Then Will Come Envy
Viren Dangwal [Translations: Ashok Pande] Defining the poet of our times, Nazim Hikmet once remarked: “The real poet is not engaged in his love, his happiness or pain. In such poet’s poems his people’s pulse must beat … The poet, in order to be successful, should, in his poems, shed light on the material life. One who escapes from real life and thus treats of unrelated subjects, is destined to burn like straw.” Probably the most innovative and the most daring among his contemporaries, Viren Dangwal treats the ordinary world with intense objectivity and skillfulness. He has turned the most mundane things like cows, elephants, tables, papayas, flies etc. into themes for his unique form of poetry. Attempting this requires immense compassion and audacity. Critics and poets alike have time and again emphasized that Viren has ardently followed the tradition of great Hindi poets Nirala and Nagarjun. Part of this is true, but what makes Viren Dangwal a unique poet is his modernity and awareness. His socio-political convictions were vociferous and underline his unassuming loyalty to common people. Constantly challenging the evils of the new world order, he dares to experiment with hitherto unknown forms and themes, constantly making us aware of the threats and vulnerability that we are exposed to. His poetry encompasses love, hope, struggle, irony and above all life – life that is simultaneously trivial and enormously full of possibilities. Summing up his vision, he observes: Down these very roads tyrants have kept coming Down these same roads One day Our people will come too. (From the Preface of ‘Its been Long since I Found Anything’ – Translation of Viren Dangwal’s poems. Published by Adharshila Prakashan, 2005) ________________________________ P.T. Usha Dark youthful gazelle Flies on her swift long legs Daughter of my impoverished country Still alive in the brightness of her eyes is the modesty recognizing hunger Therefore there is no Sunil Gavaskarsque splendor on her face Don’t ever sit P. T. Usha in that Maruti car you received as prize Giving yourself airs even in your thoughts Rather, put your feet up on the seat when you travel in the airplane Does your mouth make sounds while eating? No worries Those who regard silent jaws as civilized are the most dangerous gluttons in the world. *** Allahabad : 1970 1. I carry you along As the water carries the bank along A roguery, a nostalgia, a mischief, A panic, a suffering, a turn around, a crumpled hat, A hard kick on the bum, Scratching of a closing door with the wretchedness of paws Life is a strange riddle As soon as one thinks one belongs And spreads out the towel, ready to breathe easily One is thrown out mandatorily. 2. Scores of girders come crashing down Under them there is a man still alive His pupils are turned upwards From the corners of his lips a line of blood trickles But he is still alive, that man. His sleep is a chariot To take him to the dream that glimmers A thousand light years away 3. Groping in the dark for a matchbox Fingers find The unfamiliar feel Of well known things Knowing full well that I should have I still didn’t fill the stove Last evening Go, lethargy Stay, love Get, job Wife, be Make some khichri and chutney Loneliness Don’t stick to my neck On the crumpled pillow Like the sweat of May. 4. One personal gloom Two sandals getting worn out Three dogs barking So passed even this too, this day How wonderful would it be On opening the door to see Four or five letters Lighting up the darkness 5. I read it from the very beginning There were so many mistakes It was impossible to amend them Life was a book printed in a cheap press So many prescriptions for health They had themselves become disease. 6. A poet is fortunate to be read Just as to be eaten is the good fortune of a guava Yes, it tastes good and is healthy too Maybe, something else would flash in the mind As someone else lives in some other place. 7. Slowly, after the taste of failure fades away Envy would come. You will remember fixing The strap that keeps slipping off Of your rubber chappals You will not remember the sharp Taste of a firm guava The glittering sharpness will terrify the depressed Heart Goodness will taste bitter Shame will not leave the heart Those companions will meet like half-acquaintances With whom one learnt the lessons of life With success will vanish The sorrow of losing, the bliss of finding Then will come envy Blowing the trumpet of greed 8. The sorrow of passion, adolescence Pennilessness, a dosa a luxury In the coffeehouse some petty men Some supermen Two Che Guevaras The human being with me was Ramendra He had Four and a half Rupees 9 [Gaffar] A talkative smile on the face Like a xylophone the catechu-pot All this comes only with experience The shirt will always be sparkling too-blued white The knees will ache of course If you have to sit for sixteen hours in this tiny place “Now it is not like the old days, Sahib, Now every Tom, Dick and Harry Comes to study in the university,” In this contempt is hidden A unique brand of flattery All this comes only with experience. “My own son, Ekram at any rate Never got beyond the sixth grade” This much is certain that Gaffar Never was insulted by any student leader But neither did he ever Give anything on credit to a feeble customer. *** Manner Yellow tinged verdant Leaves have come up. Abundant. Glittering. Trees have Just this one way To tell They too love the world. *** Shamsher The night is my
Infernal Encounters: Streets and Interpretation in Mrinal Sen’s Calcutta Trilogy
Somak Mukherjee In the middle of 1971, when the city of Calcutta according to official figures were witnessing about 200 political killings a month, Mrinal Sen released Interview in some of the prominent movie theatres in Calcutta for commercial viewing, the most prominent of all: Globe, where it ran for three weeks. There was a private screening exclusively for the press before this, where the response was rather subdued, although some critics were quite intrigued by the novelty of the subject matter and the constant interplay between fact and fiction with a surrealistic treatment of the narrative. Public response, however, was overwhelmingly good. Sen claims in his biography that the admiring audience enthusiastically chased the cinematographer K K Mahajan, who was mobbed and subsequently rescued after begging for help in horror[i]. The film ran successfully for two weeks at Globe, one of the most prominent movie theatres in town. After the third week, with the waning enthusiasm, it was withdrawn. The public opinion too was polarized. Some praised the treatment and cinematography, but it received criticism from some quarters as well for being an “anti-social” film. The story, written by Ashish Burman, centred around a young unemployed man called Ranju and his futile attempts to seek a proper suit for an important job interview in a prestigious British company. Ranju, who comes from a lower middle class family with a widowed mother and a sister already has strong recommendation from a friend of his late father. His prospects of getting the job look very bright in the beginning but it goes downhill from there. When Ranju goes to the laundry shop to collect his prized suit (the only one he has) he finds the shop is shut due to a laundry workers’ indefinite strike. He manages to get another suit but even that one gets stolen on the bus. Finally, desperate Ranju goes appears in front of the stunned interview board ( The scene was shot in the IBM office in Calcutta, the American corporate giant had a vibrant marketing presence in the city even then. The interview board members played themselves, asking questions) wearing dhoti and kurta. In a quirky reference Ray’s classic Pratidwandi (The Adversary) here too a board member asks the protagonist “What is the biggest event of the decade?”. While Siddhartha’s serious and ideologically charged reply in Pratidwandi was “The Vietnam War”, here Ranju answers with a sheepish yet sincere smile “My interview, Sir!”. Ranju did not get the job. But this essay is not an exploration of individual anxieties and their transition into reckless abandon. Rather, I will try to concentrate on the spaces that Sen explores with K. K. Mahajan’s handheld camera roaming in the street of Calcutta inside public vehicles or through narrow lanes with garbage heaped on the side. Our first proper introduction with the protagonist too happens on the street:on a tramcar, to be precise. Tram was Calcutta’s most iconic and identifiable public transport during this era. The introduction was something revolutionary in Indian cinema, both formalistically and narrative wise: combining elements of Brechtian alienation, Cinema Verite style and effortless breaking of the fourth wall by the hero. This is what happens: Clip 1 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MLD2zts6BIs We see that while the protagonist stands in the tram, the camera zooms on a magazine a female passenger is reading, and it displays a photo of Mullick himself. The young passenger recognizes Ranjit, annoying a fellow male passenger. Mullick comes forward, looks directly at the camera and says with a shy smile: “It is all my fault. You must be curious, so let me confess. It is indeed my photo. But I am not a star. By any means. My name is Ranjit Mullick, I live in Bhawanipur, and work for a weekly magazine. I go to the press, correct the proof and do other tasks. I have a very uneventful life, you know? Yet that is precisely what attracted Mrinal Sen..yes, yes, the filmmaker, you know? He said, ‘My camera will just chase right through the day’. (The camera shows Mahajan shooting the scene on the tram). I am not supposed to do anything special. I just have to be myself. I told Mrinal Sen that today is going to be something special. Today I have a chance to get a much better job. He said ‘fine!That would be really dramatic!” Just see how he is chasing me! To make profit exploiting my experience, of course!” After Ranju gets down from the tram the male passenger who was irritated moments ago, exclaims with genuine bemusement “You call it cinema? But it is my story—your story!”, but suddenly this celebration of everydayness is disrupted by sequences of street protests and demonstrations, many of them newsreel footages underscoring Sen’s ideological leaning towards documentary realism in his work. Deepankar Mukhopadhyay in his admirably well researched biography of Sen writes, “ Ranjit’s statement before the camera is the first example of Brechtian alienation in Indian cinema. But Sen has always insisted that he has never been influenced by Brecht, the only modern European dramatist who cast a deep impression on him happened to be Peter Weiss. What stands out in Interview is Sen’s attempt to contrast reality and surrealism”[ii] Now, apart from the obvious metavisual significance what I find most intriguing is not what or how of the action but rather, where it happens. Sen has a lifelong enchantment for a comment by Elio Vitorini, one of the foremost creative Marxists in Europe: The point is not to pocket the truth, but to chase the truth. This seemingly enigmatic statement, I feel, sums up one of the central paradoxes of the contingency of image: that is to say, what counts as an authentic interpretation of experience is often that depiction which is considered to be least vulnerable to the tests of subjectivity. Space and spatial dimension has the revelatory potential of stripping that safe interpretation off and opening it up to the possibilities
Quite A Few Struggles Remain Local
Vyomesh Shukla (for Pranay Krishna) ————————————— A statement about a place means reaching that place. Only they understand the statement of that place whose place it is. The statement about one’s place reaches one’s place. At an empty place a man helps sprout a chakbad shrub in a beautiful modern arrangement. Colourful butterflies, as they begin to assemble there, hang and flutter in such a fashion around the man’s head and shoulders as if such an arrangement does not even exist. It cannot be that this is for outside this place and it can be that it is for this place. Certainly for the butterflies this is what it is. Local people are of the opinion that the beast that arrives like a beast in tales and stories is, after all, not that beastly. For the people beyond the place, the beast is as dangerous as it has been described. Within the place, it is a common sight during summer evenings that a hundred snakes come to drink water from an embankment. As the snakes drink water from the place, from outside of the place it seems that a hundred sticks have been stacked closely, side by side. A place is such a place where snakes feel thirsty. Heaven knows what lies outside of the place that there the snake does not feel thirsty anymore and turns into a stick. People outside of the place are continually scared, confusing sticks with snakes. Outside of the place a man has a few eunuch friends. They do not pester him for money, do not badger him, do not consider him a eunuch and yet they are friends with him. They do not meet always but whenever they do, meetings happen in a friendly manner. Within the place people speak with each other, remember each other when they are unable to meet and are friends with each other. One cannot meet outside of the place. There are neither friends, nor people, neither existence, nor non-existence. बहुत सारे संघर्ष स्थानीय रह जाते हैं ( प्रणय कृष्ण के लिए ) जगह का बयान उसी जगह तक पहुँचता है। वहीं रहने वाले समझ पाते हैं बयान उस जगह का जो उनकी अपनी जगह है। अपनी जगह का बयान अपनी जगह तक पहुँचता है। एक आदमी सुंदर आधुनिक विन्यास में एक खाली जगह में चकवड़ के पौधे उगा देता है तो रंगबिरंगी तितलियाँ उस जगह आने लगती हैं और उस आदमी को पहचान कर उसके कन्धों और सर पर इस तरह छा जाती हैं जैसे ऐसा हो ही न सकता हो। ऐसा नहीं हो सकता यह जगह के बाहर के लिए है और ऐसा हो सकता है यह जगह के लिए। तितलियों के लिए तो ऐसा हो ही रहा है। किस्सों-कहानियों में ख़तरनाक जानवर की तरह आने वाले एक जानवर के बारे में जगह के लोगों की राय है कि वह उतना ख़तरनाक नहीं है जितना बताया जाता है। जबकि जगह के बाहर वह उतना ही ख़तरनाक है जितना बताया जाता है। जगह के भीतर का यह अतिपरिचित दृश्य है कि गर्मियों की शाम एक बंधी पर सौ साँप पानी पीने आते हैं। जगह में जब साँप पानी पी रहे होते हैं तो जगह के बाहर से देखने पर लगता है कि बंधी से सटाकर सौ डंडे रखे हुए हैं। जगह एक ऐसी जगह है जहाँ साँप को प्यास लगती है। जगह के बाहर न जाने क्या है कि साँप को प्यास नहीं लगती और वह डंडा हो जाता है। जगह के बाहर लोग डंडे जैसी दूसरी-तीसरी चीज़ों को सांप समझ कर डरते रहते हैं। जगह के बाहर एक आदमी के कई हिजड़े दोस्त हैं। वे उससे पैसा नहीं मांगते, उसे तंग नहीं करते, उसे हिजड़ा भी नहीं मानते, फिर भी उसके दोस्त हैं। वे उससे कभी-कभी मिलते हैं लेकिन जब मिलते हैं दोस्त की तरह। जगह में लोग एक-दूसरे से बात करते हैं, मुलाकात न हो पाने पर एक-दूसरे को याद करते हैं और एक-दूसरे के दोस्त होते हैं। जगह के बाहर मुलाकातें नहीं हो सकतीं। न दोस्त होते हैं, न लोग होते हैं, न होना होता है, न न होना होता है। **** Vyomesh Shukla is a distinct and deep voice from Varanasi. This prose-poem was first published in Sabad (vatsanurag.blogspot.com) in April 2009 and had won the Bharat Bhushan Agarwal Award for that year. adminhumanitiesunderground.org
The Letter Box
[A letter to the editor published in the Bangla Magazine, Arek Rokom—আরেক রকম, Volume 16. 2013. Our gratitude to poet Mridul Dasgupta for bringing this to our notice.] ———————————– Your first year’s first publication, dated January 1, 2013 has recently reached me here at Cell No. 10, Raipur Central Jail. As I was reading it I felt society’s call will not go unheeded; your multifaceted effort will be rewarded. That it is possible to bring together under one banner people of divergent beliefs and ideas is evident from the list of your contributors and from the welcome variations and originalities of the subject matter of the writings. After a lot of struggle and tussle with jail authorities, I have got the permission to read legitimate and kosher books and journals written in the Bangla language. There is no regularity though. My age is 70 at this time. I wish to keep myself active by maintaining my regular reading habits. I get to know very little of the world outside. The newspapers that the authorities give are so scratched and scraped in the name of censoring that one does not even feel like touching them, let alone reading them. I do not know whether you will consider me a political prisoner. I am a member of the Indian Communist Party (Maoist). On April 30, 2011, I was arrested from Katihar. After being incarcerated in Bhagalpur Jail for a year, they deported me here to Raipur Central Jail. I feel that they will keep on moving me around from one jail to another all my life. I am writing this note with a lot of caution and wariness. But it is a happy fortuity that there is no dearth of well-wishers. This letter proves that. The bottom-line is that it is my earnest request to you that in the name of Social Study Trust, if you would kindly keep sending me journals, magazines, essays, fiction and poetry books in English, Bangla and even in Hindi, I shall be ever grateful. I am writing under strict vigilance; so please ignore all my errors and mistakes. My nephew visits me once every two or three months. He will again come in July. I shall ask him to pay off your subscription cost when he arrives. One final request: it would be really nice if you could sometimes think of those imprisoned far away in jails. Purnendusekhar Mukhopadhayay Raipur Central Jail adminhumanitiesunderground.org