“Death” and “Violence” in Mitra Phukan’s Writings: Unraveling an
Aesthetics of Pain in The Collector’s Wife and Hope
Namrata Pathak is Assistant Professor, Department of English, North-Eastern Hill University (NEHU-Tura Campus), Meghalaya, India.
ABSTRACT
How can death be criticized if we cannot correct it? We know that death
is inevitable and in this sense how can it be resisted? In Identity and
Difference (1969), Heidegger says that only individualization that
results from facing up to one’s own death makes it possible for one to
establish one’s own identity and integrity in one’s life. Death has been a
constant theme in Mitra Phukan’s writings. For her, death is a strategy that
hangs suspended, neither affirming nor assuaging anything. We can trace an urge
to signify the power of death in almost all her texts. This stance further
embodies death as the absolute destruction of truth and meaning. Juxtaposed
against this is the urgency to “laugh at” death. Maybe it is because death is
totally a strange yet familiar experience. For her, death is at once both
enabling and cursed.
KEYWORDS
Mitra Phukan, death, violence, aesthetics of pain
Death has been a constant theme in Mitra Phukan’s writings. For her,
death is a strategy that hangs suspended, neither affirming nor assuaging
anything. We can trace an urge to signify the power of death in almost all her
texts. This stance further embodies death as the absolute destruction of truth
and meaning. Juxtaposed against this is the urgency to “laugh at” death. Maybe
it is because death is totally a strange yet familiar experience. For her,
death is at once both enabling and cursed. For Phukan, death is essentially a
political issue. Furthermore, in Mitra Phukan’s writings, the vision of death
is inscribed in contemporary discourse largely as an image that collapses into
its own heart. If seen from a different angle, death becomes a liberated
transformation, irresistibly comical. Power, in a way, is always hidden at the
bosom of death; but rightly enough, existence is also power. This mode is in
favour of two kinds of power, the power to act and the power to suffer action.
The sum of these two is both constant and constantly effective, a fact that
adds to existence as an act of expression. But, can death be another way of
living, existing, and simply, expressing oneself? If yes, then Mitra Phukan
uncovers interpersonal interaction that both reveals and creates death as an
actuality.
How can death be criticized if we cannot correct it? We know that death
is inevitable and in this sense how can it be resisted? In Identity and
Difference (1969), Heidegger says that only individualization that
results from facing up to one’s own death makes it possible for one to
establish one’s own identity and integrity in one’s life. In The Gift
of Death (1995), Derrida says that the concept of death
has no borders because it exceeds conceptual demarcation or closure. The
question is whether this distinction between a concept and the reality of death
can be drawn as a contested issue? Death is beyond the units of
phenomenological description insofar as one’s own experience of death cannot be
explained because one is dead. Moreover, influenced by Philippe Aries’s history
of death, Derrida insists that death is central to the very idea of “culture.”
It is because with changing cultural contexts, national borders, currencies and
languages, we also have the changing notions of death (Hoy, 2005:165-7). The
question is whether we are trivializing death by making it merely a social
construction or valorizing it as a culturally variable phenomenon? Defined in
contradistinction to its ethics and the dense history of Assam, the concept of
death acquires a nuanced significance. We need to consider at length how death
has organized itself into different schools; how it has assembled specific
knowledge of itself, its divisions, and its theory of aesthetics. Moreover, we
are framed by a necessary yet impossible desire to go further, to defy death.
This is a stance that displays an urge for political awareness and commitment.
More than this, once death crosses its limit there may be no going back. Can
one follow it any further? Or is it going beyond “the limitless reign of the
limit” as Foucault calls it? (1982: 32). On the other hand, death
becomes a dance on a limit over which no one steps. In the process, death is
endlessly reiterated as a predicate in the sense that it becomes virtually
meaningless. We can further contend that it is a concept that cuts across, not
beyond. Death, as a term, does not cross the threshold of one form of knowledge
or nature, into another; neither does it “re-inscribe” the same knowledge or
nature into a “perverted” form (Dollimore 1992: 33-5). Death contests
absolutely the discursive categories and fields of knowledge. These are the
fields that map and delimit the terrain of “the possible.”
Phukan’s gamut of writings unfold atrocious incidents like the mass
killings in Assam during the students’ agitation movements, the violence of the
banned outfit ULFA, the TADA terror, the always newly devised land-framing
policy, the migration of the outsiders, to name a few. Mitra Phukan’s Hope intricately
ties down the concept of “death” to the science of sensuous perception. For
both Sewali Barua and Nandini Barua death is what you perceive to be true as
they are not sure whether the person they are looking for is dead or alive.
They are willing to take either version depending on what they perceive. Coming
from a place like Parbatpuri validates their identity as victims. Parbatpuri is
a small town “surrounded by hills on three sides, and bordered by the vast
expanse of the Red River on the fourth.” The place has something about it. In
this context, Phukan contends:
Encircled by mile upon mile
of lush tea-gardens, it is the headquarters of one of the remoter districts of
our State. But though it is a picturesque town, it is not for its beauty that Parbatpuri
is in the news these days. We at the newspaper office where I work come upon
the name often in the news dispatches that come in. Parbatpuri, these days, is
at the very nerve-centre of the ferocious unrest that roils all around the district, the
insurgency and violence that threatens to rip apart the very fabric of our
lives even in this distant capital-city of the State where I live.
(2005:85-104)
The narrator in Hope looked at both the ladies with
greater attention. She heaved a sigh of relief when she realized that these two
respectable ladies “cannot be” terrorists. The narrator comments that “these
days, it is getting more and more difficult to ascertain, just from first glance,
who wields a gun. Young girls have them, yes, even middle-aged ladies have been
known to possess firearms” The younger woman, Nandini Barua, took out a
magazine from her worn leather bag. She held it out, and enquired whether the
story “Death of a Dream” was written by the narrator. Strangely enough, we can
draw a parallel between the missing husband of Nandini Barua and the
protagonist of the piece of fiction, “Death of a Dream.” The tightly-structured
tale of “Death of a Dream” revolves round Shankar, an escapee from prison,
where he had been incarcerated for terrorist activities. Written in unadorned
language, the story lays bare the unfulfilled desires of the protagonist.
During the night of escape, Shankar happened to take shelter in the unoccupied
house of a music teacher. He read the diary of his absent host, full of
longings for a time of peace. The policemen tightened their cordon outside the
house. Finally, at dawn, Shankar, freshly bathed and dressed in the absent
musician’s kurta, went out of the house. Bullets rained all around
him. Still humming his favourite “Imagine” by John Lennon, he fell flat on the
ground. Shankar’s violent death, herein, becomes a mode of philosophical
inquiry concerning the theory of creation. The terminology of death here
describes the structural coherence in which Shankar’s identity is deadlocked.
Being subjected to constant probing and uneasiness, the narrator is strung out
on a tightrope and made to spin, teetering on the edge of non-knowledge,
absence, silence and a possible death. However, this young man’s death in Hope is
risked, not fated.
Hope by Mitra Phukan emphasizes on the production of
terror that is committed to effecting change by analyzing the thematic,
artistic, social or ideological aspects of a community. In part, this discourse
of terror entails a skepticism and a critique of the ways in which the land and
people have been looked at. In Hope terror becomes
a narrative of the characters’ life; it tries to encode a broader worldview or
a complex message in both diluted and focused/ accessible form. This modern
vocabulary of representing violence, as not being a transcendental phenomena
but a temporal event interspersed with subjective contaminations and ellipses,
give way to an insider’s act of looking at his or her world. The text not only
borders on a shattered and fragmented culture, but in the text, the communal
relations of the characters are thoroughly based on violence and mourning. The
concept of violence determines whether these relations are accepted or assumed,
resisted or refused, and indeed appropriated or transformed by it. Violence, in
a way, creates the role of these characters in Assamese society.
The death of Shankar might have been an outcome of the deviant body’s
productive effects or desires. The body’s desires are many; there can be a
desire to change, to impose, to negate, to terrorize, to suffer, to adjust, to
victimize or to die. During the course of the night, Shankar realized that
violence is not the only weapon for creating a just society. Shankar reads the
diary of his absent host, full of longings for a time of peace, all of which
awakens an echo in Shankar’s mind. He, too, harboured a dream just like the
unknown musician. But unlike the musician, he had resorted to arms in pursuit
of that dream, a dream which now lay shattered under the onslaught of a
thousand bullets. However, this view falls back upon the supremacy
of the individual. The body or the individual represents a community and is a
part of it. One fascinating principle is the fact that communities
cannot be based on the very thing that defines them. However chimerical or
strategic the relation between the individual and his community might be, the
community attempts to homogenize itself in order to establish itself as the
norm. It produced and, in spite of itself, facilitated, through its violent
exclusion of Shankar’s desire, an extraordinary diversity of responses to that
exclusion. Shankar’s desire to die would be so much in excess of imposed,
derogatory, appropriated, affirmed, and invented definitions that it would
perpetually exceed definitions altogether. Shankar’s community is at once
limited and delimited, a community established within the boundaries of other
communities yet also external to them, without boundary. By keeping a track of
the protagonist’s deviant actions we can say that this community can never be a
“community for those who do not have a community,” or for someone like him
(Scott, 1995: 213). But Shankar tries to lay bare the arbitrariness and
limitedness of this community by forcing his entry into it. Shankar, different,
invisible or otherwise, becomes the internal Other of the society. Strangely
enough, the “common” factor upon which any community could be founded works
towards the exclusion of those that could be “un-common.” This sense is
predicated on the shedding of Shankar’s identity or his de-individuation. This
loss of identity becomes a non-basis that makes possible, in the first place,
the inauguration or repetition of a new identity. But, how open is Shankar to
this transformation? In practice, a community needs to “absorb the deaths of
its subjects in order to realize the infinite value of its communion” (Wilson,
1995: 23). Similarly, Jean-Luc Nancy has much to comment in this regard.
Jean-Luc Nancy contends that a community “fills or absorbs all finite
negativity, draws from each singular destiny a surplus value
of humanity or an infinite super humanity
……this presupposes, precisely, the death of each and all in the life
of the infinite” (1991b:13). The fate of such an absorption is seen in the
death of the protagonist, Shankar in Hope. In this context Mitra
Phukan retorts:
…The means had become an
end in themselves. The goal was still a distant chimera, which had often
disappeared from his field of vision as he had systematically conducted raids,
killed people, all in search of a more just and better society. His dream, he
realized as he paced around the musician’s small, one-roomed house, listening
to the strains of John Lennon’s “Imagine” on the cassette-player of his host,
his dream had crumpled and died under the weight of violence. (2005:85-104)
An ecstatic urge to transform the self is at work here. Death, according
to Derrida, is singular and must be taken upon oneself; and this recognition of
mortality as irreplaceability leads to responsibility and a sense of the self.
Death is related to responsibility because everyone must assume his/her own
death. On the other hand, a specific sense of the self evolves from the concept
of death. Derrida contends:
The sameness of self, what remains irreplaceable is dying, only becomes
what
it is, in the sense of an identity as a relation of the self to itself,
by means of
this idea of mortality as irreplaceability… (1993: 45)
But to what extent Shankar is successful in changing himself is the
ultimate question. In an ecstatic relation to art and death, we need to
confront Shankar as a pervasive cultural image of a doomed rebel. Quite
interestingly, he aims to situate death as a representation of infinite
fulfillment. His love for death synthesizes and exceeds his experience.
In The Collector’s Wife (2005), the threat of violence creates
a structural enclosure. For Rukmini and her District Collector husband,
Siddharth, who are very much in such an enclosure, there is refusal of the
necessity of coming out. This enclosure can be termed as deceptive and
precarious. This enclosure symbolizes an imprisonment through death. The place
where Rukmini lives has a strange insularity. Metaphorically, “death” is the
only means of connection between her inner orb and the external world:
The people of Parbatpuri
had, decades ago, subtly had their revenge on their colonial masters by making
sure that the smoke from their funeral pyre rose up in the direction of the
DC’s house…Still, when the occasional cholera or gastro-enteritis epidemic
raged through Parbatpuri, the mourning relatives of the victims felt, even in
their grief, a sense of subtle satisfaction that disease-ravaged bodies were
being were being cremated at the very feet of the one person who was supposed
to be responsible for the well-being of the district. All attempts by
successive DCs to shift the cremation ground to another location had met with
firm opposition by the town’s leading citizenry, whose unity at such times was
surprising, given the discord that raged between them on most other occasions.
(Phukan 2005:21-22)
In The Collector’s Wife (2005), violence proclaims
negative determinations of irreversible death and destruction. But also crucial
is its ability to blur the line between the living and the dead, the real and
the simulacrum, the true and the false, and the material and the ideal. Falling
in love with Manoj, a sales manager who works with the CTF tyre company is an
act of transgression for Rukmini, the prim and proper wife of the powerful
Collector. Rukmini teaches English Literature in a local college and
everything in her life is settled, at least on the surface level. Set in the
1970s and 80s, the novel showcases the grim events of insurgency which were a
direct offshoot of the students’ agitation in Assam. At the backdrop of deaths,
kidnappings, extortion, and social instability, the novel captures the
ostensible reformulations of power and resistance, both in personal and
political terms. The ever-growing physical intimacy between Manoj and Rukmini
is played against a world that underlies the impact of the fear factor in times
of violence, the acceptance or rejection of a new group of people, such as in
an individual’s change of social status, or an entry into a different category
of social membership. The latter fact is highlighted by the activities carried
out by Arnob Chakravarty, both a leader and a teacher, and his likes. These
people incite the mob and are really good at it. However, Rukmini’s
transgression, her affirmation of other alternative modes of existence, and her
constant trepidation for atrocity remould her now and then in the text. This
self-consciousness, however, is a crucial and necessary condition of the
sensitive understanding of transgression in the cycle of social relations.
In The Collector’s Wife (2005), this mode of transgression is
based on an effect of traces and remnants, marked by a ghostly logic of death
and survival.
In the final denouement of The Collector’s Wife (2005),
Mitra Phukan shows how violence has the power to legitimate the secret, and
harden it into truth. Both Manoj’s and Siddharth’s violent death is precisely
the point where the secret is sealed as an authentic truth. Secrets are many
in The Collector’s Wife. There is an index of impropriety about the
tie between Manoj and Rukmini; the fling that Siddharth is having with Priyam,
Rukmini’s colleague; the fact that Rukmini is carrying Manoj’s child; the
biological truth of the baby that Rukmini is hiding from her mother-in-law and
others; the true identity of Anil, Rukmini’s driver etc. But what is conjured
up for Rukmini at the end is a secret too – she has to live this secret, not
fearing its disclosure. She was oblivious of the fact that Siddharth scarified
his life in order to rescue Manoj from the clutches of the insurgents. This
revelation can be an entrapment for her or rather a condition that enables her
to realize a different identity. By casting her eyes on the dead bodies of the
two important men in her life, she immersed herself in a deluge of tears:
Poor baby. Deprived of not one but two fathers in one go, biological and
adoptive, killed at almost
the same instant. She had been a fool, she thought hazily, to have imagined
that she could get away with it. That it was going to be okay. That she could
carry one man’s child, and expect another to be the father. Her audacity must
have tempted Fate, who, in a fit of irritation, had decided to destroy both
men…She realized that her cheeks were wet. She hadn’t been aware that the tears
had come. Tears for two men. One who had died, not knowing that he was going to
be a father. And another who had been prepared to be a father to an unborn
child, not his. (Phukan 2005: 348-49)
Violence, as entrenched in the double deaths, can also paradoxically
reveal the sphinx as having no secret at all. However, such an act shifts
identity to another elaborate surface. The closet herein can be the entire
space of the society, not at all impervious to sight. Time and again, this old
closet is always emptied out for new contents. The closet structures death as a
violent law. The multiple secrets in the text are confined in sealed
compartments, in exquisite cabinets, and within a private chamber that boasts
of a ritual of intimacy. But can such elaborately choreographed veiling hide
anything? Are such ingenious preparations to secrecy enough to conceal the identity
of these characters? Moreover, secrecy, encrypting, and enciphering are various
forms of surface patterning that are characteristically ambiguous. The
intricacies of these signifying practices seem to acknowledge, in different
contexts, the desire to hide and reveal. The final scene of The
Collector’s Wife captures the “impossibility” of death if we tend to
highlight the experience of the mother, Rukmini, in this context. The
impossibility of death turns into an inner experience for the mother in pain, anticipating
the birth of a progeny. Motherhood is something which is interpreted through
social construction. Motherhood is a legal fiction, from which it draws and has
drawn its authority. The interlinking concepts of birth and death undermine the
fact that to know the father, we need reason, whereas to know the mother, we
need sensible perception. The text captures both the experiential quotient and
surrogate factor as important constituents of the word “mother” and “father.”
If seen from a different angle, a vision of liberation is apprehended in
Rukmini’s life now. The language of creation is always centered, is always
selective and restrictive. Also, representation of death becomes a matter of
intentionality. Nature preserves the violent and sometimes murderous intentions
of the creator. Quite simply, this act of negation or death is conserved at the
heart of every act of creation.
As portrayed in both Hope and The Collector’s
Wife, what is integral to the performance of violence is a sense of
mourning. This kind of mourning in time and space is also tied to a sort of
emotional display. In these texts, the writer considers death as a part of
political and moral judgment. There is also an attachment of death to the site
of grieving. It is a site that is not necessarily separated, both spatially and
temporally, from that of pleasure or “merriment.” In Hope,
Shankar’s setting of death provided relief and succor to him. Metaphorically, he
was unchained in the musician’s home. In The Collector’s Wife, in
Rukmini’s home, the boundaries between pain and pleasure, mourning and levity,
are fluid and nowhere to be found (Eng and Kazanjian 2003: 211-12). This is an
affront to the assumption that grief is inseparable from its inward privacy.
The uncertainty attached to the characters/victims not only portray a peculiar
intensity that is inseparable from a larger unsettlement, but it also shows an
understanding of the victims’ expression as spontaneous, “dictated’’ by
grief. Mourning and wailing in the text make us face the concealed
content of the mourner. An acknowledgement of this gives rise to a kind of
disturbance, or a disposition of the subject in the longer narrative of power
and resistance. Both the texts portray a civilization that assimilates cultural
difference in itself. In the emergence of this narrative, the shift from death
to mourning is doubtless of immense significance. It also marks a transition
from fatalism to outcry, especially with a reference to the moral codes of
bourgeois Assamese civility. Central to it is the victims’ tendency to
substitute a rational discourse with a rhetorical excess, as is evident in
both Hope and The Collector’s Wife.
In both Hope and The Collector’s Wife, the
concept of death is imbued with strong significances. In Hope,
there is an incessant reproduction of the terrorist’s (Shankar’s) violence, by
casting his death into a viable “definition.” If the majority culture grants no
notice of his death, then why does it incline to recognize everything else
about it? Secondly, by the act of lending an identity to the terrorist, we tend
to mourn a situation of loss, of peace and well-being. The fatality is there in
the construction of such an identity; it lies at the core of the reconstruction
of the terrorist’s life. Therefore, a profound morbidity is inherent here.
Violence ceases to be an external event, or eventuality, and becomes instead
the closeted content of a person’s identity. As such, death can no longer be
termed as the guarantor of eternal peace, nor is it the secret truth of a
person’s identity. In Shankar’s case, elimination through death is akin to the
act of religiously contriving to kill. This is an act that kills the essence of
a being. Rukmini, in The Collector’s Wife, upholds the viewpoint
that in order to know what living is, one must negate it. In the similar vein,
we can say that the measure of a thing is the effort made to destroy it. Hence,
death is a signifier with a varied and characteristically paradoxical function
at work. What baffles us is the question itself – what does it mean to kill
something? For that matter, can we really kill people and things,
and push truth and the body to the grave?
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