# The Torch not the Sceptre

- Link: https://writersworkshopindia.com/the-torch-not-the-sceptre/
- Published: 2015-07-07T00:13:00+00:00
- Author: admin

The reason I went into publishing is simple – nobody was around, in 1958, to publish
me. So I published myself. Half a dozen others – friends – also found this expedient
attractive. So we formed a group, a nice consanguineous côterie. We wrote prefaces
to each other’s books, pointing out excellences, and performed similar familial 
kindnesses in other ways as well. We believed, with Helen Gardner, that criticism
should flash the torch, not wield the sceptre. We gave unto ourselves a name – WRITERS
WORKSHOP – and adopted unto ourselves a detailed 1000-word “constitution” drafted
by our precisest-minded member, Deb Kumar Das.

Apart from Deb Kumar Das, who is now a “College Coordinator” (whatever that fancy
phrase means) in Seattle, there were seven others. I possess an aging, brittle sheet
of letter paper – “Lovely Bond”, Made in Sweden, _circa _1958 – with all the ringleaders’
names elegantly printed in saffron and their addresses in black, in a semicircle
on the left to suggest the curving leaf of the WRITERS WORKSHOP logo: Sasthibrata
Chakravarti (this was before he renounced his family name and inheritance and started
free-lancing for his breadand-brata); Anita Desai (her story “Grandmother” opens
the first issue of the WRITERS WORKSHOP bimonthly of creative writing _The Miscellany
_in 1960); William Hull (whose transcreations of the Latin poet appeared as one 
of the first batch of six WRITERS WORKSHOP publications, _The Catullus __of William
Hull); _P. Lal (listed as “Secretary”); Jai Ratan (whose first book, one of the 
six, was a collection of stories, _The Angry Goddess); _Pradip Sen (a vo1ume of 
poems, _And Then the Sun); _and Kewlian Sio (short stories, _A Small World). _Recollections
dim over a 25-year span, but I think it was William Hull who sparked it off. He 
was visiting at Patna University as a Fulbright professor from Hofstra College in
Long Island, New York. I met him at a pan-Indian writers’ seminar in Madras. He 
had a mischievous, loving gleam in his eyes – a _parfait _Southern gentleman, you
don’t make them any finer, a North Carolina Narada.

I was very young then, and not unmischievous myself, especially in the company of“
important” people and mediocrities who have greatness thrust upon them. The incident
I can recall vividly. An eminent Indian literary critic was expounding that morning
on the “indissolubility” of form and content (he preferred to call it “manner” and“
matter”). His vehemence was positively alarming and not in consonance with the liberalities
of literary humanism; indeed, the ferocity of his conviction smacked of academic
fanaticism. Here was a chance not to be missed. I scribbled a well-known stanza 
by a British poet, changing one word, and passed the note to Hull, who was sitting
on my left, asking him to identify the substituted word. Instead of doing so, he
slipped me the complete two-line text of a much-anthologized poem by Ezra Pound,
asking me to spot the word _he _had substituted. _Arré! _I couldn’t. It was embarrassing.
Was I that ignorant? Or could it be that Hull had actually _improved _on Pound?

We played this scribble-and-guess game for the full hour of the learned critic’s
exposition of the organic fusion of style and statement in literature. Having baffled
ourselves, we presented our bafflement during the question period to the august 
and noble assembly of creative writers and pundits. It was a deep learning experience
for all. Over lunch Hull remarked that he had heard of a group of writers who, under
my initiative, met every Sunday morning at my Lake Gardens residence, and would 
I be interested in a poetry reading by him when he visited Calcutta?

I would. The result: _The Catullus of William Hull. _The main professed aim of WRITERS
WORKSHOP is to demonstrate that “English has proved its ability, as a language to
play a creative role in Indian literature. The task it has set itself is that of
defining and substantiating this role by discussion and diffusion of creative writing
from India and other parts of the world. Its publishing focuses on English creative
and transcreative work by Indians, or such work as deals with, or is inspired by
or has relevance for Indian life and culture.”

How utterly and fortuitously splendid! Hull seemed to show us exactly what could
and should be done to make the ancient Indian classics, specially the Sanskrit masterpieces,
come alive for the 20th-century reader. For what good is a classic that does not
have significance for me _now? _

The world, alas, is not easily taken by storm. We printed 500 copies of _Catullus.
_We sold exactly three in the first year of its appearance, 1960. Two of these three
were bought from a stall opposite the Lighthouse Cinema in Calcutta by J. B. S. 
Haldane, who was then with the Indian Statistical Institute, B. T. Road, Calcutta.
On May 13, 1960, he wrote a long and charming letter congratulating Hull ”on attempting
the impossible.” He added, “American is a young language, as English was 400 years
ago, and Latin was when Catullus wrote.” He “suspected” that parts of Catullus ”
would slip almost effortlessly into Sanskrit.” He concluded by listing 10 printer’s
devils.

What impressed Haldane was the fluency with which Hull could shift from the pure
adjectiveless and nounless economy of Poem LXXXV:

> I hate. And I love.
> Maybe you wonder how I stand it.
> I don’t know. But I do.
> I feel it. I live with it.

to the graciously orchestrated complexity of Poem LXXVI:

> If man is so made that ease of mind, delight,
> come from thumbing through memories of
> well-doing,
> of integrity, of word given and well-kept,
> of no oath sworn by God to God’s disgrace,
> then a life, Catullus, long and blessed in delight
> has accrued you from your course in this love.

 

The ideal of such effortless transcreation still haunts and inspires us; the typos
still plague us. WRITERS WORKSHOP now has 800 separate titles on its list, mostly
poetry, fiction, drama and criticism by young and unknown Indian writers who prefer,
for various reasons, to use English as a creative medium. All the books are printed
on a minuscule hand-operated press, the size of a small desk, and the total mechanical
paraphernalia including the typefaces, cost less than Rs. 6,000. A small-is-beautiful
operation that provides eminently satisfying thrills and excitements, using the 
home as an office, a filing cabinet as a secretary, correcting proofs oneself, and
finding friends who will let out any spare vacant space cheaply for godown and storage
use, one can bring out a book at one-fifth the cost it would take if one went to
a Linotype press. It’s a good way to survive in a decade of rocketing printing costs.
It certainly is the only way to introduce new young writers, in elegant editions
bound in handloomed sari cloth by Tulamiah Mohiuddin.

I have a theory that every human being has a higher and a lower ego: the higher 
for grand achieving, the lower for underplayed yet not insignificant success. One
of the major highs of running a small publishing house is the chance, one gets of
pampering one’s lower ego. I am often asked about the criteria employed for the 
selection of manuscripts. I have three. One: a writer sends in material that’s so
impossibly good that it’s ten years ahead of its time – and there are very few commercial
publishers who would think of investing in such first-rate postdated creativity.
Two: the work shows promise, and the writer might stop writing altogether if not
discreetly encouraged through publishing. Three: the manuscript appeals to my taste,
such as it is, and I enjoy bringing out stuff that I like; it’s like introducing
a talented friend to strangers, though some may well wonder where the talent lies.
To each his taste. A good motto to go by is: Publish the moderns and read the ancients.
Trust ruthless Time. And be prepared for surprises. You never really know how a 
new book will get talked about – or not get talked about. We published Nissim Ezekiel’s
_The Unfinished Man _in 1960 and _The Exact Name _in 1965. Who would have guessed,
25 years ago, that he would get the Sahitya Akademi Award in 1984? Impossible to
imagine in 1971, when we brought out Jayanta Mahapatra’s book of poems _Svayamvara,
_that 10 years later he would have chosen for the same award or that Kamala Das,
whose _The Descendants _appeared in 1967, would have a full page devoted to her 
in the weekly newsmagazine _Time _of December 27,1975. (Or that Vikram Seth, whose
first book of poems _Mappings _appeared from WW in 1981, would go ahead and receive
the Sahitya Akademi award for _The Golden Gate _some years later.)

Many are called, few chosen. It remains a source of mystery to me why some have 
_not _received the acclaim they deserve.

Lawrence Bantleman, for instance: four books of poems and a play by this Calcuttan
Anglo-Indian who captures exquisitely the lyrical nuances of life on and around 
Free School Street. Kewlian Sio, of Chinese-Sikkimese parents: two books of stories,
_A Small World _and _Dragons – _perfect cameos of sharply observed detail of subject
and feeling. Padma Hejmadi, most of her stories appeared first in _The New Yorker;
_yet the excellence of her craft in _Coigns of Vantage, _the book we published  
in 1972, went largely unnoticed. Nasirna Aziz: a book of poems _One More, _and a
play, _No Metaphor, Remember; _yet who appreciated her scalpel-clear simplicity 
and honest, disturbing insights into Hindu-Muslim relationships?

Enough. Literature is no better or worse than life. Publishing is like watching 
a world drama: it’s total theatre all the way. Everything – from neglect to limelight,
from faith to perfidy – is present. One stands in awed wonder before the variety
and wizardry of literature – and of the profound and sometimes silly people who 
make it. It’s really a lesson in humility.

 

> This is a rose world.
> Here meaning is in fragrances.
> And life is the careful delivery of leaf….
> This is my friend’s rose garden.
> You shall come here as bird or leaf.
> Here are afternoon pleasures:
> Tea before sunset, and conversation,
> Squirrels and homing sparrows.
> The meaning of this rose world communicates.
> Syllables more splendid than life.

– P. Lal (Span, 1984)