Please explain the summary of gumshuda by mangalesh gabral
Answers
Answer:
I just wanted to gain points
Explanation:
How fascism has been causing damage to India’s social fabric and distorting the very essence of his language, Hindi, troubled him greatly. In recent times, on the few occasions when I met him, I could sense that he was feeling more and more bereft of the means to tackle this growing perversion.
Perhaps it was in one such moment of despair that he wrote:
Although there is much that is being written by way of poetry, stories, and novels in Hindi, in truth these forms have died, although there has been no pronouncement to this effect, simply because of the spate of writings. However, it is only themed like ‘Jai Shri Ram’, Vande Mataram, ‘just one place for Muslims: Pakistan or the graveyard’ that are alive in Hindi now. The fact that I write in this language fills me with remorse. How I wish it was not my mother tongue!’
Regrettably, the deep anguish underlying this statement was not understood by his peers and younger writers, who pounced on him for saying what he did. He was reminded of writers from Premchand to Dhoomil and told that Hindi was a language of resistance and revolution. However, the extent to which Mangleshji had written in and read Hindi by that time surely gave him the right to feel ashamed about the language. The Hindi that we speak today contains the moistness of the sweat, blood and tears of writers like Manglesh. It was surprising that even those who consider themselves litterateurs remained largely untouched by his anguish.
Why just Manglesh, any poet who remains connected with social realities would not but be familiar with society’s disregard for language:
In the streets, on buses, in meeting places,
no one in such a huge throng says — a few lines of Nirala came to my mind today.
No one says – I have read Nagarjuna.
No one talks about how Muktibodh died
One says — I have made huge strides.
One is happy to find a seat on the bus.
One asks — why does society not follow my command?
One has already seen his whole future laid out.
One says –just wait and see how I carve out my way forward
One says — I am poor. I don’t have any other words left.
I could perhaps count myself among his friends, although I was not deeply acquainted with him. What I can say with certainty is that our relationship was that of a reader and a poet.
That is not to say that we did not meet face to face and talk; we did. But on all those occasions, I was not able to bridge the formal gap that existed between us. It was at some public event or other that I would meet him.
Whether it was a meeting or a march, I always had an impression of a certain tentativeness on his part, as if he was not fully confident about the impact of what he was about to state. One would not call it a sense of hopelessness; it was more an absence of the arrogance of hope that is completely divorced from reality. It was as if the only way he could see himself was in the context of others – somewhat like Vijaydev Narayan Sahi, grasping not only the limits of his pursuit of poetry but equally its necessity:
Not forcefully,
But, again and again, I said what I had to say
in all its weakness
Driven by some hope
I expressed my despair
Expressing confidence without self-confidence
Writing and striking out this sentence –
everything is passing through its darkest time
Putting together scattered papers
Wiping away the dust
debating verbs, turning them inside out
Like, it happened, continued to happen
should have happened, could have happened
what if it had happened (I would say it again and again)
Despair may be the reality but it cannot be used as an excuse to turn away from one’s duties or deeds:
Even after doing a great deal if we feel we have done nothing,
that is despair
People keep a man without hope at arm’s length
We preserve our despair so zealously
as if that itself is the biggest joy
Before our eyes, the world gathers dust
Birds appear like scraps of paper flying around
Even music is not able to liberate us
We are constantly accosted by discordant notes
In colors, we see bloodstains and images of the aftermath of killings
Words are not in our control and
love seems to be beyond human reach
In despair we cry out – despair, give us our morsel
Give us the strength to walk a few steps (a poem on despair)
English Dabral was born in an India that had freed itself from the status of a colony. Undoubtedly his youthful years must have been warmed by the hopes and spirit of the Nehruvian age, resting on a belief in the basic goodness of humanity.
The Hindi in which he decided to write poetry, forging his language for the task, had already gone through several phases of aspirations. No wonder it did not bear the stamp of a forceful assertion that it could change everything. Nor, for that matter, was that claim wholly unacceptable.