Wild Animals Prohibited: Stories, Anti-stories, by Subimal Misra
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Wild Animals Prohibited: Stories, Anti-stories, by Subimal Misra
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Audacious experimentalist and self-declared anti-writer, Subimal Misra is the master of contemporary alternative Bengali literature and anti-establishment writing. This collection brings together twenty-five stories that record the dark history of violence and degeneration in Bengal of the seventies and eighties. The mirror that Misra holds up to society breaks every canon of rectitude with unfailing precision. The stories also plot the continuous evolution of Misra's writing as he searches for a form to do justice to the reality that confronts us. Deeply influenced by Godard, Misra uses montage and other cinematic techniques in his stories, which he himself calls 'anti-stories', challenging our notions of reading and of literature itself. Brilliantly translated by V. Ramaswamy, Wild Animals Prohibited: Stories/Anti-stories startles with its blasphemy, its provocative ideas and its sheer formlessness.
Wild Animals Prohibited: Stories, Anti-stories, by Subimal Misra- Amazon Sales Rank: #2922180 in eBooks
- Published on: 2015-09-15
- Released on: 2015-09-15
- Format: Kindle eBook
About the Author Subimal Misra (b. 1943) has been called the only anti-establishment writer in Bengali. With his very first book, Haran Majhi s Widow s Corpse or the Golden Gandhi Statue (1971), he signalled his departure from conventional narrative fiction. He has written exclusively for little magazines. V. Ramaswamy lives in Kolkata. He is engaged in a multi-volume project to translate the short fiction of Subimal Misra. The Golden Gandhi Statue from America: Early Stories, published in 2010, was shortlisted for the Vodafone Crossword Book Award. He was awarded the Sarai Fellowship for Non-fiction Writing in 2012.
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2 of 2 people found the following review helpful. Wild animals not prohibited By Venkat Ramaswamy Review by Dr Janam Mukherjee, author of “Hungry Bengal: War, Famine, Riots & End of Empire"At times, in conversation with my genteel contacts in Calcutta, I felt that perhaps I had gone slightly mad, that my immersion in history was corrupting my clarity, and that the hunger and violence that I found haunting the sidewalks and alleys of Calcutta were merely figments of my imagination, hallucinations of an overwrought historical imagination that hears echoes of a clamorous past everywhere.It was not until I met the translator of these stories, V. Ramaswamy, that I was able to conclude with any certainty that I was, in fact, still in my right mind, as far as seeing Calcutta was concerned. It was he who confirmed for me that these visions were actual, and that there exists a vast conspiracy of not seeing that renders many of the moneyed classes in Bengal almost completely ignorant about the more brutal aspects of the social reality that surrounds them – and which they, in fact, wilfully, if blindly, reproduce. It was, moreover, my introduction (again through Ramaswamy) to the prose of Subimal Misra that confirmed for me that not only were these sights real, but that they are meaningful and despite inclinations otherwise, one should never look away. Everywhere in Misra's stories one finds the stark ravages of a hunger that is impossible to ignore, a mute but irrepressible destitution that nags every plot and that pricks at the conscience of the reader. In the title story, “Wild Animals Prohibited”, it is the haunting materiality of hunger – in the body of a beggar girl – that spoils the mindless hedonism of a middle-class sex club, as in the more poetic “Health for all by 2000”, it is a headline announcing the death by starvation of 45,000 Indians a day that interrupts the writer's morning tea. Such juxtapositions of want and excess, underwrite the jarring candor of Subimal's prose and reveal enormous amounts about the craven dynamics of entrenched inequality and structural violence: the middle-class girl in “Spot Eczematous” who dreams of making lice fried rice the “food of the proletariat”; the “elderly revolutionaries”, in “How a Horse Becomes a Donkey”, who “afflicted by constipation, enunciate the objective condition of the nation, spewing Marx-Lenin”; while, as in “Drumstick Flowers Make a Fine Chochchori” the little children of Radhanath, a bidi-worker, “stay at home and make bidis instead of going to school ... [and] never get the opportunity to hear about the International Year of the Child”.Subimal writes about the persistent uncertainty, misapprehension and trauma of human existence, juxtaposing the absurdities of desire, disappointment and fear that characterize modern life against the mute indifference of dispassionate nature and the moral rectitude of myth. Man flounders, in Misra's prose, seeking to "pluck flowers of beauty," while wallowing in the muck. In this sense, it might be said, Subimal Misra is the Beckett of Bengal, with a keen and withering eye as devastatingly bleak as Beckett's, and a humor as dark and sublime. In "Radioactive Waste", goatish Ajoy's lust for fat and matronly Sushma, is continually interrupted by the bomb blasts that characterised 1970s Calcutta, as well as by the claustrophobia of middle-class life, and the blood stains of the self-inflicted wounds of existential doubt. Such stains Misra warns us "are not easy to remove, they accumulate, like a debt, for a long time." Tied to this wheel of unrelenting, and unrealized desire and violence - both within and without - Ajoy remains human - all-too-human - and "not for once did the idea of snapping the rope and escaping enter his mind." Like the rest of us, imprisoned by fear, he watches idly while the undoing of the natural world continues apace, and the waste that we have created out of the natural order of things - in this case radioactive transium - threatens to drown us all, whole and alive.In all the stories in this volume, in fact, Misra examples a truly rare form of prose that probes into the dark recesses of human society and consciousness, revealing the hunger, craven desire, cruelty and absurdity of un-inspected lives. In this aspect, Misra's writing represents a mission that he himself (in one of his inventive flights of meta-narrative) describes as “shock therapy”. Hunger and power intermingle at random in the cauldron of characters that Misra stews, and while it is always power that puts the boot down across the neck of the hungry, an almost inexplicable inkling of humanity silently accrues to the downtrodden, and all at once – in a word, or a gesture, or even in a stench (as in the case of Misra's story “Golden Gandhi Statue from America”) – breaks through to starkly reveal the vanity and diabolic arrogance of power. In his undaunted attention to dark detail, in his penchant for describing the depravity of the rich, the indifference of the bourgeoisie and the malignancy of the socio-political order, Misra might be compared to Faulkner, or Celine, or Elfriede Jelinek. But in the irreducible material presence (and in many cases it is sheer physical presence alone ...) of the poor and the downtrodden, Misra identifies an immanent critique to power and impunity. It is not that Misra “champions” the poor, and in no sense does he promote any particular social agenda, instead, he extremely artfully demonstrates that for all the jockeying and chicanery, for all of the will to snuff them out, or push them aside, or smite them – either through violence or indifference – the wretched of the earth still remain, and in their mere existence lies proof that power is both inhumane and incomplete. In this double revelation, Misra might be understood as a crypto-revolutionary, pointing not only to the human wreckage that power and social hierarchy leave in their wake, but also to the weakness in power that allows for such human refuse to still disrupt its morning tea.Between Subimal Misra's “anti-stories” and my own historical work on Bengal in the 1940s, I see a strange affinity. A central aim in my empirical account of famine in Bengal was to expose the intimate (and obscene) relationship between power and hunger, and to narrate the extent to which the fulfillment of the craven desires of some is dependent on the abject immiseration of others. Moreover I wanted to capture the way that clamorous greed silences human sorrow. During famine it was the din of power – in its depraved pursuit for money, resources, recognition, “security”, and even sex – that provided cover for the annihilation of the poor masses, while in the “middle” – between “power” and destitution – morals failed, fear prevailed, and a grotesque callousness deepened to the point of inhumanity. Hunger, in this sense, provides a singular hermeneutic to examine a very sick society. It was not, however, the plight of the destitute and dying that I aimed to capture in my work, but rather the broader effects on “civilisation” at large, of brutal inequality. I also wanted to detail the multiplying moral hazards of passively upholding structures that guarantee human extermination, and the particular kind of heartlessness this entails. Famine is just as much a story about human cruelty, self-interest, vanity, insatiability and vindictiveness as it is about starvation. Subimal Misra's work confronts similar themes and supports my contention that famine in Bengal has never ended. Throughout his work, hunger continues to haunt the landscape – hunger as the foil against which all plots unfold, and hunger as the hermeneutic that belies the vane gesticulations of disappointed lives. He himself draws the historical link to the Bengal famine in “Calcutta Dateline”:“A dog stands over a dead body, tears out and eats the flesh. It wouldn’t have been proper to show this scene too clearly. Why does the moon cast so much light on the dry riverbed on the night after the new moon? Bit by bit, the past arrives and becomes meshed with the present.”The famine, again, and again – forever reappearing in violence done to the bodies of the poor and the willed ignorance of the self-contented. Though “it would not be proper”, Misra always shows the scene, all too clearly – without apology or pause. “A dog stands over a dead body, tears out and eats the flesh.” Subimal Misra's writing always reminds me that if there is redemption to be found at all, it can only be found in a street-fighting sense of honesty. In the fight against brutal inequality, it is not a question of change, but a question of justice – the most universal question of all – and justice demands breaking through the deathly silence of “proper” lives. Wild animals not prohibited..............Review by Kingshuk Chatterjee, from The New Indian Express, 1 May 2016.Twenty-five Shades of the DarkThe stories that comprise the volume under review are of a sort that does not seem to be written much anymore, or maybe just not publicised enough, in the era of Incredible India, when achhe din are always around the corner. These are stories where the “lived-happily-ever-after” goes for a toss—things do not always work out right, justice is not triumphant in the end, and God does not beam happily from high above with a rainbow over his shoulder. Human nature is revealed to be what it often is—dark, gloomy, cruel, or at the very best, just indifferent to the plight of others—rather than what we wish it would be.Subimal Misra is one of those little-known authors writing in Bengali who have not been noticed at all by those outside the Bengali-reading public, and quite often not even by them. Having begun to write from the late-60s, Misra has produced nearly 20 volumes of stories and (what he calls) anti-stories. Misra’s prose is influenced considerably by the film-making techniques of the French film-maker Jean Luc Godard.The extreme irreverence that pervades Misra’s works has progressively attained such dimensions that people with very conservative and prudish sensibilities are revolted by his prose-style, let alone his treatment of the narrative. Misra, however, has admitted that to be the very impact he wants to have upon the reader. Hence, he has come to acquire a cult status— based on account of his remarkably clear-sighted approach to the human condition, using (for want of a better word) a Leftist prism—largely among a niche audience of thinking people.The twenty-five stories (and anti-stories) of the volume are drawn from Misra’s works of the ’70s and ’80s. Varying in length between 22 pages and two, the stories are chosen by the translator, V Ramaswamy, without any central narrative—perhaps appropriately, because Misra himself is deeply contemptuous of the idea of a central narrative.Ranging from themes like harassment of an old passenger by a bunch of disrespectful youth on a bus (“Historic Descent”) or the journey of a village bumpkin picked up by a politico and inducted into the police, who later decides to become a politico himself (“By the Roots”), Misra has put together quite a few stories that are laced with a deep sense of contempt for the decadent bourgeois society of India in the ’70s and ’80s (and maybe even of today). Perhaps the most enjoyable storyline is that of “Gem of a Man”—two stories, apparently completely unrelated (but maybe not quite), told together.Finally, a word on translator V Ramaswamy. His translation would stand out as among the best translations from Bengali to English in a very long time. Reading this volume, a native speaker of Bengali would be excused for thinking that he is not reading Misra in translation at all. The signature figures of Misra’s speech, his style and delivery have all been captured by Ramaswamy with such effortless ease that the translation has become an act of trans-creation, and the translator has become almost inseparable from the author.......Review by Nilanjana S Roy in Business Standard, 7 November 2015The anti-storytellerI do not want my writing to be converted into a commodity, or be capable of being digested in the intestines of middle-class babudom," Subimal Misra wrote in his 1982 work, Actually This Could Have Become Ramayan Chamar's Tale. There is little chance of this happening.The two collections of his short stories that have been published in English so far, The Golden Gandhi Statue from America: Early Stories (2010) and Wild Animals Prohibited: Anti-Stories/ Stories (Harper Perennial, 2015) are loved by poets, film makers, fiery aspiring artists, exchanged between members of this fellowship like rare gifts. But Misra's stories will not be sold at traffic lights, will not be pirated, any more than you will see the author exchange his three-room house, filled with 15,000 books, for a television studio.There is a subtle danger to this, as the poet Sharanya Manivannan writes: what if Misra is propelled to a celebrity he has derided throughout his career? "What will happen then, when his cult becomes conventionally cool?" It is a fearsome thought: the stories in Wild Animals Prohibited are not easily co-opted, as the titles will tell you ("Meat Was Bartered", "From The Morgue on Bhawani Datta Lane", "Mohandas" and "Cut-Ball"), but in some apocalyptic future, terrible things might happen to them.Misra's stories might become influential in the same way Kolatkar's Jejuri was, a generation genuflecting to the craft of the poem while completely ignoring what the poet had to say about the hollowness of religious ritual; hipsters might read them aloud; reviewers might write sweet notices praising his skill in the pink pages of business papers. One of these three dire fates has already overtaken him, but Misra is prepared for this, too, and has written his own reviews in the brief comments he's made for the preface.He says that his writing does not conform to the kind of reading that has gained currency, and this is partly true, though writers like Hansda Sowvendra Shekhar are, like him, writing from outside the space of the headlines, paying attention to the world that does not trend on Twitter.He says readers will definitely be dismayed, and this, too, is only partly true: it takes a strong stomach to stay with his reports from the morgue, from the rotting body in a sack whose stench poisons a city, the half-whores and full-whores, but he reels you in, even as he plays games with language, arranging his sentences into one of his famous collages.A director struggles to corral the red-light district, Sonagachi, into a frame that stays away from the "very sweet" version created in the Bengali market: bel flowers, tittering laughter, tears, Parvati, Devdas. A writer sees an opportunity to make money by interviewing the man who makes a living playing Gandhi. The Naxal years leave bloodstains and a trail of vanished citizens across some of his stories. One of Misra's cautions is valid: these stories carry the mark of a particular time, and as he had feared, some have indeed dated.But one of the joys of this collection and The Golden Gandhi Statue is that V Ramaswamy goes far beyond the traditional tasks of a translator. The introductions, interviews and short essays appended with each book are something of a master-class in understanding Misra, and in understanding the world of Bengali writing that he emerged from, even though he has so successfully resisted being part of that universe. Ramaswamy's brief critical essays are, like his translations, simple, lucid and skillful."In Bengali, a book is called boi, and a film, which is called chhobi or picture, is also often referred to as boi, because films used to be based on popular or famous novels or books. Misra, however, calls his stories films, or chhobis," Ramawamy writes.This simple insight provides the only key you need to the work of this uncompromising, influential Calcutta writer; it explains why long after you have put his stories aside, Misra's images haunt your imagination.
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