Category Archives: autobiography

Independence Day Special: Dramatised Reading from Maulana Adul Kalam Azad’s India Wins Freedom

The Ahmednagar Fort is a fort located in Maharashtra, India.

This fort was used by the British Raj as a prison.

India’s freedom fighters like Jawaharlal Nehru, Abul Kalam Azad, Sardar Patel and nine other members of the Indian National Congress were detained in this fort for almost three years after they passed the Quit India Resolution in 1942.

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One foot on the ground – Unfolding a journey of dreams and happiness

Rakhi Dalal talks about Shanta Gokhale’s autobiography, taking us through her life at large, highlighting the many milestones she created in this journey.

Publisher: Speaking Tiger ( 2019)

An eminent translator, writer, editor and columnist, Shanta Gokhale’s name needs no introduction. In 2016 she received the Sangeet Natak Akademi Award for her overall contribution to the performing arts. She has also received lifetime achievement awards from Thespo, Ooty Literary Festival and Tata Literature Live. One Foot on the Ground – A Life Told Through the Body is her autobiography, published in 2019 by Speaking Tiger Publications. It has recently won the Crossword Book Award for English Non-Fiction (Jury).

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New Documentary Released – Peering Soul (Forgotten Sikh spiritual sites in Pakistan) by Amardeep Singh

Following the end of the British rule in 1947, Sikh community abandoned their homes, leaving behind numerous spiritual sites across Pakistan. In the ‘PEERING SOUL’ documentary, author Amardeep Singh takes the viewer to spiritual sites in the remote areas of Pakistan.

Singh’s field research of the Sikh legacy in Pakistan has been captured in two monumental works, Lost Heritage- The Sikh Legacy in Pakistan, and  The Quest Continues, Lost Heritage-  The Sikh Legacy in Pakistan.

Book Excerpt: Never at Home by Dom Moraes

Never at Home_Front Cover

 

Title: Never at Home: An Autobiography

Author: Dom Moraes

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books, 2020

 

 

 

I arrived in Bombay towards the end of the monsoon. This had always been one of my favourite seasons as an adolescent, but I now found myself looking at it in a different way. It made a mess of the roads, and the city seemed to founder under it. I realized with a certain wonder that I was seeing it as a foreigner; that I was seeing it as a foreign city, though it was less than five years since I had lived there. My encounters with people I had previously known had a certain dreamlike quality: their personalities, familiar before, now seemed seen through a kind of mist. I was treated with some awe, because I had won the Hawthornden. I assumed a posture of arrogance, and secretly felt a little ashamed. The newspapers spoke of the book I had come to write.

Actually, I hadn’t planned this book at all; the thought of starting on it slightly terrified me. I didn’t know where or how to start: I had never tried anything like this before. In these circumstances, as often in the past, I consulted my father. He said, ‘I imagine you want to write this book as an outsider looking in. I couldn’t do that myself, about India. The only way I can help is by imagining that you are an outsider.’ There was a slight double edge to this remark, untypical of him. But then he was entitled to it. Read more

Book Excerpt: My Son’s Father by Dom Moraes

My Fathers Son_Front Cover

 

 

Title: My Son’s Father: An autobiography

Author: Dom Moraes

Publisher: Speaking Tiger, 2020

 

 

 

 

1

Almost I can recall where I was born,

The hot verandahs where the chauffeurs drowse,

Backyard dominion of the ragged thorn

And nameless servants in my father’s house…

—‘A Letter’ from Poems (1960)

 

Missing my father is my first real memory of him. The summer before he went to war he had been a loved, distant figure, sitting at evening on the verandah of our flat with a sequence of young English officers on their way to the Burma front (the poet Alun Lewis, who died there, was one of them), all inhaling the rich flesh of cigars, sipping beer, talking: not my world that summer. My world was in the oval park outside our flat in Bombay, a park eyelashed with palm trees, above which, like a school of enormous airborne white whales, barrage balloons floated. Above these the glaring sun pulsed like an eye: vultures soared up towards it on tremendous, idle wings. Down on my knees in the rough scurfy park grass, a vigilant nanny nearby, I stared at the texture of the earth, the texture of a stone, the texture of a fallen leaf, all eroded to red dust by the sun. A spy, I hovered above ants busy in the red dust; grasshoppers stilting up into the air; briefly settled, hairy flies. Vivid colours stained my eye. Behind our flat was the Arabian Sea, an ache and blur of blue at noon, purpling to shadow towards nightfall: then the sun spun down through a clash of colours like a thrown orange, and was sucked into it: sank, and the sea was black shot silk, stippled and lisping, and it was time for bed.

At morning the sea was a very pale, indolent colour, ridged with wavy lines like Greek statuary. When I woke, I went into my parents’ room. They lay in twin teak beds: above them, on a wooden stand, loomed a three-foot plaster Christ, fingers clapped to where a raw heart swelled from its chest, for my mother was religious. Sometimes on Sundays she took me to church, though my father never came. He was not religious, my mother explained mysteriously to me, because he had been educated in England.

Anyway, there they lay, my gods, tranquil and powerful, in charge of the day ahead, my father reading the newspapers, my mother varnishing her nails. I ran to my mother first, since except in moments of stress I was gruff and shy with my father. Even so early in the day, she smelt of flowers. I buried my head between her small breasts, and was happy. Over us that summer Christ cocked an apparently benevolent eye.

The day unfolded like a year: breakfast, served silently by the bearer: scraping up cornflakes as I listened to my parents talk: shopping in the car with my mother (waiting, impatient, for her to emerge from the Army & Navy Stores, while the chauffeur strove to amuse me with funny faces): then the park with my nanny: the weeks, months, years, of one burning afternoon, breathing the turning world, vigilant: nightfall, my father on the verandah, the English officers drinking beer: bedtime, when I thought the chirping of crickets was the noise the stars made. It seemed to go on forever, before my father went to war. Read more

Demise of Former Delhi CM: Have you read Sheila Dikshit’s Autobiography?

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Sheila Dikshit with mountaineer and author Major Ahluwalia… credit Majorahluwalia

Sheila Dikshit died at eighty one, mourned by hundreds of people all over the world. 

While all the world knows of her as the longest serving Chief Minister of Delhi and a loyal Congress worker, did you know she has also authored a book which she published in 2018, called Citizen Delhi- My Times, My Life?

The book summary tells us: ”Interestingly, she never wanted to be in politics, but destiny willed otherwise – a destiny shaped by her liberal upbringing in a Punjabi household. Brought up to be independent, she chose her life partner from another part of India. And that started it all. Read more

‘Being Reshma’ review: Nothing to Hide

(From The Hindu. Link to the complete article given below)

Towards the end of her account of being an acid-attack survivor, Reshma Qureshi writes, “As for those television journalists who called me inspiring yet blurred my face… Rather than accepting me for who I am, they have reinforced that I have a face I should be hiding.” For many of us, acid attacks are headlines in newspapers and television channels. Being Reshma brings you face to face with life in the aftermath of the attack. The simple direct narrative gives you a feeling of listening to Qureshi tell her story.

The youngest of five kids, Qureshi was much indulged by her siblings and parents. The acid attack had nothing to do with her. The actual target was her older sister who had left an abusive husband. On May 19, 2004, on her way to an examination centre, Qureshi was attacked by her brother-in-law and his cousins. The latter held her hands down while the former emptied a bottle of acid on her head. “They never even removed the niqab to see my face,” she writes. She was wearing her sister’s niqab.

Qureshi offers, in agonising detail, the rest: dealing with bureaucratic apathy and medical negligence, the numerous procedures to reconstruct her face, her attempts at suicide and dealing with depression and post-traumatic stress disorder, people who blamed her for what happened.

Read more at The Hindu link here

Dalit literature that reflects a grotesque reality surviving in India

(From The Wire. Link to the complete article given below)

The recent assertion of Dalit identity in the Indian public sphere is not only the product of a political process but also the result of a silent revolution taking place in Dalit society through education and literature. For a long time, mainstream media and literary critics tried to ignore and dismiss the Dalit discourse as something trivial or frivolous. But today, Dalit literature is a reality and Dalit autobiographies are showing new pictures of life which were until recently invisible on the literary canvas.

My Childhood on My Shoulders, the English translation of Sheoraj Singh Bechain’s autobiography, is a chilling testimony of the life Indian society has given to the people at the lowest strata. Originally written in Hindi, the book has been very subtly translated into English by Deeba Zafir and Tapan Basu. It provokes us to see the world with a new approach. Sheoraj Singh Bechain was born in a village in Chandausi, Uttar Pradesh, to a Dalit family. The family is in the trade of dead cattle. It skins the carcasses, dries the leather and sells it in market. Poverty and crisis are part of this life. But poverty is not only an economic issue. It has social roots and dimensions also. These people are kept out of the village, deprived of basic amenities, are vulnerable to all sorts of illnesses and in the absence of treatment, succumb at an early age. It is a subhuman life which millions of people are compelled to live.

The details of the book leave you in shock. When Sheoraj was five, he lost his father. His father’s was not a natural death. Nor did he die of illness. It was a brutal murder, although no one intended it. Radheshyam, Sheoraj’s father, was fulfilling the commitments of a wedding ceremony at his sister’s home. Radheyshyam and reached the wedding home after a long journey. Here, Radheshyam fell ill. For next three days, he was not provided any kind of medical assistance in spite of repeated requests. Instead, he was left to the mercy of some exorcists who claimed that he had been possessed by some evil spirit. They kept on slapping and whipping him in front of five-year-old Sheoraj.

To read the complete article, go to this link

Book Excerpt: From Life Among the Scorpions by Jaya Jaitly

Jaya Jaitly - Life Among the Scorpions

17

GOOD AND BAD MATCH-FIXING

Tehelka Sting I

CONSPIRACIES AGAINST PEOPLE PERCEIVED TO be in ‘power’ are meticulously planned and have a carefully orchestrated process. The perpetrators are efficient, stealthy, networked and rich. It is easy to go after unsuspecting innocents and paint them as criminals. With ample help from a blood-thirsty media, a gullible and inflammable public and the cynical adage that ‘politics is not about fact, it is about perception’, they always have an advantage.

On 22 June 2000, George Fernandes, Digvijay Singh and I were on a morning flight to Rajkot to attend a state Samata Party conference. The Times of India was at hand. On the very front page was a small column headed, ‘Jadeja fixes a good match’. It stated categorically that ‘cricket star Ajay Jadeja has married Aditi Jaitly, the daughter of Samata Party president Jaya Jaitly, in a secret wedding’ (see photo section). A ‘close friend from the ITC golf course’ is quoted as saying, ‘Jadeja confessed that he has married Aditi’ with additional information about him keeping it a secret because he planned to make a film with Sonali Bendre and it would ‘affect his star status’. We were stunned. My daughter was in London for a dance performance. Ajay was there for a match, I think, and of course they had been classmates at Sardar Patel Vidyalaya and good friends since the age of eleven, but they had been extremely careful not to flaunt their friendship in an age where a celebrity’s personal life is front-page material for voyeurs. Family respect and propriety within honest, liberal attitudes were values we brought up our children with. For a very brief second, I was hurt that my daughter would get married behind my back. I was instantly ashamed of losing faith in her openness, but if I had momentarily faltered, why would the media and public not believe it? I called Aditi in London as soon as we landed in Rajkot, where the media obviously made our poor Samata Party conference secondary to this.

Aditi had just woken up when I told her what The Times of India said. She burst out laughing and said, ‘Ma, it’s so ridiculous you should throw the newspaper in the dustbin.’ Ajay and Aditi were both quite used to gossip being written about Ajay and did not give it a second thought.

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Anita Desai: My Literary Apprenticeship with Ruth Prawer Jhabvala

Alipur Road was a wide avenue lined with enormous banyan trees, and my mother and I would go for walks along it – to Maiden’s Hotel, which had a small library, or further on to the Quidsia Gardens. And, across the road, I’d see a young woman pushing a pram with a baby seated in it and a little girl dancing alongside it. She was a married woman clearly, and I a student at the University of Delhi, but glancing across the road at her, I felt an instinctive relation to her. Why?

She was revealed to be a young woman of European descent – German and Polish – who was married to an Indian architect, Cyrus Jhabvala, and lived in rooms in a sprawling bungalow just off Alipur Road. When her mother, a German Jewish woman from London, visited her, Ruth searched for someone she could talk to. I think it might have been Dr Charles Fabri, the Hungarian Indologist who lived in the neighbourhood, who suggested she might meet my German mother, who had also come to India on marrying an Indian, 30 years before, in the 1920s.

A coffee party – a kaffeklatsch – was arranged so the two could indulge in their shared language in this foreign setting. I can’t imagine how or why, but Ruth decided to follow their meeting, after her mother had returned to England, with many others, on a different level – that of daughters. With extraordinary kindness and generosity she would have me over to their house, one filled with books, the books she had brought with her from England where she had been a student at the University of London when she had met Jhab. Perhaps it touched her that I was so excited about being among her books, talking to her about books. After that whenever I came away with an armful of books on loan, with her talk still in my ears, I felt elated, a visitor to another world, the writers’ world I had only imagined and now proved real. I would go home to scribble at my desk with a new, unaccustomed sense of the validity of such an occupation.

One day she placed in my hands a copy of To Whom She Will, her first novel that had been published in faraway England, an unimaginable distance from Alipur Road, Old Delhi. Holding it, I felt I had touched something barely considered possible – that the scribbling one did in one’s hidden corner of the world could be printed, published and read in the world beyond.

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