Cataloging from the Kitchen: The Luminous World of Arun Ghosh
Sarmistha Dutta Gupta _____________________ Arun Ghosh (1933-2015), phenomenal librarian and archivist who guided many humanities and social science researchers of Kolkata for over four decades, passed away last February unsung in death as in life. Arun-babu, as he was widely known, was the founder librarian of Centre for Studies in Social Sciences (Kolkata). Late in life he also built from scratch the Bhabani Sen Library of rare communist periodicals and books in Bhupesh Bhavan, the headquarters of the CPI in the city. The Moments of Bengal Partition : Selections from the Amrita Bazar Patrika, 1947 – 48 is the outcome of Arun-babu’s meticulous research and offers a selection of news and editorial articles from the Amrita Bazar Patrika, the leading ‘nationalist’ daily of the time, in the months immediately before the Partition and after. Towards the end of his life, Arun-babu was engaged in another significant compilation as he was editing a dictionary of Bengali terms associated with books, reading and library usage. In remembering Arun Ghosh a year after his passing, I offer excerpts from a long interview with him that I did in 2012 for the golden jubilee archive of IIMC, Joka (reproduced with permission). Arun-babu had also served IIMC as a young librarian in its initial years. In the interview he came across as a great raconteur with an inexhaustible stock of anecdotes. These excerpts largely trace the extraordinary journey of a young man growing up in Calcutta in a refugee family in the late-40s and early 50s, who began as a worker at the Ichhapur Gun and Shell Factory, spent a few years working at the office of the Providend Fund Commissioner—spending much time browsing and reading on his own all this while—and finally chose to be a librarian for his love of books. On his childhood and growing up, Independence and Partition I was born on 24 July 1933 in a village in Barisal in East Bengal [now Bangladesh]. My father used to work in Kolkata, and we came away here. I distinctly remember that when I got admitted to school at the age of 5 or 6, my father had rented a house in Agarpara. This would be around 1939 or 1940. There was no school in Agarpara then. So I would have to commute by train daily to the nearest school. Now for a child of that age, commuting by train posed certain dangers. At this point my grandfather, who was a teacher in a school in Ulpur in Faridpur district of east Bengal, wrote to my father, saying, if you send the boy to me, he can stay here and study in my school. So at age 7 I was admitted to class III in that school. When I was in class IX my grandfather was taken seriously ill. My maternal uncles brought him to Calcutta and I accompanied them and began living with my grandfather in a rented house in Dakshineshwar. That was 1946. Partition came within a year. I was admitted to a school here in 1947 in class IX. On Independence Day I heard that one could travel free in buses coming to Kolkata, and that they would take you to Fort William. Along with a few of my classmates I came to Kolkata and took the tour. I remember it distinctly. But the euphoria vanished within a year. In 1948 when Gandhiji was assassinated, I was thinking a bit differently, perhaps I was getting to be politically aware. I remember, when the news came to Dakshineshwar I fasted the whole day. Maybe I had thought that bereavement could also be expressed through fasting. This reaction was very spontaneous. Another memory that haunts me to this day is the memory of refugees coming from East Pakistan in hordes, including several of my very close relations. They were gathering in the vicinity of our house, and looking for places for shelter. I was seeing all this. And then gradually I lost the feeling of joy that I had about Independence just a year ago. I was seeing my own close relations suffer. I was seeing refugee life in Sealdah station. It was terrible. I was reacting to all this happening around me and I could no longer concentrate on my studies. I somehow took my Matriculation in 1949, and just managed to scrape through. My younger brother and sisters were all in school. Some of my close relations from our native place were staying with us in that small one-roomed house, some were shacking up in the verandah, and some were putting up in accommodations in the locality. My father just had his small income to support all of them. I initially got admitted to a college for my Intermediate. It used be IA then. We had moved to Sodepur during this time. My father told me, ‘I won’t be able to afford your IA expenses. You’ll have to buy books, commute from Sodepur to the college. Since you are a Matriculate now, why don’t you look for a job? I’ll try to look around too.’ I was only 16 years old then. I had to quit college and look for a job. Highly qualified individuals from east Bengal were also looking for jobs, and they were taking up any job that came their way. They were even taking up jobs of labourers, or some small odd jobs in shops, or even working as domestic help in rich families, so that shelter and food would be provided for. Checking gun parts for a living and studying at night Anyway, I registered my name in the Barrackpore Employment Exchange. I was called for a job interview of a ‘Viewer’ at the Ichhapur Gun and Shell Factory. The job title was rather showy, but my job was to measure the separate components of the rifle to check whether they were of the correct size. So I was basically ‘viewing’ whether the shapes and sizes of the gun parts were okay or
1971, Three Letters
#1 Sender: Ataur Rahman Khan Kaiser. Chittagong. July 17, 1971. Receiver: Oysika A. Khan. 17 Ayesha Khatun Lane, Banshalbari, Chandanpura, Chittagong. Mamoni Mine, I am writing this letter for the day, Inshallah, when you will learn to read and understand things. Your young heart must be filled with abhimaan and heartache wondering why your abbu does not come to see you. Mamoni mine, how shall I ever explain to anyone the kind of pain that shoots through your abbu when he thinks that it is your birthday today and yet he cannot hold you close? Whose guilt is it, whose crime—that he cannot take you into his arms? This you shall understand and fathom when you grow old, mamoni. Because that day this crime of his, will no longer be considered a crime. The people of this nation are also criminals like your father, because they have been demanding their rights. All criminals—universally loved leaders, writers, artists, journalists, intellectuals— criminals since they love this country. For the exploiters and invaders, nothing is more criminal than this emotion. The only punishment for such a crime is, death. Lakhs of people have left this country in order to escape this punishment. Your father has no other option but to move from one village to another, seeking mountains and forests in distant places, so that he is not shot at or hanged. And today, even if your abbu craves for his mamoni, he cannot shower kisses on her. The picture of a little doll that lingers in his mind’s eye is the one that he loves and kisses. And that is your abbu’s only solace. As I perform namaaz, at every waqht, I pray for you, for your happiness and safety. I pray to Allah Rahmanur Rahim that he keep both you and your ammu safe. Mamoni, your ammu has written saying that you have learnt to speak now? You say that your abbu used to sing Joy Bangla, do you? Inshallah that day is not far when your abbu shall once again sing Joy Bangla to you. If your abbu is not there your ammu will sing that song for you. Your ammu has also written that when she scolds you, you say you will send her off! Do you know, your ammu does not know anything. She only suffers for you and me. Even if you send her off, you will see, she will come back to you again. She cannot stay without us. If your ammu cries or suffers, don’t tell anyone mamoni. Just be with her. By her side. Cry with her. And love her—that is her only solace, all right? Many thousands of kisses to you mamoni. All yours, Abbu *** *** #2 Sender: Kadbanu Aleya, Sonatola, September 28, 1971. Receiver: Muktijodddha Abdur Razzak, Kumarkhali, Kushtia. Dearest Husband, Accept my salam and love. You have sent a letter with Jahan Bhai. After reading the letter I have destroyed it, fearing the razakars. The razakars are guarding our house day and night, 24 hours so that they can catch you. On the day your second child was 6 days old, I received your letter. You had written that I should be alive to tell others your proud story, that you will win back Bangladesh. I kept running, bearing a pain that defies description. I still remember the day I came from my abba’s home to yours, it was July 16th. You were not home. I realized you were frantic and troubled and had gone underground for a few months. You do not, did not tell me anything but I understood that you were mentally preparing for the war. Once I reached my abba’s, Babu was born—that was July 21st. I was still hoping that somehow you would be there. Some miracle would happen. But instead this letter arrived. Tomorrow I shall go to my in-laws’, that is, to your place. All around razakars have created hell. At least here I used to get your news through Jahan Bhai, but I don’t know what lies for us there. I still hope you are alive. Hence, I write. Your two and half year old older son always carries the flag and shouts Joy Bangla! The razakars chastise him. My abba tried to shut his mouth with his hands but he keeps on struggling, pleading—leave me alone Nanu. And then again with renewed vigour screams—Joy Bangla! The razakars keep on threatening abba that the moment your son-in law arrives, your house shall be razed to the ground and all of you will be taken into custody. Due to all this, abba has decided to send me off. My only doya to allahtalah is that you return safe. One day, one day. After you have freed our nation. Yours, Kadbanu Aleya *** *** #3 Sender: Shahid Ashfaqus Samad Uttam, Patgram, Rangpur. August 25, 1971. ( died fighting West Pakistan army in direct combat at Raiganj in November 20, 1971.) Receiver: Tauhid Samad, Current Address- 42 Dilkusha, Dhaka. Dear Tauhid, First let me tell you that I am writing to you from a liberated area of Bangladesh. The Indian border is almost 18 miles away from here. I am breathing the free air of a liberated place and by God it feels good. Liberated this place 2 weeks back. It is now around 10 o’clock in the evening. I am lying in my bed inside a hut. My bed is a wooden platform dug in about two feet below the floor level. The earth raised all around me to give protection from the bullets and shells. One lamp burning with minimum light. My ‘friends’ the Punjabis from Pakistan are only 600 yards away. The sons-of-bitches have not shelled on today/might, but I have a feeling they will anytime now. They usually do at this time. The idiots did not let us sleep last night. Fired about 40 shells. Couldn’t land a single one on us—some marksmanship! So, we fired about 50
The Mirage in the Pupil
Born Lucy Renee Mathilde Schwob, Claude Cahun (1894-1964) tried on several pseudonyms including Claude Courlis, referencing the Curlew bird, and Daniel Douglas, after the British literary Lord Alfred Douglas. Cahun purposefully chose sexually ambiguous names for herself which further complicated the projection of her image to not only the public as they viewed her art but to her peers and colleagues as well. *** *** In 1909, Cahun met an illustrator, Suzanne Malherbe who would become her life-partner. Malherbe worked under the name Marcel Moore, and she and Cahun shared an intimate collaboration throughout the rest of their careers. *** In 1940, the island where the two lived became invaded by Nazi troops and as if Cahun’s Jewish roots didn’t put her in danger as it were, both she and Moore became intensely politically active in a self instigated anti-German movement (The Guerilla Girls 63). Cahun created surrealist flyers, often interpreted as works of art themselves, which she then distributed in mass amounts into bystanders’ coat pockets, open car windows, discreetly left on tabletops and crumpled and thrown into buildings. Her actions were not only political but artistic as well. Cahun and Moore’s operation was so successful and on such a large scale that troops were actually convinced of a secret resistance group operating on the island. When the two were eventually found out, they were imprisoned and though it was never actually carried out, sentenced to death. *** *** She published her writing widely while the photographs remained private. Cahun met Philippe Soupault at Monnier’s bookstore, Les Amis du Livre, in 1919, and he proposed that she collaborate on the revue Littérature that he was launching with André Breton—the journal that would lead to the founding of the Surrealist movement. Cahun, intimidated, declined. It would take another ten years, and the interceding of her friends Henri Michaux, Robert Desnos, and Jacques Viot, before Cahun would meet Breton and become officially affiliated with the group. Affiliated—but never an official member. *** *** “I will follow the wake in the air, the tracks on the water, the mirage in the pupil.” *** *** “I want to stitch, sting, kill, with only the most pointed extremity. The rest of the body, whatever comes after, what a waste of time! To travel only at the prow of myself.” *** *** One of Cahun’s most cutting literary works is Heriones, originally published in Le Mercure de France in 1925, it consists of 14 monologues told from the point of view of famous women of history: Eve, Delilah, Judith, Penelope, Helen of Troy, Sappho, Cinderella, the Virgin Mary—they’re all here and speaking like no storyteller allowed them to before Cahun. Each chapter overturns the traditional narrative associated with these women—Cahun reads women’s history against the grain. *** *** In many of her essays and letters one can see how Cahun undertook her passionate, sophisticated analysis of the relation between politics and poetry. Place Your Bets, published in 1934, brilliantly critiques the assumptions of a crudely propagandistic art, as advocated by Aragon, and defends the practice of the avant-garde. In particular, it anticipates many subsequent Marxist debates on the nature of artistic production and reception in its complex understanding of the ways in which the meaning of a text is beyond the conscious awareness of either the author or the reader. *** *** “Instead of removing the wings from a dragonfly to call it a red pepper, in a subtractive or reductive move, we should affix wings to the red pepper, in an additive or augmentative mood, to have it become that dragonfly.” *** *** “Poets act in their own way on men’s sensibilities. Their attacks are more cunning, but their most indirect blows are sometimes mortal.” *** *** In her memoir, Confidences au miroir (Confiding in the Mirror), written after her imprisonment during the Second World War, Cahun writes of her longing for affiliation and her simultaneous inability to ally herself with any one group. It seems clear she is speaking of her disillusionment with the Surrealists, their constant exclusions, and the deaths of René Crevel and Robert Desnos when she writes of her indignant feelings at the fact that “the most sensitive and sincere lose their spirit or their lives. . . . [I have always] reacted by abstaining, opposing, resigning, by maintaining friendships with the solitaries or the ones who have been excluded—this attitude is obviously harmful to the participation which I desired above all else.” We can detect here a certain wistfulness, inspired not only by the past, but by the inevitability of the past: it could not have been any other way. Cahun being Cahun, she could only ever operate on the margins, and embrace those she found there beside her. *** *** Cahun employs a very dark satire in a post-war document beginning: ‘Have you had any dealings with the Nazis? Did you notice that they have a certain sense of humour? Is it different from yours?’ François Leperlier notes how in this piece Cahun contrasts ‘l’humour non objectif nazi (l’humour nihiliste)’ with ‘l’humour noir.’49 Lacking a sense of contradiction, desublimated nihilist ‘humour’ manifests itself in the brutal reality Cahun evokes at the Matthausen concentration camp. Here, among other grimly farcical events, a gypsy orchestra is obliged to play the popular French song ‘I will wait’ (‘J’attendrai’) whilst the inmates watch three of their comrades being hanged for trying to escape. *** *** “Under this mask, another mask. I will never be finished removing all these faces.” *** *** “A man thought he had photographed the hair of the woman he loved, strewn with bits of straw as she was sleeping in a field. When the photograph was developed a thousand arms, shining fists and weapons appeared, and he saw that it was a riot.” *** *** In a 1936 document addressed to a meeting of Contre-Attaque, Cahun condemns patriotism, because, according to her, even where it is supposedly proletarian, it leads only to its adherents becoming ‘marionettes des impérialistes’ (‘puppets of imperialism’).This was what she and the others
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