READING REGINALD: PULP FICTION OR NOT?

Anniversaries are good occasions to contemplate and reflect on personalities. As the 102nd birth anniversary of the Konkani writer Reginald Fernandes approaches (14 June, 1914 – 13 November, 1994) reflecting on how his books and writings have been perceived and understood thus far would seem fitting for the occasion.

Reginald’s writing, due to a lack of attention by literary scholars and writers in Goa, is assumed to be in the genre of ‘pulp fiction’. This is largely due to the want of a better term to describe cheaply-produced, pocket-sized fiction for mass consumption, and the fact that ‘pulp fiction’ is understood to be literature of low caliber. Within the Romi Konkani readership, the term romans is used to refer to such fiction – to the extent that ‘novel’ is synonymous with romans. With the formation of Goa’s statehood and the official recognition of nagri-scripted Konkani, one could observe not only a shift of modes of literary production from the organic (romans) to an artificial (kadombori, a term believed to be more Indian in its register), but also a rejection of the very form of the romans for a more modern and literary form of writing based on sanskritic culture.

Apart from linguistic politics, scholars of literature point out, the fuzzy boundaries between ‘pulp fiction’ and ‘literary fiction’ are due to practical causes as well. The immediate criterion used to classify a book as ‘pulp’ or not is its appearance and pricing. Reginald’s books fit this criterion as his books were published on cheaply available paper and these were modestly priced around 50 years ago at 2 rupees and a few paisas. But even by such a criterion, some books by famous novelists such as R. K. Narayan were published in cheap and affordable editions that had the appearance of ‘pulp’. Thus, the idea that books printed on cheap and coarse paper can be termed as ‘pulp’ can at times be misleading. Moreover, in the case of Reginald, the cheap and coarse print quality – almost lurid – can be explained by the fact that the author and publishers experienced financial difficulties with the rising prices, and hence these books had to be affordably priced.

‘Pulp fiction’ is mass-produced. The cheap pricing is meant to attract a reading demographic across economic divisions. It is largely aimed at making fiction accessible to lower income groups, such as the working class Goan population in Bombay. In this sense, Reginald’s books can be qualified as ‘pulp’, especially since 5000 copies would sell like hot cakes in no time. This mass production of ‘pulp fiction’ is not just confined to the print-run but also extends to the number of books an author churns out in his/her lifetime or career. If one looks at the authors who wrote ‘pulp fiction’ in Hindi and Tamil for instance, then the sheer number of books written would strike one as mind-boggling. Reginald’s oeuvre consisting well over one hundred books can easily qualify as ‘pulp’ in this respect.

Qualitatively speaking, ‘pulp fiction’ is supposed to be ‘bad literature’. Pulp follows a formula, the story-line is simple and straightforward, and is written in an effortless and accessible language. Scholars point out that many ‘good’ literary works (such as George Orwell’s Animal Farm) are also written in a simple and accessible manner. On the surface of it, Reginald’s writings, although simple and formulaic, make use of the Konkani language in novel and creative ways. Reginald’s descriptions of the scenes invoking the natural beauty of Goa have a poetic quality to them, and his descriptions of the fantastic and the marvelous leads him to use known words in many different ways.

One reason why writers such as Reginald were and are viewed in contemporary Goa as not literary enough is due to the cultural and political marginalization of the Romi script. Any literary production in the Romi script was viewed as lacking in literary standard by the dominant nagri establishment. One cannot deny that in order to make nagri Konkani the official language of Goa, the vibrancy of the Romi script productions were denied state recognition, apparently for a greater good. In such circumstances, referring to the oeuvre of writers like Reginald as ‘pulp’ may end up justifying such an attitude of ignoring the cultural vibrancy of the Romi script.

Considering the fuzzy boundaries between ‘literary’ and ‘pulp’ fiction, Tabish Khair, a writer, poet, and critic, attempts to define ‘pulp fiction’ in the Indian context: “[P]ulp fiction is fiction that used largely fixed generic features to satisfy the largely fixed reading expectations of as large a market as possible”. Even if in certain respects Reginald’s corpus of writings can be seen as ‘pulp’, one has to be careful given the fraught nature of language politics in Goa. So is there any alternative category that can be used to denote and understand the writings of those like Reginald? The alternative, I think, has been staring us in the face: romans.

Apart from the fact that romans is an organic term used in the context of Romi writings and has a legitimate tradition and history, it also helps us to do away with the artificial distinction between what constitutes literature and what doesn’t. In many languages the novel developed from a tradition of romance literature, so much so that a novel is synonymous with ‘romance’. Moreover, through the route of romans the pulp-esque features of writers like Reginald need not be entirely rejected. This will also allow us to escape the confusion that results from re-labeling romans as kadombori. In the end we can provide a provisional answer to the question in the title: not ‘pulp’ because we have a better alternative in romans.

For more Reading Reginald, click here.

(First published in O Heraldo, dt: 8 June, 2016) 

THE NATION AND THE MARGINS

The almost month-long ‘anti-national’ saga played out from the Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU) and the newsrooms in Delhi has brought some problems within India’s national identity forcefully and violently to the fore. The public spectacle that was created out of the alleged seditious speech of some student leaders of JNU has damaged the thin veneer of secularism and liberalism that Indian nationalism claimed to represent and embody. Thus the questions of what does it mean to be ‘Indian’ and who can be rightfully Indian is now being debated furiously in the national press and the national centers of power and learning. Though these debates seem to be reinforcing the ideals enshrined in the Constitution of India, one can arguably see the superficiality of these if we think about the JNU incident from a politicized Goan Catholic perspective. After all, were not Goan Catholics suspected of being ‘anti-national’ decades before this event?

Let’s start from the beginning. Goa was not a part of the Indian state in 1947. Thus, Goa was not part of the founding moment of the Indian state and the debates surrounding the formation of the Constitution of India and the linguistic re-organization policy. Thus also, the Indian identity of Goa and Goans had to be fitted in almost 15 years after the establishment of the Indian state. This identity was largely negotiated through linguistic markers. Though tourism also played a part later on, I will not dwell on it in this article.

Let us consider how the Konkani language in the Nagri avatar was recognized in the ’70s and ’80s by the Indian government and its national body of letters – the Sahitya Akademi. Konkani as a language had to produce a classical and Sanskritic past in order to be recognized as a legitimate Indian language. This was a blessing for the proponents of the Nagri script as the superficial similarities with the script would easily allow them to latch onto a Sanskritic norm defined by Indian nationalism. So in effect, what we have here is a nation that would only accept the Konkani language as belonging to the illustrious lists of ‘national’ languages only if it had a justification in a Sanskritic culture and past, as Rochelle Pinto observed, while participating in a session on ‘Rewriting Goan History’ at the Goa Arts and Lit Fest, 2015. Thus there was a scramble to find and publish Sanskrit classical texts that were rendered in Konkani. The Konkani renderings of the Ramayana and Mahabharata were obtained from the Municipal library of Braga, Portugal, and published in Goa. And what is also interesting is that somehow the Konkani language could produce such a Sanskritic heritage only thanks to the Catholic missionaries, who had written down these renderings in the Roman script, in the sixteenth century!

This Sanskrit-privileging linguistic culture and policy in India was also very much disrespectful of the diversity and history of the Konkani language. We have over the years witnessed the scorn that is poured on Romi Konkani and the cultural artifacts that are produced in that script. Romi was (and is) considered ‘foreign’ (read as not Indian) and hence it is argued that it had no space in the cultural/literary life of India. Thus, the largely (but not entirely) Catholic users of the script were asked to give up Romi in favour of the more Indian, though artificial, Nagri variant. In the ’70s and ’80s, people like the Gandhian Konkani litterateur Ravindra Kelekar was quite blatantly making such arguments.

Unfortunately, the project to expand a Nagri and Sanskritic culture, like other national projects, was not an innocent one. It was marked by a considerable degree of cultural violence against the Catholics in Goa. Catholics in Goa – especially from Bahujan backgrounds – were subjected to casteist and communal abuse. Further, they were told that they were culturally inadequate, or carriers of a culture that was fundamentally flawed and impure. All for the purpose of making Goan Catholics better Indians.

Merely demanding that the Roman script and its cultural productions be recognized within the culture and constitutional rights of the Indian state earned Goan Catholics the ire of the Hindu upper-castes, and it also led to Catholics being branded as ‘anti-national’. In fact it is not just the Roman script, but Catholic food-habits, dressing, and life-styles which have come under tremendous attacks for being deviant to the established Indian norm.

So, the issue is not simply about who is a ‘patriot’ and who is an ‘anti-national’. When groups in Delhi that are aligned to the left and center-of-left political ideologies, in other words the traditional guardians of Indian secularism, claim that the Hindu-right has no business in issuing certificates of nationalism and patriotism because they are nationalist and patriotic enough, it seems that there is no regard and concern for the pernicious effects of Indian nationalism on several thousands of communities for over half a century. The marginalization that Indian nationalism creates needs to be confronted; and precisely at a time like this, when the confidence of the secular-liberal Indian elite is jolted. Goans have to think about the nation through their own experience rather than passively accepting a national discourse.

The fact that none of these ongoing debates would consider the Goan Catholic experience as important would tell us how blind they are to multiple experiences in different parts of India. Once again, what it means to be Indian and nationalist/patriot will be defined by those who are unaware of and uninterested in our experience. The question ultimately is, do we have a choice and a say in this national politics?

(First published in O Heraldo, dt: 16 March, 2016)

COMMUNAL GOENKARS? A RESPONSE TO VIKAS KAMAT

The following is a response by Vikas Kamat to my op-ed in O Heraldo, “Intolerance and the Minorotized Groups”, dt: 11 November, 2015:

All Goemkars Not Communal

By Vikas Kamat (12 Nov, 2015)

I read Dale Menezes’ article, “Intolerance and the minoritized groups”, in the Herald, dt. 11 Nov. 2015. I however, have to make a few observations regarding his opinion: As regards the Konkani language and the script issue, the Sahitya Akademi as well as the Government recognizes Konkani in Devanagari script as the official language of Goa. It would not have been possible for the Roman script to be accepted by the Sahitya Akademi and perhaps, Konkani would then never become its official language.

However, I agree that the Catholics in Goa find great difficulty studying in Devenagari. But today, we see many Konkani youth and author-poets who are Catholics, but find no difficulty with Devenagari script. Similarly, the Government of Goa has helped Roman Konkani by establishing the Dalgado Konkani Akademi (DKA).

However, except a few exceptions, the majority Hindus of Goa use Marathi for “official and formal” occasions since decades – right from their early morning newspaper to their wedding invitations.

Menezes has pointed out towards the representation of Goan Muslims in politics. I have also observed that the Goan Muslims have been underrepresented in politics, perhaps due to their miniscule population. One famous Muslim in Goan politics was Sheikh Hassan Haroon, some decades ago. But here, a difference has to be marked between Goan ‘niz Goemkar’ Muslims and non-Goan Muslims. Goa today has many Muslims, but a large chunk of them are the migrants from states like Karnataka – referred to as “ghaati” by Goans. But they meet the labour demands in Goa. These Muslims mostly hail from the Bijapur, Gadag and such parts of Karnataka.

In the recent Municipal polls, one gentleman called Qutubuddin has been elected by the voters.

He is a Muslim and is the people’s choice too, but he is not a Goan Muslim per se. Goans generally do not vote on religion lines. Right from the first Goa, Daman and Diu Legislative Assembly, this can be seen. Anthony D’Souza was elected in the first Assembly from a Hindu majority constituency in North Goa. Even today, Hindu voters vote for Christian candidates and vice versa. Based on a few isolated comments, Menezes should not paint the all Goemkar lot as communal.

MY RESPONSE:

I would like to thank Vikas Kamat for writing such a prompt response (12 November, 2015) to my op-ed, and also for agreeing on many points and arguments I made.

Apologies for being blunt, but it is ridiculous to say “[i]t would not have been possible for the Roman script to be accepted by the Sahitya Akademi and perhaps, Konkani would then never become its [Goa’s] official language”, without a touch of irony. What Kamat is trying to tell us, in essence, is that the Roman script and the people who use it are not legitimate carriers of Goan identity. Thus, a large section of Goans are excluded from Goan cultural life. The fact that the Goa government belatedly started giving out grants to Dalgado Konknni Akademi, does not take anything away from the fact that many Goans for a long time have been at the receiving end of “intolerance”.

Further, it is also important to call out the blatant display of xenophobia and islamophobia in relation to my argument about adequate representation for Muslims in Goa. I think, to make a distinction between Goan and non-Goan Muslims in response to claims for Muslim representation is another way to deny Muslims in Goa adequate representation, as on the ground Muslims are almost invisible-ized in politics. Although it is an oft-repeated anecdote in Goa that the Saraswat brahmins had migrated to Goa (is it a fact or fiction, is a story for another day), yet it is unthinkable today to think of the Saraswats as anything but Goan. One needs to ask why this distinction is made generally in the case of Muslims.

To end, it is not at all my aim to paint the whole of Goan lot as “communal”. In my mind, I am quite clear that those in Goa – be it the migrants, settlers, or natives – who have been at the receiving end of discrimination and intolerance can ever be “communal”. Fact is they can’t be. My only fault in this was to assume that this fact was obvious to all Goans.

THE SHAME OF SPEAKING KONKANI – III

Pride and shame, it appears, are two sides of the same coin. Invariably, pride seems to be a logical solution when an individual recognizes that s/he is being shamed by political institutions and establishments. In the past few weeks we have had occasions to discuss the operation of shame and humiliation within Konkani language politics. The discussion initially focused on a song by Alfred Rose and made some observations about the type of politics in which the man and his work were entrenched.

Since Alfred Rose did not invent the type of politics that he often propagated, the question is: who did? I believe that issues related to the shaming and humiliation within Konkani language politics will become clearer once we scrutinize the life and writings of Vaman Raghunath Varde Valaulikar. If there was one individual on whose shoulders Konkani activists, until fairly recently, placed the burden of single-handedly rescuing the Konkani language from untold miseries, it has to be Valaulikar. No person, we have been made to believe, worked as hard as Valaulikar for the cause of Konkani language and thus the Goan identity. The attempts to celebrate the 125th birth anniversary of Valaulikar as ‘Konkani asmitai year’ in 2002, exemplify this.

                                                                                                              

Valaulikar’s written output was (or is) considered to be seminal in Konkani literature. This he did, we are told, by not only producing Konkani literature of high standard but also by stepping up to the challenge posed by Marathi-supporters; in fact demolishing their every argument. What is important for our purpose is to focus on the manner in which Valaulikar tackled the issue of shame felt by the Catholic and Hindu communities in colonial Bombay, thanks to the accusation of Marathi-supporters that Konkani was a form of ‘impure Marathi’.

In his text, Konknni Bhaxechem Zoit or The Triumph of Konkani, Vaulikar tells us that Konkani was derogatorily referred to as ‘impure Marathi’ by Marathi-speakers and -supporters (p.47). ‘Impure’ obviously because, unlike Marathi at that time, Konkani language had not yet incorporated Sanskrit inflections, prior to Valaulikar’s project. While Valaulikar may have felt shamed and humiliated because of his ‘impure Marathi’, it becomes quite a different story when one considers that persons using the Roman-scripted Konkani had to bear a greater brunt of such shaming – with repeated call for standardized orthography – because the language that they used was not a Sanskrit-inflected one, like the ‘proper’ Marathi. Not surprisingly, Valaulikar’s response did not reveal the underlying aspiration of his caste politics in which the brahmin groups like his were trying to gain power and privilege in colonial Bombay. On the contrary he suggested that Konkani-speakers needed to work for the development of the language to give it world recognition (see Konkani Bhaxechem Zoit, Ed. K. S. Nayak, Bombay, 1930). In other words, one had to take-on to the challenge of Marathi-supporters by feeling pride in a Sanskritized Konkani by speaking and writing in the Antruzi variant, rather than ask why Konkani was referred to as ‘impure Marathi’. Or indeed ask why Hindus and Catholics in Bombay felt ashamed of their own types of Konkanis.

That he wrote in and championed the cause of the Nagri lipi and the Antruzi boli was not a problem for Valaulikar. Neither was it a problem for him that the Konkani in which he wrote his books was a new fabrication. As one of Valaulikar’s interlocutors Balkrishna Waman Sawardekar quite rightly and cheekily noted, “Shanai Goebab has, in his books, clothed Konkani in sacred robes and as such it has assumed a very beautiful and chaste form. His is a completely Konkani diction (sic) no doubt but this is what has made it very unintelligible” (p. 19). Sawardekar further asserted that this has resulted in Valaulikar producing a “fossilized Konkani” (p. 22) (see The Language of Goa, Panaji, 1971; originally published in the Portuguese in 1939).

Though Valaulikar’s project responded to the derogatory attitude of the Marathi-supporters and the Marathi language establishment in Bombay, it was a project of consolidating Saraswat caste identity against the backdrop of many other brahmin groups in colonial Bombay. The misguided ideas that Konkani is the natural mother-tongue of Goans and that it is in the blood of Goans emerged and consolidated with this project of Valaulikar.

While there is no doubt that persons like Valaulikar and likes may have faced a few instances of shame and humiliation of speaking Konkani, the non-upper caste and working class groups of Goans must have felt unimaginably more. With the rise of Nagri script (and by extension the Antruzi boli) as the sole official script of Konkani in Goa in recent times this shame and humiliation for persons who do not embody the ways and manners of being of the Nagri/Antruzi Konkani can only be said to have increased manifold. Thus, the project initiated by Valaulikar and carried forward by his ardent bhakts of creating and imposing a singular Konkani language of high literary merit has been a miserable failure for the bahujans and Catholics.

Valaulikar’s career and the history of the nagri-scripted Konkani suggests that shaming has been present in Konkani language politics for well over a century, if not more. In such a grim scenario it is quite logical that Goans – who cherish their respective forms of Konkanis – also make a demand for English. Though the possibility of him being sarcastic is eminently plausible, Valaulikar advised his antagonists – the Marathi-supporters – that rather than their obsession with Marathi, they should “at least select a language which will give them the maximum gains… [and they should] assiduously and diligently study the powerful English language” (p. 35) (see Triumph of Konkani: A Translation of Shenoy Goembab’s Konkani Bhasechem Zoit, Tran. Sebastian M. Borges, Margao, 2003). Sarcasm or not, access to the “powerful English” is no doubt a sensible strategy out of the sorry mess that is the linguistic politics of Goa.

(First published in O Heraldo, dt: 30 September, 2015)

THE SHAME OF SPEAKING KONKANI

In this column I would like to discuss one of Alfred Rose’s most popular songs, Anv Konknni Zannam (I Know Konkani), which he sang along with his wife, Rita Rose. Given that the issue of language – particularly ‘mother tongue’ – is being hotly debated in Goa presently, this particular song provides an opportunity to reflect on a serious issue about the Konkani language that is rarely spoken about.

The song is a duet featuring one singer as a crooner who desires to get a break into the Konkani tiatr industry and the second singer, Alfred Rose, essays the role of an interviewer, scrutinizing the singing skills of the crooner in question. However, there is one problem: the crooner cannot speak Konkani ‘properly’. Her Konkani is highly anglicized, which provides much fodder in the song for ridicule. For example, when this highly anglicized Konkani is being scoffed at, the crooner protests saying “Mhaka eok chance diun, why don’t you try”. To which the ‘interviewer’ retorts: “Try try try kitem kor mhunntai try,/…Osli Konknni bhas Goenkar uloit zalear,/ Konknnichi, zali chili fry”.

Further in the song, the aspiring crooner actually tries to demonstrate her Konkani skills – albeit in her anglicized Konkani – by singing some popular mandde (or Indo-Portuguese folk songs in Konkani). When she is abruptly stopped by the ‘interviewer’, the aspiring crooner sings, “Why are you angry, I’m very sorry,/…I’ve asked my daddy, I’ve asked my mummy,/To teach me to speak real Konkani”. What needs to be noted is the emphasis placed on “real Konkani”. At this point, the song takes a preachy turn, wherein Alfred Rose sermonizes about the necessity to speak Konkani. I would argue that this song also reproduces some of the oppressive strands of Konkani language politics. But more on this later.

Alfred Rose as the ‘interviewer’ superciliously reasons with the crooner saying that in Africa she would speak Swahili, in Germany she would speak German, and Arabic in Arabia, so how did she forget Konkani, which undoubtedly is her ‘mother tongue’ owing to the fact that her parents are Goans? It is at this juncture that the crooner reveals that in reality she did not forget the Konkani language; rather she was feeling “shy” to speak Konkani. Further, she had learnt Konkani from the cooks (kuzner). Hence, Alfred Rose sings that when the parents speak Konkani, why should the children be brought up in English? Rather than treating Konkani as a second-class language, we should all be proud of it, he adds.

Although ‘shyness’ is given as the cause of the crooner not speaking in ‘proper’ Konkani, in reality it is the shame and humiliation associated with speaking Konkani publicly that generally prevents people from robustly using the language. This feeling of shame and humiliation is not a rarity, but in fact is deeply symptomatic of the public experience of Konkani. This means that one would not experience this shame or humiliation whilst speaking to or conversing among friends and family, but would certainly do so in a Konkani language classroom or while interviewing for a job, both situations that require fluency in the Antruzi dialect and the nagri script in the Goa of today. These feelings are strongly tied to the caste system, and dialects are markers of caste, religion, and region that are used to discriminate people who associate with such dialects.

Within the current Konkani language establishment, Romi Konkani and the various types of accents and dialects other than Antruzi-nagri Konkani are not given public legitimacy. Hence, many bahujan Catholics and tribal peoples across Goa feel shamed and humiliated to speak their Konkani outside the comfort zone of friends and family. In fact, on the public level, speaking and standing up for these non-Antruzi-nagri forms of Konkanis would certainly be nothing short of an ordeal by fire! Being humiliated for speaking other forms of Konkani is a very serious problem.

It is this problem of a large number of Goans, of feeling shy, ashamed, and humiliated, that is not taken into consideration by either Alfred Rose in his song or even by Romi Konkani activists. Instead, what is generally done is to blame the mass of Goans (for instance, the Catholics) for failing to serve the Konkani language – and thus their Goan identity – by refusing to speak or support it publicly.

Further, by emphasizing on a ‘real’ and ‘proper’ Konkani, this song also privileges a singular form of Konkani as acceptable. Making fun of anglicized accents can also mean that the ‘foreign’ influences on Konkani need to be shunned. This particular song (along with others) of Alfred Rose reproduces a vision of language politics in Goa that values only the Konkani language. If such prejudices were handed down by the dominant or Nagri Konkani establishment, it can be observed that the Romi Konkani activists have not done much to rectify the problem.

So in conclusion one can say that Alfred Rose was both right and wrong simultaneously. He could see the problem but not in its entirety and seriousness. This has been the failure of Konkani activism till now. Perhaps, this is also one of the reasons why the mass of Goans demand English for the primary schooling of their children. In this grim scenario, English seems the only way out of being shamed and humiliated on a daily basis. Before we can read, write, speak, and preserve Konkani forever (vach, boroi, uloi sodamkal), this chronic shaming and humiliation needs to end.

(First published in O Heraldo, dt: 2 September, 2015)