Tribute

Goodbye, my dear friend

We met in 1965, remember? In the MA English Literature class, taught by many luminaries, among whom the most brilliant were Nissim Ezekiel and Dr RB Patankar. You and Yasmeen Lukmani and I would traipse over to Dr Patankar’s room in the university building at Fort to hang around. That’s what it was. Hanging around, with cups of tea, and Dr Patankar sitting across the table, his fingertips together, and a characteristic half- smile lighting up his face. Often Dr MP Rege dropped in too, and our debates rose to some other level. How we argued. We were allowed to do that in those glorious days when ideas could be freely exchanged and challenged. You once said to me, “I wonder how you would look with your mouth shut.”

I could have said the same to you. We all talked too much, testing our ideas, revelling in new ones that the professors so generously shared. Dr Patankar and Dr Rege both wrote incisive blurbs for your first novel, Saat Sakkam Trechalis.

Years before it was published, you had called me. Come and spend the day at my place you had said. You had sounded secretive. When I arrived, you took me directly to your writing desk. You pulled out the chair for me. You said, “Sit and read this. I’ll give you lunch. Then you can go back to it.” “This” was a sheaf of some hundred pages of Saat Sakkam Trechalis. I’m not sure the title was in place, but everything else was. I was bowled over by what I read. Was it a novel? I didn’t know. You didn’t know. But it showed signs of being one.

Saat Sakkam Trechalis was a tough novel to write and an equally tough one to read. I was teaching at HR College when it was published. You stood outside the staff room door beckoning to me. You were distressed. Nobody had reviewed the book. Could I please? You had already talked to the editor of a mainline daily who had agreed to carry the review. When it was published, Kumar Ketkar wrote a letter to the editor telling us both off for being so “bourgeois” and “out of touch with things that really mattered”. He was at IIT then and an already fullblown or blossoming Marxist.

Years afterwards your cousin Shobha offered to translate the novel. She had already done two drafts. Both had left you dissatisfied. You came to me with the third. For seven days we sat together going through her translation word by word, phrase by phrase. It is a good translation, I said. You sighed the sigh of every author who finds the translation of his work not quite there. But it can’t be Kiran, I argued. Language isn’t a neutral medium. A language brings in its own tonalities. You sighed again, but called it a day. Shobha was taken off the hook, the translation was published and you and Tulsi gave me a lovely doria sari, which I wore for years afterwards.

Those were years when the cultural agencies of Britain, America and Germany held interesting seminars and book discussions. We were invited to one such discussion with the American theatre director and critic Harold Clurman. Mahesh Elkunchwar was also there. The participants were seated in two rings round an oval table. You and I were in the outer ring. In front of us in the inner ring was Pearl Padamsee. In the course of the debate you got very agitated and wanted to have your say. You took a long stride over the inner ring to grab the mike on the table, creating in the process a bit of slapstick comedy, which left everybody bemused. First, in your lunge for the mike, you dropped your chappal in Pearl’s lap and then went on to express yourself at great length in a mumble that nobody understood. Forty years on, I still felt a trifle nervous when you got up to speak at a St Xavier’s College seminar. But I needn’t have worried. For by then you had become an international figure and learnt that the first step to being understood was to open your mouth when you spoke. Your speech that day was brilliant.

Like Dilip Chitre, Arun Kolatkar and many of us back then, you were bilingual. Your next book Ravan and Eddie was in English. Nobody else writing in English could have given us such a consummately tragi-comic view of chawl life. Indo-Anglian writers did not know the Bombay you did, nor did they have your inimitable way of looking at life and its absurdities. No wonder you made it your mission in recent years to fight for the health of the BEST bus service. The BEST bus was uniquely Bombay. Your Bombay.

Your wit was always irreverent, and bawdy to boot. I remember the first reading of your play Bedtime Story at Dr Shreeram Lagoo’s place in Worli. Nothing like it had ever been written for the Marathi stage before. We laughed uproariously. We loved the wit, the crazy ideas, the tremendous scope it would give to directors and actors. But no directors and actors were forthcoming. The Marathi stage, even the experimental variety, tucked its tail firmly between its legs and fled. Did you learn your lesson from that experience? I wish you hadn’t. Because the play you wrote after the destruction of the Babri mosque had neither the delicious surprises nor the wit of the first. Rekha Sabnis put a lot of life into her production of it, but it still didn’t work. I told you so and you were hurt. Even offended. But perhaps I was forgiven when I loved Cuckold and said so in black-and-white.

The last book I read of yours was God’s Little Soldier. It was perhaps your first book to be panned. You were distraught. You asked me to write about it and I did. A book that large might not work as a whole, but might have large chunks that do, illumining the whole. I found many such in the book and wrote about them showing how the novel could be read through them.

After that I lost track of your work. We continued to meet on and off at various events. The last time we met was at Darryl D’Monte’s funeral, in March this year. We grieved over his going and recalled the time when he and I were putting together a special issue of the Times of India devoted to Bombay in commemoration of the newspaper’s sesquicentennial, in 1998. Among the writers we had invited to contribute to the issue was you. You did what only you would have done. You sent us an essay about Mumbai’s lepers. Darryl was horrified. We can’t use that in a celebratory issue he said. I returned the essay to you with great regret. You were not amused.

A #MeToo cloud was hanging over you when we met. I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t there. As a friend I had to hear what you had to say. You didn’t know what had hit you. You defended yourself with conviction. I reached for your hand and held it tight. I am happy that, for once, I allowed the friend rather than the critic in me to respond. The body memory of our clasped hands consoles me now.

Shanta Gokhale is an acclaimed novelist, playwright, translator, critic, columnist and theatre historian.

The above tribute was originally published in The Mumbai Mirror on Saturday, September 7, 2019

 

 

Event update

How inclusive are we? Explore opinions discussed in an Online Literary Festival hosted by Indian Novels Collective and Belongg

On Saturday, 23 January 2021,Indian Novels Collective in collaboration with Belongg, hosted a day-long online festival on inclusivity in Indian-language literature. It witnessed sweeping participation from different quarters—from academia to literature, publishing to activism—giving rise to a dynamic, intellectually stimulating and creatively-charged interface.
 

For the first session titled Same-Sex Love and Desire in Colonial India we had academic, activist and author – Ruth Vanita, unpacking the articulations of same-sex desire in literature, through changing trajectories of time-space, starting from pre-colonial India and moving on to colonialism, proper. Talking about how same-sex desire never faced any persecution in pre-colonial India, Vanita elaborated on how it is just one part of a vast spectrum of desires and pleasures. She further added, ‘Employing a range of different kinds of tones, major poets wrote about same-sex relationships without any embarrassment or inviting any trouble.’ Vanita also delved into the vilification of sexual and romantic love outside the institution of marriage. She referred to the ‘systemic erosion of cultural institutions as a direct result of colonisation of the mind’ and how ‘the whole vision of life and literature shifted, due to exposure to western education and laws. Pleasure, devoid of any motive or any prospect for social reform, was rejected.’ However, Vanita reassured her audience that the journey has commenced towards reclaiming the confidence that we previously had lost in our literary culture, post 1857.
 

Moderated by the co-founder of Indian Novels Collective, Prof. Ashwani Kumar, the second session Sunrise Upon the Northeast: Literature from the Not-So-‘Mainland had three brilliant poets from the Northeast: Kamal Kumar Tanti, Sabreen Ahmed and Mona Zote, on the panel. Reflecting on the composite culture of Northeast India, Sabreen Ahmed spoke of how the aesthetics and ethos of reclamation of Miya poetry is more political than the humanist concerns, and cannot be limited to one single connotation. Kamal Kumar Tanti echoed a similar belief and went on to comment on how poetry is finding new publishing avenues in Assam. He added how both, physical spaces and digital media, are encouraging the circulation of poetry in Assam. For people writing in English, Sabreen emphasised that webzines are helping in creating visibility and scope for publishing in Assam. Addressing the lack of opportunities for Indian writers in regional languages, Mona Zote asserted, ‘If we want our literature to be read, translations should be the way forward.’ Going beyond the ramifications of the post-colonial coinage ‘Northeast’, the session celebrated the universal language of togetherness, as the poets recited their evocative poetry and reflected on the polyphony of their experiences, navigating through constant rupture, rapture, renewal and resistance.
 

Shanta Gokhale’s iconic works Avinash and Rita Welinkar brought attention to mental health issues, way before its representation was normalised in contemporary literature. In the third session The Ocean in the Closet: Writing and Reading Between the Lines, the prolific writer and our revered mentor spoke to Shefali Tripathi Mehta. Reflecting on how creative writing has its roots in reality around us, Gokhale shared some of her experiences and foregrounded the lack of acceptance stems from the stigma attached to mental illness. Calling out the culture of exclusion endorsed by society at large, Gokhale underlined the need for open conversations to generate awareness and empathy. In addition to mental health, the veteran author also expressed her views about writing and translation. Upholding the belief that translated text should always remain accessible to readers, Gokhale shed light on the role of translation in engaging a new readership and the transference of love from the source language to the target language — a love that also becomes the building bridge between different cultures, languages and world views. As the insightful session drew to a close, Gokhale also treated the attendees to a lesser-known trivia by revealing that Avinash was never published in Marathi.
 

For Holding up the Microphone: A Publishing Saga, we had four powerhouse women on the panel, which involved an in-depth discussion around the symbiotic need for independent presses to balance commerce and readership expansion. With Trisha De Niyogi of Niyogi Books moderating the session, we had Urvashi Butalia of Zubaan, Rita Krocha of Penthrill and Ruby Hembrom of adivaani on board (joining us via video messages). Addressing the shifting premises of the publishing industry, Urvashi Butalia mentioned how marginalised voices enrich our literature. She also added that dedicated readers and passionate colleagues act as great allies for independent publishers. For newer voices to be accepted, Butalia advised that readers ‘cultivate different curiosities’. Reflecting on the role of publishing in the dissemination of stories and preservation of knowledge for the next generation, Rita Krocha talked about the current publishing scene in Nagaland and how it has given a much-needed platform to emerging writers. Ruby Hembrom walked us through how she started adivaani for the preservation of Adivasi culture and knowledge, and the challenges of publishing adivaani books. Along with thought-provoking exchanges, the panelists also recommended some of their favourite titles, that would be great options for discerning readers to explore.
 

With an amalgamation of depth, texture and analysis, the last session of the day The Way I See It: Conversations about Challenges in Writing focused on literature’s potential for empowering different realities. Tracing the dual processes of disability, ability and their interconnected overlaps, the discussion drove home how literature can help one empower oneself through alternative innovations. Poet Soni Somarajan advocated integrating compassion to our societal framework and reminded us how one can choose to be one’s own self. Writer-cartoonist Bnim created a life-affirming impact of resonance with —‘I cannot walk, I can run; I cannot play, I can make people dance.’ Shedding light on the travails of exclusion, triggered by able-bodied ideals, disability rights activist and founder of Revival Disability Magazine, Anusha Mishra spoke about the active process of unlearning and relearning, and how she finally came to believe in herself. As the conversation progressed, Bnim expounded on the inclusivity ingrained in Telugu literary culture. Citing the example of Shakuni in Mahabharata, he also revealed how the present-day nomenclature of physical disability had its roots in the cruelty of mind. Critiquing the problematic representation of disabled experiences in contemporary cinema, Soni Somarajan and Anusha Mishra pointed out how that often contributes to further alienation. Anusha further added, ‘When you carry out sensitisation campaigns, you have to be careful about not triggering anyone’s trauma’ while also voicing the necessity for passing the mic to more disabled writers.

Literature performs as our elixir of resilience, a moral compass and coherence, helping us survive the worst of times and transcend the barriers that hold us back from realising our fullest potential of knowledge and humanity.

As the festival mapped the all-encompassing galaxy of Indian literature, it also reminded us how it forges meaningful connections with its readers, replenishing fissures in the process.