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One had actually been trying to work on an anthology of somewhat
later works, written in the sixties and the seventies. As was
his wont, he was prompt in responding to the note on April 14,
2003. "My dear`85..Please excuse this hurried postcard. I
have your letter of 8th April concerning your interest in a new
anthology of Indian short stories and your desire to include my
story Dinner for the Boss in it. You are welcome to
include the story. But if you are looking for stories written
during the seventies, then this is not the one, for it was
written during early 50s. It is for you to decide`85." And
when we met, on a surprisingly pleasant summer evening, in the
lawns of India International Centre in New Delhi, and settled on
another story, one of his favourite I guess, little did one
realise that it would be our final encounter. We parted on the
note of understanding that one would shortly visit for a longer
overdue chat in his by then residence of a few years. One now
only has memories of his West Delhi house. A place where he gave
form to most of his writings.
He is one of the
few writers who never published a single forgettable work. And
though Mayyadas ki Maarhi (The Mansion) is his
more ambitious and enduring work, he will be better remembered
for his intense Partition saga Tamas because of Govind
Nihalani's sensitive and competent television adaptation. One
had reviewed Mayyadas ki Maarhi and found faults with his
own translation, saying the English version had left a lot to be
desired, had been in archaic language and style, even though he
had been himself a university level English language teacher for
over four decades. Another writer of his stature would have
picked up cudgels against the reviewer, even sent a nasty
rejoinder to the newspaper. But not Bhisham Sahni. He would have
died of guilt and embarrassment even to bring up the subject.
That could also be because of the security of the knowledge and
confidence in his own capabilities.
Paeans can be
written, and one is certain it would be so at least in Hindi,
about Bhisham Sahni's charm and humility. Though both the
coveted Bhartiya Jnanpith and Saraswati Samman eluded him, he
never carried a grudge about it. During all the decades of
knowing him, meeting him over a cup of tea or a drink, at
seminars and literary get-togethers, one cannot recount a single
incident when he might have lost his cool. He was never
agitated, and appeared as cool as a cucumber. His stance was
never rushed or hurried. Untouched by ego or rivalry in almost
every matter, he would talk to a newcomer, and an unknown entity
with as much attention as one would give to someone of his own
stature, or above. Though for a writer of his accomplishments
there almost seemed no one to look up to. Down, perhaps, yes.
In a writing span
of nearly seven long decades, Bhisham Sahni published six
novels, and also six full length plays of which Hanush
and Madhavi are more famous, and over a hundred short
stories that are obtained in ten collections, apart from a
biography of his actor-brother, Balraj Sahni for the National
Book Trust, My Brother, Balraj, a book that has run into
several editions. One spoke to him at some length about Tamas,
which had been included in the NBT's Aadaan-Pradaaan series,
last year during the making of a bilingual documentary on the
scheme. Though his response was elaborate, here are a few
important bits of information, in his own words:
"There was no
attempt in Tamas to weave a story around a character or a
main incident or a series of incidents. It was an effort to show
a human situation`85.The novel is episodic and it is these
episodes that bring about the spectrum. There are characters
whose future has been taken into account and most characters
have actually been put not in a narrative context but in the
context of their being members of a class, group, community and
society as far as I could help it`85my essential concern has
been the depiction of the situation of communal frenzy that
gripped the West Punjab of pre-Partition days. I have shown how
it affected the people as individuals, as members of a caste and
a society`85while the whole novel is based on facts, the first
chapter is the work of my imagination. I have never seen a pig
being killed. I have never been to a piggery. Though I must
admit that before I wrote the novel, I had a great desire to see
a pig being killed, but the desire died out after I created the
scene of the opening chapter."
One wishes one
could go on. May be there will be another occasion.
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IN
the death of Bhisham Sahni we have lost the one writer who had been,
almost effortlessly, carrying forward the Premchand legacy. One last
met him about little over a month ago by design shortly after return
from a shooting spell in Kashmir. He had looked and sounded visibly
healthy. He had appeared his compassionate self on the phone. Death
is, in any case, a silent stalker. He listened attentively, head
bent but a little raised, to one's account of shooting in the
Valley, and briefly recounted cherished moments of his own visits to
Kashmir decades ago, bemoaning the fact that violence had torn into
shreds happiness of a heavenly piece of land. He recollected,
painfully though, the long forgotten tragedy of Comrade Maqbool
Sherwani, a progressive who had been mercilessly gunned down by the
Pathan invaders in 1948. A sensitive poet he had risen above
socio-political, religious considerations, and fought to protect his
land from the invaders. A warrior long forgotten by his people
without even a memorial.
