Interview: Malika Amar Shaikh

Malika Amar Shaikh, Marathi poet and author of the searing autobiography I want to Destroy Myself, has had an eventful life. In a wide ranging conversation, she talks about the influence of her father Shahir Amar Shaikh, the participation of her parents in the Samyukta Maharashtra movement, her relationship with her husband, the poet Namdeo Dhasal, the Dalit Panther movement, and about Mumbai

You grew up at Saat Rasta in Mumbai, but one could say, you carved your own, eighth road in life. How did your unique childhood and upbringing influence you?
My childhood was a wild fairytale.
Since I was the youngest and a sickly child, I used to be taken extra care of. The Saat Rasta house was an ideal home. Greenery, a spacious hall, a huge gallery, rehearsals, poetry, music and discussions around them would fill the house. I grew up against the backdrop of ideas and poetry of Senapati Bapat, PK Atre uncle, Sha. Naa. (Naware), Vinda (Karandikar), Shri Na Pandse, and many others (All stalwarts of Marathi literature). I grew up on Bhai’s (My father, Shahir Amar Shaikh) music.
Although cosmopolitan, Saat Rasta had a typical ‘chawl’ sort of atmosphere. All religious festivals would be celebrated. There was a perfect harmonious living among Bohris, Christians, Aagaris, Konkanis, Gujaratis, Muslims, Bengalis, Karwaaris, and even Jews. All of them used to participate wholeheartedly in Ganapati, Gauri, Navaratri, Garba, Eid etc. Boys played a number of games like cricket, lagori and gotya (marbles). Various hawkers would visit the area at night with petromax selling a number of spicy edibles as well as sweets. Itinerants with trained bears and elephants and carders of cotton were regular visitors.

A Dallit Panthers demonstration on 26 April, 1983. After she married Namdeo Dhasal, Malika Amar Shaikh attended meetings, rallies, wrote party pamphlets, cooked for party workers and even sold jewellery to fund rallies. “But in any revolution, women have always done that,” she says.(KK Chawla/HT Photo)

Malika Amar Shaikh (Courtesy the author)

Bhai was highly respected. Everybody loved him. I was too weak, too slim, too pampered, even then I used to roam everywhere in Saat Rasta, like an unhinged goat of God. I spent much time at Shirin Talkies. Everyone in the family was a staunch atheist. My mother and my father were Communists. Although my father had resigned from the Communist Party in 1962 at the time of the Chinese aggression, he and my mother remained faithful Communists throughout their lives. The interesting thing was, in spite of being a daughter of atheist parents, I liked religious films a lot. I used to enjoy watching films like Ram Balaram, Sant Dnyaneshwar, Raja Harishchandra and Mahasati Anasuya. My elder sister would often ask me what made me watch such films. My answer was that they were full of miracles! Good people never die in them, so no weeping!

How much of an influence was your father on your writing?
Although the poetic legacy came to me from Bhai, my father, I think my poetry is different from his. My childhood was a happy and secure one but eventually, life threw its challenges that my poetry responded to. Bhai had a terrific command over words. Writing the powada, a Marathi literary form that’s loosely similar to the ballad, is extremely tough and that too with historical references as he did was unbelievable. Except for the powada, I have written all forms of poetry, I think.

Your first two books Valucha Priyakar and Mahanagar were 14 years apart. What were you doing all those years?
Didn’t Namdeo and I spend those 14 years fighting with each other?
I wrote my autobiography during those years, which, upon release, created havoc. I kept writing poetry too, although irregularly, but it took time to get published. Fights, household chores, handling of the marriage, my son, Ashu, and cooking food for Namdeo’s visitors occupied most of those 14 years and I couldn’t focus on film, theatre, dance, music, etc.
Yet, I studied music for one year at SNDT college; did fine arts at JJ, again just for one year. Soon, I realised that marriage – especially a marriage to Namdeo – would not let me have a career. And if I tried, I would do injustice to both my marriage and my career. So I gave up on the latter. But I still wrote some plays and songs, made some short films during those years.

On the one hand was your writing, on the other, the constant presence of politics. How did you separate the two, if at all you did?
Politics? Namdeo was making a political career; I was making food at home! And sometimes, I was writing poetry and plays.
I think just like being a barber or a butcher or a pickpocket requires special skills and isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, being a politician, too, requires special skills. It’s a unique job. Namdeo wasn’t a politician by nature. He was an honest social worker. He really wanted to better society. He was extremely passionate and bright but he wasn’t vulpine. Politics is not for the gullible. I don’t like politics. In fact, I resent politicians – they don’t let social workers be. Probably, that’s why the revolution isn’t alive anymore. All that is alive are questions, several unanswered questions.

Your mother was an upper-caste Hindu, father a Muslim, and your husband a hero of the Dalits. This must have felt like a wholly rebellious arrangement, especially in the 1960s and 1970s. What was it like?
As I said earlier, none of us believed in religion and caste – that was never the lens we looked at the world through. I fell in love with Namdeo because he was a terrific poet – even if he were a Jew, Christian, Hindu, Muslim, it would have made no difference to me. And rebellion was in my genes. My mother left her patriarchal family for my father. Even the head of the Communist Party was against their wedding. But Rajni Patel convinced my mother’s father. Dadasaheb Rupavate, a Congress leader who’s also famous for his work towards Dalit empowerment, was my mother’s college friend. He would facilitate the exchange between my mother and father in those days by carrying their letters to each other.

You married Namdeo Dhasal when you were 17. How did it all happen?
If you call it young romanticism, then, at that time, there were many young boys who were trying to woo me. But Namdeo’s poetry won me over. His world view appealed to me. He was also a Marxist and at that time, I had a notion, probably inherited from my father, that Marxist poets are good human beings. Of course, Namdeo was a good man, no doubt, but my middle-class values and his reckless ways of life were often at odds with each other. Both of us wanted to hold our ground. He wanted me and our marriage but did not want the restrictions that marriage imposed on him. I, on the other hand, wanted him and only him and the security that a marriage offers. He thought the world’s well-being was his responsibility. If someone visited us, which happened a bit too often, he believed that the person had to be fed; he had to be made to have a meal with us. Namdeo wasn’t calculative even about that. Now when you don’t have money and keep having guests over then a woman’s bound to get angry, right? Whenever the money came in, he would spend it on rallies and people and some sort of paperwork. Obviously, that did not go down well with me. But despite all that, because of our son, Ashutosh, and probably because of poetry, we managed to spend so many years together.
“I feel insecure when you are not around,” he would say and then suddenly my ego would get a massage and I would be happy to be with him. But to be fair, there were whole nights that we spent reading Walt Whitman and Sadanand Rege to each other. We shared our poetry with each other. We were each other’s first audience.
Even when he was hospitalized, be it at two at night or six in the morning, I’d read some poetry to him. And then he would, sometimes, break into a laugh and sometimes just nod in approval.

40 years of marriage with such a firebrand must have been eventful. Would you like to share some memories?
Oh, my god! Many of those are written in my memoir – I Want to Destroy Myself. And now, at this stage of life, I don’t see myself recounting those experiences. Sometimes, when I need money, I still quarrel with him. In dreams, I still meet him and fight with him. He must be thinking, “What a woman! I am dead and she’s still not leaving me alone!”

How involved were you in the journey of the Dalit Panthers?
Not since the birth of the party, but right since our wedding, in 1974, I was present at almost every meeting. I was with all workers of the party for meetings, rallies, etc. Writing party pamphlets, checking the proofs, cooking for party workers are things I have done all along. Sometimes, giving money that I had saved for “very urgent” work to the party, selling some of my gold jewellery to fund a rally has been my contribution. But in any revolution, women have always done that. Can I call myself special?

You are one of the strongest women I know. You have fought for your rights, for your existence, for a place in the world. What is your idea of feminism?
I do not subscribe to any school of thought. I do not believe in any “ism”. I think, being a staunch follower of any school of thought limits our objectivity. That said, a mother-in-law who sets her daughter on fire is doubtlessly a person I hate. Also, I am sure that women are subjected to more injustice than men and that’s why I have written more about women. But that doesn’t mean I write only about women. I write about birds, trees – whatever I think is not spoken about as much as it should be. I write about anyone or anything that nobody writes about. I cannot lose my objectivity when it comes to injustice. My responsibility as a writer is doing exactly that. This is my position, the position of my soul and I don’t need any party or group or “ism” to limit me. It is me and my unabashed individuality, it’s the agreement I signed with life. And all this cannot be decided in advance. When you live with a sense of individuality and rational thought, these things happen automatically, if you have compassion, if you care about humanity.

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Can you tell me about your mindset when you wrote the hugely courageous Mala Udhvasta Vyaychay (I Want to Destroy Myself)?
I had to write it. I cannot keep my emotions caged. Writing that book was a catharsis. I didn’t write that book with the intention of publishing it; I wrote it because it was necessary for me to write it.
I had to compromise for my son. We are very close to each other. He is what you call a “Mamma’s boy”. Namdeo was busy with the party, the world, who would take care of my son? He wasn’t old enough then to care of himself. That’s why I came back. He was rattled after Namdeo passed away, but I wasn’t. I held on strong. With every adverse situation, I grew stronger.
No woman likes her marriage collapsing. I once wrote that a husband is a threshold of the house – he belongs neither inside, nor outside. But eventually, Namdeo began understanding the importance of my middle-class values. In our later years, Namdeo had begun to understand me better.
I was always aware of my existence, my individuality. Apart from Namdeo and Ashu, I have never let any person become a habit, a necessity for me to survive.

Did Namdeo’s poetry influence yours and vice versa? Was there a strong literary relationship, along with the romantic one, that the two of your shared?
Oh, of course. In fact, without that, I wouldn’t have been able to live with him. I think, had I not married Namdeo, I wouldn’t have married at all. And I would have lived by myself and it might have been a happier life without a strong manly presence.
Men in this country think of women as their private property. Like a table, a sofa, a house – they think of their wife as property. Her phone calls, her monetary transactions, her relationships with other people, all come under the scrutiny of the husband! But when I couldn’t keep a watch on myself, how could I let a man keep a watch on me? I am glad that Namdeo was different. He never imposed any such restrictions on me and that’s why I could live with him. In fact, I imposed restrictions on him. I didn’t have as large a heart as he did. He welcomed all my male friends but I, on the other hand, couldn’t tolerate his female friends. Sometimes, I even made him stop interacting with some of them. It was clear that there was only friendship between my male friends and I, but I wasn’t sure about Namdeo and his female friends. I was happy that he wasn’t a womanizer but if a woman threw herself on him, I wasn’t sure how he would handle a situation like that. He wasn’t a saint either, you know. He was a man. I was very possessive about him and he, poor boy, would always give up in a fight with me. I must accept that I wasn’t very large-hearted about this. And you can imagine when you are young and married and yet instead of having sex, you spend some nights reading each other poetry, what kind of a literary bonding we may have had!

Who are your favourite writers, nationally and internationally?
Kusumagraj is my favourite poet. But even before Kusumagraj, would be my father. He introduced me to Kusumagraj and told me what Kusumagraj’s poetry was without ever explaining it. Then I’d say my grandmother – she was a poet too.
Sadanand Rege, Bahinabai, Vladimir Mayakovski, Walt Whitman, Chandrakant Devatale, Gulzar, Namdeo Dhasal and lastly Ashutosh Dhasal, my son, who is a great poet only for one line he wrote in Mararthi:

“I am bored of this country
There’s no day here, nor night
In the shadow of reflection, sleeps the mind.”

When VS Naipaul came down to India, he had visited you and Namdeo. Any memories of that meeting?
I don’t think it’s that big a deal. I don’t find much significance in this matter.

VS Naipaul with Namdeo Dhasal on 23 December 1988, during his visit to gather material for the book that would eventually become India: A Million Mutinies Now. While the travelogue, which spawned the genre of the ‘Big India Book’, has lots of portraits of Indian men, Malika Amar Shaikh is the only woman in it who stands out. Janette Turner Hospital, who reviewed the book for The New York Times, remarked: “Because Mr Naipaul’s portraits are careful and illuminating, I was disappointed that there were so few of women, and only one of these was other than cursory. The interview with Mallika, wife of the Dalit Panther poet Namdeo Dhasal, is superb. Mallika, married at 16 by her own defiant choice to the radical untouchable poet, had later written a sensational best-selling feminist autobiography, “I Want to Destroy Myself,” the first part of which ended: “Male ego is the most hideous thing in our present society. Women find quite a pleasure in boosting it. . . . I do not believe that for anybody called Namdeo I should surrender my entire life.” Mr Naipaul talks with Mallika about her book, her life, her husband, in a vivid extended conversation.” Clearly, as this interview shows, the conversation wasn’t as vivid for Shaikh herself! (HT Photo)

Did you ever work a 9 to 5 job? Did you aspire to have a corporate career?
To run the house, as well as to give a shot to working in the film industry, I worked at Filmcity for a couple of years. Then, since nobody gave me any work, I quit it and quit it for good. Then I worked at Saamana for a couple of years but I had to leave that job too because of Namdeo’s illness.
You think I am born to work a 9 to 5 job? I am talented. Hasn’t society realised that I couldn’t pluck the diamonds within me and sell them? But I don’t regret that either. A job? Yuck! Never, not me! Film, theatre, poetry; that is my life.

Mahanagar is evidently about a certain kind of Bombay. Today, when you look at the same Bombay from your house in Lokhandwala Complex, do you see it any differently?
Very interesting question. The fact is that I am a proud Mumbaikar. My father sang for hours to ensure that Mumbai would be part of Maharashtra. He had a lion’s share in the Samyukta Maharashtra Movement. Mumbai is drowned in my father’s voice, drenched in the blood he boiled for it. Mumbai is ingrained in my mind, my body, my experiences.
Let me tell you about an incident. Once, I went to Pune to interview Dilip Chitre for the magazine called Nantar that I ran. At his house, suddenly his wife, Vijaya, got some kind of a fit. Her hands and feet were cold. Dilip ran to call a doctor as I sat with her, massaging her legs to relieve her. Dilip came back with a doctor. She was treated and then felt better. After all this, Dilip went outside the house and said, “Malika, it is so cruel that nobody has written about Mumbai!” I kept looking on. After a scare like that, the first thing Dilip thought of was Mumbai! After that, I returned to my Mumbai. That one sentence from Dilip planted the seed of my book Mahanagar. Till then I had never thought of writing about Mumbai. But after that, I began looking at Mumbai differently.
Today, I see Mumbai on my TV. I don’t resonate with it. Experiencing something is different from watching it from a distance. You can watch a fish curry video on YouTube but you feed yourself only when you eat the dish, right?
Namdeo took me around Mumbai on foot when we were penniless and even when he was not around, I have walked through the city. But today, it’s a bit different. Now I have a slipped disc. I don’t have the energy to walk, I rarely step outside the house even. I think we should now have passes in Mumbai. Those who run shady businesses should not be allowed in the city. I’d like Marathi people to burn the midnight oil, work hard and make things happen for Mumbai. How long are we going to be indebted to outsiders and have them crowd the city? I also urge every chief minister of every state in India to create jobs in their states. Mumbai cannot be the only go-to place for everyone in this country.

Read more: Review: I Want to Destroy Myself: A Memoir by Malika Amar Shaikh

It’s been six years since Namdeo passed away. What does a regular day look like now?
I still keep myself busy with household chores. I cook for Ashu and myself. And now, during the lockdown, for my neighbour, who’s a retired navy officer and lives alone. I cook for him too. Taking care of Ashu and the house occupies most of my time.
My house faces the east. It is very well lit. It is decorated as per my will so I love being at home. Look how funny it is, I had little money after Namdeo passed away. Whatever I did was spent on medicines and running the house. Ramdas (Athawale) always helps out but I don’t like asking for help too often. Ashu’s treatment for IBS (Irritable Bowel Syndrome) was expensive for me. So I started a lunchbox service. I sold designer saris and dresses; sold most things in the house even. There wasn’t much help in general. And then Mr Modi introduced demonetization. Before that, I thought only I didn’t have money but after that, nobody had any money. It made me feel equal.
My son never stepped out. He never had any friends, girlfriends. I used to feel sad about it. He would always sit at home. Why would this happen to only my child? Or was it because he was my child? I’d wonder. Why should he live this lonely, difficult life? But then Corona happened. Now everyone in the media is screaming at the top of their voice urging us to stay home. Now, everyone’s at home. I feel good; I feel equal again.

Interviewer Mihir Chitre

Your current life is quite in contrast with your past. You have few or no visitors and you are largely removed from the buzz of the world. Is it the calm after the storm?
Yes, it is. Honestly, it feels great. There will never be a storm in my life anymore because there are no people in my life anymore. Storms are brought by people and now, I abhor people. Especially men. Even the women don’t look suspicious anymore. I enjoy nature now. I want to lose myself in it. I want to spend time with my son. I want to see him smile. If he found a good girl for himself and decided to settle down with her, I would happily walk away from his life. But that’s unlikely to happen.
I buried my dreams long ago – film, theatre, music. Now I even see the sea on TV. I cannot decide any longer whether I am elated or morose. I feel numb. And when you feel numb, there isn’t a storm that could take you apart, is there?
One thing is for certain, in my life, there will be no place for a hero called “man” anymore.

Mihir Chitre is the author of two books of poetry, ‘School of Age’ and ‘Hyphenated’. He is the brain behind the advertising campaigns ‘#LaughAtDeath’ and ‘#HarBhashaEqual’ and has made the short film ‘Hello Brick Road’.