Book review: Behind the beautiful forevers

Katherine Boo with her first book

To really understand the labour of love that has gone into this book, it is more than essential to know who the author of this book is: Katherine Boo.

Katherine Boo is a staff writer at The New Yorker and a former reporter and editor for The Washington Post. Her reporting has been awarded a Pulitzer Prize, a MacArthur “Genius” grant, and a National Magazine Award for Feature Writing. For the last decade, she has divided her time between the United States and India. This is her first book. In her own words, she has been writing and reporting on people living on the other side of affluence, under the poverty line, in her own country, the United States. Since the last ten years, after she fell in love and married her Indian husband, Sunil Khilnani, she has been dividing her time between India and US.  Since, 2007 upto 2011, she has been working on this project of trying to find how those who live on the very edge of megacities like Mumbai, trying to make both ends meet, take to the changes that globalization has brought to India. It is with this keenness of observation, painstaking work of interviewing, re-interviewing, observing, collecting data and collating them, writing out a journal of events and talking to the persons all of whom feature in the book, finding and working with translators, government archives, police and many other bodies, that she finally wrote a book, which is a true story, as raw as raw can get. Because it is about those people who live just behind a massive wall on the beautiful Airport Road, to Mumbai’s Sahar Airport, a cluster of peoples who came mainly from Tamil Nadu, UP and Vidharbha, who make up the meat, the blood and the society called Annawadi, just Behind the beautiful forevers. In the book, Katherine has gone deep under the skin of all her characters, as if she had inherited India, in her bloodline and her birth. It is her shadow self, as it were. And given a taste of the reality to even those who live, love and sweat it out in Mumbai.


About the book:

Annawadi is a small strip of land, about 200 yards, just behind the high wall that hides the scum from the high class jest set, global Indian in and out of Sahar Airport, Mumbai.

This small space is rife with activities that almost run all across Mumbai is terrains one may call, spaces where those who live below the poverty line, as the cities scum and slum dwellers, making a day to day living, by collecting, organizing, selling stolen goods and rich people’s waste and throw away – the scavengers. Dirty, diseased, depressed, despondent, the inhabitants of Annawadi, make their living, by close knit neighbourhood all of whom are involved in making two ends meet by competition, squabbles, fist fights, daggers, knives, curses and daring, a life so different from those who live on the other side of the wall.

The central story revolves around two families, one of Zehrusia, her husband and her children, the most handy and helpful being Abdul. They share the tin wall with the One Leg, whose backside protrudes and lips are lustrous red, as in the afternoons, when her husband is at work, she entertains one lover after another, only for a few rupees. Yet, it is not her wayward behavior that caused a flurry of events to follow, that brought life to a stand still for Zehrusia’s family. It was in fact, the latter’s desire to have a kitchen of her own, a mere wall made of brick which could hold a shelf or two. But this ignited a sequence of events that play out themselves, exposing the rot that stinks in the whole system – call it the police, hospital or whatever. But did we not know all about it all? Not, it’s one thing to read about it, it is quite another, to sit there with the with all the characters in the book and go through it ourselves! So vivid it the experience!

But what was the great Asha doing while the two families were driven to disaster? Asha, from drought driven, Vidharbha had at twenty seen poverty and lack of education. At forty, she had used her charm to get herself ahead and while she was a teacher by profession, she had been taken to warm the beds of some politicians and policemen, including the local politician of the Annawadi. She didn’t mind; after all she was able to cater to higher dreams in her heart – her daughter Manju was going to college and studying Psychology, while holding a hut school in her own hut.  She was hoping to give her in marriage to a highly placed groom in the near future. As the custodian of Annawadi, she tried her best to be a good Council to Zehrusia. But the cost of freedom was too much to pay for mere scavengers!

Through out this book the reader is faced with life that is forever on the edge and yet life that never loses hope and the struggle, despondency, even death, all are part of a hope that never leaves the heart that one day, they will see a life, on the other side of the beautiful forever.

What then is the Beautiful Forever? Read it all, in what I deem as one of the best book I have laid my hand upon, a book, everyone, who lives in Mumbai, or loves Mumbai or ever has lived there, must read.

Last but not the least: A sure BIG Literary Award to Ms Karharine Boo, I predict. Or I will be dashed!


Title: Behind the beautiful forevers
Publisher: Hamish Hamilton (Penguin Group)
11, Community Centre,
Panchsheel Park, New Delhi 110 017
Author: Katherine Boo
Pages: 252
Price: ` 374
Buy: http://www.flipkart.com/behind-beautiful-forevers-0670086096/p/itmczyzpv9xbzgxy?pid=9780670086092&_l=gWxQa0snNjHUHKJhnj_y0w--&_r=rTZvC09ZGewtWga5620Bng--&ref=1ed13560-96ae-4e93-92a7-acef38692764

Read the book:

http://www.randomhouse.com/book/16017/behind-the-beautiful-forevers-by-katherine-boo

eBook:
http://www.randomhouse.com/book/16017/behind-the-beautiful-forevers-by-katherine-boo/ebook

Audio book:

http://www.randomhouse.com/book/16017/behind-the-beautiful-forevers-by-katherine-boo/audiobook



Get the feel of Waste - A film on Waste by Paresh Baruah at Dharavi Slums of Mumbai

http://infochangeindia.org/Media-Fellowship-Waste.html

The literature of the elite

Sunil Gangopadhyay

“The literature that is being created in our country through the medium of the printing press, is still primarily the literature of the elite. We have a country where only an average of 60% of the population is moderately educated. It is fair to assume that no more than 15 – 20% read literature. We have, therefore, a literature for which 80 – 85% of the country’s population is totally absent. Should this literature not be considered utterly unreal?” – Sunil Gangopadhyay in a memorable speech delivered at the 2010 Sahitya Akademi Award Presentation Ceremony in New Delhi.

Taking it from there, he went on to cite the example of a poor boy and his father who came to his house regularly to beg by singing songs. In fact, they came so often and sang songs, three in all, that Sunil Gangopadhyay too had learnt the lines by listening to them. On enquiry, it was found that the songs had been taught to the father by his Guru and later he taught the son the songs. Gangopadhyay had even learnt of the name of this guru from them, but had not heard of this guru, or a poet, writer by this name. He did not ask of course, if his guru was a beggar too.

Strangely, one of the songs even crept into the movies but of course the credit of the lyrics went to the composer and not the original poet/guru who had composed it.

Hundreds and thousands of poets have concealed their identity and not made much ado about their creations he went on to say, perhaps because they were too modest to “show” off their lines. Besides, only after the printing press came into being, words could find a name attached to the person who had created those lines. Many poets took advantage of this, many did not. Therefore, there is and was a huge base of the unsung poets who did not care to be out in print and that does not feature in what is called literature of today.

Going on to speak of Jean Paul Satre denouncement of Saint Jean Genet, whose writing of his Autobiography from the prison gave him a place in French Literature, Gangopadhyay, cites an example of the elite rejection of literature that does not meet their pre-decided criteria, as Genet was an anti-social, a lout but he wrote in an act of self-expression, a book which he himself hardly believed would create such a revolution in French literature. The right to self-expression is universal. In countries like India, where poverty may be one of the most critical reason why literature of those who are not publishing through the printing press are shaded out, we have a bigger monster here called the caste system, which adds insult to injury, by preempting that literature of the upper caste may prevail over let us say the Dalits whose voices are unheard, except for a few like Dilip Chitre. There may be a wealth of literature under the poverty line and on the other side of the LoD ( line of  discrimination) based on caste.

This has then given rise to religious groups which consist mainly of the downtrodden. In Bengal Sri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu’s movement which has grown to a humongous size now, called Hare Rama, Hare Krishna movement was essentially a movement of the poor and impoverished, although Sri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu belonged to a high Brahmin caste. He became a Master of the deprived, because he did not believe in the caste system. He drew to himself a huge crowd of people, hungry for a let up from their condition, by embracing a movement that gave them equal status, in the love of the Divine Krishna.

Gangopadhyay went on to say that from time to time some writers do write about the impoverished peasants and working class, and the uneducated. Yet, we are still very far from reflecting the true colour of these neglected segments of our society and although their lives are rich with poetry and music, only a fraction reaches us, the elite readers and writers of literature.

However, whatever may be the case, Gangopadhyay, had ended his remarkable speech with the observation that Radio, TV had reached every corner of the country and the resurgence of Dalit literature was heartwarming, because, this indicated that the times, they are a changing.

( Abstract taken from The Indian Literature, Sahitya Akademi’s Bi-monthly Journal, March/April 2011  issue, pgs – 21-27)


A few of my points:

The recent uprising of Literature Festivals reiterates the fact that Literature is for the elite, the educated, widely travelled and ready to flaunt their work, at the same time, it has been instrumental in creating more awareness and accessibility of the wider audience to the authors as well. 

The literature of those who chose not to make much ado about their work and not chase publishers has still not been tapped. They will go without recognition, or the pleasure of our eyes ever going through their thoughts.

Many, who have made it to feminist literature, will continue to disown, literature by women who also chose to keep a low profile. Indeed, they will not be called India’s Women, who created a stir in other people’s heart, when they sang or wrote out of their own. They will continue to be considered not among those, approved by a select society of feminists, who are in the same category as the elite who see their works printed and who attend Literary Festivals. I say this with profound sadness when a well-known person from one of Bengal’s well known literary families said about my mother, who indeed, had been too shy to publish and yet, magazines like Desh, published her work called Janini,  which brought stalwarts like Bhibutibhushan Bondhopadhyay to our door in search of this writer, who was my mother,  - “But we don’t consider your mother, excuse me for saying it, one among the woman’s voices in Bengal. If that was the case, there are hundreds and thousands of such voices in Bengal.”


RIP Sunil da: http://news.oneindia.in/2012/10/23/bengali-novelist-sunil-gangopadhyay-passes-away-obit-1087916.html

Orbituary: The Hindu, 24 October, 2012: http://www.thehindu.com/news/the-man-who-carried-the-modern-consciousness-of-bengal/article4026398.ece

A moment of satori

As the only child of separated parents, throughout my life I held a grouse against my father, who had failed to participate in my life altogether.

He was indifferent to everything except his music. My mother and I suffered immensely due to his absence from our lives. Though we covered it up with stoic strength, yet in my heart I bore pain and anger towards him.

According to my grandmother, my father, her second son, showed early signs of detachment. His temperament was withdrawn – staying away often from the family, with only his flute for company. She feared he would join the monastery. She therefore arranged to have him married.

Her endeavour, however, met with failure. My father emerged from his shell for a while, just enough to beget me, after which he withdrew into his own.

I was born in my maternal grandparents’ house. The only difference was, that my mother stayed back and did not return.

But quite by chance something happened a couple of days ago.

A voracious reader, I came across a blog post which spoke about a place called Comilla in Bangladesh.

I knew that my forefathers came from Comilla.

The blogger, Reema Islam, wrote, “Known as Samatata between 6th-13th century AD, Bangladesh fell under the region called Vanga which was in close proximity to Magadha. Magadha was a powerful state since the time of Asoka (304-232 BC). Buddhist traveler Huien Tsang, (7th-8th century AD) wrote in his journal that he found an institution called Kanakastupa Vihara in Samatata. The newly excavated Salban Vihara in Comilla is, in all likelihood, the same institution he mentioned.”

At once, like a sudden flash of light, a shift in perspective happened. I understood for the first time where my father came from. Who is to say that he had not inherited the reclusiveness of the monks? That he himself was not a monk reincarnate, from his past lives in that land? Maybe, he just came to fulfil a past karmic connection with my mother and as soon as that was over, they separated. Maybe there was nothing of any karmic baggage that we, as father and daughter, carried around each other. Maybe, we were always free of each other and hence, we had nothing to do with each other. No great exchange, nothing to carry forward.

It was a moment of satori. A paradigm shift happened in my understanding of the relationship with my father. The anger and hurt dissolved as my heart opened up closing the door to the past.

I was free.


Julia Dutta, New Delhi

First published in Life Positive January 2012 Edition

http://www.lifepositive.com/Lifemag/full_story.asp

Published again in The Mustard Seed, a journal of creative faith August 2012 issue

Ref:
http://yellowleg.wordpress.com/2011/08/23/samatata-ancient-comilla/

Chhabees gyarah...

Painting by Jamini Roy

 

Shukriya! Jo aap ne mujhse baat ki hai
Yadon mein rahegi
Shabdo ki jagah aaj kal aap
Mujhse bolne lagi hai woh bhasha mein
Jo kaan se sunai deti nahi
Na lafz se bola jati
Woh bhasa jo hazaar khwaish karney se bhi
Sunai nahi deti

Khamoshi!

Shukriya! Aap ne mujhe yaad dila diya
Ki guzrey huye din, aab lout ke nahi aayenge
Marne walley kabhi lautke nahi aayenge
Jo guzar gaya woh mor ke nahi dekhtey
Unkey bhasha  kaan se sunai nahi deti
Na lafz se boli jati
Woh bhasa jo hazaar khwaish karney se bhi
Sunai nahi deti

Khamoshi!

Insaan hu mein, koi pari nahi
Sapna dekhna haq samajhti hu mein
Awaaz hai, dilki dharkan sunai deti hi mujhe
Zinda hu aab bhi, alvidah na kahiye

Afsos! Aap mere kareeb nahi rahe
Samay ne loot li sacchayi saarey
Aur chor gayey hamarey dono ke beech

Woh bhasha jo kaan se sunai deti nahi
Na lafz se bola jati
Woh bhasa jo hazaar khwaish karney se bhi
Sunai nahi deti

Khamoshi!

-          Julia Dutta, Delhi 26.11.11

छब्बीस ग्यारह...

शुक्रिया! जो आपने मुझसे बात की है

यादों में रहेगी

शब्दों की जगह आजकल आप

मुझसे बोलने लगे हैं वो भाषा में

जो कान से सुनाई देती नहीं

न लफ्ज़ से बोली जाती

वो भाषा जो हज़ार ख्वाहिश करने से भी

सुनाई नहीं देती

खामोशी!

शुक्रिया! आपने मुझे याद दिला दिया

कि गुज़रे हुए दिन, अब लौट के नहीं आएँगे

मरने वाले कभी लौटके नही आएँगे

जो गुज़र गया वो मुड़ के नहीं देखते

उनकी भाषा कान से सुनाई नहीं देती

न लफ्ज़ से बोली जाती

वो भाषा जो हज़ार ख्वाहिश करने से भी

सुनाई नहीं देती

खामोशी!

इन्सान हूँ मैं, कोई परी नहीं

सपना देखना हक समझती हूँ मैं

आवाज़ है, दिल की धड़कन सुनाई देती है मुझे

ज़िन्दा हूँ अब भी, अलविदा न कहिए

अफसोस! आप मेरे करीब नहीं रहे

समय ने लूट ली सच्चाई सारी

और छोड़ गए हमारे दोनों के बीच

वो भाषा जो कान से सुनाई देती नहीं

न लफ्ज़ से बोली जाती

वो भाषा जो हज़ार ख्वाहिश करने से भी

सुनाई नहीं देती

खामोशी!

जूलिया दत्ता, दिल्ली 26.11.11