Banished from Bengal - book review of 'Exile - a memoir' by Taslima Nasrin

The Bengal in the title refers to both West and erstwhile East. Both which banished writer Naslima Nasrin. Even if the accusations against Ms Nasrin, dominantly being her fanning religious extremism and of her being a mediocre writer are to be believed, the life of exile she was relegated to (and written about in her book ‘Exile – a memoir’, translation by Maharghya Chakraborty and published by Penguin) speaks loudly of the failure of a State (two States in fact) to protect an individual and its machinations to stifle freedom. The book also brings to the fore a strange love that Taslima Nasrin has for India where she continues to live, largely due to her courage and conviction, at the face of massive resistance and near lack of substantial support.

The book is a powerful account of an individual, a writer, a female, who has been let down by the powers that be. The book is a commentary on how vote bank politics trumps basic human rights. The book is a testimony to the humongous and nearly unlimited State power. The book is a note of how personal relations, friendships, acquaintances fail to stand up in times of adversity. Taslima Nasrin’s Exile is a book that through its diary entries, poems, newspaper testimonials makes all the above points and makes it strongly.

In the first chapter titled ‘Forbidden’ Ms Nasrin writes how the words, which she calls epithets, of ‘whore’ and ‘prostitute’ have become cherished for it reminds her of the stand against patriarchy that she has taken and the reader, provided one is unaware of her work in general, is given a glimpse of what a woman has stood up to. 

22^nd November 2007 was the fateful day, and a chapter “Farewell, 22 November 2007” has been devoted to it, when after applying immense pressure on Ms Nasrin to leave Kolkata, where Muslim religious fundamentalists were protesting against her, she made an exit to Jaipur, from where she was to eventually live in ‘exile’ in various safe houses of New Delhi.

Taslima Nasrin has given the reader an image of her happy self in Kolkata, prior to her becoming a captive at the hands of Indian State. How she set up her house, was happily writing, was socially active and how all of it was snatched away from her just because a state government (then a CPM government) could not rein in fundamentalists and rather sought recourse in sending the author away.

Ms Nasrin asks the right questions about Muslims, which a vast majority of people wonder about. At one point (pg 153) she writes “I feel that the ‘moderates’ do not even exist.” She invokes Gandhi, Mandela, a host of editors, poets throughout the book who have given her strength to fight the mighty State and who have praised her valour. The book ‘Exile’ is also about how friendships (be it the Mr B, a minister in UPA government or any other) have ditched her in time of need and through that becomes relatable to the average human.

The powerful sections of the book are where Taslima Nasrin writes about her love for India and her dislike for the comforts of Western world where she spent 11 long years before coming to Kolkata. This narrative comes along at various points in the book. A Bengali first and then a Bangladeshi perhaps is how she has chosen to put it.

The outright disgusting part of the book is where she describes her exile of nearly 8 months in various safe houses of Delhi. Stripping a human being of basic freedom of meeting people, availing medical facilities, going about a normal life is a gross violation of human rights and Ms Nasrin was subject to that. She has provided a disturbing account of how due to lack of medical help her blood pressure situation got worse and which eventually led her to bite the bitter pill and leave India.

Maharghya Chakraborty, a PhD scholar at CSSC Kolkata needs to be commended for a wonderful translation. The literary prowess of Taslima Nasrin has been done justice to in English it can be safely said. The narration is gripping, fast moving and accommodates literary flourish along with some lovely poetry in vast sections. There could have been more clarity on the timeline of events in general. The book is a highly recommended one for those who would like to learn more about Taslima Nasrin, her love for India, her fight against religious fundamentalism, the coercion of the State, machinations of governments, and much more.

Book Review - Fables from India

 

Fables from India by Uday Mane has 23 short stories which revolve around Indian characters and its villages and towns and hence the "from India" part. The book opens with 'What Do I Seek?' which is a poem. May be the authors love for poetry has been given place. The first Tale, "Prince of Aramadia"sets the mood for rest of the stories. It is very Indian, with theme of sacrifice, divine intervention, bringing back to life (wife of the protagonist in the story) and is highly predictable.

Almost all the stories lack the element of surprise, the twist of tale that marks a good short story (without having to be O Henrysque; okay I just made that word). To be fair to the author stories like "Secret Keeper's Secret" do intrigue the reader for quite some time but their number is miniscule and the consistency is lacking.

There is inconsistency (though it does not matter much) in the length of stories. From six pages long to two page long, they do not hold the attention of the reader well. And then there are some stories like the last one in the book (Langu's Calling) which begin well but do not reach the pinnacle and become dampeners.
Perhaps the book is targeted at kids who can derive some moral lessons (there are quite a few of them) and hold on to very short stories well. The book does not work for adults.

The thing about Not Writing

 

I have barely 10 minutes before I have to rush out of my office. Already while typing the first sentence I missed the 'o' of 'out' and had to hit a lot of backspaces to correct it. Yes, I fall in that set of people who do not use the cursor to get back to mistakes. But here, that is not the point. I am making a dash here. A dash to tell something, which if I don't I might never do.

It is about time. Or timing, if you prefer that. I look at the clock on the bottom of the screen and see that three minutes have passed without me making two complete paragraphs. 

The thing about writing is a lot about not writing. If you like to write, and a lot of people I know do, it is also a lot about timing. Unless they are the timeless things. Stories, poetry, etc. But then there too the element of time is important. Professional writers might have their own ways, but for the rest of us, what about the thought that consumes you while you are driving? One may hold it, and if it is powerful enough it will stay. Like this story which I thought about sometime in the afternoon while correcting answer papers of an university exam for students of dentistry.

But the holding on becomes difficult after point. Or even if it does not, the form changes. I have given myself 4 more minutes to make the point. 

I particularly find myself in desperation when there is an issue to write on, say the current issue of disbanding Medical Council of India and replacing it with National Medical Commission. I have read the whole report, made my observations yet I am falling short of time to write a commentary on it. And I am not even making excuses. The little girl wakes up at unearthly hours and it is taking a huge toll. More about it later.

For someone who loves to write and feels actually irritated for not doing it often, such backlog of issues is only killing. All the sane advices of prioritizing, allocating time, setting aside things, staying away from social media, etc, etc, works but not very often.  Now I see I have a minute left. 

I will be flying to Bangalore tomorrow, there has to be some last minute shopping done, bags to be brought down the attic and dusted, debate over what to take and what not to engage with. But another thought that bogs me down is this trip will be the end of writing anything for the next 6 days. 

For those of you can, keep writing.

Kashmir Grief

 

Kashmir has captured the collective attention of the country again. And for distressing reasons. Killing of a terrorist, curfew, stone pelting, deaths, pellets, muzzling of press, Pakistani insinuation, it has all the ingredients to make a situation volatile, tense and largely unwarranted.

I often wonder what does it all mean to the average Odia or the average Kannadiga sitting thousands of kilometers away from the site of action, having never read anything intellectual (are we supposed to use that word these days, without fearing derision?) about nuances of the Kashmir conflict, having fed each night with a pill of 'nationalism' from TV newsrooms, receiving Whatsapp forwards drawing differences in a tabular form between a Kashmiri terrorist and a newly minted Kashmiri IAS officer.

Whatever it is, the situation is one of grief. The normal life that the average Indian was going on about has time and again been shattered by unfortunate incidences in the 'heaven on earth'. Clinically, there are 5 stages of grief. I have attempted to place the average Indian in these stages.

Primarily the average Indian is in the first two stages. The first stage is shock and denial.

It is shocking for most, depicted by many 'highly qualified' people on Facebook and Twitter, to learn that Kashmiri people are pelting stones at our security forces over death of a militant who had taken up arms against the Indian state. This juvenile thought of shock does not seem to go away even after decades of strife in Kashmir.

Denial of problem perhaps is the biggest problem that both people at large and establishment face. A lull in Kashmir can send government machinery into complacency leading to closing of many channels of peace. If people deny the average Kashmiri his voice, if the Arnab's shout down the Kasmiri panelist accusing them of treachery, if we deny that the problem in Kashmir is genuine it will remain gridlocked and will alienate more Kashmiri's than ever.

The next stage of grief, anger.

This the average Indian has in plenty vis-a-vis Kashmir. How can they come on streets like this despite the Indian army helping them during floods? Let there be another flood. How can thousands come in a funeral of a terrorist? Bomb them all. The anger is just there to subsume all sense, subsume all sanity. That it is going to bring out something meaningful is extremely doubtful.

We are just going round and round in these two stages.

If our worldview of Kashmir is to be changed, our grief over that integral part of India, needs to move to stage three, that of depression & detachment. In detachment can one observe well. It is not just philosophical, but practical. In detachment from the rhetoric that has been blaring since decades regarding wrongdoings of the past that we can move forward.

It would then lead to dialogue & bargaining. If there is one word that Kashmir will understand, that Kashmir wants, it is dialogue. Dialogue and more dialogue, among various stakeholders, more regularly and in a conducive environment. Bargaining chips can be drawn only when there is dialogue and when the dialogue moves forward into meaningful action.

The final and the most warranted stage of grief is acceptance. The average Indian is far from this stage which is a prerequisite for return to meaningful life. Acceptance of the fact that there are separatists who need to come on table, acceptance of the fact that much political ground needs to be covered to get the Kashmiri to the so-called mainstream, acceptance of the fact that decades of living in forces controlled place can scar one badly and sometimes beyond repair and multitude of such acceptances can bring peace in Kashmir and to others in the country.

Its First Day this Year

PC: shreydhawan.wordpress.com

The sound and music

Freshness of its feel

Intermittent, sporadic

Had been knocking at the door

Since a few days.

Time had been ticking away

Mired in uncertainty

With patience withering

Having betrayed twice earlier

Of a long stay.

But in the dark of last night

With such humdrum

A roaring arrival

Beckoned from high above

And left all awash.

There was no bright Sun

In its welcome

Only a growing green mat

On the ground that

It had made suddenly supple.

It its wake the dusty umbrella

Mushroomed to its glory

The ascending sound atop it

Old, familiar, yet new

Felt music to the ear.

A puddle here

A stream there

A rivulet somewhere else

Contours and colors changed

For the first time this year.

Inching towards half the year

With a great gap to fill

Filled in endless grey mounds

From the sky above

The Monsoon arrived today.

Book Review - The Sialkot Saga by Ashwin Sanghi

 

I barely read fiction without recommendation. So when The Sialkot Saga by Ashwin Sanghi was recommended in words that really meant to be true, I took the chance. At the end of the voluminous book, I can say it was worth it. The Sialkot Saga is an interesting book which has two historical strands, one strand that begins with King Ashoka and other that is starts from the bloody India-Pakistan partition. The latter strand forms the bulk of the book with the former being interspersed before both join in the end.

The Sialkot Saga is a story of a businessman and a mafioso, Arvind and Arbaaz. It is a story of their meteoric rise, their huge thirst for success, their 'deals' and how their paths cross and their future shared and intertwined. Arvind operates largely from Calcutta and Arbaaz from Bombay and both cities have found ample description in the book.

In the early years after independence government's role was heavy handed. The Indian state which placed welfare at the heart of its policies had the government play a nanny state. Business would flourish in the strict regulation when mixed with malpractice. Arvind Bagadia, with a sharp economic sense would exactly do that. Governments overregulation also fanned the mafia who indulged in liquor, property, union and other 'businesses'. Arbaaz found his footing there.

The stories of Arvind and Arbaaz are those of planning and execution of cons of various kinds. And through them they reach dizzying heights, reaching position in Forbes richest Indian list. Their personal lives have not been given substantial importance other than their wives, one of whom (Arbaaz's wife Paromita) happened to be the others estranged girlfriend. The secret running from Ashokan empire, passing from generation to generation come together in the end with Arvind and Arbaaz's next generation who by sheer coincidence join in matrimony.

The Sialkot Saga works because Ashwin Sanghi has woven real historical events well into the plot. Be it a Shyama Prasad Mookherji telling a young Vajpayee ji to tell his story to the world, be it the anti-Sikh pogrom post Indira Gandhi's assassination, be it liberalization in 1991 or be it 9/11, at all points in the book the travel from history to present adds to the story that gets built up.

The book works because of the diversity that Ashwin Sanghi has depicted and in good detail. Be it mythology, be it working of a stock market, be it industrial policies of the 70s or be it science towards the end of the book, the research is pretty immaculate. These facts coupled with the historical events gives certain credibility to the plot, which at times veneer towards being filmy.

Overall, it is a light read and a very enjoyable one, especially for those who like a little bit of Indian political history and world history since late 1950's. The story is gripping, is fast paced, has the right masala and importantly is informative too. Do grab a copy, its worth it.

PS: I could find a small error where the name Paromita is mentioned where it should have been Abhilasha on page 352 :P

Be, You

 

Are you feeling you today?

Like the behemoth blue river

Which suavely sways

Which ferociously falls

Or are you the river today

Which is contained

Within a mountain of concrete

That someone built to harness you.

Are you feeling you today?

Like the mighty mountains

Covered in gregarious green

Home to the beautiful birds

Or are you the mountain today

Which has been razed

By people to build their paths.

Are you feeling you today?

Like the endless ocean

Concomitant with calmness

Where woven are many worlds

Or are you the ocean today

Which is blemished

By those who spew oil and filth.

Are you feeling you today?

Like the morning dew drop

On a full of life leaf

Untouched and fresh

Or are you the dew drop

That bears within dirt

That people sprayed and spread

Are you feeling you today?

Like the unbridled thought

As clear as an autumn sky

Without a spot and blue

Or are you the cluttered sky

The early signs of a tempest

Looming boulders of grey

Are you today, you?

Are you not what you are?

You are after all, your thought

Flow wide like a contained river

Rumble like a razed mountain

Be violent like an angry ocean

Fall like a burdened dew drop

See sun through the dark clouds

Be, you.

When my 3 batchmates refused to sing national anthem

 

Thirteen years back, in 2003, in the good old cold January days of Bangalore, the Republic Day of India on 26th of the month, posed before us 17 - 20 year old, who had just half a year back come from far flung places to study there, a difficult situation. During the flag hoisting on college ground that morning, three batch-mates who hailed from Kashmir, did not sing the National Anthem. While it went unnoticed in the beginning, few boys had noticed this act and informed the hostel warden.

The news of it spread rapidly, as any news does in a boys hostel. The reactions ranged mostly from outrage to disbelief. Holed up in their rooms, some in groups, most of the boys discussed this. For  those who did not have much of an idea about dispute in Kashmir it came as a shock. While some of them could not wrap their head around why someone would not sing the national anthem, others thought whatever the politics or views of the three were it was their business.

Nuance has always repelled the majority. Through the regular 'terrorists ke sath link hoga', 'India ke tukde pe palte hain', jis thaali mein khaate hain...' assessments, most of the boys were just interested in learning what the hostel warden, an aged ex army man with a mustache he was proud of and a huge picture of a tiger in his office did. Few discussed the issue dispassionately. Beyond the right and wrong, beyond the rhetoric. When I think back, I feel glad that there was room for such analysis then.

Today the debates that are hogging headlines are steeped in rhetoric. To be binary in thought, in discussion; to be radical in expression, in argument, has become order of the day. There upon us is a unique problem where anti-intellectualism is fanned amidst a generations' lack of delving deep into any issue. In a quick fix, 4G, short attention span era, the complex, the layered, the fundamental issues of nationalism, morality, ideology are getting shunted through a problematic passage. Problematic for the fact that the demons of these issues, unless handled in a mature manner, will haunt us time and again.

Jingoism has to be banished. With the various currents and undercurrents around in the world, fanning polarities is only to make these currents extreme. While basic woes of human beings remain unaddressed, the privileged are consumed in waging a battle that has failure on both sides.Okay, enough of symbolism and abstractions. May the young, who are the rightful inheritor of the world we live, engage in more mature understanding of the debates that are raging. There is no net gain in militant idealism or ideology. The answers that we seek has to be sought within people, within communities, within religion, within nations, and the prodding has to happen, to quote Vajpayee ji, in 'insaaniyat ke daayre' mein.

Coming back to the story, were these batchmates banished by others after what they did? Did a few friendships forged for a few months break? No, for both. Maybe a few jingoistic ones were disgruntled, but nothing was taken too far. The guys went on to pursue higher education in India and UK. They are all married now and are working professionals in India and abroad.

And what really happened in the warden office on 26th of January in 2003? The three Kashmiri boys were called into the warden office. No one actually new what happened in there. Two versions of the story are: i) the warden asked the boys to sing the national anthem ii) the warden in his usual style delivered a long lecture and let them off. No one knew for sure. No one perhaps asked. Sixteen years back, thankfully, the boys weren't booked for sedition nor was anyone branded anti-national for continuing to be friends with those who refused to sing the national anthem.

A letter to my daughter

To,

My darling daughter...

Today, quite about the moment I am writing this, you came into this world. You came into this world unlike the majority of them do. You came into this world almost three months prior to your due date of arrival. At 28^th week of gestation (total being 40) you were one of the roughly 1.5 million babies in the whole wide world who are born prematurely each year. A 28 weeker, a preemie. Special, definitely. 

Your mother was in hospital for one and a half months before you decided to cut short her trouble of lying on the bed all the time, with leg side of it raised, any longer. And what a day did you choose. In continuance of festivity galore, of arrival of a new year, you hurried into this world. Needless to mention, we were a worried lot, unsure, apprehensive, scared. None of us can fathom the deep concern of your mother who was at the centre of all this.

The events of the day, 2^nd of January 2015, unfolded in a strange manner. In the morning your mother complained of discomfort and we decided to move to the ‘labor ward’. The doctors decided to pump her with more medicine in order to delay your coming but it was of no use. A small, yet painful procedure was carried in preparation. Decisions had to be taken for timing of the caesarean section. There was flurry of phone calls, there were concerned people visiting, yet nothing could take away the apprehension that was writ at large.

It was by that time certain that you weren’t coming into our arms but going into the neonatal intensive care unit. Forms had been signed for that purpose and doctors had briefed me about their plan of action. The only reassuring fact amidst all of it was that you were already and would be in good hands. The OBG department, NICU and its personnel were all specialized. 

But all the specialization would be challenged when you would come out at 4:00 pm that Friday weighing a mere 1185 grams. Wrapped in white and in a cart you were wheeled from the operation the NICU, giving four people present there a few seconds to see you. There you were with a very tiny rounded face, with all features well formed. When I try to recount the exact emotion at that point of time I find it very difficult. A mixture of a barrage of emotions had taken over.

Moments later I was called into the NICU where the doctor explained to me that you needed surfactant, a compound that prevents lungs from collapsing and that you might need mechanical ventilation since you were too tiny to breathe well. We were looking for any news coming in from both sides of the corridor, one that had your operated upon mother and other you. People came in, words of encouragement were given by many, and the night set in and along with it the realization of your having arrived.

Forty five days. You stayed in the NICU, away from your mother, from everyone else for six long weeks. A religious and regular routine commenced. Our lives had changed. Your feeding, your medicines, your weight, your vital signs, your complications, everything became all that mattered and all that was in our mind and all the time. It would be joyous when you gained 15 grams in a day, sadder when you gained nothing. It would be joyous when we would see you kick that cling film put over your basket, sadder when your oxygen saturation would drop. It will take a book to describe all that in detail.

As I said earlier, it is difficult to explain the set of feelings of that particular day. Your survival and without complications was the primary concern. Thoughts of the distant future had no place then. I do not know what your choices will be, but they will be yours. I do not know what set of beliefs you will imbibe vis-a-vis God the Almighty, but in those stressful days a small Ganesh temple, inside the hospital, opposite NICU served a place which would give us solace. We have decided we shall contribute whatever we can to the NICU on your birthday for only who has been there knows the trials and tribulations of a different world in there.

Today you have achieved a milestone of being 1 year old. Your adjusted age would be 9 months though. However, in the grand scheme of things, the time, the prematurity, the long hospitalization, the stress, does not matter. Your face, which is innocent times, which is naughty at times; your smile, toothless, wide, measured; your progress, slow at times, fast at times, subsume all the negativity. This one year was not easy, it was like no other. This one year was a roller coaster ride. This one year with you was the most special one year. 

Often the expression many use for their children when they say ‘it is a piece of your own heart walking outside your body’ sounded cliché to me. Today I realize the truth in it.

Love you

Papa