NELit review

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APRIL 08, 2012

SEVEN SISTERS

Its been a good fight

What does it mean to be a single mother, have a full-time job and live up to the responsibilities of being a well-known writer? Temsula Ao grapples with the many aspects of her life in her forthcoming autobiography. Here are two excerpts from the book for the readers to know how her memoirs begin and how they end

Subhamoy Bhattacharjee

HE narratives in this book cover some of the most significant incidents in the different phases of my life, a life that went on to overcome the travails of a difficult childhood, early marriage and the subsequent responsibilities of a single parent raising four children and coping with the demands of a full-time job. The memories of that life presented here are the most insistent ones which depict the journey of an individual in search of the self-worth once lost to time and circumstances. This book is basically a memoir rather than an autobiography because, as Gore Vidal has said, A memoir is how one remembers ones life, while an autobiography is history, requiring research, dates and facts double-checked. Therefore the accuracy required in an autobiography has not been attempted here; nor has any chronological detail or sequence been mentioned or strictly followed. The only principle adhered to here is the effort to present the authenticity and intensity of the impressions retained in the memory of a heart which has borne the burden of their truth these many years with the clarity and sharpness that have not been diluted or lessened by time. At the most intimate and personal level, the book is an attempt to put a semblance of coherence and a sense of summation into the dialogue that I have been trying to have with my children over these long years, ver-

bal or otherwise, in order to make them understand what has gone into the making of this imperfect woman whom they call mother. There were many times when my prattling about my own childhood as contrasted with theirs would evoke the response, Yes mommy, but those days were different. At other times I would be rebuffed by their silence; hurting inside, but unable to proceed further because I did not know how to penetrate the barrier of their youthful indifference. At times I even accused them inwardly of being insensitive and unfeeling. But in spite of being in an uneasy and prolonged state of parental limbo which became my lot, I persevered because I believed that I deserved to be heard and if verbal communication failed, then I had to leave them a legacy in writing which would make them appreciate what they are now and what they have had in terms of parental love and care. This is, therefore, an offering to my children, my version of the book of knowledge about ordinary lives: the joys and sorrows, about plenty and poverty and, most importantly, about love and what it is like to be deprived of it.

iNKPOT
is not always clear or smooth; I need to remind myself about how far I am behind the other runners. Sometimes I confess I feel like the athlete who is caught doing only the first lap when the winner has already reached the finishing line! But I still scribble lines, compose story frames and spend the occasional sleepless night and so the struggle goes on. The rewards of being a writer are not monetary alone, though the odd cheque from publishers is a timely reminder that you ought to keep up the good fight! And there is the all-important question of genius; the sooner one accepts ones limitations as a writer, the better will be the going. Being a famous writer, I believe, comes with a price and I often wonder what the big prize winners think when they receive the frenzied accolades of a Nobel or Booker or a host of others. Do they feel burdened with the expectations that go with the recognition? I am sure that they do because the reading public can often be unrelenting in their demands for a bestseller each time from such writers. And then sometimes one hears about the learned doubts: whether a particular book truly deserved the

ONCE UPON A LIFE: BURNT CURRY AND BLOODY RAGE

Temsula Ao Publisher:Zubaan Books Year Of Publication : Forthcoming
prize. Such remarks sometimes lead to speculations about what goes into the politics of selection. Of course these are matters that writers like me, mere dots on the literary horizon, can only observe from the periphery. Nevertheless, the fact remains that these special writers, too many to name here, are the luminaries in the visible rings of the literary universe whose works ignite our imagination and enthral us with the power of their genius.

But the inherent beauty and scope of literature is such that within that universe there are countless other unsung writers whose work can equally delight and inform. As for peripheral writers like me, there is a definite sense of validation when I am told that my writings, both poetry and fiction, have found a place in the syllabi of colleges and universities not only in the region but elsewhere in the country too; and the knowledge that some scholars are writing MPhil and PhD theses on my poetry truly gives me the impetus to continue writing. Such interest in my work also makes me believe that what I write is relevant to the people and to life in general; and as a writer I feel that this is the most important ingredient in any writing: that literature be relevant to life. I often ask myself this question: what has being a writer done to my life? The first practical answer would be: it has given me an excellent outlet to occupy my leisure after retirement. I feel that there is still some purpose in my life when I am pecking away at my computer with one finger, even if the result quite often turns out to be awful poetry or insipid fiction! Still, I can say to myself, at least I am doing something! Not just lolling on the bed and spending endless hours before the idiot box! Pursuing a full-time vocation of writing has provided me with a novel way of occupying my time at this stage in my life when most of the struggles of my earlier life seem to be over and done with. This life also provides me with opportunities to keep in touch with other writers and poets from whom I can draw inspiration and gain insights into the world of other literatures and cultures. The intellectual energy generated through this pursuit in many ways also helps me to overcome the physical infirmities brought on by time! Mind over matter? Truth be told, being considered a writer flatters me and I feel that in some way this validates my pretensions of being an intellectual! Who knows perhaps this was the recognition that I was searching for when I bungled through life in the most inexpert way. I used to think of myself then only as a frustrated housewife who was seeking something unattainable in life. And now I think that if only I could produce something more worthwhile than what I have been able to do so far, I am sure that my life-long striving for that extra but elusive dimension to my life will be somewhat vindicated. But on the other hand, I have no illusion about the tenor of the life that I have had. It has been wholly an ordinary life comparable to any others that one sees every day and in that sense this memoir is not going to be an earth-shaking or life-changing one. I have written this because, as I have explained earlier, I had to. What I have tried to do here is to say that it is the ordinariness of life that becomes so important to so many of us. It is the ordinariness that challenges us and pits us against enormous odds. From where I stand now, I can see the contours that this ordinariness has given to my life and how the challenges put me through the crucible of my own failings and weaknesses to achieve, albeit in a modest way, what I was striving for. The rewards and joys of this ordinary life have far outweighed the hardships and heartaches. I can now say in all sincerity that it has been a good fight; and above all, I am sure that someday my children will be able to say, We understand you, mother.T
(One of the most prominent writers from the Northeast, Temsula Aos books include: Laburnum for My Head, These Hills Called Home: Stories from A War Zone, and The Ao-Naga Oral Tradition. She received the Padma Shri in 2007 and her works have been widely translated.)

NEW PRINTS
KHALIL GIBRANOR PROPHET
Jyotiprasad Saikia Natun Asam, 2011 `100, 87 pages Hardcover/ Non-fiction

RANSLATION of Khalil Gibrans collection of poetic essays, The Prophet

THE HABIT OF LOVE

Namita Gokhale Penguin Books, 2012 `250, 184 pages Paperback/ Fiction

collection of stories about lives of women from the past and the present

ANOTHER CHANCE
Ahmed Faiyaz Westland, 2011 `195, 217 pages Paperback/ Fiction

story about people looking for a second chance to mend their lives. To be filmed in 2012

Northeast

NUGGETS
uArunachal Pradesh has more than 500 orchids. In which districts are the Orchidoriums situated? t At Tippi, Dirang and Sessa in West Kameng district. uWhich is the oldest town in Arunachal Pradesh? t Pasighat. It was established by the British in 1919.

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A writer never feels that all is said or done yet, especially one like me who seems to have stumbled into the arena quite by accident. The road ahead is longer and more tortuous. In all honesty, I can say that my road

Source: Haksar, Nandita (ed.). 2011. Glimpses of North East India. Chicken Neck: New Delhi

A short poetical journey P ipen

OETRY, like music and painting, is an intensely personal thing at the very beginning. Sometimes it reaches the places of ascent or descent by means of stairways, makes small discoveries. Sometimes it sprawls across the page with dizzy escalations or sudden wild drops. Generally the title of the poetry book manifests what kind of a person the poet is: traditional, aggressive, progressive, conventional, etc. This Ancient Lyre, a collection of the best poems of famous Malayalam poet ONN Kurup, apparently guides us through the lyrical simplicity, traditionally acquired knowledge, and youthful passion of the poet: Coated with pollen. Moss festooned it without and inside It was alluvial with silt so rich It grew orchids (from Asylum, by Jerry Pinto).

nial Cameo, he tried to capture his East-meet-West legacy: In the evening my father used to make me read aloud from Macaulay or Abbots Napoleon (he was short and Napoleon, his hero; I his hope for the future). My mother, born in a village, had never taught It is always pleasant to have a sense of belonging to and a recreated beauty of the Northeast in the poems. In Street on the Hill, Anjum Hasan brings the much-ignored Northeast literature to light: We have hills in our blood but end up smelling fat cars on city streets and garbage strewn under rain We speak in stories: raconteurs, mimics, chroniclers all, with vast memories and no nameplates (My Folks) In Rain, she writes: You will hear it walking to the roar of a ceiling fan, in the rustling of dry palm leaves, in pebbles pouring from a lorry onto the dusty street. Finally its time to recall the memories and finish my journey reminding readers of A Negro Nun from Dr Birinchi Kumar Baruahs Professor Baruar Sithi ( Professor Baruahs Letter) :

Womens Right and Empowerment:

GYANENDRA SHRAVAN PHUKAN

JORHAT

Passion that came to woo this virgin earth! How could you take Indras gorgeous bow and shatter it so In Kurups poetry, the chronology of poems plays a significant role in discovering the poets ideological as well as aesthetic evolution. Poetry is the process of transferring the muse of the poet through his/her fingertips. Some poets look deep into the objects that give shape to things: shadow, mirror, glass. They travel between the past and the present in search of meanings, record the organic feelings, and meditate on its writing:

What earthly use are we to our lost brother when we must stay partly lost to find each other? Only by this-this shrewd obliquity Of speech, the broken word and the white lie, Do we check ourselves, as we might halt the sun One degree from the meridian. (from Landing Light, by Don Paterson) Again, some poets try to define their own position as individuals and poets in relation to hereditary attitudes and patterns of image. They draw on their relatives memories, reveal their alignment with others poetry, recognise the twinned nature of the gestures like caring and spurring, nurturing and poisoning, etc. in life: As Dadiba shrivelled and died His matka began to bloom Until the roaches walked from it

Poetry is a place for drawing intersections, arousing hopes ( Melting down the lean summers/of history/we shall make our own sunrise/in the east), demanding justice, asking questions (would our bones too turn into/ stones such as these/thatd dumbly narrate these lines to/ another cosmonaut who may one day perchance land here?).

Every day feels like death Due to this double-faced justice When we make the law for men Then will they learn Let us talk of a common justice And attain our victor

Her white robe was a symbol Of purity And her sweet, black face Revealed purity If humans, black or white Could come to a realisation That a black face Can symbolise purity And a white none may devote evil As well as goodness Then the grave colour problem Of our country Will be solved.

In Dreaming at Mukesh Mills, Jerry Pinto draws intersection between two generations in a same space. A textile mill rendered derelict by a strike, now used as a location by film-makers. Its an intersection between father and son, father once worked for the mill and the son is a film technician: The hoarse voices around him become tug-boat cries; The sun is a floodlight, he is reeled up flat, The mill will go. The sun will lose. He can taste defeat and it is strangely like his own spit. In Tamil Nadu, an ordinary Muslim woman composed a poem in one of the state level conferences on Muslim

They wanted a separate mosque for women with a woman maulvi, who is well-versed in the Quran and the tenents of Islam. Poetry reveals philosophy, religion, form and structure. Poets explore new areas of psychological insight: the depressions, the pain, and their ultimate revelations: A lone tree waiting without shadow or purpose; a figure moving along its luminous borders, undisturbed by what happens here. the world ends there, and what lies beyond is only what the mind so competently conceives during hours of pain and pleasure (from Painting the House, by Bibhu Padhi) The poet is never afraid to criticise what is wrong. Regi Siriwardena, a Sri Lankan poet, stood firm against Sinhala majoritarianism, and criticised Tamil chauvinism and militancy. In Colo-