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On reaching India, he struggles to find a foothold in a spirit
of schizoid detachment from the world. He recognises the real
conflict in India and the conspicuous changes in values as
well as the cultural topography: "The best of the 17th
century at war with the 20th, modern progress slashing its way
through the beauty of the Renaissance." Modern progress
offends him, but as he sits in a temple next to his brother
gazing into his eyes, he sees "not a man, but a
continent. India, India, India—I took the dust from his
feet." Poised between nostalgia for the past and a
foreboding of an apocalyptic future, he goes in search of some
kind of redemption from an existence torn by the two poles of
continuity and rupture. Mukerji has posited India as an exile
searching for his cultural roots after a long sojourn in an
alien land. The politics of position bring almost a crisis in
his life, an urge to almost renounce the life he has lived in
the West (although he doesn’t). The intensity of his
experience, as depicted in the book, is a result of his status
as a migrant who struggles to bring out a self-portrait as a
way of recognising his identity.
The English must
go. This has been the passion of his brother. He had studied
the political movements more closely. And as he travelled
across India, studying the people, he had found that every
peasant believed that the English must go. "And why?
Because they said the English had abandoned
righteousness." But he is ready to suffer injustice and
oppression a little longer. He realises that his pursuit of
medicine, the science of the body, is meaningless without the
"science of the spirit." Why not purify the mind and
the body before trying to purify politics or influencing his
countrymen?
Significantly,
the dilemmas of writing an Indian novel in English exist for
Mukerji as with every writer of that time, although he does
not recognise them. The nativisation of a foreign language is
a stylistic predicament for any non-native writer of English.
For a writer searching for "authenticity," English
always becomes a treacherous terrain. However, there is
neither any Indian English here nor any trace of
provincialisms. Rather, we have a very heavy, pedantic writing
style, which is simultaneously un-Indian and yet one that
could be written only by an Indian in the 1920s.
Gandhi is a
hidden presence throughout the book, foregrounded only when
any nationalist assertion for independence has to be made. While
the intuitive borrowing from language takes place at one level
in the novel, at another interconnected level,
"real" India is constructed by enshrining the text
in Gandhian doctrines and deeds. It is true, of course, that
the response to Gandhi’s ideas of ahimsa and
non-cooperation among villages and cities alike had been
strong: many Indians prepared for the struggle by breaking the
Salt and Forest laws, picketing toddy shops, and fighting
against social evils like untouchability in order to unite in
a common cause.
The rest of the
book is a journey into his past, into various shrines, into
the marketplace, into the very "soul" of India.
Faces old and new confront him in the quest for an
understanding of his self and his country. And at last, it is
through his brother that he gets the final message:
"Finish thy quest. Remember the warning of the holy one.
Criticise no more! Buddha blessed the world, and in blessing
gave new life. There the miracle! Farewell." As though
satisfied with his soulful pursuit, Mukerji returns to
America. His final pilgrimage to the New World makes him
contemplate: "What had I found to bring back with me—what
offering from India in upheaval to America in the heyday of
her prosperity? Only the ancient sweet spices and myrrh, only
the old incense of love; but my orders were plain, and with
joy and assurance I turned again to the West." The same
old "Indian" magic, the same cultural essentialism,
but one we cannot fault much if we keep in mind when the book
was first written.
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