tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41493636183064709042024-02-07T09:25:19.405+05:30Anti-storiesby Subimal Misra.
From a lifelong anti-establishment praxis.ramahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07762427741454619332noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4149363618306470904.post-62563730650610810052016-08-09T21:29:00.000+05:302016-08-09T21:31:32.394+05:30The dagger<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Someone called out from behind: <em>Hooeey Sudas! Where’re you goin pal?</em> He didn’t look back. The dead body still hung from that tree branch, feet bound, head downwards. Blood poured steadily from the nose and had dripped and wet the place. He saw the wizened-old bird sitting in its cage. It tested the iron mesh with its beak. Every once in a while it fluttered its wings and screeched: <em>Sudas! Hooeey Sudas! Where’re you goin pal?</em><br />
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He had stolen the dagger from his friend’s house. It belonged to an earlier age. Sheathed in a purple muslin case, the dagger’s grip was of ivory, shaped like a horse’s head. Every now and then, making sure no one was around, he felt its sharp edge. Jackals howled from the clearings between the trees and shrubs in the dark night. He heard his mother say: Why do you look so worried Sudas? Startled, he replied: Where? Not at all! He ran, with the dagger concealed in his pocket. He ran through fields, banks, woods and forests, until he finally reached Kasim Mia’s stable. He stood panting. The cage swayed with the bird’s fluttering. It cried out: <em>Sudas! Hooeey Sudas! Where’re you goin pal?</em><br />
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Kasim Miya’s stable was deserted. The horse carriage trade didn’t quite exist any more. Stroking his grey-streaked beard he said: The city now wants motor cars, we’re done for, and together with us this trade will come to an end… Do you know young master, what a grand thing this double carriage used to be! It was a matter of pride for the masters. Fluttering the pleats of their <em>dhotis</em>, fragrant with <em>attar</em>, the masters and mistresses used to go out for a spin …, and now … Kasim Miya lamented, and absent-mindedly stroked his beard. Strewn all around him were the parts, relics and broken wheels of forsaken carriages. In one corner, like a lone symbol, a horse, blinkers over its eyes, chewed grass from the mouth-bag hung on its neck. Every now and then it stamped its feet on the wooden floor, every once in a while it neighed, <em>Aayn-han-han-han!</em>, as if to register its protest against something.<br />
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Blood dripped from the body hanging on the tree and wet the place. As kids, some people used to kill tomcats like this. They’d tie a rope round its neck and hang it from a banana tree. It would cry and mew all night as it tried to free itself. The cat would be dead the next morning. A group of them would go in the morning to see the dead cat. By mid-morning, thousands of big black ants would have trooped in and devoured its eyes. At night fireflies could be seen glowing around the dead body.<br />
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Sudas panted. Kasim Miya was saying something: What’s happened to you little master, why are you panting like this? Pressing his hand over his pocket he replied: No, nothing’s happened. He said: Do you know Kasim uncle, a wild animal’s possessed me, and it’s completely restless. Right here - and he pointed to the centre of his chest. He continued: Beyond the road, on the creek-side, I saw a dark-skinned, lanky man roaming around, creeping on all fours. He was going around sniffing the dirty places at the creek-side. Kasim Miya replied: What’s new about that little master, the people on the other side have declared war, they say, we want means to work and survive, we want to live with dignity.<br />
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The stable-bound horse, ribs protruding, eyes blinkered, stamped its hooves on the wooden floor. Every once in a while it neighed, <em>Aayn-han-han-han!</em> An eerie sound, as if it was protesting against something. The sound startled Sudas. He gripped the dagger concealed inside his pocket. Sudas had no desire to steal the dagger. But as he stood amidst the old knives, daggers and swords laid out inside the room, somehow something happened to him. His heart beating fast, he was about to run from there when he saw a huge buffalo head with the horns raised; and to his right, a complete tiger-skin with the head frozen in a snarl. Kasim Miya was an old man. He puffed at a <em>bidi</em>. Outside, the darkness thickened and in that darkness Kasim gazed vacantly.<br />
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He felt very uneasy in the semi-darkness. Absent-mindedly, haphazardly, he cleared woods and forests. He saw humans and dogs ferreting for food from the same garbage bin. The bird called out. It fluttered its wings and screeched: <em>What’ll you do with this dagger Sudas? Return it! Return it!</em> He didn’t know what he’d do with it. He had kept going, leaving behind all the people, settlements and trees. The weapon was held firmly in his pocket. Every once in a while he took it out and examined it. He gazed at its purple muslin case, embroidered over in red and green. He drew it out with its ivory grip.<br />
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With the horse’s eerie neigh, <em>Aayn-han-han-han!</em>, the silence of night was shattered. It almost fell out of his hand. He said: what will I do with this? I didn’t want things to turn out this way. He looked in all directions to see if anyone caught him unawares, and then he hurriedly concealed it inside his pocket.<br />
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Two youths with serious faces emerged from somewhere and said: What’ll you do with that Sudas? Give it to us. He held it firmly in his grip. Grave–faced, they returned to the dark lake-side in the same way they had emerged from the darkness. Only the fireflies glowed dimly. Jackals howled from somewhere faraway. Blood dripped steadily from the nose of that dead body hanging upside-down on the tree. Big black ants gathered there.<br />
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The long country road snaked away past the creek in the dim moonlight. Every now and then the muffled sound of someone crying floated by. And sometimes the sound of someone laughing. As he went along the red-brick road in twilight’s darkness, passing cyclists cried out: Where’s it you’re headed in this darkness towards the desolate ruins of the fortress Sudas? Startled, Sudas said: No, nowhere at all.<br />
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Kasim Miya stroked his beard. His emaciated horse, blinkered, chewed away at the grass from its mouth-bag. He said gravely: The times are frightful young master … be careful where you go. Don’t go near the lake after dark. Why, what’s happened there? Oh nothing at all. Kasim Miya seemed to be withholding something, as if he wasn’t bold enough to say it. He saw his bird fluttering its wings in the cage. It didn’t eat the grains given it. He saw the old beggar woman sitting at the station with her hands laid out in the hope of alms. He saw the cunning jackal with the stolen hen swiftly slipping away from the homestead light into the brown darkness.<br />
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As his throat was parched, he went towards the lake’s <em>ghat</em> for a drink of water. The moon rose in the east over the Radha-Govind temple. He saw the reflection of the moon in the lake’s water. Gazing at this, he wondered whether he should throw the dagger away into the water … that would bring matters to a close, won’t be troubled any more. But he held on to it as if to dear life. He didn’t throw it away. That ancient engraved dagger’s blade gleamed in the moonlight. He said: How can I throw this away when I’m the one who’s brought it in the first place! But soon enough he began to wonder what he’d do with this.<br />
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At Romen Deb’s house, there were many daggers like this laid out on the walls of the drawing-room, including several much larger than this one. There were so many kinds of guns and pistols. Romen’s father, twirling his moustache explained: All these are so old, had been used in war. History, full of history!<br />
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Standing beside the lake and looking at the moonlit water, he wondered why he took it. Why? Crickets chirped. The entire lake-bank was redolent with the fragrance of mango and <em>bel</em>. The steps going down to the water were old and completely run-down. Tramping over dry leaves he emerged.<br />
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From its cage, his pet bird kept calling from behind: <em>Hooeey Sudas! Where’re you goin pal? Hooeey Sudas!</em> Mother asked: Why’re you so late Sudas? Just like that, I was sitting at the lake-side. Do you know Ma, nowadays some people come there, a band of them, to hear the blue-throated cuckoo’s cry. They have dry blood on their hands, red and blue feathers on their head. You’re full of trouble! Don’t be going there! Why Ma? After a pause, peering into his face and his eyes, she said: You appear kind of strange today Sudas. He then replied: That’s not surprising Ma, for I saw humans and dogs ferreting for food from the same garbage-bin. He then showed his mother the place wet with blood, where blood had been dripping endlessly through the nose of the dead body.<br />
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The horse neighed in Kasim Miya’s stable, <em>Aayn-han-han-han!</em> Kasim just sat in the darkness, swatting mosquitoes, puffing a <em>bidi</em> once in a while. He said: All those days are gone little master. Won’t come back! Used to gallop, <em>clip-clop! clip-clop!</em> with the master and mistress along the road going to the old fort, the people walking on the road would step aside. Master’s double-carriage! Stand aside! Stand aside! I’ll be gone, and with me everything’ll be over.<br />
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Sudas just couldn’t sleep at night. He heard someone whispering at the window: What’ll you do with that Sudas? Give it, give it to us! He had hidden it, buried it under the mango tree at the lakeside. He thought, now I’m at peace! No one will find it. In the middle of the night he saw a few jackals digging up the place in search of the dead body. He ran out, and screaming out he hurled stones and chased away the jackals. Their eyes like burning coals, the jackals hovered nearby, they didn’t go away.<br />
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Sudas’ heart thumped. I shouldn’t have taken it. His sleepless eyes scanned the sky and he ran his hand through his dishevelled hair as he roamed the lakeside all night like a madman. He kept seeing the sight of humans and dogs together squabbling and eating bones and remains from the same garbage bin. He heard his mother’s voice from faraway: Don’t go there Sudas, don’t go, Suuuu-daaaa-s! His pet caged bird screeched: <em>Hooeey Sudas!</em><br />
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Ill at ease, Sudas said: Do you know Kasim uncle, I’ve stolen a dagger. And do you know, I don’t know what I’ll do with that! Then, absent-mindedly running his fingers through his hair, he said: I didn’t really want to steal it you know. Don’t know what happened all of a sudden … Do you know, in Romen Deb’s house there are fabulous daggers, swords, guns, tiger skins, buffalo horns, just like in a museum … He felt an ache inside his chest. He turned blue in the face in agony. His muttered words were muffled by the sound of the horse’s neighing, <em>Aayn-han-han-han!</em>, that emanated from Kasim Miya’s stable. Just that one skinny horse in Kasim Miya’s stable, it silently champed on the grass from the mouth-bag. Every now and then it swished its tail, every once in a while it stamped its hooves, <em>thok! thok!</em>, on the wooden floor, every now and then it neighed, <em>Aayn-han-han-han!</em>, as if it wished to convey something. Kasim Miya said: Its time, I’ll go, my horse’ll go too. He threw away the bidi, rose and stroked the protruding ribs on the horse’s flank. He said: Be very careful little master, terrible times now, don’t stray from the road and go to the lakeside!<br />
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When he felt the ache in his chest becoming more acute, Sudas stepped out to the road and walked distractedly. A cool breeze blew in the night’s darkness, bringing with it the gentle fragrance of mango and <em>bel</em>. Their eyes glowing like torches, a few jackals hovered around him constantly. They had soaked in the blood dripping from that dead body and returned blood-crazed. He felt awful. And occasionally he felt pleased. Every once in a while he thought he hadn’t wanted all this to happen. Every now and then he remembered those people who had come to hear the cuckoo’s cry. Stale blood staining their hands, they had come to hear a beautiful birdsong.<br />
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The whole place was desolate. The moonlight lit up the ruins of the crumbling ancient fort and the undulating, once-royal, red-earth road. He was not at all afraid. He walked along, the dagger pressed in his pocket.<br />
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Agitated, absent-minded, he trudged on. Every once in a while he heard the faint cry of his mother, O Sudas! He then tried to bring to mind the following sight: beside the same garbage bin, humans and dogs were fighting over food. Every now and then his pet bird fluttered its wings inside the cage, <em>Hooeey Sudas! Where’re you goin pal? Hooeey Sudas!</em> He wondered where he’d go to ease the pain inside him, where could he go? Every once in a while he remembered Romen’s father’s words: Do you know Sudas, all these knives and daggers, guns and pistols that you see displayed on the wall here had made history at one time. History, full of history!<br />
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In Kasim Miya’s stable that solitary symbol-like, emaciated horse, eyes blinkered, occasionally stamped its hooves on the wooden floor and occasionally swished its tail to drive away flies. But nowadays it neighed frequently, <em>Aayn-han-han-han!</em>, as if to declare its protest against something. Puffing on his <em>bidi</em>, Kasim Miya said: Along with you all, our times are also coming to an end little master! Be very careful! Don’t you be going to the lakeside after dark!<br />
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After walking for a long time Sudas eventually began to tire. He saw himself walking through an unending confinement of moonlight. Ahead of him lay the ruins of the old fort. He advanced mechanically in that direction. He then remembered the corpse. He felt a constant unbearable pain inside his chest. He decided he would get rid of the troublesome weapon in this desolate moonlight, in the ghostly precincts of this old fort, and leave. After I leave I shall join that band of people, those with dry blood staining their hands, who had come to hear the cuckoo’s call …<br />
<br />
Tired, he sat down in the majestic environs of that ancient fort. He recalled Romen’s father saying: History, full of history! He recalled Kasim Miya’s lament: It’ll all end with me, I’ll be dead, and this old horse of mine will be dead too! Tears streamed down from the blinkered eyes of the horse. Kasim stroked its bony side and comforted it.<br />
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All the tears and blood came together and became one. Clouds shrouded the moon briefly. Darkness enveloped the stone walls of that ancient fort. Tearing his hair out with his two hands, Sudas screamed out like a madman: I didn’t want this! I didn’t want this! He feebly took out the dagger. As he was about to hurl it into the darkness of the fort, he saw countless hands on the stone walls of that ancient fort. Countless agitated hands had left their individual palm imprints, in syllables of blood.<br />
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THE END<br />
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<em><span style="font-size: 14px;">1971</span></em><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">This is a translation of the original Bengali short story <em>“chhuri”</em> by Subimal Misra, a Bengali writer of India. The story is anthologised in Subimal Misra’s <em>chottrish bochorer rograragri</em> (36 years’ scuffle), published by the author, Calcutta, 2004.</span><br />
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Photo: <span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">By <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Marianocecowski" title="User:Marianocecowski">Mariano</a> - <span class="int-own-work" lang="en">Own work</span>, <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/" title="Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0">CC BY-SA 3.0</a>, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=265811</span><br />
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ramahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07762427741454619332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4149363618306470904.post-41617397178729024932016-05-01T09:04:00.000+05:302016-05-01T13:38:07.169+05:30Reviews of "Wild Animals ..."<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Two-part interview in the <i>Dhaka Tribune</i>:<br />
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<a href="http://www.dhakatribune.com/op-ed/2015/oct/29/it-needed-tamil-translate-bengali-writer">part one</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.dhakatribune.com/editorial/2015/oct/30/west-bengal-has-witnessed-huge-regression">part two</a><br />
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A review of <i>Wild Animals Prohibited</i>, by Nilanjana S. Roy, in the <i><a href="http://www.business-standard.com/article/beyond-business/the-anti-storyteller-115110601067_1.html">Business Standard</a></i>.<br />
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Article by Amitava Kumar in <i><a href="http://www.hindustantimes.com/found-in-translation/story-POgv8en0JqlIyr5ttRfkhI.html">Hindustan Times</a></i>.<br />
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Essay by Kushanava Choudhury in <i><a href="http://www.caravanmagazine.in/reviews-essays/savage-seers-hidden-story-bengal">Caravan</a></i>.<br />
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Review by Kingshuk Chatterjee in <a href="http://www.newindianexpress.com/lifestyle/books/Twenty-five-Shades-of-the-Dark/2016/04/30/article3403738.ece"><i>The New Indian Express</i></a>.<br />
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ramahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07762427741454619332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4149363618306470904.post-72985730453550433352015-12-06T13:23:00.000+05:302015-12-06T20:38:10.553+05:30The real detective of the mystery beneath the skin<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Holding his
own male member in his hand, he points at himself – <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">what part shall I play tomorrow?<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<o:p> </o:p>Ami<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4149363618306470904#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[1]</span></span></span></a>
had developed a kind of bodily relation with the books, which was both gradual
and incessant, and just after that, problems arose. They survive now by eating
each other’s flesh. <i>Violets are blue</i>,
because another body emerges from the body and walks in front of mute Grushenka<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4149363618306470904#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[2]</span></span></span></a>,
in the vicinity of Khalasitola<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4149363618306470904#_ftn3" name="_ftnref3" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[3]</span></span></span></a>. As
it is the girl was beautiful, colleagues flatter her calling her a ‘paragon of
beauty’, right from her college days she had been seeing only entrancement in
men’s eyes. Perhaps it was this girl who came to meet Ami. He said
spontaneously: Come, come in, I was just thinking about you. But the girl has interpreted
this in a different way, the eighth colour of the rainbow was about to be
discovered. Girls are extremely <i>possessive</i>,
for sure, but he was of the opinion that boys were even more <i>possessive</i> than girls. Now Ami says he
is very tired, an infinitude of tiredness. He had been tired for the last three
decades, it had gone on for even longer than he had been alive. And just then,
after talking about this and that for about an hour, as he’s leaving, he hugs
Grushenka. She does not resist, releasing herself slowly she says: You’re a
rogue. He laughs: And you’re a treasure trove. What rubbish – Grushenka says –
Tell me, why do you come so late – don’t I suffer? <i><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Good and evil are one,
evil is merely the wrong choice at the moment of truth</span></i><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 150%;">.</span> If the life I used to lead
is a dream then this is a nightmare, until it’s transformed into complete
insanity the nightmare isn’t concluded. Ami had just turned forty then. Double
the girl’s age. A face covered over by a red beard, two weak legs, a short, fat
body. His female friends smirk, they say: the kind of appearance that’s eager
to establish bodily relations. When he has no other work he makes models of
bones. Doing that on and on he had made a complete human skeleton. And just the
same way, whatever he wrote, over an entire year, page after page, one night
something got into his head and he tore everything into shreds and let it blow
away in the wind. Even before an incident is prepared one must reach another
incident, and from there to yet another incident, perhaps with diametrically
opposite thinking, all of which would be made with another arrangement,
unconnected, hence ambiguity is created, is bound to be. Because, perhaps, Ami,
in a particular sense, was a writer, just like some other writers, but also the
end-writer. He began to lose touch with the external world, he was also
steadily losing his mental balance. He stopped meeting his friends, he used to
say that he didn’t have clothes to go out in, didn’t have shoes. And when he did
get some money he called all the people from the streets and organized a grand festive
feast of food and drink. Towards the end Ami lived all alone in a
one-and-a-half-room flat. His body had come to resemble that of an old man,
although he was only forty his face bore the stamp of age. And when idle, immersed
in dreams, he could see Theodore<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4149363618306470904#_ftn4" name="_ftnref4" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[4]</span></span></span></a>
staring fixedly at him through the darkness. He had sent people to kill him.
Theodore was passing off the pages of writing stolen from him in his own name,
one day he said that a maidservant had mixed a sleeping potion in his tea and
stolen some pages from his new work in order to sell it to Theodore. But the
funny thing is that the man who is visible has almost reached the flyover by
now. The boy is consoling the girl, just you wait and see – everything will be
alright. The car waits. The girl says: You must help me, I beg you, Alyosha,
help me. Ami leaves. The girl stands gazing at the door. And then she goes and
lies down on the bed that’s wrapped in darkness. The sound of a motorcycle starting
and then going away can be heard. Who was it that had said that life was full
of surprises – who used to say that, Theodore or Alyosha – or was it both of
them? Grandma used to say that when I was a little boy I apparently used to run
around with my arms spread on two sides like a bird’s wings. People say, when
you dream about flying it means you’re growing up. Ami used to fly even when he
was awake and yet he could never grow up. Leaping off a mountain – flying along
over the ocean – Ami sees such dreams even now. Snatching his words, Theodore
says – How amazing, I too was thinking of exactly the same thing at this moment.
At one time, here, on this bed, there used to be a youth, whose name was also Theodore.
Everyone used to call him Alyosha in jest. When he was asked he used to reply: I’m
floating over the clouds. That was quite normal for those who had a problem in
the head, as soon as they wished they could lie beside clouds. Many people ask
questions about sending Ami to hospital and the subsequent incident. Was it at
all necessary to send him to hospital? Even if he was sent to the hospital
once, was it correct to keep him there for the rest of his life? Erasing the
difference between the selfness of future and present, I constantly reconstruct
myself anew. How can I become what I have not yet become – all my hopes and
desires are only a ceaseless attempt at this rearrangement. This circle will
never be complete. My separation is eternal, Ami’s nothingness-like unbridgeable
distance. Within my existence there is always a distressed scream of nothingness,
but this void is the kind of force, the force within one’s existence – which makes
man dream of being elevated to a certain and well-knit future from an
incompatible and uncertain condition. Many of Ami’s friends used to declare
that Ami did not behave like a lunatic at all. Yes, he was <i>paranoid</i>, but one often comes across people suffering from <i>persecution mania</i> who live with their
families without causing any damage, leading regular lives. Maybe his
neighbours had raised objections about him because he was not like other
people. Ordinary people are bound to express their doubts about a man who only goes
out at night, just scribbles something all day long and then tears it up, who doesn’t
talk to anyone. It is love for people that makes Ami anti-human. Perhaps because
of this, Ami exacted a great revenge on himself. <i><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Conformity means death,
only protest gives a hope in life</span></i><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 150%;">.</span> Yes, Ami saw that a man constantly gives him company
in the course of daily life, enriches him, sometimes more than a woman. Together
with this, he creates a certain madness within me as well, because I too am a
man. I had to ascertain whether I was really a man in various ways. I ascertain
that by placing myself beside a man, and not just beside a woman. Through this,
I understand his way of thinking too. Trying to know oneself without being too clever.
But, being alone, continuously, gradually, going on being solitary, did not merit
blame. After spending the night with Grushenka, the wild-mannered Ami – then,
in those days – became endowed with some human qualities. In thought and
feeling, another dimension has become manifest. And unlike in his youth, when
he used to physically win over many women, he constantly stays beside the girl.
In his earlier writings, a specific dimension of power, courage and madness
used to be expressed, he had a wild exultation regarding man’s aboriginal
tendencies. After Grushenka’s arrival, a lot of it becomes gentle. There is
restraint at the perverted presence of flesh, a self-orientation enters his thinking.
And the veiled melancholia in the later stage attains a much higher level than before.
Towards the end Ami started living with the girl. That’s why a melancholy countenance
enters his final writings, concealing everything else. The two of them lived
together then – Grushenka and Theodore. The gossip was that she bore his child
in her womb, but the girl had just not been willing to having an abortion.
Having changed into a sari, Grushenka comes and says, tell me how I look. …
Lets go, where shall we go? He suddenly holds her face with his two hands and
says: Do you know something, Grushenka – do you know … Notwithstanding her
married life with her husband for so long, these words of the man who was her
lover make Grushenka’s whole being giddy, but she says: I’m not that
great-looking. Ami looks at her and becomes serious: If you were a man, you’d
understand the fire – the fire you’re playing with, Grushenka, standing between
father and son. The other layer beyond this first layer, where he had tried to
reach, where there’s no <i>compromise</i>, was
sexuality. Here you can never be successful with pretence. That means you want
to experience the worldview of that layer through your instincts. Your
instincts tell you about your ordinary experiences, which are outside the world
of the mind, through those you enter the world of the mind by means that are
bestial or anything else like that – you realize the worldview. For this, every
now and then you must sleep with other girls too. You have to sleep with them
both <i>actively</i> and <i>positively</i>. Only then will you find
yourself. Actually I liked this too. I liked it with utmost honesty. I stayed
back. I was trying to search for something, I’m still doing that even now. In
such matters, we either become slaves only to our joys or accept the girl’s
happiness as the final word. Both of these are a kind of lie. And lies do not
lead to any investigation of truth. I am able to take this risk. Through the very
girl you can enter another secret world. Do you know in what respect you are
different from everyone else – Grushenka says – you know how to listen. Men
never listen to what women say. They only think about going to bed. I don’t
mind going to bed, but that you heard me all this while, that’s what’s amazing.
The truth cannot be realized through words. It’s correct to say that the moment
of pure truth cannot be expressed in the language of any specific person, but
it’s also possible to create new kinds of signs, which are not used by people,
through which the individual in the moment of pure truth can be identified. It
is this that can be called, in Ami’s view, characteristics of the self –
meaning, one reflects one’s own characteristics. The characteristics of the
self, or looked at in another way, non-characteristics – whose form cannot be
expressed in any language in currency. Perhaps only that part of our logical
method of arrangement, which people cannot easily accept, is the real truth. He
lies in bed, away from Calcutta, unwell. He muttered: I want to see the girl.
His wife was beside him – his wife of twenty-five years. Those who were near
him said: There she is, right beside you. He got annoyed: No, no! Not her,
Grushenka. I want to see Grushenka. Bad times have begun for me, brother, I was
just recovering from kidney inflammation and now I’m writhing in spinal pain
all day. For over a year now I’ve been unable to sleep in bed. All day and
night, I sit with my back resting on a pillow, the hour or two that I sleep for
is by resting on the pillow. At first a lung X-ray was taken but nothing was
found. It’s a week now since the spinal X-ray was done. A collapse of the third
dorsal vertebra was detected in that. Ami comes and stands at the door. He
stands with his head raised high, towards the sky that had become dense with
darkness. Down below, the road going up and down the flank of the mountain
recedes into the distance, keeps doing so. Dogs supposedly eventually start
looking like their masters. At one time, I used to think that this referred to
a resemblance of nature or character. But later I realized it was not that –
gradually the dogs began to look as ugly as their masters – the insides of the
mouths of both were terribly filthy – a horrible, red, gaping mouth. In this
way, Ami died one day. According to the hospital records the cause of death was
an apoplectic stroke. After Ami died, when his desk was opened, a large
envelope bearing Dostoyevsky’s name was found. But it was completely empty. At
least Ami’s case was different. He was merely a trapeze artist. Dressed in
gleaming red satin, Ami floats around – swinging on one hand and then the other
– from one end to the other end – even when he frees his hand, emptiness, he is
held by an invisible bond. He does not have the capability of severing that tie,
no one has. And as he floated in that momentary emptiness, he saw his own
defeat with his own eyes. His writings condensed and took over his life at some
point, it was the blown-away pages of the writing that determined how far the
writer was there or whether at all there was anyone called a writer. Or the
term writer was actually nothing but an imaginary notion, which has no
existence in reality. <i><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The unexamined life is not worth
living</span></i><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">.</span> The
only way to deny everything that was <i>absurd</i>
in the world was to lead one’s life in an <i>absurd</i>
way. With every new thought, Ami knows, he has to attain death again and again.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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THE END<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">[1993]<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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Alyosha bring to mind Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
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Calcutta, also known for its association with a section of intellectuals,
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ramahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07762427741454619332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4149363618306470904.post-17431031573644261152015-11-02T16:29:00.001+05:302015-11-02T16:30:03.589+05:30Interview in Dhaka Tribune<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A two-part interview with V. Ramaswamy, translator of <i>Wild Animals Prohibited</i>, by Subimal Misra, was carried in the <i>Dhaka Tribune</i> of 29th and 30th October 2015.<br />
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Read the interview here:<br />
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first part:<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #4787ff; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: x-small; line-height: normal; text-decoration: underline;">http://www.dhakatribune.com/op-ed/2015/oct/29/it-needed-tamil-translate-bengali-writer</span><br />
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second part:<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #4787ff; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; text-decoration: underline;">http://www.dhakatribune.com/editorial/2015/oct/30/west-bengal-has-witnessed-huge-regression</span></div>
ramahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07762427741454619332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4149363618306470904.post-88033541997219510652015-10-29T13:52:00.000+05:302015-10-29T13:52:14.375+05:30Book release: Wild Animals Prohibited<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">The book Wild Animals Prohibited: Stories, Anti-stories by Subimal Misra was released on 28 October 2015 at a function held at the Max Mueller Bhavan, Kolkata. The book was released by Dr Mrinal Bose, physician and writer. It was Dr Bose who first mentioned the name of Subimal Misra to me, back in August 2005. For me, he was the most apt person to release the book.</span><br />
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Clips from Basab Mukhopadhyay’s video documentary on Subimal Misra (2010) were screened.</div>
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Probir Ghosh and V. Ramaswamy read from the book, while Nilanjan Bhattacharya read from the original Bengali texts.</div>
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There was a discussion about Subimal Misra’s writing, moderated by Nilanjan Bhattacharya. Procheta Ghosh (Lala) & Tapas Ghosh, joint editors of the little magazine, Jaari Bobajudhyo, Moushumi Bhowmick, singer, music researcher & writer, and V. Ramaswamy participated in the discussion.</div>
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Finally there was a musical presentation by Moushumi Bhowmick and Satyaki (sarod-player and singer).</div>
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ramahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07762427741454619332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4149363618306470904.post-80669882385878084312015-08-24T13:40:00.001+05:302015-08-24T13:41:34.335+05:30Wild Animals Prohibited – is out!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Just received!<br />
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Hooray!<br />
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<a href="http://harpercollins.co.in/BookDetail.asp?Book_Code=4835" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">http://harpercollins.co.in/BookDetail.asp?Book_Code=4835</a></div>
ramahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07762427741454619332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4149363618306470904.post-69711721584671295032015-07-29T10:20:00.000+05:302015-07-29T11:20:02.423+05:30Throbbing Lust<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">There’s nothing
to be shy about, it’s only between you and me<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">There you go
with your rubbish early in the morning, no, it’s better not to, besides I can’t
sin<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Not a bad idea if
husband and wife jointly run an enterprise, do you understand … no one ever has
too much money ... good food, fine jewelry, every girl wishes for that, doesn’t
she … look Maya, whatever I’m saying is the truth, if you go around the
neighbourhood you’ll understand, there’ll definitely be a case or two<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I don’t know,
dear, I don’t go around the neighbourhood, so how would I know<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">A lot of people
do all this, I know it, those who are the quiet types are the ones who’re most
cunning … alright, don’t men look at you, tell me my dearest<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Of course they
look, and they look in such a way<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Do you know, a
gentleman lives in our neighbourhood, I’ve heard he’s a military man, he isn’t
married either, he’s tall and stocky in appearance, you’d be frightened to look
at him, I’m acquainted with a relative of his, he’s sent messages through him several
times<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Okay … when I
went past his house last month, he had called me, oh baba, I was so scared …
the gentleman lives all alone in a rented flat<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Eesh, does
anyone squander such a wonderful opportunity, be a bit clever, Maya, people
starve to death unless they’re clever, tell me, why did you run away, you could
have heard him out, what he says, what he wants to say<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Peeping through
the hole, I saw the police were exchanging fire<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">As if I don’t
know, he’ll ask me to sleep with him, what else could a man have to say<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">You made a
terrible<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>mistake, Maya, you could have
spent half an hour or an hour with him, he wouldn’t do it just like that, definitely
for money, any other girl would have simply<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Alright, please
tell me the truth, are you trying to test me<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Not at all,
there’s nothing to test, I’m telling you the plain truth, if ten out of ten
girls in society are bad, how long will you stay good, perhaps inwardly you
want me to stop you, but that’s what leads to turmoil, if you have your husband
in hand, then there’s nothing whatsoever to worry about<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I got that, lets
say I bring someone, where will you be<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Why, don’t we
have two rooms, I’ll be in one and the two of you’ll be in the other one, just
get rid of your inhibitions and then everyone will be happy<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">What do you mean
everyone will be happy<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">The great
crematorium in Nimtala will be beautified to resemble the Gandhi-ghat in Delhi<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">No Maya, that’s
not correct, however wealthy women might be, if they don’t get proper
satisfaction down below<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Whatever you
might say, since you want to hear I’ll talk, all these years of being married
to you was quite alright, but now I don’t feel there’s anything inside my
darling<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">So tell me that
I’m lying<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Look, if you’re
willing<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">But I’ve already
told you<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">If you don’t
create domestic turmoil about this, then there’s no need to get the military
man, there are so many rich guys here, the half-old man in the provisions store
devours me with his eyes, if I just give him a hint … besides that contractor chap has a lot of cash <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">The senior
students had stripped him naked and poured hot liquid wax in his anus<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">How much will he
pay<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">That’s what’s
more problematic … nowadays you can get girls on the streets, men don’t want to
spend much, but if you’ve got what it takes and can appraise the situation and strike
accordingly, then, if not five hundred, he’ll definitely give two hundred<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Let’s see how it
goes, but I know there’ll be no shortage of men for me<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">If you can
squeeze out money<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Just you watch,
when you’ve put me into the business I’ll conduct myself accordingly … get up now
and start cooking, let me go to the market<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Alright, go … I
have evening duty … tell me, how will I know<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Why, when you
see the door bolted from within, then you’ll know someone’s in there, the food
will be kept in the other room, eat quietly and spread out the floor mat<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Alright<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I warn you,
don’t try to peep or anything, the man who spends money and comes for satisfaction
must not be annoyed<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Binodini ascends
from the waters of the Ganga and comes directly towards Bihari<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Hello Boudi,
it’s been a long time, do tell me what you need<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I need a lot of
things, but where’ll I get the money<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">What do you want
to say, Boudi, please tell me frankly … if it’s money you need<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">We’re needy
folk, if we don’t need it then tell me who does<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">How much do you
need, tell me<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I’ll do that,
but how will I repay you<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Pay me when you
can<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Why don’t you
come to our house at night, nowadays my husband has night duty, we can chat for
a while, I’m all alone and don’t have anyone to talk to<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">You say<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I’ll tell you
then how much I need<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I too wanted<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Do come, I’ll
make you forget all your sorrows<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Really, Boudi<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">On the charge of
stealing a bulb, a deaf-mute girl was stripped naked and was branded on her
genitals with a hot skewer<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Do come from
time to time, no one will mind<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">But your husband<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">He won’t say
anything<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">The neighbours …
the neighbourhood<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Makes no
difference whether they’re there or not, it’s just a half-domestic neighbourhood,
in fact people come in the afternoon to the house next door<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Amazing, I
didn’t know about that<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">So much happens
inside the basti homes, do outsiders know about all that<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Alright then,
but I hope I won’t end up getting thrashed<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Oh no, my husband
and I will take care of that, but I need five hundred<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Immediately
after word of the murder got around, the incensed mob began to damage and
vandalize the nearby locality<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">You’re asking
for too much, Boudi, if it’s about two hundred that’ll be okay<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Not two hundred,
make it three hundred, once a week, four times a month, at the same rate<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">You’re very
clever<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Did I ask for
too much<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">It’s alright,
but I can’t pay you now, come at night and take it, when I’m closing the office<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Alright, when
will you come … who knows when the old man from the provisions store will come<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">The language of
love was the language of his protest <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Uncle, when will
you come<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">After I close
the shop<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Alright<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Will there be
something then … I can’t spend the whole night, at most till eleven at night<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Okay, I’ll cook
and keep food ready<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Oh no, there’s
no need to cook, if I eat outside there’ll be a commotion at home, I can’t stay
away at night, can’t eat outside<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">When you come,
how’ll you recognize my house<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I know it well,
I’ve been observing it for a long time<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I hope you can
remember it<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">The leader of
the People’s War Group has been arrested in the jungles of Goaltor<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Dada, could you
please give me a couple of things quickly<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">What’s the
hurry, you’ve come after a long time, hey, you rascal, get a nice cup of tea,
tell him to make it a special one, tell me, what do you need<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Oh, I need lots
of things but I can’t get the things I need, like oil and soap<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Is that all,
chee-chee, when I’m there<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">No, no<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I’ll give you
the whole month’s provisions, later, when you have the money<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Oh, how can that
be, where’ll I get such a lot of money all at once, I know you’ll give the
stuff, but unless I pay in time, does anyone give anything, tell me<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I like you,
that’s why<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Exhibiting the
male body is the latest fad now<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I like you too,
Uncle<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">But the matter
of liking is of a different kind, I’m sure you understand, I won’t let you lack
for anything<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I got it<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">When I’m with
you, all deprivation will fly away<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">All this is
sinful, besides I’m scared, I’ve not thought about the husband aspect, </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: large;">and there are
neighbours and the neighbourhood</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Don’t talk about
neighbours, as if neighbours matter in such neighbourhoods, if you’re without
food would anyone come to feed you ... listen, do something, go home, I’ll send
all the stuff in a rickshaw, my shop’s closed tomorrow<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Alright, but do
think about my side<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Patriarchy does
not depend merely on the individual bearing the father’s name, it creeps into
every possible level of the man-women relationship, at home and outside<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">What’s up, how
far have you got with the cooking ... what’s in the pan ... oh, only some vegetables ... listen, please cut this fish<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I can’t cut such
a big fish, why didn’t you have it cut<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">We’ve got to eat
haven’t we<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Why did you get
such a big fish, won’t we need oil<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">You don’t have
to worry about all that, how much oil do you require, make some tea first, a
rickshaw-full of stuff is on its way ... when you’ve given your consent, just you
see how and what I do … look at these two crisp hundred rupee notes, there’s a
rickshaw-full of goods, that’s from the provision store<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">How will you pay
back so much money<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Don’t I have the
capital … why aren’t you cutting the fish … the contractor won’t stay the whole
night today, only till ten at night, and tomorrow’s the old man from the
provisions store, each one comes once a week, you can keep watch if necessary …
we don’t need anything more … can you go outside and look, I think I can hear
the rickshaw horn<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">A woman phones
the fire brigade in the middle of the night: there’s a fire in my heart, please
come and douse it<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Yes, my dear
Maya, a rickshaw-full of goods<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Go, go and get
the stuff … bring it carefully<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">As if I ever
create any trouble<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">No one looked at
them, everyone comes happy and content<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Baba, where’ll I
keep so much rice and daal<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Put everything
under the cot, I’ll arrange everything tomorrow morning … did you pay the
rickshaw now<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">He didn’t accept
it<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Why’s that<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Look Maya, the
receipt’s for four hundred and twenty rupees ... really Maya, in just a single day
you’ve managed to organize this<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">You just keep
quiet henceforth … arrange everything properly … quite a good amount in cash
and then there’s the relation<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">But that would
mean a lot of hardship<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">You idiot, the hardship won't be every day, just for a day, and then everything’s familiar …
here, take your fish<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">After paying a
huge sum as ransom the kidnapped businessman returned<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Those who know
the body know how to pay the price<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Instead of
talking, if you can, try to arrange the things on the shelf ... let me fry the
pieces of fish, and then I’ll make the gravy, just enough for the two of us<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Here, do you
think it’s done<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">It’s okay, but there’s
more stuff in the bag<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">There’s a lot of
stuff here, every kind of spice, he’s sent all the household requirements<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Go and have your
bath, won’t you go to work<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Let it be, I
think I won’t go today<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">What on earth do
you think, you’ll eat and go to work like everyone else, you can’t eat off the
money earned by your wife, I’m telling you, you have to go to work everyday,
bear in mind, I can get along even if you’re not there … taste it and tell me<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">What can I do,
have I learnt cooking<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Learn to cook
too, those who’ll spend the whole night with me will extract full value for
their money<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Howrah’s
starving workers now want to take revenge through the ballot<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">They pay for the
quality they see<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">How’s the fish,
do you like the gravy<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">The taste of
fresh fish is something else altogether, I’m eating a big fish after a very
long time<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Baba, my
stomach’s really full, when you return from work today remember to buy condoms,
the last packet is still there … who knows what diseases people have, got to be
careful<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Alright, baba,
one burden’s gone, now for a cycle … so I’m off, but do be careful<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Yes my dear, you
go now<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Then Rohini
Hattangadi looks for and picks up a stone, and meditating on Shiva, begins to
perform puja<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Hello Boudi, I’m
sure you’re waiting for me<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Yes, do come in,
sit in this room, let me shut the door, it’s a small room, no cot or anything,
you won’t be very comfortable, Uncle<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I will be, for
sure I will be, keep this relationship in good shape, and why only a cot,
you’ll get so many things ... d</span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: large;">o you know Maya,
if a boy’s cunning it’s very dangerous ... I can’t sleep with your boudi anymore,
but of course your boudi has no more sex … where are you, come to me</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I want to sit on
your lap<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Come, let’s do
that, if you sit you’ll understand<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I don’t allow
that, if they’re squeezed too hard they’ll begin to sag … yes, like that, use your
hand<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Maya, can you
ever forget me<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I’ll try, Uncle,
we can chat later, but finish the business first<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I don’t have the
patience to sit any more, fold your legs<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">On Children’s
Day, we vow that we will not let children be deprived of the full development
of all their inner capabilities – Department of Women & Child Development,
Government of India<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">No, don’t do
that … where’s it, put it in … why do you delay, how much longer, Uncle<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I don’t know<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Why’re you
acting like a teenager<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Don’t I get
aroused<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Take it, will it
run away this time too, you shouldn’t do that<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Believe me, Maya<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">What<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">No great damage
is done by that, why are you getting up, lie down beside me for some more time<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">In order to blow
up the Rajdhani Express in an explosion, a time-bomb has been placed on the
rail line<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Where do I put
it<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">You don’t have
to get up, who’s stopping you<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Would you like
to eat fried fish<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Is there any<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Baba, why wouldn’t
there be any, the taste of fresh fish is something else altogether, do you get
that, let me make tea, fried fish and tea<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">You’re stupid, fried
fish goes well with booze … I drink now and then<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">But the taste of
fresh fish is something else altogether<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">No, not today,
next week, around nine, the shop’s closed on that day, you see I have to keep
up the home front as well as the external front<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Whatever you
wish<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">In Burdwan, a sick
child was given another child’s injection<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Yes, my dear,
this is the first time I’ve earned, but if you don’t like to see that<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I’m all aflutter
inside, you know, I’m really happy, you know what you want<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">So what if there's some hardship, there’s happiness besides the hardship<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">That’s what’ll
be, Maya, I hope your wishes are fulfilled<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">How long before the
next visit<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">It won’t do to
be so crazy ... hey, it’s ten-thirty, tell me what I should bring for you, </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: large;">make a list and give
it in the market</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">You’ve already
given all the stuff from the provisions store<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I have to get up
now … stuff to do at home … this door’s open<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Oh baba, he
hasn’t even come in ... don’t be standing at the door, who knows who’ll<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I’ll see you
around<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Yes<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">You’ll live
long, dear, I thought you’d have come home and gone to sleep<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">What are you … didn’t
anyone come …you had said he’d stay all night, I’m sure you lied to me<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">No, my dear, not
a lie, you see he has a grown-up son at home, it’s not possible for him to stay
all night, he left just fifteen minutes ago ... here, take off your shirt and
trousers, I’m terribly hungry, have a wash while I put the rice to boil<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Globalization
and patriarchy – it’s because of this link that in the forthcoming World Social
Forum of 2004, one of the ten key subjects for discussion is patriarchy<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">How many times<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">At first twice
in succession, and then once more before leaving<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Is that’s all<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Just the three
times made me forget my dad’s name … what’re you doing … has the strength of an
ogre, hey, please massage my body, just see how it’s swollen from squeezing<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Baba, it’s
really swollen … will I get something<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">You’ll get it,
my dear, but massage my body first<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">You just carry
on, Maya, just carry on, there’s nothing to fear, if required I’ll opt for the
night shift, I’ll do all the household chores as soon as I wake up in the
morning<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">That you have to
do, my dear, I’m earning now, look here, it’s in my interest to give peace to
those who come, isn’t it, they’ll give baksheesh<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">That must be
extracted<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">If you’re at
home, I’ll be panicky … terror in the mind<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Alright, as soon
as I can I’ll take the night shift<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">A complaint was
made against a promoter for deploying hijras to evict a tenant<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">What happened, why
did you get up<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I have no clue
about what you did when<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">You’re lying<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">You’re terribly
naughty, hey, I’m sleepy now, let me go to sleep, when you wake up in the
morning, wash the cooking utensils, sweep the rooms, make tea and then wake me
up<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Alright, let me
sleep now<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">The ballot
papers were torn in the booth itself and the box was dumped in the water<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Hey, Maya, wake
up, it’s nine, don’t you want tea<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">What time is it<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">It’s nine<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Nine … have you
done all the work, have you filled water ... where’s the tea, give it to me,
I’ll lie down in bed and have tea, I can’t get up before I have tea … do you
know, I slept so well, my whole body feels light … light the stove, I’ll have a
bath and then cook today, god, what an ache, dear<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Is it bad … listen,
it’ll relieve you if I give you a hot compress<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">The
seven-year-old girl, Rinku, searches among the ashes of the burnt hut for her Kisalay
book<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">It’ll be great
if I can get it <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">You’ll get it,
but go to the toilet now, you’ve been farting away all this while, take your
bath and come out<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I’ve lit the
stove, let me sweep the other room<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">We should get
some good mosquito nets, pillows and quilts now<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">There’s money in
hand, so we can buy it<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Do you think
I’ll buy it with my money, are you out of your mind, it’s those who come who
soil our bed-linen, and it’s they who’ll buy it<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Hey, can you
hear me, where are you, please give me the towel, what a lovely fragrance in
the soap, what soap is this dear, what’s it called … this is the norm, Maya, as
long as you’re young, just grab it<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Come out, let me
take a bath ... I have to sleep a while after eating<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Nowadays, in
private parties, women openly hire male dancers and make them strip naked<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Boudi, are you
at home<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Who is it<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">It’s me<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Oh, it’s you,
it’s so dark outside, what time is it, just wait, the light’s not turned on,
how on earth did I sleep so long, it’s seven, if you hadn’t called me … come
in, come, believe me, it’s terrible, I’ve never slept so long<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Is that so, what
did you dream about<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">A lot of stuff,
please sit down, let me just go to the wash-room, god, I badly need to pee<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">A boy died
leaping from the roof, imitating Spiderman<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Would you like
to have some tea<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Yes please make
it ... hey, silly girl, I have a family too, I know what all is needed in a
family, just maintain the relationship with me and you’ll never know
deprivation ... listen, your nightie’s in the cloth bag<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Here’s the tea,
but there aren’t any biscuits<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Take it out and
see<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Alright, I’ll
wear it and come<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Why, wear it in
front of me<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Okay ... it’s nice ... do you like it<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Hearing about
the death due to a wrong injection, the Superintendent said, but he would have
died one day<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Not in this
room, come to the other room … I did up the room today<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Whatever you
wish, take me wherever you want ... oh, such a lovely room, absolutely secluded ... is your husband alright<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Yes of course,
why shouldn’t he be alright ... I say, weren’t you supposed to come at nine o’
clock<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I just came by<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Whatever you
think’s right ... so where shall I sit, on your lap<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">That’s right ... you’re even younger than my daughter<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Look here, love
doesn’t heed age<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Buchanan and company
won’t allow Sourav to recover from his injury<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Maya, that’s
what I think when I look at your face<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Oh baba, what
have I sat on dear<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">How on earth did
you land on your husband’s fate<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I don’t know …
maybe it’s so … where’s your thing<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Let’s see where
you’ve hidden it<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">The colour can’t
be discerned in the light from the bulb<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">A manly woman
has been arrested for disguising as a man and marrying an eighteen-year-old
girl<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">So you’ve snared
me<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">What do you mean<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">There’s nothing
to fear, there may be a little bit of hardship ... hey take a look, I hope there’s no
piss anywhere, I don’t like it<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I’ve put on some
scent for that reason ... don’t worry</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: large;">I won't hurt you</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Not like that<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">In today’s
world, dreaming of surviving as a gay is a purely personal matter of yours<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">So that’s what
makes the guys happy, they get pleasure when you inflict pain<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">There’s no other
worry, you stay this way and you won’t ever have to worry about difficulty<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Go to sleep now
… what happened, do you want to<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Can you take a
risk regarding whatever’s connected with your home<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I’ll give you
more<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">There’s no point
giving you unnecessary trouble ... lift up your head and look, look at me, keep
looking <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Take my love …
don’t get lost<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">What are you
saying, Maya, my head will go in<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Try to put your
head in and see … I’m not lying<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">What do you mean<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">It means nothing<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">It was as if a
baby was being delivered<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">THE END</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">[2003]<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">This
is a translation of the original Bengali story “Madankotkoti” by Subimal Misra.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Translated
by V. Ramaswamy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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ramahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07762427741454619332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4149363618306470904.post-76086435349183234672014-02-21T15:05:00.001+05:302014-09-09T01:57:49.802+05:30The Mosquito<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">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 –</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">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.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">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.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">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.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">The mosquito flies off, and with it goes its shadow.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">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.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">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.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">THE END</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;">Translated by V. Ramaswamy. </span></div>
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ramahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07762427741454619332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4149363618306470904.post-61445541694183808772013-10-25T09:38:00.000+05:302013-10-25T09:51:14.693+05:30Babumoshai, enjoy the fun<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Eight-feet and sixteen-knees
went to catch fish with unease, casts on land a net so fine and catches fish
come rain or shine. Tell me, Babumoshai? Couldn’t get it? It’s a spider. Come,
Babumoshai, sit. Babumoshai, enjoy the fun. Standing or sitting, just have fun.
Coming or going, just have fun. Eating or sleeping, just have fun. Babumoshai,
enjoy the fun. Couldn’t get it, Babumoshai? It’s a spider, Babumoshai.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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One hundred funs, two hundred funs,
a thousand funs. A contest for how far one could throw a baby snatched from its
mother’s bosom – what fun! At the competition to eat ten rupees worth of
rossogollas, the clean-shaven, sparkling youth circled naked around Dalhousie
Square at broad noon – what a fun incident, isn’t it? Just imagine there’s a
7-month old baby in a woman’s bosom. A peace-wallah came up to her. As he grabs
the girl, the baby began to cry. The peace-wallah then gave a push and threw
the baby on the ground. After falling down the baby began crying even more
loudly. Seeing that peace was being disturbed, the peace-wallah then pressed
the baby’s head under his boot. He squashed the head. The others exclaimed,
bravo! Just imagine, what fun it is. For that matter, one can make fun with you
too. For instance, I will ask you: which year is this, brother? You will wonder
what this is about. It’s nothing, it’s only a piece of fun. Or I could tell
you, in the next few days, whenever you get the opportunity, use your two hands
like feet, that is to say, you now have 2 feet + 2 hands; now, if the value of
a hand is equal to the value of a foot, then how many feet do 2 hands equal,
and how many feet would you have altogether? Are you getting angry? Don’t be
angry, this is fun, simply fun. Do you know, for the last few days, I feel that
the rear, seat region of my trousers keeps rising and expanding, that hair is
rapidly spreading all over my face, my jaw is getting flattened, and two long
teeth keep growing out of the two ends of my mouth – I’m wondering whether this
too is a piece of fun. What – so you’re not finding it funny? Are you getting
bored? Don’t conclude that all fun is like this – merely vegetarian fare;
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Gulp vegetarian fun</div>
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Come, tell me on which tree</div>
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Ha ha, God! That was really funny,
isn’t it? Yes, you will definitely have fun, it was for just such fun that you
were waiting all this while. Listen then to another piece of A-grade fun.
There’s floods in North Bengal. You’ve gone from Calcutta to undertake flood
relief. You’ve taken along rice, daal, clothes and so on. You’ve parked the
boat on the bank and are undertaking flood relief. As you’re distributing
clothes, you suddenly spot in the distance, behind the clump of shit-babla, a
full-grown piece of fun, standing. A girl, concealed by the clump, she’s not in
a condition to come to you and take a sari from you. And it’s not possible for
her to come out in the open with whatever she’s wearing. All of you saw it,
heard it, understood everything; winked at each other. Because the girl is
…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ha ha, God! … Want some more
fun? You’re a daily passenger – observe the stations carefully – you’ll have
loads of fun. In every station there’ll be middle-aged people, who are bent
double, there’ll be two or four unclad, harried mothers with a child on the
bosom, there’ll be a whole bunch of naked, hungry children. And right next to
them, a meticulously dressed, smart-looking babu – whistling to himself and
waiting for the train; a job in Calcutta. There’s fun in statistics too. If Ram
earns 1 million rupees a month and Shyam earns 51.50 rupees a month, then
calculate the average annual income of Ram and Shyam together. Do it, you’ll
have fun. Keep your ears pricked when you travel by bus or tram. There’s fun
there too. “Hey mister, why do you forget that the son of a petty clerk is
destined to become a petty clerk even if he is an engineering graduate – and
the director’s son will become a director even if he fails high school – it’s a
peculiar country, mister – such fun the dialogue is, isn’t it? There’s fun like
this everywhere. The silver jubilee of India’s independence. The Prime
Minister’s speech on the transistor. The haat in Kakdwip. As you’re listening
to the speech, you see an old hag who’s come to sell, as her final resort, her
two pet ducks. She says she’ll give away the two ducks in exchange for two
kilos of wheat-flour. Nobody buys it. Accompanying the silver jubilee of
independence is this 2 kilos of flour in exchange for two pet ducks – isn’t it
fun? Fun like this is found everywhere. In marketplace, village, town, shop or
street. The red flag procession is held up when it confronts His Holiness Sri
Sri Bhabataran Baba’s procession. The grandeur of the wedding of Burrabazar’s
Hukumchand Nagarmal’s grandson – a car decorated like a swan with flowers – men
bearing an array of ornamental lanterns on their heads, bare-bodied, black
backs, weary eyes – this causes a traffic jam, half a mile long – trams and
buses are all held up. Isn’t it fun? Babumoshai, enjoy the fun – go to Seadah
station late at night. You’ll find fun there too. You won’t be able to walk.
You’ll tread on people at every step. People come from the village. From
nameless towns. Hundreds of them. Thousands. Countless. Even so many years
after independence, queues of hapless people come to the station and become
beggars. Rows and rows of faces of wives, children and malnourished babies. In
the station precincts, in the waiting room, on the pavement – everywhere the
same faces. Wives, children, babies. In the middle of the night. In the stilled
station. Every now and then, a loud, sharp whistle. The sound of railway
shunting. And in the middle of that, a procession of weary, starving faces.
There’s fun there too. Just be a bit observant. You’ll see 2-3 policemen waking
up all those weary sleeping bodies and taking collections. Do you know what the
collection is for. It’s tax. The police have to be paid a tax of 10 paise per
head to remain in Sealdah station. There’s fun incidents like this all around.
Mohammad Abdul from Baisata, Haran Mandal from Debisabad, Kishore Maity from
Baurmal, Banamala from Satguchi, all of them give pay the collection of 10
paise to the police and occupy the station premises. 25 years after
independence, look at Sealdah station alone, you’ll find such incidents occur
day after day. The area around the station is flooded with starving beggars.
The police can’t keep them away. They clear one place and new beggars and from
another place fill up the vacant space. The whole station fills up in half an
hour. It’s a fun thing isn’t it? There’s fun like this all around. There’s fun
to be had in hotel, shop, restaurant … in the Maidan. There’s fun in
newspapers. On its left side is printed a picture of a beggar who was found
dead on the railway platform. And an advertisement is placed on the right side,
a bra-clad, semi-naked, female body. On one side it’s written: Starving
Calcutta – 3 persons died of starvation in Sealdah; on the other side: Feminica
– guaranteed to bring perfect feminine beauty to your flat chest within 3
months. People see it. They have fun. Fun happens. Fun happens throughout the
newspaper. Fun happens all over the station. Fun happens throughout the nation.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Oh my! Blooming
flowers in beds so round</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Flowers the colour of cowrie </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Wild spinach fritters hurry</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Fun – fun - fun. One hundred funs,
two hundred funs, a thousand funs. Babumoshai, enjoy the fun! Oh my! Blooming flowers …</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
THE END</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"><i>[1973]<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">This is a translation of the
original Bengali story, “Babumoshai moja koroon”, by Subimal Misra. Translated
by V. Ramaswamy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
ramahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07762427741454619332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4149363618306470904.post-31623764334776317802013-03-02T08:37:00.001+05:302013-03-02T08:37:53.251+05:30Calcutta in the early Seventies<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Subimal Misra began writing in the late 1960s. He was a witness to the nightmare of violence and killings that Calcutta lived through during 1970-71. Several of his stories engage with this context. Hence I was keen to know more about this period. I was fortunate to come across the book, <i>Shottorer Dinguli</i> (The Seventies) by Debashis Bhattacharya. I am translating this book now.
</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6cuLmMFC_TSK6ysbLBgddFMQieKD_lkrC_mujZEt5MOk5MJMXN0oAu9M2VErSZ3rrg3Pv_nTmtML9jFhANI-v9K3DUMLCA_nOZB5CHXob-1PdtX08pEvC8M8dNFS8Tik5Ch-8Gb5Zv9aB/s1600/cal1.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6cuLmMFC_TSK6ysbLBgddFMQieKD_lkrC_mujZEt5MOk5MJMXN0oAu9M2VErSZ3rrg3Pv_nTmtML9jFhANI-v9K3DUMLCA_nOZB5CHXob-1PdtX08pEvC8M8dNFS8Tik5Ch-8Gb5Zv9aB/s320/cal1.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<br />
During the months of March, April, May and June of 1971, killings were the order of the day. However, it was in south Bengal, and especially in Calcutta and the neighbouring districts where most of this occurred. At that time there were about 200 killings a month. Of these 200, the police committed 130 murders. All naxalites used to be killed. 50 killings were by the naxalites. Of these, 20 were policemen, 20 were police informers, and 10 were CPI(M) workers. The CPI(M) killed 20 a month. Of these 20 murders, 15 were naxalites, and 5 belonged to the CPI. In some cases the principal Congress-man of a neighbourhood was also killed.<br />
<br />
Things came to this pass as a result of launching “action” in the cities, following Charu Mazumdar’s dictum, and the spread of “red terror”. Charu-babu used to say that one was not a communist until and unless one’s hands were coloured with the class enemy’s blood. He said, don’t be afraid to sacrifice yourself! The Congress’ goon squad had not yet entered the field. Congress leaders smiled wryly observing the situation in early 1971.<br />
<br />
Going through a report of the state home department, one finds that in 1968 there were 9 political murders in West Bengal. In 1969 there were 109. Between 1 January and 31 December of 1970 there were 435. During the four months between 1 January and 30 April of 1971, there were 401. Killings by the police and killings of policemen were not included in these figures. Only killings by and of political party workers had been counted. During the 365 days of 1970, all told, 1247 people were killed in Calcutta. And 1067 people had been killed in the districts.<br />
<br />
Between the end of March 1970 and the end of March 1971, there were 142 incidents in the state of seizing of guns and revolvers by naxalites. But between 1 April and 15 May of 1971, within these 45 days, there were 146 incidents. During this period, guns and rifles used to be snatched everyday in Birbhum district. The guns of bank guards were snatched. In April 1971, a squad of naxalites threw chilli powder in the eyes of a Nepali durwan guarding a wealthy person’s house in Alipore in Calcutta, and snatched away the khukri on his waist.<br />
<br />
Between March and December of 1970, about eight and a half thousand naxalites were arrested in the state. Of this number, only one person was sentenced by the court. Refusing legal redress, bail, and the various facilities due to prisoners that had been earned after many battles, the naxalites converted the prisons too into arenas of struggle. In the CPI(ML) party’s almost-monthly mini-paper, <i>Deshabrati</i>, writing under the pseudonym, Sasanka, the state committee’s secretary, Saroj Dutta, wrote: <i>The revolutionary prisoners have declared their loathing for the prison walls</i>.<br />
<br />
On 14 May 1971, "action" was launched in Dum Dum Jail, and 45 naxalite prisoners escaped. Later, prison officials and police jointly beat and killed 32 naxalite prisoners. More than 90 persons were injured. And on 15 May 1971, 5 naxalite prisoners were killed in Howrah.
What was the key to the success of the escape attempt? A comrade wrote a letter to Charu Mazumdar after his escape. He wrote: <i>It’s only because I had learnt to hate and annihilate the centrists that I was able to escape. If the prisoners in all the jails read CM’s tract on centrism, and then try to escape, they will surely be successful</i>.<br />
<br />
Today, many of those who broke out of Dum Dum Jail that day get irritated at the very mention of the word ‘politics’.
</div>
ramahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07762427741454619332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4149363618306470904.post-24601290369271380112012-07-04T09:34:00.000+05:302012-07-06T16:22:49.979+05:30Two and a Half Gangas<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiywSFy8S6UVE_nLduExbR72WXR3pgrVuuV16A8fx_kj6WgXldcRt0ZpvMLih3ovG8KmITd4d8axgYHVyipy6ZhjRz1JW5v0A3_6WNqXCtZmvqMUULbUIMkhQGjVcHW3hRbDxPzFHKZ_sti/s1600/cake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="320" width="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiywSFy8S6UVE_nLduExbR72WXR3pgrVuuV16A8fx_kj6WgXldcRt0ZpvMLih3ovG8KmITd4d8axgYHVyipy6ZhjRz1JW5v0A3_6WNqXCtZmvqMUULbUIMkhQGjVcHW3hRbDxPzFHKZ_sti/s320/cake.jpg" /></a>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<i>or</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> the Picture of the
Crowd Whizzing Past a Man Who Ducked His Head and Took a Plunge</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-style: normal;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">And all realism itself<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Has to be realised from
imagination</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
1. The Death-Line Dweller</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
The blackish red colour forming on the white basin
immediately drew both one’s eyes. It was like a proper abstract painting. The
picture of the stomach’s secret sickness rapidly exploded in deep colour over
the white surface. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
They patrolled, blowing whistles, over the wall that was
some five feet above us. When they came near us, we stopped our work of opening
the chain and fell silent. But there was no need for such caution. Because it
simply wasn’t possible for the watchmen patrolling at that height to discern
the presence of a person submerged neck deep in water. The chains in the water
continued to make a monotonous clinking sound. Concealing himself under the
boat, he advanced and whispered something to me. There was the sound of water
lapping the boat, the continuous sound of the water, nothing that he said could
be understood. After a while, the ring holding the chain came loose in the fist
and pulled by the hidden current the boat too left the shore and floated
further and further away. Clutching the chain in my hand, I began swimming along
with the tug of the floating boat. After that both of us climbed in. The boat
then drifted away from the bank, and steadily made its way to two and a half
Gangas. Knocking on the floor-boards, two planks had to be removed, there may
be a need for something to paddle with. Not worrying about which direction we
were drifting towards, they just tried to ensure that the head of the boat was
pointed towards the opposite bank. It was as if he understood our question,
right then, as if a navigator’s skill was his birthright. It seemed the rope
laid out by him through iron ring would completely secure just this boat. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Hopeless torment and the same detached despair. The use of the word ‘guerilla’
makes a writer-worker a proletarian and definitely, substantially accomplishes
the extinction of the intellectual elite. Because he was of the view that
violence, crime and destructive activities were all, in the current world,
actually words that reinforced, peace, orderliness and normality. Slowly, like
this, he kept exposing this civilization’s pawnbroking and the accumulated
hidden games, apparently …</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
In the middle of all this talk, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
suddenly, as if materialising from thin air, a </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
teenage girl emerged. Clad in jeans and a T shirt, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
she looked like something one only saw in <i>Playboy</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. He stared </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
greedily. The country’s India, Kolkata.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Tile-roofed slum hutments made up the entire area of Atabag
Surkikal. So densely packed together that even daylight couldn’t fully enter
the neighbourhoods. Lanes after lanes, ever narrower lanes, a veritable maze of
lanes. In an eight feet by nine feet room, enclosed with bamboo matting,
fifteen women were cramped together, elderly, young and children. At night they
slept by turn. There wasn’t space for everyone to sleep simultaneously. The old
father and mother also lived in that very room, besides the two elder brothers
with their wives and children. The younger son got married and entered the 8
feet by 9 feet with his new bride. Babies were born, babies died. The children
and youth set out at down, in search of wages. Gambling, illicit liquor and
drug dens every ten minutes. They grew up in the climate of bomb and bullet
battles, abductions and counter-abductions. Video parlours in lane after lane.
Pornographic films were shown in broad daylight. Sometimes a scintillating two
to five minute clip was added to a current Hindi film. 10-12 year old boys too
went in there to appease their curiosity. Sitting beside them were people their
father’s or uncle’s age. Even before hair sprouted on their upper lip they
became aware that in this line it was very easy to earn. If a few small packets
of heroine could be delivered from the main den to the small dens, a crisp,
large-denomination note was obtained. Wearing their school uniforms, if they
went out with the pouches concealed within the pages of the school books, the
babus of the citizen’s committee could not easily suspect them. The police
wouldn’t catch them, all that was dealt with by the dealer, through monthly
payment arrangements. Lots of easy money lay ahead, as a smuggler,
heroine-peddler, supply-man or penciller. To them, all this was part of life,
no crime at all. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Two brothers, 10-11 years old – it was three at night then –
were playing teen patti under the light of the lamp-post at the head of the
alley. Yes, gambling for money. And while gambling, no one was anyone’s
brother, the one who won took all the money. Not a penny was spared because
someone was a brother. He said: Brother and sister-in-law are asleep now. When
they woke up at dawn, he and his brother would get a place to sleep. They
whiled away the night in this way, playing cards and so on. No, the police were
afraid to enter this lane, so they had no fears on that score.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Firoz did not drink alcohol. However, from morning to night </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
he kept smoking ganja. Under the banyan tree, immediately
behind the </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
workers’ quarters. He was always surrounded by the </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Class IV workers of the slaughterhouse. One of them, Chote
Lal, was Firoz’s </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
right hand man. From morning to night, there was a medium
sized jute bag </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
in Firoz’s hand. The bag was filled four times. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Chote Lal kept the accounts. He made bundles of the rupee
notes. After that </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
the money reached Maqbol Mia’s meat shop </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
outside the slaughterhouse. Everyone knew Firoz. The
operators </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
were also duly terrified of him. Someone in basti no. 292
called me to the shadows and said: Ganja Firoz is the local Sai Baba. The
unofficial agent </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
of the upper echelons. Even the babus make sure they don’t
ever mess </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
with him. We’re just supply-men! But </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
his real babu – even if you sat here and undertook penances,
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
you’d never catch him! He lives in Barrabazar. Money </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
flows by itself into his bag. Doesn’t have to ask for it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Firoz also had a side </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
business. You’d find out if you made just a few inquiries.
But </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
be very careful. I can’t tell you anything. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Where should I look? Try to find Daal Bhaat under </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
the bridge. He begs, a skinny boy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
You’ll find out from </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
him. You’ll have to spend a bit of money. Daal Bhaat </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
was found right under the Lohapul bridge. His actual name </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
was Baldy. A twelve year old boy. He spoke Bangla </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
fluently. A restless look in his eyes. One could sense </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
at first sight that he was very clever. Hey, are you Daal
Bhaat? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Cut that out … just say which one you want. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Hmm – smartass … hurry up you! But … </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
you want a shot, right? Yes. Are you new or what? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Yes brother. Oh, that’s why … There’re three types. For 55,
75 and 100 rupees. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
As you’re new, take the 55 rupee one. After buying the
stuff, looking this way and that, I gave a crisp 20 rupee note to him as </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
baksheesh. Found out a </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
lot of things. ‘Pata’ meant heroine. For the last few years,
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Firoz Sheikh had been running this business in the Tangra
area. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
The stuff came from Altaf, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
of Garden Reach. The main hub was the slaughterhouse. Other
than that, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Baldy, alias Daal Bhaat, was the medium of sale. I started
to leave. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Suddenly Baldy held my right arm firmly, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
looking helplessly at my face, he said: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Babu, promise me, you won’t tell </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
anyone else. Why, brother? That bastard, Firoz, will kill
me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
He’ll thrash me and kick me out of the locality. He’s very </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
powerful, babu. A lot of big folks come in their cars to
meet him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
He pays me 15 rupees a day. That’s what </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
my mother and I survive on. He beats up </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
my mother too. He forces himself into mother’s bed at </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
night … </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Yes, do you know, this country of ours, India, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
became independent 16 hours after the birth of Pakistan. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
It was supposed to become independent on 14th August, but </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
because the planetary configurations on that day were </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
not convenient, Indian leaders </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
decided upon independence at 12, midnight. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
I observed a lot of girls standing on the balconies of the
houses at the corners of the lanes. As we went by, a girl looked down from the
window of a house and said: Oh young babu, I say, are you new here? My husband
communicated something to her in signs, I couldn’t understand what exactly it
was. After a while, he entered a house together with me. A three-storey house.
We climbed up a narrow staircase. A medium sized room. Although it was still
afternoon, a tubelight was on, the window was shut, it was completely covered
by a curtain. A fat, matronly woman sat on the cot, chewing pan. Seeing us, she
stood up. Taking out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping the perspiration
around his neck, my husband said: Here’s Middle Aunty. And this is Reba. She
will be working here in this place of ours from now on. Chewing away on her
pan, Middle Aunty replied indifferently: Okay. After that, looking once at my
husband and then at me, she said: You sit down for a while. I’ll be back.
Middle Aunty left. Setting the fan speed to maximum, he said: You’ve legged it
such a long way ever since morning, you must be very hungry. Just wait a bit,
I’ll be back with some food. He went out of the room. Although the fan was on
full speed, I still perspired. After about five minutes, Middle Aunty entered
the room carrying a steel plate piled with food. Eat up, dear girl. After
setting down the food, Middle Aunty left the room again. To tell the truth, I
was very hungry. I hadn’t often seen so much food at once. At home, two bare
meals of dry rotis and gourd curry. I devoured all the food on the plate. There
were large sweetmeats, kachoris, chop. The size of the jalebis – pink in colour
– dripping syrup! I licked and lapped up and finished everything. We had set
out a long time ago, in the morning – travelled by train and bus – hadn’t eaten
anything really. After a while, Middle Aunty entered the room with a glass of
water. Offering me the glass, she said: Take it. After I’d drunk the water to
my satisfaction, she took the glass and plate. You rest here for a while now.
There’s work to be done. Before I could ask her anything, Middle Aunty left the
room and went away. I was all
alone in the empty room. I wondered where my husband had gone. Would I get the
job! As I was thinking about all this, suddenly Middle Aunty arrived, pulled
the door shut, latched it from outside, and left. A strange fear seized me. I
hoped I hadn’t fallen into a bad
place. I had come through so many narrow lanes, the whole place had seemed
strange to me. Thinking along these lines, I wept. Then I began to knock on the
door. Where are you – why did she shut the door – do open the door, Aunty … oh
Middle Aunty – where has he gone – open the door … I fall at your feet. I
banged at the door. Finally, using both my hands, I pushed and shook the door.
In a little while the door really opened. I saw a huge man standing in the
doorway. Bushy hair on his head. A thick moustache. Bare-bodied. His chest
covered in black hair. He wore a short dhoti, tied like a loincloth. Looking at
him, it seemed his body was made of steel. He pushed me and threw me on the
bed. Why are you shouting? From his speech, I made out he was a non-Bengali. I
began to cry, and said to him: Where is my husband? He brought me here saying
there was a job vacancy in a company. Oh yes … so what if he brought you? Why
don’t you sit quietly? I began to cry even louder, and said: Let me go! I don’t
need anybody. I’ll go by myself. The non-Bengali man laughed and said: But you
can’t go away! As soon as he said that, the man lifted me up, threw me down on
the bed, shut the door and latched it. I trembled in fear. Even my tears dried
up in the face of the fear of the worst. The non-Bengali man said: What’s your
name? I remained silent. Hey, why are you silent? Why don’t you tell me what’s
your name? Full of fear, I replied: Reba. Tsk, tsk, what a sweet name! Re-ba! I
broke into tears again and fell at his feet. Please let me go! I beg you, let
me go! The man began to laugh. He said: Let you go – oh no! This is Ali Baba’s
cave. It’s not easy to reach here. And going away is also very difficult. Once
you enter this place, you can’t leave. Do you know what the name of this place
is? I shook my head. The man said: This is Sonagachi. Where women … I mean …
Shocked, I mumbled: But my husband told me about a job in a medicine company …
As if he were robbing even my words, the man said: Yes, of course, this too is
a medicine company. The babu who gets you will come to you, and you will keep
that babu happy with medicine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
A branch of a dead tree had been planted. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
on the stony earth of a </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
hill. A sanyasi
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
came everyday and watered the base of that dead </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
branch and prayed that </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
it came back to life. After a long time, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
one day the dead tree did actually come back to life again, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
living branches covered with leaves spread out </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
towards the sky. In the beginning of his film, <i>Sacrifice</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Tarkovsky tells us this fairy tale.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
On the 26th of July, a senior officer of the Reserve Bank of
India, Mr Krishnatre, went to receive his son, at half past nine at night. He
drove his car to Howrah Station and parked his car in the parking lane between
platforms 8 and 9. Almost at once, a black Ambassador car arrived beside his
car. Just as Krishnatre and his wife and daughter got off from their car and
advanced a few steps, four youths sprang out of the Ambassador, with daggers in
their hands. After three of them pounced on the three family members, they
resisted and began shouting out. The girl was struck by the dagger of one of
them and wounded, but she hung on to the sleeve of his shirt. The wife too
frantically resisted another. So that no one from nearby came forward to help
them, the fourth person raised his revolver, threatening anyone who dared. This
incident went on for over twelve minutes. A crowd formed all around, but no one
dared to come forward to help. Despite their utmost resistance, the gang took
the mother and daughter’s valuables and left. The distance between the spot
where the incident took place and the office of the railway police was 15-20
yards. Even though there had been so much of screaming and shouting, over such
a long spell of time, no policeman came there. After the incident, Krishnatre
ran to the police and identifying himself, said: They are running away! If
they’re chased they may well be caught! The police didn’t pay any heed to that,
and after questioning them for half an hour, finally snapped out: Why do you
set out wearing so much gold and ornaments? Theft and robbery is bound to
happen. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
On Tuesday something fantastic happened on the first day of
the law examination in Calcutta University. The examination was to start at 12
noon. Around half past ten, a bunch of students, both male and female, could be
seen clambering up a drain-pipe beside Asutosh Building, making their way up to
the first floor. Climbing up to the verandah, they would make their way to and
enter the examination hall and occupy their preferred places in advance. They
would tear up the pasted seat numbers and sit wherever they wanted. Boys and
girls entering the examination hall clambering up a drain-pipe – what’s so
great about that scene – see a lot of that in films. Within a few minutes after
the exam started, the gates of Asutosh and Hardinge Buildings were closed and
locked. There was a sizeable police deployment outside each gate. But from the
direction of Medical College, from across the street, books were supplied, one
after another, via a rope line. Pedestrians stopped and stared in astonishment
at the scene. A crowd formed. Another group standing outside went about
distributing the answers to the objective questions. The police on duty, their
backs turned to the scene, were busy kneading tobacco in the palm of their hands.
A few exam candidates could be seen standing on the verandah and writing on
their answer sheets. At the meeting of the University Syndicate, one member
raised a question about the law examination. The spokesperson interrupted him
and said: The exam took place quite peacefully. There was no trouble anywhere. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
The fourteen year old boy, wearing a checked shirt, looked
quite clever and smart. It was evening and Teddy, sitting in his pad on Mirza
Ghalib Street, introduced me to him, puffing on his long, imported cigarette. I
wanted to know what he did. Without any hesitation from seeing a pyjama-punjabi
clad Bengali babu, he answered in fluent Bangla. He ran a business. However,
the business was a bit of a secret. He had with him whores of all ages and races.
Of all ages from 15 to 30. He ran the business through them. When I asked to
know what this business was like, at first he looked suspiciously at my
pyjama-punjabi. Then, finding reassurance in Teddy’s eyes, he said, twirling an
almost imaginary moustache: These aren’t ordinary streetwalkers, Sir, all are
pedigreed females. Contacts are made with babus over the phone. I supply girls
regularly to garden-houses, parties, and even in offices. Taking out a bulky
envelope from his pocket, he said: I have photos – do you want one? A
college-educated, beautiful girl? With a sexy figure – can sing Rabindar
Sangeet well. A person like you will really like her. Take her and go for a
weekend to Diamond Harbour or Digha. Go and have fun. No diseases, Sir – no AIDS.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
2. The things
that enrage me –</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
All the things that make me sick</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
22nd of November, 1988.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
In Khatra 2 Block, of Bankura district,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
In the primary health centre</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
The day Sriram Bauri’s wife’s newborn child</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Was eaten up by dogs …</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
What’s the use of such momentarily enraged writing – after
just a while</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
the anger would wane </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Put your arms on the two sides and lie down on the ground.
Yes, on the ground, because … because in this country, there is the touch of
the soil in your advance, this fact has always to be explained to the people.
Oh, how alluring the term “touch of the soil” is! From politics-wallahs to
intellect-wallahs, everyone is instantly captivated. This time you have to lie
down and walk at the same time. That means raise your arse from your hips and
as you bring it down again forcefully, keep raising it up. Ra-i-se. Observe
how, in this country, to be in front, continuously, to attain progress’ highest
peak, you can advance simply by lying down. Are you thinking of keeping your
image bright? There’s no point in thinking about that, the image shall be there
once you’ve progressed. If there remains a nagging doubt in your mind, then
just have the juice of raw turmeric everyday, regularly, and on an empty
stomach. From time to time, mix cucumber and lemon and smear it on your face
and let it dry on its own. Scrub and wash your face, first with slightly warm
water, and then with cold water. Observe how bright and radiant your darkened
face has become. Gaze at the full moon that’s risen today, it’s so large. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
From the sweepers’ colony, late this evening, the loud
screams of a pig being slaughtered float down. Surely a red hot poker was being
inserted in the pig’s anus right
now. Dinu Thakur began to clean Mother Kali’s tongue, using oil paint. Kali puja
every Saturday – and Kali Puja is our public festival … Where’ll I find the
kerrysin to light the lamp? What does the gormin provide? Utter two words and
you are labelled a naxalite. Yes, of course, it’s been a long time since man
went to the moon, and brought back moon soil. Was shown in this very Calcutta.
Yes, Mr Editor, I feel repulsed by your mention of ‘interview’, it’s like the
daily piss and shit that I don’t care a fuck about, about which bastard said
what. Basically I am not a bhadralok, and the biggest tragedy is that I have to
put on the appearance of a bhadralok all the time. To show my subjection to my
wife, I wear rings with huge gemstones on my fingers, or else there’s
disharmony in the family every day. For me, the word “India” is just another
word – actually, I have no experience of its existence – and yet one has to
express one’s belief in an undivided India – otherwise the police will catch
you, they’ll make you forget your dad’s name. And to tell the truth, you know
what – this is what’s called surviving like a fucking asshole. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
When Erendira’s grandmother is murdered, you see a green
tent floating away, green blood … </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
I pressed the face down and then I landed a kick on the
stomach. The writer person had been frightened by the sudden assault. As soon
as the kick landed he was thrown on the street. A groaning sound emanated from
his throat. The jhola-bag on his shoulder had landed a few feet away. Books and
papers scattered here and there. The pen in the pocket on his chest had also fallen
away. The way it had been ordered – running my hand under his pyjamas, I
squeezed it very hard. So hard that it burst and just after that …</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
3. Awaiting Human Relationship</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
The very complexity of relationship</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Interrupting Avinash, Abhay babu asked: Where’s the lady
now? Not there. What do you mean not there? She’s gone out, Sir. Gone out? Yes,
she told Maheswar that she was going to the riverside for a stroll. When did
she go out? Oh, that would have been at about a quarter to six or so. For that’s
when Maheswar mops the verandah. She had told him before leaving. What did the
lady look like? Oh, you could say she was quite beautiful. Slim figure. An
intelligent look in the eyes and face. What would be the lady’s age? You can’t
be sure with women – let’s say 24-25. She was wearing a brown and white,
printed, silk sari. She looked nice in that. The most exceptional thing was the
lady’s hair. Although there was a faint line of sindur in her centre parting,
the plait of her hair … I mean, reaching past the buttocks … not just long but
also so neatly tied. When she was walking away, with her back to me … Will you
stop! Don’t you have anything else to say other than describing the lady’s
body, hair and buttocks? But Sir, you told me then … Tell me what happened
after that? Oh, nothing much. In the evening I spotted Harihar babu and Titir
Devi in front of a paan shop. Harihar babu was buying a paan. After that? After
that I didn’t see anything to speak of. But at about 10 at night, Arun came and
infomed me that the gentleman was apparently sitting at home and drinking. I
told him not to talk about it. After all, anyone can drink, people do drink too
nowadays, but if they don’t engage in any drunken behaviour, there’s nothing we
can do. All these babus waste their money according to their whims and moods.
Drinking itself is a ’tatus symbol now. It’s best we don’t bother ourselves
with such trivial matters. Another thing Sir, I was absolutely right. They
didn’t create any commotion. Rather, they had Arun get them some mutton curry
at night. That’s enough, you don’t have to jabber anymore. Please send Arun. As
soon as Arun entered the room, Abhoy babu shouted at him: Hey boy, how did you
know the gentleman had shut the door and was drinking inside? You have a habit
of eavesdropping, do you? Oh no! What do you say, Sir! It was I who fetched the
soda and the potato crisps. What was the lady doing there? She was sitting on a
chair and swinging her legs. Do you know this lady, boy? She’s a frequent
visitor when boudi isn’t around. And? And what – when I bought the soda and
crisps the gentleman said, do shut the door when you go out. I don’t know
anything more than that. What did you see in the morning, boy? When Maheswar
asked me to delay fetching tea, I did not attach any significance to that. For
the babus do guzzle booze and so on at night, they sleep like buffalos till
eight or nine in the morning. And as soon as they wake up, they say, get me a
cup of strong coffee, will you. Did I ask you about all that, boy? No Sir. Then
why do you jabber such nonsense? Tell me what you saw when you went into the
flat in the morning. As soon as I opened the door, I saw that the fan and light
were on. And then my eyes fell on the bed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
As soon as their eyes met, she called the boy with a gesture
of her hand. Sarala had gone to get milk. The door was open. The boy galloped
up to the flat. What’s the matter, boudi? She stared at him fixedly. Like
Mithun, he too had a well-toned body. The boy felt shy. Boudi, were you saying
something to us? Oh … yes … I mean, would you please exchange my book from the
library? Why wouldn’t I do that? Give it to me, I’ll go and do it. Come, come
inside. She called the boy in and took him inside. She made him sit right on
the bed. Appearing to look for this and that, she asked: What’s your name? You
didn’t mind that I called you, did you? What do you say, boudi – I’m an
unemployed fellow – I while away the time chatting at the kerb of the
neighbourhood. You’ll get Siddharth whenever you call. And you’re not supposed
to come unless I call you, is it? No, I mean you are all alone the whole day,
so for me to come out of the blue … It’s because I’m all alone that you should
come. Time just doesn’t seem to pass for me. Your dada leaves early in the
morning and returns at ten at night. Besides exchanging books, you could also
surely come to chat for a while. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Tell me Ghosh babu, did you hear any altercation or fighting
or any kind of sound from the adjacent flat last night? I did hear something.
Sitting up on his chair, Ajoy babu asked: What did you hear? Quite a bit of
noise, like a scuffle. But not too loud. Despite hearing it, I didn’t pay any
heed. At that age there’s bound to be some scuffling sound when a boy and a
girl are in bed. When one’s older … What else did your mistress tell you in the
morning? She just said I’m going for a walk along the riverside. Yesterday
night your babu had a pain in the chest. He went to sleep very late. Don’t
bother him now. Give him tea at about nine. I’ll definitely be back by then.
What was your mistress wearing? Oh, a brown silk sari. Carrying anything? A
bag, I mean a ladies handbag. Okay. Do you suspect anything about the woman? No
Sir, everything seemed to be alright. As always, her hair flowed down her back.
Of course, my mistress’ hair is something to see. What else? And how women
adorn themselves. But she hadn’t put any lipistick. It’s lipstick, boy. That’s
all Sir. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
On that ill-fated night, the man returned quite late.
Handing me the tea kettle he was holding, he folded up his umbrella and put it
down. He shut the mat-door of the shop carefully, took out two cups from
inside, with handles gone, and poured tea and held the cups out towards me.
Here, sip it while it’s hot. There’s no milk, I brought liquor tea with ginger.
The wife made it, on a dung fire. There may be a slight smoky flavour. But
don’t worry about that. You’re wet, you’ll feel better. He himself sipped a cup
of tea first. Making an ‘aah’ sound, he said, the tea’s really well made.
Strong and sweet. It’s hot. Here, take it, take a sip. It won’t be nice if it’s
cold. Middle daughter came a few days ago. There was just a little bit of milk
in the morning for my grandson. I said the milk was needed for tea. The wife
said, on a cloudy night like this, it’s better to have strong liquor tea with
ginger rather than tea with milk. So as soon as I heard that it’s better I
brought the liquor tea. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Mark today’s date on the calendar. If we get married 2-3
months later, the baby will be born 2-3 months earlier. Don’t suspect me then.
I said: Yes, mistress, I’ll remember that. Wrapping a towel of mine around
herself, Titir went into the bathroom. But she didn’t latch the door. There was
the sound of the shower. Titir was humming a tune. After about half an hour or
three-quarters of an hour, she emerged. She looked like a marble sculpture. The
upper part of the impossibly fair-skinned breasts was wet. Changing into her
clothes and swathing her wet hair in the
towel, she came and sat beside me. She said: I’m terribly hungry. But I
don’t want anything hot or hard. Just a Thums Up. I was about to get up to
order that. Titir held my hand and drew me towards her. She said: Sit down. I
need to talk to you. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Boudi! Oh boudi! Subodh entered the room, panting. What
happened? You don’t love me any more like you used to. Why? What gave you that
idea? Because earlier you used to talk to me in an intimate way, but now you
don’t. Oh, is that it? But are you still a little boy like you were before?
You’ve grown so much – why, after a few days you’ll bring a colourful,
sparkling bride home! Is it appropriate to be so intimate now? It is! If you
really love me then it is appropriate to be intimate. Okay, okay, … now, tell
me, what news have you brought? There’s two things. The first is that Dung-lady
is dead. And I’m leaving, taking a train tomorrow night. Oh no! Dung-lady was
such a nice person! All day long, she wandered around gathering dung, rapt in
herself, and at night, lighting a lamp, she used to plaster dung on the wall
till 10 at night! Tell me Subodh, the day I too suddenly die, what will you do?
Yes …but only if I let you go, isn’t it? I’ll hold you so tight that … Saying
so, Subodh hugged boudi with both arms. What are you doing … crazy boy … let me
go … it’s hurting … oh yes, where are you going on the night train? To
Tatanagar, as part of the office team, to play. I’ll return after a week. What
will you bring me? A load of iron! Why’s that? What’ll I do with iron? There’s
no alternative. Nothing’s available there other than iron. Okay, I’ve got to go
now … a lot of packing to do. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Mummy … hey, mummy, see what sister’s given for Anasuya
Didi! Where, let’s see … but this is a very expensive sari! That’s what I said
too. Sister said you don’t have to worry about that … take it and go. Alright,
go, don’t be late returning. … I miss Mummy terribly today. From the day she
first learnt about their love, she explained so much. She’d say, nobody is
happy after a love marriage. All that’s a couple of days’ allure. Youthful
attraction, pure and simple. Mummy used to say clearly: After enjoying you for
a few days, that love shall not remain. What you’re now crazy about, that very
thing will in future seem to be your biggest mistake. And so it began. After
that, for several months, like a seasoned actor, I went on acting with him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Ultimately, on the pretext of having some fun, I dragged
Barun to a hotel in Sealdah. Before that, in conversation, I had tried to
explain to him that I was glad Titir had left. I reasoned that she was jealous
of this love between Barun and me. My succinct words, repeated day after day,
had such an impact on Barun that on that very night, after drinking heavily, he
couldn’t control himself any longer. With consummate acting, I revealed more
and more of the alluring feminine form to him. My skills of deception drove his
excitement higher and higher. At the man’s vital moment, drawing myself away,
when I repeatedly asked about Titir, in his intoxicated state, Barun blurted
out a lot of things to me. Emptying the last dregs of the bottle in Barun’s
glass, I carried on my consummate acting. I pretended to drink from the same
glass. Then I held out the glass to him. Barun badly wanted to have me close to
him now. I pretended to go close to him. I went into his arms. It seemed Barun
wanted just this all along. Trying to show manly recklessness with my body, he
easily lost all control. I just gnashed my teeth and waited. A man like this,
those who usually drink once in a while, for pleasure, after so much of alcohol
went into their stomach, they could not be normal at all. I knew that. I
quietly observed that gradually Barun’s limbs were turning cold. His speech
slurred. The acrid fumes of alcohol made me nauseous. Yet I waited patiently to
fulfill my objective. Within five minutes, he lay sprawled on the bed, snoring
away noisily, like an animal. The drawstring of his pyjama was completely
loose. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
I gather you have lots of questions. Take Burroughs’
writing. It’s composed of a kind of cut-up. What happens if I make that cut-up into
my kind of cut-up? Again, even if I did the cut-up following the normal process
of cut-up, where would things stand? How much of difference is there between
the two? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
No one is visible but the gate opens slowly. The inner
circle and the inner most circle. The starter’s gun explodes. In the flash of
an eye a group of three or four crossed the first hurdle. He was not among
them. He found it extremely difficult to cross each one of the hurdles. Even
before crossing the thirtieth hurdle, I saw two or three people had finished
the race.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
THE END</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 10pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">[1995]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">This is a translation of the
original Bengali story “Aarai Gonga” by Subimal Misra. The story appears in the
collection <i>Sotyo Utpadito Hoy</i>
(Truth is Manufactured), published by the author, Calcutta, 1997. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Translated by V Ramaswamy<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br /></div>
</div>ramahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07762427741454619332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4149363618306470904.post-67374403070881377612011-09-05T15:11:00.006+05:302011-10-12T13:32:10.687+05:30Vodafone Crossword Book Awards 2010<span style="font-style:italic;"></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_qhFAvGMYuxHPqg02UMtDkJRpiVsRcLpRSqGWzFO_8lFA_fFF0WWdtQkw4b2tXjwGflbmDDbmDzMxh2xKQudsNBxUdKx3xmXtVBfOt5jYSk6Su4jlmFI28AmF3dS9rtOK9obGsDyQWWkM/s1600/vcba.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 190px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_qhFAvGMYuxHPqg02UMtDkJRpiVsRcLpRSqGWzFO_8lFA_fFF0WWdtQkw4b2tXjwGflbmDDbmDzMxh2xKQudsNBxUdKx3xmXtVBfOt5jYSk6Su4jlmFI28AmF3dS9rtOK9obGsDyQWWkM/s320/vcba.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5648809874729639026" /></a><br /><br />The awards ceremony of the Vodafone Crossword Book Awards 2010 took place on 2 September, 2011, at the Tata Theatre, National Centre for Performing Arts, Mumbai.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The Golden Gandhi Statue from America</span>, by Subimal Misra, had been short-listed for the award in the Translation category.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Litanities of Dutch Battery</span>, by N.S. Madhavan (translated from Malayalam by Rajesh Rajamohan)), was selected for the award. The jury comprised of CS Lakshmi, Dilip Kumar and Sukanta Chaudhuri. <br /><br />The picture above shows the short-listed authors / translators with chief guest, Ms Mrinal Pande.<br /><br /><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/9km8SpRO6As" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>ramahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07762427741454619332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4149363618306470904.post-28026962934907471232011-07-28T15:48:00.003+05:302011-07-28T16:00:55.595+05:30Recognition"The Golden Gandhi State from America: Early Stories" by Subimal Misra was selected in the shortlist for the Vodafone Crossword Book Awards, 2010, at a function in New Delhi on 27 July 2011.<br /><br />See the shortlist <span style="font-weight:bold;"><span style="font-style:italic;"><a href="http://www.crossword.in/vodafone-books-award-html/vcba_shortlist_2010">here</a></span></span>.<br /><br />However, Subimal Misra does not believe in awards, big, small or middling!ramahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07762427741454619332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4149363618306470904.post-67251178491177714482011-03-05T12:07:00.004+05:302011-06-16T13:42:50.329+05:30Blue Phosphorus<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha7Od6NVJCqcq-nnuXqpKmBfpqQKh53IHvXanpmfwi-2qEtre8n272J8TxSy16geVihMsn7osD6pOhUAtXqjNWY_rfCvVxzkLrLHjcp3w9W6lU8WGivZ4iptzjTGnnF-1u1rA0aoD2gbHk/s1600/dot1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 260px; height: 315px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha7Od6NVJCqcq-nnuXqpKmBfpqQKh53IHvXanpmfwi-2qEtre8n272J8TxSy16geVihMsn7osD6pOhUAtXqjNWY_rfCvVxzkLrLHjcp3w9W6lU8WGivZ4iptzjTGnnF-1u1rA0aoD2gbHk/s320/dot1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5614622854510027970" /></a><br /><br />He had got used to just one table now, because he had made a workable hand and a complex muscular practice. He brought out now, from within the table itself: his personal bones, a soiled handkerchief, a full packet of cigarettes, dull creativity, a packet of Sunlight soap, a major part of Surama – which was in fact no more than 3-4 places and was something marvelous – and a book of hand-made paper, its cover torn, made an era ago, in which what-he’d-think had all been written down. <br /><br />He used heat much like blue phosphorus, like metallic indifference, which was actually a protest against personal restraint, full of pauses. If anyone asked, hey, how do you survive all by yourself, then, in reply, he’d say, ‘look at this profile, made of plaster …’; or he’d say, ‘this white colour, which is so abstruse that it can’t be held in one’s fist …’. If you were thrown into confusion by the reply, if you kept looking at his eyes, then, after a while, somewhat indifferently, he would take a huge white sheet of paper and draw a dot on it and display it and say, here’s a dot which is actually merely blue phosphorus. It was white all around it then, a condensed and formless protest. It may not be comprehensible to everyone how a dot on a sparkling sheet of paper like this became mobile, how the death-like white congealed all around it. But that did not matter a whit to him. Whether in the next 36 hours there was a possibility of thunder-showers accompanied by lightening; when the Jaynagar moa would turn stale; how far the submerged mud-flat near the mouth of the river was; whether the tigers in the zoo were suddenly becoming agitated – irrespective of all that, he’d just sit and keep shaking his legs, and go on smoking cigarettes, one after another. <br /><br />He had got used to many things now. He could stand up all by himself. He could extricate from within the deep blue colour a whole severed human leg, a brass candle-stand and, for that matter, even unmentionable human flesh. Where was that doubtable location from which the stream of heat began? Sure, he didn’t know about that. But he did know for sure that digging the earth yielded: lumps of flesh; water mixed with of lumps of flesh; stairs within water; walls within stairs; from the walls love; and from within love, lots of blue, blue fluff. He had seen that, emerging. In life or in something-like-that. <br /><br />In practical terms, could a journey that began from a dot really be a journey? Because, quite plainly, no doors anywhere could be opened. Or the speed was so great that identifying any particular trajectory of this speeding object was completely impossible. If instead of the term impossible the word meaningless was specified, then its magnitude would be quadrupled: one man = one point = blue phosphorus = movement = existence. <br /><br />This familiar hand. Or let us give it a somewhat living form: a familiar woman’s body, some three of whose parts were very earthy, which are placed one after another in uniform intervals, and a useful cavity thus made. How that would be: feeling like that. Was this useful cavity the wheel of happiness according to tantra? It could be too. But he was not at all concerned about that, or its elaboration. Because the elaboration business itself was a lot like negotiating stairs in darkness, the earth beneath which shifts according to the elaborator’s wishes. Or like, if there was a rush in the rear, clear passage being found in front. <br /><br />Without saying such improper things now, some causality-related things could be said about him. For instance - what the person who came from Bavaria said. Or, all that a future mother should do before her baby was born. And so on. And if it was possible, or worthwhile, then issues such as whether civilized man’s sexuality is systematically moving towards abnormality could also be raised, so that people at large could become interested. But he wasn’t at all concerned about that. He’d just continue sitting, half-sprawled, shaking his legs, smoking cigarettes, one after another, many, numerous, innumerable. <br /><br />And won’t he work - what’s called profession in decent language? He definitely would. It was work alright: a large sheet of paper, on which he would draw a dot, all around which white colour accumulated, death-like, which he’d then lay down, caringly, until the next morning. And in the morning of the next day, he’d find that the point had found elongation in an entire line. That blue phosphorus had become long-lived. He’d be surprised, he’d try to think, although he had been through the business of being surprised a long time ago. It was meaningless. Yet he’d think again and again about how in the space of one night the dot he’d drawn had been transformed into a line by the morrow. He’d think, not to reach any conclusion, he liked to think now and that was all. Thinking for the sake of thinking. Like a hand for the sake of a hand, a leaf for the sake of a leaf, a mole for the sake of a mole, sorrow for the sake of sorrow, the use of glycerin for the sake of the use of glycerin. Like that, thinking for the sake of thinking. People would make fun of this self-indulgent thinking. Or they’d say, oh wow, that’s great – you’ve made a regular habit of thinking. But that did not matter at all to him. He’d see, he’d see again and again, that yesterday, in the evening, he had made a dot on a huge sheet of paper, and it had grown into a line today. A line – which was actually merely an elongation of that blue phosphorus. He’d laugh a bit, he’d also feel a bit sad. Because if one tried to survive one had to laugh a little and be sad sometimes. Because that’s what survival consists of: at times, whether it was untimely or otherwise, dipping the soles of one’s feet under water. Everything like this had been written in that book with a torn cover. <br /><br />The table would steadily grow dark, the use of lumps of flesh would become difficult. Rationalistic thinking would sparkle. A slender line of cranes would fly towards the river. Swinging back to himself, he’d gather together the pieces and recognize the boundlessness – which was formless, and existed specifically because it was formless. And the lanes and alleys devoid of one’s own. There was no one anywhere. Only a dry leaf would flutter away over the entire evening. The whole earthly terrain empty. Nothing anywhere. But where was he? A dense accumulation of white, like death, in every direction, but he was there alright – because he smoked cigarettes, shook his legs, was taking in good, bad, joys and sorrows in the incredible cold. Despite everything he was there. A young boy’s lost scarf lying in the playfield. Him. What could be said with such conviction? An empty field, thrown into confusion in the middle of the night. Because the formless point on the huge white sheet of paper grows into a line, bluish phosphorus, by the end of the night. The employer of language. Does the line have an existence? Is it feminine? The desired one’s brisk dilapidation? Where was it now – that line? He looked, it was growing rapidly. Amazingly, it grew and became mobile, continuously advancing towards him. The earth’s inhuman atmosphere steadily turned beastly and advanced towards him, steadily coming closer, steadily purposeful. He heaved a sigh of relief. The still mud-flat all around, and close to the centre walked a fat ant. Imperforated air and a purple time, within whose spacious perforation fluttered a dry leaf. There, in that terrain did the line grow. The blue phosphorus spread rapidly. As it grew, it raced towards him. Kin-void crowds – inequality – sleep – dreams – liberation –contentment. And if, after a while, it, the line, which in his dreams he had made as a dot on a huge white canvas, if this became completely real, the core particle was scattered, the hot-from-fission bluish hue of if it came racing – and his hands, feet, shoulder, chest and even his lungs were all swallowed up – if it wanted to do that, then what would happen? He himself would become identified, he would be instructed that he was there. He. Isn’t it? <br /><br />He had got used to just one table now. Fixed within a dot’s confinement. Within the limits of a square outcry. Does he want the line to grow more? Grow and overwhelm him? Identify him like a suggestive set made of plywood? Like a constable standing atop a drum – the one who raises his arm and regulates the traffic?<br /><br />THE END<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style:italic;">(1977)</span> </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"> This is a translation of the original Bengali story, “Neel Phosphorus” by Subimal Misra (b. 1943). The story appears in <span style="font-style:italic;">Anti-Golpo Songroho</span> (Anti-Stories Collection), Bitorko, Calcutta, 1999. </span>ramahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07762427741454619332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4149363618306470904.post-46558636065637503712010-09-06T16:10:00.004+05:302011-05-24T12:29:51.419+05:30Subimal Misra video documentary<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2hyvBl7jVzYFSUMPjF-MQKCA3cn-kLDBX83RPjzgGwtWCqwBglUgsYWD42YUVIAUEvY9Q8U9F1Iir5CmtF4Nk6CPIW3gF15cFmNKW9dPbxXoapOeDsXs_DfcgOYADQLuos1etYZjlmh5v/s1600/UG.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2hyvBl7jVzYFSUMPjF-MQKCA3cn-kLDBX83RPjzgGwtWCqwBglUgsYWD42YUVIAUEvY9Q8U9F1Iir5CmtF4Nk6CPIW3gF15cFmNKW9dPbxXoapOeDsXs_DfcgOYADQLuos1etYZjlmh5v/s320/UG.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513753506666530018" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><span style="font-style:italic;">Subimal Misra Ebong Taar Underground / Boi-gorto</span></span> (Subimal Misra and his Underground / Book-hole)<br /><br />A video documentary <br /><br />Conceived, directed and produced by Basab Mukherjee<br /><br />Duration: 3 hours<br /><br />Only for Subimal Misra readers and enthusiasts.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">This is now available on DVD.</span><br /><br />To obtain copies, contact:<br /><br />Underground, Tel: 91-33-24017717<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Jari Bobajudhyo</span> Mob: 91-9433413980<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Bigyapon Parbon</span> Mob: 91-9874310016ramahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07762427741454619332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4149363618306470904.post-14409771235816121802010-07-21T14:23:00.018+05:302014-03-08T19:19:53.126+05:30The book is out!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizrI7SZ0CVlbwSaWRcX9pSWYaY4icVcokFRNx7b4Xvm0DDDg_EK8i_7-3Gr0pc4CptFTCVHcMs9JYO4ucyPbuCey95Kr2b_Dw2mdx7_8bmk0DoltvxS31ag0TLFNtsSse-Nhhl55p655dy/s1600/book.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizrI7SZ0CVlbwSaWRcX9pSWYaY4icVcokFRNx7b4Xvm0DDDg_EK8i_7-3Gr0pc4CptFTCVHcMs9JYO4ucyPbuCey95Kr2b_Dw2mdx7_8bmk0DoltvxS31ag0TLFNtsSse-Nhhl55p655dy/s320/book.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496277630465589410" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; height: 240px; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">The Golden Gandhi Statue from America: Early Stories</span>, by Subimal Misra, translated by V Ramaswamy, Harper Perennial, an imprint of HarperCollins <span style="font-style: italic;">Publishers</span> India, 2010. Price: Rs 199.<br />
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The collection includes fifteen stories, written by Subimal Misra during 1968-73, a turbulent period in the history of Calcutta and West Bengal.<br />
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Review in <span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://sharanyamanivannan.wordpress.com/2010/09/20/book-review-subminal-mishras-the-golden-gandhi-statue-from-america-translated-by-v-ramaswamy/">New Indian Express</a></span>, Chennai.<br />
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Review in <span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Golden-Gandhi-Statue-America/dp/8172239327">The Statesman</a></span>, Calcutta<br />
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Review in <span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.telegraphindia.com/1100806/jsp/opinion/story_12774787.jsp">The Telegraph</a></span>, Calcutta.<br />
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Review in <span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.afternoondc.in/book-review/oppressed-humanity-in-focus/article_6339">Afternoon Despatch & Courier</a></span>, Mumbai.<br />
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2nd review in <i><a href="http://www.afternoondc.in/book-review/established-anarchy/article_35092">Afternoon Despatch & Courier</a></i>.<br />
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Review in <span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.timescrest.com/culture/gallery/quick-review-3626">Times of India</a></span>.<br />
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Review in the blog<span style="font-weight: bold;"> <a href="http://jaiarjun.blogspot.com/2010/12/muscular-fish-invisible-gorillas-and.html">Jabberwock</a><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span>.<br />
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Review in the blog <span style="font-weight: bold;"><a href="http://whatarewritersreading.blogspot.com/2011/02/kenneth-slawenski.html">Writers Read</a></span>.<br />
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Review in the e-zine <span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.museindia.com/regularcontent.asp?issid=37&id=2655">Muse India</a></span>.<br />
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Review by a <a href="http://searchingmysoulon2wheels.wordpress.com/2011/08/19/subimal-misras-the-golden-gandhi-statue-from-america-early-stories-translated-by-v-ramaswamy/">blogger</a>.<br />
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Review in <i><a href="http://www.thebookreviewindia.org/articles/archives-744/2011/december/12/questioning-norms.html">The Book Review</a></i>.<br />
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Subimal Misra interview in <span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.tehelka.com/story_main46.asp?filename=Ws180910SubimalMisra.asp">Tehelka</a></span>.<br />
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<a href="http://ibnlive.in.com/blogs/arunavasinha/2740/62400/in-which-i-recklessly-predict-winners.html">Arunava Sinha's</a> comment.<br />
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My deepest thanks to everyone who made this book possible.<br />
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The book can be purchased online and from leading bookshops in the metro cities (of India).<br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">The project to translate the short fiction of Subimal Misra continues.</span></div>
ramahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07762427741454619332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4149363618306470904.post-83159640076249016872010-02-04T12:50:00.003+05:302010-02-04T13:22:54.101+05:30Kolkata Book Fair, 2010<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5BOyHnKRi3PGFWIVdEtgC7LGTE8_34EUH9sYUT1RTFvn1O1y7XsKGURFAKMoHwYf8MQVRYPwICm1bNv1-IL3GGnKr4gpPjEPYEihZYzWMlV3M6_Mr9w8xJbYiSKnsqrYRkoAmoEUVxvbe/s1600-h/sm.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5BOyHnKRi3PGFWIVdEtgC7LGTE8_34EUH9sYUT1RTFvn1O1y7XsKGURFAKMoHwYf8MQVRYPwICm1bNv1-IL3GGnKr4gpPjEPYEihZYzWMlV3M6_Mr9w8xJbYiSKnsqrYRkoAmoEUVxvbe/s320/sm.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434287134779547778" /></a><br /><br />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. <br /><br />This year, despite ill health and various other personal difficulties, Misra made it to the Fair. <br /><br />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.ramahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07762427741454619332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4149363618306470904.post-43532687028753696442007-04-14T17:01:00.000+05:302007-04-18T12:45:36.572+05:30Subimal Misra<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8eqvg93S1VDoBbqQeSjHLUVJrSiOPPBaTkmIov0QvPHN7gP6yTZbpfuWoVxOGjCPGH-KvjISQ75IDlCkrOB9gXCNNhQGIN72xcqTb-Eus3hr9Lti1SXcrUvQrj7vQz0mcoHvcqME9Wc3s/s1600-h/SM.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5053318860683254722" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8eqvg93S1VDoBbqQeSjHLUVJrSiOPPBaTkmIov0QvPHN7gP6yTZbpfuWoVxOGjCPGH-KvjISQ75IDlCkrOB9gXCNNhQGIN72xcqTb-Eus3hr9Lti1SXcrUvQrj7vQz0mcoHvcqME9Wc3s/s200/SM.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Subimal Misra was born in 1943. He has been writing since 1967. He has been described as the father of the experimental novel in Bengali and the leading anti-establishment and experimental writer in the Bengali language.<br /><br />Misra has tried to bring the style of Jean Luc Godard into Bengali literature. He has steadfastly disavowed recognition and commercial publication, writing only for non-commercial literary publications (or "little magazines") and spurned invitations from major Bengali publications.<br /><br />Subimal Misra's first collection of stories, titled <em>haran majhir bidhoba bou-er moda ba shonar gandhimurti</em>, was published in 1971. Over 20 volumes of his stories (or “anti-stories”), novellas, novels (or “anti-novels”), plays and essays have been published. Most of these have been published and distributed by the author himself, several of which are now out of print.<br /><br />Dhiman Dasgupta, a film scholar and writer, has written a treatise on the work of Misra, <em>subimal misra: patan abhyuday bandhur pontha</em> (Calcutta, 1992). <em>Aw-e-ajogor</em>, a Calcutta little magazine (edited by Biplob Nayak), and <em>Droshtobyo</em>, a Bangladeshi little magazine (edited by Kamrul Huda Pothik), have published special issues on Subimal Misra. Publishers Banishilpa have brought out a compilation of his stories. Bitorko have also published compilations of his stories and novels.<br /><br />Ankur Saha has written a good introduction to Misra in the Bengali e-zine <a href="http://www.parabaas.com/BORSHA3/LEKHA13/bNibiD13.html"><em>Parabaas</em></a>.<br /><br />Misra’s most recent book of stories and essays, <em>kika cutout</em> was published in 2006. Now a retired school-teacher, he lives in Sarkarpool, a suburb of Calcutta.ramahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07762427741454619332noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4149363618306470904.post-56603150586293622792007-04-14T16:50:00.000+05:302007-06-10T12:09:33.493+05:30Subimal Misra bibliography<strong></strong><p><br /><strong>Subimal Misra: writer, publisher, printer, goods-carrier and book-seller</strong><br /><br /><strong><em>Anti-stories </em></strong><br /><br />haran majhir bidhoba bou-er moda ba shonar gandhimurti<br />nanga haad jegey uthchhey<br />du tin-tey udom bachcha chutochuti korchhey<br />babby<br />aar pipegun eto groom hoyey jay<br />shreshto golpo<br />ei amader shiki-lebu ningrani<br />anti-golpo songroho 1<br />sotyo utpadito hoy<br />katth khay angra hagey<br />36 bochorer rograrogri: golpo, o-golpo, na-golpo, anti-golpo<br /><br /><strong><em>Anti-novels</em></strong><br /><br />tejoskriyo aborjona (novella)<br />asholey eta ramayan chamarer golpo hoyey uthtey parto<br />rong jokhon sotorkikoron-er chinho<br />kontho palok oda<br />haad-modmodi<br />anti-uponyash songroho 1<br />one pice father mother<br />chetey chushey chibiye giley<br /><br /><strong><em>Essays</em></strong><br /><br />subimal-er biruddhey subimal<br />lohar-taar bagh o dorshoker modhyey rokto bhalobashey<br />son and murderer<br />tamaker bajar bonam euclid-er chotusparsho<br /><br /><strong><em>Play</em></strong><br /><br />bhaito pathar eshtu<br /><br /><strong><em>A collection of graphical texts</em></strong><br /><br />antim boi, antim-jatra: kika cutout<br /><br /><br />Subimal Misra’s books are not available anywhere else now. Neither is the writer so concerned about making them available. If really keen, you may call at (91) (33) 24107717 , towards late evening. Note that you will have to make a lot of effort in this regard.<br /><br /><strong>For all information:</strong><br /><br />Underground<br />D1 / 22<br />Shampa Mirja Nagar Abasan - Phase 1<br />Sarkarpool<br />Kolkata 700 143<br />INDIA </p>ramahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07762427741454619332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4149363618306470904.post-27594484908741665872007-04-14T16:31:00.000+05:302007-04-17T14:01:19.276+05:30About<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5GiHqivm7Mh6icB6C8zMCULCc6CKozf3YDmgi2XTiGfPv7u73ta-tGEYaeETZ3aIW-82UZvNJegDuBamQwiDdExoifXXINSCuxb2BZwv8Pn0a5lhHUuWFAhSyK7QS_asmo8DB48ICmpwt/s1600-h/ZA.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5053288649883294610" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5GiHqivm7Mh6icB6C8zMCULCc6CKozf3YDmgi2XTiGfPv7u73ta-tGEYaeETZ3aIW-82UZvNJegDuBamQwiDdExoifXXINSCuxb2BZwv8Pn0a5lhHUuWFAhSyK7QS_asmo8DB48ICmpwt/s320/ZA.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><em>Poila Boisakh, 1414</em><br /><br />D Bandopadhyay, retired civil servant and scholar, has written in today's <em>The Statesman, </em>quoting National Sample Survey data, about intimations of Great Bengal Famine like conditions in parts of West Bengal.<br /><br />That brought to mind Zainul Abedin's sketches from the Bengal famine (1943). As well as Subimal Misra's short-story <em>haran majhir bidhoba bou-er moda ba shonar gandhi-murti, </em>written in 1969. And eventually that led to my deciding to start a blog-site to share my translations of Subimal Misra's short stories.<br /><br />I began translating Misra in late 2005. Dr Mrinal Bose, physician and writer, had pointed me towards his work. I was fortunate to get the author's blessings for my project. For a few months I was immersed in this. That was a unique experience. I hope to get a volume of my short story translations published.<br /><br />This year marks 40 years of Subimal Misra's writing. I hope I will be able to organise a quiet felicitation. Through this blog I pay tribute to this unique and valiant figure in the world of literature. <br /><br />Zainul Abedin was memorialised in Bangladesh as <em>Shilpacharya</em>, or great teacher of the arts. Subimal Misra is for me <em>Sahityacharya</em>, a great teacher of literature.ramahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07762427741454619332noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4149363618306470904.post-49994950481394175072007-04-14T16:28:00.000+05:302007-04-17T22:03:22.158+05:30Acknowledgements<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtoZhz40zAXeQgT2WBFNyH0QahsIjeSNmDOTYVoxfJl6JdTGL58Ql-P13FZ19fd4y4zga86nVRtpSTG6hnXWEoCnGnyygCaDub7ZZDkfm_HzUUlcQOnSEtdpQy75i9fCDCnAF1ncsePHMs/s1600-h/namaste.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtoZhz40zAXeQgT2WBFNyH0QahsIjeSNmDOTYVoxfJl6JdTGL58Ql-P13FZ19fd4y4zga86nVRtpSTG6hnXWEoCnGnyygCaDub7ZZDkfm_HzUUlcQOnSEtdpQy75i9fCDCnAF1ncsePHMs/s200/namaste.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5054373524262526002" /></a><br /><br />I have been extremely fortunate to benefit from the encouragement, feedback and suggestions of many people.<br /><br />Dr Mrinal Bose introduced me to the name of Subimal Misra, and also kept after me, prodding me to begin. He enthusiastically received my translations, gave me his honest comments, critique and suggestions immediately and eagerly awaited the next story.<br /><br />Subimal Misra gave me his approval and trust, without which I could not have proceeded.<br /><br />Tapas Ray, Nilanjan Bhattacharya, Dr Amit Basu, Devananda Chatterji, Abhijit Bhattacharjee, Ashoke Barman, Dr Rosinka Chaudhuri, Mark Maclean, Dr Anjan Ghosh, Aheli Chowdhury, Ravikant, Sagar Sanyal, Shuddhabrata Sengupta, Samir Bhattacharya, Ankur Saha, Sreemati Mukherjee, Lou Graziani, IK Shukla, Shiv Karan Singh, Chhanda Karlekar, Swagato Sarkar, Soumitra Das, Aparna Das, Lorena Gibson, Samir Shrivastava, Dr Ranabir Samaddar, Medha Chandra, Somnath Sen, Ram Ray, Jabali Muni, Champa Bilwakesh, Kakoli Bandyopadhyay, Rahul Banerjee, Aditya Dutta Roy, Nirupama Sekhri, Debashish Basu, Aromar Revi and Ruchir Joshi – all took the trouble to read my translations and give their comments.<br /><br />I fondly remember my recently deceased aunt Revathy Gopal, a fairy godmother if there ever was one, for her appreciative comments and suggestions.<br /><br />My other aunt, Malathy Sitaram, was also most generous with her time, encouragement and comments, as was my mother, Gomathy Venkateswar. Likewise my uncle VS Gopalakrishnan.<br /><br />Ahmad Saidullah most graciously expressed his appreciation and suggested various corrections, for which I cannot be too grateful.<br /><br />Sam North, of Hackwriters.com, who featured four of my story translations on this literary e-zine.<br /><br />Finally, Rajashi Mukherjee, my wife, whose appreciation and support was vital to the sustenance of this project.<br /><br />To all of them, I bow in humble gratitude. I apologise if I have unwittingly omitted any names.<br /><br />I remain responsible for any inadequacies in the translations.ramahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07762427741454619332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4149363618306470904.post-18927890629318833492007-04-13T13:20:00.004+05:302012-09-11T19:59:46.575+05:30Nilotpal Roy's selection<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Nilotpal Roy is a literature scholar, college lecturer and writer in Calcutta. Subimal Misra considers Nilotpal to be the foremost scholar of his writing. He has written a monograph on Subimal Misra, titled <span style="font-style: italic;">Aar Manusher Bachchara Shobai Khub Hunshiyar Thakben … Keno-na Celebrity Non Bolei Subimal Misra Jokhon Khushi Mutey Ditey Paren Aapnader Mukhey</span> (“And Beware, All Offsprings of Men … for Just Because He is Not a Celebrity Subimal Misra Can Piss on Your Face Whenever He Likes").<br />
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One story Nilotpal recommends is "Aarai Ganga" (1997, “Two and a Half Gangas”) which appears in Misra’s story collection <span style="font-style: italic;">Sotyo Utpadito Hoy</span> (”Truth is Manufactured”). He says the class dialectics aspect of Misra’s writing comes out very strongly in this story.<br />
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He ranks the story collection <span style="font-style: italic;">Dui Tin Te Udom Bachcha …</span> (1980) as the most outstanding single volume of Misra’s stories.<br />
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Nilotpal has put together a list of “stories” of Misra, arranged in a specific sequence, which, according to him, would serve to give an idea about the kind of writer Subimal Misra is. “They show experimentation in narrative technique and departure from narrative, defying all conventions. There is also a thematic variation across these stories. They carry to fullest expression the various significances or characteristic aspects of Misra’s work. These stories are also extremely challenging to trans-create in another language."<br />
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<span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The List</span></span><br />
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1. Okusthol Dodrumoy (1985, <span style="font-style: italic;">Bobby</span>)<br />
2. Goru Ek Dhoroner Chotuskon Prani (1980, <span style="font-style: italic;">Dui Tin Te Udom Bachcha …</span>)<br />
3. Utol Hawa (1980, <span style="font-style: italic;">Dui Tin Te Udom Bachcha …</span>)<br />
4. Foot Ded Ek Ek Poritokto Jaygay (1979, <span style="font-style: italic;">Dui Tin Te Udom Bachcha …</span>)<br />
5. Neel Phosphorus (1979, <span style="font-style: italic;">Dui Tin Te Udom Bachcha …</span>)<br />
6. Ekhon Ishwori Ek Matro Jibito Achen (2000, <span style="font-style: italic;">Bobby – Part 2</span>)<br />
7. Maratyok Jantu Ana Rakha (1974, <span style="font-style: italic;">Nanga Haar Jegey Uthchey</span>)<br />
8. Lotka Lotki (1985, <span style="font-style: italic;">Bobby</span>)<br />
9. Rokter Shobab (1971, <span style="font-style: italic;">Haran Majhir Bidhoba Bou-er Mora …</span>)<br />
10. Biplober Dikey Chottrish Foot (1972, <span style="font-style: italic;">Nanga Haar Jegey Uthchey</span>)<br />
11. Nirbachito Chinnhito Irshar Bharey Nirbashoney (1990, <span style="font-style: italic;">Ei Amader Shiki Lebur Ningrani</span>)<br />
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Nilotpal Roy has also prepared a list of twenty-four stories for a sequel volume to Subimal Misra’s <span style="font-style: italic;">Chhottrish Bochorer Rograragri</span> (which brings together fifty-five of Misra’s stories from across his writing life). The stories, in specific sequence, are:<br />
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From <span style="font-style: italic;">Kika Cut-out</span> -<br />
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Jol Chol Chol<br />
Bishishto Binodon<br />
Onobroto Porityyag Korar Obhigyota<br />
Kika Cut-out<br />
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From <span style="font-style: italic;">Nanga Haar Jegey Uthchey</span> -<br />
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Biplober Dikey Chottrish Foot<br />
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From <span style="font-style: italic;">Shiki Lebu</span> -<br />
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Daran, Somoresh Bosu Bhor Jubotir Chhatu Hoye<br />
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From <span style="font-style: italic;">Haran Majhi</span> -<br />
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Park Steeter Traffic Post-ey Holud Rong<br />
Shomoy Duhshomoy<br />
Rokter Shobab<br />
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From <span style="font-style: italic;">Nanga Haar Jegey Uthchhey</span> -<br />
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Nanga Haar Jegey Uthchhey<br />
Moydaney takar Gach<br />
Babumoshai Moja Korun<br />
Maratyok Jontu<br />
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From <span style="font-style: italic;">Dui Tin Te Udom Bachcha</span> –<br />
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Utol Haowa<br />
Goru Ek Dhoroner<br />
Neel Phosphorus<br />
Foot Ded Ek Ek Poritakto Jaygay<br />
Ghor Koira Jabo Bondhu<br />
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From <span style="font-style: italic;">Bobby – Part 2</span> -<br />
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Ekhon Ishwori Ek Matro Jibito Achen<br />
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From<span style="font-style: italic;"> Bobby</span> -<br />
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Plastiker Golapi Choti<br />
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From <span style="font-style: italic;">Sotyo Utpadito Hoy</span> -<br />
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Arai Ganga<br />
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From <span style="font-style: italic;">Bobby</span> –<br />
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Okusthol Dodrumoy<br />
Lotka Lotki<br />
Oitihashik Obotoron<br />
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According to Nilotpal Roy, Subimal Misra's recent text-work, <span style="font-style: italic;">Guer Pod Tin Jaygay Lagey</span>, is his magnum opus and a fitting final work, which definitely needs to be published.</div>
ramahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07762427741454619332noreply@blogger.com1