There is a very well-known sentence in the history of literature – ‘The past is a different country, it does things differently there’ (‘The past is a different country, with its own geography, its own customs’). This is the first sentence of the novel ‘The Go-Between’, written by Hartley in 1953. Here by calling the past as another country, perhaps we are being told that we should not look at the past from the perspective of the present. Because then time becomes space, history becomes geography. We divide time into three parts – past, present and future. It is like dividing a flowing ocean into three parts, which is done for our convenience. Can we separate our past lives from our present? Doesn’t its shadow fall on the present? I discussed this matter with Sumitra Mehrol. Sumitraji is a Dalit woman, whose autobiography ‘Toote Pankhon Se Parvaaz Tak’ was the subject of our discussion. There were challenges in Sumitraji’s life at three levels – being disabled, being a Dalit and being a woman. A fourth level can also be added – economic problems. In her autobiography, when Sumitra talks about her childhood and tells about her life full of disregard and condemnation, the hearts of the readers are moved. Today she is a successful writer, teaches, has a house and her children are also on the path of success. In such a situation, what is their relation with that past, which was full of sorrows? While thinking this, it came to my mind that autobiography is written when we come out after struggling with sorrows, there is no sorrow in them. Time does not dominate us, we leave it behind and escape from its grip. The past does not disappear, its scary demons still knock on the doors of our present, but now we are capable enough to decide how long to keep those demons in the house. Here I am talking about such trauma, which is a part of Sumitra and many people’s lives to a greater or lesser degree. A past full of accidents does not become a geography, but it definitely becomes a tired demon, whose fear starts diminishing. In such a situation, giving the form of literature to life, autobiographies, novels etc. are written, especially by those who have always been on the margins. That’s a thing of the past, but I’m also interested in the autobiographical form. If I understand ‘autobiography’ not just as a biography written by myself, but as the story of the self, then many new aspects open up. Gandhiji probably understood autobiography in this form – development of the self. Perhaps that is why when some well-wisher tells him that we do not write autobiographies, only people from western countries do, he replies, when did I say that I am writing an autobiography, I am only talking about the experiments of truth. This shows that Gandhiji’s intention was not about his physical identity but about his inner journey. This literary form, which came from Western countries, was transformed by Gandhiji and it also became an excuse to have a conversation with the conscience. One more thing is different from western countries and I have understood this difference while thinking about the autobiography. Can we write our own story in which we are alone? Our life is connected with many people, whether they are our own, favorite people or not. Our ‘self’ is not an isolated island with no one else around. I remember my mother being frantic during the Covid pandemic. She was barely educated till class three and had no means to pass her time. I told them, whatever comes to your mind, write about yourself. He started but immediately gave up. She said that she was writing her and my autobiography, then she felt that she did not have to tell everything. Autobiography is only of one person, so what is the meaning of his autobiography and mine? Then I felt that our life experiences and literary form do not agree with each other. In a society where we cannot even imagine ourselves outside the family, autobiography cannot be just our own. Ramanujan says in a poem, ‘I look like everyone except myself.’ Many times, while searching for our photographs, we find signatures of our ancestors. This is the irony of autobiography – its form is different from the experience of life. Can we write our own story in a way in which we are alone? Our life is connected with many people, whether they are our own, favorite people or not. Our ‘self’ is not an isolated island with no one else around. (These are the author’s own views)
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Rita Kothari’s Column: Can we ever tell only our own story?
