When Anindya vomited the second time, the bad man's soul slipped out of his stomach. Trickling along, it made its way to the slaughterhouse. There it entered the stomach of a cow. The cow returned to the bank of the Gobarjhuri lake and began grazing under the peepal tree. Then the soul flew up and slipped into the crow's beak. The crow carried it in its beak and dropped it beside the drain. The crafty girl, not comprehending what the thing in the paper bag was, deposited it in fright under a pillow. And thus the bad man once again regained his lost soul from under his very pillow.
There are, at the very least, three maxims that can be derived from this story, and if one looks closely, even five. Because people don't like anything that involves too much thinking, only the basic ones are given here:
What is emphatically sought to be conveyed in this story is that we live in a society that is completely and in every measure perverted. This perversion is so pervasive that even our dreams about revolution (which boys of a specific age are used to seeing and later, when they have got a good job and so on, go around declaring, I'm not a part of it and never was) are overwhelmed by the alcohol of perversion. It is our society, this capitalist social system, that represses the normal development of youth and provides maximal licence to deformation.
Without a comprehensive vision, it is not possible to see the full form of this perversion. Even if it is visible in bits and pieces all the time, the whole is not that easy to see. As a result we cry ourselves hoarse saying everything's lost, having seen only one part. If we saw the whole we would start to think, we wouldn't run around and jump up and down lamenting that all is lost. Man is good, man is not bad under any system – if one tries to think in such stereotyped terms, the delight of self-contentment is felt all right, but one is untouched by the real thing.
The third point is about itching or eczema in the testicles. It is dangerous to scratch and scratch and make the spot sore, because this is a bodily disease of psychic origin, and not just an irritation of the skin.
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Okusthol Dodrumoy, 1976
In a Deserted Spot Measuring a Foot and a Half
Alexander, conqueror of the world, arrived at heaven's doorway … the guardian of heaven gifted him a human skull … Curious, Alexander had the female skull weighed against all the wealth in his store … the skull was heavier than all the wealth in the royal treasury he acquired over a lifetime … After much thought and reflection, the female skull's nose, ears, eyes and mouth were plugged with earth, the five sensory doors were shut … It was then weighed once more … They found that the weight of this skull, once deprived of its senses, was entirely diminished, lighter than even a thread of a cobweb.
He lay, a small bloodstain on a white wall, four feet pointing towards the sky in helpless abandonment, tail limp, yellow innards spilling out from the stomach, blood dried up and turned brown, tongue lolling out from one side. The town's road skirted the silent human dwellings and raced ahead, formaldehyde-like pungency in the water, as from a dissected corpse. One could see the bright red horse licking the muddy face, white spittle foaming along the edges of its mouth, a girl walked next to a boy. Heaps of garbage and carcasses on the river bank, the shrieks of dogs and vultures fighting over a half-eaten buffalo … he swam along the other bank, far away very far away, the shore was barely visible. A square existence like a tree trunk, under the fiery sun a very ugly woman, her face daubed with colour, she who always left her hairy thighs exposed to the earth, the clamour of killings from every direction, the monstrous woman joyous. Surupa's physical presence could clearly be discerned through the ring-the-beer-bottle gamble, she walked in the afternoon's desolation, cloaked by the shrubs and bushes, Surupa and her fertility cult, imagining infant Jesus at Mother Mary's breast. Near the green ornamented arch, green men find the much desired machine gun. Soil beneath soil, air beneath air, life within life. A gust of warm breeze floating from the Bay of Bengal lashed against their faces, it burned. Surupa walked towards the screen of bushes, the red machine gun in a stranger's hands became an unfailing stalker as it spat fire again and again. This illogical body was all that remained; the old, lengthy runaway remained, water fell drop by drop, snakes slithered all over the body, snakebites. Wild bushes filled the courtyard, the sound of water falling on leaves. Rain descended, drenching the body, which was the arrogant rashness of youth, the killers returned time and again to the killing fields, they sniffed the air for blood. Like a meat-cleaver, which was the murderer, it came down again and again on Surupa's throat, shoulders, back, face, between the thighs; her body clung to the luxuriant weeds. Before she could scream she was pulled, seized and laid on the ground, invisible pores in every nerve tingled. Rammed down by rods, small pursuits full of high hopes and emotions, small sufferings, small eddies of joy, agitated man – all were murdered. Despite the events, Surupa's unconventional existence was always present, with rolled-up, youthful, pure wishes – you look wilted, I hope you are all right? They came after a while, men in black masks, we've come to take you, they cuffed her hands, she was made to walk all night long and taken to the bank of an unseen river where it was gods' twilight, furious hell, where the gods were killed and goddesses raped, and the entire universe was enveloped in blind darkness. Surupa's pet name is Rupa, did she still do lacework – did she still enjoy that? The car took off towards the yawning depths, a hand waved, a white kerchief fluttered. Was this a rubber ball flung towards splendourless death, into nothingness? The table lay soiled after dinner, a male body like a crumpled grey sheet. The death-seed assumed labour pains, between heaven and hell, a wooden chair was placed in a deserted spot measuring a foot and a half. How long before she touched the sky? A winged horse and a one-eyed demon sprang out from the darkness, tore away her personal purity with ease. Tore away the gold, zari-work border from her grandmother's wedding sari, a sheaf of old letters, silver coins bearing the red sindoor marks of divine offering. Tore away the pastelled kaash flowers, the flowing river. Tore away that feeling of tender adolescent love – sari anchal curled around fingers … lips bitten by teeth … standing, head bowed, in front of the door … Now one could see, next to Tristan's dead body, Isolde, curled up, committing suicide, the climax of love; through the centre an arrogant ant walks, busy at work. A light burned at the paan-cigarette shop on the neighbourhood kerb, a lungi-clad man yawned as he chewed paan. A young adivasi woman with bright red flowers tucked into her hair sat in the bus, her young man beside her, both returning from the haat, she swayed her body with him and giggled every now and then, the shrieks of basketfuls of chickens on the roof of the bus, far away clouds atop the Massanjore hills. Now there were boys and girls in brightly coloured clothes, love, intimacy, luxurious pebbled paths, marble statues of fairy-like women, the golden dreams of Gariahat crossing. Now Surupa lay completely naked in the watercolour, dense forest behind her, scattered trees, the darkness of vines, tiny drops of purple-red sunset light streaking through from above the forest, the dark silhouettes of leaves and creepers in the forest green, and slipped into the middle of it all, spanning the area of vapid light, Surupa nude, twenty-year-old Surupa. Nothing much remained now, everything was decided, everything, like an impenetrable lake. Now in the course of the unending journey along an unknown river bank towards the source, experience, the crow seated on the sill, depressed, the packet of cigarettes, a few books with torn pages, the suddenly opened door, everything, everything that was one's own remained behind, flies buzzed around incessantly, almost deserted, deserted, on and on towards the source. Now he, he alone, like the last runner in a race, who knows for certain that he will not win but still runs with his languid, helpless muscles, as a force of habit. And then, like this, one dream kept knotting itself with another, its subject always the same, Surupa's continuous walk towards the darkness and a red machine gun, the one which at the end of the dream he would pull out of some corner of his body and keep shooting at Surupa's entwined waist, and he would wake up to the sound of that gunfir
e all by himself, without shame. It would seem that these were only dreams and in another dream he'd see the incident in exactly the same form, returned in all its minute details, and in yet another dream he would eventually have to murder Surupa. On a melancholy evening in the month of July, he would be raped in front of an unknown, black-masked woman with the same red machine gun. And thereby the killers would be transformed into dreams, the way they had been many times before.
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Foot Dedek Ek Porityokto Jaygay, 1978
Heramba Naskar, Moushumi
Naskar and Jatadhari Naskar
Heramba Naskar lived in a village called Jabla, in the jurisdiction of Kakdwip police station. He lost his father when he was very young. Of the sister and five brothers, the sister was the eldest. They had some land in the village. With the earnings from the harvest, the family survived, with a bit of hardship. Since his father died when he was little, Heramba had not had much education. His sister Sandhya was married. Heramba wanted to earn independently and stand on his own feet, so he took some money from his mother and went to a village called Bibirhat, near Bishnupur police station. There he began a business of trading in vegetables. Within three years, he had saved a lot of money. He bought land cheap in a slightly remote location and built a house. His mother was in the village home with his younger brothers, looking after the field there. Because Heramba had not received a proper education, he was keen to get his younger brother, Jatadhari, educated. So he called Jatadhari to come live with him, and got him admission at a polytechnic. Jatadhari travelled from Bishnupur to Calcutta to study.
In 1980, Heramba married Moushumi, the daughter of Nikunja Hazra of Behala. It was an arranged marriage. Moushumi was both beautiful and educated. She was a BA student at Thakurpukur College, and the second of six sisters. Her father was a clerk in the municipality. Heramba didn't ask for dowry. He was content with the three bhoris of gold ornaments that she came with. So what if Heramba was only a vegetable seller, at least he would be able to feed and clothe and keep her. And so Nikunja gave his daughter Moushumi in marriage to Heramba.
Heramba went around with his chest puffed up in pride at having married a beautiful and educated girl. The neighbours said he was truly fortunate to have found such a wife, one who brought light into the household. Heramba's mother, Tararani, too was happy with her daughter-in-law.
The joy in Heramba's happy family was complete when Manasi was born after six years of marriage. At first, Tararani had thought that her daughter-in-law might be barren but her notion was proved wrong. Before they knew it, Manasi was two years old. Heramba's mother was very eager to see the face of a grandson. Even Heramba wanted a son now. But that wouldn't happen merely by wishing for it. Because it was late night. Heramba and Moushumi lay beside each other on the cot. Manasi was next to Moushumi. After returning from a hard day's work in the vegetable market, Heramba usually fell asleep, snoring. That night he woke up suddenly from his sleep. He turned around and saw that Moushumi wasn't there. Manasi had wet the kantha. In the dim light of the room, and because he was half asleep, Heramba could not see clearly. After he got married, Heramba had fitted the blue zero-watt lamp with great enthusiasm. At night, the room took on a dreamy ambience. After he had sat up for a while, his eyes got used to the dim light and he could gradually see everything in the room. Moushumi wasn't heating water for Manasi. Had she gone to the bathroom? After the wedding, she had got one made as per her own design. She couldn't bathe in the pond. He lay quietly for a while, waiting for Moushumi to return. Almost fifteen minutes went past but there was no sign of her. Heramba turned to one side and then the other a few times. Suddenly he thought he heard two people whispering in the adjacent room. His younger brother Jatadhari slept alone there. Why could he hear the sound of two people whispering? Silently, Heramba sat up and then tiptoed to the door. He pressed his ear to the door and tried to listen to the conversation. What's this! It was Moushumi's voice! Jatadhari and Moushumi were whispering to each other with great intimacy.
The next day, Heramba called Jatadhari and told him: Jatadhari, I believe Ma is not keeping too well. She's getting on in years too. There needs to be someone with Ma in the village home, to help her look after the land and our younger brothers. It would be best if you went. I'll make all the arrangements and send you whatever money you require.
Jatadhari did not reply. Seeing him standing there in silence, Heramba asked him: What happened – why don't you reply? You'll go back to the village, won't you?
No, Dada, I won't go back to the village. I don't like it there. And I won't be able to study there. I want to stay with you.
That can't be. Even if you don't like it, you have to return to the village. Didn't I tell you someone needs to look after Ma?
Moushumi entered the room. Heramba glanced at Moushumi from the corner of his eye and began pouring green colour into a vat of gourds. Jatadhari walked out and went off somewhere.
15 March 1988. In the dead of night. Heramba lay on a mat he had spread out in the verandah. Moushumi was sleeping inside the room. It was pitch-dark everywhere. Suddenly, like a madman, Jatadhari appeared and, with a cleaver, began to rain blows on the sleeping Heramba, on his neck, chest and stomach. Heramba awoke and started screaming at the very first blow. Hearing his screams, Moushumi rushed out of the room. She tried to save Heramba. She held Jatadhari's arm firmly. But Jatadhari freed his arm and began striking at Moushumi's body with the cleaver. Moushumi screamed until she fell unconscious in the courtyard.
Hearing the screaming and shouting, the neighbours came running. It was they who caught Jatadhari. They took the severely injured Heramba and Moushumi to the health sub-centre in Bishnupur. Some of the locals ran to the police station and informed them. The officer-in-charge of the police station, Sukumar Thakur, recorded the complaint and arrived at the site of the incident with accompanying policemen, to conduct an on-the-spot investigation. After preliminary investigations, Thakur arrested Jatadhari and brought him to the police station.
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