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Collection: Part 6 · VIDEHA MITHILA MAITHILI DISCUSSION CRITICISM SERIES PART 6
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0:00–0:05Imagine waking up one morning to discover that Shakespeare didn't actually write his plays.
0:05–0:08Right, the classic literary conspiracy.
0:08–0:12Yeah, exactly. But like, stretch your imagination a little further here.
0:12–0:18Imagine discovering that Shakespeare wasn't just one person, but actually two entirely different people.
0:18–0:18Yeah.
0:18–0:21And they were separated by, you know, almost a century.
0:21–0:22Wow. Okay, that's quite elite.
0:22–0:29It is. And history, or rather a very specific group of historians, they decided to just mash their resumes together.
0:29–0:34Just combine them into one guy. Yeah. They took the incredibly popular, like, working-class,
0:34–0:41revolutionary poetry of one person, and they literally just stapled it onto the wealthy,
0:41–0:47aristocratic, feudal resume of the other. That is wild. Right. It sounds like the plot of a
0:47–0:53thriller or something, just this massive cultural heist designed to completely erase a working-class
0:53–0:57hero. It really does sound like fiction, but, you know, that exact mechanism of historical
0:57–1:01identity theft. It's actually at the center of the literary landscape we're exploring today.
1:01–1:03Which is just fascinating.
1:03–1:07It is. We're looking at this phenomenon where the narrative is deliberately fractured
1:08–1:13and overwritten by those who basically have the power to hold the pen.
1:13–1:18Okay, let's unpack this because today for you listening we are stepping into a really profound
1:18–1:23and honestly sometimes dizzying exploration of how reality itself gets scripted.
1:23–1:24Yeah, it gets pretty deep.
1:24–1:30It does. We are diving into a stack of extensive literary and historical analysis from the
1:30–1:34Videha e-journal, which was penned by Gajendra Thakur.
1:34–1:36A really dense, incredible source.
1:36–1:41Absolutely. And our mission on this deep dive is to basically journey through the mind-bending
1:41–1:46mechanics of postmodern absurdist theater, untangle that centuries-old South Asian literary
1:46–1:51heist I just mentioned, and then finally meet a modern writer armed with a literal brew.
1:51–1:52A literal brew, yes.
1:52–1:57Yeah, a guy who just decided he was totally done waiting for the world to make sense.
1:57–1:58Which, I mean, that's a heavy itinerary.
1:58–1:59It's a lot, yeah.
1:59–2:06But it's a vital one because whether we're talking about like existential French plays from the 1950s
2:06–2:13or modern, mathily socioeconomic poetry, every single thread we pull today leaves back to one
2:14–2:15core anxiety.
2:15–2:16And what's that?
2:16–2:19Who gets to write the narrative of our lives.
2:19–2:20Yeah.
2:20–2:23and what happens to a person or even an entire culture,
2:23–2:25when the plot they've been handed
2:25–2:27completely stops making sense.
2:27–2:30Oh, that feeling of the plot falling apart,
2:30–2:32it's such a universal human experience.
2:32–2:33It really is.
2:33–2:35Like you're just going along, you're following the rules
2:35–2:36and suddenly you look around and realize
2:36–2:39the script is absolute gibberish.
2:39–2:41Exactly, nothing makes sense anymore.
2:41–2:43Right, and to really understand how that works,
2:43–2:46we need to look at how our process is that breakdown.
2:46–2:49So we're looking at four major post-modern plays today,
2:49–2:53spanning French, English, Bengali, and Mathili.
2:53–2:56And it's important to note, these aren't just stories.
2:56–2:57Right, they're more than that.
2:57–2:58They're structural teardowns
2:58–3:00of what a narrative is even supposed to be.
3:00–3:03So let's start with the absolute foundation
3:03–3:04of this genre.
3:04–3:06Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Goudault,
3:06–3:08written in French in 1952.
3:08–3:10Right, which comes right on the heels
3:10–3:11of the Second World War.
3:11–3:13A pretty bleak time.
3:13–3:14Incredibly bleak.
3:14–3:16It was a time when the entire globe
3:16–3:19was looking around at all the devastation
3:19–3:22and just asking, what was the point of all that?
3:22–3:27The grand narratives of progress and civilization
3:27–3:29had utterly failed.
3:29–3:31And Beckett just strips all of that away on stage.
3:31–3:33He strips it down to almost nothing.
3:33–3:35I mean, the setting is famously barren.
3:35–3:36It's a country road.
3:36–3:39There is a single tree and it's evening.
3:39–3:40That's it.
3:40–3:41That is the entire world.
3:41–3:42Just a total void.
3:42–3:45And inhabiting this void are two characters,
3:45–3:47Estragon, who seems entirely preoccupied
3:47–3:49with the physical struggle of just taking off his boots.
3:49–3:50Right.
3:50–3:52And then Vladimir, who was equally obsessed
3:52–3:54with the intellectual struggle of taking off
3:54–3:55and putting on his hat.
3:55–3:56And they just talk.
3:56–3:59It's circular, meaningless chatter.
3:59–4:02Because they are trapped in the ultimate void,
4:02–4:05engaging in actions that yield zero results.
4:05–4:07I mean, Estragon's boots hurt.
4:07–4:10Vladimir's hat has something inside it.
4:10–4:14But resolving these minor physical discomforts
4:14–4:16does nothing to change their fundamental situation.
4:16–4:18No, it just passes the time.
4:18–4:19Exactly.
4:19–4:22In traditional theater, you have a setup,
4:22–4:25an inciting incident, rising action, and a climax.
4:25–4:26A normal arc, yeah.
4:26–4:28Right, and waiting is just the boring stuff
4:28–4:31that happens before the curtain goes up.
4:31–4:33But Beckett flips that entirely.
4:33–4:34The waiting is the climax.
4:34–4:38Yes, the waiting is the entirety of human existence.
4:38–4:39They are waiting for this figure,
4:39–4:43Godot, who represents meaning or salvation or purpose,
4:43–4:45or maybe just an answer.
4:45–4:46But Godot never shows up.
4:46–4:47Never.
4:47–4:49At the end of the day, a boy arrives with a message
4:49–4:51and he says, you know, Godot isn't coming today,
4:51–4:53but surely tomorrow.
4:53–4:54It's agonizing.
4:54–4:55It's like hitting the snooze button
4:55–4:57on your own existential dread.
4:57–4:58You just wake up and do it again.
4:58–5:01But right in the middle of this vast empty waiting,
5:01–5:05there is this incredibly dense, bizarre interruption.
5:05–5:06Ah, yes.
5:06–5:07Potso and Lucky.
5:07–5:08Right.
5:08–5:10We get the arrival of these two other characters,
5:10–5:12Potso and his slave, Lucky.
5:12–5:16And Potso literally has a rope tied around Lucky's neck.
5:16–5:19Which is a deeply unsettling image,
5:19–5:21especially when you contrast it with the seeming freedom
5:21–5:24of Vladimir and Estragon out on that open race.
5:24–5:26It is unsettling, but here's the detail
5:26–5:28that absolutely haunts me.
5:28–5:32Lucky is carrying all of Potso's heavy luggage.
5:32–5:36He has a heavy bag, a folding stool,
5:36–5:37a picnic basket, a great coat.
5:37–5:39It's a massive burden.
5:39–5:41Right, and even when they stop their journey,
5:41–5:43Even when Potso is sitting down eating chicken
5:43–5:46and smoking a pipe and Lucky's just standing there,
5:46–5:48he doesn't put the bags down.
5:48–5:48He just holds them.
5:48–5:50He just keeps holding them.
5:50–5:52Physically exhausting himself for absolutely no reason.
5:52–5:54I mean, why on earth wouldn't you just put the bags down
5:54–5:55when you stop walking?
5:55–5:57Because the bags are his identity.
5:57–5:58Oh, wow.
5:58–5:59Yeah.
5:59–6:01Without the heavy burden of servitude,
6:01–6:04Lucky would be forced to look at the exact same terrifying
6:04–6:08empty horizon that Vladimir and Estragon are staring at.
6:08–6:09Exactly.
6:09–6:12His subjugation provides a script for him.
6:12–6:14The rope, the master, the heavy bags,
6:14–6:16those are the boundaries of his reality.
6:16–6:17But he drops them.
6:17–6:19If he drops the bags,
6:19–6:21he has to acknowledge his own freedom.
6:21–6:25And freedom in Beckett's universe is terrifying
6:25–6:27because it's synonymous with meaninglessness.
6:27–6:28That makes so much sense.
6:28–6:31Lucky actively prefers the physical agony
6:31–6:35of a crushing burden over the psychological agony
6:35–6:36of having no purpose at all.
6:36–6:39That is a staggering way to look at it.
6:39–6:40We cling to our stressors, right?
6:40–6:43Like our terrible jobs, our toxic relationships,
6:43–6:45because the burden tells us who we are.
6:45–6:47We need the weight to feel grounded.
6:47–6:48We're terrified of putting the bags down
6:48–6:51because then we have to figure out what to do with our hands.
6:51–6:51Exactly.
6:51–6:53And that internal paralysis,
6:53–6:55you know, that fear of our own freedom
6:55–6:58is really just one flavor of the absurd.
6:58–7:01If Beckett shows us the terror of an empty world,
7:01–7:02Harold Pinter shows us the terror of a world
7:02–7:04that is far too crowded.
7:04–7:06Which takes us to the English contribution
7:06–7:07to this landscape.
7:07–7:09Pinter's the birthday party.
7:09–7:10from 1958.
7:10–7:13We go from this wide open country road
7:13–7:16to a suffocating, claustrophobic, boarding house
7:16–7:17by the seaside.
7:17–7:18Complete shift in atmosphere.
7:18–7:19Totally.
7:19–7:21The space is run by a woman named Meg
7:21–7:24and she has this one tenant, Stanley.
7:24–7:25And Stanley is a piano player,
7:25–7:28but he's essentially hiding from the world.
7:28–7:30He doesn't go out, he barely washes.
7:30–7:31Completely withdrawn.
7:31–7:32Yeah.
7:32–7:36And Meg is absolutely insistent that today is his birthday.
7:36–7:38Stanley violently denies this,
7:38–7:41but she forces the celebratory script onto him anyway.
7:41–7:43Right, which is an immediate violation
7:43–7:44of his personal reality.
7:44–7:46Meg just flat out refuses to accept
7:46–7:48Stanley's version of his own life.
7:48–7:49It's so unnerving.
7:49–7:53It is, but the true fracturing of his identity
7:53–7:54happens when the outside world
7:54–7:56invades this fragile sanctuary.
7:56–7:59Pinter introduces two figures, Goldberg and McCann.
7:59–8:01Oh, these guys.
8:01–8:02Yeah, they're the embodiment
8:02–8:05of what critics call Pinter's comedy of menace.
8:05–8:06They arrive at the boarding house,
8:06–8:11They take over this unwanted birthday party and they just subject Stanley to this relentless
8:11–8:13rapid fire interrogation.
8:13–8:15It's practically a verbal waterboarding.
8:15–8:20They ask him these completely nonsensical contradictory questions like they'll yell,
8:20–8:24why did the chicken cross the road followed immediately by who watered the wicket in
8:24–8:25Melbourne?
8:25–8:26Just totally absurd.
8:26–8:30They just batter him with words until he starts breaking down.
8:30–8:34And the terrifying part is how this culminates during a game of blind man's bluff at
8:34–8:35the party.
8:35–8:36The blindfold scene.
8:36–8:39Stanley is blindfolded, but then his actual glasses are broken.
8:39–8:42They literally strip him of his ability to see the world.
8:42–8:47And the breaking of the glasses is a crucial mechanical step in his destruction.
8:47–8:48How so?
8:48–8:54Well, Goldberg and McCann, they represent the oppressive forces of societal conformity.
8:54–8:59Whether that's the state, religion, capitalism, or just general societal expectations.
8:59–9:00Right, the system.
9:00–9:01Exactly.
9:01–9:05By breaking his glasses, they remove his personal lens on reality.
9:05–9:07They blind him so they can implant their own vision.
9:07–9:09And what makes this so uniquely disturbing
9:09–9:11is the audience's reaction.
9:11–9:12Because it's funny.
9:12–9:15Right. As you watch this brutal psychological dismantling,
9:15–9:17you often find yourself laughing.
9:17–9:20You do! Because the dialogue is so bizarre.
9:20–9:23It's like watching two people argue in a language they just invented.
9:23–9:26But that laughter is a defense mechanism.
9:26–9:29We laugh at the social awkwardness, sure,
9:29–9:33but beneath that laughter is a really primal anxiety.
9:33–9:36We are watching a man lose ownership of his own mind.
9:36–9:38It's horrifying when you really think about it.
9:38–9:44It is. By the end of the play, Scanley is taken away by Goldberg and McCann in a large black car.
9:45–9:48But he isn't the scruffy, defiant piano player anymore.
9:49–9:53They have dressed him in a clean, respectable suit and he is completely mute.
9:53–9:55He cannot speak a single word.
9:55–9:57Not one. His identity has been entirely overwritten.
9:58–10:02So the plot didn't just stop making sense, the plot was actively weaponized against him.
10:02–10:05he became a blank slate for the establishment to write on.
10:05–10:06A terrifying thought.
10:06–10:11But you know what happens when you don't even need a Goldberg or a McKen to force you into a suit?
10:11–10:15Like what happens when society's gravity is so strong you just willingly put the suit on yourself?
10:15–10:17Ah, that takes us to Bengal.
10:17–10:23Exactly. Bengal 1962 and Badal Sirkar's play Evam Inderjit.
10:23–10:29A play that perfectly captures the profound disillusionment of the post-colonial Indian
10:29–10:36middle class. It's about the educated youth who are promised this new, vibrant world only to find
10:36–10:41themselves trapped in the exact same bureaucratic machinery as the generation before them.
10:41–10:45And Sir Carr handles this in such a meta way. I mean, the play literally starts with a character
10:45–10:50called Writer who is agonizing over the fact that he cannot find a story to write.
10:50–10:54Because the world is just too ordinary. Right, it's too boring, too uniform. So he just
10:54–10:59points at the audience and drags four people onto the stage to be his characters. The first
10:59–11:05Three are Amal, Vimal and Kamal. And the names themselves are a structural joke. Exactly.
11:05–11:10They rhyme perfectly because they are the exact same person. They represent the ultimate cookie-cutter
11:10–11:14existence. Will conformity. Yeah. They study the same subjects. They get the same clerical jobs.
11:14–11:19They marry the same types of women. They build the same houses and they die. The script is
11:19–11:24entirely pre-written for them by society and they just follow it without a second thought.
11:24–11:28But then there's the fourth audience member pulled on stage, Indrajit. Right. Indrajit
11:28–11:35is the anomaly. He refuses to rhyme, he looks at the Amal Vimal Kamal conveyor belt, and is just horrified
11:35–11:40by it. He wants out. He wants to find genuine meaning, he questions the norms, he talks about
11:40–11:46rebellion and changing the system. He basically possesses this burning existential angst that
11:46–11:51the others completely lack. But the tragedy of the play, and this is really what makes it so
11:51–11:57devastating, is that the rebellion is completely hollow. Despite all of his agonizing and his
11:57–12:01grand speeches about breaking the mold what actually happens to him. It gets
12:01–12:05tired. Yeah. The friction of constantly fighting the current of conformity
12:05–12:10simply wears him down. Ultimately Enderjit accepts a completely mundane job. He
12:10–12:13marries a perfectly ordinary girl named Manasi, just like the others married
12:13–12:17their perfectly ordinary wives. He divs up. He does. The title of the play,
12:17–12:22Evam Enderjit, actually translates to an Enderjit. Oh wow. Yeah. He doesn't
12:22–12:25get his own story. He just becomes an addendum to the rhyming list. Amal
12:25–12:28Vimal, Kamal, and Intrigip.
12:28–12:30That's heartbreaking.
12:30–12:32It's the Greek myth of Sisyphus, isn't it?
12:32–12:34Rolling that massive boulder up the mountain,
12:34–12:37sweating and straining, thinking you're making
12:37–12:39all this progress, only for it to roll
12:39–12:40right back down to the bottom.
12:40–12:42It's the exact same dynamic.
12:42–12:44It really makes you wonder how many times we mistake
12:44–12:47the struggle itself for actual change.
12:47–12:49I mean, have you ever completely upended
12:49–12:53your life-moved cities, changed careers,
12:53–12:55sworn you're gonna be a totally different person?
12:55–12:59only to wake up a year later and realize you've just built the exact same routines in a new
12:59–13:00zip code.
13:00–13:02It's a chilling realization.
13:02–13:08Sir Carr is suggesting that in a society built so rigidly on conformity, the concept
13:08–13:11of a unique individualized plot might just be an illusion.
13:11–13:13We're all just pushing the boulder.
13:13–13:16We are all pushing the boulder, but the mountain always wins.
13:16–13:20So we've gone from the cosmic absurdity of a barren road to the menacing absurdity
13:20–13:25of a boarding house to the tragic absurdity of middle-class conformity.
13:25–13:26A really cheery lineup so far.
13:26–13:27Yeah, right.
13:27–13:31But the final play in this analysis takes us somewhere even stranger.
13:31–13:36We are looking at a Mathili play from 2008 by Udaya Narayana Singh, who writes under
13:36–13:38the pen name Machiketa.
13:38–13:39Yes.
13:39–13:42The play is called No Entry, Mahpravish.
13:42–13:45And it is set in a waiting room.
13:45–13:48But a very specific, culturally loaded waiting room.
13:48–13:51This is the bureaucratic anti-room to the afterlife.
13:51–13:53It might be heaven, it might be hell.
13:53–13:55but primarily it is a cue.
13:55–13:58It's the ultimate DMV but for eternity.
13:58–13:58Exactly.
13:58–14:01And the line of dead people waiting to be processed
14:01–14:04is just this brilliant cross-section of society.
14:04–14:07You have a businessman, a petty thief, a pickpocket,
14:07–14:10an actor who is desperately trying to hide his cast surname
14:10–14:12even though he is literally dead.
14:12–14:13That ain't glorious.
14:13–14:14Right, and a politician and a Marxist,
14:14–14:17and they aren't like reflecting on their mortal sins
14:17–14:18or contemplating the divine.
14:18–14:21They are bickering and haggling and scheming.
14:21–14:26The pickpocket is actually trying to auction off the throne of the god Indra, which perfectly
14:26–14:30illustrates Naciketa's brilliant satirical mechanism here.
14:30–14:37He is using the grand terrifying concept of the afterlife to expose the absolute ridiculousness
14:37–14:40of our earthly systems.
14:40–14:44Death is supposed to be the great equalizer, the moment when all human constructs fall
14:44–14:45away.
14:45–14:49But these characters absolutely refuse to drop their earthly baggage.
14:49–14:52But wait, hold on, I'm struggling to square that with the political characters.
14:52–14:58The Marxist is offering, quote, outside support to the politician to form a coalition government
14:58–14:59in the afterlife.
14:59–15:00Yes.
15:00–15:01They are dead.
15:01–15:02There is no economy.
15:02–15:03There are no voters.
15:03–15:07Why would a Marxist care about a coalition when facing eternity?
15:07–15:09Because that is the only script they know how to read.
15:09–15:11Like Lucky's bags.
15:11–15:12Exactly.
15:12–15:15It's the exact same psychological trap as Lucky holding the bags.
15:15–15:20If the politician stops maneuvering and the Marxist stops analyzing the class struggle,
15:20–15:23they have to face the terrifying reality of eternity.
15:23–15:24The void again.
15:24–15:25Right.
15:25–15:30Nachiketa is skewering the Indian political landscape, specifically the endless cynical
15:30–15:37coalition building, by showing that these ideologies are so deeply ingrained, so fundamentally
15:37–15:41absurd that they survive even biological death.
15:41–15:42That's crazy.
15:42–15:46would literally rather play politics in a void than experience the void itself.
15:46–15:50And the gods themselves are completely useless in this situation.
15:50–15:56Yamaraj, the terrifying god of death, is wandering around totally distracted because he got struck
15:56–16:01by Cupid's arrow and is infatuated with one of the upper-class ladies in the waiting
16:01–16:02room.
16:02–16:04The whole administration of the cosmos is falling apart.
16:04–16:10It's a complete mess, which sets up the devastating punchline delivered by Chitragupta.
16:10–16:13He's the deity responsible for keeping the meticulous records of human deeds, right?
16:13–16:14Alright.
16:14–16:18He comes out to address this chaotic, bickering cue of souls, and he reviews the truth about
16:18–16:22the door they are all waiting to go through, the door to judgment, the door to the next
16:22–16:23reality.
16:23–16:24And what's the truth?
16:24–16:25It's locked.
16:25–16:26And not just locked, it has a sign on it.
16:26–16:27No entry.
16:27–16:29Matovish, the title of the play.
16:29–16:31There is nothing on the other side.
16:31–16:33Or if there is, they aren't allowed in.
16:33–16:37They are just going to be stuck in this bureaucratic waiting room, bickering over coalition
16:37–16:41politics and auctioning off stolen goods forever.
16:41–16:45It is the perfect synthesis of all the absurdist elements we've discussed today.
16:45–16:46It really is.
16:46–16:50I mean, it has the endless, meaningless waiting of Beckett.
16:50–16:56It has the rigid, inescapable social roles of Serkar.
16:56–17:00And it uses the bureaucratic nightmare to show that the grand cosmic narratives we
17:00–17:06rely on, religion, ultimate justice, political utopias, might just be another locked door.
17:06–17:10We spent our lives waiting in line for a resolution that simply does not exist.
17:10–17:12It really makes you evaluate the script you're holding.
17:12–17:15Are you reading lines someone else wrote for you?
17:15–17:20But this external erasure of identity where society or bureaucracy just paints over who
17:20–17:25you are, it actually provides the perfect lens for the strangest historical mystery in our
17:25–17:26stack today.
17:26–17:28Yes, shifting gears to reality.
17:28–17:33Because what happens when the script isn't just absurd but is actually a deliberate, calculated
17:33–17:34forgery?
17:34–17:38What happens when a locked door isn't keeping you out of the afterlife, but is actively
17:38–17:40keeping you out of your own history?
17:40–17:46So now we move from the philosophical realm of the theater directly into the gritty,
17:46–17:49highly contested realm of historical record.
17:49–17:55We're looking at a massive, systemic conflation of two entirely different historical figures.
17:55–17:57An act of erasure that lasted for centuries.
17:57–17:59A literal centuries long heist.
17:59–18:03Now before we step into this, I want to be incredibly clear with you listening.
18:03–18:08The historical and genealogical analysis we are about to discuss touches on deeply entrenched
18:08–18:11cast and regional politics in South Asia.
18:11–18:12Very sensitive topics.
18:12–18:13Extremely.
18:13–18:18So we are not here to endorse a political viewpoint, settle historical grudges, or tell anyone
18:18–18:20how to view their heritage.
18:20–18:25We are strictly unpacking the fascinating analysis presented by the author in the source material.
18:25–18:30We are looking at the mechanics of how this text claims a historical heist occurred,
18:30–18:32according to the author's analysis of historical
18:32–18:33and genealogical records.
18:33–18:37And the context for this heist requires an understanding
18:37–18:40of a very specific, highly rigid system of record keeping
18:40–18:42in the Nithal region.
18:42–18:43Right.
18:43–18:44It's known as the Pange system.
18:44–18:48These are massive, intricate genealogical registries
18:48–18:51kept by designated scholars called Pange cars.
18:51–18:54And it's not just like a family tree you do online
18:54–18:58for fun, this was the absolute law of reality.
18:58–18:58Precisely.
18:58–19:01The Panji system was established centuries ago,
19:01–19:04primarily to enforce strict marital rules
19:04–19:05within the upper castes,
19:05–19:08basically to prevent forbidden consinguiniest marriages.
19:08–19:10Marrying someone too closely related.
19:10–19:12Right, but because these records
19:12–19:14dictated who could marry whom,
19:14–19:16they effectively dictated social standing,
19:16–19:19property inheritance, and historical legitimacy.
19:19–19:20But if you weren't in the book.
19:20–19:21If you weren't in the Panji,
19:21–19:23or if your Panji record was altered,
19:23–19:26your entire existence in that society was rewritten.
19:26–19:28It was a mechanism of absolute social control.
19:28–19:32Okay, so with the power of that record keeping in mind,
19:32–19:34let's look at the two men that the text claims
19:34–19:38were smashed together to create a singular myth.
19:38–19:41Figure one is a man named Thakur Vijapati.
19:41–19:45He lived from roughly 1350 to 1435.
19:45–19:47Thakur Vijapati was the quintessential
19:47–19:49aristocratic insider.
19:49–19:51He was a highly educated court poet
19:51–19:54and scholar under Rajesh Shavasin.
19:54–19:54Okay.
19:54–19:58And he wrote almost entirely in Sanskrit and Navajata.
19:58–19:59Let's pause on Avahara for a second
19:59–20:01because I think we need some context there.
20:01–20:02What exactly is that?
20:02–20:05Avahara is essentially a crucial transitional stage
20:05–20:08in the evolution of Indo-Aryan languages.
20:08–20:10Think of it as the bridge between the ancient,
20:10–20:13highly formalized classical languages
20:13–20:15and the more modern Eastern languages
20:15–20:17like Mithili, Bengali, and Odia.
20:17–20:18Got it.
20:18–20:20By writing in Sanskrit and Avahara,
20:20–20:23Thakur Vijapati was writing in the language of the elite,
20:23–20:24the language of the court,
20:24–20:26the language of the highly educated.
20:26–20:27He wasn't writing for the guy selling vegetables
20:27–20:33the market. No, definitely not. He was writing for the king and the analysis of his texts,
20:33–20:39works like the Krita Lada and Prusa Pariksha, reveals a worldview that perfectly aligns with his
20:39–20:44status. Right, his writing matches his life. Yeah. The text points out that he wrote treatises
20:44–20:50defending strict orthodox caste divisions. He even espoused the view that true beauty was
20:50–20:54something that fundamentally belonged only to the rich. He was a feudal intellectual through and
20:54–21:01through. Exactly. Now compare that highly curated aristocratic resume to figure two,
21:01–21:08Mahakavi Vidyapati. The analysis places this figure significantly earlier, while before 1350,
21:08–21:13and this is the individual credited with authoring the Padavali. And a Padavali is legendary.
21:13–21:17These are the foundational Mathili songs and poems. They are the heartbeat of the culture.
21:17–21:21Yeah, they're huge. But the crucial distinction the text makes is that Mahakavi Vidyapati was
21:21–21:22was not sitting in a palace.
21:22–21:23Far from it.
21:23–21:26The analysis of folklore, rural traditions,
21:26–21:28and the internal evidence of the poetry itself
21:28–21:30suggests that the author of the Padavali
21:30–21:33belonged to the Harjahm or Barber caste.
21:33–21:35He hailed from the rural village of Bisfi.
21:35–21:36He wasn't a court scholar.
21:36–21:38He was a working class artist.
21:38–21:41The aristocrat and the people's poet.
21:41–21:42Two completely different worlds.
21:42–21:43Exactly.
21:43–21:46And the text dives deep into the actual poetry
21:46–21:49to prove how incompatible these two worldviews are.
21:49–21:55For instance, it highlights a recurring, deeply emotional theme in the Padavali, known as Pia de Santar.
21:55–21:58Which translates to the agony of migration.
21:58–21:58Yeah.
21:58–22:05Specifically, the profound tearing sorrow of a husband having to leave his home, his wife, his family,
22:05–22:09and travel far away simply to find labor to survive.
22:09–22:09Right.
22:09–22:13That is a visceral, dirt-under-the-fingernails reality.
22:13–22:18That is the poetry of a community that knows what it means to starve, to be forced off their land.
22:18–22:20It's grounded in real struggle.
22:20–22:22You do not write gut-wrenching ballads
22:22–22:24about the trauma of migrant labor.
22:24–22:26If you are a pampered court poet,
22:26–22:29seeping wine with the king and writing Sanskrit essays
22:29–22:30about how beauty belongs to the wealthy,
22:30–22:32it makes zero sense.
22:32–22:35The linguistic and thematic disconnect is massive.
22:35–22:37And furthermore, the analysis points out
22:37–22:38a glaring omission here.
22:38–22:39What's that?
22:39–22:41Thakur Vijapati, the aristocrat,
22:41–22:44left behind a massive volume of writing.
22:44–22:46Yet he never once mentions the Patavali.
22:46–22:47He never claims it.
22:47–22:48Oh wow.
22:48–22:51And conversely, the Padavali contained absolutely
22:51–22:54no references to the hyper-elite courtly concerns
22:54–22:56of Thakur Vidyapati.
22:56–23:00They are two distinct, non-overlapping universes
23:00–23:01of experience.
23:01–23:03Which brings us to the actual heist.
23:03–23:05If these two men were so fundamentally different,
23:05–23:08how did they become one person in the eyes of history?
23:08–23:10This is where it gets really interesting.
23:10–23:13The text outlines this bizarre cultural tug of war
23:13–23:16that took place in the 19th and 20th centuries.
23:16–23:20It started when Bengali scholars began to look closely at the Padamali.
23:20–23:23Right. Because of the shared linguistic roots, that transitional
23:23–23:27avahada stage we mentioned, early Mothili and early Bengali shared a
23:27–23:30significant amount of vocabulary and even script similarities, like the
23:30–23:30T'rhuda script.
23:30–23:31So they were close.
23:31–23:32Very close.
23:32–23:36Bengali scholars saw the brilliance of the Padamali and recognized the
23:36–23:37linguistic overlap.
23:37–23:40So they attempted to claim Vidjapati as an early Bengali poet.
23:41–23:45They wanted to absorb his cultural prestige into their own literary history.
23:45–23:49It was basically a geographical land grab, but for poetry.
23:49–23:50Pretty much.
23:50–23:56But the Orthodox elite establishment in Mithila obviously wasn't going to let their greatest
23:56–23:59cultural export be hijacked by Bengal.
23:59–24:01They needed to definitively claim him back.
24:01–24:04But here is where the mechanical erasure happens.
24:04–24:09The Orthodox establishment in Mithila wanted Vigipati, but they didn't want a rural
24:09–24:14working class poet from the Hajam cast as their cultural figurehead.
24:14–24:15Right, that didn't fit their brand.
24:15–24:20Exactly. That didn't fit their narrative of high caste scholarly superiority.
24:20–24:25So according to the author's analysis, they utilized their control over the narrative,
24:25–24:30their control over the historical records, to fuse him with the aristocratic Thakur Vijapati.
24:30–24:32They created a composite character.
24:32–24:37Yes, a brilliant Mathili poet who was also conveniently a high caste feudal courtier.
24:37–24:44They gentrified him and they did it physically, visually through what the text explores as the Pog controversy.
24:44–24:48The Pog is a very specific type of traditional headdress in the region.
24:48–24:53And the text cites historian Vijay Kumar Thakur, who explicitly links the Pog not just
24:53–25:00to general culture, but specifically to feudalism, orthodox ritual, and elite power structures.
25:00–25:02It was a symbol of the upper caste establishment.
25:02–25:03Right.
25:03–25:09To cement this new, sanitized version of Vijupati, certain cultural and literary organizations
25:09–25:12began a campaign of retroactive visual editing.
25:12–25:13Which is wild.
25:13–25:14It is.
25:14–25:17commissioning portraits and erecting statues of Vidyapati.
25:17–25:20And on every single one, they placed a pog on his head.
25:20–25:23It is such a brilliant, insidious form of propaganda.
25:23–25:25By just putting a hat on a statue,
25:25–25:28you change the entire historical memory of a person.
25:28–25:30It rewrites everything visually.
25:30–25:32It's like if 100 years from now,
25:32–25:33a group of wealthy bankers decided
25:33–25:36they wanted to claim the legacy of a punk rock icon
25:36–25:37like Joe Strummer.
25:37–25:38Okay, I love this analogy.
25:38–25:40Right, but they don't like the leather jackets
25:40–25:42and the anti-establishment lyrics.
25:42–25:44So they start printing history books
25:44–25:46where Strummer is wearing a three-piece Brooks Brothers
25:46–25:49suit, and they tell everyone he was actually
25:49–25:52a classical cellist who loved Wall Street.
25:52–25:54It completely hollows out the reality of who the artist was.
25:54–25:57That is exactly what happened, and that hollowing out
25:57–26:00extended to the local folklore too.
26:00–26:02The analysis points to the incredibly famous
26:02–26:04myth of Uganda.
26:04–26:04Right.
26:04–26:07This is a story everyone in the region knows.
26:07–26:10The legend goes that Lord Shiva, the supreme deity,
26:10–26:12was so moved by Vidyapati's devotion
26:12–26:15that he came down to earth in human form
26:15–26:16as a man named Yugana,
26:16–26:19simply to serve as Vidyapati's servant.
26:19–26:22Now let's analyze the core mechanics of that myth.
26:22–26:24A god coming down to do manual labor for a mortal,
26:24–26:27that is fundamentally a working class fantasy.
26:27–26:28Yeah, totally.
26:28–26:30It is a story designed to elevate the common man,
26:30–26:32suggesting that even the divine
26:32–26:33respects the struggles of the peasantry.
26:33–26:35But once the identities were merged,
26:35–26:38this beautiful piece of rural folklore was co-opted.
26:38–26:40They changed the meaning.
26:40–26:45Suddenly, the story was twisted to mean that Shiva came down to serve the wealthy aristocratic
26:45–26:48Fakur Vigipati.
26:48–26:53The myth was inverted from a celebration of the working class into a divine endorsement
26:53–26:54of the feudal elite.
26:54–26:58They stole his poetry, they stole his face, and they stole his myths.
26:58–27:00It's a total lockout.
27:00–27:05But the text doesn't just document the theft, it documents the resistance.
27:05–27:06Which is the most important part.
27:06–27:11Because while the elites were busy painting pogs on statues in the universities, the actual
27:11–27:14people never forgot who wrote those songs.
27:14–27:19And the proof of that survival comes from a 1945 piece of reportage by the legendary
27:19–27:22Hindi writer, Fanish Warnov Renu.
27:22–27:26Renu went out into the rural areas and documented a cultural phenomenon known as the Betapat
27:26–27:27Knack.
27:27–27:31Break down the Betapat Knack for us, because this wasn't happening in a pristine concert
27:31–27:32hall.
27:32–27:33Not at all.
27:33–27:37colloquial rural pronunciation of Vijapati.
27:37–27:40The Bita Patnaak was a raw, vibrant, traditional dance
27:40–27:42and musical performance held in the villages
27:42–27:44in the dust under the open sky.
27:44–27:46And what Rean's reportage proved
27:46–27:49was that the performers of the Bita Patnaak,
27:49–27:53specifically lower caste artists like a man named Janakis
27:53–27:55who was highlighted in the text,
27:55–27:59they were the true preservers of the original Padavali.
27:59–28:01While the scholars were debating manuscripts
28:01–28:03in the courts, these village performers
28:03–28:06had been passing the songs down orally, memorizing them,
28:06–28:09dancing to them, keeping the rhythm of the people's
28:09–28:13poet alive for 700 unbroken years.
28:13–28:17It is a stunning testament to cultural resilience.
28:17–28:18The establishment tried to lock the door
28:18–28:20on the working class vigil party.
28:20–28:22They put a no entry sign on his legacy
28:22–28:24for anyone who wasn't a feudal aristocrat.
28:24–28:25They didn't work.
28:25–28:28But the rural laborers didn't care about the locked door.
28:28–28:29They just built their own stage outside in the dirt
28:29–28:30and kept singing.
28:30–28:33They maintain a massive parallel historical truth
28:33–28:35entirely outside the control of the elites.
28:35–28:37Which is incredibly inspiring.
28:37–28:41But it also highlights a conflict that is far from over.
28:41–28:42This battle over who owns the language,
28:42–28:44who dictates the aesthetics
28:44–28:46and what poetry is actually for,
28:46–28:48that fight is happening right now.
28:48–28:49Very much so.
28:49–28:52And that brings us to the final segment of our deep dive.
28:52–28:55We are moving out of the 14th century
28:55–28:57and looking at the modern Mithili voices
28:57–29:00who are violently rejecting that metaphorical peg
29:00–29:09We are looking at writers who realize that if they accept the sanitized elite version of their language, the language itself will die.
29:09–29:18So let's look at Raj Devmandal. He published a poetry collection called Embara, which the analysis praises as arguably the most important collection of its decade.
29:18–29:19Yes.
29:19–29:23But the context the text provides for this poetry is incredibly grim.
29:23–29:27The author asks a brutal pragmatic question here.
29:27–29:34What is the utility of writing high-minded complex poetry in a language that is hemorrhaging its everyday speakers?
29:34–29:36Right, people are forgetting it.
29:36–29:38The text paints a picture of a linguistic crisis,
29:38–29:44noting that organizations literally have to set up special camps just to teach people how to correctly pronounce Mathili words.
29:44–29:46Isn't there a huge risk there though?
29:46–29:53Like, if the language is struggling that much, shouldn't poets be trying to write beautiful, universally appealing things to attract people back to it?
29:53–29:55Why lean into the grit?
29:55–29:59Because beautiful abstract aesthetics don't feed people.
29:59–30:01Okay, fair point.
30:01–30:03Rajdev Mandal's argument, as explored in the text,
30:03–30:08is that trying to write elite disconnected poetry while your culture's collapsing
30:08–30:11is like polishing the brass on a sinking ship.
30:11–30:12Yeah.
30:12–30:14The poetry must become a tool for survival.
30:14–30:16And he doesn't pull his punches.
30:16–30:19The text includes this staggering quote from Mandal's work,
30:19–30:25drops of blood bathing the earth asking will our cast survive this dark night?
30:25–30:28That is not a metaphor with a broken heart or a beautiful sunset.
30:28–30:29No, not at all.
30:29–30:32That is a raw terrifying question of existential survival.
30:32–30:37Mandel demands that modern poetry reject imported intellectualized concepts.
30:37–30:42If the people are struggling to survive, the poetry must be about the mechanics of that struggle.
30:42–30:43The day-to-day reality.
30:43–30:47Exactly. It must be about food, about clothing, about the lack of shelter,
30:47–30:51about economic exploitation, it has to reflect the dirt and the blood of the people actually
30:51–30:55speaking the language, not the sanitized theories of the universities.
30:55–31:01He's stripping the art down to its absolute bare bones, which perfectly sets the stage
31:01–31:04for the most radical figure in our entire deep dive.
31:04–31:05Yes, my favorite.
31:05–31:10Right, because if Rajdev Mandal is asking the hard questions, this next writer is actively
31:10–31:13trying to sweep the whole system away.
31:13–31:18We are talking about Ramdev Prasadmandal, who writes under the glorious pen name, Shahru
31:18–31:19Dar.
31:19–31:20The Sweeper.
31:20–31:23I cannot get over how perfect that is.
31:23–31:27He isn't claiming to be a laureate, or a philosopher, or a savior.
31:27–31:30He is the guy who cleans up the mess.
31:30–31:35And the text details how he didn't just write poems, he invented an entirely new literary
31:35–31:39genre that he simply called the Shahlu, the Broom.
31:39–31:41And it isn't just a gimmick.
31:41–31:44The mechanical logic behind his genre is fascinating.
31:44–31:45Oh, the different brooms.
31:45–31:49Yes, the text explains that Charudar writes different types of brooms depending on the
31:49–31:51specific societal rot he is targeting.
31:51–31:55Right, because you don't use a feather duster to clean mud off a driveway.
31:55–31:57The text explains his logic.
31:57–32:03If you are sweeping a smooth indoor floor, you can use a soft broom made of fine grass.
32:03–32:08But if you are trying to sweep a rough, uneven dirt courtyard covered in filth,
32:08–32:10a soft broom will just break.
32:10–32:13You need a stiff, heavy broom made of hard sticks.
32:13–32:14You need the right tool.
32:14–32:15Exactly.
32:15–32:19Shah Radaar tailors his literary weapons.
32:19–32:23He writes stick brooms to violently attack deep-seated societal evils.
32:23–32:30Specifically, he targets what he diagnoses as the disease of money, the rampant capitalist
32:30–32:34exploitation of the working class, and the pervasive danger of blind, unquestioning
32:34–32:37faith in both religious and political authorities.
32:37–32:38He's going after the big ones.
32:38–32:43He is systematically attacking the very structures that Goldberg and McCann used to crush Stanley
32:43–32:44and Pinter's play.
32:44–32:46And he does it with this terrifying monumental self-belief.
32:46–32:50The text highlights a quote from his work that just stops you in your tracks, without
32:50–32:52me the world is empty, it is like an animal.
32:52–32:55It is a breathtakingly radical stance.
32:55–32:56But I really have to question that.
32:56–33:01I mean, the text notes that Charudar explicitly refuses to wait for an avatar of Ram or any
33:01–33:04divine savior to come and fix the world's problems.
33:04–33:06He says he has to do it himself.
33:06–33:12But to stand up and say, without me, the world is an empty animal, I am the only one holding
33:12–33:17the broom, isn't that crossing the line from radical responsibility into a massive messiah
33:17–33:18complex?
33:18–33:24Isn't he just writing a new, highly arrogant script where he is the center of the universe?
33:24–33:29It is a massive burden to place on oneself, and it flirts dangerously with ego, yes.
33:29–33:33But to understand why it's necessary, we have to pull this entire deep dive together
33:33–33:36and look back at where we started with the existentialists.
33:36–33:40on the country road with Beckett. Exactly. Look at Vladimir and Estragon. What is their
33:40–33:45fundamental tragedy? Passivity. They are waiting for Godot, a savior who will never arrive.
33:45–33:47Right. They have advocated all personal responsibility
33:47–33:52for their reality, handing it over to this mythical figure. Their world is empty, precisely
33:52–33:59because they refuse to act in it. Charudar represents the absolute diametric opposite
33:59–34:05of that existential paralysis. He looks down the road, realizes Godot isn't coming, and
34:05–34:06decides to sweep the road himself.
34:06–34:07Yes.
34:07–34:10He recognizes that the grand narratives, the gods,
34:10–34:12the flawless historical records,
34:12–34:17the perfect political coalitions are all just locked doors.
34:17–34:18Like in Nachiketa's play.
34:18–34:19Exactly.
34:19–34:21If you wait for them to open, you
34:21–34:22will die in the waiting room.
34:22–34:24Shroodar is saying that the only way
34:24–34:27to generate meaning in an absurd world
34:27–34:29is through direct individual action against the dirt
34:29–34:30right in front of you.
34:30–34:31OK, I see.
34:31–34:34He is arrogant because the situation requires
34:34–34:37arrogance to overcome the crushing weight of conformity.
34:37–34:40He refuses the pog, he refuses the waiting room,
34:40–34:42and he refuses the silence.
34:42–34:43That is an incredible synthesis.
34:43–34:46So for you listening, let's look at the immense landscape
34:46–34:47we've mapped out today.
34:47–34:50We started in the theater watching characters paralyzed
34:50–34:52by absurdity waiting outside locked doors
34:52–34:54or having their identities violently erased
34:54–34:55and rewritten by the establishment.
34:55–34:57The heavy bags we carry.
34:57–34:58Right.
34:58–35:01We then saw how that erasure isn't just fiction.
35:01–35:02We looked at the mechanical theft
35:02–35:08a working class poet's identity, watching history put a futile hat on a man who's saying about
35:08–35:10the pain of migrant labor.
35:10–35:13And we ended with a roadmap for resistance.
35:13–35:18A modern writer who realizes that the only defense against an absurd forged script is
35:18–35:22to aggressively write your own, even if your only tool is broom.
35:22–35:30It is a journey from total passivity to historical erasure to violent, vital rebellion,
35:30–35:32and it inevitably turns the lens right back onto you.
35:32–35:33does.
35:33–35:37After exploring all these mechanisms of control and narrative, you have to look at the script
35:37–35:39you are living right now.
35:39–35:43How much of your normal life is just a role you were assigned by an Amal Vimal Kamal
35:43–35:44society?
35:44–35:47Are you clutching heavy bags you don't need to hold just because you're afraid of the
35:47–35:48empty road?
35:48–35:51And I think the most vital question to leave you with is this.
35:51–35:55If an impartial historian were to find the pungy of your life, the ultimate record
35:55–35:57of your actions, how would it read?
35:57–35:59Ooh, that's a good question.
35:59–36:04Would it show someone patiently waiting in a bureaucratic line for a door that says, no
36:04–36:05entry?
36:05–36:10Or would it show someone who finally got tired of the absurdity, picked up a stiff broom,
36:10–36:11and started swinging?
36:11–36:13Who is holding the pen right now?
36:13–36:15We'll leave you to figure that out.
36:15–36:19Thank you so much for joining us on this massive deep dive into the sources.
36:19–36:24We love unpacking these dense, intricate corners of history and literature with you.
36:24–36:26Keep questioning the script you've been handed.
36:26–36:30Keep looking for the true stories hidden in the margins and we will catch you on the next
36:30–36:31deep dive.

Plain text

Imagine waking up one morning to discover that Shakespeare didn't actually write his plays. Right, the classic literary conspiracy. Yeah, exactly. But like, stretch your imagination a little further here. Imagine discovering that Shakespeare wasn't just one person, but actually two entirely different people. Yeah. And they were separated by, you know, almost a century. Wow. Okay, that's quite elite. It is. And history, or rather a very specific group of historians, they decided to just mash their resumes together. Just combine them into one guy. Yeah. They took the incredibly popular, like, working-class, revolutionary poetry of one person, and they literally just stapled it onto the wealthy, aristocratic, feudal resume of the other. That is wild. Right. It sounds like the plot of a thriller or something, just this massive cultural heist designed to completely erase a working-class hero. It really does sound like fiction, but, you know, that exact mechanism of historical identity theft. It's actually at the center of the literary landscape we're exploring today. Which is just fascinating. It is. We're looking at this phenomenon where the narrative is deliberately fractured and overwritten by those who basically have the power to hold the pen. Okay, let's unpack this because today for you listening we are stepping into a really profound and honestly sometimes dizzying exploration of how reality itself gets scripted. Yeah, it gets pretty deep. It does. We are diving into a stack of extensive literary and historical analysis from the Videha e-journal, which was penned by Gajendra Thakur. A really dense, incredible source. Absolutely. And our mission on this deep dive is to basically journey through the mind-bending mechanics of postmodern absurdist theater, untangle that centuries-old South Asian literary heist I just mentioned, and then finally meet a modern writer armed with a literal brew. A literal brew, yes. Yeah, a guy who just decided he was totally done waiting for the world to make sense. Which, I mean, that's a heavy itinerary. It's a lot, yeah. But it's a vital one because whether we're talking about like existential French plays from the 1950s or modern, mathily socioeconomic poetry, every single thread we pull today leaves back to one core anxiety. And what's that? Who gets to write the narrative of our lives. Yeah. and what happens to a person or even an entire culture, when the plot they've been handed completely stops making sense. Oh, that feeling of the plot falling apart, it's such a universal human experience. It really is. Like you're just going along, you're following the rules and suddenly you look around and realize the script is absolute gibberish. Exactly, nothing makes sense anymore. Right, and to really understand how that works, we need to look at how our process is that breakdown. So we're looking at four major post-modern plays today, spanning French, English, Bengali, and Mathili. And it's important to note, these aren't just stories. Right, they're more than that. They're structural teardowns of what a narrative is even supposed to be. So let's start with the absolute foundation of this genre. Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Goudault, written in French in 1952. Right, which comes right on the heels of the Second World War. A pretty bleak time. Incredibly bleak. It was a time when the entire globe was looking around at all the devastation and just asking, what was the point of all that? The grand narratives of progress and civilization had utterly failed. And Beckett just strips all of that away on stage. He strips it down to almost nothing. I mean, the setting is famously barren. It's a country road. There is a single tree and it's evening. That's it. That is the entire world. Just a total void. And inhabiting this void are two characters, Estragon, who seems entirely preoccupied with the physical struggle of just taking off his boots. Right. And then Vladimir, who was equally obsessed with the intellectual struggle of taking off and putting on his hat. And they just talk. It's circular, meaningless chatter. Because they are trapped in the ultimate void, engaging in actions that yield zero results. I mean, Estragon's boots hurt. Vladimir's hat has something inside it. But resolving these minor physical discomforts does nothing to change their fundamental situation. No, it just passes the time. Exactly. In traditional theater, you have a setup, an inciting incident, rising action, and a climax. A normal arc, yeah. Right, and waiting is just the boring stuff that happens before the curtain goes up. But Beckett flips that entirely. The waiting is the climax. Yes, the waiting is the entirety of human existence. They are waiting for this figure, Godot, who represents meaning or salvation or purpose, or maybe just an answer. But Godot never shows up. Never. At the end of the day, a boy arrives with a message and he says, you know, Godot isn't coming today, but surely tomorrow. It's agonizing. It's like hitting the snooze button on your own existential dread. You just wake up and do it again. But right in the middle of this vast empty waiting, there is this incredibly dense, bizarre interruption. Ah, yes. Potso and Lucky. Right. We get the arrival of these two other characters, Potso and his slave, Lucky. And Potso literally has a rope tied around Lucky's neck. Which is a deeply unsettling image, especially when you contrast it with the seeming freedom of Vladimir and Estragon out on that open race. It is unsettling, but here's the detail that absolutely haunts me. Lucky is carrying all of Potso's heavy luggage. He has a heavy bag, a folding stool, a picnic basket, a great coat. It's a massive burden. Right, and even when they stop their journey, Even when Potso is sitting down eating chicken and smoking a pipe and Lucky's just standing there, he doesn't put the bags down. He just holds them. He just keeps holding them. Physically exhausting himself for absolutely no reason. I mean, why on earth wouldn't you just put the bags down when you stop walking? Because the bags are his identity. Oh, wow. Yeah. Without the heavy burden of servitude, Lucky would be forced to look at the exact same terrifying empty horizon that Vladimir and Estragon are staring at. Exactly. His subjugation provides a script for him. The rope, the master, the heavy bags, those are the boundaries of his reality. But he drops them. If he drops the bags, he has to acknowledge his own freedom. And freedom in Beckett's universe is terrifying because it's synonymous with meaninglessness. That makes so much sense. Lucky actively prefers the physical agony of a crushing burden over the psychological agony of having no purpose at all. That is a staggering way to look at it. We cling to our stressors, right? Like our terrible jobs, our toxic relationships, because the burden tells us who we are. We need the weight to feel grounded. We're terrified of putting the bags down because then we have to figure out what to do with our hands. Exactly. And that internal paralysis, you know, that fear of our own freedom is really just one flavor of the absurd. If Beckett shows us the terror of an empty world, Harold Pinter shows us the terror of a world that is far too crowded. Which takes us to the English contribution to this landscape. Pinter's the birthday party. from 1958. We go from this wide open country road to a suffocating, claustrophobic, boarding house by the seaside. Complete shift in atmosphere. Totally. The space is run by a woman named Meg and she has this one tenant, Stanley. And Stanley is a piano player, but he's essentially hiding from the world. He doesn't go out, he barely washes. Completely withdrawn. Yeah. And Meg is absolutely insistent that today is his birthday. Stanley violently denies this, but she forces the celebratory script onto him anyway. Right, which is an immediate violation of his personal reality. Meg just flat out refuses to accept Stanley's version of his own life. It's so unnerving. It is, but the true fracturing of his identity happens when the outside world invades this fragile sanctuary. Pinter introduces two figures, Goldberg and McCann. Oh, these guys. Yeah, they're the embodiment of what critics call Pinter's comedy of menace. They arrive at the boarding house, They take over this unwanted birthday party and they just subject Stanley to this relentless rapid fire interrogation. It's practically a verbal waterboarding. They ask him these completely nonsensical contradictory questions like they'll yell, why did the chicken cross the road followed immediately by who watered the wicket in Melbourne? Just totally absurd. They just batter him with words until he starts breaking down. And the terrifying part is how this culminates during a game of blind man's bluff at the party. The blindfold scene. Stanley is blindfolded, but then his actual glasses are broken. They literally strip him of his ability to see the world. And the breaking of the glasses is a crucial mechanical step in his destruction. How so? Well, Goldberg and McCann, they represent the oppressive forces of societal conformity. Whether that's the state, religion, capitalism, or just general societal expectations. Right, the system. Exactly. By breaking his glasses, they remove his personal lens on reality. They blind him so they can implant their own vision. And what makes this so uniquely disturbing is the audience's reaction. Because it's funny. Right. As you watch this brutal psychological dismantling, you often find yourself laughing. You do! Because the dialogue is so bizarre. It's like watching two people argue in a language they just invented. But that laughter is a defense mechanism. We laugh at the social awkwardness, sure, but beneath that laughter is a really primal anxiety. We are watching a man lose ownership of his own mind. It's horrifying when you really think about it. It is. By the end of the play, Scanley is taken away by Goldberg and McCann in a large black car. But he isn't the scruffy, defiant piano player anymore. They have dressed him in a clean, respectable suit and he is completely mute. He cannot speak a single word. Not one. His identity has been entirely overwritten. So the plot didn't just stop making sense, the plot was actively weaponized against him. he became a blank slate for the establishment to write on. A terrifying thought. But you know what happens when you don't even need a Goldberg or a McKen to force you into a suit? Like what happens when society's gravity is so strong you just willingly put the suit on yourself? Ah, that takes us to Bengal. Exactly. Bengal 1962 and Badal Sirkar's play Evam Inderjit. A play that perfectly captures the profound disillusionment of the post-colonial Indian middle class. It's about the educated youth who are promised this new, vibrant world only to find themselves trapped in the exact same bureaucratic machinery as the generation before them. And Sir Carr handles this in such a meta way. I mean, the play literally starts with a character called Writer who is agonizing over the fact that he cannot find a story to write. Because the world is just too ordinary. Right, it's too boring, too uniform. So he just points at the audience and drags four people onto the stage to be his characters. The first Three are Amal, Vimal and Kamal. And the names themselves are a structural joke. Exactly. They rhyme perfectly because they are the exact same person. They represent the ultimate cookie-cutter existence. Will conformity. Yeah. They study the same subjects. They get the same clerical jobs. They marry the same types of women. They build the same houses and they die. The script is entirely pre-written for them by society and they just follow it without a second thought. But then there's the fourth audience member pulled on stage, Indrajit. Right. Indrajit is the anomaly. He refuses to rhyme, he looks at the Amal Vimal Kamal conveyor belt, and is just horrified by it. He wants out. He wants to find genuine meaning, he questions the norms, he talks about rebellion and changing the system. He basically possesses this burning existential angst that the others completely lack. But the tragedy of the play, and this is really what makes it so devastating, is that the rebellion is completely hollow. Despite all of his agonizing and his grand speeches about breaking the mold what actually happens to him. It gets tired. Yeah. The friction of constantly fighting the current of conformity simply wears him down. Ultimately Enderjit accepts a completely mundane job. He marries a perfectly ordinary girl named Manasi, just like the others married their perfectly ordinary wives. He divs up. He does. The title of the play, Evam Enderjit, actually translates to an Enderjit. Oh wow. Yeah. He doesn't get his own story. He just becomes an addendum to the rhyming list. Amal Vimal, Kamal, and Intrigip. That's heartbreaking. It's the Greek myth of Sisyphus, isn't it? Rolling that massive boulder up the mountain, sweating and straining, thinking you're making all this progress, only for it to roll right back down to the bottom. It's the exact same dynamic. It really makes you wonder how many times we mistake the struggle itself for actual change. I mean, have you ever completely upended your life-moved cities, changed careers, sworn you're gonna be a totally different person? only to wake up a year later and realize you've just built the exact same routines in a new zip code. It's a chilling realization. Sir Carr is suggesting that in a society built so rigidly on conformity, the concept of a unique individualized plot might just be an illusion. We're all just pushing the boulder. We are all pushing the boulder, but the mountain always wins. So we've gone from the cosmic absurdity of a barren road to the menacing absurdity of a boarding house to the tragic absurdity of middle-class conformity. A really cheery lineup so far. Yeah, right. But the final play in this analysis takes us somewhere even stranger. We are looking at a Mathili play from 2008 by Udaya Narayana Singh, who writes under the pen name Machiketa. Yes. The play is called No Entry, Mahpravish. And it is set in a waiting room. But a very specific, culturally loaded waiting room. This is the bureaucratic anti-room to the afterlife. It might be heaven, it might be hell. but primarily it is a cue. It's the ultimate DMV but for eternity. Exactly. And the line of dead people waiting to be processed is just this brilliant cross-section of society. You have a businessman, a petty thief, a pickpocket, an actor who is desperately trying to hide his cast surname even though he is literally dead. That ain't glorious. Right, and a politician and a Marxist, and they aren't like reflecting on their mortal sins or contemplating the divine. They are bickering and haggling and scheming. The pickpocket is actually trying to auction off the throne of the god Indra, which perfectly illustrates Naciketa's brilliant satirical mechanism here. He is using the grand terrifying concept of the afterlife to expose the absolute ridiculousness of our earthly systems. Death is supposed to be the great equalizer, the moment when all human constructs fall away. But these characters absolutely refuse to drop their earthly baggage. But wait, hold on, I'm struggling to square that with the political characters. The Marxist is offering, quote, outside support to the politician to form a coalition government in the afterlife. Yes. They are dead. There is no economy. There are no voters. Why would a Marxist care about a coalition when facing eternity? Because that is the only script they know how to read. Like Lucky's bags. Exactly. It's the exact same psychological trap as Lucky holding the bags. If the politician stops maneuvering and the Marxist stops analyzing the class struggle, they have to face the terrifying reality of eternity. The void again. Right. Nachiketa is skewering the Indian political landscape, specifically the endless cynical coalition building, by showing that these ideologies are so deeply ingrained, so fundamentally absurd that they survive even biological death. That's crazy. would literally rather play politics in a void than experience the void itself. And the gods themselves are completely useless in this situation. Yamaraj, the terrifying god of death, is wandering around totally distracted because he got struck by Cupid's arrow and is infatuated with one of the upper-class ladies in the waiting room. The whole administration of the cosmos is falling apart. It's a complete mess, which sets up the devastating punchline delivered by Chitragupta. He's the deity responsible for keeping the meticulous records of human deeds, right? Alright. He comes out to address this chaotic, bickering cue of souls, and he reviews the truth about the door they are all waiting to go through, the door to judgment, the door to the next reality. And what's the truth? It's locked. And not just locked, it has a sign on it. No entry. Matovish, the title of the play. There is nothing on the other side. Or if there is, they aren't allowed in. They are just going to be stuck in this bureaucratic waiting room, bickering over coalition politics and auctioning off stolen goods forever. It is the perfect synthesis of all the absurdist elements we've discussed today. It really is. I mean, it has the endless, meaningless waiting of Beckett. It has the rigid, inescapable social roles of Serkar. And it uses the bureaucratic nightmare to show that the grand cosmic narratives we rely on, religion, ultimate justice, political utopias, might just be another locked door. We spent our lives waiting in line for a resolution that simply does not exist. It really makes you evaluate the script you're holding. Are you reading lines someone else wrote for you? But this external erasure of identity where society or bureaucracy just paints over who you are, it actually provides the perfect lens for the strangest historical mystery in our stack today. Yes, shifting gears to reality. Because what happens when the script isn't just absurd but is actually a deliberate, calculated forgery? What happens when a locked door isn't keeping you out of the afterlife, but is actively keeping you out of your own history? So now we move from the philosophical realm of the theater directly into the gritty, highly contested realm of historical record. We're looking at a massive, systemic conflation of two entirely different historical figures. An act of erasure that lasted for centuries. A literal centuries long heist. Now before we step into this, I want to be incredibly clear with you listening. The historical and genealogical analysis we are about to discuss touches on deeply entrenched cast and regional politics in South Asia. Very sensitive topics. Extremely. So we are not here to endorse a political viewpoint, settle historical grudges, or tell anyone how to view their heritage. We are strictly unpacking the fascinating analysis presented by the author in the source material. We are looking at the mechanics of how this text claims a historical heist occurred, according to the author's analysis of historical and genealogical records. And the context for this heist requires an understanding of a very specific, highly rigid system of record keeping in the Nithal region. Right. It's known as the Pange system. These are massive, intricate genealogical registries kept by designated scholars called Pange cars. And it's not just like a family tree you do online for fun, this was the absolute law of reality. Precisely. The Panji system was established centuries ago, primarily to enforce strict marital rules within the upper castes, basically to prevent forbidden consinguiniest marriages. Marrying someone too closely related. Right, but because these records dictated who could marry whom, they effectively dictated social standing, property inheritance, and historical legitimacy. But if you weren't in the book. If you weren't in the Panji, or if your Panji record was altered, your entire existence in that society was rewritten. It was a mechanism of absolute social control. Okay, so with the power of that record keeping in mind, let's look at the two men that the text claims were smashed together to create a singular myth. Figure one is a man named Thakur Vijapati. He lived from roughly 1350 to 1435. Thakur Vijapati was the quintessential aristocratic insider. He was a highly educated court poet and scholar under Rajesh Shavasin. Okay. And he wrote almost entirely in Sanskrit and Navajata. Let's pause on Avahara for a second because I think we need some context there. What exactly is that? Avahara is essentially a crucial transitional stage in the evolution of Indo-Aryan languages. Think of it as the bridge between the ancient, highly formalized classical languages and the more modern Eastern languages like Mithili, Bengali, and Odia. Got it. By writing in Sanskrit and Avahara, Thakur Vijapati was writing in the language of the elite, the language of the court, the language of the highly educated. He wasn't writing for the guy selling vegetables the market. No, definitely not. He was writing for the king and the analysis of his texts, works like the Krita Lada and Prusa Pariksha, reveals a worldview that perfectly aligns with his status. Right, his writing matches his life. Yeah. The text points out that he wrote treatises defending strict orthodox caste divisions. He even espoused the view that true beauty was something that fundamentally belonged only to the rich. He was a feudal intellectual through and through. Exactly. Now compare that highly curated aristocratic resume to figure two, Mahakavi Vidyapati. The analysis places this figure significantly earlier, while before 1350, and this is the individual credited with authoring the Padavali. And a Padavali is legendary. These are the foundational Mathili songs and poems. They are the heartbeat of the culture. Yeah, they're huge. But the crucial distinction the text makes is that Mahakavi Vidyapati was was not sitting in a palace. Far from it. The analysis of folklore, rural traditions, and the internal evidence of the poetry itself suggests that the author of the Padavali belonged to the Harjahm or Barber caste. He hailed from the rural village of Bisfi. He wasn't a court scholar. He was a working class artist. The aristocrat and the people's poet. Two completely different worlds. Exactly. And the text dives deep into the actual poetry to prove how incompatible these two worldviews are. For instance, it highlights a recurring, deeply emotional theme in the Padavali, known as Pia de Santar. Which translates to the agony of migration. Yeah. Specifically, the profound tearing sorrow of a husband having to leave his home, his wife, his family, and travel far away simply to find labor to survive. Right. That is a visceral, dirt-under-the-fingernails reality. That is the poetry of a community that knows what it means to starve, to be forced off their land. It's grounded in real struggle. You do not write gut-wrenching ballads about the trauma of migrant labor. If you are a pampered court poet, seeping wine with the king and writing Sanskrit essays about how beauty belongs to the wealthy, it makes zero sense. The linguistic and thematic disconnect is massive. And furthermore, the analysis points out a glaring omission here. What's that? Thakur Vijapati, the aristocrat, left behind a massive volume of writing. Yet he never once mentions the Patavali. He never claims it. Oh wow. And conversely, the Padavali contained absolutely no references to the hyper-elite courtly concerns of Thakur Vidyapati. They are two distinct, non-overlapping universes of experience. Which brings us to the actual heist. If these two men were so fundamentally different, how did they become one person in the eyes of history? This is where it gets really interesting. The text outlines this bizarre cultural tug of war that took place in the 19th and 20th centuries. It started when Bengali scholars began to look closely at the Padamali. Right. Because of the shared linguistic roots, that transitional avahada stage we mentioned, early Mothili and early Bengali shared a significant amount of vocabulary and even script similarities, like the T'rhuda script. So they were close. Very close. Bengali scholars saw the brilliance of the Padamali and recognized the linguistic overlap. So they attempted to claim Vidjapati as an early Bengali poet. They wanted to absorb his cultural prestige into their own literary history. It was basically a geographical land grab, but for poetry. Pretty much. But the Orthodox elite establishment in Mithila obviously wasn't going to let their greatest cultural export be hijacked by Bengal. They needed to definitively claim him back. But here is where the mechanical erasure happens. The Orthodox establishment in Mithila wanted Vigipati, but they didn't want a rural working class poet from the Hajam cast as their cultural figurehead. Right, that didn't fit their brand. Exactly. That didn't fit their narrative of high caste scholarly superiority. So according to the author's analysis, they utilized their control over the narrative, their control over the historical records, to fuse him with the aristocratic Thakur Vijapati. They created a composite character. Yes, a brilliant Mathili poet who was also conveniently a high caste feudal courtier. They gentrified him and they did it physically, visually through what the text explores as the Pog controversy. The Pog is a very specific type of traditional headdress in the region. And the text cites historian Vijay Kumar Thakur, who explicitly links the Pog not just to general culture, but specifically to feudalism, orthodox ritual, and elite power structures. It was a symbol of the upper caste establishment. Right. To cement this new, sanitized version of Vijupati, certain cultural and literary organizations began a campaign of retroactive visual editing. Which is wild. It is. commissioning portraits and erecting statues of Vidyapati. And on every single one, they placed a pog on his head. It is such a brilliant, insidious form of propaganda. By just putting a hat on a statue, you change the entire historical memory of a person. It rewrites everything visually. It's like if 100 years from now, a group of wealthy bankers decided they wanted to claim the legacy of a punk rock icon like Joe Strummer. Okay, I love this analogy. Right, but they don't like the leather jackets and the anti-establishment lyrics. So they start printing history books where Strummer is wearing a three-piece Brooks Brothers suit, and they tell everyone he was actually a classical cellist who loved Wall Street. It completely hollows out the reality of who the artist was. That is exactly what happened, and that hollowing out extended to the local folklore too. The analysis points to the incredibly famous myth of Uganda. Right. This is a story everyone in the region knows. The legend goes that Lord Shiva, the supreme deity, was so moved by Vidyapati's devotion that he came down to earth in human form as a man named Yugana, simply to serve as Vidyapati's servant. Now let's analyze the core mechanics of that myth. A god coming down to do manual labor for a mortal, that is fundamentally a working class fantasy. Yeah, totally. It is a story designed to elevate the common man, suggesting that even the divine respects the struggles of the peasantry. But once the identities were merged, this beautiful piece of rural folklore was co-opted. They changed the meaning. Suddenly, the story was twisted to mean that Shiva came down to serve the wealthy aristocratic Fakur Vigipati. The myth was inverted from a celebration of the working class into a divine endorsement of the feudal elite. They stole his poetry, they stole his face, and they stole his myths. It's a total lockout. But the text doesn't just document the theft, it documents the resistance. Which is the most important part. Because while the elites were busy painting pogs on statues in the universities, the actual people never forgot who wrote those songs. And the proof of that survival comes from a 1945 piece of reportage by the legendary Hindi writer, Fanish Warnov Renu. Renu went out into the rural areas and documented a cultural phenomenon known as the Betapat Knack. Break down the Betapat Knack for us, because this wasn't happening in a pristine concert hall. Not at all. colloquial rural pronunciation of Vijapati. The Bita Patnaak was a raw, vibrant, traditional dance and musical performance held in the villages in the dust under the open sky. And what Rean's reportage proved was that the performers of the Bita Patnaak, specifically lower caste artists like a man named Janakis who was highlighted in the text, they were the true preservers of the original Padavali. While the scholars were debating manuscripts in the courts, these village performers had been passing the songs down orally, memorizing them, dancing to them, keeping the rhythm of the people's poet alive for 700 unbroken years. It is a stunning testament to cultural resilience. The establishment tried to lock the door on the working class vigil party. They put a no entry sign on his legacy for anyone who wasn't a feudal aristocrat. They didn't work. But the rural laborers didn't care about the locked door. They just built their own stage outside in the dirt and kept singing. They maintain a massive parallel historical truth entirely outside the control of the elites. Which is incredibly inspiring. But it also highlights a conflict that is far from over. This battle over who owns the language, who dictates the aesthetics and what poetry is actually for, that fight is happening right now. Very much so. And that brings us to the final segment of our deep dive. We are moving out of the 14th century and looking at the modern Mithili voices who are violently rejecting that metaphorical peg We are looking at writers who realize that if they accept the sanitized elite version of their language, the language itself will die. So let's look at Raj Devmandal. He published a poetry collection called Embara, which the analysis praises as arguably the most important collection of its decade. Yes. But the context the text provides for this poetry is incredibly grim. The author asks a brutal pragmatic question here. What is the utility of writing high-minded complex poetry in a language that is hemorrhaging its everyday speakers? Right, people are forgetting it. The text paints a picture of a linguistic crisis, noting that organizations literally have to set up special camps just to teach people how to correctly pronounce Mathili words. Isn't there a huge risk there though? Like, if the language is struggling that much, shouldn't poets be trying to write beautiful, universally appealing things to attract people back to it? Why lean into the grit? Because beautiful abstract aesthetics don't feed people. Okay, fair point. Rajdev Mandal's argument, as explored in the text, is that trying to write elite disconnected poetry while your culture's collapsing is like polishing the brass on a sinking ship. Yeah. The poetry must become a tool for survival. And he doesn't pull his punches. The text includes this staggering quote from Mandal's work, drops of blood bathing the earth asking will our cast survive this dark night? That is not a metaphor with a broken heart or a beautiful sunset. No, not at all. That is a raw terrifying question of existential survival. Mandel demands that modern poetry reject imported intellectualized concepts. If the people are struggling to survive, the poetry must be about the mechanics of that struggle. The day-to-day reality. Exactly. It must be about food, about clothing, about the lack of shelter, about economic exploitation, it has to reflect the dirt and the blood of the people actually speaking the language, not the sanitized theories of the universities. He's stripping the art down to its absolute bare bones, which perfectly sets the stage for the most radical figure in our entire deep dive. Yes, my favorite. Right, because if Rajdev Mandal is asking the hard questions, this next writer is actively trying to sweep the whole system away. We are talking about Ramdev Prasadmandal, who writes under the glorious pen name, Shahru Dar. The Sweeper. I cannot get over how perfect that is. He isn't claiming to be a laureate, or a philosopher, or a savior. He is the guy who cleans up the mess. And the text details how he didn't just write poems, he invented an entirely new literary genre that he simply called the Shahlu, the Broom. And it isn't just a gimmick. The mechanical logic behind his genre is fascinating. Oh, the different brooms. Yes, the text explains that Charudar writes different types of brooms depending on the specific societal rot he is targeting. Right, because you don't use a feather duster to clean mud off a driveway. The text explains his logic. If you are sweeping a smooth indoor floor, you can use a soft broom made of fine grass. But if you are trying to sweep a rough, uneven dirt courtyard covered in filth, a soft broom will just break. You need a stiff, heavy broom made of hard sticks. You need the right tool. Exactly. Shah Radaar tailors his literary weapons. He writes stick brooms to violently attack deep-seated societal evils. Specifically, he targets what he diagnoses as the disease of money, the rampant capitalist exploitation of the working class, and the pervasive danger of blind, unquestioning faith in both religious and political authorities. He's going after the big ones. He is systematically attacking the very structures that Goldberg and McCann used to crush Stanley and Pinter's play. And he does it with this terrifying monumental self-belief. The text highlights a quote from his work that just stops you in your tracks, without me the world is empty, it is like an animal. It is a breathtakingly radical stance. But I really have to question that. I mean, the text notes that Charudar explicitly refuses to wait for an avatar of Ram or any divine savior to come and fix the world's problems. He says he has to do it himself. But to stand up and say, without me, the world is an empty animal, I am the only one holding the broom, isn't that crossing the line from radical responsibility into a massive messiah complex? Isn't he just writing a new, highly arrogant script where he is the center of the universe? It is a massive burden to place on oneself, and it flirts dangerously with ego, yes. But to understand why it's necessary, we have to pull this entire deep dive together and look back at where we started with the existentialists. on the country road with Beckett. Exactly. Look at Vladimir and Estragon. What is their fundamental tragedy? Passivity. They are waiting for Godot, a savior who will never arrive. Right. They have advocated all personal responsibility for their reality, handing it over to this mythical figure. Their world is empty, precisely because they refuse to act in it. Charudar represents the absolute diametric opposite of that existential paralysis. He looks down the road, realizes Godot isn't coming, and decides to sweep the road himself. Yes. He recognizes that the grand narratives, the gods, the flawless historical records, the perfect political coalitions are all just locked doors. Like in Nachiketa's play. Exactly. If you wait for them to open, you will die in the waiting room. Shroodar is saying that the only way to generate meaning in an absurd world is through direct individual action against the dirt right in front of you. OK, I see. He is arrogant because the situation requires arrogance to overcome the crushing weight of conformity. He refuses the pog, he refuses the waiting room, and he refuses the silence. That is an incredible synthesis. So for you listening, let's look at the immense landscape we've mapped out today. We started in the theater watching characters paralyzed by absurdity waiting outside locked doors or having their identities violently erased and rewritten by the establishment. The heavy bags we carry. Right. We then saw how that erasure isn't just fiction. We looked at the mechanical theft a working class poet's identity, watching history put a futile hat on a man who's saying about the pain of migrant labor. And we ended with a roadmap for resistance. A modern writer who realizes that the only defense against an absurd forged script is to aggressively write your own, even if your only tool is broom. It is a journey from total passivity to historical erasure to violent, vital rebellion, and it inevitably turns the lens right back onto you. does. After exploring all these mechanisms of control and narrative, you have to look at the script you are living right now. How much of your normal life is just a role you were assigned by an Amal Vimal Kamal society? Are you clutching heavy bags you don't need to hold just because you're afraid of the empty road? And I think the most vital question to leave you with is this. If an impartial historian were to find the pungy of your life, the ultimate record of your actions, how would it read? Ooh, that's a good question. Would it show someone patiently waiting in a bureaucratic line for a door that says, no entry? Or would it show someone who finally got tired of the absurdity, picked up a stiff broom, and started swinging? Who is holding the pen right now? We'll leave you to figure that out. Thank you so much for joining us on this massive deep dive into the sources. We love unpacking these dense, intricate corners of history and literature with you. Keep questioning the script you've been handed. Keep looking for the true stories hidden in the margins and we will catch you on the next deep dive.

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