I want to paint the crimes they perpetrated on the marginalised: Labani Jangi

Can you help us trace your journey from Dhubulia to T. M. Krishna—PARI [People’s Archive Of Rural India] award?

I grew up in a village in Dhubulia in the district of Nadia, West Bengal, in a Left-oriented family. I have seen my father protecting neighbors during communal tensions. I was born in what I call the time of broken dreams. I’m a millennial. I was born with the wounds of the Babri Masjid demolition. It was a time when I felt my country was once again partitioned. My parents had a dream of a secular, diverse India. But we, the millennials, were born when those dreams were not only broken but we were also bereft of dreams. Here, I’m not talking of any personal dream. While the Babri Masjid was being demolished, the neoliberal market was opening. I vaguely remember P.V. Narasimha Rao’s speeches, advertisements for Lux soap, television sets, and refrigerators alluring the middle class to become consumers in the newly opening giant market.

How did your journey begin as a painter?

During 2016-17, I started being asked questions regarding my citizenship. Who am I? Where is my place, as a citizen, as a woman? I found myself caught in the vortex of conflict. On one hand, there was the rising misogynistic culture riding on the shoulders of Hindutva that became blatant post-2014, questioning our choices of food and our choice of partners; on the other hand, the state was asking for papers as proof of our citizenship. These conflicts were unbearable. I found myself suffocated. I was restless. I wanted to escape the world and then took to painting as my resort. I started painting, though I was not a trained painter. Through paintings, I tell my stories, the stories of my time, the stories of those who are being erased from the dominant narrative.

Around 2017, I started painting the sea with all its spectrum. I started finding solace in the sea. I wanted to merge with its magnanimity.

Tell us about your journey from Labani Jangi to Aanokh Somuddur.

The Bengali word jangi means terrorist. People would bombard me with messages daily asking why my title was Jangi, the terrorist. I never had a problem with my title—I owned it. But to avoid the nagging questions, I embraced the name Aanokh. I love the sea; it gives me hope. I chose the name after the sea—Aanokh Somuddur—which, when translated, means ‘from toes to head, I am a sea.’ I want to be a sea. I dream of the sea. The name was inspired by a line from Bengali poet Shakti Chattopadhyay.

You did a solo exhibition in Bangladesh, and your subject was Dargah. In both Bengal (West Bengal and Bangladesh), Dargahs are under attack. What are your thoughts on this?

If we deny the fact that the inner chemistry of the Muslim community is changing rapidly, it will be a betrayal to our present and future. We should acknowledge it. On both sides of the border, some regressive elements are gaining power, threatening the secular cultural fabric of the Muslim community. Dargahs [Sufi shrines] are very secular places that promote cultural exchange and harmony, and they are under attack. The theme of my solo exhibition in Chitrobhasha Art Gallery, Chittagong, was Bibir Dargahs (Dargahs of the Women).

There were two Bibir Dargahs in my village. Then they disappeared, and in one of their places, a maktab [Islamic elementary school] was built. Conservative sects of Islam are against Dargahs or Mazaars of the Pirs. Unfortunately, on both sides of the border, the conservative elements are dictating the discourse. Now there are no Bibir Dargahs in my village. But I believe you and I and women like us all symbolise the Bibir Dargahs. We symbolise the resistance and the harmony in diversity, the very essence of the Bibir Dargahs.

What inspired you to choose labour migration as your PhD thesis?

My father is the only one who got an education among his ten siblings. He was a first-generation learner. Many cousins of my extended family work as migrant labourers. I did my MPhil in migration. I know their stories, their pains, their uncertainties. During the COVID-19 pandemic, migrant workers were the worst victims. Around 2000, we had a flood in our village. The mud shanties were swept away. 

Then, most of the people felt the need for the pukka home. Due to the uncertainty of incomes in the farming sector, most of the villagers felt the need to work outside for a steady income. So they started migrating to Kerala, Mumbai, and Delhi. My PhD thesis is not only the words of inks, it’s my journey with them. It’s the witness of their trials and tribulations. I hope it can reflect their true conditions. They leave homes in the hope of a better life, but some end up reaching nowhere. Do they have a home? Do I have a home? Will the migrant labourers ever reach home? COVID has shown us they never reach home, and the state, the powerful whose house these people build, invisibilise them. My PhD thesis is my humble attempt to keep them in the discourse of time.

How will the award help you?

I’m happy that the award is coming from a non-corporate platform. The award is named after T. M. Krishna who is not just a singer but an activist singer who is questioning the Brahmanical upper caste hegemony in music and using language as a tool for social change. PARI is the platform that speaks of rural people whose stories are mostly ignored by so-called mainstream platforms. And I’m deeply inspired by the works of P. Sainath, the founder of PARI.

This award came at a time when I was being questioned by many voices about the validity and nuances of my art. For the people who come from the margins, who don’t have the privilege of choosing entry and exit, we have to perform daily. They don’t recognise us; these voices don’t criticise us; they remain silent, and through their silence, they want to push us into oblivious darkness. This award is not mine alone, it is to every woman, every marginalised voice.

On the personal front, this award is a recognition of my family, too. My nani, my parents and, of course, my brother. My brother, Sajid, is one of the reasons I’m here today. My partner Anupam Roy is always there for me.

Do you find the present Bengal different from the Bengal of your childhood?
 

Otherisation has always been there. I can remember in 2011, when I came to Kolkata to study at Jadavpur University, I was finding it so difficult to get a place to stay due to my religious identity. With the help of a student organisation, I managed to find a place to stay. But when the other students staying there got to know about my religious identity, they made a huge ruckus. But I was adamant, and I had no place to go; I was exhausted searching for accommodation. So I didn’t leave the place. I didn’t have a choice either. Later some of them became my friends.

I had some horrible experiences with a so-called revolutionary, culturally enriched organisation with whom I worked without any monetary benefits for five years. They have never acknowledged my work and have never given me visibility. This is violence, too. Violence of the erasure of the marginalised voices. But I have some beautiful memories. I have met some amazing people who have helped me a lot, and they have given me space. From Mimi Kakima, my landlady, to Smita Khator, the Chief Translator Editor at PARI, the list is not so short. With PARI, I first realised they don’t do tokenism, they empower people like me. PARI has shaped me into what I am today.

What is your future plan?

I have been documenting the Muharram as celebrated by the Sunni Muslims of Nadia and Murshidabad districts since 2014. Contrary to the belief of the Hindutva henchmen, Muharram is a very intricate cultural practice of the economically backward Muslims of Nadia and Murshidabad; it never promotes violence. I am doing this to keep a record, to be the witness. I look up to Chittaprosad Bhattacharya, Zainul Abedin, and Somnath Hore for recording the time I live in. Contemporary artists Anupam Roy and Sambran Das’ works inspire me. I want to submit my PhD this year. Here, I would love to share that I’m writing my PhD in Bengali to resist the Brahmanical supremacist thought that promotes English language supremacy. I’m against any puritanical belief that undermines the regional languages and dialects. 

And I want to draw a painting of resistance, not a victim. I dream of drawing a painting that will be the slap on all the oppressors of all forms. A painting of resistance that will be horrific yet beautiful at the same time. The painting will be the ultimate resistance against all who, after seeing my work say, “Amazing” or “Will rape you,” because I feel both of these are the same; they don’t start a dialogue of resistance that I want them to. How can a painting of immense pain be reacted with the adjectives ‘beautiful’ or ‘amazing’?

Someday I want to paint the picture of the crimes they have perpetrated on the marginalised. But not as a victim, but as resistance. As artists, we don’t necessarily have a goal, we just work on maintaining a diary of our time. We have an artist’s union named Panjeri Artists’ Union. Now, we are together, trying to concentrate on the works that will culturally challenge the current narrative of hatred and polarisation.