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Hindol
Year 4, No. 3

Editorial Team :
Chittaranjan Pakrashi, Jayanti Chattopadhyay,
Maitrayee Sen, Ajanta Dutt, Nandan Dasgupta

M 1419
October 2012

E-46, Greater Kailash-I,

New Delhi-48
ohetuk.sabha@gmail.com
98110-24547
http://www.scribd.com/collections/3537598/Hindol
Back Cover
Mrinal Bardhan
Back Inside Cover
Chittaranjan Pakrashi

ISSN 0976-0989

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92131344879891689053

Artists:
Pierre-Auguste Renoir
Henri De Toulouse-Lautrec
V.S. Rahi
M.A. Jomraj
Jyotirmoy Ray
Sisir Dutta
Photo Credit :
Arjun Dasgupta

The trigger was pressed and the bullet spun

out ill-tempered.
The man leaning through the window doubled
over without making a sound.
The trigger was pressed a second time. The
bullet swished through the air, puncturing the
water-carrier's goatskin. He fell on his face and
his blood, mixing with the water, began to
flow across the road.
The trigger was pressed a third time. The bullet
missed, embedding itself into a mud wall.
The fourth felled an old woman. She did not
even scream.
The fifth and sixth were wasted. Nobody got
killed and nobody got wounded.

The marksman looked frustrated, when

suddenly a running child appeared on the
road. He raised his gun and took aim.
'What are you doing?' his companion
asked.
'Why?'
'You are out of bullets.'
'You keep quiet. How does a little child
know?'
Sketches, by Saadat Hasan Manto, are vignettes of
the 1947 Partition. This translation is by Khalid
Hasan. This is Manto's birth centenary year. See
page 94 for an atricle on him.

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Giovanni Boccaccio
Subhadra Sen Gupta
Soumya Mukherjee
Ajanta Dutt

The Story of the Three Rings

Painting a Raga
Tu Bhi Bach Gayi, Main Bhi Bach Gaya
Saadat Hasan Manto - A Tribute

Special Supplement
Short Story : Authors in Indian Languages
Assamese
Gujarati
Hindi
Kannada
Kashmiri
Maithili
Malayalam

102 English
108
110
112
114
116
118
120

122
124
126
128
130
132
134

Marathi
Oriya
Punjabi
Sindhi
Tamil
Telugu
Urdu

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I have the following comments on the article by Kumkum

Bhattacharya in the July 2012 issue of HINDOL on my mother Nandini
"Our Pushu di Rabindranath's Pupe" :
1. Our house in Santiniketan was named Chhaya Nir by my Dida
(Pratima Devi) and was actually designed by Dadu (Rathindra Nath
Tagore). The architect was of course Suren Kar. Udichi was gifted to
my mother by Poet Rabindranath Tagore, where I spent the first 10
years of my childhood. Dadu did not want my mother to give up the
right of Udichi to Visva Bharati when there was decision to convert
the entire complex into a Museum, but later Pandit Nehru personally
requested her to give up the right and Visva Bharati in return gave
us the land at Ratan Palli. I have the correspondence from Dadu
written to my father.
Dadu had written a letter to my mother indicating that he would
come and stay at Chhaya Nir and for this reason he wanted to extend
the second floor of Chhaya Nir. Due to his untimely death, the plan
did not materialize.
2. I think generally the inhabitants of Santiniketan, in particular
those who have seen my mother would admit that in spite of her
failing health, she used to be in constant touch with the people she
knew. She would send food and garden fruits and vegetables to them
and always enquire about the well-being of the entire family.
3. She was attached to her father the most. I always remember
how, when she was staying with us at Kolkata, she would narrate
incidents associated with her father, which she fondly remembered.
The kind of love and affection she received from Dadamashai and
Baba was difficult to be given by any of us in the later part of her
life.
Regards
Dr. Sunandan Lala
Bangalore

M, 1419

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This issue of
HINDOL
is supported by
PUTUL SEN
in memory of her husband

BIMAL (BABLU) SEN

of
Kailash Colony
It has come to my knowledge that an institution known as the
'Santiniketan' or 'Brahmacharyasrama' at Bolpur in the Birbhum
District of Bengal is a place altogether unsuitable for the education
of sons of Government servants. As I have information that some
Government servants in this province have sent their children
there, I think it is necessary to ask you to warn any well-disposed
Government servant whom you may know or believe to have
sons at this institution or to be about to send sons to it, to withdraw
them or refrain from sending them, as the case may be; any
connection with the institution in question is likely to prejudice
the future of the boys who remain pupils of it after the issue of
the present warning.
Circular issued by the Director of Public Instruction
one day after the song 'Jana-gana-mana' was sung at the
Maghotsav ceremony on January 25, 1912
at the Tagore household

M, 1419

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Saturn Reader! Whoever publishes a sonnet with a preface? I hear, or fancy
that I hear, you say, 'none'! Well! I publish. I am an enemy to what
men call 'custom'. But be that as it is, I publish my sonnet with a
preface; I have to teach the world something new. Behold! I have
written a Sonnet in Blank-verse. What a rare experiment! Believe
me, Reader, the Muse appeared not to resent this "breach of etiquette" towards her. O Joy! O Glory! O Happiness! That I have done
successfully what none dared do before me!
I am an enemy to what men call 'custom'...

non-conformist 'contrarian'.
,
That I have done successfully
what none dared do before me!

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him some money when I can borrow any. Comparatively speaking,
I dare say, I am quite as poor as he is! I cannot afford to buy the
books I wish to read.
...When I can borrow any - q, KI

g tip / L

M, 1419

15

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my friend and let him act as Issur Chandra Vidyasagara ought to act under present
circumstances. c g 7 ,

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I suppose that you are not aware that my books bring in a
considerable sum of money S-S [ /]
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English! They do contain such rubbish.

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leaving this country is too firmly rooted to be removed. The sun may forget to
rise, but I cannot remove it from my heart. - How should I
like to see you write my 'Life', if I happen to be a great poet, which I am almost
sure I shall be, if I can go to England.

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g ] k g Believe me, my dear fellow, our Bengali is a very beautiful language,
it only wants men of genius to polish it up... I could devote myself
to its cultivation, but, as you know, I have not sufficient means to
lead a literary life and do nothing in the shape of real work for a
living... If you have money you are , if not nobody cares for

M, 1419

you! We are sitll a degraded people. Who are the amongst

us? The nobodies of Chorebagan and Burrabazar! Make money, my
Boy, make money!

This is the of our ancestral creed. Come here and you will
soon forget that you spring from a degraded and subject race. Here,
you are the master of your masters! The man who stands behind my
chair when I dine, would look down upon the best of our princes
in India. The girl that pulls off my muddy boots on a wet day, would
scorn to touch our richest Rajah in India... But this is Europe, my
Boy, and not India.

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I have no one who apparently cares for me! If you abandon me,
I must sink! Unless called to the Bar, I could never return to India,
for in the first place, what am I to do there? My miserable income
is too small for a man of my habits to live comfortably upon; in
the second place, such a step would make my enemies laugh, and
I am sorry to see that I have many.

PHOTO : ARJUN DASGUPTA

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M, 1419

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This issue of
HINDOL
is supported by

KRISHNA DUTT

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ARTIST : JYOTIRMOY RAY

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M, 1419

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68

HINDOL
gratefully acknowledges
the kind support of

MANJU SARKAR
ANTARA CHOWDHURY
REKHA DATTA
AROONAVA & MITRA SINHA
AND
AMAJIT & MOUMITA MITRA

Today we give our thanks, most of all, for the ideals of

honor and faith we inherit from our forefathers - for the
decency of purpose, steadfastness of resolve and strength
of will, for the courage and the humility which they
possessed and which we must seek every day to emulate.
As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that
the highest appreciation is not to utter words but to live
by them.
John F. Kennedy
Thanksgiving Day, 1963

M, 1419

69
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Wishing you
Good Health, Happiness, Prosperity
Success

Have a Joyous Durga Puja and Dussehra 2012

With Best Compliments

from

E-MEDITEK
EMSL

(TPA) SERVICES LIMITED

E-Meditek (TPA) Services Limited

577, Udyog Vihar, Phase-V, Gurgaon,
Haryana-122016 (INDIA)
Ph. : 0124-4466665
www.emeditek.com

M, 1419

79
Giovanni Boccaccio
(1313 - 1375)

The Story of the Three Rings

(Extracted from 'The Masterpiece Library of Short Stories' edited by an
eminent Board led by J.A. Hammerton. Boccaccio has been called by one of
the editors, Edmund Gosse, as the Shakespeare of the European short story.)

Saladin was so brave and great a man, that he had raised himself,
from an inconsiderable station, to the Sultan of Babylon, and had gained
many victories over both Turkish and Christian princes. This monarch,
having in divers wars, and by many extraordinary expenses, run through
all his treasure, some urgent occasion fell out that he wanted a large
sum of money. Not knowing which way he may aise enough to answer
his necessities, he at last called to mind a rich Jew of Alexandria, named
Melchizedek, who let out money at interest. Him he believed to have
wherewithal to serve him; but then he was so covetous, that he would
never do it willingly, and Saladin was loath to force him. But as necessity
has no law, after thinking which way the matter might best be effected,
he at last resolved to use force under some colour of reason. He therefore
sent for the Jew, received him in a most gracious manner, and making
him sit down, thus addressed him:
"Worthy man, I hear from divers persons that thou art very wise
and knowing in religious matters; wherefore I would gladly know from
thee which religion thou judgest to be the true one, viz. the Jewish, the
Mohammedan, or the Christian?"
The Jew (truly a wise man) found that Saladin had a mind to trap
him, and must gain his point should he exalt any one of the three
religions above the others; after considering, therefore, for a little how
best to avoid the snare, his ingenuity at last supplied him with the

M, 1419

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The Story of the Three Rings

following answer:
"The question which your Highness has proposed is very curious;
and that I may give you my sentiments, I must beg leave to tell a short
story. I remember often to have heard of a great and rich man, who
among his most rare and precious jewels had a ring of exceeding beauty
and value. Being proud of possessing a thing of such worth, and desirous
that it should continue for ever in his family, he declared, by will, that
to whichsoever of his sons he should give this ring, him he designed
for his heir, and that he should be respected as the head of the family.
That son to whom the ring was given, made the same law with respect
to his descendants, and the ring passed from one to another in long
succession, till it came to a person who had three sons, all virtuous and
dutiful to their father, and all equally beloved by him. Now the young
men, knowing what depended upon the ring, and ambitious of
superiority, began to entreat their father, who was now grown old, every
one for himself, that he would give the ring to him. The good man,
equally fond of all, was at a loss which to prefer; and, as he had promised
all, and wished to satisfy all, he privately got an artist to make two
other rings, which were so like the first, that he himself scarcely knew
the true one. When he found his end approaching, he secretly gave one
ring to each of his sons; and they, after his death, all claimed the honour
and estate, each disputing with his brothers, and producing his ring;
and the rings were found so much alike, that the true one could not be
distinguished. To law then they went, as to which should succeed, nor
is that question yet decided. And thus it has happened, my Lord, to the
three laws given by God the Father, concerning which you proposed
your question: everyone believes that he is the true heir of God, has his
laws, and obeys his commandments; but which is in the right is
uncertain, in like manner as with the rings."
Saladin perceived that the Jew had very cleverly escaped the net
that was spread for him: he therefore resolved to disclose his necessity
to him, and see if he would lend him money, telling him at the same
time what he had designed to do, had not the discreet answer prevented
him. The Jew freely supplied the monarch with what he wanted; and
Saladin afterwards paid him back in full, made him large presents,
besides maintaining him nobly at his court, and was his friend as long
as he lived.

M, 1419

81
Subhadra Sen Gupta
Safdarjung Enclave,
New Delhi

Painting a Raga

Like he had done for the past week, the boy woke well before
dawn. It was still dark when very quietly he clambered out of bed,
slipped on his chappals and crept out of his room. As he trudged sleepy
eyed through the silent streets of Fatehpur Sikri the only people he met
were the guards at the gates, dozing over their spears. By now they
were familiar with his new, wandering ways and waved him through.
Entering the outer precinct of the royal enclosure he walked towards a
small house that stood at the edge of the hill and came to a halt behind
a hedge of sweet smelling night flowers.
Then Daswant sat and waited, leaning against the cool trunk of a
peepal tree and listening to the birds starting to wake within the canopy
of leaves above him. The soft questioning coos and the gentle chatter
were always, oddly welcoming. As the sky at the horizon turned from
a light grey-blue to a deeper orange-pink, the chilly winter air was
perfumed with the night blooming bakula and champa, the grass tipped
with silver dew.
The boy straightened when he heard the first mellow drone of the
tanpura, a melodic announcement of pleasures to come. Then before
the singer began to sing, he quickly crept up to sit under the window of
the front room, making sure he did not make the slightest sound.
The singer inside the room, preparing to start his morning riyaz
coughed and cleared his throat and then began the preliminary sargam
to warm up his vocal cords. In the beginning the voice was rusty, the
singing tentative but as the musical notes were sung with more and

M, 1419

82

Painting a Raga

more complex combinations his singing became full throated and

uninhibited. Then as if his musical soul opened out to the new day his
singing became experimental and adventurous, exploring newer paths
of the song. The way a singer sings when he believes he is alone with
his music, singing for himself.
As he had done from the first day, Daswant prayed that Tansen
would sing Raga Bhairavi. And after waiting for a week, that morning
his prayers were answered.
Bhairav was one of the names of Lord Shiva and Bhairavi was his
consort, one of the myriad aspects of the goddess Parvati, the supreme
Devi. Bhairav was the wandering ascetic, an ash smeared, seeker of
truth and she was his constant companion. Sometimes when Bhairav
did not listen to your prayers, the kind goddess did. This raga perfectly
captured the moods of prayer and renunciation within its plaintive mix
of notes. Bhairavi was the first notes of a new day, the handful of fresh
chameli blooms you laid at the feet of the benign goddess, full of hopes
of a new beginning - a kind, gentle raga of divine benediction.
Daswant had been told by old hands in the royal court that when
Tansen sang Bhairavi it felt as if the goddess had come down to earth
to listen to his prayers. He wanted to hear this magic himself.
As Tansen moved from the first wordless notes of the alaap into
the lyrics of the raga, Daswant reached into his kurta pocket and very,
very carefully drew out a roll of paper and a bunch of charcoal sticks.
Then leaning against the wall, his head echoing to the song flowing out
of the open window he began to sketch. His hand moving swiftly across
the plain ivory paper, blocking out the main elements of the drawing the trees with flocks of geese flying above them across a sky dotted
with clouds, the square house by a lotus pool, the lines of a woman
standing by the pool with a swan at her feet and a deer peering past a
tree
Lost in his world of lines in black and grey, the raga singing on
inside his head the boy heard nothing anymore. He did not realise that
the song had ended inside the room or that a curious face had peered
down at his crouched figure. For a while the singer silently watched
him at work and then the face vanished inside.
He came back to the world when a deep voice spoke beside him.
"Ah! That is why you have been listening to me every morning!"

M, 1419

Painting a Raga

A line wavered wildly across the paper as Daswant jumped in

surprise. He looked up with wide, nervous eyes and then his heart
thudding, he sprang up and bowed, "Huzoor! Forgive me if I disturbed
you!"
Tansen pointed to the scattered paper and charcoal sticks lying on
the grass, "You dropped your drawing," and then he turned to go back
into the house, "come inside."
His heart still pounding, Daswant scrambled to follow the figure
of the famous singer into the house. Absently he noticed that Tansen's
long hair, tied at the neck was greying and the shoulders beginning to
stoop a little. But the voice he had been listening to was still vigorous
and powerful.
He entered the riyaz room and looked around the spartan space. It
only had a thick mattress laid on the floor covered with a white sheet
and a few large bolsters. A couple of tanpuras and a pakhawaj drum
were placed on the mattress and along the wall lay many other musical
instruments - various kinds of drums, flutes large and small, a veena
and a rabab.
The boy's eyes widened, "You can play all of them?"
Tansen smiled slightly, "I can play all of them a little, often rather
badly." Then he waved, "Sit here and tell me who you are."
Daswant was not feeling nervous anymore. There was something
in the quiet, watchful eyes before him that said he was safe, he had not
angered the singer. Tansen sat cross legged before him tightening the
strings of the pakhawaj and Daswant's artist's eye instantly captured
his face - the deep set, lined eyes, the high narrow nose and the broad
mouth below the drooping moustache. It was a face the boy wanted to
draw. It was not handsome like some of the courtiers he saw in Fatehpur
Sikri, but it was a face with character, its lines reminding him of a life
lived with passion. The singer wore a plain white angarakha and loose
pyjamas and the only jewellery were the gold rings in his ears.
"My name is Daswant huzoor and I work at the karkhana of the
miniature painters."
The smile flickered again. "I know you are a painter but you are
new I know many of them. Who is your father? Does he work here
too?"
The question did not surprise him as most of the painters in the

M, 1419

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Painting a Raga

royal atelier came from families of artists. He shook his head and stated
baldly, "My father is a kahar, a palki bearer."
That made Tansen look up as the boy knew it would, "Of course,
the kahar's son! I've heard of you! His Majesty discovered you, didn't
he? Somewhere in Agra" The singer leaned forward. "But tell me,
how did you manage to catch his eye?"
"By drawing on a wall."
Tansen laughed. "That is just like the badshah, his eyes never miss
anything, not even walls."
*

Since he came to live in Fatehpur Sikri Daswant had told this story
so many times before that he was nearly word perfect. He was the son
of the poorest of men, a beast of burden who carried people in palanquins
around the streets of the city, and a kahar's son knew his future - it lay
in labouring in the bazaars of Agra. He had no dreams, just this joy that
he could not explain when he picked up a piece of charcoal from his
mother's chullah in the kitchen and covered the mud walls of their hut
with drawings - trees and flowers, caparisoned elephants and dancing
peacocks, drummers and dancers. But Daswant, like all the children of
the poor, never forgot that he was a kahar's son and so he did not dream.
One evening, a few days before Deepavali, a man going past had
stopped to watch the boy as he used bits of brick to draw the face of
Goddess Lakshmi by his door. The broad shouldered, stocky man with
a sword hanging by his side looked like a soldier. When he asked how
the boy had learnt to draw, Daswant had pointed to the sky and said,
"God taught me."
"So you are going to be a painter then?"
"No. I'm going to be a kahar."
The man had laughed and walked away.
Next day one of the painters from the royal karkhana arrived at
Daswant's home saying that His Majesty, Emperor Jalaluddin
Mohammad Akbar requests that he join the karkhana as an apprentice
painter.
"That painter was wearing better clothes than the king," Daswant
smiled at the memory, "So I believed him. I wouldn't have believed

M, 1419

Painting a Raga

that soldier."
"His Majesty often walks around in the evenings in plain clothes
to meet people and listen to their opinions." Tansen laughed, "Being a
realistic man he does not believe everything his officials tell him. So
he checks it out himself."
"Isn't he afraid that someone would attack him? He has so many
enemies and they have tried to kill him before."
"He has got into trouble a few times. Once he was recognised by
the drinkers in a tavern. He quickly crossed his eyes and made himself
look like a mad man and managed to escape. Luckily the men were too
drunk to chase him." Tansen reached out and took the sheet of paper
from Daswant's hand. "What are you trying to draw?"
"I'm trying to capture the moods of Rag Bhairavi," Daswant clicked
his tongue and gave a slight shake of his head, "I'm not getting it right
somehow. I'm not good enough yet to get it right."
"Where did you hear Bhairavi?"
"There is a singer at a temple near our home in Agra who sings
bhajans and he told me that many of them are based on Bhairavi.
Sometimes when he was in the mood, he would sing the raga for me."
"A painting based on a raga is called a ragamala."
The boy nodded, "I'm still learning and I'm not really allowed to do
a complete miniature. This is just something I want to paint for that
singer and I hoped if I could hear you sing it that is why" suddenly
he raised his head, "how did you know I was there?"
"One day you sneezed and today I heard the rustle of your paper."
"I'm sorry I disturbed you."
"You didn't. Now sit and listen."
Then Daswant, a palki bearer's son from a hut in Agra, sat and
listened to the greatest singer in the kingdom of Emperor Akbar as he
sang Rag Bhairavi - an audience of one at a personal mehfil, as if he
was the king himself. The plaintive, mellow notes of the alaap filled
his heart and head and brought a lump in his throat, the swifter passages
made his heart race. The raga had sonorous, deeply contemplative
phrases and also passages of such sweetness that the boy swayed in
joy.
Then as Tansen brought the dhrupad to a slow, drifting close he
looked up at the entranced young face before him and smiled. Daswant

M, 1419

85

86

Painting a Raga

had lost his voice, in wordless gratitude he laid his head at the singer's
feet and felt the touch of the singer's hand on his head in blessing.
Slowly walking home in a daze the boy wondered, why did it feel
as if Tansen somehow understood what he felt? All those feelings he
could never articulate as he worked in the karkhana. When he laid out
the sheet of ivory paper before him on the low table and smoothed it
out with a stone, as he drew the outlines of the painting, mixed the
colours in small sea shells and then dipped his paint brush carefully in
turquoise and emerald, saffron and crimson. Did Miyan Tansen feel
the same way when he sang? This unutterable happiness that he could
never put into words because he knew colours not speech. This feeling
of his world being right, of feeling vibrantly alive, of being finally at
peace, that this was what he was meant to be
Tansen did not forget him. A few weeks later there was an invitation
from the singer that he should accompany him to the royal concert. He
was going to sing before the king at Anup Talao and Daswant could sit
with his students. The other painters in the studio were curious about
how he had managed such a precious invitation and Daswant only smiled
mysteriously. The master painters were often asked to attend the royal
court to sketch the scene but he was only a lowly apprentice who did
not have the skills to paint a complete miniature. He was only allowed
to fill in the colours after others had sketched a painting. Then why did
Tansen want him at the concert and not Basawan or Mansur or Mukund?
That morning too the strange invitation was the topic of
conversation at the studio. Mukund looked up from sketching a battle
scene, "I've heard Miyan Tansen is a proud man and does not mix with
people much."
Sarwan who was carefully filling in an elaborate border in delicate
gold paisley motifs laughed, "He wasn't happy when His Majesty
requested Raja Ramachandra of Rewa to gift Tansen to the Mughal
court."
"Gift?" Startled, Daswant looked up. "Gift of a singer?"
"Of course it was couched as a very polite request from Akbar
saying he would be deeply grateful if Tansen would sing for him"
"But could the Raja refuse?"
"But our Miyan was not happy! And that is why he does not mix
much with people like us."

M, 1419

Painting a Raga

A Rajasthani Karkhana
ARTIST : V.S. RAHI

M, 1419

87

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Painting a Raga

"I don't think he's a proud man at all!" Daswant spoke up loyally.
"He was very kind to me."
"Fine. But how did you manage to get that invitation?" Sarwan
persisted. "Every amir and omrah at the court is always begging to be
allowed to a royal concert and here you are!"
"I fell at his feet," Daswant, dipped his paint brush into bright
magenta for a dancer's skirt and then added with a cryptic smile, "and
wept!"
*

Daswant sat at the back of the audience with Tansen's students and
craned his neck to see the palaces of Fatehpur Sikri. He had never been
in the inner courtyards before as this was where the royal family stayed
and few were allowed to enter. Right across from where he sat, was the
red sandstone, double storied palace called Khwabgah, the palace of
dreams, where the king had his private apartments and beyond it, hidden
behind a high wall were the palaces of the harem. The harem ladies
were also attending the concert, sitting in the verandas around the
courtyard, hidden behind chik screens. He could see their flitting
shadows and at times hear the chink of bangles and the sound of feminine
voices.
Daswant's eyes were dazzled by the splashes of gorgeous colours
all around him. Thick mattresses had been laid around the pool and
covered with Persian carpets in luxurious hues and the amirs and
omrahs, the powerful nobility of the Mughal Empire sat leaning lazily
against bolsters. He carefully studied their silk and brocade clothes,
the jewels and pearl necklaces, the intricate turbans flaring on their
heads. Tall brass lamps stood everywhere and as dusk fell, flocks of
birds swept across the sky. The air was redolent with incense and the
perfume from the flowers draped across the pillars and hanging in
garlands across the arches.
In the middle of the stone courtyard was the square pool called
Anup Talao and this was where Tansen would sing. In the centre of the
pool was a square stone island connected to the sides by narrow
walkways and now he saw the singer walk along one to reach the seat
in the centre. The drummer, flautist and two students who would play

M, 1419

Painting a Raga

the tanpura, came next, carrying their musical instruments and walking
gingerly behind him. They sat down and he heard the atonal drone and
off key tapping as they tuned their instruments. Then maids came
bearing small earthen lamps that were set afloat on the waters of the
pool, turning it into a reflection of the starry sky above.
I want to paint this one day, the boy thought, in shades of blue and
gold, of flames and flowers
*

In the past few days he had asked around and slowly pieced together
the story of Tansen and it had amazed him at how similar it was to his
own life. Tansen too did not belong to any gharana of singers; he was
the son of a temple priest from a village called Behat near Gwalior.
Just like Akbar had seen Daswant draw, the great singer and saint Swami
Haridas had heard the boy sing and taken him under his wing. So young
Ramtanu Pandey found a musical guru and spiritual guide in Haridas
and then later in Gwalior in a Sufi preacher named Muhammad Ghaus.
One day he would marry Ghaus' daughter Husseini and move to
the kingdom of Rewa as the court singer. Tansen thus took the music of
the temples to the courts of kings. It was the Raja of Rewa who had
given him the title of Tansen and Akbar affectionately called him
'Miyan'. A village temple priest's son now clad in silks and jewels stood
before the Mughal emperor and bowed. Akbar waved a benign hand,
requesting him to begin.
Tansen's story puzzled Daswant and he had gathered his courage
to ask the one painter in the karkhana who had the patience to listen to
him. Old Abdus Samad was the senior-most painter in the atelier. He
had been brought to India from Persia to start a studio by the king's
father Badshah Humayun. Now he was a bent old man, his milky eyes
staring out of a lined and tired face as he sat huddled in one corner of
the studio, warming his back in a patch of the weak, winter sun. His
hands shook when he picked up a paint brush and he had to bend low to
see the drawings but even today he could point to a miniature and tell
you where it had gone wrong - the eyebrows of the princess were
crooked, the colours of the clouds were the wrong shade of grey
"Huzoor," Daswant sat before the old man grinding dry paint into

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Painting a Raga

powder, "is Miyan Tansen a Hindu or a Muslim?"

"He is a singer," the old man mumbled.
"Yes I know that," Daswant nodded patiently. Sometimes, he
thought the old man's brains were going a bit addled. "His wife is called
Husseini, his sons are named Tanras Khan and Bilas Khan but his
daughter is called Saraswati Devi and his guru"
"Is Swami Haridas. I know."
"Then what is he? If he is a Muslim how can he sing Rag Bhairavi?"
"He is a singer, like you are a painter." Mansur pointed a shaky
finger at the bowl of paint, "is that yellow Hindu or Muslim?"
"It's paint."
"And a raga is music."
*

Daswant did not know the name of the raga that Tansen was singing;
then one of his companions whispered that he was singing Rag Bhairav.
He heard the singer recite the hundred names of the volatile god of
dance and destruction, of resurrection and joy and he thought, this is
quite a scene. Miyan Tansen, once called Ramtanu, born a brahman,
the shishya of a Swami, the mureed of a Sufi, sits here raising his voice
in praise of a many hued god named Shiva.
Then Daswant looked to where Akbar sat on a raised seat, listening
intently and thought, "And Miyanji has his right audience." There sat a
man who liked to argue philosophy with imams, brahmans, Jain monks
and Roman Catholic missionaries and they were all convinced that he
believed in their faith when in fact he was busy creating his own beliefs.
He said his namaaz five times a day, had a son by his Hindu queen,
played Holi, lighted diyas at Deepavali and loved the feasting at Id and
Navroze. And there he sat wearing a big tikka and chewing paan,
nodding his head to the beat of the drums, swaying to Tansen's song,
utterly at peace with his many-hued world.
Then he remembered a story he had heard about Tansen, Haridas
and Akbar. Once the king had wanted to meet the saint and Tansen had
taken him to the hut in a forest where Haridas lived. Then the guru and
shishya had sung for Akbar. Later on their way back Akbar had asked
Tansen, "You are the most famous singer in the land and he is an old

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Painting a Raga

man but he sang so much better than you. Why is that?"

Tansen had smiled, "I sing for my king Your Majesty, he only sings
to his god. He is a truly happy man."
*

As Tansen's deep sonorous voice filled his head with fleeting images
and vibrant colours, Daswant closed his eyes and began to draw in his
head. A tiny, thatched hut stood in a green, leafy clearing in a forest
and before it sat a thin, bald man, bare-chested and clad only in a dhoti
and a sacred thread. In front of him sat Tansen in his rich Mughal
clothes and behind the singer stood the king. And Swami Haridas,
ignoring his royal audience and his famous pupil was singing to his
god.
Daswant bent his head and hid a smile. In his mind's eye Swami
Haridas was also singing a dhrupad in Rag Bhairav and it sounded so
much better than this raga that was swirling around the air within the
royal palaces, among the drifting fragrance of attar and flowers.
Daswant's quiet, happy sigh blended with Tansen's voice. A prayer
to Bhairav - that would be his first ragmala painting.
Note :
The life story of the miniature painter Daswant is a true one. He was discovered
by Akbar and became one of the painters in the royal atelier at Fatehpur Sikri.
His life ended tragically as he lost his mental balance and committed suicide
some years later. Fortunately some of his miniature paintings have survived.
The stories of Swami Haridas are part of the Tansen legend. Also there is a
famous miniature painting of the Swami singing for Akbar exactly as I have
described it but it was not painted by Daswant. And this encounter between the
singer and the painter is imaginary.
(Subhadra Sen Gupta writes fiction and non-fiction
for both adults and children, often around history. She
also writes travel books. Her books are published by
Rupa and many others and are easy to order on
flipkart.com, infibeam.com or landmarkonthenet.com type Sen Gupta separately )

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Soumya Mukherjee
Greater Kailash I,
New Delhi

Mummy, tu bhi bach gayi!

"Mummy, mummy, main bhi bach gaya, tu bhi bach gayi", the little
boy sang, doing the bhangra.
The story goes back about 30 years when the boy's grandfather
along with all male relatives were massacred in Pakistan in 1947; his
grandmother survived due to the incredible bravery of Muslim
neighbours who hid them. Having escaped to India with her small
children, the unlettered young lady was thrown from her middle class
existence as a bank employee's wife to penury at the mercy of distant
relatives.
The elder son took up a petty job with the relatives, finished
schooling through night school, rising through the company's ranks.
But he insisted that the younger brother study in a school and later, in
college to get the advantages he had missed.
The younger brother, however, hated studies but was passionate
about music and art. The limits of his ambitions were to become a
drawing master or music teacher. He bunked college and used the money
given to him for fees and for watching films for their music to buy a
harmonium and art materials. After being debarred from college for
non-attendance and non-payment of fees, his elder brother got him a
less ambitious job and also got him married so he could imbue
responsibility.
The frustrated and bohemian younger brother could not hold down
jobs and all his rage found an outlet in constant abuse of his wife and
only son. The traumatized boy was a disaster at school, attracting further

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Mummy, tu bhi bach gayi!

ARTIST : M.A. JOMRAJ

retribution from his dad. Thus when his Class V results were due, his
father sent him off with the statutory warning that if he failed, neither
he nor his mother would survive the day.
That evening the boy came dancing back as, against all expectations,
prayers alone had seen him through - he had passed, thus ensuring the
survival of both his mother and himself - "Balle balle Mai, tu bhi bach
gayi, main bhi bach gaya!"

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94
Ajanta Dutt
Greater Kailash I
New Delhi

Manto: A Hundred Years,

A Hundred Stories

As we celebrate the birth centenary of a great Indian storyteller in

2012, we also remember a man who suffered a great deal and died an
embittered man. We remember Sadaat Hasan Manto as a controversial
character, and friend of such stalwarts as writer Ismat Chugtai and Ashok
Kumar of Bombay Talkies. Manto became embroiled in a court case
because of his short story "Thanda Gosht" being declared both
insensitive and sexually reprehensible. He was convicted and later
acquitted on appeal. Yet his love for India remained a significant aspect
of his later years, and he died the true exile longing to return to the
home that was no longer his.
On 11th May, 1912, Manto was born in the small town of Samrala,
about 22 miles from Ludhiana. His father Maulvi Ghulam Hasan was
an educated man in Government service and the family was originally
from Kashmir. His son inherited from him the pride of being Kashmiri,
but was otherwise terrified of any interactions with the father. Manto
had 11 siblings, and only one of them - Iqbal Begum - was his own
sister, born to their mother who was Ghulam Hasan's second wife.
A complex aspect of Manto's ancestry is that the family was once
settled on the banks of the Saraswati River and had belonged to the
sect of the Saraswat Brahmans. The Manvati and the Manto were
offshoots of the Quistbashi Pandits, and they were government
functionaries, traders and artisans by profession. Those who embraced
the Islamic faith retained the name Manto, and the rest remained the
Manvati. Even today, both surnames are found in the valley of Kashmir.

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Manto

The first member of the Manto family who came and settled in
Lahore, then the capital of undivided Punjab, was a trader. Several
members of the family began to sell the expensive Pashminas. Although
Manto had never visited Kashmir, he had a deep-seated love for the
valley and also fell in love with a wandering shepherd girl -probably
because she was Kashmiri. She was his only love, although the affair
was completely Platonic.
Manto was so afraid of his father that he would do anything to get
away. One day when he was flying a kite on the terrace, he heard his
father's footsteps and took a flying leap onto the roof of the next house.
He was badly hurt but dared not utter a sound in front of his father.
Although his mother (who was simply known as Bibijan) tried to give
him all the love and care, she could not make up for his father's casual
and often harsh behaviour towards the young lad. Strangely enough,
Manto kept his father's picture framed in his small room in Bombay,
but the sense of revolt and waywardness in his character could be the
outcome of the rejection he felt in those early days in Lahore and
Amritsar. He was also rejected by his three step-brothers, two of whom
became barristers and were obviously revered by the young Manto.
Manto studied Arts in the Hindu Sabha College of Amritsar where
he was known by his nickname, Tommy. He would wear a startling red
shirt with bosky pyjamas and wander around the college with a camera,
trying to photograph the young ladies. Later he confessed to a friend
that he never had a roll of film in the camera. He was extremely fond of
reading and read copiously. He would pose as the Headmaster's son
and borrow books from local bookshops, which he would quickly read,
and then sell in second hand shops to buy cheap cigarettes. He also fell
in with a much older crowd of men, and with them he would grind
bhang, smoke charas and swig from the bottle that was being passed
around. Late night music sessions with unknown artists who floated in
and out of this circle were also the order of the day. Sodomy, prostitution
and blood feuds would take place frequently, and sometimes there were
Hindu-Muslim riots too. But these would soon fizzle out and life would
resume its normal, sequestered pace.
Manto failed his Intermediate exams twice and turned his mind to
gambling instead. He would wander away to the graveyards and
mausoleums of the pir-babas and saints, or sit under a tree in Jalianwala

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Manto

Bagh to dream about revolutions. Just as he would listen avidly to

classical music and try to emulate famous poets by writing verse, he
would also try to make bombs and plan seditious activities. He indulged
in every possible vice, but nothing seemed to calm his agitated spirits.
It was the timely intervention of Bari Saheb that brought him into
the world of literature and journalism, and soon his favourite authors
were the Russian Greats, Maupassant and Victor Hugo. He knew that
Hugo had professed the desire to see Les Miserabls translated into
Urdu, and Manto would have attempted it had he not been daunted by
the length of the book. He did translate Hugo's Last Days of the
Condemned as Sarguzashte Aseer, and it was sold for Rs 30/- to
publisher Yaqub Hasan. He also translated Oscar Wilde's play Vera
based on the Russian Revolution. Manto claimed that "For us Amritsar
was as good as Moscow. We wanted to see our oppressors coming to
a sad end in the streets and by-lanes of Amritsar."
These were the early 30's. Manto's financial troubles built up rapidly
and his health weakened rapidly, too. He complained of intense pains
in the chest and took to dulling the pain with bottles of country liquor.
Soon he was diagnosed with tuberculosis and decided to make his way
to the health-giving air of Kashmir. But he only got as far as Batot
where he met his Kashmiri shepherdess, Begu who flaunted her poor
and ravaged body to him and other travellers. That is where he stayed
for the next three months and wrote stories such as "Lalten," "Misri ki
Dal" and "Ek Khat" in which her spirit roves.
When he returned to Amritsar, there were no jobs to be found. A
kindly invitation from the proprietor of the Mussavar Weekly took
Manto to Bombay in 1935, and he became editor of the magazine for a
princely salary of Rs. 40/-. He also spent a year and half in Delhi at the
All India Radio, and then went back to the splendours of cosmopolitan
Bombay. The elite society was seething with life and brilliance. The
seedier side of the hovels and chawls, the overcrowded residences of
the Muslims and the Jews, the loud publicity of Iranian hotels, the
clinics of Parsi doctors and bespectacled hakims also filled Manto with
fervour and a new zest to write. Both he and Aziz Ahmed recorded the
life of Bombay, replete with taxi drivers and office boys, vegetable
vendors and paan sellers in their fiction. These characters invaded
Manto's stories, and he invested in them an imagination and realism

M, 1419

Manto

peculiarly their own. The tranquility of nature and life in the Indian
villages faded into oblivion. Multiculturalism and multilingual
communities intermingled in the streets of Bombay, and in the pages
of Manto's fiction, they debated social and ethical values that often
had surprising conclusions.
These were the good times, and vignettes and articles on Manto,
and by Manto, were printed almost every day. N.M. Rashid, Krishen
Chander and Rajinder Singh Bedi were in control of the AIR in Delhi.
Arguments, petty jealousies and threatened friendships were rampant
in their social circles. But there was always plenty of interaction and
laughter. When Manto's 100th radio play was aired, he expected to see
himself on the cover of the Awaaz magazine. But he had been pushed
into an un-noticed corner of an inner page. His salary, however, was
raised by Rs.150/-.
* * *
His days in Delhi were fairly moderate, but once in Bombay again,
the drinking gathered pace and Manto was soon an alcoholic. At this
time, he entered the film world as a script and dialogue writer, and
sometimes he was given a small part in a movie. He created pen-pictures
of some of the leading stars of the silver screen and his work can be
seen in Aath Din and Chal Chal Re Naujawan. He also wrote the story
of Mirza Ghalib, but it was made into a film by Sohrab Modi after
Manto had left for Pakistan. Its ultimate screenplay was composed by
Rajinder Singh Bedi and Manto was too far away even to see the film.
Manto married Safia Begum, daughter of a police inspector who
had been killed in a riot in Africa. Although they lost their only son
Arif, they were very happy in their marriage with their three devoted
daughters Nikhat, Nazmat and Nazrat. Domestic bills were always
mounting and health problems for Manto were acute. The women never
uttered a word of complaint, but as usual Manto tried to drink his sorrows
away. 1947 was approaching and the threat of Partition hung like the
sword of Damocles over his head. He sometimes thought he should
leave Bombay because in the newly created Pakistan there would be a
great mansion waiting for him. His dear friend, Ismat tried to make
him see reality, but he would not accept her practical vision of life.
Then Ashok Kumar and Vacha bought Bombay Talkies and Manto
joined them. But hatred was brewing amongst the employees against

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Manto

the serious backdrop of Hindu-Muslim rioting in the city. Soon Nazir

Ajmeri could not accept Manto's criticism of his story for Majboor and
complained about him to Ashok Kumar. Manto felt that they were no
longer going to let him participate in the discussions that took place
regarding screenplays. At this critical juncture he reports, "Without
further ado I quietly took the side lane to Pakistan." There was no one
to see him off at the Bombay docks except for his friend Shyam.
Once during the riots, Manto had asked Shyam whether he felt like
killing him for being a Muslim, and Shyam had replied, "Not now."
However, he had added that he could have easily done so at the time
when he was listening to the atrocities committed and his blood was
boiling too. Manto too felt like killing his friend for this truthful
statement, but later he understood the psychological turmoil that had
swept the country at the time of Partition.
Manto left India in 1948 and died in Pakistan on 18th January,
1955. The last years were spent in abject poverty and total misery. He
even wrote to Ismat to seek the help of friends and begged, "Please
bring me back to Bombay."
The last seven years were amply productive as he wrote 127 short
stories, numerous articles and sketches, and even recorded the
proceedings of his court cases. He was interrogated time and again for
the sexual language and obscene violence of the story "Thanda Gosht"
where a man rapes a beautiful girl and realizes she is a corpse only
when it is all over. Finally the judge had to let him go in appeal as the
sexuality and violence was only suggestive, and there was no evidence
of obscene language in the story.
Manto kept drinking steadily all those years in Pakistan, and finally
went down with cirrhosis of the liver. Even in the end he was reluctant
about going to the hospital, and gave his last few rupees to procure
some whisky. It was difficult for him to even swallow a spoonful of it,
and he died in the ambulance before reaching the hospital. During his
lifetime, he had indulged in every vice in the book, including visiting
the red light areas of Bombay and gambling consistently. But he never
double crossed anyone and neither did he bear any grudges. He was
always a good husband and a doting father. There were numerous
eulogies written to him after his death, and today we claim that he was
a literary genius. But he passed through life without receiving any praise.

M, 1419

Manto

He thought he was like the useless fifth wheel of a vehicle and wished
he could be useful to someone.
No essay on Manto is complete without an elaboration of at least
one story by the writer. As he was perhaps most profoundly devastated
by the idea of Partition, it is right to remember him through "Toba Tek
Singh". There are several translations of this story in a number of Indian
languages and more than one translation in English. The story questions
the identity of free India and provokes the need for intellectual discourse
regarding the events of 1947. The flawed ideas of nationalism,
repatriation, exile and cultural conflicts are intertwined to expose the
confusion of Bishan Singh and the other inmates of a mental asylum.
The brevity of events that span just a few weeks following the official
Partition introduce the story: "some high level meetings were held on
both sides of the border and a date was fixed for the exchange of
madmen." The author transposes the reality of the actual exchange of
prisoners that took place to another plane, which is fictional, yet as
true as the truth itself.
The younger generations today have forgotten or perhaps not been
acquainted with the political happenings that cleaved the country on
two sides - Punjab and Bengal. The tragic cry of the lunatic who climbs
a tree resonates in the hearts of many who belong to such families. "I
want to live in neither Hindustan nor Pakistan," the lunatic shouts. "I
had rather live on this tree." When the madman finally descends, he
hugs all his "Hindu and Sikh friends" which of course tells us he is
Muslim. This kind of suggestive embedding of facts was Manto's way
of using the story to deliver a moral lesson. As the narration proceeds,
readers begin to regard the voices of the madmen as the voices of sanity,
whereas the common people like the politicians in their armchairs and
the rioters on the street seem to be the real madmen of the tale.
Albert Camus writes in his essay on "Tragedy" - "All can be
justified, no one is just." The blame for Partition can be shared by both
governments, but both had enough reasons for demanding the
demarcation. Manto balances choices in the story that can have no
immediate answer. For instance, the narrator in "Toba Tek Singh" quite
logically states, "Who knew if Lahore which was now in Pakistan might
not the very next day go over to Hindustan or the whole of Hindustan
indeed become one vast Pakistan?" These are problematic questions,

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Manto

which even today can make the reader wonder, "How could intelligent
people allow such a thing to happen?"
Many of Manto's stories written on this historical moment actually
translates into the fact that this is the universal tragedy of the common
man who actually bears no grudges against the one who is chosen to be
his enemy. The ranges of cultural conflict present in India today, come
from the notion of different states, different languages and different
religions. Such contentious matters bear out sociologist Jeffrey Weeks's
assessment that identity is paradoxical and inconclusive. Weeks affirms:
"Identities are invented in complex histories but are apparently essential
in negotiating the hazards of everyday life. They provide the sense of
belonging that makes social life possible, but they are constantly subject
to reassessment and change. They seem to make us whole but in their
variety they signal our allegiances to diverse communities."
There is no reasonable solution to the dilemma presented by Manto
and his protagonist as they are both searching for their place of birth.
"Toba Tek Singh" becomes the name of the protagonist, and he stays
rooted to the no-man's land between the barbed wires of India and
Pakistan as he cannot cross over to the other side. Finally that is where
Bishan Singh falls. Similarly, Manto fails to reconcile himself to his
new home in Lahore, and ultimately, he remains an alienated Indian
deported to Pakistan - symbol of the devastating effects of British
imperialism.
Reputed critic, Edward Said perceived that "Exile is predicted on
the existence of, love for, and a real bond with one's native place; the
universal truth of exile is not that one has lost that love or home, but
that inherent in each is an unexpected, unwelcome loss." Manto's short
story is a moment in that continuing discourse on exile, a debate that
measures the historical conflicts of the last century against the
philosophical considerations that claim universality, but are limited to
cultural boundaries.
Perhaps by reading Manto in this 100th year, we can give him
what he asked for so desperately - to bring him home to India once
again.

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Special Supplement
Short Story Authors in
Indian languages
For this supplement, we have chosen 14 authors from as many
Indian languages and one Indian author in English. They are all very
well known, some are heavily awarded, some not at all and yet all of
them are immensely popular, even icons amongst their language
community. Along with a brief profile, we have included excerpts from
translations of one each of their short stories to give the reader a feel of
their flavor and style. English translations were preferred to reach out
to a wider audience. There is little doubt that in the small community
of Bengali readers, many are more comfortable reading in English, the
lingua franca of India, both de jure as well as de facto.
It is interesting that any Indian reading the following excerpts can
straightaway identify them to be Indian stories. Some may be evidently
Indian because of the names of the characters or locations or other
descriptions. But, even ignoring the names, there is an innate sense of
India about them.
And yet curiously they all possess a universal quality to them at
the human and emotional level. These stories could have been happening
in any part of the world. Perhaps this catholicity also attests to the
calibre of the authors in question.
The Editors have no doubt that those of our readers who are coming
across these authors or samples of Indian regional literature for the
first time will be pleasantly surprised and also that their linguistic
chauvinism, if any, will consequently be suitably tempered with due
respect. The idea behind this supplement was to familiarize readers
with some Indian literature; to put them in touch, to stoke their curiosity,
to imbue respect as well as self-esteem - respect for other regional
languages and self-esteem as Indians to know that modern Indian
literature is so rich in form and content.

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102
Short story writers in Indian languages

`-

English

Ruskin Bond is an Indian author

writing in English. He is particularly
known for his children's stories. He
is an awardee of the Padma Shri
and the Sahitya Akademi.

One of his short stories 'The Woman on Platform 8' has been
translated here by Maitrayee Sen.

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M, 1419

103
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M, 1419

104
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M, 1419

105
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M, 1419

106
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M, 1419

107
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M, 1419

108
Short story writers in Indian languages

- [18681938]
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Assamese

Lakshminath Bezbarua (18681938) is considered the father of the

Assamese short story, although he
was not particularly prolific in this
genre. He is known as Roshoraj
(King of Humour) for his satirical
writings. For children, he compiled
the folk tales of Assam. He married
Pragyasundari Debi, Debendranath
Tagore's granddaughter, famous for
her Bengali recipe book.

One of Lakshminath's stories 'Bhadari' as translated into English by

Birinchi Kumar Baruah was included in an anthology published by
Sahitya Akademi in 1959. Excerpts:
Sishuram was just returning from the field. He placed the plough
in the courtyard and after a hurried bath changed his loin-cloth and
hastened to the kitchen, where Bhadari, his wife, was preparing the
midday meal. Sishuram became indignant when he found that the rice
had not yet been cooked and the curry too was not on fire
From early morning a foul mood had possessed him It is an ageold maxim that whenever one is angry one's rage is to be borne by one's
wife. On a previous occasion also he had taken out his anger on
Bhadari by beating her and accusing her of not feeding the bullocks on
time.
Bhadari, like Mother Earth, had patiently borne these onslaughts
of her husband without a groan or a grumble. In fact, Bhadari had a
firm conviction that these occasional beatings and chastisements were
as natural as sleep and hunger - indispensable corollaries of married
life. She sought her salvation through devotion to Sishuram.
But there is a limit to everything. Even Mother Earth, the
embodiment of forbearance, sometimes gives a tremor. Would it
therefore be unnatural if poor Bhadari should rise in revolt when things

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109
became intolerable?
Bhadari was exhausted with her efforts at blowing the smoky fire
Turning around from the smoke, Bhadari replied dryly, 'Should I cook
the food with my head? There is not a single log in the house. I am
blowing myself out to kindle the fire with wet logs. Is it right simply to
flare up without using your head a bit?' Her tired eyelids were weighted
with drops of perspiration.
'What do you say, you daughter of a bitch?' roared Sishuram and
with a shrug of his shoulders he rushed towards Bhadari
On the third day, in the hospital, recovering her senses she turned
her eyes about in the room, as if expecting some one beside the bed.
The attendant came near and glanced at her; Bhadari in a low voice
wistfully enquired, "Where is he?"
"Whom do you want?" asked the attendant.
A little nonplussed, Bhadari said, "My husband, Sir."
"Oh, that scoundrel? He is now in the lock-up."
Next morning, on coming to her senses, Bhadari saw Sishuram
caressing her head and gently passing his fingers through her hair. At
the sight, her expression showed great relief, as if her husband's presence
dissolved all her troubles.
Bhadari, seeing the doctor come near her bed, entreated, " My,
lord, my father, he is not to be blamed! It is I who stumbled" Her
eyes brimmed over with tears
Sishuram could no longer suppress his surging sorrow. He broke
into a fit of anguish and wept like a child. "It isn't true, Sir! It is I who
struck her"
Within a few weeks Bhadari's wounds healed and she was
discharged from the hospital. But though she tried to shield Sishuram
from the process of the law by attempting to prove his innocence, the
law took its own course and Sishuram was sentenced to three months'
hard labour. Sishuram went smiling to jail to atone for his sins.
Bhadari cursed her own unworthy self for the tragedy brought upon
the life of her dear husband. No one could condemn her as severely as
she condemned herself.

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Short story writers in Indian languages

1900
- L-
& ,
X [18921965] &
I
1923
y 500

Gujarati

Although not a pioneer of the genre Ambalal Shakerlal Desai is said to have
written the first Gujarati short story
Santidas in 1900 - yet, it is Gaurishankar
Goverdhanram Joshi 'Dhumaketu'
(1892-1965) who is credited with having
totally changed the playing field both in
content and form, starting with his hugely
applauded Post Office, published in 1923.
A prolific writer, he published almost 500
short stories.

The story Post Office translated by the author as 'The Letter' was
included in an anthology of Indian short stories published by Sahitya
Akademi in 1959. Excerpts:
Ali had once been a clever shikariWhen Ali sighted the earthbrown partridge, almost invisible to other eyes, the poor bird, they
said, was as good as in his bag
But when the evening of his life was drawing in, he left his old
ways and his life suddenly took a new turn. His only child, Miriam,
married and left him. She went off with a soldier to his regiment in the
Punjab, and for the next five years he had no news of this daughter for
whose sake alone he dragged on a cheerless existence. Now he
understood the meaning of love and separation. He could no longer
enjoy the sportsman's pleasure and laugh at the bewildered terror of
the young partridges bereft of their parents
The post office, one of the most uninteresting buildings in the world,
became his place of pilgrimage. He always occupied a particular seat
in a particular corner of the building, and when people got to know his
habit they laughed at him. The postmen began to make game of him.
Even though there was no letter for him they would call out his name
for the fun of seeing him jump up and come to the door. But with
boundless faith and infinite patience he came everyday and went away

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empty-handed.
While Ali waited, peons would come for their firms' letters, and he
would hear them discussing their masters' scandals. These smart young
peons in their spotless turbans and creaking shoes were always eager
to express themselves. Meanwhile the door would be thrown open and
the postmaster, a man with a head as sad and inexpressive as a pumpkin,
would be seen sitting on his chair inside. There was no glimmer of
animation in his features; and such men usually prove to be village
school masters, office clerks, or postmasters
The postmaster was beginning to lose his temper. "Have you no
sense?" he cried. "Get away! Do you think we are going to eat your
letter when it comes?" And he walked off hastily. Ali came out very
slowly, turning after every few steps to gaze at the post office. His eyes
were filling with tears of helplessness, for his patience was exhausted,
even though he still had faith
One day, however, trouble came to the postmaster. His daughter
lay ill in another town, and he was anxiously waiting for news of her.
The post was brought in, and the letters piled on the table. Seeing an
envelope of the colour and shape he expected, he postmaster eagerly
snatched it up. It was addressed to cochman Ali, and he dropped it as
though it had given him an electric shock. The haughty temper of the
official had quite left him in his sorrow and anxiety, and had laid bare
his human heart. He knew at once that this was the letter the old man
had been waiting for: it must be from his daughter Miriam
"Come in, brother Ali", he cried, handing the letter to the meek old
man, bent double with age, who was standing outside. Ali was leaning
on a stick, and the tears were wet on his face as they had been when the
clerk left him. But his features had been hard then, and now they were
softened by lines of kindness. He lifted his eyes and in them was a light
so unearthly that the postmaster shrank back in fear and astonishment

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Short story writers in Indian languages

18
, [1880-1936]
,
1916- L
S
X g
1909 - X

y

Hindi

Honoured by his fraternity as

'Upanyas Samrat' and known as the
father of the Urdu short story,
Benares born Dhanpat Rai (1880 1936) wrote almost 300 short
stories. After 1916 he wrote mostly
in Hindi, where too he broke new
ground. A supporter of the extremist
Tilak faction of the Congress Party
he switched from the pen name
Nawab Rai to Premchand after his
short story collection Soz-e-watan
was proscribed in 1909.

One of Premchand's best known stories 'Shatranj Ke Khiladi' (The Chess

Players), first published in 1924, as translated into English by Gurdial
Malik was included in an anthology published by Cosmo Publications
in 1997. Excerpts:
For months the Mir and the Mirza went on playing chess in the
former's drawing room. They would plan new conquests of each other's
kings and castles, Sometimes, however, in the course of their play,
they would quarrel and indulge in abuse, but soon they would make
up
One day the two friends were floundering through the intricacies
of the game, when a military officer on horseback arrived outside and
began to enquire about the exact location of the Mir's house. The Mir
was out of his wits. "What a bolt from the blue!" said he. "Why this
summons from His Majesty? I am in for some trouble." So he closed
the doors and asked one of the servants to tell the messenger that he
was not at home.
Messenger: "If your master is not at home then where is he?"
Servant: "I do not know. But what is your mission?"
Messenger: "Who are you to whom I should reveal that? The King

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has summoned your master. Perhaps, a few recruits for the army are
required. Your master is an estate-holder, and he has received it from
the King. He must be ready, therefore, for service in the wars. He will
then know, to his cost, what it is to be an estate-holder."
Servant: "Very well, your message will be delivered to my master."
Messenger: That is not sufficient. I will come again tomorrow for
I have orders to conduct him into the presence of His Majesty."
The messenger went away. The Mir began to shake with fear. He
turned to the Mirza, "What next?"
Mirza: "An ordeal indeed! I am afraid lest I too might be called."
Mir: "The cursed fellow said he would come again tomorrow."
Mirza: "If we are sent to the battlefield, we shall die before our
time."
Mir: "There is only one way of escape.; namely, not to be at home
tomorrow. Hereafter we shall make the wilderness on the bank of the
Gomti our rendezvous. I am sure no one could track us down there.
And so the messenger would necessarily have to go back."
Mirza: "By God! You have struck upon the right ruse, for there is
no other way of escape."
Outside the Begum was saying to the messenger, "You threatened
him all right." He replied, "I can make such simpletons dance on my
finger tips. All their courage and intelligence have been sapped away
in playing chess. Now you will see that he dare not stay at home!"
From the next day the Mirza and the Mir began to set out before
daybreak from their homes, bound for the bank of Gomti. They would
carry wth them a small carpet and a box full of betel-leaves, and make
for an old, deserted and dilapidated mosque, built by Nawab Asaf-uddowlah. On the way they would buy some tobacco and chilam (the top
of the hubble-bubble) and bits of charcoal. On arrival at their destination,
they would spread the carpet, feed the hubble-bubble and begin their
game of chess. And before long they would be so absorbed in it that
they were lost to the world
Just when the gong was sounding the hour of four, the sound of the
footsteps of the English soldiers on their return march was heard. Nawab
Wajid Ali had been made prisoner and the English were taking him to
an unknown destination. There had been neither confusion nor carnage
in the city. Not a single drop of blood was spilled. ..

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Short story writers in Indian languages

e
e- [1891-1986] i

V
1950
,

L,
, f

Kannada

Masti Venkatesa Iyengar (1891 - 1986),

who retired from the Indian Civil Service
in 1943, belonged to the Navodaya age
and is known as the father of the Kannada
short story. During his lifetime came the
Progressive movement, and yet later, after
V.K. Gokak introduced the Navya age in
poetry in 1950, U. R. Ananthamurthy,
among others, and still later,
Poornachandra Tejaswi took the modern
Kannada short story genre forward.

One of Masti's stories 'The Curds-Seller' as translated into English by

the author and N. Moorthy Rao is included in an anthology published
by Sahitya Akademi in 1959. Excerpts:
One morning, about a fortnight ago, she came in a very dejected
mood.
"What is the matter, Mangamma?" I asked.
"Nothing pleasant, Ammayya. Why talk about it!" she said, wiping
her eyes with the edge of her sari. "I don't seem to be wanted by
anybody."
"What has happened? Had words with your son?"
"Words, enough, Ammayya. I have told you of that little child, my
grandson. He did something and his mother beat him. I couldn't stand
it. 'You are brutal', I said, 'to beat that child like a Rakshasi!' She faced
me, bold as brass, and abused me roundly. 'Is this the language you use
to me who gave birth to your husband?' I said, 'Let him come home.
He will have something to say about it.' When he came home I told
him of what has happened, 'She thrashes that poor darling mercilessly,
and when I protest she has the temerity to abuse me. Can't you put
some sense into her?' 'Put sense into me indeed,' she intervened, 'have
I no right to bring my own child to order? Didn't I give him birth even
as you did to your own son?'

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"Well, she is his wife; I am only his mother. She can turn round on
me any time, and I can do nothing"
The next day she appeared to be a little more composed, though
certainly not her old cheerful self. I asked her if she had made peace
with her son. "Peace! Do you think this daughter-in-law of mine would
permit mother and son to be on good terms? By the time I went home
yesterday she had kept my pots and pans, an earthern vessel full of ragi
and another of rice, some salt and chillies, all on one side. She and her
husband had finished their meal and she was lolling on the mat without
a care in the world. Apparently they were waiting for an excuse to put
me out, and I supplied it. All right, I wouldn't thrust myself on them. I
now live by myself. You see how far they go, Ammayya? I used to give
some curds to the child every day before going outToday she took
the child out just at that time. Clearly she doesn't want me to speak to
her child."
For a day or two after this Mangamma did not mention the subject
again. I took it that she was living separately. And then one day she
asked what the velvet jacket I wore cost me
"You see this finery, Ammayya? When I had my husband I never
bought a good sari; and he went after another woman. I saved money
for my son, and you know what he has turned out to be. Now I am
flaunting velvet."
Had the shock of being turned out by her so unsettled her mind, I
wondered. Extreme passion sometimes has that effect. I said nothing
however
Some time after this, Mangamma came to me with a request:
"Ammayya, you are good people and I can trust you. I have some money
laid by. Could you put it in that place they call a bank? It is attracting
people's attention."
"What happened."
"There is a man called Rangappa in our village, a dandy and a
gambler. Yesterday as I was coming along with the curds, he joined me
and said, 'I hope you are keeping well, Mangamma."

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Short story writers in Indian languages

1950 M
[ij 1924]
y
s

1952
y

Kashmiri

Somnath Zutshi is credited with having

written the first Kashmiri short story Yeli
Phol Gas (When it Dawned), published
in February, 1950. However, Amin Kamil
(born 1924) remains the most prolific and
popular short story writer of Kashmir. He
joined the Bar in 1947 and practiced for
a couple of years. Under the influence of
the Progressive movement he switched
over from Urdu to Kashmiri in 1952 as
his medium of expression.

A translation by Neerja Mattoo of his story 'The Lake and the Rock' is
included in an anthology of Kashmiri short stories 'Kath' edited by her
and published by Sahitya Akademi in 2011. Excerpts:
The last bird, separated from its flock, came into view and flew
through the mist, to its nest somewhere far away. The flutter of its
wings stirred the silence of the still atmosphere for a while and then
the last glow of light died
All the birds had found their nests, but Hajira was still on the
verandah, alone and no one about, sitting motionless as if frozen. She
was insensible to her surroundings, dead to the red-gold sunset, even
unaware that she was a woman, a young and attractive woman.
Hajira lived in a house of unbaked brick, on the southern bank of
the Mughal lake. A verandah jutted out in front of its second storey. It
was this verandah on which she used to sit and watch the lake. This
house and a small patch of paddy land - that was all Hajira's inheritance
from her parents. Her husband had worked on the Vishav river, engaged
in Mahan operations of timber down the river. One day she was
informed that he was dead
When the last trace of light had disappeared with just a star here
and there, Hajira was distracted by a light penetrating the branches of
the thick wood. It was coming from the rest house. She was surprised:

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it was a long time since the rest house had been occupied. Who could it
be?
Hajira had just stepped in from her verandah when she heard a
knocking at her front door
"But who are you?"
"A clerk in the Naib Tehsildar's office. We have just arrived from
the town."
Next day, Hajira was sitting as usual on a rock near the bank of the
Mughal lake. It was noon. A breeze blew ripples on the lake surface,
making it quiver like the hands of someone stricken with palsy.
Sometimes it would be so still that it became a mirror in which could
be seen every stray fluff of white cloud in the sky. Sometimes a swarm
of wasps would descend upon it, stretching out into the distance, then
sweep up, flying into the air. Suddenly something splashed in the
water It was the same young man of last night, now advancing towards
her through the wood. She continued to sit on her rock, frozen in the
same pose. The man stood beside her and spoke, "I was throwing the
pebbles for fun. Just wanted to check how deeply lost you are in the
lake!"
After he left, Hajira sat on, as though spell-bound. Then she got up
and went in. She was restless. She began to feel dizzy: everything
seemed to be going round in circles - the house, the trees, even her own
self. She wanted to scream, a piercing scream that would rip the sky
apart. But she did not scream. Tears poured from her eyes
The next day she waited for him, right from the morning. She was
certain that he would come and then she would teach him a lesson:
how dare he suggest that I marry him? Or that he would take me with
him to the town?
As the sun set on the fourth day, Hajira was sitting in her room,
sipping tea, when suddenly, without a knock or a sound, he stood before
her. Her face reddened. It was for the first time after husband's death
that a man had entered her house like this. A two-pound trout dangled
from his hand. He was about to sit down when Hajira asked, "Where
were you all these days?"

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Short story writers in Indian languages

| [1932-1983] y

47

1950 ,

Maithili

Lalitesh Mishra (1932 - 1983)

published his first short story in Maithili
in 1950. He is perhaps the best known
Mailthili short story writer, having
published 47 of them. As usual, lack of
translations into other Indian languages
prevents his talent from becoming
widely known.

An English translation of his story 'Ramjani' by R.K. Mishra is included

in an anthology edited by E.V. Ramakrishnan and published by Sahitya
Akademi in 2000. Excerpts:
For three days and three nights fever had kept him restive and
delirious. On the fourth day in the afternoon he had felt better. The
fever had abated.
Looking up he saw his striped short-sleeved shirt entangled with
Husna's dirty sari on the bamboo clothesline suspended from the
thatched ceiling. Tied to it also lay hanging a shabby bundle containing
a worn-out quilt and some rags. Glancing around the room he saw the
earthern water pitcher, with its mouth chipped,.
There was no water in the house to drink and he felt very thirsty.
How long would this woman take to fetch grass? He muttered to himself
in anger, 'Let her come!'
Just then he heard her footsteps, the sound of the basket containing
grass being dumped Presently, as she appeared, Ramjani gnashed
his teeth in anger and gesticulated an obscenity, "Was it grass that you
had gone to fetch or'
With a surprised look of pain in her eyes she snapped back, 'How
foul-mouthed you are! Won't you be a little considerate?
Even a brief illness meant starvation for families like Ramjani's.
Tomorrow's bread depended on Khuda's mercy. He knew there was not
a grain in the house and it tore at his heart to think what harsh words

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the grocer would fling at Husna, what insult and indignity she would
have to put up with. Husna could well read her husband's thoughts in
his mortified look. Ramjani gave her a soulful glance. A portion of her
sari was torn over her head, disclosing some wisps of straw entangled
with her hair
Just then Mostaque rushed in shouting, 'Ammi, ammi, our mare
has littered the saheb's tennis court with her dung and the caretaker has
taken her to the pond. O bapre, how mercilessly he has beaten the
mare!'
All the newborn love and tenderness in Ramjani's heart curdled
with anger at Mostaque's carelessness. He rose in a towering rage and
swaying on unsteady feet, caught hold of the boy's hair and started
raining blows and abuse on him, 'Rascal! Bastard! Sala! You can't take
care of even a mare, can you? But eat you must, and that too a heaped
dish of rice with nothing but meat curry alone, isn't it so? You can't
swallow vegetables, you bastard? Tell me, weren't you playing marbles
in the street? Tell me.'
When Husna picked up the pitcher again to go to the municipal
tube-well Mostaque also stole out to the outer verandah. He did not
think it safe to remain near his father.
Minutes dragged on and Ramjani lay supine on his cot in anguished
silence But when Husna took time to return Ramjani grew restless.
Maybe there is a long queue at the tube-well, or the grocer is reluctant
to give her flour on credit, thought Ramjani with anxiety
Ramjani remembered the good old days when his father was alive.
Zaheer Mian had a big coach and six horses to draw it. Besides there
were those buggies which other drivers in his employ drove. In the
entire town Zaheer was the most respected of coachmen. Ramjani
remembered his father's tall and big-boned frame, his red-rimmed
button-eyes, the closely cropped beard and his booming voice
He also remembered how his father had doted on his mother, who
was his third wife. Zaheer, for sure, gave him an occasional thrashing
but that was when he had either pinched some money from his pocket
for a cinema show, or when he had teased some girl of the mohalla

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Short story writers in Indian languages

1891 ,
?

Q
~- [1912-1999],
600-

Malayalam

To Kunjiraman Nayanar goes the credit

of writing the first Malayalam short
story Vasanavikriti (Mischief of Habit)
in 1891. However it is Thakazhi
Sivasankara Pillai (1912 - 1999), a
lawyer by profession, who is considered
to be the founder of the modern
Malayalam short story.

Thakazhi wrote over 600 short stories of which one of his early ones
'In the Flood', the story of a dog trapped in a flood, as translated into
English by P.P. Raveendran is included in an anthology edited by
Bhabani Bhattacharya and published by Sahitya Akademi in 1967.
Excerpts:
The temple was the highest point in the village. But there the god
stood neckdeep in water. Water. Water everywhere
For two nights and a day Chenna Paraya had been braving the
flood alone. He had no boat. It was now three days since his landlord
had deserted him to save his own skinHis woman who was pregnant,
four kids, a cat and a dog: these formed his dependantsChenna got
out of the hut by breaking open one row of the thatched roof and looked
around. At some distance in the north was a catamaran. Chenna cried
out aloud to the boatmen. Luckily they heard him and started in his
directionThe cat also leaped on board in an instant. No one took
notice of the dog who was still sniffing around in the western end of
the hut
The torrential rain started again. The dog huddled himself and
suffered it through. His master had by then reached Ambalapuzha.
Night. A huge crocodile floated past that house, gently brushing
the half submerged roof
On the roof Chenna's dog lay down, its breath heavy on itself,
occasionally muttering to itself in despair. A fish popped up and the
dog got up and barked. A frog leapt up at which the dog whimpered.
The hunger-tormented animal howled from the rooftop peering out

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into the dark and cloudy sky. His plaintive cry reached places far off.
The sympathetic wind god took it to distant lands. And those few on
guard of the houses, the soft-hearted among them, must have said,"
Ayyo, a dog is left alone on the housetop!"..
It was early morning. The dog started groaning in low tones. He
was elaborating the notes of a raga fit to melt the hearts of the listeners.
Frogs stared at him in amazement. He in turn watched them swishing
past him and sinking under water after swimming across in an angle.
He surveyed the thatched roofs remaining above the water level.
They were his hopes, though all were desolate. No fire burned anywhere.
He mouthed the fleas biting his body. And occasionally scratched at
his chin with his hind legs in order to drive them away.
The sun shone for a while. He dozed off in the sunlight. He jumped
up and barked when the shadow of the banana leaf swaying in the
breeze fell on the rooftop.
Then the clouds swallowed the sun. It was dark once again.
The winds stirred the water. The carcasses of dead animals floated
around in the waves
It started drizzling. The dog sat down on his hind limbs pinning
himself on his forelimbs and gazed around. There was helplessness
writ large in his eyes.
The drizzle stopped. A small boat came from the house in the north
and stopped near the palm tree. The dog wagged his tail, sighed and
growled. The boatman picked a tender coconut from the palm, broke it
and drank the juice. He then rowed off.
A crow perching on a tree at a distance swooped down on the rotting
carcass of a huge bull
A green bird twittered from the leaf of the banana tree near the
house
A colony of ants afloat on water was washed on the rooftop
"Ayyo."
That weak and anguished cry dissolved into the wind. There was
nothing to be heard after that except the endless sound of the waves
He climbed on the rooftop once again, growling, as if bidding farewell
to the world outside. Perhaps he was trying to say that never again
would he love a human being

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Short story writers in Indian languages

e [1923-2008]

Marathi

Economist by profession, Gangadhar

Gopal Gadgil (1923 - 2008) is reputed
to be the creator of the 'new' short story
in Marathi and remains one of the most
prominent and influential short story
writers of the language.

His story 'The Wan Moon' as translated into English by the author is
included in an anthology published by Sahitya Akademi in 1959.
Excerpts:
The two girls treated their mother as if she were a younger and
stupid sister of theirs The other looked downcast. She felt stupid and
lonesome because she was not let into their secret. She shook them by
the shoulder and pleaded with them. But the girls grew more and more
coy. They just giggled. Rolled their eyes and giggled.
The woman lost her temper. She raised her girlish voice and shouted,
"What is this? Why don't you tell me?"
This disturbed her husband's sleep. He irately waved his hand across
his nose. The woman froze with fright. So did the girls. They all eyed
the man with fear. But luckily he dozed off again and they all celebrated
their narrow escape from his anger with a secret exchange of smiles
Meanwhile the baby woke up. It stretched its body and started
screaming and kicking. The frightened woman and the girls tried to
quieten him The man woke up with a start. The woman crouched
over the baby like an animal expecting a blow. The girls' eyes fluttered
The woman was annoyed She however controlled herself and
said in an even, respectful voice, "It is very warm in here. That is why
the baby's crying."
"Well! Well! You are feeling warm, are you? What else could happen
anyway if you are snuffled up in a sari all the time?" said the father. He
said this loudly and over and over again. He wanted his wife as well as
everybody else to understand how very stupid she was. But all this

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effort was really uncalled for. She had accepted long ago that she was
a stupid person
Why had he to do it? Why? The woman did not ask herself that
question but just sat there helplessly like a tormented captive bird. But
her husband was not satisfied with that He took a sadistic delight in
making her unhappy and in erasing her personality
The train stopped at a station. A vendor was selling ice candy on
the platform
The girls giggled with their noses pressed against the window bars.
The mother was forgotten. She kept on looking hopefully at the candy
bars. The younger girl ignored that look in her eyes. But the elder girl
took pity on her mother
She accepted it guiltily and sucked at it. It tasted sweet and cool.
She paused to let that pleasant sensation sink in. She then opened her
mouth to suck at it again. But the baby had been looking intently at the
coloured object. It thrust forward its hand to snatch it. The candy bar
slipped from her hand and fell down on the floor. It did not reach the
expectantly open mouth of the woman this time.
That drove the woman mad with rage. She had had enough of her
children and her miserable household. She wanted to thrust the baby in
its father's arms and scream at him: "Here are your children! You can
do whatever you like with them! But I am through! Understand? I am
through!
She wanted to get off the train and walk away. She would walk on
and on until she was dead. Nothing really mattered any more.
She of course, did not do anything of the sort. The lid had blown
off for a while. That was all. After a wild surge of animal fury she
landed again in the dark damp hole of her existence.
Just then a woman entered the coach

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Short story writers in Indian languages

- [18431918]
1868

q

&
Q
| 1936

Q

Oriya

Fakir Mohan Senapati (1843 - 1918)

is considered to be the father of Oriya
prose fiction. He started writing after
retirement at the age of 53 and wrote
only 20 short stories. His short story
Rebati is considered to be the first Oriya
short story. He set up a printing press at
Balasore in 1868 and wrote text books
in Oriya on different subjects at a time
when Oriya students were reading text
books in Bengali. He is considered to
be the redeemer of the Oriya language
and actions initiated by him are said to
have given a fillip to the Desha Mishran
Andolan leading to the formation of the
separate province of Orissa in 1936.

The story 'The Bride-Price' is translated by K.K. Mohapatra, Leelawati

Mohapatra and Sudhansu Mohanty in an anthology of Oriya stories
edited by them and published by Harper Collins in 1998. Excerpts:
Malati was a kind-hearted girl. She loved not only her skinflint
of a father, but the villagers as well. She had a pet kitten; it was her
only company in the lonely house. The kitten would rub itself against
her legs all the time, and let it eat from her bowl and sleep in her bed.
Her father loved chilli but wouldn't buy any, so she got two seedlings
and planted them in a corner of the courtyard, tending them in summer
with water brought all the way from the village pond. When she went
out to the fields for her morning and evening ablutions, she scoured the
riverbank for edible plants - madaranga, sunsunia, hidimicha, kalamba,
meethi. She knew how to make her father a delicious dish out of these.
Madha Mohanty was a man of means. He cultivated fifty acres of
land under his own supervision and had turned over nearly half as much
again to sharecroppers. There were twelve bullocks and twice as many
cows in his cowshed, and he sold every drop of milk. There was very

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little for him to spend his money on: land revenue was a pittance, and
he grew cotton in his backyard, from which he spun clothes for himself
and his daughter. His only extravagance, picked up in his younger days,
was smoking. A coarse cigar was always clamped between his lips.
Every morning he bartered half a seer of rice at Gopia's for a plug of
tobacco. Whenever he went out he carried with him a slow-burning
stick either in his hand or tucked under his arm.
Malati was getting past the marriageable age, and her betrothal
could not be put off much longer. Proposals had poured in from many
quarters, but the bride-price offered was nowhere near enough. None
of the parties would go above three hundred rupees. However, old
Mohanty stuick to his guns: not a paisa under seven hundred would do.
Eight-year-old Madhavi had fetched seen hundred! Could that child be
compared with the blooming, beautiful Malati? What were the
matchmakers thinking? Mohanty was not one to mince his words
When old mahant Raghubar Das passed away, his disciple
Lachhman Das became the head. He was a kind and generous soul,
with all his prdecessor's qualities of head and heart, but without a
blemish on his character. Being quite young, he was fond of practical
jokes and pranks - anything for good clean fun
Lachhman Das had a servant called Binodia, a handsome muscular
man in his early twenties Binodia was a native of HatgaonFour
days back he had hurried there on receiving the news of his mother's
illness. When he returned on this particular morning, he was in low
spirits, his mind not on his work.
'Binodia, lad,' said the mahant. 'Why are you squatting here like an
anthill? Get up and do some work!'
Binodia prostrated himself at the mahant's feet and burst into tears.
'What's the matter?' asked the mahant. 'What's troubling you?'
'I want to quit my job, sir.' Binodia gasped between sobs. 'my mother
said I'd do better to work for the railways, like the other lads around
our way. The pay is higher, and ma said I ought to put something by to
get married'

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Short story writers in Indian languages

) [1917-2012] ?
y
M
M

C

Punjabi

Kartar Singh Duggal (1917 - 2012)

is the best known and even today
perhaps remains the most powerful
writer of short stories in Punjabi. He
had worked as the Director of All
India Radio and as Secretary of the
National Book Trust.

The story 'Miracle' about Gurdwara Sri Panja Sahib translated by

Khushwant Singh is included in an anthology published by Sahitya
Akademi in 1959. Excerpts:
"And then the Guru went into the wilderness. It was very hot. The
scorching sun beat relentlessly on rock and sand; the scrub and trees
were withered and burnt. And it was absolutely still. Not a man for
miles around
"And then, Mummy?" I was very excited now to know whether or
not the disciple got the water
"The disciple saw the enormous boulder coming down and
shrieked with terror, but the Guru remained calm and merely exhorted
him to praise the Almighty, the Formless One. When the boulder came
upon him, he calmly put out his hand and stopped it with his palm. And
to this day the rock bears the inprint of the hand of the Guru. Now at
the site stands a temple known as the Temple of the Guru's Palm and a
whole town was grown up about it. There is also a railway station
called the 'Holy Palm'."
I was thoroughly enjoying the tale. But when it came to the Guru
holding back the boulder with his hand, it gave me a peculiar feeling. It
was not possible; how could a man hold back a boulder the size of a
hill? And how could the rock have received the imprint of his palm? I
did not believe a word of it. "Someone must have carved it later on,"
said I, and I argued with my mother for a long time. I was willing to

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believe that there was a spring beneath a stone; there were many
scientific ways of locating underground streams of water. But for a
human being to stop a mountain landslide, that I refused to believe.
My mother looked at me and fell silent.
"Can anyone stop an avalanche?" I would say with a snigger
whenever I recalled the legend
Not long afterwards I heard that an 'incident' had taken place at the
Temple of the Guru's Palm. Those days there were many 'incidents'
taking place
Far away in a distant city the white man had opened fire on an
unarmed crowd of Indians and killed many of them. Amongst the dead
were young men, old men, women and children. Those that remained
had been bundled into a train and were being sent to prison in another
city. The prisoners were hungry and thirsty, but the order was that the
train was to run through without stopping anywhere. When the news
came to the Temple, every one who had heard this was aflame with
anger. How could a trainload of thirsty people pass by the temple where
the Guru had performed a miracle to quench the thirst of one disciple!
The train carried not only thirsty, but also hungry and wounded men
and women. The inhabitants of the Holy Palm asked for the train to be
stopped at their railway station But the white man had ordained that
the train was not to stop and he refused to change his orders
The trains were known to come like sudden storms of summer and
vanish with the speed of hurricanes. How could anyone stop a train!
My mother's friend told us the rest.
"The first one on the rail-track was the father of my children. Then
his friends lay alongside him and alongside them we their wives. The
engine started whistling frantically from a long distance. It began to
slow down. But all said and done it was made of steel and had to take
its time to come to a standstill

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Short story writers in Indian languages

e [1907-1957] g

s
[ s ]
M

q
X

Sindhi

Amarlal Hingorani (1907 - 1957)

was one of the writers who drove the
advent and growth of the short story
genre in the Sindhi language. One of
his oft translated stories Ado Abdur
Rahman (Brother Abdul Rahman) is
about the experiences of a Sufi dervish
who rehearses the answer to any
question put to him before actually
giving the answer.

A translation of 'Brother Abdul Rahman' by T.H. Advani is included in

an anthology published by Sahitya Akademi in 1959. Excerpts:
"What is your name?"
"Brother Abdul Rahman, the Serishtadar wants to know your name."
Then turning to the Court, added, "My name is Abdul Rahman."
There was laughter in court. The magistrate after enjoying the
situation for a while, began to show annoyance. One of the advocates
explained to him that the witness was in the habit of speaking thus.
"Your religion?" asked the subordinate officer.
Abdul Rahman half shut his eyes to ponder. He sensed a warning
from within. "Brother Abdul Rahman," the monitor said, "you have
sworn to speak the truth. The question is awkward. If you say are a
Muslim, the Hindus will take exception; if you answer you are a Hindu,
the Muslims will frown. Brother Abdul Rahman, do not feel perplexed.
Cut the Gordian knot by by reciting from Saint Sachal the verse:
I am neither Hindu
Nor Muslim
I am what I am.
The Sheristadar did not know if this answer would do for the record,
so he turned to the magistrate for guidance.
"Write him down as a Muslim," the magistrate ordered.
"Your age?"

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"Tell him, Brother Abdul Rahman, that since the magistrate took
upon himself to answer the previous question on your behalf, this
question also might be addressed to the same quarter."
The magistrate was angry.
"You jat," he thundered, "will you make your statement sensibly
and properly? Don't forget you are in a law court."
A smile played on Abdul Rahman's lips. He said, "Brother Abdul
Rahman, the magistrate has called you a jat. Ask the magistrate sahib
what is a jat.
Before Abdul Rahman could address the magistrate directly, that
honourable gentleman shouted, "A jat, you fool, is an illiterate person."
"Did you hear that, Brother Abdul Rahman? The magistrate sahib
says a jat is a man who is illiterate. By this definition Brother Abdul
Rahman, surely you cannot be said to be a jat. You can read and write
Sindhi, Persian, Urdu, Sanskrit and Hindi. Five languages. Will you
ask the magistrate sahib how many languages he knows?"
Abdul Rahman turned to the magistrate to speak. But that august
personage brushed him aside.
"A jat is one who does not know English." He said with a note of
triumph in his voice, hoping to have crushed this queer customer.
There was whispering here and tittering there in the court. Abdul
Rahman's smile broadened visibly. He said to himself in a confidential
though audible tone, "Brother Abdul Rahman, the magistrate says jat
is one who does not know English. Though he himself knows English,
he is the son of Topanmal, keeper of the cattle-pound. Will you ask the
magistrate if his forefathers who knew no English were jats, and whether
he himself is the son of a"
"None of your presumption, you insolent rascal", roared the
magistrate

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Short story writers in Indian languages

1925 1945

,
O, ...
[1900-1976]
~ S
!

Tamil

1925 to 1945 is reckoned as the golden

age of Tamil short stories of which some
of the luminaries were 'Mouni' (S. Mani
Iyer), 'Pudumaipithan' (C. Viruthachalam),
'Kupara' (K. P. Rajagopalan) and N.
Pichamurthy (1900 - 1976). The 1930s
saw the short lived Manikkodi magazine
and the associated group of writers known
as the Manikkodi group.

The story 'Watchman', translated by K. N. Subramanyam is included in

an anthology of Tamil short stories edited by him and published by
Vikas Publishing House in 1980. Excerpts:
On the seventeenth day after Sevu Chettiar's death, Foxy put an
end compulsorily to his mother's weeping. He brought home another
oil miller and asked his mother whether he could talk terms for sale of
the country oil mill, which was of no further use to them Sengamalam
wondered and was pleased to find that her son, though young in years,
was capable of doing things with determination like his father. She had
been wondering how to get on without any money; the boy had made it
possible for her to get some money to tide over a few days, by sale of
the country oil mill. The mill and the bull for it changed hands within
three days.
As soon as the sale money was in her hands, Sengamalam began to
wonder how she could manage with the small amount of money the
whole lifetime that was still ahead of her. After the money was spent
what could she do?
But in the seventh month after Sevu Chettiar's death, Foxy got a
job. But not for himself. He got her a job. A hotel keeper wanted a
woman to do the work in his hotel; he promised to give nine rupees a
month wages and her food. When Foxy told her, Sengamalam was not
in a position to discuss the pros and cons of it. But she thought son was

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like father, capable in his own way. She accepted the job.
She was new to the work and the work was heavy. She got up at
five-thirty in the morning. Foxy was asleep when she got up but he too
had got up by the time she was ready. "Shall we go?" he asked. And she
was surprised. Foxy was certainly born to be master of situations, she
thought
After the food Sengamalam had some time to rest. She could have
gone home but she did not think of it; she waited for work to accumulate,
which she might be asked to do any time. And she had no work to do at
home; nothing called her. She stretched herself in the store room at the
back among the plantain leaf bundles. Foxy also tried to stretch his
limbs but could not sleep: he was too restless. Like a dog set to watch
something, he sat beside his mother thinking his own thoughts
On the ninth day of her going to work in the hotel, she was cleaning
the vessels beside the well. Foxy was contemplating the nest of a
yellowish sparrow in a tree that was nearby.
Since Sengamalam was intent upon her work, she did not notice
that the proprietor of the hotel had come and was standing looking at
her from an advantageous corner. They say that country cows can smell
the nearness of a cobra. Foxy had noticed the proprietor of the hotel,
though his mother had not. He stopped watching the birds' nest
It was high noon. The tank was white, reflecting dazzling noon day
sun. The trees and bushes around the tank were dessicated with heat
The watchman who was usually there was not to be found. If the
watchman had been there, no one would have dared to fish in it: it was
forbidden. But in the absence of the watchman, quite a number of
fishermen had cast their bait and were waiting for a bite
When he saw these contraband fishermen, he remembered his
mother. Usually when she slept, he would stay awake by her

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Short story writers in Indian languages

& Q
& m -
[1861-1915] L
- [18641933] c &
s
&
, &
[ ] [1894-1979]

Telugu

Gurujada Appa Rao (1861 - 1915)

and Achanta Venkata Sankhyayana
Sarma (1864 - 1933) are alternately
credited with the first Telugu short
story. However, it was Gudipati
Venkatachalam (1894 - 1979),
popularly known as 'Chalam', who,
with half a dozen others brought about
the golden age of short story writing
from the 1920s. He is considered to
be the first feminist writer in Telugu.

His story 'Widow', translated by Ranga Rao is included in an anthology

published by Sahitya Akademi in 2000. Excerpts:
They will remove my crown of hair, it seems. Let it be done. I
will be rid of a nuisance. Have it to please whom? Getting my head
shaved will be painful, perhaps. But then why don't the menfolk cry?
Won't be painful. And yet thinking of it fills me with fear even now.
And not just fear While shaving my head, the barber fellow might
perhaps put his hand on my neck! The other day he put his hand on
annayya (elder brother). Won't I get goosepimples? During the wedding
when he tied the sacred string around my neck, it was only his little
finger that had touched me and I goosefleshed all over though
Mangamma must be sleeping by her husband's side again. The whole
night long, behind closed doors, what do they do? If only he were alive,
what would I be doing? Would he have allowed me to sit like this near
the hearth! He was young, of course! God only knows how he caught
that illness. At least if the nuptials had taken place, it would have been
alright. I would have known all about it. I know what they do. But how
they do it, and how the body feels at that time, I would like to know
Then probably I would even have had a baby! He had fine eyes. The
child would have got his very eyes When sister-in-law left for her

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mother's place, annayya was shamelessly confessing to Subramanyam
garu that to live alone, without one's wife, is difficult! If I were to say
that I too feel the same way they will behave as though the sky has
crumbled and dropped down
* * *
No regret for what has happened. But I am a little scared, of course
It's moving inside. Probably knows already that I am the mother
That fellow probably thought that I had submitted to him because I
was enamoured of him. Because I wanted his big eyes for my child, I
agreed. He looked at me like a warrior, a conquering warrior, the wretch!
How my blood boils at the thought! I feel like retching at the thought
of the liberty I gave him Some time or other they will get to know.
How long can I conceal it like this? Even for the last menses, I sat out
and pretended itThrow her out, sister-in-law will say. No, annayya
will say As if all this were not enough, they assign me to hell after
my death. Making my body so beautiful, creating naturally a burning
desire in my heart Won't I demand an explanation from that God!
All lies! God is not angry with me. Only to scare me they have said all
this. Already for my little darling's cute little belly, milk is forming. If
God is really angry, will he be planning for the child to come, prepare
for his teenyweeny golden belly?Whenever any man looks at any
woman with a loving gaze, I burn from top to toe! ME! What about
me? For me too! cries every nerve in my body They will give away
my child to somebody and they will get me back to slave again for
them. Even if I lead a happy life somewhere with my beloved child,
they won't tolerate it But I won't allow it. My beloved son, my little
gold, I shall not surrender to anyoneIf he asks for his father, what
shall I tell him? Dead, I shall tell him. No I shall say, 'I am your
father.'

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Short story writers in Indian languages

, ,
- -
[1914-1977] L

Urdu

Krishan Chander (1914 -1977)

wrote mainly in Urdu penning over 30
collections of short stories. After
partition, he took to writing mainly in
Hindi. His pieces on the Bengal
famine are counted among his best
works.

The story 'The Man with a Thorn in his Conscience (Letters written
from Calcutta by a foreign consul to the head of his country's
Government)' is translated by Kwaja Ahmad Abbas and published by
Kutub - The Indo-Foreign Publishers. Excerpts:
Moonshine Villa,
Calcutta,
8th August, 1943
Your Excellency,
I have just arrived in Calcutta. By popular repute Calcutta is the
largest city in India. The Howrah Bridge is the most wonderful bridge
in India. The Bengalis are the most intelligent community in India. The
Calcutta University is the biggest University in India. "Sonagachi" is
the most extensive Red Light district in India. In a separate parcel I
am despatching two hundred rassogolas for Your Excellency. Eaten
with minced meat they will be found delicious.
I beg to remain,
Your most obedient servant,
(Sd.) F.B. ULLUSON
Consul for the Republic of Silorica
10th August 1943
In Calcutta there is no rationing as in our country. In the matter of
food every one has complete personal freedom. Yesterday I was invited
to dinner by the Consul for Tilli. There were 26 different meat courses

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on the table, besides two dozen vegetable dishes, salads and puddings.
The wine was excellent
At this dinner an Indian engineer was also present. He was educated
in our country. In the course of conversation he mentioned that there is
a famine in Calcutta. At this the Consul for Tilli burst out laughing and
I too had to join in the laughter. Really, these educated Indians are
most ignorant. Apart from bookish knowledge, they know nothing about
the real conditions prevailing in their own country. Actually two-thirds
of the population of India is busy producing grain and babies day and
night Indeed before the war, large quantities of food grains used to
be exported; and children, when they grew up, used to be sent as coolie
labour to South Africa
I think this Indian engineer must be some dangerous kind of agitator.
After he had gone I spoke about him to M. Xan Xan Treep, the Consul
for Till, and he said that after great deliberation, he had come to the
conclusion that Indians were absolutely incapable of ruling over their
own country
11th August 1943
This morning I have returned from Bolpur where I saw Dr. Tagore's
Shantiniketan. They call it a University but you can imagine the kind
of education they impart from the fact that there is not even a bench to
sit on
12th August 1943
Today, when I called at the Chinese Consulate, someone again
mentioned the famine. But I cannot get any authentic confirmation.
We are all awaiting the statement of the Bengal Government on this
subject In the diplomatic bag I am taking the liberty to send a pair of
Indian sandals for Your Excellency's second daughter, Simara. These
sandals are made from green snake-skin
13th August 1943
Today two women were found lying dead just outside our Consulate.
They had been reduced to skeletons and it looked like a case of rachitis.
Here in Bengal - perhaps in the whole of India - this epidemic of rachitis
is raging extensively. This is a strange and terrible disease. The victim
just wastes away and dies On the happy occasion of the sixty-second

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birthday of her Excellency I am sending a marble statue of Buddha
16th August 1943
More dead bodies were found lying outside the Consulate. All these
people seem to be victims of the same disease
20th August 1943
The Bengali papers are repeatedly asserting that there is a famine
in the whole of Bengal and that thousands are dying of starvation every
week, but our maid-servant (who is herself a Bengali) says that these
newspaper people are habitual liars. Whenever she goes to the market
she can get everything she needs for our kitchen. The prices, of course,
have gone up but that is inevitable due to the war.
25th August 1943
Political circles today have contradicted the famine rumours. The
Bengal Assembly which has a majority of Indian members and even
ministers has decided that neither Calcutta nor the other districts of
Bengal can be declared "famine areas"
30th August 1943
In a statement made in the House of Commons, Mr. Amery, the
Secretary of State for India, has declared that in India the population is
very disproportionate to the resources of food moreover Indians eat
too much It is also to be considered that Indians and rats have the
highest birthrate in the world and, in many cases, it is difficult to
distinguish between the two species. Quickly are they born and quickly
do they die. If the rats die of plague, the Indians die of rachitis - not
infrequently of both plague and rachitis! At any rate, so long as the rats
remain in their holes and do not come out to disturb the peace of the
world, we have no right to interfere in their internal affairs
25th September 1943
According to reports published in the London newspapers, people
are dying daily on the streets and pavements of Calcutta. But these are
only newspaper reports. Officially there is no confirmation that there
is a famine in Bengal

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The Brilliant Gulmohur

Artist : C.R. Pakrashi

ISSN 0976-0989

MRINAL K. BARDHAN (1932 2010)

Before shifting to Delhi in 1955, Bardhan, born in Feni (now in Bangladesh), graduated from the
Government College of Arts & Crafts, Calcutta specializing in painting and sculpture and did a
course on History of Art & Art Appreciation from Ashutosh Museum, University of Calcutta.
Honoured with the National Award of Lalit Kala Academy, President of India's silver plaque for
outstanding exhibit, and numerous other awards, his works adorn many galleries such as Moscow
Art Gallery, Sophia Art Gallery, National Gallery of Modern Art, New Delhi and have been picked up
by collectors at home and abroad.