“Parallel” Worlds

I have chosen to enlighten you, dear Reader; to show you that writers who are true to themselves (and to their subject material) can actually give you insights regarding the human condition that go beyond words, beyond linguistic boundaries, beyond time and space. For starters, think of the great Greek tragedians, think of the Valmiki, think of Shakespeare, think of O’Neill, and think of Marquez. Come a notch lower, and think of all the hallowed names of world literature who did their bit to show us, their readers, what we really were, are, and may become. They scour our minds, they ignite our thoughts, they often force us to see the truth about ourselves—warts and all. And that is why so few of us are well-versed in the great writings of the past—as the poet once said: “We are the hollow men”.

And now to my subject: Ashokamitran, a revered name in post-Independence Tamil literature. He was born Jagadisa Thyagarajan, in 1931, in the city of Secunderabad. He has penned over 200 short-stories, novellas and novels in Tamil, and for his book Padinettavadu Atchakodu, published in 1977, he won the Ilakkia Chintanai award in the same year. Unlike other Indians, who are proficient in at least two languages, poor ole me was forced to read this work via the English translation of 1993. I was amazed when I first read it, and am still in awe of Ashokamitran’s canvas, because I have not come across anything similar, in all my years as a student and as a teacher. Sadly, Ashokamitran passed, in 2017.

The Eighteenth Parallel, which is the translation I read, is not focussed on the AngloIndian community at all. It tells the story of Chandru (real name, Chandrasekar) who grows up in the Railway Colony of Lancer Barracks, in Secunderabad. The time-line of the novel is between pre- and post-Independent India, and it marks the coming-of-age of the teen-aged Chandru and his transformation—from a largely ignored and ignorant youth to a young man suddenly aware of his potency and power, in the strife-ridden streets of the twin cities.

Chandru is very interested in the game of cricket, but he can never become a great player because he sees it as just another game. This is indeed powerful insight by the writer, for in the 1940s, cricket was not the religion that it has now become. But of more interest to me is the genuineness of the milieu and the restricted social circle that Chandru finds himself in. The Railway Colony in Lancer Barracks is home to just three Anglo families, but all we get to witness is Chandru’s interaction with the Mannas’. Chandru’s home is there, too, because his father is a clerk on the Railways; they are all, therefore, “railway people”. However, the dividing lines are clear: the two other Anglo families do not socialize with any of the others (so we are to assume) and therefore have no right to be inserted into the narrative. What they do and how they live their lives is their business, and their standoffishness is not something that the writer wants to pre-meditate upon. Another priceless insight, for it the penchant of every community and every residential colony to poke their noses into their neighbours’ affairs.

Since my primary interest has been, is, and always will be, the AngloIndian and his/her portrayal in the pages of fiction, I will cut straight to the chase with Ashokamitran’s book. By no means is the Mannas family central to the flow of “The Eighteenth Parallel”. But, like a true and knowledgeable maestro, Ashokamitran includes them in his book (and two other Anglo families), because it would have been unthinkable and unimaginable to have a railway colony devoid of such a group in the 1940s. And they are there for a purpose.

When the Mannas family is introduced, they are characterized just as they are—human, self-centred, opinionated, clannish (up to a point), carefree, quite comfortable to just be themselves, and to hell with the rest of the world. The favourite pastime of Mr and Mrs Mannas is hitting the bottle hard. So what? Aren’t there other couples with the same bent of mind? [And I’m not talking exclusively about AngloIndian couples.] Their two daughters are crazy about anything in pants, even remotely masculine. So what? I am not absolutely certain, but isn’t this a phase most teenagers go through? The Mannas boys, Morris and Terence, only like to hang out of trees and kill as many garden lizards as they come across. Believe me, dear Reader, I’ve been through this phase too, and even written about it. What the boys excel in is in their use of filthy language, swear-words that you sometimes use and wonder where you learned them from. All this, and more, is faithfully recorded in the novel, and Chandru (the protagonist) and Ashokamitran (the writer) simply accepts all this for what it’s worth—or not worth.

Then comes the coup-de-grace. Mr Mannas and Chandru’s father sit together on that rarest of rare evenings, and have a conversation. Chandru leaves them alone, diplomatically, because he knows that: “between them the English language was [bound to be] hanged, drawn and quartered.” How often, dear Readers, have we come across some bombastic oaf trying to speak the King’s English, but actually churning out the words in an “Axe-ford Ox-sent”, not the normal Oxford accent. Insight, precious insight, once again.

With the Mannas family, Chandru knows that he is accepted—up to a point. He is happy with this situation, because they acknowledge him. This is not the case with the Muslim boys of the locality (Lancer Barracks is actually a symbolic microcosm of a diverse nation); Chandru confesses: “I never felt uneasy with the Anglo-Indians, but the Naidus had me squirming.”

In the mayhem that follows Gandhiji’s assassination, Chandru has to come to terms with the frustration, the fear, and the pain of being an outsider in the land of one’s birth.

Et tu, Brute?

Aur tum, mera Bhai?