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Aravind Adiga | Ulka Anjaria

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Cite this Essay

MLA:
Anjaria, Ulka. “Aravind Adiga.” Indian Writing In English Online, 17 April 2023, https://indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/aravind-adiga-ulka-anjaria/ .

Chicago:
Anjaria, Ulka. “Aravind Adiga.” Indian Writing In English Online. April 17, 2023. https://indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/aravind-adiga-ulka-anjaria/ .

“What we Indians want in literature, at least the kind written in English, is not literature at all, but flattery. We want to see ourselves depicted as soulful, sensitive, profound, valorous, wounded, tolerant and funny beings… But the truth is, we are absolutely nothing of that kind… We are animals of the jungle, who will eat our neighbour’s children in five minutes, and our own in ten.”

 —Aravind Adiga, Selection Day (233)

 

 

Aravind Adiga was born in 1974 in Chennai, and completed his schooling and advanced degrees in India, Australia, the United States, and the United Kingdom. He is best known for his novel The White Tiger, which won the Booker Prize in 2008. He is also the author of several short stories as well as three additional novels: Last Man in Tower (2011), Selection Day (2016), and Amnesty (2020).

The White Tiger broke new ground in Indian English fiction for its move away from some of the genre’s common themes and aesthetics. In contrast to the writings of previous Indian winners of the Booker Prize, The White Tiger noticeably eschews pathos and rejects the sensitive and emphatic portrayal of characters from marginalized sections of society as seen in the writings of Rohinton Mistry, and the righteous sense of injustice or anger against the system as seen in Arundhati Roy. Rather, Balram Halwai, The White Tiger’s protagonist, is a ruthless self-promoter, his frustrations at the obstacles put in the path of his social advancement generating a sense of gritty motivation that leads him to become a social climber at all costs. He uses the language of late capitalism to articulate his own aspirations; he is a self-styled “entrepreneur” (1). He is a member of an underclass that does not seek pity or empathy but faces challenges with a hard-nosed pragmatism that is at once cynical and agentive. If some of the most famous Indian novels in English of the 1980s and 1990s reflect a profound disillusionment with the failures of the Indian nation-state, Adiga’s works mark a newer era in the genre, which we might call post-disillusion, when there is nothing of the illusion left at all and so rather than lament its loss the only thing to do is pick up the pieces and stitch together a livable life from them.

The White Tiger is set in a contemporary India that has been stripped of its moral values. Any symbol or model of moral righteousness – Gandhi, Nehru, literary icons, spiritualism, secularism, socialism – is presented in his works through a cynical gaze, upturning conventional morality so that, at its extreme, right is wrong and wrong is right. For instance when Balram walks into a tea shop for his first day at work, he sees the shopkeeper “sitting under a huge portrait of Mahatma Gandhi, and [he] knew already that [he] was going to be in big trouble” (31); the image of Gandhi, which might have once signaled virtue, now represents its opposite. Balram scoffs at the men working in tea shops in rural India who “do [their] job well – with honesty, dedication, and sincerity, the way Gandhi would have done it, no doubt” (43), aware that their hard work will get them nowhere in life. By contrast, Balram claims, “I did my job with near total dishonesty, lack of dedication, and insincerity – and so the tea shop was a profoundly enriching experience” (43), while this is a humorous inversion of conventional ideas of education and enrichment, it is also a perceptive critique of the limitations on social advancement in contemporary India, where if you’re poor or otherwise marginalized, hard work is futile. Instead, Balram “used [his] time at the tea shop… to spy on every customer at every table, and overhear everything they said. [He] decided that this was how [he] would keep [his] education going forward” (43). Balram presents street smarts and cleverness, rather than belief in the virtue of labor, as the only option for social mobility in a profoundly broken system.

Although The White Tiger advances a social critique, there is no hope of reform; patriarchy, capitalism, casteism, greed and selfishness have so completely taken over that the only “hope” (which is in fact a cynical gloss on hope) is to bend these forces to one’s advantage. Thus, victimhood can become agency, even if that agency involves theft and murder. In The White Tiger, Adiga replaces the bleak/fatalistic attitude of an earlier generation of Indian writers in English with a more cynical/pragmatic perspective that is always on the lookout for an opportunity for breaking out of one’s social circumstances but is not at all interested in reforming the whole system. For this reason, The White Tiger has been criticized by some scholars as being neoliberal –celebrating a rags-to-riches, bootstraps narrative rather than offering a concerted critique of structural inequalities. Certainly, there is very little that is Marxist about The White Tiger; there is no class solidarity and the narrative of advancement is not only individualistic but actively anti-collective. This is less a progressive critique of capitalism than a perceptive recognition of a new world order in which the very possibilities for subaltern advancement have already been tainted by half-a-century of corruption that has saturated the very fibers of Indian society.

Indeed, one wonders if these critiques of The White Tiger had some influence in shaping the direction of Adiga’s subsequent novels. In all three, the cynicism is still there, as are characters who have no moral compass and who, like Balram, reject the language of liberalism and act in extremely self-serving and socially destructive ways. However, in contrast to The White Tiger, at the center of each of the three later novels is a protagonist who has a heart and who does his (they are all men) best to resist the forces of the deeply corrupt world around him. While Balram found criminality as the only path forward in a nation of criminals, the protagonists of the other novels try to remain ethical despite the pressures around them.

Last Man in Tower’s Masterji is a former teacher and elderly resident of a Mumbai apartment building targeted by a builder for redevelopment, providing that all owners agree to the deal. The rest of the residents are gradually convinced, but Masterji remains steadfast in his refusal to sell, partly because of the memories of his deceased wife that still pervade his flat. The other residents get impatient as the deadline comes closer, and in a bid to get the deal through, one of them pushes Masterji to his death, off the building terrace. In this novel, the middle-class society is represented as thoroughly amoral and materialistic. Though Masterji, tries to stay true to the values of learning, family, and morality, he is ultimately a victim to it.

Selection Day is also set in a world,among characters,completely warped by violence and greed. Radha and Manju are brothers and cricket prodigies. They live with their unemployed, controlling, and at times violent father who treats them as his property. Manju, the younger brother, is the novel’s protagonist. Not only does he grow up in the shadow of his older brother and gradually outshine him in cricket, earning both Radha’s and his father’s anger, but he also finds himself sexually attracted to a wealthy boy, Javed, who treats him alternatingly with affection and disdain. Selection Day is a cricket novel – a critique of the business of cricket in contemporary India, from match fixing to corporate sponsorships to the recruiting industry. Manju resembles Balram in that he too must make compromises to succeed. But unlike Balram, who murders his boss and never faces the consequences, Manju’s denial of his sexuality and his abandonment of Javed for the sake of his cricketing career prove ultimately hollow. Manju remains a sympathetic character throughout, from his childhood when he is the victim of emotional and physical abuse by his father, through his adolescence and the eponymous selection day, and beyond, into his listless adulthood. Unlike Balram, the novel focalizes its narration through Manju, allowing us to glimpse his hazy memories of his mother who left when he was a child, his love of the television show CSI, his secret dream to work in a morgue rather than be a cricketer, his fear of his brother and his father, and his unarticulated desire for Javed. In the midst of the ruthless world in which he lives, and despite his own flaws, Manju remains profoundly human.

Danny, the protagonist of Adiga’s most recent novel Amnesty, is also a sympathetic character in an unforgiving world. As an undocumented Tamil Sri Lankan having escaped the Civil War and state repression, Danny lives in Sydney when the novel begins and works as a house cleaner. The novel takes place over the course of a single day that begins with Danny learning that a former client named Radha Thomas has been murdered. In a series of flashbacks, we learn more about Danny’s strange relationship with Radha and her extramarital lover, Dr. Prakash, who were both gambling addicts and highly unlikeable people. Additionally, they knew of Danny’s illegal status and were using it to try to control him. Danny immediately suspects Dr. Prakash as Radha’s murderer, having witnessed violent arguments between them, but realizes that turning Dr. Prakash in to the police would require implicating himself – living in Australia illegally – to the authorities. Danny struggles with the decision over the course of the day, calling the police hotline several times but ultimately hanging up. Finally, having realized that Dr. Prakash is planning to murder Radha’s husband next, Danny does the right thing. The last page of the novel is a press release that reports the tip that resulted in the arrest of Dr. Prakash and in preventing the second murder, but also notes that “the person who tipped police off on the hotline confessed during questioning to being illegally present in Australia and is now being processed for deportation to his home country”(217). Danny’s sacrifice of his own happiness – contrary to his repeated mantra, “I am never going back home” (207) – exposes, once again, the immorality of the outside world through the foil of a character who is able to act morally despite it.

These various male protagonists who struggle to make it for themselves under the ruthless logic of late capitalism also demonstrate the ways in which Adiga links masculinity and class. We see this in the scene in The White Tiger where Balram tries to imitate Mr. Ashok, his employer by hiring a blonde prostitute. Balram  is devastated when he discovers that her hair is dyed. The fact that the idiom of Balram’s desire for social and economic mobility is that of sex suggests the deep imbrication of class and sexuality. The portrayal of sexuality is more nuanced in Selection Day, where Manju’s burgeoning understanding of his own queer sexuality makes him the target of homophobic taunts from his father and peers, but – and more importantly – gives him a new perspective on ordinary things that allows him, at times, to detach himself from the world around him. In this novel, queerness is presented not only as a question of desire but also as a kind of secret world of survival that enables Manju to develop a sense of self which  is at times magically distant from the crude material needs, both bodily and financial, of everyone else around him. Indeed, it is only when he turns his back on his own queerness does his life relapse into mediocrity.

Adiga’s interest in questions of masculinity does not really extend to women, and across the four novels there are very few notable women characters. The White Tiger’s Pinki Madam is a morally reprehensible, wealthy NRI who drives drunk one night, ends up killing someone sleeping on the street, and forces Balram to take the blame. In Amnesty Danny has a healthy relationship with Sonja (probably the only living healthy relationship across all Adiga’s fiction), but the main female presence is the murdered Radha Thomas who appears in Danny’s flashbacks as domineering,manipulative, and entirely reflective of the privilege of her elite class. Yet, while all the female characters verge on caricatures, most of the male characters do as well – the vast majority of characters in Adiga’s fictional worlds are reflections of the corruption of the late capitalist order and have little redeeming about them at all.

Adiga also inhabits a new “transmedia” arena marked by a more complex relationship between literature and other forms of media. Arundhati Roy refused to authorize a screen adaptation of The God of Small Things, and while there have been adaptations of earlier Indian novels in English (perhaps most famously Deepa Mehta’s adaptation of Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children and the BBC’s recent miniseries A Suitable Boy), the classic IWE texts of the 1990s have rarely been adapted for the screen. But this changed in the first decades of the 21st century, not only with OTT platforms allowing for a wider distribution of varied types of content, but also because authors started writing with adaptation in mind. This is clear in the works of authors such as Chetan Bhagat and Anuja Chauhan, among others, whose fiction reads as somewhat filmi in its characterization, narrative arc, and at times rapid “cuts” between scenes. Both authors’ books have been made into films. Adiga’s novel Selection Day was similarly released as a series by Netflix in 2018, and three years later the film adaptation of The White Tiger was released on the same platform. As Sangita Gopal reminds us, this is not just a question of unidirectionally adapting fiction into film, but of upturning the idea of an original versus an adaptation; a transmedia project means that a film or television series is not a secondary version of an original fiction but that the book too is a version that might find form in another medium. Adiga’s participation in this arena is part of a new moment in Indian literary production in which the sanctity of the book is replaced by a more lateral proliferation of possible forms.[i]

Unlike many contemporary writers, Adiga is a private person who stays largely out of the public domain. He is not active on social media and has never attended the high-profile Jaipur Literary Festival, despite his popularity and the critical acclaim garnered by his works. In this sense he seems to have avoided the pressures that contemporary writers often face to be political commentators as well as practitioners of their craft. But this reclusiveness does not lend his writings a sense of apartness; rather, his stories are marked by their contemporary quality, their grittiness and their refusal of pity or sentiment. For these reasons, his impact on the field of Indian writing in English will continue to grow.

 

Primary Sources

Adiga, Aravind. The White Tiger. Atlantic Books, 2008.

—. Between the Assassinations. Picador, 2008.

—. Last Man in Tower, Atlantic Books, 2011.

—. Selection Day. Picador, 2016.

—. Amnesty. Scribner, 2020.

Selected Adiga Criticism

Anjaria, Ulka. Reading India Now: Contemporary Formations in Literature and Popular Culture. Temple University Press, 2019.

—. “Realist Hieroglyphics: Aravind Adiga and the New Social Novel.” Modern Fiction Studies, vol. 61, no. 1,2015, pp. 114-137.

Detmers, Ines. “New India? New Metropolis? Reading Aravind Adiga’s The White Tiger as a ‘Condition-of-India Novel.’” Journal of Postcolonial Writing, vol. 47, no. 5,2011,pp. 535-545.

Mendes, Ana Cristina. “Exciting Tales of Exotic Dark India: Aravind Adiga’s The White Tiger.” Journal of Commonwealth Literature, vol. 45, no. 2, 2010, pp. 275-293.

—. and Lisa Lau. “Hospitality and Amnesty: Aravind Adiga’s Narrative of Legal Liminality.” Interventions: International Journal of Postcolonial Studies, 2022, doi: 10.1080/1369801X.2022.2099940

Shingavi, Snehal. “Capitalism, Caste, and Con-Games in Aravind Adiga’s The White Tiger.” Postcolonial Text, vol. 9, no. 3,2014, pp.1-16. https://www.postcolonial.org/index.php/pct/article/view/1837.

Walther, Sundhya. “Fables of the Tiger Economy: Species and Subalternity in Aravind Adiga’s The White Tiger.” Modern Fiction Studies, vol. 60, no. 3, 2014, pp. 579-598.

 

[i] Sangita Gopal, “‘Coming to a Multiplex Near You’: Indian Fiction in English and New Bollywood Cinema,” in A History of the Indian Novel in English, ed. Ulka Anjaria,Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015, pp. 359-372.

Edited by: Sreelakshmy M
Rebels Against the Raj (Cover)

The Spectre of Gandhi | Atul V. Nair

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Cite this Review

MLA:
Nair, Atul V. “The Spectre of Gandhi.” Indian Writing In English Online, 27 Mar 2023, indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/the-spectre-of-gandhi-atul-v-nair/ .

Chicago:
Nair, Atul V. “The Spectre of Gandhi.” Indian Writing In English Online. March 27, 2023. indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/the-spectre-of-gandhi-atul-v-nair/.

Review: Ramachandra Guha. Rebels Against the Raj: Western Fighters for India’s Freedom. Penguin Allen Lane, 2022.

“Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,

Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgement Seat”

Rudyard Kipling, “The Ballad of East and West”

Less than four years after Kipling’s poem first appeared in The Pioneer on 2 December, 1889,[1] the first of Ramachandra Guha’s “rebels” arrived in Tuticorin in South India (7). This was the Irish theosophist and educationist Annie Besant, who in 1917 would go on to become the first woman president of the Indian National Congress. Guha’s latest book Rebels Against the Raj: Western Fighters for India’s Freedom (2022) is an account of seven such individuals who transgressed national boundaries and racial prejudices to identify with and participate in the Indian struggle for independence. It is an eclectic mix of some well- known (like Besant and Madeleine Slade/Mira Behn) and some lesser known (like Philip Spratt and R.R. Keithahn) but equally remarkable individuals that he brings together. Of the seven, four are British (B.G. Horniman, Madeleine Slade, Philip Spratt, and Catherine Heilemann/Sarala Behn), two are Americans (Samuel Stokes, R.R. Keithahn), and Besant the sole Irishwoman, highlighting the diversity within this group of western “rebels”. While Stokes and Keithahn came out to India as Christian missionaries, the former converts to Hinduism (adopting the name Satyanand), much like Philip Spratt’s transformation from a radical Communist to a bitter critic of Communism (and also of the Congress). One of the merits of Guha’s book is that he has successfully captured such shifts in the religious and political convictions of his protagonists.

However, in his prologue, explaining the rationale behind his selection, Guha states that “detention in British India (or externment from British India) is a sine quo non for inclusion here. Imprisonment or banishment signified the depth of their commitment to the cause” (xvii). Imprisonment or banishment as a necessary condition for selection seems rather arbitrary, as does the presumption that it is a faithful measure of their “commitment” to India’s freedom. An acknowledgement of the fairly large number of foreigners in the freedom struggle would have been a plausible justification for focussing on just seven. The issue of selection points to a larger structural limitation of the book. By restricting himself predominantly to the freedom struggle of the first half of the twentieth century, Guha excludes a much older history of the Raj being questioned by the British themselves, as well a series of anti-colonial struggles that punctuated (even defined) the British presence in India: these include the Anglo-Mysore Wars (1767-99), the Vellore Mutiny (1806), the Santhal Rebellion (1855), and the 1857 Uprising, leading up to the final sustained political struggle in the twentieth century of which Guha’s seven “rebels” were participants. The conduct of the East India Company (the predecessor of the Raj) was being intensely scrutinised by the British public as far back as the 1780s during the impeachment proceedings of Warren Hastings, the first Governor General. Throughout the nineteenth and the twentieth centuries, the writings of well-known English authors such as Rudyard Kipling, George Orwell, and Leonard Woolf expressed a sense of discomfort with the Raj (even though none of them actively rebelled against it).[2] Benjamin Guy Horniman, one of Guha’s “rebels” and the editor of the Bombay Chronicle who was deported from India in 1919 for his criticism of the Rowlatt Act, has a forerunner in James Augustus Hicky, the editor of India’s first English newspaper, Hicky’s Bengal Gazette (1780-82), who was arrested for his criticism of Warren Hastings. Further, the active role played by Anglo-Indian journalism in national politics and public affairs can be traced back to the reportage of the 1857 Uprising in the burgeoning mid nineteenth-century English language press in India.[3]

This intellectual tradition of the western critique of the Raj is not treated with sufficient detail in Guha’s rather inadequate prologue. A more comprehensive introduction would have foregrounded this historical background to the exploits of the seven “rebels” in India. Instead, Guha resorts to a biographical method which serves his purpose till the narrative deals with Indian independence. However, in the third and final section titled “Independent Indians”, which is set in independent India, each chapter reads like a disparate account in the absence of the freedom struggle as a grand narrative to unite them.

Guha’s biographical method is often hampered by an over-reliance on the relationship that these western individuals shared with Gandhi. It is as if a close association with Gandhi is (like imprisonment or deportation) a necessary condition to be included in this narrative. While it is inevitable that an account of the Indian freedom struggle will have Gandhi as a protagonist, representing these individuals almost as his satellites (or shadows), seen most clearly in the case of Mira Behn (118-19), does not quite fulfil the extraordinary potential of the book’s central theme: “western fighters for India’s freedom,” which is the subtitle. In the final section, Gandhi remains the figure who unites these biographical accounts, since the freedom struggle is no longer a central concern—so, while Mira Behn was instrumental in the making of Richard Attenborough’s 1982 movie Gandhi (392), Keithahn helped establish a centre for rural education near Dindigul named “Gandhigram” in 1947 (365). Instead of letting the accounts of the seven “rebels” be overshadowed by the towering presence of Gandhi, Guha could have emphasised the connections and the contrasts among them. There are two instances in the book where he achieves this with considerable narrative effect—the first is the contrasting yet equally poignant love stories of Philip Spratt and Seetha (151-59), and that of Mira and Prithvi Singh (239-45); the second is the contrast that Guha draws between the personalities of Mira and Sarala (355). Despite offering parallel histories of seven different individuals, the book suffers from the risk of these biographies being subsumed under the overarching and ubiquitous spectre of Gandhi.

By dedicating this book to Jean Drèze Guha honours someone who is not just one of the world’s leading economists, but also someone who, like the “rebels” in this book, defied national and cultural borders and continues to work resolutely and self-effacingly with the people of rural Jharkhand. Such is Guha’s ability of weaving an engaging narrative around lesser-known figures and making unlikely heroes in the process, much like he did with Palwankar Baloo in A Corner of a Foreign Field (2002), where it was Baloo’s story that shone through despite sharing narrative space with such illustrious contemporaries as Maharaja Ranjitsinhji and B.R. Ambedkar. By relying on archival sources, personal correspondence, and early twentieth century print media, Guha reconstructs the tumultuous and eventful lives of these seven individuals in what is, despite its shortcomings, for the most part an eminently readable narrative.

_______________

Works Cited:

Guha, Ramachandra. A Corner of a Foreign Field: The Indian History of a British Sport. Picador, 2002.

—, India After Gandhi: The History of the World’s Largest Democracy. Picador, 2007.

—, Rebels Against the Raj: Western Fighters for India’s Freedom. Penguin Allen Lane, 2022.

Joshi, Priti. Empire News: The Anglo-Indian Press Writes India. SUNY Press, 2021.

Kipling, Rudyard. “The Ballad of East and West.” The Collected Works of Rudyard Kipling, vol. xxv, AMS Press, 1970, pp. 217-22.

—, “The Man Who Would be King.” The Collected Works of Rudyard Kipling, vol. iii, AMS Press, 1970, pp. 189-233.

Orwell, George. “Shooting an Elephant.” The Collected Essays, Journalism and Letters of George Orwell, vol. i, edited by Sonia Orwell and Ian Angus, Secker and Warburg, 1969, pp. 235-42.

—, “Reflections on Gandhi.” The Collected Essays, Journalism and Letters of George Orwell, vol. iv, edited by Sonia Orwell and Ian Angus, Secker and Warburg, 1969, pp. 463-470.

Woolf, Leonard. Downhill All the Way: An Autobiography of the Years 1919-1939. 1967. The Hogarth Press, 1975.

______________

[1] For a publication history of the poem, see https://www.kiplingsociety.co.uk/readers-guide/rg_eastwest1.htm

[2] Kipling’s short story “The Man Who Would be King” (1888) can very well be read as a cautionary tale against imperial ambitions. Also see Orwell’s “Shooting an Elephant” (1936) and “Reflections on Gandhi” (1949) as well as Woolf’s Downhill All the Way (1967), pp. 223-32. Interestingly, Guha quotes Woolf in an epigraph in India After Gandhi (2007, 3).

[3] See Priti Joshi’s recent book Empire News: The Anglo-Indian Press Writes India (2021).

Atul V. Nair is a PhD student in the Department of English at the University of Hyderabad, and a Project Assistant at IWE Online. He works on Anglo-Indian periodicals of the long nineteenth century.
More Ramachandra Guha on IWE Online
What Gandhi Owed to Tagore

Meena Kandasamy

By Indian Poetry in English: Questions on the 'State' of the 'Art' No Comments
Cite this Essay

MLA:
Kandasamy, Meena. “Indian Poetry in English: Questions on the ‘State’ of the ‘Art’.” Indian Writing In English Online, 20 March 2023, https://indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/meena-kandasamy/

Chicago:
Kandasamy, Meena. “Indian Poetry in English: Questions on the ‘State’ of the ‘Art’.” Indian Writing In English Online. March 20, 2023. https://indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/meena-kandasamy/ .

Q. To quote poet and publisher P. Lal from his questionnaire sent in the 1960s to an earlier generation of Indian English poets: “What are the circumstances that led to your using the English language for the purpose of writing poetry?” And of course, is such a question relevant to today’s poets, several decades after Lal’s query?

Meena Kandasamy: I wrote in English because of a really strange reason. My mother tongue was Tamil, but the closest government school near my home was a Kendriya Vidyalaya. I had two working parents, so they enrolled me there—and I ended up learning Hindi and English. In many ways I resent this happening in my life because I lost the special access to learning my own mother-tongue. So I started writing in English. I do not think that this question is relevant at all—there are a lot of people who are primarily using English as a mother-tongue, as their principal language. So, why not use it for poetry?

 

Q. In addition to poets from the Anglo-American canon, has your poetry been influenced by Indian English poets of an earlier generation (whether the 19th century pioneers like Derozio and Toru Dutt, or early 20th century poets like Tagore and Sarojini Naidu, or those from the post-1947 generation like Nissim Ezekiel, Kamala Das, and A.K. Ramanujan)? Do you consider your poetry a part of this two-hundred-year-old tradition?

M.K.: I have read the works of the 19th and 20th century poets which you mention but I won’t call them my influence. I however do consider Kamala Das a major inspiration and influence. AK Ramanujan is someone I likewise admire, more for his body of translations than for his own work. You are right—I do consider my work as something that belongs to this 200-year-old tradition of Indian writing in English.

 

Q. What are your views on a readership/audience for Indian poetry in English? Does such a thing exist outside English classrooms and literary circles? How much of a consideration is the readership in your poetic process?

M.K.: I do think that there is a readership/audience for Indian poetry in English. I do not think that we can only look at book sales and decide that there’s a negligible audience. Because a lot of people don’t buy books, but read poems online, watch stuff on YouTube, read pdf files and such-like. I do not consider the audience, for me everyone is an audience, even people who do not read English because that poem can reach them eventually through a translation.

 

Q. Do you read, write, or translate poetry in a language other than English? If yes, how does it influence your poetry in English?

M.K.: Yes, I read and translate poetry from Tamil. I also write sometimes, but only for my friend, lover or myself. I’m not yet confident of sharing it with the outside world. I think Tamil as a language and as a literature has been influencing me for a really, really long time.

 

Q. Have you ever taught poetry in a class, at a workshop, or in an informal setting? If yes, which aspects of poetry do you think can be taught?

M.K.: Yes, I’ve taught it in workshops. I too used to feel very anxious—thinking how can poetry be taught. But very fortunately, you often work with students who are poets in some rudimentary form—they are either readers or writers or someone who likes the feel of language, so it is a joy to teach poetry.

 

Q. What are your views on the poetry that appears today on such popular social media platforms such as Facebook and Instagram?

M.K.: I think a lot more people are writing poetry because of the proliferation of social media, and that can only be a good thing.

Meena Kandasamy describes herself as “an anti-caste activist, poet, novelist and translator.” She is the author of poetry collections such as Touch (2006) and Ms. Militancy (2010). She has also written three novels: The Gypsy Goddess (2014), When I Hit You (2017), and Exquisite Cadavers (2019).

Of Journeys and Transformations: The Natural World in Three Novels | Jobeth Ann Warjri

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Cite this Review

MLA:
Warjri, Jobeth Ann. “Of Journeys and Transformations: The Natural World in Three Novels.” Indian Writing In English Online, 13 March 2023, indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/of-journeys-and-transformations-the-natural-world-in-three-novels-jobeth-ann-warjri/ .

Chicago:
Warjri, Jobeth Ann. “Of Journeys and Transformations: The Natural World in Three Novels.” Indian Writing In English Online. March 13, 2023. indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/of-journeys-and-transformations-the-natural-world-in-three-novels-jobeth-ann-warjri/ .

Everything the Light Touches by Janice Pariat, Harper Collins, 2022; Where the Cobbled Path Leads by Avinuo Kire, Penguin Hamish Hamilton, 2022; Spirit Nights by Easterine Kire, Barbican Press, 2022.

2022 was a good year for Northeast Indian Writing in English. The year saw the publication of at least three books that capture the changing contours of where the literature is at in the present. Taking after ecological concerns that have occupied the minds of academics, climate change activists and ecologists, Janice Pariat’s Everything the Light Touches (2022), Avinuo Kire’s Where the Cobbled Path Leads (2022) and Easterine Kire’s Spirit Nights (2022) explore the mysteries of the natural world through the trope of journeys. Whether it is a journey through time as with Pariat or journeys to the spirit world as with Avinuo and Easterine Kire, the journeys effect change in the lives of the people who take them. I begin my review of the books with Everything the Light Touches by Janice Pariat.

~

Everything the Light Touches is an ambitious book in scope, content and form. The novel spans across four centuries, covering four interconnected narratives: that of Carl Linnaeus, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Evie (a botanist) and Shai. Beginning in the twenty-first century with Shai’s story, the novel is about journeys that are three-fold and overlapping—physical journeys, journeys through time and journeys towards self-discovery. Pariat combines these journeys with reflections on historical narrative, indigenous rights, folk practices and environmental concern, creating a truly heteroglossic text.

As with Pariat’s earlier book, Seahorse: A Novel, the protagonists of Everything the Light Touches venture into the unknown in order to find their “place” in the world. There are differences, however, in the way each of the characters approaches her respective journey. Shai is “directionless” and apprehensive about her return to Meghalaya (Pariat 23). Evie is uncertain about where her search for the elusive Diengïeï would take her, an uncertainty that is also compounded by the insecurities she feels about being a particular kind of academic (Pariat 113). But while the characters who are women are beset with these conflicts, the men—Goethe and Linnaeus—suffer no such worries. Goethe and Linnaeus, in Pariat’s novel, represent the white male explorer whose travels around the world leave him in no doubt of his belonging to and mastery of it. Even if mastery over the world is not the intention, as is the case with Goethe, the male characters are self-assured in their pursuit of knowledge. This idea also extends to other white, male characters in the novel such as Mr. Finlay, Evie’s love interest, and the devious Mr. Dossett. It is through such characterisations that Pariat’s research lends validity to the affective lives of her protagonists.

Pariat’s book draws upon a wealth of texts and archival material; among them, Goethe’s The Metamorphosis of Plants, Linnaeus’ Journey to Lapland, Pranay Lal’s Indica: A Deep Natural History of the Indian Subcontinent and Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teachings of Plants. Pariat’s novel has benefitted from her extensive research. The characters, taking after Pariat’s research, reveal their subjectivities accordingly. Pariat uses conversations to communicate the nature of her protagonists to the reader. Goethe is philosophical, Evie speaks like an academic even when she expresses self-doubt in being in a discipline dominated by men, Linnaeus’ poetry (except for the poem “Sestina for the Lost”) is seemingly devoid of feeling and concerned only with classifications and Shai is impressionable and undecided about her “place” in the way that those who have left home (as a fixed place) feel. There is, therefore, historical legitimacy and verisimilitude to Pariat’s characterisation that one does not often find in fiction of this scope. This attention to detail is also observed in Pariat’s description of places. As we travel with Evie from the port of Tilbury in England to Mumbai, for instance, the journey through each port and coastal town is meticulously described as they would have appeared during the nineteenth century. One is reminded, in these instances, of Amitav Ghosh whose research of the trade routes in South and South East Asia formed the backdrop and gave historical legitimacy to places in the Ibis Trilogy. Similarly, Goethe’s journey to Italy is marked by changing topographies and plant life, knowledge of the latter being a central theme in the book.      

     Everything the Light Touches is, most of all, a meditation on epistemology. It is about the process of knowing and how we acquire knowledge. While knowledge of nature is a central theme in the book, how we choose to know the world around us is equally, if not more, important. Nowhere is this more evident than in the fourth section which details Linnaeus’ journey to northern Finland or Lapland. Linnaeus’ method of documenting and classifying the flora in Lapland extends also to how he relates to the people living in the region. Unlike Evie or Goethe, who immerse themselves in the cultures in which they find themselves, Linnaeus views the Laplanders as little more than specimens. He acknowledges that their ways of relating to nature are different from his own, and yet, he makes no attempt to understand the world from their perspective. He is content with not knowing in spite of knowing – an epistemological blind spot, if there ever was one. Linnaeus’ concept of Enlightenment reason is also reflected in the way Evie and her contemporaries are taught botany. The dominant method of classifying plants, espoused by male professors and Professor Ethel Sargant (Pariat 112), leaves Evie feeling disconnected from the natural world she used to enjoy as a child (Pariat113). It is against such masculinist attempts at classifying the natural world that Pariat evinces a “new” approach to the natural environment couched in Goethe’s phenomenological idea of plants as ever evolving and whose uniqueness is contained in the whole (Pariat 199). Unsurprisingly, it is the women who embody this concept.

At the heart of Pariat’s novel is the Khasi folk narrative of the Diengïeï. An apparent physical manifestation of Goethe’s Urpflanze, an “archetypal plant that carried within it all plants of the past, present, and future” (Pariat 305) and “a tree that holds all trees” (Pariat 394), the Diengïeï marks a journey through time. It is this journey, marked by the quest for the archetypal tree, that causes those who seek it to arrive at some form of self-realisation and acceptance. The search for the Diengïeï links Evie’s story to Goethe’s and Shai’s as well as the historical contexts underlying each narrative. The Diengïeï, therefore, binds the ontological to the epistemological, the personal to the historical and the particular to the universal. Its story also connects the narratives in the book to the “original” nomads. When Evie ventures into the remote parts of Assam (now, Meghalaya), she meets the custodians of the Diengïeï, nomads known as the Nongïaïd loosely translated as the people who roam the earth. Themselves outcasts to Khasi society, the Nongïaïd promise Evie knowledge of what she seeks provided she leaves everything that she knows behind (Pariat 402). Like the Diengïeï which she seeks, Evie’s story ultimately passes into legend. If the quest for the Diengïeï is also representative of the quest for knowledge, then Pariat implies that true knowledge is arrived at through the relinquishing of the self. This is also true of Shai, whose narrative differs slightly from those of Goethe, Linnaeus and Evie.

Unlike the other three protagonists in the book, Shai does not actively seek knowledge; and yet, knowledge finds her. At the start, Shai possesses a shaky sense of self and sticks out like a sore thumb in Mawmalang, a village in West Khasi Hills. Her inability to accept the inevitability of death as a part of life constrains her relationship with Oiñ, her nanny. It is only when she understands the true implications of the Diengïeï that she comes to terms with mortality and the cycle of regeneration couched in Goethe’s statement, “All is leaf.” Like Evie, Shai sheds what she knows of herself in order to become what she truly is—a modern-day nomad. The book ends with Shai reconciling herself to Oiñ’s death and a sapling reaching out into the light. What belongs to the earth returns to the earth, a metaphor for the journey we must all undertake.

~

Similar to Everything the Light Touches, Avinuo Kire’s Where the Cobbled Path Leads  has a tree as a central motif. Kijübode, “one of last surviving of the first trees”, guards the portal between the human and the spirit realms (Kire 112). It is through his counsel that the protagonist, Vime, learns to free herself from the spirit world and return to the world of the living.

Where the Cobbled Path Leads draws upon folk narrative, particularly, the Zeme folktale of a boy turning into a hornbill following his ill-treatment at the hands of his stepmother. In Kire’s re-telling of the same folktale, however, the protagonist is a girl who, in being mistreated by her stepmother, yearns to fly. The folktale provides a cultural frame to the grief that Vime feels upon the death of her mother and her apprehension at her father’s remarriage to Khrieliezuono (Khrielie, for short). Although Khrielie is reputed to be a good woman— “good” being, in the eyes of the community, a woman who can keep house—Vime is upset lest Khrielie takes the place of her mother. Like the girl in the folktale, Vime yearns for transfiguration and wants to be with her mother where she feels she truly belongs.

Unable to reconcile with her mother’s death, Vime takes a mysterious cobbled path leading to Kijübode and, from there, enters the spirit realm with the help of a mischievous spirit called Tei. Kire successfully weaves the fantastical with the folkloric in describing Vime’s experience in the spirit world. Apart from her mother, Vime meets a former weretiger, a weaver, a caretaker of the underworld and the souls of other people who have passed on. The narrative is almost Gaimanesque in the way that Vime, confronting the “other” world, also contends with the darkness within herself. The spirit world, such as it is, houses memories that living beings have of the dead, including Vime’s own memory of her mother; a Freudian (collective) uncanny. When Vime enters the spirit world, she also confronts the unresolved feelings she has towards her mother. Although melancholy is the dominant emotion, Vime also nurses feelings of anger and abandonment when her mother passes away. When she is tricked by Tei to remain in the spirit realm, however, help comes from an unexpected quarter: Khrielie, too, is lured by Tei into the world of the spirits.

Throughout the course of the novel, Kire highlights Vime’s difference from the women of her community. Using the traditional narrative device of foil characters, Vime’s impulsiveness and non-conforming attitude is a contrast to the gentler, subdued characters of Vime’s sister, Neime, and Khrielie. However, Vime shares with Khrielie the experience of being shunted out by the community to which they belong. Although Khrielie lives peacefully with her mother and grandparents in a small house in comparison to Vime’s, Kire tells us that Khrielie’s mother and her daughter were disowned by the grandparents owing to Khrielie being conceived out of wedlock (Kire 58-59). When Khrielie joins Vime in the spirit world, therefore, she already shares in the sense of alienation that the latter feels. More importantly, the journey through the spirit world allows Vime to put Khrielie’s needs before her own. Upon realising that Khrielie has been unwittingly trapped in the spirit world, Vime determines to forgo her desire to join her mother and fight instead to return to the world of the living for Khrielie’s sake. In forgoing her own selfish interests, Vime comes to terms not only with her loss but also finds the necessary strength to overcome her grief. When Vime narrates her experiences to her family members and relatives, moreover, she performs the role of a proverbial seer who is able to traverse the realms of living and the dead, a living Paichara, the wise women who ascended to heaven from an ancestral tree (Singh unpaginated).

Where the Cobbled Path Leads marks what Jyotirmoy Prodhani terms as an “ontological turn” in the literature of Northeast India (Prodhani 1-8). The novel shows how writers from the region have re-interpreted oral narratives to discover surprising ways to relate to their world. Kire’s book draws upon various legends and folktales of Naga tribes, especially the origin myth associated with the ancestral pear tree at Chitebo from which the Angami, Lotha, Rengma, Chakhesang and Sumi tribes are said to have emerged, migrated and dispersed (Singh unpaginated). In doing so, Kire’s reflections on grief and loss touch upon universal experiences that run through all the Naga lifeworlds and beyond.

~

The ontological thread that one finds in Where the Cobbled Path Leads is also present in Easterine Kire’s Spirit Nights. Like Avinuo Kire’s book, Easterine Kire’s Spirit Nights also dwells on interactions between the human and the spirit world. These interactions re-align the characters’ relationships to each other and the world in which they live. There is, however, a strong anthropological undercurrent to Spirit Nights that sets it apart from the novels that have been reviewed so far.    

Written in Easterine Kire’s characteristic prose which is lyrical and lucid, Spirit Nights contains a glossary of indigenous place names and words and an account of the supernatural occurrence that inspired Kire’s main narrative. The novel, therefore, can be considered a work of creative anthropology wherein the ethnographer, in this case Kire, re-imagines a textual universe based on an already created story by the participants in her research. This, however, forms only one strand of Kire’s anthropological and literary endeavour. The second, more discreet strand is seen in the narration of different lores within the main narrative itself. As literary devices in the novel, the lores reflect ancient psychic states that connect the protagonists of the novel to their ancestors and, through them, to the Chang Naga lifeworld. The stories themselves effect transformation in that they serve as the basis for present and future action through numerous re-tellings. Structurally, therefore, the novel reveals a complexity that is belied by Kire’s matter-of-fact style of narration.

The narrative of Spirit Nights follows, at a cursory glance, a traditional story-telling plot: a hero is born in whose time, a crisis occurs which forces the hero to undertake a journey where, after finding himself and conquering his fears, peace and reconciliation are finally restored. But the similarity ends there. The main narrative in Spirit Nights is about a coming-of-age story about a boy, Namu, and his relationship with his grandmother, Tola. Gifted with foresight—their ancestors being seers—Namu and Tola occupy a world where past, present and future collide. In their world of dreams and visions, the path to becoming a seer is marked by visitations from spirits both malevolent and virtuous. The world of spirits sits comfortably alongside the world of the human. The spirit world, Kire reveals, is a repository of human memories pertaining to the past as well as a reflection of what is desired in the future. A journey to the spirit world, such as Namu’s journey into the mouth of the tiger spirit that wreaks havoc on the village, coalesces personal biography (Namu’s desire for biological parents) with the tales and identity of the collective (the memorialisation of Namu’s defeat of the tiger).

The spirit world represents a spiritual journey as much as a physical one. Namu’s and Tola’s journeys into the spirit world are treated by Kire as factual occurrences since the journey itself alters their physical and psychic states (Kire 124-125). A journey into the spirit world also foreshadows self-revelation. After having rescued Namu and the rest of the community from the darkness that envelops their world, Tola accepts her position as a seer; a position which had hitherto been denied because women among her tribe are not usually considered spiritual leaders. This gendered angle in Kire’s novel reflects a growing concern by writers from the Northeast region of India for greater representation of women in the canon. One is reminded, for instance, of Temsüla Ao’s Aosenla’s Story (2017) where the trials of an Ao Naga woman are rigorously explored within the confines of a heterosexual union. But while Ao’s protagonist is powerless to overcome her oppression, Kire’s Tola reveals herself as the ultimate seer by being a source of comfort and light when her community needed her the most. This transformation, however, is effected by the presence of the fictional village of Mvüphri.

It is in the village of Mvüphri that Tola’s real identity as a seer is revealed to the men in her community. Mvüphri is everything that the historical Shumang Laangnyu Sang is not. While Shumang Laangnyu Sang is, for a short period, led by a spurious seer, Mvüphri houses the most powerful seer in all of Nagalim. While the people of Shumang Laangnyu Sang are beset by jealousies and scepticism, the people of Mvüphri are welcoming to strangers even if this would have cost them their lives. The village of Mvüphri, therefore, represents an ideal that, in being constructed through the fictional, reflects the humane end that all literature strives towards. That Kire treats this fictional place as though it were real testifies to the power of her storytelling.

The unique selling point of Kire’s novel is the boundaries that the novel breaks where narrative style is concerned. The anthropological generously spills over into the literary and vice versa such that the boundaries between the factual and the fictional merge. What is achievable in the fictional world is, Kire seems to imply, also achievable in our day-to-day lives. Spirit Nights appears at a time when the world is reeling from the Covid-19 pandemic. The isolation and anguish that the people of Shumang Laangnyu Sang feel upon being separated from each other because of the unimaginable darkness and the losses they suffered because of its curse, feel eerily familiar. But if the Chang Naga community has overcome their moment of darkness, both in fiction and in reality, through the courage they have in telling their tales, then we too are capable of the same. The story is an event – what happens in stories also happens in life.  

~

The novels reviewed here reveal the diversity in Northeast Indian Writing in English. Whether the approach to storytelling is historical as is the case with Pariat, ontological as is the case with Avinuo Kire or anthropological in the case of Easterine Kire, they all point towards universal human experiences that transcend their contextual particularities. In each fictional work, the natural world is treated as an entity that harbours its own mysteries but which is not separate from human life. Where Indian Writing in English is concerned, such works offer the possibilities of drawing upon specific cultural heritages while addressing universal challenges.

 

Works Cited

Ao, Temsüla. Aosenla’s Story. Zubaan Books, 2017.

Prodhani, Jyotirmoy. “The Saga of the A·bri dal·gipa: The Ontological Turn in Northeast Studies.” Rupkatha Journal on Interdisciplinary Studies in Humanities, vol. 4, no. 2, Mar.-Jun. 2022, pp. 1-8.

Singh, Menka. “Mythical Legends and Legendary Myths: A Case Study of Khonoma, Nagaland”. https://www.sahapedia.org/mythical-legends-and-legendary-myths-case-study-of-khonoma-nagaland. 26 December 2022.

Jobeth Ann Warjri is a writer and researcher. She completed her PhD from the Department of English, University of Hyderabad.

Arundhathi Subramaniam

By Indian Poetry in English: Questions on the 'State' of the 'Art' No Comments

Q. To quote poet and publisher P. Lal from his questionnaire sent in the 1960s to an earlier generation of Indian English poets: “What are the circumstances that led to your using the English language for the purpose of writing poetry?” And of course, is such a question relevant to today’s poets, several decades after Lal’s query? 

Arundhathi Subramaniam: I use English because it is my language. It’s as simple as that. Deeply regrettable historical circumstances brought it into our lives many centuries ago. But it is now ours. We don’t use the language as passive inheritors but as confident collaborators. Rather than deny or purify or amputate our past, we can choose to critique, acknowledge and reinvent it. Critique doesn’t have to mean contempt; that wonderful Indian sacred poem, the ninda-stuti, in which poets quarrel with their gods without ever ceasing to love them, teaches us that. I do speak other Indian languages, and am grateful for the glorious multilingual inheritance of this subcontinent. But English today is as Indian as cricket, democracy, or green chillies, or sabudana. It is time to stop apologizing for it. And I hope the question will not have to be posed to another generation of Anglophone Indian poets. 

Q. In addition to poets from the Anglo-American canon, has your poetry been influenced by Indian English poets of an earlier generation (whether the 19th century pioneers like Derozio and Toru Dutt, or early 20th century poets like Tagore and Sarojini Naidu, or those from the post-1947 generation like Nissim Ezekiel, Kamala Das, and A.K. Ramanujan)? Do you consider your poetry a part of this two-hundred-year-old tradition? 

A.S.: I was born and grew up in the city of Bombay, which was home to multiple Indian poets—Nissim Ezekiel, Arun Kolatkar, Adil Jussawalla, Eunice de Souza, Gieve Patel, Dilip Chitre, Imtiaz Dharker, Dom Moraes and several others. Their work pervaded my life; and their poems are even today part of the heritage of echoes I carry around with me. As a practitioner of poetry in English, I’d certainly see myself as part of a tradition of Anglophone Indian poets. At the same time, I see myself as beneficiary of many traditions. I grew up reading TS Eliot, Basho, Omar Khayyam and Rilke, and studying British and American literature, but also listening to kritis by Tyagaraja, padams by Kshetrayya, Rabindra Sangeet (which my mother learnt, alongside Carnatic music) and movie songs by Majrooh Sultanpuri! By which I mean that mine was a complex inheritance, as it is for every Indian. It included influences from East and West, and a wonderfully messy amalgam of classical, traditional and popular elements.  Later in my life, I also reclaimed for myself another literary inheritance: the poetry of the Bhakti tradition, including the work of Akka Mahadevi, Tukaram, Nammalvar and Kabir, among others. I see them as an utterly integral part of my lineage as well.  

In short, while I am most certainly Indian, culturally and spiritually, in some deep and indefinable way, I see myself standing at the crossroads of multiple intersecting cultural tributaries. This is what it means to be Indian and alive today. Borges said, ‘Every poet creates his own precursors’. I’m still creating mine.  

Q. What are your views on a readership/audience for Indian poetry in English? Does such a thing exist outside English classrooms and literary circles? How much of a consideration is the readership in your poetic process? 

A.S.: The readership exists, and is growing. The internet is clearly the most significant reason. It has made poetry much more widely available—to a small segment of the human population perhaps, but still a much wider global readership. The upsurge of national and international literary festivals has also played a vital role. Poetry is a portable medium; it travels well. The live nature of public readings also motivates listeners to return to a form they may otherwise have lost touch with.  

I am delighted when my work is read and appreciated, but at the same time, I’m glad to be practitioner of a quiet verbal art. And if that means a smaller readership, I’m fine with it. I keep the faith in the power of the word to pervade lives imperceptibly but profoundly. I value that, and I do believe that human life would be much poorer if we lost that muted sorcery of word and pause.

Q. Do you read, write, or translate poetry in a language other than English? If yes, how does it influence your poetry in English? 

A.S.: I was for more than a decade the India editor of a website (the Poetry International Web) that was largely devoted to poetry in translation. I worked closely with translators of multiple languages, and also personally co-translated poems from Tamil and Gujarati (working with CS Lakshmi and Naushil Mehta respectively). For the Penguin anthology of Bhakti poetry I edited, I worked widely with translators, and did some translations of the Tamil poet Abhirami Bhattar myself. So, the work with translation has been a long-standing one. How did it influence me? Enormously. It allowed new breezes into my life; sharpened my awareness of parallel literary subcultures; honed my own art in many ways.

 And yet, long before these overt trysts with translation, I do believe growing up in this hectically polyglot culture had its impact on my life and poetic practice as well. It was inevitable. As Indians, we’re all multilingual in varying degrees, and we’re translating in our heads all the time. It can seem like cultural confusion to an outsider, but it makes for a hugely rich lived experience that is an enormous asset for anyone, and more so for an artist.

Q. Have you ever taught poetry in a class, at a workshop, or in an informal setting? If yes, which aspects of poetry do you think can be taught? 

A.S.: I’ve conducted poetry workshops (in universities, literary festivals and for cultural organizations) since the 1990s. The aim has always been to help people to become better listeners, which, in turn, I hope will help them in time to become better practitioners. More importantly, I hope it helps make them more responsive to life itself, and that’s the first step to enriching one’s life experience, isn’t it? 

Q. What are your views on the poetry that appears today on such popular social media platforms such as Facebook and Instagram? 

A.S.: I’m not on FB or Instagram very often, but some of what I see looks like work that hasn’t been given a chance to ripen. I think the instantaneous nature of communication today is a great possibility, but it also takes away from the long hours of gestation that are necessary for anything to reach fruition. If you put a first draft into the public domain, you often end up doing it a great injustice. More rigour, more reflection, more revision, more reading, and above all, more living–these are also vital components of a writer’s life.

Arundhathi Subramaniam is the author of thirteen books of poetry and prose. She won the Sahitya Akademi Award in 2020 for the poetry collection When God is a Traveller . Besides being well known for prose on Indian spirituality, she is also an arts critic, anthologist, performing arts curator and poetry editor. More information about her can be found in https://arundhathisubramaniamin.wordpress.com/

Anjum Hasan

By Indian Poetry in English: Questions on the 'State' of the 'Art' No Comments
Cite this Interview

MLA:
Hasan, Anjum. “Questions on the ‘State’ of the ‘Art.’” Indian Writing In English Online, 20 Feb 2023, indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/anjum-hasan/ .

Chicago:
Hasan, Anjum. “Questions of the ‘State’ of the ‘Art.’” Indian Writing In English Online. Febbruary 20, 2023. indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/anjum-hasan/.

Q. To quote poet and publisher P. Lal from his questionnaire sent in the 1960s to an earlier generation of Indian English poets: “What are the circumstances that led to your using the English language for the purpose of writing poetry?” And of course, is such a question relevant to today’s poets, several decades after Lal’s query?

Anjum Hasan: English is a given and to go on doubting it is to obscure the more important question of how to judge what is being written in the language. So many decades of poetry in English later we still don’t have enough conversations about form, matter, style and value. Even the question about language is not really a deep question. I think it ought to be not why we write in English but how we write in English in a multi-lingual reality, often with more than one language in our heads and certainly in our environments.

Q. In addition to poets from the Anglo-American canon, has your poetry been influenced by Indian English poets of an earlier generation (whether the 19th century pioneers like Derozio and Toru Dutt, or early 20th century poets like Tagore and Sarojini Naidu, or those from the post-1947 generation like Nissim Ezekiel, Kamala Das, and A.K. Ramanujan)? Do you consider your poetry a part of this two-hundred-year-old tradition?

A.H: Yes of course. And also later poets such as Sujata Bhatt, Mamta Kalia, Tabish Khair, Robin Ngangom and so on.

Q. What are your views on a readership/audience for Indian poetry in English? Does such a thing exist outside English classrooms and literary circles? How much of a consideration is the readership in your poetic process?

A.H: The readership is small but it’s there. My only collection of poems, Street on the Hill, published by the Sahitya Akademi in 2006, is still in print. A few copies sell every year.

Q. Do you read, write, or translate poetry in a language other than English? If yes, how does it influence your poetry in English?

A.H: I read a little poetry in Hindi and Urdu but most of my reading is in English. I think I have stayed with English for too long, and am just starting now to return as it were to reading more in my mother tongues.

Q. Have you ever taught poetry in a class, at a workshop, or in an informal setting? If yes, which aspects of poetry do you think can be taught?

A.H: I do teach poetry on occasion. Most of the “teaching” involves reading good – or what I consider good – poems together as I find that many young or even older people interested in writing have read very little. But what surprises me every time is the receptivity to poetic language once one starts to unpack it.

Q. What are your views on the poetry that appears today on such popular social media platforms such as Facebook and Instagram?

A.H: I don’t read them often but there seems to be a difference between using these platforms to share published work and being encouraged by the ease of sharing to toss off poems for instant consumption and easy forgetting.

Anjum Hasan’s collection of poetry titled Street on the Hill was published by the Sahitya Akademi in 2006. She is the author of the novels The Cosmopolitans, Neti, Neti, and Lunatic in My Head, and collections of short fiction A Day in the Life and Difficult Pleasures. Her work has appeared in publications such as  GrantaParis Review, and Wasafiri. More information is available on her official website: https://www.anjumhasan.com/home

Of Dreams and Desires in the Anthropocene | Akshata S. Pai

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Cite this Review

MLA:
Pai, Akshata S. “Of Dreams and Desires in the Anthropocene.” Indian Writing In English Online, 17 Feb 2023, indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/the_living_mountain/ .

Chicago:
Pai, Akshata S. “Of Dreams and Desires in the Anthropocene.” Indian Writing In English Online. February 17, 2023. indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/the_living_mountain/ .

Amitav Ghosh. The Living Mountain: A Fable for our Times. Fourth Estate, 2022.

Amitav Ghosh’s latest work The Living Mountain: A Fable for our Times continues his preoccupation with climate change which has previously produced works of non-fiction such as The Great Derangement (2016) and The Nutmeg’s Curse (2021), the novel Gun Island (2019), as well as a work in verse, Jungle Nama (2021). In all these works, Ghosh has been concerned with the question of how to narrate climate change as well as its enmeshment in colonial history. Published in May 2022, The Living Mountain continues Ghosh’s search for a suitable form to narrate climate change, using here the form of the fable. Merely 35 pages long, it is different from Ghosh’s usual fare that has long been characterised by descriptive weight, complex characters, and well-researched attention to the particularities of history. In choosing the fable, Ghosh heads in the opposite direction. The prose as well as the narrative are stripped to their bare bones, and in its broadly sketched action, he attempts to condense colonial history and its dark aftermath which are inseparably entwined with the history of climate change.

Like in The Great Derangement and Gun Island, stories remain at the heart of The Living Mountain. It begins with a framing narrative in which two members of a book club choose the term “Anthropocene” as their theme for the year’s reading. One of the readers, Maansi, a New York-based sales manager, originally from Nepal, begins to read a cli-fi novel, and is so strongly affected by it that it triggers a disturbing dream. What follows is the narration of this dream whose tentacles tentatively reach out to the real world: Maansi suspects that the dream is not really a dream but perhaps a memory of a story told by her grandmother. It is notable that the trigger for this dream is not a news article or a scientific report, but a work of fiction. Even in the dream itself, stories remain of crucial importance as a repository of knowledge and as agents of desire and value.

Maansi dreams that she belongs to a people who live in the shadow of the Mahaparbat, an immense mountain in the Himalayas. They consider the Mahaparbat a living mountain, one that protects and nurtures its people.They revere this sacred mountain through stories, songs, and dances, always performed from a respectful distance. However, their relationship with it does not remain this way for long, as the “Anthropoi” invade the valley in order to access and control the mountain, whose “gifts” now become resources to be dug up and used (16). By naming these colonising forces the “Anthropoi” Ghosh pointedly breaks from the universalist discourses of the Anthropocene while also pointing to the exclusive nature of European humanism: the Anthropoi make themselves out to be a different species of being from the valley people.

Ghosh summarises the process of colonisation in his fable: from the ‘innocent’ gathering and organisation of knowledge to colonial myth-making and violent conquest. The fable notes not only the violence of colonialism but also the ways in which colonialism transformed the colonised people’s sense of what was possible, what desirable, and what futile. Ghosh deftly portrays this shift in an entire cultural worldview. The fable moves beyond the time of colonisation to track its continuities in the postcolonial world. In a haunting and feverish sequence, the text narrates how the desires birthed in colonial regimes turn into monstrous compulsions in postcolonial times. Devangana Dash’s inked sketches, in their economy of lines, perfectly accompany and illustrate this dire tale.

Despite its simplicity, at the end, the fable defies any attempt to draw simple morals from it. A lone surviving custodian of indigenous knowledge chastises the Anthropoi, and by extension, the readers: “Have you understood nothing […]?”, she asks (31).

The story of The Living Mountain was originally written for a trans-disciplinary anthology titled Altered Earth: Getting the Anthropocene Right edited by Julia Adeney Thomas and published in March, 2022. This original context helps to put the story in perspective. As a leading postcolonial author, Ghosh succinctly retells the Anthropocene narrative from a postcolonial lens using the form of the fable. As Harold John Blackham has said of the fable, Ghosh’s story runs its “metaphorical traffic on narrative rails” (xii). In its heavy symbolism, the story packs vast times and spaces within its narrow confines and alongside multidisciplinary takes on the Anthropocene, advances a strongly postcolonial and narrative perspective. As a standalone publication, however, the story’s shortness becomes more starkly perceptible.

At his best, Ghosh has been able to evoke the boisterous, complex, diverse worlds of colonial and postcolonial times in all their material and sensory details as well as their moral ambiguities. In fact, in many of his novels, he has told stories of the ways in which colonisation was ecological as well as political, whether in his descriptions of the systematic felling of ancient forests for timber or in the flooding of fields with opium or rubber. In some ways then, the fable summarises not only colonial history but also Ghosh’s own body of work while missing out on some of its best and most enjoyable parts. However, as one tracks the trajectory of Ghosh’s work, one senses in this short fable the urgency that now drives his oeuvre. This is no time for leisurely storytelling or immersive worlds, Ghosh seems to be saying. His fable is shaped by the powerful tides of climate change.

 

Works Cited

Blackham, Harold John. The Fable as Literature. Athlone Press, 1985.

Ghosh, Amitav. The Living Mountain: A Fable for Our Times. Fourth Estate, 2022.

—. “The Ascent of the Anthropoi: A Story”. Altered Earth: Getting the Anthropocene Right. Edited by Julia Adeney Thomas. Cambridge UP, 2022.

—. The Nutmeg’s Curse: Parables for a Planet in Crisis. Penguin, 2021.

—. Jungle Nama: A Story of the Sunderban. Fourth Estate, 2021.

—. Gun Island: A Novel. Penguin, 2019.

—. The Great Derangement: Climate Change and the Unthinkable. Penguin, 2016.

Header image: Cover of The Living Mountain © HarperCollins India
Akshata S. Pai is a PhD student at the Department of English at the University of Hyderabad. For her PhD project, she is working on contemporary environmental fiction.
Read Amitav Ghosh on IWE Online
The Great Derangement
Mamang Dai

Mamang Dai

By Indian Poetry in English: Questions on the 'State' of the 'Art' No Comments
Cite this Interview

MLA:
Dai, Mamang. “Questions on the ‘State’ of the ‘Art.’” Indian Writing In English Online, 13 Feb 2023, indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/mamang_dai/ .

Chicago:
Dai, Mamang. “Questions on the ‘State’ of the ‘Art.’” Indian Writing In English Online. February 23, 2022. indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/mamang_dai/ .

Q: To quote poet and publisher P. Lal from his questionnaire sent in the 1960s to an earlier generation of Indian English poets: “What are the circumstances that led to your using the English language for the purpose of writing poetry?” And of course, is such a question relevant to today’s poets, several decades after Lal’s query?

M.D: What are the circumstances that led to writing poetry using English– I think the question is relevant (since it is still asked), or asked the other way round as to why we don’t write in our mother tongue. The answers are varied and continuing. There is, of course, the straight answer that many languages are non-script. The English language was the medium of instruction in schools and we use the language we learned to read and write in. Then there are exophonic writers, by choice. If a writer is comfortable using a different language why is mother tongue perceived to be more necessary to write in.

Q: In addition to poets from the Anglo-American canon, has your poetry been influenced by Indian English poets of an earlier generation (whether the 19th  century pioneers like Derozio and Toru Dutt, or early 20th  century poets like Tagore and Sarojini Naidu, or those from the post-1947 generation like Nissim Ezekiel, Kamala Das, and A.K. Ramanujan)? Do you consider your poetry a part of this two-hundred-year-old tradition?

M.D: I don’t know about feeling part of the two-hundred-year-old tradition!  I was reading Tagore quite a bit, and Kamala Das and Nissim Ezekiel. I just feel happy writing, and happy and inspired reading poetry from ancient times in ballads and sagas to modern times.

Q: What are your views on a readership/audience for Indian poetry in English? Does such a thing exist outside English classrooms and literary circles? How much of a consideration is the readership in your poetic
process?

M.D: Sometimes you read something and almost jump up in joy or fall off the chair. Such a thing is poetry. I think there will always be need for poetry. There is this happiness angle, the consolation and connection that makes us feel part of a larger reality that comes through with the beauty and power poetry.

When writing I don’t think of readership. At the most I might think of some friends and how we might be meeting and talking about, and pondering on the way we are!

Q: Do you read, write, or translate poetry in a language other than English? If yes, how does it influence your poetry in English?

M.D: No.

Q: Have you ever taught poetry in a class, at a workshop, or in an informal setting? If yes, which aspects of poetry do you think can be taught?

M.D:  No, never taught poetry.

Q: What are your views on the poetry that appears today on such popular social media platforms such as Facebook and Instagram?

M.D: Actually I am not active on social media and I don’t know much about poetry on social media platforms. But during the Covid pandemic lockdown online poetry festivals were a lifeline—just to see poets coming forward and reading was succour indeed.

Mamang Dai is a poet and novelist from Pasighat, Arunachal Pradesh. A former journalist, Dai also worked with World Wide Fund for nature in the Eastern Himalaya Biodiversity Hotspots programme.
In 2003 she received the state Verrier Elwin Award for her book Arunachal Pradesh, The Hidden Land featuring the culture, folklore and customs of Arunachal’s different communities. A Padma Shri awardee, Dai is a recipient of the Sahitya Akademi Award 2017, for her novel The Black Hill, in English.
Dai lives in Itanagar, Arunachal Pradesh, India.
Read Mamang Dai on IWE Online
Finding the WaySmall Towns and the River

Nissim Ezekiel (1924-2004) | Graziano Krätli

By Critical Biography No Comments
Cite this Essay

MLA:
Krätli, Graziano, “Nissim Ezekiel (1924-2004).” Indian Writing In English Online, 26 Dec 2022, indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/ezekiel-bio/ .

Chicago:
Krätli, Graziano, “Nissim Ezekiel (1924-2004).” Indian Writing In English Online. December 26, 2022. indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/ezekiel-bio/ .

For more than three decades, from the early 1960s until the mid-1990s, Nissim Ezekiel was a pivotal figure in the cultural life of Bombay/Mumbai, as his work as poet, editor, critic, and teacher influenced and inspired younger writers and artists, helping shape the canon of Indian poetry in English along the way.

Born on December 16, 1924, in Bombay, Nissim was the third of five children, three boys and two girls. His parents, Diana and Moses Ezekiel Talkar, were both members of the Bene Israel (“Children of Israel”), the oldest and largest of the three Jewish communities in India. They were also part of the first generation who moved to the city from their ancestral homeland near Alibag, in the coastal region south of Mumbai. (Talkar, the additional toponymic which Moses Ezekiel added to, and eventually dropped from, his surname, refers to the native village of Tar, in the Raigad district). Both parents were teachers: Moses a lecturer in Botany and Zoology at Wilson College, and Diana a schoolteacher before starting her own nursery school. Liberal and progressive in their religious beliefs and practices, they held evening prayers (in Hebrew or English) and visited the synagogue on Yom Kippur. At home they spoke Marathi, a language Nissim never mastered enough to be able to write poetry in it, as some of his Maharashtrian contemporaries, such as Arun Kolatkar (1932‒2004) and Dilip Chitre (1938‒2009), did. (His only book of translations of Marathi poetry was done in collaboration with a university colleague.) Nissim’s formal education started at the Convent of Jesus and Mary, continued at the Antonio De Souza High School (both Roman Catholic), and was capped with a bachelor’s (1945) followed by a master’s (1947) in English Literature at Wilson College. Around this time, he published his first poems in the college magazine and elsewhere. After graduation, he taught for a year at Khalsa College, freelanced for various newspapers and magazines, and worked for M.N. Roy’s Radical Democratic Party, eventually distancing himself from politics to focus on poetry and the arts. The change was partly due to the influence of a new friend, Ebrahim Alkazi, a student at St. Xavier’s College and a member of Sultan Padamsee’s Theatre Group. Upon graduation, Alkazi decided to continue his studies at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts (RADA) in London, and convinced Nissim to join him by offering to pay his fare.

In London, where he arrived in November 1948, Nissim spent much of his time reading in the library of India House, the headquarters of India’s diplomatic mission to the United Kingdom, until the High Commissioner, V.K. Krishna Menon (a close friend of Nehru and a future Union Minister for Defence), offered him a job in the Internal Affairs Department. At the same time, Nissim enrolled in evening courses (Chinese, Western Philosophy, Art Appreciation, etc.) at the City Literary Institute, an adult education college nearby, and attended philosophy classes at Birkbeck College, University of London, without completing the BA program. A couple of visits to Paris, in late December 1949 and August 1951, resulted in a strong desire to move there. (Incidentally, Srinivas Rayaprol, an almost contemporary of Ezekiel, had the same impulse after visiting the City of Light in 1951, following a three-year residence in the United States. We may wonder whether either of them would have been a different poet, or a different author altogether, had he followed this impulse and settled in the French capital. (Just like we may wonder what kind of poet and scholar would have been Ramanujan, had he pursued his academic career at Cambridge or Oxford rather than Chicago; or what would have become of Dom Moraes, as a poet and journalist, had ne never left India). But we can only speculate. What we know is that, early on, London brought out Ezekiel’s vocation to be a poet, and he acted upon it with determination and perseverance. After one year at India House, he quit his job to devote all his time to reading and writing, living frugally and supporting himself with menial jobs and money occasionally sent from home. As he would characterize this period in “Background, Casually,” one of his most autobiographical (and anthologized) poems, “Philosophy, / Poverty and Poetry, three / Companions shared my basement room”. The result of this self-imposed, creative confinement was a manuscript which Reginald Ashley Caton, founder of the Fortune Press, accepted for a ten-pound publishing fee. (The house had previously published other South Asian poets living in England, among them Fredoon Kabraji and M.J. Tambimuttu, as well as British and American authors such as Kingsley Amis, Cecil-Day Lewis, Philip Larkin, Dylan Thomas, Wallace Stevens, and Robert Penn Warren, in addition to French, Greek, and Latin classics). Ezekiel then turned his efforts to planning his trip back to India, and eventually found a way to pay his fare by working on a cargo ship that was carrying ammunition to French Indo-China. The return trip took more than two months, from March to May 1952, as the ship made several stops; but at one of them, in Marseilles, the impromptu deckhand found copies of A Time to Change waiting for him.

Soon after his arrival in Bombay, Ezekiel was offered a job as sub-editor for The Illustrated Weekly of India. In the same year, he also began a long association with the P.E.N. All-India Centre and its founder, the Colombian-born Indian theosophist Sophia Wadia, initially assisting with the editing of The Indian P.E.N. and The Aryan Path, then, after Wadia’s death in 1986, editing the former newsletter and running the Centre from its offices in Theosophy Hall, Churchgate, a dual position he held until his failing health forced him to quit in 1998. As pointed out by one scholar, it was Ezekiel’s influence that eventually “helped transform the PEN All-India Centre from a formal institution which functioned primarily as a mediator, into a more flexible meeting place for new and established poets” (Bird 213). Before the year ended, Ezekiel married a member of the Bene Israel community, Daisy Jacob Dandekar. The couple will have two daughters (Kalpana and Kavita) and one son (Elkana). In May 1954, Ezekiel resigned from the Weekly to work for the Shilpi advertising agency, first as copywriter and then in a managerial position that allowed him to spend six months in New York for professional development. This gave him the opportunity to visit California and to attend poetry readings and other cultural events in San Francisco and Los Angeles. (Although the 1956 poetry scene in the Bay Area did not impress him as much as it did Rayaprol, who had experienced it only a few years before while a student at Stanford University.)

Not long after this trip, Ezekiel left Shilpi for a job at the Chemould Frames company, where his duties as factory manager did not prevent him from developing a lasting relationship with his employer, the art entrepreneur Kekoo Gandhy. This helped the young poet and critic to expand his links to the Bombay art world, and in turn prompted Gandhy to open Gallery Chemould in 1963, one of only two commercial galleries at the time, which Ezekiel would manage for a while.

With his appointment as lecturer and head of the English Department at Mithibai College, in 1961, Ezekiel eventually settled in the teaching profession of his parents, thus embarking on an academic career that would continue at the University of Bombay and include visiting professorships at the University of Leeds (1964) and the University of Chicago (1967), and a three-month residency at the National University of Singapore (1988‒89). However, if teaching represented the backbone of Ezekiel’s professional life for two decades and a half, it was through the correlated activities of literary editor, critic, book reviewer, and cultural organizer that the he acquired the reputation and exercised the influence which would grant him a foundational (if not patriarchal) status within the canon of postcolonial Indian poetry in English.

Sometime in the early 1950s, Ezekiel became involved with the Indian Committee for Cultural Freedom (ICCF), an affiliate of the Committee for Cultural Freedom (CCF), whose various activities, focused on literature and the arts (and secretly funded by the CIA), were meant to counter Soviet influence in western Europe, Africa and Asia. In India, two of the initiatives sponsored by the ICCF were the monthly newsletter Freedom First (1952‒2015) and the bi-monthly of arts and ideas Quest (1955‒76). Ezekiel was the first editor of Quest (August 1955‒February 1958) and subsequently served as its reviews editor (1961­‒67). He also contributed articles and book reviews to both publications, and in 1980‒83 served as editor of Freedom First, his focus then being on current events and political issues, consistent with the ideology of the journal. (Another Bombay periodical funded—in this case directly—by the CIA was Imprint, which published mainly condensed versions of Western bestsellers. Run by a couple of American expatriates, it was edited by the Australian journalist Philip Knightley with Ezekiel as associate editor from 1961‒67.) Under Ezekiel’s editorship, Quest was a significant venue for the new poetry, publishing such emerging authors as Kersey Katrak, Arun Kolatkar, Dom Moraes, R. Parthasarathy, Gieve Patel, Srinivas Rayaprol and others, and paving the way for the special issue on contemporary Indian poetry in English (January‒February 1972), guest edited by Saleem Peeradina and subsequently published as a book, which was one of the earliest and remains one of the most influential postcolonial anthologies of its kind. Even more innovative, if short-lived, was the quarterly Poetry India, which featured poems written in English or translated from the main regional languages, plus an international section represented by British and North American authors (but also including translations from the Hebrew). Ezekiel edited all six issues (January‒March 1966 through April‒June 1967), and, with the second, took over the ownership and management of the publication from the Bombay-based Parichay Trust (The original plan included a series of books, but the only one which Ezekiel was able to publish, under his own name, was Gieve Patel’s first collection, Poems, in 1966).

A few years later, the model adopted by Ezekiel in Poetry India (in which English served as both creative and target language) inspired another little magazine, Vagartha, founded and edited by the scholar Meenakshi Mukherjee with the financial support of the Joshi Foundation. In the course of twenty-five quarterly issues published over six years (1973‒79), Vagartha featured contemporary poetry as well as short fiction, critical essays, discussions and interviews, either in English or translated from other Indian languages, namely Assamese, Bengali, Gujarati, Hindi, Kannada, Marathi, Malayalam, Oriya, Punjabi and Urdu. Ezekiel contributed a total of six poems (five of his and one translated from the Marathi with Vrinda Nabar), as well as the translator’s note to Snake-skin and Other Poems of Indira Sant (1975). A decade after the magazine closed down, Ezekiel was behind the idea of “[p]reserving the best of Vagartha in book form” (Ezekiel and Mukherjee, 13), which resulted in Another India: An Anthology of Contemporary Indian Fiction and Poetry (1990), co-edited with Mukherjee (ironically, the title was suggested to Mukherjee by Naipaul, during a “casual encounter” in Delhi in early 1989).

Overall, the 1960s were Ezekiel’s most productive decade. In addition to his academic and editorial responsibilities, his art and literary criticism for various publications, and his involvement in conferences and seminars (especially those organized by P.E.N. India and the ICCF), he managed to publish two collections of poetry (The Unfinished Man, 1960, and The Exact Name, 1965) and one of plays (Three Plays, 1969), in addition to five edited books: Indian Writers in Conference: Proceedings of the Sixth P.E.N. All-India Writers’ Conference, Mysore, 1962 (1964), Writing in India: Proceedings of the Seventh P.E.N. All-India Writers’ Conference, Lucknow, 1964 (1965), An Emerson Reader (1965), A Martin Luther King Reader (1969), and Poetry from India (co-edited with Howard Sergeant, 1970).

In 1972 Ezekiel joined the English Department at the University of Bombay as reader in American Literature, a position he held until his retirement in 1984. The subject was as new to the Indian universities as the Poet was new to the subject, but his appointment, like his rapid promotion to the rank of full professor, disregarded his lack of a doctoral degree or other scholarly credentials and considered instead his reputation as a poet and critic, his recent volumes on Emerson and Dr. King, and his visits to the United States, especially the second, in 1967, when among other things he was invited to give a talk at the Thoreau Festival at Nassau Community College, in Garden City, New York. Another significant change, and a step forward in the process of canonization, was Ezekiel’s moving from Writers Workshop (recently founded by the poet, critic and translator P. Lal, who had been one of the first reviewers of A Time to Change) to the more established and prestigious (as a colonial legacy) Oxford University Press, which would publish his next four books, namely the poetry collections Hymns in Darkness (1976) and Latter-Day Psalms (1982), a volume of Collected Poems: 1952-1988 (1989), and one of Selected Prose (1992). The first two books appeared in the New Poetry in India series, launched in 1976 and also featuring Keki Daruwalla’s Crossing of Rivers, Shiv K. Kumar’s Subterfuges, R. Parthasarathy’s Rough Passage, A.K. Ramanujan’s Selected Poems, and Parthasarathy’s anthology, Ten Twentieth-Century Indian Poets. (Parthasarathy, in his role as OUP editor, was probably the link between his former colleague at Mithibai College and the publisher). Ezekiel’s growing reputation as the standard-bearer for Indian poetry in English is further evidenced by the frequent interviews he gave to literary journals and popular magazines (making him probably the most interviewed poet in the canon); by the many lecture tours and conference he attended over the next two decades, both in India and abroad; by his editorial consultancies for publishers and poetry series; by the Sahitya Akademi Award (1983) for Latter-Day Psalms and the Padma Shri (1988) for his contribution to Indian literature in English; and by the growing number of periodical issues (Journal of South Asian Literature 1976, The Journal of Indian Writing in English 1986) and monographs (Karnani 1974, Rahman 1981, Raizada 1992, Das 1995, Sharma 1995, etc.) devoted to him.

In Modern Indian Poetry in English (1987), the first comprehensive and detailed overview of the field, the American scholar Bruce King presented Ezekiel as a watershed in the evolution of Indian poetry in English; the poet who “brought a sense of discipline, self-criticism and mastery to Indian English poetry”, separating poetry as a “hobby, something done in spare moments” from poetry as a vocation, to be pursued with “craftsmanship and purposefulness”. In King’s lapidary statement, “Other wrote poems, he wrote poetry” (91). A few years later, King included Dom Moraes and A.K. Ramanujan in his study of the Three Indian Poets (1991) who “may be considered the founders of modern poetry in English” (2005, 1). A genealogy was thus created, with Ezekiel as the oldest of the three, as well as the one with the longest and strongest connection to India. (Moraes, it should be remembered, first acquired literary fame in England and was considered a British poet until he returned to India, as a “stranger”, in the 1970s; while Ramanujan lived in the United States since the 1960s).

But canonization is a double-edged sword, and by the early 1990s Ezekiel’s stature as the founding father and doyen of Indian poetry in English was being questioned and scaled back, as some anthologists (Vilas Sarang and Arvind Krishna Mehrotra in particular) expressed reservations about his achievement. Likewise, his critical authority and judgment came occasionally under scrutiny when, as a consultant, his advice resulted in the publication of some younger poets to the exclusion of others; or also in relation to the ban imposed on Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses in India (1988) and Taslima Nasrin’s Lajja in Bangladesh (1994), decisions which Ezekiel supported (as did the Indian P.E.N. and many other Indian intellectuals and writers).

While continuing to publish articles and book reviews, and to write poetry (often in response to requests from magazine editors, and as yet uncollected), most if not all of this late work is more a testimony to Ezekiel’s reputation and influence than a proof of his enduring strength and relevance as a poet or critic.

During the four-year period (1994‒98) when the writer and academic R. Raj Rao (a former student of Ezekiel’s at the University of Bombay) met regularly with him to gather information for an authorized biography, the poet’s memory and living conditions progressively deteriorated, until he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and admitted to a nursing home, where he died on 9 January 2004. His passing marked the beginning of what has been called the annus horribilis of Indian poetry in English, which also claimed the lives of Moraes  and Kolatkar, on June 2nd and September 25th, respectively.

Spanning more than four decades, Ezekiel’s eight poetry collections represent a remarkable achievement per se, let alone when considered along with the poet’s concomitant activities as teacher and mentor, editor, reviewer, cultural organizer and public intellectual at large.

If A Time to Change passed virtually unnoticed in England, in India the reviews were more than a few and generally appreciative. Not surprisingly, the twenty-eight-year old’s inquiring, self-analytical and quintessentially urban poetic persona, combined with a conscious disregard for the nationalistic, spiritualistic, or folkloric themes characteristic of most Indian poetry written before and after the Independence (most notably by such prominent figures as Sarojini Naidu and Sri Aurobindo), and a corresponding indifference to India’s past or present history, archeological landscape, and current events appealed immediately to a younger generation of urban, college educated, anglophone readers and emerging writers, some of whom were about to study abroad themselves (Jussawalla, Moraes, Ramanujan), or had recently returned (Rayaprol), while others simply shared Ezekiel’s connection to Bombay’s vibrant cultural scene (Eunice de Souza, Katrak, Kolatkar, Patel, etc.). The book begins with a secular hymn and ends with five examples of prose poetry (a genre which Ezekiel, regrettably, did not follow up), their increasingly religious overtones culminating in the visionary call of “Encounter” (“Within the pandemonium of the street I felt his voice, like a command”). The voice’s imperative advice (to “Simplify,” to “Move in living images”) provides a programmatic answer to the question raised at the beginning, in the Eliotian call for renewal, regeneration and redemption: “How shall we return?” The introspective, questioning approach of “A Time to Change”, and its underlying preoccupation with the conflict between reason and emotion (the “passion of mind or heart”, in which the intellect struggles to comprehend and therefore control the relentless power of bodily desires), set the tone for the entire book and, to some extent, define Ezekiel’s poetic quest throughout his career. If this quest has a religious dimension, it is initially the modern man’s coming to terms with a state of godlessness, and the consequent need—liberating and terrifying at the same time—to make his own laws and fashion his own creed. (A patent masculine attitude toward religion, rooted in the Old Testament and defined by oedipal impulses and anxiety). The title poem provides a crescendo of Ezekiel’s concerns: “The pure invention or the perfect poem, / Precise communication of a thought, / Love reciprocated to a quiver, / Flawless doctrines, certainty of God” (the word “god”, either capitalized or not, singular or plural, recurs eighteen times in the thirty-one poems that make up A Time to Change), ending with a realization that is also a course of action (“These are merely dreams; but I am human / And must testify to what they mean”). Not to discard or disregard these “dreams” but “testify to what they mean” (that is, to use them as evidence of their fallacy); and not a mere possibility but the only possible way, which for a poet means  “To own a singing voice and a talking voice”. This double ownership (involving technical mastership as well as control over its results) is indeed what makes a poet and defines his art and belief; therefore “Practising a singing and a talking voice / Is all the creed a man of God requires”—a simple yet genuine profession of faith that simultaneously prefigures Ezekiel’s career as poet and critic.

Life in the English metropolis helped Ezekiel view his hometown of Bombay as a metropolitan space to be lived, experienced and described not only as a physical and social environment, made of “markets and courts of justice, / Slums, football grounds, entertainment halls, / Residential flats, palaces of art and business houses, / Harlots, basement poets, princes and fools” (“Something to Pursue”), but also as a projection and a reflection of the poet’s Geistesleben, or life of the mind. As such, it may be alternately oppressive, menacing, unnerving, enticing or liberating. It may combine the sense of being “continually/ Reduced to something less than human by the crowd” (“The Double Horror”) with the contrasting feelings (desire and deceit, excitement and dissatisfaction) that are the inevitable outcome of clandestine love affairs for which a big city, with its variety of anonymous public spaces, provides an opportunity as well as a backdrop. The “primeval jungle” evoked in the ekphrastic “On an African Mask” becomes the metaphoric urban jungle of poems such as “The Double Horror” and “Commitment”, where the strong imagery seems to draw on German Expressionist cinema, as

 

vast organised

Futilities suck the marrow from my bones

And put a fever there for cash and fame.

Huge posters dwarf my thoughts, I am reduced

To appetites and godlessness. I wear

A human face but prowl about the streets

Of towns with murderous claws and anxious ears,

Recognising all the jungle sounds of fear

And hunger, wise in tracking down my prey

And wise in taking refuge when the stronger roam.

(“Commitment”)

 

One of the distinguishing features of A Time to Change (and most of Ezekiel’s poetry until the mid 1960s) is a formal awareness that manifests itself in the consistent (and occasionally self-conscious) adherence to simple metrical structures. It features both stanzaic and free verse poems (the former typically consisting of three or four heroic quatrains rhyming ABAB, with variants made of seven or ten unrhymed lines each); and while it stands in obvious contrast to the recycled Victorian and Edwardian models of Ezekiel’s predecessors (and some of his lesser contemporaries), its actual achievement is rather more conservative (and subtly bifronted) than most critical assessments, focused as they are on the break with the past, seem prepared or willing to admit.

Ezekiel’s second collection is titled Sixty Poems (1953), but actually consists of sixty-five: nineteen written since the publication of A Time to Change, thirty-seven dating from the London years (1950‒51), and nine from the period immediately before (1945‒48), starting when Ezekiel was a graduate student at Wilson College. This was followed by The Third (1959), featuring thirty-six poems written over five years (January 1954‒December 1958) and showing a crystallized emphasis on the poet’s main subject so far, namely a sustained effort to scrutinize, analyze, and rationalize his own self from different angles, perspectives and grammatical persons (first as well as second or third). This may be challenging, daunting, intimidating, as the poet himself admits, confessionally, in “What Frightens Me”.

 

Myself examined frightens me.

(…)

I have long watched myself

Remotely doing what I had to do,

At times ashamed but always

Rationalising all I do.

I have heard the endless silent dialogue

Between the self-protective self

And the self naked.

I have seen the mask

And the secret behind the mask.

 

Subtly undermined by the ambiguity of “remotely” (does it refer to “watched” or “doing”?), as well as deflated by the hyperbolic “always rationalising all I do”, this self-awareness exercise ultimately leads to the disconcerting realization that the process of identity construction (the “image being formed”) has uncertainty as its end result. Thus the self is always, inevitably (but also salvifically) both a project and a projection of its own self.

If the three collections published in the 1950s document Ezekiel’s poetic development and growing influence, the next two represent the culmination of such a progress, resulting in the establishment of a solid reputation as the foremost representative of the “new poetry” in India.

The Unfinished Man was inscribed with a stanza from “A Dialogue of Self and Soul” by W.B. Yeats (one of Ezekiel’s early influences) and consists of ten poems written in 1959; while The Exact Name (1965) bears an epigraph from the Spanish poet (and recent Nobel Prize winner) Juan Ramón Jiménez, and features twenty poems written between 1960 and 1964. Thematically, they represent a broadening and sharpening of ongoing or lingering concerns, articulated in a style that is more accomplished and self-confident, but also less spontaneous and more controlled by metrical patterns that are responsible for the overall rhythmic regularity, mannered elegance and emotional detachment of the collection.

The “barbaric city sick with slums”, with its “million purgatorial lanes, / And child-like masses, many-tongued”, may still be grim and overwhelming, but instead of a nightmare it manifests itself as an “old, recurring dream” (“A Morning Walk”, from The Unfinished Man), or a daydream in which the poet indulges as he “moves / In circles tracked within his head” and

 

dreams of morning walks, alone,

And floating on a wave of sand.

But still his mind its traffic turns

Away from beach and tree and stone

To kindred clamour close at hand.

(“Urban”, from The Unfinished Man)

In either case, it is a less threatening and more accommodating environment, and one that points to a future gesture of acceptance and reconciliation. The Exact Name features some of Ezekiel’s most anthologized and critically discussed poems, most notably “The Night of the Scorpion” and “Poet, Lover, Birdwatcher”, but also a few lesser results (“In India”, “Fruit”, “Art Lecture”), and at least one (“Conjugation”) that reads more like an impromptu exercise than anything worthy of publication.

Eventually the watcher and the watched (whose interplay defines much of Ezekiel’s self-analytical verse up to this point) merge in one poetic voice in the more spontaneous and straightforward poems written in the mid-1960s to the mid-1970s, which in Collected Poems form two sections, “Poems (1965‒1974)” and “Poems Written in 1974”, placed between The Exact Name (1965) and Hymns in Darkness (1976). They are marked by a more direct and confrontational approach to religion, as in “Theological” (“Lord, I am tired / of being wrong …  Your truth / is too momentous for man / and not always useful”), but also a more confident and questionable display of sexist attitudes (“My motives are sexual, / aesthetic and friendly / in that order”, from “Motives”), while the unprecedented attention to the lower strata of society (“The Truth about Dhanya”) lacks either empathy or originality. Formally, they show a preference for free verse and, with “The Poet Contemplates His Inaction”, the introduction of the three-line stanza that will characterize much of Ezekiel’s later poetry.

Hymns in Darkness gathers twenty-seven poems written mostly in the early 1970s, including a few that are among the poet’s most significant and popular. Early on in the book, “Background, Casually” and “Island” (respectively Ezekiel’s most directly autobiographical poem and his most eloquent poetic transfiguration of Bombay) stand next to each other to stress a double commitment—“to stay where I am” and to be where I stay (or we could say, more existentially, where I dwell). The background of the title finds a more eloquent and ironic expression in the poet’s admission to “have become a part of [the Indian landscape] / To be observed by foreigners” (like a monument as well as a result of literary canonization). As for the background itself, “Unsuitable for song as well as sense” (a tongue-in-cheek statement, which the poem vividly contradicts), “the island flowers into slums / and skyscrapers, reflecting / precisely the growth of my mind. / I am here to find my way in it”. Thus Ezekiel renews his commitment to both, his birthplace (“I cannot leave the island, / I was born here and belong”) and reason as a way to navigate and find one’s bearings in both, urban sprawl and mind growth.

Overall, Indian subjects are more prominent and diverse in this than in Ezekiel’s previous collections. The often-quoted “Goodbye Party for Miss Pushpa T. S.” and “The Railway Clerk” provide a first taste of an ongoing series called “Very Indian Poems in Indian English”, whose main goal is to render the peculiarities of a demotic idiom that, typically (and perhaps inevitably), has more potential and opportunities in fiction than in poetry. “The Truth about the Floods” and “Rural Suite” are unprecedented excursions in the countryside, the former a found poem based on a newspaper account, the latter apparently derived from a letter; “Guru” and “Entertainment” offer disillusioned portraits of spiritual leadership and street life; while “Ganga” conveys the truth about domestic employment in a way than “The Truth about Dhanya” had not cared to do (to the extent that the closing line, “These people never learn”, may refer to the employee or the employers—or both). A different, more subtle Indian thread running through this collection is represented by Ezekiel’s dialogue with the country’s Vedic and classical Sanskrit literature, as documented by such poems as “Tribute to the Upanishads”, the nine “Poster Poems” (based on Daniel H. H. Ingalls’ 1965 translation of Vidyākara’s Subhāitaratnakoa, a major compilation of Sanskrit love poetry), and especially the sixteen “Hymns in Darkness”, inspired by the Vedic hymns which Ezekiel read, in English translation, in a darkened room of his apartment on Bellasis Road (King 55).

The “Very Indian Poems in Indian English” and the “Poster Poems”, like “The Egoist’s Prayers”, the “Passion Poems”, the “Songs for Nandu Bhende”, the“Postcard Poems”, “Nudes 1978”, “Blessings”, and “Edinburgh Interlude”, are groups of poems which Ezekiel started writing in the 1970s and included, partially, in Hymns in Darkness, Latter-Day Psalms and the final section of Collected Poems, featuring poems from 1983–1988. The “Poster Poems”, “The Egoist’s Prayers” and the “Passion Poems” were originally exhibited on posters, while the “Songs for Nandu Bhende” were written for, and set to music by, Ezekiel’s nephew, resulting in an album the two co-produced. Altogether, these groups of poems are representative of Ezekiel’s later poetry, characterized by a more consistent use of free verse and condensed forms, such as hymnic or aphoristic utterances, often delivered in brief stanzas of variable length. This original style, combining a dialogic approach with an exegetic impulse, has a precedent in “For William Carlos Williams” and a more recent (and complex) manifestation in “Tribute to the Upanishads”; but its most substantial and ambitious formulation is to be found in “Hymns in Darkness” and “Latter-Day Psalms”, each representing Ezekiel’s poetic response to a major text in Hinduism and Judaism, the two religions that are closest to his Indian background and his Jewish ancestry, respectively. Written in June 1978 in a hotel room in Rotterdam, the “Latter-Day Psalms” consist of nine poems corresponding to Psalms 1, 3, 8, 23, 60, 78, 95, 102 and 127 (and “chosen as representative of the 150 Psalms”), followed by a personal commentary on the book as a whole. (Incidentally, the same, nine-plus-one structure reappears in the “Ten Poems in the Greek Anthology Mode,” written between 1983 and 1988 and included in the final section of Collected Poems).

Inevitably, Ezekiel’s poetry and reputation as a poet have somehow detracted scholarly and critical attention from his prose. Although some articles (most notably “Naipaul’s India and Mine” and “Poetry as Knowledge”) have been reprinted more than once, at the time of this writing (2022) Ezekiel’s journalistic work can be sampled in Adil Jussawalla’s 1992 selection and in the 2008 commemorative volume Nissim Ezekiel Remembered. Together, they provide a representative and eloquent if partial view of the poet’s achievement as public intellectual, book reviewer, art critic, editorialist, and newspaper columnist. Indeed, his critical spectrum and adaptability were such that he wrote with equal comfort and acumen for highbrow journals such as Quest, its continuation New Quest, and Freedom First, but also for daily newspapers (Times of India, Sunday Times), and popular magazines (Mid-Day), while his contributions ranged from papers delivered at international conferences and seminars to art and literary criticism, and from reviews of books, exhibitions and theater productions to current events and politics, social commentary (e.g., the “Minding My Business” columns in the Sunday Times of 1980‒82) and even television programs (for The Times of India in the mid-1970s and for Mid-Day a decade later).

As a pathbreaking poet, mentor, editor and critic, Ezekiel played an important, indeed unique, role in the development of a canon for Indian poetry in English. No survey or assessment of the field would be complete without acknowledging his various and substantial contributions to it, just like no such acknowledgment would be fair which did not consider the particular, historical as well as geographical, extent and limitations of Ezekiel’s role and influence. While many Bombay poets who emerged in the 1960s, 1970s and 1980s benefited from his mentoring skills, his editorial advice and his overall support, many others looked elsewhere for updated models: to American modernism, the Beat Generation or even more experimental forms such as concrete and minimalist poetry. The same historical perspective is necessary to properly appreciate Ezekiel’s own poetry, its formal adherence to pre- and post-World War Two British models (Yeats, Eliot, Auden, all the way to the Movement), its content-related concerns and its particular cultural context. It may also help explain and understand why Ezekiel’s poetry does not speak to Indian poets and readers today in the same way as does the poetry of some of his contemporaries, such as Arun Kolatkar, Arvind Krishna Mehrotra or A.K. Ramanujan, all of whom, unlike Ezekiel, have been the subject of recent and substantial international critical attention.

 

Poetry

A Time to Change. London: Fortune Press, 1952.

Sixty Poems. Bombay: Ezekiel, 1953.

The Third. Bombay: Strand Bookshop, 1959.

The Unfinished Man. Calcutta: Writers Workshop, 1960.

The Exact Name. Calcutta: Writers Workshop, 1965.

Hymns in Darkness. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1976.

Latter-Day Psalms. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1982.

Collected Poems: 1952-1988. Introduction by Gieve Patel. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1989 and 2005.

 

Prose

Selected Prose. Introduction by Adil Jussawalla. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1992.

 

Plays

Three Plays [NaliniMarriage PoemThe Sleepwalkers]. Calcutta: Writers Workshop, 1969.

Song of Deprivation. Delhi: Enact, 1969.

Don’t Call It Suicide: A Tragedy. Madras: Macmillan, 1993.

 

Translations

Snake-skin and Other Poems, s of Indira Sant. Translated from the Marathi by Vrinda Nabar and Nissim Ezekiel. Bombay: Nirmala Sadanand Publishers, 1975.

 

Edited Books

Indian Writers in Conference: Proceedings of the Sixth P.E.N. All-India Writers’ Conference, Mysore, 1962. Bombay: PEN All-India Centre, 1964.

Writing in India: Proceedings of the Seventh P.E.N. All-India Writers’ Conference, Lucknow, 1964. Bombay: PEN All-India Centre, 1965.

An Emerson Reader. Bombay: Popular Prakashan, 1965.

A Martin Luther King Reader. Bombay: Popular Prakashan, 1969.

Poetry from India. Edited by Nissim Ezekiel and Howard Sergeant. Oxford; New York: Pergamon, 1970.

Artists Today: East-West Visual Arts Encounter. Edited by Ursula Bickelmann and Nissim Ezekiel. Bombay: Marg Publications, 1987.

Another India: An Anthology of Contemporary Indian Fiction and Poetry. Edited by Nissim Ezekiel and Meenakshi Mukherjee. New Delhi: Penguin Books, 1990.

 

Secondary Sources

Anklesaria, Havovi, ed. Nissim Ezekiel Remembered. New Delhi: Sahitya Akademi, 2008.

Balarama Gupta, G.S. Nissim Ezekiel: A Critical Companion. New Delhi: Pencraft International, 2010.

Bharucha, Nilufer E., and Vrinda Nabar, eds. Mapping Cultural Spaces: Postcolonial Indian Literature in English: Essays in Honour of Nissim Ezekiel. New Delhi: Vision Books, 1998.

Bharvani, Shakuntala. Nissim Ezekiel. New Delhi: Sahitya Akademi, 2008.

Bird, Emma. “A Platform for Poetry: The PEN All-India Centre and a Bombay Poetry Scene.” Journal of Postcolonial Writing, vol. 53, no. 1-2, 2017, pp. 207-220.

Chaudhuri, Amit. “Nissim Ezekiel: Poet of a Minor Literature.” A History of Indian Poetry in English, edited by Rosinka Chaudhuri, Cambridge University Press, 2016, pp. 205–22.

Chindhade, Shirish. Five Indian English Poets: Nissim Ezekiel, A.K. Ramanujan, Arun Kolatkar, Dilip Chitre, R. Parthasarathy. Atlantic, 1996.

Das, Bijay Kumar. The Horizon of Nissim Ezekiel’s Poetry. B.R. Publishing Corporation, 1995.

Dwivedi, Suresh Chandra, ed. Perspectives on Nissim Ezekiel: Essays in Honour of Rosemary C. Wilkinson. Kitab Mahal, 1989.

Karnani, Chetan. Nissim Ezekiel. New Delhi: Arnold-Heinemann, 1974.

King, Bruce. Modern Indian Poetry in English. Oxford University Press, 1987.

King, Bruce. Three Indian Poets: Ezekiel, Moraes, and Ramanujan. Delhi; Oxford University Press, 2005.

Krätli, Graziano. “Crossing Points and Connecting Lines: Nissim Ezekiel and Dom Moraes in Bombay and Beyond.” Journal of Postcolonial Writing, vol. 53, no. 1–2, March 4, 2017, pp. 176–89.

Kurup, P.K.J. Contemporary Indian Poetry in English: With Special Reference to the Poetry of Nissim Ezekiel, Kamala Das, A.K. Ramanujan, and R. Parthasarathy. Atlantic, 1991.

Mahan, Shaila. The Poetry of Nissim Ezekiel. Classic, 2001.

Mishra, Sanjit. The Poetic Art of Nissim Ezekiel. Atlantic, 2001.

Narendra Lall, Emmanuel. Poetry of Encounter: Three Indo-Anglian Poets. Sterling, 1983.

Raghu, A. The Poetry of Nissim Ezekiel. Atlantic, 2002.

Rahman, Anisur. Form and Value in the Poetry of Nissim Ezekiel.  Abhinav, 1981.

Raizada, Harish. Nissim Ezekiel, Poet of Human Balance. Vimal Prakashan, 1992.

Rao, R. Raj. Nissim Ezekiel: The Authorized Biography. Viking/Penguin Books India, 2000.

Samal, Subrat Kumar. Postcoloniality and Indian English Poetry: A Study of the Poems of Nissim Ezekiel, Kamala Das, Jayanta Mahapatra and A.K. Ramanujan. Partridge, 2015.

Sharma, Tika Ram. Essays on Nissim Ezekiel. Shalabha Prakashan, 1995.

Talat, Qamar and A.A. Khan. Nissim Ezekiel: Poetry as Social Criticism. Adhyayan, 2009.

Thorat, Sandeep K. Indian Ethos and Culture in Nissim Ezekiel’s Poetry: A Critical Study. Atlantic, 2018.

Tilak, Raghukul. New Indian English Poets and Poetry: A Study of Nissim Ezekiel, Kamala Das, A K Ramanujan and Jayanta Mahapatra. Rama Bros., 1982.

Portrait of Jerry Pinto

Jerry Pinto

By Indian Poetry in English: Questions on the 'State' of the 'Art' No Comments

Q: To quote poet and publisher P. Lal from his questionnaire sent in the 1960s to an earlier generation of Indian English poets: “What are the circumstances that led to your using the English language for the purpose of writing poetry?” And of course, is such a question relevant to today’s poets, several decades after Lal’s query?

J.P: I was born into a family that spoke many languages but which communicated in English. This meant that my dreaming and my desiring, my philosophising and my fantasizing, my worrying and my wondering, are all conducted in English. This pours into my poetry and my poetry comes to me in English.

Q: In addition to poets from the Anglo-American canon, has your poetry been influenced by Indian English poets of an earlier generation (whether the 19th  century pioneers like Derozio and Toru Dutt, or early 20th  century poets like Tagore and Sarojini Naidu, or those from the post-1947 generation like Nissim Ezekiel, Kamala Das, and A.K. Ramanujan)? Do you consider your poetry a part of this two-hundred-year-old tradition?

J.P: Without doubt. We are palimpsests of all the poetry we read. And we were truly the lucky generation. There was Nissim Ezekiel at the PEN All-India Centre, always ready to listen to a new poem. There was Adil Jussawalla who brought us poetry readings every week for years. Gieve Patel was much more distant but he was willing to mentor kids at some school in South India. Eunice de Souza was teaching English and holding a festival called Ithaca at St Xavier’s College. The college I went to had Vasant A Dahake teaching Marathi. Prabodh Parikh brought us Gujarati poetry, Kauns Ma (Between Parenthesis). And because of this best of raucous song birds, we had birds of passage. Arvind Krishna Mehrotra came through and A K Ramanujan. Each brought a distinct voice, another sound. They wrote in Englishes as varied and wonderful as the country from which they drew sustenance.

Q: What are your views on a readership/audience for Indian poetry in English? Does such a thing exist outside English classrooms and literary circles? How much of a consideration is the readership in your poetic
process?

J.P:  India lives in simultaneous worlds of book saturation and book hunger. The audience is not my concern. The reader is a myth wrapped in a mystery. Both myth and mystery are important to me but not this one. I don’t think I know much about the reader but I will say this as an inveterate buyer of secondhand books. Indian poetry in English rarely ends up on the streets. These books stay home.

Q: Do you read, write, or translate poetry in a language other than English? If yes, how does it influence your poetry in English?

J.P: I have translated poetry from Marathi and Urdu and Hindi into English. There is nothing I do that does not go into my poetry. This encounter with language has been rewarding in so many ways, I am sometimes of the opinion that it should be a requirement for poets. And then I acknowledge that only a maniac or a demagogue would want to make rules for poets and I let the idea fade.

Q: Have you ever taught poetry in a class, at a workshop, or in an informal setting? If yes, which aspects of poetry do you think can be taught?

J.P:  I am guilty of conducting poetry workshops. I do not think poetry can be taught but it can be experienced at workshops in different and useful ways. For instance, reading one’s own poems aloud for the first time is a powerful and transformative experience. You are changed by it forever. Your inside is now outside you. Your voice has left you taking with it a soul secret. You have made your first steps into a frightening and exhilarating world. Reading a poem aloud also breaks it open for you. It sounds so different inside your head, it looks so different on the page and in the charged air between you and the person listening it becomes another thing altogether. Then it is workshopped and its flaws and failures pointed out. These may even be its strengths and you must learn to deflect theory’s slings and arrows from the defenceless word artefact on the page. What can be learned will vary from poet to poet. What can be taught will  vary from facilitator to facilitator. But the greatest workshop of all is the reading of poetry and more poetry and yet more poetry and how often we forget that. Poetry is the workshop and the product.

Q: What are your views on the poetry that appears today on such popular social media platforms such as Facebook and Instagram?

J.P: I don’t read much of it so I can’t say.

Born in Goa in 1966, Jerry Pinto is a Mumbai-based poet, novelist, short fiction writer, children’s writer and translator. His poetry includes Asylum and other Poems (2003). His first novel, Em and the Big Hoom (2012), won the Sahitya Akademi in 2016. He is the recipient of the Windham-Campbell Prize for fiction (2016). He has also written books about Bollywood, such as Helen: The Life and Times of an H-Bomb (2013), which won the National Award for the Best Book on Cinema. Pinto’s most recent work is the novel, The Education of Yuri (2022).