Rama Kant Agnihotri challenges monolingual biases in his analysis, focusing on the phenomenon of redundant compound formations in Hindi. Through examples like dhan-daulat (wealth-wealth) and chai-paani (tea-water), he explores the layered social and historical meanings embedded in everyday expressions.
Documenting their experiences of running the Academic Bridge Programme at Ashoka University, Neerav Dwivedi and Jyotirmoy Talukdar deliberate upon creating a democratic space in a multilingual classroom. They dwell on everyday pedagogic processes and convert them to potential practices to challenge hierarchies. A simple act of asking a question in class is often marked with a strain of apology.
A few key observations of the methods that stood out for me are the unconventional ways to engage students in the classroom. Laxmirambhai starts with a story instead of teaching straight from the syllabus. Games can break the monotony of a classroom, making everyone participate. With some rules, playing games using some concepts can lead to real education. ‘Games are a form of true education,’ says Gijubhai.
In particular, this review remains faultily quiet about the fascinating analyses presented in the book on the prolonged (nineteenth- and twentieth-century) history of child marriage in India and its differential regional framings within the national universe; the ebb and flow of social reform in colonial and post-Independence India swirling around the woes of child brides and child widows, and the intermittent engagement of feminist research and action with the practice of child marriage.
The frontages of the houses were beautifully adorned, with colonial influences evident in columns, pediments, capitals, arches, and cast-iron grilles. Intricately carved zarookhas (projected balconies) integrated indigenous architectural elements. Each floor of the façade featured contrasting designs, and houses—particularly in Siddhpur—were painted in varying pastel shades to break visual monotony. Raised on a high plinth, the main door was accessed via a short flight of stairs, not unlike a stoop.
That is why, when Gokhale says, ‘You spoke of the university as a liberal space. My experience of teaching was different—it was not a liberal space at all. My problem is that the educational system, as it operates in many parts of this country, is extremely feudal,’ it shows the hurdles on the way to freedom. The intolerant state at the top of the power pyramid is safely ensconced in the middle of little tyrannies operating at various levels.
More than a scholarly revelation, the reintroduction of Hafeezuddin Ahmad’s manuscript calls for an ethical reckoning with the historiography of Delhi. The literary fame and scholarly prestige enjoyed by figures such as Sir Syed must now be revisited in light of the sources they used—and possibly co-opted.
Ever optimistic, Vanina records that there may be ‘differences and even conflicts, but on the majority of events and actors of the past there is usually a national agreement’ in favour of ‘mutual respect for differing feelings and affiliations’ (pp. 338-39). This is true for politics and history on an international scale.
Nevertheless, they were able to take advantage of the culture of ‘hospitality’ which had been encouraged by the post-1789 government policy of honouring misfortune (honore le malheur) by way of hospitality (à titre d’hospitalité), which was also decreed by the Comity of Public Safety when granting assistance to ‘Ahmad Khan Indian’.
The soldiers were part of the 2.5 million-strong Indian Army. They were taken prisoners, as the war progressed, in theatres in east and north Africa, the Mediterranean, Europe and on the high seas. They endured five years of incarceration. Included in them were the Viceroy Commissioned Officers (VCO), a category so peculiar to the Indian Army that the confused Germans had to enquire from the British whether they were to be treated as soldiers or officers! Another oddity was that the earliest, and often the longest-serving POWs were not even soldiers.
Rather than limiting itself to the colonial period, the study deliberates at length the socio-economic and political conditions of the YMCA in the post-1947 era. The author highlights the role that the institution played during the Cold War period.
Mysore’s association with a buffalo myth dates back to the latter half of the first millennium. The Wodeyar kings reinvented this myth in the seventeenth century by associating the local female deity with the Pauranic legend of the Goddess slaying Mahisha, the buffalo demon. This foundational myth concerning the Goddess and the city has remained in the popular psyche ever since (pp. 29-30).
The compilation addresses different aspects of Vijayan’s oeuvre, including his literary works, his contributions to political thought, his engagements as a cartoonist, and his role as a translator. In this introductory chapter, EV Ramakrishnan delves into the multi-dimensional persona of Vijayan, analysing how the writer is defined as a ‘critical insider’ within the socio-political and cultural contexts of postcolonial India.
On the whole, this anthology offers a good sampling of Nigah’s poetry insofar as it touches upon many significant aspects of her poetic vision. A good number of poems also dwell on the theme of aging and its attendant issues of neglect and loneliness. While the inevitability of the ageing process is acknowledged and its losses and gains accepted (‘Ab to Lagta hai Kuch Aise’), Nigah also calls out the hypocrisy of ‘cultured people’ who mouth the Islamic belief that Heaven exists beneath the feet of their mothers but in fact are indifferent to them (‘Ek Sacchi Ma ki Kahani’).
Certain geographical and location settings, such as the city of Calcutta, Jadavpur, a railway station amongst other surrounding areas, give life to the narrative, and the divisions within these spaces reveal how a person’s identity is shaped by the environment they inhabit. Translated by V Ramaswamy, the book flows effortlessly, with the language leaping off the pages, drawing readers into the underbelly of what it means to be displaced and without a firm foothold in an ever-changing world.
A book subtitled ‘Remarkable Short Fiction’ will surely include the great storytellers: Rabindranath Tagore, Munshi Premchand, Kuvempu, RK Narayan, Bhisham Sahni, Krishna Sobti, Mahasweta Devi, Vijaydan Detha, Ajeet Cour, Damodar Mauzo, Paul Zacharia and Bama, among others.
Chibo’s quiet landscape and calm rural environment enables an emotional honesty that is often crowded out in the clamour of urban spaces. This distance is critical for Kotoko, who moves away from the commotion of the big city to this curative space, unaware as yet that the pain she carries within her can gradually be healed. The kitchen, located on a secluded stretch of the seashore, is a gentle, comforting place where the dead appear quietly, without fanfare, in a fleeting blur of space and time, stepping back into life for a few moments to connect with a loved one over a ritual meal.
Firefly Games captures the various facets of Bengali culture, both in erstwhile Calcutta and of Bengalis in exile in the heart of India in the States of Madhya Pradesh and Jharkhand. The intricacies of growing up, friendships and heartbreaks, corruption in government offices, relations between parents and their off-spring—Chakraborty touches on these themes and more.
The plot is woven around four main characters: Aurobindo, Manorama, Brajarani and Ajit. Aurobindo’s sister Saratsashi also plays an important part in the web of relationships among these characters, but is not directly affected by their fortunes, whereas the four main characters are affected by each other’s actions. Of course, the person whose character and power drives the plot dies when the narrative begins, but the shadow that he casts on the future course of action never disappears. He is Aurobindo’s father, who decrees that his legatee, Aurobindo, expel his wife Manorama and son, Ajit, and marry a second woman, Brajarani, the daughter of a rich man on account of his social prestige and a handsome dowry that she will bring. Manorama’s father belonged to a lower social class and could not afford any worthwhile dowry.
Interestingly, in the novel, some of the ‘abnormal’ characters say more logical things than the ‘intellectuals’, who are guided by an unbridled desire to consume things offered by the market. Though these individuals are psychic patients in the eyes of ‘mainstream’ society, they uncover the truth behind the normal and efficiently working market system. One character, for example, underlines the absence of dreams in his life, and questions those who laugh at him: ‘I don’t have any dream left, you know. I haven’t had a dream in months.