# Pritish Nandy (15 January 1951 – 8 January 2025)

- Link: https://writersworkshopindia.com/2025/01/11/pritish-nandy-15-january-1951-8-january-2025/
- Published: 2025-01-11T12:36:01+00:00
- Author: us\_basu

**Writers Workshop** remembers and celebrates Pritish Nandy as the 16-year-old poet
who came to Professor P. Lal with his first manuscript of poetry, _Of Gods and Olives_(
which we published in 1967). He wrote about his experience with P. Lal, who gave
him the “confidence no one else was willing to offer” in his homage, “[To Sir With Love](https://writersworkshopindia.com/to-sir-with-love-pritish-nandy/)“.
_Of Gods and Olives_ went on to become “A huge hit and was widely acclaimed” as 
Pritish Nandy described later in [an interview](https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/entertainment/hindi/bollywood/news/my-greatest-asset-is-audacity-pritish-nandy/articleshow/31041934.cms).

His next book, _On Either Side of Arrogance_, appeared the very next year, followed
by the play _Rites for a Plebeian Statue_ (1969) and more poetry in _Masks to Be
Interpreted in Terms of Messages_ (1970) – a book every year since his debut. In
1970, WW published his translation of _The Complete Poems of Samar Sen_, one of 
Bengali literature’s leading modern poets.

In _Modern Indian Poetry in English_ (WW, second edition, 1971) the young Pritish
wrote this[⌊Black and white photo of a young Pritish Nandy⌉](https://writersworkshopindia.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/01/Pritish-Nandy-2.jpg)
impassioned defence of Indian writing in English: “Yes, Indian writing in English
is the result of Anglomania in the same sense that such writing in Bengali is the
result of Bengalimania. There is and can be only one circumstance, one motivation
for writing in a particular language: one loves the language and feels like expressing
himself in it. Thousands learned English in India and thousands more are learning
it despite the onslaught of Hindi jingoites.”

He added: “Not plenty of Indians feel in English; it is not the language of their
emotion. But then, again, for some this holds true. And this minority is significant
if we study the statistics of literacy in the country. But whether English is or
not an Indian language should not affect the body-logic of our argument once we 
accept the premise that if you love a language enough to make love in it, you have
the right to write in it. In fact, there can be no question about the right to write
in any language – the point is the right to expect an open mind. Though creative
mannerisms preclude the element of choice the linguistic vehicle need not: this 
axiom, if held valid, can knock the bottom off the argument that does not distinguish
between these two planes of the creative act. If you love English – which is a fact
you must probabilistically reckon with – the question becomes: then why not in English?”(
p. 120, Section 1)

The Government of India recognized Nandy’s contribution to Indian literature with
the Padma Shri in 1977. He also received the E M Forster Literary Award, the UNESCO
Asia Pacific Heritage Award, the International Association Award from the Humane
Society of the United States, and the Friends of Liberation War Honour from Bangladesh,
among many others.

**Writers Workshop** mourns the loss of Pritish Nandy, poet and force of nature.
We share this poem from _Masks to Be Interpreted in Terms of Messages_:

 

_beyond that rock is the silent exile_

 

_the burning of corpses at the end of a journey_

 

_you have marked the place where we shall return where empty cities burn in_

_the desert air_

 

_there where the waters meet your dusk-drawn thighs circling the passion of_

_night with a gesture of despair for you are here and everywhere Urvashi you_

_are nowhere and yet you are the evening the sullen dusk the sound of rivers_

_running mountains broken rocks ruins you move through prayer with the gait_

_of suffering_

 

_white again is the colour of insanity_

 

_the fascia of shells_

 

_and I will ask you what you know about those mad blue eyes that have_

_tracked me everywhere disentangling the hopes of countless continents_

 

_and the alphabet of stars will haunt me on this night of fast_

 

_the moons will be peopled by agony for the way forward must be backed by_

_the backward steps and what you cannot explain in terms of symbols is lost_

_forever like blind totems and ruins on an old man’s face_

 

_broken monuments on tresses that have known desire_

 

_words that are shells and insane waters_

 

_the burning of corpses at the end of a journey_

 

_beyond that rock is the silent exile_

 

_of gods who have aged and are not aware_