A Writer's Progress

A WRITER’S PROGRESS

By ANNADA SANKAR RAY
(Translated from ‘Binur Boi’ in Bengali by Lila Ray)
(Continued from the previous issue)

XI. CLASS DIFFERENCES

Binu often went to the palace. He was familiar with the way a Raja lives. He also visited the Pan quarter and the quarter of the Sabars; he knew how they lived. He saw the stratification of society but it did not pain him then as it was to later. The hiatus between classes and their conflict had not obscured his perception of how they came to exist. The elevations d depressions of society were bearable as long as the custom of establishing arbitrary bonds of kinship was a living custom, even though such relationships were only lip-deep and perhaps not even that. People do not trouble to set up even superficial ties of kin nowadays. Lip-kinship is incapable of concealing the width of the gap between classes; the pretence has been abandoned. This is why the class question is so acute today.

Whatever the outcome of the conflict may be Binu will always cherish in his heart the memory of mutual affection between people as people. At the time those to whom he was not bound by his own or his parents’ self-interest allowed him to believe that lip kinship is real kinship. He found pure affection and love despite social inequality. This sort of thing, unimaginable today, was then a reality. Why should not what was a reality in the life of one become a reality in the lives of all, if there is truth in it?

A poet is not born to settle social questions; that is others’ work. What he perceives to be true is true at least for him. If he be the representative of many others, it is true for them also. If he be the spokesman of all time, what is true for him will be true for all time. Binu did not lose the faith of his childhood just because he had grown up. To break faith is to betray; he could not betray all the aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters he had loved as a child.

If poets keep faith men will live. Hut if the creation of literature falls into the hands of unbelievers, the painful sore of class differences will spread its contagion through the whole of society, infecting it. Literature itself will become infected. And it has.

XII. TRADITION

If Binu had never learned to read or write, if he had spent his days sitting in a quince tree or his noons and afternoons in a swimming hole, he would still have been linked with the inmost soul of India through the Ramayana, the Mahabharata and Vaishnava poetry. Also through the Chandi of Kavikankan. His grandmother told him stories from the Ramayana and the Mahabharata, orally, not in a general way but in exact and elaborate detail. He did not learn more from books later. He also heard the two tales of the Chandi first from her lips. At home the Chandi was read out in a musical recitative. Binu was at first a listener and then a reciter. And the kirtan songs made their way into his heart through his ears at singing parties. He joined the chorus which chants the refrains. The theatre, the jatra, and the kathakata made him aware of ancient traditions without any study.

His life was pervaded by these influences. He did not go into ecstasies over the past, nor did the fascination of it blind him to his own times. On the contrary he proclaimed loudly that mistakes made in the past are responsible for the present plight of India. He criticised it mercilessly. But to sever one’s connection with the mother river of tradition, the Ganges, would have dried up the waters of his spirit. His country would have become a waterless wilderness to him, though it would have been his country still. A country without a past is a country without a future. To deny the past is to sever oneself from it. To deny the future is to be without a culture capable of further growth. This is what happened in Egypt.

The connection must be kept intact. It is because those of our countrymen who have accepted Islam are suffering from the pain of this amputation that no notable creative work is being produced by them. Those who have become Christian have not cut themselves off in the same way. That is why the writing of Meghnad Badh was possible. In Binu’s life various creeds mingled and he was familiar also with foreign thought. But he did not deprive himself of the continuous experience of four or five thousand years, the tradition of his own country and its ancient roots. To the long chain of Indian poets Binu was an added pearl, strung on the same string.

XIII. ONE’S OWN TIMES

But since when had he become a poet? The journalist in him had pushed to the front and was dominating. His desire to be a journalist was the result of the attraction his own times held for him. He had scarcely learned his letters before newspapers fell into his hands, newspapers bringing him the message of his times. At last he began to want to be a messenger himself, transmitting news. To transmit news is to be a journalist. The news transmitted is the news of the age. For the journalist there is no distinction between his own and other lands. Such a distinction, if it happens to occur, is unlooked for and dispensable. But a journalist must have a sense of his times; he cannot get along without that.

In Binu this sense had not entirely obscured his awareness of his nationality, but it was slowly spreading across it like clouds overcast the sky. Day and night he dreamt of America and perhaps became somewhat annoyed with the land of his birth. So it was that Amritsar found no response in his heart and to him the proposed Non-co-operation Movement appeared only evidence of a certain narrowness of outlook. But he felt the heat as the temper of the country rose, bursting at last into flame. He decided to non-co-operate and made only a pretence of sitting for his exams. He knew the results would be poor and he did not care, for he felt no desire to go to college. Going to jail did not attract him either.

He set out for Calcutta to become a journalist. From there he intended to proceed to America as the opportunity offered. But one look at the ocean-going steamers made his mouth go dry. These ships were not fit to cross the Ganges in! How could one sail the seven seas in them? One look at him made the mouths of the editors go dry. When they were told that this stripling wrote both English and Bengali and was competent to do their editorials for them, they took their heads into their hands. At last one of them suggested that he do translations for the time being. Another made him a proof-reader. Binu was surprised that no one gave him any writing to do, noteven a column. Binu’s health gave way not long after. One of the men with whom he worked advised him to become a college graduate if he wanted to be a journalist. Binu was hurt by the advice but he went home, recovered his health and entered college.

XIV. A. E.

Binu might have lost all his prospects if his health had not put obstacles in his way. He would have reached neither the Western shore of the Atlantic, that is, America, nor the Eastern shore, England. The day he humbly returned to college, he did not know that his destiny had repulsed him with one hand to lead him forward by the other.

Binu’s plans remained unchanged despite his surrender. He intended towork in a newspaper office after his graduation. Journalism was to be both vocation and avocation. He read all the periodicals he could get his hands on and practised writing mentally. He wrote a little with pen and paper too. But he refused to print it.

Little by little the Irish poet and editor, George Russell, became his hero. George Russell’s pen name was A.E. He ran a weekly paper in which he wrote of things, farmers, milkmen, weavers, founderers, blacksmiths and others needed to know, such as how to increase the yield of land, reduce the ravages of harmful insects, conduct business in co-operation, how to dispense with brokers and how to take trade out of the hands of the rich and put it into the hands of the people without stirring up violence.

The national co-operative movement in Ireland was A.E.’s life-work. His editing was the way he set about accomplishing it. To edit without such an ideal would be working just for money. Binu did not want to become a family man; he had acquired a dislike of marriage. He did respect love in full measure. He intended to love but not to marry and tie himself down. If a child resulted from his love, society would have to take the responsibility for it. Society must be prepared for that sort of thing. One of Binu’s chief tasks was to reform society and there was always the country to be saved. If he went to America he would carry on propaganda for the independence of India.

Binu had faith in his pen. That pen was to be the pen of a reformer and a servant of the people, not the pen of a literary man. His heart was not overflowing with passion at this time; he had not fully realised himself as a rasik, a man of feeling, a poet.

XV. GANDHIJI

Coming to know that Jesus was to be born, several wise men journeyed to the place of his birth to see the new babe. Beholding him they doubted. Was this a birth? Or was it a death? How they felt after their return is found in this extract from T. S. Eliot:

“...I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.”

When Gandhiji was born in the stable of Indian politics, the wise men of that day hoped for much and were disappointed. The names of the gods in small letters were modern civilisation, large-scale industry, parliamentary government, armed revolution, end justifies means, even, if necessary, dishonest practices. The God in capital letters was Swaraj. They accepted Gandhiji for the sake of Swaraj. But why should they give up mill-made cloth and wear homespun khaddar? And how long must they forego the pleasures of the Assemblies and Councils? Would it not be cowardly to shirk the shedding of blood? Though they accepted non-violent means in order to compass their ends, why should they believe that non-violence was either the only or the infallible way? If such stress was to be laid on truth they would have to turn monks. How was it compatible with practical life? And modem civilization! Ah! Must they set the clock two hundred years simply because they wanted to be free?

But the wise men had forfeited their peace of mind. So had Binu. He had not doubted that Gandhi was a man of destiny but his birth was the death of an age. That was evident. Binu fell into a dilemma. Gandhi’s Hind Swaraj thrilled him. He too was an anarchist in his bones; he could not bear any sort of government. If a law is to be obeyed, it is the inner law. Yet he was absolutely unwilling to go two hundred years at the word of Gandhiji, even though there be no Swaraj.

XVI. RABINDRANATH

By renouncing his knighthood Rabindranath proved that he was not the man to look on at the dishonour of his country helplessly. So when the poet took exception to the ethics of Gandhiji’s Non-co-operation Movement, many like Binu found an excuse for not joining it. Otherwise Binu would have felt that the disgrace of going to college had branded him. Binu was already an admirer of Rabindranath; now he became an ardent partisan, worshipping him blindly. On the other hand he had a weakness for Gandhiji too, perhaps through the influence of Hind Swaraj.

So he burdened himself with coarse and heavy khaddar; the weight of his clothes exceeded his own. As a follower of the poet, he had these clothes dyed. The colours were so vivid, bulls charged from a distance of several miles at the sight of them, the bulls being the eyes of startled crowds, not John Bulls. That was the trouble with patriotic dyes in those days!

Though Binu had read and beep moved by almost all the works of Rabindranath, his relationship with the poet had more of a religious than a literary character. Rabindranath was an Upanishadic Rishi and Binu was a seeker, a questioner of life. The answers to his questions he found on the lips of Rabindranath, not of Gandhiji. To seekers like Binu the poet made a direct appeal, saying as it were, “No other Path at all is there to go.” (Naanyah panthaah vidyate ‘yanaaya)

Binu had brooded over the thought of death ever since he lost his mother. In his grief he found comfort in Rabindranath’s Gitanjali, Naibedya and Kheya. He did not read these books as literature nor did he stop to consider whether the poetry was good poetry or not. He read them for their message and discovered in them intimations of immortality. They were books written from living experience, not from pedantry. “The farther I explore my heart and mind,” wrote the poet; “the more of Your Infinity I find. No sorrow, no death, no separation exists there.” This was the voice of the true seer, the Rishi. Binu concluded that he was infallible. So it was that when Rabindranath wrote, ‘Satyer Ahwan’ (The Call of Truth), in refutation of Gandhiji. Binu felt he had found a satisfactory justification for his conduct.

XVII. IMMORTALITY

Life is not like a book in which a new chapter does not begin until the old one comes to a close. Several or more chapters run  concurrently. The light of literature did not go out entirelyforBinu while journalism was in the ascendent. Below the surface of his mind it shone on. The soul is immortal. Though thebody may die the soul shall not. If the body were enough, Maitreyi would not have asked, “Yenaham namritasyam kimaham tena kuryam ?” The immortality of the soul is a guiding star to us but there is another immortality also, the immortality that can be earned.

Would Binu leave nothing, immortal behind him when died? Something rendered immortal by a treasured emotion or perception? Some expression eloquent of the greatest of human feelings? Take forinstance Rabindranath. He is immortal in the sense that the human soul is immortal. He is also immortal in the sense that his message is immortal, his creative achievement is immortal. Would Binu, like Rabindranath, not create something that would make him immortal too? Binu felt a keen desire forthe immortality that can be earned. He wished to live, he wished to live in his works. “In this beautiful world,” he quoted, “I desire, not death, but to live among men.”

He was to create. What should he create? Does the desire alone suffice? Is no material necessary? Where was his material? Binu discovered his material in the feelings he had experienced. How meagre it seemed to him! He must add to it. The reading of books and periodicals does not add to it; to leave home and take to the road does. How rich and varied is the experience strewn along the roadsides of the world! All one has to do is to gather it up; there is no lack of material then. Anybody can write a book after reading half a dozen other books. But fewread such books. The writing perishes before the writer. All that remains is a museum skeleton. Who wants such a fate! Binu wanted his work to live among the living, in individual lives, not in the museum of the commonplace. He addressed himself to the eternal, to the individual reader. And his preparation had to be made with that end in view.

XVIII. THE CAGE-BIRD

Binu spent his six years in college like a bird in a cage, full of the wild yearning of the freecreature. He could not forgive college and he will never be able to. Six years of youth are equivalent to six generations. Youth is not so inexhaustible that it can bear such wastage. There is no compensation forit; it is wholly waste. Yet even if the loss sustained is ill afforded, one does not perish completely; one survives and recovers. That is something. And consolation may be found forthe loss; that is more.

Binu’s consolation was that he made several out-of-the-ordinary friends. To have friends is to be very lucky indeed. So college was not unbearable. It became so towards the end when the advent of love deprived him of all comfort.

Another consolation was the opportunity to read foreign books. European history became his favourite subject. Europe became his favourite foreign Continent. European literature filled him with admiration. Indian life is so monotonous and the life of Europe so rich and varied! This was one reason. Another was that there are many masterpieces in European literature which transcend their time and place. Binu felt that what he created, if he created anything at all, should be the equal of these masterpieces. His ideal of achievement must not fall below theirs.

He did not think all this outin a day. Journalism kept him befogged for a long time. There were also his plans for social reform, his dream of shattering society and recreating it. According to his heart’s desire. Perhaps the whole of his six years were required for him to arrive at pure literature. In the beginning his favourites among foreign writers were Ibsen, George Bernard Shaw, Bertrand Russell and H. G. Wells. Similarly Sarat Chandra Chatterjee and Satyendranath Dutta were his favourites among Indian writers. He had discovered Bankim Chandra and Dwijendralal in childhood and, unknown to himself, outgrown them. Sarat Chandra and Satyendranath became greater favourites but not greater than Rabindranath and Pramatha Chaudhuri. Nor were they dearer to him than Tolstoy and Romain Rolland. Nor than Dostoevski and Balzak, nor than Shelley, Browning and Shakespeare. Nor than the Goethe he discovered in later life. Nor were they more loved than Chekov.

XIX. TAME CREATURES

Because he was himself a caged bird, Binu felt a natural sympathy with all caged things everywhere. Women are caged birds. They are both caged and tame. They are not made captive only by the custom of seclusion. They are dependent on others; they have no separate livelihood. And where they do have a separate livelihood, as in the lower classes, they are the tame creatures of men, not birds of the interest. There is no wildness in the nature of any class of women, and even those outside society are grateful to the men who buy them. Their economic independence lasts only as long as men give them their attention.

What Binu wanted for women was the wildness of the forest creature. He wanted it for himself too. The right to go to college and the right to work in offices are not to be despised, but do these things give won1en a fuller life? Do they give the thrill of taking to the road? Or the dust, rain and storm of travel? Lightning or snake-bite? The security for which womenhave sold their wildness excludes these. The right to work and the right to study may go by the name of equal rights. Those who clamour for equality aim at them. But equality can be the equality of prisoners in a jail. Does any one really want such an equality?

Even though Binu gave himself out to be a feminist and wrote an English poem on the subject in reply to one by his English Professor, his feminism did not confine itself to equal rights, it spread its wings in the sky of equal freedom. He explained it all in a Bengali essay once. The editor published it but a protest came from women themselves! They are women! Binu was made to realise that women are not ready for real freedom. Neither are men for that matter. Genuine freedom will come only with fundamental changes in the social structure. When such a waste of youth and life becomes intolerable to men, when this tame existence becomes as death to them, the way they are to go will open out before them of itself. To that new road men and women shall have equal right.

XX. DOUBLE-FACED ETHICS

A reformer does not wait for fundamental social change to occur of itself. The reformer in Binu took up his pen to set society free from prejudice and superstition. At last he had found something worth devoting his life to.

One by one his own prejudices gave way. He had been afraid of widow marriage; he overcame his fear. Divorce had disgusted him. He conquered his disgust. He had regarded marriage as sacred and eternal; no convention is. He realised that all which has come into existence must of necessity decay. He had regarded chastity as divine. Now he realised that it is largely the result of compulsion and slavery. Only what is voluntary has any value. That much will remain even when the institution of marriage has disappeared. Not until then will its glory be rightly understood.

Binu became acutely aware that a woman who slips once is fallen forthe rest of her life whereas a man never falls, even for a day. A man may marry again for no reason at all in the lifetime of his wife but a woman cannot remarry with the best of reasons, either in her husband’s lifetime or afterwards. The law does not prevent a widow from doing so actually, but it does prohibit the remarriage of a woman deserted by her husband. God alone is the friend of the oppressed! We have learned how to relieve physical suffering but we do not know the medicine for the mind and heart or, if we do, we refuse to make use of it. The plight of Rabindranath’s women characters made Binu feel like arraigning the poet and for the same reason he had great respect for Sarat Chandra. He had the same respect for Ibsen. Ibsen was for him the master of the drama.

Ibsen was great and honoured because of his revolt against the double-faced ethics of social convention. And Sarat Chandra too. To Binu it seemed that he too was destined to revolt; he had no time to think how great or how small the results would be. In this way he progressed towards literature. Mere journalism does not satisfy. Some deep urge compelled him to seek the company of the tellers of stories. His ultimate purpose was a free life and a free youth, both for men and women. His immediate objective was freedom from prejudice and rebellion against double-faced ethics.