Alumni Meet + Presentation paper

So, it's been a while since I posted anything. I've been really busy - people who know me have complained enough, as have I. Just gave my term papers, caught up on my sleep and am looking forward to the five weeks worth of holidays up ahead.

So, this post is about what I've been busy with. Many things actually but, the most exciting one was an Alumni meet in our college for our Literature graduates. As a literature student (not a very loyal one though, I'm planning to major in Psychology - Sorry Lakshmi ma'am:P) and as the Secretary for the English Association this year, a lot of my time went into preparing for this event. Last time we had people sing, dance, play instruments - all quite serious and a few fun but chaotic games. This year, we had a seminar. Yeah, I didn't think that as an alumnus, a seminar (on partition literature, at that) was something one would look forward to. Turns out, they quite enjoyed it. Four of us from my class - me included, presented papers at our first ever formal students' seminar. One did an introductory paper on partition literature and the rest of us viewed the partition from the perspective of individual short stories.

Apart from that we put together the most hilarious, robotic, literally interpreted dance on 'jaan-e-jaan, dhoondta phir raha...', 'Justin Beiber's baby! (Yes, imagine that literally interpreted!)', 'main toh raste se jaa raha tha...', 'white white face dekhe...' from Tashan and 'kisi disco mein jaye'. The most fun I've ever had on stage.

And since the tone of the afternoon was so nostalgic, five of us - Srilata, Varnaa, Priyanka, Dhanashree and I, sang 90's cartoons' theme songs - Spongebob squarepants, The Flintstones, Popeye, adam's Family and the best of all Captain Planet!

It’s amazing to work under teachers who put so much trust and faith in you and your decisions. They had no idea what the hell I had planned for the afternoon and I doubt any other teacher in my college, at least, would've given me so much independence(and I've had to work under a good few so I know) The free food in the end was just the icing on the cake.

For those of you who have the patience or inclination, here's the paper I presented. I worked really, really hard on it(and consequently, did terribly in my terms) so, please read it. *puppy dog face*

ON THE PRECIPICE OF VIOLENCE

No piece of literature is isolated from its time. It holds in it, an imprint of the era it was written in. This imprint is easiest seen among the stories written in the context of the partition of India. One can’t talk of partition literature without touching upon the name of Saadat Hasan Manto.

Manto was born in 1912 in the state of Punjab and passed away 43 years later in Lahore, Pakistan. Manto had a rocky relationship with formal education. It is ironic, that while one of the subjects he was unable to pass in was Urdu, he would go on to use that very language to give to the world masterpiece after masterpiece of artful and powerful literature.

One of the issues with analysing and relishing Manto’s work is that many subtleties from the original text are lost in translation. However, Khalid Hasan’s translation of Manto’s short stories is widely recognized to be the most accurate in its nature of expression. So today, I intend to view the partition and the violence and grief that encompassed it from the perspective of Khalid Hasan’s translation of Manto’s short story – ‘Khol Do’

In ‘Khol Do,’ Manto, through the medium of a seventeen year old girl, provides the reader with a realistic, shocking record of the predatory times during the partition. The girl, Sakina, is parted from her father and found by a team of rescuers. The story shows how these men, who promise to protect, give in to their most primitive desires - desires not bound by religion or morality. It displays violence in its most elementary form.

Michael Jauch in his paper ‘Witnessing Violence’ sees Manto’s story as a sort of violated skin, which may be touched, its rugged topography making the reader’s finger hurt. As he puts it – “this elaboration may be accomplished through different levels, be it through a silent confusing irony, bodily metaphors of pain, or the use of slippery words.”

The story begins with our protagonist Sirajuddin regaining consciousness and finding himself in the midst of confused screaming and chaotic movement. He attempts to recall the events that brought him there. That Manto refrains from providing the reader with the details of the environment that Sirajuddin finds himself in, in itself offers plurality to the text.

The first image that comes to his mind it that of his wife’s brutally mutilated body, ‘an image (as described in the text) that wouldn’t go away.’ Instantly, Manto dangles us over a world of demented, lawless existence but, once again refrains from letting go as Sirajuddin thoughts turn to his seventeen year old daughter Sakina.

He remembers that she had dropped her dupatta when they were fleeing the scene of the riots. He remembers picking it up despite his daughter’s pleas to leave it and run. He remembers no more.

During the partition of India, predominant social ideas like purity and honour were idealized in the bodily existence of a woman. Consequently, a father would rather his daughter dies than have her live with a body violated by other men. So, it is only sensible that Sirajuddin, running for his life from the Hindu rioters, should pause, to pick up his daughter’s fallen dupatta – the symbol of honour, her ‘Izzat’. However, as the story proceeds, Manto chooses to transform him and Sirajuddin becomes a father, who wills his daughter life even though parts of her body can only scream the brutality of her violation.

Sirajuddin’s searches for his daughter are in vain. He seeks the help of eight young men armed with guns and a truck who assure him that if she is alive, they will find her. A few days later, they find her, and pick her up to reunite her with her father. She is calm but ill-at-ease without her dupatta. However, strangely when Sirajuddin enquires, they deny having found her at all. Once again, Manto abstains from details and leaves a void in the story for the readers’ imaginations to fill. At each moment such as this, Manto divides his readers between those who don’t understand and those who do. Only those who cross each road-block are able truly comprehend the finish line and all of its implications.

Days pass. One day Sirajuddin witnesses the limp body of a young girl being carried to the hospital at the refugee camp. He follows them and realizes that this girl is, in fact, Sakina.

At this point, I’d like to quote directly from Khalid Hasan’s translation:

“The doctor looked at the prostrate body and felt for the pulse. Then he said to the old man: “Open the window.”

The young woman on the stretcher moved slightly. Her hands groped for the cord which kept her salvar tied round her waist. With painful slowness, she unfastened it, pulled the garment down and opened her thighs.

‘She is alive. My daughter is alive,’ Sirajuddin shouted with joy.

The doctor broke into a cold sweat.”

Men who offer to aid, rape her, repeatedly, to a point that when the doctor asks the father to ‘Open the windows’; in an almost Pavlovian response to her tormentors, despite her drained physical state, she opens her thighs.

Manto showcases a remarkable ability to mould words in such a way that they are loaded with layered meaning and multiple emotions. As Harish Narang says, in his essay ‘Weaving Black Borders’ the most explosive use of language in the text is the delicate shift in meaning, from open to open up between the speaker and hearer of the expression.

The violence itself is not described. Its description lies on the fringe of the text, largely in Sirajuddin’s spontaneous exclamation of relieved euphoria or in the doctor’s cold sweat. The absence of this vital revelation calls for the presence of the reader. He forces the reader to fill in the silences and give meaning to text. Such a silence epitomizes the qualities of Manto that make him such a unique and penetrating writer.

It is evident, though perhaps only in retrospect, that Manto’s intentions as a writer in his time were sincere attempts to understand, analyse and find some consolation for the horrific events that had transpired. He attempted to explore and expose the politics of violence both, against women and against mankind, in general.

Of course, Manto couldn’t get away with such writing at the time. He faced a legal case in which he was, funnily enough, charged with breach of peace. As Girja Kumar says in her book, ‘Fundamentalism and Censorship in India’ “the public and critics alike lapped up at the story. It was a different cup of tea for the censors, who smelled a rat in the story and charged the publishers for disturbing public order.” They received a six month ban and it took nearly a year for any more of Manto’s work to reach the public.

However, it was worth it. Today, ‘Khol Do’ is undoubtedly accepted as one of the finest short stories to come out of the pen of Saadat Hasan Manto. The story is as brief as possible but has the effect of dynamite in its content.

The irony of a Muslim girl escaping from the clutches of Hindu rioters only to fall prey to the lustful grasp of her own co-religious Muslim rescuers is not lost on the readers. Manto displays how ultimately, it was women, who became the victims of the atrocities perpetuated by both friend and foe. As Alok Bhalla puts it, “The inhumanity of the partition has so obliterated the moral realm that there is nothing left to retrieve and nothing to hope for.” The sheer degradation of humanity during this time makes ‘Khol Do’ a sordid tale of man’s beastly behaviour.

The only semblance of consolation that the story offers is that, in the end, Sakina lives. The pain of the thought of having lost his daughter is so maddeningly unbearable that when the truth is realized, her life is all that matters. In the light of the regressive, gendered thought prevalent in society, this new line of thought becomes an eminent one, one that Manto encourages his readers to pursue.

As these events unravel in the presence of and with the assistance of the reader, Manto offers the world two opportunities. First, to revisit the past, reopen the wounds and wallow in the pain of the violence that was witnessed. And then, to perhaps, in that moment of catharsis, rebuild the bridges that were burnt, re-establish those vital human relationships and renew the hope for a better tomorrow.

Simplicity

"I don't fool myself with the notion
that I can consciously affect your emotion.
It's only my inadvertent sigh
that invariably tears through the veil of calm.
Tears me. Tears you.

You hold on to those images, those sounds, those thoughts,
that are,
for better or for worse,
carved into the walls of your impeccable memory.
Faulty, but impeccable.

You hold on to your anger.
You hold on to your pain.
I hold on to my pain.
We hold on in a violent, obsessive embrace.

We do it like it means something.
If only we could let go."

"It can't be that simple"
"But, what if it is?"

Pause

It had been six months and that book was still sitting on the bedside table. Chapter three - the tale was just picking up pace, but the reading was not. He’d been stuck on that chapter for nearly four months. Every time he went to bed, his mind would brim over with thoughts; random thoughts, vague thoughts, painful thoughts – the book just took a back seat. He’d finish a few pages, forget about the book and by the time he got back to it, he’d forget the story and would have to read it all over again. After the fifth time, he was yet to pick it up once more.

He spoke to his mother for a while; there wasn’t much to talk about. Soon, she went back to doing the one thing she did now-a-days – sleeping. He restarted the movie.

He loved movies. Has quite a passion for them when you think about it. This one was particularly good – a classic from the 50’s, one he’d been meaning to watch for a while now. Instead, he filled his time with ritualistic hobbies like painting. He liked to paint but he didn’t paint now because he liked to, he did because he needed to; he didn’t know what else to do. Finally, when even painting couldn’t occupy the time any longer, he took out the DVD and started watching the movie.

He was enjoying it but, not the way he used to. It was snowing in the movie, Christmas was round the corner. ‘It would never be the same again’, he thought. ‘We’d still have the lights, the food, the cake, the wine and of course, the people but, he wouldn’t be there.’ So, he didn’t want to be there. He thought of running away once, yes. He didn’t know where he’d go but the thought did cross his mind. But, he was rational; he has family he can’t abandon. A very large family – still. And so many friends, more now than ever. They all wanted to talk, to get him to talk – talk about what happened, talk about his feelings…talk about the future. But he didn’t want to talk to anyone - not when he could barely talk to himself.

Suddenly, the power went out. All the lights, fans, the computer, the TV’s – all the noises went off. He got up off the chair and moved about the house a few paces. He heard his sister’s voice from another room, “Oi, if you just close the windows, I’ll light some candles” So, automatically his feet moved towards the bed in front of the window. His feet moved with direction but his mind felt aimless. ‘Aimless. The story of my life’, he thought. It hadn’t always been like that but he didn’t go into the details. He had to fold one leg up on the bed and sit in order to reach the window. A cool breeze erupted from the open window and he put up his other leg and made himself comfortable. It washed his face - washed it of sorrow. The breeze became wind. He sat there speechless, feeling alive again for the first time in a long time.

He finally replied, “Forget it. Don’t bother!” “Yeah, bet the electricity will be back any moment anyway”, said the voice of his sister from a distance. ‘I hope not’, he thought. He felt cleansed, it was a beautiful feeling. He felt like if he just sat here long enough, all his pain would vanish, the loss wouldn’t prick as much, like his passion would return…and perhaps his life too. Even if the electricity came back, he decided to put off all the lights and continue sitting there, all alone with nothing but his thoughts. All he had to do was face them and they’d leave.

Today was the day. His spear and sword were sharp as they could be and he was all dressed in his armour and helmet. He could hear the crowd roaring in the arena and he stood in the dark waiting to enter. His knees were shaking but he stood his ground. His armour felt heavy and the hungry lions outside waited impatiently. He was ready.

But, just then, as though mocking him, the fans, TV’s, the computer, the lights and the noises came back on. He heard his sister sigh with relief. He had a plan and for a moment he looked like he might just go through with it. For a moment, he thought he would. But, then he realized, even through the pain that the realization brought, that he wouldn’t. The gladiator turned away from the lions, the crowd, the arena, their noises and his thoughts and right there in the darkness began to walk away from what he knew he could face. As he thought this, a teardrop rolled down his cheek. For a moment you could see a flash of his true self, his happy self, one that’s not crumbling under the pain of losing a father. But, it was merely a glimpse and it disappeared with no one to chase after.

So, he took a deep breath, wiped his eye and restarted his movie.

The book was still sitting, waiting on the bedside table and there was hope, but, it would just have to wait a while longer.

Pink

This is an article I wrote about the colour Pink for the gender section of our college magazine. It's a little forced, certainly not my favourite written work of all time but it was a tedious task...might as well post it.


PINK FOR A GIRL


A little over a year ago, my aunt and uncle decided to adopt a child – a boy. On their rampage of a shopping spree to fill their home with baby things, from toys, baby care products, diapers, bedding, to the most important – clothes, they went all out! But it was no mean task. While they wanted their purchases to encompass every colour imaginable, they found little other than blue (for a boy) and pink (for a girl). They bought both. So, it’s not uncommon for my baby brother to be mistaken for a girl every now and again, especially when he’s dressed all in pink.
In a society built upon norms and stereotypes, (and let’s face it, which society isn’t?) feminine associations with the colour pink are as unavoidable as death and taxes, perhaps more. So I decided to probe a little deeper into the issue.
The irony is that up until the 1940’s, the colour pink, because of it’s closeness to red, which is decidedly a masculine colour, was assigned to boys, whereas the colour blue was linked to girls for being delicate and dainty. Now, I’m not certain as to how exactly the reversal in connotations came about but, I’m going to go ahead and take a wild guess. I believe that we can safely give the entire credit to Barbie, for ensuring that no female can possibly escape from the colour of her gender.
The colour pink is just so strongly associated with feminism that all the “girlie” girls can’t get enough of it. Just like Paris Hilton, they can surround every inch of their vicinity with pink kittens, dolls, teddy bears, bows, hearts, ribbons and flowers and never get bored. Whereas, the “not-so-girlie” girls, well, I think ‘aversive reaction’ is the right term here. Some simply cannot handle the idea of pink, and its nature of bringing to mind images of overflowing treacle and sickeningly sweet peppermint.
Due to the feminine link, the pink ribbon is the symbol for breast cancer and Victoria’s Secret Lingerie, very appropriately, has an entire clothing line for women, simply called PINK.
However, it should be noted that feminism is not restricted to the female gender alone. I recently asked a friend of mine if he would ever wear the colour pink and I received a short, curt reply: “No, its gay”. I soon realized that he isn’t completely wrong in his assumption, for officially, pink is the mascot colour for the LGBT community in many countries, from Pink Money – Gay purchasing power, to Pink Pistols – Gay gun rights.
When Barack Obama had just become the president of the United States, people wondered if the nation’s first black president would be alright with living in The White House. However, I doubt Argentina’s female president Christina Fernandez might’ve had any problems with her place of residence seeing as she now lives in The Pink House.
Stereotypes about the colour pink are ubiquitously present in every sect of modern society. Even the assumption that, as a woman, Christina Fernandez likes the colour of her new home is stereotypical.
However, even the most far-fetched stereotypes have their basis in truth and logical reasoning. Experiments conducted in order to decipher the effects of colours on human behaviour have shown that, while surrounding oneself with the colour red tends to make one aggressive and antagonistic, the colour pink actually suppresses anger and anxiety ridden behaviour. It invokes feelings of tranquility, to the extent of actually causing physical weakness. This may be why the weakest of the fingers on our hand is referred to as the pinkie finger and the colour is generally associated with the so called “weaker sex”. Originating perhaps from the same notion of the colour, low paying jobs meant mainly for women, such as waitressing, hair dressing and the like, are commonly referred to as ‘Pink collared jobs’.
However the female sex fights back, ironically using the very colour that supposedly epitomizes its weakness. Nisha Susan’s ‘Pink Chaddi Campaign’ may not have been as dramatic as Pramod Muthalik waking up to find his horse’s head in his bed in the morning, but the campaign caused a nation-wide stir nonetheless.
I still remember a time when Shah Rukh Khan, with his black, shining dandruff-free hair, would flirtingly stare at us from our TV screens, squint his eyes just a little bit, and ask us if we dared to wear black. Today, with metro sexuality being such a household term, it would be quite a sight to see all the women turn to the men and ask them, if they would dare to wear pink. Personally, I can think of nothing looking sexier on a man than a crisp, well-fitted pink shirt, but, hey, that’s just me. I like pink.
And I am not alone. George Costanza (a character from the TV series “Seinfeld”) simply refused to date a woman whose cheeks were void of a pinkish hue. Steven Tyler (from Aerosmith) liked the colour so much that he wrote an entire song about it that went on to win a Grammy award. But, I doubt anyone’s obsession quite compares to that of singer/songwriter Alicia Moore, who most people know as just ‘Pink’.
So, in conclusion, what is it that I have found out from my excavation into the mysteries of the colour pink? One: the stereotypes exist and there’s really nothing I can do about it. Two: Some hate it, some like it and some love it, and there’s really nothing I would want to do about it. And lastly: I realized that maybe we need to redefine the word ‘gender’ from being dependent upon one’s actual biological anatomy to being determined by one’s conditioning and associations. Then, perhaps, Blue is for Boys and Pink is, in fact, for girls.