Crossroads after Crossroads after Crossroads

Crossroads after Crossroads after Crossroads.IV

As I put forward a tentative toe into this hitherto unknown world of

HindiwaHas, they instantaneously dismissed me—perhaps as a “fast and

bold”, “par-kati” Panjaabi with not a whiff of an idea about literature. I knew

that my hair was short, that my husband was de facto owner of this

publishing house, and that from a particular point of view I might have

looked threatening and taiz, but I found their facile assumption that I was

uncultured, offensive and infuriating. They watched me with contempt laced

with bewilderment. I reciprocated with bewilderment laced with contempt.

Stranger cultural bedfellows must never before have been forced to cohabit.

Would I never be forgiven for not belonging to the cow belt? I angrily felt

that I could tell these paan-chewers with alien names a thing or two about

the world. After all, I was reasonably well-read, widely travelled, a highly

educated woman. Nobody in the world I came from could spit at this with

such precision and practiced ease.

I began to read short stories which seemed familiar and accessible. Nai

Kahaniyan was my introduction to the complicated world of Hindi literature.

I groped my way in the dark and made my way backwards from there. I did

not know the language, its authors or their social conventions, and could not

even guess what was expected of me—how to behave with the stalwarts or

with aspiring writers of a language I could not read, write and hardly spoke.

Mercifully, even in this fractious atmosphere, there were wise saints like

Dwivedi who put his hand on my head and spoke to the Bibi Sushil Kaur

who cowered inside me—a debt I have never been able to repay. Some

friends at the People’s Publishing House, the Progressive Writers’ Union,

Urdu poets and Punjabi short story writers helped keep my chin up. At this

crucial point, the role of advisor played by the young Namwar Singh,

charismatic speaker and teacher, was as indispensable for Rajkamal as it wasfor me, but at once brought with it the problem of factional, personalized

literary politics.

Old associates of Rajkamal alleged that it would soon come to smell just

like another People’s Publishing House, Our old comrades declared that the

Sandhus were expanding their empire! Both were certain that Rajkamal

would collapse. I shut my ears to all this, kept my eyes open and started with

what I was good at—administration. I put procedures into place,

systematized production and began to meet authors who were not openly

hostile. Rajkamal printed all its books at Navin Press which it owned. There

was already trouble between the management and labour. The last thing I

had anticipated was having to suffer the ignominy of a demonstration

outside my home shouting “Hai! Hai! Randi ho gai, Sheila Sandhu,

Murdabad! It was my world turned upside down. In panic, I blamed Hardev

for landing us in this soup and begged him to sell off Navin Press the next

day, if possible. Hardev blamed me for being obstinate and impetuous in

forcing the resignation of people better equipped to handle such situations. I

felt besieged, with nowhere to run. Only Comrade Joshi remained kind and

said, “Your political and cultural instincts are healthy. Just follow them and

carry on your honest work.”

I travelled to places that felt farther away than China and as strange—

Banaras, Lucknow, Allahabad and Patna. When I met authors, I confessed

my inexperience of running any business, indeed, even of Hindi, and told

them that if I could master Chinese I would very quickly learn Hindi! I

assured them of clean, transparent transactions and my commitment to carry

forward the tradition of the Rajkamal imprint. I asked for only time to prove

my intentions. I met legendary writers to reassure them that I was not there

to close down Rajkamal and open a more lucrative motor parts shop! I had

the honour of meeting, and the good fortune of getting to know, many senior

authors—Pantji, Blwgioatibabu, Bachchanji, Niralaji, Sumanji, Baba

Nagarjun and Phaneshwar Nath Renu. I met with Mahadeviji and Dinkarji.

I carried forward the established reputation of Rajkamal without falling prey

to the temptation of pocket book romances and thrillers, or into the allegedly

more edifying textbook publishing— from which both enormous print-runs

and huge profits accrue. I never strayed from punctual, persistent production

of high-quality-literature, nor did I “diversify” into the more lucrative

English publishing. Over the years, I began to be forgiven for being who I

was!

Trust gradually grew between the younger writers, closer to me in age. I

discovered that it was possible to find friends from their midst. RajinderSingh Bedi, Ashk, Nemiji, Bhisham, Bharat Bhushan Aggarwal, Nirmala,

Suresh Aivasthi, Sarveshivar, Nirmal, Kunwar Narain, Prayag, Raghuvir

Sahay, Liladhar Jagodi, Manohar Shyam Joshi, Abdul Bismillah and last but

not least, the irrepressible Shrilal Shukla. I remember taking a tonga with

Namwarji to the Hari Masjid in the shadow of Parliament House to be

witness at the nikah of Rahi Masoom Raza! Like a signpost at a crossroad, I

found the greatest affinity with Krishna Sobti who writes in Hindi with the

sensibility of Urdu and the impertinence that comes from being a Punjabi. I

tried to understand, with less success, the younger, ever-energetic writers

defying the subtle, even harmless, hierarchies familiar to our generation.

Was this the dreaded “generation gap” stretching between me and writers

like Ashok Vajpeyi and Mrinal Pande? I won their affection and that of still

younger authors—Satyen Kumar, Manzoor Ehtesham, Padma Sachdev,

Sivadesh Deepak, Gitanjali, Pankaj Bisht and many others. In her

autobiography, Diana Athill of Andre Deutsch wrote that friendship between

a writer and publisher is rare but not impossible. I was lucky to form lasting

friendships that have weathered many a storm of love-hate that this

relationship is heir to.

Our home began to fill once more with voices, poems, quarrels, songs,

jokes and arguments. Not a month passed without a mushaira or celebration

for yet another Sahitya Akademi Award — of which Rajkamal authors had

over twenty odd to their credit. Excuses were no longer needed to meet.

Punjabi, Urdu and Hindi began to rub shoulders with each other. In the

beginning they sat together formally, ill at ease like distant cousins who have

reason to mistrust the other. Then they began to speak, I daresay to even

converse, if not enjoy the company and work of each other. Rajkamal was

the first to publish annotated editions of Urdu poets from India, and Faiz

from our very own Lahore in both the Devnagari and Urdu scripts—

beautiful, strikingly different, sitting face-to-face and bound together as they

should be. Personally, it was a great relief for us because Hardev could now

participate in these evenings instead of periodically sneaking out of the

living room for a snooze while everyone else was engrossed in a riveting

account of the politicking within the Nagari Pracharani Sabha.

The RKP initiative to publish the collected works of stalwarts in the form

of beautifully produced granthavalis was only a secular harking back to an

old tradition of printing religious pothis. The emphasis was to archive

writings of a living author who had made a significant contribution to the

destiny of Hindi literature. The first was a tribute to the warmth and genius

of Hazari Prasad Dwivedi. Edited by his son, Mukund, it was published much later and released by V.P. Singh at a simple function in Lucknow.

Pant Rachnavali was published first, for which I secured a pre-publication

order and advance—an unheard of event in those days. The idea was a

runaway success. Library purchase of these expensive volumes enabled me

to jump production from one granthavalli to the next Parsai, Muktibodh,

Renu, Bachchanji and for me, personally, the most significant, the collected

works of Saadat Hasan Manto. When I retired, we were putting together

Isntat Chughtai’s writings.

RKP brought out a series of lower priced Selected Anthologies of

Contemporary Writing. We were on a winning streak of ideas—a very heady

time, indeed. Nai Kahaniyan had always belonged to Rajkamal. Many au-

thors famous today published their first stories in this magazine. It is

important to remember that I speak of a time that predates the magazine

revolution of the Seventies, when little else existed in Hindi except

Dharamyug, Saptahik Hindustan, Hans, Dinman, and perhaps, Grilialak-

shimi!

We continued to commission a series of translations of existential

literature and Nobel laureates. Hindi readers could now have Camus priced

at a low and affordable eight rupees. We never really managed to sustain a

substantial list of titles in the social sciences, but here too we aimed for the

best — if I’m not mistaken, Rajkamal was the first to translate into Hindi

Kosambi, Romila Thapar, Irfan Habib, Sumit Sarkar, R.S.Sharma and many

others. These were quickly snapped up by a Hindi readership starved of

available work already published in English.

This time is as good as any to reiterate once more what I have always

maintained — that my contribution, if any, to the world of Hindi publishing

is limited to carrying forward a tradition of excellence and quality that had

been structured into Rajkamal by its earlier owners, Devraj and Om

Prakash. As Rajkamal expanded, Devji asked his brother, a cloth merchant

in Amritsar, to close shop and move to Delhi. Om Prakash, farsighted,

creative and unafraid of adventure, set up many series and gave the

Rajkamal imprint the character of uncompromising quality that is associated

with it even today, despite the corners that are now cut. I never strayed from

the path set by him, only adding to it as and when necessary. Unfortunately,

he was the man in charge and in conflict with Arunaji over the use of

American PL-480 funds when Hardev strayed into the picture.

I regret that I was able to publish only one title of Mohan Rakesh who

became a friend but was loyal to an older friendship, or Vatsayayanji who

kept an ideological distance from some equally ideological salahkaars

associated with Rajkamal. (It is not for me to say that there are authors who

would not have been published but for my presence in Rajkamal, and

perhaps that there may be more than even I know). I cannot say that I felt

anything but glee on heaping scorn at feelers sent to Rajkamal to publish

Neelkamal and Kati Patang. Younger filmmakers came often to Rajkamal,

hauling away bagsful — Raag Darbari, Mitro Marjani, Tamas, Netaji Kahin

and many others.The left parties have always had a curious relationship with intellectuals.

They adopt some of the finest and hold them in a vice-like grip that renders

them unable to communicate with any but the already converted. They have

been known to promote thoroughbred mediocrity for flimsy, irrelevant, far

from laudable reasons that are rank careerism and self-interest in another

guise. Perhaps I too can be faulted for such oversights. For sure, the left

never understood the battle Arunaji wanted to wage on their behalf, or

indeed the one I fought. Their view of the political—and indeed what

constitutes politics—in the world of literature and the arts is heartbreakingly

jaundiced. I wonder how the left now treats publishers of progressive

literature, or indeed, if these publishers themselves are able to resist

inflicting wounds that they are sure to have suffered at the hands of

established parties on the left. Do they continue to push away rather than

embrace friends? Would things have been different had Comrade Joshi’s

less puritanical, more pluralist, line prevailed?