Sunday, November 17, 2002		Books

Proof of a life lived to the fullest
Shalini Rawat

Shadows of Words: An autobiography
by Amrita Pritam, transcreation of the Hindi original by Jyoti Sabharwal. Macmillan India Limited. Pages 145. Rs 245.

THIS tribute to womanhood by Maya Angelou fits no one more readily than Amrita Pritam, a phenomenon who defies categorisation.

The last words of Iris Murdoch, incapacitated by Parkinson's disease, where the patient's mind is a dark abyss, were, "I wrote". Amrita Pritam writes. That is probably all that matters. This yet another autobiography of hers, after Rasidi Ticket was published in the seventies, is proof of a life being lived to the hilt. Of the fact that though the incidents and characters who strayed into her life or whom she ran into are the same, yet upon reflection the author has found something more to say about them. Of the belief that seen through the lens of graying years the incidents have acquired a life of their own. That what happened was meant to be and a quiet acceptance of the inevitable. And the ongoing quest for the meaning of the 'whole series of one damned thing after another, called life' as Lord Rouchefoucald once said.

This time, however, the author undertakes an inner journey down the memory lane, gleaning a valuable incident here, a remarkable insight there, for the reader to savour at pleasure. Time and again she shares the anguish she experienced during the days of the Partition, a piercing shard in the collective consciousness of the people of Punjab and Bengal. She recounts the effect it had on her young mind and how the Partition changed her forever, as it did many others. Her loves and the ups and downs which only one not afraid of sailing in rough weather knows of.

Amrita Pritam believes that since her birth various shadows have cast a spell upon her life — the shadow of death right at the time when she was born. Reflecting upon these has given her new insights into why she is what she is and this is what she wants the reader to discover along with her.

However, what could have been a heady stream of consciousness novel, has been marred by the transcreation. In fact, what has been lost in the telling is the tale itself. Transliteration seem to give the lie to the transcreator's credentials. Therefore the poetry woven into the reflections, too, lies around like yesterday's used newspapers on the streets. Not only is the intensity of the narrative watered down, but minor irritations like, "I had no one to pose these never-ending questions(to?)" or "the driver took the suitcase from the driver's hand" and many many others like these spoil the beauty of the narrative.

When asked as to which period of life did she like best, Amrita had once replied that old age was undoubtedly the best period because life was like having tea, the last sips were usually the sweetest. So here's to the grand old lady of Indian literature, "Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be/ The last of life, for which the first was made..."