Pre-historic cave painting in France La Tauromaquia. Leap with the Spear by Picasso (1881-1973)Courtesy: Creative Commons
There was a time when there were no boundaries drawn by humans. Our ancestors roamed the Earth like any other fauna — part of nature and the landscape. They tried to explain and appease the changing seasons, the altering landscapes and the elements that affected life and living with rituals that seemed coherent to them. There were probably no major organised structures that laid out rules. From such observances, our festivals evolved to what we celebrate today. These celebrations are not just full of joie de vivre, but also a reminder of our syncretic start that diverged into what currently seems to be irreparable breaches and a lifestyle that is in conflict with the needs of our home planet.
Reflecting on this tradition of syncretism in our folklore and music, while acknowledging the boundaries that wreak havoc, is an essay by Aruna Chakravarti. She expounds on rituals that were developed to appease natural forces spreading diseases and devastation, celebrations that bring joy with harvests and override the narrowness of institutionalised human construct. She concludes with Lalan Fakir’s life as emblematic of the syncretic lore. Lalan, an uneducated man brought to limelight by the Tagore family, swept across religious divides with his immortal lyrics full of wisdom and simplicity. Dyed in similar syncretic lore are the writings of a student and disciple of Tagore from Santiniketan, Syed Mujtaba Ali (1904-1974). His works overriding these artificial constructs have been brought to light, by his translator, former BBC editor, Nazes Afroz. Having translated his earlier book, In a Land Far from Home: A Bengali in Afghanistan, Afroz has now brought to us Syed Mujtaba Ali’s Tales of a Voyager (Jolay Dangay), in which we read of his travels to Egypt almost ninety years ago. In his interview, the translator highlights the current relevance of this remarkable polyglot.
Humming the tunes of Mujtaba Ali’s tutor, Tagore, a translation of Tagore’s song, AmraBeddhechhi Kasher Guchho (We have Tied Bunches of Kash[1]) captures the spirit of autumnal opulence which heralds the advent of Durga Puja. A translation by Fazal Baloch has brought a message of non-violence very aptly in these times from recently deceased eminent Balochi poet, Mubarak Qazi. Professor Fakrul Alam has translated a very contemporary poem by Quazi Johirul Islam on Barnes and Nobles while from Korea, we have a translation of a poem by Ihlwha Choi on the fruit, jujube, which is eaten fresh of the tree in autumn.
A poem which starts with a translation of a Tang dynasty’s poet, Yuan Zhen, inaugurates the first translation we have had from Mandarin — though it’s just two paras by the poet, Rex Tan, who continues writing his response to the Chinese poem in English. Mingling nature and drawing life lessons from it are poems by George Freek,Ryan Quinn Flanagan and Gopal Lahiri. We have poetry which enriches our treasury by its sheer variety from Hawla Riza, Pramod Rastogi, John Zedolik, Avantika Vijay Singh, Tohm Bakelas and more. Michael Burch has brought in a note of festivities with his Halloween poems. And Rhys Hughes has rolled out humour with his observations on the city of Mysore. His column too this time has given us a table and a formula for writing humorous poetry — a tongue-in-cheek piece, just like the book excerpt from The Coffee Rubaiyat. In the original Rubaiyat, Omar Khayyam (1048–1131) had given us wonderful quatrains which Edward Fitzgerald immortalised with his nineteenth century translation from Persian to English and now, Hughes gives us a spoof which would well have you rollicking on the floor, and that too, only because as he tells us he prefers coffee over wine!
Humour tinged with irony is woven into Devraj Singh Kalsi’s narrative on red carpet welcomes in Indian weddings. We have a number of travel stories from Peru to all over the world. Ravi Shankar takes us to Lima and Meredith Stephens to Californian hot springs with photographs and narratives while Sayani De does the same for a Tibetan monastery in Lahaul. Keith Lyons converses with globe trotter Tomaž Serafi, who lives in Ljubljana. And Suzanne Kamata adds colour with a light-veined narrative on robots and baseball in Japan. Syncretic elements are woven by Dr. KPP Nambiar who made the first Japanese-Malyalam Dictionary. He started nearly fifty years ago after finding commonalities between the two cultures dating back to the sixteenth century. Tulip Chowdhury brings in colours of Halloween while discussing ghosts in Bangladesh and America, where she migrated.
The theme of immigration is taken up by Gemini Wahaaj as she reviews South to South: Writing South Asia in the American South edited by Khem K. Aryal. Japan again comes into focus with Aditi Yadav’s Makoto Shinkai’s and Naruki Nagakawa’s She and Her Cat, translated from Japanese by Ginny Tapley Takemori. Somdatta Mandal has also reviewed a translation by no less than Booker winning Daisy Rockwell, who has translated Usha Priyamvada’sWon’t You Stay, Radhika? from Hindi. Our reviews seem full of translations this time as Bhaskar Parichha comments on One Among You: The Autobiography of M.K. Stalin, the current Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu, translated from Tamil by A S Panneerselvan. In fiction, we have stories that add different flavours from Paul Mirabile, Neera Kashyap, Nirmala Pillai and more.
“One of the children gave it [the bunch of bananas] to the child sitting in front. An emaciated girl and a little boy were seated next to me. I told them to pass on the fruit to everyone in the back and keep one each for themselves. The girl looked curiously at the bunch as she turned it around in her hands. Then she looked at the other children.
“‘I’ve never seen an onion like this one,’ she said.
“Her little companion also touched the fruit gingerly and innocently added, ‘Yes, this is not even a potato.’
“I was speechless to say the least. These children had never seen anything apart from onions and potatoes. They had definitely never chanced upon bananas…”
Heart-wrenching but true! Maybe, we can all do our bit by reaching out to some outside our comfort or social zone to close such alarming gaps… Uma Dasgupta’s book tells us that Tagore had hoped many would start institutions like Sriniketan all over the country to bridge gaps between the underprivileged and the privileged. People like Satyarthi are doing amazing work in today’s context, but more like him are needed in our world.
We have more writings than I could mention here, and each is chosen with much care. Please do pause by our contents page and take a look. Much effort has gone into creating a space for you to relish different perspectives that congeal in our journal, a space for all of you. For this, we have the team at Borderlessto thank– without their participation, the journal would not be as it is. Sohana Manzoor with her vibrant artwork gives the finishing touch to each of our monthly issues. And lastly, I cannot but express my gratefulness to our contributors and readers for continuing to be with us through our journey. Heartfelt thanks to all of you.
Agomoni (1878–1883), Metropolitan Museum of Art, Kolkata
Bengal — and here I refer to undivided Bengal — with her plurality of religions, cultures and sub-cultures and her numerous linguistic forms and dialects, provides a wonderful kaleidoscope of thoughts and ideas through her oral utterances. Multiple streams of expressions provide a fascinating study for the researcher. This cultural heritage is deeply enmeshed in the life of a Bengali enfolding Hindu and Muslim alike. In the present scenario of divisive identity politics, it is imperative that we draw upon this common heritage constantly and consistently.
In this essay, we will highlight practices in which there was equal participation of Hindus and Muslims, with each community infusing and enriching the traditions of poetry, music, narrative and ritual. What is observed is a readiness to dissolve religious differences in a common cultural pool of assimilated identities.
A large body of the oral literature of Bengal is rooted in the worship of demonic powers. As is to be expected in a tropical region and a primitive, rural society, certain deities are seen as holding human lives in thrall by their control of natural calamities, animal attacks and epidemics. Though Islam sanctions worship of none other than Allah, the Muslims of Bengal are equal participants in the propitiation of these deities. Interestingly, most of these are female deities, indicating that Bengalis have seen the powers of destruction and preservation as vested in women from time immemorial.
Olai Chandi
Let us begin with the Saat Bibir Upakhyan, the legend of the seven sisters who hold in their hands the power to unleash and contain some of the deadly diseases that strike rural Bengal from time to time. The eldest and most feared is Ola Bibi or Bibi Ma –the goddess of cholera or olautha –ola, in the rustic dialect meaning diarheoa and utha –vomiting. When the two symptoms appear together the villagers see it as Ola Bibi’s curse and rush to offer prayers and sacrifices. So great is their awe and terror of this deity that they invest her with the most flattering attributes. Worshipped by both Hindus and Muslims alike, she is represented as a woman of surpassing beauty, striking personality and noble mien. The Hindu version of the idol, Olai Chandi, has a bright yellow complexion and long slanting eyes. She wears a blue sari, has open hair and is adorned with the jewellery wealthy Hindu women wear – bangles, necklaces, armlets and a nose hoop. The Muslims visualize her as a high-born Muslim maiden in Islamic attire – loose pyjamas, shirt, cap, veil and nagras[1] on her feet.
The worship of Ola Bibi continues vibrantly into the present in Nadiya, Bankura, Birbhum, Bardhman and even Kolkata, sometimes singly, sometimes along with her other six sisters –Jhola Bibi, Ajgai Bibi, Chand Bibi, Bahurh Bibi, Jhentuni Bibi and Asan Bibi. Her puja is performed out in the open under the trees or by the river. But some places are earmarked as Saat Bibir thaan or Ola Bibir thaan –thaan being a corruption of the word sthaan meaning place. The rituals, even when the devotees are Brahmins, are performed by Muslims or drawn from the lowest rung of the caste ladder –the Hadis or Doms.
The second sister Jhola is the goddess of pustules – the full range from the harmless measles to the killer smallpox. But at least one of the seven sisters is a benevolent deity. The youngest, Asan Bibi, makes things easy for women who invoke her aid.
Asan Bibir brata katha[2] tells the story of Shireen, the first brati or invoker of the deity’s aid. Shireen’s father Sultan Isa Khan ordered his daughter to be killed at birth to save her from falling into the hands of the pirates of Arakan who descended on his kingdom, periodically, to loot, plunder and rape. But his purpose was foiled by his eldest son Chand, who escaped with his sister into the forest, far away from the civilised world and its cruelties to women. When Chand was forced to go out to seek a livelihood, he gave his sister seven munia[3] birds and charged her solemnly to give them their gram and water everyday and keep them alive, for his life was bound up in theirs. Young Shireen, in a playful mood, forgot her duty one day and was shocked to find that the birds had died. She set up a wail hearing which Asan Bibi appeared before her. Commanding Shireen to find seven married women and make them sit around the birds and listen to her story, Asan Bibi brought the birds and Chand back to life.
This was the first Asan Bibir puja[4]. Isa Khan’s cruelty to his daughter, with all its implications of female infanticide and honour killing being foiled by his rebel son –an enlightened man and champion of women’s rights — is as relevant today as it was then. Asan Bibi is not only a deity. She is the manifestation of woman power. The seven bratis symbolise the bonding and coming together of women in a bid to protect each other from masculine cruelty and domination.
Asan Bibi is a Muslim deity but, as part of an appropriation and assimilation that has gone on for centuries and is typical of Bengalis, the legend of Asan Bibi is enacted, to this day, by Hindu women not only in Bengal but all over India. The offerings are gram and water and the birds are represented by clods of earth
The rituals of this puja display a fascinating blend of Hindu and Muslim practices. The square of red silk on which the pot of water is placed, the silence observed when the tale is being told and the prasad being eaten out of the pallus[5] of the women’s saris, are pure Muslim. But the water in the pot is Gangajal[6], the pot is adorned with a swastika and the clods of earth have to be taken from the base of a tulsi bush[7]. Sindoor, alta and paan[8] with which the chief brati or pledger greets the other six women are the other Hindu elements of the puja.
Another women’s brata[9] is centred around Bhadu — a folk deity worshipped extensively in Rarh and its surrounding districts. Bhadu puja is performed throughout the month of Bhadra, that is the middle of August to the middle of September. The main component of the puja is the community singing by women in which the tale of young Princess Bhadreswari of Manbhum and her tragic, untimely death is told. Bhadu gaan or the ballad of Bhadu expresses the hopes and aspirations of young maidens in ordinary, everyday village life. This puja has no religious basis. No mantras are required and no priests to conduct the rituals. The devotees, like in the Asan Bibir brata, are all women. But despite the non-Aryan nature of the puja and the absence of mantras, there are references to Kali and Krishna in the ballad. The drums announce the coming of Bhadu from Brindaban but, at some point, in her journey she must have stopped at Kailash for her hands are covered with blood red sandal paste, like Kali’s, and a garland of hibiscus hangs around her neck.
Thus, Vaishnav and Shaivaite ideologies are mixed and mingled in the worship of Bhadu, and Shyam and Shyama come together. Yet Bhadu is human – a young girl. She is petted and pampered by her devotees and called Bhadu Rani and Bhadu Dhan[10]. Young girls form eternal friendships with her using the tradition of Soi patano – the exchange of symbolic names with special girl friends. In the song that follows a devotee makes Bhadu her soi picking phul (flower) as a name for her. But what is she to give Bhadu as a gift? Flowers and garlands, of course.
To go back to the deities who hold the key to human suffering and happiness we have Ghentu – the patron deity of skin ailments like sores, itches, scabies and carbuncles. Like Jhola Bibi of the pustular menace, Ghentu appears in spring which, though a season of sweet breezes and mellow sunshine, is particularly conducive to skin afflictions. But Ghentu is not accorded the same respect as Jhola. Though feared, like her, he is also hated and held in contempt. This, perhaps, is owing to the fact that he is only capable of causing minor irritations. He doesn’t have the power to kill or wreak serious damage.
Ghentu Puja is performed by women, mainly mothers, in the twenty-four parganas and the Bardhaman / Bankura belt through the month of Chaitra[11]. There are no temples to Ghentu and no images. A well-worn household pot of black clay is placed on a broken winnowing tray. A pat of cowdung on the pot forms the face and two cowrie shells the eyes of the god. He is made to look bizarre and ugly because Ghentu, though a Deb Kumar[12], had to take birth among the ghouls following a curse by Vishnu. The offerings denote the contempt the idol is held in. Ghentu phul (a foul-smelling flower) parboiled rice (also foul-smelling) and masur dal[13] which is considered unholy for some reason (caste Hindu widows are not allowed to eat it) are placed before the pot with the left hand and not the right. There are no mantras but some verses, insulting and derogatory, and meant to drive him away, are chanted.
Ghentu puja
On the last day of the puja the clay pot is beaten with sticks and kicked to pieces by an excited crowd. This extraordinary humanising of deities and the concept of irreverence as a form of worship is admissible only in Hinduism and never better expressed than in Ghentu puja.
Agrarian societies are almost totally dependent on the whims of nature. Droughts, floods, storms and pests might bring to naught months of hard labour in the fields. Thus, fear and uncertainty dog the lives of peasants and they can breathe easy only after the harvest is reaped and safely stowed away in their paddy bins.
The harvest festival of Bengal starts on Makar Sankranti or the Winter Solstice when the crops begin to ripen. In some districts this festival is known as Tush Tushulir Brata and in others Tushu. Tushu is neither a goddess nor a human like Bhadu. Tush or the husk that protects the precious grain for the whole period of ripening is the object of worship here.
The puja is performed by women irrespective of age or status. Young girls, married women, matrons and widows are all allowed to participate in the rituals which go on for three days. An earthen plate filled with husk is placed in a room where the women of the household assemble chanting verses in praise of Tushu. On the third day one of them carries the plate on her head to the pond and sets it afloat. The rituals vary from region to region but the practice of bauri bandha is prevalent in most parts of Bengal. The outer surface of a clay saucer is smeared with rice paste then filled with water and placed on the fire. As the rice paste bakes and hardens and gets stuck to the pot women chant and sing for joy, for the ritual of bauri bandha symbolises the binding of the grain. It is now firmly in the household and cannot escape. It is only on the conclusion of this ritual that the preparing of peethe puli – an array of sweets made from new rice, coconut and mollases –can commence.
The emotions that spark off the festival of Tushu are relief and gratitude for being spared the prospect of starvation for another season. What better way to express these feelings than in song? Song which liberates the mind and relieves fears and anxieties? Tushu gaan[14]is similar to Bhadu gaan in many ways but whereas the latter focuses on the dreams and aspirations of young maidens Tushu expresses the hopes and fears of an entire community and is represented as a rustic lass celebrating a bountiful harvest with her friends –boys as well as girls.
The literature of rural Bengal is studded with references to these deities. Brata katha and katha katha, stories with a moral lesson at the end, were told by professional narrators or kathak thakurs at religious gatherings from as early as the 5th or 6th century AD. The practice continues vibrantly into the present. At some point down the years they were given a structured form called panchali, a story chanted in verses. Still later, they were textualised by erudite versifiers or pada kartas in a form called Mangal Kabya[15].
The worship of Satyanarayan or Satyapir is performed by both Hindus and Muslims. The rituals are identical, but the deity is called by different names –Satyanarayan by Hindus and Satyapir by Muslims. The offering is identical too – a thick gruel like substance made of flour, milk, mashed bananas and mollases called shirni, which seems to be a corrupted form of the Persian word phirni. Satyanarayan puja in Hindu households is performed by Brahmin priests learned in the Shastras. A Shalagram Shila[16](symbol of Vishnu) is placed on a square of carpet called an asan. Five small plates surround it each containing a betel leaf, a supari[17], a banana, a batasha[18] and a coin. These are called mokams. A metal object, usually a knife or blade, is placed next to the Shalagram Shila.
There is some debate on what came first – the Islamisation of Satyanarayan or the Sanskritising of Satyapir. The latter seems to come nearest to the truth for the following reasons:
The presence of a metal object on the asan of the Shalagram Shila is totally alien to any form of worship sanctioned by the Shastras.
2. The words Satya and mokam are Arabic in origin.
3 Shirni, as an offering, is not seen in the worship of any other Hindu deity.
The truth probably is that someone called Satyapir actually existed at some point of time and was subsequently raised to the status of a deity by his followers. Since Islamic shariat does not sanction worship of any other than Allah, Satyapir remained on the fringes till caste Hindus, ever eager to swell the ranks of their pantheon, appropriated him and made him their own. The rituals remained the same. The only thing they added was the concept that Satyapir was an incarnation of Vishnu in Kaliyug[19]. Hence the Shalagram Shila.
Several eminent pada kartas have written of the exploits of Manasa, the daughter of Shiva and Ganga, another name for whom is Bishhari (conqueror of poison). Of these the most popular version is the one by Ketakadas Khemananda and is still performed by theatrical troupes in the small towns and villages of Bengal.
Manasa Devi (1920) by Jamini Ray (1887-1972)
Manasa worship is said to have emanated from that of the goddess of snakes Manacha Amma of Karnataka — the ch sound having changed to sh in provincial Bengali. There are several versions of how the concept arrived from South India to Bengal of which the most reliable one is that it was brought by bands of Bedeys –nomadic snake charmers who wandered from place to place exhibiting their skills in taming snakes and making them dance to the trilling of their pipes. Bedeys — a community that still exists in Bengal, though Muslim, are fervent worshippers of Manasa.
Manasa puja is traditionally performed at the base of a phani manasa bush – a wild plant with thick, spiky leaves edged with thorns. The bush is supposed to be the protector of snakes and hence their favourite haunt. Though a pre-Aryan deity, Manasa puja is performed by Brahmin priests in accordance with Vedic rites. The goddess is offered flowers, paddy, incense and sindoor. But the bhog – a meal of rice, dal and vegetables– has to be cooked the previous night and offered stale. Manasa puja is also performed in Bangladesh, often by Namazi Muslims who see no contradiction between their worship of Allah and this indigenous deity.
ManasaMangal or Manasar Bhashan is a long-drawn-out narrative set to music. The versification is rudimentary – composed of octosyllabic couplets interspersed with occasional quatrains. The story line is simple and the tunes primary and repetitive. The ballad tells the story of the complete humiliation and defeat of the merchant Chand Saudagar at the hands of the snake goddess Manasa. Puffed up with pride at his wealth, his seven sons and his fleet of ships that carry expensive cargo from one port to another Chand Saudagar refuses to pay Manasa the homage due to her. Manasa decides to teach him a lesson. His seven sons die of snake bite. Seven of his ships, in some versions it is fourteen, are lost at sea. But the youngest son Lakhinder’s wife, the great sati[20], Behula, saves her father-in-law from Manasa’s wrath. She refuses to cremate her husband or don widow’s weeds. Making a raft of banana trunks, she sets herself afloat on the Ganga with her husband’s head on her lap. The river takes her to the abode of the gods where she wins Manasa over with her devotion and humility. Manasa forgives Chand Saudagar and all ends well with Chand acknowledging Manasa’s divinity and Manasa returning to him all she had taken.
The story of Behula predates Brahminical Hinduism and established caste structures. The names—Behula, Sonoka and Lakhinder serve as evidence to the fact. Yet the moral is rooted in patriarchy. A woman’s chastity and steadfast loyalty to her husband, as integral to the welfare of family and community, has been valorised in ‘Manasa Mangal‘ and to this day Behula’s chastity is seen to be on par with that of the great satis of the epics, Sita and Savitri.
Agomoni, verses sung in preparation for Durga’s coming by itinerant minstrels, both Hindu and Muslim, got its first structured form in the songs of the sage Ramprasad who, along with Horu Thakur, Ramnidhi Gupta and other pada kartas from the Twenty-four parganas, Bardhaman, Bankura and Murshidabad, imbued the form with extraordinary sensitivity and human feelings.
At the end of the monsoons when the first clear light of Autumn suffuses the skies, when the lotus blooms and the waving kaash is reflected in the waters of ponds and rivers, Bengal villages come alive with the singing of Agomoni, the legend dear to Bengali hearts, of the coming of Uma. For the great goddess, the ten-armed Mahashakti and the vanquisher of Mahishasur, comes to her earth mother’s lap in the form of her little Uma. The emotional Bengalis, ever ready to humanise their deities and form relationships with them, rejoice at her coming.
Agomoni song by former folk artiste, Amar Pal (1922-2019)Giri Ebar Uma Ele… Kaaro Katha Manbo Na (Giri, when Uma comes, I will not listen to anyone), A song composed by Ramprasad Sen (1718 or 1723 -1775)
Agomoni is an expression, pure and simple, of the everyday life of women in a rural community –their joys and sorrows; hopes and fears. Agomoni opens with Menaka’s grief at the plight of her daughter Uma married, by a careless, indifferent father, to the wayward, half crazed beggar Shiva who covers his nakedness with ash, gets stoned with bhang and consorts with ghosts and spirits. Maneka’s impassioned plea to her husband Giri Raj to bring her darling to her, if only for a few days, echo the yearning of all mothers for a daughter married far away from home.
Giri Raj, like most men, likes to believe what suits him. Convinced that his daughter is perfectly happy in her husband’s home, he dismisses his wife’s fears and tries to placate her with vague promises. But Menaka won’t let him off so lightly. She tells him that she won’t send Uma back to her husband’s house when she comes next. She’ll turn a deaf ear to what people say and, if Shiva insists on taking her back, she and her daughter together will give her son-in-law the tongue lashing he deserves. This song, composed by Ramprasad Sen in the eighteenth century, touches a chord in every mother’s heart for all women, including Menaka, know that this show of rebellion is worth nothing and will be quelled by Giri Raj before he has even heard her out.
Uma comes but Menaka has to reckon not only with her husband but with a daughter whose other name is Sati and who smiles away her mother’s suggestion of keeping her permanently with her. The three days of Uma’s visit pass quickly, too quickly. A desperate Menaka changes her tune. She appeals to her daughter to persuade her husband to come to his father-in-law’s house and stay a few days. Dropping her aggressive stance, she promises to pamper him and give him everything he wants including his favourite bhang.
But that, of course, is not to be. Shiva, incensed with Giri Raj for past insults, won’t even step across the threshold. Nabami[21] night comes. Only a few hours to dawn and Uma will go back. Menaka breaks down and weeps. Alas, her desperate plea to the night of the ninth moon to embrace eternity and never see the face of dawn remains unheard and unanswered.
From the complex compound of anxiety, nostalgia and hope that is Agomoni, we move to another area of cultural memory—the legend of Kerbela. Through the month of Muharrum the Muslims of rural Bengal enact the legend of the battle of Kerbela and the massacre of the prophet’s grandsons Hassan and Hussain. The tale is sung in verse known as jaari gaan—the word jaari, derived from Persian, denoting mourning. It is accompanied by the playing of musical instruments like drums and cymbals and body movements like leaping and dancing. About twenty young men, with gamchhas[22] on their shoulders and ghungroos[23] on their feet, make up a jaari troupe. They go from door to door, the lead singer telling the tale—the others singing the refrain.
Jaari is presumed to have originated in the 16th century with its roots in the Muharrum legend. But the form evolved and came to incorporate other tragic legends—not all of them Muslim. For instance, a very popular Jaari theme is that of Chandidas and his ill-fated love for the washer woman Rami. And, over the years, Jaari has moved on bringing every form of human suffering within its ambit. While retaining old myths and legends in its repertoire, present day Jaari explores and foregrounds the adversities and afflictions of common folk – the fears and terrors that make up their day-to-day existence – poverty, sickness, failed harvests and natural disasters. A famous Jaari gaan reflects this transition. It begins with a heart-rending account of the trials and tribulations suffered by the adherents of Allah after losing the battle of Kerbela—the miles of walking in the desert under a white-hot sun, feet on fire against the burning sand, chests crackling with thirst.
Allah Megh De: Pani De (God give cloud, give water): Jaari song by legendary folk singer Abbasuddin Ahmed (1901-1959)
But soon the focus moves from the plight of the faithful in distant Arabia to the plight of the ryot in rural Bengal. From a song of worship it becomes a song of livelihood. Peasants, who live by the soil, in the grip of the whims of Nature, look up at a drought hit sky and call upon to Allah to send rain.
Music runs in the Bengali blood, particularly in that of the rural masses. Work and song are so closely inter-woven that every livelihood is expressed in song. All working people whether potters or weavers, cowherds or blacksmiths, peasants or palanquin bearers sing as they work. But being a land of many rivers and waterways and sailing being a way of life here, perhaps some of the most poignant forms of folk music are to be found in the songs sung by the boatmen of Bengal.
Bhatiyali is the song of the lone boatman as he drifts down the river, wide as the sea from monsoon rains, far away from his loved ones, braving storms and tempests, the fear of never reaching his destination in his heart. The boatman pours out his love and longing, dreams and hopes in a melody that is as slow and tranquil as the flow of the water. Of all the folk songs of Bengal, nothing matches the subtle and sensitive blending of word and image, tune and rhythm that characterises Bhatiyali. The boatmen are both Hindu and Muslim and their songs, though reflecting their distinctive lifestyles, throb with the same emotions of nostalgia and despair.
Like Bhatiyali, Saari Gaan is essentially a collection of river songs. But these are sung during regattas when rows of boatmen need to ply their oars in synchrony to attain maximum speed. In fact, whenever a group of men or women try to accomplish a physically demanding task – be it weeding a field, threshing paddy, washing jute or rowing a boat — they tend to chant or sing to give a rhythm to their movements and to relieve the tedium of the work. In that sense all the songs sung collectively by the labouring class comes under the category of Saari Gaan – saari meaning row or line. But Saari Gaan, like Bhatiyali, is linked in the minds of Bengalis primarily with the movement of a boat – quick and rhythmic in Saari; slow and languorous in Bhatiyali. The other, more fundamental difference between the two is that Bhatiyali is sung in a single voice—Saari in a chorus of voices.
Boat races are organised, and Saari Gaan sung, extensively in Rajshahi, Dinajpur, Dhaka, Mymensingh and Barisal, on both Hindu and Muslim festivals such as Sravan Sankranti, Bijoya Doushami, Eid ul fitr and Eid ul zuha. They have a wide range of themes. The songs sung before the starting of the race are usually paens of praise to the deities with the idea of invoking their blessings. After the boats set sail, the singing becomes loud and clamorous and is accompanied by the beating of drums and the clanging of metal plates. These songs are loaded with comic jibes, contempt and invective for the rival group. Sometimes the main singer is seen dancing on the boat to the rhythm of the oars.
On the return journey, the mood changes. The singing becomes somber and pensive; the language thoughtful and imbued with philosophy.
Bhavaiyya is essentially a wonderfully lyrical love song expressing the full range of emotions that sway the heart of a woman in love. Sung mainly in Rangpur, Cooch Bihar Assam and Jalpaiguri, Bhavaiyya describes the rapture of union and surrender and the anguish of parting and loss. But, somewhere down the line, the fate of the abandoned woman is fused with the tragic destiny of the mahout—the dangers he faces as he guides his elephant through impenetrable forests. These songs are also known as Goalparar gaan—after a forest of Assam where, presumably they had their origin.
Jhumur is the name given to a style of folk music common to many parts of India such as Bengal, Bihar, Madhya Pradesh and Gujarat. The language differs from region to region, but the tune and style of singing is more or less similar. The bordering areas of all these states, being hilly terrain covered with forests, are inhabited by adivasis of whom the ones in Bengal and Bihar are santhal. Santhali Jhumur having come under the influence of Bengali folk and classical traditions, has evolved into something different in terms of form, tune, language and expression.
Santhali performance in spring
Santhali Jhumur is made up of three-line verses. The singing is accompanied by dancing and the playing of musical instruments like the madol (a kind of drum) and banshi (flute) The themes are mostly those that pertain to everyday adivasi life – such as the agony of a girl whose father, lured by a large bride price, marries her off to a man from a distant village or the aspirations of a vivacious lass who wishes to dress and walk as gracefully and elegantly as the women of the city.
But soon the girl’s flirtatious charm is revealed for what it really is– a thin veneer. Her real self is laid bare in the heart broken lament that follows; of a woman for whom poverty and deprivation are constant companions; whose children die because she cannot feed them.
We now come to the two universally acclaimed traditions of music in Bengal.Keertan and Baul, which while transcending the traditionally religious, and social and community needs and concerns, yet absorb and assimilate them all in the rich fabric of their complex plurality.
Cultural movements such as Bhakti and Sufi, spanning time and territory, entered Bengal in successive waves creating a syncretic culture in which music, poetry and other fine arts were amalgamated. Bhakti and Sufi found their creative expression in several parallel musical forms in Bengal. These forms, though distinct from one another, have some attributes in common. The presence of a mystical fervour which celebrates the unity of God and man and a philosophy of humanism which rejects rigid and stifling religious orthodoxies and stresses the equality of all human beings irrespective of caste, class, race, gender or religion is common inKeertan and Baul.
Keertan, derived from the word keerti or deed, is a form that showcases the attributes and exploits of the gods, humanising them to an extent that makes them part of the everyday lives of ordinary men and women. Keertan is said to have emanated from Sri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu. Vaishnavas believe him to be the eleventh incarnation of Krishna. It is said that Radha wept a hundred years after Krishna’s desertion –- that is his departure from Brindavan to assume the kingship at Mathura. But, as the legend goes, Radha didn’t stop at tears. Her grief and yearning were transmuted into a burning rage in the throes of which she cursed Krishna with another incarnation. He would be born among the common people, she said, bearing his own form but her heart, mind and senses. He would experience for himself the breathless rapture and the excruciating agony of Krishna love. Great God though he was, Krishna could not shake off Radha’s curse. He came down to earth as Nimai of Nadiya. But he didn’t come in his own aspect. The cloud complexioned god took on the hue of a golden lotus, Radha’s hue, becoming Gouranga or He of the Fair Form. The itinerant minstrel sings…
Nimai was Krishna’s natural incarnation in infancy – playfull and mischievous, the bane of his mother Sachi’s life. Then gradually she, whose heart, mind and senses he bore within his body, began asserting herself and he was drawn towards Krishna as a moth is to a flame. In the grip of a divine frenzy that could only be matched by Radha’s for her Madanmohan, Nimai found himself drowning in a sea of Krishna consciousness. He would stop in his tracks whenever he heard the God’s name then, lifting his arms above his head, he would close his eyes and start swaying and pirouetting, chanting …hare Krishna hare Krishna[24]…
This was the origin of Keertan. Naam Keertan (reciting the names of the god) swelled as villagers, both Hindu and Muslim, started veering around Nimai in twos and threes. Then, with the passing years, a large band of devotees was formed and Nimai the wayward and incorrigible was metamorphosed into the great saint and sage Sri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu who preached a religion of humanism and founded the Vaishnava cult.
As the numbers grew, Naam Keertan changed in form and content. Sang Keertan (sang meaning together or in a chorus) added adjectives and descriptive phrases to the names and used drums and cymbals to liven up the singing which became loud and clamorous. The Mahaprabhu often took the lead himself and the rest took up the refrain. Sang Keertan parties moved from village to village in the manner of troubadours disseminating the Mahaprabhu’s message.
From these humble beginnings Keertan passed, by degrees, into the hands of skilled versifiers and came to be known as Padabali Keertan – pad meaning verse. Haridas Thakur, Narottam Thakur, Jnandas Thakur and Raghunandan Thakur were some of the padakartas[25] from whose creative genius Keertan evolved into the intricate, meticulously structured musical form it is today. But though it had its genesis in the Radha Krishna legend, Keertan moved, over the years, towards the Shaivaite tradition imbuing it with its philosophy of humanism and love. Down the river from Nadiya was Halishahar where the great Kali sadhak[26], Ramprasad sang Kali Keertan which humanised the goddess of terror and turned her into a mother whose eyes held oceans of mercy.
Concentrated mostly in Kushthia, Shilaidaha and Sajadpur in East Bengal (now Bangladesh) and Murshidabad and Birbhum in West Bengal, Baul is a folk tradition rooted in the lives of the rural people. Though traces of other influences are seen in Baul gaan its main flow is from two strong sources—Muslim Sufi and Hindu Vaishnav. Hence the equal presence of Hindu and Muslim bauls in the villages of Bengal. Though they dress differently –Muslims wear robes of motley-coloured rags and carry a hookah and chimta[27]and Hindus don saffron and have sandalwood markings on their brows and ektaras[28] in their hands – their message is one and the same. Nurtured by great composers like Lalan Fakir, Duddu Shah, Madan Baul, Gagan Harkara and Fikir chand, Baul songs disseminate a message of harmony between man and man rejecting religious codes like Shariat and Shastras, caste differences, and social conventions and taboos as barriers to a true union with God. But where is one to find God? Gagan Harkara, an unlettered rustic whose livelihood was carrying the post from village to village sang as he went: “Ami kothai pabo tar amar moner manush je re…”[29]
And how does man find this moner manush—the being within himself. Only by freeing himself of all external forms of worship and trusting the flow of his own spirit.
The Baul (the word is derived from bayu –air) moves spontaneously towards God the way air flows in and out of all created things. The term could also be derived from the Arabic bawal meaning mad –in this case, mad with love of God.
Since God is believed to reside within man, the human body is looked upon as the site of the ultimate truth; that which encompasses the entire universe. This tenet of Baul philosophy is known as dehatatwabad—the belief that the soul being pure the body that houses it, together with all its functions, is pure and true. Lalan Fakir expresses this philosophy in a song so complex in idea and image as to be almost abstruse. The body is likened to a cage from which the godhead flits to and fro. The Baul spends a lifetime trying to capture it but the bird remains elusive.
Khachar Bhitor Ochin Pakhi( An unknown Bird in a Cage) Song by Lalan (1772-1890) sung by Kartik Das Baul, a contemporary Baul singer
In such a philosophy there is, one would think, no place for Guruvad[30]. If the godhead you seek resides within you, where is the need for a middleman? Yet, strangely enough, guru, peer, murshid and sain are extolled in Baul lyrics and often take the place of God. Baul philosophy, like a gigantic honeycomb, seems to have a slot for all human needs.
I would like to end this piece, with an account of the life of the greatest of Baul composers Lalan Fakir. Not much is known of him except what has come down to us in the form of anecdotes. Lalan was born in the year 1774 in the village of Bhadara in Nadiya district, to a kayastha family with the surname Kar or, as some academics maintain, Das. He lost his father in infancy and was married while still in his teens. As a young man he went on a pilgrimage to Puri and on the way back was stricken with small-pox. His fellow travellers abandoned him or, as per another account, set his body adrift on the Ganga thinking him dead. He was found, alive but badly pitted and blinded in one eye, by a Muslim woman who nursed him back to health. In this village, he met an itinerant Baul singer named Siraj Sain who became his murshid or mentor. There are frequent references to Siraj Sain in Lalan’s compositions.
Lalon by Jyotindranth Tagore. The poet Tagore and his family brought Lalon’s music to limelight… as much as they could.
At some point Lalan went back to his native village but was not accepted by his family and community because, having lived among Muslims and eaten with them, he had lost caste and was no longer acceptable as a Hindu. Many of Lalan’s songs question this aspect of Hinduism. But Lalan’s rejection is not only of the discriminations practiced by the Hindus. He questions the very basis of the divisive walls created by religion between man and man.
Shocked and hurt by his rejection Lalan renounced his family, community and religion and started keeping company with Siraj Sain. On the latter’s death, Lalan set up an akhra[31]in Chheuria village on the banks of the Gorai River and gradually a band of followers gathered around him. Lalan was an inspired singer and could only sing when the Muse was on him. But being totally illiterate, he could not record what he sang. Thus, many of his songs are lost to us. Later a disciple started writing them down the moment they issued from his lips. And his collection is what we have today. Though he didn’t go through any formal process of conversion or adopt Islamic religious practices, Lalan lived like a Muslim and among Muslims till his death in 1890 at the age of 116. In Lalan’s life and art is seen the confluence of the two greatest religions of this world in its truest and most humane form. He lies buried in Chheuria —a place of pilgrimage for all Bauls of Bengal, Hindu and Muslim.
[21] The fourth day of the five day festival of Durga Puja, the last day of Uma’s stay with her parents and the ninth day of Navratri, the Hindu festival.
[30] A guru is seen as a middleman who will help you reach out to God.
[31] An enclosure where they would live and practice their beliefs
Aruna Chakravartihas been the principal of a prestigious women’s college of Delhi University for ten years. She is also a well-known academic, creative writer and translator with fourteen published books on record. Her novels Jorasanko, Daughters of Jorasanko, The Inheritors, Suralakshmi Villa have sold widely and received rave reviews. The Mendicant Prince and her short story collection, Through a Looking Glass, are her most recent books. She has also received awards such as the Vaitalik Award, Sahitya Akademi Award and Sarat Puraskar for her translations.
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Translations bridge borders, bring diverse cultures to our doorstep. But here is a translation of a man, who congealed diversity into his very being — Syed Mujtaba Ali (1904-1974), a student of Tagore, who lived by his convictions and wit. Like his guru, Mujtaba Ali, was a well-travelled polyglot, who till a few years ago was popular only among Bengali readers with his wide plethora of literary gems that can never be boxed into genres precisely. People were wary of translating his witty but touching renditions of various aspects of life, including travel and history from a refreshing perspective, till Nazes Afroz, a former BBC editor, took it up. His debut translation Mujtaba Ali’s Deshe Bideshe as In a Land Far from Home: A Bengali in Afghanistan in 2015 was outstanding enough to be nominated for the Crossword Prize. Recently, he has translated another book by Mujtaba Ali, Tales of a Voyager (Joley Dangay[1]), a book that takes us back a hundred years in time — a travelogue about a sea voyage to Egypt and travel within.
This narrative almost evokes a flavour of Egypt as depicted by Agatha Christie’s Death on the Nile (1937) or The Mummy (film, set in 1932), simply because it is set around the same time period. Afroz in his introduction sets the date of Mujtaba Ali’s travels translated here between 1935 and 1939. The book was published in 1955. This book is a treasure not only because it gives a slice of historic perspective but also weaves together diverse cultures with syncretism.
Mujtaba Ali has two young travel companions, Percy and Paul, who despite being British (one of them is on the way to study in Oxford) seem to have a fair knowledge of Indian lore and there is the inimitable Abul Asfia Noor Uddin Muhammad Abdul Karim Siddiqi, who almost misses a train while trying to argue about the discrepancies shown in the time between his Swiss watch and the clock at Cairo. The description is sprinkled with tongue-in-cheek humour.
The voyage starts at Sri Lanka and sails through the Arabian Sea to Africa, where the ship pauses at Djibouti. Here, Mujtaba Ali expands his entourage with the addition of the long-named Abul Asfia, well-described in the blurb as a man who “carried toffees, a gold cigarette case, and other sundry items in his capacious overcoat pocket and who had the answer to all problems though he barely spoke a word ever.” Afroz himself has given an excellent introduction to the writer and the book — almost in the style of Mujtaba Ali himself. This is a necessary addition as it highlights Mujtaba Ali’s perspectives and gives his background to contextualise the relevance of this translation.
Mujtaba Ali’s style is poetic and humorous. It demystifies erudition and touches the heart simultaneously. His ability to laugh at himself is inimitable. He tells us a story about how the giraffe from Africa was introduced to China by a king from Bengal. At the end, he and his companions reflect about the tallness of this tale!
Mujtaba Ali contends: “‘…One of my friends is learning Chinese in order to read Buddhist scriptures in that language. Possibly you know that many of our ancient scriptures were destroyed with the decline of Buddhism in India. But they are still available in Chinese translations. My friend came across this story while searching for Buddhist scriptures. He had it translated and published in Bengali with the copy of the painting in a newspaper. Or else Bengalis would never have known of this because there is no mention of it in our history books or documents in the archives in Bengal.’”
The irony is not lost that Buddha is of Indian origin and yet an Indian has to learn Chinese to read the scriptures. The narrative continues with more dialogues:
“Percy said, ‘But sir, it didn’t sound like history. It [the giraffe’s story] exceeds fiction.’
“I [Mujtaba Ali] replied, ‘Why, brother? There is the saying in your language, ‘Truth is stranger than fiction.’
“And my personal opinion was that if the narrative of an event could not rouse interest in someone more than fiction, then that event had no historical value. Or I would say that the narrator was not a true historian. In our land, most of our historians are such dry bores.”
As Mujtaba Ali’s renditions are colourful – is he a ‘true historian’ by his own definition? Such narratives dot the travelogue, generating curiosity about major issues in a light vein and linking ancient cultures with the commonality of human needs, creating bridges, taking us to another time, finding parallels and making learned, hard concepts comprehensible by the simplicity of his observations.
Similarly, he says of the rose: “The Mughal-Pathan era of India ended a long time ago, but can we say for how long the roses brought by them will continue to give us fragrance?”
Some of his renditions are poetic and beautiful. Mujtaba Ali watches the sunrise by the pyramids and describes it: “Streaks of light were gradually lighting up the liquid darkness. The white parting in the middle of black hair was becoming visible. There was a light daubing of vermillion on that.”
Borrowing from diverse cultures, Mujtaba Ali skilfully weaves the commonality of cultures, customs and countries into his narrative under the umbrella of humanity. Afroz with his journalistic background and a traveller himself, is perhaps the best person to translate this narrative of another traveller from the past. The depth of erudition simplified with humour has been well captured in this translation too. In this interview, Afroz discusses more about the author, his new translation and the relevance of the book in the present context.
Nazes Afroz
You have translated two books by Mujtaba Ali. Is he essentially an essayist? Were there many essayists and travel writers at that point, especially from within Bengal? Where would you place him as a writer in the annals of Bengali literature?
I don’t think that ‘essentially an essayist’ is the right description of Mujtaba Ali. Of course he wrote many essays but his repertoire included novels, short stories, funny anecdotal pieces based on his experiences (in Bangla they are called romyorochona) and stories from his travels, his encounters with extremely interesting people across the globe. He was deeply interested in culinary experiences. So he wrote a lot about food habits, multitude of cuisine and also gave recipes. Hence, it is difficult to box him into one genre of writing. With the publication of his first book, Deshe Bideshe, (serialised in 1948 in Bangla literary magazine Desh and as a book in 1949) he instantly occupied a significant place in Bengali literature.
Syed Mujtaba Ali
His Bangla prose, steeped in effortless and seamless multilingual and multicultural references, swept the discerning readers of Bangla literature off their feet. It was not only the prose that he created but the breadth and depth of subjects his pen touched was unparalleled. No author in Bangla language has been able to write on such a wide range of topics till date.
Coming to the other part of the question about travel writers and essayist in Bengal in early part of the twentieth century: the short answer is, yes there were many. Travel writing has been an important genre in Bangla literature. Bengalis had been travelling – for pilgrimage, for rest and recuperation following illnesses, or just for pleasure since the middle of the nineteenth century, which was the time of Bengal renaissance. Writers who undertook such journeys, wrote about their travels too. So Mujtaba Ali is no exception in that regard. He followed in the footsteps of his predecessors and also his peers.
You have called the book ‘Tales’ of the Voyager — would you say that some of the stories are like tall tales here — perhaps tales to convey an idea or a thought which in itself would be larger than history in explaining the truth of a civilisation, like the tale of the giraffe? Would you see this as a comment on the gap between popular and documented narratives in history and on the different interpretations of history?
Ali was an excellent raconteur. He was also gifted with an almost eidetic memory. This allowed him to learn a dozen languages – some with native proficiency. He was a voracious reader too. So, not only did he read tomes on history and philosophy in many languages across cultures but also he gathered fascinating tales from many corners of the world as he loved storytelling. Whenever opportunities came, he masterfully wove those stories into his writing. Thus the tale of the giraffe’s journey from Africa to China via Bengal found its way in this book as he was narrating stories from the east coast of Africa. There is another thing that makes Ali’s writing attractive. He weaves in fascinating quirky funny stories while discussing something apparently dense and dry. I have not come across many writers who have done that. I don’t know whether to name it as his comment on bridging the gap between popular and documented history. There’s no evidence to prove that he was trying to achieve that as he never mentioned it. We could only conclude that it was a style that he invented and mastered in an effort to engage with his readers.
A writer that came to mind while reading this book of Mujtaba Ali is, one who is really more entertaining than accurate –Marco Polo. We know he lived five centuries before Mujtaba Ali. Mujtaba Ali of course is erudite, a scholar, but he seems to have a similar fire within him, a wanderlust. Do you think he would have been impacted by the writings of Marco Polo? Was wanderlust not a very typical phenomenon that was part of the culture that had evolved in Bengal post the Tagorean renaissance? Did Mujtaba Ali also travel for wanderlust?
Reading Ali’s books, one may think that he had wanderlust in the true sense. It will be correct to assume that he was fidgety; he refused to settle down; he moved jobs; he moved cities and even continents. But to be truly smitten by wanderlust, one has to enjoy the travel, which wasn’t possibly the case for Ali. His son told me that even though he travelled extensively, Ali didn’t enjoy travelling much. There had been many, of his time, who were really smitten by wanderlust — like Rahul Sankrityayan (1893-1963, walked to Tibet twice and wrote only in Hindi), Bimal Mukherjee (1903-1996, a true globetrotter who cycled to London from Kolkata), Umaprasad Mukhopadhyay (1902-1997, who crisscrossed the Himalayas from one end to another), Probodh Kumar Sanyal (1905-1983, his travelogues of the Himalayas), Premankur Atorthi (1890-1964, author of Mahasthobir Jatok) — to name a few. While these authors were inherently bohemian and were drawn towards travelling only for the sake of it, Ali was more of an unsettled soul who travelled with a particular purpose and wrote about his experiences as he had picked up fascinating stories and observed connections between cultures. Because he loved to tell stories and also because he was infused with the idea of internationalism that he inculcated from Tagore, there was no way he could escape but narrating the stories and cultural experienced from his travels.
Tales of a Voyager takes us on a sea voyage to Egypt. Did you travel to Egypt while translating the book? Would you say that the Egypt of those times still resonates in the present day — especially after the 2011 uprising?
Even before his one night stopover in Cairo that he narrated in Tales of a Voyager, Ali had previous experience of Cairo where he spent a year as a post-doctoral scholar in 1933-34 at the Al-Azhar University. So there are many short pieces on Cairo and Egypt by him in his other books. He raved about the café-culture of Cairo and came to the conclusion that Egyptians surpassed the Bengali in terms of adda—hours of the purposeless sessions of chitchat and chinwag. I have been to Cairo at least half a dozen times and realised how acute his observation was. I witnessed in person why Ali mentioned that this was a city that never slept. The cafes and shops were open all night and the streets were full of people with families including children until well past midnight.
Late night, a cafe in Cairo. Photo Courtesy: Nazes Afroz
As expected, the political landscape that you mention in the question, would be completely different between Ali’s time in the 1930s and in 2010 when I started visiting Cairo. When Ali first went to Cairo in 1933, Cairo had just gained full independence from the forty years of British occupation (not as an annexed state but more of a protectorate). So there are some references of the political figures like Sa’ad Zaghloul Pasha[2] in his various writings but the main focus was on its cultures.
When I started travelling to Cairo from 2010, I witnessed some similarities in the cultural traits as elaborated by Ali. But politically by then, Egypt had moved far from where it was in the 1930. It had become an architect of the Non-Aligned Movement in the 1950s. It was the most prosperous country in North Africa and an important leader among the Arab nations. But it was also reeling under the oppression of one party rule and the youth were bubbling to break away from that. This is something we witnessed unfolding from 2011.
What were the challenges you faced while translating this book? Was it easier to handle as it was the second book by the same author?
The main challenge of translating Mujtaba Ali is transposing his unique language steeped in multi-lingual references into English. Also to get his oblique sense of wit and puns from Bangla into another language, which at times, may not have the right words for them. Translating the second book of the same author doesn’t make it easier as the challenges I just mentioned remain for every book.
Tell us what spurs you on to continue translating Mujtaba Ali. Please elaborate.
Syed Mujtaba Ali’s writing had a huge influence on me from my young age. His writing shaped my worldview, planted the seeds of curiosity about many societies, taught me how to make friends in distant lands and start making connections between cultures. So what I’m today is largely due to his writing. As an avid reader of his texts, I felt that it was my duty to introduce him to a wider readership. That’s the motivation of my taking up the translation of Ali. It is also a tribute to a writer who had such an impact on me.
In your introduction you have written of Mujtaba Ali and his writing. What had he written to be put on the Pakistani watchlist in 1950s?
He had penned an essay opposing the imposition of Urdu as Pakistan’s national language on the Bengalis who were in majority in the newly created East Pakistan. He even predicted how the Bengalis would rebel against such a policy, which came true in 1952 in the form of the Language Movement. He wrote this when he was the principal of a government college in Bogura. So he drew wrath of the Pakistani leaders and an arrest warrant was issued against him. That was the time when he left Pakistan and returned to India in 1949.
There also the other difficult personal situation. His wife (married in 1951) who was from Dhaka and was working in the education ministry, continued to live in East Pakistan with their two sons while he lived in India working for the Indian Government. So Pakistanis always thought he was an Indian spy while he was under suspicion in India that he was on the side of Pakistan!
Did Mujtaba Ali participate in the political upheaval between Pakistan and Bangladesh? Please elaborate if possible.
Ali was hugely affected in 1971 because of his personal situation as I just mentioned. I don’t know how deeply he was involved with the liberation war in Bangladesh but he wrote a novel, Tulonaheena (his last novel), against that backdrop – based in Kolkata, Shillong and Agartala and told through the story of a lover couple – Shipra and Kirti. So it is likely that he was involved in some capacity with the war efforts.
Tulonaheen( Incomparable), Syed Mujtaba Ali’s last novel Gurudeb and Santiniketan by Syed Mujtaba AliMore books by Syed Mujtaba Ali
Mujtaba Ali studied in Santiniketan — that would have been in the early days of the university. Would he have been influenced by Tagore himself and the other luminaries who were in Santiniketan at that time? Can you tell us how? And did that impact his work and outlook?
The simple answer is: it was huge. Tagore was the polar star for Mujtaba Ali, which he acknowledged every now and then in his writing. This experience also decided his life’s journey. He imbibed humanism and internationalism as a direct student of Tagore in Santiniketan. He also developed deep apathy towards all sorts of bigotry. So it was not surprising that he would find it very difficult to accept a country that was created on the basis of religion.
Do you find him relevant in the present-day context? Is your writing influenced or inspired by his style?
I feel that his relevance will never fade. His ability to create cultural connection from different corners of the world will continue to fascinate readers for generations. Yes, in this globalised world when information from around the world are at our finger tips with the click of a button but one also needs to learn how to look at those information beyond mere facts and go deep underneath to make a sense. Apart from being fun and entertaining read, I feel his writing is one such training tool to learn how to make cultural connections. This way, if one wants, one can truly become a global citizen.
As for me, my outlook towards the world is massively influenced by Ali’s writing but not my writing style. It’s simply because I’m not a polyglot like him! I’ll not be able to come anywhere close to his style even if I try.
Well, that is for the reader to judge I guess! You have books on Afghanistan. But you do travel with your camera often. Will you write of your own travels at some point — like Mujtaba Ali but in English?
I have only one book on Afghanistan – a cultural guide book that I co-authored with an Afghan friend. I was working on my own book on Afghanistan, which would have capture one decade of Afghan history and interspersed with my own direct experiences of the country between 2002 and 2015. But the research got stalled for lack of funding. I hope to revive it at some point. And, yes I would like to do my own writing from my travels. That’s there in the wish list.
What are your future plans as a journalist, writer and photographer?
Travel more, see the world more, make more friends and photograph more!
Thanks a lot for giving us your time and the wonderful translation.
[1] Literal translation from Bengali, In Water and On Land
[2] 1857-1957, Egyptian revolutionary and statesman
MAGIC
Lo! I saw a magician last night.
A slender silhouette -- almost half-naked.
Was the night at its tricks once again?
Was the frail figure about to pull rabbits out of his hat?
Magicians do have this incorrigible habit of pulling rabbits from hats.
But this magician defied all stereotypes. Where was his hat?
Where the rabbits?
I looked at the calendar, and gasped. It was 16 August 1946.
How bizarre! The stars outside had a fickle glow.
There was chaos, there was confusion. There was hatred.
The graffiti on the mildewed walls screamed:
Direct Action Day!
Piercing the cacophony, a soft, feathery voice
fell on the turbulent crowd.
Not a rabble rousing voice, but a magical one.
“I have come here to serve Hindus and Muslims.”
A hush fell. Louder – louder – louder grew the hush.
Then I saw the half-naked figure walking away.
All alone – but in sync with 'Gurudeb's words
'Ekla chalo Re*’.
But lo and behold! There was more magic!
The pages of the calendar fluttered in the breeze.
With great ardour, swayed the trees.
I was amazed; the calendar now showed the year 2023.
I peeped through the window.
Birds perched on bowers were singing, impromptu songs.
The folds of their yellow-green-blue-wings hid musical notes.
Then I again saw the half-naked figure.
Walking alone, but in sync with 'Gurudeb's words,
'Ekla chalo Re,' ringing in his ears.
But lo and behold! There was more magic!
The One Man Army was no longer alone.
The trickle had become a deluge.
Music poured from every tree.
A multi-layered song was being sung in every tone,
every tenor, every pitch, pouring love melodies.
The sun of a new morn smiled from above.
The heady scent of freshly hewn lawn spread in the air.
Megalomaniacs had fallen pathetically silent.
The muted falling of a leaf creating a quiet turbulence.
An invisible drummer was beating his drum.
“Back to nature --Back to peace --Back to love.
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth will make the whole world blind.
Blind-Blind-Blind.”
The surroundings resounded.
The boughs seemed to be swaying to the beat of myriad stringed instruments
Queedle queedle -queedle hoo- ah hoo- hoo- hoo kleek kik ik ik ik .honk honk
koo- ookoo hoooooooo…
Birds sang from every branch-- high pitch – low pitch, contralto cadences,
chirruping notes, and even hoarse, grating rattles and loud caws.
Magic again happened-- creating a soul-- soothing symphony
of eclectic pitches and rhythm.
“He belongs to me, he belongs to you.
He belongs to the man in the street.
He belongs to the coward and the bold.
He belongs to the strong and the effete.
He belongs to the one shivering on the pavement.
He belongs to me, he belongs to you.
"He belongs to the man whimpering under the awning.
Hoping for something good in the coming morning.
He belongs to the bruised and the battered.
And the one with unshed tears and clothes tattered.
"He belongs to the one who lives by his labour.
And even to the one who does not love his neighbor.
The spunky woman bending in ceaseless toil.
And the youngster whose blood is on the boil.
"He belongs to the one with the frown.
He belongs to the white, black and brown.
The one with a swagger in his gait.
The one who suffers viciously at the hands of fate.
"The bird fluttering helplessly in the cage.
The youth struggling with road rage.
Those engrossed in ego tussles
and the one flaunting his muscles.
He belongs to me, he belongs to you.”
With a revolutionary fervor, every leaf was shaking.
A symphony of love and peace was in the making.
The pilgrim was no longer alone
Love had injected every bone.
Faces glimmered with hope -- there was no mistaking.
*Gurudeb means Teacher and refers to Tagore in this case. 'Ekla Cholo Re' (Walk Alone) is a well known song by Tagore.
Santosh Bakaya, PhD, poet, essayist, novelist, biographer, TEDx speaker, has written twenty-three books across different genres, Ballad of Bapu, and Only in Darkness can you see the Stars [Biography of Martin Luther King Jr]. have won international acclaim. What is the Meter of the Dictionary? is her latest solo book of poetry.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Vincent Van Gogh written is different scripts. Courtesy:Creative Commons
The whole world opens up in the realm of ideas that have existed wafting and bridging across time and space. Sometimes they find conduits to come to the fore, even though they find expression in different languages, under varied cultural milieus. One way of connecting these ideas is to translate them into a single language. And that is what many have started to do. Celebrating writers and translators who have connected us with these ideas across boundaries of time and place, we bring to you translated writings in English from twenty eight languages on the International Translation Day, from some of the most iconic thinkers as well as from contemporary voices.
Prose
Tagore’s short story, Aparichita, has been translated from Bengali as The Stranger by Aruna Chakravarti. Click hereto read.
Nadir Ali’s The Kabbadi Player has been translated from Punjabi by Amna Ali. Click here to read.
Kamaleswar Barua’s Uehara by has been translated from Assamese and introduced by Bikash K. Bhattacharya. Click here to read.
S Ramakrishnan’s Muhammad Ali’s Singnature has been S. Ramakrishnan, translated from Tamil by Dr B. Chandramouli. Click here to read.
PF Mathews’Mercy, has been translated from Malayalam by Ram Anantharaman. Click here to read.
Road to Nowhere, an unusual story about a man who heads for suicide, translated from Odiya by the author, Satya Misra. Click here to read.
An excerpt from A Handful of Sesame by Shrinivas Vaidya, translated from Kannada by Maithreyi Karnoor. Click hereto read.
Writings from Pandies’ Cornerhighlight the ongoing struggle against debilitating rigid boundaries drawn by societal norms. Each piece is written in Hindustani and then translated by a volunteer from Pandies’ in English. Clickhere to read.
Rakhamaninov’s Sonata, a short story by Sherzod Artikov, translated from Uzbeki by Nigora Mukhammad. Click hereto read.
Of Days and Seasons, a parable by the eminent Dutch writer, Louis Couperus (1863-1923), translated by Chaitali Sengupta. Click here to read.
The Faithful Wife, a folktale translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click hereto read.
An excerpt from Ramy Al-Asheq’sEver Since I Did Not Die, translated from Arabic by Isis Nusair, edited by Levi Thompson. The author was born in a refugee camp. Click here to read.
Poetry
Two songs byTagore written originally in Brajabuli, a literary language developed essentially for poetry in the sixteenth century, has been translated by Radha Chakravarty. Click here to read.
Rebel or ‘Bidrohi’, Nazrul’s signature poem, ‘Bidrohi‘, translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.
Banlata Sen, Jibananada Das’s iconic poem, translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.
In conversation with Isa Kamari, a celebrated writer from Singapore, with focus on his latest book, Maladies of the Soul. Click here to read.
Translations
A Hunger for Stories, a poem by Quazi Johirul Islam, has been translated by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.
A Hand Mill, a story by Ammina Srinivasaraju, has been translated from Telugu by Johny Takkedasila. Click here to read.
Kiyya and Sadu, a part of this long ballad on the legendary lovers from Balochistan, has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click hereto read.
In Tintin in India, Rhys Hughes traces the allusions to India in these iconic creations of Hergé while commenting on Tintin’s popularity in the subcontinent. Click hereto read.
Meredith Stephens shares the response of some of the Californian community to healing after the 2020 forest fires with a narrative and photographs. Click hereto read.
No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.
‘Moment’ by Margaret Atwood
With an unmanned mission reaching the moon — that moon that was chipped off the Earth’s surface when Theia bashed into the newly evolving planet — many feel mankind is en route to finding alternate biomes and perhaps, a solution to its housing needs. Will we also call moon our ‘Homeland’ and plant flags on it as we do on Earth? Does the Earth — or the moon — really belong to our species. Do we have proprietary rights on these because of lines drawn by powerbrokers who say that the land belongs to them?
These are questions Margaret Atwood addresses in her writings which often fall into a genre called cli-fi. This is gaining in popularity as climate has become uncertain now with changes that are wringing fear in our hearts. Not all fear it. Some refuse to acknowledge it. While this is not a phenomenon that is fully understood by all of us, it’s impact is being experienced by majority of the world — harsh stormy weather, typhoons, warmer temperatures which scorch life and rising water levels that will eventually swallow lands that some regard as their homeland. Despite all these prognostications, wars continue to pollute the air as much as do human practices, including conflicts using weapons. Did ‘climbing a hill’ and ‘planting the flag’ as Atwood suggests, ever give us the rights over land, nature or climate? Do we have a right to pollute it with our lifestyle, trade or wars — all three being human constructs?
In a recent essay, Tom Engelhardt, a writer and an editor, contended, “Vladimir Putin’s greatest crime wasn’t simply against the Ukrainians, but against humanity. It was another way to ensure that the global war of terror would grow fiercer and that the Lahainas of the future would burn more intensely.” And that is true of any war… Chemical and biological weapons impacted the environment in Europe and parts of Afghanistan. Atom bombs polluted not only the cities they were dropped in, but they also wreaked such havoc so that the second generation’s well-being continues impacted by events that took place more than seven decades ago. Yet another nuclear war would destroy the Earth, our planet that is already reeling under the impact of human-induced climate change. Flooding, forest fires and global warming are just the first indications that tell us not only do we need to adapt to living in changed times but also, we need to change our lifestyles, perhaps even turn pacifist to survive in a world evolving into an altered one.
Critiquing the darker trends in our species which leads to disasters is a book by an eminent Singaporean writer, Isa Kamari, called Maladies of the Soul. He too looks for panacea in a world where the basic needs of humans have been satiated and they have moved on towards overindulgence that can lead to redundancy. In a conversation, he tells us how he hopes his writings can help towards making a more hopeful future.
This hope is echoed in the palliative poems of Sanket Mhatre from his book, A City full of Sirens, excerpted and reviewed by Basudhara Roy. Bhaskar Parichha’s review of Samragngi Roy’s The Wizard of Festival Lighting: The Incredible Story of Srid, is a tribute also from a granddaughter to her grandfather celebrating human achievements. Somdatta Mandal’s discussion of fiction based on history, Begum Hazrat Mahal: Warrior Queen of Awadhby Malathi Ramachandran not only reflects the tenacity of a woman’s courage but also explores the historicity of the events. Exploring bits of history and the past with a soupcon of humour is our book excerpt from Syed Mujtaba Ali’s Tales of a Voyager (Joley Dangay[1]), translated from Bengali by Nazes Afroz. Though the narrative of the translation is set about ninety years ago, a little after the times of Hazrat Mahal (1820 –1879), the excerpt is an brilliant introduction to the persona of Tagore’s student, Syed Mujtaba Ali (1904-1974), by a translator who describes him almost with the maestro’s unique style. Perhaps, Afroz’s writing bears these traces as he had earlier translated a legendary work by the same writer, In a Land Far from Home: A Bengali in Afghanistan. Afroz starts with a startling question: “What will you call someone who puts down his profession as ‘quitting job regularly’ while applying for his passport?”
In non-fiction, we have Devraj Singh Kalsi’s funny retelling of his adventures with a barber while Hughes‘ essay on the hugely popular Tintin makes us smile. The patriarchal past is reflected in an essay by G Venkatesh, whereas Suzanne Kamata from Japan talks of women attempting to move out of invisibility. Meredith Stephens and Candice Louisa Daquin both carry on the conversation on climate change. Stephens explores the impact of Californian forest fires with photographs and first-hand narrative. Vela Noble draws solace and strength from nature in Kangaroo Island and shares a beautiful painting with us. Madhulika Vajjhala and Saumya Dwivedi discuss concepts of home.
Two touching tributes along with a poem to recently deceased poet, Jayanta Mahapatra, add to the richness of our oeuvre. Dikshya Samantrai, a researcher on the poet, has bid a touching adieu to him stating, “his legacy will continue to inspire and resonate and Jayanta Mahapatra’s name will forever remain etched in the annals of literature, a testament to the enduring power of the poet’s voice.”
Our translations this time reflect a diverse collection of mainly poetry with one short story by Telugu writer, Ammina Srinivasaraju, translated by Johny Takkedasila. Professor Fakrul Alam has introduced us to an upcoming voice in Bengali poetry, Quazi Johirul Islam. Ihlwha Choi has translated his own poetry from Korean and brought to us a fragment of his own culture. Fazal Baloch has familiarised us with a Balochi ballad based on a love story that is well known in his region, Kiyya and Sadu. Our Tagore translation has attempted to bring to you the poet’s description of early autumn or Sharat in Bengal, a season that starts in September. Sohana Manzoor has painted the scene depicted by Tagore for all of us to visualise. Huge thanks to her for her wonderful artwork, which invariably livens our journal.
Profound thanks to the whole team at Borderless for their support and especially to Hughes and Parichha for helping us source wonderful writings… some of which have not been mentioned here. Pause by our content’s page to savour all of it. And we remain forever beholden to our wonderful contributors without who the journal would not exist and our loyal readers who make our existence relevant. Thank you all.
Autumn expresses itself in Bengal as Sharat (early autumn) and Hemonto (late autumn). The Tagore pantheon of literature has much of seasons in it. This poem, Sharat, was part of his poetry collection Kalpana, published in 1900.
Sharat by Sohana Manzoor.
Autumn
I see your beauteous form
In this autumnal dawn,
Oh! Mother Bengal, your green figure
Is resplendent with radiance.
The river cannot be contained in its bed.
The fields are overflowing with paddy.
Robins chant and koels sing
In your graceful gardens.
Amidst this dawn of sharat,
O Mother, you stand poised.
Mother, the breeze chimes
An auspicious onset —
Grains of new rice crops
Fill homes with festivities.
You have no respite anymore.
Sheafs of paddy move in bulk
Along rural paths wafting
Their perfume in the draft.
Mother, the zephyr sends you
An intimation of the seasonal onset.
The skies paint clouds
to welcome the season.
Dewdrops have sprinkled
Coolness on the green earth.
The flute seems to play a melody that
Wafts through the land, water and air.
Boats come crowding to your doorway
From all directions.
The sky is clear and blue.
The earth, soft and cool.
The breeze starts to chill
Refreshing tired bodies.
Every hut is filled with new hope,
With the advent of new life.
All over, Mother, abound events
Organised by joyous faces.
People grab fistfuls of happiness
From your overflowing granaries.
The breeze rushes with anchals*
Full of new life.
Come, come, wherever you are,
Come running all of you —
Our Mother has opened her granary.
Our grains are overflowing.
Come by boat from the other bank,
Mothers and daughters come.
Who cries in hunger under maternal care?
Come running all of you.
Our mother has opened her granary.
Our grains are overflowing.
Our Mother wears a garland of shefali.
Floral perfumes scent the earth.
White, creamy cirrus clouds
Seem to stud her veil.
Crowned with a golden halo,
Sweet, glorious, green and resplendent,
With feet dressed in blooms,
My mother stands poised.
The whole world smiles at her illuminated
With dewdrops, flowers and crops.
*Anchal is the loose end of a sari
Ujjal Dosanjh, former Minister from Canada and former Premier of British Columbia, discusses his autobiography, Journey After Midnight – A Punjabi Life: From India to Canada, and the need for a world with less borders. Click hereto read.
Professor Fakrul Alam discusses his new book of Tagore translations, Gitabitan: Selected Song-Lyrics of Rabindranath Tagore. Click here to read.
Translations
Tagore’sMusalmanir Galpa(A Muslim Woman’s Story) has been translated from Bengali by Aruna Chakravarti. Clickhere to read.
Masud Khan’s poem,In Another Galaxy, has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click hereto read.
Wakeful Stays the Door, a poem by Munir Momin, has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.
Songs of Freedom: An Ordinary Taleis a narrative by Nandani based on her own experiences, translated from Hindustani by Janees. These narrations highlight the ongoing struggle against debilitating rigid boundaries drawn by societal norms, with the support from organisations like Shaktishalini and Pandies. Click hereto read.
“Other echoes
Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?
Quick, said the bird, find them, find them…”
— TS Eliot, ‘Four Quartets: Burnt Norton’(1936)
Humans have always been dreamers, ideators and adventurers.
Otherwise, could we have come this far? From trees to caves to complex countries and now perhaps, an attempt to reach out towards outer space for an alternative biome as exploring water, in light of the recent disaster of the Titan, is likely to be tougher than we imagined. In our attempt to survive, to live well by creating imagined constructs, some fabrications backfired. Possibly because, as George Orwell observed with such precision in Animal Farm, some perceived themselves as “more equal”. Of course, his was an animal allegory and we are humans. How different are we from our brethren species on this beautiful planet, which can survive even without us? But can humanity survive without Earth? In science fiction, we have even explored that possibility and found home among stars with the Earth becoming uninhabitable for man. However, humanity as it stands of now, continues to need Earth. To live amicably on the planet in harmony with nature and all the species, including our own, we need to reimagine certain constructs which worked for us in the past but seem to have become divisive and destructive at this point.
Ujjal Dosanjh, former Minister in the Canadian cabinet and former Premier of British Columbia, in his autobiography, Journey After Midnight – A Punjabi Life: From India to Canada, talks of regionalism as an alternative to narrow divisive constructs that terrorise and hurt others. He writes in his book: “If humanity isn’t going to drown in the chaos of its own creation, the leading nations of the world will have to create a new world order, which may involve fewer international boundaries.” We have a candid conversation with him about his beliefs and also a powerful excerpt from his autobiography.
An interview with Professor Fakrul Alam takes us into Tagore’s imagined world. He discussed his new book of Tagore translations, Gitabitan: Selected Song-Lyrics of Rabindranath Tagore. He has brought out a collection of 300 songs translated to English. In a bid to emphasise an inclusive world, we also have a translation of Tagore’s ‘Musalmanir Galpa’ (A Muslim Woman’s Story) by Aruna Chakravarti. A transcreation of his poem, called ‘Proshno or Questions’ poses difficult challenges for humanity to move towards a more inclusive world. Our translation by Ihlwha Choi of his own Korean poem to English also touches on his visit to the polymath’s construct in the real world, Santiniketan. All of these centring around Tagore go to commemorate the month in which he breathed his last, August. Professor Alam has also translated a poem from Bengali by Masud Khan that has futuristic overtones and builds on our imagined constructs. From Fazal Baloch we have a Balochi translation of a beautiful, almost a surrealistic poem by Munir Momin.
We travel to Andaman with Mohul Bhowmick and further into Sierra with Meredith Stephens. Ravi Shankar travels back in nostalgia to his hostel and Kathleen Burkinshaw dives into the past — discussing and responding to the media presentation of an event that left her family scarred for life, the atomic holocaust of 1945 in Japan. This was a global event more than seven decades ago that created refugees among the survivors whose homes had been permanently destroyed. Perhaps, their stories are horrific, and heart wrenching like the ones told by those who suffered from the Partition of India and Pakistan, a divide that is celebrated by Independence Days for the two nations based on a legacy of rifts created by the colonials and perpetrated to this day by powerbrokers. Aysha Baqir has written of the wounds suffered by the people with the governance gone awry. Some of the people she writes of would have been refugees and migrants too.
A poignant narrative about refugees who flock to the Greek island of Lesbos by Timothy Jay Smith with photographs by Michael Honegger, both of whom served at the shelters homing the displaced persons, cries out to halt wars and conflicts that displace them. We have multiple narratives of migrants in this issue, with powerful autobiographical stories told by Asad Latif and Suzanne Kamata. Paul Mirabile touches on how humans have adopted islands by borrowing them from seas… rather an unusual approach to migrations. We have an essay on Jane Austen by Deepa Onkar and a centenary tribute to Chittaranjan Das by Bhaskar Parichha.
The theme of migrants is echoed in stories by Farouk Gulsara and Shivani Shrivastav. Young Nandani has given an autobiographical story, translated from Hindustani to English by Janees, in which a migration out of various homes has shredded her family to bits — a narrative tucked in Pandies Corner. Strange twists of the supernatural are woven into fiction by Khayma Balakrishnan and Reeti Jamil.
I would like to give my grateful thanks to our wonderful team at Borderless, especially to Sohana Manzoor for her fabulous artwork. Huge thanks to all our gifted contributors and our loyal readers. Borderless exists today because of all of you are making an attempt to bringing narratives that build bridges, bringing to mind Lennon’s visionary lyrics:
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
Borderless 