NELit review

POST script 3
JUNE 10, 2012

SEVEN SISTERS

Writing in English: a personal journey

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MTS. Thats what we were called. English Medium Types. There was a bit of a sneer in the use of the phrase, more than a bit of condescension as well. Twenty-five to 30 years ago, when some of us began to write, it was with a great deal of diffidence, even hesitation. Some of this hesitation was the normal lack of confidence that many first-time writers have. (This lack of confidence probably only waxes and wanes throughout a writers life. It never really goes away.) But in addition to that, the qualms that many of us had at the start of our writerly lives came from the language that we wrote in. Language, of course, is the basic raw material that a writer has at her disposal. It is through her engagement with language, and manipulation of it, that she can put across, for better or for worse, her point of view, the story she has to tell. The problem, in Guwahati and indeed in Assam itself, was that we were writing in English. True, other people also wrote in English at that time, though not, for the most part, fiction. But they were not EMTs. And therein lay the rub. They could also write quite lucidly in Assamese or Bangla or Hindi, and often did. Their writings in English were seen as an extension of what they were writing in their mother tongues, a kind of bonus that would perhaps get them a wider readership, perhaps not. Whereas we, the EMTs, were stuck with one language: English. At that time strange though it may sound today English was viewed very much as a foreign language, something belonging to colonial masters the usual rhetoric against the use of English. Of course, in some places, even today, some of these arguments are still heard. However, at that time, even well-wishers, with the best of intentions, would come up to us and say, I enjoyed reading your piece. But why dont you try your hand at writing in your mother tongue? Assamese? After all, you speak it at home. Surely it shouldnt be too hard to do that Examples of writers who had failed when writing in English were given as cautionary tales, writers who had then gone on to achieve glowing successes when they switched to their mother tongues. The name of Michael Madhusudan Dutt frequently came up in this context. To be given the example of such a genius was gratifying no doubt, but it was also difficult to explain to those well-wishers that his was a hard act to follow. It was, indeed, an impossibility. This writing in mother tongue is-

iNKPOT
MITRA PHUKAN

sue has actually only recently receded, somewhat, into the background for us. Well-wishers wanted us to write in it because obviously they thought we would do better in it, and that we would have a bigger readership. Where, they reasoned with us, was the readership for English novels written by an Assamese writer? But there was also a political note underlying the whole thing. People then were often dismissive of EMTattempts to write because they were seen as an elitist hobby merely, something that was not really rooted in real Assam. Why did we hardly ever write of village life? (How could we explain that it was the writers choice to base her stories on whatever milieu she chose, as long as it was true to life?) Never mind that the subject matter was firmly entrenched in the land. English was the language that many people saw in their minds at that time, of an alien culture and power. But of course the truth was nowhere near that. It was just a question of English being the language we were educated in, and therefore one that we chose to use for our writing. Much of this was before international publishing houses such as Penguin and Harper Collins came into the picture. Besides, accessibility to English language journals from the rest of the country, leave alone international ones, was very limited. It was, therefore, a godsend when The Sentinel was started in the early eighties. Every writer needs practice,

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WHETHER it is childrens fiction or poetry, short stories or full-length novels, young writers in English from these hills and valleys, living both within the region and outside, are striding confidently ahead and earning welldeserved accolades
and its a bonus when ones early pieces are published and appreciated. And indeed, even paid for! The middles in the edit page of The Sentinel provided a wonderful outlet for several of us. True, the venerable Assam Tribune was an established paper at that time, but the tone of its writings was different. It did not, at that time, have weekly supplements to accommodate lighter or fictional pieces. The Sentinel, therefore, under the encouraging eye of its editor, Dhirendra Nath Bezboruah, was a happy stomping ground for us to develop our skills. Later, The Assam Tribune too brought out these supplements, which then became an additional arena. There were, even then, certain prejudices against the writing skills of EMTs. One such accusation was that our grammar was weak, sometimes non-existent. In the beginning, this widespread view was flabbergasting, a source of great consternation for us all. It is only recently that I have come to appreciate that there was, in a complicated way, some validity to that point of view. The writing styles of EMTs are contemporary, while the English of many (though it must be emphasised, not all) non-EMTs is correct in a way that was current some decades ago. While Wren and Martin exerted minimal influence on us, it seems to have been a huge presence for nonEMTs of that earlier period. Certainly, the construction of sentences has changed greatly over the years. Widows, that is, sentences consisting of a single word, are common, as are short phrases that by themselves make a sentence, often without a verb. The old words that were considered Americanisms and slang are very much mainstream these days. (Indeed, one can ask, what is not mainstream?) Ever-newer words are streaming into the language.

Words originating in the lives and geographies of our region have become mainstream. Bihu is now a well-recognised word, for instance, around the country. Punctuation, too, is no longer as rigid as it used to be. Recognition of certain realities has now abolished the use of italics, when we use, for instance, relationship words such as deuta. Over the decades, an Assamese way of spelling such words as Krishnosura and Saari Ali has been recognised. Previously, for some unfathomable reason, they would be spelled not as they are pronounced, but as they would be spelled if they were written first in the Devnagari script. So Saari Ali was Chari Ali. Krishnosura was Krishnachura. Names such as Nomita would be spelled Namita, because that was how it was done on the mainland. Like everything else, then, language too is changing by the minute. And the purpose of language is to communicate, not stand as a monolith of formality and correctness. Indeed, the linguistic styles of the younger group of poets and fiction writers who are working from this state in English are very different from the kind of language we used then, and indeed, use even now. This is inevitable. It is also part of what makes reading new writing so interesting. Many of us EMTs who began to write seriously at that time had a background of missionary schools, specifically, missionary schools in Shillong. True, Guwahati was our home at that point, and had been for a while. While Dhruba Hazarika continued to write in a riveting way about the town he had left behind, people like Indrani Rai Medhi mixed her locales. I too lived for a while in Shillong, but it was only for a part of my childhood. Still, when we found ourselves in this town in the plains, it was too late to turn the clock back and opt for a different medium of instruction. This was probably also true of Arup Kumar Dutta, whose education, though not Shillong-based, was in an English-medium school across the breadth of the country. The second generation of writers in English no longer have to face these early hurdles. Of course, every group of writers has its own challenges to overcome, challenges which remain valid for newer and older writers. All age groups need to be aware of many things before even setting pen to paper. Fortunately, this argument against writing in English seems to have receded into the background now. After writers began to publish with houses such as Rupa, Penguin, Zubaan and so on, there has been quite a change in the way people are beginning to accept EMTs. Of course, it is heartening to see the kind of talents that are now entering this field. Whether it is childrens fiction or poetry, short stories or full-length novels, young writers in English from these hills and valleys, living both within the region and outside, are striding confidently ahead and earning well-deserved accolades. One waits, eagerly, to see the path they take in the next few years. T President of the North East Writers' Forum, Mitra Phukan has written The Collectors Wife, A Monsoon of Music and Mamonis Adventure

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TURNERS
TOKI BLAH
Recommends

Toki Blah, a former IAS officer, is a columnist and social activist from Meghalaya. He tells Rahul Jain that writers from the Northeast should write about issues pertaining to humanity in general and not just produce tear-jerkers
u What does literature mean to you? Do you think it has any relevance in our dayto-day lives? According to you, does it have anything to do with all that is happening around us? t To me, literature means reading, and reading literally lifts you beyond the confines of the physical world. Most avid readers are world travellers who seldom venture beyond the chair they sit in. Words convey images, ideas, thoughts, and concepts and then leave it to the imagination of the reader to make them real. There are some who say that TV has replaced reading. This is a statement for those who are satisfied with the mundane and the ordinary. For those with imagination and creativity, for those with adventure on their minds, the written word is still the largest brush to recreate beauty on the canvas of life. The written word actually has everything to do with what is happening around us.

u How close is your relation with literature in general, and with literature of the Northeast in particular? Name one book that had a lasting impact on you. In what way? t Im afraid I read everything available, from the Bible to the latest Archie comic. Whatever ideas or thoughts I have are shaped by what I have read throughout my life. I have nothing particular from the Northeast on my reading menu.

HAT is it that makes you recognise that the story you have heard, or the account you have read recently, is one of your own? Why would you call a story yours? How is it that the people and events depicted there seem all too familiar? One of the ways in which we try to make sense of this relationship between storytelling and the land with which it is associated is by referring to a common identifiable cultural heritage. We refer to food, rituals, social practices, language, functions and festivals as we distinguish one culture from another. When we speak of the Northeast that space for which other designatory terms have also been tried out, seven sisters being one and look at the English language writing that has emerged from it, do we find any homogeneity in terms of the choice of subject or do we paint all writing with the same hue simply because they emanate from the same space? The matter is not as easily resolved as it seems. Consider the following situations as we try to look at the parameters through which we can locate the English-language writing from this region. It is not uncommon to hear that Temsula Aos These Hills Called Home or Mamang Dais Legends of Pensam, just to take two examples, reflect a cultural world-view which bears the stamp of the Northeast. And such a perspective has its roots in the nature of the subject, the peculiarity of which is unique to this region. Our cultural orientation, despite the wide array of practices and lifestyles, remains specifically distinctive. The pursuit of this view has enabled writers from this location to foreground circumstances of life, culture and social practice in a way only creative writing can, forcefully and with conviction. The interest of the modern reader in subjects that reflect Indias Northeast is thus cushioned by this fascination for the untapped yet inviting territory. Myths,

Northeast English fiction: quo vadis? TAKE TWO W

BIBHASH CHOUDHURY

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AS the critical interest in the works of some Northeast Indian writers has demonstrated, the appreciation is not because of their space of origin, but for the sophistication they have brought to the art of storytelling itself

stories, legends and other markers of collective imagination constantly jostle representations that unwrap the harsh ways of existence across this space. Yet all writing that has emerged from the Northeast does not concern the subjects of identity and cultural difference from this perspective alone. In the writings of Siddhartha Deb and Dhrubajyoti Hazarika there is a taut tension stemming from the cosmopolitan temperament that informs their responses to the worlds they occupy. Fictional yet bearing the signature of the local, the narratives of Mitra Phukan and Easterine Kire, on the other hand, suggest the potential of worlds that arent always evident on the text-faces. But then, is the emphasis on a distinctiveness that we understand and identify as Northeast the only marker through which writing associated with this region may be assessed and approached? That

isnt quite the case. What is it that makes a writer a Northeast one? When Belinder Dhanoas novel Waiting for Winter was published by Penguin in 1991, the road on which we today see a rush of feet had one frontrunner, Arup Kumar Dutta, whose The Kaziranga Trail homed in on the genre of the adventure tale through the childrens literature form. The problem with such telescoping as the one I am suggesting here is that specific aspects of an author or a particular text are likely to get marginalised in these survey sweeps. Then there is the extremely visible trope of violence, the representation of which has today found a great variety of registers in English fiction from Indias Northeast. If the challenge to the equilibrium of the domestic space in Siddhartha Debs Point of Return showcases a particular kind of trauma, the contest of selves in Arup Kumar Duttas An-

garikas Swansong invites us to attend to the possibilities of self-examination. While it is evident that the different locations of the Northeast have found interesting markers through which the fictional worlds have been substantially peopled, such representations are after all samplers of a kind. And in the highlighted platform of Northeast English fiction if the tropes of violence and identity occupy maximum attention, not all texts narrate experiences from this given space. Some writers have located themselves elsewhere, writing home in ways that connect realities of this region to worlds eager to know the Northeast. It is an accepted commonplace that all English writing from Indias Northeast does not reflect the creative potential of this body of people adequately. At one level, such unevenness is to be found in other literary traditions as well. Added to this is another question that English creative writers from this region have had to regularly address themselves to: how close or authentic is this writing? Two factors, one commercial, and the other cultural,

seem to be at work here. The first relates to the growing interest of mainstream Indian publishers in the writing from the Northeast contributing to the emergence of a substantial body of literature whose visibility is no longer a problem. What such visibility has done is to bring some of the excellent creative minds into national and international focus. As the critical interest in the works of Siddhartha Deb, Jahnavi Barua and Anjum Hasan, to name three fascinating voices, has demonstrated, the appreciation is not because of their space of origin, but for the sophistication they have brought to the art of storytelling itself. Quality needs no external attestation. And if the region writes itself through the pen of these English-language wordsmiths, it is indeed more reason to open the gates to the world. But not without caution. Increasing interest in the English-language fiction from Indias Northeast calls for greater responsibility and sustained honing of craft. It requires no reiteration that considerable works have emerged from this region that would find it extremely difficult to share shelf space with texts whose creative credentials have tasted the fruits of global recognition. The second reason for unevenness perhaps owes something to the state of the local publishing industry where English fiction does not occupy its priority lists. In effect, works such as Uday Bhanu Pandey's Confessions of a Fake Orphan, Jyotsna Bhattacharjees My Mother or Rajib Dass Krisnaa and Ranee have not received adequate attention in the review space slotted for writing from this region. We may once again ask the question with which we began: does the English-language fiction from Indias Northeast write its culture? It does, but it also celebrates the possibilities of doing so in a language that is now being processed to capture the multicultural idioms of a space whose myriad registers await the creative interest of an emerging exciting literary type: English fiction from Indias Northeast. T

u What book would you recommend for our readers and why? t I dont have any particular choice or any particular book that has shaped my life except for the Bible.

u What future do you see for literature from the Northeast? t Not much really, unless Northeast writers start writing about issues that pertain to humanity in general. Issues of love, hate, death, jealousy, greed, war, conflict, peace and sacrifice are universal. They are the same and have the same appeal everywhere. Such issues enrich and stimulate emotions. They can be written about against a Northeast background. No problem there, it is possible to understand; it can have appeal and be accepted. Northeast writers, however, falter when they attempt to project such issues as tearjerkers, available only in this region. This jars; it is unrealistic and is not accepted by the reader.

BOOK ABLE
The Heart is a Secure Address, the English translation of Pankaj Thakur's Jiban Juktir Bahirot, was recently released at the International Book Fair (16-21 May 2012) in Prague, Czech Republic, by Dana Kalinova, director of the book fair and Sunil Gangopadhyay, president of Sahitya Akademi. A collection of autobiographical episodes, the book has been published by NL Publications, Guwahati.

NEW PRINTS
MARUBHUMIT AKHOJ
Parinita Sarma Chandra Prakash, 2011 `160, 200 pages Hardcover/ Non-fiction

A
VOICES IN THE VALLEY
Suravi Sharma Kumar Rupa Publications, 2012 `295, 296 pages Paperback/ Fiction

book on Rajasthans socio-economic and cultural history

ET against the backdrop of a politically turbulent Assam, the book explores the life of a young girl