Colonialism, Modernity, and Literature: A View from India

10.1057/9780230118348 - Colonialism, Modernity, and Literature, Edited by Satya P. Mohanty

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Colonialism, Modernity, and Literature



A timely series that represents the most innovative work being done in the broad field defined as “minority studies.” Drawing on the intellectual and political vision of the Future of Minority Studies (FMS) Research Project, this book series will publish studies of the lives, experiences, and cultures of “minority” groups—broadly defined to include all those whose access to social and cultural institutions is limited primarily because of their social identities. For more information about the Future of Minority Studies (FMS) International Research Project, visit www.fmsproject.cornell.edu.

Series Editors Linda Martín Alcoff, Hunter College, CUNY Michael Hames-García, University of Oregon Satya P. Mohanty, Cornell University Paula M. L. Moya, Stanford University Tobin Siebers, University of Michigan Identity Politics Reconsidered edited by Linda Martín Alcoff, Michael Hames-Garcia, Satya P. Mohanty, and Paula M. L. Moya Ambiguity and Sexuality: A Theory of Sexual Identity by William S. Wilkerson Identity in Education edited by Susan Sánchez-Casal and Amie A. Macdonald Rethinking Chicana/o and Latina/o Popular Culture by Daniel Enrique Pérez The Future of Diversity: Academic Leaders Reflect on American Higher Education edited by Daniel Little and Satya P. Mohanty Minority Reports: Identity and Social Knowledge in Nineteenth-Century American Literature by Michael Borgstrom Colonialism, Modernity, and Literature: A View from India edited and with an introduction by Satya P. Mohanty

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The Future of Minority Studies

A View from India

Edited and with an Introduction by Satya P. Mohanty

10.1057/9780230118348 - Colonialism, Modernity, and Literature, Edited by Satya P. Mohanty

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Colonialism, Modernity, and Literature

colonialism, modernity, and literature

Copyright © Satya P. Mohanty, 2011.

First published in 2011 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN® in the United States—a division of St. Martin’s Press LLC, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010 Where this book is distributed in the UK, Europe and the rest of the world, this is by Palgrave Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited, registered in England, company number 785998, of Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS. Palgrave Macmillan is the global academic imprint of the above companies and has companies and representatives throughout the world. Palgrave® and Macmillan® are registered trademarks in the United States, the United Kingdom, Europe and other countries. ISBN: 978-0-230-61904-3 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Colonialism, modernity, and literature : a view from India / edited and with an introduction by Satya P. Mohanty. p. cm.—(Future of minority studies) ISBN 978-0-230-61904-3 (hardback) 1. Indic literature—20th century—History and criticism. 2. India— In literature. 3. Colonies in literature. 4. Imperialism in literature. 5. Postcolonialism in literature. 6. Postcolonialism—India. I. Mohanty, Satya P. (Satya Prakash), 1954PK5416.C6 2011 891.4—dc22 2010035295 Design by Scribe Inc. First edition: March 2011 10  9  8  7  6  5  4  3  2  1 Printed in the United States of America.

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All rights reserved.

10.1057/9780230118348 - Colonialism, Modernity, and Literature, Edited by Satya P. Mohanty

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To U. R. Ananthamurthy, who provided the inspiration . . .

10.1057/9780230118348 - Colonialism, Modernity, and Literature, Edited by Satya P. Mohanty

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Introduction: Viewing Colonialism and Modernity through Indian Literature Satya P. Mohanty

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I Views from Below: Comparing Literary Perspectives 1 Critical Realisms in the Global South: Narrative Transculturation in Senapati’s Six Acres and a Third and García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude Jennifer Harford Vargas

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2 Views from Above and Below: George Eliot and Fakir Mohan Senapati Paul L. Sawyer

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3 Two Classic Tales of Village India: The Realist Epistemology of Chha Mana Atha Guntha and Godaan 91 Himansu S. Mohapatra 4 The Emergence of the Modern Subject in Oriya and Assamese Literatures: Fakir Mohan Senapati and Hemchandra Barua Tilottoma Misra 5 The Indigenous Modernity of Gurajada Apparao and Fakir Mohan Senapati Velcheru Narayana Rao

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6 “Why Don’t You Speak?”: The Narrative Politics of Silence in Senapati, Premchand, and Monica Ali 153 Ulka Anjaria

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Contents

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contents

7 The Representation of Women and Gender Relations in Six Acres and a Third Claire Horan

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8 Rediscovering Ramachandra Mangaraj and Historicizing Senapati’s Critique of Colonialism Gaganendra Nath Dash

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9 The Tradition-Modernity Dialectic in Six Acres and a Third Debendra K. Dash and Dipti R. Pattanaik

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Appendix: Fair Without, Foul Within: Bahire Rongsong Bhitare Kowabhaturi 229 Hemchandra Barua List of Contributors

257

Index

259

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II The Many Contexts of Six Acres and a Third

Viewing Colonialism and Modernity through Indian Literature Satya P. Mohanty

A

few years ago, during his visit to Cornell University, the leading Indian writer U. R. Ananthamurthy asked a group of South Asia specialists why Indian literary texts are so rarely given the kind of careful attention critics give to major texts in European and American literature. In the discussions following his public lecture to students and faculty, in which he spoke at length on two works he sees as “foundational” in the history of the modern Indian novel, Senapati’s Chha Mana Atha Guntha (1897–99) and Tagore’s Gora (1907–09), Ananthamurthy went on to talk about the need for extended textual readings as well as cross-regional analysis of the literary traditions in India.1 He called for textual comparisons that highlight similarities and differences in the way common themes and similar social situations are treated in fiction. Part of his point was that several strands of cultural and social influence run through Indian literary texts and it is impossible to see these strands clearly if our focus remains confined to any one work, or even to the works of any one linguistic and regional tradition. Colonialism, Modernity, and Literature: A View from India is in some ways a response to Ananthamurthy’s call. It provides close and attentive readings of a uniquely representative work of modern Indian literature, one of the two Ananthamurthy’s lecture focused on, and it develops its analyses in a resolutely comparative framework. The authors in this volume focus on the achievements of Senapati’s late nineteenth-century Oriya novel, the most recent translation of which, Six Acres and a Third, appeared in 2005.2 Many of them also develop

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Introduction

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Satya P. Mohanty

The Major Themes Focusing on literary, and primarily comparative, analyses, this volume presents one distinct and complex view from the Indian context, but it is a view with wider implications. The first of the general themes this volume addresses is the relationship between colonialism and sociocultural modernity in the colonized world. A recent spate of writings has challenged the view that the “modernity” colonialism brought with it is the only viable or genuine modernity that exists, and that what was destroyed, both good and bad, was incompatible not only with capitalism as an economic system but also with such cherished modern values as egalitarianism, democratic individuality, and rational social organization. There are colonialist versions of this thesis, versions that justified colonial conquest and rule: the utilitarian thinker James Mill and a whole host of colonial officials come to mind here. But the thesis is also developed in more benign versions by such figures on the left as Marx and his more recent followers (see, e.g., Jameson). The basic assumption shared by all versions of this thesis, however, is that what the modernity that was imposed by colonialism replaced or destroyed belongs to the irretrievable past and is irrelevant for our purposes. In contrast to this view, the recent literature on “alternative modernities” and the “provincializing” of Europe raises the strong possibility that more fine-grained historical, cultural, and philosophical analyses will show how distinctly modern values such as individuality and radical egalitarianism were articulated in contexts other than the capitalist West. Questioning the notion of “a singular modernity” (Jameson) does not have to involve a retreat into cultural relativism. What it suggests, instead, is an empirical and theoretical hypothesis that socalled premodern societies have been looked at through speculative and ideologically distorted lenses and that a more rigorous empirically based analysis can drastically revise our understanding of them. Literary and cultural texts, both high canonical and popular or “folk,” can play a major role in this revisionary analysis, revealing the alternative and nondominant layers of modernity to which scholars have remained blind.4

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their textual analyses through a comparison of Six Acres with other Indian and non-Indian texts, shedding light on Senapati’s novel, its historical moment, and more general themes concerning colonialism, modernity, and what may be called the “literary view from below.”3

3

Looking carefully at Six Acres in a comparative context, drawing on similar texts produced around the same time elsewhere in India, some of the essays in this volume (see, e.g., Narayana Rao; Dash and Pattanaik; Misra) show that the colonialist ideological opposition between native tradition and western modernity was challenged forcefully by several nineteenth-century writers in their literary creations—prose sketches, novels, and plays, for instance. While many Indian writers of the period implicitly accepted the ideology of “colonial modernity,”5 others, as is evident in Senapati’s novel, provided a more complex defense of what we may call the “rationality” of some traditional Indian social institutions. Modernity is thus a layered and complex phenomenon, according to such writers as Senapati, and analysis of traditional culture needs to be nuanced and contextually sensitive. These writers in effect prise apart the many layers of modernity in order to analyze them critically. Instead of identifying modernity with what colonial rule brought with it—and choosing to either accept it in its entirety or reject it outright—many in the colonized world defined modernity for their times through their complexly mediated critiques of their own social traditions, both the old and the newly invented ones. Implicit in their work is the idea that accepting such modern values as egalitarianism or the spirit of critique and inquiry does not require us to accept the colonialist ideology that most native traditions need to be rejected. I believe that the idea of an alternative or indigenous modernity is ultimately based on the perfectly plausible hunch that the concept of modernity does not constitute one tight unity, comprising a cluster of properties that are causally bound together in such a way that they are inextricable from one another. My hypothesis is this: the implicit view of theorists of alternative modernity is that the crucial features of the concept of modernity can be disaggregated; they can even be recombined in a number of different ways, shaped by differences in sociocultural context. So if we can find modern values and ideas articulated in socioeconomic systems very different from eighteenth- and nineteenth-century European capitalism, part of the challenge for us as scholars is to trace the provenance of such values and ideas in these non-European contexts and to examine the alternative institutions and cultural forms that supported them. “Alternative” or “indigenous” modernity points to a project of historical retrieval and imaginative philosophical reconstruction. A critique of colonial ideology, the ideology that is a constitutive element of colonial modernity, is meant to clear the ground for such retrieval and reconstruction. As will be evident in the analyses contained in this volume, several Indian writers in the nineteenth century were engaged in just such a project.

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Viewing Colonialism and Modernity

Satya P. Mohanty

The second major theme of this volume concerns the forms in which social critique is articulated in literature, and in particular how it defines a literary view from below, the perspective of the lower orders of society, the subalterns, as expressed in literary modes and forms. Comparative analyses reveal, for instance, that the very narrative forms Senapati develops (extending some indigenous oral and written traditions) are similar to those associated with the Latin American writer Gabriel García Márquez, who was challenging— some sixty years after Senapati—the dominance of neocolonial power in his own society in Colombia (see Vargas, this volume). Senapati’s narrative forms are also specified through contrast: Sawyer situates Six Acres and a Third in relation to the work of the English writer George Eliot, who was writing a couple of decades before Senapati, from the geographical center of imperial power, about the lives of the humble and the poor. Sawyer shows how Senapati is able to arrive at a more adequate narrative form for representing subalternity than Eliot and suggests, without tracing any lines of influence, that Senapati’s “heteroglossic” narrative anticipates major strands of European modernism. Narayana Rao compares the satirical stances of Senapati and his contemporary, the Telugu writer Gurajada Apparao. Tilottoma Misra provides a comparative account of Six Acres and a prose satire written in a very similar tone by the Assamese writer Hemchandra Barua some three decades earlier (Misra says that indigenous Assamese oral traditions may have influenced Barua). In these and other essays, social critique and narrative forms are shown to be closely linked, and what emerges is an account of subaltern ideas, perspectives, and values as expressed through the literary forms in which they are developed. Social critique is not just a thematic aspect of Senapati’s novel, for instance; it is encoded in the way it is conceived and executed. Close comparative readings of literature can help guide our conjectures about subaltern agency, exploring some of the subtler forms of subaltern expression while avoiding hyperbolic speculations based on an inflated theory-driven skepticism. Such literary readings can alert historians and social scientists to the range of expressive forms that disempowered social agents can employ, even when their power to shape their material lives is severely limited.6 The third theme the volume deals with follows from the previous one, and it concerns the “epistemic” dimension of literature. Most of the essays explore the layered nature of literary texts, focusing on formal elements that are not always visible to someone approaching the text as a mere document conveying information about its historical period. These essays take for granted that literature, often through

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its formal experiments, develops social and moral theories, ideas that engage with others popular in its time. Mohapatra makes explicit how this focus on the epistemic dimension of literature goes against the grain of dominant schools of criticism such as poststructuralism, schools that approach literary texts as self-deconstructing and hence incapable of being epistemically reliable conduits of ideas and values. By contrast with that approach, even those authors in the volume who do not address poststructuralism explicitly provide a cognitivist reading of the texts they analyze, a reading that highlights and explores the ideas, and even theories, literary works explore, criticize, and develop. In his comparative study of Eliot and Senapati, Sawyer shows how a more satisfactory moral position can be articulated through the elaboration of increasingly subtler narrative strategies in fiction. Vargas sees “narrative transculturation,” as used by Senapati and García Márquez, as a rewriting of dominant social meanings and values.7 Anjaria explores the epistemic implications of silence in her comparative study, while Horan analyzes the subtle feminist politics evident in Senapati’s narrator’s discourse. Without arguing that the epistemic dimension of literature makes all of its other dimensions irrelevant, the authors in this volume implicitly make a case for reading literature, even at the formal level, as continuous with social, moral, and epistemological theory, as the extension or revision of prevailing ideas and ideologies. This particular literary “view from India” will thus have general implications for how we read and interpret literature and its contexts. Finally, the volume’s comparative method itself points to a significant theme: the strategic political value of comparison in the study of literature as well as its broader implications. These essays may suggest to readers nonethnocentric—and, in the modern Indian context, nonchauvinist—ways of approaching literary study. In the nineteenth century, many cultural nationalists in both Europe and India assumed that the ultimate rationale for literary analysis was the construction of national or regional literary histories, with long lines of continuity and influence suggesting the “greatness” of a particular literary tradition and the culture that produced it. By contrast, the readings in this volume try to avoid such crude and outdated ideologies; they show how comparison can be the key to both greater specification and a more expansive understanding of the contexts of a particular work. A contemporary approach to the study of “world literature” may well need to leave in the background, at least for the moment, the project of producing national and regional literary histories. That will enable many relevant sociological, historical, and philosophical themes, such as the relationship between modernity and colonialism, or the nature

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Viewing Colonialism and Modernity

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Satya P. Mohanty

of subaltern agency, to become more salient and urgent. While literary histories can be illuminating, they need to be reimagined without the ideological baggage they have often brought with them.

Considering this volume’s historical and theoretical concerns, why is Six Acres such a uniquely representative text? Written in the last decade of the nineteenth century, and focusing on the period of radical social and cultural transformation that colonial rule brought to Orissan society in the early part of that century, Senapati’s novel provides a view from below during a period of radical transformation and turmoil in Indian history. But even though Six Acres is praised by many critics as the “apex” of realism in the history of the nineteenth-century Indian novel, Senapati’s radical experiments with language (drawing on a range of linguistic registers in Oriya, and alluding both playfully and seriously to the hegemonic languages Sanskrit, English, and Persian), as well as with narrative modes, make this text unusually resistant to generic classification. Its realism, as has been argued, is primarily analytical (see Mohanty 2005; Anjaria; and Mohapatra) rather than descriptive or mimetic; at the same time, in literary-critical terms, the text—playfully challenging the conventions of the contemporary European novel—is closer to the reflexive “postmodernism” of a Salman Rushdie than it is to the naturalism of a Mulkraj Anand. Because of both its historical focus and its generic playfulness, Six Acres and a Third is a rare text that invites close analysis and comparative readings.8 It is difficult to grasp the main features of Senapati’s novel after just one reading, because it is a text where the obvious level—the story of an evil landlord, his rise and subsequent fall—is almost insignificant compared to the levels of meaning that are constituted by the narrator’s digressions, jokes, and seemingly trivial asides.9 Six Acres and a Third tells a tale of wealth and greed, of property and theft. On the surface, it is the story of the landlord, Ramachandra Mangaraj, who exploits poor peasants and uses the new legal system to take possession of the property of others. But this story is simply one among many similar ones in the novel, and as the text unfolds it reveals several layers of meaning and implication. Although it contains a critique of British colonial rule, the novel offers a powerful indictment of many other forms of social and political authority as well. What makes Six Acres unusual is that its critical vision is embodied in its narrative style or mode, in the complex way the novel is narrated and organized as a

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Six Acres and a Third

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literary text. The story of Mangaraj and his evil deeds is presented in the narrative as one among many such stories, but the thematic resonances of the other stories and histories can only be appreciated by an alert and attentive reader. Central to Senapati’s literary method is the role given to his narrator. Wily, loquacious, and often unreliable, the narrator challenges readers to be active and on their toes, looking for subtle cues behind the humor and the garrulousness. I have said in my introduction to Six Acres that this narrator is our key to the novel and its rich metaphorical subtext, the subtext that articulates a politically sophisticated subaltern perspective. In creating him, I have argued, Senapati has drawn in part on an existing social type—the touter in Oriya culture. From the point of view of the middle class, the touter (the word’s etymological connections in Oriya are with both the English “tout” and with “lawyers,” a new profession in late nineteenth-century Oriya society) is the disreputable wit who inhabits the lower rungs of society and is always a bit unreliable (a bit like the Fool in European drama, or the Signifying Monkey in West African traditions). Senapati transforms this rather unsavory type into a new kind of social agent; indeed, in his novel the touter is the only person who can survive Mangaraj’s oppression and chicanery. He survives by using wit and intelligence to disguise his motives. He not only survives, but ends up being an effective social and cultural actor as well. Writing from the vantage point of the downtrodden poor—the laborer or the peasant—Senapati transforms the disreputable touter of the Oriya middle-class imagination into a self-conscious satirist, social critic, and moral philosopher. The touter-narrator enters the modern Indian novel from the world of oral discourse; his rhythms and shifting moods make him the quintessential satirist who reaches beyond the delicate sensibilities of the middle class to create a new kind of reader and a new kind of self-critical social subject. Thus it may be argued that the seemingly “postmodern” reflexivity of the narrative represents a carefully fashioned narrative, epistemic, and ethical stance toward the various forms of power and authority that colonial modernity produces in Orissa. This stance is based on a new and active relationship between reader and narrator. As a literary creation, Senapati’s narrator is almost certainly a descendant of the vibrant oral traditions of India (see Narayana Rao on the puranic narrator); he is most probably influenced by such popular performing traditions as the Oriya pala, in which lead singers (gayakas) and their accompanying musicians not only recite but explain, criticize, and humorously parody texts from Sanskrit and Oriya (see Misra for a brief discussion of oja-pali, the Assamese tradition that is

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Viewing Colonialism and Modernity

Satya P. Mohanty

very similar to the Oriya pala).10 At the intersection of popular-oral and canonical-written traditions of literature, and situated historically in a moment of profound change in power relations brought about by colonial rule, Fakir Mohan Senapati’s Six Acres and a Third provides a unique vantage point from which to analyze the relationship between literature and the shifting meanings of modernity, both colonial and traditional.11 The essays in this volume explore these relationships in a variety of ways, building on the work of previous critics of the novel but taking the discussion to a new level where text and history, the local and the general, are made to throw light on one another.

The Essays The first two essays in the volume provide comparative readings of Senapati’s novel that illuminate both his text and its wider resonances, going beyond the boundaries of India. Vargas compares Senapati’s text to the well-known Latin American novel One Hundred Years of Solitude, showing how even though six decades or more separate the composition of the two works, the profound similarities in their narrative strategy—what Vargas, drawing on the Latin American critic Angel Rama, identifies as “narrative transculturation”—suggest an underlying continuity of vision and purpose. Through their narrative strategy of placing “various worldviews . . . in critical relation at the levels of both content and form,” Senapati and García Márquez indicate what a genuinely “critical” realism would look like, one that exposes the workings of both “colonial and neocolonial modernity.” Vargas identifies a commonality that may define a major feature of literature of the “Global South”; she shows how both writers define projects of “self-determination and decolonization” through their “underground” modes of storytelling, “mainly oral, ironic, dialogic, and parodic ones,” to question and challenge hegemonic cultural meanings and values. There is no doubt that García Márquez had not read Senapati; Vargas’s implicit point is instead that comparative readings, across cultures and historical periods, can sometimes reveal deeper textual layers of intention and meaning than are possible through purely intracultural comparisons. Indeed, in some exemplary cases we see how the literary view from below takes us beyond the limiting borders of nation and region to illuminate the general features of the modern world, shaped as it has been by colonial and imperial domination. The second essay in the book, by the Victorianist critic Paul Sawyer, also focuses on narrative techniques and strategies, but a detailed

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comparison of Senapati with George Eliot reveals to Sawyer how, despite her genuine moral sympathy for the socially humble and the poor, as well as her extraordinary achievements, Eliot’s imaginative power was “limited” by the narrative conventions of the realist novel she inherited. A world away, at the very margins of imperial culture, Sawyer sees Senapati developing narrative techniques that more adequately represent “characters low on the social scale.” Senapati, he says, opens up “possibilities for representing the lives of the impoverished and oppressed that Western fiction was not to notice (or find worthwhile) until after Eliot’s lifetime.” What emerges through this comparison of two novelists who are not linked by any line of literary influence but whose goals and projects are similar in one major way, is a view of how literature is a common human endeavor, and one that is historically situated. Eliot’s inability to adequately imagine the perspective from below, Sawyer indicates, is socially and historically localizable, and it is only when we interpret her efforts in the context of Senapati’s that we begin to see her precise angle of vision, the vision that is developed and exemplified in her novels (in particular, The Mill on the Floss). One does not need Senapati to discern Eliot’s political opinions. But without knowing Senapati, it would have been harder for me, given the immense scope and moral cogency of Eliot’s fiction, to imagine what a powerfully realized fictional view from below might have looked like in Eliot’s century—one that could give us something other than grim naturalism or a fantasy of uplift, and that could surprise us with wit, deepen our understanding of history, and, finally, move us.  .  .  . [Comparing the two reveals] the ways Eliot’s view from above reproduces the structural tendency of the Victorian novel to represent social life through the lens of an idealized gentility. That lens, so to call it, naturalizes class distinctions even as it renders them more flexible by using formal methods . . . to link the acquirements of privilege (status, income, education) with the novel’s virtuous protagonists—characters whose moral imagination makes them bearers of their own history and therefore (as members of a potential elite) bearers of melioristic historical change. By contrast, Six Acres and a Third evacuates the possibility of any such elite of either privilege or ethical insight, relying instead on an ironic narrator, a documentary presentation of character, a relish for folk culture (earthiness, gossip, local legends), and sarcastic allegories of power to produce a view of human experience from below. These differences depend in part on a different relationship to the “strong culture” of Britain, filtered and idealized in the one case by a supremely informed narrator, and ironized and subverted in the other by a wily

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Viewing Colonialism and Modernity

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Satya P. Mohanty

The essays by Vargas and Sawyer suggest what a critical comparativism would look like and how we may go on to develop a method to talk about “world literature,” one that is attentive to national contexts without being limited by cultural-nationalist agendas. Whether it be in the form of a “South-South” dialogue of the kind Vargas suggests, or as the kind of contrast between two differing perspectives on a common moral and imaginative project, which Sawyer develops, this kind of comparative reading takes us beyond both the ethnocentric use of comparison that was typical of the imperial period (see Melas, All the Difference) and the narrowly circumscribed local studies whose ultimate rationale is often a disguised form of cultural particularism or relativism.12 The third chapter, by Himansu Mohapatra, continues the kind of comparative analysis we see in Vargas’s and Sawyer’s essays, and while it provides brief contrasts between Senapati’s analytical realism and the approaches of Charles Dickens and the Bengali writer Rabindranath Tagore (in his poem “Dui Bigha Jami”), its primary goal is to compare Senapati’s realism with that of the Hindi novel Godaan (1936) by Premchand. Mohapatra makes explicit what is assumed by Vargas and Sawyer—that a novelist’s explorations in form and technique have profound epistemic implications, that they are often explorations of sociocultural themes and theories. Mohapatra’s provocative analysis suggests that while both Godaan and Six Acres and a Third are canonical examples of realism in the history of the Indian novel, Premchand’s text is less successful in its social and historical analysis than Senapati’s mainly because it often confuses “symptoms” with social “causes.” In effect, Premchand’s novel takes colonial presence for granted and substitutes “character analysis for social analysis.” Drawing on the “postpositivist realist” theses of recent philosophers and literary theorists, Mohapatra suggests a way of going beyond an author’s stated intentions or ideological position to examine the formal and analytical work that the literary text does. The “real achievement” of Senapati’s text, Mohapatra argues, is “epistemological”: “its self-conscious narrative discourse [is] the main force behind its attempt to reorient the reader by clarifying connections among social phenomena that ignorance or ideological

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village tout. By accomplishing all this, Six Acres and a Third prefigures the dramatic developments in European modernist fiction that would achieve in different ways some of the effects I have described—a fact that makes Senapati’s novel an exemplar, one might argue, of nonEuropean modernism.

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mystification has obscured.” This “epistemological work,” he clarifies, “characteristically takes the form of (literary) postmodernist frame breaks without that accompanying (theoretical) postmodernist skepticism about truth claims.” The novel’s “truth claims” are about “the historical process of change of social class and power viewed through the lenses of land and language.” What is revealed through the novel’s experiments in narrative technique is something about the underlying causes that shape the historical process of change; “the ‘causal joints’ of the society that the novel deals with are . . . laid bare.” The next two chapters provide comparisons of Senapati’s novel with two nineteenth-century Indian texts (one written in Assamese, the other in Telugu) and show how all three works draw on an indigenous modern sensibility, one that is wary of the colonial modernity of westernized babus while being receptive to many of the positive values for which European culture was also known. Misra compares Senapati’s novel with a satirical prose-sketch, “Fair Without, Foul Within,” written in 1866 by the Assamese writer and scholar Hemchandra Barua. The first-ever English translation of this text is published in this volume (see Appendix). Even though Misra does not suggest this possibility, readers of Senapati will easily recognize Barua’s text as one that must have influenced him: Barua’s narrator uses the same ironic and satirical tone to describe his subject, and some of Barua’s lines are echoed in Six Acres and a Third. By the middle of the nineteenth century, British missionaries who set up the first printing presses had discarded the older Assamese script and adopted the Bengali one instead, and Assamese books were now printed in Bengali script. Senapati, who read Bengali, would no doubt have had access to Barua’s works. What is equally interesting is Misra’s suggestion that Barua draws on a popular performing tradition native to Assam, oja-pali, through which rural audiences had been exposed, at least since the fifteenth century, to a dialogic and critical narrative voice, that of the main singer. Oja-pali is similar to the Oriya thiapala; in both, a group of five or six performers dance, enact scenes, dramatize themes, and recite poetry, while the lead singer goes on to provide both serious and parodic commentary on the recited texts and contemporaneous subjects, both high and low. It is reasonable to speculate that for Senapati as well as Barua, popular rural performance forms such as oja-pali and pala provided inspiration for their satirical voices and their antihegemonic values; through the rich critical strands of satirical writing these forms embodied, they provided Barua and Senapati a link to a tradition of humor and social critique that predates colonialism by several centuries. Misra talks in particular

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about the humor and the “mock-heroic tone,” which draws upon “the carnival spirit” of the peasant culture of Assam. Reading Senapati and Barua together sheds light on the sources of Indian prose satire as a critical social practice, and it suggests new research projects on the enabling influence of popular cultural forms, both oral and written, on many canonical texts of Indian literature. Velcheru Narayana Rao, who has been arguing for years that a careful study of precolonial Telugu, Tamil, and Kannada literature reveals a robust tradition of modernity in precolonial Indian culture, one that has been eclipsed by the assumption that British rule brought modernity to India, compares Senapati to his contemporary from northern Andhra, Gurajada Apparao. Apparao, who wrote in Telugu, lived in a bilingual culture on the border of modern Orissa and Andhra Pradesh, and Narayana Rao attributes to both writers a form of “indigenous modernity [that is] distinct from the colonial variety.” Focusing on Apparao’s canonical 1890s play Kanyasulkam (Girls for Sale; see Apparao) and Senapati’s Six Acres, Narayana Rao shows how both writers reveal a critical sensibility that refuses to “moralize” or consider indigenous culture and society as hopelessly corrupt and in need of reform from above. Drawing on an ironic stance and tone that is informed by indigenous, especially oral, traditions, these texts adopt a critical perspective on both their social world and the colonialist approach of the western-educated Indian babus. For Narayana Rao, both Senapati and Apparao provide a counter to the “cultural amnesia” of the babus and the upper castes who, under the influence of the new education, “rejected their immediate past in favor of colonial modernity”: “The new middle class accepted the colonial representation of Indian society as stagnant and decadent, with Indians as a group of people steeped in superstition and immorality. Committed to changing these conditions, social reformers in several areas of India began to lead movements to improve the moral and social conditions of Indians.” Identifying this kind of “social reform” movement as a movement of mainly the upper castes, Narayana Rao locates its colonialist ideology in the works of some Hindi and Bengali writers of the late nineteenth centuries; he goes on to distinguish from it the more complex critical approach of Senapati and Apparao, which he defines as an indigenous noncolonialist strand of modernity. Central to Narayana Rao’s reading of the two texts is the thesis that they develop an ironic attitude that “liberates the reader” and abandon a purely mimetic mode:

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[T]he two authors, Apparao and Senapati, do not produce their works in a naturalist-realist mode. Neither do we find an authorial intention nor an omniscient author who sees and reports it all for the reader to receive. They do not unequivocally condemn the society as decadent and superstitious, nor do they invite the changes introduced by the colonial administration as liberating and uplifting. They do not reject Western influence in a blind patriotic stance, eulogizing everything traditional. Rather, they adopt a critical perspective that liberates the reader to read their works unfettered by an overpowering authorial sermon, while they take inspiration from the traditional oral forms of literature, including the epic performances with their multiple voices and polyphonic characters.

This thesis about an indigenous modernity is developed elsewhere by Narayana Rao and his colleagues David Shulman and the historian Sanjay Subrahmanyam, and it opens up exciting questions for the study of precolonial social and cultural formations (see Narayana Rao, Shulman, and Subrahmanyam, Textures of Time). The conclusions of this chapter are consistent with those of Misra’s work on Barua and Senapati; in both (as in the chapter by Dash and Pattanaik in this volume), the thesis about alternative forms of modernity is developed through close textual analysis and supported by new interpretations of the heterogeneous ideological contexts of nineteenth-century Indian literature. The essay by Ulka Anjaria focuses on one intriguing aspect of Senapati’s novel, what Anjaria calls “the narrative politics of silence.” The analysis of the representation of women is developed comparatively by looking at a similar use of silence in Premchand’s 1927 novel Nirmala as well as the 2003 Bangladeshi–British novel Brick Lane by Monica Ali. While “giving voice” to and privileging the “interiority” of the oppressed and the weak is often assumed to be liberating and silence is seen as antithetical to such liberation, Anjaria’s close reading questions this assumption. It argues that Senapati and Premchand “revalue the ethics of such silence within the world of [their novels].” Her central argument traces an alternative interpretation of the relationship between social marginality and the representation of the characters’ agency: In its more explicit critique of the oppressive conditions faced by women in early twentieth-century India, Nirmala thematizes the question of silence by implicating it with agency in the novel, resulting in a bleak interpretation of what it means for women to gain voice under socially unequal conditions. By contrast, Brick Lane offers a more clearly empowering story with fewer of the earlier novels’ tragic

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Satya P. Mohanty overtones, yet in doing so it ultimately restricts its political impact by offering the novel form as a sort of utopian world in which silence is no longer a barrier to knowledge about characters. By setting into dialogue three South Asian novels, written in different languages over a span of more than one hundred years, which all at one level thematize silence, my larger goal is to delink an empowering politics from certain narrative conventions that are often taken for granted in a global study of the novel.

The question is less relevant for the writing of a specifically South Asian literary history and more for the theoretical understanding we glean by looking at novelistic conventions cross-culturally. The narrative politics of silence, Anjaria suggests, is not clear cut; ambiguities of social meaning and the subjective ambivalences that refer to them need to be looked at closely in these novels. Attentive textual readings complicate our received assumptions and suggest alternative trajectories for feminist critical practice. The next two essays are not comparative in scope; instead, they offer new and original interpretations of aspects of Senapati’s novel. Claire Horan focuses on the representation of women and gender relations in Six Acres, and mainly through an analysis of the narrator’s discourse comes to a conclusion that will surprise many of Senapati’s readers. She argues that Senapati “presents vivid, complex, and nonsexist portraits of rural women” rather than conventional ones. Originally published in 2006, Horan’s essay anticipates counterintuitive feminist readings such as Anjaria’s, and her argument is firmly grounded in the details of the text. She argues that Senapati’s portrayal of women will not always satisfy today’s readers, but he “never implies that any failings of the female characters are due to a natural or innate disposition of women.” Senapati, she points out, refuses to “generalize the identities of rural Indian peasant women to women in any other walk of life. Instead, he points out the challenges that even his less sympathetic women characters have faced because they were born female in a patriarchal society.” Horan’s thesis is defended through close reading rather than through theoretical argument, and some of its implications are startlingly original. Read together with Anjaria’s reinterpretation of the uses of silence, it provides an unusually perceptive feminist interpretation of Senapati’s novel. The following chapter by veteran Oriya scholar Gaganendra Nath Dash provides an incisive reading of another aspect of Senapati’s novel. Dash focuses on the contrast between the two words that are used to characterize the novel’s central character, “zamindar” and “mahajan,”

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and by looking at the semantic and historical specificity of the two terms suggests that while they may sometimes be interchangeable as forms of respectful address, they refer to radically different kinds of social meaning. Zamindars were traditional landlords, while mahajans were money-lenders. Dash shows how Senapati traces the rise of a class of “neomahajans” under colonial rule, and through the lenses of this particular class represents the cultural and historical upheaval that colonialism brought to Orissan society. Six Acres, he argues, is “primarily a critique of the land-tenure system introduced by the colonial government.” Situating Senapati’s sociopolitical views in relation to those of James Mill, Dash makes the point that the novelist rejected the utilitarian ideology that was used to buttress arguments in support of colonialism. Arguing against many of Senapati’s readers in Orissa, Dash shows how Senapati was a critic of exploitative relationships in rural Indian society without being “antifeudal,” without seeing all feudal structures and institutions as inherently unjust. The concluding essay, by Debendra Dash and Dipti Pattanaik, provides a synoptic account of many of the issues that have been raised in this volume. Dash (the editor of most of the volumes of Senapati’s collected works [the Fakir Mohan Granthabali]) and Pattanaik (a leading Oriya writer and scholar) situate Senapati’s first novel in the context of some of his other works and come to the conclusion that while Senapati was personally conservative in some ways, he provided a searing critique of colonial modernity from a perspective that was quite radical. His sympathies lay with the ordinary peasants and laborers of Orissa’s villages, and his cultural vision was that of an empowered subaltern class, the class that is now “disempowered and . . . downtrodden.” While he was critical of babu culture, he was more interested in “a thorough reinvention of the colonial subject who could be rooted in universal ethical principles provided to him by his native tradition, even as he internalized the new changes through an attentive reading of the signs of those changes.” Senapati’s sympathies lay with the contributions of heterodox Orissan traditions such as Buddhism and Jainism, they argue, rather than an “essentialized” Hinduism. He was critical of colonial ideology but open to the best values of the modern West. Here is how they summarize his complex political thought: A . . . careful reading [of Senapati] would reveal that most of the farcical representations of western epistemology in his writing relate to the hegemonic dimension of that knowledge when it is accompanied by power. . . . It would be safe to argue that Senapati did not reject western

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Satya P. Mohanty epistemology and the changes it initiated per se, but rather that he resisted its hegemonic character and arrogance, when accompanied by colonial power. He believed that all manner of knowledge or change either grafted or mediated with power would have either a deleterious effect on the people or would be fruitless. Its status would be no better than the superstitions that were part of the so-called traditionalist view of life. Only those changes or knowledge that could find resonance in the living tradition of the common people and were chosen by them as active and self-conscious agents would gain the status of legitimate knowledge. The populace in a state of mental slavery can turn any mode of knowledge into rumor and superstition as they are capable of turning the ideals and values of a living tradition into meaningless rituals. Thus, rather than bringing in so-called better knowledge and historiography, Senapati emphasized the creation of active and conscious agents who could choose whatever was beneficial in tradition and modernization.

There were thus many forms of “tradition” and many forms of “modernity.” The Senapati that Dash and Pattanaik describe—a Senapati who will seem familiar to readers of the previous essays in this volume—is a “traditional modernizer,” not one who rejects indigenous cultural and social institutions but sees in them many of the strengths that an anticolonial and nonethnocentric modernity can cherish and develop. The “view from below” that his works provide contains a persuasive social and cultural theory, a theory that emerges from a moment of acute social crisis. U. R. Ananthamurthy’s call—or rather, his challenge—to students of Indian literature led to the collaborative work of this volume. Our hope is that the close readings and theoretical explorations will inspire more such engagements with important literary works and their multiple contexts. As “postcolonial” critical analyses, all these essays depart from the “colonial discourse” approach that, inspired by Edward Said’s Orientalism (1978), dominated and defined the field of postcolonial studies in the 1980s and 1990s. Their authors’ focus on subaltern agency and their textually and empirically grounded approach suggests a framework that may be called “radical humanist”; it is a departure from the Foucauldian theory of social power on which Orientalism had drawn. Our hope is that the analyses are convincing enough to suggest a more capacious theoretical approach to the study of colonial and postcolonial culture than was possible within the Foucauldian framework, one that led many to neglect the rich layers of subaltern agency and thought and to focus one-sidedly on colonial power.13 Second, if the arguments about indigenous or alternative modernity are convincing in this one instance, with a focus on one related

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group of texts, they will indicate why the sharp conceptual opposition between tradition and modernity is misleading and needs to be rejected. Empirically grounded studies of the rational basis and social function of indigenous, especially rural, institutions, as well as of the rich body of ideas contained in folklore and popular forms of dialogic and interactive performance (of which pala and oja-pali are examples), may reveal robust expressions of democratic and egalitarian values present in rural Indian life and suggest similar possibilities elsewhere in the world. Such “traditional” values point to noncapitalist sources and forms of “modernity,” and they suggest alternatives to our dominant conceptions of what it implies. Finally, the readings and analyses in this book are invitations to a critical dialogue, since they are meant to provoke as well as to illuminate. They invite and encourage alternative textual interpretations, seek to reinvigorate debates, and open new avenues of cross-disciplinary research in which literary criticism is part of a collaborative project to define the features of the world we—all of us—have inherited from the Age of (European) Empire. This particular “view from India” may suggest how the study of literature is essential to our varied inquiries into the tangled relationship between colonialism and modernity, as well as into a genuinely democratic postcolonial future.14

Notes 1. Fakir Mohan Senapati’s Oriya novel Chha Mana Atha Guntha was serialized in Utkal Sahitya in 1897–99 and published as a book in 1902. Rabindranath Tagore’s Bengali novel Gora was published serially in Prabasi in 1907–09 and as a book in 1910. In his Fall 2000 lecture at Cornell, Ananthamurthy compared Senapati’s and Tagore’s languages and stylistic choices, since Senapati’s deliberate use of a range of Oriya dialects, from the rural colloquial to the Sanskritized, offers a contrast to Tagore’s sadhu bhasa or pure Sanskritized dialect of Bengali. Senapati was deliberately inventing modern Oriya prose in a democratic idiom (see G. N. Dash, 2006); sadhu bhasa was conventional among the dominant segment of Bengali writers until very recently. However, despite their differences in choice of style and idiom, both novels explore themes related to modernity and colonialism and offer valuable critical perspectives on Indian society under colonial rule. 2. Three other translations of Chha Mana were previously published in India: by B. M. Senapati and A. M. Senapati in 1967 (Six Acres and a Half); by C. V. Narasimha Das in 1967 (The Stubble under the Cloven Hoof); and by Nuri Misra in 1969 (A Plot of Land). Six Acres and a Third, done collaboratively by four translators, Rabi Shankar Mishra, Satya P.

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Mohanty, Jatindra K. Nayak, and Paul St. Pierre, is both the most recent and the one available to a worldwide readership. It was published by the University of California Press in 2005 with an Indian reprint by Penguin in 2006. 3. On this theme, see my introduction to Six Acres; see also the introduction I coauthored with Harish Trivedi to the special section of the journal Economic and Political Weekly on “The Literary View from Below,” published in November 2006 (pp. 4780–81). The special section contained four new essays on Senapati (a revised version of one, by Claire Horan, is reprinted in this volume). Conferences on this theme were held at the University of Delhi in January 2007 and at Cornell University in May 2008. 4. The literature on the subject of alternative modernities is growing rapidly; for some significant mileposts, see “Early Modernities”; “Multiple Modernities”; Gaonkar; Chakrabarty, Provincializing Europe; and Narayana Rao, Shulman, and Subrahmanyam, Textures of Time, as well as the afterword by Narayana Rao to his edition and translation of Apparao, Girls for Sale. I outline some of the main issues in an essay that analyzes a radical religious text, the Oriya Laksmi Purana written by Balaram Das in the sixteenth century; see Mohanty, “Alternative Modernities.” For a sense of the broad range of positions on this topic, see also Quijano and Ennis; Mignolo; and Nandy. A helpful assessment of European modernity is provided by Taylor in his Modern Social Imaginaries, a study that is intended to clear the ground so that comparative cross-cultural work can be done on modernity in its various manifestations. Susan Friedman’s 2010 article, “Planetarity,” is a useful guide to multiple forms of cultural modernism and their relationship to social modernity; for an innovative approach to European modernity’s self-image, as represented in eighteenth-century literature, see Brown, Homeless Dogs and Melancholy Apes. 5. Since the term “colonial modernity” is sometimes used very imprecisely, almost as a slogan, I would like to offer the following definition: the term refers to the particular combination of modern social institutions and colonialist ideology that European colonial rule brought with it; this ideology was based on a wholesale devaluation of traditional social institutions in the societies that were colonized. This ideology was used to justify colonial rule, but it is possible to separate the ideology from the institutions (and laws, values, etc.) associated with modernity. This is the sense in which the term “colonial modernity” is used by the authors in this volume. 6. For an example of primarily theory-driven skepticism, see Spivak’s widely cited “Can the Subaltern Speak?” For an insightful study of the same range of issues, and an account that balances theory and empirical analysis in such a way that each clarifies and guides the other, see James Scott’s

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work, especially The Art of Not Being Governed: An Anarchist History of Upland Southeast Asia. 7. Vargas adapts Rama’s notion by pointing to Senapati’s and García Márquez’s “selective absorption and transformation of hegemonic written forms through their dialogization with subaltern oral forms, codes of perception, and cultural values.” 8. For an analysis of how Senapati revises and implicitly critiques the apolitical mimetic realism of Lal Behary Day, an Indian novelist who wrote (in English, in the 1870s) about Indian village life, see Mohapatra and Nayak, “Writing Peasant Life in Colonial India”; Mohanty 2005; and Mohanty, “The Dynamics of Literary Reference.” 9. The account of Senapati’s novel in this paragraph and the next incorporates several sentences from my introduction to Six Acres. 10. For a good short account of Oriya pala, see Sitakant Mohapatra, “Pala: Poetry as Performance,” in his The Rainbow of Rhythms: Folk Art Tradition of Orissa, 29–46. On oja-pali, see Manohar Laxman Varadpande, History of Indian Theatre, Volume 2 90–91. A slightly different kind of pala, where the performers remain seated and do not draw on theatrical forms, is also popular in Orissa and West Bengal. 11. Senapati’s satirical mode may have been influenced by the eighteenthcentury Oriya writer Brajanath Badajena, whose well-known “Chatura Binoda” was one of a group of texts that marks the rise of modern prose in Orissa. Debendra Dash pointed out to me that such authors as Nilambara Bidyadhar and Baladev Rath, who wrote prose works roughly around the same time as Badajena, were from southern Orissa and must have been influenced by the literary developments in Telugu that Narayana Rao and his colleagues analyze in southern India. Senapati, writing almost a century after these authors, had scholarly familiarity with Telugu, in addition to Sanskrit, Oriya, Hindi, and Bengali; although he knew English, he lacked fluency in it. 12. While Melas provides a valuable critique of ethnocentric comparatism, I think her case would be stronger if she were to distinguish what she calls “the representative universalism of high humanism” (19) from nonethnocentric versions of universalism. In my view (see Mohanty, “Universalism, Particularism, and Multicultural Politics,” 234–47), ethnocentric forms of universalist concepts are quite different from the kind of radical universalism on which some of our best current notions of human rights are based. Such radical universalism also provided some of the best arguments against colonialism and slavery. 13. In Discipline and Punish and in interviews, Foucault was deeply skeptical of such notions as human agency, since he viewed that notion—much like all notions related to subjectivity—as symptoms of a “humanism” that was willfully blind to the pervasive presence of power. The most revealing statements of his theoretical beliefs, however, appear in his 1972 conversation with Noam Chomsky. In my analysis of these statements and the

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exchange between Foucault and Chomsky, I show how Foucault’s views about the ubiquity of power and the impossibility of gaining enough distance from it to achieve a measure of objectivity are underwritten by an untenable and “extreme form of epistemological holism.” See Mohanty, “Can Our Values Be Objective?” 14. For their helpful comments on earlier drafts of this chapter, I thank Laura Brown, Vasudha Dalmia, Debendra Dash, Susan Friedman, Priyamvada Gopal, Himansu Mohapatra, and Harin C. Song.

Bibliography Apparao, Gurujada Venkata. Girls for Sale: A Play from Colonial India (Kanyasulkam). Translated by Velcheru Narayana Rao. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2007. Brown, Laura. Homeless Dogs and Melancholy Apes: Humans and Other Animals in the Modern Literary Imagination. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2010. Chakrabarty, Dipesh. Provincializing Europe: Postcolonial Thought and Historical Difference. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000. Dash, Gaganendra Nath. “Six Acres and a Third—Fakir Mohan Senapati’s Discovery from Below: Decolonisation and the Search for Linguistic Authenticity.” Economic and Political Weekly 41, no. 46 (2006): 4801. “Early Modernities.” Daedalus. Vol. 127, Issue 3 (Summer 1998). Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. New York: Pantheon Books, 1977. Friedman, Susan Stanford. “Planetarity: Musing Modernist Studies.” Modernism/Modernity 2010 (forthcoming). Gaonkar, Dilip Parameshwar. Alternative Modernities. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2001. Jameson, Fredric. A Singular Modernity. New York: Verso, 2002. Melas, Natalie. All the Difference in the World: Postcoloniality and the Ends of Comparison. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2007. Mignolo, Walter D. Local Histories/Global Designs. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000. Mohanty, Satya P. “Alternative Modernities and Medieval Indian Literature: The Oriya Lakshmi Purana as Radical Pedagogy.” Diacritics 38, no. 3 (2009): 3–21. ———. “Can Our Values Be Objective? On Ethics, Aesthetics, and Progressive Politics.” New Literary History 32, no. 4 (2001): 803–33. ———. “The Dynamics of Literary Reference: Narrative Discourse and Social Ideology in Two 19th-Century Indian Novels.” In Thematology, edited by Sibaji Bandyopadhyaya. Kolkata: Dept. of Comparative Literature, Jadavpur University, 2004. ———. “Introduction.” Six Acres and a Third. Translated by Mishra et al. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005.

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———. “Universalism, Particularism, and Multicultural Politics.” In Literary Theory and the Claims of History: Postmodernism, Objectivity, Multicultural Politics. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1997. Mohanty, Satya P., and Harish Trivedi. “Introduction, Special Section on Six Acres and a Third.” Economic and Political Weekly 41, no. 46 (2006). Mohapatra, H. S., and J. K. Nayak. “Writing Peasant Life in Colonial India.” Toronto Review of Contemporary Writing Abroad (Spring 1996): 29–40. Mohapatra, Sitakant. “Pala: Poetry as Performance.” The Rainbow of Rhythms: Folk Art Tradition of Orissa. Jagatsinghpur, India: Prafulla, 2005. “Multiple Modernities.” Daedalus. Vol. 129, Issue 1 (Winter 2000). Nandy, Ashis. The Intimate Enemy: Loss and Recovery of Self under Colonialism. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1983. Narayana Rao, Velcheru, David Dean Shulman, and Sanjay Subrahmanyam. Textures of Time: Writing History in South India. New York: Other Press, 2003. Quijano, Anibal, and Michael Ennis. “Coloniality of Power, Eurocentrism, and Latin America.” Nepantla: Views from South 1, no. 3 (2000): 533–80. Scott, James C. The Art of Not Being Governed: An Anarchist History of Upland Southeast Asia. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2009. Senapati, B. M., and A. M. Senapati. Six Acres and a Half. New Delhi, India: Ministry of Information and Broadcasting, Government of India, 1967. Senapati, Fakir Mohan. A Plot of Land; [A Short Novel]. Translated by Nuri Misra. Cuttack, India: Cuttack Students’ Store, 1969. ———. Six Acres and a Third. Translated by Rabi Shankar Mishra, Satya P. Mohanty, Jatindra K. Nayak, and Paul St. Pierre. New Delhi, India: Penguin Books India, 2006. ———. Six Acres and a Third: The Classic Nineteenth-Century Novel about Colonial India. Translated by Rabi Shankar Mishra, Satya P. Mohanty, Jatindra K. Nayak, and Paul St. Pierre. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005. ———. The Stubble under the Cloven Hoof: An Imaginative Recast of Fakir Mohan Senapati’s Masterpiece in Oriya Fiction, Cho Mano Atho Guntho. Translated by C. V. Narasimha Das. Cuttack, India: Sahitya Samsad, 1967. Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. “Can the Subaltern Speak?” In Marxism and the Interpretation of Culture, edited by Cary Nelson and Lawrence Grossberg. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1988. Taylor, Charles. Modern Social Imaginaries. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2004. Varadpande, Manohar Laxman. History of Indian Theatre. Vol. 2. New Delhi: Abhinav Publications, 1992.

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Viewing Colonialism and Modernity

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Views from Below Comparing Literary Perspectives

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Part I

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Critical Realisms in the Global South: Narrative Transculturation in Senapati’s Six A cres and a Third and García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude* Jennifer Harford Vargas

I

n his Nobel lecture, “The Solitude of Latin America,” Gabriel García Márquez begins his remarks on his literary craft by first giving a moving account of the invasions, massacres, disappearances, and dictatorships suffered by Latin Americans. He focuses on this historical reality of violence to comment on Latin America’s often mistakenly attributed and romanticized magical nature, purportedly represented by his fiction. García Márquez claims that he has attempted to provide in his fiction an accurate portrayal of Latin American reality in Latin American aesthetic terms. Arguing that his form of representation is as important as what he represents, García Márquez declares, “We [in Latin America] have had to ask but little of imagination, for our crucial problem has been a lack of conventional means to render our lives believable.  .  .  . The interpretation of our reality through patterns not our own, serves only to make us ever more unknown, ever less free, ever more solitary.”1 His rejection of imported and imposed * An earlier version of this essay appeared in Economic and Political Weekly in 2008. I thank Satya Mohanty, who encouraged this project and provided crucial feedback on earlier drafts, and Ulka Anjaria, as well as the 2007 FMS Summer Institute participants.

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Jennifer Harford Vargas

“patterns” in favor of indigenous ones is anchored in his belief that colonization is perpetuated when Latin American history and literature are written and interpreted in the modes, discourses, or imaginaries of Europe or the United States. The appropriate aesthetic project, as García Márquez articulates it, is to develop more adequate forms of literary representation—that is, “means” for representing local realities that are generated out of local “conventions” and are more faithful to those realities. Startlingly, Gabriel García Márquez develops a mode of representation remarkably similar to the one developed more than half a century earlier by Indian writer Fakir Mohan Senapati. The 2005 publication by the University of California Press in a new English translation from Oriya of Senapati’s novel Six Acres and a Third has made the text widely available beyond India.2 Six Acres and a Third, which was originally serialized from 1897–99, reveals compelling similarities with García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude (1967), another novel of pivotal significance written in the global South.3 Senapati and García Márquez respond in similar ways to colonial and neocolonial socioeconomic relations and ideologies by generating literary forms of what I will be calling “critical realism.” Whether in the nineteenth-century context of the British Raj or in the twentieth-century Latin American context of banana republics, both writers are invested in critiquing the dependence of the local economy on an exploitative foreign economic power (a phenomenon that has been analyzed in the Latin American context by such theorists as Raúl Prebisch, Immanuel Wallerstein, and Anibál Quijano). Colonial India and neocolonial Colombia share a position of economic dependence within a transnational system of capital that exploits the periphery and benefits the center in an uneven modernity. They also share the subordination of their knowledge production and the manipulation of their political and legal systems by those tied into the (neo)colonial regime in power. Linked to larger sociopolitical projects of self-determination and decolonization, Senapati’s and García Márquez’s literary productions provide a lens through which to examine forms of cultural intervention in the global South as well as an opportunity to meditate on the ways in which subalternized subjects critically negotiate (neo)colonial modernity. Written under British colonialism and set in Orissa in the early nineteenth century, Senapati’s novel chronicles the wealthy landowner and moneylender Ramachandra Mangaraj’s expropriation of a small plot of land, the eponymous six acres and a third owned by the peasant couple Bhagia and Saria. Punished by the courts and his landed

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estate seized, Mangaraj subsequently falls from power. While the plot is ostensibly about this exploitative relationship between the landed class and the lower class, the text spends as much time detailing and analyzing the larger social landscape as it does linearly following the events surrounding the seizure of land. It explores a variety of topics ranging from the socioeconomic impact of British land-tenure laws to the economic structuring of village religious practices, from the relationships between peoples of different castes to the corruption involved in the judicial process, and from the hegemonic imposition of English on an Oriya-speaking society to the creation of a class of English-educated middle-class Oriya babus. In short, the novel is a richly textured and often humorous creative analysis of nineteenthcentury Oriya life. At the same time, it is about much more; it is also about literary realism and the ways in which the traditional European realist novel must be modified in order to adequately represent local Oriya colonial modernity. Gabriel García Márquez’s aim to develop modes of representation that emerge out of Latin American imaginative and experiential worldviews resonates with Fakir Mohan Senapati’s literary project. One Hundred Years of Solitude is also precisely about the transformation of literary realism under the conditions of a local Colombian neocolonial modernity. Given the fact that Senapati in no way directly influenced García Márquez, it is crucial to consider the striking similarities between Senapati’s and García Márquez’s forms of realism. Placing these two writers from the global South in conversation, we see how the premises of their realist endeavors are ineluctably critical precisely because of their geosocial locations in colonial India and neocolonial Latin America. Closely examining the deep affinities between their literary practices allows us to understand the types of literary realism produced under conditions of sociocultural domination and economic dependency as well as the kinds of oppositional narrative tactics marshaled in response. Both authors reimagine colonial society from “below,” constructing this view from below out of subaltern(ized) modes of telling and seeing. They employ underground types of storytelling—mainly oral, ironic, dialogic, and parodic ones—developed by those on the underside of power to resist, negotiate, and transform relations of oppression. While scholars have examined the connections between Indian and Latin American marvelous realisms (comparing, for example, Rushdie and García Márquez), placing Senapati beside García Márquez reveals resemblances between Indian and Latin American realisms. Ulka

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Critical Realisms in the Global South

Jennifer Harford Vargas

Anjaria points to the specific relationship between satire and politics in Six Acres and a Third—what she characterizes as “the complex interaction of forms of narrative humor and socio-political critique” (4797). If we interpret her observation more generally, we can see the ways in which forms of narrative realism and sociopolitical critique complexly overlap and even interact in novels from the global South. As a result we understand that Senapati’s and García Márquez’s development of literary (to modify García Márquez’s phrasing) “patterns of our own” are not so local after all. Reading these two authors together forces an expansion of the context translocally, in such a way that the notion “our own” connotes a larger community of realist literature in the global South. Analyzing these two authors from the global South using literary practices as a prism helps us understand the practice of “transculturation” as a tactical subaltern cultural response to (neo)colonial modernity. Frequently employed by Latin American anthropologists to analyze the encounters between dominant and subalternized groups, especially under colonial conditions, the concept of “transculturation” describes how marginalized peoples creatively produce cultural forms in dialogic interaction with dominant culture.4 By focusing on literature comparatively in a South–South paradigm and, in particular, on the ways in which critical consciousness vis-à-vis colonial domination is produced through the formal structure of a literary text, we begin to understand the varying particulars of transculturation as a mode of anticolonial critique and a form of cultural agency in the global South. Senapati’s and García Márquez’s representational modes produce types of literary realism rooted in local vernaculars and epistemologies. The forms these realist modes take—in Senapati’s case “analytical realism” and in García Márquez’s case marvelous realism—interrogate (neo)colonial power relations and Eurocentric representational paradigms. I examine in particular the ways in which both writers dialogize European literary and local oral modes, a technique Latin American literary critic Ángel Rama calls “narrative transculturation.” Using narrative transculturation to validate spoken and vernacular genres as well as subaltern perspectives enables the realist novels Six Acres and a Third and One Hundred Years of Solitude to function as powerful social critique. Senapati’s and García Márquez’s distinctly realist literary forms generate an “anticolonial and demystificatory social thought,” importantly allowing the global South to speak in its own cadences not only about itself but also about the global North.5

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Critical Realisms in the Global South

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Both Fakir Mohan Senapati and Gabriel García Márquez write their novels within a tradition of what I call “critical realism.” Critical realism, as I see it, is socially engaged realism and, therefore, a form of literary representation that depicts social reality in such a way as to analyze and critique that social reality. In short, it is narrative realism that “thinks” oppositionally and dialogically. I shall compare two forms of realism produced in varying historical moments and geocultural locations under this rubric of critical realism: analytical realism and marvelous realism.6 As Satya Mohanty has already cogently demonstrated at length in his introduction to the novel, Six Acres and a Third is written in the style of what he terms “analytical realism.” Implicitly drawing on the work of Georg Lukács, Mohanty distinguishes analytical realism from naturalistic realism.7 Naturalistic realism is more descriptive and mimetic, since it “builds on the accumulation of details” (2); in contrast, analytical realism “explains and delves into underlying causes” (2). Put simply, analytical realism “seeks to analyze and explain social reality instead of merely holding up a mirror to it” (2). Mohanty argues that Senapati achieves this analytical realism through “a selfreflexive and even self-parodic narrative mode” that emphasizes not only the tale being told but, in particular, “the way it is told” (2–3; emphasis mine). Senapati focuses “not only on the ‘what’  .  .  . but also on the ‘how’” of representation and reference—on both Indian society and on “the mediating layers that shape our perceptions and judgments about [that] reality”—by delving beneath the surface to “reveal a more self-reflexive concern with ideological distortion and the possibility of objective knowledge” (15). Rather than being “simply mimetic or descriptive,” this “complex” realism, Mohanty argues, makes Senapati a successful literary and social-theoretical realist (15). Just as important, Senapati’s focus on the “what” and the “how” creates readers who are consciously forced to engage with the text’s ironic style, latent meanings, and alternative social vision, thereby becoming active, critical readers and social subjects. While I will not explicate here the specific textual examples undergirding Mohanty’s detailed articulation of it, I do want to stress that analytical realism uses particular narrative modes, not just thematics, to interrogatively represent society. Narrated in a highly ironic, selfreferential, and parodic voice, Six Acres and a Third engages a wide tonal range and a plethora of literary tactics. It is filled with tangential

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Critical Realism: Forms of Analytical Realism and Marvelous Realism

Jennifer Harford Vargas

stories, biting jabs, village gossip, quotes, deliberate mistranslations from the Shastras and classical Indian literature, comical asides, scenes of village life, allusions to colonialism, mock intellectual meditations, and lengthy digressions. “Playing logic off against hearsay, science against superstition, learned discourse against plain speech,” Senapati’s varyingly dialogized narrative modes structurally generate the text’s critical framework.8 Senapati’s analytical realism, then, emerges from the how of representation—from the ways in which he constructs representations of social inequalities and obfuscating ideologies. Similarly, it is not just the “what” but also the “how” of representation that makes García Márquez’s particular form of marvelous realism in One Hundred Years of Solitude a type of critical realism. Since 1949 when Alejo Carpentier first coined the term lo real maravilloso Americano, or the marvelous American real, the term has been used by critics to define a set of literary practices alternatively called marvelous or magical realism.9 While notoriously slippery to define, marvelous realism has, in general, been considered a type of literary representation that reveals the marvelous within ordinary life and that interrogates the limits of hegemonic western categories of perception, classification, and imaginative representation.10 As Robin Fiddian asserts, marvelous realism contains “an overtly political character in its challenge to the rationalist assumptions of western culture, and makes a categorical assertion of the difference of Latin American and other post-colonial cultures vis-à-vis the hegemonic values of imperialist cultures.”11 My intent here, however, is not to offer a definition of marvelous realism but to examine the shared politics and representational tactics of García Márquez’s and Senapati’s realist styles. Similar to Six Acres and a Third, One Hundred Years of Solitude employs the oft remarked upon stylistic strategies of irony and defamiliarization as the basis for its critical realism. This structuring of representational perspective provides the means for challenging western conceptions of modernity and reality from the standpoint of Latin America. For instance, one of the most poignant and humorous episodes in the book occurs when western technology is introduced to Macondo. In recounting the events García Márquez stages a “contact” encounter from the Macondoians’ vantage point. The narrator describes the scene: Dazzled by so many and such marvelous inventions, the people of Macondo did not know where their amazement began.  .  .  . They became indignant over the living images that the prosperous merchant Bruno Crespi projected in the theater . . . for a character who had died

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Critical Realisms in the Global South

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Ironically signifying on the colonial trope of marvelous wonder found in imperial “discovery” narratives, García Márquez turns the tables, subjecting the West to the logic of the marvelous trope.12 This perspectival switch renders the products of western technological modernity irrational and utilizes the people of Macondo as interpretive agents. They prefer “real” drama, music, and voices to the “advancements” of film, phonograph, and telephone. Doubting the validity and usefulness of technologies of “progress,” they even judge the captive balloon a “backward” invention in comparison to the gypsies’ flying carpets.13 Their visceral emotional reactions to the technologies—ranging from indignation, curiosity, and discouragement to excitement, doubt, and despondency—indicate an alternative network of meaning about modernity. This provincializes European modernity, othering its discourse to show its limits. The ironic representation of the encounter with modernization critiques the West’s superior claims to civilization and progress, revealing that the selfcongratulatory obsession with innovation is not necessarily espoused by those seeing from a nonwestern position. García Márquez balances this ironic narrative tone with an earnest one. His critical marvelous realism challenges traditional western assumptions of what is real by incorporating into the everyday naturalized reality of the novel virgins who ascend to heaven, plagues of insomnia, and children who are born with pig tails. These events are treated as believable and rational by the narrator, who juxtaposes them with the unbelievable and irrational products of western technological modernity. While the novel’s realism is grounded in Latin American paradigms for establishing reality and truth, it is precisely the narrator’s implied awareness of differing worldviews in the global North and South, evident in the complementary tonalities of irony and earnestness, that makes his representational modes socially engaged. Whether he pushes the limits of what qualifies as reality or whether he simply represents it, García Márquez toys with these two responses when he signifies on the “magic” of state violence.14 In the most haunting section of One Hundred Years of Solitude, he exposes the manipulative actions of the U.S. banana company and negates the legal logic of the state that together justify exploitation and authorize

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and was buried in one film and for whose misfortune tears of affliction had been shed would reappear alive and transformed into an Arab in the next one. The audience  .  .  . would not tolerate that outlandish fraud. . . . They already had too many troubles of their own to weep over the acted-out misfortunes of imaginary beings. (229)

Jennifer Harford Vargas

massacre.15 When the exploited banana workers go on strike, the lawyers dismiss their demands with “decisions that seemed like acts of magic” (306; emphasis mine). García Márquez demystifies such acts by detailing their machinations as he depicts the company variously employing delaying techniques, false identities, and jailings to avoid addressing the workers’ accusations. When the workers bring their complaints before the higher courts, the lawyers discount their demands with the “proof” that the banana company “did not have, never had had, and never would have any workers in its service because they were hired on a temporary and occasional basis . . . and by a decision of the court it was established and set down in solemn decrees that the workers did not exist” (307; emphasis mine). The definition of “worker” is legally made to signify differently such that it retroactively applies to the past, scripts the present, and determines the future of all company relations with its employees. García Márquez exposes the “magic” for what it is: the manipulation of legal categories via legalistic loopholes through which the state, in collaboration with the banana company, establishes a legal basis to disappear thousands of banana workers. The disappearance of the workers does not occur as a result of the speech act itself (the decree) but as a result of the speech act granting the authority to disappear all dissenting workers. That is, the workers do not simply disappear because the state has declared they do not exist; instead, because they do not exist as legal subjects there are no repercussions for disposing of them. As such, the protesters are massacred and discarded into the sea “like rejected bananas”—the very commodities and objects of consumption they once harvested (312). The novel’s critical-realist mode, which lays bare the mechanisms of hegemonic discourse and power, is based in the marvelous-realist technique of making the seemingly unbelievable believable and vice versa. As forms of critical realism, García Márquez’s marvelous realism and Senapati’s analytical realism are similar because both authors use a narrator who maintains an ironic and parodic distance from Eurocentric ways of interpreting reality in the global South. Both authors “provincialize Europe,” as South Asian historian Dipesh Chakrabarty has termed it, in order to adequately represent what cultural theorist Dilip Parameshwar Gaonkar would call their local “alternative modernities.”16 Enacting these sociopolitical processes through literary means, both authors craft texts that deconstruct, to use a phrase from Paul L. Sawyer, “hierarchies of power, knowledge, and class privilege” by exposing how domination functions (4782).

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Critical Realisms in the Global South

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These critical realisms emerge from the strategic combination of varying forms of expression. As I have suggested, both authors’ realisms are composed through what critic Ángel Rama terms “narrative transculturation.” In Transculturación narrativa en América Latina, Rama argues that while Latin American literature is produced out of a dynamic colonial and anticolonial dialectic, it does not merely imitate or completely reject European literature. This is because Latin American narrative is also forged through particular idioms, oral traditions, and worldviews drawn from Latin America. Critical realism thus functions through narrative transculturation as various genres and worldviews are placed in critical relation at the levels of both content and form. In crafting the transculturated composition of Six Acres and a Third, Senapati tactically combines a variety of narrative modes ranging from rumor to religious scripture, from health manuals to cultural sayings, from colonial histories to subaltern histories, and from legal discourses to individual testimonies. The overall structure, however, is most heavily shaped by storytelling.17 The fact that Senapati’s novel does not strictly work through written prose but also through oral modes is important in considering the type of knowledge validated, as I will demonstrate shortly. Here I would like to stress its conversational tone. Frequently, the narrator directly addresses various readers, and in one instance he18 tells the reader “your face reveals everything,” implying that his audience is, in fact, physically present (88). The ability of the narrator to interpret the reader’s facial expressions evokes the sense that the narrator is not writing the story in private but telling his tale before a listening audience. The narrator’s manner of speaking to the reader and his use of “we” and “our” give the book a structure of communal orality, which is additionally evident in the narrator’s repeated use of “some say,” “it is said,” and “people say.” The structuring of Six Acres and a Third occurs predominantly through verbally circulated gossip, suggesting the validity of hearsay and conjecture as appropriate explanatory paradigms. From the novel’s opening paragraph the narrative turns on a moment of gossip. The narrator introduces us to Mangaraj as “a very pious man indeed” who observes every holy fast, consuming nothing but water and some sacred plant leaves (35). In the sentence immediately following this description, we get a very different view of Mangaraj: “Mangaraj’s barber, Jaga, let it slip that on the evenings of ekadasis a large pot of milk, some bananas, and a small quantity of khai and nabata are placed

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Narrative Transculturation in the Novel

Jennifer Harford Vargas

in the master’s bedroom” (35). The laborer Jaga’s knowledge, which is disseminated as gossip, challenges Mangaraj’s exemplary moral status. Though the narrator hedges the evidence provided by Jaga— purportedly condemning it on the basis of there being no witnesses physically present in the room to confirm Mangaraj’s breaking of the fast—the reader is from the very outset presented with a spoken chain of alternative meanings. In the next chapter, the narrator pits what “some say” about the quantity of money Mangaraj loaned against the significantly lower figure officially recorded in the “Income Tax Department” (41). The novel, therefore, uses oral sources to place pressure on official, often textual, sources of authority. The consistent suggestions of Mangaraj’s underhanded deals and lack of scruples are left unconfirmed by the narrator but can be discounted only if the reader chooses to reject knowledge disseminated via word of mouth as accurate evidence. In order to take the narrator’s stated comments in earnest, the reader must dismiss not only spoken information but also irony. In suggesting that the reader “grasp the main technique of getting at a matter through inference” to fully understand the truth of the story, the narrator suggests that the reader must essentially read against the grain, reading for the inferred instead of the stated (90). Claiming on the surface that popular knowledge is mere “slandering” (38), the narrator uses irony to force the reader to go below the mock critique of gossip and recognize what Henry Louis Gates Jr. would term the narrator’s “signifyin’(g)” tactic of employing dual surface and latent layers of meaning.19 Mohanty characterizes the novel’s narrator as a “touter-narrator,” linking the narrator to the touter in Oriya culture who “use[s] wit and intelligence to disguise his motives” (7). The narrator’s multivalent stories force the reader to be skeptical of his direct statements; they also teach the reader how to be a more effective social critic by being receptive to oral narratives, for only through their espousal can this be accomplished. Senapati’s overall use of hearsay and colloquial Oriya to construct the novel indicates that the stories recounted by “ordinary people” provide probing insights into relations of domination (152). For example, before a member of the state court arrives to investigate the death of Saria and the theft of the six acres and a third, a village “secret” circulates telling of the court official’s arrival (152): “Knowledgeable people remarked gravely, ‘Do you think this matter involves ordinary people like us? . . . No doubt a lot of people from the village will be arrested’” (152). The people’s fears are, in fact, corroborated later in the chapter when mass arrests occur. Senapati

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accordingly suggests that the verbal manner in which the common villagers communicate, and in communicating analyze their social world, must be validated not only as forms of knowledge but also as forms of representation. His use of an Oriya village-based storytelling structure transculturates the novel’s written narrative, inserting a subaltern Oriya worldview that is embedded in its vernacular genres.20 Gabriel García Márquez constructs his narrative transculturation by dialogizing an array of literary and oral modes ranging from colonial discovery chronicles to testimonio, from popular legends to migrant corridos, from scientific investigations to vallenato music, and from modernist techniques to regional colloquialisms. Akin to Senapati, who chose to write in colloquial Oriya and employ a folknarratorial personality, García Márquez utilizes regional Spanish from the Caribbean coast and a narrator whose stylistic tone and worldview are connected to the mamador de gallo.21 Similar to the Oriya touter and the African American signifying monkey, a mamador de gallo is a figure particular to García Márquez’s native Colombia coastal region. While often simply an irresponsible jokester, the mamador de gallo also subverts power relations most commonly through irony, parody, and overexaggeration, often recounting stories with a deadpan seriousness that nevertheless permits the underlying mocking joke to peek through.22 García Márquez’s narrator variously functions as a mamador de gallo, exaggerating colonial worldviews in particular.23 He evokes historical personages ranging from Sir Francis Drake and Sir Walter Raleigh to Alexander von Humboldt, in addition to the fictional characters of Mr. Herbert and Gastón. The narrator parodies this history of colonization by appropriating the motif of scientific documentation and representing the European encounter with the “new” from the Latin American villagers’ humored point of view. When Mr. Herbert, owner of the captive balloon, arrives at the Buendía house and sits down to eat, he tastes a banana for the first time. Taking out “optical instruments” and looking at the banana “with the suspicious attention of a diamond merchant[,] he examined the banana meticulously, dissecting it with a special scalpel, weighing the pieces on a pharmacist’s scale, and calculating its breadth with a gunsmith’s calipers. . . . It was such an intriguing ceremony that no one could eat in peace” (232). The narrator realistically exaggerates Mr. Herbert’s strange investigations of something as familiar and ordinary as a banana in all seriousness but with an underlying ironic humor that invites the reader to doubt the assumed rationality of such actions. Using guineo, the coastal term for banana, the mamador de gallo-narrator subtly

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Critical Realisms in the Global South

Jennifer Harford Vargas

scripts Mr. Herbert’s actions as ridiculous, satirizing the scientific investigation (represented by the pharmacist’s scale) and violent conquest (represented by the gunsmith’s calipers) known all too well in Latin America. In another instance, García Márquez signifies on European colonial discourse by incorporating the trope of the cannibal, directly exposing the cognitive limits of the colonial imaginary. As a child Aureliano Babilonia emerges from his captivity “naked, with matted hair, and with an impressive sex organ that was like a turkey’s wattles, as if he were not a human child but the encyclopedia definition of a cannibal” (299). While he is depicted as an “atropófago,” or cannibal, with the same stereotypical descriptions found in colonial texts, the reader soon learns that Aureliano Babilonia is not ontologically “primitive” nor does he have a “barbaric” nature. He has merely suffered material neglect because the class-biased Fernanda has locked him away. In fact, it is the atropófago24 Aureliano Babilonia who learns how to decode Melquiades’s scripts by combining his local historical knowledge with his capacity for foreign languages.25 This transculturation enables him to decipher the entire history of the Buendías, thus discounting the imperial logic that would classify him as an inferior savage. Senapati and García Márquez both give analytical and aesthetic substance to the ironic and parodic vernacular styles of the touter and the mamador de gallo. Transculturating the novel form with these oral forms enables the valorization of subalternized archives of knowledge and manners of expression such as gossip and exaggeration that are traditionally not granted much epistemic importance. As creative valuations of subalternity and, as such, in affinity with the South Asian and Latin American scholarly subaltern studies projects, both novels consider subalterns “active social, political and heuristic agents,” as subalternist Ileana Rodríguez characterizes them.26 The novels represent subalterns as critical knowledge producers, valuing subaltern consciousness as an organizing narrative perspective.

Subaltern Perspectives and the Geopolitics of Knowledge Complementing the transculturated structuring of narrative perspective, the texts validate producers of knowledge and types of knowledge that are traditionally dismissed as irrational or unscientific or that are simply not taken into account. The geopolitics of knowledge privileges knowledge generated in the global North as well as epistemological modes that conform to the paradigms of logic and rational

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validity established by western Enlightenment and modernity. To question this, Senapati uses alternative epistemic agents, such as poor villagers, while García Márquez uses alternative notions of temporality, such as residual time. As Paul Sawyer astutely observes, “The most direct representation of ordinary experience may, paradoxically, be a form of ‘perspectivalism’ that withdraws privilege from the conventional hierarchies of importance, forces the reader to reorient herself among competing discourse and points of view, and in this way brings human subjects who are beneath official notice into clear focus” (4782). Engaging a perspectivalism embedded in subalterns and their points of view, both texts alter hegemonic hierarchies. Senapati’s narrator spends a great deal of time parodying and debunking sources of epistemic authority, especially those that are linked to colonial rule or mindsets.27 Complementarily, Senapati’s narrator relies on a variety of nontraditional, unofficial sources as he consults the villagers and incorporates their folk and religious beliefs. He does not discount village knowledge as rural, backward, or inferior but instead uses it as a key fount of wisdom. As such, the novel’s formal project—to decenter hegemonic expressive modes through the gossip structure of the narrative—is joined to its epistemic project: to recognize other, local sources of authority and ways of knowing. While the worldview of García Márquez’s novel allows for ghosts, prophecy, and mysterious natural occurrences to occur without question, Senapati employs folk beliefs and the mysterious realm slightly differently as a means to meditate on the social realm.28 For example, the narrator asks the elder weaver Ekadusia the history of Asura Pond, allowing an Oriya “local historian” to recount history, instead of relying on academic European historians like “Marshman and Tod” (102).29 Validating the village weaver Ekadusia as a knowledge producer allows his subaltern cultural capital to carry epistemic weight. Ekadusia recounts the tale of the demon Banasura who “ordered the pond be dug, but did not pick up shovels and baskets to dig it himself” (101). Regardless of its historical veracity, Ekadusia’s tale signals a deep awareness of the structure of inequality in modern colonial production, as those who “order” do not labor.30 In fact, it becomes clear that while they may not have the agency to change systemic relations, the peasant villagers do decipher the larger system of bribes and mortgages and perceive the unfair distribution of resources. Responding to the news that Mangaraj has been persecuted and that the courts have given his lands to a lawyer, the villagers bemoan that this legal action is irrelevant: “You do not get much to eat here; you will not get much to eat there” (206). Importantly, this searing

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Critical Realisms in the Global South

Jennifer Harford Vargas

subaltern moral judgment, which gives the closing tone to Six Acres and a Third, is spoken not by one person in particular but by “the people of the village [who] reminded one another” of their cyclical plight of poverty (205). Functioning as an epistemic collective, the village generates insight, insight mined by the narrator, who uses their knowledge to put pressure on colonialist powers. García Márquez’s novel similarly contains a plethora of unofficial knowledge producers who are allocated narrative space.31 However, I will focus on García Márquez’s representation of temporality in order to demonstrate the subaltern hermeneutic produced through his construction of time. At different points, García Márquez depicts time as linear, simultaneous, collapsed, parallel, circular, and repetitious. He represents it by embedding within a more or less linear chronological plot the coexistence and the mutual mirroring of past and present. Presenting temporality from the standpoint of those subalternized by neocolonial modernity, he thereby challenges the hegemonic characterization of modernity as teleological, progressive development leading to freedom and prosperity. The utter desolation in which Macondo is left after the banana company leaves foregrounds the historical repetition of exploration and exploitation as well as the wasted ruins of colonization and modernization. The text constructs a complex residual32 temporality of the past as present through the Spanish galleon located on the periphery of the enchanted region. Originally found by José Arcadio Buendía at the beginning of the novel, the Spanish galleon, described as seeming to “occupy its own space, one of solitude and oblivion,” gets reanimated symbolically as it is reencountered at different historical turning points (12). Colonel Aureliano, who comes across the galleon during the civil wars, recounts the location to Aureliano Triste, who tries to modernize the route by establishing train tracks, which, unbeknownst to him, eventually bring the banana company. Úrsula responds to the galleon’s resurfacing and Aureliano Triste’s plans with the observation “that time was going in a circle” (226). Úrsula perspicaciously recognizes the doomed repetition of time in the space of the enchanted region. In a later panoramic description from the train of the enchanted region where the banana fields are now planted and “where the carbonized skeleton of the Spanish galleon still sat,” García Márquez juxtaposes the squalor in which the banana workers live with the wealth and luxury of the U.S. banana company owners (300). His description of the empty petrified shell gestures toward the trajectory of Latin America’s exploitation of its labor force, in addition to the stagnation that occurs as a result. The galleon, then, traces

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a linkage between histories of residual Spanish colonial and emergent U.S. neocolonial imperialisms.33 The enchanted region functions as a chronotrope of continual invasion and exploitation present in its very name, la región encantada, which evokes a notion of space and spectral time. After the banana company leaves and the subsequent five years of rain cease, the site, once full of flourishing banana plantations, is now “a bog of rotting roots, on the horizon of which one could manage to see the silent foam of the sea” (336).34 The narrator’s description intricately highlights the unnatural ends of imperial legacies. The practice of extracting or harvesting natural resources for commodification that has historically sapped Latin America of its natural wealth is symbolized in the leftover decaying roots. The banana company’s abandoned furnishings—which are described as “skeletons” that are covered, eerily, with “red lilies” like the color of blood—directly parallel the skeleton of the Spanish galleon (336). The “silent foam of the sea” further intensifies the symbolism of violence as the sea is the site where the physical evidence of neocolonial oppression, the massacred workers, was dumped, as well as the very site of entry for the galleon that looms throughout the book. In short, (neo)colonial skeletons plague and haunt Macondo’s past and present. García Márquez, then, fashions a subaltern historical view of modernity that temporally disrupts and reconfigures history to trace and interrogate the regeneration of colonialism. From what scholars of South Asian and Latin American subaltern studies would call their shared “politics of location,” both Senapati and García Márquez use the form of the novel to interrogate hegemonic domination in the justice system, in the realm of cultural production, and in the European ideology of knowledge. Senapati and García Márquez embed their narratives in subaltern hermeneutics that critically interpret the modern colonial world. These hermeneutics generate, to use another term from subaltern studies, a “history from below” through testimonies from below.

Testifying against (Neo)Colonial Power Both Six Acres and a Third and One Hundred Years of Solitude testify against the violation of rights. At the heart of both novels is a crime: in Six Acres and a Third it is the swindling of property and the displacement of Bhagia and Saria; in One Hundred Years of Solitude it is the massacre and “disappearance” of the banana workers. While the crimes are markedly different in type and in magnitude, both authors

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Critical Realisms in the Global South

Jennifer Harford Vargas

are invested in exposing and deconstructing the mechanisms of the crimes’ perpetration. The alternative narratives that emerge about the crimes are central to that design. The orality of Six Acres and a Third must be placed beside the book’s other main governing device: detective inquiry. The narrator’s use of irony, signifying, and investigation align with the narrator’s desire to dig below the surface to uncover the deeper truth about the socioeconomic organization and the crimes it engenders. The text’s evidential framework consists of a series of occurrences, information, data, accounts, and hearsay that are documented and presented as possible explanatory evidence. The narrator plays the role of detective and even judge as he crafts his own “law of evidence” to tell the story of the swindling of the plot of land (36). In the process he exposes the executors of the crime, interrogating them along with the systemic causes that allow the crime to occur. The text’s analytical realism is especially clear when the narrator presents the justice system as corrupt and biased toward the rich. For instance, the narrator explains that though “English law warns, ‘Watch out  .  .  . If we obtain legally conclusive proof that you have committed a crime, you shall be punished,’” the clever rich man will simply pay off the owner; “under this system, the clever and the rich get off, even though, in truth, they are guilty of hundreds of crimes” (85). The narrator gives out this information about extortion in the justice system as he introduces the lives of the weavers Bhagia and Saria for the first time. The aside about the justice system, like all asides in the novel, is as much an aside as it is part of the interaction between the main plot network and the complex series of episodes and examples that shape the narrator’s zigzag manner of telling mini stories and lessons, which relate to the main plot if not through actual events then through their relation to the larger social field mapped by the narrator. The narrator’s skeptical attitude toward the justice system prepares the reader to encounter the police investigations and the testimonies taken down and tailored. Senapati does not, as García Márquez does, incorporate testimonies in order to directly expose the truth about the crimes; instead, he opts for a portrayal of Mangaraj’s trial that makes it clear Mangaraj gets off too easily. Yet, Senapati’s use of verbal testimonies, especially in the “Police Inquiry” chapter, is important because he uses them to level critiques of the state apparatus.35 Those who testify are asked to enter into official discourse through a series of identifications that mark them as subjects in categories readable and classifiable to the dominant system. Each “witness” is forced to give her or his name, father’s name,

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caste, age, profession, village, subdivision, and district. Such identifications, however, are not relevant to the witnesses’ senses of self. For instance, Marua’s age is listed as “unknown” (160); for his profession Sana Rana gives “worshipper of the village goddess” before “farmer” (158); and Champa claims she does not even know her father’s name and states her caste as “I belong to this house” (164). The villagers’ resistance to or perhaps even inability to identify under the official classification points to their alternative value system, a system of values that, as discussed previously, is given central importance. The testifiers are wary of the official apparatus of investigation, especially since violence often becomes the means of coercing testimony. Still, the knowledge articulated by the minor characters in the testimonies is important to the novel’s gradual deciphering of the crime and its aftermath. Justice in the end is done because Mangaraj loses his property and falls into disgrace, his house and life becoming like an “empty shell” similar to the empty shell of the Spanish galleon in One Hundred Years of Solitude (209). Nevertheless, as in García Márquez’s text, oppressive rule is simply reinstated. As the villagers deftly recognize, “No matter who becomes the next master, we will remain his slaves” (206). Tied into modern colonial methods of control, the rural landowner is not by any means defeated because landowners are replaceable. The hierarchies of power have not changed—power has simply changed hands. Similar in function to Senapati’s analytical realist novel that uses a subaltern village view to expose the manipulations involved in appropriating property, García Márquez’s marvelous realist novel utilizes a subaltern oral history to expose the political repression and discursive distortions manipulated to produce hegemonic history. García Márquez demonstrates exactly how this official version is created—through a combination of censorship and state-disseminated documents—to demystify the means by which the state erases subaltern histories. The events of the strike and massacre are modified, narrated, and concretized by state decree and the “official version, repeated a thousand times and mangled out all over the county by every means of communication the government found at hand, was finally accepted: there were no dead, the satisfied workers had gone back to their families” (316). With time, the erasure is total: “Everything had been set forth in judicial documents and in primary-school textbooks: that the banana company had never existed” (396). Despite the official version produced through the “magic” of coercion and the controlling technologies of print, José Arcadio Segundo manages to survive the massacre and to articulate a subalternized history of the crimes.

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Critical Realisms in the Global South

Jennifer Harford Vargas

While equally wary of the justice system, García Márquez opens a transformative space for testimony, a space that Senapati perhaps cannot allow because his characters are forced to testify within the severely restricted space of police investigation and because his plot results in the death and lunacy of the victims of the crime. In contrast, the violated character in One Hundred Years of Solitude is able to come back from the edge of insanity. Initially unable to cope with the violent magnitude of the experience that he continually relives each day, isolated from any community that believes him, José Arcadio Segundo can only scream in terror of seeing the massacred, in much the same way that Saria and Bhagia repeat the crime in their grief but cannot articulate an analytical narrative about the occurrence. José Arcadio Segundo obsessively asserts the precise number of workers killed— “‘three thousand four hundred eight’”—in an attempt to account for every person because he is the sole source of memory (342). Crucially, José Arcadio Segundo encounters a nonofficial space and a receptive audience for his memories when he befriends Aureliano Babilonia. As he teaches the child to read and write, José Arcadio Segundo’s “link of mutual affection” with the boy revives him (354). Reconnecting to a community enables him to finally move beyond merely repeating incidents toward interpreting the massacre in a concrete counternarrative. He claims, “Macondo had been a prosperous place and well on its way until it was disordered and corrupted and suppressed by the banana company” (354). Placed in oppositional relation to the “false one that historians had created and consecrated in the schoolbooks,” José Arcadio Segundo’s subalternized critical oral testimony trumps the official imperialist textual history (355). José Arcadio Segundo not only passes on the events of the strike to the child; he also places them within an alternative hermeneutic, which is crucial given that the people of Macondo believe that the massacre never happened and that the banana company’s leaving caused Macondo’s ruin. The resulting counterhistory, set within the long history of (neo)colonial modernity in the novel, is both realist and critical, but also transformative. In the end, both novels not only use testimony to critique exploitation and oppression; they also share a vision of possible change. José Arcadio Segundo spends his dying breath entreating Aureliano Babilonia, “Always remember that they were more than three thousand and that they were thrown into the sea” (359). Aureliano Babilonia does, sharing the account with his friend Gabriel. Symbolic of Gabriel García Márquez himself, the character Gabriel represents the possibility of establishing an oral chain of historical truth-telling that may one

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day change the historical record, which is realized by One Hundred Years of Solitude itself, as it resurrected the real historical 1928 United Fruit massacre in Ciénaga, Colombia.36 While Six Acres and a Third is not based on a real historical event, it also holds the kernel for imagining a coming change of relations, represented in Mangaraj’s dying nightmare: “He drifted back to sleep and saw looming on the horizon the horrifying skeleton of a human with its jaws wide open, watching him intently, waiting silently to devour him. . . . He also saw thousands of lunatics like Bhagia the weaver come rushing out of black clouds in the sky, holding swords and iron clubs” (216). It is continuous with the novel’s critical politics to read the dream as Senapati envisioning those from below, the wretched of the earth, rising to demand the return of their land and foretelling future anticolonial and egalitarian movements in India. Testimony plays a part in the sociopolitical struggle by witnessing to oppression and demanding justice, but testimony also demands a change in awareness, a change in perception on the part of the audience. Six Acres and a Third and One Hundred Years of Solitude both strive to create a critical consciousness. Senapati’s and García Márquez’s critical-realist forms are designed to enable this by using narrative tactics that transculturate oral and written genres, narrate in minoritized vernaculars, and validate subaltern perspectives. Embedded in their respective local cultures and worldviews, the realist politics of representation in these two texts from the global South contribute to developing a consciousness critical of colonial and neocolonial modernity. Both share the hope Salman Rushdie has asserted in relation to the transformative role of description in the novel: “Redescribing a world is the necessary first step towards changing it.”37

Notes 1. García Márquez, “The Solitude of Latin America.” 2. Senapati, Six Acres and a Third: The Classic Nineteenth-century Novel about Colonial India. The novel was also reprinted in 2006 by Penguin Books India. 3. García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude. The Spanish language edition I use is García Márquez, Cien años de soledad. 4. Cuban anthropologist Fernando Ortíz was instrumental in understanding cultural mixture and transition, not as a one-way avenue of assimilation, rejection, loss, or creation, but as all of these elements working dynamically together. He coined “transculturation” to describe this dynamic interchange. Building off Ortíz’s understanding of transculturation as dynamic cultural transformation, Mary Louise

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Jennifer Harford Vargas

Pratt conceptualizes transculturation as judicious absorption, defining it as the ways in which “subordinated or marginal groups select and invent from materials transmitted to them by a dominant or metropolitan culture. While subjugated peoples cannot readily control what emanates from the dominant culture, they do determine to varying extents what they absorb into their own and what they use it for” (6). 5. Mohanty, Introduction, 23. Mohanty’s characterization of Six Acres and a Third also aptly describes One Hundred Years of Solitude. 6. Since my aim is to place two forms of critical realism in the global South in conversation, I limit my analysis to analytical and marvelous realism, but certainly more could be said about other possible forms of critical realism. 7. Mohanty draws on Georg Lukács’s distinction between realism and naturalism. Mohanty uses analytical realism in place of what Lukács terms realism, and descriptive realism in place of what Lukács calls naturalism. For a more in-depth philosophical discussion of realism as it relates to the problem of reference in Mohanty’s notion of analytical realism, see his essay “The Dynamics of Literary Reference.” 8. Sawyer, 4787. 9. See Carpentier’s “On the Marvelous Real in America” and “The Baroque and the Marvelous Real,” both translated in Zamora and Faris. Carpentier posits that the marvelous real in Latin America is a magnification of the reality inherent to Latin American culture, nature, history, and cosmogony. Like García Márquez, Carpentier believes it is imperative for Latin American writers to interpret this reality themselves using their own forms. 10. Synthesizing the modifications magical realism makes to realism, Zamora and Faris argue, “An essential difference, then, between realism and magical realism involves the intentionality implicit in the conventions of the two modes . . . Realism intends its version of the world as a singular version, as an objective (hence universal) representation of nature and social realities—in short, that realism functions ideologically and hegemonically. Magical realism also functions ideologically but . . . less hegemonically, for its program is not centralizing but eccentric: it creates space for interactions of diversity. In magical realist texts ontological disruption serves the purpose of political and cultural disruption: magic is often given as a cultural corrective, requiring readers to scrutinize realistic conventions of causality, materiality, motivation. . . . A number of the writers . . . self-consciously recuperate non-Western cultural modes and nonliterary forms in their Western form [i.e. the novel]. . . . Magical realism may be considered an extension of realism in its concern with the nature of reality and its representation, at the same time that it resists the basic assumptions of post-enlightenment rationalism and literary realism” (3–4, 6). The point I want to stress

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here is the modification of realist western forms through nonwestern cultural modes in order to offer a corrective perspective. 11. Fiddian, 17. Critics continue to debate the origin, form, politics, characteristics of, and even the terminology for marvelous or magical realism. Many have criticized the vagueness and variety of definitions, yet there is still no scholarly consensus on whether marvelous or magical realism is a genre, a narrative mode, a literary movement, an aesthetic practice, a stylistic, a worldview, etc. For early essays that consider how marvelous realism engages in political struggle through its literary form, see Alexis and J. M. Dash in particular; for later formal political considerations, see Chanady, Martin, and Slemon in particular. For differing discussions of marvelous realism’s origins and characteristics, see Angulo, Durix, Flores, González Echeverría, Leal, Menton, Ricci Della Grisa, and Schroeder. For a range of essays exploring marvelous realism globally, see Zamora and Faris’s anthology. 12. For in-depth analyses of the trope of marvelous wonder, see Greenblatt and Chiampi. For analyses of García Márquez’s revision of European travel narratives, see González Echeverría, Robles, Palencia-Roth, and Zavala. 13. García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude, 231. 14. García Márquez is famous for claiming he represents reality as it is. In El olor de la guayaba he asserts, “Everyday life in Latin America has shown that reality is full of extraordinary things. . . . I know people from the village who have read One Hundred Years of Solitude with much enjoyment and much attentiveness but without a single surprise because in the end I don’t tell anything that does not appear in the lives that they live. . . . There is not a single line in my novels that is not based in reality” (36–37, translation mine). See also his “Fantasía y creación.” 15. The scene is based on the United Fruit Company massacre in Ciénaga, Colombia, in 1928. The same General Carlos Cortés Vargas named in the novel was the military leader in charge of putting down the strike. See note 35. Many literary scholars have analyzed the massacre episode; see, for example, Alvarez Gardeazábal, Angulo, BellVillada, Janes, Martin, Mena, and Saldívar. 16. The idea of alternative modernities has been articulated by a number of scholars in different disciplines using a variety of terms. Alongside Goankar’s edited collection of essays, see, for example, Latin Americans Walter Mignolo, Julio Ramos, and Beatriz Sarlo’s respective work on “subaltern modernities,” “divergent modernities,” and “peripheral modernities.” 17. Importantly, the narrator also relies on a nonconventionally realist form of storytelling. The narrator claims to abide by a Franklinian philosophy of “thrift” in recounting the story, implying that the

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Critical Realisms in the Global South

Jennifer Harford Vargas

economics of the plot will be scant, linear, and directly to the point so as to not waste paper, breath, or time (Senapati, Six Acres and a Third: The Classic Nineteenth-Century Novel about Colonial India, 40). Playing into and then frustrating readers’ expectations of realist narrative development, the novel is full of digressions, double-layered meanings, and stories not directly related to the plot development. Thus, the organizational composition of the novel is not at all linear, let alone economic in its telling by conventional standards. Yet, the narrator does recount what is salient. He thus challenges the reader to reconsider both the modes traditionally used to communicate what is important and the manner in which value is traditionally assigned to judge the relevancy of information. See Anjaria for an analysis linking Senapati’s mocking of literary restraint and economy to colonialist political and religious reforms (4796). 18. The implied gender of the narrator is male. However, Paul L. Sawyer points out the novel’s feminization of the oral tradition, showing how the narrator aligns himself with a discourse that is gendered female (4786). See Claire Horan for a discussion of gender relations and the representations of women in the novel. 19. Henry Louis Gates Jr. defines “signifyin(g)’” as the linguistic technique of repeating, imitating, revising, parodying, and critiquing the nature of meaning and representation. When used as a rhetorical technique, signifyin(g) “is the figurative difference between the literal and the metaphorical, between surface and latent meaning” and it “presupposes an ‘encoded’ intention to say one thing but to mean quite another” (82). 20. Senapati also critiques the assimilation-oriented, English-educated babus throughout the novel, but the critiques are complemented by an alternative option to assimilation: transculturation. The novel thematically meditates on the ways in which Oriyas can creatively use British culture at the same time that it stylistically enacts that creative transculturation by merging Oriya oral and British novel forms. 21. García Márquez was a member of the grupo de Barranquilla, a group of Caribbean Colombian intellectuals and artists who sought, among other things, to change the fact that Colombian fiction was dominated by those from the interior of Colombia (especially the capital, Bogotá) and was based on costumbrista, nationalist, and terrígena elements. García Márquez’s novel is full of local sayings and slang (ranging from guineo to vaina), phenomena (such as the yellow butterflies and the arroyo flooding), and cultural traditions (such as carnaval and vallenato music) from the Caribbean coast of Colombia. In relation to language politics, Caribbean Colombian Spanish was not considered appropriate literary Spanish, and many from the capital and the interior regions looked down on it (and still do today). García

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Márquez deliberately elevates the “low” denigrated vernacular of the coast to the level of “high” literature, carving a literary space for colloquial and regional speech. See Gaganendra Nath Dash for an excellent analysis of Senapati’s important contribution to Oriya-language literature and his novel’s linguistic politics. 22. Ivan Ulchur Collazos describes it this way: “An anti-conventional word of little decency that is still not worthy of being in the Real Academia [Española] dictionary, el mamagallismo is perhaps the most appropriate term to define not only a person but also a cultural context that presupposes the ideal space of the most insolent parody, irreverence, and hyperbole” (134–35, translation mine). See his detailed analysis of the types of humor and paradox produced through the novel’s mamadera de gallo. 23. Several examples of the narrator mamando gallo are as follows: He embellishes the stereotypes of the costeño from the Caribbean coast as parrandero (the constant and consummate partier) through Aureliano Segundo and of the cachaca from the interior as cold, elitist, and serious through Fernanda del Carpio. He exaggerates fecundity through Colonel Aureliano Buendía’s seventeen illegitimate sons and Petra Cotes’s procreating animals, which are also critically symbolic of the prosperity of the banana company era. And he parodies Colonel Aureliano Buendía’s fighting thirty-two civil war campaigns and mocks the indistinguishability of the Liberals and the Conservatives, to warn against the co-opting of revolutionary activities. 24. I retain the term in Spanish here to highlight what I think is García Márquez’s conscious use of “antropófago” instead of “caníbal.” I believe that the former term makes a subtle but clear alignment between García Márquez’s marvelous realism and the Brazilian antropofagía movement, a connection that has not yet been discussed in literary scholarship. The novel can be read as an extension of the Brazilian aesthetic project of antropofagía, which was essentially intended as a critical consumption of European aesthetic modes, discourses, and worldviews. Antropofagía embraced the image of the cannibal previously used by the colonial imaginary, resignifying the cannibal as occupying a place of privilege by taking western cultural forms, devouring them, digesting them, recombining them with more indigenous modes, and expelling a transculturated product. 25. Melquiades’ scripts are written in Sanskrit, in the private cipher of the Emperor Augustus, and in a Lacedemonian military code. Aureliano Babilonia also knows Latin, English, French, and Greek. 26. Rodríguez, 3. For an excellent collection of essays on subaltern studies in Latin America that also considers how it is positioned in relation to the South Asian Subaltern Studies Collective, see Rodríguez’s anthology.

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Critical Realisms in the Global South

Jennifer Harford Vargas

27. Senapati is, as Ulka Anjaria states, “deeply aware of the complicity of aesthetic norms with other, more obviously political forms of colonial coercion”; therefore, Anjaria argues that his use of satire is “more suited to the new mode of rule characteristic of the British colonial state, where power emanated not from individuals or types but from a more pervasive normalization of the very conventions of representation and reality” (4796). The literary device of satire (which Anjaria links to “the rich tradition of oral humor”), I would add, works in tandem with the oral device of gossip to destabilize representational conventions, doing so not in opposition to literary realism but in order to enrich it by rooting it in the local (4796). 28. While Senapati may, as García Márquez does, represent such folk beliefs nonironically, his occasionally ironic attitude toward some of the villagers’ values is more the result of his awareness that they are being exploited through their values (such as by being charged money to build temples and to worship the goddess Mangala) and less the result of an imposed modern scientific paradigm of rationality that finds such beliefs epistemically lacking. 29. John Clark Marshman and James Tod were British historians of India in the mid-nineteenth century. 30. See Mohanty, “Introduction” (19–20) and Sawyer (4784) for analyses of this scene in relation to the ways it satirizes English-educated babus by rehabilitating legend and religious mythology in order to put pressure on colonial epistemology. 31. The folk beliefs that turn out to have accurate readings include the indigenous guajira Visitación’s prediction of the insomnia plague, Úrsula’s intuitions that allow her to sense the repetitive nature of occurrences, Francisco el Hombre’s popular memory in his errant oral songs, and Pilar Ternera’s and Colonel Aureliano’s predictions of the future through their respective reliance on prophecy and superstition. 32. I take Raymond Williams’s notion of “residual” here. Williams defines “residual” as that which “has been effectively formed in the past, but is still active in the cultural process, not only and often not at all as an element of the past, but as an effective element of the present” (122). 33. The “founding” and “exploration” that begin the novel further signal the narrative’s engagement with the different stages of colonialism. Among others such as Cueva and Ortega, Dorfman chronicles the eras of colonization and underdevelopment in the novel, concluding that the novel is “a giant metaphor in which is encoded all of the history of the American continent” (139, translation mine). Gerald Martin perceives that that novel is “a socialist  .  .  . reading of Latin American history” intended to demystify history, with the final apocalypse of Macondo and the Buendías signaling “the end of neocolonialism and its conscious or unconscious collaborators” (98, 111). Similarly, José David Saldívar reads the novel as a metaphor for dependency and alienation, while the

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banana massacre scene functions as an ideological deconstruction of advanced capitalism in Colombia. See Janes’s Revolutions in Wonderland for a narration of the novel’s series of representative histories: biblical, western science, Latin American, Colombian, and literary. Also see González Echeverría’s analysis of the foundational American myth García Márquez creates by blending archival and mythic elements as well as Vargas Llosa’s articulation of the various levels of Macondo’s history as collective and individual, legendary and historic, quotidian and mythic. 34. Toward the end of the novel, the newest version of commercial imperialism threatens as the Frenchman Gastón, likened in the text to Mr. Herbert, plans to establish an airmail service in the enchanted region. Referring to his family, which has investments in palm oil in the Belgian Congo, he concludes, “It was just as well to be a pioneer in the Caribbean as in Africa” (389). This gesture toward a global system of capitalist exploitation turns the enchanted region into a chronotropic synecdoche for colonialism. 35. See Sawyer for additional readings of this chapter (4785). 36. The “masacre de las bananeras,” as it was termed at the time, was reported by General Carlos Cortés Vargas, condemned via several newspapers and radio reports, and even brought before the National Assembly by political leaders Jorge Eliécer Gaitán and Alberto Castrillón. See Castrillón, Gaitán, and 1928: La masacre en las bananeras for a collection of Castrillón’s and Gaitán’s speeches before Congress and Cortés Vargas for his rendition of the events. Eduardo Posada-Carbó is correct in pointing out what I would characterize as the marvelous irony that García Márquez’s account has become the public history of the event in the Colombian popular and scholarly imaginary. Posada-Carbó critiques the acceptance of García Márquez’s description of the massacre as history on the part of literary critics and (some) historians, arguing that the novel should not be used as a historical source. While Posada-Carbó’s critiques and his call for a more accurate popular acknowledgment of the history are valid, it seems to me that he ignores the important point that while a very minimal documentary record and some historical references did exist on the massacre, there was no larger national historical memory of the massacre. The resurrection of local popular memory in García Márquez’s novelization of the events actually enabled more accurate historical scholarship. Because of the publication and popularity of the novel, scholars have done important recuperative work on the massacre, including gathering oral testimonies. For example, see Arango, Bucheli, Fonnegra, and Herrera Soto and Castañeda. Two other novels, La casa grande (1962) by Álvaro Cepeda Samudio and Zig Zag en las bananeras (1964) by Efrain Tovar Mozo, were published about the massacre before Cien años de soledad (1967), but neither had a transformative impact on the national historical imaginary in the way that García Márquez’s did. 37. Rushdie, 14.

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1928: La masacre en las bananeras. Bogotá: Editorial Cometa del Papel, 1997. Alexis, Jacques Stephen. “Of the Marvelous Realism of the Haitians.” Présence Africaine: Cultural Journal of the Negro World 9 (1956): 249–75. Alvarez Gardeazábal, Gustavo. La novela colombiana: Entre la verdad y la mentira. Bogotá: Plaza & Janés, 2000. Angulo, María-Elena. Magical Realism: Social Context and Discourse. New York: Garland Publishing, 1995. Anjaria, Ulka. “Satire, Literary Realism, and the Indian State: Six Acres and a Third and Raag Darbari.” Economic and Political Weekly 41, no. 46 (2006): 4795–4800. Arango, Carlos Z. Sobrevivientes de las bananeras. Bogotá: Editorial Colombia Nueva, 1981. Bell-Villada, Gene H. “Banana Strike and Military Massacre: One Hundred Years of Solitude and What Happened in 1928.” In Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude: A Casebook, edited by Gene H. Bell-Villada, 127–38. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002. Bucheli, Marcelo. Bananas and Business: The United Fruit Company in Colombia, 1899–2000. New York: New York University Press, 2005. Carpentier, Alejo. “The Baroque and the Marvelous Real.” In Magical Realism: Theory, History, Community, translated by Tanya Huntington and Lois Parkinson Zamora; edited by Lois Parkinson Zamora and Wendy Faris, 89–108. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1995. ———. “On the Marvelous Real in America.” In Magical Realism: Theory, History, Community, translated by Tanya Huntington and Lois Parkinson Zamora; edited by Lois Parkinson Zamora and Wendy Faris, 75–88. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1995. Castrillón, R. Alberto 120 días bajo el terror militar. Bogotá: Editorial TupacAmaru, 1974. Cepeda Samudio, Alvaro. La casa grande. Bogotá: Ediciones Mito, 1962. Chakrabarty, Dipesh. Provincializing Europe: Postcolonial Thought and Historical Difference. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000. Chanady, Amaryll. “The Territorialization of the Imaginary in Latin America: Self-Affirmation and Resistance to Metropolitan Paradigms.” In Magical Realism: Theory, History, Community, translated by Tanya Huntington and Lois Parkinson Zamora; edited by Lois Parkinson Zamora and Wendy Faris, 125–44. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1995. Chiampi, Ildomar. Realismo maravilloso: forma e ideología en la novela hispanoamericana. Translated by Agustín Marínez and Margara Russotto. Caracas: Monte Avila, 1983. Cortés Vargas, Carlos. Los sucesos de las bananeras: Historia de los acontecimientos que se desarollaron en la zona bananera del Dpto. de Magdalena 13 de noviembre de 1928 al 15 de marzo de 1929. Bogotá: La Luz, 1929. Cueva, Agustín. “Para una interpretación sociológica de Cien años de soledad.” Revista mexicana de sociología 36, no. 1 (1974) 59–76.

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Dash, Gaganendra Nath. “Fakir Mohan Senapati’s Discovery from Below: Decolonization and the Search for Linguistic Authenticity.” Economic and Political Weekly 41, no. 46 (2006): 4801–6. Dash, J. Michael. “Marvelous Realism: The Way out of Negritude.” Caribbean Studies 13, no. 4 (1974): 57–70. Dorfman, Ariel. Imaginación y violencia en América. Santiago: Editorial Universitaria, 1970. Durix, Jean-Pierre. Mimesis, Genres and Post-Colonial Discourse. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1998. Fiddian, Robin. Introduction. García Márquez. Edited by Robin Fiddian, 1–26. New York: Longman, 1995. Flores, Angel. “Magical Realism in Spanish American Fiction.” In Magical Realism: Theory, History, Community, translated by Tanya Huntington and Lois Parkinson Zamora; edited by Lois Parkinson Zamora and Wendy Faris, 109–17. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1995. Fonnegra, Gabriel. Bananeras: Testimonio vivo de una epopeya. Bogotá: Ediciones Tercer Mundo, 1980. Gaitán, Jorge Eliécer. Lagrimas y sangre o, las matanzas en las bananeras: Compilación de los debates en el congreso al rededor de la revision de los procesos militares. Cali, Colombia: Ediciones de la Tipografía Gutenberg, 1929. Gaonkar, Dilip Parameshwar. Alternative Modernities. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2001. García Márquez, Gabriel. Cien años de soledad. Bogotá: Grupo Editorial Norma 1997. ———. “Fantasía y creación artística en América Latina y el Caribe.” Voces: Arte, literatura 1, no. 2 (March 1988). ———. El olor de la guayaba. Bogotá: Editorial Oveja Negra, 1983. ———. One Hundred Years of Solitude. Translated by Gregory Rabassa. New York: HarperPerennial, 1991. ———. “La soledad de América Latina.” Speech, Nobel Prize award ceremony. Stockholm, Sweden. December 8, 1982. http://nobelprize.org/ nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/1982/marquez-lecture-sp.html. ———. “The Solitude of Latin America.” Speech, Nobel Prize award ceremony. Stockholm, Sweden. December 8, 1982. http://nobelprize.org/ literature/laureates/1982/marquez-lecture-e.html. Gates, Henry Louis. The Signifying Monkey: A Theory of Afro-American Literary Criticism. New York: Oxford University Press, 1988. González Echeverría, Roberto. “Cien años de soledad: The Novel as Myth and Archive.” In Gabriel García Márquez, edited by Harold Bloom, 107–24. New York: Chelsea House Publishers, 1989. ———. Myth and Archive: A Theory of Latin American Narrative. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1998. Greenblatt, Stephen. Marvelous Possessions: The Wonder of the New World. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991.

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Horan, Claire. “Representation of Women and Gender Relations in Six Acres and a Third.” Economic and Political Weekly 41, no. 46 (2006): 4789–93. Herrera Soto, Roberto, and Rafael Romero Castañeda. La zona Bananera del Magdalena: Historia y léxico. Yerbabuena, Colombia: Imprenta Patriótica del Instituto Caro y Cuervo, 1979. Janes, Regina. Gabriel García Márquez: Revolutions in Wonderland. Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1981. ———. “Liberals, Conservatives, and Bananas: Colombian Politics in the Fictions of Gabriel García Márquez.” Hispanofila: Literatura, ensayos 82 (1984): 79–102. Leal, Luis. “Magical Realism in Spanish American Literature.” In Magical Realism: Theory, History, Community, translated by Tanya Huntington and Lois Parkinson Zamora; edited by Lois Parkinson Zamora and Wendy Faris, 119–24. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1995. Martin, Gerald. “On ‘Magical’ and Social Realism in García Márquez.” In Gabriel García Márquez: New Readings, edited by Bernard McGuirk and Richard Cardwell, 95–116. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987. Mena, Lucila Inés. “La huelga de la compañia bananera como expresión de lo real maravilloso Americano en Cien años de soledad.” Bulletin Hispanique 74, no. 3–4 (1972): 379–405. Menton, Seymour. Historia verdadera del realism mágico. Districo Federal de México: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1998. Mignolo, Walter. Local Histories / Global Designs: Coloniality, Subaltern Knowledges, and Border Thinking. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000. Mohanty, Satya P. “The Dynamics of Literary Reference: Narrative Discourse and Social Ideology in Two 19th-Century Indian Novels.” In Thematology: Literary Studies in India, edited by Sibaji Bandyopadhyay, 230–48. Kolkata: Jadavpur University, 2004. ———. Introduction In Six Acres and a Third: The Classic Nineteenth-century Novel about Colonial India, by Fakir Mohan Senapati. Translated by Rabi Shankar Mishra, Satya P. Mohanty, Jatindra K. Nayak, and Paul St. Pierre, 1–31. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006. Mohanty, Satya P., and Harish Trivedi. “Introduction.” Economic and Political Weekly 41, no. 46 (2006): 4780–1. Ortega, Julio. “Gabriel García Márquez / Cien años de soledad.” In 9 asedios a García Márquez, edited by Mario Benedetti et al, 74–88. Santiago: Editorial Universitaria, 1969. Ortíz, Fernando. Cuban Counterpoint: Tobacco and Sugar. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1995. Palencia-Roth, Michael. “Prisms of Consciousness: The ‘New Worlds’ of Columbus and García Márquez.” In Gabriel García Márquez, edited by Harold Bloom, 243–56. New York: Chelsea House Publishers, 1989.

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Posada-Carbó, Eduardo. “Fiction as History: The Bananeras and Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude.” Journal of Latin American Studies 30, no. 2 (1998): 395–414. Pratt, Mary Louise. Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation. New York: Routledge, 1992. Rama, Angel. Transculturación narrativa en América Latina. Buenos Aires: Ediciones El Andariego, 2007. Ramos, Julio. Divergent Modernities: Culture and Politics in Nineteenth-Century Latin America. Translated by John D. Blanco. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2001. Ricci Della Grisa, Graciela N. Realismo mágico y conciencia mítica en América Latina: Textos y contextos. Buenos Aires: F. García Cambeiro, 1985. Robles, Humberto E. “The First Voyage around the World: From Pigafetta to García Márquez.” In Gabriel García Márquez, edited by Harold Bloom. New York: Chelsea House Publishers, 1989. 183–201. Rodríguez, Ileana, ed. The Latin American Subaltern Studies Reader. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2001. Rushdie, Salman. Imaginary Homelands: Essays and Criticism, 1981–1991. New York: Granta Books, 1991. Saldívar, José David. The Dialectics of Our America: Genealogy, Cultural Critique, and Literary History. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1991. Sarlo, Beatriz. Una modernidad periférica: Buenos Aires 1920–1930. Buenos Aires: Ediciones Nueva Visión, 1988. Sawyer, Paul L. “An Oriya Village and the Battle of Plassey: Senapati’s Allegory of the Raj.” Economic and Political Weekly 41, no. 46 (2006): 4782–8. Schroeder, Shannin. Rediscovering Magical Realism in the Americas. London: Praeger, 2004. Senapati, Fakir Mohan. Six Acres and a Third: The Classic Nineteenth-century Novel about Colonial India. Translated by Rabi Shankar Mishra, Satya P. Mohanty, Jatindra K. Nayak, and Paul St. Pierre. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005. Slemon, Stephen. “Magic Realism as Post-Colonial Discourse.” Canadian Literature 116 (Spring 1988): 9–24. Tovar Mozo, Efraín. Zig zag en las bananeras. Bogotá: Offset de Colombia, 1964. Ulchur Collazos, Ivan. Garcia Marquez: Del humor y otros dominios. Quito: Eskeletra Editorial, 1997. Vargas Llosa, Mario. “García Márquez: De Aracataca a Macondo.” In 9 asedios a García Márquez, edited by Mario Benedetti et al, 126–46. Santiago: Editorial Universitaria, 1969. Williams, Raymond. Marxism and Literature. Oxford University Press, 1977. Zamora, Lois Parkinson, and Wendy B. Faris. “Introduction: Daiquiri Blends and Flaubertian Parrot(ie)s.” In Magical Realism: Theory, History, Community, edited by Lois Parkinson Zamora and Wendy B. Faris, 1–11. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1995.

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Zavala, Iris M. “One Hundred Years of Solitude as Chronicle of the Indies.” In Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude: A Casebook, edited by Gene H. Bell-Villada, 109–25. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002.

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Views from Above and Below: George Eliot and Fakir Mohan Senapati Paul L. Sawyer

I. Not that this inward amazement of Dorothea’s was anything very exceptional: many souls in their young nudity are tumbled out among incongruities and left to ‘find their feet’ among them, while their elders go about their business . . . That element of tragedy which lies in the very fact of frequency, has not yet wrought itself into the coarse emotion of mankind; and perhaps our frames could hardly bear much of it. If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel’s heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence. As it is, the quickest of us walk about well wadded with stupidity.1

I

begin with one of the most famous passages in English fiction in order to define from the start what generations of readers have taken as George Eliot’s moral vision in Middlemarch—a vision exemplified not just in eloquent authorial asides like this one, but in the novel’s design, subject, and expanded point of view. The sentences contain several hallmarks of European literary realism: a bold reversal of the classical hierarchy of genres in order to favor the ordinary and humble; an intellectually serious focus on everyday life; an ironic conjunction of romantic expectation and mundane disappointment. The famous figure of the squirrel’s heartbeat similarly refigures the traditional object of sublime response, not as a spectacle vast, grand, and rare, but as “all ordinary human life.” No novelist could embrace such a totality, no

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person could endure such awareness; but by providing an image for what lies beyond the reach of human vision and feeling, the narrator hints at our highest duty as ethical beings—and suggests for literature, if not an attainable goal, something like an ultimate horizon. As every reader of Middlemarch knows, the novel elaborates a number of metaphors describing that horizon, which are primarily figures of relationship (webs, networks, tissues, the social fabric itself) and which align the work of the novelist with, among others, the work of historians and biologists. The linkage is caught in the opening sentence of the novel’s Prelude, which calls human history a “mysterious mixture” conditioned by “the varying experiments of Time” (3); by the last sentence of the novel, hundreds of pages later, we have learned that the processes of history lie in the unhistorical, and that the moral progress of the race will occur by minute accretion: “But the effect of [Dorothea’s] being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs” (515). All forms of life, the novel tells us, are connected, the humble with the mighty, the past with the present and future. To experience the microcosm of ordinary life in the provincial town of Middlemarch within the macrocosm of an immense novel, we might conclude, is to catch an echo of the vast roar of history through the synecdoche of a single volume.2 A fictional project that not only articulates but also concretely demonstrates such an inclusive vision of human connectedness belongs to a special moment in the history of literature, as Eliot’s novels do. Nineteenth-century realism, the literary tradition to which they belong, has been studied across European literatures as a specifically western tradition, and for good reasons. Our notion of intertextuality, after all, presupposes some historical continuity that makes difference meaningful within a common cultural context. There seems less reason to compare texts from wholly separate traditions, especially since, according to one reigning orthodoxy, western and nonwestern traditions are so incommensurably different as to be mutually illegible. But such a view can never challenge the assumption that the features of western tradition are uniquely western, like historicism or modernity or ideas of human dignity. This chapter attempts to breach the practice of European comparatism by putting Eliot’s fiction into dialogue with a novel written twenty years after her death, on the opposite side of the world, in a language she never heard of. Fakir Mohan Senapati was a writer

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and activist from the state of Orissa in what was then British India; his first novel, Six Acres and a Third (Chha Mana Atha Guntha), was published serially in his native Oriya in 1897–99. Like Eliot’s novels, Six Acres and a Third is a celebrated example of fictional realism in its native country; it centers on characters in a single village understood to be representative of a larger social order; and it illuminates profound connections between rich and poor, between local and cosmopolitan. Yet the differences between the two texts are vast. Eliot’s novels were written from the heart of the British empire, for an educated and socially sophisticated audience, in a language that was fast spreading around the globe; Senapati’s novel was written from an obscure province of the same empire, in a popular idiom of a regional language that was in danger of extinction before the joint encroachment of English and Bengali. In reading Senapati together with Eliot, I do not intend to assign them comparative rank as novelists, but rather to illuminate the issue in literary representation that, in my view, emerges most interestingly from such a juxtaposition: the problem of presenting a view “from below.” Although Eliot’s famous figure of the squirrel’s heartbeat occurs at the end of a passage about the mental anguish of a young woman of wealth and privilege, Eliot’s moral vision could hardly move us if for her the “roar on the other side of silence” did not also include the lives of the impoverished, the marginalized, the oppressed—those who have traditionally dwelt on the other side of representation, the official histories, the decorated walls, the canon of great works. What would it mean for Eliot, or for any novelist, to make us hear their heartbeats? To a degree rare in British fiction, Eliot brought the lives of the humble and neglected into the bright light of representation. Yet a comparison with Senapati underscores the ways the narrative conventions Eliot inherited, while allowing her to expand enormously the social scope of British fiction, nevertheless limited her power to imagine life from below. Six Acres and a Third appeared at the very moment when European realism, by fashioning what Erich Auerbach called the mixture of styles, began to find adequate means for representing characters low on the social scale.3 I will argue that Senapati’s techniques anticipate this change by opening up possibilities for representing the lives of the impoverished and oppressed that western fiction was not to notice (or find worthwhile) until after Eliot’s lifetime. I begin with a word about my own cultural position. I am an American critic, a specialist in Victorian literature who has read and taught Eliot’s novels for years. But I do not read Oriya or any other native

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Views from Above and Below

Paul L. Sawyer

Indian language, which means that although I have the good fortune to learn from experts in South Asian literature, I know Senapati’s text only in translation. But my limitations will, I hope, contribute to part of my purpose, which is to attempt an experiment in intuitive cross-cultural reading. Precisely because I know a different literary tradition, Senapati’s novel felt both familiar and surprising: familiar because the representational problems he faced were also familiar; surprising because his solutions of those problems showed a distinct swerve from European practice. At the same time, some features may have stood out more strongly for me than if I’d been a specialist in Indian literatures. Just as surprising was the light Senapati cast on the Victorian novel, which I thought I knew well. I offer these readings, finally, in order to test the possibilities of a new moment in literary study. Because of more and better translations, wide migration of scholars, and the shrinkage of the planet and its cultures into a globalized information economy, we not only can but will have to learn how to read literature cross-culturally, whether as specialists or as amateurs. Our historical moment differs dramatically from the ideological and political conditions of the late colonial era, the collapse of which gives West and East new opportunities for understanding. My reading of both Eliot and Senapati will be inflected, I hope, by a postcolonial sense of history, one which, loosened from the ideological blinders Edward Said called “orientalism,” can allow westerners to recognize historical patterns across cultures without collapsing distinctions, and to imagine the possibility of truly reading the works of another culture without pretending to omniscience. To take part in that conversation—one wider than has been available to critics of any previous age—we need not be afraid of our limitations so long as we know how to recognize them.4

II. Language, the agent that mediates reality in fictional representation, is always multiple—a congeries of discourses, styles, modes of transmission, and inherited affinities that bear the marks of the structures of power from which they emerge and that produce meaning in explicit or implicit relationship to other discourses and styles. This linguistic variety reflects a hierarchy of values, drawn from the histories of the powerful and internalized as common sense, which elevates some human events while marginalizing or ignoring others as beneath notice. In classical aesthetics, this matching of style to subject is known as decorum. For a writer on the left, these inscribed

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hierarchies of value present obvious challenges. How, for example, does such a writer use language, inherently class marked, in ways that break through hierarchies of power, knowledge, and class privilege? How does one record colloquial speech without abandoning a language capable of intellectual complexity, irony, and range of reference? How does one mediate between the abstract audience of the print marketplace and the modes and subjects of oral tradition? How does one represent the fullness and richness of experience from “below” without ignoring the antiprogressive elements that powerlessness can produce—the forms of oppression, brutality, and inherited ignorance that occur locally as well as in the capitals and the courts? Understanding Senapati’s solutions to these questions means beginning with his ironic narrator. In The Dialogic Imagination Mikhail Bakhtin claimed for the novel the unique capacity to incorporate a variety of discourses within a single narrative, as opposed to the univocal, elevated style of epic. Within this heteroglossia, or discursive variety, no single voice, not even the authorial voice, can entirely fix the meanings of the statements or legislate their value. Not all novels, obviously, are equally heteroglossic. Bakhtin calls monoglossic those novels whose narrator articulates the author’s position actively and explicitly, as distinguished from heteroglossic novels, whose narrator lacks a command over the represented voices of characters.5 Eliot’s approach—creating a narrator with exceptional cogency and cultural authority—tends to the monoglossic, while Senapati’s tends to the other. Through an ironic and unreliable narrator, he is able to abandon altogether a stable perspective, along with the authoritative forms of language that such a perspective needs to secure its own authority. And as Satya Mohanty argues, this move produces a new kind of active reader.6 The novel’s plot follows the rise and fall of Ramachandra Mangaraj, a corrupt landholder (zamindar), and Champa, his brutal, mendacious mistress. With her husband’s help, Champa schemes to wrest the most fertile plot of land in the village from a childless couple because she covets their cow. Ultimately, Mangaraj is exposed and imprisoned by the British, and Champa is brutally murdered by an accomplice while fleeing arrest—but not before they have brought down the helpless and innocent as well. Among their victims are the impoverished couple who own the cow, and the Saantani, the zamindar’s saintly wife, for whose death he is found guilty in a British court. As the book opens, the narrator pretends to pay tribute to Mangaraj by deploying the learned discourses of the English-educated Indian intelligentsia—Sanskrit scripture, classical poetry, English science and law, and formal arguments derived from the Nyaya school of logic.

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Views from Above and Below

Paul L. Sawyer

Thus, on the first page, he hints that in the evening before a fast, Mangaraj secretly enjoys a meal of milk, bananas, khai, and nabata; but he immediately withdraws the hint by asserting (scientifically) that liquids evaporate and (legally) that no conclusion is justified without incontrovertible proof; in short, he deploys learned discourses in order to contain the truth rather than reveal it. In the narrator’s hands, learned language clearly functions as an ideological system that, by extension from the local example, ultimately enables and rationalizes the British policy of ruling through corrupt local elites and a coopted class of minor officials—the babus. In the first reported dialogue of the novel, a villager observes, “Not even the father of Lord Mahadeva can catch a clever fellow stealing a drink under the water” (35–36). The narrator pretends not to understand this remark, even though he has studied science, classical literature, and the law; nevertheless, when the landlord’s milk disappears overnight, one should not need a weatherman to tell which way the wind will blow. Nor should one need help reading allegorically the narrator’s reminder that the moles, rats, flies, and mosquitoes in the zamindar’s bedroom could easily have eaten the food: “Like all base creatures of appetite, these are always on the lookout for food; such creatures are not spiritually-minded like Mangaraj, who had the benefit of listening to the holy scriptures” (36). The active reader produced by this savagely playful irony (which pervades much of the text) is not a postmodern observer, skeptical of all truth claims, but rather a shrewd decoder, adept at reading between the lines in order to grasp the way power is wielded in Gobindapur— to understand who screws whom and how they do it. That ability, of course, positions us down “below,” among the villagers. In a world governed by official and unofficial duplicity, those who are below survive, not by subtle disputation, but by reading the signs, penetrating cant, and forming quick conclusions based on long experience—the special skills of “peasant” wit. But by intermixing learned discourses parodically, the narrator also overturns the established discursive hierarchies. The resulting confusion of registers produces not a single, authoritative point of view but a perspectivalism, so that meanings emerge ironically out of the implied gaps among discourses. This absence of moral and epistemic authority forces the reader to reorient herself among competing discourses and points of view in a way that brings human subjects who are beneath official notice suddenly into focus.7 As my summary should suggest, the plot of Six Acres and a Third resembles a folk narrative that depicts structures of power through traditional character types—the corrupt landowner, the evil concubine, the saintly wife, and so forth. But the local satire achieves a

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subtler dimension when the narrator attempts to explain away the whole functioning of the system of which Mangaraj is a small part. From the point of view of peasant and babu alike, the relationships of power are hidden, their sources distant, their manifestations magical. For Oriyas, the language of the ruling class and the petty bureaucracy was once Persian, now it is English; once the Khandayat clan governed a whole district of Orissa, now they are powerless; once Mangaraj was a sharecropper who received only two acres of land from the village headman, now he owns 572 acres, according to the latest accounts. The only certain rule is that the villagers will always be oppressed—and that certainty is both the achievement and the limitation of folk wisdom. But what explains the shifts and the continuity underlying the shifts? The narrator initially casts Mangaraj as a “pious man,” a “teacher,” a “great soul” like Lord Krishna, whose life is full of “strange and wondrous happenings” (“Indeed, the life of a truly great man is never without miracles” [40]). His career is the “miracle” of the “self-made man,” the English phrase that weighs ironically throughout the chapter with this title. But what accounts for this form of success in systemic terms? Before the novel opens, an illiterate minor police official named Ali Mian acquired a zamindari (a landed estate) by bidding at an auction in Calcutta. How could he afford it? The narrator attempts an answer by first putting a complaint into the mouths of his fictionalized readers—babus, as he teasingly calls them, “with B.A. and M.A. degrees”: “Alas, Ali Mian, who could not even hold a pen properly, became a zamindar just by writing his name. Even though we can write long essays and hold a pen correctly, we starve.” The narrator replies, “Dear babus, don’t you know that it is one’s fate which ultimately prevails, not one’s wisdom or character” (69). Ali Mian’s son inherits the sinecure but falls deeply into debt; enter the young Mangaraj, the sharecropper turned moneylender, who appears at the zamindar’s home bearing gifts, which he spreads out in the fashion of a genie from an Arabian night’s tale. Just as magically, the moneylender ends up owning everything in sight. Senapati concludes the episode: “Historians say it took Clive less time to get the Bengal Subedari from the emperor of Delhi than it takes to buy and sell a donkey. How long do you think it will take Mangaraj to get the zamindari of Fatepur Sarsandha from Mian?” (76). Marx, of course, called this miracle, or fate, the magic of capital; Senapati represents capital through the figure of a rural moneylender, whose magic is interest. The peasant-witted reader who has figured out on the first page that Mangaraj secretly indulges before a fast day can by

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Views from Above and Below

Paul L. Sawyer

now figure out how Mangaraj will swindle Ali Mian and how the local swindle is like the birth of British control over India. Six Acres and a Third, in short, is a thinly disguised allegory of the British raj, of which the vehicle is the rise, daily machinations, and ultimate catastrophic fall of a native swindler. More complexly, it combines folk narrative with a Marxian grasp of mystified power relations under capitalism. But this viewpoint, which would be literally unspeakable within the official discourses, is only one aspect of Senapati’s perspectivalism. Having brought down the mighty to the level of common chicanery, it remains to present life at the bottom with an interest at least equal to that of the mighty. As he continues the biography of a “great man” exposed as a corrupt moneylender, the fictionalized narrator brings us gradually into the village life of Gobindapur, a world excluded both from non-Oriya print economy and from the knowledge of the British-educated intelligentsia. At this stage, the narrator alternates between calling his readers babus and not-babus and so plays maliciously with the educated Oriyan’s own ignorance of his neighbors from “below.” Playing folk anthropologist to the educated babu, he continues to use elaborate parodies of traditional logic to explain why, for example, cow dung does not clutter the streets of the weavers’ section (the weavers do not raise cattle because they weave all day long), or why the childless Saria is not completely happy, or why, finally, the weavers contribute their precious earnings to a shrine. His (fictionalized) readers who are babus will believe that the village weavers built the shrine to a local god because of the saying, “as stupid as a weaver”: “If you are a civilized babu . . . you are probably wondering why the community’s cash contributions were misused in such a manner” (85). On the other hand, “Do you know how cash contributions are raised? Although you may need no explanation, the new babus do, for they are educated: they have studied and have mastered profundities. . . . To be considered a scholar, it is necessary to have read about the English or the French; there is no point in learning about oneself or one’s neighbor” (84). But why in fact did the weavers misuse their cash earnings in such a way? “Every day the conch is blown in the morning and in the evening, and the bell is rung in the temple. This announces to everyone—from children to old men—that a divine presence is leading the universe” (86). This divine presence also seems unfamiliar to the babu. As readers, we are now situated between two epistemological fields—the world of the babu (western-educated reader), who can follow references to British history and law, to Sanskrit poetry, to

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traditional logic; and the world of Gobindapur—a preliterate world, bound up in gossip, legends, and popular religious belief. In this case the narrator produces an active reader by feigned skepticism about village superstitions rather than feigned credulity of the deeds of the great. A large pond lies at the edge of town, used by the people for washing clothes, bathing, and meeting to talk. Who built the pond? The narrator dutifully repeats the account given by a ninety-five-yearold weaver, who says the pond was built in a single night by demons. When they were discovered in their unfinished job at the break of dawn, the demons escaped from the eyes of the villagers by building a tunnel to the Ganga: “During the Baruni Festival on the Ganga, the holy waters of the river used to gush through the tunnel into the pond. But, as the villagers became sinful, the river no longer did this. English-educated babus, do not be too critical of our local historian, Ekadusia Chandra. If you are, half of what Marshman and Tod have written will not survive the light of scrutiny” (102). The last two sentences clearly target early British orientalists alongside the intellectual sycophants who learn about their own country through privileged amateurs among the conquering race. But the satirical thrust should not obscure the anecdote’s deeper implications. Having learned to read between the lines of Mangaraj’s story, the reader of Gobindapur begins making inferences about the villagers’ lives as well as the zamindar’s, taking the perspective “from below” in order to judge of matters that were not supposed to interest him. The ironic nudge at babus, who are forced to view British anthropology in the same light as a peasant superstition, also leaves the reader free to consider Ekadusia’s account in a light other than that of literal fact. It does not need to be stressed that his myth is based on certain beliefs—that good and evil are real and have consequences, that the world is ruled by a divine force, that a provincial pond is indeed connected to the world’s sacred spaces since “water is life”—that are also held by Senapati’s implied narrator. By this time, the village has slowly succeeded Mangaraj and Champa as the main character (“we,” “our,” the narrator now says), and we inhabit it not just as spectators but as sharers of the villagers’ understanding of the world, of their myths and their religion. It is not an idealized place: the women quarrel, curse, and foul the water, the Brahmins chatter about fees, the thieves are in cahoots with the constable. But it is also a place where people pray for children and are devastated by a good person’s death, where they thrive, suffer, labor, and die. And we see it up close, in vivid flashes: “After a quick dip in the pond, the women ran off in their wet clothes; the clothes dripped and flopped around them as they hurried

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Views from Above and Below

Paul L. Sawyer

home. Their panic was such that they could not even fill their pitchers to the brim; the half-filled pitchers made loud slapping noises, like the tongues of native patriots haranguing a gathering. Clutching his cane, the village schoolmaster disappeared. Children scattered on the path. Like a policeman dragging an accused murderer, the headboy marched a small boy to the school. Now this same boy was running away faster than everyone else” (152–53). Though we don’t know it yet, a daroga (police officer) from the district capital has just arrived to arrest Mangaraj for murder, and the villagers are terrified by the rumor that any and all of them are about to be arrested. As with most of Senapati’s descriptions, this one has traces of allegory and satire—we see a miniature version of the official pecking order (village is to administrative hierarchy as boy is to schoolmaster and headboy) and notice the complete helplessness of the villagers in a way linked to the novel’s prevalent imagery of prey animals and predators. But the details, finally, matter in and of themselves; they bring us in so close that we can hear sounds and distinguish between individuals even in the general chaos. Senapati’s narrator has shifted from intrusive irony—a voice digressively and verbosely fearful of digression and verbosity—into near transparency, using a style rapid, succinct, and unself-conscious. As I have shown, when he acts as ironic celebrant of the local elite, the narrator parodically adopts the discourses of law, science, logic, and scriptural aphorism and so fictionalizes his readers as babus. But when he narrates from below, he modulates into discourses and positions counter to these. As an eavesdropper and reporter—one who can overhear certain conversations and not others but can verify hunches by a look at accounts—he matches what Mohanty usefully identifies as a tout, a familiar village figure in Orissa; but this also means his words are a form of gossip. In the chapters set in Asura pond, the narrator’s relationship to gossip comes clear. He gives extensive summaries of the women’s talk, as they gather at the weavers’ ghat to bathe, and of the men’s talk, as they gather at the Saanta ghat after a day’s labor in the fields. Had there been a newspaper editor in Gobindapur, we learn, he would have gathered all the village news simply by listening in at the weavers’ ghat: “He would have found out, for instance, what had been cooked the previous night, at whose house, and what was going to be cooked there today; who went to sleep at what time; how many mosquitoes bit whom; who had run out of salt; who had borrowed oil from whom,” and so forth (105). In satirizing the triviality of the women’s topics, the narrator by implication satirizes his own topics, since he is the one who spreads the village “news” in print—imitating the style and mode of oral transmission rather

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than the print mode of an editor’s story. The relationship grows more complicated as Senapati invokes the gendered stereotypes of gossip—a pejorative term in itself, implying malice, falsehood, and uncontrollable spread, the kind of “loud noise” women produce in the marketplace (105), the servants’ quarters, and the pond. Oral tradition, then, is feminized, and the narrator, though implicitly male, finds it hard not to link himself with this gendered source. “Like village women chattering while pounding rice, we have dragged dignified persons like you into our silly stories,” he tells his babu readers. In other similes he is like a boatman who gets diverted by a current but manages to hold steady (112) and an “expert weaver” who can “disentangle a skein once he gets hold of a main thread” (111). Narration, in other words, crosses over continually from a main direction or thread into mixture, digression, and entanglement. If the structure of the main plot is unidirectional, the “story” of the village, has a structure like gossip: it ramifies, proliferates, meanders, since like a skein it takes up the whole collective life and folklore of the villagers. Crucially, their folklore and speech are revealed as a legitimate form of knowing and surviving.

III. Who that cares much to know the history of man, and how the mysterious mixture behaves under the varying experiments of Time, has not dwelt, at least briefly, on the life of Saint Theresa, has not smiled with some gentleness at the little girl walking forth one morning hand-inhand with her still smaller brother, to go and seek martyrdom in the country of the Moors? (Middlemarch, 3)

The narrator of Six Acres and a Third, by parodying the authoritative discourses of religion, law, and philosophy, exposes the ideological character of official modes of explanation—a strategy that reflects historically the fragmentation of brahminical authority under the force of British rule. Halfway around the world, the narrator of Eliot’s novels addresses her society’s educated audience in a similarly authoritative idiom, not as parody but as means to a moral education. Thus, the first sentence of Middlemarch, cited above, defines the novel’s subject (the “mysterious mixture” of history), constructs her reader through a rhetorical question, and states the underlying assumption of her fictional project: that heroism rests in the humble, the extraordinary in the ordinary. To enact that reversal of significance, she fashions a style capable at once of analyzing the minute

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Views from Above and Below

Paul L. Sawyer

and of producing a grand work. The view of existence that can comprehend history as a series of experiments performed by Time can only be expressed in a discourse arduous and complex enough to stand beside the style Milton fashioned for his national epos—fit, it may be, for a “happy few.” One need not take literally the implication that readers of Middlemarch would already know and have long pondered the girlhood of Theresa of Avila, the fifteenth-century Spanish saint. The purpose of the sentence, rather, is to define the range of authorial consciousness in terms of a universalizing overview (as in, for example, the opening trumpet of Johnson’s “The Vanity of Human Wishes”: “Let Observation with extensive view / Survey mankind from China to Peru”), while at the same time it interpellates her readers into an educated circle. The readers so defined and, as it were, summoned in that first sentence must be able to grasp the significance of the allusion with only a few words’ help and similarly to follow the narrator’s syntax, metaphors, and extended analyses—an implied equality of understanding reinforced throughout the novel in Eliot’s highly personal use of “we” and in the kinds of experience she attributes to “us.” Writing from the heart of the British empire as Senapati writes from the periphery, Eliot’s narrator adumbrates a humane, flexible version of European intellectual tradition, not simply to assume it as a badge of authority (her occasional caricature of the “men of maxims” is similar to Senapati’s caricature of the babus’ learning), but to dramatize through her narrative style the powerful combination of a humanistic education and close scrutiny based on the methodology of science, particularly biology. In no novel is this aim more clearly demonstrated than in The Mill on the Floss (1860), the book I have chosen to read here because of its resemblances to Senapati’s subject. In a well-known passage, the narrator of The Mill on the Floss contrasts her drab provincial subject with a tourist’s view of the Rhone, with its ruined castles and hints of romance. Then, like Senapati satirizing the learning of babus, she ventriloquizes the response of her middle-class reader, whom she imagines becoming impatient at her subject (the small struggles of farmers and tradespeople in the village of St. Ogg’s) by rehearsing the aesthetic and moral commonplaces the same reader might use to compare the romantic and the real: the “poetry [of] peasant life,” “sublime principles,” “romantic visions,” “the level of the tragic-comic,” on the one hand; “without polish,” “respectability in a gig of unfashionable build,” “worldliness without side-dishes,” on the other. But instead of mocking these categories of judgment, she acknowledges

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I share with you this sense of oppressive narrowness; but it is necessary that we should feel it, if we care to understand how it acted on the lives of Tom and Maggie—how it has acted on young natures in many generations, that in the onward tendency of human things have risen above the mental level of the generation before them. . . . Does not science tell us that its highest striving is after the ascertainment of a unity which shall bind the smallest things with the greatest? In natural science, I have understood, there is nothing petty to the mind that has a large vision of relations, and to which every single object suggests a vast sum of conditions. It is surely the same with the observation of human life.8

In the dimensional imagery of this passage, the “large vision” of the scientist (and novelist) reinforces the hierarchical figure of “mental levels,” which the narrator surveys from above. In this way, she raises her readers to a consciousness more spacious than their own inherited class prejudices, but also more advanced than the worldview of her provincial subjects, here typologized as Dodsons and Tullivers. Thus, the expansion of vision and feeling Eliot demands of her “babu” readers entails imagining her characters’ world from above, not from their own vantage point. But not above all her characters. The passage I have been citing is in fact atypical, appearing after about two hundred pages of a narrative that has been focalized through Maggie, the daughter of the village miller. The novel actually opens as a conflation of the narrator’s memory with Maggie’s musing on the bridge overlooking the mill, then moves into the miller’s parlor, where Mr. Tulliver initiates the plot by speaking to his wife about sending his son Tom away to school. Like Senapati’s narrator, then, Eliot keeps us close to the lives of the people while occasionally drawing us outward into the world of an educated person’s knowledge. The difference is that Maggie’s consciousness is exceptional among the villagers and so commensurate with that of her readers. Roughly speaking, we share the viewpoint of characters who speak standard English as opposed to regional dialect, and who have inner lives capable of being narrated. These formal indicators—standardized speech and the representation of interiority—are common in Victorian fiction but not in Senapati. The convention of dialect marking in particular is so crucial to this distinction that it is worth pausing briefly to consider its prevalence and function in the novelistic tradition that Eliot both inherited and expanded. In order to indicate the linguistic variety of represented

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them in order to transcend them. “It is a sordid life, you say, this of the Tullivers and Dodsons,” she tells her readers.

Paul L. Sawyer

speech, works of fiction narrated in the standard form of a language often represent linguistic variety by orthographic markers that divide standard speech from spoken dialect. In such novels, standard speech, including the speech of the narrator, is unmarked and therefore naturalized; since we as readers hear unmarked narration in our own accent, we imaginatively share the speech of the narrator and the characters whose speech is unmarked, while hearing the marked speakers as nonstandard. In turn, orthographic variants (including apostrophes to indicate omitted sounds and variant spellings to indicate nonstandard pronunciation) make nonstandard speech appear “other” to an assumed norm. This binary of marked and unmarked reflects the strictly insoluble problem of representing a wide social range, since the alternative would be to flatten linguistic variety by eliminating differences among characters’ speech. For most texts, the strict distinction tends to be muted and overlaid by the variety of spoken differences not indicated orthographically, such as nonstandard but unmarked syntax, personal idiolects, various formal registers, contrasts of verbal exuberance and reticence, and so forth. Underlying this variety, nevertheless, is a binary system that, in relation to the reader, divides characters into “us” and “them.” Although some markings may be based on observed speech differences, the function of this system of differences is diacritical rather than mimetic; that is, we hear marked speech as a difference from standard pronunciation, whereas unmarked speech indicates not sound but correct rules: spelling as given by dictionaries. (Thus, in a British novel, the spoken word “father” is never written “fathuh,” as it might be if spoken by a British character in an American novel.) Unmarked speech, in other words, simply indicates that a character’s pronunciation is to be taken as normative, a category that exists nowhere in actual speech communities except on a printed page; it also functions rhetorically in relation to the reader, indicating the characters who speak like us and whose thoughts sound like our own thoughts in our inner ear. These are the characters who exist, so to speak, at our level and form the possibilities of readerly identification. Who tends to speak unmarked English in Victorian fiction? The answer is complicated, but a knowledge of canonical novels suggests a few clear rules. Most obviously, the marked-unmarked binary tends to circumscribe middle-class identity, understood as a mutually reinforcing blend of income, status, manners, and education, with the line falling sometimes above and sometimes below the ambiguous category of the lower middle class (clerks, yeoman farmers) and sometimes excluding ignorant aristocrats. This rough distinction produces

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a wavering line of gentility that gains clarity and emphasis when genteel characters collide with stock types from those other classes, such as the swell or the dissolute young rake. Another rule is that heroes and heroines always speak unmarked dialogue, even if they are not genteel by the usual measures; as a result, their genteel speech and manners may appear magical, as in the notorious case of Oliver Twist. Class status and protagonist status are not the same thing, in other words, but the use of unmarked speech to indicate normative linguistic competence blurs the distinction. Heroes and heroines also speak in standard syntax, never in colloquial phrases or idiolects, a point that suggests a further distinction: the characteristic appearance in Victorian dialogue of formalized rhetoric, in cases when a hero or heroine rises to an exalted occasion. This stylized speech has a close analogue in accompanying illustrations, where the genteel heroes and heroines have idealized, cookie-cutter features as standardized as their flights of speech. Any account of heteroglossia in Victorian fiction, therefore, has to recognize the interplay between the King’s English and oral variants that are heard in various ways in relation to that standard—as colorful, as quaint, as vital, as deficient, and so forth. The conventions for marking dialogue have obvious consequences for the representation of interiority. Free indirect discourse, the chief technique for reproducing a character’s inner life, developed at the turn of the nineteenth century as a compromise between the transcription of an experience in a character’s own words (as in a letter, a soliloquy, or some imitation of the flow of thoughts through the brain) and the author’s own commentary on that experience—a compromise that strategically blends the narrator’s and the character’s own modes of speech.9 In the case of fiction with very broad social representation, free indirect discourse gives with one hand but retracts with the other. While granting the novelist the hypothetical power of omniscience, the technique tends to restrict plausible verbal collaboration to the minds of those characters who speak and think in ways recognizably similar to the narrator’s. Very generally, then, the dialect distinction in Victorian fiction reinforces the psychic distinction: the binary separation of “their” dialect from “our” (and the narrator’s) King’s English tends to parallel the more flexible separation between characters with or without a defined inner life. Gentility (in the sense I have been using the word, as a blurring of middle-class status and protagonist status) and interiority therefore define the points of identification for a reader of these novels, in triangulation with a narrator who shares their language and interior space—and ours. To classify a work of fiction as a bourgeois novel, therefore, is to indicate something about

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Views from Above and Below

Paul L. Sawyer

its scheme of values, its plot, and its protagonists, but also the formal conventions that underwrite them all.10 If we view the invention of the Eliot narrator (a center of consciousness and language capable of at least theoretically universal sympathy) and the subject of The Mill on the Floss (the struggles of provincial life) in light of the conventions Eliot inherited from the early Victorian novel, the chief challenge would be to adapt her universalizing sympathy to what I have called the wavering linguistic line of gentility, which divides characters according to an idealized standard of middle-class speech, manners, and education. The complexity lies in the relationship of this standard to a different but related one, a standard of virtue. As we would expect, the speech of what the narrator (with some irony) calls “these emmet-like Dodsons and Tullivers” is orthographically marked, while the speech of the genteel characters (Stephen Guest, Philip Wakem, Lucy, Lawyer Wakem, the adult Maggie) is not; unmarked speech therefore locates the reader at the level of the genteel characters, as I have suggested in the case for Victorian fiction in general. The linguistic binary also naturalizes a binary class distinction that in turn parallels the plot of Maggie’s progress—from her subjugation as a precocious child to the meanness and want of the Dodson world, to her apparent release as a young woman from the Dodson world into the elegant and witty (and erotic) circle of the children of the local elite. This discursive structure is the reverse of what we found in Six Acres and a Third: while Senapati’s base language is a demotic Oriya disrupted by Sanskritized passages that the reader hears as awkward and pedantic, Eliot’s base language is a learned elaboration of standard English supplemented by a nonstandard vernacular that the reader hears as regional and semiliterate. But the sociolinguistic system of The Mill on the Floss contains telling exceptions, as a look at two key characters makes clear: the peddler Bob Jakin, and Maggie’s ambitious brother Tom. Near the novel’s end, Maggie suffers the disgrace of a perceived sexual indiscretion and is civilly but unyieldingly ostracized by the town of St. Ogg’s. At the low point of her fortunes, she is visited by the peddler, her childhood friend. Bob Jakin is part trickster, part vagabond, part lovelorn swain, lacking both social standing and the moralistic judgments that come with social standing, and he has come to Maggie with help in his heart: he means to set up a meeting between Maggie and the kindly town clergyman, newly widowed, about possible lodgings. Here is a sample of his speech: “But I told him [the widowed clergyman] I was upo’ the travel three parts o’ the Sundays—an’ then I’m so used to bein’ on

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my legs, I can’t sit so long on end—‘an’ lors, sir,’ says I, ‘a pack man can do wi’ a small ‘lowance o’ church: it tastes strong,’ says I; ‘there’s no call to lay it on thick.’ Eh, Miss how good the little un [Bob’s infant son] is wi’ you! It’s like as if it knowed you: it partly does, I’ll be bound—like the birds know the morning.” The narrator comments, “Bob’s tongue was now evidently loosed from its unwonted bondage, and might even be in danger of doing more work than was required of it. But the subjects on which he longed to be informed were so steep and difficult of approach, that his tongue was likely to run on along the level rather than to carry him on that unbeaten road. He felt this, and was silent again for a little while” (195–96). As the commentary makes clear, Bob has a mental life that could be described (motives, contradictory impulses, affections), but not in the narrator’s idiom, except awkwardly; instead, the narrator stays outside his consciousness and effectually puts him on exhibit for our appraisal. In her rendering of his speech, she grants him facility with metaphor, a quick-witted alertness, and paternal affection. But he also tends to lose control of his speech (as in this case, when he comes too close to his unconfessed adoration of Maggie), a point the narrator makes in a style that emphasizes Bob’s class status by her discreet indirection, vocabulary, and playful irony. In a novel so concerned with the possibility of inherent moral goodness, the comic diminishment of Bob is an anomaly that I sense in the nervous overemphasis of these very strictures: Bob may “stray” into indiscretion, but it is his very gift of persuasion that guarantees his economic livelihood as a peddler. One senses that the very possibility of folk eloquence is a disturbing factor for the novel’s tight linkage, through Maggie above all but also through Philip Wakem, of moral enlightenment with articulate speech. This moral distinction finds its corollary in the class relationship that Bob expresses through his erotic idealization of Maggie: he remains childlike, devoted to Maggie as to a fairy-tale princess. Maggie’s gentle reprimand of his roguishness underscores this difference. Thus, when he offers to give a good “leathering” to the person who has wronged her, she replies, “O, Bob, you’re a very good friend to me. But I shouldn’t like to punish anyone, even if they’d done me wrong. I’ve done wrong myself too often.”11 Unlike Bob’s, Maggie’s speech is never in danger of breaking syntax or doing more work than is required of it. (An example is this desperate plea to her lover Stephen Guest, some pages earlier: “No—not with my whole heart and soul, Stephen. I have never consented to it with my whole mind. There are memories, and affections, and longings after perfect goodness, that have such a strong hold on me; they would

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Views from Above and Below

Paul L. Sawyer

never quiet me for long, they would come back and be pain to me— repentance” (166).12 A scene like this puts the novel’s marked-unmarked binary in particularly sharp relief; but the sociolinguistic distinction breaks down in the second case I want to consider, Tom Tulliver, the miller’s son. Immediately after Mr. Tulliver’s bankruptcy pushes his family into helplessness and poverty, the narrator enters the mind of Tom: [Tom] felt the humiliation as well as the prospective hardships of his lot with all the keenness of a proud nature; and with all his resolute dutifulness towards his father there mingled an irrepressible indignation against him which gave misfortune the less endurable aspect of a wrong . . . There were no impulses in Tom that led him to expect what did not present itself to him as a right to be demanded. . . . Tom saw some injustice in severity; and all the more, because he had confidence in himself that he should never deserve that just severity . . . He would ask no one to help him, more than to give him work and pay him for it. Poor Tom was not without his hopes to take refuge in under the chill damp imprisonment of the December fog which seemed only like a part of his home troubles. At sixteen, the mind that has the strongest affinity for fact cannot escape illusion and self-flattery; and Tom, in sketching his future, had no other guide in arranging his facts than the suggestions of his own brave self-reliance (185).

This passage typifies free indirect discourse as Eliot develops it, combining narration, paraphrase of a character’s thoughts, psychological analysis, and sympathetic yet judicious evaluation. It follows Tom as he sets off on a gloomy morning on a mission to apply for a job as clerk to his affluent uncle, then works his way up to a naively optimistic expectation of success; we see both the moral strengths (unselfpitying determination, self-sacrifice, loyalty to his father’s honor) and the weaknesses (harshness of judgment, emotional stuntedness, isolation, rigidity) of the Protestant ethic, of which Tom is a representative but not a bland stereotype. A miller’s son struggling to save pennies in order to buy back the property his father has lost in a reckless lawsuit: from the point of view of the British babulike middle-class reader, his story is trivial. Yet the narrator makes these same readers take him as seriously as she does, because she can discern both his moral strength and his psychological complexity (“keenness of a proud nature,” “brave self-reliance”). If he fails, his story will be the stuff of tragedy—like that of his father, the bankrupt miller. Rarely if ever before had an English novelist bestowed such analytical attention

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and such spacious interiority on a character who is so limited in terms of both class standing and moral sensibility. But unlike Bob Jakin, Tom does not speak in dialect. Tom is neither precocious nor refined, though he has the makings of a successful merchant if he perseveres; yet Eliot leaves both his and Maggie’s speech unmarked even in childhood, while their parents speak in dialect. The fact that Tom was sent away to school as a boy does not seem an adequate explanation, since part of the point of that episode is to show he was a poor scholar (unlike the precocious Maggie, whose standard speech appears as the plausible result of her natural love of learning). The real reason for Tom’s unmarked speech is suggested in a passage I cited earlier, in which Eliot sets the siblings off from the “oppressive narrowness” of their environment; her aim, we recall, is to show how that narrowness “has acted on young natures in many generations, that in the onward tendency of human things have risen above the mental level of the generation before them.” Tom’s unmarked speech would therefore seem to indicate protagonist status rather than class status, allowing him to represent generational ascent through economic self-discipline, as Maggie represents generational ascent through moral enlightenment and genteel manners. (The contradiction between economic self-discipline and the moral enlightenment of sympathy is then worked out through the plot of sibling conflict.) Eliot’s relationship to the novel she inherited is thus complex. On the one hand, in her fictional world, innate gifts of mind and virtue run far down the social spectrum, and the scope of narrative concern embraces, at least potentially, the meanest human object. Thus, in her greatest need, Maggie is visited by an illiterate peddler with a pregnant wife back home and a favorite dog. The peddler is not simply an example of instinctive virtue among the economically marginalized; he is actually related typologically to the town’s patron saint, St. Ogg, who in ages past also helped a young virgin in distress. In the same way, Maggie Tulliver, the miller’s daughter—an unruly scamp when she was a child growing up in Dorlcote Mill—blooms by the time of adolescence into a creature of passion and intellect, whose capacity for moral enlightenment makes her a potential actor (like Dorothea Brooke) in the “onward progress of human things.” Most importantly, because we are party to her inner life from childhood, her development is fully plausible. In her failure, she will join other mute, inglorious Miltons in a country graveyard like that of Gray’s “Elegy”—to name the poem whose radical egalitarianism prefigures

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Views from Above and Below

Paul L. Sawyer

Eliot’s novel. Yet Eliot presents that vision not from below but from above, through the lens of gentility. Years ago, Raymond Williams remarked that Eliot’s rural characters exist primarily as a “chorus” or as part of the “landscape” rather than as “active bearers of personal experience.” The difference between these characters and Eliot’s mode of narration (“the technical strategy of unified narrative and analytic tones”) therefore produces for Williams a disconnection: “a new kind of break in the texture of the novel, an evident failure of continuity between the necessary language of the novelist and the recorded language of many of the characters.” Williams makes clear that this break results from the novel form as Eliot inherited it and as she expanded it. In the much more restricted social world of a novelist like Jane Austen, he argues, “Speech and narrative and analysis  .  .  . are connected by a literary convention,” whereas Eliot’s exploration of conflicting social relationships “makes a unity of idiom impossible.”13 I have offered a specific formal description of the lost “unity of idiom” in terms of the linguistic markers that divide dialogue hierarchically between learned and demotic, print and oral, the standardized language of the educated minority and the class-marked dialect of the uneducated majority. My account does not, however, read the “landscape” characters as Williams does. Despite the passage that calls the Dodsons and Tullivers “emmet-like,” Maggie’s family often breaks forth from the choral background; Mr. Tulliver by virtue of his defiant energy, the Dodson uncles by virtue of their different economic positions, and Aunt Glegg by virtue of her surprising compassion (she, too, is one who reaches out to Maggie in her greatest need) are all capable of surprising us in plausible ways. (Bob Jakin is an exception Williams would probably accept, since Bob really belongs to a nonrealist literary tradition and so has a somewhat magical existence in relation to the socioeconomic order depicted in the novel.) To summarize: in The Mill on the Floss, the dialect speakers tend to occupy the place of the choral background, a fact that their dialect reciprocally emphasizes, but not entirely; their real difference from the characters who speak and think in the narrator’s idiom is that the unmarked speakers are active bearers of their own experience, in Williams’s terse but suggestive phrase, by virtue of either genteel status or their capacity “to rise above the mental level of the generation before them.” To an extraordinary degree, Eliot associates this capacity with education. The “choral” or background characters draw upon rumor, prejudice, custom, and misinformation to make sense of their world (Mr. Tulliver mistakes the nature of law and the usefulness of a

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public-school education; Mrs. Tulliver confuses the literal and metaphorical). Virtue for Eliot is by no means the natural accompaniment of middle-class status; but the kind of education available to young people of means and natural ability produces the possibility of an enlightened class who are the harbingers of a slowly evolving future more intelligently humane than the past. Maggie’s access to social status (and beauty), which marks her as a heroine, appears to be the natural result of her expanded moral intelligence. She ends up a suitable marriage partner for Philip Wakem, the bookish son of a lawyer, and Stephen Guest, the dashing son of the leading manufacturer, but not the love-smitten peddler Bob Jakin, who worships Maggie both for her virtue and for her ineffable status as a lady. (Tom, the one character with the capacity to bear his own experience who does not attain gentility fails in part because of his problems with learning.) Gentility—in the sense of refined behavior, if not in the sense of income—appears to be a necessary, if insufficient condition for expanded moral consciousness. This also means that in the rhetoric of the novel, Tom and Maggie are one of us. In addressing her readers from a position above her characters, the Eliot narrator invites us not just to observe Tom’s and Maggie’s struggles but to participate vicariously in them, particularly in the story of Maggie’s moral development. Eliot’s attitude toward rural wisdom, on the contrary, is similar to that of Senapati’s babus: it is a set of superstitions and unquestioned practices useful for limited purposes, rather than (as for Senapati) a form of knowing valid in itself and allied to an innate religious sense. The stress on education as moral enlightenment brings us back to Eliot’s creation of a narrative voice that is both enlightened and learned. In experiencing Maggie’s mind as rich, spacious, and complex through the narrator’s commentary, we are also aware that the narrator’s linguistic command and intellectual subtlety are congruent with hers. This is not to say that we read the narrator in specific class terms, but it is to say something about the narrator’s relationship to represented social class. On the one hand, the gap between “ordinary” speech and the narrator’s transcendent rhetoric increases and in some cases naturalizes class difference; on the other, the narrator’s “large vision” enables her to enter the minds of characters lower on the social scale than Austen, for example, ever attempted. Either way, the implied political conclusion is the same: the slow, upward course of human progress will come from above—from the class of the enlightened, or from the rare, extraordinary individuals who have emerged into that class from below. The reader is, of course,

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Views from Above and Below

Paul L. Sawyer

interpellated into that group, summoned to experience through the moral pedagogy of reading what Matthew Arnold called the goal of culture: the attainment of a (classless) best self. Eliot’s realism thus naturalizes the position from which both visionary compassion and historical change can emanate, a position defined in part through the sociolinguistic construction of gentility. Gentility is, of course, a social identity completely absent from Senapati’s world. The elevated position or angle of Eliot’s world, therefore, makes unimaginable (and in a certain sense pointless) a view from below like Senapati’s—one that does not simply bestow compassionate understanding on the poor but that reconceives the moral and political world from their perspective.

IV. Because he refuses an authoritative discourse, Senapati’s ironic narrator is able to release his characters from the hierarchy where a view from above would insert them; it also releases his readers to position themselves among the characters in a shared view from below. Like Eliot’s narrator, he shifts viewpoints often, drifting in and out of the innermost thoughts of his characters in a playfully selective exercise of omniscience; but as a villager among villagers, without access to the moral authority and learned eloquence assumed by a narrator like Eliot’s, he does not use free indirect discourse to generate psychological interiority. What he does achieve occurs so matter of factly we hardly notice it. Here is the way he begins an account of an impoverished shopkeeper’s life: “Gopi had grown old and was no longer able to work in the fields; he had grown weaker after his wife died. His sons had not asked him to do any work, but Gopi was not a man to sit idle, doing something was better than doing nothing. Last year, he had found a way to keep himself busy. Every morning after eating a handful of rice, he would come to his shop, stay there until evening, then lock his doors with a pipelock and return to his house, one mile away” (183–84). This, and more, about a character of no importance to the plot, if we take plot in the narrow sense of the life story of Senapati’s “hero and heroine.” (Gopi Sahu merely owns the riverside shop where Champa, fleeing Gobindapur in disgrace, is then murdered by an accomplice.) As we have seen, in the view from below, narrative turns into an endless fabric; because everything matters, there are no digressions and no minor characters. In the present passage, we learn the layout and dimensions of Gopi’s shop, the food that is for sale, his developing opium habit, his daily expenses, and more; we see the

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scene from his point of view, catch his thoughts (“Gopi looked at his shop and remarked, ‘I have not been able to sell even a paisa’s worth of tobacco today’”), and overhear him singing a hymn (“Like a river / Years of life flow into the ocean. / Drunk with worldly desires / Man forgets his real home in heaven”). The hymn comments on the singer’s age and poverty, flows naturally from the long, listless day of waiting, ironically presages Champa’s appearance (she will soon stumble in wearing expensive silk and a peacock-shaped nose jewel), and links the swollen river before Gopi to the river of life that is also the river of death and obliteration (“Previously, the village of Gopalpur had stood on this spot, but it washed away in a flood on the eighth day of Bhodua in the eighth year of the reign of the kings of Puri. Although the village as such no longer existed, its name still survived” [183]). Gopi is both a figure in a petty-bourgeois system of exchange and a mortal being resting on the brink of the immortal—and so he is not a digression. The novel contains several of these quiet accountings of characters’ lives, mini biographies that drape around the pompous tale of Mangaraj and Champa and link at the edges with the names of characters who do not even appear in the story.14 I hear passages like this one as coming from the voice of an implied narrator rather than the garrulous and ironic figure who narrates most of the book. Having evacuated eloquence as completely as he has evacuated traditional authority, making both seem fatuous and self-absorbed, Senapati is able to produce intense emotional effects through a plain style, so purely denotative and bare as to appear transparent. The transparency here, I would argue, is also dialogical, since we hear the plain style not by itself but against the class-bound discourses that have fallen quiet. This style achieves its crowning effect in the chapter on Mangaraj’s trial before the British authorities. Throughout the novel, the narrator, role playing a defense lawyer, scientific expert, and keeper of accounts, has encouraged his reader to reason by strict inferences and so to question any testimony, including the narrator’s own; the whole novel has, in this sense, been an accumulation of legal evidence for presentation to its readers as a jury. His active reader is now prepared to infer the truth of Mangaraj’s case by reading with and against the testimony, which is delivered by villagers and inserted into the text: “I am told I was seven when I was married to a man who, at the time, was sixty-four. My husband sold his land and gave one hundred and sixty rupees to my father for the bride-price. At the time of the wedding, my husband suffered from asthma. This disease killed him. There was no one left in my husband’s family. My father came, sold off all my husband’s property, and brought me home. There I stayed for

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Witness no.: 3 Name: Marua Father’s name: Lakshman Tihadi Caste: Brahmin Age: Unknown Village: Gobindapur District: Cuttack

At the head of all the depositions, the government is designated “The Mighty Government of the [British East India] Company.” The narrator makes no direct comment on Marua’s testimony, though he elsewhere offers an ironic judgment on the official hierarchies of human importance. Saantani’s dearest friend, he tells us, was the only person in the village who did not cry after her death: “Struck dumb, unable to open his toothless mouth, his long bony legs outstretched, Mukunda, an old farmhand, sat against a hedge and stared blankly into space. It was he who did not cry. Are you interested in knowing his age, caste, lineage, and birthplace? Probably not, for who cares about a poor farmhand, who was also an orphan?” (146). The farmhand’s caste, lineage, and birthplace—the information that would insert him into the imperial archive as a subject of the raj—are irrelevant to our understanding him as a person. The narrator makes the polemical point in this case, but Marua’s testimony produces greater pathos because it stands alone, framed not by authorial sarcasm but by a profounder irony: the impersonal heading of the official record. The linguistic situation here is not a collision of discursive registers (as in much of the novel) but a set of statements—the narration, Marua’s deposition, the facts in the heading—that are all transparently denotative. Today we would recognize this as a documentary style. What differs and produces ironic meaning is not a difference in style but a difference in context, which comes clear if we ask whether Marua’s deposition represents a view of village life from above or below. The answer is, from below, since she tells her story in her own words, but also from above, since her story belongs now to an official dossier filed before the British judge in Cuttack, where it takes the form—by virtue of its framing but not

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five to seven years” (162). These sentences begin the servant Marua’s deposition in the case, which, as it turns out, is legally superfluous (her account of her life has no bearing on the disposition of the case). Senapati emphasizes the impersonal context of her testimony, its place in an official archive, by reproducing its grid-like headings:

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its language—as a legal document and a case history. Since we have already gotten to know the villagers as people rather than as official subjects, the pathos arises from our seeing the fragmented record of a testimony of lived experience caught within the impersonal legal archive that in one sense is the linguistic embodiment of the raj. We read the document, the trace of her words, not as the colonial administrator would (who is blind to all but the facts in the case) but as someone noticing a buried clue. The subaltern speaks eloquently from within the imprisonment of her legal subjection because she is in this sense a witness not in the Mangaraj’s case but a witness to her own life, and indeed, to the far greater “case” of which she, like all the villagers, is witness: the open secret of injustice. The fact of injustice is fundamental to Senapati’s vision at every point in the novel. Within and through a portrayal of human beings that is unsentimental, earthy, ironic, even harsh, Six Acres and a Third presents us with a view from below that constitutes, if not a specific political program, one of the necessary preconditions of any progressive politics: an uncompromising insistence on oppression as a character of all human societies. The six and a third acres of Senapati’s title, made fertile and therefore enviable because it receives the drainage of the village, brings ruin on both those who inherit it and those who expropriate it. At a more abstract level, capital and power also circulate mysteriously, by laws of patronage and interest and deceit, until relationships are transformed and upended, fortunes are made or lost, lives are raised up or destroyed. For Senapati this illicit movement brings down inevitable retribution, which he names the law of karma. This law governs in small things as well as large, as the narrator notes in comparing the fate of a little plot of land to the lives destroyed by the Koh-i-noor diamond in its fateful movement from family to family: “And yet, ever since this jewel has adorned the crown of our highly revered, greatly honored empress of India, who dwells in the White Island and who is manifest like our goddess Kamala, the fame and power of England have spread all over the globe . . . The point of this is that nothing in its rightful place is ever a source of trouble” (203). Because of its placement this passage subtly but cruelly links the queen’s diamond with the fate of Champa, the vicious and greedy woman, brutally stabbed on a shop floor in the middle of the night. If we read it ironically, the bejeweled woman becomes the emblem of the guilt of riches or, if we read it straight, of redemption from guilt. Nevertheless, in a world governed by the cataclysmic flow of capital and the sway of empire, the unjust are often spared and their victims suffer randomly. In every

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Paul L. Sawyer

instance, possession of riches is also dominance over others, a point emphasized by the character of the Saantani, the saintly opposite of the wicked concubine, who most completely embodies the novel’s positive values. As we learn from the narrator’s eulogy of her, she took the side of the weakest in any argument; she did not know money was “such a precious thing”; she wept “at the suffering of people, no matter whether they were guilty or not,” and “she treated everyone equally . . . perhaps [because] she had no desire to dominate” (144). The same statements could apply to Maggie Tulliver. Neither character ultimately becomes the bearer of her own destiny, a fact that points to one other necessary precondition for progressive politics: belief in the ability of people to create their collective history.

V. For Raymond Williams, Eliot’s later fiction follows the development of British fiction in general, in the sense that the “knowable community . . . comes to be known as a problem of ambivalent relationship: of how the separated individual, with a divided consciousness of belonging and not belonging, makes his own moral history” (Williams, 174). Maggie’s excruciating final days are a clear example of divided consciousness; had she survived the end of The Mill on the Floss, many readers have sensed, she could have made her moral history in London, as Marianne Evans did. But this outcome would have blunted the novel’s clearest political thrust, which (like Senapati’s novel) exposes the sexual oppression pervasive in traditional rural societies—a form of politics Williams does not stress in his account. Although a concept of oppression is not fundamental to Eliot’s politics, as it is for Senapati, Maggie too is a victim, borne down by communal ostracism and then by a flood that rescues and annihilates her with a single stroke. But Maggie’s divided consciousness raises a larger issue in Eliot’s fiction: the relationship between historical process and the representation of individual consciousness. Earlier, I argued that free indirect discourse tends to reify class distinctions by restricting interiority to characters who plausibly think in the standard syntax of the narrative voice. Some critics on the left have also argued that the technique is suspect because it draws attention away from the history of what Williams calls knowable communities and from the larger dynamics of power, in order to focus on the fortunes of individual characters. Are deep understandings of collective history and of individual psychology necessarily incompatible in realist

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fiction? A look back at the passage from Middlemarch with which I began suggests a partial answer for the case of Eliot. As every reader of the novel knows, the image of the squirrel’s heartbeat concludes an extended passage of free indirect discourse that evokes and analyzes Dorothea Brooke’s mental distress during the first weeks of her honeymoon in Rome. “Yet Dorothea had no distinctly shapen grievance that she could state even to herself,” the passage begins; “and in the midst of her confused thought and passion, the mental act that was struggling forth into clearness was a self-accusing cry that her feeling of desolation was the fault of her own spiritual poverty.” But soon the narrator juxtaposes Rome, the “city of visible history”—a history vast, crowded, lurid, shattered, and uncognizable—to the scene of Dorothea’s invisible history, as though in direct mutual commentary, a linkage of great and small that lends tremendous force to the final clause of the passage: “and we should die of that roar that lies on the other side of silence.” The roar refers to the mental scenes we have just encountered—to the unfathomable vastness of human need and to Dorothea’s silent distress, mediated by the ruins of imperial Rome—but also to the narrator’s own magical ability to inhabit the consciousness of another person—a privilege strikingly lacking in the male characters who are at that moment observing and attempting to understand Dorothea. But the roar on the other side of silence is also the ruins of time as she has encountered them mutely, in museums, in the ancient fora, on sculptured walls. The passage is a figure, in other words, of the permeability of the personal and the collective—the way consciousness is everywhere traversed and marked by history, even in moments of most intense isolation.15 But the same passage can also be read differently, to suggest on the contrary that despite the immense ambition of Eliot’s project, something stands outside its scope, which is history as a site of conflictual violence. Although Dorothea’s consciousness is traversed by history at every point, she experiences the violence of Roman history as overwhelmingly alien and other. The narrator sums up her disorientation by a stunning image: the red drapery covering the Vatican for a celebration, which spreads like “a disease of the retina.” Of all the characters in the novel, Dorothea’s blindness should most resonate for the reader against her normal hyperawareness to the minds of others, but also against phrases like the one that opens the novel (“Who that cares much to know the history of man”)—in a word, against the narrator’s own epistemological struggle to make sense of history and of other minds. “The weight of unintelligible Rome” would then also stand for the “other” of representation—what the narrator cannot

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Paul L. Sawyer

absorb into her chronicle of the quotidian, with its infinitely extensible network of relationships. The other of Eliot’s historicist realism, in other words, is the violence and conflict that marks the history of “imperial Rome”—to say nothing of imperial Britain, which as we will see stands firmly implicated in the historical vision of Senapati. As it turns out, Dorothea’s power of vision and feeling will enable her to become an active bearer of her personal experience and therefore of historical process. She lives a life of social usefulness that never registers in the chronicles of time; nevertheless, “the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive; for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life and rest in unvisited tombs” (515). In Eliot’s novels, the processes of change are metonymic, that is, incremental—one person affecting another affecting another. As I pointed out in the beginning, this form of action is so thoroughly exemplified in Middlemarch’s vastness of narrative detail as to suggest that to grasp human history as a whole, one would imagine an indefinite extension of the novel’s network of metonymic relationships stretching over time and space. Moral progress is therefore evolutionary—gradual and ineluctable, as evolutionary change is for Darwin, but without a systemic dynamic of struggle and domination, the concept so central to Senapati’s view of history. For Eliot, to imagine human relationships as an infinite metonymy would also be to see our whole duty to our fellow beings. According to the final sentence of Middlemarch, the influence of deeds like Dorothea’s (a woman of wealth and privilege, in this case) is incalculably diffusive, an effect that, we assume, will proceed with many reverses but without systemic conflict. Her good characters live faithful lives but do not create history through collective action. The notion, for example, that the working classes would have a history in the sense documented by E. P. Thompson is as foreign to Eliot’s thinking as to that of the other great Victorian novelists. In the single instance of self-motivated group action in Middlemarch, some farmers attempt to block the building of a railway (they are scolded into confusion by Caleb Garth, the yeoman farmer who acts as spokesman for the traditional values of rectitude and integrity). In her political essays, Eliot warned against ill-advised attempts on the part of working-class organizations to take history into their own hands. This conclusion should surprise us only if we sense a gap between the restraint of Eliot’s political expectations and her sublime rhetoric, which works most characteristically to produce an exultant sense of omniscient sympathy: “Does not science tell us that its highest striving

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is after the ascertainment of a unity which shall bind the smallest things with the greatest?” The underlying figure in passages like this— social life as an organic totality—derives from conservative political thought; but since sympathy follows knowledge, the rhetorical question implies not only an epistemological possibility but an insistence on the unconditional quality of moral concern—an implication that puts Eliot in line with some quite radical political claims. The tension between those claims and Eliot’s political caution, so to call it, derives in part from her inherited notion of sympathy, which she pushed as far as this primarily affective conception could go.16 One does not need Senapati to discern Eliot’s political opinions. But without knowing Senapati, it would have been harder for me, given the immense scope and moral cogency of Eliot’s fiction, to imagine what a powerfully realized fictional view from below might have looked like in Eliot’s century—one that could give us something other than grim naturalism or a fantasy of uplift, and that could surprise us with wit, deepen our understanding of history, and, finally, move us. I have argued that Senapati’s novel, written half a world away from Eliot’s London, achieves such a view. For that reason, reading the novels together—in the spirit of an Arnoldian comparison, it may be—clarifies the nature and limitations of both their achievements, which are in both cases feats of moral, historical, and literary imagination. The comparison has suggested, first of all, the ways Eliot’s view from above reproduces the structural tendency of the Victorian novel to represent social life through the lens of an idealized gentility. That lens naturalizes class distinctions even as it renders them more flexible by using formal methods (standardized English dialogue and the evocation of psychic interiority) to link the acquirements of privilege (status, income, education) with the novel’s virtuous protagonists— characters whose moral imagination makes them bearers of their own history and therefore (as members of a potential elite) bearers of melioristic historical change. By contrast, Six Acres and a Third evacuates the possibility of any such elite of either privilege or ethical insight, relying instead on an ironic narrator, a documentary presentation of character, a relish for folk culture (earthiness, gossip, local legends), and sarcastic allegories of power to produce a view of human experience from below. These differences depend in part on a different relationship to the “strong culture” of Britain, filtered and idealized in the one case by a supremely informed narrator, and ironized and subverted in the other by a wily village tout. By accomplishing all this, Six Acres and a Third prefigures the dramatic developments in European modernist fiction that would achieve in different ways some

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Views from Above and Below

Paul L. Sawyer

of the effects I have described—a fact that makes Senapati’s novel an exemplar, one might argue, of non-European modernism.17 In many ways, Senapati presents us with a picture of history more pessimistic than Eliot’s—and in places, hopeless. His good characters are so passive and disempowered that we have little way of imagining, within the parameters of the novel, where the sources of political resistance might lie; the Saantani, who eschews domination, suffers in silence and eventually wastes away to death. Whatever glimpses of hope and human connection Senapati does give us, however, belong to a political perspective taken from below, which treats seriously (as Eliot does not) the epistemological insights available to the oppressed as a group. In this regard, Senapati’s understanding of human connection is closer to Dickens’s than to Eliot’s. Instead of chains of contiguous effects, he adumbrates circulating systems of wealth and power whose buried links must be discovered and laid bare. Human complicity extends invisibly across vast distances, connecting high and low, imperial rulers and imperial subjects, Gobindapur at one end of the system and London and St. Ogg’s at the other. These connections potentially form the basis of revolutionary change from below; as he tells his genteel readers, “The word weaver denotes a stupid person, but not every stupid person is a weaver. Think of the Manchester weavers, who made the British Parliament tremble. It is thanks to them that you can present yourself as a babu.”

Notes 1. George Eliot, Middlemarch (New York: Norton, 2000), 124. Further references to this edition will appear in the text. 2. In the most powerful recent discussion of historicist realism, Harry E. Shaw defends the realist tradition against the common complaint that it purports to represent reality as a “simple” reflection and that it therefore naturalizes a “totalizing” view of experience. Shaw argues instead that novelists like Eliot involve their readers in practices that would enable them to grasp what the processes of history would look like. For Shaw, the field of historicist realism is the quotidian, and the mechanism of representation is what he calls historicist metonymy— the network of relationships, some of them causal and some of them contiguous, that in their farthest, indefinite extent would constitute something like the movement of history. Shaw’s argument informs my own at many points. 3. In Auerbach’s survey, the first fully engaged depiction of the lower orders in European fiction occurs in Zola; his example is Germinal,

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published in 1888 (for linguistic reasons, Auerbach does not treat Russian authors). 4. My earlier essay on Six Acres and a Third appeared in Economic and Political Weekly; an expanded version, comparing Senapati with Eliot, appeared in Diacritics. The present chapter is adapted from this version. No one, least of all a literary critic, works alone. I have benefited from invaluable comments and suggestions from my colleague Satya P. Mohanty of Cornell University, who first introduced me to Senapati. 5. Throughout this chapter I have assumed Bakhtin’s conception of language as inherently social, bearing within it the traces of social contradiction and an infinite set of social exchanges. “Heteroglossia” is the English neologism for raznorechiye, literally “vari-speech” or “polydiscourse.” Bakhtin would argue that even a voice as authoritative as Eliot’s narrator fails to assert complete dominance over the voices of her characters, as I also argue below. 6. Mohanty, Introduction to Six Acres and a Third. The 2005 University of California Press edition is the first readily available English translation of Senapati’s novel; all further references appear in the text. 7. As Mohanty points out, Senapati’s prose is the Oriya of the ordinary people, the “language of the paddy fields and the village markets,” though it also incorporates a Sanskritized Oriya that suggests “an artificial elevation of tone and sentiment.” In his memoir, Senapati recalls the language of a local schoolteacher, whose methods consisted of translating ordinary Oriya sentences into learned style. For example: “One day a crow sat on the branch of a tree holding a piece of meat in the beak” becomes (in the Latinate translation by John Boulton), “One day, or in the course of one diurnal time-span, a crow, or a corvine avis, sat or became sedent, on a branch or a ramus, of a tree or arbor, holding or supporting, a piece of meat or a segment of animal matter or orifice” (Mohanty, Introduction, 16–17). For a revealing account of Senapati’s linguistic researches in their political context, see Gaganendra Nath Dash, “Fakir Mohan Senapati’s Discovery from Below: Decolonisation and the Search for Linguistic Authority.” An important figure for Senapati’s work was the British philologist John Beames, who at that time was collector of Balasore. According to Dash, colonial administrators like Beames were “not only his benefactors, but also played important roles in retaining Oriya as the medium of instruction in Orissan schools and thereby also in the construction of modern Oriyan identity” (4804). 8. All references to The Mill on the Floss, which hereafter appear in the text, are to the Norton Critical Edition edited by Carol T. Christ. 9. The recent literature on free indirect discourse is large and growing. For a standard account, see Mieke Bal, Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative.

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Views from Above and Below

Paul L. Sawyer

10. The distinction between genteel characters who speak properly and formally and all others, whose speech is either marked as dialect or presented colloquially, closely parallels the distinction on the Shakespearean stage between noble characters, who speak blank verse, and the artisans, henchmen, drunken lawyers, clowns, and the like, who speak prose. In his theory of modes, or “radicals of presentation,” Northrop Frye calls the second the high-mimetic mode and the first the low-mimetic mode. For Frye, modes chart the historical succession of literary works according to the dominant social class in a particular time; thus, in the Britain of Dickens, cultural and social dominance has shifted from the aristocracy to the haute bourgeoisie. See Anatomy of Criticism, 35–43. My attempt to clarify a “view from above” through attention to formal features has a quite close analogue in Frye, which suggests to me that despite his notorious overschematism, his classifications still draw needed attention to the very deep way generic conventions filter, or “focalize,” representations of reality. 11. Ibid., 196. 12. Bob Jakin can also be read as an example of the instability of narratorial hegemony as Bakhtin conceives it. On the one hand, I am arguing that the scenes between Maggie and Bob reinforce the novel’s performance of classed moral authority by linking the narrator’s judgments and standard idiom with Maggie’s standard idiom, values, and attainment of genteel status and behavior. Maggie’s gentle rebukes of Bob’s ethical heterodoxy—his impulse to chivalrous revenge and (elsewhere) his creative sales methods—thus complement the narrator’s dig at Bob’s broken syntax and confused thinking. But a consideration of the novel’s heteroglossia might make us ask whether Maggie’s prim speeches really trump Bob’s verbal exuberance. As a trickster figure or vagrant who stands outside the Dodson world, Bob tweaks and outshines the Dodsons from below as the narrator fixes and appraises them from above; he is the narrator’s heterodox other in this sense, a voice that partially escapes the earnest narratorial regime and therefore my generalizations about Eliot’s monologism. By the same token, as a semimagical figure who is partially exempt from the rules that govern others in the rural economic system (one thinks of a Shakespearean fool, or the popular image of a Gypsy), Bob stands outside of history and its contradictions. But in yet another twist, he’s also the character who gives Tom Tulliver his start in business by a shrewd hunch about marketing possibilities—so in that respect, he does not stand outside of historical process. He complicates the novel’s moral positions but not the conservative political tendency of Eliot’s historicism. 13. Williams, 168–89. Frye’s account of the low mimetic mode is surprisingly close to Williams’s complaint about the treatment of character in

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relation to the social whole: “The root cause of pathos is the exclusion of an individual on our own level from a social group to which he is trying to belong. Hence the central tradition of sophisticated pathos is the study of the isolated mind, the story of how someone recognizably like ourselves is broken by a conflict between the inner and outer world, between imaginative reality and the sort of reality which is established by a social consensus” (Frye, 39). On this description, Senapati’s novel would clearly belong to a different mode from Eliot’s fiction, but the fifth and final mode in Fry’s scheme, which he calls irony, does not easily fit Six Acres and a Third; that is partly because Frye does not in fact develop the relationship idea central to my argument (“someone recognizably like ourselves”), and so associates the ironic mode with pessimistic genres like naturalism, in which the distance between readers and characters can be quite large. 14. For example: “The village women rushed in to see the gifts—Rebati, Sukuri, Sakri, Malia, Jenna’s mother, Bhima’s mother and aunt, Hagura’s mother, Sadari, Menki, Kanaka, Netajeji, Sabi, Kamali, Padiapa, Shyama’s daughter-in-law, Nalita, Bishakha, and Sumitra, the young daughter-in-law of the cowman’s family” (132). A portion of the long paragraph about the daroga’s arrival, which I have cited above, reads: “Meanwhile, Gopalia stopped working and rushed to tell Sama Sahu, his master. Sama Sahu told Hari Sahu, Hatia told Natia, Jemama told Shyama’s mother, and mother-in-law passed the news on to daughterin-law” (152). For a sensitive treatment of interiority and its lack in Senapati, see Anjaria (this volume). 15. Shaw makes a similar point about Dorothea in relation to a different passage from the same novel: “We see Dorothea trying to make sense of her feelings by using the external world as an expressive metaphor for them, but that world remains, for us, part of history. Without reference to her place in history, we cannot indeed grasp the precise nature of Dorothea’s psychological situation or participate in it” (231). 16. Eliot of course joins to her conception of sympathy a Christian conception of duty that extends, theoretically, to all human beings. The universalism recalls, among other thinkers, Spinoza, for whom the ultimate purpose of social life is to realize Christ’s second commandment (to love one’s neighbor as oneself). Spinoza also identifies the motive for moral behavior with the intellectual love of God, which only a few can achieve, and which I read as a resolutely unpsychological category. His skepticism about “sentimental” motives of course predates the Enlightenment development of sympathy as a category of social cohesion, a skepticism that might support my reading of the conceptual limitations of Eliot’s view from above. If for Eliot sympathy informs and quickens understanding, it also has the blindness of its insights. Eliot knew Spinoza well; as a young woman, she began

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Paul L. Sawyer

a translation of the Tractatus Theologico-Politicus, and in 1856 she completed a translation of Ethics, which remained unpublished in her lifetime. See Ashton, 130, 153–54. 17. The issues raised by the contrast between Eliot’s transcendent narrator and Senapati’s ironic evacuation of stable narrative authority put into sharp relief the achievement of modernist fiction—specifically, twentieth-century texts that dispense with an authoritative narrative voice. Mark Twain’s premodernist experiment with nonstandard narration in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1886) erases a standardized narrative discourse that would have fixed Huck and Jim, however benevolently, from above. Joyce’s even more dramatic evacuation of the narrator in Ulysses liberates his characters into a richness of heteroglossia never attempted before in British literature, a linguistic economy in which individual consciousnesses are thoroughly marked by the social and the historical, and in which the plain-style thoughts of the bourgeois Leopold Bloom rub shoulders with the learned verbal metonymies of Stephen Dedalus—who as a younger version of Joyce should have been the narrator but winds up as one voice among others. If the evacuation of the traditional narrator is a hallmark of literary modernism, then Senapati, who never read Twain, Eliot, or Joyce, shares this hallmark of modernism, though his work on the whole resembles more closely the realist tradition.

Bibliography Ashton, Rosemary. George Eliot: A Life. London: Penguin Books, 1997. Auerbach, Erich. Mimesis: The Representation of Reality in Western Literature. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1953. Bakhtin, M. M. The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays. Edited by Michael Holquist. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1981. Bal, Mieke. Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative. 2nd ed. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1998. Dash, Gaganendra Nath. “Fakir Mohan Senapati’s Discovery from Below: Decolonisation and the Search for Linguistic Authority.” Economic and Political Weekly 41, no. 46 (2006): 4801–5. Eliot, George. Middlemarch. New York: Norton, 2000. ———. The Mill on the Floss: An Authoritative Text, Backgrounds, and Contemporary Reactions Criticism. Edited by Carol T. Christ. New York: W. W. Norton, 1994. Frye, Northrop. Anatomy of Criticism: Four Essays. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1957. Sawyer, Paul L. “An Oriya Village and the Battle of Plassey: Senapati’s Allegory of the Raj.” Economic and Political Weekly 41.46 (2006): 4782–88. ———. “Views from Above and Below: George Eliot and Fakir Mohan Senapati.” Diacritics 37.4 (2007): 56–77.

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Senapati, Fakir Mohan. Six Acres and a Third. Translated by Rabi Shankar Mishra, Satya P. Mohanty, Jatindra K. Nayak, and Paul St. Pierre. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005. Shaw, Harry E. Narrating Reality: Austen, Scott, Eliot. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1999. Williams, Raymond. The Country and the City. New York: Oxford University Press, 1973.

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Views from Above and Below

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Two Classic Tales of Village India: The Realist Epistemology of Chha Mana A tha G untha and Godaan Himansu S. Mohapatra

I

f, as the poststructuralists argue, the real cannot be accessed except through texts, then realism, in the sense of an engagement with a mind-independent world, and textuality would appear to be at odds with each other. Such an opposition would, however, be a false one, and it is bred by an outmoded positivist epistemology. The “what” of the narrative, its thematic purpose as well as its wider philosophical and social vision, cannot be narrowly tied to its verbal construction. Granted, the world comes to us in the shape of stories, but I wish to show how some stories write the world in a more realistic way than others precisely by providing a better “epistemic access”1 to it. This access is, of course, theory mediated and not innocent. The present chapter, concerned with a realist auditing of fiction, will attempt to demonstrate its thesis by reading Fakir Mohan Senapati and Premchand from a comparative perspective. Further, it will seek, through this comparative reading, to unravel the differentiation within the tradition of Indian literary realism to which both the authors owe their allegiance.2 The texts of choice for this enterprise are bound to be Senapati’s Chha Mana Atha Guntha3 (1897–99) and Premchand’s Godaan4 (1936), these being not only the representative novels of the

An earlier version of this essay appeared in Economic and Political Weekly in 2008.

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two writers but also the best known exemplars of social realism in the Indian context.5

Though widely regarded as watersheds in the development of novelistic realism in their respective languages, Oriya and Hindi, Chha Mana and Godaan employ different realistic methods with which to portray a primarily rural India. A proper comparative analysis of these two novels should then attempt to arrive at a finely calibrated view of their techniques of realist representation. The Lukácsian opposition between naturalism and realism comes to mind here. Proposing as it does a distinction between a realism that is primarily one of descriptive accuracy and a realism that is more analytical, it is a helpful starting point for analysis. But such a critical procedure can have a much wider resonance by drawing on the kind of philosophical realism developed by philosophers like Quine, Putnam, and Boyd, and as applied to literary analysis by Satya P. Mohanty.6 The question this critical procedure asks of novels is not whether they are just good and recognizable pictures of the world, but also whether they are good causal explanations of the same. This chapter, therefore, proposes to evaluate Chha Mana and Godaan in terms of the degrees and modes of “epistemic access” they provide to their referents by enabling an understanding of the microstructures of the social world they depict. This is a new way of doing comparative literary analysis based on the idea of what Mohanty has called in a recent essay “the dynamics of literary reference.”7 An exploration into realist epistemology in the Indian literary context is best undertaken by recalling a distinction that Amiya Dev has made between the discourse-driven early Indian novel and its mimesisdominated later avatar.8 Dev is of the opinion that the development of the Indian novel can be understood in terms of the gradual disappearance of “discourse” in favor of what he calls a “composite mimesis” (185). This may well be the trajectory of the Indian novel from Chha Mana to Godaan, but I would like to argue that the gain in mimesis in Godaan goes along with a certain loss of analytical depth. The real achievement of Chha Mana can be appreciated, I believe, if we see its self-conscious narrative discourse as the main force behind its attempt to reorient the reader by clarifying connections among social phenomena that ignorance or ideological mystification has obscured. This epistemological work characteristically takes the form of (literary) postmodernist frame breaks without that accompanying (theoretical) postmodernist skepticism about truth claims. Dev himself amplifies

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the relationship between fictional self-consciousness and realism when he sets out to show how they are complementary to one another in the early Indian novel. As he says, “The novel is fiction only by definition, but its main purpose is truth. And that purpose will be defeated if the reader does not recognize its contents. Thus the mimesis needs breaks which are filled up by discourse. The early Indian novel is in particular need of these breaks and thus of this discourse, for it is a new genre and is as such quite self-conscious” (185). But then Dev does not seem to draw out the revolutionary implications of his illuminating comment. If he is right about the analytical, truth-telling function of discourse in the early Indian novel, he is surely not on firm ground in suggesting a seamless evolutionary logic whereby discourse is sublimated into mimesis. Besides, his definition of realism—which he equates with mimesis—as an objectified process of representation is partial and inadequate. Realism, to quote him, is “an unsentimental depiction of life’s crassness, an un-ameliorated presentation of experience, an objective and adjectiveless description of life processes” (185). This positivist emphasis on “adjectiveless description” and its conflation with “objectivity” seems more like an account of naturalism than of Luckácsian realism. The account is certainly not true of the realism of Chha Mana where the empirical datum, the so-called unproblematic referent, is brought into play by an active epistemological reorientation of the reader to the underlying socioeconomic currents and processes, to what the scientific realists describe as the “causal joints” of the world. Chha Mana’s realism depends less on adjectiveless description than on an engaged attitude, an attitude that deliberately draws attention to all our habitual “adjectives” so that they—together with their social origins—can be analyzed critically. For instance, the referent of a certain significant narrative section in Chha Mana, which is the source of its most eloquent anticolonial social commentary (Chapter 12, titled “The Asura Pond”), is colonial relations. Its counterpart in an earlier and much discussed work of social realism, namely Rev. Lal Behari Day’s Bengal Peasant Life (1874), which served in some ways as a model for Senapati’s novel, is the timeless, orientalized Indian village. Insofar as it is derived from an ideological act of suppressing colonial relations, it is far from being an innocent referent itself. Thus, as Mohanty has rightly observed in his introduction to Six Acres and a Third, the writing of Chha Mana is a rewriting where a central norm of realist writing—plain and unvarnished presentation of social and economic reality—is being audaciously revised to get at the core of that reality. In other words,

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Two Classic Tales of Village India

Himansu S. Mohapatra

referencing can be both simple and complex and can work as much to mystify and obscure as to clarify. That passage from obscurity to clarity suggests, as Boyd says, a “process of referential refinement,”9 which has nothing to do with the linguistic transparency that critics like Raymond Williams have tended to see as the strength of the nineteenth-century British realist novel.10 Thus an advance in the referential function of literary discourse of Chha Mana is not irreconcilable with the quality of self-reflexivity that a number of recent commentators on the novel have noted.11 This is not to say that Godaan subscribes to this positivist fantasy of pure description any more than Chha Mana does. But it can be said that the distinction between a mimetic realism and an analytical realism that two classic tales of village India help to mobilize has a lot to account for whether or not we have a genuine analysis and critique of social relations. Though overtly concerned with the margins of society, Premchand’s straightforward narration precludes awareness of the subtle inscriptions of the excluded in the dominant discourse. Senapati’s zigzagging narrative discourse articulates a rich critique of social power even as it provides a richly metaphorical articulation of what lies at the bottom of the social pyramid. What follows is a reasonably detailed and fairly substantial analysis of the two orientations of realist epistemology, top down and bottom up, as manifested in these two novels.

Godaan: About Below Godaan is a compelling story of village India. It has always been read as a memorable record of rural life in India, caught between tradition and modernity, between bondage and freedom. For Premchand’s critics this novel marks a break from what they call “idealistic realism” (adarshatmak yatharthavad) to “realistic realism”12 (yatharthavadi yatharthavad). The latter term is an acknowledgment of the fact that in this novel Premchand has finally moved toward an allegorization of proletarian India. While there is no doubt about the author’s propoor and progressive sympathies, it is also crucial for us to recognize this as an ideologically dictated position. There are other elements in the author’s ideological universe that point to its unsettled and ambivalent nature. For instance, the novel gives evidence of Indian society’s cheerful habituation to colonial modernity in the early decades of the twentieth century. Colonial presence is very much taken for granted by the novel. The assimilative politics that is at work in it strips the colonial presence of its alien character.13 This causes the society pictured in Godaan to split less and less along cultural or civilizational

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lines. Maybe this also explains why reference in Godaan works to eschew analysis, except of the individual psychologizing kind, in favor of description and portraiture. The novel contains the most powerful evocation of social reality imaginable. But without the ironic analysis and anatomizing of it, this inhospitable social reality seems to be perceived by the characters in the novel as a kind of fait accompli. In other words, social analysis seems to have taken a back seat in the novel to individual character analysis. Irony in Godaan, as in Premchand’s other major works, seems to have a reduced scope, being restricted to the limited interpersonal space between characters in the novel. Though used to stunning effect by the novelist as an instrument of revelation of conduct, it does not seem to radiate from or penetrate into the center of the narrative discourse of the novel. Take the representative example of the encounter between the zamindar, Rai Sahib, and the peasant, Hori, early in the novel. The former lectures Hori about the evil of the zamindari system in particular, and about the evil of wealth in general. He tells Hori how his greedy relations profess love of him only for his wealth: “Our parasitic existence has crippled us. . . . Sometimes I think the government would do us a big favour by confiscating our lands and making us work for a living. . . . We’ve fallen prey to the system, a system that’s completely destroying us. Until we’re freed from the chains of wealth, the curse will keep hanging over our heads and we’ll never reach those heights of manhood which are life’s ultimate goal” (26). While he is lecturing away thus in an altruistic vein, a servant brings him news that “the men on forced labour have refused to work” (26) and will not continue if they are not given food. At this he leaves his philosophizing mode to return instantly to his habitual whip-cracking mode. And he snaps at the man, “‘Come with me,’ he declared, eyes bulging. I’ll put those troublemakers in their place. They have never been given food in the past. Why this new demand today? They’ll get the anna a day they always get, and they’ll damn well do the work whether they like it or not’” (27). Expectedly enough, Hori is left bewildered by this sudden outburst of anger, wondering about its contradiction with “all this talk about right and goodness” (26) that went before. This is fine irony by all accounts if by irony is meant the discrepancy between the seeming and the real. But being confined to an interpersonal space, this fails to rise to a higher level and take on the power and force of narrative irony, which implicates the reader more fully. Those links, nudges, and dodges of the narrator in Six Acres, which produce the active reader, leading her to identify

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Two Classic Tales of Village India

Himansu S. Mohapatra

connections between disparate and discrete phenomena, are missing here. Irony, as Paul L. Sawyer observed in a recent article, works in Chha Mana to bring separated “epistemological fields”—one learned, print-literate and babu, and the other folk, oral and peasant—into contact and collision. It is true, of course, that Six Acres neither personalizes the encounter between the exploiter and the exploited nor is seen as imputing agency to those from the margins who are among the exploited. In this sense Hori (or Dhaniya) is a rounded and realized character with an inner life, a function surely of the “composite mimesis” that Dev has talked about. But the characters also fail to become the vehicle of an authorial mobilization of irony with manifold ramifications. An analysis of the spatial configurations in the novel shows the same flawed way of seeing which presents a fragmentary perception of the social whole, leading to a mixing up of symptoms with their social causes. That is to say, the kaleidoscopic shifts between the cityscapes of Lucknow and the villages of Belari and Semari in Godaan are descriptive triumphs. But they do not involve an analytical comparison of the two social spaces. The locales are widely spaced out and probably would have run away in opposing directions if not held together within the covers of a book. The economic relationship of rent and revenue that clearly exists between them is suggested, not dialogized.14 Thus their physical distance from each other becomes a mirror image of the reifying colonized consciousness that sees the country and the city as discrete and autonomous entities with nothing but a landmass or a road or some form of transport to connect them. This has repercussions for the realism of Godaan, moving it toward spectacle rather than toward the tracing of a systemic logic underlying superficial social phenomena. It also disables the realism of the novel from adopting the vantage point of “the view from below.”15 As we shall see a bit later in the chapter, this is a different thing from an overt portrayal, albeit one that is tinged with a humanitarian sympathy, of the poor and the downtrodden. On the face of it, Godaan may be seen as addressing marginality more straightforwardly than does Six Acres. Its narrative surface admittedly permits a more direct echoing of its core story of chill penury freezing the genial current of the human soul.16 The novel traces the career of a poor peasant couple (Hori and Dhaniya), as their lives are laid waste by the debt-rent trap set up by the zamindar and the village middlemen. It is their tragic lives that are dramatized. Further, the novel contrasts their simple lives and those of other villagers with the ostentatious lives of a bunch of townspeople. The gift of a cow, or

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godaan, that the title refers to is an ironic registration of the collusion of Hindu religion (with its built-in rituals of caste) with social and economic exploitation, as also of the victim’s unconscious participation in such pseudo religiosity.17 As Thomas Jandl has pointed out in his impressive review of the novel, Godaan critiques cultural institutions and traditional power structures, “showing how caste and religion cause needless suffering and impede economic growth” (201). Be that as it may, Premchand’s can be said to be a view from below only if one thinks of his proletarian sympathy in terms of the novel’s declared moral ideology. Its rhetorical structure does not seem to support what it is ideologically conditioned to tell. For one thing, it seems to back off from an active, analytical view of poverty as the outcome of social and economic conditions, preferring to present a contemplative, humanitarian attitude to the poor. As a matter of fact, it inclines more toward the latter view as it progresses. It details the protagonists’ suffering, but factors out of their consciousness a political redescription of the social situation that produces suffering. Premchand seems to hint at the alternative explanation more through the “persistent and controlled rebellion”18 of Hori’s wife, Dhaniya, than through the anger and rebelliousness he attributes to Gobar, their son. She rails constantly against Hori’s passivity and fatalism, pulling him up constantly for his self-sacrificing idealism. The final gesture of denial and denunciation of an unjust social system is resoundingly delivered through Dhaniya at the end of the novel: “Dhaniya rose mechanically and brought out the twenty annas earned that morning from the twine they had made. Placing the money in the cold palm of her husband’s hand, she stepped forward and said to Datadin, ‘Maharaj, there is no cow or money in the house. There are only these coins. This is his godaan, his gift of a cow.’ And she collapsed on the ground, unconscious” (437). But the narrative voice holds back from an analytical piecing together of the elements of this genuine rage against an unjust society. Instead, through a tacit valorization of Hori’s common sense, it recommends conservatism and a worldly wise tempering of anger and indignation. It is in this context that the idealized portrayal of village life that we have at the opening of Chapter 21 in the novel seems inspired by an organicist ideology: “Six months of every year, Indian villages resound to the beating of drums and the clashing of cymbals in celebration of some festival or other. . . . The village of Belari was no exception. Neither the threats of the moneylenders nor the curses of the agent could restrain these celebrations. Nor did it matter if there was no grain in the house, no clothes on one’s back, and no money in one’s purse. The instinctive joy of life could not be suppressed. To

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Two Classic Tales of Village India

Himansu S. Mohapatra

live without laughter would have been impossible” (266). The passage reproduces the conventional dichotomy between the calculating city and the spontaneous and instinct-driven village.19 The narrative also wavers between an ideological commitment to the village and a deeper instinctive fascination for the city.20 The widely spaced locales, as shown earlier, are a case in point. They connect intermittently through the reformist zeal of some among the citybred characters (Mehta and Malti) who have seemingly come under the influence of Gandhian thought. Village life is seen as authentic in one sense, but as quite limited and foolish in another sense. The agency and cleverness imputed to the characters in a village setting is shown to have deserted them in an urban setting where they either founder or revert to their country bumpkin ways.21 The city comes across as the place of power, intrigue, money, and political chicanery, but also as the place from whence good governance can issue through a Mehta-like gesture of hard-boiled philosophical aloofness. And capping it all is the almost complete absence in it of the British colonizer, even though the novel is set in preindependence times. It truly is an oddity, as the Complete Review’s review of the novel has put it,22 pointing to that habituation to colonialism mentioned earlier.23 No wonder the novel is unable to make much of the culture of “westoxication,”24 which is such an important ingredient of colonial modernity in India.

Six Acres and a Third: From Below In its main outline Chha Mana tells essentially the same village Indian tale of suffering and exploitation, bringing in a weaver couple, Bhagia and Saria, and a resident and much more bloody-minded landlord, but cutting out the urban spread of Godaan. But this resemblance between the two tales, extending even to the microlevel of the cow, is at the level of the unfictionalized content. The bulk of Chha Mana is unsentimental, devoted as it is to tracing the obscure origin, meteoric rise, and catastrophic fall of the zamindar Ramachandra Mangaraj. The victims do not occupy more than a couple of chapters, the tragic disposition of their six acres and a third happening early on, and off stage at that. It would almost be a victor’s story, to judge by the lack of the kind of fuller portrayal of the poor that we find in Godaan. And despite the fact that this sentimental fabula is not the point of Chha Mana, not another tale from the huge corpus of nineteenth-century Indian prose fiction can be said to have been written, as Mohanty says in his introduction, “from the perspective of the horse, the ordinary villager, and the foot soldier—in other words, the laboring poor of the world” (2). How is

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the view from below articulated? It is, as I will show, through the epistemic exercise of discovering and piecing together the “causal joints” of nineteenth-century colonial Indian society. A characteristic move of the narrator of Six Acres and a Third is to highlight the gap between the apparent and the real through irony and playful debunking of forms of social power. This involves the narrator, by his very nature a side-glancing one, in considerable digressions from the main action. These digressions are, however, crucial to the epistemic exercise I have talked about, helping to dredge up the “not-said” of labor, an entity that has been consigned to a limbolike existence on the margins of society and discourse. The epistemic power of this move lies in showing these excluded aspects of labor and its abuse as the secret cause of the dog-eat-dog world of the novel.25 Mohanty has rightly begun his introduction by referring to one such voice from the margin, one that is articulated by an ordinary and anonymous villager toward the close of the novel: “Oh, horse, what difference does it make to you if you are stolen by a thief? You do not get much to eat here; you will not get much to eat there. No matter who becomes the next master, we will remain his slaves. We must look after our own interests” (205–6). This act of seeing the change of power in an Oriya village from the “defamiliarizing” point of view of a horse26 disabuses the reader of any notion that with the zamindar Ramachandra Mangaraj yielding ground to Ram Ram Lala, the clever town lawyer, change has really occurred. All that has been said in the earlier part of the narrative about the awesome power of lawyers to fatten themselves at the expense of the society weighs heavily against this possibility. Senapati has used here a device somewhat akin to the famous Dickensian device of the street eye-view (Jo, the street-crossing sweeper in Bleak House [1853], may come to mind) to show those frequent reshuffles in the corridors of power for the charades they really are. But he has also gone further than Dickens by using a language of indirection and suggestion rather than of direct statement. A careful scrutiny of the rhetoric of the novel reveals strategically placed allusions to the laboring poor, labor, and the theft of the fruit of labor by the rich and the powerful. These allusions and digressions create a “rich metaphorical subtext” (Mohanty 9) about exploitative forms of social relations known to human history, culminating in the latest and the most efficient that the nineteenth century has devised, namely, colonialism. In this unilateral world of victimization or colonization, conveyed, as Sawyer has observed, through the novel’s “prevalent imagery of prey animals and predators” (Sawyer 4784), only the faces

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Two Classic Tales of Village India

Himansu S. Mohapatra

and the names of victims change, but not their social locations, their existence on the margins of the society. A close reading will, in fact, show allusions, floating in at regular intervals in the novel, to various forms of exploitative labor. We hear of the “free labor” extracted from the bonded laborers under the feudal social arrangement of Dewan Ganga Prasad Singh (Chapter 2, p. 43) and of bonded labor supplied by the lowly farmhands who work the fields of Mangaraj (Chapter 12, p. 101). These tell a tale of unremitting and one-sided toil by the toilers of the earth. Like Darwin reading the social pecking order into the natural world, Senapati’s wily narrator sees the exploitative structure replicated in the avian world (comparison of kaduakhumpi birds with gotipuas, of cranes with lowly farmhands) and in the cosmology of the illiterate villagers (Banasura getting the Asura pond dug by the demons, a job, incidentally, of free—read coerced—labor by his slaves). This grand récit of exploitation of labor not only frames a contemporary story of defrauding a weaver couple of their six acres and a third, but also runs through the narrative like a leitmotif pointing to the view from below. The metaphorical heart of the novel’s radical social vision can be glimpsed in the following comment by the narrator. Four kaduakhumpi birds are hopping about like gotipuas, like traditional dancing boys. The birds are happy and excited because they are able to spear and eat the little fish that live in the mud. Some might remark that these birds are so cruel, so wicked, that they get pleasure from spearing and eating creatures smaller than themselves. What can we say? You may describe the kaduakhumpi birds as cruel, wicked, satanic, or whatever else you like; the birds will never file a defamation suit against you. But don’t you know that among your fellow human beings, the bravery, honor, respectability, indeed, the attractiveness of an individual all depend upon the number of necks he can wring? Some sixteen to twenty cranes, white and brown, churn the mud like lowly farmhands, from morning till night. . . . A pair of kingfishers suddenly arrive out of nowhere, dive into the water a couple of times, stuff themselves with food and swiftly fly away.  .  .  . O stupid Hindu cranes, look at these English kingfishers, who arrive out of nowhere with empty pockets, fill themselves with all manner of fish from the pond, and then fly away. You nest in the banyan tree near the pond, but after churning the mud and water all day long, all you get are a few miserable small fish. You are living in critical times now; more and more kingfishers will swoop down on the pond and carry off the best fish. You have no hope, no future, unless you can go abroad and learn how to swim in the ocean. (103–4)

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This passage from the Asura Pond chapter, with its persistent allegorizing of the way human social affairs are conducted in a class-divided society, is evidence of Senapati’s complex and polyphonic realism. This realism is not only diagnostic in a Lukácsian sense27 (in bringing hidden or disguised causal connections to light, that is), but also, as Sawyer has suggested, “perspectivalist” (Sawyer 4782) in that it stands conventional hierarchies on their head by causing the top and the bottom to switch positions. It is another important aspect of the text’s concern with causality that the narrative eliminates a purely humanitarian concern for the suffering poor, which is epitomized in a poem written by Tagore on a similar subject. “Two Bighas of Land,”28 written only a few years before Chha Mana, anticipates the novel’s theme of loss of land. The poem sings in an elegiac and lyrical manner of Upen’s eviction from his two bighas of land. Tagore versifies the tragic tale of depeasantization that Lal Behari Day presents much more elaborately, though not necessarily more realistically, in his prose narrative, Govinda Samanta.29 If Senapati has learned from both of them, he seems to have done so negatively.30 There is only a surface resemblance between the two tales of the loser of paternal acres and his own story of loss of land. Upen, the protagonist in Tagore’s poem, is more a vehicle of the romanticnationalist attachment to land than a device by which to foreground a socially orchestrated land enclosure drive by the wealthy. The framing of Bhagia serves to focalize this much more powerfully than the framing of Upen, and, to some extent, of Hori. For example, it contests the naturalization of social relations based on property. It is not that there is any question about the gross injustice of Bhagia’s eviction from property, his ancestrally held six and a third acres; but there is also a question mark placed on the acquisition of his ancestrally held six and a third acres, which the narrator delicately sources to his privileged inheritance of the property owned by his village headman father. No wonder Sisir Das, in his brief but eloquent commentary on Six Acres, said that Senapati’s literary anatomy of property and poverty far exceeded that of Tagore in this poem.31 Involving as it does a significant epistemological shift of focus toward the social bases of poverty and property, Senapati’s realism offers a searing analysis of a social system. Chha Mana thus presents neither a cautionary tale about the victor nor a pitiful tale of the victim. The emphasis instead is on the historical process of change of social class and power viewed through the lenses of land and language. The passage from the bhumydhikari to the zamindar-cum-mahajan is the shorthand for the vast groundswell of

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Two Classic Tales of Village India

Himansu S. Mohapatra

change that has brought us from the precolonial to the colonial India. As the novel ends, other ramifications of colonial modernity come to the fore. That the novel does not close can be best seen from the anticlosural reference to the continuance of the structure of domination under a new name (Ram Ram Lala). The process of British takeover of Orissa is told twice in the novel. First it is told telegraphically through the story of Ramachandra Mangaraj’s first act of land grabbing: “Historians say it took Clive less time to get the Bengal Subedari from the Emperor of Delhi than it takes to buy and sell a donkey. How long do you think it will take Mangaraj to get the Zamindari of Fatehpur Sarasandha from Mian?” (Chapter 8, p. 76). The second time it is told in the affective way typical of novels. It is this second story of the stealing of six and a third acres that shows British power in India to have entered a new phase of bureaucratic hardening, with the shift of the power base from the class of village zamindars to the comprador class of urban middlemen, from a village to an urban India. The “causal joints” of the society that the novel deals with are finally laid bare. The novel then embodies a mode of telling that seeks to cut through the mediating layers—metaphysical (property), ideological (social hierarchy), and textual (print literate, pen driven)—to a view of the laboring poor with their alternative mythology (horse and cow), ideology (marginality), and textuality (orality). Chha Mana thus considerably deepens the “referential” function of its own discourse by rewriting reference as “epistemic access” to the structures of domination rather than simply as a moving human document and social panorama. The referential vagueness of the early account in the novel of a tyrant and of a tyrannical system is revealed, paradoxically through a process of peeling off the veil of social illusion, to be the product of a complicit social ideology and discourse.

Conclusion If the two instances of social realism inscribed in Chha Mana Atha Guntha and Godaan are as radically different as the above analysis has shown them to be, then they are crucial to an understanding of the perspectivally differentiated development of a realist epistemology in Indian literature in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. My approach to this issue, informed initially by Dev’s distinction between the discourse-dominated early novels and the mimesis-dominated later novels, has tried to tackle a deeper theoretical issue by bringing into play the distinction between descriptive and analytical realism. As a matter of fact, in light of the analysis just conducted, we might like

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to see Senapati and Premchand as doing different and, in fact, opposing things as realists. Senapati’s novel provides referential refinement and “epistemic access” through its self-reflexive narration that holds the mediating mythologies impinging on consciousness up to scrutiny. Premchand’s novel minimizes this interrogative aspect as it moves toward a fuller psychological portrayal. Ironically, however, the label of a realist seems to have attached more readily to Premchand than to Senapati. This is because realism has over the years been identified with the kind of descriptive familiarity and psychological profiling that we associate with the panoramic psychodrama of Premchand’s novels. Senapati’s Chha Mana, on the contrary, encourages skepticism about what is given. Its epistemic achievement is to have problematized the real so that the rules of this world can be rewritten. This tradition of radical social critique is among the forgotten legacies of realism in Indian literature.32 This chapter is a contribution to the ongoing recovery and reassessment of nineteenth-century literary realism in India and an attempt to trace the social and philosophical implications of the many varieties of realist writing.

Notes 1. The phrase “epistemic access,” as used by the postpositivist philosopher Richard Boyd, denotes the kind of precision with which scientific terms refer to the external world. Terms like reptile, mammal, and gold, for instance, allow us access to the internal structures of the different kinds of creatures and metals designated by these terms. Satya P. Mohanty, drawing on Boyd, makes the same kind of argument for literary reference. Also see note 6. 2. The pairing of Senapati and Premchand has been as much a part of serious academic discourse as of popular perception, both of these occasionally working together to produce seminars and conferences such as the Central Sahitya Akadmei seminar held in Bhubaneswar on March 5, 2006. They have also inspired such books as Banamali Das’s Fakir Mohan aur Premchand: Tulanatmak Samikhya (Fakir Mohan and Premchand: A Comparative Analysis, 1986). One of the latest essays to have been published on the two writers is Sumanyu Satapathy’s “Meeting and Parting of Ways: The Responses of Premchand and Fakir Mohan to Language Issues.” This essay is based on a presentation that Satapathy made at the Bhubaneswar seminar. For information on the seminar see the IACLALS newsletter for July 2006. Satapathy also filed his report on the conference in this issue under the title “Saviours of Language.” See page 8 of the newsletter.

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Two Classic Tales of Village India

Himansu S. Mohapatra

3. There have been three earlier translations of Senapati’s novel. These are Stubble under the Cloven Hoof by C. V. N. Das (Cuttack, India: Cuttack Sahitya Sansad, 1967), Six Acres and a Half by A. M. and B. M. Senapati (Bhubaneswar, India: Publication Division, Ministry of Education and Broadcasting, 1967), and A Plot of Land by Nuri Mishra (Cuttack, India: Cuttack Student’s Store, 1969). Six Acres and a Third, published by the University of California Press in 2005 and by Penguin Books India in 2006 and translated by a team of four, happens to be the latest and the most influential English translation of Senapati’s novel to date. That Senapati’s novel has inspired so many translations into English, not to speak of its translation into almost all major Indian languages, is a testament to its power and prestige. Evidence has just emerged of another English translation of the novel, as yet unpublished, done in 1982 by Mrs. Sanjukta Mohapatra for a certain American audience at the University of Chicago at the suggestion of Prof. Richard Allan Shweder, a faculty member in the Department of Comparative Human Development of the same university. In this essay I have oftentimes called the Senapati novel by two names: its Oriya title often truncated to Chha Mana and its latest English title, again truncated to Six Acres. All citations from the novel are from the latest publication. 4. The text of Godaan being used here is that of the English translation done by Gordon C. Roadarmel titled The Gift of a Cow, published by George Allen and Unwin in 1968. Premchand’s novel has also inspired multiple translations into English and has been rendered into all major Indian languages, Oriya included. As a matter of fact, I have also checked the English text against the text of the superb 1981 Oriya translation done by Golak Bihari Dhal. In this chapter Premchand’s novel is referred to as Godaan throughout. All citations from the novel are from the English translation by Roadarmel. 5. I agree entirely with the premise of Satya P. Mohanty and Harish Trivedi that, given the time lag between Senapati and Premchand, and given the latter’s complete ignorance of the former, “in the lack of translation,” the relationship between the two authors should be seen “as more of broad genealogy rather than that of influence or even inter-textuality” (4781). This explains why I have not respected chronology in the presentation of my argument where Godaan precedes Six Acres instead of following it. See the introduction to the special section on “The Literary View from Below” in EPW November 18, 2006. 6. The book where Satya P. Mohanty has mined the resources of this new realism, which he calls “postpositivist realism,” for purposes of literary analysis is Literary Theory and the Claims of History: Postmodernism Objectivity and Multicultural Politics, published by Cornell University Press in 1997 with its Indian reprint coming out from

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Oxford University Press in 1998. This author’s review of Mohanty’s book was published in The Hindu Literary Review dated December 6, 1998, under the title “A New Realism for the Times.” 7. This brief essay, offering a distillation of Satya P. Mohanty’s realist theory of identity, is called “The Dynamics of Literary Reference: Narrative Discourse and Social Ideology in Two 19th Century Indian Novels.” It is published in the volume Thematology: Literary Studies in India, brought out by the Department of Comparative Literature, Jadavpur University in 2004. It posits a complex account of literary reference in relation to Chha Mana Atha Guntha and Bengal Peasant Life. 8. The essay in question is “Reading Chha Mana Atha Guntha,” originally published in Jadavpur Journal of Comparative Literature Vol. 31 (1993–94) and reprinted in Fakir Mohan Senapati: Perspectives on His Fiction. Page references to this essay are from the book. 9. Cited in Mohanty, “The Dynamics of Literary Reference,” 235. 10. Although Raymond Williams has found himself obligated to offer a more complex account of the nineteenth-century British novel, in isolated essays written at a later stage in his career in response to the sophisticated and challenging Marxist work on literary form developed by Althusser and Macheray and to some extent by his younger Marxist colleague and one-time student Terry Eagleton, his most influential book, The Country and the City, treats the nineteenth-century novel as a documentation of social reality. The novel’s form and its prose medium, he seems to imply, incline it toward the documentary, thus ushering in an era of realist writing where, unobstructed by the “tinsel trappings of poetic pride” that marked the pastoral and the country-house poetry of Andrew Marvell, Philip Sidney, and Ben Jonson, historical verities transpire without mediation as it were. Williams’s case for realism in this work is not very different from that of Lal Behari Day with its stress on “plain and unvarnished” description. 11. Satya P. Mohanty was the first to call attention to the accentuated mode of the novel’s telling in his introduction (see page 3) to Six Acres and a Third. This aspect has received continued attention in the essays by Paul L. Sawyer and Ulka Anjaria, which have been published in a special section titled “The Literary View from Below” in the journal Economic and Political Weekly, November 18–24, 2006. 12. Akhshya Kumar cites this opinion in his review of a monograph on Premchand titled Premchand: Novelist and Thinker by Govind Narain Sharma in Spectrum Tribune, Sunday, August 13, 2000. The review is titled “A Close Look at the ‘Godaan’ Man.” 13. Chha Mana, of course, is an eloquent record of the entry of British capital into the traditional Oriya society, creating at the level of the superstructure that phenomenon of “othering” of Oriya society by the capitalistic and racist values of the West. The novel thus deepens

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Two Classic Tales of Village India

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our perception of the conflict between cultures in hierarchical contact, which it was the privilege of Padmamali (1888), the first Oriya novel by Umesh Chandra Sarkar, to trace in outline form, as can be seen from this brief passage: “During the period in which this narrative has been set, the young folk, unlike their modern counterparts, had no knowledge of English and therefore they had not learnt to forsake moral conduct and decorum of behaviour. They did not arrogantly denounce their forefathers as stupid. At that time modern principles and theories were not in vogue, and people were orthodox in their outlook” (42). The English translation of Padmamali, done by Snehaprava Das and Paul St. Pierre, was published by Grassroots in 2005. Also instructive on this point is the early Malayali novel, Indulekha (1889), by O. Chandu Menon (translated as Indulekha by Anitha Devasis for Oxford University Press in 2005). From the start the novel sets out to explore the deeply ambivalent response of colonial Indian society to English education, showing in its pages the contradictory unity of a desire for and a fear of English that continues to mark Indian responses to English even to this day. The novel juxtaposes the narrator’s praise for the hero Madhavan’s skills in the English language (“Surely, I do not need to reiterate that Madhavan used the English language with remarkable dexterity” [2]) with the warning voiced by other characters against it for its socially disruptive effects (“Didn’t you get to know how that rascal Madhavan insulted me. At an ill-fated moment, I gave him an English education; this is the result of that” [42]). 14. Since Bakhtin, “dialogizing” has come to be recognized as a feature central to the novel genre. It designates the bringing of discourses into nonhierarchical contact, which contributes to the process of what Bakhtin has termed “novelisation.” As Satya P. Mohanty and Harish Trivedi say in their brief introduction to the special section in Economic and Political Weekly, Six Acres and a Third is a Bakhtinian novel that dialogizes “colonial society and culture” (4780). 15. The margin in literature is amenable to either a top-down or a bottomup view. The classic top-down view about the below was proposed by Matthew Arnold in a formulation that has become proverbial, namely that literature is a “criticism of life.” Georg Lukács entered the qualification to this view when he said in the introduction to his Writer and Critic: And Other Essays that for criticism to be worth its grain it had to be from below, not above. Paul Sawyer has, in his essay in Economic and Political Weekly, used George Eliot’s Middlemarch and Senapati’s Six Acres and a Third to exemplify these approaches, which can be characterized as about below and from below respectively. 16. This comes across to the reader, as Thomas Jandl points out, as a narrative “dripping with 400 pages of tearful misery, largely of the

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characters’ own making” (201). This points to Premchand’s humanitarianism or “idealistic realism.” Senapati, by contrast, drastically condenses the tale of misery. 17. This needs to be contrasted with Senapati’s take on the cow in Chha Mana. Drawing on the elevated metaphor of Kalidasa and the debased imagery from the industrialized world (the paper mill), it dwells on the cow’s use value. This incidentally is an example of the way Senapati layers the discourse of the novel at crucial points, thus helping it to produce a much richer realism. When Paul Sawyer speaks in his essay, “An Oriya Village and the Battle of Plassey: Senapati’s Allegory of the Raj,” of Senapati’s commitment to the below without this entailing a sacrifice of a language rich in allusiveness and range of reference, it is this interplay of textuality and analysis that he has in mind. 18. Ibid., 203. Jandl contradicts himself, however, when, after asserting in the beginning of the paragraph that in Godaan “rebels constantly fare better than those who remain passive,” he concedes that Dhaniya’s “miseries persist to the bitter end” (ibid.). 19. Jandl rightly reads Godaan as a cautionary account of the way in which “culture often can be an obstacle to social and economic change” (201). He cites caste as one such negative cultural institution or force. What I am trying to argue is that the ideology that is inscribed in the organicism of the above passage can also be seen as promoting a kind of apolitical culture-society divide that lies at its roots. 20. This goes against the grain of the received image of the novel, which has always been regarded as being convincing about the village and unconvincing about the city. As a matter of fact, the city part of the novel has been cut out of some English translations of the novel aiming to give readers an abridged version. Even Roadarmel, in his introduction to the English translation of the complete novel, is of the view that the city characters are more like cardboard cutouts than they are flesh and blood. This, coupled with Premchand’s critique of urban forms in Gaban (1931: English translation by Christopher King [2000]) and Godaan and his positing of a utopian GandhianHindu social ideal, based in the village, in Premashram (1922; Oriya translation by Golak Bihari Dhal [1988, 1975]), suggests that Premchand does not in fact have an urban bias. Still it makes sense to talk about his Balzacian fascination with the city as a place of intrigue, duplicity, and desire. I have found confirmation of my view in a recent article by Harbans Singh in Tribune Spectrum (September 25, 2005) that Premchand’s later works (he mentions Gaban and Premashram in particular) “explode the myth that Premchand is representative only of the rural and the masses toiling inevitably towards defeat and misery.” One may wonder about the application of the thesis to Godaan, but I have felt that the scenes, situations, and themes that Premchand set up

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Two Classic Tales of Village India

Himansu S. Mohapatra

in Premashram reverberate throughout his oeuvre, Godaan included. Notice the way in which the passion triangle involving Gynashankar, Vidya (his wife), and Gayatri (the other woman) is replicated in the passion triangle involving the city-bred characters, Khanna, Gobindi (his wife), and Malti (the other woman). 21. Gobar is a case in point. He does not actually fare better by escaping the caste-produced cultural templates of village India, as Jandl seems to think (202). He has his fullness of being only in his native environment, uprooted from which he withers. Consider the way he is a foil to his father Hori. He does not share his father’s attitude of passive and fatalistic acceptance of subordination. When he returns to his village after a year in town he takes on the village power brokers like Datadin, Jhinguri Singh, Lala Pateswari, and Nokheram with a rare boldness and even orchestrates dramatic performances caricaturing their hypocritical behavior and conduct. While the impetuosity of youth can be said to play a part in his militancy, it is also shown to be a conscious act. In the city, however, he is reduced to a cipher, a part of the mob that is infinitely manipulable by demagogues like Mirza Khurshed. Premchand’s point may be to show the city as inherently chaotic and evil with the potential to mislead the innocent lad from the country, but he seems to have reckoned without the agency he had imputed to this character earlier. In other words, Premchand’s realism does not address the question of the registration and processing of the change of environment in Gobar’s consciousness. Notice by way of contrast how Mehta and Malti move with ease between scenes and settings. Though humbled by the innocence of country ways (Mehta’s encounter with the jungli girl in Chapter 7), they do little to reverse the logic that privileges the city over the country. They seek out the country in Chapter 37, but as charity givers and, as such, are regarded by the villagers as cult figures. 22. Unfortunately no date is given for this review, which appeared in the Complete Review and which I gleaned from the Internet. 23. Godaan gives evidence of an increase in two-way traffic between the British/American ruling class and their Indian counterpart. The society the novel portrays is one that is securely held in imperial embrace, meaning that it is a world where the sons and daughters of the wealthy make it to England and America effortlessly for education and training. For instance, the English-educated son of Rai Sahib leaves for England with his new wife Saroj (sister of Malti, herself an Englandeducated doctor), a doctor by qualification, just when troubles were brewing between father and son over his morganatic marriage. This, in a way, is a reversal of the plot convention of the classic nineteenthcentury English novel whereby the problematic Englishman is packed off to the far-off colonies to buy for England a temporary peace. Even in Premashram, the authority of Premshanakar, the inspiration behind

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the utopian rural ideal embodied in his Sabarmati-like hermitage of love, derives in a large measure from his long stay in America. This is an ironic fulfillment of the wish of the narrator of Six Acres for a Calibanesque taking on of the West, as expressed in the line “to go abroad and learn how to swim in the ocean” (104). 24. Invoking the term “westoxication,” originally used by the Iranian intellectual Jalal-e-Ahmad, Indian sociologist Dipankar Gupta says in his book Mistaken Modernity: India between Worlds that the term portrays better than “westernization” the kind of addiction to the consumerist values of the West prevalent in postcolonial India. As he says, “Westoxication is about the superficial consumerist display of commodities and fads produced in the West.  .  .  . Westoxicated people are not westernized in the true sense at all. They use their privileges of birth, and their superior access to wealth and power, to flaunt their social distance over the rest” (11). Senapati’s novel is, among other things, a superb satire on the Oriya babus on the road to “westoxication.” 25. The “economic telling of the novel’s plot,” to quote Ulka Anjaria, is in this sense most instructive. It is meant to reveal the gap between appearance and reality. The plot to defraud the weaver couple of their six and a third acres is first hinted at early on in a chapter ostensibly devoted to the presiding deity of the village of Govindpur, Buddhi Mangala. We are told how one morning the villagers come upon telltale signs of puja or propitiatory rites being performed at the shrine of the goddess the night before. Each chapter that succeeds then goes on to reveal the malevolent scheme of Ramachandra Mangaraj in bits and pieces until the pieces are fitted together in the chapter titled “The Police Inquiry,” in a gruesome display of causality underlying the miraculous phenomenon of divine visitation. See Anjaria, “Satire, Literary Realism and the Indian State,” 4796. 26. Tolstoy’s story “Khlostomer,” in which a horse looks sardonically at the institution of private property, comes to mind here. Russian critic Viktor Shklovsky, however, reads off his formalist agenda from this Marxist story in his influential essay “Art as Technique.” The essay is included in David Lodge (ed.) Modern Criticism: A Reader. 27. The definition of choice from Lukács is, of course, the one that Anjaria has picked from Studies in European Realism, namely “everything is linked up with everything else. Each phenomenon shows the polyphony of many components, the intertwinement of the individual and social, of the physical and the psychical, of private interest and public affairs.” See Anjaria, 4800. 28. See The Tagore Rachanabali for the original Bangla poem titled “Dui Bigha Jami.” Incidentally, the first line of the Bangla original “Sudu cchilo dui bigha mor bhuin” (“I only had these two bighas of land”) refers to land in its traditional sense as bhuin, which translates as soil,

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Two Classic Tales of Village India

Himansu S. Mohapatra

rather than in its more contemporary sense as jami, which likens it to a marketable commodity. Chha Mana also plays on these shifting meanings of land, showing the passage from bhumi (soil) to jami (commodity), instigated by the colonial law pertaining to land. A new essay by G. N. Dash titled “Rediscovering Ramachandra Mangaraj and Historicizing Senapati’s Critique of Colonialism” illuminates the link between the rise of the new class of money-lender-cum-zamindar, typified by Ramachandra Mangaraj, and the colonial land tenure system introduced by the British in Orissa. The essay can be found in this volume. 29. Bengal Peasant Life, to which a reference was made earlier in this essay, is also known by its alternative title Govinda Samanta, after its eponymous protagonist. 30. On this subject an earlier article titled “Writing Peasant Life in Colonial India,” by H. S. Mohapatra and J. K. Nayak, is instructive. Also the essay by G. N. Das, referred to above, comments on the structural differences between Bengal Peasant Life and Chha Mana Atha Guntha, showing how the first novel is a simple and straightforward story of the victim, while the second is a complex and sophisticated narrative about the social and economic process that goes on, in that telling expression from Marx, behind the backs of individuals. 31. Das, 206. 32. Among the forgotten legacies of Senapati’s novel is also the key issue of multilingualism. The polyglot surface of this Oriya identity-defining novel is something of a wonder. At a conference on the novel held in Delhi on January 3–5, 2007, a distinguished panel of scholars, writers, and comparativists pleaded for a reading of the novel that would see it as a “cautionary account of the process whereby a rich heteroglossia was giving way to an impoverished monolingualism, designated by the nationalist shift to the concept of the mother tongue.” See in this connection the present author’s report on the conference titled “Reading the Indian Novel,” in the Hindu Literary Review dated March 4, 2007.

Bibliography Anjaria, Ulka. “Six Acres and a Third—Satire, Literary Realism and the Indian State: Six Acres and a Third and Raag Darbari.” Economic and Political Weekly 41, no. 46 (2006): 4795–4800. Das, Sisir Kumar. A History of Indian Literature. New Delhi: Sahitya Akademi, 1991. Dash, Gaganendra Nath. “Rediscovering Ramachandra Mangaraj and Historicizing Senapati’s Critique of Colonialism.” In Colonialism, Modernity, and Literature: A View from India, edited by Satya P. Mohanty. New York: Palgrave, 2011.

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Day, Lal Behari. Bengal Peasant Life. London: Macmillan and Co., 1920. Dev, Amiya. “Reading Chha Mana Atha Guntha.” In Fakir Mohan Senapati, Perspectives on His Fiction, edited by Jatindra K. Nayak. Jagatsinghpur, India: Prafulla Pathagara Publications, 2004. Gupta, Dipankar. Mistaken Modernity: India between Worlds. New Delhi: HarperCollins Publishers, 2000. Jandl, Thomas. “Review Essay: The Gift of a Cow, A Translation of the Classic Hindi Novel Godaan by Premchand.” Yale Journal of International Affairs 1, no. 1 (Summer/Fall 2005): 201–3. Kahn, Arthur D., and Georg Lukács, eds. Writer and Critic: And Other Essays. iUniverse, Inc., 2005. Kumar, Akhshya. “A Close Look at the ‘Godaan’ Man.” Spectrum Tribune (August 13, 2000). http://www.tribuneindia.com/2000/20000813/ spectrum/books.htm. Lodge, David. Modern Criticism and Theory: A Reader. London: Longman, 1988. Menon, O. Chandu. Indulekha. Translated by Anitha Devasia. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2005. Mohanty, Satya P. “The Dynamics of Literary Reference: Narrative Discourse and Social Ideology in Two 19th Century Indian Novels.” In Thematology: Literary Studies in India, edited by Sibaji Bandyopadhyaya. Kolkata: Dept. of Comparative Literature, Jadavpur University, 2004. ———. Literary Theory and the Claims of History: Postmodernism, Objectivity, Multicultural Politics. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1998. Mohanty, Satya P., and Harish Trivedi. “Introduction, Special Section on Six Acres and a Third.” Economic and Political Weekly 41, no. 46 (2006): 4780–81. Mohapatra, H. S., and J. K. Nayak. “Writing Peasant Life in Colonial India.” Toronto Review of Contemporary Writing Abroad (Spring 1996). Mohapatra, Himansu. “A New Realism for the Times.” The Hindu Literary Review (December 1998). ———. “Reading the Indian Novel.” The Hindu Literary Review (March 2007). Narasimha Das, C. V., and Fakir Mohan Senapati. The Stubble under the Cloven Hoof: An Imaginative Recast of Fakir Mohan Senapati’s Masterpiece in Oriya Fiction, Chha Mana Atha Guntha. Cuttack, India: Sahitya Samsad, 1967. Premchand. Gaban: The Stolen Jewels. Translated by Christopher R. King. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2000. ———. The Gift of a Cow: A Translation of the Hindi Novel Godaan. Translated by Gordon C. Roadarmel. London: Allen & Unwin, 1968. ———. Godaan. Oriya translation by Golak Bihari Dhal. Cuttack, India: Vidyapuri, 2003 (1981). ———. Premashram. Oriya translation by Golak Bihari Dhal. Cuttack: Vidyapuri 1988 (1975).

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Rachanabali, Rabindra, ed. Tagore, Rabindranath. Vol. 4. Kolkata: Viswa Bharathi Grantha Bibhag, 1986. “Review: The Gift of a Cow by Premchand.” The Complete Review July 14, 2010. http://www.complete-review.com/reviews/hindi/premch1.htm. Sarkar, Umesh Chandra. Padmamali. Translated by Snehaprava Das and Paul St. Pierre. Bhubaneswar, India: Grassroots, 2005. Satapathy, Sumanyu. “Meeting and Parting of Ways: The Responses of Premchand and Fakir Mohan to Language Issues.” English Studies in India XV (January 2007): 145–53. ———. “Saviours of Language.” IACLALS Newsletter (July 2006): 8. Sawyer, Paul L. “Six Acres and a Third—An Oriya Village and the Battle of Plassey: Senapati’s Allegory of the Raj.” Economic and Political Weekly 41, no. 46 (2006): 4782–88. Senapati, Fakir Mohan. A Plot of Land; [a Short Novel]. Cuttack, India: Cuttack Students’ Store, 1969. ———. Six Acres and a Third. Translated by Rabi Shankar Mishra, Satya P. Mohanty, Jatindra K. Nayak, and Paul St. Pierre. New Delhi: Penguin Books India, 2006. Senapati, Fakir Mohan, and Rabi Shankar Mishra. Six Acres and a Third: The Classic Nineteenth-Century Novel about Colonial India. Translated by Rabi Shankar Mishra, Satya P. Mohanty, Jatindra K. Nayak, and Paul St. Pierre. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005. Singh, Harbans. “Premchand, Well Presented.” Tribune Spectrum September 25, 2005. Williams, Raymond. The Country and the City. Frogmore, UK: Paladin, 1975 (1973).

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The Emergence of the Modern Subject in Oriya and Assamese Literatures: Fakir Mohan Senapati and Hemchandra Barua Tilottoma Misra

The complex nature of the colonial encounter and the varied

responses to it in the regional literatures of the period have been the focus of recent studies of nineteenth-century Indian literature. The “modernity” that has been defined in terms of the emergence of a sharp critical self, which seeks to expose the weaknesses in traditional social structures, has often been seen as the manifestation of the western Enlightenment. The emergence of the modern subject, according to this view, is marked by the capacity to adopt a generalized vision of human suffering and document it from the position of a disembodied observer.1 In contrast, Indian traditional thought before the coming of colonialism was considered incapable of rising above the purely personal or familial perspective to gain some distance and provide a social account of it. However, this view has been sufficiently modified by other opinions, which reject the tendency to polarize the difference between “modernity” and “tradition” by attributing “progressive” attitudes to one and retrogressive ones to the other.2 The dualistic attitude that has often been observed in the attitudes of some of the well-known personalities of the nineteenth century points to the presence of an undercurrent of tension in their relationship with western culture, which was perceived as “modern” and “progressive” by most western-educated members of the newly emerging middle

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Tilottoma Misra

class, but which also threatened the continuity of the rich and complex literary traditions that dated back to the precolonial past. Significantly, this dualistic attitude toward the colonial concept of modernity was more pronounced in the case of writers and thinkers who were exposed to western education and who enjoyed the benefits of colonial rule. In Assam, for instance, Anandaram Dhekiyal Phukan (1829–59) paid passionate tributes to the material progress of English civilization and advocated swift dissemination of European knowledge for the “improvement” of Assamese literature in line with modern Bengali literature.3 However, he was also one of the first to make the literary tradition of early modern Assam accessible to the people by setting up a printing press in Calcutta and bringing out new editions of some of the religious texts written by two Assamese saint-poets of the fifteenth to sixteenth centuries, Srimanta Sankardev and Sri Madhavdev. Dhekiyal Phukan also prepared the first brief catalog of Assamese books, which he incorporated into his historic document in support of the Assamese language. The right to use the Assamese language “both in the education of the people and in the dispensation of justice,” a right from which the Assamese people had been unjustly deprived “by errors and misconceptions” on the part of the British government, was the main objective of this document.4 The effort to focus attention on those aspects of the Assamese tradition that were considered to be superior to or at par with the literatures of Bengal or other regions of India was therefore a concurrent trend that ran almost parallel to the movement to create a “modern” Assamese literature that would draw its inspiration primarily from western tradition. The search for an alternate source that could give a historical basis to Assamese literature and culture was therefore a manifestation of a spirit of national self-consciousness that began with colonial rule. Significantly, one of the important projects undertaken by the Assamese literati of the early colonial period was history writing, and the writers drew their inspiration, not from the West, but from the Assamese tradition, which provided the models for prose histories, a genre that dated back to the seventeenth century.5 Anandaram Dhekiyal Phukan claimed, “In no department of literature do the Assamese appear to have been more successful than in history.”6 His words were reproduced almost verbatim in George Abraham Grierson’s Linguistic Survey of India: “The Assamese are justly proud of their national literature. In no department have they been more successful than in a branch of study in which India, as a rule, is curiously deficient.”7 As has been discussed by Dipesh Chakrabarty, the tendency to deny historical consciousness to the colonized and suggest

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that the latter must wait and learn from the West, is what “historicist consciousness” was all about.8 A colonial epigrapher, in line with James Mill’s view, had made the following comment on the absence of historical writings in the Indian tradition: “It is indeed very questionable whether the ancient Hindus ever possessed the true historical sense in the shape of the faculty of putting together genuine history on broad and critical lines.”9 “The cultural project of nationalism,” as Partha Chatterjee argues, is “to produce a distinctly national modernity” of our own.10 In recent times, scholars like Velcheru Narayana Rao and others have argued convincingly that if history writing is to be considered as an indicator of modernity that came with colonialism, then “such modernity emerged for South India well before the British presence.”11 This argument makes a strong case also for the existence of an element of modernity in the literature of precolonial Assam, and significantly those elements of modernity did not disappear with the invasion of colonial knowledge but continued as an alternate current right through the colonial period. Recent studies on the subject of writing histories in colonial Assam have highlighted the efforts of nationalist historians from Assam, especially Hemchandra Goswami (1872–1928), to assert the difference between the ancient Hindu concept of itihaas, which included notions of dharma, artha, kama, and moksha, and the Assamese buranji tradition, which was based on scientific methods.12 The ambiguous attitude of the beneficiaries of English education regarding British rule is reflected in their reluctance to articulate freely any radical critique of the British rule in India. As a recent social critic has observed, “Faith in colonialism despite an understanding of its exploitativeness—this was the paradox of educated consciousness in colonial India.”13 Though there were plenty of paeans sung in praise of the concept of a mighty Bharat, or of a more limited concept of one’s own homeland, the blame for the loss of the glorious past was usually shifted either to the Muslim rulers or, as in the case of Assam, to the Burmese invaders who had ravaged the region toward the end of Ahom rule.14 Gory tales of the unspeakable atrocities committed by the Burmese invaders filled the pages of many an early Assamese novel.15 But in contrast, British rule was generally perceived as benevolent and, except in a few rare instances, there was hardly any attempt to hold it responsible for the economic and social problems that confronted the region during colonial rule. It would be anachronistic, however, to apply our notions of nationalism to these writers who were guided by other norms of patriotism than what has been

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Modern Oriya and Assamese Subjects

Tilottoma Misra

projected as the true nationalist spirit in official histories of Indian nationalism.16 This chapter makes a comparative study of two literary texts from two geographically noncontiguous regions, Orissa and Assam,17 which offer some brilliantly satirical pictures of the society at a time when the colonial presence had produced different kinds of social tension. Despite certain dissimilarities in the colonial land-settlement systems and the consequent difference in social relationships, the two regions had similar experiences of cultural exploitation and cultural silence, which were reflected in their creative writings. The “narrative communities”18 of the two regions articulated in their own way stories about exploitation, domination, and resistance and these, when stitched together, would constitute a significant addition to the vast and varied discourse of Indian nationalism, which has yet not been adequately tapped by “mainstream” historians. Hemchandra Barua’s (1835–96) first attempt at writing a satire was Kaniyar Kirtan (1861), a play that exposes the pretensions of the gentry class as well as of the influential mahantas of the Vaishnava monasteries who had accepted the opium god as their master. Bahire Rong Song Bhitare Kowabhaturi (1866) is a hilarious prose satire critiquing the habits and practices of the dangorias (the members of the old landed gentry) and the powerful heads of the Vaishnava satras. With the advent of colonial rule, both these sections of the Assamese society were in the process of losing their traditional hold over the people. Hemchandra seems to blame the moral degeneration of these traditional centers of power for their gradual loss of authority under colonial rule. But the systematic disempowerment of the traditional authorities and the inefficiency of the new system put in force by the colonial administration are also conveyed in the ironical depiction of contemporary society. Such veiled indictments of colonial rule, expressed through satirical and farcical writings, provided effective subversive instruments to debunk colonialism and its powerful culture. The satirical trend in Assamese literature continued as an accepted mode of social criticism right through the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. While the periodical writings published by the group of young Assamese writers educated in Calcutta University toward the end of the nineteenth century were mostly in the romantic tradition, there were also essays reflecting on the future of Assamese culture and society, which attempted to mold public opinion on these issues in a more serious manner. But even during this period of resurgence of Assamese self-consciousness, the comic-satirical tradition continued

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to hold its own as a more effective instrument of social criticism. For instance, Gunabhiram Barua’s Assam-Bandhu (1885–86), a journal that reflects the views of the Assamese literati on a variety of contemporary issues, carried a series of satirical essays on some of the stereotypes of colonial modernity: the educated Assamese young man who disdains to write or speak in his mother tongue; the half-baked Assamese writers who had studied in “vernacular” schools where the medium of instruction was Bengali; the “modern” women who use their little learning to pen laborious love letters in a language that is a comic mixture of Assamese and Bengali; the peons and orderlies in government employment who labor to speak in Hindustani in order to assert their newfound power. The author of this series19 uses a comic persona, Sadanand, to represent the “modern” Assamese gentleman who disdains his own language and people. Sadanand brags about his talents to the editor of Assam-Bandhu: “You have requested me, Mr. Editor, to write for your paper. But it is difficult for me to comply directly. The first reason is that your paper is neither in Bengali nor in English and Sadanand considers it beneath his dignity [these words are in English in the original text] to read or write in his mothertongue.”20 The technique of adopting a grotesquely comic persona to hurl barbs at the society was used more effectively by one of the greatest masters in the satirical art, Lakshminath Bezbaroa (1864–1938). Bezbaroa has been considered the inheritor of the tradition set by Hemchandra and Lambodar Bora. Significantly, Bezbaroa, who had spent several years in Orissa’s Sambalpur, wrote a hilariously satirical essay, which contains images that bear some resemblance to the image of the “Hindu cranes” and the “English kingfishers” in the “Asura Pond” chapter of Senapati’s Six Acres and a Third.21 Hemchandra’s Bahire Rong Song cannot be called a novel in the strict sense of the term because it lacks the required magnitude, character varieties, and complications of plot. But it may be considered the forerunner of the Assamese novel because its dialogic form, multiplicity of voices, and parodic-travestying mode fulfill the requirements of what Bakhtin terms the “novelistic discourse.” Reading this text and Senapati’s novel together, therefore, shows the points of difference between the two texts. Hemchandra’s text lacks all the rich varieties of characters from ordinary life, the intelligently woven rural gossips, the leisurely unfolding of incidents, and the meticulously worked-out details of the colonial land system one finds in Six Acres and a Third. However, there are certain interesting meeting points between the two, which highlight the similarities in the perception of the forms

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Modern Oriya and Assamese Subjects

Tilottoma Misra

of exploitation during colonial times and in the choice of narrative technique to effectively expose them. The first of these similarities is the mediating role of a highly informed, omniscient, and critical narrator who uses his tool of irony and satire as a mode of subversion. Satya P. Mohanty, analyzing the role of Senapati’s “loquacious and wily narrator,” posits that the creation of such a narrator is Senapati’s “contribution to an anticolonial and demystificatory social thought.”22 He points out that through this narrator Senapati succeeds in fixing the text in a specific historical and social context, with a shrewdly articulated political message of its own, and significantly Senapati has drawn from an existing Oriya tradition in creating this powerfully comic narrator.23 The narrator in Bahire Rong Song possesses similar qualities. Though he is not quite as clever or sophisticated as his Oriya counterpart, he does have an agenda of his own: to expose how colonialism brought about a crisis in traditional agrarian and religious centers of power by eroding their authority in a calculated manner and how such actions were sought to be justified by the corrupt practices and obscurantist views of the individuals representing the traditional forces. The following portrait of the Muslim daroga of a thana in Bahire Rong Song bears a close resemblance to Senapati’s portrayal of the thana daroga Ali Miyan in Six Acres and a Third (Chapter 8): Imamuddin daroga of the thana is very “hoshiar” or clever. He is especially clever in the art of pleasing the hakeems. He has risen from a barkandas to a daroga only on the strength of this particular quality. He is no less proficient in reading and writing. He can easily sign on the “roznamsa.” Daroga sahib is a “rahi” of Alla-talla. He recites the namaz at least five times a day. His left hand is never without the tasbi. But in the eyes of an accused he is the very Yama, the Hindu lord of the underworld. He does not believe in searching for witnesses and evidence for a case. When he wants to arrest someone on a theft case, he merely goes by the “fal,” or divination, as laid down in the Koran. Whatever the “fal” says has to be the truth, no matter whether the accused is innocent or not . . . But our daroga sahib is not totally a heartless god. If anyone can make him an offering in accordance with his godlike status, he is instantly satisfied.24

The oppressive and extortionist role of the thana darogas during colonial rule has often been the target of social satire in many other contemporary literary texts. While “their love of gain,” which led them “to sell justice for money and to lend their co-operation in the perpetuation of injury and oppression on the poor and helpless,”25 was

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well known to the colonial administrators, attempts were also made to account for the corruption of these petty police officers, who were entrusted with the responsibility of managing extensive, often inaccessible, areas with a salary that was hardly twenty rupees a month, the Jamadar and the Barkandas (constables) being paid at even lower rates. Even British officials surveying the scenario conceded that “from the smallness of the salary allowed, it has been very difficult to get Assamese of any rank and ability to accept the post of Darogaship,” and so, “almost all the Darogas of the province were Bengalis who were by no means popular.”26 The situation was similar in Orissa, where a petty police official of Bengal could amass enough wealth to buy zamindaris in Orissa because these zamindaris were traded in Bengal. Senapati’s delineation of the character of Ali Mian is cryptic and ironical: Anyhow, our Mian got a job through the Sahib’s mercy; he was now a thana daroga. He survived in his job for thirty years without much trouble, and during that time amassed considerable property. He acquired four zamindaris and built himself a big house . . . In those days, the zamindaris of Orissa were auctioned off in Calcutta. One time, while visiting that city in connection with a murder case, Mian Sahib made a bid for the zamindari of Fatepur Sasandha and was successful. You may find this puzzling—how could a thana daroga, who was only an inspector in the Bengal police, raise enough money to buy zamindari?27

Paul L. Sawyer, in his reading of Six Acres and a Third, asks a series of questions about the problems of representation encountered by any writer who tries to depict reality from the point of view of the oppressed: “How does a writer of the left use language, inherently class-marked, in ways that break through hierarchies of power, knowledge, and class privilege? How does one write and record speech from below without abandoning a language capable of intellectual complexity, irony, and range of reference?”28 Senapati and Hemchandra Barua make skillful use of the parodying, travestying mode, which, according to Bakhtin, is a manifestation of “folk carnival laughter” that opposes the serious, official culture of the “dominant orthodoxy.”29 The garrulous narrator in Senapati’s novel, as has been shown by both Sawyer and Mohanty, parodies the various learned discourses with which the English-educated Indian of his time would have been familiar. The portrait of the Zamindar Mangaraj in the opening paragraph of Chha Mana Atha Guntha is brilliantly executed with ironical use of serious language to demolish a powerful symbol of authority.

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Modern Oriya and Assamese Subjects

Tilottoma Misra

Hemchandra’s narrator chooses as his main target a satradhikar, or the head of a Vaishnava monastic order, who represents spiritual and temporal authority in the traditional setup. The land system in colonial Assam was based on the ryotwari system, which recognized the proprietary rights of a ryot over his land.30 It was only in the Goalpara district bordering Bengal that the zamindari system had been introduced by the British. In the absence of powerful landlords, feudal relations of a different kind existed between the gossains or satradhikars and the common people in the villages. The Vaishnava satras, which were originally set up by the disciples of Srimanta Sankardev (1449–1568) for the dissemination of his religious teachings among the people, later received large land grants from the Ahom kings and powerful members of the nobility. With the increase in their material wealth, the satradhikars also began to exercise other feudal privileges, like collection of guru-kar (religious tax) and enforcement of punitive measures against those who violated the orders of the gossains.31 The portrait of the Gobardhan Deu Ata, “the door-keeper of Heaven,” in Bahire Rong Song Bhitare Kowabhaturi bears a strong family resemblance to Senapati’s Mangaraj, indicating the similar nature of feudal exploitation in both regions: Gobardhan-deu Ata of Korkhania Satra is a true Vaishnava. His ancestry can be traced back to the family of the hunchbacked woman who supplied sandalwood to King Kangsha.32 He is the great grandson of Gopinath Deu Ata, who received divine knowledge from the great Guru himself. His holiness could recite from all three shastras—the Ghosha, the Kirtan, and the Ratnavali. From his lips would spring like akhai, or popcorn, words from all the other sacred texts—Gunamala, Bhotima, Sopoi, and Totoi. Our Gossain-deu33 is such a maestro in the rendition of the borgeet, the Vaishnava devotional songs, that when he starts singing in the early morning, the very trees in the neighborhood start nodding their heads in tune with the music. Even jackals and dogs would howl and bark in love’s delirious ecstasy. His ancestors used to keep female consorts. But our Gossain-deu, after his pilgrimage to the holy satra at Madhupur, accepted the pure way of life of a celibate. He would not even lift his eyes to the face of a woman, nor would he accept water from the hands of someone who had a female consort. It is said that the ancestors of his holiness could perform great miracles. Once, the river Kalshila was so struck by the miraculous powers of one of them that she was metamorphosed into a human being and for five long years she became his disciple and paid her guru-kar with a supply of five scores of eggs from Kaldhap. Our Gossain-deu too possesses marvelous miraculous powers. Though he lives in this kolikal, one of

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the descendents of the monkey-king of Kiskindhya sought his blessings, and in return, paid him an annual guru-kar with a supply of the sweet konmou fruit collected from three Lankas. Gossain-deu never deviates even by an inch from the true and righteous path shown by the two great Gurus. In accordance with their teachings, he would never utter the names of “other gods and goddesses” and even if he heard them accidentally, he would cover his ears. If someone was named after “other gods and goddesses” he would get his name changed before he addressed that person: thus, Kaliram would become Mohiram, Durgaram would become Dohotia Ram, and Shivaram would become Jatia Ram, thus retaining the original in a harmless form.34 His holiness does not take even a drop of water without his three daily prayers. On amavashya and ekadashi days he would eat nothing but rice-flour made from five kathas of fine white rice with milk and molasses in sufficient quantities. Gossain-deu is bak-sidhha. Once when he was offended with a bhakat, he cursed him to die instantly. After that terrible curse, the bhakat lived for only thirty years.35

The narrator in this passage parodies the serious style of traditional religious discourse characterized by its pompous and ornate diction. It is replete with allusions to the epics and the Vaishnava religious texts. The style is mock heroic in the sense that while the narrator seems to be celebrating the greatness of Gobardhan Deu, he is actually directing the public gaze toward all his misdeeds and pretensions. The narrator is obviously a modern man (someone with an “English” education) who has adequate knowledge of all the scriptural texts that he parodies. He is also familiar with the popular mantra texts, which form a part of the rich folk tradition of Assam. His brilliant 45-line parody of the sidir-mantra, a mantra that claims to have power over evil spirits, is a shrewd way of demystifying the authority of occult powers by using the modern print medium. It is pertinent to mention here that certain literary models that existed in medieval Assamese literature were available to Hemchandra and his contemporaries, who boldly adopted the technique of parodying serious official styles in their satirical writings. Certainly, it was not from their knowledge of English literature as it was taught in schools and colleges of India in the nineteenth century that these writers could have drawn their inspiration. A more likely source from which they could have acquired the brilliant comic style was the robust tradition of ojapali, which was and is still widely popular in rural Assam. This tradition has been traced back to the fifteenth to sixteenth centuries, and it evolved as a very vigorous form that was used by the Vaishnava preachers as well as by the worshippers of Shiva and

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Modern Oriya and Assamese Subjects

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various mother goddesses.36 The panchali literature37 that forms the basis of ojapali performances is distinctly different from the Vaishnava tradition established by Sankardev and Madhavdev in the fifteenth to sixteenth centuries. Though the themes and characters in the panchalis are drawn from the epics and the puranas, they are marked by a strong realistic tone that endows the divine with human qualities. The serious and elevated style of Vaishnava literature is replaced by a mock-heroic tone, which is more in keeping with the carnival spirit of folk culture. This bold and uninhibited feature of the ojapali tradition was also absent in the romantic style of the “moderns” during the colonial period. As has been pointed out by some recent literary critics and historians,38 a new view of modernity may emerge from a more nuanced study of such precolonial literary traditions, which may have disappeared in many parts of the country because of the dominance of colonial modernity, but which continued as a vibrant popular form as in the ojapali tradition of Assam. Hemchandra’s satirical work, as has been said earlier, is a relentless critique of the traditional power structures of the old precolonial world, as well as of the new order represented by the colonial legal and administrative machinery. The satradhikar, the dangoria, the Brahmin priest, the astrologer, and the practitioner of witchcraft are the targets of severe indictment in Bahire Rong Song, and the narrative ends with the total defeat and discomfiture of these forces. But the colonial power structure, though exposed to scathing criticism for its duplicity and veneer of just and efficient rule, does not collapse at the end. The character types that depict the colonial order in the book are those of the seristadar, the babu, the thana daroga, and the barkandas—all representatives of the corrupt class of petty local officials who helped in the functioning of the colonial administration. The British presence is reflected only through its sole representative, the magistrate Mr. Eatwell, who is blissfully disinterested in the goingson of the court. There is once again a close resemblance between the Oriya and the Assamese texts in the portrayal of these character types, suggesting that the colonial system worked in almost the same way all over the country, and consequently the folk perception of these characters was identical. But one major difference between the two texts is that within the limited scope of his work, Hemchandra leaves no space for the “active reader,” a term used by Satya P. Mohanty in his introduction to Six Acres and a Third, to shift the reader’s focus from the gloomy world of corruption and hypocrisy to the marginalized world of common folk where life goes on through happiness, suffering, and occasional attempts at resistance against oppression. In

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Bahire Rong Song, characters and incidents from that world remain in the peripheries of the narrative, though they have a powerful bearing on the reader’s perception of the corrupt system. The medhi (a collector of religious taxes from the disciples of a satra) who does not want to part with his beautiful cow on which the satradhikar sets his heart, the recalcitrant bhakat or disciple whose hands are tied behind his back and who is made to lie on the ground with his face toward the sun under orders from the gossain, and the unidentified peasant whose fertile plot of land has been claimed by the greedy gossain as his dharmottar (revenue-free land gifted to gossains and mahants) possession with the help of fake documents, find only brief mention in the narrative. But, in Senapati’s novel, such characters from the ordinary world form the main backbone of the narrative. The elaborate details about the lives of the people who are the victims of the corrupt structures of power give an ideological base to the realism in the novel. Mohanty writes, “Senapati’s achievement as a realist writer is primarily evident in the way he analyses the ideological underpinnings of the literary representation of Indian society.”39 One area where the similarity between the two texts is particularly noticeable is the depiction of the folk perception of the colonial legal structure. The confusion created by the coexistence of Persian, English, Hindustani, and the local “vernacular”40 in the lower courts of the two regions led to ridiculous situations where neither the plaintiff, nor the defendant, nor the judge could clearly understand what was going on in the court. The local lawyers, peshkars, and seristadars interpreted the proceedings to the sahib, who had scant knowledge of either the “vernacular” or Persian. The resultant travesty of justice is the subject of hilarious parody in both texts. Trial scenes are central to the thematic structure of Chha Mana Atha Guntha and, significantly, each of them involves the alleged murder of a woman. The first, concerning the alleged murder of the poor villager Sharia by the zamindar, is dealt with in realistic detail, tracing the progress of the case from the local police enquiry to its final disposal at the Cuttack Sessions Court. It is a key episode in the novel because the whole process of deposition by the different categories of witnesses is a mode utilized by the narrator to bring the private lives of the people into public scrutiny—“a classic example of Foucauldian surveillance,” according to Paul Sawyer. Fakir Mohan Senapati’s ironic narrator seems to maintain a strictly impartial distance during the course of the whole trial, and his views on the final verdict remain ambiguous. There are three central chapters in the novel devoted to the legal proceedings in Sharia’s murder case and one more to the case of the gruesome killing of the wicked

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Modern Oriya and Assamese Subjects

Tilottoma Misra

woman, Champa. In the Sharia case, it is interesting that while the police inquiry carried out by the Muslim daroga with the help of his local clerks and constables arrives at the conclusion that Mangaraj is responsible for the crime, the Cuttack Sessions Court headed by a British judge absolves the zamindar from the principal charge of murder. This was made possible obviously through the manipulations of the corrupt lawyer Ram Ram Lala, whose views, we are told, are “valued highly” by the sahib. The narrator appears to maintain strict impartiality in his depiction of the court proceedings. However, he succeeds in raising doubts in the mind of the intelligent reader about the justness of the legal procedure. The atmosphere at the Cuttack Sessions Court has been realistically represented with the subversive intention of demystifying the seemingly unassailable authority of the colonial administration: A powerful rural zamindar was being tried for murder. The magistrate had referred the case to the Sessions Court. The hearing had been going for five days now, and today was to be the last. It had not yet started. Tomorrow was Wednesday, the day on which mail for England was dispatched. The judge sahib was hurriedly writing a letter, which began, “My dear Lady.” Whenever a criminal case was scheduled to be heard, the Sahib would open an English newspaper and read it, or leisurely write a letter, leaving everything else to the peshkar. All he did was sign the documents recording the depositions of the witnesses and pronounce the judgment.41

The manner in which the judge allows the defense lawyer and the head babu to manipulate the case is a classic example of the tendency of colonial law to side with “the illegalities of the dominant.”42 Senapati’s narrator, by adopting his characteristic ironic style, exposes the inadequacies of the legal system without giving his own views on the correctness or otherwise of the final judgment. He provokes the “active reader” to find his own answers to the unanswered questions raised casually during the proceedings: Is it possible for a White doctor to manipulate a postmortem report? Were the local eyewitnesses to the crime merely committing perjury? When two honest women adopt as their last way of protesting against injustice the weapon of a hunger strike, a fast unto death, should the law not take into account the extenuating circumstances that led to this form of protest? The narrator remains silent on these matters, but his actual commitments become more evident in the second murder trial involving Champa. The brutal murder of Champa was investigated by the police officer,

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Jamadar Torab Ali. Though he had enough evidence to prove that it was a clear case of murder, he decides to save himself the trouble of going through the whole process of investigation and, in sheer mockery of the legal system, writes it off as a case of snakebite. The whole “trial” was enacted in a strictly “legal” manner, with all the paraphernalia of written records, sealed reports, witnesses, and bribes for the appropriate authorities. Was the narrator attempting a subversion of the colonial legal system with this grotesque travesty of the truth? A similar subversive method was used by Hemchandra Barua in Bahire Rong Song to ridicule the authority of the colonial court. The mock-heroic situation is created by the serious trial of a petty case involving the theft of some jackfruits. The gossain has been implicated in a false charge of stealing jackfruits through the machinations of the Brahmin, who is jealous of the popularity of the Vaishnava satradhikar with the influential Phukon family. The premises of the namghar or the prayer hall where the gossain was holding court were searched by the police and the stolen jackfruits were reportedly found. The gossain was arrested by the daroga and produced before the British magistrate, Mr. Eatwell. The following picture of the courthouse drawn through realistic details reveals the author’s critical vision of one of the principal structures of colonial power: It was around two in the afternoon, and the Sahib had not yet arrived at the kuccheri. The clerks and the scribes were trying to while away their time. Some of them were scribbling “Sri Hari” and “Sri Durga”43 on the top of blank sheets of paper. Some were blissfully smoking under the trees, coughing occasionally. Some were still in a befuddled state after last night’s dose of opium and were not in a position to say whether it was day or night. Some were just lying flat on the floor of the daftarkhana trying to count the pieces of wood on the roof-truss of the building. The Head-clerks were meditating how to fill their pockets (or the waist-knots of their dhotis) by maneuvering a “decree dismiss” verdict without moving from their seats in the office. The petitioners and the umedaars were awe-struck by the knowledge, cleverness, and courage of the Head-clerks and were gaping at them with eyes that expressed firm belief that these were not human beings but incarnations of the Almighty Brahma. The lawyers and the mokhtiars who wield the power of transforming night into day were trying to earn their daily wages from the clients by hinting at the demands of the clerks. Just at that moment, whistling a merry tune, the Sahib Mr. Eatwell entered the kuccheri with his dog following at his heels. All the people in the courthouse made their salaam from a distance with great reverence. At that moment the whole place witnessed a great flurry of activity. Chairs were

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The description of the court proceedings that follows is in the dramatic mode and contains a hilarious parody of the whole legal system, demystifying its awesome power. The language of the court was still in an uncertain state, English, Hindustani, Persian, and Bengali being allowed to confound the wit and understanding of the ordinary Assamese with strange words and expressions. The conversation between the English magistrate and the Assamese seristadar, carried on in a language that is a comical mixture of Assamese and Hindustani, provides a classic example of the actual working of the colonial law in an Indian district: Seristadar: Khodabund, there is a case of dus-ain in the Collectory. Sahib: Well, is this dus ain present in court? Seris: No, Khodabund, dus ain is not a human being but a case similar to dus ain. Sahib: (unable to understand his words, looks at the Head clerk babu and speaks in English) What the deuce does this fellow mean by dus ain ka mamla? I can’t make either head or tail of it. Headbabu: A rent case sir. Sahib: (in English) A rent case? I don’t understand a bit of it. (looking at the seristadar) I don’t understand such cases. Bring it to my bungalow later. Is there any other case? Seris: There is a civil suit regarding the theft of a kanthal. Sahib: What is this kanthal? Seris: Kanthal is a fruit, sir. Sahib: Oh, I understand. It is a fruit of a tree. Seris: Yes, khodabund. Sahib: Is this fruit big or small? Seris: A big fruit, sir. At this moment, the mahajan was brought to the court by the barkandaz like a sacrificial animal and placed in the witness box. The mahajan folded his palms in front of the sahib and started making his humble pleas for mercy. But the sahib looked at him fiercely and said, “Shut up, you scoundrel!” and banged his fist on the table. At this the mahajan quietly took his place in the witness box. Then the seristadar began to read the papers of the case in a monotonous tone as if he was reciting from a religious text. The sahib listened for a while, biting his fingernails impatiently. Then pointing at the mahajan he asked: Sahib: Is this the man who has committed the theft? Seris: Khodabund, this man is a mahant, a good man. Sahib: If he is a good man, why has he committed theft?

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pulled, slippers flip-flopped with a lot of noise, and muga dhotis rustled about in a busy manner.44

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Seris: There is no proof of his crime, Khodabund. Sahib: No proof? Have the stolen goods been recovered? Seris: Khodabund, five jackfruits have been recovered. But, no one has witnessed the theft. Sahib: Where were the jackfruits found? Seris: At the nam-ghar. Sahib: Well, well. I’ll call that namghar to the court and everything will be clear then. Seris: Khodabund, the namghar is not the name of a person, it’s a house.45

The “legal discourse” goes on in this manner until the bewildered magistrate decides to give three years’ rigorous imprisonment to the gossain for his crime. But the wily seristadar explains the “law” to him according to which the magistrate is empowered to levy a fine of only ten rupees for a petty theft. “Damn the law,” mutters the magistrate in an aside. Hemchandra Barua’s critique of Assamese orthodox society and of the colonial law was based on his close observation of both over a long period of time. Unlike many of his contemporaries who spent their student life in Calcutta, Hemchandra never had the opportunity to leave home for higher studies. He was a self-taught man without any formal education.46 During his two decades of service to the colonial government he came to see that the apathy of the British officers toward the common people was just as responsible for the defects in the legal system as the corruption and ignorance of the local elite who mediated between the government and the people. In Bahire Rong Song Bhitare Kowabhaturi he shows how colonial law often operated as a pliable instrument to protect the illegalities of the powerful local elites. Like most of his contemporaries, therefore, he also targeted those corrupt representatives of the traditional authority who resisted the coming of modern western ideas through English education. Significantly, though all the character types in the satire are depicted in a negative light, the educated young man who argues in favor of modern medicines to cure the sick escapes the severe indictment of the narrator. True to his rational views about modernity, Hemchandra comes down heavily on the false pretensions of those beneficiaries of western education who call themselves “civilized and reformed gentlemen” and talk big on women’s emancipation and widow marriage, but whose minds are steeped in darkness and superstition. As a man of liberal views, he upholds the Enlightenment virtues of rationalism and judgment based on a scientific temperament. That is why, when

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Notes 1. Chakrabarty, 119. 2. Sudhir Chandra, for example, says: “The modernity-tradition polarity introduces a serious perceptual limitation: the dichotomy is projected back to explain and categorize even those actions, attitudes, beliefs and values that did not rest on, or stem from, such polarity” (3). 3. Anandaram blames the Assamese for not taking advantage of the “favours” offered by the British, which their neighbors, the Bengalis, have done so successfully. His definition of “civilized” living, as articulated in his essay “Inglandar Biboron” ( “A Description of England”), is an emulation of the British ideals of hard work and technical skill. He believed that it was possible to “improve” one’s own literature by borrowing western ideas liberally, something that had again been perfected by the Bengalis: “Why have not the Assamese been able to improve their own literature, or create one for themselves, in the same manner, as the Bengalis have done? Our reply is, that the dissemination of European knowledge and enlightened ideas of the present age among the native population is alone likely to lead to any marked improvement on the ancient literature of the country.” (“A Few Remarks on the Assamese Language and Vernacular Education in Assam, By a Native,” 169). 4. Phukan. 5. Interestingly, all the histories of Assam that were published during this period were titled “Assam Buranji,” buronji being a word that describes the traditional histories of Assam written during the rule of the Ahom kings, dating back to the seventeenth century. Among the several histories of Assam written in Assamese prose and published in the nineteenth century are those authored by Kashinath Tamuli Phukan(1810–80), Harakanta Sadaramin (1815–1903), Gunabhiram Barua (1837–94), and Padmanath Gohain Barua (1871–1946). Holiram Dhekiyal Phukan and Maniram Dewan (1806–58) wrote their histories of Assam in Bengali prose. Significantly, Holiram’s book published in 1830 was the first history book in Bengali prose. 6. Neog and Phukan, 163. 7. G. A. Grierson, Linguistic Survey of India, Vol. I, Part I, Introductory, quoted by Suryya Kumar Bhuyan in his Studies in the Literature of Assam, Gauhati, India: Lawyer’s Book Stall, 1962, p. 25. 8. Chakrabarty, 8.

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he took up the cudgels in defense of his mother tongue, he went about his mission in a very systematic manner, instead of indulging in emotional rhetoric as many of his countrymen did.47

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9. J. F. Fleet, “Indian Epigraphy” in Imperial Gazetteer of India, Vol. II, quoted by Suryya Kumar Bhuyan in his Studies in the Literature of Assam, Gauhati, India: Lawyer’s Book Stall, 1962, p.25). 10. Chatterjee, 18. 11. Narayana Rao, “The Play in Context,” 160. 12. For a more detailed discussion on this, see Misra, 18–22. 13. Chandra, 46. 14. The Ahom kings ruled Assam from 1228 to 1826. 15. Rajani Kanta Bordoloi’s (1869–1939) Manomati and Nirmal Bhakat are two early Assamese novels that evoke the memories of the maanar din (“Burmese days”). 16. Sudipta Kaviraj thinks that Bankimchandra and others of his time were inhabiting a different historical horizon from that which signified the world of the post-Gandhi nationalists. “These authors,” he says, “remain within these limits not because they like British rule. In some ways their rejection of a colonizing western rationalist civilization often goes deeper and is more fundamental than that of the later nationalists; but they simply do not see the end of colonial subjection as a historically feasible project” (7). 17. Fakir Mohan Senapati’s novel Chha Mana Atha Guntha was first serialized in 1897–99 and published in book form in 1902. All the citations from the novel here are from the recent English translation published as Six Acres and a Third (Penguin, 2006), translated from Oriya by Rabi Shankar Mishra, Satya P. Mohanty, Jatindra K. Nayak, and Paul St. Pierre, with an introduction by Satya P. Mohanty. Hemchandra Barua’s Bahire Rong Song Bhitare Kowabhaturi was first published in 1866 (Saka 1788). Hemchandra Barua’s introductory note to the first edition in Hemchandra Barua Racanavali, edited by Jatindranath Goswami, Guwahati, 1999. The title rendered into English would be Fair Without, Foul Within. All references to the book in this chapter are from the above collection of Hemchandra Barua’s works, pp. 23–46. (All translations are mine. See the Appendix at the end of this volume for the entire text of the translation.) 18. This concept was discussed by Sudipta Kaviraj in his “The Imaginary Institutions of India.” 19. Nagen Saikia, in his introduction to the collected edition of AsamBandhu, attributes the authorship of the Sadanand essays to Lambodar Bora. 20. Asam-Bandhu, 27. 21. Using the image of predatory birds, as Senapati does in his “Asura Pond” chapter of Six Acres, the narrator describes the exploitative nature of colonial rule: “Barbaroa considers them as a variety of foreign birds that gather on the big jamun tree on this Bharat jambudwip, to eat their fill of the jamuns and then to fly off to England. They are known the world over for their diverse qualities  .  .  . The

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indigenous birds live in constant fear of these powerful foreign birds. The former variety cannot approach the jamun tree because they are frightened off by the noise, and clamour of the foreign birds and their sharp-beaked attacks. Some desi birds beg and plead with them to throw them a few jamuns . . .” 22. Mohanty 23. 23. Ibid., 6. 24. Bahire Rong Song Bhitare Kowabhaturi, in Hemchandra Barua Racanavali, ed. Jatindranath Goswami, Guwahati, 1999, p. 34. (translation mine). 25. Barpujari, 216. 26. Police Report, 1842, quoted in Barpujari, 217. 27. Senapati, 68. 28. Sawyer, 4782. 29. Bakhtin, 194. 30. These rights implied that “his lands were not liable to arbitrary interference of any revenue official, nor could he be dispossessed of his land except by the regular process of law courts by sale, mortgage or bequest either in whole or in part of his possession.” Barpujari, 226. 31. Hiren Gohain has discussed this aspect of the satra order in his book Asamiya Jatiya Jivanat Mahapurushia Parampara, 111. An account of the large landholdings (a total of about 100,272 bighas) of the Auniati Satra, one of the powerful satras situated in Majuli, can be found in Dambarudhar Nath’s Adhunikatar Unmeshat Sri Sri Auniati Satra, 136. 32. Kansa was the maternal uncle of Lord Krishna. 33. The head of a Vaishnava monastic order is addressed by his followers variously, apotheosizing him as Gossaindeu, Gossaindeu Ata, Gossainishwar, Prabhu, Mahaprabhu, Prabhu Jagannath, and Ata-ishwar, and he is also referred to as Mahanta and Mahajan. 34. Kali is the name of the dark goddess. Kali also means ink, and its synonym is mohi. Durga is the goddess with ten arms, and dohotia means someone with ten arms (doh = ten). Shiva is the god who sports a jata or matted hair on his head. So, jatia is one who has matted hair. 35. Bahire Rong Song, in Hemchandra Barua Racanavali, p. 29 [translation mine]. 36. In an ojapali performance, the principal performer narrates a story from one of the epics or the puranas in a vibrant style that combines dance, song, and drama interspersed with narration in the local speech of the Kamrup district. The songs, the gestures, and the narrations are meant for the entertainment of a rural audience, and they often contain irreverent jokes and parodies aimed at gods, goddesses, demons, and heroes. For details see Satyendranath Sarma, Asomiya Sahityar Samikshatmak Itibritta, 112–31.

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37. The panchali literature emerged in Assam in the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries through the works of several poets, the most influential of whom were Pitambar Kabi, Durgabar Kayastha, Mankar, and Sukabi Narayandev. The works of these poets have also been claimed by Bengali critics as a part of Bengali literature because the Koch kings of Cooch Behar, who had also ruled over some areas of western Assam before the Ahoms defeated them and extended their empire up to the borders of Cooch Behar, were great patrons of the Assamese poets in the medieval times. 38. See for example Narayana Rao, Shulman, and Subrahmanyam, Textures of Time: Writing History in South India 1600–1800; and Narayana Rao, “The Play in Context.” 39. Mohanty, 15. 40. During the initial phase of colonial rule, the official vernacular of Assam was Bengali, and this alien language was introduced in the schools as the medium of instruction. Bengali was also gradually replacing Persian as the language of the lower courts. 41. Senapati, 175–76. 42. Baxi, 248. 43. In the Hindu tradition, all letters are headed by such auspicious inscriptions. 44. Barua, 36 (translation mine). 45. Ibid., 17–18 (translation mine). 46. Hemchandra Barua (1835–96) was the son of a Sanskrit teacher in the Sibsagar district of Assam. He lost his father when he was nine years old and was brought up by his uncle, who never sent him to school. Instead, he was attached as an apprentice (a shiksha-nabis) to the Sibsagar District Court with a monthly stipend of four rupees. Through this arrangement, he acquired some basic knowledge of the Bengali language, which was necessary to get a position in a government office. His eagerness to learn languages impressed Captain Brodie, the District Commissioner, who taught him the Devnagri script and gave him some elementary lessons in the Hindi (brajbhasha) language. Later, he secretly learned English with the help of the Baptist missionaries because his guardian was opposed to the idea of a Brahmin boy learning the English language. He also acquired some elementary knowledge of Sanskrit from private tutors. He was in government service in various capacities as a record keeper and an assistant in the office of the Judicial Commissioner of Assam. Later, he was promoted to the post of an office superintendent. Besides Bahire Rong Song Bhitare Kowabhaturi, Hemchandra wrote another satire, Kaniyar Kirtan (1861), three grammars of the Assamese language, several schoolbooks, and his magnum opus, the Hemkosh, which is still considered the most reliable dictionary of the Assamese language. He wrote Notes on the Marriage Systems of the Peoples of Assam (1892)

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in English and edited the bilingual weekly newspaper Assam News from 1882 to 1885. He contributed under different pseudonyms to the Assamese journal Orunodoi published by the American Baptist missionaries. 47. Hemchandra has been referred to as the first “non-conformist liberal humanist in Assam” because of his bold rejection of all traditional obscurantist practices in his personal life. (Homen Borgohain, “Asamat Adhunikatar Agradoot Hemchandra Barua,” in Shivanath Barman et al ed. Adhunikatar Agradoot Hemchandra Barua, Guwahati, 1996, p. 10). Unlike most of the contemporary Assamese intellectuals who studied in the schools and colleges of Calcutta, Hemchandra never set foot in that “city of Renaissance” but was far ahead of many others in his enthusiasm for ideas based on rationalistic principles.

Bibliography Apparao, Gurujada Venkata. Girls for Sale: A Play from Colonial India (Kanyasulkam). Translated by Velcheru Narayana Rao. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2007. Bakhtin, M. M. “Rabelais and His World.” In The Bakhtin Reader: Selected Writings of Bakhtin, Medvedev, and Voloshinov, edited by M. M. Bakhtin, Pam Morris, V. N. Voloshinov, and P. N. Medvedev. London: E. Arnold, 1994. Barman, Shivanath, et al., ed. Adhunikatar Agradoot Hemchandra Barua. Guwahati, India: Students’ Stores, 1996. Barpujari, H. K. Assam in the Days of the Company, 1826–1858: A Critical and Comprehensive History of Assam during the Rule of the East-India Company from 1826–1858, Based on Original Assamese and English Sources, both Published and Unpublished. Shillong, India: North-Eastern Hill University Publications, 1996. Barua, Hemchandra. Bahire Rong Song Bhitare Kowabhaturi. 1866 A.D. (Saka 1788). Barua, Gunabhiram. Asam-Bandhu, 1885–1886, Raibahadur Gunabhirama Baruar dwara Sampadita. Compiled and edited by Nagen Saikia. Guwahati, India: Asam Prakashan Parishad, 1984. Baxi, Upendra. “The State’s Emissary: The Place of Law in Subaltern Studies.” In Subaltern Studies, edited by Partha Chatterjee and Gyanendra Pandey. Vol. 7. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1997. Bhuyan, Suryya Kumar. Studies in the Literature of Assam. Gauhati, India: Lawyer’s Book Stall, 1962. Chakrabarty, Dipesh. Provincializing Europe: Postcolonial Thought and Historical Difference. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2001. Chandra, Sudir. The Oppressive Present: Literature and Social Consciousness in Colonial India. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1994.

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Chatterjee, Partha. “Our Modernity.” SEPHIS and CODESARIA (SouthSouth Exchange Programme for Research on History of Development, and Council for the Development of Social Science Research in Africa) (1997): 18. Gohain, Hiren. Asamiya Jatiya Jivanat Mahapurushia Parampara. Guwahati, India: Lawyer’s Book Stall, 1990. Goswami, Jatindranath, ed. Hemchandra Barua Racanavali. Guwahati, India: Hemkosh Printers, 1999. Kaviraj, S. “The Imaginary Institutions of India.” In Subaltern Studies, edited by Partha Chatterjee and Gyanendra Pandey. Vol. 7. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1997. Misra, Sanghamitra. New Subjectivities: Writing Histories in Colonial Goalpara and Assam. Guwahati, India: Indian Council of Historical Research, North-Eastern Regional Centre, 2007. Mohanty, Satya P., and Harish Trivedi. “Introduction, Special Section on Six Acres and a Third.” Economic and Political Weekly 41, no. 46 (2006): 4780–81. Narayana Rao, Velcheru. “The Play in Context.” In Girls for Sale: A Play from Colonial India (Kanyasulkam), by Gurujada Venkata Apparao, 160. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2007. Narayana Rao, Velcheru, David Dean Shulman, and Sanjay Subrahmanyam. Textures of Time: Writing History in South India, 1600–1800. Delhi: Permanent Black, 2001. Nath, Dambarudhar. Adhunikatar Unmeshat Sri Sri Auniati Satra. Majuli, India: Auniati Satra, 2004. Neog, Maheswar, and Anandaram Dhekiyal Phukan. Anandaram Dhekiyal Phukan: Plea for Assam and Assamese: With the Complete Text of Observations on the Administration of the Province of Assam, by Baboo Anundaram Dakeal Phookun, being Appendix J to A.J. Moffat Mills Report on the Province of Assam, Calcutta, 1854, and A Few Remarks on the Assamese Language and on Vernacular Education in Assam, by a Native, Sibsagor, Assam, 1855. Jorhat, India: Asam Sahitya-Sabha, 1977. Sarma, Satyendranath. Asomiya Sahityar Samikshatmak Itibritta. Guwahati, India: Soumar Printing and Publishing Pvt. Limited, 1981. Sawyer, Paul L. “Six Acres and a Third—An Oriya Village and the Battle of Plassey: Senapati’s Allegory of the Raj.” Economic and Political Weekly 41, no. 46 (2006): 4782. Senapati, Fakir Mohan. Six Acres and a Third. Translated by Rabi Shankar Mishra, Satya P. Mohanty, Jatindra K. Nayak, and Paul St. Pierre. New Delhi: Penguin Books India, 2006.

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Modern Oriya and Assamese Subjects

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The Indigenous Modernity of Gurajada Apparao and Fakir Mohan Senapati Velcheru Narayana Rao

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here is a broad consensus that India only became “modern” on account of its conquest by the British in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. It is generally agreed that Apparao and Senapati are the first creators of modernity in their respective languages, Telugu and Oriya. Apparao is celebrated as the father of modern literature in Telugu, as Senapati is for Oriya. While the consensus I refer to defines modernity as a specifically colonial modernity, one that was produced by the impact of English on Indian literature and society, I suggest in this chapter that in the two late nineteenth-century works under review, Kanyasulkam (Girls for Sale) and Chha Mana Atha Guntha (Six Acres and a Third), Apparao and Senapati present an indigenous modernity, distinct from the colonial variety. In my study of Gurajada Apparao’s Girls for Sale,1 I have argued that his work represents a continuation of a modernity that was flourishing in Telugu literature from the sixteenth century onward. During this period, Telugu literature saw the emergence of a new subjectivity, which included psychologized characters and even characters with split personalities (often falsely assumed to be the gift of the West at a later date). A new sense of time and a new understanding of the individual emerged in this precolonial period; a new sense of history emerged, with history being written in several genres. The courtly tradition of patronizing poets gave way to a public patronage, distributed over a wide range of affluent individuals who aspired to a new social status. A

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major shift occurred in most parts of India during this period, which my collaborators, Sanjay Subrahmanyam and David Shulman, and I call the emergence of an indigenous modernity.2 This was not a radical break from the past, but it involved a significant change in social practices, political institutions, and literary sensibilities. Colonialism in the nineteenth century eclipsed these developments. The familiar story, which I need not repeat here, recounts how the English education system encouraged Indians to devalue most of their literature as immoral or decadent. A cultural amnesia overtook the newly educated middle class, who rejected their immediate past in favor of colonial modernity. English education, with all the opportunities and perspectives it opened for Indians, infused a distinct sense of inferiority in them, which affected their confidence in what Indian society had achieved before the arrival of the British. The new middle class accepted the colonial representation of Indian society as stagnant and decadent, with Indians as a group of people steeped in superstition and immorality. Committed to changing these conditions, social reformers in several areas of India began to lead movements to improve the moral and social conditions of Indians.

Girls for Sale Apparao wrote Girls for Sale against the backdrop of the social reform activities of Kandukuri Viresalingam in Andhra, who was influenced by Rajah Rammohun Roy and Kesbchandra Sen in Bengal. Viresalingam led an attack against the two evils of society: not allowing child widows to remarry and allowing courtesans to practice their profession. Viresalingam’s social reform movement was aimed at the evils that primarily affected the upper castes, particularly Brahmins, and to a lesser extent, some of the brahminized landed castes. The top layer of society that this movement touched was a small minority as compared to the huge population of the lower castes who were beyond the socalled evils the reform movement militated against. Widow remarriage was not a problem for the lower castes, because their women freely married after the death of a husband and sometimes even while he was still alive. The antinautch movement aimed against the courtesans did not touch them either, because the lower castes had no money to pay for the high-class courtesans, nor did the courtesans entertain them, even if they paid. This social reform, despite its high-sounding name, was actually upper-caste reform. As a result of this successful movement, the institution of courtesans, so distasteful to the new Victorian moral order, was gradually eliminated. Widow remarriage and the

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prohibition of child marriages freed the upper castes from the clutches of ritual order to which they were bound. This, together with the economic benefits resulting from new jobs in the British administration, paved the way for the upper castes to grow into a new middle class, which would be poised to inherit the political, cultural, and economic power from the British. This was the social background for the emergence of (colonial) modernity in India, spearheaded by the Bengali and later the Hindi writers and poets of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. On the surface, Apparao’s Girls for Sale reads like a play in support of social reform. To briefly present a summary of the play: A miserly old Brahmin, Lubdha Avadhanlu, makes a deal to buy, as his wife, a very young daughter of another Brahmin, Agnihotra Avadhanlu. The bride’s mother is opposed to the marriage. She knows how disastrous such marriages can be from her own experience of seeing the pain of her elder daughter Bucc’amma, who was widowed when her very old husband died. Her brother Karataka Sastri promises to foil the match. In the drama that ensues, Madhura-vani, a courtesan who is now kept by Ramap-pantulu, takes an active role behind the scenes. Ramap-pantulu is a village politician who is unscrupulous in forging documents and telling lies. He has been advising Lubdha Avadhanlu in matters of his marriage. Karataka Sastri is an old customer of Madhura-vani, and she promises him her support to save the little girl from the disastrous marriage. Karataka Sastri’s plan is to dress his own disciple, a young boy, as a girl and offer “her” to Lubdha Avadhanlu for a cheaper price. Madhura-vani successfully manipulates Ramap-pantulu to get Lubdha Avadhanlu to accept the pseudo girl.

In a parallel story within the play, Girisam, a young and handsome con artist with a glib tongue, who flaunts his knowledge of English and appears as a supporter of the social reform movement, secretly keeps Madhura-vani as his concubine. He enters Agnihotra Avadhanlu’s house under the pretext of teaching English to his son and seduces his widowed daughter Bucc’amma even as wedding arrangements for his second daughter are in progress. Meanwhile the pseudo wedding is successfully performed, after which the bride (the boy) takes off his costume and escapes. When the bride cannot be found, the police accuse Lubdha Avadhanlu of murdering her. The idealist social-reformer lawyer Saujanya Rao defends Lubdha Avadhanlu but does not find evidence to prove his client’s innocence. The last scene of the play is the most crucial.

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Gurajada Apparao and Fakir Mohan Senpati

Velcheru Narayana Rao

I will present a close reading of the last scene3 as a point of entry to comprehend the complexity in Apparao’s play. Madhura-vani, dressed as a man, enters Saujanya Rao’s upstairs bedroom unannounced, since the front door downstairs is open and there is no attendant to ask for permission. (Apparently, there was no fear of crime and people did not lock their doors until late in the night.) Girisam happens to be there because he has taken shelter with Saujanya Rao and is trying to get his help in marrying Bucc’amma with whom he, Girisam, has recently eloped. Girisam continues to pretend he is an honest and enthusiastic supporter of the social reform movement in order to gain the support of Saujanya Rao. Madhura-vani, who enters in the middle of the conversation, takes Saujanya Rao’s permission to remain anonymous and says she knows Girisam, and that she is his follower in the antinautch movement. Clearly, Girisam has detected that this stranger is none other than Madhura-vani in a man’s clothes, but he is too scared to expose her because that will betray his own shady past. Tactfully, she says that she has come on private business, forcing Girisam to leave her and Saujanya Rao alone. The gesture Girisam makes to her as he leaves the room shows his desperate appeal to Madhura-vani not to reveal him. Madhura-vani cunningly asks Saujanya Rao what he thinks would happen to reformed courtesans. How would they make a living? How will reformed courtesans find decent husbands? Would Girisam or he himself consider marrying one? Shocked at the audacity of this suggestion, Saujanya Rao states that he would never marry a courtesan and would not even so much as touch one. And if he should touch one by accident, he would cut off that part of his body. Having allowed Saujanya Rao to dig a hole for himself, Madhuravani tells Saujanya Rao that she knows someone who would be of great help in his client Lubdha Avadhanlu’s case. The trouble is that the woman in question happens to be a courtesan. This is not a problem for Saujanya Rao, for he assumes that all courtesans can be bought with money. He suggests paying the courtesan for the information. Madhura-vani responds that the woman in question is not interested in money and that her price is of a different order. Saujanya Rao takes the hint and asks if the courtesan wants him to keep her and says that is out of the question. Madhura-vani forces a break in the negotiation and declares that Saujanya Rao’s client cannot be saved any other way. Saujanya Rao still presses on in the negotiation, when Madhura-vani, without batting an eyelid, says that if he does not want to keep her as his pleasure woman she would consider marriage.

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Offended by this unexpected turn in the conversation, Saujanya Rao now demands to know from the stranger how he has come to know a courtesan if he is a follower of Girisam in his antinautch movement. At this point Madhura-vani removes her turban and coat, revealing her true identity. Furious at this audacity, Saujanya Rao asks her to leave, but as she is leaving he calls her back to further explore the possibilities of saving his client. Madhura-vani offers a compromise. Clearly under her spell now, Saujanya Rao says, “If you stand here long enough before me, I am afraid I will accept any compromise you suggest.” Madhura-vani gently says, “How about a kiss?” (Apparao 154). Saujanya Rao is surprised that a kiss is more valuable than money for her. He admits that he would not mind kissing a beautiful woman like Madhura-vani, but agonizes over breaking his vow never to touch a nautch girl. Despite all his reservations, Saujanya Rao agrees to Madhura-vani’s demand. Having clinched the deal, Madhura-vani tells the lawyer that the “bride” Lubdha Avadhanlu married is not a girl and that Karataka-sastri dressed his boy disciple as a girl and married him to Lubdha Avadhanlu. Therefore, the whole thing is a hoax. There is no murder. Now Saujanya Rao has to pay up. But just as he is about to kiss her, Madhura-vani stops him. She tells him that she has remembered a vow of her own. Her mother made her vow not to corrupt people who were not already corrupted. So she must not allow him to kiss her. While a relieved Saujanya Rao is still recovering from this double surprise, Madhura-vani’s attention turns to a book Saujnaya Rao keeps at his bedside. It is the Bhagavadgita. Saujanya Rao tells Madhura-vani that the Bhagavadgita is a book that converts bad people into good, and those who read it will find an invaluable friend in the god Krishna. Madhura-vani mischievously asks, “So Krishna is not antinautch?” As Madhura-vani is about to leave, with the Bhagavadgita pressed against her chest, Saujanya Rao asks how she came to know Girisam. Madhuravani initially pretends to be reluctant, but finally reveals that she was his kept woman for some time. Saujanya Rao calls Girisam, makes him confess, and throws him out of his house. This is a very intriguing scene that can be read at many levels. Crucial junctures in the scene leave room for multiple interpretations, and nearly every line of dialogue has many implications and layers of meaning. The best part of the scene lies in Madhura-vani’s skillful use of language in manipulating Saujanya Rao. She assiduously addresses Saujanya Rao with a “Sir” all the way through, stroking his ego while cornering him with her arguments. But her tone changes once Saujanya Rao shows signs of being attracted to her. When she

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Gurajada Apparao and Fakir Mohan Senpati

Velcheru Narayana Rao

stands before him without her disguise, he says that if she stands there long enough, he is afraid he would accept any compromise she suggests. This is the point at which she is sure that Saujanya Rao has fallen for her beauty and charm. Once she is certain that she wholly controls his erotic feelings, she drops the “Sir,” and addresses him with a confident tone of dominance. From this point on, her answers to his requests are curt and monosyllabic: “I won’t,” “I don’t,” and so on. She is so sure of her power that she knows that once a man has come into her feminine arena, he cannot escape and she can totally humiliate him. Through the rest of the scene, she has a field day deflating Saujanya Rao’s large ego and playing games with him to the point that she even makes him believe she really wants to read the Bhagavadgita with him, when in fact she has almost certainly read it before, since she clearly knows Sanskrit well enough to accurately quote the Mricchakatika, a rather difficult play in that language. One may even suspect that she also knows Saujanya Rao himself has not read the Bhagavadgita, because he has been misquoting it. So, at the end of the play, does Madhura-vani really change her ways, realize the sinfulness of her profession, and want to read the Bhagavadgita in order to repent and turn a new leaf in her life? Or is she is just playing an elaborate game to make a fool of Saujanya Rao, the “modern,” westernized professional, who assumes the role of a Catholic missionary who hears confessions and absolves the confessor of his or her sins and provides moral guidance by giving a sermon from the Good Book? Or is it possible she has realized that times have changed, that no respectable man will come to her door anymore, and that rather than work with low-level village men, she has to make her life worthy of the company of “gentlemen” like Saujanya Rao? Nearly every critic who has read this play is certain that the play supports social reform, that Madhura-vani has changed her ways, that Girisam has been punished for his false pretences and immoral practices, and that Saujanya Rao has saved Bucc’amma’s life from being ruined by Girisam. The ambiguities of the play, like the irony in Senapati’s novel, do not give room for such a one-sided reading. Let us turn our attention to the other parts of the play, especially the court scenes. Apparao and Senapati share a common perspective in depicting courts and lawyers as sources of lies, deceit, and corruption. Ramap-pantulu, the tout, does not have any problem in forging horoscopes and giving false evidence. Lawyers swindle their clients out of their money and leave them destitute. Even Saujanya Rao, the lone honest lawyer, complains that witnesses resort to fiction when

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they are asked to give evidence. He even compares lawyers to whores because both offer their services to the highest bidder. English is the new language of power, and members of the upper castes, who can pay for an English education, hanker after it because it leads to jobs where opportunities for corruption are plentiful. A hilarious scene in Kanyasulkam shows how naively attracted the village Brahmins are to the mere sound of English. Venkatesam, Agnihotra Avadhanlu’s son, who is learning English in a nearby English school, displays his learning at the request of his illiterate mother. He and his tutor Girisam converse as follows: Girisam addressing Venkatesam: My dear Venkatesam, Twinkle, twinkle, little star! How I wonder what you are! Venkatesam: There is a white man in the tent. Girisam: The Boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but he had fled. Venkatesam: Upon the same base and on the same side of it, the sides of a trapezium are equal to one another. Girisam: Of man’s disobedience and the fruit of that mango tree, sing, Venkatesa, my very good boy. Venkatesam: Nouns ending in ‘f’ or ‘fe’ change their ‘f’ or ‘fe’ into ‘ves’.

Agnihotra Avadhanlu, who does not understand a thing they are saying, innocently asks, “What’s the meaning of what you are saying?” and Girisam answers with a straight face, “We are discussing what we should read during this vacation and all that” (Apparao 22–23). As for the illiterate mother, the very sounds of the language are music to her ears and make her proud that her son speaks like a dora, the White boss. Their reaction is entirely different when they test Venkatesam’s Telugu learning. His uncle, Karataka Sastri, a good scholar of Telugu and Sanskrit in his own right, asks the boy to read a Telugu verse. Girisam suggests a respectable verse from the Telugu Mahabharata by the great poet Nannayya. Venkatesam manages to read the verse: Nala-damayantul’iddaru manah-prabhavanala dahyamanulai salipiri dirghavasaranisal . . .

Karataka Sastri stops him and asks, “What is the meaning of manah-prabhavanala?” Venkatesam looks up toward the ceiling when Girisam intervenes and says, “How can a young boy know the meaning of such difficult

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Gurajada Apparao and Fakir Mohan Senpati

Velcheru Narayana Rao

poems?” A surprised Agni asks, “Don’t they teach the meanings of poems?” Girisam with his ready wit answers, “For now they make them chant the verses like the Veda. In the white man’s school they don’t care much for Telugu poems. All the time they bombard the students with jagarphi, gigraphi, arthametik, alligibra, mathamatiks, and all that heavy stuff.” Agni asks in innocent amazement “They teach all that?” Girisam solemnly confirms, “Yes, sir, all that and more. A boy who works hard like your son will not have a break even for a minute” (Apparao 23). In short, Apparao quietly portrays without a comment how a shallow culture is replacing a traditional education, and how the upper caste is falling for it. Let us look at the central event of the play—the wedding of a child to an old man. This is the supposed big evil social reformers loudly condemn, declaring the society morally bankrupt because it allows such things to happen. The careful reader of the play easily realizes, unless he or she is brainwashed into thinking that Apparao wrote his play in support of colonialist social reform, that a whole village, across all castes, unites to make sure that the sham wedding goes through without a hitch—thus stopping the real child marriage. From the priest to the policeman, to the servants and the schoolboys, including the bridegroom’s own daughter, all join hands to foil the real wedding. They make a fool of the cunning middleman who arranged it and the septuagenarian groom who was foolish enough to fall for the idea. The point becomes clear: this is not a society that normally allows such marriages to take place. The people in the village know that the practice is wrong. But people like Saujanya Rao, the leader of the upcoming urban middle class, make a big issue of reforming the society and believe that it is their self-appointed task to lead it to modernity.

Six Acres and a Third4 Now let’s look at Senapati’s novel, Six Acres and a Third. The most striking thing about this novel is that a narrator, rather than the author, tells the story from beginning to end. This allows the author Senapati to gain a certain distance from the narrator of the story. Satya Mohanty posits that in creating the narrator Senapati has drawn on the touter, a new social type that emerged in the nineteenth century in Oriya society, a “disreputable wit who inhabits the lower rungs of society and is always a bit unreliable,” and that he transforms this disreputable character into a “self conscious satirist, social critic, and a moral philosopher.” I want to pursue Mohanty’s insightful comment that this narrator “enters the modern Indian novel from

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the world of oral discourse.”5 In a typical purana performance, well known in the oral tradition of India, a pauranika tells a story with his comments and quotes from several texts. It is his voice we hear in any oral performance of the puranas—whether it is the Mahabharata, Bhagavata purana, or the Ramayana—and not the voice of the author: Vyasa, Valmiki, or their regional language retellers. Occasionally, the narrator who sits in front of the audience might bring in the name of the original author, Vyasa (or in the case of the Oriya Ramayana, Balaram Das, or for the more popular Oriya Bhagavatapurana, that of Jagannatha Das). In the mind of the audience, however, the narrator becomes the original author, while they themselves merge with the first listeners who sat in the Naimisa forest listening to Saunaka or King Pariskhit listening to Suka. The narrator comments on the events of the story in his own voice throughout the narration, even as he reads from the text of the original author. The narrator in Senapati’s novel is an intelligent modernized version of the purana narrator, who impersonates the role of the author. An innocent reader might mistake the narrator for Senapati himself, but will recognize the literary device if he or she is careful not to be lost in the illusion. As we silently read Senapati’s novel, we feel that we are hearing the story rather than reading it, despite the narrator’s occasional references to the act of writing his story. In this sense, it is an oral novel, as it were; it does not read like a written text. Senapati’s narrator, however, is not exactly like a purana performer. The narrator is tricky, funny, and intriguing, even downright false at times. His is not the authoritative, trustworthy, and full-throated voice of the purana narrator; he only pretends to be one. The creation of a pseudo pauranika distinguishes Senapati as a creator of an indigenous modernity. At first reading, Six Acres looks like a realistic novel authentically representing the events taking place and reporting conversations in a modern spoken idiom, faithfully depicting the characters as they move through their lives. But on a closer reading we see that what Senapati creates is not realism that produces a literary image of reality, but a pseudo realism that provokes the reader to question what appears as reality in the world. To begin with, the narrator does not have a name. Is the narrator a man or a woman, upper caste or lower caste? For some reason we are inclined to assume he is a man. Could it be that somewhere in our minds we identify the narrator with the author? But we realize that the identification does not work; the narrator is unreliable, downright dishonest, and pretentious—not the qualities we would like to associate with the author, Senapati. The narrator is clearly educated because he quotes

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Gurajada Apparao and Fakir Mohan Senpati

Velcheru Narayana Rao

Sanskrit texts; even when he misinterprets them, he does so deliberately. He demonstrates a fairly sophisticated knowledge of history and contemporary politics. That is a strong enough reason to assume that the narrator is an upper-caste man. The lower castes and women had no access to such education in Orissa at the time Senapati was writing. Senapati’s narrator changes his tone and voice in so many ways that the reader may wonder whether he is a single narrator or more than one. The seamless continuity of the story and its development imply a single narrator, who, however, acts like a ventriloquist or a composite person, housing many individuals inside him. Let us take a look at the various voices of the narrator. Sometimes the narrator adopts a tone that demands an opposite reaction. The opposition is intentionally provoked. The narrator not only does not want to be listened to with approval, but he expects his words to be vehemently opposed and summarily rejected. Every argument the narrator presents, in favor of Mangaraj’s fasts on Ekadasi days, for instance, comes with an invitation to laugh the narrator out of court. The narrator comes before us with the words “don’t take my words at their face value” writ large on his forehead. Then there is another voice of the narrator, this time tongue in cheek, as when he talks about the drumsticks that Mangaraj never serves to his servants, because they are not good for their health. But Mangaraj gives them plenty of the drumstick leaves instead, which are good for their health. A little later the narrator informs us with a straight face that the drumsticks are sent to the market to be sold for a good price. When the narrator tells you the story of the Auntie from Tangi, we read, or rather listen, to the narration with great interest. The voice of the narrator is quite trustworthy, and the cultural information given is authentic. We listen with attention to the quality of his description, which sounds like that of a competent ethnographer. The narrator does not give you a clue to suspect that the auntie visiting is actually Champa in the guise of a rich relative. In the chapter that follows, we begin to hear clues that confirm there is no such person called Auntie Tangi and it might be Champa in a different guise. And even after the end of the narration, you are left wondering what exactly she, Champa, might have done to cause the accidental fire in the house almost immediately after her brief, disguised visit. After carefully sifting through the dense ethnographic details, we find that the place where the fire started was the very place where Auntie from Tangi went to relieve herself. The narrator uses all his skill in describing Champa to us. The first impression he gives us is that the novel’s main character, Mangaraj,

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a man who grew to be a rich zamindar from his humble birth in an obscure and poor family, is the hero of the novel. It is, after all, his story. As we follow the life and times of Mangaraj, the novel reads like a moral tale of greed and injustice. But on a second and more critical reading, details disturb this picture. Slowly Champa gains importance. She stands out as the “hero” of the story. She is the brain behind Mangaraj and the one who masterminds the acquisition of the six acres and a third and the cow from their owners, Bhagia and Saria. She personally brainwashes Saria to mortgage her land in return for the cash to perform rituals for the birth of a son. Right at the beginning of the story we are told that Champa is an artist. She painted a great many varieties of pictures of women and animals on the walls of Mangaraj’s palace. She is a talented actress as well, if we consider the skill with which she impersonated a nonexistent aunt and managed to have the Baghasingha family home and wealth destroyed by fire. The narrator doesn’t tell us about her caste, but we can suspect that her name, Harakala, which she doesn’t want to be called by and which Mangaraj orders never to be uttered, suggests something fishy.6 She is respected in Mangaraj’s household and commands authority over the servants. The narrator devotes a considerable amount of time to describing her, parodying the descriptions of the modern romantic poets and the great Sanskrit poet Kalidasa. We come to know that the narrator is learned and very clearly wants to give a lot of attention to Champa. No other character in the story receives such attention. As the description progresses we casually hear, along with many other physical details, a humorous description of Champa’s teeth. One of her front teeth is crooked; it sits on top of the tooth next to it, protruding forward. The narrator twists the meaning of Kalidasa’s phrase sikhari dasana, one who has a row of teeth each shaped like mountain peaks, describing Yaksha’s beautiful wife in Meghaduta, to fit Champa’s protruding front tooth, which looks like a small hill in itself. The description makes you laugh as you appreciate the narrator’s sense of humor. Later, when women in the Baghasingha household comment on the Auntie from Tangi after she has left, we hear that the Auntie’s front tooth is crooked too. Much later, we see the point. This particular feature of Champa’s front tooth is what the narrator skillfully marks to give us a clue to identify Auntie from Tangi as none other than Champa in disguise. It takes a while for us to make the connection, and to admire the craft of the narrator in telling the story. Mangaraj prefers Champa’s company during the night rather than his wife’s. We are told that he and Champa confer secretly after dark, and Mangaraj dismisses his wife when Champa shows up. No sexual

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Gurajada Apparao and Fakir Mohan Senpati

Velcheru Narayana Rao

relationship between Mangaraj and Champa is clearly indicated, but the narrator leaves room to imply it. In any case, sex is not on her mind. She is clearly motivated by an irrepressible urge to move up to a position of power and status. The narrator often resists telling us anything he has not himself seen or found out from other secret means. One such instance is when the barber who murdered Champa jumped into the river and was unable to swim to the shore. The alligator that swallowed him is intriguingly called gomuhan or crocodile. The Sanskrit word gomukha, from which the Oriya word is derived, means “cow-faced,” a word often used in the Sanskrit phrase gomukha-vyaghra, a tiger with the face of cow, used to describe a dangerously deceptive person. This raises questions about the accident itself. Was it truly an accident? Was the crocodile a real crocodile? We know that Champa and her accomplice, the low-caste barber, stole a lot of gold from Mangaraj’s house. Apparently the gold was in the bag that the barber was carrying on his back when he jumped into the river. We hear nothing about it and are left with nothing but a bunch of palm-leaf records. One of the palm leaves on which an innocuous IOU was inscribed fell out of the bag and was recovered by the boatman. We even get the complete text of the IOU, which gives us one more piece of evidence to show how Mangaraj swindled innocent poor farmers. This piece of evidence is hardly necessary at this stage of the story. Mangaraj’s plunder of the peasants is demonstrated many times before. The IOU on the palm leaf is to distract our attention from Champa’s murder. The reason the narrator gives us for not telling the full story is clearly a lie in order to put a lid on Champa’s murder. The people in power are not interested in Champa. They have nothing to gain by proving that she was murdered, nor in showing that the barber is the murderer. So the case is closed. We are left with a suggestion that makes things even more bizarre. Champa’s corpse, without her silk sari and her silver anklets, is thrown into the river and a crocodile pulls her away in exactly the same place where her co-conspirator and murderer was carried away earlier. And we are told that the shopkeeper deserted the area, where people claim to see a pisaci (spirit) inhabit. What happened to the gold and silver in the bag, the value of which was so huge that Champa had said that it would be enough for them to live on for the rest of their lives? The shopkeeper does not say and neither does the narrator. The comment that the narrator makes soon after reporting the incident of Champa’s murderer’s fatal jump into the river is sarcastic on the surface: “You see, dear reader, we are the author, and therefore we are omniscient. We know why this crocodile

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snatched the man away, where it carried him, whether it treated him well or not; we have answers to all these questions. However, we are unwilling to talk about this openly since Chandia Behera himself kept the story a secret for reasons best known to him” (Senapati 196–97). If this is the commentator that appears before us time and again, right from the beginning of his narration, how are we to take his words when he narrates events of the story without his commentary? As for example, when he tells us of what was going on in the mind of Mangaraj as he lay dying. Only a few minutes earlier the narrator was telling us about the village vaidya doctor, Kaviraj, who comes to treat Mangaraj after all the other doctors left him to die. The narrator indicates how pretentious the vaidya was, when he quotes from Sanskrit texts hilariously out of context, applying Kalidasa’s love poem to diagnose a disease. But very soon the narrator disappears and we read, NOT hear, the silent thoughts and visions in Mangaraj’s delirious mind. This technique of leaving us alone with the dead man’s thoughts is deliberately adopted to make us believe that in the end Mangaraj has repented for all his sins, and his pativrata wife has received him in heaven. The novel ends with the cries of Hari Bol, saying everything is back to normal. On reflection, the reader decodes the silence of the narrator. Mangaraj’s confession symbolizes the new order of power that has taken over under colonialism. In this order, modern prose, supposedly neutral, represents truth as is. It does not need a commentary because it is supposed to be transparent. The prose declares that the efforts of a Mangaraj or a Champa to acquire power and status have not succeeded. Let us take a moment to see why they have not succeeded. It is not because they were greedy, unethical, or immoral. The new order that has taken over is not any less unethical or immoral, but Mangaraj and Champa were not modern in the mode of their operation. They did not know how to steal in the new style. Mangaraj wanted to become an old-style landlord, and Champa, even worse, wanted to be treated as a zamidarini. She succeeded briefly on two occasions, once when she pretended to be the Auntie from Tangi, and a second time, just before her death, when the shopkeeper treated her with great respect. How do we take the silences of the narrator, then? If his silences are strategic, what about the words he speaks—are they not strategic too? We come away with the feeling that the narrator knows everything, but he does not tell us anything straightforwardly. We have to suspect every word he says and does not say—every description he gives, every comment he makes, every detail he presents, and every silence—nothing can

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Gurajada Apparao and Fakir Mohan Senpati

Velcheru Narayana Rao

be taken at its face value. This feature makes Senapati’s novel, despite its apparent realistic mode, anything but realistic. Realism is too impoverished a label to adequately describe his style. The structure of the novel alternates between description and narration. After a brief introduction to Mangaraj, we hear about a number of people, including the goddess Mangala, almost as if she is an actual person. We listen with great interest because these introductions are so lively that we begin to feel we practically know these people and want to talk to them the next time we see them. We do not even wonder why we are being introduced to them. They seem to do nothing except appear like people in their own right. But we do not object or become bored by these introductions because the prose is so lively and good humored. In the process we also hear about a pond, with four different shores where a lot of things happen. The description of the pond makes us realize how it is the center of life and death of the village. It is a metaphor of life in the village and the center of the story as well. We know about the irrational beliefs of the villagers in the story of the tunnel to the Ganges from under the lake, which the goddess Mangala’s tiger made from her temple. The myth, however, has two sides to it. There are people who believe in it and succumb to it like Saria, and people who use it to make money, like Mangaraj and Champa. The elaborate trick played upon Saria by Mangaraj with the collusion of the village guardsman, Gobara Jena, is evidence that the myth is not universally believed. However, we hear only a hint of it during the first introduction of the lake and the goddess. For the rest of the story we have to wait until the first investigation of Saria’s murder and her alleged murderer, Mangaraj. The story begins right on the bank of this pond. It is here that the seeds of the central event of the novel are planted. Champa brainwashes Saria to mortgage her six acres and a third of land to the zamindar Mangaraj and get some money to build a temple for the goddess. Surely the goddess will give Saria children and lots of money. The loan would easily be repaid to Mangaraj, and she would live happily ever after with Bhagia and her children. The Asura Pond is a metaphor for India, Orissa, and the village during the early nineteenth century. It stands as a metaphor of the colonization of the Indians by the English, of the Oriyas by the Bengalis, and of the decline of the old classes under the influence of an emerging middle class culture. The descriptions in the novel keep the reader engaged while constructing a carefully layered picture of two of the major weaknesses that plagued Indian society and paved the way for the English company to grab power. One was the decadence of the Muslim zamindars

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and the other was the degeneration of the weaver communities. The story of Sekh Dildar Mian and the story of Bhagia and Saria are representative of these communities. Before the colonial takeover, it was these two communities that kept India on the world map with their wealth and international trade. The novel takes note of them long before the cultural and economic history of the colonial period pays attention to them. The digressions in the narrator’s descriptions are as important as the main story in the novel. It is the digressions that give us a deeper understanding of the social and political changes during the early colonial period. For instance, one such digression tells us of the pancayat, which settled disputes. If a person in a caste was found to have committed an offense or a crime, the pancayat fined him, and the fines thus collected stayed with the caste. The new court system removed such settlements at the local level, transferring funds from the village to lawyers and the newly established British courts in towns. Now justice is available only to those who can pay for it. Even a comment that looks casual is not really casual, such as this one from Chapter 10: “Do you know how cash contributions are raised? Although you may need no explanation, the new babus do, for they are educated: they have studied and have mastered profundities. Ask a new babu his grandfather’s father’s name and he will hem and haw, but the names of the ancestors of England’s Charles the Third will readily roll off his tongue.”7 The success of colonial education consists of creating a generation of people who are cut off from their own past in favor of a new education in the name of history and science. It is a common feature in the nationalistic novels of the time to decry the loss of indigenous knowledge. But Senapati does this with a sense of irony. Two characters in the novel—one who speaks very little and inaudibly, and the other who is deaf and dumb and cannot even speak a word—stand as silent witnesses of the deterioration around them. They are Mangaraj’s wife (she has no name) and Gobinda, the lowcaste servant who came with her from her parents’ house and has taken care of her since her birth. We have a long description of both these characters. They do not speak a word but you cannot forget them. They stand as ineffective representatives of a dying culture— good, honest, and kind according to the values of a dying order, but incapable of correcting the injustice they see or unable to imagine the cruel but inexorable dynamics of power unveiling right before them. Senapati’s novel, as Satya Mohanty says, can be read on one level as a “tale of wealth and greed, of property and theft” (Senapati 1).

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Gurajada Apparao and Fakir Mohan Senpati

Velcheru Narayana Rao

An established social order, whether it is a traditional society based on Brahmanic dharma, with its four varna order and caste hierarchies, or a modern society based on democracy and rule of law, tries to keep the property and status relations in a tolerable equilibrium. Minor adjustments are allowed where a relatively poor upper-caste individual is allowed to acquire wealth and status, but no really poor and low-class person is allowed that opportunity. If ever such a person should try to become wealthy and aspire for status, he or she has to break a lot of laws, transgress dharma, and be willing to be seen as criminal or even worse. Marx may have said all property is theft, but after a proletarian revolution property again settles in the hands of a new class of people who come into power. Not only is all property theft, but all power is theft as well. Because of their nature, property and power never shift from one group to the other without some kind of violence, destruction, or transgression of law. If people who act violently end up succeeding, they are called heroes. Heroism is valued in all societies, but only some people are allowed to become heroes. In the Mahabharata society, Arjuna could become a hero, but an Ekalavya could not. Or in a Ramayana society, a Sita could be a queen but not a Surpanakha. In troubled times, when the law order situation is weak, when the old order is crumbling and a new one has not yet been established—that is when aspirants who never had a chance to move up in society have an opening. The juncture between two orders of society, the space between two major changes—that is the time for people on the lower level to try to grab power. Is there a time for Ekalavyas and Surpanakhas to assert their superiority? Yes and no. Initially Senapati’s novel makes you think that Mangaraj, Champa, and the barber who killed her suffered the consequences of their greed. But an attentive reader will realize that they were merely doing the same thing that rich people of the past have done and the rich people of the future will do as well—those who somehow are believed to have a time-honored right to be rich. It turns out that Mangaraj and Champa are revealed to be usurpers, greedy for status and power. A just society punishes them. In the end, an unknown lawyer, a representative of the new middle class that has emerged in the new space for power created by the colonial administration, legally grabs the accumulated riches without a hitch. A similar transition takes place in Apparao’s play as well. The oldfashioned courtesan, who was not considered to be doing anything immoral in the society before colonialism, is now called a whore. Saujanya Rao has moral qualms about seeing or touching her, and believes

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she must be reformed before she becomes respectable. Girisam, who has no property, no job, and no earnings, but has a dazzling brilliance and the ability to turn any difficult situation to his advantage, is punished because he has associated with a courtesan. His irresistible urge to move up in society is dampened and his future left in doubt. What is conveniently overlooked is the fact that he has no money to buy a wife properly and that the only recourse he has is to find one to elope with. In contrast, the new class of lawyers and police officers who are corrupt to the hilt are considered citizens of high class. It is of course possible to read Six Acres as a critique of traditional Indian society and a demand for social reform. Such an interpretation would be similar to the one provided by the Telugu critics who read Apparao’s Kanyasulkam as a work that supports the social reform movement of Viresalingam in Andhra. Other readings of these two literary works are possible, depending on the location of the reader and his or her perspective. I have provided the outlines of an alternative reading of these two important texts. In the end, the two authors, Apparao and Senapati, do not produce their works in a realistic mode. Neither do we find an authorial intention nor an omniscient author who sees and reports it all for the reader to receive. They do not unequivocally condemn the society as decadent and superstitious, nor do they invite the changes introduced by the colonial administration as liberating and uplifting. They do not reject western influence in a blind patriotic stance, eulogizing everything traditional. Rather, they adopt a critical perspective that liberates the reader to read their works unfettered by an overpowering authorial sermon, while they take inspiration from the traditional oral forms of literature, including the epic performances with their multiple voices and polyphonic characters—their “truth” open to interpretations.

Notes 1. All references to Apparao’s Kanyasulkam are from my translation of the play, Girls for Sale: A Play from Colonial India. 2. See my Symbols of Substance: Court and State in Nayaka-Period Tamilnadu, with David Shulman and Sanjay Subrahmanyam; A Poem at the Right Moment: Remembered Verses from Premodern South India, with David Shulman; Textures of Time: Writing History in South India, with David Shulman and Sanjay Subrahmanyam; The Sound of the Kiss, or the Story that Must Never be Told: Kalapurnodayamu by Pinglai Surana, with David Shulman; God on the Hill: Temple Songs from Tirupati by Annamayya, with David Shulman; The Demon’s

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Gurajada Apparao and Fakir Mohan Senpati

3. 4.

5. 6.

7.

Velcheru Narayana Rao Daughter: A Love Story from South India by Pinglai Surana, with David Shulman. Adopted from my afterword to the play, “The Play in Context: A Second Look at Apparao’s Kanyasulkam,” 159–92. Senapati, Fakir Mohan. Six Acres and a Third: The Classic NineteenthCentury Novel about Colonial India. Trans. Rabi Shankar Mishra, Satya P. Mohanty, Jatindra K. Nayak, and Paul St. Pierre. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005. Senapati, 6–8. No one has discussed the meaning or social connotations of this word in Oriya. Other than the implication that the word indicates something derogatory, we do not know much about it. Siddharth Satpathy (oral communication) says that the word means one who is skilled in all arts of deception. He says that she could be a poili, a common noun meaning a concubine, and that the name harakala could relate to her skills of manipulating men. Mohanty draws our attention to this in Senapati, 7. The quote from the novel is on Senapati, 84.

Bibliography Annamayya. God on the Hill: Temple Poems from Tirupati. Translated by Velcheru Narayana Rao and David Dean Shulman. New York: Oxford University Press, 2005. Apparao, Gurajada. Girls for Sale: A Play from Colonial India (Kanyasulkam). Translated by Velcheru Narayana Rao. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2007. Narayana Rao, Velcheru, and David Dean Shulman. A Poem at the Right Moment: Remembered Verses from Premodern South India. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998. Narayana Rao, Velcheru, David Dean Shulman, and Sanjay Subrahmanyam. Symbols of Substance, Court and State in Nayaka Period Tamilnadu. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1992. ———. Textures of Time: Writing History in South India. New York: Other Press, 2003. Senapati, Fakir Mohan. Six Acres and a Third: The Classic Nineteenth-Century Novel about Colonial India. Translated by Rabi Shankar Mishra, Satya P. Mohanty, Jatindra K. Nayak, and Paul St. Pierre. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005. Surana, Pingali. The Demon’s Daughter: A Love Story from South India. Translated by Velcheru Narayana Rao and David Dean Shulman. Albany: State University of New York Press, 2006. ———. The Sound of the Kiss, Or the Story that Must Never Be Told: Kalapurnodayamu. Translated by Velcheru Narayana Rao and David Dean Shulman. New York: Columbia University Press, 2002.

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“Why Don’t You Speak?”: The Narrative Politics of Silence in Senapati, Premchand, and Monica Ali Ulka Anjaria

“What’s the matter? Why don’t you speak?” —Ramchandra Mangaraj, Six Acres and a Third, pp. 1231

Like so much of what Ramchandra Mangaraj says in Fakir Mohan

Senapati’s Oriya novel Chha Mana Atha Guntha (1897–99), his questions quoted above lack the concern they imply: as a wily landowner, a neglectful husband, and a ruthless acquirer of the eponymous chunk of land, Mangaraj has, in fact, no interest in what his wife has to say. Nevertheless, his rhetorical questions speak to a larger concern in the narrative politics of Chha Mana and of fictional texts in general. While postcolonial studies have provided a methodology to interrogate the politics of representation in texts, not only asking who has the authority to represent whom, but also questioning the very premise of representation itself as a mode of knowledge, a “postcolonial narratology” raises the equally pressing though less considered question of how the genre of the novel—premised on, among other things, a depth of character—deals with silence in general and silenced, marginalized, and effaced characters in particular. As novelistic characterization is generally divided between direct speech of individual characters and extradiegetic narration reliant upon some level of interiority, attention to the contours of such a division within individual texts can raise

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Ulka Anjaria

interesting dimensions of narrative politics that an exclusive focus on the politics of representation can overlook. In this chapter, I interrogate what I call the narrative politics of silence in Chha Mana Atha Guntha, arguing that Senapati’s novel is a feminist text (cf. Horan; revised and reprinted in this volume), whose social critique lies in its interrogation of the implications of silence within its story as well as on a narrative level. While voice— whether in dialogue or as revealed through narrative interiority—has often been considered the feature of the novel allowing most access to underrepresented subjectivities, I argue that in Chha Mana Senapati develops a “literary view from below” despite—indeed, because of— the restricted voice it provides its female characters.2 Specifically, I argue that on the level of discourse, Chha Mana’s narrator recreates the silence expected of its female characters in order to emphasize the restrictive conditions of their social world and to revalue the ethics of such silence within the world of the novel. Chha Mana thus develops a mode of realism that takes seriously oppressive social conditions to the extent of incorporating their discursive distortions—their unequal silencing, their ties to power—in its textual representation. In this way, Chha Mana provides an alternative to conventional accounts that see social critique only in the representation of characters who overcome the silence forced upon them. I emphasize the stakes of this claim by tracing a similar strain of narrative politics in Premchand’s Hindi novel Nirmala, and then demonstrating the limits of a feminist politics based solely on knowability—as an alternative to silence—through a brief reading of Monica Ali’s Brick Lane. In its more explicit critique of the oppressive conditions faced by women in early twentieth-century India, Nirmala thematizes the question of silence by implicating it with agency in the novel, resulting in a bleak interpretation of what it means for women to gain voice under socially unequal conditions. By contrast, Brick Lane offers a more clearly empowering story with fewer of the earlier novel’s tragic overtones, yet in doing so it ultimately restricts its political impact by offering the novel form as a sort of utopian world in which silence is no longer a barrier to knowledge about characters. By setting into dialogue three South Asian novels, written in different languages over a span of more than one hundred years, all of which at one level thematize silence, my larger goal is to delink an empowering politics from certain narrative conventions that are often taken for granted in a global study of the novel, with the goal of offering a more nuanced methodology for developing a “literary view from below.”

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Silence has long been a key concept in feminist criticism, most obviously because for so long women’s voices, along with those of other marginalized groups, were rendered silent by patriarchal discourses. In literature, this has resulted in many layers of silence: the absence of women authors in the canon (Peterson 97), the continued hardships under which women writers must practice their craft (Hedges and Fishkin 4–5), and within texts the absence of well-developed and complex female voices. Responses to these “textual and critical silences” (Hedges and Fishkin 8) have included critical attention to women writers and characters, as well as to the different formal ways women’s voices can be presented in literature. These include, for instance, features of the novel such as narrative interiority, which allows a fully or partially omniscient narrator to access the unsaid, the unarticulated, the felt, or the experienced, and thereby give voice to women in text even when patriarchal society denies it in fact. In fact, interiority has been so closely associated with voice and its concomitant politics of empowerment that as a narrative technique it is almost conflated with empowering literary politics. This in part emerges from “the novel’s association with the modern excavation of interiority as subjectivity, of character as personality and selfhood, and of plot as the progressive development of the integral individual” (McKeon xvi). In nineteenth-century Europe, therefore, “the bourgeois subject  .  .  . was defined by her interiority, by the possession of psychological depths and by qualities purely internal” (Katz 7). Indeed, in Theory of the Novel, Lukács defines the epic world preceding that of the novel as one in which “there is not yet any interiority” (30). This association was only further emphasized in postwar literary modernism, in which interiority often replaced the social world as the subject of novel writing. For feminist modernism in particular, interiority has been a central trope, with Virginia Woolf’s “room of one’s own” as its epitome: an internal space that is not only a room in a house, but a spatialized manifestation of the mental and emotional interiority in which resides a specifically feminist consciousness. Underlying these theoretical trajectories is the assumption that interiority in narrative is an expression of an essential identity; as Sidonie Smith writes of women’s autobiographies, “Self-identity emerges from a psychic interiority, located somewhere ‘inside’ the narrating subject. There it lies in a state most coherent, unified, evidentiary, even expectant, awaiting transmission to a surface, a tongue, a pen, a keyboard” (108). Even for those critics aware of the problematic

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Women, Silence, and the Novel

Ulka Anjaria

assumptions of such a paradigm, it continues to serve as a compelling mode of addressing women’s silence in a range of texts, from Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park (Laurence) to Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God (Racine). Yet this approach continues to fail to account for the production of “discursive authority” through particular and “(historically changing) textual strategies” (Lanser 6)—in other words for a way to read silence not only as a social condition but as a textual one as well. This would entail attention to the different modes of characterization and the interrogation of interiority not only as a self-evident means of accessing underrepresented subjectivities but as itself an ideologically inflected narrative strategy. Likewise, it would focus attention on the intersecting and often conflicting registers of silence as it functions both within the world of the novel and as an impediment to extradiegetic association. The benefit of such a methodology is that it can generate new readings not only of women-authored texts and contemporary novels whose politics are more apparent, but also of older novels or novels outside of the Euro-American tradition, whose overt politics “might well appear merely tepid to today’s radicals” (Rai 198). In brief, it can raise the question of how novels might be political even when they act to silence their characters, rather than only give them voice.

Silence and Characterization in Chha Mana Atha Guntha From its first pages, we learn that Chha Mana is a novel more interested in telling than in the told. Although claiming to introduce the novel’s protagonist, Ramchandra Mangaraj, by naming the first chapter for him and by identifying him as “a zamindar” in the very first line, after a few sentences it becomes increasingly clear that the protagonist of Chha Mana is not Mangaraj, but, as Satya Mohanty describes, the “narrator who actively mediates between the reader and the subject of the novel, drawing attention away from the tale to accentuate the way it is told” (3; emphasis mine). Likewise, what is ostensibly the story of “six acres and a third,” the quantity of land seized from the weaver couple, Saria and Bhagia, by the manipulations of Mangaraj and his mistress, Champa, is in fact an extended series of digressions and riffs, in which the narrator engages in acts of blatant and absurd falsity. He reports, for instance, that Mangaraj’s piety, as demonstrated in his dutiful fasting on holy days, “is indisputable” (SAT 35) and then, just a few lines later, suggests evidence that in fact Mangaraj drinks milk and eats fruit during those very same holy days.

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Thus, despite the poignancy of the plot and the absurdity of such constant slanderings, the narration ends up drawing the reader’s attention to the narrator himself rather than to the characters and story he is engaged in describing. This is a novel, then, in which no one speaks as much as the narrator—in which, in fact, no one speaks very much at all. The very few instances of direct discourse are immersed within longer passages of indirect discourse in which the narrator chooses to describe conversations rather than let the characters speak for themselves; even when the characters do speak, their words have the compromised quality of platitudes. Yet despite this generalized practice, narrative silence surrounds some characters more than others; specifically, and somewhat paradoxically, the least moral characters are described the most. For instance, although the narrator demurs by stating that “propriety forbids us to write about [the Saantani’s] daughters-in-law,” (SAT 53), he nevertheless launches into a series of negative descriptions regarding these women’s laziness and their pettiness (53–54). Likewise, he is relatively generous with his physical description of the villainess Champa, even though it is presented primarily indirectly: in the chapter titled “Champa,” the narrator discusses the relative merits of British and indigenous descriptive conventions but fails to actually describe his character, and her physical attributes are only confirmed, almost one hundred pages later, by the relatives of Bagha Singh, who observe, “‘Her voice was not at all sweet, it grates on the ear’ . . . ‘She stomps rather than walks’ . . . ‘And her laugh was awful’” (SAT 137). Conversely, the novel’s most moral characters, Saantani and Saria, are marked by the narrative silence that surrounds them. Saantani, who “speaks just two sentences of five words each in [the] text,” (Mishra 253), is first introduced by way of a narrative indirection: “Mangaraj’s wife slept alone in one corner of a room apart from everyone else” (SAT 53); this oblique introduction—even more apparent when compared to the straightforward naming, “Ramchandra Mangaraj,” that opens the novel—displaces Saantani even while it describes her, recreating her “apartness” on the level of discourse that Mangaraj and Champa effect within the story. Likewise, the next time Saantani is introduced, she is presented via her shadow: “[Mangaraj and Champa] were looking at each other intently, totally absorbed in their conversation, when the shadow of a woman fell between them” (SAT 123). As an inversion of presence, the shadow stands as the absolute negation of interiority, representing a two-dimensional, featureless cutout of the complexity of character. Frustrated at her sudden appearance, Mangaraj repeatedly asks her, “What’s the matter?”; yet

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“Why Don’t You Speak?”

Ulka Anjaria

she remains silent, only sighing. While on one level the sigh acts as the negation of voice just as the shadow acted as the negation of bodily presence, Saantani’s silence also marks a resistance to the absurdity of her husband’s question, as he asks her “the matter” while whispering with his mistress—an injustice to which no response would suffice. As Satya Mohanty writes, Saantani’s “silence is . . . not passive since it enacts an active rejection of the frantic garrulity of the world of Mangaraj and the lawyers, the powerful and unending discourse that seems to serve only them” (13). And Rabi Shankar Mishra likewise argues that in her silence, Saantani maintains her dignity and power, as she opposes her husband’s dictates not by speaking back to him but by conducting herself according to her own values rather than his (257). It is no surprise, then, that after the humiliation of being dismissed by her husband in front of Champa, Saantani decides to never speak again. Her permanent silence is not a break but an extension of her silencing as she appropriates the silence as her own, and thus confirms her power rather than her further oppression. Despite the relative absence of description surrounding her, therefore, Saantani uses silence as precisely the weapon of her empowerment. Specifically, she makes use of her marginalized position within the narrative to empower herself within the story, and thus reclaim her discursive silence as a facet of her moral strength. What we see, then, is a complex interaction of silences between the story and discourse: between the narrator’s respectful distance from Saantani and her own appropriation of his silence as a means to her empowerment within the novel’s plot. This is an interaction that an exclusive focus on interiority as the site of empowerment cannot account for. Rather, in this text, silence functions ambivalently: as a sign of women’s marginalized social position and at the same time a carefully deployed device to generate what might be called an ethics of description around such marginalization. We see a similar narrative politics surrounding Saria as well, although unlike Saantani Saria acts less and is more often the object, even the victim, of others’ actions. Yet there is an even more pointed ambivalence that appears around Saria, so when the narrator writes, “Our Saria was only a village weaver’s wife; you can of course draw your own conclusions about her,” (SAT 91), he is not only retaining the respectful distance associated with his representation of morality, but he is also drawing particular attention to the hypocrisy with which readers make judgments about characters based on their social standing, such as being “only a village weaver’s wife.” Likewise, there are a few moments when the narrator explicitly raises the question of Saria’s interiority, asking, for

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instance, in a question that is more than merely rhetorical: “Is the weaver couple really happy?” (SAT 95). Responding with a stock phrase he uses again later in the text,3 the narrator then answers himself: “One cannot know if a salagram stone is standing or lying on its side. Human feelings are expressed in tears or smiles, but no one has ever seen this couple smiling or heard them crying. If they talked, we might perhaps know, but they rarely talked to anyone in the village” (SAT 95). The maneuver here is subtle but powerful: in deferring the question of what Saria and Bhagia are “really” thinking through an assertion of the inscrutability of silence, the narrator raises an ethical ambivalence around silence— on the one hand, we can never know what characters truly feel since they do not speak, yet on the other hand the possibility arises for other modes of understanding a character besides through access to her interiority. In this way, when Saria tosses and turns, observes religious rites, and sighs, and when her eyes brim with tears, we can indeed determine “that some hidden grief was eating her away,” (96), even though she says nothing about it at all. Yet the morally corrupt social world described in the novel immediately forecloses the ethical possibilities around this ambivalence, as Saria soon dies—literally, without a word. Like Saantani’s, Saria’s death is introduced to the reader obliquely, in this case via the police inquiry that leads us, along with the other villagers, to the corpse along a roundabout route that lasts four pages and covers a dozen intermediaries (SAT 151–55). When we finally arrive at the body, it is buried within a sentence headed by someone else: “Gobara Jena identified the body as that of the weaver woman, Saria” (155). This digressive narration replicates at the level of narrative the extreme objectification of Saria’s body by multiple, oppressive discourses, so that even in its death it cannot achieve the subject of the sentence.4 Indeed, this chapter marks a transformation in the narrative as a whole—a shift from a relatively direct telling to one distanced specifically by the language of legality and adjudication, so that we end up hearing the fate of Bhagia and Saria through the discourse of legal testimony rather than through the realism the narrator had adopted thus far. At one level, such a use of legal discourse comprises a scathing critique of colonial legal structures, which implicate individuals within their own representational logic, sparing not even the most powerful indigenous figures. Yet at the same time, the use of this legalistic logic sustains the author’s social critique, which, while equally unsparing of indigenous and colonial structures of power, nevertheless astutely observes how they objectify different kinds of bodies (women, low caste, etc.) in different ways.

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“Why Don’t You Speak?”

Ulka Anjaria

As we can see, then, silence functions on many levels of Senapati’s novel. While the silencing of Saantani and Saria reflects the morally compromised social worlds of late nineteenth-century feudal Orissa and colonial India, and offers in response idealized (Horan 4791), noninteriorized figures whose representational thinness almost buckles under the weight of their marginalized positions, at the same time the complex workings of silence both socially and textually suggest a crucial ambivalence around the ethics of silence, both in the forms in which it is instituted and the forms in which it is overcome. Looking at the ways in which narrative silence both coincides and conflicts with the socially instituted silence of Senapati’s diegetic landscape generates a way of evaluating the ethics and politics of a literary text outside the limited frameworks of interiority and depth. This in turn allows us to accommodate the much more restrained politics of a nineteenthcentury Indian novel within a contemporary feminist theoretical paradigm without sacrificing its historicity or its realist interest in representing its own time.

The Double Edge of Overcoming Silence in Nirmala We can further observe the stakes of narrative silence by looking at Premchand’s Hindi novel Nirmala, published in 1927, more than a quarter century after Chha Mana. While Premchand’s protagonist Nirmala is, like Saantani and Saria, silenced both by and within the narrative, she struggles against her conditions to ultimately overcome her marginalization and achieve the centrality she desires. Yet in a tragic irony continuing the tradition of social critique engaged in by Senapati, Nirmala’s centrality—her realization of the promise embedded in the novel’s title—comes at a significant cost to her self, resulting in a premature death that marks her as ultimately similar to her literary predecessors. The difference—and in this lies Nirmala’s paradoxical achievement—is that because it is, in the end, her novel (where Chha Mana is not Saantani’s or Saria’s), Nirmala’s death is not sidelined but comprises the main substance of the plot, and thus the novel must end along with her life. However, in a politically significant way, this death around which everyone gathers is as brutal as the sidelined deaths in Chha Mana, for it reveals the hollowness of empowerment within the narrowly defined parameters of individual character-space in the realist novel. In this way, building on the strands of feminist critique instituted in the late nineteenth-century Indian novel—with Saantani as its paradigmatic, silent, and graceful instance—Nirmala

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takes Chha Mana’s critique a step further. Premchand’s novel shows, through a set of productive disjunctures between story and discourse, how the model of agency built into the novel form, although able to liberate Nirmala from an oppressive narrative in which fate determines all outcomes, at the same time can implicate her in all sorts of other narratives over which she has no control.5 In this way, even more explicitly than Chha Mana, Nirmala complicates the seemingly self-evident opposition between silence and political empowerment. Nirmala is the story of a young woman who, following the sudden death of her father, is married off by her mother to a much older man and father of three, Munshi Totaram, because he does not demand a dowry. Munshiji’s oldest son, Mansaram, is Nirmala’s age, and despite Munshiji’s relatively good nature, he is increasingly plagued with jealousy by what he sees as a close relationship between Nirmala and Mansaram. His suspicions begin to cloud his judgment, and he sends Mansaram to live at the university hostel. Even when Mansaram falls sick, Munshiji cannot shake off his jealousy and finds a way to avoid bringing him back home. This leads to Mansaram’s death and the beginning of a series of misfortunes for the family. Nirmala, meanwhile, is blamed by Rukmini, the Munshi’s widowed sister, for being the harbinger of the household’s misfortunes. Indeed, Nirmala pities herself for her bad fortune of ending up with a man with whom she shares little and to whom she is not physically attracted. However, vowing to do the best under the circumstances, she ends up having a daughter of her own and attempts to heal the family after Mansaram’s death. Yet the situation gets worse. Jiyaram, in a fit of rebellion, steals Nirmala’s jewelry case, and when he is found out leaves the house and commits suicide. Finally, Siyaram, the third son, leaves town with a group of corrupt ascetics, and Munshiji is left devastated by this final loss. In contrast to the more metaphorical title of Senapati’s text, Nirmala’s title makes the explicit claim that this novel is Nirmala’s and Nirmala’s alone. Yet despite this promise, the novel’s first paragraph sees Nirmala introduced obliquely rather than directly, very much like Saantani and Saria in Chha Mana: “Although there were dozens of people in Babu Udayabhanulal’s household—cousins maternal and paternal, sons of brothers, sons of sisters—there is little reason to concern ourselves with them here [unse koi prayojan nahin]. . . . We are concerned here [hamara sambandh] only with his two daughters, the older of whom is called Nirmala, the younger Krishna” (N 1).6 As in the earlier case, such an oblique manner of introduction reenacts the marginality of the protagonist at the level of narrative and asserts this

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“Why Don’t You Speak?”

Ulka Anjaria

marginality as constitutive of her character. For Nirmala, this is only emphasized by the gesture on the following page, in which the news of her wedding “has made the innocent girl hide her face [moonh dhaampkar] and take refuge in a lonely corner [kone] of the house” (N 2). Although within the story an index for sharam, or modesty, the turning away of the face stands here as a bodily expression of the marginal position of the protagonist in relation to the narration that attempts to represent her. This marginality is then reinvoked by her mother in the context of her second attempt at marrying Nirmala off, in this case by means of a discourse of fate that overdetermines individual agency. As Nirmala’s mother justifies her decision, “If the girl is destined to be happy [bhaagya mein sukh bhogna badaa hai], she’ll be happy wherever she goes, and if she’s destined to be miserable [dukh bhogna hai], she will be miserable, no matter what” (N 37). Likewise, it is a strong sense of fate that keeps Nirmala relatively silent even when faced with injustice from her husband and sister-in-law. In all this, Nirmala remains an empty center, marked more by the potentiality of her narrative centrality than by its actualization. As in the case of Chha Mana, the clear social critique immanent in Nirmala has led critics to interpret it through theories of silence. For instance, in his essay titled “Hearing Nirmala’s Silence,” critic Alok Rai describes Nirmala’s compulsion to silence as the primary cause of readerly frustration with the novel, as it renders Nirmala prone to one false accusation after another. He attributes Nirmala’s refusal to defend herself against Rukmini to “her inability to speak, her stubborn refusal to speak up at critical moments, her overwhelming anxiety to appear good as distinct from being and doing good, her persistent failure to act as a morally responsible person” (210). The tragedy of the novel, therefore, is the silent figure of Nirmala herself, who is complicit in her own undoing, as she “is a monster of passivity, someone who destroys through her inability (and/or refusal: weapons of the weak) to think and to act, to be a person” (211). Yet although Rai all but dismisses the possibility that Nirmala is in control of her own silence, like Saantani, her decision of when not to speak is in fact a deliberate attempt to control her own destiny in a socially oppressive context. As we read: “She would have liked to explain her own conduct but she could not. If she’d said she was only doing what her husband desired, she would be revealing that which should remain private between her and her husband. If, on the other hand, she accepted her own fault in the business and sought to remedy its ill-effects, she was afraid of where the consequences might lead . . . There was no alternative to silence at this juncture” (N 68).

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Like Saantani, then, Nirmala mobilizes her narrative silencing as a tool against those within the narrative who attempt to marginalize and control her, and she is in fact not “passive” at all. However, unlike Chha Mana, the trajectory of Nirmala, as defined by the promise held out by its title, strives toward its protagonist realizing her centrality, and in fact it is this tendency that pulls the narrative along, even while Nirmala is increasingly marginalized within the story. The novel is thus forced to deal with the question of how empowerment can be conceived in a context in which silence is a significant tool of power. As Nirmala struggles to assert herself within the same structural conditions as her nineteenth-century predecessors, the trajectory of the novel toward realizing its protagonist—what Meenakshi Mukherjee describes as the form’s “in-built emphasis on individual self-determination” (70)—refuses her ultimate marginalization and releases a fundamental tension between the fact of social marginalization and the promise of individual liberation embedded in the novel form. Thus when Jiyaram steals her jewelry case, Nirmala, despite witnessing the theft, chooses to remain silent, knowing that she will be accused, once again, of holding a grudge against her husband’s children. As with Saantani, Nirmala’s silence is not an expression of weakness but, within the text, calls attention to the implicit hypocrisy of society at large. However, in response to the theft Munshiji mobilizes a police investigation, which ultimately names Jiyaram as the culprit and, in order to save his family’s honor, has no recourse but to bribe the police officer to secure his release. When Munshiji finds out that Nirmala had known the identity of the thief all along, he berates her for not naming Jiyaram earlier and thus preventing the embarrassing investigation: “‘You should have said it to me anyway. I wouldn’t have made a report to the police. You were very concerned about preserving your own image but gave no thought to the consequences that would follow’” (N 161). In humiliation, Jiyaram leaves the house and commits suicide. While at one level Munshiji’s anger underlines the dire conditions in which Nirmala lives, I read this scene as a moment of contradiction between Nirmala’s marginalized position and the novel’s structural investment in her centrality. Thus even when Nirmala attempts to withdraw, like Saantani, and choose silence over words, at the level of discourse she is thrust into a position of centrality—after all, she cannot die in the middle of it, like Saantani, but must live until the end—and be blamed for Jiyaram’s suicide, over which she in fact had no control. Thus in refusing to act—an expression of individual will inflected as such by so many women protagonists before her—she

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“Why Don’t You Speak?”

Ulka Anjaria

continues to be blamed for every misfortune the family faces, and in doing so attains her place as the novel’s central figure. Thus far from liberating her, this new agency further implicates her, and exacts a severe price from her character. In response to her husband’s accusation, Nirmala turns into a figure completely unlike herself—miserly, strident, and disagreeable. She begins to treat Sayaram, the Munshi’s third son, as a personal slave, sending him back and forth to the market to haggle over a few annas and reneging all her motherly feelings toward him—and ultimately he leaves the house as well. Ironically, then, when Nirmala acquires some agency within her plot—and is able to affect, for instance, the fate of her stepson—it is not the agency she would have chosen. Unlike Saantani or Saria, she cannot die ennobled, but bears the weight of her centrality on her character—and under these structural conditions, the weight is too much to bear. For while the discourse of fate had stunted her individuality, the discourse of individual agency upon which the novel relies inflects the overcoming of silence with a moral vacuousness that mitigates her apparent triumph. On one level, Nirmala achieves what Saantani or Saria never do: narrative centrality and control over the novel’s plot. Yet at the same time, as if succumbing to the model of criminal agency attributed to her by her husband and by society at large, Nirmala’s agency within the narrative only manifests itself negatively. The last chapter thus finds Nirmala in a very different position from the first: her face is no longer turned away, and she now squarely meets the narrator’s gaze. However, she is able to do so not through the liberating power of finding her voice, but through what amounts to an excess of agency, so that, as she laments, “‘Anyone whose life was at all touched by mine was destroyed utterly [jis par meri chaaya bhi pad gayi, uska sarvanaash ho gaya]’” (N 195). In this way, the final pages of the novel reveal the cost of her centrality in the larger social world: “She didn’t say anything to anyone, she didn’t look at anyone, nor did she listen to anyone” (N 196). Yet when Nirmala passes away—like Saria, in relative disgrace—her corpse not only occupies the totality of the narrative but attracts everyone’s gaze in its direction: “The entire neighborhood gathered. The body was brought outside” (N 196); Nirmala has finally realized the promise of the novel’s title. Yet she does so only through, ironically, relinquishing the ethical position on whose behalf she had sought centrality in the first place, and by actually contributing to the final ruin of the household where she had acted inculpably thus far.

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Ostensibly, the status of the female subject has changed in contemporary literature, as, following the feminist movements of the 1960s and beyond, silence has become a less viable condition for women characters. While this change has emerged from important political movements that have radically transformed the expectations we bring to novels, especially women’s novels, and from the standardization of narrative interiority as a literary practice, it is always important to balance a celebration of these changes with a thorough interrogation of the narrative politics of new texts. I suggest that while at one level Saantani and Nirmala might appear as fundamentally outdated figures whose silence is a form of bare survival within completely oppressive social circumstances, at another level, the ambivalent ethics of silence in both texts and the relation between silence and agency complicate such a view. To end this chapter, then, I will give a brief example from a contemporary text, Monica Ali’s Brick Lane, for which empowerment through narrative interiority is central to its feminist vision. Against conventional accounts of Brick Lane’s overt feminism,7 I suggest that an interrogation of the many registers of silence in earlier feminist novels such as Chha Mana and Nirmala calls into question its obvious political inclination, suggesting, more broadly, that a novel’s politics cannot be read off its narrative practices, but must also be assessed according to the commitment of the narrative to probe the implications of silence not only within the story it tells, but in its mode of telling it. Monica Ali’s Brick Lane begins, like Chha Mana and Nirmala, with a digressive telling that only eventually makes its way to its primary subject: the baby Nazneen. Like the other texts, the initial emphasis is on the family to which the female protagonist is somehow indebted, and into which she arrives as an afterthought—a technique that exposes the misogyny of society at large: “An hour and forty-five minutes before Nazneen’s life began—began as it would proceed for quite some time, that is to say uncertainly—her mother Rupban felt an iron fist squeeze her belly” (BL 11).8 Indeed, the whole introduction to the novel details the various ways Nazneen is marginalized, including—as in Nirmala— the overdetermination of her character by a discourse of fate, and her marriage to a much older man. Yet unlike the other novels, which move relatively chronologically, Brick Lane jumps forward 18 years within the next few pages, and here the narrative style, if not Nazneen’s place in her social universe, changes dramatically. Nazneen begins to occupy the center of the narrative space, even while she struggles under the oppressive

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Epilogue: Beyond Silence in Brick Lane

Ulka Anjaria

conditions of her marriage, a dearth of opportunities outside the walls of her dingy home, and an overall eclipsing of any individual desire or subjectivity to the larger metanarratives of family and duty. This shift immediately signals the politics of the plot, which follows a clear trajectory from silence to empowerment, and thus foreshadows the shift to come within the story, from an oppressed and marginalized Nazneen to one who takes control of her own life. And indeed, the story fulfills this early promise. As time passes, Nazneen eventually resists her circumstances and gains control of her own fate, in particular through her sexual affair with Karim and, at the very end, her decision not to accompany her husband back to Dhaka. In this context, as in Nirmala, the last chapter contains a very different Nazneen than the one in the first chapter: far from indirect, here Nazneen and her husband are effectively separated and she is collaborating with her best friend Razia to start a sewing business on their own. The final scene sees her, Razia, and her two daughters ice skating—a sport Nazneen had been fascinated with since her arrival in London almost twenty years earlier, as it had represented to her the ultimate embodiment not only of sexual freedom and independence, but of the new climate of her diasporic life. The teleology is clear, and Nazneen finds herself in a tradition of “empowered” women of contemporary literature—what Susan Lanser defines as “a literary character who refuses patriarchal pressures [and thus is . . . ] ‘finding a voice’” (4). As Jane Hiddleston confirms, “The novel clearly seeks to uncover subjectivities that have so far been deprived of a public voice” (59). At the level of discourse, however, the descriptive principles of the narrative undergo very little transformation. For while Nazneen is, for much of the novel, like Saantani, Saria, and Nirmala, a silent figure—in the sense that her husband, Chanu, rarely hears her speak—extradiegetically, from the time of the initial jump forward in narration, she occupies the clear center of the novel. This paradox is resolved through the extensive use of interiority as the dominant mode of characterization in the novel. We therefore read countless passages such as the following: Nazneen kept quiet. Her guts prickled. Her forehead tightened. All he [Chanu] could do was talk. The baby was just another thing to talk about. For Nazneen, the baby’s life was more real to her than her own. His life was full of needs: actual and urgent needs, which she could supply. What was her own life, by contrast, but a series of gnawings, ill-defined and impossible to satisfy? And Chanu just talked (BL 83).

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The distinction drawn here between the silence and the chatty is belied by the extensive amount of narrative attention given to Nazneen. In other words, while Chanu’s character is developed through dialogue, Nazneen’s is developed through her interiority, so that we come to know her—her feelings, her thoughts, her fears—much more intimately than we ever come to know Chanu, who is, in the end as in the beginning, a man of more words than substance. Dialogue, then, as in Chha Mana, is called into question as a mode of coming to know characters; but because of the heavy use of interiority, Nazneen is, nevertheless, never called into question as fully knowable. Compare this to Saantani and Saria, who are truly elusive presences within Chha Mana, in which the narrator makes his social critique by revaluing the silences instituted on its women by society. Likewise, Nirmala’s knowability, contained within the promise of her novel’s title, is achieved only at the expense of her character, thus exposing the hypocrisy of empowerment in a continuingly unequal society. Unlike these two texts, Brick Lane works to externalize the question of silence to an exclusively social ill, and presents the novel, by contrast, as an almost utopian form in which such silence can be abolished, rather than as a form itself complicit with inequality. I trace this point of difference, in part, to differing understandings of the politics of realism and of the social uses of literature more generally. While Chha Mana and Nirmala seek to fully represent injustice as a social and textual problem, Brick Lane’s eagerness to represent female empowerment through a conventional teleology of overcoming silence ends up privileging the story over the discourse. The result is a relatively local politics that cannot transcend its time, as it fails to thematize the exclusionary form of the novel as part of its social critique. By contrast, stories—such as those of Senapati and Premchand—that are at the same time narratives about the problem of telling have the potential not only to represent narrative injustice but also to convey the power of such injustice to distort their very forms. In this way, careful analysis of the politics of silence in texts seemingly outside the feminist canon can raise new questions for the study of narrative politics and feminist empowerment, both in the past and today.

Notes 1. English citations from Chha Mana Atha Guntha come from the 2005 translation by Rabi Shankar Mishra, Satya P. Mohanty, Jatindra K. Nayak, and Paul St. Pierre, published by the University of California Press. 2. Satya P. Mohanty has associated the phrase “literary view from below” with Senapati’s novel because “his literary innovations have

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“Why Don’t You Speak?”

3.

4.

5.

6. 7.

8.

Ulka Anjaria social and ideological implications” (15), and because his “complex and self-reflexive narrative style raises questions about how we should interpret the author’s own values and intentions” (Mohanty and Trivedi, 4780). I support this reading of Chha Mana and, like many others influenced by Mohanty’s reading, seek to interrogate the usefulness and applicability of the concept of a “literary view from below” beyond this one novel. As I see it, this entails to some degree delineating the limits of the concept by determining which characteristics might qualify a text to be included within the category and which might disqualify it. This chapter is an attempt to move in that direction through an interrogation of narrative silence as a feature of socially conscious literature. In the narrator’s description of Saantani, he writes, “If anyone said anything harsh to her she remained quiet. Just as it is difficult to know whether a salagram stone is in a sitting or a sleeping position, no one could tell whether she was happy or unhappy” (ibid., 144). Elsewhere, I have discussed Chha Mana’s lengthy, digressive narration as a principle that pokes deliberate fun at the conventions of representational economy instituted in the Indian subcontinent by colonial education (Anjaria, 4796), but in this scene the digressive narration carries a certain gravitas, associated as it is with the continuous objectification of the novel’s marginalized figures, even in death. I do not want to imply that Premchand read Senapati and explicitly modeled Nirmala after Saantani. Rather, I hope to identify certain features common to Indian novels on the “woman question” of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, which include a certain compulsion to silence. English citations from Nirmala are from the Oxford University Press edition translated by Alok Rai (1). Hindi citations are from the 2005 Rupa edition. See, for instance, the reviews of the novel, many of which read it, as does the Times Literary Supplement, as portraying “[Nazneen’s] journey from submissive teenager to hesitantly independent mother” (from preliminary pages of Brick Lane). Ali, 11.

Bibliography Ali, Monica. Brick Lane. London: Black Swan, 2004. Anjaria, Ulka. “Satire, Literary Realism and the Indian State: Six Acres and a Third and Raag Darbari.” Economic and Political Weekly 41, no. 46 (2006): 4795–4800. Hedges, Elaine, and Shelley Fisher Fishkin. Introduction. In Listening to Silences: New Essays in Feminist Criticism, edited by Elaine Hedges and Shelley Fisher Fishkin, 3–14. New York: Oxford University Press, 1994.

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Hiddleston, Jane. “Shapes and Shadows: (Un)veiling the Immigrant in Monica Ali’s Brick Lane.” Journal of Commonwealth Literature 40, no. 1 (2005): 57–72. Horan, Claire. “Representation of Women and Gender Relations in Six Acres and a Third.” Economic and Political Weekly 41, no. 46 (2006): 4789–93. Katz, Tamar. Impressionist Subjects: Gender, Interiority, and Modernist Fiction in England. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2000. Lanser, Susan Sniader. Fictions of Authority: Women Writers and Narrative Voice. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992. Laurence, Patricia. “Women’s Silence as a Ritual of Truth: A Study of Literary Expressions in Austen, Brontë, and Woolf.” In Listening to Silences: New Essays in Feminist Criticism, edited by Elaine Hedges and Shelley Fisher Fishkin, 156–67. New York: Oxford University Press, 1994. Lukács, Georg. The Theory of the Novel: A Historico-Philosophical Essay on the Forms of Great Epic Literature. Translated by Anna Bostock. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1971. McKeon, Michael. Introduction. In Theory of the Novel: A Historical Approach, edited by Michael McKeon, xiii–xviii. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000. Mishra, Rabi Shankar. “Chha Mana Atha Guntha: The Language of Power and the Silences of a Woman.” In Early Novels in India, edited by Meenakshi Mukherjee, 240–60. New Delhi: Sahitya Akademi, 2002. Mohanty, Satya P. Introduction. In Six Acres and a Third, by Fakir Mohan Senapati, 1–31. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005. Mohanty, Satya P., and Harish Trivedi. Introduction. Special issue on Six Acres and a Third. Economic and Political Weekly 41, no. 46 (2006): 4780–81. Mukherjee, Meenakshi. Realism and Reality: The Novel and Society in India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1985. Peterson, Carla L. “‘Further Liftings of the Veil’: Gender, Class, and Labor in Frances E. W. Harper’s Iola Leroy.” In Listening to Silences: New Essays in Feminist Criticism, edited by Elaine Hedges and Shelley Fisher Fishkin, 97–112. New York: Oxford University Press, 1994. Premchand. Nirmala. New Delhi: Rupa, 2005. ———. Nirmala. Translated by Alok Rai. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1999. Racine, Maria J. “Voice and Interiority in Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God.” African American Review 28, no. 2 (1994): 283–92. Rai, Alok. “Hearing Nirmala’s Silence.” Afterword. In Nirmala, by Premchand, 197–211. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1999. Senapati, Fakir Mohan. Six Acres and a Third: The Classic Nineteenth-Century Novel about Colonial India. Translated by Rabi Shankar Mishra, Satya P. Mohanty, Jatindra K. Nayak, and Paul St. Pierre. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005.

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Smith, Sidonie. “Performativity, Autobiographical Practice, Resistance.” In Women, Autobiography, Theory: A Reader, edited by Sidonie Smith and Julia Watson, 108–15. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1998.

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The Many Contexts of Six Acres and a Third

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Part II

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The Representation of Women and Gender Relations in S ix Acres and a Third Claire Horan

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n Six Acres and a Third, Fakir Mohan Senapati defends socioeconomic ideals that were radical in the late nineteenth century, when he was writing. Much has been written about Senapati’s criticism of social and economic injustice (Mohanty, Mohapatra, Sawyer, Vargas). In addition to his condemnation of the caste and legal systems as benefiting only British colonials and rich or dishonest Indians, Senapati’s stylistic choices challenge the way peasants were written about by the British and by British-educated Indians, or babus; he writes with deeper and less stereotyped characterization, thus providing a more subtle and realistic account of their lives. No less important is Senapati’s continual questioning of not only the colonial British authority, but also the authority wielded by Hindu tradition. Amid all his arguments for social and economic justice, what does Senapati say about women? In his attempts at realism, does he present a similarly realistic view of the village women, a complex view that allows for subtle differences between women? Through a close reading of Six Acres and a Third, I argue that, in his narrator’s statements concerning women and the relationships between female and male characters, Senapati presents vivid, complex, and nonsexist portraits

An earlier version of this essay appeared in Economic and Political Weekly in 2006.

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Representation of Women Much of the information we receive about the author’s attitude toward women comes from the narrator’s statements. Deliberately flighty and inconsistent, the narrator often uses humor to present his opinions. At other times, he comments seriously on what he considers to be general truths. He is a powerful and intelligent character whose judgments we can align with those of the author because, as Satya Mohanty argues, his “critiques add up to a coherent and systematic social and ethical vision” (8)—a vision that Senapati would not have had him expound so persuasively if it were not intended to be taken seriously. This narrator argues in several instances that a woman’s character matters more than her appearance. The narrator states that the readers can recognize Champa and Saria because “human beings are known not by their faces, but by their characters” (113). The narrator’s statement uses the generic term “human beings” (in Oriya: manushya), rather than the more specifically gendered term purusha—“men.” His comment questions assumptions made on the basis not only of color or caste but of gender as well. This statement suggests that Senapati’s vision of reform includes changes benefiting women as well as men. In a chapter titled “Champa,” the narrator expands on this idea that character matters more than appearance by ranting unequivocally about which features of women should and should not be described in proper literature. The chapter is not really about Champa at all. In fact, the most we glean about her is from a few sprinkled adjectives, all of which give us a negative view of her character. Instead of actually informing the readers about Champa, as one would expect, this chapter raises general questions about the representation of women in literature. The narrator mocks tradition by saying that, according to the classical rules of literature, an author should “do nothing but describe [a heroine’s] beauty, forgetting everything else about her” (56–57). He then mocks both traditional Indian authors and babus, saying that traditional Indian literature compares women to elephants, and babus are no better since they imitate the British by comparing women to horses: “How absurd to compare four-footed creatures,

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of rural women. Further, many of the narrator’s comments reveal his society’s injustice toward women and the need for change. Senapati’s overall critique of social injustice includes women as among the victims of this injustice, and his vision for economic and social reform empowers both women and men.

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Her eyes are decorated with kajal, Her mouth full of betel, Her body, massaged with oil and tumeric paste. Draped in a sixteen-cubit sari, She moves as fast as a she-dog. Her hair has a top-knot trimmed with flowers; So heavy is she, one knows not Whether she walks or runs. Thick metal rings adorn her fingers. Gesturing wildly she marches through the fields, Her jingling anklets striking terror in the hearts of villagers. (60–61)

Although Champa is here compared to an animal, the comparison is not between their appearances but rather her manner of moving, which reflects an aspect of her personality. The narrator’s discussion of women in literature has two main purposes. The chapter “Champa” undoubtedly uses this discussion of women to mock Indians who would docilely accept either English or traditional Indian attitudes and standards. But the narrator’s argument should also be read as empowering women. The narrator states that women should not, like animals, be valued simply for their bodies or attractive appearance. The description of Champa demonstrates that an important female character should be well developed. This dual purpose of the chapter, to mock babu culture and to criticize superficial characterizations of women, is refreshing, especially considering that many historical ideologies that have attempted to challenge colonial rule have involved and even explicitly promoted the denial of rights to women in the name of respect for traditional native lifestyles. In this chapter, the narrator pleads for the complex presentation of a “heroine.” Rather than a description of Champa’s appearance, the first words used to describe her role are “authority” and “power” (55). It should be noted that neither Champa nor any other female character in Six Acres and a Third is important for her looks. In Champa’s case, this point is emphasized when she disguises herself as the wealthy aunt of a new daughter-in-law in Ratanpur. The women are convinced by her forceful personality and her elaborate ornamentation, but after she leaves they engage in a “long and lively discussion” of her ugliness

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such as horses and elephants, to women!” The narrator next provides a playful parody of a few lines from the classical writer Kalidasa. These lines describe Champa with unidealized physical characteristics, giving her depth and making her character more believable:

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Her hide was black, and on her forehead was a white mark in the shape of the moon. It is said that a black cow with such markings belongs in a rich man’s house. Neta’s horns were narrow, strong, and close together; her tail was thin and long . . . (93)

The description comprises a lengthy paragraph. One may question why Neta’s physical appearance deserves so much attention while human appearances are given no emphasis. The answer may lie in the subsequent comparison of Neta to a paper mill (93). Neta’s appearance is important because her body is a commodity; she is important only for what she can produce. Remembering also the narrator’s disgust at comparisons between women and animals, it follows that Senapati objects to traditional authors’ insistence on physical descriptions of women partly because he feels their worth should not correspond to their physique. Another chapter, “Asura Pond,” also questions descriptions of women in popular writing, this time by rewriting a chapter of Bengal Peasant Life by Lal Behari Day, one of the first Indian authors to write realistically about village life. Senapati and Day both present the women as quite petty in their everyday interests and conversations; the conversation of the washerwomen at the pond revolves around household duties, motherhood, and village gossip. But unlike Day’s Asura Pond women, Senapati’s women have differentiated names and personalities, even when they are not presented as fully developed characters. Jasoda is prone to anger and intolerant of children; Pali is a good cook and wants everyone to know it; Lakshmi focuses mainly on her own prettiness. Although these characters are minor and superficial, each woman is unique in Senapati’s version. It is also significant that Senapati shows the village men to be as petty as the women. At their washing place at the pond, the men converse about farming and livestock. Senapati seems to find this conversation so much less interesting than that of the women that he lends it only a paragraph of description while the women are given two pages. The narrator remarks, “It was not as if the men were silent while they bathed. No, like the women, they too talked a lot. But their

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(136). Her plot is effective in impressing the women, despite her displeasing physical appearance. So insistent is Senapati that women should not be prized for their looks alone that the only female whose appearance is described in great detail is Neta, Saria’s cow:

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talk was repetitive, always centering on the same themes. Therefore, there is no point reporting at length what they talked about . . . These are familiar subjects. It is not necessary to elaborate on them here” (108–9). By mentioning the “familiarity” of the men’s conversation topics, Senapati points out that both the society being described and the society of the intended reader are male dominated. In his privileging of women’s conversation, we can see Senapati’s desire to represent women; since the male world has had more written about it, he does not describe it in as much detail as he does that of the women. The main female characters also possess varied characteristics. Of course there is Champa, who has already been mentioned. The narrator refers to her as the heroine (121), just as he calls Mangaraj the hero. Because of her menacing and untrustworthy nature, she is compared to several animals: a “she-dog,” a “she-jackal,” and a “cockroach.” Her heavy gait is like that of a “she-dog” when she storms through the village causing trouble (61). The comparison between Champa and the jackals is clarified by the juxtaposition of the end of Chapter 13 and the beginning of Chapter 14. It is midnight as Champa and Mangaraj plan their evil deeds at the end of Chapter 13, and Chapter 14 begins with jackals howling at midnight (62). Like a jackal clearing away the carcasses of other animals, Champa enjoys and benefits from the suffering of others. The narrator says Champa is like a cockroach because she and cockroaches have “the same complexion,” but Champa’s superstition states that cockroaches bring wealth, which she certainly does for Mangaraj (119). Although she has greater intelligence than the zamindar, he still has social power over her. Senapati points this out with a private bedroom scene where Champa positions herself at Mangaraj’s feet, yet he tells her that surely she can think of a plan for them both: “‘Though I have failed, you can certainly find a way. If you put your mind to it, something could be done. For three years I have tried to trap that weaver, Bhagia; but as soon as you took the matter into your own hands, the deed was done.’” (122)

Mangaraj clearly recognizes and admits Champa’s superior intelligence as the reason she could succeed where he had failed. Not only does Champa’s talent at trickery provide the basis for her success at stealing, but this talent is the most likely explanation for Mangaraj’s attraction to her. Although she does not have a pleasant physical appearance, this scene suggests that Mangaraj prefers her to his wife as an object of desire. The suggestion that having intelligence rather

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than beauty could make Champa more attractive as a sexual partner is another instance of Senapati’s view that women should be described complexly and valued for more than their appearance. In addition to being described as powerful and intelligent, Champa is described as strong. Regarding her arguments with Gobinda, her accomplice in stealing from Mangaraj after his arrest, the narrator comments that “two persons of equal strength pulling in opposite directions do not budge” (188). For a male author in the late nineteenth century to suggest that men and women can have equal strength and force of character was unusual in any culture. Whereas Champa is clearly a complex character, it is difficult to say whether Saantani, an important female protagonist, is a complex character or an idealized figure. Saantani, Mangaraj’s wife, is very different from Champa. She, like Champa, is strong, but her strength should be distinguished from Champa’s strength—Saantani’s strength is of the more traditionally feminine kind. She has inner strength and goodness, the kind necessary to withstand suffering and to deny herself for others. Whereas Champa is a wellspring of both genuine and false emotions, Saantani restrains herself even when she is alone. She is also shown to be generous to a fault. She gives back to the villagers what her husband takes from them. Rather than fight her husband openly, Saantani protests by not speaking. The narrator praises her for her tolerance (144), and after she is dead, the villagers remember her and praise her for her wifely devotion and her purity (143–44). There is plenty of evidence to suggest that Saantani represents an ideal rather than a realistic character. As Rabi Shankar Mishra has pointed out, Senapati does not provide Saantani1 with a real name. Furthermore, she is not even identified as “the Saantani” until after the narrator has elucidated Mangaraj’s intimate relationship with Champa. Before this scene, she is simply referred to as “the zamindar’s wife.” Instead of having a unique name, she is named and defined by her role as wife to Mangaraj and mother to the village. Whereas Champa is compared to animals, the narrator generalizes Saantani’s characteristics to those of womankind: “A tender-hearted woman can endure sorrows which would break a man’s heart. A woman’s capacity for tolerance is greater than that of any man” (123). Further evidence that Saantani is an idealized rather than a realistic woman is that characters in the novel see her as a saint or goddess figure. The entire village grieves for her when she dies, even though many of them did not interact with her much in life. Moments before his death, Mangaraj sees her image as a goddess seated on a jeweled throne (217). The epigraph of the chapter “Saantani,” by including

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the phrase “their deeds shall be remembered for ever,” (142), encourages the reader to view her as a saint rather than a realistic, flawed human being. Mishra has argued that Saantani’s life represents a mode of empowerment to women. I would disagree—first because she leads a life of suffering and second because she represents an Indian ideal that casts women solely as wives and mothers who should emulate the honor and purity of goddesses. I would argue that this ideal is oppressive to any woman who does not fit this mold, and women should not have to lead lives of suffering and self-denial in order to be mourned at their death. Directly after telling us that the villagers thought of Saantani’s character as noble and pious, the narrator says the following, implying that the villagers felt that a women should hold these beliefs and feelings: “Fate had denied her a husband’s affection, which is what a woman treasures most, but she suffered the neglect without complaint. She simply believed that to serve her husband was her sacred duty, and performing this duty gave her joy” (144). It is clear that the villagers thought of Saantani as a good role model, but it is an entirely separate question whether Senapati thought of her as a role model for women. John Boulton, a biographer of Senapati, theorizes that the idealized character of Saantani is modeled on Senapati’s grandmother, Kucila Dei, who, Senapati felt, was the one member of his family to give him the affection and care he needed as a child. In addition, Boulton argues that the grandmother’s lack of assertiveness resulted in a dysfunctional household. Boulton contends that early in his career Senapati created powerless but virtuous characters like Saantani, based on his idealized image of his grandmother, believing them to be perfect; however, in his later writing Senapati creates more realistic heroines, who have qualities that can be used and viewed both positively and negatively (Boulton 107). Perhaps Senapati was already questioning what a perfect woman would be like when he wrote Six Acres and a Third. There are other positive female characters in the novel, and the villagers, not the narrator, voice their belief that Saantani is the perfect wife and woman. In creating her character, Senapati may have been merely drawing on a cultural ideal rather than his personal concept of an ideal woman. We cannot know whether he thought a character like Saantani was a good role model for women or if he was only describing her role as a common or desirable one among village women.

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While many of the narrator’s comments about Saantani suggest that women are sweetest when serving their husbands, there are plenty of comments to suggest that the narrator is criticizing this social value. The novel emphasizes and encourages criticism of social values and norms. Just as Senapati criticizes the colonialist mindset of babus, he criticizes the way women are thought of and treated in traditional rural villages. The narrator discusses the hardships of Mangaraj’s wife by comparing them to those of servants: “The Shastras say: ‘All rivers run to the sea, lose their sweetness and become salty.’ How right that is! In the same way, wives and servants lose themselves in their master” (46). Here is another place in the text where Senapati’s desire for social reform benefiting servants is aligned with benefiting women as well. Social justice includes both men and women. The narrator makes fun of the women of the zamindar’s household on one hand and calls them victims on the other. The narrator’s jokes contain a subtle strand of social criticism. The daughters-in-law are characterized as lazy women who do not work but only sleep all day and cause fights among the servants (54). In their defense, he gives the impression that perhaps they have so little to do that they are not completely to blame for causing trouble. The narrator uses the position of the daughters-in-law to poke fun at the idea of propriety and honor for women, the idea that to mention women would be to dishonor them and their family. He first claims that he cannot speak of these young women for propriety’s sake, then goes on to describe their slovenly habits (53–54). The narrator also makes a playful joke about the maidservants in the house, saying, “The women in the house outnumber the men and their voices drowned out all the others, except the barber’s” (52). Although this joke plays on stereotypes of women, Senapati balances this negative view by making fun of male figures as well, such as when the narrator jokes about Brahmins wandering around idly reciting slokas (49). Furthermore, if the reader were to question why the women so outnumber the men in the household, she would find that the narrator addresses this question with a jibe at the practice of child marriage and the sad plight of village widows. The narrator lists the names of the servants, but he cannot list them all because there are so many. He explains, “Some were child widows, some had been widowed young, and some were born widows; only a few had husbands” (54). The women’s victimhood is also addressed in their recurrent association with birds. The victims in the novel, men and women, are

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compared to small birds that must seek protection from the traps and predation of larger, more powerful birds. The narrator tells us that the maidservants flocked to Mangaraj’s house “like birds seeking shelter in a large tree” (54). The zamindar thinks to himself, “Come, sweet birdies, step into my trap” (76), referring to men from another village also as small birds; he plans to trick them into giving up their property. After Mangaraj’s downfall, both his daughters-in-law and his servants again become birds, suffering from grief and confusion “just as Bani birds chatter in fear when a dhamana snake comes into their nest” (204). Note that both men and women are compared to small birds. The fact that this comparison to birds applies for both men and women suggests that both are victims of economic and social injustice, although they can be affected in different ways. This bird motif is further developed in the “Asura Pond” chapter. This chapter has both the novel’s most detailed descriptions of nature and its most obvious anticolonial social commentary. In this pond scene, Senapati implies that in some ways colonialism lessens the inequality between traditional Indian men and women by subjecting both to injustice. This is an exception to his general critique of unequal gender relations. Asura Pond is the site where the different species of birds compete for fish. The British kingfishers come out of nowhere, attack instantly, and return home with much acquired wealth. The Hindu cranes are stupid, says the narrator. They wait all day and catch only a few fish. The kite is smarter and cleverer than the cranes. The kite is like a Brahmin, swooping down only once in a great while, but catching a big fish with minimal effort (103–4). Women play a part in this competitive tableau. Each type of woman is a different flower on the pond. The water lilies are Hindu daughtersin-law who must hide from view during the day and can only blossom at night, while the rata lilies are like “educated Christian ladies” who think themselves too good for the water lilies (104). The competition among the birds explains the direct economic conflict between ordinary Indians and the British colonizers, as well as between the higher and the lower castes. The flowers signify an indirect conflict in which the prestige of traditional Indian women is threatened by the Indian women who left behind their native lifestyles in order to live like the English invaders. These new Indian women dress and behave differently from the traditional Indian women and so choose not to associate with them; the British colonizers have therefore caused a rift between these two groups of Indian women just as they have exacerbated caste differences for the men.

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Women and Gender in S ix A cres

Claire Horan

In the system of Asura Pond, the men, unable to catch fish, suffer economically while the women, scorned flowers, suffer socially, but both spheres are part of the same unjust system. This scene suggests that while men and women have separate roles in society, they suffer equally from colonialism. The men are the breadwinners, or the fishers, and so their suffering is quite visible. They either make money for their families or cannot feed them. The women’s role is more social, but they are also negatively affected by colonialism. They must choose between traditional gendered Hindu values and British values as to how they should dress and conduct themselves to bring the most honor and respect to their families. Just as Senapati showed men and women to suffer equally from colonial injustices, there seems to be no gender difference in the severity and significance of other forms of human suffering in this novel. The aforementioned scene testifies to this, and so does the characterization of the weaver couple, Bhagia and Saria. Saria is described as a “simple, innocent ewe” (111). She and her husband are ignorant and thus easily victimized. Champa tricks Saria into mortgaging Bhagia’s and her land, six acres and a third, by appealing to her on the basis first of the ability to have children, then of her religious piety, and finally of her love for her husband. Bhagia loves Saria just as much. In fact, they are inseparable, and it is easy to imagine that Champa could have appealed to Bhagia on the same bases and he would also have been brought into her scheme. Not only do Saria and Bhagia suffer equally, but they have a very egalitarian relationship and both fulfill the same important role in the village. Their marriage is another exception to Senapati’s general critique of inequality between men and women. Saria and Bhagia really seem to be two halves of the same person, performing the same function for society—“Men and women worked together to weave the clothes” (83). The chapter devoted to Bhagia and Saria is named after both of them together, and the narrator says that Bhagia is “like a vessel with a well-fitting lid” (90), referring to Saria. The two are parts of a whole, neither functioning without the other. It would be easy to write them off as just the innocent victims of Mangaraj and Champa’s tricks, and to say that they had an important role in the novel only in terms of plot development. On the contrary, it is notable that Saria and Bhagia are the only happy couple in the novel, and hence their relationship provides a model of a successful marriage. Although the villagers think of Saantani as the perfect wife, Bhagia and Saria’s marriage is doubtless more fulfilling for both of them. The narrator remarks of them, “Such people enjoy a bliss which

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one imagines exists only in heaven” (91). They work side by side, make decisions together, and care for each other in their sorrows. Senapati, through the character of Saria, provides an alternative role for a wife, as the equal of her husband. Six Acres and a Third has several pairs of male and female characters who share a way of thinking about life and common goals, although some of them come from different castes or circumstances. Bhagia and Saria are not the only twin souls in the novel. In addition, Mangaraj and Champa have a like way of seeing the world. As Boulton points out, “Champa and Mangaraj had risen from the same dark depths and shared the same passion for property and envy of established prestige” (Boulton 246). Saantani and Mukunda are both good people who experience hardships with silent tears. The barberman and the barberwoman are both loud and forceful people who dominate the social life of the village. These pairs of similar male and female characters show that Senapati is in some ways gender blind, since he has given similar roles to the men and women in his novel without denying or exclusively ascribing certain personality characteristics to one gender.

Senapati’s View of Gender Roles in Society As I have argued, the characterization of women in Six Acres and a Third is varied and realistic, given the cultures, castes, and historical circumstances of the women represented. Besides the types of women represented in the major characters of Champa, Saantani, and Saria, there are several additional types and walks of life represented by minor female characters. This wide range of women characters represents alternative opportunities for women. Most of the women, like the women at the pond, spend the bulk of their time on their household duties and on working in the fields. The narrator describes the village women chattering as they pound rice (90). But there are women in the novel who do more than this. There is the nautch girl, the dancer, who has a lucrative career. Then there is Manika, the barberwoman and the most intriguing minor character. She is very superstitious, and she also goes around telling all the women that she saw a vision of the Goddess Budhi Mangala, in order to sustain her prestige. She is also very skillful and clever, with a great capacity for intrigue. Then, she is opinionated and argumentative, and is well known throughout the village for being so. The narrator comments, “A woman who was so well-known must be lucky” (131). This raises the question of what paths of success were available to women and at what cost. Manika seems in some ways

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Women and Gender in S ix A cres

Claire Horan

more successful than more moral women like Saantani and Saria, but she is also less likeable. All the other villagers and the readers see her flaws, but she is also a person of high standing in the village. She is someone people can go to with their questions or problems. In this way, she seems like the middle ground between the more feminine strength of Saantani and the more masculine strength of Champa. Perhaps Manika is an example of the more balanced female characters, “good women with cunning,” that Senapati’s biographer, Boulton, thought are more common in Senapati’s later works (Boulton 281). Manika occasionally causes problems, but for the most part she uses her intelligence and savoir faire for the good of the village. Her character walks another type of avenue that Senapati opens for women. Senapati’s treatment of women is far from perfect by today’s standards. Saantani, rather than being a realistic, believable woman, represents an ideal traditional Indian wife, an impossible role that he does not definitively challenge. In addition, his generalizations about women are not entirely sympathetic; the majority of the village women tend to be petty, superstitious gossips. At the same time, he also provides female characters that do not fit the stereotypes. Furthermore, Senapati never implies that any failings of the female characters are due to a natural or innate disposition of women. He does not generalize the identities of rural Indian peasant women to women in any other walk of life. Instead, he points out the challenges that even his less sympathetic women characters have faced because they were born female in a patriarchal society. I would like to end with the suggestion that Senapati saw the human soul—human nature—as ungendered. That explains the care he took to construct and describe his women characters, in a very conscious effort to give women the more realistic literary and social representation they had so long been denied.

Note 1. “Saantani” is a title that refers to her role as the zamindar’s wife and the mother of the village.

Bibliography Boulton, John V. Phakir Mohan Senapati: His Life and Prose Fiction. Bhubaneswar, India: Orissa Sahitya Academy, 1993.

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Mohanty, Satya P. Introduction. In Six Acres and a Third: The Classic Nineteenth Century Novel about Colonial India. Translated by Rabi Shankar Mishra, Satya P. Mohanty, Jatindra K. Nayak, and Paul St. Pierre, 1–31. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006. Mohapatra, Himansu S. “Two Classic Tales of Village India.” Economic & Political Weekly 41, no. 46 (2006): 62–69. Sawyer, Paul L. “An Oriya Village and the Battle of Plassey: Senapati’s Allegory of the Raj.” Economic & Political Weekly 41, no. 46 (2006): 4782–88. Senapati, Fakir Mohan. Six Acres and a Third: The Classic Nineteenth Century Novel about Colonial India. Translated by Rabi Shankar Mishra, Satya P. Mohanty, Jatindra K. Nayak, and Paul St. Pierre. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005. Vargas, Jennifer H. “A Tale of Two Novels from the Global South.” Economic & Political Weekly 41, no. 46 (2006): 52–61.

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Women and Gender in S ix A cres

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Rediscovering Ramachandra Mangaraj and Historicizing Senapati’s Critique of Colonialism Gaganendra Nath Dash

I

I.

n the present chapter I will attempt to rediscover the true identity of Ramachandra Mangaraj, the protagonist of the late nineteenth-century Oriya novel Chha Mana Atha Guntha by Fakir Mohan Senapati, and thereby endeavor to show that the novel was, in fact, primarily a critique of the land-tenure system introduced by the colonial government. The opening sentence of Chha Mana reads, “Ramachandra Mangaraj is a rural zamindar (a rural landlord) and a mahajan1 (moneylender2) as well.”3 This is how Senapati’s narrator introduces Ramachandra Mangaraj to the readers. I find that so far most critics on Chha Mana have been carried away by the word zamindar, which occurs earlier than the word mahajan in the same first sentence. Therefore, these critics have accepted Ramachandra Mangaraj, the protagonist of the novel, as a zamindar and treated him as such, thereby completely ignoring his true character and identity. But in fact he was first and foremost a moneylender (and a landowner) and only secondarily a zamindar. But before going any further, let me try to answer the possible question or objection to my above assertion that Senapati wanted to portray Mangaraj primarily as a moneylender (and as a landowner) and only then as a zamindar. The question may be raised that if Senapati

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wanted to portray Mangaraj primarily as a moneylender and only marginally as a zamindar, then why does the word zamindar occur first, before the word mahajan? Why did Senapati use these two words in reverse order? But given the kind of narrator Senapati uses and the complex nature of his narrative technique, it is not at all surprising that he used the word zamindar before the word mahajan in the opening sentence as a literary device. Further, the next two sentences in the novel, the second and third sentences, are, significantly, solely devoted to Mangaraj’s money-lending activities but say nothing about his identity as a zamindar. Not only in those two sentences but also in the whole of that chapter the narrator remains completely silent about Mangaraj’s identity and character as a zamindar. In Chapter 2, while comparatively little information is given about his zamindari (just the name and the tax payable on it), a little more information is provided about his landed property and still more information on his money-lending activities. Similarly, some other chapters also provide more information on either his landed property or his money-lending business but precious little about his zamindari.4 Likewise, while inspecting the paddy field Mangaraj angrily reminds Shyam Gochhaita, “Whether or not he knew how to farm, Shyam must remember he has a loan to repay” (Chapter 4), which points toward his mahajani exploitation. It may be noted here that the zamindars rarely, if ever, inspected their paddy fields. It is also not without significance that when the barber Gobinda jumped off the boat into the river, a bundle of palm leaves fell inside the boat, out of which one palm leaf, the only one to be deciphered, was found to be a loan deed; the loan was taken by one Shama Sahu from Mangaraj (Chapter 23). All of these very clearly establish the latter’s true identity. Finally, the plot of Chha Mana in fact centers around Mangaraj’s money-lending business and activities, his mahajani exploitation, and his insatiable hunger for land, but not at all on his zamindari oppression. Thus it is a tale of a crafty and unscrupulous moneylender with a rapacious greed for land,5 who by his deceit takes away the six acres and a third of a poor peasant.6 Moreover the title of the novel, even if indirectly, indicates Mangaraj’s endless hunger for land, which he wants to satisfy through the medium of money lending, but does not suggest anything about his zamindari oppression or his oppressive character as a zamindar. Kantakabala, which had nothing to do with zamindari oppression, was the most powerful weapon in Mangaraj’s arsenal. It is a deed of mortgaging land for cash or grain (paddy) with a stipulated date to repay, and if the debtor fails to repay the loan,

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the right of the defaulter over the land is automatically vested with the moneylender, who becomes owner of the land.7 That is why in Chha Mana Saria says, “People say that once land is mortgaged to the Saanta with a stipulated date [kanta]8 it never returns to the owner” (Chapter 13). This is indicative of the true character of Ramachandra Mangaraj. It is equally significant, both suggestive and ironic, that Mangaraj was dispossessed of his zamindari by Ram Ram Lala, the pleader (Chapter 20), who used the same powerful legal weapon, kantakabala, against him. The acquisition of the plot of land measuring chha mana atha guntha by Mangaraj from Bhagia and Saria by means of this powerful weapon kantakabala and the other related incidents are at the center of this novel. Besides that, the earlier acquisition of the zamindari Fatepur Sarsandh by Mangaraj from Sheikh Dildar Mian and finally the acquisition of the same zamindari by Ram Ram Lala, the pleader, from Mangaraj by means of the same kantakabala constitute, respectively, the prologue and the epilogue of that story structure. For that reason Kantakabala could very well have been an alternative title of the novel. In fact, the kantakabala used to play an important role in the mahajani business and exploitation but not any role at all in the zamindari oppression.

II. But as the word zamindar occurs first in the opening sentence of Chha Mana, most critics have accepted Mangaraj as a zamindar. There is another possible, even stronger, reason why most of the critics consider Ramachandra Mangaraj a zamindar. After the Russian Revolution of 1917 and the establishment of the Bolshevik regime there, the Indian educated class came under the influence of Marxism. Indian feudalism came under severe criticism by Marxist or leftist politicians and intellectuals, resulting in an antifeudal discourse. The advent of Mahatma Gandhi on the Indian political scene, which more or less coincided with that, perhaps indirectly provided such discourse a boost. In August 1935 the Seventh Congress of the Communist International, meeting in Moscow, called upon the Indian communists to form progressive literary associations. The concurrent efforts of Sajjad Zaheer and Mulk Raj Anand to establish a Progressive Writers’ Association resulted first in the publication of a draft proposal for such an association in October 1935 in the Hindi periodical Hans, edited by Premchand, and finally in the first meeting of the All-India Progressive Writers’ Association (AIPWA) in Lucknow in April 1936.

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Rediscovering Ramachandra Mangaraj

Gaganendra Nath Dash

After these events the antifeudal discourse became more forceful and reached new heights, while its ideas gained wide currency and momentum in Indian literature. The Oriya literary scene was no different from the literary scenes elsewhere in India in this respect. In November and December 1935, even before the first meeting of the AIPWA was held in Lucknow, a six-day inaugural seminar was held at Cuttack to mark the establishment of the Nabajuga Sahitya Sansada, a literary organization, under the leadership of Bhagabati Charan Panigrahi. Panigrahi was also one of the founders of the Communist Party of Orissa. He and Sachi Routray played pioneering and pivotal roles in ushering leftist ideas and antifeudal discourse into Oriya literature. Not only did the Praja Mandal Movement raise its head in Orissan Garhjatas, but the antizamindari slogans also rent the air in coastal Orissa. Moreover, antizamindari sentiments increasingly found place in Oriya literature, as during that period Oriya literature mainly flourished in coastal Orissa. In the prevailing antifeudal discourse, mahajan and mahajani exploitation were greatly sidelined and marginalized,9 while at the same time zamindari oppression was highlighted. The antifeudal discourse of this period mostly painted the zamindars with a black brush and portrayed them as arch villains. In the postindependence period these antizamindari ideas not only continued to find a place in Oriya literature but strangely enough grew stronger even after the zamindari abolition. In addition, critical interest in literary works by Senapati gained momentum in the postindependence period and coincided with the reflection of antizamindari sentiments in Oriya literature. (Perhaps meanwhile the cooperative movement and the Orissa Moneylenders Bill of 193810 had considerably reduced the mahajani exploitation, and the necessity of mahajan bashing was not felt.) In such a political-literary atmosphere, Ramachandra Mangaraj, because he was depicted as the villain in Chha Mana and at the same time as a zamindar, was seen only as a zamindar by Oriya critics and his identity as a mahajan was ignored. Filtered through a preconceived notion shaped by antifeudal discourse, the mahajani exploitation of Mangaraj appeared and was interpreted only as his zamindari oppression by the Oriya critics. Among the critics who have so far seriously engaged themselves in studying Chha Mana, Natabara Samantaray was first to discover and to some extent understand the true and real character of Mangaraj as early as in 1971.11 But it may appear a little strange that he himself did not pursue his own findings any further or deeper, nor emphasize them in his later writing on the subject, as he should have. Further, his earlier writings on the subject, especially his 1955 essay and 1964

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book, in effect prevented others from understanding his later views about Mangaraj’s true identity. But since Samantaray revised his position often, there was so much discrepancy between his earliest viewpoint and this later one that an explanation is called for. In 1955 Samantaray identified Mangaraj only as a zami representing a class of neozamindars that emerged during the early colonial period when Orissan zamindaris were auctioned in Calcutta under the Sunset law.12 In 1957 he again identified Mangaraj as a zamindar representing the neozamindars of the early colonial period13 (as having no attachment toward land) and not at all as a mahajan. Of course in this essay he also spoke about the colonial land settlement and revenue administration and highlighted how the peasants were vested with proprietary or ownership rights on land and as a result became much more emotionally attached to land, which was, at best, a superficial observation but nothing more. In 1964, in his book on the history of modern Oriya literature, he also identified Mangaraj as a neozamindar.14 In 1967 he continued to identify Mangaraj primarily as a zamindar although he also marginally identified him as a mahajan or moneylender.15 In 1971 his views underwent a marked change. Then he said that Mangaraj’s identity as a mahajan or moneylender was primary in nature and much more prominent in the novel and that his identity as a zamindar was only subsidiary to his primary identity as a mahajan.16 However, Samantaray remained completely silent about the emergence of this class of moneylenders and related issues. On the other hand he did not really try to ignore or marginalize Mangaraj’s identity as a zamindar. But curiously, in 1972 he again identified Mangaraj both as a zamindar and as a mahajan without even emphasizing his latter identity. He tried to highlight how different wings of the colonial government, namely the law and order wing and especially the judicial wing, facilitated Mangaraj’s evil designs to get rich. But he did not go further than that. He also again repeated what he had stated in 1957, that under the colonial land settlement and revenue administration the proprietary rights or ownership of land was given to the peasant cultivators, and as a result the peasant cultivators became much more emotionally attached to the land.17 It appears that the later critics were unable to notice Samantaray shifting his position from time to time and the discrepancy in his viewpoints; they invariably attached much more importance to the opinion expressed in his 1955 essay and 1964 book. It was perhaps assumed that Samantaray’s opinion and position remained unchanged over the years. Samantaray also, on his part, neither made any effort to clarify or explain his position and the discrepancy between his earliest and

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Rediscovering Ramachandra Mangaraj

Gaganendra Nath Dash

the subsequent viewpoints nor explicitly rejected his former viewpoint. Further, his 1955 essay dealing with the background of all four novels by Senapati, spanning two hundred years of politicosocial history18 and ushering in a new trend in the field of Oriya criticism, still remains the best known and often referred to of his essays on Senapati’s novels and indeed on Senapati besides his 1964 book. Due to a combination of all these factors Samantaray’s discovery did not attract the serious attention of critics and scholars. Therefore, his findings, made in the early 1970s, remain more or less ignored by most of the critics. Although in 1993 Rabi Shankar Mishra, in an Oriya essay, showed some awareness of Mangaraj’s identity as a mahajan,19 later in 2002 when the revised and extended version of the same essay was published in English, Mishra did not mention Mangaraj’s identity as a mahajan at all.20 This indicates how the Oriya critics, more or less, remained preoccupied with Mangaraj’s identity as a zamindar.

III. My central point is that Ramachandra Mangaraj was primarily a mahajan (moneylender) and only then a zamindar. But his identity does not remain limited to that. It is often forgotten that he was a product of a sociohistorical process. Although some social scientists such as B. B. Chaudhuri, S. Raut, Jakob A. Roesel, and Pradipta Chaudhury have worked on the interaction of socioeconomic forces and counterforces operating in the nineteenth century in the Orissan context,21 they have not been able to highlight the exact context that facilitated the emergence of the class to which Mangaraj belonged. Only Biswamoy Pati has tried to throw some light on this aspect of Mangaraj’s character and the background of the origin of his class.22 But as he remains obsessed with the zamindars, it is necessary to further explore the issue and situate it in the realm of Oriya literary criticism. There certainly were moneylenders in precolonial times.23 But under the impact of colonialism another category of crafty, unscrupulous, and landhungry moneylenders emerged. Thus our moneylender Mangaraj was a product of interaction between historical forces and counterforces. Most of our critics have not been able to understand that Chha Mana was not only a literary text but also a historical text. Therefore they have also overlooked an important aspect of the land-revenue and tenure system introduced by the British colonial government in Orissa and its disastrous effect on the people of Orissa, especially the poor peasants. Further, because they often start from the wrong premise, some of them arrive at very strange (and erroneous) conclusions. But

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first I will try to elaborate and provide a detailed discussion of the crux of the matter—how and why a new category of rapacious moneylenders emerged under colonial rule—and thereby provide a solid foundation for Samantaray’s observations, made more than 35 years earlier. The following analysis will also show how Senapati made an attempt, albeit indirectly, to expose the disastrous effects of colonial rule because Chha Mana is, in fact, at its heart a critique of the colonial administration. But let me first point out that although the main events of the plot of Chha Mana take place within 1801 to 1840, Samantaray tried too hard, in his early analysis of Chha Mana,24 to fit the novel solely into that narrow time frame. As has been pointed out, the novel has in fact been set against the backdrop and framework of the whole of the nineteenth century (which Samantaray acknowledges in his later critical writings).25

IV. In the context of colonial intervention in the land (revenue) policy and the adaptation of the traditional system in Asian countries, I will quote extensively from Gunner Myrdal and others in order to place Chha Mana against a larger canvas and make the picture clearer. Myrdal has made the following observations: In its approach to land, European policy was largely guided by the view that a system of private property should be encouraged and reinforced by law. Essentially, this amounted to an attempt to superimpose on South Asian societies Western type of tenure arrangements as they had evolved in fairly recent times, even if it meant riding roughshod over the distinctions drawn in the traditional system between rights to occupy land, to receive tribute from it, and to dispose of it. Often these distinctions were not clearly perceived by European rulers, and where they were, Europeans tended to disregard them for their own reasons, or to view them as symptoms—if not causes—of agricultural backwardness.26

Further, “It was hoped that regularization of land titles would advance the interests of the ordinary cultivator, both by protecting him from the whims of the native chiefs and by giving him incentives to expand his output.”27 And again, “This mixture of consideration can be observed more clearly in British policy in India.”28 He of course noted,

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Rediscovering Ramachandra Mangaraj

Gaganendra Nath Dash

It would be a mistake to regard European policy toward land tenure and organization as monolithic and ruthlessly determined to press traditional land tenure arrangements and practices into a Western mold. On the contrary, policy debates among colonial administrators were on occasion vigorously pursued. Perhaps the sharpest discussion developed in regard to British India. The debate there, which was heavily influenced by Ricardian theories of rent, was pressed energetically by James Mill, who propounded the view that the state should be the ultimate recipient of land rents and should use the resources thus acquired to advance the welfare of the inhabitants.29

It may be mentioned here that James Mill (1773–1836), the Utilitarian thinker and the author of History of British India in three volumes (1817), was a colonialist and an Indophobe who severely criticized the British Orientalists and rejected their view of India. He denigrated Indian civilization and culture and believed that it was the mission of England to lift India from the abysmal depths of ignorance, superstition, and poverty and liberate the Indians from their own past. It is not at all surprising, therefore, that he wanted to impose a new, preferably western, system, effectively destroying the economic and social fabric of India.30 On the other hand Senapati, in his writings and even in Chha Mana, rejected utilitarianism, as has been observed by critics31 and which is significant in the present context. Along with the new land-tenure systems the colonial administration also introduced a new legal system, the so-called “rule of law.” Again, in the words of Gunner Myrdal, “There were obvious reasons why colonial authorities should insist on the development of land tenure systems within which rights and responsibilities could be identified and individuals held accountable before the law. . . . The transfer of western legal concepts to South Asia was clearly a useful device for this purpose.”32 But the result was catastrophic, to say the least, and just the opposite of what was intended. Myrdal further explains, By creating individual titles to land European intervention produced an environment in which another agent for change in the rural structure—the moneylender—could flourish. Once the land system had been adapted to Western concepts of private property, land became a negotiable asset. It could now be used as security for loans, and in case of default, could be forfeited and transferred. Not only did European rule provide these conditions; it cast them within a system of law that made contracts enforceable.33

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Thus the moneylenders were provided with plentiful opportunity to grab land, since the land had now become private property and hence transferable. Gunner Myrdal’s above observations for the larger Asian scene are more or less true and applicable with respect to India (and also Orissa). David Hardiman’s study of the causes and nature of the peasant resistance in India (1858–1914) argues, “The British had worked towards creating a largely uniform system of landed property, in which an area of land was held to belong to an individual and to be freely saleable on the market . . . Under the new system introduced by the British, it became possible for moneylenders to take individual peasants to court and force them to sell their land to pay off their debts. The civil courts established by the British worked in favor of moneylenders as they favored the written evidence of the sahukar to the oral testimony of the peasants.”35 He continues, “In many cases the moneylenders . . . refused to make . . . advance (of loans) unless the land of the debtor was made over to them in mortgage. In time, after the peasant has failed to repay by a stipulated date, the moneylender became the owner of the land.”36 Comparing this with earlier times Hardiman further observes, “It was this growing exploitation by moneylenders which caused extreme resentment amongst peasant communities which in the past had prided themselves on their independence.”37 Later Ranajit Guha, while working on peasant insurgency in India, stated, “One important consequence of this revitalization of landlordism under British rule was a phenomenal growth of peasant indebtedness. For with a land market flourishing under the triple impact of agrarian legislation, demographic increase and a progressively larger money supply, many mahajans and banias bought estates by the dozen at auction from impoverished and evicted tenants. Set up as rural proprietors they brought to bear all their usurious skill on their function as rentier.”38 All these observations by Myrdal, Hardiman, and Guha supply general background information for the emergence of a new moneylender class in colonial India, demonstrated by the protagonist of the novel Chha Mana, and elucidate who Ramachandra Mangaraj really was, with his endless greed for land. As far as Orissa is concerned, after a long debate between the advocates of the Mahalwari and Raiyatwari systems of land settlement, associated with the names of persons

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These circumstances alone were sufficient to produce profound changes in the traditional system, but their force was heightened by another factor—the spread of the monetary economy.34

Gaganendra Nath Dash

such as Lord Cornwallis and Thomas Munro, respectively, the latter was finally adopted mutatis mutandis, which recognized the right of the raiyat or cultivators’ ownership of the land they cultivated.39 It appears rather ironic that Henry Ricketts, who was commissioner of Orissa in the 1830s and conducted the 1835 Settlement, in 1873 quoted W. W. Hunter, in support of his claim that he (and also the colonial government) had done enough good for the people of Orissa, as follows: “After various suggestions and experiments it was determined to place the cultivator’s right of occupancy on precisely the same footing as the landowner’s right of ownership by giving him a title direct from Government. Accordingly at the Settlement of 1836 all resident tenants and hereditary cultivators of whatever sort who chose to apply received a palm-leaf lease stating the quantity of land and the rent.”40 Let us look at the result of this exercise of land settlement, of which both Ricketts and Hunter were naive enough to be so proud. In the words of Hunter, quoted by Ricketts, “The result of this system has been to render land an intensely marketable article in Orissa.”41 In Orissa land had never been a marketable commodity. Now under the colonial government, like many other things, land also became a marketable commodity. Senapati, in one of his poems, also drew attention to the disastrous effect of such measures and severely criticized the colonial government for enacting the new rule enabling the peasants to sell land at the first opportunity and as a result become landless laborers working for daily wages.42 Later still, in 1916, while dedicating an Oriya booklet to B. A. Collins, Registrar, Co-operative Societies of Bihar and Orissa, and R. G. Kilby, Collector of Balasore, Senapati pointed out that most of the peasants are poor and in debt and the greedy moneylenders take their cultivable lands by deceit.43 It is no wonder that a new class of moneylenders, like Ramachandra Mangaraj, emerged, a class that cast its dark and ugly shadow over the poor peasants of the rural society of Orissa, with its insatiable greed for land. In Orissa during the Maratha period (1751–1803), and even earlier, rampant burglary and looting made any saving or investment other than land unsafe.44 Because of that memory of earlier periods, even during British rule, it was considered most wise to invest in land. This was especially so when the land was easily available for sale. No wonder the neomoneylenders like Mangaraj turned out to be land hungry. This development transformed the society of rural Orissa as never before. More and more peasants became landless and poor while the newly emerged moneylender class flourished. That is what Senapati very vividly conveys when he says, “Mangaraj did not spare the size of land that will hold even a hoof of a cow in any one’s

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possession for four kos [8 km] around” (Chapter 1), and “One day Bhobani Bahinipati, a Brahman, complained, ‘How can we bless any one when all our land is gone?’ What he said was not entirely untrue. Over the last ten years, four hundred of five hundred acres of land belonging to the Brahmans had been sold off” (Chapter 9). Much has already been said of how the ownership of Orissan zamindaris was transferred simply because many of these zamindaris were acquired by the Bengalis, and therefore the question became intimately associated with the construction of Oriya identity, which, since the last decades of the nineteenth century, had been competing with and contesting Bengali identity. But what is generally overlooked is how the small land holdings of the poor peasants were also sold off to rural moneylenders in the settlement of loans, the reason being, as the neomoneylenders were Oriya like Mangaraj, they had nothing to do with the construction of Oriya identity. Throughout the novel Chha Mana Mangaraj behaves like a typical moneylender. In the novel Senapati narrates, “Although Mangaraj was very clever and without a match in law courts . . .” etc. (Chapter 15). Here by law court he refers to civil courts established by the British, which used to be more or less favorable to the moneylenders, as both Myrdal and Hardiman have observed. Fakir Mohan has satirically mentioned Mangaraj’s skill in manipulating the law courts in his favor when Sheikh Dildar Mian, in all innocence, mispronounces his surname as “Mamlabaj,” which literally means a person who is prone to and excels in litigation (Chapter 8). Thus Ramachandra Mangaraj, a typical moneylender and a product of the colonial land tenure system, emerges as a big landowner. Of course later he also acquires a zamindari and becomes a zamindar. But he only becomes a zamindar through his money-lending business and also by deceit and fraud. Further, even after he becomes a zamindar he remains primarily a moneylender and retains the mentality of a typical moneylender. By making him the villain of his novel Senapati has only betrayed his anticolonial view. He only sought to reveal the true character of the moneylender-turned-zamindars who emerged and flourished under colonial rule. As has been pointed out, in the precolonial period, moneylenders existed and in the traditional Oriya society money lending was a hereditary business or profession. In Senapati’s later novel Mamu (1913) we come across representatives of such a moneylender. His name is Sadhu Sahu45 and he was teli or oilman by jati or caste (Chapter 35). In traditional Oriya society, for the telis money lending was also a hereditary profession. As Senapati saw it, such moneylenders of

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Rediscovering Ramachandra Mangaraj

Gaganendra Nath Dash

the precolonial period were basically good, honest, and helpful and not greedy or deceitful. Therefore they always behaved differently. Sadhu Sahu was such a person. On the other hand Mangaraj belonged to khandayat jati or the traditional peasant-militia caste of Orissa. It appears as if, to highlight the contrast between those precolonial hereditary moneylenders of the traditional society and a class of neomoneylenders that emerged during the colonial period as a result of colonial land settlement, Senapati deliberately created the character of such a traditional moneylender, Sadhu Sahu, in this later novel Mamu, although from the point of view of the story structure or plot, the portrayal of this character was not absolutely necessary.

V. From the above discussion it should be evident that Ramachandra Mangaraj of Chha Mana is primarily a mahajan, representing the class of moneylenders that emerged during the colonial period. But so far most of the critics have missed the real point as they confused Ramachandra Mangaraj the moneylender with Ramachandra Mangaraj the zamindar. That, in turn, has created the false impression that Senapati was antifeudal. But Senapati was only anticolonial and not antifeudal. On the contrary and as has already been pointed out by Surendra Mohanty, Senapati admired the traditional feudal system.46 In his literary works Senapati held the traditional feudal system in high esteem and treated the descendants of the traditional feudal families, the representatives of the traditional feudal system, like the Bagha Singha brothers in Chha Mana, with sympathy and admiration.47 In his perception they were basically good, kindhearted, and generous, unlike the neomoneylenders or even moneylender-turned-zamindars. As Rabi Shankar Mishra writes, “Saanta, the traditional landlord of an Oriya village who was expected to be not just an owner of land but a moral authority, a kind of friend, philosopher and guide to the villagers.”48 It seems Senapati deliberately tried to contrast the Bagha Singha brothers, representing the traditional feudal system, with Mangaraj, representing the class of zamindars who were originally and primarily neomoneylenders.49 Although the word saanta (from the Sanskrit word samanta, meaning feudal lord) has been used for Mangaraj in Chha Mana, it appears to have been a satirical device and a narrative trick because he has been portrayed as a false saanta in contrast to the Bhagha Singha brothers, the true saantas, and scions of a feudal family. In the words of Rabi Shankar Mishra, “Mangaraj is not actually a Saanta. He is an usurper to this status and position.”50

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Senapati’s estimation, admiration, and sympathy for traditional feudalism may be compared with that of Satish Chandra Dasgupta, Bengal’s leading Gandhian of later years. Satish Chandra, in the words of Joya Chatterji, “saw the zamindar as traditionally something of an enlightened despot, who administered justice, protected his tenants and presided benevolently over the religious and cultural life of rural Bengal. If the zamindars no longer fulfilled these functions, it was because the Raj had reduced them to being mere tax-collectors.”51 As such, for Satish Chandra the zamindari “abuses were a symptom of the erosion of the traditional zamindari system.”52 It seems that much earlier Senapati most probably held such beliefs and similar views. Therefore, once we properly understand the true character and know the real identity of Ramachandra Mangaraj—that he was primarily a neomahajan, a product of the colonial land tenure system, and not a zamindar—we will not entertain the notion that Senapati was antifeudal.

VI. Attempts have already been made to discover a pretext of Chha Mana in Bengal Peasant Life, written by Rev. Lal Behari Day.53 But Bengal Peasant Life is not at all a tale of a crafty and unscrupulous moneylender with an insatiable hunger for land and representative of a class that emerged under colonial rule, as Chha Mana is. On the contrary, Bengal Peasant Life primarily deals with the life—sorrows and joys, tears and laughter—of the peasants of Bengal in general, but at the same time depicts the sorry plight of these peasants, who were oppressed by the zamindars. Therefore, while in Bengal Peasant Life the protagonist of the novel is a peasant, a victim of zamindari oppression, in Chha Mana it is the crafty moneylender, the oppressor, who is the protagonist. For that reason not only Bhagia and Saria but many others such as Mangaraja’s cousin Shyama Malla (Chapter 1), Shyama Gochhaita (Chapter 4), Sheikh Dildar Mian, and even the Brahmans of his village have been depicted as victims of Mangaraj’s mahajani exploitation. In other words, structurally speaking these two works are different and they offer, in fact, different messages. Bengal Peasant Life deals with zamindari oppression but not with exploitation by a deceitful, greedy, and unscrupulous neomoneylender. In Bengal Peasant Life the moneylender plays a much smaller, unimportant, and marginal role. He appears for the first time in the scene in the thirteenth chapter but only very briefly, and the appearance is completely inconsequential. Then he reappears almost at the

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Rediscovering Ramachandra Mangaraj

Gaganendra Nath Dash

end of the novel in Chapter 44 and after that briefly again in Chapter 59. Thus in a novel of 61 chapters he appears in only 3 and in 2 of these only very briefly. In contrast, in Chha Mana the moneylender arrives on the stage at the very beginning, as the book opens with him, and then it centers around him throughout the book and finally comes to an end with his death. Further, Golaka Poddar, the moneylender in Bengal Peasant Life, is basically portrayed as a kindhearted and good man, honest in his dealings. He, a Suvarna Vanik, or banker by caste, represents the class of precolonial traditional moneylenders, like Sadhu Sahu of Senapati’s novel Mamu, a class that neither emerged nor flourished under colonial rule. Hence Golaka Poddar, unlike Mangaraj, has no interest in or hunger for land. On the other hand he sympathizes with the poor peasant, Govinda Samanta, and extends a helping hand toward him. So one text puts the zamindar in a highly unfavorable light, while the other shows intense antipathy toward the moneylender-turned-zamindar, but treats the traditional zamindar with sympathy and even admiration. From the above discussion it is now quite clear that Bengal Peasant Life was a pretext of Chha Mana in only a limited sense. It might have been a pretext as far as the description of village life and even certain narrative techniques or strategies are concerned. Both texts use some common motifs, such as setting the house on fire. But below the surface and behind the outward similarities are basic, ideological, and fundamental differences, which have been pointed out by Satya Mohanty.54 But as far as the main theme, the very core of the text, the structure, and the message are concerned, Chha Mana is certainly different and unique. (Another literary precursor is the novel Bishavriksha by Bankim Chandra Chatterji, from which Senapati is likely to have—knowingly or unknowingly—borrowed some description of rural scenes and life and even narrative technique.55) It may be mentioned here that a few of the motifs or minor incidents depicted in Chha Mana are most probably based on some real events that took place in nineteenth-century Orissa and were reported in the contemporary Oriya periodicals56 and of which Senapati was most likely aware. Therefore it is not at all surprising that the story of Chha Mana appears real to Oriya readers. Of course, with some justification, it may be claimed that Chha Mana and Bengal Peasant Life are complementary texts: one deals with the zamindari oppression (in Bengal) and the other with the mahajani exploitation (in Orissa) during colonial rule. This is quite natural because the mahalwari land settlement in Bengal made the zamindars

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much more powerful, whereas the raiyatwari land settlement in Orissa facilitated the emergence of a class of neomahajans. But even then the differences remain, and as Satya P. Mohanty has observed, “Senapati’s novel historicizes and politicizes.”57 Therefore in Day’s novel, “Colonial rule is rarely mentioned and, if it is, it is made to seem utterly natural, never a political issue.”58 But, playing the role of the narrator in Chha Mana, Senapati “can’t seem to keep colonial rule out of his mind.”59 As such, in Chha Mana the awareness of colonial rule is much more acute and intense. Thus Chha Mana Atha Guntha is an anticolonial text and a critique—albeit an indirect one—of the colonial land-tenure system, which was at the root of the emergence of a class of neomahajans like Ramachandra Mangaraj and the mahajani exploitation in nineteenth-century Orissa.

Notes 1. In Sanskrit the word mahajana means a great or eminent man, the chief or head of a trade or caste, or even a merchant. In New Indo-Aryan languages such as Oriya and Bengali, it generally means moneylender. 2. The Oriya term mahajana, although generally translated as moneylender, signifies a person who lends both hard currency and grain (such as paddy) for interest. Therefore in this chapter, in the context of moneylender and money lending, the term “money” includes hard currency and grain, both of which are borrowed or lent for interest. Another Oriya term, sahukara, is also used for moneylender. The Oriya word sahu is derived from the Sanskrit word sadhu, which not only means holy man but also merchant and moneylender. In Orissa there were hereditary moneylenders who were teli by caste and had Sahu surnames. 3. I have made my own rather literal translation of this first sentence and have not accepted the first sentence of Six Acres and a Third, because in the published translation the first two sentences of Chha Mana were combined and then translated into one, the opening sentence. 4. See Chapters 3 and 9. 5. Like the character Pakhom of Leo Tolstoy’s short story “Land Enough for a Man,” but only to the extent that both had the same kind of hunger for land and both met, more or less, the same fate. Rabi Shankar Mishra has already made such a comparison. See R. S. Mishra, “Chha Mana Atha Guntha,” 243. 6. To me Bhagia was a peasant although he was a tanti or weaver by caste and profession. 7. In Oriya kabala means a sale deed. According to Purnnachandra Oriya Bhashakosha, the authoritative great Oriya lexicon, kantakabala/

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katakabala means “Deed of conditional sale which becomes absolute on default of the debtor after the time-limit.” 8. The Oriya word kanta is used in the original Oriya version of Chha Mana. According to Purnnachandra Oriya Bhashakosha, again, kanta means fixed time, appointed time, time limit, etc. Here the word kanta has been used as an abbreviated form of kantakabala. 9. Paraja, a novel by Gopinath Mohanty (completed in 1943 and published in 1945), is an exception. Curiously, in this novel the mahajan or moneylender is named Ramachandra Bisoi (and also referred to as Ramachandra Sahukara). This reminds one of Ramachandra Mangaraj of Chha Mana, as the first name of the moneylenders is identical in the two novels. Paraja was translated into English by B. K. Das and published in 1987 under the same title by Faber & Faber (UK) and Oxford University Press (India). But as it deals with the lives of tribal people living in the hilly forests in south Orissa, speaking a Dravidian language, and how they were exploited by the moneylender and officials who came from the coastal area or plains, it was mostly interpreted as a text dealing with the exploitation of the hilly tribal peoples by immigrants from the plains. So the identity of the mahajana or moneylender was submerged with his larger identity as a man from the plains. Thus the moneylender was marginalized in another discourse in which encroachment into the tribal area by the people from the plains (or in other words tribal versus plains people) is the central theme. In some other Oriya novels such as Sasti (1945) and Ha Anna (1934) by Kanhu Charan Mohanty and Andha Diganta (1964) by Surendra Mohanty, moneylenders figure only as minor characters and therefore could not attract the attention of scholars and critics. 10. The governor gave his assent to the bill in 1939. 11. The present chapter has been titled “Rediscovering Ramachandra Mangaraj,” and not “Discovering Ramachandra Mangaraj” because of Samantaray’s earlier discovery. But even he has not gone deep enough to understand the real character of Ramachandra Mangaraj. 12. Samantaray, Fakir Mohan Sahitya Samiksha, 49–52, especially 51. 13. Samantaray, “‘Chha Mana Atha Guntha,’” 50–52, 58, 68. 14. Samantaray, Odia Sahityara Itihasa, 390, 395. 15. Samantaray, Fakir Mohan Sahitya Samiksha, 87–90. 16. Ibid., 109–11. 17. Ibid., 122–23. In 1972 he wrote his “piece” not really as a critical essay or a piece of objective criticism but in a completely different vein as “The Testimony of the Mad/Insane Bhagia” (Pagala Bhagiara Jamanbandi), as if Bhagia, who had become mad, was giving testimony in a court of law in the first person. Therefore this “piece” of Samantaray’s and his views in this respect could not attract the serious attention of critics.

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18. According to Samantaray, the political-social history of the period between 1801 and 1840 was the background of Chha Mana. 19. Mishra, R. S., “Chha Mana Atha Gunthare Bhashara Byabahara O Jamira Malikana,” 184. 20. Mishra, R. S., “Chha Mana Atha Guntha,” 2002. 21. See Chaudhuri; Raut; Roesel; and Chaudhury. 22. See Pati, 34–35. 23. Such a traditional moneylender, Sadhu Sahu, has also been portrayed by Senapati in his novel Mamu (Chapter 35). 24. See Samantaray, Byasakabi Fakir Mohan; Natabar 1972, 31–46; and also Samantaray, Fakir Mohan Sahitya Samiksha Natabar 1984, 76–94. See also Dash, Saraswati Fakir Mohan G. N. 2006a, 72–74. 25. Samantaray, Fakir Mohan Sahitya Samiksha 1984, 95–99. Dasarathi Das also thinks that the story has been set against the backdrop of the whole of the nineteenth century. Das, Dasarathi, 1996. 26. Myrdal, 1033. 27. Ibid.,1034. 28. Ibid., 1033n1. 29. Ibid., 1034. 30. After the publication of his History of British India, he was given a position in the office of the East India Company and remained in the Company’s service for the rest of his life. 31. Nayak and Mohapatra, 63–78. 32. Myrdal, 1033. 33. Ibid., 1039–40. 34. Ibid., 1040. 35. Hardiman, 26–27. 36. Ibid., 27. 37. Ibid. 38. Guha, 7–8. 39. For detailed information see Raya, 321–30; and Patra, 38–73. 40. See Patnaik, 476. 41. See Patnaik, 475. 42. The name of this poem is Utkala Krushaka (The Orissan Peasant), which is included in the fifth chapter of his anthology of poems Abasara Basare (1908). He vividly described the poverty and sorry plight of the Orissan peasants in this poem. 43. See Giri, 1123. The booklet is, in fact, an Oriya rendering in verse of 12 questions and the answers prepared by B. A. Collins to popularize the cooperative movement in Orissa. 44. Senapati himself has even painted such a picture of the Maratha rule in his historical novel Lachhama. 45. The surname Sahu is derived from the Sanskrit Sadhu. See note 2, this chapter.

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46. Mohanty, Surendra, 214–21. See also Dash, Saraswati Fakir Mohan, 131–37 and 119 in that connection. Boulton, of course, contesting the claim that Senapati endorsed the traditional feudalism, or what Boulton calls “the old feudal system,” was of the opinion that Senapati “was advocating . . . a new type of religious socialism” (490). But he has never even tried to draw a distinct line of demarcation between “the old feudal system” (the traditional feudalism) and what he calls “a new type of religious socialism.” To me there is no material difference between the two. 47. The Mandhata in Lachhama, the Uttararays in Mamu, and Samanta Baisnabacharana in Prayaschitta are the other characters in three other novels by Senapati that represent the traditional feudal system. 48. Mishra, R. S., “Chha Mana Atha Guntha,” 254. 49. In Senapati’s estimation, moneylender-turned-zamindars were even more harmful and worse than the contractor-turned-zamindars, such as Samanta Samkrshana Mahanti of his novel Prayaschitta. 50. Mishra, R. S., “Chha Mana Atha Guntha,” 254. 51. Chatterji, 90. 52. Ibid. 53. Mohapatra and Nayak. Earlier P. C. Mishra sought to discover the influence of Bengal Peasant Life on Chha Mana. According to the publication history supplied in the 1920 Macmillan edition, Bengal Peasant Life was first published in 1874 under the title Govinda Samanta, and the new edition of the book, under the title Bengal Peasant Life, was published in 1878. Therefore Mohapatra and Nayak’s statement that the revised and enlarged version was published in 1908 (Mohapatra and Nayak, 107) appears to be erroneous. Equally erroneous is Sukumar Sen’s statement that Govinda Samanta was first published in 1872 (Sen, 196), as Rev. Day wrote the preface of the first edition of the book on November 27, 1874. Moreover the book, minus the last three chapters, was submitted for a prize in early 1872 before its publication. Mohapatra and Nayak supply an additional piece of information, that the 1874 edition of the book had another title (subtitle), “The History of a Bengali Raiyat.” Fakir Mohan in his autobiography states that he had read Govinda Samanta. 54. Mohanty, Satya P., 18–23. 55. K. C. Sahu has shown how Senapati came under the influence of Bishabriksha by Bankim Chandra while writing Chha Mana. See also Bhuyan. 56. See Dash, Saraswati Fakir Mohan, 49–55. 57. Mohanty, Satya P., 22. 58. Ibid., 21. 59. Ibid.

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Bhuyan, K. C. “Bishabriksha O’ Chha Mana Atha Guntha—Tulanamulaka Alochana.” Visva-Bharati Dipika 13 (1992): 109–25. Boulton, J. V. Phakirmohana Senapati: His Life and Prose-Fiction. Bhubaneswar, India: Orissa Sahitya Akademi, 1993. Chatterji, Joya. Bengal Divided: Hindu Communalism and Partition, 1932– 1947. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996. Chaudhuri, B. B. “Land Market in Eastern India.” The Indian Economic and Social History Review 1, no. 42 (1975): 1–42. Chaudhury, Pradipta. “Peasants and British Rule in Orissa.” Social Scientist 19, no. 9 (1991). Das, Dasarathi. Bhumika (Introduction). In Fakir Mohananka Upanyasa: Chha Mana Atha Guntha, edited by Dasarathi Das. Cuttack, India: Agraduta, 1996. Dash, Gaganendra Nath. Saraswati Fakir Mohan: Sahitya O Byaktitwa. Cuttack, India: Grantha Mandir, 2006. ———. “Six Acres and a Third—Fakir Mohan Senapati’s Discovery from Below: Decolonisation and the Search for Linguistic Authenticity.” Economic and Political Weekly 41, no. 46 (2006): 4801. Day, Lal Behari. Bengal Peasant Life. London: Macmillan and Co., 1920. Giri, Arabinda, ed. Phakira Mohananka Durlabha Rachanabali. Bhubaneswar, India: Orissa Sahitya Akademi, 2000. Guha, Ranajit. Elementary Aspects of Peasant Insurgency in Colonial India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1997. Hardiman, David. Peasant Resistance in India 1858–1914. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1993. Mishra, P. C. “Chha Mana Atha Guntha Rachanara Antarale.” In Saraswata Parikrama, edited by B. Kar et al. Orissa, India: Berhampur University, 1993. Mishra, Rabi Shankar. “Chha Mana Atha Guntha: The Language of Power and the Silence of a Woman.” In Early Novels in India, edited by Meenakshi Mukherjee. New Delhi: Sahitya Akademi, 2002. ———. “Chha Mana Atha Gunthare Bhashara Byabahara O Jamira Malikana.” In Saraswata Parikrama, edited by B. Kar et al. Orissa, India: Berhampur University, 1993. Mohanty, Satya P. “Introduction.” In Six Acres and a Third. Translated by Rabi Shankar Mishra, Satya P. Mohanty, Jatindra K. Nayak, and Paul St. Pierre. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005. Mohanty, Surendra. Fakir Mohan Samiksha. Cuttack, India: New Students’ Store, 1972. Mohapatra, H. S., and Nayak, J. K. “Writing Peasant Life in Colonial India: A Comparative Analysis of Rev. Lal Behari Day’s Bengal Peasant Life and Fakir Mohan Senapati’s Chha Mana Atha Guntha.” In Fakir Mohan Senapati, Perspectives on His Fiction, edited by Jatindra K. Nayak. Jagatsinghpur, India: Prafulla Pathagara Publications, 2004.

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Bibliography

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Myrdal, Gunnar. Asian Drama: An Inquiry into the Poverty of Nations. Harmondsworth, UK: Penguin Books, 1968. Naik, M. K. A History of Indian English Literature. New Delhi: Sahitya Akademi, 2002. Nayak, Jatindra K., and Mohapatra, Himansu. “Utilitarianism at Home and Abroad: A Comparative Study of Charles Dickens’s Hard Times and Fakir Mohan Senapati’s Chha Mana Atha Guntha. In Fakir Mohan Senapati, Perspectives on His Fiction, edited by Jatindra K. Nayak. Jagatsinghpur, India: Prafulla Pathagara Publications, 2004. Pati, Biswamoy. Situating Social History: Orissa, 1800–1997. New Delhi: Orient Longman, 2001. Patnaik, Sudhakar, ed. Sambada Patraru Odisara Katha. Cuttack, India: Grantha Mandir, 1972. Patra, K. M. Orissa under the East India Company. New Delhi: Munshiram Manoharlal, 1971. Raut, Sanjib K. “Rural Stratification in Coastal Orissa (1866–1900).” Social Science Probings 3, no. 1 (1986): 137–50. Raya, Bhabani Carana. Foundations of British Orissa. Cuttack, India: New Students’ Store, 1960. Roesel, Jakob A. “Colonial Bureaucracy vs. the Old Agrarian Order—The Transformation of an Indian Province.” In Hinduismus Und Buddhismus: Festschrift Für Ulrich Schneider, edited by Harry Falk. Freiburg, Germany: Hedwig Falk, 1987. Sahu, K. C. “Bishabriksha O’ Chha Mana Atha Guntha.” Jhankar 11, no. 9 (December 1959). Samantaraya, Natabar. Byasakabi Fakir Mohan. Bhubaneswar, India: Prataprudra Dev, 1972. ———. “‘Chha Mana Atha Guntha’: Eka Adhyayana.” Galpa Nuhen Samalochana. Cuttack, India: Grantha Mandir, 1963. ———. Fakir Mohan Sahitya Samiksha. Bhubaneswar, India: Natabar Samantaraya, 1984. ———. Odia Sahityara Itihasa, 1803–1920. Bhubaneswar, India: Prafulla kumara dhala hrdananda bhola, 1964. Sen, Sukumar. Bangala Sahityer Itihas, Vol. 5 (1891–1941). Kolkata: Anand, 2005. Senapati, Fakir Mohan. Six Acres and a Third: The Classic Nineteenth-Century Novel about Colonial India. Translated by Rabi Shankar Mishra, Satya P. Mohanty, Jatindra K. Nayak, and Paul St. Pierre. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005.

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our years before his death, in March 1914, Fakir Mohan Senapati, in a short story titled “Sabhya Zamindar” (“The Civilized Zamindar”; Dash, 2008: 73–81), revisits one of the most popular themes in his writings, namely the tension between acquired modernity and inherited tradition. In a few deft brushstrokes he traces the rise of a man to a position of wealth and eminence and the fall of his only son to a state of penury and disgrace. The father, Gopala, is a village orphan who is the product of a traditional value system. A rich businessman picks him up and takes him to the city as a domestic servant. The boy worms his way through various odd jobs to become his chief confidante and business partner by sheer hard work, honesty, simplicity, and intelligence, the values traditional wisdom bequeaths to a person who is willing to learn. In course of time he buys a zamindari near his native village and sires a son, Rajibalochan, who lacks the humility and discipline that have made his father a respected man in his village. With the newfound wealth and power, the zamindar’s only son grows wayward. Gopala brings his son to the city in hopes of providing him with a better English education, which might help further his business interests. Rajibalochan, however, squanders his father’s money to acquire a bunch of sycophants familiar with the easy rhetoric of progress and civilization. After the death of his father from a sudden illness, he is forced to come back to the village to take up the administration of the zamindari his father had bought. Even in the village, he

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is unable to rid himself of what he thinks to be a “civilized” way of life. For him, to be civilized is to surround oneself with sycophants, drink liquor, denigrate the traditional ways of living as superstitious, and engage in mere chatter about the emancipation of women. He marries a woman of humble origin who has similar pretensions about the socalled modern, civilized ways of life. Together, they set about discarding the age-old practices and rituals of the ancestral house. This, as the story subsequently demonstrates, is a sure recipe for destruction. Once the pious mother of Rajibalochan, the repository of all traditional values, deserts the ancestral home, the house quickly falls into bad times. Cheated out of all their wealth by those very sycophantic friends whom they had nursed in order to look “civilized,” they go back to a state of destitution without any honor. In yet another short story, “Daka Munshi” (“The Postmaster”; Dash, 2008: 89–92), published in 1912, Senapati launches a pointed attack on acquired modernity. The protagonist of the story, Hari Singh, is a widower who raises his only son with exemplary self-sacrifice. After providing English education to his son, he is instrumental in getting him a respectable job as a postmaster. Once the son is well established, he misbehaves with his father, who has since retired as a postal peon. As the illnesses of old age catch up with Hari Singh, his son Gopala throws him out of his house after landing two “English punches” on his chest. Senapati depicts the unrepentant Gopala as having been dehumanized by his English education. Gopala’s uneducated servant, by contrast, refuses his master’s orders to throw Hari Singh out because, as the narrator says, he had a “native heart.” On the surface, these are tales that teach simple moral lessons about the way one should conduct oneself in life. They set up a binary opposition between the past and the present, the father and the son, and the traditional value system and the so-called modern, civilized way of life. By extolling the virtue of the fathers and making a caricature of the sons, Senapati seems to have positioned himself as a champion of native tradition. This seems to be a project he began in 1886 (Dash, 2008: 220–26), when he published four short pieces around the same theme. These pieces published in the periodicals of those times represent four different characters with a proclivity for particular “civilized” traits, all of which can be encountered in Rajibalochan. All of them, however, share Rajibalochan’s foolishness, distaste for whatever is “old,” and a desire to blindly imitate the “new” ways of life introduced by the colonial masters. To lampoon these mimicking men was the favorite pastime of many creative writers in colonial India.1

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Senapati’s use of this genre has led many serious critics of his works to conclude that he was a traditionalist who resisted all manner of transformation brought about by the kind of modernity that was introduced through British rule. His close associate and publisher, Biswanatha Kar, in an obituary essay on him, avers that though Senapati was a progressive in his role as a social activist, at bottom he was a rank traditionalist. He was so eager to conserve the traditional values of the past that he sometimes lost his sense of proportion and reason (Utkal Sahitya 22/3, June 1918). Surendra Mohanty, another important critic of Senapati’s art, has a similar view of his attitude. Mohanty believes that in all encounters represented by Senapati between the old ways of life and the new, the new seems like an assassin eager to kill the old but ultimately the old triumphs (1983: 168–169). It is worthwhile to quote John V. Boulton, the first western scholar of his works in this regard as well: “Phakirmohana reaffirms the spiritual values of Hinduism in order to counteract the materialistic values imported to Orissa society from the west. Under western influence, the spiritual values of Hinduism were being replaced by materialistic ones” (1993: 487). Further, “It was in order to counteract these alien influences that Phakirmohana was stressing the importance of the old Hindu virtues of respect for morality (dharma), the ruling classes (the Ksatriyas), the elders (gurujana), caste councils and family life” (1993: 486). Though these major critics of Senapati use the term “traditional” to characterize him, what they more or less imply is that he was basically a conservative thinker who wanted to retain the past through whatever means and to reject all change. However, this position fails to explain not only his role as a social activist but also many of his writings. This failure on the part of the critics may be attributed to a perception of terms like tradition and modernity as polar opposites—a polarity that ignores what Sudhir Chandra calls “the complex simultaneity of change and continuity” (1992: 4). This bipolar perception has been dominant so far in the discussions regarding tradition and modernity by Indian intellectuals and suffers from a serious perceptual limitation, according to Chandra. Moreover, this perception helps to perpetuate this polarity. Chandra advocates another interpretative framework in which tradition, even while opposing modernity and westernization, is not inimical to change. On the other hand, modernity too is in a position to recognize the coexistence of change and persistence in actual human and social situations. The view Chandra puts forward acknowledges that “the same person, group of persons or movements may be progressive and revivalist, reformist and reactionary, secular and communal, and so on” (ibid., 1992: 3). Senapati’s complexity as a writer can be assessed by adopting this more sophisticated conceptualization

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of tradition and modernity. His early critics who see Senapati either as a traditionalist or as a modernist fail to account not only for all his writings or his role as a social activist but also for the silences in the texts. The silences in the first story cited above can be taken as an example. Why does Senapati, at the very end of his life, return to a theme he had dealt with more aggressively in earlier texts? Is he merely restating the same preoccupations in a different genre? Is it possible to absolve Gopala of all responsibilities in the tragedy of Rajibalochan? Could the tragedy have been avoided had Gopala not died an untimely death? The answer to these questions would be a resounding no. The failure to decipher the meaning of the changes brought about by colonial encounter is the cause of Rajibalochan’s and, by extension, Gopala’s tragedy. First, Gopala allowed his son the privileges of wealth without the responsibility, and his own lack of modern education left him at the mercy of his son’s deception. Though he himself encouraged his son to obtain an English education for his own business interests (Gopala had to use an interpreter while dealing with British traders), he lacked the means to know whether his son actually received any education. If the tragedy of Rajibalochan is personal incompetence— the incompetence and the vainglory of the upstart, the kind that was lampooned in the 1886 short pieces—the tragedy of Gopala is deeper. It is the tragic failure of the colonial subject to understand the implications of the changes colonial modernity was bringing about in society. Mere obeisance to traditional values and their conservation do not fortify one against the destabilizing forces unleashed by modernity, as Gopala’s life demonstrates. In the second story, “The Postmaster,” Hari Singh’s tragedy too owes a great deal to an uncritical acceptance of modern English education. He is probably eager to overcome the unconscious shame of subservience he suffers as a colonial subject under an Englisheducated superior. Therefore, he believes mistakenly that by putting his son in a position of dominance through English education, he will be in a position to reverse this power equation that obtained between the colonizer and the colonized. The son acquires power, no doubt, but he becomes alienated from his own father, further exacerbating the colonial oppression. The uncritical mimicking of the master race only adds one more member to the class of oppressors. The satirical mention of the “English punches” in the story points to the oppressive dimension of colonial modernity, which Senapati’s characteristically laconic and suggestive art keeps in the background. It is a peculiar trait of Senapati’s art that his major insights and messages are encoded in a minimalist narrative and its silences or

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unstated implications. As a writer he primarily wanted his readers to become “active” and socially alert readers (Mohanty, 2005: 3). This skill of reading the text can then be applied to read the world around them, which was also an extended text of colonial modernity. The understanding thus gained, he felt, was crucial for the reinvention of the self that could negotiate with the changes brought about by modernity. It could be achieved not by an obstinate conservatism or an uncritical acceptance of what was called “progress,” but through a complex dialectical interchange between the native traditions and colonial modernity. Since the novel genre is the site of such encounters and dialectical interchange, and it is mostly through it that Senapati wanted to create those active and intelligent readers, we would like to examine the form and structure of his first novel, Six Acres and a Third (1902), in order to map out his program of alternative modernity, even as we look glancingly at his entire oeuvre.

II. Six Acres showcases the tragic encounter between the traditional way of life and the forces of colonial modernity. Ramachandra Mangaraj, its chief protagonist, is an upstart village landlord and moneylender who has chosen—for the sake of self-aggrandizement—to discard all the ethical norms traditional Oriya society accepts as eternal verities. Freed from the shackles of traditional morality, he sets about appropriating the wealth of others through all means, fair and foul. Having no respect for familial bonds, he turns his house into a veritable brothel presided over by his chief concubine and partner in sin and crime, Champa. His pious wife Saantani is relegated to the margins of domestic existence. She is so disempowered that despite her persuasions to the contrary she cannot stop the criminal couple from committing ever new acts of transgression. In his single-minded pursuit of wealth, Mangaraj has allowed his children to go astray. Spurred on by the success of his rapacious pursuit of property, he sets his eye on a fertile chunk of land measuring six acres and a third and owned by a lower-caste weaver couple, Bhagia and Saria. Armed with the knowledge of the colonial laws and taking advantage of the couple’s simplicity, blind adherence to religious rituals, and pious sentimentality, he uses Champa’s deceitfulness to cheat Bhagia and Saria out of their six acres and a third as well as a cow the childless couple had nursed like a child. Driven to destitution, Saria dies, and Bhagia goes mad. Saantani, after failing to protect the couple from the marauding of Mangaraj and Champa, is heartbroken and dies too. After Saantani’s death, the novel is quickly

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reduced to a chaotic end. In a quirk of fate Mangaraj is arrested for murdering Saria, but is punished by the court, not for the innumerable sins he has committed against mankind, but ironically for unlawfully taking away the cow from the weaver couple. During his trial and detention, Champa runs away with all the valuables of the Mangaraj household in the company of a barber, who kills her in a dispute about sharing the loot and then is himself devoured by a crocodile while crossing a river. Mangaraj is cheated out of all his remaining wealth by his lawyer, Ramram Lala. Death comes to him as a deliverance, even as the ennobling vision of his dead wife fills his consciousness. Like the story “Sabhya Zamindar,” this novel also has a simple moral tale on the surface, which can be paraphrased as follows: if you do not abide by the ethical conduct or dharma the traditional wisdom has taught you, you will be destroyed. However, this moral theme does not account for the marginalization of Saantani, the most pious character of the novel, or even for the suffering of Bhagia and Saria. A deeper understanding of the plight of these characters and even that of Ramachandra Mangaraj calls for an analysis of the forces of change in the society Senapati tries to depict. The setting for Mangaraj’s exploits is the post-1803 coastal area of Orissa. After the British occupation of this area, there was a large-scale reorganization in the administrative and economic setup. The cultural feudalism of the native society was replaced by an economic feudalism that was becoming outmoded even in British society. Land, which was integral to a person’s self-definition and location in the traditional social hierarchy, became a reified commodity in those early days of colonial capitalism. Hence, it could change hands easily to be claimed by a person with greater capital and institutional power. At the same time, since indigenous industries were made redundant, many artisans and skilled laborers lost their professional moorings and became increasingly dependent upon land as the only means of subsistence. In times of crisis, which was sometimes brought about by the people with power, they were forced to sell off their lands. Once their land was usurped they were left in a state of destitution and dehumanization. The tragedy of such people has been represented by Senapati in various poems, short stories, essays, and novels. The chaotic situation at the ground level was further compounded by the plundering and corruption of the colonial masters after the Battle of Plassey (Dirks, 2008: 247). Mangaraj was the product of such a chaotic economic order. If his society had not been in such a chaotic transitional phase, Mangaraj might not have gotten an opportunity to unleash his misappropriated craft. He was an orphan like

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Gopala of the earlier story, but unlike Gopala, Mangaraj carves his way to wealth through devious means. The changed order provides ample opportunities for his unscrupulousness. His moral degeneration is as much a personal hubris as the symptom of a larger social malaise. This larger social malaise wrought by colonial modernity explains the tragedy of Saantani, Bhagia, and Saria. The social upheaval caused by the forces of change, on the one hand, provides the unscrupulous elements in the native tradition the opportunity to become detached from their ethical moorings and in consequence invite their own doom and, on the other, renders those who are faithful to traditional values so helpless as to be destroyed along with their oppressors. Senapati’s oeuvre therefore resembles a vast landscape of human waste where both the vicious and the virtuous hurtle toward destruction and death. Was Senapati then either morally indifferent to this phenomenon or even a fatalist? A superficial reading of his works may suggest that he is both. For example, in Lacchama (1914) Senapati’s mouthpiece, Rayaguru, speaks about the advent of British colonialism as the consequence of a historical and metaphysical inevitability. Moreover, the white race was divinely ordained to rule over the natives for the latter’s benefit: A universe without God, a kingdom without a king cannot thrive for a second. We hear that a few white traders, from a white island in the sea, have opened some trading centers at Gobindpur near Sutanati. Their deeds are as bright as their visage. Look how the Hindus distrust Hindu kings, the Muslims distrust Muslim rulers, but are living fearlessly and in assurance under the protection of those inhabitants from the island who profess a different religion and of whose ancestry and whereabouts they have no idea. The people of the white race are judicious, kind to those who take their shelter, friend to the needy and hospitable to the destitute. If they are judicious even as traders, a profession where deviousness and selfishness are so natural, if they become the emperor, the subjects would no doubt live happily under them. (Behera and Dash, 2000: 104)

The text continues, “We guess the kind Lord of Universe has sent these white people from the white land for the well-being of the Indian people” (ibid.: 105; translation ours). If we analyze the political and economic condition of Orissa in the eighteenth century, it is not strange for Rayaguru to think in this way, to believe that colonial modernity came as a liberating force for many. It is particularly true of the people of Orissa who had suffered at the hands of both the Mughals and the Marathas. The British at least put

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in place a semblance of order amid the chaos of a failed state (Dash and Pattanaik, 2008: 115–17). Moreover, there was a certain efficiency in the modern institutions the British imposed on the natives. They brought in the printing press, modern education, a liberal polity that allowed limited dissent, the philosophical outlook of the Enlightenment, a codified universal legal system, a judiciary to enforce the rule of law that was apparently fair to all, and scientific and medical innovations. Around the time Rayaguru articulates the above opinion, the neighboring state of Bengal had already received the benefits of such changes. A sizable comprador Bengali middle class had grown through interaction with the British. In order to safeguard their own business interests this comprador class welcomed the continued presence of the East India Company. Since the colonial interest of the British was not transparent at that time, this class was enthusiastic about the liberating influence of the West. Along with business opportunities western contact opened up new ideas and information regarding the French Revolution and the American War of Independence, two great movements for liberation of those times. Some company officials like Elphinstone and philanthropists like David Hare had created educational opportunities for the common man. Their individual efforts had endeared the western traders to the people at large. It is for these reasons that intellectual leaders including Rammohan Roy were echoing this early enthusiasm without really deciphering the hegemonic aspirations of the British.2 Senapati, a keen student of history, was justifiably enthusiastic about the changes brought about by western contact, as the above statement of Rayaguru demonstrates. Moreover, he himself had benefited from British contact personally and in his struggle for the rights of his community. Senapati’s father and uncle were shipbuilders and merchants and had regular contact with the British merchant class. Until 1860 his family’s relative affluence was due to trade with the British. In his own eventful life he had a brush with all modern western institutions and ideas as a teacher in a missionary school, a writer of textbooks, a printer and owner of a printing press, and a publisher of journals and newspapers. He also directly served the British government as administrative agent in various princely states of Orissa. An important fallout of his western contact was his conceptualization of an Oriya nation. In his struggle for forging an Oriya nationhood, he used the power of the British tactically to counter the subcolonialist aspirations of the comprador Bengalis. In a few of his books, especially in his autobiography, he paid glowing tributes to British civil servants

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like John Beames and T. E. Ravenshaw for enabling him in his various social and personal endeavors (Dash 2002: 106, Dash 2008: 331). However, this is not to suggest that he was blind to the corrosive and destabilizing influence of colonial modernity. Unlike other enthusiasts and beneficiaries of western contact he was fully aware that the so-called modern forces were being mediated through a hegemonic dispensation. While such a mediation was beneficial to some in the short term, in the long run it was catastrophic for all, especially for the disempowered and downtrodden. Right from the beginning of his career, even as he used to receive British munificence, he criticized the administration in public debates and open letters. Taking advantage of the limited dissent allowed to native subjects, he took up the cause of the people living on the margins of colonial society. The editorial he wrote in Bodhadayini ebng Baleswar Sambadabahika, criticizing the decision of the collector John Beames, one of his greatest benefactors, to collect a uniform road tax from all, including the owners of bullock carts and horse-driven carriages (a rich minority including the colonial masters), can be cited as an example (Dash, 2002: 36). In an essay titled “Ambhamanankara Kabiraj” (“Our Ayurvedic Doctor”; Dash, 2008: 274–76), published on February 16, 1876, he compares the merit of indigenous medical practices with the allopathic therapy introduced by the colonizers. He finds the indigenous Ayurveda superior to the foreign practice, among other reasons for its easy accessibility to the poorer sections of the society. This consciousness that the British laws, medical practices, and other so-called boons of modernity were more detrimental than beneficial to the marginal people runs through his entire oeuvre. It is this sympathy for the margins—which Satya P. Mohanty designates as “a view from below” (Mohanty, 2005: 2)—that forces Senapati to rethink the colonial modernity of which he was a beneficiary. However, he was aware that mere nostalgia or conservation of and obeisance to traditional values would not be sufficient to mount a challenge to those dehumanizing and destructive forces. What was required, therefore, was a thorough reinvention of the colonial subject who could be rooted in universal ethical principles provided to him by his native tradition, even as he internalized the new changes through an attentive reading of the signs of those changes. In order to understand this dialectical encounter envisioned by Senapati, we should analyze the various avatars of tradition and change that were on offer in the colonial setup.

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Colonialism initiated a large-scale rethinking of the living traditions of the natives. Such rethinking is often necessitated by a sense of crisis that confronts a community. This sense of crisis was triggered by a feeling that the traditional way of life was somehow responsible for the victimhood of the natives. Moreover, the ideological apparatuses of the colonial administration were largely successful in forging a belief in the racial and civilizational superiority of the colonizers. At the same time, it was not possible for many to discard the living traditions, since it was a way of life validated by a large span of time. Several consequences emerged out of this tension. The colonizers, through misreading, or in their haste to create a culture of the “colonized other,” or for ideological purposes, invented a tradition for the native subjects. The elite among the colonial subjects, who were eager to embrace modernity yet were too timid to discard the tradition, altogether identified with this invented tradition. Another reaction to the crisis mentioned above found expression in the search of an essential tradition, which used tradition selectively even as it came to terms with the changed order. This essential tradition was adopted by the indigenous social-elite groups, especially the more privileged castes, as their own. However, in all communities there is yet another mode of tradition that inhabits the collective unconscious, manifested in its literary imagination as myths and archetypes. Even though they are not part of the daily life of the community or their constructions of history and canon, they continue to be an inalienable part of the community’s self-awareness (Dhar 1977: 1–27). From the above discussion it is clear that tradition was available to the colonial society in various forms, and often those forms were conceptualized in a manner that would appear contradictory to each other. Each interest group perceived tradition in a manner that would legitimize its social position and participation in the public domain. While designating Senapati as a traditionalist, his major critics have not been sensitive to such a nuanced conceptualization of tradition in the colonial society to which Senapati belonged. An analysis of the hints and the silences of Six Acres elucidates his notion of tradition. The discourse on language in the chapter titled “Zamindar Sheikh Dildar Mian” provides one example: “In the past, the Persian language had been held in high favour; it was the language of the court. With a sharp and pitiless plan, God has inscribed a strange fate for India: yesterday, the language of the court was Persian, today it is English. Only He knows which language will follow tomorrow. Whichever it may be, we

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know for certain that Sanskrit lies crushed beneath a rock for ever. English pundits say, ‘Sanskrit is a dead language.’ We would go even further. ‘Sanskrit is a language of the half-dead’” (Senapati, 2005: 67–68). Clearly, the three languages, Sanskrit, Persian, and English, represent three different traditions and power structures. Senapati’s narrator hints at the succession of the Brahmin, Mughal, and British hegemonies and the particular tradition those hegemonies set in place. Further, he shows how there was a conflict between the ruling ideologies and traditions and that one ideology succeeded by eliminating the previous dominant tradition from the position of power. However, the most important aspect of this passage is the narrator’s silence about Oriya, the language the narrator uses for the novel and which is the language of the common people. In a different context, Senapati talks about how in a storm only grass is left unharmed. Senapati’s position regarding tradition is like the status of Oriya, the vernacular tradition that takes into account the ways of life lived by the common people. This empathy for the “vernacular mind” and not “unthinking conservation” or “imaginary progressiveness merely imitative of the west” (Bhattacharya, 1984: 386) has been recognized by some recent commentators of Six Acres, such as Paul L. Sawyer and Satya P. Mohanty, who speak of the work as an epistemic view from below. The enduring character of this vernacular mind is a cause for celebration for the omniscient and often unreliable narrator of Six Acres, amid successive regimes of power and the tradition and culture invented and grafted by them. Persian has already been jettisoned. Sanskrit has a marginal existence in the nostalgic memory of the vernacular mind because it encoded the rites, rituals, myths, and archetypes of the subconscious of this vernacular mind. The fate of English is similarly uncertain. It can have its existence only insofar as the vernacular mind chooses to assimilate parts of it. In other words, out of the three narratives of tradition mentioned above, Senapati’s sympathy lies clearly with a tradition that is contextualized. A tradition without a context loses meaning, as was apparent from the attempt of the colonial rulers to invent a tradition for their Indian subjects. After Warren Hastings, the company administration decided to rule India along the norms and conventions that were indigenously available. The project, though laudable, was marred by the rulers’ lack of knowledge of what was indigenous. By designating the tradition of the elite culture as indigenous, they put in place the orientalist project, which was highly selective, reductionist, and inimical to the common people (Kopf 1969, Dhar 1977: 152–84). Several satirical representations of that tradition can be seen in Six Acres. The

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lifeless pseudopiety of Ramachandra Mangaraj provides an example in this context. More than its hollowness and superstitious character, what angered Senapati about this “invented tradition” was the fact that this afforded the elite, the unscrupulous, and the devious selfadvancement at the expense of the disempowered and marginalized. The tragedy of Bhagia and Saria on one hand and the social climbing of Mangaraj on the other result from this skewed sense of tradition. In several works, including this one, Senapati exposes the dangers of this invented tradition. Similarly the elite Indians had invented another tradition for themselves, imitating the orientalist assumption of a glorious past that was equally selective, essentialist, and hegemonic (Hatcher 1996: 191–240). It sought to do away with syncretic culture and tradition, ignoring the historical fact of Islamic presence and cultural input in the formation of the Oriya vernacular mind.3 Senapati, though a little sympathetic toward this position, never completely identified with it. His real sympathies in his conceptualization of the past lay with the heterodox traditions of Indian culture, including Buddhism and Jainism. There was very little that Senapati could like about the essentialized past, since it consisted of a corrupt Brahminism, marginalized Jainism, and completely evacuated Buddhism. He thought that change was the inevitable law of creation. The change could be either for better or for worse, depending on the action of the people. The period of change that has been represented in Six Acres, critics agree, after the pioneering work of Natabar Samantaray (1972: 31–46), is between 1803 and 1840, immediately after the British occupation of the coastal districts of Orissa. The main theme of the novel in this sense is the social and economic transformation of coastal Orissa after the change in political structure. This transformation was for the worse because the change was very sudden. The vernacular mind too was not in a position to assimilate it because the people were already in a state of destitution and lacking genuine social agency. The state of destitution of the people allowed them neither to resist the change nor to assimilate it properly. As often happens with an utterly powerless populace, the change was regarded with a great deal of suspicion or fear. Chapter 19 of the novel, “Police Inquiry,” is a typical representation of such a fear psychosis. The villagers already knew that the police were coming to arrest their oppressor, Ramachandra Mangaraj. But instead of celebrating that occasion they retreat to their homes in panic:

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After that, the whole village became extremely quiet. After a quick dip in the pond, the women ran off in their wet clothes; the clothes dripped and flapped around them as they hurried home. Their panic was such that they could not even fill their pitchers to the brim; the half-filled pitchers made loud slapping noises, like the tongues of native patriots haranguing a gathering. Clutching his cane, the village school-master disappeared. Children scattered on the path. Like a policeman dragging an accused murderer, the head boy marched a small boy to the school. Now this same boy was running away faster than everyone else. (Senapati, 2005: 152–53)

Disempowered people retreat into their own cocooned world of make-believe, using superstition as a crutch for their own existence. Senapati was often tolerant of the superstitions, dead rituals, and reactionary practices, not because he was a conservative, but because he saw these as the ultimate survival strategies of the most disempowered. Ironically, this retreat often could be the cause of their further disempowerment and marginalization. The retreat of the vernacular mind into a cocooned existence results in the disintegration of the bedrocks of the living tradition, like family, social relationships, belief and value system, and institutions that are handed down from generation to generation. The vacuum in the public space created by such a retreat is now occupied by usurpers like Ramachandra Mangaraj, Gobara Jena, and Champa, who monopolize the discourse and set the agenda of action and thereby usher in further collective misfortune.4 The collective misfortune witnessed in Six Acres is not limited to the wrongdoers like Mangaraj, Gobara Jena, or Champa; it also vanquishes Saantani, the repository of all traditional values, and Bhagia and Saria, who are examples of an ideal family. Moreover, mythmaking, which earlier served as an agent of education for the community, degenerates into superstition and rumor. Senapati, despite having sympathies for these living traditions and vernacular mind, adequately recognizes the truth of their dismemberment in the face of a marauding change unleashed by the colonial power. An organized action was necessary to stem the rot, to acknowledge the reality of change, and to produce a framework in which the values could be safeguarded and a proper negotiation with and assimilation of change could be effected. Literature could be one public domain where these negotiations could be imagined. What changes did Senapati negotiate in his works? They were the changes initiated by western modernization, like a sense of history, scientific knowhow, legal institutions, rational outlook, educational

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institutions, and love for the mother tongue. At first glance it would appear as if Senapati has lampooned the entire epistemological baggage of colonial modernity and the institutions that mediate that worldview. For example, the historiography of Tod and Marshman is equated with the mythmaking of Ekadusia Chandra, the native “historian”: “But, as the villagers became sinful, the river no longer did this. English-educated babus, do not be too critical of our local historian, Ekadusia Chandra. If you are, half of what Marshman and Tod have written will not survive the light of scrutiny” (ibid., 2005: 102). Similarly, scientific and rational discourse has come under scrutiny at several places in this novel and elsewhere: “Today, in the nineteenth century, the sciences enjoy great prestige, for they form the basis of all progress. See, the British are white-skinned, whereas Oriyas are dark in complexion. This is because the former have studied the sciences, whereas the latter have no knowledge of these” (ibid.: 83). These satirical representations notwithstanding, Senapati himself tried his hand at history writing and a textbook on the achievements of the great scientists of the West like Copernicus, Newton, and Galileo, which he translated from the Bengali original by Iswarchandra Vidyasagar. Does it demonstrate his ambivalence toward modern western modes of knowledge? Otherwise how can a writer who mocks western knowledge systems in many of his writings end up writing a history book in the model of western historiography and laud the iconic figures of western scientific establishment? Does it demonstrate Senapati’s ideological inconsistency? A more careful reading would reveal that most of the farcical representations of western epistemology in his writing relate to the hegemonic dimension of that knowledge when it is accompanied by power. For example, he lampoons the historian Tod when Tod concludes that Indian people were naked from a weak premise—the representation of naked men and women in paintings from Rajasthan. It would be safe to argue that Senapati did not reject western epistemology and the changes it initiated per se, but rather that he resisted its hegemonic character and arrogance, when accompanied by colonial power. He believed that all manner of knowledge or change either grafted or mediated with power would have a deleterious effect on the people or would be fruitless. Its status would be no better than the superstitions that were part of the so-called traditionalist view of life. Only those changes or knowledge that could find resonance in the living tradition of the common people and were chosen by them as active and self-conscious agents would gain the status of legitimate knowledge. The populace in a state of mental slavery can turn any

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mode of knowledge into rumor and superstition as they are capable of turning the ideals and values of a living tradition into meaningless rituals. Thus, rather than bringing in so-called better knowledge and historiography, Senapati emphasized the creation of active and conscious agents who could choose whatever was beneficial in tradition and modernization. Six Acres would seem an unfinished project from such a perspective. For in this first novel, he is more engaged in conceptualizing the skewed perceptions about tradition and modernity, than he is in creating an alternative agenda for a negotiation between the two. If we look at his oeuvre as a continuum, we can discern such an alternative framework in his later novels such as Mamu and Prayaschita. However, the syncretism he was striving for between tradition and modernity was achieved at a formal and structural level in Six Acres. An analysis of the form and structure of Six Acres could provide us with a glimpse of the syncretic vision we encounter at the thematic level in his later novels and writings.

IV. In a short piece titled “Aja Nati Katha” (“A Dialogue Between the Grandfather and Grandson”; Utkal Sahitya, XIX, April 1915), Senapati extols some of the values ushered in by modern thinking, like English education and a scientific and rational worldview, in unambiguous terms. He also debunks some of the mystifying notions about the past. But what is more important in the context of this discussion is that he finds a resonance for the literary genre of the novel in the living tradition of the natives. In the concluding lines, the grandson Ganapati, Senapati’s alter ego, makes the following remark: “Listen Grandpa, be it Purana or Novel, or Short story, the poets have written like this for educating the people. Purana means the tales of the past. It should not surprise us if people, reading the novels that are published today, after one thousand years or so, think those tales to be true incidents” (Dash, 2002: 400; translation ours). This extract is the culmination of a long debate regarding the comparative validity of purana and the novel as knowledge. The Grandfather, who is a champion of the past in an uncritical and irrational way, considers the puranas to be delineations of incontrovertible truth. In the same breath he considers the contemporary writings to be pure falsehood. The yardstick of verifiability that he uses to designate the contemporary novel as imaginary, when used by the Grandson for the puranas, reveals that the puranas are no less “imaginary” than

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the novels. The grandson, then, sets about placing both the genres on a continuum, as exemplars of “imaginative” fiction, which makes a tactical synthesis between the world of contemporary values and that of timeless truth—for aesthetic, moral, and educative purposes. In other words, to put the debate in Northrop Frye’s terms, mimesis and mythos are two poles of the same fictional mode divided by a gap of time (Frye, 1971: 136–37). Six Acres is an attempt to bridge this temporal gap, retaining whatever is usable in the past and the present within an aesthetic whole. This is the model of dialectical relationship between tradition and modernity that Six Acres offers. The mimetic mode in Six Acres offers a satirical account of what is ineffective both in a traditional way of life and in contemporary changes brought about by colonial modernity. To do that Senapati uses a vocal, ubiquitous, and omniscient narrator who is also largely unreliable. This playful narrative persona puts on a pedestal all easily accepted commonsensical notions, only to deconstruct them and show their hollowness, be they traditional or modern. The purpose here is not to create a wide space of ambiguity, but to create an alert, discriminating, intelligent reader or subject who can separate the chaff from the grain. This exercise is very elaborate and drawn out, greatly impeding the movement of action. Largely due to the garrulous narrator, movement of action in the first half of the novel until Saantani’s death is rather slow. After Saantani’s death, however, the action moves fairly fast to a cataclysmic denouement. Clearly, there is a pattern behind the difference between the narrative and action in the first half and the narrative and action in the second half, with the silent watershed figure of Saantani. We would like to argue that while the narrative is informed by social realism, the realm of values in the novel is encoded by suggestions and silences. Any superficial reading of the text would reveal that the garrulous narrator invests a lot of energy teasing out inanities from very trivial issues. For example, the question of Ramachandra Mangaraj’s piety may be cited. From the very beginning it is clear that the statement “He was a very pious man indeed” (35) is a travesty of truth. But the narrator sets out to prove the impossible by employing rational, scientific, historical discourses. In the end, not only the narrator but also the epistemological instruments he uses stand discredited. Such endeavors recur frequently throughout the text. In sharp contrast, the representation of Marua’s character points toward a deep-seated social malaise, the precarious position of young widows in a traditional society. Having no moorings, Marua has been cast off from the society to survive in exchange for her body and self-respect. However,

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Senapati is very economical in his depiction of such a grave social arrangement. With only a few hints and suggestions he provokes the active reader to imagine the spread and extent of moral leprosy that bedeviled the traditional social order. The strategy of the novelist is to be silent or reticent about the most profound realizations while being voluble about inanities. While the voluble, visible narrative is a critique of modernity within the realistic realm, tradition inhabits the silent realm. While the social realism is portrayed through the narrative, values are indicated through suggestions and silences. In order to reach the profound message of eternal verities one has to wade through the cacophonous external reality. By penetrating the ambiguities and uncertainties of the contradictory voices of the narrative and by overcoming the conflicting pulls of the material, social world, one can arrive at the contemplative vision that Mangaraj, right before his death, is blessed with—the vision of his dead wife. In fact, Mangaraj’s dead wife Saantani is at the centre of this yogic vision, in her role as a silent “Sakhi” (witness, in yogic terms) amid a turbulence of change and destruction. She is the repository of all the enduring ideals of tradition, and by her very contemplative detached existence saves the situation from lapsing into destructive chaos. It is telling that the entire world of Mangaraj’s make-believe, bereft of ethical and moral moorings, comes crashing down after her death. It reminds us of the total destruction of Rajibalochan in the story “Sabhya Zamindar” cited at the beginning of this essay, after his pious mother deserts the ancestral house. The pious woman figure in these writings is the archetype of Brindabati of the Kartika Mahatmya (Mahadeb Das: 35–88), a puranic text that is an integral part of Oriya living tradition and culture. This text, which women recite or listen to during the holy month of Kartika, describes the perennial struggle between good and evil. Devas, who represent the forces of good, have their ultimate protector, Lord Vishnu, while the Asuras are led by the demon king, Jalandhara. Jalandhara is blessed with a pious and chaste wife, Brindabati. The virtue of Brindabati, ironically, protects Jalandhara despite his increasing acts of transgression of moral and ethical values. Drunk with his power over the entire world he seeks to snatch away Parvati, the most beautiful woman of the creation and the wife of the Lord of gods, Mahadeva. When the gods take shelter in Vishnu’s abode after being vanquished by Jalandhara, Vishnu decides to fight an open battle with the demon king. During the battle he realizes that Jalandhara’s defeat is impossible since he is protected by the virtue of a chaste wife. He impersonates Jalandhara and seduces Brindabati, thereby corrupting her body. Upon discovering the deception

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Brindabati enters a burning pyre alive after cursing Vishnu. Once Brindabati is dead, destroying Jalandhara remains a mere formality. This myth informs the underlying moral structure of Six Acres. The many moral transgressions of Mangaraj, his concubinage, and his acts of usurpation of properties belonging to, among others, the angelic couple Bhagia and Saria, constitute the miniature human replica of the mythic transgressions of the titanic Jalandhara. The most important parallel is, however, the symbolic association of Saantani with the holy Tulsi plant. For after her death, Brindabati, the mythic chaste queen, is transformed into a holy Tulsi plant whose leaves adorn the forehead of Lord Vishnu. Saantani in this novel is often sighted praying to the goddess Brindabati in her transformed avatar as a Tulsi plant. She also breathes her last at the base of this plant, triggering the subsequent catastrophe. Mangaraj, no longer protected by the virtuous presence of his wife, meets his nemesis. The question here, however, is why Senapati superimposes this mythical narrative upon a seemingly social-realistic novel depicting village life in colonial India. Why does he relegate the realm of values to that mythical mode? The novel in question offers a few insights into these questions. As we have said, Senapati saw the novel genre within a literary continuum that included puranas and kavya. The novel form was a new avatar for the same human imaginative enterprise directed at loka siksha (“popular education,” or the enlightenment of the general public). This is the more effective medium for such an enterprise in our times. So whatever enduring values need to be articulated for the enlightenment of the people should be done through this form. A mere nostalgic clinging to the earlier genres will not serve the purpose. Thus, though he set out to narrate the story of Mangaraj as a charita, a genre familiar to the puranic tradition in Orissa and elsewhere in India, he quickly resorted to the structure of the modern novel that was available through colonial contact and the pioneering efforts in the genre by Bengali subcolonialists. There are many instances in Six Acres where he lampoons the elaborate stylization of the earlier puranic and kavya modes of narrative. After mimicking these forms, he also recognized the need to rearticulate the enduring values encoded in those genres in the form of novel. For Senapati, it would seem that the novel is the paradigm for the aesthetic synthesis between tradition and modernity. Six Acres and the novels that follow are examples of such a synthesis.

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Following colonial historiography, Senapati’s illustrious contemporaries perceived tradition and modernity in bipolar terms as thesis and antithesis. In Six Acres and a host of other writings, Senapati, in a sharp departure from other nineteenth-century writers, saw tradition and modernity as two separate theses having their own antitheses. In Six Acres he presents the antithesis of both tradition and modernity. He adopts a satirical and ironic tone to represent these antitheses. What is undesirable in tradition comes under the mocking gaze of the ubiquitous narrative voice of the novel as much as what is repugnant in colonial modernity. He visualizes the possibility of a synthesis only within the vernacular tradition where what is desirable in both tradition and change can coexist. Like Iswarchandra Vidyasagar, whose work he translated into Oriya as his first published work, he can be called a “traditional modernizer.” Such modernization is not a grafting of alien values but should be accomplished through the process of “improvement,” and its goal was an alternative modernity that was universal in character without rejecting the values of tradition. Though Six Acres was not able to fully articulate the vision of this alternative modernity, its marriage of mythological and novelistic genres is a clear indication of progress in that direction.

Notes 1. In the 1830s, English-educated radicals of Calcutta started a movement called “Young Bengal,” which ridiculed the Hindu way of life in general and Brahminical religion in particular. Their activities generated large-scale resentment in the traditional homes of Calcutta. For several dramas, farces, novels, belles lettres, and short stories they were favorite subjects of caricature. Most of the pre-Bankim novels were full of representation of their oddities. 2. The opinion Senapati articulates in Lacchama and in another short story, “Kalikaprasad Gorap” (Dash, Fakirmohan Granthabali, 2: 393–98), is merely an echo of the general sentiment toward the British that was becoming consolidated among the then upwardly mobile business class of Bengal. The business and trading class found interacting and transacting business with the English much easier and more profitable than with other European trading groups. This promise of profit prompted them to learn English. Subsequently, the elite of the other presidency seats—Bombay and Madras—had a similar experience. This practical need of the Indian elite and the business community to learn English was facilitated by philanthropists like David Hare

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in Bengal and administrators like Elphinstone in Bombay (Ahmed; Mukherjee). 3. After interaction with the colonial structures and forms of knowledge, the intellectual elites of the Hindu upper caste developed a tendency to look at the Indian past in exclusive terms. Heterodox belief systems like Jainism, Buddhism, and Islam were seen as a kind of deviation from the essential Indian culture that, according to them, issued from the Vedantic tradition. In historical writing too the separate identity of Lokayata forms of worship was represented as different sects within the overarching superstructure of Hinduism. Moreover, the contribution of Islam was either ignored or considered to be a pollutant. The writings of Rangalal Bannerjee and Bankim could be an example of this kind of thinking. In Oriya literature too, Senapati’s contemporary, Radhanath Ray, seems to have toed this line of thinking. (For more details see Raychaudhuri; Tripathi; and Chand). 4. In his perceptive Introduction to Six Acres, Satya P. Mohanty compares the colonial usurper Clive with local usurpers like Mangaraj and Gobara Jena, thereby putting all of them—the colonizers and their colonized mimic-men—in the same class as exploiters. In our analysis, however, we would like to argue that these native exploiters could succeed in their evil design because of the colonial structure of power itself. The colonial structure of power, due to its lack of knowledge of and sensitivity to the local knowledge, had jettisoned the traditional value system and created a moral vacuum in the social space, making it conducive to the predatory designs of the would-be usurpers.

Bibliography Acharya, Sudarsan, ed. Fakirmohan Senapati: Jiban Charita. Berhampur, India: Taratarini Pustakalya, 1993. Ahmed, A. F. Salahuddin. Social Ideas and Social Change in Bengal, 1818–1835. Kolkata: Rddhi, 1976. Behera, Krushna C., and Debendra K. Dash, eds. Fakirmohan Granthabali. Vol. 1. Cuttack, India: Granthamandir, 2000. Bhattacharya, Krishna C. “Swarajya in Ideas.” Indian Philosophical Quarterly 11, no. 4 (October–December, 1984). Boulton, John. Essays on Oriya Literature. Jagatsinghpur, India: Prafulla Pathagar Publications, 2003. Boulton, John. V., and Odisa Sahitya Ekademi. Phakirmohana Senapati: His Life and Prose-Fiction. Bhubaneswar, India: Orissa Sahitya Akademi, 1993. Chakrabarty, Dipesh. Habitations of Modernity: Essays in the Wake of Subaltern Studies. Delhi: Permanent Black, 2002. Chand, Tara. Influence of Islam on Indian Culture. Allahabad, India: Indian Press, 1946.

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Chattopadhyaya, Partha. Itihaser Uttaradhikar. Kolkata: Anand Publications Pvt. Ltd., 2000. Cohn, Bernard S. An Anthropologist among the Historians and Other Essays. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1990. ———. Colonialism and Its Forms of Knowledge: The British in India. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1997. Das, Mahadeb. Kartik Mahatmya. Cuttack, India: Dharmagrantha Store, n.d. Das, Sisir K. The Artist in Chains. Kolkata: Papyrus, 1995. Das, Sisir Kumar. A History of Indian Literature. New Delhi: Sahitya Akademi, 1991. Dash, Debendra K., ed. Fakirmohan Granthabali. Vol. 2. Cuttack, India: Granthamandir, 2002. ———. Fakirmohan Granthabali. Vol. 3. Cuttack, India: Granthamandir, 2008. ———. Fakirmohan Granthabali. Vol. 4. Cuttack, India: Granthamandir, forthcoming. Dash, Debendra K., and Dipti R. Pattanaik. “Late 19th Century Literary Discourse and Oriya Identity.” Utkal Historical Journal 17 (2004). ———. “Ungrafting Colonialism: Fakirmohan’s Pragmatic Vision in Six Acres and a Third.” In Neither East nor West: Postcolonial Essays on Literature, Culture and Religion, edited by Kerstin W. Shands. Sodertorn, Sweden: Sodertorn University College, 2008. Dash, Gaganendra N. Saraswati Fakir Mohan: Sahitya O Byaktitwa. Cuttack, India: Grantha Mandir, 2006. Dash, Nilakantha. Odia Bhasa O Sahitya. Cuttack, India: New Students Store, 1958. Dash, Sarbeswar. Yugasrashta Fakirmohan. Cuttack, India: Granthamandir, 1983. De, Barun. “A Biographical Perspective on the Political and Economic Ideas of Rammohun Ray.” In Rammohun Ray and the Process of Modernization in India, edited by V. C. Joshi. New Delhi: Vikas Publishing House, 1975. Dhar, Niranjan. Vedanta and the Bengal Renaissance. Kolkata: Minerva Associates (Publications), 1977. Dirks, Nicholas B. Castes of Mind: Colonialism and the Making of Modern India. New Delhi: Permanent Black, 2003. ———. The Scandal of Empire: India and the Creation of Imperial Britain. Ranikhet, India: Permanent Black, 2008. Frye, Northrop. Anatomy of Criticism: Four Essays. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1971. Hatcher, Brian Allison. Idioms of Improvement: Vidyasagar and Cultural Encounter in Bengal. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1999. Hobsbawm, Eric J., and Terence O. Ranger. The Invention of Tradition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987. Joshi, Sanjay. Fractured Modernity: Making of a Middle Class in Colonial North India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2001. Kar, Biswanath. “Shoka Sambad.” Utkal Sahitya 23, no. 3 (June 1918).

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Debendra K. Dash and Dipti R. Pattanaik

Kopf, David. British Orientalism and the Bengal Renaissance; The Dynamics of Indian Modernization, 1773–1835. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1969. Mishra, Rabi S. “Chha Mana Atha Guntha: The Language of Power and the Silences of a Woman.” In Early Novels in India, edited by Meenakshi Mukherjee. New Delhi: Sahitya Akademi, 2002. Mohanty, Satya P. Introduction. In Six Acres and a Third: The Classic Nineteenth-Century Novel about Colonial India, by Fakir Mohan Senapati. Translated by Rabi Shankar Mishra, Satya P. Mohanty, Jatindra K. Nayak, and Paul St. Pierre. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005. Mohanty, Surendra. Fakirmohan Samikshya. Cuttack, India: New Students Store, 1983. Mukherjee, Amitava. Reform and Regeneration in Bengal 1774–1823. Kolkata: Rabindra Bharati University, 1968. Mukherjee, Meenakshi. Realism and Reality: The Novel and Society in India. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1985. Nandy, Ashis. The Intimate Enemy: Loss and Recovery of Self Under Colonialism. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1983. Nandy, Ashis, and Ramin Jahanbegloo. Talking India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2006. Nayak, Jatindra K. Fakir Mohan Senapati, Perspectives on His Fiction. Jagatsinghpur, India: Prafulla Pathagara Publications, 2004. Panda, Rabindra P. Madhyabittar Atmabichar. Cuttack, India: Vidyapuri, 2004. Pati, Madhu S. Anusilan. Cuttack, India: Agraduta, 1979. Raychaudhuri, Tapan. Europe Reconsidered: Perceptions of the West in Nineteenth Century Bengal. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1988. Samantaray, Natabar. Byasakabi Fakirmohan. Bhubaneswar, India: Gangabai Samantaray, 1972. ———. Odia Sahityar Itihas. Bhubaneswar, India: Gangabai Samantaray, 1983. Sawyer, Paul L. “Six Acres and a Third—An Oriya Village and the Battle of Plassey: Senapati’s Allegory of the Raj.” Economic and Political Weekly 41, no. 46 (2006): 4782–88. Senapati, Fakir Mohan. Six Acres and a Third: The Classic Nineteenth-Century Novel about Colonial India. Translated by Rabi Shankar Mishra, Satya P. Mohanty, Jatindra K. Nayak, and Paul St. Pierre. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005. Singh, Yogendra. Modernization of Indian Tradition; A Systemic Study of Social Change. Jaipur, India: Rawat Publications, 1986. Srinivas, M. N. Social Change in Modern India. New Delhi: Orient Longman, 1999. Sudhir Chandra. The Oppressive Present: Literature and Social Consciousness in Colonial India. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1992. Tripathi, Amalesh. Vidyasagar, the Traditional Moderniser. Mumbai: Orient Longman, 1974.

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Fair Without, Foul Within: Bahire Rongsong Bhitare Kowabhaturi Hemchandra Barua

G

obardhan-deu Ata of Korkhania Satra is a true Vaishnava. His ancestry can be traced back to the family of the hunchbacked woman who supplied sandalwood to King Kangsha.1 He is the great grandson of Gopinath Deu Ata, who received divine knowledge from the great Guru himself. His holiness could recite from all three shastras—the Ghosha, the Kirtan, and the Ratnavali. From his lips would spring like akhai, or popcorn, words from all the other sacred texts—Gunamala, Bhotima, Sopoi, and Totoi. Our Gossain-deu2 is such a maestro in the rendition of the borgeet, the Vaishnava devotional songs, that when he starts singing in the early morning the very trees in the neighborhood start nodding their heads in tune with the music. Even jackals and dogs howl and bark in love’s delirious ecstasy. His ancestors used to keep female consorts. But our Gossain-deu, after his pilgrimage to the holy satra at Madhupur, accepted the pure way of life of a celibate. He would not even lift his eyes to the face of a woman, nor would he accept water from the hands of someone who had a female consort. It is said that the ancestors of his holiness could perform great miracles. Once, the river Kalshila was so struck by the miraculous powers of one of them that she was metamorphosed into a human being and for five long years she became his disciple and paid her guru-kar with a supply of five scores of eggs from Kaldhap. Our Gossain-deu too possesses marvelous miraculous powers. Though he lives in this kolikal, one of the descendants of the Translated from the Original Assamese by Tilottoma Misra. The original text was first published in AD 1866 (Saka Era 1788).

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Appendix

Hemchandra Barua

monkey-king of Kiskindhya sought his blessings, and in return, paid him an annual guru-kar with a supply of the sweet konmou fruit collected from three Lankas. Gossain-deu never deviates even by an inch from the true and righteous path shown by the two great Gurus. In accordance with their teachings, he would never utter the names of “other gods and goddesses” and even if he heard them accidentally, he would cover his ears. If someone was named after “other gods and goddesses” he would get his name changed before he addressed that person: Kaliram would become Mohiram, Durgaram would become Dohotia Ram, and Shivaram would become Jatia Ram, thus retaining the original in a harmless form.3 His holiness does not take even a drop of water without his three daily prayers. On amavashya and ekadashi days he would eat nothing but rice-flour made from five kathas of fine white rice with milk and molasses in sufficient quantities. Gossain-deu is bak-sidhha. Once when he was offended with a bhakat, he cursed him to die instantly. After that terrible curse, the bhakat lived for only thirty years. Gossaindeu has mastered all the dharma-shastras. He can instantly clear all the doubts of his disciples relating to the difficult passages in the Ghosha or the Ratnavali. Once, a bhakat who was searching for the Ultimate Truth went to the Kuralgiri satra, a Vaishnava monastery. When he saw all the bhakats there rolling on the ground, intoxicated with divine love after listening to the interpretation of the Krishnaleela by the Bhagati-bapu of the namghar, he too took a few turns in the mud. But once he turned his back on the namghar, all the images of Krishna-charitra vanished from his mind as did the sweat from his body. The only words that stuck in a corner of the backyard of his mind were the words “brinda bipina.” Having some doubts about the deeper implication of those two words, he approached our Gossain-ishwar and asked him, “My lord, we know that ‘birina’ means a reed. We see it every day; but what does ‘bipina’ signify?” Our Gossain pondered this over deeply and replied, “Atoi, you have asked a very difficult question. Bipina means the soft inside of a reed—it signifies complex ideas which very few have the capacity to understand.”4 This reply clearly reveals the depth of knowledge of our Gossain. Gossain-deu was more concerned about the minute observance of ritualistic practices in the manner approved by custom and tradition than about the correct forms of Vaishnava prayers. The reason was that he was more concerned about earning some money for the satra’s expenses by imposing severe fines on those disciples who violated the customs in the slightest possible manner, rather than about the attainment of the path of salvation by the disciple bhakats. There was a story

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in circulation that once a bhakat consumed an areca nut before his bath in the morning. When our Gossain-deu came to know about this grave offense, he called a general meeting of all the bhakats in the satra to discuss the possible threat to the soul of the sinner and the remedial course of action. Though no charge could be conclusively established in the absence of tangible evidence, it was decided that the accused should make an offering of twenty rupees only to the satra just to cleanse himself from the scandal. It was also decided that till the time when the fine could be extracted, the offending bhakat should be tied up and made to lie on the ground with his face upwards, under the blazing summer sun. We have not kept count of the number of bhakats whose bodies and souls were thus purified by our Gossain-deu in this manner. For sin is a contagious disease. When a sinless person goes near a sinful one, sin jumps from the one and enters the other. A disciple who offends a Lord Gossain knowingly or unknowingly is the greatest sinner on this earth. That is why our Gossain-prabhu, out of concern for the sinless bhakats, pronounces a ban on social intercourse with all transgressors by erecting bamboo stakes and fencings on their doorsteps and forbidding the other disciples from sharing fire or water with him. Our “prabhu” is always concerned about the welfare of his disciples. But if he takes a fancy to something belonging to one of his disciples he would of course “express a desire” for it out of his infinite concern for him. If that object of his desire is “offered at the holy feet of the Mahaprabhu,” then the disciple can expect salvation from all his sins in this life and the next. But if he fails to comply with the wishes of the Gossain-deu, he can never escape hellfire. Whenever our “prabhuJagannath” enters a village, he does not fail to scrape it cleaner than a stomach afflicted by cholera so that it is rid of all pollutions. Once, his holiness went to a village of his disciples to make it pure with the dust of his feet. There he came to know from somebody that the Medhi of that village had a beautiful cow. The Medhi was informed that it was his good fortune that the “Ata-ishwar” was pleased to desire that cow. The desire was so intense that without its fulfillment, the Gossain would not touch the food offered to him. When the Aldhara-atoi, the Gossain’s attendant, conveyed this message to the Medhi, he was in a quandary. The cow was so dear to him that he did not have the heart to part with it. But what is a cow after all? If the Gossain did not touch his food, it would spell disaster for his own body and soul. So the Medhi made an offering of some money and tied the cow to a post in the Gossain’s namghar, thus ensuring that the midday meal was consumed by the holy one.

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Greed is the greatest evil on this earth. It can wield its power over saints and bhakats alike. Though our Gossain was a faithful image of Dharma itself and a treasure trove of Supreme Knowledge, he too could not resist the power of greed. His visit to the town was actually in connection with a lawsuit which he had filed against a landholder. The bone of contention was a fertile piece of land on which the Gossain had set his heart. On the basis of a false copperplate inscription, he sought to build up a case that the piece of land was actually a part of his brahmottar holding. In town, the Gossain was introduced to Markateswar Phukon and the holy one decided to set up his temporary residence at Phukon’s quarters. Markateswar Phukon was the scion of an old gentry stalk. During the days of the Ahom kings his family held important positions in the court. Now he gets only a pension from the government. He was earlier a follower of tantric rituals. But after meeting our Gossain-deu he gave up all tantra-mantras and became a sincere devotee of the true Vaishnava path. In his newfound enthusiasm, he clangs the cymbals so vigorously during evening prayers that the very trees shed their leaves in pain. His young wife has, however, surpassed him in her devotion to the new faith. After listening to a recital of the Krishna-leela by the Gossain-deu, she understood the true import of bhakti-rasa. During those religious interpretations, the guru and the disciple began to know each other more intimately and the seeds of love began to sprout naturally. Gossain-deu was so pleased with the devotion of this disciple that those episodes of the Krishna-leela which he had merely recited earlier were now enacted in their true form. A Brindavana was set up in the residence of Phukon and every episode of the leela, from bastra-haran to maan-bhanjan, was enacted slowly for the benefit of the devotee.6 Though Phukon came to know about these leelas being enacted in his house, he did not have the courage to stop them for fear of incurring the displeasure of the guru. Just as the milkman husband of the real Radha had accepted the love between his wife and Krishna, so Phukon too was enchanted by the love of this impostor Radha for his Guru. He even began to consider himself lucky that his young wife, the Gabharu-deu, had become the favorite disciple of a true Vaishnava and had mastered the deeper meaning of Truth. He cherished the hope that even if he failed to attain salvation through his own efforts, at least the efforts of his wife would enable him to achieve it. Besides, he also harbored the

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Of Gobardhan Gossain’s Visit to the Town and How He Set up Camp at the House of Markateswar5 Phukon

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The Character of Bhandeswar7 Barua—A Description of His Council—Gossain-deu’s Visit to the Council and His Discourse on the Shastras. Bhandeswar Barua is a Seristadar, the Principal Officer of the Sahib. Actually his whole household, including the cat, is devoted to the service of the Sahib. That is why Barua is capable of achieving anything on this earth. In his mastery over knowledge, he is a Brihaspati, the wise preceptor of the gods. So it would not be incorrect to say that for him every day is a Sri Panchami day, the auspicious day of the goddess of learning. But our Bhandeswar-Dangoria is especially gifted in one branch of learning, that is, the art of cringing. He is such a pundit in this art that his hands are constantly attached to the feet of the magistrates. By dint of this art alone, he has been able to charm every magistrate in town. Barua’s ancestry, however, is not so “renowned.” But he has been able to conceal it adequately. In our country, when an ordinary man gets a high office, he is ashamed of his earlier mean existence and in order to conceal it he adopts an old aristocratic title. Our Barua-deu knows that trick well. Our countrymen in general are adept at groveling at the feet of the rich and the powerful and currying favors from them. They can weave a net according to the size of the fish. Though Barua-deu’s family line is rather ignominious, after he obtained an important post as the Sahib’s assistant, people started treating him with reverence as if he were a god. Some bhadraloks even go to the extent of declaring that Barua-Dangoria is a man of no ordinary parts; he has acquired superhuman powers through yoga and he is almost an incarnation of God Himself. And why should he not be? As the Sanskrit sloka says, in the home of the saintly and the unpolluted, there are no impediments to the supreme forms of yoga meditation. Our Dangoria enjoys listening to such discourses and he is favorably inclined toward the person who says these wise things. So our countrymen, who know about the Dangoria’s preferences, would go to any extent to display their skill in the art of flattery in order to achieve their own purpose. The following story illustrates

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hope that through the Gossain’s favors, bestowed on the Gabharudeu, he might be blessed with a son and an heir in his advanced age. Phukon was also greatly satisfied that after meeting the Gossain, the Gabharu-deu’s body had been released from the clutches of the bira, the evil spirit which had been troubling her for a long time.

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Deuta-ishwar, save this slave of yours! I have committed a grave sin. Yesterday I inadvertently stumbled against your wooden slippers on the floor. At night an old man clad in white with a complexion as fair as a ripe thekera and holding a golden stick in his hand visited me in my dream. He pinned me down under his feet and said, “How dare you kick my wooden slippers?” I pleaded with him for mercy and at last he released me with these words: “Do you know who I am?” I trembled in fear and answered: “My lord, we are ordinary mortals whose vision is only horizontal. How can we recognize your lordship?” At this the Revered One smiled faintly and uttering your name, said: “I am He. Do not think that he is an ordinary mortal. You have touched his slippers with your feet. For that offense, go and prostrate yourself at his feet and beg forgiveness.” So, I have come My Lord, to supplicate for your pardon.

Dangoria was mightily pleased with these words of the plaintiff-bhakat and showing his teeth slightly with a sombre and omniscient air, he said, “All right, I have forgiven you.” The bhakat gathered some dust from the ground beneath the Dangoria’s feet and went his way. But such was the power of that dust that it enabled him to win his case in the court. Our Dangoria is so conscious of his power in these matters that his ego has become distended like a gangatop fish and he has begun to consider himself as the Lord Shiva. When he has to decide on the veracity of a statement he does not call for witnesses but merely commands the person to touch his feet and take an oath. One day, the Dangoria was resting in his council room on a layered patidhora, with a high pillow under his head, like a huge crocodile on the sands of the Kiling river. His attendants sat around him like vultures surrounding a corpse. Our Dangoria’s eyes are seldom more than half open. In our country, people believe that you are a big man if you can give the impression that you are eternally tired and sick, in other words, of a delicate disposition. That is why people who are in the pink of health, with arms and legs in good shape, pretend that they are weak, cripple, and lame. Our Dangoria too is of that disposition. In his earlier days, he used to roam around in the fields in the heat of summer and his body never used to complain of any pain. But now he is trying to wipe out those memories and, in order to proclaim himself a big man, he clutches his head with both his hands, yawns loudly, and complains, “I walked a bit too fast today on my way back from the kucherry and so I have a splitting headache.” At this, a score

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the point: one fine morning, a disciple came running to the Dangoria and, prostrating himself at his feet, said,

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of his hangers-on, pretending as if they had never seen him in his earlier incarnation, jumped up in concern and cried, “Our Deuta-ishwar is of a delicate disposition. He cannot bear the slightest of physical discomforts. Pray, try and sleep for a while. It will relieve you of the discomfort.” The Dangoria listened to their counsel and allowed his eyelids to droop over his eyeballs, which were round and swollen like amara seeds. While the Dangoria was taking his nap, the attendants were busy gossiping and backbiting. Our countrymen are very fond of such entertainment. Whenever two or three of them get together they indulge in this hobby of nitpicking the faults of others, never realizing that their own faults far surpass those of the others. Today, one of the attendants of the Dangoria’s council began the discussion with the remark, “That Bidyadhar, son of the Barkotoki family, has totally lost his sense about right and wrong. He keeps no distinction between the suchi and the asuchi. There is every ground to suspect that he does not take a bath in the evening.” Another wise man promptly corroborated this view: “Tell me, which of the school-going boys these days has retained his sense of the delicate boundary between the polluted and the unpolluted? These modern boys say that telling lies, taking bribes, or committing adultery are the real sources of pollution, but having a meal without taking a bath is not an offense against the rules of pollution.” At this, another pundit present in that assembly flared up in great anger, like the angry sage Durbasa: All these educated boys are wretched “Kristayans.” What do they know of the Shastras? Our Shastras have decreed that “rikta haste na gantabyang,” that is, one should not go to the king, the physician, or a noble man empty handed. So, what is the harm in a great man taking bribes? The Shastras also have a provision for telling lies when necessary. And those who talk against adultery and fornication should know that it is natural for great men to seek some fun. Even Indra and the other gods have their share of fun and games. So why should it be called sinful? Besides, no sin can touch those who perform their three daily prayers ritualistically. Even the daily ritual of cleaning the utensils used for pujas can wash away millions of sins. These boys who go to school are ignorant fools! What do they know about our Shastras? Our religion will be preserved only as long as the Dangorias and a few old men like us live in this country. After us, everyone will become “kristayanas.” Haven’t our Shastras said that schools are the breeding places of low castes? We cannot defeat these wretched “kristayans” with words alone. We must crush them with bamboo sticks and whip them soundly with leather straps!

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Fair Without, Foul Within

Hemchandra Barua

While this illuminating discussion was going on, our Gobardhandeu Adhikari arrived on the scene. The attendants of the Dangoria received him with due respect and asked him to sit on the soft thonga, which a servant had spread out for him. Seristadar-Dangoria opened his eyes slightly when he heard the arrival of the Mahant. At this sign, the Gossain offered him a garland of dried leaves curled up like a snake, on a bronze sarai. Our Dangoria is gradually gaining stature as a religious man. When he chants the name of God in his prayer room, he often experiences a seizure of divine love and he writhes in agony as if he is suffering from a terrible stomachache. The clanging of his cymbals during his prayers would drive away everyone from his vicinity except God, who seems to be pleased with the noise and makes Himself visible to the Dangoria. The Dangoria has great reverence for all saints and Mahantas. He would not touch his food without touching the feet of a true Vaishnava. So he accepted the Mahanta’s offering with the word “Namaha” and touched it respectfully with his forehead. Then he closed his eyes once more. Seeing that the Dangoria had gone back to sleep, the attendants decided to indulge in some shastric discussions with the Gossain. Our Gossain is the very storehouse of all shastric knowledge, a veritable kalpataru, one may say. He is the favorite nephew of the goddess of learning. That is why his face becomes pale and his tongue refuses to move when he hears of the Shastras. He was looking for an excuse to escape from the room when Charan Deka, a bhakat, asked him, “Gossain-deu, I have a shastric doubt and cannot find an answer. Can you resolve this doubt?” Gossain: “All right, say it, sir.” Bhakat: “How many arms does our God possess?” Gossain: “Our God is chaturbhuj, that is, He has four arms.” Bhakat: “True. The Shastras say: sankha, chakra, gada, padma, karate tomar.8 Now, if God has only four arms which hold the conchshell, the discus, the mace, and the lotus, then how does He carry the karat or the saw?”

The Gossain-deu was panicstricken by this difficult problem. But gathering all his wits bravely he said, “Sir, it is no doubt a difficult question. But in the Shastras it is written that karata bajawata benu.9 The saw, dear sir, is carried under His arm.” At this the attendants neighed like horses, but fearing that the Seristadar-Dangoria would be displeased if they made fun of the Gossain, they clasped their palms on their mouths and suppressed their laughter. The Gossain was greatly

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The Character of Birendra Barua and How He Brought a False Suit against Gobardhan Mahajan Birendra Barua, the son of Jogendra Barua, is a distinguished Brahmin and he is respected by everyone. He is a devotee of the goddess BamaKali and worships her according to Tantric rites. If a devotee performs these rites at midnight and enters the magic circle, the bhairabi-chakra, with the “five essentials” of Tantra worship he attains a state that is superior to the one occupied by a Brahmin. Barua does not accept even a drop of water without performing the daily rituals and sacrifices. When he performs his puja, all his sins retreat further and further into the distance. His pigtailed head resembles a gourd with a stem. The red sandalwood paste on his forehead and the lines above that drawn with the holy mud from the Ganga are so thickly pasted that from afar it resembles the forehead of a bull that has been butting its head against the river bank. Barua is reputed to be a siddha-purush. Once he visited the secret temple at Gupta-Kamakhya to meditate in accordance with the tantric cult. But, as the saying goes, “Men are as brave as snails and their guts resemble those of the rohu fish.” When they see a cat, they clutch on to a woman’s petticoat and run for their lives. Now, this Gupta-Kamakhya happened to be a frightfully haunted place. So, our superman’s heart was thumping loudly when he tried to concentrate on his meditation. Just as he was performing the initial rituals, he was startled by something moving in the bushes nearby. Thinking that it was a ghost or an evil spirit, he jumped up and started to run. At that moment, a piece of brick fell from the dilapidated walls of the temple and Bireswar Barua almost lost his senses. As he ran for his life, his dhoti fell off and he stumbled and fell upon a stone in the forest. With a broken knee and blood oozing out of his nose, he took shelter in the hut of a low-caste sweeper. Ever since then, his reputation as someone who had acquired superhuman powers through occult practices spread far and wide. For such was the power of his meditation that had he not taken to his heels the goddess Kamakhya could not but have revealed herself to him in her true form. Undoubtedly, there is none in this world as pure and righteous as Bireswar Barua. All homes except his own are polluted beyond measure. That is why, so long as the sun-god was on his throne, he would not drink water in anybody’s house and he would not even touch the water brought by a sudra. But of course

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discomfited and saying, “The Dangoria is asleep, I shall come later,” he bolted away as fast as he could.

Hemchandra Barua

it is not the same after sundown. As the saying goes, “If you go under water and take a drink, even Shiva’s father will not be able to catch you at it.” Some people might say, “Bapa, your feet are polluted.” Barua would reply, “But my actions are unpolluted.” So, according to this principle, he can do nothing wrong. There is no end to the number of great qualities with which he has been adorned, such as deceit, perjury, and betrayal of trust. He has also been amply rewarded for all these qualities. This great man manifests himself in diverse forms. His various changing moods cannot be fathomed even by ordinary gods, to say nothing of humans. It has already been stated above that Aisu-deuta, the young wife of Phukon-Dangoria, had occasional visitations from the evil spirit called bira. This bira was no ordinary spirit. He was the father of all mischievous spirits. He was capable of stinging you like a serpent and then removing the poison with the skill of the bez. When the Aisu-deuta is possessed by this spirit, she raves like a mad woman and her husband is frightened out of his wits. He tries to appease the bira in this manner: “O Mighty One! You are the true god, but we shortsighted creatures cannot fathom the depth of your great powers. If we have offended you in any way, forgive us! Remove yourself from the body of this woman and inhabit another. I beg you on my knees, be satisfied with whatever you have received in my house.” But Bira-deuta will not be satisfied with mere words. He must be worshipped in a more befitting manner. So our Bireswar Barua has been entrusted with the task of making the appropriate offerings to the bira. He knows a secret mantra to drive away the evil spell cast by the bira. He would remove the victim to a lonely room and perform the tantric rites on her for one whole night. That is why, whenever the lady had a seizure, Markateswar Phukon would seek the help of Bireswar Barua who would perform all the rituals to the best of his abilities. But, unfortunately, his efforts could not cure the lady completely. The miraculous cure was, however, accomplished by Gobardhandeu who, by leading the lady to the path of true faith, has driven away the evil spirit forever. At this interference by the Gossain in his territory Bireswar Barua burned with envy and hatred and resolved to take revenge upon the Gossain. He plucked five jackfruits from his own garden and kept them surreptitiously in front of the Gossain’s prayer-hall. Next morning, he filed a report at the police station that the jackfruits had been stolen by the Gossain-Mahajan. The case was taken up for primary investigation by the daroga of the station, Imamuddin. This Imamuddin daroga is a very “hoshiar” man. He

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is especially good in the art of pleasing the magistrates. He has risen from the level of a barkandas to that of a daroga only on the strength of this particular quality. He is no less proficient in reading and writing. He can easily sign on the “roznamsa.” Daroga sahib is a follower of the true path of Alla-talla. He recites the namaz at least five times a day. His left hand is never without the “tasbi.” But in the eyes of an accused he is the very Yama. He does not believe in searching for witnesses and evidence for a case. When he wants to arrest someone on a theft case, he merely goes by the “fal,” or divination, as laid down in the Koran. Whatever the fal says has to be the truth, no matter whether the accused is innocent or not. The lockup which is under his control is a veritable hell for the inmates because it specializes in inflicting all kinds of physical tortures. That is why an accused prefers to spend a year in prison than one night in this lockup. But our Daroga-sahib is not totally a heartless god. If anyone can make him an offering in accordance with his godlike status, he is instantly satisfied. On the basis of the complaint filed by Birendra Barua, the Daroga sent a police official with three barkandaz constables who resembled the emissaries of Death to raid the dwelling place of the Gossain. When the five jackfruits were discovered in the precincts of the namghar, the Gossain and his two attendants were arrested, tied with ropes, and taken to the lockup. Seeing the indignities suffered by his guru, Phukon was deeply perturbed. But his young wife was so stricken with grief that she was simply inconsolable. She wept and cried all day and would have readily undergone punishment for the sake of her beloved guru, but British law has no such provision for punishing a substitute. So in desperation she decided to make suitable offerings to the Daroga to secure the release of her guru. Though her initial offering was small, she promised to pay a bigger bribe on the release of the Guru. But our Daroga-Sahib has a large appetite. He was not so foolish as to be satisfied with a mere promise. Besides, his catch was no ordinary mortal, but the powerful head of a satra. How could he accept a small offering for a man implicated in a case of theft? So he gave orders that the Mahant be sent to the police lockup at once. But as it was already late in the day, the Daroga-Sahib completed all the formalities for sending the Mahajan to the Magistrate’s court the next day. He wrote in his report that according to preliminary investigation there was sufficient evidence of theft against the Mahajan.

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Mr. Eatwell Sahib is a Joint Magistrate, but he has also been entrusted with the responsibilities of a Revenue Collector. This gentleman recently arrived from England and so has little knowledge of the law or of the Assamese language. He sits in his court, therefore, like the image of a god inside a temple and the Seristadar enjoys the position of being the most powerful man around because he can manipulate the magistrate any way he pleases. Unless the accused or the complainant is too lucky or too unlucky, the words of assurance from the Seristadar always prove to be the most reliable. That was why the young Aisu-deuta had paid him homage with a gold ring in order to ensure safe passage for her guru. She had promised further to pay him adequately in gold if he could carry out the mission successfully. Meanwhile, the Mahajan was confined in a small room adjoining the courtroom under the strict watch of the barkandaz constables. He was frightened out of his wits and all his words of wisdom on “the ultimate truth” and “Krishna-leela” had deserted him. When misfortune comes, people repent for all their past sins; but as soon as fortune changes for the better, those thoughts vanish like lines drawn upon water. Our Mahajan too, in his present state of misery, cursed himself for his sins and vowed never to tread that fallen path again. In the midst of these dismal thoughts, he would cast furtive glances toward the barkandaz constable and shrink from his angry gaze. How could he hope to appease this guard when every paisa that he had at the time of his arrest had been handed over to the daroga as the “preliminary fees”? But he tried his best to seek some mercy from the fierce-looking man with these words of humble supplication: “Bapu! I am but a poor and helpless Brahmin. Please don’t punish me! My guru and Master will certainly shower his blessings upon you for your mercy.” But the Bhojpuri barkandaz will not be softened with such empty words. He turned his angry bloodshot eyes upon the mahajan and retorted in his own Bhojpuri tongue, “Who are you to talk of the Master and the Guru? Your real master will make his appearance shortly. Just wait and see!” Meanwhile, Birendra Barua was flitting around the courtroom restlessly, talking to the witnesses, discussing with the mokhtiyar or whispering in the ears of the peshkar. He was anxious about the outcome of the case against the mahajan because the seristadar was keeping himself aloof from him. It was around two in the afternoon, and the Sahib had not yet arrived at the kuccheri. The clerks and

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A Description of the Magistrate’s Court— Delivery of Judgment on the Jackfruit Case—Imposition of Fine on the Mahajan

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the scribes were trying to while away their time. Some of them were scribbling “Sri Hari” and “Sri Durga”10 on the top of blank sheets of paper. Some were blissfully smoking under the trees, coughing occasionally. Some were still in a befuddled state after last night’s dose of opium and were not in a position to say whether it was day or night. Some were just lying flat on the floor of the daftar-khana trying to count the pieces of wood on the roof-truss of the building. The Head-clerks were meditating how to fill their pockets (or the waist-knots of their dhotis) by maneuvering a “decree dismiss” verdict without moving from their seats in the office. The petitioners and the umedaars were awestruck by the knowledge, cleverness, and courage of the Head-clerks and were gaping at them with eyes that expressed firm belief that these were not human beings but incarnations of the Almighty Brahma. The lawyers and the mokhtiars who wield the power of transforming night into day were trying to earn their daily wages from the clients by hinting at the demands of the clerks. Just at that moment, whistling a merry tune, the Sahib Mr. Eatwell entered the kuccheri with his dog following at his heels. All the people in the courthouse made their salaam from a distance with great reverence. At that moment the whole place witnessed a great flurry of activity. Chairs were pulled, slippers flip-flopped with a lot of noise, and muga dhotis rustled about in a busy manner. Bhandeswar Barua, the seristadar, was clad in a beautiful broad dhoti woven out of one seer of the precious mejankori silk yarn, with a long tunic and a pair of finely woven shawls over his shoulders. A bow-shaped pugree covered his head with its flower-bedecked tuft of hair. The three fine lines on his forehead, drawn with a mixture of sandalwood and rice paste, were blazing like three cow-lanes. His lips were stained with the red juice of betel nuts and paan leaves munched together, and droplets from his spit created a leopard-skin design on his clothes. From behind he looked like a pig wallowing in the mud, thanks to his flat-soled shoes. Clad in this distinguished attire, like a pyre made of haystacks during the winter Bihu festival, the Dangoria assumed his position next to the sahib. The grandeur of the scene increased seven-fold when the Head-clerk babu stationed himself next to the seristadar. The Head-babu is an Assamese young man. He wears trousers and kurta, does not recognize caste differences, and has liberated himself from all sorts of traditional customs. He displays much enthusiasm for women’s education and widow marriage and considers these social reforms essential for the progress of his country. But though he claims to be free from all superstitious practices, if on a dark night he had to go out of his house, he would recite a fervent prayer to his god Ram

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Fair Without, Foul Within

Hemchandra Barua

before stepping out. He is greedy without restraint when it comes to good food and suffers the consequences with the philosophical dictum of Moses: “What goes in does not defile a man, but what comes out.” He is a bit ashamed to speak in his mother tongue and considers it more manly to be able to speak in Bengali with a spattering of English. In this Anglo-Bengali tongue, he would often boast, “We are educated men, free from all prejudices and superstitions.” However, this babuji is ignorant of the fact that learning to speak a few English words or wearing a hat and trousers does not signify that a person is really educated. Our babuji’s mind is actually steeped in dark superstitions. When his son falls sick, he searches for the appropriate mantras to drive away the evil spirits. If an owl sits on his roof, he holds a religious function to ward off the possible evil. On a sankranti day, he pours holy water all over his body to wash away the ill effect of stars. He believes that during the four days of sath, the mother earth suffers from menstrual pollution and so his kitchen has to be cleansed thoroughly before food can be cooked again. During the holy days of Shivaratri and Janmastami, he fasts until his intestines shrink. When he plays cards or choupat he gives the impression that he is doing sacred service to the nation. Babuji is also an accomplished speaker. He would not touch his food without reciting the holy verses learnt from his guru. One morning, in his lodgings in town when he sat down with his eyes closed, with his plate of food in front of him, a cat came in and stole a piece of fried fish from his plate and made good his escape. When babuji opened his eyes and saw the cat near the door, he considered it a grave insult to the Head-babu of the Magistrate sahib to be cheated thus by a mere cat. In order to teach him a lesson, he ran after the offender. But when he came back after a futile chase, he found that another cat had licked his plate clean. The babu could only lick his lips in frustration. He vented his anger upon his servant and then walked off to the kucherry after munching a handful of flattened rice. Such is the plight of our reformed and civilized gentleman! When the seristadar went near the magistrate the latter asked, “Well, Seristadar, which case do we have to hear now?” Seristadar: Khodabund, there is a case of dus-ain in the Collectory. Sahib: Well, is this dus ain present in court? Seris: No, Khodabund, dus ain is not a human being but a case similar to dus ain. Sahib: (unable to understand his words, looks at the Head clerk babu and speaks in English) What the deuce does this fellow mean by dus ain ka mamla? I can’t make either head or tail of it.

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Headbabu: A rent case sir. Sahib: (in English) A rent case? I don’t understand a bit of it. (looking at the seristadar) I don’t understand such cases. Bring it to my bungalow later. Is there any other case? Seris: There is a civil suit regarding the theft of a kanthal. Sahib: What is this kanthal? Seris: Kanthal is a fruit, sir. Sahib: Oh, I understand. It is a fruit of a tree. Seris: Yes, khodabund. Sahib: Is this fruit big or small? Seris: A big fruit, sir.

At this moment, the mahajan was brought to the court by the barkandaz like a sacrificial animal and placed in the witness box. The mahajan folded his palms in front of the sahib and started making his humble pleas for mercy. But the sahib looked at him fiercely and said, “Shut up, you scoundrel!” and banged his fist on the table. At this the mahajan quietly took his place in the witness box. Then the seristadar began to read the papers of the case in a monotonous tone as if he was reciting from a religious text. The sahib listened for a while, biting his fingernails impatiently. Then pointing at the mahajan he asked: Sahib: Is this the man who has committed the theft? Seris: Khodabund, this man is a mahant, a good man. Sahib: If he is a good man, why has he committed theft? Seris: There is no proof of his crime, Khodabund. Sahib: No proof? Have the stolen goods been recovered? Seris: Khodabund, five jackfruits have been recovered. But no one has witnessed the theft. Sahib: Where were the jackfruits found? Seris: At the nam-ghar. Sahib: Well, well. I’ll call that namghar to the court and everything will be clear then. Seris: Khodabund, the namghar is not the name of a person, it’s a house. Sahib: Well, well! I can understand now! That namghar is a house! But does that house belong to the accused or to some other person? Seris: That house does belong to the accused, but— Sahib: What does the daroga’s report say? Ser: The daroga has reported theft, but— Sahib: Enough! I can understand the whole case now. The jackfruits were stolen from the complainant’s house and they were discovered in the house belonging to the accused by our daroga. So that is proof enough that the crime was committed by this scoundrel!

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Fair Without, Foul Within

Hemchandra Barua

Ser: Sir, there is a problem here. The accused has brought some witnesses who have to be given talab.11 Sahib: What? We have to give wages to the witnesses? How many of them are here? Ser: There are quite a few, Khodabund, about ten or twelve leading citizens. Sahib: Who will give the talab, the accused or we? Ser: Khodabund, your Honour will have to give the talab. Sahib: No, certainly not! The scoundrel has called the witnesses. So he must pay them the wages. Ser: No, Khodabund, the accused is in the court’s custody and according to the law you will have to give the talab. Sahib: Does the law say that? Ser: Yes, your Honor. Sahib: (biting his finger nails) My goodness! I am drawing a meager salary now and if I have to pay all these people, what will I live on? No, I will not give them talab! Ser: No, Khodabund! Your Honor will not have to pay them any money. You may only summon them to the court. Sahib: Oh, I see! I am supposed to call the witnesses. Well, I will not call them! I know that the accused has committed a theft and I shall sentence him to rigorous imprisonment for three years. He will wear shackles and slog in the fields. Those words of the sahib sent shivers down the spine of the mahajan. The seristadar too broke into a cold sweat. If the mahajan is sent to prison, who will take care of the gods? So, he braced himself up to make a bold suggestion: “Khodabund, you are not empowered to sentence someone to three years’ imprisonment.” Sahib: What! I have come from England with orders from Her Majesty the Queen and you are suggesting that I do not have the power to give three years? Why, I can give ten years if I please! The seristadar realized that it was futile to argue with the sahib because even if he passed a prison sentence within his powers it would spell disaster for the mahajan. So, quickly changing the tone, he said, “Your Honor is absolutely right. But, in this case, because of the lack of sufficient evidence—” Sahib: Enough! I have seen enough evidence! The jackfruits have been discovered in the house of the accused. If he hasn’t stolen them, then who has? The seristadar understood that it would be impossible to save the mahajan without any punishment. But he would consider himself lucky if the mahajan could be let off with a nominal fine. So with his palms humbly joined in supplication, he pleaded in this manner: “Khodabund! Even if there is enough evidence against the accused, the law does not permit a jail sentence in such a case.”

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The Release of the Mahajan, the Death of Markateswar Phukon, the Sickness of Aisu-deuta, the Efforts of the Mahajan to Save Her, and the Death of Aisu-deuta The mahajan had never imagined even in his wildest dreams that he would be let off so easily with a fine. He fell at the feet of the sahib and gave him a long and respectful salaam. Meanwhile, the Aisu-deuta’s mokhtiyar promptly handed over the ten rupees to the nazir and secured the release of the mahajan. At this turn of events, Birendra Barua was much mortified and he left the court in a sulky mood. At her home, the Aisu-deuta was restless with anxiety, like a cow that had lost its calf. She abandoned the true path shown by the Vaishnava gurus in this hour of crisis and sought out all the remedies offered by fortunetellers and astrologers. She appointed Brahmin priests to perform all kinds of pujas and some of them, in their haste to drive away the evil spirits, uprooted whole tulsi plants and piled them on the gods. The cacophony created by the chanting of diverse slokas made it impossible for the Aisu-deuta to rest even for a moment. It was like the loud croaking of bullfrogs at the advent of the rainy days. Loads of flower petals were laid on the head of the lady as nirmalyas and her clothes were drenched with a generous sprinkling of the holy water. All these efforts were amply rewarded with the appearance of the holy man, the mahajan, in the scene. The Aisudeuta rose with great alacrity, like a corpse brought back to life again, and fell at the feet of the guru. The godman held her up with both his hands and knowing full well that he had been rescued by her prayers, he spoke thus in a most somber manner, You have been my very dear friend not only in this life but also in several earlier lives. That is why you have succeeded in giving me this new lease of life. Just as the Almighty Narayan rescued the mighty elephant Gajendra from the clutches of the crocodile, so you too have saved me from a grave situation. You are a true disciple of my Vaishnava saint guru. The rituals that you have performed for my sake will not only cleanse you from all sins in this world but will also extend to all the millions of your future descendants. May the Almighty guru shower his

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Sahib: What does the law permit, then? Ser: According to the law, a fine of up to ten rupees may be imposed. Sahib: (aside) Damn your law! (aloud) All right! I shall act in accordance with the law! The accused shall pay a fine of ten rupees only, failing which, he shall be thrown behind the bars for one year.

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The Aisu-deuta bowed her head in reverence and said, “Revered One, who am I to dare show kindness toward you? You are the image of God Himself. How can we ordinary mortals pay back our debt to you? It is our greatest fortune that you are pleased to be satisfied with your own miraculous deeds. I am your slave who has offered my body and soul to you. If you show me your mercy, I shall consider myself the most fortunate of all human beings.” With these words, the lady touched the feet of the gossain and went inside to make preparations for his meal. Meanwhile, the attendant of the mahajan fetched a jar of water with which the holy man washed away all the “pollutions” and then, with his eyes closed, he sat down on a tiger skin spread out on the floor to count his prayer beads. It is a truth acknowledged by all lovers that separation only enhances the pleasure of reunion. The gossain and the young wife of Markateswar Phukon tried to drown the sorrow of their temporary separation by immersing themselves more vigorously in that pleasure of reunion. The mahajan, who in his moment of distress had vowed never to indulge in such pleasures, now allowed himself to break that vow and the love between the guru and the disciple began to manifest itself in more intense forms. The mahajan began to seek the Aisudeuta’s company at all times of the day. He could not bear to have her out of sight even during the hour of his evening prayers. So he invented a new device to ensure her company during that sacred hour too. He spoke to her one day the following words in a raised voice so that her husband could hear: You have tried your best to perform good deeds during our hours of distress. But, while doing so, it is also true that you committed transgressions by offering prayers to other gods and goddesses, which is forbidden in our faith. Our saintly gurus have ordained that the soul of man is distracted from the proper path if one shows allegiance to any other god except the one and only Sri Krishna. You have no doubt committed this error in order to help a holy man. But you must now atone for that sin by coming to the prayer room every evening in order to listen to the chanting of God’s holy name. For our Shastras have said that the only way to wash off all your sins is to chant the holy name of God.

To this the Aisu-deuta replied in a voice choked with reverence, “O Revered One, we are but ordinary women, devoid of any wisdom. I

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blessings upon you. May he destroy all your enemies so that you may serve saints and holy men all your life.

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followed the advice of all and sundry in order to help you in your hour of distress. But henceforward, I shall abide by your words of wisdom.” From that day, the Aisu-deuta began to attend the prayer sessions of the mahajan regularly. The mahajan too made the necessary adjustments in order to intersperse his singing with words and lines audible to the lady alone: “Come in, lady,” “Let us hurry up,” “Will it be possible for you to come tonight?” and so on. The intensification of love between the guru and the young lady could not escape the watchful eyes of Markateswar Phukon. He did experience a certain degree of jealousy and agony. But realizing that it is improper to suspect the actions of a guru, that even if a guru is indulging in sinful activities he remains a god in the eyes of the disciple, he chose to remain silent. But both the mahajan and the lady knew that Phukon was uneasy about their relationship. Then one day, Phukon developed a sudden pain in his chest and whether it was because of his own good deeds or for his wife’s virtues, he departed from this world soon afterward. The lady and the mahajan were not too displeased by this turn of events. In fact they were happy that Phukon had escaped from the miseries of this world so early. For it is common knowledge that two tigers do not like to share the same territory. The Aisu–deuta became the reigning queen of the household after the departure of Phukon and she now offered her devotion to the gossain with complete freedom. Her selfless service to the guru was duly rewarded when Lord Vishnu soon sent His chariot to transport her to His heavenly abode. It began with a cold and a fever. But soon the fever became worse and developed into typhoid. Various diagnoses were offered by experts on such matters: some said it was an ordinary fever, others said it was either dysentery or ringworm, some saw signs of visitation by an evil spirit, and others said that it was the doing of the water spirit. In this way, every wise man gave his own views. The mahajan was greatly perturbed. He brought a few tablets of nagarjuna powder, an herbal medicine, from the bezbarua, the Ayurvedic doctor. But when the patient’s condition did not improve, he called a dhekeri bez, a witch doctor from western Assam. The bez discovered that the patient was unable to reply to his questions, rolled her eyes and distorted her face in a particular way, and did not allow him to place his hands in her armpits. All these signs, according to him, indicated beyond doubt that the patient was under the spell of a deadly spirit called Sidir. So he picked up a twig from the narasimha tree and, chanting the following sidir-mantra, began to whip the patient with it:

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Fair Without, Foul Within

Hemchandra Barua

“Listen to the story of your birth, O you Sidir! On an inauspicious Saturday, a village witch who was the wife of a villager named Nal Saikia went out of her house at the hour of dusk. An ogre who was lying in wait seized that opportune moment to enter her womb and grow in size there. It sucked the blood and ate into the flesh of the woman, leaving her emaciated and in great pain. Her husband Nal was in great anger at this and he began reciting the appropriate mantras that had the power to destroy such evil spirits. The ogre was in dire straits and fell at the feet of Nal Saikia, who ordered him to leave the body of his wife or else he would be burned to cinders by the mantras. The ogre agreed to obey and when Nal placed his hand on his wife’s stomach, she at once had a miscarriage and ten mice came out of her body. Nal ordered these sidirs to go and find their dwelling places in the bodies of other villagers on Saturdays and Tuesdays in the inauspicious hours before sunrise or after sunset. He also warned them that if anyone chanted his name, the evil spirits were to leave the place immediately, or else Nal Saikia would crush their heads and destroy them. These are the words of warning uttered by Nal Saikia which have great superhuman powers—nang lang sang hring phat swaha!”12 The bez recited the lines thrice over, shaking his head rhythmically and whipping the patient. But the sidir showed no signs of departing. So he collected the following magic items for greater efficacy in the treatment: the teeth of a Bhutia who had died on a Saturday, the head of a cobra, the roots from a parasite that grows on a bamboo that has been plucked by a naked man on the goru-bihu day, and the dry leaves that have been trampled upon by the husori dancers. All these efficacious medicines were neatly wrapped in red and white yarn spun by virgins and hung on the ears of the patient. But as the bez was holding the ears of the patient to administer the medicines, the patient deposited two such resounding slaps on his cheeks that the bez screamed in agony and declared that the disrespect shown to him proved conclusively that the sidir was of a more powerful kind. So he got ready a more potent dose prepared from torn shoes, deadly hot chilies, owl’s wings, and snake’s skin and threw it into a fire that was lit near the bed of the patient. Now the patient, who was already extremely restless with fever, began to suffer from convulsions when she was choked by the smell of burned chilies. But the foolish people who were watching the whole operation thought that the evil spirit inside the lady was showing signs of suffering from the torture. So they cheered in glee: “He has got it this time! This is the right treatment! The patient will certainly recover now.”

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A foolish doctor is like Yama, the Lord of Death. The bez could not understand that his “medicine” was like poison for the patient and he continued with his efforts to drive away the sidir with renewed enthusiasm. He threw fistfuls of mustard seeds all around and frantically whispered into the patient’s ears, “Go back at once from whence you came!” But the typhoid showed no signs of receding. So the bez sat down at the feet of the patient and started reciting his mantras once more. The restless patient gave an involuntary kick right on the forehead of the bez, which threw him off balance. He jumped up, picked up his things, and, shouting that he was unable to deal with the sidir, ran away as fast as he could. The mahajan was beside himself with anxiety and despair. He tried every possible course of action within his power to save the lady. First he tried singing nam-kirtan in accordance with the Vaishnava rules. Then he tried the forbidden path of worshipping other gods and goddesses. There was no dearth of stuff meant for offerings. The Brahmin priests did not wait for orders. They sat down in rows, with tilaks of mud paste on their foreheads. The Vaishnava bhakats who were so strict in their observance of the rules of pollution and would not even touch an betel nut in someone else’s house were also not to be left behind in their efforts. They too sat down to pray with their offerings of fattened ducks and pigeons and various other articles considered by them to be most sacred. But nothing seemed to work. The mahajan, in his desperate state, violated all the teachings of his guru, to the extent that he offered to make a sacrifice of a white buffalo to the goddess Shyama. But when even this extreme measure failed to bear any fruit, he sat dejected and gloomy. Just then, a young man named Bhadrakanta Deka-Barua came to inquire about the patient. Seeing that the condition of the lady was really grave, he suggested that a good doctor be consulted at once. To this the gossain replied promptly, “Sir, what you are suggesting may be right. But the lady has already taken refuge in the righteous path shown by our guru. So it would be improper to give her medicines that a doctor may prescribe.” Bhadra. But why? What is wrong with a doctor’s medicines? Maha. Sir, we have heard that these modern medicines contain alcoholic powders. How can we give such prohibited stuff to the lady? Bhadra. All medicines need not necessarily contain alcoholic substance. Besides, even if they do, what is the harm in taking them? Haven’t our Shastras said that one may consume wine if it is taken as a medicine?

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Maha. No, no, dear Sir! Our true faith forbids all liquors. We would rather die than touch that prohibited stuff. Bhadra. (aside) These hypocrites can indulge in all kinds of sins. But they think they would lose caste if they take modern medicines! The young man left the house after this exchange. Soon afterwards, Kodal-Ram Bordoloi made his appearance on the scene. He was the grandson of Nangal-Ram Bordoloi, the great tiger (or, one may say, the Yama) of astrology. In our country, the astrologers claim to become bordolois or specialists in the field of astrology if they acquire the rudimentary knowledge of the lunar calendar and the art of making horoscopes. They earn their living by deceiving the foolish and the gullible. Kodal-Ram Bordoloi falls into this category of astrologers. He carries with him an almanac that he claims to be of antique origin but that actually dates from recent times. Before he visits the house of one of his clients, he collects all the information about the family from the neighborhood and pretends that he has intimation from divine sources. He would deliver this information in an oracular voice, frequently imitating the intonations of the Sanskrit slokas. His foolish audience was always duly impressed by this. When this Bordoloi approached the mahajan with his characteristic words, “The stars indicate that there is some grave problem at your place of residence,” the mahajan replied respectfully, “Yes, Bapu, we are in grave trouble. I am but an ascetic monk who has taken shelter in this household because the lady of the house has shown great respect for our faith. But now it seems our divine guru is testing us in his own way. The lady is very sick. Please find some way to bring her back to health again. We shall follow your advice most sincerely.” At this, the astrologer said, “The almighty planets will be displeased if I try to read them without making the appropriate offerings. So, let some dakshina be made available.” The mahajan at once placed a four-anna coin in front of him with a betel nut and a paan leaf. Bordoloi then opened his books and began: Bord. On which day did the fever commence? Maha. She was slightly unwell on Saturday, but it became worse on Monday. At this, the Bordoloi studied his books and drew some lines on the floor. Then he began to mutter some strange words that sounded like Sanskrit but were actually of more humble origin, concluding with the remark: “Gossaindeu, it is certain that our Aisu-deuta’s problem is very grave. Ten planets are arranged against her. Although ordinarily there are only nine planets, we the astrologers know of the existence of a tenth planet called Abhijit.

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Now, one must do everything in one’s power to appease these ten planets in order to save the lady.” The mahajan almost burst into tears at this information about the evil designs of the stars. He appealed to the astrologer most humbly thus: “Deu, please show us a way out of this grave danger. We are ordinary mortals who offend the mighty planets inadvertently at every step of our lives. We do not have the capacity to offer appropriate reverence to the mighty planets. But, we shall try to do whatever is possible within our limited means.” Bordoloi. What is the name of this lady? Mahajan. Her earlier name was “Chandika.” But after she accepted the true faith of the great saints, we had it changed to “Radhika.” Bordoloi. Well, well! Both the names fall under the same star-sign. But that is no problem. Let me see—su,se,so,lo,ru,re,ro13—which means the star-sign Revati and the zodiac sign Pisces, with Saturn sitting at the center. I can understand now why the lady is suffering so much. But don’t worry. You must make an appropriate offering of the following things to propitiate the planets: a hoe or a machete made of iron, a golden ring, a silver bowl or in lieu of that five rupees in cash, a silk garment, at least five beads of pearl, a copper pitcher, a horse or a diamond in lieu of that, a ewe, and a pair of bullocks. These nine items are for the nine planets. For the tenth planet Abhijit, you must make an offering of the following things to a man from the Surya-bipra caste: rice, salt, mustard oil, and some vegetables. For the star Tara, some molasses, milk, bananas, and komal-chaol. If the lady does not recover even after these offerings, you may change my name if you like.” Mahajan. Everything will be done according to your direction. Please accept the offerings meant for the surya-bipra because where else can we find someone better than you from that caste? Bordoloi. Well, though it is within our caste right to accept the offerings meant for the ten planets, I am not so inclined to accept such things. However, since you insist, I shall take all the things given as offerings.

The mahajan then hastily opened all the boxes and chests belonging to the lady and collected all the things enumerated in the bordoloi’s list. The astrologer made a bundle of all the items and made good his escape as fast as possible. He did not look back, as it was considered inauspicious to do so. Meanwhile, the Aisu-deuta’s breath became shorter every minute and when the ascetic bhakats picked her up, she breathed her last. Those standing around the place rushed her outside, but she was already on her way to heaven. The mahajan was beside himself with grief. His disciple bhakats later consoled him as best as

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Fair Without, Foul Within

Hemchandra Barua

they could. But he was already heartbroken and therefore could not survive long in this world full of sins. He left behind his mortal form and joined the company of Aisu-deuta in the next world. “Alas! The ascetic mahajan suffered much because of his sinful deeds. In this world where the heart of lie and deceit is hidden in darkness, who can tell the good from the evil? To his disciples, the celibate mahajan appeared to be a good and saintly person. But actually he was all black within. Fie on such a man! Fie on his wisdom and knowledge! His fair appearance concealed a heart that was like a slate covered with ashes. He considered himself the purest of all mortals and looked upon others as polluted untouchables. All his words of wisdom and his religious rituals were mere pretensions. Indeed, these are the signs of the worst phase of Koliyuga when the foul heart is concealed behind a fair exterior.”14 *************************

Glossary Akhai. A kind of popcorn made from parched paddy. Amavaishya. The no-moon day. Anna. One-sixteenth of a rupee. Bhakat. A Vaishnava disciple of a guru who resides in a monastery. Bhakti-rasa. The feelings associated with devotion or piety. Barkandaz. An office peon or a constable in Assam during colonial times, recruited from the Hindi-speaking regions of India. Bhotima. Songs sung by roving minstrels or bhats in praise of God or one’s guru. The two Assamese Vaishnava saints, Srimanta Sankardev and Sri Madhavdev, used this genre most effectively in their writings. Borgeet. Vaishnava devotional songs composed in the Brajaboli language by Srimanta Sankardev and Sri Madhavdev in the fifteenth to sixteenth centuries. Brahmottar. Rent-free land granted to a Brahmin. Choupat. A game played with dice. Dangoria. A member of the old Assamese nobility. Daroga. A police inspector. Daftar-khana. The office-room of a court. Dakshina. A ceremonial offering. Dharma-shastra. A code of Hindu law which is supposed to be of divine origin; a religious text. Dhekeri. A resident of one of the divisions of Kamrup during Muslim rule. Ekadashi. The eleventh day of a lunar month. Gangatop. A globe fish; a man swollen with false pride. Ghosha/Namghosha. A prayer book in verse written by the Vaishnava saint Sri Madhavdev.

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Gunamala. A book of religious verse celebrating the divine attributes of God, composed by Sri Sankardev. Guru-kar. Religious tributes paid in cash or kind to the guru. Hoshiar. Alert and intelligent. Kalpataru. A tree in heaven that can yield whatever a devotee asks for. Kanthal. A jackfruit. Kath. A measurement of paddy weighing approximately 500 grams; also a measurement of land. Kirtan Kirtan Ghosha. Written by the Vaishnava saint Sri Sankardev. Kolikal. The present age, which is considered to be the last of the cycle of four ages. According to Hindu belief this is the dark age, at the end of which an apocalyptic event has been predicted. Komalchaol. A variety of breakfast rice that can be soaked in water and eaten raw. Kristayan. A localized form of the word “Christian.” Kuccheri. A colonial court. Namghar. A prayer hall. Medhi. An officer appointed by a gossain to collect the annual contribution from the disciples. Mejankori. A variety of muga silk. Mokhtiyar. An authorized law agent. Muga. A variety of fine golden-brown colored natural silk. Namaz. The Muslim prayer. Nirmalyas. Flowers or leaves offered to a deity and given by priests to the devotees with a blessing. Patidhora. A bamboo mat. Peshkar. A court official who reads out the papers. Pugree. A turban. Ratnavali. A Vaishnava philosophical text written by Sri Madhavdev. Sankranti. The last day of a month according to Indian calendars. Sarai. A brass platter with raised edges and a stem, mounted on a pedestal, used for making offerings to revered ones. Satra. A Vaishnava monastery. Sath or ambubachi. The four days in the month of Ashar when the earth is supposed to be menstruating and therefore considered unclean. Siddha-purush. One who attains superhuman powers through yoga and meditation. Sidir-mantra. A magic chant that is supposed to be effective against evil spirits called sidir. Sloka. A Sanskrit verse. Suchi and asuchi. The concept of pollution and cleansing associated with caste practices. Surya bipra. The caste of the Assamese astrologers. Tantric/tantra-mantra. The tantras are the Hindu and Buddhist religious texts that contain religious teachings as well as instructions for the

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Fair Without, Foul Within

Hemchandra Barua

performance of rituals and occult practices. Some tantras contain mantras or magic spells to be used in meditation. Assam was traditionally known for tantric practices. Tasbi. Prayer beads of the Muslims. Thekera. A variety of sour fruit that becomes red when ripe (Garcinia pedunculata). Thonga. A thick woolen carpet from Bhutan. Umedaar. Plaintiff. Vaishnava. A devotee of Lord Vishnu. Yama. The Hindu god of the underworld.

Notes 1. Kansa was the maternal uncle of Lord Krishna. 2. The head of a Vaishnava monastic order is addressed by his followers variously, apotheosizing him as Gossaindeu, Gossaindeu Ata, Gossainishwar, Prabhu, Mahaprabhu, Prabhu Jagannath, and Ata-ishwar, and he is also referred to as Mahanta and Mahajan. 3. Kali is the name of the dark goddess. Kali also means ink and its synonym is mohi. Durga is the goddess with ten arms and “dohotia” means someone with ten arms (doh = ten). Shiva is the god who sports a jata or matted hair on his head. So, “jatia” is one who has matted hair. 4. Brindavan, the place where Lord Krishna played his role as the divine lover of Radha and the gopis, is often referred to as “Brinda-bipina,” bipina meaning a van or forest. In Assam, the common folk pronounce Brindavan as “birina-van,” birina being a reed. 5. Markat means monkey. So the name probably implies someone with similar attributes. 6. The miraculous deeds of a divine being are known as leela. So Krishna’s deeds have been compiled in various religious texts and folk literature as Krishna-leela. Bastra-haran (hiding the clothes of the milkmaids bathing in the Yamuna) and Maan-bhanjan (wooing the offended beloved) are some of the pranks played by Krishna in Brindavan as a part of His divine game. 7. The name suggests an impostor and a rogue (bhanda+ishwar). 8. This line, which describes the image of Lord Vishnu, may be translated as: “in your four hands you hold the conch-shell, the discus, the mace, and the lotus.” Kara in Sanskrit means hand; but karat in Assamese means a saw. 9. A line from a Vaishnava prayer in Brajaboli which describes Krishna playing the flute: “His hand playing the flute.” 10. In the Hindu tradition, all letters are headed by such auspicious inscriptions. 11. A Persian word which means summons as well as wages.

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12. This is a paraphrase of the mantra, which in the original text is in the form of doggerel verse, in 22 rhyming couplets, a form that is typical of such mantras. It is in a local dialect of the rural areas of Assam. The last few words parody the form of Sanskrit slokas. 13. Astrologers relate the first letters of names to the star-signs. 14. This is the prose summary of the moral of the story which is in the form of rhyming couplets in the original text.

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Fair Without, Foul Within

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Ulka Anjaria is an assistant professor in the English Department at Brandeis University; she is completing a book on Indian literature titled Novel Forms: Literary Experiments with Modernity in Late Colonial India. Hemchandra Barua was a leading nineteenth-century Assamese writer and intellectual. Debendra K. Dash is the editor of collected works of Fakir Mohan Senapati; he is based in Orissa, India, where he teaches Oriya literature. Gaganendra Nath Dash, a veteran member of the Indo-German collaborative research project on Orissa, is author of Hindus and Tribals. Claire Horan is working on a Master’s degree at Seattle Pacific University while teaching high school English and biology. Tilottoma Misra is a prominent Assamese novelist and scholar, who recently retired from her professorship at Dibrugarh University in Assam, India. Satya P. Mohanty is a professor of English at Cornell University and the author of Literary Theory and the Claims of History. Himansu S. Mohapatra is a professor of English at Utkal University, in Bhubaneswar, Orissa, India. Velcheru Narayana Rao, a leading authority on Telugu literature, taught at the University of Wisconsin for decades and is currently dividing his time between Emory University and the University of Chicago.

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Contributors

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Contributors

Diptiranjan R. Pattanaik is a writer and scholar, currently a professor of English at Ravenshaw University, in Cuttack, Orissa, India.

Jennifer Harford Vargas is completing her PhD in English at Stanford University.

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Paul L. Sawyer is a professor of English at Cornell University and the author of Ruskin’s Poetic Argument.

active reader, 59, 60, 63, 77, 95, 122, 124, 223 Ali, Monica, 153, 154, 165–67 Ananthamurthy, U. R., 1, 16, 17 Apparao, Gurajada, 4, 12, 13, 18, 135–52 Assam, 11, 12, 114, 115, 119, 121, 122, 128–32, 247, 252, 254, 255 Austen, Jane, 74, 75 babus, 11, 12, 27, 46, 48, 60, 61–67, 72, 75, 96, 109, 122, 124, 126, 149, 173–75, 180, 220, 242 Bahire Rong Song, 117–32 Barua, Hemchandra, 4, 11–13, 113–32 Bengal, 19, 114, 119, 120, 136, 199, 200, 201, 214, 225 Bengal Peasant Life, 93, 105, 110, 176, 199, 200, 204 Brick Lane, 154, 165–67 capitalism, 2, 3, 49, 62, 212 Carpentier, Alejo, 30, 44 causal joints, 11, 93, 99, 102 Chakrabarty, Dipesh, 114 Chha Mana Atha Guntha, 1, 17, 57, 91, 102, 105, 110, 119, 123, 129, 135, 153, 154, 156, 167, 187, 201

colonialism, 2, 5, 15, 17, 19, 26, 30, 39, 48, 49, 98, 99, 113, 115, 116, 118, 136, 147, 150, 181, 182, 192, 213, 215 neocolonialism, 48 colonialist discourse, 16, 36 ideology, 3, 12, 15, 18 colonization, 26, 35, 38, 48, 99, 148 cultural modernism, 18 particularism, 10 Day, Lal Behary, 19, 93, 101, 105, 176, 199, 201 decolonization, 26 Dhekiyal Phukan, Anandaram, 114 dialogization, 19, 28, 30, 35, 96, 106 Dickens, Charles, 10, 84, 86, 99 Eliot, George, 4, 9, 55–88 epistemic access, 91, 92, 102, 103 epistemology colonial, 48 positivist, 91 realist, 92–94, 102 western, 16, 220 Foucault, Michel, 16, 17, 19, 20, 123

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Index

Index

free indirect discourse, 69, 72, 76, 80, 81, 85 García Márquez, Gabriel, 4, 5, 8, 19, 25–49 Girls for Sale, 135–52 Godaan, 10, 91–110 Gora, 17 heteroglossia, 59, 69, 85, 86, 88, 110 interiority, 73, 76, 80, 83, 87, 153, 155–60, 166, 167 narrative, 154, 155, 165 Kanyasulkam, 135–52 Lukács, Georg, 29, 44, 92, 101, 106, 109, 155 mamador de gallo, 35, 36, 47 Marxism, 2, 61, 62, 105, 109, 110, 150, 189 Middlemarch, 55–56, 65–66, 81–82, 106 Mill, James, 2, 15, 194 Mill on the Floss, The, 66–76, 80 mimesis, 92, 93, 102, 222 composite, 92, 96 mimetic mode, 13, 86, 222 Mishra, Rabi Shankar, 158, 167, 178, 179, 192, 198, 199, 201 modernism, 155 European, 4 feminist, 155 non-European, 10, 83 modernity , 2, 3, 5, 7, 8, 12, 16, 17, 30, 31, 37, 39, 56, 113, 115, 122, 127, 128, 135, 142, 207–10, 221–25 alternative, 2, 3, 13, 17, 18, 32, 45, 211, 225

colonial, 3, 11, 12, 15, 18, 27, 43, 94, 102, 117, 122, 135–37, 210, 211, 213, 215, 219, 225 indigenous, 3, 12, 13, 17, 136, 143 (neo)colonial, 26, 28, 38, 42 and Senapati, 207–26 singular, 2 social, 18 uneven, 26 Mohanty, Satya P., 29, 34, 44, 59, 64, 85, 92, 93, 98, 99, 103, 104, 105, 106, 117, 119, 122, 123, 142, 149, 152, 156, 158, 167, 168, 174, 200, 201, 215, 217, 226 narrative heteroglossic, 4 irony, 95 transculturation, 5, 8, 28, 33–36 naturalism, 83, 92 Nirmala, 13, 154, 160–64, 168 oja-pali, 11, 17, 19, 121, 122, 130 orientalism, 16, 58 Orissa, 6, 7, 12, 15, 19, 26, 57, 61, 64, 85, 102, 110, 116, 117, 119, 144, 148, 160, 190, 192, 195, 196, 198, 200–203, 209, 212–14, 218, 224 Ortíz, Fernando, 43 perspectivalism, 37, 60, 62, 101 postcolonial narratology, 153 studies, 16–17 postmodernism, 6, 7, 11, 92 poststructuralism, 5, 91 Premchand, 10, 13, 91–110, 153–54, 160–64, 167–69 purana(s), 121, 130, 143, 221, 224

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realism, 6, 8, 10, 31, 44, 56, 57, 76, 84, 88, 91, 92, 93, 96, 101, 103, 105, 107, 108, 109, 123, 143, 148, 154, 159, 160, 167, 173 analytical, 28, 29, 30, 32, 40, 41, 44, 94, 102 critical, 26, 29, 30, 32, 33, 43, 44 descriptive, 102 historicist, 82, 84 idealistic, 94, 107 literary, 27, 28, 48, 55, 91, 103 literature, 28 magical, 30, 44, 45 marvelous, 27–32, 41, 44, 45 mimetic, 19, 94 narrative, 28, 29 naturalistic, 13, 29 novelistic, 92 philosophical, 92 postpositivist, 10, 104 realistic, 94 social, 91, 93, 222, 223 Roadarmel, Gordon C., 104, 107 Said, Edward, 16, 58 Samantaray, Natabara, 190–93, 202, 203 Sawyer, Paul L., 4, 5, 9, 10, 32, 37, 46, 96, 99, 101, 106, 107, 119, 123, 217 signifying, 34, 40, 46 social critique, 4, 12, 28, 103, 154, 159, 160, 162, 167

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South Asia, 1, 14, 58, 154, 193 speech marked, 68, 70, 72, 74, 86 unmarked, 68, 69, 70, 72, 73, 74 subaltern(s), 4, 15, 36, 37, 79 agency, 4, 6, 16, 19 expression, 4, 19, 27, 36 history, 33, 41, 42 perspectives, 4, 7, 28, 35–39, 43 studies, 36, 39, 47 subalternized subjects, 26 Tagore, Rabindranath, 1, 10, 17, 101 textuality, 91, 102 intertextuality, 104 thana daroga(s), 118–19, 122 touter, 7, 10, 34, 35, 36, 64, 83, 140, 142 tradition(s), 3, 12, 15, 16, 17, 94, 113, 128, 174, 207–26 Assamese, 8, 114, 115, 121, 122 Hindu, 173 non-Western, 56 Oriya, 118 and Senapati, 207–26 Western, 56, 114 transculturation, 28, 36, 43–44, 46. See also under narrative transculturation Twain, Mark, 88 utilitarianism, 194 westoxication, 98, 109

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Index

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