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G.S. Sharat Chandra | Graziano Krätli

By Critical Biography No Comments
Cite this Essay

MLA:
Krätli, Graziano. “G. S. Sharat Chandra.” Indian Writing In English Online, 20 June 2022, www.indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/g-s-sharat-chandra/ .

Chicago:
Krätli, Graziano. “G. S. Sharat Chandra.” Indian Writing In English Online. June 20, 2022. www.indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/g-s-sharat-chandra/.

G.S. Sharat Chandra (1935‒2000) was—in his own words—“born to prosperity” in the small village of Nanjangud [Nanjanagudu], in the southern state of Karnataka (Vasudeva and Bahri 9). His father was a criminal lawyer, and this affected his studies and career prospects. After attending law schools in Pune and Bengaluru, he reluctantly entered the legal profession, worked as probation officer in a detention home and trade union representative for tea and coffee plantations, while reading Joyce, D.H. Lawrence, Sartre, Frost, Pound and other modernists, and “secretly planning to leave the country and pursue a literary life” (Vasudeva and Bahri 9). The pressure to follow in his father’s footsteps was strong, but the pull of poetry was stronger, although it would take a New World to gain the upper hand. In 1963 Chandra left India for the United States, officially to pursue advanced degrees in English and law, but secretly hoping for a literary career. There, he first pursued an M.S. in English from the State University of New York at Oswego, then moved to the Osgoode Hall Law School, in Toronto, where he earned an L.L.M. (with a specialisation in labour law) in 1966. Unable to secure a job as a corporate lawyer, after one year of teaching in a law school in Canada, Chandra applied and was admitted to the newly-established International Writing Program at the University of Iowa, eventually transferring to the Program in Creative Writing (commonly known as Iowa Writers’ Workshop), from which he graduated with an M.F.A. in poetry in 1968. Soon after, he joined the faculty at Iowa Wesleyan College (now Iowa Wesleyan University), where he launched the little magazine Kamadhenu; then moved to Washington State University in 1972, and eventually to the University of Missouri‒Kansas City, where he was a Professor of English until his premature death in 2000.

Chandra started writing while a student in India, publishing his first poems in a college magazine and local newspapers, but the content of his first volume of verse, published in Calcutta while he was living in Iowa, already reflects his equal distance from both his native and his adoptive country, while laying the foundations of that “Third Country” that he will build slowly, book after book and poem after poem, over the next three decades. With regard to his first and second country, Chandra’s concern as a poet is not to distance himself from either, but rather to gauge, define, negotiate, and appreciate the underlying distance, and in so doing to understand what this means for his multiple interdependent selves—as a creative writer and academic, son and father, husband and lover, Indian and American, alien and naturalised citizen.

In the case of India, this view from afar focuses on petty politicians and bureaucrats, poverty, superstition and corruption, an entire social system, and forms of belief that are antiquated yet deeply rooted and even effective in their own way. Its bitter realism is often sharpened by sarcasm, but of the type that reveals the ambiguous, dispassionate feelings of the expatriate rather than the immediate, first-hand concerns and frustrations of the resident. However, inside this “nation where death / Is a blessing to the dead and the living”—as he writes in “Matrudesh” (from Bharata Natyam Dancer and Other Poems), one of his earliest and harshest “Indian poems”— family relations and familial affections represent a more private country, one that is much harder to keep at an emotional or intellectual distance. In such cases, remembrance and dream, irony or satire are better suited to overcome the sense of loss that separation—or distance in space or time—always inevitably evoke.

Irony, satire, and sarcasm dominate the poems that trace the expatriate’s or the immigrant’s progress in America (an experience he further explored in his short story collection Sari of the Gods). A men’s room in a filling station evokes a post-scarcity paradise, while a resort in Bermuda offers an illustrative catalog of racial inequality, in which whiteness in its different shades (pink beaches and skin, green waves and golf links) is counterpointed by the monochromatic presence of colored staff:“BLACK SHOESHINE BOY! / Black coach driver / Black pub waiter / Black doorman” (“The Visit”, Bharata Natyam Dancer and Other Poems, 7) . Through his relocations from the Midwest to the Pacific Northwest and back to the Midwest, Chandra navigated and responded to the dispersive enigma of the American Province, a geographically diverse yet culturally and intellectually uniform landscape, as different from India as from New York or Boston, San Francisco, Los Angeles or Chicago. This landscape and its typical locales and characters (bars, gas stations, motels, highways, summer camps, waitresses, young pacifists, partygoers, innocents abroad) represents a ground bass running throughout his poetry, with the occasional recurrence or repetition of emblematic figures or situations stressing the overwhelming identity and banality of the overall picture. An example of this approach is the short poem “At the Bar” (in Bharata Natyam Dancer and Other Poems), which is reprinted (partially) in Aliens (1986) with the title “At a Bar in Tucson”, and then again in Family of Mirrors (1993) as “At an Iowa City Bar”—the location changes from one collection to the other, but the drunk who “hasn’t been as far east as detroit” yet “sits talking about zen / in his cool and detached style” remains the same, and his perdurance reveals a quasi-mythological tenacity of character.

More original and fascinating, perhaps, are the poems in which the anxiety of foreignness and assimilation, and the dilemmas of exile, expatriation and immigration, are expressed in elliptical and imaginative ways, as in two short poems that form a sort of diptych in Bharata Natyam Dancer and Other Poems. In “hand”, a sheet of paper questions the intentions of the author who is about to insert “her” in the typewriter roller:

 

as I put my entire life under

you to be rolled spaced shifted

can i trust you with clear intent

 

are you certain that your inky fingers

will not grapple with me tear me apart?

 

can i be sure while you mark me

all over my white body

that you do not pause to get mad

 

and crush me into a ball?

 

Hints of violence, dominance and submission through mechanical or manual actions suggest a process of acculturation and subjection that operates, regularly and systematically, on a larger, indeed a collective, scale. In the more cheerful, optimistic, and almost cartoonish “2 Questions” (reprinted as “Questions” in April in Nanjagud), the once innocent and vulnerable sheet of paper has been turned into a typed page, “her” virginal white body not grappled by inky fingers but permanently marked by the blackness of inked type. A land has become a country—no longer an open space but a coveted destination—and a stage has been set for the action to take place (in the first half of the poem) and (in the second) for the two interrelated questions to be posed.

If words

Could get up

And walk away

From the page,

Would they

In their blackness

Find a shape?

And you, my dear page,

In your emptiness,

Would you sing?

 

In this case, issues of racial and cultural identity (represented by “blackness” and “shape”, respectively)–immigration, representation, and prosperity–are subtly yet eloquently intertwined. In fact, we could superimpose this poem on the previously quoted “The Visit” (in Bharata Natyam Dancer), and compare the “blackness” of the typed words with the black staff at the Bermuda resort (or with immigrants, aliens or persons of colour in general), and imagine how their disaffection and departure (if they “could get up and walk away”) would result in a significant loss, both quantitative (“in your emptiness”) and qualitative (“would you sing?”), for the impagination of the country.

With Offsprings of Servagna (1975), Chandra approached classical Kannada poetry as a source of inspiration rather than a matter of translation, literal or otherwise. Possibly inspired by A.K. Ramanujan’s Speaking of Śiva, published only two years before, it provides a vivid selection of vacanas (“sayings”), or “poems under the influence” of the 16th-century poet and philosopher Sarvajña, without the scholarly apparatus (and authority) of Ramanujan’s text, or the linguistically and culturally innovative approach showed by Arun Kolatkar, in his rendition of Marathi devotional poetry, or Arvind Krishna Mehrotra, in his versions of Prākrit love poetry and especially in his Songs of Kabir.

Eventually, Chandra’s American life rewarded him with a tenured professorship, a loving family, a house in the suburbs, and a solid reputation as an award-winning internationally published poet. But that is just one side of the picture. On the other, darkening over time, his poetry reflects the various and progressive stages of disillusionment, discontent, estrangement and eventually alienation. From the mid-1970s onward, the word “alien” appears repeatedly—often in combination with concerns about death and dying—in the text and titles of individual poems (“For All Aliens”, “If You Die Alien”, “Aliens”, “An Alien’s Day in Kansas”), as well as in the title of a chapbook consisting almost entirely of “American poems”. The only exception is “The Return of Gandhi”, a cameo portrait of the poet as a lapsed vegetarian who, after a Texan meal of roasted goat kid, “cooked beyond / all animal identity”, has a dream in which “Gandhi crouched inside my stomach / putting the goat back together”. “The Return of Gandhi” returns in the next collection, Immigrants of Loss (1993), where it concludes a brief, middle section of Indian poems. Here, a comparison between “Pavement Sleepers, Calcutta” and previous “poverty poems” such as “Beggar” (from Heirloom, 1982) and especially “Matrudesh” (from Chandra’s first collection), will show how the poet has toned down his approach, turning his accusatory finger to more atmospheric views. Yet India pops up, literally and unexpectedly, early on in the collection (outside the boundary of its dedicated section), in the form of a baby elephant sorting out rejection letters in the poet’s wastepaper basket.

If Chandra’s poetry (but also his correspondence with fellow poets in India) reveals an increasing sense of estrangement and alienation as an expatriate and an “alien”, these feelings further extended to his achievement as a poet, especially one whose popularity and success relied to a significant degree on his belonging to, and identification with, a specific genre or group. The South Asian label, indeed, provided a certain amount of recognition and currency, but in the long run it also nursed the frustrating realisation that an anglophone Indian poet in America is not exactly the same as—or not quite on the same level of—an American poet.

 

Acknowledgements:

I thank Jane Chandra and her Family for additional information and clarifications about G.S. Sharat Chandra’s biography, as well as for granting permission to quote from his work.

 

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Poetry

Bharata Natyam Dancer and Other Poems. Calcutta: Writers Workshop, 1968 & 1975.

Will This Forest. Milwaukee: Morgan Press, 1969.

April in Nanjagud. London: London Magazine Editions, 1971.

Reasons for Staying. Toronto: Coach House Press, 1971.

Once or Twice. Sutton, Surrey: Hippopotamus Press, 1974.

Offsprings of Servagna. Calcutta: Writers Workshop, 1975.

The Ghost of Meaning. Lewiston, Idaho: Confluence Press, 1978.

Heirloom. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1982.

Aliens. Safford, Arizona: Gila Review 6, Fall 1986.

Immigrants of Loss. Frome, Somerset: Hippopotamus Press, 1993.

Family of Mirrors. Kansas City, Missouri: BkMk Press, 1993.

Fiction

Sari of the Gods: Stories. Minneapolis: Coffee House Press, 1998.

 

References

Lawrence, Keith. “G.S. Sharat Chandra”.  Asian-American Poets: A Bio-Bibliographical Critical Sourcebook, edited by Guiyou Huang, Greenwood Press, 2002, pp. 59-69.

Sturr, Robert D. “G.S. Sharat Chandra.”  Asian American Short Story Writers: An A-to-Z Guide, edited by Guiyou Huang, Greenwood Press, 2003, pp. 39-44.

Vasudeva, Mary, and Deepika Bahri. “’Swallowing for Twenty Years / the American Mind and Body’: An Interview with G.S. Sharat Chandra.” Journal of Commonwealth and Postcolonial Studies, vol. 5, no. 1 (Fall 1997), pp.9–17.

Read G.S. Sharat Chandra on IWE Online
The Ghost of TimeHigh Roof

They’ll say, ‘She must be from another country’ | Imtiaz Dharker

By Poetry No Comments

When I can’t comprehend
why they’re burning books
or slashing paintings,
when they can’t bear to look
at god’s own nakedness,
when they ban the film
and gut the seats to stop the play
and I ask why
they just smile and say,
‘She must be
from another country.’

When I speak on the phone
and the vowel sounds are off
when the consonants are hard
and they should be soft,
they’ll catch on at once
they’ll pin it down
they’ll explain it right away
to their own satisfaction,
they’ll cluck their tongues
and say,
‘She must be
from another country.’

When my mouth goes up
instead of down,
when I wear a tablecloth
to go to town,
when they suspect I’m black
or hear I’m gay
they won’t be surprised,
they’ll purse their lips
and say,
‘She must be
from another country.’

When I eat up the olives
and spit out the pits
when I yawn at the opera
in the tragic bits
when I pee in the vineyard
as if it were Bombay,
flaunting my bare ass
covering my face
laughing through my hands
they’ll turn away,
shake their heads quite sadly,
‘She doesn’t know any better,’
they’ll say,
‘She must be
from another country.’

Maybe there is a country
where all of us live,
all of us freaks
who aren’t able to give
our loyalty to fat old fools,
the crooks and thugs
who wear the uniform
that gives them the right
to wave a flag,
puff out their chests,
put their feet on our necks,
and break their own rules.

But from where we are
it doesn’t look like a country,
it’s more like the cracks
that grow between borders
behind their backs.
That’s where I live.
And I’ll be happy to say,
‘I never learned your customs.
I don’t remember your language
or know your ways.
I must be
from another country.’

Imtiaz Dharker. “They’ll say, ‘She must be from another country.'” I Speak for the Devil, Bloodaxe Books, 2001.
Published with permission from Bloodaxe Books. www.bloodaxebooks.com.

Read Imtiaz Dharker on IWE Online

The terrorist at my table
cutlery usually found on a dinner table; juxtaposes the extremity of terrorism that Dharker talks about in the poem,

The terrorist at my table | Imtiaz Dharker

By Poetry No Comments
I slice sentences to turn them into
onions. On this chopping board, they
seem more organised,
as if with a little effort
I could begin
to understand their shape.

 

At my back, the news is the same
as usual. A train
blown up, hostages taken.
Outside, in Pollokshields, the rain.

 

I go upstairs, come down.
I go to the kitchen. When things are in their place,
they look less difficult.
I cut and chop. I don’t need to see,
through onion tears,
my own hand power the knife.

 

Here is the food. I put it on the table.
The tablecloth is fine cutwork,
sent from home. Beneath it, Gaza
is a spreading watermark.

 

Here are the facts, fine
as onion rings.
The same ones can come chopped
or sliced.

 

Shoes, kitchens, onions can be left
behind, but at a price.
Knowledge is something you can choose
to give away,
but giving and taking leave a stain.

 

Who gave the gift of Palestine?

 

Cut this. Chop this,
this delicate thing
haloed in onion skin.

 

Your generosity turns my hands
to knives,
the tablecloth to fire.

 

Outside, on the face of Jerusalem,
I feel the rain.
Imtiaz Dharker. “The terrorist at my table.” The terrorist at my table, Bloodaxe Books, 2006.
Published with permission from Bloodaxe Books. www. bloodaxebooks.com

My Sister’s Bible | S. Joseph | Translated by K.Satchidanandan

By Poetry No Comments

This is what my sister’s Bible has:
a ration-book come loose,
a loan application form,
a card from the cut-throat money-lender,
the notices of feasts
in the church and the temple,
a photograph of my brother’s child,
a paper that says how to knit a baby-cap,
a hundred-rupee note,
an SSLC book.

These are what my sister’s Bible doesn’t have:
preface,
the Old Testament and the New,
maps,
the red cover.

Published with permission from Penguin Random House India.
S. Joseph. “My Sister’s Bible.” Translated by K. Satchidanandan. No Alphabet in Sight, edited by K. Satyanarayana and Susie Tharu, Penguin, 2011, pp. 458-459.

Hoshang Merchant | Bhaskar Lama

By Critical Biography No Comments
Cite this Essay

MLA:
Lama, Bhaskar. “Hoshang Merchant.” Indian Writing In English Online, 30 May 2022, www.indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/hoshang-merchant-bhaskar-lama/ .

Chicago:
Lama, Bhaskar. “Hoshang Merchant.” Indian Writing In English Online. May 3, 2022. www.indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/hoshang-merchant-bhaskar-lama/ .

Hoshang Merchant is a trendsetter in Indian poetry, dealing as he does with themes such as gay love and sexuality, which are unconventional for Indian poetry. He is open about his own sexuality, and much of his work revolves around his life experiences. Over the years, most of his poetry collections have been published by Writers Workshop, Kolkata. His poems cover a wide range of topics and themes: from spirituality to sexuality, life and death. They are about his love and longings, his dedication to the people who impacted his life, his travels and the places he has been in. Besides writing poetry, he has also edited anthologies, of which Yaraana: Gay Writing from India (1999) is best known. As a poet, he is of the opinion that “[a] nation’s history will be written not by its politicians but by its poets” (Forbidden Sex/Texts 121).

Born into a Parsi family in Bombay in 1947, Merchant was educated at St. Xavier’s College there, after which he pursued his MA in English from Occidental College, Los Angeles. He later went to the United States for further studies, acquiring a PhD in English Literature from Purdue University. Having completed his studies, he held a teaching position in Israel, and lived in Tehran and Jerusalem for a few years. Having returned to India, he secured a teaching position in the Department of English at the University of Hyderabad, where he offered courses such as “Gay Literature and Sexual Dissidence” at a time when these topics were the subject of occasional discussion in Indian universities. He taught at the University for more than twenty-five years and superannuated in 2012. He has published more than twenty-five books of poetry, criticism, and autobiographical fiction.

While pursuing his PhD at Purdue, Merchant wished to work on gay writers, but “there were no openly gay writers” (Rao 15). Finally, he decided to work on the author Anaїs Nin (1903-1977), as she was someone who “talked openly” about her sexuality and “her friendship with young gay men” (15). Merchant attributes his skills in poetry to her: “Ana[ї]s Nin also made me a poet—I learnt to write poetry from her, so to speak” (15). Some of Merchant’s poems are dedicated to her, and in some other poems, Anaїs Nin becomes the subject. For instance, in “Anaїs Nin Watches Uday Shankar Dance”, he writes:

It is 1931, the year of the Paris Exposition –

Artaud has just gone mad

Anaїs has just escaped his laudanum stained lips

She is in the front row

She feels wet around the eyes

and between the legs

(My Sunset Marriage 107)

In the Middle East, he witnessed violence, political turbulence, and killings on the streets, which left a significant mark on his mind. Merchant’s early writings are replete with references to the Iranian Revolution. The following poem, “Iran”, is an example:

Memory comes

as wave upon wave

of fire

Washes over me

Burns into my skin

Burnishes the paper I write on

The flagstones I tread on

In alley after alley after alley

Looking for the nursery

Where heroes birth and die

Birth and die

Cradle to grave

(Sufiana poems 28)

The poet shows the intensity of the horror, imprinted for a long time in his memory. In “Iranian Revolution”, he writes:

On TV three black-veiled women wailed

Like the three Fates

In the snow

With empty petrol cans –

All of the world’s petrol below

***

Now they dance in the moonlight

In the snow

All of the world’s petrol below

them

bursts into flame –

Women are the gates of Hell

Women will make the Revolution

The stars foretell

(My Sunset Marriage 152)

The poet shows that women had to bear the brunt of the Revolution – they “[burst] into flame”. He recounts many of these experiences in the collection Yusuf in Memphis (1991), where he also “evokes many traditions of homoerotic writing, including those of Greek love, modernist English poetry and the Persian-Urdu ghazal” (Vanita 349).

Throughout his career, he composed poems on overtly gay themes and sexuality, although the contexts have changed over time. In his collections from the mid-nineties, such as The Home, the Friend and the World (1995), Love’s Permission (1996), The Heart in Hiding (1996), The Birdless Cage (1997), the poems depict love as intersecting with spirituality and myth. For instance, in “Each Gopi Thinks Krishna Bathes with Her”, when Merchant writes, “My friends are all Krishna / One day I shall be Radha”, the male narrator imagines himself as a woman who invokes the myth of Radha and Krishna to sanctify his love for his beloved (My Sunset Marriage 76). Similarly, the blending of spirituality and love is palpable in “Ibadat”, in which Merchant writes: “God is Truth / All Friday we lay in bed / Our cupped hands were raised in prayer/to Love” (My Sunset Marriage 118).

Other poems reflect longing and desire. In “To an Absent Lover / No-one in Particular”, it is interesting to observe the longing of/for an absent lover when in a foreign land:

Milan without you

is like anything without you

tasteless: unsalted food

Wherever I dig

I dig up your history

our history

The history of mankind

Where are you?

(Bellagio Blues 26)

In another poem from Bellagio Blues entitled “Disappointment and Depression”, the poet speaks of being ignored by a lover who is present right before him but does not notice his gestures: “He avoided eye contact / I sank into a great chair / with a big whiskey glass” (17). Merchant writes about the pain entailed in love affairs, either due to unrequited love or the feelings of loneliness and longing.

Merchant candidly writes about his love and fantasy for his male lovers, for instance, in “12/4/1996” he writes:

This is a fever I’m writing

And the alphabet is of fire

of the djinns

My lover born of fire

fears fire

I, a fire-worshipper

douse him with my waters.

(My Sunset Marriage 120)

In “Dance of Siva”, Merchant depicts the act of love for his lover: “In my bed/ He [Siva] and I have become a pillar / kneeling at prayer / Difficult to separate god from supplicant / We have flowed into each other” (My Sunset Marriage 103). While Merchant is able to write about his feelings, he does not fail to mention the hardships that he had to undergo as a homosexual man. In his poem, “I at 19”, he writes that he “longed” to love and “wished to invent a soul”, whereas “The world broke in / Broke my body in two To make me whole” (Bombay, My Bombay 18). These lines depict the terror that homosexuals undergo as they seek to fulfil the aspirations of the heteronormative world, and the punishments that the world inflicts on them.

In Merchant’s poetry and essays, one can also discern the language of an activist. He has posed questions regarding the safety of homosexuals, sexual or otherwise, time and again. He writes in Yaraana, “Why do those who protest rape never talk of gay rape? Why this conspiracy of silence? The passive gay is subjected to the same humiliation while walking down a street as a woman is in India” (xv). He states that “A world is not given / But made” (The Man Who Would Be Queen 158), and one has to assert one’s existence. For instance, in “Marine ‘Conversation’” he writes: “Let us come up for breath because / We were forever immured behind sea-walls” as we cannot keep “confining ourselves from the World” (Bombay, My Bombay 14). Merchant believes that “intellectual freedom is finally inseparable from political freedom” (Yaraana xvii). He writes in “A Parsi: ‘Mea Culpa’” that life provides an option to leave “idle tears” and to live a “Life that survives on blood / Which has no tears” (Bombay, My Bombay 10). Even when Merchant broaches a political issue, he intertwines it with a love affair as he writes in “Dharamsala Canto”: “A 1,000 have died in Orissa in the heat / And I remember my boy” (Sufiana Poems 69). Merchant writes about the death of the poet Agha Shahid Ali, and the plight of Kashmir, equating them in his poem in “Death of a Poet: 1-1-2002”: “my poem shall burn / Shall burn like Kashmir” (Sufiana Poems 108).

Merchant repeatedly speaks of the deaths of his family members and lovers. He writes that he has understood life by observing death– “So I write to make sense of death” (The Man Who Would Be Queen 161). The following excerpt from “The River of the Golden Swimmer” shows the poet’s response to his sister’s death:

Last month

On the last day

At midnight

My sister died:

A neat end to a neat life

When a childhood playmate goes

The whole world goes

But the leaves are full of children…

(Sufiana Poems 8)

Here, Merchant nostalgically remembers his “childhood playmate”, his sister, after losing whom he feels “the whole world goes”. Merchant poignantly writes about her death in other poems as well, like, “My Dying Sister Writes a New Book”, “My Sister Takes a Long Time to Die” and “Poem for My Sister: The Garden Tomb.”

Though Merchant was not very fond of his father as his “father’s house is closed” to him, he writes that his “[d]eath is enormous as our sea” in “Death Poem in Three Parts” (My Sunset Marriage 52). His mother’s death deeply saddened him and he laments her death in “Mother”: “Dead Mother return to me / Tell me, if you know, something I must learn” (Sufiana Poems 84). He believes that his mother played a significant role in making him “complete”. While Merchant writes of the death of his beloved, he reveals the intersection of loss and longing. For instance, in “Death Poem in Three Parts”, he writes:

Every face appears his face to me

Every walk suddenly his to me.

How sweet once his house-water

Now his well seems unwell to me.

Like a slave struggling to be free

He appears bound in bed to me.

At every walk he appears sudden to me.

Only I had clothed my ghost

Now all flesh appears rotten to me…

Every face appears his face to me.

(My Sunset Marriage 52)

Travel is a central theme in Merchant’s poems, and some of his poetry collections are named after places he visited or lived in: Bellagio Blues (2004), Pondicherry Poems (2005), Bombay, My Bombay 1955-2005 (2006), Goa! (2007), and Shillong Suite (2010). Merchant documents a child-like curiosity and fascination for new places in his travel poems. For instance, in “The road to Pondicherry from Madras”, he writes:

I see the Sea

With a child’s eye

Though I have a wizened beard now

I’m still that child

Who longs to cut out his heart at sea…

(Pondicherry Poems 11)

The poet is captivated by small serendipities unfolding before him, and he observes them carefully. In “The Bells of Bellagio”, he writes:

 The bells of Bellagio

They go down and up

Down and up up up up

Ding-dong, sing-song gong

Mechanical sexton: A sex-

-ton goes up and down

up and down

(Bellagio Blues 7)

We note how he aligns the chiming of the bell (implying a religious act/moment) with sex,  and also plays on the word “sex-ton”.

In Merchant’s poems, the poet’s conspicuous presence ensures that the key images and themes revolve around him. For instance, in “An Old Bearded Poet Walks the City”, he writes:

Causing consternation

Among grown bachelors walking their mothers…

Rain clings to his long hair

his rabbit-fur beard.

Who does he think he is? – Leonardo! Durer! Aurobindo! Tagore!

(My Sunset Marriage 183)

The poet makes his own presence and appearance clear with comparisons made to other historical personalities. Even the city (Shillong), ostensibly the subject of the poem, is subsumed under his persona.

It is likely that Merchant undertakes a self-fashioning in order to deal with taboo themes and topics, and the only way he can do so is by connecting them with his life and experiences. In many poems, he orchestrates his love for the beloved, where he is the centrepiece of the poem. Merchant also projects a vulnerable self in love, one who is unacceptable to society, and thus leading to struggle and heartbreak, like in “Broken Love” and “To an Absent Lover/ No-one in Particular”. In “Pyassa/ Thirst” where the poet writes “I became that helpless girl in my bed” (Homage to Jibananda Das 6), and in “Each Gopi Thinks Krishna Bathes with Her” he writes, “One day I shall be Radha” – these lines show the poet’s desire to become a female beloved to his male lovers.

Merchant has also edited anthologies of prose and poetry. His Yaraana: Gay Writing from India (1999), considered the first gay anthology from India, brought him into the limelight. The main focus of the book, which includes some translated pieces, is India’s literary history of homosexuality. Merchant writes that  this book is more than personal: “it is also more than sociological and more than mere academic interest in a queer aspect of culture studies” (xi). Some of the important writings that appear in this volume are those of Ashok Row Kavi, Sultan Padamsee, Mahesh Dattani, R. Raj Rao, and others. A decade later, Merchant expanded the volume to Yaraana: Gay Writing from South Asia (2009). In this volume, the author has included writings of Shyam Selvadurai (an extract from his novel Funny Boy), Agha Shahid Ali, and Iftikhar Naseem, thereby expanding the scope of this volume to South Asia.

His book Forbidden Sex/Texts: New India’s Gay Poets (2009), “attempts to investigate Indian discourse on the ‘love that dares not speak its name’ to propose a historical dis/continuity” (xviii). It is divided into three sections: “Book of the Self – Introduction”, “Book of the World – Introduction”, and “Book of the Soul – Introduction”. In the first section — “Is Homosexuality Indian?”– the author tries to situate homosexuality ––. In the second section, he discusses literature written in different Indian languages, theatre, and films, and examines the theme of homosexuality in them. In the third section, he deals with other authors/poets and their writings, some of who include Sultan Padamsee, Jehangir Bhownagary, Adil Jussawalla, R. Raj Rao, Agha Shahid Ali, Vikram Seth, Suniti Namjoshi, and others. This book is significant as Merchant brings to the forefront the work of people who have played a vital role in bringing societal changes to the understanding of gender and sexuality.

In 2010, Merchant published Indian Homosexuality: Ancient India to Contemporary India, where he writes about the history of homosexuality before and after the arrival of the British in India. The book is divided into four sections: “Ancient India”, “Medieval India”, “Contemporary India: Vernaculars”, and “Contemporary India: Indian Writing in English”. The first section consists of the excerpts taken and paraphrased from ancient texts such as the Mahabharata and the Kama Sutra. In the second section, the author briefly talks about some of the works written during the Mughal rule by poets such as Amir Khusro and Ghalib. The third section consists of folktales and writings in Indian languages. In the fourth section, the author talks about the works of writers such as Sultan Padamsee, Agha Shahid Ali, Vikram Seth, and others. In the opening of the fourth section, Merchant writes on homosexuality in India:

Homosexuality as it is known in the West does not exist in India. Most men are bisexuals. Or, to put it another way, most homosexuals get married due to societal pressures. Some commit suicide. Most adjust to a double life, so do their wives. (103)

In The Man Who Would Be Queen: Autobiographical Fictions (2011), a collection of lyrical essays, Merchant writes about his life, his struggles, and what writing means to him. He calls it  “autobiographical fictions”. Thomas C. Spear writes that in autofiction “national identity intersects with a writer’s struggles for self-definition” (89), as “the individuated figure of autobiography is impossible without the collective” (104). Along these lines, Merchant writes about various factors, places, and people, who contributed, positively and negatively, in making him who he is/becomes. When Merchant talks of his life, the content is embellished with excerpts from authors, thinkers and spiritual/religious texts that inspired him. For instance, one can find numerous extracts from Nietzsche, Proust, Schiller, Han-shan, Auden, Lorca and others, and texts like Plato’s Symposium and The Upanishads.

Merchant  also unpacks the writer’s life in sections such as “How I Write”:

I write my poems on the streets, in buses, while shopping or teaching, in my head….Proust had his cork-lined room; Anaїs Nin her fireproof bunker. It is luxury to say poets write about nature. They do not. They write about culture. (The Man Who Would Be Queen 163)

His latest publications are Paradise isn’t Artificial (2021) and All My Masters: An East-West Encounter (2021).

Kazim Ali writes that Merchant has been treated unjustly by the literary world, and yet has garnered support:

Though he has been overlooked in many contemporary and defining anthologies of Indian Anglophone writing both in India and around the world, he has never lacked for an audience and his devotees have always known and understood deeply his achievement as a poet of the deepest ardour and his impeccable commitment to the craft of poetry. (18)

Other poets such as Pritish Nandy appreciate Merchant’s poems. In a letter to Merchant, Nandy writes, “Some of your poems are very powerful. I like them very much. It is time these poems saw print” (quoted in The Man Who Would Be Queen 101).

Merchant considers himself “India’s intellectual gay” (Forbidden Sex/Texts xix). He writes that the anti-colonialist, postmodernist European heroes Pasolini and Genet are his role models (Secret Writings of Hoshang Merchant 157). He is comfortable in his own skin and refers to himself as “she”, as “both hyper-masculinity and hyper-femininity of Indian society and films repel [him]” (Rao 17). Merchant writes that a guiltless life does not make the literary, and it is the same in the context of gay literature: “[T]o be without guilt is to be totally non-literary. Because gay guilt produces gay literature and it is literature that life imitates. No gay literature in India, no modern Indian gay” (Forbidden Sex/Texts 5). Merchant opines that it is not possible to theorise gay life in India on the lines of Western “Theory”. Instead, he “lives [his] life as an Indian gay in India, write[s] about it and then leave[s] it to NRI’s in the West to theorise about gay lives in India” (Forbidden Sex/Texts xix).

Merchant has left an indelible imprint in Indian English poetry by candidly writing on topics considered taboo, making a space for himself through his remarkably unconventional poems. His writings represent the causes and the concerns of homosexuals, be it his prose or poetry. As his works reveal, he has been very active as a homosexual voice – in writings as well as on the ground – it can be said that Merchant is a pioneering gay activist of India.

 

Acknowledgements:

I would like to thank the reviewer and the coordinators of IWE Online Project for reviewing my write-up and providing feedback/comments.

 

Works Cited:

Ali, Kazim. “Introduction.” My Sunset Marriage, by Hoshang Merchant, Navayana, 2016.

Merchant, Hoshang. Bellagio Blues. Otherwise Books, Spark-India, 2004.

—, Bombay, My Bombay. Writers Workshop, 2006.

—, Forbidden Sex/Texts: New India’s Gay Poets. Routledge, 2009.

—, Goa! Writers Workshop, 2007.

—, The Home, the Friend and the World. Writers Workshop, 1995.

—, Indian Homosexuality: Ancient India to Contemporary India. Allied Publishers Pvt. Ltd., 2010.

—, Love’s Permission. Writers Workshop, 1996.

—, The Man Who Would Be Queen: Autobiographical Fictions. Penguin Books, 2011.

—, My Sunset Marriage. Selected and Introduced by Kazim Ali. Navayana, 2016.

—, Pondicherry Poems. Writers Workshop, 2005.

—, Secret Writings of Hoshang Merchant, edited by Akshaya K. Rath, Oxford UP , 2016.

—, Shillong Suite. Writers Workshop, 2010.

—, Sufiana: Poems. New Delhi: HarperCollins. 2013.

—, editor. Yaraana: Gay Writing from India. Penguin Books, 1999.

—, editor. Yaraana: Gay Writing from South Asia. Penguin Books, 2009.

—, Yusuf in Memphis. Writers Workshop, 1991.

Rao, R. Raj. “An Interview with Hoshang Merchant.” Whistling in the Dark: Twenty-One Queer Interviews, edited by R. Raj Rao and Dibyajyoti Sarma, Sage, 2009, pp. 1-18.

Spear, Thomas C. “Autofiction and National Identity.” Contemporary French and Francophonic Studies, vol. 2, issue 1, 1998, pp. 89-105.

Vanita, Ruth. “Hoshang Merchant: Poems for Vivan (English)”. Same-Sex Love in India: Readings from Literature and History, edited by Ruth Vanita and Saleem Kidwai, Palgrave, 2000, pp. 249-351.

 

PUBLICATIONS BY THE AUTHOR

Poetry

Flower to Flame. Rupa & Co., 1989.

Stone to Fruit. Writers Workshop, 1989.

Yusuf in Memphis. Writers Workshop, 1991.

Hotel Golkonda: Poems 1991. Writers Workshop, 1992.

The Home, the Friend and the World. Writers Workshop, 1995.

Jonah and the Whale. Writers Workshop, 1995.

Love’s Permission. Writers Workshop, 1996.

The Heart in Hiding. Writers Workshop, 1996.

The Birdless Cage. Writers Workshop, 1997.

Talking to the Djinns. Writers Workshop, 1997.

Selected Poems. Writers Workshop, 1999.

Bellagio Blues. Otherwise Books, Spark-India, 2004.

Homage to Jibanananda Das. Aark Arts, 2005.

Pondicherry Poems. Writers Workshop, 2005.

Bombay, My Bombay. Writers Workshop, 2006.

Juvenilia. Writers Workshop, 2006.

Alif/Alpha Poems for Ashfaque. Writers Workshop, 2006.

Goa! Writers Workshop, 2007.

Sufi Tree. New Allied Publishers, 2008.

Shillong Suite. Writers Workshop, 2010.

Collected Works, Volume 1: Hyderabad Quartet. Writers Workshop, 2011.

Collected Works, Volume 2: Jonah Quintet. Writers Workshop, 2012.

Sufiana: Poems. New Delhi: HarperCollins. 2013.

Collected Works, Volume 3: Place/Name: A Sextet. Writers Workshop, 2014.

My Sunset Marriage. Selected and Introduced by Kazim Ali. Navayana, 2016.

Collected Works Volume IV: The Book of Chapbooks. Edited by Akshaya K. Rath. Writers Workshop, 2018.

Paradise isn’t Artificial. Red River, 2021.

 

Anthologies, Edited Books and Others

In-Discretions: Anais Nin. Writers Workshop, 1990.

Yaraana: Gay Writing from India. Penguin Books, 1999. (Edited)

Forbidden Sex/Texts: New India’s Gay Poets. Routledge, 2009.

Yaraana: Gay Writing from South Asia. Penguin Books, 2009. (Edited)

Indian Homosexuality: Ancient India to Contemporary India. Allied Publishers, 2010.

The Man Who Would Be Queen: Autobiographical Fictions. Penguin Books, 2011.

Secret Writings of Hoshang Merchant, edited by Akshaya K. Rath, Oxford UP , 2016.

All My Masters: An East-West Encounter. Queer Ink, 2021.

Read Hoshang Merchant on IWE Online
Lost Love: In RetrospectHouses
An image with a wall depicting scenes from the Bengal Renaissance, a teacher in a Bengali class, a Zamindar, and a shelf of books by various writers from Bengal, surrounded by manacles emanating from a copy of Tagore's Gitanjali.

“Modernity and the Vernacular,” by Amit Chaudhuri

By Non-Fiction 2 Comments
Published with permission of Pan Macmillan through PLSclear.
The texts mentioned in the illustration in the header are as follows (Top to Bottom): Abol Tabol (Nonsense Rhymes), Sukumar Ray; Jalshaghar (The Music Room), Tarasankar Bandopadhyay; Rupashi Bangla (Beautiful Bengal), Jibanananda Das; Samskara, UR Ananthamurthy; Madhushala, Harivansh Rai Bacchan; Hajar Churashir Ma (Mother of 1084), Mahasweta Devi; Tithidore, Buddhadev Bose.

More about Amit Chaudhuri on IWE Online

Critical Biography

Amit Chaudhuri | Somdatta Bhattacharya

By Critical Biography One Comment
Published on 23 May 2022.
Cite this Essay

MLA:
Bhattacharya, Somdatta. “Amit Chaudhuri.” Indian Writing In English Online, 23 May 2022, www.indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/amit-chaudhuri-somdatta-bhattacharya/.

Chicago:
Bhattacharya, Somdatta. “Amit Chaudhuri.” Indian Writing In English Online. May 23, 2022. www.indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/amit-chaudhuri-somdatta-bhattacharya/.

Amit Chaudhuri is an acclaimed Indian author of novels, short stories, poetry and essays. He is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature (RSL), England, held the title of Professor of Contemporary Literature at the University of East Anglia in England and is currently Professor of Creative Writing at Ashoka University in India. Chaudhuri is also an accomplished Hindustani classical vocalist, and a composer and performer in a project that brings together the eclectic strands of raga, blues, and jazz, with a variety of other musical traditions. In 2017 he received the Sangeet Samman from the government of West Bengal for his contribution to Indian classical music. Chaudhuri was born in Calcutta/Kolkata in 1962 and grew up in Bombay/ Mumbai, in India. In Bombay, he attended the Elphinstone College and then moved to England for his undergraduate education. He first studied at the University College, London and for his graduate studies went to the Balliol College, Oxford. His doctoral dissertation was on D.H. Lawrence’s poetry. He was later Creative Arts Fellow at Wolfson College, Oxford and received the Harper Wood Studentship for English Literature and Poetry from St. John’s College, Cambridge. He has been a regular contributor of poetry, fiction and reviews to prestigious publications such as The Guardian, London Review of Books, Times Literary Supplement, The New Yorker, and the Granta magazine. He is the author of seven novels, including, most recently, Friend of My Youth (2017). Among his other published works are collections of short stories, poetry, and essays, as well as the nonfiction work Calcutta: Two Years in the City (2013)a critical study of D. H. Lawrence’s poetry, called D.H. Lawrence and ‘Difference’ (with a preface by Tom Paulin, in 2003), and a unique work that combines elements of memoir and practical and cultural criticism of Indian classical music, Finding the Raga (2021). He has also been the well-appreciated editor of The Picador Book of Modern Indian Literature (2001), which offers a rich selection of works both originally in English and translated to English. He has received the Commonwealth Writers Prize, the Betty Trask Award, the Encore Prize, the Los Angeles Times Book Prize, and the Sahitya Akademi Award, among other accolades. He has also been a judge of the Man Booker International Prize. His music has been regularly featured on radio and television.

FICTION

Chaudhuri’s longer fictional prose, he himself agrees, is influenced by poetry. He began as a poet, and confesses to only “by accident” stepping into the shoes of a novelist, in an interview with Fernando Galván (1999). Alice Truax, in a review, says about Chaudhuri’s novels, that he is “less interested in one particular story than in all the bits and pieces of ordinary life” (The New York Times ). Chaudhuri believes that, “the story would never be a satisfying one, because the writer . . . would be too caught up in jotting down the irrelevances and digressions that make up lives and the life of a city, rather than a good story. . . The ‘real’ story, with its beginning, middle and conclusion, would never be told, because it did not exist” (A Strange and Sublime Address 48-9). Real Time: Stories and Reminiscences (2002), his collection of short stories, explores fictional meditations on the artistic process, and his characters are often poets, writers and artists. The short stories are marked by a terseness of style and bring out the master miniaturist in him.

Chaudhuri’s first novel A Strange and Sublime Address (1991) has a ten-year-old boy protagonist, Sandeep, at the centre. The novel describes his two visits to Calcutta, to his Chhotomama’s (maternal uncle) house, from Bombay, where he lives with his parents. His next novel, Afternoon Raag (1993) is about a young English Literature student at Oxford, torn between two women and two spaces of home (Bombay/Calcutta) and exile (Oxford). Chaudhuri’s third novel, Freedom Song (1998) concerns two related households in Calcutta in 1993, against a backdrop of social, religious and economic unrest. A New World (2000) is the story of Jayojit Chatterjee, an American-Indian academic with a son and a broken marriage. His fifth novel, The Immortals (2009) is a poignant portrayal of the relationship between Shyamji, a classical music teacher and his affluent sixteen-year-old student, Nirmalya. Odysseus Abroad (2014), more a mood piece than a novel, follows the course of a single day in the life of Ananda, an undergraduate student in London and his uncle. Amit Chaudhuri’s seventh novel, Friend of My Youth (2017) is an account of the narrator (also a novelist) Amit Chaudhuri’s visit to Bombay, the city where he grew up.

James Wood, in his The New Yorker review of Odysseus Abroad, talks about the “measured, subtle, light-footed fiction” of Chaudhuri (2021). According to Wood, one of the pleasures of reading Chaudhuri comes from how little he forces on his readers – “there is no obvious plot, no determined design, no faked ‘conflict’ or other drama” (n.p.). It is, as if, his novels can be placed within the tradition of the lyrical novel, with notable predecessors such as Herman Hesse, Andre Gide and Virginia Woolf. Traditional novels are usually associated with storytelling, and a reader expects characters to be involved in action and dialogue in such a genre. On the other hand, lyrical poetry is plotless and suggests the expression of feelings or themes in musical or pictorial pattern. The lyrical novel is a hybrid form, combining essential features from both these genres. Ralph Freedman, in his study of lyrical novels, talks about how it “transcends the causal and temporal movement of narrative within the framework of fiction” (1). In so doing, it often frustrates a reader habituated to more traditional standards of a novel with a plot and character development. The symbolic patterns, borrowed from the lyric, seem “antithetical to the very method on which narrative is built” (Freedman 1). Unlike conventional novels, where the “experiencing self” is separated from the “world the experiences are about” (Freedman 1), Chaudhuri’s protagonists often abandon their traditional roles, substituting perception for action, and self-portrait for an external reality. His novels, thus, have always had the abstract beauty of a lyric novel, a rare combination of narrative and imagery. The narrator of Afternoon Raag is typical of the genre, his mind reacting to the colours in his teacher’s room, the “furniture browns and wallpaper purples and magnolias and greys, the colours that create, in afternoon light or evening shadow, the abidingness of an English interior” (182). His other novels also celebrate the beautiful ordinariness of everyday life and refuse to be tied down by a plotline and a causal/temporal structure. A Strange and Sublime Address has Sandeep, a boy-narrator with a keen eye for the quotidian who describes what he sees and hears on his visits to Calcutta. Chhotomama takes the children out for a walk in the Calcutta lanes, lined by houses giving out “smells of fish and boiled rice” (48). When the family drives through the city, past the bridge in Dhakuria, past Gol Park, past Gariahat, past Rashbehari Avenue, into Chowringhee, and finally to Park Street, Sandeep equates himself with a bird or a fish. Just as a bird or fish could “float in their chosen element”, Sandeep thought driving was the “only human equivalent of floating, of letting one’s legs rest and setting one’s body adrift” (15). The book is the winner of the 1991 Betty Trask Award. Sandeep, the narrator, is perpetually delighted with what Alice Truax in the NYT calls “the enduring allure of everyday” (n.p.). The encounters of the Bombay boy with Calcutta and the Bengali language are symptomatic of contested issues of identity, exile and home that the novel grapples with. But instead of locating these questions in a magic realist framework of a mythical India as Rushdie had earlier done, Chaudhuri places them within the domestic and the familial spaces. The city of Calcutta and his uncle’s home serve as sites of comfort and refuge for Sandeep, with their healing, therapeutic powers. Whereas in Bombay, “alone in the big apartment on the twenty-third floor, he was like Adam in charge of paradise . . . he was too much in the foreground. He hated being in the foreground” (A Strange and Sublime Address 27), in Calcutta, his experiences are cushioned by an extended middle-class family’s presence, with Chhotomama, Shonamama, Chhordimoni and the elderly couple providing a circle of protection. His father is depicted as a busy executive in corporate Bombay, who “never had the time to go anywhere”, while his uncle had more “ordinary” problems of everyday life (7). And yet, Sandeep “deserts” his more affluent parents “shamelessly” to the comforts of the Grand Hotel in Calcutta and spends the “days and nights at the old house with his cousins” (83). Purvi Shah writes about the novelist’s trait of documenting the tensions between the upper middle class and the lower middle class in a city that is witnessing significant economic changes:

Thus, while Chaudhuri examines South Asian history and post-Independence India, he does so not by charting the Independence Movement or by looking directly at partition but rather by presenting contemporary issues stemming from changes in everyday life as a result of economic liberalization and cultural transformation. (33)

In Afternoon Raag, where the rich psychological life and the romantic dilemmas of an international Bengali student at Oxford are explored, the changing landscapes of both Bombay and Calcutta are again captured by the author. While in the lane the narrator lived in, time was measured by “the conclusions and beginnings of phases of domestic routine”, on the main road, “which was only one among a family of such main roads that had joined hands to create Bombay—not the Bombay people lived in, but the one into which people emerged every day from their houses—there were cake-shops, video ‘parlours’, ‘burger-inns’ (221). Where the oldest cottages used to be, apartment buildings with “matchbox-like flats” came up, and Sindhi Hindus moved into predominantly Christian neighbourhoods. Chaudhuri compares the “floating” migrant labour community who worked at these new construction sites of the city with the Oxford student community, bringing along with them “the quality of a faraway time and place in the area” (Afternoon Raag 242). He gently stresses on the multiculturalism and the hybridity of a post-globalised world. Oxford becomes a representative composite city, and is seen through the eyes of an “outsider” Indian student, but Bombay too. On Cowley Road, in East London, the student-narrator encounters pockets of Pakistani and Bangladeshi migrants. In this world of movement and flux, music has a significant role in rooting individuals, in creating a sense of identity, in preserving and transferring cultural memory and in producing a sensuous geography. When the narrator remembers his guru and Sohanlal, in the distant land of Oxford, he claims:

But when a Rajasthani sings Maand, or a Punjabi sings Sindhi Bhairavi, he returns to his homeland, which for him is a certain landscape influenced by seasons, a certain style of dressing and speaking, a web of interrelationships and festive occasions. (Afternoon Raag 258) (emphasis added)

These tensions between home and exile, belonging and non-belonging, come out in Chaudhuri’s fiction in an imagistic, impressionistic Modernist manner. He states though in an interview that he is not interested in “the disintegration of self” common to the modernists, but in the “dispersal of culture from the self into the various sides” (Galván 45). Chaudhuri sees himself as somewhat of an anthropologist, keenly observing the “drift and flow of street life” (Galván 45). In doing so, he presents snapshots of the common rituals and rhythms of daily life in his lean, elegant prose.

And though Chaudhuri is well-known to readers across South Asia, the UK and the United States, reviewers such as Barbara Liss have complained about how difficult it is to relate to his characters who seem to have “drifted into a coma”, and wander through his stories, much like “J. Alfred Prufrocks”. Though “the charms of a plotless book” have little appeal to her, she sees why the exhausting, middle class life in Calcutta may find a representation in the “lethargy” that seems a “permanent condition in Chaudhuri’s fiction”. Liss also points out the absence of detailed female characters in Chaudhuri’s novels, stating that in A New World, “We hear little of Amala, which is too bad because, despite her marital perfidy, she is Chaudhuri’s most likable character” ((Houston (TX) Chronicle).  Jenny Offill, too, agrees this to be Chadhuri’s weakness, with Jayojit’s mother so self-effacing, that she is almost rendered invisible. Offill also suggests in her review that Chaudhuri lacks any semblance of drama or narrative tension in his “strangely static” novels. And though notable predecessors such as Proust, Woolf or Beckett have foregrounded the interior lives of their characters above conventional plots, she is disparaging of Chaudhuri’s plotlessness: “Chaudhuri, however, has done something much more peculiar; he has stripped his book of emotion as well as incident, leaving behind nothing but mechanical gestures and surface pleasantries. The result is a carefully written novel strangely devoid of life” (The Washington Post).

In a Guardian interview with Sophie Harrison, Chaudhuri speaks of how he fits into a tradition, “of giving a great deal of importance to space, of looking at time”, a trait which he thinks is not too valued by most of the contemporary middle class readers of India, who are “obsessed with getting things done, with making things happen” and are far from the daydreaming quality of the poetics of space and time one encounters often in him (Harrison, n.p.). Sumana Roy, in her Los Angeles Review of Books essay on Chaudhuri’s novels, tries to understand the reasons why he is not a popular anthologised novelist:

Eng-Lit pedagogy, historically grounded in seriousness, beginning as it did in England by borrowing professors from departments of divinity and law, continues to be in the service of the nation, the race, the marginalized. Chaudhuri’s writing, on the other hand, is grounded in explorations of the sensuous, the emotional, the affective—it refuses to give any of the old professorial subjects center stage or speak about them in a stentorian voice. (“The Deeply Unserious, Important Work of Amit Chaudhuri”)

And despite this, he retains in his fictional oeuvre a disbelief in the overtly political, and revels in the mundane, the intimate and the slow:

I believe that the arts, and art, and writing, are basically forms of addiction – you go to them again, and you read it again, re-reading. And you’re not re-reading for what the story tells you, for the plot, or illumination. This is not the addiction of what happens next. (Interview with Harrison, 2009)

NON-FICTION

The tenor of Chaudhuri’s non-fiction is less abstruse than that of his fiction. And while his fiction refuses to be easily categorised, because as Sumana Roy puts it in her Mint essay, “he has refused to be subsumed by the postcolonial machine or be an apologist for the state-of-the-nation novel” (“Amit Chaudhuri: The Writer’s Writer”), his non-fiction has a more urgent function of literary activism. It constantly engages with the force of the literary, interrogating the roles of both academia and the publishing industry at a particular moment in history. His doctoral dissertation on D.H. Lawrence’s poetry was published as a monograph titled D.H. Lawrence and ‘Difference’: Postcoloniality and the Poetry of the Present, by Clarendon Press in 2003. The work sees Lawrence as an “outsider” figure, removed from other Modernists and Romantic ancestors, and shows how his poetry interrogates even traditional notions of “Englishness”. The book, for its purposes, uses theoretical paradigms from Derrida and Foucault. Terry Eagleton called the work “genuinely groundbreaking and exciting”, and claimed it to be “probably the single best study of Lawrence’s poetry” (“Anti-Humanism”). It is also one of the first times that a post-colonial writer of Chaudhuri’s generation takes up a major canonical writer such as Lawrence, and scrutinises his difference. Chaudhuri’s first major volume of essays Clearing a Space (2008) brought together essays published earlier in LRB and the Times Literary Supplement. In these essays, his major preoccupation is with the state of (Indian) literature in a post-globalised world. He offers his insights about issues ranging from the post-Rushdie novel to the politics of global publishing, from readership to the language of Indian vernacular writing. In the 2001 anthology The Picador Book of Modern Indian Literature, Chaudhuri expresses his worries about the global hype about Rushdie’s writing style, which likely obscures much that is interesting in vernacular and English writing from India. The anthology has writings from Tagore to C.S. Lakshmi, from Urdu to Kannada, and brings to fore a literary activism that marks much of Chaudhuri’s non-fictional canon. In 2014, Chaudhuri began a series of symposiums on “literary activism” to claim a space for the literary that is neglected both by academic conferences and lit-fests. Unlike writers’ retreats which are oasis-like spaces, these symposia are characterised by interaction and dialogue. In a free-market driven world, where the value of literature has radically changed, and which has been affected by the global publishing industry, Chaudhuri and his collaborators seek to discover a robust new critical discourse, outside exhausted paradigms of celebrity authors and book signings. Ashoka University, India has been supporting these annual symposiums since 2018, giving it a fresh visibility. A collection of essays titled Literary Activism, with contributions from the participants of the first symposium was published in 2017, which grappled with these issues. Also, a website www.literaryactivism.com, edited by Chaudhuri came into existence in 2020. A section of this website is titled “Magazine”, in which new writings and art from new authors and practitioners are uploaded, with the express aim of finding fresh voices from unorthodox locations. The Origins of Dislike (2019) is another book that explores similar concerns, where Chaudhuri dismantles figures of the author, the publisher and the reader and bursts some popular myths connected with the writing and reading of literature at the present moment. Chaudhuri discusses how the literary prize such as the Booker has changed from being judged by a panel of well-known novelists to now by politicians and entertainers. The reckoning force that the market is, has come to define what people read and the how and the why of it. His insights into how global capitalism has come to dictate literary tastes and humanistic values are rooted in a Marxist understanding of the publishing market economy. Chaudhuri has also carried forward his activist strain into architectural and urban conservationist campaigns, bringing to attention the need to extend the idea of “heritage” and to preserve the unique urban houses of Calcutta.

Works Cited

Primary Texts:

Chaudhuri, Amit. Three Novels: A Strange and Sublime Address. Heinemann, 1991.

—. Afternoon Raag. Heinemann, 1993.

—. Freedom Song. Picador, 1998.

Secondary Texts:

Chaudhuri, Amit. “Life Sentences.” Interview by Sophie Harrison. The Guardian, 14 Mar. 2009. www.theguardian.com/books/2009/mar/14/fiction. Accessed 11 Oct. 2021.

Eagleton, Terry. “Anti-Humanism.” London Review of Books, 5 Feb. 2004,  www.lrb.co.uk/the-paper/v26/n03/terry-eagleton/anti-humanism. Accessed 12 Oct. 2021.

Freedman, Ralph. The Lyrical Novel: Studies in Herman Hesse, Andre Gide, and Virginia Woolf. 1963. Princeton UP, 1971.

Galván, Fernando. “On Belonging and Not Belonging: A Conversation with Amit Chaudhuri.Wasafiri: Caribbean, Africa, Asian, and Associated Literatures in English, vol. 30, Autumn 1999, pp. 42-50.

Liss, Barbara. “Chaudhuri Excels at Nonadventure.” Houston (TX) Chronicle, 26 Nov. 2000. www.chron.com/life/article/A-New-World-by-Amit-Chaudhuri-2032148.php. Accessed 11 Oct. 2021.

Offill, Jenny. “Life at a Standstill.” The Washington Post, 4 Jan. 2001. www.washingtonpost.com/archive/lifestyle/2001/01/04/life-at-a-standstill/8ea28fa0-3ec3-49fb-9d4c-f9fb56918f33. Accessed 11 Oct. 2021.

Roy, Sumana. “The Deeply Unserious, Important Work of Amit Chaudhuri.” Los Angeles Review of Books, 16 Feb. 2017. www.lareviewofbooks.org/article/amit-chaudhuri. Accessed 11 Oct. 2021.

—. “Amit Chaudhuri: The Writer’s Writer.” Mint, 17 Sept. 2016. www.livemint.com/Leisure/pbUc5VKjpS8MglzjF9ADIK/Amit-Chaudhuri-The-writers-writer.html. Accessed 11 Oct. 2021.

Shah, Purvi. “Amit Chaudhuri.” South Asian Novelists in English: An A to Z Guide. Ed. Jaina C Sanga. Connecticut: Greenwood Press, 2003.

Truax, Alice. “The Allure of the Everyday.” The New York Times, 28 Mar. 1999. www.archive.nytimes.com/www.nytimes.com/books/99/03/28/reviews/990328.28truaxt.html. Accessed 11 Oct. 2021.

Wood, James. “Circling The Subject.” The New Yorker. 27 Apr. 2015. www.newyorker.com/magazine/2015/05/04/circling-the-subject. Accessed 10 Oct. 2021.

 

Further Readings:

Reviews

Day, John. “Friend of My Youth by Amit Chaudhuri Review—Autofiction Examined”. The Guardian, 30 Aug. 2017. www.theguardian.com/books/2017/aug/30/friend-of-my-youth-amit-chaudhuri-review. Accessed 12 Oct. 2021.

Eder, Richard. “A Life Like Old Postcards.” The New York Times Book Review. 22 Oct. 2000. www.nytimes.com/books/00/10/22/reviews/001022.22ederlt.html. Accessed 12 Oct. 2021.

Haas, Felix. “Amit Chaudhuri’s Autofictive Bombay”. World Literature Today, 24 Jul. 2019. www.worldliteraturetoday.org/blog/book-reviews/amit-chaudhuris-autofictive-bombay-felix-haas. Accessed 12 Oct. 2021.

Interviews

Chaudhuri, Amit. Interview by Anita Sethi. The White Review, March 2013. www.thewhitereview.org/feature/interview-with-amit-chaudhuri. Accessed 12 Oct. 2021.

—. Interview by Lakshmi Krishnan. The Oxonian Review, 27 Apr. 2009. http://www.oxonianreview.org/wp/the-quiet-rebel/. Accessed 12 Oct. 2021.

—. Interview by Sophie Harrison. The Guardian, 14 Mar. 2009. https://www.theguardian.com/books/2009/mar/14/fiction. Accessed 12 Oct. 2021.

—. “Twenty Questions with Amit Chaudhuri.” Interview. The Times Literary Supplement. https://www.the-tls.co.uk/articles/twenty-questions-amit-chaudhuri/. Accessed 12 Oct. 2021.

A portrait of Atul Gawande

Atul Gawande (1965 – ) | Neeraja Sundaram

By Critical Biography No Comments
Published on 20 May 2022.
Cite this Essay

MLA:
Sundaram, Neeraja. “Atul Gawande (1965-).” Indian Writing In English Online, 20 May 2022, https://indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/atul-gawande-1965-neeraja-sundaram/ .

Chicago:
Sundaram, Neeraja. “Atul Gawande (1965-).” Indian Writing In English Online. May 20, 2022. https://indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/atul-gawande-1965-neeraja-sundaram/ .

Atul Gawande poses a stimulating challenge to the biographer. Characterised often by the American media as someone who “wears many hats”, his place in public life is too dynamic to be constrained by labels like “surgeon”, “writer” or “administrator”. Even as he practices surgery at the Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston, Massachusetts, he is credited with teaching at Harvard Medical School and inaugurating centres for research and innovation in medicine. His college and medical training in the late eighties and nineties were punctuated by his work in Al Gore’s Senate and the Clinton administration. His work as a writer began almost simultaneously with his surgical practice in the form of bi-weekly posts for the online magazine Slate in 1996. In a Medscape interview, using a characteristically Gawandesque analogy, he finds common ground between producing a column in a periodical and the routine performance of gall-bladder surgery [i]. Both constitute a process of learning before the acquisition of mastery and like any other craft, are made up of conventions and institutions that uphold these. His research and writing, primarily in the field of public health, would influence healthcare policy during Obama’s presidency and earn him a MacArthur grant in 2006. In 2018, he was invited to serve as the CEO of Haven Healthcare, a not-for-profit venture formed through a partnership between American corporate giants Amazon, Berkshire Hathaway and JP Morgan Chase – a role he has since stepped down from. In November 2020, he was appointed to the Biden Harris Transition COVID-19 advisory board by the then president-elect Joe Biden. For a student of Indian Writing in English, Gawande’s life and work require a rethinking of what constitutes the work of literary production and the role of the author in our time.

Gawande was born in New York in 1965 to Indian parents who both migrated there to practice medicine. His life story is well-chronicled in the manner of any celebrity. A large volume of his own writing offers vivid detail about his life – his surgical practice, being raised by doctor-parents, his political work and productivity hacks among others. His first three books for instance, Complications (2002), Better (2007) and The Checklist Manifesto (2009), all widely reviewed bestsellers in the American media, build on the minutiae of his medical residency and surgical practice: the challenges of being a doctor in the twenty first century, the very personal struggles of being a parent and negotiating the emotional cost of a high-stress, high-stakes profession. Complications compiled some older pieces written for The New Yorker where Gawande joined as a staff writer in the third year of his surgical residency. Most of the pieces in this book illustrate the autobiographical element that characterises Gawande’s short-form journalism. He offers us an insight into his state of mind as a newly minted doctor on the first day of surgical residency in a chapter titled “Education of a Knife”. Here, Gawande is fumbling, anxious, goofy and unable to make diagnoses or perform simple procedures without consulting senior residents and all the while, several cases are assigned to him. The “real work” that is cut out for him though is to appear to patients “like someone who had not just got his medical diploma the week before. Instead, I was determined to be nonchalant, world-weary, the kind of guy who had seen this sort of thing a hundred times before” (8). This unflattering portrait of Gawande as a novice surgeon allows him to speak of broader and more significant questions about the role of the student-in-training in any medical institution. The conundrum, as Gawande identifies it, is that the physician’s learning curve is a necessary part of medical progress but is at odds with patient safety.

Being Mortal is perhaps the most “revealing” of Gawande’s books, chronicling as it does his experiences with providing care for his ageing parents. This book uses a personal tragedy, the death of Gawande’s father and the struggle to ensure good end-of-life care for him, as the impetus for exploring problems and innovations in elder-care. Much like his own short-form pieces, media portraits of Gawande also follow the style reserved for pop icons and inspirational leaders when narrating details about his daily life. A 2007 New York Times piece titled “Atul Gawande Rocks in the OR” describes his (often self-confessed) love for the operating room by offering readers a glimpse of his surgical performance. “On a recent day”, the article reads, suggesting routine occurrence, “when he took out a gallbladder, two thyroids and what was supposed to be a parathyroid gland but maybe wasn’t, the playlist included David Bowie, Arcade Fire, Regina Spektor, Aimee Mann, Bruce Springsteen, Elvis Costello, the Decemberists and the Killers” [ii]. Gawande’s team, comprising an anaesthesiologist, the OR nurse and the medical instruments in-charge, the reporter observes, indulged in head-bobbing, toe-tapping and finger-drumming. This fascinating visual insight into Gawande’s workday, replete with a mention of how a copy of Sylvia Plath’s “The Surgeon at 2 AM” sits by his desk, seeks to transform our notions about doctors as much as writers.

Gawande’s writing career lies at the intersection of several interesting cultural phenomena. The first has to do with the public perception of medical practice and the bearing this has, if at all, on literary ambition and success. While the notion of a celebrity-author and a shrewd management of one’s image and the reading public can be traced back to the nineteenth-century in England and America, the doctor-as-polymath or adored public figure is a late twentieth-century phenomena. In his famous 1818 “Cockney-School Attack” against John Keats’ then recently published poetry, the critic John Gibson Lockhart would sardonically advise it was “a better and wiser thing to be a starved apothecary than a starved poet” [iii]. The review derives great merriment from using medical metaphors to characterise Keats’ lack of poetic talent as an “affliction” and reserves disdain for the idea that a person could be both a surgeon (Keats was a surgeon’s apprentice at the time) and a poet. Another famous instance from later in the nineteenth-century is the public perception of Arthur Conan Doyle, who earned public accolades as a writer rather than as a surgeon. Doyle’s detective stories, historical and political writing would impact the training and practice of English police detectives and earn him a knighthood. Here too, the literary career had little to do with medical training. Chekov too reflects in his letters that the idea of practicing two professions is perceived as unusual, especially those as demanding as literature and medicine. But Chekov writes as a doctor that “literature is my mistress” and that neither profession is harmed by his infidelity. Does Gawande have anything in common with his doctor-writer forebears?

He writes because he is a surgeon, not despite it. Speaking as a resident-in-training in Complications, he confesses to having “a distinctive vantage on medicine” and being “an insider, seeing everything and a part of everything; yet at the same time you see it anew” (xix-xx). The medical practice is Gawande’s occasion to write, and his body of work is a lens to critically appraise the humaneness, efficiency and relevance of medical science and healthcare. Like his literary forebears, Gawande is an innovator with a keen eye on the conventions of form. Speaking of how he became persuaded to start a Twitter account, he says, “All art is defined by constraints” and that working with 140 characters is akin to the constraints posed by the sonnet form to Shakespeare. Gawande’s membership in the writing profession is also cemented by his own vision and practice of the same. He demystifies the writing process by offering insights into his “idea notebooks” and the trial by fire of his early days as a staff writer for the New Yorker. His work for the magazine allowed for the development of a shrewd sensibility about readership, social media and engaging in healthcare debate. Even as we glimpse a great deal of Gawande’s life, the cornerstone of his short-form pieces and books are the stories of others. Some of these are narrated to him first-hand by his patients, others are narrated by colleagues who share the burden of medical firefighting. The heroes in his stories are not always doctors: they come from several unusual locations like the history of science, the medical laboratory and even other industries like finance, hospitality, and aeronautical engineering. Gawande emerges here as a surgeon who understands his profession through and as storytelling. The interpretative frames he applies to the cases featured in his books, the thick detailing of patients’ characters and the close attention to perspective when he presents a colleague’s experiences show us how the doctor’s literary sensibility is no longer an illicit passion occupying a wholly different sphere. Even as a spokesperson for healthcare reform, Gawande asks difficult questions of medical institutions and practitioners, rather than governments. His writing is rooted in and inseparable from medicine all the while demonstrating that the healthcare worker emerges as a new kind of storyteller.

Gawande’s popularity and success as a public figure and writer are also embedded in the unprecedented cultural appetite for the memoir in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. Memoirs that curate an experience of managing and treating illness are an important source of information on the quality of healthcare access and delivery. Other American doctors of Indian origin, of whom Abraham Verghese and Siddhartha Mukherjee deserve notable mention, have also achieved literary fame via their journalistic and fictional writing about the medical profession. While all physician-writers boast a unique style, they essentially contribute to a change in the way problems in healthcare and medicine are discussed in the public sphere. There is, in their writings, an insistence on thickening the stories of people who provide and receive healthcare to ensure a more humane medical practice. This agenda is also what drives the field of Narrative Medicine, inaugurated by Rita Charon in the early 2000s to improve medical education and care. Narrative Medicine as a field mirrors the interdisciplinary training of early practitioners who often held degrees in medicine and the Humanities. Physicians and other healthcare workers, Charon believes, could benefit from the interpretative skills taught by literary studies. “Close reading” as a method is now taught to doctors-in-training, nurses and writers at Columbia University’s Narrative Medicine programme to instill attentiveness to individual contexts in the face of for-profit and dehumanising medical systems. Each patient, doctor and healthcare worker has stories to tell, as Gawande’s writing amply illustrates, and sharpening their interpretative skills makes for a more humane practice.

What sets Gawande apart from the best-selling science writers of our time? Rather than a focus on innovations in a particular branch of science, Gawande’s characteristic mode is the search for patterns across knowledge domains and systems of every kind. Consider this extract from The Checklist Manifesto where he “sees” a version of the checklist as a solution to many operational problems in industries that are seemingly unrelated to medicine:

I came away from Katrina and the Builders with a kind of theory: under conditions of complexity, not only are checklists a help, they are required for success. There must always be room for judgement, but judgement aided – and even enhanced — by procedure.

Having hit on this “theory”, I began to recognise checklists in odd corners everywhere – in the hands of professional football coordinators, say, or on stage sets. (79)

A theory of writing (or writing about theories encompassing domains outside medicine) takes Gawande out of the sphere of popular science writing and into the literary. Moreover, references to interlinkages between various industries that may share similar problems and solutions broaden the scope of his readership. What is compelling about what Gawande writes are the cornerstones of several popular genres: detective fiction, medical thriller, self-help, and productivity to name a few. Several of his pieces begin with high-octane action – a nervous intern about to make a mistake in the operating-theatre, a critically wounded patient wheeled into the emergency room, a young child helicoptered away from the site of a drowning accident. There is also a unique vantage point as we witness the routine occurrences of situations necessitating medical intervention. Gawande permits us a view of the operating theatre, specialty departments, doctor’s meetings, laboratory, morgue, examination room and medical performance management systems along with other normally inaccessible locations through which we follow the individual case. There is also the sudden and thrilling dive into the body of the patient. Recounting a colleague’s memory of attending to a stab wound he writes,

He drew the electrified metal tip of the cautery pen along the fat underneath the skin, parting it in a line from top to bottom, then through the fibrous white sheath of fascia between the abdominal muscles. He pierced his way into the abdominal cavity itself and suddenly an ocean of blood burst out of the patient. (2)

There is evocative character-building and a preservation of voice in his stories even in the face of provocative debates about the effectiveness of technological innovations, traditions or ethics in medical practice. In The Checklist Manifesto, while presenting the Indian polio-eradication campaign as a test case for diligence and relentlessness in medical care, he weaves the following portrait of the first patient identified in a 2003 outbreak of the disease: “The index case was an eleven-month-old boy with thick black hair his mother liked to comb forward so that the bangs rimmed his round face. His family lives in the Southern Indian state of Karnataka, in a village called Upparahalla, along the Tungabhadra River” (16). He rarely recounts a case, a diagnosis or innovative practice without offering a glimpse into lives, homes and texture of voice. Gawande also enjoys a taste for the unique and the macabre best illustrated by his pieces about rare conditions like necrotising fasciitis in “The Case of the Red Leg” or the role of superstition in medicine in “Full Moon Friday the 13th” or the mysteries of physical sensations like “The Itch”. Gawande’s work also informs the popular image of healthcare workers and whets a public taste for medical tales evidenced by the enduring appeal of American medical-themed television series like Dr Kildare (1961 – 1966), Emergency! (1972 – 1977), and more recently, Doogie Houser MD (1989 – 1993), House MD (2004 – 2012), the long-running Grey’s Anatomy (2005 – present) and Dhadkan (2002), Kuch Toh Log Kahenge (2011 – 2013) and Sanjivani (2002 – 2005) in India.

In 2014, Gawande was honoured with the Thomas Lewis prize for Science Writing. The prize, established by the Rockerfeller University recognises the “Scientist as Poet”. A brief description of the Prize’s vision for awardees sums up the unique position Gawande occupies in any history of writing: “[The prize] honors the rare individual who bridges both worlds [scientists and writers]—whose voice and vision can tell us about science’s aesthetic and philosophical dimensions, providing not merely new information but cause for reflection, even revelation”[iv].

 

Further Reading

Gawande, Atul. Being Mortal: Medicine and What Matters in the End. Picador, 2015.

—. Better: A Surgeon’s Notes on Performance. New Delhi: Penguin, 2007. Print.

—. Complications: Notes From the Life of a Young Surgeon. New Delhi: Penguin, 2002. Print.

—. The Checklist Manifesto: How to Get Things Right. New Delhi: Penguin, 2010. Print.

Charon, Rita. Narrative Medicine: Honoring the Stories of Illness. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2006. Print.

Verghese, Abraham. My Own Country: A Doctor’s Story. New York: Vintage Books, 1995. Print.

Pollock, Donald. “Physician Autobiography: Narrative and the Social History of Medicine.” Narrative and the Cultural Construction of Illness and Healing. Ed. Cheryl Mattingly and Linda C. Garro. Berkeley: U of California P, 2000. 108-127. Print.

Mukherjee, Siddhartha. The Emperor of all Maladies: A Biography of Cancer. London: Fourth Estate, 2011. Print.

 

Notes

[i] Topol, Eric J and Atul Gawande (2013), “Atul Gawande on the Secrets of a Puzzle-Filled career”, available at https://www.medscape.com/viewarticle/815241

[ii] Available at https://www.nytimes.com/2007/04/03/books/03atul.html

[iii] Available at http://spenserians.cath.vt.edu/TextRecord.php?textsid=36160

[iv] The Rockefeller University page on the Lewis Thomas prize, available at https://www.rockefeller.edu/lewis-thomas-prize/

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