Reclaiming the Margins of Faded Scrolls

The Mamar Bari is expected to play a central role in the life of any Bengali kid. I was no exception. It was the place Ma would happily run to once every week, and I would happily tag along. It was very apparent to me from very early on, that things here, in this stately, old, two-storied house, in an old fashionable South Calcutta neighborhood, were run differently from the small government rental flats in obscure neighborhoods of Park Circus or Lake Gardens, where I lived with my parents. One could play cricket in the roof or be wild in the garden with cousins. The floors had that shiny red hue that you see in many old Calcutta homes (though the period films always show the even more aristocratic black-and-white marble tiling), the DC ceiling fans looked and sounded different (the electric supply remained DC for a long time), and the windows were wooden, with the “Charulata” khorkhoris.

The heydays of the neighborhood as well the house were well past, and there seemed to be a certain disjunction between some of the trappings of aristocracy and some of the more modest modern additions. There were cured and painted deer skulls hanging from the walls and even part of a tiger skin, relics of the British Raj era passion for displaying hunted animals as trophies. Yet my grandfather, the man responsible for them (he had been a high ranking forest official), wore no snobbish airs about him and meticulously walked every morning to the bazaar or the bank like any dutiful retired Bengali gentleman. There were stately old bookshelves and almirahs made of solid dark wood with fat, dusty law books lining them. One could easily tell apart the more modern kitschy little things that my aunts had placed there. Frequently occurring in the glass showcases were also certain intricately carved metallic-looking cylindrical objects that I was never allowed access to as a child, and which consequently always evoked an irrepressible curiosity in me. The adults were patient enough to just tell me , that they were all manpatra ( essentially “scrolls of honour”) that had been conferred upon my great grandfather in the days of his being a minister in the Bengal cabinet of Fazlul Haque.

An Attempt at a Critical Overview of Amitav Ghosh’s Body of Work

Amitav Ghosh is my kind of writer. He doesn’t have the masterful genius of a Rushdie or a Naipaul nor perhaps the eccentric erudition of a Seth, nor the poignancy of Lahiri in detailing little everyday experiences. He writes with an anthropologist’s precision, taking care to situate his characters and themes in a well-defined historical context. He loves to dwell in those little-explored spaces where cultures intersect and identities emerge, classes collide and languages melt into each other, and equipped with his gift for lucid prose and power to relate in a way that is at once modest and deep, comes away as being extremely convincing for his pains. What’s more he has written consistently over twenty years and seems to improve with almost every book, and manages to remain fashionable in academia, and attractive to the lay reader, at the same time. These are no mean achievements in today’s bustling world of Indo-Anglian writing.

When you read the likes of Orwell there are moments when you jump up and say “Yess! that’s exactly what I feel too”. With a clever little narrative device, the author has articulated a little piece of your Weltanschaung, perhaps better than you yourself could have ever put it . Such literary resonances oftentimes happen with Ghosh too, not least the “compass on an atlas” episode from “The Shadow Lines” where the narrator picks up an old atlas and with a compass centered on Khulna draws out an arc through Srinagar. It flashes upon him that Chengdu and Chiang Mai, places one would have barely heard of, are closer to Calcutta than Kashmir is, and yet happenings in the Hazratbal shrine in that faraway valley could set off riots in Bangladesh, to be symmetrically reflected in Calcutta. This “yess” moment in one broad sweep ( like the compass’s swinging arc), ponders on the ironies of borders, on the meaning of identity, on the problematics of nation-states and expresses an aspiration towards a certain universal humanism.