Archimedes’ Discovery and Thereafter

Niramay was anxious for a job. If he could find a job he would immediately marry Deepa.

But here, in this world, nothing could be had so easily. Regret, sadness, despair and vexation accumulated in Niramay’s chest. He wished he had the power to uproot the Monument and throw it into the Ganga, or that he could scream out from the roof of Telephone Bhavan in Dalhousie Square, Please have mercy on me and give me a job. I am unable to get married without a job. But he didn’t do any such thing. As he stood on the ornamental bridge on the Dhakuria Lake, gazing at the big fish splashing around, he became perturbed. Throwing the cigarette into the water with a snap of his fingers, he imagined he was flinging the very Monument. Deepa, who was standing next to him tried to console him, she said, What’s wrong with you Niramay, it’s not easy to find a job nowadays, so where’s the need to get so het up about it? Besides, you’ll find a good job very soon. I’m telling you, you’ll get it.

Niramay was dragging his feet along the tarred black surface of the smooth road, as if he was crushing and destroying something beneath his feet. Deepa said, Why don’t you say something. What shall I say? All around them were the brightly lit streets, full of well-dressed men and women, the tittering of laughter, and amid all of this it was only Niramay who was unable to smile. He was not a participant in all this. The beggar at the bus stop stood near him with his outstretched hand. Was the beggar making fun of him? He wished he could land a tight slap on the man’s face. Hey brother, I too am a beggar like you. Only the Shalimar tin was missing in Niramay Sanyal’s hand. And he begged only from one person. Deepa, I’m hungry, can we eat something, Deepa … I haven’t been to the cinema in ages, please buy two tickets, Deepa … I feel like smoking a nice cigarette, will you buy it, Deepa … Why don’t we go for an outing to Diamond Harbour on Sunday, we haven’t gone anywhere in a month … Deepa, do you remember the line by Chandidas, ‘For sure I haven’t forsaken everything and become a slave in heart and soul …’ How much longer will you go around carrying my burden, Deepa! Both laughter and weeping, together, were pushing their way out of Niramay’s throat. How would it be if he could chew the cud like a cow!

After some time, when Deepa’s bus arrived and carried her away, Rashbihari crossing took on a desolate appearance. The streets, the people, the shops and bright lights were all there – and yet Rashbihari crossing seemed desolate! He wished he could sing out loud the verse by Chandidas. Niramay badly wanted to sing. Someone pushed him and ran and hopped on to and hung on from a moving bus. Brave lad. A crowd of people were returning, their faces animated as they talked. There had been a public meeting today of all these laboring folk, at the base of the Monument. He too had intended to go, but finally, because of Deepa … He heaved a heavy sigh. Rashbihari crossing seemed to Niramay to be devoid of humanity now, it was pointless for him to remain there. After having sat for so long with Deepa, he felt a heaviness in his bladder. And yet here, at Rashbihari crossing, in such a large, throbbing place in the city of Calcutta, there wasn’t even a single decent toilet. There was an ancient one on a kerb of the four-point crossing, some people had shat and filled up its interior, there was water flowing everywhere. People pissed here and there so as not to enter the stinking place, creating veritable Gangas in the process. Niramay stood watching. His bladder was swollen and jutting out like a drum. He turned around and almost standing on the road, he stood with his trouser fly open. The pungent stench of urine lent the place another kind of atmosphere. The earth was wet over a large area, as if it had just rained. Niramay felt greatly relieved as his bladder emptied. And at exactly that moment the idea suddenly sprang into his head. He was startled inwardly. Wetting his trouser and without even buttoning up properly, he began to run homewards. Niramay was uttering some Eureka-like Bengali word. His lane was about ten or twelve minutes away from Rashbihari crossing. Entering his room, he threw himself heavily on the bed and began panting. What a terrifying matter, and what a fantastic idea! He drank a glass of water from the pitcher. After that he squatted on the bed and began to think. It will happen, it will definitely happen, there was no doubt, this would be something tremendous. Niramay was restless, he was still panting. He couldn’t sit still on the cot. He lit a cigarette and took deep puffs. He seemed to have lost the sense of taste, it was as if his mind had been taken over by the taste of something else. What was the date today ­– Niramay made a red mark against the date on the calendar. A memorable day indeed. After that he paced around in his room for a long time.

Niramay didn’t sleep well that night. Dreams, reality and imagination – Rashbihari crossing and the toilet kept appearing and reappearing in everything. In the morning, his eyes were bloodshot, the idea kept banging his head like an iron rod. He thought he ought to pay a quick visit to Rashbihari crossing. Lighting a cigarette, Niramay walked hastily in that direction. The paperwork had to be completed quickly, without letting anyone know. Where was the need to do a job, once it started there would never be any more worry about money. How easy it would then be to marry Deepa. Here was the Rashbihari crossing in early morning light, just a few busy folk, the newspaper vendors, and a tram making a clanging noise as it turned towards Ballygunge. All he had to do was to get a place. And then get it ready quickly. Niramay’s heart was beating fast. What a tremendous thing it would be ­– it was almost terrifying! Going to buy a cigarette, he saw his reflection in the shop mirror. His eyes bloodshot, there was an excited look on his face. He had to look like that, Niramay thought, should too.

Niramay had very few possessions to speak of. Among his assets were the old watch given to him by his father, a few books and a pile of letters written by Deepa.  And he had something else. That would be visible once the broken box was opened. Two pairs of gold bangles, with inlay work. Left behind by his mother. Niramay took out everything and cast his eyes on them. He would start the work in exchange for all this. He separated and put aside Deepa’s letters.

Niramay was terribly busy that day. He even forgot to eat. Neither did he remember Deepa. Running around here and there under the hot sun, bathed in sweat, he made all the arrangements. A place was found on a friend’s recommendation. He was also able to collect quite a sum of money. Now it could be built. Only one thing pricked his mind when he lay down at night. Nothing tangible remained bearing his parents’ memory. In the silence of night a dog moaned away endlessly somewhere. Niramay was still awake. He tossed and turned in excitement. What was to be gained by holding on to all these old memories? What had to happen was happening. In the wee hours of the morning, he dreamt of pouring rain. Rain gushed down in all directions. The sound of pouring rain. For a long time Niramay rubbed the rainwater over his body, thus cooling his mind and body. He also sang a song tunefully.  There was a cool feeling to everything. The dream lasted for a long time. When he woke up, he realized it was late morning. Getting up at once, he hurried to Rashbihari crossing without even washing his face. He wanted to hold on to the excitement. He was unwilling to see his wishes vanish.

Everything was arranged in a few days. One day, pedestrians saw to their astonishment that a private toilet had sprung up at the Rashbihari crossing. People gathered there, passengers craned their necks out of moving buses and trams to look, the wayward ruffians of the neighbourhood, vagrant street kids, the beggar at the bus stop – everyone gaped at the shiny new signboard –

                   Toilet

                For Gents and Ladies

        Admission Fee: Two paise only

            Prop. Shri Niramay Sanyal

A long room. Partitioned in the middle. Ladies on one side, gents on the other. Niramay had placed a boy at the entrance. He sold tickets at a price of two paise. People would buy a ticket and enter. Niramay was standing in front of the door at the entrance. A crowd! What a crowd! It was as if the whole of Calcutta had come down to look at the toilet. At first, no one entered. Everyone just crowded around to watch the fun. Soon one or two people began to enter. Niramay saw the money being collected in the box. His body tingled with joy. He would not have to suffer the ignominy of unemployment any more, he would also get married to Deepa very soon. It occurred to him that in the last few days he hadn’t really remembered Deepa. Astounding! He was about to think more elaborately about Deepa when a wayward boy’s voice floated by – You’ve made a fine urinal, dada! – he forgot about everything, smiled unctuously, showing his teeth, just like a businessman from Barrabazar, and said in an endearing tone: Only for your convenience … He himself was taken aback by the sound of his words. Niramay realized that the genius of an expert businessman was blossoming within him. He was going to advance in life very soon. Now the tickets were selling well. The boy was unable to manage on his own. Observing this, Niramay was exhilerated. All his deprivations would soon be a thing of the past. He lit a cigarette and blew out a lungful of smoke. As he stood there, he saw two girls buying tickets and entering. Something crossed his mind, he puffed deeply on the cigarette once and emitted a cloud of smoke into the air. And then he pushed open the small door on the right side and went in. There were a few steps going up. The toilet structure comprised of two floors. The toilet was on the ground floor – ladies on the left, gents on the right – and the upper floor was for his personal use. He climbed up the few steps of the wooden stairs, as if he was floating on air. There was no furniture upstairs. Only a wooden box. He opened the box and took out a pair of binoculars. He carried it to a corner on the left side. There was a small hole in the wall there. As he fixed his eyes on the binoculars and bent down at the hole, his body thrilled at the sight. Niramay was overcome with expectation when he saw the ticket sales that day. Lying in bed at night, he was unable to sleep. The bed was buried under notes and coins. Till late at night he ran his hands through the money. He felt the money with his hands, feet and chest. All this money was his, his own, it belonged to him alone. He had earned it. It pleased Niramay to think that he was no longer unemployed now. He would not have to beg Deepa for money any more. Remembering Deepa, he was taken aback. He never thought about her nowadays. Ever since the idea of the toilet entered his head, thoughts about Deepa had taken leave of him. But this sadness did not linger in his mind for very long. He wanted to be buried under the money. He would amass money like this everyday, each and every day. Money … money – a mountain of money would grow in his room. He counted the day’s collection again and again. He separated the notes and coins. But where would he keep this money – it could get stolen! His throat turned dry in fear. What if it really got stolen!

For a long time he sat with the light turned on. Ding-Dong! The clock rang at two o’ clock. As if in a stupor, Niramay then removed the pile of Deepa’s letters from his box, one by one, and began to put the notes inside it.

There was a good turnout of people the next day. It was even better the day after that. Niramay was almost breathless in joy. There was a queue of people at his toilet. The boy was scarcely able to manage by himself. From six in the morning to twelve at night, money poured in. The box became full, then it turned into notes, one rupee, two rupee, five rupee, ten rupee and hundred rupee notes! Niramay’s chest was pounding. As if his heart was about to spring out right there. Every now and then, when well-dressed women entered, Niramay went in through the small door and climbed the stairs to go up. Pressing the binoculars to his eyes, he eagerly bent down over the hole.

Days went by. As Niramay kept track of the money, he lost all track of time. His entire room was full of money. He could now fling heaps of money on the floor of the room. It made a metallic sound and Niramay loved to hear that. He did not realize that he had never heard this sweet sound. Niramay could now pile up the money and make a house with it, a house with several storeys, he could buy a car, an expensive, air-conditioned car, he could pick and choose a woman from the market to keep in his harem, a wife – slender and beautiful. Niramay could even press his chest tight against the money and savour its cool feeling all night. Every now and then, Niramay’s heart would begin to thump. As if he was about to lose something! He climbed the stairs and went to the upper floor. Holding the binoculars to his eyes, he looked through the hole for long. In the beginning, his mind and body became excited as he gazed, now this didn’t happen anymore. It had become mere habit. Niramay thought something terrible was about to happen. It was as if all the attractions of the world were steadily becoming dull for him. He felt himself slumping inwardly. Why didn’t he like this? Why? For just a fleeting touch of Deepa’s body, and her love, how much he had schemed on some occasions. And when, every now and then, Deepa offered him a little bit, he used to be overwhelmed. But why did he feel like this now? He feared he was turning wooden inside. His body was benumbed. It was as if a one-eyed ogre of some perverted thirst was awakening inside him. He pressed heaps of money to his chest. No, this did not bring him peace. Niramay pushed away all the notes and coins with his feet. The money lay scattered on the floor of the room. In helpless rage against himself, he kept kicking out at all the money. He was losing everything he had. What would he gain with all this money? Standing up in the desolate room, Niramay beat his own chest, like an enraged gorilla. In a fit of indignant rage, he began tearing out the hair on his chest. Taking off all his clothes, he stared for long at his own naked body and heaved a heavy sigh. Perhaps he could be saved if he threw away everything, all of this, and thus became liberated.

After that came the frightful day. Niramay lay with his limbs splayed out over the huge amount of money in the room, and looked down through the binoculars. He was not doing so for any particular reason, it was merely habit. By now Niramay had realized that he had steadily lost the capacity of becoming excited. It pained Niramay to think so, which was why whenever such thoughts crossed his mind he pressed the heaps of money he had tightly to his chest. There were marks on his chest made by the money, but he didn’t feel any discomfort. Clutching the money with all his might, Niramay somehow sought to transform himself, because it was a terrifying thing to be exposed before oneself. He did not want to ever be exposed before himself.

That day, as he peeped, as a matter of habit, through the binoculars, he was suddenly startled. Deepa had come to his toilet, wearing the green sari and white blouse he knew so well. He leapt up, he began to perspire profusely. Astonishing, his Deepa, with her exposed slender thighs and shapely legs – the world began to tremble violently for him. Even after seeing Deepa in that condition he was unable to get excited. The world of his thoughts began to explode into smithereens, he saw only darkness in front of him. Here was Deepa – but her body too did not, could not, excite him. He saw Deepa leave. Astonishing! Deepa was going away, and in acute agony he began pulling out the hair on his head. All his faith had run out. All his beliefs had been extirpated. Throwing away the binoculars, he lay motionless. He should commit suicide! But suicide was a very frightening matter. Niramay lay on the piles and piles of money scattered on the motionless wooden floor. His head reeled, or perhaps it did not, he had wanted this, or perhaps he hadn’t wanted it, he had everything, and yet he had nothing. He just lay there. Time passed. The night advanced. Niramay did not get up, he did not think – he couldn’t get up, couldn’t think either. It was approaching midnight, the crowd in the toilet had gone, it had been closed for the night, the boy had closed up and gone home. Niramay looked, everything lay in darkness, he could only see the walls in the cruel, all-enveloping darkness. Niramay tried to stand up but then he thought it was pointless to stand up, and so he somersaulted down the stairs and descended. The toilet lay in silence. His heart thumping, he pushed aside the curtain and slowly went inside. The stench of urine was everywhere. He somersaulted in exactly the same fashion and made his way to where Deepa had pissed. The pungent stench of urine assailed his nostrils. Forcing himself to breathe, he looked at the spot carefully. Yes, this was where Deepa had squatted. He remained still for a little while, and then, kneeling and resting on his arms, Niramay pressed his face down on the specific spot. The world spun in the darkness, a salty taste filled his mouth. Something was happening inside his head because of the pungent, fierce stench, yet he forced himself to press his head down on the spot: serves you right, Niramay Sanyal, serves you right, this is where you belong.

Niramay’s head steadily grew numb because of the pungent stench of ammonia. His sense of reality was slipping away. He was finding it difficult to remain there, even by resting on his arms and knees. When his arms, legs and body were finally completely benumbed he slipped and fell in that slippery place. His whole body was drenched in urine. The urine flowed along the gutter and went through the grate into the drain below. When he unable to stop slipping away despite trying with all his might, Niramay thought, This was just as well, let’s see how far one can go floating in this sea of piss and flowing through the drain. There was no sadness in his mind, no weariness. He remembered a childhood memory. He had once climbed to the top of the Monument, holding his father’s hand. When he was coming down after that, descending one stair at a time, he had felt, This was really fun. Now too, as he was carried along by the stream of urine towards the drain, Niramay began to feel that same flavor of fun.

THE END

[1968]

This is a translation of the original story in Bengali, "Archimedes-er Abishkar O Tarpor" by Subimal Misra.

Translated by V. Ramaswamy

The Mosquito

A long-standing desire, for a ceiling fan, in the bedroom. But every month, there's never any money left. Finally, I couldn't take it any more, I bought one a fortnight ago. In today's newspaper, the same fan company has advertised that a 15% discount is being offered on their fans. That means the fan bought for 360 rupees is now cheaper by more than 50 rupees. After seeing that, I felt terribly annoyed. I don't like the boring drone of literature. Instead let me now tell the story of a mosquito. This is the mosquito that at some time, unknown to me, sat on my left lung and punctured it, and finally took my all –

This mosquito now flies over Victoria Memorial. It's shadow falls on Victoria's head. The colour of the fairy changes, the shadow keeps spreading in the direction of the Maidan, leaving behind the vast human settlement in the south, it began to encircle the Maidan. The last of the day's sunlight was there now, sticking to the leaves on trees. Moloy Bhattacharjee lies with his head on Chandana Sen's lap. This is the Moloy Bhattacharjee who stuffs Number Ten cigarettes in a Wills Navy Cut packet, lighting it carefully in front of his lover, to show that it's Wills. And the whole evening, the rubbing of face and neck with a half-wet gamcha. To get a reddish tinge. On the cheeks.

And this is the Chandana Sen who, even at the age of thirty one, seeing the lack of effort from home towards getting her married, willingly or unwillingly fed honey to the Moloy Bhattacharjees, regularly, when darkness descended beneath the tree, but she wasn't able to hook anyone. Now the mosquito goes and sits on Moloy Bhattacharjee's cheek. It lowers the proboscis, sucks it up, yes, that's right, blood. Then it flies off after some time. Chandana Sen looks at Moloy Bhattacharjee lying with his head on her lap, here, but despite the proximity he was not quite there, from the corner of his eye, again and again, he was looking intently at a buxom young woman walking with her blue sari blowing in the wind – the mosquito now flies northwards, further north, it then goes and sits on the elbow of a middle-aged conjurer, who was performing for a thousand people beneath Shahid Minar. This was the conjurer wearing a black achkan over a jet-black silk lungi, who speaks in a fabricated language made up of an amalgam of Bangla and Hindi, he makes a skull speak and shows simple-minded folk the way to reach Ramrajya.

The mosquito sits on the conjurer 's elbow and keeps sucking blood, as the people stood encircling him, after a while, looking at the conjurer's face, they sense something, and then each one goes his own way, they keep leaving.

The mosquito flies off, and with it goes its shadow.

It comes and sits on Burrabazar's Jagmohan's fleshy thigh. Now he, Jagmohan, with two telephones in two hands, is engaged in discussion about the share market, this is the Jagmohan who can discern at a glance gold and silver buried under ash, who buys the government's goats from the government and sells it back to the same government with a 100 per cent margin. The mosquito merrily sucks Jagmohan's blood through the proboscis, when its belly is full it flies off – the mosquito flies along, taking the large shadow along. It comes and sits on Baghbazar's Jhantu Kayal's shoulder. Jhantu Kayal has then fallen asleep in the stifling heat, in the course of trying in vain to cool himself with a hand-fan, after a whole's day's back-breaking labour. This is the Jhantu Kayal who works 12 hours in a lathe-machine workshop in Bantra, at the end of the month he receives a salary of 347 rupees, returning at night with grease-blackened hands, tears of pieces  of roti and stuffs them into his mouth, labour-fatigued, his eyes shut, the eyelids.

The mosquito goes and sits on his elbow, but there's no blood to suck there. It sits on his back, which is hard and bony, with leathery skin, it can't prick and insert the proboscis. It sits on the forehead, there's no flesh there, it's unyielding, solid, bone, and forehead, Jhantu Kayal is fortunate. The mosquito then flies off. Again. Jet propellers on its wings. Sound. Speed. In the wings. Its body becomes heavy. The shadow keeps spreading. Of the jet propeller. The mosquito's shadow spreads across the entire Maidan, the martyr's pillar is in shadow, as is Gandhi on Park Street and the stone fairy atop Victoria Memorial. A gust of wind blows, clouds gather, the symbolic size of the sun  becomes small. No one can see, or sense, when, it goes and sits, with a quiet plop, on the barrel, of the pipe-gun, held, in the hands, of the 18-year old boy.

THE END

This is a translation of an extract from the original Bengali anti-novel, "Rong Jokhon Shotorkikoron Er Chhinnho" (When Colour is a Warning Sign) (1984), by Subimal Misra.

Translated by V. Ramaswamy. 

Babumoshai, enjoy the fun

Eight-feet and sixteen-knees went to catch fish with unease, casts on land a net so fine and catches fish come rain or shine. Tell me, Babumoshai? Couldn’t get it? It’s a spider. Come, Babumoshai, sit. Babumoshai, enjoy the fun. Standing or sitting, just have fun. Coming or going, just have fun. Eating or sleeping, just have fun. Babumoshai, enjoy the fun. Couldn’t get it, Babumoshai? It’s a spider, Babumoshai.

One hundred funs, two hundred funs, a thousand funs. A contest for how far one could throw a baby snatched from its mother’s bosom – what fun! At the competition to eat ten rupees worth of rossogollas, the clean-shaven, sparkling youth circled naked around Dalhousie Square at broad noon – what a fun incident, isn’t it? Just imagine there’s a 7-month old baby in a woman’s bosom. A peace-wallah came up to her. As he grabs the girl, the baby began to cry. The peace-wallah then gave a push and threw the baby on the ground. After falling down the baby began crying even more loudly. Seeing that peace was being disturbed, the peace-wallah then pressed the baby’s head under his boot. He squashed the head. The others exclaimed, bravo! Just imagine, what fun it is. For that matter, one can make fun with you too. For instance, I will ask you: which year is this, brother? You will wonder what this is about. It’s nothing, it’s only a piece of fun. Or I could tell you, in the next few days, whenever you get the opportunity, use your two hands like feet, that is to say, you now have 2 feet + 2 hands; now, if the value of a hand is equal to the value of a foot, then how many feet do 2 hands equal, and how many feet would you have altogether? Are you getting angry? Don’t be angry, this is fun, simply fun. Do you know, for the last few days, I feel that the rear, seat region of my trousers keeps rising and expanding, that hair is rapidly spreading all over my face, my jaw is getting flattened, and two long teeth keep growing out of the two ends of my mouth – I’m wondering whether this too is a piece of fun. What – so you’re not finding it funny? Are you getting bored? Don’t conclude that all fun is like this – merely vegetarian fare; that’s not so, Babumoshai –

Gulp vegetarian fun

There’s also the non-vegetarian bang

Come, tell me on which tree

Do two seed-filled fruits hang?

Ha ha, God! That was really funny, isn’t it? Yes, you will definitely have fun, it was for just such fun that you were waiting all this while. Listen then to another piece of A-grade fun. There’s floods in North Bengal. You’ve gone from Calcutta to undertake flood relief. You’ve taken along rice, daal, clothes and so on. You’ve parked the boat on the bank and are undertaking flood relief. As you’re distributing clothes, you suddenly spot in the distance, behind the clump of shit-babla, a full-grown piece of fun, standing. A girl, concealed by the clump, she’s not in a condition to come to you and take a sari from you. And it’s not possible for her to come out in the open with whatever she’s wearing. All of you saw it, heard it, understood everything; winked at each other. Because the girl is …  Ha ha, God! … Want some more fun? You’re a daily passenger – observe the stations carefully – you’ll have loads of fun. In every station there’ll be middle-aged people, who are bent double, there’ll be two or four unclad, harried mothers with a child on the bosom, there’ll be a whole bunch of naked, hungry children. And right next to them, a meticulously dressed, smart-looking babu – whistling to himself and waiting for the train; a job in Calcutta. There’s fun in statistics too. If Ram earns 1 million rupees a month and Shyam earns 51.50 rupees a month, then calculate the average annual income of Ram and Shyam together. Do it, you’ll have fun. Keep your ears pricked when you travel by bus or tram. There’s fun there too. “Hey mister, why do you forget that the son of a petty clerk is destined to become a petty clerk even if he is an engineering graduate – and the director’s son will become a director even if he fails high school – it’s a peculiar country, mister – such fun the dialogue is, isn’t it? There’s fun like this everywhere. The silver jubilee of India’s independence. The Prime Minister’s speech on the transistor. The haat in Kakdwip. As you’re listening to the speech, you see an old hag who’s come to sell, as her final resort, her two pet ducks. She says she’ll give away the two ducks in exchange for two kilos of wheat-flour. Nobody buys it. Accompanying the silver jubilee of independence is this 2 kilos of flour in exchange for two pet ducks – isn’t it fun? Fun like this is found everywhere. In marketplace, village, town, shop or street. The red flag procession is held up when it confronts His Holiness Sri Sri Bhabataran Baba’s procession. The grandeur of the wedding of Burrabazar’s Hukumchand Nagarmal’s grandson – a car decorated like a swan with flowers – men bearing an array of ornamental lanterns on their heads, bare-bodied, black backs, weary eyes – this causes a traffic jam, half a mile long – trams and buses are all held up. Isn’t it fun? Babumoshai, enjoy the fun – go to Seadah station late at night. You’ll find fun there too. You won’t be able to walk. You’ll tread on people at every step. People come from the village. From nameless towns. Hundreds of them. Thousands. Countless. Even so many years after independence, queues of hapless people come to the station and become beggars. Rows and rows of faces of wives, children and malnourished babies. In the station precincts, in the waiting room, on the pavement – everywhere the same faces. Wives, children, babies. In the middle of the night. In the stilled station. Every now and then, a loud, sharp whistle. The sound of railway shunting. And in the middle of that, a procession of weary, starving faces. There’s fun there too. Just be a bit observant. You’ll see 2-3 policemen waking up all those weary sleeping bodies and taking collections. Do you know what the collection is for. It’s tax. The police have to be paid a tax of 10 paise per head to remain in Sealdah station. There’s fun incidents like this all around. Mohammad Abdul from Baisata, Haran Mandal from Debisabad, Kishore Maity from Baurmal, Banamala from Satguchi, all of them give pay the collection of 10 paise to the police and occupy the station premises. 25 years after independence, look at Sealdah station alone, you’ll find such incidents occur day after day. The area around the station is flooded with starving beggars. The police can’t keep them away. They clear one place and new beggars and from another place fill up the vacant space. The whole station fills up in half an hour. It’s a fun thing isn’t it? There’s fun like this all around. There’s fun to be had in hotel, shop, restaurant … in the Maidan. There’s fun in newspapers. On its left side is printed a picture of a beggar who was found dead on the railway platform. And an advertisement is placed on the right side, a bra-clad, semi-naked, female body. On one side it’s written: Starving Calcutta – 3 persons died of starvation in Sealdah; on the other side: Feminica – guaranteed to bring perfect feminine beauty to your flat chest within 3 months. People see it. They have fun. Fun happens. Fun happens throughout the newspaper. Fun happens all over the station. Fun happens throughout the nation.

Oh my! Blooming flowers in beds so round

Flowers the colour of cowrie

Wild spinach fritters hurry

Fun – fun - fun. One hundred funs, two hundred funs, a thousand funs. Babumoshai, enjoy the fun! Oh my! Blooming flowers …

THE END

[1973]

This is a translation of the original Bengali story, “Babumoshai moja koroon”, by Subimal Misra. Translated by V. Ramaswamy.

Calcutta in the early Seventies

Subimal Misra began writing in the late 1960s. He was a witness to the nightmare of violence and killings that Calcutta lived through during 1970-71. Several of his stories engage with this context. Hence I was keen to know more about this period. I was fortunate to come across the book, Shottorer Dinguli (The Seventies) by Debashis Bhattacharya. I am translating this book now.



During the months of March, April, May and June of 1971, killings were the order of the day. However, it was in south Bengal, and especially in Calcutta and the neighbouring districts where most of this occurred. At that time there were about 200 killings a month. Of these 200, the police committed 130 murders. All naxalites used to be killed. 50 killings were by the naxalites. Of these, 20 were policemen, 20 were police informers, and 10 were CPI(M) workers. The CPI(M) killed 20 a month. Of these 20 murders, 15 were naxalites, and 5 belonged to the CPI. In some cases the principal Congress-man of a neighbourhood was also killed.

Things came to this pass as a result of launching “action” in the cities, following Charu Mazumdar’s dictum, and the spread of “red terror”. Charu-babu used to say that one was not a communist until and unless one’s hands were coloured with the class enemy’s blood. He said, don’t be afraid to sacrifice yourself! The Congress’ goon squad had not yet entered the field. Congress leaders smiled wryly observing the situation in early 1971.

Going through a report of the state home department, one finds that in 1968 there were 9 political murders in West Bengal. In 1969 there were 109. Between 1 January and 31 December of 1970 there were 435. During the four months between 1 January and 30 April of 1971, there were 401. Killings by the police and killings of policemen were not included in these figures. Only killings by and of political party workers had been counted. During the 365 days of 1970, all told, 1247 people were killed in Calcutta. And 1067 people had been killed in the districts.

Between the end of March 1970 and the end of March 1971, there were 142 incidents in the state of seizing of guns and revolvers by naxalites. But between 1 April and 15 May of 1971, within these 45 days, there were 146 incidents. During this period, guns and rifles used to be snatched everyday in Birbhum district. The guns of bank guards were snatched. In April 1971, a squad of naxalites threw chilli powder in the eyes of a Nepali durwan guarding a wealthy person’s house in Alipore in Calcutta, and snatched away the khukri on his waist.

Between March and December of 1970, about eight and a half thousand naxalites were arrested in the state. Of this number, only one person was sentenced by the court. Refusing legal redress, bail, and the various facilities due to prisoners that had been earned after many battles, the naxalites converted the prisons too into arenas of struggle. In the CPI(ML) party’s almost-monthly mini-paper, Deshabrati, writing under the pseudonym, Sasanka, the state committee’s secretary, Saroj Dutta, wrote: The revolutionary prisoners have declared their loathing for the prison walls.

On 14 May 1971, "action" was launched in Dum Dum Jail, and 45 naxalite prisoners escaped. Later, prison officials and police jointly beat and killed 32 naxalite prisoners. More than 90 persons were injured. And on 15 May 1971, 5 naxalite prisoners were killed in Howrah. What was the key to the success of the escape attempt? A comrade wrote a letter to Charu Mazumdar after his escape. He wrote: It’s only because I had learnt to hate and annihilate the centrists that I was able to escape. If the prisoners in all the jails read CM’s tract on centrism, and then try to escape, they will surely be successful.

Today, many of those who broke out of Dum Dum Jail that day get irritated at the very mention of the word ‘politics’.

Two and a Half Gangas

or the Picture of the Crowd Whizzing Past a Man Who Ducked His Head and Took  a Plunge

And all realism itself

Has to be realised from imagination

1. The Death-Line Dweller

The blackish red colour forming on the white basin immediately drew both one’s eyes. It was like a proper abstract painting. The picture of the stomach’s secret sickness rapidly exploded in deep colour over the white surface.

They patrolled, blowing whistles, over the wall that was some five feet above us. When they came near us, we stopped our work of opening the chain and fell silent. But there was no need for such caution. Because it simply wasn’t possible for the watchmen patrolling at that height to discern the presence of a person submerged neck deep in water. The chains in the water continued to make a monotonous clinking sound. Concealing himself under the boat, he advanced and whispered something to me. There was the sound of water lapping the boat, the continuous sound of the water, nothing that he said could be understood. After a while, the ring holding the chain came loose in the fist and pulled by the hidden current the boat too left the shore and floated further and further away. Clutching the chain in my hand, I began swimming along with the tug of the floating boat. After that both of us climbed in. The boat then drifted away from the bank, and steadily made its way to two and a half Gangas. Knocking on the floor-boards, two planks had to be removed, there may be a need for something to paddle with. Not worrying about which direction we were drifting towards, they just tried to ensure that the head of the boat was pointed towards the opposite bank. It was as if he understood our question, right then, as if a navigator’s skill was his birthright. It seemed the rope laid out by him through iron ring would completely secure just this boat.

Hopeless torment and the same detached  despair. The use of the word ‘guerilla’ makes a writer-worker a proletarian and definitely, substantially accomplishes the extinction of the intellectual elite. Because he was of the view that violence, crime and destructive activities were all, in the current world, actually words that reinforced, peace, orderliness and normality. Slowly, like this, he kept exposing this civilization’s pawnbroking and the accumulated hidden games, apparently …

In the middle of all this talk,

suddenly, as if materialising from thin air, a

teenage girl emerged. Clad in jeans and a T shirt,

she looked like something one only saw in Playboy. He stared

greedily. The country’s India, Kolkata.

Tile-roofed slum hutments made up the entire area of Atabag Surkikal. So densely packed together that even daylight couldn’t fully enter the neighbourhoods. Lanes after lanes, ever narrower lanes, a veritable maze of lanes. In an eight feet by nine feet room, enclosed with bamboo matting, fifteen women were cramped together, elderly, young and children. At night they slept by turn. There wasn’t space for everyone to sleep simultaneously. The old father and mother also lived in that very room, besides the two elder brothers with their wives and children. The younger son got married and entered the 8 feet by 9 feet with his new bride. Babies were born, babies died. The children and youth set out at down, in search of wages. Gambling, illicit liquor and drug dens every ten minutes. They grew up in the climate of bomb and bullet battles, abductions and counter-abductions. Video parlours in lane after lane. Pornographic films were shown in broad daylight. Sometimes a scintillating two to five minute clip was added to a current Hindi film. 10-12 year old boys too went in there to appease their curiosity. Sitting beside them were people their father’s or uncle’s age. Even before hair sprouted on their upper lip they became aware that in this line it was very easy to earn. If a few small packets of heroine could be delivered from the main den to the small dens, a crisp, large-denomination note was obtained. Wearing their school uniforms, if they went out with the pouches concealed within the pages of the school books, the babus of the citizen’s committee could not easily suspect them. The police wouldn’t catch them, all that was dealt with by the dealer, through monthly payment arrangements. Lots of easy money lay ahead, as a smuggler, heroine-peddler, supply-man or penciller. To them, all this was part of life, no crime at all.

Two brothers, 10-11 years old – it was three at night then – were playing teen patti under the light of the lamp-post at the head of the alley. Yes, gambling for money. And while gambling, no one was anyone’s brother, the one who won took all the money. Not a penny was spared because someone was a brother. He said: Brother and sister-in-law are asleep now. When they woke up at dawn, he and his brother would get a place to sleep. They whiled away the night in this way, playing cards and so on. No, the police were afraid to enter this lane, so they had no fears on that score.

Firoz did not drink alcohol. However, from morning to night

he kept smoking ganja. Under the banyan tree, immediately behind the

workers’ quarters. He was always surrounded by the

Class IV workers of the slaughterhouse. One of them, Chote Lal, was Firoz’s

right hand man. From morning to night, there was a medium sized jute bag

in Firoz’s hand. The bag was filled four times.

Chote Lal kept the accounts. He made bundles of the rupee notes. After that

the money reached Maqbol Mia’s meat shop

outside the slaughterhouse. Everyone knew Firoz. The operators

were also duly terrified of him. Someone in basti no. 292 called me to the shadows and said: Ganja Firoz is the local Sai Baba. The unofficial agent

of the upper echelons. Even the babus make sure they don’t ever mess

with him. We’re just supply-men! But

his real babu – even if you sat here and undertook penances,

you’d never catch him! He lives in Barrabazar. Money

flows by itself into his bag. Doesn’t have to ask for it.

Firoz also had a side

business. You’d find out if you made just a few inquiries. But

be very careful. I can’t tell you anything.

Where should I look? Try to find Daal Bhaat under

the bridge. He begs, a skinny boy.

You’ll find out from

him. You’ll have to spend a bit of money. Daal Bhaat

was found right under the Lohapul bridge. His actual name

was Baldy. A twelve year old boy. He spoke Bangla

fluently. A restless look in his eyes. One could sense

at first sight that he was very clever. Hey, are you Daal Bhaat?

Cut that out … just say which one you want.

Hmm – smartass … hurry up you! But …

you want a shot, right? Yes. Are you new or what?

Yes brother. Oh, that’s why … There’re three types. For 55, 75 and 100 rupees.

As you’re new, take the 55 rupee one. After buying the stuff, looking this way and that, I gave a crisp 20 rupee note to him as

baksheesh. Found out a

lot of things. ‘Pata’ meant heroine. For the last few years,

Firoz Sheikh had been running this business in the Tangra area.

The stuff came from Altaf,

of Garden Reach. The main hub was the slaughterhouse. Other than that,

Baldy, alias Daal Bhaat, was the medium of sale. I started to leave.

Suddenly Baldy held my right arm firmly,

looking helplessly at my face, he said:

Babu, promise me, you won’t tell

anyone else. Why, brother? That bastard, Firoz, will kill me.

He’ll thrash me and kick me out of the locality. He’s very

powerful, babu. A lot of big folks come in their cars to meet him.

He pays me 15 rupees a day. That’s what

my mother and I survive on. He beats up

my mother too. He forces himself into mother’s bed at

night …

Yes, do you know, this country of ours, India,

became independent 16 hours after the birth of Pakistan.

It was supposed to become independent on 14th August, but

because the planetary configurations on that day were

not convenient, Indian leaders

decided upon independence at 12, midnight.

I observed a lot of girls standing on the balconies of the houses at the corners of the lanes. As we went by, a girl looked down from the window of a house and said: Oh young babu, I say, are you new here? My husband communicated something to her in signs, I couldn’t understand what exactly it was. After a while, he entered a house together with me. A three-storey house. We climbed up a narrow staircase. A medium sized room. Although it was still afternoon, a tubelight was on, the window was shut, it was completely covered by a curtain. A fat, matronly woman sat on the cot, chewing pan. Seeing us, she stood up. Taking out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping the perspiration around his neck, my husband said: Here’s Middle Aunty. And this is Reba. She will be working here in this place of ours from now on. Chewing away on her pan, Middle Aunty replied indifferently: Okay. After that, looking once at my husband and then at me, she said: You sit down for a while. I’ll be back. Middle Aunty left. Setting the fan speed to maximum, he said: You’ve legged it such a long way ever since morning, you must be very hungry. Just wait a bit, I’ll be back with some food. He went out of the room. Although the fan was on full speed, I still perspired. After about five minutes, Middle Aunty entered the room carrying a steel plate piled with food. Eat up, dear girl. After setting down the food, Middle Aunty left the room again. To tell the truth, I was very hungry. I hadn’t often seen so much food at once. At home, two bare meals of dry rotis and gourd curry. I devoured all the food on the plate. There were large sweetmeats, kachoris, chop. The size of the jalebis – pink in colour – dripping syrup! I licked and lapped up and finished everything. We had set out a long time ago, in the morning – travelled by train and bus – hadn’t eaten anything really. After a while, Middle Aunty entered the room with a glass of water. Offering me the glass, she said: Take it. After I’d drunk the water to my satisfaction, she took the glass and plate. You rest here for a while now. There’s work to be done. Before I could ask her anything, Middle Aunty left the room and went away.  I was all alone in the empty room. I wondered where my husband had gone. Would I get the job! As I was thinking about all this, suddenly Middle Aunty arrived, pulled the door shut, latched it from outside, and left. A strange fear seized me. I hoped I hadn’t  fallen into a bad place. I had come through so many narrow lanes, the whole place had seemed strange to me. Thinking along these lines, I wept. Then I began to knock on the door. Where are you – why did she shut the door – do open the door, Aunty … oh Middle Aunty – where has he gone – open the door … I fall at your feet. I banged at the door. Finally, using both my hands, I pushed and shook the door. In a little while the door really opened. I saw a huge man standing in the doorway. Bushy hair on his head. A thick moustache. Bare-bodied. His chest covered in black hair. He wore a short dhoti, tied like a loincloth. Looking at him, it seemed his body was made of steel. He pushed me and threw me on the bed. Why are you shouting? From his speech, I made out he was a non-Bengali. I began to cry, and said to him: Where is my husband? He brought me here saying there was a job vacancy in a company. Oh yes … so what if he brought you? Why don’t you sit quietly? I began to cry even louder, and said: Let me go! I don’t need anybody. I’ll go by myself. The non-Bengali man laughed and said: But you can’t go away! As soon as he said that, the man lifted me up, threw me down on the bed, shut the door and latched it. I trembled in fear. Even my tears dried up in the face of the fear of the worst. The non-Bengali man said: What’s your name? I remained silent. Hey, why are you silent? Why don’t you tell me what’s your name? Full of fear, I replied: Reba. Tsk, tsk, what a sweet name! Re-ba! I broke into tears again and fell at his feet. Please let me go! I beg you, let me go! The man began to laugh. He said: Let you go – oh no! This is Ali Baba’s cave. It’s not easy to reach here. And going away is also very difficult. Once you enter this place, you can’t leave. Do you know what the name of this place is? I shook my head. The man said: This is Sonagachi. Where women … I mean … Shocked, I mumbled: But my husband told me about a job in a medicine company … As if he were robbing even my words, the man said: Yes, of course, this too is a medicine company. The babu who gets you will come to you, and you will keep that babu happy with medicine.

A branch of a dead tree had been planted.

on the stony earth of a

hill.  A sanyasi

came everyday and watered the base of that dead

branch and prayed that

it came back to life. After a long time,

one day the dead tree did actually come back to life again,

living branches covered with leaves spread out

towards the sky. In the beginning of his film, Sacrifice,

Tarkovsky tells us this fairy tale.

On the 26th of July, a senior officer of the Reserve Bank of India, Mr Krishnatre, went to receive his son, at half past nine at night. He drove his car to Howrah Station and parked his car in the parking lane between platforms 8 and 9. Almost at once, a black Ambassador car arrived beside his car. Just as Krishnatre and his wife and daughter got off from their car and advanced a few steps, four youths sprang out of the Ambassador, with daggers in their hands. After three of them pounced on the three family members, they resisted and began shouting out. The girl was struck by the dagger of one of them and wounded, but she hung on to the sleeve of his shirt. The wife too frantically resisted another. So that no one from nearby came forward to help them, the fourth person raised his revolver, threatening anyone who dared. This incident went on for over twelve minutes. A crowd formed all around, but no one dared to come forward to help. Despite their utmost resistance, the gang took the mother and daughter’s valuables and left. The distance between the spot where the incident took place and the office of the railway police was 15-20 yards. Even though there had been so much of screaming and shouting, over such a long spell of time, no policeman came there. After the incident, Krishnatre ran to the police and identifying himself, said: They are running away! If they’re chased they may well be caught! The police didn’t pay any heed to that, and after questioning them for half an hour, finally snapped out: Why do you set out wearing so much gold and ornaments? Theft and robbery is bound to happen.

On Tuesday something fantastic happened on the first day of the law examination in Calcutta University. The examination was to start at 12 noon. Around half past ten, a bunch of students, both male and female, could be seen clambering up a drain-pipe beside Asutosh Building, making their way up to the first floor. Climbing up to the verandah, they would make their way to and enter the examination hall and occupy their preferred places in advance. They would tear up the pasted seat numbers and sit wherever they wanted. Boys and girls entering the examination hall clambering up a drain-pipe – what’s so great about that scene – see a lot of that in films. Within a few minutes after the exam started, the gates of Asutosh and Hardinge Buildings were closed and locked. There was a sizeable police deployment outside each gate. But from the direction of Medical College, from across the street, books were supplied, one after another, via a rope line. Pedestrians stopped and stared in astonishment at the scene. A crowd formed. Another group standing outside went about distributing the answers to the objective questions. The police on duty, their backs turned to the scene, were busy kneading tobacco in the palm of their hands. A few exam candidates could be seen standing on the verandah and writing on their answer sheets. At the meeting of the University Syndicate, one member raised a question about the law examination. The spokesperson interrupted him and said: The exam took place quite peacefully. There was no trouble anywhere.

The fourteen year old boy, wearing a checked shirt, looked quite clever and smart. It was evening and Teddy, sitting in his pad on Mirza Ghalib Street, introduced me to him, puffing on his long, imported cigarette. I wanted to know what he did. Without any hesitation from seeing a pyjama-punjabi clad Bengali babu, he answered in fluent Bangla. He ran a business. However, the business was a bit of a secret. He had with him whores of all ages and races. Of all ages from 15 to 30. He ran the business through them. When I asked to know what this business was like, at first he looked suspiciously at my pyjama-punjabi. Then, finding reassurance in Teddy’s eyes, he said, twirling an almost imaginary moustache: These aren’t ordinary streetwalkers, Sir, all are pedigreed females. Contacts are made with babus over the phone. I supply girls regularly to garden-houses, parties, and even in offices. Taking out a bulky envelope from his pocket, he said: I have photos – do you want one? A college-educated, beautiful girl? With a sexy figure – can sing Rabindar Sangeet well. A person like you will really like her. Take her and go for a weekend to Diamond Harbour or Digha. Go and have fun. No diseases, Sir – no AIDS.

2.  The things that enrage me –

     All the things that make me sick

22nd of November, 1988.

In Khatra 2 Block, of Bankura district,

In the primary health centre

The day Sriram Bauri’s wife’s newborn child

Was eaten up by dogs …

What’s the use of such momentarily enraged writing – after just a while

the anger would wane

Put your arms on the two sides and lie down on the ground. Yes, on the ground, because … because in this country, there is the touch of the soil in your advance, this fact has always to be explained to the people. Oh, how alluring the term “touch of the soil” is! From politics-wallahs to intellect-wallahs, everyone is instantly captivated. This time you have to lie down and walk at the same time. That means raise your arse from your hips and as you bring it down again forcefully, keep raising it up. Ra-i-se. Observe how, in this country, to be in front, continuously, to attain progress’ highest peak, you can advance simply by lying down. Are you thinking of keeping your image bright? There’s no point in thinking about that, the image shall be there once you’ve progressed. If there remains a nagging doubt in your mind, then just have the juice of raw turmeric everyday, regularly, and on an empty stomach. From time to time, mix cucumber and lemon and smear it on your face and let it dry on its own. Scrub and wash your face, first with slightly warm water, and then with cold water. Observe how bright and radiant your darkened face has become. Gaze at the full moon that’s risen today, it’s so large.

From the sweepers’ colony, late this evening, the loud screams of a pig being slaughtered float down. Surely a red hot poker was being inserted  in the pig’s anus right now. Dinu Thakur began to clean Mother Kali’s tongue, using oil paint. Kali puja every Saturday – and Kali Puja is our public festival … Where’ll I find the kerrysin to light the lamp? What does the gormin provide? Utter two words and you are labelled a naxalite. Yes, of course, it’s been a long time since man went to the moon, and brought back moon soil. Was shown in this very Calcutta. Yes, Mr Editor, I feel repulsed by your mention of ‘interview’, it’s like the daily piss and shit that I don’t care a fuck about, about which bastard said what. Basically I am not a bhadralok, and the biggest tragedy is that I have to put on the appearance of a bhadralok all the time. To show my subjection to my wife, I wear rings with huge gemstones on my fingers, or else there’s disharmony in the family every day. For me, the word “India” is just another word – actually, I have no experience of its existence – and yet one has to express one’s belief in an undivided India – otherwise the police will catch you, they’ll make you forget your dad’s name. And to tell the truth, you know what – this is what’s called surviving like a fucking asshole.

When Erendira’s grandmother is murdered, you see a green tent floating away, green blood …

I pressed the face down and then I landed a kick on the stomach. The writer person had been frightened by the sudden assault. As soon as the kick landed he was thrown on the street. A groaning sound emanated from his throat. The jhola-bag on his shoulder had landed a few feet away. Books and papers scattered here and there. The pen in the pocket on his chest had also fallen away. The way it had been ordered – running my hand under his pyjamas, I squeezed it very hard. So hard that it burst and just after that …

3. Awaiting Human Relationship

    The very complexity of relationship

Interrupting Avinash, Abhay babu asked: Where’s the lady now? Not there. What do you mean not there? She’s gone out, Sir. Gone out? Yes, she told Maheswar that she was going to the riverside for a stroll. When did she go out? Oh, that would have been at about a quarter to six or so. For that’s when Maheswar mops the verandah. She had told him before leaving. What did the lady look like? Oh, you could say she was quite beautiful. Slim figure. An intelligent look in the eyes and face. What would be the lady’s age? You can’t be sure with women – let’s say 24-25. She was wearing a brown and white, printed, silk sari. She looked nice in that. The most exceptional thing was the lady’s hair. Although there was a faint line of sindur in her centre parting, the plait of her hair … I mean, reaching past the buttocks … not just long but also so neatly tied. When she was walking away, with her back to me … Will you stop! Don’t you have anything else to say other than describing the lady’s body, hair and buttocks? But Sir, you told me then … Tell me what happened after that? Oh, nothing much. In the evening I spotted Harihar babu and Titir Devi in front of a paan shop. Harihar babu was buying a paan. After that? After that I didn’t see anything to speak of. But at about 10 at night, Arun came and infomed me that the gentleman was apparently sitting at home and drinking. I told him not to talk about it. After all, anyone can drink, people do drink too nowadays, but if they don’t engage in any drunken behaviour, there’s nothing we can do. All these babus waste their money according to their whims and moods. Drinking itself is a ’tatus symbol now. It’s best we don’t bother ourselves with such trivial matters. Another thing Sir, I was absolutely right. They didn’t create any commotion. Rather, they had Arun get them some mutton curry at night. That’s enough, you don’t have to jabber anymore. Please send Arun. As soon as Arun entered the room, Abhoy babu shouted at him: Hey boy, how did you know the gentleman had shut the door and was drinking inside? You have a habit of eavesdropping, do you? Oh no! What do you say, Sir! It was I who fetched the soda and the potato crisps. What was the lady doing there? She was sitting on a chair and swinging her legs. Do you know this lady, boy? She’s a frequent visitor when boudi isn’t around. And? And what – when I bought the soda and crisps the gentleman said, do shut the door when you go out. I don’t know anything more than that. What did you see in the morning, boy? When Maheswar asked me to delay fetching tea, I did not attach any significance to that. For the babus do guzzle booze and so on at night, they sleep like buffalos till eight or nine in the morning. And as soon as they wake up, they say, get me a cup of strong coffee, will you. Did I ask you about all that, boy? No Sir. Then why do you jabber such nonsense? Tell me what you saw when you went into the flat in the morning. As soon as I opened the door, I saw that the fan and light were on. And then my eyes fell on the bed.

As soon as their eyes met, she called the boy with a gesture of her hand. Sarala had gone to get milk. The door was open. The boy galloped up to the flat. What’s the matter, boudi? She stared at him fixedly. Like Mithun, he too had a well-toned body. The boy felt shy. Boudi, were you saying something to us? Oh … yes … I mean, would you please exchange my book from the library? Why wouldn’t I do that? Give it to me, I’ll go and do it. Come, come inside. She called the boy in and took him inside. She made him sit right on the bed. Appearing to look for this and that, she asked: What’s your name? You didn’t mind that I called you, did you? What do you say, boudi – I’m an unemployed fellow – I while away the time chatting at the kerb of the neighbourhood. You’ll get Siddharth whenever you call. And you’re not supposed to come unless I call you, is it? No, I mean you are all alone the whole day, so for me to come out of the blue … It’s because I’m all alone that you should come. Time just doesn’t seem to pass for me. Your dada leaves early in the morning and returns at ten at night. Besides exchanging books, you could also surely come to chat for a while.

Tell me Ghosh babu, did you hear any altercation or fighting or any kind of sound from the adjacent flat last night? I did hear something. Sitting up on his chair, Ajoy babu asked: What did you hear? Quite a bit of noise, like a scuffle. But not too loud. Despite hearing it, I didn’t pay any heed. At that age there’s bound to be some scuffling sound when a boy and a girl are in bed. When one’s older … What else did your mistress tell you in the morning? She just said I’m going for a walk along the riverside. Yesterday night your babu had a pain in the chest. He went to sleep very late. Don’t bother him now. Give him tea at about nine. I’ll definitely be back by then. What was your mistress wearing? Oh, a brown silk sari. Carrying anything? A bag, I mean a ladies handbag. Okay. Do you suspect anything about the woman? No Sir, everything seemed to be alright. As always, her hair flowed down her back. Of course, my mistress’ hair is something to see. What else? And how women adorn themselves. But she hadn’t put any lipistick. It’s lipstick, boy. That’s all Sir.

On that ill-fated night, the man returned quite late. Handing me the tea kettle he was holding, he folded up his umbrella and put it down. He shut the mat-door of the shop carefully, took out two cups from inside, with handles gone, and poured tea and held the cups out towards me. Here, sip it while it’s hot. There’s no milk, I brought liquor tea with ginger. The wife made it, on a dung fire. There may be a slight smoky flavour. But don’t worry about that. You’re wet, you’ll feel better. He himself sipped a cup of tea first. Making an ‘aah’ sound, he said, the tea’s really well made. Strong and sweet. It’s hot. Here, take it, take a sip. It won’t be nice if it’s cold. Middle daughter came a few days ago. There was just a little bit of milk in the morning for my grandson. I said the milk was needed for tea. The wife said, on a cloudy night like this, it’s better to have strong liquor tea with ginger rather than tea with milk. So as soon as I heard that it’s better I brought the liquor tea.

Mark today’s date on the calendar. If we get married 2-3 months later, the baby will be born 2-3 months earlier. Don’t suspect me then. I said: Yes, mistress, I’ll remember that. Wrapping a towel of mine around herself, Titir went into the bathroom. But she didn’t latch the door. There was the sound of the shower. Titir was humming a tune. After about half an hour or three-quarters of an hour, she emerged. She looked like a marble sculpture. The upper part of the impossibly fair-skinned breasts was wet. Changing into her clothes and swathing her wet hair in the  towel, she came and sat beside me. She said: I’m terribly hungry. But I don’t want anything hot or hard. Just a Thums Up. I was about to get up to order that. Titir held my hand and drew me towards her. She said: Sit down. I need to talk to you.

Boudi! Oh boudi! Subodh entered the room, panting. What happened? You don’t love me any more like you used to. Why? What gave you that idea? Because earlier you used to talk to me in an intimate way, but now you don’t. Oh, is that it? But are you still a little boy like you were before? You’ve grown so much – why, after a few days you’ll bring a colourful, sparkling bride home! Is it appropriate to be so intimate now? It is! If you really love me then it is appropriate to be intimate. Okay, okay, … now, tell me, what news have you brought? There’s two things. The first is that Dung-lady is dead. And I’m leaving, taking a train tomorrow night. Oh no! Dung-lady was such a nice person! All day long, she wandered around gathering dung, rapt in herself, and at night, lighting a lamp, she used to plaster dung on the wall till 10 at night! Tell me Subodh, the day I too suddenly die, what will you do? Yes …but only if I let you go, isn’t it? I’ll hold you so tight that … Saying so, Subodh hugged boudi with both arms. What are you doing … crazy boy … let me go … it’s hurting … oh yes, where are you going on the night train? To Tatanagar, as part of the office team, to play. I’ll return after a week. What will you bring me? A load of iron! Why’s that? What’ll I do with iron? There’s no alternative. Nothing’s available there other than iron. Okay, I’ve got to go now … a lot of packing to do.

Mummy … hey, mummy, see what sister’s given for Anasuya Didi! Where, let’s see … but this is a very expensive sari! That’s what I said too. Sister said you don’t have to worry about that … take it and go. Alright, go, don’t be late returning. … I miss Mummy terribly today. From the day she first learnt about their love, she explained so much. She’d say, nobody is happy after a love marriage. All that’s a couple of days’ allure. Youthful attraction, pure and simple. Mummy used to say clearly: After enjoying you for a few days, that love shall not remain. What you’re now crazy about, that very thing will in future seem to be your biggest mistake. And so it began. After that, for several months, like a seasoned actor, I went on acting with him.

Ultimately, on the pretext of having some fun, I dragged Barun to a hotel in Sealdah. Before that, in conversation, I had tried to explain to him that I was glad Titir had left. I reasoned that she was jealous of this love between Barun and me. My succinct words, repeated day after day, had such an impact on Barun that on that very night, after drinking heavily, he couldn’t control himself any longer. With consummate acting, I revealed more and more of the alluring feminine form to him. My skills of deception drove his excitement higher and higher. At the man’s vital moment, drawing myself away, when I repeatedly asked about Titir, in his intoxicated state, Barun blurted out a lot of things to me. Emptying the last dregs of the bottle in Barun’s glass, I carried on my consummate acting. I pretended to drink from the same glass. Then I held out the glass to him. Barun badly wanted to have me close to him now. I pretended to go close to him. I went into his arms. It seemed Barun wanted just this all along. Trying to show manly recklessness with my body, he easily lost all control. I just gnashed my teeth and waited. A man like this, those who usually drink once in a while, for pleasure, after so much of alcohol went into their stomach, they could not be normal at all. I knew that. I quietly observed that gradually Barun’s limbs were turning cold. His speech slurred. The acrid fumes of alcohol made me nauseous. Yet I waited patiently to fulfill my objective. Within five minutes, he lay sprawled on the bed, snoring away noisily, like an animal. The drawstring of his pyjama was completely loose.

I gather you have lots of questions. Take Burroughs’ writing. It’s composed of a kind of cut-up. What happens if I make that cut-up into my kind of cut-up? Again, even if I did the cut-up following the normal process of cut-up, where would things stand? How much of difference is there between the two?

No one is visible but the gate opens slowly. The inner circle and the inner most circle. The starter’s gun explodes. In the flash of an eye a group of three or four crossed the first hurdle. He was not among them. He found it extremely difficult to cross each one of the hurdles. Even before crossing the thirtieth hurdle, I saw two or three people had finished the race.

THE END

[1995]

This is a translation of the original Bengali story “Aarai Gonga” by Subimal Misra. The story appears in the collection Sotyo Utpadito Hoy (Truth is Manufactured), published by the author, Calcutta, 1997.

Translated by V Ramaswamy