Bridge the gap

 

The concern is not about the survival of literature but its diminished role in shaping public consciousness. If universities stop supporting literature, it could become a niche interest

The decision by Canterbury Christ Church University, Kent, to discontinue English literature degrees at the undergraduate level from September 2025 marks a significant shift in academic priorities. Goldsmiths, University of London, is also cutting its Black British Literature and Black British History master’s programmes, while Oxford Brookes University and Surrey University are downsizing staff in several humanities departments, including History, English and Music.

Universities often cite financial pressures and waning student interest as reasons for discontinuing certain programmes, particularly in the arts and the humanities. English literature courses, once considered a cornerstone of liberal education, are increasingly seen as less ‘practical’ compared to STEM disciplines. The job market’s emphasis on technical skills and data-driven roles overshadows the intangible yet profound benefits of studying literature.

Another factor is the cultural and demographic shift in student preferences. In a world increasingly shaped by immediate outcomes, the long-term intellectual and ethical rewards of a literature degree may appear abstract. Additionally, the rise in tuition fees in the United Kingdom has made students more cautious about their returns on investment, steering them toward courses with clear career pathways.

Can the waning interest in literature also be attributed to the growing influence of social media and its impact on attention spans? Studies suggest that the average human attention span has declined significantly in the last two decades, partly due to the rise of digital technologies. Literature demands patience and depth. Reading a voluminous Charles Dickens novel or analysing a complex play by Shakespeare requires cognitive and emotional investments that social media inherently discourages. The dopamine-driven cycles of likes, comments, and shares stand in stark contrast to the quiet, introspective pleasures of reading. For a generation raised on these platforms, literature might seem irrelevant, a relic of slower times incompatible with the hyperactive, visual culture of today.

Cultural loss

The erosion of English literature programmes is not just an academic loss but also a cultural one. Literature connects us across time and space, offering insights into the human condition that remain relevant regardless of era or geography. Moreover, literature develops critical skills. By engaging with multiple perspectives, grappling with ambiguity, and empathising with diverse characters, students of literature learn to navigate complexity — a skill that is arguably more essential now than ever.

The concern is not about the survival of literature but its diminished role in shaping public consciousness. If universities stop supporting literature, it could become a niche interest. This shift might lead to a cultural decline.

Universities and educators must adapt to these changing times. Integrating technology into the curriculum can attract tech-savvy students. Moreover, addressing the perception of impracticality is crucial. Institutions must showcase how literature graduates excel in fields like journalism, public relations, law, and even technology where creativity and communication are invaluable. Finally, fostering a culture that values slow, reflective learning as a counterbalance to digital overload is essential.

The task ahead is to bridge the gap between the timeless relevance of literary study and the demands of a modern, attention-fragmented world. By doing so, we can ensure that the treasures of English literature are not lost to future generations but rediscovered in new and innovative ways.

Aditya Mukherjee

Source: Telegraph India, 17/02/25

Namvar Singh defined the contours of Hindu literary culture

Namvar Singh was inarguably the first and the only Hindi scholar and intellectual who commanded the respectful attention of luminaries from the world of social sciences and politics.

The most brilliant mind of our literary world is no more. The death of Hindi literary critic Namvar Singh truly marks the end of an era. What was this era? It was defined by the excitement of creation and an eagerness to sincerely engage with it. It can, therefore, be called a true age of criticism. Namvar Singh was shaped by the Gandhi-Nehru era, which has been the only period of criticism in modern India. For, criticism exists only with creation. But the task of criticism is not to validate creation or be its propagandist. Criticism is not secondary to creation. Since creation is, in itself, a response, a critical one to the existing reality, it must submit itself to criticism, which examines it by the standards it has set autonomously.

Advertising

Namvar Singh epitomised this spirit of criticism. Hindi has seen great critics like Ram Chandra Shukla and Hazari Prasad Dwivedi or Ram Vilas Sharma, but Namvar Singh strode like a colossus. It is seldom that a critic remains at the centre of literary discussion for more than half a century. Namvar Singh, trained in the classical literary traditions, was equally conversant with modern literary canons. He called himself a humble disciple of Dwivedi, who in turn was influenced by the cosmic and cosmopolitan vision of Rabindranath Tagore.

Nothing is beyond criticism, was the motto of the guru and the shishya. No tradition, no canon was sacred or holy enough to not be tested by the fire of criticism. Namvar Singh had tradition in his bones and could, therefore, question its lofty claims — he knew when tradition was a source of nourishment and when it turned into a deadening disease. He was the last authoritative voice on the Aapabhransha literature in Hindi and knew his Sanskrit so well that the Sanskrit scholars never tried to dispute his judgement. Namvar Singh held that tradition can never be seen as singular, it had to be plural. His book, which is also a tribute to his guru, is titled Doosri Parampara Ki Khoj. There was no one single high tradition to which all “little” traditions must submit. He loved new voices. Young writers remember with gratitude and fondness the phone calls and postcards from Namvar Singh. He preferred to err on the side of New. Only Ashok Vajpeyi comes close to him in this respect.

The range of Namvar Singh’s scholarship was mind-boggling. He was inarguably the first and the only Hindi scholar and intellectual who commanded the respectful attention of luminaries from the world of social sciences and politics. He remained a voracious reader till the last and, like Bipan Chandra, fought his weakening eyesight to keep reading. It can be said that reading ate into his writing time. He remained a reluctant writer. People often treated this as laziness, but those who knew him well understood that it was his humility, the result of his companionship with the greats of the world of letters, that made him a reluctant writer.

Namvar Singh is described as a Marxist critic. But the adjective is redundant when applied to his work. Criticism is not a colony of social sciences. In fact, its autonomy from ideological labels makes it a worthwhile activity. He also did not fall into the trap of theory, which became a fashion in the West and marginalised the discipline of criticism for a long time. For Namvar Singh, practical criticism was essential to keep the act of criticism relevant, not only to literature but to life itself. He was the first Marxist to challenge the official Marxian aesthetic canons and introduce revisionists or unofficial Marxists such as Walter Benjamin, Theodore Adorno and Antonio Gramsci to the Hindi reading public.

Namvar Singh developed a unique writing style. He wore his scholarship lightly and his writing was accessible even to those uninitiated into literary discourses. He was also popular as a orator, who commanded large followings in big and small towns. People from all walks of life thronged to listen to him. Not surprisingly, some called this frugal writer a representative of vachik tradition.

Namvar Singh never sacrificed his teaching for the sake of his other vocation, writing. He was faithful to his students, and prepared meticulously for his classes. He enjoyed polemics. There has not been a better master of this art than him. But he yearned for dialogue and understanding. Criticism can remain democratic only by inviting conversation.

In the passing away of Namvar Singh, the art of the word has lost a true lover.

Source: Indian Express, 21/02/2019

On Indian writing in English

Even as literature festivals mushroom, Indian literary fiction in English may have hit a rough patch

The speakers’ list at the Zee Jaipur Literature Festival (Zee-JLF) generally works as a useful guide to what is happening in the world of books. Follow the list and you are sure to come across several new authors, and old established names that have been making waves because they have had, or will have, books out soon. Judged by this yardstick, what the speakers’ list at this year’s festival has to say must give the world of Indian publishing some pause, if not cause for worry. At least, when it comes to literary publishing.

Run a quick check of the big-ticket names at the Festival this year, specifically for those who practice the art of ‘literature’, as opposed to churning out quickies that can be read cover to cover in the space of one longish flight or books on economics, history, strategic or political affairs, that one sees so much of at the Zee-JLF every year. There was Paul Beatty, the latest Man Booker Prize winner, as the main draw, backed by a few earlier winners of the coveted Prize – Alan Hollinghurst and Richard Flanagan, eminent, established writers with substantial oeuvres. And then the poets: Anne Waldman, reknown American experimental poet, but more of a cult figure we know of from history of literature classes. And Kate Tempest, who is among the brightest of young sparks around, a billing she more than justified with a mesmerising performance of her long-form verse Let Them Eat Chaos.

Yes, where were the Indians? Sadly, few and far between. Among the best known were Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni, venerable writer of feminist-themed (mostly) novels who is out with a book this year; and Karan Mahajan, who’s The Association of Small Books has been the unexpected recipient of rave reviews in the West (even as it has been largely ignored back home here). Among the significant others were Tabish Khair, much-feted novelist, poet, writer, whose latest novel, Jihadi Jane, tackled the burning issue of our times – what makes young men and women, brought up with every privilege and liberty in the West, join extremist Islamists? And there was Manju Kapoor, who, too, had a book out this year. For the rest, there were Manu Joseph (as moderator of a few sessions, rather than panelist), poet-novelist Keki Daruwalla, Vikram Chandra, Mridula Koshy, Tishani Doshi, and Chandrahas Choudhury. None, really, of the top rung.

The point here is not to run down any of these authors, but to ask – where are the Indian Writers in English, the ‘IWE’ category that was once a darling of the English publishing scene internationally? Are there fewer books in the category coming out, or is it that they are coming out to less and less acclaim? Last year, for the first time in many years, not a single book by an Indian writer, even one of Indian origin such as Sanjeev Sahota who was on the 2015 shortlist, made it to the Man Booker Prize longlist. Publishers might well say that the Man Booker is no arbiter of merit – indeed there are many things to be said about the politics of international prizes. But the absolute no-show must say something about the general state of fiction writing in English in these parts. Have English writers, in a sense, run out of new stories that will take the world by storm? Or does the problem lie with our publishing industry that has become too accustomed to the easy profits of pulp fiction and does not want to risk its money on something unconventional?

It is possible, of course, to look at the phenomenon in terms of the global turn towards non-fiction, which now accounts for nearly two-thirds of all books sold (with self-help and colouring books as the two largest categories!).

And indeed, with the likes of Rishi Kapoor and Aishwarya Rajnikant Dhanush trying their hand at writing, it is no wonder that the publishing industry has so little time for the staid literary novelist. Perhaps, Arundhati Roy, who is out with her first novel in 20 years, will turn the tables in favour of the literary novel this year. What are the chances Roy will be in Jaipur next year?

The author is Features Editor, DNA.

Source: DNA, 15-02-2017

Jan 16 2015 : The Times of India (Delhi)

'You've heard of Kalidas but what about Keshavdas?'





Sheldon Pollock, a professor of South Asian studies at Columbia University and the library's general editor, talks to TOI...

Did you consider transliterating original scripts in Roman script to connect with younger readers with limited language skills?
Yes, we thought a lot about it. But kids need to learn their script. Three generations of Turkish children have lost access to their past because Ataturk moved the country to Roman script. Chinese thought about abandoning their script but didn't, and they haven't suffered for it.

Is there no Indian language community that is doing justice to its literary past?
No. In modern Bengal everyone knows Bankim and Tagore but who has read Bharat Chandra, the 18th century poet? How many Hindi readers know of 16th century Hindi poet Keshavdas? Who reads ancient Telugu texts? Sanskrit? All Indian languages are equally disadvantaged. This is true across the world but in India, the case is more extreme because the legacy is so rich and complex. In Italy I can throw money at Latin, but in India?

The last year saw some very acrimonious attacks on Sanskrit scholars of Hindu texts, books were banned, publishers arm twisted. As a scholar what is your reaction?
When Wendy Doniger was banned, I was in India and among those who organized petitions etc. But I get that there is a sense of humiliation, anger and resentment that is an aftermath of colonialism. This anger is real and needs to be acknowledged. How do we get together around the metaphorical table and acknowledge each other's claims? Not denounce, suppress or shoot but agree to disagree or find areas of disagreement. MCLI will try and provide that context for the discussion. These books don't set out to demonstrate India's diversity, they simply report it. If they don't like it now, well, maybe they will some years later.

But the books do come at a time when the debate over culture and history is heating up.
We want to build a library of India's greatest literature. Contexts will change, shapes will shift, and passions will moderate. People will read and think through their position.





Jul 31 2014 : Mirror (Pune)

The great raconteur





When I don't write I feel as if I am unclothed, like I haven't had a bath. Like I haven't had my first drink: Manto punemirror.feedback@gmail.com

Describing the squalid chawl in which he lived in Bombay, Saadat Hasan Manto writes, “The place was so full of bed bugs that they fell from the roof like rain.“ Nor were his working conditions any better. Mr Nazir, he says, hired him for a salary of forty rupees a month. “After he discovered that I was sleeping in the office, he began cutting two rupees from my salary towards rent every month. When he got me another job alongside, as a munshi at the Imperial Studios, on a salary of forty rupees, Mr Nazir cut my salary from “Musawwar“ by half to twenty rupees.“This extract is from The Story of My Wedding in Manto's Why I Write, a lively collection of his non-fiction, translated and edited by Aakar Patel. (Tranquebar 2014). Patel writes, “It is difficult to think of better literature in our languages than his... Living and working in Bombay was the happiest phase of Manto's life. If it had not been for Partition, he would have lived and worked here till he died...It isn't surprising that he left Bombay, given his young family and the barbarism of those days, but the story of why he didn't return remains a mystery.“
The editor tells us that most of the pieces in the book were written for newspapers, and, possibly except for two, none have been translated before. He adds, “I have edited, clipped, trimmed and rewritten a few of them, perhaps more than I should have. For this, Manto will forgive me.“ This is an intriguing comment. In what way did he rewrite?
Nevertheless, for the most part the editor's comments on individual stories and on Manto's life are informative and incisive, and add to our understanding of an extraordinary person and writer. “Manto accepts the fault and the culpability of his co-religionists first.
This is something very few of us can still do in the subcontinent.“
In Pakistan, Manto was surprised to find himself preside over the annual Iqbal Day.
“Surprising because he had no love for the Islamic State... But the one thing he had in com mon with the man he was eulogising was that they were both persecuted. Iqbal for his heresies (he wrote a complaint against god, a great poem called Shikwa) and Manto because he rejected conventionalism of every sort... Both men ... became heroes after their death. Iqbal for those who loved Pakistan and Manto for those who hated it.“
Some of Manto's fiercest pieces, such as God is gracious in Pakistan were deeply anti-fundamentalist. “But now, praise god! We can find neither poet nor musician. Allah help us, their music was the most debased thing. Are humans meant to sing? Sitting with their tanpuras and wailing away. And singing what?... Ever since Pakistan has been cleansed of poets, the very air around us has become pure and unpolluted...Pictures of naked women and statues of them sculpted in those days...'Mr Artist, sir! How well you have reproduced the female form...These breasts...' Lord have mercy, what did I just say.
Please excuse me while I wash my mouth.“
So why does Manto write? “The most important reason is that I'm addicted to writing, just as I am to drinking. When I don't write I feel as if I am unclothed, like I haven't had a bath. Like I haven't had my first drink.“
The editor, Aakar Patel has worked in the textile industry and in journalism, and has edited newspapers in English and Gujarati, and oversaw the Urdu daily Inquilab. He also writes columns for papers from Pakistan.

Jul 24 2014 : Mirror (Pune)

Till human voices wake us

EUNICE de SOUZA





T S Eliot was a significant poet who wrote wonderful lines, but led poetry into a dead end

I taught T S Eliot's poetry for several years, but have only just begun to wonder if he is the great poet I thought he was. Obvious ly he was a significant poet, and wrote some wonderful lines, but I also think he led poetry into a kind of dead end, as Joyce did with his Ulysses and Finnegan's Wake. Startling as writing, but where could one go from there?
He seemed to be intent on going against the grain by publishing a poem such as The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, in 1917 during the World War. In contrast to the war poems of Wilfred Owen, Isaac Rosenberg, Edward Thomas and others, Prufrock is entirely an “internal“ poem, in which a diffident middle-aged man, spends his time mumbling and grumbling to himself about his inadequacies, the inadequacies of the high society to which he belongs.Prufrock, despite his stodgy name, feels immersed in his life of fantasy, lyrical longings, until the voices of ordinary society make him feel as if he is drowning in the banal. He hears the magic voices of mermaids till ordinary human voices with their mundane preoccupations make him “drown.“
“I have measured out my life in coffee spoons,“ he says memorably on one occasion. It seems oddly self-indulgent for a writer who denounced the Romantics, and felt that poetry should be “impersonal.“ This word “impersonal“ has been used as a stick with which to beat women writers, for their apparently “bare all “ writing, while many male writers have been read differently from women writers talking about the same thing. Think of Nissim Ezekiel who wrote about a failed marriage and other such without any critic commenting on the fact.
It is easy to fault Prufrock. On the other hand, what is one supposed to do when the world appears to be falling apart? It's an endless debate. Is there something one can do, or is it best to concentrate on playing chess, writing poems, avoiding news on TV and in newspapers? Friends who work in foreign-funded NGOs are often frustrated by the insolence of the donors, and give up their jobs despite their very high salaries. Best to concentrate on coffee spoons?
Prufock is a poem more relevant to our experience than the much-touted The Wasteland.
The Wasteland is a significant poem, full of cultural references. But these are references to which the average person has no access. Not that a poet has to tailor his references to the average person. An academic can certainly work out the puzzles, but what is the point if a poem becomes a chore for the reader? Would anyone want to buckle down and read it for the good of one's soul?
The pity is that such work has overshad owed truly memorable and accessible poems such as Auden's Shield of Achilles, in which, he talks about the state of the world, and laments the fact that we have never learned to weep when others wept. The second-last stanza reads A ragged urchin, aimless and alone,Loitered about that vacancy; a birdFlew up to safety from his well-aimed stone.That girls are raped, that two boys knife a third,Were axioms to him who'd never heardOf any world where promises were kept,Or one could weep because another wept.
That's a poem worth treasuring, not just reading as a culturally significant chore.