Tag: South Asia

Categories
Interview Review

The Gendered Body

In conversation with Meenakshi Malhotra and a brief introduction to The Gendered Body: Negotiation, Resistance, Struggle (Scopus Index), edited by Meenakshi Malhotra, Krishna Menon and Rachana Johri, published by Routledge

Dr Meenakshi Malhotra

Why would one half of the world population be seen as evolved from the rib of the first man, soulless or as merely subservient to fulfil the needs of the other half? This is a question that has throbbed for centuries in the hearts of that half that suffers indignities to this date, women. While feminism became a formalised idea only in the 18th-19th century and things started improving for certain groups of women around the world, in some regions, like Afghanistan, the situation has deteriorated in recent years. Their government, recognised by world leadership, has ensured that women do not have schooling, cannot work in senior positions, have to be accompanied by men if they go out and remain covered as the feminine body could tempt bringing shame, strangely, to the female but not to the man who has the right to be tempted and hence to violence and violate her body and her mind.

Given this ambience, any literature voicing protest for patriarchal mindsets that accept situations like in current day Afghanistan passively, should be celebrated as an attempt to shard the silence of suffering by one half of the world population. The Gendered Body: Negotiation, Resistance, Struggle, edited by three academics, Meenakshi Malhotra, Krishna Menon and Rachana Johri, does just that. At the start, we are told: “This book situates the discourse on the gendered body within the rapidly transitioning South Asian socio-economic and cultural landscape.  It critically analyzes gender politics from different disciplinary perspectives…”

Featuring 22 writers, the narratives take up a range of issues faced by women in Pakistan, India, Bangladesh and Srilanka. The Pakistani implementation of Islamic law, under the Hudood ordinances, has been addressed in a powerful essay by Aysha Baqir, subsequently by Anu Aneja, in her discourse on Urdu poetry. It was interesting to read how the ghazal form started as a male-only art form where women were depicted as mysterious houris or pining with sadness. Birangona — a phrase that was given to rape victims of the 1971 Bangladesh Liberation War — has been explored by Sohana Manzoor through a classic, Rizia Rahman’s novel, Rokter Okshor[1](1978), written about such women driven to prostitution. Women’s voices in the Sri Lankan LTTE have been explored by Simran Chaddha. Nayema Nasir has taken up decadent customs in the progressive Bohra community in Mumbai and shown how things are moving towards a change. Colonial and Dalit voices have found a hearing in Malhotra’s essay on Mahasweta Devi’s short story, ‘Draupadi’, set against the Naxalite movement of 1970s.

Dotted with women’s responses to a variety of current issues, including the Anti-CAA-NRC uprisings (Tamanna Basu), Shaheen Bagh (Meenakshi Gopinath, Krishna Menon, Rukmini Sen and Niharika Banerjea), and the pandemic (Krishna Menon, Deepti Sachdev and Rukmini Sen), there is even a case study by Shalini Masih dealing with psychiatric trauma where both the psychiatrist and the patient, who might have evolved into a stalker or a rapist without the therapy, heal. A certain sense of hope echoes through some of these narratives, a hope to heal from wounds that have sweltered over eons.

The flow of words is smooth and the ideas should be able to rise against the tide of erudition to touch our lives with lived realities. There are responses that transcend the heaviness of academic writing for instance the impassioned start made by Giti Chandra in her narrative: “A woman’s body is a story that men tell each other. When it is full-hipped, it is a tale of their healthy children; when it is fair, it speaks of their wealth; when it is narrow, it proclaims their access to gyms; and when it is tanned, it flaunts their ability to vacation on sunny isles. If its feet are not small enough to convey a leisure that does not require walking, they are bound and made smaller and more childishly submissive; if its legs are not long enough befitting its trophy status, bone-crippling heels are added to them. When it is raped it is an assertion of power, a chest-thumping; when it is raped it is an aggression over its owner; when it is raped its womb is stolen from the enemy…” Chandra points out some things that make one think, like quoting Rahila Gupta, she suggests victims is not the word we should use for women, but we should refer to the sufferers as survivors.

This collection of essays questions social norms and niceties to realise what early woman’s rights activist, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, drafted, that “all men and women [had been] created equal” in July 1848. While the struggle continues through centuries and the discourse of these narratives, the last essay by a man, Brijesh Rana, attempts to give a broader and more inclusive outlook to the whole human body. The book comes across as a tryst — of academic and feminist voices — to speak up for mankind to equalise.

To further understand the intent and scope of this book, we have in conversation one of the editors— Meenakshi Malhotra, who teaches gender studies and literature, has to her credit two Charles Wallace fellowships and a number of books. She reflects on the bridge that is being attempted between scholarship and activism.

How and when did you conceive this book? Tell us a bit about your journey from the conception to the publication of the book.

This book was originally conceived due to the positive response my co-editors and I received after presenting a panel at an American Association of Asian studies (AAS) conference back in 2017. We were approached by an international publisher who encouraged us to take forward the work with a focus on South Asia. We were unable to take it forward at that time, however we revived the project a few months into the lockdown in late 2020 when we felt we had a little more time. Also, along the way, we were able to reach out to fellow travellers, working in and on Pakistan, Bangladesh and Sri Lanka.

Three of you have collaborated to compile and edit this book. Collaborations to bring out books are not easy. Tell us about this collaboration.

As we three had presented on the same panel, the collaboration was a natural corollary since we had a sense of being fellow travellers and sister academics/scholars. That worked well for us because each of us were engaged in research and research guidance and wanted to showcase the recent work in this area. Both the co-editors, Krishna working on gender and its intersections with politics and Rachna on gender and psychology are very well-established scholars in the field of gender. I work on gender and literature, had my own network and I must mention that in the course of writing for Borderless Journal, I was able to access the work of others on that platform.

Explain to us the significance of the title of your book.

I think we arrived at the title through two processes-one was the immediate situation of Covid which left us in a state of precarity. However, we felt that even within the context of the contagion, women — and other genders — were endangered in specific ways. Second is the understanding that the body is always already produced by multiple matrices of gender, race, caste etc. The human body is also always a gendered body.

We had initially suggested that we call it ‘The Gendered Body and its Fragments’ to connote the bundling of several discursive strands on gendered bodies, but the idea was vetoed (by the initial reviewer) since “fragments” had   resonances and nuances which we did not have space (or expertise) to go into, at that point.

You have a variety of contributors, some of who are non- academic. What did you look for when you chose your content?

Variety as you point out, is the key term. We were looking for something new, something interesting, flagging the variegated cultures of South Asian societies. The book comprises a mix of experienced researchers and some researchers whose essays are their preliminary forays into publishing.

Your book is divided into different sections ‘Negotiation’, ‘Struggle’, ‘Resistance’, ‘Protest’, ‘Critique’, ‘Representations and New Directions’. Can you tell us the need to compartmentalise the essays into this structural frame?

Just to give it a structure, organisation and coherence. Having said that, there are also frequent overlaps.

Would you call this book feminist? Feminism is as such a human construct. Why would this construct be essential for treating people equally? What is the need for feminism?

It is feminist in its orientation to the research areas as well as its methodologies. The key concept here is collaboration and therefore we have two conversation as an expression of feminist epistemology or knowledge-making.

Feminism, like other modes of affirmative action — like reservations, quotas — are an attempt to create a level playing field for historically disprivileged groups  and oppressed minorities.

Having said that, I/we would like to point out that feminism has become inclusive and an umbrella term that also includes the work on masculinities and trans-identities since the 1990s.

Isn’t feminism the forte of only women?

Not at all and that is why we have the term feminisms. We hope to do more work subsequently on masculinities, on trans bodies in the future.

You have 21 women writers who write of women’s issues. Yet the last is an essay by a man — not on feminist issues— but more to create a sense of inclusivity, if I am not wrong. Why did you feel the need for this essay?

It is not so much about women’s issues as much as about gendered bodies in contemporary South Asia, about identities, subjectivities, bodies in motion gearing up for political action(the conversation and the essay on campus movements are instances).

Also, the last essay which articulates a post-humanist perspective, I felt, would take us beyond the materialities of gendered bodies and flag the way recent research/scholarship has looked at the Anthropocene. It was attempting to give a meta perspective, to bring in a way of seeing, which probably will have an impact on how we understand and conceptualise human bodies.

Your book blurb says: “Topical and comprehensive, this book will be useful for scholars and researchers of gender studies, sociology, political sociology, social anthropology, cultural studies, post-colonial studies and South Asian studies.” Why would you limit the scope of your book when you have some essays that should be read by many and are like eye openers, like the ones on Hudood, Birangonas, Bohras, even your own on ‘Draupadi’ and more?

I think Routledge as an academic publisher, probably does this routinely, to highlight the academic terrain any new book covers.

Having said that, we would definitely want the book to be of general interest. Some of the essays discussed issues which were possibly eye-openers for us as well.

What is the difference between academic writing and non-academic writing? You do both, I know.

Academic writing has often a thesis and an argument underpinning it, which is not to say that non-academic writing — especially the essay — cannot have them.

Also, many of the essays were based on student papers/MPhil and even PhD dissertations. The panel we were a part of was an academic conference on South Asian studies.

Would this book be classified as women’s writing as majority of the writers are women and have written on women’s issues… and yet there is a man? Is it necessary to have such classifications? Would it rule out male readers?

Not at all to every question. It just happens that many of our contributors are women, but I would like to dispel the idea that “gender” is about women only. It is about boxes, stereotypes and role-based expectations, which are to be questioned. 

Thanks for giving us a powerful book and your time.

[1] Words of Blood

(The online interview has been conducted through emails and the review written by Mitali Chakravarty.)

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

A Troubled Soul

By Mahim Hussain

“Amma[1], it . . . it feels like fire is running through my veins!”

These were the words Abir uttered sitting on the rear seat of their car. His mother, a fifty-five-year-old woman, was sitting right beside him. She was trying to help her son any way she could to relieve him of his suffering. With moist eyes, she kept massaging Abir’s hands and neck constantly.

“Everything is going to be all right, abba[2]. Try to relax,” she said to her son.

Leaving other cars behind, the white Toyota sped through the street – piercing the thickness of the night. Their deft driver devoted all his attention to dodging and overtaking other cars on the road. The car had headed to the Labaid Hospital, situated in the Dhanmondi area of the bustling city of Dhaka.

Abir’s older brother, Rafique, was sitting in the front seat next to the driver. He kept turning back frequently to see how his younger brother was doing.

“Amma . . . I can’t breathe . . . I can’t breathe amma!” Abir cried out to his mother.

Abir’s mother pleaded with Rafique to lower the wind shield on his side. Without being asked, the driver flicked a switch swiftly, and the windshield came down with a whirring sound. Abir, with the help of his mother, managed to get his head out of the window to breathe fresh air. With his head sticking outside the car, he could see the taillights of the passing cars growing faint in the distance. To the boy, it seemed like red and yellow fairies were flying in the darkness. Soon, Abir slid back on his mom’s lap, as he could no longer bear the weight of his head.

“Don’t worry, amma. We will get their soon,” Rafique tried to console his anxious mother.   

About forty minutes later, the car entered through the lofty gate of the hospital – battling an abysmal traffic jam. They were lucky it was a weekend. On any other night of the week, it would have taken them at least an hour and a half to get there from the Mirpur area. By the time they arrived at the emergency entrance, Abir had already lost his consciousness. He could not move any of his limbs or open his eyes.

A door man and two female nurses came out of the emergency department running. They carefully hauled Abir out of the car. Then, putting him on a stretcher, they hastily took the boy inside the emergency department. Rafique and his mother ran after them, frantically.

Passing a long corridor, they entered a ward. The nurses again lifted Abir gently off the stretcher and laid him on one of the empty beds. At ten-thirty of the night, the whole ward was empty and quiet. The nurses started to commence their usual protocol. One nurse put a clip of a pulse meter on the boy’s index finger of his right hand. It was attached to a screen above the bed with a cord. Another nurse tied the strap of a blood pressure machine, connected to the same screen. While Abir’s family was worried to see him unconscious, one of the nurses tried to calm them down. She told Rafique to accompany her to the information desk and fill out some forms. The other nurse kept her eyes on the screen, monitoring the patient’s vitals.

After observing the patient for about ten minutes, the nurse blurted out: “His pulse is too weak. I am calling the duty doctor.”

“Ha! What happened nurse? What’s wrong with my son?” cried out the mother.

Without responding to her, the nurse ran out of the ward in a hurry. Abir’s mother was in tears. She started rubbing Abir’s chest incessantly, overwhelmed by apprehension.

Before long, the nurse came running with the duty doctor. After glancing at the monitor for a moment, the doctor turned around and said to the nurse: “The pulse and pressure rates are too low. We can’t treat him here.”

By this time, Rafique was back. The female doctor told him that they didn’t have all the equipments in the emergency ward to treat a critical patient like his brother.

While the doctor and Rafique were engaged in a discussion, suddenly, Abir started having convulsion.

“Nurse, call the ICU upstairs. Tell them that we are bringing a patient, quickly!” the doctor passed the order.

As the hospital staff pushed the movable bed and took the boy inside an elevator, Abir’s mother started to lament.

“What’s happened to my little boy, Rafique? Bring my Abir back to me . . .  bring him back!”                     

Rafique took his mother in his arms and held her tightly. He too was on the verge of falling apart. But he bit his lips and managed to keep his poise. Rafique was the eldest son. If he had broken down, who was going to take care of his family? With glistening eyes, Rafique recalled the fateful day when it all started.

Rafique entered their apartment of a three-storied building with a heavy, black briefcase in his hand. Their family doctor walked behind him with brisk steps. Going past the dining room, they walked straight inside Abir’s bedroom.

As soon as they entered, Rafique felt a piece of glass getting crushed under his left shoe. Raising his head, he saw broken pieces of a plate and some food were strewn all over the floor. His mother was cleaning up the mess with a sweep and a scraper. His father, seated on Abir’s bed, stood up seeing the doctor.

“Look, doctor, what he has done to himself this time,” said Abir’s father, pointing at his son in the bed.

The doctor looked at the boy over his reading glasses.

Sixteen-year-old Abir was lying in the bed quietly. But his chest was rising and falling in quick succession. He had his face covered with his forearms. A white bandage was wrapped around his left wrist. On one side of the bandage, blood had seeped through and had left a big stain.

“Some time last night, he tried to cut the veins of his wrist with a blade,” Abir’s father related with a distressed tone. “This morning we found him in the bed with blood all over the bed sheet.”

The doctor kept his gaze fixed on the boy and listened to Abir’s father intently.

 “Moreover, he has not eaten anything in two days. A few minutes ago, his mother brought some food for him. But as soon as she got close to him, he took the plate off her hand and smashed it on the floor. He has been having angry outbursts quite frequently these last few days,” added the father.

The doctor slowly walked to the bed and sat beside the boy warily.

“Well, dear boy. Let uncle see your hand,” saying this, he gently picked up Abir’s wounded hand. The doctor examined his wrist from different angles and tried checking his pulse.

Only a few moments had passed, when suddenly, Abir sat up and pulled his arm out of the doctor’s hand with a savage jerk.

“Let go of my hand, you devil!” screamed the boy.

The doctor jumped off the bed, and Abir’s parents lunged to restrain the boy. Rafique kept the doctor from losing balance, and quickly took him in the dining room.

He sat the doctor at the table and poured him a glass of water.

Glug, glug, glug, ahh . . .

“Rafique, I don’t think Abir was able to cut any of his major veins. If he did, he would have bled out over the night and have been unconscious by now. The bandage on his wrist was done nicely and the bleeding has stopped.” confirmed the doctor. “However, as you have shared with me earlier, Abir has been showing such erratic behavior for several months now. So, his problem is actually psychiatric rather than physical.”

“Yes, doctor. We have taken him to a psychiatrist named Samsul Huq, twice. But during the last session, he suddenly got violent and hurled a glass of water at the doctor. Thankfully no one got hurt. But after that, we could not take him to the doctor again,” shared Rafique.  

“Humn . . . At this moment, he is not in the condition to be taken anywhere. So, I suggest you go back to the psychiatrist and tell him about Abir’s present condition,” concluded the doctor.                                                                     

*

Doctor Huq’s chamber was in a mental health rehabilitation center in the affluent neighbourhood of Gulshan. Rafique had been sitting outside his chamber with other visitors. It was a big lobby under a wooden shed. There were about thirty people outside the chamber, waiting for their turn. A middle-aged man was sitting behind a small table facing the visitors. As patients were coming out of the room, the assistant was calling the next person in serial. Rafique had been waiting there for about two hours now. Feeling bored and exhausted, he was snoozing sitting on his cozy little chair.

“Mr. Rafique Ahmed . . . who is Rafique Ahmed?” inquired the assistant sternly.

When his name was called loudly a second time, Rafique woke with a shudder. In frenetic motion, he got off the chair and almost dashed inside the chamber.

It was a spacious, soundproof room with a gigantic air-cooler hanging above the door. On the far end of the room, there was a big mahogany desk. In the middle of the desk, there was a plastic dummy head with an open brain coming out of it. Beside it, there was a pile of big, thick medical books and journals on one side of the desk. On the other side were two pen holders containing pens of different colors and design. In the front of the desk, there were two cane-made chairs for the visitors to sit on. A few feet from them lay a big, comfortable couch on which a patient could easily lie down. The doctor was sitting on the other side of the desk on a reclining chair the size of a throne.

Professor Huq was an elderly man with long, cotton-like beard and hair. He always wore a fatua[3] and loose pajamas and a big smile on his face. As soon as Rafique entered, the doctor recognised him. It was Rafique who had accompanied Abir to his clinic a week ago. The doctor nodded and made a gestured with his hand, telling him to take a sit.

“How are you doing? Didn’t you bring your brother today?” asked the doctor.

“No, doctor, Abir is not doing too well. He is having mood swings again. Two days ago, he tried to kill himself by slashing his wrist. We don’t understand what is going on with him. Why is he acting like this, doctor?” exclaimed Rafique in a tensed voice.

“Well, Mr. Rafique, I’ve told you on the first day that Abir is showing symptoms of bi-polar disorder. A typical bi-polar person has periods of energetic activities followed by bouts of severe depression. But some of these symptoms may vary from person to person. In your brother’s case, he has moments of angry outbursts followed by long periods of depression. And it’s not uncommon for bi-polars to have suicidal thoughts,” informed the doctor.

“But, doctor, how are we supposed to thwart him from harming himself?” inquired Rafique.

“The condition he is in right now, he needs to take some medications. Here, I am writing down the name of a medicine called Lithosun SR, which contains the chemical lithium. Across the world, lithium has been proven to prevent suicidal thoughts. But there is a catch. Too much of lithium can cause toxicity in the blood, which could be fatal. Therefore, he should take exactly 400 mg per day, and not more than that. In addition, Abir needs to have his blood tested every fortnight to check the level of lithium in his body,” enlightened the doctor.

After that, he tore a page from his pad and handed it to Rafique.

*

                                                         

At six in the evening on the Friday night, Abir was sitting on his study table. It was a medium sized table with a bookshelf attached on one side. The shelf was laden with books, copies and note papers. A history book was open in front of him. Because of his illness, the boy had not been able to attend his school for two months. His final term exam was in two weeks. After taking the prescribed medication for a month, his thoughts of self-harm started to subside.

It had been an hour. The boy was struggling to focus on the book. But so far, he had not been able to read a single line. He was having difficulty concentrating. All kinds of negative thoughts were churning inside his fragile mind. Soon, fat tears started trickling down his cheeks. Abir could not fathom, why was he unable to control his emotions? Why did he feel so gloomy and miserable all the time?

Unable to bear the frustration anymore, suddenly he stood up with a grunt and tore the book into small pieces. Then, he picked up other books from the bookshelf and started throwing them in the air. This rampage lasted a few minutes. Then, he dashed away from the table, crashed on his bed and started to sob burying his face in the pillow.

After lying there motionless for a while, the boy raised his head for a moment. Incidentally, his eyes fell on the side table attached to his bed. He saw the container of his medication lying on the table, beside his bottle of water.

If I took some extra pills, it should help me get rid of the melancholic thoughts.

Slowly, he clambered on the side of the bed and picked up the container. Popping it open in a fit of impulse, her started pushing several pills down his throat at once and drank a lot of water. Afterward, he lay in the bed, still struggling to harness his emotions.

Around 08:00 p.m., Abir’s mother knocked on his door.

“Baba[4] Abir? Come out, son. Dinner has been served.”

Not getting any response for a while, she opened the door which was unlocked from inside. Walking in, she was flabbergasted to find torn books and papers scattered on the floor. Facing the other way, her son was lying in the bed and seemed to be asleep.

The mother walked to the bed and sat next to him.

“Abir? What’s wrong, abba?”                        

There was no response. His mother got little concerned. She held his shoulder and turned his torso toward her.

“Wake up, sweetheart. The dinner is getting cold.”

After calling him several times, the boy lifted his heavy eyelids gradually.

“Amma . . . I am not feeling so well. My . . . my head is throbbing in pain.”

Saying these words, the boy closed his eyes again. His mother nudged his shoulder several times, trying to keep him awake. But the boy slowly succumbed deeper and deeper to the side effect of the medicine.

“Mr. Rafque . . . Mr. Rafique!”

The voice of the duty doctor brought the man back to present time.

“What’s going on, doctor? How is my little brother doing,” asked Rafique agitatedly.

“Your brother has been shifted to the ICU. The overdose of the medicine has rendered him unconscious. We are trying to separate the toxic substance in his blood with some medicines and saline. But his pulse rate is still low. Nothing can be said until few hours pass,” reported the doctor and walked away.

Hearing this news, Abir’s mother started wailing and was at the brink of losing her senses. Rafique laid his mother on a bed and tried to pacify her.

Meanwhile, Abir lay in one corner of the ICU with all kinds of tubes and electric wires attached to his body – battling with death.

.

[1] Mother

[2] Father

[3] A short, kameez-like collarless shirt worn by people of South Asia

[4] Father

Mahim Hussain is a 38-year-old man and lives in Dhaka, Bangladesh. He couldn’t finish high school diploma. However, that did not deter him from reading and learning on his own.

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

Balak or the Child by Munshi Premchand

Translated from Hindi by Anurag Sharma

Munshi Premchand. Courtesy: Creative Commons

Premchand is the pen name adopted by the Indian writer, Dhanpat Rai Srivastava (31 July 1880- 8 October 1936).  He was a pioneer of modern Hindi-Urdu literature which focused upon contemporary social issues including caste, the treatment of women, day labour and other socio-political concerns. He remains one of the most heralded writers in South Asia. His oeuvre includes more than a dozen novels, about 300 short stories, numerous essays as well as translation of foreign literary works into Hindi.

Balak or the Child

1

All the servants greeted me from afar, as soon as they saw me. Gangu being the only exception, he never greeted me. He probably expected a palagan [1] salute from me. Everyone said he was a Brahmin. I bet he was because he never touched my dirty utensils [2]. Even in the hot and sweaty summer, I never dared to ask him to fan [3] me. When Gangu saw that I was sweaty and there were no other servants around, he picked up the fan on his own. But his posture made clear that he was doing me a favour and I snatched the fan away from his hand.

Gangu could not tolerate disrespect from anyone. He had few friends. He didn’t mix with my other servants. He couldn’t socialise easily either. He was full of contradictions. Unlike my other servants, he neither smoked, nor drank. On the other hand, despite being called a Brahmin, he seemed illiterate. I never saw him worship like most Brahmins do, nor take a vacation to visit pious rivers. He still expected the respect generally offered to a Brahmin, which seemed reasonable. When non-Brahmins have rights to material assets inherited from their ancestors as if they had earned those themselves, then why would Gangu renounce the prestige and honour that was earned by his forefathers through selfless dedication and sacrifices of many generations? That was his proud legacy.

Being an introvert, I spoke very less to my servants. I didn’t want them to approach me without being called. And I didn’t like calling them for simple tasks. It was much easier to pour water from a pitcher myself, light a lamp, put on my shoes, or take out a book from the shelf without waiting for a servant. My servants had also become accustomed to my personality, so they didn’t approach me without need.

They generally came to me for advance payment of wages, occasionally to complain about another servant. I despised both actions. I paid everyone’s salary on the first day of the month. I hated anyone asking for something extra in the middle; I couldn’t keep an account of two or four extra rupees. Besides, when a person had a full month’s wages, he had no right to spend it in fifteen days and beg for a loan or an advance? I was equally disgusted by their complaints. I considered these complaints to be a sign of weakness, or the petty gesture of toad-eating.

So, one morning when Gangu entered my room and stood in front of me, it made me unhappy.

Shrugging my shoulders, I asked, “What’s wrong? I didn’t call you.”

I was struck by the unexpected humility, and hesitation on Gangu’s normally sharp and arrogant face. It appeared as if he wanted to answer, but he couldn’t find the right words. I paused, and asked again, with a little humility this time, “What is the matter? Speak up. You know that I am getting late for my walk.”

Gangu sounded disappointed, “No problem, sir, please go and enjoy fresh air, I will come later.”

His response worried me. If he told his story then and there, I could ask him to finish quick as he knew that I was in a hurry. Postponing it to another occasion could cause a disturbance in my writing and reading later since the servants may not even have considered that as serious work. They may have just considered my thinking time, which is the most difficult practice for me, as my rest time. I didn’t want him to come and irritate me while I was working on a plot. Considering all these consequences of delaying the discussion, I relentlessly said, “If you come to ask for advance payment, the answer is no.”

“No sir, I never asked for an advance payment.”

“Well, do you want to complain about anyone? I hate complaints.”

“No sir, that’s not my nature.”

Gangu stood up straight. It was clear from his gestures that he was gathering all his strength to make a move. He paused and spoke in a faltering voice, “Let me leave you sir. I can no longer work here. I want to quit.”

His proposal surprised me. It hurt my ego. I considered myself a reflection of humanity, I never insulted my servants, I tried to be as humble as possible. I was shocked at this proposal. I asked in a curt voice, “Why? What’s your complaint?”

‘I have no complaints sir. You have got a good temperament. You are the best master a servant can get. But I can’t work here anymore because I don’t want you to feel upset because of me.”

I got confused. My curiosity flared up. I sat on a porch chair and asked with a sense of surrender, “What’s going on? Speak up clearly?”

Gangu said very humbly, “The thing is… that… Gomati Devi, the woman, who has just been expelled from the widows shelter home …”

He paused. I got impatient and said, “Yes, she was fired, then what? What does she have to do with your job here?”

Gangu paused for a moment as if he was trying to remove some heavy burden from his head, “I want to marry her sir!”

I stared at him with astonishment. This illiterate Brahmin of antiquated ideas, who never caught the breath of modern civilisation, was going to marry a woman of such questionable character that she would not even be allowed to enter any gentleman’s home.

Gomati had caused a bit of a stir in the peaceful atmosphere of her locality. After her husband’s death, she was moved to the shelter housing widows. She was made to marry by the staff of the shelter thrice, but each time she returned within 10-15 months. The last time she returned to the shelter, the minister of the home for widows threw her out. After being banished from the shelter, she lived in a closet in the neighbourhood. She soon became the centre of gossip for the loners of the entire locality.

I was angry after hearing about Gangu’s poor choice. This idiot couldn’t find another woman in the whole world to marry. I also felt sorry for his simplicity. I was sure that the woman who ran away from three comparatively rich husbands wasn’t going to stay for long with him. Had he been wealthy, the relationship would probably have lasted for six months. This naïve man didn’t even have a chance for a week.

“Do you know the life story of this woman?” I asked him with a sense of warning.

“All lies sir, people slandered her,” Gangu replied with the confidence of an eyewitness.

“What are you talking about, didn’t she run away from three husbands?”

“What if they kicked her out of their homes?”

“Are you foolish? Why would a man who comes to the shelter to marry abandon the woman after spending thousands of rupees?”

Gangu said passionately, “No woman can live in a place where there is no respect for her. A woman deserves some love and affection, not just bread and clothes. Those men would think that they had done a great favour by marrying a widow. They wanted to own her body and control her mind. They don’t understand that you can’t enslave other humans. To make others your own, you need to surrender first. Moreover, she has some health issues too. Sometimes she passes out suddenly. Those men considered her a burden because of her sickness.”

“Do you really want to marry such a woman?” I shook my head, “Understand that such a marriage would make your life bitter.”

Gangu said excitedly like a would-be martyr, “I understand everything sir, God willing!’

I insisted, “So you have made up your mind?”

‘Yes, sir!”

“In that case, I will accept your resignation.”

I was not afraid of futile conventions. But keeping a servant who married a wicked woman was a complicated problem. Every day could throw up new issues, new problems, and possibly police cases, and lawsuits. There could also be an accusation of domestic violence, or theft. It would be good to be away from this swamp. Gangu appeared to act like a monkey jumping at the sight of bread without realising that the bread was greasy, stale, dry, and completely inedible. I explained him the situation, but he didn’t care. It was difficult for him to work with thought and intelligence.

2

Five months had passed since Gangu married Gomati. They lived in the same locality in a tiny house. Whenever I saw him in the market, I checked to ask how he was. I had developed a curiosity about his new life. It was a test of psychological as well as social issues. I wanted to see the result of his bold action. I always found him happy. He appeared to be careless, somewhat prosperous, and confident. He had a daily sale of 20 to 25 rupees resulting in a saving of approximately 10 rupees. This was a meagre livelihood; But he certainly had a boon of some God. Because he had no sign of poverty, shame, or disgrace. There was a glimpse of self-development and joy on his face, a reflection, perhaps, of his peace of mind.

One day, I heard that Gomati ran away from Gangu’s house. I was strangely delighted. Not that I was jealous of Gangu’s contented and happy life. But I was waiting for something to happen to him – a bad thing, a catastrophe, a shameful event. I warned him earlier because I had my own doubts. Now my fears had been confirmed. Gangu had to bear the brunt of his short-sightedness. He, then lunged as if he was getting a rare substance. As if the gates of paradise had opened for him. Alas, now he would realise that those who tried to prevent this marriage were his true well-wishers. We warned him about that woman’s character. We reminded him that she had not been faithful in her earlier relationships, and he too would be cheated ultimately. But he didn’t pay any attention. I was eager to meet Gangu and remind him of his mistake in confusing this woman with a boon from the Goddess.

By chance, I ran into Gangu in the market that same day. He appeared depressed, anxious, and totally lost. On seeing me, he started crying. He didn’t cry out of embarrassment when he saw me; he cried out of grief. “Sir,” he said when he approached me, “… Gomati left me.”

“It’s your fault Gangu. You didn’t listen to my advice. I warned you, but you didn’t care. Now tell me, what can you do except bearing the pain patiently?” I showed him superficial sympathy, “Did she take all your money or left something?”

Gangu placed a hand on his chest as if my question pierced his heart.

‘No sir! Please don’t say that … she took nothing. She left everything behind, even her personal belongings. No idea what evil she perceived in me. I guess I was not worthy of her. She is educated, and I am as illiterate as a buffalo. I am fortunate that she stayed with me for so many days. Had she lived with me for some more time, she would have turned me into a fine man. I will be indebted to her forever. She was like a divine blessing of a deity to me. I must have done something seriously wrong because she always ignored my everyday mistakes with grace. After all, I am a man with no status. She managed the home so well with my petty earnings.”

I was deeply disappointed to hear these words. I thought he would tell the story of her infidelity and I would get a chance to express sympathy for his blind devotion. But the fool’s eyes had not opened yet. He was still reciting her mantra. Of course, he was still in shock.

“Are you certain she didn’t steal anything from your house?” I teased him.

“Not even a rag, sir,” he replied.

“But she left you…. And you think she really cared about you?”

“You’re right, sir; I’ll cherish her love until I die.”

“She abandoned you despite all the love?”

“That’s the mystery I can’t decipher, sir. “

“Have you ever heard the term ‘Triya-Charitra’ [4]?”

“Hey sir, don’t say that. I will sing her praise even if someone puts a knife on my neck.”

“Then go and find her.”

“Yes, sir. I am not going to give up until I find her. I’m confident that once I find her, I can convince her to come back to me. And sir, my gut tells me she will return to me without a doubt. She didn’t run away from me out of rage. I will go and look for her, even if it means wandering for several months. I will search for her everywhere –the woods, the mountains, and the deserts. I’ll come back to see you if I succeed in my mission.”

Before I could reply, he quickly walked away from me.

3

After a few days, I had to go to Nainital for a month-long assignment. I had just returned from Nainital when Gangu approached me holding a new-born infant in his lap. He exuded fatherly pride and joy in every aspect of his appearance, including his walk, posture, face, and eyes.

I asked, “Maharaj [5], you went to find Gomati, did you find her?”

“Yes Sir, with your blessings, I found her in a maternity hospital in Lucknow. Before leaving, Gomati instructed a girlfriend of hers to keep checking if I started getting too nervous about her absence. That friend told me where Gomati was. I ran to Lucknow and met her in the hospital, where she gave birth to this adorable child.” He raised the child with pride and came closer to me. As if a player is displaying the trophy after winning the match.

I asked sarcastically, “Well, she gave birth to this boy? Perhaps that’s why she ran away from here. Is this your child?”

“This is God’s gift for me.”

“So, he was born in Lucknow, right?”

“Yes Sir, he is just a month old.”

“How many days have you been married exactly?”

“… nearly seven months sir.”

“So, he is born within sixth month of your marriage?”

“Correct sir.”

“And you think of him as your son?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

He either ignored, or completely missed my intention. He exclaimed, “She had almost died sir. For three days and three nights, she kept on suffering. I can’t tell more but it’s like a new birth for her.”

I got a bit sarcastic now, “This is first time that I saw a child born in six months.”

He got my point this time, and smiled, “Okay, I understand! I did not even notice it earlier. Gomati ran away from home because of this fear only. But I told her not to care about what people say.”

He continued, “I told her she was free to leave me if she got tired of me. I would leave so as not to bother her ever again, but I would always be available should she require assistance. I told her that I had married her because I loved her and believed she wanted me, not because she was a Goddess. I am the parent of this child. He was born to us after our marriage.” saying this, he laughed loudly.

My eyes started to shine. I forgot how exhausted I was after the long trip. All my inherent hatred was suddenly washed away by a fresh shower of love. I kissed that little boy as I held him in my lap. Probably I didn’t show that much affection to my own children as I did to the helpless child in my lap.

“Sir, you are a wonderful gentleman.” Gangu continued, “I keep mentioning you to Gomati. I’ve asked her to come here with me so we can meet you once. But she is hesitant to meet new people.”

Me and gentleman? The innocent demeanour of Gangu had just opened my eyes. I was ashamed of my narrow-mindedness, my voice was filled with devotion towards him as I uttered, “No, I am not a gentleman, you are one. And this child is the fragrant flower that results from your kindness. Why would Gomati come here to meet a shallow man like me? Come on, I’m coming with you to see her.”

I walked towards Gangu’s house, holding the child close to my chest.

Translator’s notes:

[1] Palagan was a common respectful greeting offered to the brahmins in Hindi belt of North India

[2] Indian culture is very particular about purity of kitchen and observance of cleanliness of food and utensils. Any utensil that has been used once for serving or eating food or touched by someone is considered unfit for use until washed and cleaned properly.

[3] Except for a few princely states like Mysore, most Indian homes didn’t have access to power supply during British rule. Hand fans were commonly used during summer months in every household.

[4] Triya-Charitra – Complex character of a women, as discussed in Indian literature.

[5] Maharaj – Literally king of kings, a respectful address for the brahmins throughout India and Nepal

Anurag Sharma is  a writer and the co-founder of Radio Playback India. Anurag has been instrumental in podcasting over 300 short stories, radio dramas and Vinoba Bhave’s lectures on Gita. He is the editor-in-Chief of Setu, Pittsburgh.

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
Stories

The Bus Conductor by Dalip Kaur Tiwana

Short story by Dr. Dalip Kaur Tiwana, translated from the original Punjabi by C. Christine Fair

Dr Dalip Kaur Tiwana. Courtesy: Creative Commons

Dr. Dalip Kaur Tiwana (4 May 1935 – 31 January 2020) is recognised as one of the most consequential Punjabi authors who substantially contributed to the development of modern Punjabi literature. Prior to her death, she published twenty-seven novels, seven collections of short stories as well as a literary biography. Tiwana was also a distinguished academic. She was the first woman in the region to obtain a Ph.D. from Punjab University in 1963.  She joined the Punjabi University at Patiala from which she retired as a Dean as well as a Professor of Punjabi. Dr. Tiwana garnered innumerable regional as well as national awards within India, including the prestigious Sahitya Akademi Award and the Padma Shri, India’s fourth largest civilian honor. She surrendered her Padma Shri in 2015 expressing “Solidarity with other writers who are protesting against the increasing cultural intolerance in our society and politics and the threat to free speech and creative freedom.”

The Bus Conductor

Art by C Christine Fair

The lady doctor, Polly, had been transferred from Nabhe to Patiala. Her family members were trying to get the transfer rescinded. That is why, instead of taking a house and living in Patiala, she got permission from the senior doctor to come from Nabhe every morning by bus and return in the evening.

She felt ill at ease because of the shivering sound of the idling buses, the heat, the sweat, the crowds, the ludicrous indolence of the conductors, and the rude banter. Thinking to herself, “But this is just a matter of days,” she suffered it all. On the days when Jit was on duty for that bus, she would feel a bit comfortable because that conductor seemed to be good natured.

One day, a man asked Jit, “Where does that girl with the bag work?”

Jit said discretely as he was handing over the ticket, “Aho[1] sir!  She is a lady doctor. A very senior lady doctor. People say that her salary is a full three hundred rupees.”

“Sir, these days women are earning more than men. That’s why men are no longer the boss,” said the man as he sat down on a seat nearby.

“Sir, no matter what they earn, girls of a good household still must lower their eyes when they speak…and this lady doctor, I go to Patiala all the time and by god, she doesn’t even speak…,” said the Sardar who was sitting behind while gazing towards Polly.

“By god! I also….” He stopped mid-sentence when Jit, while handing the ticket to this dandy in a pink shirt, glowered at him and said, “So, brother. Do you want to go? Or should I toss you off the bus now?”

“Conductor Sir.  I didn’t anything. Why are you getting angry like this?”

While Jit was handing the ticket over to Polly, she began to give him the ten she took out.

“I don’t have any change. Forget about it and pay in full tomorrow.” Having said this, Jit moved on.

Ahead, there was elderly woman who also took out a ten. “Ma’am, I don’t have change. The entire fare is 10.5 annas[2] and you take out such a large note and hand it to me? Fine. Go and get change and then come back,” Jit said in a rather stern voice.

“Young man! In that time, the bus will have left and it’s urgent that I go.  You can return the rest of the money to me in Patiala,” the elderly woman begged of him.

“Fine, ma’am. Sit down,” he said as he began to cut her a ticket.

Polly was thinking about the hospital, all of the patients, the medicines, the nurses, and the various duties as the bus left behind Rakhra, then Kalyan and then Rony and neared the Chungu toll booth.

Jit told the driver, “Yaar[3]!  Today drive towards this blue building right here.”

The passengers who were travelling to the gurdwara grumbled a bit, but by now the bus had turned and was once more on the direct route. Near the Flower Cinema the conductor rang the bell to stop the bus, opened the door, and began to tell Polly, “You get down here, the hospital will be nearby.”

Polly got down quickly. She even forgot to say thank you. She thought to herself, “That poor fellow is such a nice conductor.”

By the time she reached the bus station that evening to begin her journey home, the bus was already full. With great difficulty she waited 45 minutes for another bus. A bus conductor, with his shirt unbuttoned, passed her three times while mumbling the song from the film Awaara[4]. He gave an anna to a female beggar to get rid of her for some time. She didn’t know why, but people were staring at her wide-eyed.

The next day, it happened by chance, that when she reached the Nabha bus station, the buses were already full, and Jit was turning away additional passengers without a ticket. Jit approached her and said, “You can pick up the bag on the front seat and sit down. I saved a seat for you.”

Polly passed by several gawking passengers and sat down. Jit immediately rang the bell for the bus to move forward.

“This conductor is so good-natured,” Polly thought to herself.

As the delays in getting her posting to Nabha stretched over time, she became depressed. The sound of the idling buses and fears of the bus leaving were constantly on her mind. Whenever she was forced to sit next to a fat passenger, her nice clothes would get wrinkled, and the stench of sweat would make her dizzy.

Then one day when she was about to give money for her ticket, Jit said, “No madam, forget about it,” and moved ahead.

“No sir, please take the money,” Polly emphatically requested.

“What difference will it make whether I take your money or not?” he asked. He walked further ahead and began to give a ticket to someone.

Polly, feeling self-conscious from the argument, sat down quietly but throughout the journey she was wondering why the conductor didn’t take money from her. She did not like it at all. For someone earning Rs. 300 what is the value 10.5 annas?

The next day she intentionally left five minutes late, thinking, “Today I won’t go on the Pipal Bus. Instead, I’ll take the Pepsu Roadways Bus.  What nonsense is this that he won’t take the money!”

She was stupefied to see that the driver had started the bus and was standing yelling at the conductor.

“Oye! I am just coming. Why are you yelling? Why do want to leave so early? Is it about to rain?” Jit said, while walking very, very slowly.

“Are we going to the next station or not? You’re taking your sweet time getting here,” the driver said.

“Get over here, Madam and take the front seat, and open the window,” Jit said to Polly.

“How can the bus leave without Madam?” mumbled a clerk in the back who took the bus from Nabhe to Patiala every day.

Jit glared at him. Everyone fell silent. The bus left. Polly took out the money but despite her repeated attempts, Jit refused to take it. Polly became very angry. “Jit is making me a part of this scam…But why is he neither charging me nor giving me a ticket?… Still, this is defrauding the company…” She was thinking this just as the bus stopped and a ticket-checker boarded. When he was checking the tickets of the other passengers, Polly broke out in a nervous sweat.

“How humiliating it is that I don’t have a ticket…. I will tell him that the conductor didn’t give me a ticket even though I asked for one,” she thought. “But what will the poor man say? No. I will tell him that I forgot. But no. How can I lie,” she debated with herself.

Then the checker approached her.

As soon as he said, “Madam…ticket,” Jit, taking a ticket out of his pocket, called out, “She…. she…This woman is my sister. I have her ticket.”

Seeing the ticket, the checker glanced at the conductor whose pants were threadbare at the knees and whose khaki uniform was worn at the elbows. Then, he looked over the woman in the expensive sari.  He smiled with his eyes.

Jit became flustered. The checker quickly got down from the bus.

Polly, surprised and worried, was thinking that perhaps this man, who earns a paltry Rs. 60 per month, didn’t eat during the day so that he could pay for my entire fare.

In the hospital, she kept thinking about this. She felt so uneasy about it.

In the evening when she reached the station, Jit was sad as he slowly made his way towards her.

“My older sister also studied medicine in Lahore…and she died there during the riots of partition. The rest of my family perished too. I somehow managed to make it here alive. How could I even think about studying when I could barely feed myself?  Then I became a conductor. When I saw your bag and stethoscope, I remembered Amarjit…and…and….” Then he choked up.

Polly was very distraught. She didn’t know how to respond.

Meanwhile, the bus came.  He quickly walked towards it and Polly kept on watching him walk away with affection in her moist eyes.

(Translated and published with permission from the Punjabi publisher at https://punjabistories.com. Link to the Punjabi story: https://punjabistories.com/tag/bus-conductor-by-dalip-kaur-tiwana/)

[1] A Punjabi expletive like Oh!

[2] Equal to 1/16 of a rupee

[3] Friend

[4] A 1951 movie – Awaara means vagabond

C. Christine Fair is a professor in Georgetown University’s Security Studies Program.  She studies political and military events of South Asia and travels extensively throughout Asia and the Middle East. Her books include In Their Own Words: Understanding the Lashkar-e-Tayyaba (OUP 2019); Fighting to the End: The Pakistan Army’s Way of War (OUP, 2014); and Cuisines of the Axis of Evil and Other Irritating States (Globe Pequot, 2008). She has published creative pieces in The Bark, The Dime Show Review, Furious Gazelle, Hypertext, Lunch Ticket, Clementine Unbound, Fifty Word Stories, The Drabble, Sandy River Review, Barzakh Magazine, Bluntly Magazine, Badlands Literary Journal, among others. Her visual work has appeared in Vox Populi, pulpMAG, The Indianapolis Review, Typehouse Literary Magazine, The New Southern Fugitives, Glassworks and Existere Journal of Arts. Her translations have appeared in the Bombay Literary Magazine, Bombay Review, Muse India and The Punch Magazine. She reads, writes and speaks Punjabi, Hindi, and Urdu.

.

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