Anti-stories

Vodafone Crossword Book Awards 2010

2011-09-05T15:11:00.006+05:30

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.

The Golden Gandhi Statue from America, by Subimal Misra, had been short-listed for the award in the Translation category.

Litanities of Dutch Battery, 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.

The picture above shows the short-listed authors / translators with chief guest, Ms Mrinal Pande.

Recognition

2011-07-28T15:48:00.003+05:30

"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.

See the shortlist here.

However, Subimal Misra does not believe in awards, big, small or middling!

Radioactive Civilisation

2011-04-21T13:15:00.016+05:30

I am currently working on a 2nd volume of Subimal Misra stories, in English translation.

The first volume comprised of 15 of his early stories, written between 1968-73. My plan, as of now, is that the second volume would have 23 stories, written over the period 1972-98.

The volume would also include a section of translated excerpts of writing about Misra and his stories.

I am in close communication with Subimal Misra in this regard.

First drafts of some of the stories have been put up on this blog.

The proposed stories are listed below. I invite and welcome communication and inputs from anyone and everyone!

The working title of the volume is "Radioactive Civilisation".

From 70s:

1. Mill-er Jetty, 78
2. Goru ek dhoroner, 77
3. Tejoskriyo Aborjona, pre-80
4. Maratmok Jontu Janwar, 72
5. Fut Dedek, 78
6. Neel Phosphorus, 77
7. Biplober Dike 36 Foot, 72
8. Bhawani Dutta Lane, 75
9. Ekhon Ishwor-i Ek Matro Jibito Achhen, 75
10. Ghora je bhabe gadha hoy, 76
11. Shekodshuddu, 77
12. Oitihashik Obotoron, 74
13. Akusthol Dodrumoy, 76

From 80s:

1. Mohandas o Aenr Kata, 86
2. Guptabrindabon, 82
3. 2000 Saaler modhye shokoler jonyo shastwo, 85
4. Calcutta Dateline, 82
5. Manush Ratan (2), 87
6. Babbi, 81
7. Ei Somaj Byabostar Nikhut Chobi, 87
8. Ei Amader Shiki Lebu Ningrani, 89

From 90s:

1. Pothobashi Shishu, 98
2. Arai Gonga, 95

I also thought I might include "Sotityo Ki Rakhbe Aparna".

Subimal Misra is eager that the book comes out soon, and has asked me to be expeditious, leaving out some stories, if need be. So I thought I might exclude "Calcutta Dateline", and also "Sotityo Ki Rakhbe Aparna". He asked me to try to include "Sojney Phuler Bhalo Chochhori Hoy" and "Mati Norey".

36 Steps Towards Revolution

2011-04-17T21:00:00.003+05:30

[One]

Today morning, suddenly, at exactly nine thirty, like a fool Subhendu got shot at the kerb of the crossing. After being shot he gazed vacantly in all directions and saw there was no one anywhere. Only an out of place bullet from the pipe-gun, that shot out and got lodged inside his chest. Trying to fix the long lead-pipe with his hands, he thought, this was not supposed to happen. For some reason he didn’t fix it. Raising his arm high towards the young woman walking briskly along the pavement ahead, he called out: ‘Excuse me, I’ve been shot’. The young woman suddenly turned exasperated, she stopped. ‘What the hell are you lot - can’t you see I’m going for love?’ As she said that she stared fixedly at Subhendu’s eyes and who knows what she saw, she paused for a minute. ‘Alright, come along’. It was office time now. People were moving along very fast all around Subhendu. The wind blew on his face. In that situation, the young woman lifted up his bullet-pierced body to her chest, and without any sign of weariness, like an expert mother, crossed the road and put him down beside the lake, where the decapitated statue of a tonsured pandit stood. Just a few days ago, someone or some people broke the head of this statue in the dark dead of night. Blood gushed out then from the hole on Subhendu’s chest and wet the base of that headless statue. Subhendu was about to sink into fear. He saw rain descend, illuminating the vicinity. The rain poured down and in that rain he, wounded, the young woman, the water of the lake, and the beheaded statue clad in dhoti-chadar, Taltala-slippers on feet all got wet. It got flooded quickly. The pavement got flooded, the road and every nook and corner between the buildings. Securing her clothes around herself, the young woman just about managed to protect the modesty of all her parts. The wind blew, a cold wind. Subhendu shivered, and forgot about his bullet-ridden chest and saw the floodwater rising all around him. In front of his very eyes the statue of the headless pandit was going under. He made to scream to warn the girl, but she was busy protecting her life and dignity from the lashing rain. She didn’t hear him. He lay there, bullet-pierced. After a while Subhendu saw the headless statue getting submerged under the water. It all happened so easily and so quickly. Subhendu’s mental condition was such as to make him cry. He saw a boy, naked, float a paper boat on the water. Pushed by the wind, the boat floated over the headless statue. It seemed no one knew, except for Subhendu, that the tonsured pandit’s headless statue had been submerged in the floodwater, and that the paper boat set down by the little boy had just floated over it. The girl was then still managing her clothes. The whole of Calcutta got soaked in the rain.

[Two]

After a while Subhendu saw he was being carried on a stretcher in front of the emergency block of a hospital towards the corridor going inside. A crowd had gathered in the lawn to see him. The stretcher was taken into a lift, he was brought to the first floor. When he was taken off the stretcher and laid on a bed, he reckoned he was going to be operated upon. Consequently, he prepared himself accordingly. He wanted to turn his neck this way and that way to see if there was anyone nearby. But as soon as he moved his head a little, a nurse appeared and scolded him: ‘What’s that - you mustn’t move, just lie still!’ Subhendu was not used to being scolded. He thought once about protesting in some fashion, but for some reason he did not say anything. All he wanted was to know whether that girl from this morning was anywhere nearby. But he couldn’t turn his head. Subhendu lay silently. He thought as he lay. They were doing all this only for his good. If these people did dig out the bullet that got lodged in the corner of the left side of his chest today morning at half past nine - that was only good for him. He patted his chest and could hear the bullet rattling inside. He kept his left hand over the spot. That would be convenient, he could show it for the operation. The light in front of his eyes kept getting brighter. It became dazzlingly bright, and then it exploded right under his nose. For a long while a fly buzzed in that bright light. All around him he could hear the shuffle of people moving about. The cling-clang of knives and scissors. A gloved hand emerged over his chest. A body covered in white cloth bent down towards him. Subhendu lay still, as if under a spell. The whole place was enveloped in white light. He felt it must be like that even inside his chest. Within that whiteness a dot-like black fly buzzed and hovered, buzz-buzz. Why was there a black fly like this in all this white light here? Subhendu tried to think about that. But he didn’t get much of an opportunity to think. He saw a headless person clad in dhoti-chadar, his hands covered in gloves, about to cut open his chest with a surgical knife. Subhendu began to think that he knew this headless trunk, but he couldn’t exactly recall where he had seen him. The person wore a very ordinary white khaddar dhoti which didn’t extend below his knees, a chadar wrapped around his bare chest. The Taltala-slippers on his feet looked extremely familiar to him. But there was no head. It wasn’t easy to recognize a man when the head was absent. He began to think - about where he had seen him, and how. The man did not hesitate at all. He extended his gloved hand towards Subhendu. ‘Where’s your bullet-hole, Subhendu Mohan?’ At first Subhendu was assailed by doubts, thereafter, raising his hand, he showed the left side of his chest. The man examined the spot a bit with his hand, he knocked at it with his finger a couple of times, and then he said with a grave voice: ‘Very bad place - hope we don’t have to cut out and remove the heart itself.’ At the mention of the word ‘heart’ Subhendu’s chest shuddered. Once that was gone what would remain, he wondered, his face turned pale. ‘Can’t you retain it and do something?’ In response, the man smiled a bit, ‘Why do you worry so much, young man!’ He knocked the reverse side of the knife over his chest. Subhendu saw that there was nothing to be gained from objecting now. Not having any option, he lay with his limbs sprawled, and right in front of his eyes, that dhoti-chadar clad, short, headless trunk pulled out his heart, the lodged bullet included, and began dangling it beneath the tip of his nose. Subhendu lay as if under a spell. He was so scared that he could hardly breathe. Could a man survive once his heart was excluded? As he thought about that he was astonished: he was clearly alive wasn’t he? It was under his nose that the heart dangled, a blackish-red lump of flesh. Subhendu had to concede that the man was indeed heroic.

[Three]

When Subhendu was discharged from the hospital, his heart, packed in a paper box, was given over to him. Stepping outside, he saw the evening’s wan light everywhere, and under that stood the girl. She stepped forward with a smiling face. ‘My God, was I scared!’ After that, pointing at the paper box she asked: ‘What’s that?’ Like someone who has suffered a great loss, Subhendu said, his face blood-drained: ‘My heart. They operated on me and removed it.’ Hearing this, the girl laughed heartily. ‘That’s really hilarious!’ Subhendu did not laugh. He just kept staring at the girl’s face. What was he to do with the box now! The girl said: ‘Come, let’s go and sit in a bar. I like you a lot.’ ‘But that lover of yours …’, Subhendu muttered dejectedly. The girl laughed. ‘Oh, he was my lover at half past nine this morning, it’s been six and a half hours since then. Now it’s you who are my lover.’ After saying such things the girl took Subhendu’s hand. But despite the brilliant evening atmosphere, Subhendu did not feel any enthusiasm to hold the hand of this pretty woman with sticking-out breasts. He felt terribly confused. He just could not figure out what to do with this paper box in his hands. Looking at his face, the girl perhaps read his thoughts. ‘Thinking about the box are you? Throw it away on the street!’ Subhendu felt an ache somewhere. ‘My heart, my own … how can I throw it away just like that?’ ‘You are a complete idiot - you get nothing from hearts and such like nowadays. No one bothers about all that!’ As she said that, the girl dipped her hand inside her hand-bag. She took out a brownish thing wrapped in cellophane paper and dangled it in front of his eyes. ‘Here, see my heart. I had an operation and took it out. I put it on again every now and then, as and when necessary. But nowadays, I don’t really need to have it on. Nor do I think I’d ever need it in future!’ Subhendu saw how the girl held her own heart in her hand, pressed between two fingers, and dangled it like a pendulum to show it to him. Perhaps he too should do the same. But Subhendu just couldn’t find the courage for that. As if to console him, the girl said; ‘In the beginning it feels a bit strange. After that everything will be fine, just you watch.’ Seeing Subhendu still looking unmoved, she said: ‘It’s alright, you needn’t throw it away, put it under your arm and come along.’ Saying so, she pulled him by the hand. Subhendu saw that he couldn’t avoid going. This girl, who had an operation and had her heart removed, wrapped it in cellophane paper and kept it in her hand-bag, and used it from time to time when necessary - she was pulling him, was pinching his cheeks. Consequently, he just had to go. Subhendu began walking along with the girl. The paper box held under his arm. With his heart inside. For a moment he thought, what’s the point in keeping this, it’s best to throw it away. Then he thought, let it be - once it’s thrown away one couldn’t get it back. Walking along together they arrived at a bar. A dim blue light burned in the room, waiters wearing white uniforms and white caps hovered around, there were lots of men and women seated, with food and drink spread out in front of them. In the rear, music played to a rapid beat now. A girl wearing a satin brassiere swayed her hips and danced away to the beat of the music. The girl pointed him in that direction. ‘How do you like it?’ Subhendu saw the satin-veiled buttocks and the flesh of the ample breasts of the dancing girl swaying animatedly. It was as if the bright red colour of her lips would leap out and spread all over the room. He slowly put the paper box down on the table and took a deep breath. No one understood his grief. He was about to pat the box out of emotional warmth when the girl pushed his shoulder. ‘What happened? Why are you sitting like an asshole?’ Turning his face, Subhendu looked at his companion’s breasts and saw her cleavage spilling out from the junction between her blouse and sari. As he sipped from his glass, he forgot about all that had happened and took everything in. As he looked, that old sphere of light returned. That zone of white light dazzled the eyes, and a dot-like black fly hovered around within that. Subhendu tried to think. Why was there a black fly here in the dazzling white light? But he couldn’t figure it out. He saw: under the terrific rain, a statue of a dhoti-clad pandit, erected in front of a huge house, it was sinking. It was submerged right in front of his eyes. Little boys floated a paper boat, the boat floated away rapidly over the statue’s head. Subhendu wanted to cry now. But he didn’t, thinking that it would not be proper to cry as he was with the girl. His whole body was perspiring profusely now. He wanted to run away from that atmosphere. He wanted to run away and go somewhere and be able to heave a sigh of relief. He stood up to run away, box in hand. The girl pulled him and sat him down again. ‘Where do you think you are going, leaving me behind?’ Subhendu had no option but to sit down and keep looking at the wall with pictures of nude nymphs in blue light. The musical instruments kept playing to a fast beat, the swaying hips of the girl wearing a satin panty became ever more animated. Lacking recourse, Subhendu said plaintively: ‘I must go.’ The girl then stared at his face. ‘Fine, let’s go. Settle the bill.’ Subhendu suddenly came to his senses. He realized he had nothing more than some loose change in his pocket. When he looked at the girl’s face and tried to explain his pathetic situation, the girl retorted in anger: ‘If you didn’t have money why didn’t you say so earlier? Do you think you can make love for free in this market? Pawn you watch or something, or whatever, just do something!’ Subhendu couldn’t figure out what he’d do. The girl suddenly stood up and removed the watch from his wrist. She began pulling at his shirt. In front of Subhendu’s eyes, the sphere of white light exploded in a thousand streams and the black dot-like fly wandered around inside that. He stepped out of the bar - he was bare-bodied, no watch on his wrist. Subhendu began walking slowly, the paper box pressed on his side, under his arm. He didn’t have the slightest inclination to turn around and look. Evening had descended on the city. There were crowds of people in every direction. And among all of them, Subhendu alone, like a lost soul, started walking with his own heart tucked under his arm. So he was all alone in this world - there was no one anywhere near him. All around him were people, shops and establishments, light and darkness. People streamed out of the cinema hall after a show. Yet he was alone, impossibly alone. He walked along like this, and as he walked after some time he had left everything behind. On the wall on the right he read, ‘Power flows out of the barrel of a gun’. On the wall on the left he read, ‘Motherfucking masses, so many revolutionary opportunities yet you didn’t revolt - get rammed by the police now, bastards!’ He heard Rabindrasangeet playing from a paan-shop. A grey coloured tram passed by and on it was written in yellow letters: ‘Destruction is senseless - disavow violence’. He read ‘Baba Naam Kevalam’ written in letters of tar on the house in front, and right above that, the faded broken lines of the stenciled sketch of the Chairman. If it had been another day, he’d have stopped, he’d have thought about it. But today he just did not have the inclination. Walking on and on in a world full of people, walking under the light, he reached the huge house and the bank of the lake. There were comparatively few people here. No dazzle of neon lights here. Although it was night, a few people were bathing in the water. On an enclosed podium sat an enlightened elder with a shaven head, holding forth on The Mahabharata. Around him were a few elderly men and women. A man lay stretched out on a bench in one corner. A youth in blue trousers stood in the concealment of bushes, pissing gushingly. Two boys passed by, whistling at a girl in a frock. Raising his head up, he saw the huge university building standing high across the road. A tram trundled along the road making a clanging noise. As he gazed on all this, Subhendu’s eyes fell upon the statue, like an image of a poor man amidst all the immense wealth - it stood facing the huge building, abandoned amid a dense thicket. Earlier crows shat on his tonsured head, recently the head had been broken. As soon as he saw the image it occurred to him that it was this man who had operated on him in the hospital and removed his heart. He recalled he had been laid down under this statue after he was wounded in the morning. In amazement and disbelief Subhendu began wondering why he had not been able to recognize him earlier. His eyes almost popped out. The sphere of white light was breaking up in front of his eyes. The black dot of a fly was hovering around inside that sphere. Just a tiny black spot on an immense white canvas. Subhendu couldn’t remain standing anymore. All his emotions leaped out from inside him. Bending down, he saw the statue had been submerged in the floodwater after the morning’s rain. After some time the water had receded and the headless body had re-emerged. Peering down, Subhendu could see beneath it even now the stain of the dried-up blood from his pierced chest. He couldn’t remain standing anymore. Trembling with emotion, he put the paper box down under the statue. He just wanted to run for his life and escape from that obscene place to save himself.

THE END

(August 1972)

This is a translation of the original Bengali story, “Biplober Dike 36 Foot" by Subimal Misra (b. 1943). The story appears in Anti-Golpo Songroho (Anti-Stories Collection), Bitorko, Calcutta, 1999.

Blue Phosphorus

2011-03-05T12:07:00.004+05:30

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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?

THE END

(1977)

This is a translation of the original Bengali story, “Neel Phosphorus” by Subimal Misra (b. 1943). The story appears in Anti-Golpo Songroho (Anti-Stories Collection), Bitorko, Calcutta, 1999.

Radioactive Waste

2011-02-01T16:20:00.008+05:30

A novella

Q: Who offered the bride? And who was it that accepted her?

A: Kama, the God of Love, offered her, and Kama accepted her.
Kama is the provider, and Kama the receiver. Oh Kama, this
commodity (daughter) is yours alone.

“The Royal Compendium”, from the Vedas, 7 / 48 (Hymn to Kama).

Thirty year old Sushma, all of sixty three kgs, was showing off her body in an extremely intimate way to Ajoy, and at that moment, his father’s long-bearded picture hung in Ajoy’s room, it was afternoon, the sun’s full blast outside, unwavering, and from the flat next door, music from a transistor radio floated in: oh mind, what’s with you, oh love. There was no discernable mark on the bright-red silk petticoat and if one wanted to go to the bathroom one had to cross about two and a half arm-lengths of light and that territory was apparently unpleasant for them. Pity, for how long the preparation had been – Ajoy’s house had to be empty (that is to say his brother and sister-in-law’s Sunday afternoon cinema, and the servant boy to be sent off somewhere on some cock-and-bull pretext), Sushma too had to have the day off, Ajoy ought not to have any work in the afternoon, and longing for this secret encounter for days and nights on end, wondering when it would materialize. But in fact that encounter didn’t happen, Sushma had made herself up heavily, put on a lot of perfume, Ajoy was finding it difficult to breathe, because Sushma was thirty years old, because there was nothing else really remaining, because I came to your garden to pluck flowers – despite the urge to break out singing the stanza from the national song, it had to be suppressed. Perhaps the candle was alight, a soft piece of light at the head of its long flame, Sushma made praising motions with her hand, although she lay flat like a gluttonous beast, more fair-skinned than the candle, if one rubbed a finger rapidly on her flesh, in jest, one soon discerned the smell of gunpowder emanating from there. Like a heavily pregnant woman, Sushma, all of sixty three kgs, was having difficulty breathing, there was a faint moustache beneath her nose, her tummy, a waxing moon bereft of a current stream to glide along, entrusted by custom. Which was why Ajoy had frowned upon the nectar and walked towards the bathroom doing his pajama tape, however, turning back, he lit a cigarette. And there was Sushma, and her candle, crossing its despised little area of light, he heard the sound of country bombs exploding outside, the old problem had cropped up again in the neighbourhood.

xxxxxxx

There is a fantastic story about the ascent of man from demon in Ethiopian folk-lore. On the bank of the river Meng there lived an ogre called Chiang, his lips, like a hunter-bird’s, were very long and beak-like, his body was covered with porcupine-like spines, there were two immense wings on his back, although the lower part of his body was like that of a man. The ogre Chiang was king of all the creatures on the river-side, and one day he saw that the waters of the Meng river were in swollen turmoil, he saw another huge ogre, his face horse-like, big scales on his body, with four, long, thin, legs, carrying a mouthful of water in his massive, cavern-like mouth, but again, spilling it all over, and on the southern bank of the river, standing on top of the hill was a ravishingly beautiful girl, her lovely form like moonlight springing out from behind clouds. Seeing the girl, in a moment Chiang forgot all about the earthly world, he ran to receive that beauty, his arms outstretched. But as soon as he neared, the ravishing beauty vanished with a soft smile, and then, in despair and rage, in a trembling fury, Chiang leapt upon the horse-faced ogre, he tore and bit him to shreds. After he had killed the ogre, he heard a divine voice from the sky: you shall cross the threshold to become a man from demon; you shall drive away wild animals from around your habitation; you shall abandon stone, and make weapons of iron. Until that moment, Chiang did not know he was an ogre, what it was like to be man was also outside his reckoning. At the outset he thought about getting married, he thought he could learn all about what being human was like through this custom.

xxxxxxx

After making themselves respectable-like, Sushma and Ajoy now chatted, they drank tea, as if nothing had happened, as if an emergency situation had not taken place a little while ago. Sushma now spoke about her life as a nurse. She spoke about the likelihood of becoming a matron at the hospital, every now and then she broke out in laughter and Ajoy dozed to the sound of her laughter. The calamity of a little while ago had passed to a great extent. Once again, there was the sound of bomb explosions outside, a few screams. Ajoy went to the window, a boy slipped into the adjacent lane, a gleaming knife in his hand. The sun blazed down on the street, some boys stood, very suspicious looking, in front of the house on the opposite side of the street, the neighbourhood was completely still. Ajoy shut the window as if no further disturbance from outside could touch them, and as he was about to get up to light a cigarette, there was another explosion and their windows shook and rattled to the sound. Not lighting the cigarette, Ajoy looked at his father’s picture on the wall, saw Sushma’s face, pale, great anxiety there, meaning, Sushma had to leave because it was time for brother and sister-in-law to return, but there was no way of stepping outside now. Stuck in the room, they became increasingly worried on account of some more scattered screams and bomb sounds, there was the sound of a police van passing by. As if in a bid to secure their very existence, they carried on a few words of conversation, those heaving moments of an hour ago were scattered like broken glass across the room, and as the man, Ajoy, went to clasp its last fragment in the fist of his hand, he saw blood pouring out of his hand. Standing there in the room, he licked his saliva on the cut, brother and sister-in law would be back at any moment now, yet Sushma, that big, fat girl, had not left, she felt ashamed to step outside now – to describe the matter, everything was stuck, Ajoy stood in front of his father’s picture gnashing his teeth. His father’s picture in front of him, the boy pulled his hair out in exasperation with his two hands, if only he could really tear out the coiffeured head, even a cockroach’s life is better than this, even an earthworm’s, a house-lizard’s. Fuck, how could one live like this, with the man-eating tiger intact inside one’s chest! Could one?

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Zoologists hold that procreation is the first and foremost characteristic of animals. Animal bodies come to an end with death. But by giving birth to a new life, animals keep alive the procreation process. In this way, a life creates a new life, and the development of a new generation from the older one is called reproduction. There are a few necessary organs and parts in the body for the purpose of reproduction, and through their union was reproductive behaviour established. The reproductive behaviour of all animals is not the same. Sushma’s man, Ajoy, had spoken about cockroaches. About earthworms. Let’s consider the earthworm itself. The earthworm’s reproductive organs are very strange. There’s no male-female division among them, the earthworms that are male are also female, that is to say that in a single earthworm’s body there are both the male and the female categories of reproductive organs. But an earthworm’s eggs do not get fertilized with its own sperm. During union, an earthworm lowers its head beside another earthworm and raises its rear end towards the other, and they conjoin length-wise. In this way, sperm from the first earthworm’s reproductive cavity enters the sperm sac of the second earthworm. Sperm thus accumulates in the sperm sac and despite possessing both sexes, earthworms fertilize their eggs not with their own sperm but with a second earthworm’s sperm, and this is the way their procreation activity takes place.

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As Ajoy and Sushma walked along, they found a place where there was tree-shade. It was mid-day in the Maidan now, not a soul around them, they were like ponds turned dry under summer sun, and in nearby Chowringhee, they noticed a sixteen-storey building that had come up. Being in high spirits, and as there was nobody around them, Ajoy refrained from saying “Sushma-di” and called her by her name instead. Sushma coquettishly said she’d sit on the grass and sat down near Ajoy’s lap, lit Ajoy’s cigarette for him, and played awhile with Ajoy’s hand and his fingers. We could have gone to the cinema at this time, etcetera, sundry talk like that and a few bits of cigarette-ends scattered there. Time arrested, and there, very soon, the woman called Sushma told the boy called Ajoy about searching for a job, she could then be independent, they could take a separate flat and be independent of brother and sister-in-law. The boy understood what she was trying to get at, it made him feel sick, but there was a hint of the fragrance from a mahua-grove and it was very difficult to overcome such intoxications. A car suddenly braked with a loud screech in nearby Chowringhee, a few people ran in that direction, Ajoy thought here’s another accident that has happened on earth at this moment, and reflection along these lines was probably becoming dull because at this moment, somewhere or the other, more accidents were taking place and there were too many people on earth, just too many - as he reflected in this vein, he narrated the thought to Sushma. We shall stay away from all these hassles: the boy lapped up this proposal by the girl and in that sun-bedecked Maidan, he arranged brick upon brick of the four walls of their own around them. They laid the walls, became more and more distanced from Chowringhee, from the accident that had just taken place, and eventually even from the sun. No one can see us now, we can do as we please within these four brick walls, that talk, very immature talk, they talked about that, and said whether it rained outside or was sunny, whether there was an accident or whether things in general were moving along very sedately, all this did not matter a whit to them. The two of them, in that brick cage, considered themselves to be perfectly safe in that blazing Maidan and so sought to spend their time to their hearts’ delight, and exactly at that moment the bomb that dropped on Phnom Penh wobbled the brick cage erected by them, and for the first time they wondered: is it really possible to be completely free of any distress, like this, all by oneself, solitary?

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In 1969, Katasuichi Honda, from Japan, went to Vietnam accompanied by a photographer. On his return, he narrated his experience in writing and together with accompanying pictures, his war-commentary appeared in the April-June issue of the Japan Quarterly magazine in 1969. He had seen the kind of warfare going on in village after village. He saw how an American soldier removed the ear-rings from a dead woman guerilla, he saw how under the scorching sun of a summer noon, American soldiers used a cigarette lighter to set alight the thatch-roofed huts of the harmless Vietnamese and then had themselves a merry hoola-hooping, dancing party around the sacrificial bonfire. He had seen an American soldier cut off the ear of a dead Vietnamese fighter and stuff it inside a plastic bag, and in that context he had asked someone else, what will the soldier do with the ear? The answer, just keep it as part of a collection, what else! And he added after that: he will dry it out first, and then take it back home as a valuable collector’s item. That’s nothing great. I once saw the liver being removed from the dead body of a Vietnamese guerilla. An American soldier who returned from active duty in Vietnam exposed another incident. The story first appeared in an American regional newspaper. At dawn on the 16th of March, in 1968, in the north-eastern region of South Vietnam, a group of American soldiers raided the village of Song-Mai, rounded up all the villagers, men, women, children and old people, and stood them all in a particular place and shot and killed them. According to the report, the number of those killed was anything between 109 and 567.

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As they walked along, they suddenly halted, began thinking, and then thought about what could be thought about. There’s a cow sitting on the street, one could think about that, one could think about the mist around a lamp post somewhere, or they could think about how Sushma, this fat, old Sushma, would look when she became a matron. The wide asphalted road stretched on two sides, all along the roads were the people, lights and frolic in their usual arrangement. One could pick it up and bite into and suck or lick and taste it as and when needed. After a while the boy wanted to buy a balloon, the girl flowers. They did not know what the difference between a balloon and flowers was, and how much, and hence they argued animatedly for a while. They bought neither flowers nor a balloon. Evening descended around them, a procession of a hundred odd people, their arms were powerful, their fists clenched tight, they walked along under the lights of Chowringhee. He began thinking he too could be one of them, in that procession, and felt the stubble of a few days sprouted on his face, this stubble, this rough stubble, how Sushma loved to run her cheek over it. Sushma came out of an absent-minded daze and looked to see a man, just a few feet away from them, staring at her, and as soon as she became aware, he passed her by, grazing her right breast. Sushma couldn’t say anything despite wanting to react, the times were very bad now, the chap could be a petty goonda, how long would it take to whip out a knife. Had bought a string of bel flowers, threw it away on the road. Blood splashed from Vietnam from Calcutta, it touched the boy and the girl, they went to wipe it away with a kerchief, but didn’t, because blood stains are not easy to remove, they accumulate, like a debt, for a long time. A sad-looking beggar girl wearing a dirty frock, her hair in knots, eagerly picked up the flower garland and smelt the fragrance. Beggars sometimes love flowers. Why can’t we admit it clearly, the boy began to think about it but then he saw a sign in the barren field, do not pluck flowers and destroy the beauty of the garden. The girl, whose name for the time being is Sushma, began thinking absent-mindedly about a line from a text-book read long ago, shame is a woman’s ornament, and then realized she was climbing stairs and heading somewhere. Worrying about not wanting to go alone, and so on, she made an act of clasping his neck with her hands and saw that Ajoy’s head, down to his neck, came away in her hand. Ajoy said in affected rage, ‘you ogress, you want to chew my head off’, and as he said that he saw the kohl on the girl’s eyes, and also various other things under the kohl, and bursting with desire to tell her all this, began planting kisses on her cheeks. At that moment, some spiders trapped prey in the waning moonlight and old man moon floated along on flood waters.

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Animals, humans and gods can all be brought under control through mantra. The root of the word mantra is mana, or mind. That root denotes thought. Another connotation of the root mana is protection of the seeker from all the hindrances and obstacles that may be encountered on the path to realize this secret power. Using the power of the great tantrik mantra, the ancient dwellers of Kamakhya, in Kamrup, Assam, demonstrated extraordinary magical and god-like acts. When a man could not be brought under their control merely through their affected behaviour, they took control of him through their powers of mantra. If a man had to be brought under control, a specific mantra was chanted and a flower was endowed with the mantra power and if this was cast on the man, without his knowledge, it brought success. Om Kali, Mahakali, sacred offerings of alcohol and meat, invoking Brahma the Creator, and with unwavering faith in the guru’s powers – as the mantra was recited and the flower was cast, the boy standing on the verandah was transformed into a he-goat.

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The he-goat was tethered in the verandah, it chewed grass and bleated, baenh-baenh. Sushma caressed it everyday, at night she stroked its neck: oh dear goat, do stay with me all my life. As girls of her age walked along the street, spitting paan juice, seeing the he-goat they said, what a wonderful goat Sushma-di has. Sushma flashes smiles, but sometimes she displays great gravity. One day, as the goat was tethered in the verandah, it saw a large procession of people advancing, chanting slogans. There had been procession after procession since morning, and slogans upon slogans, as if there was a festival on in the city. The goat’s mind was on edge, if he was released he too could march along with them, he’d shout out the slogans: this battle is for survival, this battle must be won. But who would release him, Sushma had become a matron, she watched over him with a serious face; people became more militant by the day, movements advanced rapidly, the fat matron saw all this, but yet did not notice anything. The furore everywhere increased by the day, the he-goat became restless, surely the great uprising had commenced, he must go. Sushma watched, she said: oh cut out this act; she said, isn’t there a term, goat-brained – he-goat goes to see the colourful dinner party / and Ram, Shyam, Jodu, Modu catch and eat him, nasty. He didn’t even know what an uprising meant. However complicated the social system was, howsoever well-organised state power was, and however perfect the military weapons, it was even more unpardonable to mouth slogans like this without proper thought. After finishing her speech, Sushma went away, her hips swaying, but before leaving she kissed him. What would the he-goat do now, tethered for long, he began to chew grass, he watched the people on the street, but not for once did the idea of tearing the rope and escaping enter his mind. And as he stood for long in that way, he saw a group of people, very agitated, and as they marched, chanting slogans, they inadvertently dropped a red flag, he picked up the flag with his mouth and began to chew it. But much as he tried to chew it, his mouth only filled with blood and that blood trickled and flowed for two miles. The he-goat then stopped chewing, and in amazement, began to wonder where so much blood came from, where?

Sir HH Johnson had written in his book, British Central Africa, that the people of central Africa rarely make any obscene gestures consciously, or indulge in any licentiousness. He had spent seven years in this land of naked people but he never once encountered any man or woman who made any kind of obscene bodily gestures. Their folk dances would clearly be viewed as indecent in modern, civilized society, but if one saw it from the perspective of its significance, then they could almost be placed at the level of sacred ceremonies. The single indigenous folk dance of central Africa was initially an expression of sexual activity, but thereafter it was changed and transformed into a rite that could not be understood unless the local folk explained it. But it can be said with certainty that in comparison with Europeans, the race of people in central Africa were far more modest and shy, and far more liberated from natural sin. Except for the children of kings, no pre-pubescent boy or girl used any kind of clothing. The Wankonda males wore a kind of short, brass skirt tied at their belly – that was their only garment. The women of this race were almost entirely naked, and wore only a small piece of bead-work like a loin-cloth. The Angoni males wore a penis sheath made of wood or dry, fruit skins. A traveller who had spent a long time in the Ejimba region of central Africa, said from his experience that although the people of this region appear to the civilized world to be naked and indecent in their behaviour, in matters of sex they possessed propriety and conformed to codes of conduct. He has given a description of the investiture ceremony for boys and girls that is organized at the onset of their youth. There was song and dance and festivity and frolic for several days, through which all the deep secrets of marriage were conferred upon the girl. The whole thing took place according to specific rituals and in the public ceremonies nothing whatsoever was hidden, nor was anything seen as being shameful. The writer believes that this was why the women-folk of this race are extremely wise. What needs to be known is known to them from the beginning and they find no reason to conceal natural laws and experiences. In this context, one may refer to a traveler in Congo. He had asked a village chief about female nudity and got the answer that could possibly be the last word on this matter: actually the tendency to hide and conceal is what feeds curiosity.

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Madame de Barney, mother of nine, forty five years old, bent down to feed some grass to the he-goat, and as she stared fixedly at him, she asked –
What’s your name?
Balzac.
How old are you, sonny?
Oh, about twenty three or twenty four.
What do you see?
A forty year old woman was so forthcoming, but the young woman of twenty gave nothing.
The he-goat boy thought about a lot of strange things, and as he was lost in thought, Sushma, well-advanced in age, gives him some more grass, in a flash she became a little girl, who raced up a flight of stairs, and heard: girls really become girls for the first time when they are about thirty five. After that she reached the top. Yet the boy asked, have we actually reached the top, he still had doubts in his mind. If we’ve actually reached then why do we keep circling around the same lamp post all the time? Whenever he looked, no matter in which direction he looked, there was the same kind of mist before them, the same kind of darkness, around the same kind of lamp post. Beneath them, a great distance below, if one looked one could see the river, the sound of a boat lapped by water, the crematorium, chanting of the Lord’s name, a bier, bereaved people weeping, and the sound of a motor launch somewhere nearby, where exactly the motor launches came from, or where they were going to, wasn’t known. Or he saw the over-bridge at the station, even on the stairs there were numerous tired faces sleeping, the desolate, flood-lit rail tracks at one in the night. Tired, downcast, they lifted up their heads to see the same mist, the same lamp post and the same darkness. We kept circling the same lamp post all the time. All day, all night. They were unable to get away from the lamp post, couldn’t get near it either. As they circled the lamp post, they became tired and downcast. It’s been so long since we went somewhere, we don’t think differently – they talked, the lamp post, the mist and the darkness had become akin to death for them. Had they really raced up the stairs one day to go somewhere? They couldn’t say for sure. If they looked down, could they see the river, the crematorium, the motor launches on the river, or the heap of faces of tired people on the steps of the over-bridge, and the brightly lit rail tracks below? Maybe they could see, maybe they couldn’t, they couldn’t say for sure. Why are we unable to say the real thing to everyone, we feel ashamed, and yet, everyday, so many people come out on the streets in protest. They talked some more, as they climbed up the stairs they saw how worn out it was, it made them sleepy. The stairs could have crumbled at any moment – that’s what they thought. We did not do anything unjust or commit any act of infidelity, so why would we thump our chests about this lamp post, this mist and this darkness? They, Ajoy and Sushma, thought about all this, they kept thinking, and as they thought, they heard a procession advancing somewhere nearby, the fervour of their protest floated by. They were unperturbed, their ears attuned, they heard the sounds, they just kept hearing.

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This body of ours, the living body, is a collection of many cells, and the cells are of various types. Every cell is a living entity. The basic functions of a living thing, consumption, respiration, excretion and reproduction, are coordinated beautifully by the cells. Consumption by a living creature means consumption by its cells. A fully grown man’s body has about ten thousand trillion cells. All the individual cells work continuously and in cooperation with others, and fulfill all their requirements thereby.

Each cell is again more or less made up of plasmalima or cell membrane, protoplasm and a nucleus. There is a kind of transparent, semi-liquid substance within the cell, which is called protoplasm. The living, transparent permeable sheath encircling the protoplasm is the plasmalima, and the relatively viscous, roundish element within the cell is the cell’s nucleus, which directs all the activity within the cell. Actually the nucleus’ place is at the very centre of the cell, its role like that of the brain in a creature’s body. The appearance of the nucleus varies across cells, sometimes round, sometimes long and egg-shaped, and sometimes thin and cylindrical. If the nucleus was taken away from the protoplasm, what remains is called the cytoplasm and the nucleus cannot survive without the cytoplasm, but again without the nucleus the cytoplasm too would die. The transparent, viscous liquid substance that exists inside the nucleus is the nucleoplasm. Again, inside the nucleoplasm, there many thin, thread-like elements, like capillaries, which are the chromatin reticulum. At the time of cell division, these chromatin threads get divided into so many specific, thread-like parts, which are called chromosomes. And it is this chromosome and its central “gene” that carries hereditary properties.

When the male’s spermatozoon and the female’s ovum come together, fertilization takes place, and a new cell is thus born. This is how life is accomplished, this is the origin of life. There are a specific number of chromosomes in the male sperm, and similarly, there are a specific number of chromosomes in the ovum, and consequently, the new cell created through the union of sperm and ovum has an equal number of chromosomes from the parents, as a result of which every living thing can develop its own unique characteristics.

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Before falling asleep, Ajoy sought complete clarity on a few things.
First, he did not love Sushma-di although he had laid a baby in her belly.
Second, in the process of revealing her magic, Sushma-di, Sushma, had laid her body on his bed.
Third, he had stared hard and long at the luminous darkness.
Fourth, the body, towards which there was all this great love, was only a collection of ten thousand trillion cells.
Fifth, whenever any procession went by near them, Sushma-di tried to sing lullabies to him.
Sixth, he wasn’t at all curious about the new cell being created with his cell and Sushma’s cell.
Seventh, the idea of leaving Sushma appeared unethical to him, and yet, it was also quite impossible for him to swallow his pride and tell his brother and sister-in-law everything about Sushma.
Ajoy entered his room reflecting on all this, and in no time at all he fell asleep.
How a human, made up of a collection of millions of cells, develops from just one cell, which is called an egg cell, preserving hereditary features in the process, and then goes about his life activities – for scientists, even today, this remains a major question. According to microbiologists, at the root of this event lie the DNA, RNA and protein. DNA, or dioxyribonucleic acid is that vital part of the living cell which helps to determine the structure of the cell, hereditary traits and so on. With each DNA there are different types of nucleotides. It is said that each nucleotide is a building block of the DNA. In the language of microbiologists, a DNA is like a word made up of four unique genetic alphabets, or letters, relating to reproduction, each one like a piece of glass of a different hue. Just like a few letters can make up many words, with many meanings, similarly, DNAs combine in various numbers to form each gene. The gene is the key component of the thing called chromosome in the cell of a living creature. Different animals have different chromosomes, and it is these that determine which living being will be human, which one demon, or even earthworm, The second function of the DNA is like that of a casting mould, and just as many things of an identical nature can be produced by using a mould, in exactly the same way, from one kind of DNA mould, through an admixture of different chemical elements, the same kind of cell, or component of life, is formed.

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If you carry on walking like this, after a few days you shall reach the high mountain peak, and then one can hear the flapping wings of the golden eagle, it’s not advisable to go there, for it can take away your arm, when the mother eagle flies to the mountain top in search of food, the two, tiny, delicate chicks are left all alone. As difficult it is to search for gull eggs, clambering over huge, razor-sharp rocks scattered in somersaults over the seashore cliff, this is even more challenging. The piercing sun above burns down over one’s head, bruises all over the body from grazing against the rocks, bleeding, a burning sensation, and placing every step carefully, never forgetting to keep one’s balance as even a moment’s absent-mindedness could be fatal. With all this effort, some accomplish it, and some don’t. Because the golden eagle’s chicks, alive, live very close to what can terrify many men.

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What can be called a living thing?
When a living cell, by itself, creates another cell of its own kind, it is then called a living thing.
What is the difference between animals and humans?
Animals use only the external world and bring about a transformation in that world merely through their presence, but man, while changing the world, also compels it to satisfy his own objectives, and rules over it.
How did the ape turn into man?
At first through labour, and later, together with labour, speech, the pronunciation of a sentence – the incitement of these two factors was most significant in influencing the progressive metamorphosis of the monkey brain into the human brain.

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Three sick children held hands and kept advancing towards the sea.
Written on the advertisement, you don’t know what you are missing. The boy, Ajoy, at that moment he really could not figure out what he was missing. There was the sound of country bombs outside, fighting had broken out again in the neighbourhood. He yawned, and just as he wondered whether he should get up and go the door swung wide open, and someone entered the room.

You can get everything, if you only stretch out your hand, get a gulab-jamun, or fatty Sushma, or a gene, created in a test-tube, one could hear a commotion in the street outside. Suddenly, the arrival of a police van with screeching brakes put a stop to everything. No, you cannot get everything merely by stretching out your hand, everything does not stop merely by pressing the brake. A bomb exploded again, the commotion grew. Ajoy wondered why his name was not Ram or Shyam or Jodu or Modu, or for that matter, Karna-bell or Nucleus – or at least any one name from the names of those who were on the street now. From today I adopt a name like that – Ram, Shyam, Jodu or Modu, or Karna-bell or Nucleus – Ajoy thought along these lines. Someone entered the room and on entering looked for Ajoy, and everything in the room was in an orderly condition, the bed to lie on, with pillows in their correct place, and interestingly, the corpse of the horse-faced ogre was there too, hung from the rafter, but he, Ajoy, wasn’t there. Only three sick children, holding hands and advancing towards the sea.

It is possible to create a gene artificially and all the specific kinds of genes necessary to produce the human body are being produced in a test-tube itself. Experts know all about the cells needed to make a human, and in future, through such means, humans can be created at will. At the core of human cells are forty six chromosomes. These are obtained from the sixty three in the father’s body and the sixty three in the mother’s body. And together with these forty six chromosomes there are, even at a minimum, one and fifty thousand genes of various kinds. These genes determine the exact time within which, and how, the tiny human cell is transformed into a complete human being. Almost a hundred thousand proteins, including principal ones like hemoglobin, insulin and so on, constitute our bodies and each protein makes twenty types of genes. Therefore, one could say that our body is made up of 100,000 x 20 = 2 million genes.

Opening her hair and arraying it on her back, the girl, Sushma, moved away from the mirror, she took off her blouse, there was a light burning on the second floor of the house in front, one body, its shadow. Sushma came away from the window, she did not recall it although this happened every night. The gentleman peeped into the room from that window. At first she did not realize it, now she could, had found proof too. Men stare so crazily, seven years ago Amal-Kamal-Bimal-Sukhamoy used to stare. What did they see? One hundred thousand multiplied by twenty, that is two million genes? Or something more than that. At the bottom of the door, where the winter’s desolate mist showered down beneath the light of the lamp post, there were they, Amal-Kamal-Bimal-Sukhamoy, waiting since seven years. Now Sushma removed all her undergarments and loosened herself up, she kept looking at the clock.

What is the significance of all these discoveries by man? Who takes responsibility to determine what is the main goal or objective behind producing the human artificially? Everything in the human world depends upon man’s self-interest and need, and hence man’s exact goal or objective is often unclear. Besides, if there is some influence of the external world on man, what could be the means to keep that at bay? The DNA is made up of four nucleotides and in every nucleotide there are some fundamental elements, which are composed of the combination of electrons, protons and neutrons. Many believe that the radiation from the sun and stars affects the atoms of elements. Scientists like Dr Bedley say that the radiation can lead to changes within the DNA. Soviet scientists had shown that there is a relation between magnetic energy and the human mental condition. The explosion that takes place every eleven years because of excessive storms in the sun affect the earth’s magnetic field, even if only temporarily. There can be some influence of planets and stars on the fundamental composition of living beings, because a change in the magnetic field can lead to a change in the atomic structure of the fundamental elements. And at some stage, this may also change the electrical properties of the DNA. At this juncture, nothing can be said with exactitude about the influence of the external world on biological evolution. However, preventing mutation by regulating the domain of research institutes is definitely not the last word on the subject. Perhaps man will succeed in creating life artificially, but in the natural way.

What do we conclude then about the significance of all these discoveries?

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Rabindrasangeet was playing in the house next door. Tinu – Ajoy was called Tinu as a child – took a pencil and drew a square, and at its centre he made a red dot. The clock struck nine. The pet cat lay in the sun, its body stretched out. On the wall, where it was a sparkling white, there was a spider’s web. A fly buzzed around.

What happens with the sound of flapping wings
Pollen rains down
What will the fly do
It’ll be caught in the spider’s web
Where’s the spider
In the middle of Sushma’s belly

Tinu now wanted a colour pencil – red pencil blue pencil green pencil. Tinu drew a picture of an ogre spanning the whole page. But he said he’d drawn a picture of a man. As he turned and brought down the small hand of the clock showing nine it turned six. The pet cat showed off a trapeze act on the spider’s web. As water flowed gushingly and loudly in the bathroom, every kind of laughter and weeping was washed and wiped away in identical fashion. Sushma, open your mouth. I shall look for a spider inside your mouth. Using a blue pencil, Tinu drew walls on the four sides, he drew a gate. He drew a watchman at the gate. He wondered whether there should be a gun in his hand. As he wondered, trying to draw an immense moustache for the watchman he ended up drawing an immense, straight-line procession of men. Using red, he made red flags in their hands. Sushma, I’m looking for a job. If I did a job the shame would be far less. I could tell everyone, my chest swelled in pride. Tinu drew a happy nook of the room, he drew a parrot, in a cage. He made a gramophone. The gramophone adorned the happy nook. Across the river Padma, in Bakshiganj, the weekly market assembled. It was a Friday. And today? The villagers bought and sold. And in the city? Tinu tried to draw a bullock cart. He had forgotten what a bullock cart was like. Tinu then drew a current Fiat model.

xxxxxxx

On the one hand we create artificial humans and on the other hand, the oxygen in our atmosphere is progressively getting exhausted. We are advancing rapidly towards a sudden, disastrous event. It is from the countless planktons in the oceans that, through photosynthesis, more than 70 per cent of the oxygen in the atmosphere is produced. Some fifty thousand poisonous substances and pesticides, radio isotopes, enzymes etc, which can severely harm life, all invented in the modern era, are now thrown as waste into the seas. Owing to the movement of ships etc, every year a million and a half tons of oil spills into the seawater. On land, the oil that spills from motor cars and industrial plants is almost double of that, and almost all of it goes into rivers which eventually reach the seas. Earlier, it was not necessary for the earth to degrade many of these toxic substances. It has been observed in tests that even tiny doses of these substances greatly destroy the sea plankton, thus endangering the source of our oxygen.

Besides, each year, through the accelerating burning of fuel, we are irresponsibly exhausting the oxygen in the atmosphere. Before the onset of the industrial revolution, the quantity of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere was 280 parts per million, at present there are 321 parts, meaning, each year the quantity goes up by 70 parts per million. In addition, by destroying trees and natural vegetation over thousands of acres of land, which enable photosynthesis, we again hinder the production of oxygen. It’s not just our air and water that is polluted, but oxygen itself that is rapidly disappearing from earth. Till the very end of his life, Prof Lloyd undertook research on the sources of oxygen. And he cautions us with this conclusion: one day, extremely suddenly, there will be a deficiency in the amount of oxygen in the atmosphere. And the earth’s population is advancing very rapidly towards that terrible day.

xxxxxxx

Its teeth were terribly sharp, it chewed and ate humans.

No one lived in the city’s old quarters, broken houses, heaps of bricks, a jungle of weeds, derelict factories, people didn’t go there, they’d shudder even if they went there at daytime. It lived there and it ate human flesh.

Once complete darkness envelops the whole place, it emerges, it searches for raw humans.

Not heeding any obstacles, the hay-laden bullock cart went along the road, it collapsed. A man who spoke of such chicanery, within twenty four hours his mouth filled with blood and he died.
The sacred offerings in the broken pot lay on one side, goat’s blood – standing in the darkness, looking, the sharp teeth were sighted, it ate human flesh.
Searching among the heaps of bricks, torchlight in hand, braving the wind whistling away like a flute playing, the torch slipped and dropped from the hand. Nothing could be discerned in the darkness.
A dog wailed somewhere nearby. Tearing through the darkness, the waxing, eleventh-day moon rose above the sal trees. The grated windows of the factory were flooded with moonlight.
Roads from all directions culminated here.
Moonlight flooded the old, grated windows of the factory. Perspiring profusely, the terrifying sharp teeth were sighted, it ate humans.
Mohenjodaro endangered! Save the ‘monument of the dead’ from the fury of the river Indus’ floods and salinity. Reading, he approached, and as he approached he saw that someone had thrown Sushma’s headless corpse under the dim light at the crossroads. He felt sick seeing that and in order to overcome that, without looking in any directon, he just kept running fast. Thereafter, fatigued, he stopped in front of a cigarette shop after a while and saw some people there. Heaving a sigh of relief, as he gave some coins to buy a cigarette to the man sitting in the elevated, booth-like shop, he remembered that very afternoon he had seen a man, who looked like worn-out hanging leather, sucking at the leg of a dead dog with great relish. Instead of buying a cigarette, he lifted up and showed the heel of his shoe to the shopkeeper, and asked him: could you please see whether there’s any blood on my heel? The man sitting in the shop was somewhat startled hearing this, and stared at his disheveled hair. He raised the heel of the shoe higher and moving closer to the shopkeeper, said: can you see anything? Any blood stains? The shopkeeper wasn’t startled this time, his attention directed to making paans, and as he applied lime to the paan leaves, said: yes, I can see it, not on your heel but on your elbow, on your shirt. He was very surprised, and said, but it’s not supposed to be there. With an air of indifference, the shopkeeper continued to fold his paan leaves and said, I don’t know anything about that. Here, take some lime and apply it.
As he applied the lime, he remembered that Mohenjodaro was endangered. It had to be protected from the fury of the Indus’ floods and salinity.

xxxxxxx

Man
A kind of radioactive waste
Between demon and man
The ogre kills for need, man without need
Mohenjodaro
City of the dead
Ajoy loved Sushma
And Sushma Ajoy
YOU PEOPLE SAY DAY AND NIGHT
Ajoy hated Sushma
And Sushma Ajoy
What happens with the sound of flapping wings
Pollen rains down
What will the fly do
It’ll be caught in the spider’s web
Where’s the spider
In the middle of Sushma’s belly
But much as he tried to chew it his mouth only
Filled with blood and
That fresh blood
Trickled and flowed for two miles
The he-goat stopped chewing, and in amazement
Began to wonder
The sound of the golden eagle flapping its wings
Could be heard, on and on
Because of the genes, two million genes

xxxxxxx

Today, not a single child is born without at least one unit of transium in its body. This poison enters our body through our food. When transium (90) enters a pregnant woman’s body, a good part of it accumulates in the fetus. What is most worrisome is that within ten minutes of entering the body, its terrible radioactivity reaches the bones, where it nestles permanently. Radio transium resides in the body for at least 28 years and there is no way of removing this substance from the bones. The child that is born with transium has to live out its whole life as this radioactivity’s waste. Not just that, iodine (131) nestles in the thyroid gland, and sezium (137) in the nervous system and in muscle tissue, and residing there, through specific rules, these give rise to frightful diseases. Far more harm than that from nuclear weapons and tests comes from the use of nuclear energy in so-called peaceful activities. The impact of radioactivity on gene mutation is, alas Ajoy and Sushma, unhindered today.

RADIOACTIVITY IS CONTINOUSLY ACCUMULATED IN THE HUMAN BODY

xxxxxxx

The transmission path of radio nucleides

Stronsium (89, 90):

From atmosphere→To soil, vegetation→To fatty tissues of animals & humans→To milk & meat→To humans

Sezium (137):

From atmosphere→To vegetation→To fatty tissues of animals & humans→To milk & meat→To humans

Iodine (131):

From atmosphere→To vegetation, humans→To fatty tissues of animals→To milk & meat→To humans

Barium (140):

From atmosphere→To vegetation→To fatty tissues of animals→To milk & meat→To humans

xxxxxxx

Pictures drawn by ancient man in Lasko’s caves. Between a rhinoceros and a bison lies a dead man. A stick-like body. The bison’s body speared, its innards spewing out, its head lowered, ready to strike with its horns. In the middle, a dead body, made of a paltry few strokes, a rectangular body, arms and legs like sticks, the face bird-like. Killed in battle, that half-man lies between the rhinoceros and the bison, his face flat on the earth.

THE END

This is a translation of the original Bengali novella, “tejoskriyo aborjona” by Subimal Misra . Written in the mid-seventies, the novella was first published in 1980. The novella appears in Subimal Misra’s Anti-Uponyas Songroho (Anti-Novel Collection), Bitorko, Calcutta, 1999. The translator gratefully acknowledges the Sangam House Writers' Residency for enabling this translation.

Subimal Misra video documentary

2010-09-06T16:10:00.004+05:30

Subimal Misra Ebong Taar Underground / Boi-gorto (Subimal Misra and his Underground / Book-hole)

A video documentary

Conceived, directed and produced by Basab Mukherjee

Duration: 3 hours

Only for Subimal Misra readers and enthusiasts.

This is now available on DVD.

To obtain copies, contact:

Underground, Tel: 91-33-24017717

Jari Bobajudhyo Mob: 91-9433413980

Bigyapon Parbon Mob: 91-9874310016

The Cow is a Kind of Quadrangular Creature

2010-08-18T17:20:00.010+05:30

The cow is a kind of quadrangular creature that conceals the cosmic beam in its eyelids. There are bits and pieces of all kinds of treasures in cows’ heads, with which they ruminate over everything about the world as they chew the cud. Dad had once brought a cow from Honduras which actually exactly reproduced the work of its forebears, and had destroyed the colourful slough of plywood, fabricated over thirty years, which people at every turn call democracy. And ever since then, we steadily became well versed in cow-related matters. Dad explained to us that howsoever confident we might be regarding cows’ legs, we weren’t correct, because cows could have two or three or four or even five legs – there was nothing certain about that. Cows could definitely declare a state of emergency, or, if they so desired, they possessed the capability to bring about a military coup at whim. They loved to chew furtively on newspapers or the rolled-up pages of the constitution. Dry roots and tubers from beneath the soil; syntax – the alphabet system; their own tails, thorny plants, unused cartridges – all this, everything, was their fodder, and they derived great pleasure from eating these. But it wouldn’t do to think that cows did not possess a sense of beauty, or that they were not aware of their own class interest. They dearly love to sing “The forests are alive with spring”. When the nation needed pharmaceutical factories, it was cows that reminded the ministers to increase the production of cosmetics instead, and it was only cows that advised them to manufacture armaments, keeping people starved. To look at the cow’s tail, there seems to be nothing useful about it, but many believed that it came in handy for nuclear disarmament. Even if cows usually appeared to be quite innocent, they could actually become terribly bloodthirsty. If they got the appropriate opportunity and means, they even killed someone as un-troublesome as Archimedes. Cows can’t tolerate others’ views at all. Some people speak in whispers about a special kind of cow. These cows apparently use the horns on their head as antennae, and they nurture a hostile attitude towards every kind of thoughtfulness. They say: “Only what I say is correct, and that’s what you must do.” Asking questions is always banned in the cows’ world. There’s a worldwide revolution taking place among cows. A perpetual uprising happening. Their clothes and garb, thinking, everything’s changing rapidly. Those who can’t stay in step with all this get rejected. Obsolete. There aren’t just innards and intestines in the cow’s belly, there’s every kind of wicked design there, every kind of evil intent to keep humans human. Cows couldn’t attain ultimate bliss unless they feuded among themselves. There are many molesters among cows. Most of the cows know a Sten gun and can discern the difference between a country-bomb and a pomelo. All the cerebral excellence of cows depends upon a kind of cosmic beam. Cows worship in Kalighat, but again, given the opportunity, they also commit adultery. Dropping bombs on children’s schools makes them happy. They love to use diaphragms. The twelfth cow that Dad had reared in his lifetime loved to hear Beethoven and from time to time it took to sexual assault. It once showed the precise site from where civilization and everything else had begun. But what it eventually did was unimaginable. Once, getting the opportunity at night, it raped Dad and saw to it that Ma was compelled to go to that room. Although ordinary looking, cows are highly exceptional beings. Water is water to them and pistols are merely pistols, but they don’t see female bodies as merely female bodies. One hears that in some places the cows’ urge for self-inquiry is so profound that they end up writing Mein Kampf, or getting into the Guernica as mites, they keep devouring it, robbing it of the lustre of the hues and the curves of the lines. Everyone knows about vampires sitting on cows and sucking their blood at night, but what people don’t know is that sometimes cows suck away all the vampire’s blood, leaving it a paper-white spine. It is fatuous to say that there are differences of opinion among scholars regarding cows; actually no two scholars can ever be unanimous about cows. Some cows suffer indigestion from eating too much, while some cows get by eating very little all their lives and yet scuffle among themselves. There are divisions among cows along lines of nation-time-role. A seventy-seven-year old cow will never chew on dry straw like a forty-seven-year old year old one. You can’t quickly tell the colour of the pupils of a cow’s eyes, but they can rest their entire weight on two legs and stretch their necks and look out at the moonlight through the window. Cows love to see nude cows very much and they call that art. In some species of cows, wearing undergarments is also in vogue. Up-to-date cows think about sexuality, they also think about revolution, while for some of them, arranging cacti decoratively on the veranda is a daily ritual. The shadow of the Tata Centre building falls quite often on the cows as they feed on grass. Cows are extremely wary about one thing. If any of them tried to read books or thought contrarily, they were declared to be dangerous. And if they were of an extremely wayward kind, they are made to stand in front of a firing squad. In this respect, the cows’ civilization is incomparable. However, it’s true that cows themselves shall one day decide on the means of liberation of cows.

THE END

1977

This is a translation of the original Bengali short story “Goru Ek Dhoroner Chotushkon Prani" by Subimal Misra. The story is anthologised in Subimal Misra’s Anti-Golpo Songroho (Anti-stories Collection), Bitorko, Calcutta, 1999.

Image: Courtesy of John D Berry.

The book is out!

2010-07-21T14:23:00.017+05:30

The Golden Gandhi Statue from America: Early Stories, by Subimal Misra, translated by V Ramaswamy, Harper Perennial, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers India, 2010. Price: Rs 199.

The collection includes fifteen stories, written by Subimal Misra during 1968-73, a turbulent period in the history of Calcutta and West Bengal.

Review in New Indian Express, Chennai.

Review in The Statesman, Calcutta

Review in The Telegraph, Calcutta.

Review in Afternoon Despatch & Courier, Mumbai.

Review in Times of India.

Review in the blog Jabberwock.

Review in the blog Writers Read.

Review in the e-zine Muse India.

Review in the e-zine Book Reviews For Booklovers By Booklovers.

Subimal Misra interview in Tehelka.

Arunava Sinha's comment.

My deepest thanks to everyone who made this book possible.

The book can be purchased online and from leading bookshops in the metro cities (of India).

The project to translate the short fiction of Subimal Misra continues.

The Road to the Mill Jetty

2010-05-24T13:13:00.009+05:30

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

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

Bertolt Brecht

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

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

for half a century. The train left the platform.

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

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

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

THE END

(1978)

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

Photo: E. O. Hoppe/Getty Images

Kolkata Book Fair, 2010

2010-02-04T12:50:00.003+05:30

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

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

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

Subimal Misra

2007-04-14T17:01:00.000+05:30

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.

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.

Subimal Misra's first collection of stories, titled haran majhir bidhoba bou-er moda ba shonar gandhimurti, 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.

Dhiman Dasgupta, a film scholar and writer, has written a treatise on the work of Misra, subimal misra: patan abhyuday bandhur pontha (Calcutta, 1992). Aw-e-ajogor, a Calcutta little magazine (edited by Biplob Nayak), and Droshtobyo, 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.

Ankur Saha has written a good introduction to Misra in the Bengali e-zine Parabaas.

Misra’s most recent book of stories and essays, kika cutout was published in 2006. Now a retired school-teacher, he lives in Sarkarpool, a suburb of Calcutta.

Subimal Misra bibliography

2007-04-14T16:50:00.000+05:30

Subimal Misra: writer, publisher, printer, goods-carrier and book-seller

Anti-stories

haran majhir bidhoba bou-er moda ba shonar gandhimurti
nanga haad jegey uthchhey
du tin-tey udom bachcha chutochuti korchhey
babby
aar pipegun eto groom hoyey jay
shreshto golpo
ei amader shiki-lebu ningrani
anti-golpo songroho 1
sotyo utpadito hoy
katth khay angra hagey
36 bochorer rograrogri: golpo, o-golpo, na-golpo, anti-golpo

Anti-novels

tejoskriyo aborjona (novella)
asholey eta ramayan chamarer golpo hoyey uthtey parto
rong jokhon sotorkikoron-er chinho
kontho palok oda
haad-modmodi
anti-uponyash songroho 1
one pice father mother
chetey chushey chibiye giley

Essays

subimal-er biruddhey subimal
lohar-taar bagh o dorshoker modhyey rokto bhalobashey
son and murderer
tamaker bajar bonam euclid-er chotusparsho

Play

bhaito pathar eshtu

A collection of graphical texts

antim boi, antim-jatra: kika cutout

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.

For all information:

Underground
D1 / 22
Shampa Mirja Nagar Abasan - Phase 1
Sarkarpool
Kolkata 700 143
INDIA

About

2007-04-14T16:31:00.000+05:30

Poila Boisakh, 1414

D Bandopadhyay, retired civil servant and scholar, has written in today's The Statesman, quoting National Sample Survey data, about intimations of Great Bengal Famine like conditions in parts of West Bengal.

That brought to mind Zainul Abedin's sketches from the Bengal famine (1943). As well as Subimal Misra's short-story haran majhir bidhoba bou-er moda ba shonar gandhi-murti, 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.

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.

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.

Zainul Abedin was memorialised in Bangladesh as Shilpacharya, or great teacher of the arts. Subimal Misra is for me Sahityacharya, a great teacher of literature.

Acknowledgements

2007-04-14T16:28:00.000+05:30

I have been extremely fortunate to benefit from the encouragement, feedback and suggestions of many people.

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.

Subimal Misra gave me his approval and trust, without which I could not have proceeded.

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.

I fondly remember my recently deceased aunt Revathy Gopal, a fairy godmother if there ever was one, for her appreciative comments and suggestions.

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.

Ahmad Saidullah most graciously expressed his appreciation and suggested various corrections, for which I cannot be too grateful.

Sam North, of Hackwriters.com, who featured four of my story translations on this literary e-zine.

Finally, Rajashi Mukherjee, my wife, whose appreciation and support was vital to the sustenance of this project.

To all of them, I bow in humble gratitude. I apologise if I have unwittingly omitted any names.

I remain responsible for any inadequacies in the translations.

Nilotpal Roy's selection

2007-04-13T13:20:00.004+05:30

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 Aar Manusher Bachchara Shobai Khub Hunshiyar Thakben … Keno-na Celebrity Non Bolei Subimal Misra Jokhon Khushi Mutey Ditey Paren Aapnader Mukhey (“And Beware, All Offsprings of Men … Because Subimal Misra Can Piss on Your Face in Joy at Not Being a Celebrity’).

One story Nilotpal recommends is "Aarai Ganga" (1997, “Two and a Half Gangas”) which appears in Misra’s story collection Sotyo Utpadito Hoy (”Truth is Manufactured”). He says the class dialectics aspect of Misra’s writing comes out very strongly in this story.

He ranks the story collection Dui Tin Te Udom Bachcha … (1980) as the most outstanding single volume of Misra’s stories.

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."

The List

1. Okusthol Dodrumoy (1985, Bobby)
2. Goru Ek Dhoroner Chotuskon Prani (1980, Dui Tin Te Udom Bachcha …)
3. Utol Hawa (1980, Dui Tin Te Udom Bachcha …)
4. Foot Ded Ek Ek Poritokto Jaygay (1979, Dui Tin Te Udom Bachcha …)
5. Neel Phosphorus (1979, Dui Tin Te Udom Bachcha …)
6. Ekhon Ishwori Ek Matro Jibito Achen (2000, Bobby – Part 2)
7. Maratyok Jantu Ana Rakha (1974, Nanga Haar Jegey Uthchey)
8. Lotka Lotki (1985, Bobby)
9. Rokter Shobab (1971, Haran Majhir Bidhoba Bou-er Mora …)
10. Biplober Dikey Chottrish Foot (1972, Nanga Haar Jegey Uthchey)
11. Nirbachito Chinnhito Irshar Bharey Nirbashoney (1990, Ei Amader Shiki Lebur Ningrani)

Nilotpal Roy has also prepared a list of twenty-four stories for a sequel volume to Subimal Misra’s Chhottrish Bochorer Rograragri (which brings together fifty-five of Misra’s stories from across his writing life). The stories, in specific sequence, are:

From Kika Cut-out -

Jol Chol Chol
Bishishto Binodon
Onobroto Porityyag Korar Obhigyota
Kika Cut-out

From Nanga Haar Jegey Uthchey -

Biplober Dikey Chottrish Foot

From Shiki Lebu -

Daran, Somoresh Bosu Bhor Jubotir Chhatu Hoye

From Haran Majhi -

Park Steeter Traffic Post-ey Holud Rong
Shomoy Duhshomoy
Rokter Shobab

From Nanga Haar Jegey Uthchhey -

Nanga Haar Jegey Uthchhey
Moydaney takar Gach
Babumoshai Moja Korun
Maratyok Jontu

From Dui Tin Te Udom Bachcha –

Utol Haowa
Goru Ek Dhoroner
Neel Phosphorus
Foot Ded Ek Ek Poritakto Jaygay
Ghor Koira Jabo Bondhu

From Bobby – Part 2 -

Ekhon Ishwori Ek Matro Jibito Achen

From Bobby -

Plastiker Golapi Choti

From Sotyo Utpadito Hoy -

Arai Ganga

From Bobby –

Okusthol Dodrumoy
Lotka Lotki
Oitihashik Obotoron

According to Nilotpal Roy, Subimal Misra's recent text-work, Guer Pod Tin Jaygay Lagey, is his magnum opus and a fitting final work, which definitely needs to be published.