The Political Imagination
Author: Nayantara Sahgal
Publisher: HarperCollins, Rs499
The writer, who is a member of the Nehru-Gandhi family, is committed to freedom of thought, even if it means burning bridges with her kith and kin, says RAJESH SINGH
Most authors write because they are in love with words. They can conjure fanciful imagery through breathtaking use of phrases and delectable structuring of sentences. They can transport readers to a new world that looks either enticing or gloomy — and by doing so these authors can even change moods and mindsets. Nayantara Sahgal does not care to do that, at least not consciously. Her writings are what one can call ‘statements’. like a fashion statement, which speaks less of the dress and more about the person, Sahgal’s writings reflect her strongly-held views and her persona more than the literary nuances that many readers would expect of a writer.
There are many facets to Sahgal the writer and, therefore, Sahgal the person. But one that stands out and remains constant throughout her writings, seen through the prism of her experiences, is her unquestioned commitment to freedom of thought. As The Political Imagination — which she calls “a personal response to life, literature and politics” — reflects, she has seen many challenges to that freedom and spoken out on them, even if it meant burning bridges with family and friends. As a member of the Nehru-Gandhi family (she is the daughter of Vijaya lakshmi Pandit), she picked up cudgels against the Emergency, (“…the Emergency itself played havoc with my life, cutting me off from earning a living”.), and lashed out at what she called the “rise of a militant Hinduism that believes in a Hindu nationhood”.
The book is a mix of her writings and speeches and mushy compliments that writers and others have paid her over the years. Together, they reflect her fiercely independent spirit, which could not be bottled despite the greatest pressures. Talking of the state of writing during the Emergency days, she laments, “I looked around at the debris of the vigorous, independent penmanship of which India had been justly proud. Respected editors and journalists were out of jobs, or making do with what they could find. Sycophancy had grown to fantastic proportions.” She then goes on to relate what had become a 24x7 fear among Indians then: “Meeting friends was something of a relief, but even a social gathering was distressing when ‘walls had ears’ and conversation had to be guarded.”
Sahgal has an interesting narration of that period when she met Subramanian Swamy, and it deserves to be fully reproduced. She talks of a meeting with friends and like-minded people in New Delhi, in which she had invited Swamy. This is how she speaks of that moment: “After somewhat conventional talk providing the background and meaning of the emergency by Rajni Kothari, Ved Mehta and myself, Swamy’s down-to-earth remarks, crisply delivered with no ifs, buts or frills, had a tonic effect on the audience… The last things (sic) that many present expected of a Jan Sang (sic) leader was that he would be a modern, articulate, Harvard-educated economist, with a practical knowledge of the Indian countryside and a lively sense of humour.” Of course, Sahgal gives away the fixed template that left-leaning and even Centrist intellectuals have of Right-thinking leaders and activists and make strenuous efforts to promote the fallacy. Impressed, she told Swamy that “people need to know that the Jan Sang (sic) does not have three horns and a tail”. It never had those implements and never has in its new form as the BJP, yet certain people cling on to the contrary view.
The author’s concern for meaningful writing does not end with the challenges writers faced during the Emergency; she is as forceful about the ‘commercialisation’ that has set into writing which, she believes, is not always a good thing. In a speech at the Jaipur literature Festival in 2008, which forms part of the book, Sahgal said, “I’m probably more aware of the commercialism of our current book climate because it is so different from when I started writing. My first novel was published in 1958. No one then judged a manuscript by how many copies it would sell.” Her publisher told her that his publishing house chose fiction for “its timeless quality”. Those were different times; today even fiction has to be not just political but also ‘contemporary’ to merit a publisher’s attention.
Sahgal spoke of the image many had of the Jan Sangh, an image which, at least for that moment, Swami shattered for her. There is another anecdote which serves to break yet another impression: That people have held of the Russian (or the Soviet then) leaders being cold and even ruthless, and certainly devoid of humour. This again needs to be reproduced in detail to derive full delight. In 1995, the author, while giving a keynote address in Colombo for Commonwealth literature and language Studies, spoke of Soviet leader Nikita Khruschev’s self-joke. Khruschev once came across a ragged peasant. He thumped him on the back and asked him how the Great October Revolution had treated him. The peasant said earlier he had two coats to wear, now he has only one. The Soviet leader consoled by pointing out that there were many unfortunate people who did not have even one coat. “The peasant gave a gloomy nod and said, ‘In that case comrade, they must have had their Great October Revolution long before ours.”
Guffaws are in order here. But Sahgal, ever the perceptive political observer, comments: “I have wondered why on earth Khruschev didn’t come to the adult conclusion that it was time to compromise and the Great October Revolution a hefty dose of rugged individualism. He might have his country from collapse, as America would have saved itself decades of paranoia if it had admitted there was another view of world affairs besides its own.” In a few compelling words, the author has said what scholars have been doing through the consumption of reams of paper and hundreds of hours of talk-time on television.
Finally, for ‘secular Hindus’ who have made it a fashion to pan Hinduism or turn away and either embrace a new faith or become atheists or agnostics, Sahgal offers wisdom: “If I change my name to Henrietta von Blinkenstaff, whom am I trying to foolIJ Can I quick-change my bones, my myths or my grandparentsIJ Can I forget that my great-grandmother became a satiIJ Believe it, you are a Hindu.” While this is her prescription for a writer, it works well for the rest too. And the theory will work for writers and citizens of other faiths or no faith too.