Celebrating literature East and West

… with a tenderness that can touch the heart, he allows himself like his characters, to be pulled first in one direction, then the other, but remains finally, a writer who insists on his doubleness, who refuses, inspite of everything, to choose between East and West .
— From the blurb on Salman Rushdie’s East and West, a collection of short stories

It was this ‘doubleness’ that was the flavour of the recently-concluded Jaipur Literature Festival. Authors who were born here but bred there; writers looking at the West even as they spoke about eastern sensibilities; or even writers born in the West making history here.

The impressive line-up included the latest and youngest Booker Prize winner Kiran Desai – ‘who writes with a cold eye and a warm heart’ to borrow a phrase from Binnie Kirshenbaum, author of An Almost Perfect Moment – chaperoned by the first Indian who started it all, Salman Rushdie (looking relaxed and ready to mingle with occasional stern looks reserved for the media); the celebrated Scottish writer William Dalrymple (is a happy man and it shows in all those extra pounds) – of whom David Gilmour of The Spectator said, “was a fine travel writer with a sense of history who has now become a fine historian with a sense of place.”

Keeping them company was Suketu Mehta, author of Maximum City: Bombay Lost and Found; Kiran Nagarkar, the ‘intermittent writer’ in his own words; Bangalore’s own Shashi Deshpande; the Australian Christopher Kremmer, author of Inhaling the Mahatma, (another Dalrymple in the making?); Amit Chaudhuri of the Afternoon Raag fame; Pakistan’s Feryal Ali Gauhar, whose second book, No Place for Further Burials, was released a day before the festival began; and journalist-turned-author Jerry Pinto. Not to forget Baby Halder, whose autobiographical Aalo Aandhari, translated by Urvashi Butalia as A Life Less Ordinary, is inspiring many other domestic workers like her to challenge the darkness around.

The list also included the distinguished Hindi poet Ashok Vajpeyi, acclaimed Gandhian Anupam Mishra, and Ira Pande who kept the regional language flag aloft in this sea of English writings.

This hot spread, so to speak, managed to sufficiently cloak the Jaipur winter morning chill, and when the author-speakers and various delegates, not to mention the media circus (as one delegate put it) with their OB vans and SLRs, gathered on the lawns of the Diggi Palace (venue of the festival) prior to the sessions, the sun shone even brighter.

The three-day festival – organised by the Jaipur Virasat Foundation (JVF) and supported by Unesco – according to festival director Mita Kapoor, “Was an attempt to bring the writers to their readers in an informal setting. Besides, I think they lead to many doors opening, minds being tickled, many an author would have been born, some poetry would have been written, creativity fuelled…”

In 2002, when the first literary international festival was organised at Neemrana in Rajasthan as a writers’ retreat, the debate of the season was the inevitable regional writings versus writings in English by Indians. Much has been said and written about since. The Jaipur festival, thankfully did not pick up from where Neemrana left off, but instead dwelt at length on the question of racial identity, at times it seemed, involuntarily.

Dual identity

The racial debate, as reality shows always remains inconclusive after having raised a lot of heat and dust. Some of which was felt when Kiran Desai said in passing that she too had been a victim of racial slur. Later, in her session with TV anchor Barkha Dutt, Desai said, “The immigrant experience changes us as persons. And all of us deal with it with some degree of hypocrisy. No matter what class you come from, you cannot hide from it. All of us line up at the same visa counter.”

Admitting that her decision to retain her Indian passport had often caused her grief, yet, she added, the longer she chooses to stay on in New York, “the longer it takes to give up the Indian passport.”

The racial slur could be as blatant as being called a ‘dog’ or ‘Paki’ or often subtle and patronising. Pointing out at the underlying racial tone that she has often encountered post Booker, she said people would say, “Oh! my god another Indian writer. Why don’t they say oh! my god another British writer or another American writer?”

Desai’s winner The Inheritance of Loss has been attributed with various adjectives and one of them is that it is a funny book. Desai read out such a piece that not only brings out the humour but essentially remarks on the immigrant question. “Indians everywhere in Guyana, man…everywhere you look, practically, Indians… Trinidad full of Indians!! Madagascar – Indians Indians… Kenya. South Africa. Saudi Arabia. Fiji. New Zealand. Surinam. Indians, yes, in Alaska; a desi owned the last general store in the last town before the North Pole, canned foods mostly, fishing tackle, bags of salt, and shovels; his wife stayed back in Karnal with the children… On the Black Sea, yes, Indians, running a spice business. Hong Kong. Singapore.”

Essentially, Indians everywhere. Thus whether they were born in India or grew up elsewhere, the Indian author writing in English can never shake off the ‘doubleness.’ This hybrid existence of the ‘Rushdie inheritance,’ according to Suketu Mehta, was what made authors like him comfortable about writing in English. And Mehta is now all ready to walk the bylanes of New York (“the city of immigrants”) to do to it what he did to Mumbai in Maximum City.

Stars on sands

Dalrymple, meanwhile, has found his grail in the dusty lanes of old Delhi in the days of the last Mughal Bahadur Shah Zafar. His session brought out the magic of history classes. Nagarkar, perhaps, the only other who has found fame both as a Marathi and English writer, spoke about Zia in his God’s Little Soldier. Coming from a Brahmo Samaj background, Nagarkar said he was drawn towards religion in the academic sense. “There’s this constant conflict of the outsider,” he says, referring to his choice of subject (religion) in his latest book.

The starcast had packed houses. But the other sessions made up for it in its own individualistic style, especially by Pakistani writer Feryal Gauhar, who besides reading from her latest book, ‘performed’ a small piece in Urdu on domestic violence. Sheer delight.

“The literature festival has grown from attracting just a handful of people in its first year to a packed house now,” said Faith Singh, founder of the JVF, who hoped to evolve a network of city festivals creating a circuit of Indian cities of living heritage.

Adds Mita Kapoor, festival director, “Literature festivals are here to stay, definitely. With Katha already on the scene, Kitab too is coming up with theirs, the momentum to bridge the gap between authors and readers, to bring languages, cultures, regions and countries together has caught on.”

Says Shashi Deshpande, “The festival was good, and though it was heavily weighted towards English writings, authors had more space. Of course, any author will tell you that such festivals should have an informal atmosphere like the one we had in Jaipur.” Though, adding that the media made too much about the big stars. “It should be more democratic. Let’s not get so overawed with people who have made it in the West.”

Which essentially means that big awards and even bigger advances should remain incidental. For the writers, whether they choose to look East or West, what matters most are the thoughts that come from those imaginary homelands that their minds reside in.

Banking on the power of the word

We take the written word so much for granted that we fail to see its powerful impact. But when people like Mohini Devi, Shanti, Manju and others like them make time to especially come to something as alien as a literature festival (in their context), you realise the power of the written word. All these women are employed as domestic workers in Jaipur and were drawn to the festival to hear Baby Halder’s story. A domestic worker-turned-author, Halder’s autobiographical Aalo Aandhari in Bengali translated by Urvashi Butalia as A Life Less Ordinary, talks about her struggles and bad marriage in a faraway Bengal village and her journey to Delhi and enlightenment.

Says Mewa Bharati, a social worker, “Baby’s story has a great potential to inspire others like her. We want these women to experience this liberation that comes from education.”

Manju, who earns about Rs 300 for sweeping and swapping in Jaipur homes, is overwhelmed with the gathering and is soaking in every bit of the exposure. Hopefully, she will take that first step and enroll in an adult school.

It is apparent meanwhile, that Baby has broken the shackles of her mind. She is in the process of writing her second book. And there are plans of going on a book tour to Hong Kong and Paris. Her book has been translated into French and more languages of the world. However, the French are taking a keen interest. “Her story is a universal story,” says the French journalist, who has been pursuing her diligently.

Yet, she maintains she will continue to work for Prabodh Kumar, her employer, who is a former professor of anthropology in New Delhi. “Till tatush wants me to stay I shall continue to work for him,” she says of Prabodh whom she refers to as tatush meaning father in Polish.

Says Urvashi, “This is the end of phase one of her life.” Adding, “The book is about silences that women live with and Baby’s efforts have broken that silence.” So much so that Baby does not shy away from the possibility of it being made into a film. “My screen role; no other than Nandita Das or Konkona Sen Sharma,” she smiles.

With Taslima Nasreen as her inspiration, Baby says she would never give up writing but her priority will always remain a bright future for her two children.

We take the written word so much for granted that we fail to see its powerful impact. But when people like Mohini Devi, Shanti, Manju and others like them make time to especially come to something as alien as a literature festival (in their context), you realise the power of the written word. All these women are employed as domestic workers in Jaipur and were drawn to the festival to hear Baby Halder’s story. A domestic worker-turned-author, Halder’s autobiographical Aalo Aandhari in Bengali translated by Urvashi Butalia as A Life Less Ordinary, talks about her struggles and bad marriage in a faraway Bengal village and her journey to Delhi and enlightenment.

Says Mewa Bharati, a social worker, “Baby’s story has a great potential to inspire others like her. We want these women to experience this liberation that comes from education.”

Manju, who earns about Rs 300 for sweeping and swapping in Jaipur homes, is overwhelmed with the gathering and is soaking in every bit of the exposure. Hopefully, she will take that first step and enroll in an adult school.

It is apparent meanwhile, that Baby has broken the shackles of her mind. She is in the process of writing her second book. And there are plans of going on a book tour to Hong Kong and Paris. Her book has been translated into French and more languages of the world. However, the French are taking a keen interest. “Her story is a universal story,” says the French journalist, who has been pursuing her diligently.

Yet, she maintains she will continue to work for Prabodh Kumar, her employer, who is a former professor of anthropology in New Delhi. “Till tatush wants me to stay I shall continue to work for him,” she says of Prabodh whom she refers to as tatush meaning father in Polish.

Says Urvashi, “This is the end of phase one of her life.” Adding, “The book is about silences that women live with and Baby’s efforts have broken that silence.” So much so that Baby does not shy away from the possibility of it being made into a film. “My screen role; no other than Nandita Das or Konkona Sen Sharma,” she smiles.

With Taslima Nasreen as her inspiration, Baby says she would never give up writing but her priority will always remain a bright future for her two children.

A supari for the first bad review

This is especially for critics of New York-based Suketu Mehta. Beware! Mehta is saving an offer of a supari (contract killing) from Chota Shakeel in his favour. “I am saving it for the first bad review,” he breaks into a smile, while talking about macabre scenes that he encountered while researching for his book, Maximum City: Bombay Lost and Found. The book went on to win the Kiriyama Prize, and was a finalist for the 2005 Pulitzer Prize.

During his research, Mehta got to know many underworld hit men, one of them being Chota Shakeel, a former Dawood man.

The meetings, Mehta said, would often take place in his hotel room, and often these men would end up taking a bath in his bathroom. “During our session, Chota Shakeel asked me what I thought of him. Earlier, he had mentioned how he had ambitions to serve in the Indian Army, often breaking out in Urdu couplets.” Mehta, who was surrounded by the ganglord’s gun-totting men took his time. “You could imagine my state. I finally gathered some courage and said he was a kavi (poet). He was more than satisfied to gift me a supari.”

A graduate of New York University and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, Mehta was asked the obvious, whether creative writing lessons help. “Some years ago, when I was in Mysore, an elderly gentleman asked me what I was doing in college. I replied creative writing. The reply so shocked him that he laughed wondering if it will be creative mathematics next,” answered Mehta.This is especially for critics of New York-based Suketu Mehta. Beware! Mehta is saving an offer of a supari (contract killing) from Chota Shakeel in his favour. “I am saving it for the first bad review,” he breaks into a smile, while talking about macabre scenes that he encountered while researching for his book, Maximum City: Bombay Lost and Found. The book went on to win the Kiriyama Prize, and was a finalist for the 2005 Pulitzer Prize.

During his research, Mehta got to know many underworld hit men, one of them being Chota Shakeel, a former Dawood man.

The meetings, Mehta said, would often take place in his hotel room, and often these men would end up taking a bath in his bathroom. “During our session, Chota Shakeel asked me what I thought of him. Earlier, he had mentioned how he had ambitions to serve in the Indian Army, often breaking out in Urdu couplets.” Mehta, who was surrounded by the ganglord’s gun-totting men took his time. “You could imagine my state. I finally gathered some courage and said he was a kavi (poet). He was more than satisfied to gift me a supari.”

A graduate of New York University and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, Mehta was asked the obvious, whether creative writing lessons help. “Some years ago, when I was in Mysore, an elderly gentleman asked me what I was doing in college. I replied creative writing. The reply so shocked him that he laughed wondering if it will be creative mathematics next,” answered Mehta.

Published on : deccanherald.com

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