Defoe's Moll Flanders suggests an incestuous and thus 'riddle breaking' role for the America- that Wilderness Zion- of English literature. But only because New England was more primeval than Old England. It was neither Utopia nor synoecist Promised Land.
Arranged marriage, or Caste, is about- or ought to be about- incest avoidance. As the riddle grows more complex, all Structuralism is revealed as delusory. The pebble in David's slingshot is larger than the world.
Around the same time as Defoe's novel came out, English began being taught in a few schools in India. But this English was already solidly Casteist. It had not that witty, vagabond, even lyrical, quality of Coryat's crudities.
Hobson-Jobson increasingly became the lingua franca for all Eurasians and only gradually acquired a comprador identity which was entrepreneurial and cosmopolitan on the surface but mystical and dirigiste in the marrow of its Babu bonelessness and quality of self-satire.
By the time Ben Franklin's pragmatic Deism prevailed in America, French and English 'dubashes' or compradors were commencing a long hegira in the reverse direction. But that direction was away from any Reality other than the Statistical, Theophrastian, or that of the Busy Beaver's unmeaning industry. The thing lacked dynamics. It was a worthless virtue signallers' Lotus Land defeating itself in advance by positing an Indian identity so abject as to be incompossible with the Cosmos.
Compare Emerson's Unitarianism's and the Tagores' Brahmo Samaj. The former dissolved itself in Americanism. That Republic could accommodate multitudes. But those multitudes were becoming self-similar. India's monism, however reformed or deformed, could neither provide leadership to Hindustan nor- in the manner of Kipling's Kim- dissolve itself in its own Kena fragrance.
At the margin, Brahmos were entrepreneurial but too English, or 'Gora', to engross the larger market and thus failed to gain scale and scope economies. The thing became a handicraft or hobby.
That's why the history of Indian Literature in English is largely the history of the unread, the unreadable and the shite which one did read but only so as to feel such contempt for the writer that one could rest content in the notion that one could have written better if only one had been arsed.
However, there were some stories by humble folk which 'England returned' Graduates like myself were asked to read and which, against all odds, remain fresh- indeed fragrant- in memory.
One such concerns a young Khattri whose education in a good enough 'Convent school' clone in Ludhiana was interrupted by the death of his father. I suppose this was about the time that Bhindranwale was active. Anyway, the boy now had charge of an Uncle's Wine Shop in Khan Market- which is how I came to know him.
I thought his English perfectly serviceable and asked my father to place a story of his in the Herald or some other such second tier paper. Dad said it couldn't be done. Characters in the narrative were clearly based on real life people. Lutyens' Delhi was a small place. The story was prima facie defamatory. No editor would touch it. Change the location to Calcutta and maybe the thing could find a market.
I told my friend this and he quickly revised his story. Khan Market became Chowringhee. However in the process the plot had changed. It now possessed a luminous humanity- a universalism- where previously there was but pathos, gender politics, and the crushing of a merely provincial dream of Delhi as the Nation's chatushkoti 'four chambered' heart.
The first version begins with a description of Khan Market on a drowsy August afternoon. The nameless protagonist has ensured that his Government regulated Wine Shop is not openly displaying any sign of its merchandise. We learn that his shop is on an upper story with little foot-fall. Others of his community avoid him. He has been unfortunate, true, but his own anger and resentment are unjustified. Krōdh katōrī mōh bharī pīlāvā ahankār .The cup of anger's intoxication is egotism's gnawing rat. But, karanī lāhan sat gur sach sarā kar sār, selfless service yeasts in the Guru's elixir's vat.
I must admit that I thought the young Khattri was writing about his Uncle not himself. That was foolish of me. The fellow was my age. He was on his path to wealth, a beautiful wife, and expensive schools for his kids. That's why the fucker quoted Scripture. I didn't know it yet, but I was on the path to poverty, divorce and a son who would have to rely on scholarships. Thus, I associated Scriptural knowledge with middle age and commercial failure whereas it is actually the key which opens the doors to wealth and virtuous life for young peeps wot didn't get to Collidge.
I'm sorry for that digression. Let me quickly tell you the rest of the story.
Two elderly women in antique silk sarees approach the Wine Shop manager. One has the vestiges of great beauty. The other is thin and her eyes are like daggers. The manager rises up and, speaking in English, suggests that the women have taken a wrong turning. What type of merchandise they are requiring? The thin one spits out the word 'nails'. She glares at him. The fatter, more comely, lady says in simple Hindi- 'You don't know me but I have purchased nails from your father and grandfather. Even I brought my daughter here to buy nails. This good lady is a big Mem Sahib recently established here. Be sure to supply her with good nails. '
The Manager did not know what to do. Because he was running a Wine Shop there was no seating arrangement for clients. He said humbly in English, 'Ma'am, my Uncle is running tip top shop for all sundries. I'm taking so you can be seated there comfortably. Then delivery also and everything can be arranged.'
The dagger eyed lady shouted 'I want a gross of 6 cm nails!' The manager said 'Ji, Memsahib' and sent the boy to get them. He understood what was happening. The fatter woman's large eyes became moist as she looked at him. She said in faltering Hindustani- 'I knew your grandfather and your father. They are my family. Because of 'majboori' not just me but daughter also were 'outside' for long spells. Now, I'm introducing this Mem Sahib. Treat her as you would treat me.'
The boy came with the nails. The dagger eyed woman examined them suspiciously. She flung down some small coins. The manager said in English 'Madam please to thank for esteemed patronage'. This mollified the lady. She dragged away her moist eyed companion.
What had just happened? A courtesan- South Indian by the looks of things- had bought wine from this shop for many years. No doubt, the word 'nails' was a euphemism. The poor woman had also got her daughter into the trade. Both had been 'inside' though, typically, the jail-bird referred to it as 'bahar' (outside). The poor woman was now trying to ingratiate herself with the new Madrasi Madam of the area- that scrawny hag probably provided Madrasi legislators in the Capital with the sort of young meat from the villages they craved. The fat woman, just out of jail, thought this dusty daru shop represented a valuable black market liquor connection. The truth is, in the past, this Khan Market Wine shop had bought duty free liquor off Communist or African diplomats to supply the Madams and Procurers who had set up shop in Lutyen's Delhi to service the Nation's Gandhian legislators. But, after Madamji's return to office, that business had been engrossed by ex-Khalqi Khans from Kabul and their Youth Congress cronies. There was much more money about. Blue label Johnny Walker had displaced Black label in quantities so copious that the Yamuna had shrunk with shame.
This, I suppose, was 'social commentary'. But 'angry young men', like 'Young Turks', were passé now Amitabh had defeated Bahuguna. The (I had assumed, middle aged) manager grieves. Why? He had felt anger when the fat Madrasi jailbird spoke of his own grandfather as being 'family' to her. No doubt, as refugees, his people had had to make compromises. Still, there was this pathos to that prostitute. She had looked upon him with love. Maybe, in some sense, it was to give someone, anyone, that look that she had returned to Dilli- the heart of India. But that heart has but two chambers- an Upper and a Lower. It needs four. Duality can be so doubled that but Monism prevails. If the wine-seller and the courtesan cease to look down on each other- after all, it is only the prostitute who knows how truly vile is the vintner's trade- if they become 'family' in other chambers of the heart- what happens?
The Guru's चतुष्कोटि, or tetralemma, prevails.
Predictably enough, the Khattri's lad's story- which, I now realise, was in better English than my own- which is why Dad was prepared to get it published- ended in Trilokpuri.
I spare you the details.
The Chowringhee version of the story was, as I have said, luminous in its humanity. The manager was a sweet looking 20 year old. His Mummy had died when he was 8. Then Dad was killed in 'communal violence'. But the manager sports a particular Khattri surname- Tandon. That may possibly have some significance which escapes me.
The elderly prostitute is no longer Madrasi. She is Muslim and wears burqa. She is invited to sit inside the shop because who the fuck knows or cares what the Government regulations are for Bengali Wine Shops?
What's the denouement? No, she wasn't his own Mummy who had run away due to Gender Oppression & deficit in Socialist Secularist Governmental Performativity. But she could have been his loving foster-mother- i.e. this is the plot of the Rajesh Khanna, Sharmila Tagore, starrer 'Amar Prem'. I liked it. It had luminous humanity. I will not say I shed tears but I developed a defensive latency of that type.
Then, I found out the truth from my sister. Mum, having returned from Dad's final foreign posting (not jail) was taking Additional Secretary Bhaktavatsalam's wife (her batch mate from Madras Christian College) to Khan Market to introduce her to various vendors and set up accounts with them.
Mum had done the same thing for my sister- an IFS officer.
Mum's poor eyesight caused her to take the wrong turning. The truth is Mum is lovable and Hindi speakers adored her just as much as Tamil or English speakers. But, the fucker whose story I asked Dad to get published had thought my Mother was a fucking prossie! Should have fucking killed the cunt. But, I iz three sheets to the wind Hindutva, innit? The fourth chamber of my heart is precisely that thirst which this Khattri, or that imaginary prostitute whom he briefly worshipped as Mother, did not, could not, have. Why? Scripture to them was more than scription. It was the hypokeimenon of a four chambered heart.
India may one day gain a Literature in English. Vak- Speech, even our Indglish jibber jabber- may go off with the Gandharvas. But its vagabondage will be dark and cold.
āpē sur nar gan gandharabā āpē khat darasan kī bānī
The Creator is himself the singer, the song and the six schools of philosophy
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