“The Empty Chest" by Indira Goswami, Indian Literatures in English, 3rd Year 6th Semester, B.A English Literature, Syllabus, University of Madras

B.A English Literature

3^rd Year 6^th Semester

Indian Literatures in English

UNIT 4. Short Story

4.4. “The Empty Chest” - Indira Goswami

About Writer:
            Indira Goswami, or Mamoni Raisom Goswami as she is popularly known, is among the best-kown names in the field of Assamese literature. She was a Professor in the Department of Modern Indian Languages in the University of Delhi. A prolific writer, Dr Goswami has been honoured with a numb er of prestigious awards including the Jnanpith Award for the year 2000. She dies in 2011. Her stories are characterized by an unusual sensitivity and a felicity of expression. The themes explored in her stories are wide ranging – the pain of thwarted passion, blighted hopes, and the struggle for existence – and they transcend the ambience with ease.
Text:
            No one got up at this hour, not even the people who had come to live on the fringes of the cremation ground under the shrine of Kamakhya. A few bulbuls chattered in the Hijol tree in front of Toradoi's shack. A flock of yellow-billed goru-bok had just flown past, heading for the horizon to the east of the Brahmaputra. The stench of burnt human flesh stole across the cremation ground to mingle with the sweet scent of distant lemon blossom.
            Coming out of her shack, Toradoi saw that Haibor, the fire wood-vendor from the crematory, was standing under the Hijol tree. His spindly legs stuck out of his black shorts. His white teeth gleamed like the chewed-up remains of sugarcane sticks.
Toradoi darted back into the house.
"What is left in this body to draw you back?" she muttered.
"Why don't you leave me in peace?"
How well she remembered some of his words. They fell on her ears, again, like hammer blows.
"It will be a long time before that drunkard of yours comes out of jail. That is, if he comes out at all! After all, he has killed not one, but two people by ramming into them. It has been proved that he was drunk while driving. But I am here, don't worry! I will help, only keep the door open at night. This Way at least your two kids won't starve to death!" Haibor had said.
Since then, lured by the prospect of seeing Toradoi's door open to him he had come, even before daybreak, to stand under the Hijol tree where the birds chirped and sipped honey from the flowers above his head.
When finally Toradoi went out again and looked around, Haibor was nowhere in sight. No, this firewood-vendor was not among those who furtively came to see the wooden chest she had scavenged from the cremation ground.
Toradoi peered around. Was someone still prying?
What kind of people were these, who liked to sniff at each other like the starved do? Shameless bastards! As if they would not strip you naked if they could. The other day the zemindar of Chakroad died-now doesn't the chowkidar Haladhar's hag of a wife sleep on the zemindar's bed made of Uriam wood? Doesn't the woodcutter Sukura's wife puff away at the hookah scrounged from this cremation ground? Some people had even salvaged gold rings from the charred remains of cremated bodies-but no, no one kept track of those things. No one had the morbid curiosity to go and see how Haladhar's spectre-like wife slept on the zernindar's bed. The belongings of the dead were scattered in the shacks and shanties in and around the crematorium. Various opulent objects peeked from these incongruous settings. Yet all eyes were only on this black box of hers!
Toradoi returned to her shack. She could see her sleeping children. Anyone could count their ribs. Their trousers hung loose like the hides of goats strung up in a butcher's shop. But there, next to them, lay the wooden chest! Its very existence was a source of strength to Toradoi.
She caressed the chest with her hands. The bakul flowers, beautifully engraved on its sides, seemed quite real. She pressed her cheek to these flowers. After that, as on other days, she wriggled into the huge chest and by there, leaving its cavernous mouth open.
Strange! Strange indeed! Revelling in the incomparable pleasure she felt, she lay inert or for a long time in this chest which had been flung aside after it had been divested of its dead passenger. When she had scrounged the chest from the cremation ground she had to take out some blood-stained pieces from it. She had almost forgotten about that, Toradoi wept.
After some time, a police jeep roared past her hut. Usually no vehicles other than police cars passed this way. Were the certificates pertaining to the handing over of the bodies of people killed by gunshot in order? Was it true, as the chowkidar's report would have it, that someone had come and burnt a bastard-child here without getting a 'handover' certificate? And what about the unregistered corpses? Such were the matters that drew the police to this area. Also, the flesh-trade of the prostitutes of Satgaon flourished here.
It seemed as if the higher the flames devouring the dead, the greater was the heat generated by the bodies of these prostitutes. Yes, there were so many things that the police had to attend to! So many matters that ensured a continual movement of police cars that led to altercations between the police and members of the crematorium committee.
Toradoi woke up with a start at the sound of the police zonga.
Vermillion and flowers, which were meant for decorating the hair, lay scattered inside the chest. Strange! How had her very being become so inextricably entangled with this inanimate chest? This wooden chest bore the imprints of her personality - her hair, oil, vermillion. Last night she had again taken out her wedding blouse from the pile of tattered clothes, and put it on. It was her only article of clothing, which was still intact. Looking at her reflection in the mirror in the flickering light of a kerosene lamp, she had combed her hair with frantic eagerness, as she had done ten years ago. She had not even felt the comb grate against the bones on her shoulder and neck. In those days she had hardly known of the existence of bones, buried underneath the abundance of pliant flesh. Now people said that she was one of the numerous living skeletons subsisting on the cremation ground.
Was anyone looking?
These days people peeped through crannies and gaps between doors and windows and walls. Her boys, now sleeping peacefully, had complained that people spied all the time-secretively.
"Shame, shame! Sleeping in the box that carried the dead! Throw it away!" the voices seemed to say.
Toradoi snuggled into the chest. This experience was unique.
Suddenly, someone gave a massive kick to the door. Startled and flustered, Toradoi got up. Straining her ears, she heard the booming voice of her brother, Someswar, who worked in the police.
"Toradoi! Toradoi!"
As soon as Toradoi opened the door a man dressed in police uniform burst in. He was sturdily built, with an imposing moustache. He wore a pair of huge, ungainly boots and carried a sizable stick.
"1 haven't been able until now, to find the time to see how you are. Today my duty is in these parts. That woman from Satgaon has virtually set up shop here. It seems virtue is totally extinct. Only the other day Barua died and his two sons brought his body to the crematory. While one was busy performing the last rites, the other gave everyone the slip and was in that prostitute's room in a twinkle. Really, we have fallen on evil days!"
Suddenly he gave a gasp and retreated a few steps as if he'd seen a snake. Someswar gaped at the massive, elaborately decorated wooden chest. Going closer he tapped it with his stick. Then he walked around it. Finally, he knelt down by its side and taking out a handkerchief rubbed his eyes. The man who had rushed in like a storm a few moments earlier, now resembled a dejected and defeated soldier. He looked at Toradoi and asked in a broken voice, "Is there some water in the house? Get me a glass of water, will you?"
He gulped down the water and then, said with his head downcast, "What I heard is true, then. Saru Bopa's corpse travelled here in this chest. I accompanied the family part of the way from the airport. Yes, this is that chest, all right."
Casting a level and direct gaze at Toradoi, he said, "Don't think I don't remember that you worked for them. Everyone knows what a great help you were when Saru Bopa's father, the Thakur, was ill. Washing all those clothes stained with blood and pus. And Saru Bopa?" Someswar's voice grew heavy with emotion. "He was so fond of you. Wasn't that the time when he was bent on marrying you? What a fracas there was in the Thakur's household over this! Then came the hasty transfer to Upper Assam-and then-the accident."
Toradoi asked suddenly, "What killed him?"
''A jeep. What a fine figure of a man he was! After removing the blood-stained pieces of ice I helped hoist his body on to the funeral pyre. With these two hands of mine. Fresh young blood on my hands .... "
Looking at Toradoi standing like a statue, he could not complete his sentence. The big, black box with its open mouth was like some mysterious cave, separating and alienating the two of them. Suddenly Someswar stood up and bellowed. There was a hint of the theatrical in his gesture. "Toradoi, the days of the sahebs marrying the daughters of labourers are gone. The grass now grows tall over the bones of Jenkins Saheb who married a labourer's girl. The big saheb's son, Saru Bopa, vowed he'd marry you. But could he do it? Did he succeed in taking you away from this hovel and giving you a place in a house with a tin-roof?"
A sigh that seemed to rack her whole being escaped Toradoi. "Only because he couldn't marry me, did he remain a bachelor. Twelve whole years have gone by-probably he would not have married at all."
The huge constable glared at Toradoi. Beating a staccato note on the floor with his stout lathi he stood up, cursing Toradoi in a deep, rumbling voice. "You are still as much of an idiot now as you were when you gave yourself completely to the Thakur's son. I work in the police, so I have heard everything and have come prepared."
Toradoi looked helplessly at her brother. She had managed to salvage something precious from what had once been would her brother deprive her of even that?
By this time the sleeping children had got up. The three of them huddled together. They looked like phantoms from the cremation ground.
Someswar started rummaging in his pocket. The boys thought he was going to come up with something for them, just as the man did who always waited for their mother. After all, he was their uncle, though he had not once come to inquire after them when their father had gone to jail.
The three creatures continued to stare at Someswar, Toradoi could almost hear her own heartbeats.
Someswar dug out a bundle of letters from his pocket and flung them in Toradoi's face. "Here, take these wedding cards of his," he declared. "Seeing the way things are going, I came prepared. Saru Bopa was not planning to stay an eternal bachelor because of you. His wedding had been fixed. Wedding cards had also been printed. Read them.
Read them! In fact he was on his way home to get married when the accident happened. Read them and pray for the peace of his soul."
As he was about to rush out of the room, he suddenly noticed the boys clinging to their mother. He searched for some coins, but his mind was already on other things. Toradoi could hear him mutter, "If I can catch that woman who peddles her body to mourners, or catch Haibor red-handed, I can make this trip worthwhile. That bastard Haibor passes off worm-eaten wood as Sal wood." Taking out a fistful of coins, Someswar thrust them into the eager hands of the boys and retraced his steps. The moment their fingers closed on the coins, the half-starved urchins streaked off to the nearest shop.
Toradoi remained rooted to the spot near the pile of wedding cards. She reached out for the cards like someone groping for the bones of the dead among the ashes of the crematorium.
Yes indeed, these were invitations to a wedding. Toradoi did not venture out for many days. Tormented by unbearable hunger, her two boys were driven to beg from the people who came to burn bodies. Someone had tied a gamocha (which must have been worn by a person performing the last rites) around the younger boy's head. The boys had managed to scavenge two empty liquor bottles from the cremation ground. These they had washed, filled with water from the: well, near the statue of Yama astride a buffalo. They drank the water to quench their hunger. The neighbours knew that Toradoi's hearth was cold.
The big black chest lay with its mouth yawning open, like the cavernous mouth of hell. Under the Hijol tree Haibor kept up his unceasing vigil. One morning, while the gloom of night still clung to the sky, Toradoi and her two sons could be seen dragging the wooden chest towards the cremation ground. Toradoi put the box on the spot where the bastard-child had been controversially burnt. She set fire to it.
The bulbuls on the Hijol tree started chirping noisily. The sun rose above the Brahmaputra. Wreaths of violet and brown clouds clung to it, making it look like the pinched and paleface of a hapless prostitute, blushing at the thought of having to spend time with an unwanted stranger. The clouds seemed to lay bare the strange combination of helplessness and indomitable strength on this face.
The cinders of the burnt-out chest were scattered all over the place. In the morning sunshine this resembled the hide of a freshly butchered goat, spread out on the earth to dry.
Toradoi came out of her shack. She wore no chadar. The man who always stood under the Hijol tree was not there.
Translated from Assamese by Pradipta Borgohain
Summary:
The Empty Chest is based on a true story of a coffin found in a cremation ground. The sight of the coffin made the writer brood and she created a life- like personal? Story of Toradoi, the protagonist. The story was first published in an Assamese magazine in the nineties.
The protagonist Toradoi lives in a shack near a cremation ground. One day she finds a bloodstained empty chest lying on the ground. On coming to know that it had carried the dead body of her lover Saru Bopa, she retrieves it and takes it to her shack. Saru Bopa was the son of a zamindar in whose house Toradoi had worked, and had died in an accident. Saru Bopa and Toradoi were in love with each other and he had vowed that he would marry her. But he did not marry her and they get separated.
She decorates herself in whatever meagre way she can and sleeps inside the empty chest in order to relive her moments of love with her lover until the reality dawns upon her. She comes to know through her policeman brother that Saru Bopa was not faithful to her as she had thought he was and had planned to marry someone else. As a proof of this he shows her the invitation cards that had been printed for the occasion. When this reality breaks upon her, she is stunned. But she recovers in a few days and with the help of her two children she drags the empty chest outside and burns it down.
Her husband is in jail for rash driving and in her absence a firewood vendor Haijol has been pestering her to sleep with him, promising to look after her two children. Earlier she would find invariably him standing outside her door fruitlessly waiting for her. But when after the death of love for Saru Bopa, she comes out of her shack ready to do anything, there is no Haibor waiting for her.

Text Source: https://pdfcoffee.com/qdownload/the-empty-chest-a-love-story-by-indira-goswami-pdf-free.html

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What He Said by Ilankiranar, Narrinai 3 (57) poem summary, Indian Literatures in English, 3rd Year 6th Semester, B.A English Literature, Syllabus, University of Madras

B.A English Literature

3^rd Year 6^th Semester

Indian Literatures in English

Unit -1 : Poetry

1.2 What He Said

Ilankiranar, Narrinai 3 (Page 57)

                    - to his heart arguing against further ambition and travel 

                                                           

Poem:

A hen-eagle broods, sick

in the great branches

lifted to the sky,

 

in a neem tree

with cracked trunk and dotted shade

where unschooled children

scratch their squares

on a rock

flat as a touchstone

and play marbles with gooseberries

 

in that wilderness

with fierce little settlements

of marauders,

the bow their only plow,

 

and as evening comes creeping in,

sapping my strength, what can I do

but think of her,

 

who is sweet as a deed

long wished for and done,

 

standing there

in this hour of memories

in front of a house lamp

 

blazing? 

Summary:

      Once upon a time the materially estranged husband arguing to his heart against further ambition and travel that his wife was waiting for his arrival.

      The hero of this poem describe his village that it was the desert plain land with harsh villages. In that wilderness land, bows are a source of livelihood for bandits. The illiterate children draw squares the shape of touchstones and play using gooseberries as dice below the neem tree with cracked trunk and dotted shade. The neem tree raised its branches to sky high, where the hen eagle is seated with her brood. The sick hen eagle distressed because she can’t collect food for her chicks.

      The hero instruct his heart to get rid the thought of leaving again to his village where his wife waiting for his arrival. There in the dark evening hour which saps strength of memories, did he not think of the young wife who is sweet like deeds wished and done, who lights splendid lamps in their house with sorrow.

      Through this poem the hero share his feeling to his heart, who fears and regrets the pain of separation from his wife, and does not consider it, is that he has gone beyond the material and dressed in the joy of recovery.

Tamil version of this Poem:

நற்றிணை 3, இளங்கீரனார்.

- பாலைத் திணை – தலைவன் தன் நெஞ்சிடம் சொன்னது (57)

ஈன் பருந்து உயவும் வான் பொரு நெடுஞ்சினைப்
பொரி அரை வேம்பின் புள்ளி நீழல்,
கட்டளை அன்ன இட்டு அரங்கு இழைத்துக்
கல்லாச் சிறாஅர் நெல்லி வட்டு ஆடும்,
வில் ஏர் உழவர் வெம்முனைச் சீறூர்ச் 
சுரன் முதல் வந்த உரன் மாய் மாலை
உள்ளினென் அல்லெனோ யானே, உள்ளிய
வினை முடித்தன்ன இனியோள்
மனை மாண் சுடரொடு படர் பொழுது எனவே?

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Hiroshima by Agyeya poem summary, Indian Literatures in English, 3rd Year 6th Semester, B.A English Literature, Syllabus, University of Madras

B.A English Literature

3^rd Year 6^th Semester

Indian Literatures in English

Unit -1 : Poetry

1.7. “Hiroshima” - Agyeya

About Poet:

Sachchidananda Hirananda Vatsyayan (7 March 1911 – 4 April 1987), popularly known by his pen name Agyeya (also transliterated Ajneya, meaning 'the unknowable'), was an Indian writer, poet, novelist, literary critic, journalist, translator and revolutionary in Hindi language. He pioneered modern trends in Hindi poetry, as well as in fiction, criticism and journalism. He is regarded as the pioneer of the Prayogavaad (experimentalism) movement in modern Hindi literature.

Agyeya translated some of his own works, as well as works of some other Indian authors to English. He also translated some books of world literature into Hindi. Agyeya was awarded the Sahitya Akademi Award (1964), Jnanpith Award (1978) and the internationally reputed Golden Wreath Award for poetry.

About Poem:

The bombing of Hiroshima in Japan on August 6, 1945 by the Allied forces as a means of ending the Second World War is the specific event described in this poem. The poet describes the actual bombing and creates a poetic description of the events that occurred and its impact upon the city and the people there. Though the poem is almost factual in its recounting of what happened and how it happened, where Agyeya excels is the way in which through the description he captures the destabilising effect of the bomb, both upon the city and its inhabitants as also the way in which it obliterated stable differences and attributes: jumbling shadows and men, confusing the atom bomb and the sun, etc.

Poem Analysis:

Hiroshima is a modern poem by S. H. Vatsyayan ‘Agyeya’. It deals with the humanistic and socialistic leanings of the poet towards the measurable plight of the innocent people of Hiroshima, a city of Japan where the atom bomb was dropped by America. It also shows the brutality of human being, the unwanted carnage caused by the hotty and self-centered politicians, the horrible and incredible human brutality and butchery against humanity. In technique and style the poem has modern tone and temper full of hard and solid images which remind us of T. S. Eliot, Ezra Pound, Hopkins and Auden and other war poets.

In order to understand the poem, one should go to the background of the history related to the bombardment of America on the two important cities of Japan-Hiroshima and Nagasaki during the Second World War. These two cities have become today memorable because of the naked dance of death of human being towards human being or the indiscriminate use of arms and ammunition. We know that during the Second World War America wants to get a very early conquest and its dominance over the Japan it dropped atom bombs without knowing anything about its consequence on the two great cities of Japan. As a result many people consigned to ashes, their dwellings demolished, their dreams and aspirations shattered to nothingness and the whole activity of the city reduced to the dust. This traumatic experience has been haunting not only the people of these two cities but also the whole world. Based on this theme the poem is very interesting in matter and manner, feeling and form.

Poem: 

On this day, the sun

Appeared-no, not slowly over the horizon

But right in the city square.

A blast of dazzle poured over,

Not from the middle sky, 

But from the earth torn raggedly open.

Human shadows, dazed and lost, pitched

in every direction : this blaze

Not risen from the east

Smashed in the city’s heart-

An immense wheel 

of Death’s swart suncar, spinning down and apart

in every direction.

Instant of a Sun’s rise and set.

Vision annihilating flare one compressed noon.

And then?

It was not human shadows that lengthened, paled and died;

It was men suddenly become as mist then gone.

The shadows stay :

Burned on rocks, stones of these vacant streets.”

“A Sun conjured by men converted men to air, to nothing;

White shadows singed on the black rock give back 

man’s witness to himself.”

Summary: 

The very opening of the poem is figurative and connotative. It shows irony and contrast which are the two important tools of modern poetry. 

“On this day, the sun

Appeared-no, not slowly over the horizon

But right in the city square.”

In first stanza the poet takes the image of the bright sun; but the sun here is not the natural sun rising in the cast daily for giving life to the whole world and driving the darkness away from the world. The sun here refers to the man-made sun caused by the pouring down of atom bombs. Just like the sun, the atom bombs also emit bright rays: but the rays are not the fruitful rays of the sun giving health and energy to both men and plants. Here the rays engendered by the bombs thrashed and butchered the whole humanity within a second. The phrase ‘right in the city square shows the dropping of the bomb in the middle of the town generally the centre for people’s entertainment and their strolling, In the natural process the sun generally appears in the east and it slowly and slowly comes over the horizon. But here the case is just the opposite. The sun here never comes slowly but very speedily and that too in the very middle of the city. Thus here the comparison is very appropriate and interesting.

“A blast of dazzle poured over,

Not from the middle sky,

But from the earth torn raggedly open.

The poet says that there was a great blast caused by the dazzle not from the middle sky but from the earth which is turned raggedly open. After the bombardment the situation was very apocalyptic rendering the people homeless and making their life even worse than animal. People and their objects as well as their dwelling places where dazed and lost and pitched in every direction. This measurable and pathetic plight of the general people have been shown by the skilled poet with some beautiful words and diction, images and symbols.

“Human shadows, dazed and lost, pitched

in every direction : this blaze

Not risen from the east

Smashed in the city’s heart-

An immense wheel of Death’s swart suncar spinning down and apart

in every direction.”

In the second stanza some words and phrases are highly suggestive. The phrase “human shadows” is highly suggestive. It shows various layers of meaning. At first it suggests how human beings of the city were turned to shadows that are, turned to death. Secondly, it stands for the dark shadow of the whole human being who boasts of the great civilization and culture. It also suggests the self centered egomaniac politicians who seldom feel the qualm of conscience in dropping out the bombs on the innocent people. This phrase also presents a contrast to the natural sun. Generally when the sun is over our head in the sky there is a shadow of our body created by the light of the sun. But here the human shadows are dazed and lost. In other words there were no men so there were no shadows. The phrase “Death’s swart suncar’ is also very connotative. It connotes how the atomic blast is just like the wheels of the sun causing violent death all over.

The next stanza of the poem is even more ironic and thought provoking. The poet says that during the dance of the death in the middle of the Hiroshima city, the sun rises and sets in a very short time. As a result all the visions, dreams and aspirations of human being were smashed to pieces.

“Instant of a Sun’s rise and set.

Vision annihilating flare one compressed noon.”

The implied meaning is that the terrible blast of the bomb flashed out very suddenly and also subsided in a moment. So both the rising and the setting of the sun were done within a very short period of time. We know that the sun generally rises in the morning and sets in the evening but here in this city of Hiroshima, this whole process of the sun from morning to evening were confined to few seconds at noon of the day. This is why the poet uses the phrase ‘one compressed noon’. This phrase also shows the cruel and inhuman activity of human being to change the rule of nature. This reminds us of William Wordsworth, a great poet of Romantic School of poetry, who once says,

“To her fare works did nature link

the human soul that through me ran

but much it grieved my heart to think

what man has made of man.”

This brutal activity of human being without any rhyme or reason also very similar to the description made by G. B. Shaw in Arms the Man and Hemingway in ‘A Farewell to Arms‘.

The extended metaphor of the sun has been again very beautifully used in the next stanza in which the poet says that it was not human shadows that lengthened, paled and died. The only shadows that stay are the shadows of the burning rocks and stones of these vacant streets :

“And then ?

It was not human shadows that lengthened, paled and died;

It was men suddenly become as mist then gone.

The shadows stay :

Burned on rocks, stones of these vacant streets.”

This poetic and metaphoric description present a very realistic picture of that situation caused by the atom bombs. The poet is of the opinion that all men of the city were died as suddenly as the mist. In the natural process of the day, the heat of the sun dries the mist on the blades of the grass but here this man-made fears and horrible bomb end of the life of man within a very few minutes. The only thing that stays in this city is the shadows. Again, here the term, ‘shadow’ has got a number of meanings. At first it suggests the dark aspects of that satiric behaviour of man. It also denotes the stain and scar made by the merciless mankind towards the innocent mankind. This dark shadows have haunted the civilization and is still haunting and will be haunted in the next generation. So the only thing that stays today is the shadows. On the second scale of meaning the shadows here also denotes the shadow caused by the flame of the burning rock and stones of the vacant streets as there were no people in the city.

The last stanza again extents the image of sun, light and shadow with contrast and irony. The poet says,

“A Sun conjured by men converted men to air, to nothing;

White shadows singed on the black rock give back man’s

witness to himself.”

These last lines of the poem convey the poet’s message to such men who were tempted by the power and authority, fame and popularity. It also shows how it was a great folly of human being to destroy the other human being. Here the phrase ‘A Sun’ doesn’t denote the God-made sun made for the welfare of the whole flora and fauna. Here ‘A Sun with indefinite article ‘A’ and not the definite article the shows the indefinite fate of human being bound to be shattered in the days to come if man keeps on making such type of Sun’s for the annihilation of human being. So, it is the message of the poet that such type of sun or bomb conjured by men will do nothing but to convert men to air or to nothingness. The phrase “White shadows’ is very ironic in this context. It suggests the so-called modern materialistic development of modern science for which men are always brasting and braging on their achievements. But truly speaking this white shadows or the modern generation is burning slightly on the black rock made by men. So the witness of this great havoc and tragedy done on the innocent people directly go to the modern man who is quite insensitive and cold to nature and to his own human brethren.

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Is Poetry always worthy when it's old? by Kalidasa (Malavikagnimitra) Poem summary, Indian Literatures in English, 3rd Year 6th Semester, B.A English Literature, Syllabus, University of Madras

B.A English Literature

3^rd Year 6^th Semester

Indian Literatures in English

UNIT-1: Poetry

1.1 “Is Poetry always worthy when it's old?" - Kalidasa (Malavikagnimitra)

About Poet:

KALIDASA:  An Indian poet and dramatist, who lived sometime between the reign of Agnimitra, the second Shunga king (c. 170 BC) who was the hero of one of his dramas, and the Aihole inscription of AD 634 which praises Kalidasa's poetic skills. Most scholars now associate him with the reign of Candra Gupta II (reigned c. 380-c. 415). He wrote in Sanskrit. 

Little is known about Kalidasa's life. According to legend, the poet was known for his beauty which brought him to the attention of a princess who married him. However, as legend has it, Kalidasa had grown up without much education, and the princess was ashamed of his ignorance and coarseness. A devoted worshipper of the goddess Kali (his name means literally Kali's slave), Kalidasa is said to have called upon his goddess for help and was rewarded with a sudden and extraordinary gift of wit. He is then said to have become the most brilliant of the "nine gems" at the court of the fabulous king Vikramaditya of Ujjain. Legend also has it that he was murdered by a courtesan in Sri Lanka during the reign of Kumaradasa.

He is famously called the Shakespeare of India. His plays include Sakuntala, Meghaduta, Vikaramaurvasya, Kumarasambhava and so on. His dramas describe the imaginative and the mythological stories of romantic love and adventure.

Kalidasa's first surviving play, Malavikagnimitra or Malavika and Agnimitra tells the story of King Agnimitra, a ruler who falls in love with the picture of an exiled servant girl named Malavika. Kalidasa's second play, generally considered his masterpiece, is the Shakuntala which tells the story of another king, Dushyanta, who falls in love with another girl of lowly birth, the lovely Shakuntala. The last of Kalidasa's surviving plays, Vikramorvashe or Urvashi Conquered by Valor, is more mystical than the earlier plays. In addition to his plays, Kalidasa wrote two surviving epic poems Raghuvamsha ("Dynasty of Raghu") and Kumarasambhava ("Birth of the War God"), as well as the lyric "Meghaduta" ("Cloud Messenger"). He is generally considered to be the greatest Indian writer of any epoch.

BHAVABHUTI: Bhavabhuti was the Sanskrit poet and dramatist. He lived in the early eighth century. His eminence specially lies in the suspense and characterization. He wrote the following plays – Mahavavircharitam, Malti Madhavam and Uttar Ramcharitam.

BHARTTRHARI: Bhartrhari was the Sanskrit poet, philosopher and grammarian. He lived in the latter half of the fifth century. He wrote Vakyapadiya, which is the seminal work on the philosophy of language. He had also produced three collections of poetry, each of which contains 100 verses. His poetry throws light on the wisdom, love and renunciation.

Poem:

1

Is poetry always worthy when it's old?

And is it worthless, then, because it's new?

Reader, decide yourself if this be true:

Fools suspend judgement, waiting to be told.

- Kalidasa

2

If learned critics publicly deride

My verse, well, let them. Not for them I wrought.

One day a man shall live to share my thought:

For time is endless and the world is wide.

- Bhavabhuti

3

Of what use is the poet’s poem,

            Of what use is the bowman’s dart,

Unless another’s senses reel

            When it sticks quivering in the heart?

4

Scoundrels without the wit to fit

A word or two of verse together

Are daunted not a whit to sit

In judgement on the abstruse poetry of another.

Such men will listen with attentive mind,

Alert to see how many faults they find.

And if they’re vexed because they fail to grasp the sense

Of works conceived for readers of intelligence,

They naturally do not blame their foolishness:

A girl who’s less than perfect always blames the dress.

                          5

A man lives long who lives a hundred years:

Yet half is sleep, and half the rest again

Old age and childhood. For the rest, a man

Lives close companion to disease and tears,

Losing his love, working for other men.

Where can joy find a space in this short span?

                       6

‘Do not go’, I could say but this is inauspicious.

‘All right, go’ is a loveless thing to say.

‘stay with me’ is imperious. ‘Do as you wish’ suggests

Cold indifference. And if I say ‘I’ll die

When you are gone’, you might or might not believe me.

Teach me, my husband, what I ought to say

When you go away.

                                                                - Bhartrhari

Summary:

The poem Is Poetry Always Worthy When It’s Old? six selections.

The first verse is composed by Kalidasa, the great Sanskrit poet. The second is composed by Bhavabhuti. The remaining four poems are written by Bhartrhari. The entire poem sequence depicts on the nature of poem and the critical analysis on the work of art creativity and criticism.

Kalidasa in the first poem questions validity of a good poem. He asks if poetry is always worthy, because it is old and classical. At the same time, he does not stop from asking if a poem is useless because it is a new one. He does not approve of critic’s opinions. To him, the Reader is the most powerful critic who passes on judgments on works composed by the artists. He grants permission to the reader to decide if a work of art is worthy or not. He castigates the so-called critics as fools, because they are unable to judge the work of art. He condemns them saying that they keep their lack of judgment. They always are waiting for sometime to tell them quality of poetry. In this poem, Kalidasa highlights the importance of a reader.

In the second poem, Bhavabhuti boldly challenges the so-called learned critics to deride his verse. He further says that he does not compose poems for such kind of people. He avers, “Not for them I wrought.” He hopes that his thoughts might one day be recognized by someone. According to him, time is eternal and the world is wide. In other words, in the limitless nature of time and world, some unknown reader may understand the tone of his verse.

Bhartrhari, the Sanskrit poet, comments on the nature of poetry. He makes a keen observation of the cynical attitude of critics on poetry. They never hesitate to reject work if are not able to understand it. They ridicule such critics in this selection of poem. Both the poet’s poem and the bowman’s dart are compared. Both of them are futile if they fail to make reeling effect in the heart. In the next poem, he calls the critics as scoundrels who are not discouraged to sit in judgment on the merits on the works of art by others. They are unable to compose a word or two of verse together. These people will be keen enough to listen to poems of others with attentive mind. They are alert to see the faults of others. If they are unable to understand meaning, which is intended only for the intelligent readers, they immediately blame the poets. They never blame themselves for their inability. They are compared to a less elegant girl who out of her inferiority of her appearance blames only her dress, not herself.

In the fifth poem, Bhartrhari shifts from negativity of judgments of critics to bleakness of vision of world. Human life is filled with the futile events and activities. According to Bhartrhari, a man’s life lives a life span of hundred years. However, it is predominantly filled with sleep and the remaining part is occupied by old age and childhood. The so-called bright life is occupied by disease and tears, due to love frustration and exploitation by other men. In this short span of life, a man hardly lives a happier life. The poet feels melancholic about man’s birth and his death. The middle part is filled with the uneventful work.

In the last selection, the poet concentrates on the love that exists between man and wife. This section is highly rhetorical. The wife does not know what she should say when her husband departs from her. She has many options from the soft to the hard petitions. She at first finds it inauspicious to say “ Do not go.” It will be heartless to say, “All right, go.” It is rude to ask him to remain with her. At the same time, it is cold to say to do as he wishes. Her husband may or may not believe her if she says that she will die in the 6 event of her death. So she says that she needs instructions from her husband about the ways of answering him on his departure.

Kalidasa, Bhavabhuti and Bhartrhari are the all Sanskrit poets. They emphasise the importance of poetry and its reception on the readers and critics. Both the reader and critic are kept in equal opposition. In the middle, the poet confers superiority on the common reader, because he judges a work of art if it is truly worthy. The title of a poem is not working. The question of merit of work is old. As it is old, it does not deserve to be good. Similarly, because it is new, it is not trash. A work of art is decided on the mind of the common reader.

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