Mukherjee + Subalterns

     "Can the subaltern speak?"

     It's a question that is often asked in the field of literary studies, particularly since the publication of Giyatri Spivak's essay (of the same title) in 1985. Borrowing from the military's system of ranking (where a subaltern is a low subordinate), Spivak wondered out aloud whether or not a female dalit or untouchable in a remote Indian village could ever be expected to "find a voice" in the world's ongoing conversation. Her answer was "no." The subaltern could not speak because she was "historically muted." In the face of such a sober conclusion, Spivak went on to argue that it is the responsibility of relatively privileged intellectuals like herself to "unlearn" their privilege in order to help give a voice to the voiceless and power to the unempowered.

     But how is such a herculean task to be performed? 

     Spivak's approach has been to channel her energies within the university system that she has prospered inside.  Since completing her PhD at Cornell University in 1967, she has continued to spread her brand of enlightened cosmopolitanism amongst colleagues and students around the world. From Toronto to London, Calcutta to Pittsburgh she has served as a widely-traveled ambassador for a brand of world literature that sharply contrasts with the "dead white male" canon that seemed to preoccupy many literature departments until quite recently. For the last decade, she has rooted herself in New York where she currently serves as the Director of the Centre for Comparative Literature at Columbia University.     

     Outside the comforts of college classrooms and lounges, the task looks far more formidable, at least on paper.  Yet the photographer and film-maker, Zana Briski, devised a groundbreaking approach with the release of her documentary film, Born Into Brothels, in 2004.  Briski spent over a year living in the red light district of Calcutta befriending prostitutes, petty criminals, and the homeless. In particular, she wanted to give the hope of a better life to the children of these subalterns. So she raised enough money (from her privileged benefactors) to purchase dozens of 35-mm cameras, and proceeded to train these children how to shoot and then develop photographs for themselves. In this way, they were able to find a visual voice and "talk back" to the society that had, until that point, condemned them to such a lowly status. Some of the children, in fact, went on to win prestigious international prizes for their work (although not all of them prospered, it has to be said).

     The Calcutta-born (now Berkeley-based) writer, Bharati Mukherjee, undertakes a similar task of empowerment and "unlearning" in the writing of her best-selling novel, Jasmine (1989). Here, she adopts the narrrative point-of-view of a village girl from the Punjabi countryside who successfully overcomes her underprivileged, subaltern status to "re-position the stars" and emigrate to the United States where she plunges recklessly into the American dream. By the end of the novel, she is traveling west and traveling light, reliving the manifest destinies of other famous American legends, from Huck Finn to Jack Kerouac. 

     Believable?         

     Absolutely, argues Mukherjee. The character of Jasmine is endowed with intelligence, courage, ambition (and clearly some good karma).  Why shouldn't she be able to transform herself from subaltern to suburban housewife? Mukherjee explains: "Jasmine's very open to new experience and optimistic about her outcome. Her attitude is . . . . 'You can't push me around! I'm here, I'm gonna stay if I want to, and I'm gonna conquer the territory'" (quoted in Burton, Artists of the Floating World, p. 89). 

     But some critics find this disingenuous. Are we really expected to believe that the American dream is so readily available (and obtainable) to someone born into such desperate circumstances as Jasmine? The rags-to-riches story of Jasmine "neglects to take into account the complexity and specificity of the situation of third world women" (quoted in Burton, p. 88), argues Anu Aneja.  

     It's still a much-discussed topic. In a sense, it provides insights into the larger critical discussion that surrounds Mukherjee's literary career as whole. There are those who see her as a highly-prized writer who offers, through her immigrant narratives, new ways to imagine the self. On the other hand, there are those who decry her turn towards an "assimilationsit" standpoint. Ironically, they argue that characters like Jasmine, in the process of becoming Americanized, actually lose agency and power.

     While the argument rages, one thing is certain: there will always be subalterns in

the world in search of a voice or the means to have a voice.