The Kitchen
Amiya Sen Translated by Bhaswati Ghosh At a time when there was a drought of jobs, Nirupama felt uncertain on receiving a job offer. Her husband, Salil Dutta, figured that by looking at his wife. He still encouraged her, “I don’t want to force you, but you shouldn’t let go of Lakshmi if she’s coming your way. That too, when the offer has come on its own…” “Is getting the offer everything? How will I cope with that kind of a job?” Nirupama’s voice choked. At forty-five—though she didn’t look much older than thirty–Nirupama was no longer a contender in the job market. Salil Dutta used to work in an ordinary government job. He had a lot of weight to carry, mostly in the form of responsibilities towards his extended family. Like any refined bhadralok, he carried that load despite drowning in debt all his working life. After that, the inevitable happened. As he stepped on the shore of retirement, he was in deep sea, with no coast in sight. Attempting to cross the shores on a broken boat would be like counting the hours to one’s death. The family had to surrender the government quarter to find shelter in the stable-like shed of a rich man’s house. Having been used to a life of struggle, Nirupama didn’t complain. For years, she had rowed the boat of this impoverished household with remarkable skill. But when she could no longer manage with her husband’s 150 rupees of pension, she too had contemplated working—at any petty job. She kept it to herself, however. Nirupama was afraid of the outside world. That’s when the offer arrived. Some well-to-do women had started a service centre for underprivileged Bengali girls. The chief project was having nakshi kanthas stitched by disadvantaged women from East Bengal. It was an ambitious project. Apparently, the government would earn hefty revenue just by selling those kanthas. A shelter had been opened for nearly a hundred women—widows or abandoned by their husbands—and their children. Nirupama would have to assume charge of the shelter. There was a time when Nirupama used to play the sitar quite well. Not that she couldn’t anymore, but time was scarce now. Sitar was what drew the attention of Bardi or Mrs. Basu, the director of Srimangal. Nirupama had once played sitar at a women’s soiree held in the government quarters. Mrs. Basu was the chief guest there. She had since maintained contact with Nirupama. The elderly lady appreciated Nirupama’s talent and was affectionate towards her. She had brought the job offer. Nirupama was afraid. Terribly. To begin with, she had never had a job before. Moreover, despite being poor, they were cultured, educated people. But none of those underprivileged women were sophisticated. They formed the society’s fringe. “Why are you so worried, Niru? Take up the job and find out for yourself. There’s nothing to fear. You are an artist after all. Food and clothing aren’t the ultimate ends of one’s life. We also need artistic sensibilities for the soul’s development. That’s why I suggested your name. In your free time, you can entertain them with your music. All they do is worry about food and squabble with each other. They don’t even know that a world exists beyond all that.” That was what Mrs. Basu had said. Another world! Nirupama didn’t say anything, but felt a sting. It occurred to her how women like Mrs. Basu had no work at home, were lavished with luxury, wealth and rich husbands to look after them. That’s why they had embarked on providing entertainment to others. But did the “other world” of Nirupama exist just because she hadn’t come out on the street with a begging bowl? Sadly, Nirupama was bhadralok. Salil Dutta said, “Women are working in every field. These days, no middle-class family can survive on one person’s income.” Nirupama couldn’t take it anymore. She had almost screamed, “Then why didn’t you drag me out on the road thirty years ago?” “Did I know then that the country will be divided and we will lose all our land and belongings?” “If I only had a capable son…” Tears streamed down her face before she could finish the sentence. All this was the first act. With time, Nirupama became too tired to quibble. She would quietly listen to whatever her husband and Bardi had to say. The situation at home had worsened. For days, she had been serving rice boiled with salt and a spoonful of turmeric to family members. She was still scared to death to go out and work. Mrs. Basu hadn’t given up though. For two months, she kept hovering around Nirupama. One evening she showed up unannounced. Nirupama had just finished washing the dishes. As tenants, they had only one small room. In front of that was a tiny cemented area with a tap in one corner. The same area was also used for cooking. The tap was defective and ran ceaselessly, leaving the whole place wet all the time. The bottom of Nirupama’s sari had become wet. It was December in Delhi. Still shivering, she said, “Please go inside, Bardi; I’ll be right there.” Mrs. Basu flashed her characteristic gentle smile and said, “Nah, dear, I won’t sit. Come with me; I will show you Srimangal. It’s such a beautiful, expansive, ashram-like place on the city’s outskirts. Come, you will like it.” “I have to cook, Bardi…” “Come back and do that. How long will it take in the car anyway?” “You go, Ma, I will prepare everything for dinner. You come back and cook,” reassured fifteen-year-old Shampa. She was in class ten and lately had been busy because of the approaching annual examinations. There was a secret reason behind her selfless act—she felt a sense of pride when an esteemed lady like Mrs. Basu took her Ma through the neighbourhood in a car. Nirupama ended up being even more scared after meeting the women at Srimangal. They had always been
The Civic & the Ludic
Rajarshi Dasgupta & Prasanta Chakravarty Abstract This dialogue, written in 2008, tried to unpack the terms of thinking about the transformations in Indian politics, especially in West Bengal, following the turn of events in Nandigram. It tried to appraise left-liberal issues of governance, and develop new categories to understand some of the forms of resistance at that time. The speakers were also conversing, at the same time, with a shared sense of the changing topography of the political. New kinds of spaces, new practices and interventions, new kinds of concerns were presenting unfamiliar gestures within the familiar structures of power. Things looked new but also disturbing. Much has changed now, of course. The dialogue approaches these questions with three interwoven but distinct engagements: a resurgent conception of ethics, the problems of realpolitik and the political role of aesthetics. The outcome is not a standard article of political science, but a revisionist excursion with a touch of lightness, which raises questions about the desired forms of life and practices in a democracy like India. The discussion tries to go beyond the familiar Marxist and liberal arguments on agency and self and re-frame the role of subjectivity and matter in politics. Keeping the predominant institutional forms of politics like the parties and election in the background, the exchange speculates on the new kinds of political associations and potential communities waiting on the wings of democracy. Hope was twelve hours gone/And frightful a nightfall folded rueful a day/Nor rescue, only rocket and lightship, shone, /And lives at last were washing away. The Wreck of the Deutschland–Gerard Manley Hopkins Prasanta: Whether the succession of events that have unfolded in West Bengal over the past two year or so, reaching a sort of crescendo in the months of October-November, 2007, are momentous enough to make any tangible difference in the social and political life of the state is still an open question, but going by the sheer volume of protests and the visibility factor, these are extraordinary times. The processes of institutional politics are still unfolding though, with some interesting results coming up in the 2008 Panchayat elections. Having a long-standing interest in studying left politics in India and thinking about the language of politics in more general terms, I was wondering about your reactions on certain key points that have been emerging since. There are certainly diverse issues of interest involved here, but one important talking point pivots around questions of ethics, or their lack of, in everyday politics in West Bengal. Rajarshi: It is a testing time for the Indian Left, I agree, but I don’t think it will lead to a change in the power structure or in the language of everyday politics too soon. I also doubt if questions of ethics are being raised directly and pointedly, even if we sense a moral overtone in the indignation of some segments of society and in their unusual modes of protest. This may have more to do with a growing disquiet with our party system’s tiresome monopoly over representative politics, seen as instrumental, manipulative, unsavory and untrustworthy by many. The blackmail of having no rational alternative, flogged by the left, right and centre alike, has narrowed the political space so much that any intervention begins from a place called ‘apolitical’, hence, mistaken as ethical. This doesn’t mean there is no ethical side to what is happening. But I want to be careful in thinking how exactly such dissent is ethical: because it is not political? I will disagree with that. It is useful to separate the ethical and moral here, as the latter has more currency in common sense and what we might describe as the liberal contractual language. Indeed, most party discourses contain appeals to morality: we know their competing notions of virtue and good life; we hear them pledging truth all the time. But the sense of these properties has become a matter of cynic polemic and superficial reasoning, as we know, in such opaque terms that only cadres can administer and make careers out of them. As Nandigram shows, the language of politics has been replete with moral appeal on both sides, yet it sadly remains bereft of justice, tolerance, transparency and equal decision-making to a great degree. Besides, how is the moral lack of a ruling party at all relevant if it continues to enjoy electoral majority? (Should we not consider Narendra Modi’s election as a lesson?) It seems to me a crisis of the techniques of representative politics, a crisis of the parliament seemingly lacking energy for democratic change, which must be underlined before we discuss the ethical side. Prasanta: One appreciates your distinction between the moral and the ethical, but in popular imagination one can still see that a language of virtue and conscience being coupled with a scathing criticism of an ossified and dangerous culture of totalitarianism that has become synonymous with West Bengal. It is here that one notices a real possibility: the collective across the civil society discourse and the one around extra-parliamentary political order both would galvanize around the ethical language of virtue and conscience. But this could of course be dangerous. Both these groups have thus can rise, in fact have risen, above the contractual language of moderate mainstream liberalism as well that of official Marxism. There is a sudden and momentous realization among sections of the much vilified Bengali middle class at least, that there is something more to politics and society than the metaphors of merit or equality around which much of our contemporary political discussions revolve. There is some hope but it could be mistaken too. But, I have two questions here. One, what constitutes this new language? And why would this language of virtue itself be not a platform that would demand a certain kind of austerity that would be equally top-down and closed? Rajarshi: That is the question I have in mind too. What is new about this new language? If we
Letter from Advaita Malla Barman
Gokanghat, Tipprah 23.6. 34 Dear Brother, I have read your poem a few times, from beginning to the end. I would like to give my comments here. Hope you will not be annoyed. Wherever I found something wanting, or irrelevant in style or meaning, I have marked with a red pen. I have left the responsibility to correct those to you. About publishing poetry, I can say this much that the poem is not bad at all; in fact quite surprisingly fresh coming from a young poet. Its but still not fully there, not fully fit for publishing, if I may say. So, do not try to publish it right away. Do not get disheartened. Keep on writing. You will make a name in a short while—I harbor such faith and hope. Here, probably a couple of words about poetry will not be entirely irrelevant. 1.Giti-kavya (Lyrical Poems). 2. Khanda-kavya (Narrative Poems). 3. Maha-kavya (Epic) all vary in style and approach. Your heart and mind needs to be prepared differently for each. First, you have to work hard as an apprentice on Giti-kavya. Snapshots, a pictorial bent is the soul of Giti-kavya. Try to paint such pictures on the page. Only then get into Khanda-kavya. You may write Khanda-kavya with past or present happenings, but perhaps past is a better repertoire to start with. It will be easier. This is because you can run your imagination ceaselessly and with abandon over the past. You will understand the difficulties with the present—for instance, a blurring and continuity of events that are yet to unfold often is a problem. Future gets in. And we are not prophets. But do not try your hand on epic. That is a most difficult task. It takes a lifetime to assimilate– first style and then proportion. And needs a fund of knowledge too. Hindu-shastra says that there needs to be at least 9 Swargas in an Epic. You cannot use more than one rhyme scheme. And so on. For Narrative poetry you can collect ‘material’ from Hindu or Muslim mythology or history. There should be an overall symmetry—this you should be truly careful about. Expression and language should be impeccably used. You have that kind of thoroughness and eye—and you will surely be successful. Nature itself and all around you is a grand granary. For the pictorial, I mean. Try shorter lyrics with minor things and make them connected to the world. Let readers know that nothing is minor. The more you culture these things the more you will become ecstatic with joy and love. Never follow anyone. Keep your own style, personality and freedom intact, distinct. I am sure you know the difference between imitating and following. You may try a bit of Madhusudan’s blank verse. This is possible until you inculcate your own style. But do not hobnob with Tagore’s transcendentalism or romanticism—those cannot be easily worked out. I shall conclude my letter with one more thing. Do not get yourself into print without sadhana. And whatever sadhana you do carry on—keep that secret and no need to make any hue and cry. No fire can be extinguished. Do not hasten. The reading public will come to know about your talent sooner or later. I can say that with some conviction. If you have an iota of faith and love in me, do keep on writing, ceaselessly. I have tried to relate to you all that I thought of your poetry, as a true friend. Openly. Frankly. If all these annoy you to the least, please forgive me with your ample kindness. Sincerely, Yours Advaita Malla Barman ———————————————— Advaita Malla Barman is one of the most significant writers from Bengal writing in the first half of the twentieth century. He died young.This letter was written when he was all of 20 years. adminhumanitiesunderground.org
No Detergent Can Undo
Sreyashi Goswami Books: Lover forever, makes strong friends, permanent enemies. Flower: Softness or is it hallucination. Brotherhood: Feeling towards a brother that needs to be chiseled for a man particularly. Responsibility: Easy and difficult to know when to jettison it. Night: 12 hours of silent howling. Wind: Unkempt thoughts in mind, suddenly. Lie: Moment’s Yes, Moment’s No. Uncivility: As if its our democratic right to be rude. Ink–Fountain Pen: Green, Red, Blue–clarity. Day: Each day, witness to a memorable event. TV: All spectators or are there some attentive readers too? Year: Relations and wonder anew. Liking: Shifting of the unliked. Hearing: Unsaid, once in a while uttered. Dead Man: Burning pyre or a puppet in an airconditioned room? Personality: The protocols of knowing each one distinctively. Dignity: A pot made of a different metal. Birth: To let oneself be part of a new beginning. Love: A strange giving, a time of giving. Traffic Jam: Lines of jet planes on the road, as if all will qualify for future exams. Gotra: Never begins fresh like morning dew. Indifference: Cruel, barbed manner of speaking. Time: Sharp, breaking brook– now slowing, hastening now… Spot: No detergent can undo. —————————————- Sreyashi Goswami is a poet and a traveller. adminhumanitiesunderground.org