This Could Have Become Ramayan Chamar's Tale

by Subimal Misra

  Someone in a long green coat, who looks at them suspiciously, crosses from the left to the right. A faded rough wall in the background. A poster made on a newspaper page, about the politics of annihilation, is pasted on it.

  : It could also be that the man who was killed ran towards the bullet

  : In that case, it could also be that all of you are in the party for your own ends – getting ten thousand people together so that ten people can do as they please

  : It is a proven truth that the person who wished-to-be-killed had a pet bird at the time … yellow-green

  : Yes, everything returns to the rules of history – the bird is only a bird, even the pistol, which was aimed at the enemy, turned to himself

  The poster made by hand on a newspaper page becomes clear now: Until now, man has not been able to make a firarm which fires bullets only in a single direction and avoids other directions. The incorrect spelling of firearm will definitely remain here.

  : A silencer was fitted

  : That’s why I say, there’s no basis for what the party has done

  : Is that why it was not possible to get the people’s trust?

  : The zombie then rose up from the grave – the country was plunged in green terror

  : That’s for sure, love for the nation is a splendid thing, crisp and delicious

  : And that’s what is a barrier

  : I don’t think so

  : And trustworthiness

  : A very bold gamble – and then it wouldn’t have been possible to carry on these crafty ploys

  : So was it in broad daylight that the murder scene was enacted in full, in the prayer meeting?

  : Maybe it was

  : If Ramayan-da were here, he’d have supported me

  : Nothing begins and nothing ends

  : But the zombie will wear green clothes then

  : Look here, it’s very important for one point to be made absolutely clear

  : Before that, hear this too, that I don’t like to make such a fuss about Titu Mir any more. Just as he was after the English, as a Muslim he was after the Hindus too

  : Amazing – Ramayan-da had told me in advance that at the time of danger you’d say exactly this

  : Your Ramayan-da has a short-circuit

  : Are you saying incorrect information was provided?

  : To say it properly, it was in order to distort public taste

  : But the zombie’s final dialogue has not been delivered

  : It doesn’t awaken except at night, master – unless it’s dark

  : It’s gone on for too long, let us say the dialogues on its behalf

  : Isn’t scoundrel the word?

  : We don’t bother about words and so on – the bourgeois do

  : Politics is the last resort of a scoundrel

  : One should also add that he will deliver this part wearing a green shirt – as it was done during the murder of Gandhi Maharaj

  : Both green and yellow, in stripes

  : The colours will gleam

  : Although it was his responsibility to awaken the zombie, and it was he who killed it in the end

  : With his blunt knife – a pencil-knife – which he used to keep in his pocket

  : But at that time, who gave it the green shirt to wear – why did they give it?

  : That’s the mystery – must ask Ramayan-da

  : I don’t think he knows … and does he know everything or what – a fount of knowledge

  : So then we have reached the conclusion that Gandhi Maharaj wished that we divulge the secret

  : Now that we have said so much, one has to go back and think

  : In that case, the whole carnage has to be brought forward

  : Yes, along the edges of the circle

  : In the distance and within a corner

  : Yes, exactly so. Two shackles tying the neck to the feet. In the distance and inside

  The man from before, wearing a long, green coat looks at them even more suspiciously and crosses from the right side to the left. The next moment, a dark green van comes and stops behind them. The metal door of the van opens. The rattling sound of the door being opened.

  The miraculous Phantom

  and his beautiful companion

  It was three minutes past midnight. Autumn. Nine days remained before the commencement of Durga Puja. In a tiny room in Santoshpur bazaar, near Metiabruz, a twenty- or twenty-one-year-old girl stitched away on a sewing machine, making a red checked T-shirt. Her shoulders almost touched her hands as she hunched forward, doing her work with great care. Her eyes weary and fingers stiff after a whole day’s hard labour, the stitching went awry, and in every fibre of her being she knew she would have to pay the price for it. She had been working for almost eighteen hours and this was her fourth shirt. Of course, a little time went into bathing and meals. She had an arrangement with a shop in Lindsay Street. She got about two-and-a-half rupees per shirt, although the shop charged its customers eighteen rupees. Behind her, a few yards away, stood Phantom, the superhero. Wearing something like striped underpants, a pistol on his hip, blazing eyes and a massive body, he brought peace wherever he went, his faithful dog always behind him. Tell me: what’s the name of Phantom’s dog? Yellowish light hovered now on the muscles of Phantom – symbol of the defeat of evil-doers and the nurturing of good-folk. The light came from a thin candle placed beside the girl’s sewing machine. All along, between them, between the ever-stitching girl and Phantom, all along, a page from Anandabazar Patrika swayed in the gentle breeze – it fluttered in the breeze – a companion to the matrimonial page: ‘Seeking a female friend to spend my retirement with, age between eighteen and twenty-two, must be beautiful.’ The newspaper page swayed in the gentle breeze, cut out from Anandabazar Patrika – I have been seeing so many strange desires and wishes seeking fulfilment in your much-publicized newspaper advertisements – job–land–flat–matrimonial–tutor–pen-pal – and so another new desire is added now: Seeking a female friend. Some sought openly, the language used: ‘Seeking a female friend.’ In last Sunday’s paper, at least two dozen advertisers sought female friends or companions. One of them explained the reason for his desire in this way: ‘A cheerful, golden-voiced female friend, free of all sanskars, to fill an industrialist’s days of retirement with song and unfettered joy.’ The other advertisers did not explain their need, but if unfettered joy was a permissible reason, then, it can be borne in mind, that is because there’s not an iota of matrimonial intent … So there’s no end to the desires and wishes seeking fulfilment, especially when, as the saying goes: if you put money on the table you can even get tiger’s milk in this country.

  ‘Hey – did Mohun Bagan depend principally on Prasun all these days? I think so! During last Saturday’s big match, while struggling against the other side, Prasun pulled his hamstring. Throwing supporters into deep gloom, and notwithstanding his strong reluctance to do so, he had to go off to rest. There have been four games after that, and in all the four matches, it was clear that without Prasun Mohun Bagan were simply floundering.’

  Visible in the background, close by, was the old bullock, fettered. It had a bad wound on its shoulder. Flies kept sitting on the wound and the bullock kept trying to drive away the flies with swipes of its tail.

  Free of everyday tiredness and fatigue, the great mighty one, Phantom, combining in his person rebel and ruler, beyond competition, transcending all social regulations and prohibitions. In this way, slowly, without anyone knowing it, the seeds of romantic rebellion are sown within us. It goes without saying, that this symbol of freedom, Phantom…

  In 1961, Tarzan books were removed from the library of a school in California on the complaint that he was living together unlawfully with Jane, without marrying her, and Tarzan fans from different parts of the world – they were a few million in number – were shocked. Quite a few teenage boys and girls in Europe and America went on a fast. A debate began. Scholars went into action. Poring through the pages, they proved that Ta
rzan and Jane were married in 1915 in The Return of Tarzan. A large number of people in the world heaved a sigh of relief, many began dancing in the open as they took to the streets, threw parties, fountains of booze flowed and a holiday was declared in schools and colleges on the occasion of this festival. This brought such an immense demand for Tarzan books that the publishers were unable to meet the demand even after working the press all day to print new editions.

  All the supernatural impossibilities that we can’t ever render possible lay in the palm of his hand, and were performed with ease. Through the medium of films, television and comics, this protean prophet is transformed into one of the cult figures of this age – he keeps rescuing beautiful Jane from the alligator’s jaws, the female body with scantily concealed breasts and buttocks, Jane … He was He-Man, captivating the modern age, a supernatural sex symbol…

  A short distance from the bungalow was forest, dense with sal trees. There was a stream beside the forest, and across the water a clump of kaash, almost touching the bank. The water was about knee-deep. The bed of the stream consisted of sand and pebbles. Their jeep stood nearby.

  Light was rising steadily over the sky, trees and earth. The come-for-fun babu and bibi were sleeping inside the bungalow. They’d sleep until ten or eleven in the morning. After lunch, the jeep would set off towards Calcutta. The hill-boy comes to sell chickens and milk to babus in the dak bungalow. Learning that babu-bibi would not open the door before ten, he felt dejected. They had danced naked all night long … in boisterous drunken revelry … only went to sleep at dawn…

  Temptation

  Sin

  Destruction

  Is the Formula, all right

  Check it out

  At about midnight on Saturday, a youth named Motilal was driving a jeep and entering Calcutta via Howrah Bridge. Beside him was a young woman, Aloka, twenty-one, and on the rear seat was Rajinder Singh. There was a gentle breeze and winter was setting in. Rajinder thought: Will you have the suit collected from Bandbox Drycleaners? The missus, having just finished dinner, was applying cream on her face and chewing a cardamom pod. She asked: Cardamom, want one? That’s when the accident happened. As the jeep turned at the Brabourne Road intersection, it suddenly banged into a concrete post. Going out of control, it then banged into another post nearby. The front of the jeep was badly smashed. There had been a loud crashing sound, people from all directions came running, although there weren’t many people at that time of night. The first to arrive was a rickshaw-wallah, wearing striped underpants. He was at the roadside, making rotis on a stove after day-long labour, his body exhausted. All his rotis were burnt to cinders. A large piece of glass had pierced Aloka Ghoshal’s throat. At first, nobody in any of the cars passing by wanted to get involved in any unnecessary hassle, they kept speeding past, merely craning their necks to size up the situation. A little later, a Punjabi taxi driver was forcibly stopped. After the three injured persons were taken to PG Hospital, Aloka Ghoshal was declared dead. The other two persons left the hospital after primary medical care and went off to inform the deceased’s family. They did not return. Later, the police found out that all the identity details provided by them were false. The mystery deepened in the city. Who were they? Where had they gone? Who was the girl? The number plate on the jeep was from Bihar. Both the men had been wearing expensive clothes. Their faces looked tired, as if they hadn’t slept all night. The girl’s face too. The nurse had seen wads of notes in the tall man’s wallet. The girl wore an expensive silk sari, but it was crumpled all over. A new blouse, brand new, a bit too tight, it looked as if it had been bought recently, it smelled new. Dirt on her neck. A new bra. Three petticoats under the sari, the one on top made of silk, a bright red, that was new too, and of the two underneath, the lower one was quite old, the stitching had come apart in a few places.

  In this way, exactly this happened, but

  the story could also be different – that is to say, the girl

  did not die at all then –

  After reading the advertisement in the Anandabazar Patrika, she called the specified phone number with trembling hands. She was given the address of a flat on Camac Street and a time to arrive. The girl hesitated at first, but finally she went. Here, needless to say, the description of the girl’s family situation is left out – readers, you already know about all that. She had no other option besides this. The gentleman advertiser – actually he was over forty years of age and had a thirteen-year-old son – saw the girl, her fresh dark-skinned virginal body and figure – everything in this city is second-hand – damn – he craved for a flower exactly like her. Actually the man – Arunangshu Dutta Choudhury, industrialist – despite being of his class, was somewhat different – he had a master’s degree in economics, had lived for several years in the United States, kept himself informed about everything in the contemporary world, on Gurudev’s birthday, at dawn, wearing a sparkling dhuti-punjabi and parking the car at a distance, he walked towards Rabindra Sadan, and most of all, he had read Marx and adhered to his philosophy too, especially Eurocommunism. He knew that millions of people in Calcutta lived in bastis, and it pricked his conscience to keep a poor girl as an object of pleasure merely with the power of his money, without giving anything in return. Simply identifying the man by his class – was an over-simplification…

  Given his elite credentials, his gentlemanly conduct, and the fact that he was also good-looking, ordinary girls would definitely fall in love with him. And this girl’s youthfulness and fickle mind, she had no notion at all about life’s dilemmas, whatever she knew came only from watching cheap Hindi films and imitating them

  … I’m terribly lonely … too lonely…

  … Hold your tongue and let me

  love…

  An ancient garden-house with a huge compound, a tennis court behind the bungalow, a badminton court on the left, a red pathway of crushed brick in the middle, a spacious dining hall, at least 600 square feet, with antique furniture, a piano, paintings on the wall – in the middle, a Kashmiri carpet spanning about 200 square feet.

  The man pulled the handle on the door of the cellar, there were expensive bottles of Scotch whiskey inside … and bottles of cognac and wine

  The man, Arunangshu Dutta Choudhury, was pouring whiskey from the bottle for the girl…

  The man: Mister Writer, I am so sorry for you, will you ever be able to think and fathom what side I will take, and at what stage, when the time of killing arrives … Think about it, Writer

  And then, from behind the scenes, Ramayan Chamar blazes up, a terrifying pair of eyes sunk deep beneath his forehead, the region between his thighs covered with angry red sores, part his legs and take a look, you’ll see it all … how much longer, how many more days, with these people

  Lord you showed me the way

  Didn’t show the road

  Popular belief has it that Rome was founded by the sons of Mars, Romulus and Remus. A she-wolf suckled the newly-born twins – yes, a she-wolf…

  Alas, unknown to us

  Both our hands

  Got scorched sometime

  In ‘47, after becoming the Governor of West Bengal, Chakravarthi Rajagopalachari had said in a meeting, ‘Poetry is in Bengal’s air.’ Actually, he did not say this after hearing any Bengali poetry, it was his personal assistant who had advised him to say it. The two body parts of the two Bengals were then, like a mutilated goat, gasping in the hope of a little bit of oxygen. As if to a plan, a people were consigned to becoming permanent refugees. A few hundred thousand people huddled together like animals on the streets and pavements, and in rail stations. He heard poetry in Bengal’s sky and air then.

  All thieves have two to four associates who help them blow away the stolen money. The whole country was partitioned among ten or twenty fortunate people. Cupboard, wardrobe, sofa, dressing-table, cot, radio, television, fridge, the collected works of Rabindranath Tagore, Bankura horse and compensation for property in the other Bengal – so much i
s needed to stay alive – coloured Puja supplements to match your heart’s desire – Anandalok – let me send the cook to buy some meat –

  ‘Did you have any booze today, pal…’

  Get lost, bastard

  Thanks to a conspiracy of two or three people, a people, an entire people became permanent refugees. That was called Independence … for the greater interest…

  Forget all this talk about the country, mister –

  wear silk clothes and recite the Gita every

  morning, especially the second chapter.

  Father was seriously ill once. He was cured of his ailment after wearing an amulet given by a sadhu baba. After recovering from his illness, Father’s faith in sadhus increased tremendously. One day, while returning through a forest, he saw a sanyasi with matted hair sitting under a tree on the wayside, a sacred fire lit beside him. After making obeisance, he sat down in the dirt. There were mutual introductions. His name was Jungli Baba. Father brought the sanyasi, Jungli Baba, home that very day and kept him there. His sacred fire burned all day and through the night in the veranda adjoining the living room. Finally, when word got around of the pretty maidservant becoming pregnant, he disappeared.

  I massaged his legs.

  It was the time of nation-wide elections, the last day for the filing of nomination papers. Astrologers were panting. For the last two months, they hadn’t even had time to breathe. An old astrologer of long standing in Kalighat, said: ‘Brother, until yesterday it was so bad that I didn’t even get time to empty my bowels. Members of all the parties were crowded into my house, whether Marxist or non-Marxist, sometimes openly and sometimes secretly. Some people came by car in the middle of the night so that other people wouldn’t see them. They demanded that I tell them the most auspicious time to file the nomination papers after studying their horoscopes and determining the various planetary influences on their zodiac signs. This is the scene throughout India, mister, not just in West Bengal.’ The sale of gemstones associated with various planets skyrocketed. A former MP from south India declared that he won the elections because of the blessings of the Lord of Tirupati. At the very moment when he went to file his nomination papers, with clockwork precision, a grand puja was performed in the temple at Tirupati, the priests loudly chanting mantras, praying for his victory. After all, it was because of the blessings of the Lord of Tirupati that he had been able to get elected as many as three times.