Mamata was somewhat intoxicated. The anchol of her sari trailed all over the food on the table. Ghentu gently held her down on the table, the plates, meat and gravy beneath her, the chewed bones poking her. She was smeared with meat and gravy. After playing at eating her up for a while, Ghentu released her meat-and-gravy-smudged body and stepped aside, signalling towards Butku.
Butku had been watching all this and readying himself inwardly. Little by little, desire rose in him, becoming inexorable. He waited a little longer. He observed Mamata with detachment. He took another couple of swigs from the bottle. Mamata had now risen from the table and was getting a hold of herself. She was smeared with meat and gravy. Her anchol dripped with gravy. Ghentu had sat down in the chair on her right. He had stopped now, so it was Butku’s turn. After that Ghentu’s, turn would come again.
The girl’s lying there, have your fill!
Then finish the work and leave!
A zero-watt lamp burned in the room. The windows were shut. No nonsense from outside, like the sound of the sea, entered the room. Butku took another swig from the bottle. Then he stood up. Perhaps he was a bit unsteady on his feet. Let his legs be unsteady, he wasn’t drunk. He advanced towards Mamata. ‘Come, my darling!’ Standing at a distance, Mamata watched Butku as he came towards her. She laughed and said, ‘Drunk on so little?’ Butku tottered to catch Mamata. ‘Beware, girl!’ Mamata stepped to one side and clapped. ‘Oh you brave boy! Hey, let’s see you catch me!’ Mamata was also unsteady on her feet. She moved aside slowly. Butku wasn’t being able to catch her. Mamata suddenly turned and opened the shut window. The cold sea breeze and the roar of the waves whooshed into the room. Twisting her neck, Mamata declared, ‘I’m going to watch the sea now.’ ‘Beware, bitch! Shut the window!’ As Butku tried to approach her, Mamata moved aside. Just as he turned around after shutting the window, Mamata dashed to it and opened it again. ‘Why the hell shouldn’t I open the window? We’ve come to the sea – so won’t we look at the sea?’ Gnashing his teeth, Butku rushed forward, enraged. ‘To hell with your sea!’ He shut the window loudly and saw that Mamata’s lips had become swollen with injured pride. Wondering just how long this pride would last, he again moved to catch her.
This time, Mamata did not try to escape. She stood defiantly. She saw Butku rushing towards her like a monster. For a moment, all kinds of notions in her head, she tried to run, but Butku caught hold of her anchol and the sari began coming off. Mamata looked once at Butku’s face and then, for some reason, she didn’t try to escape. Butku ran and grabbed her. He shoved his mouth onto hers and stroked her breast. Ghentu stood up, tottered forward and put his hands on her midriff. The buttons of the blouse popped open in his hands as Mamata resisted. He pulled off the hooks of her brassiere and exposed her fulsome pair.
Butku couldn’t hold on to her properly, she kept slipping away. He clasped her body to his for a while. He nibbled her soft flesh with his teeth. After that, when his hands slipped off her again, Ghentu grabbed her. He too wasn’t able to keep his two hands on the trembling body as it slipped out of his grasp. Angrily, Ghentu bit her. His teeth pierced and sank easily through the soft flesh, almost to the bone. Mamata moaned in pain, but as long as their desire remained unsatisfied, neither of them was going to stop. Mamata’s face had turned a flaming red, teeth marks on her breasts, her shoulders, her lips, her ears. Blood oozed from the cuts on her breasts. They were swollen.
Butku was still aroused. He dragged her by one arm, carried her to the bed, lifted her and laid her down with her legs spread. Mamata was still in her senses. She watched Butku hurriedly take off and fling away his shirt and trousers and advance towards her. She readied herself. Now upright, now flat, with his hands, teeth, nails and every part of his body, Butku ravaged her body. Strangely, even in her unbearable torment as she was being crushed, she wrapped her arms around Butku’s hirsute back and hugged him. As she sweated and gasped for air, she pleaded in a feeble voice, ‘Do open the window. Let some sea breeze in…’ Butku was very busy. The feeble plea didn’t reach his ears. Not paying heed to anything, he went about his business intently.
Ghentu stood, observing the proceedings. Butku sat straddling the girl, hard at work. When he finished, it would be Ghentu’s turn. In a rush of blood, Ghentu decided he wasn’t going to wait so long. He emptied the bottle and went over to Mamata’s head and pressed his mouth down on hers. He stretched out his hands over her breasts. His nails frenziedly scratched her breasts, shoulders and neck. Every now and then Mamata struggled for breath. She wanted to open the window to get some air, but she had no way of doing that. On both sides of her were two men, grabbing, biting and squeezing her. After Butku finished, he collapsed, limp. Ghentu impatiently pushed him aside and straddled the corpse-like body lying there. His hands, legs, mouth and nails moved simultaneously. Mamata still tried weakly to flail her arms and legs. But her body began to grow limp under Ghentu’s crushing grip.
After a while, Ghentu noticed that Mamata was strangely still. No sign of life in her body, as if it was a lump of wet dough. ‘Hey, has the doll copped it!’ He put his ear on her breast and listened. The heart was beating all right, she wasn’t dead. Maybe she had just fainted in fear or something. If she died, why, all the fun would be spoilt! No joy unless she was alive! So Ghentu poured the remaining drops from the bottle into Mamata’s mouth. Worried, he spread out the sari in his hands and fluttered it. After a while, he got up and opened the window to let some air in. The wind and the roar of the sea entered the room. Butku noticed this, but he didn’t say anything under the circumstances. Instead, he brought some water and splashed it on Mamata’s shoulders and neck.
Mamata returned to her senses in a few minutes. She was able to sit up. Seeing her sit up, Ghentu’s and Butku’s faces lit up with smiles. The pair advanced and kissed her cheeks a few times. They pawed and squeezed her all over for a while. The breeze blew in through the window, a gusty sea breeze. Mamata gazed blankly in that direction. After they had more or less enjoyed her in her sitting position, they rose and glanced briefly at Mamata’s face. Then Butku rose and shut the window. Ghentu went and rummaged in the bag. He took out a long knife. He pressed the spring mechanism and, in a flash, the blade of the knife sprang out. Mamata’s face instantly turned purple. She tried to stand up. She stood up and then stepped backwards. Perhaps she let out a moan, but the cry didn’t carry beyond the closed doors and windows. Mamata stepped backwards. Ghentu stepped forward. Time ticked. Butku stood watching. Ghentu advanced, Mamata retreated. At one point, she tried to say something, but it wasn’t clear whether her lips moved or not. Retreating, Mamata had reached the wall, she couldn’t retreat any further.
Ghentu advanced with very slow steps. The blade of the knife was raised, light flashed on it. Mamata then closed her eyes and put out her hands as if to avert something. ‘No-oh-oh…’ Butku rushed towards Ghentu. ‘What’s the hurry! Let’s play with her for a while.’ He thought of a new game. He pushed Ghentu aside and snatched the knife. Swishing it this way and that, he held it near her breast, but didn’t stab her. Laughing out of the corner of his mouth, he said, ‘You’re so scared of dying! All right then. I won’t kill you… But you’ll have to do whatever I ask you to.’ Mamata was still, flattened against the wall, her eyes shut. Butku prodded her stomach with the blunt edge of the blade. ‘Hey you! Look! And keep looking!’ Saying so, Butku and Ghentu swayed their bodies, looked at each other and laughed. Ho ho! Ha ha! Hee hee!
Mamata trembled with fear and raised her hands to try to fend them off. She tried to say something, but no sound escaped her lips. Ho ho! They laughed, looking at each other’s exposed organs, while she cringed against the wall at the sound of their laughter. ‘Mamata, why are you so scared of dying, dear? Everybody has to go to the Nimtala burning ghat one day!’ They kept laughing, as if they were playing throw-and-catch with their words. The bared steel flashed. Mamata’s eyes were shut. Trembling, terrified, she wanted to say something. ‘Speak love, sp
eak! Say what’s your final wish! Ha ha!’ Butku laughed. Mamata trembled violently. Her back was to the wall. In front of her was the shining steel blade. ‘I’ll give you one last chance to save yourself,’ said Butku, smirking. ‘This knife – I’ll throw this knife of mine on the bed. Whoever grabs it first shall live. See if you can try and live!’
Ghentu didn’t laugh now. He was taken aback by the state Butku’s was in. Butku continued to laugh crazily and asked, ‘Got that? The knife will be thrown away. You can go and get it first. Try!’ He moved towards the corner of the room, near Mamata. As Mamata heard these words, she suddenly sprang to life. Her eyes gleamed. There were beads of perspiration on her brow and nose. Butku played with the knife, tossed it from one hand to the other a couple of times, laughed. Then he flung it. As it landed on the bed, Mamata raced like an arrow and grabbed the base of the knife. In a flash, Ghentu and Butku leapt to two sides. There was astonishment on their eyes and faces. Now Mamata brandished the knife. She couldn’t decide in which direction to advance, which was the way to survival. She stood and panted, her eyes on the pair. Balls of fire flashed in those eyes. A few silent moments. Nobody moved. Suddenly, signalling Butku with his eyes, Ghentu sped towards her. He grabbed Mamata’s hand, the one which clutched the knife. Butku ran and held the other hand firmly, saying, ‘Come, my love!’ They began to grope and paw Mamata’s spent body crazily.
Mamata struggled, but with other mouths and lips pressed to her mouth, her voice was inaudible. After they played with her body like this for some time, her condition became worse. Drops of blood welled up between her legs. A thin stream of blood ran down her thighs to her knees. Seeing the blood, Ghentu made a sign to Butku. With his hands, Butku held Mamata’s arms and mouth. Ghentu raised the knife, looked at her awhile, then stabbed her deep in the chest, plunging the knife downwards. The torso trembled. Butku was unable to hold her still with his two hands. The nineteen-year-old body shuddered in a valiant attempt to survive. Crimson blood flowed down to the floor. The yellowish innards hung out, the two legs trembled agitatedly. After holding her firmly for a few minutes, Butku released his grasp. The body fell flat on the floor.
Butku’s hands were bloody too. As he wiped his hands on the sari, he looked at the gaping innards, at the fleshy region at the base of the abdomen and the two legs which trembled before gradually becoming still. A thick stream of blood flowed down the side of the stomach and accumulated on the floor. Butku wiped his hands and threw the sari at Ghentu who stood watching Mamata die. He then cleaned the knife thoroughly and wiped his hands. ‘Any more cigarettes?’ asked Butku. Wiping away the blood from the base of the knife, Ghentu said, ‘There’s a pack in the bag, take it out.’
1968
Amber Light at Park Street Crossing
The beggar was dying as he lay under the cold, relentless, flashing light. On one side was the lurking darkness of the Maidan; on the other, gaudy Chowringhee; and in between, beneath a traffic light post, lay the beggar. His staff, tin pan, loincloth, the hair on his face, the froth on his mouth, the odour of excreta dried up on the soles of his two feet, all these – for that matter, his shrivelled, crooked, broken body – if only everything were wiped out, sanctified rain would shower on this place. Three girls wearing beautiful, flowing saris and snapping peanuts with their teeth would search for a green spot on the Maidan. They would say: ‘I re-al-ly love to get wet in this rain!’
In the darkness, a group of people tried to move in procession in one direction. The Studebaker braked and stopped in front of the red light on Park Street. The sound of giggling floated out from the car and the beggar’s life-breath became laboured. The colours red-blue-yellow formed and dissolved in front of his eyes. Standing in the middle of the Khidirpur Bridge in the night turned desolate and silent, a lunatic thumped his chest loudly and shouted, ‘We’ll kill and seize Jhumjhuma – from today!’ He screamed, ‘Hear, everybody hear, the beggar is dying!’ But his voice was drowned out by the voice of All India Radio: ‘When our national flag was fixed atop the podium where the prime minister delivered his speech, a crow – a vile, shrewd, devil of a crow – shat on the flag and flew off. We are hunting for that crow and, when we find it, we shall spear it, hang it, wring its neck; we shall thus mete out fitting punishment for shitting on our national flag.’
The blood in the bosom of some grew red; of some, black; and of some, white. When all of the last few drops of the beggar’s lifeblood turned white, the beggar prostrated himself, paid obeisance and prayed to the earth for death. Somewhere, someone had kept a grave ready in advance. Everyone knew people would die, just as even dogs and jackals die on the streets. Nevertheless, on the Khidirpur Bridge, in the desolation, the solitary lunatic screamed and tried to convince somebody: ‘Hear, the beggar is dying, the beggar is really dying!’
At that moment, two callow youths entered a bar on Chowringhee. Another kissed his companion under a tree in the Maidan. The paan-seller at the kerb sold a zarda paan. The traffic light at Park Street turned amber. The boy vending flowers sold a string of bel garlands to a lady inside a halted car. And under the Monument, a middle-aged magician performed a money-doubling act and drew applause from the assembled crowds. A struggling people’s procession passed the spot, shouting a slogan like ‘Everything must be expropriated!’ Some looked at the beggar dying, but they didn’t have the time – got to go to the public meeting at the Maidan! They went off with their festoons. Their slogans, like the deep sigh of the boy standing in front of the restaurant, who had not eaten all day, were squandered away on Chowringhee’s gleaming black thoroughfare.
Repeated announcements over the radio, a fire-spewing speech – the subject being the crow’s shitting on the national flag. Police detectives have been sent all over, that wicked crow must be found, must be apprehended. From somewhere, a flower fragrance wafted. From somewhere, the smell of blood wafted. Someone, somewhere, sang a stanza of Rabindrasangeet. Somewhere, somebody searched for the skull of an unclaimed corpse. On the Khidirpur Bridge, the lunatic beat his chest and sang: ‘We’ll fight and seize Jhumjhuma!’ The tide splashed in on the Ganga. At the bar, the youth noisily broke a glass and affected a heroic laugh. A Frenchman, brown beard, pale eyes, roamed the streets of Calcutta, hauling a camera. Seeing the beggar dying, he said, ‘Ten rupees bakshish, hold on for two more minutes,’ and pounced. ‘I’ll take your picture, it’ll be a marvellous art film.’ The lunatic, the same one from Khidirpur, said, ‘Sir, the beggar is dying!’ He said, ‘I piss on the face of your art!’ He said, ‘We’ll kill and seize Jhumjhuma!’ and beat his chest.
A cold breeze blew. The traffic light went from red to amber to green. Someone spoke. Someone cried. Someone quarrelled. Someone counted money. Someone made love. Someone painted a picture. Someone weighed something. Someone was born. Someone died. Someone looked into darkness. Someone saw the light.
The beggar had earlier been human. He liked to crunch-munch chicken legs. He liked to see beautiful women in the cinema. He liked to eat phuchkas at the Maidan. He liked to smoke cigarettes. He liked to sleep with a young woman in his arms. After his pauperization was complete, when the hair on his face turned grey, his shoulders stooped and he learnt to swallow the hunger of his stomach, he had no desires. Two scholars argued:
‘The beggar wanted to live.’
‘Who doesn’t want to live?’
A group of people at the Red Road intersection tried all night long to find their way. Someone coughed and coughed and then couldn’t stop himself from vomiting red blood in front of Mahatma Gandhi at Park Street. The girl who stood waiting for prey revealed her dry red throat as she yawned. Some people listened eagerly to the night’s last news bulletin on the radio. ‘There’s no clue of the crow that shat on the national flag and made off.’ Dejected, they went off to go to bed and fall asleep, clasping their wives and dreaming happy dreams. And the battling, tattered beggar was dying, the whiplash of the flashing light on his chest. He saw the money-doubling act. He hear
d on the radio: ‘Our country shall become golden, no one shall die for want of food!’; he heard: ‘We will not tolerate the insult to the national flag, we will not tolerate it!’; he heard the national song, ‘Rich with thy streams, thy orchards… verdant fields’; heard ‘This fight is for life, this fight must be won!’; heard Rabindrasangeet: ‘O helmsman, set afloat the boat on the river of peace ahead’. A dog ferreting for food dug its snout into a dustbin. A youth seized pleasure by squeezing a woman’s breast. The magician showed his money-doubling act…
Driven to despair, the lunatic standing on the Khidirpur Bridge then cried out, his face turned to the Maidan, ‘A beggar is dying!’ But no one heard him. Those who made love in the darkness went on doing so. He then came to the junction of the Ganga’s well-lit promenade and cried out, ‘A beggar is dying!’ No one heard him. People went on eating their moshla-muri or peanuts or ice cream. He went to the Chowringhee junction and cried out, his arms raised high, ‘Hear, people, hear! A beggar is dying!’ Nobody heard. A man brought his face close and whispered, ‘Brother, do you know where booze is available?’ A group of people crowded around a radio listening to the news. The lunatic went up to them and said meekly, ‘A beggar is dying.’ Without paying any heed to his words, they discussed how that scheming crow could be found, why it had not been found yet, the dishonour to our national flag. In a final bid, the lunatic then crept rapidly up to the top of the Monument. He took off his waist-cloth, cut his finger and drew with blood a symbol on it, and waved it animatedly in the air. He screamed, ‘Hear, people, hear! A beggar is dying!’ But his voice did not reach the ground. Down below, the magician went on with his money-doubling act to tumultuous applause. The lunatic screamed out again, with all the strength in his lungs, enough to make the Monument quake. But the people below were engrossed in the money-doubling act. No voice reached their ears. Exasperated beyond measure, he came down and said, ‘May the beggar die, become an evil spirit and possess you! May he break your neck!’ He said, ‘We’ll fight and seize Jhumjhuma!’ Thumping his chest, he walked away towards the darkness of Khidirpur. And the flag splattered with his blood fluttered over the Monument all night.
The Golden Gandhi Statue From America Page 6
