Nisarg Patel
Epics, unlike any other literary genre, are present everywhere in contemporary India. They are on our screens (big or small), in our political narratives (left or right), on our billboards (cities or small towns), and, of course, present as texts in our homes (whichever your religious affiliation). You can ask a random stranger on the street, and it can be guaranteed with a certainty that they would at least know a few of the epic stories, irrespective of their religious background. Epics are not just the stories we all grew up with, but they are also stories which structures many crucial aspects of our life―including, how we understand morality, what we take as our ethics, how we imagine a community [samaaj], what we treat as good and evil, how we value our neighbours, and, of course, how we understand the life we are living and the death which awaits us all.
Considering how deeply epics shape our day-to-day life, it comes as somewhat of a surprise to realize how narrow and limited our knowledge is when it comes to epic stories―limited not just in terms of intrinsic narrative details of epic narrative, but, and more crucially, the kinds of epics which exist beyond the canonized few. Gurram Jashuva’s Gabbilam, written in Telugu and published in the mid-20th century, is one of those epic narratives that would hardly be mentioned in the list of epics, and yet, without doubt, is one of the quintessential Dalit epics written in modern India.
Recently re-translated from Telugu to English by an academic, Dr. Chinnaiah Jangam, a professor of History, Gabbilam has been published by Yoda Press (2022). This small text not only contains an insightful introductory essay on the epic poem by Dr. Jangam, but it is also illustrated beautifully with monochrome drawings by Laxman Aelay. Jashuva’s epic poem, “[P]ublished in 1941 at the high noon of anti-colonial nationalism”, “shook the foundations of Brahminism through a critical exploration of its ideological roots” (xxvii). Narrated by a celibate and nameless Dalit subject, the text, interestingly enough, is addressed to a “bat” [‘Gabbilam’]. Jashuva is intervening here within the classical tradition of Indian literature. In contrast to Kalida’s Meghaduta, which Jashuva says he had “in mind” while writing the epic poem, the message sent through the bat is not a “message of love” but rather a “searing and poignant message” about the life of a Dalit subject at the cusp of Indian independence. His narrator is not “suffering from a burning desire to meet his lover” but rather “is a victim of poverty that burns his stomach”. While the protagonist of Meghaduta was “sentenced to one year”, Jashuva’s hero “was sentenced from birth” (1).
Part 1 of the poem, published in 1941, begins with devastating yet memorable lines:
There are four cardinal directions in the universe
This untouchable has none to claim
He is the last son of Mother India
Innocent enough to be content with penury
Forgets all his suffering
Wish a fistful of rice
To fill his burning stomach (3)
From the very opening, Jashuva gives his reader a critical and uncompromising view of the social reality. The untouchable, Jashuva notes, “stitched shoes to protect the feet of great / upper caste heroes of the nation”, “[B]y sweating day and night, he feeds the world”, and yet, “has nothing to eat himself” (ibid.). This is a nation where “people feed milk to snakes and sugar to ants” (4), where people “spent thousands of rupees to celebrate / the marriage of dolls” and yet “refuse to put a grain of rice in the bowl of a beggar” (6). It is a social reality, Joshuva’s narrator rightfully claims, where one “[can]not find any ray of hope or happiness” (6). Gabbilam, the bat, is to “tour around the country” and to “tell his [i.e. the narrator’s] tearful story” (1).
Most of the first part of the Jashuva’s epic is focused on this journey. He takes his readers, through the proxy of the bat, through an ‘odyssey’ of India. From Tanjore, the historical “court of Ragunatha Rayulu / [where] Telugu literature blossomed” (12), the “fabled Hampi, the capital of Vijayanagar empire” (13), Guntur with its “[F]amed cock-fights” (15), to “Vizianagaram”, “Bobbili” (19), “cities of Nalanda and Pataliputra”, “Varanasi” (20), “Delhi” (20), “Kurekshetra” (22), and “Man Sarovar” (25). Each place on this vast journey gets its own compelling historical and mythic description; a description that needs to be read in its entirety to do them justice.
The second part of the epic, written in the critical year 1946, begins with a distinct historical awareness that Jashuva ingeniously blends into his epic. “Because of this [bat’s] message to Kailasa”, he notes in his preface, “pleasant waves blew from four corners. Temple entry movement, Harijan upliftment, Gandhiji’s spinning wheel made sounds of auspiciousness” (29). However, even in a time when
“[A] son of soil mesmerized everyone with his speech /
At World Parliament of Religions […]
Gandhi gained us Independence
My Fellow Telugu occupied the seat of Professorship
at a Western university
The world applauded our Bengali poet
For winning the Nobel Prize […]
But they never counted me as one of them” (31)
Compared to the journey of the previous section, the second part of Jashuva’s epic is very much rooted in the historical moment within which it was written. We not only get a glimpse of “warplanes” of the Second World War (34), but we also get an appearance by Gandhi, Patel, Nehru, and, of course, Ambedkar (40). This is also the section where Jashuva criticizes the state of literary art of his time: “[n]owadays, many performers become arrogant / and ignore poets”, he complains (37), while also noting how Dalit poets, “Despite his accomplishments and outstanding artistic / ad literary talent […] will not be eligible for great fame” (43). It is also here where we see traces of Hindi-Telugu debate (48), with Jashuva, while being a nationalist, strongly sides towards his mother tongue. “One should also realize”, he says, “that the mother tongue is more / delightful than the official language” (53). Moreover, just like the first part, the second part continues with criticism of the state of religion in India: “Wearing saffron shawls and empty pumpkin shells around their hips / Corrupted in every aspect of life, roam as ascetics, addicted to cannabis” (51). What is surprising in this second section is Jashuva’s reflection on modernity and the changes that it must have brought to his surroundings. He is not happy with “Telugus [who] return from foreign country / [and] Adopt foreign clothing and lifestyles” (38), and even has a paragraph where he thinks about machines and life (58-59). The section ends with a reflection on “education”, a reflection which, for better or for worse, speaks even to our times as it did to his: “What is the power of education? / That cannot eradicate the practice that tramples people” (64).
Gabbilam is a fascinating read not only as a Dalit epic, but also because of the vast range of topics it subtly covers in its verse. It offers an unparalleled insight into a world of Indian nationalism at the end of the colonial period (3,32), reflection on literature (37, 43, 57), criticism of the state of religion (4,6, 51, 53, 55), among many other topics and themes. There are very few books that vividly encapsulate a historical consciousness of a particular place and time, and Gabbilam is one of those. We need to thank Dr. Jangam for translating this new translation of the Telugu Dalit epic, and we must carry the hope that Jashuva’s epic will, in its own way, disrupt the hegemony that canonical epics have on people’s consciousness. In the time when ‘epics’ are deployed to justify violent xenophobic right-wing nationalism, Jashuva’s epic reminds us about “The poor man’s blood [that] has been drained / Because of this, he might die” (65).
Gabbilam can be purchased here.
Nisarg Patel [નિસર્ગ પટેલ] is a PhD candidate in Comparative Literature at the University of Southern California. He reads, writes, and translates between Gujarati, Hindi, and English.
