This Could Have Become Ramayan Chamar's Tale

by Subimal Misra

  Generally, we support the communists in those cases where there is a convergence with our anarchist writing. I reject bourgeois capitalism like poison, but how far is it possible to support the kind of socialism that completely takes away the rights to free speech and criticism? I could never remain passive about the people’s condition – sometimes I wonder whether it is enough to merely verbally express sympathy for the working class, who have been fighting on. But yes, I can’t stand making a fuss about ‘people’, which is largely found in the socialist camps.

  I always remember that, whenever necessary, the reactionaries utilize this kind of semi-anarchist, semi-Marxist thinking in their own way.

  He pierces the darkness from one corner, and has pressed his thin fingers, drawn together, down in the middle. Are these the fingers of labouring folk? Not at all. It doesn’t look like that. Lazy. Yes, but he’s human. And it’s because humans live here that it’s customarily dark. Viscous. Venous. Angular. Open drains. Fumes of burnt petrol. Through the hole, a bit of sky from the other shore, blue and dream-like, broken and battered, arriving here in an old canister. It hangs. Licks it every once in a while, wanting to get the scent although his own corpse lies in the drain, the face, when it floats up, he comes running and, in fear, attaches himself above the neck, tries with all his might to move the stone, alone – entirely in his own fashion. No one notices, some make rotis on the fire, while some pull down the girl beside them to their own dustiness and run their hands over her breasts and buttocks. The doddering old octogenarian grandfather, cataract in the eyes, sits silently, while an eleven-year-old boy, Pipi, runs a spring-loaded fire-engine in play.

  No death is as heavy as stone All deaths are as light as a feather

  Knotted plumes of smoke push their way up towards the sky. Below, slum-dwelling youths assist the fire brigade personnel. Stumps of trees accumulated on four sides, a stupa of motor oil tins and sacks of books. The walls of the warehouses and factories are collapsing. The burnt-down walls collapse and bits of stone fly here and there. Houses and buildings are burning over an area of a few thousand square miles, love named human. A fierce hot wind blows everywhere. Ignited, burnt books, wood and ash fly in the wind. Everywhere, the youths ignore the flames and, risking their lives, enter the fire and turn upside-down the burning tree stumps that will keep burning. One hundred, two hundred, or even more, the operation being supervised by the concerned officer involved lots of people.

  SASTA KHOON, MEHENGA PYAR

  Matinee show. A cinema hall. A Hindi film currently ruling the market. The queue for the front stalls snakes this way and that, and has now reached very far. Most of those in the line are young, moustaches have just sprouted on the upper lips of some. Books in hand, school bunked, now in queue. Two youths – white shirts, white trousers, white zipped-up boots, and on the waist, above the belt, a garland of real hibiscus flowers – arrive singing in loud voices and stand in front of the queue. Surveying all the sides well and raising his right arm as if performing a magic trick – while singing ‘Hum Tum Ek Kamre Mein Band Ho’ – suddenly in a flash he clenches the fist of his left hand and hits the stomach of a simple-looking boy standing in the queue. As if preplanned, the second person too, singing, ‘Socho Kabhi Aisa Ho To Kya Ho’, gives another tight punch to an accompanying boy in the queue, who falls to the ground. In a trice, the two all-white friends occupy the vacant places in the queue. Thereafter, in the usual fashion, the taunting of those pushed out of the queue begins, with spontaneous laughter. The simpleton boy, now off the queue, does not protest at all, but quietly mutters to himself: ‘I was standing in the queue from morning … my bad luck, just after coming so close to the counter.’ The second youth is bolder. For the ears of the all-whites, he says: ‘Guru, I’ve seen wackos of A-class, B-class, C-class and many other classes in my life, for that matter I’ve seen golden wackos, blue wackos and orange wackos – but I’ve never seen such a Z-class pure white wacko in my life.’ Yes, there are also pictures of dogs, plenty of them. They have collars on their necks, the looped leashes emerge in the fists of some people.

  The people of the country ask in loud voices:

  ‘What’s the main problem before us now?’

  The country’s leader, the Big Boss, shouts:

  ‘Vanaspati mixed with the fat of cow and pig.

  Poverty, unemployment, illiteracy – all that’s for later.

  Save vanaspati first – save caste.’

  MAO TSE TUNG HAS NOT BEEN BORN YET, HERE, ON THIS BELOVED EARTH OF OURS

  Monu said, ‘Listen, don’t come and lecture us about conflict of values. There are pictures of Ramakrishna, Vivekananda and Anukul Thakur in expensive wooden frames in Father’s room. Incense is lit there every evening, and puja is performed, adhering to all the rules and rituals. And in the sitting room is a huge Lenin. Father works in the Calcutta Municipal Corporation. He reaches his office by noon, and after signing the attendance register, he places his bag carefully on his table, so that his name on the bag’s name-tag is clearly visible. After spending a couple of hours here, he goes to do his real job, in a private firm. He works there until four in the evening, and then he returns to his legal office. After doing a bit of this and that, and some talk with a couple of people, he picks up his bag and leaves for home. This is his daily work routine. Sometimes, there’s a need for overtime. On some days, it’s also Father’s turn. Father says, the overtime at night is the most convenient of all. Because there’s no work other than making the bed and going to sleep. There’s no need then to do anything even for the sake of appearances.’

  Monu said all this very dispassionately. We were a bit uneasy. No one had ever shared their personal details with us openly like this. We waited to see where exactly Monu would finally reach in his discussion of values. ‘And so, in this fashion, salaries from two places and quite a few hours of overtime. He received a fair bit of money every month. Besides, in that kind of job, the extra wasn’t bad either. In fact, the under-the-table business was the real thing. Father built two houses in the names of Mother and my elder brother. He got my elder sister married, spending almost one lakh rupees. Incense began to be ritually lit every evening before Ramakrishna and Vivekananda. And on May Day, et cetera, a garland on Lenin’s neck. They used to go to Kalighat for puja every Saturday. Come rain, flood, lightning or whatever, this rule was never flouted. Everything was going along just fine. But a problem arose. The political environment had changed over the last few years. New masters had arrived at Writers’ Building. There were some changes within the Corporation too. The new officers discovered the fact that Father worked in two places. It would not be correct to say that they discovered it, because everybody knew about it earlier but they never spoke about it. It wasn’t just Father, many others did the same. The new masters plunged into trying to remove corruption. They issued a show-cause notice to Father, asking him to explain why he works in two places.

  ‘But Father was a bit too clever in that respect. Nobody could provide any proof that he worked in two places. Besides, he was very close to the union bosses. He also occupied an important position in the union. When the officers went after Father, he straightaway sought refuge from the union. The union began to fight on behalf of Father. The day a suspension notice was issued against Father, the union threatened to go on strike. The bosses’ highhandedness would not be tolerated! ... The suspension notice against Mr Roy must be withdrawn!’

  Monu lit a cigarette and let out a mouthful of smoke. He used to smoke one cigarette after three beedis. He said: ‘That was the situation from the outside. But the inside story is of a different kind. The problem was with me. The party whose union ruled in Father’s office – fortunately or unfortunately, I had been associated with that party from my college days. I had fought on behalf of the student organization of the party. I had moulded my own beliefs according to the party’s beliefs. It had become a seamless part of my thinking that one day, under this party’s leadership, revolution woul
d be possible in our country.

  ‘I had to halt in my tracks. I had to evaluate, once again, the leadership of my party. I established contact with the higher level. Needless to say, that was as a citizen, not as a cadre of the party. My conversation with them went as follows –

  Question: Do you people keep tabs on the personal life of Mr Roy, the person for whom you are fighting?

  Answer: The party does not bother about anyone’s personal life. There are huge responsibilities in front of the party now, a great duty.

  Question: There’s no trace of Marxism in Mr Roy’s personal life. He didn’t get his daughters married without scrutinizing the horoscope and the caste dimension. Pujas, Kali temple, bribes, deceit – that’s what his life consists of. How do you view such activities?

  Answer: We have only one view – he is a sincere worker for the party. The only factor for us is how much he sacrificed for the party during the dark days.

  Question: Okay, but you know that he works in two places at the same time. He draws salary from two places. There’s no reckoning how much he receives under-the-table. How do you accept an illegal affair like this?

  Answer: As long as there isn’t a fundamental change in the economic condition in our country, such things are bound to happen. If we bother about trivial matters like this, we shall deviate from our party’s main objective.

  ‘Consequently, I had to come away. Father was a slave to blind superstition, but as he had done some work for the union he was much needed by the party. That’s how the party would value him.’

  Monu stopped now. All of us were looking at Monu’s face. Looking at us, he now lit a beedi. ‘You can understand that everything I’ve held dear for so long – has received a great jolt. Will this party of the working class function only with people like Father? Will the value systems of such people really be transformed one day by close association with the party, as the leaders claim?’

  Struggle gives direction And song for me is oxygen

  The famed revolutionary of Andhra Pradesh, Cherabanda Raju, died at the young age of forty-one. There was no report about his death in any newspaper, not a line was written anywhere. That’s what our democracy-loving newspapers are like. And it’s they who blatantly compete among themselves to publish minute details about the Prince of Wales, with a travelogue accompanied by pictures of Prince Charles’ visit occupying page after page. What urgency in presenting the news and what public delight! The real psychological profile and colonial mentality of those who had cried hoarse about freedom and democracy during the Emergency blooms forth from their conduct. In 1979, after two operations for brain tumour, Cherabandaraju began losing his sight in his right eye. He was admitted to hospital for the third operation. After remaining in an unconscious state for six months, he died on 3 July 1983, at ten minutes past three in the morning.

  I am the enemy of both classes

  The rulers and their obedient opposition

  I do not aim for the opposition seat

  But I want state power.

  Beloved motherland of mine, you alone are my mother

  You are my God

  Your nature is to have fun by

  Climbing on the bed of the destroyed

  Your allure is such that every part of you is mortgaged

  To the marketplaces of the world

  In all your youthfulness you sleep in the embrace

  Of moneyed-folk

  Your sleep is such as to not be disturbed

  By the spit and dirt thrown at you.

  A PERSONAL NOTE ABOUT THE VILLAGE

  A story about a village could not be written even after much effort. Living in the city, I don’t have any urban illusion about the village. That’s my limitation. I somehow feel like a customary pimp. A superficial view? Perhaps so. I was born in a village. I’ve known its people for the last thirty years. In joy and sorrow, happiness and pain. I somehow feel like a thief if I write a story. A cerebral explanation has arisen. Yes, I’m a common city-babu, I have no shame in admitting that. I have only brought together whatever scattered bits and pieces were written in the diary.

  a) Village life revolves around agriculture. Joys and sorrows, festivals and happiness, mutual relationships all emerge from agriculture. The context of life, and for that matter, mental make-up too, is created from this agricultural background.

  b) It is farming that determines how village folk will fare the entire year. Farm work is not merely a means of livelihood, it is also a way of life.

  c) Many times, while travelling in villages, I feel that a city-babu like me is a parasite. The big houses in the city, wide roads, schools and colleges, law courts, my Writers’ Building, or even the very Raj Bhavan – everything is the direct or indirect fruit of farmers’ labour.

  d) The city is very often the place where innocent, simple village folk become corrupted – the villagers themselves think so. Associated with the city are court cases and litigation, and law courts – which are a civilized means to make the rural people landless. Where a fourteen- or fifteen-year-old boy becomes a full-fledged agricultural worker in a world where reality is land-centric, becoming landless means getting completely destroyed. Because of the link with land and farming, water, cows and trees are an inseparable part of this society, rain is not just about the monsoon, the cow is not just a means for milk production or a means to plough the field, it is also a god. This mentality assumes an entirely different meaning in the village, which is completely incomprehensible to city-babus.

  The writer offered a cigarette and lit it for him carefully. The boy held it like a chillum between his two hands, took a deep puff and began to cough. The boy’s still coughing.

  RIVER WATER LIKE VISCOUS OIL

  Thirty-six-year-old Dora Pezilli stood for elections in the Trieste region of Italy, with the support of the communists. She took up her electoral battle in a new way. When she delivered her campaign speeches in different venues, she was completely naked. This was a nude struggle.

  One learns that Miss Pezilli has been fighting for the social recognition of prostitutes. For a long time. Was this her latest method, an inspiration? What if prostitutes demand the right to public nudity? And if they do, what then? No, they can never do that. They have an adequate sense of shame. It was reported in a newspaper in Rome that this nude campaign of Miss Pezelli was not in support of prostitutes but against the curbs on the freedom of nudists. They also used the term ‘burning protest’. In Italy, swimming naked is illegal at all the beaches where people can swim and at all swimming pools. An electoral weapon to repeal this law? Miss Pezelli stood for elections with the communists’ support. They did not protest against her. The Italian communist party is a very old one. It is quite influential in Europe. The theory of Eurocommunism and the source of the theory. These communists did not protest. Miss Pezelli was going around naked, making her speeches of revolution. She is in the news. She blends nudity with communism. In a wonderful way. Most appropriately.

  No south Indian film by the name of Sexy Dreams was ever made. The real name was Ratinirvedam. The names were such that the audience would easily get attracted – Her Nights, A Passionate Lover, Love Story and so on. Such names were also given as would immediately make one think it was a Bengali film. Like Stree-Purush. Tents are put up for film screenings in villages and all these films are shown. They’re extremely popular. Father and son, mother and daughter, all watch together, they enjoy them. Not just that, the real stuff is better planned. These films received certificates from the censor board in Madras. Quite a few parts of all these films had been cut and removed for having objectionable and obscene scenes. But when the film was screened with a different name in Calcutta, the film’s deleted objectionable parts were skilfully reattached. And that apparently was most alluring. The allure drew people in hordes to come running for such films. Sex-hungry masses. And who are the distributors of these films? It is worth noting that those whose names appear as distributors were not seen earlier in th
e film-related market. A few young businessmen from Burrabazar got together and started the business, a few lakh rupees had already been invested in the venture. Many were hopeful that a business catering to the sex-starved masses would be extremely successful. Another new horizon opened up in the world of business.

  Then, when a massage-wallah passed by, amazingly making a ringing sound by holding two oil bottles in his left palm and pressing down with his thumb, he wishes to indulge. He has for long wanted to try out the massage thing. He calls out. In the darkness of the Maidan, the massage-wallah makes him take off his clothes and lie down flat on his stomach. Asking, mustard or coconut, he begins kneading the middle-class shoulders with both hands. He massages the back, neck, waist and ankles, making them glisten with oil. Eyes shut in relief and pleasure. Now, the massage-wallah has placed his fat, rough fingers at the two ends of the forehead, which throbs while thinking. He rubs the hair with all his fingers, and under the hair. Nearby, someone laughs loudly, together with that the clanging of the sugarcane crusher. As he feels his forehead with his hand, and then as he puts his hand on his chest, he is surprised, with just one massage the ribs have … a lot. It has expanded, where the thick black clump of hair was, which rose and fell to his breathing – it has expanded. Blood rushes to his chest, leaping. The folds of flesh on the palms of the two hands seem to have come to life. The skinny middle-class intellectual appearance has disappeared. Truly, the massage-wallah is a magician. He opens and spreads out the palms of his hands and holds them up against the neon lights. Rapt, he swings his arms, this way and that. Suddenly, he becomes conscious of his surroundings. Looking around, he realizes it is very late at night now. People had been sitting here and there all over the Maidan. Now they are all gone. The area around Shahid Minar is empty. Wind blows gustily over the desolate Maidan. A torn piece of yellow paper comes fluttering with the southern breeze. As the yellow paper comes flying, he casts his eyes towards the void and looks into it. The vast Maidan. Darkness. Grass. A tram goes by, snaking along. Hard earth beneath the feet. Nobody anywhere. In front or behind, near or far. Nobody anywhere. Only yellow. The piece of paper. Fluttering in the breeze. It trembles. Advances. Becomes still. It trembles again. Advances. Hands in trouser pockets. He remains standing. He. Like someone without any purpose. Looks. The same yellow. The piece of paper.