Hri Institute for Southasian Research and Exchange

Satish Sharma is an Indian photographer and cultural critic with a background in the fine arts and journalism. In conversation, writing, and exhibitions, he has frequently spoken of the need for new ways of looking at the world around us — premised on the belief that how we see (which is intertwined with how we interpret what we see) is often determined by our understanding of (and integration in) the culture that surrounds us. Satish gained prominence through his curatorial skills, and his book, Rotigraphy, or Rotiography, a collection of images from small studios around Delhi.

In this interview with Kabita Parajuli of the Hri Institute, Satish answers questions about his work, his philosophy on visuals, and some ideas on how to shake up the world of Southasian photography.

Read more at Himal Southasian

 

Text and images: Sarita Manu

 

When a friend asked me why was I traversing half-way across the city only to look at a wall-painting, I had to admit that it was because (in no specific order) a) there is only much I can stand in Mumbai these days, so I need to move around and find things that can make me like the city again and b) my boss asked me to.

Bollywood Art Project (BAP), a public art project celebrating hundred years of Bollywood,  has reiterated for me that Bollywood is indeed larger than life. Conceptualised and executed by young professionals and artists, Ranjit Dahiya,  Mallika Chabra and Swati Rao from Chandigarh Art School, together with Tony Peters and  Sruti Viswesaran,the BAP aims to create several works of street art across various Indian cities. Their first venture is a mural created on a wall on Chapel Road. When Ranjit said we could meet at the mural, I was hoping I didn’t miss finding it on Chapel Road, the narrow street connecting Mount Carmel Church with Hill Road in Bandra, Mumbai. It was, of course, impossible to miss this enormous hand-painted poster screaming ‘Anarkali’.  The pretty Bina Rai and the handsome Pradeep Kumar with a thin moustache lost in her gaze (yes, I think moustaches are handsome) epitomise ‘love’ – the single most popular emotion in Bollywood ruling the viewers’ hearts and minds. Keeping in line with the spirit of Bollywood it should really have been called the ‘BA(a)P’ (with “baap” meaning father), and not just B A P.

The setting for the poster itself is absolutely marvellous: the wall of a two story building across the Lala Lane compound that serves as a fantastic viewing gallery. I could totally imagine myself spending hours staring at the lovely poster and dreaming. In Mumbai, where millions eat and breathe only ‘Bollywood’, this poster is their chance of owning Bollywood. I could almost hear myself say, ‘This is my/our Bollywood’. After all what is Bollywood without its billions of fans, and what are stars without the stardom bestowed upon them?  The poster offers every viewer a sense of ownership – of the city and its cinema.

Based on a still of the film Anarkali, the poster made passersby wonder aloud, ‘Hmmmm, Looks like from Mughal – e – Azam …’ Anarkali, starring Bina Rai and Pradeep Kumar, was released in 1953 and based on the legendary love between Salim (Akbar’s son) and Anarkali, the beautiful court-dancer. Mughal –e – Azam was a film made in 1960 based on the same theme. Both the films were commercially and critically acclaimed and remain popular to date. It was not until the letters A N A R K A L I were painted that people realised this poster was not from Mughal-e-Azam but from Anarkali. One gentleman did insist that Bina Rai’s smile was similar to that of Madhubala, says Sruti.

Dahiya (as Ranjit is affectionately known), with his 18 years of experience in hand painting posters in varied sizes and scales, finished this mural in just 14 days.  Tony recollects that it was not easy for Dahiya to be perched on this high ladder on a busy street; credit goes to the city and the local residents for their undying support and enthusiasm: the affectionate chai-wala who was ready with the chai all the time; the panipuri wala who was so overwhelmed with the poster that he offered the B A P team, a life-long supply of free pani-puri at his stall; the passerby who stood smoking a beedi and comparing the still image to the painting only to point out that a particular spot needed more light and many such others.

B A P also held a screening of Anarkali at the venue. The response to it was outstanding. Kids from the neighbourhood landed with big bottles of water and a packet of chips, an old woman stood for more than an hour watching the film from a shy corner despite being offered a seat and told that the screening was for free, another gentleman travelled from a distant suburb only to look at how things were being set up. The team had a blast organising the screening despite running around frantically to put it together. The kudos pouring in from all corners has given B A P the much needed momentum to realise their dream of completing many such murals until next year and in many cities.

A fully-self funded initiative, the B A P is now pitching in for funding and hopes to receive maximum financial support. Also, the team is slowly expanding and soon there will be more hands holding up the ladder and setting up the screens. B A P is open to receiving exciting ideas and collaborating with more artists. While the B A P is about celebrating Bollywood cinema’s hundred years, it is important to note that it takes art to the streets and into the public domain. Sruti recounted an experience of working with an artist at the Guggenheim Museum in New York, where patrons paid 20 dollars each to watch art. Any art becomes ‘high-art’ when patrons have to pay or when they are screened in closed spaces, she says. And it is this idea that they want to challenge in letting every viewer on the street enjoy art.

Coming up soon: an even bigger mural of Bollywood’s eternal dancing queen, Helen.

By: Daljit Ami

Revisiting Sadayat Hasan Manto (1912-1955) on his birth centenary turned out to be an experience which cannot be described by a single adjective. It was not just a return to Manto but also a home-coming to my associations with him. I was introduced to Manto in the 1980s during my graduation in A S College Khanna, in Ludhiana district of Punjab. There, I could immediately relate Manto’s Toba Tek Singh, as the prevalent vicious communal atmosphere and brutal state response was nothing short of insanity. After graduation I came to Chandigarh which, despite being the capital of Punjab was aloof from the madness reigning in the countryside. Here, Manto again helped me to understand how the same situation could have different impacts. The massacre of April 1919 of Jalianwala Bagh, Amritsar had changed the life of Udham Singh and Sadayat Hasan Manto in different directions. Udham Singh became part of history as Ram Mohammad Singh Azad when he avenged the massacre of Jalianwala Bagh and was hung by the British. In another but equally powerful trajectory, Manto wrote his first short story, Tamasha, using the backdrop of the Jalianwala Bagh massacre, and went on to become one of the most acclaimed story tellers of the Subcontinent, with prolific writing until his untimely death at forty two.

In Chandigarh I learnt that Manto belonged to Papraudi, a village near Samrala in Ludhiana district. We Punjabis have a fluid definition of the term ‘village’. Whenever a Bihari labourer received a visitor, we used to say that someone had come to meet him from his village. It did not matter that one was from Gopalganj at the western end of Bihar and the other from Kotihar in the east. Similarly, when we move out of our villages the concept of village expanded along with the distance from native place. Living in Europe or North America, someone from Bahawalpur (West Punjab) and other one from Patiala (East Punjab) can comfortably claim that they belong to same village. Manto’s village is just 15 km from my village, Daudpur — in the same district and tehsil. This piece of information made me feel closer to Sadayat Hasan Manto. From a mere reader I became his garain or someone from the same village.

In the 1990s Lal Singh Dil, a revolutionary Punjabi poet was running a roadside tea stall in Samrala, from where I used to change my bus while commuting between Chandigarh and Daudpur.  Mostly, I used to stop at his tea stall to talk about poetry, politics and literature or sometimes just to chat. It was a great feeling that Manto, Dil and I are garain.

I went to Lahore in 2003 to attend the Punjabi World Conference. In a parallel program on the Seraiki language someone told me that Hamid Akhtar was also in the gathering. Hamid Akhtar is an old friend of Manto and Sahir Ludhianvi and his ancestral village is also in Ludhiana district. They all migrated to Pakistan after Partition but Sahir eventually returned to India. Hamid Akhtar was looking very frail, as he had just recovered from throat cancer. I was told that his hearing was very weak so he would not be able to understand many things and, furthermore, he could not speak very easily. However, I was sure that he could listen to his garain. I touched his feet and greeted him with folded hands, “Sat Sri Akal.” He looked at me and I introduced myself, “Mein Samrale toh ayan.” (I have come from Samrala.) In a trice, Hamid was on his feet. He hugged me and announced, without the help of a loudspeaker, “Eh mere pindo aya. Manto de pindon. (He has come from my village, from Manto’s village.)” He made me sit next to him, all the while holding my hand. His first question: “Samrale vich kithon ayan.” (From where in Samrala do you come?) I replied, “Daudpur.” With a few explanations, he could understand the geography as well as roads from Daudpur to Papraudi and to his native village near Jagraon. Hamid subsequently recovered from cancer and has visited Chandigarh twice, thereafter. He would call and ask, “Mein aa gayan, sham nu tun meinu sharab pilauni aa.” (I am here. In the evening you will take me for a drink.) We would end up discussing Manto, Sahir, India and Pakistan. This is Sadda Gran, our village.

Recently, I visited Papraudi to make a special program for the news channel Day and Night News, on Sadayat Hasan Manto’s birth centenary. One of Manto’s contemporaries, Ujjagar Singh, remembers having played with him when they were children. At the age of ninety plus Ujjagar Singh has memories of Manto and his family. He identified Manto’s house, which was auctioned after Partition by government as ‘evacuee property’. I asked him if he had read Manto’s writing. He replied, “I have not read him as I can’t read Urdu. I have heard that he is a renowned writer. He has made our village proud.” I talked to at least half a dozen people but none of them was familiar with Manto’s writings.

Then we went to the village Gurudwara where the Punjabi Sahit Sabha, Delhi, opened the Manto Memorial Library two years ago. The caretaker of the Gurudwara, Lakhwinder Singh, looks after the library as it is housed in his one room accommodation. The bookshelf carrying 200 books has two translated volumes of Manto’s stories. The library attracts not more then a couple of readers a month so Lakhwinder Singh has not felt the need to unbundle books. Now Punjabi Sahit Sabha Delhi is planning to shift this collection to Samrala. Hopefully Manto’s writings will have more readers in his home village.

Continuing my quest for Manto the person, I went to Amritsar to film the places he is supposed to have frequented. One such place is Katra Sher Singh where he lived. The demography of this area has changed, as it was a Muslim dominated locality before Partition, and witnessed remorseless killings and brutality of untold magnitude. Katra Sher Singh now has a Hindu-Sikh population. No trace of its bloody past or its displaced populace is visible to an observer.

Manto might have got his characters of Khol Do and Thanda Ghosht straight out of these environs, I imagine as I walk the streets. Since I had been steeped in Manto for many days, I could feel the traumatized young Sakina’s presence. As in Khol do, she is not confined only to being Sirajudin’s daughter, but symbolizes the vulnerability of women subjected to sexual violence during Partition. Even after 65 years, it is scary. I do not want to dwell on what Manto had gone through while witnessing and then recording these details. He took refuge in Toba Tek Singh’s Bishan Singh, who says, “Aupar di, gargar di, bedhiyana di, annex di, mungi di daal of the lantern of the Hindustan of the Pakistan government, dur fiteh munh.” All the words of this sentence are familiar but still it is an enigma inviting silence.  Manto too, is such an enigma who may have grown out of words so he chose silence at the age of forty two. As a garain of Manto I am unnerved by his silence, Sakina’s predicament and Bishan Singh’s gibberish. Oh, when Manto is not confined to any one village, why should I think that I am the only one who is scared while revisiting him? It leaves me with a final question: can scared people celebrate birth centenaries?
For more, watch Part 1 and Part 2 of Daljit Ami’s special programme on Manto.

Chintan Girish Modi

As a boy born and brought up in Mumbai, I have had little acquaintance with the tale of Sohni-Mahiwal other than stray references to this couple in Bollywood films and Hindi television serials replete with love stories, often involving transgression of norms about whom one is allowed to love or/and get married to. I remember hearing Sohni-Mahiwal in the same breath as Heer-Ranjha and Romeo-Juliet. While I had no introduction to the stories of these lovers, I recognized that they were legendary and spectacular. Indeed, it appeared as though passionate lovers who dared to defy social norms seemed to be inspired by these precedents.

I had a closer encounter with Soh(i)ni and Mahiwal (also called Mehar) a year ago, as a researcher with the Kabir Project. Filmmaker Shabnam Virmani narrates the story during a festival of Sindhi Sufi poetry, ‘Seeking the Beloved’. The festival celebrated the verse of 17^th century Sufi Shah Abdul Latif Bhitai who weaves spiritual allegories around the tales of legendary lovers like Sohni-Mahiwal, Sassi-Punhoon, Umar-Marui, Leela-Chanesar and others.

Shabnam’s narration is inspired from Shah Adbul Latif: Seeking the Beloved, a book by Anju Makhija and Hari Dilgir, which features translations of Latif’s Sindhi verse into English for contemporary readers. The book was published by Katha in 2005. In this festival video we get to hear this narration, followed by a soul-stirring musical rendition of this story by Sumar Kadu Jat and Mitha Khan Jat from Kutch. This article by Namrata Kartik from the Kabir Project archives hosted on Open Space India’s Tana-Bana platform describes Shah Latif’s quest for the beloved.

As I watch the video again, the music and the narration inspire me to share the basic elements of the story before I proceed to share what meaning I make of it.

What I find amazingly progressive here is the fact that the agency in this love story is not with Mahiwal and Tulla alone. Sohni too is a strong, powerful figure. She knows what she wants. Her faith is unflinching. She cares little for the social mores that she is required to follow as bride, daughter and daughter-in-love. She is not bothered about “log-kya-kahenge”. She is drenched in her love for Mahiwal.

 

One of Anju Makhija and Hari Dilgir’s translations says (the numbers in brackets refer to Shah Latif’s Sindhi original Shah Jo Risalo):

those who got a glimpse

abandoned their homes

and husbands

even without matkas

in the whirlpool they swirled

(79/5)

 

Another one states:

beseeching god’s help

sohini journeys on a matka

ornaments sink

sharks

crocodiles encircle

whales threaten

to tear limbs apart

(81/15)

 

Yet another stanza states:

she jumps in

to choose safe waters

is the route of impostors

those who love

take on the mighty river

(86/4)

And yet another:

mehar

is

sohini

so is the river

an unfathomable mystery

(83/34)

 

These stanzas, coupled with the intensity of the Waee performance in the video, give me gooseflesh. There is something utterly mad and moving about this intensity. The waves lash at you. They slap you in the face. They take you along in the current. They embrace, envelop and elevate you. They seem to tell you that you are a fool caught up in pleasing the world, that you should just follow your bloody heart because there is nothing wiser than that.

In the video, Shabnam says, “The river has flowed for centuries between desire and fulfillment. What lies on this side of the banks of the river is the status quo, the establishment, the structures of containment, and the plunge is transgression. And I think Sohini’s failure perhaps lay in her return at dawn to keep up the pretence. And in a sense, in Sohini’s failure, lie all our failures as we struggle to move between this bank and the other, between had and anhad.”

Perhaps there is some truth in this. I am not sure if I want to see Sohini as a failure though. It is easy to think of her as some kind of tragic heroine punished for the fatal flaw of having courted the forbidden, dreamt outside of what is permissible. Why the gooseflesh then? Why don’t I feel repelled by her? Why do I find her incredibly attractive? I may not make the kind of audacious choices that Sohni and Mahiwal made but their story inspires me to stand up for what I believe in, despite the hurdles that might come my way. And this is not just about matters of love. It extends to the kind of work I want to do, the people I want to be friends with, the places I am comfortable in, the questions I allow my students to ask in the school where I teach.

Text and images: Sarita Manu

 

Freedom Fighter, journalist and writer Haroon Habib’s house is akin to a photo gallery. The walls of his rooms tell stories and bring alive the history of Bangladesh’s Liberation War of 1971.

As a young fighter, Haroon joined the war forces; during the war he was recruited by the Mujib Nagar Government as a war journalist. When the Bangladesh Forces were organised into eleven sectors, Haroon went to Sector 11. This is when the Sector Commander Major Abu Taher gave him a Yashica camera. This camera captured most of the images we see with him today (his first camera belonged to Dr. Humayun Hai).  Buying film was difficult and printing it was an even bigger task:  one had to travel 60 km inside the Indian border to get to a printing studio. Haroon printed most of his pictures at a studio in the Tuha Hills of Meghalaya.

Despite the difficulties he endured, Haroon kept clicking pictures wherever he was. The majority of the participants of the war were young Bengali peasants and students. Armed with his simple camera, Haroon Habib captured nearly 100 rare images of these freedom fighters, the countless refugees, the Indian army officers and many others. Looking at photographs of some children from the war, he fondly tells me that two of them grew up to be medical doctors.

It is only in recent years that Haroon’s photographs were made public at various exhibitions. Since then, many have also found place as permanent exhibits on his walls. Each photo is neatly captioned, dated (when the date is known) and now, also digitised. When young children from the neighbourhood drop in to look at the pictures and hear the stories he has to share, Haroon is happy that the photographs can serve as living pieces of history for current and future generations.

By: Haroon Khalid

Junoon’s ‘Mahiwal’:

Oh my Mahiwal, my savior, get me through,
Awaken my sleeping fate;
I am not scared of this (approaching) death,
All I wonder is how to get through the Chenab,
You are my only friend,
You are my only love.

My life here is stuck in these waves,
But I long for you since eternity,
You are in my every breath,
You, my beloved;

My time to drown has arrived,
I prefer death over this existence.
You are here on this side
You will be there on the other side.
Get me through.

+ + +

Crossing the river Chenab, I notice its small waves beating up against the concrete bank. Every time I make this trip I sing my favorite song from the Pakistani rock band of the previous decade, Junoon. “Oh how do I cross Chenab, oh how do I cross Chenab. I would find you on this side, I would find you on that side,” I sing. For years I have done this, without knowing what the song meant. And then a few days ago, while I was watching the Pakistani folk movie Mirza Sahiban, about another love story from the Punjab, all of a sudden I understood the meaning of the line I had sung on so many occasions, in front of so many different people. This is Sohni stuck in the middle of the river, singing to her beloved Mahiwal, standing on the bank. She is asking him how to cross the river, just before she drowns. Mahiwal, who exists everywhere for her, will also be there for her in the next life, where she is about to go.

Mahiwal is featured in Junoon’s fourth album, Azadi, which is by far the band’s most popular album. In this album Junoon blends Sufi and folk poetry with Western music, accompanied by a traditional beat on a dholki. A guitar solo in the middle of the track creates a powerful rendition of raw rock energy, akin to something that Jimmy Page from Led Zepellin would play. This experimental music gave birth to a new music genre, known as Sufi rock. Junoon is the pioneer of this genre, which has become very popular with musicians of today in India and Pakistan.

The lyrics to “Mahiwal” are in Urdu interspersed with a few Punjabi words, a natural phenomenon as the story unfolds in the heart of Punjab. Sohni, after having realized that she is supported by a mud ghara which is now sinking, knows that she is about to die. She gives out a plea to her beloved, Mahiwal, who is on the bank. For her Mahiwal is not only her beloved, but her Peer, her savior, even her God. She refers to him as Jaspal, a word that is also used for the divine. So immersed is she in his love that for her, the entire world exists in him. Only he can get her through the river, only he can (through a miracle) change the course of her destiny, and ‘awaken a slumbering fate.’ She says that it is not death that frightens her in this moment of peril, but rather the pain of separation, the fact that she will not be able to hold her beloved, caused by an event that she regards as trivial, which is her death. The moment is not tragic because she is drowning but because she would miss the opportunity to meet her Mahiwal. This is a moment of frustration for Sohni, where she has sight of her goal, but will not be able to reach it. She feels a longing for Mahiwal, the kind of longing that someone feels after a separation of centuries. This longing exists even though Mahiwal is as close to her as her breath. This is the paradox that frustrates her.

Exhausted, Sohni resigns to her fate. So frustrated is she that she asks for death to take her away from this paradoxical situation: she cannot be with her beloved, with whom she has already become one. She knows that she will be united with her Mahiwal after death; such is her faith in her love for him. This love is so powerful she will find him everywhere she goes, may it be this side of the river or that; this life or the one after death. She needs to cross over. Not the river this time, but from this life to the next.

By: Sarita Manu

When one begins talking about collections and archiving, Shabbir Bhai’s face lights up, reflecting his passion for collecting not only stamps and coins, but also books. Originally from nearby Sangamner, Shabbir Shaikh Ahmed, now in his fifties, lives and works in Ahmednagar in Maharashtra. He has been collecting postal stamps and coins of India from the post-Independence era. The coin collection also includes some copper mints and British silver mints from the 15^th Century. He once came across a coin from the period of the Nizamshahi dynasty, which ruled over the Sultanate of Ahmednagar from 1494 to 1636 C.E. This triggered his interest in the history of Nagar (Ahmednagar is popularly referred to as Nagar) and he set out to search for books on the history of Nagar.

Not satisfied with the few published works he found, he started looking for writers from Nagar who might have written about local history. This search so intrigued him that this gradually became his primary interest. His quest includes authors who were born in Nagar, lived in Nagar or who list Nagar as their hometown. In the last four years, Shabbir Bhai has collected around 450 books by such authors, which makes his total collection of books around 1500. A few books have been donated to him by authors themselves, some were gifted by his friends; many have been bought by him and few precious ones were found at the scrap paper dealers too. The books are in various languages: Urdu, Hindi, Marathi, English and Sindhi. There is also a book in the Telegu language, written in Devanagari script. Shabbir Bhai’s precious books are stored in cupboards in his house. The coins are organised in albums, some rare ones in the bank safe. Stamps are also neatly organised in albums.

Amongst his growing treasures is a prized book, Kalika, published by Kalamandal.

This book, published in 1934, includes stories and articles in Marathi, English, Urdu and Hindi. Kalika is unique for more than one reason. The book is not only entirely handwritten but also includes a few words by the revered Sane Guruji (P. S. Sane, a well known author, teacher and freedom fighter). The book even carries a handwritten advertisement. This is only one amongst many such gems in Shabbir Bhai’s collection.

Along with collecting books, he has also undertaken the painstaking task of putting together a directory of the contact details and signatures of all the writers/authors from Nagar. Shabbir Bhai tries to carry his diary with him whenever he attends any literary events. At one such event he discovered that the writer’s hometown was Nagar and, finding himself without his diary, immediately called for it to be delivered at the venue in 30 minutes. There are many such anecdotes he has to share, and always with a smile on his face.

With a full time job in a private mining company, Shabbir Bhai has been permanently working the ‘night shift’, so that he can spend the day chasing his passion: books about and from Nagar. He has started manually listing his collection in alphabetical order and intends to make a standardised catalogue soon, as his growing collection of books has already begun acting as a valuable resource for several researchers and PhD students. Shabbir Bhai’s efforts in collecting these works have definitely paved the way for future generations in building the history of Nagar.

Text and images: Sarita Manu

Dhanmondi is a maddeningly crowded part of Dhaka. Home to many commercial establishments, the streets of Dhanmondi are lined with private universities, many with ugly facades. Amongst them, the brick building Chhayanaut Shangskriti Bhaban, built in 2006 provides a refreshing respite to the eyes.

Chhayanaut was established in 1961, the year that witnessed Rabindranath Tagore’s birth centenary (the website is currently accessible only in Bangla and work is on to make it accessible in English). It is well known that Muhammad Ayub Khan, the first military dictator of Pakistan, had banned the playing of Tagore songs on radio and television in erstwhile East Pakistan, but Tagore’s songs and poems inspired a strong linguistic and cultural movement. A few brave people came together to successfully hold events in 1961 celebrating Tagore. Following the celebrations, they reunited to establish Chhayanaut to carry on the struggle for Bangla culture and heritage. Chhayanaut played an important role in enhancing Bangla nationalism though the Bangla culture and heritage and continues to do so, till date. The music and poetry of Tagore and of Kazi Nazrul Islam, the national poet of Bangladesh, were often invoked to promote Bangla culture.

At the music school in Chhayanaut thousands of students come to learn and practice music, as an active part of their life; many leading singers of Bangladesh today, have been students at Chhayanaut. The Bhaban holds regular programs every year, a few of them are: the Bangla New Year (Poyela Boishakh); the birth and death anniversaries of Rabindranath Tagore and Kazi Nazrul Islam; 26^th March, Independence day; 16^th December, Victory Day (Bijoy Dibosh) ; and 21^st February, Martyrs Day (Shaheed Dibosh); a Classical Music Festival; a Folk Music Festival; the Rabindra Sangeet Festival; and a dance festival. Recently, Chhayanaut has also established Nalonda, a primary school that provides culture integrated education.

In 2009, the Chhayanaut Resource Center was established with financial assistance from the Norwegian Government. The resource centre aims to collect, document, preserve and make accessible the culture and heritage of Bangla performing arts. The three main parts of the centre are an audio-visual archive, a book library with books on performing arts and cultural studies, and a recording studio. The audio visual archive has records and photographs of all programs of Chhayanaut, as well as a collection of old music materials in the form of LP records and audio cassettes. Around 500-600 songs from the classical music collection have been digitised so far and the process is ongoing. Currently, the collection is freely accessible to all Chhayanaut students, teachers and staff. Others can access it with permission.

Chhayanaut is not just a space that is actively working on building and preserving Bangla cultural identities but also aims to reach out to all, including tying up with similar institutions in other countries. It is noteworthy that although the current Chhayanaut building is built on a piece of land that was donated by the government in 2001, the money used for constructing the building was raised publicly with contributions from individuals and organisations. No funding was accepted from the government or other donor agencies. Chhayanaut is hopeful that its patrons will continue their overwhelming support.

By: Laxmi Murthy

Maybe it’s a case of “too much” history – an ancient civilization and all that. The neglect of the written word should come as no surprise, given the appalling condition of the majority of historic sites in the Subcontinent. Yet, the utter disregard for manuscripts and materials of a bygone era never fails to shock.

In a series of blog posts, the New York Times highlights the sorry state of archives in India. Research scholar Dinyar Patel laments the decline of interest in archiving among his own dwindling community, the Parsis.  In this piece Patel highlights the fact that manuscripts are literally disintegrating, due to lack of preservation. And this despite the required equipment being available – but also rotting away.

And amidst the fungus and termites nibbling away at India’s past comes a bespectacled knight in the shape of Prof Mushirul Hasan, who has taken over the National Archives since 2012.  He is the first ever scholar to be the Director General, a post normally reserved for disgruntled babus. Patel quotes Hri Adviser historian Ram Guha: “Archives are the lowest priority for any government,” said historian Ramachandra Guha. “They are staffed by government officials on punishment postings rather than trained professionals.”

Bringing to bear a contrasting view to the “Oh Indians don’t value the past” view is Murali Ranganathan, an independent researcher, based in Mumbai. He says that the pre-colonial tradition of archives and libraries was extremely strong elsewhere in India: dynasties in Maharashtra, Assam, and Mysore kept vast collections that still survive. Beginning around 1900, he argued, Indians started to become too poor to properly maintain their collections, although several institutions, such as the Khuda Bakhsh Library in Patna and the Saraswathi Mahal Library in Thanjavur (Tanjore), have maintained excellent traditions of preserving pre-British era books and manuscripts.

Perhaps it is time to resurrect indigenous processes of archiving, even as a new generation of archivists come to the fore, armed with new techniques of preservation and cataloguing.

[Many thanks to Amar Gurung for bringing this series to my attention]

Text and images: Sarita Manu, in Dhaka

Emotions have been running high in Bangladesh since the country’s ecstatic win over India and Sri Lanka in the Asia Cup and the tearful loss for the home team in the finals against Pakistan. With the finals played out only a few days away from Bangladesh’s 40^th Independence Day on 26 March, writer and journalist Shahriar Kabir, Executive President of Nirmul Committee, had only one pre-match message for the Tigers of the Bangladesh Cricket team: to remember the brutal genocide of Bangladeshis that began 41 years ago.

At 8:00 pm yesterday evening, the Ekatturer Ghatak Dalal Nirmul Committee (Forum for Secular Bangladesh and Trial of War Criminals of 1971) lit mashaals (torches) and walked in a candlelight procession in memory of those killed in 25 March, 1971. Forty mashaals were lit and people marched from the Central Shaheed Minar to the Jagannath Hall premises at Dhaka University. At midnight of 25 March 1971, 41 years ago, the Pakistani occupying forces in then East Pakistan began killing unarmed Bengalis. A nine-month long war followed, ending with the independence of Bangladesh. A prime target was also the Dhaka University: several teachers, students and staffs of Dhaka University were killed by the Pakistani army and buried at the courtyard of students’ hostel named Jagannath Hall. The Shaheed Minar was built to in remembrance of the martyrs of the historic Language Movement of 1952. Numerous students and political activists started a process on 21 February, 1952 demanding that Bengali be given the status of a national language. The protestors were fired upon and many were killed. To commemorate this movement, Shaheed Minar was built at the place of the massacre.

The evening was attended by freedom fighters, politicians, socio-cultural activists, and Bangladeshi citizens in numbers. Addressing the gather in a public speech before the march, the committee demanded the observance of 25 March as ‘International Genocide Day’ and also urged Parliamentarians to move the initiative ahead.

Please click on the thumbnail for the full picture from the evening: