Here is another translation
Goshtha-baboo’s portrait had come from the Englishman’s house in Kolkata. There was excitement and pandemonium in the house. The manservant, the washman, the cook and the barber called out in unison, “Rush, rush, let’s all go and see the portrait.”
Whosoever came commented, “What a lovely portrait! It has been done by an Englishman!” Sarkar-moshai, an old man, said, “The best part of it is the smile on the baboo’s face―it is as placid as he is.” On hearing this, the surprised audience commented, “Never mind, the sahib’s smile is really great!”
Uncle Bishthoo said, “The very eyes have been done in a way that demands a thousand rupees—the eyes remind one of Goshtha’s grandpa.” Twenty-one men agreed to this comment with great enthusiasm.
The washman laid down his stack of clothes and admired the portrait, “An excellent portrait. It seems that the dress has been ironed by Redho, the washman.” The barber played with his bag of razor, and said, “I have been shaving the baboo and trimming his hair for nineteen years. The style of the hair tells me that it is indeed a fine portrait. The baboo looks equally pleased when he sees his haircut in the mirror.”
The baboo’s favourite servant, Kenaram, said, “What should I say, my brother? It is such a lively portrait! I entered the room and touched the feet and then realised that what I had in front of me was not my master but a portrait!” Everybody started scrutinising the portrait, looking at every pore on the image, till the baboo came and stood by the picture. By then, all and sundry had agreed that the portrait resembled the baboo to the tee. He said, “There is a problem. They have informed me from Kolkata that this is someone else’s portrait which has mistakenly been dispatched to me. We need to return this.”
On hearing this, Sarkar-moshai said, “See, they think that they can cheat on me. The moment I looked at it I had wondered at who the frowning man with a strange smile was.” The uncle said, “See how the eyes are turned inwards. It seems as if he is on his way to the Ganges for his last rites.” Redho the washman said, “The man in the portrait is wearing his clothes in the fashion of a farmer. In all his seven lives, it seems, this man has never been able to dress properly!” The barber butted in and said, “It seems from his haircut that someone has done his hair with a sickle.” Kenaram shouted with mad rage, “The moment I stepped inside the room I thought that there was a thief inside. I was about to hit the fellow till I was told that it was our baboo’s portrait. I was in a huge mind to crush his face.”
Everybody agreed that they had known all this while that it wasn’t their baboo in the picture. After all, was the baboo’s nose so flat and were his ears like those of a duck? And, was it their baboo who was sitting, or was it a bear dancing?
― Sukumar Ray
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Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Monday, July 11, 2011
The Tales of Abdul Majhi
This is my translation of Abdul Majhir Galpo done especially for this blog
Abdul Majhi had a pointed beard, a shaven head and no moustache. I know him quite well. He would get hilsa fish and turtle eggs from the Padma for dada. He had once told me a tale.
It was the end of spring—the month of Chaitra . He had gone with his dingy, fishing in the deep waters of the Padma. Suddenly, there rose a nor’westerly. It was a terrible storm. The boat tossed and turned and almost drowned. Abdul clasped the rope between his teeth and jumped into the waters. He swam to the shore and pulled the boat back with the rope.
The story finished too quickly and I didn’t quite like it. I wish I had heard a little more about the storm. After all, the boat didn’t drown. It just got saved—how could this be a good enough tale? I kept prodding him, “And then, what happened, after that?” Finally, Abdul said, “I saw a leopard with a really big moustache. During the storm, it had gone to the village on the other side. That village was called Pakoorgunj. A sudden gust of wind pulled a tree down into the Padma. And, along with it the leopard too was flung into the river. It drifted off into the river, struggling against the high waters, and somehow managed to reach the bank and get up on its feet.
The moment I saw him, I tied a noose with my rope. The mighty beast rolled its eyes and stood in front. The swim had worked up quite an appetite in him. The moment he saw me, he rolled his deep red tongue out and started drooling. He knew a lot of folks within the village and a few outside. But he knew not who Abdullah was!
I called out to him, “Come, my dear one, come”. He lifted his fore legs up and was ready to pounce when I threw the rope at him and put the noose across his neck. He wriggled hard to free himself and the more he wriggled, the more did the noose tighten around his neck and his tongue kept rolling out.”
At this point, I got a little worried and asked, “Abdul, did he die or what?” Abdul reassured me, “Well, how could he? Even his father wouldn’t have been able to take him to the throes of death. There was a high tide in the river and would one not have to come back to Bahadoorgunj? I tied the leopard to my dingy and used his weight to pull me through a hundred miles. The moment he would start groaning, I would nudge him with my oar. In an hour and a half I could cross a distance worth fifteen. Now, if you want to know what happened after that, I would really not be able to answer.”
I said, “Well, then, now that you’ve told me about a leopard, what about a crocodile?” Abdul replied, “I’ve seen his nose popping out of the river many a times. On the sloping banks of the river when you see a crocodile warming itself on the sand, it does seem that it is guffawing in a rather ugly way. I would have fought him, had I had a gun. But, the license had gotten over a long while back. Yet, something interesting happened.
One day, Kanchi, a nomad-girl was sitting by the river and chiseling a bamboo pole with a sickle. A kid was tied beside her. From nowhere did the crocodile come and pull at the legs of the kid. It dragged the little goat into the river. The girl jumped onto the back of the crocodile and sat on it. She used her sickle to scrape off the neck of the reptile over and over again. The crocodile let go of the kid and dipped into the waters.”
I asked, “And then? What happened after that?” Abdul said, “The news of the thereafter has sunk deep into the waters of the river. Fishing it out would take some time indeed!”
Rabindranath Tagore
Abdul Majhi had a pointed beard, a shaven head and no moustache. I know him quite well. He would get hilsa fish and turtle eggs from the Padma for dada. He had once told me a tale.
It was the end of spring—the month of Chaitra . He had gone with his dingy, fishing in the deep waters of the Padma. Suddenly, there rose a nor’westerly. It was a terrible storm. The boat tossed and turned and almost drowned. Abdul clasped the rope between his teeth and jumped into the waters. He swam to the shore and pulled the boat back with the rope.
The story finished too quickly and I didn’t quite like it. I wish I had heard a little more about the storm. After all, the boat didn’t drown. It just got saved—how could this be a good enough tale? I kept prodding him, “And then, what happened, after that?” Finally, Abdul said, “I saw a leopard with a really big moustache. During the storm, it had gone to the village on the other side. That village was called Pakoorgunj. A sudden gust of wind pulled a tree down into the Padma. And, along with it the leopard too was flung into the river. It drifted off into the river, struggling against the high waters, and somehow managed to reach the bank and get up on its feet.
The moment I saw him, I tied a noose with my rope. The mighty beast rolled its eyes and stood in front. The swim had worked up quite an appetite in him. The moment he saw me, he rolled his deep red tongue out and started drooling. He knew a lot of folks within the village and a few outside. But he knew not who Abdullah was!
I called out to him, “Come, my dear one, come”. He lifted his fore legs up and was ready to pounce when I threw the rope at him and put the noose across his neck. He wriggled hard to free himself and the more he wriggled, the more did the noose tighten around his neck and his tongue kept rolling out.”
At this point, I got a little worried and asked, “Abdul, did he die or what?” Abdul reassured me, “Well, how could he? Even his father wouldn’t have been able to take him to the throes of death. There was a high tide in the river and would one not have to come back to Bahadoorgunj? I tied the leopard to my dingy and used his weight to pull me through a hundred miles. The moment he would start groaning, I would nudge him with my oar. In an hour and a half I could cross a distance worth fifteen. Now, if you want to know what happened after that, I would really not be able to answer.”
I said, “Well, then, now that you’ve told me about a leopard, what about a crocodile?” Abdul replied, “I’ve seen his nose popping out of the river many a times. On the sloping banks of the river when you see a crocodile warming itself on the sand, it does seem that it is guffawing in a rather ugly way. I would have fought him, had I had a gun. But, the license had gotten over a long while back. Yet, something interesting happened.
One day, Kanchi, a nomad-girl was sitting by the river and chiseling a bamboo pole with a sickle. A kid was tied beside her. From nowhere did the crocodile come and pull at the legs of the kid. It dragged the little goat into the river. The girl jumped onto the back of the crocodile and sat on it. She used her sickle to scrape off the neck of the reptile over and over again. The crocodile let go of the kid and dipped into the waters.”
I asked, “And then? What happened after that?” Abdul said, “The news of the thereafter has sunk deep into the waters of the river. Fishing it out would take some time indeed!”
Rabindranath Tagore
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Love in the time of Christmas
I have often wondered about why people fall in love. And, I have been told that unlike in animals, humans look for more than sex. They redefine sex as sexuality, that is, one's sexual abilities are recast as constituents of one's identity. One dresses 'up', one looks 'pretty', one is 'coy' and a host of other things. Soon even in non-sexual spaces, one gets an opportunity to express ones 'mating' behaviour. This leads to attraction and courtship and soon what is primarily sexual becomes socio-cultural. The institution of marriage is an excellent case in point. Therefore, people talk of the sense of humour, honesty, intelligence and a host of non-sexual attributes as the criterion for loving each other. In banal terms, we call them 'turn ons'. Why do we hunt for these attributes? Are we too embarrassed to admit our primary drives? Are they absolutely irrelevant in the course of 'falling in love'? I guess not.
Over a period of time human activities expand beyond hunting and gathering food, cooking, nursing family and procreating. With resources, machines and civilization we have leisure and activities that fill up our leisure. We read, watch plays, paint, play games and talk and listen to each other. Increasingly, these activities assume significance in our lives and they inform our 'basic' activities.
Soon, we replace eating and food with the notion of 'cuisine', 'work' increasingly incorporates 'play' and sex is aestheticised in art. As all of this happens, 'love' becomes a complicated affair. Or, we pretend that what is basic to be evolved!
I think we need to re-phrase the question? What sustains happiness between two people when they do not procreate? Many relationships break because people do not focus on being happy in togetherness. Instead, we build our own fairy castles in the air and look for their realization through others. Love becomes the oppressive heat of May.
Where is the love that we have lost to living, to honeymoons, fine-dining and Pattaya and Venice? O love why is so much labour lost? Let us not revel in the spirit of poor Orsino and say: "Let music be the food of love". Let us instead, learn to give, care and be happy in the 'other's' world.
Over a period of time human activities expand beyond hunting and gathering food, cooking, nursing family and procreating. With resources, machines and civilization we have leisure and activities that fill up our leisure. We read, watch plays, paint, play games and talk and listen to each other. Increasingly, these activities assume significance in our lives and they inform our 'basic' activities.
Soon, we replace eating and food with the notion of 'cuisine', 'work' increasingly incorporates 'play' and sex is aestheticised in art. As all of this happens, 'love' becomes a complicated affair. Or, we pretend that what is basic to be evolved!
I think we need to re-phrase the question? What sustains happiness between two people when they do not procreate? Many relationships break because people do not focus on being happy in togetherness. Instead, we build our own fairy castles in the air and look for their realization through others. Love becomes the oppressive heat of May.
Where is the love that we have lost to living, to honeymoons, fine-dining and Pattaya and Venice? O love why is so much labour lost? Let us not revel in the spirit of poor Orsino and say: "Let music be the food of love". Let us instead, learn to give, care and be happy in the 'other's' world.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Thoughts on my thirtieth birthday
I have lived long and much of that has been lonely. There have been moments of immense pleasure and moments which have slipped by and have been recollected much later—sometimes with grief and mostly with happiness.
Thirty years is a long time. My grandfather, Sukanta Bhattacharya, was a poet of decent repute by the time he was eighteen. He, of course, died when he was twenty-one. Keats died when he was twenty-six and he had written his odes—the greatest specimens of lyric poetry in the English language— by that time. So had Shelley and many more.
This brings to my mind that I can no longer be particularly useful to myself and to the world around me. That in itself is not a disturbing thought. But what is discomforting is the idea that I shall continue to be so and degenerate and become more useless—for my parents, friends, employers –and that is unnerving.
But then there have been moments of unending cherish: taking my parents to the Darjeeling hills; spending a vacation in the rains with a dear friend in a mist laden forest; listening to my teacher sing live for a private audience in Darjeeling, being hosted by my teacher on several occasions, and many of those ocassions were fraught with gloom and ennui, even at half-a day’s notice; walking in the rain after I got my first job—I happily waded through water logged college street and went to meet a friend, a sixty-year old radical. I also remember walking with my father to a nearby park and sitting on a bench as someone sang Tagore’s Krishnakali Ami Tarei boli—it was a Suchitra Mitra rendition at the local community centre. I remember my first trip to Puri and the first sight of the sea. I also cherish my first sight of the mighty Kanchenjungha. I was on my way back from work. It had rained for some time and monks were playing badminton in the fresh sun. I turned around near the Governor’s House and lo! There stood the mighty Kanchenjungha. I would see it again many times but the first unexpected view has no parallel.
I have had dinner with Gopal Gandhi and lunch with the thespian Feroz Abbas Khan. I do not earn pots of money but I do decent enough. And, yes, I’ve been in love and that took me to Ram Kumar Chattopadhyay’s place and to Geeta Ghatak’s place. She sang on my friend’s request—Je ratein mor duarguli. My hair stood still. I had the privilege of being taken to Goethal’s library by Professor Rohinton Kapadia—a great teacher.
But nothing takes away from me my birthday wish—to die quietly in my bed and to die soon. I wish that my reader’s watch this lovely Colin Firth film called A Single Man. The Prufrockian idea is taken to its logical conclusion in this film. Speaking about the film and its hero George, its director says: “His inner world and his outer world are connected, and the only thing holding them together is the polishing of his shoes, the scrubbing of his fingernails, the perfect white shirt. If he let go of that, he would collapse. There is an enormous part of myself that is like that.”...
I recall reading Yeats’s An Irish Airman Foresees his death last night after everyone was asleep. Here is the poem, once again:
An Irish Airman Foresees His Death
I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.
Thirty years is a long time. My grandfather, Sukanta Bhattacharya, was a poet of decent repute by the time he was eighteen. He, of course, died when he was twenty-one. Keats died when he was twenty-six and he had written his odes—the greatest specimens of lyric poetry in the English language— by that time. So had Shelley and many more.
This brings to my mind that I can no longer be particularly useful to myself and to the world around me. That in itself is not a disturbing thought. But what is discomforting is the idea that I shall continue to be so and degenerate and become more useless—for my parents, friends, employers –and that is unnerving.
But then there have been moments of unending cherish: taking my parents to the Darjeeling hills; spending a vacation in the rains with a dear friend in a mist laden forest; listening to my teacher sing live for a private audience in Darjeeling, being hosted by my teacher on several occasions, and many of those ocassions were fraught with gloom and ennui, even at half-a day’s notice; walking in the rain after I got my first job—I happily waded through water logged college street and went to meet a friend, a sixty-year old radical. I also remember walking with my father to a nearby park and sitting on a bench as someone sang Tagore’s Krishnakali Ami Tarei boli—it was a Suchitra Mitra rendition at the local community centre. I remember my first trip to Puri and the first sight of the sea. I also cherish my first sight of the mighty Kanchenjungha. I was on my way back from work. It had rained for some time and monks were playing badminton in the fresh sun. I turned around near the Governor’s House and lo! There stood the mighty Kanchenjungha. I would see it again many times but the first unexpected view has no parallel.
I have had dinner with Gopal Gandhi and lunch with the thespian Feroz Abbas Khan. I do not earn pots of money but I do decent enough. And, yes, I’ve been in love and that took me to Ram Kumar Chattopadhyay’s place and to Geeta Ghatak’s place. She sang on my friend’s request—Je ratein mor duarguli. My hair stood still. I had the privilege of being taken to Goethal’s library by Professor Rohinton Kapadia—a great teacher.
But nothing takes away from me my birthday wish—to die quietly in my bed and to die soon. I wish that my reader’s watch this lovely Colin Firth film called A Single Man. The Prufrockian idea is taken to its logical conclusion in this film. Speaking about the film and its hero George, its director says: “His inner world and his outer world are connected, and the only thing holding them together is the polishing of his shoes, the scrubbing of his fingernails, the perfect white shirt. If he let go of that, he would collapse. There is an enormous part of myself that is like that.”...
I recall reading Yeats’s An Irish Airman Foresees his death last night after everyone was asleep. Here is the poem, once again:
An Irish Airman Foresees His Death
I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Of Prufrock , Pattaya and Bangkok
This is how my favourite English poem begins:
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
The poem struck me as I came across the pane of a brothel in Pattaya. I read the invitation—a grammar-gone-awry mock Eliot stuff—and suddenly I could figure out the poem being read aloud by the city—the city of hotels, brothels, money changers , the city where the ocean’s wave comes to the road but the muck never washes away. To be able to recognize its paralysis is to be able to see—the fatigue in the legs that dance to rock-n-roll tunes, the fatigue in the hands that try to reach out to men, ugly and portly. There is this Walking Street in Pattaya—the street where Adidas and Starbucks curl up amidst the music-blaring brothels, dance-bars, and sellers of pirated DVDs (you can get your Bob Marley and Jimmy Hendrix videos for less than four dollars). From behind the neon lights, peeps this question—‘why do people come here with such compulsion?’ The answer is, unfortunately not, ‘blowing in the wind’. To quote the poem once again: ‘Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”/ Let us go and make our visit.’ (My friend, Amit Kumar—a product manager with Pearson--has taken some soul-stirring photographs over there. You can see his photographs at http://www.flickr.com/photos/kusamit2/sets/72157623830860232/). Yet, it is not your Sonaghachhi or Har-kata-galli. Sleazy it is but without the offensive aggression of the red-light districts of Indian metropolis. The penury is invisible and unheard of. All we get to know of and hear about are ‘muttering retreats’ in ‘one-night hotels’. Yet, when they look at me there is indecision, a desire to confront and to escape simultaneously acts upon a soul that is so used to ‘the marmalade, the tea,/Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,/ Would it have been worth while,/ To have bitten off the matter with a smile,’.
We are so used to walks by the sea-shore, on the malls of the hills walled by birch, oak, and pine, that we seldom think of walking on this ‘Walking Street’ as tourism. These women, these eunuchs (they call them Lady-Boys), we have seen them all, known them all. But, the light was different and the faces more unfamiliar, more unlikely of being attractive.
‘And I have known the arms already, known them all
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]’
I ran from Walking street to first-class comforts of Dusit Thani. I sat by the pool that overlooked the Gulf of Siam. I downed a cola and walked back to my room. The sea loses its character amidst this opulent sleaze. The Amari Orchid and the Four Seasons tower over the sea. In the afternoon the sea-side restaurant throws up a continental fare. I put in the delicate chocolate mousse, a speed boat sails to the middle of the sea, a parachute unfurls and a tiny human dips into the vast ocean.
The day we went to the coral island, the sky was without a cloud and the heat was scorching. People went under the sea, they flew above the sea, they rode on scooters, drank lots of beer and I bought a parasol. ‘And, in short I was afraid’. There was no time to think, to be with ourselves. We conferred, imparted training, danced, drank, debauched, whored, bitched, politicked, shopped but there was hardly a moment, even for a second, when we were not doing any of these things. In fact, we tour with such an obsession for ‘things-to-do’ that I am prompted to ask ‘where is the leisure that we have lost in travel.’ The hotel had a lounge bar. They played music over there. The music was lovely and I ordered a drink as I heard them sing. I haven’t had a mango drink that has tasted better. It was my only ‘moment’ in Pattaya.
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old… I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
We reached Bangkok amidst chaos: the ‘red shirts’—a party backed by a guy called Thaksin (moneyed and shady—like many such leaders in Asia and Africa) who lives in exile and controls a rebellion that supports election, democracy and is against the military backed ruler Abhisit—who is supported by the yellow-shirts, a group of wealthy Thais who support the king, aristocracy, opulence and economic liberalism.
Thailand is a kingdom—a monarchy. Its kings are named after the Hindu mythical god Rama. In fact, the ancient kingdom is called Ayuththya—a name that reminds one of Ayoddhya.
One must not miss the Grand Palace while one is in Bangkok. We made it in a couple of attempts. And, with protests brewing and a flight to catch we did the entire thing in a couple of hours. But, it is a marvelous palace. The galleries are spectacular with the stories of Ramayana painted on walls, the garuda is carved on the panels of the palace, the Emerald Buddha—whose clothes vary in length with the seasons and only the king has the right to dress the god—is one of the finest sights of the palace. The architecture of the palace temples combines—Kampuchean, Thai, and Sinhalese style.
I find people more interesting than places and hence I apologize for the hurried description of the palace. (Tip: do not change money inside the palace—the rates are pretty bad and do not take a guide. If you are in a group one of the members can take the audio guide and talk to the rest. If you are alone, the guide is a sheer waste. Most Thais can’t speak half-decent English and trying to understand them in scorching heat can be very irritating). Though, I must admit that the Wat Arun (Wat is Thai for ‘temple’) by the Chao Praya river is more impressive and the Maha Bodhi temple near the palce more serene. The Wat Arun looks over the sky-train and sky-scraper graced city. Its garudas stand guard as ships and boats sail on the river, as coups unfold and shoppers gather. To me it embodied power and serenity, grandeur and spirituality. The souvenir shops are quite nice and worth a visit.
The cruise on a motor-boat on the Chao-Praya may not be as romantic as cruising in Venetian canals, but where else would you find alligators, coffee shops and floating markets in one go. Where else would you see ordinary lives intersecting with high-rises and Buddhist temples? The river is the proverbial melting-pot. Ordinary people prefer it to avoid the traffic jam in the city and tourists travel on colourful canoes. A couple of hours ride would cost you around thirty dollars.
In the evenings we sauntered into the Soan Lum night market. It is a great place for ‘dining out’. Tables are laid out in the open and over glasses of beer (or whatever is your poison) you can see t-shirts, jeans, bags selling out. It is less crowded than Gariahat or Sarojini Nagar and the stuff has more quality. But, there are cheaper places to shop: the weekend market is one. The real thing to do here is to enjoy a drink, chat for long-hours, let the evening breeze seep into your senses…. A T-shirt read: "God made grass and man made booze. Who do you trust?"
A nation that worships its king practices extreme consumerist irreverence. And, its revolutions are as much about partying, dancing and smoking pot as they are about things like democracy and elections! Viva Bakhtin, viva!!
My friends could not but get into the milieu. Bengalis after all. They danced, smoked, made friends and earned souvenirs. It was fun. It was at the shopping district of Pratunam. It was after shopping was done. The lady-boys stood and watched, someone made quick money selling fruits. People made calls from their phones and found our way for us. Nice people. We closed the day with street food and foot massage.
The Suvarnabhumi airport is nothing like what you have seen in India. There are walking corridors, incredibly cheap liquor shops, and you are hardly frisked. In fact you do not even need a tag for your hand-baggage! As usual, the Jet Airways staff hardly spoke English. A couple of friends missed their flight: checking-in LCD TVs took too long!
As we arrived in India, news travelled that twenty-odd protestors had been killed in Bangkok.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Kayastha Pathshala
In India, and especially in Bengal and the hills of Nainital, Simla and Mussoorie and the capital of Delhi, there is a great degree of nostalgia that veers around our alma-maters. The colonial institutions with their European collonades, white-skinned Indophile teachers and their illustrous alumni become a reference point in our careers—right from getting a job to a wife. The more local institutions face neglect. While reading on the history of Allahabad, and while talking to a few UP-ites who have been taught by luminaries like Arvind Krishna Mehrotra and Durgananda Sinha, I stumbled upon this institution called the Kayastha Pathshala College. Founded in the last quarter of the nineteenth century, Kayastha Pathshala was, to begin with, a school. A leading lawyer of Oudh, Munshi Kali Prasad Kulbhaskar, had established the school in 1873. It was born out of a zeal to position the kayasthas on a platform equivalent to that of the Bramhins. Such was Kali Prasad’s zeal that when he died in 1886, he left his estate for the benefit of the Pathshala. In 1895, it became an intermediate college. One of its early principals was the great Bengal-Renaissance gentleman, Ramananda Chatterjee. Chatterjee was an alumnus of the St.Xavier’s College in Calcutta. He moved to Allahabad in 1895—the very year Kayastha Pathshala had become an intermediate college. Ramananda Chatterjee would later go on to establish the Modern Review—a magazine that operated out of Calcutta. One of his students at the college was Narmadeshwar Upadhyaya—a member of the bar of the Allahabad High Court. Narmadeshwar, a lawyer by profession, wrote almost Dickensian prose. One can sample his writing by picking up The Last Bungalow: writings on Allahabad (ed.) Arvind Krishna Mehrotra.
Perhaps the most well known student of the Kayastha Pathshala was Harivansh Rai Bachchan. (Bachchan did his PhD in English Literature from Cambridge University. His guide was T.R.Henn and his research was on W.B.Yeats.) In his autobiography, Bachchan writes—‘Education in the Kayastha Pathshala was not a matter of academic study: attention was paid to character building…’. Elsewhere he writes: “Moving from the Unchamandi School to the Kayastha Pathshala High School was like moving from a pigeon-coop into the open air…..there were expansive grass lawns and maidans to play on…and for each subject there were separate teachers who would come to class at the hour shown on the time table.”
Vande Materam was the assembly song in the Pathshala. It had established its credentials as a nationalist institute quite early. Sociologically, the kayasthas are an intermediate caste given to clerical and literary pursuits. This was a caste that was best equipped to negotiate with the English on issues of power through the subterfuge of co-operation. The mutineer's radicalism was fraught with problems caste and religion. In fact, western education came to the plains of northern India only after the mutiny of 1857 had been quelled, Oudh and Agra had been united under a single province that would be called the United Provinces. The Kayastha Pathshala and the trust that ran this great educational endeavour ensured that Northern India made the essential transition in its politics from the feudal to the bourgeoisie. The baniyas and the kayasthas joined hands in Allahabad and Lucknow (unlike in Bihar where they rarely inter-married) and the Agarwalas and the Sinhas and Saxenas took the Indian middle class of Northern India to be the rulers of post-independence India. In fact the Kayastha Pathshala was the breeding ground of bhadralok (genteel) intellectual-ism that survived outside ninteenth century Calcutta. I do not agree with the many western sociologists like Christophe Jafferlot and Susan Baily that the Kayastha Pathshala was a casteist ghetto that functioned within the larger circumference of Hindu revivalist aspirations. I believe that the individual geniuses of its faculty and alumni are easily missed if such an analysis is allowed to acquire precedence over the more romantic history that needs to be preserved. The kayasthas were nationalist Hindus and both in Lucknow and Allahabad they ran publishing houses, educational institutes and newspapers, wrote poetry, and taught generations to come—tehzeeb. Interestingly, in 1916 there was a deliberation for separate representation for Hindus and Muslims in the United Provinces. While the Kashmiri Bramhins, Tej Sapru and Motilal Nehru supported separate representation, Kayasthas from eastern part of the UP also supported the bill. While it is easy to dub the oppsers as communal (and Brijnandan Prasad, was indeed communal) it is difficult to understand why Gokul Prasad who was a trustee of the Kayastha Pathshala needed to vote against the bill. He did not fear Muslim majority in the bar—many of his clients must have been Mohameddans. He was a member of the Hindu Sabha but to the extent that a trader or a lawyer could be—it was a social group that reaped professional rewards. I have a feeling that he did not want to dispute the leader of the group and had hardly any significant stake in the debate.
The first president of the Kayastha Pathshala trust was Munshi Hanuman Prasad. Hanuman Prasad belonged to that generation of self-made men who reminded us of the Renaissance gentlemen of sixteenth century. He had given up his job at the court of the Maharajah of Beneras following his differences with the ruler. He came to Agra and became a lawyer. When the court was established in Allahabad in 1866, he moved to Allahabad. Hanuman Prasad, learnt English when he was forty-five! Gokul Prasad was his grandson. He was the last honorary Vice-Chancellor of Allahabad University and before that a towering judge of the Allahabad High Court. (It was difficult in those days for non-Europeans to rise so high and natives with extraordinary judisprudence were allowed such positions). Another illustrous member of the same family was Munshi Ambika Prasad, whose saintly demeanor is legend in the annals of the bar of the Allahabad High Court. Munshi Ambika Prasad also served as the President of Kayastha Pathshala.
I shall end my post by talking of one Dr Tara Chand, who was the principal of the Kayastha Pathshala College in the 1920s. Rajeshwar Dayal, who was an illustrous civil servant, a member of the family to which Ravi Dayal—the great publisher who first published Amitav Ghosh and had brought academic publishing to Indian shores as the managing director of Oxford University Press, India—belonged, and who most importantly was Dag Hammerskjold’s special representative to Congo on behalf of the United Nations was Tara Chand’s student at the Kayastha Pathshala. Dayal, with his upper class origins hated his Kaystha Pathshala. In his autobiography, A Life in our Times, he writes of his intermediate college: “There was an air of langour and neglect about everything”. Yet, as he survived his intermediate in science barely managing a second class and went on to study at the Kayastha Pathshala University College he seemed to love his alma mater. He writes: ‘Dr. Tara Chand had moved over to be the head of the college. The new college attracted good students and athletes and soon acquired a fine reputation.” Tara Chand had his D.Phill from Oxford. He was scholar par excellance. In his work called Influence of Islam in Indian Culture , this enthusiastic scholar and educationist writes: “Indian culture is synthetic in character. It comprehends ideas of different orders. …. It eternally seeks to find a unity for the heterogenous elements which make up its totality. At worst its attempts end up in a mechanical juxtaposition, at best they succeed in evolving an organic system.” Tara Chand, an early-twentieth-century scholar, had a rare insight.
Kayastha Pathshala intermediate college and university college along with The Pioneer, The Indian Press, and the Allahabad University laid the foundations of what was called the Oxford of the East—Allahabad. Yes, Allahabad is not just about the Nehrus and the Kumbh Mela (which is also a nineteenth century practice). It is also not so much about the Bachchans as it is about these instituions of learning and knowledge bearing.
Perhaps the most well known student of the Kayastha Pathshala was Harivansh Rai Bachchan. (Bachchan did his PhD in English Literature from Cambridge University. His guide was T.R.Henn and his research was on W.B.Yeats.) In his autobiography, Bachchan writes—‘Education in the Kayastha Pathshala was not a matter of academic study: attention was paid to character building…’. Elsewhere he writes: “Moving from the Unchamandi School to the Kayastha Pathshala High School was like moving from a pigeon-coop into the open air…..there were expansive grass lawns and maidans to play on…and for each subject there were separate teachers who would come to class at the hour shown on the time table.”
Vande Materam was the assembly song in the Pathshala. It had established its credentials as a nationalist institute quite early. Sociologically, the kayasthas are an intermediate caste given to clerical and literary pursuits. This was a caste that was best equipped to negotiate with the English on issues of power through the subterfuge of co-operation. The mutineer's radicalism was fraught with problems caste and religion. In fact, western education came to the plains of northern India only after the mutiny of 1857 had been quelled, Oudh and Agra had been united under a single province that would be called the United Provinces. The Kayastha Pathshala and the trust that ran this great educational endeavour ensured that Northern India made the essential transition in its politics from the feudal to the bourgeoisie. The baniyas and the kayasthas joined hands in Allahabad and Lucknow (unlike in Bihar where they rarely inter-married) and the Agarwalas and the Sinhas and Saxenas took the Indian middle class of Northern India to be the rulers of post-independence India. In fact the Kayastha Pathshala was the breeding ground of bhadralok (genteel) intellectual-ism that survived outside ninteenth century Calcutta. I do not agree with the many western sociologists like Christophe Jafferlot and Susan Baily that the Kayastha Pathshala was a casteist ghetto that functioned within the larger circumference of Hindu revivalist aspirations. I believe that the individual geniuses of its faculty and alumni are easily missed if such an analysis is allowed to acquire precedence over the more romantic history that needs to be preserved. The kayasthas were nationalist Hindus and both in Lucknow and Allahabad they ran publishing houses, educational institutes and newspapers, wrote poetry, and taught generations to come—tehzeeb. Interestingly, in 1916 there was a deliberation for separate representation for Hindus and Muslims in the United Provinces. While the Kashmiri Bramhins, Tej Sapru and Motilal Nehru supported separate representation, Kayasthas from eastern part of the UP also supported the bill. While it is easy to dub the oppsers as communal (and Brijnandan Prasad, was indeed communal) it is difficult to understand why Gokul Prasad who was a trustee of the Kayastha Pathshala needed to vote against the bill. He did not fear Muslim majority in the bar—many of his clients must have been Mohameddans. He was a member of the Hindu Sabha but to the extent that a trader or a lawyer could be—it was a social group that reaped professional rewards. I have a feeling that he did not want to dispute the leader of the group and had hardly any significant stake in the debate.
The first president of the Kayastha Pathshala trust was Munshi Hanuman Prasad. Hanuman Prasad belonged to that generation of self-made men who reminded us of the Renaissance gentlemen of sixteenth century. He had given up his job at the court of the Maharajah of Beneras following his differences with the ruler. He came to Agra and became a lawyer. When the court was established in Allahabad in 1866, he moved to Allahabad. Hanuman Prasad, learnt English when he was forty-five! Gokul Prasad was his grandson. He was the last honorary Vice-Chancellor of Allahabad University and before that a towering judge of the Allahabad High Court. (It was difficult in those days for non-Europeans to rise so high and natives with extraordinary judisprudence were allowed such positions). Another illustrous member of the same family was Munshi Ambika Prasad, whose saintly demeanor is legend in the annals of the bar of the Allahabad High Court. Munshi Ambika Prasad also served as the President of Kayastha Pathshala.
I shall end my post by talking of one Dr Tara Chand, who was the principal of the Kayastha Pathshala College in the 1920s. Rajeshwar Dayal, who was an illustrous civil servant, a member of the family to which Ravi Dayal—the great publisher who first published Amitav Ghosh and had brought academic publishing to Indian shores as the managing director of Oxford University Press, India—belonged, and who most importantly was Dag Hammerskjold’s special representative to Congo on behalf of the United Nations was Tara Chand’s student at the Kayastha Pathshala. Dayal, with his upper class origins hated his Kaystha Pathshala. In his autobiography, A Life in our Times, he writes of his intermediate college: “There was an air of langour and neglect about everything”. Yet, as he survived his intermediate in science barely managing a second class and went on to study at the Kayastha Pathshala University College he seemed to love his alma mater. He writes: ‘Dr. Tara Chand had moved over to be the head of the college. The new college attracted good students and athletes and soon acquired a fine reputation.” Tara Chand had his D.Phill from Oxford. He was scholar par excellance. In his work called Influence of Islam in Indian Culture , this enthusiastic scholar and educationist writes: “Indian culture is synthetic in character. It comprehends ideas of different orders. …. It eternally seeks to find a unity for the heterogenous elements which make up its totality. At worst its attempts end up in a mechanical juxtaposition, at best they succeed in evolving an organic system.” Tara Chand, an early-twentieth-century scholar, had a rare insight.
Kayastha Pathshala intermediate college and university college along with The Pioneer, The Indian Press, and the Allahabad University laid the foundations of what was called the Oxford of the East—Allahabad. Yes, Allahabad is not just about the Nehrus and the Kumbh Mela (which is also a nineteenth century practice). It is also not so much about the Bachchans as it is about these instituions of learning and knowledge bearing.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Inspired by a friend’s chat line……..
Though leaves are many, the root is one;
Through all the lying days of my youth
I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun;
Now I may wither into the truth.
William Butler Yeats
The poem is built around many binaries: many/one; leaves/root/; sway/wither; lying/truth.The central image is that of a flowering tree, with many leaves. But, it is also a fluid image—the tree changes from its full bloom ‘youth’ of ‘many’ flowers and leaves to a ‘withering’ state of ‘one’-ness. The speaker asserts that there is only one kind of truth and to reach that truth one needs to experience ‘withering’. We know that leaves wither and so do the flowers. The ‘tree’ as such has its identity from these embellishments. But, ‘death’ comes when the root withers. And, this is the irony or ambiguity that any reading of the poem must negotiate—how can the ‘truth’ symbolizing ‘root’, which is a source of nourishment for a tree, be associated with death or withering? The ‘self’ is defined by its many attributes—the professional and the personal. (the leaves help in photosynthesis and basic survival while the flowers carry out the reproductive responsibility). With age sets in withering. One no longer sways and one is no longer defined by the many. It is at this point that the poem runs out of correspondences. (tree-human: : leaves-professional attributes: : flowers-sexual/personal attributes: : youth-a tree in full bloom) What is the exact human correspondence of the ‘root’? The answer is a vague thing called ‘truth’—a term whose significance is cemented by invoking the ‘lying days of youth’. What was the lie? And, who was the liar? The expression—‘lying days of my youth’ is an adjectival phrase. ‘Lying’ is an act (and in a stand-alone situation it is a verb) but grammatically, it qualifies the noun, ‘days’ which belongs to another noun, ‘youth’. So, ‘truth’ stands against ‘the days of youth’ which are ‘lying’ in nature. Commonsense has it that ‘old age’ stands against ‘youth’. Hence, is ‘truth’ an equivalent of ‘old age’? But, epistemologically truth is the implicit state of knowledge when ‘lying’ flourishes. It is like the root that remains deep in the soil while the leaves and the flowers flourish. It is what sustains the plant, gaining nourishment from the soil. It is therefore that Yeats writes: ‘…the root is one;/Through all the lying days of my youth’. In fact, the normal grammatical syntax would be: ‘I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun through all the lying days of my youth’. The inversion connects the ‘root’, as the singular and all-pervasive thing, via the connective ‘through’ to the ‘lying’ days. In old age one comes to realize that the ‘root’ was there all along and that one never paid attention to it. Then, one realizes the ‘truth’ which is the ‘root’ or the all pervasive-ness of the ‘root’. In other words, the ‘truth’ does not have the so-called human equivalent because there is no single truth that applies to all humanity. What sustains us and remains unseen even as it is within us unlike leaves and flowers that grow on us can be discovered only when one has withered and nears death. The image of the tree stands not to supply us with exact equivalents, but, as a process of arriving at the truth. The tree discovers its roots only as it nears its end. This tragedy becomes the message of the poem. The ‘tragedy’ like that of Macbeth’s is the delay of the arrival of truth.(Recall Macbeth’s final solliloquy where he claims that ‘life is a tale told by an idiot..’and then connect it to the witche’s prognosis—‘fair is foul and foul is fair’—that was made to him even before he set on his mayhem and progrom.) The reason why we are denied an exact human equivalent of the ‘root’ is because that is not the point of the poem. The point of the poem is in the pain of the discovery—‘Now I may wither into the truth’. The verb, ‘may’ conveys a sense of leisure at the speaker’s disposal. It also conveys the sense of permission. Life now permits the speaker his moment of discovery. But, the expression ‘wither into the truth’ underlies that the withering is a kind of a journey. The negativity is moderated by the assurance of the truth and its nourishing quality—the ‘root’. But, I refuse to accept that there is any sense of fulfilment. The nature of modernist truth is that it lies in a ‘heap of broken images’, in the poet ‘shoring his fragments’. One can arrive at the truth only by withering into it. The irony that one withers into a knowledge of the source of nourishment does not imply that there is redemption even as one approaches death. If a tree dies it cannot possibly ‘wither to the root’. What remains is the pain of ignorance and this pain is the ‘truth.’ In tragedy there is no redemption—there is only the re-cognition of pain. Therein lies the difference between ordinary morbidity and tragic anagnorisis. The greatness of this poem is that it enacts a tragedy in four lines.
Many thanks to Aakash for setting me on this train of thought and to my teacher Partho Mukherjee for having taught me the meaning of tragedy. And, thanks to my teacher, Suvro Chatterjee, for imploring me to write, again.
Though leaves are many, the root is one;
Through all the lying days of my youth
I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun;
Now I may wither into the truth.
William Butler Yeats
The poem is built around many binaries: many/one; leaves/root/; sway/wither; lying/truth.The central image is that of a flowering tree, with many leaves. But, it is also a fluid image—the tree changes from its full bloom ‘youth’ of ‘many’ flowers and leaves to a ‘withering’ state of ‘one’-ness. The speaker asserts that there is only one kind of truth and to reach that truth one needs to experience ‘withering’. We know that leaves wither and so do the flowers. The ‘tree’ as such has its identity from these embellishments. But, ‘death’ comes when the root withers. And, this is the irony or ambiguity that any reading of the poem must negotiate—how can the ‘truth’ symbolizing ‘root’, which is a source of nourishment for a tree, be associated with death or withering? The ‘self’ is defined by its many attributes—the professional and the personal. (the leaves help in photosynthesis and basic survival while the flowers carry out the reproductive responsibility). With age sets in withering. One no longer sways and one is no longer defined by the many. It is at this point that the poem runs out of correspondences. (tree-human: : leaves-professional attributes: : flowers-sexual/personal attributes: : youth-a tree in full bloom) What is the exact human correspondence of the ‘root’? The answer is a vague thing called ‘truth’—a term whose significance is cemented by invoking the ‘lying days of youth’. What was the lie? And, who was the liar? The expression—‘lying days of my youth’ is an adjectival phrase. ‘Lying’ is an act (and in a stand-alone situation it is a verb) but grammatically, it qualifies the noun, ‘days’ which belongs to another noun, ‘youth’. So, ‘truth’ stands against ‘the days of youth’ which are ‘lying’ in nature. Commonsense has it that ‘old age’ stands against ‘youth’. Hence, is ‘truth’ an equivalent of ‘old age’? But, epistemologically truth is the implicit state of knowledge when ‘lying’ flourishes. It is like the root that remains deep in the soil while the leaves and the flowers flourish. It is what sustains the plant, gaining nourishment from the soil. It is therefore that Yeats writes: ‘…the root is one;/Through all the lying days of my youth’. In fact, the normal grammatical syntax would be: ‘I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun through all the lying days of my youth’. The inversion connects the ‘root’, as the singular and all-pervasive thing, via the connective ‘through’ to the ‘lying’ days. In old age one comes to realize that the ‘root’ was there all along and that one never paid attention to it. Then, one realizes the ‘truth’ which is the ‘root’ or the all pervasive-ness of the ‘root’. In other words, the ‘truth’ does not have the so-called human equivalent because there is no single truth that applies to all humanity. What sustains us and remains unseen even as it is within us unlike leaves and flowers that grow on us can be discovered only when one has withered and nears death. The image of the tree stands not to supply us with exact equivalents, but, as a process of arriving at the truth. The tree discovers its roots only as it nears its end. This tragedy becomes the message of the poem. The ‘tragedy’ like that of Macbeth’s is the delay of the arrival of truth.(Recall Macbeth’s final solliloquy where he claims that ‘life is a tale told by an idiot..’and then connect it to the witche’s prognosis—‘fair is foul and foul is fair’—that was made to him even before he set on his mayhem and progrom.) The reason why we are denied an exact human equivalent of the ‘root’ is because that is not the point of the poem. The point of the poem is in the pain of the discovery—‘Now I may wither into the truth’. The verb, ‘may’ conveys a sense of leisure at the speaker’s disposal. It also conveys the sense of permission. Life now permits the speaker his moment of discovery. But, the expression ‘wither into the truth’ underlies that the withering is a kind of a journey. The negativity is moderated by the assurance of the truth and its nourishing quality—the ‘root’. But, I refuse to accept that there is any sense of fulfilment. The nature of modernist truth is that it lies in a ‘heap of broken images’, in the poet ‘shoring his fragments’. One can arrive at the truth only by withering into it. The irony that one withers into a knowledge of the source of nourishment does not imply that there is redemption even as one approaches death. If a tree dies it cannot possibly ‘wither to the root’. What remains is the pain of ignorance and this pain is the ‘truth.’ In tragedy there is no redemption—there is only the re-cognition of pain. Therein lies the difference between ordinary morbidity and tragic anagnorisis. The greatness of this poem is that it enacts a tragedy in four lines.
Many thanks to Aakash for setting me on this train of thought and to my teacher Partho Mukherjee for having taught me the meaning of tragedy. And, thanks to my teacher, Suvro Chatterjee, for imploring me to write, again.
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