When an author residing in India writes in Hindi and then gets translated into English by a foreigner who resides in the United States, the result is awesome. When Geetanjali Shree along with her translator Daisy Rockwell managed to secure the International Booker Prize in 2022 for the novel Tomb of Sand, the first thing that struck the readers is the exceptional stylistic experimentalism that made the book unique. Now with this new publication entitled Once Elephants Lived Here, comprising of eleven short stories that covers a wide variety of themes, the first thing that draws our attention is how the author dismisses conventional storytelling patterns and unfurls before us entirely new ways of conceiving and presenting storytelling to the readers. Interestingly, the stories included here were published in Hindi way back in 2012, proving the fact that experimentalism is the author’s forte where there are layers of subtext and one often must grasp the unwritten meanings floating around the words and phrases.
The titular story, ‘Once Elephants Lived Here’, is about the narrator and an old woman — about two generations –encompassing the destruction of an old city and it’s reconstruction. The topographical changes on both sides of the river remind one of the destructions after the Partition, and in the end the old woman is found literally and metaphorically dead on the bench. ‘These Days’ talks about the day before Holi, when there is a curfew and it is a period of community divide. A man sits quietly on the veranda of an old house belonging to his friend when he watches a shadow jump over the boundary wall and goes into the house to collect some things in a duffle bag. The twist of the tale comes in the end when he realises that it was his Muslim friend who had come as a shadow in order to break into his own house.
‘The End’ is a wonderful tale about an eighty-five-year-old unnamed patriarch of a house who after his retirement seems a misfit and annoys everyone with his behaviour and feels that giving orders is his birthright. The real twist in the tale comes after his death and the reaction of Ma, his wife. Another domineering grandfather is found in the story ‘And I Saw Myself Running’ where the grandson narrator, Raja, tells us about an out and out patriarch who worshipped Lord Shiva and played with snakes. The twist in the story comes when he suddenly passes on.
Middle-aged angst comes out clearly in ‘Out for a Spin’ where a woman spends all day compulsively walking in circles around her housing complex. She is a misfit of sorts, basically a loner who can’t communicate with anyone in the housing society. She gives us detailed observations about the different kinds of morning walkers but there is no introduction, no explanation, no denouement. In another story ‘So Much Sky’, a woman goes on a writer’s retreat, and in a pseudo-sci-fi turn of events, falls passionately in love with the sky. The other participants in the retreat are like robots. In ‘Butterflies’, a narrator staying in a cottage in Kerala is overwhelmed with the grief over past events but is surprised out of her self-indulgence by a mysterious group of young women who are either nurses or diabetes patients; she’s never sure which, but they come to the charity hospital to die. In most of the stories, plots break, sentences shatter midway, new words are formed, and new narrative structures are erected and felled.
The three final stories are set in Japan, which are spare and elegant and remind us of Japanese minimalist aesthetics. In ‘March, Ma and Sakura’, we have a mother who blooms with the cherry blossoms. In ‘Bulldozer’, a patient travelling on the Shinkansen train to Tokyo comes with her family for further treatment, narrates the sights and sounds she sees outside and is reminded how as a child she had complete faith that her Papa’s daily promise was true, and each day, she was convinced he would bring her a bulldozer. The last story in the collection is called ‘Fatigue’. It beautifully describes the ambience inside a Japanese graveyard built of gleaming grey stones and covered with offerings of bowls of water and vases full of flowers. The conversation between the nameless narrator and the visitor is interesting to read.
The book, therefore, presents a great challenge to the layman reader who cannot simply pick it up and start reading at leisure. One must read meticulously, ponder over the distortion of the usual short story genre, keep track of the convoluted or sometimes half-finished sentences and wonder where the narrator or the protagonist of the story is leading you – sometimes round and round and without reaching a denouement. All said and done, one must pick up this book to savour how post-modern storytelling can become an art in itself. The bond between the writer and the translator has worked out so nicely that one expects such collaborations in future as well.
Somdatta Mandal, critic and translator, is former Professor of English at Visva-Bharati University, Santiniketan, India.
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“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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From the title of this novella, Homecoming, one can guess that a particular place becomes the focal point in the unravelling of the story, and that place is none other than Lucknow, seeping in past history, a promise of grace that the city was famed for, and a unique brand of Nawabi culture. The novel opens with a ‘Prologue’ where we are told that Hassan’s wife Samina has decided to leave Lucknow after she discovered that a small monument with a grave had been destroyed and the calligraphy over it had been vandalised. From that vantage point, Omair Ahmad, an eminent novelist, tactfully gives us the entire history through rendition given by three characters – Hassan, Ahmed Sahib and Sam or Samina narrate the story in four independent segments.
Hassan originally belonged to a Reddy family in Hyderabad and was of mixed parentage with a father steeped in communist ideology. His father married a Muslim lady from Patna. After several years, when they quarreled and fell apart, Hassan, a dentist by profession, left for Lucknow in search of a stable job. That became his home for almost twenty-five years. After years of trying to belong to Lucknow, once a city of poetry and grace where he had hoped to find something of the father he had lost, Hassan meets a kindred spirit—Ahmed sahib, an elderly man of quiet warmth and dignity, although diminished in circumstance. Unable to pay his professional fees, Ahmed sahib accepts Hassan’s proposal to show him around the city of Lucknow with the hope that it would become his home and gives him the gift of unspoken friendship. He believed that the city was too close to him. Sometimes, he thought, everything had changed, and sometimes he thought nothing had. In the company of this man, the city opened itself to him, parting ever so slightly, slowly making him its own in a way he had not felt in all the years he had lived there.
Ahmed sahib himself was an abandoned son, had no siblings, no wife or child, but was still connected to a wider family. It was through his connections with an extended family that the novelist depicts the lifestyle and stories of old Lucknow with its begums, kothas, tawaifs, courtesans, old havelis[1], music being practiced by so many great artists, intricacies of inheritance etc.
The third and the most significant protagonist is Sam or Samina, who was born in Lucknow, though she didn’t know that, and as an orphan went to live and grow up in London with her aunt and uncle. In college she fell in love with Urdu calligraphy and the Lucknawi style, and she managed to receive a fellowship from the Royal Historical Society to go to Lucknow to study calligraphy on the tombs of the noblewomen there.
Her aunt used to receive a letter once every six months from Badinani in Lucknow, from a great aunt called Begum Waheed, who briefed regularly about the myriad people she still thought of as her family, even if she hadn’t met most of them. At first Sam was afraid because she felt she was entering a world where everybody was an aunt or uncle, or a great-aunt or great-uncle. But gradually she becomes slightly more stable.
Hassan and Samina meet and gradually fall in love with the machinations of Ahmed sahib. When Ahmed sahib dies, the two of them felt orphaned once more. Hassan concludes his narrative by telling us that he was no longer the man he had been before he met Ahmed sahib, before he learned of all he was to so many people. It had taken a year after his death for him and Samina to discover each other, and when she offered him her name, he knew he could never let her go. The concluding lines of the novella are striking:
“I will let Samina rescue me from Lucknow, as her parents were once rescued by exile, and go haunt another land. I think Ahmed sahib would forgive me, I think he would even approve.”
Spare, nostalgic and moving, Omair Ahmad’s new novella is a meditation on love, lost and gained, dwelling on ideas of family, home and belonging. A wonderful read and the novelist should be congratulated for it.
[1]Kothas– brothels; Tawaifs– courtesans; Havelis– old palatial houses
Somdatta Mandal, critic and translator, is former Professor of English at Visva-Bharati, Santiniketan, India.
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Tea garden literature in various Indian languages forms a definite sub-genre of literary history and the present 340 pages book under review gives us a wide canvas of the rise of tea plantations in colonial Assam and the human cost that sustains them. The historical background of this novel is well-known.
Since tea gardens are extensively labour oriented, the common problem facing them is shortage of workers and this is where the arkathias or middlemen keep on recruiting Adivasi and tribal families from central India by promise them a rosy picture of Assam desh — a land of milk and honey where they can live with dignity, earn money and bring an end to their impoverishment. But reality turns out to be the exact opposite. These bonded labourers or ‘coolies’ as they are termed, are then packed onto overcrowded steamers and sent upriver, where hunger, disease and death shadow every step of their journey.
Among them is Durgi, a young woman whose resilience endures even in despair. She carries with her a small bundle of marigold seeds, a fragile memory of the land of red earth she has left behind. At her side is her husband, Dosaru, the rebellious archer, bound to her by love and the shared hope of building a life of their own. However, what awaits them at Atharighat Tea Estate, located just below the Bhutan border, is no promised land. Labourers are stripped, disinfected, confined to barracks, and driven into relentless work, while sickness, fear, and muted defiance simmer beneath the ordered rows of tea bushes.
The novel opens with Jonathan, a British tea planter and manager of the plantation, who has spent decades building the plantation from a small nursery into a large and profitable estate, arranging the supply of more Adivasi labourers to work on the plantation. His authority is near-absolute, as is his feeling of superiority. The plantation company grants him freedom to rule over workers’ lives as he sees fit, a role he takes seriously. He has to manage their arrival, ensure they do not bring malaria or cholera with them, train them to avoid snake bites and tiger attacks, and keep them productive, while also worrying about his own health in a harsh climate with limited medical care. Soon, after Jonathan’s departure, the atmosphere of the garden changes with the arrival of a comparatively young new burra-sahib called Fraser. He tries his best to uplift the living condition of the coolies and enhance the productivity of the tea estate.
Throughout the novel Kalita beautifully narrates the tensions and pressures of plantation life. As many as 60 out of every 100 new coolies die before they can even begin work. The strict discipline that they have to undergo while living in the barracks is described in the minutest details. Durgi, a talented singer and dancer, brings moments of joy to the workers through her singing at festivals and religious celebrations. Moonlight becomes a recurring image and a significant metaphor throughout the novel. The songs sung by the coolies emphasise their cultural significance and adds to the authenticity of the narrative.
After her husband’s death, Durgi’s life takes a complicated turn over the years—an intimate affair with Fraser, the white manager of the tea garden, results in the birth of three mixed race children. She becomes known as Durgi-mem and though Fraser pays utmost attention to her well-being, allotting her a separate cottage and farmland, things change dramatically when he leaves permanently and goes back to England.
Among the three children, the youngest one died of cholera. Fraser returned to England with his daughter who resembled his mother in appearance making false promises of her return. The only child left behind was the eldest. The boy is caught in the horns of a dilemma when he refuses to go far away and live in a hostel like many other mixed-race children. The unequal relationship between the white officials and their coolie concubines exposes another unspoken truth about plantation life. There are generations of similar children, many of whom, abandoned by their white ancestors, still live in Assam’s tea gardens today.
One interesting fact about this novel is the beautiful blend of fact and fiction. In the ‘acknowledgement’ section Kalita tells us how she was handed a slim volume written by a gentleman called Usman Gani narrating the life story of Durgi Bhumij and a few documents about her and requested her to write a novel on her life. Coincidentally, during that period she was researching on tea garden life and its people as one of the subjects for her new novel. So, though Durgi was a real-life character, and the people around her had deep roots in Assam, ultimately it was Kalita’s credit to turn it into an excellent work of fiction which became very popular and managed to receive the Sahitya Akademi Award too. The excellent translation of this Assamese novel into English done by Ranjita Biswas now brings the novel to a wider readership.
What is interesting in this story is how the novelist depicts life in a tea garden with minutest details while placing the story in a period when the independence movement from British rule along with Gandhi’s ideals of satyagraha was changing the social ambience in this region as well. The exploitation of plantation labour comes under increasing scrutiny, and workers begin to demand better conditions. Meanwhile Durgi also grows in prominence among the workers and becomes known to the new manager Fraser. Soon, these two worlds, once rigidly separated, begin to collide and ends with the killing of Durgi. So, while Kalita has woven the story around Durgi, at the same time she has meticulously portrayed other prominent people of Assam, the rebellion against colonial rule at a time when tea plantations flourished in Assam after the East India Company lost ground in China post the Opium War. This elevates the novel into a chronicle of the times too.
The epilogue serves as an interesting finale to the narrative when the first-person narrator tries to trace the whereabouts of Durgi’s daughter. After a lot of effort and attempts to tie loose information together, she manages to locate a ‘white girl’ at Rangachali Tea Garden, her last shelter and her fifth generation. This brings the story to end on a somewhat positive note, and the narrator promises to come back again with some gifts for the children there.
“I had given into a whim. It was not even a career move. Just the indulgence of a fantasy – to make a film on the highest mountain on earth.” -- Siddharth Kak
Books on mountaineering, especially those narrating the climb to Mount Everest from various perspectives, are quite popular till date because though there have been more than fifteen hundred ascents, the aura of climbing and narrating the conquest of the highest peak in the world remains equally exciting even today. Even after so many deaths, Everest’s lure is eternal. India’s 1984 Expedition to Mount Everest, organised by the Indian Mountaineering Foundation (IMF), that succeeded in placing Bachendri Pal, the first Indian woman and the fifth in the world, and four others, on the summit had noted filmmaker and television presenter, Siddharth Kak, and his crew of four cameramen follow this expedition from day one and record each moment of loss and triumph, instances of glory and distress. Though the expedition was romanticised in the world press as a story of bravery, teamwork and human triumph over nature, the entire narrative is told from a different point of view by Siddharth Kak. The spectacular achievement of that May 1984 is etched in history in glorious terms but it does not tell the behind-the-scenes stories of this expedition. This is where this book under review is particularly appealing.
Kak begins by telling us how he got involved in this project in the first place. A small news item in the newspaper in the summer of 1983 announced that after nineteen long years, a national expedition to Mount Everest, featuring seven women, was to be launched by the IMF the following year. Instantly Kak thought it would be a really cool and exciting adventure to capture in a documentary film. He approached Mr. H. C. Sarin under whose aegis the expedition was taking place, earnestly promising him that they would create a gripping script with human emotions and begin filming immediately with the expedition members and the selected girls all over India with their dreams and expectations even before the expedition started and then later match them with what actually happened. When they were confirmed as the official film crew for that particular Everest expedition in 1984, Kak was convinced that he didn’t need to be a mountaineer to make a mountain film.
The narrative then elaborates on how the people who would climb Mount Everest turned out to be very different from any he had ever met before. It was a largely Army team he met at the Delhi Cantonment. The team members included Col. Darshan Khullar, the 23-year -old former national judo champion, Sharavati Prabhu, Lt Col Premchand, Sonam Paljor of the ITBF, Naib Subedar N.D.Sherpa and a few others like Magan Bissa of Rajasthan and Flt Lt T. Sridharan. In those days, each expedition had to open its own route and ensure the safety of its own members. His four-member film team consisted of Deepak Haldankar, who was an ace cameraman in Films Division Delhi, Sanjeev Saith, a skilled mountaineer and still photographer, K. Nandakumar, the sound recordist, and Kak himself. They reached Kathmandu in an Army AN10 aircraft on 7 March 1984. From there they started their trek towards Lukla and several moments of rural celebration were etched in his heart as part of the romanticism of mountain life.
Kak describes in detail their next great filming adventure – a flight over Everest in an unpressurised cabin of a Pilatus Porter aircraft with the pilot Emil Wick while the cockpit door was kept open to capture the mountains in all their majesty. They had to even use chewing gum ingeniously to stick torn pieces of film together that had snapped at such high altitude.
The details of their experiences cannot be narrated within the brief purview of this review, but their stay at the Everest Base Camp, which was their home away from home for nearly two months, provided the most diverse and exciting mixed expedition that India had ever sent to Nepal and Everest. They discovered new aspects of life at high altitudes. Among the women were Bachendri Pal, Rekha P, Chandraprabha Aitwal and Sharavati Prabhu. All of them were equally competent, ‘an irresistible combination for the outside world’, but soon we get to know how they became victims of jealousies and whims of the very strict patriarchal team leaders, who acted according to an inherent army attitude of looking down upon these fellow women climbers. As Kak rightly states, they believed the mountains taught them camaraderie, but in the higher reaches, it was each man for himself.
We are then told of how Col Khullar’s ‘official’ decision about the composition of the three summit parties left women like Chandraprabha Aitwal, Rita Gombu and Rekha Sharma out without even consulting them and how ultimately Bachendri Pal successfully ascended the Everest Summit on 23 May 1984. Kak in his narrative therefore deals with the problems of male-centric mountaineering. A Fire on Mount Everest springs from an understanding of an incredible moment etched in the memory of the author―a moment very few live to talk about. This is how Kak describes the experience of catching the incredible picture of the first sunrays that fell on the summit of the mountain:
“To an amateur like me, it seemed as if a gigantic fire was raging over Everest. Its majestic glow dwarfed the amphitheatre of the still dark 8000 metre peak around it, Lhotse and Nuptse, huddled in obeisance. It seemed as if Everest was carrying a heavenly torch lit by the gods themselves to symbolize the acme of achievement.
“I was stunned by this celestial display of nature’s savage beauty. I realized that we had been favoured by unseen mystical powers to see what the world had never seen before, a vision of Everest on fire, with towering flames that flew upwards to the heavens.”
After the disaster of the camera films being lost or destroyed, the scene only remains immortal in his memory. The fifty-two coloured as well as black-and-white pictures along with a hand-drawn map of the standard SE route up to Mount Everest that are included in the book add to the reader’s interest as visuals can communicate much better than written words.
The second half of the book appears to be even more interesting because what the author does is to try and locate each individual participant of that 1984 expedition and find out their present status, especially after the passage of forty long years. In the meantime, eight lonely deaths awaited some of the male members of the Everest 84 team. They included Sherpa Ang Dorjee, Major Kiran Inder Kumar, Major Jai Bahuguna, Phu Dorjee, Lopsang Tshering, N.D. Sherpa, the expedition doctor, Dr. Minoo Mehta, and the Deputy Leader of their expedition, Lt Col Premchand. Except for the male mountaineers who had passed on, the others, especially the women, were constantly evolving and adapting.
Kak clearly tells us how the world of mountaineering is not woman-friendly. Women themselves are both victims and perpetrators of a system that condemns them to second-class citizenship in the mountaineering hierarchy, as indeed in most of their lives. After taking a lot of trouble in locating the erstwhile women members of the team today who are located in different corners of the world, Kak realised how for a woman in India, it is difficult to combine an independent career with marriage and domesticity. With the exceptions of Sharavati Prabhu and Rita Gombu, the rest of the women members have carried on their mountaineering ambitions as single women. Certainly, for active mountaineers, like Chandraprabha P and Bachendri Pal, mountaineering began as a liberation from male dominance and continued as such throughout their life. It is sad to learn that the 1984 expedition left a bad taste in the mouth for many members. Their story never ended, not even on the fortieth anniversary in May 2024.
The last chapter of the book titled “The Black Everest” is really alarming as it shows how a new culture of dehumanisation is brought into play with commercialization of such climbs as it takes away from the very joy of ascending. At present the adventure, the romance and indeed, the thrill of mountaineering is literally reduced to a cold robotic logistic with high investment and returns, which do not necessarily go back to the mountain. The body count goes up every year, and ironically the fascination to climb Everest also rises in direct proportion to the increasingly visible thrill and danger of death in the higher reaches of the mountain. As Kak states: “My heart goes out to Everest, which appears as if it is being slowly disrobed due to self-defeating commercial priorities over and above the ravages of climate change, cataclysmic earthquakes and contamination littering its pristine slopes.” In 2023, despite all the advances in safety and technology, the highest number of people died – nearly a score – climbing Everest in a single season.
Reading this book on mountaineering by a non-mountaineer filmmaker like Siddharth Kak is a pleasurable experience. His simple, lucid style will surely entice one to pick it up and enjoy a thorough good read.
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Somdatta Mandal, critic and translator, is a retired Professor of English at Visva-Bharati, Santiniketan, India.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Title: Scenes from the Magic Mountain: Five Seasons from the Mussoorie Hills and Beyond
Author: Ruskin Bond
Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books
Recently Ruskin Bond turned ninety-two and from the various interviews he has been giving, one finds a single word that recurs in different forms in his interaction with his interviewers and that is ‘solitude.’ The recently published non-fiction book titled Scenes from the Magic Mountain: Five Seasons in the Mussoorie Hills and Beyond, captures this solitude and his deep, lifelong love for the Himalayas. It is a gentle, meditative reflection on the changing seasons, nature, and the quiet rhythms of daily life in Landour and Mussoorie, a place that he himself states to be his home for the last sixty-one years. He had moved to Mussoorie in the early 1960s to write full time. In the ‘Introduction’ he tells us about how he moved into a cottage called Maplewood Lodge after renting a room from a lady called Ms. Bean and settled for good in these hills. The old and isolated cottage was tucked away in the shadow of a hill, but it brought him close to nature and helped him develop a rapport with it in all seasons. The open window of the small living room exposed him to the forest outside that seemed full of possibilities and the birdsong.
The book is not a novel or a continuous narrative; rather, it is a collection of vignettes, journal entries, and remembered moments. It allows readers to experience the mountains exactly as Bond does, observing the nuances of the landscape over the course of five distinct seasons. Most of the entries are very brief, the lengthier ones are hardly more than a page in length, but through them Bond manages to give his readers his very close observations of the place as he experiences it through the five different seasons of the year. He divides the book into six parts, and the last part is called ‘The Eternal Season’. Each section begins with a suitable prologue borrowed from the Australian traveller John Lang’s mid-nineteenth century travelogue Wanderings in India (1869), a book which Bond had retrieved from oblivion and edited for the benefit of future readers.
Bond organises his observations into a seasonal framework, detailing the subtle shifts in his environment. In the first section ‘Spring’ we get detailed description of how the first tender leaves appear, bringing a sense of tentative warmth and new beginnings. Through his very perceptive and minute observations, we get visual images of the small birds that arrive to bathe and drink in the little pool beneath the walnut tree, water beetles and tiny fish that lurk in the shallows of the pool. The different varieties of birds that he has observed include two delicate little willow warblers, the whistling thrush, the wild ducks, eagles that fly high on the mountain, the cheeky mynah birds meeting under the eaves of the roof, and sparrows that flutter in and out of the room at will. Spring comes with its varieties of flowers with splashes of colour and Bond rightly describes how “the infection of spring spread simultaneously through the world of nature, and made them one”. The honeybees and butterflies also add to the beauty of the place and as he rightfully states, they do not recognise any “man-made border”.
The vignettes of summer have details of long, insect-filled, sun-drenched days that invite slow walks and quiet afternoons. Summer for Bond “was never entirely solitary”. As he sat in the window seat in his cottage and spent his mornings turning out stories, poems, essays, children’s tales and anything that came to his mind, he looked out upon a sociable gathering of trees that provided a recreation ground for different kinds of birds too. Very evocative descriptions of the mangoes, lichis as the fruits of summer and also the ice cream are drawn from his memories. He writes how as a boy he was engulfed in loneliness, and as a man in solitude. On some mornings when he carried his small table, chair and typewriter outside on to the knoll below one of the oaks, the different birds helped him with his punctuation. For his reflective and descriptive writing, he looked into the distance, at the purple hills merging with the azure sky; or examined a fallen leaf as it spiralled down from the tree and settled on the typewriter keys. The summer sun bathes everything with clear, warm light and the camera-eye of the narrator records everything to the minutest detail. He tells us about other prolific writers who were busy writing their books during this period while he produced not so much as a paragraph.
The monsoon is a defining feature of the hills, bringing mist, heavy downpours, and the lush abundance of the forest. “The first monsoon rain always felt like a beginning,” writes Bond and how this season is one of the most beautiful times of the year in the Himalayas. As the forest dripped and it rang with birdsong, Bond found it always worthwhile tramping through the forest above the stream to feast his eyes on the foliage that sprang up in tropical profusion. He tells us how the rains also heralded some seasonal visitors like leopards and several thousand leeches, and snakes as well as insects like grasshoppers, crickets and cicadas who produced different kinds of music.
When autumn arrives, burnished light, ripening fruit, and a golden hue take over the landscape and according to Bond it is the best time of the year in the hills. Now more than any other time of the year, the wildflowers come into their own and it is the best time for taking long walks. An atmosphere of peace and harmony descends on the hillside, and Bond watches the spectacular sunset as its faint glow spreads across the whitewashed walls of the ageing cottage, as though a part of that spectacular sunset has been left behind only for them. This season also occasionally brings in bears who come to the village to eat pumpkins, flying foxes sweeping across the roads and leopards circling the houses along with dogs. The cool, uplifting autumn breeze always stirred him to the marrow and Bond thought it to be the best aphrodisiac in the world.
Winter brings with it old silences, snow-laden trees, and the beauty of the serene Himalayan peaks against a clear blue sky. During Christmas when it was bitterly cold outside, the blazing wood fire in an old-fashioned fireplace made him enjoy the experience. Again, one day, after being cooped up in his room for several days, he set out for an enjoyable tramp outside in the snow-covered countryside with hardly anyone on the way. He also reminiscences about his school days when he took the train ride from his boarding school in Shimla to come to Dehradun and find occasional snowfall there. He also remembered the first time it snowed in Maplewood. From the windows he could see, up at the top of the hill, the deodars clothed in a mantle of white. “It was a fairyland: everything still and silent.”
The eight selected entries for the last section titled ‘The Eternal Season’ describe the quiet renewal that begins where all endings meet. Here Bond reflects on renewal and the passage of time across sixty years of living in the mountains, examining how the landscape remains wondrous despite changing times. All through his life he says he had been plodding along, singing his song, telling his tales in his own unhurried way and it didn’t matter if he hadn’t managed to get to the top of the mountain. He had lived his life at his own gentle pace and his long walk had brought its own sweet rewards; buttercups and butterflies along the way. He had been observing the natural world—along forest paths, during walks, storms, solitary afternoons, and shared silences.
Thoughtful, attentive and reflective, he offers the seasons not as events to be marked, but as a way of living in time. In the penultimate entry he states: “In spite of all indications to the contrary, I have survived – as a writer, as an individual, as a breadwinner, as a lover of beauty. So many failure and setbacks along the way; but I suppose my inner stubbornness saw me through… And here I am, ninety-one, my own person, determined to live and love till my last breath.”
This aesthetically produced hard-bound book is not to be read chronologically from beginning to end but can be opened by the reader at leisure from whichever page or season he feels like, and he can go back to it again and again. It is a collector’s delight and also one to be gifted and recommended for anyone who loves to read about Ruskin Bond’s deep and lifelong love for the Himalayas. Bond’s poetic prose can hardly be imitated and some of the spontaneous poems that abound in the collection speak immensely of his ability to cross over genres of prose and poetry with utmost ease. The black and white interior illustrations that abound in the book also add extra charm and help the less-perceptive reader gain better understanding of the particular image or scenery that Bond talks about. One is also fascinated by his exquisite sense of subtle humour, that includes the ability to even laugh at oneself.
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Somdatta Mandal, critic and translator, is a retired Professor of English at Visva-Bharati, Santiniketan, India.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” blared from the speakers of the Museum precinct. Two sanitation workers, minding their own business, walked down the hallway. In front of them, stood a giant plasma screen. Flashing dots of electronic lights, with the label under it curiously marked as ‘Humans, Earth-616’.
The Ancient Antiquities of Maldamore was winding down for the evening, its holographic exhibits dimming as the automated systems prepared for closure. The older sanitation worker glanced at the young recruit, curiosity softening her weathered features. “How will you get home on your first day?” she asked. The younger worker replied with a confident smile, “I’ll catch the inverted monorail at six.” After a brief, awkward pause, she extended her hand and added, “I’m Zendo. How long have you been here?” Renda chuckled softly, her eyes reflecting years of memories etched into the museum’s hallways. “Thirty Maldamorian years,” she said, her face tinted with a bit of pride and weariness.
Both of them chit-chatted for a while before wrapping up. The twin suns of Glasterboros crept above the horizon, painting the cityscape of Maldamore in shades of lilac crimson and molten gold. Towers of crystallised ferroglass caught the light, scattering brilliant rainbows that danced across the airways. The High Council in a rare moment of unity had passed bill on universal healthcare six Maldamorian years ago. Since then, Maldamorians live up to 250 years of age, an extension of average lifespan by at least a hundred years. However, beneath such reforms the Maldamorians were stuck in a never-ending cycle of consumption and labour.
The colossal plasma display pulsed with unending streams of shifting dots—two distinct panels, one radiating red light, the other one radiating blue. The lights seemed busy – lost in their own dance, sometimes, drawing closer as if attracted to each other, only to repel because of an inherent tension. The museum had witnessed generations of visitors, young awestruck schoolchildren, astronauts delivering keynote addresses, and on non-busy days, couples strolling hand in hand lost in their own orbits.
Once while working, Zendo asked Renda, “What are these dots of lights flashing? Who were these aliens called hoomans?”
Renda burst out laughing and corrected her, “Humans! Those were humans, you didn’t hear stories about their extinction?”
A quite frightened Zendo shook her head. “Let’s head over to the canteen in break time.” Both of them sipped their herbal syrups.
Renda began her tale, her voice laced with a mix of fascination and disbelief. “There was once a planet called Earth—now designated Earth-616. Life once thrived there, or so the archives claim. It existed in a galaxy far removed from ours and was home to a species known as humans. Unlike our unified society, their planet was fractured—divided into countless races and ethnicities, perpetually at odds with one another. Greed consumed them,” she continued, her tone growing somber. “Can you imagine? Those so-called doctors of science say they exploited their own mother planet to the brink of ruin. They tore apart the very world that gave them life.”
“And…. what about those lights? What exactly do they mean?” a visibly shook Zendo asked. “Well, legend has it,” continued Renda, who felt like an academic don now, “that our astronauts reached about a Maldamorian millennia later after the Earth-616 had perished. The astronauts only found a couple of capsules with recordings in the dead parched lands which looked like as if it had bled a thousand times. Though I must admit, they found escape launch-sites too, so maybe some of those humans might have survived. Who knows?”
Zendo, shifting uneasily, asked, “So… what are those lights?”
Renda, her voice tinged with a mixture of pride and reverence, replied, “We couldn’t decipher their language, couldn’t comprehend their words. So, our scientists transmuted their essence into electronic lights, hoping that someday we might finally understand their message. Those lights are, in essence, the ‘After-Lives’ of those aliens—every memory, every fragment of pain, suffering, and joy, preserved and immortalised. They’ve achieved a kind of eternity, encoded in light. How many of us can claim to be that fortunate, don’t you think?”
The bell signaled the end of their break, and they returned to the endless cycle of what is often called ‘life.’
Abhik Ganguly is a poet, writer, and scholar-practitioner. He’s from Santiniketan, Bengal. Currently, he’s a Junior Research Fellow pursuing his PhD at the University of Delhi.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Ever since Dalit writing has caught the fancy of academics, researchers and social scientists in a big way, we are coming across several new titles almost every other day and are getting to read them in translation, often published by established and reputed publishing houses. The present volume under review falls exactly into this category. First published in Hindi in 2011 as Shikanje ka Dard, this is an autobiography of a Dalit woman called Sushila Takbhaure who belongs to a poor Dalit Valmiki family in Seoni in Madhya Pradesh. Divided into three sections, it tells us the story of how the author rose through determination and her mother’s support to pursue higher education, teach in school and college, build a wide-ranging literary career and become part of the Babasaheb Ambedkar movement to bring social awareness and changes in the lives of the Dalits and the downtrodden in society.
Writing from childhood, she went on to publish poems, stories, novels, plays, criticism and her books are now even taught in university courses. In the pan-Indian surge of feminist consciousness and assertion of Dalit women in the 1990, Sushila Takbhaure is a name to reckon with.
Coming to this autobiography we find how the narrative chronicles the extremely protracted and tortuous process by which a timid and vulnerable Dalit girl fashions herself into an assertive and empowered woman by exercising her agency and single-minded pursuit of education. But the path was definitely not easy. The first section of the narrative entitled ‘Early Years’ gives us details of a society that is dominated by the savarnas or upper caste Hindus, and lays bare the truthful accounts of the disgraceful practices of this casteist order. Like many other Dalit families of the time, Sushila’s story is no different. Discrimination based on caste was widespread, and untouchability was deeply entrenched everywhere. The thatched mud huts of the untouchable Bhangi-Harijans stood outside the village, far from the landowner’s houses.
Raised like the child of any poor untouchable family with a life full of deprivation, Sushila was nurtured by her Ma (mother) and Nani (grandmother) and grew up eating, crying and playing. In spite of working as a scavenger and midwife, Nani protected her daughter from hardship and Ma too sheltered and nurtured her children by giving them an education. With society placing many restrictions on girls, however hard they worked, they enjoyed neither equal rights nor independence. Women lacked awareness and confidence, and the lack of education, knowledge, and foresight crushed the potential of many who had the ability to rise as all unethical behaviour was seen as natural and commonplace.
Sushila fought all odds and continued her studies till she managed to appear for her BA final exams. In a patriarchal society, women are always considered inferior to men though there were some women who through their talent, initiative, intelligence and courage managed to surpass men in every field. But society had conditioned them in such a manner that they could not come out of the shackles imposed by rigid casteist norms. The first section of the narrative ends with Sushila’s Ma continuing to look for a good match for her and she too often dreamt of a loving, caring husband meant just for her.
The second section of the autobiography ‘Marriage and After’ is the most distressing part of the entire narrative. Married to a man much older than her, Sushila finds that things are worse in all respects in her in-law’s place. As it is the atmosphere in the city of Nagpur was different from her village life, but her husband, who is always reverentially mentioned as ‘Takbhaureji’, acts as the typical patriarchal figure, often physically abusing her. The practice didn’t stop even after several children were born to her. He made his wife work at home and like all male chauvinists took away all the salary she earned as a teacher. One often wonders why Sushila went on enduring all the humiliation and never retaliated.
Maybe if she had received love, care, and companionship instead of constant torment, she might have developed the strength to assert herself in public life, but that never happened. The atmosphere at home only deepened her sense of powerlessness and since she lived in constant fear, wrongs were committed against her without hesitation. It is amazing to learn that despite conflict and physical abuse becoming a regular part of her life and filling her with humiliation and pain, she managed to complete her PhD and start teaching in a college. Her married life, as she states, went with all its ups and downs.
The final section ‘Writer Activist’ narrates her rise to become the voice of resistance for her people. Her fury started finding its voice in poetry. She wanted to write about being a Dalit and that became the central theme of her writing. Enduring social humiliation and fighting against the deprivations and oppression born of caste prejudice, she moved forward, slowly but steadily.
Once the various Dalit organizations in Maharashtra involved in the movement to address the problems faced by Dalit women in their homes and society came to know her, they began inviting her to travel with them to distance places to participate in their programmes. Even then her husband went on taking sadistic pleasure in hurting her. His real motive was clear: to prevent her from pursuing writing and publishing, and to keep her confined to the simple life of a working woman who managed both her job and household. But after living in Nagpur, Maharashtra gradually became an empowering experience for her. As a Dalit activist fighting for the ideals of Babasaheb Ambedkar across the country, she began travelling alone to far-off places within India and places abroad like Sri Lanka, Britain, and Dubai.
She could do all this because she had finally begun to feel confident of herself. At times, she received support from people within her community, while at other times, she faced opposition. Her goal was to carry Ambedkar’s ideology and knowledge of Dalit literature to others, and she succeeded in doing so. Although her travels abroad brought her immense joy, they unfortunately did not change her social condition. She remained what she had always been – an untouchable outcast.
This searing autobiography of Sushila Takbhaure, a Dalit woman whose life story reveals not only the brutal machinery of caste but also the intimate cruelty of patriarchy, is a must read for everyone irrespective of class and gender. Though the narrative drags a bit towards the end, one sees its importance too. Having embraced Phule-Ambedkarite ideology and taken part in the movement for social change, Sushila Takbhaure’s writing has gained a clear direction and is vital not only for herself but for her community too. As she states towards the end of her narrative, writing had given her the strength, and it was both a source of joy and a way to give back to society what it had meted out to her. After reading the autobiography, one must sincerely offer kudos to a deprived woman who succeeded in life in spite of all unsurmountable odds.
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Somdatta Mandal, critic and translator, is a retired Professor of English at Visva-Bharati, Santiniketan, India.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high Where knowledge is free Where the world has not been broken up into fragments By narrow domestic walls Where words come out from the depth of truth Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection...
Where The Mind Is Without Fear by Rabindranath Tagore, written in 1910 in Bengali as Chitto Jetha Bhoy Shunno and translated by the poet himself in 1912.
We celebrate Rabindranath Tagore(1861-1941) on his 165th birth anniversary with translations of his works by contemporary writers. We hope to woo our readers into experiencing Tagore as a visionary and a thinker who used his writing to showcase his convictions transcending divisive human constructs. Most are aware he was much more than just a poet or writer with his pet projects of Santiniketan and Sriniketan, that continue to flourish, even today — eighty-five years after his death.
He wrote a birthday poem every year. The last one was drafted as he lay sick on his bed in 1941. We have the lyrics translated by Aruna Chakravarti in her book, Daughters of Jorasanko with an imagined description of his last birthday celebrations.
The outlay includes stories translated by Somdatta Mandal and Chakravarti; essays brought to us in English by Himadri Lahiri and Mandal. And our piece de resistance is Professor Fakrul Alam’s translation of his full length ‘dance-drama’, Roktokorobi (Red Oleanders), with songs and theatre brought together, somewhat like in a musical. What absolutely amazes is that all his work can be read as comments on contemporary life. Enjoy the translations!
Tagore’s Last Birthday Celebration: This has been excerpted from Aruna Chakravarti’s Daughters of Jorasanko. It includes has her translation of the last birthday song he wrote in 1941 a few months before he died. Click here to read.
Short Stories
Daliya, a story by Tagore, has been translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal. Click here to read.
Baraf Pora (Snowfall) : This narrative gives a glimpse of Tagore’s first experience of snowfall in Brighton and published in the Tagore family journal, Balak (Children), has been translated by Somdatta Mandal . Clickhere to read.
Daliya by Tagore, published in Magh 1298 B.S. (Jan/February 1891), has been translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal
Daliya by Tagore
Preface
After being defeated, Shah Shuja feared Aurangzeb and ran away to take shelter under the king of Arakan. He had three beautiful daughters with him. The king of Arakan wished to get the three daughters married to the princes. Shah Shuja was extremely unwilling to accept the proposal and so one day, according to the king’s orders, he was lured by trickery to travel in a boat on the river and then there was an attempt to sink that boat mid-river. During that incident, the youngest daughter Amina was hurled into the river by her father himself. The eldest daughter committed suicide. And one of Shuja’s trusted aides called Rahamat Ali took Julekha and swam away with her, while Shuja died fighting in a war.
Amina floated along with the strong current and quite soon got entangled in a fisherman’s net miraculously and gradually grew up in his hut.
In the meantime, the old king died, and the prince was initiated into the kingdom.
Chapter One
One morning the old fisherman came and reprimanded Amina and said, “Tinni.” The fisherman had renamed Amina in the Arakan language.
“Tinni, what has happened to you this morning? You haven’t laid your hand on anything. My new net hasn’t been glued, my boat…”
Amina came close to the fisherman and affectionately told him, “Old man, my elder sister has come today, so today is a holiday.”
“Who is your sister, Tinni?”
Julekha came out from somewhere and said, “Me.”
The old man was surprised. Then he came close to Julekha and carefully observed her face.
Suddenly he asked, “Do you know any sort of work?”
Amina said, “Old man, I will work on behalf of didi[1]. Didi won’t be able to work.”
The old man thought for a while and asked, “Where will you stay?”
Julekha replied, “With Amina.”
The old man thought, this was also trouble. He asked, “What will you eat?”
Julekha said, “There is also a way.” Saying that she contemptuously threw a gold sovereign in front of the fisherman.
Amina picked it up and handing it over to the fisherman said in a hushed tone, “Old man, don’t say anything else. You go and do your work. It is quite late in the day.”
Julekha had travelled in different places in disguise and at last found out Amina’s whereabouts and landed in this fisherman’s hut. But narrating all that will result in a second story. Her saviour, Rahamat Seikh, worked in the Arakan king’s court under a pseudonym.
Chapter Two
The narrow river was flowing by, and the cool breeze from the first spell of summer made the red flowers from the koilu tree fall below on the ground.
Sitting under that tree Julekha said to Amina, “God has saved the lives of we two sisters just to take revenge of father’s death. Otherwise, I don’t find any other reason.”
Amina kept on looking at the farthest and the densest trees on the other side of the river and said very slowly, “Didi don’t say such words. I like this world quite well. If they want to die, let the men fight with each other and die, I have no sorrow here.”
Julekha said, “Shame on you Amina. Aren’t you the daughter from the Shehezada[2]’s lineage. Where is the throne in Delhi and where is this fisherman’s hut in the Arakans!”
Amina laughed and replied, “Didi, this old man’s hut is better than the throne in Delhi and if any young girl finds the shade of the koilu tree much better, the throne of Delhi won’t shed a drop of tear.”
Julekha partly unmindfully and partly replying to Amina said, “Yes, you cannot be blamed because you were really small then. But just think about it once, Father loved you the most and that is why he had thrown you in the water with his own hands. Don’t consider this life to be more loving than that death given by Father. But if you can take revenge, then the meaning of life is justified.”
Amina kept quiet and kept on looking at the distance. But it could be clearly understood, despite all those words, this pleasant breeze outside, the shade of the tree and her own youth had kept her engrossed in some happy memories.
After some time, she gave a deep sigh and said, “Didi please wait for a while. I have household work to do. The old man won’t be able to eat if I don’t cook for him.”
Chapter Three
Julekha thought about Amina’s condition and kept on sitting in a very desolate mood. Suddenly, there was the sound of a big jump, and someone came from behind and covered Julekha’s eyes with his hands.
Julekha was alarmed and said, “Who are you?”
Hearing her voice the young man left the eyes and came and stood in front of her. Looking at Julekha’s face he said without hesitation, “You are not Tinni.” It was as if Julekha was always trying to pass on as Tinni, only the exceptionally sharp intelligence of the young man could decipher the cleverness.
Julekha gathered her clothes, stood up brilliantly, and cast a firm look at him. She asked, “Who are you?’
The young man said, “You don’t know me. Tinni does. Where is Tinni?”
Hearing the commotion Tinni came outside. Seeing Julekha’s anger and the bewildered face of the young man, Amina gave a loud laugh.
She said, “Didi, don’t take his words into consideration. He is not a human being. He is a deer of the forest. If he has behaved impertinently, I will scold him. Daliya, what did you do?”
The young man instantly replied, “Covered her eyes. I thought she was Tinni. But she is not Tinni.”
Suddenly Tinni expressed terrible anger and said, “Again! Uttering big things with your little mouth. When did you cover Tinni’s eyes? You seem to have too much courage.”
The young man said, “It doesn’t take too much courage to cover someone’s eyes; especially if someone has the previous habit. But I am telling you the truth, Tinni. Today I was a little scared.”
Saying that he secretly pointed out his finger at Julekha and kept on looking at Amina’s face and smiled.
Amina said, “No you are a brute. You are not worthy of standing in front of a Shahezadi, a princess. It is necessary to teach you manners. Look, you should salute like this.”
Saying that Amina bent her youthful slim body very pleasantly and paid a salute to Julekha. The young man tried very hard to follow her orders in an incomplete fashion.
She said, “Do this and take three steps backwards.” The young man moved backwards.
“Salute her once again.” He saluted once more.
In this manner by moving backwards, by saluting, Amina took the young man up to the door of the hut.
She said, “Enter the room.” The young man did so.
Amina came out and bolted the door from outside and said, “Do some household work. Light the fire.” Saying that, she came and sat next to her sister.
She said, “Didi, please don’t get annoyed. The people here are like this. I am sick and tired with them.”
But that didn’t get reflected in Amina’s face or her behaviour. Instead, in many instances she expressed a particular bias towards the men here.
Julekha expressed as much anger as possible and said, “Really, Amina. I am surprised at your behaviour. How does an outsider have so much courage to come and touch you!”
Amina added to her sister’s concern and said, “Look at this, sister. If any Badshah or Nawab’s son acted in this manner, I would have insulted him and thrown him out.”
Julekha couldn’t control her inward smile – she laughed out loud and said, “Tell me the truth Amina. You were saying you liked the world, was this because of that brute young man?”
Amina replied, “Well, let me tell you the truth, didi. He helps me a lot. He plucks flowers from the trees, hunts animals and brings them, and rushes forward whenever he is asked to do a certain job. I have often thought of reprimanding him, but that attempt is of no avail. If I tell him with deep anger in my eyes, ‘Daliya, I am very dissatisfied with you’ – he stares at my face and silently keeps on smiling as if in jest. Mocking in this country is probably of this kind; if you give them two blows, they feel very happy. I have even tried that. Just see, I have locked him in the room – he is enjoying himself there. If I open the door, I will see him happily blowing at the fire with his eyes and face all reddened up. Tell me, sister, what should I do with him. I cannot take it anymore.”
Julekha said, “I can give a try.”
Amina laughed and said politely, “I beg at your feet, sister. Don’t tell him anything.”
The way she said those words it seemed as if the young man was a pet deer belonging to Amina, till now his wild habits have not left him. She feared that he would disappear if he saw some other people around.
In the meantime, the fisherman came and asked, “Tinni, hasn’t Daliya come today?”
“Yes, he has come.”
“Where has he gone?”
“He was disturbing too much. So, I locked him in the room.”
The old man was a little worried and said, “If he disturbs you, tolerate it. Everyone is so restless at a young age. Don’t reprimand him too much. Yesterday Daliya gave me a tholu, i.e. a gold coin, and took three fish from me.”
Amina said, “Don’t worry old man. Today I will extract two tholus from him, and you won’t have to give a single fish.”
The old man was very happy to see the cleverness and worldly wisdom of his adopted daughter at such a young age, and he affectionately caressed her head and left.
Chapter Four
It was strange that gradually Julekha no longer objected to this coming and going of Daliya. She thought that there was nothing strange about it. That was because there was current on one side of the river and the shore on the other bank, the passions and public shame of a woman were also like that. But outside civil society, in this remote corner of Arakan, where were people here?
Here nature manifested itself with the change of seasons – trees were blooming and the blue river in front was at spate during the monsoon; during autumn it would be clear and again become faint during summer; there was no criticism in the loud voices of the birds, and the southern wind would occasionally carry in the faint sound of human voices but not their actual conversation.
Just as a deserted mansion gets gradually covered with deep vegetation, similarly staying there for some time, the secret attack of nature gradually weakens the societal rules made by men and everywhere it gets blended with the natural world. The union of a man and a woman who are equal to one another seems so beautiful that it doesn’t seem out of place for a woman to look at it. They are steeped in mystery, happiness, such deep and unending curiosity, that nothing else seems relevant. So, when the lonely shade of poverty in this barbarian hut gradually turned Julekha’s pride about her heritage and standard of dignity into something lax, she started really enjoying watching the union of Amina and Daliya under the flowering shade of the koilu tree.
Probably an unsatisfied desire would arise in her young heart too and make her restless in pleasure and pain. In the end, it so happened that if the young man would arrive late, like the anxious Amina, Julekha would also eagerly wait for him, and when they all came together, they would fondly observe the scene in a manner in which a painter looks at his just completed painting from a distance. On some days there would be verbal duels, she would play tricks to reprimand them, and lock Amina inside the hut to prevent the mating urge of the young man.
There is a similarity between the king and the forest. Both are independent, both are the sole rulers in their own territory, and neither of them had to follow any rules. Both possessed a natural magnanimity and simplicity. Those who followed the middle path spent their days and nights obeying the rules implemented by folklore, and they were the ones who remained somewhat independent minded. They were the ones who were servile to the great men, were masters of the lower classes, and remained rather undecided and out of place. The barbarian Daliya was the untamed son of Mother Nature; he had no shyness for the shahajadi, the princess, and both the shahajadis, the princesses, also didn’t recognise him as an equal. He was jovial, simple, humorous, fearless in all circumstances, and his unshrinkable character did not display any trace of poverty.
But even amid these games sometimes Julekha’s heart would start lamenting – she would think about the dire state of a princess’s life!
One morning, Juelkha held Daliya’s hand as soon as he arrived and said, “Daliya, can you show me the king here?”
“Yes, I can. But tell me why.”
“I have a dagger and I want to plunge it into his chest.”
Daliya was somewhat surprised in the beginning. After that, seeing Julekha’s revengeful face, his whole face was filled with a smile; as if he had never heard such a funny thing earlier in his life. If you call it irony, well it was befitting a princess. He kept on constantly visualising the scene when without any talk or message, half of a dagger would be placed in the breast of a living king and how surprised the king would suddenly be when this intimate behaviour would take place. This made him laugh silently at first and occasionally erupt in a loud laugh later.
Chapter Five
The very next day Rahamat Seikh wrote a secret letter to Julekha stating that the new Arakan king had found out two sisters living in the hut of a fisherman and has been greatly enamoured after secretly watching Amina. He was making all preparations to bring her to the palace immediately and marry her. Such a nice opportunity for revenge would not be available again.
Then Julekha held Amina’s hand firmly and said, “One can clearly see God’s wishes. Amina, now the time has come to obey your life’s duty, and now playing games does not look well anymore.”
Daliya was present there. Amina looked at his face and saw him smiling self-indulgently.
Amina was hurt seeing his smile and said, “Do you know Daliya, I am going to become a queen.”
Daliya said, “But that is not for a long time.”
With a hurt and surprised heart Amina thought to herself, “It is really true he was a deer in the forest. It is my craziness that i treat him like a human being.”
To make Daliya more conscious, Amina asked, “Shall I come back after killing the king?”
Daliya found the words logical and said, “Yes, it is difficult to return.”
Amina’s entire soul turned totally pale.
She looked towards Julekha and casting a deep sigh said, “Didi, I am prepared.”
After that she turned towards Daliya and pretending it to be an irony emerging from her suffering heart said, “As soon as I become the queen, first I will punish you for conspiring against the king. After that I will do what is required.”
Hearing that Daliya found it to be especially funny, as if a lot of fun was involved if the proposal was turned into reality.
Chapter Six
The fisherman’s hut seemed to break down with the cavalry, foot soldiers, elephants, music and lights. Two palanquins covered with gold were sent from the palace.
Amina took the dagger from Julekha’s hand. For a long time, she kept on looking at the intricate design carved out of ivory. After that she opened her clothes and tried to ascertain its sharpness upon her own breast. It touched the tip of her breast, and she put it back in its case and hid it within her clothes.
She earnestly desired to meet Daliya once before she commenced on her journey towards death, but he had disappeared since yesterday. Was the pain of arrogance hidden in his smiles?
Before climbing inside the palanquin Amina looked at the shelter of her childhood through tear-filled eyes – the tree in her house, the river next to it. She held the hands of the fisherman and with a suppressed quivering voice said, “Old man, I am leaving. Who will look after your household after Tinni goes away?”
The old man started crying like a small boy.
Amina said, “Old man, if Daliya comes here, please give him this ring. Tell him that Tinni has left it before leaving.”
Saying that she quickly climbed into the palanquin. The palanquin left with great pageantry. Amina’s hut, the riverside, the place beneath the koilu tree, remained dark, silent and without any people.
In due course, the two palanquins crossed the main gate and entered inside the palace. The two sisters left their palanquins and came out.
Amina had no smile on her face, nor tears in her eyes. Julekha’s face was pale. When their duty was far away, they had a lot of excitement among them – now with a shivering heart she embraced Amina with a lot of affection. In her mind she thought how she had plucked the new-found love from its stem and was leading this blossoming flower into sailing in a stream of blood.
But there was no time to think about it now. Surrounded by the attendants with thousands of lamps casting their sharp radiance along the way, the two sisters kept on moving spell bound. At last, they reached the door of the nuptial room and stopping there for a moment, Amina called Julekha, “Didi.”
Julekha embraced Amina deeply and kissed her.
Both entered the room slowly.
The king was dressed in his regal attire and was sitting on a decorated bed in the centre of the room. Amina stood near the door with trepidation.
Julekha advanced towards the king and saw him laughing silently with humour.
Julekha blurted out, ‘Daliya!’ Amina fainted.
Daliya rose and lifted her in his arms like an injured bird and carried her to the bed. Amina became aware and taking out the dagger from her chest looked at her sister’s face. Didi looked at Daliya’s face. Daliya kept quiet and looked at both of them with a smiling face. The dagger also peeped out a little from inside its case and seeing this mirth started laughing with a twinkle.
Somdatta Mandal is the Former Professor of English and Chairperson at the Department of English & Other Modern European Languages, Visva Bharati, Santiniketan. Somdatta has a keen interest in translation and travel writing.
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