A brief background is necessary to get the context. I wasn’t much into reading until well past 25, next few years I really did understood the importance of reading best of fiction from across the world. This too came in rather murky way. Not aware of writers I started with Indian fiction alphabetically from the first top rack at SahityaAkademi library in Delhi! Very soon was disinterested by lack, I thought it was my shortcoming, being a slow and rather messy reader. Very soon was choosing books and authors randomly, some were quite interesting and stood out, like for instance, Rohinton Mistry, Anita Desai, Amitav Ghosh, Mahashweta Devi, RK Narayan, Nirmal Verma…so on, most others were insipid, some plain embarrassing (these were not even the kind of mainstream popular trash that we see around nowadays but acclaimed writers, some even winning local awards). I almost gave up reading fiction, the quality was so low that I even briefly fancied taking up fiction writing (if these mediocre can write then maybe I too have a fair chance!...wrote some mushy crap). By this time I knew few people who were into quality reading and aware of best of writers. It was when I was introduced to international writers that something significantly shifted. I was really blown away by powerful words, images they conjure and depth of ideas they explored. From Chekov to Kafka to Beckett to recently Han Kang this was one heck of a ride. I understood the power of writing and value of well placed words to express ideas and human condition (access to JNU library and general talks/debates opened up to western philosophers and contemporary thinkers –Foucault, Chomksy so on were liberally quoted). Slowly but deliberately I too started to explore writing in much earnest, renting rooms in offseason beaches and hill stations and try to scribble something.
To negate this threat, and to place it within their frame, so as to not lose the control, the depraved narration controllers have classified “Dalit writing”, and yes writers like Bama have fallen into this trap as it promises reach, platform, as also easy access that favour pliable. Gandhians attempted to patronize by using horrible reference of harijan, that was outright rejected as an assault. The irony is that if there is “dalit writing” then there should be “squatter writing” (wherein much of Indian mediocre writing can be traced to squatter value systems, carrying so much haughty self-assuredness that it has to be humble blessing, so embarrassingly trivial that the irony is lost in preening) but rarely one comes across mention of it as if much of Indian writing is normalized to reflect Indian life and that this is the reality! (it is the same frame that see humanist progressive Ambedkar as caste icon while regressive compromised Gandhi as humanist apostle of non violence, it is not reality that matters but how you control the reality and present it to west for further consolidation). Indian writing therefore is extension of narration control, the reason why most Indian writers are pathetic caricatures of writers they presume themselves to be in all sincerity, and are dutifully hoisted by ecosystem and market for mutual acclaim.
Dalit is not an identity; it is a state of fiction that is an extension of depraved conception called caste system. Hence Dalit can only be used when it is within the framework of exploitation and discrimination. Words like Dalit is being normalized as identity by sinister forces since it not only normalize their own primitive presence but also put themselves in patronizing position. “Dalit literature” is an extension of this sinister force that seeks to bracket and slot under, superior in its intention and supremacist in its attitude. From horrendous discriminations to lack of basic amenities, lack of nutrition, low quality education system, conceiving humiliating circumstances to degrade and demean, is how life pans out for most. Bama’s stories wrenches out stark reality with deft creative skills and uncommon empathy. It is startling and shocking for mainstream publishers saturated in everyday mediocre, incapacitated to sense nuanced artform. They see these as threat against established narration and entrenched attitudes that are mutually agreed as respectful, arbitrated to consolidate culture and tradition meant to be pandered and milked for profit. It is a win-win strategy. Writers like Bama don’t really get published, indeed are discouraged if not crushed, it is a miracle that she crossed impossible hurdles to establish herself with flair. “Dalit literature” is a conciliation slot readied to keep the control within the frame so as to not relegate mediocre mainstream writers into irrelevance. In these circles irrelevance is a curse, it is antithesis to blessing, a horror. Seminars and talks are valiant attempts (you could see their desperation) to churn in relevance through intellectualizing and eventual hinging into “writing traditions” copying western semantics for gravity. Indian mediocrity sometimes presents itself in clean sheets of cud chewing purity in breathtaking leap as post-modern! “Dalit literature” is a ruse to hinge crude cringe patronizing as benign acceptance, a reluctant acknowledgment, sought in largesse of cosmic soul!
In case of Bama these regressive slotting is truly offensive since her writing brilliance surpass those who seek to “introduce” her and patronize. No amount of clever narrative tricks can elevate these Indian writers and unsolicited representors to the needed skills to be writer of any calibre. They will remain caricatures celebrated in putrid pit but shunned in critical scrutiny of wider world. Each one of the story in this collection is candid yet profound, creatively weaved and uncommonly nuanced presentation of everyday reality of common people facing horrors of unjust world. Lively protagonists negotiate absurd face-on through their everyday ridicule that saves humanity in minor acts of concerns and brave defiance against horrible circumstance. There is no rumination when faced with wrong it is dealt with ferociously uncomplicated right and accompanying humour for sanity. It is deeply moving display of writing skills. The blurb (which ofcourse is meant to acquiesce the dominant narration and factor in sensibilities and angst into normalized deviant values for marketing) use narrative permission of The Hindu (presiding deities of neoliberal left and monopolized claims to represent) to value this book as “turning the socio-cultural geography upside down”, another gatekeeper of Indian writing excitedly proclaims this is “subversive, rebellious”, while another is shocked “you’ll feel that you are sitting amongst the dalits”…imagine these people! The book isn’t rebellious at all, nor subversive, or turning socio-cultural geography upside down. It is just reflecting lives of common people in common place…what is subversive is that Indian writing had no talent to observe nor express these with such complex skill and without any pretentions. The upside socio-cultural geography is now straightened for clear view. For some primitives there is a paradigm shift happening and feels like “sitting amongst dalit” (the audacity). What is happening is long awaited aesthetic correction from crude sensibilities and amazing depth of mediocrity and lack of basic sensibilities and sincerity in Indian writing. Pompous self acclaimed embarrassment called Indian writer is shown clear picture of their own reality that they are incapacitated to see, fathom or express. Read RK Narayan (one of the very few Indian writers worthy of mention and comparison) and read Bama, the gap in the reality is an unbridgeable vacuum. You will doubt whether Narayan is speaking about the same society or is he “amongst charming aliens”? (Malgudi could very well be a fictitious village in Mars!). Bama is able to present Indian reality in confident flourish of her writing speaks of shift from controlled narration that pretentious Indian writing manipulated to present exotic India to western eloi.
Each story in this book is a compelling vignette into everyday life in any village across India in its brutal presence that is skilfully narrated with care, absolutely no patronizing nor pontificating under the garb of fiction. Rarely have I come across Indian writing that conveys so much complexity in few sentences as it presents charming humans weaving threads of cruel world into tapestry of heartful emotions and nonchalance (rarely bravado), to proclaim with their humanity that which seeks to control is too insignificant in estimation of their rich world and daily concerns. Despite the overwhelming presence of discrimination and exploitation they seem to be busy to innately assert a better world by the very human presence thus unravelling the forces orchestrating brutal reality in their sheer disregard. “Stereotype” is one story that truly stands out, and can easily be one of the best in contemporary world literature (and the audacity to bracket this by mediocres into “dalit literature” under Indian writing, and jostling to “introduce”, hence represent), in thousand odd words it accomplishes something remarkable. Simmering silence is what makes these stories unique, there are thousands and thousands of unsaid words that fills the vacant space. It asks readers to evaluate honesty of their experience in the brutal world we live in.
