AfsanaBadosh ep 5: Listen to Krishan Chander's 'Jamun Ka Ped' | Presented by Firstpost and Jashn-E-Qalam

Editorial support, execution and text by Neerja Deodhar | Art by Pinaki De | Episode edited by Varun Patil AFSANABADOSH afsana (story, legend) | khanabadosh (vagabond, gypsy) AfsanaBadosh is the coming-together of stories and a vagabond perspective to traversing the world of fiction. It is embodied by the sort of person whose head is always in a book, or who looks for stories in the places they visit and people they meet. But it is not that cliche of an old man with a long, white beard who trades in legend and cannot rest in one place. AfsanaBadosh is us: ordinary individuals who have experienced the beauty of storytelling in different contexts — as a way to better know the world, to find a sense of solace, and to enrich and entertain. It speaks to an ability to listen to and contend with ideas different from our own; to learn from the past and build a better future. AfsanaBadosh is Firstpost and Jashn-E-Qalam’s celebration of the spirit of storytelling through narrations of fiction written by some of Hindi and Urdu’s greatest writers. These include Rajinder Singh Bedi, Saadat Hasan Manto, Mannu Bhandari, Krishan Chander and Premchand. The stories that are part of this project have been chosen for their continuing social resonance, decades after they were published. The foundation of each story is a sense of truth, whether real or imagined. Episode 5 — Krishan Chander’s ‘Jamun Ka Ped’, performed by Shashwita Sharma. Listen to more episodes here . *** KRISHAN CHANDER is considered a master of many themes, including satire and romantic realism. He was accused of being an incorrigible idealist, wrote critic and literary historian Rakhshanda Jalil, despite being a leading member of the Progressive Writers’ Movement. Many of his protagonists belonged to underprivileged, marginalised backgrounds, and he wrote strongly against communalism. His stories are also influenced greatly by Kashmir, where he spent his childhood, and the Partition, which he was witness to. Lahore and its modern cosmopolitanism, too, shaped his intellectual imagination. Chander is remembered as a prolific writer who produced 30 collections of short stories and 20 novels, while also dabbling in film writing and essays. Among his well-known works are ‘Ghaddaar’, his first novel Shikast, ‘Mahalakshmi Ka Pull’ and ‘Kachra Baba’. The Streisand effect, whereby hiding or forcibly trying to wipe out certain information leads to an unintended explosion of said information, is an inevitable consequence of many incidents involving censorship. Such is also the case with Krishan Chander’s ‘JAMUN KA PED’, which was dropped from the syllabus of the ICSE board in 2019, a few months before students were due to take the Board examinations.

The reason for this decision was never offered, or revealed — a point where reality began to mimic the very piece of fiction it was trying to erase. The move was condemned by writers and educators, who criticised authorities for underestimating the intelligence of young students. The irony is that the lesson offered by Chander’s story is an inherent part of the experience of living in India. At some point, through others’ experiences and their own, these students would go on to learn about the needlessly complicated workings of the country’s bureaucracy, plagued as it is by red-tapism — where one person’s file may move from desk to desk for decades, with no real end in sight. The essence of Chander’s story is captured at the very beginning: the news of a man trapped under a jamun tree passes on like a Chinese whisper, instead of rousing people into action to save him. The incident occurs in the lawns of a secretariat building, and multiple discussions are had about who must handle the situation. The file concerning this incident travels across the desks of so many officers that the reader/listener soon loses count. At one point, there are more individuals mourning the potential loss of this tree than supporters for the man crushed under it. A debate about whether the man should be cut in half rather than the tree is sparked; surely the man could be sewn up by a plastic surgeon, people think out loud. The absurdity of the situation increases manifold when one realises the man in question is a celebrated poet. The cultural department is briefly involved, but they make it clear that this does not pertain to them — a sly condemnation of the cold, calculative way in which we conveniently separate the artist from the art, which has seemingly not changed since the 1960s, when this story was published. The poet’s file moves to the foreign affairs department and ultimately to the office of the Prime Minister, where a resolution is achieved.

When it is a matter of life and death, it is painfully evident that bureaucratic blackholes and an unnecessary focus on jurisdiction and semantics are really just a way to abandon and shirk responsibility.

A police perimeter is set up around the lawn to ensure no one tries to save the man’s life, as this would be illegal in the eyes of the law. This is a death that can only be attributed to “protocol”, and ultimately, negligence. These days, red-tapism is cited as a hindrance to the “ease of doing business”. In many other contexts, it could be weaponised into creating “unease” of a more insidious nature.