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Aravind Adiga | Ulka Anjaria

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Cite this Essay

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

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

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

 —Aravind Adiga, Selection Day (233)

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Primary Sources

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

—. Between the Assassinations. Picador, 2008.

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

—. Selection Day. Picador, 2016.

—. Amnesty. Scribner, 2020.

Selected Adiga Criticism

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

Edited by: Sreelakshmy M

Nissim Ezekiel (1924-2004) | Graziano Krätli

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Cite this Essay

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

vast organised

Futilities suck the marrow from my bones

And put a fever there for cash and fame.

Huge posters dwarf my thoughts, I am reduced

To appetites and godlessness. I wear

A human face but prowl about the streets

Of towns with murderous claws and anxious ears,

Recognising all the jungle sounds of fear

And hunger, wise in tracking down my prey

And wise in taking refuge when the stronger roam.

(“Commitment”)

 

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

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

 

Myself examined frightens me.

(…)

I have long watched myself

Remotely doing what I had to do,

At times ashamed but always

Rationalising all I do.

I have heard the endless silent dialogue

Between the self-protective self

And the self naked.

I have seen the mask

And the secret behind the mask.

 

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

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

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

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

 

dreams of morning walks, alone,

And floating on a wave of sand.

But still his mind its traffic turns

Away from beach and tree and stone

To kindred clamour close at hand.

(“Urban”, from The Unfinished Man)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Poetry

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

Sixty Poems. Bombay: Ezekiel, 1953.

The Third. Bombay: Strand Bookshop, 1959.

The Unfinished Man. Calcutta: Writers Workshop, 1960.

The Exact Name. Calcutta: Writers Workshop, 1965.

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

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

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

 

Prose

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

 

Plays

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

Song of Deprivation. Delhi: Enact, 1969.

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

 

Translations

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

 

Edited Books

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

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

An Emerson Reader. Bombay: Popular Prakashan, 1965.

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

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

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

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

 

Secondary Sources

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

R.K. Narayan | Subarna Mondal

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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

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Fifteen Years

Mahesh Dattani | Abin Chakraborty

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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>

 

 

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Agha Shahid Ali | Saradindu Bhattacharya

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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

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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.

G.S. Sharat Chandra | Graziano Krätli

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Cite this Essay

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

as I put my entire life under

you to be rolled spaced shifted

can i trust you with clear intent

 

are you certain that your inky fingers

will not grapple with me tear me apart?

 

can i be sure while you mark me

all over my white body

that you do not pause to get mad

 

and crush me into a ball?

 

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

If words

Could get up

And walk away

From the page,

Would they

In their blackness

Find a shape?

And you, my dear page,

In your emptiness,

Would you sing?

 

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

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

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

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

 

Acknowledgements:

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

 

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Poetry

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

Will This Forest. Milwaukee: Morgan Press, 1969.

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

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

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

Offsprings of Servagna. Calcutta: Writers Workshop, 1975.

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

Heirloom. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1982.

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

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

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

Fiction

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

 

References

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

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

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

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

Hoshang Merchant | Bhaskar Lama

By Critical Biography No Comments
Cite this Essay

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

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

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

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

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

It is 1931, the year of the Paris Exposition –

Artaud has just gone mad

Anaїs has just escaped his laudanum stained lips

She is in the front row

She feels wet around the eyes

and between the legs

(My Sunset Marriage 107)

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

Memory comes

as wave upon wave

of fire

Washes over me

Burns into my skin

Burnishes the paper I write on

The flagstones I tread on

In alley after alley after alley

Looking for the nursery

Where heroes birth and die

Birth and die

Cradle to grave

(Sufiana poems 28)

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

On TV three black-veiled women wailed

Like the three Fates

In the snow

With empty petrol cans –

All of the world’s petrol below

***

Now they dance in the moonlight

In the snow

All of the world’s petrol below

them

bursts into flame –

Women are the gates of Hell

Women will make the Revolution

The stars foretell

(My Sunset Marriage 152)

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

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

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

Milan without you

is like anything without you

tasteless: unsalted food

Wherever I dig

I dig up your history

our history

The history of mankind

Where are you?

(Bellagio Blues 26)

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

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

This is a fever I’m writing

And the alphabet is of fire

of the djinns

My lover born of fire

fears fire

I, a fire-worshipper

douse him with my waters.

(My Sunset Marriage 120)

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

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

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

Last month

On the last day

At midnight

My sister died:

A neat end to a neat life

When a childhood playmate goes

The whole world goes

But the leaves are full of children…

(Sufiana Poems 8)

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

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

Every face appears his face to me

Every walk suddenly his to me.

How sweet once his house-water

Now his well seems unwell to me.

Like a slave struggling to be free

He appears bound in bed to me.

At every walk he appears sudden to me.

Only I had clothed my ghost

Now all flesh appears rotten to me…

Every face appears his face to me.

(My Sunset Marriage 52)

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

I see the Sea

With a child’s eye

Though I have a wizened beard now

I’m still that child

Who longs to cut out his heart at sea…

(Pondicherry Poems 11)

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

 The bells of Bellagio

They go down and up

Down and up up up up

Ding-dong, sing-song gong

Mechanical sexton: A sex-

-ton goes up and down

up and down

(Bellagio Blues 7)

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

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

Causing consternation

Among grown bachelors walking their mothers…

Rain clings to his long hair

his rabbit-fur beard.

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

(My Sunset Marriage 183)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Acknowledgements:

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

 

Works Cited:

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

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

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

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

—, Goa! Writers Workshop, 2007.

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

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

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

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

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

—, Pondicherry Poems. Writers Workshop, 2005.

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

—, Shillong Suite. Writers Workshop, 2010.

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

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

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

—, Yusuf in Memphis. Writers Workshop, 1991.

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

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

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

 

PUBLICATIONS BY THE AUTHOR

Poetry

Flower to Flame. Rupa & Co., 1989.

Stone to Fruit. Writers Workshop, 1989.

Yusuf in Memphis. Writers Workshop, 1991.

Hotel Golkonda: Poems 1991. Writers Workshop, 1992.

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

Jonah and the Whale. Writers Workshop, 1995.

Love’s Permission. Writers Workshop, 1996.

The Heart in Hiding. Writers Workshop, 1996.

The Birdless Cage. Writers Workshop, 1997.

Talking to the Djinns. Writers Workshop, 1997.

Selected Poems. Writers Workshop, 1999.

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

Homage to Jibanananda Das. Aark Arts, 2005.

Pondicherry Poems. Writers Workshop, 2005.

Bombay, My Bombay. Writers Workshop, 2006.

Juvenilia. Writers Workshop, 2006.

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

Goa! Writers Workshop, 2007.

Sufi Tree. New Allied Publishers, 2008.

Shillong Suite. Writers Workshop, 2010.

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

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

Sufiana: Poems. New Delhi: HarperCollins. 2013.

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

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

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

Paradise isn’t Artificial. Red River, 2021.

 

Anthologies, Edited Books and Others

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Read Hoshang Merchant on IWE Online
Lost Love: In RetrospectHouses

Amit Chaudhuri | Somdatta Bhattacharya

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

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

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

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

FICTION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NON-FICTION

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

Works Cited

Primary Texts:

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

—. Afternoon Raag. Heinemann, 1993.

—. Freedom Song. Picador, 1998.

Secondary Texts:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Further Readings:

Reviews

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

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

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

Interviews

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

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

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

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

A portrait of Atul Gawande

Atul Gawande (1965 – ) | Neeraja Sundaram

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Further Reading

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Notes

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

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

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

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

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