Skip to main content
search
Category

Critical Biography

Suniti Namjoshi | Anandi Rao

By Critical Biography No Comments

Introduction

Suniti Namjoshi (1941–) is one of the foremost queer diasporic Indian writers in English. As Anannya Dasgupta puts it, “Namjoshi’s experience of the diaspora as an Indian lesbian puts her through a threefold marginalization so that she develops what she calls the ‘Asian perspective,’ the ‘alien perspective,’ and, later, the ‘lesbian perspective’ (22)” (Dasgupta 100). Namjoshi was born into a “highly influential Chitpavan Brahmin family of Pune” (Vijayasree 23). As a young adult she qualified for the Indian Administrative Services because it seemed to her that it was her “only chance of being somebody in my own right and gaining some independence from the family” (Namjoshi, Because of India 7). In 1969, she left her job and moved to Canada to pursue a PhD in English literature. She subsequently lived and worked in Canada for several years before moving to the UK, where she currently lives. There are two people she met in the UK whose significance is worth pointing out.

In 1978–79 during her sabbatical in the UK, Namjoshi met Christine Donald who began to “politicize” her. Namjoshi writes of this meeting in one of the autobiographical vignettes in Because of India (78), ruminating, “what isn’t clear to me is why I wasn’t influenced by Feminism earlier” (78). She goes on to say that “I hadn’t properly understood the structures of Western society, or even of my own” (78). This statement suggests that the fact that Namjoshi came to “feminism” late was due to her privileged upbringing, but also due to the fact that feminism in the West, at that time, often meant “white feminism”. The second significant person is Gillian Hanscombe, whom Namjoshi met at the International Feminist Book Fair in London in June 1984. They wrote poems to each other between 1984 and 1986, and these were eventually published in the collection Flesh and Paper (1986). Namjoshi describes this book as “a dialogue” where “two lesbians are trying to understand what kind of sense the world makes to a lesbian consciousness, and in the very process of writing are trying to deal with the fact that language creates worlds” (Because of India 113). Namjoshi and Hanscombe live together in the UK.

Namjoshi’s point about language creating “worlds” is an important one in thinking about the “worlds” she creates. These worlds are, after all, rendered in English. In an interview with Olga Kenyon, published in 1992, Namjoshi is asked about why she did not write in her “mother tongue.” Her answer is illuminating: “It may not be my mother tongue, but I was brought up speaking English, and sent to an English-medium school. I couldn’t write in my mother tongue, even if I’d wanted to, because I’ve only used it for simple conversations” (Kenyon 112). This presents an interesting paradox, an experience that is common for several Indian writers in English: English is the language one is most comfortable in, and yet it is not considered to be one’s mother tongue, despite being the language one thinks and writes in. As Namjoshi puts it in an interview with C. Vijayasree, “The Indian cultural context is extraordinarily dense, but the language one thinks in also carries with it the weight of a strong cultural tradition (and in this case a different tradition)” (Vijayasree 176). This also reflects a divide between the realm of the written and the oral. Serena Guarracino analyses this divide in relation to Namjoshi’s work in the Indian Administrative Service. Guarracino notes that

her inability to read and write in her mother tongue marks the chasm between herself and the people she deals with as Assistant Collector, forcing her to admit the schism between her oral mother-tongue, Marathi, and the languages in which she had been taught to read and write, English and Hindi. As a consequence, in Namjoshi’s early writing the unnamed mother tongue is an impalpable entity, strangled between the two master tongues of English and Hindi . . . . Quite uncommonly for the Indo-English context, here Hindi is the language of authority and exploitation (the language used with servants), while English is the language of socialization and learning: both English and Hindi are experienced as master languages, marking the privileged position not of the British colonizer, but of the Indian government official. (Guarracino 135)

I cite Guarracino at length because of the three important points she makes. First, Hindi and English are acknowledged as “master” tongues. Second, the fact that knowing how to read and write only in the master tongues marks both a position of privilege—caste, class, linguistic—but it also entails a loss, an absence. Third, this absence is an “unnamed” and “impalpable entity,” whose presence lingers in the background. It is worth bearing in mind that the position of privilege shifts as Namjoshi moves into a diasporic space where she is othered—as an Indian and as a lesbian. From this perspective she has created a vast oeuvre of poetry, prose, and other writings. In the rest of this essay, I focus on two main areas of Namjoshi’s oeuvre: her engagement with the western canon through her re-writings of The Tempest, and her engagement with Hindu mythology and the symbol of the cow.

Re-interpreting The Tempest in Snapshots of Caliban and Sycorax

William Shakespeare’s The Tempest was first performed in 1611. Since the 1960s the “colonial implications of the play” have become more and more apparent for viewers and readers (Singh 24). This has led to several postcolonial reimaginings of the play, many of which center the figure of Caliban. Most notable amongst these are Aimé Césaire’s Une Tempête (A Tempest, 1969) and E.P. Kamau Brathwaite’s poem “Caliban” from his collection Islands (1969), which focus on Caliban as the male colonized subject vis-à-vis Prospero, the European colonizer. In “Snapshots of Caliban,” published in the collection From the Bedside Book of Nightmares (1984), Namjoshi complicates this configuration by “recasting Shakespeare’s character as a Third World lesbian subject. Concomitantly, she reimagines Miranda as a desirous and murderous homoerotic figure and Prospero as the excluded and, finally, defeated patriarch” (Mann 100).

Namjoshi returns to The Tempest in her poem “Sycorax” published in a volume titled, Sycorax: New Fables and Poems (2006). In the “Letter to the Reader” that opens this volume, she describes the poem as follows: “In Shakespeare’s The Tempest, Sycorax is already dead when Prospero and Miranda arrive on the island. The Sycorax in my poem is still alive and has returned to the island after Prospero and the others have left. She is still defiant, still fierce but she knows that death is no longer so far away that it need not be thought of” (Namjoshi xi). While “Snapshots of Caliban” focuses on Caliban, Miranda, and Prospero, “Sycorax” centers around Sycorax and Ariel, and only occasionally references Prospero and Caliban (Shakespeare’s characters, not Namjoshi’s). The “Prologue” of the poem “Sycorax” is a powerful feminist critique of The Tempest:
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 fantasize. (Sycorax 1-2)

The first thing that is striking about this section is the line in all capital letters declaring that Prospero lied when he said that the island was “uninhabited.” In the next line Sycorax claims ownership of the island, following the logic of private property. Yet the text in the parenthesis undermines this and shows Sycorax’s understanding of the limitations of the (masculinist, colonialist) discourse of private property. In the subsequent lines, the speaker critiques both Ariel and Caliban. Ariel is depicted as a narcissist (“checking his reflection” in a “pool”), and Caliban as a “mimic man,” to borrow an expression coined by the scholar Homi Bhabha, or indeed as a failed nationalist, if one were to use Frantz Fanon’s analysis.

The contrast between this Caliban who “went with the gods who were only men” and Namjoshi’s Caliban in ‘Snapshots of Caliban’ is worth highlighting. Each section of “Snapshots of Caliban” is told from the perspective of Caliban, Miranda, or Prospero. Namjoshi’s Caliban in Section V of “Snapshots of Caliban” says “Some of the ‘gods’ want to take me with them. But I no longer believe they are gods. I don’t trust them” (Because of India 90). This is critique enough, but Namjoshi’s poem goes a step further with the last couplet in italics, which is not from Sycorax’s perspective. The question that we are left with as readers is which of Sycorax’s critiques and musings are fantastical? Whose voice is the italicised text? No single meaning is evident. As Vijayasree puts it, “when Namjoshi narrates her tale she does not serve the meaning on a platter to her readers; in fact she does not even believe there is a single authoritarian meaning that a writer can dictate. Instead, she leaves it to her readers to draw their own inferences and arrive at their own decoding of the texts. Namjoshi texts reveal themselves in slow degrees, gradually and gratifyingly. A reader does not work on them; they work on the reader” (Vijayasree 14 -15).

 

A Lesbian Feminist Vision of the Cow

The cow, as Ruth Vanita points out, “is one of the best-known symbols of India in the West” (Vanita 290). In contemporary India it is a symbol of Hindu India. Remarking on how growing up in a Hindu household impacted her, Namjoshi notes in Because of India, “[o]ne of the unexpected effects of being in Gill’s [Gillian Hanscombe’s] company was that I became aware of just how much I had been influenced by the Hinduism around me while I was growing up, and of the rather subtle ways in which a Hindu background rather than a Christian one shapes one’s thinking” (Because of India 112). This reflection highlights both the impact of Hinduism on Namjoshi, and also that often one understands oneself better in conversation with an “other”—or someone from a different background. In another interview, Namjoshi mentions that in “Christianity you make a difference between animals and human beings – and gods. In Hinduism you don’t have to animate animals, they already have an anima. That changes one’s attitude subtly. I find I’m sometimes talking about cats as if they were people” (Kenyon 110).

The Conversations of Cow (1985) brings together Namjoshi’s attitude towards animals through her use of the most sacred of animals in the Hindu pantheon, the cow. Vijayasree points out that “The Conversations of Cow does not belong to any known genre; it is a novella, a feminist utopian tale, a piece of speculative fiction, a lesbian bildungsroman, all in one. This erasure of boundaries between literary genres is important in the feminist enterprise of negotiating in-between spaces and creating new spaces” (Vijayasree 102). The use of the cow Bhadravati as a central figure, and as the human narrator Suniti’s partner in her journey, allows for the “new spaces” to be created and negotiated. Bhadravati is no ordinary cow—she is a “Brahmini cow,” “an immigrant cow,” and indeed a lesbian cow (The Conversations of Cow 13-14). While it is easy, based on name alone, to take the character of Suniti as a stand-in for the author, Bhadravati could also be seen as a stand-in.

Here it is worth turning to Ruth Vanita’s analysis of the cow as a gendered symbol. At first glance, she points out, the cow seems “to be definitely gendered, pointing towards woman as Goddess on the one hand and woman as exploited subordinate on the other, as well as to the image of Mother India as an undernourished, overmilked breeder” (Vanita 291). She goes on to suggest that:

However, in ancient as well as in modern texts, the cow is as often a site for ungendering as it is for gendering. In Sanskrit, the noun go means both ‘bull’ and ‘cow’; in its generic form, the word, like the English ‘cattle’, is not gendered. In the Vedas, powerful natural forces, like rivers, are figured as cows as well as Goddesses. They are not merely nurturing but also potentially dangerous, and must be propitiated. (Vanita 291)

Namjoshi’s work engages with this more complicated understanding of the figure of the cow. In fact, Bhadravati is in many ways a “stray cow” who has a “liminal status” in modern India “as simultaneously sacred and a nuisance, symbolic of motherhood yet a non-reproductive consumer,” and this, for Vanita, “enables it to cross boundaries, literally and metaphorically” (Vanita 304). This liminality is hinted at in one of the early conversations between Bhadravati and Suniti:

‘What do you live on?’ I blurt it out.

‘Welfare,’ she replies. ‘Not as good as the pickings in India. There one is supposed to be worshipped as a god, not that one is – but the climate is warmer. (The Conversations of Cow 14 -17)

The phrasing “supposed to be worshipped as a god” points to the fact that there may be a disjuncture between the ideal and the reality when it comes to life as a stray cow—one dependent on “Welfare.”

Vanita points out that “Namjoshi’s Cow is a symbol for crossing boundaries of gender, race, nationality and sexuality, because the beast trope already functions in similar ways in both Western and Indian literary traditions” (Vanita 306). Bhadravati is Baddy, B, Bud as the novel progresses, shifting genders, race, nationality, and sexuality. Indeed, at one point, when Bhadravati is Bud (seemingly a white cis man), Bud and Suniti have a conversation about men and women because Suniti believes that men are from Mars. Eventually Suniti asks, “Are you trying to tell me Men from Mars are really women?” (The Conversations of Cow 107). And Bud replies, “Yes. You’ve got it at last” (107). At first read, one might consider this a satirical take down of the self-help book Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, but this popular book was published in 1992, almost a decade after The Conversations of Cow. Either way, it seems like Bhadravati, through the many forms she takes, is trying to make Suniti see that some of her long-held assumptions need to be unpacked.

The novel’s ending provides important insight into Namjoshi’s oeuvre as a whole. Cow and Suniti tell each other that they like the other. Cow asks, “‘What? Even when I’m B or Baddy or Bud?’ ‘Even then,’ I reply. But I look at Cow and add quickly, ‘Even then I find you wholly engaging.’ We smile at each other” (The Conversations of Cow 125). Written in 1985, Namjoshi’s depiction of a happy ending for lesbian characters, where different positionalities and manifestations are welcome and not a cause for anxiety, places the author, in many ways, ahead of her time. Perhaps this is why, as Dasgupta points out, “most accounts of Indian writing in English or anthologies of critical essays on this writing either omit Namjoshi or mention her perfunctorily” (Dasgupta 101).

Published Works by Suniti Namjoshi

Fiction and Poetry

Poems. Writers Workshop, 1967.

More Poems. Writers Workshop, 1971.

Cyclone In Pakistan. Writers Workshop, 1971.

The Jackass and the Lady. Writers Workshop, 1980.

Feminist Fables. Sheba Feminist Publishers, 1981.

The Authentic Lie. Fiddlehead Poetry Books, 1982.

From the Bedside Book of Nightmares. Fiddlehead Poetry Books & Goose Lane Editions, 1984.

The Conversations of Cow. The Women’s Press, 1985.

Flesh and Paper (with Gillian Hanscombe). Jezebel Tapes and Books, 1986; Ragweed Press, 1986.

The Blue Donkey Fables. The Women’s Press, 1988.

The Mothers of Maya Diip. The Women’s Press, 1989.

Because of India: Selected Poems and Fables. Onlywomen Press, 1989.

Feminist Fables, Spinifex Press, 1993

Saint Suniti and the Dragon. Spinifex, 1993; Virago, 1994.

Building Babel. Spinifex, 1996.

Goja: An Autobiographical Myth. Spinifex, 2000.

Sycorax: New Fables and Poems. Penguin Books, 2006.

The Fabulous Feminist: A Suniti Namjoshi Reader. Zubaan, 2012; Spinifex, 2012.

Suki. Penguin India, 2012; Spinifex, 2013.

Foxy Aesop aka Aesop the Fox. Zubaan, 2018; Spinifex, 2018.

Children’s Literature

Aditi and the One-Eyed Monkey. Sheba Feminist Publishers, 1986.

Aditi and the Thames Dragon. Tulika Publishers, 2002.

Aditi and the Marine Sage. Tulika Publishers, 2004.

Aditi and the Techno Sage. Tulika Publishers, 2005.

Aditi and Her Friends Take on the Vesuvian Giant. Tulika Publishers, 2007.

Aditi and Her Friends Meet Grendel. Tulika Publishers, 2007.

Aditi and Her Friends Help the Budapest Changeling. Tulika Publishers, 2007.

Aditi and Her Friends In Search of Shemeek. Tulika Publishers, 2008.

Gardy in the City of Lions. Tulika Publishers, 2009.

Siril and The Spaceflower. Tulika Publishers, 2009.

Monkeyji and the Word Eater. Tulika Publishers, 2009.

Beautiful and the Cyberspace Runaway. Tulika Publishers, 2009.

Blue and Other Stories. (art work Nilima Sheikh). Tulika Publishers, 2012; North Melbourne: Spinifex, 2012.

Little i. Tulika Publishers, 2014.

The Boy and Dragon Stories (pictures Krishna Bala Shenoi). Tulika Publishers, 2015.

Works Cited

Dasgupta, Anannya. “‘Do I Remove My Skin?’ Interrogating Identity in Suniti Namjoshi’s Fables.” Queering India: Same-Sex Love and Eroticism in Indian Culture and Society, edited by Ruth Vanita. Routledge, 2002, pp. 100-110.

Guarracino, Serena. “Identity, Language and Power in Sunitin Namjoshi.” Muses India: Essays on English-Language Writers from Mahomet to Rushdie, edited by Chetan Deshmane. Jefferson, McFarland, 2013, pp. 134-145.

Kenyon, Olga. The Writer’s Imagination: Interviews with Major International Women Novelists. University of Bradford, 1992.

Mann, Harveen S. “Suniti Namjoshi: Diasporic, Lesbian Feminism and the Textual Politics of Transnationality.” The Journal of the Midwest Modern Language Association, vol. 30, no. 1/2,1997, pp. 97-113.

Namjoshi, Suniti. Because of India. Only Women Press, 1989.

—. Sycorax: New Fables and Poems. Penguin, 2006.

—. The Conversations of Cow. The Women’s Press, 1985.

Singh, Jyotsna G. Shakespeare and Postcolonial Theory. The Arden Shakespeare, 2020.

Vanita, Ruth. “‘I’m an Excellent Animal’ Cows at Play in the Writings of Bahinabai, Rukun Advani, Suniti Namjoshi and Others.” Gandhi’s Tiger and Sita’s Smile: Essays on Gender, Sexuality and Culture. Yoda Press, 2005, 290-310.

Vijayasree, C. Suniti Namjoshi: The Artful Transgressor. Rawat Publication, 2001.

Poems by Suniti Namjoshi
CardinalSycorax: Prologue
The author would like to thank Jhani Randhawa for their editorial support.
Copyedited by Atul V. Nair.

Arundhati Roy | Vaibhav Iype Parel

By Critical Biography No Comments
Cite this Essay

MLA:
Parel, Vaibhav Iype. “Arundhati Roy.” Indian Writing In English Online, 03 July 2023, https://indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/arundhati-roy-vaibhav-iype-parel/ .

Chicago:
Parel, Vaibhav Iype. “Arundhati Roy.” Indian Writing In English Online. July 3, 2023. https://indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/arundhati-roy-vaibhav-iype-parel/ .

Arundhati Roy was born in Shillong in 1961. After completing her schooling from Ooty, Tamil Nadu, she left home at sixteen, to study architecture at the School of Planning and Architecture in Delhi. Interested in the alchemy of words, she never pursued a career in architecture, but urban planning and architecture left an indelible imprint in the ways she designed and visualised her future work.

She started her career as an award-winning writer of screenplays. She wrote her first screenplay for In Which Annie Gives It Those Ones (1989) in which she also acted. This was a movie that discussed her experiences as an architecture student. It won her the National Film Award for Best Screenplay in 1989. Later, she wrote for Electric Moon (1992). Both these films were directed by Pradip Krishen. Roy has also written for television serials such as The Banyan Tree (twenty-six episodes), and crafted the screenplay for the documentary DAM/AGE: A Film with Arundhati Roy (2002).

Other than the Booker Prize in 1997, Roy won the Sydney Peace Prize and the Orwell Award in 2004, the Norman Mailer Prize in 2011, the St. Louis Award in 2022, and most recently, the 45th European Essay Prize for the French translation of her compilation of essays titled Azadi. This global recognition is, however, unable to blunt the edge of controversy, anger, and hate that her writing often evokes. In fact, global recognition goes hand-in-hand with the controversy and hate that her writings arouse. Her criticism of the state is misunderstood as criticism of the nation itself. This easy and politically lazy conflation – of the state with the nation – makes her an ‘enemy’ of the nation.

Roy declined the Sahitya Akademi Award for The Algebra of Infinite Justice in 2005, stating that she could not accept an award from a government whose policies on big dams, nuclear weapons, increasing militarisation, and economic liberalism she was deeply critical of in the book for which she was being awarded the prize.[1] In 2015, she returned the 1989 National Award (for the best screenplay)  in solidarity with other writers/artists to protest the rising religious intolerance in the country, as was evident by incidents of mob-lynching and the killing of rationalists. She wrote in The Indian Express, “If we do not have the right to speak freely, we will turn into a society that suffers from intellectual malnutrition, a nation of fools.”[2]

 

Fiction

In 1992, Roy started working on the draft of what would become her first novel, The God of Small Things (TGOST, 1997). It won her an advance of £500,000, and catapulted her to fame on the international literary stage when it won her the Booker Prize in 1997. Exquisitely written, the novel shows time to be a malleable  construct. Memory, passion, and history are delicately interwoven into a rich tapestry where the past and the present inform each other, while also intermeshing in ways that obscure their separateness. This is achieved by a tightly controlled narrative that allows ‘History’ and ‘history’ to intertwine. The narrative is structured around Sophie’s death; her arrival, accidental death, and its aftermath all carefully create pathways for time, the history of small things/people/events, and their memories to coalesce around intimately explored questions of childhood, poverty, exploitation, and nature.

A fiercely feminist text, TGOST, signposts the violence that is meted out by abusive husbands and alcoholic fathers, while highlighting Ammu’s inability to possess legal rights to the property as a daughter, since she had no “Locusts Stand I” (57). As Roy calls it, TGOST “is about a family with a broken heart in its midst” (Azadi, 88). Whether it be the passionate inter-caste coupling of Velutha and Ammu, the incestuous love between Estha and Rahel, or the inter-national coming together of Chacko and Margaret, the novel speaks of love in all its shades. which, however, become threatening when their effervescence spills over the boundaries dictated by the “Love Laws. That lay down who should be loved. And how. And how much” (328). The ways in which desires spill over, and the inability of the “Love Laws” to circumscribe, contain, and define the contours of desire becomes the central strand around which much of the novel revolves. The open, free, and deliberate social transgressions that we witness in the novel challenge the social status-quo in ways that remain deeply unsettling. In fact, the last chapter of the book offended purists in Kerala enough for them to bring charges of obscenity against Roy in a court. The case took a decade to be dismissed.

Roy’s deftly woven critique of Marxism impels the narrative into directions that force upon us the recognition of the nature of politics in the Kerala of the 1960s. Her criticism is particularly sharp when she equates the Inspector and Comrade with “mechanics who serviced different parts of the same machine” (262). The novel’s audacious representation and critique of institutional complicity between the state and Marxism, while remaining deeply casteist – as evidenced by Comrade Pillai’s wife who does not allow the entry of the Paravan’s into the house – is a vector of sustained narrative tension, and attracted a sharp rebuke from the Communist Party.

The Ministry of Utmost Happiness (MUH, 2017), published twenty years later, is a dense work that mirrors the social and political changes in India in the twenty years that divide the two novels. Roy clearly wanted to do something different from her previous novel. MUH exemplifies the political as personal: whether it be the Hijras in Khwabgah, or the motley cast of residents in Jannat Guest House, Roy embraces liminality as an affective position through which to view the world. Political events like the Emergency, the Godhra riots, the insurgency and counter-offensives of the Indian Army in Kashmir, the 26/11 Mumbai attack, and the Naxalite movement feature in the novel not as distant political events that frame a background, but as personal events that have real consequences like births, deaths, and executions. The suffering and joy of the characters is narrativised through the personal, and the personal is always and unconditionally the political.

For Roy, MUH is:

a conversation between two graveyards. One is a graveyard where a hijra, Anjum – raised as a boy by a Muslim family in the walled city of Delhi – makes her home and gradually builds a guest house … where a range of people come to seek shelter. The other is the ethereally beautiful valley of Kashmir which … has become, literally, almost a graveyard itself (Azadi, 152-53).

As the city becomes a character in the novel, the poorest people and the most neglected socio-political concerns shine from the margins in an idiom that renders them unforgettable. Roy repeatedly makes visible the yawning gulf between the rich and the poor. Her fiction becomes most visceral when it mimics the cold and dispassionate indifference of the burgeoning middle-class to burning issues, questions, and concerns that lie at their doorsteps, that they are surrounded by, but are effectively blind(ed) to. Her anger, as it excoriates all shades of politicians for their apathy, raises pertinent questions about the functioning of our democracy, especially with the turn in the political fortunes of the Hindu right. The challenge that Tilo faces, “to un-know certain things” (262), resonates for the reader as well. Roy’s fiction becomes a document of our times even as she narrativises the story of many official documents like affidavits and memorandums for the reader.

 

Non-fiction

Compelled by a need to communicate, she follows different rhythms when writing fiction and non-fiction, by her own admission.[3] Writing fiction is a labour of joy, where she sets herself a challenging task: to close the gap between language and thought.  The issues that inspire her non-fiction, however, evoke a more immediate response that is characterised by its urgency. She finds herself agitated, angry, and even sleepless. Roy’s first essay came soon after she won the Booker Prize. “The End of Imagination” (1998) was written as a response to India’s nuclear tests in May 1998 that were closely followed by Pakistan’s nuclear tests. Over the years, her writing has generated heated debates over questions of authenticity and expertise. One crucial example is her essay, “The Doctor and the Saint” that introduces B R Ambedkar’s seminal text, Annihilation of Caste (1936) that was published in a new critical edition of Ambedkar’s text by Navayana in 2014.

Roy was attacked for this essay by Gandhians and Dalits. On the one hand, scholars like Rajmohan Gandhi thought that hers was an unfair and biased representation of Gandhi.[4] On the other hand, Dalit scholars and activists claimed that since she was neither a Dalit nor a scholar on Ambedkar, her essay was a disservice to the Dalit cause based on inauthenticity (of her position) and lack of expertise (as a scholar). The debate, as it swirled on various media forums, took various forms – reviews, opinion pieces, open letters, and Roy’s replies to many of her accusers.[5] Surveying both sides of the debate, Filippo Menozzi argued in 2016:

In the case of Arundhati Roy’s debate with Dalit Camera, the witness is the one who is able to place oneself in the position of those who are oppressed, even if they have not lost their language, because they are living and they are able to speak. Assuming a Dalit standpoint is an epistemological act that does not aim at appropriating Dalit experience, but at becoming able to listen to Dalit perspectives by identifying with them; it is the precondition to challenging caste-blindness (“Beyond the Rhetoric,” 75; italics in original)

For Roy, then, it is her vocation as a writer – above all else – that allows her the freedom to intervene in political questions. In her essay, “The Language of Literature,” she explains how the struggle to communicate her political convictions to the widest audience possible impels her to find an idiom that is best suited to the task. She speaks of the form, language, narrative, and structure that she envisaged for non-fiction. She asks, “Was it possible to turn these topics into literature? Literature for everybody – including for people who couldn’t read and write, but who had taught me how to think, and could be read to?” (Azadi, 87). Describing these twenty years of writing non-fiction, she says, “I knew it would be unapologetically complicated, unapologetically political, and unapologetically intimate” (Azadi, 88). Her writing has remained, as she says, complicated, political, and intimate. The topics that have engaged her have ranged widely from the politics of the nation and the world, ecology, environment, dams, caste, the Naxals, to Kashmir, among others.

She wrestles with form and structure to allow an apparently seamless overlap between fiction and non-fiction. She gestures towards non-fiction being a universalised form of literature that is more open, democratic, and accessible, but one that is always inherently political. This overlap between what are considered distinct genres, is most evident in MUH. For Roy, “it would be a novel, but the story-universe would refuse all forms of domestication and conventions about what a novel could be and could not be. It would be like a great city in my part of the world in which the reader arrives as a new immigrant” (Azadi, 88). The topical political metaphor of the immigrant itself should alert us to the ways in which fiction and non-fiction intertwine in her writing.

Coming to fiction after having worked on screenplays, she wanted her novels to allow the multiple and playful interaction of image and metaphor in the mind of the reader. TGOST as Roy puts it, is a book “constructed around people … all grappling, dancing, and rejoicing in language” (23). It was after TGOST that she felt that she found “a language that tasted like mine … a language in which I could write the way I think” (23).

The opening essay of her collection, Azadi, is titled, “In What Language Does Rain Fall over Tormented Cities?” which is a line from a poem by Pablo Neruda. Here she explores questions of languages, translation, thought, and expression. The unsettled, uneasy, and constantly shifting relation between English, Englishes and other languages defines her fiction and non-fiction. While English has become the language of aspiration, inclusion and exclusion in India, and her novels are in English, the stories emerge “out of an ocean of languages, in which a teeming ecosystem of living creatures … swim around” (14). This multiplicity of languages/idioms, in turn, internally transforms English: “English has been widened and deepened by the rhythms and cadences of my alien mother’s other tongues” (9).

In her evocative words, her characters in MUH do not just use translation as a daily activity, but “realize that people who speak the same language are not necessarily the ones who understand each other best” (14). This was a language that was “slow-cooked” (23). As her characters like Dr Azad Bhartiya, Biplab Dasgupta (Garson Hobart), Tilo, and Musa begin to inhabit her mind and populate her fiction, boundaries between inside/outside, fiction/non-fiction become porous, permeable, and transparent. The Kashmiri-English alphabet becomes the final move towards creating a political idiom where the personal and the political integrally define each other, and are constitutively incomplete without each other. In a dramatic metaphor of reconstitution, she says, “I had to throw the language of TGOST off a very tall building. And then go down (using the stairs) to gather up the shattered pieces. So was born MUH” (32). Her answer to Neruda’s question – In What Language Does Rain Fall over Tormented Cities? – is “in the Language of Translation” (52).

Roy remains deeply suspicious of ‘causes’, and distances herself from titles like ‘activist.’ As she explains in an interview, this is because causes belong to everyone. Her engagement with various groups of people consciously remains an individual act that helps her to be constantly vigilant against attempts at appropriation by the establishment that may defang the critical impulse of her work. Humour in her writing allows flashes of rebellious and militant joy to erupt. Joy generates hope that adds yet another political dimension to her writing.

If writing can be a refuge and an expression of our collective rage, hope, and desire, it can also mark epistemological departures where multiple knowledges, languages, and ways of inhabiting the world intersect and interact. Roy’s writing opens for the reader critical vistas hitherto unexplored about the self and the world. With Roy, an unrelenting hope and rage are coupled with implacable courage born of the conviction that the job of the writer is to speak truth to power. In stubbornly refusing to be compartmentalised into externally imposed labels (like ‘fiction’ or ‘non-fiction’), her work exemplifies what it means to be human in the most profound ways possible. To ignore her is to ignore our humanity.

 

Primary Bibliography

Fiction:

Roy, Arundhati. The God of Small Things. Flamingo, 1997.

____. The Ministry of Utmost Happiness. Hamish Hamilton, 2017.

 

Non-Fiction:

Roy, Arundhati. The Cost of Living: The Greater Common Good and the End of Imagination. Flamingo, 1999.

____. Power Politics. South End Press, 2001.

____. The Algebra of Infinite Justice. Flamingo, 2002.

____. An Ordinary Person’s Guide to Empire. Consortium, 2004.

____. Listening to Grasshoppers: Field Notes on Democracy. Penguin, 2010.

____. Walking with the Comrades. Penguin, 2011.

____. Kashmir: The Case for Freedom. Verso, 2011.

____. Capitalism: A Ghost Story. Haymarket, 2014.

____. “The Doctor and the Saint”. Introduction to S. Anand (ed), Annotated edition of B R Ambedkar’s Annihilation of Caste. Navayana, 2015.

____. My Seditious Heart: Collected Non-Fiction. Haymarket. 2019.

____. Azadi: Freedom, Fascism, Fiction. Penguin, 2020.

 

Documentary

DAM/AGE: A Film with Arundhati Roy (2002). Last accessed 14 October 2022.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qlyZofTmUO4&ab_channel=theskeeboo

 

Interviews

“An Evening with 2022 St. Louis Literary Award Winner Arundhati Roy.” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v-SVAFgEd5g  (Last accessed 1 November 2022).

Aitkenhead, Decca. “‘Fiction takes its time’: Arundhati Roy on why it took 20 years to write her second novel.” The Guardian. 27 May 2017. Last accessed 17 October 2022.

Deb, Siddhartha. “Arundhati Roy, the Not-So-Reluctant Renegade.” The New York Times Magazine. 5 March 2014. Last accessed 3 October 2022.

 

Secondary Bibliography

Bose, Brinda. “In Desire and in Death: Eroticism as Politics in Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things.”  ARIEL: A Review of International English Literature, vol. 29, no. 2, 1998, pp. 59-72.

____. ‘A fearless antinovel.’ Review of Arundhati Roy, The Ministry of Utmost Happiness. Biblio: A Review of Books.  July-­September 2017.

Fuchs, Felix. “Novelizing Non-Fiction: Arundhati Roy’s Walking with the Comrades and the Critical Realism of Global Anglophone Literature.” Interventions: International Journal of Postcolonial Studies, vol. 23, no. 8, pp. 1187-1203, 2021.

Khair, Tabish. “India 2015: Magic, Modi, and Arundhati Roy.” The Journal of Commonwealth Literature, vol. 50, no. 3, 2015, pp. 398-406.

Menozzi, Filippo. “‘Too much blood for good literature’: Arundhati Roy’s The Ministry of Utmost Happiness and the question of realism.” Journal of Postcolonial Writing, vol. 55, no. 1, 2019, pp. 20-33.

____. “Beyond the Rhetoric of Belonging: Arundhati Roy and the Dalit Perspective.” Asiatic, vol. 10, no. 1, 2016, pp. 66-80.

Neumann, Birgit. “An ocean of languages? Multilingualism in Arundhati Roy’s The Ministry of Utmost Happiness.The Journal of Commonwealth Literature. Published online: 29 April 2021. https://doi.org/10.1177/00219894211007916

Prasad, Murari (editor). Arundhati Roy: Critical Perspectives. Pencraft, 2006.

Rajan, Romy. “Where Old Birds go to Die: Spaces of Precarity in Arundhati Roy’s The Ministry of Utmost Happiness.ARIEL: A Review of International English Literature, vol. 52, no. 1, 2021, pp. 91-120.

Ramdev, Rina. “Arundhati Roy and the Framing of a ‘radicalised Dissent.’” Rule and Resistance Beyond the Nation State: Contestation, Escalation, Exit. Edited by Felix Anderl et al, pp. 243-256, Roman & Littlefield, 2019.

St. John, D. E. “Mobilizing the past: The God of Small Things’ automotive ecologies.” Journal of Postcolonial Writing, vol. 59, no. 1, 2023, pp. 1-14.

Subramanian, Samanth. “The Prescient Anger of Arundhati Roy.” Review of My Seditious Heart. The New Yorker. 12 June 2019.

Tickell, Alex. “Writing in the Necropolis: Arundhati Roy’s The Ministry of Utmost Happiness.Moving Worlds: A Journal of Transcultural Studies, vol. 18, no. 1, 2018, pp. 100-112.

____. Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things. Routledge Guides to Literature. Routledge, 2007.

____. “The God of Small Things: Arundhati Roy’s Postcolonial Cosmopolitanism.” The Journal of Commonwealth Literature, vol. 38, no. 1, 2003, pp. 73-89.

 

Notes:

[1]https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/india/arundhati-roy-declines-sahitya-akademi-award/articleshow/1372130.cms The Times of India, 14 January 2006. Accessed 20 March 2023.

[2] https://indianexpress.com/article/opinion/columns/why-i-am-returning-my-award/ 5 Nov 2015. Accessed 20 March 2023.

[3] See https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v-SVAFgEd5g, interview with Roy where she explains her different approaches to fiction and non-fiction. Accessed 1 Nov 2022.

[4] Rajmohan Gandhi, ‘Response to Arundhati Roy’. Economic and Political Weekly. 25 July 2015, vol. 50, no. 30, pp. 83-85.

[5]  See the following to get a sense of the contours of this debate:

Bojja Tharakam, https://www.roundtableindia.co.in/without-arundhati-roy-without-anand-without-gandhi-the-book-had-its-own-value-bojja-tharakam/ 23 March 2014. Accessed 25 March 2023.

Shivam Vij, https://scroll.in/article/658279/why-dalit-radicals-dont-want-arundhati-roy-to-write-about-ambedkar. 12 March 2014. Accessed on 22 March 2023.

G Sampath, https://www.livemint.com/Opinion/dl8AvXg2PYchgE9qGogzJL/BR-Ambedkar-Arundhati-Roy-and-the-politics-of-appropriatio.html 19 March 2014. Accessed 22 March 2023

 

 

Header Image: Wikimedia Commons

Saleem Peeradina | Pramila Venkateswaran

By Critical Biography One Comment
Cite this Essay

MLA:
Venkateswaran, Pramila. “Saleem Peeradina (1944-2023): A Critical Biography.” Indian Writing In English Online, 22 May 2023, https://indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/saleem-peeradina-pramila-venkateswaran/ .

Chicago:
Venkateswaran, Pramila. “Saleem Peeradina (1944-2023): A Critical Biography.” Indian Writing In English Online. May 22, 2023. https://indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/saleem-peeradina-pramila-venkateswaran/ .

Saleem Peeradina (1944-2023): A Critical Biography

Pramila Venkateswaran

Saleem Peeradina belongs to the generation of Indian poets who began to think differently from earlier poets such as Toru Dutt and Sarojini Naidu who wrote poetry imitative of Romantic and Victorian styles. As part of what is known as the “Bombay School,” Peeradina and his fellow poets redefined their place in an India that was just beginning to come to terms with life after Independence. The consequences of a two hundred-year colonial rule had left their mark on all aspects of life—political, economic, social, cultural and intellectual. He was among a group of Bombay poets writing in English who were grappling with existential questions about the self, the environment, the existence of God, and the nature of urban reality.

Saleem Peeradina was born in Bombay (Mumbai) in 1944. He received his B.A from St. Xavier’s College in 1967, his M.A. from Bombay University in 1969, and another M.A from Wake Forest University in 1973. In 1980, he published his first volume of poems, First Offence. Peeradina’s poetry in the 1970s, collected in First Offence, shares with Nissim Ezekiel an Eliot-like crafting of language, blending English with the cadence of the regional language, and mixing colloquial with standard English. Peeradina’s distinctive style was the description of the minutiae of urban life, the ironic insight into daily moments, and locating the sublime in the mundane.

Writing about the self and exposing the foibles of society were common to intellectuals of his generation, regardless of their religious background, who were coming of age in a swiftly-changing India experiencing a newly-minted, post-Independence, constitutional democracy where every belief was examined, discarded, or retained. Like other modernist poets of his generation, Peeradina explored “both external and internal poverty and sorrow with remarkable persistence” (Paranjape 1055). In his poems, such as “Bandra,” (First Offence), we see his blending of the regional and the colloquial with standard English to capture the flavour of the everyday reality of urban India. Smells of meat in the streets and perfume from parked cars give way to “dirtheaped mohulla,” “kitchensweat guttersmell,” and the “shitmemorial lane” (Heart’s Beast 4). Combining words to create a lexicon that captures a language unique to a postcolonial culture was unique in the works of Peeradina and the Bombay school of poets. Nissim Ezekiel’s blurb on the cover of First Offence reads: “There are many ironic touches, passionate moments disciplined into clear, economical statements . . . and a frequent playfulness that I find altogether charming.” Peeradina juxtaposes poverty and modernity, “sewagewater” “thriv[ing] like a running boil” in a metropolis bursting with “shops, cafes, cinemas, churches, / hospitals, schools, parks,” as well as villas and lawns, decrepitude and beauty alike, a “versatile” “mud.”  (Heart’s Beast 3-5). In poems such as “Bandra” and “Group Portrait,” Peeradina wonders about the self in urban existence, maintaining its ironic distance from the throng and at the same time participating in city life.

After receiving an M.A. in English Literature from Wake Forest University, in North Carolina, in 1973, Peeradina returned to Bombay to teach at Sophia College, where he spearheaded the creative writing program in 1980 as part of the college’s innovative offering, the Open Classroom. In this novel space, he was able to practice his ideas of poetics, influencing young students who were becoming exposed to contemporary Indian poetry. There was a major shift in the Indian English poetry scene which began in the late 1970s and early 1980s. Poets of the Bombay School veered away from a style imitative of British Romantic poets to one that was expressive of the modernity of post-Independence India. Peeradina was a contemporary of poets such as Adil Jussawalla, Dilip Chitre, Gieve Patel, Kamala Das, Arun Kolatkar, Menka Shivdasani, Eunice De Souza, R. Parthasarathy, and Darius Cooper. In his landmark anthology, Contemporary Indian Poetry in English: An Assessment and Selection (1972), Peeradina captures the poetry of the ’70s as the decade that witnessed the shift in Indian English poetry, in voice, subject matter, form, and approaches to poetry in general. In the “Indian counterpoint of Anglo-American modernism, . . . poets in practically every language broke away from traditional (often highly Sanskritized) meters, stanza patterns, styles, materials and themes to invent ‘free verse’ poetry” (Dharwadkar 189). Each of the poets writing in English had his or her own distinctive style, which brought to the fore the versatility of English as represented by specific linguistic, formal, and topical solutions. While Ezekiel’s poems exhibit dry humor, wit, and irony, Kolatkar’s poems are musical, blending the physical and emotional landscape with the voices of the region, and present an ironic expression of the human condition. Eunice De Souza’s poems are witty and sarcastic, and Parthasarathy’s are deeply personal. In his anthology, Peeradina was mindful of the changes demanded by modernity but kept his foothold on some of the traditions that sustained his work. He expresses candidly that it is important not to follow trends but to aim towards authenticity. This was his guiding principle in the anthology. As he exclaims, “why are we so hung up about a notion that is rammed down our throats by the hegemony of critical ideas of a Euro-centric origin? Shouldn’t we, as moderns, also be questioning and disagreeing with commandments handed down to us” (An Arc of Time 100)? He challenges the blind imitation of the European notion of alienation and angst used by all the regional poets as a norm.

Bruce King observes, Peeradina was “consciously concerned with and engaged in various changes India faces in the process of modernization including the retention and modernization of traditional culture so that it does not become a reactionary feudalism when challenged by change” (351). Like his contemporaries, he “sought greater emotional room, more opportunities for a free play of thoughts and feelings . . . with greater self-assurance and lesser inhibitions (Paranjape 1056). Peeradina describes the influence that the cinema and the songs he grew up with had on his poetry. The likes of Saigal and Hemanta Kumar are his “respectable literary ancestors,” rather than any “tool pulled out of the trick bag of modernism” (An Arc of Time 100-101).

In 1988 Peeradina moved to Michigan, and in 1989 he began teaching in the English Department at Siena Heights University. In 1992, he collected the poems he had written in the 1980s in the volume Group Portrait. In “Group Portrait,” the titular poem, we are offered not just a personal experience of a whole family on a “two-wheeler” (in this case, a scooter), enjoying a weekend getaway from the city to the beaches, but also a cultural portrait. We are offered a vignette of the typical Indian household finding freedom in this particular mode of travel in a congested metropolis and experiencing the joy of being close together. The opening lines offer us an urban vignette—freedom, family togetherness, finding beauty in the ordinary and making it special, and city life versus the outskirts. The acrobatic metaphor aptly conveys the idea of balance, so necessary in this precarious journey.

Four heads on a two-wheeler
is a tight-rope dance
promising edge-of-seat
suspense to the riders. For many,
This is an everyday machine of convenience.

No performer of tricks, or expert dodger,
this forced daredevilry. (Peeradina, Heart’s Beast 46)

Peeradina shows us that the typical male is socially constructed by urban culture to become an expert at balancing the many demands in his day-to day-life. The two-wheeler becomes the synecdoche for all matters precarious in the metropolis, from work and raising a family to basic resources such as water and electricity. Peeradina combines humor with the image of the “four heads on a two-wheeler” as an example of daredevilry, which at the same time captures the performance of daily life by a family living in an urban space, which is liberating as well as precarious. The experience he describes is of the children enjoying the simplicity of the family leaving the city for the seashore: “the children race into its open arms” (Peeradina, Heart’s Beast 46). In the 1980s the notion of life in a new capitalist economy was to work in the city’s cramped spaces and find freedom for a short span of time in nature. The new “independent” locomotion, seen in the affordability of a two-wheeler, symbolises individuality in capitalist modernity.

While juggling teaching and writing, Peeradina wrote some of his most important work. He moved from the “prosaic-ironic, self-and-society castigations” (Perry 265) that Perry describes as common among Peeradina and his contemporaries, to a more personal and affective mode. Inspired by A.K. Ramanujan’s translations of medieval devotional poetry and Hindi film songs (such as the Urdu poems performed by popular singers like Mohammad Rafi), Peeradina wrote Meditations on Desire, a series of sixty-four numbered sections, which came out as a book in 2003.

During this time, he worked on his memoir, The Ocean in My Yard, published in 2005. While there is much written about Peeradina’s poetry, not much has been said about his prose, which is animated by imagery, sound patterns, metaphor, symbolism, and other devices and techniques commonly associated with poetry. The opening chapter is about the family’s praise of baby Saleem’s feet. He writes, “my feet became protagonists in outlandish adventures;” “A lifelong student of the silvered surface, I was locked into an agonizing self-scrutiny that magnified my imagined flaws;” “the feet could successfully live a subterranean existence, but what could one do with an abnormal nose” (4-5)?  Feet become the metaphor for journeying through the stages of life as a young boy, man, poet, teacher, immigrant, husband and father. Humor and nostalgia combine to produce sentences that are sonorous and precise, elements that carry over to his poetry.

In this memoir, he writes about growing up in Bandra. He looks unsparingly at the vagaries of a strict Muslim upbringing which resulted in his deep questioning of everything religious and his awakening to the hypocrisies he encountered, such as the gap between what was preached and his experiences of discrimination in the family. Peeradina describes being deeply affected by the piety he was forced to observe but which did not translate to day-to-day life, where his mother and his sister were expected to adhere to patriarchal and religious rules and the children were threatened with punishment if they did not observe them. The “terror of damnation,” central to Judeo-Christian-Islamic traditions, and his own observation of familial “public display of piety” masking “a private reign of terror” (An Arc in Time 10-11) disenchanted the young poet, turning him into an agnostic. Feeling liberated by the absence of God in his life, Peeradina found support in the knowledge he garnered from existentialist philosophers such as Sartre and Camus, and the rich intellectual life he cultivated in the cosmopolitan Bombay of the 70s and the 80s.

In “Erasing God,” the opening essay of An Arc in Time (2022), he quotes his poem, “Strange Meeting,” on the birth of his daughter as a moment that brings him close to the spiritual (14). He describes the moment of conception as a “yearning,” that attaches itself to the “flesh of its father,” aided by a force outside the human: “God alone could have sowed this urge / in the womb’s / Ancient slush. To initiate him / into the mystery / of His life-giving breath” (15). The child makes him witness “his own soul // Revealing to him the face / of a timeless love /That took his breath away” (15). Witnessing birth is the defining moment for Peeradina, where he experiences his spirituality intensely — very different from the dogma he learned as a child. His willingness to feel deeply can be attributed to his keen observation of the reality of life in urban India and his willingness to delve into “life that existed beyond the quotidian” (xv).

From his early work, we see Peeradina’s gentleness towards, empathy for, and understanding of, women. As Salil Tripathi notes in his introduction to An Arc in Time, “He writes about women as a father, a lover, a friend with a gentle tone and profound understanding. . . . His feminism is consistent” (xvii). He bridges the cultural gap between men and women by broadening his sensibility and thus expanding the beauty of his poetry.

His feminist poems are not acts of impersonation but of empathy and sensitivity. Acutely aware of how insensitive men often are towards women in general, how vulnerable and insecure women usually feel, and how unexpressed their conflicts and pains remain, he enters compassionately into the female consciousness and depicts the world (the men’s world) as a female would perceive it. (Dev 185).

Peeradina indicates in his essay, “Inner Worlds, Interior Lives,” the poet’s ability to enter imaginatively into the world of the other, “to interpret the other through the feminine consciousness. . . . You step out of the confines of your ‘self’ and discover other ways of looking and feeling. In close relationships, this is of great importance, particularly in the intimacy of man and woman” (An Arc in Time 158). We see his “feminist consciousness” operate most poignantly in “Ode to her Legs,” where he lists the ways in which women bear the burdens of society: the feet carry the weight of their work, pregnancy, caregiving, and emotional and mental burdens. The poet advocates:

think of them as pillars
That hold your world upright, that keep your days
In order. Everywhere—behind counters, desks,

Hospitals, mills, fields, factory floors;
In sweatshops, bazaars, stores, and offices—a woman
Is standing, waiting or running, her legs clocking

Miles in silence. When everyone else is off-duty
Her feet are still plodding. When there is no one else
To count on, she unfailingly answers

Your call. As for being bone-weary, you have no idea
What she endures.

He urges men to attend to the ache of a woman’s feet; feet become the synecdoche for women and all that is culturally demanded of them in a patriarchal world:

Cherish them

As if those legs were the most precious and prized
Of your belongings; as if you were under oath
To God to keep your holy promises. It may turn out

That Heaven lies underneath a woman’s feet.
Honor them as if they were—but they are–
Your beloved’s legs. (Peeradina, Heart’s Beast 130)

Conscious of “the treacherous relation between power and powerlessness as it operated behind the safety of four walls and in the wider social arena” (An Arc in Time 157), Peeradina breaks the masculine norm by presenting the modus operandi of male domination and its antidote, which is anti-oppressive behaviour. In a postcolonial India trying to find its voice against every kind of fundamentalism, patriarchy, and colonial domination, harnessing the feminist voice in men and women alike is indeed a major decolonising effort. We note his use of the imperative, as in “Cherish them,” and “Honor them,” which lends a didactic tone to the poem. He rises to the responsibility of the poet as society’s conscience keeper.

The poet’s politics of decolonisation deepened as a result of his relocation to the United States in 1988. Cultural dislocation became the dynamic subject of Peeradina’s poetry. His altered physical space contributed to the kind of turmoil most immigrants experience. His concerns were: Where do I belong and how? How do I fit in with American ways and how do I not fit in? How do I make meaning of the new kinds of experiences that now dominate my life, even circumscribe it in certain ways? These quandaries emerged for him as a father of daughters growing up in white-dominated Michigan of the 1990s, where Indians and Muslims were as alien as one can imagine.

The essay, “Giving, Withholding, and Meeting Midway: A Poet’s Ethnography,” published in Distant Mirrors: America as a Foreign Culture (1992), as well as the volumes of poetry, Slow Dance (2010) and Final Cut (2016), were Peeradina’s responses to the conundrum of the ever-shifting lines between belonging and not belonging, between desire and loss. To explore these themes further, he moves to genres other than poetry. For example, he writes in “Giving, Withholding and Meeting Midway,” about the differences between living in India and living in the American suburbia. He says, “People solemnly munch brown bag lunches in company without being the least bit self-conscious. The same scenario among Indians—an impromptu and jovial division of the spoils from bags and tiffin boxes to everyone present is undertaken” (An Arc in Time 27). Besides cultural differences, he notes the difference in undergraduate students’ attitude toward poetry as self-expression and therapy rather than a sustained engagement with the world of letters (36). In a 2015 interview for Ariel, he states:

Though not common knowledge, my essay writing has been an important part of my writing life. In Bombay, this had been central since I was a graduate student. In addition, I wrote reviews of movies, theatre, art, and of course books. I conducted interviews for print publications and later for a nascent television channel. Poetry came alongside, so I was going full throttle on several fronts (Venkateswaran 181).

During his tenure as a professor in Michigan, he published poems in journals, many of which became part of his volume Slow Dance, published in 2010. In his interview in Ariel he observes that writers are typically products of their environment and respond to it. To him, everything is a subject for poetry. “For me, writing poetry is like doing ethnography: as a poet and social commentator, I am always in the field. The gestures, products, and systems of culture are my raw material . . . . I am simultaneously witness, participant, and scribe” (An Arc in Time 300). Immigrant writers are not immune to the pushes and pulls of forces that buffet them. As a poet who is deeply cognizant of the realities of everyday life, Peeradina pays attention to his emotions in the context of his family, his community and work relations. He explains,

I am never off-duty. And while the altered states of being in a new place causes disturbances, even turmoil of a sort, for the writer it presents rich new resources. Through the heartache and spiritual disquiet, the central questions were always: How to make oneself at home? How to belong to the new community? How to understand American ways? How to give meaning to our lives? (Venkateswaran 181)

Poems such as “Michigan Basement 1,” “Sisters,” “Beginnings,” “Speculations,” and “A Sister’s Lament” draw us deep into the life of a poet who is doing the balancing act of writing and teaching while maintaining his family in the cold isolation of suburban America.

After his retirement from teaching, Peeradina published Heart’s Beast: New and Selected Poems in 2017, which maps the trajectory of his poetic oeuvre. Most recently, he has been anthologised in Future Library, published in 2022, edited by Anjum Hasan and Sampurna Chattarji.  As Adil Jussawalla observes in his blurb on the cover of Heart’s Beast, Peeradina “has kept faith with his listeners by having left himself open to varieties of response rather than to the echoes of solipsistic self-absorption” (Heart’s Beast). As the poet realises in “The Lesson,” even if we are travelling on the wings of imagination, we cannot afford to dwell someplace else. He instructs about the poetic imagination by using concrete examples of drawing the earth and the planets:

Place this sheet at one end

Of a panoramic scene and proceed to jump off the brink of our universe

Into neighboring galaxies spiraling outward, endlessly.

We have to make the journey back to reclaim the earth (Heart’s Beast 149).

Poetry is the act of taking imaginative leaps and finding our way back to the mundane. Peeradina defines his view of poetry as travelling from the inner to the outer world, “finding analogues in the visible world” to describe “one’s private concerns” (An Arc in Time 156).

Jerry Pinto, writing in The Indian Express about Peeradina’s 2017 collection, Heart’s Beast, remarks insightfully,

Peeradina never slips into the easy mode of othering, but he does not look away. This sense of unbelonging is not just a part of having a hyphenated identity. It is my contention, for instance, that everyone in India has a hyphenated identity, that segues across the blood-iron lines of caste, the crass lines of class, the cartographer’s lines on maps. Saleem Peeradina was perched on a hyphen long before he left India. (Pinto)

The sense of otherness is evident in all of Peeradina’s work; the poet’s ironic perception of himself and his world, as seen in “Body Primal,” (Final Cut 58) for example, was common among his contemporaries. The two stanzas, which are sonnet-like, mirror the disjunction between the wonder of the body and the “body lost in search of itself,” registering both the speaker’s praise and disgust for the body. Wondering about the materiality of the body, the speaker refrains from any religious inquiry, while engaging in a philosophical quest for its origins and purpose. Internal rhyme, the repetition of the “s” and “sh” sounds in the first stanza and the “l” and “ing” sounds in the second stanza, alliteration, and assonance make “Body Primal” musical, although the poem edges on uncovering the dissonance of the body. We hear and feel the disgust of the body in the repetition of sounds and assonance in “misshapen, spongy mess feeding / on ancient slime,” as opposed to the internal rhymes of “ing” suggesting sweetness, as in “body growing wings, leaping, dancing, taking off” (Final Cut 58). The poet holds the paradox of the body as beautiful and disgusting together with the harmony of sound patterns.

Peeradina’s philosophical inquiry extends into his ekphrastic work as well as his attention to the small things around him—objects, birds, and fruits. In “Exhibit A,” “Exhibit B, and “Exhibit C,” on Hiroshige’s art, his attention to the minute details of the paintings reveals his interior vision: “The figure of a wanderer // or recluse, modestly miniature drifts into the scene / Standing there to tell us…/ I am nothing” (Heart’s Beast 107). The wanderer is placed against the etching of cliffs and waterfalls, a raconteur who is paradoxically both nothing but also makes meaning of the world in which he is placed. The artist is “Everywhere. He missed nothing” (Heart’s Beast 109).

Whether Peeradina describes the flaring of the taste of persimmon on the tongue, or the calling of a crow that recalls other crows from history, everything unravels a mystery or becomes a koan. Thus, in Slow Dance (2010) and Final Cut (2016) he continues to explore the themes of the ever-shifting lines between desire and loss, belonging and exile, the need for simplicity to deal with chaos. His words in “Slow Dance,” “For me, this night blooming into day is enough” and “All I own I fit into a single bag” (Heart’s Beast 141) sum up his perception. Jai Dev observes that “Through most of his poems runs a celebration of the world and its every nuance and detail. This wondrous, celebrating love is a product of deep affection, sensitive concern and precise observation (Dev 188). His advice in “Tips on Eating With Your Hands,” can be taken for writing poetry or living one’s life: “you’ve got to stop watching / What you are doing to do it right. Loosen up, / And lose yourself in the meal” He follows his own instructions, losing himself in the journey of living and writing.

 

Works Cited

Works by Saleem Peeradina:

Poetry

Peeradina, Saleem. Editor. Contemporary Indian Poetry in EnglishAn Assessment and Selection. Macmillan, 1972.

_______. First Offence. Newground, 1980.

_______. Group Portrait. Oxford UP, 1992.

______ . Slow Dance. Ridgeway Press, 2010.

_______. Final Cut. Valley Press, 2016.

_______. Heart’s Beast: New and Selected Poems. Copper Coin, 2017.

 

Prose:

Peeradina, Saleem. The Ocean in My Yard. Penguin, 2005.

___________. An Arc in Time. Copper Coin, 2022.

 

Works about Saleem Peeradina:

Dev, Jai. “The Poetry of Saleem Peeradina.” Journal of South Asian Literature, vol. 22, no. 2, 1987, pp. 185-189, JSTOR, https://www.jstor.org/stable/40872974

Dharwadkar, Vinay, and A.K. Ramanujan. Editors. The Oxford Anthology of Modern Indian Poetry. Oxford UP, 1994.

Hasan, Anjum and Sampurna Chattarji. Editors. Future Library: Contemporary Indian Writing. Red Hen Press, 2022.

King, Bruce. “Book Reviews.” Journal of South Asian Literature, vol. 26, no. 1/2, 1991, pp. 351–55. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/40873259 . Accessed 4 Sep. 2022.

Paranjape, Makarand. “Post-Independence Indian English Literature: Towards a New Literary History.” Economic and Political Weekly, vol. 33, no. 18, May 2-8, 1998, pp. 1049-1056.

Perry, John Oliver. “Contemporary Indian Poetry in English.” World Literature Today, Spring, 1994, vol. 68, no. 2, pp. 261-271. http://www.jstor.com/stable/40150140 .

Pinto, Jerry. “Perched on a Hyphen.” Indian Express. 17 June 2017,  https://indianexpress.com/article/lifestyle/books/perched-on-a-hyphen-4707811/. Accessed 4 Sep., 2022.

Venkateswaran, Pramila. “A Living Legacy: An Interview with Saleem Peeradina.” Ariel: A Review of International English Literature, vol. 46, no. 3, 2015, pp. 179-193, https://journalhosting.ucalgary.ca/index.php/ariel/article/view/35789. Accessed 4 Sep. 2022.

Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni | Nalini Iyer

By Critical Biography No Comments
Cite this Essay

MLA:
Iyer, Nalini. “Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni.” Indian Writing In English Online, 08 May 2023, https://indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/chitra-banerjee-divakaruni-nalini-iyer/ .

Chicago:
Iyer, Nalini. “Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni.” Indian Writing In English Online. May 08, 2023. https://indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/chitra-banerjee-divakaruni-nalini-iyer/ .

Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni is a prolific and a popular South Asian American writer. Her works combine storytelling and social justice with a focus on immigrant rights, gender, citizenship, and belonging. In a blog post on her author website, Divakaruni writes: “Sometimes I’m asked if I would have become a writer if I hadn’t moved to the United States. I don’t know the answer to that question. I do know, though, that I couldn’t have written the same kinds of stories, hybrids born out of the melding of the Indian and American cultures”(https://www.chitradivakaruni.com/blog/2013/7/7/america).  Divakaruni who is a poet, novelist, activist, and academic was born in Kolkata on July 29, 1956. After receiving a B.A. from the University of Calcutta, she moved to Wright State University in the United States for an M.A. She  completed her Ph.D. from the University of California at Berkeley in 1985. She has taught at several American colleges and universities and is currently the McDavid Professor of Creative Writing at the University of Houston in Texas. As an activist, she is the founder of Maitri, an organization in San Francisco that supports women who are victims of domestic violence. She also serves on the board of Daya, a Houston based organization that does similar work. Her literary works have won several awards including the American Book Award  (1996), the PEN Josephine Miles award (1996), and she has been shortlisted for the Orange Prize (1997).

Divakaruni’s work is shaped by her experiences as an immigrant woman, and many of her works focus on how women navigate the trials and tribulations of the immigrant experience. She also depicts strong women characters who overcome adversity and establish life pathways for themselves. In recent years, she has turned to reworking Indian mythology and history from the perspective of women and thus her The Palace of Illusions (2008) retells the Mahabharata from Draupadi’s perspective, and the The Forest of Enchantment (2019) presents the Ramayana from Sita’s viewpoint. Her most recent novel, The Last Queen (2021), tells the story of Jindan, the youngest wife of Maharajah Ranjit Singh and her struggle against the British Empire while serving as a regent who protected her young son’s rights.

 

The Immigrant Experience:

Like many middle-class and upper-caste Indians who emigrated to the United States, Chitra Divakaruni also arrived there as a graduate student. In 1965, the United States passed the Immigration and Nationality Act which provided opportunities for educated Indians to study and work in the United States. While such  changes in the law benefited many in the technical and scientific fields, there were people who also pursued studies in the Humanities like Divakaruni. Her first publication was a poetry collection Black Candle (1991) that  garnered praise for its South Asian metaphors and images. For example, in “The Garba” set during the Navaratri, “Light glances/off the smooth wood floor of the gym/festooned with mango leaves/flown in from Florida” (43), the poet simultaneously invokes the nostalgia and displacement of the diasporic subject. Some of the poems were inspired by the art and film of others. For example, “The Rat Trap” was inspired by Adoor Gopalakrishnan’s film Elipathayam  and “Two Women outside a Circus, Pushkar” was influenced by one of Raghubir Singh’s photographs. Her second collection Leaving Yuba City (1997) is notable for its final sequence of poems in which Divakaruni tells the stories of the early Sikh immigrants to the Imperial Valley in California. Her poignant poems speak to the loneliness of the immigrant men who were either single or had left their wives behind. She writes of the bewilderment of the women who arrive years later to find their husbands changed, of young men whose interracial marriages to Mexican women transformed their everyday lives, and of the daughters of the early immigrants who struggled to escape strict homes. These poems frame lyrical narratives in the context of the lesser-known history of South Asians in the Pacific Coast.

 

Divakaruni’s first work of fiction was Arranged Marriage (1995), a collection of eleven women-centric stories that focused on urgent topics such as domestic violence, the  isolation of immigrants, and the stigma of divorce. Divakaruni’s stories in this collection are notable for raising awareness about violence within immigrant families that are exacerbated by the challenges of migration. In the 1990s her fiction addressed topics that were relatively underexplored in South Asian American writing. Divakaruni’s  first important novel The Mistress of Spices (1997) marks her shift from the realist mode of her debut short stories to a melding of realism and fable. Her protagonist Tilo has magical healing powers and arrives in a spice store in San Francisco, where her customers share their stories of struggle and she offers them spices that give them solace. She falls in love with a Native American man, Raven, and in committing to him breaks the code for spice mistresses. Her choice between conformity to the mistress’s code and autonomy mirrors the struggles of her clients. The narrative is thus a celebration of Tilo’s  autonomy. Scholars like Inderpal Grewal have critiqued the novel’s dismissal of the violence of the spice trade and its embrace of an American vision of multicultural solidarity by “producing ethnic identity through exotic difference” (Grewal 76). However, as I have argued elsewhere, the spice store setting shows Divakaruni’s understanding of that violent history and traces its continuity in current times as an exotic grocery store in the Bay area where, ironically, the customers unaware of the history of the spice trade are nevertheless experiencing racism, alienation, and prejudice that trace their roots to that colonial trade (Singh et al., 7).

Divakaruni’s depiction of the immigrant experience takes a significant turn after 9/11 when she begins documenting the struggles of South Asian immigrants in the United States in the new racialized regime with intensified Islamophobia. In an essay she published in the LA Times, Divakaruni writes about how 9/11 led to her displaying an American flag in her home because she cherished American values of liberty, equality, and justice and notes also that immigrants like her are always viewed with a suspicious lens (https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-2001-oct-21-op-59757-story.html). In Queen of Dreams (2004), she once again works with magical realism as she had done in The Mistress of Spices. Rakhi, her protagonist, the child of Indian immigrants, is distanced from her mother who had the ability to interpret and experience the dreams of others. In exploring her mother’s dream journals after her death, Rakhi learns much about her family history. When 9/11 shatters Americans’ sense of security and invulnerability, Islamophobia dramatically increased in the United States. There were many violent attacks on South Asian immigrants, including Sikhs, who were misidentified as the Taliban. This rise in violence shattered many immigrants’ ‘American Dream.’ Rakhi’s child who has inherited her grandmother’s ability to interpret and experience dreams struggles with her nightmares about burning buildings. Rakhi and her friend Belle witness violence against their Sikh friend who is mistaken for a Muslim. Their café and restaurant, like Tilo’s spice store, become a space for community and solidarity for immigrants of color.

In Oleander Girl (2013), Divakaruni once again explores the impact of 9/11 on Indian immigrants when her protagonist, Korobi, visits from Calcutta to search for her father whom she had believed dead. Using her family’s wealth and business connections, Korobi embarks on a search for her father. Her quest takes her from New York to California. Korobi, who has been raised in a wealthy Calcutta family, and is about to marry into a wealthier one, has a limited understanding of race and racism. She has experienced prejudice in India for her dark skin, and in her travels in the United States, she learns of the hardships and racism that Indians have experienced in post 9/11 America. She witnesses domestic violence and marital breakdown due to racism in the lives of the Mitras, the couple who host her in New York. The Mitras manage an art gallery for the Boses, Korobi’s prospective in-laws, and the attacks on their business threatens their economic stability and also that of the Bose family. She undertakes a road trip to meet her father and is surprised to learn that he is Black. Her assumption as a child was that her American father was white, and her discovery that she is half-Black leads to a recalibration of her identity and her experiences with colorism. In meeting her father, she learns about her parents’ romance but little about her father’s experience of race as a Black man. She understands that the rejection of her father by her grandparents and the subsequent secrets about her birth reflect an intertwining of anti-Black racism with both caste and colorism in India. The novel undermines the popular idea of Indian Americans as upwardly mobile and wealthy professionals. Through the story of the Mitras and of Vic, a working-class Indian American man, Divakaruni challenges the model minority myth. However, when Korobi returns to India to marry Rajat Bose, she seems to set aside her African-American heritage and fully embrace her Indian identity. Thus, while Divakaruni draws a connection between the experiences of racism in the US and the anti-Black views in India, the novel’s ending emphasizes Korobi’s re-assimilation into her wealth and privilege.

Reworking Myth and History:

In recent years, Divakaruni has shifted the focus of her fiction to Indian myth and history. As a feminist writer, she seeks to recover lost or marginalized women’s voices through fictionally reimagining well-known narratives from women’s perspective. Her The Palace of Illusions (2008) rewrites the Hindu epic, The Mahabharata, from the perspective of Paanchali (Draupadi). She presents Paanchali’s story of birth, her marriage to five brothers, her deep involvement in her husbands’ quest for their lost kingdom, and her relationship with Lord Krishna. In The Forest of Enchantments (2019), Divakaruni retells The Ramayana from Sita’s perspective. Framed as a feminist retelling, the novel not only makes Sita the protagonist, it also highlights and reworks perspectives on other female characters including Surpanakha (Ravana’s sister), Mandodari (Ravana’s wife), and Sunaina (Janaka’s wife). Divakaruni’s retelling of the Hindu epic participates in the long tradition of retellings, what Paula Richman has called “many Ramayanas,”(9) through which the epic is kept alive. Divakaruni portrays Sita as a warrior princess who is skilled in archery and also as a healer and an eco-feminist. Drawing not just from Valmiki’s Ramayana but also from Krittibas, Kamban, Adbhuta Ramayana, and Jaina traditions, Divakaruni remains focused on not just the greatness of Rama but the role of the women in his life. Kaikeyi is portrayed with compassion and Lakshmana’s wife Sumitra as one devastated by his decision to exile himself with his brother. In her retelling, Divakaruni also suggests the possibility that Sita is the child of Mandodari and Ravana who is abandoned by her parents because her birth foretells the doom of her father and thus hints at an incestuous relationship between Ravana and Sita. Divakaruni imagines the everyday life of Sita as Queen when she returns to Ayodhya and needs to resurrect a household that has been neglected for many years. She also explores palace intrigues in great detail and adds in the human dimension to a narrative that is often read as divine.

In The Last Queen (2022), Divakaruni returns once more to a Queen whose story, like Sita’s, has been overshadowed by that of her warrior husband. Jindan, the youngest wife of Maharaja Ranjit Singh, is the center of this narrative and Divakaruni writes of the King’s courtship of the young daughter of one of his employees, a keeper of horses. The teenage Jindan falls in love with a much older king and the marriage occurs by proxy when the girl marries Ranjit Singh’s sword because he is absent, being at a war. The courtship of Ranjit Singh and Jindan is portrayed as in any contemporary romance novel, and as with The Forest of Enchantments, much narrative energy focuses on palace intrigues—power plays amongst queens and concubines, poisonings, household factions and so on. Once Ranjit Singh dies, Jindan finds herself and her baby son in danger. But with clever political maneuverings she becomes the regent when her child, Dalip, is installed as Ranjit Singh’s heir. When the Sikh Empire falls to the British, Dalip is sent to England as the ward of Queen Victoria and his mother is imprisoned. She tricks her way out of prison and makes a harrowing journey to Nepal where she is at first welcomed and offered refuge, and later despised for her politics. The narrative traces her reunification with her anglicized adult son, and her eventual death. The novel is both a critique of how women’s roles in politics are overlooked by historians and an examination of the British destruction of the mighty Sikh Empire. Although The Forest of Enchantments rewrites an epic and The Last Queen draws on a historical figure, the narratives depict the women protagonists similarly—beautiful, clever, able to manipulate palace intrigues, and sexually empowered. Such similarities in character development render these women almost anachronistically contemporary and framed by second-wave American feminism as developed by critics such as Sandra Gilbert, Susan Gubar, Elaine Showalter, among others. Second-wave feminists focused on recovering the works of overlooked women writers (Showalter) and in understanding Victorian women writers and their female characters (Gilbert and Gubar). Thus, Divakaruni’s feminist depictions run the risk of what Chandra Mohanty identified in “Under Western Eyes: Feminist Scholarship and Colonialist Discourse”—the production of a monolithic “third world woman” (51, Indian woman in Divakaruni’s case), and producing feminist knowledge about India using Western strategies and analytic categories. This alignment with second-wave feminism makes Divakaruni popular with North American readers.[1]  By foregrounding women of color in her fiction and for telling stories of their struggles against a stereotypical Indian patriarchy, Divakaruni’s writing aligns with the North American publishing market’s drive for diversity in their lists.

Divakaruni’s most recent novel is Independence (India, 2022; United States, 2023) in which she tells the story of three sisters—Deepa, Priya, and Jamini—and their quest for autonomy set against the backdrop of Indian independence and Partition. Using brief epigraphs to sections of the book, she gestures toward the larger political issues such as the Radcliffe line or Gandhi’s satyagraha movement. She also examines the Partition’s impact on the lives of the three sisters and their mother. The family loses the father in the violence following Direct Action Day in 1946 in Calcutta and experiences growing poverty in their small rural community. As they strive to make ends meet, they are helped by an avuncular local wealthy man, and each sister forges her own path. Deepa elopes with a Muslim doctor and moves to Dhaka; Jamini struggles with her disability and her unrequited love for Amit, her sister Priya’s fiancé; and Priya is forced to choose between her aspirations to study medicine in Philadelphia and her impending marriage to Amit. Sisterly relationships, women’s struggle for autonomy, the challenges of living in a patriarchal society are the themes that are echoed from Divakaruni’s prior fiction. The sections outlining Priya’s life as a medical student in the 1940s in America is reminiscent of Divakaruni’s ongoing interest in pre-1965 Indian immigrant history demonstrated by her Yuba city poems. As a historical novel, Independence is noteworthy for its focus on the Bengal partition and the political challenges in East Pakistan that eventually led to the formation of Bangladesh.

 

The first anthology of criticism, Critical Perspectives on Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni: Feminism and Diaspora, was published in 2022.  It contains 12 critical interviews on a range of Divakaruni’s work and 3 reprinted interviews as well as a substantive introduction by the editors. In the scholarly works published on Divakaruni, certain novels predominate, and these include The Mistress of Spices, Queen of Dreams, and The Palace of Illusions. Much of the scholarship examines themes of diaspora, displacement, feminism, and women’s empowerment. Divakaruni herself  maintains an author website www.chitradivakaruni.com that is a useful resource for her readers.

Chitra Divakaruni is an important voice in South Asian diasporic fiction. She explores a range of forms and techniques in her writing- from poetry and essays to realist short fiction, magic realism, and historical fiction. As a feminist writer, she has (along with Bharati Mukherjee and Jhumpa Lahiri) foregrounded the experiences of Indian middle-class women with immigration, alienation, family struggles, and racism. Her focus on women overcoming hardships and finding autonomy offers a hopeful approach to the challenges of diasporic living. Divakaruni has contributed significantly to the mainstreaming of South Asian American voices in the realm of ethnic literature in the United States.

Primary Texts

Divakaruni, Chitra Banerjee. Black Candle. Calyx Books, 1991.

—. Arranged Marriage. Anchor, 1995.

—. Leaving Yuba City. Deckle Edge, 1997.

—. The Mistress of Spices. Anchor, 1997.

—. Queen of Dreams. Doubleday, 2004.

—. The Palace of Illusions. Anchor, 2009.

—. Oleander Girl. Simon and Schuster, 2013.

—. The Forest of Enchantments. Harper Collins, 2019.

—. The Last Queen. Harper Collins, 2021.

—. Independence. William Morrow, 2023.Selected Bibliography on Divakaruni

Buley-Meissner, Mary Louise. “Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni: A Bibliographic Review of Resources for Teachers.” Asian American Literature: Discourses & Pedagogies, vol. 1, no.7, 2010, pp. 142-153.

Erney, Hans-Georg. “Draupadi Returns with a Vengeance.” Journal of Postcolonial Writing, vol. 55, no.4, 2019, pp. 486-497.

Grewal, Inderpal. Transnational America: Feminisms, Diaspora, Neoliberalisms. Duke UP, 2005.

Iyer, Nalini. “Embattled Canons: The Place of Diasporic Writing in Indian English Literatures.” Other Tongues: Rethinking the Language Debates in India, edited by Nalini Iyer and Bonnie Sue Zare, Rodopi/Brill, 2009, pp. 3-21.

Rasiah, Dharini. “Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni.” Words Matter: Conversations with Asian American Writers, edited by King-Kok Cheung, U of Hawaii P, 2000, pp.140-153.

Shankar, Lavina Dhingra. “Not too Spicy: Exotic Mistresses of Cultural Translation in the Fiction of Chitra Divakaruni and Jhumpa Lahiri.” Other Tongues: Rethinking the Language Debates in India, edited by Nalini Iyer and Bonnie Sue Zare, Rodopi/Brill, 2009, pp. 23-52.

Singh, Amritjit, Robin E. Field, Samina Najmi, editors. Critical Perspectives on Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni: Feminism and Diaspora. Lexington Books, 2022.

Works Cited

Gilbert, Sandra, and Susan Gubar. The Madwoman in the Attic: The Woman Writer and the Nineteenth Century Imagination. Yale UP, 1980.

Mohanty, Chandra Talpade. “Under Western Eyes: Feminist Scholarship and Colonial Discourses.” Boundary 2 , vol.12, no. 3, 1984, pp. 333-358. Richman, Paula. Many Ramayanas: The Diversity of a Narrative Tradition in South Asia. U of California P, 1991.

Showalter, Elaine. Sexual Anarchy: Gender and Culture at the Fin de Siècle. Viking, 1990.

 

[1] Actual data on point-of-sale numbers for books is only accessible to publishers. Mistress of Spices was reviewed in the New York Times and was on their bestseller list. Her latest, Independence, received starred reviews from Publishers Weekly and Booklist. Her One Amazing Thing made it to citywide reading programs in nine American cities and was on all “campus-reads” programs on twenty-three college campuses.

Edited by: Sreelakshmy M

Aravind Adiga | Ulka Anjaria

By Critical Biography No Comments
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

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.

R.K. Narayan | Subarna Mondal

By Critical Biography One Comment
Cite this Essay

MLA:
Mondal, Subarna. “R. K. Narayan.” Indian Writing In English Online, 21 Oct 2022 , https://indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/r-k-narayan-subarna-mondal/.

Chicago:
Mondal, Subarna. “R. K. Narayan.” Indian Writing In English Online. October 21, 2022. https://indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/r-k-narayan-subarna-mondal/.

Rasipuram Krishnaswami Iyer Narayanaswami (1906-2001) is one of the three most prominent Indian novelists in English (the other two being Raja Rao and Mulk Raj Anand) in late colonial and early post-colonial India. Born on the 10th of October, 1906, in Madras, Tamil Nadu, in British India, Narayan studied in the Maharaja College of Mysore, and worked as a school teacher for a brief span of time before writing his first novel Swami and Friends in 1930.

It is in his very first novel that Narayan creates his famous Malgudi, a fictional town in Southern India that forms a constant setting for all his fifteen novels and most of his six short story collections. Malgudi as a literary space evolves with Narayan’s writings and his life: from a sleepy little town of Swami and Friends, it gradually grows to become a more settled space where the middle-class populace resides and socialises in The Bachelor of Arts (1937) and The English Teacher (1945). These three semi-autobiographical works reflect Narayan’s perception of his surroundings that gradually changes with time. From cricket matches to disrupted friendships, from the heady days of youth to a settled happy married life to the loss of his beloved wife – Narayan’s Malgudi, in this trilogy, charts the most turbulent years of his life.

Malgudi also traces the changing lives of a populace that was coping with and reacting to a succession of baffling fluctuations. While Narayan’s trilogy along with The Dark Room (1938) and Malgudi Days (1942) are set in a colonial space where the freedom movement is in full swing, The Financial Expert (1951), Waiting for the Mahatma (1955), The Guide (1958), The Man-Eater of Malgudi (1961), and The Vendor of Sweets (1967) are written at a crucial juncture of Indian history when the nation, like the fictitious Malgudi, is a newly (re)invented place, a hastily constructed melting pot of Indian and English milieu that the countrymen had to come to terms with.

In fact, during Narayan’s most prolific phase, India was going through major political and economic crises. Food scarcity, rising population, a listless economy, poor infrastructure, and four successive wars–World War II that ended in 1945, India’s war with China in 1962, and two consecutive wars with Pakistan in 1965 and 1971 brought about an all-pervading gloom that eclipsed the initial euphoria of the post-independence years. Going against the tendency of his contemporary authors to brood over the prevailing conditions, Narayan continued to write of the everyday existence of ordinary Indians in his own ingenious comic ironic tone that rarely verged on being acerbic – a tendency which also earned him much caustic criticism. While Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak criticises his cultural compliance to an indifferent international reading class in An Aesthetic Education in the Era of Globalization (2012), Shashi Tharoor does not spare Narayan in a deferred obituary published in The Hindu where he mentions “the banality of Narayan’s concerns, the narrowness of his vision, the predictability of his prose, and the shallowness of the pool of experience and vocabulary from which he drew” (2001). Undoubtedly, his scope was limited and he refrained from an outright censure of British rule, except in Swami and Friends and Waiting for the Mahatma. According to Paul Brians  this itself was a deliberate political stance that Narayan had adopted as a form of silent resistance against the colonial regime (60). He concentrated on the daily oddities of Malgudi-dwellers, their professions, their leisure, and their love for folklore and mythology.

Folklore and mythic stories formed a significant part of Narayan’s childhood as he was brought up by his grandmother who provided him with a healthy dose of the magic of fables. This love for tales that were simple yet fantastic is perhaps what made him dare to choose a difficult and an unconventional career during 1930s: that of a writer. Further, the decision to write in English made him confront the added problem of dealing with Western readers whose minds were already swarming with images of sadhus, and cobras, and black magic when it came to visualising his country. It is this challenge which Narayan met with considerable success. As Olivia Manning states in The Spectator:

From Sirajudowlla to the curious monsters of Mother India, the Indian male has been presented to the British female as a tyrannical horror, a nightmare in the home. Mr. Narayan has changed him for us into a human being (qtd. in Imaging Malgudi, Ahluwalia 1).

The long-held extreme views of torture, violence and villainy that most Indian men were attributed with by the East India Company’s collective memory smarting in the aftermath of the Sepoy Mutiny were furthered by contemporary issues such as child marriage, female infanticide, and Sati. Narayan, to some extent, mitigated this stereotypical image by humanising India through Malgudi. Narayan’s popularity in the West is based on his ability to depict the people of this newly independent country in all their diversity, inhabiting a society which is complex and multi-layered.

Narayan’s first three novels – Swami and Friends (1935), The Bachelor of Arts (1937), and The Dark Room (1938) were all published in London, with the help of his friend and admirer Graham Greene (1904-1991). Swami and Friends, the first novel in his semi-autobiographical trilogy is about Swaminathan, a six-year-old boy and his gradual evolution as he journeys as a student from Albert Mission School to the indigenous Board School. From fascination for cricket and an internalising of British values and education to an understanding of how deeply attached he is to his grandmother and her tales, Swami and Friends is a bildungsroman where the protagonist after his brief encounter and awe of everything British, realises that he cannot resist the pull of his own culture and his own roots. Swami’s English-learning experiences and those of witnessing the Indian freedom struggle are straight out of Narayan’s own life (My Days, Narayan 1974). The novel may well be an autobiography of any reader belonging to Narayan’s generation growing up under similar bewildering circumstances, oscillating between two different worldviews.

In Swami’s outburst against Christian teachings and his consequent expulsion from Albert Mission and his subsequent admission to the Board School of Malgudi, in his realisation of cricket and its values as a meaningless charade, in his oscillation between a choice of losing his friend Rajam and being true to his newly found belief, are rooted the basic dilemmas of an adolescent Indian male and his responses to colonialism. This dilemma is well-expressed in Narayan’s use of the English language in this work. The author’s use of Standard English Language with a third person narrator proceeds along with the characters’ use of English with a distinct Indian hue giving the readers a taste of Indian English.

The Bachelor of Arts continues the semi-autobiographical account of the author. In Chandran’s tale one finds a depiction of Narayan’s journey from the adolescent restlessness of Swaminathan in Swami and Friends to the restraint and maturity that Krishna strives for and ultimately achieves in The English Teacher. Sharing apparent similarities with “Araby” in Joyce’s Dubliners (1914), The Bachelor of Arts has a tongue-in-cheek approach to a coming-of-age novel. Chandran, the protagonist, falls in love with Malathi at first sight and is determined to overcome the narrow age-old customs of caste and class to marry her, as he ponders,

[s]uppose, though unmarried, she belonged to some other caste? A marriage would not be tolerated even between sub-sects of the same caste. If India was to attain salvation these watertight divisions must go–Community, Caste, Sects, Sub-sects, and still further divisions. He felt very indignant. He would set an example himself by marrying this girl whatever her caste or sect might be (1978, 97-98).

Failing to acquire the love of his life, Malathi, (whose opinion or voice we do not hear even once in the entire novel) for differences in horoscope, Chandran leaves home, feigns to be a sannyasi, survives by begging in a distant village, then comes to his senses, and returns to Malgudi. Much in the spirit of “Araby”‘s profound conclusion “Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity” (Dubliners, 38), Chandran’s deep understanding of life is stated thus:

Long after the babble of the crowd on the sands had died, and darkness had fallen on the earth, Chandran’s voice was heard, in tune with the rumble of the flowing river, narrating to Mohan his wanderings. He then explained his new philosophy, which followed the devastating discovery that Love and Friendship were the veriest illusions. He explained that people married because their sexual appetite had to be satisfied and there must be somebody to manage the house. There was nothing deeper than that in any man and woman relationship (198).

However, his first sight of Susila dispels all his dark opinions on the institution of marriage and shatters all his resolutions of remaining a celibate for life:

At this moment the girl slightly raised her head and stole a glance at Chandran. He saw her face now. It was divine; there was no doubt about it. He secretly compared it with Malathi’s, and wondered what he had seen in the latter to drive him so mad…. For the rest of the journey the music of the word “Susila” rang in his ears. Susila, Susila, Susila, her name, music, figure, face, and everything about her was divine. Susila, Susila- Malathi, not a spot beside Susila; it was a tongue twister; he wondered why people liked that name (258).

Thus ends a realistic comic-ironic depiction of a bachelor’s adventure, an adventure only to be taken up later by Krishna in The English Teacher. However, Chandran’s desire for love marriage and his refusal to succumb to the dictates of astrology, suggest the beginning of a generation that was attempting to step out of the traditional kinship networks so important in the Indian marriage market. As he raves at his mother, “To the dust-pot with your silly customs” (118).

The Dark Room, on the other hand, is an exploration of this same marital institution from the perspective of a woman. The most uncharacteristic of Narayan’s work, The Dark Room is a bitter tale of a disillusioned housewife, Savitri, who walks out on her philandering husband only to return to the confines of the same stifling household, burdened with the realisation that she will never be able to transcend the fear of being a lonely working woman for life. Unlike his other works, Narayan does not conclude this novel on a note of peaceful acceptance of the vicissitudes of life – a factor responsible for Narayan’s popularity amongst critics of the West – as rightly pointed out by Teresa Hubel in (114). The Dark Room offers us no consolation. Savitri remains lonely at the end. But she nevertheless realises the futility of trying to live up to her name – Savitri – the mythical archetypal woman of the Mahabharata, a figure exploited by the nationalist patriarchs of the time to safeguard the image of a selfless Indian woman readily sacrificing herself at the altars of a patriarchal society.

William Walsh detects a note of hysteria in this work of Narayan. He considers The Dark Room a “much less appealing one … It shows … at certain places a wash of unabsorbed feelings. There is a touch of hysteria in the novel …” (43). This reading perhaps misses a note of desperation in this story of Savitri that is in keeping with contemporary volatile debates around women’s issues. In The Dark Room, Teresa Hubel finds echoes of the concerns of the All India Women’s Conference, a major wing of Indian nationalist movement of the 1930s. She states, “[i]t is significant that he [Narayan] chooses to centre Savitri’s revolt on those two issues from the 1930s … the demand of middle-class women for work outside the home and their efforts to move beyond the discourse of the selfless heroine” (124).

Despite dealing effectively with contemporary issues and dilemmas and despite receiving good reviews, Narayan’s first three works did not do well. As Narayan famously speaks of his predicament: “Good reviews, poor sales, and a family to support” (qtd. in Sen 2004, 125). Under such adverse circumstances, desperately seeking publishers in India and abroad, Narayan finally managed to publish his articles and short stories fortnightly in a leading Madras daily, The Hindu, from 1938. The following year, Narayan’s wife, Rajam, died of typhoid. Narayan struggled with the twin burden of the loss of his wife and the loss of his readers in war-ridden England. Consequently, a series of three short story collections Malgudi Days (1943), Dodu and Other Stories (1943), and Cyclone and Other Stories (1945) were published by Narayan’s own publishing house in India, named Indian Thought Publications. Many of these stories had already been published in The Hindu.

Narayan states in his introduction to Malgudi Days (Indian reprint, 2005) that in his short stories there is “almost invariably the central character [who] faces some kind of crisis and either resolves it or lives with it” (viii). An astrologer who manages to escape his past, a doctor who would not lie, a dog who refuses to abandon his master despite being mistreated, a postman who loves reading others’ letters, or a retired office guard who is petrified of opening a registered post – Narayan’s short stories are teeming with oddities. His plots remain simple yet captivating, with a fair share of their focus on the underdogs of the society. Although depicting a clearly identifiable South Indian milieu, Narayan surprisingly manages to prove through these very stories that India is a culturally diverse nation space. In fact, to Narayan, Malgudi does not merely represent India in a microcosmic form, but it can be a place in any part of the world:

I can detect Malgudi characters even in New York: for instance, West Twenty-third Street … possesses every element of Malgudi, with its landmarks and humanity remaining unchanged – the drunk lolling on the steps of the synagogue … the barber, the dentist, the lawyer and the specialist in fishing hooks, tackle and rods, the five-and-ten and the delicatessen … all are there as they were, with an air of unshaken permanence and familiarity (Malgudi Days, Narayan 2005, viii).

It is perhaps for this untiring fascination with humans and nonhumans that Narayan continued to be a keen observer of the life around him and an expert chronicler of their everyday existence.

His other collections of short stories An Astrologer’s Day and Other Stories (1947), Lawley Road and Other Stories (1967), and later Under the Banyan Tree (1985) were mostly reprints of the first three collections. While Under the Banyan Tree was published by Viking Press, An Astrologer’s Day and Lawley Road were published by Eyre & Spottiswoode and Hind Pocket Books respectively. Earlier, Eyre & Spottiswoode had also published the third of Narayan’s semi-autobiographical trilogy, The English Teacher in 1945. Unlike The Dark Room, The English Teacher presents an almost perfect picture of an idyllic married life of Krishna and Susila, only to be abruptly punctuated by the death of Susila. The novel ponders over the possibilities of life after death, the problems of a mechanical education system, and the politics of the kitchen through a study of ordinary yet highly eccentric characters. And all this is done in Narayan’s characteristic simple disarming prose. Susila’s character, for instance, is drawn with all its believable and relatable contradictions. She is parsimonious, but does not grudge added expenses for the old housekeeper. She tries to “get through Ivanhoe … and Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare” (2022, 59) while imbibing “many sensible points in cooking and household economy” (2022, 39) from her mother-in-law. She is a complete contrast to her predecessor (the elder daughter-in-law) in the family who “would never allow a remark or a look from my [Krishna’s] mother to pass unchallenged” being the daughter of a “retired High Court Judge” (2022, 40). Narayan, thus, offers us a brief glimpse of the functioning of a typical Indian middle-class family with the familiar mother-in-law versus daughter-in-law trope so popular, unfortunately, even today. Pitting one woman against another in a situation where ironically both women are victims of the same stifling customs is a motif touched upon in  The Guide and The Painter of Signs as well.  The English Teacher was an instant success selling thousands of copies. Narayan had tapped on the English taste for the idiosyncratic and had satisfied their curiosity about the pious East to a certain extent.

The English Teacher was followed by Mr Sampath- The Printer of Malgudi (1949), The Financial Expert (1952), Waiting for the Mahatma (1955), and The Guide (1958). The last three works were published by Methuen, London. While Mr Sampath traces the rise and fall of a printer, Mr Sampath, as his career spans from the world of print to the world of the celluloid, The Financial Expert is the story of a financial wizard Margayya. The novel is pervaded by Narayan’s characteristic comic ironic tone with a touch of subtle pathos. While Margayya fleeces unsuspecting customers and amasses wealth only to be ruined by his own son, Babu; Mr Sampath is himself the architect of his own fall.

In Waiting for the Mahatma, Narayan depicts Gandhi as a character who visits Malgudi. The novel, however, is again a charting of the career of Sriram, a high-school pass-out – his love for Bharati (a staunch follower of Gandhian principles), his involvement with extremists, his consequent imprisonment and his reunion with Bharati as India moves towards its partition in 1947. Mr Sampath, Margayya, and Sriram, like many of Narayan’s protagonists, are flawed yet human, and it is not difficult, at times, to identify with them.

The Guide, his next venture, traces the journey of a self-centred tourist guide, Raju, who has no real love for the place he belongs to and yet is compelled to fast for his community at the end. Before the publication of The Guide, Indian readers were not as receptive to Narayan as the English, the Russian, and the American readers (Ahluwalia 9). While Narayan’s works were by then being published in America by the Michigan State University Press and Viking (followed by Penguin, which took over Viking), the gaps between these foreign publications and their Indian reprints reflect the relative indifference of the Indian readers in relation to their Western counterparts. Ahluwalia in Imaging Malgudi (2019) observes:

The first three novels – Swami and Friends, The Bachelor of Arts, and The Dark Room – were published in India after a gap of nine, twenty-eight, and twenty-two years, respectively. The gap reduced to single digits of nine, seven, and six in the next cluster of three novels – The English Teacher, Mr. Sampath, and The Financial Expert (8).

It is Narayan’s The Guide that made a perceptible difference in his Indian readership. The Guide won him the Sahitya Akademi Award in 1961 and was adapted on screen in 1966. The figure of the truant young man transforming into a sadhu to perform the rites of expiation on behalf of his people, continued references to drought (a frequent occurrence in India), the developing town of Malgudi with relatable figures, and perhaps the appearance of a powerful woman character, Rosie/Nalini, who, unlike Savitri of The Dark Room, could free herself from the clutches of patriarchal expectation and could move from “strength to strength” (The Guide 2005, 222), finally appealed to the Indian mind.

Yet, a number of Indian critics were left unimpressed by Narayan’s works. Malgudi, to them, remained a fictitious town that had little to do with the multi-layered reality of India at a crucial historical juncture. Malgudi, according to them, was too simple a space to depict and critique the complex series of colonial happenstance and neo-colonial alteration that shaped India. Shashi Deshpande, for instance, in R.K. Narayan: A Personal View (2007), equates Narayan’s writing to the act of “sending flat stones skimming over the surface of a still pond” (67). Kanaganayakam in Counterrealism and Indo-Anglian Fiction (2002) reminds us that “[a]part from Waiting for the Mahatma which deals specifically with the politics of Indian National Congress and the career of Mahatma Gandhi … the politics of decolonization have hardly ever been foregrounded in his work …” (40).

On the other hand, British authors like Graham Greene and Jeffrey Archer were staunch supporters of Narayan’s work. Greene compares Narayan with Chekov in his ability to coalesce humour and pathos and his complete freedom from the temptation of making subjective statements (Ram and Ram 2001). For Greene, it is this objectivity, this ability to describe people and incidents with minimum authorial intervention, that makes him an engaging author for the West. These attributes of his works gradually grew on the Indian sensibility as well.

A common dilemma that plagued the Indian sensibility of the time was explored in Narayan’s The Vendor of Sweets. The novel brings forth a common paradox of a typical Indian torn between his attachment to wealth and his commitment to the Gandhian principle of frugality and distaste for excess. On the one hand, Jagan never owns “more than two sets of clothes at a time” (9) and eats only “stone-ground wheat … with honey and greens” (10), on the other hand, he hoards “free cash” that comes from selling sweets “after six o’clock” that is “entitled to survive without reference to any tax” and is “converted into crisp currency at the earliest moment” (14). Jagan’s obsession over his son’s diet, his eccentric decision of a complete renunciation of salt and sugar, and his extreme efforts for procuring the hide of dead animals for his footwear, provide generous scope for the comic. But the comic is tempered with an understated pensiveness as we witness his affection for his insensitive son Mali, the reminiscences of his conjugal life and his ultimate capacity to let go. The comic in Narayan becomes effortlessly profound as we spontaneously respond to the weaknesses and flaws of these individuals of Malgudi, a place that has by this time expanded to Lawley Extension, South Extension, and the New Extension giving rise to a number of “newer colonies” (Vendor of Sweets 17).

By the time The Painter of Signs was published in 1977, Malgudi “was the base for a hydro-electric project … jeeps and lorries passed through the Market Road … The city had a new superintendent of police … Policemen were posted every few yards” and “pedestrians and vehicles” choked the once-leisurely-paced streets (12). Like the shifting geography of Malgudi, the changing patterns of an individual’s love life are also addressed in this novella. From Chandran’s inability to marry Malathi because of a mismatched horoscope in The Bachelor of Arts to an idyllic conjugality in The English Teacher to the more complex companionship in The Guide where relationships are mostly transactional, The Painter of Signs brings forth a pronounced clash between two opposed views on romance and marriage- that of Raman’s grandmother and that of Daisy, Raman’s love interest.

Raman is caught between two worlds–a literary world that he inhabits through his reading of English authors, and the actual world, the complex social milieu of Malgudi that is a part of his real existence. Narayan, through this work (along with The Bachelor of Arts and The English Teacher), maps how an ordinary Indian middle-class man, with his distant but constant exposure to the West, deals with or reacts to these shifting perspectives on love, partnership, and marriage. On the contrary, Daisy, the strong-willed female protagonist of the novel, is more resolute and has a clearer insight about the reality that surrounds her. At the end, it is Daisy who questions and challenges the age-old patriarchal beliefs that even most of the womenfolk of Malgudi (like Raju’s mother and Raman’s grandmother) have internalised, not realising that they have also been victims of unresponsive and unfeeling men for generations. “I can’t live except alone” is what Daisy says–doing away with the age-old fears that a single woman carries within her (179).

Narayan’s The Man-Eater of Malgudi (1961) and A Tiger for Malgudi (1983), partly shift from human narratives and ponder on our anthropocentric complacency that takes the hierarchical positions of humans and non-humans for granted. In the introduction to A Tiger for Malgudi, Narayan observes, “… with a few exceptions here and there, humans have monopolized the attention of fiction writers. Man in his smugness never imagines for a moment that other creatures may also possess ego, values, outlook and the ability to communicate…” (7).

While A Tiger for Malgudi speaks of the adventures of a live tiger, his friendship with a man he calls “Master” and his ultimate peaceful settlement in Malgudi zoo, The Man-Eater of Malgudi is much more layered, as it deals with dead animals. The novel begins with the ominous appearance of Vasu, an evil characterwho disrupts the otherwise complacent and harmonious existence of Malgudi, especially the existence of a printing shop owner, Nataraj. Vasu is a taxidermist by profession. The word “taxidermy” has its roots in the Greek words “taxis” and “derma” which literally means “arrangement of the skin”. Vasu arranges the skin of dead animals and accrues profit from them and it is Natraj’s attic that he chooses as his workspace. Throughout the novel he bullies Natraj and makes his life a living hell.

A harmless peace-loving character being relentlessly bullied by a trouble-maker is common in Narayan’s work. But what is new in The Man-eater of Malgudi is the staggering number of deaths that the text speaks of. Animals are killed in hordes. The novel reeks of blood and tanned skin. Vasu’s career of hunting, killing, flaying and preserving animal skin is described in detail. The man himself explains:

… one takes a lot of care to bleed the animal, and only the skin is brought in … The paws and the head are particularly important … Bleeding, skinning and cleaning … we pack, or rather pickle, the skin in tins of salt immediately after flaying (50).

This destruction in the name of preservation leads Sundhya Walther to observe that “[b]y positioning the state’s ideology of conservation and Vasu’s ideology of preservation as ideologically linked, the novel calls nonhuman animal bodies into service to represent the violence of the dominant drives of postcolonial modernity …” (77). She reads the text as a critique of colonial appropriation of nonhuman bodies as a consequence of capitalist expansion. By situating The Man-Eater of Malgudi within the wider context of Nehru’s policy of animal conservation from the 1950s as a significant marker of ownership and unity of the newly independent state, Narayan, according to Walther, critiques and brings forth the failure of this project (2015, 80).

Vasu’s futile exercise of creating permanent artefacts from animal skin which is itself perishable is also comparable to Narayan’s futile efforts at preserving Malgudi, a peaceful harmonious space of Swami and Friends, that undergoes disturbing changes with time (as is evident in Malgudi’s enthusiasm to use Kumar, the elephant, as a trophy in processions that could fetch cash for the building of their temple). Malgudi has become as acquisitive and as “ugly” as Vasu – and thus Narayan’s failure to preserve his imagined India unruffled by caste, gender and religious discriminations. The work is peopled by upper-caste Hindus with no significant place for the outsiders. However, this highly insular space is finally contaminated by the stench of rotten animal carcasses that seem to linger even at the end of the novel (the stuffed cub, for instance). The novel concludes with Nataraj carrying a “little bit of Vasu that has become a part of him” (Cronin 1989, 33). The end of The Man-Eater of Malgudi is predictably dark, ambiguous and dystopic.

Narayan’s last two novels Talkative Man (1986) and The World of Nagaraj (1990) are centred on financially secure complacent men residing in Kabir Street with dreams of becoming successful writers – one a serious journalist and the other the author of a magnum opus on Narada (ambitions that remain unrealised) – till their peaceful life is disturbed by outsiders who enter their lives and change them forever.

Apart from this by-now-familiar plot of Narayan, Talkative Man, though hilarious in parts, is sketchy and lacks depth. But what is intriguing in the novella is that the reader is never sure as to who the actual ‘talkative man’ is. Is it the narrator, TM himself? Or is it the mysterious man, who calls himself Dr Rann from Timbuctoo who imposes himself on the narrator and the station master? Or is it the intimidating ‘talkative woman’ from Delhi in search of her coquetting husband, the supposed Mrs Rann? The novella explores the fascination and tyranny of tales. From TM’s constant small talks in the Town Hall reading room and the Boardless Hotel, to the tall talks of Mr Rann from Timbuctoo, to the recollections of the formidable Mrs Rann’s past life that TM is compelled to listen to- the reader of Talkative Man is alternately exasperated and amused by the ‘ancient mariners’ of this text (TM describes himself as Coleridge’s wedding guest when he cannot escape the grip of the recounting of Mrs. Rann’s past love life).

It is the figure of a compulsive storyteller that Narayan constantly evokes in many of his works. Nataraj’s printing shop, the Town Hall, the Boardless Hotel, the broad steps around the pedestal of Sir Frederick Lawley’s statue, Bari’s stationery shop, and Jayaraj’s studio are some of the spaces where stories are created, myths revisited and strange theories formulated. Narayan had once likened Mysore to an ancient Greek city, “[v]ital issues, including philosophical and political analyses, were examined and settled by people … on the promenades of Mysore” (Krishnaswami 2017). Narayan recreates this compulsive habit of weaving tales, preaching high philosophy, criticising government policies and spreading gossips in the shops, parapets, and restaurants of Malgudi streets and the pyols laid in the front yards of its households.

Nagaraj, the protagonist of The World of Nagaraj is also assailed by a similar compulsion. His ambition is to produce a work of epic proportions whose hero will be the sage Narada, the compulsive story-teller and trouble-maker. Narayan’s evocation of the figure of Narada may be a subtle dig at his own creative vocation. Like the mythical Narada, the author carries so many tales and news snippets in his head that he is compelled to share or else his head would crush under the burden of untold stories and unsung heroes (Talkative Man 2020, 1).

Nagaraj desires to belong to this world of story-tellers. Thus, his search for the Narada lore leads him to visit a gambling Pundit and a bungling stationer. But his artistic pursuit remains unfulfilled as the ever-elusive Narada escapes him, not only because of inept advisors but because of a crisis in the form of Tim, his brother’s son, who arrives in his Kabir Street home and disrupts his peaceful family life and his noble quest for the Narada opus.

Narayan, unlike Nagaraj, contributes significantly to the body of Indian myths. Srinath notes that “Narayan, more than any Indian novelist except Raja Rao, has been inspired to a considerable extent by the Puranas, not merely in the ingenious way one of the legends is adapted in The Man-Eater of Malgudi but also in the art of story-telling” (419). Being raised in a Tamil Brahmin family and staying in close proximity to a grandmother who was a storehouse of ancient lore, Narayan internalised Hindu myths spontaneously. But Nandini Bhattacharya, while discussing the use of myth and reality in Narayan’s The Guide, rightly points out that in the present hybridised Indian space, it is no longer possible to use myths in a straightforward manner (Bhattacharya 2004). Thus, we have the Sitas and the Savitris of Malgudi households, the river Sarayu, the elephant Kumar worshipped in the temple of Malgudi, the snake dance of Rosie reminding us of Natraj’s crowning glory, the numerous mentions of the Ramayana and the Mahabharata that are direct references to Indian myths that coexist with growing technology, interest in commerce and an increasing thrust on individualism that are part and parcel of a modern Malgudi life.

Narayan in his essay “The World of the Storyteller”, the opening chapter of his Gods, Demons and Others (1964), speaks of his belief in this coexistence:

Everything is interrelated. Stories, scriptures, ethics, philosophy, grammar, astrology, astronomy, semantics, mysticism, and moral codes – each forms part and parcel of a total life and is indispensable for the attainment of a four-square understanding of existence (4).

In Gods, Demons and Others Narayan retells stories the Indian Puranas. He narrates the tales of Yayati, Draupadi, Nala, Savitri, Shakuntala, Harishchandra and Sibi from the Mahabharata along with stories of Viswamitra, Ravana, and Valmiki from the Ramayana. From the Tamil epic Silapadikharam, he retells the tale of “The Mispaired Anklet”. Narayan’s taste for the comic-ironic is evident in his rendition of these tales – a tone he adopts even in his retelling of the epics The Ramayana (1972) and The Mahabharata (1978). He does not set himself up to the task of reinterpreting the epics and the Puranas as they appear in his writings. His approach is playful yet profound with a sharp insight that lends a fresh tone to the already-familiar episodes of these age-old literary texts.

Narayan’s last published work The Grandmother’s Tale and Selected Stories (1992), revisits the motifs that he had been preoccupied with in his long writing career–a storyteller in an anguished search of stories, a devoted husband in perpetual fear of his wife’s impending death, and a slice of Narayan’s great-grandmother’s  biography – her dogged search for her philandering husband and her complete submission to him after he returns. We find traces of Savitri, Nagaraj, Daisy, Natraj, TM, Swami, Rosie, Raju, Krishna and the unnamed Mrs Rann in this work – numerous memorable and forgettable characters who dot our everyday lives and who appear in the pages of Narayan so effortlessly.

Both his fiction and his non-fiction such as Next Sunday (1960), My Dateless Diary (1960), My Days (1973), Reluctant Guru (1974), Emerald Route (1977), A Writer’s Nightmare (1988), A Storyteller’s World (1989), and The Writerly Life (2001) deal with a fascinating array of topics and characters. They range from a postman to the archetypal storyteller, from cows and milk to the landmarks of Mysore, from educational policies to his own anguished days as a student. All this is done with a subtle mix of humour and irony and a complete absence of didacticism.

Often compared to authors like Chekhov, Faulkner and Maupassant, Narayan was the recipient of the A C Benson Medal from the Royal Society of Literature, the Padma Vibhushan and the Padma Bhushan awards. A tireless chronicler of small-town Indian ethos in the first three quarters of the twentieth century, Narayan’s constant search for the minutest plotlines in the local streets and markets he frequented ended on the 13th of May 2001–the day he died in Chennai at the age of 94.

 

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Ahluwalia, Harsharan Singh. Imaging Malgudi: R K Narayan’s Fictive Town and its People. Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2019.

Bhattacharya, Nandini. R.K. Narayan’s The Guide: New Critical Perspectives. Worldview Publications, 2004.

Brians, Paul. Modern South Asian Literature in English. Greenwood Press, 2003.

Cronin, Richard. Imagining India. Macmillan, 1989.

Deshpande, Shashi. “R.K. Narayan: A Personal View”. Journal of Commonwealth Literature, vol. 42, no. 2,2007, pp. 65-71. http://dx.doi.org/10.1177/0021989407078591.

Hubel, Teresa. “Charting the Anger of Indian Women through Narayan’s Savitri.” Modern Fiction Studies, vol. 39, no. 1,1993, pp. 113–30. http://www.jstor.org/stable/26284399.

Joyce, James. Dubliners. 31-38. Collector’s Library, 2005.

Kanaganayakam, Chelva. Counterrealism and Indo-Anglian Fiction. Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2002.

Krishnaswami, Narayan. 2017. “An Author’s Story.” The Times of India, January 15, 2017. https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/city/bengaluru/an-authoraposs-story/articleshow/56544856.cms

Narayan, R.K. The Bachelor of Arts. Indian Thought Publications, 1978.

Narayan, R.K. The English Teacher. Indian Thought Publications, Indian reprint 2022.

Narayan, R.K. The Guide. Indian Thought Publications, Indian reprint 2005.

Narayan, R.K. Malgudi Days. Indian Thought Publications, Indian reprint 2005.

Narayan, R.K. The Man-eater of Malgudi. Penguin Books, 2010.

Narayan, R.K. My Days: A Memoir. Viking Press, 1974.

Narayan, R.K. The Painter of Signs. Indian Thought Publications, Indian reprint 2014.

Narayan, R.K. Talkative Man. Indian Thought Publications, Indian reprint 2020.

Narayan, R.K. A Tiger for Malgudi. Allied Publishers, Indian reprint 1995.

Narayan, R.K. The Vendor of Sweets. Chennai: Indian Thought Publications, Indian reprint 2021.

Ram, Susan and Narasimhan Ram. 2001. “R K Narayan: India’s greatest writer, illuminating the human condition through small-town life”. The Guardian, May 14, 2001. https://www.theguardian.com/news/2001/may/14/guardianobituaries.books.

Sen, Krishna. Critical Essays on R K Narayan’s The Guide. Orient Longman, 2004.

Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. An Aesthetic Education in the Era of Globalization. Harvard University Press, 2012.

Srinath, C. N. “R. K. Narayan’s Comic Vision: Possibilities and Limitations.” World Literature Today, vol. 55, no. 3,1981, pp. 416–19. https://doi.org/10.2307/40136551.

Tharoor, Shashi. “Comedies of Suffering”. The Hindu. July 8, 2001. http:// hindu.com/2001/07/08/stories/13080675.htm

Trivedi, H. C. and N. C. Soni. “Short Stories of R.K. Narayan.” Indian Literature, vol. 16, no. ¾,1973, pp. 165–79. http://www.jstor.org/stable/24157228.

Walsh, William. R. K. Narayan: A Critical Appreciation. Allied Publishers, Indian reprint 1995.

Walther, Sundhya. “The Nation’s Taxidermist: Ungovernable Bodies in R.K. Narayan’s The Man-Eater of Malgudi.” University of Toronto Quarterly, vol. 84,  no. 4, 2015, pp. 74-89, https://doi.org/10.3138/utq.84.4.06

Read R.K. Narayan on IWE Online
Fifteen Years

Mahesh Dattani | Abin Chakraborty

By Critical Biography, Drama No Comments
Cite this Essay

MLA:
Chakraborty, Abin. “Mahesh Dattani.” Indian Writing In English Online, 16 Sept. 2022, https://indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/mahesh-dattani-abin-chakraborty/ .

Chicago:
Chakraborty, Abin. “Mahesh Dattani.” Indian Writing In English Online. September 16, 2022. https://indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/mahesh-dattani-abin-chakraborty/ .

Winner of the Sahitya Akademi award in 1998, Mahesh Dattani is one of the foremost Indian playwrights writing in English. Born to Gujarati parents in Bengaluru on 7th August 1958, Dattani studied in the local Baldwin Boys’ High School, an English medium Christian missionary school where his only brush with theatre came in the form of a typical Christmas pageant in which he performed as an angel without dialogues. He then went on to study at St. Joseph’s College in Bengaluru and it was during his college years that he was introduced to Bangalore Little Theatre which significantly contributed to his subsequent immersion in theatre in its varied forms. Dattani wrote his first play in 1986 and has since continued his stellar journey in theatre and films, not just as a playwright, but also as an acclaimed actor, director, and screenplay writer. While his choice of language, his themes, and set-designs  set him apart in various ways from other contemporary or older Indian playwrights, what links him to his predecessors is a shared vision of the social responsibility of the artist and a commitment to serious theatre. His plays therefore offer piercing insights into various modes of exploitation and marginalisation, ingrained in different urban spaces, both within and outside the family and operating along both material and discursive axes. It is this consciousness that enables Dattani to explore subalternisation in urban spheres, especially along the lines of gender and sexuality.

Ranajit Guha defines subalterneity as “the general attribute of subordination in South Asian society, whether this is expressed in terms of class, caste, age, gender and office or any other way” (Guha, ‘Preface’ vii). The plurality of determinants which Guha’s definition foregrounds not only transcends mere economism but encapsulates the diverse processes through which subordination is ensured. While the question of class and the consequent problems still remain hauntingly palpable, classes themselves are fissured by conflicting forces of gender, community, and caste . and such forces are dexterously used by dominant discourses to perpetuate and consolidate processes of disempowerment that push the subalterns onto the margins. The post-independence nation-space is therefore marked by not only the exploitation of peasants and labourers or the massacre of Dalits, but also the ongoing marginalisation of religious minorities, subjugation of women across various classes, and the victimisation of sexual subalterns. However, Guha does not mention the issue of sexuality and the consequent production of ‘sexual subalterns’ (Bhaskaran 8) who are subjected to, on account of the pervasive dominance of the discourse of patriarchal heteronormativity, both social ostracisation and institutional discrimination, which are themselves conditioned by the differences of class, sex, race, nationality, region and such other determinants. What Dattani manages to do is to expand the horizons of postcolonial subalterneity itself by drawing our attention to the plural and diverse problems confronting these sexual minorities, along with subalternised women and religious minorities, who are subjected to an emotionally and at times physically traumatic crises of identity. Dattani’s plays highlight the fluid and dynamic modes through which heterogeneous individuals are subjected to varied forms of subalternisation which menacingly lurk beneath the veneer of sophisticated urban middle class families to which he himself belongs. As he notes:

I think the old cliché about writing what you know best holds good for any work or for any art (drama or literature). I think one has to be true to one’s own environment. Even if I attempted writing a play about the angst of rural Indian society, it wouldn’t ring true, it would be an outsider’s view – I could only hope to evoke sympathy, but never to really be a part of that unless I spend a lot of time there. I think there are enough issues and challenges in urban Indian society (the milieu I am a part of) and these automatically form the content of my work. (Multani 156-157)

This is evident from his very first play, Where There is a Will, (1986), which interrogates established patriarchal structures with a remarkable comic zest, and was written at a time when Dattani and his friends were staging European and American plays with their group, Playpen. It gives way to a more sombre and critical approach to power-structures and injustices undergirding families and societal networks in most of his other plays. Final Solutions (1993), for example, explores the subalternisation of Muslims in the context of Hindu fundamentalism, by focusing on the family of Ramnik Gandhi and their history. Similarly, in plays like Tara (1990), Bravely Fought the Queen (1991), and Thirty Days in September (2001), it is the relationship between siblings and other family members that forms the crux of the dramatic conflict and serves to highlight the varying modes of the subalternisation of women. While such plays use the generic features of family drama, they also end up problematising the very notion of the family in many ways. Though the dynamics of family structures have been explored by other playwrights, what distinguishes Dattani in his choice of themes is his ability to venture into uncharted territory by exploring such hitherto unexplored issues as homosexuality, transgender identities, sexual abuse of children and so on in plays like On a Muggy Night in Mumbai (1998), Seven Steps around the Fire (1999), and Do the Needful (1997). While the new millennium has seen other playwrights exploring such issues, Dattani was a pioneering figure during the 1990s in his exploration of alternate sexualities and the kind of subalternisation that sexual minorities were and still are subjected to. It is this exploration of what he once termed “invisible issues” (Multani 156), such as the subalternisation faced by homosexuals and transgender communities or the silence that shrouds the issue of sexual abuse of children even now, that endows Dattani’s plays with a unique radicalism.

Dattani is fully conscious of this radicalism and his responses to several questions regarding his choice of such subjects make us aware of his commitment to serious theatre and his sense of responsibility as an artist. As he explains to Erin B. Mee:

My own political stand came because I started doing theatre, not because I had something political to say and I used theatre as the platform – just the reverse. Since I’ve realized the potential of theatre as an agent, if not for social change, at least for reflection, I can’t be frivolous about it any more. Unless I have something strong to present, I wouldn’t write. (Multani 158)

If we apply these insights in the context of the urban middle class setting of Dattani’s plays, we realise that while most of his characters, in terms of class, do not necessarily belong to subaltern groups, the considerations of gender and sexuality often push them into subaltern positions in specific critical contexts. So while someone like Kamlesh in On a Muggy Night in Mumbai is very much a part of an upwardly mobile urban middle class, his identity as a closeted homosexual man locates him as a subaltern within the dominant heteronormative discourse exclusively on account of his sexual identity. At the same time, the same Kamlesh can act as a dominant character while using the caretaker for his sexual gratification. Similarly, while Alka and Dolly in Bravely Fought the Queen can be seen as subaltern characters who are humiliated and abused by their oppressive and indifferent husbands, they also play the role of the dominant characters in relation to the beggar woman who keeps visiting their houses and whom they are always eager to drive away. Even if the woman in question is financially independent she may still be subjected to domestic violence or sexual abuse within the space of ‘home’ and may thus be pushed into a subaltern position. It is this fluid multifaceted subalterneity within urban metropolitan spheres that Dattani so scrupulously and uncompromisingly continues to highlight. One can also cite in this context such figures as Hardika in Final Solutions or Baa in Bravely Fought the Queen. As someone who nurtures entrenched hatred of Muslims based on her experiences during the Partition, Hardika is part of the dominant discourse of majoritarian fundamentalism through which characters like Bobby and Javed are subalternised. At the same time, Hardika herself had been a victim of patriarchal subjugation after her marriage when she was incarcerated in a room for sharing a table during lunch with her Muslim friend Zarine. Likewise, while Baa herself had been physically abused by her husband, once she becomes the widowed matriarch of the family, she herself instigates violence against her daughter-in-law Dolly without any sense of the irony involved. Such duality is actually indicative of the “interpellated” nature of characters such as Baa who act as agents of the same discursive structure of patriarchy which had originally victimised them. The same pattern can also be seen in case of Bharati in Tara, who had given birth to Siamese twins – Chandan and Tara — who shared three legs between them. A surgery was scheduled to separate them and it was medically more viable to attach two legs to the daughter instead of the son. But along with her father it was Bharati who had pressured the surgeon to attach both legs to the son even though there was greater likelihood of rejection. In the process both her children ended up as cripples even though attaching the second leg to Tara could well have given her a more fulfilling life. Bharati here ends up acting as an agent of patriarchy against her own daughter and contributes to her subalternisation from her infancy. While she is able to initially use her father’s wealth and political power to generate greater agency for herself within the marriage, the failed surgery and her own subsequent guilt push her into a zone of acute vulnerability, eventually resulting in her own nervous breakdown. It is these fluid movements within the structures of power which Dattani so scrupulously maps.

Such subalternising processes generally come to the foreground in his plays through the orchestration of dramatic conflicts,, combining the typical suspense and climactic unraveling associated with detective stories. Interestingly, all such twists and turns and the corresponding crises generally take place within the domain of a typical urban middle-class family whose façade of normalcy or prosperity is progressively shattered. Such progression either occurs owing to a gradual intensification of fissures embedded in everyday reality or the convergence of unexpected circumstances. The domestic space thus goes on to become a microcosmic embodiment of the macrocosmic space of the nation-state where various forces such as patriarchy, communalism, and heteronormativity keep colliding with individual desires in manifold ways. Here again, Dattani explores what Aparna Dharwadker calls the “typology of home” as “the testing ground of…social and political relations” (269-70). In the process, Dattani helps refashion the space of the home, continuing a pattern initiated by his predecessors such as Vijay Tendulkar, Mahesh Elkunchwar, G.P. Deshpande, Satish Alekar, and Mohan Rakesh, and thereby releases the ‘unhomely’, the ‘other’ that inhabits the assiduously crafted but unacknowledged niches of our homes, society and nation. One might refer here to the misogynistic violence unleashed against Dolly by her husband Jiten after being instigated by his mother in Bravely Fought the Queen, the suicide of the minister’s son Subbu on his wedding night because of the murder of his beloved Kamla, a eunuch in Seven Steps around the Fire, or the generational trauma faced by both Mala and Shanta because of sexual abuse at the hands of a family member in Thirty Days in September. These are all examples of such irruptions of the uncanny which destabilise the facades of domestic familial bliss. It is in this sense that the formal aspects of his plays become entwined with their thematic thrust, which not only aids in his dramatic quest for a critical, hybrid Indianness, at once moored in its boundless pluralities and critical of its own limitations, but also renders possible the emergence of those subalternised characters and voices who endow his plays with their distinctive radical energy. Whether it is Dolly’s anguished imitation of her spastic daughter’s uncoordinated movements, the surreal scene where Subbu embraces the dead Kamla, dressed as a bride, on a separate level of the stage, or the scene between Kamlesh and Ed/Prakash where they express their mutual love which the world cannot see – these are illustrative of those uniquely evocative moments which Dattani distinctively creates in his plays.

This distinctiveness is also evident from the multi-level sets that Dattani often uses in his plays through which we are introduced not only to the hierarchised spaces within bourgeois homes and the subalterns located therein, but also to those peripheral spaces that lie beyond the purview of bourgeois homes, as something of a mote in the eye – a presence you seek to erase but are unable to overlook because of the discomfort it creates. Again and again, such spaces and the voices associated with them intrude into ordinary homes and upset the comforting delusions of peace and harmony we try to cling on to. One may refer here again to the beggar woman, wrapped in tarpaulin, outside the home of the Trivedis in Bravely Fought the Queen or the caretaker or the gardener who fleetingly enter the space of the bourgeois homes before retreating beyond the space of representation. In Final Solutions, Dattani also uses the space of the stage to switch between time periods and thereby implicate the traumatic past into the troubled present, as well as suggest the continuity and accretion of violence within the structures of family, home, and the nation. While Dattani remains aware of the forces of subalternisation that exist within bourgeois homes in terms of gender or sexuality or religion, he is also aware of those that lie beyond the pale of bourgeois homes or those whose voices remain outside the idiom of that discursive matrix within which he himself is located as an author. Therefore, he repeatedly reminds us of the silences and occlusions that are built into his own plays, despite their forays into hitherto unchartered territories. This self-conscious appraisal of his own limitations enables him to implant those precise elements which the careful reader or mindful spectator may use to raise other questions that may force us to re-orient our perceptions or re-configure our spaces. As Dattani states, “It’s only when you are left hanging in the air you start to question your own personality, perceptions…the theatre is a collective experience and the audience have to finish in their own heads what the playwright began” (Nair).

Recalling the earlier reference to the ‘unhomely’, it might be argued that the task of interrogating personalities and perceptions also entails an encounter with the ‘other’, the ‘double’, and considering the focus on bourgeois homes, this ‘other’ is precisely the ‘subaltern’, inside and outside the home, whom Dattani repeatedly foregrounds, either through direct portrayal or through a strategy of presence-in-absence that proves to be all the more disconcerting.

We may refer here to the character of the seventy-five-year-old former Devadasi, Chenni amma, in Dance like a Man (1989), from whom Ratna sought to learn forgotten compositions and arts of ‘abhinaya’. However, her father-in-law strenuously objects to such an association, on account of the moral stigma attached to devadasis, and neither permits Ratna to continue her training with her nor allows her to come to the familial home. Victims of earlier patriarchal structures, such as former devadasis, thus act as the silenced ‘other’ in opposition to which the good middle-class woman must shape her identity. This is not to suggest that Ratna becomes free from patriarchal constraints at the expense of Chenni amma – instead both women continue to struggle against patriarchal impositions, one to retain her individual identity both as a performer and a married woman, and the other to free herself from moral stigma and the attendant material deprivation. The homeless Chenni amma occupies that silence which constitutes the successful middle-class home of Jayaraj and Ratna and thus raises critical questions regarding the moral basis of such homes and by extension such nation-spaces. The nation-space also demands codified performances of masculinity in accordance with conventional gender roles and Jayaraj’s choice of dance as a profession not only goes against such orthodox gender roles but also heightens inter-generational conflicts within the family – a recurrent theme in Dattani’s oeuvre. As Sindhu Nagaraj remarks in a recent review in The Hindu, “The patriarchal figure, Amritlal…does not like his son, Jairaj, becoming a dancer — something he considered a female profession. Decades later, we still find ourselves asking the same questions on the stigmas that prevail in society” (Nagaraj, 17 December 2021). This parallels a similar focus on the collapse of the family and the familial home in other modern realistic plays of the post-Independence era of which Dharwadker remarks:

The disintegration of the home points to a fundamental conceptual flaw which destroys the nation…These are conscious allegories of the crisis of secular nationhood in India, which is an important referent in the postcolonial theorizing of the nation. (Dharwadker 307)

Foregrounding the cacophonous silences generated by orthodox discourses of class, creed or gender, Dattani allegorises the different ways in which the secular nationhood of India is threatened by the dominant discourses and the attendant parochialism. The death of Ratna and Jayaraj’s first-born thus becomes a telling commentary on the systematic erosion of the idealised hopes and expectations of a postcolonial nation-state.

In this context, it is also worth analysing Dattani’s choice of English as the language of dramatic communication and the politics in which such a choice is invariably implicated.  Dattani’s English plays do not suffer from those stifling artificialities that choked the early efforts of some of his predecessors such as Asif Currimbhoy or Nissim Ezekiel. Instead, he writes with a confidence and fluidity that confirms the position of English as another Indian language that is part of our lived experience in all its bristling multiplicity and unabashedly defends his right to perform Indian theatre in English in such ways that they may truly become, in his own words “metaphors for life” (Multani 171). A brief example from Tara may serve to illumine the nature and extent of this confident artistry:

Tara: This is Chandan.

Chandan: Hi.

Roopa: Hi. And you’re twins? Funny, you don’t resemble each other.

Chandan: Not all twins are peas in pods.

Roopa: (not understanding). Huh?

Chandan: Two peas in a pod. That’s something we aren’t.

Roopa: Uh, yes. Yes. Very funny.

Chandan: Is it? I didn’t think so.

Roopa: You know – two peas in a pot. Isn’t that funny?

Tara: (observes she hasn’t understood). Oh, yes of course. (Nudges Chandan) Very funny. Two peas in a (distinctly) pot. (Dattani: 1, 336-337)

Such a sequence highlights the ease with which Dattani weaves his English dialogues, without either deliberate affectation or ostentatious anxiety of Indianness. He even makes room for humour and banter based on such misuse of language that serves to highlight class-identities and the role of the English language as a marker of locational and occupational privilege (or the lack thereof) as an integral aspect of characterisation. Linguistic dexterity also becomes evident in those scenes where the otherwise bleak discussion at times becomes lightened through the use of humours, such as in the following excerpt from A Muggy Night in Mumbai:

Kamlesh: …For the first time in my life I wished I wasn’t gay.

Ranjit: Oh, come, dear fellow. At some point or another we all wish to be something we are not.

Kamlesh: Of course I don’t feel that way anymore. I realized where that feeling was coming from. The psychiatrist I was seeing.

Sharad: Oh no! Every Wednesday morning, right? And I thought you were seeing another man!

Kamlesh: I was. Only a straight homophobic psychiatrist. (Dattani 69)

This is precisely why Sudeep Sen, while reviewing a production of Dattani’s Bravely Fought the Queen in England, remarks that “Dattani writes with a pungency that is skilfully disguised, employing language that resorts to clarity and sharpness, one that pushes the limits of the spoken word and the pregnant silences in between” (Sen 1996).

It is not as if Dattani is unaware of the difficulties of such a choice. In the preface to the first volume of his collected plays, he categorically states, “I now realize that I am practising theatre in an extremely imperfect world where the politics of doing theatre in English looms large over anything else one does” (Dattani: 1, xiv). While on the one hand the remarkable commercial success of Dattani’s plays obviously testifies to their appeal across a wide cross-section of Indian audiences, on the other hand, it is also undeniable that a large section shies away from his plays because of the fact that his chosen language as English is still riddled with implications of class, privilege, and location (Rukmini S., 2019). At the same time, one also has to acknowledge that Dattani’s plays target a primarily metropolitan educated urban middle class audience whose hypocrisy and sophisticated veneer hide entrenched ideological and discursive frameworks that ensure the perpetuation of those processes of subalternisation that he so assiduously critiques. It is in acknowledgment of this particular reality that Dattani writes in his preface:

I love it when I am confronted with remarks such as ‘Your plays are preaching to the converted. You should do Final Solutions in the villages’. Such prejudice! How can anyone be so blind to their own remarks? Assumptions galore that cityfied English-speaking people are all liberal-minded and villagers are communal and bigoted. Worse is when that particular remark is followed by ‘It would make sense in Hindi or Kannada’. Meaning, ‘We are not bigots, it’s those bloody vernacs who need to think about all this.’ That too in the same breath as professing to be liberal-minded and secular! (Dattani: 1, xi)

It is by taking the exploration of subalterneity within the households of such avowedly ‘liberal-minded and secular’ people that Dattani breaks new ground and adds a distinctive dimension to his own brand of postcolonial theatre.

This exploration also leads to the generation of what Nancy Fraser calls “subaltern counterpublics” which operate as “parallel discursive arenas where members of subordinated social groups invent and circulate counterdiscourses, which in turn permit them to formulate oppositional interpretations of their identities, interests, and needs” (Fraser 66-67). According to her analysis, such counterpublics not only contribute to the “widening of discursive contestation” but also as “spaces of withdrawal and regroupment” in the face of dominant, exclusionary and exploitative practices. Dattani’s plays are also remarkable for their representation of such counterpublics which we keep witnessing in several different plays. Whether it is the congregation of queer characters in Kamlesh’s flat in On a Muggy Night in Mumbai or the intervention by the eunuchs in Seven Steps around the Fire or the playful interaction between Bobby, Javed and Smita in Final Solutions – Dattani repeatedly manages to foreground counterpublics that challenge dominant prejudices based on gender, creed or sexual orientation. Particularly significant are the moments of affection and intimacy, shared by queer characters on stage: be it Ed and Kamlesh in On a Muggy Night in Mumbai or Subbu and Kamala the eunuch in Seven Steps around the Fire. Such moments defamiliarise heteronormative notions of love and intimacy and serve to emphasise those “oppositional interpretations” and “widening of discursive horizons” (Fraser 66-68). Furthermore, the staging of queer desire and intimacy as dramatic spectacle also serves to foreground some of those emancipatory potentialities and utopian energies which often constellate within counterpublics. These features not only underscore Dattani’s own identity as a stalwart postcolonial playwright but also represent post-independence urban Indian theatre.

These qualities serve to ensure the abiding popularity of Mahesh Dattani, once credited by the late Alyque Padamsee as someone who gave “sixty-million English speaking Indians an identity” (qtd. in De 2001), as a playwright, not just in India, but in countries such as the UK, the USA, Canada, Sri Lanka, and the UAE (Ali 2005; De 2001). He continues to surprise his audience and readers with his sheer versatility as he explores such utterly diverse issues as the Partition (Where did I Leave my Purdah – 2012), the anguish of terminal cancer patients (Brief Candle – 2009) or even the life of inspiring figures such as Kalpana Chawla (The Girl who Touched the Stars – 2007) and their impact on others. In all of these explorations, however, Dattani’s sensitivity towards issues related to gender, patriarchal violence, and the trauma of unspeakable secrets of the past remains constant and it is this insightful exploration of the manifold facets of the human predicament that ensures his continued relevance.

 

Works Cited

Ali, Firdaus. “Play it Wright, Mahesh”. July 20, 2005. Indiacurrents.com. Accessed on 17.05.2022. < https://indiacurrents.com/play-it-wright-mahesh/>

Dattani, Mahesh. Collected Plays. Vol. I & II. Penguin, 2000-2005.

______. Brief Candle: Three Plays. Penguin, 2010.

______. Me and My Plays. Penguin, 2014.

De, Aditi. “The Drama in Mahesh Dattani’s Life”. 2001. N.p Accessed on 17.05.2022. < https://www.mansworldindia.com/currentedition/from-the-magazine/drama-mahesh-dattanis-life/>

Dharwadker, Aparna. Theatres of Independence: Drama, Theory and Urban Performance in India since 1947. University of Iowa Press, 2005.

Fraser, Nancy. “Rethinking the Public Sphere: A Contribution to the Critique of Actually Existing Democracy”. Social Text. No. 25/26, (1990). 56-80.

Guha, Ranajit. “On Some Aspects of the Historiography of Colonial India”. Subaltern Studies, I. Ed. Ranajit Guha. Oxford UP, 1982, pp.1-8.

Macherey, Pierre. A Theory of Literary Production. Routledge, 2006.

Multani, Angelie, ed. Mahesh Dattani’s Plays: Critical Perspectives. Pencraft International, 2011.

Nagaraj, Sindhu. “Dance Like a Man keeps time to inherent family tunes”. The Hindu. 17 December, 2021. Accessed on 17 May 2022.  <https://www.thehindu.com/entertainment/theatre/dance-like-a-man-keeps-time-to-inherent-family-tunes/article37978517.ece>

Nair, Anita. “Mahesh Dattani – The Invisible Observer”. N.p. N.d. 10 August 2011. <http://www.anitanair.net/profiles/profile-mahesh-dattani.htm>.

S, Rukmini. “In India, who speaks in English, and where?” Mint. 14 May 2019. Accessed on 6 July 2022. < https://www.livemint.com/news/india/in-india-who-speaks-in-english-and-where-1557814101428.html>

Sen, Sudeep. “BRAVELY FOUGHT THE QUEEN – reviewed by Sudeep Sen”. June 1996. N.p. Accessed on 17 May  2022. < https://www.bordercrossings.org.uk/bravely-fought-queen-reviewed-sudeep-sen>

 

 

Read Mahesh Dattani on IWE Online
Dance Like A Man

Agha Shahid Ali | Saradindu Bhattacharya

By Critical Biography No Comments
Cite this Essay

MLA:
Bhattacharya, Saradindu. “Agha Shahid Ali.” Indian Writing In English Online, 09 Sept 2022, <indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/agha-shahid-ali-saradindu-bhattacharya/> .

Chicago:
Bhattacharya, Saradindu. “Agha Shahid Ali.” Indian Writing In English Online. September 9, 2022. <indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/agha-shahid-ali-saradindu-bhattacharya/> .

Agha Shahid Ali was born in Delhi in 1949 into a well-educated, liberal Shia Muslim family where Urdu, Kashmiri and English were spoken and poetry in these languages was frequently recited. He spent his early childhood in Srinagar and attended an Irish Catholic school there. He obtained his Master’s degree in English from the University of Delhi, following which he migrated to the United States of America and earned his PhD from the Pennsylvania State University in 1984. Subsequently, he also earned a Master’s degree in Fine Arts from the University of Arizona and pursued a career in academics, starting at Hamilton College, New York in 1987 and then moving to the University of Massachusetts-Amherst, where he headed the MFA creative writing programme. He also taught a creative writing programme for poets and writers at the Warren Wilson College and for graduate students at the New York University. He was a visiting professor at Princeton University and held teaching positions at the University of Delhi, SUNY Binghamton, Baruch College, and the University of Utah. During his brief but fruitful career as an academic and poet, Ali received fellowships from several prestigious organisations – the New York Foundation of Arts, the Guggenheim Foundation, the Ingram-Merrill Foundation, the Pennsylvania Council of Arts and the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference. He was the recipient of the Pushcart Prize and was also a finalist for the National Book Award in 2001. Ali died of brain cancer in 2001, the same ailment to which his mother had succumbed only a few years before him.

As an expatriate Kashmiri forever yearning for home, Ali identified himself as an American poet writing in English who was “imbued with … permutations of Hindu, Muslim and Western cultures” (Benvenuto 267). Ali acknowledged that “a proclivity to mourn historical loss was an inescapable part of his temperament” (Benvenuto 266), but also “resolutely refused to embrace the role of victim that could so easily have been his” (Ghosh 318). Ali’s early collections of poems, A Walk Through the Yellow Pages (1987), The Half-Inch Himalayas (1987), and A Nostalgist’s Map of America (1991), are marked by the lyricism that informs all of his work. They also reveal a culturally hybrid poetic persona as adept at invoking figures like Medusa and Eurydice from Greek mythology as at referencing Begum Akhtar and Emily Dickinson. Ali’s cosmopolitanism as an artist is evident from the fact that he translated the Pakistani poet Faiz Ahmed Faiz’s Urdu poems into English in The Rebel’s Silhouette (1991), and edited Ravishing DisUnities: Real Ghazals in English (2000). He experimented with Western poetic forms such as sestinas, villanelles and canzones, as well as wrote original ghazals in English in his last collection of poems, Call Me Ishmael Tonight (2003).

One of the major themes in Ali’s poetry is nostalgia for an irreversibly altered homeland. Ali treads the tightrope between sentimental longing and resigned awareness in capturing through his poetry the sense of loss caused by the state of being in permanent exile. This is evident in one of his best known poems, “Postcard from Kashmir”, in which Kashmir becomes both the site and the product of re-presentation, available to the speaker only in and as a picture postcard. The sublime beauty of its landscape “shrinks” to a “neat four by six inches”, and his “home” becomes commercially marketable as a souvenir that can be posted to him by mail. The poem sets up a series of contrasts that suggest the impossible contradictions that thwart any possibility of ever returning to Kashmir in its prelapsarian state, untouched by violence: thus, the speaker holds “the half-inch Himalayas” in his hand and wryly observes that when he revisits Kashmir “the colors won’t be so brilliant, / the Jhelum’s waters so clean, / so ultramarine”. The interplay between vastness and smallness, darkness and light, familiarity and strangeness, proximity and distance, reality and image, is distilled into the final metaphor of the poem:

And my memory will be a little

out of focus, in it

a giant negative, black

and white, still undeveloped. (29)

The poem employs a spatial imaginary that operates on the principle of inversion – while the mighty Himalayas are scaled down to mere inches that can be held in the palm, reductively situating the sublime landscape of Kashmir within an easily measurable, two-dimensional postcard, the negative acquires a disproportionately large dimension within the abstract, subjective domain of memory and defies any attempt at containment or translation. Ali deftly uses the central image of the picture postcard to suggest how memory itself is ultimately only a story one chooses to re-construct in certain ways; in this instance,  his memory of Kashmir, based on his own personal association with the land as his “home”, is fundamentally ruptured by the socio-political turmoil that lies beneath the surface of the “overexposed” beauty of the place, beyond the frame of the photograph, so to speak. The fact that Kashmir is, and will continue to be, accessible only as a text – and a generic one at that, if one considers the predictable, replicable format of the picture postcard – points to the paradox of “belonging” to it. In his analysis of the poem, Matthew Nelson draws attention to the effect of double estrangement achieved through the premise of receiving a picture postcard of “home” from a tourist: “The receipt of such a postcard alienates further, even as it evokes whatever alienation already preceded it. Loss of home is thus figured … as a form of failed sociality” (938). Thus, while the speaker does not shy away from declaring his “love” for Kashmir, he is also painfully aware that this is “the closest [he will] ever be to home”. What is notable about Ali’s poetic craft is that he manages to defamiliarise a popular “sign” of Kashmir – the stock image of its iconic mountains and rivers captured in a picture postcard – and traces it back to an unattainable origin (the “giant negative” that is still “undeveloped”), thus suggesting the inadequacy of both personal memory and popular representation, and offering what Joseph Donahue calls “a psychologically acute anatomy of loss”. The openness of the postcard as a text that can be “read” by anyone en route to its intended recipient also points to the nature of this loss: it is a loss of meaning, since the visual signs with/through which Kashmir becomes identified in the popular imagination also, paradoxically, signal the erosion of “homeliness” from its territory in the psyche of the expatriate subject.

The emotional truth of the disruptive violence experienced by native Kashmiris is often captured by Ali through his use of imagery, at once appropriate for its fidelity to the natural setting and cultural milieu of his poems and striking for its ability to invoke sensory perceptions in unsettling ways. For instance, in “A Dream of Glass Bangles”, the speaker recounts the scene of a midnight raid on his house (which, in the context of Kashmir, could be any household), wherein the comfort and safety of the parents sleeping “warm in a quilt studded / with pieces of mirrors” (32) is suddenly intruded upon by the army surrounding the house. The elemental nature of the imagery employed here – the bangles on the mother’s arms as “waves of frozen rivers”, the army “pulling icicles for torches / off the roofs” and “set[ting] the tips of water on fire”, the air into which the father steps out “a quicksand of snow”, and ultimately the sound of “a widow smashing the rivers / on her arms” (32-33) – combines paradoxical ideas of heat and cold, solidity and fluidity, and thus not only coveys the traumatic impact of the incident on the speaker’s psyche, but also suggests the vulnerability of the interior space of “home” to the precarious environment outside. The deliberate lack of specificity in the poem in terms of where, when, and why this incident took place, points to the pervasiveness and normalisation of violence, while the encoding of such violence in terms of elemental imagery draws attention to the essential unnaturalness of such an order of things. In a sense, both the speaker (presumably a child at the time of the “action” of the poem) and the reader bear witness to the subjective trauma caused by the violent breach of the sanctity of “home”, while simultaneously also recognising the symptomatic nature of such trauma, since this could be any Kashmiri family in any house.

The Kashmir of Ali’s poems is imbued with an atmosphere of pervasive uncertainty and melancholy, its social order rendered fragile by the tremendous stress imposed by state-sponsored violence on fundamental human relationships. For instance, “The Floating Post Office” opens with a suspenseful scene where the local residents of Srinagar anxiously await the arrival of the shikara (a kind of gondola) that functions as a kind of postal service. The speaker voices the collective anticipation of the assembled crowd:

Has he been kept from us? Portents
of rain, rumors, ambushed letters . . .
Curtained palanquin, fetch our word,
bring us word: Who has died? Who’ll live? (207)

The spectre of fear and detection – conveyed suggestively through the setting of a scene where rain jostles with rumor and letters may be ambushed – turns civilians into potential criminals and letter-writing into almost an illicit activity subject to state surveillance. Survival hinges upon a word here and is beyond the will and control of the recipients of the letters, the grammatical tense of the verbs (“has died”, “will live”) indicating the degree of helplessness experienced by these people as they wait in the present moment. As the “postman” emerges from the “fog of death” engulfing the city, we register the habitual, ritualistic nature of the unfolding scene. This is not an aberrational, temporary state of emergency; it is an established order where oppression has been routinised and the restriction of communication is recognised as part of “the sentence / passed on [the] city”. In the context of Kashmir, the governmental authority to monitor and punish civilians through the exercise of constitutional measures  such as the infamous Armed Forces Special Powers Act (AFSPA) has resulted in the breach of fundamental rights of privacy, life, and justice; both here and in “A Dream of Glass Bangles”, Ali presents human suffering within what Giorgio Agamben calls a state of exception, one that operates through “a suspension of the juridical order itself” (4) and creates “a zone of indifference” (23) where the distinction between the legal and the extra-legal, the norm and its abrogation, the inside and the outside is blurred. Within such a system, precarity becomes endemic to everyday life, as is evident from the dramatic tension built into this tacit, covert form of communication is conveyed through the staccato rhythm and tenuous syntax of the lines:

It came close
to reveal smudged black-ink letters
which the postman—he was alive—
gave us, like signs, without a word,

and we took them, without a word. (207)

What we witness here is a situation in which life and hope are reduced to mere chance (the letter can, after all, only guarantee that the writer “was alive” at the time of writing it), where the seemingly tranquil romance of the natural surroundings (falling autumn leaves, approaching rain, the sound of a “cymbaled prayer” from a nearby temple) belies the precarious existence of the residents of Kashmir in the near total absence of basic human rights. Typical of his style, Ali uses the letter both as a prop and as a symbol, as a precious material means and as proof of survival in a police state, as well as an emblem of the quotidian forms of repression to which its bearers are subjected. Thus, the code or the language necessitated by such a form of communication (wherein the recipients are periodically given “a new password” by the postman) is described by the speaker as “blood shaken into letters, / [a] cruel primitive script” (207); the imagery combines notions of filial ties, danger, sacrifice, and violence, and thereby contextualises the subjective experience of anguish and loss in terms of a shared “saffron link to the past” (207). Such interweaving of personal feeling with political reality is Ali’s characteristic method of developing a poetic idiom that is aesthetically and culturally rooted in Kashmir, while also being invested with allusions to the extreme order of affairs that make Kashmir an extended “graveyard”. What sustains this “order” – keeps the post office afloat, as it were – is the speaker’s quiet determination to continue to write letters “alive / with love” (208), even as he recognises the mortal risks involved in such communication:

…our each word

in the fog awaits a sentence:

[…]

Our letters will be rowed through olive

canals, tense waters no one can close. (208)

While the remoteness and fragility of “home” is experienced by Ali as an intensely personal feeling, he does make oblique connections with the more specific political circumstances that have caused a violent rupture between the natives of Kashmir and their homeland. Thus, in another poem, “The Correspondent”, Ali employs the device of a dialogue between the speaker and a news reporter who has just returned from Sarajevo with “footage … priceless with sympathy” (209). The dual meanings of “correspondence” – as communication between two characters as well as analogy in terms of the conditions of civic unrest and state oppression that exist in both Bosnia and Kashmir – offer the reader a geopolitical framework to locate and interpret contemporary history. Yet, we are also told at the very outset that the titular correspondent, for whom “the world [is] his schedule”, is eager to leave. It is the construction of Sarajevo and Kashmir as newsworthy stories – where “exploding grenades” serve as the parenthetical “soundtrack”, images of burning wheelchairs and barbed-wire camps can be conveniently fast-forwarded, and the gaze of the dead is “fractured white with subtitles” – that the poem foregrounds (209-10). For the correspondent, Kashmir is a “dream” to which he “wants exclusive rights”; in the pursuit of this dream, he will, the speaker surmises, “erase/ Bosnia” and “rewind to zero” (210). Thus, both Kashmir and Bosnia emerge as substitutable signs in a global language of terrorism and trauma, even as the speaker yearns to have his “aubades” for Kashmir transmitted via satellites. What we as readers realise with the speaker is that Kashmir’s currency is only one of many “stories” vying for visibility in a mediated, networked world, one that the correspondent will need to “revamp” and “reincarnadine” as he “bypass[es] graves that in blacks and whites/ climb ever up the hills” (210). Resonating with the blood imagery used in “The Floating Post Office”, the poem reveals, perhaps with a hint of self-reflexive irony, the violence implicit in the act of imagining and consuming Kashmir as a text and its residents as characters whose “shadow[s]” can be strategically slow-motioned, fast-forwarded, zoomed into, subtitled or erased at will. Each of these poems marks Ali’s engagement with the cultural imaginary about Kashmir, rendered through modes ranging from “landscape photography’s pervasive ironies to the more radical superimposition of the body’s traces on the landscape” (Kabir 55).

Another recurrent theme in Ali’s poetry is migration and exile. Ali explores these themes via history as well as personal experience, often tracing a lineage of physical and cultural movement across borders through the merging of his poetic persona with the lingering “presence” of other characters who are imaginatively reconstructed. In “Snowmen”, the speaker traces a genealogy back into the geological past, his ancestor “a man / of Himalayan snow” who traversed from Samarkand to Kashmir with “a bag / of whale bones: / heirlooms from sea funerals” (34). The natural elements of the landscape become organically integrated into the human body and transform it into one of several components that constitute the poet’s own history. Thus, the ancestor’s breath is “arctic” and his skeleton, “carved from glaciers”, is passed down by “generations of snowmen” to the speaker himself who feels it under his own skin and promises to “ride into spring / on their melting shoulders” (34). In another poem, “The Dacca Gauzes”, the speaker refers to another heirloom his grandmother fondly remembers – the famed muslin of colonial Bengal that she once wore as part of her bridal trousseau and which was subsequently cut into embroidered handkerchiefs and given away to nieces and grand-daughters. The speaker recounts the legendary “texture” of the Dacca gauzes – known as “woven air, running / water, evening dew” – to create a text about its lingering presence-in-absence in the grandmother’s imagination (42). Thus, the speaker deliberately ends the poem with an anecdote about how one autumn morning, when “the air / was dew-starched”, his grandmother pulled her (now lost) six yards “absently through her ring” (43). The speaker also situates this familial tale within the institutionalised discourse of history, through which he has learned how during the colonial period in India “the hands / of weavers were amputated, /  the looms of Bengal silenced” to make way for British textiles (42-43). Here, memory itself becomes part of a cultural inheritance based on the verbal transmission of popular stories rather than personal experience, the material object having irrevocably disappeared and becoming only a matter of mythic vernacular narrativisation. The implicit play on the etymological connection between text, texture, and textile is suggestive of the implication of the personal in the political, of the oral and the anecdotal in the documentary and archival forms of history. Ali’s “mapping of personal and collective memories onto different geographical landscapes,” observes Nida Sajid, complicates the “official recording of events … in order to interrupt their linearity and to rupture the artifice of mainstream history” (90).

It is a similar strategy of reviewing history from the margins through the lens of memory and inheritance that Ali  employs in “Leaving Sonora”, where the poet of the desert must turn “deep inside himself for shade”, for “[o]nly there do the perished tribes live” (116).

Similarly, in “Poets on Bathroom Walls”, the addressee returns from the toilet “having memorized someone’s graffiti”, the anonymous red scrawls on the bathroom walls serving as a furtive code of communication between two women who, the speaker declares, should meet “despite all the world” (95). If such overlapping identities are imagined in and through the construction of a poetic “self” that is composite, derivative, and representative of a lineage, then Ali also explores the theme of alienation in poems like “Survivor”, where the speaker observes himself from a position of apparent neutrality, as a separate entity resembling him in every aspect of his daily life: opening the refrigerator at night, listening to news from Kashmir on the radio, practising his signature and answering his mail. The schizophrenic projection of his own “self” as a distinct character within the poem signals the speaker’s troubled perspective on, and the consequent lack of identification with, his own existence as the titular survivor of traumatic experience, even as he identifies the likeness between the two:

The mirror gives up

my face to him

 

He calls to my mother in my voice

 

She turns

 

He is breathless to tell her tales

in which I was never found (72-73)

It could be argued that the ambivalence Ali builds into the relation between his poetic “self” and its environment (comprising both human characters and setting) is a manifestation of a deep-seated sense of loneliness that makes it imperative for both the poet and the reader to recognise the necessity as well as the limitations of establishing links with the “other”. The recurrent use of images of mirrors, reflections, photographs, and dreams in these poems suggests the ephemeral nature of recorded history and personal memory, re-membered from shifting perspectives that blur the lines between the two; it also constitutes a poetic rendering of how Ali, as a Kashmiri expatriate, experiences othering both as a political phenomenon and as personal trauma that leads to a questioning of the very ideas of definite origins and singular identities.

In fact, Ali’s poetry abounds in images of desolate landscapes, offering the artistic premise to the poetic speaker to document what he perceives as significant details, but simultaneously also serving as the ground for an imaginative reconstruction of silenced histories. Thus, in “A Wrong Turn”, the speaker encounters “a massacred town” in his dream, one that has been “erased from maps” and contains only signs of abandonment – broken idols at altars, dry wells piled up with bones, cobwebbed booths, and rusted railway tracks. The possibility of “walking among the atrocities” that such a landscape might have witnessed leaves the interpretation of its history open to the speaker’s – and by extension, the reader’s – interpretation within the poetic framework of the dream setting. The fact that it is “[o]nly a wrong turn” (emphasis added) that leads the speaker to this landscape is offset by his confession that this is a recurrent detour in his dreams, implying that what he (and we, as readers) witness here is significant precisely because the poem itself exists in defiance of the “curfew on ghosts” (60).

We find a similar oblique voicing of the absent “other” in poems like “Vacating an Apartment” and “The Previous Occupant”–companion pieces, as it were, that extend the themes of migration, home and exile into the humdrum business of moving houses. In the former, the speaker imagines himself as the “ghost” who moves out “holding tombstones in … [his] hands” as the cleaners wipe away signs of his existence from the house – his smile, “his voicestains”, his posters on the walls, and his “crossed-out lines” at the corner-table – and the landlord gives the new tenants his (the speaker’s) “autopsy”, the new lease agreement (61-62). The contrast between the “efficient” ease of physical movement and the difficulty of a neat emotional disconnect with one’s habitat underlies the seemingly objective account of what is otherwise an unremarkable feature of urban living. If the speaker sees himself as the “other” in this poem, he imagines the eponymous previous occupant of the house he moves into as a lingering presence – another ghost, as it were – whose identity becomes the subject of his compulsive conjecture. It is the little things the previous tenant has left behind – a half-torn horoscope, a half-empty bottle of Flexol – that trigger the speaker’s imagination about who he might have been: “There’s enough missing / for me to know him”. In the speaker’s imagination, his thoughts “cling / in phrases to the frost on the windows” and he stares back through the mirror with “his brown eyes” (63). The mirroring of the “self” in the “other”, which is a technique Ali commonly uses, establishes an affiliation between the two strangers even as we recognise the fact that within the larger cultural code of urban mobility, they are merely replaceable “signs”; it is only through an active act of imaginative identification of/with the “other” that the speaker locates his own “self”:

Now that he’s found me,

my body casts his shadow everywhere.

He’ll  never, never move out of here. (64)

The poems discussed so far adequately reveal Ali’s flair for transmuting inherited memory and personal experience into art through the deft use of images and symbols that are not only apposite to his own socio-cultural milieu but also effective in situating his poetry within a larger historical context of migration and loss. While this results in an overwhelming sense of melancholy in a bulk of his poems, there are instances in his oeuvre where Ali opts for wry observation, bordering on humour, rather than the sombre reflection we encounter in his more popular poems. For instance, in “The Fate of the Astrologer / Sitting on the Pavement Outside / the Delhi Railway Station”, the poet offers no more than a pithy verbal snapshot of the titular character by way of nudging the reader to meditate on what it means to live busy, self-absorbed lives in a modern city:

“Pay, pay attention to the sky,”

he shouts to passers-by.

 

The planets gather dust

from passing trucks. (49)

The irony built into the use of the word “fate” in the title – the astrologer’s own fate, regardless of his supposed professional expertise in predicting the future for others, seems grim in the face of public indifference to his shouts – and the symbolism of dust gathering on his planetary charts mirroring the contrast between vehicular movement and cosmic motion aptly suggest the insular human obsession with immediate concerns. The title of this short piece, written with line breaks like the stanzas themselves, thus functions as much as art as social commentary without resorting to elaboration or overt didacticism. Similarly, in “At the Museum”, Ali uses the iconic bronze figurine of the Harappan dancing girl to speculate about the position of marginalised sections of the population (“servant girl[s]”, “soldiers and slaves”), even in a society as advanced as the Indus Valley civilisation. Thus, he wonders playfully if the sculptor deliberately polished “the ache // off her fingers stiff / from washing the walls //  and scrubbing the floors, / from stirring the meat // and the crushed asafoetida / in the bitter gourd” (217). In expressing his gratitude to this “child who had to play woman” and smile at the sculptor, Ali adopts a mock-serious tone that alerts us, the readers of the history this icon embodies, to the politics of labour, its transformation into art and its appropriation into cultural discourse.

It is the same playful engagement with institutionalised history that we also witness in Ali’s revisionary poems featuring characters already well known within the canon of Western literature and culture. In “An Interview with Red Riding Hood, Now No Longer Little”, the eponymous heroine of the much-translated folktale relates how her father was “no ordinary woodsman” and how he became the owner of a timber industry – and she an heiress – by cutting down the forest and combing it for wolves, some of whom “escaped, / like guerrillas, into / the mountains” (98). The obvious possibilities of ecocritical and postcolonial readings of this account of the tale aside, Ali also re-casts Red Riding Hood as a more self-aware and candid agent of her own narrative, one who admits to getting sick of lisping “”Grandma, what big eyes you have!’” (98) and regretfully confesses:

I lied when I said it was dark.

Now I drive through the city,

hearing wolves at every turn.

How warm it was inside the wolf! (99)

The companion piece to this dark but delightful re-telling of the famous tale is “The Wolf’s Postscript to ‘Little Red Riding Hood’”, where the wolf as speaker demands acknowledgement of his “sense of history”, clarifying that he “did it for posterity, / for kindergarten teachers / and a clear moral” (100). He also claims that he, “a forest-dweller”, knew all along where the old grandmother lived, and could have “gobbled her up” years ago if he wanted, that he knew when his belly was being filled with garbage and stones by the huntsman and ran with their weight “simply so children could laugh”; in fact, it was his “generous sense of plot”, his “perfect sense of timing” that made him act as he did (100-101). In this reversal of narrative and moral agency, Ali makes the reader revise the Western hegemonic cultural codes that have traditionally served as the interpretative framework to understand and define the category of the “human” in exclusionary, oppositional terms.

In the third piece belonging to this group, “Hansel’s Game”, Ali introduces sinister themes of sexual exploitation, violence, and murder, while retaining the same casual lightness of tone as in the previous poems. Here we encounter Hansel remembering those “happily ever after” years when he “played with every Gretel in town / including Gretel, my sister”. He, “a big boy now” already knew that the witch “had to be somewhere near” and that “she would end badly”. This familiar tale of a journey “from the womb to the grave” is given a chilling twist when Hansel reveals that he only “played innocent”:

And Gretel and I lived

happily ever after. And still do:

 

We have a big ice-box

in our basement

where we keep the witch.

 

Now and then we take portions of her

to serve on special occasions.

 

And our old father washes

her blood from the dishes. (102-103)

This self-conscious subversion of binaries – the child and the adult, the innocent and the wicked, the victim and the victimiser –leads to an interrogation of the ways in which we have been culturally trained to “read” stories, and prompts us to reconsider the power dynamics underlying such categories. As readers we recognise the postmodernist tendencies of such retellings (similar to those of Angela Carter and A.S. Byatt) in their capacity to draw attention to the constructed nature of such “stories”, the artifice underlying the art, even as we locate them in Eurocentric pedagogic, literary, and cultural traditions.

If Ali’s posthumous reputation rests on his ability to successfully distil his multilingual, multicultural heritage and experience into poetry that easily transcends national borders, the persistent theme of the desire to “return” to an imagined “home” – so common amongst diasporic writers of the late twentieth century as to risk becoming a sociological cliché – turns in his hands not merely into a literary theme but also an instrument of formal innovation. Malcolm Woodland reads in Ali’s practice of the ghazal as a transnational poetic form (originating in Persia, coming to India via Urdu, translated from Arabic, and finally composed in English) in his final years “a radically divided stance toward nativist nostalgia and hybridist innovation” (267). If Ali’s faithful use of the technique of the refrain at the end of every couplet of a ghazal is, as Woodland contends, a linguistic mirroring of the desire to return (as repeated phrase/text) to a point of “origin” but always in an altered context (253), one might also propose that this reflects a poststructuralist move toward the use of a sign whose meanings shift with every iteration, and a corresponding awareness on the part of the poet of the provisional, inconclusive nature of any quest for identity. It is a testament to Ali’s genius as a poet that he achieves this degree of (self-)recognition by adhering to many of the original formal tenets of the ghazal even as he articulates them in a novel (Western) context. It is fitting, therefore, that Ali should end one of his last ghazals, “In Arabic” with a reference to his own name (another convention of the form), employing a poetic persona that translates, as it were, himself into a language that he shares with his English reader:

They ask me to tell them what Shahid means: Listen, listen:

It means “The Belovéd” in Persian, “witness” in Arabic. (373)

It is this cosmopolitan artistic sensibility that imbues Ali’s work and takes it beyond the context of parochial identity politics. Resistant to the very idea of being typecast as a victim or hailed as a “nationalist” poet (Ghosh 318-19), Ali mapped his writing on a global canvas whose coordinates were not determined by his own ethnicity or physical location. Thus, we find within his oeuvre numerous poems with epigraphs and dedications to writers and texts dispersed across historical periods, cultural locations and genres, ranging from William Wordsworth, Oscar Wilde, G.M. Hopkins and W.B. Yeats to Emily Dickinson, James Merrill and Hart Crane, from Ghalib to Faiz Ahmed Faiz and Begum Akhtar, Mahmoud Darwish to Alexander Pushkin, Edward Gibbon to Saleem Kidwai, and from Gilgamesh to the Bible and the Koran. Ali displays an acumen for seamlessly weaving these myriad influences into an intertextual web, wherein the “universal” and the “local” coexist in an imaginative spatio-temporal contiguity. Thus, in “After Seeing Kozinstev’s King Lear in Delhi”, the poet casually reflects on the history of Chandni Chowk as a globalized marketplace (where “perfumes from Isfahan,/ fabrics from Dacca, essence from Kabul,/ glass bangles from Agra” were sold) as well as its present status as a commercial hub (where beggars occupy the tombs of “unknown nobles and foreign saints”, “hawkers sell combs and mirrors”, and a “Bombay spectacular” is screened across the road from a Sikh temple). The resonance between the (post)colonial legacy of a specific locality in the city – the street through which Zafar, the poet-Emperor was led (“his feet in chains”) by the British to witness his sons’ hanging and subsequently exiled and buried in Burma – and the fate of the tragic protagonist of the much adapted Shakespearean play, extends and expands the scope of the “literary” without reproducing the privilege of the Western “canon” over its the colonial “other”. This corresponds to what Baidik Bhattacharya identifies as a characteristic of Anglophonic postcolonial writing – the impulse “to carry signs and traces of other languages under its own skin and to accommodate disparate histories, conflicting temporalities and discreet territories within its being” (26-27).

While most of his poetry is marked by lyrical brevity, there is a persistent tendency in Ali towards an imaginative telescoping of multiple histories that suggests a trans-national, epic frame of consciousness. It is useful in this context to refer to Sneharika Roy’s definition of the “postcolonial epic” as a genre that employs “a poetics of migration to articulate a politics of migrating identities irreducible to a single national form” (19). Such a “poetics of migration” manifests both as form and theme in Ali’s poetry as he foregrounds, in the context of a globalized world where migration is the accepted norm, the emotional immediacy of individual experience and memory typical of the lyric and locates it alongside the epic concern with the larger context of collective histories. For instance, in “I See Chile in My Rearview Mirror”, Ali employs the central conceit of a “mirrored continent” (Argentina, Paraguay, Uruguay, Colombia, Brazil “without forests”, and Peru “without rain”) that he visualizes as he journeys across the desert towards Utah, “passing skeletal/ figures carved in 700 B.C.” (161-63). References to “blindfolded men”, “drunk soldiers” and a “wounded republic” allude to the state of civil war and environmental crisis in many of these countries even as the elusive images, mere reflections on glass and water surfaces, ultimately vanish. Ali’s awareness of the realities of the contemporary world order is thus transformed into personal(ized) “reflections” that retain an essential lyricism as well as demand a politically engaged reading. Though Ali’s poetry does not feature grand characters and actions that can be readily identified as belonging to the traditional generic category of the epic, we do find in his writing a compulsive desire to cross borders that separate the here and the elsewhere, the now and the then, even as it is marked by a perennial (and perennially unfulfilled) urge to belong. Not surprisingly, many of Ali’s poems feature airports, thresholds that rigorously mark nationalist identities but also facilitate the crossing of borders between nations. In one of such poems, “Barcelona Airport”, the speaker declares at the security gate that he carries with him only his heart, the “first terrorist” (284). In this act of self-declaration, Ali defines the migrant poet as an emblematic figure whose art defies confinement within the material and ideological limits imposed by nation-states, and it is perhaps in this respect that Ali’s contribution to contemporary English poetry is the greatest.

 

Works Cited

Agamben, Giorgio. State of Exception. Trans. Kevin Attell. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 2005.

Ali, Agha Shahid. The Veiled Suite: The Collected Poems. Norton, 2009.

Benvenuto, Christine. “Agha Shahid Ali”, The Massachusetts Review, vol. 43, no.2, 2002, pp. 261-273.

Bhattacharya, Baidik. Postcolonial Writing in the Era of World Literature: Texts, Territories, Globalization. London: Routledge, 2018.

Donahue, Joseph. “Exile Returned”, Bookforum <Agha Shahid Ali’s poems are charmed whispers that can console and devastate – Joseph Donahue – Bookforum Magazine> Accessed on 29 June, 2022.

Ghosh, Amitav. “‘The Ghat of the Only World’: Agha Shahid Ali in Brooklyn”, Postcolonial Studies: Culture, Politics, Economy, vol. 5, no.3,2002, pp. 311-323.

Kabir, Ananya Jahanara. Territory of Desire: Representing the Valley of Kashmir. U of Minnesota P, 2009.

Nelson. Matthew. “Agha Shahid Ali and the Phenomenology of Postcolonial Nostalgia”, Interventions: International Journal of Postcolonial Studies, vol. 22, no.7,2020, pp. 933-950.

Roy, Sneharika. The Postcolonial Epic: From Melville to Walcott and Ghosh. London: Routledge, 2018.

Sajid, Nida. “The Transnational Cartography of Agha Shahid Ali’s Poetry,” Rocky Mountain Review 66 (2012), pp. 85-92.

Woodland, Malcolm. “Memory’s Homeland: Agha Shahid Ali and the Hybrid Ghazal”, ESC: English Studies in Canada, vol. 32, nos. 2-3, 2005, pp. 249-272.

 

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Poetry

Call Me Ishmael Tonight: A Book of Ghazals (2003)
Rooms Are Never Finished (2001)
The Country Without a Post Office (1997)
The Beloved Witness: Selected Poems (1992)
A Nostalgist’s Map of America (1991)
A Walk Through the Yellow Pages (1987)
The Half-Inch Himalayas (1987)
In Memory of Begum Akhtar and Other Poems (1979)
Bone Sculpture (1972)

Translations
The Rebel’s Silhouette: Selected Poems by Faiz Ahmed Faiz (1992)

Others
Editor, Ravishing DisUnities: Real Ghazals in English (2000)
T. S. Eliot as Editor (1986)

R. Parthasarathy | Graziano Krätli

By Critical Biography No Comments
Published on 11 July 2022.
Cite this Essay

MLA:

Krätli, Graziano “R. Parthasarathy.” Indian Writing In English Online, 11 July 2022, indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/r-parthasarathy/ .

Chicago:
Krätli, Graziano “R. Parthasarathy.” Indian Writing In English Online. July 11, 2022. indianwritinginenglish.uohyd.ac.in/r-parthasarathy/.

Rajagopal Parthasarathy (b. 1934), better known as R. Parthasarathy, was born in Thirupparaithurai, a village in the Tiruchirappalli district of Tamil Nadu, and educated at Don Bosco High School and Siddarth College, both in Bombay (now Mumbai), where he subsequently taught at various colleges. In 1962, as a member of Mithibai College’s English Department (headed by Nissim Ezekiel), he was part of a small group of Indian poets who met Allen Ginsberg, Peter Orlovsky, and Gary Snyder during their visit to India, attended a reading of their poetry, read their own in front of them, and mulled over the Beats’ notoriously dismissive reactions (i.e., Orlovsky’s statement, “If we were gangster poets, we’d shoot you,” and Ginsberg’s remarks on Indian writing in English as being “literary and derivative”). In 1963-64 he was a British Council scholar at the University of Leeds, at the time a vibrant poetry scene with John Glover, Tony Harrison, Geoffrey Hill, Peter Redgrove, Jon Silkin, Ken Smith, and Jeffrey Wainwright among its main protagonists (Smith and Wainwright would be included in one of Parthasarathy’s first publications, the five-poet, sixteen-page booklet Poetry from Leeds, co-edited with J.J. Healy and published by Writers Workshop in 1968). Nevertheless, the year spent in England was an eye-opener. As it happened to other Indians before (and after) him, the direct experience of English society, English life, even English weather, proved a traumatic corrective to the largely literary and colonial education he had received in India.

Upon his return to India with a postgraduate degree in English Studies, Parthasarathy held more teaching jobs before joining Oxford University Press, for which he worked as literary editor, first in Madras (now Chennai) (1971-82) and then in Delhi (1978-82). During this time, he was also a participant in the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa (1978-79), and a member of the advisory board for English at the Sahitya Akademi, India’s National Academy of Letters (1978-82).

While in Madras, Parthasarathy published the two books that would grant him a place in the canon of Indian poetry in English: the anthology Ten Twentieth-Century Indian Poets (1976) and the long poem Rough Passage (1977). In 1982 he joined the English department at the University of Texas at Austin, working as assistant instructor in English (1982-86) while pursuing a doctoral degree. There he found a mentor and a friend in the novelist Raja Rao (1908-2006), one of the authors he had edited at Oxford University Press, who was teaching in the Philosophy department. Parthasarathy then spent his entire academic career, from 1986 until his retirement in 2009, at Skidmore College, a private liberal arts college in Saratoga Springs, New York, where he taught courses on poetry and translation, focusing on Non-Western literatures and the South Asian region, and was director of the program in Asian Studies (1994-98). In 1993 he published a translation of the Tamil epic The Tale of an Anklet: The Cilappatikāram of Iḷakō Aikaḷ, which he had started at the University of Texas and for which he was awarded the PEN/Book-of-the-Month Club Translation Citation (1994) and the first A. K. Ramanujan Book Prize for Translation (1996), established by the South Asia Council of the Association for Asian Studies to recognise the work of the late poet, folklorist, and translator. Over the years, his own poetry as well as his translations of classical and contemporary poetry in Hindi, Punjabi, Sanskrit, Tamil, and Urdu have appeared in literary periodicals in India and the United States, including the Chicago Review, Indian Literature (Delhi), Poetry (Chicago), Salmagundi, and World Literature Today. More recently he edited and translated a selection of Erotic Poems from the Sanskrit (2017) and contributed translations to The Bloomsbury Book of Great Indian Love Poems (2020). As for the publications that have been repeatedly announced as forthcoming (a new collection of poems, a book of essays, and translations of the sixth-century Tamil epic Maṇimēkalai, and of modern Tamil poetry), none of them has appeared at the time of this writing (2022).

Parthasarathy’s relationship with India’s former colonial ruler went through the familiar (and, to some extent, predictable) phases of anglophilia, cultural shock, and disenchantment. What turned his juvenile enthusiasm into critical disillusionment was primarily his direct experience of English life and society during the year he spent in Leeds, as mentioned above. He voiced such a change of heart (and the corresponding change of attitude towards India, from “hypercritical” to receptive and empathetic) in the poems that would form his debut collection, published more than a decade after his return to India and on the eve of another departure and a more permanent residence abroad. Rough Passage is a long poem divided into three parts and thirty seven shorter poems in three-line stanzas. The three parts represent the successive stages of expatriation (“Exile”), estrangement (“Trial”), and repatriation (“Homecoming”), while the triadic arrangement allows for short phrasal units and sharp, staccato statements:

Through holes in a wall, as it were,

lamps burned in the fog.

In a basement flat, conversation, etc.

(“Exile 2”)

 

We live our lives forever taking leave.

Our world, love, moves within

the familiar poles of eye, hand,

 

is eclipsed by the word.

(“Trial 11”)

 

I see him now sitting at his desk.

The door is open. It is evening.

On the lawns the children play.

(“Homecoming 12”)

Chronologically, the book covers ten years of the poet’s life, starting almost programmatically– “As a man approaches thirty he may / take stock of himself.” (“Exile 1”)–and ending on a much more subdued statement: “Later, I watched my forty years / swim effortlessly ashore in a glass of beer.” (“Homecoming 13”). At both ends of this minor existential spectrum, the poet is scrutinising himself–self-consciously and rather affectedly–as he balances the mixed bag of past achievement against the low expectations of an uncommitted future: “Hereafter, I should be content, / I think, to go through life / with the small change of uncertainties.” (“Homecoming 14”). All too often, however, this supposed self-analysis is spoiled by such platitudes as “Experience doesn’t always make for knowledge” (“Exile 1”), “There is something to be said for exile: // you learn roots are deep,” and, a few lines later, “the most assuring thing // about the past is that it happened” (“Exile 2”). Perhaps the most famous and enduring of these “gnomic utterances” (as the scholar Homi Bhabha called them in his review of the book in the Times Literary Supplement of February 3, 1978) are the two couplets, placed at the beginning and the end of the book, that are meant to encapsulate the poet’s experience of cultural idolatry and subjugation. Over the years, they have been quoted often enough to become emblematic of the modern anglophone Indian’s divided identity. Parthasarathy used the first one, “He had spent his youth whoring / after English gods” (forming the beginning of the third stanza of “Exile 2”), as the title of a semi-autobiographical account originally published in 1970 and reprinted in 1982. “Whoring after English Gods” traces the evolution of Parthasarathy’s attitude towards England and the English language–from his first introduction in high school until his actual encounter with England–which, he would realise, “existed nowhere, except in my mind” (“Whoring after English Gods,” 66). According to this account, it was this realisation that prompted him to write the poem with the “whoring couplet” in early 1964. At the same time, if living in England helped the once obsessive anglophile to get England “out of [his] system once and for all,” it also gave him “a new understanding” of himself and his once deprecated native country, so that, when he finally returned to India, he felt “strangely at home” (”Whoring”, 70). The latter is a more revealing expression than Parthasarathy perhaps realised, as it seems to conflate the titles of two works in which another Indian English poet, Dom Moraes (1938-2004), addressed his own relationship with India: the 1970 television episode Return as a Stranger, and the third volume of his autobiography, Never at Home. Disenchantment with England also meant realising that “English will always remain a foreign language to us,” and consequently, that “I could never function as a poet in English” (67). For someone who had been “exposed … to English ideas and attitudes” (66), had read English literature in college, and even before going to England had seen one of his poems published in the Times Literary Supplement, such a realisation must have been difficult to accept. Nevertheless Parthasarthy, borrowing the old ‘mistress versus wife’ metaphor, was eager to state that “The affair with the English language had been prolonged and tempestuous. It is over now, and I have, as the phrase goes, settled down with Tamil. She is still a shy, obstinate bride; but, like all brides, she will, I am sure, come round. The relationship will then, perhaps, mature into love” (71). The bride’s shy and obstinate behavior refers presumably to the fact that Parthasarthy did not learn Tamil until after his English interlude, as he mentions earlier in the same essay (65). Read in this context, the second signature couplet, “My tongue in English chains, / I return, after a generation, to you” (which opens “Homecoming 1”), describes the poet’s linguistic repatriation, while hinting at the bride’s potential for freeing the poet’s tongue from English chains, or at least loosening them enough to allow him to be “at home in two languages” (71). As Parthasarathy explains in the next paragraph,

Ever since I moved to Madras in 1971, my poems have become, increasingly, a sort of overture made with the aim of starting a dialogue between myself and my Tamil past. Though written in English, they are closer in style and content to Tamil verse…. (72)

However,

The problem of the Tamil poet today is to invent afresh an idiom free from the stylistic and prosodic conventions of a language with a two-thousand-year-old literary history (72).

By calling “My tongue in English chains” a “theoretical statement of this problem” (72), Parthasarathy hints at the possibility that these chains may be inevitable, at least for the time being, and to the extent that his proficiency in English provides him with a more effective tool to voice his “emotional, psychic make-up” (73), whose roots lie deep in Tamil language and culture. This leaves him poetically in a limbo, of which the third part of Rough Passage, “Homecoming,” represents an exploration of sorts. If “Exile”–allegedly written “over four years between 1963 and 1966” (70), that is, during Parthasarathy’s stay in England and immediately after–charts the author’s disenchantment with India and his own unfulfilled self, and “Trial” explores the resulting ennui through the opaque and distorting lens of love (and the metaphoric mesh of ancient and medieval Indian poetry), in “Homecoming” Parthasarathy confronts his own predicament as man and poet. The section begins with “My tongue in English chains” followed by a seemingly programmatic statement:“How long can foreign poets // provide the staple for your lines? / Turn inward. Scrape the bottom of your past. Ransack the cupboard // for skeletons of your Brahmin childhood,” (“Homecoming 2”); proceeds through a taut fabric of familial and cultural landscapes; then ends with a crumbling self-portrait at forty—deflated, disillusioned, and dejected.

The second half of “Whoring after English Gods” is an appreciation of the poetry of A.K. Ramanujan, culminating in the statement

Ramanujan’s repossession, through his poetry, of the past of his family, and of his sense of himself as a distillation of the past, is to me a signal achievement, and one that was to be of value to other poets who were looking for a kind of poetry to teach them the use of their own voice. I know of poems which, if I had not come across The Striders or Relations, I should perhaps have written differently. (78)

Rough Passage provides a few examples of such poems, most notably “Homecoming 6,” where the alienating experience of facing a mirror in the bath (“Silent, / eyes saccadic, I stare at himself. // Often confront a stranger / in the scratched glass, older perhaps, who resembles my father”) is a direct reference to Ramanujan’s “Self Portrait” in The Striders (1966). Other, unacknowledged (and possibly unconscious) references are to the poetry of Srinivas Rayaprol (1925-1998), notably in a line like “We live our lives forever taking leave” (from “Trial 11”), which paraphrases, in a concise, more “poetic” form, the dispiritedness of Rayaprol’s “the impotent / Excitement / Of our normal lives / Lies in seeking / Them elsewhere” (from “Les Saltimbanques,” in the 1968 collection Bones and Distances), as well as in the somber self-assessment that concludes “Homecoming,” which is remindful of Rayaprol’s pessimistic Weltanschauung in Married Love and Other Poems (1972).

In the absence of a further collection, Parthasarathy’s poetry since Rough Passage is represented by contributions to various literary periodicals and anthologies, both in India and the United States. If they show a natural and predictable evolution of the themes explored in his debut collection–especially the “dialogue between himself and [his] Tamil past,” (“Whoring,” 72)– these poems also reflect the developments that have shaped Parthasarathy’s life and creative work since the late 1980s, particularly his relocation to the United States, where a successful academic career allowed him to bury his “English gods” without actually freeing his tongue from “English chains.” Instead, these chains were repurposed for broader creative ends. “For me, translating a poem is as much a creative act as writing an original poem”: such a statement, made in a 2003 lecture on “The Politics and Poetics of Translation” (175), was both supported and justified by Parthasarathy’s teaching as well as by his scholarly and creative work since the early 1990s, which had focused increasingly on Indian literature in translation and, in the years following his monumental engagement with the Cilappatikāram, had produced English versions of Hindi, Punjabi, Sanskrit, Tamil, and Urdu poetry, as well as articles on Tamil literature and the practice of translation.

This creative shift is reflected in Parthasarathy’s own poetry from the early 1990s on, which fed on his parallel work as translator (“Kannaki” and Kannagi” are both poems inspired by the heroine of the Cilappatikāram), or wrestled with its ambiguous condition (“Your country is not a suitcase: / you are not a traveler shuffling, with tongue in cheek, // the loose change of words. / For twenty years you have tried / to pry this book open,” from “The Attar of Tamil”), or meanders into the poet’s—and India’s—“divided house” (“Srirangam,” “At Ghalib’s Tomb,” “Remembered Village”) from a suburban backyard in Upstate New York (“Snow Country,” “Salem Drive”).

At the same time, the emphasis on translation distinguishes Parthasarathy’s two editorial selections of contemporary Indian poetry. Although three decades separate the anthology Ten Twentieth-Century Indian Poets (1976) from the “Indian Poetry Portfolio” he guest-edited for Poetry magazine in 2007, the difference between them is not only chronological or typological, but also, more significantly, one of content, which signals a substantial change in the editor’s perspective on his subject.

Ten Twentieth-Century Indian Poets (1976) was one of the first six titles in the New Poetry in India series, which Oxford University Press launched in 1976-77 with Parthasarathy’s editorial input (the other five were individual collections by Keki Daruwalla, Nissim Ezekiel, Shiv K. Kumar, A.K. Ramunajan, and Parthasarathy’s Rough Passage). Over the years, it became one of the most successful and widely read anthologies of its kind. Featuring fifty odd poems by only ten poets (the most exclusive selection to date), it is representative of the canonical status of Indian poetry in English at the time of its publication (except for the glaring absence of Adil Jussawalla; apparently, Ezekiel had recommended to include Jussawalla, but Parthasarathy, for unexplained reasons, decided not to). The introduction is an attempt to account for the “phenomenon of Indian verse in English,” which paradoxically “did not seriously begin to exist till after the withdrawal of the British from India” (3) and apparently is affected by two interdependent problems. One is the “quality of experience” that a poet “would like to express in English,” but from which he or she is alienated by the language itself as both communication tool and symbol/legacy of historical circumstances. The other is the lack of any “special Indian-English idiom”,i.e., compared to “the liveliness and idiosyncrasy of usage one finds in African or West Indian writing” (3), that would enable such a poet to express the quality of Indian experience in a culturally distinct if not unique way. Unlike “two outstanding exceptions in fiction” (7), namely Raja Rao’s Kanthapura (1938) and G.V. Desani’s All About H. Hatterr (1948), Indian poets have been mostly unable to “extend the resources of the English language or even to Indianize it” (7).  The few who “have been successful” (but only to some extent) are supposedly featured in the selection.

Less canonical and contemporary than the anthology, the “Indian Poetry Portfolio” features a personal selection of thirteen poems by thirteen poets in “thirteen of the twenty-four languages … recognized by India’s National Academy of Letters (Sahitya Akademi)” (407), namely Assamese, Bengali, English, Gujarati, Hindi, Kannada, Malayalam, Marathi, Oriya, Punjabi, Tamil, Telugu, and Urdu. Parthasarathy’s own contribution consists of one English-language poem and five translations or co-translations from the Hindi, Punjabi, Tamil, Telugu ad Urdu. Linguistically, the 2007 portfolio matches almost entirely Poetry’s 1959 “Indian Issue,” edited by the expatriate Tamil poet M.J.T. Tambimuttu and featuring thirty-eight poems, thirty of which translated from twelve regional languages. In an afterword entitled “Indian Poetry Today” (a puzzling choice, given the scope of its content and the fact that it draws largely from a 1994 article on “Tamil Literature”), Parthasarathy laments the fact that

Bogged down in tradition, Indian poetry has not been successful in reinventing the past. Nor have there been systematic attempts to translate, over a period of time, poetry from other countries that might have offered new directions to poetry in the Indian languages. Even within the country, attempts to translate the great body of poetry in Sanskrit, Prakrit, and Tamil into the modern Indian languages have been infrequent. On the other hand, English poetry … has served as a model to be imitated, often with unhappy results. (“Indian Poetry Today”, 407)

With this statement (arguable and partly outdated), and especially with his “position portfolio,” Partharathy seems to indicate translation as a way—perhaps the only possible way—of “reinventing the [Indian] past” by creating a “robust, contemporary English idiom” (407), thus finally breaking the impasse created by historical circumstances and their problematic legacy (i.e., the iconic English chains). In fact, translation has often contributed, and continues to contribute, to linguistic modernisation and poetic renewal around the world. What Parthasarathy does not seem to realise (or prefers to neglect) is that anglophone poetry in post-Independence India has found its voice—or one of its many voices—in and through translation from both Indian and non-Indian languages, but also, most subtly and significantly, from British and American English. This creative process was started by such canonical figures as Dilip Chitre, Adil Jussawalla, Arun Kolatkar, Arvind Krishna Mehrotra, Gieve Patel, A.K. Ramanujan and others, and continues with the work of younger poets writing in India as well as in the many charted and uncharted territories of the Indian diaspora.

Today, it is difficult to see how any of these younger Indian poets would consider Parthasarathy an influence, quote his work (as they often do with some of the poets mentioned above), or refer to either of his catchphrases to describe their experience as Indians writing in English. If, after the publication of Rough Passage, “My tongue in English chains” became a familiar line, its popularity and resilience say more about the state of Indian literary criticism at the time than they do about Parthasarathy’s role within the canon of postcolonial Indian poetry. Many of the poems in Rough Passage were originally published in anthologies of “Commonwealth poetry” and “New Poetry from India,” and their relevance and value are defined by the brighter lights of a bygone era.

 

Bibliography

POETRY

Rough Passage. New Poetry in India. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1977.

 

TRANSLATION

The Tale of an Anklet: An Epic of South India – The Cilappatikāram of Iḷaṅkō Aṭikaḷ. New York: Columbia University Press, 1993.

Erotic Poems from the Sanskrit: An Anthology. New York: Columbia University Press, 2017.

 

 

Edited anthologies

Poetry from Leeds [Ken Smith, D.W. Debby, Jeffrey Wainwright, Sheila Mann, John Comer]. Edited by J.J. Healy and R. Parthasarathy. Calcutta: Writers Workshop, 1968.

Ten Twentieth-Century Indian Poets. New Poetry in India. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1976.

“Indian Poetry Portfolio.” Poetry (Chicago) 190, no. 5 (September 2007): 389-418.

 

Articles

“Meeting Allen Ginsberg.” Writers Workshop Miscellany 11 (1968): 65-66.

“Whoring After English Gods.” In Perspectives: A Collection of Essays by the staff of the SIES College of Arts and Science. Edited by Amritlal B. Shah and S.P. Bhagwat (Bombay: Popular Prakashan, 1970), 43-60.

“The Chessmaster and His Moves: The Novel as Metaphysics.” World Literature Today 62, no. 4, Raja Rao: 1988 Neustadt Laureate (Autumn,1988): 561-566.

“The Exile as Writer: On Being an Indian Writer in English.” The Journal of Commonwealth Literature 24, no. 1 (1989): 1-11.

“Tamil Literature.” World Literature Today 68, no. 2, Indian Literatures: In the Fifth Decade of Independence (Spring 1994): 253-259.

“Writing Between the Lines: The Politics and Poetics of Translation.” Indian Literature 51, no. 1 (237) (January February 2007): 168-186. Originally delivered as the 2002-2003 Edwin M. Moseley Lecture at Skidmore College.

“Indian Poetry Today.” Poetry (Chicago) 190, no. 5 (Sep., 2007): 407-418.

Close Menu