The Partition of India has always attracted authors on both sides of the divide. Many summers ago we had the peerless Saadat Hasan Manto pen “Toba Tek Singh”. Set in a madhouse, it was a desperate call for sanity. Later when he had gone to Pakistan, he penned “Siyah Hashiye”, completely disillusioned by the new nation. Then we have had the venerable Krishna Sobti with her tale of social transformation wrought by Partition in “Sikka Badal Gaya”. Not to forget Kamleshwar's path-breaking Aur Kitney Pakistan, a deeply moving story of unrequited love.

Hard-hitting
Mridula Garg's Anitya may not directly be set in Partition but in its own, at times brusque, at times smooth, fashion, this 30-year-old novel hurts. One moment you admire her beguiling simple expression, she almost seems to be relating a tale to while away long summer afternoons. Next moment she jolts you with her trenchant choice of words, and twists and layers you never suspected the story of having! All along you marvel at Seema Segal's English translation of the Hindi novel. Seema retains not just the essence. Instead, the spirit is captured, the milieu easily transported to readers not necessarily familiar. Anitya is not a historical novel yet sounds a moral warning against repeating the wrongs of the past.

The 250-odd-page novel that Mridula wrote in nine months way back in 1980 is a gripping interplay of personal and political choices as the author weaves in the violent form of the freedom struggle put forth by revolutionary leaders like Bhagat Singh and Chandrasekhar Azad — laudably, the leaders are not addressed as revolutionary terrorists as was the wont of a section at one time — and the non-violent movement led by Mahatma Gandhi with the lives of the protagonists. And Avijit, the protagonist, is identifiable to almost all; there are good qualities: he treats his subordinates as living, breathing human beings with their problems and assets. In this case Bhandari with a sick daughter and a recuperating aged mother. Of course, Avijit has human frailties too: he is alternately both short-tempered, and within whistling distance of being seduced by Satan.

Study in contrasts
Even as Avijit struggles with a loss of identity, there is another facet: Anitya, the alter-ego who refuses to lose his power of dreams. And then even his disillusionment. If Avijit refuses to laugh at himself because he might not have faith in himself, Anitya laughs at people and at himself because he is lacking in neither humour nor faith. Then there are others, each of whom is a product of our freedom struggle that had its troughs and a system where greed is not too distant or rare a visitor.

With her choice of words, Mridula is at once disdainful and daring. She says usual things in unusual ways and the unusual ones with a bewildering simplicity. Not holding any punches, she spares none: the politician who is a freedom fighter, has another, not as laudable aspect to his life. She simply expresses it as, “Pandit Yagyadutt Sharma had only two passions, fighting for Independence and collecting mistresses.” She even takes little digs at our society where even charity does not always come without strings attached. She writes about Sangeeta, “Girls who are educated on charity put ‘ji' after their lover's name....” It is in such moments that she jolts. And as she adds layers to the story, you recover your stability, and carry on to finish a novel that she once said, “is as relevant now as it was when first written”. From the evidence on offer, we can take her word. This take on life on either side of Independence is worth a trip.

                                                                                 (The Literary Review)

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