Writings on reading

The resistance of southern state governments to Hindi being learnt in schools as a second language as opposed to the regional vernacular is a debatable stance, and one that was recently discussed with a couple of my friends. One of them, being a native of the North had a diametrically different take on the subject when compared with the rest of us, stoic from the South. Not surprisingly, the discussion that followed made for an entertaining evening I don't think I will forget any time soon. 

One of the arguments put forth was that there had to be some language spoken by the entire population of the country, in addition to the regional vernacular, to act as a binding force of sorts. This, however, seems to me, like a paradox to the now almost hackneyed claim of India's unity in diversity.

On a related note, today being Republic Day, the phrase you're going to see sprawled across every form of media (no points for guessing) is 'Unity in Diversity'. Finishing in second place in the list of "most time honoured traditions", is of course, Ben Kingsley's annual presence on our television screens with his iconic performance as "Gandhi". 'Traditions' such as these, often make me question the other beaten-to-death adage we're all always hearing, irrespective of occasion, situation and vocation: 'change is the only constant'.

Calvin, from Calvin and Hobbes famously said "Day by day, nothing seems to change but pretty soon, everything's different". The quote seemed especially relevant to me in the context of the last year or so, where there has been a growth in my consumption of literature penned by Indian writers, with stories set across space and time in the India subcontinent. I began the year with 'Milk Teeth' by Amrita Mahale, spent a majority of the quarantine reading Vikram Seth's 'A suitable boy' (just in time to watch the Netflix adaptation) and rode into 2021 with the evergreen "Ponniyin Selvan", magnum opus of Ramaswamy 'Kalki' Krishnamurthy.

Ponniyin Selvan initially appeared as a series in the Tamizh magazine "Kalki" between 1951-54, in a newly independent India, which, incidentally, is the time frame within which the narrative of A suitable boy is set. A suitable boy was first published in 1993 while Milk Teeth is set in the recent aftermath of P V Narasimha Rao's Liberalisation, Privatisation and Globalisation policy of the early 1990s.

Through the stories and characters trapped within the pages of these books, I traversed the length and breadth of India over history and geography. Kalki's novel is essentially historical fiction - the story is set against the backdrop of the Chozha rule in South India and outlines the events leading up to Arulmozhivarman's ascent to throne before history immortalises him as Raja Raja Chozha. It is set around 1000 AD on the historical timeline, while its numerous plots take you through a gamut of hamlets and towns in Tamil Nadu and even as far as Sri Lanka and an archipelago of islands on the Arabian Sea. 

Vikram Seth meanwhile, catches you by your neck and draws you into the lives of four families, the Mehras, Chatterjees, Kapoors and Tandons suspended in time in Brahmpur (inspired by Lucknow) and Kolkata and serving as foils and aides to Mrs Rupa Mehra's quest to find a groom for her youngest daughter Lata. Finally, Ira and Karthik, the protagonists in Milk Teeth who live in Bombay (more appropriate than Mumbai in the context of the story) give you a peek into the city that never sleeps, while allowing you to be the proverbial fly-on-the-wall for a brief period in their lives.

Through these stories, we also see the gradual evolution of the Indian family, from practices prevalent at the time such as polygamy, to the sprawling joint families of twentieth century India to the nuclear families of our recent past. Nevertheless, the stories are, at the end of the day, about human beings, which is why, irrespective of where they're set, or when you read them, they are bound to resonate with you.

Another common undercurrent I noticed in all three books was constant references to ancient poetry. While Kalki's characters wax eloquent in pasurams and thevarams (Tamizh poetry in praise of the Hindu gods Vishnu and Siva respectively), A suitable boy is replete with quotations from the works of Urdu poet Mirza Ghalib. However, the insinuation of these couplets is so gentle and inconspicuous that they never really seem disconnected from or irrelevant to the overall narrative. I believe that this facet is unique to the vernacular literature of a nation, for each regional language is so richly endowed with a life of its own that it opens up windows to thoughts best expressed in that language and none else.

Every now and then, on my way back home in the evening, I am reminded of one of Ghalib's ghazals translated by Vikram Seth which says:

The meeting has dispersed, the moths

Bid farewell to the candlelight

Departure's hour is on the sky

Only a few stars mark the night. 

Now that I am richer with the experience of three books, I can't help but wonder whether they, or the vast plethora of our regional prose and poetry would be as beautiful or even exist, for that matter, in a land where uniformity is celebrated over diversity...