The Road to the Mill Jetty

[3 July 1978, remembering the first anniversary of Gambhiraprasad Sah’s martyrdom.]

“Those who eat their fill speak to the hungry
Of wonderful times to come.”

Bertolt Brecht


The third month was almost over, yet, out of laziness, the old calendar with a Mother Durga image hadn’t been removed from the wall. That’s still like new, do you say? Hey, why won’t you smoke a cigarette? I’ve quit. Or are you saving money? That’s great, only people like you can retain two pennies. We’ve puffed everything away... All the neon lights on the station platform were lit. The 6-20 local train was about to leave. The signal.

A bright green. A person dressed in blue walked along the train. At the entrance of the party office, a dusty picture of Lenin spanned the wall. It had hung merely as a picture

for half a century. The train left the platform.

The station building, ticket office and tea stalls were all left behind rapidly. By the time the control room was passed, the brilliance of the bleached white neon lights on the two sides suddenly died like counterfeit revolutionaries. A procession of the hungry marched to the block development office. All vehicles came to a standstill. The curious public thronged the two sides of the road.

Met Babulal’s wife yesterday. Soliciting at the Bowbazar four-point crossing. Wearing a cheap silk sari and lipstick. Do you remember Babulal? The one whom, at the time of the lockout, at the gate on the road to the mill jetty, the owner’s hoodlums … Comrades, shout the slogans out loud! Everyone call out together! The procession concluded at the block development office. The road beside led to the mill jetty. Why are you on strike? Because we haven’t got the bonus. What are your demands? Dearness allowance must be paid at central government rates. And you, Gambhiraprasad, of East Champaran, do you too want only bonus and dearness allowance at central rates? No, I want my state. We ourselves shall till all the land of the country. We shall run all the factories. We ourselves shall undertake all kinds of production. And …

The entire fruit, we alone shall … The minister with the Lenin picture hanging above his head turned grave. A careful watch must be kept over the situation. The law in their own hands … No one, not any more.

THE END

(1978)

This is a translation of the original Bengali short story “mill-er jetti’r dik-er rasta” by Subimal Misra. The story is anthologised in Subimal Misra’s chottrish bochorer rograragri (36 Years’ Scuffle), published by the author, Calcutta, 2004.

Photo: E. O. Hoppe/Getty Images