Ram Naam Satya Nahi Hai

This paper will attribute to mythical narratives and structures an essential, inescapable fluidity which makes their ossification impossible. To do so, it’ll begin with commenting upon the animated movies Hanuman and Sita Sings the Blues as artefacts in contemporary culture which illustrate by their very being this flexibility that allows for multiple interpretations of a received mythical heritage. Next, it shall critique Hanuman as a consolidation of popular perceptions of the Ramayana and thus, in this way, a retrograde step towards the ossification of these opinions. Thereafter, Sita Sings the Blues shall be analysed as an unconventional, intensely personal yet universally applicable reading of the Ramayana which threatens the creation of the aforementioned monolithic verities. Finally, it will conclude with an overview of the arguments thus presented, contesting therefore that the very conception of originality and reinvention in context of myths is, in spite of being a catalyst in their evolution, essentially fallacious.

In this post-structuralist world it would not just be difficult but also unadvisable to attempt a conclusive definition of myths. Tracing the etymology of ‘myth’ to the Greek muthos, meaning ‘utterance’, G.S. Kirk opines that “Myths are an uncertain and vague category, and one man’s myth is another man’s legend, or saga, or folktale, or oral tradition”. Just so, even as there is no concrete defining what is a myth and what not, there cannot be forwarded without sweeping assumptions any single mythology, or methodology, to understand myths. That myths are a reflection of a society’s anxieties and give it valuable tools for self-realisation is apparent and almost universally applicable; however, beyond this, to assert for a homogenous understanding as sacred archives or primeval science or ritualised nature or kinship concerns would be dangerously redundant. What is a myth and what constitutes a myth was, is and will always be a matter of contention…

This, however, in the case of Western scholarship, particularly dealing with so-called classical mythology. In our own context as a predominantly Hindu nation, such questions as regards the nature of myths do not generally arise in the popular imagination. The very connotations of the word myth, conveying in this English language a sense of the falsified fantastic, gets ameliorated in our own context of a culture more or less in sync with the dynamism of the past- our myths to us are sacred verities, truths unquestioned precisely for the deep rooted religious sacrosance invested in them. The myth-rather the series of myths-I take up here is immortalised conveniently as an epic- the Ramayana. I will assume, not totally without justification, that everybody here is acquainted with the barebones of the plot and that a detailed exposition of the same will be unnecessary. Instead, I shall plunge directly into the primal-and not primeval-concern or this seminar and this paper- the reinvention of myth in contemporary culture.

When it comes to the Ramayana, the word reinvention does not fully hold: the connotations of discovery and originality it evokes come in direct confrontation with our rich legacy of unceasing dynamism with the past. The works which I’ll discuss here are therefore not as much as reinventions in this sense of creative extrapolations upon a dead past as varying interpretations of a living, continually evolving heritage. That they’re both different types of a genre of entertainment which comes from a so-called twentieth century Western tradition of reinventing and disseminating classical as well as urban myths in ways amenable to the masses is further indicative of the uniqueness of their position within our own context of multiplicity of form, narrative and plot of the said epic. Indeed, for in thus being widely circulated animations on a myth still central to Indian communal life and public consciousness, these artefacts embody that spirit of syncretisation of cultures and narrative styles which increasingly typifies our lives and which reflects the fluidity of mythical structures within an overall, ostensibly unchangeable framework.

Hanuman conforms to this. It is by and large a saleable condensation of the Ramayana which shunts through the entire epic in order to visualise those areas of the story which would bring in the maximum of profit without affronting public sentiment. Hanuman is born as part of a grand design to rid the good earth of foul rakshakas who plague honest Aryan souls with perdition and hinder yagnas of the pious rishis: his ultimate calling in life is to assist Ram in the annihilation of Ravan and his Lanka and so restore the reign of righteousness on earth. All here is black and white, overlooking even that deep shade of grey which first in the Sundar Kand and then the Uttar Kand of the epic proper render Ram dangerously human. In Hanuman the demarcations are clear cut and it’s just a matter of time till our hero grows up and fulfils his glorious tryst with destiny.

Here we make another interesting observation. Though it deals with one of our most venerated myths, Hanuman is widely marketed as a children’s movie. This indeed is its USP- it caters specifically to the preteen audience of four to ten or so year olds for whom the fascination with myths and stories has not yet been challenged by the fashionable atheism of adolescence. The initial half an hour or so which deals with Hanuman’s childhood seems to be constructed specially to satiate the emotional needs of the projected audience: a child prodigy who fights all kinds of demons, Hanuman is also an easy going lad who roams the forests singing catchy songs and playing pranks on innocent rishis deep in meditation. Consider, for instance, the sequence akadam bakadam which depicts him doing exactly all this; notice then the terminology employed here, the inclusion of phrases like jadu ki takat and hawa se tej na bijli se kam which evoke Western concepts of magic and the superhero and so help the middle class audience, already exposed to all these in school and through popular culture, make another connect our protagonist. Being as he is thus-every small boy’s dream come true, a superhero who saves the world during the day and gets tucked in by Mummy at night-there’s no wonder that the movie did well.

Therefore, with that impressionable section of society which will grow up to represent our civilisation as its target audience, Hanuman is particularly effective as a carrier of culture. By thus guiding the interaction of this section with our mythical past and heritage it plays a vital role in determining what our future as a community and a culture will be.

However, as it is, Hanuman’s success is one which threatens in the long run the existing fabric of society as we know it. By essentialising personality and narrative as morally unquestionable truth, Hanuman takes away whatever space for open interpretation the popularly acceptable form or version of the myth has and thus consolidates it for the generations to come. The perception one is to form about the Hindu religion and mythological past is bound to be linear and simplistic. In fact, the very nature of Hinduism is being changed by such movies which exclusively glorify a single deity in the pantheon and thus erode slowly the diversity which has been its hallmark ever since its conception. Of course, one can argue that the movie generates interest in mythology and so paves the way for future intellectuals like those present before me in my audience, but the numbers who will get affected thus will necessarily be much lesser than those who will be silently co-opted into the system and its dominant ideologies.

Ideologies which our next case study Sita Sings the Blues challenges. Made by American Nina Paley, the movie functions at two levels: first at the intensely personal level of. Paley’s relation with husband Dave and then at the ostensibly universal, timeless relation between Ram and Sita. Ostensible because even as Ram and Sita are acknowledged ideal the fact of their failed relation is delved into and paralleled with that of Nina and Dave to bathe them in a light quite characteristically human. Ram cannot bring himself to trust his own wife’s fidelity and is convinced only after making her go through an agni-pariksha.

Of course, an interesting detail to be noticed here is that while many renditions of this episode will make it part of Ram’s grand design of defeating Ravan and proving his wife’s chastity to the world, Nina sees it clearly as the first portend of failure in their marriage. Be it some great design or not, something has clearly soured in Ram; as likely as not, it’s his very vibrant sense of masculine pride as a Kshatriya prince hurt at facing the wife taken away him: he could not defend her earlier and now seeing traces of that defeat in her form he transfers his own guilt to infidelity in her. Ideal son, ideal warrior, ideal prince, Ram fails to be the ideal husband.

This motif of estrangement is rapidly developed hereafter. Ram and Sita return to Ayodhya and to all appearances settle down to a happily married life; tensions, however, abound and soon he starts getting ‘cold’ to her. Here again must one draw attention to Paley’s delineation of Ram: while in accounts of this particular section of the Ramayana he’s usually shown devoted to Sita, Paley will have this devotion more a surface attachment, even pretension, than the deep-rooted affection Sita has for ‘her man’. As Ram’s abrupt, almost relieved tone suggests, the dhobhi incident is just a valid excuse to be rid of Sita. The fact that she’s pregnant at the time he turns her out causes him no great regret- such is his suspicion of her fidelity that in his vengeful indifference he literally tramples across Sita. Even at the end when he’s united with his two sons he’s hesitant about acknowledging the wife in Sita and says instead in a casual, hasty voice that she must yet again give a test of her chastity. This, of course, is the last test Sita gives: she calls Mother Earth to take her back as proof of her fidelity and so ends her tragic life on earth. Wife of an ideal man, ideal wife herself, Paley’s Sita leaves without understanding the reasons for their failed marriage.

Sita Sings the Blues, therefore, challenges our received notions of the Ramayana, especially those which seek to garb this one inexplicably traumatic episode in the altruistic light of a universally beneficial grand design we as Indians are accustomed to: no, this is rather to assert that what Paley does in imaginatively identifying with Sita is drastically different from anything done before even though it is admittedly not too radical in itself. By this we imply that though the work is created from a woman’s perspective and presents as such Sita’s reaction to the happenings around her, it does not give any corrective measures to ameliorate the pain she experiences at the hand of an uncaring patriarchal society. However conventional, Paley does give the female subject a voice and that itself is a revolution of sorts considering the strict gender mores of traditional Hindu society. For the first time Sita sings her blues in a way that is essentially hers as a woman and it is in this, the particularisation of the timelessness of her relation with Ram as being universal and by that virtue local and human that Paley’s interpretation differs from the others.

It would be easy in conclusion to claim that Hanuman and Sita Sings the Blues are two very different interpretations of the same source and so be done with it. It is indeed true, but as I had remarked earlier in this paper the very idea of source with all its aura of incorruptible authenticity and authoriality is in fact a convenient illusion. What we regard as the source is just the earliest known record of the tale so that a myth is ultimately untraceable and must remain, for this very virtue of being so, somewhat shrouded in uncertainty as regards its precise origin. The whole idea of reinvention comes from this comfortable assumption of source so that without that the very basis for dialectics such as these would fall. What would one then call a seminar like this, a paper like mine? Do we not create our own snug myth, the workability of the academia, the pertinence of discourse? Are we not all myth makers then, inventors rather than re-inventors?

I’d like to end, therefore, with a correction: Hanuman and Sita Sings the Blues are two very different myths in a long, continually evolving series of myths roughly centred on the same plot. The difference is vital.

On Loss of a Phone

Directed at my long suffering grandparents, Babaji and Dadi

*

A mobile phone is a man’s best friend. In need, in deed, wherever he goes, high or low, lonely or in company, the faithful mobile is always there. You can talk, chat, message, read, listen to music, watch movies and just do about everything on a mobile. The mobile is the new dog.

So, alright. This will raise eyebrows. Mos, if she reads this, will want to remind me of the summer of 2007 when I made a considerable ruckus on being forced to acquire a mobile phone. Mobiles shackle you; they’re an impediment to freedom and activity, so I’d denounced. I had resisted parental attempts to give me a mobile; now I like paeans to them- some contradiction this!

Which, indeed, it is. One changes with time. I look back at my reluctance to be encumbered with a mobile and now at my dependence on it and yet see no great incongruity. I have changed. I need a mobile phone today.

To keep in touch. With friends and loved ones. The loved one. Why not? To live untouched by its charms is easy enough- as easy and as difficult as living without after once tasting the fruit. To introduce one to something and then to take it back, that is a cruel cut. To use it once and then to argue it’s useless is a bit difficult. Mobiles are useful and are required for a peaceful existence.

Not required, family will argue. All should be disciplined and in adequate measures; excess is sin. Using the phone’s alright, but one shouldn’t forget one has a family and responsibilities to it. Balance’s the word, balance’s the thing to look for.

Indeed it is. One must balance, one must readjust, must, measure by measure, make sure that the private does not overwhelm the public and that the two, at arms length, co-exist symbiotically with each other.

But what if the private storms up and gets exposed to new experiences? What if everything collapses and life has to be started anew? What if that which is public becomes so private that it ought to be public? The trials of youth, the passions of the heart- what when these are aroused? Earlier generations had letters and notes; we have our phones. Why then grudge us them? Why not let use and let live? Phones are necessary and to claim they’re unneeded is to be redundantly naïve.

But what when a phone is lost?

To lose a phone is a disaster, a catastrophe, more mental than economical. It is to lose one’s memories, to forget the past and let it be blurred in a haze of indistinct words and images. It is to feel naked, to have your deepest, inmost desires and fancies, your playful whims and innocent exaggerations, to have all your heart mocked by him, the strange unknown. One may relive those experiences to a degree, but what’s gone is gone- final and without cure. To lose a phone is to have one chapter finally closed, to have it erased almost forever. To lose a phone is to lose a part of oneself.

I have lost a phone. My phone.

Reading Modernism

*

To Meenakshi Bhattacharya

*

“Hi! What’re you reading?”

“Hunh? Oh, hi…hullo…this? Oh, nothing…Lord Jim…”

“Okay…who’s it by?”

“Oh, the same as this one…Conrad…it’s horrible, quite, quite horrible…”

“Yeah, I know! I mean, he’s like so over my head! I don’t even get most of it!”

*

Modernism has that particular tinge, that quintessentially peculiar air which makes most of the texts belonging to the genre distinct. I mean, other canons too have something peculiar which makes them what they are, but with Modernism it’s something so very local and yet so universal that it’s hard to miss out. You cannot and yet can relate to these works and that’s the problem.

Take Conrad for example. The fellow’s so obscure and vague, so confoundedly uncertain about his language that you can easily read through Heart of Darkness and still not get what it’s about. The narrative seems specially constructed to confuse and bamboozle, to make the reader introspect, see within and yet be without. It’s a dialectic of dualities, light and darkness, man and beast, a spiralling tug-of-war where the forces of darkness seem destined to win…

‘Forces of darkness’. That’s another typically Modernist concern. At the heart of man lies impenetrable darkness, a central core of primeval brutality which remains unaffected by the paraphernalia of civilisation. Honour, fidelity, mercy, duty, all these morph into instinctive self-preservation and brutal self-gratification at the slightest sign of danger so that all we hold dear get reduced to fanciful chimeras. The world seems a hopeless place and man the most hopeless of hopeful animals in it. In this way Modernists seem incapable of dealing with disillusionment and transfer their own disappointments to humanity at large.

Indeed, traps abound, if not in the public world of politics then in the intensely private one of emotions. Whether or not class tensions of repressed Victorianism lead to it, it’s nonetheless remarkable that Modern man should suddenly discover at this time an incestuous desire for his mother. As if the world was not enough, one’s personal life too begins to dissolve into animality, a frustratingly debilitating sense of incompletion which threatens the very core of ‘civilised’ familial existence. Try as one might, one cannot get out of it and so must live doomed for no fault of one’s own a fallen angel.

Humanity faces, therefore, challenges from all quarters and it stands, in spite of itself, horribly alone in the confrontation. In and out, home and abroad, all around is such a net of drawbacks as will set all possible enterprise to a naught. The sanctity of the inner life, of faith and those personal beliefs which sustain the illusion of purpose, all these give way to a repetitive circle of self-defeating futility. In the ultimate analysis Modernism leaves one with a burning sense of despair, a desperation which soon transforms into impotent purposelessness in face of overwhelming change. Change itself becomes impossible so that all hope, in the present, for the future, all dissolves into nothingness. A despair beyond despair, a torture beyond torture.

The problem is not not getting it; no, instead it is in getting it.

Until the sky falls down on me…

‘Heck, I’m late, I’m late, I’m late! She’s going to kill me!’

‘Your fault really! Spent all your time writing when you could’ve easily gotten ready and left on time!’

‘Damn Shakespeare! Never going to write on him again! Oooh, I’m so horribly late!’

‘You might be late Anubhav Pradhan, but if you don’t do as I say, I will definitely kill you…’

‘Unhn? Oh! Er, right…is it…as in…’

‘Please…’

‘This is weird…weirdest thing ever…’

‘Just do it!’

‘Oh, alright!’

‘Ahha…’

I’ll be your dream, I’ll be your wish, I’ll be your fantasy…

‘I’m not going to come for the farewell.’

I looked up from my disembowelled breastbone. ‘Why?’

‘I’m not. There’s nothing left to come back to. What’ll I do there?’

‘Well, I’m sure people will miss your presence…I mean, what would the English Department farewell be without you, the star attraction, the Queen?’

‘Hai na? Ha-ha!’ and a beaming smile lit her face.

‘Aur kya! Arre, I’m sure they’ll give you that Ms. Farewell thing or something- if they do continue it that is…’

‘Hunha! No, but seriously, I don’t think I’ll come…’

‘But why?’

‘I told you na! There’s nothing left…I mean, what do you remember on your Farewell, hunh?’

‘Um, I don’t know really…this’ll be my first-and hopefully last-college Farewell so I really have no idea…’

‘Arre, I mean, you know…’

‘Yeah, okay, so what was I remembering on my school Farewell…I don’t quite remember remembering anything particular…’

‘Anubhav, see, what I mean is that you remember all the good days, all your friends, the time you spent with them…but I, I have lost all my friends…’

‘Have you?’

‘Yeah, I have…’

‘Doesn’t seem like it…what about, say, J- ?’

‘Well yes, I have her, but, you know, when you think of friends you think of those you had in the beginning…I’ve lost all of them…’

‘Hmm…perhaps…but not all! You have, well, you still have KP for instance!’

‘Haha! Yeah, I have him…but he’d talk with a corpse as well.’

‘Okay…but…’

‘No, I really mean it when I say it! Look at S! We were such good friends! She used to say I’m her best friend! And now…’

‘Er, and now?’

‘Well, now, she thinks I bitch about her! Me, of all people, bitch about her! It’s so unfair!’

‘Um, you don’t?’

‘Of course I don’t! I mean, I’ve said things about my not liking her going into politics but then I’ve never ever bitched about her!’

‘Well, but still, you do have B!’

‘Oh, B, yes, but she and I came close later…in second year that is.’

‘Second or not, she’s still a friend!’

‘Yeah, she is, but with her I don’t have the sort of petty quarrels I have with S…she’s more like…’

‘What you’d call mature?’

‘Yeah! She is! But C…’

‘What about her?’

‘Well, she’s dumb in a way. You know, doesn’t know when and where to say what. She just starts blabbering with anybody without realising the consequences!’

‘Ah yes, a common human flaw…I too know one who suffers from this…’

‘Hai na? I mean, one day she’ll bitterly complain about you to other people and then come back the next day having happily forgotten yesterday!’

‘Very irresponsible…yet, I can’t help pointing out that not all is lost- you still have R!’

‘Oh yes, of course, C! He’s such a darling! He was even ready to marry me!’

‘Oh, I’m sure lots of people are…’

‘Haan, haan…’

‘M, I’m sure, wouldn’t mind at all…’

‘Hunh! He’s so hypocritical! He sends private messages to people on Facebook but publicly he behaves as if nothing’s happened!’

‘Good heavens! You can’t expect the poor boy to be moping around! People like him don’t readily betray their emotions in public!’

‘Yeah, yeah, whatever! At least H says whatever he has to directly! The kind of things he says and jokes about…brr! He just doesn’t know where to draw the line! You know what he messaged me the other day? Something like I’m imagining you in the dark…my Amazonian!’

‘Uhm, well, you know, his sense of humour is a bit out of the ordinary, but still, I feel he just does it to tease people.’

‘Bloody tease! You know what people call him? They say he’s a thirki!’

‘Well, I’ll be dashed! That’s just not right!’

‘Haan, haan, tum toh ussi ki side loge! In sab ki side loge mere siwa!’

‘Nahi bhai, aisi koi baat nahi hai!’

‘Aur kya? Uss A ke mamle mein bhi tumne meri side nahi li!’

‘Well, uski koi khas galti toh mujhe samajh…’

‘Fucking ...! Hunh! I know him inside out! I know he knows he’s at fault! With others I can still reconcile, but with him…with him there’s just too much negativism, too much bitterness now…it’s over with him.’

Over. The walk was over too. Too soon. Never realised it was so near. So near…so far. So very far. Going, going, farther off. There’s something about empty corridors and deserted lawns which chills you to the bone, inspires that sense of transition, opens your eyes to the illusion of permanence. There she was, popular, desired, yet walking down an empty road into a friendless hostel: hurt, her old ties broken, alone…

How lucky is it to not be alone! We come, we wait, we go, alone, but to have one on the way, that is to not be alone…

I’ll be your hope, I’ll be your love, be everything that you need…

‘So, this guy isn’t that sort; you know, the sort who would do gyming and exercise and sweat out…’

‘He’s sort of non-violent?’

‘Yeah, you can say that, but…yeah, you can…so, anyway, he’s not a violence person; but he’s still the sort who has lots of interaction with women, who interacts with women a lot…’

‘A ladies man?’

‘Yes, you can say that…you can, but…so, anyway, so after that other guy, who’s the beating sort, after he punches this guy and this guy gets up and says ‘below average moron’ and then this other guy is about to punch this guy again when the other guy, the my boy, comes and pulls this guy on the ground and saves this guy from that guy and they all get into that guy’s car and there’s that guy’s girl, who’s actually not that guy’s girl but my boy’s girl but that guy’s just thinking this girl to be my girl in that typical chauvinist way, she’s also in the car, and all three, this guy and my boy and my girl, they all drive away.’

‘Ah…how very interesting…so, what is it called?’

‘In the Land of Women.’

Women. Where is that woman when she’s really needed? Why can’t she be around? If only she could be, if only…

I’ll love you more with every breath truly, madly, deeply do…

‘No, we are not going on the roof!’

‘Chalo na!’

‘Listen, I’m not at all in the mood to walk across this parapet onto the blasted roof! No! Just sit here quietly!’

‘Chalo na please!’

‘Argh! How difficult is it to understand! I want peace; I’m not in the mood for adventure, certainly not for breaking my neck!’

‘Accha theek hai. Sorry. Mein disturb kar rahi hoon. Ab mein chup rahungi.’

‘Good! Hamesha chapar-chapar karne ki zaroorat nahi hoti hai! Shant rehna bhi sheekho!’

‘Sorry.’

‘Oh well! Theek hai, sorry! Bol bhai, bol! Jo bolna hai bol!’

‘Chat pe kab chalenge phir?’

Phir kab chalenge? Kabhi nahi shayad. Jaane hi toh waale hain, jayenge kahan? Aur jaake toh bilkul nahi jaa payenge…chat pe, sabse upar; alag, akele, ek saath…

‘There’s something clawing my insides. I can’t bear the thought of you sad…I love you and I’m…I’m here darling…Always, with you…’

I wanna stand with you on a mountain,
I wanna bathe with you on the sea,
I wanna lay like this forever…
Until the sky falls down on me.

Before Shakespeare: The forgotten playwrights of Elizabethan England

Think of Elizabethan England and immediately Shakespeare comes to the mind. Nay, think as much as of English Literature and Shakespeare looms large, an interminable specter of bardic grandiloquence. To the lay man Shakespeare is synonymous with English Literature, with all its ancient and sublime grandeur, with that very essence of Englishness which makes it a class apart, in a niche well above the others. Five centuries after his death Shakespeare continues to inspire and provoke alike, all in a manner which is typically him, typically Shakespeare. The Bard lives on…

To the perdition, however, of others. For with all our emphasis on Shakespeare we forget to take into account his contemporaries, more so his predecessors who laid the foundations of Elizabethan theatre and made it possible for a genius like him to make all the world his stage. The general impression, even amongst Literature students, seems to be of a bearded Shakespeare standing aloft a high pedestal with a fallen Marlowe on one side, a foxy Jonson on the other and a philosophic Bacon somewhere in the controversial background. This is all that is commonly taken as the range and expanse of Elizabethan theatre so that probing the average DU Literature student for more would yield disappointing results.

Students are not to blame in this though. The syllabus is constructed in such a fashion as to reinforce this overwhelming centrality of Shakespeare. At the undergraduate level the English Renaissance is only a part of a much larger structure covering some two hundred years of English Literature from Chaucer onwards. It is meant essentially to impart generals, to give learners a very broad idea of the evolution of the English tongue and the socio-political circumstances which made Elizabethan theatre possible. One hears vaguely, for instance, of Gorboduc, of the ingenious Burbage, of the Master of Revels and Court diktats but that is all: everything else remains shrouded in that characteristic bogginess which so typifies general attitude to Shakespeare- a beacon of brilliance out of impenetrable darkness…

Current classroom pedagogy only reinforces this misconception. It is forced, of course, to follow constrains dictated by exigencies of syllabus and examinations but then, perhaps by way of habit, it also naturalises these into general truths. The impression which comes across thus further entrenches Shakespeare as the only Elizabethan dramatist of count.

One may argue that at this level students are supposed to engage with texts on their own, to explore conscientiously the various strands of background handed unto them by professors. Indeed, one may do so, for the pivotal aspect of higher education is self-study- but then while arguing so one must also take into consideration the lamentable infrastructure available to students in this University. Libraries are mostly tailor made to aid tutoring and address concerns issuing out of prescribed texts; the bigger ones usually broaden their range without including exhaustive matter on this so-called background. The Ramjas College Library, for instance, has a shelf and a half of Shakespeare and related criticism but only three books dealing with his contemporaries. Of these, only one has entire full length plays, and those too of mostly his Jacobean successors- the other two are histories of drama wherein are dedicated compact chapters to the early pioneers of Elizabethan theatre. Faced with this inadequacy, one cannot but be disappointed.

Of course, one may expect this disappointment to be ameliorated at the postgraduate level but alas, by all indications there seems only further disappointment in store. Once again, the syllabus is structured to assert Shakespeare’s centrality: a compulsory paper covers four of his plays while Jonson, Middleton and the like are clubbed together under the broad rubric of an optional course. After imparting generals and introducing students to the genres at the undergraduate level, the University of Delhi persists in delaying specialisation by extending the same logic to post-graduation as well.

This is in no way to deny Shakespeare’s significance: no, instead it is to call for change, for a reworking of the syllabus which would holistically take in account the tradition which leads up to-and in some ways culminates with-Shakespeare. That there are no holy cows is by now well established: we need therefore, not as much as to de-sanctify Shakespeare as to move beyond that stage, to broaden our outlook-and thus to change the processes by which it’s generated-by bringing greater flexibility and choice in the way Elizabethan drama-and by extension Literature in English-is taught and thought of. And even though we need not necessarily go the way Poona University has and make Shakespeare optional, we need to acknowledge that our current zeal for Shakespeare makes us gloss over those who made him possible.

It’s a classic case of marginalisation within the mainstream, by the mainstream, of the mainstream. We need to go beyond and look back. To make available infrastructure and provide options. To see what came before.

Before Shakespeare.