Captain Kadian takes a large swig from his glass tumbler, closes his eyes for a moment, smacks his lips, and says, ‘The job’s not that hard, you see, you just go down once a week or fifteen days, and the money, the money is not bad at all.’
This novel is set in Indian Kashmir, near the ‘Line of Control’ with Pakistan. Kashmir isn’t an independent country (though you suspect most Kashmiris might want it to be). When India and Pakistan gained independence, the Muslim-majority state was ruled by an indecisive Hindu maharaja who opted for India at the last moment. Open and covert warfare between Pakistan and India, and Kashmiri militants, for decades has been the consequence. Both countries claimed the state and occupy it (India the majority). India promised an independence referendum at the outset, that has never been held. Some sixty years later, no solution is in sight. The lovely valley is perhaps the world’s most likely flashpoint for a nuclear war.
In ‘The Collaborator’, brutal, drunken Indian Army Captain Kadian gives a marvellous self-justification for his actions, going through the full catalogue of rationalisations with which such people kid themselves (only). It’s their own fault that atrocities occur, can’t be helped, just part of his job, I’m just a tiny cog in the machine, it’s the law, those who whinge about human rights don’t understand, I have a family too, I didn’t kill them myself, they chose to die, it would have happened anyway, even if I agreed I couldn’t do anything.
He forces the boy narrator to ‘collaborate’ and count the fallen corpses in the typically beautiful Kashmir valley on the border (a job he considers too dangerous for his own soldiers); every day he expects to find one of his boyhood friends who had gone across to Pakistan to join the militants.
The high point is the visit of the Governor of Kashmir, who helicopters in as if on a military operation, humiliating the villagers (who had been warned by an azan ((Muslim call to prayer)) recited backwards), like the preparation for a massacre instead of a ‘hearts and minds’ campaign.
There are a lot of Kashmiri, Arabic and Hindi/Urdu words used, but unfortunately no glossary is provided and they are not always explained.
Although he is speaking of his scavenging expeditions, when the Collaborator says he is tired of it all he must be speaking for most Kashmiris.
WAHEED, Mirza (1955 – ), The Collaborator, London, Viking, 2011, ISBN 978-0-670-91895-9
His entire crop gone in payment of the fine, Hori passed one month on the meagre stocks he had somehow scraped together. But with the beginning of June the situation became desperate: five mouths to feed and not a crumb in the house. Already heavily in debt, another loan was ruled out. Nor could he take up work as a hired hand: his own cane crop now under irrigation claimed all his time. The irony of it! Even to do his own work, his body first needed food.
I chose this one as it was recommended to me in an Indian bookshop as the greatest novel in Hindi (perhaps the only great novel?) To tell the truth I found it rather hard to get into, compared with all the wonderful imaginative novels that Indians are writing in English, some of which are among my very favourite works. It is set in rural India and details the hero’s family’s endless misfortune and battles with the ugly, exploitative landlord class. I found it hard to connect with this milieu, but it is definitely worth reading to grasp the oppressed, unfair life of Indian peasants. Even so, it’s a mystery to me why Hindi is apparently so neglected by its own writers. Its place is in films and songs, but where are all the novelists? Writing in English, apparently! Or just not translated?
PREMCHAND (1880-1936): Godan: a novel of peasant India, translated by Jai Ratan & P. Lal, Jaico Publishing House, Mumbai, 2002, ISBN 9788172242190
(originally published in Hindi, गोदान, 1936)