Nasti Uthathev

I am committing sacrilege by writing about a Marathi book in Ingrazi (English.) My justification is that I am writing for the off chance that some bilingual person who has lost touch with their roots is inspired to revisit Marathi literature.
After taking that high moral stand, let me come to a book grounded in the Maharashtrian sub-culture. ‘Nasti Uthathev’ is Pu La Deshpande’s early work from the fifties. It may lack the glamour of a ‘Batatyachi Chal,’ or the depth of ‘Ti Phulrani,’ or memorable characters like ‘Sakharam Gatne,’ or the quotable lines that a ‘Mi ani Mazha Shatrupaksha’ etches in your memory, nor does it take you on a poignant journey like ‘Asa mi Asa mi.’ Instead, it is a gentle read, easy on the eyes. Reading the book is like taking an archeological excavation into the early evolution of Pu La Deshpande’s writing. You experience the sheer landscape covered by his observational gaze.

Pu La is renowned for his sarcasm that is subtle yet powerful. He is like the barber holding the mirror behind you. Very gently showing you what is wrong with the side that you never see and yet, is inseparably yours. He is not in your face. Instead, Pu La gently draws his world, using minute descriptions of the mannerisms of every character. The places in his writings are never mere artifacts of wood or stone; instead, they are an extension of his characters. His world is lively, and yet it is hugely relatable. Because Pu La has created every inch of his writing from things around us. It is our world, and thus the absurdities in this world must also be ours. Pu La forces us to confront our idiocies, prejudices by establishing our ownership over them. It is sarcasm at its best.
In this book, one story showcases this style. It is a short play in which a father-son duo is discussing the son’s marriage. The backdrop is created by a journalist who is interviewing the father to start a family profile. Through the interaction with the interviewer, we find that the family lineage is traced back to some of the greatest generals of the Maratha army. With one grandee having fought in the third battle of Panipat. We are drawn into the family history by the narration of historical events and descriptions of portraits and artifacts of the era hanging in the household. The conflict arises when the son says he wants to marry a girl of his choice from the lower strata of society. Besides love, he rationalizes his choice by mentioning that the girl earns more than him (and their family income.) Pu La lets us play on the caste-class angle. He lays out the rationale of both the father and the son. The father trying to hold on to a legacy, and the son looking out for the future. The dose of humor lulls the reader in biasing towards one side (based on personal prejudices and rationale.)
In the final act, Pu La introduces the Shakesperean element of ghosts. Ghosts of the people hanging from the portraits on the walls start participating in the family argument. Herein, we expect the discussion to lead to one of the two available conclusions. But, Pu La engages in subterfuge by blowing up the entire basis for the argument. The Grandee ghost reveals that he was amongst the unidentified martyrs at Panipat. It was an impostor who took his place back home. Whose ‘lineage’ are you harping on? The ‘you’ in the question is ‘you’ — the reader.

The book is a combination of three plays and ten short stories. The stories are a study in observation and creation of characters. Pu La livens his characters with descriptions of subtle aspects like a limp or an uncanny hairdo. He then spices up the appearance by describing the clothes. From the colors they wear, we are introduced to the colors of their speech. And yet, these fictional characters rarely live in a fictional reality. Their reality is very much our observed reality. When a music teacher is forced to entertain the whims of a rich man’s daughter, we understand the economics of talent. It is equally funny and equally sad when the same music teacher sells ‘bhel’ to make ends meet. Equally, the writer within us is taken on an empathy trip when Pu La regals us with the dilemma of the incomplete novels in the armory of an aspiring novelist.

Plus, since this is, in a way, is period writing, we also get an insight into the life and times of early independent India. Nothing profound, but day-to-day quirks. I got to know from the book that the place ‘Katraj’ near Pune had a different connotation back then. Today, Katraj is a bustling place, overcrowded, at the intersection of two major highways. However, back then, it must have been a desolate place. From the book, I came to know that Katraj back then was associated with ‘foolishness.’ एखाद्याचा कात्रज करणे, to make someone a Katraj meant, to make a fool out of that person. Upon doing some research, I realized that this phrase was associated with Shivaji Maharaj’s attack on Shaista Khan. After attacking the Khan at Lal Mahal, the returning Maratha soldiers were chased by Mughal soldiers. The smaller Maratha contingent was making its way back to Sinhagad via Katraj. When they reached Katraj, The Maratha men lit fire torches and tied them to bull horns. As the bulls wavered in the darkness, it created an illusion of an army in waiting. The chasing Mughal soldiers were terrified and retreated to their camp.

Maybe an astute student of the Marathi language already knows about the phraseology of Katraj. However, for an English Medium schooler like me, this was news. You see, as I often like to say, English Medium schooling means your English stays at a ‘medium’ level. Especially for SSC (state board) students, we never learn the depths of English literature — the Wildes and Shakespeares are kept away from us. And if you are Crescentian like me, you are never forced into speaking English at School. Both our spoken English and written vocabulary remains fairly mediocre. To add to our woes, we receive step-motherly treatment from our mother tongue Marathi. We are always taught ‘lower’ Marathi. Seriously, my SSC exam paper had the words ‘Lower Marathi’ written in bold at the top. And NO, they did not write the Marathi meaning of the word ‘lower’; they typed the word in Devnagri script (लोवर.)

My classmates still think that Ga Di Madgulkar and William Wordsworth were contemporaries by virtue of being poets. Today some of these lateral thinkers are part of the same system that produced them. In some school in Pune, you might hear the teacher saying, “ते व्हाय नंतर येते ना, तेच ते, Adjective clause बरं का.” (translated from Marathi : the thing that comes after Why, is the adjective clause). Such gems are the true legacy of our school. And one of those gems has the audacity of writing about a Marathi book in English.

Back to our book, one story caught my particular attention. In it, Pu La gives a first-hand account of his troubles when he sprains his back. Seeped in humor, strange treatments are offered to him, all based on anecdotal evidence. Each ‘nuskha’ competing to be more absurd than the previous one. Another writer of the same era has used the same trope. Chi Vi Joshi (Chintaman Joshi) has written a similar account; the difference is that he is afflicted by a case of sour eyes. The pattern is the same; one well-intentioned person after the other imparts wisdom on handling the crisis.
At this point, (abruptly) some amongst you would like to argue over who inspired whom to write an account along similar lines. However, I will not! I am a patient reader and would prefer to enjoy both stories and avoid getting into the nitty-grittys of plagiarism.

In conclusion. True to my Crescentian roots, I began by confessing to a sin and conveniently committed another violation along the way. In case you are wondering, the other book is ‘Ankhi Chimanrao’ ( आणखी चिमणराव ) by Chintaman Vinayak Joshi. True to Maharashtrian family ethos, Chi Vi Joshi has dedicated his book to his son and granddaughter’s memory. Whereas a young Purushottam Laxman Deshpande preferred to feature a dedication to his Mother. As if one generation was handing over the baton to the next one.