This Could Have Become Ramayan Chamar's Tale

by Subimal Misra

  How he lolls languidly and spouts wisdom – I swear on my mother, the whore-son

  has enthusiasm…

  Akashvani Kolkata. An important announcement. Those who collected deworming syrup from Howrah Hospital today are warned not to give the syrup to their children. Instead of deworming medicine, carbolic acid, which is a poison, was distributed. It can kill the children if it is consumed. We have warned you in advance – if someone dies, we are not responsible … Yes. And there’s a flood of foreigners entering our country. Barbed wire fences are being erected along the border between Bangladesh and West Bengal in order to stop the illegal entry of foreigners. Earlier, there had been talk of erecting a concrete wall, but that was an expensive affair; so instead there will be 3,300 kilometres of barbed wire fencing.

  UNSEEN, NUMBER ONE

  Do we live in a civilized country? Some years ago, a group of people were blinded in a Bihar jail. But who did this, why they did it, what punishment they received, or whether at all they were punished – nothing is known. A few saffron-clad men and women were beaten to death in broad daylight in Gariahat. Who committed this act and what did the investigation find – we have no clue about that either. A village in West Dinajpur was surrounded by a band of attackers and people were hacked to death. Who does all this, day after day, does it in the face of our democracy? Why aren’t they unmasked, why are their anti-social misdeeds not exposed, where’s the impediment – who is the impediment? A boy set foot in Calcutta for the first time. The taxi he was in broke down on Howrah Bridge. Without a second thought, he got out to push the taxi, and he never came back. There was no grille over a drain-hole. That new visitor to Calcutta fell in and dropped into the water below. The police abused the public works department: Why didn’t they install the grille? The public works department retorted, blaming the police: Yes, we installed them, but they are being stolen, the police are not apprehending the thieves. Thereafter, all was silent and still.

  Uncle-in-law sits on niece-in-law’s lap

  On 12 September, when the demon Rahu was in the twentieth aspect (it was an inauspicious time of the day then), a lame colleague of mine went out to drink tea during tiffin break and was run over by a Mercedes Benz. The man was a great believer in astrology. Just the previous month, he had bought a gemstone for a substantial amount. The car ran him over on an empty street. The bhadramahila who was driving the car fled the spot. The traffic police and well-meaning pedestrians put the man into a taxi and took him to hospital. The taxi driver was muttering, this was his first trip of the day and here he was having to take such a case ... The doctor in the emergency department of the hospital said: ‘Oh, this is a simple matter – why are you so worried – everything will be all right. So many are run over every day.’ Later, in the course of conversation, I learnt that it was our colleague’s lame leg that was broken. There was to be no treatment of his leg that night, as no doctor could attend to him until the next afternoon. We became angry and abused a nurse. We told one doctor: ‘Bastard, what the hell – we’ll make you forget your father’s name!’ But even after such treatment, they did not pay any heed. Finally, twisting and stretching his body theatrically, a callow-youth-of-a-doctor came forth and said: ‘Come, let’s plaster your leg.’ But the lame man was saved by a power cut just then. At once, the callow youth declared that he could not plaster the leg on the pretext of insufficient light. The doctors went out in groups and were strolling up and down the veranda, discussing whether or not they should go to Madhupur during Durga Puja. Finally, one doctor took pity and somehow applied the plaster cast in the darkness. And thus was the day spent. The next day, blood began oozing out of the broken leg. A pretty-looking nurse was passing by. I went up to her and inquired. ‘Oh it’s quite common. Don’t worry about it.’ Saying so, she went away, swaying her hips. From the next evening, the lame man began having convulsions and experienced difficulty in breathing. By night, the condition began to get worse. The callow-youth-of-a-doctor suspected that the lame man must have contracted tetanus and so he should immediately be transferred to the Infectious Diseases Hospital. But because of a shortage of X-ray plates and the disappearance of the technicians, no X-ray had been taken on that day either. Seeing all this, the callow-youth-of-a-doctor changed his mind, and all of them began to debate whether he should be transferred to some other department instead of being taken to the Infectious Diseases Hospital. They argued with and shouted at each other for a long time. The callow-youth-of-a-doctor could be seen leaving in a huff. In the end, no X-ray was done until the next morning. The patient was unconscious by then. At noon, the neurologist was called, but he could not be located in person until the following afternoon. He had apparently signed out and gone to see the Vishwakarma Puja. A fat doctor came instead of him, and he said: ‘The X-ray plate is bad. Nothing can be discerned.’ He asked us: ‘Is this the patient’s leg or arm?’ The lame man had died by then. The gemstone had brought this on. This was a result of not consulting a good astrologer and consulting a quack astrologer instead. He prescribed incorrect gems and the lame fellow gave up his life as a result. One cannot afford to be miserly in such matters, even if the expense is considerable one should always consult an esteemed astrologer. The lame man’s elder brother asked: ‘Who can stop fate?’ The fat doctor said: ‘You are right. You are 100 per cent correct, dada. What should we do?’ Gazing at the buttocks of a pretty-looking nurse, I began to wonder whether to vandalize the place. The lame man’s younger brother was also gazing at her buttocks, he said: ‘Will brother return if we vandalize the place? Besides, vandalism is an undemocratic affair.’ Death was to blame, atonement was prohibited. A mild breeze arose from the generator exhaust. Most fragrant. Plant trees, save trees. One tree, one life. A group photo with farmers. Electricity had come to village after village. The landless were receiving homestead plots and agricultural land, they were getting water for irrigation. Thousands of health centres were being constructed. There were exhibitions in the cities, in the information centres, with news of multi-pronged progress. As soon as one entered, one’s eyes fell on a huge picture of a farmer with a smiling face – a sickle in one hand, a bundle of paddy in the other. And what’s the colour of the paddy? Sparkling yellow-gold. Beside him is a female farmer, the picture has been taken in the style of a particular film heroine. A smiling face, a hand on the man’s shoulder. Inundated with picture after picture – bank, school, health care centre, a pukka house. Nearby, an advertisement for going across an unmanned level-crossing: cross the level-crossing only when you are certain that there’s no train approaching from any direction. Reach your destination safely and go home smiling – South Eastern Railway. Even after evaluating all aspects of the existing situation, the social responsibility as a writer – which is not merely a visualization of reality, but demolishing that so-called reality and creating a new reality, for the creation of a new kind of tradition, the responsibility of helping to awaken others to thought and awareness employing literature and one’s awareness … mine, Manjula’s and mine, making love in the darkness at Eden Gardens – we were at the peak then – the police officer on duty had said candidly: ‘Why do you unnecessarily trouble yourself like this, you could have brought your bed along.’ Manjula was not alarmed the least bit, she continued to keep her hand wherever it was. She didn’t allow me to remove my finger from there either, and not at all what could be called desperately – but in a very easy, habitual way – she said: ‘That’s great, why don’t you also try a bit, he won’t mind it, my lover is very broad-minded.’ I, Subrata, was being slain then. In exactly the same way, at the very beginning of the seventies, just as a twenty or twenty-two-year-old boy was getting murdered, observing his blood spilling, a policeman just like this one, a constable, had said: ‘See the fellow’s blood – it’s just like paan spittle…’

  Subrata had once written on the New Year:

  Manjula, you are my Goddess

  Devdas was screened on television a few days ago. Manjula an
d a few of her friends were there, all of them were twenty or twenty-two years old, they laughed all the way through, especially during all the sad-coy scenes. From time to time, their commentary ran: ‘How funny – what do they think they’re doing?’ Later, I asked them and learnt that they did not believe in love. In their eyes, all these affected, coy love dramas were something to laugh at. Boys like girls and girls like boys – a very normal matter – and when you like someone you are bound to go around and fondle, and so why such mushy and heavyweight dialogues? Love was something to do, not to talk about. ‘What do you say, dada? … Slept with someone yet?’ ‘Shut up!’ ‘Forget it pal, once the light’s turned off, everyone’s the same … I swear on my mother, the babe’s hot.’ I wasn’t in the mood, I said, ‘Shut up!’ and left. ‘Did it have to be Manjula? What I mean is: with so many girls around why did you have to do it with your youngest aunt?’ ‘I fell in love, it was very manly – what’s called a He-Man. Blatant sexuality, a healthy relation between man and woman, romantic love-bliss, which was once the stuff of the English-wallahs’ drawing rooms…’ ‘Hey, it’s entering – look! It’s entering … There … Damn – it’s entered.’ The whole is made up of the mixture of one person’s morality and another person’s immorality. I recall that among all of Hitchcock’s fifty-three films – Hitchcock, that ancient Englishman – Psycho is the only one where we see a woman clad only in a brassiere. What was gained from that? At first: the atmosphere, the place, and then a house, a room inside the house, that’s how the story starts. But in which place, on which day, in which part of the day, at what time? Nothing is communicated clearly, and yet everything is. In the entire story, there’s not a single situation or character with which you can identify. Was that necessary? Whatever could possibly take place in the story – at all times the opposite direction is taken. Nothing wished for is considered, everything is the opposite of what should happen. Isn’t the subject everything – actually, how much can a piece of writing wound the reader, that’s what needs to be reflected upon. Whether an atmosphere is created or a character, that isn’t the issue, the real act is this cutting-into-fragments, this cinematic usage: how capable is he of being successful in his objective, whether he is able to create adequate pressure on the reader’s mind. All the love scenes have been written like murder scenes, and all the murder scenes have been converted to have a love angle. The first part of the story creeps along merrily, hazy and mild, and in the second part a captivation arises, which is like a nightmare. Not being able to remain objective despite wanting to be so, taking a side which time and environment compel him to take. One wonders why, even after knowing about the facet of destruction of a self-centred narrative, he won’t apply all kinds of mediums of art in the writing. Louis Aragon and company finally took refuge in the socialist camp – he considers the event very significant, but almost from the time he was born, he was disinterested in the experience of adolescence, or the form of acknowledging gratitude regarding workers’ suffering. Who was it that had written, after Bishnu Dey’s death, that while Sudhindranath gives importance only to the decadence of the elite class, the stream of egalitarian struggle is powerfully evoked in Bishnu Dey’s poetry?

  Her father, torn to shreds, food for foxes and vultures,

  Slain in vain effort to quell roving pillagers.

  * * *

  Her mother, a wayfarer, on a primeval quest for food.

  Famine arrives, astride the Ass of pestilential ferocity.

  Cheat and charlatan swarm town and hamlet, While bargis storm in with the monsoon flood’s fury.

  Beside the picture of deer-hunting, two people with shields and swords in hand dance frenziedly. On one side, a bear chases a thin-looking deer. A few men, drawn in black and red, linger on the shore of a river.

  MY EIGHTY-ONE-YEAR-OLD GRANDFATHER

  Arthritis of the hip. The body has become bent. The torso remains parallel to the ground. The two arms flutter like vulture’s wings while walking. A pot in one hand. Water from the Ganga in the pot. The obligatory ritual bath and subsequent mantra recitation, twice a day. Bare-bodied, the sparkling white sacred thread flashes in reflected light. He blows his nose noisily and wipes his fingers on his buttocks. A matriculate from the old days. He reads Cheiro in English. He had bought all the books of Däniken. A great fan. ‘That with the advancement of science, people go less and less to the church or temple or mosque – isn’t true at all. Neither does one notice any deficiency of faith in God. Your astronauts Borman, Lovell and Anderson could not forget God even when they were beyond the earth’s gravity. They read out from the Bible in the space vessel. There’s nothing on earth that’s new. Whatever has occurred in the past and whatever shall occur in the future are all predetermined and preplanned. No effort by man can change a predestined event. Is there life after death? Your science cannot provide an answer to this question. Religion provides the answer to the question which science cannot answer. Here, religion wins over science.’

  Religious Assembly in Poland

  Warsaw, 18 June 1983

  Pope John Paul presided over the prayer ceremony at a massive religious congregation here yesterday evening. The congregation can be compared to the Kumbh Mela in India. The playground, in which almost two million people had gathered and heard the pope’s speech, belongs to the communists. The pope was seated on a golden throne beside a huge crucifix. He addressed the gathering. In the address was a call for dialogue towards the granting of complete citizen rights. It was a very grand affair. The faithful stood with a thousand golden cups in their hands. In front of the pope were cardinals and bishops. There were gold necklaces around everyone’s necks. To the chanting of hymns, the pope poured wine into the golden cups and round loaves of bread were distributed. There was no shortage either in terms of grandeur or faith in the massive religious assembly in Poland. Everything was of gold, grandeur, faith, round bread – all of gold. A gold-ornamented religious ceremony in famine-afflicted Poland.

  He could not scream either, his vocal chords had been cut, then

  : ‘You’re a graduate. You have a job. We need you. We will ask you some frank questions.’

  : ‘Speak.’

  : ‘Which party do you support?’

  : ‘I’m not into parties and such kinds of political group-ism.’

  : ‘Do you think there will be revolution one day in our country?’

  : ‘Why do you ask me this? What do I know about it?’

  : ‘All right then, but you would surely have heard the word “revolution”. What do you understand by the term “revolution”?’

  : ‘Didn’t I tell you, I don’t understand anything of such subjects.’

  : ‘Fine, what about “democratic socialism”?’

  : ‘No!’

  : ‘That’s astonishing.’

  : ‘No, I’ve never heard about all that. I learnt my lesson well once. I don’t want to lose my job under any circumstances.’

  : ‘You were associated with an extremist political party during your student days…’

  : ‘Look here, I don’t remember anything about my student days. I don’t even want to talk about this subject with you.’

  : ‘One more question, a non-political one…’

  : ‘Make it quick.’

  : ‘Your relationship with Manjula…’

  : ‘Yes, it exists. I believe in free sex. Polygamy is a tendency in man. And why shouldn’t I do it? Who’s a pure one in this country? Everyone snatches what they want from life. Why should I be excluded? All this revolution, and so on, sounds nice, mister, but when you have to give up one meal and stay at home – when you have no more than a single pair of trousers to wear – then who comes to even look you up? Write it down, at one time I did a lot regarding revolution and so on. I stayed up at night and put up posters on walls. What did I gain from that? I had to escape from home day after day. I whiled away the day eating muri. I was a fool. Now I know that everything belongs to the one who has money. Even this revo
lution of yours can be bought for money, mister. It’s an open field in front of you – loot and gulp in any way you can! Try to fuck around with idealism and you’re dead.’