Book review: Shadow Men by Bijoya Sawian # Short-listed in the Rabindranath Tagore Literary Prize 2020

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Protagonist Raseel Singh needs a break from Delhi, where her parents have been murdered by the trusted man-servant in the house. She has planned with her giggly school friend Aila from Shillong to visit the hill station town for a few days. Aila is touring China with her businessman husband, Aibor, and would return just in time to be with Raseel. However, the latter has arrived a couple of days earlier than planned, and much to her dismay has become witness to another murder at Aibor’s house in Shillong where Raseel is a welcome guest. The gardeners, from Bihar, called Suresh and Ravi, living in the cottage outside the main bungalow, have been attacked by three miscreants. The two other occupants of Aibor’s bungalow, Robert Nongrum, a cousin and the lady caregiver and mother figure Kmie U Flin, apparently is not aware of the incident, until the next morning. Kmie U Flin is naturally shocked. The book then proceeds to nab the killer. As this procedure develops, Raseel is now caught, despite herself, in the whodunit herself and suspects that people around her know much more about the murder than they are willing to share with her. So what is the reason behind this gross act upon a man, who has left his home in Bihar to find work in Shillong? The answer is not as simple as whodunit it seems, because, in the next few chapters which are short and extremely crisp, the author, Bijoya Sawian, opens up an entire pandora’s box full of issues that are ailing the small town of Shillong, in northeast India.

In Bijoya Sawian’s short-listed in the Rabindranath Tagore Literary Prize 2020 book, Shadow Men, insurgence by the local Khasi tribe and occupants of Shillong, against the so-called ‘outsiders’, people from other states of the country, who are settled in Shillong, is at boiling point and as an election is forthcoming, it might once again become the agenda on which winning rests. Besides, the age-old system of matrilineal and matriarchal structure of the Khasi society itself is being hugely contested, and the question of inheritance exclusively of women and the angst of the men about their children taking lineage from the mother continues to ail society. 

In this background, where, corrupt politicians mix and match the greedy demands of businessmen, who would like to fill their pockets at any cost, a willing killer, for cash is not hard to find. The outsider problem is still boiling as Sawian points out, through the characters Strong and Ksan, due to unemployment and opportunities of the youth leading them to all sorts of crime. Will this be an issue in the forthcoming elections?

While the reader is trying to hurry through the pages to find that out, who killed Suresh, the author, skillfully, takes the reader away to a soul-stirring beautiful and rich tapestry of natural beauty and social customs, culinary extravaganza which the British called, Scotland of the east – Shillong. In 1972, Shillong became the capital of Meghalaya.

“The Sanskrit name Meghalaya, Abobe of the Clouds, was suggested by the linguist, Dr. Suniti Kumar Chatterjee.” It is a collection of three hills, Khasi, Jaintia, and Garo hills. God’s picture-perfect little town, sits at an elevation of 1, 525 m above sea level, its terrain painted green, with stretches of green grass, lakes, little rivulets, gigantic waterfalls, tall monsoon grasses and a sky, forever, changing colours, from thick grey skies, laden with clouds to crystal clear blue skies, its weather, warm in the day time and cool at nights, in summer, and biting cold in winter. The entire terrain is spotted with flowers, of the temperate kind, Maple Leaf, Rose, Pomegranate, Lotus, Iris, Knapweed, Sunflower, Tulip, Chrysanthemum, Cherry Blossom, Golden Wattle, Kowhai, asanias, roses, forget-me-nots, daisies, dahlias, pansies, and even datura. Hills and dales undulate to make for the constant ups and downs of the roads, never ever, really giving a respite from climbing up or down.

An assortment of flavours meet the nostril and the tongue – partly British, and mostly typical Khasi cuisine, like jadoh, boiled cabbage, and beef, mutton chops mixed with pork pickles made with Khasi herbal masala. A musical race, the Khasis play multiple instruments and often music becomes their livelihood too.

Hard to believe that the wrath of the angels hound their minds and killing can become their source of livelihood too.

If the plot of the story has been laid on a town so beautiful, any review will be incomplete without praise to the storyteller. Bijoya Sawian has dealt with a story of crime, without spilling a single drop of blood on the pages of the book. There are no gory descriptions and the words are chosen and strung together like a bouquet of flowers, the language perfect and simple. Not once, does the reader have to open a dictionary to look for the meaning of a word.

However, a glossary of names of the persons in the book, followed by their relationship with other characters in the book, would have been good for the reader, unfamiliar with the region. Second, if the reader is new to Shillong, then the details of food and culture and history can be overwhelming. Thirdly, the political and social issues faced by the people in Shillong, may not gel well with the reader, who is looking for a crime thriller. But, then, without that background, it is hard to cull out the killer either.

Finally, to quote the author, "This is not a typical whodunnit. I chose this genre so people would read the book and learn about the region and also the dire consequences of unemployment, the pitfalls of the blame game and the futility of violence."

Name of the book: Shadow Men

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

Author: Bijoya Sawian

No. of pages: 98

Price: Rs 179

Click HERE2BUY

Click HERE to know more about the author.

Critical Appreciation - Fire by Taslima Nasrin

This is a critical appreciation of Taslima Nasrin’s poem in Celebrating India Love without Borders published by Nivasini Publishers. Everything said here is my personal interpretation and should not be taken as the publisher’s or poet’s point of view

Fire by Taslima Nasrin

He is my husband, the dictionary says that he’s

my

chief, lord, master, et cetera et cetera

Society agrees that he is my god.

My doddering old husband has learned well

the prevailing rules and regulations to exert

authority

He’s very eager to stroll over the bride of

eternity

to the glittering realm of paradise,

he wants all kinds of fruits, brightly-coloured

cordials and delicious foods,

he lusts after

the fair-skinned bodies of bouris to chew, suck

and lick.

Nothing’s written on my forehead but ill fate,

I spend my lifespan in society thrusting chunks

of firewood

into the oven of these earthly days.

In the afterlife I see my doddering husband

exult over the seventy-seven pleasures of sex.

I am alone, in the joyous garden of paradise I’m

alone.

Watching the blind obscenity of men

I burn inside in the everlasting fires of hell,

a chaste and virtuous woman.

At the face of it, what might come across as a purely feminist point of view, hides within its covers, a much deeper meaning than the subject of the poem, that being, the subjugation of women by men because society too supports and propagates this way of life. Whether a man is lame, old, deaf or dumb, his position, vis-a-vis women is always that of superiority. Taslima Nasrin laments this position and burns with anger within, yet must accept this as her ‘fate’ because, the man in her poem is her husband. And although she is seething inside, she must bear silently, as he enjoys all the luxuries of life, including his enormous appetite for women and sex.

But, if one looks deeper, the reader may see many other levels to this poem. For instance, from a psychological point of view, there is forever a conflict within the mind, between the norms of society outside and the desires of the female body inside. And although she herself is capable of far more intensity in love and sex, women allow the norms of society to bind them. The pleasure deriving sexual object she can luxuriate in, is in deep conflict within her, and must find her expression, mostly out of the normative framework of society, rather than within it. Hence, standing on the periphery and talking of the chains she is bound in, is to some extent, in my opinion, redundant.

From a philosophical point of view, the purusha/prakriti, outside/inside dynamics is the larger picture of the world. There is an inherent attraction/resistance in the very coexistence of these two phenomenons. What Taslima Nasrin does not spell out in her poem is what she is doing about this state of injustice. Seething in anger, but bearing it silently, because it is her ‘fate’ is a passive reaction to the situation. Unless she is willing to turn a submissive to an active, the purpose of lamenting the state is uninspiring.

From a personal point of view, the poet’s lamentation is indicative of her own state of being, the prisoner in her own body, which might agitate but is far from being free of the shackles that a male dominated society has bound around her. Thus, the poem expresses in no uncertain terms, her anger, which we can easily assume to be directed towards herself, only.

Taslima Nasrin, is a doctor by profession, who prefers to follow her passion for writing prose and poetry and is socially involved in bringing about change through the power of the written word. She shot to fame when she authored Lajja, which brought forth the wrath of the clergy in her own land, Bangladesh and ever since, she has been a resident of many lands. “In 1992, she won a major Kolkata literary Award for a collection of her co-ed columns and essays that criticised political leaders, literacy figures, and conservative religious values that conspired to oppress women.” (pg 183, Celebrating India Love Without Borders). Between these years she attempted to seek asylum in India, living in Kolkata, but was finally not granted it. Her heart-wrenching plea that she found Kolkata closest to her ‘home’ went debated, but not granted.

“Because of her thoughts and ideas, she has been banned, blacklisted and banished from Bengal, both from Bangladesh and West Bengal part of India. She has been prevented by the authorities from returning to her country since 1994, and to West Bengal since 2007.”(https://www.newsintervention.com/author/taslimanasreen/ )

Needless to say, the anger inside her must be so self-consuming, that it has tinted her tongue and her poem. It is her own state of alienation she is speaking of in the poem, where she is the protagonist, the shackled prisoner burning in anger, the woman.  

You may like to Get Your Copy Now from HERE

Guest Post: Playing With Love by Jaya Sharma

Photo Credit HERE

"A scene flashes through my head. The Delhi High Court. A (Section) 377 hearing in the summer of 2009. As we sat at the back, on the left hand side of the court room were the lawyers of the Home Ministry. I marvelled at their words. They spoke of holes – which hole was designed for what, and how wrong it was for this hole to be used for this and not that. And I listened to our words – dignity, rights, love… How unable we were to speak of holes. And, beyond a point, what does 377 have to do with love? It was bad enough that our lawyers told us to use ‘LGBT’ instead of ‘Queer’ because the judges would not understand Queer. And then to have to evoke the trope of love. Uff.

Not that love does not have radical potential. Ironically, it can have radical potential when love translates into marriage (or at least reproduction). Ambedkar was probably right when he said, “The real remedy for breaking Caste is inter-marriage. Nothing else will serve as the solvent of Caste.” But we know that love is also the glue that holds heteronormativity together. Love, in the context of modernity, helps hold together that same caste, same religion, manly man and womanly woman couple which produces heirs to inherit private property. And let those of us radical types who are against marriage, including same-sex marriage, not forget, that it is not just about marriage. Love is also the glue that holds together coupledom.

Love humbles, sometimes even humiliates, those of us who sincerely believe and loudly proclaim the criticality of friends in our lives and decry the hierarchy between ‘love’ and ‘friendship’. Oh, hang on. Here in lie many points to ponder." Click HERE to read more.

Fuck Off Y'all, Delhi LGBT community!

Yesterday, malicious, malign rumours around my personal life with my friend were spread in the LGBT community in Delhi in order to destabilize my ongoing relationship with my partner of fifteen years and my newly acquired friend on Facebook, with whom I am engaged in LGBT activism on Facebook. While we both respect each other and are fond of each other, we were hit by a bolt of malicious propaganda of the profile of my partner, the reason being, the supposed sudden knowledge of my ongoing fun and frolic with my friend which did not go down very well with my partner.

But the point is everyone else knew about it and the engagement proved that while on the one hand, we talk of regressive laws like Section 377 IPC, on ground, when two people of the same sex are engaged, all the world rejoices with them. Hence FUCK LAW! STOP SHOUTING and GO DO IT, if you want to!

The LGBT community in Delhi must know that their joy in destroying friendships and relationships between people of the same sex only reflects the instability of their own. And that like all relationships, it is very hard to break a partners who have been together, for a long time. Also, since we do not follow the normative way of life, it is possible for us to have more than one friendship with anyone. We are not monogamous, patriarchal and strictly limited within boundaries.

In my case especially, having moved and evolved over many relationships, my horizon is large and I care two hoots for words like marriage etc. If I can live a committed and loving relationship for 15 years, I can include one more same sex person to my relationship without having to go through marriage.

Having said that, if I so wish to enter the institution of marriage, I will do so and I will see how the Indian Court can stop me from doing that.

I say, STOP trying to prove you are a friend, when actually you are a dimwit, immature carrier of tales. And STOP harming people you love, or profess to do so!

Get the hell out of my way! You are neither loved nor respected any more by me! So Fuck Y'all!



Photo credit HERE

Stay away, you prick!

I am quite sure you are aware of the story that is going around on the internet these days?

No?

Oh!

Well, it is an age old discussion: how do you tell men that women count. That women have desires that need to be addressed, and men can’t just turn their face the other way pretending that because they, gendered male, made sex with a woman, she is over the hill with joy!

The First Online Tamil Lifestyle Magazine called Tamil Culture ( See link below) has done it going way out to bring sense to the male (It’s just about the penis) mind, to consider women’s desires too, before they go the whole hog to say, that only men count.

The nicely done article by Niveda Anandan hits hard on men. “But we Tamil women get horny too. Contrary to popular belief, we have sexual urges as well. Just as you experience complete sexual liberation, we wish to have the same without being judged and ridiculed as “not marriage material”. We are not objects to be judged as “easy” or “used” and are disgusted that you would even use these terms to describe us.” Atta girl!

Now, what is marriageable, material you may ask?

Please note: virgins, women who have never touched a man or not been touched by one either, who have kept their bodies covered and not exposed it to public, who have not hungered for sex, in mind and body, these are your, yours truly virgins; woman who have not had sex, before marriage, in other words. The impossible, is hardly possible in these times!

In a culture that is schizophrenic, caught between the extreme conservative and traditional while at the same time modern, Indian society stands as a classic clash between the past and the present. Really there are no women out there who fear being ‘deflowered’ before marriage. They simply follow what they have been taught from childhood – virginity is paramount and must be a treasure to be offered only on the night of marital conjugation, that too with a man, of course. Many are bolder and don’t waste their youth on such rules. Behind the curtain, sab chalta hai, everything goes!  They simply hoodwink the parents/guardians and go ahead to take a “full body dip, in the well of passion”. Refreshing change!

I ask why is it important for a woman to be a virgin to be marriageable. And the answer is: it boils down to that absurd practice remember, patriarchy thy name is foul. Primitive, regressive and downright demeaning, patriarchy is about possession – the body of a woman, land, house, wealth, jewels, all and everything that must go to the child who is the ‘real’ inheritor of the wealth, which is the legitimate child of an unpolluted (read virgin) woman, who belongs to one man.  

There are other questions that come to mind. Why has the article not addressed the growing numbers of women who love woman? In a state where the Chief Minister herself has been living with a woman for decades, why has the author not addressed these desires as well and told the men off!

If desire for love and sex is not to be dominated by the penis, then, it certainly breaks the patriarchal norms, and finds its own shore in some other bed. And that discussion has been left out, sadly. So, really, while fighting the battle against capital ‘P’ – prick and/or patriarchy, has the author, sidelined same sex partnership as a valid and bold route to overthrow the ‘P’-factor that ails our society?

Tamil Culture Online Magazine:

http://tamilculture.ca/an-open-letter-to-young-tamil-men/?fb_action_ids=554131964642752&fb_action_types=og.likes&fb_source=other_multiline&action_object_map=%7B%22554131964642752%22%3A457936860986712%7D&action_type_map=%7B%22554131964642752%22%3A%22og.likes%22%7D&action_ref_map

Dil, really jalta hai!

I have never been fond of the renowned singer, Saigal, with his nasal voice which reminded me of a man struggling with his ablutions! More so, after I was told and then heard with my own ears, my dear father’s voice which was just like him.

The man sat with his harmonium in the company of his friends, all playing different musical instruments. The saga started with the musicians first, tuning up and then setting forth with a medley mix of sounds that blended into each other, to make some musical sounds, until my father let out a sound emanating from somewhere deep, which probably was his large intestine and allowed it to find relief in the vocal exhalations, punctuated by a few ups and downs, like the choir singers at the Vatican.

This practice made me ponder on the meaning of deep itself, as to the physiological origin of the word, in a man’s biology. Arising out of this contemplation, came the realization that in so far as anything is concerned, which has to do with my father, my efforts would match his voice, to produce what I termed as the ‘Saigal Effect’. This meant that I would have to let out a similar pained sound out of my gut, or wherever, every time, I dealt with anything to do with him.

Now, I am not exaggerating I can assure you. Most of the people who know me, are aware of the strained relationship between my late father and mother and how there was no taalmil, compatibility between the two which resulted in one writing her own story and the other singing his own song! I stood on the periphery watching the tamasha, circus, as most children do in such cases and decided to take to my mother’s passion, which was words of poetry and story, precisely why I am here now to tell you the story of the latest version of the ‘Saigal Effect’ which  took over my life, only recently.

On my way to visit his place to sell a plot of land, which he so kindly left behind for me, only in his death, I was told at the eleventh hour, that the sale was not going to happen after all, because, the buyer, a man of the soil, who had been working on many other acres of my father’s land, when he was alive, did not have the money ready. But had he not told me, only in the morning and many times over in the last two months that the money was ready? Yes, of course, he had, but who can ever escape the long term adverse results of the ‘Saigal Effect’? Plans must be foiled; the family must do its bit to protect the land from going out to people who were merely labourers on my father’s land; how could they become owners; I who grew up with other pursuits of life must learn the hard way, that the zamindari system, the private ownership of land, is here to stay, as much as the caste system is, and that all efforts to sell the land, will meet with negation. And I must pay with time and money for being challenged enough not to understand that even my inheritance from my father, is necessarily, not mine, but belongs to my paternal house and all or a few male members of the family.

Yes, at these times, the ‘Saigal Effect’ does hit me hard and I know, where the frustrated, constipated sound came from – not from the gut, nor the intestine, nor what one might have held sacred as to cause anal retention, but way, way beyond that. The ‘Saigal Effect’ has its origin in a lost battle with sense and sensibility, fought by me and my mother, our whole life, with our counterpart, that being my father and his family.

Dil, really jalta hai! The heart really burns!