UNTIMELY KAMALKUMAR: A CAMPAIGN FOR A WRITER
Debraj Dasgupta ___________________ Please, no more snippets of memories. Please, we don’t want to hear anymore about portrayals. Allow us a respite from the very refinements of “hearing”. ———— The first literary work of Kamalkumar Majumdar [Lal Juto] was published approximately in 1937. His signature-novel Antarjali Yatra saw the light of the day in 1959 but we had to wait till 2005 for the first comprehensive analysis of Kamalkumar’s literature (which arrived with Raghab Bandyopadhyay). Yet we are very much embedded within the practice of biographical criticism as far as this man is concerned. It is high time that we liberate the spirit of Kamalkumar from the spectral-coop of biographical criticism. We know that a certain kind of grove about him had already been prepared even before the initiation of this particular campaign. A certain aperture initiated from the heading itself, on the printed pages through a assiduous back-end lattice: and we can name that as “Kamalkumar Majumdar”—a tautology, a name unto himself. About which more shortly. A signifier, a referent which has been sealed inside the insulated box of Bengali culture haunts us; a signifier that continuously shuttles from one alleyway of a Bengali cultural hub to another—like an industrious, engrossed rabbit. And from such an avowed thesis on Kamalkumar, numerous questions constantly trail such writing. Why Kamalkumar? Why Kamalkumar again? Is it his birthday today? The centenary of Antarjali Yatra perhaps? If nothing, then why read him;why this out of season tease with l’affaire Kamalkumar? Yes, can’t we simply disregard these questions? No doubt these questions have merit; they come from sundry fountainheads. We can look for and garner an assorted arsenal of replies. We can posit counter-questions too: Why always make neat little boxes of our reading of literature? Why this exigency of a classroom or a birthday or a performance for literature to arrive? Why are our habits of reading so purposeful (and therefore so woefully regularizing)? Besides this, in the case of Kamalkumar, there are other disquiets as well. After the birth centenary of Kamalkumar Majumdar, his (alchemical) cult turned truly popular. Is such an untimely remembrance falling into the trap of populism? If not, then why such brisk, hurried commemorations everywhere? Or is it a celebration of an essentialist, Bengali chauvinist, religious figure—trying to force an ally for our inner selves? Undoubtedly, things are not so simple. It is an attempt to conjure up an unseasonable, inexpedient entry. The writings of Kamalkumar require an untimely meditation, simply and foremost to establish that his work did not arrive from Mars. Perhaps quite unfortunately, he wrote within and about our society, our world. A stupid array of adjectives like isolated, irreplaceable, incomparable, unparalleled, unknowable, and incomprehensible (therefore untouchable) and a consistent, restless exercise of non-analysis gradually converted Kamalkumar into a myth, like the Mayan civilization—we sometimes forget whether it was historical or mythical! As if there is no possibility of dispersing Kamalkumar within the hubbub of everydayness. And without being a bunch of hypocrites, let’s admit that certainly we never wanted to get him into that hubbub. As we do to an introverted-bachelor—shun him and make him special at the same time! People just love to say: don’t disturb him, ‘let him be alone’ (ah, make him ‘untouchable’). And then essentially, as in our past, we have kicked Kamalkumar again and again on his arse. Nowadays we are also doing the same in a sophisticated manner by making him into some kind of God. Can you imagine how banal and blunt our habits are? And after this whole pseudo-progressive callousness of decades, we still have a desire to appropriate his singularity within the high conservative environment of the classroom of Bengali literature. In addition, in the classrooms, inane literate clowns with clever faces repeatedly try to understand him as some extraterrestrial phenomenon. And as they do so, I really think that they should not forget that cutting statement of Kamalkumar – “শিক্ষকতা একটি ছিনাল জীবিকা” (the act of teaching is a whorish profession). No, this is not only about Kamalkumar but also about the mountebank reading public of Bengal. We do need an untimely reading of Kamalkumar’s writing in order to take on the humbug morality of the Bengali reading public. Our entry points could be many. One could start from a not so well known articulation from Suhasinir Pometom: ‘সুহার কোলে স্তূপীকৃত দারিদ্র – ইহা হইতে চোখ তুলিয়া সে অন্ধকারের প্রতি চাহিল, রাত্রে আয়না দেখিতে নাই, অধুনা তাহার ঐ অন্ধকারের প্রতি চাহিয়া কেন জানি – গ্রাম্যবালকদের মত বলিতে সাধ হয় “ওগো ডাক পিওন করি নিবেদন মালিক ভিন্ন চিঠি দিও না কখন”…’ ‘Poverty, bunched up, accrues in Suha’s lap – and from there, towards the darkness, she turns up her eyes. At night no one should look at the mirror. Presently, gazing at the darkness, who knows why, like callow village youth she wishes to blurt out “O my postman, an appeal: hand over this letter to none except the master.” If we had not begun from these phrases, we could have started from an infamous preface of a novel by Pierre Guyotar, titled Eden Eden Eden, which was published in 1970. The preface was written by Roland Barthes: ‘A single sentence which never ends’… said Barthes, about that work. Or we could start from— ‘সময়কে flattery করা তোমারও যদি মনোবাসনা হইত, তুই আমি সকলেই অন্তত দারুণ কথা শিল্পী হইতে পারিতাম – তোমার ও আমার মত নগণ্যর এই দোষ যে আমরা পাঠককে ভোট-দাতা বা ইউনিয়ান করে বলিয়া ভাবি নাই ‘। “If you had also willed to flatter our time, at least you and I could have become great wordsmiths; the mistake that poor people like us made was that we didn’t imagine the reader as a voter or union man.” Or, ‘কৃষকচৈতন্যের অন্বেষণ নয় – কৌমজীবন মন্থন করে লুপ্তপ্রায় সাংস্কৃতিক চিহ্নগুলি, তার সাংকেতিক লিপি উদ্ধারও কমলবাবুর অন্যতম কৃত্য’। (রাঘব বন্দ্যোপাধ্যায়) ‘Not a hunt for peasant-consciousness, but the salvaging of the obsolete signifiers of community-life and its scriptures through the excavation of it is
Restlessness, Structural Degeneration and Dialogic Possibilities in Contemporary Hindi Poetry: Asad Zaidi, Manmohan and Shubha
HumanitiesUnderground had, in March of 2016, initiated a discussion on contemporary Hindi poetry in Benaras, with a group of poets who are composing and thinking right now about the intricacies of the poetic art. In a free flowing discussion, we spoke of contemporary poetry’s current and changing contours, its entrenched legacies and future possibilities, as also the reading dynamics emerging from new reading publics. This is the second installment, where a different set of poets writing since the 1970s, engage with similar questions and concerns. Asad Zaidi, Manmohan and Shubha, have witnessed momentous political, social changes in the subcontinent and have borne these in their poetry. As they continue to compose art work, they reflect on the markers of contemporary poetic universe in Hindi, bringing to the discussion, some very definite and definitive viewpoints on the relationship between art and social practice. In these recordings, they also raise significant questions about forms of memorialization and ritualistic gestures in a changed political clime, and how these could mediate trajectories in the future. Are we sufficiently grappling with the moral vacuity, aesthetic stasis, the weakening of solidarities and lack of scrutinizing dialogue/commentary in poetry writing? And finally, there is here, a genuine wish and call for a greater, more robust communication with the younger generation of poets, crucial to the forging of collective struggles against artistic crassness, self aggrandizing egotism and the reactionary tendencies rife in both politics and the lived life. This is an ongoing debate. HUG wishes to carry and trail this thread in the future too, through other new and fresh interactive sessions. HUG thanks Rajkumar Kumar for his valuable help with the editing of the video and other suggestions. Here is the link. Please use speakers or headphones : adminhumanitiesunderground.org
Transformation, Like Salt: The Artistry of Mahesh Verma
Mahesh Verma __________________ A consummate artist is a rare creature. And if such a sense of art is able to amalgamate fever and vehemence with restraint and formal experimentation, then one must take notice. Here are some art-works and poetry of Mahesh Verma. Translating these powerful poems has been a challenge and it will be impossible to do complete justice to the nuances of articulation and tone in such a transformed form. So, the original Hindi versions have been reproduced for those readers who can appreciate the tongue. Mahesh Verma writes from Ambikapur, Chhattisgarh. Contentment Contentment, after dried tear-drops And infinite sorrows, arrived Knocked about woman, abasement she’s suffered If that petty job was not forthcoming Suicide was the only option for the co-star In Part II the star shall narrate his tale First came suspicion Then sorrow, then inmost grief Till then, holding breath In the brambles Was hiding contentment Blessed it is with the last bullet, Coincidence and God’s sanctions So, finally in this manner did arrive contentment As if lying low for felicity: an infiltrator From the Rear End To enter words from the rear end Through the back-door From astern The murderer has been nabbed The suicide, over The marriage mantras the priest has begun chanting Moments before couples disjoin from each other for the last time A car, blazing, plummets down the gorge Conspiracy and tear-laden whispers: on pages within The young man has left his home, fugitive The reason for the ringing bullets in the last instance Shall be this table-cloth The maid hides her love-letter, the old man his sins His doping-habits the young man hides The rich hides his sobs The parched platform, the garden-gate The telephone kiosk or any other place Concurrence shall bark him back and in Time’s gossamer a subtle knot tie From here, time’s lurkings plentiful Bright morning, bleary dusk, all other time Words must have spawned there. Desire-Deceit You sport with despondency And I, turn dim Within countless supernova You play with sound And wrenching, the sky flings me away The way you sport with directions With dimensions One evening you murmured in voice-triplet Harmonize I could not with that strain Rolled into the restlessness of the santoor-player My voice told me: adieu With three strains of stammer I have made alliances Until one night, when you kept lobbing kisses over my door of quiet And to my cell-phone, you said: “Desire-deceit.” Transformation Salt, in your body and Grittiness, rubbing my face I was downing fire Slow and even, to transform And turn into a new thing I have seen from close quarters The turning into each other Of a domestic animal An enemy And a galled hand-saw When the fire had guzzled me down And the blazes, once again turning as is At peace and in moderate amber In the sedate sea, salt gets transformed Body’s sweat has made a gentle lover enraptured Within its dank, acidic odour Granular spaces did not become soil Nor did shrubs turn into walls Bundling up liquid and humming Desires within, for a long time They remained as they were Orifice Through this orifice does time enter into my room At night through this walkway descends darkness If ever the moon craves to see its own visage On the floor, on her own In the spherical mirror can she witness it Once, lying down, sliding slow I’d taken her straight into my heart Now I don’t recall clearly Was it moonshine, sunbeam, what was it? Believe you me sir I had altered the meaning of things The Messenger That time when message unfabricated You would deliver verbatim Now, all ten of the messengers As merchants of untruth disclosed Such myriad webs These bastards have weaved between us That only a real sword can now cleave them How gripping it would be to mark his face When, by revealing the sword that had taken The lives of nine messengers The tenth will be asked to acquiesce One more time shall he cook an untruth And for a few more moments Shall salvage his life. God of the Trees Roused by your enormous wings Wander in the empyrean heart At dusk, come back To wail, standing in the dark To noise/be impassive/tarry Water In the chilliest of kisses Water you have petrified! On the sprouting thorns Within your larynx Play that jal-tarang Even if spring Sing the badal raag *** सुखान्त सुखान्त सूखे हुए आंसुओं और अनगिन दुःख के बाद आया ठोकरें खाती रही स्त्री, उसने अपमान सहे यह छोटी नौकरी न लग जाती तो आत्महत्या करने ही वाला था सहनायक नायक भाग दो में अपनी कथा कहेगा. पहले संदेह आया फिर दुःख फिर गहरा शोक आया तब तक दम साधे झाड़ियों में छुपा रहा सुखान्त उसे अंतिम गोली, संयोग और ईश्वर की मदद हासिल है तो अंत में ऐसे आया सुखान्त आने की ताक में था जैसे : घुसपैठिया अंत की ओर से कथा में पीछे से प्रवेश करना. पिछले दरवाजे से. अंत की ओर से. हत्यारा पकड़ा जा चुका. हो चुकी आत्महत्या. पुरोहित शुरू कर चुके विवाह के मन्त्र. प्रेमीगण के अंतिम रूप से बिछुड़ने से ठीक पहले एक कार जलती गिर रही है खाई में षड्यंत्रों और आंसुओं में भीगी फुसफुसाहटें : भीतर के पृष्ठों पर. घर छोड़कर निकल गया है नौजवान, अंत में चलने वाली गोली का कारण यही मेजपोश बनेगा नौकरानी अपना प्रेमपत्र छुपाती है, बूढ़ा अपने पाप. नौजवान नशे की आदतें छुपाते हैं धनी आदमी अपने आँसू छुपाता है. नीरस प्लेटफॉर्म, बगीचे के द्वार, टेलीफोन की दूकान या कहीं भी संयोग उन्हें हांककर लायेगा और समय के धागे पर एक गाँठ लगा देगा. यहाँ से ढेर सारी समय संभावनाएं दिखाई देती हैं उजली सुबह,
I Believe In The Good Fairy Of Your Native Land: Correspondences between Gabriela Mistral and Victoria Ocampo
__________________________ There developed a curious and lasting friendship between two supremely talented people: Gabriela Mistral/ Lucila Godoy Alcayaga (1889-1957) of Chile and Victoria Ocampo (1890-1979) of Argentina. It would be difficult to imagine two writers more dissimilar in background and upbringing, appearance and habit, not to mention literary careers. Yet because of their accomplishments, they shared an anomalous status as celebrities in their own countries and internationally. Despite their differences, they had more than a little in common. Both Mistral and Ocampo lived their adult lives as single women. While their public worlds were principally male, they lived in predominantly female households. They both claimed pride in their Basque heritage, and they took an unorthodox approach to religion. Both were physically imposing women in societies that prized petiteness. In their letters and visits, they shared their love of the open countryside and seashore. Because they led unconventional lives, they were controversial figures, subject to false rumors and mythologies that plagued them all their lives. And to their mutual surprise and delight, they had the same birthday, April seventh, one year apart. This became a touchstone in their letters; no matter where they were living, they sent affectionate messages to one another on that date. Stubborn and nonconforming, both women described themselves as having “violent” dispositions, which Ocampo would express in explosive bursts of temper and Mistral by reciting accusations of real and imagined wrongs. Both women, above all, felt passionately about distinct aspects of their American condition, which they perceived from a transnational, Latin American perspective. They both cared deeply about fostering spiritual unity and moral purpose among fellow Americans in the context of the continent’s truncated modernity. Yet their priorities did not always mesh: Mistral’s emotional defense of indigenous America seemed excessive to Ocampo, and Ocampo’s predilection for European culture struck Mistral as misguided. They also shared a penchant for letter writing.Each cultivated hundreds of correspondents, writing up to a dozen letters a day. Within weeks of their first meeting, Mistral and Ocampo discovered one another as women charged with writing, exploring, and defining the American (read Latin American) condition.That absorption in and engagement with America,expressed throughout their correspondence, arises from the unsettling political, social, and literary events of their era. The letters reveal two women who contributed in many ways to Latin America’s emergence onto the world stage. Here is a very short selection from the final and mature phase of their friendship and mutual affection: ____________________ February 21. 1954 My very dear Gabriela: I’ll draw up the list of books for you right away. But I warn you that the majority of the books that are published in B.A. are translations. Please tell me if they interest you as well. For the time being I’ll send you my translation of The Living Room by Graham Greene. I still don’t have any news about my passport. The worst part is that my petition has gotten no response. I’ve heard that they gave Borges his passport and certificate of good conduct. He hadn’t received them until now. I don’t know by what means he obtained them (he didn’t want to visit the minister of the interior either). But Borges wasn’t in prison for twenty-seven days, as I was. And the twenty-seven days of unjust punishment appear to be a powerful reason for not excusing the evil that one has suffered. I don’t know if I told you in my last letter that I gave up my trip to Turin, where Stravinsky had invited me to do the recitation of “Persé- phone,”as I had done before under his direction in B.A., Rio, and Florence. This sacrifice wasn’t easy. But now it doesn’t matter to me. I won’t say I’m happy, but I do have a clear conscience and the assurance of having done the only thing that my sense of dignity allowed. Many people think that I’m an idiot and no more. Well it seems that few people think twice about going to the minister to ask for a passport if they can’t get it through the police department (which is the usual place). But since I don’t consider myself a criminal or a political conspirator, but rather a person who has kept her freedom of thought, I don’t choose to act (under pressure from the dictatorship) as if I really were a criminal political conspirator. If you want to, or if you can make inquiries as to why they aren’t giving me my passport and certificate of good conduct to travel, it would be good, even if only out of curiosity: just to see what they’re going to invent to justify an attitude that is totally arbitrary, unjust, and infuriating. I see in the newspapers that my old friend, now the French ambassador to Washington and influential ex-minister from the Coopération Intellectuelle (do you remember those days?), is lunching with our ambassador to Washington, the representative of a government that physically and morally tortures innocent people . . . Ainsi va le monde. I no longer believe in the good faith of any politician, any diplomat, or any person tied to monetary interests. Amen! I’m living quite alone. I don’t see María Rosa as I did before (although I’ve invited her to come here, to bathe in the sea, because I know that otherwise she’d have no summer vacation). This is because her blind Communism (disguised as pacifism) gets on my nerves. Since I don’t want to broach political subjects in her presence, and since politics is truly her passion these days, we are inhibited in our conversation. I understand that her mission (pacifism) will be taking her to Europe again soon. The government doesn’t seem to have an eye on her as it does on me. I think that her Communist faith fills her life, which is fortunate in her case. It’s a pity, for those of us who don’t think like her, that that is her faith. I regret that I don’t have a sufficient amount