Keraya
Syed Waliullah (as narrated by Amar Mitra) ________________________________________ Those who have read Lal Shalu, Kando Nodi Kando or Chander Omaboshya know that Syed Waliullah (1922-1971) is a writer’s writer. I recall his other tale—the short story Keraya—which is the name for the ‘pitcher of jaggery’ . Once the mahajan delivers keraya, the two boatmen shall set sail on their country-boat. They had come to the haat to procure keraya. But the mahajan has eluded them. He is nowhere to be seen. Will it be that the majhis will have to return with an empty vessel? Sometimes there are such days. Yes, sometimes only fate. Their families, by the river, await their return eagerly. There is an etim (orphan) boy with them on the boat. He works for them, in return for food. Meanwhile, an old man, at the threshold of death, climbs into the boat, lets his body lie on the hull and starts to wheeze. He is about to die. He wants that his family members should watch this portentous event of his life. He can die in from of them. The boat will row past his village. Could the majhis kindly leave him there on their way back? But can he articulate this to them, a dying man’s last wish? Instead he just sprawls on the deck. The majhis have noticed him. But their mind is set on the still-to-arrive keraya. Will the mahajan really give them a miss today? May be if they can ignore the keraya trail, the old man may survive till his village? But that was not be. They wait. And the old man awaits his death. The etim boy sleeps close to the feet of the dying man. As his life force drains, the old man wakes up, as if in a stupor and kicks him. The boy does not move, lost as he is in deep slumber. To the dying man—it seems everyone is dead—the boy, the night, the deck. All dead as timbre. The old man had a child—who had died of snake bite. Is this boy who lies near his feet his own? Could it be so? He sleeps. Since sleep is death. But life, life’s pull, is magical and so the old man, who is immersed in death, still kicks the boy. Kicks him hard. The boy wakes up this time. The old man wants to address him. He realizes in a daze that this boy is not his own. This boy is alive. His son is dead. All around there is death. Still he calls him. There is no night. Death lurks on the far side of day. The old man howls, squeals actually —Baapjaan!! Baapjaan re!! But at that moment he realizes, this is not his son. And he closes his eyes, one last time. The dead-body now sleeps on the deck. One of the boatmen comes and lies close to the body. The other man keeps vigil and then they take turns. After a while, they set sail with the dead-body. They reach the dead-man’s village,late at night. News spreads and the family of the old man comes out, wailing. They take charge of his body. The majhis set sail again. The two boatmen on two sides of the boat. Star spread night. The boy sleeps again. The sound of the river is the only one that can be heard. Till the end of the universe. All this we have known. All this we may have dreamt. But Waliullah’s quill takes us to a plane, from where there is no respite. No succour. No turning back. It beckons us and we give in. Give in, we must. ____________________ adminhumanitiesunderground.org
I Am Not A Man
Manmohan Dutta —————————————- What am I? I am a man. But I do not have humanity in me. In order to have humanity one has to master the art of showcasing hypocrisy, a variance in words and deeds; one must partake of chest-thumping, manifest activism, and arrogance. But I am unable to do all that. Therefore there is no humanity in me. I am unnatural and insane. But those who call themselves human beings—I do not see any natural stability in them either. The whole world is manic. Perhaps that is the reason it is unable to comprehend its different streaks and qualities. And so I am insane. I know this world is but a game of shadows; our existence a seductive trompe l’oeil. I have come alone and will disappear so. None will come along with me. I have realized that one requires both friends and enemies. Just friends will not do. That is why I and my kind of people are not humans. The creatures who call themselves humans loathe us. What shall we do? I am the forest flower. I took birth in the forest. In the forest is all my lingering. I persist there. I do not mind anyone’s not calling me a human. But my only thought, my heart’s desire, is that I should perish in the forest too. Let my final bed be spread amidst the hushed, caring lap of vana-devi. Let me merge and mingle where every atom cries that aching song. There are so many people in this world. So many are rich, others well-regarded, then there are the poor, or stupid, scholarly many, happy or sorrowful, small and big—all are but humans. But not me. Who am I? I am not any other creature. But I could not become a man worthy of his name. So I am mad. Why mad? Because I realize that to work silently here is a waste of energy. Only the one who, with great fanfare, can trump up his eminence and power is mobile. The silent one is dead. I usually do not smile. Why don’t I smile? Is there any subject at which one can smile? Some people smile in order to annoy somebody else. Some other fellow smiles so that he can sweeten and mollify another’s mind. I do not like such smiles. I do not have any interest. So I do not smile. What is smiling? At some beautiful high point of our mind is the source of true smile. Meaningful contortions and distortions of facial muscles have nothing to do with smiling. Where has that smile gone—that truest form of smile that arises from the deepest region of the soul, traipsing along, rejuvenating our heart and mind, reverberating through our veins and arteries? I realize the worth of such a smile. Whereof I cannot smile, thereof I remain silent. So I am a pariah in human society. Therefore I am not a human. I do not have humanity in me. I am useless, insane! Selflessness is the maddest option in this world. So, my kind of people are insane and useless to others. Everyone has one purpose or another. But I don’t have any. Humans are selfish. In every pore and atom of his heart the seed and imprimatur of the self is embossed. Selflessness is a subject beyond their ken. So I am insane. I am useless. Yes, that is the reason that the infant or the teenager, the young man, the middle-aged or the elderly—no one can tolerate me. As soon as they see me, their spite and enviousness automatically spring up. As soon as nature’s child, the tiniest of toddlers, spots me, there emerges a speck of smile on his lips. Sarcasm and mockery writ large all over his distorting and contorting face. The naughty child becomes naughtier the moment he sees me. With his natural mischievousness, augmented manifold, he scrambles toward me. A fresh tide of hope washes over the young-man’s mind as soon as he notices me. Oblivious to the whole of creation, forgetful of every care, he dives into the waves of the snickers and shrieks of my manic condition. The middle aged man begins to foster and ripen contempt and repugnance as soon he recognizes me. He finds a fresh fillip to bring grave charges of fraud, deceit, posturing and swindling against me. For one final time the old man’s begrudging jealousy is inflamed as soon as he spies me. As he gets a sense of my fearlessness, my broad heart, unperturbed by the thoughts of death, he begins to bark and bluster, following the adage. My ways are all against the tide of worldly laws. Therefore, I am useless, insane. I am doing fine being mad. I do not chase worldly distractions. Do not think you can distract me with those gestures of your body or eyebrow. I despise such cleverness. So, they try to ignore and shove me away. With inflamed nostrils, muttering all kinds of known and unknown swear-words they crown me with appellations. Ways to brush me by the wayside. No harm in that. My heart says: Yours and mine, our friendship dawned Infamy was the award Let people spread buzz and slander You and I did our job তেরি মেরি দোস্তি লাগল লোক সব বদনামী কিয়া। লোক সব্কো বকনে দিজে তোমনে হামনে কাম কিয়া ॥ Than-didi says, if you are able to be blessed with your husband’s love, it does not matter whether you receive other kinds of love. But I do not get familial love. Let them ignore. I have spoken to my soul. O my soul—it is very difficult to be good to people. Do not expect the love of ordinary people. Try and turn bad and base as much as possible. You will be freed from all responsibility of being human. Since the zamindar does not accept tenancy tax from fallow land, you will be free. Is it because I follow
No More Flat Feet
Serge Berna, Jean-Louis Brau, Guy-Ernest Debord & Gil J. Wolman Internationale Lettriste #1 (November 1952) _________________________________________ Sub Mack Sennett director, sub-Max Linder actor, Stavisky of the tears of unwed mothers and the little orphans of Auteuil, you are Chaplin, emotional blackmailer, master-singer of misfortune. The cameraman needed his Delly. It’s only to him that you’ve given your works, and your good works: your charities. Because you’ve identified yourself with the weak and the oppressed, to attack you has been to attack the weak and oppressed — but in the shadow of your rattan cane some could already see the nightstick of a cop. You are “he-who-turns-the-other-cheek” — the other cheek of the buttock — but for us, the young and beautiful, the only answer to suffering is revolution. We don’t buy the “absurd persecutions” that make you out as the victim, you flat-footed Max de Veuzit. In France the Immigration Service calls itself the Advertising Agency. The sort of press conference you gave at Cherbourg could offer no more than a piece of tripe. You have nothing to fear from the success of Limelight. Go to sleep, you fascist insect. Rake in the dough. Make it with high society (we loved it when you crawled on your stomach in front of little Elizabeth). Have a quick death: we promise you a first-class funeral. We pray that your latest film will truly be your last. The fires of the kleig lights have melted the makeup of the so-called brilliant mime — and exposed the sinister and compromised old man. Go home, Mister Chaplin. _________________ Translated by Sophie Rosenberg adminhumanitiesunderground.org
The New Between Past and Future: The Question of Method in the Humanities II (Video Clips)
Dear HUG Readers: Here are the youtube links to the video clips of the forum (second & final in the series) on ‘The New Between Past and Future: The Question of Method in the Humanities II’ —a collaboration between MargHumanities and the Jawaharlal Nehru Institute of Advanced Study, JNU, (April 13, 2015). —————————- Speakers: Milind Wakankar (IIT, Delhi) , Rakesh Pandey (CSDS, New Delhi), Achia Anzi (Artist and SL, JNU) , Asad Zaidi (Poet and Three Essays Collective) Moderator: Prasanta Chakravarty (Delhi University) The proceedings of the forum have been broken into 11 clips. All the clips are live on this page. 1. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RVhlmKwZZoA 2. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rvElJydYZsc 3. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RqIdV9bPKJw 4. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bgkCbmIi82M 5. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Acjidg14J-A 6. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xY-H0mkGrzk 7. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=loSWs2VOizg 8. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L-YB1887qn4 9. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aAQykO_1P_o 10 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8B9EBhvUTHU 11. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XVxy1eVqgu0 ——————————————- adminhumanitiesunderground.org