A Little Distance: Vikram Seth

 By: Bijay Kant Dubey

A LITTLE distance from the waterfall
By a small pool the yellow beachtowel lies
On a long warm rock, and near it azaleas grow
And the shadows of thin fish fall
Across the speckled stones, and a light breeze blows
Rippling the skin of the pool, first this way, then that.
A blue-tailed lizard suns itself
And we ourselves as the sun burns through a cloud
Into the rocks, into our cold bones.

Tired, tired, my mind melts in the sun.
An ant crawls over my ankle. I sit up: there
You lie, beautiful, half-nude on the white pebbles,
Cream-coloured breasts open to the breeze and the sky
And a few lines of silver hair in the brown
To announce the burden of your twenty-eight years.
To be chaste, how frustrating for minutes,
How uncomplicated for days - to order fish, chives,
To discuss the rats in our room when the morning gongs
Sound out the monastery routine. To be
Just friends, reverting in a richer vein
To what we were, the way that we once were,
The way I hope, for a while, we may remain.

After six days, with nothing voiced, we are
Unexpectant, companionable,
Perhaps like an aging couple. We do not
Even kiss goodnight yet wake to friendliness.
It is perhaps the tiredness in my mind
Or the fear of the structure set. Unsettledness
Is what I have come to fear. We sit away
From the noise of the waterfall, by a clear pool,
Less conscious of the risk that is not worthwhile
Than of the warm grey boulders and the slopes
That circumscribe our peace, and the warmth of the sun
Melting us into the stones, and the azaleas
Mauve against a sea of pine.

We are clueless as for what the poem is about. Is it about love and loving or the suppression of the fact at the internal level? Is it about friendship just as there is a female persona too with him and he is addressing to say the things of his heart? The things are happening just a little distance away from and he is watching it all with sensuality. Sometimes she comes and he likes to sit with her and view, but what has it happened that still loves her not from his heart nor has the courage and guts to? Is she just a partner for the pleasure sake? We do not know all that as the story is just like the ones we see them in foreign countries. She is a friend for the time being, not a life friend.

A Little Distance is about the joys of swimming and bathing together with; is all about a pleasurable trip and sojourn. Both of them go for a sunbath and enjoy the pleasures of sunbathing. The sea shore, the swimming pool, stones and the waterfall add to the beauty of the poem and make it scenic and landscapic presenting the whole panorama. Seth as a co-visitor captures the photos shared together with, the moments lived with. Just as the travellers travel with, the foreigner tourists come and go away, just as the friends mix up so are the things herein. There is nothing special about it. It is just about a sunbath and roaming of the beach. Everything appears to be hollow and superficial. There is nothing as deep to be felt inwardly. Vikram Seth has failed to grasp what it is Indian love.

A little distance away from the waterfall there lies a yellow beach towel by the pool on a long   warm rock and this is how the poet starts his poem and nearer to it the azaleas grown and the shadows of the thin fish falling across the spectacled stones. A breeze blows rippling the skin of the pool. A blue-tailed lizard suns itself and a sunniness is spread all around.

The poet feels tired and his mind melts in the sun. An ant craws over his ankle and he sits up. But there on the white pebbles lies she half-nude the female protagonist with the cream-coloured breasts open to the breeze and the sky and a few lines of silver hair in the brown. To speak frankly, it is difficult to be chaste here. How the days pass by! Just as the friends they take the breakfast and go on chatting.

After the expiry of six days, nothing takes place in between them. They remain as they were. They are friends but are unsettled. This is what the poet has said it all and as thus the days keep running. There is nothing as that to kiss her and show affection. Just the goodnight is the last word bade during the night time and they take leave of each other. They are just friends, modern friends and nothing more. But we do not know it what it the interest of the poet if she is just a friend. They sit by the pool and keep watching the things around. What do they want to do, this he says it not. What does he want to do, he also says it not. What is in their hearts it is very difficult to take out? What partners or friends are they, we do not know it.

A Little Distance as a poem is all about temporary love and friendship, a visit to the sea-beach enjoying a sunny warmth spread all over the landscape spanning the waterfall, the pool and the near-by rocks and stones. There is nothing of proposition and disposition, everything is hidden under the wrap of it.

The poem is an exploit of the live-in relationship. Seth is in doldrums if he should love or not and this forms the crux of his life-story. This is the reason for which he prefers the gay as well as the bisexual relationships and is a votary of that. To be or not to be is the Hamletian drama of his, should he love that girl or not, is she likeable and lovely or not? On the one he likes and  loves her while on the other takes to her differently. What is the spectacle of his love and loving we do not know it at all nor can we say about. This is but a personal matter. When we read the poem, we get reminded of Goa where the foreigners come for a sojourn, a sunbath, a tour and a change.

Though we call him an Indian English poet, he is very much like an NRI, shuttling in between America and India. A student of economics, he has got his maximum schooling in foreign and has visited many Asian and European countries. While in China for research, Chinese poetry drew him so close. The manuscript of his first of poetry was not accepted in the West, but was brought out finally by Writers Workshop, Calcutta before being popular. Call him the suitable or unsuitable boy of Indian English poetry, he has come far, very far from where one cannot look behind, such is the name and accolade of his.  

A Little Distance is a modern love story where hearts matter it not, only partnerships make a way for. They are fellow travelers, tourists, visitors, not life partners, nor lovers of any kind. Just as the holidayers, picnickers and hoteliers go for an outing similar is the case herein. One who often keeps visiting from place to place remains it not attached to anyone. A foreigner girl bathing on the sea-beach too may be the point of deliberation and he looking her with so much so love and affection. The blonde beauty, she is perhaps not of India, but of the West, which but only Vikram can say it if enquired and he says it in response to. Where did he meet her by the Atlantic or the Pacific? Where? We do not understand if she is some ex-girlfriend of his.

 

Mount Kailash

 By: Bijay Kant Dubey

Har Har Mahadeva,

Har Har Mahadeva,

Shiva, Shiva,

Let the world be

With the blessings of Shiva,

Lord Shiva,

Bhole Shankara,

Shiva Shankara,

Sambhu, Bholenath,

Damruwalla

With the kamanadala and the trident

And in the rudraksha beads,

Bracelets,

Nilkantha Har Har Mahadeva.

 

A sadhaka,

A yogi,

A fakira,

A crematorium ground wanderer

Smearing the forehead

With the three ash-lines,

The Yoginath,

Night-wanderer,

Aghora-sadhaka

Daninatha

Shiva

On Kailash

In a meditative state

Of the transcendental meditation.

 

Nilkantha

One whose neck is blue

As for the poison taken

During the churning of the ocean

And the poisonous snakes coiling

Around

With the Ganga flowing from

The locks of the matted hair,

How to stand before

With the holds folded

And the eyes closed

Seeking the blessing from

Shiva, Shiva Shankara?

 

One who rides a bull,

Remains half-naked, half-clothed

Into the loin cloth,

The tiger cloth

With the kamandala, the trishula

Going the way

Unmindful of

Having taken bhang, datura,

Sambhu, Bhole Sambhu,

Shiva Shanakara,

Har Har Mahadeva,

You take my,

Take my homage,

Tribute, my reverence!

 

I see the peaks of Mount Kailash

And think of,

Think of the peaks in glow,

In snow,

During the night,

During the morning

While going through Mansarovar,

Marking the  waters of,

Kailash, Kailash,

Mount Kailash,

How the peaks of,

Peaks of it

Radiating, glowing it red,

How looking white during the chill!

"Don't Call me Indo-Anglian" by Syed Amanuddin

No i don't want to be
a hotchpotch of culture
a confusion of language
a nullity of imagination
an abortive affair between an indo and an anglo
I hate hyphens
the artificial bridges
between artificial values
in the name of race religion n language
i damn all hyphenated minds
prejudiced offsprings of unenlightened souls
i denounce all labels and labelmakers
i refuse to be a moonrock specimen
to be analyzed labelled n stored
for a curious gloomy fellow to
reanalyze reclassify me
for shelving me again

They call me indo-anglian
I don't now what they mean
Cauvery flows in my veins
Chamundi hills rise in my mind with stars afloat
eyes of the goddess smiling on the slain demon
Brindavan fountains sing in my soul

But, I am not tied down to my childhood scene.
I have led languages by their ears
I have twisted creeds to force the truth out
I have burned candles in the caves of prejudice
I have surged in the oceans of being
I have flown across the universe on the wings of my thought

 

They call me indo-anglian
The mistaken misinformed folk
In class me with a small group of writers
Cloistering me
Crippling me
I would rather roam with Kalidasa n Kabir
or go on a spiritual journey with Dante|
meditate with khayyam on the mathematics of existence
or sing with ghalib the anguish of love
or drown with li po kissing the moon's reflection in the river

They call me indo-anglian
It's true I write in English
Dream in the language of Shakespeare n Keats
But I am not an anglo my friend
I am a POET
I have lived forty centuries under various names
I am now amanuddin 

 ‘Don’t call me indo-anglian’ as a poem tells of what it should be called, Indo-English, Indo-Anglican, Indo-Anglian, Anglo-Indian, Indian poetry in English or Indian English poetry in the absence of a feeder dialect of its own and a linguistic environment not suitable to it as English exists it as a library-consulting communicative language in a written form rather than in a spoken form. But a language flourishes it if the spoken base nourishes it which Indian English lacks in miserably. Whatever be that, K.R.Srinivasa Iyengar has given an impetus to it by terming it Indo-Anglian. V.K.Gokak’s anthology too has been The Golden Treasure of Indo-Anglian Poetry which we like to study it most. P.Lal’s Modern Indian Poetry in English: An Anthology  & A Credo will explain it best as the amateur ones just with one book or the poems to be published too have been called in as poets. But let us listen to him, what he says and what he feels with regard to quest for identity. Is there anything of identity crisis? It is also a fact that the small band of Indian writers in English struggled too much for their survival and it too took time in evolving as good writers. What it troubled Shaun Maundy was the volume of bad verses written by the Indians in English. On the one hand, he says it, don’t call him Indo-Anglian while on the other he is in the States enjoying the nuances and idiosyncrasies of the American English. We do not understand the linguistic play.

Without following the punctuation marks, he starts the poem as E.E.Cummings writes and forbids calling him an Indo-Anglian writer as he does not like to be a hotchpotch of culture. The poet means to say that it is a mismatch for to identity him as a writer of Indian English verse in such a way and that too under a misnomer. It will be a confusion of language, a nullity of imagination and an abortive affair in between an Indian and an English fellow. He hates the hyphens, the hyphenated connections, extensions. The artificial bridges in the name of religion, race and language he admires them not personally. He damns all the hyphenated minds the prejudiced offsprings of unenlightened souls. He denounces all the labels and label makers. He refuses to be a moon rock specimen.

They call him Indo-Anglian, but he is not as they think it, he is Syed Amanuddin, one from Mysore, the Cauvery flows into the veins of his, the Chamundi hills rise above with the goddess looking down on the slain demon under the starlit skies and the fountains of Brindavan sing in his soul. Here the lines are extremely beautiful as they capture the music and rhythm and the devotional fervor can be marked in.

He is not tied down to his childhood scene. He has led languages by their ears and has twisted creeds to force the truth out. He has burnt candles in the caves of prejudice and has surged in the  oceans of being. But his group is not a small group of writers to be counted on fingers or difficult to be traced out. It is also a fact the Indian English verse has remained in circulation as cyclostyled, lithographed, typed and photo stated small booklets of poesy which the classic-read teachers of English used to frown upon and see with disdain as most of the verses were below the standard, poor, weaker in construction and meaningless and the practitioners of such a sort were but the minor writers of Indian verse in English. When they started to write they in a short time  turned into the poets of India and their first poems made entries into the anthologies as the ones  from established poets. It will be better to roam with Kalidasa and Kabir, go on a spiritual journey with Dante rather than to be a poet of a small group of writers and poets. It is better to meditate with Khyyam or sing with Ghalib or drown with Li Po kissing of the moon’s reflection in the river.

They call him Indo-Anglian, it is true that he writes in English, dreaming in the language of Shakespeare and Keats, but he is not an Anglo-Indian. He is a poet and he has been here for many centuries under names registered or unregistered. He is but Syed Amanuddin, accept you it or not.

While reading the poet we get reminded of many a thing. As per the legend, asura Mahishasura, the king of the city of Mysore was killed by goddess Chamundeshwari in a fierce battle. So she is called Mahishasura Mardini. The Chamundeswari Temple is atop the Chamundi Hills and has been named after goddess Chamundi. The word Mysuru comes from the Kannada word  Mahishooru. Li Po’s kissing of the reflection of the moon in the river adds another mystery to the poem. When he refers to the heritage of Kalidasa, his works flash over the mind’s eye, specially The Cloud Messenger and so on. Omar Khayyam’s Rubaiyat opens up new vistas of thought and reflection when he talks of his trend and tradition which Edward Fitzgerald has translated into English. The couplets of Ghalib add a new dimension to our thought and idea. The river Cauvery tells of the South Indian heritage and culture as well as river valley civilizations. It has been used as a demarcation well as a symbol. The Cauvery is also called Dakshina Ganga, the Ganges of the South. Fountains and water cascades add beauty to Brindavan gardens or it may refer to the river banks too. When he talks of the language used by Shakespeare and Keats, the whole corpus conjures up in its fresh imagery, reflection, colour, dream, fancy and imagination.

Autumn by TE Hulme

By: Bijay Kant Dubey

A touch of cold in the Autumn night
I walked abroad,
And saw the ruddy moon lean over a hedge
Like a red-faced farmer.
I did not stop to speak, but nodded;
And round about were the wistful stars
With white faces like town children.

T.E.Hulme, how to admire and appreciate a poet who is credited with the introduction of imagism into the realms of modern English poetry, how to assess and analyze a poet so imagistic in his approach and style? How to discuss his poetry who died in the prime of his youth just like Rupert Brooke, Wilfred Owen and others, got killed in the War while serving in Belgium? Hulme is a poet from whom Pound and Eliot have derived it poetic materials and think him fit to be called so. To read him is to know poetry is imagery, a study in imagism and imagistic elements. There must be poetic inspiration as well as the storing of new poetic images. Poetry is in images, poetry is the imagery of life, the poet means to say it. A Lecture on Poetry reminds us of Eliot’s essays, Arnold’s criticism and if poetry is criticism of life to Arnold, poetry is imagism and imagery, coming down to as a trail of images to Hulme and his explanation of romanticism and classicism too is splendid. Had he been alive for more, he would have surpassed and trespassed many great poets and masters of criticism, would have many laurels and awards and would have definitely changed the course of literature. One who has read Henri Bergson and Georges Sorel, translated them and has applauded the modern sculptors, what sort of poetry can we expect from him? He will definitely be introducing modern things, modern thoughts and ideas into the realms of poesy. How to pattern thoughts and ideas in the form of images and the trail of imagery?

Before we take to the criticism of this poem, we need to know something with regard to it. When was the poem composed? Had he been abroad? How his origin and upbringing? All these can allude to poetic anecdote and the inspiration behind creativity. It is very difficult to say what comes from where and what occasions which. Poetic meaning is very difficult to reach at.

Even after being touched by the cold of autumn, he steps outside and takes to the stroll of abroad, into the country with the ruddy moon hanging over a hedge and he marking it just like a red-faced farmer. He does not pause it there, just nods his head in reply to the ruddy moon lurking over a hedge just like a red-faced farmer and sees the stars blinking like the white-faced town children. Just with the images given under the wrap of a few lines, the poet hints towards the cold of autumn, the walks taken and strayed far into the country, the red moon lurking over the hedge and the white stars blinking like the white town children.

With a handful of words, he crams the poem with ideas and images and condenses the poetic thought lying inherent within the poetic texture of the poem. How beautiful the images are, how musical the lines rhyming with and so the phrases and idiomatic expressions! The ruddy moon, wistful stars, red-faced farmer, a touch of cold, autumn night, etc. add beauty, depth and meaning to the poem. All the lines are quotable.

The first two lines tell of the autumnal cold night which he could sense it but instead of his straying into the cold country during the night time,

A touch of cold in the Autumn night
I walked abroad. 

 Again he says,

And saw the ruddy moon lean over a hedge
Like a red-faced farmer.

The poet hides in meaning and the poem too defies it: 

I did not stop to speak, but nodded;
And round about the wistful stars
With white faces like town children. 

We do not the meanings hidden under the coating of words. Why has he used the word abroad? What does the ruddy moon? Why the words a red-faced farmer? Why the comparison with town children and wistful stars with white faces? When the poet talks of the ruddy moon, it reminds us of Ode to Autumn by John Keats and when he talks of the red-faced farmer, it reminds us of Gray’s village forefathers and when he talks of stars and town children, it of E.V.Lucas’ The Town Week, Lamb’s The Praise of  Chimney-Sweepers and Dream Children: A Reverie and Robert Burns’ A Red, Red Rose. There is also something of William Blake’s The Little Black Boy and P.B.Shelley’s To the Moon. There is something in it when he uses the words wistful stars.