Adiga's White Tiger--Just a Bundle of Stereotypes

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In the meantime, I've been able to read just two books: (1) Jhumpa Lahiri's INTERPRETER OF MALADIES, (2) Aravind Adiga's WHITE TIGER. Both the books made interesting readings, but I have quite a few quibbles against the latter book. Let me try to enumerate them before I try to write something about the other book "Interpreter of Maladies"
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A driver that hails from Bihar murders his employer and escapes with his money. This in itself can make no big story, for it is quite suggestive, mischevously hinting at nothing but a set of stereotypes. But then when one stereotype is matched by another, a plot is built just like that--the culprit goes on to justify his acts of crime as they constitute a special kind of revenge against the rich; the rebellion and the ambition are born out of the heap of feudal exploitation that has everything to do with Bihar social setup, its political deceit and its corruption, its familial exploitation and its societal anarchy. So, should we call it a repeat description of the "Area of Darkness" of Naipaul or of deep poverty and dehumanization of Dominique Lappierre's "The City of Joy"?

The audience is captivated before the story is told. They already know what to expect!

Really, there is no dearth of people to read and marvel at the plot and at the depth of the narratives that Aravind Adiga has served them on a platter. Day in and day out they hear this in the media about the place called "the Darkness". They are not prepared to accept any other version. The author knows that. But he is not just happy having served them the recipe they relish. He goes a step further: he just invites the international audience and invents a format for his vituperation. 'Look, I'm going to tell you a story which you've listened to times without number, but I'll tell it in a different format. And you'll like it. I bet you'll like it.' So he calls no less a person than Wen Jiabao, Premier of the People's Republic of China. An insider is telling a story and who would not like to lend an ear? And for a Chinese Premier what would sound more interesting when an insider promising to tell the most pathetic story from the knowledge outsourcing hub, the city of Bangalore? Isn't China for its lack of English speaking workforce still lamenting after missing the outsourcing bus? Or at least trying hard to catch up and leave India behind in that lone area where India has made some marks vis-à-vis China?

So, an Indian murderer committing the crime out of his hatred for rich is promising an international communist bigwig that he is going to expose the emptiness of the Indian phenomenon prevalent in the outsourcing city of Bangalore. And finally he cheats his VVIP audience--he does not say anything about Bangalore except how he manipulates a case of hit and run by bribing the police. Huh!

Now just to make a passing reference to the Booker Prize the book has bagged--well, think of Vikas Swarup's "Q & A". Could it have come into the reckoning had it remained just "Q & A"? Perhaps not. The title "Slumdog Millionaire" made it so. As if only dogs are important in India! The audience out there likes to remember a dog when it has to go through an Indian theme. So while choosing an Indian book for an award, what they needed was "Darkness", Naipaul's "The Area of Darkness".
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By
A. N. Nanda
Muzaffarpur
05-07-2009
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Legal Warming

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If there is a global warming, could there be a legal warming, too? Yes, it could just be possible. It depends…depends on the context.

The monsoon eluding even as June was fast ticking away, we had everything excruciatingly hot here at Bhubaneswar. Moving on the road could be so much a torture! The tarmac radiated from below, the sun above was mercilessly fierce and there were clouds of fumes from every side. Leave the effect of the dusty air aside; it was just to be endured in all seasons and at all places. The air-conditioner of the cab went ineffective; it only pushed the hot air inside. Ordinarily, people would postpone their outing under such a risky hour, but I had a need, a strictly legal one at that, and hence unavoidable.

I reached the court premises at a time when it was already midday. It was not late by any reckoning, rather the right time to visit a government office giving sufficient margin for the late-coming proclivities of government officials. Otherwise, I was ready with the papers, typed and photocopied at home, so that there would be no need for me to go from place to place in search of professional scribes and photocopiers. My job was precise: I was to say on oath before a magistrate that my land was without an encroachment. Yet I wondered why the authorities should insist on it when they themselves could do the field-level check by the plethora of land officials at their command. Probably they did not believe their own officials. Nor would they believe me. They would believe only an advocate to identify me so that my credential to speak the truth would be established! So, the truth, in order to be officially believable, has to be filtered. It was as simple as that.

Fine, I would not mind hiring an advocate if it was that essential, but where could I find one of those legal know-alls? The entire court premises had none of them. As if a city had been cleared off the beggars on the wake of a visit of an international bigwig!

The place seemed weird to me. I felt the government was up to some kind of experimentation. Aha! With no advocates crowding the premises, now truth would not be subjected to a filtering process and hence identification of advocates would be a thing of the past.

Then I went straight to a magistrate sitting in his room with a harassed look. He was also not spared by the insolent heat wave.

'Sir, if you could be kind enough to sign my affidavit. The land authorities want me to say under oath that my land hasn't been encroached,' I almost entreated before the magistrate.

'That's right, but who's your advocate?' the magistrate started perusing the text of my papers right away.

'Sir, the thing is…there's no advocate on the premises,' I replied maintaining my ingratiating tone.

The magistrate who was a man of my age turned to look at me. 'Strange, how could there be court premises without an advocate?'

I did not reply his query which was only a rhetorical one. Snubbed but not vanquished, I sheepishly came out with my papers to give another try. The heat wave was unabated, going from strength to strength. I felt like drinking something cold even if my sore throat was unwilling to withstand further onslaught of chill. Before I could decide anything I was before a kiosk, ordering a bottle of those black beverages.

'Friend, could you tell me why there're no advocates around,' I asked the vendor.

'There're a lot here. Who says there's none? In fact today they've all discarded their black coats. I understand that's your confusion, isn't it?' the vendor had a smirk on his face.

Then he hollered somebody. A clean-shaven fellow in white shirt reached there in no moments. As if an attentive chauffeur, he did not like to miss the first call of the car-hailer.

'Yeah, I'll take one hundred rupees if you want me to put my signature only. If you want me to go before the magistrate, then I'll charge extra, say two hundred…and not a rupee less,' the advocate was sweating from his sideburns and eyebrows. He was clearly businesslike and I now felt myself in the middle of a sellers' market.

'But why? Why should you charge a hundred rupees extra just to go before the magistrate? Isn't it your job?' I asked in a voice that unmistakably showed my irritation.

The advocate smiled.

'Look, I'd not charge anything extra but what to do? I've to wear this black coat and appear before the magistrate. By the by, do you know what's the temperature now? It is cool forty-six degree Celsius!'

Cool forty-six degree Celsius! I realized what he meant. The poor fellow in black coat was even more harassed than the traffic police. Here the difference was between the black and the white! An advocate was to live up to the impossible demand of the law.

Poor me! I should have understood that. How could an advocate discard his black coat? It was just for legal warming!
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By
A. N. Nanda
Muzaffarpur
28-06-2009
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Migration

M i g r a t i o n

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I'm in a lovely mood now
Let my friends know that
I'd stop bothering them once again
with that trash called my poems!

That said, now I wield my pen

To scribble my words as I may

I know, my prose would make them happy

That’s left in their lives—so very prosaic!

Just out of the warmth of womb, a child

Cries hoarse and doesn’t just stop

Is it her prose? Or just a poem of protest, so very loud?

Or yet another beat in the making of a discord ?

Here, in this deserted domain of prose,

where are those charming stuff to write about?

Tears, pain, sigh and struggle

Everything has just faded out.

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By

A. N. Nanda

Muzaffarpur

24-6-2009

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Dakmani--the Story They All Loved

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"Virast", my recent story collection in Hindi is doing well, if I count on the kind of feedback I receive. Having started my writing endeavour in English, I've readers who advise me to translate these stories into English as soon as possible. This will be another proof that I respect my commitment to my readers. Fine, this is a peace of advise I can accept with gratitude. So, here's a story from my book. I'm aware that the length is rather not suitable for a blog, but then...

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Dakmani is 18 today. Her wistfully animated eyes, ravishingly attractive face, raven-black hair, glossy moistened lips—well, there is a long list of her graceful high points to adore, which her fans just cannot exhaust. She is such a girl who presents, as though, a new look to her beholders in her every appearance. She is happy with her intrinsic beauty and she is even conscious of it, but then again there is something exquisite about her that she likes more than anything else. It is her name, sweet and unique: Dakmani. Attractive looks are also there in other girls she meets, but name? Can anybody else boast of such a tuneful name as Dakmani does?

She is at the forefront of the meritorious students in her class. And all her teachers are busy associating their names with the streak of successes this talented girl goes on to achieve. Even she herself has grown tired of repeating the stories of her successes before her mother. In the depth of her heart she has always wished it, ‘Ah! If I’d my father with me, how he’d rejoice my successes!’ Not all her friends are as beautiful as she is, but then they have their fathers to dote on them. How lucky they are, indeed!

God’s world is really complex and here not all can get everything they long for. To be happy means to remain content with what one gets and not to grouse about the things unattainable. Dakmani has, quite early on, learnt this unassailable truth of life and destiny. So she has resolved to better her lot by preparing herself for the life ahead—by learning those extra things that have made her popular and respected: writing and speaking, playing and performing all the way to success and recognition. After all, who has not been impressed following her achievements during these eighteen years?

Often Dakmani has wished that her mother should share everything she has kept hidden from her, but the mother has never felt any such need. Rather she has always dreaded the idea of having to scratch her old wound to bleed before her darling daughter. On the other hand, she is happy listening to those daily success stories of her daughter. These sweet little stories have added zest to her life, emboldened her resolve to fight the regrets of her failure that have never ever ceased to torment her.

But one day Dakmani manages to discover the truth; a truth that vividly explains the first chapter of her life. It is no less engrossing than a story penned by an accomplished storyteller. The informant is none other than a veteran postman.

‘It’s a long story, my daughter, and that happened right before our eyes many years ago. Those were the days we’re working at a post office named Khas Mahal. The flow of mails into the hands of postmen—oh, my God! It was just non-ending! Whatever we did to clear the load, they made practically no difference to the workload; we’re only to be greeted by another avalanche of receipts only at the crack of dawn.

‘Alas! We’d letters and letters, but not the one a woman so desperately longed to receive. Literally starving for information, the hapless lady used to reach the post office as soon as it opened in the morning. She used to take a seat on the porch of the post office just to wait there patiently, hoping that there’d be a letter for her in the heap of letters received at Khas Mahal post office. But then she was not so lucky, never was she. At the end of sorting, the postmen of the office used to go out for distribution and the woman would return—this was a story repeated at the post office day in, day out. It appeared the fellow from whom the lady was so eagerly awaiting her letter had himself forgotten her.

‘Days gone the woman looked different: she was now in the family way.

‘Look, a lone woman in an unending quest of her letter and now she was in such a condition—it only made people feel suspicious. Who thought what, it was just immaterial to me; it all depended on the upbringing of the person how he chose to explain the situation to himself. But I for myself definitely thought that the lady was from a good family. Maybe certain plight had brought her face to face with such a gruelling situation. I didn’t know anything more than that and I was not in favour of thinking indecent things about a woman in distress.

‘Then one day she got a letter. It was just a post card—as open as that. The message had nothing great in it to rejoice. The author of the letter had written that he won’t come back. He had acquired his family, away from her and beyond the boundary of the land she knew. He was straight and forthright in her rejection. He just didn’t want to own up and foster his old relation.

‘When the woman reached the post office that day, I was the fellow who informed her about the letter. “Namaste Sister, a letter in your name at last. Are you really willing to take that?”

‘Most probably, she’d the scent of the grimness of the contents. And she was shaking from head to toe. It appeared she was left with no stamina to endure the truth. Maybe she had even a premonition of it. She only said, “Mandalji, could you please read it out to me?”

‘And I’d read it out to her. The subject matter was all negative. Blaming it on the destiny, the letter stated that it needs the support of good luck to find a dream come true. But he wasn’t so lucky as to take her love to a happy end. There’re many such literary expressions, virtually a labyrinth of them, yet the truth was lurking behind it. The fellow had left your mother in the lurch; rather he’d rejected her once for all. In the name of love, showing her the sweet dream of a lovely future, he’d simply eloped with the girl, but in a matter of just a few days he’d himself absconded. Abdicating one’s responsibility could be so easy! A helpless girl was left here alone to make his daily rounds of Khas Mahal post office for a letter, a letter that would carry the hopeful message of her happy reunion with the person she’d once loved.

‘In fact she’d hardly the time to listen to the whole of the letter read out to her. The labour pain had set in. We’re a folk of postmen, ignorant of the dos and don’ts of nursing a woman in labour pain. By that time people had already started to arrive in great numbers for their postal businesses…and here, on the verandah of the post office, something unprecedented was happening. A fellow or two among us ran for waving a rickshaw so that the woman could be shifted to the hospital. I also ran towards the tiffin room where I quickly joined the dining desks to form a cot. Then I went near your mother and helped her to stand up and proceed towards the room. “Please, my sister, please try to reach the door.” She only did as I suggested.

‘The entire post office had no woman employee. Yeah, strangely it was so! And what was that precious little we, the confused male fellows in a post office, could have done to alleviate her pain?

‘There’s a woman in every man and that woman from the corner of my soul urged, “Remember, my son, how you made your mother suffer as you came to this earth.” And I kept standing there near the door waiting patiently to take your mother to the hospital.

‘Finally everything happened as God wished. In a matter of just three small minutes sounds wafted out of the room—not one but two. One was the cry of a baby, that of the newborn, nay yours; the other was a sigh of relief, the feeble declaration that the pain of childbirth was just over. Leaving all the inhibitions behind, I’d entered the room. My curiosity had goaded me to reach there; my human desire to console and encourage had taken me there. I was the person who had covered your body with his own towel. I don’t know how those words occurred to me, but I had uttered them: “Dakmani, don’t worry. The ambulance will reach here any time now. You’ll go into the care of your doctor, leaving behind us. Little girl, you’d forget us soon, won’t you?”

‘Really, an auto-rickshaw had reached the post office by then. Two of you, the mother and the baby, left the post office and headed for the hospital. Of course, the Postmaster had accompanied you.’

In this way, Dakmani comes to know the sequence of events that culminated with her birth. She thinks, often birth stories of great persons are as gripping and as profound as the great works of fiction by literary highbrows—be it the birth story of Lord Krishna or of Jesus Christ. Now Dakmani passes through a phase of ambivalence. She is happy because she is special even from the very day she took birth…and at the same time, she is sad because her father had so heartlessly left her mother even before she was born. God only knows how she will be able to fill up the gap of her father, now that he has fallen from her esteem.

Before she was able to think about her, about her nebulous surroundings or even before she was actually born, many events had happened. Dakmani has no knowledge of them. Yet she endures them even to this day. She has always been curious to discover them. Today she has succeeded, even if partially, and she will one day come to know the rest.

Aha! Dakmani is like a lotus born out of mud…and the lotus has every right to know its past. Or else how does it sustain its beauty and emit its fragrance?

First written in Hindi-- 05-09-2007

Translated by the author-- 18-06-2009

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By
A. N. Nanda
Bhubaneswar
19-06-2009
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The Fog

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Nostalgic moments extract the best out of us; the twinkles of wistfulness emerge in colourful embellishment. And then poetry emerges out of the fuzzy ambiance. So is my feeling as I recall a poem from my book of poem, "In Harness" ISBN 81-8157-183-5.

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The Fog
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Social green is awash in political white
A coat of primer is a must, before re-toning
The old turns hazy, the new is promised
All know the fog would dissipate soon.

Confused passers-by flounder for direction
Even the nearest ones sadly appear marauders
Believer turns sceptic under the weighty dampness
We bump into each other, ignore, and disappear.

Fog showers heavenly ambience on everything mundane
Even the soothing moon has so far failed to achieve that
People catch sudden affluence and stink in the neighbourhood
It is true, people get used to it and fog showers the legitimacy.

We all pray in silence for the Sun to reappear
And fight for our right and restore them to us
The God incarnates when world is inundated
By the deluge of white lie and its embankments swept.
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Bhubaneswar
27-10-2003
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By
A. N. Nanda
Muzaffarpur
28-5-2009
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My Speech

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It was the desire of Mr Arun Kamal that I should also speak on the occasion of release of my book "विरासत" and that was conveyed to me just a day in advance. Honestly I was only waiting to listen to what people had to say about my book, not the other way round. Whatever I had to tell I had already written in the book and what more was there for me to tell? Anyway I took it as a formality and prepared a small speech. And I was the third, or maybe the fourth speaker. As I could observe from the attention of the audience, my speech was not all that bad. In fact after the function there were a few words praise for my speech. I thought I'd reproduce that in my blog.
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ट्रेन बिहार होकर गुजर रही है और यह आकर किसी एक स्टेशन पर खडी हो गई । मैं ठहरा एक भूखा सवारी । खिड़की से झांक कर देखा, कचौड़ीवाला कचौड़ी बेच रहा था । मै तुंरत अपनी डिब्बे से नीचे उतरा और कचौड़ीवाले से कहा, 'भाई कचौड़ीवाले, मुझे दो कचौड़ी दो ।' बस, मुझे कचौड़ी मिल गई और साथ ही मिल गया भूख से छुटकारा ।

क्या इतनी हिन्दी कहानी लिखने के लिए काफी नहीं है ?

इस बात को जरा आगे बढ़ाता हूँ । मान लीजिए हिन्दी के एक प्रकांड विद्वान् ने मुझे अशुद्ध हिन्दी बोलते हुए सुना और मेरे पास आकर कहने लगा, 'देखो हिन्दी बिगाड़ने वाले नालायक । "दो कचौड़ी" ऐसे कह कर बात को बिगाड़ो मत । कहो "दो कचौड़ियाँ" दीजिए ।' और मैंने ऐसे कहने हेतु प्रयास किया, करते गया । ऐसे ही मेरी गाड़ी छूट गई।

अब क्या हुआ ? न मैं कचौड़ी खा पाया, न आगे जा पाया । कहानी लिखने की बात तो पूछो मत । जब मैं भूखा ही रह गया, कहानी भी भला कैसी बनती ? जैसे पंडित कालिदास ने कहा, "अन्न चिंता चमत्कारा कातरे कविता कुतः ?"

अगर इसे मैं सचमुच कहानी बना दूँ, तो क्या होगा इसका शीर्षक ? "पंडित से मुठभेड़" या "कचौड़ी या गाड़ी" ?

अब रही बात कि "विरासत" में सारी की सारी कहानियाँ सिर्फ़ डाकघर पर क्यों ? देखिए, अंग्रेजी में कहाबत है, "All work no play makes jack a dull boy." जब तक सच को कहानी जैसी रोचक और कहानियों को सच जैसा जीबंत नहीं बनाएँगे, तब तक जिंदगी में रूखापन ही रूखापन बरकरार रहेगा । कहते हैं न साधारण को असाधारण और असाधारण को साधारण कर प्रस्तुत करना कवि-लेखकों का काम होता है । डाकखानों में तो साधारण लोगोंका आवागमन होता ही है । फिर कहानी लिखने हेतु डाकघरों के अलाबा क्या बेहतर जगह और कहीं हो सकती है, भाई ?

अब मेरे मन में और एक बात उठती है । क्या बजह है की आजकल लोगों की पढ़ने के प्रति दिलचस्पी सचमुच कम हो गई है ? टी वी, इंटरनेट पर दोष देकर क्या बात को ऐसे टाला जा सकता है ? मेरे ख्याल में कहानी सुनाना बड़े-बुजुर्गों का काम होता है और कहानी सुनना बच्चों का । आज के माहौल में बड़े-बुजुर्ग होते ही हैं कहाँ ? सब जगह तो एकल परिवार । माता-पिता भी कहानी सुनाने का काम कर पाते, पर उन लोगों के पास समय कहाँ है ? आजकल लोगों के पास समय कम और पैसे ज्यादा होने लगे हैं ।

दूसरी बजह है हमारा साइंस और इंजीनियरिंग पर जरुरत से ज्यादा ध्यान देना । मुझे सुनने को मिली है कि आजकल इतिहास और राजनीति विज्ञानं जैसे विषयों में कॉलेज-विशवविद्यालयों में छात्रों का अभाब होता है । इसे दुर्दशा नहीं कहेंगे तो और क्या कहेंगे ? भाई, liberal arts का अपना महत्व होता है, जिसे टाला नहीं जा सकता है ।उदहारण के तौर पर मशहूर वैज्ञानिक Leonard Da Vinci की बात पर विचार करें । वे न केवल एक बैज्ञानिक थे, वे तो विश्वविख्यात चित्रकार भी थे । और एक उदाहरण भी आधुनिक युग से लेते हैं । नाम है Steve Job, जिन्होंने Apple Mac Computer, iPod जैसे युगांतकारी यन्त्र दुनिया के सामने रखा है । वे तो वैज्ञानिक होने के साथ साथ एक कालिग्रफिस्त (calligraphist) भी थे । इसलिए ज्ञान के क्षेत्र में संतुलन बनाए रखने हेतु हमें कहानी लिखना, पढ़ना, सुनना और सुनाना नितांत आवश्यक लगता है । अगर मुझे अपना उदहारण देने की इजाज़त है, तो मैं कहूँगा Software Engineering और कहानी लिखना दोनों में सृजनशीलता की अभिव्यक्ति हो सकती है, लेकिन जहाँ तक आनंद लेने की बात है, कहानी लिखना और सुनाना सबसे ज़्यादा आनंददायक होता है ।

अब मेरे मन में और एक बात कौंध रही है । लोग साहित्य साधना करते-करते गरीब हो जाते हैं या गरीब जनों को साहित्य साधना करने का सौभाग्य प्राप्त होता है ? जब गरीब लड़की ससुराल जाती है, वह रोती है और रोते-रोते वह मार्मिक कविता सुना कर चली जाती है । दूसरी और जब शहर में पली अमीर लड़की शादी करती है, वह बिदाई के समय सिर्फ़ "bye" कहकर चली जाती है ।

तो सवाल है, क्या तरक्की की रास्ते चलते हुए हम साहित्य की देखभाल कर पाएँगे ? या साहित्य की देखभाल करने हेतु हमें गरीब रहना पड़ेगा ? कहीं न कहीं हमें जवाब ढूंढ़ लेना चाहिए । अभी, तुंरत । बरना, साहित्य मरने ही वाला है । ?"
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By
A. N. Nanda
मुजफ्फरपुर
17-05-2009
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"Virasat" My New Book

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My new book "Virasat", the first one in Hindi from my desk, finally got released at Patna yesterday. Mr Arun Kamal, the noted author and poet of international repute released it in the presence of the chief guest of the function Dr Imtiaz Ahmed, Director of Khudabaksh Library. Mr Vyas Ji, the novelist and presently working as the Chief Secretary Deptt. of Labour under Govt. of Bihar was the chief speaker. Mr Arvind Pandey, DIG (Railways) and the eminent blogger (http://paraavaani.blogspot.com/) was the special guest. Mr Kamleshwar Prasad, the Chief Postmaster General of Bihar was the honoured guest. Mr Jitendra Sahay, the Civil Surgeon (Retd.) and dramatist presided over the function. Mr Rajesh Shukla, Proprietor, Vatayan Media and Publishing conducted the proceedings.

The function was well-attended, by all standards. The conference hall of Bihar Industries Association was full to the capacity. People representing various streams--poets, authors, novelists, dramatists, critics, philatelist, lecturers, civil engineers, trade union leaders, journalists from both print and electronic media, my colleagues from various postal establishments, my country-cousin Oriyas, my senior colleagues enjoying quiet retired life in the city, and even an ex-MLA--attended the function.

I honestly did not expect that senior fellows from the field of literature that assembled there would speak so generously about my work. First of all, they allayed my worst fear, saying that I've been really successful in maintaining the nuances that are special to Hindi. Yes! Hindi is not my mother tongue and the book is an attempt just like that without any serious preparation in grammar and style. The stalwarts, in their own words, praised my power of observation, the love for detail, the skilful portrayal of human relationship, the pace of the story-telling…. Mr Arun Kamal himself even highlighted that the book is the first of its kind, culling stories entirely from post-office settings!

I could continue, extracting verbatim what all they said from the full-length video recorded during the function, but then it would entail a bit of labour on my part. Besides, I don't forget that a blogpost should not be so long-winded.

Almost all the newspapers from Patna covered the event in detail with suitable photographs. To name them: (1) Hindustan Times. Patna, Tuesday, May 12, 2008 under caption-'A Peep into post offices with "Virasat"'; (2) Hindustan 13 May (in Hindi) Page-4 "विरासत में डाक विभाग का चित्रण"; (3)Aaj, Patna, 13 May Page-4 "डाक संस्कृति की अमूल्य कृति है 'विरासत'"; (4) Dainik Jagaran, Patna, 13 May, Page-7 "कहानी संग्रह 'विरासत का लोकार्पण"; (5)Rashtriya Sahara, Patna, 13 May, Page-5 "इंटरनेट युग में डाकिया खास : कमल" . I could not watch television, but going by the interview taken from me, Etv might have telecast it.
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By
A. N. Nanda
13-05-2009
Muzaffarpur
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