Accidentally in the morning while aimlessly flicking the TV channels I came across an ongoing Kavi Sammelan. A sammelan is kind of an assembly or a congregation and in this particular sammelan poets were reciting poetry. The program was being hosted by a renowned Hindi poetry and literature scholar Ashok Chakradhar. Although we live in the same colony, I have never seen him in person but he is undoubtedly the coolest living poet I have yet seen in the mainstream media circle.
Leaving the host, all but one poets were mediocre who sounded more frustrated with a runaway muse and less poetic. The exceptional poet, and tragically I cannot recall his name, sounded like an island of harmony in the sea of cacophony. Every word of his dripped of class not because his thoughts spanned Gandhi and Socrates but the truth they encapsulated, and the preachy disenchantments they avoided. He didn’t have to ridicule a person or a trend to sound amusing as Hindi writers generally do. He just mentioned what was happening and what was not happening in the country. He was mentioning the broken expectations of a betrayed population that has eventually given up and joined the chimerical world of materialism.
He looked old and poor. He wore cheap clothes and he didn’t look well-fed. There was anger in his eyes but no resignation. The best thing in him was, the only strength he had was his words and he used them potently.
A few days ago it was Munshi Premchand’s death anniversary. He is a giant among Hindi writers and can be easily equated with Dostoyevsky and Chekhov (I know it is not appropriate to compare, but I draw parallels for the benefit of those who are not aware of Hindi literature in general and Munshi Premchand in particular). Premchand wrote when the British ruled India and the society was saturated with illiteracy, superstition and poverty. He can truly be called a writer of the masses. He was not well-off and he worked as a munshi (a book keeper) most of his life — that’s why his name was preceded by this word. His real name was Dhanpat Rai.
He wrote after coming back from work and he mostly wrote in Hindi and Urdu. His stories always revolved around the day-to-day activities of the common folks. Those activities didn’t have to be earth-shattering events. When I was in school I read his story about two oxen that had to be sold because the owner ran out of money. But after selling the oxen who had been reared almost like two sons, the poor couple was crestfallen. At the same time the oxen (Heera and Moti, I think) too were desperate to return. The story has many incidents but in the end all are united.
On the eve of his death anniversary a news channel was showing his ancestral house where great novels such as Karambhumi, Shatranj Ke Khiladi (this was made into an award-winning movie) and Godaan were conceived. The house is dilapidated. There are gaping holes in the roof and long grass has grown everywhere. Doors and windows have been eaten by weather and termites and the floor has ceased to exist. Nobody lives there and nobody goes there. Until recently drunkards and gamblers used to spend time there. The government and various literary agencies talk of restoring the house and turning it into a national heritage structure but nothing of that sort seems to be happening.
In Delhi we have a Tolstoy Road and we even have a Pushkin Road but I’m yet to come across a Premchand Lane or a Road, at least in Delhi (or maybe I’m not aware of its existence).
What rot must there be in a society that cannot respect its great writers.
