Tag: Bengali

Essay

Moving Images of Tagore

By Ratnottama Sengupta

Rabindranath Tagore spells different things to different people: National Anthems; the Nobel, Rabindra Sangeet, a veiled woman, Sriniketan or Santiniketan. A cineaste might think of Charulata or Kabuliwala, Chokher Bali (Best Friend) or Kadambari. But the subject ‘Tagore and Cinema’ would mean talking of Tagore’s exposure to cinema, his interest in the medium, the fate of his involvement with celluloid, the films based on stories penned by him, their interpretation in a world that is so far removed from his, in historical, economical, and cultural terms… In other words, it would mean talking of what about Tagore endures — and why it reaches out to the wide world of humanity.

To me, it is Tagore’s awesome, inspiring humanism that offers us immense scope to transcreate, reinterpret, relocate the socially relevant developments and rooted characters again and again onscreen. Like Shakespeare, his works are universal in terms of age, geophysical location, terrain of the mind and tugs of emotions…

Rabindranath was almost seventy when he exhibited his paintings that were so radically different from the style associated with the Tagore family artists, Abanindranath, Gaganendranath, Sunayani Devi, or Nandalal Bose. For, if the Bengal School looked East and sought inspiration in delicate miniatures, Chinese watercolours or the sparseness of Japanese zen, Tagore absorbed the boldness of German expressionism and created a unique style. It’s impossible for someone so open to avant garde trends to take no interest in cinema, the 20th century art form that was silently taking its juvenile steps in India when Tagore won the Nobel.

When he visited Russia, he watched Battleship Potemkin, the classic ‘handbook for editors’ (to quote Phalke winner Hrishikesh Mukherjee) that influenced a long line of filmmakers in India too. By 1931, the year when Alam Ara (Hindi) and Jamai Shasti’(Bengali) turned ‘movie’ into ‘talkie’, Tagore was in the last decade of his life. So, when he directed Natir Puja (The Dancing Girl’s Worship) at New Theatres, he was substantially assisted by Premankur Atorthi, who was the first to direct a film based on a Tagore composition. This was the only time when the Renaissance personality directly interacted with the celluloid medium. His nephew Dinendra wrote the screenplay, albeit under Tagore’s guidance, and students of Santiniketan acted in it. More importantly, Tagore himself essayed an important role in the dance-drama which was shot with a static camera over four days. However, the result was more a staged play than cinema. A greater tragedy is that the reels perished within 10 years, when a fire ravished the New Theatres Studio in 1941.

Atarthi’s own direction of Chirakumar Sabha (1932) set off a tradition that received a robust boost, first in the 100th year of the poet’s birth, and again in 2011, when he turned 150 and further. If literary treasures like Gora (1938) and Chokher Bali (1938) were adapted onscreen by Naresh Mitra and Satu Sen, they were remade and reinterpreted by Rituparno Ghosh who veered towards Tagore rather than Saratchandra, the more popular litterateur of Bengal who was a staple of Tollygunge for years. In fact all major names of Tollygunge, from Nitin Bose, Agradoot, Tapan Sinha, to Purnendu Pattrea, Partha Pratim Chowdhury and Rituparno Ghosh have announced their coming of age in cinema with a film based on a Tagore composition.

It is interesting to note that when Tagore visited Russia in September of 1930 members of the Cinema Board who had a conversation with him regarding his “new film stories” were deeply impressed by the short versions of the stories (as narrated) by the Poet, and they met him at his hotel to discuss in detail the possibilities of filming them. Tagore himself had enough interest in cinema to visit the Amalgamated Cinema Union, where he was received by its president M Rutin and was shown Eisentein’s Battleship Potemkin and portions of Old and New, we learn from his Letters from Russia.

Although evoking the Bengal of his time in divergent hues, Tagore’s stories continue to inspire man to go beyond divisions of nation, religion, caste or gender, perhaps because they explore how society shapes our love and relationships. This essay dwells on films that highlight the pervading themes of feminism, humanism and universalism in Tagore’s literary works.

Not Slave, Nor Goddess

The champion of women tells us to enunciate aami nari, I am a woman … with pride, because a woman is not a slave nor needs to be the other extreme, a goddess. That it is right for a woman, whether young, maiden, or widowed, to be a person of flesh and blood. That Tagore empathised so deeply with his women characters that today’s social historians are talking of an androgynous strain in the humanist.

* When Satyajit Ray filmed Ghare Bairey (The Home and the World), we got a glimpse of the regressive practices that ailed even the wealthy and educated households. However the most symbolic scene was the one where Bimala is inspired by Nikhilesh to step out of the inner quarters of the zamindar’s household. Even Sandip, the false god, hails it as a ‘social revolution’. Tagore the author goes on to criticise the pseudo rebel but at no point does he criticise Bimala — not even when her sister-in-law cautions Nikhilesh about the freedom his wife is abusing. We find a repeat of this theme in Char Adhyay (Four Chapters) – but we’ll come to that later.

* Chokher Bali, first filmed in 1938, turned the spotlight on the deprivations young widows were subjected to even after the reformist crusades of Raja Ram Mohan Roy and Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar. Very sympathetically, and most aesthetically, it held a brief for their sensuality — even sexual needs, especially when Rituparno Ghosh filmed it in 2003. But even here, before Mahendra’s mother dies, she urges that in her memory he should host a feast for widows — “people feed Brahmins, beggars, even animals, but never for the unfortunate widows,” he underscores.

* Nitin Bose’s bilingual Noukadubi was probably the first to take Tagore to Hindi cine-goers. Incidentally Rituparno and Subhash Ghai’s Noukadubi were also bilingual. In 1944, Milan afforded Dilip Kumar opportunity to mature as an actor, for here Ramesh upholds the flag of humanism. After being boat wrecked he comes home with Kamala, the ‘bride’ he has not deigned to look at, and realises that she is in fact someone else’s wife. The gentleman in him decides to take her to a convent and give her not just protection (from a par purush, stranger) but also proper education — even at the cost of his own spotless reputation and his chances of finding happiness with his beloved, Hem Nalini.

* In Charulata (1964), although Satyajit Ray continues to unfold her story from Amal’s point of view, his sympathy without reservation lies with the lonely wife. For half a century and more viewers have no doubt that Charu was an alter ego for Tagore’s Natun Bouthan – his sister-in-law Kadambari Devi, who took her own life. This story has inspired Bandana Mukherjee’s Srimati Hey and Suman Ghosh’s Kadambari (2015). Ray underscores this aspiration aspect in the film when Charu writes, gleaning from her experiences, and her writings are published in a magazine. This was unthinkable in the 19th century — and only a deeply humane soul could understand that a woman too needed to express her intellectual and creative self. (This aspect is completely missing in Charulata of 2011, directed by Agnideb Chatterjee, although it unfolds from the woman’s perspective and unabashedly speaks of her physical intimacy with Amal.)

* For Tagore, perhaps the stifling of this intellectual self was as great a tragedy as the ‘burying’ of her potentials within the walls of domesticity. In the poem ‘Sadharan Meye’ (Ordinary Girl), he urges his contemporary Sarat Babu to write a novel where the protagonist — a scorned woman — goes on to study, travel abroad, re-valued by several admirers, including the man who ditched her for being an ‘ordinary’ woman. The core thought of this poem had inspired a script by Nabendu Ghosh, an altered (and unacknowledged) version of which was made by Hrishikesh Mukherjee as ‘Pyar Ka Sapna’ (Dream of Love, 1969). In recent times the theme has been most successfully revisited in Vikas Bahl’s Queen (2014).

* In Megh O Roudro (Clouds and Sunshine), Rabindranath’s short story creates a protagonist whose struggle to affirm her dignity in the British ruled 19^th century prompts her to read and write under the tutorship of a stubborn law student who is jailed for constantly challenging the discriminatory ways of the imperialists. By the time he is released, she is a prosperous widow who courteously acknowledges his role in her achieving self-confidence. In 1969, Arundhuti Debi, herself raised in Tagore’s ethos at Santiniketan, chose this for her second outing after Chhuti (Holiday) and her lyrical treatment brought her recognition as a director of substance.

* But what happens when a woman cannot fulfill her destiny, as in Streer Patra (A wife’s Letter, 1972)? How did Rabi Babu want his Mejo Bou — haus frau — to behave when the acutely male dominated household turns a blind eye to the injustice of marrying off the hapless orphan Bindu to a lunatic? Not drown her woes in the vast ocean at Puri but to slough off, in a moment of illumination, the shell of ‘Mejo Bou’ and become Mrinal, a woman with .her own soul and individual identity Why must she end her life like his Natun Bouthan — “Meera Bai didn’t,” he points out. And to us, even by today’s standards, it is the ultimate expression of feminism.

* Perhaps because of the class she belonged to, and with the support of a rebellious brother, Mrinal could do what Chandara couldn’t in Shasti (Punishment, 1970). Tagore knew that neither his ‘Notun Bouthan’ nor his own wife Mrinalini got the opportunities enjoyed by his ICS brother’s wife. Far from it: Chandara’s husband Chhidam places the burden of his Boudi’s death at the hands of his elder brother on his wife. In the prevailing patriarchal society it wasn’t unthinkable: a wife was expendable because you could get another, but not a brother. But the unlettered Chandara has her own estimation of the sanctity that is the conjugal bond. When her husband comes to meet the wife condemned to hang, she denies him the right of visitation by disdainfully uttering a single word: “Maran!” How should we read it today? Go, drop dead or go hang yourself!

* Jogajog (Connection) was written in 1929 in a society where there were caste/ class distinctions even amongst zamindars. Tagore had first-hand experience of this within his family. His crude protagonist is a johnny-come-lately who seeks revenge by marrying the educated and cultured Kumudini. He cannot stand any expression of respect for her brother and feels belittled at the slightest hint of will in his wife. Matters go so far that in the 2015 film, director Sekhar Das can effortlessly trace moments of marital rape in their conjugal discord.

* Chitrangada had poised the question: where lies a woman’s true beauty – in her outward appearance or her inner worth? Should the princess, raised to be as good as a prince, deny her essential self to please a man? Or is she wrong to sacrifice her being for one she loves? In 2008, Rituparno Ghosh gave a whole new androgynous reading of the dance drama, with Madan/ Cupid becoming a psychoanalyst.

Child — The Father and Mother of Man

Robi, who immortalised his childhood in Chhelebela (Boyhood), could never forget the restrictions imposed by adults and the suffocating effect it had on an imaginative soul. Therefore in Ichhapuran (Wish Fulfillment,1970), directed by Mrinal Sen for the Children’s Film Society of India, he effected a role reversal whereby their bodies get swapped. The naughty child Sushil becomes the father and the senior who covets the youthfulness becomes the free spirited son.

The comical confusion this ensues in the village leads both to realise the importance of their individual positions in life. They get back to their original self with the profound lesson for humanity – that each one of us has a place in the world no one else can ever fulfill.

* Of course the best known child in Rabindra Rachanabali (Creations of Tagore) is Amal. Essentially Dakghar (Post Office) was a testimonial against the crushing of childhood Tagore suffered. In the recent past actors Chaiti Ghoshal and Kaushik Sen have proved the enduring appeal of Dakghar — she in the form of a recorded audio play (CD); he on stage. Chaiti Ghoshal interprets the protagonist she had played with Shambhu and Tripti Mitra not as a Rabindrik character but as any child today, familiar with cricket and computer. Manipur’s Kanhailal has used elements of dance and drama to reinforce this message of freedom beyond frontiers. And, following the 2007 police firing in Nandigram (that killed 14 persons who were opposing state officials on land acquisition drive), Kaushik Sen had interpreted Amal’s desire to send a letter as a message to every household to raise awareness.

Sen’s Dakghar, then, was not about death but about liberation from life in bondage. “Perhaps that’s why, a day before Paris was stormed during WWII, Radio France had broadcast Andre Gide’s French translation of the play,” Kaushik had said while staging the play. “Around the same time, in a Polish ghetto, Janus Kocak had enacted the play with Jewish kids who were gassed to death soon after.” After such multi-layered readings of the text, Dakghar as filmed by Anmol Vellani in 1961 remains a simplistic viewing — perhaps because it was made for the Children’s Film Society.

* In The Postmaster the child – an illiterate village girl in this instance – metaphorically becomes a mother and a priya , or beloved, of the pedantic city boy who is stirred by beauty of the moon but can’t wait to go back. When he falls critically ill she dutifully serves him and cares for him like a wife. When he is set to depart by simply tipping her with silver coins, the child with a maturity beyond her years refuses to say goodbye. Rejection doesn’t need words: she can negate his very existence by her silence.

* Samapti (Finale) the concluding story of Teen Kanya (1965) remade by Sudhendu Roy as Upahaar ( The Gift, 1975), builds on the flowering of a woman in an unconventional girl child. Mrinmoyee is certainly not a Lakkhi Meye…a good girl , she’s a scandal in rural Bengal of 100 years ago. She escapes her wedding night by climbing down a tree, she spends the night on her favourite swing on the riverbank, she snatches marbles from her friend, a boy… When they try to tame her by locking her up in a room she throws things at Amulya. But when he returns to Calcutta and she’s sent back to her mother’s, she realises grown up love for the man she’s married to, and sneaks into his room by climbing the same tree!

* Buddhadev Dasgupta had woven Shey from Tagore’s late novel written for his granddaughter, and then scripted a feature based on 13 poems by the bard. When we read a poem, certain images arise before our mind’s eye. The director interprets Tagorean poetry through such images and experiences. “It is about how a poet responds to another poet,” he explains.

Of Zamindars and Servants

Robi, the ‘good for nothing’ youngest son of Debendranath, had to prove himself in his father’s eyes by successfully performing the job he was entrusted with – that of collecting taxes, ‘khajna’, from the ‘prajas’, subjects, no matter how impoverished they were. We all know that in doing the job he came across a vast cross section of people of the land whom he would not otherwise get to know so intimately. And while he could not be lenient as his father’s representative, he created caring characters like the zamindar in Atithi ( The Guest) who brings home a vagabond, gives him education, and even prepares to give his daughter in marriage to the free spirited boy whose restless soul drives him away…

* But having seen the reality of the lives of the subjects Rabindranath also created uncaring zamindars like the one in ‘Dui Bigha Jami’ (Two Bighas of Land) that had inspired the Bimal Roy classic Do Bigha Zamin (1953), set in a post-independence India that was rapidly industrialising. Debaki Bose attempted a more literal visualisation as part of Arghya, his Centenary Tribute to Tagore, along with his poem ‘Puratan Bhritya’, (Old Retainer).

* Robi, the motherless child who was raised in a large household in the rigid care of servants, said ‘Thank You’ to them through characters like Kesto, the old family retainer who refuses to leave even when he’s dubbed a thief or driven away. Instead, he saves his master from small pox at the cost of his own life. Tagore, in fact, goes a step further in his short story, ‘Khokababur Pratyabartan’. The trusted servant even raises his son to eventually give him up as the master’s child lost to a landslide in the river!

Oppression of Religion

Pujarini (Worshipper) was immortalised by Manjushri Chaki Sircar’s dance. Although set in the revivalist times of Ajatshatru who was set upon putting the clock back and wipe out the Buddhist tenor of his father Bimbisara, we can easily identify with Rabindranath’s condemnation of any excess – violence in particular – in the name of Religion. Visarjan (Immersion) too raises consciousness against violence in any form, against even animals, in the name of religion.

* Nor can we overlook instances where he raises his angst ridden voice against the inhuman treatment of humans on grounds of caste or creed. In Chandalika, the untouchable gets a new mantra to live by when the Buddhist monk Ananda says “Jei manab aami sei manab tumi kanya (You, lady, and I are part of the same humanity).” The act becomes a beacon for Sujata, the eponymous protagonist of Bimal Roy’s film, who is on the verge of ending her life (following casteist discrimination).

* Tagore’s poem called ‘Debatar Grash’ (God’s Greed), lashes out against the cruelty people can unleash through the heart rending plight of the mother whose child is snatched from her and thrown into the raging waters to appease the villagers superstitious belief in god’s wrath. Shubha O Debatar Grash (Shubha and God’s Greed, 1964) remains a signature film of Partha Pratim Chowdhury.

* Tagore questioned the very concept of belonging to ideological boxes. His time-transcending novel, Chaturanga (Four Quartet), points out that human experiments (like, say, Communism) have failed because they put ideology in watertight boxes that do not have any room for flexibility. This inspired Suman Mukhopadhyay to film it in 2008. Tagore, who himself created walls and broke them, questions this through Jyathamoshai, his uncle, and Sachish, who invite Muslim singers and feed them at shraddha or funeral as much as through Damini, whom Sachish wants to domesticate much against her wish. She even questions her husband’s authority to will her away along with his property, to his religious guru. Tagore uses the graphic imagery of a hawk and a mongoose that Damini has as her pet (it is well known that these animals cannot be domesticated).

Nationalism to Internationalism

‘Where the world has not been fragmented by narrow domestic walls, and the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habits: into that heaven of freedom’ Tagore, forever and always, wanted his compatriots to awake. That is why Nikhilesh, in Ghare Bairey, does not condone violence even in the name of nationalism. That is why he decries Sandip, who uses the passion of young freedom fighters and the wealth of the poor to fill his coffers.

Beware the false god: Tagore repeats the criticism in Char Adhyay. In 2012 Bappaditya Bandopadhyay revisits the novel filmed by Kumar Shahani in 1997, the golden jubilee of Independence. But Ela’s Char Adhyay review it for its politics, its backdrop of ultras and violence, for the debate that acquired a new validity in the world after 9/11. Tagore was much in favour of non-violence, so much so that he criticised the nationalist movement too when it turned violent. How much of a visionary he was to ask a full century ago: “What will be the state of the nation that is based on violence?”

Young filmmakers are amazed by Tagore’s vivid criticism of the deterioration of party structures although he himself never belonged to any party. Sarat Chandra’s Pather Dabi (Demands of the Path), written about eight years before Char Adhyay, had taken a populist stand while Tagore didn’t hesitate to say through the protagonist Atin, ‘I am not a patriot in the sense you use the term.”

* That Rabindranath was against any form of regimentation is well established. His play, Tasher Desh or the land of cards, perhaps, written to criticise the submission of the conscience in Hitler’s Germany, remains the ultimate critique of regimentation. Directed by Q in 2012, the text layers his criticism of contemporary society by “trippy” visuals. By Q’s own submission, it is a “quirky” retelling of the Tagorean allegory.

* Gora (directed by Naresh Mitra in 1938) goes further: He bows to his adopted mother, hails her as his Motherland and says, every child is equal for a mother, she does not differentiate on any ground. Tagore here gives us a blueprint for an ideal Republic where a hundred flowers can fill the air with a hundred different colours.

* Perhaps the ultimate example of Tagore’s humanism is Kabuliwala, directed in Bengali by Tapan Sinha in 1958 and in Hindi by Hemen Gupta in 1961. An Afghan selling his wares in a Calcutta 150 years ago and striking a friendship with a child who reminds him of his own daughter back home, is a story that will strike a chord in anybody, anywhere in the world, at any given point in time — even in a world swamped with internet, chat rooms, mobile phones and multimedia messaging.

All of this reiterates the ‘forever-ness’ of Tagore. It also redefines the need to interpret his farsightedness, his comprehensiveness, his universality for our own times, in our own terms. Tagore himself had observed in a letter: “Cinema will never be slave to literature – literature will be the lodestar for cinema.” So we may conclude that since Tagore was primarily delving into human emotions, into the psyche of men and women placed in demanding situations that forced them to measure up to social, political, cultural or gender-based challenges, films based on his stories not only continue to be made but find an ever-growing audience in the globalised world.

(Courtesy: Tagore and Russia: International Seminar of ICCR 2011 held in Moscow. Har Anand publications, 2016. Edited by Reba Som and Sergei Serebriany)

Ratnottama Sengupta, formerly Arts Editor of The Times of India, teaches mass communication and film appreciation, curates film festivals and art exhibitions, and translates and write books. She has been a member of CBFC, served on the National Film Awards jury and has herself won a National Award.

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Tagore Translations

Aparichita by Tagore

Written in 1916 by Rabindranath Tagore, ‘Aparichita’ is a short story featured in his ‘Golpo Guchho’ (A Collection of Stories). It has been translated from Bengali by Aruna Chakravarti as The Stranger.

Goplo Guchho, a collection of 95 short stories was originally *published in five parts by Indian Publishing House from 1908-1909*

The Stranger

I am twenty-seven years old today. My life has been unremarkable, so far, both in terms of length and quality. Yet it is not without value. It can be compared to that of a flower on whose breast a honeybee had nestled once, leaving behind a faint glimmer that germinated and swelled into a tiny ball of fruit.

Something similar happened to me. The encounter was brief; almost ephemeral. In chronicling the events I shall be brief too. But make no mistake. Though short, my story should not be passed over unread. Those who take the trouble to go through it will find meaning in it.

I am well educated. I have passed all my college examinations with ease. I am good looking too. When I was a child my school masters would mock my pretty face. Simul phul they would call me. Makal phal. Simul is a flower and makal, a fruit. Both have gorgeous exteriors but are of no use to anyone. The first is totally lacking in fragrance and the second in flavour. I would shrink with shame and resent the unfairness of these remarks. But as I grew older, I told myself that if another birth was granted to me, I would like it to be a replica of this one. My face should be as handsome and those of my schoolmasters as twisted with derision as when I was a lad.

My father had been poor once. In later life he made a lot of money. However, his profession as a lawyer demanded so much time and effort that he never got a chance to enjoy any of it. He must have heaved a sigh of relief when he died. For the first time he had been granted a rest.

My upbringing was left to my mother. Having come from a poor family she never lost sight of the fact that she was a wealthy woman. Nor did she allow me to do so. As an infant I remember being carried long after I had learned to walk. As a result, I never really grew up. I still look amazingly young for my age. I could easily pass for the elephant headed god’s younger brother nestling in his mother Annapurna’s lap.

After my father’s death, my maternal uncle took charge of our affairs and became my guardian. Mama[1] was only six years older than me. But, like the parched sands of a subterranean river, he steadily sucked away everything we had… assets, liabilities, hopes, cares, dreams and aspirations. The draining had been so thorough that we were unable to access anything on our own. We had to dig into him for every drop. In consequence, I lived a life totally shorn of responsibility.

Fathers of marriageable daughters could not but consider me a good catch. I had no bad habits. I’d never even touched tobacco. I was simple and good tempered. That’s because being simple and good tempered made life easy for me. I obeyed my mother because I lacked the guts to disobey her. I was prepared to allow this quality full play in future. Girls permitted to choose their own husbands would do well to keep this in mind, when making their choice.

As soon as the time was ripe, marriage proposals from the best families started to pour in. But my uncle, who was the Chief Agent of the Dispenser of my Destiny, had very definite ideas of what constituted a good match. The girl had to come from an impoverished family for only then would she keep her head bowed and be humble and obedient. On the other hand, what was the value of a daughter-in-law who didn’t bring a substantial dowry? My uncle’s requirements were simple. The father had to be poor yet ready to give him all the money he wanted. He must be the kind of man Mama could milk with ease yet wasn’t obliged to treat with respect. One who wouldn’t complain if he was offered tobacco in the coconut shell hookah meant for subordinates instead of the lordly silver albola he smoked himself.

My friend, Harish, works in Kanpur. On one of his visits to Kolkata, he said to me, “O hey! Speaking of brides, I know an excellent girl.”

I was in a state of limbo at the time. I had passed my M.A. some months earlier. Now there was nothing for me to do. I didn’t have to study or look for a job. Nor was I required to poke my nose into any of my financial affairs. No work, no worries, no opinions were expected of me. A desert of indolence and inactivity stretched before my eyes. I was consumed with thirst for something; someone… I had no idea who or what I was searching for.

In this frame of mind Harish’s words struck a chord in me. My mind and body trembled with an unknown emotion — the way newly budding leaves on the boughs of a bakul[2] tree shiver and quiver with the first warm winds of spring, throwing dancing patterns of light and shadow on the ground. Harish had a romantic side to him, and he spoke with tenderness and passion. He described the girl in words that fell like a sweet shower on my shrivelled soul. I looked at him with star struck eyes, “Why don’t you speak to Mama, Harish?” I begged.

Harish was ready to oblige. He was a great entertainer, and everyone enjoyed his company including my uncle who, once they sat down to a chat, was loath to let him go. Mama, of course was more interested in the girl’s father than in her. From Harish’s description he came to know that, though wealthy once, the gentleman was now in straitened circumstances. However, there were still some good scrapings left in the pot of gold bequeathed to his family, years ago, by the goddess Lakshmi. Unable to keep up the lofty standards set by his forefathers, he had decided to leave his ancestral village and settle in a small town in the west where no one knew him and he could live a simple life, without worrying about lost prestige. He had just this one daughter, no one else, so he wouldn’t hesitate to pour the contents of the pot into the hands of one who ensured her happiness. What could be better? My uncle was thoroughly convinced that this was the man he was looking for.

So far so good. But there was one worrying factor. The girl was fifteen. Why had she been kept unwed for so long? Was there some flaw in the family? “Arre na na[3]” — Harish hastened to explain. The father was very picky. He hadn’t found anyone he considered worthy of her, so far. He didn’t mind waiting till the right boy came along. But the girl’s age did. Refusing to stop at her father’s command it had marched on at its accustomed pace. Harish’s ability to charm his listeners and lull their fears, worked. Mama was persuaded to look into the proposal.

Mama considered any place outside Kolkata to be as alien and exotic as the islands of the Andaman. The furthest he had travelled in his life was to Konnagar. If he had been Manu[4], he would have forbidden the crossing of Howrah Bridge, in his Samhita[5], for who knew what dangerous territory lay beyond it? There was no question of his leaving Kolkata, so my cousin Binu was sent to Kanpur to conduct the negotiations and, if all went well, seal the new relationship by a ritualistic blessing of the bride. Mama had full faith in Binu da[6]’s good sense, good taste and sagacity. I would have liked to go with him and see the girl but couldn’t summon up the courage to ask for permission. I didn’t even dare ask to be shown a photograph.

Binu da returned satisfied. “She’ll do…,” he muttered, “pure gold.”

He tended to speak in monosyllables and was extremely reticent in his praise. Where another would have exclaimed “Wonderful!” or “Excellent!” he mumbled, “Not bad”. His “She’ll do” was ample affirmation. It was clear to all of us that Fate had smiled on me. Prajapati, the God of marriage, had given the nod.

As was to be expected, Mama decided that the wedding would be held in Kolkata. The resultant effect was the bride’s father was forced to make all the arrangements in a city of which he knew nothing. Shombhunath Babu was a handsome man of about forty. There were traces of silver in his whiskers though not in his hair which was black and plentiful. He had the kind of good looks that compels attention even in a crowd. The immense trust that he reposed in Harish was evident from the fact that he agreed to the marriage without seeing me. He set eyes on the one who was to be his son-in-law only three days before the ceremony.

I fervently hoped that he liked what he saw. It was difficult to tell. He spoke little in a very soft voice and listened quietly when Mama’s tongue wagged vigorously with exaggerated accounts of our wealth and status and our reputation as one of the first families of Kolkata. I squirmed with embarrassment under that gentle, probing gaze. But Mama’s enthusiasm would not be dampened. He went on and on. He probably assumed, from Shombhunath Babu’s subdued voice and manner, that the man was spineless and easily intimidated. The thought must have filled him with glee for, in fathers of brides, this quality was deemed a virtue. He remained seated when his guest rose to take his leave. He didn’t think it necessary to escort him to his carriage.

The cash component of the dowry had been agreed upon already. Mama, who prided himself on his extraordinary skill in negotiation; his well-honed ability to extract the best deal for himself in any given situation, now turned his attention on the quality and quantity of jewels that would adorn the bride’s person. Polite but pointed questions elicited the response he desired. Enough would be given to satisfy the most determined of blood suckers. I had no idea of what was going on between the two guardians. To tell the truth I wasn’t interested. Financial affairs were not my business. Besides I was confident that, in any battle of wits, Mama would emerge the winner. It mattered little that we didn’t need the money or that Shombhunath Babu was being squeezed dry. I was proud of Mama as were we all.

The turmeric ceremony was conducted with a lot of fanfare. So many trays of gifts were sent to the bride’s house with so many maids and servants carrying them, that doling out the necessary tips must have been a financial drain on her father. Exchanging gleeful remarks about the poor man’s distress and helplessness, Ma and Mama had a good laugh.

The wedding day arrived. The bridegroom’s procession was led by a mighty concert of drums, trumpets, flutes and fiddles. This set up such a pandemonium of discordant sounds that the noise could be compared to a stampede into Saraswati’s lotus garden, by a herd of mad elephants, violent enough to force the goddess of music to flee to safer havens. Covered with brocade and precious gems, I looked exactly like a jeweller’s shop in the middle of an auction. I had to prove to the bride’s father, had I not, the worth of the son-in-law he had had the good fortune to acquire? It was a battle of prestige and I rushed headlong to win it.

Mama was not impressed by the wedding venue. The assembly hall, to which the bridegroom’s party was ushered, was small and the seating somewhat constricted for the number of guests we had brought. The arrangements were on an ordinary scale, hardly befitting our family’s wealth and position. He was also a bit miffed by Shombhunath Babu’s behaviour. He found it strange. Rather cold and distant. If it weren’t for another man’s servile bowing and scraping, oily smiles and folding of hands, Mama might have felt incensed enough to walk out of the house with the bridegroom in tow. This was a lawyer friend of the bride’s father—a hulk of a man with a huge bald head and a very dark complexion. That he was in charge of the logistics was obvious from the greasy sheet he had wrapped around his middle and the cracked voice that was clearly the result of having shouted orders all day. The good thing was that, unlike the bride’s father, he was aware of the niceties of social behavior and what was owing to the groom’s party. He smiled and swayed his heavy head at everybody and addressed strings of flattering words to each, from the cymbal player in the band to the most distinguished of the wedding guests.

Shortly after our arrival Mama took our host aside and whispered something in his ear. The two walked out of the room. I don’t know what transpired between them but, within a few minutes, Shombhunath Babu returned. “Babaji!” he said, “Your presence is needed. Please come with me.”

The problem was a simple one. Some persons, not all, are ruled by a single compulsion. Mama was one of them. He had a goal before his eyes of which he was determined never to lose sight. This goal, he would never forgive himself if he failed to reach it even in the tiniest degree, was that he would never allow anyone to get the better of him. He had a horror of being cheated. The bride’s father had promised a good amount of jewellery. But could he be trusted to keep his word? The man seemed somewhat tight-fisted judging from the tips and return gifts the servants, carrying the turmeric, had brought back with them. Who knew if the bridal ornaments were of the weight and purity of gold promised? The sensible thing to do was to have their worth assessed before the rituals commenced. To wait till after the ceremony would be an exercise in futility. Thus, with due caution and good sense, he had included our family goldsmith in the wedding party.

My future father-in-law led me to a small room. It was empty, except for Mama who was seated on a chowki[7], and the goldsmith who sat on the floor with his scales, weights and touchstones spread out before him.

“Your uncle wishes to have the girl’s jewels tested before the ceremony,” Shombhunath babu looked at me with a strange expression in his eyes. “What do you say?”

I hung my head in silence.

“Why should he say anything?” Mama answered for me. “It’s what I want that counts.”

“Is that so? Do you endorse your uncle’s statement?” The gentle, thoughtful gaze unnerved me. Not knowing how to respond I tilted my head expressing assent. Financial affairs were handled by guardians. What right did I have to interfere?

“Very well.” Shombhunath Babu murmured. “The trouble is…it will take some time to remove the jewels. The bridal toilette is complete, and my daughter is wearing them already. Had I known….no matter… please stay here till I return.”

“Why?” Mama cried out surprised. “Why should he stay here? Go back to the hall, Anupam, and join the others.”

“No.” Shombhunath Babu’s voice was soft but firm. “He will stay here.”

He left the room and returned after half-an-hour with a bundle wrapped in a gamchha[8]. Spreading out its contents on the chowki, he invited the goldsmith to begin his examination. The goldsmith’s practiced eye told him the worth of what he saw in an instant. “There’s no need to examine anything,” he said, “The gold is hundred percent pure. Not a trace of alloy. Look.” Picking up a bangle he pressed it gently. A tiny dent appeared. “These are obviously from a bye gone era. Nothing like this is fashioned anymore. The girl’s grandmother’s perhaps?” He threw a questioning glance at our host.

The moment he heard this Mama whipped a notebook out of his pocket and started listing the ornaments one by one. He had to make sure that everything he had been shown would find its way into the family vault. A pleased smile appeared on his face. They were far more in number and of greater weight than he had expected.

Now, Shombhunath Babu picked up a pair of earrings from the pile. “Kindly examine these and let me know their value,” he said. The goldsmith turned them over in his hands. “Bought from an English shop,” he curled his lips disdainfully, “They have hardly any gold to speak of.” Shombhunath Babu took them from him and handed them to Mama. “Keep these with you,” he said. Mama’s face flushed a deep red with embarrassment. They were the earrings he had sent with Binu da for the bridal blessing.

“Go Anupam.” He tried to recover his composure. “Go sit with the others in the assembly—”

“No. No.” Shombhunath Babu interrupted smoothly. “There’s no need to go to the assembly hall just now. Dinner, for the bridegroom’s party, has been served and your guests have proceeded to the dining area. Let me take you there.”

“What!” Mama exclaimed, “Eat now? Before the ceremony begins…?”

“The auspicious hour is far off. Why wait till then? Please come with me.” There was something in his voice, a strength that came from a long habit of command, that compelled obedience. Mama rose meekly and followed him out of the room.

The meal, though not ostentatious, was well-cooked, neatly served and plentiful in quantity. The guests ate to satiety and were well content. Shombhunath Babu invited me to join them, but Mama was aghast at the suggestion. “What nonsense!” he cried forcefully, “How can the bridegroom sit down to a meal before the rites have begun?”

Shombhunath Babu ignored the outburst. “What do you say?” His eyes looked into mine thoughtfully. As though he expected a reaction. Any reaction. But I remained silent. What could I say? How could I go against the express wishes of my uncle and guardian?

“Very well then.” Shombhunath Babu turned his attention back to my uncle. “You have taken a lot of pains and come a long way,” he said pleasantly. “My hospitality, I’m afraid, has not met the standards your illustrious family is used to. I’m a poor man. Please forgive me. I do not wish to trouble you any further.”

“It’s alright. It’s alright.” Mama waved his hands in the lordly manner he used to reassure his inferiors and demonstrate his generosity. “Let the ceremony begin. I’m ready…”

“It will take a few moments for your carriages to arrive. Kindly wait till then.”

“What!” Mama’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Is this a joke?”

“You are the one who has turned a serious affair into a joke.” Shombhunath babu answered calmly. “How could you even think that I would steal my own daughter’s jewels? What sort of people are you? I am sorry but I cannot give my daughter in marriage to a family like yours.” He looked straight into Mama’s eyes ignoring me completely. He didn’t glance at me even once or try to gauge my reaction. He seemed to have made up his mind that I was nothing.

What happened after that? As was to be expected the groom’s party shouted and cursed, broke the furniture, smashed the chandeliers and having completed the carnage to their satisfaction made their way home. The band that had pronounced its entry into the wedding venue with such a cacophony of sounds now slinked along the streets in funereal silence. The lamps had burned out and the only light that guided the mournful procession came from the stars.

The rest of the family was wild with fury. Had anyone even dreamed, let alone seen or heard, anything like this? Such arrogance in a bride’s father! What did the man think of himself? “Let’s see how he secures another match for his precious daughter,” the women cried out to one another, “The world doesn’t run according to his whims and fancies. Wait and watch. He’ll be taught the lesson of his life.”

Which was all very well. But what was the point of cursing a man with the eternal spinsterhood of his daughter if he was prepared to keep her unwed all her life?

In the whole of Bengal, I was the only bridegroom with the distinction of being turned away from the wedding venue. I, who was so eligible! Such an excellent catch! And to think that the stigma stamped on my brow had followed such a jingoistic display of wealth and status from our side! Everyone was laughing at us. Mama’s breast burned with rage and humiliation. The thought that stung him most cruelly was that the wily father of the bride had outwitted him. How cleverly he had managed to feed him and his party, keeping them in his debt forever, before sending them packing! The insult was not to be borne. “I’ll sue the scoundrel for defamation and breach of promise,” Mama shouted as he stomped about the house. “I’ll make sure he spends the rest of his days turning the grinding stone in jail.”

At this point some of his well-wishers stepped in. If he tried anything of the sort, they warned, he would lose the few shreds of dignity he had left. The farce would be complete.

Needless to say, I was fuming too. “If only some disaster were to strike the man,” I thought over and over again,” he would regret his folly and come rushing to my feet begging for forgiveness…” I wished fervently for something terrible to happen. I lined up all kinds of possibilities tugging at my whiskers in nervous anticipation.

Yet, running parallel to this dark stream of hate and malice, was another. Irradiated with light. My thoughts had been submerged in its waters all these months and would not be dismissed. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t pluck out the image of the unseen maiden which had taken root in my heart. Her face had possessed me entirely and continued to do so. I saw a brow adorned with sandal paste. Cheeks flushed a deep rose in shy expectancy. A form draped in red silk, glittering with jewels. In the fantasy world I inhabited she was a golden creeper, ready and waiting to shower her wealth of spring blossoms at my feet. One moment, another step, and I could have claimed her. But the moment had stretched to eternity. A mighty wall had appeared between us, and I had lost sight of her…

Ever since Binu da’s return from Kanpur I had made it a point to visit him, every evening, and pester him with questions. Being extremely economical in language and expression he had said little. Owing to that very fact, perhaps, the few words he uttered sent sparks flying into my soul and set it aflame. I was overwhelmed with a sense of the girl’s beauty. It was not of this world. It was ethereal.

I had waited patiently for the moment when the imagined would transform to reality. When I would see, with the eyes of the flesh, what I had only dreamed about. But alas! Fate had beguiled me with false hopes then dashed them to the ground. A thick veil of mist had risen between us. She had disappeared beyond it, and I was left on the other side, lurking like a ghost.

The girl had been shown my photograph… so I’ve heard from Harish. I’m sure she approved of what she saw. Why wouldn’t she? My heart told me that she has kept it hidden in a secret drawer. And on lonely afternoons, secure in her room with doors and windows locked against prying eyes, she would take it out and look longingly at it. I saw her bending forward to examine it more closely, her beautiful hair falling on both sides of her face in long shining strands. And the moment she heard footsteps, she would hide it quickly in the scented folds of her sari.

The days passed, one by one. No one mentioned marriage. Mama was still nursing his grievance and Ma thought it preferable to wait till people have forgotten my humiliation.

Harish told me that good matches were found for the Kanpur girl, but she had taken a vow to remain unwed. The news filled me with elation. My inner eyes could see her… pale and worn with longing for me. She ate little and that, too, when she was forced. Dusk[9] would set in but she would forget to braid her hair. Her father looks at her and wondered. “What has happened to my girl? Why is she so changed?” Sometimes, he would walk into her room and find her sitting by the window, her eyes streaming with tears.

“What is the matter Ma?” he would ask tenderly. “Tell me the truth. Is something troubling you?”

“Why, no Baba.” She wiped her eyes quickly and rose to her feet. “Nothing is wrong.”

The father’s heart would sadden. She was his only child. His pride and joy. How could he bear to see her thus? How could he stand by and watch a delicate bud, just about to open its petals, wilt and wither in the hot dry winds of a rainless summer? He decided to swallow his pride. He would rush to our door and beg pardon with abject humility…

After that…what?

The stream of hate that lay coiled within me unwound and stretched to its full length. “Tell the girl’s father to make fresh arrangements,” it wouldhiss like a poisonous snake. “Let lights blaze and guests arrive from far and near. Then, just when the rituals are about to commence, gather the bridegroom’s party together and walk out of the wedding venue with a smile.”

But the other stream, pure as a lover’s tears, appeared before me in the form of a milk white swan. “Set me free,” it pleads. “As I flew to Damayanti’s[10] garden, aeons ago, so let me wing my way to the beloved one and whisper the joyful tidings in her ears.”

The dark night ended, new rain fell, the drooping flower raised its face. The wall crumbled and made way for me. Only me. The others were left behind. And then…?

My story ended here.

But no. It wasn’t the end. I’ll come to the point at which it was left hanging and conclude my narrative.

I was accompanying my mother on a pilgrimage to some holy cities of the north. I had been entrusted with the task since Mama, as I’ve said before, was so averse to travelling that he hesitated to even cross the Howrah Bridge. Tossed this way and that by the swaying of the train, I slept fitfully, dreams dancing in shards in and out of my head. Suddenly, it came to a halt, and I awoke. My eyes beheld an expanse of light and shadow the like of which I had never seen before. I was still in the throes of my dream, I think, because everything looked remote; unreal. I felt I was in another world. Only the few lamps burning on the station platform seemed vaguely familiar.

I turned to Ma who lay sleeping on her berth, the green curtain shielding her eyes from the light. Boxes and bundles, dislodged from their places by the movement of the coach, lay scattered. I hadn’t come out of my dream fully, perhaps, because even this common place scene appeared surreal in my eyes. The scattered objects, the dim green light…I felt I was floating in a space between existence and non-existence.

Suddenly the silence of the night was broken. “Come,” someone cried out, “Come quickly. There’s space here.” My heart leaped upon hearing the Bengali language spoken in a feminine voice. Was what I had just heard a string of words? Or was it a song? I wondered at myself. Did I react the way I did because the voice belonged to a member of the opposite sex? No, I’m quite sure that wasn’t the reason. Perhaps I had been yearning to hear my mother tongue through all these months of staying away from my roots. Have I heard anything like this before? I asked myself, feeling awed and humbled. Opening the window, I looked out. There was no one there. The guard waved his lantern and the train started to move.

All my life I have found myself being moved by a beautiful voice. Beauty of face and form has its own attraction but the human voice, I’ve always felt, expresses that which lies deep within the soul. Though I could see nothing with the outer eye a form started taking shape within me. Like a star-studded sky which wraps one in its folds but does not brush the skin, it slid deep into my soul making music as it went. You who are so perfect; so complete! I called out to that divine melody. You bloom like a flower on the bruised heart of a capricious age and let its winds pass over you. Yet not a petal is blown away. Not a speck appears on your pristine purity.

The train picked up momentum. The rattle was as metallic as before, falling like strokes on an iron drum. But, strange to say, it made music in my ears. There’s space here… I heard with every beat… there’s space here. But was there a space? In this self-absorbed world did anyone concede space to another? Did anyone know the truth about another? Yet, this not knowing, I was convinced, was a web of mist; an illusion. Once torn apart all would stand revealed. Recognition would be complete.

“ I know you,” my heart murmured to the one who was once a stranger, “I’ve known you from the beginning of time. You called out to me, ‘Come quickly,’ you said. I’ve come to you. I haven’t wasted a moment.”

I couldn’t sleep the whole night. At every station I opened the window and looked out, fearing that the unseen one would depart unseen…

We got down, the next morning, at a junction station where we had to change trains. Since I had reserved seats in a first-class compartment, I was not worried about being caught in a crowd. But the sight that met my eyes filled me with dismay. The platform was choc a bloc with sahebs and their orderlies. Some army general, out on a pleasure trip with his cronies, was waiting for the train which arrived, a few minutes later, crammed with passengers. I realised that travelling first class was out of the question and felt a stab of anxiety. Where, on this crowded train, would I find place? I ran up and down the platform peering into every window when a girl, standing at the door of a second- class compartment, called out to my mother. “Why don’t you come to our coach? There’s space here.”

I looked up startled. The same voice. The same words. There were only a few moments left for the train to leave. I helped my mother up then, climbing in, I called out to the coolies to stow the luggage. Just then the train started moving. Overcome with panic I stood helplessly, not knowing what to do. Who was worse equipped than me to deal with a situation like this? But the girl, with extraordinary dexterity, snatched the boxes and beddings from the hands of the running men and flung them on the floor. In the commotion of the moment, an expensive camera of mine was left behind. I made no effort to retrieve it.

What happened next? A perfect bliss pervaded my being of a kind impossible to put in words. How shall I even begin to describe it? Stringing a bunch of words together seems meaningless. They would express nothing.

The music I had only heard so far had assumed a shape and appeared before our eyes. I glanced at Ma. She was staring at the girl with such rapt attention that not an eyelash flickered.

She was about sixteen or seventeen. But the shy diffidence of approaching womanhood, so common in girls of her age, sat lightly on her. Her gaze was clear and unflinching, her gestures free, and there was a purity in her face and form the like of which I had never seen before. Not a trace of timidity or unease marred the natural grace of her movements.

What I felt at the time went beyond what I saw. To tell the truth, I can’t even recall the colour of the sari she wore. All I remember is that she was dressed very simply and that I was filled with a sense that externals held no meaning for her. She rose, slender and upright as a tuberose stalk, above the plant that had given her birth. Above the earth in which it was embedded. Her fragrance was hers alone and came from within.

I sat in one corner, my eyes glued to the pages of a book. But my ears were keenly attuned to the excited voices of the little girls who were travelling with her. I marvelled at the way she became one with them. Though considerably older she was totally at ease, and they laughed and joked merrily together. The little ones had an illustrated storybook out of which they were pestering her to read a story. I gathered, from their chatter, that they had heard it several times yet wanted to hear it again. I understood why. It wasn’t the story. It was her voice they wanted to hear; the golden voice that reinvented as it went along and made everything sound new. That, springing from the heart like a fountain, filled their ears with music. I found myself responding in much the same way. Her presence made my sun shine brighter. My sky was more intimate in its embrace. My heart was washed by the pristine waters that emanated from the one who was still a stranger…

At the next station she beckoned to a vendor and bought an enormous cone of spiced gram which the whole party proceeded to eat with gusto. My nature was so hedged in by restrictions that, though tempted, I couldn’t bring myself to ask for some. “Stupid me!” I thought, “this was my chance of speaking with her. Of letting her know I wanted something from her…”

The moment passed.

From the expression on Ma’s face, I realised that she was puzzled. She couldn’t decide what to make of our travelling companion. The way she was wolfing down large handfuls of the crunchy mixture, that too in the presence of a male, was surely reprehensible in a girl of her age! Yet, and this too I saw in Ma’s eyes, one couldn’t really think of her as shameless and greedy. There was an innocence about her, a lack of self-consciousness that proclaimed the fact that, though adult in years she was a child at heart. Perhaps she didn’t have a mother and hadn’t been taught the niceties of feminine deportment. Ma is not a garrulous woman. She cannot converse easily with strangers. I could see that she wanted to find out more about the girl, but her natural reticence stood in the way.

The train stopped at a large station and a group of sahebs, clearly belonging to the general’s entourage, came in. Striding purposefully up and down the compartment they scanned the seats with eagle eyes. There wasn’t an inch of extra space and they left.

A few minutes later a railway employee, a native, entered with two name cards which he proceeded to hang on the seats we were occupying. “These are reserved seats,” he told me, “You’ll have to move to another compartment.” Ma’s face turned pale and even I felt a pang of apprehension. But before I could say or do anything someone spoke in Hindi. “No,” the familiar voice was cool and confident, “We won’t give up our seats.”

“You’ll have to,” the man answered roughly, “There’s no other way.”

The girl left the train and returned with the station master, an Englishman who was clearly embarrassed by what he was being forced to do. “I’m sorry,” he looked at me with a rueful smile, “But these seats are—”

I rose to my feet and started walking towards the exit calling “Coolie! Coolie!” as I went. Suddenly I had to stop in my tracks. The girl was standing before me. “No,” she said firmly, “You’re not going anywhere. Please return to your seat.” Turning to the station master she said in flawless English, “That’s a lie. These seats are not reserved.” Plucking the name cards off the seats she flung them out of the window.

The man who had been allotted the seats was standing at the door instructing his orderly to stow his luggage. He stared in shock at the cards flying out of the window and, unable to meet the fire raining eyes, turned away. Plucking at the station master’s sleeve he whispered something in his ear. I have no idea of what transpired between them. All I know was that the departure was delayed for a while and a new coach fitted to the train.

Kanpur station arrived. Our travelling companions rose and started gathering their belongings. My mother, who had sat in silence all this while, could hold herself in no longer. “What is your name Ma?” she asked.

“My name is Kalyani.”

Ma and I threw startled glances at one another.

“Your father?” Ma’s voice was a whisper.

“He’s a doctor. His name is Shombhunath Sen.”

CONCLUSION

Setting my mother’s wishes firmly aside, disobeying Mama’s express command, I went to Kanpur. I met Kalyani and her father and apologised on my own and my family’s behalf with folded hands. The latter’s heart seemed to melted but the former remained firm in her resolve. She would not marry.

“Why not?” I asked.

“I follow my mother’s command.”

But she didn’t have a mother. I was wild with desperation. Was there another maternal uncle, then, lurking somewhere? Was history repeating itself?

It didn’t take me long to arrive at the truth. Her mother was Bharat Mata. After the fiasco of the wedding, she had taken a vow to dedicate herself to her country. And how better to do that than spend her life educating girls of the land?

But I did not give up hope. A stream of music, the like of which I’d never heard before, had crept into my ears from out of the dark and seeped into my soul. That exquisite melody played in my heart, all day long, like the strains of a flute from another world. It became the lodestar of my being; the refrain of my life-song.

I was twenty- three then… I’m twenty- seven now. I have shed my uncle. He is no longer part of my life. And my mother, perhaps because I’m her only son, has preferred to remain with me.

If you are under the impression that I nurture hopes of marriage–you are wrong. All I live for is hearing that voice speak the same words There is space. Of course, there is space. There has to be. If there wasn’t, where would I find the ground to stand on?

Years have gone by. I’ve stayed on here. I see her from time to time. I hear her voice. She entrusts me with small tasks, and I carry them out. This is the space I’ve needed and dreamed about. “O stranger!” my heart calls out to her, “you will forever remain a stranger for there is no end to knowing you. Yet I’m grateful. My destiny has been kind to me. It has granted me the space I’ve yearned for all my life.”

[1] Maternal uncle

[2] Spanish Cherry tree

[3] Oh, no no!

[4] Manu was the author of Manusmriti, a Hindu text dating back to ancient times

[5] Manu Samhita is an ancient lawbook authored by Manu

[6] Elder brother

[7] A low stool

[8] Traditional thin, coarse cotton fabric often used in lieu of a towel

[9] Traditionally, women were supposed to tie their hair especially in the evening.

[10] Nala Damayanti, a story from Mahabharata, where the couple were parted before they were reunited.

Aruna Chakravarti has been the principal of a prestigious women’s college of Delhi University for ten years. She is also a well-known academic, creative writer and translator with fourteen published books on record. Her novels Jorasanko, Daughters of Jorasanko, The Inheritors, Suralakshmi Villa have sold widely and received rave reviews. The Mendicant Prince and her short story collection, Through a Looking Glass, are her most recent books. She has also received awards such as the Vaitalik Award, Sahitya Akademi Award and Sarat Puraskar for her translations.

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Tags Aparichita, Aruna Chakravarti, Bengali, Daughters of Jorasanko, Jorasanko, Rabindranath Tagore, Sahitya Akademi award, Sarat Puraskar, The Inheritors, Translation, Vaitalik Award

Stories

Gandhiji by Nabendu Ghosh

Translated from Bengali by Ratnottama Sengupta

The sun went down.

One after another the lamp posts in the winding lane sprung to life. Their brilliance was dimmed by the smoke from the homely clay oven, sigri. The darkening sky above got dotted by a glittering star or two. And that is when Ratan’s feet became unruly like a wild steed. Donning a mulmul kurta he got ready to go out for the evening.

Jasoda had entered the room to pick up something. She came to an abrupt halt.

“Off?” she asked, her voice laced with sarcasm. “Can’t stay put at home any longer, can you?”

Solemnly Ratan nodded his head. “Yes, just need to take a round.”

Jasoda knitted her brow, “Just take a round? Chhee! Don’t do that. Pour some down your throat too, okay?”

“Jasoda!”

“Why? Am I saying something wrong, haan[1]? Something not quite done?”

Ratan did not utter a word in reply. He only glared at Jasoda for a second before walking out in rapid steps.

He didn’t stop until he reached Jatin’s house. His friend Jatin who sells fish every morning and evening. He has no family save his aged mother – he had married but his wife died years ago, and he made no attempt to have another after that.

They all gather in his house – Haaru, Potla, Jaga, Radhu and a few others. Since most of them are in the business of selling fish or meat, they have cash in their pockets. They easily turn uproarious as mutton chops and prawn cutlets stream in to enhance the pleasure of downing country liquor.

In a room foggy with fumes of cigarette, they settle down to a few games of card. They play as long as they feel like; when they don’t want to, they storm the cells of Gendi or Bunchi in the dark of the night. Or, when they are told to, they dive into the alleys of the Muslim neighbourhood and toss a few hand grenades.

Yes, the responsibility to curb the riot – a euphemism for hunting down Muslims – has suddenly come to rest on their able shoulders. They didn’t anticipate or expect it to, but it did. All of a sudden the wealthies of their end of the city started to pamper them. They raised funds through donations, to arm Ratan and his friends with small weapons so that they could protect the prestige of the Hindus, and of the womenfolk.

The way things were going, this was bound to happen. They had outdone everyone in severing head from the torso of walking talking men.

They were all there. Haaru, Potla, Jaga, Radhu – all of them had showed up. Ratan lent the final touch.

“Come in saala[2], come!” Jatin affectionately welcomed him.

Laughter and banter followed.

There was a sudden lull in the spate of riots that had been on sporadically for a year since the Direct Action Day, and had got a spurt when the country won its freedom on 15th August. But God knows what went wrong? All of a sudden the darkness of hatred started to melt, and the two warring units that had been at each other’s throats, suddenly saw themselves in the mirror: they embraced each other in brotherhood.

Since that day their ‘work’ had gone down. Further calm has descended since Gandhiji appeared in the city. He is camping in Beliaghata. He has been saying that he will not go anywhere until there is peace. Why, he has even staked his life! He will give up his life if he has to, to stop the riots! That is why Ratan and his company are spending more hours in downing liquor and visiting the sluts in the forbidden quarters, singing in their hoarse voice and walking with unsteady steps.

The chops and cutlets from Nitai’s shop were hot off the oven. The air thickened with the smell of blended oil. And their eyes sparkled with the spirit.

“Abey Jatin, get the bottles out…” Ratan urged.

“Haan bey,” Jatin was most willing to oblige.

A bitter-sharp smell spread through the room. The earthen cups filled to the brim were emptied in no time. The world before their eyes started dancing like a flame. Nasha… stupor.

“Bring out one more bottle, saala…” Ratan nudged Jatin.

“Haan bey, I will…”

“Arre call for more chops and cutlets.”

“O-K-K Sa-a-la…”

Jaga suddenly sprung to his feet. “I’m off, bye…”

“Where to?” Jatin wanted to know.

“To Bimli’s…he-he-he…”

“Get back to your chair” – Jatin barked at him. “We will all go in a group.”

Jaga wasn’t too pleased, but he sat down again. “Okay baba, that’s what we will do. Meanwhile let me have a bite of the cutlets…”

The room was filled with the odour of country liquor and smoke. Reddened eyes and numbed responses. Tidbits dropped on the floor, empty bottles and used cups and dishes piled up. Vegetable salad and sauces dripped to stain their clothes. None of them cared to wash their hands, silently they went on downing the liquid fire. Periodically they pulled their faces and uttered satisfaction, “Aah!”

“Hear that?” Ratan turned to gaze at Jatin.

“What?”

“All of you here can hear this?”

Potla shook his head, “How can we hear if you don’t spit it out, saala…”

Ratan crinkled his face, “This Gendo[3] of yours has thrown a spanner in the wheel, re…”

A gentle murmur coursed through the room. Almost as if a gentle breeze had rustled dry leaves.

Gandhi – yes, Gandhi! Superannuated Gandhi, old rascal Gandhi. This Gendo chap is a fraud. He is in cahoots with the Muslims, enemy of the Hindus, foe of the Bengalis…

“Yes, he has thrown us off-gear,” Jatin spoke through gritted teeth. “But for how long can he stymie us? He can’t get away with his bujruki, his hoax …”

Jaga spoke in a tired voice, “I just want to see Bimli for a while…”

“Sit, you owl!”

“Whatever you may say,” Haru spoke in a soft voice, “Gandhiji is a good soul, hanh?”

“Good soul?” Ratan roared out a nasty abuse, “My foot! All of us can sing bhajans and paeans to Ram if we had a life of comfort like him, buddy! And this guy alone is responsible for the Muslims daring to go so far as to demand a separate land. But this can’t go on! Now we have gained Independence. This is Hindustan – we will put an end to the last Muslim standing here!”

“Right! Right you are!!” they chorused in their boozy voice.

“Riot! We must hack every invader, every single Yavan!”

“Ha-ha-ha!”

“Hee-hee-hee–”

“Haan… pour me one more bhaanr[4] of the stuff…”

“Where is it? Dum aaloo[5]?”

“Listen!” Jatin ran his eyes over them, “What Ratan is saying is hundred percent correct. Gendo can’t have a run of the state. No. D’you know what that chap is up to now? He’s saying he will bring back every single Muslim and rehabilitate them in the bustee[6]at Beliaghata. Why, I ask you dear, why couldn’t you say this to our people? What did you, all told, achieve in Noakhali?”

Ratan nodded in agreement and let out a mouthful of smoke. “No, such humbug will no longer work here. Enough. The guy wants to unite Ishwar and Allah[7]! As if you can do that at will!”

“Shut up bey!” Jatin cackled.

“Tomorrow. We will rake it up tomorrow itself. The Babus had sent for me today – everything is fixed.”

“All fixed?” Ratan’s face brightened at this, “Good. I’m relieved.”

“Oh, good. Come on, baba Jatin…” Haru called out, “bring out another bottle Jatin!”

“Abey shut up saala ! Here I come…”

“Hey where’s the chaat[8]? Pass it around…”

“Die, you pests!” Jaga stood up and spoke in excitement, “None of you are sober. I’m off to Bimli’s.”

“Saala can’t wait to get there,” Ratan chuckled. “Arre baba, we’ll all go with you…” They all got to their unsteady feet.

Ratan couldn’t contain his glee. As he strode forward he kept thinking, “So there’ll be riots again – good!”

The lull in the violence these past few days was most irritating. He simply couldn’t take it anymore. He had tasted blood – and that is a dangerous addiction. For years, he had been a butcher and beheaded goats and lambs. But the thrill of killing a man, a live human being, was something else.

The first day he stabbed a man he understood that this was the king of highs. Day after day, he had sought out Musalmaans and delighted in putting the knife into them – and now it had spread through his veins. Now he felt out of depth on the days when he did not snuff out a life. He felt rather unwell.

He had a faint recollection of one particular afternoon.

He was sipping tea in Bipin’s tea stall.

All of a sudden some boys dragged in a young Muslim fellow. They told Ratan, “Now you have to finish the job Dada[9]. We are exhausted.”

Ratan grinned, “What’s so tough, idiots?”

“You’re mistaken bhai[10]…” the young man broke into tears. “I’m a Hindu!”

“Really?” Ratan laughed uproariously. “I’ll check that out once I’ve finished with you.”

The youth was dragged to a dark end of the lane and done with. After the job was over, a curiosity gnawed Ratan. He was absolutely certain that the kid had claimed to be a Hindu out of sheer fear. Still… He bared the body and checked the genitals of the naked corpse. “Shhuh, I got fooled!! This guy was actually a Hindu…”

They were outside Bimli’s door. There was no one else in the gully but them. The entire city was holding its breath, too scared to breathe in the riot-torn air. And then, it was late in the night. The gaslight was casting eerie shadows. Silence ruled.

Jatin’s words came true. The riots broke out the very next morning. And there was severe rioting. But this time around it was the Hindus who were aggressive, not the Muslims. The bombs and sten guns resounded across the sky and the air was rife with fear.

Ratan finished one round and returned home. Aah ! He felt somewhat relieved today.

But Jasoda was furious and would not relent. “So! You do have to come home to Jasoda, yeah? So liquor and sluts are not your cup of tea round the clock!”

“Jasoda!”

“But why are you losing your cool? I’ll get it for you – after all, you have been doing so much work! Boozing… whoring… killing…”

“Jasoda I’ll knock your head off!”

“Don’t I know that?” Jasoda’s fiery eyes bored through him, “The day you will fail to find a human to stab, you’ll twist your knife into me to satisfy your thirst for blood…”

Jasoda walked out of the room.

After a while she sent a khullar[11] of tea through her little boy but she herself stayed away.

Ratan was displeased. He spent the rest of the afternoon sleeping. Let the others take the responsibility to keep the fire aflame; now that it has been lit again, it will spread on its own steam.

That’s exactly what happened. By nightfall the riots took a sinister turn. Tension gripped the air of the city, dread filled the dark of the eyes. There was hardly any footfall in the streets.

When they met in the evening, Jatin said, “See how easy it was to rekindle the flame! But…”

“But?”

“It seems that Gendo chap is fasting since morning.”

“Fasting! Really?”

“Yes. Crazy, this man is. He will fast unto death, he won’t eat a morsel until the riots stop, he has said.”

“Arre let him!” Ratan hissed. “Let the oldie die. This is how he has been pampering the Musalmaans. Forget him – he should die!”

“Right you are,” Jatin nodded in agreement, “let him die. You come with me, there’s work to be done.”

A while later the sky lit up with the blaze of a burning slum. The fire brigade rushed to the spot with sirens blaring. The city cowered, trembled with fear, as the sound of bombs rent the air every now and then.

Coming home, Ratan was again subjected to the tongue lash of Jasoda. What is this vixen, a virago? No fear in her soul!

“So you’ll kill him? You will kill Gandhiji?”

“And what if I kill him?”

“What if you kill him! Are you a human being? You’ll kill a sage like him? You’ll rot in hell if you do that, understand? You’ll burn in hellfire…”

“Piss off! Just shut up and go. Get lost — ”

“Chhee! What are you, a man?”

“Jasoda!”

“What? You’ll kill me too? Go ahead, do that!”

But what good was silencing Jasoda? Ratan simply couldn’t sleep that night.

That Gandhi has gone off food?! What stuff is the man made of? If I kill two men, you’ll fast yourself unto death? What a dissembler. But otherwise the man has done so much! That the country has gained independence – it is largely due to this man, they say. So what? Why must he pamper the Muslims to this extent? If he’s really so bothered, why doesn’t he go fast to stop the riots in Punjab? Humbug. Let him rot.

The same story repeated itself the next day. The sacrificial fire kept devouring human flesh.

“What a hassle,” Jatin grumbled. “This Gendo simply won’t eat a bite, I hear! He’ll kick the bucket day after if not tomorrow.”

“All this is willed by Goddess Kali, d’you realise Jattye?” Ratan added with a wave of his hand, “It’s best he shuffles off his mortal coil and drops dead.”

Stray incidents filled the day. Then it started to pour. They couldn’t do very much after that. When the rain stopped, Ratan stepped out to stretch his legs. He noticed that people were gathering here and there, reading newspapers, discussing something in a grave voice. Gandhiji, the name, kept recurring. They all looked worried, sounded concerned, crestfallen.

All his countrymen genuinely worshipped Gandhi. He has actually done a lot – gone to great length to gain independence for the people. Not just the Lord Saheb, even the King of the British rulers held him in deference!

Suddenly Ratan hastened his pace. Why not go upto Beliaghata and take a look at Gandhi? To this day he had not set his eyes on this man, what was the harm in sizing him up? Ratan was not enamoured of Gandhi, he didn’t care two hoots whether he lived or died. Still, a peek at the man would do no harm. All said and done, he’d made a name for himself, perhaps even a place in history.

Ratan was overcome by a strange emotion. Inscrutable. Without much thinking he showed up in Beliaghata for the evening prayers. There was a large crowd waiting outside the house. He nudged and pushed to wend his way and find a footing in the front row. After a long wait he got to see Gandhiji.

A short statured, dark complexioned ageing man with the radiance of a child on his face. Bare bodied, Khadi-clad, he had a meditative calm about him. So this was the magnanimous Gandhiji!

A tremor passed through Ratan. It was as if he had suddenly come face to face with a morning sun. As if he was standing on the shore of the Pacific Ocean, as deep as its boundless expanse.

In a flash something happened deep within Ratan. Everything turned topsy turvy as if shaken by an earthquake high on the Richter scale. He realised he had finally encountered a magnificent personality. One who would not bow his head to anything unjust or immoral. One who would not daunted by guns and bullets.

As he looked on, Ratan turned misty eyed. Who said Gandhi was a pygmy? To Ratan he seemed like the Himalayas piercing the sky. Ratan trembled, he panicked, he fled.

All kinds of thoughts beset Ratan and he became restless. He headed straight for Jatin’s house. He felt like settling down with bottles of the fiery stuff. As he felt the liquid sear down his throat, the daze cleared somewhat.

“Know what Jattye?” he tried to draw his friend’s attention.

“Hunh?”

“I went for a darshan[12] of Gandhiji today.”

“Who? Gendo?”

“Hanh, Gandhi.”

“What was it like?”

“I mean… the man seems to be a sadhu[13].”

“Seems a sadhu, right? Yes, the fellow has actually done a lot for the country…”

“That’s what I hear. So many times he has been incarcerated and been to the jail. So much suffering he has put up with…”

“But that one failing! He has spoilt all his good actions by pampering and mollycoddling the Muslims, over-indulging them…”

“You have hit the nail on its head!”

One by one the others joined them. In no time the place was abuzz with food from Bipin’s Stall and bottles of country liquor. Downing the liquid in rapid succession they were quite a boisterous crowd.

“Follow me, Ratnya?” Jatin slurred, “this…”

“Unh?”

“Gendo is fasting, let him. He won’t kick the bucket in a day or two, will he? Old bones are sturdy – he’ll last. Meanwhile, in two days we’ll clear out all the ragheads, won’t we?”

“Yes Jatye, spot on…”

“Here, some more… f-o-r youuu…”

“Yeah… g-i-v-e mee…”

Ratan could not walk straight when he reached home.

“Why?” Jaosoda came at him like a bull at a gate, “Why are you back here? Was there no space for you in Chandravali’s love nest?”

“Shut your trap Jasoda!”

“The frigging bastard won’t let me be in peace.. Maa-go!”

Ratan flopped in his bed and murmured, “Q-u-i-e-t Jasoda! Shut up and keep quiet bhai…”

“Bhai! Bro? Shame upon you, no-good burnt-face monkey! You see a brother in me?”

Jasoda kept on muttering long after Ratan had started snoring.

Next morning the rioting picked up in momentum.

Ratan and his chums returned to action big time, complete with sten guns. From the rooftops, on the streets, wherever they were, they kept firing towards the Muslim shanties. After almost three hours there was a lull in the firing. The police and military forces had arrived and by afternoon things were quiet again.

Vans with loudspeakers were blaring that, unless the riots came to a stop, Gandhiji would cease to be. He would end his life.

The peaceniks took out a procession. The violence started to wane.

“That was quite a blast, wasn’t it Ratnya?” Jatin was smiling ear to ear when they met in the evening.

Ratan simply nodded.

Jaga returned from the paan[14] shop with a fresh stock of bidis[15]. “Folks have you heard this? Gendo is about to snuff out!”

“Who said that?” Ratan was startled.

“The newspapers have headlined, it seems, that Gendo has refused to relent in his fasting because there’s no let-up in the riots.”

“Ohh!”

“Arre that’s bullshit!” Jatin reacted. “Two more days of action at this level and all the Mullas will be shown their place.”

“Hunh!” Ratan nodded unmindfully, “but Gandhi is in such a poor shape, he’ll conk out, they’re saying…”

“Arre forget it! Rumour – that’s all it is. Come, let’s have a toast.”

“Well then, let’s go.”

Ratan joined Jatin to open a liquor bottle long before sunset. The tumult in the morning had left him exhausted. A few drops of hard core liquor might just be the tonic. But Gandhiji? There’s something about him… a halo. He had touched the heart of thirty crore men and women. Ardently they cried out, “Mahatma Gandhi ki jai [16]!” All-pervading emperors and powerful lords had not succeeded in intimidating him. Mahatma Gandhi!

At this point Madhu ran up to them. “Hey guys, come fast! I’ve cornered one of them…”

“What?!”

“Bastard!”

Suddenly the thirst for blood got the better of him. Sitting bolt upright Ratan said, “Come on Jattye.”

The three of them strode forward. Jaga, Haru and Potla were waiting round the corner, a middle-aged Muslim in their grip. They’d got the better of the man who was walking down the street lost in thought.

“Please let go of me bhai !” the man pleaded.

“Let go of you?” Jaga laughed out loud, “Why? Are you my wife’s brother, saala? Does your sister sleep with me?”

In silence Ratan went up to the man and grabbed him by his hand. Agitation tinted the blood that was coursing through his body. Blood! Unless he spilled blood his head might burst!

“Who’ll twist the knife in – you?” Jatin asked. Ratan nodded, “Yes.”

“How many will this be in your count of heads?”

“Maybe a score and half…”

“Well then, go on. Get over with it.”

“You’ll kill me?” The man wailed out, “Please let go of me baba – I implore you! Believe me, I have a son at home who is critically ill – I came out only to buy some medicine for him…”

“Shut up!”

Just then a voice floated across from a loudspeaker being played from a van: “Gandhiji is in a critical condition…”

Ratan pricked up his ears. Jatin looked towards the van, “Hey, what are they saying?”

“Gandhiji’s priceless life is in your hands today…” the voice was faint but the words were clear. “If you don’t stop killing, Gandhiji will not return to life. Stop now – and bring Gandhiji back to life…”

The voice receded in the distance.

“Go on, finish the job at hand Ratnya,” Jaga spoke, “or leave it to me.”

Ratan looked at the man.

Instantly the man smiled. “You’re determined to kill me, Baba?”

“Abey why are you showing your teeth?” Potla rudely demanded.

“Kill me,” the man said. “But don’t forget, killing me means stabbing Gandhiji.”

“Shut up!” Jaga roared, “not a word more…”

Still the man went on, “Listen to me Baba, now I’m not speaking for myself. Don’t kill me – let Gandhiji live!”

“Enough! Don’t want to hear the devil quote scriptures – hold your tongue.”

“Kick the rascal!”

“Go for it Ratnya!”

‘What’s holding you Ratnya??’

“Go go go…”

Unexpectedly Ratan turned around. He stood in front of the Muslim guy and said in a determined voice, “No.”

“Meaning?!” Jatin was stupefied, “What’re you saying Ratnya?”

“You heard me right Jatye — I’ll let this man walk.”

“Nope.”

“Yes, I’ll let this fella go Jatye. If you try to stop me, you’ll have to fell me first.”

All the others moved back a few steps.

“Have you gone out of your mind ?!” Jatin couldn’t make head or tail of it. “What’s the matter, I say?”

Ratan didn’t reply. Instead he addressed the man, “Come Mian[17], let me take you to the high road.”

The two of them took a few steps forward.

“Bah ! Won’t you even tell us why you’re letting him off? Hey Ratnya?”

“Ratnya! Hey bugger!”

Without a pause in his walk Ratan said, “Don’t call out to me.”

After escorting the fellow to the safety of the main street Ratan headed home.

Soon the night set in. The curfew hour started. The roads emptied out. From the lane they could make out that the military trucks and police vans were whizzing around the city. Some light escaped the windows of neighbouring houses. A handful of faces peeped out now and then. Swiftly, a dopey silence engulfed the habitat. The city seemed to be drained of vigour. The yellow gaslights on barren roads imparted a ghostlike ambience. The night deepened.

Jasoda noticed the worry lines on her husband’s visage and frequented her rounds of the room.

Out of the blue she even asked him, “What’s the matter with you, go[18]?”

“What? Nothing!” Ratan responded.

“Today you didn’t down bottles of liquor. Such good fortune!” She grinned at him, then wondered, “Why, you’re not even angry!”

“Hunh !”

“Feeling unwell, are you? So you’re missing your Chandravali Brigade! Care for a cup of tea?”

“Get it.”

Jasoda left to get the tea. Today Ratan was happy to see Jasoda.

Amazing! Something was the matter with him surely. He just could not bring himself to stab the man! One man’s life is so precious? People were correct about him. They worry for him, to protect him. To save his life, they appeal to all and sundry, even to strangers!

Yesterday he had visited that One Man. Short of height, dark of complexion, an octogenarian with a halo about him. A man like the Ocean, like the Himalayas, like the Sun. Boundless his sacrifice; immense his patience, unending his hope. Forgiveness, compassion, truth, love, ahimsa [19]– he defined all these virtues.

Magician, he was! He had crazed thirty crore men and women who chanted in unison ‘Gandhiji Ki Jai! Victory for Gandhiji!’ He has made them fearless, and independent. Yesterday he saw his Ram with his own eyes. It was all rubbish, he was no one’s enemy. He was ajatshatru, his enemy had yet to be born. Everyone in the country was his child, his progeny. He did not punish one for the failings of another. The punishment due to everyone he placed on his own head – a crown of thorn.

The night deepened and darkened.

Lying in his bed Ratan started to leaf through the album of his life. Alcohol, meat, women, neglect of a wife like Jasoda, butchery, rioting and killing more than a score of lives… And that enlightened Old Man? He had won the country, the world, in the brief bracket of a lifetime.

The night rolled on, towards sunrise.

At daybreak Ratan rose from his bed. He searched through his house and pulled out every piece of hand grenade, bullets, knife, and tied them into a bundle. Jasoda was still not up. Ratan cast a silent look at her and stepped out of the house.

The sky had not yet lit up, but the curfew hours were over. A handful of souls had stirred out on the streets here and there. A few cars had set out for some destination.

Ratan took full strides eastward. That’s the direction from which a red sun would rise. But Ratan was not headed towards that sun. He was thinking only of the sun fasting in a dilapidated house in Beliaghata. Ratan would go to him and lay down the bundle of his sins at his feet and pray to him, “Oh sun! Please end the fasting soul within me and light up the inner soul so far deprived of light…”

[1] Yes

[2] Swear word

[3] Gandhi

[4] Clay cup

[5] Potato curry

[6] A slum colony

[7] Ishwar: Hindu name for God. Allah: Muslim name for God

[8] Savoury snack

[9] Elder brother

[10] brother

[11] Clay cup

[12] To go to view a great or holy man

[13] Sage

[14] A shop that sells cigarettes and betel leaves

[15] Small, thin, hand-rolled cigarettes made in India

[16] Hail Mahatma Gandhi

[17] Sir

[18] An affectionate way of addressing one’s spouse

[19] Non-violence

Nabendu Ghosh’s (1917-2007) oeuvre of work includes thirty novels and fifteen collections of short stories. He was a renowned scriptwriter and director. He penned cinematic classics such as Devdas, Bandini, Sujata, Parineeta, Majhli Didi and Abhimaan. And, as part of a team of iconic film directors and actors, he was instrumental in shaping an entire age of Indian cinema. He was the recipient of numerous literary and film awards, including the Bankim Puraskar, the Bibhuti Bhushan Sahitya Arghya, the Filmfare Best Screenplay Award and the National Film Award for Best First Film of a Director.

Read the translator’s musing on Nabendu’s stories impacted by Gandhi by clicking here.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Tags Abhimaan, Bandini, Bankim Puraskar, Bengali, CBFC, Devdas, Direct Action Day, Filmfare Best Screenpaly Award, Gandhi, Majhli Didi, Nabendu Ghosh, National Film Awards, Parineeta, Ratnottama Sengupta, Sujata, Times of India, Translation

Poetry

History by Masud Khan

Translated by Professor Fakrul Alam from the Bengali poem, Itihas (History)

How then can an authentic history of the world be written? The one who writes— who is he and where is he writing from? When is he writing? From which vantage point is he writing and for what reason? All these factors will decide the truth of the history. And in any case the subject itself is bound by its own conventions and is inevitably subjective.

Is it then impossible to write an authentic history of the world?

No! In the light already reflected from the surface of the world till now is impressed the history of the world— chronologically! Which is to say, the history of the world is in the light dispersed from the world. And that must be authentic version of the history of the world since it’s being written naturally. Perhaps in kingdom after kingdom of the cosmos someone or the other is sighting that history through telescopes, unknown to us all.

But will such a history be absolutely authentic? What about the chapters of history that are dark and depressing? Of episodes that have been denuded of light and have become shrouded in darkness and decadence? Of episodes that have never exuded light and will never reflect any radiance anywhere? What about them?

And what about the history of people who are dark or tan-brown?

Perhaps their evolution has become blurred in the lenses of telescopes; perhaps their histories have become obscure in the telling— since they are dark and tan-brown; perhaps because they are able to transmit only a feeble light they are deemed to be totally incapable of reflecting any light at all!

Does this mean that the history of dark and tan-brown people will remain obscure forever in the history of mankind? And in nature? Bereft of light and therefore of history too?

Masud Khan (b. 1959) is a Bengali poet and writer. He has, authored nine volumes of poetry and three volumes of prose and fiction. His poems and fictions (in translation) have appeared in journals including Asiatic, Contemporary Literary Horizon, Six Seasons Review, Kaurab, 3c World Fiction, Ragazine.cc, Nebo: A literary Journal, Last Bench, Urhalpul, Tower Journal, Muse Poetry, Word Machine, and anthologies including Language for a New Century: Contemporary Poetry from the Middle East, Asia, and Beyond (W.W. Norton & Co., NY/London); Contemporary Literary Horizon Anthology, Bucharest; Intercontinental Anthology of Poetry on Universal Peace (Global Fraternity of Poets); and Padma Meghna Jamuna: Modern Poetry from Bangladesh (Foundation of SAARC Writers and Literature, New Delhi). Two volumes of his poems have been published as translations, Poems of Masud Khan (English), Antivirus Publications, UK, and Carnival Time and Other Poems (English and Spanish), Bibliotheca Universalis, Romania. Born and brought up in Bangladesh, Masud Khan lives in Canada and teaches at a college in Toronto.

Fakrul Alam is an academic, translator and writer from Bangladesh. He has translated works of Jibonananda Das and Rabindranath Tagore into English and is the recipient of Bangla Academy Literary Award (2012) for translation and SAARC Literary Award (2012).

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Tags Bangla Academy Literary Award, Bangladesh, Bengali, Canada, Fakrul Alam, Jibonananda Das, Masud Khan, Rabindranath Tagore, SAARC Literary Award

Contents

Borderless, January 2023

Editorial

Will Monalisa Smile Again? … Click here to read.

Translations

Nazrul’s Ring Bells of Victory has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.

Nobody in the Sky by S Ramarishnan, has translated from Tamil by R Sathish. Click here to read.

The Bike Thief by Ihlwha Choi has been translated from Korean by the poet himself. Click here to read.

Tagore’s Banshi or Flute has been translated by Mitali Chakravarty from Bengali.Click here to read.

Poetry

Click on the names to read

Jared Carter, Ranu Uniyal, Rhys Hughes, Saranyan BV, Scott Thomas Outlar, Priyanka Panwar, Ron Pickett, Ananya Sarkar, K.S. Subramaniam, George Freek, Snigdha Agrawal, Jenny Middleton, Asad Latif, Michael R Burch

Poets, Poetry & Rhys Hughes

In I Went to Kerala, Rhys Hughes treads a humorous path. Click here to read.

Conversation

In Conversation with Abhay K, a poet turned diplomat, translator and a polyglot, converses of how beauty inspired him to turn poet and translating Kalidasa and other poets taught him technique. Click here to read.

Musings/Slices from Life

What do Freddy Mercury, Rishi Sunak & Mississipi Masala have in Common?

Farouk Gulsara muses on the human race. Click here to read.

Ghosh & Company

Ratnottama Sengupta relives the past. Click here to read.

Sails, Whales, and Whimsical Winds

Meredith Stephens continues on her sailing adventures in New South Wales and spots some sporting whales. Click here to read.

Tsunami 2004: After 18 years

Sarpreet Kaur travels back to take a relook at the tsunami in 2004 from Andaman and Nicobar Islands. Click here to read.

‘I am in a New York state of mind’

Ravi Shankar shares his travel adventures in the city. Click here to read.

Half a World Away from Home

Mike Smith introspects on his travels to New Zealand. Click here to read.

Musings of a Copywriter

In Back to the Past, Devraj Singh Kalsi muses on the need to relive nostalgia. Click here to read.

Notes from Japan

In The Year of the Tiger Papa, Suzanne Kamata gives us a glimpse of Japan’s education system with a touch of humour. Click here to read.

Essays

A Solitary Pursuit: The Art of Suhas Roy

Ratnottama Sengupta journeys with the signature art of Suhas Roy as it transformed in theme, style, and medium. Click here to read.

New Perspectives on Cinema & Mental Health

Between 1990 and 2017 one in seven people in India suffered from mental illness. However, the depiction of this in cinema has been poor and sensationalist contends Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri. Click here to read.

The Observant Immigrant

In The Immigrant’s Dilemma, Candice Louisa Daquin explores immigrants and the great American Dream. Click here to read.

Stories

The Book Truck

Salini Vineeth writes a story set in the future. Click here to read.

The Scholar

Chaturvedi Divi explores academia. Click here to read.

Little Billy

Paul Mirabile renders the poignant tale of a little boy. Click here to read.

Book Excerpts

An excerpt from Sanjay Kumar’s Performing, Teaching and Writing Theatre: Exploring Play. Click here to read.

An excerpt from Abhay K’s Monsoon: A Poem of Love & Longing. Click here to read.

Book Reviews

Somdatta Mandal reviews Priya Hajela’s Ladies Tailor: A novel. Click here to read.

Rakhi Dalal reviews Shrinivas Vaidya’s A Handful of Sesame, translated from Kannada by Maithreyi Karnoor. Click here to read.

Gracy Samjetsabam reviews K.A. Abbas’s Sone Chandi Ke Buth: Writings on Cinema, translated and edited by Syeda Hameed and Sukhpreet Kahlon. Click here to read.

Bhaskar Parichha reviews MA Sreenivasan’s Of the Raj, Maharajas and Me. Click here to read.

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Tags A Handful of Sesame, Abhay K, Ananya Sarkar, Andaman And Nicobar Island, Asad Latif, Bengali, Bhaskar Parichha, Devraj Singh Kalsi, Fakrul Alam, Gracy Samjetsabam, Ihlwha Choi, Jared Carter, Jenny Middleton, K A Abbas, K.S.Subramaniam, Korean, Ladies Tailor: A Novel, MA Sreenivasan, Maithreyi Karnoor, Michael R Burch, Mike Smith, Monsoon: A Poem of Love and Longing, Nazrul, New Zealand, Paul Mirabile, Performing Teaching and Writing Theatre: Exploring Play, Priya Hajela, Priyanka Panwar, R Satish, Rakhi Dalal, Ranu Uniyal, Ratnottama Sengupta, Rhys Hughes, Ron Pickett, S Ramakrishnan, Salini Vineeth, Sanjay Kumar, Saranyan BV, Sarpreet Kaur, Scott Thomas Outlar, Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri, Shrinivas Vaidya, Snigdha Agrawal, Somdatta Mandal, Sone Chandi Ke Buth: Writings on Cinema, Suhas Roy, Sukhpreet Kahlon, Suzanne Kamata, Syeda Hameed, Tamil

Contents

Borderless, November 2022

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date November 14, 2022
No Comments on Borderless, November 2022

Editorial

We did it! … Announcing our first anthology … Monalisa No Longer Smiles… Click here to read.

Conversations

Suchen Christine Lim, an iconic writer from Singapore in conversation about her latest book, Dearest Intimate. Click here to read.

Blazing trails, as well as retracing the footsteps of great explorers, Christopher Winnan, a travel writer, delves into the past, and gazes into the future while conversing with Keith Lyons. Click here to read.

Translations

Rows of Betelnut Trees by My Window by Nazrul has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.

A Day in the Life of the Pink Man is a story by Shankhadeep Bhattacharya, translated from Bengali by Rituparna Mukherjee. Click here to read.

The Clay Toys and The Two Boys is a story by Haneef Shareef, translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.

Saturday Afternoon is a poem by Ihlwha Choi, translated from Korean by the poet himself. Click here to read.

Tagore’s poem, Tomar Shonkho Dhulay Porey (your conch lies in the dust), has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty as The Conch Calls. Click here to read.

Poetry

Click on the names to read

Jared Carter, Asad Latif, Rhys Hughes, Alpana, Mimi Bordeaux, Saranyan BV, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Quratulain Qureshi, Jim Bellamy, Sourav Sengupta, Ron Pickett, Davis Varghese, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Jonathan Chan, Terry Trowbridge, Amrita Sharma, George Freek, Gayatri Majumda r, Michael R Burch

Poets, Poetry and Rhys Hughes

In Infinite Tiffin, Rhys Hughes gives an unusual short story centring around food and hunger. Click here to read.

Musings/Slices from Life

The Scream & Me

Prithvijeet Sinha writes of how Edvard Munch’s painting, The Scream, impacts him. Click here to read.

A Fine Sunset

Mike Smith travels with a book to a Scottish beach and walks in the footsteps of a well-know novelist. Click here to read.

The Death of a Doctor

Ravi Shankar mourns the loss of a friend and muses on mortality in his experience. Click here to read.

My Contagious Birthday Party

Meredith Stephens writes of her experience of Covid. Click here to read.

Dim Memories of the Festival of Lights

Farouk Gulsara takes a nostalgic trip to Deepavali celebrations in Malaysia. Click here to read.

Musings of a Copywriter

In Strumming Me Softly with His Guitar…, Devraj Singh Kalsi talks of his friends’s adventure with the guitar. Click here to read.

Notes from Japan

In Therese Schumacher and Nagayoshi Nagai: A Love Story, Suzanne Kamata introduces us to one of the first German women married to a Japanese scientist and their love story. Click here to read.

Essays

My Favourite Book by Fakrul Alam

The essay is a journey into Fakrul Alam’s evolution as a translator. Click here to read.

The Ultimate Genius of Kishore Kumar

Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri, an eminent film critic, writes on the legend of Kishore Kumar. Click here to read.

T.S Eliot’s The Waste Land: Finding Hope in Darkness

Dan Meloche muses on the century-old poem and its current relevance. Click here to read.

The Observant Immigrant

In Piano Board Keys, Candice Louisa Daquin talks of biracial issues. Click here to read.

Stories

The Funeral Attendee

Ravi Prakash shares the story of the life of a migrant in rural India. Click here to read.

A Letter I can Never Post

Monisha Raman unravels the past in a short narrative using the epistolary technique. Click here to read.

Red Moss at the Abbey of Saint Pons

Paul Mirabile takes us to St Pons Abbey in France in the fifteenth century. Click here to read.

You have lost your son!

Farhanaz Rabbani gives a light story with a twist that shuttles between Dhaka and Noakhali. Click here to read.

Book Excerpts

An Excerpt from Manoranjan Byapari’s How I Became a Writer: An Autobiography of a Dalit, translated from Bengali by Anurima Chanda. Click here to read.

An excerpt from Evening with a Sufi: Selected Poems by Afsar Mohammad, translated from Telugu by Afsar Mohammad & Shamala Gallagher. Click here to read.

Book Reviews

Reba Som has reviewed Aruna Chakravarti’s Through the Looking Glass: Stories. Click here to read.

Somdatta Mandal has reviewed Shehan Karunatilaka’s The Birth Lottery and Other Surprises. Click here to read.

Basudhara Roy has reviewed Afsar Mohammad’s Evening with a Sufi: Selected Poems, translated from Telugu by Afsar Mohammad and Shamala Gallagher. Click here to read.

Bhaskar Parichha has reviewed Rahul Ramagundam’s The Life and Times of George Fernandes. Click here to read.

Borderless Journal Anthology

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Tags Afsar Mohammad, Alpana, Amrita Sharma, Anurima Chanda, Aruna Chakravarti, Asad Latif, Balochi, Bengali, Bhaskar Parichha, Christopher Winnan, Dan Meloche, David Varghese, Dhaka, Edvard Munch, Evening with a Sufi: Selected Poems, Fakrul Alam, Farahnaz Rabbani, Farouk Gulsara, Fazal Baloch, France, Gayatri Majumdar, George Freek, German, Haneef Shareef, How I became a Writer: An autobiography of a Dalit, Ihlwha Choi, Japanese, Jared Carter, Jim Bellamy, Keith Lyons, Kishore Kumar, Korean, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Manoranjan Byapari, Meredith Stephens, Michael R Burch, Mike Smith, Mimi Bordeaux, Mitali Chakravarty, Monisha Raman, Nazrul, Noakhali, Paul Mirabile, Prithvijeet Sinha, Quratulain Qureshi, Rahul Ramagundam, Ravi Prakash, Ravi Shankar, Reba Som, Rhys Hughes, Rituparna Mukherjee, Ron Pickett, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Saranyan BV, Scottish, Shamala Gallagher, Shankhadeep Bhattacharya, Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri, Shehan Karunatilaka, Sohana Manzoor, Somdatta Mandal, Sourav Sengupta, Suchen Christine Lim, Suzanne Kamata, Tagore, The Birth Lottery and Other Surprises, The Life and Times of George Fernandes, The Scream, The Wasteland, Through the Looking Glass:Stories, TS Eliot

Editorial

We Did It!

That good things happen despite darkness, despite prognostications of doom, that light glimmers hope if you strive to focus on your strength in hard times is borne true both in fiction and in life. Perhaps, we cannot get back the old ways (but is that what we want?) but new paths emerge. Old gives way to new. And while trying to gather pearls of human excellence — borne not of awards or degrees but of bringing out the best, the kindest, the most loving in human hearts — we managed to create with a team an outstanding anthology. Woven with the writings of old and new — we created a tapestry together that the editor in chief of our publishing house said was “classy, literary, engaging and international”. That one of the oldest and most reputed publishing houses in India with bookshops countrywide took it on was also an unusual event! We are truly grateful to Om Books International, Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri and Jyotsna Mehta along with all our writers and readers who made our anthology a reality, and to Radha Chakravarty and Fakrul Alam for the kind words they bestowed on our effort.

**Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles**

Please greet our first anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles, with love and friendship. It could be the perfect Christmas gift in the spirit of the season! And as the blurb says, “it will definitely bring a smile to your face because it is a celebration of the human spirit.”

The anthology is different from our journal in as much as it has a sample of an eclectic collection that has been honed with further editing and has some new features. Most of the writing is from our first year and showcases our ethos, except for Lesya’s poetry and interview. Lesya Bakun from Ukraine is still on the run, looking for a refuge — she cannot return home like you or I can. Her family is scattered across number of countries. Her cousin, who was guarding the factory at Azovstal, was taken prisoner. We included her story in the anthology hoping to create global empathy for refugees as the numbers will increase not only due to war but also due to climate change.

The reason we felt a hardcopy anthology was a good idea was because nothing beats the joy of having a bunch of interesting reads in the warmth of your hands (especially where internet cannot reach or is unavailable). In any case, books with the feel of paper, the rustling whispers which carry voices of leaves can never be replaced as Goutam Ghose had also said in his interview which is now part of our anthology.

And that is why we celebrate more books… this time we feature Singaporean prima donna of literature, Suchen Christine Lim, with her new book Dearest Intimate, a novel that spans more than hundred years including the harrowing Japanese invasion during World War II. She shared sound advice with writers: “Suffering is good for the writer. It will deepen lived experience and expand the heart’s empathy.” And perhaps that is what is echoed through the experiences of the other writer interviewed on our pages by Keith Lyons. This is a writer who not only brought out his own books but was a regular contributor of travel pieces for Frommer’s and National Geographic traveling to unexplored destinations — Christopher Winnan. Another writer Lyon had interviewed recently, Steve Carr, has passed on. We would like to convey our heartfelt condolences to his family and friends.

We have a number of books that have been reviewed. Reba Som reviewed Aruna Chakravarti’s Through the Looking Glass: Stories that span eras spread across time. Somdatta Mandal has reviewed Shehan Karunatilaka’s The Birth Lottery and Other Surprises and Bhaskar Parichha, Rahul Ramagundam’s The Life and Times of George Fernandes. Basudhara Roy has written of Afsar Mohammad’s Evening with a Sufi: Selected Poems, translated from Telugu by the poet and Shamala Gallagher, verses that again transcend borders and divides. We have an excerpt from the same book and another from Manoranjan Byapari’s How I Became a Writer: An Autobiography of a Dalit, translated from Bengali by Anurima Chanda.

More translations from Bengali, Balochi and Korean enrich our November edition. Fazal Baloch has translated a story by Haneef Shareef and Rituparna Mukherjee by Shankhadeep Bhattacharya. We have the translation of an inspirational Tagore poem helping us find courage (Shonkho Dhulaye Pore or ‘the conch lies in the dust’). Another such poem by Nazrul has been rendered in English from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. He has also shared an autobiographical musing on how he started translating Tagore’s Gitabitan, which also happens to be his favourite book. More discussion on the literary persona of TS Eliot and the relevance of his hundred year old poem — ‘The Waste Land’ by Dan Meloche adds variety to our essay section.

Evoking the genius of another outstanding artiste, Kishore Kumar, who happened to pen thought provoking dialogues in some films, is Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri’s essay, review of a recent book on the legendary actor-singer and an interview with the authors. Infringing the boundaries of literary with popular culture and art and integrating all forms into a wholistic bundle has been part of our ethos. In that spirit we have a musing by Prithvijeet Sinha on Edvard Munch’s famous painting called Scream. We have non-fiction from Australia spanning Meredith Stephens’s recent brush with Covid, Mike Smith visits a Scottish beach in the footsteps of a novelist, Ravi Shankar has given us a poignant piece for a late friend and Candice Lousia Daquin talks of the existence of bi-racial biases. In contrast, Suzanne Kamata sent a narrative that bridges divides showcasing a German wife of a Japanese scientist that draws us to conclude that biases erode over time to create an acceptance of bi-racial people. Devraj Singh Kalsi brings in humour with his funny narrative about a guitarist. Rhys Hughes writes in a lighter vein on Indian cuisine in his column and spouts more funny poetry bordering on the absurd.

Jared Carter has shared beautiful poetry on murmuration in birds and we have touching verses from Asad Latif for a little girl he met on a train — reminiscent of Tagore’s poem Hide and Seek (Lukochuri). Michael R Burch has given us poems setting sombre but beautiful notes for the season. We host more poetry by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Quratulain Qureshi, Jim Bellamy, Gayatri Majumdar, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Alpana, Jonathan Chan, Saranyan BV, George Freek and many more. We have stories from around the world: India, France and Bangladesh.

Gathering all of your thoughts in strings of words from all corners of the world, we present to you the bumper November issue of Borderless Journal . Thank you all for sharing your thoughts with us. Thanks to Sohana Manzoor for her fantastic painting and more thanks to the whole Borderless team for seeing this issue through. We would not have been able to do the anthology or these issues without each one of you — writers and readers.

Thank you all from the bottom of my heart.

There is always hope for a new tomorrow!

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Tags Afsar Mohammad, Alpana, Anurima Chanda, Aruna Chakravarti, Asad Latif, Australia, Azovstal, Balochi, Bangladesh, Basudhara Roy, Bengali, Bhaskar Parichha, Borderless Journal, Candice Louisa Daquin, Christopher Winnan, COVID, Dan Meloche, Dearest Intimate, Devraj Singh Kalsi, Edvard Munch, Evening with a Sufi: Selected Poems, Fakrul Alam, Fazal Baloch, France, Frommer's, George Freek, Gitabitan, Goutam Ghose, Haneef Shareef, How I became a Writer: An autobiography of a Dalit, India, Japanese, Jared Carter, Jim Bellamy, Jonathan Chan, Jyotsna Mehta, Keith Lyons, Kishore Kumar, Korean, Lesya Bakun, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Manoranjan Byapari, Meredith Stephens, Michael R Burch, Mike Smith, Monalisa No LongerSmiles, NationalGeographic, Nazrul, Om Books International, Prithvijeet Sinha, Quratulain Qureshi, Radha Chakravarty, Rahul Ramagundam, Ravi Shankar, Reba Som, Rhys Hughes, Rituparna Mukherjee, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Saranyan BV, Scottish beach, Scream, Shamala Gallagher, Shankhadeep Bhattacharya, Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri, Shonkho Dhulaye Pore, Sohana Manzoor, Somdatta Mandal, Steve Carr, Suchen Christine Lim, Suzanne Kamata, Telugu, The Birth Lottery and Other Surprises, The Life and Times of George Fernandes, Through the Looking Glass, TS Eliot, World War II

Poetry

Rows of Betelnut Trees by My Window

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date November 14, 2022
No Comments on Rows of Betelnut Trees by My Window

Written by Kazi Nazrul Islam in 1929 in Chittagong, translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam

Areca nut or betel nut trees. Courtesy: Creative Commons

Farewell, neighbours of my nightly vigil, 
Standing aloft next to my window,
Companions, the night of parting elapses.
From this day ceases our secret exchanges,
From this day ends our quiet conversations....

Putting its worn forehead on the porch of the setting sky
The moon cries, “Traveler awake, night is all but over”
Night spreads across the forest deep; overcome with sleep,
It glances back, clasping in its hand its dark disheveled hair!

Startled, I wake up, wondering: whose breath brushes my forehead?
Who fans my warm forehead, who wakes up by my bedside?
I rise seeing by my window the sentinel of my dreams,
Companions of my dark nights, the row of betel nut trees!

Hadn’t we once viewed each other through fluttering eyelids?
Friends, I recall what we said to each other all night long!
When tears flowed from weary eyes beginning to burn,
Your leaves appear to me to be like the cooling palms
Of my beloved. The rustling of your leaves reminded me
Of her plaintive voice, calling out mournfully.
I saw in your leaves the kohl-dark shape of her eyes.
Your bodies in silhouette suggested her slim shape.
The gentle breeze wafting by evoked her delicate air.
Your branches seem to be draped with her sari’s borders.
And you fanned me as tenderly as she did with her hands!

These thoughts troubled me as I entered sleep’s domain.
As I slept, I felt the frill of your dark blue dresses lying
Unfurled besides my pillow. I saw in my dream you entering,
Furtively and fervently kissing my warm forehead.

Perhaps in the dream I extended my hands to touch you
Only to touch the window. Then I clasped your hands shyly.
Companions, now that window will have to be shut.
The path beckons, fellow travelers shout, “time to depart!”

This day before I take my leave
I feel like revealing myself to you as well as knowing you.
I feel close to your feelings; yet why does my insatiable mind
Yearn to hear from you the thoughts lodged in your bosom?
I know—we will never get to know each other physically,
Our hearts will only keep playing a tune of pain mournfully! 
 Perhaps I’ve seen a vision of you that is not like you at all.
But how can that harm you, if it does enough to swell my heart?
If my tears transform you into a thing of beauty,
If I can build a monument stirred by love of someone
As the Taj Mahal was built from the pain of losing Mumtaz,
Tell me, what harm will that do to anyone?
I won’t adorn my room with you, won’t create a paradise.... 

Perhaps birds never lighted on your branches,
In your bower, amidst your foliage, cuckoos never sang. 
Looking up to the heavens in exaggerated appeal
You kept vigil in the dark, though none stayed up
To open the window. But I was always the first to arrive,
And look at you in rapt attention in the dark. Departing lovingly,
On your leaves I wrote my first letters of love.
Let that be my consolation, whether I meet her or not....

Companions, I’ll never wake up again to look at you
I won’t interrupt anyone’s trance after a tumultuous day.
Silently, all alone, I’ll burn the incense of my suffering.

I shouldn’t ask, but can’t help doing so before leaving today—
From behind your wooden screen, did you view me lovingly too?
Did you also take a look at me when I opened the window?
Was it the wind or my love that made your leaves sway?
When behind your green borders, the moon will go to sleep,
And I will have to repress all happy feelings—
In your joyous moments, will you recall this passerby’s brief visit?
Will your voice resound in this empty room in loud lamentations?
Will the moonlight become insipid in your vision then?
Will you open shutters and look at the formless world outside?
Or will you keep standing rapt in your thoughts all day long?

Tied to exhausted earth, you’ve become a row of helpless trees,
Your feet are soiled with dust, your heads enveloped in emptiness.
Your days scald in the sun’s heat, your night’s chill in the dew,
You lack the strength to cry, you seem to be in a deathlike stupor.
If your problems fail to arouse you, companions, and stir you,
What can I hope to gain by burdening you with my gift of pain?...

*                  *                  *                 *                 

If I come to your mind by mistake, try to forget me,
If by mistake my windows open again,
Please shut them again.... Don’t look out in the dark at all
Through your wooden screen—for the one no longer on earth

The poem recited by Nazrul’s son, Kazi Sabyasaachi, in Bengali

Born in united Bengal, long before the Partition, Kazi Nazrul Islam (1899-1976) was known as the Bidrohi Kobi, or “rebel poet”. Nazrul is now regarded as the national poet of Bangladesh though he continues a revered name in the Indian subcontinent. In addition to his prose and poetry, Nazrul wrote about 4000 songs.

.Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Tags Bangla Academy Literary Award, Bengali, Bidrohi Kobi, Chittagong, Fakrul Alam, Jibanananda Das, Kazi Sabyasachi, Nazrul, Rabindranath Tagore, SAARC Literary Award

Contents

Borderless, October 2022

Editorial

The Sky … Click here to read.

Conversations

Anthony Sattin, an award winning journalist and travel writer in conversation about Nomads: The Wanderers Who Shaped our World, his recent book published by Hachette, India. Click here to read.

VR Devika talks of the dynamic Muthulakshmi Reddy, the first woman in the world to preside over a Legislative Assembly who sought justice for Devadsis and prostitutes and discusses her book, Muthulakshmi Reddy: A Trailblazer in Surgery and Women’s Rights published by Niyogi Books. Click here to read.

Translations

Daridro or Poverty by Nazrul has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.

The Browless Dolls by S.Ramakrishnan, has been translated from Tamil by B Chandramouli. Click here to read.

Two poems from Italy by Rosy Gallace have been translated from Italian by Irma Kurti. Click here to read.

Flowers of Love Bloom Everywhere, a poem for peace, written by and translated from Korean by Ihlwha Choi. Click here to read.

Aalo Amar Aalo (Light, My Light) a song by Tagore, has been translated by Mitali Chakravarty from Bengali. Click here to read.

Pandies Corner

Songs of Freedom: Moh-Reen is an autobiographical story by Amreen, translated from Hindustani by Janees. These stories highlight the ongoing struggle against debilitating rigid boundaries drawn by societal norms, with the support from organisations like Shaktishalini and Pandies. Click here to read.

Poetry

Click on the names to read

Michael R Burch, Kirpal Singh, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Jonathan Chan, Ron Pickett, Saranyan BV, George Freek, Pramod Rastogi, Mike Smith, Gayatri Majumdar, John Grey, Vandana Kumar, Ahmad Al-Khatat, Rhys Hughes

Poets, Poetry & Rhys Hughes

In Crossing the Date Line, Rhys talks of his fascination with this imagined construct. Click here to read.

Essays

Epaar Bangla, Opaar Bangla: Bengals of the Mind

Asad Latif explores if homeland is defined by birth. Click here to read.

The Wabi-Sabi of Making a Living

Aditi Yadav calls for taking a break from hectic work schedules. Click here to read.

Just a Face on Currency Notes?

Debraj Mookerjee writes of Gandhi’s relevance and evolution. Click here to read.

A Mother, a Daughter & a Demon Slayer?

Meenakshi Malhotra checks out the festival of Durga Puja, declared the a heritage festival by UNESCO. Click here to read.

The Observant Immigrant

Candice Lousia Daquin explores festivals and the God gene in We had Joy, We Had Fun…. Click here to read.

Musings/Slices from Life

KL Twin Towers near Kolkata?

Devraj Singh Kalsi visits the colours of a marquee hosting the Durga Puja season with its spirit of inclusivity. Click here to read.

A Five Hundred Nautical Mile Voyage to Tasmania

Meredith Stephens writes of sailing to Tasmania when the pandemic had just started loosening its grip. Click here to read.

Keep Walking…

Ravi Shankar recommends walking as a panacea to multiple issues, health and climate change and takes us on a tour of walks around the world. Click here to read.

The Matriarch of Hirronk

Ali Jan Maqsood introduces us to a strong matriarch from a Balochi village. Click here to read.

Musings of a Copywriter

In Drill, Fill, Just Chill, Devraj Singh Kalsi gives us humour while under a dentist’s drill. Click here to read.

Notes from Japan

Suzanne Kamata writes of her A Ramble on Bizan, focussing on a writer, also by the surname of Moraes, who lived on Mount Bizan more than century ago, moving to Japan from Portugal having fallen violently in love. Click here to read.

Short Stories

Half-Sisters

Sohana Manzoor explores the darker regions of human thought with a haunting psychological narrative about familial structures. Click here to read.

Homecoming

Rituparna Mukherjee gives a poignant story about missing home. Click here to read.

The Phosphorescent Sea

Paul Mirabile journeys with his protagonist into the depths of the ocean. Click here to read.

The Literary Fictionist

In Deathless are the Words, Sunil Sharma explores madness and ideators who believe in the power of words. Click here to read.

Book Excerpts

An excerpt from Taranath Tantrik and Other Tales from the Supernatural by Bibhutibhushan, translated from Bengali by Devalina Mookerjee. Click here to read.

An excerpt from A Handful of Sesame by Shrinivas Vaidya, translated from Kannada by Maithreyi Karnoor. Click here to read.

Book Reviews

Somdatta Mandal has reviewed BM Zuhara’s The Dreams of a Mappila Girl: A Memoir, translated from Malayalam by Fehmida Zakir. Click here to read.

Basudhara Roy has reviewed Taranath Tantrik: And Other Tales from the Supernatural by Bibhutibhushan, translated from Bengali by Devalina Mookerjee. Click here to read.

Bhaskar Parichha has reviewed Satyajit Ray Miscellany: On Life, Cinema, People & Much More, a collection of the maestro’s writings and illustrations. Click here to read.

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Essay

A Mother, a Daughter & a Demon Slayer?

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date October 1, 2022
2 Comments on A Mother, a Daughter & a Demon Slayer?

By Meenakshi Malhotra

Durga Puja is an annual festival that marks a time of joyous celebration among the Bengali community worldwide. The UNESCO declared this festival as an ‘Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity’. A festival that has become the most looked forward to cultural event in the year, among the communities celebrating them, it is the biggest event in the festive calendar of Bengalis. Durga Puja in certain ways has transcended its religious context to assume mammoth proportions as can be seen in the UNESCO citation: “Durga Puja is seen as the best instance of the public performance of religion and art, and as a thriving ground for collaborative artists and designers. The festival is characterized by large-scale installations and pavilions in urban areas, as well as by traditional Bengali drumming and veneration of the Goddess. During the event, the divides of class, religion and ethnicities collapse as crowds of spectators walk around to admire the installations.”

The idol of Durga, drowned at the end of the festival, is made by local craftsmen and is at the fulcrum of all the festivities as people come to worship her and celebrate her homecoming.The goddess is said to have descended from her husband’s home to visit her parents. According to art historians, the UNESCO tag will give a boost to the crafts around the festival — from the idol-making at Kumartuli to the designing and making of elaborate sets to house the idol. What is worth noting, moreover, is that no effort is spared when it comes to embellishing or decorating the goddess, in spite of its transient and impermanent nature. For, on the last day of the festival, the idol is immersed in the river, signifying the evanescence and temporality that marks human life and all its endeavours.

Her descent on earth with her four children (Lakshmi, goddess of prosperity; Saraswati, goddess of learning; Ganesh, god of wisdom, and Kartik, god of war) for the five days of the festival, is also perceived as the advent of a daughter to the house of the mother, a moment which overflows with affection and emotions. The event happens at a certain time in the Hindu calendar and participates in linear time, as well as part of a larger ongoing cycle of temporality. In the Hindu pantheon, Durga or Parvati is a prominent mother goddess, the consort of Shiva. Her names refer to split roles of the feminine imaginary. As Durga she is the fiery slayer of demons, as Kali she has to be appeased through blood and slaughter. Interestingly, in the cultural imaginary and imagery of the Durga Puja, she is also mother as well as the daughter, whose visit to the paternal home is brief and fleeting and therefore, provides the occasion for a joyous celebration.

Significantly, the Shaktik or the empowered feminine goddess, Durga, signifies the triumph of good over evil. The divine is represented both in terms of mythic abstractions and the material every day, as power and poetry, as divine and human, as mother and daughter. Thus she is the resplendent and refulgent goddess but also the all-powerful who eliminates all suffering and is thus referred to as “durgati-nashini”(destroyer of troubles). The goddess is shown as ten-armed, mounted on a lion, the king of the animals, ready to go into battle against the demonic strength of the demon king, Mahisasura. She is fully geared to destroy the demon king as her ten hands hold weapons.

The weapons tell a tale, which is intricately linked to the narrative and symbolism of Durga. They were given to her by male Gods who had failed to defeat Mahisasur to empower her to kill the evil demon. The trident was said to be given by her spouse, Shiva, and its three sharp points symbolised the three qualities (called ‘gunas’) of ‘sattva’(signifying wisdom and purity), ‘rajas’(signifying activity and material gain ) and ‘tamas’(signifying darkness and destruction). The snake, a part of the iconography of Shiva who is depicted with a snake wound around his neck, was also gifted by him. The conch signifying the primordial sound called “aum”, the seed word for all creation, was gifted by Varuna, the god of water bodies. The sword was given by Yama, the god of death and Justice. The lotus, which represents the emergence of spiritual consciousness even under trying circumstances, was gifted by the creator of the universe, Brahma. The discus-also known as the “Sudarshan chakra” was given by the preserver of the universe, Vishnu, and spins on Durga’s index figure to symbolise how the energy provided by the goddess sets the universe in motion. The chakra represents the cosmic cycle of life and death in continuum, emphasising that though time destroys everything, inner awakening can help transcend the transience of time.

The thunderbolt or ‘vajra’ given by the king of gods, Indra, symbolises firmness of character, determination, and supreme power. The divinity empowers her devotee with unshaken confidence and implacable will. The bow and infinite arrows, gifted by Vayu, the air god, is a weapon whose combination of potential and kinetic powers symbolises energy. The spear is a gift from Agni or the fire god; it represents pure, fiery power. It also represents the power to judge and act with fairness and wisdom, differentiating the right from the wrong. The club or axe, gifted by Vishwakarma (a deity mentioned in the Rig veda and considered the architect or the engineer of the universe) represents the power to defeat evil and embodies fearlessness while fighting against the wicked. Solar radiance is gifted to her by Surya, the sun god, to banish darkness and evil around her.

Finally, the goddess is depicted as mounted on a lion, the king of all animals and the most powerful. Her mount signifies the need to keep strength and power within one’s control and use it only when required. The weapons of Durga are depictive of qualities we need to possess to empower ourselves to achieve our dreams.

Her fight with Mahisasur was not just to eradicate evil from the universe at a particular conjuncture, but also to set an example for generations to come. Yet the iconography and the narrative symbolism of the Goddess begs a question: Does she become more than a site or ground where masculine power is on display? Does her iconography also highlight the gap between the sexes and the fact that the source of her power lies in the weapons she is given by the male gods and is, therefore, ultimately controlled by them? Or can it be seen as a joint effort of the male and the female to find a world free of hatred, violence and evil?

Dr Meenakshi Malhotra is Associate Professor of English Literature at Hansraj College, University of Delhi, and has been involved in teaching and curriculum development in several universities. She has edited two books on Women and Lifewriting, Representing the Self and Claiming the I, in addition to numerous published articles on gender, literature and feminist theory.

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Tags Bengali, Durga Puja, Kumartali, Mahisasur, Meenakshi Malhotra, UNESCO