His poems come FOR A SONG
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Bengt Berg, the Swedish poet who was here for the Indo-Swedish Translation Project, like a hawker, takes poetry to the people's doorstep. He tells DEEPA GANESH that it's the only way to counter the supermarket culture
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Not just metaphorically, literally too, Bengt wears many hats. — Photo: Murali Kumar K.
A SHORT backgrounder called him a "travelling seller of poetry". It did sound exotic, but what exactly did it mean? Bengt Berg, the amiable Swedish writer, characterised by unusual warmth, both in person and in poetry, draws from memories from childhood as explanation. "As a child, a time when huge shopping malls and indifferent supermarkets were unheard of, there were people coming to your doorstep to sell their wares." (That reminded me of the Tagore's Kabuliwala.) He, like those hawkers of his childhood, travels with affordable poetry books tucked into his bag, and gently urges people to buy them.
Man of many hats
Not just metaphorically, literally too, Bengt, who was in Bangalore for the Indo-Swedish Translation Project, wears many hats. (He's even written a striking poem titled Lord of The Hats.) Apart from being a poet, he is a musician, publisher, a green and a journalist covering culture. He worked as a journalist with Rallaros (it's a rose that grows by the side of the railway track), a cultural magazine with which he was associated for 12 years. He gave up the job and went back to his hometown, Varmland, on the Norwegian border, a small village with about 100 families. Here, Bengt started the Heidrun Book and Art Café, which hosts art exhibitions and cultural programmes.
"I have had very strong social ambitions. And so I wanted to involve myself in something meaningful," explains Bengt.
Varmland, because of its proximity to Norway, has visitors from there too. And so, the Heidrun Café, which has now come to be recognised as a successful rural experiment, has people coming from faraway places. Especially during summer, when the Swedes are bustling with activity. "In summer, Heidrun Café is open every day and we have programmes lined up for the weekend. We have a rather strong oral tradition. I write poetry. But when I read it, I mix it with some native story, song and humour." Bengt, from the beginning, felt that the arts was reaching out to only one section of the community, a pertinent reason behind Heidrun. "Art is not just for the intelligentsia and the elite, it should be accessible to all," he insists.
Bengt is in one sense a nomad. He travels extensively for his performances, his bag, of course, packed with a lot of poetry books and music albums. This, he says, is the only way to counter the culture of McDonald's and Coke that looms scarily all over the country. Like us, and like many back in his home, Bengt is worried about rampant Americanisation. "There seems to be just no place for anything local. It is all so shallow and superficial," worries Bengt. "If you are young, rich and beautiful, you make it. I think it is the same everywhere," he adds, lost in thought.
Bengt went back to his hometown also because of an eco-mission he was part of. Multinationals and mighty corporations were razing down forests by poisoning trees. This not just sent up an alarm of imminent natural disasters, but led to drift of people to urban areas to find other means of livelihood. "There was also a resistance in me against this kind of development. Nobody believes in small enterprises, both at the global and the national level. I'm very sceptical of the way of life that comes from America. And so I travel, telling people how important it is to have alternatives to Western lifestyles and thinking."
Bengt was always shy and reticent. But his extensive travelling, by which he got to interact with a number of people, has left him a very confident man. Bengt's programmes are as interesting as him. He doesn't much care about straightjacketed performances and fuses different art forms, like blending poetry with music and art. The team even goes to schools and conducts workshops for children.
It's no mean task to have Heidrun Café and the publishing house going. Where does the money come from? "I don't have much money. I get a scholarship; some money comes from the entrance fee, and some money that I have kept aside for the purpose. So there is a small basket of money." Nevertheless, Bengt is driven by such a strong conviction that nothing seems a deterrent.
Warm lines
Like him, his poems are warm, poignant. (The poem can come/ stealthily/ like a cat with a black nose/ or suddenly/ like a drop of water/ from a clear blue sky... And it may actually happen/ that someone in grass-green clothes/ will come up to you on the street/ and say: "Good day, may I offer you a poem today? We have those/ that are larger than the world and/ smaller than the ant's heart!") His poems, the critics have observed, are "characterised by sharp insights into the oddities of people and situations" and say startling things in a deceptively staid manner. (The soul exists inside you/ not far from the brain/ not far from the heart... the soul is there/ somewhere within you/ It may be no larger/ than the paw of a kitten/ but large enough to/ hold life, lust and longing)
"The Lord of Hats is such a lovely poem, and so are the hats you wear," I tell him. While he graciously accepts my compliment, he has a rather unusual explanation to it. "You really sometimes don't know how to make a conversation. If you have a dog, you can talk through them. And when you don't have dogs, you need to wear a hat. `Oh! you are wearing a hat... ' or `Why aren't you wearing a hat?' or `Where is this from?' people ask you several questions. A conversation can take off from here," he offers interestingly.
Setting aside his conversation anxieties, Bengt talks of all the places he will be visiting in India, with a special emphasis on Varanasi. He recites a poem, tells me of the hat his daughter brought from Palestine and then urges I should pose for a photograph with him. "Sweet memories," he smiles.
Why does this seller of poems touch a chord, I wonder. Does he remind me of our own K.V. Subbanna who started a wonderful cultural enterprise in his own little village? Or is it the fond memory of the lyrical vagabond Kabuliwala? Or is it just him?
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