The Unadorned

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Name: A_N_Nanda
Location: Bhubaneswar, Orissa, India

I'm a peace-loving married Indian male in my late forties with school- and college-going children, and I'm presently employed under government. Educationally I've a master's degree in History, and another in Computer Application. Besides, I've a post graduate diploma in Management. My published works are:- (1)"In Harness", ISBN 81-8157-183-5, a poetry collections and (2) "The Remix of Orchid", ISBN 978-81-7525-729-0, a short story collections with a foreword by Mr. Ruskin Bond, (3) "Virasat", ISBN 978-81-7525-982-9, again a short story collection but in Hindi. I have another blog at http://remixoforchid.blogspot.com

Thursday, November 19, 2009

A Story from "Virasat"-- Between Give and Take

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It's hightime I told a story from my book "Virasat", translating it into English for the appreciation of those who'd like to read it in English. I've a plan to translate the book into English at some point, the inspiration being the popularity of the book. Some have even suggested me reading the translated version of the other two stories ["Dakmani", "Fever"] I posted in this blog. Let me see if and when it is possible!
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Samvit got his first posting at Chennai and now he would rush there to assume the charge. He was a fellow from north India, from the city of New Delhi to be precise, and so he got really scared to manage the job of a Senior Superintendent of Post Offices at a far-off city like Chennai. With a bout of nervousness he thought, 'Well, I'll join my work there but how do I communicate-in which language? If it's about the office, English will do, but how do I deal with common people who have little knowledge of the language? To what extent can I manage just by relying on translators?'

Actually when Samvit reached Chennai and started working, he did not have to face so much of a difficulty. English was of great help while dealing with his subordinates. Even a lady peon working in his office was proficient in English, as if she were a student in a public school!

Samvit took his job seriously from day one. Disposing of files and paying visits to the post offices in his inspecting rounds, Samvit spent a couple of hectic months before the pangs of loneliness could even bother him. As a result, he gained a solid mastery of his works. Otherwise, the work of a divisional head of a postal unit was not so difficult that a well-qualified fellow like Samvit would have fumbled at them. After all, he had come to this position only after clearing the tests of a difficult competitive exam, hadn't he?

Indeed Samvit was abundantly qualified. After passing his M.A. exam, he had acquired management degrees too. Had he looked for some jobs in private companies he would have easily got a monthly package of a lakh and a half. But he actually chose the government service. A government job ensures prestige in society-that was his belief...and his parent's wish too!

Samvit had a happy knack of remembering the names and physical features of people he interacted with. He was confident that if he met a person once--say only once donkey's years ago--he would remember him feature by feature. And at a new place this ability of his was of great help to Samvit. Whoever he used to address, it was only in his or her name. And who would not like this kind of personal recognition? When it was the head of the office, the Superintendent of the division himself, addressing a fellow uttering his or her name, it was, indeed, no small thing for a subordinate employee.

The lady peon I referred to in the beginning was Shalini. She was not a permanent employee, yet she had been working in that office for a long time. Her husband was a peon in that office, who was now bed-ridden owing to a paralytic stroke. A wife working in place of her husband was not a strictly regular arrangement, yet it continued, for no one had any complaint as long as the arrangement worked fine.

Samvit had to choose Shalini as his peon since she was the only peon in the office with ability to speak English.

Thus Shalini became the peon allotted to the head of the division-it was no mean thing for a temporary fellow in the office. She used to help all such people as vied for getting their work done. And for that Shalini had not to go to Samvit; her role was only to promote all such important files on to the top of the stack!

Now-a-days Shalini was particularly happy. She was not getting the reprimands from the office supervisor. She was always on her heels, working to the best of her ability. Samvit was a smoker, but he had, of late, decided to buy his cigarettes not in packs but one by one. Maybe he was trying to control the consumption. And Shalini had no quibbles about it; gladly she used to rush out of the office and come back from the tobacconist in a jiffy.

Samvit was a bachelor and used to cook his food on his own. Shalini had thought it many a time to offer to help Samvit. In case he offered to remunerate her, she would not mind accepting it. She would rather spend that money on the medicines for her husband. But all these were only thoughts; Shalini had never ever come to volunteer.

A period of six months elapsed in the meanwhile. Samvit was deeply engrossed in his work. He paid frequent visits to the units, proactively solved the problems of his fellow employees and brought newness to the work environment in the post offices. Till yesterday, there were offices whose approaches were full of mud but the initiatives of Samvit fructified as concrete approach roads replaced those patches of bog. In the interest of the post office, he used to approach the officers of the municipal corporation, talk to his I. A. S. friends and try such other ideas as struck him right. In a way, he was thinking unconventionally to tackle the problems that had long daunted the superintentents. The result: Samvit became a popular figure overnight. Fellow employees were happy with Samvit and more than that the senior officers. Even newspapers carried news items in praise of this progressive young bureaucrat.

One day Samvit received his order of transfer. Now he would go to Delhi, his native place. He was really happy about it and he felt as though he were blessed collectively by all those people for whom he had been working whole-heartedly for last six months.

The entire staff of his office planned to throw a party to bid farewell to Samvit. And Samvit accorded his consent. It was decided that the party would be held in the afternoon of the forthcoming Friday, for Samvit had already planned to go back to Delhi on Saturday.

It was in the forenoon of the Friday that something unprecedented happened, an event that Samvit would not be able to forget the rest of his life.

Shalini came to the office as usual. True, the gloom of separation was hanging in the air, but nobody else was as unhappy as Shalini. Quietly she mused that she would not have even dreamt of such great respect if it was not for Samvit. Today that glorious phase was going to be over. And how would she console herself? Even the future of her service was uncertain; God only knew what the new superintendent would do with it!

Shalini only wished to enter the chamber of her boss and see him to her heart's content, take his orders. But how was that possible? She was not supposed to enter the chamber until the boss rang the call bell. Today was such a day as he had no time to call anybody inside. Was it that he left smoking once for all? He had not ordered her to buy even one cigarette since he came to the office. What could be the reason?

It was 12 noon when Samvit actually rang the bell. Shalini answered the call and entered the room immediately. She went closer to him and stood there.

'Do you know Shalini I left smoking today?' Samvit stated this very plainly, as if he were narrating before Shalini something he had achieved after a lot of efforts...as if he had finally acted upon the advice of Shalini after months of her persuasion!

Shalini was silent; she only kept waiting. Unlike the other days, there was no smile on her lips. As though she were waiting perfunctorily for an order to comply! Maybe, she was searching the real shape of a relationship between an officer of the rank of the Superintendent and a small time temporary employee!

Suddenly, Samvit remembered that he needed change for a thousand-rupee note. It was another odd job to be done as a part of his preparation for the long journey ahead. So he took his purse out. Both Shalini and Samvit were silent. Samvit opened a thousand rupee-note from his purse gently and proffered that to Shalini.

'No Sir, no. I'm not worthy of this,' said Shalini.

Samvit understood. He was about to order Shalini to fetch him change of that amount, but it was too late. Now it was well-nigh impossible to explain his intention by means of words. Samvit did not want to say a word, or a phrase, or something that would shock Shalini. He did not want to offend her.

'Shalini, this is from my side...take it, it will be of use to you,' Samvit insisted.

Shalini accepted the amount. In the afternoon when Samvit was there in the farewell get-together, he could find his entire staff present there...except Shalini.
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By
A. N. Nanda
Patna
19-11-2009
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Sunday, November 15, 2009

A Midway Halt

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Where one would ultimately reach depends on where he/she stands today. Again the hare and turtle story--does it lead to any moral? Well, I don't know. In literature, the most fundamental rule is that there's no rule. Jim Corbett started writing when he was sixty-nine year young! Everything is possible, only Lady Muse knows it well.
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I just remember a funny yet timid incident that happened to me when I was just a teenager. With no instructor to train me to swim and with all my friends swimming before me with aplomb, I could not have deferred my scheme of learning the feat any longer. So one day I started. To learn swimming is to jump into the pool--and what else could have I done? So I jumped into the pond. Swimming is not just moving hands and legs with splash of water around; it has some tricks, which I'm not sure if I've really mastered so far. Anyway, that very first day of my swimming I could somehow splash ahead until I reached the midway. Now my guts failed me; I couldn't be sure of my ability to swim the rest half. And what did I do, then?

I just returned to the spot where I started, for covering the rest half of the distance was not possible!

In life I have more projects started and left halfway than those I have been able to complete. Let me enumerate where I stand today:

1. I've bought books but not read them. The prominent ones pending in my shelf are--Midnight's Children and The moor's Last Sigh, both by Rushdie; Sea of Poppies by Amitabh Ghosh; City of Djinns and White Mughals, both by William Dalrymple. Besides many complimentary copies of books have been received from authors, mostly in Hindi. Oh yes, these days I'm also into Hindi.
2. My book "The Roadshow" has now altogether twenty-two stories and I want to make it a book of twenty-five. Only recently I wrote the eponymous story "The Roadshow". I don't know when that project would be over to enable me pestering the publishers for some honourable terms or for going the self-publishing way--oh, it has been my way so far.
3. After the success of "Virasat" (allow me to say that, please), I thought the best way to celebrate it is to write another one. And I'm into it too. I'm almost halfway through after finishing the fifteenth story of the opus. I don't know if it would be again a swimming experience of my childhood.
4. Well, the list could be really long…including my morning walk routine that has so many faltering restarts!

I've literary ambition. And I'm willing to work for it…even cutting down my sleeping and outing time. I've almost curtailed my socialization routines to the minimum. I don't bother about those occasional quibbles my body registers at my brain, say a pain in tummy or an hour of giddiness.

Despite all these, I don't know if it would make a repetition of that same childhood swimming experience. In fact I dread the incident even to this day.
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By
A. N. Nanda
16-11-2009

Muzaffarpur

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Monday, November 02, 2009

Mongrel

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This is a poem I wrote in 2005. Then I thought it would need extensive tweaking before it expressed something poetic. During last four years, I could not return there. Today as I run short of text to feed my emaciated blog, I decided to visit my old stuff. Surprisingly, the poem does not scare me. I feel I can show it to others, even in this form--sans polish, sans adornment.
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Mongrel

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Now many have started telling me
They’ve seen me somewhere
They don’t remember it for sure
But I believe them they don’t lie.

Of late I’ve a feeling that bothers me
I find the same persons again and again
Inside the coach of a train
or while passing through a subway.

I see the same sun rising even now
But lackluster, nasty, and malignant
Rising to set and that’s the ultimate
It’s darkness—and darkness for life's sake!

Now more of them whiz past me
Daring to follow them
I can’t do that now
I’m just a mongrel, homeward.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Berhampur
6-7-2009
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By
A. N. Nanda
Muzaffarpur

03-11-2009

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Thursday, October 29, 2009

Thank You Professor

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Professor Gopabandhu Mishra, Department of Sanskrit, Banaras Hindu University apologizes for his delay in communicating his feedback on my book "Virasat", saying that his daughter took his copy away to her hostel and only when she returned it, he was able to go through it from end to end. But never mind Professor, I take it as kudos from both of you. I've the benefit of receiving feedback from two of my avid readers. Let me reproduce that here in my blog.
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विरासत - एक अथक कहानी

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'क्या उसे मालूम नहीं पोस्ट आफिस लोगों के दिल में बसता है' (पृ। 61)। सचमुच, सारे दिलवाले जिस रथ में सवार हों उस रथ को दिशा देनेवाला सारथी भी कितना बड़ा दरियादिली होगा? 'विरासत' की सारी कथाएँ मन को छू जाती हैं। कुछ तो दिल की गहराई
में उतर कर उस में जगह ले लेती हैं आधुनिकता के प्रभाव से रुक्ष-सा नौजवान कामेश्वर दादाजी की मृत्यु की भावना से जब नरम पड़ता है तो केवल उसी का नहीं, कहानी के पाठक का दिल भी दुःख-सुख के साथी डाकिए के लिए द्रवित होने लगता है (वह अमर रहे) कटहल पेड़ की जड़ में अपने अज्ञान किंतु परिचित अपराध के लिए जुर्माना भरते मनमोहनजी का सहज मूल्यबोध हमारी सोई हुई मूल्य चेतना को झकझोर देता है, डाकमणि की माँ की प्रसूतिवेदना हमें सहानुभूति से ओतप्रोत कर देती है कालीचरण के बेटे की नालायकी जितना कष्ट नहीं देती है, उससे कई गुणा संतोष दे जाता है यह समाचार कि कालीचरण हार्ट सर्जरी के बाद सम्पूर्ण स्वस्थ हो गया इस छोटी-सी कथा में कथाकार ने मुख्य पात्र कालीचरण की मानसिक, आर्थिक एवं पारिवारिक परिस्थिति के साथ पाठक को पूर्णतः एकाकार बनादेने में सफलता प्राप्त की है पीटर का निर्मल डाक वाहक का जीवन उतनी निर्मलता पाने का यत्न कराने के लिए पाठक को प्रेरित करता है अपने अयोग्य पुत्र को अनचाही विरासत सौंपने वाले विवश पिता मगनलाल की अंत: पीडा सभी की पीडा बन जाती है बड़े अधिकारी का अनकहा अप्रकाशित हादशा मन ही मन अहंकारी एवं रुक्ष अधिकारियों के प्रति पाठकों के मन में अश्रद्धा जगाने में सफल रहा है यद्यपि कथाओं मेंगुदगुदाने एवं हँसाने की सामग्री पर्याप्त है तथापि मूलतः कथाओं में संवेदनशीलता अधिक संपूरित है एवं ठीक सेसंप्रेषित हो जा रही है डाकमणि की माँ, मनमोहन जी जैसे आधारभूत पात्र और उनकी भावनाएँ केवल जीती जगती नही हैं, अपि तू निरंतर भावात्मकता एवं संवेदनशीलता को खाते जा रहें समाज को मृतसंजीवनी मंत्र दे रही हैं एवं निरंतर जगाती हैं कथाकार . एन. नन्द की लेखनी ऐसी सारस्वती साधना में निरंतर लगी रहे - यही शुभकामना है
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A. N. Nanda
29-10-2009
Muzaffarpur
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Monday, October 19, 2009

Mini Ganga














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Mini Ganga

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Where rain, the lively

Playfully sliding the thatched slopes

Rushes to gutters in streams

With dried husks and leaves

And a new resolve to start everything

Afresh, along its muddy, swift course...


Where the expectant mother fish

Agog with her creative expectation

Escapes the dried pond

To end her summer quarantine

Braving the threats of silent annihilation,

And emits life to fill the vacuum...


Where the thundering frogs

Leap-frogging one upon the other,

Remonstrate with one and all

Over the ignominy of yesteryear,

And take yet another chance with destiny,

Their feeble limbs notwithstanding....


Where the haughty succulents,

Overwhelmed by the watery affluence,

Spring up from hell and assert

Their right to arrogance undiluted

Digesting sludge and discards

Along an embellished crimson hedge...


Where reptiles drift helter-skelter

Seeing their abode pitiably inundated

No longer a time for slumber it is, they run

By instinct for catching the straw

And stumble their way

To the safe haven of uprooted cacti...


Where the seasoned bamboo spine

Full of hatred for its struggling neighbourhood

Lies clandestine in the melted soil

Awaiting an ultra-soft-target–

The cracked heel of a hapless child

Wading for crabs for his midday feast...


Where waters evaporate

Drawing a close to the lively spell,

The autumn rays soon overtake

Driving fish sibling to premature deaths

And lily shoots to desiccate and hibernate

Under a touching prayer for a quick rebirth...


There I learnt my first lessons

Very intricate they are, I am unable to unlearn,

Sometimes I feel

The world has no need of these

But I cannot help being goaded by it

But I cannot keep them far behind.

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PORT BLAIR

11-03-1997



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Wednesday, October 07, 2009

The Lost Flamingoes of Bombay--Just Another Contemporary Fiction



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It took quite a month to complete this book. While reading this, I put it down in the middle in favour of reading Rushdie's "The Enchantress of Florence". Then, on finishing that historical fiction of Rushdie, I came back to "The Lost Flamingoes of Bombay". Does it mean I'd like historical fictions more than the contemporary ones? Well, maybe yes, or maybe no...it depends on how the book absorbs me. Now that Shanghvi's "...Flamingoes..." is over and I've no plan to re-read it, let me try a snippet for review, or say, record a few lines of my impression about the book I finished.

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The Lost Flamingoes of Bombay

by Siddharth Dhanvant Shanghvi,

Pages 349, Penguin Viking, 2009,

ISBN 978-0-670-08175-2, Price RS 499

The title is definitely evocative, if not romantic right away. My quick impression after reading the book is, well, it is just nothing if not romantic, yet on a rethought I decided that I should rehash my impression. The book has narratives, rich and extensive, outlining the development of relationships that finally emerge sharply; situations are nicely constructed where solitude can be differentiated from loneliness; romance is taken to the height where it really belongs, say deep into the sweet-bitter territory out of the banal domain of marriage; talents get nurtured within the congeniality of empathy and appreciation; friendships grow and draw their sustenance not necessarily from the romantic bliss but many a time from the silent resolve to stay together; and so forth. There is of course some quibbles about the opus, say the homosexuality part of it. It honestly did not work for me—no amount of effort could convince me that the story I was reading gels well with that kind of characters. The person extending romantic vibes towards his own gender is depicted to be honest, friendly, talented, kindly, brave, well-travelled, artistic, and empathetic but, at the end of the day, he is only a homosexual, a fact that mercilessly hijacks one’s sensibilities away from romantic bliss the book otherwise succeeds in creating through its profound narratives.

The story goes like this. Karan Seth comes to Bombay to realise his photographic ambition in creatively depicting the megalopolis in all its liveliness: he had come to Bombay in search of images that would reveal its most sublime, secret stories.... He is employed in the newspaper called The India Chronicle and once goes to snap a few shots of Samar Arora, the eccentric pianist of the yesteryears who has chosen to seclude himself from publicity. The assignment is challenging but nonetheless rewarding. There Karan, shy as he is, is introduced to Samar’s friend Zaira, the most talented star of Hindi filmdom. Karan discovers what a gem of the person Zaira is when she sends her publicist to get Karan treated after he gets trapped and bruised while photographing her at the premiere of her film. She is the one who suggests him to photograph a lewd-sounding piece of furniture, the Bombay Fornicator. Then Karan the photographer goes the whole hog to search the object and in the process meets one Rhea Dalal, the childless lady with superb talent in pottery. She has herself seen the flame of talent within her getting snuffed, a realisation that draws her closer to Karan. She takes him to different places in the city where there are subjects to be framed and photographed. This intimacy develops into a relationship of love and sex, all of it away from Mr Dalal who is busy at Singapore earning sumptuously for a life to be lived cosily. Zaira runs into problem with the son of a Minister, one Malik Prasad, who does not hesitate to stalk the star and then kill her in front of guests present in a high-profile party. The minister has its way, and the witnesses, the investigators, the judge—all of them are gained over. Samar, the friend of Zaira, fights a losing court battle only to be humiliated in the cross-examination with questions on his homo-sexual relationship with his partner Leo. Leo is infected with HIV and goes back to the US but ultimately gets cured there to write a book on the murder of Zaira much to the chagrin of Samar Arora. Rhea conceives and gives birth to a boy child that dies in an indoor accident as the nurse carrying the baby is attacked by a monkey in the nursing home itself. The adultery of Rhea explodes and Adi her husband, already under trauma after the loss of the child, disappears being unable to endure the deception of his wife. Karan goes to England teaches there and again comes back to Mumbai to resume his photography. Samar dies of tuberculosis and till the last Karan gives him company and solace. Finally, Rhea patches up with Karan and while returning from their nostalgic revisit of Sewri, she is tragically drowned in the city flood.

Should I say I read a great story? Well, the book is without doubt a contemporary fiction with events and characters and fads drawn from the world around as we see them in their contemporaneous forms. There are urban pollutions and political crimes, corruptions of national scale and public acquiescence to them, film and photography and pottery and other artistic menu, sex and deception and homosexuality, AIDS and spiritual stuffs, crime and criminalisation and their acceptance, and even the mention of cataclysmic urban flood that had come upon the unmanageable city of Mumbai. Once fraud had got hard-wired into the national consciousness, the political machinery did not work to rectify the flaw but to embrace its ideals. Despite its contemporary theme, the book does not have any spectacular story to tell. At a point there is a definite build-up of the plot to make it appear a story of crime and its detection, but then it does not end up like that. At another point the plot unravels in great detail a love that grows and fructifies outside its accepted societal boundary, but at the end of the day it achieves some minimal success. It cannot be said to be a love story of a lot of twists and turns, nor of a great climax, but then again it is not a total washout.

And what about characterisation? There are a few characters emerging out of their traditional moulds and making some extra exploratory incursions. Karan is one of them. He is talented, ambitious, friendly, adaptive, and modern. His friendship with Rhea Dalal is the strongest point in favour of the book. Rhea Dalal is an equally interesting character, all the time trying to make Karan do all that it takes to complete his photography project. Whether the love and sex between them is incidental or whether it is a clever move by Rhea to acquire a child as she is convinced that her husband would not be able to help her conceive—this is one of the unanswered aspects of the book. I think it is deliberate on the part of Shangvi to leave it for the readers to conclude. Samar appears to be another principal actor, but somehow his friendship with Zaira the actor is not properly dealt. Similar is his relationship with Leo McCormick that appears to be less than convincing except when a friction crops up between them as Leo intends to write a book on Zaira’s murder and the trial following it. However, the best characterisation is that of Minister Prasad. Even if among the villains, his diabolical moves have been adequately captured. His episode actually accelerates the pace of the narratives.

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By

A. N. Nanda

Patna

07-10-2009

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Wednesday, September 16, 2009

My Speech

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On 15-09-2009, "नई धारा" the sixty-year old Hindi literary magazine of Patna had organised a function to introduce me to some Hindi short-story writers of repute at Patna. It was quite an inspiring experience to me to see the stalwarts generously praising my stories from my book "विरासत" . Among them I can recall a few names: Shri Harish Pathak, the noted Hindi Story Writer and the Editor of the Rashtriya Sahara, Dr. Ramsovit Prasad Singh, the Director of Sinha Library, Shri Samuel Ahmed, the noted Urdu and Hindi fiction writer, Shri Ram Yatan Singh, Dr. Usha Kiran Khan, Dr. Jitendra Sahay, Shri Madhukar Singh, Shri Braj Kishore Pathak, Dr. Kalnath Mishra, Dr. Shaileshwar Sati, Dr. Asha Singh, Dr. Sambhu Sharan Sinha, Mr Rajesh Shukla. I was called upon to say something and I was ready with a prepared speech. After reading it out, I left the microphone to the literary people present there to deliberate. The next day's newspapers of the city published the news. I could collect copies of at least three of them, the Rashtriya Sahara, the Hindustan, the Dainik Jagaran. They had published the news in substantial detail with the photograph of the function. I thought I should publish my speech in my blog for whatever it is worth.
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सुधीवृन्द

मेरे लिए यह बेहद खुशी का मौका है कि मेरी किताब "विरासत" पर विचार देने हेतु आज इतने विद्वान यहाँ पधारे हैं। जाने-अनजाने में मैंने कहानियाँ अवश्य लिख डाली पर अभी भी डर मेरा पीछा नहीं छोड़ता। डर इसलिए है कि मैंने प्रयोगशाला में जो नतीजा एक बार देख लिया है, क्या फिर उसे दोहरा सकूँगा? खैर, मुझे यह भूलना नहीं चाहिए कि मैं कोई वैज्ञानिक प्रयोग नहीं कर रहा हूँ, बल्कि कहानी ही लिख रहा हूँ।
जाने-माने कथाकार श्रीमान रस्किन बांड ने कहीं एक बार कहा था कि लेखक दिखना नहीं चाहिए; सिर्फ लेखक की कृति ही पढ़ी जानी चाहिए। खैर, बांड साहेब को यह बात भी मालूम होगी-जो दिखता है वह बिकता है।
फिर, लेखक के पास कहने की काबिलियत हो, यह भी ज़रूरी नहीं। उसे हमेशा डर सताता रहता है कि उसने लिख कर अपने लिए जो भी नाम कमाया, बस एक ही उदगार में वह कहीं समाप्त न हो जाए।
लेखक दिखेगा नहीं, बोलेगा नहीं, तो फिर उसका क्या काम है? लिखो और भूल जाओ? समझने दो पाठक को जो समझना है? भला, आजकल के जमाने में कोई कुछ भी बनाए, उसके लिए वह एक साल या उससे अधिक अवधि की गारंटी तो देता है न? सो लेखक को भी उत्पादनौपरांत तमाम काम करने चाहिए, जैसे कि अगर कोई उसके लेख को समझ नहीं पाता है तो लेखक ख़ुद जा कर उसे समझाए। उपभोक्ता सर्वोपरि--क्या यह उसूल साहित्य के क्षेत्र में लागू नहीं होना चाहिए? भाई, वो जमाना चला गया जब लेखक यह कह कर भाग जाता था, "स्वांत: सुखाय...."
मेरे सामने दूसरा सवाल यह है कि लेखक किस हद तक एकांत में रहे और किस हद तक मिले-जुले? जब महाकवि जयदेव यह तय नहीं कर पाए थे कि श्री राधा का पैर क्या भगवान श्री कृष्ण के सर पर होने चाहिए, तो भगवान ने स्वयं आ कर इस दुविधा को मिटाया था और लिख दिया, "स्वरगरल खंडनं मम सिरसी मंडनं देही पदपल्लवमुदारम"। आजकल भगवान के लिए हम सब मिल कर इतने सारे समस्याएँ बटोर लिए हैं कि बेचारे के पास इतने समय है कहाँ कि वह कवि-लेखकों की ज़रूरत पर आएँ और उनके हाथ पकड़ कर दिव्य रचनाएँ लिखवा दें । तो फिर लेखकगण एकांत में बैठ कर सिर्फ़ प्रेरणा की टोकरी ढ़ोने से काम कैसे बनेगा?
सो लेखक को बाहर जाना चाहिए, पर किस हद तक? क्या वह केवल इर्द-गिर्द टहले और जब कुछ मतलब की चीज़ मिल जाए तो उसे समेट ले? या उससे ज्यादा चक्कर लगाए ताकि उसे कोई कदरदान मिल जाए? या उससे भी अधिक, जैसे कि सक्रियतावाद यानी कि आक्टिभिजिम की उबलती हुई कढाई में डुबकी लगाए? देखिए, "महाजन: येन गत: स: पन्था"। मतलब, वही कहिए जो बड़े लोगों ने कहा या बड़े लोगों को भाया। अगर भारत के बारे में कहना है तो, इसकी गरीबी के बारे में कहिए, "The Area of Darkness", या यहाँ के मदारियों के बारे में, इसके सिवाय और कुछ नहीं कहिए क्योंकि विदेश में यह पढ़ा नहीं जाएगा। अगर ख़ुद को प्रगतिशील होने का दर्जा दिलाना है तो आज के किसी ताज़ा "ism" को अपनाइए, इससे रचनात्मक ख्याति अपने-आप बढ़ जाएगी। सो बाहर जानेका मतलब पहले से ही तय हो जाना चाहिए--क्या ख़ुद से कुछ पल के लिए बाहर हो जाना है, जैसे शंकराचार्य ने एक बार किया था, या बाहर का समवेत गान में ऐसे शरीक होना है जिसे हम आज की दुनिया का तकाजा मानते हैं।
फिर एक सवाल। कुछ नया लिखा जाए, पर कैसे? इस बात पर मुझे एक और बात याद आ रही है? एक बार जावेद अख्तर साहेब ने व्यंग से ही कहा था कि फिल्मों के लिए लिखने वाले कुछ ऐसा लिखें कि वह बिल्कुल नया हो पर वह पहले से परखा गया भी हो। बात तो वही निकली न? ऐसा लिखा जाए कि लोग उसे पहले से ही जानते हों, जैसे कि, "Slumdog Millionaire" । उसे सिर्फ़ "The Millionaire" कहा जाता तो क्या बात नहीं बनती? खैर, लोग अब तक भूलें नहीं हैं कि एक ज़माने में हमें कुत्तों के बराबर का दर्जा नसीब था और आज उन लोगों के सामने जाने के लिए हमें जानवर के खाल में ही होना चाहिए, जिस्म पर विष्ठा का लेप भी होना चाहिए। और क्या?
हो सकता है, इस दुनिया में कुछ नया नहीं है, तमाम चीज़ पहले से ही मौजूद हैं। लिखने के मामले में हम सिर्फ़ विधाएँ बनाते हैं। पद्य थे, फिर गद्य आ गए और बड़े-छोटे में फर्क करते-करते हम विधाओं की सीमांकन करते गए। अब तक थके नहीं। गद्य को पद्य कह कर उसे आधुनिक बना दिया, पर गौर करने पर यह तो सदियों पुरानी विधा ही मालूम पड़ती है। मैं दंडी द्वारा रचित "दस कुमार चरित" से पड़ता हूँ, "कुमारा: माराभिरामा रामादौ पुरुषा: रुषाभष्मीकृतरयो रयोगोपहसितसमीरणा रणाभिजानेन अभ्युदय स्म"। सो हमलोग आज आधुनिक कविता में जो अंदरूनी तुकबंदी यानी internal rhyming की बात करते हैं, वह तो ईसापूर्व दूसरी सदी में भी थी और गद्य के रूप में ही थी।
सो क्या मैं इसे मानूँ कि नया कुछ नहीं होता है, नया का मतलब पुराना ही होता है?
अगर साहित्य इंसानों के द्वारा है और इंसानों के लिए है, तो पहले से तय हो जाना चाहिए कि क्या इंसान सचमुच प्रगति कर रहा है? फिर हमें जवाब मिल जाएगा, क्या साहित्य की भी प्रगति हो रही है या नहीं। बड़े लोग यह मानते हैं कि हाँ, इंसान प्रगति कर रहा है। डायनौसोर जैसे इंसान की समाप्ति नहीं होगी चूँकि इसके पास बुद्धि है। वह अतिमानव का रूप लेने जा रहा है और इस प्रकार उसे बीमारी, तनाव, भय और तमाम अनिश्चितताओं पर विजय हासिल होने वाली है। ज़मीनी हकीक़त क्या सचमुच ऐसी है? सबको आज एटमी हथियार चाहिए, सभी चाहते हैं कि हम शान्ति की तरफदारी करेंगे तब, जब और लोग हमें सबूत दिखाएं कि उन्होंने भी शान्ति को अंगीकृत कर लिया हैं। क्या लगता नहीं कि एक दिन कुछ न कुछ अनहोनी ऐसे ही घट जाएगी?
अंत में कवि T. S. Elliot की उक्ति को उद्धृत करता हूँ,
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper

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By
A. N. Nanda
Patna
17-09-2009
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