Function of Literature in South Asia Today
This paper was presented at the 13th SAARC Writers’ Conference, University
of Peradeniya recently
by Zillur Rahman Siddiqui, MA (Dhaka) MA (Oxon)
The first half of 20th Century, saw virtually the entire South Asia under foreign
domination. The second half witnessed these countries engaged in the task of
realising their political identity, their national destiny. The task has been far from
easy. In formulating their goals as nation states, they have spoken in the same voice
in declaring their commitment to democracy, to equity, to social justice, some even
going to the length of declaring socialism as a state principle. The sameness of
ideas and ideals as enshrined in their respective Constitutions and the actual state
of affairs with its puzzling diversity, as we take a close look into our own home
scenes, is a topic I can only passingly mention. The present century is going to be
known, as far as one can judge, as a century of forging closer links among
neighbouring nations. SAARC is the best example of how this urge for closer
communion is institutionalised. Under the umbrella of SAARC, many initiatives have
been taken, all aimed at promoting common interests. These are all useful initiatives
but precious little has been done to promote cultural links among our peoples. The
Delhi-based Foundation of SAARC Writers and Literature, though claiming some
kind of recognition by SAARC, does not disprove my contention.
In a paper written on the occasion of a SAARC summit held in Dhaka, in the nineties
of the last century. I had a few things to say on cultural co-operation in South Asia. I
had mentioned the existing modes and the possible ones, still unexplored. I had
emphasised the importance of linguistic’ culture. To quote, To put cultural exchange
on a sounder basis, we need, therefore, to give further thought to linguistic culture.
The most popular languages of South Asia, by which I mean the two or three
languages spoken by the most numerous linguistic groups, should be taught as a
second or a third language throughout the region, as a long-term cultural plan." I
had spoken of exchange of students, of expansion of tourism, among other things. I
now see that my proposal of addressing the problem on the academic plane could
only succeed as and when we can generate a strong political will in its favour.
Russian language, that enjoyed a unique status among all the federating states of
USSR, reportedly has lost that status with the disintegration of the Union. Multi-
lingual India has a three language formula aiming at a privileged position for Hindi.
Despite opposition here and there, especially in the South, the formula has worked.
We are told that in the Indian state of West Bengal, Hindi is slowly but steadily
gaining ground among a population known for its linguistic vanity. Culturally and
linguistically divergent Pakistan, trying to achieve national integrity by making Urdu
the state language for the whole of Pakistan, actually precipitated its quick
disintegration because of a wrong-headed zeal. English as a language has a
stronger appeal now, after the departure of the British, than it ever had when the Raj
was a reality. If Hindi is still a strong contender with English for supremacy in India,
the credit is due to Hindi films made in Marathi-speaking Mumbai. Through the same
channel, Hindi films, the language is making its inroad in Bangladesh, among a
people that had rejected Urdu only the other day. Now, what has this to do with my
concern as a writer? Or with my concern for a greater, a deeper understanding of
cultures?
I am acutely conscious of my limitations as a writer as I have only two languages I
can read, write and I have no means of knowing what my fellow writers are doing in
their own languages, Urdu, Hindi, Tamil or Malayalam. This I have felt to be a severe
limitation. I know more of Fourteenth century England, more of first century Rome,
more of medieval Europe, than I know of today’s Myanmar, my next door neighbours.
The little that I know of that country is through some accounts left by Orwell in his
stories, or through some short stories written by Englishmen residing in Burma in the
colonial days. People and civilisations that have not expressed themselves in writing
are lost to us. I am keen to know what life was like in my Country two or three or four
hundred years ago and I have to be satisfied with reconstructions of the same done
by historians. This is not the same as getting to know English life of the Eighteenth
century through the novels of Fielding or Jane Austen, of nineteenth century Russia
through the novels of Gogol, Turgeniv, Tolstoy.
Let me admit, literature is not the only thing that will speak for the spirit of a people.
One cannot deny the importance of other forms of cultural _expression, some of
them more tangible, speaking in the language of brick and mortar. I was about to
claim, in favour of literature, that words are far less perishable than works of brick
and mortar. But no, as a student of literature I know too well that is not true. A
pyramid will last for centuries but words, or what stood for words in the days
pyramids were, built, those picture writings, hieroglyphs of ancient Egypt, are all but
inscrutable today. We in Bengal boast of a thousand years of a living language and
of a literature that flowed, concurrently. But the remains of our oldest poetry, mystic
songs of Buddhist poets, are beyond my comprehension. A language is most
sensitive to the passage of time, so much so that an anonymous piece of writing will
reveal the age of its composition by the stamp of the time it bears. Bengali prose is
much younger than Bengali poetry. Those mystic songs better known as Chayapada
are not more than eight hundred years old whereas our earliest prose writings are
two hundred years old at the most. But the prose we write today is miles apart from
what our early masters wrote even as late as mid-nineteenth century. True, some
languages have changed more markedly over a shorter period of time compared to
others and also true the pace of change have not been the same in the case of
languages blessed with a life of a thousand years or more. But change, slow or
otherwise is the’ very essence of a living language, a truth that prompted Dr.
Johnson to make that famous statement in his Preface to the English Dictionary:
"When we see men grow old and die at a certain time one after another, from
century to century, we laugh at the elixir that promises to prolong life to a thousand
years; and with equal justice may the lexicographer be derided, who being able to
produce no example of a nation that has preserved their words and phrases from
mutability, shall imagine that his dictionary can embalm his language, and secure it
from corruption and decay, that it is in his power to change sublunary nature, and
clear the world at once from folly, vanity, and affectation."
Dr Johnson saw clearly the truth of change being the essential fact about a
language but apparently missed the other truth that alongside the possibility of
degeneration there is also the possibility of growth and fresh vitality. This is
achieved through the vitality of literature. When we talk of literature as a possible
bridge, alongside other more accessible bridges, especially the overwhelmingly
popular bridge of television, we have to take into consideration the barriers, the
impediments, that stand in the way of making it a viable media of communication
between peoples of South Asia. South Asia is linguistically a mosaic, rich and
colourful no doubt but still a mosaic.
It holds out a picture of broad cultural unity but nonetheless presents a problem of
accessibility. The situation here is markedly different from that in Europe. Through
continuous give and take between national literatures during the post-Renaissance
centuries, Europe achieved a cultural unity long before the politico-economic unity of
European Union. The forces of unity have often acted at cross purposes with the
forces of disunity but, ultimately, the forces of unity have won. Something similar
should and can happen in South Asia. But how ?
In Europe they did it partly through translation and partly through a system of
education that made second and often a third language a requirement for a higher
degree. But the languages had to be learnt at the secondary stage of education. In
the former U.S.S.R they did not stop with making the Russian language compulsory
reading for all, they had also undertaken a massive programme of translation. Maxim
Gorky is known to have been associated with this grand effort. In India, the central
government support of Sahitya Academy’s project of translation from one Indian
language to another has helped both readers and writers gain a better
understanding of Indian literature in its diversity and in its totality.
Speaking of my own country, Bangladesh, in promoting a humanistic culture, our
efforts have lacked in depth, in volume, and in sustainibility There has never been a
comprehensive plan and institutional support, either from universities or from Bangla
Academy, officially the custodian of national literature, has so far been nominal. I
have known cases where a lecturer in English at a University, who has done
meritorious work in translating Works from other literatures, has not earned him a
well-deserved promotion that a couple of so called research papers would have
done. I see no alternative to translation in realising our aim of building a grand
edifice of South Asian Literature, comprising a dozen separate literatures in a dozen
separate languages but each having gained substantially from others, and each
contributing something to others. Translation has got to be a carefully planned
activity and a many-pronged activity, too. Let us think in terms of a project, a SAARC
Project, in which all the national academies of art and literature, and one major
university from each country will be partners.