Kolkata Book Fair, 2010

For many people, the Kolkata Book Fair means Subimal Misra, who makes it a point to be present with his books in the little magazine pavilion.

This year, despite ill health and various other personal difficulties, Misra made it to the Fair.

He brought with him a piece of prose published by him as a leaflet, and two books of his which have just been published in Dhaka, Bangladesh. The first is an analysis of press reports from Nandigram, and the other a collection of some of his recent writings.

Feeling distant

Elena: Are you a revolutionary?
Sergio: What do you think?
Elena: I think you aren’t a revolutionary, not even a counter-revolutionary, you are nothing.
Sergio: Then what am I?
Elena: Nothing.

- T.G. Alea (from the film Memories of Underdevelopment)

(One)

At dawn, after nightlong dew-fall, Choudhuri’s tin roof glistened like a silver sheet in the moonlight. At the large lake-side, fish found their way to Patit Pawan Choudhuri’s buoyed nets. Patit Pawan squatted on the platform and played and hauled in the catch to the bank. It was the month of Poush. From next door the smell of dumplings wafted in. Grain-gathering girls stayed up all night dreaming of that fragrance. Extraordinary dew, like an unseen hand, poured down relentlessly on the Choudhuris’ five granaries.

Using rice-paste dissolved in water the peasant’s daughter tried to draw Goddess Lakshmi’s footprints across her courtyard, her alpona smudged by tears. Last night her father had been taken away on the pretext of trespassing on the landlord’s land. Pressed close to her, the younger brother pestered his sister: today we’ll get the fine-rice dumplings won’t we didi, with grated coconut? Wiping her tears with the palm of her left hand, the peasant’s daughter consoled her innocent little brother. A raven called ka ka inauspiciously from a branch of the shirish tree in the courtyard. Going to shoo it she stumbled and stubbed her toe, and caused blood to be spilled.

(Two)

There was a dog-show at the Maidan. He and I went there. Shiny cars, sparkling women. A winter’s evening. I wished I could drop a mouse inside the suits of a couple of gentle-men. That didn’t happen, found a girl. Light fell on the girl’s bosom. Didn’t see her face, didn’t get the chance, and didn’t think about it either. I said: Sis gives a lot of sex?!

Where do I do that?

Want to come along with us?

For free?

No. Treat you to phuchkas.

Ultimately it was settled on breast cultlet. We fed her breast cutlet, she kissed us.

She said: But I’m not in the trade.

I said: Neither do we go on pleasure-cruises accompanied by our wives.

After finishing her work the girl went away and stood behind a lamp post. We crossed the thoroughfare and entered a side street. We walked by a shoe store and a liquor store. I remembered shoes for Eva must be bought this month.

He said: Country-spirit?

I said: That’ll do.

We sat on a bench and drank from clay cups. An old fellow with a pointed beard was also drinking, the end of the pleated folds of his dhoti laid over his shoulder. As he drank he sang to himself, “O mother how long will you make me-ee-ee wander”. Tears flowed down the old fellow’s sunken cheeks.

(Three)

In the morning we found our pussycat lying dead in the veranda. Eva hadn’t let me sleep until quite late last night. Mid-morning, when weak sunlight streamed into the room through the window, Eva pushed and pinched me. From the bathroom the sound of pouring water floated in. Rintu & Fintu learned the alphabets, c-a-t spells cat, cat means beraal.

Eyelids locked in sleep. I bought all the balloons from a balloon vendor at the Chowringhee crossing and standing there all night burst them one by one. Eva pinched me hard and said, come now, don’t be so lazy, what will they think. Do you know, our pussycat died last night. In front of my eyes Eva’s just-bathed face, wet hair spread all over her back. Today I’ll buy a whole lot of balloons and burst them one by one all night long. Burst them, but the pussycat – our pussycat died last night. Who loved the cat more – you or me or Rintu & Fintu?

Father was sitting in the room upstairs reading the newspaper. Elder brother must have left for the factory.

Rabindrasangeet played on the radio – “look how the morning star casts its eyes and gazes ...” I wanted to laugh out aloud. I wished I could draw a cross with black pitch diagonally across the sparkling white walls of the orderly room, over that a skull, and in big bold letters write “440 volts, Danger”.

Eva hums that stanza of Rabindrasangeet – look how the morning star … I gazed at Eva.

(Four)

Although the bed she lay on was in darkness she recognized the man. The man groped and moved towards her. She wanted to say: no … no … But no voice left her throat.

She saw that groping paw coming her way, the face obscured by the hand. Somewhere with a crash a big lump of earth was rolled into the water. A wave arose, ripples. Trembling ripples, and finally everything subsided. At landlord Patit Pawan Choudhuri’s nets fish were caught. The peasant’s daughter tripped and spilt blood all over the courtyard. The sojney flower’s plain fragrance flowed in, without let-up, from across twenty years.

(Five)

As there was no light everything was hidden. In that obscurity they removed their masks and descended into the darkness exposing their big teeth. Sniffing, smelling, sometimes groping, they investigate that forbidden existence. Somewhere far away within the mist a light-post would be lit. Somewhere sacred texts would be recited, of the Buddha, of Jesus, of Mohammed. Disembowelling, tearing to shreds, taking in to the full the smell of flesh and blood. Every now and then, looking to whether anyone sees, whether anyone is watchful anywhere. Being assured, fangs and claws are lowered again, and tear the stomach out from the abdomen. It gets bloodier. Ripping flesh with fangs and claws, attaining supreme contentment, they did their work under cover of darkness.

None of those who had gone ahead had returned. The whole place was just desolate. And there were a few beggars under the tree, with a broken clay pot on the fire made of straw and trigs, old cabbage leaves cooking. A swarm of half- peeled dry faces encircled them.

(Six)

Eva wanted many things. Wanted a green field, wanted a refreshing lake of clear water, wanted a jamrul-tree, on which squirrels would scurry. Wanted a mud house, wanted togor and balsam blooms sprawling over the courtyard. And if at night, in the fluttering breeze, the fragrance of kamini-flowers wafted in - then nothing like it!

Eva was now dressing up. She looked at herself in the mirror. Fully adorned, proud, she would emerge. Eva wanted people to look at her, wanted to be desired. She felt happy when people gaped at her on the streets. The cigarette scorched my fingers.

When the taxi stopped in front of the bar Eva got down. The neon lights of Park Street sucked away the night’s darkness. A pleasing soft light in the room, no brightness anywhere to bewilder the eyes. I sat down with Eva. A uniformed waiter brought two drinks. I discerned the smell of my own blood in that coloured liquid. Eva became sharp-eyed when she drank alcohol. I gazed at her. The cigarette burned out in my fingers.

(Seven)

At the Choudhuri family’s senior section’s granary, dew fell all night long. Eva and I sat and merrily smashed glasses one after another. The shards of glass were strewn all around and gradually became a city of mirrors. Oh dear, what’s to become of us now – said the peasant’s daughter as she sat down. Blood spilled on their courtyard. Eva claps her hands in joy. The old chief rent collector, fixing the strings holding his spectacles around his ears, his body bent, recites in a mutter: this time the collection’s very bad young sire, the peasants are agitated. On Park Street, the clatter of glass shattering. Eva giggles, hee hee! She says: Isn’t my laugh like Gina’s? Plastered on alcohol Louis XVI says: who’s asking you to eat cakes instead of bread – its bread you shall eat, got it? Broke more glass. All around the room heaps of broken glass. And as my own symbol flashed in that broken glass, raising my arms, I, a member of the family’s junior section, thrown into a frightful confusion, flailed my arms in self defence. When the waiter came and enquired I screamed out: How late is it?

There’s no reply.

(Eight)

By and by the street becomes quadrangular. Negotiating the twists and turns becomes increasingly complicated. Sister-in-law Shona lies wearing Eva’s skin. Looking at her a feudal bluish hue oozes out of the blood. The owl hoots from inside the alcove. Instantly the light comes on. I see Shona sprawled across the couch-bed giggling, hee, hee! When Shona pulls a long face the light will turn off. In consternation, elder brother Babu would go and stand at the street-crossing, puffing on a cigarette. Flapping its wings the owl would emerge from the alcove and sit on Shona’s shoulder. Babu was very angry about the owl. I’ll kill it one day! Shona: oh let it be, the innocent creature, doesn’t harm anyone. Babu does not reply, he merely grinds and gnashes his teeth and goes out to the street-crossing.

Suddenly the door opens. The interior of the room is visible. But nothing can be seen. Babu hides everything of Shona’s. Sure enough one day as she sleeps he sneaks out and … sister-in-law Shona’s …

(Nine)

He searched for matches, couldn’t find it. Went to the bathroom, vomit poured out. Washing his hands and face with water he recovered somewhat and as he’s about to go back the mechanical bird called out.

There’s much more on the alcove. A bottle of perfumed oil, a powder-box, hair-pins, a golden lipstick tube. In one corner the mirror. The sindur-box, a packet of incense. Beneath the upturned stool the mechanical bird. The bird speaks. Pecks and chomps audibly at grain. Sometimes it nibbles. When it’s annoyed it comes to peck. And at night it becomes an owl. He looked up and saw the picture of Goddess Lakshmi overhead. Lakshmi worshipped by two generations. Eva performs her puja. A garland of marigolds over the picture. The couch-bed spread across the room. Covered over with a white sheet. He tore the garland and threw it to the ground. He brought down the picture carefully. The picture preserved by two generations. He wondered where he would keep it. Unable to decide, he put it down on the alcove, near the mirror, where the owl sat, the mechanical bird.

(Ten)

All the peasants went home. All the labourers, all the scholars. Only he remained there, just him. His body got wet in the rain. Warmed in the sun.

His entire colour drained away in the swampy forest’s mud and slime. What happened to you, what happened – you wanted to live! But what happened instead! Now darkness swung unevenly on the pakur tree branch. In the dark waters the moon floated wildly. From some fantastic forest clump the hoot of an owl rolls in.

The barrel of the gun is laid on the chest, he screams: This land is ours. The fragrance of dry earth moistened by rain is smeared over our body.

(Eleven)

In the vicinity of this city, somewhere there’s an empty field, somewhere there are trees, where birds dwell. Morning dawns to birdsong there. As he thinks along these lines he sees water overflowing in the bathroom. He doesn’t hear anything. Walking through the mists, treading through many fields, woods and forests he finds the prayed-for dawn.

(Twelve)

Nobody gives us anything, we snatch away.

THE END

1969


This is a translation of the original Bengali short story "durottyobodh” by Subimal Misra, a Bengali writer of India. The story is anthologised in Subimal Misra’s anti-golpo songroho (Anti-stories collection), Bitorko, Calcutta, 1999.