The Golden Gandhi Statue From America

by Subimal Misra

  Uncle Seer used to say: ‘All the bastards are intent on hole-poling!’ When he said this and loudly smacked his thigh – thop! thop! – people laughed. They said: ‘Understood the hole’s the currency coin with a hole, but what’s poling? Hee hee hee!’ Uncle Seer got mad and said, ‘You don’t believe me, you luckless wretches!’ Then, catching someone by the neck, he chanted the spell ‘Om kling kling, burst on the wife, shaha!’ and became clairvoyant. He saw that Mr Chief Rent Collector entered his widowed sister-in-law’s room on tiptoe; anonymous rats furtively ate away the grain in the granary of Mr Chowdhury, the owner of a thousand acres of land; the boy who won a scholarship in the matriculate examination woke up at dawn to prepare for his coming exams and sang Ramprosad’s devotional song, ‘Mother, make me your trustee…’ After that, he released the fellow’s neck and said, ‘Pay, you bastard, pay! Give two pennies and go… you’ve seen a lot!’

  Everyone feared Uncle Seer because of all these chants and spells, and no one dared to annoy him. People fondly brought him green bananas and radishes from the fields. Uncle Seer sat on the branch of the horse-neem and chewed and ate them raw. The piece of cloth he wore often hung from the trunk of the tree. The village maidens passing by who suddenly caught Uncle Seer like this turned their faces away and exclaimed, ‘O ma!’ Uncle Seer said, ‘Whatever they might say, they’re enjoying it for sure!’

  Once, something like this happened. Mr Chowdhury’s elder son-in-law, accompanied by his wife, came on a visit from Calcutta. Early in the morning one day, he was out on a walk with his wife when he suddenly saw Uncle Seer sitting naked on the treetop. Seeing him, Uncle Seer laughed – hee hee! – and said, ‘Charming maiden, your wife!’ The modern-minded youth could not tolerate such vulgar behaviour. He gathered people there and brought Uncle Seer down from the tree. What a hiding! One would have thought that his bones had been smashed. But as it turned out, after the thrashing, he shook himself and stood up. Saying ‘But what I said was true’, Uncle Seer laughed his way back to the top of the horse-neem.

  No one really knew what Uncle Seer did in the dead of night, or where he went. Some said he could be seen walking about on all fours in the darkness. Some said he meditated on death in the cremation-ground. If he was ever asked, he would say: ‘I go to see the rats eating up all the grain of the country. I go to see how on moonlit nights the moon in the sky becomes dishevelled like a comely young widow…’ Hearing such talk, people lost their inclination to enquire and went away. Uncle Seer hurled his laughter – hee hee! – after them.

  This was the kind of person Uncle Seer was, and his final few days were quite extraordinary. Cholera visited the village. Even the old folk had never seen the likes of such an outbreak. First it hit the hamlet of the fisher-folk. Bishu, a young fisherman, ate his rice at noon and left to catch fish. When he returned, he had loose bowels, vomited a few times and then turned cold. After a couple of hours, Bishu’s wife had watery motions. In no time at all, the disease spread throughout the fisher-folk’s hamlet. In the first night, nine deaths were reported. In the morning, the sickness moved to the brahmin hamlet. Everyone was terrified, no one could figure out what they should do. By noon, with five corpses being removed from the brahmin hamlet, people fled the village. They went wherever they could. No time to look at wife or son or father. Everyone was anxious to save his own life. Towards evening, vomiting and watery motions hit the kayet hamlet as well. The few brave folk who remained in the neighbourhood, who showed their courage by not leaving, now began to move out on various pretexts. Monoroma, wife of a young man, Gour Mondol, emptied her bowels a couple of times and collapsed in the veranda. The pupils of her eye became lifeless, like those of dead fish. Gour’s father said, ‘Gour, if you want to save your life, come on, let’s run now.’ Gour looked once in his wife’s direction. He was very attached to his wife; her body still had the ripe fullness of youth. Understanding the son’s mental state, the father said: ‘If one wife goes, there’ll be another, but if life goes once…’ Gour submitted obediently to his father’s dictum. Probably intuiting the situation, the wife said something like, ‘Take me along, don’t leave me behind I pray… I fall at your feet!’ She rushed towards the street and fell unconscious again. She fell beneath the horse-neem. Uncle Seer sat atop the tree. Observing the wife’s plight, he climbed down. He pressed and examined her hands and feet, looked at the pupils of her eyes, and realized that, with care, she could be saved. A few people were walking by the place. He called out to them, saying, ‘Help the girl, she might survive.’ But they ran away from afar, avoiding treading close to even the shadow of the tree. Uncle Seer looked; gazing, he inhaled deeply.

  After that, he thought awhile, said ‘vyom tara’ and sat down on his haunches near the girl. He loosened the cloth around her waist. The cloth was smeared with shit. He wiped the vomit frothed around her mouth. He brought water and washed and cleaned her and tried to revive her. After quite a few hours of effort, the girl came to her senses. Uncle Seer was then applying a compress to her arms and legs. Becoming aware that she was lying naked in front of a man, the girl almost died of shame. Uncle Seer told her, ‘What’s the shame, ma? I’m like your son, I serve you.’

  Thereafter, when the girl was fully restored to health, Uncle Seer did something calamitous. He went up close to the girl and said, ‘I desire you.’

  Stunned, the girl said, ‘What?’

  Uncle Seer said, ‘I seek sexual favour.’

  The girl nearly died of shame.

  Uncle Seer said:

  If a good turn’s done, without asking a price,

  It’s either a lie or an artful device.

  The girl did not have a clue what to do.

  Uncle Seer held her hand lovingly and said:

  ’Twixt mother and wife, discriminate not a whit,

  One bestows milk and the other a tit!

  Uttering this, he gently rustled the cloth covering her bosom.

  When the people of the village heard about this, they became terribly enraged with Uncle Seer. They said they would not tolerate such moral turpitude. First, a person of character threw a potsherd in Uncle Seer’s direction. The second person of character threw a stone. The third person of character a hard piece of earth. And the fourth person of character a whole brick. The brick hit Uncle Seer right in the middle of his head and he fell to the ground from the horse-neem branch. Now the assembled people of character began beating him unconscious. But he was still smiling, and the blood from his forehead ran down his face and formed a bloody smile on his lips. That assembly of people of character beat Uncle Seer until he was senseless. They kicked him around like a ball and finally threw him into the river outside the village. To the end, the bloody smile remained on Uncle Seer’s lips.

  The next day all the chaste people of the village saw that horse-neem saplings had sprouted wherever Uncle Seer’s blood fell. The tender leaves of all the neems trembled in the morning’s bright light and fresh air.

  1969

  The Camel

  I dream every night. I don’t like it at all if I don’t dream. When I can’t, the next day feels utterly empty. I feel hollow inside. I roam the streets all day long. After dreaming again at night – I am at peace.

  All my dreams are strange. Sometimes, I dream I’m gnawing and gorging on human bones. Fresh, warm blood trickles down the two sides of my mouth. Slung around my waist is a golden stone, the heel bone firmly gripped in my hands. I chew away at the bone to my heart’s content. With practised ease I eat, my eyes shut. As I feed, it strikes me that I’ve been gnawing away at these bones for ages on end and yet my hunger does not subside. As soon as I realize this, I am filled with grief. To take my mind off that sorrow I try fiddling with the golden stone slung around my waist.

  At other times, I dream my face has changed. No one can recognize me. Acquaintances pass me by when I am near. In those dreams, my eyes burst with tears. I feel humiliated by my friends and relatives.

  Sometimes, I dream I’
m blind in one eye. Lame. Face covered with pock-marks. I wear a dirty shirt over a lungi. I limp around at the bus-stop, staff in hand. I beg people for money. My eight-year-old daughter accompanies me. People treat with me pity. Or they are disdainful.

  Every now and then, I have a nice dream. I see a little stream, a tiny dinghy on it. I’m sitting in it. The tide comes in. The waves splash against the banks. The boat rocks and sways. I rock too. The water, the boat, the little waves, all rocking forever, dol dol duluni…

  Sometimes, I see that I’ve climbed to the top of a tall building. From there, the people below appear midget-like. How tiny the buses, the trams and the roads have all become! I see them from an entirely different perspective. I really enjoy this dream. This one is quite different from the ones I usually have. That’s why I like such dreams.

  But some dreams terrify me. I might dream that there’s been a conspiracy whereby all my organs and body parts are removed and all kinds of other things are stuffed in their place. These dreams seem to go on forever. I dream that plans are afoot to somehow transform me overnight. The exterior remains unchanged. Only all the inner organs are removed. I really dread such dreams. My whole body turns icy in terror.

  When I awaken, I stay lying in bed for a long time. I press and feel my joints and ribs. I feel as if someone has indeed metamorphosed my inner parts. Standing in front of the mirror, I examine my face. A kind of suspicion seizes me. I go out to the street. My mind is constantly crowded with gruesome thoughts. I can’t think about anything else even for a moment. Cigarettes feel tasteless. I don’t feel like looking at the women on the street. I don’t like reading the newspaper. I have no enthusiasm to shave. I don’t go to work. I just roam the streets, the sun beating down on my head. When I spot friends, I hurriedly cross the street to the other pavement. Roaming around thus all day, legs weary, I return home in the evening and lie waiting in bed for a nice dream.

  But it’s very hard to have a nice dream. After all this time, having dreamt so many dreams, I’ve realized it’s not easy to dream a pleasant one. Yet I lie waiting in bed for at least a passable kind of dream. But the worst dreams crowd into my head. The dream where I’m munching human bones appears. The changed-face dream comes. I dream I’ve become the blind, lame, pock-marked beggar. I lie in bed, sometimes motionless, sometimes restless. Sometimes, I try my best to think about something else. But nothing ever works.

  The sounds of railway shunting from the station far away float by. The clock tower strikes – dong! dong! – at two, three at night. The eerie silence of night collects and gathers around me. I lie there, eyes shut. Sometimes, I open my eyes.

  Motionless darkness surrounds me. Cockroaches walk over my arms. Rats scurry around near me. A few crows wait to peck out my eyes. My body begins to decompose in the sun’s sweltering heat and raw darkness. And crows, jackals and vultures wait nearby to tear, dig into and devour it. I see vultures circling in the sky above, casting their shadows on my body. I see a crow staring at me from the stump of a dead tree. A pack of jackals lie in wait for the kill. Their teeth are sharp, the taste of fetid blood on their tongues.

  Everything goes haywire! I feel nauseous. Nevertheless, I still wait for a nice dream. I pour out water from the earthen pitcher and drink. From out of the darkness, a maroon flower and the golden stone simultaneously float into view. The bloody fragrance of the maroon flower emanates from my lower limbs. My reflection appears on the golden stone. A half-eaten skeleton of a horse is laid on my right side.

  A camel advances, crossing a river. A naked woman sits astride that camel. My mouth turns dry at the sight. No sound escapes my lungs. I study the camel’s ashen colour minutely, its ugly, large belly, its curved neck, hump and face. I try to identify the woman’s face. But I fail to recognize her. I see only her bare, golden legs dangling on either side of the camel.

  The grey camel treads the water of the southern river and advances steadily towards me, the nude woman on its back. Like a spill of blood, the maroon flower petals float away into the distance in the stream’s water. The golden stone turns pale. On the dead tree stump nearby, the fiendish crow lies in wait. The vultures circle the sky, casting their shadows on my body. My body rots in the heat of the sun. I try to reach out and cling to whatever I can, but my arms are paralysed. I try to leave everything and escape. But my legs won’t move. Lying helpless, utterly bereft, I wait for some good to befall me. But my eyes burst with tears. My face drifts away in the tears and, in a trice, the water rains down on this rocky earth. My heart is heavy with grief.

  Like inevitable fate, treading steadily, the camel crosses the river and advances towards me. On its back, the unclothed woman. The woman’s face is unrecognizable, blurred. I see only her lovely golden legs and the camel’s ashen belly. Its long legs are knee-deep in the mountain stream’s clear water. It tramps over yellow flowers and green vines.

  The heat is stifling. Sunlight and darkness accumulate together. The crows and vultures fix their sight on their target. Close to my left ear, a very loud cry – ka! ka!. On my right side, the half-eaten horse’s skeleton lies conspicuously.

  The grey camel advances with the nude woman on its back. It crosses the river in the south. I can hear the tread of its hooves. I see its unmoving eyes. The crows, jackals and vultures all call out in unison. The shadows of the three creatures troop in procession across my body. The sunlight and the heat hasten its decomposition. The maroon flowers become invisible in the distant stream. The golden stone turns ashen.

  I am enveloped in silence. No more tears flow out of my eyes. All my grief and sorrow reach a point that is beyond disquiet. There’s nothing for me to see, nothing more to think about. In vain have I waited here, under this sun, for some pleasant dream.

  1972

  The Bird

  Bhutu wanted to go fishing right away. He wanted a fishing rod, some bait and a river, or least a medium-sized pond. But where would he get a fishing rod or bait, and where on earth a river or pond! Everyone tried to explain to him: ‘Listen, Bhutu, don’t be like that. Come on, let’s all of us go and watch the flight of birds.’

  They had to wend their way through villages, where there was greenery, dense thickets and the fragrance of dry earth wetted with rain. Naked boys with their fingers stuck inside their mouths cavorted around, their eyes as big as fish. Bhutu wanted to go and hug them. Ghomta-drawn village women hurriedly moved aside seeing the band of men. Bhutu wanted to hail them and ask: ‘Which village are you from, o maiden?’ But nothing could be said and nothing known. That band, Bhutu and company, simply passed them by. They were going to see the flight of birds.

  It was late afternoon. They reached an empty field and halted. Rail tracks. Straight lines laid out, parallelogram-like, across the field, as far as the eye could see. Some people went up to the rail embankment. Some put their ears to the telegraph posts to hear. Climbing up to the rail track, Bhutu cast his eyes all around. Picking up a stone and flinging it far away, he asked, ‘Birds? Where are the birds? Where will we see them flying?’ Everyone looked up to the dark clouds in the sky, but there weren’t any birds there. Not a single one. They were speechless with astonishment. They had believed that wherever there were rail tracks, there would be birds – they would sit clinging to the telegraph wires. Several of them had spotted tattered feathers by the rail tracks, as well as bits of dried-up bird remains. But there were no birds today. Fatigue was writ large on their faces. In the light of the setting sun, their shoulders stooped, they were a shadow of themselves. No, no birds here. Not a single one to be seen in flight.

  Bhutu muttered to himself: ‘All this… it’s a shame to leave all this behind.’ They could go hunting if they stayed. Could find a fishing boat, bait and a river, or, if nothing else, at least a medium-sized pond. But here, on this elevated rail track, there was only the late afternoon sun. Picking up some stones, Bhutu flung them here and there. He felt like doing something really nasty.

  A couple of them mustered up c
ourage and went up to him. They said, ‘Yes, of course! We’ll find the birds. If we go further south, there’s a dry river bed. There’s a broken bridge there, an ancient one. Its hollows are simply decked with birds. Lots of people have seen it in their childhood. We could go there to see the flight of birds.’

  Bhutu grumbled. ‘You just said they’d be at the rail tracks. And now you say we have to go south. I just can’t understand what you lot are up to!’

  The group decided to go south. Their eyes and faces were filled with a sense of unease. The sun’s rays shone from their right to their left. Every now and then, there was the sound of stones being flung. Tired, their heads bowed, they advanced. As they advanced, they stooped.

  Bhutu didn’t want to walk any more. Yet he remained hopeful. A black calf stood near the rail line, a bell on its neck, its eyes hapless. It bleated. A buffalo chewed grass under the acacia tree. The sight brought alive lots of memories for Bhutu. This black calf, its bell, this buffalo – why, he knew them intimately! He wanted to reach out and touch, but he didn’t. He just kept his heart’s ache inside his heart. As they walked along, he saw a naked fisher-boy walking by, carrying a shapla-vine. His dripping, oiled body glistened in the sunlight. Paddy-gathering women returned home from gathering, walking dignifiedly with their bundles of grain-stalks. Bhutu badly wanted to ask the fisher-boy for a shapla flower. He wanted to laugh and chat a while with the paddy-gathering women. But nothing was said and nothing done. They walked on. Bhutu just kept his heart’s ache within his heart. He merely picked up a few stones and flung them here and there.

  And so they advanced. After some time, they reached the old bridge. There were gaping cavities among the ruins of the bridge, the red brickwork exposed in abandonment. They looked around, but could not spot a single bird. Someone or the other had come here as a child and seen birds. But there were no birds here now. They had all disappeared somewhere.