I.P. was among the most natural teachers Toby had ever met. He was gifted, generous, patient as a lama, and it made Toby sad to see him full of self-doubt that October evening.
“I had an interesting run-in with Sarkar,” I.P. said, following Narindar with his eyes who, placing a wooden coaster on the peg table next to him, laid his drink down.
“Is he new?”
“Narindar? No, of course not. He’s Labu and Sharada’s son. From Kalasuryaketu. Saab pooch rahe the ke aap naye aaye ho, kya?”
Narindar blushed. “Kahaan naya hun? Main toh kab se aap ke saath kam kar raha hun.”
“Perhaps he’s just grown up.”
“Perhaps. But what were you saying about Sarkar?”
“Oh, nothing. I was teaching the boys something from the end of the Birth, something that, in fact, you had put me on to. I was giving it to them as an example of eroticism in our literature, of how the classical world thought of sex and love . . .”
“Do you remember what it was?”
“Not entirely. It”s from the Consummation, I know that much. There is, following an extended period of love-making, this great moment of realism. Uma is fastening her garment, which has come loose, and Shiva . . .”
“Is – yes! – hita | vilocana. One whose eyes are seized.”
“You remember by what?”
“Of course. By the scratches at the top of Uma's inner thighs.”
“Exactly! So you can imagine that the boys had quite a giggle at this. And invariably old Sarkar came to find out.”
“His Bengali sensibilities must have been terribly affronted.”
“Oh, they were! He called me in to give me a little lecture about the canon, if you please. ‘I.P., my boy, we want our young students, embarking upon the noble discovery of literature, to be acquainted with the canon. There will be time later for other things. But first, they must know the canon. The canon, I.P.’”
“I said, ‘Sir, what is uncanonical about Kalidasa?’ And, Toby, he gets this tortured expression on his face. Literally I thought he was going to burst a blood vessel. Nothing coherent comes out of his mouth. He just grips the table and says, as if the words were being wrung from him, “Sentimental poetry . . . English . . . The greats: Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, the Romantics. The boys are giggling, I.P. The boys are giggling. I will have complaints from the
parents soon.’”
“What did you say to that?”
“I said, ‘Sir, if giggling is what you”re concerned about, there”s plenty to giggle about in Shakespeare.’”
“‘But I.P.,’ he says, ‘they won’t mind if it is Shakespeare; they will if it is Kalidasa. They don’t spend good money to send their boys to Doon School only to learn Kalidasa.’”
“Conversation over?”
“Pretty much. Can you imagine, Toby, in a country like ours, talking of canons? Where history has played such tricks with us: to talk of canons! The thousand years of Persian writing in India. Is that canon? The Sanskrit dramas and poems, the epics . . . Not canon? The Brontës canon? I wanted to say to him, Sarkar, the Yanks are on their way up now. So, what? In fifty years, is our canon going to consist of Twain and Emerson and Melville . . . Out with the Angrez,
in with the Yanks?”
“Yes. Apparently, every time there is an ascendant power in the world, India will remake herself in its image! It’s ludicrous.”
“That’s it, that’s it. I tell you, Toby, there is slavery in this country’s blood. You can’t get it out, no matter how hard you try.”
“You mustn”t say that, I.P. Men like you will change it. The spread of new ideas will change it.”
“I don”t think so, Toby. We have no memory in this country. Just amnesia. I was reading this novel on the bus down from Dehradun.”
He took a big sip of his drink, then went over to his canvas bag and removed a dog-eared copy of the novel from somewhere near the top of the bag.
Seeing it, Toby said, “Oh, I know Rushdie, I.P. I may not follow contemporary literature, but who doesn”t know Rushdie? He won a big prize for it.”
“Yes, he did. But listen to this . . .” He took another big sip of his drink, drenching his moustache and the little triangle of beard below his lip.
“Listen! Have you read it?”
“No, not yet. But I hear it”s very good, so is the new one apparently. Shame.”
“Listen, listen,” he repeated, reading and pacing. “’Today, the papers are talking about the supposed political rebirth of Mrs Indira Gandhi; but when’ . . .” he paused to smirk at Toby, “‘but when I returned to India, concealed in a wicker basket, The Madam was basking in the fullness of her glory. Today, perhaps, we are already forgetting, sinking willingly into the insidious clouds of amnesia; but I remember, and will set down’. . . so on and so forth. But look at that phrase, Toby: the insidious clouds of amnesia. That is what gets this place time and again. It never learns from the past; it just keeps forgetting. Look at the Emergency, that’s what Rushdie is referring to . . . Nine years ago. The year you were married. I remember. And less than a decade later . . .?”
“Forgotten. It is true.”
“A lifetime away. The witch is back in power, turning her evil eye to Punjab this time, which is already in flames, and no one says a thing. No one even remembers. It’s maddening. It’s enough to make you want to retire early, as my mother will have me do, and farm some land somewhere, live a quiet life, you know, of reading and contemplation.”
There was a rustle of cloth behind them; the noise of heels, sounding out like shot; the wafting herald of perfume. I.P. saw his sister and a smile of pure pleasure broke over his face. But it soon darkened again. Toby sensed Uma behind him, and reached his hand back, which she took, standing there quietly, allowing her brother to finish.
“And I'll tell you something, Toby. There”s nothing benign about this amnesia. It conceals some pretty awful things. I don”t want to make some Santayana-like pronouncement about the price people who refuse to remember the past eventually pay. But, let me say this much to you: there is nothing benign about this amnesiac fog, nothing benign at all.”
Excerpted with permission from The Way Things Were, by Aatish Taseer, Picador India.
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letters@scroll.in.
“I had an interesting run-in with Sarkar,” I.P. said, following Narindar with his eyes who, placing a wooden coaster on the peg table next to him, laid his drink down.
“Is he new?”
“Narindar? No, of course not. He’s Labu and Sharada’s son. From Kalasuryaketu. Saab pooch rahe the ke aap naye aaye ho, kya?”
Narindar blushed. “Kahaan naya hun? Main toh kab se aap ke saath kam kar raha hun.”
“Perhaps he’s just grown up.”
“Perhaps. But what were you saying about Sarkar?”
“Oh, nothing. I was teaching the boys something from the end of the Birth, something that, in fact, you had put me on to. I was giving it to them as an example of eroticism in our literature, of how the classical world thought of sex and love . . .”
“Do you remember what it was?”
“Not entirely. It”s from the Consummation, I know that much. There is, following an extended period of love-making, this great moment of realism. Uma is fastening her garment, which has come loose, and Shiva . . .”
“Is – yes! – hita | vilocana. One whose eyes are seized.”
“You remember by what?”
“Of course. By the scratches at the top of Uma's inner thighs.”
“Exactly! So you can imagine that the boys had quite a giggle at this. And invariably old Sarkar came to find out.”
“His Bengali sensibilities must have been terribly affronted.”
“Oh, they were! He called me in to give me a little lecture about the canon, if you please. ‘I.P., my boy, we want our young students, embarking upon the noble discovery of literature, to be acquainted with the canon. There will be time later for other things. But first, they must know the canon. The canon, I.P.’”
“I said, ‘Sir, what is uncanonical about Kalidasa?’ And, Toby, he gets this tortured expression on his face. Literally I thought he was going to burst a blood vessel. Nothing coherent comes out of his mouth. He just grips the table and says, as if the words were being wrung from him, “Sentimental poetry . . . English . . . The greats: Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, the Romantics. The boys are giggling, I.P. The boys are giggling. I will have complaints from the
parents soon.’”
“What did you say to that?”
“I said, ‘Sir, if giggling is what you”re concerned about, there”s plenty to giggle about in Shakespeare.’”
“‘But I.P.,’ he says, ‘they won’t mind if it is Shakespeare; they will if it is Kalidasa. They don’t spend good money to send their boys to Doon School only to learn Kalidasa.’”
“Conversation over?”
“Pretty much. Can you imagine, Toby, in a country like ours, talking of canons? Where history has played such tricks with us: to talk of canons! The thousand years of Persian writing in India. Is that canon? The Sanskrit dramas and poems, the epics . . . Not canon? The Brontës canon? I wanted to say to him, Sarkar, the Yanks are on their way up now. So, what? In fifty years, is our canon going to consist of Twain and Emerson and Melville . . . Out with the Angrez,
in with the Yanks?”
“Yes. Apparently, every time there is an ascendant power in the world, India will remake herself in its image! It’s ludicrous.”
“That’s it, that’s it. I tell you, Toby, there is slavery in this country’s blood. You can’t get it out, no matter how hard you try.”
“You mustn”t say that, I.P. Men like you will change it. The spread of new ideas will change it.”
“I don”t think so, Toby. We have no memory in this country. Just amnesia. I was reading this novel on the bus down from Dehradun.”
He took a big sip of his drink, then went over to his canvas bag and removed a dog-eared copy of the novel from somewhere near the top of the bag.
Seeing it, Toby said, “Oh, I know Rushdie, I.P. I may not follow contemporary literature, but who doesn”t know Rushdie? He won a big prize for it.”
“Yes, he did. But listen to this . . .” He took another big sip of his drink, drenching his moustache and the little triangle of beard below his lip.
“Listen! Have you read it?”
“No, not yet. But I hear it”s very good, so is the new one apparently. Shame.”
“Listen, listen,” he repeated, reading and pacing. “’Today, the papers are talking about the supposed political rebirth of Mrs Indira Gandhi; but when’ . . .” he paused to smirk at Toby, “‘but when I returned to India, concealed in a wicker basket, The Madam was basking in the fullness of her glory. Today, perhaps, we are already forgetting, sinking willingly into the insidious clouds of amnesia; but I remember, and will set down’. . . so on and so forth. But look at that phrase, Toby: the insidious clouds of amnesia. That is what gets this place time and again. It never learns from the past; it just keeps forgetting. Look at the Emergency, that’s what Rushdie is referring to . . . Nine years ago. The year you were married. I remember. And less than a decade later . . .?”
“Forgotten. It is true.”
“A lifetime away. The witch is back in power, turning her evil eye to Punjab this time, which is already in flames, and no one says a thing. No one even remembers. It’s maddening. It’s enough to make you want to retire early, as my mother will have me do, and farm some land somewhere, live a quiet life, you know, of reading and contemplation.”
There was a rustle of cloth behind them; the noise of heels, sounding out like shot; the wafting herald of perfume. I.P. saw his sister and a smile of pure pleasure broke over his face. But it soon darkened again. Toby sensed Uma behind him, and reached his hand back, which she took, standing there quietly, allowing her brother to finish.
“And I'll tell you something, Toby. There”s nothing benign about this amnesia. It conceals some pretty awful things. I don”t want to make some Santayana-like pronouncement about the price people who refuse to remember the past eventually pay. But, let me say this much to you: there is nothing benign about this amnesiac fog, nothing benign at all.”
Excerpted with permission from The Way Things Were, by Aatish Taseer, Picador India.
