As someone who grew up in Allahabad, I was always surrounded by stories of Hindi literary personalities and their works, and as expected, where there are humans, gossip will follow. Whether it has been about the drinking habits of a certain writer or how there have been animosities between two legends, everything and anything found its way whenever a few literature enthusiasts sat together. So, whenever the discussion steered towards literary couples and their woes, Mannu Bhandari and Rajendra Yadav’s names were always among the first ones to be mentioned. I first picked up Bhandari’s much acclaimed Aapka Bunty and it immediately became one of my favourite books as it depicted how the dissolution of a relationship doesn’t just affect the two people involved in it and how changing the perspective could really alleviate the story. Then about a year later, I read Yadav’s Kulta which to be honest, I was not impressed with. While these two titles became an introduction to their literary world, friends always suggested that I read their autobiographies Ek Kahani Yeh Bhi by Bhandari and Mud Mud ke Dekhta Hoon by Yadav which for a younger me, seemed a herculean task. I abandoned the idea altogether, but now translator Poonam Saxena has thankfully translated both of them for the readers to cherish.
I first started with Rajendra Yadav’s Echoes of My Past and after reading a few chapters, they seemed quite disjointed. Later I came to know that these were published as different pieces for the Hindi literary magazine Tadbhav. And then everything started to fall into place. The initial few chapters reveal a vulnerable side of him where he goes on to admit that his friends have been selflessly helping him out while he, on the other hand, had not been able to reciprocate in the same way. He comes off as a man who deeply introspects about the various aspects of his life, but that changes. Subsequently, he goes on to question the ethical dignity, dedication and remuneration of being a writer, a conversation that permeates through the book in different ways. These pieces talk of different points of time in his life and follow no timeline as such, and yet the reader can actually see Yadav’s perspective grow. At one point in a very passive-aggressive way he talks of Bhandari’s dissatisfaction with him as he ignored his responsibilities, which then had to be shouldered by her; he turns this around and says he wants to live a bohemian life ‘in the true sense of the word’ and shed the obsession over middle-class values which basically proves her right. Many of these incidents and stories read like coming out of a restless mind trying to find reasons to justify his actions. He writes about his younger self being born in Agra and then living through pre-independent India to receiving a fan letter from Hemlata, the first woman to write to him appreciating his works, and how that made him feel. His honesty regarding the self is one of the best parts of this book. For someone who talked highly about his quest for writing and somehow used it as a justification for ignoring his familial duties, his admission of not being able to write later in his life shows a much deeper conflict.
Mannu Bhandari’s This Too is a Story, unlike Yadav’s autobiography is structured and goes on to unravel the other side of their marriage, along with the progression of her passion for writing. Bhandari starts by explaining the reason behind the title she chose for this book. For her, this is not an autobiography but just a snippet from her life. For any writer their families are often the bedrock behind their literary endeavours. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that they were supportive; and yet the familial experience is what affects the person and in some ways reflects in their work. In her case, she was born in a Jain-turned-Arya Samaji family to an illiterate mother and a father struggling financially which diminished any positive qualities he had. His constant struggle to regain the economic footing he once had led to the slow erosion of his generosity and large-heartedness. She goes deep into their qualities in order to investigate whether she has inherited any. Youngest among five brothers and sisters, she goes on to comment how our worlds have shrunk with time.
This feeling only got aggravated with time. The world never gets tired of extolling male writers, but when it comes to women writers, the praise dries up. While everyone spoke highly of Rajendra Yadav, she felt small while comparing herself to other contemporary women writers. As she aged, she would only say that she’ll write more but would get tired, and this sent her on a spiral of regret.
Bhandari and Yadav’s marriage was based on love rather than the traditional route of hunting for a ‘suitable’ partner which would basically entail someone from their own caste, class and religion. They subsequently moved to Delhi in the 1960s. Yadav had a carefree attitude towards his familial duties and justified it using philosophical lines like ‘a writer cannot have financial dependencies’. That, along with his regular infidelity issues, made it difficult for Bhandari to continue to stay with him. But she couldn’t break away that easily either and it was only after several years that they separated. Yadav mentions it in his book the way he treats such serious aspects of their life.
Poonam Saxena’s introduction to both the books deserves a special mention as it gives the uninformed reader a necessary backdrop. Her impeccable translation shows the skill of a serious litterateur and the decision to bring out both the books together deserves appreciation as well, as it shows a deeper understanding of not just literature but a sense of respect towards their shared lives.
Chittajit Mitra is an independent journalist and translator based in Prayagraj.