Print Modernity in Colonial Assam 1666905410, 9781666905410

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Print Modernity in Colonial Assam

Print Modernity in Colonial Assam Raktima Bhuyan and Sanjib Pol Deka

LEXINGTON BOOKS

Lanham • Boulder • New York • London

Published by Lexington Books An imprint of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706 www​.rowman​.com 86-90 Paul Street, London EC2A 4NE Copyright © 2024 by The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Bhuyan, Raktima, author. | Pol Deka, Sanjib, author. Title: Print modernity in colonial Assam / Raktima Bhuyan and Sanjib Pol Deka. Description: Lanham : Lexington Books, 2023. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2023039051 (print) | LCCN 2023039052 (ebook) | ISBN 9781666905410 (cloth) | ISBN 9781666905427 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Printing—India—Assam—History—19th century. | Publishers and publishing—India—Assam—History—19th century. | Assamese literature—19th century—History and criticism. | Books and reading—India—Assam—History— 19th century. Classification: LCC Z186.I4 B48 2023 (print) | LCC Z186.I4 (ebook) | DDC 070.50954/162—dc23/eng20231011 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023039051 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023039052 ∞ ™ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

Contents

Acknowledgmentsvii Introduction 1 1 The Coming of Print

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2 The Curious Case of Sutika Patal: Modernity, Translation, and Women’s Health

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3 Print and the Peasant: Bhimacarita, Storytelling, and Nineteenth-Century Agriculture

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4 Gendered Print(?): Models of the Ideal Feminine, Modernity, and Women’s Organizations

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5 Textualizing Our Modernity: Print, Textbooks, and the Colonial Child

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Conclusion133 Bibliography 135 Index 141 About the Authors

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Acknowledgments

I take this opportunity to recall the moments and people who made this book possible. I had co-written an essay with Hemanga Dutta for an edited collection published by Lexington Books. Hemanga can now be talked of only in the past tense—he was a friend I lost to COVID, giving me a closer reality check of how deadly the virus was and the vulnerabilities we are enmeshed in. This book (and all my future attempts in academia to do something meaningful) goes back to him. I recount that friendship and its serendipity with so much affection and gratitude. The people at Lexington, on the basis of the essay I had contributed to them, reached out to me in 2021 and the book happened! Hemanga, among the fewest people I have met in academia as a young researcher, appreciated ambition and hard work and taught me to never be apologetic about it. I miss him terribly, but I am glad that I knew him. Sanjib, my coauthor in this venture, remains a noted short-story writer in Assam. It has been my privilege to embark on an assignment premised in the literature of Assam with someone who is objective and passionate about the potential of vernacular literature. I had to join a new assignment on December 1, 2021, as an assistant professor at the Department of English, Tezpur University. It was overwhelming at certain (and frequent) points in time, when writing a PhD thesis, teaching undergraduate and postgraduate students, and finishing the book meant living on deadlines. I thank Holly Buchanan and her team at Lexington, who have been so sensitive and considerate to these new and unexpected challenges. Special thanks to Lauren Robitaille for being so patient with the manuscript and bringing it to the shape in which it appears now. My deepest gratitude to Rajdeep, my best friend in this world. A voracious reader himself, I banked on his support this entire time. He has been a patient listener, whose courage and patience in testing times leave me in awe and vii

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admiration. I look forward to many years of friendship with him, good food at cafés and streets alike, and reading recommendations. To the reviewers, who provided necessary suggestions to improve the manuscript from the first draft. The current version is all thanks to them for showing us the way! To Amalesh, my colleague at Tezpur University, whose friendship and ­kindness through good and (more so, on) bad days remind me how lucky I am. To my inner circle—Labiba, Lata, Baishali —for being my biggest cheerleaders and for making me feel loved all these years. Above all, to my mother—I owe everything I have to her efforts in ensuring the best possible education for me all these years. Thank you. Raktima. My sincere gratitude to my teacher for many years now, Ranjit Kumar Deva Goswami, for his guidance and goodwill all these years. I would also like to acknowledge the meaningful discussions with Chandan Kumar Sarma, Associate Professor at Dibrugarh University, whose friendship has extended to valuable suggestions regarding this project in its inception. This work would not have taken the shape that it has now without the resources and facilities provided by many local libraries—ranging from schools to universities—in Assam over the years. It is important to mention here Binapani Puthibharal at Jamugurighat; Tezpur Govt. M. V. School Library; the manuscript section at K. K. Handiqui Library, Gauhati University; DHAS (The Directorate of Historical and Antiquarian Studies), Guwahati; the department library at the Department of Assamese, Dibrugarh University. Thank you. Sanjib.

Introduction

This book aims to reshape the contours of scholarly inquiry regarding the Assamese literature of colonial Assam. To be more specific, we traverse the period from the annexation of Assam to the British imperial Indian administration and the consequent advent of print till the end of the nationalist struggle in Assam. In this endeavor, we take into consideration both the emerging multiple forms and contents (of writings) that found their sustenance from indigenous roots as well as from the arrival of colonial modernity. In this project, our focus will encompass both the popular and the formal, the colloquial and the standardized literature representing a people who were caught in the simultaneity of the indigenous trends and tastes and colonial modernity. In a trend of academic discourse when modernity stinks and smells alike (Paul Lai 2008), we go back to a history where a particular community were not just passive consumers of modernity but created, retained, and transformed their indigenous strands from the roots of a premodern literary culture. The premodern Assamese literary culture had strong roots in the emerging bhakti movements1 that swept Assam from the fifteenth century onwards. Since modernity is a contested domain, and terms such as “colonialism” woven into it only connote it as a Western import, its hallmarks receive discrete revisions when adapted to non-Western communities. The forms of modernity, consequently, will vary according to circumstances and social practices (Chatterjee 1997). This is to insist on Partha Chatterjee’s proposition that identification of modernity entails the application of reason to identify or even invent the forms of “particular” modernity. In Assam of colonial period, modernity is constituted by a broad spectrum of activities that include arrival of Western education, coming of print, and standardization of language along with transcribing, translations, renditions of religious texts, performances, etc., to name a few. Our aim is to study the production 1

2

Introduction

of texts related to these processes as paradigmatic texts in themselves as opposed to being “raided” for appropriation as “supplementary databanks” (Hillenbrand 2007, 5) for research in disciplines in humanities. In such “decolonizing methodologies” (Smith 1999), we seek to examine the porous boundary of texts and contexts. We intend to redirect our attention to Bourdieu’s “habitus” in the role that a social context or intellectual culture plays in the production of a text. The repeated center-staging of print, nationalism, independence allude to the lens through which modernity is consolidated as well as responded to and created in this geography. Since the pursuit of modernity in the context we have chosen gravitates toward the newly endowed “blessings” of colonial modernity like education and standardization (in terms of language and literature), our book situates these new trends of texts side by side with indigenous trends of resistance to colonial “gifts” as well as perpetual experimentations with the premodern forms of production of texts. The preexisting tradition of transcribing and oral traditions of the people to preserve and transmit these representations should be properly contextualized to understand the first experiments with the novel in Assamese literature. Here, we attempt to contextualize these texts to understand the literary history in colonial Assam, where they have been either silenced or forgotten. The selection of such texts will help to unearth the dialogue that these texts engaged in both the past and its emerging literary productions. To delineate the literary historiography of the concerned period, we have chosen the critical works of (a) Dimbeswar Neog (1899–1966), Birinchi Kr. Baruah (1908–1964), Maheswar Neog (1915–1995), Satyendranath Sarma (1917–1999), etc., who provided comprehensive accounts of Assamese literary history; (b) Prasenjit Chowdhury (b. 1946), Ranjit Kumar Deva Goswami (b. 1952), Kabin Phukan (1946–2011), etc., who have worked on missionary history/Western influence/intellectual history from the perspective of postcolonial study; (c) Amalendu Guha (1924–2015), Hiren Gohain (b. 1939), Prasenjit Choudhury, etc., who question the glorification and adulation of Assamese middle class belonging to the colonial period; and (d) Birinchi Kumar Barua, Jatindra Mohan Bhattacharya (1908–1999), Maheswar Neog, Nagen Saikia (b. 1939), and Jogendranarayan Bhuyan, who reproduced and edited the nineteenth-century periodicals and texts. Except for a few scholars such as Dimbeswar Neog, Tirthanath Sarma (1911–1986), and Keshavananda Deva Goswami (1930–2016) who give importance to understanding the traditional forms of literary representation, most of the critical writings are highly influenced by Western theories on literature and periodization. Though such critical appreciations regarding the development of Assamese literature in the colonial period have given a historical perspective and coherence to a disparate set of writings, the “alternative” strands and perspectives have not been properly addressed; rather, they are subsumed, or worse, cast into oblivion.

Introduction

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Integral to our discussion is to explore the definitive role played by the reading public of the period as the nature of the new printed texts and the reception of the reading public are interconnected. In the supposed transition from intensive to extensive and orality to silent reading habits, our study contests the idea of silent reading as a colonial blessing or aurality supplanted by personal and silent readings in this period. This is a commentary on simultaneous reading habits in the age of print as well as a testimony to the continuation of aurality in an age of print. The case Darnton makes for “not decreasing intensity but increasing variety” (Darnton 1989, 93) can be attributed to the advent of print, which led toward “extensiveness.” Anandaram Dhekiyal Phukan (1829–1859), who features remarkably in the process of modernity of Assamese literature, for example, can also be seen as a precursor of extensive reading. Ranjit Kumar Deva Goswami (2019, 77–78) lists the Western sources from which Phukan borrowed for educating children and articulating his own creative interests as well as in pursuit of his translation works. His Asamiya Lorar Mitra (1849) clearly uses works like Hugh Murray’s The Encyclopaedia of Geography (1 839), Lindley Murray’s Introduction to the English Reader, and Peter Parley’s ninth edition of Common School History (1841). In addition to it, Asamiya Lorar Mitra is a repertoire of borrowings and translations from works as diverse and wide ranging as Edward William Lane’s translation Arabian Nights’ Entertainment Volume II (1840), as well as pieces from a writer of the Romantic period, Anna Laetitia Barbauld’s Hymns in Prose of Children (1781) and also from Aesop’s Fables. His A Few Remarks on the Assamese Language and on Vernacular Education in Assam (1855) is also a testimony to his attempts at translation that influenced a whole generation. For example, the said text translates Samuel Johnson’s Rambler essay “The Folly of Anger” (1750) into “Khang Kara Kene Ajugut Tar Katha.” Goswami’s enlisting of these sources helps to give a picture of a new mode of reading that print facilitated, bringing easy access into works cutting across geographies and temporalities. This extensive reading soon became a new tradition that influenced the literary output of a growing batch of Assamese writers. Silent reading as the preferred mode was restricted to the educated elite with the advent of print. Simultaneously, the common people still cherished and practiced aurality even while appropriating the print as a medium for texts. This follows from the fact that a great many texts which earlier existed in the form of manuscripts were now printed and transmitted orally. Further, print—or rather, records of material circulated and made available by print—offer an opportunity, as Darnton notes, between literary genres and social classes. In Assam specifically, Orunodoi, which garnered the interest and admiration of a growing reading elite, shows a regional variation of its popularity when taken note of the numbers that sold. A survey of the years

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Introduction

1846–1852 showed the highest circulation in 1846, numbering 568, and the lowest in 1849, that is, 390. Areas in upper Assam such as Sibsagar, Nazira, Lakhimpur, Dibrugarh, Jaypore, Chaikhowa, Golaghat, and Tezpur were the hotspots of such circulation. Western Assam, on the other hand, had a significantly low circulation of this first printed periodical in Assamese. This can be ascribed to the existence of “non-standardized”2 (as opposed to the “new vernacular”3 explored in the later chapters) Assamese vernacular in western Assam, which remained vibrant, popular, and cherished both in speech and in literature. It is pertinent to understand that the premodern literature had more similarity with the local speech and variant of western Assam. In Goalpara, for example, in 1846, 1847, and 1848, only six copies were circulated, and from 1849 to 1851, no copies were circulated. In conjoining the taste (as in literary genres) with social classes, we aim to explore the complex background that records in history the arrival of an encouraging readership (the ones who practiced and read the “new vernacular,” i.e., the Western-educated elite readership) versus the existence of a readership of the premodern verse composing of both the educated elite and the common people who could read the texts in print and practiced aurality simultaneously. One interesting and emerging feature of this period is that print catered to both these practices— silent reading and aurality for a distinctive reading public. What cannot be ignored is that women also constituted a notable chunk of the mass who practiced (as in listening) aurality, and significant pieces were written, translated, and printed (say, Sutika Patal) for such oral practices where women were active participants of the listening public. Thus, each chapter, while picking up specific texts and supplemented by adequate references, will take readership as a paradigm to determine the demand for specific texts or genres. Chapter 1, titled “The Coming of Print,” provides a factual framework for the perspective adopted in this book. We intend to show print as a putative benefit of modernity as well as its medium. The mention of the advent of print necessarily follows that literature (and a substantial body at that) did exist in the pre-print phase in “indigenous” or, so to say, “pre”modern styles. Since the later chapters pick up specific texts at the junction of the pre-print and print modernities, we attempt to provide lists not only of the prevalent texts (which include the popular, the circulated, and the exhumed) and authors but also of readership. We intend to show how print colluded with the new educated elite [in Anandaram Dhekial Phukan, Gunabhiram Baruah (1834–1894) and Hemchandra Barua (1835–1896)] to infuse modernity into the writings as well as toward the consolidation of a standardized Assamese facilitated by the periodicals and magazines of the time. A relationship of the Assamese elite with the literary products of Calcutta (such as magazines) made them adept readers of standard Bengali prose through which the hallmarks of modernity

Introduction

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like rationality and equality were both infused and disseminated. Instances abound of how these readers from Assam wrote back to magazines and periodicals of issues pertaining to widow remarriage or any ill practices under which the society heaved. Amalendu Guha too shows the parallel readerships of Bengali magazines like Samachar Darpan and Samachar Chandrika with Assam’s very own Orunodoi, which started circulating in 1846. He makes particular mention of Juggoram Khargharia Phukan’s (1805–1838) letter published in Samachar Darpan on July 9, 1831, as a congratulatory note written to the Government of India for abolishing Sati. Also important is the letter’s reference to Rammohan as a mahapravin (Guha 252), which Guha translates as “great with wisdom.” Of particular interest in our context is the reach of print in terms of both infusing ideas of modernity and expression of the same by the readers, irrespective of the language used. Under the circumstances, a new category was constituted who read Bengali and found familiar territory in premodern Assamese verse rather than the standardized vernacular that was still in its inception. Even when claims of Orunodoi as the medium through which the “new vernacular” channeled itself were made, premodern verse found a space in its pages too. The February 1853 issue of Orunodoi contains, for example, Nidhi Levi Farwell’s (1827–1873) rendering of Christian tenets in premodern verse. It only acknowledges the fact that print was aware of the readership fancies of the Assamese readers of the time. And whereas Anandaram and his ilk were not practitioners of premodern verse themselves, they sealed its importance both in the history of Assamese literature as well as in the present in their prose writings. Later, in the late nineteenth century, by the nationalist young writers, these were used adequately for the purpose of literary histories. The chapter also takes into consideration the practice of copying, which foregrounded itself after a tumultuous period of Burmese invasions (1817, 1819, 1821). Following the example of the missionaries who facilitated the publishing impetus, a growing number of presses thrived under Assamese entrepreneurship. This shaped the publication history (as registered records show and which we will furnish) and is also a commentary on the literary taste of a growing mass of readers after the advent of print. Chapter 2, titled “The Curious Case of Sutika Patal: Modernity, Translation and Women’s Health,” picks up a specific text to foreground the claims of “alternative” literary strands in the Assamese literary scene at the advent of print and colonialism. With a brief outline of landmark publications of the nineteenth century and a list of premodern verse that was continued well into the twentieth, the chapter turns its focus to Sutika Patal, an 1877 verse translation of a Bengali text originally written in prose. We also examine the “discrete registers” through which the translation of the original text is accomplished, as well as the motive behind its initial translation and subsequent

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Introduction

printing. Since it is a manual meant for pregnant women, the text should also generate interest and discussion about the place of women in the literature of the time, the availability/unavailability of medical facilities for women, as well as some perspective on Assamese book history (in an analysis of the publication history of the 1908 version that we now have). Incumbent to such reading is an acknowledgment of the indispensability of women in aurality; for a text meant for pregnant women’s health and fertility with dos and don’ts was originally translated keeping in mind the practice of “listening” to verse renditions by village folk of the time. The chapter also incorporates and develops what is touched upon in the first chapter, that is, premodern verse as an important literary trend in a society imposed with colonial modernity. In such a text that deals in indigenized translation(s), it shunned standardization of the language in favor of the colloquial and perpetuation of the oral tradition. Chapter 3, titled “Print and the Peasant: Bhimacarita, Storytelling and Nineteenth-Century Agriculture,” tries at the very onset to develop further the parallel strands that ran in the literary field. Take 1889, for instance, Jonaki was published from Calcutta, and the magazine appropriated almost all Western genres by the nationalist writers like Lakhsminath Bezbaroa (1868–1938), Chandrakumar Agarwala (1867–1938), Hemchandra Goswami (1872–1928), Padmanath Gohain Barua (1871–1945), Ramakanta Barkakati (1860–1935), etc. But this year also witnessed Nala Damayanti Caritra, a text in premodern verse and simultaneous copying of several premodern texts. The years 1889–1939 are marked as the “Romantic Era” of Assamese Literature, whereas printing history and reading history give us evidence that those Western genres were never popular among the common masses. The chapter takes up, as a case study, Bhimacaritra (a sixteenth-century vernacular text by Rama Saraswati) to illustrate the vogue of akhyanas4 mediated by the print medium. Akhyanas, as shaped in these texts, are significant micro-stories and often picked up for moral or entertainment purposes from the epics. Concomitant with the recent trends in experimentation with the Western genres (the most pronounced of which were the novel and the short story), print facilitated the “popular” demands of the time like the indigenous renditions of epics in “akhyanas.” The novel was more of a nationalistic project, with experimentations in it exercised to validate the presence of Western genres in Assamese literature. The popularity or the lack of it can be guessed from the fact that no novel of the time boasts of a second edition, except Miri Jiyari (1894) by Rajanikanta Bordoloi (1867–1940). However, a list of the publications of the day shows an overwhelming demand for the verse renditions in “akhyanas.” Chapter 4, titled “Gendered Print (?): Models of the Ideal Feminine, Modernity, and Women’s Organizations,” center-stages women in the discussion of

Introduction

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print and modernity in Assam of colonial times. We examine a catalog of essays, ranging from the ones that focus on women’s education to the more active participation of women in the organizational structure, all the while dealing with what would now sound like platitudes but were eventful and groundbreaking back in the day. Change, pace, and progress are the caveats under which one culture/group is ascribed its modernity. This discourse, however, has its limitations. In its homogenizing tendency, the nonsynchronicities of modernity cannot be glossed over. Ernst Bloch’s “Nonsynchronism and the Obligation to its Dialectics” (1977) subscribes to this problematic that not all people live in the same now. This extends not only to the processes through which nonsynchronicity reflects in the processes of change but also to how these are experienced unevenly across gender, class, caste, and the like. Late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Assam were, as seen previously, bustling with coloniality, a new indigenous elite, and a growing nationalism. Women’s issues regarding their education, moral prescription, health, and hygiene (as seen in Sutika Patal already) simmered under these overwhelming trends. Various positions taken up concerning women, in general, can again be understood in the context of representation. This leads us to consider how women were positioned/represented in male texts as well as in writings by women themselves. If the Enlightenment model associated modernity with mobility as opposed to the “constraints of a feminised household or a tradition bound culture” (Parkins 2009, 8), women of Assam in the specified period moved through modernity in diverse and distinctive ways within these boundaries. We will look at the writings of the Western-educated men of the times and the ways in which they address or “school” women. The need for women’s education featured in most of these writings. Any discussion on modernity and a society’s participation in it situates science, rationality, and progress as the heights to reach or the passages to undergo. However, we are situating our discussion on women and modernity in the light of their domestic spaces to begin with. Women writers have included in their writings those areas of domestic life that are pertinent to the development of the whole family. These are subtle indicators of the unacknowledged roles that women take up in their family and community lives. In situating women as the determiner of the overall growth of the family, these writers acknowledge the centrality of women’s role in a household. Essentializing, homogenizing, and othering the “third world women” are tendencies to be avoided, as Chandra Talpade Mohanty (1991) argues, and it is here that we need to be cognizant of the localized models of modernity and feminist writings that emerge with varying geographies. This chapter maps a working model of the varieties of femininity that print endorsed. The maps that these women and their writings draw are anchored

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Introduction

in their historical agency rather than being placed as polar opposites to the “Western woman” very conveniently considered as the archetype of “feminism.” We divide the chapter under the heads of models of femininity like the “homely,” the “modern vis-à-vis the domestic,” “the educated,” and the “awakened” and include texts by both men and women that fall under these heads. The result is a clear demarcation of men’s reflections on women and women’s cognizance of their everyday lives and roles in society and family at large. Chapter 5, titled “Textualizing Our Modernity: Print, Textbooks, and the Colonial Child,” focuses on textbooks as the medium for modernity initiated by print. The primary aim was to institutionalize education in Assam during the pre-independence period, but the supplementary aims were to sow the seeds of modernity as well as to endow young minds with the seeds of nationalism through valorization of contemporary heroes. Our analysis, however, will also take into consideration the fact that the textbooks stayed committed to the Western project of “other”ing one population placed in geographies and cultures far removed from the addressed audience. We attempt to provide recorded descriptions in textbooks of such instances where people from the hills, let alone other continents, are subjected to adjectives like “savage” and “wild.” While knowledge of geography made the concept of the nation more pronounced, science textbooks, health and hygiene, and morality featured in the elements to be taught, too. This leads to reimagining textbooks facilitated by print as a “consensus document” to propagate modernity as well as to build a national self-image. The chapter will include lists of textbooks that would throw light on the engaging concerns in certain fields, so much so that many of these were translated from Bengali textbooks, too. Munshi Sakhawat Ali, for instance, translated Elements of Natural Philosophy from Akshay Kumar Datta’s (1820–1886) Bengali translation of the same text. It is not difficult to imagine that in such instances, the local writers chose texts from their Bengal contemporaries, specially from the ones who had given shape to the Bengal Renaissance. With these perspectives, ranging from aurality to textbooks, copying and transcribing to (and with) print, listeners to extensive readers, this book highlights how print catapulted the reading habit of colonial Assam. The consistent emphasis, however, is the infusion of the premodern into the modern and tracing the elements of modernity away from and sometimes preceding colonial advent. With facts and a few figures, this work caters to further research into the literature of colonial Assam. Of course, the texts selected are limited to an understanding within the primary context selected. These can be studied as independent texts concerned with diverse themes not restricted to the scope of this book.

Introduction

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NOTES 1. Like Ramananda, Kabir, Vallabha, Namadeva, Caitanya, and other leaders of medieval India, Sankaradeva (1449–1568) and other Vaisnava saints of Assam propagated the faith of bhakti in Assam. The Bhakti movement or the neo-Vaisnava movement of Assam was ushered in in the last decade of the fifteenth century and gained its momentum in the subsequent two centuries. Further readings: Satyendranath Sarma’s “Sankaradeva and Assam Vaisnavism,” Sarat Chandra Goswami’s “Medieval Bhakti Movements in India: Sri Deva Damodara,” and S Dutta’s “Bhakti Movement and Aniruddhadeva in Assam” in Medieval Bhakti Movements in India (1989), edited by N N Bhattacharya, and Early History of the Vaisnava Faith and Movement, Sankaradeva and his Times (1965), by Maheswar Neog. 2. We have used this term to connote the premodern literary language strictly as opposed to the new vernacular that appeared on print in a standardized form. But the premodern literary language emerged also in a standardized form long back in the fourteenth century. From Hema Saraswati’s Prahlada Carita (fourteenth century) to Suryyakhari Daivagya’s Darrang Rajvamsavali (late eighteenth century), this standardized form is seen to have been in practice. In the nineteenth century even after the emergence of print and “new vernacular,” several texts were composed in the century-old standardized, uniform literary language and diction. 3. By “new vernacular” we intend to suggest those prose writings in print medium that essentially appeared with a uniform spelling system. Thus, Dharmapustaka (1820), and more specifically, Orunodoi (published from January 1846) and all other printed texts/periodicals emerged in standard Assamese prose constitute the category of “new vernacular.” It excludes the metrical renditions or verse composition of colonial Assam. 4. The etymological meaning of Akhyana is to tell or to narrate. Here the term connotes those premodern texts that were practiced primarily for their stories. But in Assamese literature no such term is used. Banikanta Kakati (1940, 21) named some of the texts of Rama Saraswati as “badhakavya” and remarked: “In premodern literature, akhyanas like Ghatasura, Baghasura, Kulacala, Aswakarna, Kurmabali, Janghasura Badha etc. occupy the pedestal of novels and short stories of contemporary times (our trans.).

Chapter 1

The Coming of Print

LANDMARK PUBLICATIONS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY The first decades of the nineteenth century witnessed the advent of print and print culture in Assam. The publication of Dharmapustaka1 in 1820 under the enthusiasm of William Carey ushered in not just the tradition of print in Assam but also introduced the “New Vernacular” in prose to the Assamese readers as a replacement for the century-long “Premodern Vernacular”2 or conventional verse texts. In the 1840s, several Assamese chronicles,3 including mathematical works of premodern times, were published. From January 1846, Orunodoi, the first Assamese monthly magazine, was published by the Mission Press, Sibasagar, under the initiative of the American Baptist Missionaries, which was a key impetus to the emerging new vernacular in prose. How much the conventional verse texts, the prose renderings of the premodern Assam (the prose rendering of Bhattadeva and the prose of the Guru-Carita or hagiographies and the prose of the Ahom chronicles), and the contemporary speech form helped make the new vernacular is yet to be explored. As this new vernacular emerged in print essentially at the initiative of the Baptist missionaries and the English-educated native writers, certainly the syntactic structure of the English language played an important role in the formulation of the print language. Moreover, as it appeared in print, it was a practical necessity to have a standardized form of the new vernacular. Beginning from the last part of the1840s to the last decade of the nineteenth century (from the publication of Asamiya Lorar Mitra4 in 1849 to the publication of Hemakosa5 in 1900), the emerging new vernacular was augmented by the first-generation middle-class writers—Anandaram Dhekiyal 11

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Phukan (1829–1859), Gunabhiram Barua (1834–1894), and Hemchandra Barua (1835–1896). The standardized form of the “new vernacular” or “modern Assamese prose/language” was consolidated toward the end of the century with the publication of Jonaki,6 which was published at the initiative of the Calcutta-based literary organization Asamiya Bhasa Unnati Sadhini Sabha.7 By this time, the nationalist writers appropriated almost all the Western genres to the emerging modern Assamese literature. Thus, by the end of the century, Assamese literature saw the emergence of new vernacular in print, the standardization of the language and the appropriation of the Western genres.

OVERTURES This brief chronology of sorts acknowledges two overwhelming factors previously mentioned: print and an intellectual presence most vividly seen in the works and personalities of the three writers who had distinctive educational backgrounds. While Anandaram Dhekiyal Phukan and Gunabhiram Barua were educated in the Hindu College, their earlier writings published in Orunodoi were prescient of their later and more matured writings in “the dissemination of some of the key notions of European Enlightenment (rationalism, scientific temper, secular culture, equality, women’s education)” and this was a direct influence of the Bengal Renaissance spearheaded by Rammohun, Vidyasagar, Derozio, and Akshaykumar Dutta (Goswami 2019, 215). Meanwhile, though not facilitated by formal education, Hemchandra Barua challenged the confines of traditional learning and, from the missionaries in his hometown, Sivasagar acquired both “working knowledge of English” and the spirit of scientific rationalism represented by Akshaykumar Dutta, among many others (215). At this point, there are a few questions that need both thought and analysis: How did the contemporary reading public respond to the new vernacular that appeared in print, and which of these were borrowed from or was influenced by all the Western genres? Did the practice of the premodern verse disappear with the emergence of print and the “new vernacular”? Of course, the distinction between “new” and “premodern” vernacular should be clear. Whether there had been some common linguistic features of the new and premodern vernaculars or not—“new vernacular” was essentially in prose, its medium was print, and it appeared with a uniform spelling system. In contrast, the “premodern vernacular” was basically in verse; it emerged in a standardized form long back in the thirteenth century, although it did not have a uniform spelling system.

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EARLY RESPONSES TO PRINT: VARIATIONS TO STANDARDIZATION The Samachar Darpan wrote in its July 30, 1831 issue, “Asam Deshe Jnan Bridddhi” that within seven years of coming under British rule, some gentlemen of Assam had attained remarkable “success in their quest for knowledge.” The paper further wrote: The distinguished persons of the Province of Assam maintain contact with every affair in and about Bengal through the newspapers of this Province. In no district of Bengal are found so many subscribers to our newspapers as are found amongst the people of Assam. Moreover, while from about half the districts of Bengal no letter is sent and appears in newspapers, hardly a week passes without a letter being sent from Assam to us or to other newspaper editors of this Province (quoted in Guha 1991, 207).

Haliram Dhekiyal Phukan’s Asam-Buranji (1829) was “the first printed history of the region in any language and was also the first original historical work to be published in Bengali” (Guha 1991, 208). A review of this book was published in Samachar Darpan (Bhattacharya 1962, appendix): In the first place Phookan Mahashay contributed a variety of details to the newspapers on the commercial affairs of his own country and the publication of these benefited the Ruler and the subjects alike. Again, his credentials were apparent in the publication of his book, the Assam-Buranji, in four volumes, in which he included subjects like rulers’ dynasty, religious practices, rules of governance, attitude, character and skills of the people, the rivers and hills of Assam, rules of trade and commerce as well as agricultural produce. (our trans.)

Haliram also wrote a letter to the editor supporting the cause of female education published anonymously in Samachar Darpan. His brother Jaggoram Kharghariya Phukan translated William Wordsworth’s “Lucy and Her Bird” into Bengali as “Lucy Ar Tahar Pakhi” and it was published in the July 30, 1831 issue of Samachar Darpan. In the same piece by Bhattacharya, it is mentioned: In a letter published in Samachar Darpan, 9 July 1831, Juggoram congratulated the Government of India for abolishing the Suttee and respectfully referred to Rammohan as ‘great with wisdom’ (mahapravin) while, at the same time, ridiculing the orthodox Brahmans as living on idol-mongering. In another letter published in the same periodical on 19 May 1832, he suggested popularization of Hindustani in the Bengali script.

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Jaduram Deka Barua, who is mostly known for his advocacy for simple orthography in print, was a regular contributor to Samachar Darpan and Samachar Chandrika. He wrote a review of Haliram’s Assam-Buranji and a letter protesting Sati, among others. In the production of the texts, the 1830s also witnessed a few interesting phenomena regarding the script and diction. Jolkad Ali Pir, who was the principal preacher of modern Islam in the districts of Nagaon, Kamrup, and Darrang in the late nineteenth century, composed one text in Assamese entitled “Tarikul Haque Fi Bayane Nural Haque,” which was published in 1967 as Satyar Path. The language of the text was Assamese, as the writer states in the preface: The common folks of this province cannot comprehend Arabi, Persian, Hindi and even Bangla. Hence, they can’t also not understand the chariyat . . . it thus becomes incumbent to translate this text into “Ahamiya buli” (Assamese language) from Arabi, Persian and Hindi. (trans.)

Interestingly enough, the script employed in the text was Arabi. This is the only instance of using Arabi script in the history of Assamese books during the colonial period. In 1838, another peculiar manuscript on the history of Assam was produced. Maniram Barbhandar Barua, who was hanged publicly by the British on February 16, 1858, prepared a text titled “Buranji Viveka Ratna,”8 which included three different registers, namely, Assamese, Sanskrit, and Bengali. It was published in 2002, with an editorial introduction by Nagen Saikia, after 164 years of its composition. Another text of significance of this decade was Kashinath Tamuli Phukan’s “Assam Buranji,”9 composed around 1835–1838 and published by the American Baptist Mission Press in 1841, traced the evidence of the premodern tradition of Buranji or chronicle writings. Between 1833 and 1846, Bisweswar Vaidyadhip composed a traditional buranji titled “Belimarar Buranji”10 in metrical form. It was published in 1932 by Suryya Kumar Bhuyan, the then-director of DHAS.11 The editor stated about the manuscript as follows: The manuscript has 59 folios of Sanchi Bark. Each folio measures 2.5 inches by 10.25 inches and contains 5 to 7 lines. The manuscript is in a deplorable state of preservation . . . so, we get two limits to the date of composition: it cannot be earlier than 1833 or at the furthest 1846 when Purandar Singha died. The present condition of the manuscript leads us to believe that the age of the book borders on a century. (Bhuyan 1932, viii–ix)

Apart from all these early textual productions of variations, the American Baptist Missionaries ushered in a new tradition of prose writing through their

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translated works and newly published Orunodoi, the first Assamese monthly, which continued to be published till 1880.12 It is obvious for more than three decades, Orunodoi became an influential instance of a standardized “Assamese” language in print. The prose style initiated by the missionaries, the prose style employed in Bengali books and journals (it is relevant to mention here that William Carey became the first prose writer in Bengali) and the indigenous tradition of prose writing (especially the prose style of “buranjis”) helped the emerging Assamese writers like Anandaram Dhekiyal Phukan, Gunabhiram Barua, and Hemchandra Barua to incorporate the new ideas of modernity in their “own” language. Among these three pioneer writers, Hemchandra’s prose style became the model of the Jonaki group of writers. TRANSCRIBING THE TEXTS Following the calm after all the rumblings of the period of Burmese invasions (1817, 1819, 1821), a regeneration of copying among a set of people persisted in addition to the intellectual elite and print-induced writings. An interesting example is Prahlada Caritra (the first literary text in Assamese composed in the early fourteenth century by Hema Saraswati), edited by Kaliram Medhi (1878–1954) in 1913 that concludes with the following lines from the original manuscript: Hema Saraswati bhane eri ana kama pateka caroka daki bola Rama Rama *** saka 1769 saka | tarikshe maghar 10 | pusamaghat prahlada caritra samapta || jatha dristang tatha likhitang likhane lekhaku nahi dosanang হেম সৰস্বতী ভনে এৰি আন কাম। পাতেক চাৰ�োক ডাকি ব�োলা ৰাম ৰাম।। *** শক ১৭৬৯ শক। তাৰিক্ষ মাঘৰ ১০। পুষমাঘত প্ৰহ্লদ চৰিত্ৰ সমাপ্ত।। যথা দৃষ্ট তথা লিখিতং লিখনে লেখকু নাহি দ�োষনং

This is an instance of copying that was prevalent in the year mentioned, 1769 saka, that is, AD 1847. The gist of these lines can be paraphrased as such: Hema Saraswati quits all other work for writing and chants the name of God (Rama Rama) to ward off evil. On the tenth day of the month Magha (which falls in the later half of January in the English calendar), the task of copying Prahlada Caritra is completed. What is visible has been copied; the one who is undertaking the task has no fault in this. This is a sort of customary

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utterance in Sanskrit usually written by the one who copies a text at the end of the transcribed manuscript. This brief example is an indication of the time in it was practiced as well as the way in which it was done. Also important to note here is that most of the saci-bark manuscripts now preserved were originally transcribed in this period. These three figures (Fig 1.1, 1.2, 1.3) are all saci-bark manuscripts.​​​

Figure 1.1  1728 Saka manuscript, preserved at the Department of Assamese, Dibrugarh University.

Figure 1.2  Nama-Ghosa, preserved at Nikamul Satra, Tezpur.

Figure 1.3  Kirtan-Ghosa, preserved at Auniati Satra, Majuli.

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PRINT AND THE RISE OF THE EXTENSIVE READERS Anandaram Dhekiyal Phukan, one of the first-generation Western-educated young men of Assam, while compiling his Asamiya Lorar Mitra (1849), adopted several stories from different sources, which included Hugh Murray’s The Encyclopedia of Geography (1839), Lindley Murray’s Introduction to the English Reader, Peter Parley’s Common School History, Edward William Lane’s The Arabian Nights’ Entertainment, Vol. II, Anna Letitia Barbauld’s Hymns in Prose of Children (1781). In A Few Remarks on the Assamese Language, and on Vernacular Education in Assam (1855), Phukan also included a text titled “Khang Kora Kene Ajugut Katha,” which was a translation of Samuel Johnson’s “The Folly of Anger” (From The Rambler, No II, April 24, 1750). At the time of Anandaram’s return as a student at Hindu College, Calcutta, “he was well read in Arithmetic, Algebra, Geometry (Euclid’s part I), Histories of England, Rome, Greece and India and English poetry collections” (Barua 1971, 43). Phukan’s biographer Gunabhiram Barua writes that “The way he (Phukan) styled his house was a first of its kind among the local residents of Guwahati. The books were arranged in a fashion similar to the advanced libraries, these were stacked according to their subjects” (49). Anandaram’s library clearly indicates a granary of varied subjects. Likewise, in the early 1850s, Gunabhiram Barua also could read a variety of books as a student at Hindu College. Western education facilitated the young students of India to have access to a much wider range of texts. Thus in the 1840s, Rajnarayan Basu, a foremost intellectual of Bengal, in his first year at Hindu College, had to read Bacon’s Essays, Shakespeare’s Macbeth, Lier, Othello and Hamlet; Milton’s Paradise Lost, Lycidas, Comus, L’Allegro, Il Penseroso, Sonnets; Pope’s Essay on Criticism, The Rape of the Lock, Eloisa to Abelard, Elegy on the Death of a Young Lady, Prologue to the Satires; Young’s Nights Thoughts, Grey’s Poems, Hume’s History of England, Gibbon’s Roman Empire, Mitford’s History of Greece, Fergusson’s Roman Republics, Elphistone’s India, Russel’s Modern Europe besides general science, mathematics, geometry, trigonometry, astronomy, etc. (Basu 1909, 20–21). Interestingly, Anandaram became the first among the Assamese writers who attempted to make a catalog of Assamese books, including the manuscripts.13 As from 1837 onwards, Bengali was instructed to be the official language of Assam and Assamese was often regarded as the “corrupt dialect”14 of Bengali by the colonial officials; it was Anandaram who tried to prove the “history” of the Assamese language and literature. As evidence, he made a list of 108 Assamese manuscripts and other published works of different categories. Gunabhiram Barua, who played a vital role in the publishing

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enthusiasm of nineteenth-century Assam, compiled Kavya Kusuma15 (1884), which included the premodern verses of Madhava Kandali, Sankaradeva, Madhavadeva, Haribara Vipra, Ananta Kandali, and Rama Saraswati. Gunabhiram also happened to be the first author to write an article on Kirtana of Sankaradeva, which had been a very popular text among the common masses and educated elites from the times of the bhakti movement. Hemchandra Barua, while criticizing the second edition of Kirtana16 (1882) published by Haribilas Gupta, remarked that “among the published (premodern) verse texts which I have seen, not even a single text can be said to be exact” (Goswami 1999, 475). All these activities and evidence reveal that the first-generation Western-educated Assamese writers were well versed in premodern manuscripts. The Jonaki group of writers and budding intellectuals were even more methodical in studying the premodern manuscripts as they were very passionate about publishing the original manuscripts as well as catalog of the manuscripts to construct “an uninterrupted Assamese past.”17 While most of the Western-educated elites were well versed in both manuscripts and printed texts, other readers were explicitly divided into two categories—one who could read only print and another acquainted only with manuscripts. At the beginning of the twentieth century, the number of the latter category of readers was decreasing gradually. In 1910, in an article titled “Asamiya Bhasat Bangala Akhar” (Assamese Language in Bengali Alphabet) published in Alocani, “the Assamese alphabet was once as independent as the Assamese language. The works of the older Assamese writers which were written on the bark of the sanci and palm leaves can hardly be pronounced by the current generation” (our trans. 182). In the meantime, the emerging publishers started publishing premodern verse texts. At the beginning of the new century, this second category of readers substantially contributed to the growing market of printed verse texts. In fictional works, too, we find such instances. Ram-Navami (1857), interestingly by Gunabhiram Barua, consists of an interesting conversational piece between three friends—Phuleswari, Jayanti, and Navami—that elucidates the kind of reading practices the women of the time were familiar with. Navami, besides being appreciated for her expertise in sewing, is also commended on the reading practices she has acquired. Jayanti boasts of a collection that includes books like Annadamangal, Bidyasundar, Kaminikumar, Geography, Physics, Mahabharata, Ramayana, Shakuntala and Kadambari (Barua 1965, 14). On being asked if the two friends, Jayanti and Navami, have read Assamese texts, Jayanti says that she has, also stating that Navami cannot read manuscripts. Jayanti’s affirmation implies that she is a reader of texts in both forms—printed and manuscripts. This alludes to the reading habits intervening in the daily lives and conversations of upper-class women of the nineteenth century.

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The two learned classes—Bhagavati and Pathak, which emerged in the seventeenth-century Assam and were primarily associated with the act of reading— were equally proactive in practicing the premodern texts. Through the tradition of collective reading (or listening), premodern texts like KirtanaGhosa, Nama-Ghosa (Fig 1.4), Srimadbhagavata (Fig 1.5) Badhakavya, Bhimacarita became so popular among the “illiterate” individuals that most of the people could narrate and recall the padas18 of those texts. Simultaneously, thus, with an educated public that preferred reading practices, oral tradition flourished with the advent of print. Later chapters explore this “listener audience” who practiced the oral tradition for reasons varying from pleasure and entertainment to religion to concerns rooted in health and hygiene. Though not readership per se, print facilitated the oral tradition for a culture that flourished on listening and disseminating knowledge of varying kinds. The attribution of terms like “Pathak” and “Sravani” to readers and listeners alike since the fifteenth–sixteenth century in Assam points to the inevitability of orality to the cultural scene of Assam. ​​

Figure 1.4  Nama-Ghosa (1878) printed at Dharmaprakash Yantra, Majuli. Now preserved at The British Library.

Figure 1.5  Sankaradeva’s Srimadbhagavata (Canto II) printed at Chidananda Press, Guwahati, 1879. Now preserved at The British Library.

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MODERNITY AND PREMODERN VERSE In the first part of the nineteenth century, print introduced the readers in Assam to an overwhelming experience. Owing to the combined efforts of William Carey and Atmaram Sarma, the traditional vernacular with a history spanning decades was replaced by a “new vernacular” through Asamiya Dharmapustaka published in 1820 by Serampore Mission Press. Later, under the initiative of the American Baptist Missionaries, the publication of the magazine Orunodoi and other books made the use of the new vernacular more pronounced. The extent to which print-induced new vernacular was influenced and shaped by traditional verse books (the verse texts of the fourteenth century, which continued till the advent of print), prose pieces of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries (Satriya prose by Bhattadeva and history writing belong to these two streams19) and the contemporary colloquial language is a matter of research till date. Again, this new vernacular having achieved its status under the initiative of missionaries and Western-educated people (to which Atmaram Sarma20 is an exception), the English language too exercised an important influence specially with regard to the construction of sentences. Since this variant of the vernacular was created by the print medium, the need for standardization was also simultaneously placed (The efforts of Nathan Brown and his comments in the introduction to Grammatical Notices of the Asamese Language are memorable).21 Anandaram Dhekiyal Phukan, Gunabhiram Barua, and Hemchandra Barua—three Western-educated men of the Assamese middle class—contributed in their individual and meaningful ways to the new vernacular from the later part of the fifth decade of the nineteenth century to the first year of the twentieth (from the publication of Asamiya Lorar Mitra in 1848 to Hemakosa in 1900). This new vernacular, or the Assamese prose language, received widespread usage and manifestation in the pages of Jonaki (published from 1889), the mouthpiece of Asamiya Bhasha Unnati Sadhini Sabha (the inception of which was in 1888). Assamese language and literature, which got acquainted with the Western genres in the pages of Orunodoi, directly witnessed the articulation of such genres in Jonaki by the founders and writers of nationalistic discourse. Any discussion on the beginning of modern Assamese literature includes aspects like Baptist missionaries and the printing press at their initiative, Western education, experimentations with Western genres of literature, and the rise of the novel. It conspicuously excludes questions on premodern verse and whether these fell out of practice or thrived simultaneously with the trailblazing new vernacular. Also pertinent to our understanding is the pre-print literature scene in Assam that flourished and even perpetuated in simultaneity with print through various threads. The histories of Assamese literature, barring Dimbeswar Neog’s, boast of no such mention or discussion. Tirthanath Sarma

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is the first person to make any such mention of including verse texts and their print as one of the waves that marked nineteenth-century Assamese literature: “The number of texts that emulated the old verse was not few. There will be the need of an anthology to compile the nineteenth century books composed in the style of the old verse-texts” (our trans., Bhattacharya 1965, Introduction) At the time of the publication of the Assamese periodicals22 that appropriated the Western genres, there were a number of writers who simultaneously composed texts in the premodern verse form. Here is a list of texts in premodern verse that were composed in the colonial period: 1. Belimarar Buranji (History of the Sunset), Bisweswar Vaidyadhip, 1833–1846. 2. Kali Bharat (India in the Kali Age), Dutiram Hazarika (1806–1901), 1862. 3. Kalki Puran, Ghanadhyam Kharghariya Phukan (1795–1880), nineteenth century 4. Dharma Puran, Parashuram Dvij, nineteenth century 5. Bishnu Puran, Parashuram Dvij, nineteenth century 6. Keli Rahasya, Lalitchandra Goswami (1845–1901), nineteenth century 7. Nal-Charitra, Purnakanta Dev Sarma (1856–1920), 1899 8. Anadi-Patan, Purnakanta Dev Sarma, nineteenth century, printed in 1928 9. Khoba Khubunir Akhyan, Purnakanta Dev Sarma, nineteenth century 10. Kalanka Bhanjan, Gopinath Chakravarti, nineteenth century 11. Hitopadeshi Kavya, Raghudev Goswami, nineteenth century 12. Bar Charit, Dinanath Bezbarua (1812–1895), nineteenth century 13. Bezbaroa Bamsavali, Dinanath Bezbaroa (part I) and Srinath Bezbaroa (part II), published in 1927 14. Santamala, Dwarika Dvij, nineteenth century 15. Thakur Ata, Haliram Mahanta, 1917 16. Sutika Patal, trans. Govindaram Choudhury, 1877. Among these, Purnakanta Dev Sarma wrote many texts in modern Assamese prose, and Dinanath Bezbaroa too wrote many prose pieces. CLASS–PRINT–MODERNITY NEXUS Nidhi Levi Farwell’s (1983, 24) description of the mechanism of print and its introduction by the colonial power into Assam, published in Orunodoi in 1846, ends with a description of the democratic reach of print: In this way, the sahibs of America have brought in printing presses to Assam and have helped in the publication of texts on religion and knowledge. This has

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helped in the betterment of a lot of people; this is because prior to it, most of the people could not read many books due to their unavailability. But books are being published across countries now, and these are being read by many. Before this, except the bhadraloks, a very few of the common people could read these books. Now, with the advent of the printing press, many people have access to books, and they have gained knowledge from these. Also, whichever book one looks for is available at such printing presses. (trans.)

There are only a few biographical sketches or mentions of Nidhi in the publications of the time, except in limited instances like: Nidhiram Farwell, usually referred to as Nidhi, an Assamese youth employed in the printing press, became interested in Christianity through the reading of a short prayer in English which he found in one of his little books. On May 13, 1841, he was baptized by Bronson at Jaipur, amidst much rejoicing on the part of the Europeans, and real curiosity among the natives who had gathered to witness the baptismal act. (Sword 1992, 67)

It is interesting to note that Farwell, despite being an important figure in terms of both the printing press as well as his writings in prose, is conspicuously absent from most literary histories as well as the intellectual discourse of the times. However, his writings in Orunodoi establish him as an important figure in the contexts of disseminating the principles of Christianity, rewriting tales from Christian scriptures in Assamese and hence catering to the reading public of his time who could not read it in the original, as well as retaining the practice of premodern verse. Of particular interest is the idea of comfort that religion (here, Christianity) guarantees. This is specifically evident in “Obituary of Hube, a Native Christian.” In narrating the ordeals of an orphan child, Hube, who lost his parents, was taken by a sahib, converted to Christianity, the overall emphasis is on the power of “faith.” On succumbing to cholera, the narrative tilts toward the goodness and courage that religion guarantees— Hube embraces death with calmness and courage. Also noteworthy is Hube’s identity as a boy belonging to the Naga tribe. Conversion found its way into most of the tribal communities of the period, as well as the lower-caste people. Treated with discrimination of all sorts, these people embraced Christianity under the initiatives of the missionary. As regards the subaltern pasts, instances like Nidhi’s point to attempts at self-definition through the medium of writing. Glorifying the power of faith along with knowledge and rationality, Nidhi’s writings encapsulate a vernacular Christianity that combined the principles and stories of the Bible (like “Account of Creation, and the Fall of Man,” “Account of the Deluge,” “Account of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego,” and “The Prophet Daniel”) and the use of the vernacular language and style. The latter is visible in his reliance on premodern verse for his writings like “Tirthar Bibaran,” written in two parts, which uses metrical arrangements like

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pada, payar, dulari,33 etc., very characteristic of premodern verse renderings. Of particular interest can be Nidhi’s scathing attack on the religiosity (and corruption) associated with visits to sites ranging from Kamakhya to Jagannath. The consideration of a few lines from Farwell’s “Tirthar Bibaran,” originally published in the 1850s, will substantiate our argument: he highlights the figure that makes the structure of goddess Kamakhya: a vagina shaped and sculpted and nothing else (murti adi kisu nahi silara guptanga). Almost indicating the shadiness of the rituals associated with pleasing an apparent goddess, Farwell refers next to the interiors of the temple as dark, dingy, and dreadful (andhakaramaya ati dekhi bhayankara). As regards the stakeholders of the ritualistic practices, the men who perform the rituals (brahmans) are described as being on the lookout for some gains: faith takes a backseat under the intention of procuring the “gifts” (upahara) made available to them. The dreariness of the atmosphere emanates from the ruckus that is created by these practitioners of faith—faith that harnesses deception—as in exhibiting water appearing out of a stone, etc. The gluttony and greed associated with religious rituals at the Kamakhya is evident, as Farwell sees, in the propensity of the chief of priests to shut the doors of the temple to anyone who fails to provide him with his demands. From a description of the pandemonium created by the huge mass of devotees, he describes next the attitude and practices of the priests. There is a clear dig at the hypocrisy of the priests (brahmins) that ranges from not observing basic rules of hygiene to outrageous eating habits while professing simplicity and purity. Apparently, they discard everything from the marketplace—food items and the like—but cook their food while wearing unwashed clothes. Again, stepping outside convinces them of a bath immediately; they refrain from eating at a Sudra household. However, their edible items back home range from pigs (bara) and tortoise (kaca) to monitor lizards (gui) and egrets (bagali), while letting out sighs of disgust and blasphemy at the sight of chicken (kukura)! In the face of such hypocrisy, Farwell sums up the antidote to it in “Kamakhyar Bibaran” through a glorification of the power of Christ: he reposes his faith in Jesus Christ, hailing him as the all-powerful. His faith in his miracles is evident from his assertion that even the dumb and mute are rendered mutable, the ones without legs are blessed with the same, the blind are gifted with eyes, and the dead are filled with life through belief in Christ. Farwell next goes on to describe similar pictures of chaos and corruption in Hajo through the Hayagriva temple: Asam desate ace Hajo name grama sei thanato murti eka Hayagriva nama (Farwell 1983, 823) অচম দেসতে আচে হাজ�ো নামে গ্ৰম, সেই থানত�ো মূৰ্ ত এক হয়গ্ৰৱ নাম। (৮২৩)

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The priests (aneka brahmana) reside in this space for the apparent purpose of devotion (seva arthe), but the tendencies of greed and gluttony (cali dhana) at Hayagriva are akin to Kamakhya’s (Kamakhya jena). Again, there is a description of the women in these spaces: these women are meant to “lure” (mana mohe) the visitors while being ideal wives at home and conducting household duties. These enchantments that they throw up are not considered “perversions” (asuci) because the priests eat food from these very women. He terms them “evil” (dusta) who are always after these men (priests). The tireless dance and performances the women resort to are appreciated by priests, and the women are compared to heavenly angels (apesvari) by them. On being questioned, such adulation and appellation are justified by the same men through references to the shastras, which depict the heavenly angels engaged in performances of such kind. However, Farwell gives a very different picture in that these women are described as hankering after money from the visitors to the temple and subjected to all kinds of antics and forced and physical behavior, including pulling of hair (keve dhare kesa) to extort money. Far from achieving any spiritual bliss from such pilgrimages, Farewell concludes that only evil and ill (amangala) dawns on people who take recourse to such corrupt spaces, which brews lies (mica) related to the outcome of pilgrimage (tirtha phala) and gods–goddesses (deva devi). “Hayagriva, Madhava aru Kedarnathar Bibaran” too concludes with an unwavering faith in Jesus Christ (Yicu Christa), confronting the many ills of pilgrimages he describes. Karajore bolo may minati kariya Bhaja Yicu Christa pada mane bisvasiya (825) কৰজ�োৰে ব�োল�োঁ‌মই মিনতি কৰিয়া, ভজা য়িচু খ্ৰষ্ট পদ মনে বিস্বসিয়া। (৮২৫)

Farwell’s description of the centrality of print to the intellectual development of the common masses is in sync with his belief in rationality and knowledge as the cornerstones of human development. This is amplified in one of his sections published in Orunodoi titled “Knowledge.” Proceeding from the argument that human beings are like all living beings except the one faculty, that is, knowledge, this write-up builds upon the Enlightenment engagement with rational knowledge as the hallmark of modernity. Citing the English and Americans as examples and asserting that they were once as “backward” as the Assamese, Nidhi attributes their current competence and intelligence to knowledge perpetuated by print. Locating print as an agency of knowledge dissemination, the said writer goes on to associate the acquisition of knowledge as a calling from God, failing to do which would relegate human beings

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to the status of animals. His contributions to Orunodoi also establish him as a prose writer of the period, albeit not in the tradition of the intellectual elite through which modernity in Assam is conceptualized. If an important voice like Nidhi is occluded in major literary histories, what is occluded is also the fact that the subaltern (here, a lower-caste Christian convert) was an important literary figure in the world of the upper-class elite. Apart from the caste/ class indices, dominant premodern styles of writings were seen as antagonistic to the idea of modernity. However, modernity in Assam, at least the literary landscape covered by it, builds up from these styles. Not as a rupture that needs to discard its premodern affiliation, these literary exercises engaged seamlessly with what already existed in the literary landscape of Assam.

CIVILIZATION–SAVAGE DEBATE In a supposed description of England, Anandaram Dhekiyal Phukan (1829– 1859) contrasts it with Assam and establishes England as a model to emulate. Centered on the developmental aspect of a cultural setting, Phukan attributes the development of a culture/nature to the quest for knowledge in this piece titled “An Account of England,” published in Orunudoi. As a Western-educated elite, Phukan’s understanding of modernity is premised on the concept of “progress,” something his visit to England enables him to articulate. Delineating the history of England and because England was once as backward as his own nation, Phukan pins his hope on the fact that we are indeed a civilized lot. A checklist of the callings of modernity is provided in this piece, with England as the epitome of modernity here. However, he cites that the people of England were savages before 1900 years: naked, resided in forests, houses meant holes, or at best, those made from (and in) trees, worshiped idols and even practiced human sacrifice. Only the priestly class could be termed knowledgeable. However, that nation and its people have advanced themselves on the ladder of progress owing to their embrace of modernity. This again contains a checklist to be fulfilled, and when done so, it will also guarantee progress for the Assamese people. The English people, now powerful, wealthy, knowledgeable, and great, have reached this position from their earlier savagery owing to certain trajectories. On the other hand, the Assamese, despite being a civilized lot, have remained stagnant on this ladder of progress. He attributes this to numerous factors, in the process, also prescribing what needs to be done to dispel the same. Insisting on education as an enabler of progress and knowledge, Phukan highlights that colonial rule has already started “civilizing” our Bengal counterparts. However, we have failed to embrace it and hence failed to realize that “there is no friend like knowledge; this is because we achieve

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wisdom through knowledge and wisdom guarantees respect in this world and this life and failing to realize this has made you ignore the importance of knowledge” (Phukan 1983, 130). Trying to establish a tradition of knowledge in the land, Phukan makes the intended audience recall that all their predecessors engaged in diverse kinds of knowledge but how the current generation is not equipped with either Sanskrit or English and have made little attempt at fashioning oneself into a knowledgeable lot. The idea of “useful knowledge,” of respect and wisdom associated with it, extends from these prose writings in periodicals and magazines to textbooks prescribed for schools. Phukan considers it the primary responsibility of parents to make it possible for the younger people to be equipped with knowledge: “Dear parents, I urge upon you to ignore everything else and teach your children to acquire knowledge rather than wealth” (130). In addition, that is, besides attempting to be knowledgeable, two factors that ensure that the addressed audience will be “civilized and happy” are expertise in agriculture and craft. It is but urgent and important that these people are intimated regarding the use of newer implements of agriculture and their techniques so that they can be on par with the modern world. This is also mentioned in Plea for Assam and Assamese: The introduction of improvements in the art of agriculture, therefore, is the only means which can increase the general resources of the country, ameliorate the condition of the people, raise them to wealth or affluence, advance manufactures and commerce, and teach the Assamese the arts and luxuries of civilized life. (Neog 1977, 74)

A detailed account of the agriculture of the times and whether it was addressed/unaddressed in contemporary print is given in a later chapter here. Situating a text (Bhimacarita) and its popularity within the agricultural community of the times, the relatedness with the said literary work highlights the poverty-stricken conditions that characterized rural agricultural lives. The last factor that facilitates progress, as explained in “An Account of England,” is commerce. Critiquing his own people who keep their wealth unutilized, he praises the British for their ability to multiply wealth through financial acumen. At the end of this piece, he emphasizes the collective welfare of all over and above individual progress. In it is rooted his plea that the Almighty has bestowed wealth on a few, not for their personal happiness and well-being but to enable them to help whoever needs it. The hopes of his land and its people are captured by Phukan thus (1983, 30–31): When Assam will be converted from a forest into a flower garden, the canoes of the rivers will be converted into ships, bamboo cottages will be replaced by buildings of stone and bricks; when there will be thousands and thousands of

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schools, educational gatherings, dispensaries, hospitals for the poor and the destitute; and when people, instead of entertaining jealousy, will cherish love for one another, none will give false evidence for two tolas of opium and will rather throw aside lacs of rupees in such cases; when no one will do mischief to others being offered bribes of crores of rupees, prostitution, opium and wine will be unknown in the country, that time, O God, the Almighty Father, bring about in no time. (our trans.)

In this otherwise earnest belief and hope pinned on his people, Phukan is very clear about what does not constitute the modern and “civilized”: people who do not depend solely on agriculture for food, who do not wear clothes and who still live in houses made from whatever is locally and naturally available. In situating the modern and civilized, hence, there is always the need for an Other. This process of Othering is manifested in comparisons across cultures, either in the geographical sense or in the temporal sense. Phukan’s analysis here is more temporal in the sense that he focuses on the datedness of certain practices, practices that need to be done away with to emulate the poster child of a modern nation (here, England). There is a series of writings in Orunodoi signed “A” and assumed to be Anandaram by Maheswar Neog (1915–1997), which further the process of “othering” by descriptions of certain tribes. These include Aka, Garo, Khamti, Misimi, Naga, and Singpho. Interestingly, these have been translated by a certain John Butler in his A Sketch of Assam (1847). Most of these tend to focus on the “savage” eating habits of these tribes, their “ugly” features and day-to-day affairs rooted in violence. Such descriptions published in a serialized write-up mode end with the belief that Assam, too, can attain the status of civilization “despite” these “uncivilized” tribes because the English, too, emerged from a similar position of savagery. Consider, for instance, this description of the Garos: Their noses are flat and lips broad. Except a piece of narrow cloth wrapped around their waist, they are naked. . . . The women are short, masculine-faced, and they look very ugly. . . . They eat almost anything. They pour an animal’s blood into a bamboo tube and consume the flesh of almost all these raw. They are so enthusiastic about alcohol that as soon as a baby becomes capable to gulp down something, they are fed this. (139)

The description then proceeds to their love of celebration and dance. In all of these, the tone of exoticization is very apparent. Dancing under the spell of alcohol till their legs can hold them and spending everything on drinking strip them off any hallmarks of a civilized group. In each of these descriptions, they are shown to “lack” codes of conduct and behavior which accord the status of civilized beings to a community. To sum it up, these tribes are

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described as “barbaric.” Again, the overwhelming belief is to “emerge” from this state and the reiteration of the possibility of any such stage being exemplified by the English. Another of its sketches is of the Mishimi tribe, and the lack of accessibility to this tribe is described thus: No one has been able to know the behaviour of the Mishimis; many English people have tried to cross over them to Tibet but none have been successful.

This is particularly important in the sense that these tribes are easily relegated to the “barbaric” even when one (here, the writer) has not lived in proximity to them. It consolidates the colonial project of stereotyping certain cultures in order to establish itself as the “civilized” and the “cultured.” In the pages of Orunodoi, like we have just seen, this is carried out by the Western-educated elite. While providing an account of the Akas, the said tribe is taken to be the model “despite which” and attempting to “civilize” whom the Assamese people can attain the status of a civilized lot. That is to say, England itself emerged from its savagery and attained its current state of an advanced and “superior” culture and then set on a civilizing mission for their counterparts in the rest of the world. The Assamese, having considered themselves to be civilized, hence, will aim for the civilization of their nation by rectifying the behavior of these tribes and enabling them to be civilized beings. In short, each civilized self here requires an Other for its own validation. The Aka sketch ends with the plea that the readers should not be pessimistic about the “savages” that continue to impede the path of progress but should pray that “knowledge” and “civilization” dawn upon these tribes. In writings like “Garo Brittanta” by Ratneswar Mahanta, published in Assam Bandhu, though, this process of othering and the civilization–savage debate is more pronounced. In describing the Garos, Mahanta (1984, 34) adopts animal metaphors to describe the living beings closest to this tribe: overall, the Garos can be considered an advanced species of wild animals, or like Darwin says—when an ape sheds its wildness and in the process of evolution steps into being a man, the Garos can be considered to be similar to the first stage of that animal. (trans.)

This equation to animals is extended to a statement as blatant as “Roaming in the forests, they could be confused with tigers or bears” (34). As regards their dressing, they are termed a “group of filthy demons” (68) owing to their nakedness. While such descriptions hinge on using terms which could brand a culture or people as “uncivilized” or “barbaric,” these writings in print started debates on what constitutes modernity and civilization. Parallelly, it started an exoticization of cultures that were considered strange and primitive, and hence something that incites fear. In Phukan again, particularly in sections like “Savages and Civilized People, Spectacles and Clocks and the Barometer and Thermometer” from

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Asamiya Lorar Mitra, the idea of progress as a precedent of modernity is emphasized by scientific and technological developments. Accentuating the concepts of the “civilized” and “savage,” Phukan in Asamiya Lorar Mitra titles his chapters in a way that creates distinctions between what one was in the past and what one aspires to. This aspiration model is, of course, centered on the West. The possibility of a modern nation rests on his sense of belief that he (and his readers) is born in a civilized world and, hence, can easily accommodate and embrace the advancements of the West. Equating the concept of intelligence with one’s ability to plow, till the land, and harvest the crop, the idea is that anyone who procures food by any other means is savage. These differences extend to practices of clothing: the savage roam naked while the civilized sow and weave. The next chapter again, from its very title, is an intimation to the reader regarding the technological advancements that modernity brings forth: “MICROSCOPE, TELESCOPE, STEAM ENGINE, STEAM CARRIAGE, STEAM BOATS, BALLOON, AIRIAL SHIP, AND MARINER’S COMPASS.” The above discussion on what constitutes the civilized builds up from a narrative of “othering” a population that is culturally different from the one who controls the forms of knowledge at a certain point in time. In the context of Assam, for the middle-class elite writing in periodicals, magazines, etc. per se, the “other” was constituted by people who lived in geographies and spaces different from theirs (the tribes just described, for example, who, as they say, live in impenetrable forests), who cannot read and write, who dress differently or not dress at all. However, a few other writings in these same periodicals posit a very different thesis of the “civilized.” Consider the letter to the editor of Orunodoi written by a school student, the title of which sums up the entire thing: “A Plea to be Civilized” (Barua 1965, 127–128). Rather than situating the Assamese culture as all-encompassing at the cost of reducing people such as the tribes that inhabit the hills as barbaric, this writing urges upon reaping the “benefits” of colonial rule like education. Building up from contemporary prejudices that hovered around losing one’s caste and religion, this letter has some important points to make: The people of our nation do not allow their boys to read in English fearing that they’ll lose their caste if they did so; this is because they believe that a man’s caste is preserved in their hair and chopping one’s hair makes one lose his caste; and religion is preserved in clothes; hence if they discard the churiya for western clothes, he shames his religion, alas, what nation! (trans.)

This prejudice of preserving one’s religion and caste encoded in one’s denial of Western education is criticized harshly by the writer through the argument that the same people would not think twice about bribing someone to occupy

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the position of a clerk that pays them just five rupees. Again, reference is made to the “young Bengal” who have embraced the benefits of colonial education and stripped themselves off from such superstitions and prejudices like taking a bath after somebody encounters a Christian, for that entails a blot on his own religion and caste. These prejudices are again rooted in class consciousness as the writer seeks to establish that one does not lose one’s religion when a borsahab (a colonial official in the courts) meets the same people. Naturally, these officers were not Hindu, but since they occupied a higher social position, these same people would “touch the dish on which he is served food and still have food at one’s own place after that” (128). This piece ends with counting the blessings of colonialism (colonial education, to be precise). It sees English education as the medium to make people free from the shackles of superstition and educate their minds. The upper-caste Brahmins, Ganak, etc., are seen as the reasons/people behind the backwardness of the Assamese: “These people attribute everything to the fault in the stars, burhadangariya” (128) and hence corrupt the minds of the people with superstitious beliefs. English education, says the writer, dispels such thoughts: They say that their if their sons are educated in English, they won’t perform the funeral rites of their parents; but we have seen the state of the one or two who hope to get these things done and how they eventually materialize these things are seen in instances like the opium addicts.  .  .  . The kind of knowledge that reading English makes possible is known only to the ones who avail it. (128)

This school student’s letter from Sibasagar premises the path of progress and civilization in (English) education. It becomes necessary to consider these writings to make an idea of the young minds’ views on colonial education as well as the thoughts it provoked in contrast to the superstitions and prejudices plaguing contemporary times. PRINT AND PUBLIC SPHERE Print sustained debates regarding social practices that were sexist, discriminatory, and regressive. As concerns issues that were very common, discussions centered around practices that were still looked down upon, or to say the least, not encouraged: widow remarriage, women’s education, to name two and the ones we discuss here. Bengal was the reference point for most of these writings. In some cases, it was very direct: a piece titled “Women’s education,” published in Orunodoi in 1861, was a translation of a writing that appeared in Hindu Patriot, an English weekly published in Bengal. In a portrait of Yuva Bengali men going haywire (taking recourse to drinking, visiting prostitutes), the reasons for such blots in their character are attributed

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to enchanting and interesting company that only women of that section of the society could provide: There will be very few women from that class of Calcutta who do not have besides their usual house decorations copies of Bharatchandra’s Vidyasundar, Vidyasagar’s Betal Panchabinsati, or Taranath Sharma’s Kadambari. And it is very rare that any women among them was not adept at writing letters. (Barua 1965, 118)

Dipesh Chakrabarty (1993, 1) too writes about this waywardness as an outcome of English education: The English education often brought in its trail a sense of crisis in Bengali families—a certain degree of waywardness in young men which led to their neglecting their duties towards their families and the elders—was a most commonly voiced complaint against the Young Bengal of the early nineteenth century.

The motivation behind educating Bengali women (who would eventually become the wives of these men) would be to stop these men from flocking into the prostitutes. Such writings, while contextualizing women’s education in relation to being “able” and “eligible” partners for men, nevertheless point out the barriers that cripple them to being silent entities in marital relationships. The plea, then, is to enable women to break these barriers: Educate our women to be eligible for companionship with the Yuva Bengalis, remove the old that has covered these women from the outside; and allow these women to converse freely with their male counterparts; this will qualify Bengal to be a considered among the civilized nations of the world; and then the sins which plague us currently will be off. (120)

While this piece appeared originally in a Bengali weekly, its inclusion in Orunodoi can be considered as more than an attempt at translation. The issue of women’s education was simmering under the check-posts of modernity and civilization, and Bengal was a persistent reference point. Hence, such writings, while not being vocal about aspects like women’s independence and agency rooted in education, nevertheless made education seem like a precedent for successful relationships! The next number, published in May 1861, builds up on women’s education in the context of Assam. In a mode of weighing the pros and cons of women’s education and drawing the conclusion that for the greater good, some things need to be ignored and that when the benefits outnumber the drawbacks, it cannot be considered as a drawback at all, the writer sums up the need for women’s education and independence. This piece is an advancement from the earlier one (the translated piece) in the sense that it endorses

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women’s education for the sake of their independence and tries to shun away any notions that consider it dangerous for the well-being of all. Recognizing women as contributors to a nation’s development, this argument critiques the regressive codes of behavior that have been naturalized under the facade of a “good man’s wife” (121): Now let alone appearing before any other person, when a good man’s wife gets to know that her husband has arrived, she stretches her urani (veil), thinking “my dangariya has arrived” and banishes to a corner like a cow who gets scared at the sight of a tiger. The sense of hypocrisy in a domestic setting is also outlined, where it is manly to be severe and harsh with one’s wife and anything otherwise, to say, talking with the spouse with the love she rightfully deserves makes everyone label him henpecked. Again, the sarcasm is directed toward the shastras abiding Hindus who very conveniently fail to follow those principles which call upon men to treat women respectfully. Besides urging upon the need for women’s education, which she rightfully deserves, this piece is particularly distinct in its emphasis on the need for the man and woman who would eventually marry each other to know about each other first. Many problems ensue after marriage, the writer deduces, because both people do not share the companionship that an intimate relationship beckons. The essay, which starts with dispelling people’s reservations against granting women their rights, makes important statements regarding her importance in a domestic setting, the civilized state of a nation being determined by its women’s education. These ideas circulated in periodicals and magazines and made possible by print created a stir among women who were still fighting for their rights as well as against everyone else who thought she did not deserve these or perhaps even questioned the need for it.

CONCLUSION The coming of print, thus, not just entailed greater availability of texts but induced a cultural regeneration where all classes of readers engaged with it in distinctive ways. The magazines and periodicals popularized and furthered the principles of modernity through a few Western-educated men. England served as the model to follow in most of these instances. Engagement with the issues faced by a largely superstitious and misogynistic public was addressed through various letters and debates in these. Christianity and the principles that dictated it found a voice in Farwell, a convert. Print became a safe space not just to engage but also to critique the (social) ills of the contemporary world and provide alternatives. In each of the following chapters, we study such engagements in detail: from the encouragement of medical knowledge to being a respite for poor peasants to serving as a platform for women who

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wanted to participate in the intellectual scene and discussions of the time to perpetuating the principles of colonial education. NOTES 1. Dharmapustaka or the translation of the New Testament by Atmaram Sarma is the first Assamese text in print published by the Serampore Mission Press. In the Assamese literary histories, 1813 is considered as the publication year of the text, though missionary histories as well as the English titlepage of the Dharmapustaka give us evidence that it was published in 1820. It “did not elicit any response worth the name in Assam. Copies of the book, distributed free of cost, must have remained confined to a very small population of converts or potential converts living on the edges of contemporary Assamese society” (Goswami 2019, 220). This rendering of the New Testament into Assamese by Serampore Mission was disapproved by the American Baptist Missionaries who arrived at Sadiya in March 1836. Victor Hugo Sword wrote: “unfortunately this was not a good translation, since it was practically unintelligible to the ordinary Assamese. In making this translation, Dr. Carey had to rely entirely on an Assamese pundit who had no knowledge of Christian theology or terms with which to express it. The result was that so much Sanskrit was incorporated as to render the book useless for the purpose for which it was originally intended. It was only a very small learned group who could comprehend it, and then, all theological terms were misinterpreted as they were based entirely upon the Hindu religion” (Sword 1992, 34–35). Moreover, the second edition of Dharmapustaka, containing the translation of the Old Testament was brought out in 1833. But it was also “greeted with cold indifference in an Assam now under British regime, it was not so much because of the difficulty of initiation into the culture of the printed word as such but the strange and unfamiliar expressions of the book that grated on the Assamese ears so long attuned to the ‘divine liquidness’ of the Vaishnava lyrics and congregational songs and folk poetry of different varieties” (Goswami 2019, 220). 2. Hema Saraswati’s Prahlada Caritra is categorically acknowledged as the first vernacular text in Assamese while most of the histories of Assamese literature claim Caryapada as the beginning of its written tradition. We have excluded those texts like Caryapada, Srikrisna Kirtana, Sunya Purana, etc., which are also claimed by other vernacular literary histories like Bengali, Odia, etc. In our chapter, we have adopted the phrase “premodern vernacular” to signify those written texts beginning from Hema Saraswati’s Prahlada Caritra (early fourteenth century) to Surjyakhari Daivaijna’s Darrang Raj Vamsavali (1796). The phrase also excludes those premodern texts that were rendered in prose. It connotes basically those texts in verse that emerged in a standardized form long back in the thirteenth century, although it did not have a uniform spelling system. 3. Assamese chronicles or buranjis are basically prose renderings on different political events. Anandaram Dhekiyal Phukan made remarkable observations on the buranjis for the first time in history:

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Chapter 1 In no department of literature do the Assamese appear to have been more successful than in History. Remnants of historical works that treat of the time of Bhagadatt, a contemporary with Raja Judhisthir, are still in existence. The chain of historical events, however, since the last 600 years, has been carefully preserved, and their authenticity can be relied upon. It would be difficult to name all the historical works, or as they are styled by the Assamese, Buronjis. They are numerous and voluminous. According to the customs of the country, a knowledge of the Buronjis was an indispensable qualification in an Assamese gentleman; and every family of distinction, especially the Government and the public officers, kept the most minute records of historical events, prepared by the learned Pundits of the country. These histories were therefore numerous, and generally agreed with each other in their relation of events. A large number is still to be found in the possession of the ancient families. (1855, 45–46)

Later, writers like George Abraham Grierson (Linguistics Survey of India, Vol V) and Suryya Kumar Bhuyan repeated Phukan’s comments on Buronjis “almost verbatim” (Neog 1977, 28). Even in the nineteenth century, a number of chronicles was composed and published, which include Haliram Dhekiyal Phukan’s Asam Buranji (1829) in Bengali prose; Buranji-Viveka-Ratna, the manuscript of which was prepared in 1838 by Maniram Barua, published in 2002 by the Department of Assamese, Dibrugarh University; Kashinath Tamuli Phukan’s Asam Buranji Puthi (1844), published by the Baptist Mission Press, Sibsagar; Bisweswar Vaidyadhip’s “Belimarar Buranji” (1833–1846), published in 1932 as Asamar Padya Buarnji along with “Kali Bharat,” and edited by S K Bhuyan; Dutiram Hazarika’s “Kali Bharat” (1862), later published in 1932 as Asamar Padya Buranji along with “Belimarar Buranji,” edited by S. K. Bhuyan; Gunabhiram Barua’s Assam Buranji (1884); Padmeswar Naobaica Phukan’s Asamar Buranji (1896), later published in 2003. In another context, Nathan Brown praised the language of the chronicles: “The only Asamese books which can be regarded as a standard of good prose writing are the Buronjis, or histories, which have been written during the last two or three hundred years” (Brown 1848, vi). Before the publication of Orunodoi in 1846, a variety of texts (in terms of language, style, and script) were composed in Assam. Thus, Haliram Dhekiyal Phukan composed Asam Buranji (1829) and Kamakhya Yatra Paddhati (1830) in standard Bengali prose, Maniram Barbhander Barua employed Assamese, Sanskrit, and Bengali in composing “Buranji Viveka Ratna” (1837) and Jolked Ali used Arabic script while rendering “Satyar Path” (1830) in Assamese. While Kasinath Tamuli Phukan’s Asamar Buranji (1844) bore the instance of premodern prose writing, the translation of New and Old Testaments (1833) by the Serampore Mission was a fresh arrival of prose of its kind. Among all these variations, the prose of Orunodoi became dominant in the subsequent decades of the nineteenth century. 4. Asamiya Lorar Mitra (The Assamese Boys’ Companion) was a compilation of different lessons. Gunabhiram Barua (1971, 87) writes, “compiling from various sources written in English, Anandaram Dhekiyal Phuakan worked on completed Asamiya Lorar Mitra, a text written in two parts. Sent to Calcutta’s Samachar Chandrika Press it did not meet the desired result for the publisher could not understand Assamese. For the purpose, Phukan sent an Assamese, Kirtikanta Barua, to Calcutta

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and the book was eventually printed in 1849. Various British and local gentlemen aided financially for the publication of the book. Mathy Sahab and Jenkins Sahab provided special encouragement towards this.” 5. Hemakosa or an Etymological Dictionary of the Assamese language is the first etymological dictionary in Assamese (1900). As the lexicographer said, its model was Webster’s English Dictionary. 6. Jonaki (moonlight) is the most significant periodical published at the enthusiasm of the Calcutta-based Assamese students. In its first editorial (January 1889) titled “atmakatha” Chandrakumar Agarwala, who was also the publisher of the periodical, wrote: “we know our country lags behind in education, poor in knowledge, pauper in riches, powerless in strength, sick in health, lazy at work and dependent— but we can only act out only in accordance with our strength. We are striving to fight against “darkness”: our intention—the development of our nation, “moonlight.” How far we can advance depends on the execution of our strength as well as opportunities. We should pull out all the stops, opportunities and you should yourself up; there is no time to lay back and ponder. Work is being conducted all around—should the Assamese just sit around?” (Saikia 2001, 4). Jonaki saw the appropriation of the Western literary genres (e.g., Padmakumari, one of the first Assamese novels by Lakshminath Bezbaroa; “Bankunwari” the first Assamese romantic poetry by Chandrakumar Agarwala; “Mula khowa burha,” the first Assamese short story by Lakshminath Bezbaroa appeared in Jonaki), consolidation of the Assamese language, and the making of a continuous history of Assam and Assamese literature by the nationalist young writers. Nagen Saikia categorizes the writings of Jonaki as (1) poetry, (2) prose, (3) drama, (4) biography, (5) students’ essay, (6) book review, (7) akhyana, (8) proverbs, (9) historical tales, (10) travel writing, (11) fable, (12) laughter and humour, (13) novel, (14) short stories, (15) interviews, (16) letter to the editor, and (17) satirical-akhyana (2001, preface). 7. In the pages of Bijuli, its inception was related thus: The inception of ABUSS was miniscule. There was a gathering of Assamese students in Calcutta known as “Tea Party.” Various discussions concerning the welfare of the nation popped up in this gathering. As a result of one such discussion, ABUSS had its inception. On 25th of August 1888 in the 67 no. Mirzapur Street, the first conference of this sabha took place.

The aim of this sabha is the development of the Assamese language. Keeping this aim in view, the sabha is so named. The Assamese language is helpless as well as powerless. To endow some help and strength to the Assamese language so that it can contribute towards the benefit of the nation is the aim of the sabha. For this purpose, it has started to preserve the old Assamese texts available. It has also made sure that these are not destroyed and that these are reprinted. To attract the attention of the officials in charge of the education department in Assam so that Assamese is prevalent in all the libraries of Assam and the Assamese students get to study in their own languages, to introduce pure grammar for the purpose of reading and writing, to introduce pure orthography; to start a movement for the purpose of replacing texts written in incorrect language with a correct one in schools etc.; to provide notes and criticisms for old texts

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written by writers poets like Kandali and Sankaradeva, to translate important texts written in Sanskrit to Assamese; to write a comprehensive history on the past and present accounts of the religious, social and political affairs of Assam; to devise ways in order to make sure that Assamese writings are discussed among the common masses; to encourage newspaper reading as well as to develop one uniform language for the whole of Assam would be what the sabha would strive towards (trans.). 8. Maniram Dutta Devan Barbhandar Barua (1806–1858) composed one chronicle of Assam titled “Buranji Viveka Ratna” in two volumes. But the first volume is not available. The second volume was completed on December 22, 1838, a photocopy of which is being preserved in DHAS, Guwahati. It was printed in March 2002 by the Department of Assamese, Dibrugarh University, and edited by Nagen Saikia. 9. Assam Buranji or the Descriptions of the Indra Dynasty Kings of Assam was prepared by Kasinath Tamuli Phukan, corrected by Radhanath Borbarua and published by Assam Mission Press in 1844. It was the first vernacular text of a native writer to have been published by the American Baptists. The language, prose style, and the spelling system bear the features of the premodern chronicles writing. 10. In this interesting text, the blending of two distinct premodern literary traditions, namely, buranji writings in prose and religious writings in verse—can be seen. Suryya Kumar Bhuyan writes, “from the mannerisms of the book, the author seems to have fully imbibed and assimilated the diction and spirit of Assamese Vaisnava poetry. . . . In addition to its value as a historical document, the transference of the conventional diction and association of Vaisnava poetry from themes of the epics and the purans to mundane matters like national disruption and war and to subjects within the immediate purview of the poet, is noteworthy feature of the literary history of the Assamese people” (Bhuyan 1932, xiv–xv). 11. The Directorate of Historical and Antiquarian Studies (DHAS), Guwahati, was established in 1928 by the efforts of Mr. John Cunninghan, formerly director of public instruction, Assam. The prime aim of this institution is to collect historical sources such as manuscripts, copper plates, and coins. 12. There are different opinions regarding the last year of publication of the Orunodoi. Mrs. S. R. Ward stated in A Glimpse of Assam (1884) that the last issue of Orunodoi was published in December 1880: “A monthly vernacular paper, called the ‘Orunodoi’ or Dawn of Light, began its career of usefulness in 1846, and for many years was the only paper published in the province. For several years it was most carefully edited and profusely illustrated, treating on all subjects, both secular and religious, in a manner calculated to instruct and interest the people. This useful little sheet came to an end in December 1880” (Ward 1884, 15). Maheswar Neog accepted this year. Editors of Orunodoi were Nathan Brown (1846–1854), A H Dunford (1855– January 1857), Samuel M. Whiting (February–December 1857, 1858–1860), William Ward (1861–1868), William Ward and A. W. Clerk (1869–1873), A. W. Clerk and S. R. Ward (1874), A. W. Clerk, S. R. Ward, A. K. Garny (1875–1878), A. K. Garny (1879), not known (1880) (Barua 1993, 11). 13. Asserting the independent development of the Assamese literature, Anandaram Dhekiyal Phukan included one catalog of Assamese texts in A Few Remarks on the Assamese Language and on Vernacular Education in Assam (1855). This was the

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first catalog of its kind. It classified the books/manuscripts under the heads: Hindu Religious Works and Puranas, History, Medicine, Dramatic Works, Arithmetic, Geography etc. As till 1855 only a few Assamese works were in printed form, the catalog contains mostly the manuscripts. 14. In 1836, Captain Jenkins, while finalizing the press copies of the pottahs, remarked Assamese language a “corrupt dialect” of Bengali, which became the prime reason behind the introduction of Bengali as the official language of Assam from 1837–1873: “The Assamese version, I myself consider to be unnecessary, it is used in none of our official documents, the Bengallee being sufficiently well understood, and it is a point, I think of great importance that we should not assent to uphold a corrupt dialect, but endeavour to introduce pure Bengallee, and to render this Province as far as possible an integral part of the great country to which that language belongs, and to render available to Assam the literature of Bengal” (qtd. in Kar 2008, 28). It is obvious, the ideas such as “corruption” and “dialect” in language were borrowed from the West. 15. Kavya Kusuma (1884) was the first anthology of Assamese literature. In the title page, Gunabhiram Barua, the compiler and editor of the book addressed to the publisher, Haribilas Gupta as: “Extracted from various Assamese verses and collected from various places through hard-work, certain parts of these verses have been included in this book. You are very interested in publishing the old texts of our nation. That is why, I have sent this book to you. Only a brief introduction to the works of a few Assamese poets will be possible through this. Efforts are also being made to collect the works of the other poets. I hope that the benevolent Almighty fulfills this wish. This text is only the first section of the book Kavya Kusum. The ‘Textbook Committee’ of Nagaon has also included this in the category of school textbooks” (our trans.). 16. In Assamese literary history, 1876 has been an accepted year in which Haribilas Gupta attempted to publish Kirtana of Sankaradeva. But this edition of Kirtana cannot be found. One copy of the second edition (1882) is in the possession of Kshirod Kumar Goswami, Golaghat, Assam. 17. Like the other counterparts of colonial India, Assamese intelligentsia were in the quest for an uninterrupted Assamese past, which is an integral part of nationalism. Assertion of identity of the Assamese language and literature, making of the catalog of Assamese texts, writing history and literary history—all these efforts became crucial to construct the past. What Sudipta Kaviraj writes in the context of Bengali literary histories, that “after the ‘second beginning’ in the nineteenth century, the entire disparate, as well as temporally and spatially dispersed, corpus of texts and literary practices spanning the period from the tenth century to the eighteenth century was perceived as a single historical narrative, with a beginning and a characteristically provisional end in modernity. Naturally, this nineteenth-century exercise used implicit definitional criteria based on perceptions of identity.” (Pollock 2003, 507). This is also relevant in case of the construction of Assamese literary history. 18. Pada, payar, dulari are some of the Indian prosody. Two lines (carana) of a verse is known as pada. In payar (couplet) there are two lines, each line consists of 14 syllables (e.g., jilika pakhire hahe/rabira kirana//jilika pahila naci/phure aganana//).

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Syllable structure of dulari (triplet) is 6+6+8 (e.g., Rukmini ramani/kunjarar gamini/ lilagati cali janta//). 19. Unlike many other Indian vernaculars, Assamese vernacular saw the emergence of two significant trends of prose rendering in premodern times: one is the tradition of prose writing by the vaishnava authors, which was ushered in by Vaikunthanath Bhagavata Bhattacharya (1558–1638) alias Bhattadeva. Another trend was the writing of the Buranjis or chronicles under the patronage of Ahom kings. Bhattadeva rendered Bhagavata, Gita, and Ratnavali into prose that was followed by the eighteenth-century prose writers Raghunath Mahanta and Cakrapani Vairagi Atai. In 1917, Acharya Prafulla Chandra Ray (1861–1944) remarked on Bhattadeva’s prose in a conference organized by Asam Catra Sanmilan: “Indeed the prose of Gita of Bhattadeva composed in the sixteenth century is unique in its kind. . . . It is a priceless treasure. Assamese prose literature developed to a stage in the far distant sixteenth century which no other literature of the world reached except the writings of Hooker and Latimer in England” (Barua 1964, 61). This exaggerated opinion is seen to have been quoted in most of the Assamese literary histories. However, the manifold significances of the premodern prose are yet to be explored. One clear demarcation can be made between these two trends of prose writing in terms of “superposition” (Pollock 2011, 23). While the Vaishnava trend of prose rendition was influenced by the “presence of a dominant literature,” the other one was free from such domination for which the chronicle writers could employ colloquial speech as possible as they can. 20. Atmaram Sarma, in assistance with William Carey, is said to have translated the New Testament into Assamese. Atmaram’s biographical information does not provide us evidence of having Western education. But how he became the first modern prose writer is a matter of curiosity and research. 21. Brown’s effort toward unification of the spelling system was significant in the process of the standardization of the new vernacular. He wrote in his preface to the Grammatical Notices of the Assamese Language (1848, viii–ix): “In commencing the printing of books in this language, the members of the Asam Mission considered it important to establish a correct and uniform system of the orthography . . . it was necessary to make the orthography correspond with the pronunciation. This had been partially done in the native writings; to select a standard, however, was difficult; manuscripts not only differing from each other, but possessing no consistency or uniformity within themselves.” Thus, Brown reduced the letters from fifty to thirty-six while employing Assamese in print. 22. Some significant Assamese Periodicals published in the nineteenth century are Orunodoi (1846–1880, Sibsagar, Mission Press), Assam Bilasini (1871–1883, Auniati Satra, Dharmaprakash Yantra, Majuli), Assam-Bandhu (1885–1886, Calcutta), Mau (1888, Calcutta), Jonaki (1889–1894, Calcutta), Bijuli (1890–1892, Calcutta).

Chapter 2

The Curious Case of Sutika Patal Modernity, Translation, and Women’s Health

THE SENSE OF AN ALTERNATIVE/PARALLEL In his Capitalist Realism: Is There No Alternative? Mark Fisher picks up Kurt Cobain/Nirvana as a classic case of “alternative” cultural zone. We premise this chapter on the definition by Fisher of the alternative, which does not signify “something outside mainstream culture; rather, they are styles, in fact the dominant styles, within the mainstream” (Fisher 2009, 9). The point of it all: that there are alternative and parallel strands of culture (here, literary practices) that modernity entails or even necessitates. This is in addition to the dominant threads through which a particular period is studied or a particular group of writers who represent a particular generation are analyzed. As opposed to what Gayatri Spivak calls “strategic essentialism” to study indigenous literary trends, it becomes important to move beyond this and understand its pluralities that coexist with each other. We are here concerned with the impetus of literary output at the advent of print culture in Assam. It must be mentioned here that nineteenth-century literary trends in Assam have focused mainly (and quite legitimately so) on the works of a group of educated elites as well as magazines that turned into hotspots of intellectual exchange and tradition. While this discourse takes an interesting ring to it when conjoined with modernity and its manifold manifestations, we are making an attempt to see how, when a new power was unleashed in the world in the form of print, many premodern practices/trends were retained and adapted at the same time.

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A “TENTATIVE” DIVISION In a unique turn of events, Assam grappled with the demands of modernity, and an intellectual circle of Western-educated writers sowed the seeds of modernity both in the choice of their literary themes and in the styles to which these were attuned. Ranjit Deva Goswami makes a tentative division of “Modern Assamese Thought” into three distinctive timelines: 1826–1873, 1874–1920, and 1921–1948. While such water-tight classifications can be subjected to both debates and discussions, our aim in choosing, or rather, setting our study of pluralities of the late nineteenth century in Goswami’s classification can be justified in his keywords for identifying the same. The classification is made under certain markers, which can be understood from: the first forty-seven years of the British rule in Assam marked by their pursuit of a policy of standardization that resulted in a partial eclipse of Assamese language and culture and the simultaneous quest for an Assamese identity in tune with the social changes then taking place under the banner of colonial modernity (1826–1873); two, the phase that saw the consolidation of the Assamese language, both creative and scholarly efforts being directed to the rehabilitation of Assamese language and culture (1874–1920); and, three, the years of nationalist struggle and of the movement for establishment of a University in Assam (1921–1948). (Goswami 2019, 214)

The above division is pertinent to our understanding of the terrain through which Assamese (life, language, and literature) has traversed. It is bogged down by the crypto-colonial thrust of modernity in the first place until there is a tepid consciousness to maintain the indigenous identity, explicit attempts directed to retain the authenticity of the Assamese language, and being conjoined with the nationalist struggle and sowing the seeds of modernity in demanding and assuring education through the establishment of institutes of higher education. The periods crucial to our understanding of this chapter are the first and second, and perhaps the ones in which can be traced the unique foundations of modernity in non-European territories, indigenous cultures, and intellectual circles even when confronted with the colonial variant. What follows is not a clear repudiation of the past or a polarizing of modernity in one direction but a modernity that reeks of possibilities in indigenous literary trends. When such societies are looked through “speculative and ideologically distorted lenses” (Mohanty [2011] 2015, 2), the possibilities and prevalence of alternative modernities are shunned. In the context of the division and confining ourselves to these two categories, we take cognizance of two overwhelming factors that shaped the nineteenth-century thought in Assam: print culture and a Western-educated intellectual circle.

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MODERNITY AND PREMODERN VERSE In this list of texts we provided in chapter 1 of premodern verse texts that were composed in the colonial period, our attention is focused in the present chapter on Sutika Patal (A Manual for New Mothers) (1877) (Fig 2.1), a verse rendering of Dhatri-Siksha (1867, 1871) into Assamese. It bears significance for several reasons—first, Govindaram Choudhury (1826–1896), the translator of the original text, which was written in standard Bengali prose by Jadunath Mukherjee (1839–1893), rendered it into conventional verse instead of the standard Assamese prose. Second, Choudhury termed the target language as “Kamarupi Bhasa” instead of Asamiya or Assamese. This curious translation shows the lively presence of the practice of the premodern verse texts in the nineteenth-century Assam on the one hand and, on the other, raises some questions on the ongoing standardization of Assamese language

Figure 2.1  Cover page, Sutika Patal, available at National Digital Library.

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on print which was initiated by the Baptist missionaries and the emerging middle-class writers. We do not tend to polarize the standard prose versus the premodern verse texts. Our attention is focused on the acknowledgment and unique background of a translated text that was specifically published for prescriptive purposes. In that, we identify a unique strand (or an alternative) that was both distinctive, in continuity with the premodern and the colloquial, and parallel to a literature marked by a growing intelligentsia.​ THE DISCRETE REGISTERS OF SUTIKA PATAL’S TRANSLATION We anchor our study of the simultaneous presence of “alternative” literary styles of the nineteenth century in Sutika Patal. Govindaram’s translation is both unique and curious. For the purpose of our analysis, this act can be separated into “discrete registers” (Dube 2017, 140), and it is manifested in Choudhury’s brief preface to the translation: The Kamrupi women are ignorant of the care needed during pregnancy, arrangements of delivery, the illnesses associated with it as well as its cure. Owing to this, they are subjected to both mental and physical sufferings. Having come to know this, I have versified the first part of Dr. Jadunath’s Dhatri-Siksha in Kamrupi language. The village folk, respecting the premodern verse-texts, sit in their courtyards and listen to these. In that space, the women folks will listen (to this book), I hope. (trans.)

To return to our use of the term “discrete registers,” it begins with the selection of the text by Choudhury as a prescriptive manual for women. Next, in attuning it to the lives of the people he is surrounded with, he renders it in a variety of the language (different from the standardized form) that could thrive on aurality and everyday practices (such as listening to the texts sitting in their courtyards) of a group of people. Finally, the said translation provides a novel import to the act by being rendered in verse. There is little evidence of any such attempt at translation in the vernacular scene of its contemporaries in India. To be more precise, a prose text written in modern Bengali being translated into premodern verse in Assamese deserves all attention and applause. On a subtler plane, it reveals the unbroken continuity of the premodern verse form in the nineteenth century, specifically in the lower part of Assam. That is to say, at particular moments of modernity, the premodern verse text reinvented itself in new ways. We extend Mirzoeff’s notion of representing (in his proposition that when) “one mode of representing reality loses ground another takes its place without the first disappearing” (Mirzoeff 1999, 7)

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to the continuity of verse texts in the era of print. While the concerned age concentrated its attention on manufacturing an intellectual fervor through standardized prose essays of a select batch of educated young men, Sutika Patal stands as a tall claim to the prevalence and popularity of nonstandardized Assamese in lower Assam in that Choudhury termed its language “Kamrupi Bhasa” instead of “Asamiya” or Assamese language. The continuous acceptance of the premodern verse texts in the lower part of Assam till the end of the nineteenth century can also be understood as a reaction to the standardization of the “new vernacular” or the modern Assamese language on print. Ranjit Kumar Dev Goswami, in his article entitled “Banikanta Kakati aru Asamar Bauddhik Itihas” (Banikanta Kakati and Assam’s Intellectual History), points out that at the initiative of the Baptist missionaries in the midnineteenth century the language of the Sibasagar region gradually attained the status of standard language. He also mentions three defining moments of this standardization process: the enthusiasm of Hemchandra Barua, the language of Jonaki, and the literary pursuit of Mafijuddin Ahmad Hazarika (Goswami 2009, 158).

THE INROADS OF STANDARDIZATION An elaborate analysis can be made regarding the passages and transition to a uniform and standardized language. However, it is beyond the scope of this chapter. We situate Sutika and the ilk within the alternative threads of thought regarding a standardized language. Although there was enough space for the accommodation of varieties of upper Assam, significantly, there was little space for the Kamrupi variety (varieties) in the making of the standard Assamese. In reaction to the prescriptive attitude of the writers from upper Assam, a monthly magazine titled Assam-Bandhav was published in January 1909 with the financial and intellectual assistance of several elites from lower Assam like Gangaram Chaudhury, Harikrisna Das (1875–1958), KaliramMedhi (1878–1954), Bharat Chandra Das (1877–1930), etc. In its vol. 7, issue 10, in a piece titled “Amar Sahitya” (Goswami and Das 212), Kaliram Medhi wrote: Present writers from upper Assam give an impression in their writings that however much they incorporate familiar words of their region and discard those of lower Assam, the Assamese language is as good. They include such regional and local terms in their writings that it is rendered vague and incomprehensible to those in lower Assam. Those who swear by Hemkosa and Hemchandra Barua’s grammar are the ones who have most messed up with the Assamese language. (trans.)

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One can also see the voice of dissent regarding the standardization of the Assamese language in an autobiography by a prominent author and scholar from lower Assam, Jivan Smriti aru Kamrupi Samaj by Pratapchandra Goswami (1884–1962): As soon as I entered the literary field, I realized that the Kamrupi language was seen as obsolete. According to the literary stalwarts of that period like late Padmanath Gohain Barua and late Satyanath Bora, the use of any word that appeared to be taken from Sanskrit or prevalent in Kamrup region rendered immediately the writings obsolete and Assamese literature problematic. The reason behind their attitude could be perhaps that even the slightest departure from their literary style would render Assamese language into Bengali and give the Bengali people an opportunity to prove that the Assamese language is but an offshoot of Bengali language. (trans.)

Pratapchandra Goswami also writes in his autobiography that when he sent his articles for publishing in Jonaki, they got published only after severe editing. A resistance to such uniformity on a mass level can be understood by recalling that when Assamese was declared as an independent language in 1873, a sum total of 1,226 people from lower Assam signed in a petition clearly mentioning some comments like: The people of Lower Assam protested against the order of the High court order of the dialect current in Upper Assam improperly designated as Assamese Language has been enforced in supersession of the Bengali which has for upwards 40 years been recognized as the Court and adopted as the medium of instruction of the schools. The Upper Assam dialect is spoken only by a small portion of the population of Assam district of Dibrugarh and Sibsagar and is altogether unimportant and meagre and its capabilities and chances to make itself the language of the entire province are extremely limited as the comparative poverty in respect to written and published works does conclusively show. The presumption of the Upper Assam people to force their own patois to the acceptance to the people . . . would wear an air of absurdity had their wishes been not seconded by the noise created by the Missionaries, who, we are sorry to witness have already made a sad havoc with our language by adopting an absurd system of spelling by phonetic representation and by publishing highly objectionable dictionary and one or two grammatical primers. The Bengali which had hitherto continued with utmost advantages to the real interests of our progress to be the Court language of Assam and which must yet continue for long years to be the medium of instruction in our schools before all can hope to prepare suitable textbooks, it is one undoubted fact that in our religion and social usages are identical with Bengali. Thus the petitioners requested that Bengali should be retained for a long time to come. (quoted in Barpujari 1992, 92).

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“INDIGENIZED” TRANSLATION(?) Arjun Appadurai theorizes the indigenization of cultural forms (to be more precise, cricket) through a distinction between hard and soft cultural forms. He premises his distinction on the set of links between value, meaning, and embodied practice of forms of culture. When it comes in a package where the links are difficult to be broken and hard to transform, it can be ascribed the adjective “hard.” The one that concerns us here is soft cultural forms, the ones that “permit relatively easy separation of embodied performance from meaning and value, and relatively successful transformation at each level” (Appadurai 1996, 90). It can be suggested that translation is indigenized in Sutika Patal in a way that it is transformed at each level from the point of view of style and genre as well as forms of reading (in Sutika Patal, listening, as part of the oral tradition) that involves deciphering, interpreting, and even memorizing as was expected in aural practices. When the legitimacy of translation itself is bogged with questions ranging from the “possibility” or “impossibility” of the practice, it is premised upon certain presuppositions: “a perfect reproduction of the source text by a translator who has made a perfect reading of the source and has delivered that reading to a perfect reader” (Barnstone 1993, 261). The possibility is asserted by the mere fact that it “happens” (Steiner 1975, 250). There are no two ways about the fact that translations persist across “peoples and communities, states and nations, cultures and religions” who have lived by its “apprehensions and misapprehensions” and its “fallible knowledge and infallible wisdom” (Dube 2017, 141). Sutika Patal exceeds any such yardsticks of judgment, for here is a curious case of the style of writing completely being shifted from the original text, that is, in it being composed in verse. The “possibility” of translation is, of course, met with because of the simple event that it “happens” and so are the criteria of “perfect reading” delivered to a “perfect reader.” In the said text, though, the reader is supplanted by “listener,” and hence makes absolute sense of it being composed in verse. The following part of the text will make it clear how this is being achieved, in the prescription being intact while the task of translation has been flexed to an experimentation with the style. The section titled “Sutika Griha” concerns itself with the “abode” of a pregnant woman and the conducive home environment for the maintenance of health and hygiene. The original, as well as the translated part, deals with the specifications of the concerned architecture of the house. To begin with, both insist on the hygiene of the house (“pariskar sthana”/“pariskar parichanna hobe”), with special mention of the abrogation of any foul smell (“durgandha”). Govindaram hauls up verse and cadences of it to specify the measurements prescribed in the original: 12 arms’ length, 6 arms’ width, and 2 arms’ height of the foundation (“Dairghya bara hasta cay ahata prastha/

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Uccata hataa dai”). Other specifications include a dry base (foundation) on which the house is built (“Sukana bhitita” and “mejeti shukan”), a wall/ boundary (“Beriba cauphale”), as well as directions on which the door should preferably be: on the east in the rainy season, but the same is not preferable in winter; on the south according to the Sastras during summers. While this holds true for Govindaram’s version when he conjures up religious texts for the purpose too, the original text has slightly varying specifications. The Bengali text suggests the door on the east during winter as well as in the rainy season and on the south in summer. These slight variations could be attributed both to Govindaram’s readings of ancient texts or even to the unique geography and climate his intended audience is situated in. Major or minor changes thus are supplemented with the translator’s readings of ancient texts. “Reproduction of the text,” in Sutika Patal then, is committed to the audience (and her geography) as well as to confirmation with earlier sources on similar prescriptions. The lens of modernity which necessitates newer perspectives on health is articulated through the evolution of medicinal practices in lines that trace the evolution of medicinal practices from asuraka (a practice associated with asuras or savages/demons) to nidana (practiced by the civilized/ “sabhya”). The verse attributes the popularity of a medicinal practice to the reign of a particular king of a particular time, meaning, whatever the king uses, gains legitimacy. Due to the dearth of people who could claim knowledge of “baidya-sastras,” no practice gains currency until the time that the colonial advent in the face of an English king (“inraja bhupati”) brings in new medicines for the well-being (“hita”) of the people. While sounding like a preliminary initiation of a culture into the benefits of Western medicine, this verse retains interest in a careful delineation of the passage into the current state as well as the reasons behind the popularity or lack of it of any medicinal practices supervised prior to it.

THE LIFE AND TIMES OF THE TRANSLATOR Biographical notes on Govindaram Choudhury (1826–1896) are scant, and “Sutika Patalar Likhak Govindaram Choudhury” (The writer of Sutika Patal, Govindaram Choudhury) written by his grandchild and “rebel poet” Prasannalal Choudhury (1898–1986) is the only reliable prose account available. Govindaram’s father, Hariprasad Choudhury (?–1832), was in charge of border security during his appointment at the check gate and owing to this, he was close to Anandaram Dhekiyal Phukan’s family. Hariprasad Choudhury also practiced medicine and came to be popularly known as Oja Choudhury. According to Prasannalal Choudhury, Govindaram Choudhury

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had expertise in Persian and Bangla. Anandaram Dhekiyal Phukan’s stay in Barpeta facilitated cultural discussions between the two families. As regards Govindaram Choudhury’s mentions in the works of subsequent writers, the ones in Prasannalal Choudhury Rasanavali (Barman 2007, 820), Anandaram Dhekial Phukan Jivan Caritra (Barua 1924, 115–116), and Mor Jivan Sowaran (Bezbarua [1944] 2013, 24), respectively, are listed below: Choudhury regularly read the Calcutta magazines of his times like Bangadarshan, Samachar Darpan, Bedvyas, Tattobodhini Patrika and corresponded with their writers through letters. Anandaram Dhekiyal Phukan during his stay in Barpeta translated English texts related to law into Bengali and Govindaram Choudhury helped with these. (trans.) The Mahantas of Satras and other places visited him (Anandaram Dhekiyal Phukan). .  .  . He listened to many stories from them. On the mode of Blackstone’s Commentary, i.e., on the basis of the summary of England’s laws, Phukan wanted to prepare the summary of Bengal’s laws. To this end, he tried to promote the book in the same manner .  .  . Barpeta provided him both the time and aid for this. He started translating these texts into Bengali. Hariprasad Choudhury’s son Govindaram Choudhury had good handwriting. These translated texts were copied by Govindaram. (trans.) Any mention of gentlemen in Guwahati brings to my memory the two advocates, Srimanta Sen and Jasomanta Sen, and Govindaram Choudhury. They arrived at our home randomly and were the objects of affection for my father. Govindaram Choudhury was tall, hugely built and seemed fit to grace any gathering. He could be spotted in a crowd of thousands. (trans.)

THE PUBLICATION HISTORY OF SUTIKA PATAL The surviving edition of Sutika Patal was published in 1908 by Nabinchandra Talukdar in the name of his deceased wife, Jajneswari Devi. The sole agent of the book was Amrit Agency in Nalbari. It was printed on Calcutta’s 51/2 street corner by Hemchandra Dey. Boasting a total of 110 pages, it cost 25 paise (one-fourth of a rupee). Nabinchandra Talukdar wrote in December 1908 that three months earlier, Govindaram Choudhury’s son Shyamlal Choudhury (1851–1908), the sub-deputy collector, had surrendered all the rights of the book to them. Talukdar, though, does not mention any instances of first or second editions. It is doubtful that a text translated in 1877 was not published till 1908. Govindaram Choudhury was a man of influence; again, Chidananda Choudhury, the man behind Govindaram’s translation of the Bengali text, was the owner of Chidananda Press (estd. 1872) in Guwahati. Prasannalal Choudhury, in the prose piece mentioned, already affirms that the book was published in the form of a manuscript for the purpose of the village womenfolk (Barman 2007, 820). Since the 1908 version of the text

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was not published in the form of a manuscript, Prasannalal Choudhury must have talked about an earlier version. It is worth mentioning that in 1877, Madhavadeva’s Bhakti Ratnavali (Fig 2.2) was printed in manuscript form at Chiidananda Press. That aside, Govindaram himself puts into verse the circumstances and intention behind the translation. It goes thus: Govindaram is all praise for the goodness of the Bengali language (susadhu bhasa). Chidananda is mentioned as the one who brought the text to him for the purpose of explaining it to the womenfolk. The translation and the intended aim would leave Chidananda elated (“manata ullasa”) The translator also considers Chidananda as an object of affection, the latter being his nephew too. Hence, Govindaram makes it a point to render it in verse and undertake the task of translation by deploying the prose text written in Bengali.​ This loose paraphrasing highlights two important aspects: that the translator is full of praises for the Bengali language, unlike the emerging middleclass Assamese writers of the time. Also, the objective is fashioned by the sense of contentment following the translation and subsequent benefit of (pregnant) women. This sense is accompanied by the necessity to frame it in verse, for womenfolk would be listeners here and not readers. Verse renders it easy to remember, accompanied by the tradition of listening in a group and rejoicing in the flow and rhythm of verse. This ease at remembering and the penchant for verse is also mentioned by Jnannath Bora (1890–1968) in Asamiya Purani Sahitya: he reminiscences his childhood and gopini sabhas (community gathering for religious purposes) when he would, in the lap of his mother, hear the verses like “Gopala govinda jadu nandana, krisna.” These would be repeated by himself and other children who had not yet learned to speak. Jnannath considers these verses as an essential part of growing up and childhood memories, the latter of which worked on picking up any such verse in community gatherings or prayer meets. In addition to telling us about the

Figure 2.2  Madhavadeva’s Bhakti Ratnavali, Printed at Chidananda Press, Guwahati, 1877.

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life and times of his period and what constituted daily lives of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, we get a clear picture of how well people could “remember” once anything was versified. The 1908 publication of the text also boasts of a commendable backdrop from the point of view of Assamese book history. Jajneswari Devi, the daughter of Koch king in Beltola and the wife of Nabinchandra Talukdar, suffered an untimely death in September 1908. Talukdar writes and moans about his wife’s demise (Choudhury 1908, 6): Jajneswari Devi has left a sum of her savings at the time of her death. This was earned by her solely through domesticating hens, pigeons and goats. That is why, we wanted to use this sum in preserving her memory as well as for something good and substantial. Her death during childbirth has caused the deepest agony to her friends and relatives. Countless women in our ignorant country face untimely deaths this way and cause such grief to their families and relatives. Fully aware of the fact that there can be no better tribute to her memory than in publishing this manual for women so that such health hazards can be controlled to some extent, we publish this book in her name. The price is thereby fixed at a cheap rate so that it is affordable. (trans.)

WOMEN AND MEDICAL HISTORY The issue of women’s health looms large over Govindaram’s translation of the text in nonstandardized Assamese as well as in Nabinchandra Talukdar’s purpose of printing it in his wife’s name and memory. We get an idea of the medical facilities of the early twentieth century from Gangaram Das’s Baidya Amar (1910), of which we have a newly edited copy of 1948 by Srikant Choudhury. Choudhury introduces the book by commenting on the (in) accessibility of the people of Assam to medical facilities. A repeated premise behind the composition of this handbook that administers locally available substances with medicinal properties is the economic condition of the people. The onset of medical facilities did not necessarily solve health hazards of the people in Assam. Gangaram Das’s introduction to the book ponders the difficulty in procuring the locally available medicinal elements and the consequent popularity of Western medicines brought by the British. The latter required just an amount of money, and it could be hence availed. However, the possibilities of such actualization are marred by the economic status of a people wrenched in poverty. The accessibility of Western medicine thus depended on convenience rooted in one’s economic status. Keeping these things in mind, Das composed this handbook, and Choudhury released an edited version, which mentions in the introduction that it would be especially handy for women who had the responsibility of the whole family weighing

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on them. The editor boasts of an exhaustive list of medicines: “You’ll see that there is hardly any medicine that does not find mention here. Multiple medicines have been prescribed for the same diseases so that one can procure any of these” (our translation). The overwhelming insistence is, however, on the poverty of the lot or even reservations and “shyness” regarding certain illnesses. Under these circumstances, handbooks like these come to the aid of a readership who cannot afford alternative means. We are here bringing in a book originally written in 1910 and newly edited (because, obviously, of its relevance) in 1938. Suffice it to say that Sutika preceded even these by many decades. We can only imagine how such a primer would come to the rescue of women (readers and listeners alike) who were sited in a geography and temporality that made modern modes of medical facilities like consultation with doctors, admission to hospitals, and buying medicines almost impossible. While Sutika reaffirms the concept of ideal women rooted in motherhood, as we shall see below, we cannot ignore its relevance to the time in being an authoritative text focused on women’s health and hygiene. The tradition of such texts can be traced to the reign of the Ahoms in Assam. The Ahom King Jayadhvajasimha (1648–1663) brought the first family of Bezbaruas, who were royal physicians and “gave them and their skill a local habitation and a name in Assam” (Neog 2011, 6). With the support of the subsequent Ahom kings, the practice of Ayurveda flourished. The Bezbaruas carried with them Bhava-prakasa, Bhava-misra’s “philosophico medical work” (6). While Maheswar Neog says that the manuscript of this work is found in many places of Assam, he also mentions other (medical) works coming up till the mid-nineteenth century: Vaidya-Kalpataru by AnangaKaviraja under the patronage of the Ahom king Lakshmisimha (1769–1780) and VaidyakaSaroddhara by Vrajanatha Sarma in 1850, when Assam was already under British administration. These few mentions give a preliminary knowledge of the interest, patronage, and at a later stage, the necessity of such texts among the poverty-stricken people of a colonized land. We now pick up specific sections of the text to highlight the manner of prescription encoded as well as the concept of womanhood ineluctably fastened to attaining motherhood. In the section titled “Santan Janmat Tirutar Sukh” (The Happiness of Childbirth), the traditional notion of women’s happiness being tied to the ability to bear and rear children finds expression here. It accentuates the plight of a woman who cannot conceive children and hence is subjected to questioning of her womanhood itself. Prescribing “jaga homabrata” (practices like jagya, brat etc. related to worshiping, fasting for a particular cause) to any such woman, such practices are believed to bring in the “desired” result in the face of a “male” child (“dekhiba putrara mukha,” meaning “you’ll see a son’s face”). Above everything else, this is a pointer to the manifold pressures

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that womanhood is subjected to: childbirth, the sex of the child concerned, and the marital bliss associated with it as concerns the satisfaction of the husband from the event of childbirth (“swamiro janmibo sukha,” meaning “the husband will also be pleased”). This is also intensified by the image of a weeping woman (“manastape kande kata sati”), reduced to this state by her inability to conceive. Research on the condition of women from the perspective of medical facilities has shown that as late as 1885, the British Raj initiated the Dufferin Fund to extend medical facilities to Indian women. Geraldine Forbes notes its objectives in the following: This new organization came to provide medical relief to Indian women, to build hospitals, and to encourage women to study medicine. While some Indian males applauded this new initiative and supported it with donations and in their writings, others denounced it as yet another intrusion by the colonial government into their private lives. (Forbes 1994, 516)

In the same essay, Forbes observes that medical facilities were mainly extended to higher-caste women, and the British kept in mind to develop facilities that respect the “customs and prejudices” of “high-caste Hindu and Muhammadan patients” (quoted in Forbes 515). Lalit Kumar Barua’s (1900–1960) 1930 text Matrimangal addresses the care that should be meted out to women post-childbirth. This was groundbreaking in the sense that it took cognizance of maternal mortality and infant mortality, two phenomena largely shaped by the availability/nonavailability of medical facilities for women. While the facts we just listed concern mainland India, the situation was worse in Assam. Barua, along with conferring importance on the need of doctors, nurses, and educated midwives as well as on the health of the new mothers and newborns, gives evidence of why this book needs to be read. This is a result of the nonuniform distribution of medical facilities across the country (Barua 1931, 17): Government records show that in England the numbers of life and death per thousand are 26.8 and 15.15 respectively. But the number of deaths in our country is overwhelmingly high. In London, for every 1000 new-borns, 100 die and the number is 320 in Calcutta. This pertains to a region which has a commendable number of doctors, nurses and midwives. Now, in comparison to Calcutta, the number of deaths in a poor land like ours can be imagined. (trans.)

In continuity with Forbes’s inputs and Barua’s comparisons with Bengal, we need to consider the scene in Assam around the time Sutika emerged on the scene. “The Report on Vaccination in Assam For the Year 1874–1875,”1 prepared by J. C. Bow, along with statistical data and charts, would give us

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an idea of the readiness or lack of it of the people, the successful/unsuccessful conduction of medical facilities (here, vaccination) in Assam. We are not including the charts and detailed statistics due to the limited scope of the chapter. However, we pick up a few statements that would give us an idea of how ready the people were for such drives or how smoothly these were conducted: The total amount of work done was very little, being only at the rate of 4.16 vaccinated per one thousand population. Excluding Kamrup, it was only 2.29. Thirty per thousand is considered thorough vaccination. (5)2

This is evidence enough of how low the number covered is as compared to the one that renders it “thorough.” Among other reasons, the report attributes such low turn-outs to: The work done by the vaccinators is only about a sixth of what is accomplished in Bengal. The fifty-four ex-inoculators and one paid man in Kamrup have not done more than what might be expected to be executed in that district by six good vaccinators. The unwillingness of many of the people to submit themselves or children to be vaccinated rendered it necessary that the vaccinators should go over a great deal of ground to accomplish even the small amount of work effected. (5)3

The same report gives a rather interesting description of the attitude and feeling of the people in different places of Assam regarding vaccination: 1. Cachar.—Not generally more favourable. 2. Darrang.—Not much more favourable. 3. GároHills.—Beginning to prefer vaccination. 4. Goálpára.—Very hostile. 5. Kámrúp.—Neutral for the most part. 6. KhásiHills.—In the more civilized villages not averse; in the more remote still hostile. 7. Lakhimpur.—Immigrants and inhabitants of sudder stations are most favourably disposed. Indigenous population quite passive. The inhabitants of the wilder parts of the district strongly prejudiced against vaccination. 8. NágaHills.—Not favourable. 9. Nowgong.—Not favourable. 10. Sibságar.—Opposed, excepting the people of the sudder town. 11. Sylhet.—In the town indifferent. Said to be favourable in the district (6).

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The attitude, as seen above, ranges from favorable to hostile. The “hostile” and “not favourable” are reserved for the hills, remote villages, and some parts of lower Assam (say, “very hostile” in Goalpara). This cursory glance points to three overwhelming factors that characterized the advent of Western medical facilities: reservations against it, attuning it to the customs of the “Orient,” and accessibility that could be utilized by a select few. It is but obvious that when Sutika overemphasizes the necessity to bear children by women, it was in keeping with the times it was composed in. The book, in its prescription, much like the medical facilities, had to be attuned to the “demands” on women of that age, though such expectations are overwhelmingly misogynistic and deny agency to the female body at any age. Also pertinent to our understanding is that only a few women could access the benefits if they managed to overcome the reservations concerning the same. Barua’s text also addresses the lack of educated midwives and the one or two available as confined to the towns. Under the circumstances, the village womenfolk had hardly anything to fall back on except texts like these, which could be administered to her in any way. That way, Sutika, in its verse rendering, made the manual on pregnancy accessible to those women who were far removed from the privileged few and could, at best, resort to “listening” to what was being prescribed (read out) to her in a community setting.

CONCLUSION Our reading of Sutika Patal is in no way a claim for the “only” context within which it can be read. Certain aspects like women’s health and hygiene have been touched but can be expanded independently in relation to texts written in a similar vein, albeit in prose, like the 1897 text Prosutee or A Handy Guide for Assamese Ladies by Kushakanta Barkakati. While Sutika Patal is prescriptive and solution-centered in terms of illnesses during pregnancy, Prosutee is a primer on biological knowledge meant for women. A comparison of such texts would enlighten one to the audiences these are intended to, the modes of disseminating knowledge, as well as the possibilities of retention in women where the primary recourse was “listening.” Sutika Patal, in spite of appropriating the expectations under which women heave, remains a landmark text not just from the point of a very unique translation but making sure that it is fit for an audience who “listens” rather than reads first hand. Within these limitations, the chapter situates it within the context of print modernity and how age-old forms of aurality and writing styles were reinvented for the purpose of an indigenized translation as well as educating women on childbirth and the ways and means conducive to it.

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NOTES 1. Report on Vaccination in Assam for the year 1874–1875, prepared by J.C. Bow, Deputy Surgeon General, printed at Assam Secretariat Press, Shillong, and archived in The National Library of Scotland.​https:/​/digital​.nls​.uk​/91​524026. 2. Ibid. 3. Ibid.

Chapter 3

Print and the Peasant Bhimacarita, Storytelling, and Nineteenth-Century Agriculture

Rita Felski’s Hooked takes “attachment” as a keyword to understand the relationship between art and its audience: “to be attached is to be affected or to be moved and also to be linked or tied” (2020, 1). Our aim in this chapter is to place Bhimacarita within this realm of attachment with an audience that transcends generations. It is both surprising and interesting to note that the text maintained its relevance and popularity in the nineteenth century when it was written in the sixteenth century. In the intended aim to understand both the popularity and relevance of Bhimacarita, the social contexts of the reader and listener audience become extremely important to consider. Felski’s concerns in her book are centered on the elements that bind certain works of art to certain people: “how people connect to art and how art connects them to other things” (viii). The “other things” here (as in our selected text) range from social and economic conditions like poverty and dated methods of agriculture to a cultural context that builds up from the storytelling zest. So, while the chapter deals with evidence that establishes the popularity of the text and conjoins it with the advent of print, it also devotes a considerable space to how storytelling indulged generations of a culture even prior to mass literacy. Storytelling here encompasses not just tales that were always transmitted orally but a unique tradition of reading out texts to a specific audience who would then transmit it to subsequent audiences. This practice was built up from the style in which these were written down, the accompaniment with music and rhythm, and the cultural fabric of a people who had grown up listening to these stories and achieved familiarity with the characters drawn in them. Besides these, the chapter also builds up on instances (and absences) of mentions regarding the poverty of the peasant class. In the clear case of “attachment” to Bhimacarita (Fig 3.1), it ranges from identification with the characters in the story to an expression of their latent wishes in these same characters.​ 55

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Figure 3.1  First page of Bhimacarita, published by Agency Company, printed at Sadasiva Press in 1952, now at Department of Assamese, Dibrugarh University.

THE POPULARITY OF BHIMACARITA There are no contrasting opinions regarding the popularity of Bhimacarita. Literary critics and historians alike have acknowledged the popularity of the text.1 The popularity of Bhimacarita was undeterred from the sixteenth to the nineteenth century. In fact, by the end of the nineteenth century, its popularity peaked among the peasant class. The role of print cannot be ignored while trying to understand this sustained impact. Jnannath Bora’s (1890–1968) comments on the text pins down three traditions associated with the text. First, “reading” Bhimacarita naturally indicates a readership, though it is not clear whether they read a printed text, a manuscript (or even the ones copied in Company papers). The interesting fact, though, is that Bhimacarita was printed in 1889, merely a year before Jnannath Bora’s birth. Therefore,

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Bora’s mention of the old people relating to him of how the young children read Bhimacarita right after they learned the alphabet must necessarily mean their reading from manuscript texts. The mention of “memorize” encompasses both reading and listening, hence a part of the oral tradition. However, the most striking trend is of the illiterate being able to recite verses from it. An initial reading of the text from manuscript and then transmitting it through aurality is a probable practice. Since the oral tradition was always already on the scene, the story and description of Bhimacarita must have been prevalent in the peasant class in the same way. Popularized by the oral tradition as well as through manuscript texts, Bhimacarita catapulted into the popular imagination with the advent of print. Simultaneously with the publication of Jonaki, which experimented with various Western genres, Bhimacarita was printed on October 4, 1889. The publishing initiative was taken up from Auniati Satra by Sridhar Barua. The 48-page text was printed by Mahiram, the price was fixed at 4 anas and 1000 copies were printed of this version. Four years later, a note on Bhimacarita was written in Jonaki in vol. 5, no. 4, in its review section: Bhimacarita—published by Baruah. I liked reading the book. I hope the general Assamese folks will accept the book and encourage the publisher. It is a hard task to publish Assamese books, because there is little hope of the publisher to reclaim the money he spent. Barua deserves our appreciation because despite this, he has gone forward with the mere thought that the old text should be published. (our trans., Saikia 2001, 617–618)

The note evades any mention of the popularity of the text highlighted by literary histories and other literary discourses of later times. A few facts included here regarding the publication (such as date and place of publication, no. of copies, edition, price, total number of pages, and name of the printing press) of the text by different presses highlight both the popularity as well as the print-induced availability that only furthered such popularity. The masses embraced the story (in the form of a book) they had only heard orally till then. 1. 4-10-1889, Auniati, Sridhar Barua, 1000 copies, 1st edition, Rs 4 ana, 48 pages, printed at Dharmaprakash Yantra, Majuli 2. 6-8-1898, Dibrugarh, Sivanath Bhattacharya, 2000 copies, 3rd edition, Rs 4 ana, 36 pages, printed at ART Company, Dibrugarh 3. 4-1-1899 (along with Puspaharana and Banaparva), Auniati, Sridhar Barua, 1000 copies, 1st edition, Rs 12 ana, 112 pages, printed at Dharmaprakash Yantra, Majuli 4. 18-7-1905, Jorhat, Kamalchandra Deka Goswami, 1000 copies, 1st edition, 36 pages, printed at Darpan Press, Jorhat

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5. 5-7-1914, Jorhat Gangadhar Barkataky, 2000 copies, 3rd edition, 44 pages, printed at Darpan Press, Jorhat 6. 21-9-1929, Jorhat, Tirthanath Goswami, 1000 copies, 2nd edition, 44 pages, Jadumani Chapakhana, Jorhat This is only the registered publication list. It is but obvious that there were unregistered copies of the book, too. In the first part of the twentieth century specially, Agency Company published this text continuously. The Agency Company ad at the back of Bhekuli Biya (printed by Ratneswar Sarma at Gaurisankar Press, year of publication unavailable. It can be assumed that it was published in the early years of the twentieth century) carries 4 ana priced Bhimacarita too. The edition we are picking up for our purpose here was also published by Agency Company in 1952 and printed by Dinanath Dutta. That aside, from 1889 to 1914, the number of printed copies catapulting to ten thousand and more is indication enough of the growing popularity of Bhimacarita aided by print. Sivanath Bhattacharya and Gangadhar Barkataki have registered the third edition readership details of the text. Following the example of the American Baptist Missionaries, the last decade of the nineteenth century witnessed the publication of premodern texts at the initiative of the rising middle class. Simultaneously, canonization of the old texts, a construction of the history of Assam and Assamese literature followed. Anandaram Dhekiyal Phukan and Gunabhiram Barua played the major roles in this. The Catalogue of Books included by Phukan in A Few Remarks on the Assamese Language and on Vernacular Education in Assam also initiated the construction of the history of premodern Assamese literature as well as the formulation of a canon. This list, it must be noted, includes two premodern texts that lingered into the modern age, Sridhar Kandali’s Kankhowa and Rama Saraswati’s Bhimacaritra. Gunabhiram Baruah played two major roles in the history of Assamese print texts: as a publisher as well as a critic/ editor. In his role as a publisher, he set the first example for the publication of premodern texts. Madhavadeva’s Namaghosa was published by Calcutta’s New Press in 1856, corrected by Auniati Satradhikar Duttadeva Goswami. This text is not available now. Publication of premodern texts started with the establishment of the press Dharmaprakash Yantra at Auniati Satra, Majuli. Led by the Auniati Satra, major premodern texts were published by a number of people until the end of the nineteenth century, including Balaram Phukan, Haribilash Gupta, Kaliram Barua, Bancharam Choudhury, Bhogjur Bepari, Sivanath Bhattacharya, Rajanikanta Bordoloi, and Madhavchandra Bordoloi. The kind of texts published by these publishers and native proprietors were basically premodern verse. An ad published in 1881 lists 14 books published by Dharmaprakash Yantra.2 Bancharam Choudhury of Nagaon published certain books in his

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privately owned handpress.3 In 1895, the hand press established in Barpeta by Pora Mahajan printed premodern texts, too.4 The ones published by Haribilash Gupta, according to an advertisement in Jonaki followed suit.5 This overview makes two things clear: Vaishnava texts and the canonical texts of Sankaradeva and Madhavadeva were accorded with the importance of publication. Rama Saraswati’s Gitagovinda and Ananta Kandali’s Kumara Harana were the only published material of the said authors. This can be attributed to the following causes: first, most of the publishers belonged to/ practiced the Vaishnava faith and insisted on the publication of Vaishnava texts; second, the reading public too constituted a commendable number of people who were Vaishnava followers among whom the importance of the texts by Ananta Kandali and Rama Saraswati was considerably less and hence the demand low. A low demand, though, was guessed, taking into concern a reading public constituted by practitioners of the Vaishnava faith. However, the publication history from the beginning of the first decade of the twentieth century provides a very different narrative. A third reason remains that Ananta Kandali and Rama Saraswati were not religious preachers, and hence, their presence did not create a chunk of followers. It is another matter that though the works of Ananta Kandali and Rama Saraswati were not printed, their roles in the making of the history of Assamese literature were given enough importance. Kavya Kusuma (1884), a compilation of premodern poetry by Gunabhiram Baruah, incorporates verses by both these poets. The credit for introducing Rama Saraswati’s life and literary output to the Assamese reading public through the pages of Jonaki (Saikia 2001,122) goes to Ratneswar Mahanta, who wrote under the pseudonym of Ramdas Goswami: Mahabharata is all we have seen of Rama Saraswati. The ones available to us are Mahabharata’s Udyoga Parva, Drona Parva, Banaparva. . . . It’s been heard from many that most of the sections of Mahabharata have been translated by him. . . . Whatever we have read of him establishes him as an eminent scholar and a great poet. His verses are written in colloquial language and hence pleasurable. This is his text’s speciality. Rama Saraswati is unfortunate. Even with his scholarship, he is not as renowned as Sankara, Madhava, Devadamodara, Devagopala in Assam because he was not involved in propagating religion. (trans.)

Hemchandra Goswami’s “Asamiya Bhasha” (2001, 323–24), in addition to situating Rama Saraswati in the history of Assamese literature, also comments on his writing style. He expresses his disappointment toward the Assamese people being unacquainted with Rama Saraswati’s contribution: “A parallel to Sankara-Madhava, another great poet illuminated the landscape of

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Assam. His name was Rama Saraswati. . . . His translation of Mahabharata is a gem in the repertoire of Assamese language” (our trans.). He terms it a “matter of disappointment” that the Assamese people have not yet realized its worth and, hence, have failed to embrace it. Goswami further comments on his writing style: “His descriptions of places in Mahabharata are so familiar and so humorous that we wouldn’t mind closing Tennyson or Shelley and listening to it” (324). In a tone similar to Mahanta, Goswami analyzes the lack of popularity of Rama Saraswati thus: Sankara and Madhava were both religious preachers. Alongside religion, their writings too occupied a special place in people’s hearts. Just because he was not a religious preacher, Mahabharata, considered the fifth Veda by the Hindus, Rama Saraswati’s translation of it had not garnered the kind of appreciation it rightfully deserved, and even today it’s almost the same, in fact why almost, it isn’t yet acquainted with people. (trans., 324)

Sonaram Choudhury (1870–1942) (2001, 292) too laments the ignorance of youngsters to the older ones regarding this work and concludes: If he were born in England, thousands of people would have appreciated him and created a stir across countries. In fact, if he were born in Bengal, this would not be his predicament. Hence, if people work together and reclaim the treasures of a language in its infancy, that language will prosper. I plead everyone in our nation to see to their ancient texts and try to work towards its development. (trans.)

The truth behind the complaints of these three nineteenth-century intellectuals concerning the lack of popularity of Rama Saraswati deserves our attention. Around the year 1900, the printing of Saraswati’s text started, and the readers too embraced it. However, the verses compiled in Kavya Kusuma, as well as the writings on Rama Saraswati’s works in Jonaki, undoubtedly aided the inclusion of the poet in the canon of a developing Assamese literature. This was the result of a relentless search for the past by the Assamese middle class. Surprisingly, no writer in Jonaki mentions the hugely popular Bhimacaritra. The write-up on Bhimacarita published in Jonaki can also be recalled. What could be the reason behind ignoring the text, which was so popular among the common people of the time (something which was recognized in the works of later-day literary historians)? It can be seen that the Assamese middle class wanted to establish Ram Saraswati solely as the poet of the Assamese Mahabharata.

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THE POPULAR PREMODERN TEXTS OF NINETEENTH CENTURY: CLASSIC VS. COLLOQUIAL Gunabhiram Barua established Kirtana as a popular text in his Assam Bandhu article titled “Kirtana” (1984, 301). While insisting on the readership of the text, Barua emphasizes the categories of people whose daily lives were intertwined with it–from the woodcutter to the fisherfolk. From these random categories to everyday functions like weddings to prayer meets, Kirtana was the spiritual as well as the religious repertoire of the people. Barua, despite acknowledging the fact that Sankaradeva’s intention was the propagation of Vaishnavism, also asserts that Kirtana was owned, cherished, and recited by those who did not practice the Vaishnava faith. This reliance on the text ranged from occasions like weddings to Janmashtami. Its overwhelming presence in the lives of the common Assamese folk is evident from his assertion that, while the average Assamese people had only heard of the Vedas, Puranas, and Bhagavata, the Kirtana was the one intimated to them as Veda-Purana. Hemchandra Goswami (Saikia 2001, 285) writes on the importance of the Kirtana: Sankaradeva’s Kirtana is a priceless gem of the repository of Assamese literature. He has amassed the content of many Hindu shastras and composed this text. This beloved work of Sankaradeva has also attracted the admiration of the Assamese people. The Vedas, Puranas and Bhagavata are mere names for the Assamese, in practice, the Dasama and Kirtana occupy the centrality of importance. On a serious search spree, there is the possibility of even finding one or two brahmins who do not know the Sandhya gayatri; however, a Hindu who could not recite a few verses of Kirtana would be a rarity. Sankaradeva’s compositions have become a part of the everyday conversations of the Assamese people. In their common talks, these people quote Sankaradeva’s verses. (our trans.)

Baruah and Goswami, who have played significant roles in the construction of the literary history of Assam, have adequately examined the popularity of Kirtana. Of the four canonical Vaishnava texts in Assamese (Kirtana, Dasama, Namaghosa, Bhakti Ratnavali), the Kirtana is the most popular. The written text was popularized by the recitation-listening tradition of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Owing to print, the Kirtana extended beyond the traditional Vaishnava precinct and created a modern reading public. It is not known as to how many copies were printed by Haribilash Gupta in 1876. The fact that its second edition came into print in 1882 indicates the sales of the text. After Haribilash, Bancharam Choudhury printed 200 copies in 1880,

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the Auniati Satra printed 1000 copies in 1883, and an anonymous publisher from Barpeta published 750 copies in 1879. The attention that Kirtana grabbed at the end of the nineteenth century was rightfully deserved by both the writer and the work. But what evaded the attribution of such attention to Bhimacarita and Sridhar Kandali’s Kankhowa is a matter of concern. It cannot be assumed that Gunabhiram Barua, Ratneswar Mahanta, or Hemchandra Goswami were ignorant of their reach and popularity. It is also important to note that though Vaishnava literature relies primarily on translated texts, none of Bhimacarita or Kankhowa was translated. Dimbeswar Neog writes that Bhimacarita is a fundamental Assamese text “based” on a section of the Mahabharata (1964, 146). Nabinchandra Sarma (1997, 374) identifies three strains that combine to create this important text: “Bhimacaritra’s subject-matter is the confluence of three traditions: the Sanskrit Mahabharata, the oral tradition popular in the north-eastern part of India regarding Siva-Mahadeva and Bhima and thirdly, local folklore” (our trans.). Particularly, as he says, the instances of cattle rearing and farming at Siva-Mahadeva’s home are not extracted from the Mahabharata or any other Sanskrit text but from the folklore of the eastern part of India (376). A folklore-based text had not garnered enough attention from the middle class. Sanskrit-based (hence more reliable and pan-Indian), high-brow literature was more important for an emerging nationalism. Hence, Ram Saraswati’s Sanskrit-based texts like Mahabharata and Gita-Govinda were given the kind of importance denied to Bhimacarita. Even in its printed form, Bhimacarita was more in vogue among the peasant community. Literary critics of the late nineteenth century have identified Rama Saraswati’s not being a religious preacher as the reason behind his obscurity. The Assamese people being oblivious of it is true to some extent but false to some. It is true because toward the latter part of the nineteenth century, a good number of elite households in Assam were graced by the Bengali renditions of Mahabharata and Ramayana. Jayanti, a character in Gunabhiram Barua’s Ram-Navami has in her collection, among other texts, the Mahabharata, Ramayana, Sakuntala, and Kadambari, all these Bengali translations. Jnannath Bora (n.d., 24) describes the reaction and stir created by the publication of Madhava Kandali’s Ramayana in 1896: The Assamese Ramayana is out, the Assamese Ramayana is out: I still remember these being exclaimed in joy by our people. This is now fifty years old. Prior to this, every other household had a Bengali Ramayana. We never knew that there was a Ramayana in our own language. (our trans.)

Nalinibala Devi (1898–1977) recalls Mahabharata-based Bengali texts being bought by Nabinchandra Bordoloi (1875–1936), who was the son of Madhavchandra Bordoloi, the publisher of Kandali’s Ramayana:

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My father brings a lot of good books for my aunt from Calcutta. He gifted poet Nabin Sen’s trilogy Kurukshetra, Raivatak and Prabhas. Written in rhythmic verses and based on the stories of the Mahabharata, it was recited in our house by Kirtinath Bordoloi, my mother’s brother. Our whole family gathered to enjoy these recitations. (Our trans., [1976] 2012, 53)

Sailadhar Rajkhowa (1892–1968) too mentions such instances of recitations of Bengali books in his formative years. In Atitar Sowarani (1969, 18–19), he recalls his mother and her female friends having a good time playing seashell poker and reciting Bengali renditions of the Ramayana as well as the Mahabharata. We can assume that Ram Saraswati’s obscurity is a conclusion drawn from these instances of Bengali translations occupying the coveted readership of the Assamese middle class. The complaint that people were ignorant of Ram Saraswati’s Bhimacarita is premised on the reading practices of the late nineteenth-century middle-class Assamese. It can be a legitimate concern that the peasant class and the oral tradition rampant within these communities were not given enough attention while these conclusions were made. A question that follows from this is that if people were unaware of Rama Saraswati, how do you explain the popularity of the stories of Mahabharata, Badha-kavya, or Bhimacarita? It is also true that Rama Saraswati was not a religious preacher like Sankaradeva, Madhavadeva, and Damodaradeva. It was a grueling task in the premodern times for writers who were not religious preachers to generate interest for their works. Why then did Ram Saraswati’s work become popular? The reason can be attributed to oral storytelling. Even though the primary objective of Vaishnava literature was religious preaching, storytelling was an important medium through which this was accomplished. The Vaishnava poets wrote two kinds of texts for religious preaching, as identified by Jnananath Bora (n.d., 8–9): one, to explicate the principles of religion to the people well versed in the shastras, and the other, to the common folk. For the effortless understanding of religious principles by the common folk, the second category was composed. A few akhyanas were extracted from the Ramayana, the Mahabharata, and other texts and composed for the entertainment and pleasure of the masses. These akhyanas, Bora says, were infused with humor through a recourse to literary exercises. It is through literary expertise that Prahlada Caritra, Rukmini Harana, Lava-Kushar Yuddho, Bhimacarita, etc., became so popular among the common folks. The popularity of Kirtana, too, rests on this element of storytelling incorporated into it. Jnannath Bora reminiscences his aunts and sisters narrating Srikrisna’s killings of Putana and Bakasura, “Kaliya Damana,” “Gajendra Upakhyana,” “Prahlada Carita.” Two factors, according to him, made Kirtana fascinating: one, its story, the other, its rhythm (33).

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Banikanta Kakati (1940, 20) remains the first person to acknowledge the importance of the story-based badha-kavyas: In ancient literature, Ghatasura, Baghasura, Kulacala, Aswakarna, Kurmmavali, Janghasura Badha etc. have occupied the same position that is currently accorded to novels and stories. In village communities in Assam, it still occupies a very special position. At the end of their toil in the fields, the farmers gather around like the rishi-munis of ancient times who listened to the shastras and histories and get rid of their day’s exhaustion by listening to the akhyanas of the badhakavyas. (our trans.)

Satyendranath Sarma (2015, 149) makes an important remark in the same vein too. He establishes that the contribution of badhakavyas is unparalleled in transforming illiterate masses into literature loving listeners and audience. Not just the Badha-kavyas and Kirtana, premodern texts like Sankaradeva’s Harischandra Upakhyana, Rukmini Harana Kavya, Ajamila Upakhyana, Hema Saraswati’s Prahlada Carita, Ananta Kandali’s Kumara Harana, Sridhara Kandali’s Kankhowa, Rama Saraswati, and other minor authors’ different parvas of Mahabharata, Bhimacarita, etc., came to be printed in the beginning of the twentieth century due to the elements of storytelling in these texts. While it is not known why the premodern poets composed these texts, the reading public of the twentieth century premised their taste on “stories” made possible by print and purchased these at the reasonable prices that they were fixed. Apart from printing these premodern texts, many modern writers too composed their texts in premodern verse during this period. Purnakanta Devasarma’s Nala-Damayanti Akhyana (1889), Durgaprasad Devasarma Phukan’s Lavana-Daityabadha (1906), Kamalchandra Deka Gosain’s Satskandha Ravanabadha (1907), Dugdhanath Khaunda’s Asamiya Sitaharana Nataka (1907), unknown author’s (grandfather of Kanakeswar Sarma) Baraha-Caritra (1907), Kirtichandra Vidyabhusana’s Candrikakhyana (1908), Gopalachandra Sarma Barthakur’s Sankhasura Badha (1909), and unknown author’s Sita Harana (first decade of the twentieth century) are such akhyanas and story-based texts modeled on the premodern. An important point to be noted here is that the premodern texts which were premised on storytelling did not need to undergo the process of desecralization of Vaishnava texts that was started and facilitated by print toward the end of the nineteenth century. The desecralization of these (premodern) texts started much before the advent of print, and the texts were hugely popular across generations of readers-listeners. In fact, the stories of religious texts like Kirtana were also cherished outside the premises of the satras since the premodern times.

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Given below is a list of the akhayanas/upakhyanas that were rendered in print from 1901 to 1910: Swargarohan Parva (Asamiya Mahabharata), Dwiz Dayaram, Published by Laksheswar Sarma, Printed at Radharaman Jantra, Calcutta, 1901, Pages: 70. Gada-Parva (Mahabharata), Rajmishra, Published by Khagendranath Das, Ghilamara, North Lakhimpur, 1903, Pages: 82. Karna Parva (Asamiya Mahabharata), Rama Saraswati, Published by M C Brothers and Company, Printed at Radharaman Jantra, Calcutta, 1906, Pages: 104. Udyogparva (Asamiya Mahabharata), Rama Saraswati, Published by Chandradhar Barkatoky and Laksheswar Sarma, Jorhat, Printed at Darpan Press, Jorhat, 1906, Pages: 202 (incomplete). Nal Damayanti Caritra, Purnakanta Deva Sarma, Published by Sivnath Bhattacharya, Dibrugarh, Printed at Darpan Press, Jorhat, Second edition (first edition, 1889), 1906, Pages: 120. Sataskandha Ravana Badha (Asamiya Mahabharata), Kamalchandra Deka Gosain, Dharmapustak & Co, Jorhat, Printed at Radharaman Jantra, Calcutta, 1907, Pages: 25. Asamiya Sitaharana Natak, (free verse) Dugdhanath Khaunda, Published by Agency Company, Dibrugarh, Printed at Gaurisankar Jantra, Dibrugarh, 1907, Pages: 91. Barah-Caritra (Sita Mandodarir Janma), Grandfather of the Publisher, Published by Kanakeswar Sarma, Corrected by Sivnath Bhattacharya, Printed at Darpan Press, Jorhat, 1907, Pages: 43. Sudhanvabadha Parva (Mahabharata), Haridas Vipra, Published by Sivnath Bhattacharya, Dibrugarh, Printed at Banik Press, Calcutta, 1907, Pages: 76. Sisupal Badh, Published by Sivnath Bhattacharya, Dibrugarh, Parinted at Radharaman Jantra, Calcutta, 1907, Pages: 24. Candikakhyan, Kirtichandra Vidyabhusan Goswami, Published by Agency Company, Dibrugarh, Printed at Gaurisankar Jantra, Dibrugarh, 1908, Pages: 138. Nandi-Sambad, Anonymous, Ratneswar Pustakalaya, Janji, Printed at Calcutta, 1908, Pages: 24. Mahisasura Badha, Gopal Chandra Barthakur, Published by Sivnath Bhattacharya, Dibrugarh, Printed at Darpan Press, Jorhat, 1908, Pages: 98. Asamiya Rudra Yamala, Purusottama, Collected by Padmanath Adhikari, Published by Chandrakanta Das, Bajali, Barpeta, Printed at Calcutta, 1908, Pages: 80. Tarakasurar Juddha, Jayram Das (late nineteenth century), Collected by Raghukanta Deva Goswami, Published by Dyutiram Chaudhury, Palashbari, Kamrup, Printed at Victoria Press, Calcutta, 1908, Pages: 69.

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Kirata Parva (Mahabharata), Kansari Kavi, Published by Jogeswar Sarma and Deveswar Sarma, Janji, Sivsagar, Printed at M A Press, Calcutta, 1909, Pages: 22. Sankhasura Badha (Bhagavata Fourth Canto), Gopal Chandra Sarma Barthakur, Published by Agency Company, Dibrugarh, Printed at Gaurisankar Jantra, Dibrugarh, 1909, Pages: 400 Kirata Parva Bharata, Kansari Deva, Published by Jogeswar Sarma and Debeswar Sarma Barthakur, Janji, Sivsagar, Printed at M A Press, Calcutta, 1909, Pages: 146. Ajamil Upakhyan, Anonymous, Jogeswar Handique, first decade of twentieth century, Baruagaon, Pages: 96 1923–1946. Kumara Harana, Chandra Bharati, Published by Barkatoky Company, Printed at Kattayani M Press, Calcutta, 1923, Pages: 104. Birat Parava (Mahabharata), Kansari Kavi, Published by Durgadhar Barkataki, Printed at Samya Press, Calcutta, 1923, Pages: 36. Prahrada Caritra, Hema Saraswati, Edited and Published by Kaliram Medhi, Printed at New Press, Guwahati, Second edition (First edition, 1913), 1923, Pages: 21. Rukmini Harana arthat Srikrishna Rukminir Bibah Prasanga, Sankaradeva, Published by Agency Company, Dibrugarh, Printed at Sadasiva Jantra, Dibrugarh, New Edition, 1923, Pages: 186. Birata Parva (Mahabharata), Kansari Kavi, Collected and Published by Durgadhar Barkatoky, Jorhat, Printed at Samya Press, Calcutta, 1923, Pages: 405. Sakuntala Kavya, Kaviraj Chakravarty, Collected and Published by Durgadhar Barkatoky, Printed at Bharatmihir Jantra, Calcutta, 1924, Pages: 214. Udyogparva (Mahabharata), Rama Saraswati, Compiled and Published by Durgadhar Barkataki, 1924, Calcutta, Pages: 218. Santi Parva (Mahabharata), Dwij Lakshminath, Published and Edited by Durgadhar Barkatoky, Calcutta, Printed at Kattayani Machine Press, 1925, Pages: 209. Arjuna Sambada, Anonymous, Collected by Jogeswar Lahon (1908), Published by Barkatoky Company, Jorhat, Printed at Jogamaya Printing Works, Jorhat, 1926, Pages: 80. Lavan-Daityabadha (Uttarakanda Ramayana), Durgaprasad Deva Sarma Phukan, Published by Sivnath Bhattacharya, Dibrugarh, Third Edition (first edition, 1906), 1927, Pages: 18. Shalya Parva (Mahabharata), Kavi Damodara Dasa, Collected and Published by Durgadhar Barkatoky, Calcutta, Printed at Kattayani Machine Press, Calcutta, 1927, Pages: 68. Kulacal Badha, Bharat Bhusan, Published by Nandeswar Chakravarty, Dibrugarh, Printed at Sadasiva Press, Dibrugarh, 1927, New Edition, Pages: 411. Syamanta Haran, (drama in free verse) Bharatchandra Das, 1927, Pages: 72.

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Kulacal Badha, Bharata Bhusana, Published by Agency Company, Dibrugarh, Printed at Sadasiva Press, Dibrugarh, New Edition, 1927, Pages: 411. Udyogparva (Mahabharata), Published by Agency Company, Dibrugarh, New Edition, 1928, Pages: 226. Bhisma Parva (Mahabharata), Rama Saraswati, Published by Durgadhar Barkatoky, Printed at Kattayani Machine Press, Calcutta, 1928, Pages: 116. Siyala Vaishnavar Caritra, Kavi Sucandai, Collected and Published by Ratiram Dutta and Janaram Das, Printed at Bandhav Press, Nalbari, 1928, Pages: 96. Byadha Carita, anonymous, Published in the first half of the twentieth century, pages: 22 Swargarohana Parva (Mahabharata), Gopinath Pathak, Published by Durgadhar Barkatoky, Pages: 25. Sita Harana, Anonymous (Colonial Period), Published by Tirthanath Goswami, (First half of twentieth century), Pages: 92 (incomplete). Kalkunja o Sosaka Badha (Mahabharata Bana Parva), Draupadi (?), Collected by Krishnadeva Goswami, Published by Harischandra Goswami, Printed at Katyayani Machine Press, Calcutta, Third decade of Twentieth Century, Pages: 153. Kurmavali Yuddha, Sagar Khari, published by Dutta Barua, Nalbari, (no other information found), Pages: 70. Usa-Harana, Brisakretu, Published by Dutta Barua & Co, Nalbari, Kamrup, Second Edition, 1946, Pages: 58. Parikshita Badha, Sukabi Narayanadeva, Compiled and Corrected by Prasannachandra Barua, Published by Karunakanta Barua, Kamarkuci, Kamrup, New Edition, 1951, Pages: 31.

THE FLOW OF STORYTELLING: PATHAK/ BHAGAVATI, OJAPALI AND FOLK CULTURE As a result of the Neo-Vaishnavite movement, two groups named Pathaks and Bhagavatis were created. The first recited, the latter interpreted. Mention of Bhagavati is made in the early eighteenth century in Sri Sri Deva Damodara Caritra of Nilakantha thus: Bhagavata patha kara thane Madhavar Bhagavati bhaila Sarbeswara Ratnakara dui bela dui bhai parhe Bhagavata sundara suswara dhvani byakhya nanamata suni loka ananda manata bara pai prasansa karanta loka dui bhayaka cai (Dasa 1927, 39–40)

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ভাগৱত পাঠ কৰা ঠানে মাধৱৰ। ভাগৱতী ভৈলা সৰ্বশ্বৰ ব ৰত্নকৰ।। দুই বেলা দুই ভাই পঢ়ে ভাগৱত। সুন্দৰ সুস্বৰ ধ্বনি ব্যখ্য নানামত।। শুনি ল�োক আনন্দ মনত বৰ পাই। প্ৰশংসা কৰন্ত ল�োকে দুয়�ো ভাইক চাই।। (৩৯-৪০)

These lines aptly capture the expertise of bhagavatis—interpreting the text in a beautiful manner/voice—and the audience deriving pleasure from it. In citing the instances of two brothers—Sarbeswara and Ratnakara—these lines attribute the interest and pleasure (ananda manata bara pai) of the listener audience and the subsequent praises (pransansa karanta) heaped on them for their interpretative renditions in beautiful tones (sundara suswara). In a description of Damodar interpreting the Gita, emphasis is placed on the devotion (“hridaya drabila preme sunaya harise”) in his mind that makes the interpretation of the text so enchanting to listen to (“dagamaga bhaila nirantara sabhakhana”). The sense of beautiful tone (sundara “suswara dhvani amrita barise”) in the interpreter’s voice is emphasized here too. In addition to the beautiful intonations, what makes such renderings worthwhile is the comprehensible (bakya subodhini) interpretations of these texts. In a gesture of relentless devotion, these interpretations continue throughout the day and night (Bhagavata pathaka karanta ratri dini). Premodern prose writer Baikunthanath Bhagavata Bhattacharya was a Bhagavati. These Pathaks and Bhagavatis went outside of the premises of the Satras to recite and interpret the texts, and this tradition is still prevalent in the rural landscape of Assam. In addition to fulfilling the religious motives, these people also perpetuated the tradition of storytelling. It is worth mentioning that Rama Saraswati was a Pathak, too: “Ram Saraswati is Sukladhvaja’s Pathaka” (Sarma 1997, 355). Nabinchandra Sarma writes: “There is no doubt that Sukladhvaja’s Pathak was Naranarayan’s Pathak too. Scholarship and expertise in recitation enabled Rama Saraswati to be the Pathaka of both Sukladhvaja and Naranarayana” (trans., 355). We can cite here the instances of recitation of the Mahabharata and Ramayana in premodern Assam. Manmohan Ghosh (1957, 19) writes of this trend with respect to the greater Indian landscape: The recitation of epic poems such as the Ramayana, the Mahabharata, the Bhagavata and other Puranas, which generally takes place on the occasion of religious festivals, has some kind of abhinaya associated with it. For Kathakas just like good orators, are required to make a liberal use of gestures for impressing the audience with what they deliver.

This description reasserts the expertise required of the reciter that we have earlier seen in the instances of Damodara, Ratnakara, and Sarbeswar. Here,

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gestures are emphasized as to create the intended effect, as the intonation was in the previous description. The Kathakas have been defined thus: Kathakas or those who read before an audience episodes from original epics (Mahabharata or Ramayana) or the Puranas, and explain them with the art of a good story-teller interspersing their narration with songs, or musical recitation of original Sanskrit passages. (Ghosh 1957, 19)

A. B. Keith, too, in his The Sanskrit Drama: Its Origin, Development, Theory and Practice mentions the Kathakas and Pathakas. Nabinchandra Sarma comes up with an important observation: “The Kathakas are the Pathakas; since the similarity between the functions of these two are very clear” (Sarma 1997, 355). Preceding the instances of religious publicity of Neo-Vaishnavism, the Ojapali tradition too has aided the element of storytelling in rural settings extending to the present. In fact, the influence of Rama Saraswati’s translation of Banaparva is noticed in the storytelling of Ojapali. Nama, Nagara nama, etc., have also retained the storytelling element of premodern times until the present day. Besides these institutionalized aesthetic practices, telling/reading out stories to children and description of events in gatherings at home or outside are some of the many ways in which the tradition of storytelling persists. Anandaram Dhekiyal Phukan, one of the earliest products of Western education and modernity, too cherished this tradition. As mentioned in Anandaram Dhekial Phukanar Jivan Caritra (Barua 1971, 45), “Since childhood, he enjoyed tales of the past and listening to stories” (trans.). Lakshminath Bezbaroa (1992, 4–5), who practiced Western genres of literature in the pages of Jonaki, relates and recalls his experiences of listening to stories in his childhood: A distantly related grandfather, Rabinath Majudalar would accompany us in our outings and figure as an authority. He was from Jorhat. He was our friend in fun, guardian in action, the harbinger of stories and our repository of the tales from Ramayana and Mahabharata. His alluring description of the upakhyanas picked up from Purana, Mahabharata and Ramayana in the evenings, infused with his penchant for storytelling left us awestruck. Besides the Purana, grandfather also made us listen to stories of kings and subjects, ghosts and spirits and invoked both pleasure and fear. (trans.)

Bezbaroa himself furthered this practice of storytelling with his younger daughter by relating to her stories from Mahabharata and Ramayana. Besides these texts, stories were rampant regarding the small and big events and occurrences of the histories of different regions. Short-story writer and literary critic Trailokyanath Goswami (1906–1988) recalls instances of storytelling from his childhood in this way:

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We had a large pond at half a furlong from our village. At one point, description of the beauty of lotuses in this place by others filled our minds with joy. The charm of detailed description was reflected in these narratives by the people of the villages. It seemed like such descriptions were incomplete without some exaggerations. Be it descriptions of nature or one’s day-to-day life, these did not seem interesting and humorous enough if confined within the shackles of reality. We heard numerous stories regarding this pond and the river Pagladia–stories of picking lotuses and fishing. We would be left awestruck and overwhelmed by these descriptions. One day, we were terrified by a man’s description of his real-life experience. I shall try to narrate the story from the man’s perspective. But due to the absence of gestures, it won’t be able to accomplish the intended meaning of the speaker. (Our trans., 1989, 20–21)

Instances of the supernatural to spice up such storytelling fetish are also rampant, as recalled by Goswami (1989, 25) in the same text: We heard numerous ghost stories in our childhood. Other supernatural stories too were not very uncommon. Whatever stories we heard, these were either the best or the worst . . . description of numerous stories based on the supernatural as well as the many lies accompanying it were listened to with patience and belief. (our trans.)

WOMEN AS STORYTELLERS Many writers have highlighted the contribution of women (and their storytelling) to their literary lives and otherwise. Atulchandra Hazarika (1903–1986) fondly remembers his “very old” grandmother and maintains that though she could not read and write, it would be unfair to brand her “ignorant” (Hazarika 1981, 16–17). This woman could recite from her memory, unfettered, the verses of Kirtana, the whole of Dasama, and even sections of the Mahabharata and Ramayana. Another of his grandmothers would lull him to sleep, reciting verses devoted to Lord Srikrisna. The influence of these recitations in his formative years was such that Hazarika turned into effortlessly and rather unconsciously a Krishna devotee and composed the play Nandadulal. The lack of any formal education did not deter women from engaging with the important events of the time or from partaking in the storytelling spirit and the vogue of recitation. We have mentioned previously how Sailadhar Rajkhowa (1969, 18–19) recalls his sister reciting the Bengali renditions of the epics: In her days of youth, Kunti was the friend of my mother and my sisters.  . . . Some evenings, it was such a pleasure to listen to her who, along with my eldest sister Sarojbala, would recite the Bengali versions of the Ramayana and the

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Mahabharata. It was since then that I was so enthusiastic about reading these texts myself. (our trans.)

Storytelling extended beyond recreational activities in such instances. It was a medium through which women actively engaged with literature. In an interesting instance, women were also aware of Hindu laws of inheritance by ownership and by possession through exchanges with other women and picking up things just by “listening” to what was happening around them. These were learned and imbibed beyond the privileges of formal schooling but learned in a spirit of female solidarity and friendship: The wives and children of the educated lot knew about the family of V ­ ictoria, in the way our women were acquainted with the laws of inheritance like mitakshar and dayabhag. I heard our grandmother, mother and elder sister involved in discussions of this kind. I even heard them utter names like Manu and Yajnavalkya, albeit they never went to schools and colleges. They learned just by listening. . . . During my childhood, our women knew about the Mahabharata, Ramayana and Puranas to the tee. (our trans., Bhuyan 1981, 129)

AGRICULTURE, CLASS, AND GENRE Bhimacarita was perpetuated in the storytelling tradition of the peasant class. Print aided the further circulation, publicity, and popularity of the text. Interestingly, due to the cheap rate at which these were available, farmers could purchase Bhimacarita, Lakshmicarita, and Kankhowa in the weekly markets. Canonical texts like Kirtana, Namghosha, etc., could not be purchased by the peasant class. However, the cheap price at which it could be purchased cannot be concluded to be the only reason behind the popularity of Bhimacarita. Literary critics and historians have deciphered two causes behind this popularity: one, its language, the other, its humor. Jnannath Bora writes, This text is humorous from the beginning to the end. To incite laughter, it is not sufficient that only actions incorporated in the text are comic. The language should be comprehensible too. To achieve this, one should abandon tough Sanskrit words for the commonplace. The poet has composed this text using the language and words used by the people of his times. (n.d., 63–64)

Dimbeswar Neog follows suit: “The tone, language and actions of the text are in consonance with the taste of the modern times. Sprinkles of humour pervade the text from the beginning to the end” (trans. 1964, 156). But these two reasons are not the only ones that sustained the text’s popularity. Two reasons ignored by these literary critics are, first, its genre

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and, second, the peasant community with which the farmers in Assam could effortlessly relate. A question that might emerge at this point is how could a sixteenth-century text and the peasant community in it establish any resonance with the nineteenth-century peasant class? It is not surprising that there was not much difference between the sixteenth- and nineteenth-century agricultural systems in Assam. Plowing the land with cows and buffaloes and cutting the grain with the sickle are still practiced in rural Assam today. In Bhimacarita too, there is the mention of rearing the land with the plow and the sickle. Bhima collects the materials and equipment from various sources: rice plant from Kuber (kathiya anaha khuji sakhi Kuberat); two buffaloes (mahisa), one from Yama and the other from Siva; mutates Siva’s trishul into the plow (tomara trisulaka phala kari hala juriyo). A variety of rice plants are sowed (baila bidhe bidhe dhana jata kritibasa), and when the herdsman (garakhiya) brings the news of the beckoning of harvest, Parvati summons Bhima to reap the crops. Bhima shows up with a sickle (kacikhana laiya) to reap the crops and is disappointed at the harvest, asking Parvati if that was all he was called for (ehi dhana daibe lagi pathaila amaka). Many papers published in colonial times establish the fact that in Assam, the same agricultural methods and practices were perpetuated since the premodern times. Bhupendra Narayan Choudhury writes: To increase the revenue of Assam, Anandaram suggested in 1853 that agriculture methods should be changed by improving the implements of cultivation and by manuring and irrigating the fields. But Mills while admitting that “the agriculture in Assam is in a very primitive state,” also observed that “the plough is suited to the strength of the cattle; any attempt to alter the implement or the mode of husbandry would in my opinion, be of no advantage whatever.” (Choudhury 1959, 22)

Gunabhiram Barua in Asam-Buranji (n.d., 247) too writes about the datedness of agricultural practices: Most of the people who populate this land are farmers. . . . Even though agriculture is a common practice here, not much attention is paid to its development. The methods and practices of agriculture in Sankardeva’s times are still practiced today. . . . The implements of agriculture are very basic. . . . Not more than three crops are cultivated annually. (trans.)

Since agricultural methods and products were the same, the descriptions in Bhimacarita were not strange to the peasant community, who constituted a huge chunk of its reader-listener. Again, during the Bhakti movement in the premodern age, the characters of Mahabharata, Ramayana, and the Puranas were well acquainted with the same audience. Hence, this audience felt at one

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with these familiar characters and their actions. The most familiar of all this was the element of storytelling in Bhimacarita. On the other hand, the literary genres of the West that were experimented with in the pages of Jonaki did not incorporate the descriptions of the misfortunes of the peasant class. Again, Western texts on which these were based were unfamiliar to these people who were not trained in Western education, or for that matter, any form of formal education. Nagen Saikia, the editor of Jonaki has mentioned a list of the consumers of it when it was printed from Calcutta. It consists of 246 names, all of them male. Saikia is right when he says, “The support of the consumers of Jonaki is unmistakable in ushering the wave of modern thought into the Assamese language, literature and mind.” These consumers and readers were mainly the educated middle class as well as the salaried lot. Saikia mentions a range of people who were its subscribers: from Raibahadurs to police constables to bearers, teachers, advocates, Presidents of students’ associations as well as other organizations. To be precise, “There was hardly any class or position which was exempted from being subscribers of Jonaki.” However, there was one class of people who were not its readers/subscribers—the peasant class. The peasant class was at a distance from this wave of modern thought imported by Jonaki. Not just from modern thought, this class was oblivious to whatever Western models and genres these writings emulated. Arupjyoti Saikia’s (Goswami 2015, 791) comment on the readers of Vaishnava cheap print texts, made in a different context, can be added here: The mental landscape of this class was significantly different from the middle class in various aspects. For this “other” reader, the subject matter of this standard literature was not comprehensible. It can be assumed that since the form, subject matter and genre of this literature created since the later part of the nineteenth century were not acquainted with this reader-audience, it did not receive the respect from the same. However, this literature played a role in creating a middle-class social consciousness, and at the same time, a national consciousness. In the opposite pole was established the printed texts available at an affordable price. This literature established the element of empathy in the common people’s minds. Hence, the respect and demand for Haribilash Agarwala’s Kirtana during the market days on Friday. (our trans.)

However, we would like to use the term “simultaneous reader” in place of “other reader” here. Again, the fact that these readers could not afford texts like the Kirtana has been mentioned already. The Kirtana published by Bancharam Choudhury (1881) cost 7 anna, that by the Auniati Satra (1883) 1 rupee, by an unknown publisher from Nagaon cost 7 rupees, Namaghosha cost 8 anna, Bhakti Ratnavali printed at Sidananda Press (1877) cost 3 rupees. The price of the Kirtana published by Haribilash Agarwala is not known.

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However, the Kirtan-ghosa published in 1883 ran to 569 and the Namaghosa to 146 pages. It is easily deductible as to how much a text comprising 715 pages would cost. Hence, it was beyond the financial limits of a peasant community who found it difficult to pay a revenue of 1 rupee. The Western genre in which the middle-class writers channelized their literary works for Jonaki evades descriptions of the plight of the peasants. The land laws of the British, as well as the revenue hike of the nineteenth century, induced dire circumstances for the peasants. In 1894, a good number of farmers who protested the revenue hike by the British had to embrace gunshots. Besides Jonaki not containing any response to this tragic incident in any of its writings during that period, no contemporary writer of that time in their exercises of Western genres of literature encapsulates the plight of these peasants. However, the middle class offered their commentary on agriculture in Jonaki. In a write-up titled “Kheti” in Assam Bandhu, the reasons for the degradation of agriculture are provided: one, the ignorance of the farmers regarding the alphabet, and two, agriculture being considered lowly (Saikia 1984, 58). Similarly, in “Asamiyar Kheti,” published in Jonaki, after consideration of the centrality of agriculture and trade as the enablers of a nation’s development, two causes are enumerated behind its miserable condition: the laziness of the Asamiyas and most of the people considering it to be repulsive and lowly (118). In the pages of Jonaki again, a write-up concludes that the peasants work hard for three or four months to sustain themselves the whole year and loaf around during the rest (Saikia 2001, 712). The fact that the exploitative system of the British empire was another reason for the miserable condition of the peasants has not been acknowledged by any middle-class writer. It is but reductive to say that the Assamese community is lazy. These are made by writers from a non-peasant background who could not draw legitimate conclusions from their comparisons between a self-reliant agricultural tradition and a market-oriented agricultural economy. POVERTY, COLONIAL ASSAM, AND BHIMACARITA Until the 1990s, many peasant families were hardly able to arrange for themselves three meals a day. Hence, the picture of the nineteenth century is easily imaginable. However, a few colonial accounts have recorded that the condition of the farmers was pretty good: Outside the tea gardens the immense mass of the people are small peasant proprietors, who drive the plough themselves, and carry home the rice that has been cut by their wives and daughters. Such a community can never become rich, but it is well removed above the line of poverty, and it is seldom that any villager in Darrang goes hungry to his bed. (Allen 1905, 170)

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However, this isn’t entirely true. Limited production, revenue hike, etc., combined to make their lives miserable. Dismantling the myths that such misery could be attributed to the farmers’ laziness, Bharat Chandra Das, in the introduction to his book titled Kheti (1908, 1) writes: The land of Assam is very fertile, and it is very conducive for agriculture; still it can be said that there are no effluent or rich people. Many have come up with “Asamiyas are lazy,” “they only go about boasting, do not work hard” etc., blaming the people but if thought deeply, it appears that if all these accusations are not wholly wrong, these are not altogether true as well. (our trans.)

The perception of Assamese people as “lazy” was a colonial analysis during the 1840s and 1850s, too, when there were attempts made by colonial officials to enlist upper Assam peasants into tea estates. Jayeeta Sharma makes an elaborate analysis of this attribution: “British officials speculated that it was an innate indolence, perhaps a climatic or racial trait which made labouring work unpopular” (2009, 1296). This laziness was attributed to numerous factors, ranging from opium addiction to fertile lands: “the fertility of the soil is such that one month’s labour is enough to maintain a family in comfort for a year. This was the main reason for the province not being prosperous . . . it enables natives to live without exertion” (quoted in Sharma 2009, 1301). Barring the commonly deemed “lazy,” even the ones who toil hard can sustain and feed themselves well after meeting the allegiance toward their kingly superiors only for about nine months. Without borrowing or buying, these people cannot make both ends meet for the remaining three months of the year (Das 1908, 1). In a piece titled “Dangoriya aru Halowa,” published in Assam Bandhu, Naranath Mahanta (1984, 213) establishes an account of the farmers of his contemporary time: The halowas are inferior to the dangoriyas in terms from food to clothing practices. He returns from ploughing and finds it blissful to have his meal with a yam-fern curry and rice. He has no lofty ideals or ambitions; he is content with the smallest of things. In fact, he is happy to lead his life ploughing, filling his stomach with leafy greens and yam and managing to live without borrowing, in merry with his family and neighbours. (our trans.)

Bhima in Bhimacarita too gathers ferns (dhekiya) and yams (kacu) and sometimes remains fed (kato dina khai), sometimes starved (kato upabase jai). Facing hardships in terms of food and living in an impoverished state (Sukai gaileka deha annara dukhata) he complains to his brother Yudhisthira that he would like to go to Kailasha (Kailasaka jao), that is, to Lord Siva’s place, and spend his life rearing cattle (garu cari pet parbatao) at his place.

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Again, Siva, in the text, is also a poor farmer with whom the readers could establish a sort of oneness. The house is in a dilapidated state (bhaga ghara bhaga bera bhaga julikhana): devoid of any garments (nai bastra), wealth or jewelry (nai bastra dhana ratna mani muktahara). So bereft of basic amenities is it that the herder (now Bhima) creates a ruckus, finding nothing to eat (khaibe napai garakhiya arawa karaya). In another popular text Kankhowa, in the words of the child Krishna addressed to his mother Yashoda, the (peasant) audience finds itself. Hunger and poverty are the overwhelming facets here. Krishna carries out his duty as a herdsman (garu jhaka lagi), eats an ounce (siyo hoye eka musti) and finds the next lacking (aura grasa nate), hence ends up half-starved (jao adhapeti uthi). Rearing the cattle drains him out (lavariya phuro), and even the clothes he wears are worn out (natuva tanaka pindhi). The dirt that accumulates on his hair (jata bandhe kese) and the poverty is such that the hair is wanting of the slightest trace of oil (taile matha dekha nai). Hence, an unflattering dryness accentuated by the dirt that gathers consequently. A charge against premodern texts is that “minimum importance is given to worldly concerns” (Goswami 2008, 139). Jajneswar Sarma in “Purani Sahityat Dukhia Gaonaliya” (The Poor Rural Folks in Mediaeval Literature) writes: “Mahapurush Sankaradeva’s literature is primarily spiritual, and these texts are modelled on the Sanskrit Puranas. Hence it was uncomfortable for him to incorporate into his literature the events we witness in rural lives; however, in places it is noticed that there are traces of our rural lives in his literature” (644). Having said this, he is referring here to primarily bargeet and stories when he talks about the reflection of rural life in his literature. However, our chosen text can be considered the one in which rural life finds space and expression. In the premodern hagiographies, too, in addition to a portrayal of contemporary society and history, there is an account of the Vaishnava saint Madhavadeva sucking at a bottle gourd in hunger. The most important thing here is that the people referred to here as farmers are in majority, sharecroppers. Like Siva says, in nineteenth century, to carry out agriculture in personal capacity was arduous (duskara): duskara krisika mai karibo kimata nai kada kadi dhana mohora gharata (30) দুষ্কৰ কৃ ষিক মই কৰিব�ো কিমত। নাই কড়া কড়ি ধন ম�োহ�োৰ ঘৰত।। (৩০)

Parvati advising to ask for land in lieu of Bashava also entails that Bashava would be given sharecroppers, too. Also note that the implements of Siva’s farming—sickle, cows, crops are all “asked for.” This is the reason that the poverty-stricken nineteenth-century farmers could find themselves in

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Bhimacarita. The poor harvest addressed to by Bhima was also a familiar thing for the nineteenth-century peasants. Siva being rebuked by Bhima for ignoring his work and loitering about after consuming cannabis invites humor but is also reflective of the opium-addicted peasant class. The killing of Bakasura described at the start of the text provided mental consolation to the farmers who were protesting the revenue hike by the British. Attachment to a work of art hence not just is psychological but “involve[s] many forms of joining, connecting, meeting. This means zeroing in on differing kinds of ties” (Felski 2020, 5). Bhimacarita represented the colonial ruler as well as the rich landlords, and the death of Bakasura provided some respite to the grieving peasant-audience. Toward the end of the text are instances of Bhima creating trouble for the money-lender Kubera. It is important to note that the number of people heaving under the burden of borrowing money was particularly large. B. C. Allen (1905, 170) writes: Most of the revenue officers consulted are of opinion that a considerable proportion of the villagers are in debt, but it is difficult to believe that indebtedness can have assumed serious proportions, though a certain amount of pretty borrowing no doubt goes on. The rates of interest charged vary from two pice to one anna in the rupee per mensem for small loans for short periods, but loans for larger sums can be obtained at lower rates.

Bharatchandra Das (1908, 1) too mentions the fact that “without resorting to borrowing, it was difficult for the farmers to sustain themselves for the last three months each year.” For the peasants, hence, this description from Bhimcaritra too was from a familiar landscape: Kuber, reluctant to lend money, being troubled by Bhima provided some respite in addition to the humor. The treatment (physical assault) meted out to Kuber is undemocratic and against the law, to say the least. However, such actions and their descriptions were considered as an outlet and expression of the repressed anger of the poor peasants. This “attunement,” as Felski would call it, is an instance of “feeling with” rather than “feeling about” the work of art (here, Bhimacarita). This attunement in the passage to attachment with a work derives from “things resonating, aligning, coming together” (Felski 2020, 42). STORYTELLING, NOVEL, AND THE NEW READER In contrast to portraying the agriculture-based society of the nineteenth century in Bhimcarita, the middle-class writers educated in English started their literary experiments with the Western genres toward the last decade of the

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nineteenth century. As regards the Assamese romantic poetry, Syed Abdul Malik (Borgohain 1967, 41–42) says: The works of the first generation of our Romantic poets sprang not from a space of deep realization about life, but from Bengali and English works. The problems of the common Assamese lives did not provide them material and inspiration for their works, this inspiration came from English works. . . . And it deserves thought as to whether Romantic poetry is the name to choosing to stay away from the reality of life in a society and dwelling in the world imagination. And if this is actually the case, what is the value of such poetry? (trans.)

The same can be said of the rise of the novel. In contrast to experiences gained from a deep understanding of society and life, the impetus for the Assamese novel came from the intent to develop national literature. Hence, this process was artificial to a large extent. Rajanikanta Bordoloi, who wrote the highest number of novels in colonial Assam, recalls himself telling his friend Ramakanta Barkakati in response to the ever-looming question of how he’d contribute to his nation after being educated: “On my return to Assam, I’ll follow Walter Scott or Bankim from Bengal and write a series of Assamese novels.” The conversation is interesting because Barkakati’s immediate response was, “Be careful, Bordoloi. Beware of leading the young Assamese women and men astray by writing novels” (trans., Sarma 1967, 118–119). In its initial stage, the idea of morality was associated with the novel. Lambodar Bora was the most critical of the novel. He wrote in the pages of Jonaki in a piece titled “Upanyas aru Atmahatya” (Saikia 2001, 454): Nowadays, a few of our new writers have started writing the novel in the Assamese language. This is a matter of great satisfaction. We are silently applauding their efforts. However, they consider novel writing to be an ordinary affair and do not realise its impact on the people. Anticipating this, I thought it best to warn these writers. I am hopeful they do not emulate the third-rate English and Bengali works in the name of writing a novel. Their heroes and heroines should be fit for this nation, this society and this time. (trans.)

Rajanikanta Bordoloi’s statement, however, proves that Bora’s accusations were not altogether baseless: “In a few novels, the story ends with the suicide of the hero or the heroine resulting from the plight of sad lovers. However, novels portraying death as the eventual act had caused serious damage to real lives. Bankim Chandra Chatterjee’s Kundannandini has caused the suicide of one or two young men and women” (Sarma 1967, 1711–1772). The subject matter of the novels during the end of the nineteenth century and the three decades at the beginning of the twentieth was largely historical. Nationalist sentiment played a major role here. No picture is available of the contemporary times, specifically from 1889 to 1930s, of the middle-class or

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the peasant community. It also obliquely points to the colonial influence where writers supported or endorsed or patronized by the British failed to describe the plight of the poor farmers of the land. In the year 1914, M. Moslehuddin Ahmed puts forward the middle-class reader/critic’s perspective in his article titled “Upanyas,” published in Alocani in its sixth year, fourth issue, thus: It is a matter of sadness that until today no novel or play exists in the Assamese language which all the sections of the Assamese culture can embrace as their own. This is a major lapse in Assamese literature. Who knows when this lapse will be filled up? (trans.)

This, however, does not also mean that Assamese novels were not read during this period. One thousand copies of the first edition of Miri Jiyari (1895) were printed. Again, 2000 copies of the second edition of Lahari were printed. These readers must have been the English-educated middle class. It can be assumed that they read the premodern akhyanas-upakhyanas too circulated by print. Simultaneously with the readers of novels though, there was a much larger readership for works like Bhimacarita, which were written in premodern verse. In a traditional genre, written in traditional form, they could relate these works with their current socioeconomic condition. Contrary to it, the new, Western genres practiced by the educated middle class were evasive of contemporary reality.

NOTES 1. Jnannath Bora (n.d., 58) writes: “I have heard from the old that in the earlier times, children would read Bhimacarita right after they learned the alphabet. Owing to this, whoever I met some twenty-five years back, a majority of those could memorize and spell out a few sections of the text. The illiterate too could recite a few verses from it. The number unacquainted with the text was sparse” (trans.). Jajneswar Sarma says, “By far the most widely known and popular of Rama Saraswati’s work is Bhimacarita” (trans., Kakati 1953, 190). Dimbeswar Neog (1964, 150) says, “Many verses from Bhimacarita have transformed into domestic discourse” (trans.). Satyendranath Sarma (2015, 147) says “Of all compositions by Ram Saraswati, the simplest and most popular remains Bhimacarita.” Maheswar Neog (1986, 136) also indicates its popularity in terming it as “everyone’s household treasure” (trans.). 2. These books were Ghosa, Rukmini Harana, Bhagavata Ratna, Ritubihara, Itihasamala, Niminavasiddha, Gunalama, Puspamala, Kumara Harana, Rukmini Harana Nataka, Yogabasista, Baisnavamrita, Kankhowa, Jivana Caritra.

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3. Laksmicarita, Kumara Harana, Bhattima, Lilamala, Gunamala, Kirtanaghosa, Usaharana, Gukarati, Syamanta Harana, Rukmini Harana, Rajasuya Jajna, Baisnavamrita, Kankhowa, Bhagavata Eleventh Canto. 4. Dipika Canda, Kankhowa Puthi, Baragita, Brahmasara, Sisulila, Syamanta Harana, Namaghosa, Kirtanaghosa, Prasangamala, Kumara Harana, Gopala Sahasranama. 5. Kirtana aru Namaghosa, Kirtana, Namaghosa, Srimadbgavata Dasamaskandha Sehchowa, Bhaktiratnavali, Bhattima, Sita Sayambara Nataka, Gunamala, Kavya-Kusuma.

Chapter 4

Gendered Print(?) Models of the Ideal Feminine, Modernity, and Women’s Organizations

Navami’s character in Gunabhiram Barua’s Ram-Navami1 (1857) articulates a monologue openly challenging tradition, questioning authority, but eventually embraces death. In what looks like a powerful feminist voice who chooses to fall in love after she is widowed and conceives a child thereof, Navami eventually justifies her suicide in the said monologue by insisting on the heaving pressures of a patriarchal tradition that denies women the right to love and live. Her flashbacks on her familial relationships and friendships are based heavily on a sense of shame that has ensued from, first, losing her husband, then falling in love with Ram and, lastly, through her state of pregnancy outside of marriage and while still a widow. The paradoxes in her position and decision are aptly captured by her singular utterance: “Will death solve all of these? No” (our trans., Barua 1965, 67). What is noteworthy in such renderings of texts where the female is given ample space and voice is the search for an “ideal feminine.” These models take into concern the myriad ways in which women conduct themselves in their personal and social spaces. In the period under study, print facilitated blueprints of this search for the ideal feminine. At the crossroads of modernity (and its benefits), Indian independence and women’s ever-present search for her own voice and space, we concentrate on the writings of both female and male writers who conceptualized the archetype of the ideal feminine. The reader here also needs to take cognizance of the fact that these texts are the products of late nineteenth- and early twentieth-centuries’ colonial Assam. While claims of independence and nationalistic concerns loom large, women’s issues simmer without being outright vocal. Since the book is premised on the twin concerns of modernity and print culture, the chapter picks up on these and elaborates on its interface with gender: Was print culture in colonial Assam gendered? Did women’s issues manage to occupy the necessary 81

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space in the writings of the time? Did these writings act as a legitimization of misogynistic practices meted out to women? Taking these questions into view, the analyses are divided into different heads that pertain to the models of “femininity” that these writings dealt with. The domestic space features prominently in any discussion of the role of women in colonial Assam. In fact, this is one space where women’s role was acknowledged, be it as a wife or a mother. In relation to various issues and subjects covered by print, our earlier chapters have dealt with in a limited way the contexts of gender when taken in conjunction with these issues. In terms of education, too, we have come across writings that insist on women’s education, but the overarching (and almost frustrating) tone has been to educate her so that she is fit for a man’s company. It is only in a series of writings loosely focused specifically on women’s education, duties and responsibilities, role as a homemaker, etc., where women’s roles are acknowledged as women per se and the prejudices that loom large over her identity as a human being are addressed. In terms of print and modernity, gender must be seen as a context where the responses of a population to processes of social change have been visibly different. The specificity of women’s lives and her experiences in negotiating with modernity invites an examination of how these experiences have been recorded in women’s and men’s writings once print made an appearance. Rita Felski, in The Gender of Modernity, acknowledges “the way women’s lives have been radically transformed by such quintessentially modern phenomena as industrialization, urbanization, the advent of the nuclear family, new forms of time-space regulation, and the development of the mass media” (Felski 1995, 21). This is suggestive of how women’s lives are determined by modern phenomena as well as social changes, and how “there can be no separate sphere of women’s history outside the prevailing structures and logics of modernity” (21). While this situates women within their social contexts, it also follows that their experiences cannot be studied and assimilated with men. To be precise, women receive and react to these changes and processes in “gender-specific ways” (21). THE VOICE OF/TO THE WIDOW We have dealt with the advocacy and resistance to widow remarriage in our earlier chapters. In fact, the plight that Navami experiences, and which we cite at the very start of this chapter, ensues from her status as a widow and a failure to live up to a model of the “ideal feminine”: in this case, a widow who shuns her possibilities of happiness and entertaining the idea of a partner after her husband’s death. Widow remarriage, though, has its fair share of advocates in Ram-Navami itself. This is evident in Ram’s invocation of

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the shastras, which legitimize these (marital) relationships. In a conversation with Kama, his friend, Ram says: “Consent to widow remarriage has existed since the past. There are the words of Parasara Muni. . . . It is only that it is not practised in general” (our trans., 50). Ram’s argument establishes widow remarriage as plausible—validated by the scriptures—but somehow resisting practice in the everyday. Kama’s retort distinguishes between the shastras and custom/tradition, also insisting on what is prescribed or allowed but never practiced. It is in this interaction that Ram’s voice establishes the everchanging and ever-evolving facet of tradition. Rather than ascribing a homogeneous consensus on the state of women (here, widows), Ram elaborates on how certain social practices that would be blasphemous here are practiced and encouraged elsewhere in the world. This reiterates the nonsynchronicity of modernity: practices that have been adapted into one’s culture take their own sweet time while they reach other parts of the world. In this case, Ram’s argument is that even within their own tradition, customs have undergone remarkable change and evolution: “Let’s not talk about everyone; just look at how our customs have changed from the days of our own predecessors” (50). But while Ram’s argument points to social changes in accordance with time, it is also marked by what we have already quoted as “gender-specific ways.” Until this time, that is, when Ram-Navami existed as an important work from an author very much a product of modernity, women’s agency was still a taboo that specific cultures meant to undermine in specific ways. In this context, cultural changes were gender specific in the sense that notwithstanding the impetus of scientific advancement, education, and rationality as the markers of modernity, women were placed outside of it. To establish the “normalcy” (and as in Ram-Navami, the prevalence) of widow remarriage, print played an important role. Consider the piece titled “Marriage of Widow,” published in Orunodoi. Written on December 12, 1853, by Gunabhiram Barua, “an Assamese living in Calcutta” (2018, 1089), this news piece of sorts narrates the incident of a Brahmin man marrying a Brahmin widow in the Medinipur district of Bengal. Narrating an actual instance of widow remarriage, the writer, instead of considering widow remarriage as blasphemy—as was common in the times—considers it a “sin” to deprive women of marital relationships and force them to live with their widowhood all their lives. The writer wishes that this practice extends to all of India and is not restricted to some isolated instances in particular parts of the country. This is not a singular instance of Gunabhiram’s advocacy of widow remarriage in Orunodoi. Like in his fiction (Ram-Navami), Barua remains a perpetual advocate of widow remarriage throughout his life, even extending it to his personal relationships when he married a Brahmin widow Bishnupriya Devi.2 The mark of shame associated with the children born from Brahmin widows is addressed and condemned. Again, in his “Marriage of Hindoo Widow

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Legalized,” he pleads that such children be socially sanctioned and embraced. This September 1856 piece published in Orunodoi applauds the legalization of widow remarriage and remarks on this decisive day as a landmark day, “today is a day and every other day preceding this one, another” (our trans., Barua 2018, 131). To Barua, the day that remains enshrined in history when widow remarriage was granted its legal status bestows a newness and dignity to the times that we are talking about. For years, however, children born from widows were termed illegitimate and “bastards” (132). However, as the statement of “Byabasthapak Samaj” mentioned, such children are not bastards anymore but would even have the right to inherit their father’s property. Establishing Bengal as a case in point again, Barua wishes for the adoption of this practice wholeheartedly by the Assamese, too. He considers it an act of compassion, the absence of which has allowed the suffering of widows through the years. The ending note borders on the writer being overwhelmed by the thought of how these women’s lives would forever be changed by this landmark decision and how they would be elated had they been able to read the decision in print. This alludes to the widespread ignorance and lack of education among the women section of the times. However, the writer sums up by saying that Iswar Chandra Vidyasagar deserves every bit of gratitude and blessings for this landmark decision, as he had been a consistent advocate of widow remarriage and led the movement against the cruelty meted out to women in their status as widows.

THE ANGEL IN THE HOUSE In the piece we just dealt with—meant to carry the tidings of a landmark decision—Barua laments the lack of education among the women of his times. The lack of education among women is dealt with in earlier chapters, be it in her reliance on oral storytelling to participating in the cultural practices or finding alternative trajectories to acquaint herself with issues of health and hygiene. However, there are instances of writings during the same period that reflected on the “dangers” of women’s education, and, to be more specific, women’s embrace of modern life. In Ratneswar Mahanta’s “Swadhinata ne Sessasar” (“Freedom or Waywardness”), published in Asam-Bandhu in its first year, fourth, and fifth issues, the author lauds the Assamese way of “training” women in domesticity that the rest of the world might condemn as a “caged bird,” taking into concern her subversive position to her husband and in-laws in the initial years of her marriage. On the other hand, he goes to say that these years of “training,” of assuming the role of the caregiver of the family and dictated by the elders of her husband’s place, gives her an authority that even so-called

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independent households cannot guarantee: “In this very state they can exercise an authority over the domestic life of the family; apparently liberal and independent householder cannot exercise such authority” (our translation, Mahanta 1984, 141). A dismissal of rootedness in such domesticity is attributed by Mahanta to the impetus of Western education, and women adept at such expertise in domestic life are lauded to the point that the educated and uneducated are placed at polar opposites to substantiate the success and failure figures in domestic life: “Our women are bereft of school education, still they are more adept at all subjects related to household activities by multiple times than the educated girls and women of today. . . . We are strictly against the views of those newly educated who want to elevate the status of these girls and inexperienced/untrained women as their wives over and above their in-laws” (141). Mahanta’s tone here borders on condemning not just women’s education but women’s freedom too—to decide whether they want to take up household activity expertise as a full-time job and if she refuses to be subservient to her in-laws’ position. These arguments, interestingly, proceed from the writer’s intentions, which he mentions early in the essay: “to analyse the current state of women and if it could be termed independence or dependence, if it is convenient or inconvenient to them, and to see the merits of the arguments of the educated young in insisting on the independence of women following the model of the West” (140). The valorization that proceeds from these intentions—arguing for the “caregiver” model of the feminine and the merits associated with it—restricts women within the spheres of domesticity to the extent that even education and the products of it are termed failures and misfits when pitted against the “grihalakshmi” model. The elevation of women to a godly status by virtue of their efficiency in managing household activities goes side by side with evoking characters from mythology, which are the embodiments of wifely devotion, patience, and chastity. In the second part of the same piece, Mahanta substantiates his argument against the logic of associating women’s freedom with their education by invoking characters like Sita, Sakuntala, and Savitri. His question, while lauding their virtues, tries to critique the modern-day glorification of women’s independence: “Are Savitri, Sita, Sakuntala etc. subordinate? If these are subordinate women, then who are free? What is the meaning of the word ‘free’?” (162). Savitri is revered by the world, and Sita is “Lakshmi-like” (162), courtesy of their wifely devotion, respect for elders, and expertise in the domestic space. The newly educated women are acknowledged to have affection toward their husbands, but there are no traces of “the combination of fear, devotion and love” (162) so characteristic of the uneducated simpletons. These character traits as prerequisites for the “ideal feminine” necessitate the womenfolk to remain in a state of subjugation, to the extent that fear toward

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their spouse is seen as desirable: the educated woman looks upon her husband as “partner for life,” while the ideal woman looks at him as the “authority on her life;” the former behaves with her husband on “friendly terms,” the latter “never dares to converse with the man who she considers her Lord eye-toeye” (162). The prose piece written in two parts ends with “Sigh, the changing times!” to witness women who engage in friendly interaction with their husband’s friends, in contrast to seeing them as their brothers (163). The “freedom”—a state of being education aims to equip women with—is termed “waywardness” by the writer. As its title suggests, the write-up establishes the hallmarks of “waywardness” that education and modernity have brought upon the women of the times. A consistent feature, though, remains the elevation of women—the ones who stand up to Mahanta’s expectations of the ideal feminine—to the status of goddesses. This is done at the cost of speaking rather disparagingly of women who do not fit in that category. This disapproval of “waywardness”—the one that engenders from women’s education—is evident in another nineteenth-century piece by Balinarayan Bora (1852–1927)3 titled “Tirotar Ban Ki,” published in Mau in 1886 in its first issue. In a brazen disavowal of women venturing to educate themselves, the whole prose piece centers on the “dangers” of education. This is particularly directed toward women aiming for higher education—BA and MA degrees—which only hampers their prospects in domestic life. Rather, in a nostalgic tone, the writer laments that the new generation of women can hardly match up to the acumen of the women of the past in activities like sewing and weaving. The weaver’s corner is established as a space that promotes the virtues of patience, among many others: “Hence, the weaving corner is the basis for the Assamese woman’s patience, endurance and homeliness” (Bora 1980, 4). Education, according to the writer of the essay, is permissible for women when it is achieved through their immediate family, that is, in the precinct of their homes: “from their brothers; from female teachers at school, and nobody is against this” (6). Regarding the stage to which it should be restricted, the remarks are even more interesting. The scope of education for women should be limited to enable them to engage in conversation or the bare minimum that might help to engage and understand the expenses and calculations at home. In other words: The home is the primary school meant for girls. If household activities as well as the subjects mentioned above can be taught at home, it is better that these girls are not sent to school, for this facilitates meeting other girls in school and learning things which should not be learned. Even boys are prone to many vices at school; however, the boys are strong minded, they cannot be easily affected. Girls are softer and are moulded at the slightest instigation. (6)

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Arguing for girls’ education—if at all—within the premises of her home, it is in the homely and the sedentary that her fate is inscribed. The writer goes so far as to say that even professional expertise, like a doctor’s, is not meant for women, for even if she becomes one, “Would you marry such a woman?” (7). This question immediately follows the reservations against “proximity” that follows when a woman would examine a patient: “A woman, who in her role as a doctor examines a man holding his hands, see his tongue, press his belly, might also listen to things which should not be heard” (7). Questions of professionalism—when it comes to working women—are entwined here with issues of chastity and modesty that are supposed to be marred by interaction, of whatever nature, with men. Also, the writer sees a disharmony between women and domestic responsibilities once she lands up in the workspace. It also robs her of her “shyness” (7). Also noteworthy is the element of “fragility” associated with women and the difference of time to acquire a skill as regards men and women, hinting at women’s inefficiency and incompetence outside the domestic space: A little attention will make it clear that the amount of time and work required by women to learn a particular profession are more than what it generally requires for men. Can you even imagine a healthy woman after being subjected to such rigour? Even if she retains it, will it leave her some time to learn some virtue? If she doesn’t, how will she run her household as a wife?” (7)

In this sense, Bora establishes the “ideal feminine” as a domestic angel who weaves, conducts her household duties, and refrains from social interactions (even at school or workplace, “if” she gets to that stage). The “angel in the house” and the working woman are mutually exclusive categories in such writings. A woman can be one, but not both. Such fetishization of the homely angel goes back in other geographies like the West to the Victorian times and is read in conjunction with the expectations from women with regard to the standards which must be met with by the working woman. This is most notably criticized in Virginia Woolf’s “Professions for Women.” In this abbreviated version of a speech Woolf delivered for the National Society for Women’s Service in 1931, Woolf ponders on the challenges of writing as a woman. She had to kill that one obstruction—a woman, the Angel in the House—that perpetually bothered her. She calls it a “phantom” and offers a description to her readers of what the phantom/Angel is like: I will describe her as shortly as I can. She was intensely sympathetic. She was immensely charming. She was utterly unselfish. She excelled in the difficult arts of family life. She sacrificed herself daily. If there was chicken, she took the leg; if there was a draught she sat in it—in short she was constituted that she never had a mind or wish of her own, but preferred to sympathize always with

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the minds and wishes of others. Above all—I need to say it—she was pure. Her purity was supposed to be her chief beauty–her blushes, her great grace. (Woolf 1974, 237)

Woolf endows this “angel” with qualities that make up the ideal feminine of Bora and the ilk of this part of the world. Of course, both these writers were unaware of each other’s work, but the interesting factor is the deification of a woman prototype across geographies: who endures, excels in the domestic space, is pure and chaste. Woolf says this in relation to her writing—the phantoms that bother her while she reviews works written by men—but this could well be extended to what women were supposed to follow in these writings we have just discussed: “My dear, you are a young woman. . . . Be sympathetic; be tender; flatter; deceive; use all the arts and wiles of our sex. Never let anybody guess that you have a mind of your own. Above all, be pure” (Woolf 1974, 237). As our initial argument suggested, print prescribed a code to be followed to stand up to the concept of the ideal feminine (here, the homely angel). Any deviation from or addition to it—even if it meant learning new skills or acquiring education—was seen as an aberration to womanhood. The “grihalakshmi” is the “ideal feminine” in this sense. She, as we can imagine, has parallels to the “angel in the house.” Kumudini Devi, for instance, in “Grihinir Kaam” (The Duties of a Housewife) published in Ghar-Jeuti in 1930 in its third year, eighth issue, lists the qualities for this epithet: forbearance and discipline being the chief among those. This “angel” dispels possibilities of illness and strife in the household: “Goddess Lakshmi never abandons the woman who bears a slew of insults with a smile on her face” (trans., 2008, 860). Arrangement of things to present them as aesthetically pleasing and ensuring the cleanliness of the house are the grihalakshmi’s duties. Eventually, this model is the be-all and end-all of domestic prosperity: A poor man’s house can be peaceful due to the presence of a good wife, while an inept one will mar the peace even from a rich merchant’s house. If a housewife wishes, she can build a golden household; her carelessness though can transform it into a graveyard. (860)

Duties toward one’s household and family are given a religious tone in, say, Ananda Chandra Gupta’s (1874–1939) “Gharuwa Jivanat Ghainir Kartabya” (The Duties of a Wife in Domestic Life), published in Usha in its first year (1906), fourth, and ninth issues. The writer invokes Lakshmicarita,4 which lauds women’s virtues and naturalizes the absence of certain emotions:

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There is no place of anger, arrogance, and pride in the mind of a good wife; her heart is soft and pure, she is always cheerful; she has a demeanour which boasts of pleasant smiles and sweet words always. It is through such merciful, virtuous, and pure-hearted person that happiness and peace reside in a home. (Gupta 2005, 198)

The important thing here is the glorification of her abilities. Gupta earlier compares the running of a household (which a wife does) with nothing less than statecraft. The grihalakshmi model/domestic angel was rendered ideal to the extent that writings such as Lakhimi Tirota: The Model Housewife (1909) by Benudhar Rajkhowa (1872–1955) were printed as a manual to stand up to these ideals. Consisting of thirty sections, with titles such as “Laj” (Coyness), “Bhay” (Fear), and “Jnan” (Knowledge), the manual prescribes the virtues ideally associated with the model of the homely angel, one who shuns any prospects of aggression and embraces the traditional virtues of femininity (such as shyness, patience, and forbearance). The skills to be acquired are inevitably weaving and cooking, in titled prescriptions “Bhat randha” (cooking), “Tant Bowa” (weaving), “Swamir Prati Byavahar” (Conduct Toward the Husband), “Sahuwek Sahurekar Prati Byavahar” (Conduct Toward the Mother-in-law and Father-in-law), “Nandek Deorek Adir Prati Byavahar” (Conduct Toward Sister-in-law and Brother-in-law), “Alahi Atithir Susrusha” (Hospitality Toward the Guest), “Grihasthali” (Domestic Sphere), “Lora Sowali Tola” (Raising the Children) map her role in the domestic space, primarily her duties toward her husband’s family. At one point, a woman is spoken to thus: “Hence this is your home. The well-being of this house is your well-being, its bad is yours too” (Rajkhowa 1909, 93). These sections are written in the form of dialogues between Murali (the husband) and Pakhila (the wife). The overall tone is the husband’s determining knowledge regarding what women are supposed to do and model herself on. The wife, on the other hand, is all praises for her husband, who explains everything with such expertise: “You explain such important things in such light-hearted manner. Hence, listening to you never bores me” (101). However, in sections such as “Lekha-Porha” (Reading-Writing), women’s education along with her acumen in household work is equally emphasized. THE HUMAN FEMININE Kamala Rabha’s5 “The Condition of Women,” published in Banhi in its eighteenth year, third issue in 1929, challenges the notion of “devi” (goddess) traditionally associated with women. The problematics of attributing divinity to women amount to immuring her up at home. Her demands for equal rights

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for women start from the plea to recognize women as fellow human beings. Consider these two statements: Nobody can live their lives solely by hearing praises showered on her beauty; women are as human as man; women have souls too We are humans too, our rights, our education, our ideals are those of human too—we need all the privileges of humanity. (trans., 121)

These statements go side by side with the belief that the states of women in the past and the present have been the same. Denied of their own agency and rights, the idea that women were respected in the past receives flak from Rabha in: It might be true that in the past, the rishi-munis considered women to be the highest blessing of the Almighty, but did she enjoy such respect in reality? Weren’t women despised as “the door to hell,” “a tigress who sucks the blood out of men” etc. by the same rishi-munis? Women do not and have not received the deserved respect any day; women do not enjoy their rights and never have; men do not allow women to lead the way and never have; women have only been subjected at every step to humiliation, embarrassment and violence by men owing to her devotion, love, motherly affection and deification. Men have always thought of women as puppets- and still do; and women have served men and still do. (120)

Rabha is radical in her analysis of women’s position and state in man’s eyes. She addresses how women are subjects of men’s passion and an object of their lust (121). She critiques how women’s education is limited to “phases,” and then not encouraged to pursue as rigorously as men are encouraged to. The prose piece ends with the conviction that women need to pave their own way and not rely on men for their rights. This is particularly important because in the earlier pieces we analyzed, women’s freedom—in however limited instances—was a subject seen in conjunction with men “allowing” the same for her. That is to say, a sense of responsibility was bestowed on men who would “allow” women to enjoy some basic privileges and build their homes with educated partners in the form of educated wives. Rabha shifts the responsibility from men to women themselves. Her attacks are directed toward a class of men who are “preachers”—being vocal about the need for women’s freedom—but who conveniently turn their backs in real life when the situation of granting and appreciating women’s freedom shows up. She ridicules such men as “mahapurush” (“great men”) and proves that they constitute a homogeneous category. Obliquely hinting at the idea of a “puppet”—that a woman has been reduced to in her capacity as a wife, mother, and a divine angel of the

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house—Rabha’s writing coincidentally reads like an answer to Balinarayan Bora’s prescription for the ideal feminine. While Bora wanted the times to restrict women to her home and determined and schooled by the men in the house—brother and likewise—Rabha senses the denial of educational opportunities to women when education is determined (and provided) by the men in the family. The “limited” stages of education imposed on women Rabha talks about, and critiques can be pitted against Bora’s, which glorifies the same. The onus, in Rabha, for women’s progress shifts to women themselves: women who are humans and self-reliant. The mutual exclusivity of the two categories, that is, the “professional” and the “homely” women, as we have dealt with already, is attributed to a “deep-seated fear” by Dibyalata Barua in “Strisikshar Bisaye Esar” (A Few Words on Women’s Education) (2008, 842). In this article, which appeared in Ghar-Jeuti, in its third year, seventh issue in 1930, Barua terms such fears “unreasonable” because however much education broadens and develops, if being the mother of an ideal child in the future and adding to the nation’s glory is seen as an important part of education, then such a mother will shoulder the responsibility at the domestic front too. . . . She should not be subjected to some outdated social rules which temper with her dignity and self-respect and made to exist like slaves. (842)

Barua, in a rather uncommon statement considering the times, endorses the idea of women being educated, much like their male counterparts, until the age of 25–30 so that they do not struggle in the future for independence. Picking up from an essay published in Matribhumi titled “Changes in Women’s Education,” Barua cites for the readers of Ghar-Jeuti those subjects inevitable for the girl-child even if she is educated up to 14 years of age. This she does with the awareness that less than three to four women would in their lifetime avail an education until she is 30. For the rest, it should be ensured that the basics are learned at a young age. The list she provides for her readers, picked up from the original writer of the essay, Karuna Devi, incorporates the knowledge the girl should acquire between the ages of 9 and 14 once she is done with the alphabet and basic arithmetic. This ranges from lessons on hygiene and health, the history of India, religion, and spirituality to science and Bengali literature. Much like Rabha, though, Barua shifts the responsibility for women’s upliftment away from “selfish men” (843) to women themselves. The intention is to reclaim the lost pride of women by dint of a reawakening of the strength of womanhood and prove one’s worth by acquiring education. Education thus becomes the facilitator of the “ideal feminine.” Responding to claims of inefficiency as a housewife owing to their educated selves, Baruah only sees it as an enabler to carry on one’s responsibilities and at the same time assert the dignity

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of women. The underlying tone, it cannot be ignored, is to assert women as wholesome human beings potent to stride through many domains and excel in each of them rather than being exclusively reserved for the domestic scene. Dharmeswari Baruani (1892–1960), in “The Duties of Assamese Women” (“Asamiya Tirotar Kartabya”), terms household duties the “speciality” of Indian women, something she cannot dispense with even when she has a fulltime job. In her analysis of English education, she appreciates its goodness, though also voicing that “no education has ever told us to throw away our nationality” (252). The nationality here, or to be more precise, the rootedness implied here, is a glorification of “national” values like remaining subservient to the husband’s authority: “Just like a man receives good advice from his wife like a minister’s, women too should situate men at the highest pedestal and obey the Lord’s command” (252). These writings, while insisting on good education of women, be it her education and training to be a mother or wife, resort to subscribing to a system that attributes men with the authority to rule women’s lives. THE EDUCATED FEMININE In these disparate sets of writings concerning the position of women, the issue of her education seems to have caused a considerable stir. At times, it could lead to a disharmony in her family duties; at others, it would make her impure; and at still others, it would corrupt her mind. In “What Should our Responsibilities be in the Current Situation?” (1910), published in Alocani, in its second year, second issue, Durgabashini Das enlists the challenges that the nation is facing and the subsequent steps to be taken: first, the constitution of a national cultural life; second, uprooting of caste divisions; third, the education of women. Das sees women as human beings in that she considers their education to be an important tool that would forge a vital national life. Declaring that women are as important as men in the nation’s development, the reservations against their education cripple the Assamese race as a whole: Due to the lack of education, no new thoughts find their way into the women’s minds. They are not aware of the new discoveries and inventions in the world. Since the society is aversive to the idea of women’s education, the women cannot free themselves from a constricted mental scape. When women become conscious and progressive by virtue of education, men will develop as well. The dream of the constitution of a national life will be fulfilled only then. Our society has not yet realised how our country will be benefited in the future through women’s education. When the construction of a national life and progress are so dependent on women, everyone should work towards the education and progress of women. (our trans., 46)

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In imagining women as sedentary, homely beings, the problem lies not in the imagination as such but in not seeing her as a potent human force who can contribute toward society and the nation at large if given the right kind of training and education. Adyanath Sarma’s “The Necessity of Women’s Education,” published in Asam Bandhav, in its fifth year (1914), tenth issue, chronologizes a (Brahmin) girl’s life through various stages, married at around 9 years, mother at 14/15: “And then they are busy with the commitment towards household duties; hence it would be enough to say that Brahmin girls hardly get the opportunity for education” (trans.). In the case of non-Brahmins like Sudras, though the age of marriage extends to 14 to 15, it is only so because the educated ones do not meet eligible men for their daughters. In spite of this state of non-Brahmins—which seems like a privilege compared to the age at which the Brahmin girls get married—there is the least interest invested toward educating their daughters. However, there are other challenges that Sarma lists, challenges ranging from scarcity of resources (like not enough schools) to the already associated prejudices with educated women (like women going haywire if they are educated). Sarma has an important point to make regarding the loopholes in the nostalgia of the past. This tendency fails to acknowledge that one needs to adapt oneself to the changing times. The “knowledges” have also undergone changes in the course of time. In statements that glorify women of the past and the failure of contemporary women to live up to those models of the “ideal feminine,” the passage of time is entirely ignored. This concept of the “spirit” and “demands” of the times is highlighted by Sarma when he says: The days of the past and those of the present are very different. Whether it be all people or just women, the Assamese of the past were educated according to the calls and demands of their times. But the men of the present are educated in the context of the modern-day nations, however, the women of our times educated in the vein of the past cannot prosper in the domestic lives of the modern household. (our trans.)

In an earlier chapter that centers on the storytelling jest of the Assamese, we have noticed how aurality featured specially as a potent force in the lives of generations of Assamese women: writers nostalgically recalling their mothers and grandmothers being extraordinarily well versed in sections from religious texts which they heard being recited every day in their families and then in turn carried on the tradition among later-day generations. However, we were dealing with a time when the concept of mass education had not made forays into the land. The time Sarma writes about, though, deals specifically with a context where education was availed by men and only in special cases extended to women. Women had still not figured in the “mass” imagination as stakeholders of the benefits of modernity. Denying them education under

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the pretext that it would engender bad habits leads to other distortions of character, says Sarma, like “indulging in gossip.” He recounts a particular instance when a woman was clueless as to who Kunti and Draupadi are when he identified them as the said names. These characters, “memorable” and “idealised” in Hindu consciousness, being obscure to these women are quite telling of how these women have failed to adapt themselves to the demands of the times, primarily because they are uneducated. Whereas one glorifies the past and the women of the past, those women capitalized on the oral practices of the past and educated themselves. Modern-day education replacing the earlier modes and making sure that women do not avail these benefits have immediately hindered their intellectual development through the ages. While this whole piece focuses on the importance of women’s education and how important it is even for the prosperity of domestic life (as in, educated mothers leading to educated children), Sarma, unlike Rabha, places the onus of educating the women on men of the households. Reaffirming that the educated feminine will re-establish the models of the ideal feminine like Sati and Savitri, it is specially telling as to how print suggested “models” not just of the feminine but of “schooling” too. In Sarma, for instance, the men of the house can be the agents of this change, which require women to be educated human beings: “The fathers for their daughters’ sake, the brothers for their sisters’ and the husbands for their wives’ can educate them at their very homes.” However, he acknowledges the role of women in the development of, first, the family and then extends it to the nation.

THE MODERN VIS-À-VIS THE DOMESTIC Felski, in The Gender of Modernity (1995), brings in the idea of the “machine woman” (20) as a recurrent theme that acknowledges the negotiation of women with modern-day technology and urbanization. While this is an interesting premise to read women’s engagement with the modern world and to portray the instability and fluidity of certain fields traditionally clubbed as masculine domains, Felski acknowledges the importance of expanding the contours of what constitutes the modern. To that end, spheres are neither fixed nor exclusive: “By appropriating such traditionally masculine discourses, women helped to reveal the potential instability of traditional gender divides, even as their versions of these discourses often reveal suggestive and interesting differences” (22). This sees women as equal participants in domains traditionally associated with the male, but there remain limited instances of expanding the idea of modernity to the domestic space. It intends to see women and their manifold duties and activities as nonmodern: “Those dimensions of culture either ignored, trivialized, or seen as regressive rather

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than authentically modern—feelings, romantic novels, shopping, motherhood, fashion” (20). In the writings we choose here, though, we concern ourselves with the expression of these very dimensions, the commonly deemed “feminine” and excluded from the ambit of modernity in its reliance on emotions and sentimentality. In the select writings by women, though not marked by noteworthy, elegant prose of their contemporaries in the West (this was the time when Virginia Woolf and Gertrude Stein’s works encapsulated the feminine tryst with modernity), the repressed female voices of the region find expression. Magazines and periodicals provided the platform whereby women could articulate their thoughts in print and participate in the intellectual climate of the times. This they do not by trivializing the duties and functions of women in the household but by focusing on the stakes, proficiency, and training associated with it. Alaka Patangia’s “Tirotar Siksha” (Women’s Education), published in Ghar-Jeuti in its third year, seventh issue in 1929, questions the very meaning of education in relation to the term “ignorant” attached to women who run their households so efficiently. Given the changes wrought by time, she ponders on a future date when “some woman will take an innate oath to never marry, another will come forward to ensure equal positions for women in politics and other forms of work in the public sphere” (Patangia 2008, 823). But for her current times, Patangia notes that it is still a wonder why women who ably handle the “sorrows, travails and other ills that befall a household” (trans.) would be excluded from the category of educated human beings. What the author intends to point out is that household work requires acumen that an ignorant mind cannot expect to fulfill: It is not uncommon to find an educated housewife who spends daily but cannot keep accounts of it. She can easily enchant the members of her new home with her accomplishments if she is given a sound education in such things at an early age. This education might sound commonplace, but it requires detailed knowledge. (824)

The “skills” associated with household duties are hence unacknowledged most of the time, pertaining to which women are seen as nonmodern participants in a modern world. In Durgabashini Das’s “Women’s Education and its Consequences,” published in Alocani in its first year, eleventh issue, in 1910, the writer quotes George Herbert’s “A well-educated mother is equal to hundred teachers” to exemplify the role of women (here mothers) in the development of a child. Picking up instances from history, Das shows how greatness accorded to great men in history can be rooted in the lasting impact that mothers have had on all these figures:

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If we see the history of the civilized nations of the world, we can see that the wave of women’s education is mighty among the progressive, and the ones developed in craft, commerce etc. On reading the lives of great men, Napoleon Bonaparte, Alexander the Great, Garfield, Sir William Jones, Saint Augustine, Abraham, Cromwell, we get to know that had not their mothers been welleducated, they would not be able to succeed the way they did. (trans.)

As regards the widely circulated notion that a woman’s education deters her household duties, Das is quick to point out that an educated woman has it in her to facilitate a conducive domestic atmosphere. This is because, from educating her child on the strength of character development to existing in a blissful marital relationship with her husband, an educated woman is aware of the requirements and intricacies for a healthy domestic life. The commonplace view of the times that women can progress even without education is retorted with Das’s “Nothing that is grounded in ignorance can be permanent.” Since the formative years of childhood are impressionable and important, it only becomes necessary that a child has an educated mother to teach them the virtues of character development, dispel all ignorance and superstitions and hence grow up to be educated human beings themselves. She also highlights the importance of education in the case of widows. Armed with education, these widows can look toward sustaining themselves and their children. However, the common experience is that “Many affluent families have been doomed due to the death of the man in the house. If the women were educated enough, these families would not be subjected to such hardships.” That is to say, in addition to helping them acquire expertise in household duties, education equips them with a sense of self-sufficiency. Das concludes the essay by expanding the role of (educated) women in character development of the children to the development of a national character. In each case, her education plays a key role not just in establishing herself as a potent human force but in influencing the lives and character of others, even in her “limited” precinct of the household. Although the models we attempt to divide and define are not all-encompassing, it is enough to say that in the colonial writings of the time, the models of the ideal feminine could fit in these or anywhere near this. The changing times necessitated that women, too, picked up with the growing demands of it and expanded their possibilities. Hemaprava Das’s (1886–1945) “The Girls of Yesteryears and Today,” out in Banhi in its fifteenth year, ninth issue in 1925, perhaps best captures the spirit of the changing times and how the state, preoccupations, and concerns of women have changed through time. This prose piece starts with the mention of the charges commonly made against the girls of today: “no development at all; they are weak, incapable of work and babus, and have only acquired expertise in sulking and complaining. The girls of yesteryears were healthy, hard-working.” Das heads straight to refute

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these charges and says that the greatest change and development among women has been education, something the older generations lacked. In an analysis of the writings of this time, we have already seen how women’s education was discouraged with the belief that meeting people leads to an aberration of character. Das, on the other hand, lauds the progress and change wrought by meeting new people: When we move outdoors, when we meet new people, we get to learn many new things. We did not have this privilege in the past. But today we meet women from our country as well from outside of it. We have had many advantages from meeting these people. For the benefit others, they have left behind their own motherland, near and dear ones, and their homes. Many inconveniences too have not marred their spirits. There are many works a woman can do in this world. (trans.)

In contrast with the “grihalakshmi” model we have discussed earlier, Das’s argument tilts toward the world of cross-cultural exchanges that colonial modernity brought in. Das might have been talking about missionary women. In any case, the impetus to step outside of their homes and the greater task of contributing to society is something these “meetings” with women from various parts of the world were brought into the consciousness of the women of the times. The coyness associated with the prerequisites in “good girls” previously—“speaking very softly, inability to keep accounts”—has been replaced by “enthusiasm” in today’s women. Das’s “today” and its women do not endorse wasting time on doing “unproductive works” of which she cites examples like serving men in the house and facilitating their rest hours with combing their heads or giving them a massage! As a rebuttal to the charges against women that the ones who are educated are inefficient in the day-today activities of the household, Das cites the instance of a woman with a BA degree who believes in self-sufficiency and manages all of her works—from gardening to cooking—all by herself. A working woman who is a teacher at a high school for girls, this woman is exemplified in this piece as a modern feminine who is educated, has a day job, and manages to pursue the glories associated with Assamese women: from sewing and weaving to cooking and gardening, in addition to being a beloved among her students. THE “AWAKENED” FEMININE In Hemaprava Das’s writing just cited, we already have an idea of possibilities being opened for women when they moved outdoors, started meeting people, and sharing ideas. As if in a climactic act, these disparate attempts of women to achieve independence and agency received substantial shape

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in the face of women’s organizations (here, mahila samitis). The idea was to unite womenfolk from the rural and urban settings alike and solve their own issues through a platform meant for and constituted by women themselves. However, the indoor–outdoor movement was much challenging than it seems now. Nalinibala Devi recalls in Eri Aha Dinbor, “Women moving around freely like they do in the present times was a matter of embarrassment. Specifically, women from the upper class of the society were not supposed to move out of their homes once they attain the age of 10–11 years” ([1976] 2012, 39). This is the result of assuming and determining women’s virtue and honor in their ability to stay indoors and refrain from meeting new people. It also has to do with the class positionality of the women concerned. In various instances, Devi mentions the necessity of maintaining this reclusion as a prescriptive code meant only for upper-class women (bhadra samaj). In recalling “those” days when the purdah system prevailed, when women were always meant to veil their faces when they moved outdoors, Devi also reflects the “normalcy” of it during those days: “I remember those days now. But back in the day, it wasn’t disturbing to my mind. I consoled myself taking it as the rules of the country meant to be obeyed” (40). It is only in retrospect that “these” days seem different from “those” days: “The contrast between those days and of today’s free and independent women is akin to heaven and hell” (40). In other words, reclusiveness and confinement went hand in hand with women’s existence and constituted her femininity. Rajabala Das’s (1893–1985) work too mentions about the recluse that women are supposed to maintain once they attain puberty. Through a personal instance of her sister when she was some 10–11 years of age, Das recollects how her sister was restricted from witnessing a procession with the other children who were younger than her. She eventually had to peek at it through the holes of a bamboo screen. The shame and sadness associated with, first, being denied moving outdoors and, second, having to look at an event through the distortions imposed by gendered rules as well as the bamboo screen, are elements that stayed with Das. More importantly, it is the writer’s analysis of the situation that draws our interest: one, “My sister was 10/11 years of age. Sadly, she was considered old at that time,” and two, “The girls were forced to follow all the restrictions imposed upon them without complaining” (our trans., Das 1971, 3). Two things stand out here: girls being robbed of their childhood under the pressures of societal and gendered rules and the naturalization of this under a largely patriarchal setup that considers women whose degree of virtue depends on their ability to remain confined to her indoors. In the subsequent pages of the book, Das paints a picture of the times. Characteristics pertinent to her depiction of women from “good households” include the denial of education and restricting them from assuming any responsibilities—social or economic (Das 4). We need to acknowledge a classist gender imposition on women. Women from affluent, upper-caste,

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upper-class families were prone to rules and restrictions, which can be attributed to the feminine models already cited. The intention was, over and above anything else, to develop her into a homely angel. Women’s stepping out of their houses was a leap that eventually led to community work led by women decades later. This transformation, of course, did not happen through the singular contribution of one woman at one point of time in history. Like most feminist struggles, women’s movement out of doors and her consequent awakening happened through the small-scale and large-scale efforts of a group of women in the twentieth century. Print has a role to play here precisely for two reasons: one, it carried the presidential addresses delivered by women in the mahila samitis (women’s organizations); two, it helped popularize women’s writings who consistently strove for a better and more equal world through women’s development. Chandraprabha Saikiani (1901–1972) in Asam Pradesik Mahila Samitir Itibritta gives a chronology of the events (and district mahila samitis) that eventually led to the formation of the Assam Pradesik Mahila Samiti. Interesting here is the role of women in the nationalist movement of the times. In sync with the freedom struggle, women participated in the movements that were a part of it. However, the biggest struggle was to mobilize the women, as there were clear distinctions between the rural and the city women and the upper-class/ caste and lower-class/caste women. As mentioned already, rules were more stringent in the case of upper-class women. There is only a less than handful number of instances where women addressed in public platforms which were endorsed by various organizations of the times. Saikiani cites instances of this remarkable participation. In 1918, a few female students led by Lakhiprabha Chaliha and Chandrakanti Das were the first to participate in a students’ meet organized by Asam Catra Sanmilan at Tezpur. In this same event, Saikiani delivered her maiden speech, and this remains the first address by a woman on a public platform. Asam Pradesik Mahila Samitir Itibritta remains a veritable account of the contribution of various women to the eventual formation of the women’s organization in Assam, as well as women as equal participants in the Indian freedom struggle. Distinction between the rich and the poor and caste divisions, as well as the ever-present gender inequality, plagued these times. In a society that debars women from continuing education when they attain puberty, the book also acknowledges isolated instances of women attending higher education despite such oddities, such as Sudhalata Duwarah and Sukhalata Duwarah attaining their MA degree from Benaras University (Saikiani 1961, 3). However, for the purpose of our discussion, one instance remains particularly important. In 1925, at the Nagaon session of the Asam Sahitya Sabha, women were seated in a separate enclosure, wearing their veils, and separated by a bamboo fence through which they had to peer at the ongoing activities. Saikiani, who was a speaker at the event, addressed this discrimination while

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on the stage, and the women made a statement by breaking the bamboo barricade. Encouraged by the rebellious spirit of Saikiani, this expression of the women’s desire for equality is pathbreaking in the sense that it was a metaphor for their will to participate. Even as spectators, women, as in the incident just mentioned, were treated as irrelevant entities for whom active participation would be a privilege reserved only for men. A series of events entwined with women’s search for autonomy eventually led to the first session of the Asam Mahila Samiti6 in the year 1927. The Samiti’s work dovetailed with the freedom struggle, but it remained forever invested in the issues of women’s education, women’s financial independence, and getting rid of social ills. While the Samiti’s work is so important to understanding the struggle that went into granting women their rights, print played an important role in highlighting these issues in important writings of the time, particularly in magazines like Ghar-Jeuti. The magazine had women as its target audience, and it dealt specifically with the issues and concerns of women. Presidential addresses of the samiti were also published so that they reached a greater readership, and hence, the reading public remained updated on the works of the samiti and the concerns they addressed in these sessions. Ratnakumari Rajkhowani in “Asamat Nari Jagaran” (Women’s Awakening in Assam), published in Banhi in its eighteenth year, sixth issue in 1929 applauds the zealousness and the collective effort of women for the sake of organizing women’s organizations (mahila samitis). While social ills are rampant, Rajkhowani says that the abolition of these depends on the number of people who would speak up against such practices: “If a proposal is accepted by the samiti, it might not be accepted by others, but if it is accepted/practiced by the members of the committees, an increasing number of members would inevitably mean that more women will be inspired to follow the examples of these women.” In this statement lies the idea of how potent women’s participation in taking up a cause or abolishing a certain practice would be in the long run once more people are mobilized and encouraged to participate in its activities or to follow its example, at the least. As a retort to such statements made by men, as “Women are the queen of the domestic space,” Rajkhowani questions where the independence of the queen lies, bereft of education. Also, when the shastras and other religious texts are evoked time and again, it is ironic that women’s education has been emphasized since the days of Manu. Yet the number of women who are educated, let alone women who go for higher education, or the number of institutions devoted to the cause of education for women are so scarce. Elsewhere, in “Tirotar Nibedan” (Petition of Women) (2008, 844), too, she highlights the disparity between women and men in terms of education: All the same, as we serve our men, they too are bound to support our education and enlightenment. Sibasagar district is well-known for its educational

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advancement. This, nevertheless, means that the number of literate men in Sibasagar is higher than the other districts. But, will anyone be able to answer us as to how many women in Sibasagar district are literate? The district that has claimed for itself to be the highest in the literacy rate, ironically, cannot boast of single high school for girls. Can there be anything more regrettable?

Rajkhowani’s “Mahila Samitir Avasyakata” (The Necessity of Women’s Organization) is an “address” meant to convince an audience of the importance of mahila samitis and the eventual need of it in Jorhat: “It is to realise the aim of women’s education that we are striving to lay the foundation of women’s organizations” (2008, 432). The seeds of women’s education would lead to the wholesome development of the Assamese society, and the womenfolk should unite to voice their own concerns and find ways to eliminate the obstructions to their progress. Also important in this piece is the call for women to be companions and not dependents to men: Let us organise ourselves, so that we can together deliberate on the challenges before us and chart out the way forward. We must secure our lot from the indictments laden against us. We must prove to be the true companions of the men and absolve ourselves of the allegations of being a burden to them. (433)

When addresses like these were printed in the popular magazines of the time, it was only natural that a larger readership, people who could not attend the event in-person, was updated on the works of the samiti as well as the necessity of establishing the same in separate districts (as we saw in the case of Jorhat here). When print catered to these publications, the reading public was also cognizant of a simmering women’s movement under the leadership of some resilient and educated women. One cannot ignore the inspiration it must have instilled in the minds of the young girls of the time. However, since the samiti/s was still in its inception, it is but obvious that writings must have popped up on the parallel efforts of various women’s organizations across the world. Swarnalata Saikia’s “Mahila Samitit Aisakalar Kartavya” (Duties of Women in Women’s Organizations), published in Ghar-Jeuti in its third year (1930) in three parts in its eighth, ninth, and eleventh issues, traces not only organizations of the mahila samiti kind but also tries to establish its vernacular roots. She addresses the objective of this prose piece thus: It is heard that, even in Assam, within a span of six-seven months, many women’s organizations have been established. However, the women lack guidance as to the directions they should choose and the works they should undertake. It is, as such, hoped that they seek the guidance of the women’s organization in various countries, that are actively working towards the progress of women, to strategize a well-defined plan of action and execute the same. (Saikia 2008, 868)

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In trying to establish the history of women taking charge, Saikia says that women’s organization is not a novelty in Assam. It existed even over 400 years back from Swarnalata’s times, dating to the days of Sankaradeva, who, while residing at Dhuvahat, had taught three of his female disciples—Malati, Madhai, and Gutimali—about organizing women to follow the path of spiritual growth. Later on, during the times of Madhavadeva, another union of women was formed at Barpeta Satra. These women-led groups persisted through time, and their actions and importance in the make-up of the satra is analyzed thus by Saikia (2008, 869): Usually almost 200–300 women disciples gather to offer prayers in the mornings and the evenings. The women display great fortitude in their religious obligations. Although, modern education has not been accessible to these women, these illiterate women of the sattra are much more independent in many other ways, in comparison to the other Assamese women. While going on pilgrimages, they do not seek the assistance of the men. Rather they collect money amongst themselves and go on these holy journeys in groups of 40–50. Even when they hear of some other sattra being in some difficulty, they often collect money to help them too. It is pertinent to be mentioned here that, these women of sattra operate a public fund, to which the men make no contribution. They use this fund for various purposes like supplying for the financial deficits of their own religious offerings at other places, or rebuilding the kirtan-ghar if there is any damage to it due to a large earthquake, etc. In fact, the southern wall of the kirtan-ghar of Barpeta satra has been built from the money of this very fund. The unified strength represented by these women disciples have helped to build a special place for themselves in the kirtan-ghar and even the male members of the satra are respectful of it. Most of the women of this union are middle-aged. (trans.)

Women’s role in institutions is amply portrayed in this mention. From the sixteenth-century instances of women’s organizations, Saikia veers to similar instances in Bengal dating back to the Female Juvenile Society of 1819 and many since then, reinventing themselves through different names. Another reason this piece is so important is because of its attempt to acknowledge the presence of similar organizations across the world. It conveys to the reader how apparently ordinary women have united in some other parts of the world and worked toward their countries’ welfare. The writer, for example, names such associations in America named as “Women’s Welfare Committee” or “Women’s Rights Association.” Constituted mainly by women away from the urban scene, they are generally wives of farmers from the rural areas. However, their aim, as they state, is “to unite ourselves and work in an organised and regulated manner in service of our nation” (893). Such organizations and the descriptions of these offer a template to the reading public of organizations that have successfully worked toward their intended aim.

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The essay also cites “Home Culture Clubs” as organizations in such countries that aim to work toward the intellectual pursuits of women. Since education remains a key denominator of modernity and shapes an informed human being, “Home Culture Club” is a popular medium for women’s intellectual development in these countries: The women are so enthusiastic about intellectual pursuits that, if there is any possibility for a new way of advancing the educational opportunities, the women do not deter from working on making these possibilities successful through well-organized enterprising endeavours. The women’s organizations had ingrained in the women that, beyond their domestic responsibilities, the women have greater things to think about and work on. Keeping in mind that such educational opportunities for women within the domestic space is important, and yet the gathering too large a number will render the entire enterprise chaotic, it was decided that the members of the main committees will each organize a subcommittee in their neighborhoods, with twenty-five members each, and each Home Culture Club, under these subcommittees, shall include five women members, who are mainly wives of farmers. In 1903, these societies began with lessons about the domestic roles of women, like taking care of children, cooking, animal rearing etc. Within a short time, the women became so well-learned in these issues, that they demanded to be taught about newer things. (894–895)

The above description caters to an understanding of how one’s domestic activities are as much about training and skill as it is about chores. It has been discussed in a previous section of this chapter how these “roles” taken up by women are largely unacknowledged as modern, yet it is as much about expertise as any other work. Also important is the idea of discipline within such organizations and methods to attain the same. The samiti was still navigating its early years, and Saikia’s essay not only points to her acute understanding of various events and organizations led by women at that point of time as well as in her homeland history but also provides ideas on how the samiti can sustain itself in an organized manner. This does not prescribe a duplication of Western organizations but informs the reading public of how women figure so importantly in a nation’s development in addition to shaping themselves as modern-day individuals. Most importantly, such writings reinstate the faith in the common and the ordinary, uniting to address pressing issues and endorse the idea of a nation’s progress and civilization being judged according to the social and political status of its women. Our numbering of the models of the ideal feminine during colonial times is not exhaustive. However, when we set it within the context of print, these models are the most distinctive. In most cases, one overlaps with the other,

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and this could be seen in how the “homely” version and the “educated” feminine are not always mutually exclusive. If print can be accused of implicitly circulating ideas of women’s oppression through its prescriptive code and deification of already existing (mythological) variations, the other set of writings that boldly attacked such presumptions and prejudices need to be acknowledged too. In the realm of gender politics, periodicals and magazines of the time play a bigger role. As the selection of writings suggests, most of these came from educated women and men from the time who were either trying to imbibe the ideals of modernity (most notably, equality of opportunities) into their writings or perpetuating a patriarchal tradition. The representatives of these two categories came from educated quarters, though. While the chapter ponders on the different models of the feminine that came up even within the gendered restrictions imposed on women, it leaves many other prospective models in sync with the times, like women’s participation in the independence struggle. The chapter just touches on it, but colonial women’s role in the freedom struggle deserves more analyses and introspection, away from the context of print modernity and in relation to the mobilization of women that women’s organizations made possible. NOTES 1. Ram-Navami is considered as the first “modern” play in Assamese. In 1857, Gunabhiram Barua composed this play on his way back home from Calcutta. It consecutively appeared in Orunodoi, but as a book form it was published much later, in 1870. As mentioned by Jatindra Mohan Bhattacharjee, it was printed in Dass and Son’s Press, Calcutta, and was published by the author himself. Although it was a play, there is no evidence of performance of the text in the colonial period. When Assamese as an academic discipline was introduced in Calcutta University in 1938, this play was included in the syllabus. But it could not be studied due to the unavailability of the text. Later, Suryya Kumar Bhuyan transcribed the text on the basis of a copy preserved in India Office Library, London. Jatindra Mohan Bhattacharjee also discovered a copy of the play in Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar’s collection, which is a part of Bangiya Sahitya Parisat, Calcutta. Bhattacharjee reproduced and edited the text with an introduction in 1965. With this reproduction and publication of the significant text, it can be said that the study of the nineteenth-century Assam started. 2. Anandaram Dhekiyal Phukan’s childhood friend Parasuram Barua married Bishnupriya Devi in 1853. After the birth of two girls, she was widowed in 1863. By giving birth to a dead child, Brajasundari Devi, Gunabhiram Barua’s wife died in July 1867. In 1869, Gunabhiram officially joined Brahmo Samaj and after the demise of his wife, he determined to remarry a widow. Accordingly, he remarried Bishnupriya in 1870 and their marriage was registered in December 1872. This was the first instance of a registered marriage in Assam. Their first child Swarnalata Barua (Ray) became the first Assamese girl to study in Bethune School, Calcutta. Incidentally,

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Swarnalata was widowed on March 31, 1890, and remarried on February 15, 1899. Bishnupriya Devi authored a book titled Niti-Katha (1884). 3. Balinarayan Bora (1852–1927) was born in north Guwahati and passed matriculation in 1868. Securing Gilchrist scholarship, he joined Cooper’s Hill College, London, from where he graduated in Civil Engineering in 1877. Coming back to India, he worked in different places of Bengal and Assam. In December 1886, during his service at Nagaon, Bora started publishing an Assamese periodical (Mau). Although Mau was critical to women’s education, Jnanadabhiram Barua made remarkable observation regarding Bora’s wife: “An educated woman of this sort went to Nagaon during my childhood—she was the daughter of late Ramesh Chandra Dutta, I.C.S and the wife of late Balinarayan Bora, executive engineer. She would show up in front of everyone, move about, played tennis. We used to stare awestruck at her playing tennis. This was my first time seeing one of our women playing a sport this way” (Bhuyan 1981, 137–138). 4. Lakshmicarita is a premodern vernacular text composed in verse form where the image of an ideal woman was viewed through the prism of Brahmanism. Interestingly, one of the popular printed texts of colonial Assam was Lakshmicarita. While the Brahmanical scriptures like Manusmriti or Manusamhita were influential among the upper-class elites, Lakshmicarita became popular among the common masses through cheap print. Thus, it played a dominant role in shaping the ideal of femininity in colonial Assam. 5. Like most of the women writers in colonial period, Kamala Rabha’s biographical information could not be traced. On May 19, 2022, we shared a post on Kamala’s essay in social media. Surprisingly, some of the Facebook users, who are also prominent male authors of the state, commented that “Kamala Rabha” must be the pseudo name of a male author of the period! As at the end of the essay of Kamala Rabha, the editor of Banhi added within parathesis: “the write-up has been approved as it was read in the Jorhat conference of Asam Mahila Samiti,” there is no question of a pseudo name of ‘male author’. In the meanwhile, Indibar Dewri, one of the prominent intellectuals of Assam, let us know that Kamala was an elder sister of Bishnu Prasad Rava (1909–1969), the legendary artist and married to Sitanath Brahmachaudhury (1908–1982), poet and ex-parliamentarian of India. She died in 1929 only after three months of her marriage. It is not sure whether she could see her published article in Banhi. As Bishnu Prasad Rava’s birth-year is 1909, we assume that Kamala Rabha was born around 1905. For more detail, see Simhapurus Sitanath Brahmachaudhury (1981) by Chitta Mahanta and Sitanath Brahmachaudhury’s Jivan-Britta (2013) by Suniti Sonowal. 6. Although the Asam Mahila Samiti was established in 1926, the first mahila samiti of Assam was constituted in Dibrugarh in the beginning of the twentieth century at the initiation of one Sarojini Basu. The first conference of Dibrugarh Mahila Samiti was held on October 23, 1907. The prime objective of the Samiti was, as stated in Bharat-Mahila, Vol. 8, Issue 11, “the Samiti would try to engage the women-folks in a spirit of togetherness, in music, reading, question-answer sessions and discussions and through these inculcate the spirit of knowledge and ethics as well as enable the reflection of spirituality.”

Chapter 5

Textualizing Our Modernity Print, Textbooks, and the Colonial Child

CHILDHOOD AND PRINT There was an indigenous education system in premodern Assam which focused on the moral, physical, spiritual, and intellectual life of the learners. Besides Vedas, Brahmannas, Upanisadas, and Dharmasutras, kavyas, itihasa, mimansa, krida, vyamaprakara, dhanurvidya, etc., were also taught in various tols.1 But this education was accessible strictly to upper-caste males. Moreover, “the attainment of liberation from the cycle of birth and death and attainment of unity with the absolute” is the primary aim of the Indian philosophy of education. It ignored this-worldly happiness, and Indians believed that everyone would have to possess a predetermined life due to the previous life’s (purvajanma) actions. It is not that childhood is completely absent in premodern Assamese literature and art. Most of the hagiographies depict the childhood of the Vaishnava saints. Childhood is a central theme of premodern poets like Madhavadeva2 and Sridhar Kandali,3 where the mother–children relationship is beautifully portrayed in a premodern agrarian setup. Most of the hagiographies mention that Sankaradeva, in his childhood, spent time roaming and playing with his friends, and one day, he started learning at Mahendra Kandali’s tol and, in the end, became a pundit (parhilanta nirantar sastra samastaya/apramadi pundit bhailannata mahasaya). The aim of this chapter is to show textbooks of colonial Assam as an agent of modernity. Here, our use of the term modernity sees the intended aim of education as the instilling of attributes approved by colonial powers. Besides reiterating aspects like knowledge and othering through the medium of textbooks, we also see the codes prescribed as insular to the notions of women’s independence and her growing role in society, extending beyond the fetters 107

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of the household and her immediate family. If we analyze textbook as a discursive practice, we also need to acknowledge it as “generated from combinations of discourses which frequently originate outside the education field” (Klerides 2010, 34). The colonial discourse of what constitutes knowledge, therefore, was a natural development in colonial Assam. With the advent of colonial power, a new sense of domesticity and family life emerged among the Western-educated elites where “childhood” and “womanhood” were viewed through a new prism. Ashish Nandy argues: The new concept of childhood bore a direct relationship to the doctrine of progress now regnant in the West. Childhood now no longer seemed only a happy, blissful, prototype of beatific angels. . . . It increasingly looked like a blank slate on which adults must write their moral codes—an inferior version of maturity, less productive and ethical and badly contaminated by the playful, irresponsible, and spontaneous aspects of human nature. Concurrently, probably propelled by what many Weberians have identified as the prime mover behind the modernization of West Europe, the Protestant Ethic, it became the responsibility of the adult to “save” the child from a state of unrepentant, reprobate sinfulness through proper socialization, and help the child grow towards a Calvinist ideal of adulthood and maturity. (Nandy 1998, 15)

We can draw a parallel to nineteenth-century Europe when Rousseau encouraged devoting attention and interest to childhood: For the first time in history, he (Rousseau) made a large group of people believe that childhood was worth the attention of intelligent adults, encouraging an interest in the process of growing up rather than just the product. Education of children was part of the interest in progress which was so prominent in the intellectual trends of the time. (Robertson 2006, 430)

The newly educated middle class considered education as the most effective driving force behind happiness, money, respect, and other this-worldly means and tried to make their children intellectually, physically, and morally efficient so that they fit into the new administrative and economic system. As the girl-child was still outside the ambit of institutional education, all the textbook writers addressed their readers as “he mor priya lorabilak!” (oh, my beloved boys!) The titles of the textbooks like Asamiya Lorar Mitra (Fig 5.1) (1849/1873), Asamiya Lorar Byakaran (1882), Asamiya Lorar Adipath (1875), Asamiya Lorar Bhugol (1879), Lorabodh, Lora Kabita (1897), Lora-Siksha (1894), Lora-Darsak (1876) bore the term “lora” (boy). All the textbooks for lower classes (where separate textbooks for different subjects were not introduced) gathered lessons from different areas—morality, general science, health hygiene, geography, life sciences, etc. Except for morality, most of the lessons were borrowed from Western textbooks, which the

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writers could read in English or in Bengali. In the case of prescribing morality, often an admixture of Western and Indian values was seen. For example, Hemchandra Dev Sarmah’s textbooks bore evidence of Western scientific temperament, but simultaneously, sentences like “The Brahma has created all the creatures” (Sarmah 1875,18), “Woman has no other gurus except her husband” (20), “Mleccha has no caste differentiation” (18) were based on the Indian ideas of the world, womanhood, and caste. The school textbooks are also seen to have stressed on a new domestic life, which was based on the ideals of the Western micro family structure. The little kids were often advised to respect their parents and love their siblings. We will provide instances of this in the subsequent sections of this chapter. The necessity of education received ample focus and attention. Along with it, what was also given a forethought was the aims that this education was meant to accomplish. This ranged from making oneself knowledgeable to achieving happiness and reputation in this world. Anandaram Dhekiyal Phukan explicitly states this at the beginning of Asamiya Lorar Mitra (1873, 2): Knowledge enables enlightenment, this is because on reading various books, we get to know different things; on being knowledgeable, it is possible to know how the world is, what constitutes it, and what the sky and constellations are like. But the one who does not possess knowledge knows nothing of these and their minds are still in darkness. (trans.) ​

Satyannath Bora’s Sarathi (1911, 1–2), “The Aim of Human Life,” set the criteria of classification between humans and animals in knowledge production/intelligence/reading: “Knowledge is exclusive to humankind. It is absent in animal life. To be plain, knowledge is one matrix which distinguishes man from animals. In all other respects, man and animals are the same.” (trans.) Lambodar Bara (Talukdar 1983, 94) wrote in a lesson, highlighting the perks of education that hinge on the establishment of reputation in society: You should be able to realise the intention behind attending the school. This intention might be to gain education, wealth, reputation and praise, everybody ranging from your parents, brothers and friends to your countrymen would be content with you, a complete, well-rounded character will make you content and happy in this world and beyond; even after your death your name will be eternal and well known. This intention is difficult to fulfil, but through hard work, there is nothing that human beings can’t accomplish. (our trans.)

The transition of the colonial child from just a stage in man’s development to a firm base for an educated adult necessitated that the colonial education model in Assam revised and reworked its earlier structures. This necessarily followed that school education furthers the “civilizing” mission of colonialism.

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Figure 5.1  Cover page of Asamiya Lorar Mitra (1873), preserved at The British Library.

Lessons on hygiene, health, physical grooming, and virtues abound the earliest textbooks in Assam. As mentioned earlier, childhood existed as a phase in human life in earlier literature of the period. Textbooks, on the other hand, consolidated the child as a target audience of the colonial mode of education. This is because schools introduced discipline and order into the indigenous education system in India, and Assam followed suit. Such textbooks, while rampant with information, idealized the benefits that modernity had to offer. The Way to Health: A Sanitary Primer4 translated into Assamese as Ga Bhale Rakhibar Upay by Hemchandra Barua in 1883, for instance, included these aspects. Published as textbook for use in the schools of Brahmaputra Valley, this primer, in its first section, associates health with the overall happiness of the family. Though it pins down a woman’s health as a facilitator for household chores, certain ideas like the family’s happiness as rooted in the good health of its members, as well as attribution of illness not to any superficial forces or misfortune but “causes” as such, are new. Illnesses like fever and chickenpox, once very common in the West, have received the intervention

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of modern-day medicine. The writer hopes for such awareness of healthcare in his country, too. The West remains a perpetual point of reference, almost according to the idea of aspiration, in such writings.

CHILDHOOD, MORALITY, AND TEXTBOOKS Childhood as a preparatory stage, in which various principles are meant to be imbibed for the shaping of an educated adult, is dealt with in detail in the textbook Hita Sadhika (1878) (Fig 5.2) by Padmavati Devi Phukanani (1853–1927). The writer, under several heads, enlists the qualities to be embraced and others to be avoided to shape into a civilized, knowledgeable person. Since the formative years are important, these small prose pieces, almost bordering on moral lessons are addressed to both boys and girls (“Dear boys and girls!”), something absent in the writings of this time, as we have seen already. One section, for instance, “Jnan o Anusthan” (Knowledge and its Function), acknowledges the “knowledge” that animals possess, in it being able to live and eat the things it is made to. However, human beings tower over all other species in terms of knowledge because “their strength of wisdom, intelligence, movement are complete” (1878, 45). Since knowledge is constitutive of both good and evil, the children are advised to stay away from the sins of lying, jealousy, greed, and nastiness toward fellow human beings, for that entails payback in a similar vein. An acquisition of knowledge hence borders on what is right and what is wrong: Hence, my dear boys and girls! You should quit all ill-behavior and ill actions and try to be righteous. Only then you’ll be able to attain knowledge and its function. This knowledge will guarantee you happiness not only in this world but even in your afterlife, you will be rewarded by the Almighty. (46) ​

In terms of knowledge and knowing the right from the wrong and the good from the bad, the writer develops a moralistic code for young children, which highlights the benefits that one could reap from their good actions. Knowledge and education were inseparable denominators of modernity, and the idea was to convince children of the benefits of education. In a specific section devoted solely to highlighting the necessity of knowledge, Phukanani compares it with a gem that is more valuable than all the wealth one accumulates in his/her life: Knowledge is a priceless gem, no wealth in the world equates to that of knowledge; the possession of countless diamonds, pearls and money will not give you benefits at all times like knowledge does. When you spend your money, you run out of it, but the more you spend your knowledge, the more it will accumulate. (48)

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Figure 5.2  Cover page of Hita Sadhika (1878), preserved at The British Library.

However, her understanding of knowledge and education extends beyond the fetters of books and schooling: Do not misunderstand that knowledge means only reading. The femininity of women, the saintliness of saints are all knowledge. Farming, trading, various crafts of wood-bamboo are knowledges one should be proficient in and practice. Haven’t you seen how the British have created such objects as the ships and railways, benefitted everyone and created wealth for themselves too in the process! (51)

Proficiency in different kinds of knowledge is the lesson the writer wants children to pick up. A similar tone is noticed in Lambodar Bara’a Lora Bodha (1885), a textbook that, among many other lessons on cleanliness, hygiene, good health, and intimation of the reader with natural events, provides a very

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distinctive take on education. In a chapter titled “Bidya Sikshya” (Knowledge-Education), Bara proposes that education encompasses the knowledge of health, spirituality, and business besides what is commonly included in reading and writing (Bara 1898, 142). Even while talking about reading and writing, he extends it from whatever is prescribed in textbooks to various others not included, as well as newspapers. Prescribed as a textbook, this truly encompasses the project of modernity that necessitates redefining education with changing times. Coming back to Phukanani, also important is the writer’s criticism directed at the blatant following of the West in terms of using their language at the cost of shunning their own. Again, the ability to speak in different languages is appreciated. However, multilingual ability is encouraged in being able to strike conversations with people who speak different languages in tongues that might facilitate exchanges, not as a replacement of one’s own mother tongue: “Language should be used in a way that you speak English with the English, Bengali with the Bengalis, Hindustani with the Hindustanis, but one should use one’s mother tongue while speaking with one’s brothers and sisters” (Phukanani 1878, 52). Other ideas that follow this are acquiring skills such as the ones involving craft and making oneself self-sufficient, also contributing to the nation’s development. This insistence on craftwork is something we have highlighted in one of earlier chapters, too, when Anandaram Dhekiyal Phukan posits it as one of the ways in which England has emerged as a civilized nation. Also noteworthy is England as the reference point in textbooks. Though Phukanani does not go for exaggerated glorification of England, she nevertheless cites it as an instance of modern-day accomplishments. For Phukanani, again, knowledge entails an awareness of vices one should avoid being in the trap of. In specific sections like “Ahankar” (pride) and “Hinsa” (violence), she persuades her readers (here, young children) to imbibe the qualities of humility, tolerance, obedience, etc., and in the process, never hurt anyone else even when experiencing flashes of irritation with somebody’s actions. The tone is moralistic, and it associates knowledge with an ability to discard what makes anyone unlikeable and embrace qualities approved by the larger number, including parents and elders. This code of conduct prescribed for young children is also available in Asamiya Lorar Mitra, which was later adopted as a textbook for children. In the address to the reader itself, Phukan, much like Padmavati Devi Phukanani, associates the role of knowledge in being able to distinguish right from wrong, good from bad, the benefits of a virtuous present assuring rewards in the afterlife, etc. It is no wonder then that this was prescribed as a textbook later, in 1873. A textbook that starts with a “Select Sentences” section, Asamiya Lorar

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Mitra sets the tone for what it wants to establish right from the very start. We list a few of these sentences: Love the Almighty with all your senses and perceive others as you perceive yourself. Be obedient to your parents and listen to everything they say. Never lie, because the one who does, faces its consequences too. Never feel greedy for what somebody else possesses, and never steal it too. Love your teacher and do not fret over even if they punish you. Love your books more than being playful. No wisdom is possible without learning and working hard. Do not be proud, because pride is despised both by God and human beings. Never try to be merry around the grieving, and do not torture any animal. If you see somebody better than you, instead of being jealous, work hard to improve on yourself. Never be jealous of somebody’s happiness, because you never know what sadness he must be having within him. Time waits for none. Praise your friend, not yourself. It is better to be alone than in bad company. Either be silent or speak the good. (Phukan 1873, 7–8)

This is an incomplete list of the statements included in the original textbook. However, these are built from regular English proverbs, common moral lessons taught to a child in her domestic setting, and now institutionalized in the form of a textbook recommended for schools. This then became a pedagogic tool to infuse those elements that would turn these young children into docile, obedient human beings. Naturally, these are not drawn from any religious texts, but the author makes it a point to include one’s duties both to earthly authorities like one’s parents and teachers and to Heavenly ones. Beyond these statements, the later sections incorporate moral lessons, among many other things, like in the pieces “The Good Boy,” “How to be Good,” “Of Our Duty to God,” “Fear of God,” “Filial Duty,” “Duties of Children to their Parents,” “On the Duty of the Pupil to his Instructor,” etc. In each of these, love, respect, and value of elders are highlighted as a precedent for “goodness.” Likewise, unruly behavior is condemned. The lessons emphasize the importance of being grateful to one’s parents because “they have given you life and your mother has brought you up” (40), being servile to one’s teacher even when goaded by the latter as punishment because “imagine how hard your teacher works to teach you. . . . You should be able to think how priceless knowledge is. Hence, you should be grateful and loving towards the one who makes this possible for you” (25).

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In sections like “Pity,” “Fortitude,” “Industry,” “Be Courteous,” the eponymous virtues are diffused either through recourse to storytelling in which the ones who possess these are rewarded or happy or through an elaboration of the said virtues without storytelling but listing how imbibing these will make them good people. Another interesting aspect, as in the section “Modesty,” is prescribing a “moderate” standard of the said behavior. This might be genderoriented, too, for it addresses a male reader: Boys have a natural shyness, which is welcome, the one who has no modesty at all is not considered good, however, the one who is not too shy but has some modesty too, not shameless but is shy too is loved by all. (49)

“The Eyes of the Lord are in Every Place,” “Fear God,” “The Supreme Ruler of the World,” “God Glorious above all His Works,” “God is the Parent of All,” etc., like their titles suggest, are a reminder to the child of divine authority. In the context of eighteenth-century textbooks in Britain, Sutapa Dutta (2021, 85) has to say the following: The disciplining of the child became the central issue of education. Educationists and thinkers like Rousseau, Joseph Priestly, David Hartley, Thomas Day, Maria Edgeworth, Sarah Trimmer and Hannah More envisaged education as a sociological and psychological tool to mould the child. Education had a new purpose and scope, and was seen as a formative instrument. There was a dramatic shift in attitudes towards childish mischief and mistakes, and a clear assertion of adult authority. Textbooks begin to indicate in very clear terms the consequences of challenging or disobeying authority. This could symbolically be the authority of the teacher, parents, church, king, state and so on.

We can assume that curriculum makers and textbooks in Assam followed suit. Particularly in relation to servility to authority, these texts prescribed what is appropriate and inappropriate and the repercussions of the latter. “Disobedience will be Punished,” for example, narrates how a boy almost lost his life for not obeying what his parents had been repeatedly telling him. In contrast, in a section titled “Filial Sensibility,” a teacher in Paris sends a sum to his poor parents on learning that they are a poor family and witnessing the boy’s sensitivity toward his parents’ situation. In these very easy-toread texts, Phukan provides a glimpse into the rewards of being disciplined and obedient. No wonder this was prescribed as a formative years’ textbook for children, with its clear-cut representation of “good” and “bad” boys and rewards and troubles befalling the two, respectively. This moralistic tone is further accentuated in Pathmala (A Garland of Lessons) (1883) by Hemchandra Barua. There is an “Address to the Boys”

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section at the beginning of the text, urging upon young “boys” to take up their texts and lessons and avail themselves of the education made possible by the rulers of the nation: “Despite this privilege, if you cannot acquire knowledge and earn wisdom, the fault will be solely yours” (Barua 1920, 1). The section “Moral Lessons” is divided into two parts. The first of these deals specifically with the importance and power of knowledge. This extends from such statements like “Knowledge is superior to anything else, because it cannot be stolen, divided or diminished,” “Even the King is not equivalent to a knowledgeable person, because the King is obeyed only in his kingdom, while a knowledgeable person is respected everywhere” to “What good would a virtueless person do born into a high-class family? Armed with knowledge, even someone from a lower status family would earn respect” (3). There is a noticeable vantage point given to the knowledgeable and wise as compared to the wealthy and the affluent. The second part of this takes the moral lessons through mostly one-liners: “Respect your parents,” “Do not kill an animal without any reason,” “Do not fall in love with somebody’s wife,” “Do not steal, do not lie” (4), etc. To impart some easy lessons on virtue, a few stories are incorporated, such as one titled “An Old Man, his Son, and an Ass,” which provides the moral that you cannot satisfy everyone in an equal manner. Another noteworthy section in the book is “Cleanliness.” This is an example of “pedagogic means of inducing ‘good’ habits among that section of the people who were deemed ‘unfit’ for the good of the society” (88). Since childhood came to be considered as that stage where the individual could be “trained” into a mature adult, health, hygiene, and grooming are important aspects of such training. In Barua’s prescription, cleanliness entails not just physical hygiene but the cleanliness of the environment in which one stays: “Hence from our bodies to our yards and homes, everything should be kept clean” (24). Barua associates health with cleanliness in the way a person conducts and considers his/her cleanliness, from the body to the clothes to the utensils to the surroundings of their homes. Ending with “Cleanliness Is Godliness” (24), this section brings in elements of sanitation and hygiene within the ambit of duties that one must fulfill. Hemchandra Barua’s The Way to Health, mentioned already, also offers lessons on hygiene that ultimately facilitate good health. In addition to personal hygiene like taking a bath every day, ensuring that the air one breathes is pure, and the water one drinks is boiled and hence pure are some directives toward ensuring good health. Also, limewash is prescribed twice a year, and ways and methods of garbage disposal suggested. The overall tone relates to considering hygiene as an important factor of daily life and living. Toward the end, the author also considers the differences in the conditions of the rich and poor while both fall sick: The poor, ignorant people find it difficult to adopt cleanliness. But they slowly realize the benefits of the same. They are the most careless regarding

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the precautionary measures for illness; but they are the ones who endure the maximum difficulties because of it. The rich have money to feed themselves and servants to take care of them when they fall ill, the poor have none. (Barua 1999, 374)

It becomes incumbent then that the poor people, who occupy the bulk of the population in colonial Assam, subscribe to practices of hygiene to prevent any serious illnesses. Print, through incorporation of lessons and textbooks like these, helped children to train in these basic rules of hygiene from their formative years. Fashioning the child at that stage entailed mature adults in years to come, and schooling (through textbooks) was a way through which this could be achieved.

TEXTBOOKS AND THE PROJECT OF OTHERING The project of “othering” manifested itself in the textbooks appropriated during this period. Anandaram Dhekiyal Phukan’s text, for instance, in its selections, came to be prescribed for students in 1873. We cite here a typical description of races of mankind that found its way into school textbooks under the title “Jnanar Sangbad” (Phukan 1873, 20–21): All colours of people reside in all places across the world. In Europe, western part of Asia and northern part of Africa, people are very fair and look beautiful in appearance. Asians are generally pale yellow and look. . . . Africans (except those in the north) are very dark, almost ash-like. Their hair is woolly, and they are tall and big. People who moved to America from Europe are very fair, but the natives are red in complexion. People across the world do not live under similar circumstances and conditions. This means, the way we live is different from the rest. The people of this country/state and the hilly tribes like Garo-Mikir etc. are not same; we are better than them in everything; in this way there are two categories of people, civilized and savage, in this world. The people of savage nations hunt birds and animals in numerous ways and lead their lives. They do not understand farming. . . . They move around naked, and do not possess the intelligence to live in convenient houses or weave their own clothes. They do not have books to read and are consequently ignorant. (our trans.)

This process of othering is essentially a colonial import. It is the idea rooted in the European cultural hegemony; of “the idea of a European identity as a superior one in comparison with all the non-European peoples and cultures” (Said 7). In colonial Assam, print facilitated an easy distribution of this idea; of the people living in plains viewing the hills-inhabiting population as its “other” and in this perpetual “positional superiority,” reserving for itself an

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upper hand, be it in terms of evaluating food habits or housing practices, clothing, etc. The geographical context in attributing sanity and civilization to particular people residing in particular areas found its way even into textbooks, which were not geography-based per se. Consider, for example, Padmanath Gohain Barooah’s Buronji Bodh (1918). As its title suggests, it is a History textbook that traces the rule of various kingdoms in Assam until the colonial era. In this textbook which lauds the great Ahom, Chutiya, Kachari, Koch kings, the introduction nevertheless makes a point to assert the positional superiority of the people inhabiting the plains since ancient times: Like now, in the past too, these hilly tribes inhabiting forest regions had no religion to be named as such; they worshipped trees, hills, different kinds of spirits. In terms of clothing too, a section of the people of these savage communities were naked and the rest, half-naked. (Barooah 1932, 2)

Textbooks, hence, specifically geography textbooks, served as ideological and rhetorical devices that perpetuated hegemony. These attempted to “systematize, catalogue and classify all existing species occupying the surface of the earth into a sequence of descriptive language” (Mukherjee 2021, 13). Asam Deshar Bhugol Bibaran (1886), for instance, does not go for descriptive language regarding “them” in each chapter as such, but mere statement of “their” geographical situatedness is headlined as “Savage hilly community and the places they live.” This immediately alienates the people of the hills and shows how these textbooks involve the twin prospects of visualization and narrativization of the “Other.” Geography, in this sense, not just charted hills, rivers, and spaces as such but also “charted the bodies which inhabited those spaces” (Hasmoutulla 1886, 13). This is true for most of the textbooks of the time, which resorted to objective analyses of the self in its delineation of physical spaces but narrativized the “other” that bordered on dramatizing it, and this is precisely how “emotions like anxiety, fear, desire and fantasy enter into the production of imaginative geographies” (18). In other words, the designation of civilizational attributes was reserved for the self and the familiar spaces, and this consequently made certain cultures “ours.” On the other hand, a systematic designation of “noncivilizational” attributes to the non-familiar ones labeled the rest “theirs.” For example, Adarsha Bhu-Parichay (Mitra 1917, 67), a Geography textbook replete with maps and sketches and introducing the student to his vicinity and other continents alike, resorts to this while describing a tribe: The Nagas are savages. Their everyday food items include snakes, toads, dogs, pigs, elephants etc. They consider dog meat very tasty and beneficial. . . . A few Nagas wrap a piece of cloth and the rest of them are naked. (trans.)

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Attribution of savagery regarding the food and clothing of people placed at a distance from who writes these texts is a consistent feature of the textbooks of these times. Notions and prejudices like these were rampant not just in the pages of textbooks of the time, but this was a growing opinion of the educated middle class in Assam. Textbooks were not exclusive in this treatment of people from the hilly regions. We have discussed this in an earlier chapter in relation to the civilization–savage debate. This became the medium to communicate certain worldviews from the perspective of who occupies the center (here, the curriculum makers) at one point in time. In these descriptive instances, language fills up spaces that are placed far off (both geographically and culturally) from the writer. Print, in catering to the business of school education, sowed the seeds of “othering” for a very young population who were to learn and internalize whatever their textbooks prescribed during their “formative” years. Textbooks of the period also show the manifold ways in which the approach to teaching changed through the years. Saratchandra Goswami’s geography textbook of 1924 (first published in 1921), for instance, incorporates different modes of approach than traditional geography texts. This he attributes to his experiences gained through years of teaching. In his own words in the Preface: While strictly conforming to the prescribed syllabus I have adopted a different plan in the treatment of the subject matter. . . . As for instance, the first lessons in this volume consist of a series of easy questions on the child’s immediate neighborhood, the only subject in Geography with whom he is intimately familiar; and the usual lessons . . . have been introduced at a later state, when the child has had a revision, so to say, of his self-gained knowledge in regard to the geography of his own village and the village of his school (our trans., Goswami 1924, i)

The overlying aim, as is evident from the writer’s words, is to introduce the child to their immediate surroundings and then proceed to an understanding and acquaintance with other districts, countries, continents, etc. WOMEN AND/IN THE TEXTBOOK Most of the textbooks, as we have already noticed, exclude girls/women from the intended audience in being addressed to boys. Where these are addressed to girls and boys, for instance, in Phukanani, the sections within it again resort to an address meant only for “dear boys.” Under such circumstances, there are some textbooks that obliquely hint at women’s education and the benefits of it, dovetailing it with the development of attributes like devotion to her husband, responsibilities as a mother, etc.

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Maharani (1901) by Padmanath Gohain Baruah prescribes a model of the feminine to be emulated. In continuity with the last chapter, extracts from this text connote that, let alone the magazines and periodicals of the time, textbooks too endorsed the idea of an ideal woman rooted in her “feminine” duties like wifely devotion and caring for her children. For all her glory, intelligence, and power, an aspect that is reinforced time and again in this text is her role as a wife and a mother. This borders on subsuming herself under her husband’s presence, and she is recommended as the ideal of womanhood to be achieved. Baruah (1916, 15–16) describes her thus: She is a powerful queen of the world, but her husband is her almighty. Truly, for the Queen, her husband was greater than her empire. When she communicated her husband’s virtues, she ignored hers. Both shouldered the responsibilities of the Empire, but when the time came to analyze the flaws involved in the process, she embraced all this alone. To sum it up, all the flaws and bad decisions were hers, all the good ones, her husband’s. This devotion of a wife towards her husband is unparalleled. (our trans.)

Passages like this extol wifely devotion and the propensity of women to downplay themselves when set up against their male counterparts. Domesticity, which here maps wifely and motherly responsibilities, are glorified over and above her role as a queen. There are also passages that mention that the Queen made sure her daughters followed suit: “The princesses, besides being trained in reading and learning, were also made to learn different household activities compulsorily” (20). The writer, however, while narrating all these aspects, invokes the different knowledges which are pertinent to the overall development of the child. In this case, the queen and her husband made sure that their children acquired some knowledge in “agriculture, craft, trade, warfare” (20) besides the routinized models of education and learning. In “Tirota Manuhar Katha,” Bishnupriya Devi equates knowledge with an awareness of the fact that women deserve to be educated as much as their male counterparts. Picking up one exemplary instance of a certain Sumila, the only daughter of a family in a village, who, in excelling in education as well as weaving, inspired other girls in the village to do the same, Devi dispels superstitions like “Educating women entails widowhood” (our trans. Devi 1921, 60), for Sumila was married off at an appropriate age and was her husband’s beloved. Denying women their basic rights is equivalent to going against the laws of the Almighty. The writer suggests how birds are knowledgeable in that they are infused with marital love. In that sense, a woman being denied of education by her parents, or later, her husband, is suggestive of both ignorance and inequality.

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Even in stories prescribed like “Radha-Rukmini,” a woman is glorified because of her wifely devotion and a will to embrace the gravest of challenges to protect her husband’s honor. This goes back to the year 1769, when a certain Raghav, humiliated by an Ahom official, clubbed up with the Moamariyas and raged a war against the Ahom king. Realizing that a “woman’s life is reduced to nothing without her husband. . . . It is better suited to lose her own life before her husband’s than to lose her husband and lead a sad life” (our trans., Borgohain 1929, 72), both his wives, Radha and Rukmini, too plunged into the war. While their valor, strength, and expertise in warfare are lauded, what is deciphered as the source of such valiance is wifely devotion and affection: “This incident is a display of the depth of love for one’s husband and self-sacrifice. What is a woman not capable of accomplishing for the sake of her husband?” (74). In these limited instances, print perpetuated a tradition of expectations from women when these are meant to be read by children in their early years. This also goes toward the conditioning that the readers (here, schoolchildren) receive as to the desired code of conduct from the female sex. While education, valor, and intelligence of women are highlighted in each of these, these textbooks heave under the pressures of a “womanhood,” which subscribes to being worthy contenders of the “good wife,” “good mother” models. Pathmala, mentioned earlier too, deals with this element of piety and sacrifice of women to the point of adulation. Here, it does so by borrowing instances from Indian mythology. “The Massacre of the Sons of the Pandava,” for example, builds up from the murder of the sons of Pandava and Draupadi’s forgiveness and sympathy for the murderer under the pretext that he is the son of a woman who is still mourning the death of her husband (our trans., Barua 1920, 96). Under such circumstances, a common bond of motherhood ties the two women, under which spell Draupadi emerges as this woman who has patience and fortitude. We have seen in the earlier chapter on the templates of femininity evident in the writings of colonial Assam. Print here, through the medium of the textbook, establishes these models for children in their most impressionable stage. That way, what young girls are supposed to grow up to is already prescribed. A significant aspect is the borrowing of micro-stories from mythology and vernacular literature for the purpose of teaching moral lessons. Conversational pieces like “Conversation between Draupadi and Judhisthira,” “The Sayings of Bharata to Ram Chandra,” and “Reply of Ram Chandra” incorporate lessons and arguments on virtues and vices and moderation in the exercise of both as well as sonly duties specifically in the Bharata–Rama pieces. While it was a common practice for moral lessons to be perpetuated through the narration of fables, this rootedness in mythology and the vernacular made it more relatable to situate these lessons in characters that the readers already had an acquaintance with.

Uju Path Asamiya Lorar Mitra (3rd Edition) Asamiya Lorar Byakaran (3rd Edition) Asamiya Lorar Adipath

Asamiya Lorar Mitra (abridged edition) Karya Siksha Asamiya Bhasar Puthi, no.1 Asamiya Byakaran Asamiya Bhasar Siksasar Padartha Vidyasar (second edition) Lora Puthi

Title

Hemchandra Devasarma

Gunabhiram Barua Baladev Mahanta Anandaram Dhekiyal Phukan Dinabandhu Tarkalankar

Hemchandra Barua Padmahas Goswami Nidhi Levi

Kaliram Barua

Anandaram Dhekiyal Phukan

Name of the Author/Compiler

1875 (first published in 1873) 1875

Grammar

Diverse

1874 1875

1874

1874

1873

1873

1873 1873

1873

Year of Publication

Diverse Diverse

Diverse

Assamese primer Assamese Grammar Assamese Reader Physics

Diverse

Subject

Baptist Mission Press

Sucharu Yantra, Calcutta

Gunabhiram Barua —

— Hitabidhayini Yantra, Goalpara

—

Mission Press, Sibsagor

Mission Press, Sibsagor

Valmiki Yantra, Calcutta

Name of the Press

— Ginabhiram Barua

—

Milaram Sarma, Nagaon American Baptist Mission

Kaliram Barua American Baptist Mission

Gunabhiram Barua

Publisher

Table 5.1  An incomplete list of books published in Colonial Assam. Created and provided by Sanjib Pol Deka.

1000

1800

1000

No. of Copies

3 paisa

4 ana

5 ana

4 ana

2 ana

5 ana

Price

122 Chapter 5

Asamiya Lorar Bhugol Byavaharik Maukhik Ganan Asamiya Bhasar Bare Matara (6th Edition) Asamiya Byakaran Euclidar Geometry Asamiya Lorar Byakaran Asamiya Padartha Vidya Pathmala

Asamiya Lorar Siksasar (2nd edition) Bhumi Pariman

Hita Sadhika

Asamiya Lorar Mitra (5th edition) Laradarsak

Assamese Grammar Geometry

Assamese Grammar Physics

Diverse

Hemchandra Barua Sakhawat Ali

Hemchandra Barua

Assamese Primer

Geography

Surveying

Diverse

Author

Author

1883 1883

Author

Americal Baptist Mission

Bishnupriya Devi Baruani

Nabakanta Nath

Gunabhiram Barua

1882

1881

1880

1879

1879

1879

1879

1878

1878

1875

Diverse

Diverse

1875

Diverse

Hemchandra Barua Shekhawat Ali

Gunabhiram Barua Rajanikanta Chakravarty

Kaliram Barua

Anadaram Dhekiyal Phukan Munsi Iyar Mahammad Padmavati Devi Phukanani Padmahas Goswami

Chidananda Press, Guwahati

Chidananda Press, Guwahati The New Sanskrit Press, Calcutta

Chidananda Press, Guwahati

620

500

Jyotis Prakash Jantra, Calcutta Natun Arya Jantra, Calcutta Sadharan Brahma Samaj Yantra, Calcutta Baptist Mission 2000 Press, Sibsagor

Calcutta

Natuna Arya Jantra

Hitabidhayini Yantra

Hitabidhayini Yantra 1000

(continued)

6 ana

9 ana

6 ana

6 ana

3 ana

10 paisa

4 ana

4 ana

12 ana

3 ana

5 ana

4 ana

Textualizing Our Modernity 123

Asamiya Lorar Prakarit Bhugol

Ganit Shastra Prakrit Bhugol Lorabodh Kabitamala, Part I (3rd Edition) Ratnamani

Uju Path (Pratham Bhag) Sahaj Parimiti Asamiya Bhasar Lorabodh Byakaran Kabita Har

Title Hitakatha Jnanankur Ganit Pustak Asamiya Padartha Bidya Padyamala (8th edition) Kavya-Kusum

Rudraram Bordoloi Issananda Bharali

Ratneswar Mahanta Purnananda Sen Lambodar Dutta Lambodar Bora Bholanath Das

Physical Geography

Mathematics Geography Diverse Poetry

Poetry

Assamese Grammar

Haliram Medhi Dharmeswar Goswami

1885

1885

1884 1884 1884 1884

1884

1884 1884

Hermonial Press Victoria Press, Calcutta

Natun Arya Yantra, Calcutta Bangla Yantra, Calcutta Bengal Press, Calcutta

Name of the Press

Natun Arya Press, Calcutta Author Victoria Press, Calcutta Ramakanta Duwara Sadharan Brahma Borkakti Samaj Jantra, Calcutta

Golocchandra Goswami Author Author Author Author

Author Author

Author

Haribilas Gupta

1884 1884

Author

1883

Anthology of Poetry Anthology of Poetry poetry

Padmahas Goswami Gunabhiram Barua (ed) Baladev Mahanta

Publisher Author Author Author Author

Year of Publication 1883 1883 1883 1883

Name of the Author/Compiler Subject Purnakanta Sarma Moral Lessons Purnakanta Sarma Shakhawat Ali Mathematics Do Physics

Table 5.1  (Continued)

1000

No. of Copies

2 ana

8 ana

Price

124 Chapter 5

Jnan Sopan (4th edition) Lorasiksa Part I (8th edition)

Hitopadesa (3rd edition) Asamiya Lorapath, Part II (5th edition) Asamiya Adipath Asamiya Bhugol Siksa Asamiya Bhugol Siksa Bhugol Darpan

Swasthyabidhi Bharat Buranji Part II Asam Desar Bhugol Bibaran Asamiya LoraSowalir Practical Surveying Ankabodh

Lorar Nija Puthi

Mathematics

Jajneswar Sarma

Author

1895 1896 1896

Kanaklal Borooah Geography

Padmanath Borooah Rajanikanta Bordoloi Panindranath Gogoi 1896 1898

Diverse

Diverse

Geography

Author

Kalinath Hazarika Assamese Primer Nareswar Sarma Geography

Sivnath Bhattacharyya

Author

Author

Author

Sanyal and Co, Calcutta

1890 (first published in 1885) 1891

Assamese Primer

Author

1888

1888

Author

A G Sen and Company, Calcutta Nishikumar Ghosh

1886 1887

Author Author

Author

1885 1886

1885

Moral Lessons

Tulasiram Sarm Bejbara Joy Chandra Chakravarty

Surveying

Nanda Kumar Saha

Brajapati Bandopadhyay Naranath Mahanta Health Dharmesvar History of India Goswami Munshi Geography Hasmotulla

Anglo-Sanskrit Press, Calcutta Radharaman Yantra, Calcutta Radharaman Yantra, Calcutta A R & T Co. Ld. 3000 Press, Dibrugarh

Calcutta Printing House, Calcutta

New Arya Press, Calcutta Sakha Press, Calcutta Bharatmihir Jantra, Calcutta

Nutan Arya Jantra, Calcutta

Victoria Press, Calcutta Banik Yantra, Calcutta

(continued)

1 ana 6 paisa

4 ana

1.5 moha

5 ana

1 ana

1 ana

2 ana

4 ana

14 ana

Textualizing Our Modernity 125

1898

Madhab Ram Das Mensuration

Do

1899 1899

1901 1901

do

do

Biography

Panindranath Gogoi Do

Padmanath Barua

Padmanath Barua

Satyanath Bora

Padmanath Barua

Assam-Buranji

Sahitya Bicar (2nd edition) Niti Siksa (2nd edition)

Moral Lessons

History of Assam

1899

do

Do

1901

1900

Sivnath Bhattacharya Author

1899

Author

Author

Author

Sivnath Bhattacharya Do

Author

1898

Sivnath Grammar Bhattacharyya Durgaprasad Dutta Poetry

Author

1898

Author

Author

Publisher Moahodhar Bora

Do

Arithmetic

Year of Publication 1898 (first published in 1885) 1898

Name of the Author/Compiler Subject Lambodar Bora Diverse

Subhankari or Mental Arithmetic Parhasalir Vyakaran Lorakabita (2nd edition) Uju Kabita (3rd edition) Lora Siksa Part I (9th edition) Lora Siksa Part II (5th edition) Maharani

Sahaj Parimiti (2nd edition) Patiganit Part II

Title Lorabodha (3rd edition)

Table 5.1  (Continued)

3000

2000

3000

2000

1000

1000

1000

1000

No. of Copies

Do

1000

Assam Central Press, 500 Tezpur Assam Central Press, 1000 Tezpur Do 500

Do

Do

A R & T Co. Ld. Press, Dibrugarh A R & T Co. Ld. Press, Dibrugarh Do

A R & T Co. Ld. Press, Dibrugarh A R & T Co. Ld. Press, Dibrugarh A R & T Co. Ld. Press, Dibrugarh

Name of the Press Monica Press, Calcutta

4 ana

12 ana

8 ana

2 ana

1 ana

2 ana 6 paisa 1 ana

3 ana

3 ana

3 ana

Rs 1

4 ana

Price 5 ana

126 Chapter 5

Lessons on J Andrew Taylor Nature (trans. Golap Chandra Barua)

Prakriti Path

History of Assam

Padmanath Barua

Assamar Buranji (10th edition)

Sarathi

Jnanamala

Sahitya-Bodh

Do

Sahitya Sangrah (2nd edition) Asamar Buranji (4th edition) Assam Bhugol

Manual on Physical Exercise by Indian Method Diverse

Moral Readers

History of Assam Sivnath Geography of Bhattacharya Assam Shofiulla Saifuddin Assamese Ahmed Reader Hemaprava Das Assamese Reader Satyanath Bora

Do

Desi Kasrat

Do

Padmanath Barua

Ananda Chandra Diverse Agarwala Durgaprasad Dutta Poetry

Niti Siksa Part III

Uju Kabita (6th edition)

Komal Path

1913 (first published in 1899)

1911

1909

Macmillan and Co. Limited

Author

Gaurisankar Talukdar Author

Author

Author

1906

Do Do

1908

1000

Radharaman Yantra 6000

Do

Cotton Press, Calcutta

Citizen Press, Dibrugarh Samya Press, Calcutta Paragon Press, Calcutta Paragan Press, Calcutta Samya Press, Calcutta

Do

Do

1000

1000

1000

Lila Agency, Tezpur Assam Central Press, 1000 (Author) Tezpur Do Assam Secretariat Printing Office, Shillong

Author

Author

1905

1905

1904

1902 (first published in 1895) 1903

1902

(continued)

15 ana

12 ana

11 ana

4 ana

4 ana

2 ana

8 ana

1 Rs 2 ana

8 ana

12 ana

3 ana

3ana

Textualizing Our Modernity 127

Sarbeswar Sarma Kataky

Pramodchandra Borthakur

Kamalakanta Saikia Ananda Chandra Agarwala

Bhugol Path (6th edition)

Muruli (3rd edition)

Kabita -Kusum (9th edition)

Bharat Buranji

Jilikani (5th edition)

Saratchandra Goswami

Path-mala (8th edition) Jnanodaya

Year of Publication 1918 (first published in 1903) 1918 Barkataky and Company, Jorhat

Bharatmihir Jantra, Calcutta

Publisher Name of the Press Lila Agency, Tezpur Samya Press, (Author) Calcutta

1924 (first published in 1921) 1924

Poetry Reader in Assamese

1928 (first published in 1922)

1925 (first Lessons in published in Assamese 1900) Poetry History of India 1925

Lessons in Poetry

Geography

Headmaster, George Institute, Dibrugarh

Author, Nagaon

Author

Sivnath Bhattacharya

Barkataky Company, Jorhat

Katyayani Machine Press, Calcutta Laksmibilas Press, Calcutta

Laksmibilas Press, Calcutta

Samya Press, Calcutta

Bharatmihir Jantra, Calcutta

Assamese 1920 Anandaram Barua, Kattayani Press, Reader Sibsagar Calcutta Samya Press, Prose Reader in 1923 (first Khageswar Calcutta Assamese published in) Agarwala, Helem, Darrang

Mathematics

Name of the Author/Compiler Subject Padmanath Barua Moral Book in Assamese

Jadabchandra Chakrabarty, Harinarayan Duttabarua Hemchandra Barua Lamodar Bara

Patiganit

Title Nitisiksa, Part III (4th edition)

Table 5.1  (Continued)

2000

1000

No. of Copies

4 ana

Rs 1

6 ana

10 ana

8 ana

6 ana

10 ana

8 ana

Price 12 ana

128 Chapter 5

do

Do

Durgadhar Barkataky

Padmanath Barua

Harinarayan Duttabarua

Dandinath Kalita

Nitipath, Part III

Buranjibodh

Sahitya, Part IV (5th edition)

Sahitya Muktavali

Assamese Reader

Lessons on History of Assam Assamese Reader

Moral Lessons

do

Do

Sishu Sahitya Part II (enlarged edition) Sahitya (part 6) (3rd edition)

Tribeni (2nd edition)

Harinarayan Duttabarua Sarbeswar Sarma Kataky

1932 (first published in 1918) 1934 first published in 1928) 1934

1929 (first published in 1928) 1930

1928 (first published in 1925) 1929 (first published 1925)

1928

1928

Sarat Chandra Goswami

History of the British Empire Assamese Reader Assamese Reader

History of India 1928

Basanta Kumar Barua

Sahitya (part 4)

Prabeshika Bharat Buranji Part I (2nd edition) British Samrajyar Buranji

Bharatmihir Jantra, Calcutta

Darpan Press, Jorhat

Jogamaya Printing Works, Jorhat Samya Press, Calcutta

Bharatmihir Jantra, Calcutta

B R Kalita and Co., Tezpur

Barkataky and Co., Jorhat

Do

Do

Model Litho & Printing Works, Calcutta Lila Agency (Author) Bharatmihir Press, Calcutta

Macmillan and Co. Limited

Do

Barkataky and Co., Jorhat Sivnath Bhattacharya, Dibrugarh Do

Barua Agency, Guwahati

Macmillan and Co Limited

(continued)

14 ana

8 ana

12 ana

10 ana

11 ana

4 ana

10 ana

8 ana

10 ana

4 ana

Textualizing Our Modernity 129

Sahitya Sopan Part II

Asamiya Sahitya Kosh (revised edition) Saral Bhugol (3rd edition)

Title Saral Bhugol Part III Sarathi (new Edition)

Assamese Reader

Geography

Harianaryan Duttabarua

Do

Assamese Reader

Sarbeswar Sarma Kataky

Name of the Author/Compiler Subject Harinarayan Geography Duttabarua Satyanath Bora

Table 5.1  (Continued)

1937 (first published in 1932) 1937(first published in 1935) 1940

1937

Year of Publication 1935

Do

Do

Duttabarua Brothers Bharatmihir Jantra, and Co., Nalbari Calcutta

Publisher Name of the Press Duttabaru Brothers Bharatmihir Jantra, and Co, Naklbari Calcutta Samya Press, Debendranath Calcutta Bandopadhyay, Calcutta Author Jayanti Art Press, Guwahati

No. of Copies

6 pai

4 ana

Rs 1

11 ana

Price 4 ana

130 Chapter 5

Textualizing Our Modernity

131

This tone of familiarity instilled the elements of entertainment and pleasure while learning “life-lessons.” Since we have come across a range of concerns addressed in these textbooks and diverse focus areas covered by these, we provide here (Table 5.1) an incomplete list of textbooks of the period under study. ​ AN INCOMPLETE LIST OF BOOKS PUBLISHED IN COLONIAL ASSAM. CREATED AND PROVIDED BY SANJIB POL DEKA. Scholarship on print and colonialism in Assam has evaded questions on the role of textbooks in perpetuating modernity. We provide here an incomplete list of textbooks published from 1873 to 1940 in Assamese. As the list suggests, there was an exhaustive number of books—even running into several editions—that point to its growing demand and market. While commercial publishers partake in this boom mostly from the twentieth century, textbook publishing was carried out under the initiative of specific people ranging from authors who had already established themselves in various genres to schoolteachers who were aware of the growing needs of the curriculum. As regards the former category, it is important to recognize their role in textbook writing and production while situating writers like Anandaram Dhekiyal Phukan, Hemchandra Barua, Gunabhiram Barua, Lambodar Bara, Padmanath Gohain Barua, and Saratchandra Goswami within the context of modernity. Our tally here is drawn both from the physical copies available even now and from registered lists of textbooks. NOTES 1. As a part of the state formation process, the kings of Early Assam patronized the settlement of Brahmins from mainland India. From the later part of the fourth century AD, different rock inscriptions have been found. These inscriptions provide ample evidences of teaching of different Sanskrit scriptures in Assam. From fourteenth century onward, an organized body of Sanskrit education (tol) flourished in different parts of Assam, which continued to nineteenth century. 2. Madhavadeva, the medieval vernacular poet and religious preacher of Assam, was a prime disciple of Sankaradeva. He authored more than fourteen texts, including plays and songs. Most of the texts were composed based on the Bhagavata and other Sanskrit puranas. Madhavadeva mostly depicted the childhood of Srikrishna. 3. Sridhar Kandali is a contemporary poet of Sankaradeva and Madhavadeva. He authored two minor but significant texts, namely, Ghunuca Kirtana and Kankhowa. Even today, Kankhowa is a popular text among Assamese folks. This text can be termed as the children’s literature in true sense.

132

Chapter 5

4. Hemchandra Barua was one of the most prominent textbook writers of the late nineteenth-century Assam, whose contributions included Asamiya Lorar Byakaran, Adipath (in three parts), and Pathamala. He also translated a sanitary primer for school students. The name of the original text is not mentioned in the translation and it was not discussed by anyone. Recently, Diganta Oza, in an article published in Amar Asam, traced that Barua translated from the original text entitled The Way to Health, which was published by the Madras Christian Vernacular Education Society. This textbook “stressed the evils of fatalism and the simple precautions which might be taken against ill-health. But The Way to Health paid more attention to the causation of specific disasters then the Cuningham’s text, and unlike its predecessor, presented cholera as an essentially waterborne infection” (Harrison 1994, 90).

Conclusion

If we tend to find out the reasons behind the introduction of print in nineteenth-century Assam, we cannot ignore the impetus of modernity that went alongside it. In a tradition that sustained on aurality and manuscripts, print democratized access to the intellectual climate of Assam through the circulation of various magazines and periodicals. The book, as stated in its intended aim, goes beyond these publications to trace the alternative threads and trends of reading and writing that accompanied the intellectual elite-sanctioned publications. The whole idea behind the introduction of print in a largely oral tradition was to circulate the ideas of a newly developing intellectual elite and develop a reading culture. As it shows, through enough evidence in this work, this culture was almost always there in diverse forms. While we have acknowledged the earlier existing trends of analyzing literary histories, we restricted our analyses of alternative trends to specific texts. These texts, as products circulating in largely oral and storytelling cultures, as chapters 2 and 3 suggest, provide the context to analyze the vernacular texts away from and yet contemporaneously with the much-discussed newspapers and magazines. Of course, the role of the latter in addressing social ills in providing a platform for the public to voice their opinions is unarguable. However, in addition to these overwhelming social concerns, a section of people (in the context of the book, women and peasants) attached themselves to certain literary texts that were newly popularized by print. The reasons ranged from medical awareness to recess and refreshment amid a miserable socioeconomic setting. In each of these cases, none of these separate strands can be hierarchized in the sense that one did not exist over and above the other. Print, it is sufficient to say, catered to a variety of reading public. Having said that, we have included as much emphasis on major texts to substantiate our

133

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Conclusion

arguments as well as a detailed analysis of how different categories of reading public were created, keeping in mind their different concerns and tastes. Analyses of literary texts, hence, have gone side by side with analyses of the social contexts in which they were reinvented. Always emphasizing that these texts, mainly premodern, had never left the literary landscape of Assam, even with the advent of colonialism, our interest has remained committed to the conditions that facilitated their undeterred popularity and circulation via print. Pertinent to our understanding of print’s role in colonial Assam are the issues of prescriptive morality, civilizing mission, education, and gender issues. The boundaries between all these indices, as we have seen, are rather fluid and, hence, operate seamlessly in most cases. Chapter 4 and 5 picked up a wide range of texts and essays mainly to highlight different models, maybe of femininity, or even of “civilization.” These models, it would not be wrong to say, are as many and varied as there are texts. It hence remains true to the basic premise of the book—to navigate the multiplicities of an age/ event—and refrains from providing a singular narrative. These disparate sets of writings could be apt objects of analysis, but in the context of the book, we have situated these within the purview of print and the kinds of reading public it catered to. In terms of more institutionalized readership—like those of textbooks—we have seen a variety of ways where the crypto-colonial thrust of modernity is asserted by diverse subject matter incorporated in these. Ranging from moral lessons to reinventing traditional tales accumulated from existing literature, the idea was to look up to the West as the model to emulate and get rid of all practices contrary to their culture. In dealing with the intersection of gender with print modernity in a chapter, we extended the discussion to the chapter on textbooks, too. This is a statement on how children (most often, only young boys) were schooled in the inequalities of “gender” from their formative years. Selection of specific texts, as already stated, has not evaded the larger social concerns of the time, as well as the configuration of class/caste nexus in relation to issues of representation. Not blatantly a critique of existing literary histories thus, the book, we can claim, will open new lenses to look at the literature (and language) of colonial times.

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Index

Page references for figures are italicized. Aesop’s Fables, 3 Agarwala, Chandrakumar, 6, 35 agricultural, 13, 26, 72, 74 agriculture, 6, 26–27, 55, 72, 74, 76–77, 120 akhyanas, 6, 35, 63–64, 79 Ali, Munshi Sakhawat, 8 Alocani, 18, 79, 92, 95 alternative, 2, 5, 39–40, 42–43, 50, 84, 133 Arabian Nights’ Entertainment, 3, 17 Asam-Buranji, 13, 72 Asamiya Bhasa Unnati Sadhini Sabha, 12, 20 “Asamiya Bhasat Bangala Akhar,” 18 Asamiya Dharmapustaka, 20 Asamiya Lorar Mitra, 3, 11, 17, 20, 28–29, 34, 108, 109, 110, 113 Assam, 1, 4–5, 7–8, 11, 13–14, 17–21, 25–29, 31; annexation of, 1; colonial, 1–2, 8, 74, 78, 81–82, 107–8, 117, 121, 131, 134; western, 4 Assamese, standardized, 4 Assamese literature, 1–3, 5–6, 12, 20– 21, 44, 58–61, 79, 107; “Romantic Era” of, 6 Assamese verse, premodern, 5

aurality, 3–4, 6, 8, 42, 53, 57, 93, 133 Bacon, 17 Baptist Missionaries, 11, 14, 20, 42–43, 58 Barbauld, Anna Laetitia, 3, 17 Barkakati, Ramakanta, 6, 78 Barua, Hemchandra, 4, 12, 15, 18, 20, 43, 110, 115, 131 Barua, Jaduram Deka, 14 Barua, Maniram Barbhandar, 14 Barua, Padmanath Gohain, 6, 44, 118, 120, 131 Baruah, Birinchi Kr., 2 Baruah, Gunabhiram, 4, 12, 15, 17–18, 20, 34, 58–59, 61–62, 72, 81, 83, 131 Basu, Rajnarayan, 17 Bengali, 4–5, 8, 13–15, 17–18, 30–31, 34, 37, 41–42, 44, 46–48, 62–63, 70, 78, 91, 109, 113 Bengal Renaissance, 8, 12 Bezbaroa, Lakshminath, 6, 35, 69 bhakti movement, 1, 18, 72 Bhattacharya, Jatindra Mohan, 2 Bhimacarita, 6, 19, 26, 55–58, 60, 62–64, 71–75, 77, 79

141

142

Index

Bhuyan, Jogendranarayan, 2 Bhuyan, Suryya Kumar, 14, 34 Bipra, Haribara, 18 Bloch, Ernst, 7 book history, 6, 49 Bordoloi, Rajanikanta, 6, 58, 78 Bourdieu, 2 Burmese invasions, 5, 15

feminism, 8 feminist, 7, 81, 99 A Few Remarks on the Assamese Language and on Vernacular Education in Assam, 3, 17 gender, 6–7, 81–83, 86, 94, 98–99, 104, 115, 134 gendered print, 6, 81

Calcutta, 4, 6, 17, 31, 34–35, 47, 51, 63, 73, 83 Carey, William, 11, 15, 20 Chatterjee, Partha, 1 Chowdhury, Prasenjit, 2 colonialism, 1, 5, 30, 109, 131, 134 coloniality, 7 colonial modernity, 1–2, 6, 40, 97 colonial period, 1–2, 14, 21, 41, 67 Common School History, 3, 17 communities, 1, 7, 22, 26–27, 45, 48, 53, 62–64, 72, 74, 79, 99, 118 contexts, 2, 22, 55, 82, 134

Gohain, Hiren, 2 Gohain Barua, Padmanath, 6, 44, 118, 120, 131 Goswami, Hemchandra, 6, 61–62 Guha, Amalendu, 2, 5 Gupta, Haribilas, 18

Darnton, 3 Datta, Akshay Kumar, 8 decolonizing methodologies, 2 Deva Goswami, Keshavananda, 2 Deva Goswami, Ranjit Kumar, 2–3, 43 Dharmapustaka, 11, 20 Dhekiyal Phukan, Anandaram, 3–5, 11–12, 15–17, 20, 25, 27, 46–47, 58, 69, 72, 109, 113, 117, 131 Dhekiyal Phukan, Haliram, 13, 34 domestic space, 7, 82, 85, 87–89, 94, 100, 103 education, 1–2, 7–8, 12–13, 17, 20, 25, 29–33, 40, 58, 69–70, 73, 82–103, 105, 107–13, 115–16, 119–21, 134 The Encyclopaedia of Geography, 3, 17 Farwell, Nidhi Levi, 5, 21 Felski, 77, 82, 94 feminine, 6, 81–82, 85–89, 91–97, 99, 103–4, 120

habitus, 2 health, 5–8, 19, 35, 39, 45–46, 49–51, 53, 84, 87, 91, 96, 108, 110–13, 116 healthcare, 111 Hemakosa, 11, 20 Hillenbrand, 2 Hindu College, 12, 17 Hindu consciousness, 94 historiography, literary, 2 humanities, 2 hygiene, 7–8, 19, 23, 45, 50, 53, 84, 91, 108, 110, 112, 116–17 Hymns in Prose of Children, 3, 17 ideal feminine, 6, 81–82, 85–88, 91, 93–94, 96, 103 India: Government of, 5, 13 indigenized, 6, 45, 53 indigenous, 1–2, 4, 6–7, 15, 39–40, 52, 107, 110 Introduction to the English Reader, 3, 17 Johnson, Samuel, 3, 17 Jonaki, 6, 12, 15, 18, 20, 43–44, 57, 59–60, 69, 73–74, 78 Kakati, Banikanta, 43, 64 Kandali, Ananta, 18, 59, 64

Index

Kandali, Madhava, 18, 62 Kavya Kusuma, 18, 59–60 Kirrtan-Ghosa, 16, 19, 74, 102 Kirtana, 18, 61–64, 70–71, 73 Lane, Edward William, 3, 17 literary histories, 2, 5, 22, 25, 57, 61, 113, 134 literary representation, 2 Madhavadeva, 18, 59, 63, 76, 102 magazines, 4–5, 11, 26, 29, 32, 39, 47, 95, 100–101, 104, 120, 133 Mahabharata, 18, 59–60, 62–64, 68, 71–72 manuscript, 3, 14–18, 34, 47–48, 50, 57 Medhi, Kaliram, 15, 43 Miri Jiyari, 6, 79 missionaries, 2, 5, 11–12, 14–15, 20, 22, 42–44, 97 Mission Press, 11, 14, 20 modernities, print, 4 modernity, 1–8, 15; forms of, 1 modernity, print, 21, 53, 104, 134 Mohanty, Chandra Talpade, 7 Murray, Hugh, 3, 17 Murray, Lindley, 3, 17 Nala Damayanti Caritra, 6 Nama-Ghosa, 16, 19 nationalism, 2, 7–8, 62 Neog, Dimbeswar, 2, 20, 62, 71 Neog, Maheswar, 2, 27, 50 new vernacular, 4–5, 11–12, 20, 43 Nineteenth-century, 2, 5, 11, 14, 18, 21, 37, 39–41, 55, 60, 63, 72, 76–77, 86, 133 nonsynchronicity, 7, 83 non-Western, 1 novel, 2, 6, 20, 42, 64, 77–79, 95, 102 orality, 3, 19 oral tradition(s), 2, 6, 19, 45, 57, 62–63, 133

143

Orunodoi, 3, 5, 11–12, 15, 20–22, 24– 25, 27–30, 83–84 Parley, Peter, 3, 17 periodicals, 2, 4–5, 26, 29, 32, 95, 104, 120, 133 periodization, 2 Phukan, Juggoram Khargharia, 5, 13 Phukan, Kabin, 2 Phukan, Kashinath Tamuli, 14 Pir, Jolkad Ali, 14 post-colonial study, 2 Prahlada Caritra, 15, 63–64 premodern, 1, 2, 4–6, 8, 14, 18–23, 25, 42, 58–59, 64, 68–69, 72, 76, 79, 107, 134 print: advent of, 1, 3–5, 11, 19–20, 39, 55, 57, 64; age of, 3; coming of, 1, 4, 11, 32; culture, 11, 39–40, 81; pre-, 4, 20 progress, 7, 25–26, 28–30, 44, 91–92, 96–97, 101, 103, 108 publication history, 5–6, 47, 59 Ramayana, 18, 62–63, 68–72 Rambler, 3, 17 Rammohan, 5, 13 Ram-Navami, 18, 62, 81–83 rationality, 5, 7, 22, 24, 83 readership, 4–5, 19, 50, 56, 58, 61, 63, 79, 100–101, 134 reading, extensive, 3 reading, silent, 3–4 reading public, 3–4, 12, 22, 59, 61, 64, 100–101, 103, 133–34 regional, 3, 43 religious texts, 1, 46, 64, 93, 100, 114 representation, 2, 7, 44, 115, 134 Saikia, Nagen, 2, 14, 35–36, 73 Samachar Chandrika, 5, 14, 34 Samachar Darpan, 5, 13–14, 47 Sanci, 18 Sankaradeva, 18, 19, 59, 61, 63, 102, 107

144

Saraswati, Hema, 15 Saraswati, Rama, 6, 18, 58–60, 62–69 Sarma, Atmaram, 20 Sarma, Satyendranath, 2, 64 Sarma, Tirthanath, 2, 20, 58, 64 Sati, 5, 14 Satyar Path, 14, 34 science, 7–8, 17, 91, 108 Shakespeare, 17 Shakuntala, 18 short story, 6, 35, 69 Srimadbhagavata, 19 standardization, 1, 2, 6, 12–13, 20, 40– 41, 43–44; of language, 1, 12 storytelling, 6, 55, 63–64, 67–71, 73, 77, 84, 93, 115, 133 Sutika Patal, 4–5, 7, 21, 39, 41–43, 45–47, 53

Index

textbooks, 8, 26, 37, 44, 107–15, 117– 21, 131, 134 texts: paradigmatic, 2; production of, 1– 2; religious, 1, 46, 64, 93, 100, 114 translation, 1, 3, 5–6, 8, 17, 30–31, 39, 41–42, 45, 47–50, 53, 60, 69, 85 vernacular, 3–6, 11–12, 17, 20, 22, 42–43, 58, 101, 121 verse, premodern, 4–6, 18, 20–23, 42, 79 women, 4, 6–8, 18, 24, 27, 31–32, 42, 48–51, 53, 70–71, 78, 81–104, 112, 119–21, 133 women’s organizations, 6, 81, 98–104 Wordsworth, William, 13

About the Authors

Raktima Bhuyan teaches undergraduate and postgraduate students at the Department of English, Tezpur University. She likes everything “visual” about research, books, and art. Sanjib Pol Deka is an assistant professor at the Department of Assamese, Tezpur University, Assam. He is a noted short-story writer and has won the Sahitya Akademi Yuva Award, among other accolades.

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