Several months ago I was invited by
Wasafiri Magazine of International Writing to contribute to a reading event at
Asia House in London. Three writers of South Asian descent – me, poet
DaljitNagra and writer and broadcaster
Shyama Perera – were to read through an issue
of the magazine which was dedicated to appraising and honouring the cultural
contribution of radical sub-continental writers. We had to choose an article as
inspiration and create an original work in response to it. A full feature on the event, including pictures,
can be found here.
I chose a critical essay about the Nobel
Laureate Rabindranath Tagore. Tagore has long been a literary touchstone in my
household and I thought I might create from his formal high Bengali a new
interpretation of his thoughts, language and imagery. A straight translation
wouldn’t work – indeed, even the Wasafiri essay conceded that Tagore was
rendered more acutely and subtly in French than English. I wanted instead to distil
his essence and compose some new work that was totally Tagore and yet also
completely, freshly, creatively myself.
There was one missing link: my mother, a writer and academic. We took down our many Bengali volumes of Tagore and she read
some pieces aloud to me, just a few lines, to get the flavour. I found many verses
that piqued my interest, particularly the songs from the Gitobitan, the Collection of Songs, which was published in India in
1931. The two pieces I chose to work on come from the section of the collection
called Shodesh, translated as
Homeland, which contains songs pertaining to India’s dignity, unity, strength
and patriotic zeal in the fight against British rulership and exploitation.
I understand and can speak Bengali but can’t
read or write it, to my regret. My mother read out the two short songs and we
carefully discussed the meaning and rhythm of each line. Then she created a
literal word-for-word translation, which I could not have done without and took
strong inspiration from in crafting my own pieces. I gave them my own voice, my
own words, ideas, rhythm, syntax and form, and I titled them. But their hearts
are Tagore’s. The first piece I offer is inspired by a song written in 1905,
while the second occurs much later in the original selection and cannot be
dated.
Despite the specificity of their first origins,
to me the songs are about the struggle for dignity, self-determination and
emancipation anywhere, in all situations, not just at a national or outwardly
political level. They affirm the power of the individual, they honour the
bravery of independent action and acknowledge the risks of speaking out and
standing alone. They also pay sad tribute to the way oppressive situations warp
and brutalise everyone in them including the perpetrators. The songs are, above
all, full of hope for change and faith in people to make that change, to right
wrongs, to correct a crooked path, to agitate, to be proud, to be brave, to
save, to redeem and to transform.
The Asia House event was a wonderful
mixture of Daljit Nagra’s inventiveness, hilarity and wonderful performing
skills, Shyama Perera’s intelligence, insight, rigour and candour and my
nerves. I think – I hope – I wrote and
read the poems well and I had also hoped that my work wouldn’t disappear
without a trace. As serendipity would have it, a few weeks later I received the
following message:
We are writing to you
and other distinguished figures with strong connections to South Asia, from
Iran to Burma, and Tibet to the Maldives, to seek your help in our literary
project.
We’re calling the project ‘Poetry for Peace’, a title that can be interpreted
in various ways: peace between nations, between communities or between
individuals, or peace within oneself.
We will donate 20% of the royalties from the sale of the anthology to Amnesty
International and the remainder will help support the Rukhla Project, an active
rural development project in Himachal Pradesh, India. The overall aim is to
help foster initiatives that support and develop the local community and
economy, including working with village schools, eco-volunteering, establishing
links with educational institutions within India and abroad (including Japan),
and so on. At the moment, the farm directly supports three families, including
seven children. This figure is expected to rise as the project develops. There
are plans to develop a cottage industry in the short term, producing apple
vinegars, cheeses, and other artisan quality products using local materials and
expertise. The buildings are being upgraded to accommodate guests, including
trekkers, artists, poets, musicians and writers, as one of the aims is to
develop it as a visitor centre where people can find their own inner peace
and/or explore the forests and mountains with a local guide.
We hope that by sharing our love of words, we can add an idealistic drop to the
pool of common good – a small reminder that we are one human race, with so much
more uniting than dividing us: a common heritage, a common future, one common
life.
I knew I couldn’t let it pass and have submitted the
poems to the anthology, along with some of this introduction.
Tagore died in 1941. The national Indian liberty
he had dreamed into being in his literature came to pass just a few years
later, in 1947. As I write, the world is full of other freedom struggles
against inequality, injustice, exploitation and prejudice. I hope that readers engaged
in that long and righteous fight are inspired by my words, however flawed, as I
was inspired by Tagore’s.
If
there be no answer
If there be no answer, continue alone.
At the
crossroads, on the high path, should they leave you,
On the dense road, at the tough
pass, should they flee,
Should they
turn their faces and offer no words,
Then read in
secret the inward story
And walk the
thorny road on your bloodied feet.
If there should be no
lantern light, nor hearth, nor flame,
Then do what others cannot:
Go to the storm
Pluck out a rib
Light it with thunder
And burn alone.
The victory banner
The tighter the binding, the looser it grows,
Our liberty escapes it, as light as a breath.
The trickier the knot, the rougher the rope,
Our freedom evades it, as subtle as scent.
The angrier they stare, bloodshot and
stricken,
So softly we gaze, as open as children.
Inwardly we win, though outwardly submit,
The more vividly we dream, the more real is
it.
The louder they shout, we grow more awake.
What’s rent by their hand, we privately remake.
If they strike, they hit water, waves rippling
like silk.
If they stamp, they hit water, waves
twisting like silk
If they kick, they hit water, waves flowing
like silk -
The silk of their banner,
Torn as they tear.
©Bidisha, 2012