The Agony of Acknowledgment - Abhiram Bhadkamkar

I’ve begun to suspect that a new literary genre is taking root these days: the ‘autobiographical obituary.’ When an individual, particularly a writer, passes away, articles are written ostensibly to discuss their work, their contributions, and their literature. But in the process, the author of the tribute ends up writing a great deal about themselves. “He was so appreciative of my work,” they will write, or “He held me in such high regard,” or “He always used to tell me how great I was.” Often, after reading these tributes, one is left wondering who, exactly, has passed away. This, of course, is just one aspect of human self-absorption, a folly we can set aside for a moment. The more serious issue is a familiar reaction that now follows a writer’s death: the lament that “he was never properly acknowledged.” Why is such a post written? Why does it to be written? I have explored this before, and readers pointed to the laziness of our critical sphere, its prejudices, its lack of seriousness. It is also often suggested that the writer themselves was unsettled by this lack of acknowledgment, that they bore the strain of it. Let us talk a little about this ‘acknowledgment.’ The ancient poet Bhavabhuti settled this question for himself long ago. “I have written my work, and I know its quality,” he declared. “Time is infinite, and the world is vast. Sooner or later, I will find my kindred spirit.” With this, he detached himself from all such anxieties. It is an entirely natural human feeling to want one’s work to be acknowledged—to feel that one has written something of importance and to have others recognize and validate it. This appreciation can come in many forms: awards, critical essays, the effusive praise of readers, sold-out editions, discussions in various forums, inclusion in symposiums, translation into other languages, and perhaps even adaptation into other media. Of these, criticism has found its space drastically shrinking in our commercialised world. Newspaper columns have been truncated; true critique has been replaced by mere introductions. The number of periodicals, magazines, and dailies dedicated solely to literature has dwindled. Consequently, the validation that once came through criticism has been severely curtailed. The act of withholding acknowledgement is nothing new. At its most benign, it may stem from a genuine dislike of the work. Sometimes, not reacting is a reaction in itself. Personal taste can also be a factor. To take a broad example, someone who believes free verse is the only true form of poetry may simply dismiss anything that rhymes. As the great playwright Vijay Tendulkar once said, “If a poem does not speak to me, I do not walk down its path.” We must accept that such personal preferences exist. One person may dislike Absurdism, while another may detest sentimentality. This aesthetic preference can be a valid reason for withholding praise. A third factor is the substance of the work. Someone might declare, “I only consider literature that is based on a certain kind of content.” My friends from Delhi and Bihar used to say, “A play that does not speak against the system is not a play at all.” Many dismiss literature that does not address social or political problems, believing that a writer must be an agent of social change. For this large contingent, this is the sole criterion for acknowledgement. Today, everyone seems to be schooling writers on the need to “take a stand.” But this demand is rarely pure. Is the stand on side? Is he of ideology? Does he use his intellectual weight to support the party we support? Does he provide an intellectual veneer for our party’s political somersaults? One rarely sees a democratic spirit large enough to say, “Take a stand. I may disagree with it, but take one.” In short, acknowledgement is now largely determined by the deep polarisation gripping our society, where non-literary factors have aggressively trespassed upon the domain of art. Behind all this, there is at least a semblance of an ideological position, however half-baked or shallow. But beyond ideology, there is the raw tribalism: Is he from our clique? Is he from our group? Is he from our region? Does he belong to ? The first thing to understand is that acknowledgment is not always based on pure literary merit. And even then, we who live in a democracy must accept that what one person considers literary merit, another may not. This leads to a pervasive bitterness. An insistence that “my view is the only correct one, and the entire literary world must accept it” begins to take hold. Factions build fortresses around themselves, and we witness the most toxic forms of cronyism. From this cesspool, a tragic ‘cancel culture’ is born, where a writer and their work are simply erased, their very existence denied. In such an environment, it is no surprise if a writer expects, at the very least, to be acknowledged by those who share their artistic values—the critics, audiences, and publications that form their own group. This is their kindred spirit, and the expectation is natural. Other groups will either oppose, criticise—sometimes descending to the level of personal slander—or, more often, deploy the weapon of silence and omission. Opposition and criticism sting the soul, but this deliberate silence cuts just as deep. Again, all of this is a natural part of the literary world, or the ‘business of literature,’ if you will. If you wish to swim, you will get wet. The waves will try to stop you. Yet, one still tries to find joy in the act of swimming. The desire to be ‘worthy of acknowledgement’ is not unnatural. But writers entering this field have seen, read, and heard all of this before. A traveller knows that a forest will have thorns, brambles, and beasts. A writer, too, knows this. The question, then, is why, when this intellectual knowledge becomes lived experience, does the writer fall apart? I can understand the anxiety, the frustration, the depression, and the sorrow. But why does it reach such an extreme? Is it the agony of realising that the literary world will not accept the image you hold of yourself? Herein lies the paradox. How can the very people who march forth with the rebellious cry, “I write for my own fulfilment! I reject the system! I hold the world in contempt!” be so tormented by that same world’s silence? You claim to reject the world, so why do you grieve when the world fails to give you a certificate of your rejection? Why do you expect that validation to come from the very system you claim to despise? Annasaheb Kirloskar wrote his plays and made them public property. He never postured as a revolutionary, but he possessed the same detachment as Bhavabhuti. “I have planted a field of saffron with my work,” he said. “Even if donkeys graze on it today, tomorrow, those who understand its value will continue to perform these plays.” Why does this detachment elude so many writers today? Is it because they secretly want people to applaud their performance of renunciation? If I develop an ego about having no ego, and I inwardly crave validation for being egoless, what is the meaning of it all? What, then, separates us from those who commission their own celebratory volumes and beat the drums for their own seventy-fifth birthdays? Does the assertion, “I write to express myself; my restlessness compels me to write,” become meaningless? Two feelings that arise in this field are particularly dangerous. First: “I did not get as much as I deserved.” Second: “I am getting it, but far too late.” A writer must understand that these crocodiles lie in wait in the literary ocean. If they can internalize this, perhaps these demons will not devour their spirit. Every writer has their own audience. They will find it. Even eminent figures post tributes lamenting that a deceased writer was never acknowledged. One feels like asking them: “Then why didn’t write about him when he was alive?” You had a pen in your hand. Your social media posts garner thousands of likes and spark discussions. Why didn’t you take one of his books you loved and write a critically appreciative post? The truth is, some believe that one way to become worthy of acknowledgement is to withhold it from others. There is no shortage of grandees who feel that praising another’s work, even with an open heart, will somehow diminish their own stature. Their praise must not be cheap; it must be rare. This is the impression they wish to cultivate. Who can argue with those who believe they will gain recognition by offering none? All around us, we see people struggling to construct an image of themselves. In my theatre world, I have seen esteemed personalities come backstage after a performance, ask perfunctory questions like, “So, what’s new?” or “Off on tour right away?” and leave without uttering a single word about the play they just saw. Later, these are the very same people who will post, “So-and-so was never acknowledged.” And now, social media has cornered these gatekeepers. The weapon of silence has been blunted. A writer now has an open platform to share their work and the reactions to it. Because this medium has dismantled so many old fiefdoms, it is derided as ‘WhatsApp University.’ But the truth is, if we were to simply offer praise when it is due, without waiting for a periodical to publish it, it would not diminish us. If we want to avoid having to write “he was never acknowledged” after a writer is gone, then we must learn to speak and praise openly what is being written around us today—without letting our cliques, politics, or ideologies stand in the way. Because of this cancel culture, this stress of being ignored will eventually come for you too. You will be its next victim. Therefore, we must learn to say, with an open heart, “Bravo!” However, if our own contemporaries and peers ignore us, we must have the wisdom to accept it as a plain and brutal reality. To be tormented by it seems to me a great tragedy. When it is said that a writer “bore the strain of not being acknowledged,” I find that deeply troubling. Is that not akin to measuring yourself with someone else’s ruler? A ruler that is not even honest or pure, and is often entirely non-literary. The very people who reject old critical frameworks are the first to surrender to a new set of metrics, unknowingly carrying the burden of the belief that all their writing is merely for someone else to acknowledge. The creative impulse becomes secondary; acknowledgement becomes the primary motive. In this agony, the writer forgets a crucial fact. They only know the reactions they receive directly. But the unknown reader, who reads their work but may never react, also exists. That reader discusses the work with friends. Is that not a form of acknowledgement? Many readers check out a book from a library because it was recommended. The author never knows. This, too, is acknowledgement, but the receipt never reaches the writer. While writing this very article, someone mentioned the storyteller V. G. Kanitkar on the phone, and I immediately said, “His story ‘Manthare Tula Lagale Pise’ is magnificent.” V. G. Kanitkar is no more, but his story is firmly etched in my memory. Is this not the greatest acknowledgement of all? A writer, however, is only human. To expect complete detachment is unfair. The craving for praise, acceptance, and applause—let us call it a lust—is as natural as the six cardinal sins. But like anger, greed, and envy, it must be regulated. How to do this is a question each person must answer for themselves. If we can learn how to handle this unfortunate reality, perhaps we too can solve this problem for ourselves, just as Bhavabhuti and Annasaheb Kirloskar did. And then, this agony of acknowledgement, even if it cannot be extinguished, can at least be diminished. - Abhiram Bhadkamkar (This article is the translated version of the original article दखलदाह...   written by Abhiram Bhadkamkarpublished in the Sahitya Chaprak Diwali Ank 2025 ) https://shop.chaprak.com/product/diwali-ank-2025/ https://youtu.be/hCD8IyOs31A