If you have a problem, fix it. But train yourself not to worry, worry fixes nothing. - Ernest Hemingway

Wednesday, 30 September 2020

Remembering them …

  Poem and Painting by Soumya Shankar Mitra

Remembering Suzette Jordon of Kolkata, the young woman of Kamduni, Nirbhaya of Delhi, the little girl of Kashmir, Manisha of Hathras, and every other girl and woman of my ill-fated country who suffer terrible indignity at the hand of power, and with apologies to Subhash Mukhopadhyay …

However far I might go, 

A phallic symbol of power, 

The clenched fist of a rapist 

Walk alongside.

 

However far I might go,

Walk alongside me

The lecherous look of the protector,

The pathetic defences of the ruler,

The wary eyes of the neighbour

The impotent verdict of the judge

The dance of falsehoods in the crematorium.

 

However far I might go

Along the pitiless guttural path of survival,

A pair of bloodstained footprints of God

Walks alongside me …

However far I might go …

 [Translated by me on 30 September 2020, I have changed the heading.]

The original poem follows >>>

 

 রেপ-কথা

 সৌম্যশঙ্কর মিত্র

 (কলকাতার সুজেট ,কামদুনির তরুণী,কাকদ্বীপের বালিকা, দিল্লীর নির্ভয়া, কাশ্মীরের বালিকা,হাতরাসের মনীষা আর আমার দুর্ভাগা দেশে প্রতি দিন যে মহিলারা ক্ষমতার আস্ফালনে ধর্ষিতা হন তাদের সবার কথা মনে রেখে আর প্রয়াত সুভাষ মুখোপাধ্যায়ের কাছে ক্ষমা চেয়ে এই কবিতা ছবি পোস্ট করছি।)

 

আমি যত দূরেই যাই

আমার সঙ্গে যায়

ক্ষমতার উথ্থিত লিঙ্গ

ধর্ষকের মুঠির সন্ত্রাস৷

আমি যত দূরেই যাই

আমার সঙ্গে যায়

রক্ষকের লুব্ধ দৃষ্টি

শাসকের খঞ্জ যুক্তি

পড়শির সন্দিগ্ধ চাহনি

বিচারকের নির্বীর্য বিধান

মিথ্যার শ্মশাননৃত্য৷

 

আমি যত দূরেই যাই

আমার সঙ্গে যায়

অস্তিত্বের নির্মম কর্দমাক্ত পথে

ঈশ্বরের সারি সারি রক্তমাখা পায়ের ছাপ৷

আমি যত দূরেই যাই----

 

 

 

 

Thursday, 24 September 2020

How are they now?

 


Ayana Sarkar, who has done Masters in Physics, is currently working for her PhD.

I loved reading this post by her. There’s something special about the empathy in her thoughts and in the simplicity of her style that makes me translate the passage into English. (Ayana , hope you will approve my translation? Maybe, you would have done a better job than me. Trust me, not kidding!)

*

The author is the third from left
Quite some time ago, I got an opportunity to visit a remote Adivasi village off Ghatshila, which is the second major station after Jamshedpur, about 50-60 kilometres away. From the Steel City, it takes 30 to 40 minutes to reach there. A tiny urban settlement in Jharkhand, lots of Bengalis live there.

As I walked out of the rail station with red concrete benches straight out of a storybook, I found a couple of eateries selling kachouris and jelabis, and a few small hotels.

I used to leave my bag in one of those and go out to discover the place. I would get off my auto-rikshaw at places hidden from me till then and have some snacks. Then, after exploring jungles, waterfalls, tracts of plain land, and the Subarnarekha, I would eat country-chicken curry, fried egg, and course rice in eateries wiped with cow dung, on the slope of a hill.

You can say it was my first experience of visiting what Americans call the boondocks. Since my childhood, I have lived in cities. As we don’t have any close relations in the country, I haven’t really visited rural areas. As soon as I came here, I knew this is what 80% of India is. Poor people living on the margins, they don’t get to eat two square meals every day. But even then, when strangers visit them, they would offer whatever food they can. They call you into their homes and love to talk with you. This is the first time I was with a farmer’s family, first time I saw a bullock cart. I watched with fascination people harvesting paddy. I had never seen all this before.

This is my India.

How is she today? Is she seething in anger? Can you do such injustice to the people who put food on your table?


[Postscript: I have read a few articles before and after our government changed the terms of agriculture in India lock-stock-and-barrel. None of those moved me as much as this one has. Thank you Ayana.]

Translated on 23 September 2020


Monday, 14 September 2020

Illiberal India

 

According to the Telegraph e-paper today (14 September 2020), 80 people are murdered in India every day. That is, about 29,000 homicides are committed in our country every year.

One of these happened in Bengaluru on 5 September 2017, when a small-built 55-year-old woman, Gauri Lankesh was shot from behind by two men on a motorcycle when she was about to enter her home after the day’s work. Until that afternoon, she had been editing and publishing a Kannada weekly: Gauri Lankesh Patrike.

It calls for infinite cowardice to murder an unarmed woman in the crepuscular darkness of the evening. But that is not why her murder shook the nation.

Gauri Lankesh was the fourth victim in a row after Narendra Dabholkar, Malleshappa Kalburgi, and Govind Pansare. Each one of them was a rationalist who protested against the deep-rooted superstitions of the Hindu religion and promoted a scientific way of life. It has now been established that each of them was killed for their belief by some extreme Hindu right-wing politico-religious Taliban-style extremists. The same killers apparently murdered Kalburgi and Gauri, using the same gun, as noted by forensic experts.

Gauri was a crusader for the values enshrined in Lingayatism, founded and propagated by the 12th-century philosopher and statesman Basava in Karnataka. The original Lingayat sect was unbelievably egalitarian, and had as their preacher people from the so-called lower castes, even prostitutes. It was a revolutionary movement which had to be suppressed by the upper-caste Hindus through much bloodshed, but the flame could not be extinguished.

However, in the recent years, in the rising time of Brahminism among Hinds, Lingayats have been absorbed as another sect within the dominant Hindu establishment and their original egalitarian values have been buried. Gauri opposed this construct.

Gauri Lankesh was also a political activist who began her career as an English language journalist, but later, relentlessly fought the rise of Hindutwa which has been destroying the secular structure of India. A divorcee who never married again, she was a mentor to several young people who an average Indian looks up to as their future saviours. Gauri adopted several of them as her children, including Kanhaia Kumar and Sheila Rashid.

The three bullets that pierced Gauri’s slender body was fired by two cowardly men, but they were not alone. A gigantic project that aims to marginalise Muslims, Christians, and Dalits, that has been trying their best to convert India into a Hindu Pakistan was behind the men holding the trigger, although the connection is hardly clear or easily discernible.

Chidanand Rajghatta, ex-husband and lifelong friend of Gauri Lankesh, exposes the connection through painstaking research with the help of his deep understanding of the situation in Karnataka and India by virtue of being a top journalist.

The story of their personal lives meshes neatly with the recent history of India and the changes we are wading through.

Please read this book. It will help you understand the India of the 21st century better.

14 September 2020

Sunday, 6 September 2020

The Underground Railroad

 

Until my friend Chitrita gave me the book, I hadn’t heard the name of Colston Whitehead. Neither had I come across the string of words Underground Railroad. I will come to Colston Whitehead shortly, but before that, let me describe what “underground railroad” means in the context of American history.

Chattel Slaves in America: Men, women, and children kidnapped from Africa, ferried across the Atlantic chained to the hull in dark holds of ships, and sold at port-town markets to white American farmers. Besides suffering the ignominy of being treated as personal possession, they lived a life of such relentless hardship and pain that very few would live to become old.

Young women were also used as producers of more slaves; they were allotted to male slaves with strong physique, unless they produced mulatto babies as consequence of rape by owners or their overseers. Children, routinely taken away from mothers, were made to work in fields as soon as they were able to walk. Rape of and other sexual brutality on women were so common that we hardly see black Americans who are really black. When Alex Haley, the author of the 1976 novel Roots, The Saga of an American Family went to the heart of Africa in search of the hamlet from where one of his eighteenth-century forefathers, Kunta Kinte had been kidnapped, Haley was shocked to see the unblemished blackness of the African skin there.

For the slightest lapse, real or perceived, slaves were subjected to often sadistic torture by their white 

owners and their overseers. Lashing with a rope whip with nine notches – disingenuously named cat-o’-nine-tails – was the least punishment. The worst was reserved for people who had tried to run away and got caught. For a man, it could be cutting off his penis, shoving it into his mouth, stitching his lips and letting him die a slow death accompanied by even more torture, as his white owners and their guests watched the spectacle while having dinner in the open. For a woman runaway, it was so brutal that I find it difficult to type out.

Given the life they lived, many slaves fled their masters every year despite the humongous risks involved. On the other hand, there were professional “slave catchers”: white men who made a living out of tracking down and bringing back runaway slaves to their masters, sometimes from thousands of miles away. It was possible to recapture fugitive slaves even from the North American states where slavery was illegal, thanks to the Fugitive Slave Law of 1793 which granted immunity to slave catchers and compelled local officials to assist them. As the law required scant documentation to claim that a coloured person was a fugitive, slave catchers also kidnapped free Blacks, especially children, and sold them into slavery. The Wikipedia (accessed on 31 August 2020) says:

The law deprived people suspected of being slaves the right to defend themselves in court, making it difficult to prove free status. In a de facto bribe, judges were paid a higher fee ($10) for a decision that confirmed a suspect as an enslaved person than for one ruling that the suspect was free ($5).

However, the world is never devoid of people who would help their less fortunate brethren. Lots of people unknown to each other, both white Americans and free African Americans, collaborated to set up a network of safe houses and secret passages that were used to transport slaves from the southern states of America. Their destination was either British North America, most of which is presently Canada, or the northern American states which were more tolerant towards “negroes” in varying degrees, particularly certain cities like Philadelphia and New York, the latter being a “factory of anti-slavery sentiment.”

The “Underground Railroad” was neither a railroad, nor was it underground; it was a metaphorical name given to the network narrated above. The “railroad”, which did not have offices or official documents, began in the late 1700s and grew steadily until the American Civil War (1861-65). “One estimate suggests that by 1850, 100,000 enslaved people had escaped via the "Railroad".” [Wikipedia, accessed on 31 August 2020]

What if such a subterranean railroad actually existed in the mid-nineteenth century? Surely, it could only be in a fiction? In his Pulitzer-Prize-winning novel The Underground Railroad, African American writer Colston Whitehead (born 1969) takes his readers in a reverse journey from a metaphor to the imagined reality of an impossible railroad with the inviolable truth of bondage hanging as a constant backdrop.

It is the story of Cora, a third-generation slave born in a cotton farm in Georgia who was at the cusp of womanhood. Cora, who didn’t “have” a father like many other slaves, also had the misfortune as she had been abandoned by her feisty mother who ran away. Deep within, Cora nursed a desire to trace her mother and confront her, but she did not seriously consider the option of running away, which wasn’t much of an option in any case.

Yet, one moonlit night, she escapes because of a combination of circumstances and a newly recruited slave, Caesar who had befriended her. Caesar was like no coloured man Cora “had ever met,” because he could read and write, a fact which he concealed for his life, as having even an elementary education was a crime for a slave and it would attract severe punishment. Cora and Caesar don’t get into a physical relationship but continued as comrades in a shared quest for freedom.

They outrun and outwit their pursuers, manage to get the better of a vigilante group, and reach a shelter offered by a stooped grey-haired white Pennsylvanian, Mr. Fletcher. Fletcher, who abhors “slavery as an affront before God”, smuggles them out to the nearest railroad station, taking enormous risk – like every other person who collaborates with the railroad, irrespective of the colour of their skin.

After narrowly winning the first round against the southern white man who “was spat from the loin of the devil ….” Cora and Caesar climb down a steep staircase hidden beneath a trapdoor to a platform of the Underground Railroad. Their real journey begins.

Cora experiences “civilised” white people in South Carolina who do not brutalize her body, but are equally keen to own her mind, until the veneer of civilisation is flaked away one evening in a sudden burst violence that separates her from Caesar.

In North Carolina, after Cora sees miles of dead blacks hanging from trees, a kindly and extremely scared white man and his wife hide her and her chamber pot, on an airless platform in their attic, where Cora continues to nurse her dream of meeting mother. From a hole in the wall of her hideout made by an earlier fugitive, Cora watches a town square and a town without a black soul except when one is ferreted out of a safe haven like Cora’s, and is savagely done to death along with the white family that sheltered them, loudly cheered on by an ecstatic crowd. Cora stays there for months, until her luck runs out, and her hosts’.

Cora is back in shackles, this time, not metaphorically. She is chained to the floor of a wagon, perhaps closing a circle that began with her grandmother’s journey across the Atlantic.

As she heads towards a terrible future, her journey, wildly oscillating between despair and hope, traces the changing landscape and people of different southern states while America moves towards an inevitable bloodbath and Civil War.

Colson Whitehead’s novel, a story of enormous courage and resilience, resonates in our time as it opens our eyes to the depths people can climb down when hatred captures the mind of an entire community. Using a gruesome chapter of American and world history as the backdrop, Whitehead retells – in captivating prose – the story of tribalism and violence that are innate to humans.

The story makes us think if our species has a future.

Colson Whitehead / The Underground Railroad / First Anchor Books edition, 2018 / www.anchorbooks.com / Copyright © 2016 by Colson Whitehead

Monday, 31 August 2020 / 1453 words