It took me a long time to clear the confusion between bedcover and bedsheet often misused interchangeably as synonyms. Post marriage, thanks to my partner, I came to know that anything meant to cover the bed should not be called bedcover. I chose to find a simple way to remember that anything that covers the mattress to provide a hygienic surface to sleep on is identified as bedsheet. Ever since I became educated regarding the key difference, I have developed a strong desire to shop for fancy bedsheets, stronger than shopping for my own apparel with fancy labels.
Frequently changing the bedsheet – less than a fortnight, to be specific – has led to a shortage of bedsheets. With my unilateral decision to discard the faded and dull ones, the stock plummeted to less than half. I applied harsh judgment and dumped most of the bedsheets, calling some of the shades a bit too dark to invite mosquitoes and spirits to draw my blood. To equal my score, my soul mate exercised her free will in a similar manner and rejected a few more from the ones I spared, calling the animal prints as scary and nightmarish that disturbed sound sleep. The ferocious leopards and leaping monkeys served as scapegoats that kept her wide awake for long hours. Finding this quick solution to end her insomnia without realising that the extended screen time led to low melatonin levels formed a strong case for justice that could not be delayed nor denied.
Replenishing the stock was not going to be a smooth task as the contest to justify and convince the partner would be fierce, to say the least. She would list her own preferences and parameters so the ideal route available involved equally splitting the purchase target, with each partner buying half the stock without explaining anything to the other partner.
Finding this to be the safest and wisest option to avoid conflict, I proposed it to her. She made no effort to disagree on this count except specifying that the purchases must be strictly offline. She seemed to have already made up her mind regarding what she would order and from where. We agreed because we had suffered online disappointments regarding a host of issues related to size, fabric, thread count, material quality, and colour combination in the past. How the ordered pink bedsheet became magenta on delivery was a magical mystery of transformation that was never solved.
Knowing what she disliked, I tried to focus on the shades she loved – the floral prints she approved of. Knowing what I liked, she tried to focus on the soothing pastel shades of my choice and picked up the ones without flashy designs, finding the plain, solid ones as the better choices. Since we had already decided what to avoid, buying bedsheets appeared to be an easy job. Once the process began, we realised there were still several other factors to bear in mind. Both of us were free to pick what appealed to each of us yet the buying process seemed to be a classic example of trying to please the other person. As if the bedsheet was a chic dress item purchased as an anniversary gift to elicit praise.
The thread count check ruined my maiden choice as I was told it was 144. Quite important like a vital health parameter, I chose to opt for a bedsheet with at least 186 TC, making the shop assistant scratch his head to remember the exact location of the bedsheets with higher thread count. When he finally pulled out some of the bedsheets, their geometric patterns reminded me of pentagon and hexagon, feeling alarmed of turning the cosy bedroom into a classroom once again. Memories of the geometry box with protector and compass would cause anxiety and lead to a lack of restful sleep. I turned my gaze away from the entire stock and requested the staff to show some cute prints instead. He picked out some bedsheets with kittens and teddy bears, compelling me to specify that ‘cute’ ones do not always mean referring to what kids like.
I decided to end this exercise by picking up a bright floral print. He seemed to get it now and showed me a satin bedsheet decked with giant roses not common in any nursery including the organic types. Since I have a tendency to slip, the extra smooth satin surface would make my head slip down from the pillow and keep my legs suspended from the bed, hanging down like withered branches of an old tree. When everything else seemed to fit the bill, the satin spoiled the whole thing, making me consider a quick exit from the mega store with a faint smile on an apologetic face without making any purchase. Imagining the fiery glance of the mumbling salesman dumping the entire lot flashed before my eyes to remind how the failure to achieve sales target burns a person from within.
Feigning a tough exterior of an annoyed customer still eager to lock the deal, I told him I had specified the material has to be cotton, super soft cotton. He argued that super soft is something only satin or silk could satiate, not cotton. I underlined that the material must be cotton because nothing else suits my tender skin. He argued further, asking me why the skin would react as I would be wearing my night suit. I reminded him that there were other situations possible, but he did not seem to get the hint. Missed by a long shot.
To serve a persuasive customer, he brought to my notice an off-white one with polka dots, which I called white. He corrected me by pointing to the printed label with the exact specifications. I said it would get dirty very quickly as I have a habit of eating snacks on the bed, and spilling the tomato sauce on it would resemble blood stains. White also reminded me of hospitals and dead bodies. The bedsheets inside the hospital rooms were invariably snow white. While it was preferred by health experts, the sight of white bedsheets scared me, reminding me of my last journey from this world. I left the store in total confusion, without thanking him for the effort he invested to convince me to make my first independent purchase of a premium bedsheet for my bedroom.
I remembered her preference to either contrast or match the bedsheet with the colour of the curtains a bit late. The cream blinds and baby pink curtains reflected her sober taste. When it came to bedsheets, she was sometimes unpredictable and moody. Since she doted on shades like pink, yellow, green and orange, I chose to focus on these vibrant, energetic colours with positive psychological impact. I thought of offering a surprise by matching the bedsheet with the colour of the bedroom walls. The colour book available at any paint shop would be the ideal reference in this regard. Undertaking a humungous task of this order was needless for something as simple as buying a bedsheet was another piece of advice offered by the logical side of the brain.
Neon green was in vogue, and the lime green option came closest to the fashion of the day. I specified neon green as the only preferred colour option when I went to a bigger store in the next lane to buy a cotton bedsheet. This time, I faced the tough query of clarifying whether my bed was king size or queen size or super king size or just an ordinary double bed. He mentioned the sizes in feet and centimetres, but I was unaware of the bed size I had been sleeping on for years.
That king size was bigger than queen size was another piece of information that was discriminatory in terms of gender. Why is the bed for kings bigger? Why is it smaller for the queens of the world? Even if my bed was queen size, I chose to opt for king size bedsheet. A bigger one can be folded and tucked inside or left hanging loose on the sides to cover the bed.
The store guy dumped a lime green bedsheet with royal blue borders and big lemons resembling the size of grenades. I came close to making my first choice as all the expected parameters were found in place. I could not think of a plausible reason why she would not be delighted to welcome this new addition. As I completed the maiden purchase on my own, I felt this was just the beginning of the task that would carry more episodes like any web series. Further installments would have more challenging situations, so it was not right to bask in the glory of one successful click that was still waiting to freeze her reaction.
Devraj Singh Kalsiworks as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
“Didi,” Ashok, the middle-aged local village farmer, screamed from the edge of his rice field. “Are you going to the temple grounds?”
The sweat on his bare-chested body glistened in the morning sun. He had been working since the crack of dawn.
“Yes,” Sandhya replied. “Won’t you come?”
“I’ll come later,” He responded. “Need to finish up here first.”
Sandhya nodded and continued with a measured pace towards the Kankalitala temple grounds.
It was a special day – Dol Purnima.
Every year, hundreds of people from all over the state of West Bengal gather in Santiniketan to celebrate Dol – the festival of colours – on this day. This year, the government had fixed the Kankalitala temple grounds as the venue for all the festivities.
Although it was only nine in the morning, the glare of the sun had already started to become intolerable.
It was a half-an-hour walk to the temple grounds, but Sandhya’s worn-out sandals had already started giving her trouble barely ten minutes into the journey. She had to stop and adjust them now and then to prevent calluses from forming on her feet.
The young village boys and girls had started playing with colours on both sides of the main road, and the whole village echoed with the boisterous laughter and shrieks of frivolous mischief makers. It was their day to have fun, and they were lapping up every second of it.
Sandhya had successfully fended off a couple of attempts by the youngsters to fling abir – coloured powders – in her direction, but she knew that she wasn’t safe as long as even one youngster was in sight.
She sighed.
Her life – colourless and full of misery – stood out as a sharp contrast amid all this colour and joy.
Sandhya Das had been a resident of this small village for nearly four decades. Her husband was a local farmer, and they lived in a modest mud hut near the edge of the village. Sandhya did everything she could to support her husband, and together, they scraped out a living by working from dawn to dusk. As the years passed by, they were blessed with a son.
Within the blink of an eye, the son grew up, got married, and moved to Kolkata to work as a labourer in a renowned factory.
Their financial condition slowly improved, and thanks to the monthly allowance sent by their son, Sandhya and her husband could take their foot off the pedal and relax a bit.
Sandhya prayed to the Gods and thanked them for their benevolence.
But alas, she was not prepared for the capriciousness of fate.
In 2020, just as her husband had visited their son in the city, the COVID-19 pandemic started wreaking havoc throughout the country. Kolkata – like all the other metro cities – was a favoured hunting ground of the virus, and people started getting infected left and right. What followed was months of chaos, a countrywide lockdown, and a scramble to find a cure.
Sandhya spent weeks on edge, waiting eagerly for some news about her family. She barely ate, hardly slept, and prayed to her Gods throughout the day. After nearly two and a half months of intense anticipation, the news arrived one day like a bolt from the blue. A neighbour, who had travelled with Sandhya’s husband before the outbreak, had finally managed to return home. He informed that Sandhya’s husband, her son, and her daughter-in-law had all succumbed to the deadly virus. The neighbour broke down while recounting the horrific two months in the city, and how he himself had escaped death by the skin of his teeth.
Sandhya had walked back to her home slowly and silently after hearing the news, and the neighbours who went to console her later found her in a state of unnerving calm. Only a bloody bruise on her forehead bore witness to the storm that had passed over her life and turned everything upside down in an instant.
Such was her fate.
Initially, the villagers had tried to help her from time to time by sharing food and basic amenities, but with the sharp rise in prices of everyday items, these avenues slowly dried out. The village was very poor, and families were barely making enough to sustain themselves.
Sandhya realised quite soon that at sixty-two years of age, her days of hard labour were behind her, and doing odd jobs wasn’t enough. So, as a woman having no other alternative, she started going out of the village and begging for alms.
She mostly travelled to the local train station with a steel bowl, roaming around in search of benevolent souls who would offer her some money. Most people ignored her pleas, and only a handful took out loose change from their pockets and dropped it into the bowl. Every time her bowl rang out with a clink – indicating the addition of a coin – Sandhya was reminded of the cruel fate that had reduced her to a beggar.
The alms she received were never enough. Some days, it was fifteen rupees, some days it was ten, some days, it was abysmally low. Despite the changing economy, most people held the belief, albeit wrongfully, that a one-rupee coin was always enough for people begging for alms.
But Sandhya couldn’t complain. As the adage goes – beggars can’t be choosers.
When she finally reached the Kankalitala grounds with bowl in hand, it was around 9:45. Thanks to her weather-beaten sandals, it had taken her fifteen minutes more to reach her destination. Special days like this were always an opportunity to earn a little more, and Sandhya didn’t want to lose this chance.
Her dirt-stained off-white saree was wet with sweat, and it felt unbearable under the heat of the sun. Taking out her plastic water bottle from a half-torn carry bag, she quenched her thirst and took note of the surroundings.
Hundreds of people had thronged the temple grounds, and the place was teeming with tourists. All around her were people in yellow shirts, yellow kurtas, and yellow sarees. There were numerous groups of people, already covered in abir, flinging handfuls of colourful powders towards each other with enthusiasm and intent.
Sandhya felt herself standing in an ocean of colours.
It was mesmerizing.
It was vibrant.
Performances during Dol at Santiniketan: From Public Domain
Even the local village women had dressed in yellow. They formed a circle – with earthen water jars precariously balanced on their heads – and danced to the tune of local Baul songs. The tourists joined in their circles from time to time – dancing, clapping, and clicking innumerable photos in their expensive mobile phones and cameras.
Sandhya noticed the heap of currency notes that had accumulated on a towel kept in the middle of the circle – generous offerings by the tourists as a tribute to the cultural spectacle.
Sandhya let out another sigh.
Oh, if only she could join such a group and dance to the tune of the ektara.
But it was too late, and she had already started suffering from joint pain.
The ice cream van stationed near the edge of the ground was also a big hit. Young kids, covered in abir from head to toe, were dragging their parents towards the van and clamouring for a cool treat to battle the rising heat.
Sandhya looked on as notes of various denominations changed hands effortlessly.
Targeting a corner of the ground with a large congregation of tourists, she slowly made her way through the crowd, holding up her empty bowl.
“Babu, will you please help an old woman a little?” She stopped in front of a married couple and looked eagerly at their faces. The husband – busy sipping tea – looked uneasily at her, and then at his wife. As soon as he put his hand into his pocket, the wife – her neck and arms glistening with fancy jewellery – intervened and put him in line.
“Sorry, didi,” She responded curtly in his stead. “We have nothing to spare.”
Pulling her husband aside, she moved and stood a little further away.
Sandhya smiled wryly.
Although she had already grown used to such attitudes, every now and then, she felt a sharp pang in her heart. At the end of the day, she was also human.
After an hour of roaming about in the grounds, she had managed to collect only five rupees.
It was around 11, and the sun was getting hotter.
Sandhya sat down under the shade of a tree, tired and disappointed, and finished the remaining water from the bottle. The number of tourists had increased, and there was hardly any standing space in the grounds. The celebrations were in full swing.
Wiping the sweat off her brow, Sandhya looked around with a tired gaze at everything around her.
So many people, so much colour, so much joy.
And yet something was missing.
Something human.
It was becoming more noticeable over the years.
Sandhya closed her eyes.
“Mashi?”
A voice suddenly aroused her from her state of contemplation.
It belonged to a young man in his late twenties who was standing over her.
He was wearing a bright red t-shirt, and his face was covered in red abir.
“Are you alright? You look unwell.” The man spoke with concern.
“I’m alright, Babu,” Sandhya responded with apparent tiredness in her voice. “Just a little worn out.”
“Here, have some water.”
The boy gave him a half-filled water bottle.
Sandhya sat up.
The benevolence of this young stranger had moved her, and her eyes became blurry.
“Thank you, babu.” She replied with effort, trying to push back the lump that had formed in her throat.
“Please wait a bit here.” The man pleaded. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Sandhya sat below the tree, bewildered and curious.
What is he up to? She wondered.
A few minutes passed by, and there was still no sign of him.
The water had rejuvenated Sandhya, and she was about to get up and leave when the young man suddenly appeared in front of her, holding a steaming cup of tea and two biscuits.
“Sorry, I’m late,” He apologised. “There was a big queue near the tea stall.”
Sandhya stared blankly at him, unable to figure out his intentions.
“Here,” The man proceeded to offer her the tea and biscuits. “These are for you.”
Sandhya looked down at his hands, and then up at his smiling face.
She couldn’t believe her ears.
“W-why are you giving me all this?” Her voice betrayed her astonishment.
“I’ve been taught from a very early age that a small amount of kindness goes a long way.” The man replied without a moment’s hesitation. “And you seemed like a person who could do with a little kindness today.”
Sandhya couldn’t hold back her tears any longer. At that instant, the simple act of this young stranger seemed to her to be more valuable than all the money in the world. In this vast human desert of apathy and ignorance, the boy stood out like a soothing oasis.
“Bless you, babu,” She blurted out amid a muffled sob.
“May the Lord protect you and reward you for the kindness you displayed today.”
“Thank you, mashi.” The man smiled radiantly. “Please have your tea before it gets cold.”
“Yes, babu,” Sandhya replied, wiping away her tears and sipping the tea from a small clay cup. The tea felt sweet and refreshing, and the biscuits felt like ambrosia to her empty stomach.
“What’s your name?” She enquired out of curiosity.
“Mukunda,” The boy replied gently.
Mukunda. Sandhya repeated the name in her mind.
She closed her eyes, taking note of the calmness and bliss she felt at that moment.
“Didi? Didi!”
A familiar voice suddenly pierced the air.
Sandhya opened her eyes to find Ashok, the village farmer, standing in front of her. As she looked about her frantically, Mukunda was nowhere to be found.
“Why’re you sleeping here?” Ashok questioned. “Are you feeling unwell?”
Sandhya looked down at her hands. There was no cup, no biscuits.
Was it all a dream? She thought to herself. But it felt so real.
She could still feel the taste of the tea and biscuits lingering in her mouth.
“Go home if you don’t feel well,” Ashok advised her. “It’s almost twelve noon. The heat will be unbearable soon.”
Sandhya got up slowly. Pulling up her bag and picking up her bowl, she walked slowly towards the crowd of people still scattered around the temple grounds.
“Where’re you going?” Ashok called back after her.
“In search of an oasis,” Sandhya replied calmly, disappearing into the crowd.
Sayan Sarkar was born and raised in Kolkata. He is a passionate reader and lifelong learner who spends his leisure time immersed in books and new ideas.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Nazrul’s magazine, Dhumketu, and Nazrul (1899-1976). From Public Domain
Dhumketu[1]was a bi-weekly Bangla paper edited by Kazi Nazrul Islam. It started publication on 26 Sravan 1329 /11 August 1922, in a four-page format, but later expanded to eight pages. Rabindranath’s poem, hailing the launch of this paper, was used as an epigraph. The paper contained several of Nazrul’s own writings – apart from the editorial – such as a reprinting of ‘Bidrohi[2]’ in the inaugural issue, the poem Muharram in the Muharram issue of 20 pages (1329 /August 1922), ‘Agamoni[3]’ and ‘Anandamoyeer Agamone[4]’ in the 9 Ashwin/ 26 September 1922 issue. The police raided the office of Dhumketu on 8 November, but Nazrul was not there. He was finally arrested on 23 January 1923 on charges of sedition. The paper dated 13 Magh 1329/27 January 1923 contained his ‘Rajbandi’r Jabanbandi[5]’ along with poems and pieces on him. Nazrul was jailed for a year, and the paper was suspended for a time. It appeared later under the editorship of Biren Sen Gupta and Amaresh Kanji Lal, but it did not have the earlier revolutionary fervour. It became irregular and from March 1923 publication stopped.
Selina Bahar Zaman retrieved the facsimiles of the issues of Dhumketu. From this valuable collection we realise that from the very beginning, the paper was not only meant to voice Nazrul’s anti-British views but also to reveal his non-communal and non-gendered outlook.
The contributors to the paper included both Muslim and Hindu writers, male and female. The advertisement of Himani Snow on the cover of the inaugural issue – and in many subsequent issues – suggests that Nazrul expected the paper to be read by women as well as men. From the inaugural issue the presence of women writers is noticeable.
Some women writers wrote a number of times, but there were at least ten women who wrote at least once. One of these included a ten- or eleven-year-old girl as well as a thirteen-year-old girl, the former Hindu, the latter Muslim. Sri Birajsundari Devi, Promila’s aunt, whom Nazrul called “Ma”, and who would help him break his fast at Hooghly Jail and to whom the poet later dedicated his book Sarbahara (1926)[6], gave him her blessings in ‘Mayer Ashish’ [7]in the inaugural issue of Dhumketu. She also wrote a piece – ‘Nari Kalyan[8]’ – for the issue. Masuda Rahman (1885-1926) wrote several times – always appearing as Mrs. M. Rahman; Roquiah Sakhawat Hossein (1880-1932) –– writing as Mrs R. S. Hossein – contributed the excerpt of an essay and a poem.
Roquiah Sakhawat Hossein was born and brought up in a conservative Muslim family of Pairaband, Rangpur. Forbidden to read and write Bangla or English as a child, she managed to learn both so well that she could write fluently in both. For women of her generation, she was a beacon of light, extolling the importance of education in improving the lives of women. Roquiah Sakhawat Hossein was greatly helped by her brother and later by her husband, Sakhawat Hossein, to learn how to read and write, both Bangla and English.
Knowing her passion for education, Sakhawat Hossein left her a considerable sum of money to start a school. Five months after her husband passed away on 3 May 1909, she started a school in his name at Bhagalpur where she was residing at the time. However, she was unable to continue to live there and moved to Kolkata, where, two years later, on 16 March 1911, she re-started Sakhawat Memorial School at 13 Wellesley Lane. At the time of her death on 9 December 1932, there were more than 100 girls studying at the school.
A newer version of the book with a portrait of the author. Originally published in 1905. From Public Domain
Apart from teaching, she also wrote, in Bangla and English, in Kolkata magazines about her concerns for women, about purdah, and about her school. Roquiah’s first publication was not in Bangla but in English. Her story, “Sultana’s Dream”, for which she is well-known internationally today, appeared in the Indian Ladies Magazine (Madras) in 1905. Three years later, her Bangla translation of this story came out in book form from S. K. Lahiri and Co., Kolkata.
Perhaps the earliest Bangla essay of hers that was published was ‘Pipasha (Thirst)’. This piece about Muharram was published in Nabaprabha in Falgun 1308 (mid-February to mid-March 1902). She also wrote in other journals such as Mahila, Nabanur, BharatMahila, Al-Eslam, Bangiya Mussulman Sahitya Patrika, Saogat, Sadhana, Naoroz, Mohammadi, Sahityik, Sabujpatra, Muezzin, Bangalakshmi, Gulistan, Mah-e-Nau. It is not known whether Nazrul and Roquiah ever met in person, though in Nazrul’s novel Bandhon Hara[9] (published serially in Moslem Bharat from 1921) many of the sentiments voiced by the women letter writers seem to presage what Roquiah would later say in her essay ‘Subah Sadek[10]’ in Muezzin (Asharh-Sravan 1337/mid-July-mid-August 1930.)
A sizable extract from Roquiah’s essay ‘Pipasha’ is included in the Muharram issue of Dhumketu. A poem of hers, ‘Nirupam Bir[11]’, was also published in Dhumketu that year. In ‘Pipasha’, she reflects on the plight of the group of warriors, women, and children accompanying Hazrat Imam Hossain on his tragic journey to Karbala. In an age when copyright was not taken seriously and essays, stories, and poems were freely published in different journals, it is not clear whether Nazrul took permission from Roquiah to republish this piece. Though the essay is about Muharram, the piece is divided into two sections, with the second part describing the grief after a loved one died without having a last sip of water. Dhumketu included only the first part in which the focus is on the tragedy of Karbala.
The only other piece by Roquiah to appear in Dhumketu was a poem, ‘Nirupam Bir’, published on 5 Ashwin 1329/22 September 1922. Unlike ‘Pipasha’, the poem does not seem to have been published before.
‘Nirupam Bir’ is a remarkable poem from a woman who has been called an “Islamic Feminist.” The 1 Bhadra 1329/ 18 August 1922 issue of Dhumketu had published a photograph of the revolutionary Kanailal Dutt (1888-1908). Perhaps this inspired Roquiah to write the poem. Kanailal was a revolutionary belonging to the Jugantor Group. Arrested with a number of other revolutionaries, he was imprisoned in Alipore Jail. There, along with another revolutionary, he succeeded in assassinating Narendranth Goswami, a government approver. Kanailal was hanged on 31 August 1908. He was the second revolutionary to be hanged by the British after Khudiram Bose – whose picture also appeared in Dhumketu.
In her poem, Roquiah eulogises Kanai as the dauntless warrior. The poem begins with the magistrate ordering Kanai to be hanged. But Kanai – addressed here as Shyam, another name of Krishna – laughs. The one who willingly sacrifices his life does not fear hanging. “Moriya kanai hobe omor/ Shadhyo ki bodhe tarey?” (By dying Kanai will become immortal. Who can slay him?) The poem ends with a strident call: “Bolo bolo ‘Bande Shyam,’” (Proclaim, proclaim, ‘Long Live Shyam’). It was a very brave piece of writing by Roquiah, the widow of an official who had served the British and the founder of a school for Muslim girls.
Unlike Roquiah who appeared only twice in Dhumketu, Mrs. M. Rahman appears frequently. Her first name was Masuda, but she wrote as Mrs. M. Rahman for Dhumketu.
Masuda Rahman was the daughter of Hooghly’s Public Prosecutor Khan Bahadur Mazharul Anwar Chowdhury. Apart from learning how to read the Quran, she learned some Bangla and Urdu at home. At the age of eleven, she was married to Kazi Mahmudur Rahman, Zamindar of Furfura, who was at the time Registrar of Calcutta. Her early marriage did not deter her from following her own interests. She wrote essays and also a novel Ma O Meye[12].
It is not known how Masuda Rahman met Kazi Nazrul Islam, but Professor Rafiqul Islam says she treated “Nazrul like a son.” (Nazrul had been estranged from his mother for some time. Perhaps, the longing for a mother led him to call Mrs. M. Rahman and Birajsundari Devi “Ma”. He would dedicate two of his books to them.)
Mrs. M. Rahman played a prominent part in Nazrul’s marriage. Nazrul had fallen in love with a girl named Ashalata – whom he would rename Promila after their marriage – and brought both Ashalata and her mother Giribala to Kolkata in 1924. Nazrul was 23, Ashalata just 16. There were obvious difficulties in this marriage between a Muslim man and a young girl of a different faith[13]. It was Mrs. M. Rahman who organised the wedding which took place on 25 April 1924, according to Muslim rites, though Ashalata did not change her religion. Seven years later, Nazrul dedicated his book Bisher Banshi[14] to Mrs. M. Rahman:
Fiery serpent girl of Bengal, the pride of Muslim women The manifestation of my mother on Earth, Mrs. M. Rahman sahiba, I lay this at your feet. (Translated by Nashid Kamal)
Before Mrs. M. Rahman got involved in Nazrul’s personal life, she was publishing frequently in Dhumketu. In fact, in the 29 Agrahayan 1329/15 December 1922 issue of Dhumketu, her name and the title of her piece are prominently displayed on the cover of the magazine. In the Muharram issue of Dhumketu, in which Roquiah’s ‘Pipasha’ also appeared, she wrote an essay titled ‘Amader Abhab Abhijog[15]’ for the section ‘Sandhya Pradeep[16]’. In this piece she points out that women are not weak, that they do not always need the support of a tree like a weak vine. They want freedom and independence.
In an earlier issue of Dhumketu for ‘Sandhya Pradeep’ she wrote ‘Amader Swarup[17]’, calling upon women to awaken. She writes that the call to awaken is everywhere, and quotes lines from a poet, Parimal Kumar, who calls upon the sisters and mothers of Bengal to awaken. A few paragraphs later she reminds women that they have a lot of work to do: “Narir sharthak korar sahasra poth achhey. Bibaho chharao korbar kaj achhey.” (There are many ways to make women feel fulfilled. Apart from getting married there are many things for women to do.) In ‘Panch Mishali’[18] in the 21 Kartik 1329/ 31 October 1922 issue of Dhumketu, she begins by saying she is out of sorts and therefore will provide some humorous anecdote.
Apart from Mrs M. Rahman, other women also wrote for the column ‘Sandhya Pradeep’. In the 14 Kartik 1329/31 October 1922 issue of Dhumketu, Sri Mahamaya Debi wrote an essay titled ‘Narir Mukti Kon Pothe[19]’. This essay was continued in the 1 Agrayahan 1329/17 November issue of Dhumketu in the same column along with two other essays by Srimati Nonibala Debi (‘Boneder Kotha’[20]) and Charushila Mitra (‘Narir SarthakothaKisher[21]’) In the 26 Agrahayan/12 December issue, Srimati Saktibala wrote a poem “Boner Dabi” which begins with the lines “Mukti dao/ Mukti dao/Supti dao/Bhai tora[22].” The second stanza reads: “Swadhinatao dao/Dao go dao/ Dao go dao/Pran bhora.” Srimati Nalini Basu and Srimati Chanchala Debi wrote ‘Mayer Bodhon’[23]under ‘Sandhya Pradeep’ in the issue of 30 Ashwin 1329/17 October 1922 welcoming the Goddess Durga. Young girls, Hindu and Muslim, were also writing. Srilila Mitra, who was ten or eleven years old, wrote two poems: ‘Bangali’ – “Ay, ay/Chhute ay/Ay tora /Bangali[24]” – in the 26 Ashwin/13 Oct issue of Dhumketu and ‘Khun-Khoshroj[25]’ in the 30 Ashwin/ 17 October issue. Rizia Begum, the thirteen-year-old daughter of Abdur Rahim of Noakhali also contributed a poem titled “Arab” in the 14 Kartik/Oct 31 issue of Dhumketu. Srisarashibala Basu wrote the poem “Bhai-Phonta[26]” in the 3 Kartik/ 20 October issue of Dhumketu.
Generally, Nazrul alone is associated with Dhumketu, but, as seen from these examples, women too were writing for the paper. And, if the ad for Himani Snow – which appeared on the cover of the inaugural issue of Dhumketu and continued to appear in other issues as well – suggests the desire of women to beautify themselves for men, it also stresses that the paper was meant for women readers, not only men. Significantly, the women writers who wrote for Dhumketu not only demanded rights for women, but they were also inspired by Nazrul’s revolutionary fervour to call upon men and women alike to rise against the British and demand freedom.
(First Published in Daily Star)
Selected Bibliography:
Hossein, Roquiah Sakhawat. Rokeya Rachnabali, ed Abdul Mannan Syed et al. Second ed. Dhaka: Bangla Academy, 1999.
Original art works by leading painters and sculptors selling for millions internationally were up for grabs because of the special two-day sale exhibition organised in a leading art gallery. Though it was not something common like an apparel sale, with irresistible buy-one-get-one-free offers that people flock to during the weekends, yet there was a sizeable crowd of potential art buyers who were driven by the prospective gains of making this trek.
The sale exhibition lured art aficionados and investors from business families along with salaried employees from middle-class families who were ready to cancel their annual holiday plans to spend the money on buying an art piece when the share market was topsy-turvy due to global meltdown. Customers who queued up as early as four in the morning had no clear idea of the mystery behind the affordable prices with a modest upper cap. Some of them thought these were slightly damaged art works – much like the rejected export items sold in factory outlets.
As the famed artists were selling some of their pieces at throwaway prices, it was a golden chance to invest in art at a very affordable budget segment. On a practical note, an artist does not always produce masterpiece after masterpiece so he cannot sell everything at a steep price in the auction house. Some of the greatest artists have created pretty ordinary work before they refined their sensibilities. I reasoned these were some of those amateurish works they could not sell for millions. Instead of stocking them up, they chose to make some money out of their mediocre art pieces. These artworks would probably fetch a good price after their demise so it was wise to pick up the ones from the seniormost artists who would bid us farewell soon and the auction price of their genuine art works would instantly boom.
What is now a steal would become a handsome deal and fetch millions and make me a millionaire overnight. Since the exhibiting gallery had all the displayed pieces certified as original stuff, I could safely make the investment. Having shortlisted a few names in my mind, I went around the gallery walls glowing with spotlights and enriched with their works and cherrypicked a couple of those without trying to understand the meaning of the art piece. Something abstract always catches attention.
Since there was a heavy rush of potential buyers jostling and pushing each other to lay their hands on their preferred pieces before they vanished, I chose to skate around corners with lesser density of shoppers. The speed with which these paintings disappeared from the walls was amazing. As there was not much to choose from after the top names were sold out, I faced the dilemma of finding the right parameters to finalise from the works of upcoming artists who managed to find display space. There was not much discussion about their commercial potential in the art world to assist buyers to bet on their creativity.
I was left with my instinct and my flawed sense of judgment when I went around in confusion, in search of clarity and finally staked claim on a painting by a lady painter who used a plant to outline the female form in acrylic. I hoped and prayed she would become another Shergill after a decade or two.
The lady at the counter examined my choice and smiled. I did not understand for sure whether her smile indicated approval in this case. Was she feeling happy that I made the right choice? Or she appreciated that I was a worshipper of the female form? She used some highfalutin words of praise on my taste in art and called it a very good purchase. I read it as her support and admiration for my foresight and insight. While the reaction of others around was much less than what is called envy or enthusiasm, they seemed to be more familiar with the name of the artists who was scheduled to arrive at the gallery for promotion of her art works later in the day.
People with limitless knowledge were discussing art works like highbrow critics. As a first-time art buyer, I had no such interest in the richness of the art. The commercial worth was what was keeping me curious. I wanted to grab a few words of praise from them about the artist I had invested in.
I decided to approach an old man and ask him about the potential of the woman painter but he did not show much excitement except making the prediction that I could easily get double the purchase price in the next decade. I was not thrilled to hear this forecast that barely covered inflation. Since I had already made the purchase, I got it packed and prepared to leave with a heavy heart.
While coming out, I was approached by a journalist who thrust the mike in front of me and the cameraman identified me as a buyer and focused on the covered painting in my hand. I was asked what I bought and why. Since I myself knew nothing much, I could not furnish a proper answer except mentioning the name and the price and then wrapping it off with a smile and an urgency to leave as my car had arrived at the gate.
This quick bite made me curious. When the programme was aired late, I found my interview missing. Some other interesting faces were featured. Perhaps the news editor judged me as a worthless, uncouth buyer who was looking for dirty profit and nothing else.
I decided to make the painting the prime showpiece on the wall of my living room. I cast a detailed look at it to find potential but it was beyond my understanding. Whenever a male guest came in, he looked up and admired without offering a reason, making me ashamed of my ignorance while the rest of the people appeared to know a lot about art. Conversation flowed but I kept silent.
Whenever a woman came in, she looked away. I chose to ignore the reactions of my guests and continued to display it with pride and clicked my profile status shots in front of it. Seated on the couch, with the painting in the background forming a clean artistic backdrop, I sported a confident look with a strong impression that I was an art lover though it was far from the truth. I knew I was another one of those pseudo art-lover who claimed to know the world of art inside out but was actually purely a money-minded nerd who was waiting for progress in the status of the painter – to fetch a good market price for her works. I would feel proud that since I have an original piece by the same painter. I could consider myself a rich person who would sell the painting later to invest the proceeds and accumulate a large corpus of retirement funds.
For ten years I waited for the death or disappearance of the painter but she was blessed with a long, healthy life. I checked her health status and she was doing fine. I knew another wait for a decade for her pop-off was on the cards.
When she finally died in a freak accident, I thought the good times had come. I was a mean profiteer who wanted to sell off this art work and make a mega profit.
I took it to an art gallery and asked how much it would fetch now. The quoted price was well below the expectation. I was asked to keep it with me for another two decades and then see how much it would fetch. I decided to wait till my retirement to calculate whether it would surpass my insurance or provident fund payout. I checked it again but the price, though high, barely crossed the bond returns.
After holding on for so long, I decided to sell the art work in the market. Attracting private collectors meant a tough time with negotiators. I went to the corporate honchos who would pay well. Finally I chose the company I worked for in the past and quoted an exorbitant price for the painting which he negotiated hard like a salary deal and finally handed me a cheque for the acrylic painting which he would proudly display in the corridor near the lobby. Though I did not get my preferred price, I chose to be happy as the investment made after sacrificing one annual holiday trip had made me rich enough to afford an annual holiday for the rest of my retired life.
Devraj Singh Kalsiworks as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Before stepping out of teens, Adarsh, my elder brother, also my father’s favourite son, stepped out of the ancestral house to live in a big city, to pursue higher education and fulfil his dreams camouflaged as the obligations of a responsible child. Hopes were pinned on him, on his powerhouse talent that would make the family gleam with pride one day. Whenever I heard my father praise him to the skies, I felt he was exaggerating like an astrologer.
Adarsh was not the kind of worthy son my father dreamt of. I remembered his last words before leaving for Bangalore to study engineering: Take care of the family. The way Adarsh said those precise words was conclusive. He would never come back to reside in the small town and shoulder his responsibilities.
To quote him verbatim would hurt my father deeply, to keep the truth estranged from him would be another kind of excess. I was expecting divine intervention to raise the curtain of his reality – to expose the opportunist lurking in Adarsh. A disappointment or a disagreement would be the ideal trigger to make my doting father examine the other side of his personality.
Fifteen years passed. His mask remained in place. I did not muster the strength to convey those exact words to my father who would never associate such thoughts with Adarsh. How could he go wrong in the assessment of his own child? Is human nature so misleading?
For two years, Adarsh had avoided coming home, citing professional compulsions. But my father felt our house lacked five-star amenities to suit Adarsh’s lifestyle.
I was considered a privileged son who enjoyed a life of comfort at home while the talented son struggled hard in the big, bad world outside. It was the duty of a parent to set the balance right, distribute love and affection equally between the legal heirs, not just the assets. Adarsh was perceived as the deprived child whereas I was the home-based pleasure-seeker exploiting the old man and his pension to meet my survival needs.
Using his provident fund proceeds, without consulting the family, the remorseful father built another floor and furnished one master bedroom with an attached washroom for his favourite son who came to meet him like an honourable dignitary for a couple of hours, for bear-hugs and to exchange pleasantries. And then returned to spend the night in a luxury hotel suite, around two hundred kms away, where his blonde wife had checked-in. Migratory birds stayed longer than he did and that was precisely what I queried my father about – he never controlled his budget to appease his older son. I questioned him about the urgent need to spend a fortune on the new construction when his health bills were expected to rise.
He justified it as a modest upgradation he could offer to the son who made him so proud. “If the entire town respects me today, it is because of your brother, not you,” he hollered, without thinking this could hurt me and strain the muscles of his ageing heart. Sometimes, parents reveal that their love for all children is far from equal. They are the prime architects of partiality in human relationships within the family.
I realised how demeaning it was to live in the house owned by him. I was aware of my own incompetence to build a similar house or pay my monthly bills. The roof provided by my father sheltered me along with my weaknesses and failures. Whenever I tried to move out — place myself under the open sky for a while — I was reminded of my actual status in life. As a result, I never challenged parental authority. Every insult that had come my way, I swallowed like mucus trapped in the throat.
Seeing him suffer emotionally because of Adarsh pained me though nobody expected me to be sensitive in this regard. If I revealed the other side of my brother, I was reminded of my own negligible contribution. I would be accused of trying to drive a wedge between the successful son and his loving father. The reality that he was also my father somehow faded. I was presented more like a dependent step-brother cribbing for his help all the time.
*
One day, I decided to disclose everything, oblivious of the outcome. The endless comparisons and insults lent toxicity to my anger. Surprisingly, my father listened to me quietly, without interrupting, immersed in finding good reasons to suspect and match those with his own observations. After several years of living abroad, the image of Adarsh seemed to develop cracks. It was not a development that made me happy though it was necessary at this stage for my own sanity.
Adarsh was expected like a good son to be around his father when he suffered his first heart attack. But he did not rush back home during the emergency. He said he did not get leave and he could not afford to quit. The recycled excuses did not work this time. I was the one by the bedside, arranging medical care, though the bills were later cleared by liquidating his fixed deposits.
Not finding the ideal son beside him was the reason for his heartbreak. The presence of an under-rated son round the clock was a matter of consolation for the father who had always belittled me. During the period of recovery, he reflected a lot, staring at the false ceiling mirroring his false pride. His sombre voice did not echo love and longing for the son who had deserted him. He came back from the hospital with two stents and a balanced perspective.
The special room built for my brother was always kept locked. Surprisingly, he offered me the keys and asked me to occupy the room. It was not just another accommodation. It was a sacred space in his heart reserved for Adarsh. That space was now being offered to me as he realised the ‘successful’ son would never get the leave to reach in time to light his funeral pyre. Whereas, this unregistered nominee carrying his DNA and residing for free on his premises would perform the last rites. He had reached this conclusion after introspecting and revising his expectations from high to low.
He could have had this realisation earlier but he was not able to see the other side without an emotional jolt. I never heard him criticise Adarsh for his shortcomings, for abandoning him in the hour of need. However, the frequent international phone calls and memory recalls turned rare now. He became almost non-existent for him — out of sight, out of mind.
Whenever I tried to mention Adarsh and his family, he changed the topic very quickly, faster than a chameleon changes colour. He seemed to have lost interest in what was going on in his life and career abroad. Or he did not wish to discuss him.
*
The day he suggested I should focus on my career and start some business was filled with surprise. He even offered financial assistance. Earlier, he vehemently opposed the idea of business since we belonged to a traditional family of service holders. Now he changed his outlook and made it global, without leaving the shore. Somewhere within he realised that promising careers are not always made abroad or by working for conglomerates alone.
I was well beyond the age to secure a decent job so I chose to become the first member in my family to take the entrepreneurial plunge. I was known as the one who always delivered losses. Yet now, he was not worried about losing his financial investment. He was rather keen to balance himself once again, by trying to favour me, to make amends for ignoring my future since I seemed to lack sparkle in my childhood years. In hindsight, he saw his concentration on Adarsh as a kind of injustice to me. Remorse overwhelmed him. I realised the best way for me to reduce his heaviness was to accept his offer. His kindness was a kind of balm for my bereaved heart.
*
On a modest scale, I set up the handicraft export business with his blessings. He broke the auspicious coconut and cut the ribbon at my new office. It took a couple of years for the business to register growth and enable me to repay his loan. My plans to expand and diversify the business – to establish units in the neighbouring states – were on the anvil. The fuel of ambition was clocking good mileage, taking my business in new directions at great speed.
My father was happy I was doing well for myself. The news reached him through his contact channels that I was invited to attend business summits, to deliver lectures, to receive awards and accolades. His retired friends glorified my initiatives of empowering the rural folks and ‘giving back’ to society. Sometimes he walked into the office and checked out the shelf space reserved for trophies and framed certificates of excellence and merit. He stood in front of the mantlepieces and smiled. He had heard stories about successful Adarsh. Here he was witnessing the meteoric success of his younger son.
I told him that Adarsh confirmed his visit to India that Diwali. I repeated it louder as he was watering the balcony plants. He showed no eagerness or excitement unlike in the past. I returned the keys of my brother’s fully furnished room he had offered me for personal use. I had not shifted in that space yet so I thought Adarsh could utilise it during his stay.
I was glad he was finally home-bound after a gap of two years – the first trip after the heart attack episode. For a change, he came alone, leaving his family behind. He looked unhappy though he did not share anything with me during the drive from the airport to the outskirts of the city. Only after he saw pictures and the website of my profitable business venture on the phone, he overcame the hesitation to open up his heart and share his current situation.
“I am ruined, bro, never saw this was coming,” Adarsh said, and wiped off the tears about to trickle down his cheeks. Surely there was some serious problem he was facing as I had never seen him emotionally fragile. I did not appear eager to dig up the details as he would gradually reveal the bruises. It appeared that a lot of stress and distress had piled up in his life during the last two years, about which we knew nothing. “I am preparing for divorce. My in-laws cheated me, siphoned off investments and she helped them in the loot,” Adarsh dropped the bombshell after regaining his composure. “Sometimes I feel she married me for wealth. Nothing else.”
The financial trouble he was coping with should not reach father, I thought, as he would be affected that his talented son was facing the consequences of betrayal in love and marriage. All I wanted to know from him was how he could be helped out. He disclosed he was planning for an out-of-court settlement first, then to return to India and build his future here.
“Father will be delighted to hear that. Great decision, bhai[1],” I cheered him for revising the plans and shuffling his priorities though it was late to rebuild from a scratch. “Just make sure the divorce thing is kept under wraps for some more time, for the sake of his health. No tension or anxiety.”
*
By the time we reached our housing colony, he opened up further. He did not want our father to know anything as the news of his suffering would take a toll on his health. Therefore, he wanted me to lend him financial support. Besides, he did not think he deserved to ask for anything from father as he had let him down with his choices and decisions. He pronounced himself guilty for he had not been a good son. Earlier, I was the one who went through such poor self-assessment. Finally, there was something that made us equal as brothers.
I parked the car in the outskirts near the primary school we attended together to revive good memories of childhood. We sat near the small pond and reflected on our childhood filled with days of joy and carefree lives. Dropping a pebble and watching the ripples in the water, thinking of a permanent solution to his problem. I gave it a serious thought and offered him equal partnership in my new business though it was not his domain of expertise. With the emerging integration of AI for business profitability, I thought his technological insights would help the business grow here and overseas. Seeing him snowed under genuine regret, I chose to forget the bitter past and assured him of all possible help as a blood brother, just like my father had surprised me with his assistance to rebuild my aimless, broken life. I felt then my decision was right.
*
Encouraged by my unconditional support, Adarsh snapped all ties with his in-laws and expedited the process of buying freedom by separating from his wife. The greatest joy for any father would be to see both the sons engaged in the same business. The unification and collaboration of the brothers through an act of destiny was the best gift in his old age.
The glowing expression of joy on hearing from Adarsh that he was going to settle down here was the best he could expect, the cherry on the cake. When he was asked why came alone after so long, he quoted a philosophical line to convey the universal truth, without revealing the truth of his personal life.
Whenever he was asked about his family again, he told the same story: she cannot come here with him because of her job obligations. Though the divorce thing was not specified, our father was not a fool to miss reading the faultlines on his glum face. He expected Adarsh to reveal it all on his own at the right time, whenever that was.
The special room meant for my brother was finally allotted to him. He was not told anything about the expenses incurred to make it luxurious. When Adarsh saw my ordinary room and compared the two, he realised there was still something special for him in his father’s heart. Finding me helpful, he offered space in the room. But I refused to sleep there. I thought I did not deserve the special room yet. My father came around later and asked me why I had not utilised that room when he had given me the keys. I said I was not used to such luxurious living.
Adarsh was living with us now though Dad tried to be cold and impersonal all the time. Whenever Adarsh asked about his daily medicines, he said I was put in charge of administering the doses. All the reports and prescriptions were in my custody, including the blood pressure monitoring gadget. Adarsh got the subtle message that health issues should not bother him now – the critical stage was thankfully over.
As Adarsh became busy with the business and helped me expand to the nearby states and overseas, my father was happy I was helping my brother with the equal partnership offer. He was discovering the goodness of the neglected son who built his life and business on human values and relationships. I had a slow start, but once it took off there was no looking back.
As the business grew well, and Adarsh became the visible face of the company. I chose to be eclipsed as a founder while he was all over the media for making it a global company. Just as my father was neglected as the investor who helped start a company that had now become a sensation. It was fine to be neglected here and there. Because the self is less important than the outcome. When Adarsh wanted to open an overseas branch in California, where he lived, I was supportive as he had a strong client network there. He thought it would help us grow more.
He approached our father to convince me to make it the head office.
“Settle it between the two of you, no mediation required from my end,” was how he responded to end his request.
I was beginning to sense Adarsh was planning to move out of the country again, empowering me to handle domestic operations while he wanted absolute control of the overseas business in the US and Europe. Frankly speaking, it was good that an Indian company was going global and making waves abroad. I saw no reason to reject his plan. Since I had already made him my equal partner, he had an equal say in the running of the business. Being more qualified and experienced than me, he could take the business to global heights.
Our father had dreams of our success and this was the best way to make that happen during his lifetime. Given his health condition, we should dissolve our minor differences and become a source of joy for him.
I agreed to let Adarsh execute his global vision. My father felt I was more than a brother to him. I took no credit as the business truly belonged to our father who invested at a crucial time when there was no other source of funding. He helped me set up a small business and Adarsh was my dear brother who expanded it. He deserved full credit for that, from local to going global.
*
As the divorce formalities were about to begin, Adarsh started preparing for his return. Within a year of staying in the house, in the special room constructed for his comfort, he decided it was time to move out. I did not want him to reveal anything about his marital discord and he honoured that promise. Our dinner-time discussions were all about business and our father never spoke a word about his marriage.
Our father was upset to hear about his departure, though he did not express his displeasure. He was perhaps thinking both his sons would stay with him forever, forgetting that Adarsh had a family abroad and they were also waiting for his return. Although Adarsh was leaving home, he consoled himself with the thought, that his sons were united. The sibling bond that had been missing all these years was firm now.
Adarsh vacated his room. He handed over the keys to me in the presence of our father, asking me to occupy the space forever, informing me that the cool breeze through the open windows on the southern side helped sleep well without the need for the air-conditioner.
At the time of leaving for the US again, he was grateful to the family for their timely support. When he reached there, he was a completely changed person. His first phone call was not about safe landing or the business development there. He chose to discuss the split of our family property and he wanted his share of the house since he needed to buy a new apartment there. He spoke about his meeting with real estate brokers and local promoters who were ready to buy our ancestral house during his stay at our residence. This was another deceptive face of Adarsh. I had given him the best offer to rebuild his life and he was discussing how I could persuade our father to sell the house and buy a small flat for ourselves.
“You are not going to marry and start a family now. But I wish to marry again and begin my second innings. My son will be the ultimate nominee.”
The man with tears in his eyes just a year ago could not be so selfish. I refused to believe he was the same Adarsh. He did not update me about the divorce and his remarriage. Just forwarded a few pictures of his new bride and sought my blessings. The speed of his execution was incredible. How could I tell our father that his son went back to divorce and remarry? How could I tell him that he wanted his share of the ancestral property as well? It was a dilemma for me. Sometimes I worried about the outcome of offering him partnership. He could gain control and split the business in his favour.
I reminded him he was doing well now so he could buy a house there with his earnings instead of forcing an aged parent to sell the house. He said he was not going to come back again and, after our father’s death, he would not like to get into litigation issues with me. I refused to compel our father to sell the property for Adarsh.
I was ready to transfer him the share of proceeds he needed from the sale of the house property after mutual discussion. “Consider the house sold and take the money and give me the signed, notarised legal papers specifying that you have got everything from our family.”
“Done.”
I gave Adarsh the full control over the overseas handicrafts business since he was leading it well. I slowed down my pace of work and spent more time with our father who was not keeping well. He noticed my growing aloofness from the business and I had to specify that Adarsh was handling it better than me.
“You supported your brother in so many ways. You gave everything he needed to rebuild his life and his personal setbacks were kept secret.”
He praised me to the skies for the first time with affectionate words, “You are a gem of a person. A wonderful human being. I am proud of you. Parents can also go wrong in understanding their own children. I am the best example to quote.”
The words I never got to hear were echoing in my ears for the first time. He gave me a warm, tight bear hug, the one I always saw between Adarsh and him.
I was wondering how my father learnt our secrets. When I pressed for the source, he chose to withdraw into a shell. Like a good journalist, he never revealed how he got to the core. He was glad he realised the worthlessness of Adarsh as a son, as a husband. He defended Adarsh’s first wife, saying he could not solely blame her for the breakup when there are so many flaws in his own son. “I do not want him to attend my funeral. And I will not give him a single penny of my savings. A hopeless son, a thankless brother who did not stay grateful to the person who helped him rebuild his life after divorce and financial loss. Tell him, this house will never be sold. It will become a public library.”
I told him to forget about Adarsh and his intentions. I suspected the local land sharks had contacted my father in my absence. I had already given up the controlling rights in the company and got his signature on the property papers. I showed my father the legal documents. Adarsh’s claims of ownership on this house had ceased to exist.
My father was glad that I had done exactly what he would have done. It was the first time I heard him speak glowingly about me: “I have only one son.”
The room meant for Adarsh was still kept locked – I never used it even though the keys were with me. It was a museum piece of sorts. My father insisted I should use it. But I did not want to be the substitute, a usurper of sorts. Sometimes I entered to clean the room and think of my lost brother for nowhere else in the house were his memories stored.
*
One day before my father died, he had asked me to open the special room. He looked at the pictures and smiled wistfully, trying to remember when these were clicked. I helped him fill up the gaps in his memory. He sat on the bed and looked outside the window, feeling the gentle breeze unsettle the tuft of grey hair on his forehead. Adarsh had a habit of putting it back in place. No such hand came forward to take of that.
*
I did not invite Adarsh to attend the funeral as per my father’s last wish. After the rites were over, ashes immersed in Haridwar, I informed him without mentioning the date of death and received a prompt message citing his problem to attend the cremation. He said he would organise a prayer meet in California and asked me to send a nice, smiling photograph of our dear father.
The burden of not informing him on time was off my chest as his response time indicated he would not have flown back to attend the cremation.
My father had realised his mistake during his lifetime and made amends. I chose to maintain my brother’s room as a closed space. I was sure if another mishap happened in his life, Adarsh would come back to seek support from the family, to take the keys of this special room to hide himself.
I handed over almost the entire business to him, retaining only a minor share for my basic needs. I never interfered in his decisions except when he delayed payments to the local craftsmen, artisans, and weavers or applied cost-cutting and retrenchment techniques as a corporate predator outsourcing traditional pieces of art and craft from the rural belt.
I continued to call it my brother’s room though I preserved it as a loving memory of my father. Adarsh had sold me his share of the property but I knew he would stake claim to it after my death. To prevent that from happening, I was left with the option of giving it a trust that would set up a library, like my father had wished to do. I went ahead with the formalities and started stocking books as my contribution. The upper floor was converted into a reading zone – except my brother’s room. I wanted to see a functional library during my lifetime so I let the trust take it over and begin the good work immediately. A marble bust of my father was installed and garlanded at the entrance, with a clear mention of his full name. The entire property became a public library.
My brother’s room was kept locked with a clear instruction to the trustee that in case a gentleman called Adarsh ever came here and sought refuge, he should be allowed to stay there as long as he wished to. Without any questions or objections.
I came out of the main gate and stood still for a while, gazing at the house of memories, at the nameplate announcing the late owner’s name. I stood under the open sky without fear or worries. I cast one final look at my brother’s room with closed windows on the upper floor. The rush of memories made me walk through life alone, looking at the blue sky and the fallen leaves on the pavement.
Devraj Singh Kalsiworks as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
I was eating a protein energy bar by the riverside, looking at the serene flow of water and absorbing the positive vibes. I find this therapy more potent and relaxing than meditating as the evil faces of my enemies appear in front of my closed eyes, dancing with swords and breaking my concentration.
When it comes to letting things go, the riverside is the ideal spot. It carried the ashes of my beloved parents and since then I believe it can carry almost everything from life — including guilt, burden, failures, and memories. With less philosophical ramblings about spiritual encounters associated with ghats, I would like to share some interesting takeaways the riverside trip offered.
The sight of lovers stretching and entwining their legs on the steps leading to the river, hiding their faces under the black umbrella, kindles the desire to emulate their masked boldness. Before I can soak in their leisure moments of passion and pleasure, I am scared to imagine the consequences of a disagreement between the couple, with one of the immature lovers suddenly getting up and jumping into the river. What I tried not to think about has happened in a jiffy. Reality imitates imagination or it is the power of manifestation at work.
I consider this to be a hasty act of suicide committed in a tearing hurry to exit this painful world. A few minutes later, his hand becomes visible like a party symbol trying to stay afloat. He swims to the shore and flaunts his survival skills, going against the tide, against the flow, with the girl clapping and cheering for him. She offers him a chocolate as a token reward of acceptance and plants a kiss on his cheek with her hands cupping his wet face. Her black umbrella grabs the chance to take flight like a broken kite for a while and then tumbles down the stairs to join the mighty river. Another bystander tries to clutch the black umbrella and he himself slips and slides into the river, shouting for help.
I sit wondering whether this is a classic example of extra dark humour. How a stranger meets his tragic end while trying to save an umbrella and the couple engaged in kissing remains totally unaware of how their umbrella has led to a death by drowning in front of them while they celebrated love and union.
Trained swimmers dived in at last but it was too late to rescue the man alive. Cops descended on the scene to launch a raid – to arrest the lovers engaged in obscene activities but they were burdened with the boring job of identifying the victim and gathering witnesses and evidence to prove it was not a case of accident but a cold-blooded murder.
I became engrossed in what I had seen before me. My relaxation gave way to creativity as I began to imagine fresh ways of interpreting this episode. The lovers staged a futile attempt to escape from the riverside. The police chased them to gather an account of how this had happened. They could not reconstruct the scene as they had seen nothing. They did not confess they were lost in amorous activities in a public place. The girl showed nervousness when the cops threatened to inform her family.
It was getting dark. The guy feared torture and arrest. He became selfish and was ready to forget the girl forever if he was set free. His folded hands praying for release melted the senior officer’s heart and the lover who made tall promises seemed to run for his life and freedom.
As he ran fast without looking back at the girl, the sleeping dog on the bench woke up and chased him faster than the obese cops could have managed. Before he could exit the park gate, his leg was bitten by the dog. Perhaps it was karma instantly paying him back for deserting his beloved in the hour of crisis. He limped out of the park and hired a rickshaw to take him to the nearest hospital.
The dog came wagging its tail to celebrate the triumph. The aftertaste of a fleshy leg bite kept his salivating tongue hanging loose. A beggar boy in a torn shirt shared his biscuits with the dog while a young influencer made a reel out of his act of kindness for millions of viewers to boost his own income.
The cops grilled the girl in the park. Other people loitering around were asked if they had seen anything. Though I had seen it all, I did not utter a single word to avoid interrogation. The girl was clever to embroil me. She said I was a key witness who saw what had happened, right from the start till the end.
I told them just like the guy, the girl was also innocent. My brief testimony set the girl free. She rushed forward and hugged me to thank me from the bottom of her heart. So heartfelt that the cops found reason to suspect something fishy again. Her behaviour gave inconsistent signals.
The cops were under the impression – before I confirmed anything – that the girl and her lover had brought the victim, who was probably her groom, and then she pushed him into the river to get rid of him forever. Their theory was a possibility as there were similar incidents recorded in the recent past. I dismissed all of that like a prime investigator and the cops believed every single word of the narrator. Nobody in my family had ever believed me so fast, without a shred of doubt. Did I speak the entire truth or had I concocted a portion of it?
The baton-wielding cops quit the hot pursuit to nab the murderer at the crime spot and went away with the dead, bloated body zipped up in a white plastic cover along with an unidentified black umbrella as a piece of circumstantial evidence and registered it as a freak accident due to negligence.
The girl started abusing the guy who deserted her. Then she changed her stance. She thanked her stars she got the chance to identify a coward. She fell in love with my brutal honesty and expressed gratitude for defending her and proclaiming her innocence in front of the cops. It restored her faith in humanity.
As she was alone, she asked me to drop her home, which was not very far. I told her she could have asked the cops for a lift in the van. She said she did not trust them. Besides, alighting from a police van would have raised family suspicions. Here was a stranger, a young girl, completely trusting me without knowing anything about me.
I was feeling elated with this booster dose as nobody in my life, neither my bosses nor my publishers, exhibited such absolute trust. I decided to accompany her and drop her at the entrance gate. I thought she would invite me in and introduce me to her family as a saviour of sorts. I was thinking of such positive things when there was a phone call. She said I need not bother as her brother was already looking for her. She gave him the riverside address and he came on his motorbike soon. She knew she was not going to find me again but she forgot to ask for my contact details. I told her I come here every evening around this time. I was confident she would be there the next day.
I went to the riverside at the same time with the fond hope to meet her. She did not turn up. I repeated riverside visits for seven consecutive days like a penance. Then I decided to stop as it was causing undue stress. What was supposed to be the equivalent of meditative experience had added to my anxiety. I was always reminded of her, whenever I saw a girl with a black umbrella seated on the steps.
A week later, she came to the same place and sat beside me on the bench. I was taking a nap. She waited for me to wake up. When I opened my eyes, I saw her smiling face. She was restless to share a lot just as I was eager to know about her long absence.
I wanted to know if everything was proceeding well in her life. Without answering me, she confessed she knew I came here every day. The beggar boy — an untrained spy(?) – had told her.
I was wondering why she did not show up earlier. She said she was waiting for the outcome of her divorce proceedings before meeting me with a proposal. The case was put in abeyance, if not dismissed, since her husband went missing and nobody from his family living overseas suspected he was dead. His horoscope predicting a long life prevented them from jumping to any conclusion. She was busy with legal consultations. The unclaimed body recovered from the river was finally consigned to flames by the riverside. This was another abrupt turn of events – beyond my imagination. But this was her side of the story.
She was young and married and divorced and probably widowed. I asked her how she would like to live the rest of her life. She said she was required to wait for seven years before she could tie the knot. A live-in relationship was okay for her as she had inherited sufficient wealth to support herself.
She was quick to respond with a decent proposal, checking out if I was free and willing for a live-in stint for seven years. I told her I was a writer working on a big, fat novel and for this arrangement she would have to support me financially on a salary basis. She approved that instantly and chose to call it a conditional love affair with full mutual benefits. Much better than unconditional love that comes with more baggage.
I felt relaxed now as my prime worry of financial support for the next decade was taken care of by her. I decided I could lock myself in a room for seven long years to complete the magnum opus without the haunting fear of commercial failure. Sometimes both of us could come and sit by the riverside in the evening for the sake of nostalgia, down memory lane and also meet the beggar boy and the sleeping dog on the bench.
I disclosed to her that I was stuck in a key character development and I wanted to make it breathe. I planned an evening near the riverside. But she refused to go to the riverside again.
I escaped domestic confinement and ventured out for riverside reflection alone. I saw many couples in intimate postures in the presence of strangers. I wanted to take a boat ride and looked for an able-bodied boatman who could anchor safely. As we reached the middle of the river, dark grey clouds gathered in the horizon and the boatman said we should return to the shore.
When I came back and reached the steps, I saw my live-in standing alone by the river. She asked me who I had come with. I said I was alone. She asked the boatman for the full truth after giving him a handsome tip. He said I dropped the special lady guest on the other side of the river and then came back. For the lure of a bribe, the boatman put me in a difficult situation.
She came home without creating a scene and wanted to know who was Niru in my story. I called her a character in my imagination but she called it my past. She suspected she was the same lady the boatman referred to. There was a clear mention of the girl who crossed the river to meet her lover in the story in the making. I was trapped in my own creation.
I said the river takes everything from you, whatever clings to you. She did not get the layered meaning and cried a lot over my betrayal. I told her since we were not married, she should not get emotional. We were just in a temporary phase of togetherness and then separation was bound to follow. She found it impossible to accept compromises and demanded loyalty while I raised a parallel demand for a life without suspicion. We were like the two banks of the river that could never meet.
She promised she would not let me complete the novel so that my fate continued to hang in balance. She began to make it happen and, within a year, I noticed my creative burnout and slow down with useless chores and nonsensical issues. Seven years passed, the novel remained incomplete and she was delighted to have won. I was offered another lifeline of extension for seven years and I chose to avail this chance and bring my novel to a definite end.
In case I could not manage to do so, I would go to the riverside and immerse the incomplete manuscript. Like the river carried my all, let the stories also perish in its flow and find a new direction.
Devraj Singh Kalsiworks as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Kazi Nazrul Islam died in the same month as his friend and mentor Tagore, only it was a different date and year (August 29th, 1976). This poem. written after the death of Tagore, has been translated by Professor Fakrul Alam, who adds: “ The Bengali title of the poem, ‘Rabi-Hara‘, of course, puns on the fact that ‘rabi‘—the first part of Rabindranath Tagore’s name means the sun. To lose him, then, is to become ‘robi-hara‘ or ‘sunless’. The poem was written by Nazrul soon after Rabindranath’s death and read out by the poet himself on All India Radio, Calcutta (Kolkata).”
SUNLESS 2
The afternoon sun sags, collapsing on the roadway. Sravan’s dark clouds swarm in, Darkening the day, And shrouding the sky, Since you, Bengal’s heart, India’s bard, and the world’s sun, Have passed away! Did you not hear at all the lament of mother earth? Was that why you feigned illness and kept your eyes shut? This day the pulse of Bengal has begun to throb with pain O poet — seas, rivers, forests— all cry out for you in vain! Vedantic knowledge was yours, forever on the tip of your tongue Your writings had Saraswati’s blessings, full of learning and rhyme. In your meditations, Shiva, God of everything auspicious, resided. In your heart, Sri Krishna, the one who had even smitten Love, dallied! Durga, consort of Shiva, and source of all joy, would converse with you. How could they, deities so powerful, not feel the extent of our loss? How could they snatch away what they had given so sympathetically? After all, you were Bengal’s beacon of hope, lighting us up eternally! We took pride in your glory; you made us feel earth was our only need. You made us forget our afflictions—timidity, hunger, misery, and ruin! You shone over our heads every day—like your namesake--the sun! You made us proud; you made us feel we would never be undone! You’ve bestowed much love on this land -- on India and Bengal, How have we offended to have made you, thus, leave us all? Tell me -- who else is there to bless those who dare to blaze? Who else can protect the pride of the ones that are frail? Behold, the whole of Bengal laments, unfurling its tresses. See in this lunar fortnight the distressed moon hiding itself! Screened by Shravan’s rain cloud, the sun weeps in the horizon In house after house men and women cry out, “O poet, return!” Alas, India’s fate blazes on a pyre, the body no longer visible. This day, the vermilion marking Bengal’s beauties too is invisible! Today Saraswati’s lyre and Bengal’s poetic soul know only silence And funeral flames have scorched even the moon’s radiance! Till now none knew how close you had become to everyone All roads now hold millions of people -- all overcome with grief!
After you return to the rasa-filled realm from which you had come To give us delight, won’t you miss us and lament your earthly home? Your lyrical messages had made you this land’s dearest soul But it was not merely its loveliness-- you had loved all of Bengal! Assure us, O poet dearest to our heart, responding to our love You will return once more to your people from up above. Full of the rasas, you cried out soulfully for our suffering race Why did you enamour us so? Now we’ll rue forever your loss! I believe that if the sun is put out, the entire solar system will go. Bengal’s sun set forever today; what we’ve lost only we will know! No one besides Bengalis will feel the extent of their deprivation Nowhere outside Bengal will be heard such loud lamentation! The sun that shone over us has left, leaving us all benighted In Bengal’s heart the one light blazing is your funeral pyre! The rest of India envied Bengalis their good fortune and wondered How had the sun deigned to descend on Bengal’s thatched huts? Will Bengal get such a great, world-conquering superman again? Can this poor land ever again dream of the kind of happiness You gave us? And so, Kobi guru, our beloved muse-teacher, We grieve, finding no consolation, no solace whatsoever! We had thought of you as God’s blessing given to us eternally. Let not death’s torpor make us forget forever heaven’s bounty. As you depart from us, let us plant on your feet farewell kisses. No matter where you are keep these ill-fated people in your wishes.
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.
Charudutta Panigrahi introduces us to to the eighteenth century literary giant, Upendra Bhanja, who gave up his crown for the love of words. Click here to read.
Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan highlights the contemporariness of Sangam Literature with discussion about a narrative based on trust and power politics. Click hereto read.
Art by Joseph Mallord William Turner (1775–1851). From Public Domain
Floods, heatwave, hurricanes and storms — wild weather rips parts of the earth. While experts attribute these to El Niño and climate change, one wonders if peace and lifestyle choices could have any impact to reverse the changes on our home planet. Do wars add to our deep distress? We lose people, homes, what we nurtured and loved, the beautiful cities and structures we built, even forests, fields and rivers. The nuclear holocausts, the killing fields of the World Wars, the mined fields of Cambodia and Vietnam which continue to maim farmers… all these should have taught us to avoid wars but now when the television throws up images of war-torn zones, one wonders if those are worse than climate disasters?
In climate disasters we lose lives, homes and cities too — but people can step in to help and rebuild after the disaster. In a war setting, rescue workers are at a risk as bombs mow down terrain and destroys the tenor of daily lives. The disasters born of climate change too can be irreversible — especially with rising water levels, depleting shorelines and warmer climes ripped by storms. Which is worse — wars or climate disasters? What do you think? Could we go back to a pollution free world and reverse the darker impacts of climate change?
Just as history accepted wars and moved on, perhaps the time has come when climate change has to be accepted as a part of the new reality, and we have to find new ways of life. Exploring such stories is a book by Rajat Chaudhuri,The Climate Crossroads: Literature’s Encounter with a Planet on Fire. It has been reviewed by Bhaskar Parichha who tells us: “It reminds us that the climate crisis is not solely a scientific or political problem but also a crisis of imagination. Rajat Chaudhuri demonstrates with remarkable insight that stories are among humanity’s most powerful tools for understanding uncertainty, confronting ecological loss, and envisioning more just futures.” Somdatta Mandal, on the other hand, has brought in more on environment with her discussion of Siddharth Kak’s A Fire over Mount Everest. Andreas Geisbert adds colour to this section with his exploration of Angel Ramon’s Requiem of a Lost Nation. Satya Narayan Misra has reflected on Bhaskar Parichha’s Icons of Odisha – Lives that Shaped a State, a non-fiction whose excerpt tells us much about the journey of the author to bring to us community builders in various streams of life. We also have a bit from Kanupriya Dhingra’s non-fiction about a book bazaar that flourishes despite bookshops finding it hard to survive, The Sunday Book Bazaar: Daryaganj and the Making of a Reading Public in Delhi.
Our interviews this month touch upon environmental issues with Keith Lyons conversing with Helen Townsend, environmental entrepreneur and plant enthusiast who is high on sustainability and earth friendly solutions while Suzanne Kamata has interviewed Lily West who has travelled to all the countries in the world and has put it all down in her memoir, West goes East. Like Kamata, she teaches in Japan now. Kamata has also given us a humorous piece on remote controls. Humour is a sentiment that has also been wrought into our nonfiction with a flourish byDevraj Singh Kalsi too. He writes of his wedding sherwanialmost with a passion like the Dickensian Ms Havisham[1] exhibited for her crumbling wedding gown, except it has a different tone — that of wry tongue-in-cheek irony. Farouk Gulsara has a similar twinge of sarcasm as he muses on uncertainties in the future. Ian C Smith brings in a bit of the weather as he muses on a rainy day while Subramaniam Cheemalapati muses on the star-studded sky, dwelling on his anecdotal childhood experiences. Gowher Bhat introduces us to an aid worker who helps war victims. Meredith Stephens continues on her sailing adventures in Western Australia with photographs by her husband, Alan Noble. The photograph of the pink jellyfish is awesome. Do check it out!
Translations have brought in a shower of poetry with Tagore’s poem on a rainy-day hinting at shared confidences. Professor Fakrul Alam has translated Bengali lyrics Nazrul wrote for his friend and mentor, Rabindranath Tagore. Ihlwha Choi has brought to us a whiff of the Korean summer with his verses and Fazal Baloch has brought to us soulful poems from Balochi by Mohammad Hussain Anqa. Isa Kamari’s translations carry a flavour of Malay life in Singapore, and this set of verses bring to a close his book, The Lost Mantras. We are very privileged to have his entire book translated solely in our pages. Isa Kamari is an eminent literary voice of the Malay Singaporean community.
We have news about our hardcopy poetry anthology. We have had six media coverages in less than three months. Professor Malashri Lal deems: “For those of us who still believe in principles of care and compassion, humanism and amity, Wild Winds is a lifeline to keep afloat…It is especially commendable for wrapping global concerns in the fine tissue of hope.” And Mandal tells us: “Reading through these one hundred poems is indeed a pleasurable experience even for readers with a more prosaic temperament.” We are delighted that the book has had a warm welcome. Huge thanks to our publishers for giving us a hardcopy platform.
Thanks to all our contributors, readers and the fabulous team that make borderlessjournal.com come alive each month with a vibrant soul. Huge thanks to Sohana Manzoor for her fabulous artwork. Do pause by our contents page for the July 2026 issue.
What will you do with the sherwani? Do you think you’ll wear it again? You remember you haven’t tried it once in the past ten years. Why don’t you start wearing it as an overcoat in winters? Have you decided to keep it as a relic or what? Can’t you see it is occupying so much of the wardrobe space? Will the shoulders fit? Why don’t you just donate it now? A barrage of such questions left me wondering how to answer with brevity and conviction.
The wedding lehnga with heavy brocade work was also consuming plenty of almirah space. It was also not used once in all these years. But it was not gifted to any needy woman tying the nuptial knot with unfulfilled dreams of wearing a lehnga on her wedding day. It was preserved with care and concern, with naphthalene balls placed in the corners of the almirah to save it from damage. I had never raised these queries but my sherwani emerged as a prime piece of shimmery clothing that attracted her critical attention. I had a nagging feeling that she was planning for its ouster. I had to chalk out an emergency plan for its occasional, if not regular, use to ensure that she lost interest in my royal outfit forever.
Since I did not attend wedding receptions because I expected to be welcomed and treated like the groom everywhere, I did not get the scope to wear the sherwani. Many friends — esteemed and otherwise — of the groom wore the sherwani. It was considered perfectly stylish. To revive the old tradition, I went to attend a wedding reception in the local area where I was told by some jealous acquaintances that my sherwani appeared odd and outdated. I looked around to scan the truth. I discovered that I was the only prominent guest wearing the nawabi sherwani while the rest of the invitees looked dashing in their ill-fitting formal blazer suits with printed neckties.
I could not manage a makeover at this stage. I chose to stay dressed in the sherwani and gulped the refreshments from various stalls. My mood and attitude and self-confidence got a tremendous boost when the sherwani invited a second look from the decked-up gorgeous aunties who recalled my wearing the same outfit on my wedding day. They seemed to discuss either my poverty or my simplicity, thanks to their good memory. Poor fellow, he has not saved enough to buy a new wedding outfit in these all years. Look, such a simple, down-to-earth guy who does not flash his wealth.
My wife probably overheard their conversation about my professional shortcomings. She came rushing to escort me and proposed we should leave the wedding hall before someone mistook me for a struggling salt-and-pepper haired poet and asked for a sher-o-shairi[1]session in the mehfil[2].
My wife had no idea my sherwani would be remembered here as a stunning piece. I rejected her proposal to retreat after greeting the newly-wed couple on the stage. I claimed to be a more charming, well-dressed guy so I chose to hang around the place and observe the reactions of the crowd, get more photographs clicked as a doting couple more photogenic than the newly-weds.
She held my arm in front of the cameras and felt elated that my sherwani still garnered attention. It suited me more than any other formal suit. There were many people who were seeing me for the first time and the element of newness gave me a winning edge in their instant appraisal of well-dressed men present at the venue.
On the way home after dinner, she surprised me with her request, urging me not to wear the antique piece again when I went out with her. Most of her friends had already seen me in this sherwani. Repetition reveals a lot about financial compulsion was her subtle message. I assured her that my sherwani would never become a source of embarrassment.
There were very few occasions I went out alone for parties. Yes, I went to the market for daily errands, to the bank for withdrawals, to the post office for booking speed post articles. I should make it a habit to wear the sherwani like a casual piece of clothing and wear it off fast to get rid of it at the earliest. I chose not to keep it safe from coffee stains or sauce spill-over while eating burgers or noodles.
Besides, what you start wearing something every day, it loses the tag of being fancy and special. It breeds familiarity and ordinariness. At least that is what I used to think then. Dump it in the laundry box for a normal machine wash instead of taking it gently packed in a carton to the gentle drycleaner.
Along expected lines, I went to a bank for a transaction. The teller was amused to see me dressed in a sherwani on a sunny, sultry day. Are you attending some function today? He was trying to find a justification for the attire. I said I was just trying to feel the vibe of being a nawab even though my pocket made me feel like a pauper every day. The bank staff broke into peals of laughter and declined to clear the cheque because of insufficient balance in the account. I laughed out loud to confirm the truth of my joke.
I came out dejected, rejected, and chose to walk to the nearby chemist store to buy OTC pills for gastric relief. The florist in the corner beckoned me and sold a rose bud for the sherwani. Now you look smart, he said and charged me ten rupees for the unnecessary accessory. I changed my mind and began to walk home instead of visiting the chemist who would refuse me to identify me as a patient in my present avatar.
I told my wife that the sherwani was likely to foment trouble in my rather peaceful life. She argued it was nice to be spotted in a sherwani in the summer. My sherwani would enable me to establish my secular credentials with ease. She asked me to ignore people and their silly reactions even though she herself had not managed to do that yet. When the husband had already mastered the art of ignoring her volley of queries with a deafening silence, I could easily manage to fob off everything criticism that came my way. A revelation of her offended sentiments put me on the mute mode once again.
One fine morning, I chose to visit the farmer’s market. They looked at me with distrust, perhaps thinking I was a zamindar who came to exploit them again. The sherwani continued to be identified as an aristocratic dress long associated with the wealthy royals so they chose to vent their suppressed anger on me without realising that the prosperous working middle-class had already hijacked this dress and changed the old narrative and perception.
They increased the rates of fruits and vegetables to deliver a good lesson loaded with revenge for the atrocities perpetrated by the landed class over the centuries. My appearance in a sherwani provided them with a token opportunity to go hammer and tongs. I found myself poorer when I came back and I felt I should have gifted my sherwani to them to pacify their agitated minds. By taking it off in front of them I would have expressed solidarity with their struggle to expose the exploitative rich.
I confessed to her I couldnot remain in peace when I wore the sherwani in a public space. Finally, I decided to gift it to a young associate about to marry since I thought it would be expensive to order a new one. He refused to accept my sherwani and confirmed his choice of a Western suit, which he had already ordered by paying through his credit card. The sherwani was still quite a wearable, elegant dress and many heroes on the big screen wore it when they danced to woo the heroines during marriage functions. But he wanted to wear what his big boss in office wore every day.
As a writer, I was made of sterner stuff. So, I decided to make a grand statement of style once again. I added a pen apart from a rose to glam up the appeal. I chose to board the bus or local train wearing my sherwani. Fellow passengers gave a weird look along with ample space to sit comfortably. They looked interested to have a conversation with me to know my pursuit. I said I am a writer who was currently visiting various places to gather material for his new work.
They were ready to accept me as a tourist from the other side of the border. One gentleman beside me asked if I wrote in Urdu or Persian. I said I write in plain English and he shot back with a suggestion that I should wear a coat and necktie like an Englishman.
I tried to sound smart by contending that the suit has already been usurped by corporate honchos and the necktie is a definite sign of slavery in modern times. My non-conformist views did not win instant approval from my fellow passengers who wanted to know my destination and my works. I wanted to share everything I could but the conductor in the meantime announced that my stop was nearby. I chose to get up quickly. My sherwani was damaged atlast! This set me free of the burden. I realised the sherwani was helping me understand the other way people tend to think about dress code.
Making the sherwani a less celebrated wear by using it casually on ordinary days did not lead to any decline in its appeal as the older people still took note of it and reacted to it. Within a few months of regular use, it gathered lots of stains and spots. She assigned the job of making it squeaky clean to the dry cleaner. I was surprised to see her attempt to refurbish it.
Was it proposed to reduce her burden or was it a sure sign of her emotional attachment? My mind was still tumbling in confusion. When he saw the condition, he said he had not seen such a dirty sherwani in all his life. It was like a piece of everyday clothing, catching dust and grime all the time, wondering if I was posted in a mining area.
I confessed it was indeed my preferred dress as I wore it often, almost like a standard uniform whenever I went for shopping or dining. He advised me to wear it occasionally to protect it and keep it safe in a plastic cover or else it would lose the shine with frequent cleaning attempts. He pointed at the worn collar. I showed no interest as my lacklustre life would not suffer if the sherwani suffered a loss of sheen. At least my better half would get a logical ground to discard it or exchange it for a kitchen utensil piece.
When I finally saw both the fancy dress items, Sherwani and Lehnga, packed and restored and displayed together in the wardrobe smelling fragrant like fresh rose, I was convinced that our marital bond had got a fresh lease of life.
Devraj Singh Kalsiworks as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
