Courting controversy

Last week, I was shocked to learn that a judicial magistrate court in India has issued summons to me under Sections 153, 153 (A)and 505(2) of the Indian Penal Code, stringent provisions of the law that seek to punish those “wantonly giving provocation with intent to cause riot”, “promoting enmity between different groups” and “creating or promoting enmity, hatred or ill-will between classes.” As the English translator of Uproot Hindutva: The Fiery Voice of the Liberation Panthers, I was accused, along with its author Thol. Thirumavalavan (Member of Parliament and President of the Viduthalai Chiruthaigal Katchi party) and publisher Mandira Sen (of Stree-Samya Books, Kolkata) of creating communal disharmony. What was our crime? We had portrayed two Tamil folk deities, Ponnar and Sankar, as “Dalit brothers.” A non-Indian parallel might illustrate this story better: An African-American leader says Jesus Christ was Black, and a White man takes him to court for causing communal disharmony. Would we not readily label the White man a racist and a supremacist?

Read the rest of my response here.

Audio interview and poetry reading in OpenSpace

When I was in Montreal for the Blue Met Literary Festival, Veena Gokhale got talking to me about my writing and activism. This was one hell of an interview: we were recording it in my hotel room at 10 in the night, and then it went on till 11.30. I had not eaten anything, and was tired after two back-to-back readings in the evening. And yet, for all the fatigue, it was a great experience.

Listen to the three-part podcast on OpenSpaceIndia.

Special bits: I read Random Access Man (about the love triangle: Ram, Sita, Ravan), and Massacre of the Innocents (about the Gujarat genocide 2002).

Early January updates

Happy New Year folks (since I have been rude and mannerless and forgot these basic courtesies).  I have always been lamenting whenever I visit this blog with the intention of writing something–Facebook and Twitter seem to have taken over my life (and information-sharing) in such an easy, communicative and personalized way that I don’t think twice about blogging anything. In spite of all that, I do miss blogging a great deal–after all, the 420 characters that facebook allows or the 140 characters of twitter are not the best medium for a mind that wanders like mine.

Life’s been incredibly lovely (touchwood) and here are some highlights of news from my writing life this new year.

A new group blog:

So, the ten days in mid-December at Adishakti Pondicherry, the three-city hop-over, and endless bonding with seven other similarly eccentric poets did not end up in mere memories. We are letting loose our poems into the wild world and what’s worse, trying to kick up a storm in eleven languages–thanks to a Literature Across Frontiers project. To those who would like to know how we went about the translation process, or to those curious about the strange occurrences around a certain Looser’s Table, follow our gang-blog Dubious Saints. Yes, I write there. I share Tamil translations of poems, and I tell you the trade secrets of how sinful and scary this process of carrying across precious words can be. If you think you like me, you will actually love the stuff on that site.

A portrait and an interview:

Well, this is not exactly a 2011 event, yet I’m taking the liberty to share it now. When I was a writer-in-residence at the International Writing Program, Iowa, I had this wonderful opportunity to actually sit as a subject for Spanish artist Felix de la Concha. He painted my portrait in two hours simultaneously interviewing me, asking me questions about why I wrote and how India was and what made me write and what made me angry and so on. That morning is still clearly etched in my memory. Felix’s wife Ana Merino (poet and professor and a wonderful warm woman) drove me to their home on the outskirts of Iowa City. Felix was a silent man, the contemplative artist type, but generous with his smiles, and highly intuitive, so one felt such an urge to talk to him. And I talked and talked, and he painted and painted, as their cat Thumbelina climbed in and out of my lap. The painting was a part of a larger project, and now, it is all available on the public domain. Click here to have a look at Felix’s ‘Portraits with Conversation: 50 Writers with Anacoluthon‘ that features me and 48 Spanish writers/intellectuals/cultural figures.

Panel discussion on Translation and Publishing:

I was in the capital from Jan 7 to 9, to take part in the workshop on Post-colonial Translation which took place at the India International Center, and was organized by Univ of Newcastle, SOAS, JNU and Univ of Delhi. On the last day, I made a presentation on my own experiences of translating two key Tamil Dalit texts authored by VCK President Thirumavalavan– Talisman: Extreme Emotions of Dalit Liberation and  Uproot Hindutva: Fiery Voice of the Liberation Panthers. Other panelists were Saugata Ghosh (Sage Publishing) Ritu Menon (Women Unlimited) and S. Anand (Navayana Publishing).  For photos, view my facebook album.

Reading Ms Militancy in New Delhi:

Since I was in Delhi, I also read my poems at my publisher Navayana Publishing’s office in Shahpur Jat to a small and intimate audience that consisted of many important writers, journalists and editors–the precise names who’ve inspired me. There was Arundhati Roy herself and just that single thing made this evening the best evening of my life (see this post to know how i worship her work). She’s not just brilliant in person, but she’s enormously sensitive to suffering which is why she has been at the forefront of so many people’s struggles. When she left, her parting words to me were, “never stop being angry.” Will remember that all the way to my grave! The other wonderful people who were there were Urvashi Butalia, V.K.Karthika, Asad Zaidi, Prof.H.S.Shivaprakash, Anita Roy, Mridula Koshy, Amruta Patil, Chandra Bhan Prasad, Shikha Sen, Dr. Azhagarasan, Mary Therese, Gautam Subramaniam, among others. The pleasure of reading to such an enlightened audience was more than the pleasure of seeing the book in print!

On Barkha Dutt’s The Buck Stops Here:

On, 13 Jan 2010, I was briefly part of this debate where Patrick French’s new book India: A Portrait was discussed on NDTV 24 x 7. The focal point of argument was whether economics alone was shaping the New India, and the prevalence of hereditary MPs. I spoke a little about what identity means to me, and how central the Indian Constitution was to Dalit and oppressed people’s emancipation/empowerment, and how the reality was very different from much of the hype surrounding India’s growth as an economic superpower. Didn’t speak for the first part of the show because of audio trouble, and also because the bulldozer named Mani Shanker Aiyer didn’t let anyone else have an opinion. He just went on and on. Other panelists were Hamdullah Sayeed, MP from Lakshadweep, Patrick French (of course), and Alyque Padamsee.

There’s more lined up for this month, and hope to share everything with you, and soon.

Poetry-translation workshop by Literature Across Frontiers

Poetry Connections: A Multilingual and Multimedia Performance
in Chennai and Pune, India, December 8 – 19, 2010

(From Wasafiri)

As part of the Literature Across Frontier’s (LAF) translation workshop, POETRY CONNECTIONS: A Multilingual and Multimedia Performance will be held in India across two cities – Chennai and Pune. The poetry translation workshop leading up to these events is scheduled to be held from 8th to 15th December, 2010 at Pondicherry. Eight national and international poets (Arjun Bali, Bill Herbert, Meena Kandasamy, Raphael Bendicht Urweider, Robin Ngangom, Roselyne Sibille, Sampurna Chattarji, Zoe Skoulding) will be participating in the workshop. The intensive workshop is envisaged to bring poets in contact with various contexts of their languages, regions, styles, formats etc.

The cross-translation and creative work achieved during this intensive workshop will be showcased as a performance at the inaugural of the Prakriti Poetry Festival on the 15th December in Chennai and as part of the Open Space on the 18th December in Pune.

Chennai: 15 December 2010, 7pm, Amethyst Gopalapuram, Chennai
Pune: 18 December 2010, 6.30pm, Kala Chaya Campus, Patrakar Nagar Road, Chaturshrungi, Pune

Ok my dears, would love to see you at the performance.

In Today’s iDiva, Times of India (interview-profile by Lakshmi Krupa)

Click on the picture for a larger version..

And here’s the text:

SUBALTERN SPEAK

City-based poet, writer and translator Meena Kandasamy lends her voice for the historically oppressed

By Lakshmi Krupa

In urban India, where caste, seemingly, does not interfere with day-to-day activities, many take the life opportunities they are offered for granted, even as caste cripples the lives and careers of a vast majority. It is this realisation that, in a broad sense, led 26-year-old city-based Meena Kandasamy to examine caste from close quarters and lend her voice for the sake of the oppressed. “I come from a very mixed background–almost four different backward castes including a Dalit,: she says, at the beginning of our discussion that lasts a good half hour, even as she traces her own life experiences and brush with political awakening.”My grandparents and my parents had an inter-caste marriage adding eclecticism to my identity,” Meena explains.

From 1997, around the time of Ambedkar’s centennial celebrations, when his thoughts  and writings gained momentum again, Meena’s interest in the subject grew deeper. “The Dalit Panthers were also on the rise when my understanding of Dalit issues was increasing and soon after finishing school, I started edited a bimonthly magazine, The Dalit, that was being brought out by the Tamil Nadu-based Dalit Media Network,” she says. Meena has also translated the works of Viduthalai Chiruthaigal Katchi (Liberation Panthers Party) leader, Thol.Thirumavalavan, including his speeches and books. “I have noticed that the market sells only Dalit first-person accounts on oppression and poetry and there really isn’t much in English that talks about their take on politics and what the thinking Dalit wants, and so I decided to translate Thol’s works,” she adds.

Born to academicians whose “careers staggered because of caste” Meena decided to focus on writing poetry and published her first collection, Touch, in August 2006 and worked for the cause of the Tamils in Sri Lanka soon after. “I grew up in Chepauk and as a child of the 80s, the Lankan Tamil issue was something I had heard about a lot and was familiar with almost everything that was happening,” she says. In 2007, she wrote a blog post about the death of Tamilselvan adn was then invited by TamilNet, “a newswire service that was independently reporting the war from Lanka” to wrier. Many people from war-torn areas in Sri Lanka would talk about what was really happening on the ground over Skype. I would receive these conversations (in Tamil) from Norway and spend hours translating them to English,” she adds.

Caste is not only self-defeating, Meena observes, but also reflects directly on the control a society exercises over a women’s sexuality. “If the system does not allow a woman to marry a man because he is from another caste, like honour killings for instance, is it not a direct oppression of her sexuality?” she asks. Caste identity, she says, is a double-edged sword in the sense that while it allows her to speak on certain issues boldly as she herself a part of the community, it also shuts the doors in many other areas. “I cannot escape that identity, it is who I am,” she says with a smile and continues, “But sometimes, even in my artistic work, critics look for political meanings while I yearn for a critical acknowledgement for exactly what it stands!”

So is politics on the cards for this youngster? “Never! Now I have the freedom to say what I want without sugar-coating it,” Meena says with a laugh. “But what I would like to see is an intense politicisation of our people; for them to be aware and make demands from governments. When people lack basic sanitation facilities what good will a television set do?” she asks, before signing off.

My review of Naguib Mahfouz’s ARABIAN NIGHTS AND DAYS in Monday’s EdEx

Read the official online version here.

ARABIAN NIGHTS AND DAYS
By Naguib Mahfouz,
Translated into English by Denys Johnson-Davies
Doubleday, 1995, pp.229, $22.95

In this stunning retelling of the classic Thousand and One Nights, Naguib Mahfouz succeeds in recasting the novel in an exotic, Arabic form. Set in an unnamed, ancient Islamic city of the medieval times, this book resonates with the politics of the contemporary world. As in the original, these stories are narrated by Shahrzad who fears being put to death by sultan Shahriyar who has sent several hundreds of young virgins to the gallows.

Inhabited by genies who plot mischief and plod their victims to commit murder, the series of inter-connected short-stories revel in magic realism. The cycle of bloodshed begins when Saanan the merchant is tricked by two trouble-making genies, Qumqam and Singam, to kill the corrupt governor of the city. He is put to death and his family is reduced to penury. More misfortunes follow, and the book is filled with mysterious murders which the police cannot solve. The trials of those people accused of these crimes provide the public with material for gossip and unlimited entertainment, but when it comes to light that the innocent have been sentenced to death, it leads to simmering discontent. The subjects are no longer satisfied with the ruler.

In order to solve this problem, the sultan, his minister and the clown put on various garbs and roam the streets at night gathering real information that seldom reaches royal ears. This leads to several riveting episodes which form the basis for about half-a-dozen short-stories.

In the story of Anees-al-Galees, a cunning genie take on the form of an enchantress, mesmerizes the most powerful men of that land (including the sultan) and ultimately humiliates all of them by robbing them of their clothes and making them walk back to their own homes in stark nakedness.

The characterization is contemporary: the women are more strong-willed than the men; a madman acts as the voice of conscience; the bloodthirsty sultan regrets his style of functioning, sets on the path of reform and grows increasingly despondent; religious fundamentalists keep conspiring against the regime.

The alternate endings presented in Arabian Nights and Days vary between the hilarious and the tragic, so we find Shahrazad’s sister Dunyazad eloping with Nur Al-Din, a perfume-seller; sailor Sindbad spouting Sufi wisdom; and Magic-lamp-and-flying-carpet Aladdin, famous for his happily-ever-after story, brutally executed on trumped-up charges.

Mahfouz writes like no other about the world of the living, the dead and the living-dead. First published in 1982 in Arabic, this novel is simultaneously shaped as a call to conscience and as a submissiveness to fate. It easily opens up to many layers of interpretation. It is a novel that’s wise without trying to be clever; and filled with prose where the dialogues are poetic, the descriptions haunting.

//

My review of ‘Rapids of a Great River’ in today’s New Indian Express

Read the official version here.

Rapids of a Great River: The Penguin Book of Tamil Poetry
Lakshmi Holmstrom, Subashree Krishnaswamy, K.Srilata
Publisher: Penguin/Viking
Pages: 222, Price: Rs.499

There cannot be a better way to begin a book of Tamil poetry than with A.K.Ramanujan’s translations of Sangam poets. In Rapids of a Great River, the journey starts splendidly but on the way downstream, everything begins disintegrating.

The first section consists of selections from Sangam poetry, Silappadikaram, Manimekalai, Tirukkural , Tirumurai, Periya Puranam, Tiruvaymoli, Naachiyar Tirumoli, and Iramavataram. One also finds excerpts from the works of the Siddhar and Tayumanavar, and from Kuttrala Kuravanci and Nandanar Charitra Kirtthanai. The translators have conveniently used extant translations for this section and one finds it sufficient. However, I personally prefer Suddhanandha Bharati or G.U.Pope as translators of the Thirukkural, since P.S.Sundaram’s rendering in English is flat and dull, and does not bring out the depth or the poetry of the original couplets.

Although the first section does have a sprinkling of the Usual Suspects, there are some omitted Tamil classics such as the Kalingathubarani which valorized/ glamourized the spectacles of war and heroism and occupies a pre-eminent place in the Tamil canon. Likewise, the religious and cultural diversity of the Tamil tradition is not highlighted by failing to include selections from Veeramamunivar’s Thembavani, a celebrated epic poem on the life of Jesus Christ and Umaru Pulavar’s Seerapuranam, a biography of Prophet Mohammed written through 5000-odd poems.

The second part of the book consists of translations of Tamil poetry beginning with Subramania Bharati. Much as I would like to be blind to the politics of selections, there are certain lapses here too that cannot evade notice. Iconic poet Bharatidasan (1891-1964) whose poetry radically influenced the politics of Tamil Nadu is missing from the anthology. Is this reflective of a prevailing elitist mindset which sidelines poets who sympathize with the ideology of the Dravidian/ Communist/ Dalit movements, preferring to label them political poets, and not poets’ poets? Bharathidasan and Suradha were trend-setters, they took modern poetry to the people, but the manner in which they’ve been ignored is disheartening.

Other glaring omissions include notable poets like Ka.Na.Subramaniam, Abdul Rahman, Abi, Inquilab and the Vaanambadi group (consisting of progressive Tamil scholars like Sirpi, Mu. Mehta, Puviyarasu, Erode Tamilanban). Likewise, although cinema is deeply embedded in Tamil society/ culture, it is regrettable that there’s no mention of Kannadasan, Vairamuthu, Na.Muthukumar, Arivumathi, Thamarai and others who not only hold the lay people in their sway, but have also proved themselves as literary poets. Even as one cheers for the inclusion of about a dozen Eelam Tamil poets in this anthology, the above instances of exclusion raise doubts about the criteria required to make the cut.

Coming to the poems themselves, in many instances, the translators seem to have not understood particular nuances of the original text. As an illustrative example, in Sukirtharani’s poem Pallichenru cholli (sic) vidukiren from her collection Iravu Mirugam (Night Beast), the line Appavin thozhilum aanduvarumaanamum/ solla mudiyamal/ vaathiyaaridum adivaanguven, literally translates into: “Unable to reveal/ Father’s occupation and annual income/ I would get beaten up by the teacher.” Here, a Dalit schoolgirl speaks of her inability to divulge the details of what her father does for a living because it would not only ‘place’ her socially and economically, but also because of the stigma and the humiliation she would face if this information became public. She seeks shelter in silence, and even suffers the corporal punishment meted out to her.

Instead, the translation in the anthology (by K.Srilata and Subashree Krishnaswamy) introduces an undertone of obstinacy (which is neither existent, implied or intended in the original poem) when these lines are transformed into: “When my teacher caned me/ I didn’t reveal/ father’s occupation/ income per annum.” (p.198) The internal helplessness which she faces, her being punished for a powerlessness that seeks protection, is totally absent in such an alternative rendering. As a result, the militancy in the last lines—where this hesitant girl grows up to tell people outright that she is a Paraichi (a Paraiyar woman, an epithet used as a slur by caste-Hindus)—is effectively mellowed. Fidelity to the text may be fast going out of fashion, but a greater sensitivity towards, and perception of, lived Dalit realities would have ensured that such sabotaging of denotation did not take place.

Rapids of a Great River is surely an ambitious project as far as its aspirations are concerned, but at the end of the book, one is left wondering: Where are the rapids? And what really became of the Great River en route to its English avatar?

Review of Yashpal’s Divya in today’s New Indian Express

First published in The New Indian Express. Official weblink is here.

When it was first published in 1945, Yashpal’s novel Divya created a furore because of its unconventional portrayal of women and their quest for independence. Although it is tame enough for our times, the book remains enigmatic as ever since it sets out by envisioning the prostitute as a liberated woman. Set in a time-period when the clash between Buddhism and Brahminism was at its peak, the novel probes the roots of slavery and the plight of women, thus providing insight into the personal and political nature of bondage.

Born in a Brahmin family, the enchanting Divya is the great-granddaughter of the Chief Justice of the Republic of Madra. She falls in love with Prithusen, the son of a former slave, who is also the best swordsman in the kingdom. As in works of fiction (and unlike in almost all of real life), pregnancy follows a single night of love-making, and Divya hides the signs of a new life growing inside her as she awaits the return of Prithusen. He emerges successful in the war, and in warding off the Brahmins who seek to annex the Sagal territory, but spurns Divya on the advice of his father who is keen to get him married to Seero, granddaughter of the President of the Republic, since that would ensure him a better place in the echelons of power.

Her pregnancy, which should have possibly been an occasion for celebration becomes the cause for censure, and Divya leaves the kingdom. Unable to come to terms with that shame, her great-grandfather dies. Sold to a slave trader, she becomes a wet-nurse, and later, flees in order to join the monastic order, but they refuse to allow her since she does not have a father, husband, son or master who can grant her permission. Saved by the generous courtesan Devi Ratnapraba, she’s rescued from slavery of one kind, and inducted into slavery of another.

In her new avatar as the dancer Anshumala, her fame is unparalleled. However, she also realises that merely by becoming the mistress of her own body, a woman cannot become the mistress of her destiny. She returns to Sagal on the invitation of her former guru Devi Mallika, but is once again ostracised by caste society. Rudhradhir, the Brahmin who has now taken over the kingdom asks her to be his wife, arguing that a high-born girl can never be the state’s chief courtesan. Divya turns down his offer. Prithusen, now a Bhikku offers to take her into the monastic order, but she refuses to enter it too, and the novel ends in a conventional manner.

This trajectory of a woman’s life is used to explore the social maladies prevalent in India at that time. As a revolutionary freedom fighter, Yashpal subtly and shrewdly argues for the necessity for transcending caste divisions and empowering women. Even though it is envisaged for personal purposes, this urgent yearning for an egalitarian society by one sensual, spirited woman enables Divya to assume a realness which is neither maudlin or superficial. Such a nuanced construction renders the novel eminently readable.

Eat, Drink, Man, Woman

Reproduced from Tehelka.com

MEENA KANDASWAMY has an electric effect on rooms when she reads her poetry. The erotic content quite apart, the juxtaposition of her highly femme persona and the tartness of her observations always charges the atmosphere.

The late Kamala Das wrote the foreword to Touch, the collection of poetry Kandaswamy published at age 23. ‘Love and its politics inform my poetry. Caste atrocities happen most frequently because of intercaste love affairs.” A happy denizen of the Internet, 25-year-old Kandaswamy’s first short story The Suicide’s Inbox was the perverse unfolding of a correspondence between two women.

The daughter of a Tamil professor and a Maths professor at IIT, Meena has been always aware that even PhDs are not invincible armour. She chose to pursue a degree privately. “I knew I would not rest quietly if I had to suffer the usual caste slurs in college. Such a waste of time.”

Kandaswamy pins her dalit identity on the act of rebelling against any kind of oppression. She describes what it is like to live in a state with powerful dalit movements going back to the legendary Nandanar, who died claiming his right to worship Shiva: “Discrimination is sophisticated. Once a day — I’m not exaggerating — once a day someone will ask me whether I am vegetarian to figure out whether I am Brahmin.”

She avidly follows the media’s handling of dalit public figures. ‘People say dalits smell but when dalits stand for elections people say that suchand- such dalit’s perfume was expensive.” She has funny stories about the liberals left as well. “People exoticise our ‘sexual freedom’ as if dalits live in a nudist colony. I once met the editor of a left-leaning national newspaper. He told someone to verify if I was a dalit since I spoke English well.”

Kandaswamy says she wrestles daily with the biases of language in her writing, her PhD thesis and her rapacious translation of Tamil literature. She teaches English in a college. She blogs about local politics but is writing a novel set far from Tamil Nadu. Is this the life she dreamt of? “I dream of too many lives,” she replies.

NISHA SUSAN

From Tehelka Magazine, Vol 6, Issue 24, Dated Jun 20, 2009

Translation as murder

As someone who has translated a dozen books, and who also holds a research degree in translation studies, I know a lot about the difficulties of translating. I know about equivalences, about cultural problems, about syntax troubles, the whole damn lot. What I learnt right now, is that someone can merely use your name, and the title of an article you published in an English newspaper and write up their own stuff.

I don’t read a lot of Tamil newspapers (at least the fringe, party-organ variety), so this slipped my eye. Until someone typed this whole stuff out and sent it to me.

Regular readers of this blog, will remember that I wrote this opinion piece for the Deccan Chronicle. It’s right there if you scroll down this blog. Now, this is a so-called translation that has been carried in the JANASAKTI, the official newspaper of the Communist Party of India.

Names that I have mentioned are missing. Facts that I mentioned are missing. My arguments are missing. I can understand the omissions. But they have added facts and names and arguments of their own. Why should this be done? Why should my words be subjected to so many twists and turns and glaring things that I never wrote of.

Anybody who can read English and Tamil will know that the Tamil version has nothing to do with the original. It is totally interpolated, taken out of context, and so much that I will never accept as my political views have been added. In that case, why did they have to do this my article? If they wanted to extend the case of the ADMK-Left combine, they have all the 6 pages of their daily newspaper to do that. Why claim that these points are “taken” from someone else’s piece?

I have seen several types of translation, but never before have I witnessed something that is so damaging. This is really murder in a sense, to attribute things I never said (or things that I will never say) to me.

I always, always respected the CPI, so it’s very difficult for me to come to terms with this.

(If you can read Tamil please do check out this section and compare it with the original. This appeared in the Janasakti of 17 April 2009)

இலங்கைத் தமிழர் பிரச்சனை தமிழகத் தேர்தலை நிர்ணயிக்கும்

நடைபெற உள்ள நாடளுமன்றத் தேர்தலில் இலங்கைத் தமிழர் பிரச்சனை மய்யப் பிரச்சனியாயாக உர்வாகிவருகிறது. இதனாலேயே இந்திய அரசு இலங்கை அரசையும் எல்.டி. டி. ஈ. ஐயும் யுத்தத்தை நிறுத்தும்படி வலியுறுத்தியது என்று அமைச்சர் ப. சிதம்பரம் கூறினார்.

இந்திய வெளியுறவுத்துறைச் செயலர் சிவ சங்கரர் மேனன் இலங்கைத் தமிழ் தேசியக் கட்சி (டி. என். ஏ.) எம். பிக்களை சந்தித்துப் பேசியுள்ளனர். தி.மு.க – காங்கிரஸ் கட்சி கூட்டணி, மதிய, மாநில அரசுகளின் சாதனைகளைக் கூறி ஓட்டுக்களைக் கேட்டு வருகிறது. ஆனால், அ.இ.அ.தி.மு.க. இடதுசாரிக் கட்சியின் கூட்டணி, இலங்கைத் தமிழர் பிரச்சனைகளைப் பிரசாரத்தில் கொண்டு செல்ல உள்ளன.

இந்திய கம்யூனிஸ்ட் கட்சியின் தமிழ் மாநிலச் செயலாளர் தா. பாண்டியனும், பா.ம.க. தலைவர் டாக்டர் ராமதாசும் அ.தி.மு.க. பொதுச் செயலாளர் ஜெயலலிதாவும் இப்பிரச்சனை கலையும் தமிழரின் படுகொலையையும் பார்த்துக்கொண்டு மத்திய அரசு மௌனமாயிருப்பதையும், மாநில அரசு மதிய அரசினை வலியுருத்தாததையும் தேர்தல் பிரசாரத்தின் போது வலியுறுத்திப் பிரச்சாரம் செய்ய உள்ளனர். ம.தி.மு.க. பொதுச் செயலாளர் வைகோ வின் ரத்த ஆறு ஓடும் என்ற பேச்சு, தேர்தல் காலத்தைச் சூடேற்றியுள்ளது. இவை தி.மு.க. காங்கிரஸ் கூட்டணியைக் கலக்க முயற்சி செய்துள்ளது.

தமிழ் தேசியக் குழுக்கள் “இனி என்ன செய்யப்போகிறாய்?” என்ற தலைப்பிட்ட ஒளிப் பேழைகளை (சி.டி.க்கள்) தமிழக மக்களிடையே விநியோகித்து வருகின்றனர். பெரியார் திராவிடர் கழகம் இது குறித்து பிரச்சாரங்களைச் செய்துவருகிறது.

இலங்கை தமிழர் படுகொலைகள்தமிழர்கள் செத்து மடிவது, பிணக்குவியல் போன்றவை படங்கலாக்கப்பட்டு சி. டி. மூலம் வெளியிடப்பட்டுள்ளது. மன்மோகன் சிங்க், சோனியா காந்தி ஆகியோர் இலங்கை அதிபர் ராஜபக்சே வுடன் கைக்குளுகுவது போன்றவையும் அதில் படமாகப்பட்டுளது. இவர்களுக்க உங்கள் ஓட்டு? என மக்களிடம் கேள்வி கேட்கப் பட்டுள்ளது.

கடந்த 3 மாதங்களில் தமிழகத்தில் இப்ப்ரச்சனைக்காக 16 பேர் தீக்குளித்து மாண்டுள்ளன்னர். இலங்கைப் பிரச்னை மக்களிடையே ஏற்படுத்தியுள்ள எழுச்சியினால், அ.இ.அ.தி.மு.க. பொதுச் செயலாளர் ஜெயலலிதா உண்ணாவிரதம் மேற்கொண்டார். இதனாலேயே, மத்தியில் உள்ள காங்கிரஸ் அரசும், வன்னிப்பகுதிக்கு நிவாரணப் பொருட்களை அனுப்பியது. வன்னியில் கொள்ளப்படும் தமிழர்களின் எண்ணிக்கை தினந்தோறும் கூடிவருகிறது. இப்போரில் விடுதலைப் புலிகள் இயக்கத் தலைவர் பிரபாகரனுக்கு ஏதேனும் நேர்ந்தால் தி.மு.க.-காங்கிரஸ் கூட்டணிக்கு இத்தேர்தல் சவாலாக இருக்கும் என்பது மட்டுமல்ல, முழு தோல்வியை இக்கூட்டணி சந்திக்க நேரிடும். இத்தேர்தலின் வெற்றி தோல்வி இலங்கையில் மே 13 க்கு முன்பு நடக்கின்ற விளையுவகளைப் பொறுத்தே அமையும்.

குறிப்பு: டெக்கான் கிரானிக்கல் ஆங்கில நாளேட்டிற்கு, அண்ணா பல்கலைக்கழக ஆசிரியர் மீனா கந்தசாமி எழுதிய கட்டுரையிலிருந்து.

A Tamil Translation of Geoff Page’s Poetry

Just to take a break from the tension building up in life, I thought I will blog this. Last week I had done a reading of my translation of Australian Poet Geoff Page’s short poems at the Univ. of Madras. Since, I couldn’t get my lazy self to submit it properly to some Tamil lit journal or the other (and given the fact that I treasure my ignorance in such matters), I have decided to paste them here (only four of the original ten–I am that lazy). For those of you who know Tamil, you have something. Don’t be offended by the obsession with death though. It spooked even me. Yes…  

சில இரவுகள் 

சில இரவுகளில் 
நான் கடவுளைக் கண்டு பொறாமைப்படுகிறேன் 
அவரின் கவிஞர்களுக்காக , 
கவிஞர்களின் மேகம், நிலா என்னும் உவமைகளுக்காக , 
எப்படி ஒவ்வொரு மரமும், 
ஒவ்வொரு கல்லும், ஒவ்வொரு குளமும், 
எப்போதும் அதுவாகவே மட்டும் இல்லையோ, அப்படி, 
அவர்களின் மனப்போராட்டங்கள். 

‘அருள்’ என்னும் சொல்லைப்போல் 
என் அகராதியில் 
ஒரு சொல்லைக் கண்டுபிடிக்க 
நான் விருப்பமற்று இருக்கிறேன் 
நான் ஒப்புக்கொள்கிறேன், 
விடியல் நெருங்கும் போது 
வார்த்தைகளின் இடையே ஒரு வெறுமை 
அடையாளங்களை விட ஆழமான இலக்கணத்தை 
அதன் வழியேதான் நாம் உணர முடியும். 

இருந்தும், எனக்குத் தேவை நட்சத்திரங்கள் தான்– 
அவைகளின் மாறுபட்ட மாய்ந்துபோகும் வேகம் 
மறைந்த பின்பு அவைகளின் வெளிச்சம் தொடர்ந்து வாழ்கிறது. 
ஒரு மிகப்பெரிய விமானம் 
எப்படிக் காற்றில் தள்ளாடிச் செல்கிறது? 
ஏன் பௌதிகவியலின் மர்மங்கள் போதவில்லை? 

 

ஆர்தர் ஃபிலிப் 

கனவுகள் ஏன் நம் வரலாற்றைப் போல இருக்கின்றன
இரண்டு பாகம் பெருமை, இரண்டு பாகம் அவமானம்
உலகத்தில் முதல் முறையாக இரகசிய வாக்குப்பதிவு, 
கொலைக்கு ஒரு பெயரிடுவதில் தாமதம். 

ஒரு வேலை, நாம் இன்னும் ஆர்தர் ஃபிலிப்பின் 
தூக்கத்தைக் கெடுக்கும் கனவாய் இருக்க இயலுமா? 

அந்தப் பதினெட்டாம் நூற்றாண்டின் தலைக்குள் 
இன்னும் நாம் சாட்டையடி வாங்கிய பின்பும் 
கண்ணீர் சிந்தாத குற்றவாளிகளோ, 
அல்லது, அனைவரையும் ஈடுபாடற்ற கையசைவில் வாழ்த்தி, 
யாரும் சங்கடப்படவில்லை என்று எதிர்பார்க்கும் மன்னருக்கு
மரியாதை செலுத்தாத மண்ணின் மைந்தர்களோ? 

நாடு கடத்தப்பட்ட கனவுகள் வாக்கைக் கொடுத்தது.
அதற்குப் பிறகு, மன்னர்களால் வழங்கப்பட்டது 
வெறும் துப்பாக்கிகளாலும் கொடிகளாலும் 
அலங்கரிக்கப்பட்ட கதைகள்– 
அதிலே தான் நாம் இன்றும் வசிக்கவேண்டும் என்று அறிகிறோம். 

 

பாண்டை பிற்பகல் 1915 

வண்ணம் பூசிய வானத்தின் இடையே 
காற்று விளையாடுகிறது 

மேகமே இல்லை. கடலும், 
காற்றும், ஒரே நீலம். 

துப்பாக்கி ஓசைக்கு அப்பால் 
ஓர் அரைக்கோளத்தில் 

ஒரு ஓவியன் அந்த ஆண்டின் 
பிரதிபிம்பத்தைக் கண்டுபிடிக்கின்றான் :

காற்றுவீச்சில், மெல்லிய 
வெள்ளாடை உடுத்திய பெண் 

கறைபடியாத, கடைசிப் பிற்பகலில் 
நடந்து செல்கிறாள். 

 

காத்துக் கருப்பு 

தெற்கே பெருங்கடலில் இருந்து 
ஒரு கறுப்புக் காற்று, 
நகரும் மணலில் 
புல்லின் பிடிப்பைப் 
பரிசோதிக்கிறது. 
எண்பது மைல் தூரத்திற்கு 
ஒன்றாகச் செல்லும் 
ரயிலும், ரோடும் 
இரண்டு முறை 
குறுக்கே கடந்து 
போகின்றன. 
வெளிச்சங்கள் 
இரு வழியில் 
வீசுகின்றன, 
மோதிய பிறகு 
வெடித்துச் சிதறுகின்றன. 
இரு நகரங்களுக்கு இடையே 
விரித்திருக்கும் கம்பியின் கீழ்
ஓர் இரவுத் தொடர்வண்டி 
ஊளையிட்டு ஓடுகின்றது. 
காற்று ஒரு முறை 
உயர்கின்றது 

பிறகு 

மையத்தை நோக்கிப் 
பறக்கின்றது. 

the winner will be

As the Man Booker Prize enters its fortieth year in 2008, it retains its position as the most respected literary prize for English language fiction published in the UK and the Commonwealth. Despite its glamorous halo of quality, the prize has attracted attention because of its controversial nature — a wife on the jury fought for the sake of her then husband’s novel, jury members have threatened suicide over the selection of a book, and over the years, they have, like unruly schoolchildren, called each other nasty names and gone so far as to trade charges of cheating.

Because the benefits of the Man Booker prize are many (worldwide audience, translations and film adaptations), the omissions on the shortlist generate as much public discussion as the half-a-dozen selections. Rushdie’s latest novel failed to enchant the jury; other notable omissions this year are Joseph O’Neill’s Netherland, Mohammed Hanif ’s A Case of Exploding Mangoes, and Michelle de Krester’s The Lost Dog. The fact that this prize has been bestowed on first-time novelists (Arundhati Roy, Yann Martel, DBC Pierre) means that Aravind Adiga or Steve Toltz stand a big, fat chance to seize the day . Therefore, it not surprising that they happen to be bookies’ favourites.

Spending a month reading the six shortlisted titles means that one can be legitimately entitled to an opinion — in other words, one can piously pick a possible winner.

I love Amitav Ghosh’s Sea of Poppies.

The text speaks to me in ways that I can never put down into words.

I have never before encountered such a feisty rural heroine in Indian English fiction. Deeti suffers in a wretchedly painful marriage, cultivates opium and supports her daughter single-handedly; falls in love and secretly marries the Dalit who saved her from becoming a sati, decides to become an indentured labourer along with her husband when fleeing from her family. Once aboard the Ibis, she is the women’s counsellor and champion of others’ rights; and in the tremendous, tumultuous final scene she watches, with hope and silent resignation, the love of her life sail away (with other seamen) to save his skin. And during the course of these important events, she fills the world with her song, her laughter.

May be this praise sounds too personal: as though I was reading the novel based on who I am, a woman, a Dalit, an Indian with migrant/slave ancestors somewhere in the roots of her family tree. It is almost time to remember that not one person sitting on the jury shares my background.

However that does not mean that Ghosh’s masterpiece will impress them any less than it moved me. So I might as well say that I made this choice because of purely technical reasons. As, if you please, an objective reviewer.

At the height of his expressive powers, Ghosh is adept at creating not just true-to-life characters but giving each one of them voices and styles and speech patterns of their own: one comes across an English with Indian inflections, a pidgin tongue, and sailors’ registers. The narrative is exceptionally well-handled and the climax is vivid, almost unforeseeable.

Reclaiming history sounds like a scary rightwing project, but by penning a panoramic novel from the perspective of powerless colonised subjects and the manner in which they are swayed by political forces, Ghosh has proved that the purpose of literature is to change the way we look at the world. When you are done with the rereading, this bewitching book will make you long for the second instalment and a screen adaptation.

***

  ANOTHER WORLD IS POSSIBLE 

  Sea of Poppies by Amitav Ghosh 
  Publisher: Penguin/Viking 
  Pages: 515, Price: Rs 599 

The first volume of Ghosh’s projected Ibis trilogy, Sea of Poppies is a fascinating historical novel that exceeds expectations novel that exceeds expectations by taking on two of the mightiest projects of colonialism: indentured labor and the opium trade. Ibis, a retired slave ship/blackbirder comes to Calcutta to transport Indians as plantation coolies to Mauritius. With the silken story-telling as potent as the drug itself, colonial history and cultural connections seamlessly merge with the ensemble character cast that consists of sailors and lascar seamen, a disgraced raja, a rajput subedar, a French botanist’s orphaned daughter, and coolies of various castes and women migrants.

Even as the novel reveals masks and mindsets, it also celebrates difference and diversity . The schooner’s second mate Zachary Reid, a black mulatto freedman, and Kalua, a Dalit villager stand out as heroes who silently fight against the stigma of color and caste, and who, at least in their love affairs, transcend them. Britain’s necessity to offset its trade deficit converted the nation into the world’s biggest drug-pusher, and the impact of this exercise looms large over the lives of powerless rural people in the Ganges plains.

To Ghosh’s credit, he portrays colonial subjects as armed with the power to transform their own destinies. The colonizing tongue changes Madhu Kalua to Maddow Clover—yet, creativity gives birth to a pidgin, where English, ravished by Bengali, Bhojpuri and Laskar, turns into a multi-layered lingo whose music adds to this novel’s brilliance. The brutal climax shows the ship in mid sea, fighting a tempest. The real storm is however in the minds of those aboard the Ibis as they watch their dear ones — the convicts and the condemned — move away in search of safer shores.

  FALLEN ANGEL 

  The Secret Scripture by Sebastian Barry 
  Publisher: Faber and Faber 
  Pages: 300, Price: Rs 799 

Roseanne McNulty, nearing hundred and possibly the oldest person in all of Ireland, has spent more than half a centu ry at the Roscommon Regional Mental Hospital. As the asylum awaits demolition, psychiatrist Dr Grene has to assess her state of mind. Picking up the threads from his earlier novel The Whereabouts of Eenas McNulty (1998), Sebastian Barry spins this self-reflexive novel.

Though his beautiful, beautiful language can hoodwink you, the plot flaws are too obvious to go unnoticed: Dr Grene does not have any knowledge of Roseanne’s story in spite of being the psychiatrist at the asylum for 30 years and mice have eaten away her official records, and Dr Grene himself has not taken any case notes and she refuses to tell him her story .

Interweaving Roseanne’s secret narrative of her life and Dr Grene’s commonplace notebook, the brooding, dark novel traces the happenings in the past through additional material such as Fr Gaunt’s vile chronicles and hospital records. Roseanne’s fall from grace begins after her father’s death: she marries a Catholic Tom McNulty against the wishes of Fr Gaunt who accuses her of infidelity, labels her a nymphomaniac and ensures her marriage is annulled.

Broken-hearted, she sleeps with Eenas McNulty, gives birth to a son and is admitted into an asylum. It is a poignant story of how misogyny uses the authority of religion and morality to condemn a woman to madness. Despite a disappointing and predictable twist-ending, this novel about poverty and patriotism, memory and identity has a disarming old-world charm that is sure to entice readers.

  SKELETONS IN THE CLOSET 

  The Clothes on Their Backs by Linda Grant 
  Publisher: Virago 
  Pages: 293, Price: Rs 595 

Immigration — with its promise of a new land and language — strips one’s soul and holds out the potential for enormous change. However, Vivien’s Jewish-Hungarian refugee parents refuse to shed their protective layers, preferring to live timidly as mice-people in a red-brick mansion block in Benson Court, London. One day, when uncle Sandor Kovacs makes an appearance, he is violently turned away.

She later hears his name on the news but her curiosity is met with blank stares. Rebelling against this cocooned existence, she falls in love with literature and lipstick and reinvents herself through clothes. She marries to escape her isolation, alas, fate makes her a widow on her honeymoon. Back home, 25-year-old Vivien gets in touch with Uncle Sandor, the notorious slum landlord out on parole after 14 years in prison. Through the hackneyed narrative device of becoming his amanuensis, she learns that this flamboyant face-of-evil, with his weakness for cakes and coloured women, has kind eyes and the key to her family’s history.

When she discovers the past denied to her, Vivien joins the anti-Nazi league and the novel pleats a perfect parallel between anti-semitism in 1940s Europe (her grandparents had been gassed) and anti-Black racism in 1970s England. Grant’s novel details the individual’s struggle for survival through unconventional viewpoints: Eunice, Sandor’s black fiancée views him as a victim and a saviour; Vivien’s boyfriend Claude dies due to his fascination with the Swastika’s shape. Sadly, the clothes-maketh-the-woman motif romps home after ruining the last sentence.

  DANGEROUS DIVIDE 

  The White Tiger  by Aravind Adiga 
  Publisher: HarperCollins 
  Pages: 321, Price: Rs 395 

Even though The White Tiger has an invocation that involves arse-kissing 3,600,004 gods, it turns out to be a smashing debut novel. Selftaught, half-baked Balram-I-am-tomorrow-Halwai writes a series of letters to the Chinese Premier Wen Jiabao about the Other India that will never be shown to him. Balram’s movement from Darkness (a menial job in his nondescript village) to Light (driver of a Delhi-based businessman) lets him learn the ropes of what works in India. As casteism and feudalism strike a fatal friendship with the police and politicians, we are taken on an unsentimental yet riveting ride.

In an impudent manner, Balram succeeds in justifying why he murdered his boss Ashok Sharma, and how he emerges as a successful entrepreneur in Bangalore. No longer a servant, he gets a share in the spoils of India’s economic boom. In trademark Indian fashion — where the lives of poor people have no value — the backlash to his boss’s murder (17 of Balram’s kin are massacred in a bloody reprisal) is mentioned only in passing.

Although every Indian cliché is deconstructed within a controlled narrative structure, Adiga is guilty of over-simplification when he reduces the complex caste system to two binaries: Men With Big Bellies and Men With Small Bellies (by the way, where do we women fit in?). This novel is an incisive satire on our troubled times: as mutiny simmers on the sidelines, one lone man makes a choice and grabs his chance to live like a human being.

White Tiger is a captivating read; you will appreciate Adiga for the engaging manner in which he chronicles oppression and resistance.

  CHARMING RASCALS 

  A Fraction of the Whole by Steve Toltz 
  Publisher: Hamish Hamilton 
  Pages: 711, Price: Rs 1295 

Narrated from prison by Jasper, A Fraction of the Whole is a hysterical realist novel about his megalomaniac dad Martin (“whose body will never be found”) and his legendary uncle Terry Dean, a criminal outlaw and sports fundamentalist who shot down match-fixers and became Australia’s folk hero. Martin’s penchant for attracting catastrophe with his ideas irrevocably shatters his family, and growing up in this shadow, Jasper suffers without school education and a support system. In spite of the broad themes that the narrative brushes past, it is fixated on family (parents, siblings, spouses) and misguided failures (suicides, insanity, serial murders, pyramid schemes). Because this novel is an incredibly funny John-Irving-ish read, there is no danger of being bogged down by the restlessness of its first-person narrators (son and dad sounding so similar). But obsessive energy without direction is pointless and besides, there are literary limits as to how often a reader can be expected to suspend disbelief as the plot spirals out of control.

Misogynists may get away after calling women fickle-minded, yet it takes the talent of Toltz to create a Caroline Potts (who constantly vacillates/oscillates between Martin and Terry) or an Anouk (who transforms herself from a tonsured activist to housekeeper to sexy glamourina to richest widow in Australia within the last hundred pages).

This scandalous, irrational story hyper-imaginatively comes full circle after brief stopovers in Paris and Thailand, and there’s so much under the table and over the top in this fraction of spicy, salted fiction, that the novel’s logical lapses can be forgiven whole-heartedly .

PATIENCE TESTER 

The Northern Clemency by Philip Hensher 
Publisher: Fourth Estate 
Pages: 738, Price: £17.99

Set in Rayfield Avenue, a Sheffield suburb in the 1970s, Hensher’s historical fiction traces the banal lives of the Glover and Sellers families over two decades. Swaying between domestic drama, industrial strife and political satire, the third-person narrative ensures that all incidents, hysteric or humdrum — Katherine’s infidelity, her public humiliation of son Timothy , a visit to a fishmonger, a court proceeding related to a criminal case, a riot in Orgreave with Arthur Scargill in a cameo — are richly etched. Small events cast long shadows within this sealed community, as the cruelties inflicted in childhood continue to cripple the future.

Apart from the purple passages and the pretentiousness of sincerity which makes one cringe, the novel’s much-hyped engagement with the political is shallow. The miners’ strike of 1984 is told from the point of view of 19-year-old teenage activist Timothy, and thus Hensher saves himself from the task of siding with the Left.

We can commend the author for his adeptness in maintaining suspense — even halfway through the book, we are not told how the characters look. And yet, the epic narrative reads as if someone were reporting, in real-time, CCTV footage of what happens in the Sellers and Glover households. In such a situation, one longs for the pen of a ruthless editor who would have cut down the number of pages and also done away with the trick ending. All the same, it is unfair to call this big book a major letdown because it will lend itself to therapeutic bedtime reading for insomniacs.

(First published in The New Indian Express, Oct 12, 2008)

This is for those of you who prefer the e-paper version…  wait till I give a link, or put up a picture here. : )

In which the Poetess becomes a Terroristress

तमिल ईलम संघर्ष के पिछले ४० बरस से मुख्य स्वर रहे, क्रांतिकारी-लिरिकल कवि कासी आनंदन से युवा दलित अंग्रेज़ी कवि मीना कंदसामी की बातचीत और उनकी कुछ कविताओं के अंग्रेज़ी एवं हिन्दी अनुवाद. मूल से अंग्रेज़ी में लाने का काम मीना कंदसामी ने किया है और अंग्रेज़ी से हिन्दी अनुवाद गिरिराज किराडू ने. राजनितिक कविता के बोझिल बड़बोलेपन के बरक्स कासी की लगभग सूक्तिनुमा छोटी-छोटी कवितायें मितव्ययी होने के साथ ‘अचूक’ होने में विश्वास करती हैं;, वे महाकाव्यात्मकताओं के छल को पहचानते हैं. दूसरी तरफ़ साक्षात्कार में वे ‘सुंदर’ के विरूद्ध अपनी रणनीति के बारे में बात करते हैं.

ON PRATILIPI: Meena Kandasamy’s conversation with revolutionary-lyrical poet Kasi Anandan who has been the voice of the Tamil Eelam struggle for the past 40 years, along with some of his poems translated into English (Meena Kansadasmy) and Hindi (Giriraj Kiradoo). In contrast to the tedious stridency of most political poems, Kasi’s poems are epigrammatic and precise: he has come to recognize the emptiness of the epic grandiosity. On the other hand, he also talks about his stand against beauty.

ps: Forgive me for the title of this blogpost.. I don’t have any such intentions in the foreseeable future ; )

Revisiting tragedies

My general euphoria went for a toss today. In some not-so-occasional fit of fun I had agreed to do the subtitling for a short-film taken by a close friend. In all earnestness, I had expected something light. What I got instead was something poignant and powerful. Parzania, anyone? Yes. Turns out that he has set his story in the midst of the Gujarat anti-Muslim pogrom and God, it was really one hell of an experience. It was only a 13 minute film, but when you are doing the job of subtitling, you have to linger with it for a couple of hours and that way, tragedy seeps in much more slower and much more painfully. And Gujarat is not something anybody can ever erase from the collective and individual consciousness. Yes, 2002 looks like six years back, but to somebody like me, it looks like yesterday. The whole goddamn fear of something as brutal happening closer home because of Hindutva’s sinister designs is always there.

The genocide and riots in Gujarat somehow for me evoke images from my own life during that period. In 2002, I was editing The Dalit and we were wrapping up one of our issues. Gujarat was all over the papers. And we were a bimonthly, so we couldn’t put away coverage of something as important. Everything I read everywhere was depressing and benumbing. Gujarat was far away, but its horror was right under our skins. I still remember sitting next to my layout artist and doing the centrespread with pictures of all those children, their charred little bodies arranged in such neat rows. Grim and gruesome and ghastly. It hurt us to work with those pictures. I was only eighteen then. My layout artist Alice akka was pregnant. She was the one who suffered the most. She couldn’t bare to see the pictures. She, who carried another life within her. We wept. We would both walk away from the computer screens. We were both hurt, and we didn’t talk about it because it would only hurt us more. We couldn’t say we weren’t brave women. But in such cases, being strong wasn’t a solution.

The second time Gujarat’s reality terrorized me was when I was talking to my close friend Shazia. She was telling me that for a whole year she was in one massive depression. That existence became meaningless, and yet, under threat. That never before did we know that despite everything, we were really helpless people. And it was then that I figured that I was in the same predicament. We were young people, we had become disillusioned by this state terror, by this rabid communalism. We yearned to have normal dreams.

Everyone speaks of how 9-11 changed people’s lives and their perceptions, but as far as India is concerned, I think that unholy glory belongs to the Gujarat carnage.

I return to the net after such a long while, and I have so much to say

• I missed the internet and my blog like crazy. But I discovered just how wonderful it was to research. (I can imagine all of you laughing at me. All these days how I polambified to you!) I never took people seriously when they told me to express my social concerns in academic terms, but hell this sort of subtelty surely takes the cake. It’s two years since I registered and right now I want to complete this whole thing within the next six months. One more semester is what I think I spend on this. I am the kind of person who is scared of growing roots.

• Finished my comprehension examination, and got an ‘A’ on it. And wonderful viva with very very supportive set of professors. Much of my panic came from the fact that I suddenly realized: This is going to be the last three-hour examination I am going to take in my life. ; )

• I will face my first-ever job interview for a teaching position on July 15. I am thrilled to bits. Friends have asked me to wear a sari and I am sooooo scared about the prospects. If I turn out to resemble something graceful, I promise to post photos. Ditto, if I turn out to be my own sweet sloppy self.

• How else do I explain this long absence? Well last week of June, I typed out a 12k monograph on Gender in Translation. Late this year, or early next year, I will publish my translations of Periyar’s writings and speeches on women/women’s rights with one helluva critique/introduction, and I guess this writing helped it as a sort of run-up. I think this time too, Stree-Samya, Kolkata will be the publisher.

• Thanks to all of you for standing by me when I got so insanely worried about curious googlers. At the end of the day, my life has been boiled down to a gossip snippet in a Tamil mag. (Everyone I know act as if they haven’t even read it. My sweeties). And the basis for their slanderous “breaking-news” had been a cheesy three-year-old rumour. Amen.