DWELLING

DWELLING

Imdadul Haque Milon
Translated by: Binoy Barman
February 2001
Asia Publications, Dhaka
The green field was inundated by rainy water. A ridged footway like the parting of hair on a village woman’s head ran through the middle of the field. Stepping on that way Manindra Thakur said, ‘Hold the umbrella, Majid.’ Majid, who wore a dark brown lungi, was following Thakur. His lungi was folded half over knee to faster around the waist just under the main knot. It was not clear why he did so. May be he wanted to save the cloth from soaking or to keep speedy pace with Thakur. There were no other clothes on his body. Small drops of rainwater glittered like perspiration on his stony black complexion. Neck-long oiled curly hair on his head was brushed tidily. His face also looked oil-glossy. Black scorpion moustache grew below his small pointed nose. Sparsely planted beard covered his cheeks spreading from sideburns to chin. He took care of his beard getting it cut by the barber Nitai at the bazaar in Mawa at least once a week before it grew long.
There were no hairs on his body except a few, resembling beards, on his chest. Or was there more? They were not visible because of being identical with body’s color!
Majid’s left hand now held the clinical bag of Manindra Thakur. He was walking with Thakur with an indifferent mood. Two pairs of leg marched on in ankle-deep water making the lonely field full of splashing sounds.
A little while before the frogs, busy spawning in watery field, were crying with the sounds of clouds. As the footsteps of two men proceeded in water the sky became silent with the diminishing cry of the frogs. The gusty wind at the beginning of rainy season was blowing free in the lonely field. The sound of wind was spreading over from field to field.
It was at that moment when Thakur uttered these words to hold the umbrella. Majid returned from his indifferent mood at Thakur’s utterance. He stretched his right hand promptly to hold the umbrella. The black umbrella almost new was unfurled over Thakur’s head. They yellow curvd came butt of the umbrella was stuck in his right hand. To hold the butt hastily, Majid tangled his fingers with Thakur’s. and as it happened Majid was startled like a fish-hunter who got the sting of a shing fish while fumbling for a prey under water. At this the umbrella tilted aside and got a little displaced from over the head of Thakur. However, he controlled himself within a moment. He remained standing holding up the umbrella over Thakur’s head.
Thakur was then staring at Majid.
Thakur was almost one foot taller than Majid. His body, without any fat, was stout like a kadam tree. His head contained light red closely planted hair, cut short neatly. Though he was aged, not a single hair was gray. Nobody noticed when sudden air pushed a few hairs down on his tiny beautiful forehead.
The eyes of Thakur were wide and large. Various shades of sight played in those eyes at times¾for example, now. He was staring at Majid but it was not evident what was in his sight¾anger or hatred, irritation or love, insult or anathema.
Having a glance of Thakur’s face, Majid bent his head down. One of his hands held the clinical bag hanging near his naked knees and the other held the umbrella. He felt a light throb inside his bosom after he touched Thakur’s fingers. The throb increased since he looked at his eyes. Its current transmitted to two hands kept in two different postures as well as two wet legs. Even to mouth cavity¾row of teeth.
The nose of Thakur was as pointed and sharp as the knife for slaughtering cows. The lips were like stripped onion. The chin and jaw were really manly. To sum up, his face was so appealing that one could not just take one’s sight away looking once at it.
The color of Thakur’s skin was akin to that of the film of cream on milk. The sky of Jaistha was overcast with clouds. He stood in open field with an umbrella held over his head. It was a dense foggy atmosphere around. The place where he stood was as if brightened by his glamour.
A man can be so handsome!
The neck of Thakur was well matched with his body. Its color was similar to that of face. Now a sacred cord and a stethoscope were hanging from his neck. The stethoscope was well outside his Punjabi, but the sacred cord was not visible as it lay inside the genji which was again under the Punjabi.
Thakur wore a glitzy white Punjabi of Addi and a finely knit dhuti of Shantipur. His left wrist was clasped by a round watch of dark-tan belt. In his chest pocket was a fountain pen with black cap and golden clip. The legs put on a pair of pumpshoes which were also black. Pumpshoes took in water which was now sprayed out with sprinkling sound as he stepped on.
But Thakur’s eyes were quiescent as if without any blink.
One’s fingers touched another’s¾was it any offence? Was it not legitimate for a servant to touch his master’s fingers? Master and servant both are human beings. Why should there be any barrier for them to touching of each other? Now Majid remembered Manindra Thakur was Hindu¾not of lower caste, but of higher caste. He was a Brahmin.
A Muslim touched the hand of a Hindu¾a Brahmin. Again the Muslim was not of any upper social rank, Syed or Sheikh¾he was only a Hajam. Was it possible that a Hajam touched a Brahmin! Was Thakur burning with that anger?
For that reason was he blinkless?
Majid’s bosom was throbbing as usual. His hands and legs were also quivering. Yet he felt angry inside one time. He said silently, ‘I haven’t done that willingly! My hand touched his as I attempted to take the umbrella. It’s natural to happen. What’s there in it to be angry? Two persons are living together round the clock; hence touches are very likely between them. Nails can easily contact nails. If one bothers too much about religion, why need one keep a Muslim servant from Hajam community? There are still Hindu families in villages¾all Hindus did not leave the country. If one wishes one can collect a lad from them! If money, foods and clothes will be provided, there is no scarcity of servants. Is there any necessity of living together of Hindu and Muslim?’
When Majid was thinking all these, Thakur blinked his eyes. He moved a little he took out the Capstan cigarette packet from the chest pocket of this Punjabi. Took out the matchbox. Then he lighted a cigarette very carefully defending it from wind. He inhaled smoke deep and then puffed out like a sigh. White smoke emitted through his nose and mouth filling the air with sweet smell, which made the bosom of Majid a little lighter. His throb and quiver came to a stop. For a moment he held up his eyes to Thakur and became astonished. Thakur was still staring at him like earlier, between fingers holding the white cigarette, which was burning like the eyes of shoal fish.
But this time Majid was not frightened like earlier. He cleared his voice lightly, stooping, and muttered, ‘It’s my mistake. Please pardon me, dada.’
Thakur did not understand, as it were, what Majid said. Puffing at the cigarette he looked at Majid narrowing his eyes, ‘What mistake? Pardon of what?
The tone of Thakur encouraged Majid to utter anyway, ‘When I was going to hold the umbrella…?’
'What happened?'
‘My hand chanced to touch your.’
‘Is it?’
‘H’m.’
‘What does it matter?’
Now Majid felt a heavy stone was released from his ribs. He looked at Thakur with smiling face. ‘I don’t know what it matters.’
Thakur puffed again. ‘Then why did you say?’
‘From your stare I thought you got angry with me. I can’t touch you. I avoid it all along. But today it happened out of my absentmindedness. Touch between Hindu and Muslim does not sound fair.’
Thakur said, ‘Who told you that?
‘I know. You are such a Hindu that even many of your religion do not preserve the right to touch you. And I’m only a Hajam.’
Thakur gave the last puff at the cigarette and threw it in the water of field, which produced a hissing sound, which remained unnoticed. He said, ‘Today we can’t maintain all those things. The matter turned different if it were old time. I would take your offence into account, but now I can’t.’
Majid was about to say, ‘Whyt can’t you do that now?’ But before that Thakur spoke, ‘I’m a physician by profession so that I’ve to touch man as compulsion. I don’t think whether I touched Hindu or Muslim. Moreover, I’ve been living alone in a Muslim village since partition. The land parted in nineteen forty seven and it is nineteen sixty four now. Pretty seventeen years. I abandoned many things of rituals during this period. I’m living shoulder to shoulder with Muslims. Could I survive in this village if I practiced all the rituals? Would the villagers take it easily if I didn’t treat Muslim patients and didn‘t visit their houses and if they didn’t get any chance to come to my house and have a cup of tea sitting inside? I would’ve no rarity of enemy. They would behead me in the dark of night.’
When Thakur spoke, Majid listened with amazement. He thought how man could speak so nicely. Those were not words¾those were as if the music of rain in a calm night. Majid listened to Thakur as the forest being mum would listen to the music of rain. The more he listened, he more he got amazed. Who created this person? He spoke well as he looked well. It is the fact that he who created Thakur created Majid too. F so, why did the two persons differ so vastly? One was handsome while the other was ugly. One would illuminate all sides by his glamor while the other would darken the illumination. One would become master, while the other servant. One Thakur, the other Hajam.
Why was there so difference between men?
Thakur said, ‘What are you thinking, Majid?’
Majid laughed, ‘Nothing, dada.’
‘But I know what you’re thinking.’
Majid was well aware that Thakur must break through his mind. He must be a man of supernatural power. He knew herbal treatment, spiritual treatment as he knew homeopathic and allopathic treatment. He who treated patients of pox by licking their decaying skin might be cognizant of what his servant or boatman, compounder or gurad, whatever you call him, thought. Nevertheless Majid said just to test him, ‘Then tell.’
‘You’re thinking that if I didn’t mind the act of touching why I was staring at your face long like that.’
Majid felt suffocated to hear the words of Thakur. Dumbfounded, he kept looking at his appearance.
Thakur said smilingly, ‘Ain’t I right?’
Majid managed to utter faintly, ‘Yes, you’re all right.’
‘Should I explain why I stared?’
‘Explain, please.’
‘I was thinking how we would cross the canal. In the meantime I rested and smoked. I walked a long distancewithout any cigarette. whenever I think anything, I do that looking at somebody’s face.’
Majid could not grasp a bit of Thakur’s deliberation. He kept gaping at Thakur.
Thakur laughed again. ‘Didn’t you understand the matter of crossing canal?’
Majid responded like a fool, ‘No.’
‘Look! The bamboo bridge is broken.’
Majid looked at the canal flowing by the side of the field and the bamboo bridge on it. Practically the bamboo bridge was broken middle into the canal.
When was it broken? When they went through this way in the morning, it was all right! But Majid did not ponder much on it. He said, ‘If you don’t mind, I’d say one thing.’
Thakur smiled. ‘Say.’
‘I can carry you on my shoulder to cross the canal if there’s no problem with touch.’
Thakur became overwhelmed with emotion, ‘I’m very glad to hear your words. I expected right that.’
‘Then let’s start.’
Two persons began to proceed through water, through rain. The solitary field became again replete with splashing sounds.
The sky was roaring.
The frogs were also crying under the weeping sky. Black clouds had voyaged the sky like trading boats. All sides were darkened more by the intense downpour than the shadow of clouds.
Going beyond the field back you would find the house of Labi Thakrun and to its east the house of Bhuinmali. The trees in the precincts of those houses grew greener being nourished by humid weather during the beginning of rainy season. Profound gloom now prevailed in the forest in profuse rains. In that gloom surreptitiously raised their voice the night worms and crickets hiding themselves in the leaves of trees. Their voice was submerged in the sound of raining as the houses of people were submerged in the shades of rain in daytime under the cluster of trees.
Just at that time a swollen-belly puti fish overcrossed the ridged footway touching the leg of Thakur so that he was startled. He did not take the umbrella back from Majid, whom he gave it once. Nobody could say whether he did it willingly or out of forgetfulness. Majid, who was following him like shadow, held up the umbrella carefully over his head. He kept close his eyes so that the gust of rain could not drench the body of Thakur. He was so preoccupied with this business that he probably forgot the clinical bag that he carried by the other hand.
But Thakur felt an unknown bliss in his mind to see the leap of the puti. He halted for a moment, though he did not look at Majid. He cast his sight towards the grass that was neck-down in water on both sides of the ridged footway.
Majid also halted following Thakur. Watching him look at the field, Majid asked, ‘What’d you see, dada.’
Thakur began to walk again, saying, ‘Fish.’
Majid was surprised, ‘What fish?’
‘Not any fish of good quality¾it’s puti. One leapt near my leg. Its belly was swollen.’
‘Yes, they must have swollen belly now. Bellies are full of spawn.’
‘There were red stripes on two sides of its body stretching from head to tail.’
Majid laughed. ‘It has put on sari. The red stripes are its sari. They marry in inundation during rainy season and spawn. That’s why they groom.’
At one corner of the field were standing closely two hijal trees. Water was making tumult at their feet while rain was falling on their heads. The leaves of hijal trees were burnt pale in dry season, but that paleness was washed away at the advent of rainy season. The trees turned greener. Youth as if touched them as did the puti fish. Aerial roots sprouted out of new leaves like the moustache of boaal fish. Tiny green hijal fruits began to open eyes. Thakur got the smell of hijal fruit in rainy wind. Throwing his eyes in the direction of trees, he said in an enchanted voice, “This land is really beautiful.’
Majid could not follow his words. It was not certain when Thakur would say what. Just a while ago he told about puti fish and now he told about land. Who knew what meant what!
Majid became bold after the matter of touch was clear. He was talking to Thakur with the same spirit. ‘What beauty of the land did you discover walking down in the rain and water, dada?’
Thakur smiled, ‘You won’t understand what I discovered even if I tell you.’
“Tell me. I’ll understand.’
‘Look! The grassy field filled with water, green hijal trees round the corner of the land, canal water under foot, water pouring down from the sky, sari-wearing puti that leap about the walking leg¾all these are the real beauty of a land.’
Majid said in a thoughtful tone, ‘Are these not found in Hindustan?’
Thakur turned to Majid immediately after he finished the sentence. Pursing his eyes he said, ‘Why that matter of Hindustan came to your mind?’
‘There’s no reason.’
‘No. There might be some reason. Speak out.’
‘The reason is simple, dada. Almost all the Hindus of East Pakistan left the country for Hindustan. Ain’t that country like ours? Ain’t there cloud and rain, ain’t there rainy season? Ain’t there puti fish, hijal tree? If there’s none, why did people go? Why do people immigrate to other country leaving beautiful homestead?’
Thakur sighed, ‘You won’t understand why they migrate.’
Majid had been working with Thakur for the last four years. Even after so long a time he could not understand his many words¾could not make out the meaning of his many behaviiors. But Majid felt very eager to understand his every word¾to make out the meaning of his every behavior. Therefore he used to fully concentrate on every act of Thakur.
But Thakur talked no more. He now paced as if a little faster. Hence the splashing sound of stepping in water was getting frequent which, however, was suppressed by the sound of rain. Frogs could not sense so they continued croaking as usual. Having arrived by the canal Thakur became a little flabbergasteed.
The muddy water of canal was in strong tide. Water was crawling down from the Padma like darash snae and spreading over to villages through canals. The tide would be more intricate and intense within a few days. Fields would be overflowed and farmland would be devoured. The water of ponds and tanks would flow over the edges to peep into the dwelling place of the farmers. A house would then appear to be an island.
So is the characteristic feature of rainy season in Bikrampur. Rain on the one hand and riverwater on the other. Riverwater inundate fields hundred times than rainwater. Fields become full to the brim so that one would need a bamboo of about fifteen feet to drive a boat on.
Fishes also come alongwith water of river during the rainy season. They swim to remote villages in tide. Cunning people become busy with hunting these fishes.
So busy was Bhashan Gachhi of Haldar Bari today. Thakur was actually flabbergasted to see him. Bhashan Gachhi was setting bana in neck-deep water of canal. He would fix the doair to the bana made of bamboo. Strips Fishes would be collected from doairs in the morning and evening.
Seven to eight doairs of Bhashan Gachhi were lying on canalside. He would fix these after he had finished setting bana. He was so absorbed in his work that he did not notice at all that two men arrived at the side of the canal.
Majid, who was standing behind Thakur, also did not notice Bhashan Gachhi and said with utter modesty, ‘Excuse me, dada. Could you take the umbrella and bag.’
Thakur remained silent. Stretching his arm he first took the umbrella and then the hag.
While Majid was rearranging his fixing of lungi, Bhashan Gachhi looked at the canalside. He saw Thakur and Majid as he was going to handle the doair. Having a glance at Majid, he turned his eyes to Thakur. Spots of pox were visible on his sunburnt black face. His thick lips looked like the belly of tangra fish and eyes like that of kora bird owing to diving long in water. Even in t his condition he became eager to greet Thakur. With smiling face he said, ‘Adab, dada.’
Thakur responded immediately, ‘Adab. You’re setting bana first today, Gachhi?’
‘Yes, dada.’
‘You could start even one or two days earlier. High tide’s coming for quite a few days. You’d get lots of fish a day.’
‘You’re right, dada. I told my eldest son but he’s tied up with farmland and cattle. Rainy season’s begun to make a farmer busy with various household works. My son’s forgot the fishes of high tide. That’s why I myself have come to the canal. After fixing doairs I’ll go home and raise the boat. The drowned boat may be lost at all if it is late, since water’s increasing very rapidly.’
‘But what’ll you do raising the boat? You’ll not be able to rub gaab or tar.’
Gachhi lifted a doair close to his chest and began to fix carefully to bana. ‘Where are you coming from, dada?’
Thakur replied, ‘I went to a patient’s house, Pubkumar Bhog. Now I return via Mawa.’
By the time Majid stood firmly.
But Thakur was motionless. What talks with Bhashan Gachhi! Why was he wasting time? Majid could finish a big task if he would cross the canal.
Being a little impatient Majid said, ‘Get on my shoulder, dada.’
Thakur ignored Majid’s words. Even he dud not look at him. ‘Hallo Gachhi, ‘When did you come t o canal?’
Bhashan Gachhi replied at once, ‘I’m here for a fairly long time¾about two hours.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Why d’you ask that?’
‘When was the bamboo bridge broken?’
‘I can’t say exactly. I saw it broken from the beginning.’
Majid said, ‘I think children broke this. The children of Bhuinmali Bari are so naughty. They might have jumped from it into canal water. Can the structure of rotten bamboo sustain the pressure of eight or ten guys?’
This time also Majid’s words were ignored by Thakur. Looking at Bhashan Gachhi, he said, ‘But I went through this passage in the morning. I crossed this bridge. Then this was not broken. When did they break?’
Bhashan Gachhi took another doair stretching his arm. While fixing it, he said, ‘There’s no routine for the children. Any time they appear and depart. After leaping and jumping when they discovered that the structure was broken, they fled all together.’
‘Okay, I accept that. But how can I cross the canal?’
Majid said promptly, ‘You’re thinking that old thing? How my musical instrument discords with my singing! I requested you to ride on my shoulder, didn’t I? I’m gonna carry you in the water across. With a shy air Thakur looked at Bhashan Gachhi, who however did not look at him. He listened to all what Majid said, but it was a mystery to Thakur why he did not look up. He said to Majid so as to make Bhashan Gachhi hear, ‘But can you carry me on your shoulder?’
Majid said enthusiastically, ‘Test it getting on?’
‘Though I look slim, I weigh much¾not less than eighty kg.’
‘Okay, get on.
‘Then wait a bit a let me light a cigarette.’
Majid noticed that Thakur was talking a little loudly since he met Bhashan Gachhi in the canal. He could not understand its reason. He did not bother with that either. Majid let his body slide in the canal handing over the umbrella and bag after Thakur lighted the cigarette. He lowered his neck and said, ‘Get on, dada.’
Thakur looked at Bhashan Gachhi one time before he ascended the shoulder of Majid, like a baby, pressing the cigarette between two lips and holding the umbrella in one hand and the clinical bag in the other. Majid stood up immediately and said in a rather proud tone, ‘You’re not correct, dada. Your weight will not be eighty kg. You’re fairly light. I can even walk up to Bagyakul taking you on me.’
Thakur did not say anything. An untitled sight was now playing in his eyes. He was smoking silently and watching Bhashan Gachhi turning his head. But Bhashan Gachhi was neither looking at Thakur nor speaking now. His hands were operating faster.
Bhashan Gachhi got violently angry inside with Thakur. When Majid reached the opposite side of the canal, Bhashan Gachhi witnessed the scene turning his eyes and mumbled, ‘Thakur, you’ve so much guts. Being a Hindu you cross the canal riding on a Muslim’s shoulder. You don’t put off your shoes, don’t furl the umbrella. You puff at cigarette sitting on a Muslims’s neck. You think old story still exists. What’s past is past. Those days are gone. It’s not Hindustan. It’s not the country of the Hindus. It is Pakistan¾a country of the Muslims. You ride on a Muslim’s shoulder in a Muslim country. Howdare you do that?’
Muddy water of the Padma flowed past Bhashan Gachhi. Spiders like shrimps tickled about his legs under water. Some foolish bele fishes rubbed their noses against his legs thinking those trunks of trees. Nothing of these were noticed by the chap. His body burned with the boast of religion.
To the east of the road was lying a pond of elliptical shape, beyond which was another pond, and then the Chandra Bari. The houses there were covered with various trees, and bushes and shrubs grew densely on the soil around the houses, being interspersed with thick grass. The houses had been deserted for many years. Nobody bothered to look at these houses during the dry season. They bothered a little in the rainy season, however. Villagers used to bring their goats and sheep carrying on the deck of boats so that those could graze in the elevated land there. They brought those in the morning and took back in the afternoon. Moving around the lump of grass and bushes all daylong the animals remained well.
The rainy season had not yet taken any dangerous posture so that the villagers did not begin to bring their domestic animals in the houses. So the houses sounded desolate and this desolation was more intensified by rain and gusty wind.
While following Thakur, Majid once looked at Bannichhara and then the western side of the road.
In the west was swamp¾its vast expansion. Aman and aush paddy were cultivated in this swamp. There were only green ears of paddy as far as eyes could reach. Profuse rain and gusty wind today hid the swamp of green paddy. To the opposite of Bannichhara, the hijal trees round the corner of the swamp could not be seen now. Ancient people claimed that this was not actually swamp. Here was river or sea. Its name was Kalidas Sagar. Strips of sandy land rose out of its bed to transform it gradually into swamp. Who knew what was true and what false.
To the northwest of swamp were situated two houses, one of which was Biler Bari by name. The house was flanked with a tall shimul tree, which was visible from any direction around. The other house was surrounded by nothing but bamboo clump. This was not actually a house, but a graveyard. Medinimandal, Dogachhi, Sitarampur in the east, Kandipara, Jashildia in the west, Kabutarkhola in the north, and Nayakanda, Mawa in the south¾when anybody ever died in these villages he was buried in that graveyard.
Once people used to live in Biler Bari. In the middle of swamp the house stood lonely which was visited by dacoits. Moreover, there was fear of ghosts. Just a little away in the south was a pond called Koupatahar, which was truly horrible. In the dead of night one kept standing putting a foot on pondside and the other on the shimul tree. In the smudgy moon this spectacle was witnessed many times by the people of the house. Dacoit menace on the one hand, and that eerie affair on the other! The dwellers at last deserted the house, which then eroded gradually. From then on Biler Bari was a derelict house.
But why was Thakur silent since they crossed the canal? With umbrella overhead he was walking in a thoughtful mood ahead of Majid. He neither looked behind nor uttered any word.
What happened?
Majid cleared his voice as was his habit and said, ‘Why are there so many derelict houses in our country, dada?’
In spite of hearing his words, Thakur did not look at Majid. He said in disinterested tone, ‘Where are derelict houses?’
‘There you see¾Bannichhara, Chander Bari. To the east of your house is Guer Bari.’
Thakur laughed to hear the name Guer Bari (in dialect it means the house of excrement). ‘Not Guer Bari, it’s Guher Bari. Guha is a title of the Hindu. My title is Thakur, for example.’
‘Oh I see. That was also a Hindu house?’
‘Yes. All the derelict houses you see in the village belonged to the Hindus. This Bannichhara, that Chandrer Bari. Chandra is also the title of the Hindu.’
‘Why did the Hindus leave so splendid houses?’
‘Can’t you understand why they left?’
Majid understood, as it were, the matter a little bit as Thakur told this. He said shaking his head, ‘Yes I understand. Hindustan has been Pakistan; that’s why the Hindus left for India.’
‘Who knows whether I also have to leave.’
Majid was shaken at all to hear this. Pretending that he could not follow, he said, ‘What did you say, dada?’
Thakur replied in a saddening tone, ‘It’s true. I’ve been living in peace for the last seventeen years. Now it probably ends.’
‘Why? What happened?’
‘Today I committed a mistake.’
‘What mistake?’
‘I crossed the canal riding on your shoulder.’
‘What’s in that? What difference does it make?’
‘Bhashan Gachhi saw it.’
‘If he saw it, he saw it.’
‘It will generate scandal in the village.’
‘What scandal?’
‘Nobody will accept it easily that being a Hindu I rode on the shoulder of a Muslim.’
Majid said with strong urge in voice, ‘There’s nothing objectionable to it. If there’s any allegation, I’ll defend. You were not in fact willing to ride. I took you on my shoulder with persistence. You’re my master and you’ve every right to ride on my shoulder. It doesn’t concern any Hindu Muslim distinction.’
Thakur said thoughtfully, ‘It does. But you won’t understand. Partition of land has created many complexities in the province of our mind too. Familiar persons can no more be identified well. Nobody knows when who appears in what appearance. Today I really committed a mistake....’

Pritilata and Her Love

(A Novel)
Selina Hossain
Translated by: Subrata Kumar Das
Ram Krishna Biswas is now a convict sentenced to death by hanging. He is now counting his days in Alipore Jail though an appeal has been preferred in the High Court.
Reading the news in a daily Pritilata remains dumb.
She has not ever heard of revolutionist Ram Krishna of her favourite Chattogram, even the name was unknown to her. But she feels a sort of affinity due to the sameness of their home district. This feeling originates a bond of the heart, which can bring people living much far closer and create liking or even love. Convicted revolutionist Ram Krishna Biswas – these words appear enormously on the newspaper erasing all other things. The words are so interrelated that they can not be separated, at least they do not go out of Pritilata’s sight. So she feels a sort of agitation. The implicit desire seems pricking inwardly: I want to meet him, at least once but I must.
The desire frights her own self also. She feels hesitant for this and later on controls herself: What’re you thinking? Being a revolutionist don’t you know that the secrecy is the primary condition of a revolutionist?
Yes, I know it well, but I must meet this person on deathbed.
Pritilata stands by the window. The outside is open and green. She can hear the chitchat of her fellow mates of the hostel. But that mild sound appears to her as a bang. Is that a sound from bomb blast or a pistol? She clutches her head and realises that there is no sound at all. A bird is chirping outside. She can recall of Kshudiram of whom heard in her girlhood. Kshudiram received his death singing. Is Ram Krishna singing like Kshudiram? What’s death? How does it look like? Pritilata, a student of philosophy gets moved thinking of death. She can no how believe that death is fathomless darkness. It appears to her as a life of dreams that the convict sentenced to death embraces heroically. Death could not diminish Kshudiram’s smile, neither will be able to diminish Ram Krishna’s. Then the large green before Pritilata blooms with tens of hundreds of flowers. Ram Krishna is coming forward taking death as a garland. The news of the daily cannot disturb her anymore. She now realises that her impatience is not for hearing any bad news. This impatience is pregnant with much feeling of her own soul. This feeling gets transmitted from one revolutionist to another. Pritilata determines to meet Ram Krishna in the face of great difficulties.
She does not know how to meet. She comes out of the house with the determination in her head. Having no intention to talk with anyone, she feels her desire, now fastened to a destination. The other girls are walking past her. One or two or three throw a word. She only nods, does not give any answer. Firm determination brings self-reliance. Pritilata is now in such a situation. She feels herself older in age and physique. Her college fellows seem to her much younger – as if there remains a gulf of difference between them. Even then she feels a pain in her. The news of the death by hanging is the root of this pain. There spreads a cover of gloom on her eyes. Pritilata wants to cry. She goes up to the roof. The winter night is very cold; everything around is white with fog, which seems piercing on her person. The uncovered parts of her body get wet. Pritilata covers her head and rubs the tip of the nose.
In her childhood she would return home wetted her feet at early dawn – so early that even none of her parents would rise by then. A little flashes of light could he seen in the dense garden. If she felt sneezing anytime, she would stop it by rubbing the nose best the light night tear at her sneeze. Every morning she would try to touch that time of light and at that early age she understood that it was untouchable. But after joining the revolutionary party, she has understood that one can touch it, if s/he wants. Ram Krishna is not touching that light-line. When the light would be sharp, she would see the sun-rising standing beside the china-rose and feel the absence of something among everything. Monish, the old man, would come walking in the dusty path. Monish worked as a gardener in the Shahib’s. Pritilata would run to him and ask: Uncle, what new flower has bloomed today?
Showing his yellow teeth the gardener would answer: Blue Lotus.
‘Blue Lotus!’ Pritilata would cry out and say: Isn’t it really nice?
Yes, it’s very nice. It sooths our eyes.
After some moments Pritilata would say: I don’t like the tidy gardens of the Shahibs, rather I prefer the garden grown carelessly. They bring foreign plants, but ours are all domestic.
You’re right.
Monish would leave laughing. Her eyes are dirty, his clothes are also very dirty. While walking he crooks his back. Once he received a kick by a Shahib and remained in bed for about two months. Later on his back became crooked. But he did not give up the job at the Shahib’s. he had twelve kids looking at him. If there were no food available, it would become a hell. He had no other way but licking the legs of the Shahib’s. He did not dare to try for another job. Pritilata would feel pity for him. Before she grew up, Monish had died. Hearing the news she cried for long. She could remember the day of his being kicked. She did not understand anything on that day, but his father understood. Being excited he was groaning: Aren’t we human beings? Why to be beaten so rudely? Her father would not get angry very frequently. Being a government employee he could not protest but he could not bear the incident of Monish. Some people carried Monish to his house. Pritilata went with her father to see Monish. Later on when he recovered, she asked Monish: Did you feel severe pains that day?
Yes, it was severe. It broke my bones.
Can’t you take the revenge?
Revenge? How can I?
Can’t you kick back the Shahib?
How come?
He lowered his head and being straight said: You do take the revenge.
I?
Pritilata was struck by words of Monish.
Later on she went to him enthusiastically and told: Well, I would.
Keeping his hand on her shoulder, Monish asked: Would you be able?
Her answer was straightforward. She realised from Monish’s voice that he had pain but he lacked courage. No problem. One can supplement another one’s fear. She will supplement the fear of one thousand Monishes. Being astonished Monish asked: If they kill you?
What matters if I die?
She uttered this very easily. The old man stared at her and told: I can’t utter like you. Even after being kicked I desire to live.
Pritilata laughed at this and told: Well you remain alive for a century.
No, he did not live for a century. He passed his life in the Shahib’s and died at 62. Now Pritilata screams on this roof, he had to live a life of a slave only for a meagre living. What’s the difference of 100 or 20 years of such a life. A courageous life of 20 years of Ram Krishna is equal to that of 100 years. Monish had a desire to sustain but Ram Krishna doesn’t have. I must talk to Ram Krishna and see how he has turned his 20 years to 100 years.
Pritilata realises that this is a serious time. News of the daily is tormenting her. She has heard of women’s labor pain. As she has no experience of her own, she would be scared of hearing from elderly women. But when soaked in happiness they would tell that no pain remains after seeing the newborn’s face, she would think that it was completely of happiness, nothing of sadness. To be a mother from a mere woman is a pleasure of sadness. Now she considers herself in such a tumult. She did not face alike even after enrolling herself as a revolutionist. That was a feeling of resoluteness – but the feeling of today is totally of the inner mind. Now black clouds are hovering over her sky to pour anytime. An unknown and unseen Ram Krishna Biswas is standing on her way of life. Pritilata roams around the roof. Faltering for a minute, she looks at the sky and feels differently in herself. She is a revolutionist herself. To free her motherland is her dream. She knows well that a revolutionist knows death as final destination. They are ready to embrace death. But she wants to meet that man and know his feeling. Does he have anything to say to those who are now surviving. Pritilata feels the trouble in her mind. Some months before a distant cousin of her died at the Jalalabad battle in Chattogram. Hearing the news she became shocked and cried. In no time the fire of revenge made him more determined. There remains no pain to meet death in a battle. Ram Krishna is realising this pain of waiting for death at every moment. Oh, Ram Krishna, in what star will you shine after death? I know your pride in your motherland. Everyday the plants bloom new flowers, new grass will grow but your death will stop any more death of a Monish caused by a Shahib’s kick. Ram Krishna, I want to reach you. I want to make a great sacrifice....

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THE SHARK THE RIVER AND THE GRENADES

Selina Hossain
Translated by: Abedin Quader
Published by: Bangla Academy, Dhaka-1000
First Edition: April 1987.
As she was the youngest of twelve children, her father named her Buri. It was supposed to be an affectionate name. But Buri was never sure of that. Since her childhood, she has been known by the same name, and she has never liked it. It pains her to hear the name called because Buri means 'old woman' which she doesn't want to be. If only she had a nicer name : one which makes one happy to hear it uttered and pleases the ear when spoken. Sometimes, she pleads with her father, weeping on occasion : 'Please change my name.' But her father ignores her. She even requests her playmates : Please, stop calling me Buri. But they would not listen either : No, they say. You are Buri. Buri, Buri, Buri.
They think it is fun to call her by that name. It is easy to make her angry that way. And Buri remains Buri for good, branded with a name she hates.
Buri's mind is deep and green and impervious, like an aram leaf where water cannot stay, Finer sensibilities and subtleties of the heart do not touch her-she easily gets through these hurdles.
Buri knows nothing outside of her home in the village Haldi. She knows only the road that goes towards the station to the west, the canal to the east, and the large fields to the north and south of the village. Neighbours' children often go to visit relatives, but she never has the chance. Not that she ever complains because she is afraid of the scolding that she would surely receive from them. Her mother is always busy with household chores, her father never takes anyone along with him when he goes out. Buri is lonely and depressed. She cares little for playing with other children. It is hard to tell what she is thinking, and no one tries to do so. No one would understand, anyway, because her mind is always changing. When running back from playing, sometimes she stops suddenly, and stands lost in thought. If anyone were to call her at that moment, she would get angry. Sometimes she gets angry without any reason at all.
Later on the anger subsides. She stands alone on the bank of the canal. A breeze shimmers on the water. Bright green insects perch lightly on grass half submerged in the water. Buri tries to find her reflection in the murky depths. She fails. But oh, how soothing the water feels!
Intensely curious, he went one day to the railway station with Jalil. To Buri's imaginative mind, the station is a fairy land, a world she knows nothing about. She is eager to know everything about it. But the mail train steams by just as they arrive. It does not stop at such an unimportant station. But just to see it makes Buri's sheart thump. She clasps Jalil's hand in excitement. The train fades away in the distant, but Buri remains standing on the track. She breathers quickly. A strange pleasure grips her.
"Jalil, where is the train going?"
"Far away."
"Far away where?"
"How the hell do I know? One day I'll get on that train and never come back," Jalil vows with eyes ablaze.
"I want to go, too. Will you take me with you?"
"Shall I take you? What a stupid thing to ask! Get lost," Jalil says as he makes a face at her.
Buri is depressed. "Still", she grumbles, "one day I shall get lost". She gathers handful of pebbles. Jalil loiters around the station-master's office looking for a chance to jump on a train. Some day he will succeed. Buri is helpless, wanting so many, many things, but unable to have them. Her wishes run wild and fade away as fast as the mail train. Buri will never taste the world beyond the village Haldi.
But Buri's is a disobedient mind untameable, wandering to distant places. One day Jalil fails to be, with her. He has gone somewhere else. Buri goes back alone. The pebbles she picked up at the station make a smacking sound as they rub together in her pocket. The sound makes her happy. She tosses the pebbles away with regret. She kicks a mimosa bush. The foot is hurt. But she is happy with the hurt. Pleasure out of pain. Buri is drunk with the rhythmic sound of the train.
The sound of the train keeps her awake at night. Her eyes wide open, she waits for the night to be over. What else is there to do? Buri's mind stands still like a clogged engine. She must know what is at the end of the road and the mouth of the canal. Her mind heaves like a flooded swamp.
Buri is far ahead of everyone else in Haldi. Children of her same age do not understand her. Her schoolmates don't even want to play with her, and the adults don't want to talk with her. She ignores her mother-mother is always in the kitchen doing house work. The lonely canal and Jamrul trees fascinate Buri more, and this separateness keep her distant from her mother. Sometimes her mother calls her for dinner but Buri does not hear her. Frustrated with her failure to bring Buri close to her, she fumes with rage. "Never have I seen such an awful child. What is the use of her?"
Buri sprawls among the wet bushes, licking a tamarind rind with a snap of her tongue. She forgets about lunch. What a lovely pleasure to be alone.
When guests crowd her house, she feels safe. In the crowd she is forgotten.
Buri's father dies when she is in her teens. She understands nothing about death, his absence seldom disturbs her. Before her father's body is taken to the graveyard, the sheet covering his face is lifted for a while. To Buri it seem that he looks the same as before. He looks as if he is sleeping. Following others she weeps, but not from pain. She had never been close to her father. She has no ties with him, no clear memory of him. It does not trouble her. She was growing up well enough without him. It makes no difference whether her father is alive or not. Buri's busy days are full of wandering through the fields. She swims in the river, collects pocketful of rocks. Her days and nights keep her happy.
Her father left no impression on her mind. Sometimes she thought her father knew nothing about her. She never felt the need for his love and affection. Much better, she thought, to respond to wide open nature the green bushes and the winding road to the end off the horizon are painted as if with her blood, Slowly and imperceptibly, Buri in thrown and of the domestic orbit.
When she becomes a woman, Buri is married of to her first cousin Gafur. Her mother hesitates a little in making the match because Gafur is much older than her. But that made no difference to her older brother, her guardian.
"Mother, who will tackle your wild daughter? Nobody bothered when she was a kid. But she is growing up now. Sometime soon she will make trouble." Her brother is furious; Buri looks on helplessly, mother tries to understand.
Her face grows helpless, despondent.
He lowers his voice : "It will not be that bad to marry her off to Gafur, Because she will always be near us, which she wouldn't be if she is married elsewhere. That would drive you mad. She would ruin your family's name."
Mother says nothing, so the elder brother wins the argument. His only wish is to get her married and let her off. He neither likes Buri nor her manners. Buri is silenced by the argument, but in her mind she refuses to bow down to her brothers will. No one is important to her, and a husband will not make much difference. Buri has little physical desire. The idea of marriage made her hope only that she might travel to another village, to escape from the prison of boredom in her own village. She longs to be in a different place. Her marriage to a man in a different village would have finally snapped the bonds to Haldi. On her way to distant land she would sit in a boat, casting a longing glance at the world outside. That would have given her peace. From a boat's roof she would have thrown a steady enamouring gaze.
An unknown hairy hand will place a milestone on the way of her life and change its direction, Buri thought. But now, nothing is left for her except betel-yellowed teeth and old age. None of her desires will be fulfilled. She has been deprived of the robin's fledglings, the pot-herb field, the wagging of Doel's ails, water lilies and the violet flowers of hyacinth's violet flowers. Though she lives among them, they are now far away from her.
Her marriage to her cousin won her only a passport to leapfrog from north to south of the courtyard between Gafur's house and her mother's. Her days change-Gafur already has two sons, one six and the other four. She gets herself on well with them. After running around they used to take refuge in her lap. Buri feels odd having become their mother through marriage, and she is often ashamed-what a misbegotten mother she is! She feels like throwing the children in the pond, but sometimes she loves their innocent faces.
She knows nothing more than these sensations : Husband, parents-in-low, the everyday environment. Nothing has changed. Rambling only at night when a pair of hairy hands grip her with desire, she understands something is changed. She removes the hands gently, and turns to sleep sometimes she goes for a breath of fresh air.
Intense pain suffocates her, but she cannot cry. She returns to her bed when the night owl hoats, and nestles close to Gafur, There is nothing else she can do. No matter how precious she is, she cannot overcome the limitations her body places on her.
When Gafur senses this absence of mind, he asks, " Where did you go, Buri?"
"Just out of the room."
"What for?"
"For a breath of fresh air-I couldn't sleep."
Gafur doesn't prolong the conversation. He falls asleep. Buri spends the rest of the night tossing and turning about in bed.
She is freed and thoughtful when she keeps herself away from him. it brings her mind to the sweet rhythmic sound of the train. She folds her in a gentle embrace, and caresses him tenderly like a fond cat, and is tamed and quenched under his pungent thirst. But she is depleted; she cannot respond to Gafur's thickened proximity. Buri is lost to the infinite world, fading away with the sound of the train Nobody can touch her; she is beyond their reach. She cannot express this pleasure to anyone.
Sometimes Gafur gazes on his adolescent wife with eyes wide open with wonder and amazement. He had never imagined that she would be his wife. But the moment she reached her puberty, she arrived in his life. Almost as a joke. It makes him ashamed. He cannot rest his eyes on her face, and keeps his gaze away from hers. Buri bursts into laughter.
"Why do you look at me like that?"
"Are you content, Buri?"
Gafur knows she will never reply.
Gafur cannot keep pace with her curiosity. He can't imagine how a girl born in such a small village can ask so many endless questions. He wants to avoid the topic and asks for his water pipe, feeling a lump in his throat. If he can't answer, Smoking solves the problem. Buri knows that. She knows she is not content. Does contentedness mean cooking, eating and sleeping with husband? If it is, she is content.
It may be confluence of a stream of conventions, or may be like collecting pebbles through the long journey of life. Gafur represents an experience of her life like gathering eggs and collecting sheaves of paddy from the field. In the depths of her mind there is neither bewilderment nor pleasure. In fact, Buri never feels anything.
She obliterates anything she does not like from her mind.
Any other woman would have taken marriage as a turning point in her life. But Buri couldn't. There was no such metal in this village which would make her an iron-lady. But she hangs on. Her mind was never as damp as their village itself.
Her crying made people pity her but she never asked for help. For such a little thing at least. Superficial changes don't matter; dejection deep inside makes her wail- A dejection that keeps her reminding the futility and meaninglessness of life. A sensation of an event sometimes stirs her. But at the same time her mind may be ablaze with another unforgettable incident. In her childhood, while gazing steadily on the rainbow colour-red birds, she would forget to respond to her mother. The mother would roar in anger, "What the hell shall I do with this impertinent girl? Buri, mind it, there are a lot of problems in store for you. Come back immediately." She would ignore her mother and run away, grinning, leaving her mother's shouting behind. She had to leave before she got caught in the household cage. Buri knew what was coming and tried to escape it. Mother could not tame her, and dreaded trying to marry her off. Mother is happy because she thinks Buri had changed after her marriage. She tells her son : I never thought she would be like that. The son smiles with the air of self-satisfaction, and replies : I knew it all along.' Whatever they do before marriage, but once they are married, women are tamed. Buri, eavesdropping on their conversation, chuckles. In fact, Buri's agonzing mind keeps her in constant pain. Nobody can sense that mind. They see that she is good or bad, problematic or stupid. But she doesn't reveal herself to others. She has an inner source of strength, and fidelity to herself. She cultivates her inner acres herself, grows crops, hoards grain in her own storehouse. No one else is necessary for her.
So, Buri is married, with a husband of a good disposition, who may disagree with her, but never scolds or quarrels with her. Rather, he tries to please her, as if he is busy preserving the holiness of some divine thing. They never quarrel around the house. Gafur bows obsequiously to her will. She never harps on something she wants, she cherishes no desires. It makes Gafur grateful.
Sometimes, though, she is unhappy when he caresses her, pulls her face to his bosom, and says, "marrying you was not right, perhaps?"
"Why?" Buri asks.
"I'm much older than you."
What difference does it make? You do look after me.
"What are you talking about?"
"There's a saying : If you are fed properly, you must accept all beating and scolding."
Gafur is silent. He cannot tell whether Buri is proud or complaining. To argue with Buri, Gafur must stop in the midstream; He cannot continue talking somewhere halfway through what he is saying. Buri stops the flow. Gafur is bewildered, irrespective of the significance of the topic. Suddenly she stops. It pushes Gafur to the edge. Sometimes she only nods in response.
Being despondent, Gafur says, "Fill my pipe, I feel a lump in my throat." Buri laughs and disappears.
Buri has no complaint about Gafur's age. she never pays attention to it. Before the idea of a sighing old age begins to form she becomes serene, living in Gafur's shadow. Not to worry too much - Gafur is a good man. Rather, he is good enough. One plunges into gambling with the mind. Rather, he is good enough. One plunges into gambling with the mind. Gafur asks little of her. He rarely disturbs her. Nevertheless, she cannot endure Gafur's presence. And the silence of her mind becomes impatient. She feels like running away, alone. She throws herself out in to the chilly night of Kartik. Gafur's physical warmth bores her. The birds sing in the melancholy darkness, the leaves of the leaves of the morunga tree tremble.
Frost falls on the dense leaves of the forest trees. Buri stretches herself. A chilly squall dances around her like someone from her childhood had come to play hide-and-seek with her. Buri is intoxicated with the morning. Gafur calls her to come back to bed. As he is so much older than her, he loves her protectively. He never flexes a muscle to bend her will-but she yields easily any way, entangling herself in his affection.
Sometimes in the late night they go out fishing. The village which is so familiar in the bright daylight becomes something unknown and mysterious at night, when the cousin becomes the husband. The mud beneath the water, the forest, huts and paths, undergo a change like the cousin. Buri's simple mind runs momentarily poetic. Gafur seems to be sitting at a great distance, an image fading into oblivion. The people close to her lose their familiar identities. Her mind, too, alters during such outings. Her face flashes with some now light which will become dull again once she reenters her house. In the open air, a grace and sweetness scintillate in her young face. She then snuggles close to Gafur's bosom.
Gafur brings her onto the boat with a sudden jerk on her arm, pulling her onto the seat where he sits sternly upright. The boat rolls on the water. Gafur makes it rock back and forth some more to irritate Buri. She is more delighted than frightened, and becomes playful. She wants to be reckless. If the boat sinks, he thinks, she will go into infinite nothingness, leaving all the troubles of life behind.
"Are you frightened, Buri?" Gafur askes. "What is there to fear-you are with me," she replies, clinging to Gafur's knees and breaking into laughter on the rocking boat.
"You always change a lot in the open air; you seem so sad at home. There you are a mystery; you never talk openly," Gafur complains.
"This wide open space is my home. My mind is free in the open air." Buri says.
"That's why I take you along with me," Gafur replies smugly. This time it is his turn to outsmart Buri in the conversation. He is filled with pride at having made a clever answer.
The boat glides along on motionless water. Gafur draws Buri to his bosom, leaving the paddle aside. In Buri's mouth is a burning sweetness. Gafur frantically digs out the intoxication, biting into her lips, tender as flower petals. He forgets the surroundings and the direction in which they were going. Buri is warm, her flesh soft and her manner charming. Oh, why isn't Buri always like this! The boat whirls about and Gafur pulls at the helm, but Buri remains quiet like a tamed baby. She is calm within herself...