Author: Bhaswati Ghosh

They Died for their Langauge: Ekushey February

~ Bhaswati Ghosh ~ 11 Comments

How important is language for any community? Is it secondary to other facets of identity like religion, culture and race? If one looked at the history of Bangladesh—a country born out of its people’s deep-rooted identification with their mother tongue, Bangla (or Bengali), the answer would be a resounding no. Ekushey (meaning twenty-one in Bangla) February marks the genesis of a movement that established language as the primary force that binds a community. Such was the impact of this movement that a whole nation was carved out on linguistic and cultural lines; even though the people shared the same religion (Islam) with other citizens of the country they were initially part of. 

In 1947, India’s independence from British rule came at a steep cost. The country was divided on the basis of religions into India and Pakistan. The latter officially became a Muslim state, while the Indian constitution laid down secular foundations for the country’s people.

Pakistan found itself in a somewhat tricky situation. The country had two provinces—West and East, which were distanced not just by geography, but also by language and culture. East Pakistanis, who formed a majority of Pakistan’s populace, spoke Bangla as opposed to the Urdu spoken by the people of West Pakistan. The country’s government declared Urdu as the official language, even though the majority of people didn’t communicate in that language. In fact, it was even proposed that Bengali documents should be written in Arabic script. Understandably East Pakistanis weren’t amused at the idea. A movement, mainly spearheaded by students and supported by other members of the intelligentsia, gathered momentum. Sensing the magnitude of the simmering unrest, the government clamped down by declaring Section 144, under which all public meetings were deemed illegal.

When defying the ban, students of Dhaka University took out a peaceful procession on February 21, 1952, the police opened fire on them. Several students were killed. This only further infuriated the Bengali population, which culminated in the cessation of East Pakistan from the territory of Pakistan. In 1971, a new country, Bangladesh, was born. Bangla became its official language.

In 1999, UNESCO declared February 21 as International Mother Language Day.

Can I forget Ekushey February
Soaked in my brother’s blood?
Can I forget this February
Made of a thousand son-less mothers?
Can I forget the February
Coloured in the blood of my golden country?

~ Abdul Gaffar Chowdhury
(Translated by Bhaswati Ghosh)

Images:
Muktadhara

Tuntuni and the Cat by Upendrakishore Ray

~ Bhaswati Ghosh ~ 8 Comments

There’s a brinjal plant in the backyard. Tuntuni has built her nest by stitching the plant’s leaves. Three little fledglings lie in the nest. They are so small they can’t fly or even open their eyes. They just open their mouths and call out “cheen-cheen.”

The family cat is really wicked. She just thinks I shall eat Tuntuni’s fledglings. One day she came near the brinjal plant and said, “What are you doing, dear Tuntuni?”

Tuntuni bowed and leant her head by the branch of the brinjal plant and said, “Salutations, your highness.” The cat went away happily.

She would come every day, Tuntuni would greet her and address her as “Queen” and the cat would go away feeling happy.

Tuntuni’s fledglings have grown up now. They don’t keep their eyes shut anymore. Seeing this, their mother asked them, “My dear ones, can you fly now?”

The little ones said, “Yes, Ma, we can.”

Tuntuni said, “Let’s see if you can hop over to that top branch of that tall Tal tree.”

The fledglings immediately flew over to the top branch. Tuntuni smiled and said, “Let the evil cat come now!”

In a while, the cat walked in and said, “So, what are you up to, Tuntuni?”

Tuntuni gestured a kick at her and said, “Get lost, you wretched cat!” With that, she quickly flew away.

Baring her teeth in rage, the naughty cat jumped upon the brinjal plant, but could neither catch Tuntuni, nor eat her babies. She returned home, wounded with the sharp gashes off the thorns of the brinjal plant.

Images:

http://www.mariquita.com

Translated by Bhaswati Ghosh

Upendrakishore Ray: Bangla Literature’s Hans Andersen

~ Bhaswati Ghosh ~ 8 Comments

A twittering bird, tiny of frame but weighty of mind always won battles that defied her puny physical stature. She would often flap her wings by the window of my childhood and delight me with her sharp wit. I related so well to Tuntuni, the little bird. Perhaps because I was petite and shy myself, but not as dim as some of my teachers thought me to be.

Tuntuni’s tales filled up the phantasmic canvas around me with magical hues. The thin book carrying records of her victories, complete with bright images that lent credence to the words, became my good friend.

All those years ago, I didn’t know who created adorable Tuntuni. Her presence was enough to make my heart soar. All these years later, little Tuntuni still smiles through my window. And it’s time to thank her creator, too.

In a sense, Upendrakishore Raychowdhury (U Ray) was the first children’s writer in Bengali. This gifted writer and block-making expert devoted a large chunk of his writing life to creating fascinating stories for children. Before him, there was no established form of Bengali children’s literature. Most of the stories children heard were mythological or religious tales recounted by grandparents. These would almost always carry moral messages and examples. U Ray blazed a new trail by writing stories for kids that were pure fun, replete with strokes of humor, fantasy, and idiomatic peculiarities.

This pioneering writer didn’t just limit his children’s writing basket to Tuntuni’s stories. He rewrote the two Indian epics of Ramayana and Mahabharata to bring them closer to children. The simple language he used for these was in keeping with the tradition of elders telling bedtime stories to children.

In 1913, U Ray started Sandesh (the name of a traditional Bengali sweet), a children’s magazine. The magazine, filled with his writings and illustrations became a hit with young people and remained that way through generations as his illustrious son, Sukumar Ray and grandson Satyajit Ray managed its affairs after his death. I grew up devouring Sandesh month after month and thoroughly enjoyed the stories, poems, quizzes, along with the scientific and cultural facts the magazine packed within its pages.

Tuntuni has remained with me even through my growing years as have other stories of U Ray, one of them (Goopi Gayen, Bagha Bayen) having been immortalized by Satyajit Ray on the silver screen.

Smart and witty Tuntuni will come greeting you soon. Keep an eye on that window of yours.

 

Hason Raja’s Songs

~ Bhaswati Ghosh ~ 4 Comments

A while back, I wrote about the timeless appeal of Kabir. What is it that makes any creation timeless? The most obvious answer would be that the creation continues to make an impact long after it’s first created. However, another facet of ageless works is that they continue to hold relevance even when seen outside their original context; they fit into any and every life situation and require no knowledge of the backdrop in which they were created.

 

I say this as I contemplate on the songs of Hason Raja, a 19th-century mystical poet from Bengal. I first heard the songs some six or seven years back, when my brother brought a couple of audio tapes from a trip to Bangladesh. The songs had a distinct folk identity, marked by earthy tunes and simple, everyday language. A few of them touched me instantly.

 


Roop dekhilam re noyone
Aaponar roop dekhilam re
Amar majh to bahir hoyiya
Dekha dile aamare

I saw my own reflection
In your eyes.
You revealed yourself to me
By emerging from within me.



The reason I mentioned context in the beginning of the post is that once I read facts about Hason Raja’s life, I was nearly bowled over. His songs reflected a Sufi-inspired minstrel who spent his life celebrating the oneness of all creation and seeing the divine in everything. On reading his life story, I found the reverse was true, at least as far as his youth was concerned. Like most members of the affluent class, he spent his youth in the company of dancing women, financial and material indulgence and with symbols associated with the hereditary rich of 19th-century India (Bengal was still a part of undivided India at the time). In his later life, however, he turned away from the material way of life and became mystically inclined. He wrote hundreds of songs using simple language, most of which underscore the undivided nature of all life—an idea that seems increasingly relevant and important.


“Tumi ke aar ami ba ke
tai to ami bujhi naa re.
Eke bina dwitio ami
Onyo kichhu dekhi naa re.”

I cannot fathom
Who you are and who I am.
I fail to see
Any second thing apart from the One.


To listen to the first song referred to in this post, visit this link.


Booklane: Remembered, revisited

~ Bhaswati Ghosh ~ 17 Comments
The roads are narrow and the mass of fellow humans overwhelming. Jostling one’s way through this intractable crowd is a skill only acquired with repeated visits to the place. I didn’t do badly, considering it was only my second trip. Revisiting the pavement book bazaar in Daryaganj, situated in Old Delhi or the other face of the city I call home, brought back snapshots of a winter morning tucked away in the memory files. Nearly a decade ago, I had visited the place for the first time with a co-worker friend. I had been instantly besotted with Booklane.
On that sunny January morning (or was it December?), my friend had gifted me a trip to this booklover’s promised land. I remember my sense of wonder on seeing this never-ending strip of book stalls, the 200-odd sellers displaying their collections neatly on the pavement and producing your requested book in a jiffy. We spent hours and hours scouring through the books, a lot of them secondhand. One is free to read, not just browse through books in this leisurely atmosphere.
The sun had warmed our feet, the books our hands and hearts, the prices our pockets. The Sunday book bazaar is popular because of the availability of good, even rare books at cheap prices. The memory has faded a bit, but I do remember returning home with a Seamus Heaney anthology and a book of plays, biographies and other interesting details, put together by the National School of Drama or NSD. Both prized possessions to this day. Without a doubt, that winter’s day happened to be one of the brightest in my life.
My visit to Booklane last Sunday wasn’t as merry, though. The area for the book bazaar seemed to have shrunk a bit, and this time, it was really a battle to make one’s way through the crowd. Even when my feet landed at a spot that would let me look at the books, the view was anything but happy. Most of the stalls were packed with textbooks of all sorts. Students thronged the place, picking up fat books at cheap prices. The fiction lover was virtually non-existent. Coin lovers weren’t, though, because this is also a great venue to buy old coins dating back to the era of the British Raj.Although the trip to Booklane wasn’t all that satisfying, the jaunt to Old Delhi was immensely fulfilling. For here is a world sheltering a culture and a history that has almost ebbed out of the modern city life I witness every day. And amid all the crowd and congestion lies a charm that keeps calling you to the place again and again. Yes, more trips planned to the walled city.

Special thanks to Bhupinder for making me Booklane bound.

First Sorrow by Rabindranath Tagore

~ Bhaswati Ghosh ~ 10 Comments

The path by the shadow of the forest is now covered with grass.

On that deserted road, someone called me from behind.

“Don’t you recognise me?”

I turned back to look at him.

“I remember you, but do not recall your name.”

He said, “I am the sorrow who came to you when you were twenty-five.”

The corner of his eyes revealed a spark of ray, just like moonlight on a lake.

I stood there, surprised.

“Back then, you appeared like a dark monsoon cloud. Now, you look like a golden idol. Have you lost the tears of that day?” I asked.

He didn’t say anything, just smiled. I realized everything was contained in that smile.


The clouds of the rainy day had learned to smile like bright sunny days of the summer.

I asked him, “Have you preserved my youth of twenty-five?”

“Yes, I made it my necklace. Not even a single petal of the spring’s garland had fallen.”

I said, “See, how I have shriveled with age. But my youth is still adorning your neck, as fresh as ever.”

He slowly put that necklace around my neck and said, “Do you remember, that day you had said, you don’t need consolation, you only want sorrow?”

I shrugged a little. “Yes, I did. But it has been so long; I had forgotten about it.”

“But the one within you hadn’t forgotten. Now, you must accept me,” he said.

I held his hand and said, “How wonderful you look!”

He smiled and said, “That which was once sorrow, is now peace.”

Translated by Bhaswati Ghosh

The Chess Players

~ Bhaswati Ghosh ~ 7 Comments
“The passion for playing chess is one of the most unaccountable in the world. It slaps the theory of natural selection in the face. It is the most absorbing of occupations. The least satisfying of desires. A nameless excrescence upon life. It annihilates a man. You have, let us say, a promising politician, a rising artist that you wish to destroy. Dagger or bomb are archaic and unreliable – but teach him, inoculate him with chess.”

H.G. Wells, Certain Personal Matters, 1898

Never having sat across a chessboard, I should think that observation of Wells is a bit of an acerbic exaggeration. However, if the stories of chess and its lovers were considered, that remark would appear anything but an overstatement. A recent review of The Immortal Game, a book chronicling the history of chess with a touch of personal attachment, took me back to a tale of Shatranj ke Khilari or The Chess Players, a compelling short story by one of the maestros of Urdu-Hindi literature, Munshi Premchand.

The story is, of course, better known for its screen version, directed by the legendary Satyajit Ray. While the film remains a personal favourite for a number of reasons (great overlaying of the parallels between the state of politics and the state of mind of the populace, appropriate casting, sincere recreation of ambience), reading the story itself was a reintroduction to the masterly craftsmanship Premchand wielded with his pen.

It’s a pity I read the story in Bengali translation. Pity because language is such a big part of Premchand’s writing, as indeed it is of the culture his writing mirrors. I have read his stories in the original language before and have been charmed as much by his skillful use of the Hindi/Urdu vocabulary as by his layered writing style and the themes his stories discuss.

The Chess Players is one such layered story. It tracks the chess exploits of two friends, Mirza Sajjad Ali and Mir Roshan Ali, both belonging to the gentry of Lucknow, a city known for its tehzeeb or culture. While Lucknowi traditions and artistic legacy has mostly been the subject of exaltation in most written works, in this story of Premchand, this same legacy becomes the author’s diatribe. That’s mainly because of the period in which the story is set. The time is British India and the setting the luxury-steeped province of Awadh, ruled by Wajid Ali Shah, a king devoted to art, artists and courtesans and equally impervious to matters of the state.


Wajid Ali Shah’s hedonistic ways seem to infect his subjects as well, and the two chess players are no exception to the pattern. Like their Nawab’s obsession with extravagant indulgences, the Mirza and the Mir are obsessed with the game of chess. Morning, noon, and night, it’s the one thing that plays on their minds and the one thing their minds play with. For a while Mirza’s house is the centre of their duels, even as his wife detests the chessboard as if it were her competitor in hogging her husband’s attention. Soon her intolerance for the game reaches the point where she throws away the chessboard even as an intense battle is on between the two players.

Premchand then shifts the scene of chess combats to Mir Roshan Ali’s house. This place has its own set of problems. On the one hand are Roshan Ali’s servants, exasperated to suddenly work round the clock for serving the two playing masters. Not only that; there’s also Mir’s wife, whose adulterous affair with her lover is halted because of the presence of her husband in the house. The lover comes up with a devious plan—posing as a messenger from the king’s court, he announces Wajid Ali Shah has ordered Roshan Ali to appear in the court so as to enlist his services in the military. Alarmed at the possibility of such a scenario, the two friends quickly shift the venue of play again to the ruins of a mosque—their final spot. They select this place because of the privacy it offers. Anything to keep their game from getting interrupted.

The story’s focus is tight; it remains concentrated on the chess players and their keen contests on the 64-square board. The only interjections come in the form of political reportage. As the momentum in the chess battlefield intensifies, so does the battle between the British and Nawab Wajid Ali Shah. The latter is a tepid affair though, and before long, the British hold the king captive. Premchand describes the event in this way:

Never before could the king of an independent country have been defeated so peacefully, without bloodshed, like this. This was not the ahimsa [nonviolence] with which the gods are pleased. This was the kind of cowardice at which even the biggest cowards shed tears. The nawab of the spacious land of Avadh was departing as a prisoner, and Lucknow was drunk in the sleep of sensual pleasure. This was the last extreme of political decay.

[Source: “THE CHESS PLAYERS”: FROM PREMCHAND TO SATYAJIT RAY by Frances W. Pritchett]

The climax of the story highlights how a simple pastime, when turned into an obsession, can lead to fierce ego clashes. In the final scene, Mirza Sajjad Ali is seen desperately trying to win at least one round of the game, already having lost thrice in a row. The clouds of his anxious heart seem to find a resonance in the darkness of the evening reverberating with the cacophony of nocturnal creatures. His difficulty in answering the moves of Mir Roshan Ali wasn’t helping either. Soon his restlessness transformed into an incensed verbal attack on the Mir. He accused the latter of foul play and finally delivered check. When the defiant Mir refused to concede defeat, the war of words reached an extreme, where friendship gave way to an acrimonious attack on each other’s ancestors. Shortly, even this wasn’t enough to prove their pride, and a sword fight commenced between the two. Premchand remarks how when their king was captured, it hadn’t bothered either of the chess players, yet when it came to personal egos, they had all the courage in the world to fight for its prestige.

The story ends on a bloody note as the two friends are slain by the edge of each other’s swords. Premchand ends the story and his critique of the prevailing apathy to politics by observing how the two friends had not shown an iota of concern when the British were seizing their territory, yet, to protect the pawns of their artificial battlefield, they were ready to even kill each other. The irony is not lost one bit as the annihilation of the The Chess Players is complete.

Note to self: Buy a Premchand anthology in Hindi as the first New Year purchase.

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Guest Blog – Lisa Jordan

~ Bhaswati Ghosh ~ 8 Comments
Christmas is upon us. As the festivities and merry-making envelop our senses, Lisa Jordan, Christian fiction writer, reflects on her genre, and how her faith has shaped her writing. Let us join her as she brings us closer to…

A Cradle for a King

Travel over two thousand years ago with me to a little town called Bethlehem. Our imaginary journey takes us to a stable where a tired husband and his wife, heavy with child, had been denied room at the inn. An ordinary woman has given birth to an Extraordinary Child. Instead of being surrounded by family and well-wishers, she and her carpenter husband have been greeted by noisy, smelly livestock. A feeding trough cradled their newborn Child. A cradle for a King. Such lowly surroundings for the Prince of Peace. Mary’s life has changed dramatically since the day the angel proclaimed her destiny. What went through her mind as she hugged this tiny infant to her breast? She was an ordinary woman whom God used for His extraordinary Purpose.

I’m honored to be a guest on Bhaswati’s wonderful blog. She invited me to share with her readers what it means to be a Christian fiction writer. The Christmas season is a glorious time for Christians, but as a Christian writer, it is also a wonderful time of reflection for me. God’s gift of His Son is the root of Christianity. Without His birth, my faith as I know it wouldn’t exist. Because of that faith, I have chosen to write Christian fiction.

Christian fiction glorifies God and promotes Biblical principles. The characters in Christian fiction stories are Christians or they have come to accept Christ as their Savior by the book’s end. Christian fiction novels and stories have a spiritual element woven into the plot. The characters rely on God to help them through their situations. The books are wholesome with no swearing, no premarital sex, or graphic content.

Christian fiction characters endure real life situations and writers of Christian fiction novels use realistic, and sometimes, edgy themes, such as abuse, adultery, addiction, child pornography, prostitution, rape. Christian fiction genres are broken into many of the sub-genres as secular fiction, such as romantic suspense, chick-lit, romantic comedy, women’s fiction, thrillers, science fiction/fantasy.

Some of my favorite Christian authors include Susan May Warren, Colleen Coble, Deborah Raney, Kristen Billerbeck, Diann Hunt, Trish Perry, Dee Henderson, Judy Baer, Allie Pleiter, Debra Clopton. There are many more. These women write in different genres, but they share the love of Jesus and their novels reflect their faith.

I’ve known I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was sixteen years old. Through the years, I’ve penned stories that will never see the light of day. However, each of those stories has taught me valuable lessons about how to develop three dimensional characters, setting, plot, conflict, etc. Even published writers will say they never stop learning. By listening to constructive criticism and accepting advice from other knowledgeable writers, I’m striving to write a novel that will catch an editor’s attention.

Belonging to reputable writing organizations has helped me hone my craft. I’m a proud member of American Christian Fiction Writers, the premiere organization for Christian fiction, and Faith, Hope & Love, the inspirational chapter of Romance Writers of America. I’ve had the opportunity to attend two ACFW conferences. Both have been vital in helping me understand the complex craft of writing.

Writing Christian fiction is a ministry. It is my desire to combine my faith with stories of my heart to touch the hearts of women who may read my future novels. I write Christian women’s fiction novels about ordinary women who are extraordinary in God’s eyes. After all, I have years of experience of being an ordinary woman, but I believe in an extraordinary God. I invite you to visit my website.

As the holidays approach, take a break from the shopping, the baking, the parties, the gifts, and remember Jesus is the reason for the season. Merry Christmas. May God’s blessings be abundant throughout the New Year!

Morning Marvels

~ Bhaswati Ghosh ~ 15 Comments
Every morning, I go for a walk on my terrace. The stretch of open space has proven to be the most hassle-free exercising venue for an undisciplined soul like me. I don’t need to sport special attires since technically it’s part of my house. I usually climb my way up when the morning manifests itself fully. This means I don’t start my day with the first rays of the sun, but only when the soft rays mature into a generous splash of tropical sunshine spread across at least a section of the terrace land.
My mornings on the terrace have introduced me to a whole bunch of friends and events.

The All-India Avian Congress is hard to ignore, what with the volume of its esteemed members’ throats. Crows clearly appear to dominate the proceedings, even as pigeons prefer playing the part of silent board members. They leisurely take up their positions atop building roofs or electric poles, barely putting up with their cacophonic counterparts.

At times the meetings don’t end on a peaceful note, leading to a show of strength with regard to territorial rights. Again, the agile crows take the lead, often scaring me with their ominously low flights, marked by agitated wind flapping. Are these birds known to have higher blood pressures? I suspect so; especially since a couple of them attacked me during a park walk around a year ago.

The crowing supremacy cowers into a resigned defeat, however, when kites appear on the horizon. Where the crows and pigeons vie for slices of the sky, the kite claims the entire pie with a single sweep of its magnificent flight. My walk stops momentarily as I look up, transfixed to see this breathtaking stretched-wings wonder spanning across the blue canvas.

Soon the chirpy parakeets rush in, restless to get on with business as soon as possible. The business being picking on the fresh guavas off our tree in the backyard. They do get some competition from the home mynas, who are already found soaking in the comfort of a cozy nest amid the foliage of the guava tree. Although the parakeets are almost always too swift for my reflexes with the camera, they make me smile. Not just for their alacrity, but also because folklore tells me guavas bitten off by a parakeet turn out to be the sweetest of the lot.


Then there are the canine friends who are the kings and queens of the park behind our house. Seeing them send out vociferous warning messages to any outsider dog is being witness to the act of maintaining the security of one’s sovereign regime.


My walks have also unraveled to me an ancient scientific understanding. Just as the sunlight ambles over to the spot where the homemade pickle jars are kept, I can tell it’s 11 am (did I not tell you I walk really late in the morning?). Amazing to know how accurate the earliest experts in astrophysics had been.

This morning, as I was ready to climb down the stair, the flight of two pigeons caught my glance. I couldn’t help stopping for a moment and be in awe. On more than one occasion I’ve suddenly noticed my footsteps gathering momentum automatically the second a catchy song is played on the phone radio I carry during my terrace jaunts. As the pigeons flew overhead this morning, I found their flight to be effortlessly synchronized to the song that was playing.


Pure joy.