NELit review

POST script 3
JULY 08, 2012

SEVEN SISTERS

A tale of thirdness
ile. Throughout the exile, his companion had been that strange odour! As strange as the manner in which Chitra had left him. One evening, back home from work, he had discovered that the house was empty. Totally empty. Barring his clothes on the hangars and books and terracotta images on the floor. The dhobi of the neighbourhood, sitting on the steps, told him that Maiji had gifted him all their furniture everything she had brought with her beds, chairs, tables, shelves and almirahs and had gone away somewhere. When we had shared drinks and talked about things dear to us, he had asked me over and over again, I had never invited Chitra into this barren relationship. Never! But I know I am responsible for this terrible accident in her life and I can never forgive myself for this. But tell me, dont you think she should have at least told me that she was leaving? Why did she not bother to say goodbye In the time that we spent together, Id never hurt her! Looked after her like my own sister When she had fallen ill, I had made turmeric paste for her. I had sat by her bedside and read Mahadevis poems to her throughout the night How beautifully I had drawn a lattice print on the ends of her sari To tell you the truth, the night when the hom fire had burnt, secretly and surreptitiously, I had carved a boat of mimosa wood On my wedding night, when I stretched out my hand to Chitra, I had heard that mans breath in the wind the breath of the man rowing his boat of mimosa wood to the third bank of the river.. Talking to me or perhaps to himself, he had risen unsteadily to his feet. He had opened that huge mahogany almirah, had come back to me with something clenched in his fist and had forced it into my hand. On my palm rested a coin of clay, modelled on the ancient seals of Mohenjodaro and Harrappa. A coiled blue snake had been carved into the coin. A snake, swallowing its own tail! Here, this is my seal. When you show it at my doorstep, my doors will automatically open for you. Ha, ha, ha! When I had descended the stairs, clutching that clay seal he had so painstakingly made I had left behind a living story, to reign in a vast empire of solitude. T
(Extracted from Tritiyottor Golpo, Sadin Puja Special, Oct 2005) Moushumi Kandali is a creative writer, art critic and translator Atreyee Gohain's translations from Assamese into English have been published by Penguin India and Sahitya Akademi. She has also worked as an editor with Rupa Publications and Aleph Book Company

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ABIN CHAKRABORTY KOLKATA

E all knew about his strange love for Akka Mahadevi. We had heard him narrate the unusual story of that medieval saint-poet several times. This spirited Veerashaivite poet, who had passed away when she was only 20, had stood before a gathering of men, and shedding all her clothes, thundered Is there a real man here, before whom I would blush with feminine shame? These are all inanimate, lifeless objects what shame does one feel before inanimate objects? He had fallen in love with this 500-year old woman, but surprisingly, that day, he had insisted, thickly I want Mahadevi to seed in my womb. I want to feel her grow in my womb. When she was about to leave, Maitreyi had held my hands tight and asked, "What sort of fire is this? Do you see it? True, it was fire. But, blowing through the funnels of flesh and blood, fate had not just lit this fire in his body. In the smoke leaping from the fire in his body, his soul had burnt too. And far more intense than the fire inside was the malicious smoke-ridden fire outside it chased him endlessly to destroy him, and choked his skies with poisonous vapour. On the streets and in the alleys, whispers mocked him the examiner on the interview board did not see his certificates and numerous research papers he only saw the silver bangles on his hands and

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MOUSHUMI KANDALI TRANS: ATREYEE GOHAIN
the ring in his ear. Unlocking his door, he had seen his books and furniture scattered and excrement on the floor. There were missiles of anonymous letters in his letterboxes threatening severe punishment for his crime of corrupting our pure pristine culture. That was the time when Sanjay had started living with him. How happy he looked those days! So calm! Like a patch of sky reflected in the still waters of a lake. As if the blue of the sky and the blue of the water merged, melted and multiplied into an infinite sea of blueness. Everything around him seemed to exude happiness. The cumin-cardamom scented kitchen air; towels, vests and bed sheets on the clothesline flapping in the breeze, eagerly waiting to be soiled again. But a time came when Sanjay too had to leave. One day Sanjays father had visited him. This incense-and-match factory owner pleaded with him with folded hands to free his only son and heir, and enable him to perform the sacred duty of perpetuating his family line. That very day, ushering Sanjay on

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ON the streets and in the alleys, whispers mocked him the examiner on the interview board did not see his certificates and numerous research papers he only saw the silver bangles on his hands and the ring in his ear. Unlocking his door, he had seen his books and furniture scattered and excrement on the floor
the path of freedom, he puffed cigarette after cigarette on the bench in the railway station, grinding the night into ash. The night was almost half-burnt, when he had heard strains of the khanjuri and mridang floating from the Ramlila in the Harijan basti. Gradually, as if in a trance, he had followed the railway line towards the Ramlila. As he picked his way through piles of plastic-scraps of paper-sacks-bottles-discarded iron, through the haze created by the drunken scent of poppy-mingled bhang that elbowed aside the raw stench disgorged by the sewage plant drain, he had felt something penetrate the small of his back, right through his spine. Something sharp, cold and piercing. Later, with what glee had he narrated that experience! How he had crawled on, after the invisible assailant had stabbed him, snatched his wallet, watch, silver bangles and earrings, and had thrown him on one side of the railway line. How, inspite of his body growing cold and his uncontrollable shivering, the mridang continued to reverberate inside his head ta jhum ta jhum... that smell from the Ganga ghat had assailed his nostrils corpses lifted on pyres was that poppy-mixed bhang or Afghan charas that strange odour, mixed with the scent of gutimali flowers, that spread all around! That odour had been his inseparable companion in the two years he had spent in exile on a damp, cold floor of a shack on the Ganga ghat. His exile had started on the day that Chitra deserted him. Chitra whom his family had welcomed, against his wishes, with Vedic chants and the hom fire. Chitra had left and to punish himself, he had chosen the self-imposed ex-

Ive tried my best, to fit in as I can In crowds of rust and wrinkled old masks: Ive dotted all the is and slashed all the ts Smiled just so, and wore what I must, And nodded all day at players on stage Who rant their lines and paint in the air And vomit into wind all verbiage of dross Seeking yet still all statues of gold With glass-loaded eyes and dimples of grace That wrench in the entrails with force, Questions of unacknowledged spleen. But what would be the point of it all? What would be the point, if betel-smeared lips Ruminating hard, with greasy little palms, Pick out that meat from yellow-coloured teeth And slaps on my face Later, we will see? Festooned in parti-coloured papers I lie A papier-mch puppet of academic dye. Tight, more tight; the buckles still loose Mine too the distempered cause Of Lilliputs in Brobdingnag cloaks. Could I have known that things would be thus? Could I, after all the books and medals and praise, Smiles in the hallways and pats on the back, Could I have known of backstabbing moves In petty little cliques of inflated selves Where we make ledgers of insult and gain And deck up as straws with leather-lined coats Tattooed with love on eczema-tic necks? Down in dreams of unforeseen woods Mine are the paws that pounce. Yet still I glance at mirrors and mend Wrinkles and crease and entangled curls And rehearse in mute my silly little lines To flatter that him or cajole that her And speak as cats might purr. Listen to the band Checking their set and wired for blast Hours on end of stereophonic drugs! Dont get me wrong I am not a drudge; When the lights darken and songs are unleashed I too will join the headbangers gang And trample into puddle with insistent feet Thoughts thatll never be discreet. Think this is why, Ive dwelt so long On tigers in wild or eagles in flight Or poured over Eliot at midnight and more? Questions now clutter, and pile up in vain As these do I sweep and broom into bins And burn into ashes of unholiest grain. The wind in the west now halts and waits As evening expands its tentacular steps And strangles all glimmers of twilight in spring, And spreads for us all, its bountiful shroud. Clocks ticking down to that auspicious time When more and more puppets, with finery and glaze March into halls with punctilious pomp And wine and dine with calculated blah Sprinkled with mergers and shares and dates. Here do I wander and cling to those coats Which I have hope will show me some threads To weave into being my pocket full of dreams. O, do not ask what they are! Cramped in pockets for years on end Burdened with gallons of yessir and nosir, I no longer know what creatures they are And pickle them blind with fear. Who knows what ropes have stalled my feet And choked my dreams in quicksand of files Which others elsewhere have quickened into life! Now theyll leave and stagger into cars And leave still a trail of mobil and rum That others might smell or speculate and sell. Ive smelt them out. Ive smelt them out! Enough of that, enough! I dont have the guts to be Lear in the heath Nor do I dare to be Job reborn. I am just a cog that turns as is turned And leaves all the rest to time and place And hopes for a dose of rather good chance. Judge me as you will, why should I care? Rocked in the desert of cactus and bones Ours are ships without shores.

Some inconvenient truths

PAWAN DHALL

RENCH Sahib is a story of love between two men, one French and the other Indian,that seeks to transgress the boundaries of gender and sexual norms, political geography and cultural holy cows. Pradeep Rao, a computer whiz kid from Chennai living in Paris, is in a relationship with Philippe Delcourt, son of a French politician. Philippe has strained relations with his family. His father may love him, but he accepts his sons sexuality only when he senses a political advantage in it. Ever unloved, Philippe smells fresh hope with Pradeeps entry into his life. A trip to India with Pradeep convinces him that living in this seemingly all-embracing land will be the antidote to the narrow-mindedness back home. He believes that Radhika Rao, Pradeeps mother, will finally accept him as her sons spouse. But Pradeep is eager to return to France, to his father-in-law, whose political campaign he has been helping with the creation of a website. Another reason for Pradeep to be in France, however, is to escape the pressure of marriage at home and be able to live without suppressing his sexual orientation. It is inconceivable for him to tell his family about being gay because that is not the system in India. A tragicomic turn of events in Pradeeps home forces him to change his mind and stay on in India. His mothers quest for a cure for him is misunderstood by her children, who believe that she is visiting the family doctor because she has cancer. Philippe is secretly happy that he and Pradeep wont be returning to France in a hurry,

and insists that this could be an opportunity for Pradeep to come out to his mother. But Pradeeps rebuff reflects the dilemma that many Indian lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) people experience in the context of coming out. Ironically, after a short trip to Kanyakumari, Philippe resolves not to approach every situation through western eyes. But the double (Indian?) standards in the Rao household are such that they know about the relationship and yet dont know! Radhika Raos efforts to cope with the knowledge of Pradeeps sexuality evoke laughter, irritation and anger by turn. Her intermittent phone calls to her only daughter-in-law, Ammu, eldest son Suneets wife, who is a psychologist, add to the drama. Ammus psychobabble is not the only element adding to the Rao households cacophony. Pradeeps vivacious sister Brindas wit, the family dogs, servant Satishs foibles, Pradeeps entanglement in a case of hacking into the US NASA websites (just for fun), the devastating tsunami of 2004 all lend interesting angles to the story, making it crowded like a typical all-things-in-one Indian street or market. The family matriarch, for all her strenuous but vain efforts to wish away Pradeeps sexuality, had in her time done what the bold and the beautiful or desperate housewives do to get their love. In many ways, the book is more about Radhika Rao than Pradeep and Philippe. For isnt that the case with many LGBT people, or even other socially marginalised individuals revealing their secrets? While the person coming out surely has a story to tell, many interesting stories lie beneath

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THIS work of fiction is a new addition to the growing volume of writing that confirms the undeniable existence of same-sex love in India even in its upwardly mobile, holierthan-thou middle-class milieu
Honest Hairdressers, whose name is in direct contrast to the situation of denial prevailing in her home with regard to Pradeeps relationship with Philippe. In another situation, it is Radhika Raos harried state of mind when she struggles to prioritise between a shortage of onions and a shortage of fiances for her son, Pradeep, and his brother, Abhi, who is single as well and seems inclined towards an unmarried, spiritual pursuit in life. Some of Brindas digs at her mothers predicament about her son Pradeeps sexuality also make for light but meaningful reading. In one place, Brinda tries to provoke her mother that she is lesbian and will marry a woman, rather than any suitable match she finds through matrimonial advertisements. In another, Brinda confronts her mother that it is no use denying the fact that Pradeep and Philippe are going to get married. In fact, among all characters in the story, it is Brinda alone who brings Radhika Rao close to admitting that she knows exactly what the relationship between Pradeep and Philippe means. There are some areas where the book distracts a little. While most characters are well fleshed out, Satishs fake idiocy seems to jar a little, particularly his constant runins with Radhika Rao on dogs, cooking and other household matters. Then again, in the case of Pradeep, one wonders if he is not connected at all to any of the burgeoning LGBT networks in Chennai or elsewhere in India. It may not be essential to the story, but for a computer nerd in the time in which the story is set, this could have been a strong possibility. Instead, it is Brinda who is often found chatting on the Net with her friend about her brother and Philippe. The book would also have been a much more engaging read were it not marred by proofing errors and somewhat disturbing syntax in places, possibly the result of some nuances being lost in translation from French into English. Whether it can be indexed as gay literature or queer writing, this fiction is a new addition to the growing body of writing that confirms the undeniable existence of same-sex love in India, in its literary history, artistic heritage or as is the case with French Sahib, even in its up-

FRENCH SAHIB
Pierre Frha Shonu Nangia (trans) Roman, 2011 $24.95, 293 pages Hardcover/ Novel
the reactions of those who are at the receiving end of the coming out. It is as if a childs coming out as gay or lesbian forces a parent to recollect and confront their own happy and sad experiences of growing up. The book is also a commentary on the flux that Indian society currently seems to be in. While an Indian is shown to have the wherewithal to hack into tightly guarded US government websites and even contemplate same-sex marriage with a Frenchman, the yoke of casteism refuses to go away. As Philippe points out, much to Pradeeps indignance, even when it comes to the 2004 tsunami relief, discrimination against Dalits is rampant. Well-intentioned, the book is genuinely humorous in parts. On one occasion, Radhika Rao gets a haircut at the

wardly mobile, holier-thanthou middle-class milieu. For many people, parents in particular, who are following the trajectory of the more-thana-decade-old public interest litigation against Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code, first in the Delhi High Court and now in the Supreme Court, the topicality of the book may lie in the dilemma faced by Radhika Rao. Fortunately, at least 19 Indian parents have had no dilemma in filing a petition in the Supreme Court in support of the 2 July 2009 ruling of the Delhi High Court. This ruling had read down Section 377, decriminalising samesex relations among consenting adults in private. The Supreme Court recently finished hearing arguments both for and against the Delhi High Court ruling, and is expected to announce a verdict in the coming months. The story doesnt quite end with a firm or definite denouement. It seems likely that Pradeep and Philippe will continue with their relationship and may even get married. Radhika Raos opposition to this move seems unchanged as well. But the end has some thought-provoking lines: And the truth? When would it ever be possible to tell the truth, all the truths, even the inconvenient ones?... No. Never. Some truths are never meant to come to light. Not even when one is very old. One hopes that such will not be the case for LGBT people in India. One sincerely wishes the truth of their existence, needs and rights will not be belied or continue to be buffeted by the perennial social tsunami that keeps trying to stifle their aspirations, even if the courts rule differently in the current saga of decriminalising samesex love and LGBT people. T