When women writers meet… ‘Stories are all we have’… Stories and sharing in a number of Indian languages at a recent three-day meet of women writers for children reiterated this fundamental truth in dynamic ways.
When Bangla writer Joya Mitra, quoting and paraphrasing from the American Indian writer Leslie Marmon Silko’s book, Ceremony, said, ‘They will tell you stories are only for entertainment. Don’t believe them. Stories are all we have…,’ it immediately resonated with me. And when, at the conclusion of Erode Sarmela’s presentation in Tamil, illustrator/writer Deepa Balsavar leaned into me and said, ‘I didn’t understand a word of what she said, yet I understood everything,’ I realised it encapsulated the spirit of a recent three-day meeting of women writers for children (and adults). Organised by SPARROW (Sound and Picture Archives for Research on Women) headed by the well-known Tamil writer Ambai (Dr C S Lakshmi) and enabled by her loyal team, it was ‘a cultural event to celebrate women’s writing through dialogue and discussion.’ There was plenty to talk about — during formal sessions, at meal times, during breaks, in the swimming pool and outside it, in the rooms shared by two people who often didn’t have even one common language to communicate in — and yet, with effort, they did!
Which, in a sense, puts paid to the argument that India needs a link language. Mandeep Rimpi used Punjabi all the while — to great effect. And there was always someone to translate. Indeed, my personal belief is that we Indians have a talent for languages. We may not all be able to get scholarly or even literary, but we do manage to understand/be understood with or without the help of the voice box. Most Indians are familiar with at least two languages; many with more.
During a Hot Chocolate discussion late at night, Giraben Bhatt implored Shalini Murthy to speak in the maatru bhasha — by which she meant Hindi – the response was quick: “She is. She is speaking Kannada!’ During these late-night sessions we sipped hot chocolate while we debated on issues such as the efficacy of using the mother tongue in helping children and young adults get rooted to their culture and history, the development of personality, and the necessity and/or importance of translations, particularly from one Indian language to another, with special emphasis on marginalised languages.
Why do we write for children? What do we write about? And why do we write in the languages that we do. What literary traditions prevail over or govern writing choices? How is storytelling different from writing? Joba Murmu, for instance, is a prolific writer in Santali; she also translates into Santali. Is there a readership for her work? What is the history of writing in Santali? ‘Children easily understand when you write and tell in the mother tongue,’ she said, adding that Santali has a rich oral tradition; the written is more recent.
Sangmu Lepcha lives in Darjeeling; she writes in Hindi and Nepali. A retired school headmistress, she emphasises that she is Indian, not Nepali, as most people assume. ‘I grew up and live close to nature,’ she explains, ‘which is why most of my work has to do with the natural world, the environment.’ Her graphic novel, Shantiban, is a collection of bird folktales from the region, and has been translated and performed as a play. Sangmu clarifies that the Nepali of Nepal is different from her Nepali. ‘Our Nepali is greatly influenced by Hindi, Bengali, English, it is a jaat goshti,’ she points out. Which reiterates the fact that the language of communication does not exist in a vacuum, nor is one form purer or better or more superior than another. Language exists because it is created and used by living beings, particularly definitely human beings.
There was so much to learn, and so many to admire for their grit, determination, tenacity, sense of humour and magical creativity. Vibha Rani, a solo theatre artist, writer and storyteller who is also proficient in Hindi, regaled us not only with stories in Maithili, but also traditional ‘gaali’ songs that roundly abuse the groom/in-laws and others during wedding celebrations. In fact, those left out of the range of gaali fire feel insulted, she said! Clearly, we can all do with a robust dose of a sense of humour. In fact, it would not be presumptuous to claim that the reason many women survive in this male and power-dominated world is their funny bone. Vibha also introduced us to Gonu Jha, the Maithili equivalent of Birbal, Tenali Rama and Nasruddin Hodja.
‘Do you know, Sindhi is the oldest language?’ Rashmi Ramani said as we travelled from the airport to Bapsai in Kalyan, where our resort, resplendent with mango trees, was located. I didn’t know. I hadn’t even thought about this. She went on to talk about the research she had done into Sindhi language and literature and the sense of loneliness Sindhis in India feel because their homeland, Sindh, found itself on the other side after Partition. ‘When I visited Sindh some years ago, I was welcomed with so much love, and the people there encouraged me wholeheartedly to pursue my research into Sindhi. They were so proud of the work I was doing.’ The script is written in Devanagari and Arabic and Rashmi’s very first collection of poems, Sindhi Bal Geet, was published in Sindhi-Devanagari, Sindhi-Arabic and Hindi trilingually. In one of the poems, a child asks: Hava kitha eendi aahe / Per athasi kon / par hale keean thi? / Hath athasi kon / par chooen keean thi? (From where does the wind come? / It has no legs / How does it walk? / It has no hands / How does it touch?)
The language of communication does not exist in a vacuum, nor is one form purer or better or more superior than another. Language exists because it is created and used by human beings.
This piece would be incomplete without a few words about Ambai. Sarmela, Kalayarassy (a Tamil writer from Chennai) and I travelled on the same flight to Mumbai. They knew each other, I didn’t. So, after deplaning, I stood at the foot of the ramp, holding up Death of a Sarus Crane by Ambai! The moment the two spotted the book and then me, they squealed with delight and our bond was sealed. They are great admirers of Ambai and her writing but had never met her. Now, in Bapsai, their dream came true. Dear readers, you will meet Ambai another time, that’s a promise. For now, enjoy meeting her vicariously, through the interactions of writers at the meet for whom she created a wonderful world of stories and sharing. She helped each one feel that she was doing something meaningful in her life, and that every challenge and struggle she grappled with was worthwhile. While we are aware that some languages get more attention than others, Ambai gave us the opportunity to give ear to others, less visible but equally, if not more, moving.
There were many writers, many languages, including Tamil, Hindi, Bangla, English, Assamese, Gujarati and Marathi… There was music, there was theatre, there were children. However, the writer who transformed into an enchanting storyteller right there before our eyes deserves the last word. All of us were thoroughly enthralled by the way Harsha Sadguru Shetye from Goa told her story of an owl that wanted to visit the local fair. In Konkani! Who could believe it was the first time ever she was telling a story! The Marathi speakers understood, the rest of us didn’t. Yet, we did. Every word — almost! That is the power of listening.
The columnist is a children’s writer and senior journalist
