Anindita Sengupta

I’ve moved and almost settled in. In other words, my Internet connection is done but not all the pictures are up and the eager gardener who bounced up to the door to ask for the job, never showed up after that. Oh well.

The good news is that my reading at the Sahitya Akademi Translators’ Meet here in Bangalore went off well — this was a three day thingie that threw poets, short story writers, novelists and translators together. There were readings and discussions and it was fascinating to hear poetry in such a multitude of languages including Sindhi, Assamese, Nepalese and Santhali. I was sort of the lone English representative at one poetry reading session, which was very intimidating because I was surrounded by people who knew more languages than me. But I finally met Tamil poet Salma, which was wonderful. We were both part of the same session and it was nice to hear her read. I can’t understand Tamil but I like its strong rhythmic sounds when someone speaks it well. Salma’s poetry draws power from its brutal honesty, its ability to look tough subjects in the face. One of her poems was called ‘Menopause’, for example, and it talked about the body, unwanted hair and all, with great frankness. Unfortunately, the person who read the English translations of her poems read them in this halting, badly enunciated way so the impact was a bit lost. I wish they would engage good readers / performers for such things instead of handing the mike to the first available person.

The other person I remember is Sindhi poet Vasudev Mohi, who read one Sindhi poem and then a couple of Hindi poems. He did not read any English translations and therefore had the advantage of retaining all the music of the original words. He also read very well, in a clear and emotive manner. Going by audience reaction, this really made a difference. Even the post-lunch snoozers at the back woke up and did the ‘wah-wah’ routine. Which goes to show how important sound and performance are in poetry. Nepali poet Jiwan Namdung was also interesting. I was faintly disappointed with some of the other poetry read — it didn’t sound much like poetry to me, too prosaic or declamatory, not musical enough certainly but also not very impressive in terms of trope or imagery. I don’t know whether this was a problem of bad poetry, poor translation, or both.

I also liked Kannada poet and writer Vaidehi’s speech for a session called ‘my writing, my world’ which was chaired by Shashi Deshpande. (They brought four women writers together and asked each of them to speak about their influences.) Vaidehi talked about a number of things to do with her childhood and what struck me most is what she said about the house in which she grew up — it had room after room in the interiors, away from the sun, all fitted with cribs. These were for the women of the house who were expected to spend most of their lives in this “baby-making factory” (Prasanna’s translation).

Anyway, I don’t have much time for proper settling in because I leave tomorrow for Poetry Africa, an annual poetry festival in Durban. I’ll be wandering Joburg and Soweto and (hopefully) watching lions in Kruger National Park before I hit Durban for a week of readings and poetry meets. Excitement. Most of the other poets are from Africa but Sunil Gangopadhyaya from India will also be there. I’m especially interested to see how they perform their poetry differently from us, given the emphasis on spoken word, slams etc that they tend to have there.

Speaking of poetry slams, Bangalore is having its first one hosted by a group called Bombay Elektrik Projekt  at Bacchus F&B on Sunday, 27 Sep. That’s today. You can register for the event and perform. It starts at 7.30 pm. The Facebook event page is here. I’ll be in the audience.

And listen to Don Paterson read poems from his latest collection Rain.

Blogging will resume some time in October after I’m back. Until then, be good?  Or don’t. It’s more fun that way.

I’m often asked why I prefer to rent rather than buy (especially in these times when the real estate market is low) and I always find myself making up mealy-mouthed excuses. But the truth is it’s because I like the freedom of renting. I like the fact that we can get up and move any time we want. An empty house is like a blank canvas. The possibility it contains is hugely exciting.

I like moving house so much that I get envious when someone walks into an empty apartment in a movie. In Love Aaj Kal, Deepika Padukone walks into an empty apartment. It’s a sad moment. She’s been through some hellish realizations and now she’s alone. Of course I empathized but a little voice at the back of my head was saying ‘oh but look at all that white space waiting to be filled up!’

Frustrated gypsy blood. Some deep-seated neurosis. Probably both.

More seriously, I think the desire for displacement can be a strong one and we’re usually so busy talking about the desire for stability that we forget about our need for its opposite. In Kundera’s Unbearable Lightness of Being, Sabina represented this spectacularly: “Betrayal. From tender youth we are told by father and teacher that betrayal is the most heinous offense imaginable. But what is betrayal? Betrayal means breaking ranks. Betrayal means breaking ranks and going off into the unknown. Sabina knew of nothing more magnificent than going off into the unknown.”

With age (or is it the social boxes we willingly climb into), it gets harder and harder to go off into the unknown. One keeps shearing out the possibilities until one is left with the chiseled bone of one’s life, stripped down to its last choices, it’s essentials. What one can live with. What one can’t live without.

We chain ourselves to things, people, places.

It’s so liberating to shake that up once in a while. One can’t always shake it up magnificently, definitively. But one can at least move in wider and wider circles within the bounds, prevent atrophy.

I’m also always asked ‘but you loved this house so much…’ which is telling of our attitudes to moving on from one thing to another. There is the assumption that if you love something, you can’t love something else more. Or you didn’t love it enough in the first place. Staying fixed in the same place means you’re committed and commitment is the bedrock of our social structures. There is a demand that we should love the same thing, always, in the same way. It makes people insecure when someone flouts this principle of fixedness.

My answer is: ‘Of course, I did. But now I love the other one.’ The other day, even A (who understands me better than any dead or living person) accused me of a complete lack of sentimentality. I say ‘accused’ but actually he just pointed it out. In any case, lack of sentimentality is a good thing in a writer so I can’t say I’m unhappy. It’s been six years since my father died, six and a half since my first dog, and 13 since my grandfather. I haven’t stopped missing any of them. If there was a fire in the house, the first thing I’d try to save (thing as opposed to living beings) are my photo albums. But no, I don’t mourn things that have served their time well. I just accept they’ve run out of energy. And I move.

Anyway, this is to announce that we’re moving house later this month. I will be carrying heavy stuff around but will be feeling lightness. Wish me luck!