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Nissim Ezekiel (1924-2004) | Graziano Krätli

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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).

On Strangeness in Indian Writing | Amit Chaudhuri

By Essay, Indian Writers on English One Comment

IT is the matter of strangeness in art — what the Russian Formalist Victor Shklovsky called, almost a century ago, “defamiliarisation” — that brings me to the late Arun Kolatkar, and to a short and unique book, called Jejuri: Commentary and Critical Perspectives, edited and, in part, written by Shubhangi Raykar. Jejuri is Kolatkar’s famous sequence of poems which was published in 1976, and won the Commonwealth Poetry Prize the following year. It mainly comprises a series of short lyric utterances and observations through which a narrative unfolds — about a man, clearly not religious, but clearly, despite himself, interested in his surroundings, who arrives on a bus at the eponymous pilgrimage-town in Maharashtra where the deity Khandoba is worshipped, wanders about its ruined temples and parallel economy of priests and touts, and then leaves on a train. In some ways, the sequence resembles Philip Larkin’s “Church Going”; except that, where Larkin’s distant, sceptical, bicycle-clipped visitor “surprises” in himself a “hunger to be more serious” inside the church, the hunger to be more curious is characteristic of Kolatkar’s peripatetic narrator.

Kolatkar was a bilingual poet who wrote in both Marathi and English; in Marathi, his oeuvre is shaped by a combination of epic, devotional, and weird science fiction and dystopian impulses. In English, Kolatkar’s impetus and ambition are somewhat different: it’s to create a vernacular with which to express, with a febrile amusement, a sort of urbane wonder at the unfinished, the provisional, the random, the shabby, the not-always-respectable but arresting ruptures in our moments of recreation, work, and, as in Jejuri, even pilgrimage. Kolatkar was, in the fledgling tradition of Indian writing in English, the first writer to devote himself utterly to the transformation and defamiliarisation of the commonplace; given that Indian writing in English has, in the last 20 years or so, largely taken its inspiration from the social sciences and post-colonial history, that avenue opened up by Kolatkar has hardly been noticed, let alone explored, by very many contemporary writers. By “defamiliarisation” I mean more than the device it was for Shklovsky; I mean the peculiar relationship art and language have to what we call “life”, or “reality”. “Realism” is too inexact, loaded, and general a term to suggest the gradations of this process, this relationship, and its perpetual capacity to surprise and disorient the reader. In India, where, ever since Said’s Orientalism, the “exotic” has been at the centre of almost every discussion, serious or frivolous, on Indian writing in English (tirelessly expressing itself in the question, “Are you exoticising your subject for a Western audience?”), the aesthetics of estrangement, of foreignness, in art have been reduced to, and confused with, the politics of cultural representation. And so, the notion of the exotic is used by lay reader and critic alike with the sensitivity of a battering ram to demolish, in one blow, both the perceived act of bad faith and the workings of the unfamiliar.

Kolatkar died last year, and his death means he’s safely passed into the minor canonical status that India reserves for a handful of dead poets who wrote in English. But the present consensus about him shouldn’t obscure the fact that his estranging eye in his English work has been problematic to Indian readers. Shubhangi Raykar’s commentary was published in 1995 with, she says, “the modest aim of helping the undergraduate and graduate students in our universities”. Her book is, of course, indispensable to any reader not wholly familiar with the references to various myths and legends, especially those to do with the deity Khandoba, that recur in the poem. But there’s another difficulty, one to do with reading, that Raykar draws our attention to: “Yet another aspect of Jejuri is that it is a poem that can be fully understood and enjoyed only when the reader is able to `see’ it. Jejuri is, thus, a peculiarly visual poem. Repeated references to colour, shapes, sizes, textures of objects and many other details… are outstanding aspects of Jejuri. And yet these very aspects bewilder the students”.

Among the “critical perspectives” included in Raykar’s book is the Marathi critic Bhalchandra Nemade’s essay, “Excerpts from Against Writing in English — An Indian Point of View”, originally published in 1985 in New Quest, a journal of ideas published from Pune descended from the influential Quest, which itself was modelled on Encounter. Nemade’s opening paragraphs are fortified by a range of allusions to linguistic theory; but the nationalistic tenor of the essay doesn’t demand too much sophistication or imagination from the reader: “A foreign language thus suppresses the natural originality of Indian writers in English, enforcing upon the whole tribe the fine art of parrotry.” The typo-ridden text has “ant” for “art”, and the juxtaposition of “tribe”, “ant”, and “parrot” gives both the sentence and its subject matter an odd anthropological remoteness. Unlike the Bengali writer and critic Buddahadev Bose, who worried that the Indian writer in English would have nothing either worthwhile or authentic to say, Nemade is as interested in the realm of consumption, in the possibility of the East being a career (to adapt Disraeli’s epigraph to Edward Said’s great polemic), as he is in the validity of the creative act itself: “An Indo-Anglian writer looks upon his society only for supply of raw material to English i.e. foreign readership.” He mentions three instances of what, for him, are acts of “aesthetic and ethical” betrayal: Nirad C. Chaudhuri’s The Autobiography of an Unknown Indian, Narayan’s The Guide, and Kolatkar’s Jejuri. And the now-familiar question, still relatively fresh in 1985, is asked and sardonically answered: “What kind of audience do these writers keep in mind while writing? Certainly not the millions of Indians who are `unknown’ who visit Jejuri every year as a traditional ritual… ”

Here is the mirage of the organic community that so haunts our vernacular writers — the idea that those who write in their mother tongue are joined to their readers in Edenic, prelapsarian harmony (a myth belied by the rich disjunctions in their own writings); anyhow, Nemade doesn’t ask himself if the readership of New Quest is an extension of, or an interruption in, that community. Kolatkar’s poem he classifies as a form of “cynical agnosticism” and “philistinism”. Quoting one of the most beautiful lines in the sequence, “Scratch a rock and a legend springs”, where the narrator is noting, with evident detachment, the incorrigible way in which the apparently barren landscape generates mythology, Nemade says “he writes with little sympathy for the poor pilgrims, beggars, priests and their quite happy children at Jejuri”; instead, “Kolatkar comes and goes like a weekend tourist from Bombay”. Nemade’s a distinguished critic and writer, but this isn’t a particularly distinguished offering. Yet, it’s interesting because of its rhetoric, in the way, for instance, it uses the word “tourist”, to create a characteristic confusion between estrangement as a literary effect, and the threat of the “foreign”, with its resonances of colonial history. The aesthetics of wonder is inserted into, and enmeshed with, a politics that is partly nationalistic, partly xenophobic.

That interpreting the operations of the random or the unfamiliar in the work of the Indian writer in English is a problem beyond malice or wrong-headedness becomes clear when we look at Raykar’s notes, which give us both sensitive close readings of the poems and a great deal of enlightening information about the local references and terrain. Yet, Raykar, who is obviously an admirer of Kolatkar’s, seems oddly closed to the experience of estrangement. In fact, estrangement becomes, once more, a form of cultural distance, and the notes a narrative about alienation; a narrative, indeed, of semi-articulate but deep undecidedness and uncertainty about what constitutes, in language, poetic wonder, citizenship, nationhood, and in what ways these categories are in tension with one another. Examples abound, but I’ll give only two. The first concerns her note to “The Doorstep”, a poem short enough to quote in its entirety:

That’s no doorstep. It’s a pillar on its side. Yes. That’s what it is.

For Raykar, these lines betray a “gap between the world of the protagonist and the world of the devotees”. For “a traditional devotee”, she says, “every object in the temple exists at two levels. One is the material level which the protagonist can see and share with the devotees. The other level transforms a mundane object into a religious, spiritually informed object”. Raykar points out that this “level is not at all accessible to the protagonist”. But surely there’s a third level in the poem, in which a significance is ascribed to the mundane, the superfluous, that can’t be pinned down to religious belief; and it’s this level that Raykar herself finds inaccessible, or refuses, for the moment, to participate in.

My second example is her note on “Heart of Ruin”, the poem that precedes “The Doorstep” in Kolatkar’s sequence. As Raykar tells us — and this is the sort of information that makes her book so useful, and, since it’s one of a kind, indispensable — the poem is “a detailed description of the then dilapidated temple of Maruti at Karhe Pathar”. From the first line onwards, Kolatkar gives us a portrait of a casual but passionate state of disrepair: “The roof comes down on Maruti’s head. / Nobody seems to mind./ … least of all Maruti himself.” This is how Kolatkar catalogues the dishevelled energy of the scene, as well as his bemused discovery of it:

A mongrel bitch has found a place for herself and her puppies in the heart of the ruin. May be she likes a temple better this way. The bitch looks at you guardedly Past a doorway cluttered with broken tiles. The pariah puppies tumble over her. May be they like a temple better this way. The black eared puppy has gone a little too far. A tile clicks under its foot. It’s enough to strike terror in the heart of a dung beetle and send him running for cover to the safety of the broken collection box that never did get a chance to get out from under the crushing weight of the roof beam. Morosely, the narrator concludes — and Kolatkar’s abstemiousness with commas serves him well in a sentence in which the second half is neither a logical extension nor a contradiction of the first — “No more a place of worship this place/ is nothing less than the house of god.”

Raykar’s gloss, again, translates Kolatkar’s laconic, estranging sensibility into the neo-colonial, or at least the deracinated, gaze: “To a visitor with an urbanised, westernised sensibility it is always an irritating paradox that the almighty god’s house… should be in such a sorry state of disrepair… Hence the ironic, sardonic tone.” I think Raykar’s and Nemade’s response to the superfluous and random particular in Jejuri (comparable, in some ways, to the impatience Satyajit Ray’s contemporaries felt with the everyday in his films) is symptomatic, rather than atypical, of a certain kind of post-independence critical position, which obdurately conflates the defamiliarisation of the ordinary with the commodification of the native. With the enlargement of the discourse of post-coloniality in the last two decades, the critical language with which to deal with defamiliarisation has grown increasingly attenuated, while the language describing the trajectory of the East as a career has become so ubiquitous that, confronted with a seemingly mundane but irreducible particular in a text, the reader or the member of the audience will almost automatically ask: “Are you exoticising your subject for Western readers?”

The two poems by Kolatkar I’ve quoted from, as well as Nemade’s criticisms, remind me of a short but intriguing essay by the social scientist Partha Chatterjee, called “The Sacred Circulation of National Images”, and I’d like to end by dwelling on it briefly. Chatterjee is puzzled and engrossed by what has happened to these “national images” — for instance, the Taj Mahal; Shah Jahan’s Red Fort — as they’ve been represented in our textbooks in the last 40 or 50 years: that is, in our relatively brief, but palpably long, history as a republic. He discovers that early photographs and engravings found in textbooks dating back, say, to the 1920s, are gradually replaced in textbooks after 1947 by a certain kind of line drawing. He finds no economic raison d’�tre for this change: “Are they cheaper to print? Not really; both are printed from zinc blocks made by the same photographic process.” But the more telling change occurs in the nature of the representations themselves, as the pictures of certain monuments are transformed into “national icons”. The earlier pictures and photos, Chatterjee finds, have an element of the random in their composition — an engraving of the Taj Mahal has a nameless itinerant before it; an early photograph shows a scattering of “native” visitors before the same building; early pictures of the Red Fort or the ghats in Benaras have the same sort of “redundant” detail — a group of men, a dog — in the foreground.

As these monuments are turned into “national icons” in post-Independence history textbooks, the pictures are emptied of signs of randomness, emptied, indeed, of all but the monument itself, and a new credo and economy of representation comes into existence: “There must be no hint of the picturesque or the painterly, no tricks of the camera angle, no staging of the unexpected or the exotic. The image must also be shorn of all redundancy…” We all know what Chatterjee is talking about from our own memories of the textbooks we studied as children, from the functional but implicitly absolute representation of monuments they contained. Although the impetus behind the “emptying” of the textbook image seems partly Platonic — a nostalgia for the ideal likeness, unvitiated by reality’s unpredictability — Chatterjee places it in the context of the Indian nation-state, identifying it as the process by which national monuments are turned to “sacred” images.

It seems to me that both Nemade’s and Raykar’s literary responses to Jejuri are, with different degrees of intensity (and, in Nemade’s case, belligerence), really part of a larger discussion of what constitutes nationality and the nation-state; that the sacredness they invest in and are anxious to protect in Jejuri is less the sacredness of Khandoba and of religion, and more that of an absolute idea, or ideal, of the nation. Kolatkar’s doorstep, his broken pillars, roofs, and beams, his mongrel puppy and dung-beetle, violate that idea and its space, as I think they’re meant to, just as much as the itinerant or animal the anonymous engraver introduced into his representation was at once accidental and intentional. Defamiliarisation not only renovates our perception of familiar territory; it dislocates and reframes our relationship of possessiveness to that territory in ways that the discussion on nationality, on what is authentic and what foreign, what’s exotic and what native, not only cannot, but actually suppresses. For Kolatkar, the break that the superfluous brings about in the telos of Nemade’s and Raykar’s unstated but undeniable national narrative is a small ecstasy; for Raykar, and Nemade especially, a source of puzzlement and unease.

Chaudhuri, Amit. “On Strangeness in Indian Writing,” Literary Review, The Hindu, October 2, 2005.
Published with permission from Amit Chaudhuri.
Read Amit Chaudhuri on IWE Online
Modernity and the VernacularCritical Biography

The Other Thing | Jeet Thayil

By Poetry One Comment
The other thing I want to tell you
about my grandmother is how un-
interested she was in cooking and
how powerless she felt finally
about all that chastity. She wanted
life, but the food on her table
was always the same. She told of
Sundays past, the laughing season,
she, a wife of promise, lost.
As the magistrate’s bride 
in a small coastal town, she took
a turn away from the feast,
to end up hungry and alone.
At the end, she found
her way to glory: she said
water was too sweet,
chocolate too spicy, it brought
tears to her eyes, nothing was right,
not salt, not bread, nothing
helped, so she stopped food. She
stopped.
Thayil, Jeet. “The Other Thing,” English, Ratapallax Press, Penguin Random House India, 2003, p. 51.
Published with permission from Penguin Random House India.

Jeet Thayil

By Indian Poetry in English: Questions on the 'State' of the 'Art' 2 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.T: It was a relevant question in the Sixties. Today, not so much, except among regional-language poets who will contend that those of us who write in English are somehow inauthentic. This is an obsolete notion. There’s a reason why this questionnaire is in English. It’s the only way Indians can communicate with each other. I don’t speak Hindi, or Malayalam, and hope I never have to.

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.T: I am very much a part of the two-hundred-year-old tradition of Indian poetry written in English. I know there are poets who do not consider themselves part of this tradition, and I think it’s a pity. Even if your interest is the breaking of tradition you should know what it is, to break it better. I also consider myself part of the thirteen-hundred-year-old tradition that goes back to the first poem written in the English language, Beowulf. And there is a third tradition of which I am a part. I am an Indian poet, which makes me a modern embodiment of the tradition of Indian poetry that goes back some three thousand years to the Rig Veda,
the oldest poetic tradition of them all.

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.T: I write for myself and the poets I admire, living and dead. Classrooms and audiences come into it later, when I take it  outside. If I want to be kind, I pick poems that might amuse, entertain or delight, always keeping in mind that there are readers who will resist delight with all their might.

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.T: I read, write, think and dream in only one language, the Indian language also known as English.

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.T: I have taught in several countries and in various settings, from the classroom lecture to the graduate workshop to the online interactive course. I’ve learned a few things over the years. You can teach students how to read a poem. By this I mean the technical side, the number of syllables in a line, the way it scans and how to scan, the metrical foot and how to identify it, the paradoxical freedom of formal verse, the uses of rhyme, and so, infinitely, on. What you can’t teach is how to write a poem.

Born in Kerala, India, Jeet Thayil is a poet, novelist, librettist, and journalist. His first novel, Narcopolis (2012), was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize. His poetry collections include Collected Poems (2015) and These Errors Are Correct (2008), which won the 2013 Poetry Award from the Sahitya Akademi. He recently edited The Penguin Book of Indian Poets (2022).
Read Jeet Thayil on IWE Online
How to Be a GirlThe Other Thing

Sycorax: Prologue | Suniti Namjoshi

By Poetry No Comments
Old women do not die easily, nor 
are their deaths timely. They make a habit
of outliving men, so that, as I’m still here, 
I’m able to say clearly that when Prospero 
said he took over an uninhabited island
save for Caliban and the enslaved 
Ariel, he lied. 
     I LIVED ON THAT ISLAND. 
It was my property (at least as much 
as it was anybody else’s). He 
drove me away, made himself king, set up 
his props and bided his time. 
     Now that they’ve gone 
I may return, and ask myself, not who 
they were, but who I was and what I mourn. 
There’s greenery left, a clear stream or two, 
and Ariel, perhaps, checking his reflection 
in yet another pool. Caliban’s gone, 
went with the gods who were only men. It’s 
what he deserves. He wanted so much 
to be just like them. 
     What is my task? 
Because they’ve gone, must I go too? Take leave
of my senses one by one, or two by two? 

The good witch Sycorax has bright blue eyes 
and now she’s on her own she may fantasise.
Namjoshi, Suniti. “Sycorax: Prologue,” Sycorax: New Fables and Poems, Penguin, 2006.
Published with permission from Penguin Random House India.

‘An author has to maintain the integrity of his word and vision’ | U. R. Ananthamurthy in conversation with Nirmal Varma

By Indian Writers on English No Comments

U R Ananthamurthy: Nirmal, you write in Hindi and I write in Kannada, But I met you several years ago and then I read one or two of your short stories in translation. Then I began to like what you write generally on culture and literature. And in all your writings you have held that a writer has a particular role as a writer and should be very true to his role of being a writer in whatever he says or does. And you have always ‘demanded the maximum honesty from a Writer. For a long time if I remember, Orwell was very dear to you because of the role Orwell played in his own culture. An Indian writer in his own context, unless he has the courage to be unpopular he can’t sometimes speak the truth. So the assumption is that literature has some worthwhile role to play. I agree with you, but I have an anxiety which I want to share with you. I sometimes feel that the Indian bhashas have no future. Because all the children of the well-to-do in the middle classes don’t take the Indian bhashas in their curriculum as seriously as we did when we were growing up. After Independence, English has become more central in our educational system than when you and I were young. And when we were young at least up to the SSLC level, we used our own languages. And if you use your language in your childhood learning process, then even if you give it up later it can always be used, it is there with you. This is increasingly becoming difficult now. Even in small taluka headquarters, I find, there is this moha for the English medium. And our languages, not that they will die, but they will become kitchen languages. But people who are very backward, who can’t afford the English education, are the only ones who study through the bhashas. So there is hope that these will not die. But the more aware people, the more fortunate people are not into it, and hence what is the role that I will play in a society where for very serious purposes of life you don’t depend on the bhashas? Does this worry you?

Nirmal Varma: | think this is a genuine worry. I cannot imagine a literary work which sustains itself as a work of art, as well as something that can affect the lives of the people unless it is written in a language which is very potently rich in the references and symbols and the associations of a culture to which a writer belongs. Actually, it is through these symbols, these associations that he shares through his writing the dreams and hidden longings of the people around him. Actually, we are living in a strange and painful paradox. People who have tremendous things to say, fund of experience – of suffering, derivation, joy – do not have that literary idiom at their command through which they can express these deep emotions The small number of people who call themselves intellectual or writers or educated people, who have been given this privilege of acquiring this literary language whether in the bhashas or in English, have so totally cut themselves off from this basic what is it — what William Butler Yeats called “the emotion of the multitude”. What they say or speak or write hardly reflects those most fundamental and the deepest experiences of the people which they claim to represent, In my opinion, Indian literature has to face these two, challenges. One, it should completely do away with the burden of a foreign language like English. But more important in my opinion is that the Indian writer ought to be totally committed to the integrity of the language in which he is writing, and which in the present circumstances is being seriously compromised by various types of pressures: political pressures, commercial pressures, pressures of a technological age. The extent to which a writer, the proportion in which a writer goes on compromising with these external pressures on his language, the truth of his writing to that extent will be diluted, it will not emerge. So, it is not merely a question of English or his bhasha: it is also a question of the commitment of a writer to the language in which he is writing.

Ananthamurthy: I want to make an observation in order to understand you. This has to do with the language of the environment in which we live. Many writers writing in my language, Kannada was not their mother |tongue but they began to live in Karnataka and they began to write in the language. This must be true of many Hindi writers as well. If you don’t take to the language of your environment, there are many discontinuities. One, there is a discontinuity between my own childhood and my own adulthood because the other language is the language of my adulthood. So there isa discontinuity between me and my relations who do not know the language. There is a discontinuity between me and the multitude. These discontinuities will begin to tell upon your perceptions even, and then you may start writing for a foreign market. Literature matters when you are interacting with your own people very intensely in the language of their symbols etc. And I may add to what you have said about our own symbols A friend of mine once told me that there are 22 languages in India but there are two languages in India which are current in the whole country. These two languages are Ramayana and Mahabharata. I thought it was a profound remark. These two are meta-languages. People everywhere would use symbols and signs from these two great stories to interpret their own suffering, their own doubts, their own problems. When there is the caste question, Karna comes to mind, Ekalavya comes to mind; when there is hatred between two groups, Kauravas and Pandavas. So, in terms of everyday life these two languages have connected the country. Do you think we writers, writing in our times, have been able to affect people with anything of this impact? Do we mean something to people when they attempt to interpret their own lives? Do you think they make use of what we write? Do we become either a lamp or mirror? If you are a lamp you guide, if you are a mirror you at least show what you are. I wonder!

Varma: This is a question which Indian writers face with a greater complexity than any other writer from any other country. I think an Indian writer operates between two types of environment. Visible and invisible. Invisible, in the sense you just said, is the entire legacy of the epics. And not only that. But the cultural memory of the saint poets and the type of values that we unconsciously imbibe, not merely from poetry of the past, but from our ancestors, from our forefathers. Because they are the best transmitters of this memory for us. This operates for modern writers like us not as a direct intervention, because the pressures that are on me are the realities of the present-day environment. That is my loneliness, my consciousness of my individuality where I am a unit in amass of people, my relationship with the society, with my family and my isolation from them. This type of a modern angst — a sense of connectedness on throne hand and complete helplessness so fares my own self is concerned in the modern world. Unless these two things interact in my writing and I do not use my past merely as a cushion using myths and symbols assume writers do, which have no contemporary relevance at all. Nor can I become totally contemporary writer by forgetting and foregoing what has been given to me. How to integrate what is inarticulately present in the multitude which they are not able to articulate but which I am able to transmit through my own personal individual experiences both as an Indian, both as an individual, and both as a person living in the twentieth century. I think I have to operate, unlike a European writer, at these three levels continuously as a writer. An American or a French writer does not feel the need and does not have to be a spokesperson of the community. If they write a good novel or a good poem or paint a good painting, that is good enough for them. And I think, they are satisfied with that. I do not think this at all possible in India. Not that this is not important. I would like to refer to the theme of my novel in terms of the novel itself, in terms of its craft. But the kind of light that a novel encompasses within itself will pose so many questions to me, which I will not be able to answer even as a fiction writer, unless I am able to solve these problems, not merely on the basis of the craft, but also as a person who is an Indian living in the present time. This puts a kind of a responsibility on me as an Indian writer. To what ex-tent my art, without ceasing to be art, and without becoming a propagandist art is, able to make a connection between me and the community, that is the real test.

Ananthamurthy: A propagandist art ceases to be art, so it is not even effective propaganda. You and I write about our intense problems. Many people like you and me, modem educated people, have roots in our society but are exposed to the West, who are troubled, who readers react to. But a multitude of people, who really matter, who have a great imaginative hunger, this hunger is so very great. And J am not connected with that as a writer. Which worries me. What has happened? Popular films which draw upon the epics often assuage this hunger. But I cannot do it. I would be unauthentic. Nor can I do it in order to bring a kind of samadhan, because it becomes false, because I cannot simulate the happy endings that these films have. At the same time, any artist who is serious wants to be connected with his own people. Even if the people don ‘tread him, though that is important, but writing itself should be connecting, in the choice of your themes Hopkins wrote very profoundly about his own times, and about his own struggle, nobody read him. It does not matter. But he was connected to his times. Are we in our writing really connected with our people and our times? Is there something lacking in us? Not only that we are not popular like the matinee idols. Is our literature serious enough to be potentially a force?

Varma: But do the films of the popular cinema, with which so many people connect, ever disturb them about things?

Ananthamurthy: No.

Varma: The problem that I am trying to amplify is this. Without succumbing to this form of populism in art, an artist should connect himself and he does connect himself in the best moments of his success, not by catering to the lowest denominator. Without being self-indulgent he tries to put himself in situations where he begins to wonder about the quality of life. In other words, without becoming esoteric as an artist and without compromising with any kind of populism, an artist has to struggle to maintain the authenticity and the integrity of his word and his vision and connect it with the problems which are not the problems merely of the people, but which trouble him personally as well. If they trouble me enough and deeply enough then this will create a kind of discomfiture, anguish. This is what great art has always done. Tolstoy was a most popular artist. He was read by millions of Russians But he was a writer who posed the most disturbing questions about the kind of life Russians were leading, the darkness of their lives I think this happens in every society where the writer has to walk on the sharp edge of a razor without either falling on the side of populism or falling on the side of the self-indulgence. And yet try to make connections on his own terms rather than on the prevailing terms of morality or code of conduct.

UR Ananthamurthy and Nirmal Varma, ‘An author has to maintain the integrity of his word and vision,’ The Times of India, August 29, 1998, p. 15.
Published with permission from Sharath Ananthamurthy.

Emigrant | Ranjit Hoskote

By Poetry No Comments
Leaving, he looks out of the window,
skirting the edge of the silver wing:
a tear widens in the quilt of clouds,
through which he sees (or thinks he can)

miles below, traffic lights blinking
their green and amber arrows
as rain smears the windscreens of cars
and soldiers jump down from dented tanks.

He clutches his passport. There's no room
for back numbers in his baggage.
The clouds stitch back the widening tear
but he gropes for a towel,

feeling the cabin temperature rise
as though, miles below,
the city of his birth were burning.
Ranjit Hoskote, “Emigrant.” Vanishing Acts: New and Selected Poems, 1985-2005, Penguin Books India, 2006, p. 166.
Published with permission from Penguin Random House India.
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