-
8/2/2019 Apr 08, 2012 P3
1/1
POSTscriptA P R I L 0 8 , 2 0 1 2
SEVEN SISTERS
NELitreview
3
THE narratives in this bookcover some of the most sig-nificant incidents in the dif-ferent phases of my life, a life
that went on to overcome the travailsof a difficult childhood, early mar-riage and the subsequent responsi-bilities of a single parent raising fourchildren and coping with the de-mands of a full-time job. The mem-ories of that life presented here arethe most insistent ones which depictthe journey of an individual in searchof the self-worth once lost to timeand circumstances. This book is ba-sically a memoir rather than an au-tobiography because, as Gore Vidalhas said, A memoir is how one re-members ones life, while an autobi-ography is history, requiring research,dates and facts double-checked.Therefore the accuracy required inan autobiography has not been at-tempted here; nor has any chrono-logical detail or sequence been men-tioned or strictly followed. The onlyprinciple adhered to here is the ef-fort to present the authenticity andintensity of the impressions retainedin the memory of a heart which hasborne the burden of their truth thesemany years with the clarity and sharp-ness that have not been diluted orlessened by time.
At the most intimate and personallevel, the book is an attempt to put asemblance of coherence and a senseof summation into the dialogue thatI have been trying to have with mychildren over these long years, ver-
bal or otherwise, in order to makethem understand what has gone intothe making of this imperfect woman
whom they call mother. There weremany times when my prattling aboutmy own childhood as contrasted withtheirs would evoke the response, Yesmommy, but those days were differ-ent. At other times I would be rebuffedby their silence; hurting inside, butunable to proceed further because Idid not know how to penetrate thebarrier of their youthful indifference.
At times I even accused them inwardlyof being insensitive and unfeeling.
But in spite of being in an uneasyand prolonged state of parental lim-bo which became my lot, I perseveredbecause I believed that I deserved tobe heard and if verbal communica-tion failed, then I had to leave them alegacy in writing which would makethem appreciate what they are nowand what they have had in terms ofparental love and care. This is, there-fore, an offering to my children, myversion of the book of knowledgeabout ordinary lives: the joys and sor-rows, about plenty and poverty and,most importantly, about love and whatit is like to be deprived of it.
A writer never feels that all is saidor done yet, especially one like mewho seems to have stumbled into thearena quite by accident. The roadahead is longer and more tortuous.In all honesty, I can say that my road
is not always clear or smooth; I needto remind myself about how far I ambehind the other runners. SometimesI confess I feel like the athlete who iscaught doing only the first lap whenthe winner has already reached thefinishing line! But I still scribble lines,compose story frames and spend theoccasional sleepless night and so thestruggle goes on. The rewards of be-ing a writer are not monetary alone,though the odd cheque from pub-lishers is a timely reminder that youought to keep up the good fight! Andthere is the all-important question ofgenius; the sooner one accepts oneslimitations as a writer, the better willbe the going.
Being a famous writer, I believe,comes with a price and I often won-der what the big prize winners think
when they re ceive the fre nzied ac-colades of a Nobel or Booker or a hostof others. Do they feel burdened withthe expectations that go with therecognition? I am sure that they do
because the reading public can oftenbe unrelenting in their demands fora bestseller each time from such writ-ers. And then sometimes one hearsabout the learned doubts: whether aparticular book truly deserved the
prize. Such remarks sometimes leadto speculations about what goes intothe politics of selection. Of coursethese are matters that writers like me,mere dots on the literary horizon, canonly observe from the periphery. Nev-
ertheless, the fact remains that thesespecial writers, too many to namehere, are the luminaries in the visi-ble rings of the literary universe whose
works ignite our imagination and en-thral us with the power of their genius.
But the inherent beauty and scope ofliterature is such that within that uni-verse there are countless other un-sung writers whose work can equal-ly delight and inform.As for peripheral writers like me, there
is a definite sense of validation whenI am told that my writings, both poet-ry and fiction, have found a place inthe syllabi of colleges and universitiesnot only in the region but elsewherein the country too; and the knowledgethat some scholars are writing MPhiland PhD theses on my poetry trulygives me the impetus to continue writ-ing. Such interest in my work alsomakes me believe that what I write isrelevant to the people and to life ingeneral; and as a writer I feel that thisis the most important ingredient inany writing: that literature berelevantto life.
I often ask myself this question: whathas being a writer done to my life? Thefirst practical answer would be: it hasgiven me an excellent outlet to occu-py my leisure after retirement. I feelthat there is still some purpose in mylife when I am pecking away at mycomputer with one finger, even if theresult quite often turns out to be aw-ful poetry or insipid fiction! Still, I cansay to myself, at least I am doing some-thing! Not just lolling on the bed andspending endless hours before the id-iot box! Pursuing a full-time vocationof writing has provided me with a nov-el way of occupying my time at thisstage in my life when most of the strug-gles of my earlier life seem to be overand done with. This life also providesme with opportunities to keep in touch
with other writers and poe ts fromwhom I can draw inspiration and gaininsights into the world of other liter-atures and cultures. The intellectualenergy generated through this pursuitin many ways also helps me to over-come the physical infirmities broughton by time! Mind over matter?
Truth be told, being considered awriter flatter s me and I feel that i nsome way this validates my preten-sions of being an intellectual! Whoknows perhaps this was the recogni-tion that I was searching for when Ibungled through life in the most in-expert way. I used to think of myselfthen only as a frustrated housewife
who was s eeking something unat-tainable in life. And now I think thatif only I could produce somethingmore worthwhile than what I havebeen able to do so far, I am sure thatmy life-long striving for that extra butelusive dimension to my life will besomewhat vindicated.
But on the other hand, I have no il-lusion about the tenor of the life thatI have had. It has been wholly an or-dinary life comparable to any othersthat one sees every day and in thatsense this memoir is not going to bean earth-shaking or life-changing one.I have written this because, as I haveexplained earlier, I had to. What I havetried to do here is to say that it is theordinariness of life that becomes soimportant to so many of us. It is theordinariness that challenges us andpits us against enormous odds. From
where I stand now, I can see the con-tours that this ordinariness has givento my life and how the challenges putme through the crucible of my ownfailings and weaknesses to achieve, al-beit in a modest way, what I was striv-ing for. The rewards and joys of thisordinary life have far outweighed thehardships and heartaches. I can nowsay in all sincerity that it has been agood fight; and above all, I am surethat someday my children will be ableto say, Weunderstand you, mother.T
Its been a good fight
POETRY, like music and painting,is an intensely personal thing atthe very beginning. Sometimes it
reaches the places of ascent or descentby means of stairways, makes smalldiscoveries. Sometimes it sprawlsacross the page with dizzy escalationsor sudden wild drops. Generally the ti-tle of the poetry book manifests whatkind of a person the poet is: tradition-al, aggressive, progressive, conven-tional, etc. This Ancient Lyre, a collec-tion of the best poems of famousMalayalam poet ONN Kurup, appar-ently guides us through the lyrical sim-plicity, traditionally acquired knowl-edge, and youthful passion of the poet:
Passion that came to woothis virgin earth! How could youtake Indras gorgeous bowand shatter it so
In Kurups poetry, the chronology ofpoems plays a significant role in dis-covering the poets ideological as wellas aesthetic evolution.
Poetry is the process of transferringthe muse of the poet through his/herfingertips. Some poets look deep intothe objects that give shape to things:shadow, mirror, glass. They travelbetween the past and the present insearch of meanings, record theorganic feelings, and meditate onits writing:
What earthly use are we to our lostbrotherwhen we must stay partly lost to findeach other?Only by this-this shrewd obliquityOf speech, the broken word and thewhite lie,Do we check ourselves, as we might haltthe sunOne degree from t he meridian.(fromLanding Light, by Don Paterson)
Again, some poets try to define theirown position as individuals and poetsin relation to hereditary attitudes andpatterns of image. They draw on theirrelatives memories, reveal their align-ment with others poetry, recognisethe twinned nature of the gestures likecaring and spurring, nurturing and poi-soning, etc. in life:
As Dadiba shrivelled and diedHis matka began to bloomUntil the roaches walked from it
Coated with pollen.Moss festooned it without and insideIt was alluvial with silt so richIt grew orchids(fromAsylum, by Jerry Pinto).
Poetry is a place for drawing intersec-tions, arousing hopes ( Melting downthe lean summers/of history/we shallmake our own sunrise/in the east),demanding justice, asking questions(would our bones too turn into/ stonessuch as these/thatd dumbly narratethese lines to/ another cosmonaut whomay one day perchance land here?).
In Dreaming at Mukesh Mills, JerryPinto draws intersection between twogenerations in a same space. A textilemill rendered derelict by a strike, nowused as a location by film-makers. Itsan intersection between father andson, father once worked for the milland the son is a film technician:
The hoarse voices around him becometug-boat cries;The sun is a floodlight, he is reeled up
flat,The mill will go. The sun will lose.He can taste defeat and it is strangelylike his own spit.
In Tamil Nadu, an ordinary Muslimwoman composed a poem i n one ofthe state level conferences on Muslim
Womens Right and Empowerment:
Every day feels like deathDue to this double-faced justiceWhen we make the law for menThen will they learnLet us talk of a common justice
And attain our victor
They wanted a separate mosque forwomen with a womanmaulvi, who iswell-v ersed in the Quran and thetenents of Islam.
Poetry reveals philosophy, religion,form and structure. Poets explore newareas of psychological insight: the de-pressions, the pain, and their ulti-mate revelations:
A lone tree waiting without shadow orpurpose;a figure moving along its luminous bor-ders,undisturbed by what happens here.the world ends there, and whatlies beyond is only what the mindso competently conceivesduring hours of pain and pleasure(from Painting the House, by BibhuPadhi)
The poet is never afraid to criticise whatis wrong. Regi Siriwardena, a Sri Lankanpoet, stood firm against Sinhala ma-
joritar ianis m, and critic ised Tamilchauvinism and militancy. In Colo-
nial Cameo, he tried to capture hisEast-meet-West legacy:
In the evening my father used to makeme readaloud from Macaulay or Abbots
Napoleon (he was short and Napoleon,his hero; I his hope for the future).
My mother, born in a village, had nev-er taught
It is always pleasant to have a senseof belonging to and a recreated beau-ty of the Northeast in the poems. InStreet on the Hill, Anjum Hasanbrings the much-ignored Northeastliterature to light:
We have hills in our bloodbut end up smelling fat cars on citystreetsand garbage strewn under rainWe speak in stories:raconteurs, mimics, chroniclers all,with vast memories and no name-plates(My Folks)
In Rain, she writes:
You will hear it walking to the roar ofa ceiling fan,in the rustling of dry palm leaves, inpebblespouring from a lorry onto thedusty street.
Finally its time to recall thememories and finish my jour-ney reminding readers of ANegro Nun from Dr BirinchiKumar Baruahs ProfessorBaruar Sithi ( Professor Baru-ahs Letter) :
Her white robe was a symbolOf purity
And her sweet, black faceRevealed purityIf humans, black or whiteCould come to a realisationThat a black faceCan symbolise purity
And a white none may devote evilAs well as goodnessThen the grave colour problemOf our countryWill be solved. T
A short poetical journey
ANOTHERCHANCEAhmed FaiyazWestland, 2011`195, 217 pagesPaperback/ Fiction
A story aboutpeople looking fora second chance tomend their lives. Tobe filmed in 2012
THE HABIT OF LOVE
Namita Gokhale
Penguin Books, 2012`250, 184 pagesPaperback/ Fiction
A collection of storiesabout lives ofwomen from the pastand the present
NEWPRINTSKHALIL GIBRANOR
PROPHET
Jyotiprasad SaikiaNatun Asam, 2011`100, 87 pagesHardcover/ Non-fiction
TRANSLATION of KhalilGibrans collection ofpoetic essays, TheProphet
Northeast
NUGGETSuArunachal Pradesh has more than 500orchids. In which districts are the Orchi-
doriums situated?
tAt Tippi, Dirang and Sessa in West Ka-meng district.
uWhich is the oldest town in ArunachalPradesh?
t Pasighat. It was established by theBritish in 1919.
Source: Haksar, Nandita (ed.). 2011.Glimpses of North East India. Chicken
Neck: New Delhi
(One of the most prominent writersfrom the Northeast, Temsula Aos books
include: Laburnum for My Head, TheseHills Called Home: Stories from A War
Zone, and The Ao-Naga Oral Tradition.She received the Padma Shri in 2007 andher works have been widely translated.)
iNKPOT
ONCE UPON A LIFE: BURNTCURRY AND BLOODY RAGE
Temsula Ao
Publisher:Zubaan BooksYear Of Publication : Forthcoming
What does it mean tobe a single mother,
have a full-time job andlive up to the
responsibilities of beinga well-known writer?Temsula Ao grapples
with the many aspectsof her life in her
forthcomingautobiography. Here
are two excerpts fromthe book for the
readers to know howher memoirs begin and
how they end
*****
ipenGYANENDRA SHRAVAN PHUKAN
JORHAT
Subhamoy Bhattacharjee
