When fiction is often fact, and vice versa
IN the bubbling cauldron of political reportage, spiced with embedded stories, sponsored features and the endless barrage of social media gossip, it is difficult to separate fact from fiction. Yet, those of us who still read books will testify that fiction is often fact and vice versa. For, eternal truths can only be told through stories and narratives crafted by those who are rooted in their world.
I was a late entrant into the world of Hindi writing, having spent my youth reading novels written or translated into English. Yet, there was a muscle memory of a world that vanished the further I went away from my own native land — Uttar Pradesh and now Uttarakhand. Life in mofussil India has a completely different rhythm and time cycle from our self-important metros, and it burns like a slow fuse inside those of us who spent our formative years there.
Uttar Pradesh is not a single province: it is many areas yoked uneasily together. Small wonder that many parts of it are demanding to be set free from power structures set decades ago. My own natal state of Uttarakhand, for instance, was never a part of the cultural world of Avadh. We were mountain people and were always defined as Paharis, rustic hillbillies to the mannered court of feudal ‘deshis’ (which is what we still call all those who do not belong to our region). Similarly, Bundelkhand had more in common with Madhya Pradesh than with, say, the Jatlands of western UP. The old British nomenclature of Avadh’s cabal towns (Cawnpore, Allahabad, Banaras, Aligarh and Lucknow) defined a region that was rudely woken out of its mannered ‘Ganga-Jamuni tehzeeb’ by the ‘parvenus’ who nudged themselves into the political space post-Mandal.
The gradual but unmistakable political rise and decline of various regions in UP can never be understood through opinion polls and surveys that clinically study data devoid of human voices. For that, I see no better barometer than the stories that have faithfully documented these stirrings. How ironic it is that a short story written by the great Premchand more than a century ago, titled ‘Thakur ka Kuan’, gives one a deeper understanding of UP’s caste politics and the oppressive relationship between its Thakurs and Dalits. Gangi, a woman from the sweeper class, sneaks into the landlord’s property to steal water from his well for her ailing husband, who has fallen sick because local musclemen had tossed a dead animal into their well. Her trepidation and desperation are described so vividly that the reader almost gags at the foul stench from the well in her basti.
The symbolism of the poisoned well in the Dalit basti of the village helps one understand the reason why the BSP vote is an abiding puzzle to our psephologists. Eastern and western UP are two separate poles: one the prosperous land of the kulaks, the other the rough terrain of Bundelkhand and the Vindhyas. Jhansi, Lalitpur, Datia, Ghazipur, Orai, Kalpi are names I recognise from my childhood and the stories that my grandmother, who spent a long time in Orchcha, would tell us. This was Robinhood territory, where dacoits stole from the rich to help the poor. ‘Ganga Jamuna’, one of Dilip Kumar’s finest films, and later ‘Paan Singh Tomar’ with the unmatched Irrfan Khan, are haunting reminders of what turns a desperate man into a baghi. The Chambal ravines that provided them with hideouts and the love and trust they enjoyed in these villagers are branded in my memory.
Long before our intrepid and often hysterical reporters arrived, there were writers who had portrayed the terrifying isolation of these areas in their stories and novellas. This is an India that we do not see on our television channels, nor one that those who want to serve us elections on our plate can ever hope to fathom. Sitting with data in front of them, they may crack the arithmetic of vote percentages and yet miss the chemistry that determines why exit and opinion polls so often go wrong. Added to this is the fog created by biased reportage that provides the viewer or reader with information, but no wisdom.
This last week has covered the territories that were part of my childhood and girlhood. I know that times have changed since then, yet I still hold that human nature and regional psychology take centuries, not decades, to alter. And in regions where development never reached, people still steer their lives looking at the heavens and changing seasons. Additionally, I have greater faith in the wisdom of the Indian voter than in those political psephologists who change their predictions to suit their patrons and preferred political parties.
Punjab will show us whether the old stranglehold of the rich, high-born landowners will finally give way to the aspirations of the Dalits and landless peasants. From all accounts, a clean sweep is needed and guess what? There is a man ready with a broom to dive into the two-party blood feud that has tossed political power like a ball between themselves.
So, read your Manto again to remember afresh the madness that once almost destroyed this fertile and prosperous land. ‘Gud-gud di laltain…’, mutters Toba Tek Singh, the eponymous lunatic of Manto’s memorable short story, who turns out to be the sanest voice in a Punjab gone mad. Believe me, fiction is fact.
