Scenes from a life:

A realization of the horror of her new married life comes suddenly. Soon she is pregnant and, barely understanding what has happened, finds herself being rebuked by the doctor for “choosing” at so young an age to have a child. Two more children follow; then her husband splits her head open with a rock after he sees her speaking with another man, and her elder sister is beaten and strangled by her own husband.

That’s part of the synopsis, in today’s New York Times, of Baby Halder’s memoir, recently published in English by Penguin India, coming after the great success of the Hindi and original Bengali versions.

Baby Halder, now 34, is a domestic worker whose gift for reading, and ultimately composing, literature was discovered by her employer, retired anthropology professor Prabodh Kumar, in Gurgaon. After reading the article, I was surprised that we hadn’t discussed this book yet at the Mutiny, although commenter Dhaavak (who hasn’t been around lately — where you at?) mentioned it here.

I’m looking forward to reading this book, a classic exercise in giving voice to the voiceless. A few days ago on the thread about Sri Lankan maids in Lebanon, there was a tangential debate about the extent of domestic worker abuse in Indian households. Of course, it’s hard to measure. Baby Halder’s own experience veers from one extreme to another: after she flees Murshidabad and comes to work in the Delhi area, her employers range from the ones who have her lock her children in an attic all day, to Mr. Kumar, who coached her to find her voice.

But the bigger point here is that it’s not just the employment experiences of domestic workers that are misunderstood; it’s their whole life stories. For so many employers in societies where domestic labor is widespread, when workers go home “to the village,” they disappear into a black box. At most, perhaps we learn of the problems their families back home face and for which we are asked to contribute some money. Of their back stories, their childhood and formative moments, we usually know very little, and often don’t care to know at all.

The Hindu has a nice story and interview that gives a little more detail:

“My employer Prabodh ji has lots of books, including many Bengali books. While dusting them, I always used to think if one day I could read them. Even as a child, I always wanted to go to school. Despite our poverty, my mother never stopped us from going to school and even after she left us, I continued going. I studied till class 7th. So when Prabodh ji once saw me a little lost while dusting the books he asked me whether I would like to read a Bengali book, to which I said yes. He gave me Taslima Nasreen’s autobiography and soon I realised her life is so similar to me,” she narrates. Not stopping at Nasreen, Baby soon picked books by Mahasweta Devi, Shanko Ghosh, Charat Chandra Bangopadhay, Rabindranath Tagore, Ashapurna Devi, Nasrul Islam and more such Bengali luminaries.

This is, among other things, a compelling example of the vital importance of girls’ primary education. (Here’s a map showing female literacy rates in India, district by district.) It’s also a wonderful story. Much respect to Baby Halder! Continue reading →

Though her life wasn’t as drastically messed up as that of her friend and contemporary, Saadat Hasan Manto, Ismat Chughtai was definitely a born rebel. She lived her life the way she wanted, and wrote the truth in her many stories, novels, and nonfiction essays.

Chughtai’s most famous story is “Lihaf” (The Quilt), which deals with a lesbian encounter within an all-woman setting (Zenana) in a traditional Muslim household. It’s a funny and scandalous story (read it here), but actually, my favorite short story by Chughtai is called “Sacred Duty.” I came across it in a recent collection called The Quilt and Other Stories. It’s been beautifully translated by Tahira Naqvi, who has been Chughtai’s committed translator and one of her great champions.

“Sacred Duty” is not online anywhere, so perhaps I should briefly summarize it and quote a little. Samina, who comes from a respectable Muslim family in Delhi, is engaged to be married to a respectable Muslim boy. However, the day before her wedding she runs off with her boyfriend with Tashar Trivedi, a Hindu whose family lives in Allahabad. Samina accompanies Tashar to Allahabad, where converts to Hinduism and is married to Tashar in a Hindu ceremony. When her parents get Samina’s note explaining her disappearance, her mother’s first reaction (the story is told from her parents’ perspective) is “Let’s go to Allahabad and shoot them both!” Lovely. Continue reading →

A tipster on the News page alerts us to the following very odd column by Jon Carroll in the San Francisco Chronicle. The tipster comments: “Personally I think this article is in poor taste, but I’ll let others decide for themselves. I don’t want to be accused of jingoism.” A wise display of circumspection! So let’s take a look for ourselves. Carroll begins:

Occasionally over the years I have reprinted examples of English written by people for whom English is not their native language. Many of the examples appeared to be translations prepared by somebody with a whatever-to-English dictionary and a keen will to succeed. The earnest author would often, perhaps unknowingly, have a fit of fancy, often landing in magical territory unvisited by native speakers.

Okay… So, where are we going with this?

People often accused me of making fun of the writers. Not at all. I loved the writers. They were demonstrating how flexible English can be, something that professional writers tend to forget. It’s nice that the grammar police exist, but they mustn’t be allowed to rule. Language is not just a tool or a blade; sometimes it’s a springboard or a trampoline or a balloon.

Tool, blade; springboard, trampoline, balloon. Right. Anyway:

English as spoken in India is not a mistranslation; it’s a different dialect. Most written Indian English is made for domestic consumption, so it can follow rules that make intuitive sense to the audience.

Ah! We’re going to make fun of Indian English! Sure, why not.

The work below was prepared by a friend of a friend.

The old friend-of-friend move. Convenient when you write a daily column. (No columnist should ever write daily.)

All the sentences are reported to be actual quotations from one issue of True Crimes magazine

Reported to be actual! (Columnists don’t have to fact check either.) Now, onto this Indian English of which you speak:

Her husband clipped her ambitions with the instrument of refusal. The pangs of separation from her paramour made her to suffer….

When he retired to his bed that night, he tried to analyze latent import of her expressions; his body got thrilled….

Vijay’s friends had cars, in which stereos were fitted and they used to insert cassettes in the decks and then enjoy melody of recorded songs. “Come, let us go to the lake and listen to melodies of songs there….”

Geeta smelt a revolting odour in what he spoke. But Vijay was influential and also commanded much muscle power. Although he was in love with another girl called Lucy, a modern and highly fashionable dame, love messages were started exchanging through visual contact. Geeta put a bewitching and killing smile on her lips. Vijay didn’t find her unsuitable for an immoral act. “My business pertains to counterfeit currency and alongside I also do swindling. I will indulge in such novel acts of sex that your spirits will blossom and cheer you up and you will not feel sorry….”

Geeta: “Would I prepare for celebration?”

And so on. Anyway, here’s my question: as odd as Indian English can get, is this at all representative? Maybe I’ve just been sheltered from the worst of it. If so, feel free to rupture my illusions, preferably supplying your favorite examples. But if not, what exactly was the purpose of this column?

Continue reading →

Here is a snippet of South Asian focused children’s literature, from the website of the dedicated magazine Kahani:

Kayan’s grandfather walked in. He held something shiny in his hand.

“What is it, Ajoba?” Sarika said. Their grandfather held up a silver coin.

“It’s just a coin,” Kayan said.

Ajoba shook his head. He placed the coin on one palm and rubbed his hands together quickly. Then he held up his hands. The coin was gone.

“Wow!” Sarika said. “Neat.” Kayan’s eyes widened.

“A magic coin,” Ajoba said.

Another snippet and some illustrations are available at the magazine’s website. One of its contributors is SM regular Pooja Makhijani, who has a nice personal essay on the topic of desi children’s lit at PaperTigers.org, a website on Asian-American writing for kids:

As I was growing up, I would search library shelves in the hopes of finding a character “like me”. I never had much luck. One day, my elementary school librarian excitedly handed me a tattered copy of The Jungle Book by Rudyard Kipling. “It’s set in India,” she squealed. “It’s the perfect book for you!”

Shockingly, Pooja did not find herself identifying with Mowgli. But one day at the library, she ran into a book called Dancing Princess:

Dancing Princess was a historical novel set in 16th century India during the reign of the Mughal emperor Akbar. Although Allaedi, the main character, wasn’t exactly like me, she was close enough. We were both brown haired, brown eyed, brown skinned girls and we both loved to dance. I renewed that book again and again, carefully scrawling my name onto the index card pasted on the inside back cover each week.

Continue reading →

[I found the following in the Oxford Anthology of Modern Indian Poetry. It’s by Adil Jussawalla.]

Sea Breeze, Bombay

by Adil Jussawalla

Partition’s people stitched
Shrouds from a flag, gentlemen scissored Sind.
An opened people, fraying across the cut
country reknotted themselves on this island.

Surrogate city of banks,
Brokering and bays, refugees’ harbour and port,
Gatherer of ends whose brick beginnings work
Loose like a skin, spotting the coast,

Restore us to fire. New refugees,
Wearing blood-red wool in the worst heat,
come from Tibet, scanning the sea from the north,
Dazed, holes in their cracked feet.

Restore us to fire. Still,
Communities tear and re-form; and still, a breeze,
Cooling our garrulous evenings, investigates nothing,
Ruffles no tempers, uncovers no root,

And settles no one adrift of the mainland’s histories.

Continue reading →

Indian author Raja Rao passed away in Austin, Texas, at the grand old age of 96. He’s best known as the author of Kanthapura, and is one of those authors so strongly identified with the 1930s and 40s that it was actually a little surprising to find out he was still alive. (But then, his contemporary Mulk Raj Anand only passed away fairly recently himself.)

Rao lived a nomadic, complicated, 20th century life. He was born and raised in Mysore, and oddly enough for a South Indian Brahmin boy, he received his education mainly at Muslim schools in Hyderabad (his father worked for the local government, I believe). According to excerpts of his memoirs here, he also studied at Aligarh Muslim University until he received an invitation to come to a university in Montpellier, France, from a visiting French professor. This was around 1928; he ended up staying in France for more than a decade, studying, again surprisingly, Christian theology, and marrying a French woman who was also in academia. The marriage soon fell apart, and Rao returned to India on the eve of the Second World War, becoming more and more religious. He spent a great deal of time in ashrams in the 1940s, though he was also active in the independence movement. Though Rao later returned to France, he finally settled in Austin, Texas, where he taught in the Philosophy department (alongside G.V. Desani) until he retired in 1980. Continue reading →

Even in translation, the writings of Saadat Hasan Manto are blindingly good. Manto published about 250 short stories in a very brief career — alcoholism killed him at the age of 42 — and countless nonfiction pieces for newspapers and magazines. Much of Manto’s nonfiction writing is witty and sharp, though he also has a dark side that comes out in some of his best work. Partly because they’re available online, today I’d like to point readers to a series of rhetorical “Letters to Uncle Sam” Manto wrote in the early 1950s. There were nine in total, and four of them have been put online at Chowk: one, two, three, four.

If you know Manto well, you might want to skip down a bit for quotes and comments on the “Letters.” For those who don’t know Manto: the stories are amazing, often horrifying. The Partition stories Manto wrote are about the darkest you’ll ever see. Several of them deal explicitly with the psychic effects of rape, on both men and women, perpetrators and victims. Even Manto’s pre-partition writings (stories like “Khushia,” for instance) seem deeply preoccupied with the problem of masculinity and the objectification of women, from a perspective that’s only partly feminist.

Manto was in Bombay through the Partition (in 1948, he decided to move, with his family, to Lahore), so it’s unclear to me whether he personally knew people who had experienced this kind of violence. But stories like “Open it!” and “Cold Meat” (both of which provoked obscenity trials in Pakistan) seem to be inspired by a very personal awareness of the effects of traumatic violence. Whether or not he was personally there, Manto’s partition stories keenly capture the dehumanization that follows communal violence.

(As a place to start, I would recommend the collection Black Margins, though pretty much any collection will do.) Continue reading →

Since Ennis mentioned superheroes, I wanted to point out that Samit Basu has put together a wonderful series of essays and interviews on the subject of contemporary Indian speculative fiction (“speculative fiction” is an umbrella term, which includes sci-fi, fantasy, horror, and alternative history).

It’s really a small encyclopedia rather than a blog post, so here are a couple of pointers to start you off. First and foremost, Samit deals with the question of Indian speculative fiction in the context of the recent flourishing of “literary” Indian Writing in English here. He deals with the question of “authentic” Indian superheroes (as opposed to the bad, but familiar, ripoffs of western superheroes) here. Both are highly recommended links. Basu also gets into some questions about the publishing industry and the current dominance of diasporic writers here, though that may be of interest more to people interested in publishing questions. Continue reading →