Showing posts with label Close Reading. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Close Reading. Show all posts

CLOSE READING - Authoritative, with a fresh perspective : Subir Bhaumik


Sharma’s interest and deep insights makes this book a fascinating read and a volume worth collecting for anybody interested in Assam, Northeast and India

Empire’s Garden is the most authoritative and well-documented historical analysis of the transformation of medieval Assam into a colonial province. But it is also a study of how Assam – and its adjoining regions – came to be part of India.  So the book is not only about Assam but also about the evolution of modern India, specially the transformation of its far eastern frontier into a constituent part of the nation-state. David Ludden is justified in describing Empire’s Garden as a “new departure for the historical study of Assam” and in expressing his hope that it will “anchor histories of Assam for years to come.”

EMPIRE’S GARDEN: ASSAM
AND THE MAKING OF INDIA
Jayeeta Sharma
Permanent black, 2012
`750, 324 pages
Hardcover/ Non-fiction
Though focused on a province, Sharma’s scholarly range is extraordinary because she has so much to offer on South Asia’s post-medieval history, on colonialism, nationalism and regionalism to ethnicity, elite formation, migration, capitalism and economic progress. That is perhaps because when someone studies Assam closely, and as thoroughly as Sharma has done, one would surely come out intellectually richer about so much else that affects the whole of the subcontinent. Assam is the microcosm of India and also encapsulates its many problems, developments and social processes but in its own distinctive way. Because Assam (and the rest of what is today India’s Northeast) is a link region between the civilisations of the Indo-Gangetic plains and the Southeast Asian highlands, it is the flower-garden that replicates India on a smaller scale but it is also the fluid corridor through which population movements have shaped the future of South Asia.

But despite so much relevance to India, Assam is that part of the subcontinent that has received much less attention from serious historians of the subcontinent, except those working on the tea industry. Jayeeta Sharma’s fascinating details of Assam’s history become more relevant because they relate local themes to larger issues of South Asian history: colonial ideologies of race and the importance of these ideologies to the political economy, the structure of colonial rule, the development of these public spheres and the reformulation of identities under colonial circumstances.

As Douglas Haynes aptly sums up, Empire’s Garden “helps us to understand the historical dimensions of contemporary conflicts in the region, without making the conflicts seem predetermined by what happened in the colonial period.” Sharma takes us back to the colonial processes by which the tea industry came into existence through the planned growth of a cultivated system of plantations in what was just a jungle-laden frontier. But she details and analyses the orchestrated migration of “tea labour” from the Chotanagpur region and later the large-scale migration, again encouraged by colonial rulers, of a huge underclass of land-hungry peasants from East Bengal.

She argues that the racialised construction of the tea labourer catalysed a process in which Assam's gentry sought to insert their homeland into an imagined Indo-Aryan community and a modern Indian political space. Various linguistic and racial claims allowed these elites to defend their own modernity while pushing the burden of primitiveness onto "non-Aryan" indigenous tribals or migrant labourers. As vernacular print arenas emerged in Assam, so did competing claims to history, nationalism and progress that continue to reverberate in the present. Sharma’s interest and deep insights into labour and culture, migration and social change makes this book a fascinating read and a volume worth collecting for anybody interested in Assam, Northeast and India.

CLOSE READING - Reflecting folk life : Ramlal Sinha



Ramlal Sinha takes a close look at DILS Lakshmindra Sinha’s collection of folktales that mirrors the community’s life accurately


WHEN a reader goes through any of these tales, she sees a vivid picture of what the rural Bishnupriya Manipuri life looked like and to some extent, still does

The folklore of a community comprises its traditional beliefs, myths, tales, and the practices of its individuals, being transmitted orally from generation to generation. If one wants to know a community better, the surest and most effective route to that is through understanding its folklore. Folktales are an essential component of folklore, and the oral tales of the Bishnupriya Manipuris are no exception to this.
Treasury of Bishnupriya Manipuri Folk Tales
DILS Lakshmindra Sinha (ed and trans)
Pouri, 2011
BD Tk. 200, 115 pages
Paperback/Fiction
The Bishnupriya Manipuri folktales, called Babeir Yari or Apabopar Yari (the tales of forefathers) by the community members, can be categorised as (1) Apangor Yari (tales about simpletons), (2) Raja-Rani baro Rajkumar-Rajkumarir Yari (tales about royal family members), (3) Bhootor Yari (tales on ghosts), (4) Soralelor Yari (tales about the Rain God, Indra and his seven scions), (5) Pahiyapolei baro Jibojantur Yari (tales of birds and beasts), (6) Porir Yari (fairy tales), (7) Etihasar Yari (tales from history), (8) Myth and Legends, (9) Funny Skits, (10) Thogoar Yari (tales of frauds), (11) Pabitra Yari (sacred tales), (12) mucky tales or mucky jokes and the like.
This collection and translation by DILS Lakshmindra Sinha, founder president of the Bishnupriya Manipuri Writers’ Forum (BMWF), has enough tales that depict the wit, intelligence, fancifulness and sense of humour that Bishnupriya Manipuris are richly endowed with. Poetic justice — an outcome in which vice is punished and virtue is rewarded in a peculiarly or ironically appropriate manner — is glaring in most of the tales in this collection. This indicates that the Vaishavite Bishnupriya Manipuri community respects justice and disapproves of logical fallacy entirely.
This collection comprising 26 folktales in English is the first of its kind among writers from the community. It gives readers the taste of a wide variety of folktales from Bishnupriya Manipuri folk literature, and from this point of view, the collection can be termed an inclusive collection. It is indeed a valuable documentation for posterity.
It is worth mentioning here that G A Grierson had collected three Bishnupriya Manipuri folktales from Manipur and included them in his Linguistic Survey of India (Vol. I, part IV, published in 1891) along with their English translations. Sinha has incorporated all the three folktales collected by Grierson. The author has also adopted and translated the folktale ‘The Lawyer and the Merchant’ that had been collected and published by Upendra Nath Guha in his Kacharer Itibritta’ (1971).
From my personal contact with Sinha, I have come to know the modus operandi followed by him while collecting these folktales. He had to wander from village to village and arrange some sort of story-telling competitions among old women, who got a meagre remuneration for each story told. Often, the same story would vary in its telling from region to region. Sinha has taken these variations into account while collating the tales.
The success that this collection has achieved is obvious from the fact that when a reader goes through any of the tales in it, she sees a vivid picture of what the rural Bishnupriya Manipuri life exactly looked like and to some extent, still does. Characters found in ‘The Idle Woman’, ‘The Silly Peasant’, ‘Two Brothers’, ‘Apang the Thief’, ‘The Tale of a Bitu-Titu’, ‘The Story of Pani’, ‘Gokulsena and His Wife’ and the like, look no different from rural Bishnupriya Manipuri folk.
This collection has added yet another feather to Sinha’s cap. He has as many as ten volumes of poetry to his credit already, besides a volume of short stories written in the Bishnupriya Manipuri language. Some of his poems have also been translated into Assamese, Bengali and Hindi. A select number of his short stories have also been published in English translation. Treasury of Bighnupriya Manipuri Folktales only goes to prove the versatility of this noted writer.

CLOSE READING - Talent robbed in translation : Shalim M Hussain



Tattooed with taboos is an anthology of 77 poems by three women poets who try to understand what it means to be a young Manipuri woman. Like most of the recent literature from India’s Northeast, the answer is struggle. The poems are divided into three categories – ‘Tattooed with Taboos’, ‘Angst for Homeland’ and ‘Love and Longingness’ (sic). The first set deals with the woman question – the problem of female sexuality and the possibility of and need for emancipation. However, it is a very political and essentially Manipuri question. The second set moves slightly away from this theme to the wider political condition in a Manipur torn between tradition and change. Again, this is not an un-gendered condition as the problem of politics is strongly embedded in the femininity of the women poets. The third set is a collection of ‘love poems’. However, the love and longing is only sometimes about romantic or sexual love. Mostly, the tone is severely sarcastic and the style one of parody.
Tattooed with Taboos
Chaoba Phuritshabam,
Shreema Ningombam,
Soibam Haripriya
Siroi Publlications and
Loktakleima Publications, 2011
`200, 133 pages
Paperback/Poetry
The book is, however, an example of how a great deal of talent is lost for the want of a good editor. Atrocious grammatical errors and a generous amount of clichés make some of the better poems almost unreadable. For a very long time, Indian English Literature, especially the literature produced from non-metropolitan areas has been criticised for exhibiting a ruggedness of translation. Sadly, many of the poems in this collection suffer from that drawback. The translation of thought from the languages of Manipur to English is not very smooth and betrays the process. Some of the phrases are out of place and in a few places the idiom seems to be borrowed directly from the mother language. Confusion of tenses is another hindrance to smooth reading.
The third poem in the first set, Soibam’s ‘I Died a Little’ deals with the three stages of a woman’s life – puberty, loss of virginity and marriage. It is through these rites of passage that the persona is introduced to the patriarchal codes set for a woman and her individuality dies a little while passing through the three steps. A few common images run through the poems. One is the Swiftian technique of using the image of clothes as an extended metaphor. In Soibam’s ‘Of Clothes and Robes’, a sash represents individualism and femininity and the persona’s act of replacing it with another sash under the influence of other voices that speak of ‘freedom’ and ‘culture’ represents the polarised political situation of Manipur. The sexual politics of women’s clothing, especially the traditional phanek, surfaces heavily in the poems of Shreema Ningombam. In ‘Unburdening Dead Spirits’, ‘To the Ema Lairembi’ and others, the ‘uncleanliness’ and inauspiciousness of the phanek are celebrated. Shreema’s poems are red-eyed and restless. The female personas are charged with the energy of protest and are unwilling to adjust within patriarchal norms. In the poem ‘One Last Time’, a phrase of which forms the title of the anthology, the woman seeks emancipation through the pursuit of prohibited pleasures and the reversal of societal codes. However, the frenzy is interspersed with absolutely delicate gems like ‘In Red’ where the surrealism shifts from gloom to mellowness and the magical concluding line: ‘No, you must go before the night turns red’ is filled with yearning.
Chaoba Phuritshabam’s poems are less energetic and unlike Shreema’s personas, the voices here are more universal. The language of the poems, however, is simple and unassuming. It is this property that gives a sharp edge to their meaning. Sample the business-like tone adopted in the poem ‘Fruits of Your Taste’ where varieties of female bodies are put on display for the male gaze:

Welcome to the market of fruits
Some are like your favourite apple
Some looks (sic) like your juicy orange…

Chaoba’s ‘Questions on her’ is placed strategically at the end of the ‘Tattooed with Taboos’ section. In its analogy between the prostitution of a woman and the prostitution of the Loktak Lake, it anticipates the next section, ‘Angst for Homeland.’ This section deals basically with the identity crisis of the average Manipuri women. ‘Between two flags’ depicts the problem of a state caught between its monarchical past and its current status as a state of the Indian Union. ‘Patriot of My Land’ shows how power corrupts the self-proclaimed liberator. For Shreema, home and mother are indistinguishable from homeland and the angst arises from the feeling of strangeness on revisiting the primeval stage after a period of experience. The phanek ‘stained with primeval blood’ returns to remind us that the angst is, again, very gendered and personalised. The conflict between the new and the memory of the old is summarised in the first stanza of ‘Broken’:

I am home and they are still here
The streets still scarred
These hills still in reverie
Which one is more sore?
The broken strings of your guitar
Or the broken notes of their Pena

The analogy between the guitar and the Pena resonates with the guitar/balalaika pair in The Scorpions’ ‘Wings of Change’, though in an exactly opposite context. The home gives the persona everything except, like the tragic Mughal prince,

… a tiny corner
To rest at long last
Broken bones of our hearts.
Soibam’s poems in this section are vitriolic attacks on various aspects of the Indian democracy, especially ‘India whining’ as opposed to ‘India shining.’ In ‘Another Polish for My Nails’, my favourite poem from this set, an ordinary voter pines after the politician like a beloved waiting for her lover to fulfil his ‘promises.’ The electoral ink is satirised as a lover’s gift of nail polish for his beloved. The poem concludes in a mock-pining note

Yet I believed
Like a love struck luckless lover
I wish I have (sic) chosen
Another polish for my nails.

The final section, ‘Love and Longingness’ (sic) is the weakest link in the anthology. The metaphors are stale and the language is stiff and prosaic. Shreema’s ‘Becoming of You in Me’ is heavy on metaphysical conceit but the selection of words and syntactic errors make the poem almost unbearable. Only Soibam delivers in this set. In her pleasantly caustic love-letter-like ‘To the Researcher,’ the relationship between the government survey analyst and a villager is parodied as a romantic relationship. The language shifts between a lover’s rebuke and a song of yearning.

CLOSE READING - Rethinking Bangladesh : Syed Bashir

Bangladesh: Politics, Economy
and Civil Society
David Lewis
Cambridge University Press, 2011
£55, 308 pages
Hardcover/ Non-fiction

For those who lead the global efforts against terror, Bangladesh is a key link


40 YEARS after its independence, Bangladesh gets much less importance in the South Asian context as compared to India and Pakistan. No one can disagree with David Lewis when he argues that the global community needs to pay much more attention to Bangladesh – nor can one disagree with the reasons he brings to bear in support of his contention.

Lewis is Professor of Social Policy and Development at the London School of Economics. He specialises in development policy, especially in rural development, and management as well as organisational issues in development agencies, NGOs and civil society. An anthropologist by training, he usually approaches development from an anthropological standpoint. He has undertaken extensive field research in South Asia, particularly Bangladesh, and that is where his knowledge of the country originates.

In this book, he takes us back to the country’s past and also brings us a picture of its present socio-economic and political scenario. Contesting the notion of the country as a failed state, Lewis tells us why and how Bangladesh is growing in importance for the international community. Four decades after Bangladesh achieved its independence wading “through a sea of blood”, one would feel this is the right time to assess “the impressive transformations”  made by it, overcoming its 'basket case' status of the 1970 and ‘80s, and to consider the many lessons the country may now offer the rest of the world.

There are many reasons why it is important that we look more closely at Bangladesh today. Its population is overwhelmingly Muslim. Yet, unlike other Muslim majority countries of the world, it is making good progress building a stable democratic system. It is also achieving increased economic growth and human development. Over and above this, the country has long served as an incubator for many key development ideas that have emerged over the past 40 years. It is a useful case study into understanding the way globalization affects people in the world's poorer countries, and how they cope with these ill effects. Despite its poverty in many sectors, present day Bangladesh is taking a leading role in dealing with climate change.

One could add to this list–  geographically, Bangladesh sits midway between the Islamic or Muslim-predominant nations of West Asia and Southeast Asia. The country is therefore considered strategically placed by the pan-Islamic radical forces. So for those who lead the global efforts against terror, Bangladesh is a key link. For their purposes, it should never be allowed to become the playing field for those who uphold the legacy of Bin Laden. It is therefore that the world supports the forces of secular democracy in Bangladesh. The liberal elements within the country and outside it do not encourage the people, organisations and factors that promote radical Islam openly or covertly. Perhaps David Lewis could have dwelt on this aspect in more details in his book.

Gentle to a Fault : Aditya Sudarshan on Mitra Phukan's "A Monsoon of Music"


If the book tackled the questions it throws up, it would have been something of a masterpiece. 

A Monsoon of Music
Mitra Phukan
Penguin Zubaan, 2011
`450, 432 pages
Paperback/Novel
A Monsoon of Music, Mitra Phukan's second novel, is set in the world of Hindustani classical music in and around Assam and Bengal. It is a gentle and leisurely novel, with a minimalist but detailed plot, and a consistent atmosphere of unhurried musicality. What Phukan says about classical music applies equally to this book: “it could never be absorbed... in a hurry... you needed time to savour the way it unfolded.”  

The story itself is simple. Nomita Sharma is a 26-year-old vocalist living in the little town of Tamulbari near Kaziranga, where she studies classical music under her guruma, Sandhya Senapati, and teaches school children. Nomita has received a proposal from Kaushik Kashyap, a young sitar maestro who has already gained national and international renown, and is set to gain even more. Nomita's response to this proposal is the central drama of the novel. But it is a drama that is treated in a curiously undramatic manner. There is little overt tension created, and there is no obvious conflict presented. Phukan's characters are almost all uniformly intelligent and reasonable, which means that there is no particular parental pressure on Nomita, nor any oppressive demands from the groom-to-be or his family. Nomita has space and time to reflect on her situation, to gather information about her potential husband, to think about the implications of arranged marriages in general, and marriage to a musical genius in particular. Her reflections occur over the course of what is, quite literally, 'a monsoon of music', a series of concerts in Tamulbari and Kolkata, which also become the setting for many discussions about classical music, the dangers of an insular puritanism, the dangers of commercialism, the bond between the guru and the shishya and so on. This last subject acquires a special relevance once Nomita becomes aware of the rumours that surround the relationship between her guruma, Sandhya – perfectly fitted, as far as Nomita knew, to her musician husband Tridib – and an industrialist named Deepak Rathod. She does not, at first, believe the rumours – her teacher is her role model – but they give her food for thought. 

Now, none of this may sound gripping, but it does come close to being mesmerising. Phukan creates the reader's interest in her characters by the simple expedient of being interested in them herself.  There is no pandering to prevailing fashion. Nomita, for example, is a perfectly plain girl, not greatly beautiful, not very greatly talented, fairly conservative in dress and taste – and intelligent – altogether a contrast to the typical young female protagonist of the modern Indian English novel. The same principle applies to the expositions of music that run through the book. Phukan is interested, and so even a completely ignorant reader like myself, if willing to be patient, is also quite likely to be drawn in. 

However, he or she is also likely to be a little disappointed. It is perfectly artistically valid to hold clear of overt drama, but Phukan never quite catches hold of even the covert drama that is certainly inherent in her story. She hints at powerful questions, but fails to fully tackle them. Is an artist as a person defined by his or her art? Is a 'fitting' marriage the most exemplary marriage? Can the values of classical music, with its emphasis on structural perfection, become damaging to one who lives and breathes them in all things? If this book, which does throw up these questions, had also seen them through, it would have been something of a masterpiece. As it is, the climax of the novel feels wrongly engineered; its emphasis beside the point. Nomita overcomes what was never really assailing her. She had never been troubled by the commonplace middle-class fear of other people's opinions, but by her own special attitude to music and musicians. But that attitude is allowed to pass, insufficiently tested. 

One thus feels a certain tameness in the novel as a whole, stemming from the absence of a well-developed antithesis. Even the frequent debates Phukan's characters indulge in never draw blood, so to speak. It is as though, having fashioned so lovingly their gentle personalities, the author is loath to really disturb them, and having intimately introduced the world of classical music, she has grown shy of undermining it. Still, the personalities are real and human, the world is truly captivating, and the drama, though unfulfilled, is certainly discernible. All of this makes A Monsoon of Music a very fine novel, worth reading.