A long-standing desire, for a ceiling fan, in the bedroom. But every month, there's never any money left. Finally, I couldn't take it any more, I bought one a fortnight ago. In today's newspaper, the same fan company has advertised that a 15% discount is being offered on their fans. That means the fan bought for 360 rupees is now cheaper by more than 50 rupees. After seeing that, I felt terribly annoyed. I don't like the boring drone of literature. Instead let me now tell the story of a mosquito. This is the mosquito that at some time, unknown to me, sat on my left lung and punctured it, and finally took my all –
This mosquito now flies over Victoria Memorial. It's shadow falls on Victoria's head. The colour of the fairy changes, the shadow keeps spreading in the direction of the Maidan, leaving behind the vast human settlement in the south, it began to encircle the Maidan. The last of the day's sunlight was there now, sticking to the leaves on trees. Moloy Bhattacharjee lies with his head on Chandana Sen's lap. This is the Moloy Bhattacharjee who stuffs Number Ten cigarettes in a Wills Navy Cut packet, lighting it carefully in front of his lover, to show that it's Wills. And the whole evening, the rubbing of face and neck with a half-wet gamcha. To get a reddish tinge. On the cheeks.
And this is the Chandana Sen who, even at the age of thirty one, seeing the lack of effort from home towards getting her married, willingly or unwillingly fed honey to the Moloy Bhattacharjees, regularly, when darkness descended beneath the tree, but she wasn't able to hook anyone. Now the mosquito goes and sits on Moloy Bhattacharjee's cheek. It lowers the proboscis, sucks it up, yes, that's right, blood. Then it flies off after some time. Chandana Sen looks at Moloy Bhattacharjee lying with his head on her lap, here, but despite the proximity he was not quite there, from the corner of his eye, again and again, he was looking intently at a buxom young woman walking with her blue sari blowing in the wind – the mosquito now flies northwards, further north, it then goes and sits on the elbow of a middle-aged conjurer, who was performing for a thousand people beneath Shahid Minar. This was the conjurer wearing a black achkan over a jet-black silk lungi, who speaks in a fabricated language made up of an amalgam of Bangla and Hindi, he makes a skull speak and shows simple-minded folk the way to reach Ramrajya.
The mosquito sits on the conjurer 's elbow and keeps sucking blood, as the people stood encircling him, after a while, looking at the conjurer's face, they sense something, and then each one goes his own way, they keep leaving.
The mosquito flies off, and with it goes its shadow.
It comes and sits on Burrabazar's Jagmohan's fleshy thigh. Now he, Jagmohan, with two telephones in two hands, is engaged in discussion about the share market, this is the Jagmohan who can discern at a glance gold and silver buried under ash, who buys the government's goats from the government and sells it back to the same government with a 100 per cent margin. The mosquito merrily sucks Jagmohan's blood through the proboscis, when its belly is full it flies off – the mosquito flies along, taking the large shadow along. It comes and sits on Baghbazar's Jhantu Kayal's shoulder. Jhantu Kayal has then fallen asleep in the stifling heat, in the course of trying in vain to cool himself with a hand-fan, after a whole's day's back-breaking labour. This is the Jhantu Kayal who works 12 hours in a lathe-machine workshop in Bantra, at the end of the month he receives a salary of 347 rupees, returning at night with grease-blackened hands, tears of pieces of roti and stuffs them into his mouth, labour-fatigued, his eyes shut, the eyelids.
The mosquito goes and sits on his elbow, but there's no blood to suck there. It sits on his back, which is hard and bony, with leathery skin, it can't prick and insert the proboscis. It sits on the forehead, there's no flesh there, it's unyielding, solid, bone, and forehead, Jhantu Kayal is fortunate. The mosquito then flies off. Again. Jet propellers on its wings. Sound. Speed. In the wings. Its body becomes heavy. The shadow keeps spreading. Of the jet propeller. The mosquito's shadow spreads across the entire Maidan, the martyr's pillar is in shadow, as is Gandhi on Park Street and the stone fairy atop Victoria Memorial. A gust of wind blows, clouds gather, the symbolic size of the sun becomes small. No one can see, or sense, when, it goes and sits, with a quiet plop, on the barrel, of the pipe-gun, held, in the hands, of the 18-year old boy.
This is a translation of an extract from the original Bengali anti-novel, "Rong Jokhon Shotorkikoron Er Chhinnho" (When Colour is a Warning Sign) (1984), by Subimal Misra.
Translated by V. Ramaswamy. The translator gratefully acknowledges the writing residency in Panjim, Goa, enabled by Robert Karjel.