The Shabdopnishad : Advanced Communication Course: Power to Create

Something extraordinary happened when I was on my way back from Mumbai on 22 November after participating in the 'Advance Communication Course: Power to Create' course. From the windows I was startled to discover that with my uttering of the word 'the mountains' , the mountains appeared in all their glory. The utterance and the appearance of mountains in my phenomenological space was a simultaneous event. The things appear to us the moment we utter their names. The words create the worlds. But, you would say, the things exit 'out there' whether we use language or not and,  the things do not appear in front of us 'in reality' if we mention them. The world 'out there', however, cannot exist independently of our language and the distinction between 'the imagination' and 'reality' is not so distinct in our phenomenological space. In fact, phenomenology 'brackets' the questions like these and treats the objects in our consciousness at par, irrespective whether they are 'real' ( in the sense of having 'objective' existence) or 'imaginary'. The space of our life, in the phenomenological terminology, is the space of our 'intentionality'. Words create worlds in our life. Our thoughts and our cognition is shaped by our words.

I am a poet, as if I didn't know this. I knew all this very exactly, but I thought it was limited to my art and my life had nothing to do with this startlingly obvious fact. In fact, as an artist, I was operating from 'the new model' of communication as distinguished by the Landmark Communication Curriculum: I was not 'expressing' anything in particular as a poet- I was creating an alternative world. And this is exactly what was setting me apart from my contemporary Marathi poets- they were 'expressing' something-ideas, feelings etc, I was creating. What the Communication Curriculum revealed to me was, that 'the reality' of the life I was living, the world I was inhabiting, was also made of words, and not just that, they are 'created' by me. 

I have already written about the Communication for Access to Power course in my earlier blog entry. The Advance Communication Course focussed on getting rid of our habitual modes of communication. It began by distinguishing those 'triggers' and 'cues' which throw us back into the 'default/inherited/old model' of communication which is based on the assumption that the world is 'out there' or 'in here', and the function of communication was to bridge the gap between 'us' and the 'world' which may be within us or 'out there'. When we are living in the old model, we are 'stimulus-response' machines and the basic purpose of communicating in our life was to either 'survive' (someone, something, some situations or ourselves) or to 'fix' someone or something ( including ourselves). The old model of communication is based on past which we project into our future. The triggers could be  phrases like' You are inefficient' or ' You are boring' or ' You too are like others' and so on. We were given hands-on exercises to respond to these words from 'nothing' instead of responding from past-based, habitual responses. We were shown that now we have a choice when it comes to responding, instead of responding in a mechanical way.

A fascinating distinction was the 'Automatic Recurring Dialogues (ARDs)' in our lives existing at all levels of communication. In fact, we live our lives within these ARDs. These are conversations are variations on fixed basic themes and are used not just by people in our lives to us, but also among themselves. In my life, I find the dialogues like ' You are lazy or not paying attention'and so on recurring not just between me and others but also among others to others. We were taught to uncover the past episodes which underlay ARDS and dismantle them. We were also trained to deal with the communications that we 'withhold' from others.

One of the most important part of the course dealt with the ways in which we 'resist' communication from others and communicating with others. I discovered that though after the Forum I given up huge anger against my mother, I still did not communicate with her and the reason I gave myself was that what she wants to talk about is rather trivial and unimportant compared to the things I was doing. These 'trivial' things like what maid servant does or what the neighbours are saying are important in her life. The idea is to enter the other person's world to 'get' what that person is saying. This is called 'recreating' in the Communication Course terminology. To 'recreate' someone is 'to get' ( not 'to understand') what others are saying in its entirety. We were given exercises for 'recreating' what others had said- word to word- " nothing added, nothing taken away, nothing changed". Yours faithfully, obviously performed below average to average in these exercises. We were also asked to recreate other's concerns, commitments and contexts and not just the words. Very powerful exercises indeed. People listen only through their opinions and on going thought processes. We were taught to 'distinguish' these things and put them aside and communicate from ' nothing'. Only then one can fully 'recreate' what others are saying . The Forum gave us the distinction of ' Already Always Listening' (AAL) where in we discovered that we listen to others through through our internal dialogue which is made up of our opinions, beliefs and assumptions. Already existing beliefs, opinions and assumptions limit our perception of possibilities. If I believe that someone is an idiot, boring or naive, my listening of that person will be through this and even if that person is saying something interesting and intelligent, I will filter that out. There is no possibility in 'Already Always Listening'.The AAL is always past based and as long as you are inside of that  you are not really present for new possibilities.  This AAL, as the Forum teaches, is part of our design as humans, a part of our machinery and hence, not really who we are. The Advanced Communication Course gave us yet another fascinating distinction- The Morass.

The Morass is nothing but an associational network of images, ideas, sensations, and memories into which we slip every now and then. The Stream of Consciousness of James Joyce, the free- association of Freud are actually 'morasses'. If communication is not about talking but about ' being-in-communication'- something that has to be caused from the space of 'nothing',  the morasses, day-dreaming and the AAL are things which keep us ' out of communication' most of the time. Thats the reason why they say we are checked out of communication most of the time, and very rarely we 'check into' communication.

The Advanced Course actually started only in the last one and half hours of the two and half days course! This was because the earlier part of it was about completing the past based habits of communication. The last session on Sunday was probably most profound and spiritual experience of my life. One can create something only from nothing-one can create, say 'X' only from 'not-X'. But we discovered that 'not-X' is 'a lie', because 'not-X' consists of 'X' hidden and concealed inside of 'not-X'. Hence the distinction between the Self and the Other has to be rethought. The Other is actually 'not-Self' which means it is the Self hidden and concealed in the 'not-Self'. We were to told to look at the Other, our partner, and be present to him so that we realize him as our 'non-self'. But 'not-self' is a lie! Now we know who the Other is! In first Communication Course: Access to Power course, we were given the distinction about who we are. I discovered who ' I' was. I was not the meaning making machinery, not experiences,not thoughts, not sensations but I was 'space' -nothing- in which my life, my thoughts, feelings, emotions, ideas, experiences emerged. This 'space of nothing' was like a blackboard in which white chalk marks come into being. I am not my life, I am a 'clearing' for my life. Communication is about giving this 'space of nothing' for other's communication, about being clearing for other's communication. Only then can you 'recreate' others or achieve miracles like 'achieving multiple outcomes from a single communication'. In Advanced Course I also discovered who the Other was- the Other was 'me' - the space of nothing- a clearing for life- hidden inside 'not-me'.

However, apart from the distinctions of the Advanced Communication course, I did something else. Raghu Sawney, our trainer, advised the participants to stand naked in front of mirror and fall in love with ourselves. Love every part of our body, look into our eyes and say- I love you and accept the way you are and way you are not. We also have to tell ourselves that we respect this person completely and everyone else should do the same. When I did so, I ended the bitter quarrels- 'the rackets'- I had with myself and was complete. I could sense a great surge of confidence and assertiveness. I felt powerful. Strangers noticed and told me that I looked 'complete'. I discovered the power of loving myself and respecting myself for the first time in my life. Today,I write poetry not 'because of' or ' in order to' survive or fix or even 'look good'. I write poetry because I choose to write it.

My classroom teaching has changed. How I interact with people has changed. Ashwini received comments from relatives when I attended my nephew's wedding regarding how I have changed and how I talk nicely and properly with people! Communication Course brings back 'love and affinity' in our lives, for presence of ' love and affinity' is an indication of 'being-in-communication'. I remember the wonderful distinction of ' dancing-in-communication' which happens when you are not trying to control communication and simply 'correlate' ourselves to others. I experienced it a couple of time too and it was fun. Communication which is not 'in order to' survive or fix something gives you a sense of freedom and love in communication. Nowadays I discover when I am 'resisting' communication and when I am operating from the older communication model of stimulus-response based on surviving and fixing. I have experienced great freedom, joy, confidence and have noticed a distinctive shift in people's 'listening' of me. Now that's awesome! Highly recommended! If you are wondering whether you should do it or not, I suggest -go get it!

Journeys into the Invisible World: A Personal Footnote to my Poems

When I start messing around with words and the diverse kinds of effects the words are capable of producing, a poem begins like a beginning of an unplanned journey. My poems are excursions into the enigma of being in this world. The world I alone inhabit overlaps with other worlds. However, these worlds are neither concentric nor the same. Exploring the creative possibilities of the language and the self, the poems journey into the worlds not easily visible to others. In the following write up, I attempt very briefly, at the risk of sounding a swellhead and vain, to discuss to some of the contexts, and try to understand for myself how they have shaped my poetry directly and indirectly. I will think aloud about my poetics and creative process and how it is caught up in other social, cultural and historical processes around me.

Poetry is essentially an exploration and a journey. 'Accident’ and 'chance’ have a very crucial role in my poems. My poem cannot afford to take a preconceived pattern of ideas and emotion as a point of departure and 'express’ them. This is the reason why it often ventures into anti/a social and the darker regions of my being, and emerges with the things that often startle me. A dark undercurrent of anguish, nightmare, and asphyxiation flows under the involved and startling pattern of images in my poems. I discard the traditional and established notions of 'poetic’ in the context of Indian culture, and seek to stretch the definition of poetry itself. One of the frequent techniques I employ is of keeping my dark and startling discoveries 'open’ to multiple interpretations. This way I attempt to interweave the private and public, personal and political, subjective and objective, individual and universal contexts into composite textiles called poems. I want my poems to discover and create things that were unknown to me. I have often asked myself: what is the relationship between my poetics and politics? What is relationship between what I write and where I write from? Where is my poetry in the culture I inhabit, and where is the culture in the poems I inhabit?

Cultures are gleaned on geography: colours of the earth, trees, and animals, colours of people, smell of their songs, their food, and fascinating wilderness of our souls. The seashore, dense greenery and dark landscape of Valsad, a small coastal town in South Gujarat, where I was born is an essential part of my consciousness. I am second of the two children of a Maharastrian Chitpavan Brahmin who migrated to Gujarat in the sixties. Displacements and dislocations are really replacements and relocations. I call up the famous quote attributed to Hugo, Abbot of St. Victor, 12th century: "The man who finds his homeland sweet is still a tender beginner; he to whom every soil is as his native one is already strong; but he is perfect to whom the entire world is as a foreign land [perfectus vero cui mundus totus exilium est]”. With due apologies to Rev Hugo, I am far from perfect.

Unlike Vadodara, where I live and teach today, and which is almost an island of Maharashtra in Gujarat, the environment in which I grew up was completely Gujarati. Marathi was the language we used at home and Gujarati everywhere else. I completed most of my schooling from 'English Medium’ schools at Valsad and obtained my BA from a local college in 1990. When you have English as a medium of instruction in India, you end up with inadequate knowledge of any language. The term 'English Medium’, is bit of a joke in the average schools of small towns, it means that your knowledge of English is 'medium’- neither good, nor bad.

Though Valsad is a semi urban town, it bears witness to the large-scale movements of globalization and privatization. It saw, like many cites and towns across the country, the extremely rapid process of unplanned urbanization. It witnessed how colossal industrial township of Vapi rose to its heights at one time and then underwent harrowing recession later. It also witnessed the Cola Wars and a wave of information technology in the form of the Internet and mobile phones. In the post-Emergency period, Valsad, Gujarat, and India have also seen bureaucratic corruption becoming a norm rather than an exception, a systematic and accepted arrangement rather than a clandestine act. We also witness how politics and public sphere are becoming deeply criminalized. Ironically, the land of Gandhi became the laboratory of politics of religious hatred. Gujarat witnessed unprecedented communal riots in the history of Independent India. How has this changed society affected my poetry? The sense of despair and helplessness that pervades my poetry is connected, not just with personal grief and frustration but also to this social predicament. Unlike others who believe in rhetoric of progress and enlightenment, in a truly post-modern sense, I harbour deep skepticism about all grand narratives and metanarratives of progress, equality, liberty, fraternity, salvation, and what not.

In school days, I developed a lifelong companionship with chronic loneliness, chronic asthma, and poetry -along with pubic hair. Poetry usually springs from such things. Suffering, as we all know, is the only true universal context of poetry. The physical and emotional suffering from my illness, and the resulting sense of humiliation, loneliness, and inferiority has played an important role in my writing. The chronic asthma and associated respiratory illness have encompassed my being to an extent that it touched almost all aspects of life. I coughed like a mutilated silencer of motorbike. Along with all these things began the anguish of a chain of one-sided crushes. Deep down within, I had fallen from my own eyes. I have lived inside a dark well, partly of my own making, and partly out of my destiny. 

School life for me was suffocation and a sort of nightfall. I found myself turning into a misfit, loner, and a shabby introverted boy with atrocious handwriting. My notebooks began from both the sides- on the back pages I doodled around and drew caricatures of the things I loved drawing the most- the dogs,  Mickey Mouse and a fat bald man with a cigarette in his mouth. When I was a kid I loved to draw. I remember drawing the scene from a movie called 'Mahabharata’ and to the amusement of people, the scene was of 'Draupadi Wastra Haran’- The Stripping of Draupadi. I used to draw on the floor and the walls. I continued to paint up to my BA days and due to some unknown reason, I stopped painting and concentrated on poetry.

In 1985, for a year, I had been to Warora, a small town in the Vidarbha region of Maharastra, as my father decided to do honorary social work at Anandwan, a renowned organization founded by Baba Amte a noted social worker for service of leprosy patients and the tribals. I wrote some of my very early jejune poems in English and I remember Baba Amte’s comments on one of my poems: your son will not become a doctor or an engineer. Most of my poems were obviously juvenile and shabby.

In the school syllabus, for the first time I encountered what people call 'literature’. The English Canon, especially the Romantics- Blake, Shelley, Keats apart from Milton, Shakespeare and the rest of them, enthralled me. I don’t think this impact has worn out even today. Obviously, what I wrote was bad and some of my rather kind-hearted teachers went through it and even encouraged me to continue writing. I wrote in English because English was the language in which I first encountered 'literature’ and at the same time English was the only language I could write. I was also fond of translating and I even tried my hand at translating nothing less than Shakespeare’s soliloquies and Sri Aurobindo’s Savitri into Hindi! The choice of Hindi as a target language will puzzle many, but for me, then, it was a compelling choice. Hindi was the only Indian language, I could write a little bit tolerably in those days. Besides some sort of Hindutva ideology, which promoted Hindi as the true national language, did influence me. It was in air in those days in Gujarat. Retrospectively, I have seen how such 'airs’ are manufactured. Gujarat was 'laboratory of Hindutva’ in those days. I have witnessed how religious hatred is fanned and exploited for political gains. But the rhetoric of hatred thrives in a culture nourished on bogus and baseless values.

I went to Vadodara for my MA and I discovered significant twentieth century literatures and the philosophies of literature. The seminal Western modernist writers like Stevens, Eliot, Kafka, Holderlin, Yeats, Kundera, Dostoyevsky, Sterne, Brecht, Faulkner, and O Neil bedazzled me. I was baffled and wonderstruck by the audacity and rigorous scholarship of the influential critics of the later part of twentieth century. The continental and Anglo Saxon literary theory bewildered and captivated me. These years were crucial to the development of my sensibility. This experience modernized my creative writing and I experimented with very 'unpoetic’ images and pictures in my English poems. Many of my poems included in 'A Dirge for the Dead Dog’ belongs to this period. Vihang A. Naik, one of my friends and batchmates is a very active poet and used to arrange for poetry readings in the Department. My English poems in the collection are experiments to evoke my experience of bewilderment and astonishment of living in this world. They have a rather freakish and offbeat texture, and it is mainly due to my conscious attempt to capture the immediacy and freshness of this experience. At times, I allowed myself to indulge in the image, simply for the sake of image .In spite of the experimental nature of the craggy poetic language, each of my poems in 'A Dirge’ is a record of a distinctive type of pain- a pain that cannot be explained in any other terms. In many of my poems, Vadodara city with its university domes, old campus buildings, hostels, students, railways, bus stops, loneliness, despairs, and desires make their presence felt. This presence goes far beyond mere depiction of the places: it is an integral part of my sensibility. These are also poems of a small townie trying to come to terms with the city.

In Vadodara, I started writing in Marathi mainly out of curiosity, and due to influence of Dr. G N Devy, a reputed scholar and now a noted social activist, who taught us at the postgraduate programme. His book 'After Amnesia’ made me reflect upon the question of my identity and 'roots’- thankfully, I now realize that there is no such thing like 'roots’- all roots are inventions and constructs and even myths. One cannot appropriate one’s past completely, one can only do it strategically. Yet identities are 'package deals’, even if you select only a part of tradition/past, you bear the burden of the entire package. I have seen worst side of the politics of identity in the rise of communalism, casteism, regionalism, and linguistic chauvinism. But this idea made me turn to Marathi as language of poetry. I discovered to my pleasure that I could use Marathi more imaginatively and creatively than English. Even then, I don’t think I can agree with the dogma that one should write only in ones first language. But one has to agree that plenty of hype is associated with Indian writing in English, thanks to its metropolitan social base and colonial history. I am terribly bored of the hackneyed themes of exiles, diasporas and the NRI stuff that is staple of most of the 'reputed’ Indian writing in English, especially fiction. After reading Kundera, Grass, and Marquez, I have always wondered why a writer as derivative in style as Rushdie would be worshiped in India and abroad.

My Marathi poems were modernist right from the beginning and the conventional, clichéd and sentimental poetry repulsed me. Maharashtra, not unlike other Indian states, is a fairly large-scale industry of such hackneyed and stale 'poetry’ and its output is in tonnes. At times, I feel fortunate not to study Marathi poetry in school. Right from the beginning, I found that most of the celebrated poets in Marathi like Kusumagraj, Mangesh Padgaonkar, Indira Sant, and Vasant Bapat used Marathi language and poetics that belonged to Jurassic Age, of course, without its primitive splendour. Marathi as a literary language was an acquired language for me and I read whatever appealed to me in Marathi. I enjoyed Narayan Surve, Sadanand Rege and Dilip Chitre. Marathi that I used at home was the language, which came closer to the standard Marathi, and so I lacked a living contact with various rich dialects and slang. In short, my location and upbringing deprived me of language variety. Interestingly, the language, which I inherited, was a strange concoction: a potpourri of Ratnagiri accent/dialect (the region to which my Father belongs, southern coastal region of Maharastra) and strange lexical items Kannada language variety from Belguam (the city on the border of Maharastra and Karnataka), the place where my mother was born and brought up. Besides, many Gujarati-isms had also crept in over a period. The linguistic proximity between Gujarati and Marathi was more of a headache for me, as many a times I was unsure whether a certain word is Gujarati or Marathi.

I got a job as a lecturer in English in an undergraduate college at Navsari, another town near Surat. I completed my doctorate in translation studies from the South Gujarat University, Surat. I was extremely happy to get involved in the things that always fascinated me: translation and poetry. I translated around one hundred poems of Narsinh Mehta, the great fifteenth century Gujarati poet into English for my thesis-by-translation. This research had a definite personal and political dimension to it as perhaps all research has , in spite of the claim of unequivocal 'neutrality' and 'objectivity' usually associated with the term. As a Maharastrian, born and brought up in Gujarat, and into the profession of teaching English literature and language, I discovered that translation is a way of making intimate ties across languages, cultures, historical periods, and across regions. Translation becomes one the strategies of relocating oneself in the complex cultural and linguistic topography of Indian society. The research into the pre-medieval Indian literature, its poetics, its politics, and its sociology was also a quest into a very crucial phase of the evolution of the modern Indian languages, cultures, and identity. Besides, being a part of English Studies establishment, this research bore testimony to certain dramatic reorientation of academic values, priorities, and attitudes long associated with traditional 'Eng.Lit.' academia. The very recognition of translation as a valid area of research and that too of a medieval Gujarati poet into English is possible today due to the heightened awareness of historical and political contexts in which English or Western literatures and the respective canons were produced, consumed, circulated, and promoted. Multiple cultures, languages, ideologies, and socio-cultural contexts are in built in my small humble personal history. Translation comes naturally for a writer working in such a context. Translation became one of the ways I can relate various multiplicities creatively. In our country, I feel every writer is a translator. I don’t see translation as a necessary evil invariably involving the `loss’ of the original. Rather, it is a creative act-a metaphorical act as one sees one language, culture, and text in terms of the other. Translation is also a negotiation with a world that is many times invisible to the readers.

Later, after my post graduation, I continued reading the great Latin American writers, poets like Paz, Neruda, Marquez, and Borges (whom encountered first in my MA). I gormandized Michel Benedict's surrealist anthology. Surprisingly, not many people are aware that most of the seminal texts we consume are translations. During the years after MA, apart from plenty of literature on translation studies and the bhakti literature which was part of my Ph.D., programme, I read the Dalit poetry, lot of Marathi poetry. When I was about to visit the Great Britain in 2000, I read contemporary British poetry: Hughes, Plath, Dylan Thomas, the Movement, the Group, the Martians and the newer ones. I discovered that after Hughes there was very little striking poetry being written in the Great Britain. There was very little 'excitement’ and 'kick’ in the lines I read. Most of them lacked genuine inventiveness, passion, or vision and read more like drab verbal puzzles. This may be due to the overdose of `writing programmes’. Unlike Marathi where the poetry factory was run by amateur lyricists, creative writing programme’ wallahs ran the poetry factory in the UK. Therefore, the staple of poetry written in either country was terribly boring.

I also read the modernist Gujarati poetry and found Ravji Patel, Shitanshu Mehta, Gulam Mohammed Sheikh, Suresh Joshi, Labhshankar Thaker and Manilal Desai exciting. Yes, their poetry has influenced mine. Unlike Marathi, contemporary Gujarati poets don’t seem to cherish or appreciate this brilliant heritage. They seem to be carried away by the 'ghazal’ culture. The materials and contents of the ghazal form seem to be very resistant to change and an avant-garde shift in these things would mean the loss of 'ghazaliat’. Dilip Jhaveri , Kamal Vora and few others poets are writing good poetry, but over all the scenario of poetry in Gujarati does not appeal to me much.

I was also interested in science and we started Vigyan Vivek Vartul, a small informal club with friends to promote science and scientific temper in Valsad. I enjoy popular writers on science like Stephen Hawking and Stephen Jay Gould. All this reading emerges in my writing and many times in unrecognized and unrecognizable forms. I also attempted to generate some sort of interest in serious poetry among the young people around me by forming a short lived 'poetry circle’. I could arrange some poetry readings at Navsari and Surat. The enthusiasm of the people involved in these activities died down slowly.

Almost a decade of working as a college teacher, by no means a considerable period, I was fortunate to roll my passion, profession, and hobby into one. I could reread Shakespeare, Eliot, and Derrida and discover things that I had not discovered before. Besides, I also was paid for it. So many times it happened that the poet, critic, student of literature and lecturer grappled with same problem and the discovery or insight for one would benefit the other within me. I could interact profitably with a very intelligent minority of young minds and experience the social reality in the sea of inarticulate faces coming from rural areas.

I returned to the Maharaja Sayajirao University of Baroda in May 2006, this time as Reader and often feel that I have left my Navsari and Valsad years far behind. However, they are with me, they are in me. Most of my students and colleagues are urban and come from a different social space. Baroda has liberated me more than once from the stagnation and has given me wings.

The best thing, however, to happen during my teaching years at Navsari is the friendship with a well known and brilliant Gujarati short story writer and novelist Nazir Mansuri. I admired his sharp intelligence, his study, his passionate and single-minded commitment to his art. I saw him write thousands of pages of fiction in the college and revising his longish fiction seven to eight times. His understanding of the technique and craft simply amazed me. His ardent defence of autonomy of art is something of an inspiration to me. We have long and meandering discussions on the various aspects of a writer’s craft, writer’s place in tradition and society. Translating and publishing Nazir and Mona Patrawalla, his wife and a very accomplished short story writer, has been a very illuminating experience for me. What I learnt was that most of the publishers and the readers in English came from urban and metropolitan background and therefore could hardly identify or appreciate authentic depiction of distant rural ethos. The translations of such stories involved long glossaries and notes in English. Besides, I learnt that the high profile publishers of English fiction in India had appalling knowledge of literary techniques and the craft. They would change paragraph breaks, omit lines, swallow, and rewrite sentences so that they would `read better’ in English as if these things were arbitrary in the original text. They hardly realized that an image, a description, paragraph sequences had a significant function in a work of fiction. This is probably because other writers in Indian languages, hungry for fame, would compromise with these things or that they could hardly read English. This is probably also because the publishers and readers of English fiction in India belong to a class that has hardly anything to do with the real Indian society. It may also be so because this class of users of English are not yet out of the colonial mind set.

Along with Narsinh Mehta, I also translated contemporary Marathi and Gujarati poetry into English. What I translated, again, was determined by my personal location: that of a Maharastrian living in purely Gujarati ambiance and environment. I was not in touch with the younger generation of Marathi poets writing seriously and creatively until I came in touch with Abhidha Nantar group and Shabdavedh group only in December 2002. Before that, I translated whatever little I came across and whatever appealed to me. I translated poems of elderly and lesser-known poets whom I knew personally. I translated poems of a bahujanwadi colleague Narsinh Parmar `Ujamba’. Narsinh Parmar’s were politically committed until recently. Some of his poems were good and I translated them into English. Ideologically, he was a severe critic of the brahmanical establishment as well as Dalit literature. He considered Dalit literature as equally casteist. His personal history is very interesting too. He came from a poor family and he was affected with polio. He worked as porter on a railway station. He studied for MA with Gujarati on the railway platform. He loved to interact with major Gujarati writers of his youth like Suresh Joshi and used to meet them personally. I came into touch with another senior Gujarati poet Mangal Rathod. I translated some of his poems into English. I won Poetry Translation Prize for Gujarati poetry awarded by Indian Literature, the journal of Sahitya Akademi in the year 2000. I had come into contact a senior Marathi poet Gopal Redgaonkar from Nashik. I used to correspond with him regarding various aspects of poetry. In spite of the fact that he wrote sentimental lyrical poetry in the fashion of noted Marathi poets like Kusumagraj and Grace, he appreciated my works, which were so unlike his. I translated some of his poems, which I liked. I also interacted with the critics like EV Ramakrishnan and Sudhakar Marathe regarding poetry. Prof. Ramakrishnan commented on the excessive use of abstractions in my poems and Prof. Marathe found that my poetry somehow do not communicate. He said unless they are purely imagistic, which many of them were, they should contain at least a small hint about what they were about. He drew my attention to an excellent essay by TS Eliot -'Three Voices of Poetry’ regarding the problem of poetic communication.

I translated from English to Marathi too. I had a good fortune of being a part of team translating an anthology of contemporary British writing New Writing 7 published by the British Council into Marathi. I discovered that I could not do justice to much of the work due the fact that the resources of Marathi language I had at my disposal were limited. It was almost a second language for me. Thanks to the encouragement and the guidance of the veteran translators like Prof. Kimbahune, Prof. Pradeep Deshpande and Prof. Sudhakar Marathe, I improved as a translator into Marathi. What I admired about these senior scholars was the extraordinary insistence on precision of interpretation of English words and the meaning of Marathi. Prof Marathe, I remember, talked about the dearth of recourses for a person translating into Marathi: good dictionaries, thesauri, glossaries technical glosses and the like. As a translator I find that this indeed a serious problem I guess this must be a problem even in many other Indian languages. Marathi that I used at home was the language, which came closer to the standard Marathi, and so I lacked a living contact with various rich dialects and slang. In short, I was deprived, mainly to may location and upbringing, of language variety.

During the final years of the millennium, I ran into a very dynamic group of Marathi poets of my generation associated with Abhidha Nantar Magazine from Mumbai and Shabdavedh from Buldana. These periodicals ceased publication in 2009, after fulfilling a very important cultural function. These poets were struggling to come out the shadows of the modernist Marathi poets and trying to come to terms with the changed social reality that lay in front of them. I feel my mature Marathi poetry owes much to this group. It honed and fine-tuned my sensibility and allowed me to see what I should be doing and what I should avoid doing in poetry. This helped to inculcate a historical awareness of the context of Marathi poetry. My meeting with Dilip Chitre, our own 'renaissance man’, in Pune had a healthy effect on me. It helped me to clarify my own perspective about the contexts of contemporary Marathi poetry. I lacked all these things chiefly due to laziness, but also due to distance from Marathi society, culture, and literary traditions. Abhidha Nantar and Shabdavedh came from two different geographical and cultural locations: one is metropolitan, urban and the other rural-the categories so significant to any understanding of Indian culture and society. Abhidha was itself closer to the Euro American- modern and post-modern poetry and its emphasis on individual, and Shabdavedh was closer to post colonial quest for indigenous traditions (nativism), and the communal spirit. These poles were not always dialectically related. It was my fate to stand in between these two worlds like the amphibian fate of a translator. I belonged to both these spaces. The common point between the two magazines was the desire to do something different from what has already been done: both by the conventional 'popular’ poetry and the counter-conventional modernist poetry. Yet it is not simply the desire to be different for the sake of difference, but the desire to make poetry more relevant to the changed social and cultural environment we inhabit.

Like most of my fellow poets, I have often asked myself: What is the relation of 'tradition’-that is what has already been done- and our individual talent? I recall the well-grounded advice Eliot gave in his celebrated essay with a corresponding title in the beginning of last century to the poet: he should be quite aware of the obvious fact that art never improves, but that the material of art is never quite the same. The materials of poetry have changed. Historical sense- the sense of what has already been done and its relation to the individual talent remains the essential question for the poets writing today. I have used and abused terms like Spam, SMS, or Virus for my metaphorical and symbolic purposes. The grammar of poetry hardly changes, what changes is its timbre, texture and content. I have written a poem about archaic linkage between the primitive cave paintings, cyber-pornography, and graffiti on public urinals, and how I feel alienated from the entire temporal narrative that connects the drawing of fertility goddesses with cyber porn. The themes of sexual frustration, alienation, lack of self esteem might be eternal, but I realized how they are interwoven into the semiotics of contemporary culture.

 Globalization has altered what Yurij Lotman terms as ` Semiosphere’, we inhabit and if our poetry has to have any contemporary relevance it has to recognize its intertextual relationship with this semiosphere. This altered semiosphere was ubiquitous in the metropolis when the little magazines like Saushthav, Shabdavedh and Abdhidhanantar took off. Today, I think this altered semiosphere is unavoidable even in the villages. So when I translated and edited an anthology of contemporary Marathi poetry titled ' Live Update: An Anthology of Recent Marathi Poetry’ published by Poetrywala, the English imprint of Abhidhanantar in 2005, I divided the contemporary Marathi poetry into two visible clusters based on the location of the poets: those who were located in the metropolis and those who were based in non-metropolitan and largely rural spaces. I also commented on the 'digital divide’ and the `rural-urban’ divide in the introduction.

The relationship between the two clusters of contemporary Marathi poetry deteriorated after the publication of the anthology and resulted in a full-fledged mud-slinging match. The group of poets and critics based in non-metropolitan locations accused the metropolitan poets and critics of lacking in social commitment and celebrating globalization uncritically. I intervened often by repeating that the metropolitan poetry of as much a product of cultural and social crisis resulting from globalization and the accusations were not based on careful reading of metropolitan poetry. The great globalization wars in contemporary Marathi poetry reflected the biases and prejudices between metropolitan/cosmopolitan space and non-metropolitan/ 'native’ space. The senior critics were roped into the mud-slinging matches and they did an equally bad job by not substantiating their positions with actual reading of the specific texts of metropolitan poetry. New little magazines like Navakshar Darshan and Aivaji were started by the people who were once with the Abhidha and Shabdavedh. How was I located on the divide? I asserted my position by opposing the simplistic jingoistic poetry and by saying that the poets should primarily be committed to poetry. I also criticized the superficial fashionable 'dot.com’ poetry and the 'breaking news’ school of poetry which used the buzzwords from the world of internet and cell-phones to appear 'contemporary’. Belonging to neither worlds, I saw that both the positions were reductive, naïve and even irrelevant. However, what I regret today, that in trying to make my position clear, I became too irreverent, vicious and contemptuous, which was uncalled for and today I apologize to the people and journals I insulted.

I have always believed that the creative act is a political and social act. Art is deeply political, not because it expresses a set political ideology or a party programme, but it because it interrogates simplifications, reductions, clichés, and the ossified ways of seeing and thinking. It involves risks that are not merely social or political but also emotional. The tinkering with words has its own dangers and pleasures. When one tinkers with words, one messes around with all the things that society has considered sacrosanct: ideas, images, worldviews, ideologies, cultures, selves, and others.

These are the personal, geographical, social, cultural contexts to my poetry and they have affected its materials and the worldview. These multiple contexts are interwoven into the fabric of my poems. However, I refuse to see poetry as a merely representational form of art. I believe that poetry does more than just reflect its contexts, personal or social. It is not merely a reflection of the world, either 'subjective’, or 'objective’, it is also a creation of a world. The world of my poems is the invisible world I inhabit, the world that is not simply my personal property, and the world which does it exist independently of me. But just because it is my world, it does not mean that I know its geography and my poems are the journeys that I undertake in search of my enigmatic destiny and destination in this world. And at some crossroads, I meet you.

Who do you write for?

The question of who one is writing for is of great importance to almost all forms of writing, all genres,-except poetry. Now this I believe is a very controversial stance. I was reading the blog of Ram Gopan Varma and his discussion on ` Hits and Flops' and I remembered Marianne Moore's profound observation ( noted by Prof Harold Bloom in the Western Canon) that one only writes for oneself and for strangers. When you are writing a newspaper article you have a approximate image of the reader in your mind which comes close to the actual reader. But when you are writing poetry, its only you and the language, the most social of all social institutions. You never know who reads your works. Often it happens that only the poets read poetry and I am sure if your poetry is good they are NOT going to like it at all ( envy you see ) and if your work is really bad than you can end up with lots of praise from your poet friends) . Your readers are never the people whom you know because 1) most of them give a damn for creative and serious poetry 2) and those who do feel that you are their rival because they are mostly other poets!! If a poet says that he is writing only for himself, he of course lying and if a poet says that he writes for others, probably he is a bad writer. Conclusion: One always writes for oneself and for strangers. No one could have put it better than Ms. Moore

Parvati as a Maker, Baby Aeroplanes and this Mad Water

I end up in Amogh's world so frequently- the world of Harry Potter films, dinosaurs, Hanuman and more recently Ganapati-that they invariably end up being part of my poetry.What is poetry after all but quest for the child within yourself, the naughty boy ( or girl) who is undomesticated, wild,  incredibly curious and so essentially anti-social and anti-civilizational. 

That's the reason why the poetry of the Romantic age was preoccupied the world of children. I remember Amogh has also given me the first line for my next poem- हे पाणी वेडंच आहे की नाही?! which means Isnt this water mad? Well, water is always mad Amogh. I also remember the grandson of my PhD supervisor telling me after drawing a big aeroplane on the board followed by a very small aeroplane that the smaller plane is the bigger one's baby. Only a small child can think of a baby aeroplane. A child's imagination, her way of looking at the world is what people call surreal. Anyway.

Parvati, coy of finding her nosy husband peeping into her bathroom while she is taking her bath, thinks of a plan to keep the nosy parker off. She takes the dirty soot from her body ( yucks! but remember she is the daughter of mountains!) and makes a door keeper ( not to be confused with Kafka's door keeper in the Trial, but equally firm and nasty) boy out of it. ( Well goddesses have their own ways, fine women as Yeats told us, eat crazy salad with their meat) and the boy resists Shiva ( that ascetic-lover) his legal father from going into his own house. The legal father gets angry with this defiant kid and in a fit of wrath cuts off his head with his trident. 

Dr.Sudhir Kakar would see Oedipal conflict here,he would also see the filth from Parvati's body as suggesting anal phase of psychosexual development, but the father has to repent. His missus is Durga and Chandika and Kali and etc, so the poor chap has to find a replacement for his soot-son's head. He kills an elephant asura (whats that?) and fits the elephant head on the decapitated doorkeeper. This is how the God of Intelligence, the bigamous beloved deity of Maharashtra comes into existence. Well thats what Amogh's recent CD on Ganapati says.

What fascinated me was the idea of taking soot and dirt from your body and making a living human being out of it. Well is this not a metaphor for creative process? You use the dirt from your body and make something living and intelligent out of it. So it will find place in my future poems!

Of `Crowding' and `Purgation'

One of the very senior poet-friends of mine said to me the other day that as his mind was excessively crowded and overburdened due to his family life and social commitments, he watched `blue films' and drunk alcohol in order to relieve himself. I dont know if this remedy is the most effective one for the phenomenon he termed as `crowding'. However, this phenomenon is a real one for writers, especially in India, where one's social, occupational and familial life is cut off from one's creative life. I am undergoing `crowding' myself these days and in fact that my life is so crowded that I cannot even try out my friend's remedies.

For a writer, especially a poet, his solitude, the quality time he or she spends with oneself is precious as it is a source of his or her creative drives. Social obligations, occupational duties and family responsibilities swarm one's consciousness to such an extent that one cannot get in touch with oneself.

If you are a writer, you are using your own consciousness as your material and so your self is one of the chief instruments, the most important `means' to an end, namely the artistic creation. You cannot remain in the chaos of social life and get in touch with your source, you have to opt for the solitude. If India is anything it is this`crowding' of our life, thanks to population explosion and the looney bin of values we term as `Indian culture'. If you are an Indian, you are already crazy, and you cant escape this madhouse. If you run away from India, you will carry her within you.

If art is one of the ways we impose or extract order out of this chaos, no wonder art is thriving in our country. And if it is being overlooked, you are not surprised why.

My Programmable Women

My second serious short story `Programmable Women' appeared in the latest issue of New Quest. It is my first publication as a story writer. I often thought that I was incapable of doing justice to fiction as I considered it very extroverted, social and garrulous literary form which was very much unlike my personality. After this experience, I feel that I was wrong and like poetry, one has to find a way of writing that suits you. The art lies in transforming very private experiences into public ones, very much like any other art. Compared to more constricting economyof poetry, I liked the wider space it provided for the play of imagination, a bigger room for juicy digressions. Probably I will enjoy writing novels even more. Yes, I am planning to write one!

I had posted an earlier draft of this story on a Yahoo Short Story group. The reactions were very interesting. `More showing and less telling' is one common advice that comes to my way. My earlier short story` The Mesh' also received the same comments.One of my friends commented that she got an opportunity to read a good story after a long time and that my story was better than my perverse and morbid poetry. The other reaction was that I said many things too directly and there should have meen more distance, more irony regarding the content. Who knows, I thought it was a very good idea. And I enjoyed writing it very much. I dont know if readers enjoyed it at all.

The contrast between the programmable female androids and the real emanicipated women is a very interesting idea. The best thing about it is that it can be read in more than one ways. You can read it as a feminist text or you can read it as a sad story of human male. I found the germ of this idea in Dilip Chitre's remarks when I was preparing Live Update about women poets in Maharashtra. Another germ of this story lies in Vilas Sarang's short story Interview with Mr. Chacko.

Poetry is very agonizing for me at times and fiction can be fun!

poetry and me

One of my teachers whom I hold in high esteem once said that he was now no longer interested in the literary approach which analyzes `language of literature or poetry' but he is interested in the `man-behind-the-work'. I disagreed. I felt that this belief is rooted in medieval bhakti notion of the poet as a saint and this attitude meant `saint-mongering' of some form. I felt that it is the special use of language that is important in poetry.

Today I feel both of us are wrong. The poet IS the Work and the Poem IS the poet. If the poem sounds dishonest and superficial, the poet must be the same too.


My poem IS Sachin. The mythical, surreal world on my poems is the world I inhabit: the world I discover, reveal through my writing, in a way.


I used to believe that the poems are not `expressions' of the self but `inventions'.
But today I feel that my poem IS my self itself

The Morbid and Sordid poetry of Sachin

Today a friend said that if you get a job at MS, you must admit that there is still some room for merit in this world and your poems will get less morbid.

Well, Sachin's poems are Morbid andSordid and cant help it.

I am too disillusioned about things to believe that getting a job or being a father or being loved is going to cure me of my suffering and pain.

Why is my poetry so `morbid' and `sordid'? I dont know. My poetics, my shastra of kavya is built on my vision of the world which is sordid and morbid and all that. So I try to incorporate as much `unpoetic' and `unaesthetic' elements as possible into the grammar of poetry. The grammar of poetry, for me, is that it is a language of symbols and images. It is a `second degree' language, language within the language, a dialect without the region, an idiolect without the speaker.

But I am NOT believer in the idea of `Pure Poetry' in the Symbolist fashion because I dont like the idea of Purity at all. I am great beliver in the essential Impurity of things.

Entry for November 02, 2005

To be creative is to think in an off beat way and look at things in the ways that are non conventional and non-conformist. This is why art is so appealing, enigmatic and important.