An Interpreter for the Bengali Diaspora

Like Ray’s globe-trotter Manomohan Mitra (in “Agontuk” or “The Stranger”)¹, the Bengali has never been a “KupoMonduk”. The Bengali migration has not just been across the barbed wires separating the two Bengals, but has often carried him across the oceans, to new continents and cultures. Jhumpa Lahiri is a product of that “Wanderlust”. More than any other writer of her time, Jhumpa has emerged as a spokesperson of her generation, one that has been born and brought up outside Bengal, spent their lives far away from the sights and sounds of this land. It is a life lived in a myriad of fragmented cultural identities. The middle class Bengali values of home, the All-American values at school and the big wide world, the Indian identity at Diwali, all combine, collide, embrace and sometimes repel each other in this strange whirlwind of immigrant existence. We have met this generation, often looked at them with the curiosity of a stranger, but have never quite been able to fathom the complexities and confusions that surround their lives.

It is a generation, often misunderstood, by Bengalis at home, and at large, by the Indian community, which alludes to the word “A.B.C.D” with deriding connotations. But such casual, offhand criticisms do little in understanding the complex dynamics of the American born Bengali generation. The one dimensional clichés that have existed in Bollywood (and very recently in Tollywood too) in the name of “crossover cinema” have only worked in order to enhance these widely believed stereotypes, but have failed to give us a more nuanced look at this generation. Jhumpa, on the other hand, tells the tales of more ordinary people, multihued characters who are far away from the cartoonish caricatures of pop culture. In the “Namesake”, Moushumi Majumder (often described as a character close to Jhumpa’s own self) does not try to balance Bollywood and ballet, nor is she given to the stereotype of the Western Bengali fawning over “Baul”. Moushumi is intelligent, self assured, reads French feminist theory, and carries herself in her own friend’s circle without the burdens of expressing her Indianness.

Amitav Ghosh’s Works – A Literary Postmortem

Had I not checked the invitation letter thoroughly I would surely have missed him.

A slightly above average height, a shock of white hair and a benign smile – Amitav Ghosh, the author extraordinaire of The Shadow Lines, Calcutta Chromosome, The Hungry Tide and Sea of Poppies sat quietly at the coffee bar of Oxford Bookshop at Park Street, on a slightly foggy December evening in Kolkata, 2005. The authorities seemed enough flabbergasted to suddenly have a literary behemoth at their disposal, and their frantic runarounds reminded me oddly of a film star – hit premier movie show. I watched from afar, not daring to go near, having nothing common between us except the distant bangal connection. He didn’t like the coffee, it seemed. Shrugging off the shawl from his shoulders, Ghosh quietly stood up and walked towards the podium where he was supposed to adorn the seat of the chief guest. I was at Oxford for the following couple of hours, listened to his talk (which I vaguely remember to be something about the state of Indian English Literature), but somehow the only indelible imprint that he left me with was him sipping coffee beside the smoky glazed glass window. He seemed distant, yet very much there, absorbing the present quietly. A true author – I concluded.

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.