Shadow Of Silence

Outlook's Senior Special Correspondent in Bangalore, Sugata Srinivasaraju,recently won the Karnataka Sahitya Academy's prize for literary translation for his rendering of mime plays, written during the Emergency years, from the Kannada to English. The book of translations is titledPhoenix and Four Other Mime Plays and has been published by NavakarnatakaPublications. The original Kannada plays were written by eminent Kannada litterateur Chi. Srinivasaraju

Here we reproduce the translator's note to the book and two short playsthat are available as links from under this introduction.

These mime plays were written and staged during theyears of the infamous Emergency, but were published in 1977, just after it waslifted. Nothing more needs to be said as to why these plays shun the use oflanguage. Mime, besides being a novel technique of playwriting and a thrillingexperiment with form, is also here a huge metaphor to depict the unfortunateyears of Indian democracy. There may be many characters walking in and out ofthe stage, but the unseen and unheard: silence, emerges as the protagonist ofthese plays.

But why did I want to translate these mime plays now? There is both apolitical and a personal context to it.

First the political aspect: When I re-read these playsin early 2002 I was moving away from my family to spend time in Jaipur and therewas some sort of a "commemoration" taking place of the 25 years of theEmergency. It was a political necessity for the then Right-wing ruling allianceto highlight and emphasise the "evilness" of the Congress party. Withself-righteousness and enthusiastic support from the media, they stoked publicmemory about the Emergency and justified their current position in power. Theypainted themselves as virtuous angels who had fought the Emergency, served termsin obscure prisons to protect the fabric of this nation. But suddenly, theGujarat riots happened. The moral ground they claimed was wiped out completely.It had a numbing effect, as if vacuum had taken the place of blood in thenerves. But they were still defiant; they spiked shame to demonic depths.Speaking of the excesses of Emergency on the one hand and allowing theelimination of fellow human beings on the other was too much of a contradictionto escape anybody's notice. It seemed that morality had reached a dead-end,there could only be conversation with the wall or silence. It is at this timethat I felt like invoking the absurdity and raw idealism of the Emergency playsthat my father had written.

Also, when I surveyed the Emergency experience in Karnataka and Kannada, itseemed that the intellectual and political climate then, in Bangalore and therest of the state, had played a significant role in shaping Opposition,Right-wing, as well as Third front politics in the country. It was in Bangalore'sCentral Jail that some of the country's top Right-wing politicians befriendedfiery Socialists and non-Congressmen. Arguably, one could view that moment oftheir accidental coming together as a large step forward in the creation of analternate or non-Congress power politics in the country. That was the first timethat ideologically diverse groups established communication, shared each other'sinformation networks, understood each others capabilities and allowed the seedsof mutual trust to be sown. Eminent writer and former Information Advisor toIndira Gandhi, H Y Sharada Prasad, profiling Jayaprakash Narayan (The Book IWon't Be Writing and Other Essays) says: "When she (Indira Gandhi)was defeated in the general election in 1977 it was largely his [JP's] earnestpleading and moral authority that resulted in several opposition partiesshedding their separate identities and forming a Janata Party.A man who haddeep reservations about communal politics had become instrumental in sanitizingthe Jan Sangh and giving it a share of power."

The finest hour of this chance historical acquaintance that took place 30years ago was when George Fernandes and other Lohia-Socialists shared power withthe BJP in Vajpayee's NDA government for an uninterrupted six years. It hasbeen, to date, the most successful experimentation of sharing power. Miles aheadof the experiment that one saw immediately after Emergency was lifted and IndiraGandhi ousted. The NDA experiment gave an impression that the relationshipbetween the two had 'matured' and ideological conflict had been convenientlyerased. The former Socialists had conceded political space to the BJP.Ironically, sheer political power was the inspiring factor for their alliance,like it was for Indira Gandhi when the Emergency was clamped. History had come afull circle.

In the recounting of Emergency history, Karnataka's importance is furtherbolstered by the fact that Indira Gandhi, with the help of Devaraj Urs, won aParliamentary seat for the first time after the dark years, from Chikmagalur inKarnataka.

Looking back, the milieu that shaped these mime playswas a strikingly vibrant and creative phase in the intellectual history of thestate: Literary stalwart and liberal humanist, Shivaram Karanth, returned hisPadma award and with his keynote speech at a Kerala conference of writers andartistes opposed to the Emergency, nourished the fighting spirits of the likesof EMS Namboodiripad. Another important writer Gopalakrishna Adiga, openlyidentified with the Jansangh and though his acerbic poetry kept the conscienceof fellow writers. Poet and professor, G S Shivarudrappa, actually led a longsilent protest march and his poem In this country… had a magical andinfectious effect on the young writers. He wrote:

"In this country
Everything should change completely
But the chair on which I sit
And the ground beneath it
Should remain intact…

In this country
Everybody should shut their mouth
And remain quiet
But they better keep their ears open
For my words…"

K V Subanna, sitting in Heggodu, is said to have published regular 'underground'bulletins on the Emergency. Srinivas Reddy's little magazine Shudragained prominence at this time and it almost became the voice of the writersprotesting the Emergency in Karnataka. Playwright Chandrashekar Patil, who wasimprisoned, was the newest rebel-star with Snehalata Reddy, the wife offilmmaker Pattabhiram Reddy, who too was imprisoned. Snehalata died as aconsequence of her developing a medical complication while in prison. In fact,the prison diaries of the two, Patil and Snehalata, published later, werecelebrated pieces of literature. A slim volume of protest poems, edited duringthe time by K R Nagaraj and titled Apathkalina Kavithegalu was also inthe same league. One should mention the three classic short stories written atthe time – Meeseyavaru and Ondu Dantakathe by G S Sadashiva and BigalaSidappa by K N Nagaraju. They all took a close look at the draconianMaintenance of Internal Security Act (MISA) and individual freedom.

The Emergency years also gave a fillip to amateur theatre in Karnataka.Prasanna launched the theatre group 'Samudaya' with the play HuthavaBadidare. Street theatre became popular with Vijayamma and A S Murthy. M S KPrabhu's Baka was a hit and then there were these five mime plays.

Protest against the brute Emergency was one thing, but protest as a literarygenre in Kannada chose this precise moment to breach the conventional modes ofwriting.Dalit poet Siddalingiah's poem Nanna Janagalu written in 1976perhaps opened the floodgates of a whole new sensibility in Kannada.

But the most significant aspect about the Emergency was that it was a periodof historical unshackling and progressive reforms in Karnataka. Devaraj Urs usedEmergency powers in a rather benign way to initiate backward class reservationsand major land reforms. It was practically a bloodless revolution thattransformed the social and political landscape of Karnataka forever. While onthe one hand we were witness to large-scale protests against the suppression ofindividual freedom and democratic rights, on the other hand, silently, crores ofpeople, bonded by the cruel knots of history were permanently unshackled. Thisdichotomy about the Emergency has never been highlighted.

Now to the personal aspect of why I translated the mimeplays. There are two layers in this. One relates to my professional life as ajournalist, and second, about a father and son. The mime plays have had aspecial resonance at both the levels:

The general perception is that journalists live amidst action and words allthe time. But this perception needs correction. More than words and action,protest and pandemonium, arson and rioting, journalists quite often live amidstsilences. Sometimes these silences are imposed from outside, throughinstitutional mechanisms and sometimes silence is inevitable as they aresubjected to ideological self-censorship. If at times, there is an externalsignal to remain quiet about the greed of a big corporate or the rampantcorruption of a government, there are times when we ourselves would not want topull down the icons we have created and disturb the equilibrium of cozy,comfortable relationships. This is not the place to point out specific cases,but the time has come when journalists have to become conscious of the silencesthey keep.

This piece of caution, self-warning, is more relevant today than 30 years agowhen the Emergency was imposed, basically because we are seeing big playersenter our economic space; we are seeing a complex matrix of investments developand they are being explained in a jargon that is opaque and misleading; andworst, we see our elected representatives develop notorious nexuses. Wejournalists should remain awake to the fact that corporate charity is oftenexplained in terms of "social investment" in boardrooms. Thirty yearsago we probably were 'manufacturing consent,' but today we seem to beunabashedly manufacturing truth through silences.

Legendary journalist John Pilger, in his foreword to an edited anthology ofinvestigative journalism titled Tell Me No Lies, quotes the Russian poetand dissident Yevgeni Yevtushenko, who says: "When truth is replaced bysilence, then that silence is a lie."

It is relevant to bring up this issue of journalists and silence today,essentially because when we speak of the Emergency we end up speaking about themedia censorship that was imposed by Mrs. Gandhi's regime. But then thecensorship that we experience today in the media is much bigger, invisible,complex and of a far greater consequence.

Besides this professional concern, there was also thevulgar dance of the mammon everywhere and I needed to decipher it. These playsoffered some kind of a contrast and perspective to the present. For people likeme who were born in the Socialist welfare state of the early 70s, who could onlypaint Nike's "just do it" symbol on a canvas shoes procured in thelocal market, the sudden rush of goods and glitter from all across the globe wasagain a fantastic play of contrasts in the mind.The themes of the plays came asa reminder of our origins.

At a more personal level, my father had turned 60 and I was not present forthe celebration and what better way to compensate than translate his plays. Iwas pretty aware that these plays were not representative of his literary workof more than three decades, but I was sure that the spirit of developing acommon pursuit for a culture had not altered one bit inside him. Also, hisself-effacing nature and quietness had become legendary. Cultural historians haddocumented it well and a writer of P. Lankesh's eminence had admitted in aneditorial in his weekly newspaper that my father had brought about a "quietrevolution" by creating a forum for young writers in the Kannada language.He was described elsewhere as the most "celeberated literary patron of histime." For over three decades he had published the first and initial worksof hundred of young writers. Many of them, like H S Shivaprakash, Abdul Rasheed,T N Sitaram, K V Narayana, Raghavendra Khasnis, H S Raghavendra Rao, K R Nagarajand others dominate the Kannada literary scene today. He had also revivedcritical interest in senior writers like D R Bendre, A N Moorhty Rao, Sriranga,H S Biligiri, Shankar Bhat and others. All of this single-handedly with savingsfrom his salary and huge sacrifices from my mother. A well-known literarycritic, Basavaraja Kalgudi in a public meeting compared my father's culturalrole to that of 'antarjala,' (groundwater), something that quietly infuses lifeto all on the surface. Therefore, I understood that 'mime,' 'silence,''quietness' were words that were largely associated with my father'spersonality. So his mime plays seemed curious.

Translating his mime plays has also been a process of understanding hissilence for me. As I left home, travelled, met people, I realised my father's'silence' was very different. I may not be able to describe what it is, there isthe disadvantage of emotion and the proximity of time, but I may be able to tellyou what it is not. It is not the contemptuous silence of the learned that I sawat the university in Hyderabad. It is not the silence of loneliness that I sawin a retired colonel, who was my landlord in Jaipur. It is not the silence ofindifference that I encountered in the London Underground. It is not the emptysilence of Dublin bars after the night of revelry. It is not the silence ofsubmissiveness or intrigue. It is also not the silence of the contented anddevout, which I perceived in my own grandfather. Nor is it a silence ofauthority, where a question or a gesture or a mail never gets answered. Probablyit is the silence on the Buddha's face that filled up a corner of my brother'ssketchbook! Silence as serenity, a friend said. I don't know. All I know is thatI continue to stare at his silence after I first did it as a 7-year-old frominside a small hole in my blanket. Something had woken me up early. It was abouthalf past four on the clock, my father was at his worktable, he was writing, thetable lamp had lit up his face, his wavy hair was in its place and heoccasionally lifted his head to smile at the shadow on the wall. I dozed offagain in about half-hour. I was late for school that day!