I Am A Santhal, And My Opinion Too Should Matter — Hansda Sowvendra Shekhar
Interview with Sahitya Award-winner, Santhal writer Hansda Sowvendra Shekhar
In conversation with Sujit Prasad
Hansda Sowvendra Shekhar, doctor, winner of Sahitya Academy Yuva Puraskar, and a regular and beloved Antiserious contributor, has been suspended from service by the Jharkhand government. His book The Adivasi Will Not Dance was also banned by the government for writing the book without the its permission. The book, claims the government, hurt the dignity of Santhal women. Antiserious stands in complete solidarity with Hansda, who is one of the most promising Indian writers. Hansda’s interview with poet Sujit Prasad was first published in 2014 by the Boston Coffee House Magazine, and has been republished with permission from the editor of the magazine. Shekhar here talks about his book The Mysterious Ailment of Rupi Baskey, his identity as a Santhal writer, and why we know so little about them.
Sujit Prasad: How did The Mysterious Ailment of Rupi Baskey come to you? Did it come unannounced like Jaipal did to Rupi in the paddy fields, or was it more like the slow unraveling of the Baskey clan?
Hansda Sowvendra Shekhar: It was more like the slow unraveling of the Baskey family. As far as I can remember, this story had always been there with me. I just needed to write it down.
Sujit: It is possible to read the book as a parable on more than a few levels. Does that stem from the general idea of the story, or was it something you consciously had in your mind?
Hansda: I have been told this before about another story of mine — that that story read like a parable. As for Rupi Baskey, I don’t care if it reads like a parable, because I did not intend it to be one. The parable-like quality in it, I am sure, stems from the reactions to Putki’s misadventures. But those reactions are quite natural in a society like ours; and even in an Adivasi (tribal) society, which is supposed to be open and egalitarian, there are morality issues and people talk about what is right and what is wrong and what should be done and what should not be done. Usually, it is the well-to-do’s who make such judgments about what the not-so-well-to-do’s are doing. Like, in Rupi Baskey, we see the women of the Majhi house passing comments on what Putki does. And we also know that the women of the Majhi house were the ones who, first of all, poisoned Putki’s mind against her stepmother — the kind, younger Somai-budhi. So, this parable like feel is not intended to tell the readers about what is wrong or right; it is about the nature of the people. I wanted to show how people talk, and how their talks, their comments affect us and the way they affected Putki. Had Putki been spared all the talks and comments would she have grown up to become a virtuous and a more socially acceptable woman? That is hard to tell.
Sujit: How does the Santhal imagination see the idea of writing stories about their world in English? Indeed, how do the Santhals see the language, and their place in the modern world?
Hansda: I don’t think I’ll be able to answer this question in an elaborate manner, because I don’t know the Santhal world that deeply to know what they think about their — or rather, our — story being told in English. I am a Santhal; and one person’s opinion, too, matters; so my opinion should matter; and I think that it is a good thing that a Santhal story has been written in English. And why only English, I think it will be wonderful if Santhal stories are written in as many languages as possible, so that Santhal stories may go out to as wide a readership as possible. It is the representation and the exposure that matter. Santhal stories have, till now, been written only in Santhali. The Santhals might have found some mention in works in Bengali, Hindi, and Oriya, though I am not really sure how big those mentions are. Rupi Baskey is the first full-fledged Santhal novel written in English, and published by a mainstream publisher like Aleph Book Company. I think this is a huge enough representation of the Santhal life in the mainstream Indian English writing. And I think this is good. There should be more Santhal stories told in English now.
And to answer how Santhals see their place in the modern world; for this, too, I would need a better understanding of the Santhals, which, at this moment, unfortunately, I don’t have. My own worldview, too, is inadequate. I need to go out and see new places, meet new people, find myself in newer situations. Sitting in a corner of Jharkhand will certainly not broaden my outlook, even if it is on the Santhals’ place in the modern world. However, what I have learnt so far, from my life in Ghatsila and Pakur, the two places in Jharkhand where I have lived and continue to live, is that the position of the Santhals is still not worth singing or dancing about. Those who have the means to better themselves, they’re doing well. Those who have nothing, well, they have nothing — not even a word of respect, kindness and acknowledgment from other people. Other people patronize the Santhals and that’s all. The most unfortunate thing is that even we Santhals don’t seem to know what things or which people are right for us, and we don’t want to learn. We don’t even want to learn from our fellow Adivasis. There is, comparatively, a lot of harmony and a lot of sticking together among the Hos and the Mundas. The Chaibasa area was a Ho stronghold before the 1980’s. Why couldn’t Ghatsila or the Santhal Pargana area become Santhal strongholds despite their formidable Santhal population? There is no harmony within the Santhals. We might go out on all-Santhal picnics, get-togethers and cultural shows, but these are eyewash. Within the Santhals, there’s a lot of ill feeling, jealousy, and dirty politics. One Santhal man, instead of bettering the situation of his own family and children, will be more envious of his Santhal neighbour’s children who are eating better food. On top of it all, we have self-proclaimed thekedaars of the community who claim to know all and represent everyone in the community. I think it’s a wonder that we Santhals still exist! No matter what kind of stories and poems we Santhals write, as long as we don’t think of ourselves as one, nothing on earth can help us.
Sujit: Were there places during the writing where you thought that Santhali would have been the language of your choice, given the option?
Hansda: In fact, the entire novel should’ve been written in Santhali! Santhali would have been the most suitable language to express what I wanted to say. I was thinking in Santhali and writing in English.
Your question reminded me of the time in 2007 when my first story was published in Indian Literature (IL). The story was titled ‘Baso Mai’s Story,’ and it was a Santhal story, and someone from Sahitya Akademi called me up one afternoon to tell me that my story had been accepted for publication in IL. I was so happy. During our conversation, the caller asked me if my story was an original work in English or if it was a translation into English from Santhali. I said it was an original work in English. His question worried me, but it also made me happy. I was happy because if my story in English is seen as a translated work, it means that it possesses something from the Santhal world that makes it stand apart from other English works. It is a work in English, sure, but it still has some Santhal-ness in it. And that exactly is what I want from my works — that they retain some Santhal-ness in them despite being in English.
Sujit: There are instances within the book where your profession peeps through the narrative. How do writing and your profession inform each other?
Hansda: My writing is yet to inform my profession, because when I am a doctor I am totally a doctor, nothing else. Yes, my profession does inform my writing in many ways, and so do the professions of others. Because writing is all about expressing all that you have observed. And as a doctor I get to observe so many things. And not only as a doctor, as an ordinary observer too, I get to see so many things in my daily life that, somehow, find their way into my writing.
I think it’s a wonder that we Santhals still exist! No matter what kind of stories and poems we Santhals write, as long as we don’t think of ourselves as one, nothing on earth can help us.
Sujit: I take it that you are currently posted to Pakur in eastern Jharkhand abutting the border with West Bengal. How happening a place is Pakur?
Hansda: Pakur is a district headquarter. It isn’t happening in the way that it has malls and restaurants. It is, actually, a small place, and on a fine, comfortable day, one can walk the entire length of Pakur town in just 30–45 minutes. Pakur is famous for its stones and coal. It is an important center of politics in the Santhal Pargana area. Historically, too, Pakur is important for it was one of the centers of the Santhal Hul — the Santhal Revolt — of 1855. At a park in Pakur — called Sido-Kanhu Park — there is a watchtower, called Martello Tower, built by the British in 1855 to look out for Santhal warriors during the Santhal Hul. There is a rawness in Pakur which appeals to me. Having spent all my life in more sophisticated places like Ghatsila and Jamshepdur, when I first landed in Pakur, I was like: ‘Hey bhagwaan! Hum kahaan phans gaye?’ But now I like Pakur. If the electricity supply becomes more regular and the scarcity of water is solved, then Pakur can very well become a writers’ retreat.
Sujit: What was it like growing up in Purbi Singhbhum? What were the stories you saw and read?
Hansda: Honestly, I never thought about growing up while I was growing up. Ghatsila is a small place. Life here is simple and laid back; and in those days Ghatsila was so laid back that when we used to go to Jamshedpur we felt like we’d reached a big city! Now, of course, things have changed. Ghatsila has changed. Travelling between Ghatsila and Jamshedpur — in fact, travelling between Ghatsila and so many other places — is not a big deal anymore. Ghatsila has become as good as a suburb of Jamshedpur. I won’t be surprised if in the next 10–20 years all the apartment blocks and housing complexes and small factories that are being built on the outskirts of Jamshedpur will extend right up to Ghatsila. I think I am very fortunate — as well as others of my generation who grew up with me — to have been spared all the urbanization and the fast pace of life. Mine was an ordinary childhood and I was busy enjoying my childhood.
I have grown up on stories my family told me — stories about kings and gods and ghosts. My father used to make up a new story every day because I had to have a new story every day! My mother bought me books published by the Children’s Book Trust (CBT) from the Good Books store in Ranchi. Good Books was, perhaps, the only good book shop in Ranchi at that time. I think it still is the only good book shop in Ranchi, although there’s now another book shop at Hari Om Towers on the Circular Road that is quite good. There were books illustrated by Pulak Biswas, the simplified versions of the Mahabharata, books by authors like Poile Sengupta. Those were the books I grew up reading. Then I read books from our school library, and books my parents bought for me at the annual book fair in Jamshedpur — books by Enid Blyton, Malory Towers and St. Clare’s; the Nancy Drews and Famous Fives — more Nancy Drews, in fact, than others; books by Anuradha Khati Rajivan, Swapna Dutta, Deepa Agarwal and Loveleen Kacker, published by the Peacock for the Young imprint of Harper Collins; Asterix comics, Tintin comics. At home, we subscribed to the Madras-based children’s magazine Gokulam — a very, very fine magazine for children at that time — and the Russian magazines Misha and Soviet Naari. Not everyone in my family reads English, so we got the Soviet Woman magazine in Hindi. I loved the children’s section in Soviet Naari — I came to know of Katyusha, and how to make mittens, stuffed toys and tea cozies. The illustrations and photographs in those Russian magazines were just wonderful! Then I read Chandamama, Champak, Nandan, Nanhey Samrat, Suman Saurabh, Parag, Balhans, Children’s World, and Junior Quest. And I read a lot of comics. Nagraj, Dhruv, Chacha Choudhary, Billoo, Pinky, Doga, Fighter Toads, Archies, Betty & Veronica… I also had a few copies of Indrajal Comics — those Phantom and Flash Gordon ones. When I turned 12 or 13, I started reading Teens Today. Those were the days! It was the golden age of books, magazines and reading. Then the Soviet Union was gone — and Misha, Sputnik and Soviet Naari were gone too. Teens Today and Junior Quest were gone. Gokulam, Chandamama, Champak, Nandan, Nanhey Samrat and Balhans have undergone such a drastic change — for the worst. Their pages have become glossy, and fewer. Their prices have risen, but the quality has fallen. The 90’s were really the best time for books and reading. Books were our only means of entertainment, and that was a very, very good thing.
Sujit: You have written short stories, and a novel. What next? What are you most comfortable with?
Hansda: I am trying to write a novel. Let’s see if I am able to complete it.
And I am comfortable with everything. Whenever I have an idea in mind, I know instantly whether it would look good as a short story or a novel or both. It also depends upon how much material I am able to gather to put into a work. I don’t see myself as a professional writer — I think the right term is career author. I write something only when I have something to write. I don’t have deadlines to deal with. And no one commissions me to write anything. So I can write at leisure; so long-form or short-form, it doesn’t matter too much to me.
Sujit: Who are the authors you look up to?
Hansda: This one is a difficult question. There are so many authors whose works I like. I just love the portrayal of the indigenous life in Alice Walker’s The Color Purple. Celie, Nettie, Shug Avery, Sofia, the Olinka — they were all in my mind while I was writing Rupi Baskey. I can’t forget the line “the only authentic identity for the African is the tribe” from Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Half of a Yellow Sun, and I was very sad when Kainene goes missing in the end. I read Easterine Kire’s engrossing and very useful novel about the Nagas, Bitter Wormwood, only recently. Then I enjoyed reading about the tussle between Zimbabwean tribes following their traditional religion and those converted to Christianity in NoViolet Bulawayo’s We Need New Names. I loved Shyam Selvadurai’s Swimming In The Monsoon Sea, Damon Galgut’s In A Strange Room and The Good Doctor, Lloyd Jones’s Mister Pip. There are more authors I look up to — it is a pretty long list!
Sujit: I have witnessed people reacting to the idea of a writer amidst them with varying degrees of disquietude in Mofussil India — how have your family and friends taken to your being successfully published?
Hansda: My family does not see me as a writer. Thank god for that! Yes, we were happy when my book came out, but that was it. Nothing more happened. Ours isn’t a literary family. The newspaper is the most serious thing we read in my family and no one in my family talks in English. In fact, when I am at home I talk either in Santhali or Hindi. On ordinary days, I feel awkward talking in English. There are no book-related discussions in my family. So my being a writer or not doesn’t matter to my family at all. My friends were excited about my book. But they’re all busy people. I’m not getting some extra attention or special treatment for having written a book. Ghatsila and Pakur are very peaceful places, places full of stories, the perfect places to write books. But they’re not the kind of places where people talk about books and writers. So everything is very quiet and ordinary in my life.
Sujit Prasad is a bilingual poet and a lawyer based in New Delhi.