Konkani is spoken in Goa and in parts of Maharashtra, Karnataka and Kerala that lie along the western coast. The oppressive linguistic policies of the Portuguese rulers in the sixteenth century ensured that Konkani disappeared from the public sphere in Goa and was spoken only in the privacy of one’s home. The exodus of Konkani people from Goa and their subsequent relocation in these southern parts kept the language alive in these pockets. However, the influence of the majority language in each region resulted in the development of widely differing Konkani dialects and the use of the Devanagari, Kannada, Malayalam as well as Roman scripts.
A language thus marginalized by history’s tide could hardly boast of any creative literature of note. It was only after Goa was liberated in 1961, after the Sahitya Akademi recognized Konkani as an independent Indian language and it was included in the eighth schedule of the Constitution, that creative writing received impetus with short story and poetry being the most favoured genres. It is against the backdrop of this nascent literary tradition that Mahabaleshwar Sail’s Yug Sanvaar, perhaps the most ambitious of his five novels, should be viewed.
Yug Sanvaar deals with life in Adolshi village, home to a peaceful agricultural community that lives in accordance with age-old traditions, when the Portuguese arrive in Goa in 1510. The order passed in 1546 to exile Brahmins, ban Hindu religious practices and destroy idolatry in Goa forces entire communities to uproot themselves and move away in a bid to save their religion and their gods. Temples are razed and churches built on those sites. Those who remain behind are forced to convert to Christianity, but they often persist with their old traditions and culture. The Order of the Inquisition (1560–1812) unleashes ruthless, inhuman punishments on the new Christian converts in a bid to retain them within the folds of the Church. This causes a major upheaval in the socio-cultural history of Goa.
‘I believe in God but not in any organized religion,’ Sail claims in the foreword to the Konkani original. By confining God within the framework of organized religion we breed intolerance of other faiths. By interpreting the teachings of the prophets in a manner that suits our own ends, we create immense havoc…’ It is this ‘havoc’ unleashed by a powerful conqueror with a crucifix in one hand and a naked sword in the other on an ignorant mass of people caught up in rituals and taboos, fragmented by issues of caste and social hierarchies that forms the theme of the novel.
A man’s sense of identity is linked to his religion and the culture from which he springs. Faced with an ultimatum from a powerful State to give up his religion or face expulsion, arrest or death, each character in the book is forced to make this difficult choice. While Sukhdo Nayak, the first Christian convert in Adolshi, is tempted by the gold coins and portions of fertile community land being offered to new converts, henpecked Gaja becomes a Christian to spite his cruel, domineering wife.
For Ranu Kenkre, the wealthy Brahmin bhatkar (landlord), conversion is the only way he can retain his orchards and fields and continue to look after the families who work on his land. As for Dugga Mhar and his son Ghungo,‘untouchables’ who are condemned to haunt the fringes of Hindu society, it is the lure of an existence without barriers of caste or class, where everyone eats at the same table and worships in the same church.
The saga of choice plays out differently with other characters when they choose to safeguard their religious beliefs and move to unknown lands. Guna, the headstrong young man from the Nayak community, tries to instigate the villagers to attack the police camp set up in a local shrine. When no one responds to his call he destroys the large stone cross on the hill and cuts off the legs of two Portuguese soldiers before fleeing from the village in search of a new life. Nilu Nayak and his neighbours, however, choose to abandon their homes and their land so that they can carry their kuldevata (family deity) Ramnath to safer regions and consecrate the idol at a new site.
For Timanna Bhat, the sensitive younger brother of the temple priest, the desecration and destruction of the temple, which has been the centre of his existence, is too much to bear. His lifeless body hanging from a ravaged beam amidst the silent temple bells is an expression of his rebellion, and displays yet another aspect of this choice.
Sail received the Sahitya Akademi Award for his short story collection Tarangam in 1993, but his broad, sweeping style eddying into numerous subplots and cul-de-sacs and drawing deeply from dialect and folklore and indigenous religious practices is better suited to the novel as a literary form. Yug Sanvaar, with its vast historical canvas, gives Sail the latitude to tackle life in Goan villages revolving around the temple, the orchards and the fields and the upheaval created in this peaceful fabric by ‘the white devils from across the seven seas’.
We accompany Sail to distant Spain and Portugal to see what makes the crusader’s spirits tick. We are carried into the labyrinthine depths of the ‘Big House’, the seat of the dreaded Inquisition, ‘where Death did not come easily’; where ‘solitude and the huge weight of sorrow often killed the inmate long before he was sentenced to death’. We wonder what the future holds for those straggling hordes, forced to uproot their umbilical ties and head into unknown zones. And, like Sail, we hope that though today ‘there is darkness without end on all four sides, who knows, the bright light of morning may reveal a new shore where their tiny footprints may eventually leave mighty impressions on the land’.
Much of this breadth of focus is possible because Sail does not follow a linear plot, nor does he confine himself to the fortunes of merely a handful of families during these turbulent times. The novel develops as a series of episodes peopled by a mosaic of characters, many of whom remain mere cameos caught up in the swirl of the narrative for only a couple of pages. But there are notable exceptions like Durga, the spunky Brahmin woman who decides to work in the family’s fields challenging the Portuguese order that Brahmin landowners may no longer hire help. Or Camil Ribeir, the local neo-convert who is now a shef (chief official) in the Portuguese police, torn between the need to forcibly convert the villagers and a deep sympathy for the predicament they are in.
It is Padre Simao Peres, the genial Spanish priest who wanders about the village talking of love and compassion and forgiveness, who plays the central role in this novel. ‘Some of our people are following the wrong path. They are followers of Jesus, too, but someone has led them astray. The path to Jesus goes through men’s hearts. Nothing can be achieved through force,’ he laments. He is an effective foil to Padre Paolo Colaso and the other Jesuit priests who clamour for greater use of force and more stringent laws to make Goa a Christian stronghold ruled by the Portuguese king. This Padre bappa’s arrest and subsequent trial by the Tribunal of the Inquisition give Sail a chance to flesh out his character and explore the workings of his mind.
While religious conversion, the migration of communities and the excesses of the Inquisition form the three main planks on which the novel rests, Sail is also intrigued by the comparative ease with which a boatload of soldiers and religious practitioners could overrun an entire region. Hindu society, fragmented by divisions of caste and of class, and the Hindu religion, preoccupied with issues like untouchability, ritual purity and taboos of diet were unable to withstand these intruding forces.
The doors of Hinduism opened outwards –people were branded ‘outcastes’ and expelled from its folds. A hungry child from a Hindu family fed by a kind-hearted Christian woman or unsuspecting Hindus who cooked on a hearth that had been used by a Christian family were therefore tarred with the same brush. Once expelled from its folds they couldn’t re-enter Hindu society; they could end their lives or accept the four gold coins offered to each new convert and get baptized, thus swelling the numbers of the Christian faith.
Sail claims that his imagination was fired by the unwritten stories, the drama, the conflict and pain that lurked in this period of Goan history, but he remained hesitant because this was an issue that concerned men’s faiths. It called for much research into the historical and sociological accounts of the pe
riod. It had to be handled with sensitivity and restraint.
Yug Sanvaar testifies to Sail’s mature handling of a turbulent period of Goan history, of interest to Konkani Hindus who flock to the resurrected temples of their kuldevatas even today, and to Konkani Christians in search of their roots.
Social and political upheaval and the resultant migration of communities have been spawning grounds for great literature all over the world. Creative writing born out of such ferment throws light on the collective consciousness of a community and the region it inhabits. Yug Sanvaar, if it transcends the boundaries imposed by language, has the potential to do just this.
This essay was published in 50 Writers 50 Books Eds. Pradeep Sebastian and Chandra Siddan (HarperCollins India, 2013).
‘My Imagination was Fired by Unwritten Stories’:
In Conversation with Mahabaleshwar Sail
Vidya Pai
Vidya Pai: Could you tell us a bit about your background?
Mahabaleshwar Sail: I hail from a family of farmers in the Karwar region of northern Karnataka, so my early years were spent in tending cows and working in the fields. I started school at the age of six and dropped out in the eighth standard. When I turned eighteen, I joined the Indian Army and served on the battle front during the Indo–Pak war of 1965 and had a stint with the UN Peacekeeping force in Egypt and Israel. I have also served in the police force and worked a s upervisor in a project of the Forest Department. I then joined the Post and Telegraph department where I served till my retirement.
How did you start your literary career?
I believe that a writer’s ability to create literature is an intrinsic part of his personality, it is a gift that he is born with. My formal education ended in the eighth standard and I had no access to books, nor had I read much literature at that time. But I was very sensitive to all that was happening around me and would try to answer the questions that arose in my mind. The urge to create something new was a constant factor in my life.
The first story I wrote was during a lull in the battle after the Tashkent ceasefire. My literary career took off after my stint in the Army ended and I was transferred to Pune.
I wrote short stories for many years. I used to write in Marathi and my stories were published in leading magazines in Pune and Mumbai. But I always felt that I was translating my experiences into Marathi. It was only after I started writing in Konkani that I could express what I wanted to say in a natural manner. Writing in Marathi and getting published in leading Marathi magazines at that stage of my career gave me a chance to examine my talents, to see where I stood in the larger Marathi literary world. It gave me immense confidence and this proved beneficial in the long run.
Do you see yourself as a short story writer or as a novelist?
I started as a short story writer and have published four collections of Konkani stories. I received the Sahitya Akademi award for my short story collection Tarangam in 1993.
I am more comfortable with the space that a novel offers, because it gives me the freedom to develop my plot and characters. The only problem is that short stories can be published easily while getting a novel published is a difficult task.
My first novel Kali Ganga, which dealt with the lives of the farming community on the banks of the Kali River in Karwar, was published in 1996. This was followed by two novellas Adrusht and Aranyakand. A Konkani film was made on Adrusht and it received the Critic’s Award at the Toronto International Film Festival. Yug Sanvar, Khol Khol Moolam, Vikhar Vilkho and Havthan, which focuses on the lives of a potter’s community, are the other novels I have written.
What made you write Yug Sanvar?
I had heard many stories about religious conversion since my childhood, in fact there were a few Christian families in our village who followed the tenets of both religions. It was only after I read Sri Uday Bhembre’s article on the Goan Inquisition in the Konkani daily Sunaparant in 1991 that my interest was aroused. My imagination was fired by the unwritten stories, the drama and conflict and pain lurking in the gaps in documented history available about that period. I realized that religious conversion, the migration of communities and the Inquisition would provide enough material for a piece of creative writing. But this was an issue that concerned men’s faiths, so I was hesitant for a very long time.
What were the reasons for your hesitation? How did you overcome them?
I believe that there are two sides to any conflict, and no one side can be totally right.
I believe in God but not in any organized religion; by confining God within the framework of organized religion we breed intolerance of other faiths. So, my God, who is present in the whole universe, does not need temples or rituals or priests.
But this was a very delicate, sensitive theme. It would have to be handled with maturity and restraint. If the balance were upset in any way religious sentiments would be hurt and that was not my intent.
Besides these moral and ethical issues I would have to study the sociological and historical accounts of the period. Much of this material was available in the Central Library in Panaji, but I lived and worked in Canacona, which was 70 km away.
I thought about these issues for a long time and only then did I start work on the novel.
Could you describe the research that went into the novel?
There are many legends and myths and folk tales dealing with this period of religious conversion but there are few written records. Much of the historical material available is in Portuguese, but I do not know that language. My friend, Vasant Desai, who knows that language well, would accompany me to the Central library and help me take notes. I consulted material written in Konkani and in English too.
It took me two years to gather all the material I would need for my book. Research had to be conducted at the social and cultural level as well the religious and political one. I had to study the social structure of villages, the rituals and superstitions and folk religion that prevailed around that time. I visited the areas where the fictional village Adolshi would be located and where the rest of the action would unfold.
Can Yug Sanvar be called a historical novel?
I would prefer to call Yug Sanvar a piece of creative writing that is based on historical events. My role is that of a narrator and I have attempted to create a piece of literary fiction based in this historical period drawing upon my imagination, my knowledge of Indian culture and my experience of the agrarian social structure prevalent in this region.
When a writer decides on a theme, he looks at the dramatic potential in the subject, he tries to see if there is any scope for creative writing. He is not interested in merely recording history. History, imagination and creativity appear in varying degrees in this text.
How was Yug Sanvar received?
Yug Sanvar was published by Asmitai Prakashan in April 2004. At 424 pages, it was one of the biggest novels published in the Konkani language, and it received a good response. It was short-listed for the Saraswati Samman.
Since Konkani readership is very limited, I wanted this novel to reach a wider audience so I translated it into Marathi and Tandav was published by Rajhans, a reputed publishing house in Pune. As the author and translator, I have exercised considerable freedom with Tandav, editing sections and adding new portions. This translation received many awards, including one from the Maharashtra Sahitya Parishad.
Age of Frenzy, the English translation of Yug Sanvar, was held up for many years because of its length. Every writer believes that what he has written is complete and should not be tampered with. Practical considerations, however, compelled me to edit and condense Yug Sanvar for this translation, though I have ensured that no characters have been left out and the flow of the story remains the same.
Afterword
Vidya Pai
When noted Konkani writer Mahabaleshwar Sail sent me a copy of his latest novel Yug Sanvar in late 2005, I was pre-occupied with grandmotherly duties and a translation project of this magnitude didn’t
fit into my schedule. Yet, as I read this moving tale of life in Adolshi, a fictional Goan village in the sixteenth century, I was captivated by Sail’s depiction of the social, cultural and religious upheaval after the Portuguese arrived in Goa in 1510.
Here was a novel by a Konkani writer that focused on religious conversion and the severing of umbilical ties as communities moved away from Goa to save their gods. ‘Kakkya, tu Goyyan gellolo ve…’, a popular folk ditty, where a young mother asks a crow if it had flown to Goa recently, and if it had met her brother and the family she was forced to leave behind, reflects this sense of yearning and loss. Konkani Hindus flock to the resurrected temples of their kuladevatas, their family deities, in Goa even today and the notion of Goa as a long-lost homeland has been kept alive through myths, rituals and folk lore wherever the community set down roots along the western coast. Not only that, Sail hails from an agrarian family and brings the authenticity of experience in a wealth of detail in the descriptions of folk culture and agricultural traditions. In Yug Sanvar, he touches on three sets of religious traditions – the folk religion practiced by the original settlers of the region, Hinduism and Christianity. Yet, Yug Sanvar, the novel that dealt with so much personal and political history was virtually unknown.
Creative writing on such a theme should have been of interest to the descendants of those who stayed behind in Goa and embraced the Christian faith as well as to those who moved away. Was it the Goan Konkani dialect used in the book that made it incomprehensible to Goan Christians as well as Konkani speakers in Karnataka, and Kerala? Or was it the Devnagari script, unfamiliar to those attuned to Konkani written in Roman, Kannada, Malayalam scripts that excluded a large chunk of prospective readers? Perhaps an English translation would vault these boundaries, I thought, as I started work on this 424-page tome.
Age of Frenzy Page 28