The recent uproar concerning an overwhelming number of school shootings and the United States being the hub of such deplorable crimes isn’t something bizarre. The National Center for Education Statistics (NCES) reports 276 casualties at elementary and secondary schools from 2000 to 2021. As astonishing and horrific as it might seem, the process of obtaining a gun is easier than getting a passport or a driver’s license. Ironically, guns are weapons guaranteeing safety and are used by the ones assigned to safeguard constitutional laws. However, the problem does not lie with owning a gun; the problem lies with who and how the guns are handled and/or manipulated.
The geographical distance between the United States and Canada is 2260 kilometers. If we rewind to 1989, we can witness the gruesome École Polytechnique Massacre or the Montreal Massacre on 6th December that unsettled and distorted the whole idea of educational institutions being safe havens. The blood bath claimed the lives of fourteen female students, injuring another ten women and four men. The victims of the ghastly murder were in their 20s, on their last day of the semester, anticipating a relaxed and blissful holiday in the company of family and friends. Little did they know, that their lofty ideas, bold dreams, and invaluable lives were to be cut short in the blink of an eye. The women were Geneviève Bergeron, Hélène Colgan, Nathalie Croteau, Barbara Daigneault, Anne-Marie Edward, Maud Haviernick, Maryse Laganière, Maryse Leclair, Anne-Marie Lemay, Sonia Pelletier, Michèle Richard, Annie St-Arneault, Annie Turcotte, and Barbara Klucznik-Widajewicz. Most of these women were working on developing the STEM course that would eventually alter the course of teaching methods and understanding in the 21st century.
The shooting was a result of insecurity and a misogynistic attitude. Marc Lépine né Gamil Gharbi felt threatened by these meritorious women. So, he cornered them at one side of a classroom, ordered the men to leave, and opened fire with his Ruger Mini-14 semi-automatic rifle, killing six women on the spot. Later, he attacked and killed eight more women before fatally shooting himself. He justified his sinister act as a fight against feminism.
Men feeling threatened by women is not an unusual issue. What all the school or college shootings have in common is the loss of innocent lives. The killer instinct always seeks prey or victims who seem vulnerable, and naïve. In most of these mass shootings, children, young adults, or, in this case, the fourteen women, were targeted by the murderer to exert a power play. The tendency to give shape and form to every idea based on masculine parameters has its consequences. This domination over ideas and social constructs gives rise to active maleness which is in an eternal battle to subdue women to render them passive. The green-eyed monster of the Montreal massacre lost sight of his own purpose and felt threatened by these fourteen women who were “more slippery, more fluid, less fixed and more playful than man.” (Cixous) To him “man must write man.” (Cixous) The fluidity and flexibility of these women make the binary oppositions of man/woman, Self/other, and active/passive fall apart. Subsequently, the collapse of this power structure leads to the fall of the symbolic and social order. The position of women in the Symbolic is founded on lack – the lack of a penis/phallus which prohibits them from identifying themselves with the center, thus, disallowing them from taking the position of the center or the subject. However, women often ‘escape discourse’ with the help of tools, such as ‘pen(s)’ or language. Thus, the metaphorical penis i.e. the pen, assumes a mightier position. Moreover, when women become active subjects their language and actions become incoherent and contradictory to patriarchal ideologies because “…there is no pure feminist or female space from which we can speak. All ideas, including the feminist ones, are in this sense ‘contaminated’ by patriarchal ideology.” (Moi)
So, he took the gun and the hunting knife in his hands in an attempt to resist or end feminism. This anti-feminist stance of his is often attributed to the regressive mentality of his father and his disturbed childhood. Barnhorst A. (2018) cited that mass shooters “are driven by a need to wield their power over another group…It’s not an altered perception of reality that drives them; it’s entitlement, insecurity, and hatred.” Thus, being a typical adherent of patriarchal ideologies, Lépine was provoked to kill these women and assert as well as reinstate his (or his race’s) dominance.
Unfortunately, the bullets of the monstrous anger of a gun pierced through the mortal bodies of these fourteen women, murdering every unborn dream and every idea in their nascent stage. But even after all these years, their significant contribution to the world of academia is still venerated, and their reputation remains unassailable. They were women phenomenally. Phenomenal women.
Cixous, H. (1975). “The Laugh of the Medusa.” Trans. by Keith Cohen and Paula Cohen (1976)
Moi, T. (1989). “Feminist, Female, Feminine.” The Feminist Reader: Essays in Gender and Politics of Literary Criticism, edited by Catherine Belsey and Jane Moore, Wiley–Blackwell, 2nd Edition (1997).
Adrija Basu is currently juggling her work as an IT professional and her passion for research. Besides weaving words, she enjoys weaving vibrant patterns on clothes. She also finds inspiration from the little joys of life, which are often imitated in her paintings and sketches.
The announcement of the 2019 Met Gala theme, “Camp: Notes on Fashion” which featured an assortment of ostentatious, theatrical celebrity appearances, is still being debated and stunned the globe. The theme, which directly references Susan Sontag’s famous listicle, examines the fashion aesthetic which is easy to notice yet difficult to interpret. As a philosophy, camp is defined by its love of the overbearing, fabricated, and occasionally the freedom of poor choices; camp is an approach of aestheticism that subverts accepted norms and values. With gaudy graphics, vibrant colors, and a mocking or sarcastic tone, the fashion aesthetic is itself a celebration of fashion’s artifice and artificiality, which occasionally obfuscates the distinctions between high and low culture, and comes down to nodding and winking while accepting the flamboyant.
Long before the camp was theorized, Bollywood in the 70s was the picture of camp with its fashion ideas adorned with Helen’s big feathered headdresses, Baijayanti Mala’s rhinestoned costumes, and Sharmila Tagore’s over-the-top hairdos. Bollywood may have had an impact on the adoption of camp with a hint of ‘Indianness’ throughout the 1970s when Cher was embracing camp as her lifestyle which made her a global phenomenon. Bollywood performers and actors frequently wore ornate outfits that were
covered in sequins, beads, and glitter, exhibiting the glitzy and grandiose flair of the industry. Their heightened glitz was a defining feature of the camp image. Bollywood style in the 1980s and 90s frequently combined Western influences with traditional Indian aspects. The consequence of this mix was clothing with modern shapes and designs paired with elaborate Indian embroidery and decorations. The finishing touches to the camp style were accessories. Accessorizing ensembles with statement jewelry, large sunglasses, eye-catching belts, and embroidered purses was a common way to amp up the drama and splendor. The 80s and 90s Bollywood fashion included dramatic shapes, such as billowy sleeves, oversized shoulders, and floor-sweeping skirts making fashion more dramatic and campy with their enormous shapes. Vibrant reds, blues, electric greens, and yellows were among the hues that were frequently paired with eye-catching designs and patterns to create outfits that were visually arresting. The question that now begs to be asked is: Why would an Indian film, where the hero is an Indian take on Superman, cast a villain in such 80s pop culture attire (Amrish Puri and Anil Kapoor, in Mr. India, 1987) alternatively why, during her dream scene with the hero, would the heroine dance in the mountains and on the beaches while donning tacky skirts and lavishly beaded blouses (Madhuri Dixit in Tezaab, 1988; Sridevi in Chaalbaaz, 1989)
A multitude of variables contributed to the emergence of Bollywood’s camp aesthetic, such as the epic scale of Indian film, the impact of Indian cultural customs, and the shifting patterns in popular culture worldwide. Madonna used fashion and image to create her artistic identity in the late 1980s and early 1990s. Her rock videos broke down barriers between gender roles for men and women, celebrated overt sexuality, and expanded ideas of acceptable aesthetics. She frequently challenged and destabilized hierarchies of high and low fashion by fusing extravagant clothes with S&M chic, and future techno fashion, and Bollywood was not out of Madonna hangover anyway. Bollywood undoubtedly took inspiration from Hollywood and other foreign sources, but it also had its distinct features and inspirations.
Indian cinema has always been known for its escapist entertainment, by allowing viewers, already torn with thousands of socio-economical problems, to lose themselves in opulent and frequently bizarre environments. The camp aesthetic, which values theatricality, exaggeration, and a sense of spectacle, was in line with this ideology. In addition, Indian mythology, folklore, and cultural traditions were major influences for Bollywood’s camp style. Extensive song-and-dance scenes were common in movies. Bollywood’s interpretation was frequently imbued with Indian sensibilities and aesthetics, making it a distinct and vivid phenomenon in its own right, even though there may have been similarities between Bollywood and Hollywood camp trends. According to Bhanu Athaiya, the first Indian to win an Oscar for costume design (for the 1983 film “Gandhi”), “costume designing is about taking the audience on a journey to the era recreated.” Bit by bit, the fashion designers created the surreal world of the silver screen by skillfully weaving dreamlike drama into the ensembles that would transport the grieving audience on a three-hour, unforgettable voyage. The heroine’s dreamy camp, the villain’s really strange angry appearance, and the hero’s blatantly masculine aesthetics, all worked together to produce a magical effect that highlighted the liberating, extraordinary life experiences. It offered a forum for artistic self-expression free from social pressure to fit in with preconceived notions.
And how could I not touch upon the iconic Bollywood villains of 90s TV soaps? They had a flair for the dramatic and a knack for stirring up trouble. From the scheming stepmother to the conniving business tycoon, they kept us hooked with their over-the-top antics and evil plans. Campy Bollywood villains from 90s TV serials brought a unique blend of drama and humor to the screen. Characters like Komolika from “Kasautii Zindagii Kay’ (Known for her stylish demeanor and wicked schemes), Sudha from “Kahaani Ghar Ghar Kii” (infamous for her devious plots against the Agarwal family), Maya from “Swabhimaan”, Baa (Kokila Modi) from “Saath Nibhaana Saathiya’ (Though initially depicted as a strict yet caring matriarch), epitomized the quintessential campy aesthetic with their exaggerated expressions of fashion and diabolical schemes, and brought a mix of drama, comedy, and suspense to the TV screens of the 90s, making them memorable characters in the history of Indian television. Storytellers effortlessly highlighted the dichotomy of good and evil by drawing a stark contrast between the excessive style of the villain and the more restrained manner of clothing worn by the protagonist. The audience finds it simpler to support the morally upright protagonist when the campy adversary serves as a visual depiction of moral decay. Therefore, ostentatious clothing was labeled as “bad,” whereas plain clothing was linked to morality and innocence. The famous antagonist June Aunty, a divorced, working mother of one who dresses in sleeveless blouses and straight short hair, was prominently featured in the Bengali daily soap “Shreemoyee,” which was broadcasted by Tollywood even in recent years. Shreemoyee, on the other hand, is a mother of three grownups and the model of a devout wife and mother. She dresses in carefully pleated sarees and a “haat-khonpa,” accessorizing it with a red bindi and vermilion on the forehead to assert her chastity.
However, the 2000s saw a change in the camp aesthetics of Bollywood fashion, driven by shifting international fashion trends, shifting cultural standards, and the rise of new fashion superstars. Bollywood fashion did not quite abandon its camp aesthetics at this time, although there were several significant switches and innovations: Bollywood fashion began to relocate in the early 2000s toward refinement and simplicity. More subtle and elegant appearances were popular, replacing the showy and overdone trends of the 1980s and 1990s. Simpler patterns, softer hues, and more streamlined forms were popular among actors. Impacted by Western trends as a result of globalization and the development of the internet, actors began to mix Indian and Western fashion aspects into their appearances. While minimalism gained popularity in the 2000s, Bollywood fashion allowed for freedom and individuality. Certain actors like Hrithik Roshan (In Kaho na Pyar hain, 2001, Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham, 2003; Lakshya, 2004, Luck by Chance, 2009 and Mahenjodaro, 2016), Kareena Kapoor (Ashoka 2001, Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham,2002; Chameli, 2003;,), Shah Rukh Khan (Josh, 2000; Asoka, 2001; Devdas, 2002, Don, 2004; Pathan, 2023)Deepika Padukone (Cocktail, 2012, Goliyon Ki Raas leela Ram Leela, 2013;; Chennai Express,2013), have persisted in donning daring and avant-garde looks that defy accepted fashion conventions. In the 2000s, streetwear and urban culture—particularly among younger actors and actresses—had a big influence on Bollywood design. Sneakers, graphic shirts, and denim are examples of casual and edgy fashions that are growing in popularity off and on screen. Authenticity, self-expression, and cultural identity are at the core of the aesthetics of streetwear and urban fashion in Hollywood movies. Urban areas, especially those in New York and Los Angeles, gave rise to streetwear as a means of self-expression for underrepresented groups such as skateboarders, graffiti artists, and hip-hop fans. Streetwear and urban fashion aesthetics are frequently employed in movies to provide a feeling of realism and authenticity while encapsulating the unadulterated energy and vibrant culture of metropolitan life. The middle-class audience developed an identity with the advent of globalization and the internet boom, and they desired to see their own tales told on film. The streetwear campy aesthetic welcomes people from all backgrounds and embraces variety and inclusiveness. Characters in movies that wear street clothes might be from a variety of origins, evoking the inclusive nature of urban society. This eventually evolved into a common way for characters in movies to express themselves; they dress and accessorize in ways that show off their individuality, morals, and goals, frequently challenging conventional fashion myths and standards.
Meanwhile, the 2000s saw a rise in the importance of health and fitness in Bollywood fashion. Athleisure-inspired attire and toned bodies became popular as actors started to focus more on their physical appearance. As a result, the celebrities became show-stoppers for the leading fashion brands and the industry witnessed a rise in celebrity endorsements and designer collaborations in the 2010s. Actors further blurred the boundaries between Bollywood and the fashion business by collaborating with fashion designers and brands to produce unique lines of apparel, accessories, and beauty goods. Through celebrity endorsements, award events provide designers and enterprises a platform to become more visible and well-known. Increased sales and popularity for the corresponding fashion labels might result from actors representing certain designers or brands at these events. At lavish red carpet parties held at film festivals and other award shows, celebrities began to display their political views and even convey messages through their personal style choices. As a rebellious tool to dispel gender conventions and traditional notions about cast, child pornography, social concerns like the casting couch, LGBTIQA+ rights, and identities, these red carpet missions have become eagerly awaited.
Camp aesthetics of the 2020s has evolved into a platform for individuals to express themselves freely and authentically, without any fear of judgment or discrimination. This freedom of expression empowers people to embrace their uniqueness and celebrate their identities, leading to a more positive and affirming camp culture. Modern camp celebrates the kitsch and quirkiness of everyday life, finding beauty and humor in the unconventional and eccentric. This lighthearted approach to aesthetics encourages people to embrace their quirks and imperfections, fostering a culture of self-acceptance and authenticity. Actors like Ranveer Singh, Ayushman Khurana and Aparshakti Khurana, Sonam Kapoor, Priyanka Chopra Jonas, Bhoomi Pednekar, Babil khan, Vijay Varma have been echoing bell hooks and Judith Halberstam, two feminist theorists, who contend that camp subvert conventional ideas of femininity and masculinity by providing a platform for self-expression and empowerment for those who don’t fit into standard gender norms.
Ranveer Singh, who is well-known for his audacious and quirky dress choices, has regularly adopted camp aesthetics to subvert gender expectations and stereotypes. Singh’s design choices frequently unsettle stereotypes and highlight uniqueness, whether they are displayed on the red carpet in avant-garde costumes, flashy skirts with whimsical patterns, or ornate headwear. Ayushmann Khurrana, who is well-known for his progressive roles and support of social reform, has challenged clichés about masculinity and sexuality with campy dresses. When it comes to dressing boldly and unconventionally on the red carpet or playing offbeat characters in movies like “Dream Girl” or “Shubh Mangal Zyada Saavdhan,” Khurrana’s choices in fashion frequently overthrow social norms and encourage inclusiveness and acceptance. Camp subjects cultural boundaries and hierarchies to acts of transgression and rearrangement. Veering to the outlandish, they demonstrate the artificiality of gender constructs. When questioned about the camp aesthetic while dressing up as a campy Barbie in a 3D-printed fuschia gown for the Met Gala, Deepika Padukone responded, “It’s personal, everyone’s definition of camp is very, very different. It’s dramatic, theatrical, and exaggerated, yet you still want to execute it with grace and deference.” Not only actors, but Camp aesthetic has added wings to a larger part of Bollywood, who usually weren’t that much in focus of the paparazzi. Karan Johar, for instance, a prominent figure in the Indian film industry, has opted for a campy avatar that had allowed him to embrace and celebrate his sexuality openly. His bold fashion choices can be seen as a form of self-expression and empowerment, contributing to a more inclusive and diverse representation in the entertainment media.
Now that we know the reason for Bollywood’s adoption of aesthetics, the following question is obvious: How can you identify with aesthetics? Is it feasible for an average person to wear campy clothing on a daily basis? There is never an obvious solution. However, the movement has undoubtedly given a college student the courage to flaunt their hidden impulses to wear electric green eyeliner, normalize male artists’ cosmetics tutorials, or support a trans-person by allowing them to openly and proudly flaunt sarees in Durga Puja pandals.
Ambuja, a comic-nerd teacher, is greatly intrigued with Gender Studies, Queer studies, Queer feminism, Feminist studies, and the LGBTIQA representation in media and popular culture. The International Visitors’ Leadership Program in the US taught her innovative instructional methods and educational policy development. She enjoys strolling around old towns and doddering shops for lores and nostalgia. In a merrier mood, she cherishes using brushes, canvas, or needles to recreate unheard anecdotes.
সূর্যমুখীর পাঁপড়িরা ছিঁড়ে বরফকুচির মতো
ছড়িয়ে রয়েছে ঘরের কোণায় শুকিয়ে ইতস্তত।
সান্ত্রীরা সব সিন্দুকে আর বিছানার তলা জুড়ে
প্রবল করে তত্বতালাশ তোষক পাপোশ ফুঁড়ে।
পাপড়িগুলো ফুৎকারে সব লক্ষ তারার দেশে
আমায় নিয়ে দেয় পাড়ি দেয় মেঘপরীদের বেশে।
পাকদন্ডীর বাঁকে বাঁকে ছলাৎ ছলাৎ করে
অবাধ্য সব তরঙ্গরাই মেঘমল্লার ধরে।
তাদের সুরে হলুদডোবা গমের ক্ষেতে ক্ষেতে
যাযাবর সেজে ইতিহাস খুঁজি অপরাজিতার শাখে।
II
শতেক যোজন পথ জড়িয়েছ
শালের মতন গত শীতে।
ঢেকে গেছে ছিঁড়ে ফেলা খাতা,
ভাঙাচোরা আস্থার ব্যাথা।
কাঠ ও আগুন নিয়ে পাশে
ঘন হয়ে আছে নানা মাথা।
মনে হয় ঠিকঠাক পাবে
ফেলে আসা সূর্যের তাপ?
সোনালি জ্যাকেটে ঢাকা বীথিকার ছায়ে
আগলানো দুপুরের ওম?
রাজপুত্র রা আসে যায়
প্রাণ তবু বাঁশি শুনে আল – বেড়া ভেঙে
ভবঘুরে রাখালের বেহিসেবী সুরে
বারবার খিল খুলে দেয়।
III
কত শত রাম শ্যাম যদু
জুটে যায় সামাজিক জালে।
তাদেরও ভাসুর পিসে, মামাতো পাতানো দাদা
ডাল পালা বেয়ে ভেসে আসে।
বেড়ে যায় পরিচিত মুখোশের ভিড়।
তুমি শুধু অগোচরে থাক।
মাঝে মাঝে ব্রাউজারে গা ঢাকা দিয়ে
উঁকি ঝুঁকি মারি প্রোফাইলে।
নতুন চশমা শালে, শত ফলোয়ারে
হেঁটে চল সুদূরের সড়কের বুকে
সূর্যমুখীর হার পরে।
When I first approached a leading publishing house with my manuscript of poems back in 2022, I was greeted by a genuine concern regarding the economics and the revenue that the book might generate. There was not only doubt in the voice of the person on the other end of the phone—that much I did understand, considering it was my debut work and I was still trying to find my feet (I dare say, I still am) and the very practical considerations of how much the investment in the book would be recovered—but there was an honest introspection into the way the publishing scenario had changed in the last decade or so. There was no dearth of writers and poets submitting manuscripts for consideration, but strangely there were not enough readers, and even if there were, that number was not translating into sales and units of copies sold.
I found this observation strange at that point. But later, as time went by and my book of poems did see the light of day (albeit with a different publisher) I understood the veracity of the statement and that it was not made in vacuum. A look at the social media platforms/ handles and Author Pages told me that there was no dearth of writers and books hitting the market. There was social media engagement with every announcement, congratulatory messages gracing our timeline accompanied by pictures of book launches and social gatherings. And yet, there was something that was missing.
To say that the newest entrants flooding the book market lacked in quality is a dangerous statement to make. I would run the risk of apparently occupying a literary and aesthetic high ground which would be very far from the truth. Also, in this day and age, when every grand narrative has been debunked and the common practice is to challenge the centre, the existence of a category like “good literature” smacks of the kind of literary racism that is symptomatic of the privileged and the racially superior.
But what I am more confident of is the lack of an honest appraisal of a work of art. This honest appraisal is in turn dependant on having a good eye and ear and more importantly in its being outside the coterie of mutual backslapping and backscratching. A closed network of familiar faces only ensures favourable reviews and responses and that in turn, in the long run, is detrimental to the growth and betterment of the literary pursuits.
I am curiously reminded of my days at the University of Calcutta doing my Masters in Literature. During one of the lectures on Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, our professor referred to the fact that despite picking the best specimens from charnel houses, Frankenstein still ended up creating a creature with the looks of a monster. The key to that was the pollution of intention—his main aim was to make a statement driven by ego and narcissism and not by the pure creative spirit of wanting to make a work of art. This analogy is I think kind of suited in the present scenario where there is a profusion of texts and authors but lacking in the kind of purity of intention that generally comes with the production of literature. The aim has sadly shifted from upholding whatever is wrong in the world, the political crises and injustices. What we tend to overlook is that all writing is in some way or the other political and can be looked upon as a weapon and not merely existing in vacuum. I go back to the epigraph to Utpal Dutta’s lectures, delivered at a university in Delhi, titled What is to be Done? which says “Art is Weapon.”
The malaise is deep rooted and cannot be merely dismissed as a sign of the times. Social media has opened up avenues hitherto unknown and provided a platform—which has led to writers allowed to keep a track of “followers”. This is interesting. The term is not “readers” but rather something that carries the act of “following” deeply embedded within it, which needless to say carries within it an implicit sense of “hero worshipping”. The space has acquired a kind of toxicity where the major two available polarities on which any engagement or “comment” takes place is either on sycophantic or ridicule. The choice of the vocabulary is also interesting in many ways. “Comment” is more like passing a judgement and not merely a healthy discussion or criticism.
In the previous section of the article, I briefly touched upon the question of intention. It is not too difficult to see that most authors are gunning for a social media visibility. It is something that one cannot do without in this day and age but ironically, instead of being a part of the entire mechanism it has become the heart of the entire mechanism. Many years ago, at Jadavpur University, the author Amitav Ghosh had been invited to discuss his then latest novel, “Sea of Poppies” and the giant banner gracing the auditorium read, “The foremost storyteller of our times.” It is the innocence of the act of storytelling that is something that is wanting in our times. Lost in the shenanigans of book launches, seeking blurbs and endorsements, or the insatiable hunger of “likes” “shares” and “follows”, we have lost a species of readers who are imperative to the successful existence of the storytelling act. It is this audience we are lacking—we have been reduced to digits/ numbers/statistics of “followers.”
The mesh of social media fandom is such that I can only hope that we learn to look beyond ourselves and overcome this myopic obsession with what “we” have been writing and offer an eye and ear to the works of others. In the words of the immortal Sahir Ludhianvi,
कल और आएंगे नग़्मों की खिलती कलियां चुनने वाले
मुझ से बेहतर कहने वाले तुम से बेहतर सुनने वाले.
I can only hope..
Sayan Aich Bhowmik is Assistant Professor in the Department of English, Shirakole College, West Bengal. His areas of interest are Postcolonial Literature and Indian Writing in English.
A red house with a blue door and you on the porch, Tea fumes and broken nails, you nursing a wound.
The tree waves and dogs bark but you stay still in the dark, There’s a note playing in your head but you refuse it the glory of voice.
You are a passive thing, with your heart broken and fingers busted on a dime. You’re better than them but you believe none but yourself.
You burn yourself when they tell you not to and smile. I tell you to dance with me but you shrink from me.
There’s a tree outside your house but you spit at it every day, not realising that the man on the street scorns at your face.
What happened? Tell me now, Are you running form the wind and the light?
You’re a dancing curve but a straight line too but you smile too less and you eyes burn like lightening and that voice like thunder but you slip,
slip,
slip.
I have no idea what is happening but I see things spinning out of our hands, you cave in the corners and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.
There is rage in the wind and waters turning red, and you dare them to hit you, so you can mock them and laugh.
There is anger and penance and all things red, orange and yellow. There’s purple in the skies with a mist of betrayal.
You don’t talk to me anymore but you don’t talk to anyone anymore. You mutter to yourself and coo at the cats.
I don’t understand. I really don’t. I am trying to be patient but I don’t think I can handle all this duplicity. All the secrets, the grimaces and raised eye brows.
What am I missing, tell me now!
A Siren’s clutter
If the rust on your lips bled further then the rivers would turn black and the people won’t have anything left to drink.
If the roses bloomed without your consent then would you punish them, dearest? You are a Goddess amongst men, are you going to be as cruel as them?
You slip like sand and posterity gapes at you, at your courage and your anger.
Just as the cat twists and turns and snarls, the people mock but we are a cat worshipping tribe, love; you will be fine.
You and your bitch pack friends will run the dime and we will watch because that’s your way and all we will be able to do is watch.
Thank God I never found out what could’ve been. I wouldn’t have lived through it.
The Riders to the sea are dancing in the rain, the Morse on their lamps and your furious laugh in their eyes.
Are you a Siren on the shore?
There is fake grass in your hair, your lips chapped, hair wild, glasses thrown over… Your balled feet are wet and red, the cat rubbing her body on yours; you smile at her… you always smile at her.
There are shoes splayed on concrete and you dip your head towards the weaving boat, there is mischief in your eyes,
Running wry on the streets, baby, where the hell are you going?
Hey, where the hell are you going?
Green muck-stains
All the flashbacks have echoes, the running feet, the stampede untold, my veins bleeding with punch rush as I sit between your legs,
The blonde streak and the green shirt, my pinks and your fences.
You won’t be home in Spring, they think I can wait some more, it’s all such a blur.
All in all a mean streak and misery, running through chipped pavements, all the while a whine that echoes, a disgusting weeping reech that no one wants to hear.
Dear Litote, are you even listening? A whine is chasing you, and your stampede leads to the cracks in already broken pavements!
We are on this train, its speeding dangerously and you are fetishing carelessly.
There is no grass there, just black muck, something that you’ve been spilling all over the blanched Carrara everywhere.
You and your sweet tooth, I and my lack; I don’t think we’ll make it back.
The chill on your feet and the wind in your hair, all the stunts that you pulled and the muck everywhere,
And I see the twists and the fawns of your jokes, all the things that you hide and the lies you tell, Are all a facade that I can see through and you let me; you let me? Why do you let me then skive?
I am on my own and I have forgotten how to cry, it has truly been a while.
A skiving that breaks you, cracks me and smashes the world around us.
How will we even try?
All the joys and the blue skies turning green, foliage of brown seeping through the muck-stain.
(You are not green and neither am I.)
Samina Tahreem is currently pursuing English Master’s in Amity University, Kolkata. She is a reader and a writer.
Surfacing, as in a pointillist collage,Speckling the grey-green temple-tank, They float around like fish-food. Bloated, just-born, just-dead babies.
~ ‘Babies and Bathwater’, Meena Kandasamy
I am the centre
Of a circle of pain
Exceeding its boundaries in every direction…
~ ’Parturition’, Mina Loy
Men don’t know where all the miscarriages and abortions go. Let alone the spirits of the dead people. Some parts of real life are hidden behind a veil for men. A kind of purdah between their eyes and part of the world.
~ Getting Rid of It, Lindsay Collen
A space, that is a somatic part of a certain wholeness, that is a physicality, that thrusts, encloses, opens out into, interjects, rejects, ejects, erupts, and disrupts, is a womb, is a body, is entangled in a continuous process of becoming, that holds, nurtures, births, is a mother. (/?) Implicated within the idea of birthing bodies is also an idea that might be conceived of its corollary of sorts, that is, bodies that do not, cannot, or choose not to birth. It is furthermore pregnant with the notion of the before and the after, the moment and circumstances of the conception and the location of the body as it is enmeshed in certain specific socio-cultural, political and economic setting. Not every birthing body shares a similar experience. Thus, one must accommodate the ideas of female agency, rights over one’s body, violation of such rights, legal structures protecting or not protecting the said rights, the state and its machinery as factors controlling the bodies that birth, are not allowed to or forced to birth, issues of nutrition, medical infrastructure, surrogacy, adoption, abortion, etcetera.
The nurturing instinct might be counted as one of the most primal human instincts, which compelled human history to take a new and unique turn. Midwifery, the act of initiating the birth of a human being, aiding in relieving the labour pain, and helping in ways of abortion, might be counted among one of the earliest signs of community formation and acts of compassion which charted a new history for our species. However, since time immemorial, mothers have been delivering babies on their own, or, getting rid of them, on their own. The focus of this endeavour would be a ride across literature and life, reminiscing and contemplating on birthing bodies, which includes moments of parturition, articulation, manifestation, ecstasy, pain, and deep dejection.
In the dystopian setting of Gilead, June Osborne, the protagonist of the series Handmaid’sTale (Season 2, episode 11, titled “Holly”), based on the novel by Margaret Atwood, experiences contractions while escaping to Canada when her water breaks and she gives herself up for the sake of her baby, to protect the latter. In a protracted portrayal of June in labour woven with fond recollections from the past and apprehensions about the future, the struggle of a mother’s body in dire vulnerability and stripped of every dignity represents unfathomable resilience which is phenomenal and would remain a breakthrough representation of birth on screen. It is important to note, that June’s body was scarred by repeated sexual violence, she was robbed of any agency as an independent individual, she was inches away from liberation, yet she gave herself away to protect the baby. The predator that stood nearby during her arduous hours of labour is reminiscent of the fascist state machinery that hounded every ounce of dignity from a human being, yet could not rob her of grace. It may remind one of the ordeals faced by the lack of resources by women all across the globe in contemporary times especially in the context of asylum seekers who are fleeing from dysfunctional political systems, who are the victims of climate change or war, a glaring example being the pregnant women and newborn children in Palestine.
Mattson Tomlin’s debut film Mother/Android (2021) set in a postapocalyptic U.S.A. represents an AI coup, and at the centre of the story is a journey of a pregnant mother through a winding forest to safety in a military camp, keeping away from the surveillance of the AI bots. Georgia Olsen, the mother, is desperate to deliver the child safely. She succeeds with the aid of her partner and names the baby Forest. She fails to keep the child with her, gives him up to a boat travelling to safety in Korea. A mother’s sacrifice to protect the child rife with earnestness is poignantly represented in the narrative. The narrative exhibits a deep and entrenched sense of technophobia, whereby the robots representing artificial intelligence have been marked as evil others bent on eradicating humanity and taking over the planet. One might harbour scepticism regarding such an idea as cohabitation is always possible. It is imperative to introspect and judge for oneself.
The birth of Ellie Adams in The Last of Us (2023) created by Craig Mazin and Neil Druckmann (based on a videogame developed by Naughty Dog) is an iconic moment representing a birthing body on screen. In another postapocalyptic setting in the U.S.A. ravaged by a pandemic of Cordyceps Brain Disease, the authorities and resistance are on the lookout for a vaccine that would be instrumental in eradicating the deadly malady that has completely shattered the human world and brought it to its knees. The birth of Ellie (Season 1, Episode 9) is significant as her mother had been bitten by an infected individual at the time of her delivery before the umbilical cord was removed. Yet, interestingly Ellie remained unaffected while her mother collapsed. Thus, she is the ray of hope, the world had been waiting for, the glimmer of the fireflies.
Manish Jha’s Matrubhoomi: A Nation Without Women (2003), a dystopian tragedy, shows a nightmare where female foeticide has accelerated and resulted in the forced extinction of women and erased them from the face of the nation. The film opens with the birth of a girl child hailed as Lakshmi, but at the same time drowned in a tumbler of boiling milk. The birthing body is allowed only to produce male children, the rest will be asphyxiated in the bubbling tumbler of gendered violence. The film is extremely difficult to watch and involves abject violence against the single surviving woman, caste violence, dehumanization. It ends with the birth of another girl child and the harrowing reality of what might happen to her haunts the audience long after the film is over. The film raises pertinent questions of female subjectivity, autonomy, rights over one’s body, and female agency in a patriarchal set-up.
Celine Sciamma’s masterpiece Portrait de la jeun fille en feu (A Portrait of a Lady on Fire) (2019) showcases birthing bodies of two sorts. It conceives of the mind as a womb of sorts, which when engaging in a process of creative journey becomes a sort of birthing body. The film might be regarded as a celebration of the feminine creative force, an assertion of the agency and resilience of the womb. Marianne drowns in the waters of the sea, reaches the shore, and enters the island by walking through a cave. The very trajectory of the path she traces here is symbolically resonant with a moment of rebirth (the waters might suggestively indicate the amniotic fluid and the cave, the vaginal canal). It is the moment which represents her birth as an individual, who is about to reach a significant moment in her life through her encounter with Heloise and their shared experiences. The first time when Marianne and Heloise embrace each other, they are inside a cave, suggestive of the female womb. Marianne places the mirror on Heloise’s womb while painting an image of her reflection, perhaps symbolically suggestive of giving birth to a memory which will be frozen in time through the imprint on page 28. However, the narrative does not blindly focus on the strength of the womb, but points out its vulnerabilities as well when it explicitly highlights the menstrual cramps suffered by Marianne, or represents the painful abortion which Sophie has to undergo. Yet, the triumph of the narrative lies in its representation of the force of female resilience despite the vulnerabilities and the sufferings.
These are a few instances of birthing moments that have moved me and compelled me to deeply introspect about the bodies that birth and incipient motherhood. However, this is far from a comprehensive list. It is more of a musing and the reader is requested to ponder over the issue and might even write to us. In this context, ideas of surrogacy, rights of pregnant women over their bodies, birthing bodies in the Capitalist economy viewed as a machine for producing cheap labour, rape, abortion, queer bodies (that birth or do not birth) become extremely relevant. We stand at a crucial juncture in history where nations proclaiming to be the torchbearers of civilization and progress have robbed women of their rights to abort (for instance, the U.S.A.). However, we also have an exemplary instance where France has enshrined the right to abortion as a fundamental right in its Constitution. My endeavour has been to initiate or take forward a conversation that is not new or pioneering, that has already existed since times immemorial. The politics surrounding birthing bodies is ridden with a history of violence, and a struggle to reclaim autonomy is a struggle whose legacy we must carry forward and remember. It is the body through which a woman is subjugated and it is through her body that she shall seek salvation and be reborn.
Aishwarya Das Gupta teaches in Calcutta Girls’ College. She is a weaver of words who loves to recede into her bubble of silent dreams. She is an avid reader, lover of cinema and creative arts and if left alone to her own devices, may be found lingering under the shady bough of a lonely tree
Translated from the Bengali Original by Rituparna Mukherjee
Nafisa
‘Your name?’
‘Nafisa.’
‘Say Nafisa, what do you do when the sun rises, and people around the world get busy with their work?
‘I take Mausam and her friends to the mountains yonder.’
‘Mausam! Who is Mausam?’
‘We have a lot of sheep. I take them out to graze. Mausam is the youngest. I feed her young leaves and grass with my own hands. Her skin is black and white. I love both these colours.’
‘Nafisa do you like the mountains?’
‘Yes, a lot. When Mausam and her friends roam around, I sit and stare at them. One mountain after another beyond the blue skies. White snow capping their peaks. Snow like ice-cream! I love having ice-creams. I stare at these mountains every day while Mausam and her friends walk around on their little feet. I watch them carefully lest they head to the river. Sometimes the birds fly over. Yellow birds. Blue birds. A bird sometimes sits on Mausam’s back. It is such fun. Abbajaan, Ammijaan love them as dearly as I do. I caress Mausam gently. I close my eyes putting my cheeks to her little body. Cold winds blow. Do you know where these winds come from? They come from beyond the mountains that you see ahead. The wind blows through the hair on my head and the fleece on Mausam’s body, over the waters of the river and disappears in the forest ahead. This is all I do when the sun rises. I sit quietly. I stare at the mountains, the sky and the snow. I look and I love Mausam and her friends. I am in no hurry. I sit quietly and just spend my day this way.’
‘What happened thereafter Nafisa?’
‘I fell asleep resting my head on Mausam’s soft wooly body, dreaming of the birds, the river and the ice-cream-like snow. So much snow! My face was suddenly clasped by very strong, rough, iron-like hands. Mausam was crying very loudly. Who knows what she had seen! My eyes were closed. The nails of the iron-like fist pierced the skin around my eyes. I thought about Abbajaan, Ammijaan. Abbajaan used to lift me up in his arms and kiss me a lot. Ammijaan used to stroke my hair lovingly and tell me stories of Yousuf Chacha. I could not see a thing. I couldn’t see the faraway mountains with the snow-clad peaks. My head was swimming. It was paining a lot as well. I fell asleep.’
‘And when you woke up? What did you see Nafisa?’
‘My entire body was aching. My eyes were wet. It was so painful! I have never been in such agony. I was lying down. My hands and feet were tied. I was really cold. I was without any clothes, you see. Somewhere at a distance I could hear bells ringing. I could hear them clearly. I had been to the temple with my Abbajaan. I had left flowers at the temple so many times. I had heard that particular sound in that temple. A dirty rag was stuffed in my mouth. The cloth was really smelly, made it difficult for me to breathe. Bile rose in my throat. Vomit streamed down my cheeks. The bells rang very loudly at that moment. I felt that I would never be able to see Abbajaan, Ammijaan, Mausam and the distant mountains again. I fell into a deep sleep again.’
‘And when you woke up from your sleep, Nafisa? What happened then?’
‘I never came out of my sleep. I don’t know who were biting into my chest, my stomach, scratching me with their nails, pouncing on me like sharp whips. Together they were digging holes into my flesh. I could hear the sounds of the digging from inside my chest. I couldn’t cry out. It was so painful! Blood and urine pooled underneath my back. I was dying very slowly. Even while I was dying, the pain was so sharp through my body. Such agony! I was dying alone, in that temple, far away from my Abbajaan, Ammijaan, Mausam and the ice-cream-like snow-covered mountain. The bells were ringing very loudly then.’
Nilanjana
‘Your name?’
‘Nilanjana.’
‘Tell me Nilanjana, what do you do when the sun rises and the people of this world go about their work?’
‘What do you think? Am I not busy? Well, let me list it for you then. First, I stand in front of the mirror. I got it at my wedding, this mahogany-framed mirror. I look at myself from all sides. I look for any new pimple on my face. Actually, if you zoom a selfie, you can spot a pimple, you see. There is no way to hide it. Well, I want at least twenty-seven and a half likes for the selfie I’m going to get beside the beautiful fountain in the evening today with Adrija and Manjistha.’
‘Like? What is a like?’
‘Facebook. Like. Each like for me is a photon particle from the sun. Brimming with energy. And if someone comments that I’m looking awesome or really nice, or that I haven’t aged a day, then…these likes and comments keep me in a happy mood. I flit about the day like a restless grasshopper. A serene smile touches my lips.’
‘And after that?’
‘After that? What else? I think about my daughter. She makes excellent sketches, you know, that of the mountains, and on their peaks white snow. She is learning vocals as well- classical, folk, fusion. She is enrolled in swimming lessons as well. It would help her to maintain a good figure. If she has a good figure, her mind will also be fresh. With a fresh mind, she will score well in her examinations. And if she succeeds in scoring high marks, one day my daughter will go to Switzerland. She will click beautiful pictures with her hubby with the snow-clad mountains in the backdrop.’
‘Hubby? What is that?’
‘Hubby means husband. Don’t you know this much? Strange! My daughter’s hubby will be the vice-president of a large company. He would have been a fair, happy child in his youth. He would have looked at himself in the mirror in his personal room. And the more he looked, the more he loved his biceps. He would declare happily- look, I am growing older, mummy. He would have a soft heart. He would roll down the window of his car at traffic signals and give money to the beggars. Then, one day, he would grow up to be a man. Wearing an expensive Armani suit, he would declare his success to the world, his arms wide open. My daughter would marry such a man one day. I’m certain of it. You will see.’
‘How old is your daughter?’
‘She has just turned eight.’
‘Nafisa is eight years old as well.’
‘Nafisa! Who is Nafisa?’
‘The girl who was kidnapped by some men and kept in the temple where they would day after day… you must have heard?’
‘Yes, I have heard. How terrible! Disgusting! Please don’t remind me of the incident. That is why I have enrolled my daughter in karate classes. Jeet Kune Do. Just you wait and see, what a lethal kick she will put in her opponent’s stomach! I pray she eats well, sees good things, hears good. I want to keep her away from all things dirty. My daughter is so beautiful. Fair, just like I had wanted, with the appearance of a super-model. I have prayed a lot in the temples for her, especially when I was pregnant with her, I used to climb the steps of the temple and offered prayers thrice a week. I would count and ring the bells at least fifty times. The lord has listened to my prayers. My daughter is my world, my everything, my little bundle of joy. Do you understand?’
‘I do. And Nafisa?’
‘Nafisa! I told you. Whatever happened was truly appalling. Revolting! I don’t like listening to it repeatedly. What can we do? The state of this country is… The human race is the worst. Would you like some tea? Darjeeling tea?’
‘No, no. Why don’t you say something more? I am enjoying this. The story of a grasshopper, like, jeet kune do and success.’
‘I really like talking about these things you know. To think about these things. I can go on non-stop about these things all my life. I want my daughter to have all the happiness in this world. Just like my father and mother wanted the same for me. And just as my mother’s parents wished for her. I hope this story about wishing happiness and success for our progeny gets transmitted from body to body, blood to blood, mind to mind.’
‘There are so many luxuries within our reach now, aren’t there?’
‘Of course. Fresh organic vegetables from the Saturday market, the skywalk in the rooftop garden, the latest trending clothes in the online fashion applications, mind-blowing web series on Netflix. Were there so many things available before? My cousin in Australia sang on the day of Rabindranath Tagore’s birthday, Rabindra Jayanti, you know- Aaro preme, aaro preme mor ami dube jaak neme/ mor-e aaro aaro aaro dao praan. I watched her LIVE performance on my iphone. Did Shakespeare or Vidyasagar get these things during their lifetime? Truly, there is no dearth of joy now. It’s awesome. Simply awesome!’
‘You are yawning. Are you sleepy?’
‘Yes. I am quite tired, you see. I need to do all of these things by myself. Hubby is located in the States these past five years. Fetching my daughter from school, then music class, karate class. I need to manage my work at the office as well as take care of my house. Look at what all this stress has done to my appearance. Its been two weeks since I last went to the parlour. I am really very tired. I hope I don’t have a pimple. Anyway, I’ll go to sleep now.’
‘And what will you do before you sleep?’
‘Whatever other people do before they turn in. I will check on Facebook how the people around this world are doing- who has gone for a vacation, who has eaten what in which restaurant. Pre-wedding photo-shoots, weddings, anniversaries, birthdays, oh, and food vlogs, travel vlogs- there is so much to see. I am able to make out what a person is thinking by looking at the likes and comments. Alright then, I will hug my daughter to sleep now. The restless grasshopper will fly in my dreams, I will fly with my daughter as well, spreading my wings like the grasshopper… my daughter will grow up amidst these many joys. She will be successful.’
Renesa
‘Your name?’
‘Renesa, you know, from the word Renaissance.’
‘Tell me Renesa, when the sun rises and the people of this world go about their work, what do you do?’
‘For now, I am sitting at Starbucks with a cup of coffee in front. There is still a lot of snow on the roads. The roads are glinting with the rays of the sun, aren’t they? There was considerable snowfall last night. Weekend snowfalls are the best. However, the buzz of last night’s Tequilla shots has worn off. I still remember a few of the night’s events though. For instance, Arka’s intoxicated snake dance. Or everyone’s mockery of Sohini’s old love. We have already made plans for the next weekend. Philadelphia. Arka and his mates have spent a lot of money in visiting New Jersey from California, I must also return the courtesy. That’s the plan for next weekend. My husband Sanchayan sits opposite me. We settled in New Jersey ten years back.’
‘And then?’
‘Well, Arka and Sohini are close, a mere ten minutes by car. They are buying something at Walmart. Apparently, a few things are cheaper here in New Jersey. They are saving dollars, you see. See, we are all boarding the car now. Our journey has started. Our destination is an Amish village surrounded by greenery. There is a water mill in the village. The people of the village do not come to the cities ever. They arrange for all their basic needs themselves. Strange, isn’t it? And we are headed to this Amish village to be amazed by these out of the norm things.’
‘Good. I am glad that you are happy. But I wonder why your hands and feet are shivering. You are holding on to your mobile phone a little too tightly. Water seems to be gathering in the corners of your eyes. Are you crying? Whose image is it on your mobile phone?’
‘Nafisa.’
‘Nafisa! Who is Nafisa?’
‘The girl who was kidnapped by some men and kept in the temple where they would day after day…’
‘That’s surprising! You are thinking of Nafisa in this beautiful place, with such amazing breeze, amidst such content? Just a while back you were relating your experience of this journey with a smile on your face, yet now you are crying.’
‘Yes, the incident has been hounding me, there is absolutely no reprieve.’
‘You know, the other day something similar came to pass in Sydney as well.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A woman sobbed helplessly while discussing future business strategies in a meeting with her boss, the vice-president of a company. I asked her why she had cried. Such a nice office, a bright future awaited her, she had life insurance as well. Why was she crying despite all of that? The woman calmed down after a while. But she still seemed to be emotionally strung. In a soft, broken voice she said- Nafisa. There was an instance at Bristol as well. The woman had left home to fetch his son from school. A few people were walking in a group on the road, placards in their hands. The woman did the strangest thing, you know. Her son’s school lay to her right, she should have turned right. But she turned left and started walking in rhythm with those people. I asked her immediately what was the matter. It wasn’t supposed to happen that way. It was really lovely weather that day, with a very pleasant breeze. She was supposed to take her son to the circus. The woman didn’t say anything. She put a placard in my hand. It had Nafisa’s face, looking at me with eyes full of life. Just as an eight-year-old looks at someone with a smiling face. In her eyes…’
‘I know.’
‘What do you know?’
‘Nafisa’s eyes and face were full of the sky, the mountain and the ice-cream-like snow. Her frame had the tenderness of Mausam’s love. I cannot sleep at nights these days. I lie awake thinking of Nafisa.’
‘Let me tell you then, the two women at Sydney and Bristol have not been able to sleep as well since the past few nights. Neither can the women in Russia, China, Ghana, Peru, Iran, India- and those around the world, in so many other countries! I really wish I could speak to them some more. I know your name but forgot to ask them theirs.’
‘I know their names.’
‘You know? What are their names?’
‘We are called Renaissance.’
Shankhadeep Bhattacharya is a software engineer who is keenly interested in spreading awareness about the environment, society, the socio-economic impacts of technology through regular seminars and webinars. He is associated in the editorial capacity with Pariprashna and Sangbartak magazines. He has strived to create narratives in his stories and personal essays that centre around the current realities. He was awarded the “Namita Chattapadhyay Sahitya Samman” in 2022.
Rituparna Mukherjee is a faculty of English and Communication Studies at Jogamaya Devi College, under the University of Calcutta. She is currently pursuing Doctoral degree in Gendered Mobilities in West African and Afro-Diasporic Literature at IIIT Bhubaneswar. She is a published poet and short fiction writer. She works as a freelance translator for Bengali and Hindi fiction and is an editor at the Antonym Magazine. She is also an ELT consultant and ESL author outside of her work and research schedule.
Bhumika R. writes poetry and short fiction in English. She also translates poetry and fiction from Kannada into English and vice versa. She is working on a translation of M S Murthy’s Kannada novel, Bowl, into English. She lives in Jammu.
Folk memory, through orally told stories, is passed down the generations and becomes a potent way of preserving cultures and truths of a region. Recorded history, while carefully preserved, runs the risk of being manipulated; narratives and agendas become part of the process of writing and documentation. The significance of oral tales lies in their being able to challenge these metanarratives as they preserve within themselves the authenticity of memories, which are a way of nurturing connections within communities and also of affirming identities against a backdrop of enforced silence and evolving social reality. The present paper wishes to explore how folk memory in Onaiza Drabu’s collection, The Legend of Himal and Nagrai: Greatest Kashmiri Folktales, becomes a tool of resisting the oppressive silence surrounding Kashmir. Onaiza Drabu, in the introduction to her seminal work on Kashmiri folktales, The Legend of Himal and Nagrai, writes: “Ever since the complete communication blockade in the state from August 2019, it has become ever more important to document the stories of Kashmir and Kashmiris ₋ their imagination, their speech acts and their culture. This book is retold in the hope that it contributes to more than a nostalgic sense of home; for it to have a purpose of upholding memory while fighting erasure” (9).
It is significant that Drabu uses the words “culture”, “memory” and “erasure” in her introduction as these words indicate the important role oral narratives can play in preserving regional identities and in resisting metanarratives. Since the early 1990s, the state of Kashmir has grappled with a legacy of conflict, with militants fighting for freedom or “Azadi” and Indian security forces struggling to protect and secure Indian interests. The residents of the valley suffer major hardships due to the raging conflict that has refused to subside for more than three decades. Kashmir comes under the Armed Forces Special Powers Act, the Disturbed Areas Act, the Prevention of Terrorism Ordinance, and, till very recently, was given special status under the 370 article. In a state full of such draconian laws, stories become a way of challenging these measures. The Folk tales of Kashmir have survived the onslaught of centuries of violence and repression; in that sense, folk tales and folk stories preserve within themselves and reveal through themselves the very identity of Kashmir and Kashmiris.
Onaiza Drabu, in her collection, brings together twenty-nine folk stories from the Valley of Kashmir; these stories are grouped into four sections (“Tales from Pataal”, “Tales from Janawar”, “Tales from Zameen” and “Tales from Bol Chaal”). Most of these tales are heard and recited by people of all ages every day in the nooks and corners of the villages of the valley, against the backdrop of the mountains and with culture as the context. Indeed, popular tales like “Aftab, Zoon, Hawa” and “Shishrum Nag and his Daughter’s Boon” are used as ways of reinforcing morals and proverbs in the Valley; many of the locales described in these stories are tourist attractions visited by people across the world: “Dapaan, the spring at Simthan is now dry. On the way to Amarnath though, to this day, we find three springs. The big one is called Shishrum naag, or Heher Sund Naag ₋ the father-in-law’s spring and the second Zamtur naag₋ son-in-law’s spring, in memory of this strange family” (“Shishrum Nag and his Daughter’s Boon, 38). In the note after this story, Drabu writes: Simthan is a tourist destination in Anantnag District, a few hours away from Srinagar. The two naags exist today as milky white springs on a mountain close to Amarnath” (39). This folk tale is a clear example of how vital stories are to the very fabric of Kashmir, with the places of the Valley bearing testimonies to the characters of these narratives.
Kashmiris have always cherished their own peculiar customs and codes; these cultural quips become emblems of resistance in the present day because of the way the Valley is cut off from the rest of India. The multicultural, multilingual tradition of Kashmir finds best expression in its stories; stories which have circulated orally and which often begin with the word, “Dapaan”, the word for ‘say’ or ‘they say’ in Kashmiri. By this vey word, Kashmiris undercut and challenge the recorded history of their state presented to the rest of the country. The stories compiled by Drabu are thousands of years old with no traceable source; by retelling them during a time of conflict and isolation for her state, Drabu ensures that the metanarratives of Kashmir foisted by the political authorities are quietly subverted. Folktales often acquire the characteristics of legends, explaining things which often seem inexplicable to the rational mind. The very topography of Kashmir, its very origins are captured in these tales. In many ways, folklore is often ironic in its cruelty; evil sometimes triumphs, beautiful women lure men to a brutal death, and the power of fate remains supreme. In a state which has coped with one misfortune after another, and where tragedy has often struck arbitrarily and irrationally, punishing people despite no fault of theirs, these stories, perhaps, soothe and console. They explain the random nature of destiny and assure readers and listeners of a closure and a peace that is impossible to find in Kashmir any more.
Vladimir Propp believed that every character in a folktale had a specific function. Propp’s analysis is that he is able to locate a mere seven key performers, who create seven spheres of action. That is, all fairy tales can be reduced to a set of seven characters who generate the entire plot through their relationships . . . hero, false hero, villain, donor or provider, helper, princess and her father, despatcher” (Nayar, 17). Propp’s analysis looks at the folk tale as a structure or a set of patterns leading to a story; in this set of patterns there is no space for manipulative agendas to seep in. History, on the other hand, being recorded and documented, is riddled with state agendas. Folk stories, through their set figures and morals, imbibe within themselves memories which are collective to a people. Drabu’s compilation inscribes within itself these collective memories; memories which are passed down the generations through the oral mode. These collective memories help foster community feeling and unity in a state where curfews and crackdowns are the regular norm and where a sense of identity is essential to counter state oppression. Basharat Peer poignantly captures the dilemma of living in a curfewed state in his memoir; his closing words echo the hollowness of identity in every Kashmiri’s heart: “That failure of the subconscious was the border. The line of control did not run through 576 kilometers of militarized mountains. It ran through our souls, our hearts, and our minds. It ran through everything a Kashmiri, an Indian, and a Pakistani said, wrote and did. It ran through the fingers of editors writing newspaper and magazine editorials, it ran through the eyes of reporters, it ran through the reels of Bollywood coming to life in dark theatres. . . And it ran through our grief, our anger, our tears, and our silences” (Curfewed Night, 238).
The Indian subcontinent was forever sliced apart in 1947. The Line of Control divided people into two and subsequently in 1971 into three nations. But cultural commonalities do not disappear with the creation of borders. Two Bengalis from across borders still feel drawn to the same food, same customs, same rituals that has bound them for centuries. Similarly, a Pakistani Kashmiri and an Indian Kashmiri connect in ways that surpass border lines; Peer writes about the tragedy of a state where such cross-border connections are taken as proof of criminality and terrorism. Yet, cross-border connections do exist and nowhere do these connections find better space to foster than in folk memories and stories; just as the tales of Thakurmar Jhuli are cherished across both sides of the border of Bengal so are the stories of Drabu’s compilation enjoyed across religious and national divides in Kashmir. Folktales, like fables, epitomize the personal nature of storytelling; the multiple oral renditions of a single folktale make it a living, breathing entity; the person telling the story is also an author, adding extra elements and curating extraneous details.
The stories compiled by Drabu cut across communities in the true sense; there is the ‘peris’ of Persian folklore, the ‘nagas’ of Sanskrit mythology. “Daastans” of Arabic lineage and “Panchatantra” of Sanskrit lineage coexist together in the stories, paying homage to the syncretic nature of Kashmiri identity. It is this syncretism that the metanarratives of historical truths would have the country deny; these “truths” are circulated through History books, national television, statistical data records. Folk tales and the memories preserved within these tales are testaments to the syncretic micro-narratives that are ritually silenced and sidelined. The folk heroes of Drabu’s stories, the serpent king Nagrai, the human princess, Himal, the eternal proverbs of Kashmir (‘a bear’s friendship’, ‘love as salt’, ‘leave it at the 29th’), the lullabies of the state, the wedding jingle, “Bumro Bumro” are all weaved into the multiple stories to create an authentic cuisine of cultural amalgamation that defines the real Kashmir. It is all the more interesting that Drabu’s collection is in English, taking the stories to an audience beyond the country itself. If what unite people, more than armies, flags or gold, are stories, then these are stories that deserve to be told and read, again and again.
Somrita Misra is Assistant Professor in the Department of English in Chanchal College, Malda, West Bengal. She is a Potterhead, a researcher in children’s literature and a thorough bibliophile.
It wasn’t going well at the Stanhope Hotel, although all the lawyers were being considerate in a kindly way. If anything, they genuinely felt bad for Maggie, especially since it was obvious to them how altogether apoplectic she was about the meal. It was getting on to forty-five minutes since they’d placed their orders, and these were busy men. Farquhar, from Tomlinson & Denney, thought it might be his fault since he alone had ordered the sweetbreads, and maybe it was disorienting the kitchen.
Cassidy gazed out over the terrace railing at the Metropolitan Museum and the swarm of mainly young people camping out on the steps in the fine weather. He espied one girl who looked a little like the one he had met in a chatroom and later in what everybody was now calling real time. Chatrooms were new then and he had gotten obsessed with the experience, especially after he’d been drinking. He would close his door and have sex talks with strangers he hoped were really women. Maggie knew exactly what was going on and she came this close to telling Goldbloom, which would have gotten him fired for sure.
There was nothing Cassidy could do about this lunch disaster, and no reason for him to fret over it one way or another. His job was to compile and edit and sometimes write the substantive content for the seminar programs, an important job since those materials qualified attendees for continuing legal education credits, which, in turn, put paying customers in the audience. Responsibility for the meals and sleeping rooms fell solely on Maggie.
To Cassidy’s immediate right, Chris Millburn from Moore & Carver was talking to Ben Lewis from Sanderson Natwick. “All I can tell you at this point is that we’re a long, long way from a letter of intent,” said Milburn. Milburn was overweight by a good fifty pounds but, master tactician that he was, he carried it in a way that made people think him if anything all the more formidable.
“Yeah, I bet,” said Lewis, who was the black lawyer with maybe the biggest book of business in New York if not the country. “I imagine that job will keep your people on the clock for a bustling little year or two.” Even firms like Moore & Carver and Cornwall Keckerly that normally sit back blithely and let the talent come to them would absolutely die for a black partner with half what Lewis had. With the right President, Lewis might someday go to Treasury or the Fed if that’s the kind of life he wants. By contrast, Neal Pratt at the opposite end of the table actively lobbied for the SEC spot after rising to the top at Bliss Samson but then he flopped at the Commission, and all too publicly. He just couldn’t quite navigate the bureaucratic shoals or the Beltway politics. Fortunately, the timing could have been much worse for Pratt as Bliss really needed him back after their antitrust practice went south.
“Hey, what’s this I hear about all your clients hiring auditors to look at your billables in order to cut out the fat?” asked Joe Canby, who had his own small firm, Gibb Carter Canby, which some said was the best M&A boutique in the business. Canby had left large-firm practice in his fourth year and never looked back. Today, he was greatly admired if not envied.
“Not all our clients, Joe,” Farquhar shouted good-naturedly from across the table. “Just the ones who like to get quoted in The American Lawyer.”
Most of the lawyers who did these seminars were friendly with Goldbloom and his wife. Successful as they were, these guys figured it was still in their interest to participate. The Goldblooms customarily stocked their audiences with general counsel from around the world, although, truth be told, top guys like the ones at this table weren’t all that concerned about GCs one way or another. They tended to go straight to the C-Suite. Maybe there were fifty GCs total that they actually cared about, if that many.
Maggie was an ideal program manager as she doted like a mother hen, making these guys feel – not important, which they didn’t need to feel – but cared about. She was good with M&A and litigators; she was great with L&E and T&E. Maggie was unfortunate looking. Her nose was bulbous above heavy lips and a small chin. Her torso was altogether shapeless. Yet her appearance was not necessarily unwelcomed and may have even been an asset as some of these lawyers probably found it easier to relax in her presence and get down to business. Lately, a lot of serviceable women were going to work at law firms, most recently as marketing directors; Cassidy knew a dozen or so of them because their jobs included talking to program directors like Maggie and himself on behalf of their partners. They had formed their own specialized legal marketing association and held meetings around the country where they’d share horror stories about how badly they were being treated, and how lawyers hated marketing. Well, Cassidy figured, there’s a boot up every ass. He’d even heard Peter McManus – who had, what, a $12 million book of business – lament how the best transactional lawyers were a full step lower in the pecking order than the bankers who made significantly more money and whose judgment, in many cases, trumped theirs as a matter of corporate policy.
This meal thing was getting ridiculous. Maggie had asked to see the manager but that was already fifteen minutes ago. When Marvin Alcorn from Mayberry & Carlisle finally said, “I don’t want to be unreasonable, but I think my stomach is distended,” Maggie jumped up in a visible snit to go track down the elusive maître d’hôtel. Cassidy watched her charge toward the rear of the dining area, down a few steps from the terrace area where they sat. First, he saw her say a few words to a waiter and then she stood there alone a moment, a semi-circle of rather colorful potted plants arrayed above her head, until the man finally emerged from an area hidden to her right. Cassidy saw him smile narrowly – there was a kind of mordancy in the smile – and nod forbearingly in her general direction. He nodded a second time and a third. Maggie returned and took her seat, without saying anything.
“Maybe you should bill the hotel for your time,” said Cassidy to Ed Schneiderman from Stassen Margolies, sitting to his left. Schneiderman was the only White Collar guy at the table, having represented the Gallagher family during the DZY scandal as well as a number of Hasidic Jews in Brooklyn after the Techtor Unlimited shit hit the fan. Schneiderman nodded in reply but his face showed he thought Cassidy’s remark was fairly lame.
Cassidy didn’t think these were bad guys, all things considered. He used to work for a book publisher who specialized in psychology and psychiatry and, honestly, he’d take lawyers over therapists any day. Everybody, he observed, was feeling sorry for Maggie, sorrier than he was. They had had trouble, not just over the chatroom thing, but her work ethic was punishing and she expected him to sweat along. “I can’t live like that,” he had told her.
“It’s what the job requires,” she answered peremptorily.
He’d usually have a few drinks before work and take a snooze in his office before lunch. Yet he did want to succeed at something. His father had been a cop for thirty years or so, had died of a sudden stroke a few weeks after retiring. The pension benefits were lavish and Cassidy was an only child. He could probably get by without working for a few years, although someday his two kids would want to go to college. His ex-wife didn’t earn much.
“What did you think of the per-partner profit numbers that came out last week?” he heard Alcorn ask John Jensen, the managing partner at Kumin Abramovitz, sitting across the table.
“It’s going to kill the profession, those reports,” said Lou Allison from Stedman & DeLeo, having had overheard the question. “It means the end of all loyalty. Partners will defect for a song.”
“I don’t know,” said Jensen, until then uncharacteristically quiet. “We came in six figures lower than you but I’m not going anywhere. I like my firm. No offense, Lou.”
“Did you read about the midsize firm that hired Bernie Wasserstein, who then goes ahead and tells the New York Post that they’re paying him like a movie star?” asked Lewis, chuckling.
“It’s crazy,” said Farquhar. “He’s basically a mob lawyer, isn’t he?”
“Not just mob,” said Josephson. “Some of my clients in Brooklyn really love him.”
“The firm is a so-so Atlanta firm with a tiny office in Rockefeller Center,” said Lewis.
“One of two things is going to happen,” said Farquhar. “Either they’ll implode altogether or they’ll all make more money while Wasserstein turns their lives into a living hell.” Farquhar looked at Maggie to his right and kindly said, “Dear, maybe you should just tell them to forget my sweetbreads so the others can eat.”
“We shouldn’t have to do that,” said Maggie, her voice a-tremble with rage and shame. She got up anyway to revisit the rear of the dining area. Almost as if to underscore a disastrous situation, an ambulance raced down Fifth Avenue, clearing a huddle of taxis near the park entrance. But Maggie never reached the rear of the dining area, as two carts came bringing the food from the kitchen. Maggie returned to her seat looking haggard.
“Ah good,” said Milburn.
“No harm done,” said Jensen.
The maître d’hôtel strode toward them, just behind the food, saying nothing by way of apology or solicitation, but simply overseeing the completion of a long-fought struggle. Cassidy fixed his gaze on the man: thin, leathery-skinned, with dry hair that seemed combed slick, in a tightly fitting blue suit, a dark red cravat with purple zig-zags, and shoes that as Cassidy glanced down quickly he saw were polished so black you could swim in the pitch. From nowhere, a thought struck Cassidy, something he read, or something he thought was just funny, or something he remembered someone had mentioned. And with a kind of puckishness, a kind of aggression he felt even more keenly when he was drinking, not hostile, but resolute, a challenge he’d pose, a something or other that he thought was kind of meaningful in its way, and so had to be said, something that may have been apropos of nothing but what the hell, I’m thinking it so I’ll say it, I’m wondering about it so I’ll ask it, it’s a big world, it’s a funny world, we should all be talking to each other about everything and this is the hotel, yeah it is, definitely, and maybe, just maybe, in a hundred years it’s all that anyone will ever know or remember about this hotel, so ask him, force the underlying issue.
“Excuse me,” said Cassidy to the man standing by their table who had as yet said nothing. “Isn’t this the hotel where Charlie Parker died?” The man nodded slightly as he had before. “Who wants to know?” he asked.
Plato's Caves online 