The Penguin Book of Modern Indian Short Stories

by Stephen Alter

  The table of contents in this anthology proves that English is certainly not the only literary language in India. Far from it; and for each of the authors represented here there are probably a dozen others who have not enjoyed the national and international exposure which translation provides.

  Stories of social protest

  India has a long history of social upheaval and discontent but during the last fifty years the subcontinent has experienced greater conflict within society than ever before. The works of many Indian writers reflect the problems that have led to these conflicts as well as individual and collective acts of social protest.

  In very different ways, these writers call for some kind of social change. The Progressive Writers Movement of the thirties and forties believed that literature does not merely mirror society but is an active agency for change. These writers and their successors were dedicated to the transformation and reconstruction of society. Change in India, except for the upper middle classes, has been slow in coming. The poor remain poor. Women continue to face oppression. Untouchables, harijans, dalits or tribals, by whatever name you call them, are still outcasts within Indian society. Religious, communal and ethnic violence has grown worse since Partition. Political repression and corruption exists at every level of government. This is not to say that there has been no progress at all but if we look at some of the significant events of the past fifty years, whether it be the government’s response to the Naxalite movement in the mid-sixties or the declaration of the Emergency in the seventies, it becomes apparent that real change has been thwarted by those in power.

  As a genre, short stories are not often associated with social protest. More often it is poetry and drama that stand behind the literary barricades. However, in the case of many prose writers in India, fiction does serve as a voice of discontent and provides the same emotional impact of a protest poem or a play. Prose also offers a descriptive range that allows the writer to fully communicate the injustices which the story seeks to expose or overthrow. At the same time it would be naive to say that novels and stories, in and of themselves, have had any measurable social or political impact in India. For one thing, their readership, amongst the oppressed population, is limited by barriers of poverty and illiteracy.

  The emergence of a number of Dalit writers in different Indian languages, including Devanuru Mahadeva and Avinash Dolas, represents the narratives of former untouchables and tribal peoples. That writers such as these should choose fiction as a means of expressing their anger and aspirations is in itself significant. These stories give voice to the historic inequality and exploitation of India’s underclass. Though an earlier generation of authors chose the problem of caste as the theme of their stories, most were middle-class or upper-caste writers. Their sentiments may have been well placed but they could never really speak for the people they described or enter into the community of their characters.

  It is also important to point out that, until recently, the majority of post-colonial writers in India were men. This literary patriarchy wrote about the social problems faced by women such as dowry, child marriage, or the treatment of widows, but these issues were often couched in patronizing stories that did not seriously question the inequality of women in Indian society. Ismat Chughtai was an exception, using satire and humour to expose and criticize social injustices that were often misunderstood or overlooked by her male contemporaries.

  Anita Desai, one of the few Indian women writers to break into print during the 1970s, has made this point very clearly in an essay on gender in Indian literature.

  Although enunciation comes easily enough to Indians, and so does worship, criticism is an acquired faculty and Indian women have never been encouraged—on the contrary, all their lives have been discouraged—from harbouring what is potentially so dangerous. Accept or Die has been their dictum. It is a creed that could not last and is now being unlearnt . . . The effects of that dire male dictum have been particularly horrible ones— however unjust and unacceptable life seemed, women were not supposed to alter them or even criticize them; all they could do was burst into tears and mope. This is surely the reason for so much tearfulness in women’s fiction—a strain now dominant and now subdued, but ever present, as many critics have pointed out, of nostalgia and regret . . .

  Anita Desai’s own writing has gone a long way towards reversing some of these male dictums. In her short stories and novels such as Clear Light of Day she presents the narratives of women speaking in their own voices, without the tears and tantrums. A number of women writers have been published in the past two decades, redressing some of the imbalance that existed before. Along with feminist presses, most mainstream publishers in India and abroad continue to add contemporary Indian women writers to their lists.

  After half a century of independence it is encouraging that the voices of Indian writers remain as varied and eccentric as they are. Even as the clamour of the fiftieth jubilee dies away, what should be celebrated is the diversity of fiction and the unpredictable nature of literature, which does not conform to national or cultural stereotypes and expectations. Synthesis, particularly when it is advocated by politicians or publishers, should never be a concern for Indian authors and perhaps even the term ‘post-colonial’ has exhausted its parenthetical limits.

  August 2001

  Stephen Alter

  Premendra Mitra

  The Discovery of Telenapota

  When Saturn and Mars come together, you may also discover Telenapota.

  On a leisurely day, after hours of angling without a catch, when someone comes and tempts you, saying that somewhere there is a magic pool filled with the most incredible fish anxiously waiting to swallow any bait, you are already on your way to Telenapota.

  But finding Telenapota is not all that easy. You catch a bus late in the afternoon. It is packed with countless people and by the time you get off, you are drenched in sweat and dust-smeared. Actually you are even unprepared for the stop when it comes.

  Before you even know where you are, the bus disappears in the distance, over a bridge across the low swampland. The forest is dense and dark, and night has arrived even before the sun has set. There is a strange wind that blows, an eerie quiet. You will see no one anywhere. Even the birds have flown away, as if in fright. There is an uncanny feeling, a strange dread slowly rearing its head out of the lonely marshland.

  You leave the main road and take the narrow muddy track that winds into the forest. After a while, the track gets lost in thick groves of bamboo.

  To find Telenapota you need a couple of friends with you. You will be going there to angle. What their interests are you have no clue.

  Your first problem will be mosquitoes. They will arrive in hordes and you will try to scare them away. Failing, all three of you will stand and look at each other, wondering what to do. And slowly it will grow quite dark. The mosquitoes will become more insistent and you will wonder if it would not have been better to get back onto the main road and catch the return bus.

  Just then a strange noise will startle you. A noise from that point where the mud track loses itself in the forest. Your nerves being on edge, you will imagine this phantom scream coming from the dumb forest and you will immediately become tense and perhaps a little scared as well. And then, you will see in the dark a faint lamp gently swaying. Slowly a bullock cart will amble out of the dark forest.

  It is a small cart. The bullocks are also very small. They will all seem dwarf-like, and yet the three of you will climb onto the cart and huddle together in the dark interior where there is only room for one.

  The cart will return the way it came. The dark, impenetrable forest will yield a narrow tunnel as the cart slowly enters. The bullocks will move forward, unhurried, as if creating with each step the path they slowly tread.

  For sometime you will feel terribly cramped in the dark. But slowly you will drown in the depths of the blackness around you. From your familiar world you will enter another. An unknown mist-cl
ad universe, bereft of all feeling. Time will stop dead in its tracks.

  And then, suddenly, a howl of drums will wake you. You will look around you and find the driver of the cart furiously beating an empty drum. The skies will be full of countless stars.

  You will ask what the matter is. And the driver will casually tell you that this din is to drive the tigers away. When you wonder how one can scare away tigers by just raising a racket, he will reassure you that these are not real tigers. They are panthers; and a stick and a drum are enough to keep them at bay.

  Tigers! Within thirty miles of the metropolis! Before you can raise your eyebrows, the cart will have crossed a wide moor lit by a late moon. Ruins of deserted palaces will gleam in the phantom moonlight. Lone colonnades, broken arches, the debris of courtyard walls. A ruined temple somewhere further down. They will stand like litigants, waiting in futile hope, for the recording of some evidence in the court of time.

  You will try to sit up. A strange sensation will once again make you feel as if you have left behind the world of the living and entered a phantom universe peopled only by memories.

  The night will be far gone. It will seem an endless dark in which everything lies stilled, without genesis or end. Like extinct animals preserved in museums for all time.

  After a few more turns the cart will stop. You will collect your tired limbs and climb down, one by one, like wooden dolls.

  There will be a strong smell in the air: the stench of leaves rotting in the pool just in front of you. Beside the pool will stand the feeble remains of a large mansion, its roof caved in, walls falling apart, and windows broken—like the battlements of a fort, guarding against the phantom moonlight.

  This is where you will spend the night.

  First, you will find yourself a room, somewhat habitable. The cart-driver will fetch you from somewhere a broken lantern and a jug of water. It will seem to you ages since someone had walked into that room. Some futile efforts have been made to clean it up and the musty odour will reveal that this was a long time back. With the slightest movement, plaster will peel off and bits of rubble will fall on you from the roof and the walls, like angry oaths from a resident spirit. Bats and flying foxes will shrilly question your right to stay there for the night.

  Of your friends, one is a sod and the other would have snored through a holocaust. Your bed will be hardly ready before one of them hits the sack and the other the bottle.

  The night will wear on. The lantern glass will gather soot and the light will softly dim. The assault of mosquitoes will become unbearable. This is the blue-blooded anopheles, the aristocrat who carries malaria in his bite. But, by this time, both your companions will be in worlds of their own, far removed from yours.

  It will be hot and oppressive. You will take a torch and try to escape to the terrace, to beat the heat. The danger of the staircase giving way will scare you at every step. But something will draw you on, irresistibly. You will keep on climbing till you arrive.

  On reaching, you will find the terrace in ruins. Trees have taken firm root in every crevice, every nook. As if they were fifth columnists, making way for the inexorable advance of the forest.

  And yet, in the wan moonlight, everything will look beautiful. It will seem that if you searched long enough, you would find that inner sanctum of this sleep-drenched palace where the captive princess has been asleep through countless centuries.

  And even as you dream of such a princess, you will notice a faint light in one of the windows of the tumbledown house across the street. And, then, you will see a mysterious shadow walk up to the window. Whose silhouette is it? Why is she awake when everyone sleeps? It will baffle you: and even as you wonder about it, the light will slowly go out. Was it real? Or did you see a dream? From the abysmal dark of this world of sleep, a dream bubble surfaced for a while, floated silently in the world of the living, and then suddenly melted away.

  You will walk down the staircase carefully and fall asleep beside your friends.

  When you wake up some hours later, you will find morning already there, with the delightful chatter of birds.

  You will remember what you had come here for. And very soon you will find yourself sitting on a broken, moss- covered step beside the pool. You will cast your line into the green waters and wait patiently.

  The day will wear on. A kingfisher perched on the branch of a tree beside the pool will occasionally swoop down, in a flash of colour. A snake will emerge from some crack in the steps and slither slowly into the water. Two grasshoppers, their transparent wings fluttering in the sunlight, will keep trying to land on the float of your line. A dove will call out from the distance. Its lazy notes will bring on a strange ennui, as your mind will wander far and wide.

  The reverie will break with the sudden ripples on the water. Your float will gently rock. You will look up to find her pushing away the floating weeds and filling up a shining brass pitcher. Her eyes are curious; her movements unabashed and free. She will look straight at you and at your line. Then, she will pick up her pitcher and turn away.

  You will not be able to guess her age. Calm and sorrowful, her face will tell you that she has already walked the pitiless road of life. But if you look at the thin, emaciated lines of her body, you will think that she had never grown out of her adolescence.

  Even as she turns to go away, she will suddenly pause and ask you what you are waiting for. Pull hard, she will say. Her voice is so mellow and tender that it will not surprise you that she should have spoken to you, a complete stranger, with such familiarity. Only the suddenness of it will startle you and, by the time you pull the line, the bait would have gone.

  You will look at her somewhat abashed. And she will then turn and go away with slow, unhurried steps. As she walks away, you will wonder if you saw the hint of a smile breaking through her sad, peaceful eyes.

  Nothing will again disturb the loneliness of the afternoon. The kingfisher will fly away. The fish will ignore you. Only a strange feeling of unreality will remain. How could she have come to this strange land of sleep?

  And then, after a long while, you will pack up—a little disappointed with yourself. When you return, you will find that the news of your fishing skills has preceded you. You will ignore the wisecracks of your friends and ask them how they knew you had fared so poorly.

  Why, Jamini told us, the tippler will reply. She saw you there. Curious, you will ask him who Jamini is. You will learn that she is the same person you saw beside the pool, a distant relation of your friend. You will also learn that you are going over to her place for lunch.

  You look at the ruins across the street—where you had watched last night’s silhouette framed by the broken window in the wan moonlight—and you are surprised by its wretched condition. You had not imagined that the veil of night, now stripped rudely by the harsh daylight, could have hidden such an ugly nakedness. You are even more surprised to know that Jamini lives there.

  It is a simple meal. Jamini serves it herself. Looking at her now, closely, you are struck by the tired sorrow writ on her face. It seems as if the mute agony of this forgotten and lonely place has cast its dark shadow across her visage. A sea of infinite tiredness swirls in her eyes. You know she will crumble slowly, very slowly with the ruins around her.

  You will notice there is something on her mind. You may even hear a faint voice calling from a room upstairs. And every now and then you will notice Jamini leaving the room. Each time she comes back, the shadows lengthen on her face and her eyes betray a strange anxiety.

  After the meal is over, you will sit for a while. Jamini will first hesitate, and then call out in despair from the other side of the door: Manida, can you please come here once? Mani is your friend, the tippler. He will go to the door and you will hear his conversation with Jamini quite clearly, even though you have no intention to eavesdrop.

  Mother is being difficult again, Jamini would say, in a troubled voice. Ever since she heard you were coming with your friends, she ha
s become quite impossible to handle.

  Mani would mutter irritably: I suppose it is because she imagines Niranjan is here.

  Yes. She keeps saying, I know he is here. He hasn’t come up to see me only because he is embarrassed. Go, fetch him. Manida, I don’t know what to say. Ever since she went blind, she has become rather difficult. She won’t listen to anyone. She is always angry. I am sometimes scared she will collapse and die during one of her fits.

  If only she had eyes, I could have proved to her that Niranjan is nowhere around: Mani would reply, somewhat annoyed.

  A shrill, angry scream will come from upstairs, this time more clearly audible. Jamini will beseech him: Please come with me once, Manida. See if you can make her understand. All right, Mani will reply a bit roughly. You carry on; I’ll come.

  Mani will mutter to himself: Why, for heaven’s sake, does this mad woman refuse to die? She can’t see; she can hardly use her limbs; and yet she is determined not to die.

  You will ask him what the matter is. Mani will reply, annoyed: Matter? Nothing very much. Years ago, she had fixed Jamini’s marriage with Niranjan, a distant nephew of hers. The last time he was here was about four years ago. He told her then he would marry Jamini as soon as he returned from abroad. Ever since then, she has been waiting.

  But hasn’t Niranjan returned? You will ask.

  Of course not! How can he return when he never went at all? He was lying; otherwise, the old hag wouldn’t let him go. Why should he marry this rag-picker’s daughter? Yes, he is married all right and rearing a family. But who is to tell her all this? She won’t believe you; and if she did, she would die of shock immediately thereafter. Who’s going to take the risk?

  Does Jamini know about Niranjan? You will ask.

  Oh yes. But she can’t speak about it to her. Well, let me go and get it over. Mani will turn to go.