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University of Delhi - Indian Literature - An Introduction-Pearson Education (2005) PDF
University of Delhi - Indian Literature - An Introduction-Pearson Education (2005) PDF
L it e r a t u r e
An Introduction
V TR cfN
UNIVERSITY OF DELHI
In d ia n L i t e r a t u r e
<MKdl±l WlRSrH
B.A. P r o g r a m m e C o m m itte e , U n iv e r s i ty o f D e lh i:
S u b -C o m m itte e o n L a n g u a g e , L i t e r a t u r e a n d C u l t u r e
A n In t r o d u c t io n
*T T T rfta
E d it e d fo r t h e
U n iv e r s it y o f D e l h i
By
A n ja n a N e ir a D e v
B a jr a n g B ih a r i T iw a r i
Sa n a m K h a n n a
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fq^qWsJH<4 % #7I^T
PEARSON
An imprint o f Pearson Education
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Contents
Preface ix
UMIcHI x
Introduction xi
vii
Valm iki
The Ram ayana: The V alin V adh Episode 1
OT1 10
V eda V yasa
The M ahabharata: The Ekalavya Episode 21
30
Sudraka
M richchhakatika: The M aking of a Breach 36
W *
49
Ilanko A tikal
C ilappatikaram : from The Book of M aturai 63
75
Namdev
You H ave Put Up a Show and How C an I Live 93
Kabir
The Sim ple State 98
vi / Contents
7. M irabai
I Know O nly Krsna 103
h ’H N i'S
fq4l<i 109
F5iRf 114
% RsldUil 183
TFT ^ R t 203
TO 219
237
=tildl6is1 319
'jjci'i 334
Bibliography 379
t M-TTO 382
R ajiva Verma
C onvener, Su b -C om m ittee fo r ‘ Language, L iterature and C u lture’
o f the B .A . Program m e Com m ittee
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Introduction
Indian Literature has a history that dates back alm ost four
thousand years. W hile a ch ron ological listing w ould su ffice to
show its antiquity, range and developm ent over the centuries,
w hat is of greater interest is its evolution ; and the them es and
concerns w ith w hich it began, som e o f w hich continue until
the present. It is com m onplace to refer to Indian literature as
one, though w ritten in m any languages, but u ntil the roots of
this literature are explored, the visible branches and the offshoots
around cannot be u nderstood in their h istorical and literary
contexts.
A n c ie n t In d ia n L i te r a tu r e : 2000 BC to 1000 AD
are located in a specific space and tim e and the characters are
n ot nam ed, but id entified by their gender, occu pation, region
and role in the love relationship. The Puram is the outer w orld,
marked by feats of heroism , war, court life and the poet in search
of a generous patron. The Cankam poetry of love and war, composed
b etw een ca. 300 BC and ca. 100 AD, is conceived in a secular
m ilieu and the relationship betw een nature and m an's em otions
and experiences is explored in all its dim ensions.
The next phase of ancient Tam il literature, betw een the
second and third century AD, is the did actic phase in w hich
the influence of Jainism and Buddhism is prom inent. The m ost
fam ous w ork of this period is the T irukkural, w hich developed
the earlier tw o-fold division of literary com position into a three-
fold one of—love, virtue, and matters relating to polity and society.
In this period , m any m ajor epics w ere also com posed, like the
C ilap p atikaram and the M a n im ek h a la i. T h ese rep resen ted a
d epartu re from the Sanskrit epics and reflected a prom inent
Bud d hist and Jain w orld view . At the centre of the narrative
are strong w om en w ho are em pow ered, invested w ith m oral
au thority that is reinforced w ith religious san ction , and w ho
anticipate the rebellious w om en of the B hakti period.
B hakti, w hich in Tam il m eans 'p artak in g of G o d ', found
expression in the Tamil-speaking region around the sixth/seventh
century AD. The literature of this period is m ade up of a large
b od y of d ev otion al hym ns sung by Saiv a saints called the
N ayanm ars and V aishnava saints called the A lw ars. The songs
are com posed in a sp irit o f protest against conventional rituals
and scripture, and the intercession of priests betw een m an and
god. Each bh akti poet w orships a personal god and the poem s
are em otional, ecstatic and erotic and explore the relationship
of the self w ith h is/ her god.
Early Kannada Literature: Any introduction to the literature
of ancient India w ould be incom plete w ithou t a reference to
literature in K annada. Based on linguistic evid ence available
from rock edicts and inscriptions, it is believed that the Kannada
language m ust have existed as early as the third cen tury BC. It
w as influenced by Sanskrit, P rakrit, V edic and Jain a legends,
and also the stories from the R am ayana and the M ahabharata.
The earliest know n literary w ork in Kannada is Kavirajam argam
(ca. 850 AD) and like the first book in Tam il is a treatise on
xvi / Introduction
M e d ie v a l In d ia n L i t e r a t u r e : 1000 AD to 1800 AD
M oving into the 11th century AD, the map of the Indian
su bcontinent begins to look different, as various political and
social changes usher in an era of dialogue betw een cultures,
religions and languages. The m ost fascinating dim ension of
this age of Indian literature is the developm ent of m odern Indian
languages. In the next seven centuries, all the Indian languages
as we know them today w ould develop a distinct literature of
their own. This era w as m arked by foreign invasions, cultural
contacts, larg e-scale m igration, religious conversions, m ilitary
conquest and changing patterns of socio-econom ic relations.
Indian Literature: An Introduction / xvii
that com bines elem ents from all the b elief system s and also
incorporates the hum anistic ideals of the Bhakti and Sufi poets.
This trend w as also seen in Sindhi w riting at the tim e, w hich is
profoundly influenced by Sufi ideas and w orld view. W hile the
literature of some languages like Dogri, M anipuri and Kashm iri
make reference to local deities, m ost of the deities w ritten about,
that are the objects of w orship and veneration, are pan-Indian.
L iterature, G eography and P olitics: Since this w as an era
of changing political boundaries with constant wars being fought
and territories being consolidated, chronicles as a genre of writing
developed further, as seen in the Buranjis o f A ssam and the
b a lla d s o f h e ro ism on the b a ttle fie ld , in R a ja s th a n . T he
establish m en t of courts and kingdom s also gave rise to the
concept of royal patronage for w riters and artists, and eulogies
becam e an im portant type of literature and also provided rich
evidence of life and times in medieval India. After the migrations
of an earlier era, life becam e m ore settled and the im pact of
this w as seen in literature that began to respond to the local
landscape, flora and fauna, mountains and rivers. The vocabulary
and the im agery of the w riters reflects and even develops from
th e lo c a tio n o f th e c o m m u n ity to w h ich s/ h e b e lo n g s .
G eograph ical p roxim ity and ethnic a ffiliatio n s also lead to
regional groupings and neighbouring languages often displayed
com m on concerns and them es.
The Rise of Urdu and Khariboli: One of the most important
linguistic and literary developm ents of this age w as the rise of
Urdu and K hariboli. The history of U rdu in the su bcontinent
begins w ith the com ing of M uslim arm ies, im m igrants, Sufis,
traders, travellers and settlers, w ho brought w ith them A rabic
and Persian and their distinct literary traditions. The respective
cultures of various ethnic, social and linguistic groups com ing
from A sia and Europe cam e into close con tact w ith those of
the local com m unities and this interaction not only led to the
developm ent of new literary traditions, but also to a com m on
language as a m edium of com m unication and literary expression.
This language was known at various stages as Hindavi, Dakhani,
G ujri, Rikhta and U rdu. U rdu, A rabic and Persian gave to the
literature of the tim e the ghazal, the m athnavi and the qasida
am on g o th er lite ra ry tro p es and form s. In D elh i and the
surrounding areas, at this tim e, the language of com m unication
Indian Literature: An Introduction / xix
In d ia n L i te r a tu r e u n d e r C o lo n ia l R u le : 1800 A D to 1947 AD
A t th e en d o f th e e ig h te e n th c e n tu r y , In d ia w as a
heterogeneous, m ultiling ual entity, and alm ost every regional
language had a rich body of literature, written and oral. However,
literature continued to use the form s and conventions of the
medieval period with com paratively few innovations. Languages
in close geographical proxim ity borrow ed from each other, and
som etim es a particu lar literature itself could be m ultilingual.
For exam ple, in Punjab, P ersian w as the cou rt langu age, but
Punjabi w as interm ingled w ith Brajbhasa and U rdu, and some
Sikh scholars even w rote in Brajbhasa, using the G urum ukhi
script.
The printing press is considered by m any to have been
firm ly estab lish ed in Ind ia by 1800, m arking a new era of
communication. It also heralded the slow death of the manuscript,
and initiated an age where the author could communicate directly
with the reader, without delay, without the need of interpretation
(perfom ative or otherw ise), and create a readership based on
this relationship. The establishm ent of the printing press led to
other im portant changes in India as w ell.
Up to this point, the learned w riter's m edium w as either
Sanskrit or Persian, his regional Indian language being a second
choice. Soon, how ever, the printing presses also began to cater
to local areas and those langu ages w here a w ide readership
existed, gradually gained im portance. T ranslations of the Bible
into various Indian languages helped the developm ent of prose
w riting. Prose, so far a neglected field, also gained currency
due to the rise of jou rn alism as new spapers and m agazines
w ere introduced to the subcontinent by the fourth decade of the
eighteenth century.
xx / Introduction
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The Ramayana:
The Valin Vadh Episode
Valmiki
In Sanskrit literature the Ram ayana is known as the first epic and
its creator Maharishi Valmiki as the first poet. Nothing specific can be
said about Valmiki's life. It is a popularly believed that Valmiki tended
to his fam ily's needs by looting and plundering, but the course of his
life changed after a chance meeting with a group of seers. He then
devoted himself to the pursuit of knowledge, penance and meditation.
The story of Valmiki's conversion to a poet is attributed to his witnessing
the killing of the male of a pair of mating cranes. Moved by the
anguished wails of the female crane, Valmiki's emotions poured forth
in a couplet, 'O hunter, you have killed the crane in love, you will
never achieve fame and honour.' The form and rhythm of this utterance
cam e to be known as shloka.
In the R am katha (legend of Ram) that Valmiki narrates, he is
present himself. Sita takes shelter in his ashram and her tw o sons—
Luv and Kush, are brought up there. Scholars differ about when the
Ramayana was com posed. Ram, as a M aryada Purshottam (protector of
ethics), is popular not only in the Vedic tradition but also has place in
the Jain and Buddhist traditions. Ram's popularity in folklore has a long
history. In W internitz's opinion, the first format of the Ramayana
evolved in the fourth century b c , and its final form at in the second
century a d . Some scholars are of the opinion that the U ttarkanda and
some portions of the Balkanda were not written by Valmiki but were
later accretions. The German scholar, Hermann Jacobi grants recognition
only to five Kaands from A yodhyakanda to U ttarkanda. W hatever be the
case, the modern form at of the Ram ayana today does not have a loose
or incoherent structure. The Ram ayana contains tw enty-four thousand
'shlokas' in all. The anushtap chand (a verse with specific metre) has been
mostly em ployed, and Valmiki is acknowledged as its creator. The
Ramayana text exists in many forms. These days three texts— Dakshinatya,
Gaudiya and Paschim otariya are in prevalence.
This selection is from the dialogue between Rama and Valin,
found in 17th and 18th Sargas of the Kishkindhakanda. Having befriended
This except is taken from The Ramayana o f Valmiki: An Epic o f Ancient India,
Vol. IV, Kishkindha Kaand. Introduction, translation and annotation by Rosalind
Lefeber. Edited by Robert P. Goldman, Princeton, New Jersy: Princeton University
Press, 1994, pp 87-95.
2 / The Ramayana
Sugriva, Rama deceitfully kills his brother Valin. Before his death, Valin
denounces Rama for his cow ardly and deceitful act. Rama gives him
a patient hearing and attem pts to dispel his doubts while justifying his
own deed. Valmiki's Rama is not an 'avatar' but a 'm ahapurush' (a
great m an), a man endowed with extraordinary qualities but a man
nonetheless, who debates the validity of his actions. He overcom es his
hum an frailties to become divine.
Sarga 17
1. Then struck by R am a's arrow, Valin, harsh in battle, fell
suddenly like a tree cut down.
2. Adorned with pure gold, his w hole body toppled to the
ground, like the flagstaff of the king of gods when its ropes
are released.
3. As that lord of the hosts of m onkeys and apes fell to the
ground, the earth grew dim, like the sky w hen the moon
vanishes.
4. And yet, though he had fallen to the ground, the great
m onkey's m ajesty, life, pow er, and valor did not leave his
body.
5. For the w onderful jew el-studded gold necklace that Sakra1
had given him sustained the life, power, and majesty of the
monkey-chief.
6. W ith his gold necklace, the heroic leader of the m onkey
troops looked like a rain cloud edged by the glowing light
of evening.
7. Though he had fallen, it was as if his lingering splendor
had been broken into three shining parts: his necklace, his
body, and the arrow piercing his vital organs.
8. For that m issile, shot from Ram a's bow , had opened the
path to heaven for that w arrior and gained for him the
highest state.
9 -1 1 . Like unassailable great Indra, like irresistible great Indra,
great Indra's fallen son, gold-garlanded Valin, lion-chested,
long-arm ed, blazing-faced, taw ny-eyed, lay fallen thus in
battle, resem bling a fire w hose flam e has gone out, like
Yayati2 fallen from the world of the gods through exhaustion
of his merit, or the sun cast down to earth by Time at the end
of the world. Followed closely by Laksmana, Rama approached
and looked at him.
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 3
27. 'Land, gold, and silver are reasons for conquest. But what
possible profit could there be for you in the fruit belonging
to me in this forest?
28. 'Both statesm anship and restraint as well as punishing
and rewarding are royal functions that must not be confused.
Kings m ust not act capriciously.
29. 'But you, instead, care only for your own desire. You are
wrathful, unsteady, confused about your royal functions,
and interested only in shooting your arrows.
30. 'You have no reverence for what is right, no settled judgment
concerning statecraft; and because you are addicted to
pleasures, you are driven by your passions, lord of men.
31. 'N ow that you have done this despicable deed and killed
me, an innocent creature, w ith your arrow , what w ill you
say in the presence of virtuous m en, Kakutstha7?
32. 'A king-killer, a brahm an-killer, a cow -killer, a thief, a
man who delights in killing, an atheist, a man who marries
before his elder brother— all of them go to hell.
33. 'V irtuous people cannot w ear my skin, my fur and bones
are forbidden, and my flesh cannot be eaten by people
like you w ho observe the law.
34. 'O nly five am ong the five-claw ed creatures can be eaten
by brahm ans and kshatriyas, Raghava: the hedgehog, the
porcupine, the lizard the rabbit, and fifth, the turtle.
35. 'W ise men do not touch m y skin or bones, king, and my
flesh m ust not be eaten; yet I, a five-claw ed creature, have
been killed.
36. 'W ith you as her protector, Kakutstha, the earth has no
protector and is like a virtuous young wife with a deceitful
husband.
37. 'Treacherous, dishonest, m ean, w ith false hum ility, how
could a wretch like you be born of the great Dasaratha?
38. 'I have been killed by this mad elephant Ram a, who has
broken the fetters of good conduct, overstepped the laws
of virtuous men, and disregarded the goad of law fulness.
39. 'If you had fought openly in battle, prince, I would have
killed you, and you would now be gazing on Vaivasvata,
god of death.
40. 'But I, who am unassailable in battle, have been struck
dow n by you w hen you could not be seen, as a man
sleeping under the influence of drink may be killed by a
snake.
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 5
41. 'I could have given you Ravana, not killed in battle but
bound around the neck; yet for that sam e outcom e you
killed m e, w ishing to please Sugrlva.
42. 'H ad M aithili8 been hidden in the ocean w aters or even in
the underw orld, at your com m and I would have brought
her back like the w hite she-m ule.
43. 'It is fitting that when I have gone to heaven, SugrTva should
obtain the kingdom. But for you to have killed me unjustly
in battle is not fitting. ■
44. 'G ranted, all people, being what they are, are destined for
death. But if what you have accom plished is proper, think
of a good defense.
45. W hen he had spoken in this w ay, the great son of the king
of the gods, pained by the arrow that had wounded him,
his m outh dry looked at Ram a, radiant as the sun, and fell
silent.
The end of the seventeenth sarga of the Kiskindhakanda of
the Sri Ramayana.
Sarga 18
1. Stricken and losing consciousness, V alin had addressed
to Ram a those w ords that w ere civil, beneficial, consistent
with righteousness and statecraft, yet harsh.
2 -3 . As he finished speaking, that best of m onkeys was like a
darkened sun, like a rain cloud that has given up its
water, or like an extinguished fire. Ram a, having been
censured, at last addressed Valin, lord of m onkeys, w ith
unsurpassed w ords distinguished by righteousness and
statecraft:
4. 'H ow can you, w ho do not understand righteousness,
statecraft, pleasure, or even worldly conduct, in your foolishness
reproach m e here today?
5. 'M y friend, in your m onkey frivolousness, you w ish to
revile me here w ithout consulting elders endow ed with
judgm ent and respected as teachers.
6. 'This earth with its m ountains, w oods, and forests belongs
to the Iksvakus9, as does the right of punishing and rewarding
its beasts, birds, and men.
7. 'It is protected by righteous Bharata10, w ho is truthful and
upright, who knows the true nature of righteousness, pleasure,
and statecraft, and w ho devotes him self to punishing and
rewarding.
6 / The Ramayana
22. 'D eath is the punishm ent prescribed for a man who out of
lust approaches his daughter, sister, or younger brother's
wife.
23. 'N ow Bharata is the ruler of the earth, and we m erely carry
out his commands. How then can we overlook your violation
of righteousness?
24. 'Wise Bharata is intent on chastising those addicted to sensual
pleasures, righteously disciplining w hoever transgresses
m ajor laws.
25. 'A nd we have m ade Bharata's com m and our sacred law,
lord of m onkeys, and are intent on punishing those who,
like you, transgress the proper limits.
26. 'M y friendship with Sugrlva is just like my friendship with
Laksmana. And for the sake of his wife and kingdom, he is
devoted to m y highest good.
27. 'M oreover, I m ade a promise at that time in the presence of
the other monkeys. And how can someone like me disregard
a promise?
28. 'Therefore, for all those important reasons that are consistent
with righteousness, you must agree that your punishm ent
is appropriate.
29. 'Y our chastisem ent m ust be viewed as righteous in every
way. A person w ho keeps righteousness clearly in view
m ust assist his friend.
30. 'Then too men who have done evil but have been punished
by kings becom e pure and go to heaven just as do virtuous
men.
31. 'M y noble ancestor Mandhatr inflicted a terrible punishment
on a m endicant w ho com m itted a sin like the sin you
com m itted.
32. 'Sins have been com m itted as well by other heedless rulers
of the earth. But w hen they m ade atonem ent, that taint
w as rem oved.
33. 'So enough of this sorrow! Your death w as decided upon
justly, tiger am ong m onkeys: We w ere not being arbitrary.
34. 'By snares, nooses, and various traps, m en in hiding or
out in the open catch all kinds of beasts w ho run away
terrified or confidently stand still.
35. 'M en seeking m eat shoot anim als that are attentive or
inattentive or even facing the other w ay, and there is
nothing w rong w ith this.
8 / The Ramayana
50. 'A nd please arrange it so that Sugrlva w ill not think ill of
poor Tara w ho is guilty only through m y guilt.
51. 'For the kingdom can be served only by someone you favor,
who is under your control and obedient to your w ishes.'
52. Rama then consoled Valin, who now saw things clearly:
53. 'You m ust not w orry about us, or even about yourself, best
of m onkeys, for we m ade our determ ination w ith regard to
you according to the law.
54. 'N either he w ho inflicts punishm ent on one who deserves
punishm ent nor he w ho is punished when he deserves
punishment perishes: Each serves the due process of justice.
55. 'Therefore, freed from sin by meeting with this punishment,
you have returned to your own righteous nature by the
path determ ined by righteousness.'
56. W hen he heard the sw eet, calm speech of great Rama,
who follow ed the path of righteousness and crushed his
enemies in battle, the monkey said these very fitting words:
57. 'If w hen I was half unconscious w ith the pain of the
arrow , lord, I unw ittingly censured you, w hose fearful
prow ess is equal to great Indra's, please be gracious and
forgive m e, ruler of the earth.'
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The Mahabharata:
The Ekalavya Episode
Veda Vyasa
The Ram ayana and the M ahabharata have a significant place in
the literary and cultural tradition of India. They are known as upjeevya
kavya— source books for later oral and written compositions on a variety
of subjects. Besides Sanskrit literature, these epics have also had an
im pact on other literatures of India as m any writers have adapted these
stories and written various texts in their own languages.
The Ram ayana is called literature (kavya) and the M ahabharata,
history (itihaas). The latter here refers to those stories of the past that
have a didactic purpose and teach the listen er/read er about dharm a
(duty), arth (wealth), kaam (desire) and m oksha (liberation). The creator
of the M ahabharata is well aware of the Ramakatha (the story of
Rama) and presents this creation of Valmiki, in abridged form, in his
own epic. The Ramakatha is found in three cantos of the M ahabharata—
The A ranyak Parva, Drona Parva and Shanti Parva. The m ost detailed
story is found in the Shanti Parva where the story is narrated to the
guilty and depressed Yudhishthira by Rishi M arkandeya.
Veda Vyasa is believed to be the creator of the M ahabharata. His
full nam e is Krishna D vaipayana Vyasa. He w as the son of Satyavati
and Rishi Parashar. He is called 'D vaipayana' for his birth on an
island of the Yam una, 'Krishnamuni' for his dusky com plexion and
'Veda Vyasa' for explaining the Vedas in the form of Samhitas (texts).
There has been a lot of debate about the period of composition
of this epic, but scholars generally agree that it predates the age of
Buddha, i.e. the sixth century b c .
The present text of the M ahabharata contains about one hundred
thousand shlokas, thus giving it the title of 'shat sahasra samhita'. Scholars
are of the opinion that this volum inous epic could not have been the
creation of a single individual and m ore than one w riter would have
contributed to it over time. Three consecutive versions— Jai, Bharata
and M ahabharata, written by Veda Vyasa, Vaisam payana and Sauti
respectively, are believed to have contributed to the evolution of the
text in its present form. The M ahabharata has eighteen parvas (cantos)
and the amplitude of its themes and the grandeur of its creation, have
CXXXIV)
(Adi P a rv a -S e c tio n
'Vaisampayana1 said, Thus worshipped by Bhishma2,
Drona3, that first of men, endued with great energy, took up
his quarters in the abode of the Kurus4 and continued to live
there, receiving their adorations. After he had rested a while,
Bhishma, taking with him his grandsons, the Kaurava princes,
gave them unto him as pupils, making at the same time many
valuable presents. And the mighty one (Bhishma) also joyfully
gave unto the son of Bharadwaja a house that was tidy and
neat and well-filled with paddy and every kind of wealth. And
that first of archers, Drona, thereupon joyfully accepted the
Kauravas, viz., the sons of Pandu5 and Dhritarashtra6, as his
pupils. And having accepted them all as his pupils, one day
Drona called them apart and making them touch his feet, said
to them with a swelling heart, "I have in my heart a particular
purpose. Promise me truly, ye sinless ones, that when ye have
become skilled in arms, ye will accomplish it."
'Vaisampayana continued, Hearing these words, the Kuru
princes remained silent. But Arjuna, O king, vowed to accomplish
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 23
going to his mouth. His attention being thus called to the force
of habit, the strong-armed son of Pandu set his heart upon
practising with his bow in the night. And, O Bharata, Drona,
hearing the twang of his bowstring in the night, came to him,
and clasping him, said, "Truly do I tell thee that I shall do that
unto thee by which there shall not be an archer equal to thee
in this world."
'Vaisampayana continued, Thereafter Drona began to teach
Arjuna the art of fighting on horse-back, on the back of elephants,
on car, and on the ground. And the mighty Drona also instructed
Arjuna in fighting with the mace, the sword, the lance, the
spear, and the dart. And he also instructed him in using many
weapons and fighting with many men at the same time. And
hearing reports of his skill, kings and princes, desirous of learning
the science of arms, flocked to Drona by thousands. Amongst
those that came there, O monarch, was a prince named Ekalavya,
who was the son of Hiranyadhanus, king of Nishadas (the lowest
of the mixed orders). Drona, however, cognisant of all rules of
morality, accepted not the prince as his pupil in archery, seeing
that he was a Nishada who might (in time) excel all his high-
born pupils. But, O oppressor of all enemies, the Nishada prince,
touching Drona's feet with bent head, wended his way into
the forest, and there he made a clay-image of Drona, and began
to worship it respectfully, as if it was his real preceptor, and
practised weapons before it with the most rigid regularity. In
consequence of his exceptional reverence for his preceptor and
his devotion to his purpose, all the three processes of fixing
arrows on the bowstring, aiming, and letting off became very
easy for him.
"And one day, O grinder of foes, the Kuru and the Pandava
princes, with Drona's leave, set out in their cars on a hunting
excursion. A servant, O king, followed the party at leisure,
with the usual implements and a dog. Having come to the woods,
they wandered about, intent on the purpose they had in view.
Meanwhile, the dog also, in wandering alone in the woods,
came upon the Nishada prince (Ekalavya). And beholding the
Nishada of dark hue, of body besmeared with filth, dressed in
black and bearing matted locks on head, the dog began to bark
aloud.
"Thereupon the Nishada prince, desirous of exhibiting his
lightness of hand, sent seven arrows into its mouth (before it
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 25
could shut it). The dog, thus pierced with seven arrow, came
back to Pandavas. Those heroes, who beheld that sight, were
filled with wonder, and, ashamed of their own skill, began to
praise the lightness of hand and precision of aim by auricular
precision (exhibited by the unknown archer). And they thereupon
began to seek in those woods for the unknown dweller therein
that had shown such skill. And, O king, the Pandavas soon
found out the object of their search ceaselessly discharging arrows
from the bow. And beholding that man of grim visage, who
was totally a stranger to them, they asked, "Who art thou and
whose son?" Thus questioned, the man replied, "Ye heroes, I
am the son of Hiranyadhanus, king of the Nishadas. Know me
also for a pupil of Drona, labouring for the mastery of the art
of arms."
'Vaisampayana continued, "The Pandavas then, having
made themselves acquainted with everything connected with
him returned (to the city), and going unto Drona, told him of
that wonderful feat of archery which they had witnessed in the
woods." Arjuna, in particular, thinking all the while, O king,
Ekalavya, saw Drona in private and relying upon his preceptor's
affection for him, said, "Thou hadst lovingly told me, clasping
me, to thy bosom, that no pupil of thine should be equal to me.
Why then is there a pupil of thine, the mighty son of the Nishada
king, superior to me?"
'Vaisampayana continued, "On hearing these words, Drona
reflected for a moment, and resolving upon the course of action
he should follow, took Arjuna with him and went unto the
Nishada prince. And he beheld Ekalavya with body besmeared
with filth, matted locks (on head), clad in rags, bearing a bow
in hand and ceaselessly shooting alone therefrom. And when
Ekalavya saw Drona approaching towards him, he went a few
steps forward, and touched his feet and prostrated himself on
the ground. And the son of the Nishada king worshipping Drona,
duly represented himself as his pupil, and clasping his hands
in reverence stood before him (awaiting his commands). Then
Drona, O king, addressed Ekalavya, saying, "If, O hero, thou
art really my pupil, give me then my fees." On hearing these
words, Ekalavya was very much gratified, and said in reply,
"O illustrious preceptor, what shall I give? Command me; for
there is nothing, O foremost of all persons conversant with the
26 / The Mahabharata
1. Vaisam payana A sage who learnt the whole story from its
author Vyasa, and is the main narrator.
2. Bhishma The son of Santanu and Ganga who took a
vow of celibacy and was uncle to the Pandavas
and Kauravas.
3. Drona a sage renowned for his knowledge of archery.
4. Kurus The ancestors of Dhritarashtra who lend their
name to his hundred sons who are collectively
known as the Kauravas.
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 29
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32 / TlWTCKtT
1. : *7 IR 3 f e l
2. ^ IrM I : =h^Ptld <HlcMI, ^ W»1H
Sudraka
A uthoritative inform ation about Sudraka's life is unavailable.
Like other ancient Sanskrit writers, Sudraka, too, is silent about details
of his life and achievem ents. W hatever little we know about him
com es from the forew ord of the M richchhakatika. In the forew ord,
Sudraka is introduced as a 'king, a Brahm in (D w ij), and a w arrior.
He was a versatile figure, unpretentious and saintly. A fter having
ruled for a 100 years and 10 days, he transferred pow er to his son
and chose death by entering Fire'. The narrative of the foreword seems
to indicate that a later critic m ay have penned it. Some scholars opine
that till such time as w e have concrete and indisputable evidence to
the c o n tra ry , S u d rak a sh o u ld be re c o g n iz e d as the c re a to r of
M richchhakatika.
Some sch olars are of the opinion th at Sudraka lived before
Christ while others believe it w as about 500 a d . The M richchhakatika
shows the clear influence of Bhasa (ca. 400 b c ) . The play deviates
from the traditional storyline concerning royalty and instead introduces
a love story with a poor Brahman and courtesan as its main protagonists.
It would seem that Sudraka possibly predates Kalidasa, but postdates
Bhasa. Except for the M richchhakatika, no other creation of Sudraka
is available to date.
M r ic h c h h a k a tik a means a cart of clay. The play is loosely divided
into tw o parts. The first concerns the love affair betw een V asantsena
and C harud u tt; the second, A ryak's installation as the King after a
rebellion. In ten acts, the play is a lively and true docum ent of the
period and of contem porary society, with a striking relevance to the
present. The playw right aim s at a real depiction of his times and
eulogizes the im portance of love. A t the sam e tim e, M r ic h c h h a k a t ik a
is infused with deep political satire. The p rotagon ist of the play,
C harud u tt, has becom e im poverished. H is son plays with a clay cart.
Vasantsena fills it with her gold and jewels. This incident is pivotal
to the play and provides its title. C harudutt is a Brahm an. His family
is involved in trade but because of his benevolent nature, he is left
This except is taken from Mrichchhakatika of Sudraka, edited with the commentary
of Prithvidhara (enlarged where necessary), various readings, a literal English
translation, notes and an exhaustive introduction by M.R. Kale. Delhi: Motilal
Banarasidas. pp 102-131.
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 37
This night, in which all the objects are hidden (from sight)
by the pitchy darkness is concealing me as fondly as a mother
(conceals her son—a mother) in whom all other sentiments are
overpowered by the intense blindness (of love);—(me) who walk
about in fear of the king's watchmen, and who, supremely brave,
am bent upon burgling the houses of others.
Having made a hole in the surrounding wall of the park,
I have (now) reached the central building. So now I shall force
an entry into the (inner) quadrangle also. Oh!
Let people call, as they will, this a vile trade, which thrives
well when people are asleep; and that getting the better of people
by cheating them when they are unsuspicious, is mere thieving,
and by no means a brave deed. Still, even a condemnable position
of independence is preferable to serving others with folded
hands. And this is the path that was followed of yore by Drona's
son (Asvatthaman) when he assassinated the Kashatriya princes
in sleep.
So now, in what spot shall I effect a breach?
What is that spot, which is loose (soft) by being sprinkled
over with water, so that it would produce no sound (when
being bored through)? Where could be made a hole in the wall,
wide but not in sight (of the passers-by)? What portion of this
building is dilapidated, having its masonry worn out by the
corroding action of saline exudations? And where shall I not
come upon (lit. see) women-folk, and still accomplish my
purpose?
(Touching the wall). Here's a spot, worn out by saline action,
and weakened by being sprinkled every day with water at the
sight of the sun. And here's a pile of rubbish excavated by
rats! My purpose in hand here is (as good as) accomplished!
(For) this is the best (lit. first) omen of success for us thieves,
the followers (lit. sons) of Karttikeya (our patron-saint). Now I
have to begin my job; what sort of hole shall I make here? In
connexion with this the divine Kanakasakti has laid down four
modes of making a breach. They are as follows: to pull out the
bricks when they are baked, to chip them off if unbaked, to
wet them with water if they are of common clay, and to cut
them through if they are of wood. Now this is a wall of baked
bricks ; so I shall have to pull them out. Here (seven kinds of
holes are possible, viz.)
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 41
C h a r : (Recovering). Friend.
Who will believe the real fact? Everyone will think lightly
of me. For, in this world, inglorious poverty is always prone to
be suspected.
Ah! Bad luck!
If, indeed, Fate did desire my riches,—why did now the
cruel one spoil my character also?
Vid: I would, indeed deny it (and say)—Who made the
deposit? Who accepted it? Who was the witness?
C h a r : Am I now to tell a lie? (No).
I'll again acquire the means of returning the deposit, even
by begging (if necessary); but I'll never utter a falsehood, which
would lead to loss of character.
R ad : Well, then, let me go and tell (all this) to the worthy
Dhuta. (Exit).
(Then enter Charudatta's wife, accompanied by the Maid).
W ife: (Excitedly). Well, is my lord (i.e. husband) really safe
(lit. uninjured) in body, along with the worthy Maitreya?
T he M aid : Mistress, he is really safe. But that ornament
belonging to the courtesan,—that is stolen.
W ife: (Acts swooning).
T he M aid : Worthy Dhuta, please compose yourself!
W ife: (Recovering). Girl, What did you say?—that my lord
was safe in body? It were now far better that he was injured in
body, than in character. (For) now in Ujjayini people will
(everywhere) say that my husband himself, being poor, committed
such a vile deed. (Looking upwards and sighing). O mighty Fate!
You do, indeed, play with the fortunes of poor people, unstable
as the drops of water fallen on lotus-leaves!— Now, I have
only a jewel-necklace left, come from my mother's family. But
even this, my husband would refuse to accept, on account of
his extreme pride! Girl, just call the worthy Maitreya here.
T he M aid: A s the noble Dhuta orders. (Approaching the Vid.)
Sir Maitreya, Dhuta is calling you.
Vid: Where is she?
T he M aid : Here is she; g o to her.
Vid: (Approaching). My blessings to your ladyship.
W ife: Sir, my bow to you! Sir, just turn your face towards
the east.
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 47
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fs^W : ^ w i t ^ xipft t t n 4, ^ t t ift 5d®uil *¥ sd&ui !
i[Z f t * ’i t 31T4 ^<H r dl§i< ^f tft ^fT ^1 (^ T *tte)T) 31Pt T ^ T , ^ T
W “ hl5l ^ t fa ! t , TRT % t 31F1% ^ R l ^
eftf^nri
W ufU M ^ -5IHT ^TlrTT f l
( w f a r a %t ITIT) 3T«Tt cf^T 'W ^ ff- ^ T - ? q f F t 'raT t l ^
Ph i I *t ^ k ^1T 'RT 7T^ t w t % tf ’ i t ^ ^ ra t % i p %
^5t <4dl<M *TRTT ? ^ 3 t kT ^, ^ ^ 3T^7 % -qi«m ^
snrn t ? i
^IWn : dl£Jul,
■*Ts? MTtFT t
a fa % if o k 3 Tftf <3 ^ *rr nqrH ti
^ cT3> ^ efteif "TFt "STTcft, cfa> ^ 3?q^ FT«T ^
F t T ^ T FPITI
f^RTT «FT ^3TT f^FT ^ if
c«l<n*^ oi«mi % :
h fh r ^ieF ^H«hl 't'... I ’
«nqsRt % sn ^ ?
W K tT : f t , an i\ ^ 1
s tra t ^ it g ^ t ^ 3 T ^ r s ik srf?sR
■RI^ ^ M k - t ik drt<<+>< 3TI TFt t ;
'cTRcfl'tl / 53
eft...!
<H=beii t ? 3T^ eft W cklT F t msmTI ^t<TT ^TH TIT t !... Tk 5 ‘a^T
^1 ^ % t F=IT k - ^ i* * ^ % k s ftR J R ^ t ^ I l f !
m g to ^ F R ^ ftR F t I P ^ k F t 3fkcfn T « W l t ?
k <^FT W T Wl ?JJ
^T tiT F TO 7TT*T ^>T% ^ iT cn<eb
fc ^ c fi ^ W u fM N ^ HeTT t l
^ %qr ?
: W IFT ^>t ^TT ^ ft 3*TT ^t5T '*TT TR k TT t ?... IT , ~<3 f^FTT;
Rt<jq=t> : eft k 3T^ Hid k^TT 3TTQ; F^ ®4im<l %t eTTI <j<a =Ft kfc kt
TT^kTT ^1
^lR4d=h : ^ k t ^TTTT eW k k fT T I HSNItvJui j... FT-FT ! k } T fk W ^ -^ T
fa cR F R t fttfaeTT ^
TRf % TT^ % W
T ja t £Rcft HT -q<rH 3 'nisi H^FT ';3TeT % -qcH ^t H R !
t ^ ^ WT
*t h i t s a fk n5TT ^ w
■Q^T 3 T lk TRTR ^>t ^13 3 <SK5I12,
■'T^TS' * t ^fe< 4i 13^ ?Tfea 3 fT T I !
W ^ T : fe q r ^ ?
: f tR ■zilf !
^t r t h : ( t ^ R ) 3 ^ ! T ra g ^ t ^ r f t ^ f e n t Tf?T 3 *t eFnt t !
^ H T 3qk H t^ 3 f £ IZTCR ^HFTT W ,
IF 'R ^ sjfeT H*TT Tt ^5T W *N ,
ITT 'ER % I ^ T % t HTI t
^ t TJ^T 3THftT3iTTt oqRw % 3RT 3TT^ Tt 'tPZ H n t l
W grm q t fe F ft H * ftt f^ g r ^ t !
f^ w : t o , ■qi ^ ^t ^ Tj=F ^ e n r t i t n t - n «it f ^ r t t ^ n r ^ sttit
^ T fe r n % T T t ITT 3JFT % fe jT « T f ^ ! H i t Ht < 4 ^ f iH l ^
iq k ■e r g f t 1 ^ % % t H i t "5FTm ?
/ 59
?
^ HT cii^'i ei'iiu/ll
arri 3 ^ fe a f^ ra r Ft sram ht
¥^F H>T faHH «R *nflt t l
feel’} n t ncT t !
HFc^ eft V I ^ tR cf>T HTT f a n ,
P d ^R : ^FFT t 3 ?
WRcbl : *IFT t , ?*R 3U3^|
Pq<^<*> : ( W * fF fR ) + ^ | U | F t;
^TT : yuMH 3n4 J...3TR ^tft 3!tT ^F Ftl
r=)^<+, : ^f 3TPfat 37tT gF fan i
^JcTT : W 3TFt ^ ^51^1
: W ^T t ?
*JcTT : ^ T R W t sfff ferqT «!TI ^TT*t a?1# ‘HFT^f % 3ig?iR s<i $4ui ^ t
T R ^TT Ftcl! t ^ RFt 'f^ITI TO1! ^f 3TFT ^ F <niqetl
^ ^ % * r "5 h fk w t,
tit ^ f TilTf%sTRT n t RRt
s fk RRt n t J P f ^RT ^cft t l
■CRcJ 3( ft*£l ^ f. ?
^ t ! ^ ^ F t ^F t
f^> RcRt vJ'Hohl f?*!f?T % 3Fp3R ,
f*T3 * t ^ T % fTT*T TF
sftr ^ f 3r ^ n t T^n n r t t % ?
^ T , W TRI^Rt # fR $*! cRR^n % RRT ^ ^TT3ltl
^Tt 3 !k ^ ^FRT f e ^ F W fq i^ r F ^ 3TR1 ^M^ch< ^ l i
^ F R 1 ^IT t l W ! TR ^ F < H lc ld l ^ T t t l
: R ^ 7 3 F !!, R i t n i »lt W F I fe t R T FtRT ! sftT f'F T ^
^ «tt fR T ! 3 !*t ^ ^ ^ TTg^t ^ ! TTR ^ F <Hlc|d1
^ T t ^!T37!t ?
62/ *j^4=bf'i+
■
c ik>'\ti : ‘I^n *T ^Ft t o !
far? f ^ r a 3n^R cfer
"3^ FRl} W 3*Ht *nt?T TTlt «ft,
^r r fh I^ ttt ^r i t
< ciiq < ril % ^ ^ fr< n W T ?1 f I
s ff T ^ F T l^ l ^ft T8t(T ^ T T fe ?
T r f ir ^ ^rag; n t w 3Tc f i
1. ■SC'tlPcM d ry *,
2. 'h i + d l R -^ lR d ntcl
S. ■j*T ^ Icil
5. 'PIcrT
6. ?T?TTT? w rr
8. ■ET5T
10. ^ t TT
llanko Atikal
Tamil tradition ascribes the com position of the C ilappatikaram
(5th c. a d ) to the Jaina monk llanko Atikal (The Venerable Ascetic
Prince), the younger brother of the Ceral king Cenkuttuvan. We know
nothing else about him. Like Hom er, llanko was possibly a redactor
w ho took the story of KOvalan and Kannaki from the oral tradition
and put it into w riting. The Cilappatikaram tells the story (Ta. atikaram)
of the events centred around an anklet (Ta. cilam pu). Since the anklet
is one of the insignia of the goddess Pattini, the title establishes the
sacred ch aracter of the story: the heroine Kannaki's apotheosis into
the goddess. The C ilappatikaram deals essentially w ith duty, w ealth
and desire, and its sequel the M a n im lk a lai, attributed to Cittalaic
C attanar, w ith duty and liberation. The story of Kovalan and Kannaki
has been transm itted into a variety of genres, including folk songs,
ballads and plays and also adapted as a novel in Hindi, Suhag ke
N upur (1960), by A m ritlal Nagar.
This kaviyam (narrative poem) is divided into three books, Pukar,
Maturai and Vaftci, named after the capitals of the three Tamil kingdoms
the C sla, the Pantiya and the Ceral. Each book is further divided
into cantos, and in addition to these there are also five song cycles
th at function as a ch oru s to com m ent on the events in the narrative.
The three books also represent the three distinct phases through which
the story m oves, the erotic, the m ythic and the heroic. The erotic
(akam ) and the heroic (puram ) are the traditional categories of Tamil
discourse, to w hich llanko adds the m ythic (puranam ). Kannaki's
exem plary life as a chaste wife im pacts on all three phases and makes
it structurally coherent.
The story begins in Pukar in the Cola kingdom with K 6valan's
desertion of his wife Kannaki for the courtesan Matavi. Kannaki silently
puts up w ith the indignity and grief. Some years later, suspecting
Matavi of being unfaithful, Kovalan returns to his wife. Left penniless
by his indiscretion, Kovalan sets out w ith Kannaki for M aturai, the
capital of the Pantiya kingdom , to recoup his fortune. W hen he tries
to sell one of Kannaki's tw o anklets to the royal goldsm ith, the latter
This excerpt is taken from The Tale o f An Anklet: The Epic o f South India, The
Cilappatikaran of llanko Atikal. New York: Columbia University Press, 1993,
New Delhi: Penguin Books India, 2004. This headnote was written by the translator,
R. Parthasarathy, Skidmore College, Saratoga Springs, New York.
64 / Cilappatikaram
Canto 18
The W reath of Sorrow
The dance ended, the elderly herdswoman
Of ineffable charm went to bathe, and adore
With flowers, incense, sandalwood paste and wreaths
The feet of Netumal1 on the bank of the swollen Vaiyai2.
5 In the city someone heard a clamor
And rushed back. She spoke to none, but stood there
Without speaking to Kannaki who begged of her:
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 65
Lines 45-53
Canto 19
K annaki Goes R ound the City
The Sun spoke thus. Not for a moment did Kannaki,
Her shoulders radiant with armlets, wait there.
Taking the other anklet in her hand, she cried out:
Lines 1-20
25 The victorious king's parasol that kept the land
Cool under its shade now throws off heat!
How did it happen? Before us has come
A new and mighty goddess bearing in her hand
A golden anklet! How did it happen?
30 Her beautiful, red eyes stained with kohl
And spurting tears, she laments inconsolably.
As though filled with godhead. How did it happen?'
Lines 21— 40
Lines 41—64
Kannaki cried:
'Is this a vision?
What else is it? Is it a spirit that has tricked me?
90 Where shall I go and look? Full of truth
Were his words. Till the wrath that burns in me
Is appeased, I will not hold my husband
In my arms. I will confront the evil king
And demand an answer.'
She rose, stood up,
95 Remembered her terrible dream, and wiped the tears
From her wide, fishlike eyes. She stood up, remembered,
Wiped the tears from her wide, fishlike eyes,
And strode toward the palace gates.
Lines 64-75
70 / Cilappatikaram
C anto 20
The D em and for ju stice
'Friend! In a dream I saw the scepter
Tumble down with the parasol. I saw the bell
At the palace gate ring by itself and toll.
Friend! I saw the eight points of the compass
5 Quiver. I saw the night devour the sun.
Friend! I saw a rainbow span the night.
I saw a meteor blazing with heat fall by day.
T h e O m ens
'The upright scepter, the white parasol
Fall upside down on the solid earth. The bell
10 At our king's victory gate trembles
And makes my heart quake. The rainbow spans
The night, and the meteor falls by day.
Some evil is about to happen. I must tell the king.'
Lines 1—20
25 With sweet flowers in their hair sang
The king's praises:
'May the great queen of the Pantiyan
Who protects this earth clasped by the sea
Live forever!'
Her companions and guards who sang
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 71
Her praises at her every step followed. Thus with her train
30 The great queen approached the Pantiya king
On whose chest LaksmI is ensconced forever, and told him
As he sat on the lion-throne of her bad dream.
At that hour a terrible cry rent the air.
Lines 20—38
50 Of the seven virgins, who made Siva dance.
She is not Kali who lives in the dreadful forest.
She is not Durga who tore apart the broad chest
Of Daruka. Pent up with hatred and anger
At the loss of her husband, she stands
55 At the gate, a golden anklet in her hand.'
Kannaki replied:
'Impetuous king!
Listen to what I have to say. Pukar
Of great renown is my town. One of its kings
Of spotless glory once rid a dove
65 Of its suffering to the wonder of the gods.
Another had his only son killed under the wheels
Of his chariot. He was burned to the quick
By the tears falling from the eyes of a cow
That swung the bell at the palace gates.
70 O king with tinkling anklets! Born in Pukar
As the son of Macattuvan, a merchant prince
Of untarnished fame, Kovalan came to Maturai
For a living, driven by his karma. When he was here
Lines 38-60
To sell my anklet, he was murdered.
75 I am his wife: Kannaki is my name.'
Lines 60—80
'There is no refuge
95 For a woman who has lost her husband.'
That woman
Of soft words touched her husband's feet and died.
En vo i
1
'Dharma itself will become the god of death
To those who do evil.' It is no idle thing
That the wise say. O queen of the victorious king
100 Who acted cruelly and unjustly! A slave am I
Of my karma. See what I shall do.
2
'I am a sinner,' cried an onlooker.
Tears pour from her blue-lotus eyes. Her hand
Clasps a single anklet. Lifeless her body.
105 Like a forest, her dark hair spread about her.
The Pantiyan saw her, and died of terror.
3
'When the lord of the Vaiyai saw the dust on her body,
Her dark hair undone, the single anklet
74 / Cilappatikaram
Lines 80— 93
cf«T ^oRTI
“ #RT 3 RRT—
(cbkdH ^ )
TT5T RF^T % Rif
^ q % 3 '^ i^ o iid i r h r r -
^IH^HIc) R ft cFRm W I Rw.^kH ( # f e f ) 3
R*T RR fRRTT f e n t l ” 3
eROTTT^t Tjf^?T ^
R ? ^RRTT
cbuui^l
^5-}qicrt1 -1lR4l %
% 3M V % m m
3T ^ fiPT m ft ^
i* ki P rf^ r Ffa>i,
^FTT, feTFT W t f t f e ^TTS?
gnfamq faviid ^ 3 ^ ftpi?w m
3 -o^l^jei Ft
fafasj cftsj? ^ 'FIFT
TF^tT# * 1 ' % ^ T R ,
" # r t -<m ^ r m fr r ? ”
qf^oqcn4 % ^
3 yfefacT ffW * t !
(^4 m n r)
fqs'iioi enTff ^ ■gm ^ fart ^jfa
80/
e[*T Ft I
era 3 -g ^ r %
f 3 tt T# ? ”
^J?J ^T C(T*1
^F*ft ^ t ' t l
w i H«<i i<Fiit n e ft T ^ n t!
3 # ^ 73T ^ r f t
?ST ^RR ^ t l ”
-■ ^ n ^ t o ii
^RIT W I T "ntrT
“H F^J t ”
^ ^ '^TTT ^i?TI
FT8? 3 ^ t ^ f t n W^Tt f f W t
(^F T ) -TFt 3l?Ttl
^ ^ ^
FT®} 3 1 T O
'i^-H =t>61,
‘ ‘ 3RJPTt <.MI % "RR ^f ft^R T m ^ M t
TTcft ■Tlf^Tt!
^ F T3=P t l
**
3 T ^ oJT«TT cFT 3^jq cf % n i
3RTU o^SIT W t l
3 n ^ F t Ffal n ?
n ? T^> t l
“ Ttn TfeT
n « ft TFt FT W T I
t f t TfTT % "g ^ ^ W<T % fa r
( f c t f t ^ ) F ^T tl
*TR<ffa Hlfijril : T3=F trffgq / 81
tl
“ ■^T % Ft
cfEFT ^ f j l t l
"?IF ^ tl
“ Pi ^Th 3 ti h q ^ i ^ TF ^TT^ eft
■g# ^:<sK|Rh1 HK=M
^ t ^ tl
^F ^ t l”
Hm<*ifti odiftid p ;
■^TT ^ F o5rf«TrT s fa n
sra^rai 3 facTFT cb^clldt nt ^
StTF
% m , tw ft
fq^Rnd f ^ l
“ a r ^ r fW ozrn
<^n ^ t \<*><
^ t c ^ ^T F t^ T e n
Ft 7FIT t l
^f ^ n fs n ?
“ TF3fTf^Tr3f 3lfa
< a ^m i< l ^fSFT
Ft W tl
^F *F?T f3TT ?
“ ’j f a ^ ?ftaci fe sra t 3 ■gm
9^5 ('■k?T) % *Ma<n ^
aiH R ^i t l
m? ^ftt fs n ?
8 2 / 'farPxrfk»!<>i
FT*1 ^ <j<j|<)
F *n} fa tj;
TT^T ^JcFT HSI'Wl 3Tlf f f I ?
^ F %1T f3CT?
“ ■y^< st ^ t t 'Hi ^ 'k i
3T^H TpSffi ^-■hIsO
■ ^T nTcft,
31TF m a t TT^H m ^ M t m
- f S W R % ?T^ ^ F
^rf^cT F t
e f^ t fTRT w lsci fT i
yir=IHI ^ tl
"3Tt ^Teft ^a T I
^ tp ^ ft fHrrr?r *jfa
3T*mTC o iiik i n r? i ftj;,
a re n fa rn fi ^Ten ( t j 4 ^ t )
3 m t ST^T fe r n f BFt T O T
■RFF t t^rT 'CR ^tT fts m
3RT%jfa f t f lt % ^PFT
■J^T-cTfTI ( '+i |J'j ^1 ) % "EIW1
HJk ^
IF
Iff a?
Iff Hr
IB Iff £ ft I
|
Iff
I I 1?
Huy
‘I
ff % 4 I
M Z $' I ft
f 1 1 1 i 1 1 1 f *■ i 1 1 j I f l | | & e
S’ e S ^
?! 7
3" I *
l l i i m i i l i
¥ p
&
84/
3 n (eft7!) HFt
n? ^ T T
Tin m f - W ! t\ t ? ”
■5 ^ t# R T % 'SFg®,
^n ^ ki ^ittr
Tm M ^ frfgc!
i^nRd FtnT TST T§?
^Fiai % Pr^i n<<t,
'fT % 3TTON n<ct
c ph (eft7!) '•iFt
“ ^ f , ^ f ( 5 : ^ ) *rm
■Q3 > m f - n e f Ft t ? ”
■iMHWT
“ =r t , n f t n *ft t i
n f t n *ft t ?
^r11! fn*t xrfcT Tn§t [q hR< n r
w - i n r ^ n e ft n f t n *ft t i
^Fft n f t n *ft t i
"SRT TTFR t?
TT?H *ft I ?
(sr A %) ^ fViy, n t d=h<
Hid'i w r ’ft t ?
TfFR *ft I ?
“ ^n ^ *ft I ?
■^FI ^ *ft f ?
trjr? 3
w ^ t i t t?
sr t ^ t fft t ? ”
*IRcfN ■wifccq : / 85
<JR
t^ t ^>f
ffcft =tiu,jie1 %
3 T ^ ■'}% %
^ 3 e F m 3T#FH
^ F (<*)<*rtH)
“ i j U M ^ - ^ r (<pFKT) <S^c|<rl -5 ®
w ti”
-T O fR ^ 3 T ^ FW 3
SFf^TTf#!
k ra fe q f
, jf*T f*R
3P^ ^ #53 W T f ^
^ feqf 3 3 ^^rsr f e
('fcM d H ) 'jTsfr 5<k1< ^ft tfl-s
'3)tTT •idl,
3T^> 3FRt % TPJi? ^i
‘ ‘ 3TSB-TfacT H^HMldl!
Tftl ” —
* U U |^1 f^RTT
qS' ff l* f e ^TFf t l
( 3 F ^ ) cTCT gfttr % H ^F
Trf?r ^ "TFt f e j r h
^ fa^ fR
'^TT0T l ^ f t l ”
fcM'M-gR % % ^if^RT
C ^T ) f ^ T *?t ^fiqcT f W I
TRT ^ TqTI
f^r ^i ■mt ^ i
3TT3f fc?TTC W F T H ^F ffl
^ faqfo 3TT^T# t l
3 ^ ftl”
^ TRTR ^ 5 1 ^ -
TRt W 3TTWT
^rfuf sjquT, ^ ^R ,
TTPT fe f^ T , in , ^ f ,
<*>UU|g) 1RTTM ^
3?k ?*rc-
(+"JU|g) ^ gKMld ^ ^ , )
SKMIcrl! # gKMItrl!
W i- W l^T q T H 3 ^
88/
^ ^ d <MI % 1RTO!
Wrai ^ - 1 1 ^ f%
^ % 'jftt ^ TJ^I
^r«f 3 ^Rt
^ft 3TC^ ntci t,
SR ^ ll
-3|l'b< ■(^IHI ^ l ”
^KMH % TJERT
SJ^Id ^ 'J|I<M ^>??T,
‘ ‘ fo M ft,
fu rt -yr f ^ M t f l i
^fs*m fn ft C # ^ ) % 3rf%rc,
r^<v*n°n ?fi
^Pn -4^ r-K'^cil ^'|
^%JT % T M # = f t f f l
*lFf ''R 'Jil'i^ld
Mlfrs<H f^ s ftc ft f f l
^TTSct ^ ^f*TC ^ y^Ki
U f ^ d cfRt ^ T - ^ T fe r ^ tr ^
cblnel eTcTi ^
f^ R ft *JT^ 3 ^SRI
+ *M ld l ^ 3 T $ I f f I ;
*5: ( q i^ iS ff) ^ l$\z\ -ik) ,
f?ra % -J^I ^ ^ 3
7?T ''R 'JiHI cfc^clldl ^ef),
’T^RtT ^T ?^5T ^K'ft churl I 3f«T^T
SK?^ % fa ^lld cf^r
^ l ^ l d l ^Rt «ft - ^ f t ;
* p R chl(|JKl 3 "3^T
■q^r w > f 1H* ^ ^ *^.
3Tcqf*W *1^ ^ 'g^tT sfft
gTpTa-Ft ^ ^TRt,
*<Kcita «ifec4 : / 89
^ft 3^ -qf?i t,
W ^ tl”
" y.'t) i k I
3N^ ■q1% ^ ^ ^fcjt i?,
SR m i i ”
<H5 TF5TT ^ <*>$1,
^ w > n # !”
(iR w r 3 ) sir ■'rc
"RFeT R o n i i ”
^ f ■RfcT ^
^fr % Pi'De fft ( t t st t ^ )
‘‘ 3T^ «Jfl^ f t i %it' ^ffcT
<HIH^ 3hi*h1
^taeT cWT-# g*? ^ ?”
rftr?
“ $RTO (Jr^l -1I<1!
^ itl
TTRHT T O W f t;
t^pg: T R tl”
<MI % i^.'HI 'fcS') ^
^^W^Tofr +«U|^ ^ ^TfT,
“W f ^ 'T ^lA=llcrt
t <t)|ef>5 'As'l I
TR 'TIT % ^
Trfbj % cfrq f| ”
d R d 3fo[ 3T^5T t l
Tffcff % cbul t l
(*[TT^ ^^t) 3^t oTT3^|” 3i?
<Ni %
(w s i 3 ) w w w i
3 ^ } W 'p f % ^ T rf& T -^ ^ 3
Trai % tR fod=t)Aqicii
■RfoT f t «UI
W tfh l h IV ^ / 91
^ TT3TT 3T5PTcT
t# T <*it
f t t fq; s ^ w i 3TR
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TTSfT,
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( «=hUU|^l } ^ f l , )
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m 3 -^ ,
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^T W ^ W 3T o^ t ^ t ^73
w ftc r f f a r
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g^cff % ?I^t %
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c if w t f 3 fsn i
1. : c0 h6<
2. <^^HI: rftrl, HTit
3. *raft +lcidH f^Ti ^n«n cTOt 4>uuia1 etf ^ ? t ^
*rc 3 w f ^t far ^ ?f *ft 3*rt w w r - f ^ N ^ <**
4. Hfqa«4flT : f^RT^il ft-TT 3ReT f t , ft-ft, ^TRl
5. ^5f>: ^51, tji[dM
6. sff^T: ^l-ini % f^ ft dMs^ ^ft ^iT-t ^Icft
You Have Put Up a Show
and
How Can I Live
Namdev
The character of the m edieval Bhakti m ovem ent w as pan-Indian.
It breached rigid social, cultural and religious divisions, and prom oted
and strengthened id eolog ical in teractio n and m utual d ialogu e am ong
d ifferen t lin g u istic zones. N am dev w as one of the m ost active and
p rom inent sain ts in the in itial stages of the m ovem ent. H is period of
literary creation is the 14th century. H e w as b orn in M aharash tra
and his w ritings are found in b oth the lan g u a g e s-H in d i and M arathi.
M any scholars con sid er him to be found er o f the N irgun (d evotion
to a form less G od) trad ition. N irgun b hakti b eliev es in th e w orship
of a fo rm less, in tan g ible god, w hile Sagun accep ts the tan g ible as
w ell as the in tan g ible God.
N am d ev p reced es K ab ir in h isto rica l ch ro n olog y . K ab ir and
other con tem p orary p oets have resp ectfu lly m entioned N am dev in
their w orks. N am dev w as a friend of the com poser of the G naneshw ari,
saint G naneshw ar. W hen G naneshw ar, retu rnin g after touring N orth
Ind ia, vo lu n tarily en tered his grav e, N am dev w as presen t. N am dev
has d raw n touching pictures of his frien d 's d ep arture in m any abhangs
(a poetic form ). A num ber of m iracles are also associated w ith N am dev.
H is w ritin gs are the exp ressio n s of a d eep ly d ev otion al heart. The
d iv isio n s o f Sagun and N irgun th at w ere w itn essed in H ind i, are
absent in the M arath i sain t trad ition.
Som e of N am d ev 's poetry is of N irgun ch aracter and som e is
m arked by Sagun sen sitivity . N am dev cou ld n ot recon cile h im self to
the d om estic life o f a hou seh old er and he cam e to liv e in P and arp u r
w ith the in ten tio n of serving h is lord , the deity V itth al. M ost o f the
verses of N am dev are ad dressed to V itth al. A long w ith V itth al, som e
o f his v erses are also ad dressed to H ari, K eshav, M ad hav, G ovind,
Ram and others. Born in a tailo r's fam ily, N am d ev's poetic m etaphors
are m o stly related to th e p ro fession of tailorin g (and in his use of
m etaphors he casts h im self as a tailor).
'M y h e a r t is m y m e tre a n d m y to n g u e is m y s c is s o r
M easure by m easu re I w ill cut the noose o f the god o f d eath ',
and
These excerpts are from The Hindi Padavali o f Namdev. Delh: Motilal Banarasidas,
1989, pp 166, 171-172.
94 / You H ave Put up a Show and How Can I Live
40
You have put up a show ,
Father,
a m agic show .
I like the m an
w ho is not taken in.
Life is a show
death is a show
to these the m ind clings.
Thus I m editated:
You are both
the string
and the puppeteer.
51
How can I live
w ithou t you?
You are the rock
of m y life.
Your nam e is
the substance
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 95
M en flow w ith V ed as 2
in the sw ift w aters
o f delusion
V itth al 3 is the Lord
of his servant N am dev
O take me
to the other shore.
W 1&
^ 3T?I fF^t 'H^iqoil stf’TT iiH^q: ^ fln^t’ ^ ^rai t pu -^i 3ijqi^: fqiis TJR.
aftr firai Mldldid ^ r a r k ra , 1989, ^nsqi 274-75 sfk 280-281.
W h l Hlftrq : / 97
I
^F5ft T^t I A ^ )t T ^ t II
sn^t <J1IHUI? ^T5|t H<”1I I '3F3jt eliPI T ift t 1:RT II
WRt R-T ^ Rtfa f t ’qK.I I 3TT^ TJcT 3TT^ ^ *IR t II
liH ^ q offi? 3f ^Tt TRt TT I I R f l ^ m ljl RT^IT II
II
fa ’T 3*ft i ^ TR^TT3 y|u| 3T*TR 11
TTR yWKT i? TJ’ 2 T
11 TR ■hVik
hi<hi ^T3T stiHii ^>fa4 <£q<n -IR5 3T*JR 11
'jpl'41 ^5FT ^ i f ^ f 7 3 ? fw 3TTR II
'tiqci 3>t 'lffa ^ Rtf? TT’lt PtK'Jl'ISK 11
Rt <jt fsrf^ R5^T fa>Ri cjfa ^STff °RTO II
^ t j =f ? frjR ‘5 ^ f a f t ■gpR^ RR II
^ ^ Rfa ^IJT tiffin RH? ^>t *1R II
^FT -iH ^q ^>t w f t 41d<ni9 Rtf¥ % <ial^l "TO II
This poem is taken from Kabir: The Weaver's Song, translated, edited and with
an introduction by Vinay Dharwadker. New Delhi, Penguin Books India,
2003. pp 161-63.
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 99
all the p rev ailin g relig ions and does not h esitate to criticize them . In
T h e S im p le S ta te his b itin g satire exp o ses those w ho tend to trade
in relig ions. H e ob serves falsity in b oth the relig ions, and proposes
a third p ath/ thou gh t p ro cess as an altern ativ e to these tw o organized
religion s. K abir vents his ire at the w ay so ciety b eh av es. P eople
easily tru st those w ho tell b latan t lies, and ru sh to kill those w ho
speak the truth.
Listen,
you saints—
I see that the w orld
is crazy.
I'v e seen
the pious ones,
the ritual-m ongers—
they bathe at daw n.
They go to w ar
and kill each other—
no one know s
the secret of things.
A ll the students
w ill drow n w ith their teachers—
at the last m om ent
they'll repent.
K abir says,
listen,
you saintly m en,
forget all this vanity.
w^k
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I Know Only Kguoa
Mirabai
M ira b elo n g s to the 16th cen tu ry . She w as b o rn to R athore
R atan Singh of the M edda state in R ajasthan. Since child hood she
w as d evoted to K rishna. She w as m arried to R aja Bhajraj o f U d aipur
bu t he p assed aw ay after a few years. H ow ever M ira had alread y
accepted K rishna as her lord even b efo re m arriage.
M ira'a devotion w as of a transcend ental nature. She w as alw ays
lost in reveries o f K rishna. In those tim es, royal w om en w ere not
supp osed to step out of their bow ers. The ideal w ife w as one w hom
even the rays o f the sun could n ot touch, b u t M ira never cared for
this code of cond u ct. H er deep d ev otion to K rishn a had filled her
w ith unflinching self-confidence. U nm indful of all restraints, she would
seek the com pany of sain ts and sages and dance b efore the K rishna
im age in stalled in the tem ple. This w as h ig hly h u m iliatin g for the
royal fam ily and they w ere ag ain st her u n trad ition al w ays. She w as
harassed b y them in m any w ays. It is in scrib ed in folk m em ory that
she w as sent a cup of p oison to kill her. But all such o b stacles proved
fu tile b efo re M ira 's u n break able d ev otion . H er in ten se d esire for
K rishna continu ed find in g exp ressio n in her verses.
M ira's life is an exam p le of the fact that the idea o f a w o m an 's
in d ep en d en ce and in d iv id u a lity w as con sid ered u n ten ab le in the
m edieval period. H ow ever, M ira faced and challenged all the restraints
of her tim e. She had no illusion about the futility of public opprobrium .
She op enly d eclared that 'p u blic fear and fam ily trad itions of the
w orld have flow n aw ay from her as easily as w ater and that people
can shut them selves aw ay behind cu rtain s as she h e rself cares not a
w h it for any trad itio n or sh am e'.
A lm ost all the b hakti (d evotion al) p oets o f M ira 's period w ere
associated w ith one sect or an other and this associatio n gave them a
sense of secu rity. M ira did not accept or requ ire this su p p ort and she
did n ot com m it to any sect th rou g h o u t her life. R aid as is m entioned
as M ira's guru, bu t this assertio n is not beyon d doubt. M ira's P adavali
(a collection of verses) has b een edited by a nu m ber of sch olars. The
langu age o f her v erses is Braj B hasha o f the R ajasth an i trad ition,
though in som e p laces pu re Braj B hasha (from the region around
M athura) is also visible.
In this particular 'pada' (verse), M ira tells the story of her infallible
love o f K rishna. K rishna is her all-in -all. She d eclares that she has no
This excerpt is taken from Mirabai and her Padas. Delhi: Munshiram Manoharlal,
1998. pp 40-41.
1 0 4 / 1 Know only Krsna
other sh elter and that she has renou nced all her relatio n sh ip s for
Krishna. She attains contentm ent in the com pany of saints and w orldly
affairs b rin g her sorrow . T he tears of fo rlorn love hav e w atered and
strengthened the creep er of love. For her, love is the only essence of
life; w hy should she care for pu blic infam y?
M ira does not care for v ersificatio n , but her language is lucid
and m elod iou s. Even today her verses are p o p u lar and are still sung.
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106/ ^ f r w r ■nran
This verse is taken from the Life and Works o f Amir Khusrau. Mohammad
Wahid Mirza. Delhi: Idrahi-1 adabiyat-1 Delhi.
108 / Separation
'Separation' is a classic love lam ent w here the lover voices his
d esperation at the d ep artu re of his b eloved . T he poet m akes skilled
use of p athetic fallacy to show how n atu re also p articip ates in the
grief of the lovelorn poet. The poem m akes abundant use of the classic
sim iles of clou d s, rain and n ig h tin g ales, all of w hich are tim eless
sym bols of love, longing and desire.
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Desires Come by the Thousands
Asadullah Khan 'Ghalib'
A sad u llah K han M irza G halib (1 7 9 7 -1 8 6 9 ) cam e from a noble
fam ily of T u rks w ho m igrated from Transoxian a (C entral A sia) in
the eigh teen th cen tury w hen Shah A lam II w as on the throne. G halib
w as born in A gra and cam e to D elhi as a you ng m an and spent a
jo yfu l child hood flyin g kites and p laying chess. In 1827, he w ent to
C alcu tta w here he spent a cou ple o f very happy years. W hile it w as
the g reen ery, the p retty w om en and the m angoes of C alcu tta that
end eared the city to him , he also got the op p ortu nity to interact w ith
M u slim , B engali and E nglish in tellectu als and get an exp osu re to
m odern ideas and new spapers, w hich contributed to the developm ent
o f his p o etry and attitu d es to life. In 1829 he retu rned to D elhi,
w here he w ould spend the rest of his life. H ere he faced financial
d ifficu lties and also cam e into con stan t con flict w ith the au th orities,
but continu ed to w rite prolifically. He w rote letters to various friends
about how his w ritin g w as a sou rce of com fort to him and he also
consoled him self w ith the thought that his greatness as a poet necessarily
m eant m isfortu nes w ithout end. H is insecu re financial situ ation m ay
have contrib u ted to his fondness for gam bling and this w as to lead
to his trial and im prison m en t in 1847, one o f the m ost d istressin g
exp erien ces of his life. This year w as to prove a m ixed b lessin g for
G halib as he also began his d ecad e long associatio n w ith the M ughal
court. Tw o of his con tem p oraries w rote b iog rap h ies of G halib and
these, H ali's Y adgar-e-G halib (1897) and M irza M au j's H ayat-e-G halib
(1899), give us an in sig h t into b oth his life and tim es.
G halib w rote in both Urdu and Persian. In the nineteenth century
the w orld of U rdu and P ersian poetry w as dom inated by the ghazal
and M om in, Z auq and G halib w ere its lum inaries. T he p oetic w orld
m oved around the ashiq (lover), m ashnq (beloved ), raqib (the lov er's
rival), saqi (cup b earer) and the Shaikh (relig iou s lead er). N early all
G h alib 's U rdu poem s are in the g h azal form , the them es of w hich are
largely prescribed by convention but w hose flexibility accom m odated
both the secu lar and the d ivine w ith ease. The dom inan t them es are
love for G od and the m istress. The form becom es a sym bolic canvas
on w hich the poet sketches his ideals of love and m ystic hu m anism
in the face of a h ostile and ind ifferen t society. The first ed itio n of
G h alib 's Urdu Diwan cam e ou t in 1841 and a collection of his Persian
This poem is taken from The Lighting Should Have Fallen on Ghalib: Selected
Poems o f Ghalib. New Delhi: Rupa and Company, 2001, 2002.
112 / Desires Com e by the Thousands
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Sad and Weary
Firaq Gorakhpuri
Firaq G orak h p u ri's (1896-1982) real nam e w as R aghupati Sahay.
A fter g rad u ating from A llah abad U n iv ersity, he w as selected for the
C ivil Serv ices but resigned to jo in the Ind ian N ational C ongress in
1920. Betw een 1923 and 1927 he w as d eep ly involved in the Indian
freedom struggle and w as jailed m any tim es. In 1923, N ehru appointed
him u n d e r-se cre ta ry o f th e In d ian N ation al C o n g re ss— a p ost he
held until 1927. Firaq joined A llahabad U niversity in 1930 as a lecturer
in the D ep artm ent o f E nglish , w here he tau ght until 1958. In 1961 he
w as aw arded the Sah itya A kad em i A w ard for G u l-e-N aghm a and in
1970 w as hon oured w ith the Jn an p ith A w ard.
Firaq w rote ov er fifteen volu m es o f p o etry along w ith som e
prose, and he d om inated U rdu poetry of the su b -con tin en t for over
half a century. He w rote m ore than 40,000 couplets and left his im print
on three im portant genres of Urdu poetry— ghazal, nazm and rubaiyat.
Prom inent verse collections include M ashal, N aghm a-e-Saz, Gul-e-
Naghma and H azar Dastan. He also w rote a novel in H indi—Sadhu ki
Kutiya (The A scetic's H erm itage), as well as critical works and collection
of letters.
The m elan choly in his poetry lin k s him to M ir T aq ir M ir, and
like him , Firaq also u ses H indu m etaphors and m yth ology to express
his em otions and thoughts. In an attem pt to reform U rdu poetry and
to draw it closer to the Ind ian situ ation, he w rote in h is P reface to
R oop (1946), 'In d ian poetry should take fu ll ad van tag e o f H indi and
S a n s k rit'. In h is w ritin g , o n e can a lso g lim p se tra ce s o f E n g lish
R om an ticism .
In F iraq 's w orks, one can clearly see the d ou ble com m itm ent to
trad itio n and m o d ern ity . W ith ou t ab an d o n in g the tim e-h on ou red
them es of love and b eau ty , he im parted his ow n tone and tenor to
the ghazal and d eveloped a m atu re style that com bined Ind ian and
P ersian trad itio n s w ith the p oetic lore from E nglish L iteratu re— of
w h ich he w as both a stu d en t and a teacher.
This ghazal, 'Sad and Weary . . .', lam en ts the p assag e of tim e,
the creation of b arriers o f language and idiom , and the m eaningless
rep etition o f sym b ols that have lost their potency. The poet express
his sorrow at the inability of m ankind to travel tow ards understanding
This verse is taken from Masterpeices o f Urdu Ghazal: From the 17th to the 20th
century. K.C. Kanda, New Delhi: Sterling Publishers Private Limited, 1990.
p. 293
1 1 8 / Sad and W eary
Sad and w eary the beauty w as, ashen grey the eve,
M any an old forgotten tale flashed across m y mind.
C ountless aeons have gone since his hom ew ard trek began,
But m an has hardly covered as yet a few reluctant steps.
fyilcb
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This poem is taken from The Unicorn and the Dancing Girl: Poems o f Faiz Ahmed
Faiz. Delhi: Allied Publishers, 1988. pp 92-93
122 / Do Not Ask
contem porary fall in their proper place in the larger com posite tradition
o f literatu re.' T hrou gh ou t his life, Faiz w as a keen stud en t o f various
trad itions o f classical poetry in U rdu, P unjabi, H indi, A rabic, Persian,
and E nglish am ong others, and this sy n thesis show s through, as he
ch arts his ow n cou rse in poetry.
3JW*K
This poem is taken from Subramania Bharati: Chosen Poems and Prose, English
renderings o f a selection from the Tamil Writings o f Subramania Bharati, edited by
K. Swaminathan. The All India Subramania Bharati Centenary Celebrations
Committee, Delhi, 1984.
126 / Palla Song and Letter to Parali Su. Nellaiappa Pillai
the Alawars did, but also as friend, mother, father and teacher; his
epic Panchali Sapatham, a series of balladic narratives built around
the terrible episode from the Mahabharata when Draupadi is publicly
humiliated and takes her terrible vow of vengeance; Kuyil's Aria, a
750 line poetic narrative on a man's search for beauty, with the Indian
nightingale—the kuyil—as the central character; his social poems that
addressed social and gender inequality; his prose poems and fiction.
He also wrote prose and verse in English.
Bharati had a profound impact on Tamil literature as he narrowed
the gap between the spoken and the written word. He also made a
departure from the anterior tradition of Tamil literature that had three
phases until the 12lhcentury—poems of love and war; the Tirukkural,
the epics Cilappatikaram, M animekalai and jivaka Chintamani infused
with Buddhist and Jain influences and dealing with ethical questions;
and Kamban's Ramayana. Bharati's poems and prose speak with
revolutionary fervour and visionary power as they seek to herald
the freedom and redemption of the nation and the individual, providing
us with a vision of a unified and free India.
'T h e P alla1 S ong' is written as a clarion call to freedom and the
celebration of equality of all the people of the land. It invokes the
vision of a nation in which all strive for a better future in a spirit of
unity and equality.
'L etter to Parali Su. N ellaiap a P illai (19lh July 1915)' is a plea
for literary freedom and advocates a change of themes in literature,
so that questions of national and social importance are addressed
and it becomes a vehicle of change and progress.
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- ‘ JTm^ h ’
This excerpt is taken from A Comparison Between Men and Women: Tarabai
Shinde and the Critique o f Gender Relations in Colonial India by Rosalind O'
Hanlon. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1994. pp 87-93.
134 / A Comparison Between Men and Women
fem inism is an em ancipatory and constructive one that dem ands the
replacem ent o f the existing gender dynam ics w ith a m ore equitable
relationship of m utual respect and affection in the dom estic and the
public/social spheres.
This extract is concerned w ith the m iserable condition of widows.
Tarabai asserts that this is their plight because o f the hypocritical
moral guardians of society who fram e one set of rules for them selves
and another for w om en. It is this im balance that leads to social ills,
and not the innate w ickedness of wom en.
w hat a tim e they'd give you. You w ou ld n 't even find a place to
hide near the stove. In the old days of the M aratha kingdom ,
there really w ere heroes of the sw ord, those m en w ho rocked
the ancient throne of D elhi. But now since English rule cam e
all your w ond erful pow ers have gone, all your pleasures are
ruined. Like the old saying— 'N o on e's going to praise m e, so
I'll have to do it m yself!— so call yourselves heroes then, but
only at pushing pens! W ho takes any notice of you? Better still,
with the way things are, it should be heroes at stuffing yourselves
w ith food, that's the nam e that really suits you!
If you're so good pushing pens, so clever, pious, charitable,
com passionate, if y ou 're a real b attislak sh an i 6 graced w ith all
the virtues, how com e you've got no love in you for your fellow
creatures. Isn 't there even a crum b of love in you? O r perhaps
you 'v e given it all out on loan— to the tigers in the jungle?
A ccording to you, our own lives ought to give us a way
of u nd erstanding the lives of others. W hat's happened to your
lives here then? Isn 't a w om an's life as dear to her as yours is
to you? It's as if w om en are m eant to be m ade of som ething
different from m en altogether, m ade of the dust from earth or
rock or rusted iron, w hereas you and your lives are m ade from
the purest gold. To you, w om an is just som e utterly trivial form
of life, like a louse or a flea— and your ow n experience tells
you that this is all very fine and good. Y ou 're asking me what
I m ean? I m ean once a w om an 's husband has died, not even a
dog w ould sw allow w hat sh e's got to. W h at's in store for her?
The barber com es to shave all the curls and h air off her head,
ju st to cool your eyes. All her ornam ents are taken aw ay. All
her beauty vanishes. S h e's stripped and exposed in all sorts of
w ays as if she belonged to no one, she becom es the w idow -pot
hidden in the co rn er .7 S h e's shut out from going to w eddings,
receptions and other auspicious occasions that m arried women
go to. And why all these restrictions? Because her husband
has died. Sh e's unlucky: ill-fate is w ritten on her forehead. Her
face is not to be seen, it's a bad om en. Sh e's a sign now for all
these things. Oh, but her h u sban d 's died! All right, w ho says
he h asn 't? But w as it she w ho killed him ? Did she m ake som e
private prayer to God, 'God take this husband from me quickly?'
In fact, she m ight very w ell have felt like asking God to take
pity on her, praying, 'Take this husband quickly, Oh God, release
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 137
me from this tortu re'. But then, sh e'd have stopped h erself out
of fear of the u nhappiness sh e'd su ffer after his lordship had
gone. W h o's to say? N o— w h o'd think such a thought? It's like
the old saying: 'N arayan did the deed, but it's Keshav does the
p en an ce !'8 The h u sban d 's life is at an end, all finished. His
good and bad poin ts have all been added up and h e's gone.
But w hy should his w ife take the blam e for it? A ll right then,
le t's say that she should. But if sh e's su pposed to give up
everything after her h u sban d 's gone, and sit lam enting, 'H ari,
H ari, god. O h god ', why sh ou ld n 't the m an do the sam e ? W hy
should he go off and m arry another w om an and settle down
happily w ith her? Did the authors of the shastras keep their
savage glares ju st for w om en? M aybe there w as som e w om an
once upon a tim e w ho w ent and set fire to their houses or
som ething. So ju st because of this one w om an, they w ent and
invented a law and applied it to all w om en.
It would have been all right if a similar law had been imposed
on all men at the same time. But would we ever get them to do that?
They really used their heads, those authors of the shastras, when
they m ade all this up. All very com fortable for them . Absolutely
excellent! But what if they laid it down today that 'N o m an can
rem arry after his first w ife has died. If he does, it's like h e's
com m itted incest with his m other and should be throw n out of
caste?' And then the next day one of these chaps' ow n wives
suddenly fell down dead. People would say even of him, 'H e's got
bad luck w ritten on his forehead— we don't want to see his face'.
It would be him w ho w ould be shut out as a guest at m arriages
and be thrown out of the village into a math.9 So isn 't it quite
obvious that these men were ju st thinking of their own com forts
when they gave men perm ission to m arry any num ber of wives?
Then their fortunes flourished! If one wife died or the poor thing
got ill, then our chap ju st m oves straight on to another. And if he
happens to be a rich man as w ell, that's one more stroke of good
luck on top of all the others. It means he enjoys two sorts of power:
one comes from his money, and the other just because he's a man.
There's nothing to hold him back!
You even get shrivelled-up old sinners of eighty years or
more, and there'll still be som e oily-faced hanger-on w ho'll tell
him , 'W hat nonsense, sir, who says you're old? If anyone dares
say so, I'll push their teeth in'. 'But look,' the old man says, 'W hat
about m y hair? D oesn't that spoil it ?' 'N o, no— you just take a bit
138 / A Comparison Between Men and Women
of this cream , sir, rub it on, and tom orrow it'll look fine, nothing
to it!' 'W ell, that's good, that's my hair fixed then. But my teeth—
there's not a trace of one left in m y head. A nything we could do
about that, do you think?' 'No problem, my dear sir. Tomorrow I'll
go along to a doctor I know who deals in teeth and I'll get you a
brand new set, a full thirty-tw o. And next time you're washing
your face, you just pull out any old bits of teeth still left and you'll
be all ready, nothing to it. Even lads of twenty-five w on't dare set
themselves up alongside you. No, no, sir— these may be old bones,
but does pepper ever fetch less than millet, even when it's a bit old
and rotten ? ' 10 So it's all arranged and the old chap puffs up with
pride, preening him self at the very thought. His few strands of
hair on his bald head, his eyebrows and m oustaches are all white,
like bits of cotton wool, but he has his three rupee box of ointment
brought to him and he rubs it in as instructed three times a day.
Then he starts dressing him self up. He folds his dhoti and ties it
up very tight. Then there's the turban with a gold border. And a
shiny new jacket, which has to be forced on over his old bones. He
finishes it off with a scarf over his shoulders and pops the borrowed
set of teeth in his toothless mouth. Then he crushes up some betel
for himself, to make his false teeth look good and red. Red sandals
on his feet, and an im ported w alking stick in his hand in case he
gets the shakes walking along. As for his diet, it's alm ond cakes,
fried sweets, gourd sw eets in syrup, ten times a day to fatten
him self up. He inspects his ugly old face w ith its cheeks sunk in
a hundred tim es in the m irror and struts about asking everyone,
'W ell, hello there! How do you think I'm looking these days—
pretty well, eh?' And then some m ischief-m aker will come along,
and say, 'Tut, tut, sir, w hat's this about you being old? You don't
look a day older than our Ganapati. You should find a wife! We
don't have m uch fun at hom e these days ourselves, so how on
earth do you manage? There's a saying, you know, "Money troubles
and you need relatives, but if it's diarrhoea a w ife's b est !" '11
W hat next, then? The old man spends every m inute of his
tim e looking out for a w om an, it's all h e's got eyes for. Then it's
done. The old corpse pays out a couple of thousand rupees and
gets a pretty doe-eyed girl for himself, just like you buy a goat from
the butcher and tie it up as bait to catch a tiger. Then out he goes
one day and falls down dead, and it's all over. His worldly life is
all finished and it's her again w ho's left to suffer. Right or not?
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 139
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The Cabuliwallah and Shah Jahan
Rabindranath Tagore
Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941) w as born in C alcutta, into a
w ealthy and cultured Brahm in family. His father D evendranath, was
one of the leaders of the Brahm o Samaj. The p oet's early life was
spent in an atm osphere of religion, art, philosophy and literature,
m usic and painting. A fter a brief stay in England in 1878, to study
law , he returned to India, and instead pursued a career as a w riter,
playw right, songw riter, poet, philosopher and educator. He w rote
prim arily in Bengali but has been widely translated into m any Indian
and foreign languages. In 1901 he founded his school, the Shantiniketan,
at Bolpur and its great success led to the creation of Visw abharati,
dedicated to a confluence of emerging W estern and Indian philosophy
and education. The institution becam e a university in 1921.
Tagore w as recognized as a great p atrio t and w as involved
with the Freedom M ovement, despite his misgiving about the dangers
of N ationalism , about which he w rote extensively. He is perhaps
best know n for G itan jali— the collection of poem s that enthralled
the W est and led to his being aw arded the Nobel Prize for Literature
in 1913. H e w as also knighted in 1915, an honour he renounced
after the 1919 Jallianw ala Bagh m assacre.
Tagore w rote over one thousand poem s; eight volum es of short
stories; alm ost tw o dozen plays and playlets; eight novels; and m any
books and essays on philosophy, religion, education and other social
topics. His other great love was music, in the Bengali style. He composed
both the m usic and the lyrics of m ore than tw o thousand songs.
Two of them becam e the national anthem s of India and Bangladesh.
A few of his prom inent w orks are Sonar Tari (Golden Boat, 1894),
C hokher B ali (M ote in the Eye, 1903), N au kadu bi (The W reck, 1905),
G ora (1907) and G hare-B aire (H om e and the W orld, 1916).
'T h e C ab u liw allah ' highlights T agore's hum anist belief in the
universality of em otional responses and desires, as well as his dislike
of the barriers of suspicion that exist in society based of difference
of religion or geography. The poignancy of the C abuliw allah's plight,
his yearning to see his d augh ter and be recognized by her, gives a
hum an face to T agore's com plex political and personal beliefs, and
the point is m ade in sim ple yet lyrical lan gu age that touches an
em otional chord.
The story is from A Tagore Reader, edited by Amiya Chakravarty, New York:
Macmillan, 1961. pp 46-53. The poem is from Selected Poems: Rabindranath
Tagore, translated by William Radice. Middlesex: Penguin Books, 1985,
pp 78-81
146 / The Cabuliwallah and Shah Jahan
The poem 'Shah Jah an ' is considered the most lyrical description
of the Taj M ahal, but it is m uch m ore than that. W hile it celebrates
beauty and love, it is also a realization that man's fight against mortality
and erasure, w hether through A rchitecture or Literature, is a losing
one. The only rem anent, if any, is the innate emotional response which
transcends the barriers of time and space.
two or three children like herself. M eanw hile, the pedlar entered
m y doorw ay and greeted me w ith a sm ilin g face.
So precarious w as the position of m y hero and my heroine
that my first im pulse was to stop and buy som ething, especially
since M ini had called to the man. I m ade som e sm all purchases,
and a conversation began about A bdurrahm an, the Russians,
the English, and the Frontier Policy.
As he w as about to leave, he asked: 'A nd w here is the
little girl, sir?'
I, thinking that M ini m ust get rid of her false fear, had
h er b ro u g h t o u t. S h e sto o d b y m y c h a ir , w a tc h in g the
C abu liw allah and his bag. H e offered her nuts and raisins but
she w ould not be tem pted, and only clung closer to m e, w ith
all her doubts increased. This w as their first m eeting.
One morning, however, not many days later, as I was leaving
the house I w as startled to find M ini seated on a bench near
the door, laughing and talking w ith the great C abuliw allah at
her feet. In all h er life, it appeared, my sm all daughter had
never found so patient a listener, except for her father. A lready
the corner of her little sari was stuffed w ith alm onds and raisins,
gifts from her visitor. 'W hy did you give her those?' I said,
and taking out an eight-anna piece, handed it to him . The m an
accepted the m oney without delay, and slipped it into his pocket.
A las, on m y return an hour later, I found the unfortunate
coin had m ade twice its own w orth of trouble! The Cabuliw allah
had given it to M ini, and her m other seeing the bright round
object, had pounced on the child w ith: 'W h ere did you get that
eight-anna p iece?'
'T he C abu liw allah gave it to m e,' said M ini cheerfully.
'T he C abu liw allah gave it to you !' cried her m other m uch
shocked. 'O M ini! how could you take it from him ?'
E n terin g at this m om ent, I saved her from im pending
d isaster, and proceeded to m ake m y ow n inquiries. I found
that it w as not the first or the second tim e the tw o had met.
The C abu liw allah had overcom e the ch ild 's first terror by a
ju d icio u s bribery of nuts and alm onds, and the tw o w ere now
great friends.
They had m any quaint jok es w hich afforded them a great
deal of am usem ent. Seated in front of him , and looking w ith
all her tiny d ignity on his gigantic fram e, M ini w ould ripple
148 / The Cabuliwallah and Shah Jahan
dow n tow ard the plains. I could see— but at this point M ini's
m other would intervene, im ploring me to 'bew are of that m an.'
Unfortunately M ini's mother is a very timid lady. W henever
she hears a noise in the street or sees people com ing toward the
h ouse, she alw ays ju m p s to the conclu sion that they are either
th ie v e s, d ru n k a rd s, sn a k e s, tig e rs, m a la ria , c o ck ro a ch e s ,
caterp illars, or an English sailor. Even after all these years of
experience, she is not able to overcom e her terror. Thus she
w as full of doubts about the C abu liw allah , and used to beg
m e to keep a w atchful eye on him .
I tried to gently laugh her fear aw ay, but then she w ould
turn on m e seriou sly and ask solem n questions.
W ere ch ild ren never kidnapped?
W as it, then, not true that there w as slavery in Cabul?
W as it so very absurd that this big man should be able to
carry off a tiny child?
I told h er th at, though n ot im p o ssib le, it w as h igh ly
im probable. But this w as not enough, and her dread persisted.
As her su spicion w as unfounded, how ever, it did not seem
right to forbid the m an to com e to the house, and his fam iliarity
w ent unchecked.
O nce a y ea r, in the m id d le of Ja n u a ry , R ah m u n the
C abu liw allah w as in the habit of returning to his cou ntry, and
as the tim e approached he w ould be very busy going from
house to house collecting his debts. This year, however, he always
found tim e to com e and see M ini. It w ould have seem ed to an
outsider that there w as som e conspiracy between them, for when
he could not com e in the m orning, he w ould appear in the
evening.
Even to me it was a little startling now and then, to suddenly
surprise this tall, loose-garm ented m an o f bags in the corner
of a dark room ; but w hen M ini w ould run in, sm iling, w ith
her 'O C abuliw allah! C abu liw allah !' and the tw o friends so
far apart in age w ould subside into their old laughter and their
old jokes, I felt reassured.
One m orning, a few days before he had m ade up his mind
to go, I w as correcting m y proof sheets in my study. It was
chilly w eather. Through the window the rays of the sun touched
my feet, and the slight w arm th was very w elcom e. It w as alm ost
eight o'clock , and the early ped estrians w ere retu rning hom e
150 / Indian Literature: An Introduction
Shah Jahan
You knew , Em peror of India, Shah-Jahan,
That life, youth, w ealth, renow n
A ll float aw ay dow n the stream of time.
Y our only dream
5 W as to preserve forever your h eart's pain.
The harsh thunder of im perial pow er
W ould fade into sleep
Like a su n set's crim son splendour,
But it w as your hope
10 That at least a single, eternally-heaved sigh w ould stay
To grieve the sky.
Though em erald s, rubies, pearls are all
But as the glitter of a rainbow tricking out em pty air
And m ust pass away,
15 Y et still one solitary tear
W ould hang on the cheek of time
In the form
O f this w hite and gleam ing Taj M ahal.
O hum an heart,
20 You have no time
To look back at anyone again,
N o time.
You are driven by life's quick spate
O n and on from landing to landing,
25 L oading cargo here,
U nload ing there.
In your garden, the south w ind 's m urm urs
M ay enchant spring m adhabi1- c r e e p e r s
Into su d d enly fillin g your quivering lap w ith flow ers—
30 Their petals are scattered in the dust com e tw ilight
You have no tim e—
154 / The Cabuliwallah and Shah Jahan
Poet-Em peror,
60 This is your h ea rt's picture,
Y our new M eg h a d u ta 2,
Soaring w ith m arvellous, u nprecedented m elody and line
Tow ards the unseen plane
On w hich your loverless beloved
65 And the first glow of sunrise
And the last sigh of sunset
And the disem bodied beauty of m oonlit Came/F-flower
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 155
O f forgetfulness?
Tom bs rem ain forever w ith the dust of this earth:
105 It is death
That they carefu lly preserve in a casing of m em ory.
But w ho can hold life?
The stars claim it: they call it to the sky,
Invite it to new w orlds, to the light
110 O f new daw ns.
It breaks
The knot of m em ory and runs
Free along universal tracks.
Em peror, no earthly em pire could ever keep you:
115 N ot even the w hole
O cean-resounding n atural w orld could supply you.
And so
W hen your life's com m edia 4 w as com plete
You kicked this w orld aw ay
120 Like a used clay vessel.
You are greater than your fame: more and more of it is thrown
From your so u l's chariot
As it jou rn eys on:
Y our relics lie here, but you are gone.
125 The love that could not m ove or carry forward,
The love that blocked its ow n road
W ith its ow n grand throne
Could adhere to you no more than the dust of a road on your feet
For all its intim ate sw eetness—
And thus
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This short story is taken from The World o f Premchand: Selected Short Stories,
translated and with an introduction by David Rubin, New Delhi: Oxford University
Press, 2001. pp. 182-192.
172 / The Chess-Players
I'v e m ade an ace and tw elv e!' and elsew here a fierce chess
battle getting under way.
From king to beggar all w ere sw ept w ith the sam e antic
spirit, to the point w here w hen beggars w ere given m oney they
spent it not on bread but on opium or madak3. By playing chess,
cards or ganjifa4 the wits w ere sharpened, the process of thought
w as d eveloped , one becam e accustom ed to solving com plex
problem s — argum ents of this sort w ere presented w ith great
vehem ence. (The world is not free even today of people of this
persuasion!). So if M irza Sajjad Ali and M ir Raushan Ali spent
most of their time sharpening their wits, what reasonable person
could object? Both of them w ere m asters of hereditary estates
and had no w orry about their incom e, so they could lounge
around at hom e enjoying their idleness. A fter all, w hat else
was there to do? Early in the m orning, after b reakfast, they
w ould sit dow n, set out the board, arrange the chessm en, and
w arlike stratagem s w ould begin. From then on they w ere quite
u naw are of w hen it w as noon or afternoon or evening. Tim e
and time again word w ould be sent from the kitchen that dinner
w as ready and the answ er would com e back: G et on w ith it,
w e're com ing, set the table, it would reach the point w here the
cook, d esp erate, w ould serve their m eal right in their cham ber
and the tw o friends w ould go on w ith both activities, eating
and playing sim ultaneou sly.
In M irza Sajjad A li's household there w as no elder, so the
gam es took place in his draw ing room . But this is not to say
that the other people of M irza's household w ere happy w ith
these goings-on. And not only the m em bers of his household
but the neighbours and even the servants were constantly making
m aliciou s com m ents. 'T h e gam e's ill-om ened! It's destroying
the fam ily. H eaven forbid that anybody should becom e addicted
to it, h e'd be utterly u seless to God or m an, at hom e or in the
w orld! It's a d readful sickness, that's w h at.' Even M irza's w ife,
the Begam Sah iba, hated it so m uch that she sought every
possible occasion to scold him . But she hardly ever found the
chance, for the gam e would have begun before she woke and in
the evening M irzaji w ould be likely to appear in the bedroom
only after she had gone to sleep. But the servants o f course felt
the full force of her rage. 'H e's asked for paan, has he? W ell, tell
him to com e and get it himself! He hasn't got time for his dinner?
Then go and dum p it on his head, he can eat it or give it to the
174 / The Chess-Players
d ogs!' But to his face she could not say anything at all. She
was not so angry with him as with M ir Sahib, whom she referred
to as 'M ir the T rou blem aker.' P ossibly it w as M irzaji w ho laid
all the blam e on M ir in order to excuse him self.
O ne day the Begam Sahiba had a headache. She said to
the m aid, 'G o and call M irza Sahib and have him get som e
m edicine from the doctor. Be quick about it, ru n!' W hen the
m aid w ent to him M irzaji said, 'G et along w ith you, I'll com e
in a m om ent or tw o.' The Begam Sah iba's tem per flared at this.
W ho could put up w ith a husband playing chess w hile she
had a headache? H er face turned scarlet. She said to the m aid,
'G o and tell him that if he d oesn't go at once I'll go out to the
doctor m y self5.'M irzaji was immersed in a very interesting game,
in two m ore m oves he would checkm ate Mir Sahib. Irritated, he
said, 'S h e's not on her deathbed, is she? C an 't she be ju st a
little p atient?'
'C om e now ,' said M ir, 'go and see w hat she has to say.
W om en can be touchy, you know .'
'T o be su re,' said M irza, 'w hy sh ou ld n 't I go? Y ou 'll be
checkm ated in tw o m oves.'
'M y dear fellow , better not count on it. I've thought of a
m ove that w ill checkm ate you w ith all your pieces still on the
board. But go on now , listen to her, w hy m ake her feel hurt for
no reason at all?'
'I'll go only after I'v e checkm ated you.'
'T h en I w on 't play. D o go and hear her ou t.'
'I'll have to go to the d octor's, old man. It's not ju st a m ere
h eadache, it's an excuse to bother m e.'
'W h atever it is, you really m ust indulge h er.'
'V ery w ell, but let me m ake ju st one m ore m ove.'
'A b solu tely not, u ntil you 'v e gone to her I w on 't so m uch
as touch a piece.'
W hen M irza Sahib felt com pelled to go to his w ife the
Begam Sahiba w as frow ning, but she said w ith a m oan, 'Y ou
love your w retched chess so m uch that even if som ebody w ere
dying you w ou ld n 't think of leaving it! H eaven forbid there
should ever be another m an like you!'
Mirza said, 'W hat can I tell you? Mir Sahib sim ply w ouldn't
agree. I had a m ost difficult time of it putting him off so I could
com e.'
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 175
*
For som e unknow n reason Mir Sah ib's Begam considered it
m ost fitting for her husband to stay far aw ay from hom e. For
this reason she had never before criticized his chess-playing,
but on the contrary, if he w as late in going she rem inded him.
For these reasons Mir Sahib had been deluded into thinking
his w ife w as extrem ely serious and hum ble. But w hen they
began to set up the chess board in the draw ing room and Mir
Sahib was at hom e all day the Begam Sahiba was very distressed.
This w as a hindrance to her freedom , and all day long she
w ould yearn to be at the door looking out.
M eantime, the servants had begun to gossip. Form erly they
had lain around all day in idleness, if som eone cam e to the
house, if som eone left, it w as no business of theirs. Now they
w ere living in fear all tw enty-four hours of the day. O rders
w ould com e for paan, then for sw eets. A nd, like som e lover's
heart, the hookah had to be kept burning constantly. They would
go to the m istress and say, 'The m aster's chess gam es are giving
us a lot of trouble. W e're getting blisters on our feet from running
all day. W hat kind of a gam e is it that starts at daw n and goes
on till evening? D iversion for an hour or two, that's enough for
any gam e. O f course w e're not com plaining, w e're your slaves,
w hatever you com m and natu rally w e'll do it; but this gam e is
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 177
'H ow can I tell you w hat it's about?' said the officer. 'M aybe
sold iers are being levied for the arm y. It's no joke, being the
m aster of rent-free estates. W hen he has to go to the front lines
h e'll find out w hat it's all about'
'V ery w ell, go along, h e'll be inform ed .'
'It's not ju st a m atter of inform ing him . I'll com e back
tom orrow , I have orders to take him b ack w ith m e.'
The horsem an left. M ir Sahib w as shaking w ith terror. He
said to M irzaji, 'T ell m e, sir, w h at's going to happen now ?'
'It's a great m isfortune! W hat if I'm sum m oned too?'
'T he bastard said he w as com ing back tom orrow .'
'It's a calam ity, no doubt of it. If w e have to go to the front
w e'll die before our tim e.'
'N ow listen, th ere's one w ay out: w e w on 't m eet here at
the house any m ore. Starting tom orrow w e'll have our gam e in
som e deserted place out on the banks of the Gom ti. W ho could
find us there? W hen that fine fellow com es for me h e'll have to
go back w ithout u s.'
'B y A llah, that's a splendid idea! T h a t's certain ly the best
w ay.'
In the m eantim e, M ir Sah ib's Begam w as saying to that
cavalry officer, 'Y o u 'v e got them out of the w ay very n icely ,'
and he answ ered, 'I'm used to m aking such jackasses dance to
m y tune. Chess has robbed them of all their com m on sense and
courage. A fter this they w on't stay at hom e, w hatever happens.'
From the next day on the tw o friends w ould set out from the
house at the crack of daw n, carrying w ith them a rather sm all
carpet and a box of prepared paan, and go to the other side of
the G om ti river to an old ruined m osque w hich had probably
been built in the tim e of N aw ab A safuddaula 6. A long the w ay
they w ould pick up tobacco, a pipe and som e w ine, and spread
their carpet in the m osque, fill the hookah and sit dow n to play.
A fter that they had no care for this w orld or the next. A part
from 'ch eck ' and 'ch eck m ate,' not another w ord cam e out of
their mouths. No yogi could have been more profoundly plunged
in trance. At noon w hen they felt hungry they w ould go to
som e b ak er's shop and eat som ething, sm oke a pipeful, and
then return to engage once m ore in battle. At tim es they w ould
even forget all about eating.
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 179
resolved to w in, but one m ove after the other turned out to be so
ill-conceived that his gam e kept deteriorating. For his part, Mir
Sahib w as singing a gazal and snapping his fingers from sheer
high spirits, as though he had com e upon som e hidden treasure.
Listening to him , M irzaji w as furious, but praised him in order
to conceal his exasperation. But as his game worsened his patience
began to slip out of control until he reached the point of getting
angry at everything M ir said.
'D o n 't change your m ove, sir,' he w ould say. 'H ow can
you go back on a m ove? W hatever m ove is to be m ade, m ake it
ju st once. W hy is your hand on that piece? Leave it alone! Until
you figure out your m ove d on 't so m uch as touch your piece!
Y ou 're taking h alf-an -h ou r for every m ove, th at's against the
rules. A nyone w ho takes m ore than five m inutes for a m ove
m ay be understood to be checkm ated. You changed your m ove
again! Ju st be quiet and put that piece back there.'
M ir Sah ib's queen w as in danger. He said, 'B u t w hen did
I m ake m y m ove?'
'Y o u 'v e alread y m ade it. Put the piece right there, in that
sam e squ are.'
'W hy should I put it in that square? W hen did I take my
hand off the p iece?'
'If you w ait till doom sday to m ake your m ove, y o u 'll still
have to m ake it.'
'Y ou 're the one w h o's cheating! V ictory and defeat depend
on fate, you ca n 't w in by ch eatin g .'
'T h en it's settled, you 'v e lost this gam e.'
'H ow have I lost it?' '
'Then put the piece back in the sam e square w here it w as.'
'W hy should I put it there? I w o n 't!'
'W hy should you put it there? You have to put it there.'
The quarrel w as getting w orse. Each stuck to his position,
n eith er one w ould give an inch. Their w ords began to m ove to
irrelevan t m atters. M irza said, 'If anybody in your fam ily had
ever played chess then you m ight be fam iliar w ith the rules.
But they w ere ju st grass-cutters. So how can you be expected to
play chess? Real aristocracy is quite another thing. N obody
can becom e a noble ju st by having had som e rent-free estates
given to h im .'
'W hat! Y our ow n father m ust have cut grass! M y people
have been playin g ch ess for g en eration s.'
182 I The Chess-Players
'C om e off it, you spent your w hole life w orking as a cook
in G aziuddin H aid ar's' house and now you 're going around
posing as an aristocrat.'
'W hy are you d efam ing your ow n an cestors?' said Mir.
'T hey m ust, all have been cooks. M y people have alw ays dined
at the K in g's ow n table.'
'Y ou grass-cutter you! Stop your brag gin g.'
'Y ou check your tongue or y o u 'll be sorry! I w on 't stand
for talk like that. I put out the eyes of anybody w ho frow ns at
me. Do you have the courage?'
'So you w ant to find o u t how brave I am! C om e on then,
le t's have it out, w hatever the consequ en ces.'
Said M ir, 'A nd w ho do you think is going to let you push
them around !'
The two friends drew the sw ords from their belts. It w as a
chivalric age w hen everybody w ent around carrying sw ords,
daggers, poniards and the like. Both of them w ere sensualists
but not cow ards. They w ere politically debased, so w hy should
they die for king or kingdom ? But they did not lack personal
courage. They challenged one another formally, the swords flashed,
there w as a sound o f clanging. Both fell w ounded, and both
w rithed and expired on the spot. They had not shed a single
tear for their king but gave up their lives to p rotect a chess
queen.
D arkness w as com ing on. The chess gam e had been set
up. The tw o kings each on his throne sat there as though
lam enting the death of these two heroes.
Silence spread over all. The broken archw ays of the ruins,
the crum bling w alls and dusty m inarets looked dow n on the
corpses and m ourned.
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Raag Darbari
Shrilal Shukla
Shrilal Shukla (1925-) w as born in a village of the Lucknow
district. After his graduation from Allahabad University, he was selected
for the Indian A dm inistrative Service. A s a civil servant, he gained
invaluable insights into the vagaries of adm inistrative functioning
and the condition of the com m on people. His vast range of experiences
have contributed to the ironical stance that imbues his w ritings.A fter
retirement, Shukla is actively involved in literary and cultural activities.
Shrilal Shukla's early writings include Sooni Ghati ka Suraj (1957),
and A gyaatvas (1962). R a a g D a r b a r i (1968) firm ly established his
reputation as a w riter and won him the Sahitya Akadem i aw ard in
1969. His next important novel, Seemayen Tootti Haiti (1973) is completely
different in plot and characterization. This is the story of com plex
relationships in an urban m iddle-class family. The tragedy of this
fam ily becom es a symbol of the tragedy of society as a whole. P ahala
P adhav (1987) is a realistic p ortrayal of the lives of labourers. The
con tractors and engineers exploit these people w ho com e to the city
in search of a livelihood. Between these conflicting sides is the middle
class, caught up in its own concerns. Shukla's m essage is that only
by abandoning a self-centred lifestyle can one hope to change this
op pressive system . His latest novel R aag V iraag (2002) discusses
im portan t social issues like caste, class, co m m ercialism and the
degeneration of culture, through the love story of Sukanya and Shankar
Lai. This short novel is a reflection of con tem p orary society. Shukla
has also w ritten short stories, essays, satires and B abbar Singh aur
Uska Saathi, a novel for children.
In the long journey of the Hindi novel, from the view point of
literary appreciation, popularity and readability, R aag D arbari, com es
next only to G odaan (Prem chand, 1936) and M aila A anchal (Phanishwar
N ath R enu,1954). The Indian village is the site of the n arrative in all
three. In G odaan, the plight of the Indian farm er is depicted trough
the life of Hori and in M aila A nchal, the life in M eriganj, in the Purnea
district of Bihar, is portrayed in all its colourful variety, with its joys
and sorrow s. By the tim e R aag D arbari w as published, conditions
deteriorated further and all the hopes generated by the Five Y ear
Plans, shattered. The village panchayats and co-op eratives seemed
to have forgotten or abandoned all the goals with which they w ere
This excerpt is taken from Raag Durbari, translated from Hindi by Gillian
Wright, Delhi: Penguin Books, 1992. pp. 31-37.
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 195
set up and the m ood is one of extrem e disillusionm ent. R aag D arbari
depicts a p icture of debased Indian d em ocracy in a satirical tone.
The novel has been criticized for being 'region al' in scope, but this is
not strictly accu rate since Shivpalganj, the location of the story, is a
m etaphor for rural India and its story could be that of any small
tow n or village in the country.
The chosen extract vividly p ortrays this degeneration in every
aspect of life. If the health of a d em ocracy can be m easured by its
judicial and educational system, then Shivpalganj is in a critical condition.
The judiciary is in such a bad shape that one cannot get the cop y of
even an insignificant docum ent w ithout a bribe. Trials go on for
generations and decisions are indefinitely postponed. The education
system is also no less corrupt. The Principal of the only college in
Shivpalganj registers his presence at the cou rt of Vaidyaji and is
n ever found in college. R angnath represents the intellectual class
w ho while fully aw are of the nuances of the situation he observes, is
ineffectual and cannot take any significant action to redress it.
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'TRrfhT <Hifprq : HRq^ / 205
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MR#} / 209
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Touch-Me-Not1
Ismat Chughtai
Ism at C hughtai (1 9 1 1 -1 9 9 1 ) w as born in Badayun (U P) into a
w ell-to-do family and w as the ninth of ten siblings. She grew up in
A gra and Jodhpur. A t a time when young girls w ere not allowed to
study, she persuaded her parents to let her com plete her BA and
teacher's training. H er passionate com m itm ent to freedom — personal,
s e x u a l, e co n o m ic and in te lle c tu a l— can be tra ce d b ack to her
involvem ent with the Progressive W riters' M ovem ent that is credited
with the m aturing of the short story in U rdu in the 1930s and 1940s.
Ism at is believed to have said that the first w ord spoken by her was
'w hy' and this questioning spirit is visible in all her w riting. If there
is a religious belief that Ism at subscribed to, it is m nzhnb-e-insaniyat—
the religion of humanity. She is widely admired for her outspokenness,
her choice of bold themes and her sharp, crisp style that is conversational
and resonates with the colloquial U rdu spoken in Lucknow.
Ism at has an impressive oeuvre with eleven novels and novellas,
nine short stories and one play to her credit. H er first literary work
Z iddi (The Obstinate One) w as published in 1940. T ehri L akir (The
Crooked Line,1944), is a semi-autobiographical novel about the growth
and developm ent of a young w om an whose experiences resemble
her own. H er stories and novels are social com m entaries and she
explores the socio-cultural conflicts and the psycho-social determinants
th at g o v e rn the d e v e lo p m e n t of fem ale co n scio u s n e s s . In h er
ethnography of m iddle-class M uslim w om en's lives, Ism at portrays
the em otional barrenness of traditional households against which
her female protagonists rebel. M era D ost M era D ushm an (1955) [My
Friend, My Enem y, 2001], a selection of her non-fiction writing, essays,
com m entaries and pen portraits of well-know n contem poraries, is
an interesting reflection of the artistic, political and social m ores of
her time.
Ism at C hughtai's fiction is w om an-centred and her themes are
d raw n from m id d le-class life, w ith all its in trica cie s, d rab ness,
repressions and m om ents of hum our and brightness. She is a strong
advocate of the selfhood and self-definition of w om en and her w ork
combines a personal voice with an understanding of the socio-economic
boundaries that m ake w om en's lives w hat they are, in the India of
This story is taken from Lifting the Veil: Selected Writings o f Ismat Chughtai.
Selected and translated by M. Asaduddin. New Delhi: Penguin Books India,
2001. pp. 95-100.
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 213
'B y A llah, this girl has som e ch eek!' The shock w as too
m uch for Bi M ughlani, and she began to slap her face repeatedly.
The w om an stood m ute. The intensity of pain made her restless,
and she clutched at the bathroom door w ith both hands. H er
breath cam e in gasps and perspiration appeared on her forehead
like dew drops on cool ground.
'Is it your first pregnan cy?' Bi M ughlani asked angrily,
piqued by h er lack of experience. The w om an could not reply
as fits of pain sw ept over her. H er face turned pale and tears
trickled dow n her dilated eyes. Bi M ughlani kept up her litany
of lam ent as the w om an continued to w rithe in tearing pain.
'W h at do you think y ou 're doing, looking on like that?
No dear, look the other w ay; you're still a virgin m aid.' I turned
aw ay. But the heart-ren d in g cry of the w om an m ade m e turn
back involuntarily. Bi M ughlani w as incensed— 'A llah 's curse!
As though sh e'd achieve salvation if she sees a child being
b om !' Bhabijan, her face wrapped in her dupatta, kept on staring.
Bi Mughlani's burkha dropped to her nose and she badly smeared
the floor of the coach w ith her constant spitting.
A ll of a sudden it seem ed that the w orld shrank on its
axis and tw isted itself. So intense w as m y reaction that my
ears began to burn and tears w elled up au tom atically. 'T h is is
the en d ,' I thought. But the tension in the atm osphere m elted
abruptly. The burkha slipped from Bi M u ghlani's nose as a
lum p of red flesh dropped near B h abijan 's royal shoes, the
Salim sh ah is11.1 cried out in surprise and jo y and bent dow n to
look at the tiny w onder that broke all h ell loose by letting out
a full-throated yell.
Bi M ughlani raged on. B habijan clung to m y pallu as I
handed over a pair of n ail-cu tting scissors to the w om an. She
w as m y age, m aybe a few m onths older. I w as rem inded of
field anim als like sheep and goats who bring forth their offspring
as they graze along, w ithou t any fuss and not caring for the
help of lady doctors, and then tidy up by licking them w ith
their tongue.
Elderly people prevent young girls from watching a delivery
saying that w hen Z eb u n n isa12 saw her sister giving birth to a
baby, she w as so shocked that she never got m arried. So m uch
for old folks and their old w ives' tales! Z ebunnisa's sister m ust
have been as fragile as m y Bhabijan. If she had w itnessed this
w om an 's delivery, she w ould have been convinced like me,
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 217
The unborn child got cold feet and w ilted aw ay before its
entry into the w orld. M y flow er-like Bhabijan felt so unnerved
after w itn essin g the b izarre delivery in the train that she had a
m iscarriage once again.
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A Blind Man’s Vision of Fulfillment
Thakazhi Sivasankara Pillai
T h ak a zh i (1 9 1 4 - 1 9 9 9 ) is co n s id e re d one of th e fo re m o s t
M alayalam writers. He was born in village Takazhi, in Alleppey district,
K erala. Though a law yer by profession, he began w riting novels in
his thirties. He penned novels and short stories and also experim ented
with writing a play. He had a great deal of sym pathy for the depressed
classes and this is evident in his w ritings, which deal with the life of
the low er classes, or those aspiring for a better life but tied dow n by
circumstances and injustice in society. For his contribution to Malayalam
Literature, he w as honoured with the Jnanpith A w ard in 1984.
His works include Randi-dangazhi (Two Measures of Paddy) written
in 1948, T ottiyute M akan (Son of the Scavenger), 1948, and E n ippadikal
(The Steps of the L ad d er), 1964. H ow ever his tw o m ost fam ous
novels are K ayar (Coir) 1978, and C hem m een, for which he won the
Sahitya Akadem i aw ard in 1956. C hem m een w as also turned into an
aw ard-w inning m ovie that is considered a landm ark of M alayalam
cinem a. His autobiography E nte Vakkil jivatam (M y Life as a Pleader)
appeared in 1961.
T h ak azh i le a n t to w a rd s M a rx ism an d a c o n c e rn fo r the
underprivileged is m anifest in his stories and novels which present
an incisive view of the lives of people that are dispossessed and
oppressed, living a life of poverty and social deprivation. He explores
the hypocrisies prevalent in society and is considered a realist w riter
but realism for Thakazi is only a means to an end— the end being to
document the conflict of the individual and society in his own distinctive
m anner, in sim ple and effective language.
Thakazhi's writings combine a deep personal vision of the human
condition— w here love, hope and virtue survive despite the squalor
and desperation of a harsh life. The fight against corruption can be
either em otional, spiritual or m aterial. In this story, one of his m ost
famous works, he depicts the simple faith and acceptance that triumphs
over the most degrading situation. Tradition and religion are interpreted
in a unique and personal way to uphold the dignity of life and character;
goodness and virtue survive in unlikely setting in this touching story.
She decided otherw ise about the nam e. She gave him the
nam e Ram a. He asked her, 'W hy d id n 't you give him the nam e
G opala R am anan.'
She rep lied, 'T h at nam e for a child destined to beg?'
'D o n 't talk like that, w om an. The planets show som ething
different. He has the fortune to be a K esari— a leader of people.'
N or did she learn or sing that lullaby he suggested to her.
The child w ould w riggle in his lap and cry loud. In great
fright he w ould call for Bhargavi. G rinding her teeth, she would
scream. 'D oes not this creature know anything else but to how l?'
Then Bhargavi w ould slap the child. Pappu N ayar w ould
shudder w ith fright. W hen she w ent out in the m orning, she
w ould return only in the evening. H e w ould grow restless and
rem ain m uttering to him self that there w as not even a drop of
w ater to w et the ch ild 's throat.
To see the w ay this love took possession of him w ould
break o n e's heart.
'M y son is going to be very fortunate. O n the right side of
his chest ju st below the nipple is a clear birthm ark. Like the
lotus flow er. It is a sign of G o d 's blessing on h im .'
He w ould ask the w om an from the neighbou ring house,
'D oes he resem ble m e?'
That w om an on hearin g this w as on the verge of tears. In
the total darkness w hich enveloped him he w as able to see a
b irthm ark! He w ent on thinking that the child w as the exact
im age of him self. O ne day a w om an asked him , 'C an you see
w ith your eyes?'
He rep lied, 'I can see m y son.' A nd he appeared to be
seeing him .
W hen he w as kissing the child he w ould say, 'Y ou rascal!
you and your laugh.' It seem ed from what he said that he could
see the child laughing, though soundlessly.
The w om en in the neighbourhood w ere m ade to say, 'It is
terrible. C an w e anyw here find one w orse than she? She has
m ade him believe that. But has that child any resem blance to
him ?'
The occasion for giving the child the first rice m eal had
arrived. Pappu N ayar w as of the opinion that he should carry
out that act h im self. But B hargavi w ould not perm it it. She
told her m other that he had an ungovernable appetite. 'T h at
230 / A Blind Man’s Vision of Fulfillment
seem s true. In that case, we m ust get som eone else to give the
cerem onial feed. The child cannot be allow ed to have a large
stom ach.'
'B u t how can I find out that I eat such a lot of rice?' He
said this and lau ghed at his ow n jo k e in good hum ou red
am usem ent.
The child grew up. The plight of the family was deplorable.
On the charge that she had stolen som ething, her w ork at the
Brahm in household w as term inated.
'D o n 't starve that child. G ive him the one rice m eal I get
everyd ay.'
The fam ine-stricken m onth of K arkadakam , notorious for
its scarcity everywhere, came. They could not have even a kunjee3
m eal in the house for three days. The first day they m anaged
by boiling and eating bean leaves. The second day they tided
over with some rice bran. On the third day Kesavar Nayar living
on the w estern side of their own house gave Bhargavi two and
h alf chackram s. W ith that she bought som e rice and m ade rice
gruel. Bhargavi, her m other and the son drank that, while Pappu
N ayar sat on the verandah listening to the Ram ayanam read
to him by R aghavan a boy from the neighbourhood. He did
not even hear the noise of w hat w as happening in the kitchen.
In a light-hearted spirit he w as reciting to him self verses
from K uchela V ritha4. Because of the frightful, gnaw ing hunger
in his en trails, he could not sleep even after m idnight. The
neighbours heard him con tin uing to recite the verses beating
the rhythm w ith his hands. Bhargavi was furious and shouted,
'W hat a terrible curse in this?'
'T h is is the story of Bhagavan. D on't you know that?' I
am singing it in his p raise.' Then instead of singing K uchela
V ritha, he started repeating the nam e of God and offering it as
up as p ra y e r-b u t this tim e silently.
Bhargavi becam e pregnant again. Pappu Nayar kept telling
her that this tim e it w as going to be a girl.
The eld er child started talking a little. He w ould call his
m o th er A m m a and ev en h is g ra n d m o th er he w o u ld ca ll
Ammoomma. But the root sounds of Achan— father— never came
to his tongue. 'You silly fellow , w hy can 't you say A ch an'. He
told him self that it was probably difficu lt to form the w ord on
his tongue.
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 231
N ayar. Ram an was charged for som e petty thefts in the village.
N ayar asked him , 'You fellow, is it a proper thing to have done?'
'Y ou d on 't have to w orry about that. I w ill see about it.'
That w as his reply.
After all he was a young boy. Pappu Nayar consoled himself
that, as he grew older, he w ould give up his bad w ays.
Bhargavi becam e pregnant again. Pappu Nayar was a little
surprised at this. He asked, 'B h argavi, w hat is this I h ear?'
She did not reply. At about this time Bhargavi sent Raman
aw ay to w ork as a servant in som e p erson 's house. N ayar
com plained about this to K uttiyam m a from the neighbouring
house. 'Is it right to have sent him like that? H asn 't he got to
learn to read and w rite?'
'T h at is true, 'K u ttiy am m a said and ab ru p tly stopped
w ithout com pleting w hat she w anted to say. She had been an
eyew itness to the bad life Bhargavi led. She knew that Bhargavi
had done m uch harm to that m an and that had pained her a
lot. W hile Bhargavi had her meals of rice and curry, he remained
in stark hunger. She had shed tears over w hat w as happening
in that house. Now she had, besides, com e with a m essage from
his mother. The sad story of his miserable life was widely known
and m uch talked about in the village. But out of pity for him
nobody dared discuss such things w ith him . People feared
that he w ould not be able to endure the dreadful happenings
in his ow n life, if their true nature w ere revealed to him.
At the same time the people were astounded at the affection
he had for his wife. That love was beyond all comparison. People
had nothing but adm iration for this unshakeable optim ism of
the blind m an. The w orld paid hom age to his sincere sacrifice
and devotion. H e never spoke even an angry or harsh w ord to
her. So how could such a m an be made to face the harsh reality—
the bitter truth?
K uttiyam m a h erself could not com e out w ith the truth.
Pappu N ayar w as saying, 'M y son is clever. He is w orking
now for a big governm ent officer. So it w ill be possible for
him to learn to read and w rite, w hile being there.'
Suddenly Kuttiyam m a blurted out, 'Pappu Nayar, that boy
is not your son.'
'N o, he is the child of God. D o n 't you know the w hole
w orld is the illusory plaything in the hands of G od.'
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 235
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■qRak ^TlfSOT : / 243
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This poem is taken from Amrita Pritam: Selected Poems, Delhi: Bharatiya Jnanpith
Publications, Delhi, 1982, pages 93-95.
246 / To Waris Shah
am ong the people of the Punjab. H eer R anjha is a love story and an
allegory of the living culture of eighteenth cen tu ry Punjab, which
the poet recalls with nostalgia and longing. The partition of India in
1947 had a great im pact on Indian literature, especially w riting in
Hindi, Urdu and Punjabi. The transfer of populations and the carnage
of the com m unal riots challenged the w riters of the time to take up
their pens and stem the tide of hatred and bloodshed by advocating
hum anity, peace and brotherhood. 'To W aris Shah' is an expression
of the p oet's h orror and sense of sham e and indignity at the brutal
w ays of men. In this poem she expresses her agony at the condition
of the bleeding and ravaged land. The historical analogue that is invoked
from the outset, adds to the sense of poignancy and pain. Am rita
P ritam 's appeal is to both poetry and history and she sum m ons to
her aid the greatest m edieval love poet of Punjab.
W aris Shah !
O pen your grave;
W rite a new page
In the book of love.
M t aft,
^ TJcfT eT^t W H fcrat.
3TR eTl#' ^ fe q f Tt TFt t
WTfeT W ! c p 3 ^FF TFt I :
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sftT <fFT' ^F T cW 3TT XT^^T!
250 / W
sftr fV>ai«< ^T
# e fl !
her hands from her legs. But w hen she w ent round faster and
faster, she looked like a rapidly spinning w heel.
In the beginning, the spectators w hispered appreciatively
to each other, 'S ee how w ell she does this!' Then, they said,
'Look! She has let go of her hand!' But w hen she started gyrating
at top speed, they held their breaths in fear and w ished in
their heart of hearts that she w ould com e dow n unharm ed.
H er brother stood on one side, banging on a sm all drum , w hile
her father sat on the other side beatin g a big one. H er m other
sat next to him , in ten tly w atching her d aughter. W hen the
spinning had gone on for som e tim e, the Gow da told the leader
o f the D om baras that it w as enough, and suggested that the
perform ance could end. The m an said, Tt is alm ost over, sw am i.'
The girl had gradually stopped spinning. She then stood on
the end of the bamboo, balancing on her left foot, did a namaskara
to the crow d and cam e slid ing dow n the su pporting rope on
the side. She covered h erself w ith a cloth and sat dow n beside
her m other.
I was a young boy at that time, but even I had wanted to go
on looking at her in that dress. W hat can one say about how the
older people felt? There w ere grow n-up boys in our teacher's
household and the G ow da's. They too cam e to our school. For
the next three days, their talk was only about the girl. It must
have been the same with the adults. But the traditionalists among
them w ere not in a position to indulge in such talk. We had a
couple of rasikas in the village. I think they too w ere silent out
of a fear of the others. Since there were no gossip-m ongers, these
people behaved sensibly, I suppose.
The acrobats stayed for a day m ore, and after they received
their gifts from the G ow da, left for the neigh bou rin g village.
That w as the end of the affair as far as the boys w ere concerned.
But from the point of view of the village, a problem w as left
behind.
O n the day the D om baras left our village, V enkatasham i
and som e others accom panied them. They returned after a short
w hile, but V enkatasham i said he w ould com e back later. He
did not com e hom e that day. The follow ing day, a m an from
the next village broug ht the new s that V enkatasham i w as w ith
the D om baras and had told som ebody, h alf jokin gly, that he
was going to m arry the girl. The new s reached our village. There
256 / Venkatashami’s Love Affair
'I d on't have strength to talk any m ore. Prom ise me, Appa
. . .' The boy pleaded.
'V ery w ell, an n aji.'
V enkatasham i paused for a m inute, then said, 'W e spent
three nights there.' I think those w ere his last words.
He w as buried at this spot accord ing to his w ishes. These
trees were planted by his parents. When I was young, I remember,
I used to be quite scared to pass this w ay. . .
That w as the end of m y frien d 's story. I w anted to know
w hat happened to the girl. R am asw am y did not know. 'D id n 't
you feel like find ing ou t?' I asked. 'If it w ere now , perhaps I
w ould have been curious. O r I w ould have found out at least
for the sake of a storyteller like you. W e w eren't bothered about
all those things at that tim e,' he replied.
Just then, an old v illager cam e to w here we w ere sitting.
'W hat brings you here, sw am i?' he asked Ram asw am y.
'T h is gentlem an is my friend. I told him V enkatasham i's
story ,' he said.
'H n,' the old man replied. 'But see what happened? Because
of him , an ou tsid er had to step into our b arb er's shoes and
take aw ay the incom e.'
'P oor fellow . He died young. If he had lived, there w as so
m uch happiness life could have given him ,' I said, adding, 'How
does it m atter, w ho does the job of a b arber?'
'A ll that is B angalore talk, sw am i,' the old m an retorted.
'W e villagers don't think like that. An outsider should not spread
his cloth to collect w hat is a hered itary entitlem ent. We cannot
even talk to him as w e can to our ow n barber, sw am i.'
My m ind was caught in a w hirl w ith V en katash am i's tale,
R am asw am y's ind ifference and the old m an 's fierce pride and
attachm ent to his village.
All three of us w alked away.
I have told you w hat I learnt from Ram asw am y. I do not
know w h eth er you con sid er it a story or not. T h in k in g of
V enkatasham i and the girl, I have experienced som e pleasure
and m uch pain. I do not know w hat your feelings are at the
end of this narration. I only hope that you have not been bored.
N ever m ind w hat you felt. Think of the love betw een the boy
and the girl, of their w alking together on this road, near the
tank, by the forest and on the grass beside the field. And of
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 263
the end of their love w ith the b oy 's death. I am sure you w ill be
m oved by the fate of the b arb er's boy and the girl he lost.
^f?T t l <4S4Fm 3 3H|'^lcr1'1 3 '5 ji 3 , C^HIil *IRT 3> 3RJ trly=f>l (R?
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w f a 'fflfSrM : TITSPT / 267
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268 / WJ
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W t a ■flTfesf : T3=F / 271
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272 / f e w # W?
This story is taken from Classic Telugu Short Stories, edited and translated by
Rango Rao, New Delhi: Penguin Books, 1995. pp. 63-73
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 275
(U n til recen t tim es, child m a rria ges w ere w idespread in the
T elu g u co u n try, as in m any other areas o f India. M o re often than not,
g irls w ere w idow ed early; a nd, especially a m o n g bra h m a n s, their
heads sh aven, a n d treated like dom estic slaves, they w ent through
utter m isery f o r the rest o f their lives, unlike in this story o f revolt —
R .R .)
Winter. In this town, somehow, it is colder. Covering herself
w ith m y shaw l, M angam m a is sleeping, probably in a cosy hug
w ith her husband. And here, I feel cold. C annot sleep. As for
covering m yself w ith som ething, there is nothing. These warm
em bers in the hearth keep me som ew hat from shivering. But the
floor has not dried y e t .. . . Som ew here, there are countries still
c o ld e r .. . it seem s. Father used to narrate the story of 'C indrella'
to m e. Exactly the sam e is m y plight now. But then 'C in d rella'
w as a child . . . H ow w onderful it used to be w hen father w as
alive! I did not know w hat hardship w as. If anyone looked
w orried I w ould be surprised. If father w ere to see me now like
this, sittin g all alone near this hearth, how he w ould w eep.
W ould he have ever im agined that I w ould becom e an orphan
like this? Putting m e in his lap, stroking m y head, fondling m y
cheeks, he w ould say, 'N o one is as beau tifu l as m y darling. I
shall get her a husband w ho w ill not allow her to step on the
g rou n d .' In those days, this gentlem an V enkata Rao and such
others w ould put m e in their laps, give m e packets of m ithai,
sw eetm eats, and the m om ent som e little song cam e out of m y
m outh, would be overw helm ed w ith pleasure. N ot yet ten years
since then. The very sam e V enkata Rao, talking w ith annayya
[elder brother] the other day, turned his face aw ay w hen he
saw me.
Look— the child has w oken up and is crying. W hy d oesn't
M angam m a get up? If it w ere I, w ould I have let her cry like
276 / Widow
that? The w hole day she fondles the child. N ot that she d oesn't
love the child. . . . There now , M angam m a has got up . . . has
beaten the child . . . the child is crying. How can they bring
themselves to beating children? Only last evening she was fondling
and kissing the baby so m uch! W ith the sam e m outh she is
heaping all those curses . . . If only I had a child, the w hole
night I would sw ing him in m y arms, and w ithout even blinking
my eyes once, would sing lullabies. Holding like this, the smooth,
soft, w arm little baby boy and putting m y breast in his m outh
and pressing him to me . . . how wonderful it would be! Especially
because m y breasts are so round, sm all and sm ooth. And how
pretty the little b o y 's rosy hands w ould b e ! . . . Now because of
the worry I am unable to sleep, then because of supreme happiness
I w ou ld n 't be able to sleep. . . . There! it m ust be the police
fellows, blowing on their whistles. Into this street they are coming.
These fellow s them selves organise burglaries, it seems. W hy do
they ju st keep blow ing on those w histles like that? To scare
aw ay burglars, perhaps. . . .
M angam m a has a ch ild — M angam m a w ho beats children,
w ho loathes children. That baby is still crying. W hy? D o esn 't
she feel like nursing the baby? That little groping m outh!. . .
That must be a cat! Oosh, get a w a y .. . . Why can't I have children?
If only he w ere alive, I w ould by now have had three or four
children. I w ould not have been a child less w om an. The very
thought of child ren stirs up the pit of m y stom ach like this!
W ou ld n 't I have had children? W hen even those w ho loathe
children have them! W hen that little one pulled h er hair the
other day, M angam m a said, 'W hy w ere you born, you w retch!'
A nother tim e she said, 'Y ou d id n 't die either, it w ould have
been good rid d an ce.' W ith such cute little hands, every hair of
m ine I w ould get pulled out to bleeding.
Isn 't it better than getting m y head shaved by that barber?
. . . They w ill rem ove m y crow n of hair, it seem s. Let it be done.
I w ill be rid of a nuisance. H ave it to please w hom ? G etting my
head shaved w ill be painful, perhaps. But then w hy d on 't the
m enfolk cry? W on 't be painful. And yet thinking of it fills me
w ith fear even now . And not ju st fear . . . W hile shaving my
head, the barber fellow m ight perhaps put his hand on my
neck! The other day he put his hand on annayya. W on 't I get
goose pim ples? D uring the w edding w hen He tied the sacred
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 277
2
No regret for w hat has happened. But 1 am a little scared, of
280 / Widow
on top of it, he says, getting aw ay, 'D o n 't fear.' W ith a sm irk,
stupid ly, he says, 'B ew are, that V enkatesw arulu has also cast
his eye on you. Even if you ju st look at him , I shall m urder both
him and you!' Just one night, ju st for a half-hour, because I had
surrendered to him , that fellow acquired that kind of authority
and freedom over me! C hee, this w retched life, life of a w om an!.
. . N ow I am really going to have a baby, all right! W ith that
tiny rosy fist, little little eyes closed, w ith that coral m outh,
groping for m ilk, m aking gurgling sounds. . . . Too much!
Som e tim e or other they w ill get to know . How long can I
conceal it like this? Even for the last m enses, I sat out and
pretended i t . . . Sister-in-law will beat me up. W hatever happens
the news should not go out of the house, annayya will say. Throw
her out, sister-in -law w ill say. N o, annayya w ill say. But a
scream ing sister-in -law is som ew hat preferable. K eeping it a
secret for m y sake? O stracized from the caste, w ithou t anyone
to call m y ow n, allow ing people to spit on m y face, isolated, a
fallen w om an— no one bothers about me of course. N or even
for my children— totally innocent, bom to an unfortunate woman
like m e— w ill annayya spare a thought. If in the neighbourhood
or in his office they say that his sister has done such a thing,
the loss of face is all that w ill w orry h im .. . . But then, w hen we
were children and he returned from school tired, I used to pour
my coffee also into his tum bler— all of it I w ould heat and give
him . W hen annayya broke the lustre chim ney of the lantern, I
ow ned up to the crim e, saying I had done it. A ll the beatings I
su ffered . That n ight, pu tting his hands over m y shou lders,
annayya had said, ‘C helli, younger sister, I shall never forget
this. I shall never strik e you .' H ow happy I felt that day! N ow
he d oesn 't u tter a single kind w ord . . .
As if all this w ere not enough, they assign m e to hell after
m y death. M aking m y body so beau tifu l, creatin g n atu rally a
burning desire in m y heart, m urdering the husband these people
had foisted on m e— as if all this w ere not enough, on top of it
all, God w ill send m e to hell! And for giving birth to a boy,
heaven for Mangamma! For child-beater M angamma! For having
m anaged a child for m yself, after desperate trouble, hell! W on't
I dem and an explanation from that God! For sister-in-law , who
has tied annayya to h erself, even keeping him from going to
w atch a play, w on 't there be hell? A ll lies. G od is not angry
w ith m e. O nly to scare m e have they said all this. A lready for
my little d arlin g 's cute little belly, m ilk is form ing. If God is
282 / Widow
really angry, w ill he, planning for the child to com e, prepare
baby fare for his teenyw eeny golden belly? A ll lies. If these
people d on 't know about it, w on 't God at least appreciate my
m isery, m y nature, m y thinking! Those that w ill w ant me for
m yself alone, those that will cajole me, placate me, saying, 'H ow
angry you are w ith m e,' and, holding m y chin, turn me towards
them — such people I should have around m e, I long so m uch to
have such people. W henever any m an looks at any w om an w ith
a loving gaze, I burn from top to toe! ME! W hat about m e? For
me too! cries every nerve in my body. W earing out m y body and
lim bs, labouring hard all m y life and serving those w ho d on 't
love m e, grow ing old and dying— w ho to please w ith all this?
Better, if I give my body even to a fellow who wants me for just
one night. Is it a sin? That m aking coffee for sister-in-law who
rolls in her tape-bed like a lazy lubber until nine in the m orning
will earn me merit in heaven, where, in which sastras, is it written?
Such desires, and there are so m any w idow s, do they all have
them ? N one of them m akes a fuss like m e, it appears. W hy?
They are all virtuous people, perhaps! O nly I suffer from this
evil thought, perhaps! No, from outside I too m ay look innocent,
I believe. From the outside, everyone is like that! In s id e .. . shall
I ask som eone confidentially? If I ask, chee, chee, they w ill say,
get out! W on't I m yself say it? That is the show. Even I, am I not
as virtuous a person as everyone else? Every day I perform the
jaipam [repeating G od 's nam e]. Do I eat betel leaves2 like that
Bu llem m a? D o I sleep on m a ttre sses? I m ake an o fferin g
ritu alistically to a brahm in every m onth. The other day I took
the holy water given by the respected swami. If only my husband
were here, w ouldn't I be a good woman myself? Then, forbidding
this act, not having children w ould be w rong, a lapse. The sight
of these wives, women with their husbands alive, who beginning
even before the age of tw elve and until the age of sixty cohabit
with husbands without a single day's break, why doesn't anyone
find all this unnatural? Does desire too die the m om ent that
fellow is dead? D oes it burn too on that fellow 's funeral pyre?.
. . If their m en w ere to even raise their eyes and look at another
w om an, that w ould be enough; these w om en w ould turn the
w hole house upside dow n, engaging in endless w ailing. W on't
allow another w om an even to step on the threshold; keep their
m en for their ow n use, d on 't they! And m e, w ho has never
really know n a m an, w on 't I feel the sam e way?
If they w ere to com e to know about m y present condition,
they w on 't keep quiet. But they w on 't allow me to go out of the
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 283
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The Journey
Indira Goswami
Dr. Indira Goswami (1942-) better known as M amoni Raisom
Goswami to Assam ese readers, has been a cham pion of the oppressed,
p a rticu la rly w o m en , th ro u g h o u t her c a re e r. B orn in 1942 in a
conservative Brahm an fam ily, Goswami has never stuck to the diktat
of social norm s— w hether in personal life or in the w ay she w rites.
Goswami researched the R am ayana for her Ph.D. from the Institute
of Oriental Philosophy in Vrindavan. She has written 18 novels and
over a 100 short stories. At present she is a Professor in the Department
of M odern Indian Languages and Literature, Delhi University.
M oved by the plight of w idow s, she w rote her first novel,
Chenabar Shrota (The Course of the Chenab) in 1972, and then Nilakanthi
Braja (Blue Throated Braj) in 1976, in which a w idow confronts the
atrocities society heaps upon her. In D ontal H atir Une K how da H ow da,
(The Moth Eaten H ow dah of a Tusker), 1986, the protagonist once
again is a y ou n g B rah m in w idow w ho e x p o se s the co rru p tio n
surrounding her. Tej nru D hulire D hurarita Prshtha. (Pages Splattered
with Blood and Grime) deals with the 1984 anti-Sikh riots. Goswami
displays great em pathy and com passion in her w ritings, be it the
tough social issues of urban life, the harsh lives of labourers, or the
plight of w idow s in V rindavan and A ssam . She w on the Sahitya
Akademi A w ard in 1982 for her novel M am are Dhnrn Tarival (The
Rusted Sw ord, 1980). H er candid autobiography, A dhalekha D astaveja,
(Unfinished A utobiography), 1988, and its English translation, Life is
No Bargain, have w on critical acclaim in India. In 2001, Goswami
w as honoured with the Jnanpith A w ard.
C ontem porary A ssam ese literature grapples with the problem s
faced by com m on people, and the inequalities of opportunity in the
new social and econom ic environm ent. It show s a concern with the
problems of the middle class, peasants and labourers, and the problem
of m ilitancy in the area. This story, like m any others w ritten by
Gosw am i, is set in Kam rup, Assam , and deals with the problem of
m ilitancy and violence that has plagued this region for m any decades.
M ilitancy form s the backdrop for the hum an dram a and the conflict
of a tense present against an idealized, perfect past. The old m an's
yearning for bygone days, and his w ife's sharp contradictions of his
'm em ories' highlight this. His soulful rendering of a female Vaishnava
poetess' com position contrasted with the harsh treatm ent meted out
to his daughter brings into focus the decay of his surroundings, and
times. The m oral, ethical and social upheavals brought about by the
situation are presented deftly, w ith a realistic and poignant touch.
M irajkar said, 'M aybe we can 't see firearm s, but didn 't the
officer of the forest departm ent at K aziranga, Mr. A hm ed, say
that the poachers w ere carrying foreign arm s— 303s, 500 double
b arrels and 470 U S carbines; that som e sm ugglers had been
caught at M ori D iphu; that two poachers w ere shot dead?'
M irajkar had m ade a serious study of firearm s and now started
telling us stories about the First W orld W ar. R am akanta, the
driver, also becam e eloquent with various tales of poachers from
the bord ering areas. He w as a m iddle-aged m an w ith a N epali
cap to protect his bald ing head from the sun. He was sturdy
and short w ith a neck that disappeared into his shirt collar. He
had sm all eyes, like the other B od os3 of the valley, and a thin
m oustache. He w as a good driver; he rarely used the brake or
the clutch.
But m y mind was elsewhere and I did not pay any attention
to the talk of guns and terrorists. I w as w atching the forest flit
past outside the car window. I saw the grand veloe trees draped
in m oss that grew like hair on the legs of long-tailed m onkeys.
There were many different trees, some with wild creepers twining
them selves around trunks of m uga silk. Som e trees looked like
m ajestic ruins dressed in shim m ering gossam er. All around was
m onochrom atic green, ranging from the richly succulent to those
that reminded me of puthi, the tiny fish. Some leaves were round,
like the heavy silver coins w ith Q ueen V ictoria em blazoned on
them . And the birina trees w ere sm othered in w hite blossom s
that looked like clouds flirting w ith the earth.
M irajkar w as still staring out through the w indow . The
sound of gunfire here? No, im possible! Com pared to Delhi, this
was heaven! Delhi, ah, who can live there any more? The bountiful
Yam una of the Afghan and Turk Poets has turned into a stinking
sew er. Sadar Bazar, w ith its teem ing crow ds, is a battlefield.
G ently, alm ost invisibly, the su n 's rays turned m ild, as if
a huge python had shed its glistening skin and w as slipping
aw ay into the darkness.
. . . H rr, hrr, kut, kut, krrr! The car jerk ed to a h alt in front
of a thatched shop by the w ayside. Ram akanta jum ped out of
the car. He opened the bonnet and then cam e to tell us that the
radiator w as leaking and all the w ater in it had evaporated.
N othing else to do but take the car to a garage.
M irajkar and I got down from the car to w alk tow ards two
small dim ly-lit shops that sold tender coconuts and tea. Mirajkar
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 295
said, 'It'd have been terrible if the car had broken dow n in the
forest. Look how dark it is alread y .' I nodded in agreem ent,
w hile R am akanta paced up and dow n and in and out of the
sm all roadside shops m aking enquiries about a garage.
A ll of a sudden a scraw ny figure cam e out of a shop a
little further dow n the N ational H ighw ay. He held a kerosene
lam p in his hand and w ore a loose kurta and a dhoti that
stopped at his knee. I cou ld n't m ake out if he w ore slippers. He
cam e up to our car and stopped. He looked old and feeble.
R aisin g the lan tern he said , 'Y ou h ave a b reakd ow n ? The
w orkshop is seven m iles away. W ait, I'll stop a car for you. The
driver can go and fetch a m echanic, w hile you w ill sit in my
shop and have a cup of hot tea— m aybe som e betel-n u ts, too?'
He stood right in the middle of the road swinging his lantern,
his hairknot loose on his shoulders. In the flickering light, he
looked spectral.
M irajkar and I w alked into his shop. O ne hurricane lam p
hung from a bam boo pole. Its chim ney w as cracked and dirty.
U nder a w ooden bench we could see an old stove, som e rusted
tins. O n the m ud w all w as a calend ar w ith the picture of a
w hite w om an sm oking a cigarette.
W e sat on the bench. An old w om an em erged from the
room inside hold ing a lam p. She said, 'T he w hole of today
w ent by as if w e w ere fishing at sea. . . not a soul in sigh t.'
'N o cu stom ers?' I asked, surprised.
She said, 'T h ere are m any shops now on either side of the
road. They know how to attract customers. They even play music!'
She sidled up to me and w hispered. 'T hey sell evil stuff. But we
are B h aktas.4 Even that picture there. My husband and I had a
bitter quarrel w ith our child ren about it.'
She then took a kettle and shuffled out of the room to fetch
w ater for our tea. In the light of her lantern we could see her
torn blou se. She w as w earing a cotton m ekhala and an old
em broid ered ch ad d ar5 stained w ith b etel-ju ice. She cam e back
and lit the stove. Perhaps it had no kerosene and soon a pungent
sm ell filled the room.
I felt bad w hen I saw the old w om an arranging the glasses
and p o u rin g the tea and the m ilk w ith q u iv e rin g h an d s.
'G ran d m a,' I said , 'Is there no one to help you ?'
'M y daughter-in-law used to, m y elder son's wife. He died
during the floods last year, of some unknown disease. We couldn't
296 / The Journey
get any m edicine for him . The doctors have turned dacoits. She
w as pregnant w hen he died and now she has a son. Sh e's very
w eak . . . can 't even stand on her ow n feet!' 'Is there no one
else?'
'I have two sons and a daughter. They used to go to school.
O nce. Ah, things are d ifferent now. The girl fell in love w ith a
sold ier in the Indian arm y w hich had com e here to flush out
the terrorists. The local boys beat her up. S h e's lim ping back
to norm al health. The last seven years have been hell, daughter!
The treacherous river has eaten up our land. N ow there is no
rice to'. . .
The old man returned, still holding on to his lantern. Perhaps
he had been successful in stopping a car and sending the driver
to fetch a m echanic. He called out to his wife from w here he
stood. 'A i, m other of N irm ali, don't bore the guests with your
sad tales. They're tired. Get some tea'. . .
The old w om an got up abruptly on seeing him. She w ent
to him and w hispered , 'M anohar and som e others have seen
him near the railw ay tracks today.'
The old m an froze for a second. Then, 'Last time too, some
people said they'd seen him near the railw ay tracks. D on't listen
to such ru bbish!' he said. 'G o and get the tea for our custom ers.
T h ey're returning from K aziranga and m ust be very tired. Are
there som e b iscu its?'
'B iscu its? A ll the m oney w ent into buying sugar and tea
leaves last w eek.'
M irajkar and I cried out together, 'N o, no d on 't bother.
Even black tea w ill do.'
The old w om an m um bled to h erself as she prepared the
tea, 'G od alone know s how I run this shop. O ver the last seven
years, the river has sw allow ed up so m uch land. That Flood
R elief C om m ittee set up their office by the roadside . . . and
stopped the m ouths of us people w ith a m ere on e hundred
rupees.'
The old m an shouted, 'H old your tongue, you old w om an!'
She continued as if he had not spoken, 'T h is old m an feels
asham ed to touch the feet of those officials, w ho have gobbled
up the m oney sanctioned by the governm ent for flood relief.
Oh! W hat h asn 't happened to this fam ily in the last seven years
and this m an stru ts around, his head stuffed w ith past glories.
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 297
'C u stom ers? No on e's com e here for the last m any days,
though so m any cars w ent past.' grum bled his w ife. She turned
to the old m an and said, 'W h ile I give tea to the custom ers, go
to the railw ay tracks w ith the lam p for a look. God know s you
w on 't get up if you sit dow n to gossip and sin g .'
'I'v e heard this story before. Som e m onths back, d id n 't
we hear the sam e ru m our?' The old m an m um bled as he took
the tw o glasses from his w ife and handed them over to us
respectfully. Then he said in a relaxed tone, 'H ave your tea,
please. I'll sing n ow .' Suddenly a young girl entered the room ,
lim ping, she could w alk only w ith the help of a stick. She had
long silky hair. It w as unattended. Seeing her the old couple
shouted, 'W hy have you com e here, you b itch !' We could at
once guess that this w as the girl w ho had an affair w ith the
sold ier from the Indian arm y, w ho had com e to flush out the
m ilitants from this area.
The tea w as excellent. The old m an brought the dotara.
As he started tuning it, he said, 'D id you have a chance to see
tigers in K aziranga? People say there w ere only tw enty tigers
there in 1966. N ow there are about sixty. Rhinos have grow n
in number from three hundred to one thousand and five hundred.
There are som e five hundred elephants too.'
'W e saw some elephants,' I said. 'D o they come here, ever?'
'N ot these days, because of the traffic. Earlier, before the
floods, they w ould descend on our paddy fields and all of us
farm ers w ould w ork together to drive them away. But tigers
do com e. Do you know w hat happened ju st the other day?
D im uiguria M anam a's elephant w as tied to a tree beside a
roadside pond. The elephant is very gentle. W henever he's taken
for a bath in the D ipholu, he plays w ith the boys and girls
there. He w as lying by the pond that day w hen a tiger jum ped
on him and tore aw ay a w hole chunk of flesh from his back'.
'O h G od !' W e cried out in horror. 'A nd then?'
'E lephants are om niscient creatures. Did you know that
our Moamaria8 revolution where the Vaishnavites fought against
the A hom 9 kings started because of an elephant?'
'A n elephant?'
'Y es. A thin and tottering elephant. It happened, during
the tim e of K ing Lakshm inath Singha w ho cam e to the throne
only in his old age. He w as very friendly w ith his m inister,
Kirtinath Borbarua. Tw o friends. Now, am ong the Ahom kings,
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 299
Lakshm inath and Gaurinath Singha were the m ost ugly. Opium
eaters, they could barely keep their eyes open. Gaurinath fancied
a fisherw om an w ho lived on the banks of the D ipholu. His
palanquin w ould w ait and w ait outside her place w hile . . . '
'W h at about the elep h an t?' I asked.
'K irtin ath the Borbarua had a tussle w ith the M oam aria
m ah an tas10. There w as this law that said that the m ahantas
m ust m ake a present of elephants to the royal cou rt as tribute
every year. O nce these m ahantas gave an old, sick elephant to
Borbarua. A m ahanta w ent w ith this tottering elephant to the
Borbarua. W hen he saw the rickety old anim al the m inister
w as w ild w ith rage. He cut off the m ahanta lead er's ear.'
The old w om an interrupted him im patiently. 'Lopping off
ears indeed! Old m an, for G od 's sake, take the lamp and have a
look around. The boy m ight be lying som ew here, hit by m ilitary
bullets.'
The old m an continued as if she had not spoken. 'In this
m on th of A gh on , n in e tho u sand M oam aria so ld iers m ade
K irtinath a prisoner w hile he w as on his w ay to Rongpur. And
all because of a deform ed elephant, as I said !'
W e sat there sipping tea and listening to the old man.
Ram akanta dropped in for a w hile, had his tea and left. He
said, 'It'll take at least one and h alf hours to finish the work.
The m echanic has taken the radiator to the w orkshop.'
The old woman approached me. 'O nly a couple of customers
have com e today. D aughter, take one m ore glass of tea each.
T h ere's su gar and tea leaves.'
W e asked for two m ore cups of tea. M eanw hile the old
m an w as tightening the two strings of the dotara. 'I barely
m anaged to save this dotara from the flood. T h ere's no one in
this area w ho can m ake a dotara like this anym ore.'
The old w om an prodded him once more. 'I'll look after the
custom ers. Take the lam p. Go to the railw ay tracks. W ho knows
. . . w ho know s.'
The old m an explained , 'I'v e gone alm ost blind and this
w om an w ants m e to go in the dark looking for the boy. The
other day I fell down near the railway tracks when I went searching
for him and m y knees are still aching and bruised. My chest
hurts too . . . Listen d aughter, we w eren 't alw ays like this. It's
the floods. It's a pity that we have had to take sh elter by the
300 / The Journey
N irm ali/ the old m an called out. 'K eep what you charge for the
tea and return the rest.' Tu rning to M irajkar he said, 'W h y did
you give so m uch m oney, m y dear sir. M y songs are an echo of
the songs of the saints. It hurts m e it anyone pays me m oney for
it. N o one und erstand s m y feelings! N o on e!'
The old w om an w as staring at the m oney. She d id n 't touch
it. She d id n 't speak.
At that m om ent, w e heard a b ig bang from outside, as if a
bomb had exploded! W e felt as if we were being thrown violently
to the ground. From the shadow of a tree nearby someone emerged
and w alk ed slo w ly tow ard s the sh op to stan d b e fo re us.
E verything had happened in a fraction of a second and seeing
his face now m y throat w ent su d d en ly dry.
He w as a young boy. A cross his cheek ran a deep gash,
from eye to lip— m ade by a bullet or a sharp knife. There w as
blood and pus in it. The flesh under his lip looked as if it been
ripped open and we could see his teeth in the quavering light.
I went to the old woman and took her hand in mine, gripping
it tightly. W e w ere both shivering. The boy w as w earing black
jean s and a khaki jack et. And w hat w as that in his hand? A
revolver? Even in the smoky light of the kerosene lamp the barrel
shone. The old w om an burst into a h ysterical cry.
'O h m y K anbap, m y son! I told your father a thousand
tim es to bring you from the railw ay track. O h my son, what has
happened to you? W hy are you bleed in g like this?'
Suddenly the boy's eye fell on the girl. Sitting in the corner
and trem bling w ith fear. H e sped like a bu llet tow ards the girl
and grabbing her hair, rained blow s and kicks on her stom ach,
shouting: 'I w ill sm ash your w om b! I w ill kill the bastard child
of that sold ier you are carrying . . . M aking love w ith an Indian
soldier, d irty bitch! Phooh! P hooh!'
He kicked her viciously on the stom ach 'O h m y, O h my!
He w ill kill the g i r l . . . ' The old parents tried to pull aw ay the
enraged youth.
The boy d id n 't even look at his m other. H e stared at the
m oney lying before the old man. He pounced on it like a vulture.
The old m an shouted. 'T h is is not m y m oney, son. G ive it
back to our revered custom ers . . .'
The boy ignored his father's words. He spoke as if to himself.
'T h ose poachers are selling a U S carbine. It's an old gun, but
sturdy. W ith this m oney.'
302 / The Journey
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: TT^T -qfr^I / 307
This poem is taken from the collection Dirunal Rites, New Delhi: Sahitya
Akademi, 1994, pp 77-79.
316 / Kalahandi
about its art and architecture. His book on Palm L e a f M in iatu res: The
A rt o f R aghunath P ru sti o f O rissa (1995) is an effort in this direction.
'K alah an d i' w hich appeared in his collection D iurnal R ites, is a
passionate indictment of the social and political apathy that marginalizes
and neglects that segm ent of the population, which is already the
victim of poverty and natural disasters. The plight of the people of
Kalahandi is portrayed in heart-rending im ages that are nightm arish
in their brutality and m ove the read er to pity and terror. The poet
m oves from the p articular to the universal as this location and its
inhabitants becom e a synecdoche for suffering and privation across
the land. The w orst outcom e of decades of m isery is that individuals
are dehum anized as they becom e statistics in governm ent records,
the subject of sem inars and headlines in the national and international
press.
in the utensils
paw ned off for food,
in the crum bling huts
w ith u nthatched roofs,
in the exclu sive prosperity
of h avin g owned
two earthen pots.
in disease, in hunger,
in helplessness,
in the abject fear
of an im pending bloodshed.
How could w e then w alk
into the celebrated portals
of the tw enty-first century,
leaving K alahandi behind ?
^T? =bf^dl ‘ ^lftH'<*'’ TTOi R w R «'=Kfeit1 t l ^fsr ^ 'qt. ^ra, ■=!? fe r ft: ^ifwrq 31+KHi,
1993, ''JM M 66-67
320/
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cf^' t <*>ldl$teV
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iF t TF T§1 F t ^Trt
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^ ih Ii tfrZf ^ qTt tcf *ft ^ a t
tt ^ 3T^P?M i|l^j|'iiyi
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ft^st % FTfe^f % ^ c r
W n F T S t t FT "SPTF
■g'TcT '5RF =r>=hidl % ^
'MKdl'M «ifWcM : ^ mR^*! / 321
oTFt % T m t t t t 3 ^ FTS-'STRTTf 3
T ^JeR 3 f ^ t
f^ ll( l 3TriTTt' 3
TTR ^>t ■'TTSl' t?te Tt ekft
■yRpr w r tfm f 3
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% 3 T ^ q i^ ^ T 3
3fcT:^TnT % ^ T t T N 3
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3RTFFim, »£® 3 ^ WfRTTt 3
7^T-73TR ^ 3TTTFT ^O flE R iatf 3
This excerpt is taken from Joothan: A Dalit's Life, translated from the Hindi by
Arun Prabha Mukherjee, Kolkata: Samya (an imprint of Bhatkal and Sen),
2003. pp. 87-99
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 323
I scolded him. 'We did not come from the outside. We were
inside. You had forgotten to lock the gate. Now lock it.'
We began to argue heatedly. The warden, Upadhyay, heard
us, and he too came to the gate. When he saw me, he said
'Maharshi, what are you doing here?'
With great self-assurance, I said, 'Warden Saheb, this guard
forgot to lock the gate. See, the lock is still open. I was trying
to explain this to him but he doesn't agree.'
That day we got away with it somehow. Bur the warden
suspected both of us. We had to put a halt to our activities for
the time being.
Shreeram Lagoo was acting in a play staged at Ambernath's
.Gandhi School. We had managed to get the tickets for the play
after much running around. Shreeram Lagoo's role as nat samrat\
was on everyone's lips. We left the hostel quietly after eating
dinner in the mess. The play started at 9.30 p.m. and it was
already 9.15 p.m. Patil and I were rushing along the road to
the station. Suddenly we saw Upadhyayji coming from the
opposite direction. He had seen us.
'M aharshi, where are you off to at this time?' he said
reprovingly.
We looked at each other's face. Suddenly Patil spoke up.
'Sir, I have a headache. We are going to the station to have
some tea or coffee. We will be back right after drinking a cup.'
'W hy, don't you get tea and coffee in the mess?'
'W e do, sir. But today there wasn't any milk in the mess.
That's why we are going to the station/ Patil improvised.
Upadhyaji said, 'Come with me, I'll get you some coffee.'
He brought us to his home. The tickets for the play were
squirming in our pockets. We couldn't work out how to get
him off our backs.
After seating us in the drawing room, he asked his wife
to make the coffee and sat on the sofa across from us. I looked
at Patil from the corner of my eye. He was smiling.
As soon as Mrs. Upadhyay entered the kitchen, I got up
and said, 'Ammaji, Warden Saheb is bothering you unnecessarily.
I will make the coffee.'
She was pleased to see me. 'Maharshi, you go sit . . . I
will make it.'
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 325
Y IR R 3?Tq ^ T H c t f t l ’
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ani F i WTcTT <glcld ^ F R 'rdW II cn^TT TpT "g^>T ^ ^1
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«£?ni i l )
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w t i ^ t , c imt Tgoff fs n 1 3 ^ it t ^ f i w t ^ Trq?rH ^ t ^ tf?m ^f t t f t
ani W ’TT'THT Ft w f t l "
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3ni f ^ u f q tl ^ F H i t F^f ^ 3 f^PTI *TTI
“ ■RFfi, ?TT 3>FT ^ ^ ? " i-e 'll ^ 1JSTI
F R ^ f T ^ i - ^ 3TT ^ F ^ 0 T t «^l 3TgR^ qife^T ^ T W , “ TTT,
fa r 3 ^ ani t ^ b -m ^ t Tt t , ^ n ^ t it ^ r s rit 3^ 1"
“ sprf, ^TT i ^FT-W Ft w t fie # ? '’
“ fie rat i t t TTT, 3TR -gsr w f ^ T l ^ylRrlU, t ^ r w ^tt T t
t l " q ife r i ^FRT RTTi ^ t chlHjUJI ^ tl
^tfTKqFTit i 3TFT, “ 3TT3Tt i t TUa?, i 35TOt fc lO T I ” i F i T t ^ T
3Tqi qr ^ sn^i 'iie.'+i % f i^ i Fnri ^ i ^HyHi Tt i i ttr^t i
HFt 3TT TFT a^T, F T i it e r WTT’l
F i 5TsFi i ^cJl=t>< ^ F li 3PR t TI?ft ' i ^13 ®RT^ ^ t 3iFT 3?k
T T Fli T lti) qT 'fe Tt^l i i H ifiei ^ t 3TtT ^ R fe it ' i ^0TI ^ F 3T^T-Ft-3T^T
■gr^rr t f t an 1
w ta / 337
ir f t r # ^ t 3 f c r Ft m . at - ^ r a ^ f f % w m , f ^ i w m
t i ^ t t 3tt fyf s>ft ^rcecT 3 i 3 TifocTT 3 <gd+< w 3 ^ ■^TBcn *ni
F f e ^ 3 3F T m w f «ui 3 ft T?t33T 3 35ft, <pr3 ^ 3 R 3n?ft
t...3T% ^ 3 ....”
“ 3T%^ 3... 331 3TcT t ? ” ^TTTTef T^ 3TRI -i^id ^ t j ^ II
14 tt
Trf^cd ftftk i\ ^ «ftI '3^fft 3ft#' tfdtfdl 3nf| 3*ift *3ftftt FT^TT
eFFT, “ ^ 3 ■T?”
This excerpt is taken frcm A Suitable Boy, New Delhi: Yiking/P*>nguin Books
India, 1993. pp. 137-149. "
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 347
3.3
'N o talking, please,' said the invigilator.
'I w as just borrow ing a ruler, Sir.'
'If you have to do that, do it through m e.'
'Yes, Sir.'
The boy sat dow n and applied himself once m ore to the
question-paper in front of him.
A fly buzzed against the window-pane of the examination
hall. Outside the w indow the red crow n of a gul-m ohur tree
could be seen below the stone steps. The fans whirled slowly
around. Row after row of heads, row after row of hands, drop
after drop of ink, words and yet more words. Someone got up to
have a drink of w ater from the earthenw are pitcher near the
exit. Someone leaned back against his chair and sighed.
Lata had stopped w riting about half an hour ago, and
had been staring at her paper sightlessly since. She was trembling.
She could not think of the questions at all. She was breathing
deeply and the sw eat stood out on her forehead. N either of the
girls on either side of her noticed. W ho w ere they? She didn't
recognize them from the English lectures.
W hat do these questions m ean? she asked herself. And
how w as I m anaging to answ er them just a little while ago? Do
Shakespeare's tragic heroes deserve their fates? Does anyone
deserve her fate? She looked around again. W hat is the m atter
with me, I w ho am so good at taking exam s? I don't have a
headache, I don't have a period, w hat is m y excuse? W hat will
Ma say—
An im age of her bedroom in Pran's house cam e to her
mind. In it she saw her m other's three suitcases, filled with
m ost of w hat she owned in the w orld. Standard appendages of
her Annual Rail-Pilgrimage, they lay in a corner, with her large
handbag resting like a self-confident black sw an upon them.
N earby lay a small square dark green copy of the Bhagavad
Gita and a glass that contained her false teeth. She had worn
them ever since a car accident ten years ago.
348 / A Suitable Boy
'I can't very well stop you,' said Lata. 'India is a free country
now.'
'All right. I'll sit on this bench and think of you,' he said
melodramatically, sitting down again. 'And of that attractive
and mysterious ink-stain near your nose. It's been some days
since Holi.'
Lata made a sound of impatience and walked away. The
young man's eyes were following her, and she was aware of it.
She rubbed her stained middle finger with her thumb to control
her awkwardness. She was annoyed with him and with herself,
and unsettled by her unexpected enjoyment of his unexpected
company. But these thoughts did have the effect of replacing
her anxiety— indeed, panic— about how badly she'd done in
the paper on Drama with the wish to look at a mirror at once.
3.5
Later that afternoon, Lata and Malati and a couple of their
friends—all girls, of course—were taking a walk together to the
jacaranda grove where they liked to sit and study. The jacaranda
grove by tradition was open only to girls. Malati was carrying
an incongruously fat medical textbook.
It was a hot day. The two wandered hand in hand among
the jacaranda trees. A few soft mauve flowers drifted down to
earth. When they were out of earshot of the others, Malati said,
with quiet amusement:
'W hat is on your mind?'
When Lata looked at her quizzically, Malati continued,
undeterred: 'No, no, it's no use looking at me like that, I know
that something is bothering you. In fact I know what it is that's
bothering you. I have my sources of information.'
Lata responded: 'I know what you're going to say, and
it's not true.' Malati looked at her friend and said: 'All that
Christian training at St Sophia's has had a bad influence on
you, Lata. It's made you into a terrible liar. No, I don't mean
that exactly. What I mean is that when you do lie, you do it
terribly.'
'All right, then, what were you going to say?' said Lata.
I've forgotten now,' said Malati.
'Please,' said Lata, 'I didn't get up from my books for this.
Don't be mean, don't be elliptical, and don't tease me. It's bad
enough as it is.'
'W hy?' said Malati. 'Are you in love aired dy? It's high
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 353
was the memory that her initial nervousness at the young man's
presence had ended in a sense of confused warmth: at least
someone, if only a good-looking stranger, had understood that
she had been bewildered and upset, and had cared enough to
do something to lift her spirits.
3.6
A couple of days later there was a music recital in the
Bharatendu Auditorium, one of the two largest auditoriums in
town. One of the performers was Ustad Majeed Khan.
Lata and Malati both managed to get tickets. So did Hema,
a tall, thin, and high-spirited friend of theirs who lived with
innumerable cousins—boys and girls— in a house not far from
Nabiganj. They were all under the care of a strict elder member
of the family who was referred to by everyone as Tauji. Hema's
Tauji had quite a job on his hands, as he was not only responsible
for the well-being and reputation of the girls of the family but
also had to make sure that the boys did not get into the countless
kinds of m ischief that boys are prone to. He had often cursed
his luck that he was the sole representative in a university town
of a large and far-flung family. He had on occasion threatened
to send everyone straight back home when they had caused
him more trouble than he could bear. But his wife, Taiji to everyone,
though she herself had been brought up with almost no liberty
or latitude, felt it was a great pity that her nieces and grandnieces
should be similarly constrained. She managed to obtain for the
girls what they could not obtain by a more direct approach.
This evening Hema and her cousins had thus succeeded
in reserving the use of Tauji's large maroon Packard3 and went
around town collecting their friends for the concert. No sooner
was Tauji out of sight than they had entirely forgotten his outraged
parting comment: 'Flowers? Flowers in your hair? Rushing off
in exam time— and listening to all this pleasure-music! Everyone
will think you are completely dissolute— you will never get
married.'
Eleven girls, including Lata and Malati, emerged from the
Packard at Bharatendu Auditorium. Strangely enough, their saris
were not crushed, though perhaps they looked slightly dishevelled.
They stood outside the auditorium re-arranging their own and
each other's hair, chattering excitedly. Then in a busy shimmer
of colour they streamed inside. There was no place for all of
356 / A Suitable Boy
them to sit together, so they broke up into twos and threes, and
sat down, rapt but no less voluble. A few fans whirled round
overhead, but it had been a hot day, and the auditorium was
stuffy. Lata and her friends started fanning themselves with
their programmes, and waited for the recital to begin.
The first half consisted of a disappointingly indifferent
sitar recital by a well-known musician. At the interval, Lata
and Malati were standing by the staircase in the lobby when
the Potato Man walked towards them.
Malati saw him first, nudged Lata's attention in his direction,
and said:
'Meeting number three. I'm going to make myself scarce.'
'Malati, please stay here,' said Lata in sudden desperation,
but Malati had disappeared with the admonition: 'D on't be a
mouse. Be a tigress.'
The young man approached her with fairly assured steps.
'Is it all right to interrupt you?' he said, not very loudly.
Lata could not make out what he was saying in the noise
of the crowded lobby, and indicated as much.
This was taken by the young man as perm ission to
approach. He came closer, smiled at her, and said:
'I wondered if it was all right to interrupt you.'
'To interrupt me?' said Lata. 'But I was doing nothing.'
Her heart was beating fast.
'I meant, to interrupt your thoughts.'
'I wasn't having any,' said Lata, trying to control a sudden
overload of them. She thought of M alati's comment about her
being a poor liar and felt the blood rush to her cheeks.
'Quite stuffy in there,' said the young man. 'Here too, of
course.'
Lata nodded. I'm not a mouse or a tigress, she thought,
I'm a hedgehog.
'Lovely m usic,' he said.
'Y es,' agreed Lata, though she hadn't thought so. His
presence so close to her was making her tingle. Besides, she
was embarrassed about being seen with a young man. She knew
that if she looked around she would see someone she recognized
looking at her. But having been unkind to him twice already
she was determined not to rebuff him again. Holding up her
side of the conversation, however, was difficult when she was
Indian Literature: An Introduction / 357
feeling so distracted. Since it was hard for her to meet his eye,
she looked down instead.
The young man was say in g :'. . . though, of course, I don't
often go there. How about you?'
Lata, nonplussed, because she had either not heard or not
registered what went before, did not reply.
'You're very quiet,' he said.
I'm always very quiet,' said Lata. Tt balances out.'
'No, you aren't,' said the young man with a faint smile.
'You and your friends were chattering like a flock of jungle
babblers when you came in—and some of you continued to
chatter while the sitar player was tuning up.'
'Do you think,' Lata said, looking up a little sharply, 'that
men don't chatter and babble as much as women?'
'I do,' said the young man airily, happy that she was talking
at last. 'It's a fact of nature. Shall I tell you a folk-tale about
Akbar and Birbal4? It's very relevant to this subject.'
'I don't know,' said Lata. 'Once I've heard it I'll tell you if
you should have told it.'
'W ell, maybe at our next meeting?'
Lata took this remark quite coolly.
'I suppose there will be one,' she said. 'W e seem to keep
meeting by chance.'
'Does it have to be by chance?' asked the young man. 'When
I talked about you and your friends, the fact is that I had eyes
mostly for you. The moment I saw you enter, I thought how
lovely you looked— in a simple green sari with just a white
rose in your hair.'
The word 'm ostly' bothered Lata, but the rest was music.
She smiled.
He smiled back, and suddenly became very specific.
'There's a meeting of the Brahmpur Literary Society at five
o'clock on Friday evening at old Mr. Nowrojee's house— 20
Hastings Road. It should be interesting—and it's open to anyone
who feels like coming. With the university vacations coming
up, they seem to want to welcome outsiders to make up the
numbers.'
The university vacations, thought Lata. Perhaps we won't
see each other again after all. The thought saddened her.
'Oh, I know what I wanted to ask you,' she said.
358 / A Suitable Boy
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w fa : TK* / 367
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Sitakant Mahapatra
To understand the literature of India, it is n ecessary to look at
the w ritten classics, and also the oral traditions, of which folklore is
an integral p art. Verbal folklore is m ade up of oral traditions with
specific genres like proverbs, riddles, lullabies, tales, ballads, prose
n arratives and son gs; nonverbal m odes like d ances, gam es, floor
and wall designs, artefacts and toys; and, perform ing arts like street
m agic and theatre. All of these expressive folk form s w eave in and
out of every aspect of village, small tow n and city life. A m idst all
the variety of languages, cultures and religions of India can be found
a large stock of shared folk m aterials. These m aterials not only travel
across the cou ntry, but can be found across the w orld and com m on
motifs surface in folk practices across regions, states and countries.
Folk tales and songs are told and sung in different con texts
and function in a variety of w ays depending on the te lle r/sin g e r(s),
th e tim e an d p la ce , an d th e liste n e r(s). The sp e a k e rs are b oth
professional and dom estic—singers and troupes, m others, aunts and
grandm others and others. Songs are sung at festivals, while w atching
over crops o r cattle, w orking in the fields or at hom e, and as p art of
calendrical rituals, and also dom estic occasions that include m arriages,
births and deaths. The antiquity of folk songs is as am azing as their
m obility and yet they rem ain current as variants and parallels are
generated every day in countless streets and homes across the country.
W hile the variety of songs is infinite, some prom inent categories
of folk songs are: m ale-centred songs w ith heroism and adventure
as the prim ary m otifs; fem ale-centred songs with dom estic motifs
and also the p ortrayal of an alternative w orld view that questions
all kinds of traditions and hierarchies; songs about family relationships
w ith bonds of affection, rivalry, incest, betrayal and cruelty; songs
about love in all its dim ensions; songs about fates, gods and dem ons;
hum orous songs; songs about the environm ent and, m ost im portantly
p erh ap s, songs about the com m un ity an d its cu ltu ral and social
practices.
These songs are taken from Painted Words: An Anthology o f Tribal Literature,
edited by G.N. Devy. New Delhi: Viking Penguin Books India, 1993. pp. 170-
171 and The Endless Weave by Sitakant Mahapatra, New Delhi: Sahitya Akademi,
2004.
376 / Folk Songs
A S ant hal i S on g
A Ho S ong
T T m # -nhr
f t iftrT
i.
2. Ffe^T ■'twcl 3)t
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2049 fa.
‘ t t ^ TTTfM ^T fRTfTTT', TT. "ST. W H , MfWlftm FT3TT, H f f e r f t , 1976
Copyright Acknowledgements
The editors and publishers gratefully acknowledge the following for
permission to reprint copyright material:
Bharatiya Jnanpith, New Delhi, for 'Andhe ki Dhanyata' from Mangalsutra:
M alayalam Short Stories by Thakazhi Sivasankar Pillai; for 'To Waris
Shah' from Amrita Pritam: Selected Poems, for 'Waris Shah Nu' from
Amrita Pritam: Chuni Hui Kavitayen; for 'Venkatashami ka Pranay'
from Parkaya Pravesh: Kannada Short Stories by Masti Venkatesha Iyengar;
for 'Ek Asmarniye Yatra' from Lai Nadee: Assamese Short Stories by
Indira Goswami;
Motlilal Banarasidas, New Delhi, for extract from Mrichchhakatika of Sudraka,
edited by M.R.Kale; for 'Baaji Rachee' and 'Tujh Bin Kyon' from the
Hindi Padavali o f Namdev: The Songs in Hindi; for 'You Have Put Up
a Show' and 'How Can I Live' from The Hindi Padavali o f Namdev,
translated by Winand M. Callewart and Mukund Lath;
Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi, for 'Mere to Giridhar Gopal'by Mirabai
from Hindi Kam/a Sanghra: Adikal se Chayavad Tak, edited by Balkrishna
Rao; for 'Kabuliwallah' by Rabindranath Tagore from Rabindranath
Rachna Sanchayan, edited by Asit Kumar Bandhopadhyaya; for 'Shah
Jahan' by Tagore from Rabindranath Ki Kavitayen, edited by Dwivedi,
Dinkar et al; for 'Vidhva' by Gudipat Venkat Chalam from Samkaleen
Bhartiya Sahitya, translated by J.L. Reddy; for 'Kalahandi' by J.P.
Das from Diurnal Rites and from Aahik; for 'If it is a daughter' and
'Where do you roam' from The Endless Weave by Sitakant Mahapatra;
Indian Press for 'Eklavaya Prasang' from Sachitra M ahabharata (Complete),
translation based on the version by Nilknath Tika;
University of Madras for an excerpt from Ilango Adikal's Cilapattikaram
(in Hindi), by Dr S. Shankar Raju Naidu and Dr S.N. Ganesan;
Neelabh Prakashan, Allahabad, for 'Santon Dekho Jag Baurana' by Kabir
from Kabir Bijak, edited by Sukhdev Singh;
Oxford University Press, New Delhi, for 'A Comparison Between Men
and Women' from Tarabai Shinde and the Critique o f Gender Relations
in Colonial India, edited and translated by Rosalind O'Hanlon; for
'The Chess Players' from The World o f Premchand, edited and translated
by David Rubin;
Professor Swapan Majumdar for 'The Cabuliwalla' from A Tagore Reader,
edited by Amiya Chakravarty;
Penguin Books India for an extract from Raag Darbari: A Novel by Shrilal
Shukla, translated by Gilliam Wright; for an extract from A Suitable
Boy by Vikram Seth; for 'The Simple State' from Kabir: The Weaver's
Songs, edited and translated by Vinay Dharwadker;
Penguin Books Ltd. for the poem 'Shah Jahan' from Selected Poems:
Rabindranath Tagore, translated by William Radice;
Columbia University Press, New York, for the excerpt from Ilango's
C ilapattikaram , by R.Parthasarathy. Copyright ©1993 Columbia
University Press. Reprinted with permission of the press;
M. Asaddudin for 'Touch-Me-Not' from Lifting the Veil: Selected Writings
o f Ismat Chughtai, Penguin Books India;
384 / Copyright Acknowledgements
Ranga Rao for 'Widow' by Gudipat Venkat Chalam from Classic Telugu
Short Stories, Penguin Books;
Princeton University Press for the extract from Valmiki's Ramayana, Lefeber,
Rosalind; The Ramayana of Valmiki © 1994 Princeton University
Press. Reprinted by permission of Princeton University Press;
Radhakrishan Prakashan for the extract from Raag Darbari. Rajkamal
Prakashan: Patna, 1968, 2002;
Rajkamal Prakashan for 'Chu-Mui' from Ismat Chughtai: Pratinidhi Kahaniyan;
Munshiram Manoharlal for the extract from the The Mahabharata ofKrishna-
Dwaipayana Vyas, translated into English prose by Kisari Mohan
Ganguli; for 'I Only Know Krishna' from M irabai and her Padas,
translated by Krishna Bahadur;
Rupa and Co. for 'Hazaron Khwashein Aisee' in Hindi and English from
The Lightning Should Have Fallen on Ghalib: Selected Poems o f Ghalib,
translated from the Urdu by Robert Bly and Sunil Dutta; for 'The
Journey' from The Shadow o f Kamakhya: Stories by Indira Goswami,
translated by the author and M. Asaduddin;
Samvad Prakashan for extract from Stree Purusha Tulana: Nari Vimukti
Vimarsh, translated by Jui Palekar;
Vani Prakashan for extract from Koi Acchha Sa Ladka by Vikram Seth, a
translation by Gopal Gandhi;
Shrimati Anita Rakesh for extract from Mrichchhakatika by Sudraka, translated
by Mohan Rakesh;
Radha Krishna Prakashan Private Limited for the excerpt in Hindi and
English from Joothan by Omprakash Valmiki;
Khalid Hasan for 'Do Not Ask' by Faiz Ahmed Faiz, translated by Daud
Kamal;
Kitabi Duniya for 'Viyog' from Do Goneh: Hazrat Amir Khusrau ki Sau
Ghazlon ka Urdu Manjum Tarjuma;
Idarah-I Adabiyat-I Delli for 'Separation' from The Life and Works o f Amir
Khusrau. Mohammad Wahid Mirza;
Sterling Publishers Pvt Ltd., New Delhi, for 'Shaam Bhi Thi' and 'Sad
and Weary' by Raghupati Sahay Firaq from M asterpieces o f Urdu
Ghazal: from the 17"' to 20"' century, edited by K.C. Kanda;
M.I. Kuruvilla for 'A Blind Man's Vision of Fulfilment' from From Komorin
to Kashmir: An Anthology o f Malayalam Short Stories;
Katha; 'Venkatashami's Love Affair' by Mast Venkatesha Iyengar, translated
and edited by Ramachandra Sharma, was first published in Masti:
Fictions in 1995 by Katha, a registered, nonprofit society devoted to
enhancing the pleasures of reading;
G.N. Devy for 'A Santhali Song' and 'A Ho Song' from Painted Words: An
Anthology o f Tribal Literature;
Every effort has been made to contact copyright holders. Any omissions
brought to the attention of the publishers will be rectified in future
editions.