He was a Writer, Independent-minded, Humanist
A short story by the anti-establishment, anti-story writer Subimal Misra
by Subimal Misra
Just as he hated the exploiting class
So too did he have a heart-full of love to empty for the oppressed
With such class-consciousness the writer had written about American barbarity in Vietnam
He had unmasked the warmongers
Heaps of stories about the victory of the working class flowed out of his pen
Whenever there was exploitation, wherever there was oppression, his pen pounced into attack
In myriad ways, images of people’s woes, hardship, deprivation and poverty
Became manifest in his writing
But this writer was a humanist, he believed in freedom of thought, he did not possess any political perspective. And so, despite possessing everything, what befell him for merely this one reason, of not having a definite political perspective — an account of that is given below:
One morning, the very shrewd editor of a shrewd bourgeois publication arrived at the writer’s home. Our writer did not hate people, hence he could not fail to extend a welcome to the paper’s editor too. After tea and biscuits, Mr. Editor said: I have come to you with a special invitation. We recognise the power of your work. We shall be most grateful if you were so kind as to grant us permission to publish one of your essays. You are different from everyone else, your place is higher than the rest.
The writer said: But yours is a bourgeois publication. You depict people’s struggles in a perverted way. I pick up the pen only to oppose you. How will you publish my writing?
A wisp of a smile on his lip, the editor said in a most humble tone: Our paper believes in freedom of thought. Whatever be the opinion expressed or the path espoused in the writing, so long as it rises to the level of literature our paper publishes it without any hesitation. Our publication is an attestor of free thought and free conscience — we do not believe in breaking up thinking into tiny pieces. You will have complete freedom to write, you can write what you want, in your own way.
The writer reflected, he thought, there’s nothing wrong in this. If I can publish what I want to say, and in my own way, then what’s wrong with writing in their paper? Their circulation was something to envy, it reached many more people. By writing just one article in their paper I’ll be able to achieve what I wouldn’t have been able to even by writing in a hundred little magazines.
The writer agreed to write. A definite weakness towards the paper, the paper he considered to be a bourgeois publication so long, was formed within him at that moment.
He submitted an article.
According him due respect, Mr. Editor published it.
He submitted another article.
They published it again.
He submitted again.
They published it again.
The writer was overwhelmed. They definitely believed in freedom of thought. If that were not so, they wouldn’t have been able to publish such articles aimed at raising public consciousness, one after another, as they had done.
When those who had been his companions in writing so far, his friends, began talking about him stooping to the bourgeois camp, that he had sold himself, he protested fiercely. He explained with proof that when they published his writing in unimpaired form, according him adequate respect, it was improper to be unfair to them on the basis of some imaginary notions.
His friends explained. The bourgeoisie can never alter its character. He protested: One should not judge everything on the basis of some pedantic notions. That would amount to being unfair to people. Heaving a deep sigh, those who were his companions in struggle all these days gradually moved away… one by one, his band of followers was lost.
He, the writer, only remained steadfast in his decision. Because they were still publishing his writing regularly, because his writing still had market value.
But on the day this writer afflicted with humanism went of his own accord to the table of the editor and praised their paper, the smile on the corner of his lips seemed a bit crooked. The next day he praised their point of view. He also added that in the present day, people who believed in freedom of thought should possess exactly such a point of view. The editor’s smile became a bit clearer that day.
Mr. Editor’s smile became as clear as water on the day he realised that this writer’s writing did not really carry any esteem in the market, because those whom he used to write for, all those ordinary people had become suspicious of his recent views, the articles that they had read enthusiastically so long they now crumpled up and threw into the waste-paper basket, just like a useless piece of scrap paper. He raised his head and looked towards the humanist writer, he didn’t even ask him to sit, in a haughty tone, with the sense of self-importance befitting an editor, he said: We are thinking about changing our policy…
The next time the writer heard an even clearer reply: Tell me why we should publish your writing, people don’t want to read your writing anymore. Why do you keep blabbering about factory workers and labour all the time? There’s so much of variety in life — love-perversion-politics — modern boys and girls are becoming hippies — why don’t you produce some sparkling stuff about all that — we’ll advertise it as the special attraction of the festival number. The writer came away. He wanted to try to find his old friends, his followers. Those he used to speak his heart to once upon a time, with whom he used to have satisfying exchanges, who would spend the whole night discussing even a short two-page essay of his.
But there was no one anywhere.
He had no friends, no followers, no one to compliment him — no one to criticize him. He had never felt so companionless, so empty.
And thus it went on.
No one came to enquire.
No little magazine editor came, garrulous with praise or critique. Sitting all alone at home, companionless, the writer realized how distanced he had become from his true readers, how companionless and alone.
And then, he, the writer, by dint of circumstances, began to think about how he would devise just another love story about modern folk driven by love-perversion, which would be appropriate to publish in a purely commercial publication, and would yet appear outwardly to be a serious reflection on social thought — so that he could retain his feet on both shores.
Or
And then, he, the writer, by dint of circumstances, did not even realize when exactly he stopped writing, and thus was he lost to everybody, silently. This was the final result for the independent-minded humanist writer, who actually wanted to write for the common people, who wanted to express his independent thinking.
Counsel
Unless one possesses a clear political perspective, this is how a bourgeois publication buys up all possibility, uses them and then, after successfully separating them from people, makes them pander to their whims.
[1974]
This is a translation of the original Bengali short story, “Bourgeois Kagoj Jebhabe Chintar-swadhinata-bishwashi Lekhokder Byabohar Kore”, by Subimal Misra. Translated by V. Ramaswamy.
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Subimal Misra (b. 1943) is an anti-establishment and experimental writer in Bengali and lives in Kolkata. He has written exclusively in small, limited-circulation literary magazines (or little magazines) from the late sixties. About thirty volumes of his stories, novellas, novels, plays and essays have been published. Two volumes of his stories in English translation have been published, The Golden Gandhi Statue from America and Wild Animals Prohibited .
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