Victory Colony 1950: A Review

Border Crossing during Partition. Wikimedia Commons

 

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Victory Colony 1950  Bhaswati Ghosh

Yoda Press New Delhi 2020. 260 pages

 

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Pankaj Dutt

The end as the beginning

TRAVELLING by train was always exciting at that age. Trying to peer out of barred windows, attempting to catch a glimpse of the iron horse energetically pulling us, waiting for the bridge and the deafening clackety-clack that would sound-track its crossing, or guessing on which side the platform would appear, in order to prepare to run and find the nearest tap to fill water bottles from; all these and more, were part of every enjoyable train journey. But this trip was somewhat different. The train was taking us to a set of camps that forebode an experience we hadn’t anticipated. As part of the National Service Scheme some of us had volunteered for such work, in the first year of our college in Poona. Little did we know how impressionable this trip would be.  

On March 26th 1971 the Pakistani army unleashed a violent attack on the students and intelligentsia of East Pakistan. As genocide unfolded on the hapless Bengalis, India prepared to bolster the thrust being made by the Mukti Bahini. It sent in troops to support this resistance force and guerrilla fighters. By December it was all out war on both fronts, West and East. It is history that the Indian Army with the Mukti Bahini prevailed, formally taking control and enabling East Pakistan to shed its affiliation. A new nation, Bangladesh was born. But since March that year an exodus of people had begun from East Pakistan. Fleeing for their lives, a good number crossed over to West Bengal.  Many of them were sent to a refugee facility called Mana Camp. 

Thoughts of what lay at the destination, subdued the excitement of the train journey for me. But as an eager NSS volunteer I was arriving with a romantic notion of life in these camps. We were the helping angels that would liberally apply a healing balm on these poor unfortunate souls. And so with a misplaced keenness we entered Raipur on that chilly December morning, the station from where we would head to the camp.

It was an assault on one’s senses and one that lay particularly heavy on me – of sight, sound and smell, coupled with the ‘touch and taste’ of hopelessness that was so evident in these people. In the wake of the disaster that had befallen their lives, they suffered a terrifying uncertainty, not knowing what lay ahead. 

But why did the visit to Mana camp weigh heavier on me than on my comrades? 

Because in that team, I alone understood Bengali, the language of their abjectness. I was the lone Bengali in this batch of NSS volunteers from Ferguson College, Poona!

As we entered the camp, which was milling with people wandering or sitting around purposelessly, we were unprepared for the sight that accosted us. Located at one corner of the camp, weakly fenced by a 5 feet high bamboo mesh and near to our tented living quarters, was an open morgue. The bodies were not laid out in any organised order that would perhaps have accorded some modicum of respect to the departed souls. They were literally strewn about and some even heaped one on top of another. That day, we were told there were only 23 bodies: bodies awaiting the evening truck that would cart them on their final journey. 

They were fresh. Yes, that day on I began to learn the smell of fresh corpses over those which were yet to be given an early reprieve from the ignominy of putrefying death. The odour around our tents would distinctly change when the truck failed to make its daily appearance; perhaps it was just that on some days a greater number of inhabitants decided to give up life’s fight than the single truck afforded by the camp could carry off. No, it wasn’t quite the ‘welcome’ we had hoped for as young do-gooders. An indelible mark left unceremoniously on our collective memory, on the very first hour of our arrival.

In a daze I met my first ‘Amala Manna’ in the camp on day one itself. But there were many of them. Amala Mannas who had no scope to establish their own Bijoy Nagar since, as by then the Indian State had become adept at organising, reservation style, policed camps for refugees. No escape there. But it is interesting that it was as late as 2014 the Chattisgarh government conferred those refugees who had been tilling lands for some years, with pattas.  Small mercies extended the those displaced persons, finally. 

 

At this stage of my life I seemed sure that I had quenched my thirst for learning more about refugees. at Mana camp in 1971 itself. Then the ghost from an even earlier past threatened to rudely awaken in me thanks to Bhaswati Ghosh’s ‘Victory Colony’, a title translated from Bijoy Nagar in Bengali.  This Amala descended on me, catching me unawares. Immediately I was plagued by doubts. Was I willing to revisit the past? Had I not had my share of the refugee narrative? How much more could my sensibilities take in, having been privy to the smells and sounds of those de-humanised lives? And never knowing of what became of them? Had I not satiated my vicarious interests on the plight of a displaced people by engaging with them at camp Mana back in 1971?  Did I really want to face the story of an Amala, again?

I reluctantly decided to let Amala re-enter my space, this time within the comfort of my home. Ironically it took me the same 14 days, the time I had spent in the camp back in 1971, to finish reading Bhaswati Ghosh’s novel. And then the last para! It hauntingly echoed the visit I made to Mana camp as a young lad…..

“A week later, Manas brought a group of his students to Bijoy Nagar. Manas’s idea of field trips for the students to refugee colonies had the support of the Principal and other school administrators. The boys went around the colony, talking to the residents, mainly the older folks and children, observing social and infrastructural issues….Amala saw them doing their rounds…..” 

I had come full circle.

 

The story, briefly  

Amala Manna is forced to come to Calcutta with her little brother Kartik. She has been torn from her hearth and home in East Bengal, having suddenly lost her parents to the spreading communal violence in the wake of the partition. It is December 1949. As you turn to page two, her brother goes missing from the Sealdah railway station where they have arrived. She had left him sitting by the small bundle of clothes they had hurriedly put together before running for their lives. Without a penny on her, she had gone in search of food for her hungry brother, an effort she would regret for a long time. When she returns, empty handed, he isn’t to be found. In a trice, unknown to her, he has been kidnapped by a gang of child thieves.

Just at that moment, fortuitously for her, Manas Dutta from the Gariahat Refugee Relief Centre arrives along with his cohorts. He sees that a couple of local policemen, unmoved by her distraught state, are not only threatening a young girl with legal action for creating nuisance at the station, but also making crude advances.  Manas intervenes and, as an official of the refugee camp,  rescues her from her plight, although unaware of her terrible loss. 

As she is quickly herded away by Manas and team into a vehicle carrying other refugees, the reader is left wondering whether she will ever be united with Kartik. However, here onwards the author principally focuses on Amala and Manas within the context of the newly accommodated East Bengal refugees and their lives in meagrely funded camps. The story has many contributory personalities like Mrinmoyee, Haraprasad and Sharoda ( Manas’ mother, grandfather and the long serving cook respectively) Chitra, a widow who is socially caring and helpful, Rani (Chitra’s maid ), Minoti, Manik, Subir, Proshanto, Malati, Urmila, Jogen babu, Daktarbabu, Tara, Nitai, Ganesh and more. Many of these characters live in the camp, and many are support it from the outside. From their very first meeting, the reader is also made to believe that this novel could witness the unfolding of a love story between Manas and Amala.

Amala integrates with the refugees and adjusts her life in the camp. Reluctantly accepting her lot, she slowly begins to believe in it under the gentle encouragement of Manas. She even begins to play a leadership role, all this while privately suffering the loss of her dear brother; a much younger brother to whom she was like a mother since his birth. 

Throughout the novel the author shares with the reader Amala’s deep remorse and tormented state arising out of the indescribable personal loss but for some reason doesn’t allow her to reveal it to those supportive of her in the camp; except to allude to Kartik as an ‘uncle’ she was separated from in the melee of her arrival. She is shown to be deeply uncomfortable confiding in any one and seeking help in the matter: despite her increasing closeness to Chitra and growing ease with other women. She doesn’t turn to Manas either, her benefactor, with whom she has begun building a special bond.

The story unfolds at two levels. One, in the narrative of the refugees and their immediate situation and the path they take as conditions evolve. It portrays the industriousness of the refugees born out of desperation, having to supplement their meagre means by adopting crafts serving local market needs. That of sewing, making kanthas, knitting, fabricating paper packets, rolling beedis even working as domestic help, all quite in demand by large sections of the society outside the camp. Within this is interwoven the narration of multiple snippets of life – of severe food shortage, malnutrition and the tragedies that befall some of the inmates; of little pleasures and happiness that only the wretched of the earth know how to derive, despite all odds; a presentation of daily life whether it be in the simplicity of ordinary conversations or mere descriptions of life’s banalities, challenges and crises. The story presents the interdependence of both sets of participants, those living within the Gariahat Refugee Relief Camp, and those supporting from outside. 

However, the need for a more assured life, of an existence with the semblance of a more stable future, forces a group of refugees to embark on a daring plan; forcefully occupying a large tract of fallow land in Shibpur, belonging to a local zamindar Niranjan Chowdhury. Amala, sharing the same hope for a better tomorrow joins in: “ For Amala, the decision to join the agitation had been an easy one. From all the talk in the camp, it had become clear to her that the government wasn’t in the mood to provide dole to the refugees for much longer, Moreover, what happened to Minoti had shaken Amala to the core. When Paban-da revealed to the refugee volunteers the plan he had hatched with the help of a local left front leader, Amala voiced her support from day one.” ( p. 90) 

The novel sketches the story of a struggle by the refugee activists over a brief period of time, supported by local leftists, to defend their gains of forced occupation. And it concludes with them effectively resisting the zamindar’s strong arm tactics to carve out Bijoy Nagar… They establish their very own settlement; their very own Victory Colony, in the year 1950. 

With most of the camp’s residents choosing to shift to Bijoy Nagar thereafter, the author writes about the atrophy and decline of the Gariahat Refugee Relief Centre. She prefers to give it the moniker of “Permanent Liability”. Or PL in short. 

 

At another level the story is about Manas and Amala. Manas realises and acknowledges his growing affection for Amala, of which she remains blissfully unaware. He struggles as he tries to anticipate the impending hostility from his upper class zamindari family to this affection for Amala, a displaced daughter of ordinary fisher-folk, hailing from the ‘lower’ Bangaal order and now a refugee, a relationship that would be socially unacceptable. He reminisces about his late father who he feels would have been sympathetic.  But now he has his mother and grandfather to contend with. He believes that his grandfather would understand his feelings but has definite misgivings about his mother’s response. In fact he foresees her reaction with trepidation. Because Manas knows that she holds the call of the zamindar within herself, rather proudly. 

He suffers in silence, going about his daily tasks of attending to the camp, being the dutiful son and studying for his graduation. As readers we are privy to his churning mind battling with the dilemma. But having realised his growing fondness for Amala, he declares to his mother his intent to continue working for the refugees. Rather than seek a regular job, his social work with them would not only satisfy his deep interest in serving a destitute people, but on a private side, also keep him connected to the world of Amala: Unfortunately for him, much to the consternation of his mother. 

“His mother broke the silence. ‘So How’s your work at the camp?’
‘Usual’
‘And for how long may I ask?’
Manas could see which way the conversation was headed and had little apetite for it. ‘ These things don’t get sorted in a day, Ma’ he said. ‘Nobody knew that the situation was going to become such a messy jhamela. It’s about thousands of lives.’
‘And you and your handful of friends are going to change these thousands of wretched lives?’ Mrinmoyee asked.
‘You know very well we alone can’t do it. But we can’t run away from the situation either.’
‘Look I don’t understand all that. All I want to know when will you focus on your future? You can’t fritter your time away doing social work while not bothering about yourself.’
What do you mean by my future?’
‘Well you’ll soon have a college degree and you are old enough to work at a job, aren’t you?’
‘You don’t have to worry about me,’ Manas said…”
(Pp 50 & 51)

His conversations are sensitively captured by Ghosh when he informs Chitra mashi of his desire to marry Amala. And so also the chat with his grandfather Haraprasad–with whom Manas feels comfortable; particularly after the demise of his loving father, Haraprasad is the one person in his family to whom he was closest. Manas shares with the reader his fondness for his grandfather, the enjoyable tea drinking habit that Haraprasad has introduced him to, early in life; the morning cuppas and open conversations that enrich Manas’ knowledge and satisfy his intellectual curiosity. But the narrative doesn’t delve much beyond that. 

 

The reader feels the need to know more about Manas’ relationship with his late father, as well. A background that would perhaps provide an insight into the circumstances that conditioned his personality, shaped sensitivities that drive him, with a deep sense of belief and satisfaction, into a commitment to selfless social work. What role could his father have played in Manas becoming uncomfortable with the zamindari culture into which he was born? What was the relationship between Haraprasad and Manas’ father? How and what new ties and bonds get created between Haraprasad and Manas when one loses his son, and the other, his father? Why and how does the grandson-grandfather relationship give Manas the confidence to believe that his grandfather would be receptive towards his love for Amala? A relationship which would be, arguably, socially ostracised?

Ghosh leaves it to the reader’s imagination to construct an understanding of all these dynamics. And the circumstances that influence the shaping of Manas’ personality. She prefers to provide only the narrative as the context for it all. 

 

Does Manas find truth in his love for Amala? Given her circumstances, does Amala have it in her to reciprocate Manas’ feeling? Do others have any role in influencing this relationship? Does Cupid fail?

And other questions that go beyond the destiny of that relationship. How strongly does Amala’s personality evolve? Does she ever meet Kartik? Does Manas complete his graduation? Does he continue with his passion for working with the needy refugees or does he take up a job in keeping with his mother’s wishes? Does his family begin to understand him as a person? Does Victory Colony succeed and flourish?

The story takes many a turn, as novels are wont to do. The narrative ticks along detailing the quotidian experiences of Amala and Manas within the backdrop of both, Bijoy Nagar and, in bits and pieces, of PL. The characters, both significant and peripheral, appear onstage e in various ways, some magical, some pedestrian. Capturing the colloquial flavour of typical Bengali conversations and providing a good measure of cultural insights into Bengal’s way of life, is what the author does well. 

Ghosh makes efforts at tickling the reader’s palette – literally and linguistically. Her love for a variety of popular Bengali culinary delights, whether they are snacks, fast food or typical combos, is evident in her narrative. It is only matched by her eagerness to share the Bengali language’s idiom and routinely used phrases. While she describes the food with great relish, she is equally excited to provide an immediate translation of typical Bengali words, phrases, metaphors, similes and small talk; her narrative is replete with them. The two compete with equal vigour throughout the novel, the reader being invited to savour both. Her colloquial Bengali-ness is indeed omnipresent throughout the novel.

“ Before landing here, melas were the only place where she had seen so many people at once. But Sealdah station was no boisterous fair of her village.”
“ ‘ Duto kola diben go? My brother is fainting,’ Amala begged, hoping her pleas for bananas would soften the man’s ire allowing her to get some food for Kartik. ”

Bhaswati opens with the first salvo on the first two pages by explaining melas and kola.

“ When he (Manas) politely requested Amala to join him and his friends to go to the camp, she exploded. ‘Kothao zamu na! I won’t go anywhere!’ ”

Steadily Ghosh immerses the reader in Bengal’s food culture and colloquialisms. In the process she is always mindful of not leaving the reader guessing the meaning, or losing the thread of understanding in the narrative; she constantly explains and translates. Thus we are introduced to a spread of Bengal’s daily culinary delights :

Khichuri, kaatla curry, daal-bhat or a combination of dal-alubhaja, kucho nimki, a thin curry of chara-pona, or a presentation of luchis with aloo-phulkopi chhenchki duly described as     “… the combination of deep fried flour breads and potato cauliflower stir-fry… of “mushirir dal, maachcher jhol and begun bhaja” explained as a “…modest three-course meal of red lentils, fish curry and fried eggs plants…” From chola bhaja to muri makha and chanachur, parota and dimer jhuri (eggs, scrambled and fried to the point of no return), Ghosh takes the reader on a gastronomic voyage, treated with a liberal sprinkle of “…the five-spice mix of panchphoron…”, all of which are expectedly familiar and close to home for a Bengali. 

 

There is almost no situation in the story the author does not use to portray the inherent hospitality of Bengali culture, of snacks or a meal or just even water for visitors, rituals she enjoys describing, literally. One knows that this is generally the case in India, as doubtlessly so in many other societies around the world. Ghosh has the knack of making it a uniquely Bengali characteristic, throughout her narrative.

Bengali forms an integral part of Ghosh’s story-writing. From the very title of Victory Colony translated from Bijoy Nagar, we are constantly ‘taught’ Bengali words, phrases, descriptions and nuances of every day communication.

 Ei je, aashun, ashi, aar chinta nai, boshun, onek dhonnobad, na kichuna, haan, kaemon achchen, achchha, dekhish, cholun, ei nao, kichhu bolbe, beguni, haqat, thhonga, shelai didimoni, dadu bhai, rosho, pennam hoi, alnaa, chhotolok, bole dichchi…and so many, many more. It may be tedious to read all these Bengali expressions clumped together in this fashion, taken out of the context in which they appear. But meeting so many of them in their contexts too can pose something of a challenge and prove daunting for a non-Bengali reader. 

The repetitive use of such words, phrases and constant explanation, possibly takes the sheen off the early novelty of the style and treatment that Ghosh adopts. Tediousness, indeed weariness sets in. Whether it is the Bengali reader who begins to increasingly focus on the familiar words in italics; or the non-Bengali, Indian reader who can more or less understand or second-guess some of it, but still has to rely on the translation; or the non-Bengali, non-Indian who doesn’t perhaps read the italics after some time and instead focuses on the explanation, while rueing not having understood words left un-translated or un-explained–the ponderousness of the style can weigh down all the three types in one way or the other. One wonders, and not facetiously, and against one’s better instincts: who exactly is Ghosh writing for?  

However, beyond all this, we need to engage with the ‘pull’ of the story, which is promised in the catch-phrase title ‘Victory Colony’. The back cover write-up, invites the reader to experience a heartfelt drama, located in historically tumultuous times; of ‘moving alongside’ strong characters whose narratives promise to take one into the vortex of tortured, sensitive and yet soul searching experiences during an unfortunate period of history. Of radical build ups that bring out the true character of the protagonists, the enigma of unfolding events and the trials of fellow actors, in what is expected to be a saga. Victory Colony proposes to unravel, at the hands of a prize-winning translator, a crafted novel with an engaging story based on defined characters; personas with meaningful interplay between them, leaving us with memorable outcomes that bear upon the storyline skilfully; of pulsating milestones and moments of truth that perhaps encompass some intrigue and even adventure, all with a literary smoothness that defines the author’s special style. 

While many of these aspects are evident in the novel, this reviewer feels the need to address what he thinks of as a definite quotient of shortfall, on certain important dimensions. 

Judging by the title, the reader perhaps expects the formation of Victory Colony to play a larger role than it does. In the story a group of primarily male refugees from The Gariahat Relief Camp conceive a bold plan to militantly set about seizing a local landlord’s plot of land and set up their very own colony. Amala joins the cause, clearly seeing a future for herself, knowing full well that there was no chance of anyone going back to their beloved homeland. On returning after a break from severe illness and not being privy to anything during that period, Manas is suddenly informed that many camp members are not coming back as they had set up a new colony in Shibpur by forceful occupation. Apart from Amala, the author keeps the people of this group faceless and undefined as personalities. It is on page 90, that we too, as readers, are informed of this development. We are as much surprised as Manas is. By the middle of page 96 the entire process of the land grab and the ensuing win, is concluded. The reader is later on informed that Manas too had a hand in establishing the colony, but that is mentioned more as an after-thought. The apparent reasons behind this act was that the government was failing in its support to the Gariahat camp and that the men had particularly hardened in attitude after Minoti’s tragic experience, although that incident didn’t happen within the Gariahat camp. Thereafter the new colony forms an almost inconsequential backdrop to the continuing story, quite devoid of character. 

In this writer’s opinion, the conception and maturing of the plan to capture land, together with its execution could have played a definitive and significant part in the story as an evolving subaltern consciousness. Rather strangely and denying its potential centrality, the essence of the storyline is given short shrift; sketchily describing, in a few pages, the entire matter, leaves the reader, uninvolved and rather nonplussed, to say the least.

 

The first ‘Amala’ I  met in Mana Camp, in 1971, was a man. He had been assigned to our NSS team the link to another world we were entering. And because of a shared language, I was his first point of contact. Ranjit is all that I remember of his name. He was at ease speaking with me in Bengali and came to share his life’s katha. He wasn’t much older than us students either. His story was disturbing and deeply moving. Most inmates of Mana Camp had varied experiences that forced them to flee from East Pakistan, in 1971. Perhaps listening to his and others’ stories in the first person, and within the camp’s ambience, added a particular palpability to the experience. 

One night, we heard a plaintive voice singing the ode to Khudiram Bose’s sacrifice in the well-known song  by Pitambar Das ‘ Ekbar biday de ma, ghure ashi, aami haanshi hanshi ….’ It was haunting, we were mesmerised, it had us sitting up listening, huddled in the cold, but in a way warmed by the call of the strong lyrics, the melody and the sheer strength of emotion in the voice. We were in a trance and couldn’t step out of our tents, even as the song floated away into the night, embalming the dead nearby. That was Ranjit. He gifted me the song; he helped me learn it. Encouraged by us, he sang many patriotic songs over the days of our stay. I like to believe it contributed to his healing process.

His story? Stark! He was made to watch the rape and murder of his wife and baby daughter. And then the chopping up of their bodies. They took four hours to finally ‘spare’ him from the wretched ordeal, of watching this heinous act. They released him. Yes, they released him on purpose. As an example of what they would do to all mutineers. They said  “Go and write a song about this. Select every word. Give it the melody of your life. And sing it to your people, loudly. Be the narrator of the horror that awaits you Bengalis.” 

Ranjit was not targeted as a Hindu, caught in any communal cross-fire. What was his crime, you ask? He embodied the spirit of the mutiny. He was the lyrical voice of the rebellion. He was a torch bearing singer in the Mukti Bahini!  

How bitter could he be? How much could he withstand the onslaught of the marauding army and its genocide? How much could he bear the torture within his mind? At that time the movement was turning into a likely retreat and a losing battle for the local lads of the Bahini. It was wise for many to exit the resistance with their bodies intact, yet scarred for life. Not too long after Ranjit fled East Pakistan into West Bengal carrying only the baggage of his terrifying memories of the ‘banality of evil, that the Mukti force was joined by the Indian army, giving that necessary boost to freedom and the forging of a new nation. 

Ranjit shared his life at private moments with me; in the comfort of one who would perhaps best understand the cultural nuances of his wounds. He was with the students in Dacca University when the attack took place on 26th March. But he had managed to escape. He was part of the ‘free Bengalis’ campaign. He recounted how they scoured the villages engaging with the common folk, who were acutely aware of not having got their due; of a well-being denied by West Pakistan. Of the growing discontent and nascent organisation of revolt, that was forming. He painstakingly narrated the backdrop to his life. The economic deprivations that beset this modern-day colony of West Pakistan; of the sustained humiliation that the occupiers heaped upon them; of the constant effort at seeding a divide between the Bengali Hindus and the Bengali Muslims; of disrespecting their culture, their ethos, their industry; of discounting and demeaning them in every manner, as Bengalis. And much more. He described how his small family walked with him throughout his revolutionary journey with the band of believers; of partaking in every moment of this great surge taking place; of how his daughter had learnt to hum tunes and even be attentive and obedient at remaining silent when the enemy was uncomfortably close.

The regular narration of the story of his nomadic political life had begun to acquire a romantic flavour for me; I began ‘travelling’ with him and his family as an integral part of the band of fighters, propagating freedom from the slavery that had befallen the Bengalis. It completely lulled me.  Just as I was getting comfortable listening and understanding the historical context of the gathering movement in East Pakistan, one day without any indication, he slipped into describing every detail, minute by minute, of the four momentous hours of his life. He didn’t spare me his horrifying nightmare. He downloaded his misery not shedding a tear, as if they had all dried in the living hell of his memory. He didn’t acknowledge or stop me from being overwhelmed. He was confiding in a fellow human being, finally; whom he considered a kindred spirit. To allow a peep into those moments of his life would perhaps disrespect the intimacy of the pain that he bestowed upon me. It was his braveness, his anguish, his redemption, his moment of catharsis that stays with me to this day, close to my heart. 

If ever written, it would not be Amala’s story. It would be my story. A story that I came to own.

 

When Amala finds that her little brother is missing on her return from a futile search for food at Sealdah train station, one can deeply empathise with her helplessness and her panic. But her distraught state and severe grief is not allowed to be expressed in full measure, as she has to be extricated from the clutches of the licentious police constables. How long can she not share her loss? How long can she remain silent? How long before she releases her pent up feelings into an endless wail? The author prefers not to give the reader an intricate insight into Amala’s turmoil. Amala, keeps the story of her lost brother to herself. If at any time she alludes to the loss of Kartik, then she presents him as an ‘uncle’ from whom she is separated after landing in Calcutta’s Sealdah train station. 

Why? What fears does she hide that the revelation of the loss of her only living loved one, kid brother, will affect her and the boy, adversely? Why does she harbour the thought of secretly going to Sealdah station in search of him even months later? Why does she not confide in the group of refugees who were strong enough to establish Victory Colony, and who could have organised a search if nothing else? Or for that matter with the close and loved Chitra? Or Manas babu who she trusts and knows has the wherewithal and resources to address her torment? Ghosh shies away from Amala’s predicament, reluctant to probe her interiority. All that the reader gets is the constant reminder of her undying concern for her missing brother. Patiently turning pages, the reader waits for clues to the mysteries of Amala’s psyche. In vain.

It is said that a Bengali can be taken out of Bengal; but not Bengal out of a Bengali. Ghosh is a Bengali. In her first ever novel she appears to want to share the nuances of the Bengali way of living every day, ordinary life. It is contextualised within the partition of Bengal. She portrays the plight of displaced east Bengalis through the characters of her novel and in situations she unfolds for them – some personas are vibrant, some strong, some weak and some sensitive and real. Victory Colony captures their trials and tribulations; their fears, their hopes, their achievements, expressed within typical Bengali norms and cultural practices. Ghosh liberally peppers her narrative with colloquial Bengali phrases and metaphors. She soaks her writing in idiomatic flavours.  And with good measure of typical Bengali food, throughout. 

The narrative gives off a feeling that the author conceived the novel in the comfort of her mother tongue, Bengali. It is her obvious idiomatic power that finds much favour in the writing. The following passage from Manas’ diary entry on page 62, chapter six, suggests that it was perhaps conceived in Bengali and then translated into English. 

“ So it comes to this. A girl who could be my little sister, violated by some ravenous rogue. I guess this was waiting to happen. A woman is the best piece of meat for all hungry men – rioters, criminals, political leaders. And you and me. For her to lose her home, hearth, family, is never enough. She must lose her final, and sometimes, her only belonging – the freedom of her body. Little sister of mine, I am guilty of your crime for I could not save you from this indignity. The purgatory you were spared even as your house was torched on the other side of the fence, you must burn in now. 

In English it seems stiff and overstated because it has an inherent Bengali lilt to it. It presents a poignant pathos that is so characteristic of Bengali writing; writing where sensitive prose resides in a poetic form. This reviewer looks forward to reading Bhaswati Ghosh’s next novel; a novel that will probably take the reader into characters, their interiorities, offer glimpses of what Milan Kundera called “the enigma of the self” than just focus on idiomatic flavours and story lines. 

 

Post Script: Amala
I see Amala turning around. She looks at me with an enigmatic smile.
I hear her whisper “ You too are a Dutt, nah?” Pronounced Dutta in Bengali?
Mana 1971 …. or is it Manas 1950?
Imperceptibly, I shiver.

********* 

Pankaj Dutt did his bachelor’s in Economics from fergusson College, Pune, India and has been variously a tea taster-blender; in corporate management; exported fashion leather goods; in advertising, consulting and e-Learning. 
He plays golf, loves car-rallying, travel and writes on the dynamics of social change, Civil Liberties and reviews fiction

Pankaj Dutt in The Beacon
Reading the Present in Tagore’s “Home and the World”