Expenditure, Insolvency and Recovery in Manmohan’s ‘The Morsels of Ignominy” ( ज़िल्लत की रोटी)
_____________________ Prasanta Chakravarty The poems that make the collection ज़िल्लत की रोटी—The Morsels of Ignominy (Rajkamal Prakashan: 2006) must count as one of the finest that has come from the subcontinent in the past few decades. The collection itself is rather late in the career of its poet: Manmohan, who has been writing poetry since the 1970s. Much of that remains unpublished. There is a kind of near mythic status that is often ascribed to the poet—for his rather oxymoronic existence—as a recluse and as a rooted social and organic intellectual at the same time. It does not fall in my ambit, nor is it my intention, to speculate on his influence on the Hindi poetic and thinking world. My interest lies elsewhere—with one particular aspect of his poetics, namely, a form of general economy that he deploys in his poetic language. By the singular use of a particular form of expenditure is he able to effect an ascetic starkness which is the seal and sign of this particular collection. There are a hundred odd poems in this collection. But I shall concentrate on a few representative ones. The opening poem of the collection, that sets the stage, reads like this: इन शब्दों में __________ इन शब्दों में वह समय है जिसमें मैं रहता हूँ ग़ौर करने पर उस समय का संकेत भी यहीं मिल जाता है जो न हो लेकिन मेरा अपना है यहाँ कुछ जगहें दिखाई देंगी जो हाल ही में ख़ाली हो गई हैं और वे भी जो कब से ख़ाली पड़ा हैं यही मेरा यक़ीन हैं जो बाकि बचा रहा यानी जो ख़र्च हो गया वह भी यहीं पाया जाएगा इन शब्दों में मेरी बची खुची याददाश्त हैं और जो भूल गया है वह भी इन्हीं में है In These Words ___________ In these words The time In which I live If one can discern, The signs of that time could also be traced here Which absent Still are mine One can see some spaces here That have been vacated of late And those too Which are long left vacated That is my belief The leftover which is left That is to say, those spent and expended Will also be found here. In these words The vestiges of my memory And whatever has been forgotten Stay here too. This is a meta-commentary about the poetry that is to come in the following pages, about the self of the poet and also about his times. The modernist minimalism works deftly. At the most outward level one can see how the self is scattered—across three vectors—the lyrical I, the historical I and the crafted words themselves. In the very first three lines these three coordinates are mapped: these words catch my time, which in turn is what makes me, declares the poet. A triangulation happens: Words. My time. And my self. This is my time—the contemporary. You may not see that time in a pronounced manner always in these pages but you can glimpse the vignettes, if you are a careful enough reader. But my time has not been smooth. It has been jagged and fractious. All solidarities, every promise, every friendship may not have been fulfilled. Hence, there are vacated spaces—both recently emptied and also other festering gashes. I walk in poetry therefore. And therefore the necessity of the distancing the lyrical I from the historically constructed I. Hence also, the necessity of poetry in the first place so that you, the reader, can have a sense of both history and my detached condition, filtered through the sieve of time in these poetic pronouncements. It is immediately clear that the poet reserves a tremendous confidence in the permanence of the art-form—in words and language that can capture and husband time. It is only the enunciated words which are able to store memory as well as etch that which is gone. This is a singular claim: that the words will be able to capture that which is not there anymore: the ever-receding I and my receding times. How can poetry capture an economy of such bankruptcy? Make sense of an endurance that is provided by the spaces that are left vacated? How does someone craft the poetics of this triangular exchange? The Poetics of Inverted Equivalence To have a sense of that process we must go back to the particular stanza in this poem which says: यही मेरा यक़ीन हैं/जो बाकि बचा रहा यानी जो ख़र्च हो गया/वह भी यहीं पाया जाएगा That is my belief/The leftover which is left That is to say, those spent and expended/Will also be found here. In many of the poems in this collection, Manmohan works through a specific form of inversion and equivalency. Inversional symmetry is used in musical set practice. It relies on the concept that intervals and other sets of pitches are identical when inverted. The sets that are inverted can have remote connections to one another, but if the axis of symmetry is rightly measured and twisted, then one can draw equivalence in and through diametrically opposite modes or ideas. Inversional equivalence can work if two conditions are fulfilled: one, an oblique or contrary motion should predominate. And two, the counterpoint must begin and end in a perfect consonance. In this case both the conditions are eminently fulfilled. And this is but one instance among numerous. The poet’s beliefs are often placed in and through a series of counterpoints in this collection. In this case the remarkable inversion happens between what is leftover and what is spent. The inversional equivalence is drawn between what is gone and expended with whatever has been shored. This is a truly momentous claim—that which is salvaged is perfectly equitable to what has been depleted. There is no loss. No gain. The key metaphor of expenditure is something to be marked. If we carefully look again at the poem now we shall see that this particular stanza about the belief
Free Me From The Poet’s Prison
This is the translated version of an exchange between poet Rana Roychowdhury and Surajit Sen, published in Desher Agamikaal magazine in March, 2016. Rana Roychowdhury is one of the most understated, elemental and rebellious of contemporary poets from Bengal. HUG has published a short selection of his translated poems in January 2014: ——————————— Surajit Sen:Why did you begin to write poetry? And why still continue? Rana Roychowdhury: At one point I used to recite poetry at my home, on my own. At around thirteen or fourteen years of age. Actually, this habit, or ill-habit shall we say, I had been nurturing since my school days. All alone at home, I used to recite Nazrul Islam’s poetry aloud. At that time we used have a rural existence. Our village house was large and empty and when I used to recite, the sound would echo. That used to give me a kick. No one would hear me recite, of course. Then there was this obsession to take part in local recitation competitions. Often I would forget poems midway. And every time I would return rich with the consoling words of the judges! So, I realized that such a skill was not my cup of tea. But as I would recite, there gradually began to blossom a love for poetry itself. But I could not compose poetry. Sometimes I would read Shakti Chattopadhyaya’s poetry and would try to emulate him. Complete failure, that venture. I realized one cannot write with some definitive role model in mind. Whatever one feels, one has to pen that down. At one point some lines looked to be taking the shape of a poem. So I began sending them to magazines here and there. My first poem was published in a magazine from Agarpara. Alongside write-ups on Uttamkumar and interviews with Aparna Sen, my poems also got published. That is how it all started. Now it has turned into a kind of a habit—this writing. Not exactly a habit—actually I get a lot of happiness and satisfaction by writing poetry. S: What kind of reactions do you receive from the reader? R:Some utter kind words. Others abuse. Someone said: “Reading your poems, it feels you are sick. The amount of crap you write it makes me nauseated.” Others remain silent (such silence is like mourning). These days though, many seek poetry. Earlier no one used to ask. Only two magazines would publish my poetry-Dahopatro and Natmandir. I was at peace with myself. These days more of my poems get published, and I am not exactly satisfied with such compositions. S:Teaching in a school and writing poetry in Bangla—how did you end up aligning your life to such a classical lattice and frame? One that comes down to us right from the time of that arche teacher—Kobishekhar Kalidas Roy. R:Never thought that I will become a school teacher. All I used to do was join and partake in adda sessions in the local community club with friends. I got involved in some social work. Helping arrange medicine banks for the needy or procuring and distributing clothes during the Durga puja from Harisha Market or organizing blood donation camps or local festivities—these were the things I would spend my time in. Life was sheer vagabondage. Only hope was Ma’s hotel, since my father passed away long ago. Ma used to teach in a school. Never ever in my worst nightmare did I then envisage myself as a school-teacher. There is no relation between this teaching and my poetry. Both are independent streams. I am two different individuals in each of these vocations. But I teach kids. So, when I do engage with them I do not feel like a teacher. I feel that I am the father and guardian of these little ones—a strange love for these souls envelop me. It is difficult to describe this phenomenon—but even as I teach them, I discover poetry, glean it. That kind of poetry is timeless. S:But how did you become one, I mean: a poet? R: Yes, I am coming to that. But first: let me tell you what I used to do before I was a teacher. I was lucky to land a job. Someone helped me procure a job in a private firm. In that concern, I have worked for twelve years in two installments. For that I still receive a pension of Rs. 844/-. It became very difficult for me to work there. My immediate boss used to be very rude with me. I used to work in the accounts section and then he used to give very tough assignments which I could not do. My wicked boss used to misbehave and humiliate me since I could not do those chores. One day he said: “Tut tut, can a goat ever till the land?” I protested at that. Anyway, I had to periodically pay visits to the bank for office work. One had to wait there for long stretches of time. One day, waiting at Canara Bank on Camac Street, I started scribbling lines on the bank withdrawal slip, which had eventually become the poem “Jadavpur Mor”. I soon joined as a proof-reader in Aajkal newspaper. I did my job with diligence and so others, burdening me with extra work, would often step out for adda and smoking sessions. Ekram Ali da would sometimes indulge me by asking me write for that newspaper. For such sprees, I even got scolded once by Sandipan Chattopadhaya. He said: “See here is a letter against you. You have abused sundry people in your writing. Now you manage.” So, I had to compose a letter as a reply which made Sandipan immensely happy. Ekram da said—“You have a flair for prose” and so on. Thereafter I used to write there often. Had received some odd praise too. During that period I used to engage myself in both poetry and prose. And then I lost my mother—it was 1997. Since
Fists That Turn Like Keys
Aishwarya Iyer __________________ [1] Splitting Seed How often must we arise from this seed Yellow, nutted, moon-spent, tree-withered, The seed splits and leaves climb out, thus flow tears, Time spreads like disease, the swell of mood hangs Over split seed— Hands, legs, tongue, hair—bodies roam about in space The city is abluster, automobiles now have faces, The city where eyes wander, where stones are broken, Where language has no home: ‘Drive Slow’, ‘Kanti Sweets’, ‘Herculean Builders’, ‘Pasta Street’; the city where the hand betrays the leg, the mouth betrays the eye, where the ground breaks like seed, but nothing climbs out, thus flow tears— Between us great distances hang in the smallest of words: ‘yes’, ‘no’, ‘of course’; sometimes dictionaries are the end of meaning; the garbage dump got cleared; we ache to know wherefrom we speak; how often must we arise from this seed? Afternoon flows out of the sun’s tongue: the day is some kind of speech. *** [2] Iggalur, or Far from the City The fields are woven from hands, air, water and sun, The eyes of stalks gleam in the afternoon The trunks of trees offer vertical hold Far from the city, from the sleep of human beings, Time goes into the body of plants So full is this passage that night too is left undreamt Time is eaten—and plants grow. *** [3] After Paul Celan Keep your words married to their sense, the sense married to absence. Don’t lead them too far astray, hollowed, searching for their point of emergence. But if they search for their shadows, let them, for shadows are what bind them to breath. A word is a stone without its breath. *** [4] Meeting A meeting like one where the sky and earth meet is illusory, we all know The sky and earth walk together in their meeting Their meeting being a not-meeting; Our bodies are held in curtains: The azaan, the temple bells, the chants next door leave a gold rush that is too bright on them. Our bodies, when they meet, must walk together The legs with legs Hands with hands My language cupped in yours— That gold dust torn off must envelop us in a far circle Minting fresh moments like chants. No, our bodies shall not chime, they shall not sing They shall not announce any god Like the blush of sky and earth in embrace at sunset Our bodies will shiver warm at the passing of time Mark day and night, become sun and moon. They shall be held in curtains too. *** [5] Make Time Make time Make time from the joyous tinny screams of children Bathing in afternoon sun Sew time from the leaves holding out to the afternoon Belting the terraces of low houses Rising like invisible ears The crow looks askance. The truth is here. Make space for the shearing of time The glass-pulp of action froths to the top The dove that floated in its sky will be lost *** [6] Scene from a First-floor Window Over the treetops comes a surge that swallows the eyesight of dreamers The construction workers have wet their feet in ditch water; one lights a cigarette and launches into a tale for the other They sit on a slab and wait for the afternoon darkness to bleed; the koel has come visiting, but you almost forget to hear her, the green of the trees runs into her voice; The rattle of implements has a sharper sting; clotheslines become forlorn and balconies begin to be besieged; The earth had been asking her due with iron stillness Now way’s made to cure her of her bitter agony. *** [7] We are in flames… We are in flames Very often the evening spars And the night is a cauldron for little fires The splinters come from everywhere Sparks dripping about the construction worker The crackling voices of playing children The television makes other fires in homes; You and I are hands aclap Your words are fists that turn like keys The locks are between us. *** [8] Name And that blesséd word with no meaning—who will utter it? —Agha Shahid Ali stars vanishing into nothingness stop and turn back to participate in the utterance of your name that becomes the element of time your name breaks into numerous syllables and with it brings suffering to sound the stars race against the shatter, against time, holding your name together your name engulfs the splicing of days the morning, a dewdrop from your name the night, a pod for your name your name bristles under the earth leaving the ground groundless far from the concert of stars fall crystals of duration hours and days spent in your name *** [9] Flesh Which kind of flesh have you found pierced in the encounter? You and I, suppurating leaves falling from a naked tree Cut off, with blood sap We were never joined, and now finding our midribs in line Our flesh disappears, the green grows distant We have grown eyes __________________ adminhumanitiesunderground.org
Discrimination No Representation: Modernity & Plato
Rahul Govind ________________ Plato is one among the many unfortunate philosophers who are referred to more and more, read less and less. To this atrophied forgetting, Abrogast Scmitt’s Modernity and Plato: Two Paradigms of Rationality is a patient therapeutic mnemonic. Over 500 pages of closely argued text ambitiously proposes a fundamental critique of modernity, and its self-conceptions, in the light of a rigorous reading of Plato, and what Schmitt names the Plato-Aristotelian tradition (henceforth P-A). In the course of such a reading, the familiar clichés of the ‘theory of forms’, that orient not only Philosophy but also the humanities and the social sciences, are laid to rest. What strikes one first about Modernity and Plato is that it is simultaneously, a monumental historical diagnosis, a subtle and nuanced philosophical analysis, as well as a courageous conceptual thesis. The text is structured in terms of a series of conceptual propositions that are then extrapolated and established through various kinds of readings; some of which are detailed and pertain to key sections of the referred to canonical works. It integrates and goes on to transform themes that are conventionally kept distinct, such as the conceptual and the aesthetic. One of the most refreshing aspects of the book is the frequent illustration of the argument through everyday examples that seamlessly expresses, rather than attenuates, the rigour of philosophical labour. The singular voice that speaks through the text does so with an originality and spirit that is untrammelled by the jargon of thought. To get to the thesis that is never lost sight of. Schmitt argues that what is conventionally taken to be modernity, notwithstanding the debates around date and place, is characterized by a particular consciousness that believes itself to be at once “original and unique” (4)[i]. From the period conventionally designated as the Renaissance we find evidence of an attitude that “degraded” it’s immediate past not only in the specific domains of the fine arts, but on the more general registers of philosophical and scientific aptitude. Self proclaimed superiority of the latter lay in the ostensibly more exact understanding of the objects of the world in visual (artistic) and scientific (philosophical) ways. Thus a particular understanding of the function of art – a representation that was to replicate an individuated empirical experience of the world – was construed to be the essential characterization of art as such. Schmitt argues that there were deeper roots to this understanding and valuation of the world; roots that could be traced to the nominalists and the specific rehabilitation of a specific Hellenistic/Stoic philosophic thesis at the cost of the P-A tradition. Modernity, in following the former, foregrounds the individual object as immaculately received, making the infinite (and doomed) task of knowledge, to be one of faithful representation. The argument is illustrated through a discussion of Duns Scotus’s interpretation of Aristotle. Schmitt forcefully argues that this interpretation was in fact a radical misunderstanding of Aristotle in particular; but also simultaneously a profoundly debilitating misunderstanding of the whole P-A tradition that persists to this day in academic and more mainstream discourse. In his own reading of Aristotle, knowledge begins with perception (never without its own cognitive dimension), and yet, to (truly) know that which we perceive, we require a conceptual clarification which is the true knowledge of the object and its (sensory) properties. On the other hand, for Scotus, that which was arrived at through intellectual cognition is in fact truly something that is to have been already given to us in the “immediate intuition of the object”. The question and difference thus revolves around the status and making of the “individual object”. In Aristotle via Schmitt, intellect brings about unity among moments isolated by the mind-sense organs, with cognition taking place in a single act. There can be no clear ‘reception’ of the individual object, because such individuation requires the conceptual discrimination between what is essential and what is not. The circle drawn by chalk, is given as an example, one that is constantly returned to. Only a conceptual clarification can define the circle as having an essential characteristic property i.e. all distances from the perimeter to the centre are equal. This property is to be distinguished from the color white of the chalk that also might characterize the given circle. Such a distinction is involved in the conceptual act as a unifying and distinguishing operation in so far as it presents an individuated object: color of chalk and roundess along with other properties in the circle. Scotus’s major intervention lies in the fact that the function of “intelligence” — or conceptual analysis as a concrete distinguishing act — as it existed in Aristotle is elided and the unity of the object is said to lie in the object itself combined with the act of intuition i.e. perception and intellect. Reason is now assigned the function of distinguishing the parts in terms of an already given or received unity. Thus, reason/conceptualization is to be found (already) in intuition, which is itself dependent on the “individual object” that “includes all that can be found in terms of intellectual determination in every higher instance thereof”. The nature of conceptual clarification or analysis to be found in Aristotle has here been radically altered because in Scotus, such conceptualization (or thought) is now to be understood merely as a form of representation, and is only able to work ‘deficiently’ i.e. retrospectively ascertain or represent the object that is to be in itself (as a unity) already found in intuition. This construal of the individual object is what Schmitt characterizes as the “metaphysical overload of the individual object”. Thought is construed as always secondary while the individual object as it is experienced is endowed with a primary and foundational role. It is reduced to an exclusively “representative” character, a fundamental move that will later lead to the more recognizable contemporary distinctions and between the conscious (thought) and the unconscious. (22 – 30)[ii] The active function of thinking in the constitution of