The Red Line: Where is the Border?

BHARADESH

Bharadesh, Acrylic on Canvas, 2008. Photo Credit: The Artist.

“When my stay in India between the years 2002-2009 (my education at Rabindra Bharati University, Kolkata) had started drawing to a close, I would often record my experiences by writing or by painting them. During the final phase of my stay (2007-’08), I chose deliberately to execute my paintings in the small format so I could express my feelings using as few words as possible.

This forms the backdrop of Pater Katha (the story of the scrolls) – a series of my paintings, which explores themes of segregation and solitude, intrinsic to my life away from Chattogram in Bangladesh to Kolkata in India.

Enmeshed in an abysmal darkness and a loss of the self, my paintings would most often take the form of a patchwork of my feet and palms stencilled against a dark background as though to say “this is the mark”. Thus, my existence began to make its presence felt – etched on an uncharted geography – which appeared in the series. In others, I would often paint an imaginary country, to which I had given the name of ‘Bharadesh’ and made by morphing the maps of Bangladesh and India (Bharatbarsha). This emerged as a utopian space, into which I would try and identify myself. These were painted in different times rendering a multitude of experiences.

The folk-art form of patachitras in these parts of the world exhibit an indigenous form – events from a continuous narrative are delineated on individual panels on scrolls, retaining their continuity. It is this strange and yet astonishing form of narration – disjunctive and yet continuous that had impacted me deeply. I found the form suited to my own way of narrating a personal story. Subsequently, I produced these paintings at different times and amalgamated them to create ‘Pater Katha’.”

RED BORDER LINE

Red Border Line, Street Performance, Guwahati, Assam, July 2008. Photo Credit: The Artist.

“The day man discovered power, he wanted establish authority over others. He drew lines on the earth and built walls to exert power, moving against nature. He finally discovers himself caught in the labyrinth of borders that he has produced for himself. Borders that thwart him from moving freely or to return to his people whom he had left ages ago.

In 2008, I travelled to Guwahati, one of the most significant cities in Northeast India, to attend a residency programme at the Desire Machine Collective. I fell in love for the city at first sight owing to its surprising similarity with my hometown, Chattogram. Very soon I realized to my dismay the city’s extremely complicated political situation. A multitude of various ethnic groups remain in conflict with each other. Apart from these ethnic groups, people from West Bengal, Bihar, from other parts of India, and even from Bangladesh become embroiled in these conflicts. I have always felt that such distrust and hatred stems from not knowing each other well enough.

Witnessing such a scenario, I decided to execute a work at Zoo Road, Guwahati, titled, Red Border Line. I drew a red line across this street in Guwahati, imagining that I had created two different lands. Whenever a pedestrian crossed it, I asked him/her about the aspect of the country, people, politics, and migration – among other issues – and specifically contemporary political problems of Assam. This was an attempt to trace the sources of discrimination and hatred between people, and relay the voices of both indigenous and migrant people, and what they think about their land, governance, and life.”

MEMORIES WITH TERRORISM

Memories with Terrorism, Acrylic on Canvas, 2009. Image Credit: The Artist.

“The country has always been there since its inception; it is only the people that have changed. And in this transformation, people have ripped, dissected and fractured the country too, altering it irretrievably. Sometimes the piecing began from the right; at other times it began from the left; often the line of dissection started from the very centre of the land. History tells me that this land, the earth had been divided a million of times; it is getting divided further; perhaps it will be split yet again. The people on this land are born within these splits. And over these fractures, they die lamenting.

Which city was he born? Where did he die? These questions soon vanish from our minds. In the war of divisions, our countries bleed. And the stain dries up and vanishes as soon as it touches the grounds. And on these grounds, still smeared with such stains perhaps grow countless flowering plants and trees. Some might take flowers from those flowering trees and spread them over the land and forget hundreds of stories of separation. History cannot record all of our stories. But does that mean our stories must vanish in the darkness? Does that mean they will not travel over the lands and into the people’s hearts to make their eyes fill with tears? Will no one ever be able to discern the dry and brown stains on the dusty grey land?”

WORDS ON ME

Words on Me, Etching on Digital Print, 2009. Photo Credit: The Artist.

“My neighbourhood created many selves: Hindu, Dandi, Bangal, Bangladeshi, Muslim, Asian, Bengali, Terrorist. Many of us have never protested against such constructions, nor even wanting to know their meanings. Many of us journey in search of new identities, giving up old ones. Some are exhausted while others have accepted defeat. Still others are pursuing unknown destinations, unwilling to accept defeat. When we look back at what we have achieved and realize that we are left in a vacuum – a lonely world without the dear ones – all become meaningless in the end. Identity has only a single colour – red. This realization remains a true knowledge of civilization.”

STORY OF NO PEOPLE’S LAND

Story of No People’s Land, Watercolour on Paper, 2009. Photo Credit: The Artist.

“The map must remain by the window of my room. Within the closest reach, right where my pillow is placed on my bed. A dream map, one in which I can easily enter and exit; a map where two countries are interlaced; where visas and passports would be redundant and one is not compelled to occupy a specific portion of a land, for one is never at peace if one has to choose between one’s mother and lover. I would like a map that can easily be folded and hidden behind the curtains in order to avert the evil eye. Now listen to me quietly. Hold a fragment of this map safe in your heart and I shall wait for you holding the other, till we are bonded by affection.”

RED MAP

Red Map, Etching, 2009. Photo Credit: The Artist.

“Gazes. Countless gazes. It is impossible to avert from them and hide away. Hundreds of eyes through the windows and walls, the skies and grounds gaze at me impassively. They pervade everything and usurp even personal and intimate space. They thwart me from sharing my deepest secrets; a terrible invasion of privacy that relentlessly enjoys and censor’s identity, relationships, and even lovemaking. These gazes can read the mind, as though they want to exert control on my thoughts before they move out and beyond. I go insane under their torturous surveillance and oppression; I see everything turning red within me. In this meaningless wait for nothingness, I discover myself naked and locked inside a map, along with a naked you.”

BODY WITH BARBED WIRE

Body with Barbed Wire, Photographs and Watercolour on Paper, 2010. Photo Credit: The Artist.

“A fence of barbed wires was suddenly built, abrading the walls of the house. No one could be found to answer the question—why was it erected? The only fact that I could discern was that the house next to mine now belonged to another country. So were my friends, kin, the childhood pond, playground and even the two palm trees that stood on the east of our courtyard, now belonged to the neighboring land. It seemed that suddenly my body was now dissected into countless pieces and left nailed on the barbed wire fencing along its entire course.

I have heard hundreds of similar anecdotes from Bangladeshi immigrants in Kolkata who had arrived in the city following the Partition of 1947 and who had befriended me tracing common roots and history. My next-door neighbor, an old lady, used to inquire often if I had to carry a passport while visiting the city and if she had to do the same if she were to visit Dhaka. She told me that she had arrived in the city of Kolkata with her father in search of work and in no time received the sudden news of Dhaka being in a different country. She never saw her childhood friend afterwards. My old neighbor could never reconcile to the fact that Bangladesh is another country. She remains distrusting about carrying a passport to Dhaka.”

AN ORDINARY STORY

An Ordinary Story, Performance, Dhaka, 2013. Image Courtesy: The Artist.

“This work orbits around identity politics. Charting a livelihood as a minority in Bangladesh, my experiences of travelling to India from Bangladesh and subsequently discovering the history of Partition, regional politics, religious fanaticism, racial discrimination, et al are some of the themes that have been explored in this performance.

The performance begins with a figure spotted standing among the audience, bandaged in a broad red strip of cloth. One of the spectators starts undoing the red strip and passes the process on to the next spectator after a while. The process is repeated by spectators till they reach the end of the cloth.

While the bandage was undone, bits of cloth pieces were seen to be dropping on the ground, each of which had the words: Hindu, Muslim, Bengali, Dandi, Asian, Bangladeshi, Chittagongian, Bangal written on them – identities that I had been conferred upon in various stages of my life.

Two narrators in the background tell the following story during the performance:

This child was born in a strange world. A world in which the sky did not appear to be blue, the earth did not seem brown, and the trees were the least likely to be green. A queer red glow engulfed this world, which seemed abysmally dark to the child. As he grew up, he began to notice the people around him somewhat reddened. Red is the colour of their words; their hair, too, seemed to be dyed in red; and so are their tongues. The child wants to discover the source of this strange shade. But a great quiet seems to have descended the earth. He could hear nothing. A stony silence prevailed.

On this red planet the child gradually notices his skin— speckled with red dots. Like the others on this planet. He detests it so much. He wants to resist it. He keeps thinking of ways of getting rid of them. Unfortunately, the dots keep getting bigger as days pass by. Agonized by the sight he desperately runs to his parents, he runs to his uncle and to his grandfather, seeking help. But they express their dismay and wonder why he wants a remedy. They try and reassure him saying that he looks great in the very shade. They try to convince him that it is natural. But he seems reluctant.

Failing to make the others understand about his non-compliance, he rushes out of his room. And standing under the vast sky and on the extensive land he sheds his tears in isolation. Standing under the firmament he hears a voice speak from nowhere — “Do not lament, child. Your wish will be granted. Do not fall asleep tonight; just pretend to do so.” The boy inquires to find a reason. But to no avail. The boy stays up as instructed. At midnight he watched a group of men enter his room carrying pots filled with red paint. They smear his body with coats of the red paint. Early morning the boy ran up to the river— its clear waters seemed to be unadulterated. Perhaps the only thing still untouched by red hues. He walked into its pure waters. The streaming waters washed away every trace of the taint from over his bare skin. He is no longer red. The world looks at him in wonder.”

(Narration of Artworks: Sanjoy Chakraborty)

Acknowledgement: The artist’s notes has been translated from Bangla by Oindrilla Maity, Kolkata.