The Wise Woman and Other Stories: The Best of Mannu Bhandari

By Mannu Bhandari

Born in Madhya Pradesh in 1931, Mannu Bhandari had her early education in Ajmer, graduated from Calcutta University and then went on to obtain an M.A. in Hindi language and literature from Banaras Hindu University. She initially worked as a lecturer in Hindi in Calcutta, and subsequently taught Hindi literature at Miranda House College, in the University of Delhi. A prolific writer of short stories, novels, novellas, and plays, Mannu Bhandari has been honoured with several awards for her outstanding literary achievements in Hindi. She is considered one of the pioneers of the ‘Nayi Kahani’ Movement, a Hindi literary movement of the late 1950s and early 1960s. Her work has been translated into many Indian and foreign languages. Some of her stories have been adapted into films as well as for the stage. The Hindi movie Rajnigandha, based on her short story ‘Yehi Sach Hai’ won the Filmfare Best Film Award in 1974.

Vidya Pradhan is a writer based in Palo Alto, California. She has written several children’s books, features, and a memoir. This is her first translation and she looks forward to bringing more classic Indian literature in Hindi to English readers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roli Books
• Release date: Jun 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9788186939871

Book preview

Born in Madhya Pradesh in 1931, Mannu Bhandari had her early education in Ajmer, graduated from Calcutta University and then went on to obtain an M.A. in Hindi language and literature from Banaras Hindu University. She initially worked as a lecturer in Hindi in Calcutta, and subsequently taught Hindi literature at Miranda House College, in the University of Delhi.

A prolific writer of short stories, novels, novellas, and plays, Mannu Bhandari has been honoured with several awards for her outstanding literary achievements in Hindi. She is considered one of the pioneers of the ‘Nayi Kahani’ Movement, a Hindi literary movement of the late 1950s and early 1960s. Her work has been translated into many Indian and foreign languages. Some of her stories have been adapted into films as well as for the stage. The Hindi movie Rajnigandha, based on her short story ‘Yehi Sach Hai’ won the Filmfare Best Film Award in 1974.

Vidya Pradhan is a writer based in Palo Alto, California. She has written several children’s books, features, and a memoir. This is her first translation and she looks forward to bringing more classic Indian literature in Hindi to English readers.

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CONTENTS

Mannu Bhandari: A Life in Words by Namita Gokhale

Tales of the Everywoman: A Note from the Translator

1. This is the Truth

2. Gypsies

3. The Actor

4. The Lonely One

5. Chains

6. Eyeglasses

7. Two Artists

8. A Storm in a Teacup

9. Rooms, Room, and Rooms

10. The New Job

11. Punishment

12. The Wise Woman

13. Trishanku

14. The Tale of a Weak Girl

15. Here There is No Sky

16. A Human in the House of Christ

17. I Have Lost

18. Fake Diamonds

Glossary

MANNU BHANDARI

A LIFE IN WORDS

Mannu Bhandari’s inspired body of work forges an important link in the evolution of modern Hindi fiction. Her quietly told stories amplify all the more because they are often recounted in a whisper. She is of her time, yet timeless. The late 1950s and early ’60s, when she wrote some of her most prominent novels, was a moment in India’s intellectual history when the young republic was scrutinizing itself with a new self-awareness.

Married to the iconic writer and editor Rajendra Yadav, Bhandari was deeply immersed in the ideas and debates of her time. She was never flattened into the shadows by her husband’s fame and charisma, but resolutely pursued her own substantial writing career. The literary milieu around her was alive with excitement. Writers like Nirmal Verma, Mohan Rakesh, Kamleshwar, Krishna Sobti, Bhisham Sahni, Usha Priyamvada, and of course she herself with her husband Rajendra Yadav, were determinedly reinterpreting the narratives of their times.

The ‘Nayi Kahani’ movement mirrored the angst of the new and emergent middle classes, and the conflicts that arose as they struggled for a contested individualism, and the right to articulate their hopes and desires, pinioned as they were in the timeless traditions of a conservative society. Those to the ultra-left invoked the peasantry and wrote passionately of the labouring classes. The new paradigms of urban life, and the quotidian negotiations of everyday reality, included a questioning of the time-honoured allocation of male and female roles. The unfamiliar phenomenon of the working woman was viewed with suspicion, and the women’s brigade of the ‘Nayi Kahani’ litterateurs wrote with feeling about the inequities of gender, and the unrealistic expectations of a backward-looking society.

It was in this context that Mannu Bhandari wrote her understated but hard-hitting fiction. Born in 1931 in Bhanpura, Madhya Pradesh, she grew up in Ajmer, in Rajasthan. Her father Sukhsampat Rai was a progressive minded freedom fighter, who pioneered the English to Hindi and English to Marathi dictionaries. Her first short story, ‘Main Haar Gayi’ was accepted by the literary journal Kahani in 1956, while she was still in Ajmer. After graduating from Calcutta University, she obtained a master’s degree in Hindi literature from Banares Hindu University, and later proceeded to teach Hindi Literature at the prestigious Miranda House, Delhi University.

Bhandari battled resolutely for every inch of intellectual and personal space all through her life. Her love marriage to Rajendra Yadav, already a notable figure in the literary world, drew her centre stage with a man who cast himself in the rugged masculine mould of Hemingway and other writers who took their overt machismo as their creed and assertion of identity. Yet she determinedly held her own, and a writerly camaraderie prevailed even as their personal life together faced utmost challenges. The quiet heroism of her battle, the odds against women in a hyper-patriarchal society, the small victories of self-assertion and independence, sparkle in her stories and give them resonance even with the passage of time.

The uninhibited, highly experimental novel, Ek Inch Muskan was written in 1963, in collaboration with her husband, when Bhandari was in her early thirties, and describes their relationship from different perspectives. Her other significant works include Apka Bunty (1971), which sensitively brought to life the tragic conflicts unfolding within a child with divorced parents. The classic film Rajnigandha based on her short story ‘Yahi Such Hai’ was released in 1974. Mahabhoj (1979) took on the criminalization of politics and was written in the context of the Belchhi massacre. Swami (1982) was adapted into an award-winning feature film, directed by Basu Chatterjee. Her major short story collections include Ek Plate Sailab (1962), Yehi Sach Hai aur Anya Kahaniyan (1966), Teen Nigahen Ek Tasveer (1969) and Trishanku (1999). The autobiographical Ek Kahani Yeh Bhi was published in 2007 and is the story of her literary life.

Bhandari has referred to what she terms a ‘passionless neutrality’ in her literary voice. The objectivity of her gaze, the determined eschewing of the dramatic, is a signature of her style. The other distinctive characteristic of her work was what she referred to as ‘shilpaheenta’ – a sort of carefully crafted formlessness.

Bhandari, Krishna Sobti and Usha Priyamvada were the three prominent women writers who took on the entrenched patriarchy to which they were born. The women’s movement in northern India was spawned in part from their ideological commitment, and the strong women characters who inhabited their fiction. They led by example in their personal lives as well, and despite their very different literary styles and personalities, they gifted a legacy of women’s voices which could not be ignored to the dominantly male tonality of Hindi literature of that period.

Bhandari drifted apart from her talented and temperamental husband, who apart from his own prolific and highly regarded writing had revived the historic magazine Hans and brought it to great heights of literary excellence. Although they were separated, they remained friends until the end, a testament to the robust intellectual partnership that they shared.

Ill health prevented Bhandari from writing all that she might have, but her significant oeuvre is a testament to a time and moment, and to the nature of humans, of men and women and their complex relationships. With her enormous reach into popular culture via the many successful films based on her work, she was a truly transformative voice in the communication and understanding of feminine needs and desires, especially for the new middle classes, as they wrestled with the puzzles of modern life.

The stories in this collection, ably translated by Vidya Pradhan, are a testament to the inner lives of women, their strength and their fragility, and the odds they battle against, then and now.

– Namita Gokhale

TALES OF THE EVERYWOMAN

A NOTE FROM THE TRANSLATOR

My first encounter with Mannu Bhandari happened when I was in middle school. Her story ‘Kamre, Kamra, aur Kamre’ (Rooms, Room, and Rooms) was an assigned text in our Hindi syllabus. The name of the story stuck in my head ever since, though for alliterative and not literary reasons. In fact, I once used to cite it as an example of a be-sir-pair (pointless) story – one that did not have the strong narrative arc that appeals to young minds. It is only when I read it again as a middle-aged woman that its emotional heft resonated with me. ‘Kamre, Kamra, aur Kamre’ is a typical example of Bhandari’s work – deceptively simple, but with a wealth of subtlety and nuance that can be grasped best by readers whose lives have been seasoned by bitter-sweet experiences like those of her protagonists.

Happily, Bhandari’s work did not stay relegated to the dismissive memory of my youth. I rediscovered her while watching Rajnigandha; as an adult I was struck by how mature the theme was for a movie made in an age where heroines were paragons of virtuous purity and heroes were cast as righteous avengers. Based on her story, ‘Yehi Sach Hai’ (This is the Truth), Rajnigandha deals with the fickle Deepa, who cannot decide between her steady but boring boyfriend and her exciting but unavailable ex-lover. Basu Chatterjee deftly created a cinematic structure for what is, essentially, Deepa’s private journal and deservedly won the Filmfare Award for the film.

Translating Bhandari’s work can be both simple and challenging. Challenging because the ambience of small-town India she evokes is in such poetic and resonant Hindi that it can be a struggle to convey the same emotion to readers in a language alien to the culture. I have to thank her dear friend, Sudha Arora, for helping me with some of the more thorny phrases. Yet Bhandari’s characters and their struggles are so timeless and universal that her ideas bridge the decades since their creation effortlessly.

‘Yehi Sach Hai’ may have been written nearly 60 years ago, but readers can easily imagine Deepa today, staring at her cell phone, frustrated at not getting a text back in time, trying to decode the meaning of an emoji from someone she has a crush on. We can sympathize with Mrs. Chopra in ‘Ankush’, whose teenage daughter is slipping out of her control, and ruefully smile at the motherdaughter dynamic in ‘Trishanku’, two generations caught between tradition and modernity. With the lightest of touches, Bhandari manages to capture the complex inner life of women as they scheme and strategize to cope with a world that often seems to be conspiring against them. Her protagonists are no warriors; they are confused, jealous, insecure, and often downright annoying. But they are also very, very real in a way that makes them and their stories ageless. By giving her characters the freedom to be their flawed selves and the space to be contradictory, inconsistent thinkers, and by making them fully realized human beings without the need to be ambassadors for their gender, Bhandari is perhaps a post-feminist writer ahead of her time.

It is exciting to be able to introduce her work to a new generation. My humble endeavour has been to carefully preserve the spirit of her work while making it accessible to the modern reader. I hope I have done justice to this remarkable writer’s imagination and creativity.

THIS IS THE TRUTH

RAJNIGANDHA

Kanpur

The fading sunlight from the front courtyard is climbing the walls, and the appearance of groups of little children with their backpacks makes me realize with a start that it’s getting late.

I have been waiting for over an hour and Sanjay still hasn’t come.

Bristling, I go inside. Books are scattered on the table, some open, some closed. I glance at them for a second and then go over to the cupboard somewhat aimlessly and look at the clothes. They are a mess. Instead of waiting I could easily have folded and arranged them. But I can’t bring myself to do anything.

I shut the cupboard. I am getting really annoyed with Sanjay. Why did he have to be specific about when he would show up? He is always an hour or two late. but I tend to start waiting at the time he sets. Somehow I just can’t do anything after that. Why doesn’t he understand that my time is valuable? I have a thesis to finish and I really should be studying. But try explaining that to him!

I sit on the desk and try to concentrate, but it’s hopeless. Every time the curtain on the door stirs my heart beats faster. My gaze keeps falling on the moving hands of the clock. Every second I think… here he comes… here he comes.

Mr. Mehta’s five-year-old daughter enters the room hesitantly. ‘Aunty, will you tell me a story?’

‘No, not now. Come back later.’ Hearing the brusqueness in my voice she runs away.

Mrs. Mehta is another one! She doesn’t show her face to me for weeks but manages to send her child to irritate me every other day. At least Mr. Mehta enquires after me sometimes, but she is always so aloof. Perhaps it’s just as well, otherwise I wouldn’t have the independence I do now.

I hear the familiar footsteps. Perversely I try to focus my attention on the books. Sanjay is standing at the door, smiling, holding a big bouquet of rajnigandha flowers. I look at him, but I don’t smile back. He dumps the flowers on the table and, coming over, begins to caress my shoulders. ‘Are you very angry?’

The scent of the flowers fills the room.

‘Why should I be angry?’ I say, unable to keep the hurt out of my voice.

He turns my chair around and lovingly lifts up my chin to face him. ‘What could I do? I was stuck at Kwality with my friends. I really tried to leave, but couldn’t. Didn’t want to hurt their feelings.’

I want to say, how is it that only my feelings don’t matter? But I can’t. Then I look at his face; there are beads of sweat on it. Any other day I would wipe it with my pallu, but not today.

He is looking at me with a slight smile on his face, an apology in his eyes. So what? He sits on the arm of my chair, as he usually does, and begins to stroke my cheeks. This is very irritating; he will do exactly as he pleases, like always, then try to mollify me. He knows I can’t stay angry with him for too long.

He gets up and arranges the fresh flowers in the vase, throwing the wilted ones away. He’s so good at this. I had told him once that rajnigandha is my favourite flower and, ever since, he’s been bringing a big bunch every few days. Now I’ve got so used to them that if I don’t see the flowers or smell their fragrance, I can’t sleep. These flowers are a constant reminder of Sanjay’s presence.

A while later we go out. I suddenly remember Ira’s letter. I’ve been waiting to share the news with him, but our little spat put it out of my mind.

‘Listen, Ira has written that I can be called for the interview any day now, I have to be ready.’

‘From Calcutta?’ Sanjay asks, trying to remember. Then suddenly he is excited. ‘It will be amazing if you get the job, really amazing!’

We are in public view, or I am sure he would have done something quite inappropriate. His antics have a way of making me uncomfortable. Does he really want me to go away? Far away from him?

Then I hear, ‘If you get this job, I’ll get a transfer to the head office in Calcutta too! I am quite sick of the daily grind here. I’ve been wanting to get a transfer, but the thought of leaving you was too painful. It would be better for my career but I would be so lonely in the evenings.’

The simple enthusiasm in his voice touches me. Suddenly the evening seems pleasant!

We walk for quite a distance and sit on our favourite hillock. Moonlight surrounds us and the air is cleaner here than in the city. He spreads his legs comfortably and talks incessantly – about the dramas at his office, the things we’ll do when we get to Calcutta. I don’t say anything; I just stare at him intently.

When he finally winds down, I say, ‘I’m quite nervous about this interview. It’s my first time and I wonder what kind of questions they’ll ask.’

He bursts out laughing.

‘You’re such an idiot. Here you are, a single woman, living by yourself, writing a thesis, wandering about all over town on your own, and you’re worried about an interview? Why?’ And he lightly taps my face. Then he explains, ‘All this interview business is just a sham. When you get there, make some contacts that can put in a word and help you get the job.’

‘But Calcutta is a completely new city for me. I don’t know anyone there except Ira. If she or her family knows someone then…’ my voice trails off weakly.

‘Don’t you know anyone else?’ Then with a piercing glance at my face he asks, ‘Isn’t Nishith there too?’

‘Why should I care?’ I bite back, momentarily stunned. I don’t know why, but I was sure he would bring this up.

‘You shouldn’t.’ The teasing note is back in his voice.

I just erupt. ‘I’ve told you a thousand times Sanjay, please don’t tease me about him. You know it makes me angry.’

He starts laughing again, but the evening is ruined for me. We turn back. He tries to put his arm on my shoulder in a conciliatory gesture, but I shrug it off. ‘What are you doing? Someone might see us.’

‘So what? Who’s here anyway. Let them be jealous.’

‘No, I don’t like this shamelessness.’ And really, I don’t like these public displays of affection. Even if there’s no one around, it’s still a public place. And in a town like Kanpur, no less.

When we get back to my room, I ask him to stay but he doesn’t. He just gives me a hug and a kiss as usual and leaves.

I watch him walk away for a long time, till his figure diminishes into the distance. My mind is unfocussed and empty. A while later I get back into the room and resume my studies.

When I get into bed my eyes linger for a long time on the rajnigandhas. I don’t know why, but I often imagine that these flowers are Sanjay’s many eyes – watching me, stroking me, loving me. And just the thought of being constantly watched by these countless eyes makes me bashful.

I once shared these thoughts with Sanjay. He just laughed and stroked my cheeks and called me crazy.

Who knows, maybe I really am crazy!

Kanpur

I know Sanjay gets a little suspicious of Nishith once in a while, but how do I explain to him that I hate Nishith; just the thought of him fills me with loathing. Does love at eighteen even count as love? Just a youthful madness. It is full of emotion but not enduring, reckless but shallow. It progresses rapidly, but any small thing will stop it in its tracks equally fast. And when it does, then come the sighs, the sobs, the tears, the loss of interest in life, the thoughts of suicide, and finally, the intense hatred. And as soon as there is another distraction, you forget all the misery. Then you can laugh about all the foolishness. And you realize that all the tears and sighs are not for the lost love, they are for the resulting emptiness that sucks all the pleasure out of life.

That’s why I forgot Nishith as soon as I found Sanjay. My tears turned into laughter and my sighs into giggles. But Sanjay does get upset over the subject of Nishith. He laughs if I bring it up, but I know that he isn’t entirely reassured.

How do I convince him that he is the focus of my love, my tender emotions, and the pivot around which I weave so many plans for my future? It’s true that when we sit together, under a tree or in the moonlight, we talk about my thesis, his work, or this or that… but that doesn’t mean we don’t love each other! Why doesn’t he understand that we’re not lovesick teenagers now; we live in the realm of reality, not adolescent fantasy. Our love has matured, and now it is deeper, more stable.

How do I explain to Sanjay that Nishith has humiliated me, insulted me to such an extent that I get vexed just thinking about it.