes. None of them cared to wash their hands, silently they went on downing the liquid fire. Periodically they pulled their faces and uttered satisfaction, “Aah!” 

“Hear that?” Ratan turned to gaze at Jatin. 

“What?”

“All of you here can hear this?”

Potla shook his head, “How can we hear if you don’t spit it out, saala…”

Ratan crinkled his face, “This Gendo[3] of yours has thrown a spanner in the wheel, re…” 

A gentle murmur coursed through the room. Almost as if a gentle breeze had rustled dry leaves. 

Gandhi – yes, Gandhi! Superannuated Gandhi, old rascal Gandhi. This Gendo chap is a fraud. He is in cahoots with the Muslims, enemy of the Hindus, foe of the Bengalis…

“Yes, he has thrown us off-gear,” Jatin spoke through gritted teeth. “But for how  long can he stymie us? He can’t get away with his bujruki, his hoax …”

Jaga spoke in a tired voice, “I just want to see Bimli for a while…”

“Sit, you owl!” 

“Whatever you may say,” Haru spoke in a soft voice, “Gandhiji is a good soul, hanh?”

“Good soul?” Ratan roared out a nasty abuse, “My foot! All of us can sing bhajans and paeans to Ram if we had a life of comfort like him, buddy! And this guy alone is responsible for the Muslims daring to go so far as to demand a separate land. But this can’t go on! Now we have gained Independence. This is Hindustan – we will put an end to the last Muslim standing here!”

“Right! Right you are!!” they chorused in their boozy voice. 

“Riot! We must hack every invader, every single Yavan!”

“Ha-ha-ha!”

“Hee-hee-hee–”

“Haan…  pour me one more bhaanr[4] of the stuff…”

“Where is it? Dum aaloo[5]?”

“Listen!” Jatin ran his eyes over them, “What Ratan is saying is hundred percent correct. Gendo can’t have a run of the state. No. D’you know what that chap is up to now? He’s saying he will bring back every single Muslim and rehabilitate them in the bustee[6]at Beliaghata. Why, I ask you dear, why couldn’t you say this to our people? What did you, all told, achieve in Noakhali?”

Ratan nodded in agreement and let out a mouthful of smoke. “No, such humbug will no longer work here. Enough. The guy wants to unite Ishwar and Allah[7]! As if you can do that at will!”

“Shut up bey!” Jatin cackled.

“Tomorrow. We will rake it up tomorrow itself. The Babus had sent for me today – everything is fixed.”

“All fixed?” Ratan’s face brightened at this, “Good. I’m relieved.”

“Oh, good. Come on, baba Jatin…” Haru called out, “bring out another bottle Jatin!”

“Abey shut up saala ! Here I come…”

“Hey where’s the chaat[8]? Pass it around…”

“Die, you pests!” Jaga stood up and spoke in excitement, “None of you are sober. I’m off to Bimli’s.”

“Saala can’t wait to get there,” Ratan chuckled. “Arre baba, we’ll all go with you…” They all got to their unsteady feet.

*

Ratan couldn’t contain his glee. As he strode forward he kept thinking, “So there’ll be riots again – good!” 

The lull in the violence these past few days was most irritating. He simply couldn’t take it anymore. He had tasted blood – and that is a dangerous addiction.  For years, he had been a butcher and beheaded goats and lambs. But the thrill of killing a man, a live human being, was something else. 

The first day he stabbed a man he understood that this was the king of highs. Day after day, he had sought out Musalmaans and delighted in putting the knife into them – and now it had spread through his veins. Now he felt out of depth on the days when he did not snuff out a life. He felt rather unwell.

He had a faint recollection of one particular afternoon.

He was sipping tea in Bipin’s tea stall.

All of a sudden some boys dragged in a young Muslim fellow. They told Ratan, “Now you have to finish the job Dada[9]. We are exhausted.”

Ratan grinned, “What’s so tough, idiots?”

“You’re mistaken bhai[10]…” the young man broke into tears. “I’m a Hindu!”

“Really?” Ratan laughed uproariously. “I’ll check that out once I’ve finished with you.”

The youth was dragged to a dark end of the lane and done with. After the job was over, a curiosity gnawed Ratan. He was absolutely certain that the kid had claimed to be a Hindu out of sheer fear. Still… He bared the body and checked the genitals of the naked corpse. “Shhuh, I got fooled!! This guy was actually a Hindu…”

They were outside Bimli’s door. There was no one else in the gully but them. The entire city was holding its breath, too scared to breathe in the riot-torn air. And then, it was late in the night. The gaslight was casting eerie shadows. Silence ruled.

*

Jatin’s words came true. The riots broke out the very next morning. And there was severe rioting. But this time around it was the Hindus who were aggressive, not the Muslims. The bombs and sten guns resounded across the sky and the air was rife with fear. 

Ratan finished one round and returned home. Aah ! He felt somewhat relieved today. 

But Jasoda was furious and would not relent. “So! You do have to come home to Jasoda, yeah? So liquor and sluts are not your cup of tea round the clock!”

“Jasoda!”

“But why are you losing your cool? I’ll get it for you – after all, you have been doing so much work! Boozing… whoring… killing…”

“Jasoda I’ll knock your head off!”

“Don’t I know that?” Jasoda’s fiery eyes bored through him, “The day you will fail to find a human to stab, you’ll twist your knife into me to satisfy your thirst for blood…” 

Jasoda walked out of the room.

After a while she sent a khullar[11] of tea through her little boy but she herself stayed away.

Ratan was displeased. He spent the rest of the afternoon sleeping. Let the others take the responsibility to keep the fire aflame; now that it has been lit again, it will spread on its own steam.

That’s exactly what happened. By nightfall the riots took a sinister turn. Tension gripped the air of the city, dread filled the dark of the eyes. There was hardly any footfall in the streets.

*

When they met in the evening, Jatin said, “See how easy it was to rekindle the flame! But…”

“But?”

“It seems that Gendo chap is fasting since morning.”

“Fasting! Really?”

“Yes. Crazy, this man is. He will fast unto death, he won’t eat a morsel until the riots stop, he has said.”

“Arre let him!” Ratan hissed. “Let the oldie die. This is how he has been pampering the Musalmaans. Forget him – he should die!”

“Right you are,” Jatin nodded in agreement, “let him die. You come with me, there’s work to be done.”

A while later the sky lit up with the blaze of a burning slum. The fire brigade rushed to the spot with sirens blaring. The city cowered, trembled with fear, as the sound of bombs rent the air every now and then.

Coming home, Ratan was again subjected to the tongue lash of Jasoda. What is this vixen, a virago? No fear in her soul! 

“So you’ll kill him? You will kill Gandhiji?”

“And what if I kill him?”

“What if you kill him! Are you a human being? You’ll kill a sage like him? You’ll rot in hell if you do that, understand? You’ll burn in hellfire…”

“Piss off! Just shut up and go. Get lost — ”

“Chhee! What are you, a man?”

“Jasoda!”

“What? You’ll kill me too? Go ahead, do that!”

But what good was silencing Jasoda? Ratan simply couldn’t sleep that night. 

That Gandhi has gone off food?! What stuff is the man made of? If I kill two men, you’ll fast yourself unto death? What a dissembler. But otherwise the man has done so much! That the country has gained independence – it is largely due to this man, they say.  So what? Why must he pamper the Muslims to this extent? If he’s really so bothered, why doesn’t he go fast to stop the riots in Punjab? Humbug. Let him rot.

*

The same story repeated itself the next day. The sacrificial fire kept devouring human flesh. 

“What a hassle,” Jatin grumbled. “This Gendo simply won’t eat a bite, I hear! He’ll kick the bucket day after if not tomorrow.”

“All this is willed by Goddess Kali, d’you realise Jattye?” Ratan added with a wave of his hand, “It’s best he shuffles off his mortal coil and drops dead.”

Stray incidents filled the day. Then it started to pour. They couldn’t do very much after that. When the rain stopped, Ratan stepped out to stretch his legs. He noticed that people were gathering here and there, reading newspapers, discussing something in a grave voice. Gandhiji, the name, kept recurring. They all looked worried, sounded concerned, crestfallen. 

All his countrymen genuinely worshipped Gandhi. He has actually done a lot – gone to great length to gain independence for the people. Not just the Lord Saheb, even the King of the British rulers held him in deference!

Suddenly Ratan hastened his pace. Why not go upto Beliaghata and take a look at Gandhi? To this day he had not set his eyes on this man, what was the harm in sizing him up? Ratan was not enamoured of Gandhi, he didn’t care two hoots whether he lived or died. Still, a peek at the man would do no harm. All said and done, he’d made a name for himself, perhaps even a place in history.

Ratan was overcome by a strange emotion. Inscrutable. Without much thinking he showed up in Beliaghata for the evening prayers. There was a large crowd waiting outside the house. He nudged and pushed to wend his way and find a footing in the front row. After a long wait he got to see Gandhiji.

A short statured, dark complexioned ageing man with the radiance of a child on his face. Bare bodied, Khadi-clad, he had a meditative calm about him. So this was the magnanimous Gandhiji!

A tremor passed through Ratan. It was as if he had suddenly come face to face with a morning sun. As if he was standing on the shore of the Pacific Ocean, as deep as its boundless expanse.

In a flash something happened deep within Ratan. Everything turned topsy turvy as if shaken by an earthquake high on the Richter scale. He realised he had finally encountered a magnificent personality. One who would not bow his head to anything unjust or immoral. One who would not daunted by guns and bullets.

As he looked on, Ratan turned misty eyed. Who said Gandhi was a pygmy? To Ratan he seemed like the Himalayas piercing the sky. Ratan trembled, he panicked, he fled.

All kinds of thoughts beset Ratan and he became restless. He headed straight for Jatin’s house. He felt like settling down with bottles of the fiery stuff. As he felt the liquid sear down his throat, the daze cleared somewhat. 

“Know what Jattye?” he tried to draw his friend’s attention.

“Hunh?”

“I went for a darshan[12] of Gandhiji today.”

“Who? Gendo?”

“Hanh, Gandhi.”

“What was it like?”

“I mean… the man seems to be a sadhu[13].”

“Seems a sadhu, right? Yes, the fellow has actually done a lot for the country…”

“That’s what I hear. So many times he has been incarcerated and been to the jail. So much suffering he has put up with…”

“But that one failing! He has spoilt all his good actions by pampering and mollycoddling the Muslims, over-indulging them…”

“You have hit the nail on its head!”

One by one the others joined them. In no time the place was abuzz with food from Bipin’s Stall and bottles of country liquor.  Downing the liquid in rapid succession they were quite a boisterous crowd. 

“Follow me, Ratnya?” Jatin slurred, “this…”

“Unh?”

“Gendo is fasting, let him. He won’t kick the bucket in a day or two, will he? Old bones are sturdy – he’ll last. Meanwhile, in two days we’ll clear out all the ragheads, won’t we?”

“Yes Jatye, spot on…”

“Here, some more… f-o-r youuu…”

“Yeah… g-i-v-e mee…”

Ratan could not walk straight when he reached home. 

“Why?” Jaosoda came at him like a bull at a gate, “Why are you back here? Was there no space for you in Chandravali’s love nest?”

“Shut your trap Jasoda!”

“The frigging bastard won’t let me be in peace.. Maa-go!”

Ratan flopped in his bed and murmured, “Q-u-i-e-t Jasoda! Shut up and keep quiet bhai…”

“Bhai! Bro? Shame upon you, no-good burnt-face monkey! You see a brother in me?”

Jasoda kept on muttering long after Ratan had started snoring.

*

Next morning the rioting picked up in momentum. 

Ratan and his chums returned to action big time, complete with sten guns. From the rooftops, on the streets, wherever they were, they kept firing towards the Muslim shanties. After almost three hours there was a lull in the firing. The police and military forces had arrived and by afternoon things were quiet again.

Vans with loudspeakers were blaring that, unless the riots came to a stop, Gandhiji would cease to be. He would end his life. 

The peaceniks took out a procession. The violence started to wane. 

“That was quite a blast, wasn’t it Ratnya?” Jatin was smiling ear to ear when they met in the evening.

Ratan simply nodded.  

Jaga returned from the paan[14] shop with a fresh stock of bidis[15]. “Folks have you heard this? Gendo is about to snuff out!”

“Who said that?” Ratan was startled. 

“The newspapers have headlined, it seems, that Gendo has refused to relent in his fasting because there’s no let-up in the riots.”

“Ohh!”

“Arre that’s bullshit!”  Jatin reacted. “Two more days of action at this level and all the Mullas will be shown their place.”

“Hunh!” Ratan nodded unmindfully, “but Gandhi is in such a poor shape, he’ll conk out, they’re saying…”

“Arre forget it! Rumour – that’s all it is. Come, let’s have a toast.”

“Well then, let’s go.”

*

Ratan joined Jatin to open a liquor bottle long before sunset. The tumult in the morning had left him exhausted. A few drops of hard core liquor might just be the tonic. But Gandhiji? There’s something about him… a halo. He had touched the heart of thirty crore men and women. Ardently they cried out, “Mahatma Gandhi ki jai [16]!” All-pervading emperors and powerful lords had not succeeded in intimidating him. Mahatma Gandhi!

At this point Madhu ran up to them. “Hey guys, come fast! I’ve cornered one of them…”

“What?!”

“Bastard!”

Suddenly the thirst for blood got the better of him. Sitting bolt upright Ratan said, “Come on Jattye.”

The three of them strode forward. Jaga, Haru and Potla were waiting round the corner, a middle-aged Muslim in their grip. They’d got the better of the man who was walking down the street lost in thought. 

“Please let go of me bhai !” the man pleaded.

“Let go of you?” Jaga laughed out loud, “Why? Are you my wife’s brother, saala? Does your sister sleep with me?”

In silence Ratan went up to the man and grabbed him by his hand. Agitation tinted the blood that was coursing through his body. Blood! Unless he spilled blood his head might burst!

“Who’ll twist the knife in – you?” Jatin asked. Ratan nodded, “Yes.”

“How many will this be in your count of heads?”

“Maybe a score and half…”

“Well then, go on. Get over with it.”

“You’ll kill me?” The man wailed out, “Please let go of me baba – I implore you! Believe me, I have a son at home who is critically ill – I came out only to buy some medicine for him…”

“Shut up!”

Just then a voice floated across from a loudspeaker being played from a van: “Gandhiji is in a critical condition…” 

Ratan pricked up his ears. Jatin looked towards the van, “Hey, what are they saying?” 

“Gandhiji’s priceless life is in your hands today…” the voice was faint but the words were clear. “If you don’t stop killing, Gandhiji will not return to life. Stop now – and bring Gandhiji back to life…”

The voice receded in the distance.

“Go on, finish the job at hand Ratnya,” Jaga spoke, “or leave it to me.”

Ratan looked at the man. 

Instantly the man smiled. “You’re determined to kill me, Baba?”

“Abey why are you showing your teeth?” Potla rudely demanded. 

“Kill me,” the man said. “But don’t  forget, killing me means stabbing Gandhiji.”

“Shut up!” Jaga roared, “not a word more…”

Still the man went on, “Listen to me Baba, now I’m not speaking for myself. Don’t kill me – let Gandhiji live!”

“Enough! Don’t want to hear the devil quote scriptures – hold your tongue.”

“Kick the rascal!”

“Go for it Ratnya!”

‘What’s holding you Ratnya??’

“Go go go…”

Unexpectedly Ratan turned around. He stood in front of the Muslim guy and said in a determined voice, “No.”

“Meaning?!” Jatin was stupefied, “What’re you saying Ratnya?”

“You heard me right Jatye — I’ll let this man walk.”

“Nope.”

“Yes, I’ll let this fella go Jatye. If you try to stop me, you’ll have to fell me first.”

All the others moved back a few steps.

“Have you gone out of your mind ?!” Jatin couldn’t make head or tail of it. “What’s the matter, I say?”

Ratan didn’t reply. Instead he addressed the man, “Come Mian[17], let me take you to the high road.”

The two of them took a few steps forward. 

“Bah ! Won’t you even tell us why you’re letting him off? Hey Ratnya?”

“Ratnya! Hey bugger!”

Without a pause in his walk Ratan said, “Don’t call out to me.”

After escorting the fellow to the safety of the main street Ratan headed home.

*

Soon the night set in. The curfew hour started. The roads emptied out. From the lane they could make out that the military trucks and police vans were whizzing around the city. Some light escaped the windows of neighbouring houses. A handful of faces peeped out now and then. Swiftly, a dopey silence engulfed the habitat. The city seemed to be drained of vigour. The yellow gaslights on barren roads imparted a ghostlike ambience. The night deepened.

Jasoda noticed the worry lines on her husband’s visage and frequented her rounds of the room.

Out of the blue she even asked him, “What’s the matter with you, go[18]?”

“What? Nothing!” Ratan responded.

“Today you didn’t down bottles of liquor. Such good fortune!” She grinned at him, then wondered, “Why, you’re not even angry!”

“Hunh !”

“Feeling unwell, are you?  So you’re missing your Chandravali Brigade! Care for a cup of tea?”

“Get it.”

Jasoda left to get the tea. Today Ratan was happy to see Jasoda.

Amazing! Something was the matter with him surely. He just could not bring himself to stab the man! One man’s life is so precious? People were correct about him. They worry for him, to protect him. To save his life, they appeal to all and sundry, even to strangers!

Yesterday he had visited that One Man. Short of height, dark of complexion, an octogenarian with a halo about him.  A man like the Ocean, like the Himalayas, like the Sun. Boundless his sacrifice; immense his patience, unending his hope. Forgiveness, compassion, truth, love, ahimsa [19]– he defined all these virtues.

Magician, he was! He had crazed thirty crore men and women who chanted in unison ‘Gandhiji Ki Jai! Victory for Gandhiji!’ He has made them fearless, and independent. Yesterday he saw his Ram with his own eyes. It was all rubbish, he was no one’s enemy. He was ajatshatru, his enemy had yet to be born. Everyone in the country was his child, his progeny. He did not punish one for the failings of another. The punishment due to everyone he placed on his own head – a crown of thorn. 

The night deepened and darkened. 

Lying in his bed Ratan started to leaf through the album of his life. Alcohol, meat, women, neglect of a wife like Jasoda, butchery, rioting and killing more than a score of lives… And that enlightened Old Man?  He had won the country, the world, in the brief bracket of a lifetime.

The night rolled on, towards sunrise. 

At daybreak Ratan rose from his bed. He searched through his house and pulled out every piece of hand grenade, bullets, knife, and tied them into a bundle. Jasoda was still not up. Ratan cast a silent look at her and stepped out of the house.

The sky had not yet lit up, but the curfew hours were over. A handful of souls had stirred out on the streets here and there. A few cars had set out for some destination.

Ratan took full strides eastward. That’s the direction from which a red sun would rise. But Ratan was not headed towards that sun. He was thinking only of the sun fasting in a dilapidated house in Beliaghata. Ratan would go to him and lay down the bundle of his sins at his feet and pray to him, “Oh sun! Please end the fasting soul within me and light up the inner soul so far deprived of light…”

.

[1] Yes

[2] Swear word

[3] Gandhi

[4] Clay cup

[5] Potato curry

[6] A slum colony

[7] Ishwar: Hindu name for God. Allah: Muslim name for God

[8] Savoury snack

[9] Elder brother

[10] brother

[11] Clay cup

[12] To go to view a great or holy man

[13] Sage

[14] A shop that sells cigarettes and betel leaves

[15] Small, thin, hand-rolled cigarettes made in India

[16] Hail Mahatma Gandhi

[17] Sir

[18] An affectionate way of addressing one’s spouse

[19] Non-violence

Nabendu Ghosh’s (1917-2007) oeuvre of work includes thirty novels and fifteen collections of short stories. He was a renowned scriptwriter and director. He penned cinematic classics such as Devdas, Bandini, Sujata, Parineeta, Majhli Didi and Abhimaan. And, as part of a team of iconic film directors and actors, he was instrumental in shaping an entire age of Indian cinema. He was the recipient of numerous literary and film awards, including the Bankim Puraskar, the Bibhuti Bhushan Sahitya Arghya, the Filmfare Best Screenplay Award and the National Film Award for Best First Film of a Director.

.

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. 

Read the translator’s musing on Nabendu’s stories impacted by Gandhi by clicking here.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Contents

Borderless, March 2023

Art by Sohana Manzoor

Editorial

Imagine… Click here to read.

Translations

A translation from Nabendu Ghosh’s autobiography, Eka Naukar Jatri (Journey of a Lonesome Boat), translated by Dipankar Ghosh, from Bengali post scripted by Ratnottama Sengupta. Click here to read.

Uehara by Kamaleswar Barua has been translated from Assamese and introduced by Bikash K. Bhattacharya. Click here to read.

Kurigram by Masud Khan has been translated by Professor Fakrul Alam from Bangla. Click here to read.

Bonfire by Ihlwha Choi has been translated from Korean by the poet himself. Click here to read.

Tagore’s Borondala (Basket of Offerings) has been translated by Mitali Chakravarty from Bengali. Click here to read.

Poetry

Click on the names to read the poems

Michael R Burch, Kirpal Singh, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Amit Parmessur, Carl Scharwath, Isha Sharma, Gale Acuff, Anannya Dasgupta, Vaishnavi Saritha, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Pragya Bajpai, George Freek, Sanket Mhatre, Ron Pickett, Asad Latif, Rhys Hughes

Poets, Poetry and Rhys Hughes

In Indian Pale Ale, Rhys Hughes experiments with words and brews. Click here to read.

Conversation

Being fascinated with the human condition and being vulnerable on the page are the two key elements in the writing of fiction, author and poet Heidi North tells Keith Lyons in a candid conversation. Click here to read.

Musings/Slices from Life

Mother Teresa & MF Hussian: Touching Lives

Prithvijeet Sinha muses on how Mother Teresa’s painting by MF Hussain impacted his life. Click here to read.

The Night Shift to Nouméa

Meredith Stephens writes of her sailing adventures to Nouméa. Click here to read.

Musings of a Copywriter

In Simian Surprises, Devraj Singh Kalsi describes monkey antics. Click here to read.

Notes from Japan

In Multicultural Curry, Suzanne Kamata reflects on mingling of various cultures in her home in Japan and the acceptance it finds in young hearts. Click here to read.

Essays

Which way, wanderer? Lyric or screenplay…

Ratnottama Sengupta explores the poetry in lyrics of Bollywood songs, discussing the Sahityotsav (Literary Festival) hosted by the Sahitya Akademi. Click here to read.

One Happy Island

Ravi Shankar takes us to Aruba, a Dutch colony, with photographs and text. Click here to read.

Cadences in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

Paul Mirabile explores the stylistic nuances in this classic by James Joyce. Click here to read.

Stories

Heafed

Brindley Hallam Dennis plays with mindsets. Click here to read.

Busun

A Jessie Michael narrates a moving saga of displacement and reservations. Click here to read.

A Wooden Smile

Shubhangi gives us poignant story about a young girl forced to step into the adult world. Click here to read.

The Infallible Business

Sangeetha G tells a story set in a post-pandemic scenario. Click here to read.

Book Excerpts

An excerpt from Robin S. Ngangom’s My Invented Land: New and Selected Poems. Click here to read.

An excerpt from Vikas Prakash Joshi’s My Name is Cinnamon. Click here to read.

Book Reviews

Aruna Chakravarti reviews Bornali Datta’s In A Better Place: A Doctor’s Journey. Click here to read.

Somdatta Mandal reviews Baba Padmanji’s Yamuna’s Journey, translated from Marathi by Deepra Dandekar. Click here to read.

Basudhara Roy reviews Robin Ngangom’s My Invented Land: New and Selected Poems. Click here to read.

Bhaskar Parichha reviews S.Irfan Habib’s Maulana Azad – A Life. Click here to read.

.

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Editorial

Imagine…

Art by Pragya Bajpai

Imagine a world without wars, without divisions, where art forms flow into each other and we live by the African concept of Ubuntu — I am because you are’ — sounds idyllic. But this is the month of March, of poetry, of getting in touch with the Dionysian elements in ourselves. And as we have said earlier in the introduction of Monalisa No Longer Smiles: An Anthology of Writings from across the World, what could be a better spot to let loose this insanity of utopian dreams than Borderless Journal!

Having completed three years of our Earthly existence on the 14th of March, we celebrate this month with poetry and writing that crosses boundaries — about films, literature and more. This month in the Festival of Letters or Sahityaotsav 2023, organised by the Sahitya Akademi, films were discussed in conjunction with literature. Ratnottama Sengupta, who attended and participated in a number of these sessions, has given us an essay to show how deep run the lyrics of Bollywood films, where her father, Nabendu Ghosh, scripted legends. It is Ghosh’s birth month too and we carry a translation from his Bengali autobiography which reflects how businessmen drew borders on what sells… After reading the excerpt from Nabendu’s narrative translated by Dipankar Ghosh and post-scripted by Sengupta, one wonders if such lines should ever have been drawn?

Questioning borders of a different kind, we have another piece of a real-life narrative on a Japanese Soldier, Uehara. Written by an Assamese writer called Kamaleswar Barua, it has been translated and introduced by Bikash K. Bhattacharya. The story focusses on a soldier’s narrative at his death bed in an alien land. We are left wondering how his need for love and a home is any different from that of any one of ours? Who are the enemies — the soldiers who die away from their homes? What are wars about? Can people live in peace? They seemed to do so in Kurigram, a land that has faded as suggests the poem by Masud Khan, brought to us in translation from Bangla by Professor Fakrul Alam, though in reality, the area exists. Perhaps, it has changed… as does wood exposed to a bonfire, which has been the subject of a self-translated Korean poem by Ihlwha Choi. Tagore’s poem, Borondala translated as ‘Basket of Offerings’, has the last say: “Just as the stars glimmer / With light in the dark night, / A spark awakens within/ My body. / This luminosity illuminates / All my work.” And perhaps, it is this luminosity that will also help us find our ideal world and move towards it, at least with words.

This is the poetry month, and we celebrate poetry in different ways. We have an interview with poet Heidi North by Keith Lyons.  She has shared a poem that as Bijan Najdi said makes one “feel a burning sensation in …[the]… fingertips without touching the fire”. It flows with some home truths put forward with poignancy. We have poetry by Michael R Burch, Kirpal Singh, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Amit Parmessur, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, George Freek, Sanket Mhatre, Asad Latif and Rhys Hughes. While Burch celebrates spring in his poetry, Parmessur explores history and Hughes evokes laughter as usual which spills into his column on Indian Pale Ale. Devraj Singh Kalsi has written of simian surprises he has had — and, sadly for him, our reaction is to laugh at his woes. Meredith Stephens takes us on a sailing adventure to Nouméa and Ravi Shankar explores Aruba with photographs and words. Suzanne Kamata shows how Japanese curry can actually be a multicultural binder. Prithvijeet Sinha links the legends of artist MF Hussain and Mother Teresa while Paul Mirabile explores the stylistic marvels of James Joyce in his A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, a very literary piece.

We have a book review by Aruna Chakravarti of Bornali Datta’s In A Better Place: A Doctor’s Journey, a book that is set amidst immigrants and takes up certain social issues. Baba Padmanji’s Yamuna’s Journey, translated from Marathi by Deepra Dandekar, one of the oldest Indian novels has been discussed by Somdatta Mandal.  Bhaskar Parichha has told us about S.Irfan Habib’s Maulana Azad – A Life. Basudhara Roy has brought out the simplicity and elegance of Robin Ngangom’s My Invented Land: New and Selected Poems. He writes in the title poem that his home “has no boundaries. / At cockcrow one day it found itself/ inside a country to its west,/ (on rainy days it dreams looking east/ when its seditionists fight to liberate it from truth.)”. We also carry an excerpt from his book. Stories by Jessie Michael, Brindley Hallam Dennis, Sangeetha G and Shubhangi bring flavours of diversity in this issue.

Our journey has been a short one — three years is a short span. But, with goodwill from all our readers and contributors, we are starting to crawl towards adulthood. I thank you all as caregivers of Borderless Journal as I do my fabulous team and the artists who leave me astounded at their ability to paint and write — Sohana Manzoor, Gita Vishwanath and Pragya Bajpai.

Thank you all.

Looking forward to the next year, I invite you to savour Borderless Journal, March 2023, where more than the treasures mentioned here lie concealed.

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Tribute

Five Spices of Screen-writing

From Nabendu Ghosh’s autobiography, Eka Naukar Jatri / Journey of a Lonesome Boat, translated by Dipankar Ghosh, post scripted by Ratnottama Sengupta

Eka Naukar Jatri or Journey of a Lonesome Boat
Nabendu Ghosh at work. Photo provided by Ratnottama Sengupta

By now it had become common knowledge in the Bombay film community that Bimal Roy had brought along a “writer” with his group, and apparently he was quite a decent writer. Just as, at one time, Urdu writer Sadat Hasan Manto had come to Bombay Talkies, and Urdu writer Krishan Chander too had come on the scene. There was a feeling that there might be a chance of acquiring a decent storyline from Nabendu Ghosh. Naturally, for a while quite a few producers and film directors contacted me. Story sessions were held at Van Vihar, or at the offices of the producers concerned. but there seemed to be a lack of appreciation from these people to stories that came from the mind of an alumni of the Progressive Writers Association. They were all of the opinion, “The idea is great Ghosh Babu, but it is too idealistic. Dada we want to make movies with Dev Anand and Geeta Bali, accompanied by Johnny Walker and Yakub (comedians of the time). Please tell us stories where we can incorporate them, rather than literary stories.”

Realisation soon dawned on me that the Hindi ‘filmy kahani’ was a different genre of stories. What kind of stories? In short, stories that would be appreciated by 90 percent of viewers from different states, with different tastes, all over India. Hence even a highly educated producer like S Mukherji heard the story of Baap Beti and said: “It’s a nice story but I won’t make it – I’m a businessman”! In other words the businessman had a different slant on dramatic arts: they might well say that “Bicycle Thieves is a great film but an undoable story, I’m a businessman.”

Later, on one occasion I had asked Mr Mukherjee, “You said ‘No’ to Baap Beti, yet you wanted to film the literary story, Mrit Pradip. Why was that?” Mr Mukherjee laughed. “If there is an indication of high literary merit in a story then it might well be conducive to our business, and might turn a ‘hit’ picture into a superhit.” I asked, “Does that mean a ‘hit’ is quantifiable?” 

“Of course it is!” he replied. “Just as any tasty dish needs some specific spices to make it tasty.” 

“But what about the healthiness of the dish? Isn’t that a consideration?” 

“Nabendu Babu, I am not into the medical business.” 

“Does it follow that you will cater to the mass’s addiction for entertainment without upholding the essential ideals of life?”

“I do that Nabendu Babu but in very low doses,” said S.Mukherjee. “I follow the principles of dramatic arts as laid down in Natya Shastra but I don’t profess to be a saintly sadhu. I am a very ordinary person in pursuit of happiness.”

He guffawed loudly for a bit. Then he said, “The spices I need for my ‘cinema-dish’ are these. First, the story: usually should be about love. Second: five or six memorable ‘love scenes’ or warm situations, full of fun, lovers tiffs, misunderstanding, separation and reunion. Third: obstacles to love, by a person, family or enemy. That contributes to tension or anxiety. Fourth: four to five moments of suspense: some conspiracy, someone chasing the lovers, trying to kill them. Fifth: comic moments, not mildly humorous but uproariously funny so that people roll around in bouts of laughter. Sixth: moments of tear-jerking sadness. Seventh: Fight scenes, each being individual in itself. Eighth: five to six melodious songs, of  which two or three should be such that even persons with no music sense can sing them. Ninth: appropriate selection of actors and actresses. Tenth: a good director and a good music director. Finally: the right planetary configuration for audience’s applause.” Mr Mukherjee laughed out loud.

His words got entrenched in my mind. The successful ‘formula’ for a Hindi film! In other words it was the formula of a Hindi village Nautanki, no different from the Jatra formula of rural Bengal. Of a hundred films made by that formula, even if two managed to enlighten the mind or uplift the spirit, that would be an icing on the golden cake – “sone pe suhaga”. And if there was no icing, the gold that clinked in would be good enough gain, and two and a half hours will pass away in laughter and tears, in suspense and romance, with joyous humming of a few bars of melody as viewers return home to deep slumber, dreaming of the handsome features of a hero or heroine that will tickle their fancy and prove the worth of the newly invented form of art – cinema. In particular, the magic of Hindi movies.

Therefore, I decided to write or adapt stories and ideas to comply with the mandates of the Formula. Whatever good ideas came along, whether in five pages or five hundred, I would fit into two and a half hours, either by extending or shortening in a fast flowing format that would leave the viewer wondering what’s next at every turn. In other words, I would write screenplays of a different kind.

And since I was unable to uphold the higher ideals of literature on the silver screen, I would compensate for it by writing for literature. I would thereby absolve myself of my sense of guilt.

Photo provided by Ratnottama Sengupta

Ratnottama Sengupta’s post-script:

In 1952, when Nabendu Ghosh was narrating his story, Baap Beti, Sashadhar Mukherjee (1909-1990) was a highly successful producer who had set up Filmistan Studios in 1943 along with his brother-in-law, the legendary actor Ashok Kumar; Rai Bahadur Chunilal, father of music director Madan Mohan; and Gyan Mukherjee, director of the superhit Kismet. These personalities had broken away from Bombay Talkies after the death of its founder, Himanshu Rai. 

Later in the 1950s, S Mukherjee independently started Filmalaya, noted for films like Dil Deke Dekho (1959), Love in Simla (1960), Ek Musafir Ek Hasina (1962) and Leader (1964). He is also recognised as the patriarch of the distinguished Mukherjee clan of Bollywood that boasts actors like Joy Mukherjee, Deb Mukherjee, Tanuja, Kajol, and Rani Mukherjee.

And Baap Beti? It got made into a film produced by another highly successful producer of the times, S H Munshi. Directed by celluloid master Bimal Roy, it had brought a host of child artistes who went on to become big names of the Hindi screen: Tabassum (1944-2022), who passed away in November; Asha Parekh (2 October 1942), who was bestowed with the Dadasaheb Phalke Award last year, and Naaz (1944-1995),  besides Ranjan (1918-1983), the swashbuckling actor from the South.

As he writes in his autobiography, after this conversation Nabendu Ghosh took a conscious decision to write his own realisations as literature, and to adapt stories by other writers for the screen. That is why we find that less than 10 per cent of the films he scripted are from his own stories. But some major directors did draw upon his stories – as Bimal Roy did for Baap Beti; Gyan Mukherjee for Shatranj (1956), Satyen Bose for Jyot Jale (1973), Mohan Sehgal for Raja Jani (1972) and Ajoy Kar for Kayahiner Kahini (1973). Only one classic that used his story but did not credit it to Nabendu Ghosh was Guru Dutt’s Kaagaz Ke Phool (1959).

Nabendu Ghosh with his son, Dipankar Ghosh, & daughter, Ratnottama Sengupta

Nabendu Ghosh’s (1917-2007) oeuvre of work includes thirty novels and fifteen collections of short stories. He was a renowned scriptwriter and director. He penned cinematic classics such as Devdas, Bandini, Sujata, Parineeta, Majhli Didi and Abhimaan. And, as part of a team of iconic film directors and actors, he was instrumental in shaping an entire age of Indian cinema. He was the recipient of numerous literary and film awards, including the Bankim Puraskar, the Bibhuti Bhushan Sahitya Arghya, the Filmfare Best Screenplay Award and the National Film Award for Best First Film of a Director.

Dipankar Ghosh (1944-2020) qualified as a physician from Kolkata in 1969 and worked as a surgical specialist after he emigrated to the UK in 1971.  But perhaps being the son of Nabendu Ghosh, he had always nursed his literary side and, post retirement, he took to pursuing his interest in translation.

.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Categories
celebrations

Borderless Birthday Bonanza

Figments caught straying in whispers of a dream,
Weave together till they form a visible stream,
Filling a void with voices that sing,
With freedom and impunity ring,
Giving credence to a distant, imagined realm.

— Introduction, Monalisa No Longer Smiles: An Anthology of Writings from across the World

As we complete three years of our virtual existence in clouds, connecting, collecting and curating words of ideators, we step into our fourth year with the pleasurable experience of being in bookshops in hardcopy too. Monalisa No Longer Smiles: An Anthology of Writings from across the World, our first hardcopy anthology, takes us into the realm of real books which have evolved over eons in history. This anthology connects us to those who hesitate to step into the virtual world created by technology. And there are many such people – as ingrained in the human heritage is a love for rustling paper and the smell of books. We have had some excellent reviews, praising not just the content but also the production of the book – the cover, the print and the feel. The collection bonds traditional greats with upcoming modern voices. We are grateful to our publisher, Om Books International, Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri, Jyotsna Mehta and their team for giving our book a chance. We do look forward to more anthologies hopefully in the future.

The writings we have collected over the last three years are reflective of diverse voices— some in concurrence with our thought processes and some in discussion or even in divergence. We have a variety of forms — poetry, conversations, fiction and non-fiction. Some are humorous and some serious. We try to move towards creating new trends as reflected in our anthology and our journal. For instance, Monalisa No Longer Smiles starts with an experiment — a limerick was adapted to express the intent of our book and journal; whereas normally this form is used to express light, or even bawdy sentiments. Perhaps, as the limerick says, we will find credence towards a new world, a new thought, a restructuring of jaded systems that cry out for a change.

Borderless Journal did not exist before 2020. Within three years of its existence, our published pieces have found voices in this anthology, in other books, journals and even have been translated to a number of languages. Our own translation section grows stronger by the day supported by translators like Aruna Chakravarti, Fakrul Alam, Radha Chakravarty and Somdatta Mandal. Our interviews and conversations probe to find similarities and divergences in viewpoints. Our stories tell a good tale rather than indulge in stylistic interplay and our poetry is meant to touch hearts, creating a bond between the writers and anglophone readers. What we hope to do is to expose our readers to writing that they can understand. Writers get lost at times with the joy of creating something new or unique and construct an abstraction that can be intimidating for readers. We hope to host writing that is comprehensible, lucid and clear to the lay person.

What we look forward to homing in the coming months is a mingling of different art forms to birth new ideas that will help our species move progressively towards a world in harmony, filled with peace and love, giving credence to voices like that of Tagore, Nazrul or Lennon. “Imagine there’s no heaven…Imagine there’s no countries…no religion, too…Imagine all the people/ Livin’ life in peace…Imagine all the people/ Sharing all the world…” The need to redefine has been felt and as Lennon says in his last paragraph: “You may say I’m a dreamer/ But I’m not the only one/ I hope someday you’ll join us/ And the world will live as one.” With this hope, we continue our journey into another year – a new adventure that will take us to a universe where heaven can be found on Earth, grounded and real, within the human reach and can be shared without war, greed, hatred and anger.

Here, we share with you a few iconic pieces that have found their way to our pages within the last three years.

Poetry

Poems by Arundhathi Subramaniam houses three poems. Click here to read. The following poems from her collection can be found here.

  1. When God is a Traveller (titular poem from her Sahitya Akademi Award winning book)
  2. Eight Poems for Shankuntala
  3. The Fine Art of Ageing

Murmuration by Jared Carter. Click here to read.

Poems by Sukrita Paul Kumar: Poetry on Ukraine. Click here to read.

Arthurian Legends by Michael R Burch. Click here to read.

Conversations

Keith Lyons talks to Jessica Mudditt about her memoir, Our Home in Myanmar, and the current events. Click here to read.

Unveiling Afghanistan: In Conversation with Nazes Afroz, former editor of BBC and translator of a book on Afghanistan which reflects on the present-day crisis. Click here to read.

Professor Anvita Abbi, a Padma Shri, discusses her experience among the indigenous Andamanese and her new book on them, Voices from the Lost Horizon. Click here to read.

In Conversation with Akbar Barakzai, a ‘Part-time Poet’ in Exile: The last interview of Akbar Barakzai where he says, ‘The East and the West are slowly but steadily inching towards each other. Despite enormous odds “the twain” are destined to “meet” and be united to get rid of the geographical lines…’ Click here to read more.

The Making of Historical Fiction: A Conversation with Aruna Chakravarti unfolds the creation of her latest novel, The Mendicant Prince, based on the prince of Bhawal controversy in the first part of the last century. Click here to read. 

Fiction

Half-Sisters: Sohana Manzoor explores the darker regions of human thought with a haunting psychological narrative about familial structures. Click here to read.

Rituals in the Garden: Marcelo Medone discusses motherhood, aging and loss in this poignant flash fiction from Argentina. Click here to read.

Navigational Error: Luke P.G. Draper explores the impact of pollution with a short compelling narrative. Click here to read.

The American Wonder: Steve Ogah takes us to a village in Nigeria. Click here to read.

Columns

Poets, Poetry & Rhys Hughes: A column by Rhys Hughes which can be fun poetry or prose. Click here to read.

Bhaskar’s Corner: Essays on contemporary life by Bhaskar Parichha. Click here to read.

Musings of a Copywriter: Humour by Devraj Singh Kalsi. Click here to read.

Pandies’ Corner: These narratives 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.

Notes from Japan by Suzanne Kamata: A column that takes us closer to Japan. Click here to read.

Non- Fiction

Dilip Kumar: Kohinoor-e-Hind: Ratnottama Sengupta recollects the days the great actor sprinted about on the sets of Bombay’s studios …spiced up with fragments from the autobiography of Sengupta’s father, Nabendu Ghosh. Click here to read. 

The Ultimate Genius of Kishore Kumar: Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri, an eminent film critic, writes on the legend of Kishore Kumar. Click here to read.

Farewell Keri Hulme: A tribute by Keith Lyons to the first New Zealand Booker Prize winner, Keri Hulme, recalling his non-literary encounters with the sequestered author. Click here to read.

Epaar Bangla, Opaar Bangla:  Bengals of the Mind: Asad Latif explores if homeland is defined by birth. Click here to read.

At Home in the World: Tagore, Gandhi and the Quest for Alternative Masculinities: Meenakshi Malhotra explores the role of masculinity in Nationalism prescribed by Tagore, his niece Sarala Debi, Gandhi and Colonials. Click here to read.

Just a Face on Currency Notes?: Debraj Mookerjee explores Gandhi-ism in contemporary times. Click here to read.

The Idea of India: Bharata Bhagya Bidhata – The Making of a Motherland: Anasuya Bhar explores the history of the National Anthem of India, composed by Tagore in Bengali and translated only by the poet himself and by Aruna Chakravarti. Click here to read.

Translations

Tagore Translations, including translations by Aruna Chakravarti, Fakrul Alam, Somdatta Mandal and Radha Chakravarty. Click here to read.

Nazrul Translations, including Professor Fakrul Alam and Sohana Manzoor. Click here to read.

Gandhi & Robot by Thangjam Ibopishak, translated from the Manipuri by Robin S Ngangom. Click here to read.

Songs of Freedom by Akbar Barakzai, poems translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.

Give Me A Rag, Please:A short story by Nabendu Ghosh, translated by Ratnottama Sengupta, set in the 1943 Bengal Famine, which reflects on man’s basic needs. Click here to read.

Thanks to our team, contributors and readers for being a part of our journey. Let’s sail onwards…

Painting by Sohana Manzoor

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com