Yes sir, that's the slogan from the French Revolution. I set out with that in my pocket.
Hitler was extremely pleased to hear this:
The French Revolution, my boy, is a mighty fine thing Superb its colour and its finish just makes you sing.
Give me a couple of slogans, I'll put them on the anti-fascist festoons. In a trice he took the three words and stuck them on his red longcloth banner. The words swayed on the red longcloth like a skinned goat hangs in a butcher shop, its tongue sticking out. The whole thing looked very sexy. The red longcloth fluttered in the breeze. The words almost quacked out loud! Shaking his head, Hitler suddenly said: Here's an idea – you've come from India, why don't you add the word ahimsa to this? It would be fantastic. And of all the saffron-coloured words, ahimsa is the most non-violent one.
Without waiting for a reply, he fetched the word himself and put it on his banner. The word's faded saffron colour almost seemed to sputter amid all the red. This was a miraculous connection. The slogans of the French Revolution on the anti-fascist movement's red longcloth, together with ahimsa's saffron. My mind danced in heavenly bliss. Oh, stupid life, what more do you want! So what if it was Hitler, hadn't he accorded the words adequate honour? In this marketplace of a world, how many could do that? How many had the heart? So what if he made Subhas Bose a fascist stooge? If he wished, he could prove that Lenin, Stalin and Mao Tse-tung were all fascists. But what would come of it? Those were just words.
But the mental unease did not cease.
This boy, Hitler, was terribly clever. He could grasp things. Tucking the end of his dhuti pleat with native deftness into the pocket of his punjabi, he said: Hey, you're looking worried, my lad. It seems you don't like it?
It's not that.
Got it! I know what's on your mind.
He looked somewhat absent-minded. He scratched his long sideburns noisily a couple of times. Then he said: All right. There is something you can do. I'll introduce you to a genuine person. Try to talk to her.
He signalled to a woman with his eye.
Do you see her?
Yes, I do.
This is a fallen woman. Feeds herself by – what do they say? – compromising her dignity. If you want to help her by offering some money, she'll refuse it. But be her customer, pay her for her services and she will accept. She wants to be honest, from her own perspective.
As soon as I saw the woman, she caught my fancy. Why not spend a night with her? What was wrong with that? It was useless to think of morality and sin right now. Later, at an appropriate time, with a puja offering of five shiki in Kalighat, all my sins would be wiped out, and so –
So I went with the woman to her room. Hitler whispered: You're going with the woman, that's all right, but your real work is to try to employ the words. Don't forget.
I did as he said. When she removed her sari, I took the words out of my pocket. I rang them like bells. Turning them around like a prism, I filled them with rays of light. I said proudly: These are real words! Their meaning is so wonderful. They're extremely useful. At one time these three words had turned human thought upside-down. You'll never ever find anything like them!
Even if she earned her bread by selling her body or whatever, the woman was shrewd. Toying with the words for a while before pushing them away, she replied brazenly: I got all that. But of what use are these to me? I mean, can one buy rice with words, no matter how fine the words might be?
My spine tingled. I had never met such a brave woman in my life. She looked at me with fluttering eyes. My heart skipped a beat. But I had paid her cash and had to get my money's worth – whether she accorded value to the words or not. Now I could see clearly that the words would soon be weighed against the power to purchase bread. I didn't want any of that. I stood up. I couldn't look her in the eye. I had come for my bodily needs, so I would engage in the commerce of bodies – and then leave. What was there to be afraid of, that too with a prostitute like her?
I finished my business quickly. Sitting up, I saw something astounding. Who would have thought this thing could be put to such use? The girl had weighed down the sari and the chemise she had just shed with those words. And the words, each one like a coloured paperweight, lay, somewhat like our ahimsic Ashokan wheel, on the sari and petticoat shed by the whore, gasping for life.
_________________
Ekhon Ishwori Ekmatro Jeebito Achhen, 1975
Meat Was Bartered
[Remembering Saroj Dutta's death]
The phantom-like figures said: We are policemen, from the CID, we are going to search your house.
Show me your identity cards. Show me the search warrant.
They said: We are from the CID. We don't need search warrants.
At that very moment, the chairman of the mayor's advisory council in the Calcutta Municipal Corporation declared that the number of people coming down with ailments of the blood from consuming rotten meat was growing by the day. Meat was being sold illegally throughout the city – stale, rotten offal, full of disease-causing germs. A lot of people were falling sick after eating the meat of sick cows, buffaloes, goats and pigs.
In the dead of night, two guards entered the police lock-up and once again pulled out Taera Master. The CID officer, Prabhat-babu, put his legs up on the table; he was lounging in the chair. As the guards brought Taera Master and made him stand in front of the table, he wasn't able to stand: a baton had been pushed up his rectum that evening. Prabhat-babu said: I'm sorry, Taera Master, I am unable to move my feet away from your face. I am tired. We can talk.
Prabhat-babu sat thus for a few minutes with his feet in front of Taera Master's face. Taera Master could barely stand straight. He tried somehow, clutching the chair in front of him. There was silence. He was unable to hold himself upright. Seeing his condition, Prabhat-babu said, slowly, as if he were chewing his words: Tell me, Taera Master, what do you have to say?
Taera Master managed to say: Kindly tell me what you want me to say. I shall cooperate.
Complaints had been received about the condition of the slaughterhouses in Calcutta. Some citizens opined: The abattoirs are unhygienic. Entrails of dead animals everywhere. Diseases are spreading. This 300-year-old abattoir has been transformed into an anti-socials' paradise.
Some people barged into the room noisily – one of them brandished a revolver.
Taera Master said: Who are you? Who are you looking for?
We are searching for Taera Master.
I am Taera Master. Tell me what you have to say.
Come with us, the jeep is waiting outside.
But who are you?
Who are we – Hooch Gopal, explain who we are. One of them prodded another. His hands fidgeted.
What's the proof that you are policemen? Show me your identity card.
You want to see the identity card, bokachoda – Hooch Gopal landed a kick on his stomach – here's our identity…
Taera Master collapsed to the floor, his hands clutching his stomach. A thin line emerged at the right corner of his mouth, blood…
An officer of the municipal corporation said they were able to inspect only a small part of the meat sold in the city. About 350 cows and buffaloes and 400 smaller animals were slaughtered daily in the municipal abattoirs. They claimed these were in no way harmful to one's health. Their meat was stamped. They did not know how safe the huge quantity of all the other meat sold in the city was. That meat was not stamped.
Why are you taking me? Where will you take me? What's the charge? Have I committed an offence? If I have then you have to inform me of the charges against me before you arrest me.
One of the men, who wore a police uniform and whose face still bore the mark of a bhadralok, pointed a revolver at Taera Master's chest and said in a threatening voice: We don't have time to argue with you. As he spoke, he grabbed Taera Master's collar and dragged him outside.
There were several complaints against Calcutta's abattoirs. They had not been washed clean in a hu
ndred years. Bones, intestines and bits of skin belonging to the meek creatures had accumulated in various corners, there was hair strewn all over the place. Thirty thousand gallons of water a day were required. About ten gallons were available. In the hope of getting bits of meat and intestines from the heaps of garbage nearby, the poor folk gathered at dawn. They waited for hours, dreaming of a piece of fresh bone or a handful of offal. Earlier they used to fight among themselves for this at the slightest pretext. But they no longer do that. They single-mindedly scour the garbage. This has now become their method of fetching food, their only option. They frequently fall sick and die. But for every person who dies, five more take his place. Some of the employees of the municipal abattoir and the local mastaans are most enthusiastic about these hapless folk, they regularly take collections.
Taera Master was taken in a jeep and made to wait till two outside Alipore Court. No one knew he was there. At two in the afternoon, they announced that there was no lawyer and an order should be issued to keep him in police custody. And so an order was issued for Taera Master to be held in police custody for ten days. The sun set.
The municipal corporation's chief health officer announced that Calcutta's abattoirs had not been repaired for many years. He admitted that sanitation arrangements, water supply and inspection facilities were abysmal now. But he added, on a hopeful note, that recently they had got down to getting rid of these problems. Whatever was of critical importance was being repaired. Licences might be issued to some companies to oversee the business of slaughtering cows and buffaloes in accordance with the rules and regulations. All meat would henceforth be stamped.
–Are you in a political party?
–I believe in scientific materialism. I don't support any political party of India.
–Do you support the Naxalite movement?
–If a movement wants to do something positive to change the rotten system, even if it takes the wrong path, I will still support the dedication of those who do it. I have no doubt that there was no shortage of dedicated boys among the Naxalites.
–The path of parliamentary democracy or the way of the barrel of a gun – by which process do you think a change in the political structure is possible?
–Social change never came through the parliamentary process.
After that no more was asked. Taera Master was taken inside under special police watch.
There were no leftover body parts of cows and buffaloes. The talk of their being stolen was not correct. Skin, horns, hooves, offal, everything – everything was sold. That was why the complaint that diseases were spreading from the rotten body parts of dead animals was baseless. Every year the abattoir pays money to the municipal corporation on this account. The Calcutta abattoir was never an anti-social's paradise. All that was hearsay.
When questioned, the state health minister responded: It is the municipal corporation's responsibility to monitor matters pertaining to the abattoir and the sale of meat. If there is clear evidence of health hazards, the state government will investigate the matter. Why cry hoarse before that?
There is no further information about Taera Master.
_________________
Mangsho Binimoy Holo, 1986
36 Feet Towards Revolution
1
Suddenly this morning, at exactly nine-thirty, Subhendu, like a fool, got shot on the kerb at the crossing. After being shot he gazed vacantly in all directions and saw no one anywhere. Only the wayward bullet from the pipe-gun that had lodged itself inside his chest. As he tried to fix the long lead-pipe with his hands, he thought, This was not supposed to happen. For some reason he couldn't fix it. Raising his arm towards a young woman walking briskly along the pavement ahead, he called out: 'Excuse me, I've been shot.' The woman looked exasperated and stopped. 'What the hell is wrong with you lot –can't you see I'm going for love?' As she spoke she stared fixedly at Subhendu's eyes and – who knows what she saw – paused for a moment. 'All right, come along.' It was office time. People were moving very fast all around Subhendu. The wind blew on his face. The young woman lifted his bullet-pierced body to her chest, and like an expert mother, without any sign of weariness, crossed the road and put him down beside the lake, where the decapitated statue of a tonsured pandit stood. Just a few days ago, someone had broken the head of the statue in the darkness of the night. Blood gushed out from the hole in Subhendu's chest and wet the base of the headless statue. Subhendu was about to sink into terror. He saw rain descend, illuminating his surroundings. The rain poured down and in it his wounded self, the young woman, the waters of the lake and the beheaded statue in dhuti-chadar and Taltala-slippers – everything got wet. It got flooded quickly. The pavement was flooded, so was the road and every nook and corner between the buildings. Securing her clothes around herself, the young woman just about managed to salvage her modesty. The wind blew, a cold wind. Subhendu shivered and forgot about his bullet-ridden chest as the floodwater rose all around him. In front of his eyes the statue of the headless pandit was starting to go under. He made to scream to warn the girl, but she was busy protecting her life and dignity from the lashing rain. She didn't hear him. He lay there, bullet-pierced. After a while he saw the headless statue getting submerged in the water. It all happened so quickly and so easily. Subhendu's mental anguish was so terrible it made him want to cry. He saw a boy, naked, float a paper boat on the water. Pushed on by the wind, the boat floated over the headless statue. It seemed no one knew, except Subhendu, that the tonsured pandit's headless statue was submerged in the floodwater and that the paper boat set down by the little boy had just floated over it. The girl was still managing her clothes. The whole of Calcutta got soaked in the rain.
2
After a while, Subhendu found himself on a stretcher in front of the emergency block of a hospital, being carried inside. A crowd had gathered on the lawn to see him. The stretcher was taken into a lift and he was brought to the first floor. When he was taken off the stretcher and laid on a bed, he reckoned he was going to be operated upon and prepared himself accordingly. He wanted to turn his neck this way and that to see if there was anyone nearby. But as soon as he moved his head a little, a nurse appeared and scolded him, 'What are you doing – you mustn't move, just lie still!' Subhendu was not used to being scolded. For a moment he thought of protesting in some fashion but for some reason he did not say anything. All he wanted was to know whether the girl from this morning was anywhere nearby. But he couldn't turn his head. Subhendu lay silently. As he lay he thought. They were doing all this only for his well-being. If these people did dig out the bullet that got lodged in a corner on the left side of his chest this morning at half-past nine, that was undoubtedly good for him. He patted his chest and could hear the bullet rattling inside. He placed his left hand over the spot. That would be convenient, he could show it for the operation. The light in front of his eyes kept getting brighter. It dazzled and then exploded right under his nose. For a long time a fly buzzed within that bright light. All around he could hear the shuffle of people moving about. The clinking of knives and scissors. A gloved hand appeared at his chest. A body covered in white cloth bent towards him. Subhendu lay still, as if under a spell. The place was enveloped in white light. He thought it must be like that even inside his chest. Within the whiteness a dot-like black fly buzzed and hovered, buzz-buzz. Why was there a black fly here in this white light? Subhendu tried to think about that. But he didn't get much of an opportunity to think. He saw a headless person clad in dhuti-chadar, his hands in gloves, about to cut open his chest with a surgical knife. Subhendu began to think that he knew this headless trunk but couldn't recall exactly where he had seen him. The person wore an ordinary white khaddar dhuti that ended at his knees, and a chadar wrapped around his bare chest. The Taltala-slippers on his feet looked extremely familiar. But there was no head. It wasn't easy to recognize a man without a head. He began to think about where he had seen him before, and how. The man did not hesitate. He extended his gloved
hand towards Subhendu. 'Where's your bullet hole, Subhendu Mohan?' At first Subhendu was assailed by doubt, and then, lifting his hand, he showed him the left side of his chest. The man examined the spot with his hand, knocking at it with his finger a couple of times, then he said in a grave voice: 'Very bad place – I hope we don't have to cut out and remove the heart itself.' At the mention of the word 'heart', Subhendu's chest shuddered. He wondered what would remain once that was gone. His face turned pale. 'Can't you retain it and do something?' In response, the man smiled. 'Why do you worry so much, young man!' He knocked the wrong end of the knife on his chest. Subhendu saw that there was nothing to be gained from objecting now. With no option left, he lay with his limbs sprawled, and right in front of his eyes, the dhuti-chadar clad, short, headless trunk pulled out his heart, including the lodged bullet, and dangled it above the tip of his nose. Subhendu lay as if under a spell. He was so scared he could hardly breathe. Could a man survive once his heart was removed? As he thought about this he was astonished: he certainly was alive, wasn't he? It was above his nose that the heart dangled, this blackish-red lump of flesh. Subhendu had to concede that the man was indeed heroic.
3
When Subhendu was discharged from the hospital, his heart, packed in a paper box, was given over to him. Stepping outside, he saw the evening's wan light everywhere, and within it stood the girl. She stepped forward with a smiling face. 'My god, was I scared!' Then, pointing at the paper box, she asked, 'What's that?' Like someone who has suffered a great loss, his face pale, as if all the blood had drained away, Subhendu said, 'My heart. They operated on me and removed it.' The girl laughed heartily. 'That's hilarious!' Subhendu did not laugh. He kept staring at the girl's face. What was he to do with the box now? The girl said, 'Come, let's go and sit in a bar. I like you a lot.' 'But that lover of yours…' Subhendu muttered dejectedly. The girl laughed. 'Oh, he was my lover at half-past nine this morning, it's been six-and-a-half hours since then. Now you are my lover.' Saying so, the girl took Subhendu's hand. But despite it being a lovely evening, Subhendu could not summon the enthusiasm to hold the hand of this pretty woman with pointy breasts. He felt terribly confused. He simply couldn't figure out what to do with the paper box in his hands. Looking at his face, the girl perhaps read his mind. 'Thinking about the box are you? Throw it in the street!' Subhendu felt an ache somewhere inside. 'My heart, my own … how can I throw it away like that?' 'You're a complete idiot – you get nothing from hearts and suchlike nowadays. No one bothers about all that!' As she said that, the girl dipped her hand inside her handbag. She took out a brownish thing wrapped in cellophane paper and dangled it in front of his eyes. 'Here, see my heart. I had an operation and took it out. I put it on again every now and then, as and when necessary. But nowadays I don't really need to have it on. Nor do I think I'll ever need it in the future!' Subhendu saw how the girl held her own heart in her hand, pressed between two fingers, dangling it before him like a pendulum. Perhaps he should do the same. But Subhendu couldn't find the courage. As if to console him, the girl said: 'In the beginning it feels a bit strange. After that everything will be fine, just watch.' Seeing Subhendu still staring, she said indifferently: 'It's all right, you needn't throw it away, put it under your arm and come along.' Saying so, she pulled him by the hand. Subhendu saw that he couldn't avoid going with her. This girl, who had had an operation and got her heart removed, who had wrapped it in cellophane paper and placed it in her handbag and used it from time to time whenever required – here she was, pulling him along, pinching his cheeks. He had to go. Subhendu began walking with the girl. The paper box was held under his arm. With his heart inside. For a moment he thought, What's the point in keeping this, it's best to throw it away. Then he thought, Let it be. After all, one couldn't get it back once it was thrown away. Walking together, they arrived at a bar. A dim blue light burned in the room, waiters in white uniforms and white caps hovered around, there were men and women seated, with food and drink spread out in front of them. In the back, music played to a fast beat. A girl wearing a satin brassiere swayed her hips and danced to the beat of the music. His girl pointed. 'How do you like it?' Subhendu saw the satin-veiled buttocks and the flesh of the ample breasts of the dancing girl swaying animatedly. He thought the bright red of her lips would leap out and fill the room. He gently put the paper box down on the table and took a deep breath. No one understood his grief. He was about to pat the box for comfort when the girl pushed his shoulder. 'What happened? Why are you sitting like an asshole?' Turning his face, Subhendu looked at his companion's breasts and saw her cleavage spilling out from the junction between her blouse and sari. Sipping from his glass, he forgot about all that had happened and took everything in. As he looked, the old sphere of light returned. That zone of white light dazzled the eyes and a dot-like black fly hovered around within it. Subhendu tried to think. Why was there a black fly in the dazzling white light? He couldn't figure it out. He saw: under the terrifying rain a statue of a dhuti-clad pandit erected in front of a huge building; it was sinking. It was submerged before his eyes. Little boys floated a paper boat, the boat floated away rapidly over the statue's head. Subhendu wanted to cry. But he didn't, thinking it would not be proper to cry as he was with the girl. He was perspiring profusely now. He wanted to run away. He wanted to run away and go somewhere and be able to heave a sigh of relief. He stood up to get away, box in hand. The girl pulled him back and sat him down. 'Where do you think you are going, leaving me behind?' Subhendu had no option but to sit down and keep looking at the wall, at the pictures of nude nymphs in the blue light. The musical ensemble kept playing to a fast beat, the swaying hips of the girl clad in the satin panty more animated now. Lacking recourse, Subhendu said plaintively, 'I must go.' The girl stared at his face. 'Fine, let's go. Settle the bill.' Subhendu suddenly came to his senses. He realized he had nothing more than some loose change in his pocket. When he looked at the girl's face and tried to explain his pathetic situation, the girl retorted angrily, 'If you don't have money why didn't you say so earlier? Do you think you can make love for free in this market? Pawn your watch or something, or whatever, just do something!' Subhendu couldn't figure out what to do. The girl suddenly stood up and removed the watch from his wrist. She began to tug at his shirt. In front of Subhendu's eyes, the sphere of white light exploded in a thousand streams and the black dot-like fly hovered inside it. He stepped out of the bar – he was bare-bodied, no watch on his wrist. He began to walk slowly, the paper box under this arm pressed to his side. He didn't have the slightest inclination to turn back and look. Evening had descended on the city. There were crowds of people everywhere. And among them Subhendu alone, like a lost soul, started walking with his heart tucked under his arm. So he was all alone in this world – there was no one anywhere near him. All around him were people, shops and establishments, light as well as darkness. People streamed out of the cinema hall after a show. Yet he was alone, impossibly alone. He walked along like this, and after a while he had left everything behind. On the wall to the right he read, 'Power flows out of the barrel of a gun.' On the wall to the left he read, 'Bokachoda masses, so many revolutionary opportunities, yet you didn't revolt – get rammed by the police now, bastards!' He heard Rabindrasangeet playing from a paan-shop. A grey-coloured tram passed by and on it was written in yellow: 'Destruction is senseless – disavow violence.' He read 'Baba Naam Kevalam' written in letters of tar on the house in front, and right above that, the faded broken lines of the stenciled sketch of Chairman Mao. On any other day, he would have stopped, he would have thought about it. But today he just didn't have the inclination. Walking on and on in a world full of people, walking under the light, he reached the huge building and the bank of the lake. There were fewer people here. The dazzle of neon lights was absent. Although it was night, there were a few people bathing in the water. On an enclosed podium sat an enlightened elder with a shaven head, holding forth on the Mahabharata. Around him were a few elderly men and women. A
man lay stretched out on a bench in one corner. A youth in blue trousers stood behind the screen of bushes, gushing out a stream of piss. Two boys went past, whistling at a girl in a frock. He raised his head and saw the massive university building standing tall across the road. A tram trundled down the road, making a clanging noise. As he gazed at all this, Subhendu's eyes fell upon the statue – like an image of a poor man amidst immense wealth, it stood facing the huge building, abandoned amid a dense thicket. Earlier, crows shat on his tonsured head, recently the head had been broken. As soon as he saw the image it occurred to him that it was this man who had operated on him in the hospital and removed his heart. He recalled he had been laid down under this statue after he was wounded in the morning. In amazement and disbelief, Subhendu began to wonder why he had not been able to recognize him earlier. His eyes almost popped out. The sphere of white light was breaking up in front of his eyes. The black dot of a fly was hovering around inside that sphere. Just a tiny black spot on an immense white canvas. Subhendu couldn't remain standing any more. All his emotions surged out from inside him. Bending, he saw that the statue had been submerged in the floodwater after the morning's rain. After some time the water had receded and the headless body had emerged. As he peered down, Subhendu could still see beneath it the stain of congealed blood from his pierced chest. He could no longer remain standing. Trembling with emotion, he put the paper box down under the statue. He wanted to run for his life and escape from that obscene place to save himself.
Wild Animals Prohibited Page 3
