The Silence of the Lambs: The Case of Presidency University Now
Brinda Bose “My word’s but a whisper, your deafness a shout” Jethro Tull Some serious questions arise from the imbroglio this month at Presidency University, Calcutta, the latest in a series of rumblings and explosions since the end of last year, this latest gone entirely unreported in newspapers (save one damning article in The Telegraph of May 20th) and on television, and mostly unnoticed even on social media other than on the Facebook pages of some current Presidency students. These are bare squeaks where there should have been a cacophony. A few decades ago, in the(then) Presidency College canteen, there was some gratuitous wall graffiti advice for feeble Bengalis that thundered, “Bangali Gorje Othho” (Bengalis, Rise and Roar) under which, in miniscule print, was inscribed “halum” (“meww”). It elicited ironic laughter, in recognition of the Bengali penchant for believing that their race was tiger-like while more often than not, it was lamb-mewlish. But college and university students have universally always proven that they can rise and roar fearsomely and effectively when the occasion demands it, and the history of Presidency, like many other old institutions, has had more than its fair share of instances of anarchic student rebellion, not least famously the one of the late 1960s and early ‘70s in Bengal. So what has become of the institution today, then, that any sign of student protest arouses either astonishment or disgust or rage or scathing criticism in not only its administration (which is to be expected), but across the range of its faculty, its alumnae and the media in the city, and in fact appears to be able to frighten (or convince) the apathetic or the quiet or the ambitious among its student population as well that dissent is anathema to the building of a savvy, snazzy university of the future? If that is what the new movers and shakers of Presidency University aspire for, to mold it into the IIT-IIM-Private University-Finishing School utilitarian model of higher education, then PU is hurtling toward becoming the first symbolic martyr of the public university in India, even as, ironically enough, it is one of the youngest to join the ranks. The questions, then: How do the ‘new’ builders of ‘old’ public institutions – one sees, for example, a certain reverberation between a Valson Thampu of St Stephens College and the VC’s team at Presidency – envisage their responsibility toward their present and future students? To provide a factory of perfect-branding, each student fitted and kitted for the best results and the best placements, whether in foreign universities for further studies or in high-paying branded jobs? To discipline each student with the most efficient work-ethic, 75% attendance in the best or rottenest of classes, so no questions asked, no voices raised, no time off for walking under torn umbrellas down flooded College Street on a monsoon afternoon or singing rousing, thumping-on-the-canteen-table songs on a hazy winter morning, Romantic poetry in the classroom be damned because one was fleetingly living a poem? To instill in each student the fear of being political, so that to find a voice and to look for a say in the processes one is a part of, to seek a democratic functioning, in which teachers and students can engage in dialogues which are honoured by both when the penny drops, is to be the kind of student the university wishes to drop? To manicure students, batch after batch, who will contribute fruitfully to the market economy, never thinking of breaking out of the molds set for them, where thinking ‘out-of-the-box’ is merely management school jargon for innovative marketing ideas for the next global product and could never be about senior students shouting slogans in the university building portico demanding that those who will come after them be tested for admission rather than be judged on state school board examinations which are unreliable at best? If so, there is no conversation possible between those who are shaping these institutions now and the greatest contemporary thinkers on higher education from around the world or from India – which is not so surprising, perhaps; just impossibly, drearily, depressing. I Hunger Strike as Event – and Non-Event ‘The position I want to advance here is one where we retain the idea of the University as something linked intrinsically to a special kind of mobility or, more precisely, to the possibility that fundamental transformations may occur. The important word here, though, is ‘occurrence’: instead of thinking of the University as site-specific plant or as a place, we might think of it as an ‘event’, as something that happens; and it happens (for one example) where we get the kind of high-stakes vigorous debate about the proper conditions of living and of our living together. The University is an idea, so to speak, first and foremost; but it is not just an abstract idea, divorced from material history: it is indeed something that happens or that takes place, and assumes its place in a social formation. If we are lucky, these happenings become systematic and not episodic; and, if we are luckier still, they are systematic in a specific place, the location of the group of intellectuals that constitutes the action that is a University.’Thomas Docherty, For the University: Democracy and the Future of the Institution’ (2011) Eerily enough, if you google ‘Presidency University student on hunger strike’ the only links that appear recall a hunger strike by PU students in November 2014(that had 20 students fasting to protest against the debarring of 180 undergraduate students from taking their end-semester examinations because of low attendance in classes.) In the semester just ended, 230 students were debarred from taking their examinations for the same reason, and 1 student, Amardip Singh (not one of them) was on hunger strike for 8 days this month before he collapsed and was hospitalized, to draw attention to this and many other troubles at PU. As the students insist, the hunger strike was not merely for the examination
The Nineteenth of May, Selections
Translations: Arjun Chaudhuri —————————————- Feeling the Nineteeth–of Poetry and Resistance Tushar Kanti Nath The Language Movement of 1961 has provided immense enthusiasm to the poets and writers of Barak Valley; it has fostered to a markedly significant degree the progress of the literatures of this region as well. In the eighties decade of the last century, the tone and tenor of Bengali poetry from Barak Valley did take a turn towards a different idiom. The author holds this very turn up to light and attempts to read how the Bengali poets of Barak Valley, after the Language Movement, have strung the consciousness of the Nineteenth of May like a bead into the garland of letters that their poetry is. The very sound of the phrase “Unishe May” (the Nineteenth of May) evokes the image of a red, bloodied day from 1961 in the imagination of the people of Barak Valley. The Nineteenth of May is in itself one long, difficult history, a firm pillar in our cultural consciousness, the cultural consciousness of this region. A history of great strength, fortitude and sacrifice remains embedded within it. The surging political impetus that was seen throughout the entire region of Barak Valley during the Language Movement, and which steered the valley and its people towards an inclusive civil movement for the protection of the dignity of the mother tongue remains till date a very rare example. Through a long and strong resistance, effective protest and unending struggle, the people of this valley have succeeded in protecting their linguistic and cultural identities. As it is, any significant incident in the history of any community, or race, or ethnie will invariably lead towards a surge of inspiration in the hearts of creative people. This impact is felt most in case of the literary and artistic production of the age. Across Barak Valley and in West Bengal, the self sacrifice of the eleven martyrs of the Language Movement of 1961 similarly exerted a major influence in the minds of poets, writers, artists and journalists, and even in all other spheres of the society. Manish Ghatak, Balaichnad Mukhopadhyay (Banaphul), Dakshinaranjan Basu, Ramendra Deshamukhya, Kumudranjan Mallik and other poets of that era had spoken out in their poetry, protesting against the shooting at Silchar Railway Station. The story of the great movement of 1961, the rise of the masses against the state of Assam, and the story of the great martyrdom of the eleven people on 19th May, 1961 did not really garner much attention in the little magazines, or the literature in this region during the sixties decade. In the seventies, there was yet another phase of resistance against the linguistic aggression exerted on ethnic groups in this part of the state. The language movements in the sixties and the seventies did exert a tremendous influence over the poets of Barak Valley, but there was no significant outpouring from them in the pages of the literature produced after that time here. However, the cultural significance of this entire history was great, and ran deep. In reality, what did not happen in the sixties-seventies decades came into existence in the eighties when a group of young writers, through the little magazines they edited and published, and even their individual work, manifested how much the bloodied Language Movement had held sway over their minds, their hearts, their consciousness. And it was in this eighties decade of the last century when another distinct turn in the trajectory of literary thought was noticed in Barak Valley’s literary spaces. This distinct turn was a veering of contemporary poetic expression towards the village, the rural spaces of this region. In this context Dr. Amalendu Bhattacharjee writes: I do believe, and I can also produce evidence to substantiate my belief, that from the second half of the eighties decade, the literature of Barak Valley has turned mostly toward the rural spaces of the region. Those who confer otherwise, and publicise that sort of thought in the mass media do not, it would seem, know the truth, or if they do, they do not wish to acknowledge it. (“Khelaghor”, Sharad anthology 1317 Bengali era: “Samipeshu”, Pg. 2) The reason why the literature of that age became inclined towards a rural space, towards a ‘rural’ idiom was because the people writing at that time were mostly young men and women who originally belonged to those rural spaces. They tirelessly worked for the pursuit of literary production through their little magazines, which they started publishing from those very marginal, rural spaces. What was added to the general character of these little magazines was this – a desire to spread the consciousness of Nineteenth May through the written word, a wish to see the glorious story of Nineteenth May brought to the world outside. The revolutionary zeal of these young writers expressed in their writing advanced the stature of the historical and cultural consciousness of the Language Movement to a new height. The vast lacuna in the poetic idiom of the sixties-seventies decade was brought home to the eagle eyed poets of the eighties decade. In an editorial from the literary magazine Ityadi (Ninth year: Fifteenth edition: 1988) it was said: It can now be concluded without doubt that the poets of Barak Valley writing in this decade have focused in their writing on contemporary society and times, especially on the discontent simmering in the hearts of the people of this region, on outright rebellion, and the fragrance of the earth. This, however, was not noticed at all in the poetry of the previous decade…the poets of the preceding two decades had turned their faces away from the pain and agony of a deprived human existence, from the time they lived in and the society they were a part of, and had continued writing their distanced poetry. In their poetry, we do not see any traces of the tread of the time they lived in; only a smoggy emptiness greets us there. The
Keisham Priyokumar and the Economy of Fragmented Narratives
Loiya Leima Oinam [This essay is on changing trends in identity formation in Manipur. I focus on the construction of the ethnic outsider in relation to anti-outsider movements and the Kuki Naga clashes (1992-97) in Manipur and the ways they were narrativised in short stories.] ——————————— Keisham Priyokumar is perhaps the most important author in this regard since his stories capture the challenges in presenting the subjectivities and a coherent narrative of the killings. His work shows that fiction can also provide an important intervention in the linear and sanitised histories that one comes across concerning these events. Here, I have dwelled on one short story by Priyokumar in order to understand the predicament of the writer in fictionally re-presenting real incidents of ethnic violence, and also to reflect on our own interpretive engagement with narratives of such nature. In a way, the difficulty faced by the author while trying to reconstruct this particular story leads us to a scenario where one can reconcile with narrative perspectives or voices that are sutured. *** In the first edition of his collection of short stories Nongdi Tarakkhidare (The Rain that Failed) (1995), Keisham Priyokumar expresses his objective of presenting “inner worlds”, and contends that the seriousness of literary work lies in the ability to depict the changing world.[1] This is not an “experiment”, he says, but the “journey” of the short story in Manipur (ibid). Priyokumar makes clear his commitment to representing people who live at the periphery of progress and modernity and to whom he dedicated his multiple awards winning book, including the Sahitya Akademi Award. As someone who is particularly conscious of the contribution of his stories in the field of arts, there has been a discernible change in his assessment of his own work and role as a writer. A decade later, he maintained that the long standing aim for a “new expression” in his writing is deliberate.[2] Amidst the gradual evolution of the short story form in Manipur in conjunction with the changing social situation, the 1970s marked a new wave in short story writing. Considered as path-breaking, the bi-monthly journal Meirik (Sparks) had its inception during the 1960s. From 1974 onwards it became a collective venture of some of the most renowned writers in Manipur. Conceptualised under the leadership of Nongthongbam Kunjamohan, the first volume of Meirik came out in 1974. The other writers were Shri Biren, Yumlembam Ibomcha, Lamabam Birmani, Keisham Priyokumar, Laitonjam Premchand, among others (Aruna, 2009). It heralded a new and experimental style in form and themes, and the use of dreams and allegories became popular. As subsequent writers began to focus on marginalised voices, the influence of Meirik became even more apparent in the realistic portrayal of society and contemporary issues besetting the state. Although the generation of short story writing to which Priyokumar belonged was in itself a groundbreaking one, for him, a desire for further change, if not disillusionment, set in. It stems from problems regarding publishing and even of readership. He says, “[m]oreover, our literature is not able to do anything for the society today… So, I can write no more short stories. This is what worries me. For now, I can just quietly observe and listen”.[3] Following this rather grim declaration in Lan amasung Mang (War and Dream) (2000), The Rain that Failed has seen its third edition due to its resonance in the current socio-political atmosphere. He admits that he continues to face queries from fellow writers as to whether he will write again or not. The eponymous short story “The Rain that Failed” won him critical acclaim and was adapted in theatre and as a telefilm.[4] From “The Rain” to other stories in the 1995 collection, one sees a collage of fragmented narratives and fractured selves of individuals getting habituated to living with ethnic conflict and everyday violence. Priyokumar’s work has stood out for its ability to sensitively and insightfully portray the lives of the underdogs and those living at the darker end of modernity and development. His changing perspective regarding the efficacy of the function of writers in contemporary times points towards the complex and rather important role of the fiction writer. He therefore brings up the centrality of the short story writer in relation to ‘acts’ of witnessing and questions about translating the real experiences and testimonial utterances into fiction. In the entire process of conceiving a story, the writer then draws upon the lives of the people he comes across for inspiration and presents the experiences as those of the fictional characters. “The Rain”, written in October, 1994, is one of the most poignant stories to have captured the deep-rooted social and personal devastations of the nineties Kuki-Naga clashes. Apart from it, the author has dwelled on the subject in “Ahing Ama” (One Night) and “Mangsatheigi Mang” (Mangsathei’s Dream) from War and Dream (2000). Based on the life of Chongnikim, whose husband died in the killings, “The Rain” is told through a series of flashbacks and reminiscences of events preceding Lungjahao, the husband’s, death. Set against a secluded village in Manipur that is situated near the Barak River (Assam), the story opens with a glimpse of a beguilingly simplistic life led by the couple even while facing acute adversity. In the story, Priyokumar depicts a multi-cultural society that draws its peaceful co-existence from a mutually demarcated distance and civility. This is only ritually crossed while carrying out trade-related transactions. Lungjahao cuts and sells bamboo to the “extremely thin, dark complexioned” Moti, which are then carried across to the other side of the village on a makeshift ferry through the powerful streams of the Barak river. However, when the much anticipated rain never comes and fails to fill the river, Lungjahao goes to another village to fish in order to provide for his family. Chongnikim’s good-humoured parting remark, “Be careful, lest the fish kills you” (“The Rain” 95), proves ominously prophetic when Lungjahao is brought back dead. Chongnikim is based on a real person
Women in Unemployment & Revolutions at the Workplace
Avinash Mishra [Avinash Mishra is one of the most expressive, dangerous and suicidal voices in the world of literature today. The following reflection arises out of Agyeya’s Shekhar: Ek Jeevani, a novel published in two volumes. The writer, in a personal preamble, reminds us of Agyeya’s own words: “Shekhar was not any notable man. He was not even a good man. But he is trying to find himself with honesty within the palimpsest of human experience. May be he will not turn out to be a good companion, but if you care to travel with him till the end, your feelings about him shall not harden—that much I can assure. And who can tell, in this age, you and I may all be kindred characters. Perhaps you may discover a Shekhar within yourself, who is not great, or good, but he is forever agile, independent and honest, terribly honest.”] A Biography of a New Shekhar From the ashes of a few poems a life took birth. In order to live one must burn poems. Life seems to be at the centre of all projects and poetry lies beyond all such projects. Life is made. Poetry becomes—on its own. To become, on your own, is a test of dignity. But in order to become oneself, one has to keep away from all projects. For ages, no one takes any interest in Shekhar’s past. Everyone wants to know about prospects for his future.And his present—somewhat like our eyes, which, after being accustomed to darkness, cannot easily square with a sudden gleam of light. In the words of Nazim Hikmet: *** And he has no idea what all will happen to him Only I know what will happen Because I believed everything he believes I loved all the women he’ll love I wrote all the poems he’ll write I stayed in all the prisons he’ll stay in I passed through all the cities he will visit I suffered all his illnesses I slept all his nights dreamed all his dreams I lost all that he will lose *** ‘A long lost future shall turn golden with the advent of feelings’—this belief had become the past within Shekhar’s nowness. The future tramples all feelings. The moments of deep introspection too disappear. Irregularity becomes the only regularity. The nights do arrive as your own, but their very being there makes them untimely. *** Shekhar had learnt that love’s strains and traction are ultimately liberating. There is no more scrupulous a word than ‘No’ in love. When someone enquires: “Are you in love?”, there is no more precise and faithful a reply than ‘No.’ *** O God, Give the cats a life of vagabondage And to Shekhar, those roads that the cats cut across *** Water never returns and that is the opulence of its existence *** The river’s happiness is not the water, but the journey. *** Shekhar never went anywhere. Not to go anywhere is to truly travel. Sometimes not to go itself is sufficient. In order to express an untrammelled hatred for the dunces and the dolts of this world. *** Shekhar made an excuse of love so that he could pause. And he stopped in places where he sought a pause. He has never abandoned his steadily walking friends to hop into a car.Trains would try to lure him to those unknown, unheard of lands, but he did not choose the paths of animosity. An excuse of love is what he made, and stopped in the places where he wanted to pause. A little crazy Shekhar is not; meaning, he is – quite a lot. *** 18 days and Shekhar is still in the same pair of denims, and in those familiar pair of chappalsfor the past 3 years. Wife is happy with him at home and the mochi—the cobbler, outside. The landlord, like the universe, is unhappy. *** When Shekhar was in class 12, he eloped with a girl, who is now his wife. His wife was looking for a tall sweep. She said “In the neighbourhood and in society there is a lot of dirt. I need a tall enough sweep.” In those days he used to look like Ajay Devgan and Ajay Devgan like him–Premi Aashik Awara Pagal Majnu Diwana. ‘Phool aur Kaante’ he had seen 11 times. The kind of swains you encounter in the Phool aur Kaante predicament are gross and uncivil louts. They taunt girls in public. But the girls finally married these louts because these uncouth, ill-bred ones were not scared of the villains—the khalnayaks. These lovers used to be the examples of the victory of loutishness over villainy and such girls stood as symbols for the victory of tall sweeps over dirt. *** Shekhar likes labour. Not recognition. Salary, yes. Not awards. More than his rights Shekhar worries about his responsibilities. More than the Sundays he looks forward to Mondays. He knows that changing jobs does not mean transforming the world. When Shekhar used to be unemployed a friend used to pronounce—“When you will start at the workplace, all revolution will vanish in thin air.” The world of friends did not have revolutions. Revolutions were only in the world of women. Women were not friends. Friends were unrevolutionary, job seeking. Once in a while they tried revolution in private but for that they needed women. The point of it all is that without unemployment and women, one cannot have revolution. But women in unemployment and revolutions at the workplace were impossibilities. Shekhar likes jobs. Not bureaucrats. A little crazy Shekhar is not; meaning, he is. Quite a lot. *** Ambition is a good thing. But Shekhar does not have that in him. Like all those other things which are thought to be good. But Shekhar does not have them. He was weak in calculation right from his birth. Now the whole world seems to tie him up in knots. At every step he encounters crossroads… *** These days Shekhar can’t