Delhi has its biographer. Mumbai has one, so has Kolkata. But Patna, despite its long, unparalleled history remains unattended. UTPAl KUMAR visits the Bihar capital and finds out why it is still a marginalised city and where does it go from here
Patna is a marginalised city. It never was so for most part of its history. Politically, it lost its numero uno status after over 1,000 years of dominance, when the gravity of power shifted westward with the arrival of Muslim invaders in the country. Economically, however, the city continued to remain significant for another 1,000 years or so. Then the British came. They introduced the railways and Patna, being a riverine city, lost its relevance as a trading hub — this time forever. Thereafter the fate of a city didn’t depend on its proximity to a river. Railway connectivity determined the fortune. This explains the emergence of a non-riverine commercial centre like Calcutta, which swallowed other cities during the Raj — something which Delhi could do so ruthlessly post-Independence.
Despite such a glorious, eventful history, Patna has failed to get a decent ‘biographer’ to tell its side of story. If Delhi has William Dalrymple to explore the djinns of the city, if Mumbai can get Suketu Mehta to elucidate the Maximum City phenomenon, and Kolkata can engage Amit Chaudhuri to talk about the place and its people, Patna has been singularly unfortunate to have no such chronicler. Maybe it is a victim of the Naipaulian curse of “the Indian way of looking and not seeing”. This explains why Patna-based poet Alok Dhanwa, for instance, has so little to say about the city he has lived for most part of his life. Maybe Patna, and to a greater extent Bihar, being truly an area of darkness, wretchedness and complexities, can overwhelm — or even consume — a writer if he/she remains there for long. So Patna/Bihar could, at best, get an Ian Jack who appears for a while, does an absorbing story and then disappears. The city and, by extension, the State have so far been the subject of episodic tales, disjointed and engaging, chaotic and astonishing.
So, when Amitava Kumar came out with A Matter of Rats (Aleph publications), he did something different, something never explored in the past. His book promised to be a ‘short biography’ of Patna. “So, finally, the city has got a biographer,” I wondered. The euphoria, however, was short-lived. It was, after all, more of a memoir of the author rather than the city, which stood there mute, distracted and confused. Some of the protagonists, rats for example, can be exported to any other city, and the result would be more or less the same. The book begins with rats. Rats burrowed under the railway tracks, rats in jails and libraries, rats taking away the dentures of the aged, and rats even drinking alcohol. Rats... rats... rats... But are rats so central to the Patna narrativeIJ Don’t we find the same story in Delhi as wellIJ Such was the fear of rats during my college days in Delhi that I would never take the ground floor on rent. And their exploits were no less audacious.
letdown, I decide to see the great Patna rats on my own. Instead I encounter the men sitting along the railway tracks with their bottoms exposed, and a mobile phone pressed hard to their ears — this in the city of the man who has revolutionised the toilet culture in the country through his ‘Sulabh Shauchalaya’ initiative. Another proof that the country has more mobile phones than toilets! “Warm, humble, highly sociable, clever, fiercely diligent rats”, however, continue to evade me. Not even in the dark corridors of a not-so impressive Patna hotel.
Finding no rats in the hotel room, I land up on the road. It is crowded, messy and chaotic. The quality of roads has improved since 2005, when the Nitish Kumar-led NDA Government came to power in Bihar, but the number of vehicles have equally multiplied. “Over 3.3 lakh new vehicles on Patna roads in six years,” thundered a Times of India headline a few months ago. This is quite apparent on the city roads. After decades of lying low, wealth is now being flaunted openly. Mercedes and BMWs may still be rare, but Patna is full of diesel-guzzling SUVs. “Earlier, people would desist from showcasing opulence for the fear of being kidnapped or demanded ransom. Not anymore, thanks to improved law and order,” says Sunil Anand, who runs a bike agency in Patna. It seems after years of being forced into a life of near-abstinence, the Patna-wallahs are taking to capitalism with a vengeance. This became apparent when Dominos opened its first branch in the city a few years ago. Its first month sale was better than anywhere else in the country!
The improved law and order scenario is bringing in another silent revolution. Women can be seen on Patna roads even at nine in the evening, something unheard of a decade ago. “Girls are a freer lot now. They can be seen moving on bicycles or with boys without any fuss,” says the driver while taking me to the Kumrahar Park, which has the remains of an ancient city of Pataliputra. The park, unfortunately, has no obvious presence of the Mauryan era remains. “A few years ago, it was renovated. In the process, the park lost its identity and, of course, sense of history. Today, it’s just like any other park you will see in Delhi,” tells an official on the condition of anonymity. No wonder, it has become one of the best meeting places for love birds, seeking moments of privacy and intimacy. “With Rs5 ticket, it’s the cheap and best place for the younger generation,” confirms the ticket seller. Incidentally, the museum, situated right at the beginning of the park, has no Mauryan or Gupta-period artifacts; it just has a few run-of-the-mill photographs showcasing Bihar’s glorious past!
Present tense
Shiv Narayan isn’t too happy with the way Patna has shaped up intellectually in recent years. He has been editing Nai Dhara, a Hindi literary magazine, for over two decades now, but he finds intellectual vacuum growing up in the city. “Things have improved since 2005, but can the dark era of the lalu regime be the parameter to judge our progressIJ” he asks. “Patna has got infrastructure, but its soul remains unattended.” For Narayan, Patna’s soul survives in its rich literary heritage.
But then hasn’t Patna hosted its first ever literature festival, on the likes of Jaipur, this yearIJ Narayan isn’t impressed. “It was organised more for the outside world, rather than Bihar. People here were hardly involved, and local scholars largely ignored. Even when Gulzar sahib came here for the festival, he was kept beyond the reach of most people. I remember whenever he would come to this city in the past, hordes of people would go to see him, hear him. No such thing happened this time.” Narayan then recounts an interesting episode related with the Patna lit-fest, revealing how a cultural event can get a communal colour in Bihar. “You won’t believe how intense was the fight on whether the lit-fest be named after Patna or Pataliputra. Patna was finally chosen because, to certain minds, it appeared communal to go as back as Pataliputra’s time. This is sad. After all, what else can we be proud of if we discount our ancient heritageIJ Is Pataliputra just for HindusIJ”
Narayan then tells us how a 93-year-old man headed the Bihar Rashtrabhasha Parishad a few years ago. “He would find it hard to even sign a paper. Sadly, he was the head of an institution which had some of the best publications to its credit. His appointment showcased the skewed priorities of the Government of the day,” he says.
Sanjeev Kumar, editor of Vishwa Samvad Kendra, agrees with Narayan. “As late as the 1980s, there was a saying in the literary circle that an artist was incomplete without getting recognition from Patna. It has been a downward journey since then.” Kumar recalls how Kharag Vilas Press, under Shivpujan Sahay, helped renowned writers like Premchand and Jaishankar Prasad refine their writings. “They would not have become what they ultimately became without the influence of Patna,” he says.
DM Diwakar, director of the AN Sinha Institute of Social Sciences, however, doesn’t find the decline Patna-specific. “look what has happened to Delhi’s Jawaharlal Nehru University. It’s no longer the institution it used to be once. literature is influenced by society, and if society gets overtly shaped by market forces, then the nature of literature will also change. You call it decline, so be it,” he says matter-of-factly.
Past imperfect
lean, thin and slightly bearded, Alok Dhanwa is hardly the ‘revolutionary’ poet you would imagine while reading his fiery poems. He opens the door with a smile and walks back slowly — very slowly — to his chair. It’s a simple room with bare minimum objects — one ordinary bed, two plastic chairs and a small, messy dining table. Of course, there are two prized possessions in a PC and an AC. That’s all this radical poet has today in the name of comfort. Maybe he symbolised the city he has been living for decades — poor, nondescript, unassuming and wretched. He is the past whose time has already gone.
like Patna, Dhanwa is deeply hurt. He smiles a bit too often, but probe a little and there appears a sense of betrayal. He doesn’t mention the name, but it’s obvious who that person is — the author of the same Patna ‘biography’. Even before one could start the conversation, Dhanwa says, “This New York-based writer has hit below the belt by publishing personal things. You don’t write those things without explicit approval. He changed my name in the book. Is baat se sabit hota hai ki woh kitna kayar hai (This proves he is a coward).” There’s silence for a while. His lips are shaking and eyes moist. And he begins again: “You don’t say these things in public. Do youIJ Should I go around and say how he left a decent girl from this city for an American high-flyerIJ”
Hurt makes one petty, but the hurt is real. In the book, Dhanwa is painted as an unsympathetic, upper caster Bhumihar poet who allegedly oppressed his ex-wife, ruthlessly scuttled her ambitions and even forced her to abort her child. But when asked about A Matter of Rats, Dhanwa regains his composure and says he hasn’t read the book and so won’t comment!
Dhanwa, like his city, can be charged with having caught in a time warp, fervently believing in socialist revolution. Talk to him about Patna and he would be short of words. Instead, he cherishes talking about Gandhi, Marx, Mao, et al. Yes, Gandhi and Marx amicably coexist in his worldview. So do Maoists. And yes, he is earnest.
Dhanwa is the past. He belongs to the old world whose time has passed. A world which was naïve, revolutionary and ideologically honest!
In the evening I get an SMS from one of Dhanwa’s close associates, saying: “Kaan mein chhalla pahananewale ek chuhe ne Angla bhasha mein Patna ki ek mukhtsar biography likhi hai, Parth. Aadhe patrakar, aadhe lekhak (A ‘rat’ wearing earring has wrote a Patna biography in English. Half-journalist, half writer)!”
Future assured
While the past doesn’t hold much hope, with those belonging to it are caught in a time warp, trying to remain relevant though they have become obsolete long ago, at times disgruntled and retaliative, Anand Kumar holds the hope for future. Kumar, well-known for his Super 30 project, is also the symbol of Patna changing more because of individual endeavours rather than administrative efforts.
Kumar, at the first sight, would not appear as someone who is a celebrity in Patna. In a regular half pant and a white, now turning yellowish, vest, he is a warm host. Meet him and you will find him telling his story in one go, showcasing how many times he would have recounted the same narrative. Yet, he is patient.
Born to a poor, backward family, Kumar was fortunate to have a father, a clerk at the postal department, who understood the importance of education. “It was he who inculcated the importance of education in my life,” says he. like any ambitious Bihari of the 1990s, Kumar too was set to ‘fly’ out of the State for education. He got admission in the Cambridge University but had no money to go there. He, along with his father, pursued every influential person in Patna, including then Chief Minister lalu Prasad Yadav. “I can’t tell you how badly I was treated at the then Chief Minister’s residence. I was sternly thrown out shouting casteist remarks,” recalls Kumar.
It was at that critical moment that his father passed away. With him ended his desire to go abroad. “Besides my mother, I had the responsibility of a younger brother, who was then learning music at the BHU, a crippled uncle and an ailing grandmother. I couldn’t have left them all for my ambition,” says Kumar.
So, how did he cope with the challengesIJ “Initial years were incredibly tough for me and my family. Money was fast drying up and I had to do something quick to restore some sort of normalcy in the family. Finding no better alternative, I got my mother to make papads which I would sell door-to-door on my bicycle,” recalls Kumar.
But how did a papad-wallah became an inspirational figure in PatnaIJ “That was a hand-to-mouth existence and couldn’t be relied upon forever. Soon, on the advice of my friends, I began teaching mathematics. First I would charge Rs500 per student for a year, which was increased by a thousand more within a couple of years. In the intervening period, the number of students increased to 500 and then 700.”
Kumar then moves to his pet project — Super 30 — which he has been running for more than a decade now. He says that 30 talented students from poor families are selected and provided free board and tuition. Interestingly, no less than 90 per cent of his students managed to crack the IIT code last year. This stands in sharp contrast, if a New York Times report is to be believed, to less than two per cent students generally qualifying for the institution! “Super 30 hasn’t looked back from the very year of its inception when no less than 18 students qualified for the IIT,” says the proud mathematician.
Kumar is satisfied with the way things have shaped up. “Earlier I used to get most students from the lower middle class and only a few from truly poor families. Today, students mostly belong to the second category. This is satisfying, particularly when I see someone qualifying for the IIT and whose mother was a beggar not very long ago. There are many such heartrending stories.”
The present may be tense, the past imperfect. But what’s assuring is Patna’s future, which Kumar epitomises so well. As I walk across the deserted campus of Patna University, I know life is flourishing on the other side of the road. It’s full of students attending coaching classes. They are loud and optimist. They know future belongs to them. Old Patna of Renus, Dinkars and Dhanwas may be dying, but the new one has emerged. New Patna for the new world!