The Golden Gandhi Statue
from America
Early Stories
Subimal Misra
Translated by
V. Ramaswamy
To
Jean-Luc Godard,
who taught me language
‘An iconoclast in his own way, Subimal Misra is the living example of a committed writer. Till date, in spite of numerous offers, he has not written a single word beyond little magazines. While many early rebels dwindled in front of money and success, Subimal… represents a vanguard of the literary movement as opposed to the mainstream. Public curiosity about him and media’s indifference to him, both leave him totally unperturbed. In Bengal, he can be regarded as the father of the experimental novel – in its widest range. Although numerous articles and books have been written on him, he downright refuses offers of big-time publishers.’
– Gentleman, April 1996
In the seven-hundred-year history of Bengali literature, Subimal Misra is the writer who has experimented the most with form and language. A self-proclaimed disciple of Jean-Luc Godard, he was the first to employ montage in Bengali literature, which he did in order to declare rebellion against the myth of the narrative and the age-old tradition of story-telling. Misra has explored newer horizons by bringing in film language into Bengali literature. He has made William Burroughs’s cut method his own, sharpening it to make it more effective. From Brecht, he learnt class consciousness and hatred of class, and from Sartre, the honesty and courage to ignore prizes and praise. Misra considers Vyasa, Proust, Joyce, Kafka, Dostoevsky, Borges, de Sade, Chandidas and Kamal Kumar Majumdar to be his ‘soul companions’ in creativity. He fiercely attacks middle-class mentality and pillories its values. Misra writes ‘with venom instead of ink’ in order to make readers cry out in pain, the pain of desolation and helplessness, when the long-nurtured veil of objectivity and hypocrisy is shattered. He examines a single fact from multiple standpoints, using data and reportage, towards portraying civilization with its fangs and wounds. Misra’s writing attacks the time, society, oppressors and even himself, and desecrates contemporary myths, dogmas and values. He plays with form, not to befool readers but to reveal the hidden power latent in language. The centrality of language and style in Misra’s writing make him difficult to translate.
V. Ramaswamy is a Kolkata-based business executive, grass-roots organizer, social planner, teacher and writer.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Preface: My Sansness
The Golden Gandhi Statue from America
Uncle Seer
The Camel
The Bird
The Money Tree
Times, Bad Times
The Naked Knife
Amber Light at Park Street Crossing
The Dagger
Fairy Girl
Blood
Brothers Whitty and Shitty
Commentary ’71
Bare Bones Awakened
Feeling Distant
Translator’s Acknowledgements
P.S. Section
Subimal Misra on Subimal Misra
Translating Subimal Misra’s Stories
Books by Subimal Misra
On This Translation
Copyright
Preface: My Sansness
These stories were written during the late 1960s and early 1970s, a time to cultivate the pen. At that time, I had merely ventured to explore how to employ, and how far one could employ, chiefly, the montage technique of Sergei Eisenstein in a narrative. From two or three sentences arranged sequentially, one after another, a third sense would emerge; coming out like a spark, it would hit at the readers’ aesthetic sense, and haunt their cerebral entity, if they have any; some other meaning would thus be miraculously born. I do not know how far all this has been retained here in these translations.
Ramaswamy has selected the relatively reader-friendly stories, translated them and even arranged to have the collection published. Thanks to his sincerity! What I wish to mention very specifically here to the readers of this book is that those of my writings for which I am regarded as a controversial author, an anti-establishment author, someone establishments are afraid of and stay far away from, are entirely absent here. These are neither the ‘anti-stories’ written by me during a certain phase of my life, nor am I sure whether any trace at all is to be found here of the tiresome yet tireless sojourn of my ganglionic pen till date, from ‘samizdat’ via ‘tamizdat’ to ‘magnitizdat’, and since ‘blue blouse’ through ‘aleatoric’ unto ‘degree zero’.
I had once written: ‘The bloodier the Naxalite movement in West Bengal grows, Vidyasagar’s visage gets chopped off again and again, and the more the pavements of Kolkata become infested with sex-magazines.’ During that period, I voluntarily went to teach in a place adjacent to Sonagachhi (Ahiritola), which is the largest red-light zone in Kolkata, and was also one of the dens of the Naxalites. There I was fortunate to observe, from the closest probable proximity, those women as well as their children. I do not know whether or not any impact of any of this has at all been reflected here in these stories!
In the forty-two-year span of my writing life, I have never allowed myself to print even a single letter in any daily or journal of any establishment. I have always kept myself away from all sorts of media propaganda (such as TV shows, radio broadcasts, etc.), felicitation meetings or award ceremonies (whether invited or not). And they have also remained wholly allergic to me, never risking to review any of my books throughout my entire writing life. They do not even mention my name anywhere in their papers. I am entirely an author of and exclusively for the Bengali little magazines. In the most ordinary sense, the little magazine in the Bengali language (nearly 2,200 in number) is, parallel to the establishments, a literary flow that publishes the writings of authors, keeping intact their liberty, and honouring their individuality. All the off-the-beaten-track writing in the Bengali language is published chiefly in little magazines. But the number of true little magazines (in the purest sense of the term) that have some distinguished characteristic values has lately come down to almost zero. Even here, my stand is a bit awkward: I am not a parallel writer of the establishments; rather, my writing is reactionarily counter-establishment. I do want to write, I have written, and am still writing, such pieces which even the little magazines would shudder to publish, and which the establishments will never even dare to touch. I have very distinctly conveyed in black and white that I am frightened that success might come; if it comes during my lifetime, I would think that whatever I have written is not very novel.
The stories compiled here are no more than merely samples of my maiden and earliest literary practice. The readers can do fair justice to these stories only if they consider this to be simply a staircase, ascending which one may further comprehend the latter phases of my writing.
Subimal Misra
February 2010
The Golden Gandhi Statue from America
Haran Majhi’s widow had no option. Slung a rope round her neck and died. The bloated corpse of the twenty-two-year old floated down the turbid waters of the creek. Two crows had cawed for a long time, now they would go back.
Enter a one-and-a-half-year-old boy: dark, skinny, with a badly distended spleen; whimpering, panting. A cow chewed grass beside the sheora fencing. Two old fogies expressed sadness at the boy’s misfortune. After this, they would discuss the lack of character of the wife.
‘The wife’s twenty-two-year old, firm body… many fond desires in her heart, oh dear… nothing fulfilled.’
‘Haran Majhi was an animal. If she e
ver returned late from the brahmin hamlet after selling muri, he would beat her up… beat the poor thing half-dead.’
The corpse floated down towards Kalighat. The crows following became weary. On the two sides of the creek, a wonderful sight: people had defecated near the water; a stupalike heap of the world’s garbage; sack slung on shoulder, a female rag-picker collecting paper; three buffaloes, their bodies immersed in the foul water, motionless. A dead, decomposed dog, cat, or something like that, floated by – on that too, a crow. People came to Kalighat, bathed in this water and washed away their sins. Who knows how far away Haran Majhi’s wife’s dead body was. It floated towards Kalighat.
Haran Majhi had left the wife orphaned, as the wife now left the child. ‘There’s no sin in the child’s body, a child is like god; pick it up, take it and go, you’ll be blessed,’ said someone loudly.
After Haran Majhi died, his widowed wife sold muri to feed herself and her child. Many educated people lived in the brahmin hamlet. They tended rajanigandha gardens in front of their houses, wore new clothes during Durga puja and threw money and coins to the monkey-man after watching the monkeys perform. Observing Haran’s wife’s firm body, they wanted to keep her as a paddy-husker.
Seeing the crying child, someone picked it up and held it – the drool of the mouth and mucus from the running nose had choked it – before furtively putting it down on the ground.
At the time of her entrance into the earth, Sita had said: ‘Oh Mother Earth, split open, give me shelter in your bosom.’
‘The responsibility for the stomach is a great burden, kid. You lot won’t fathom why the wife went astray,’ some people from within the crowd muttered.
A demon’s strength in Haran Majhi’s wife body, she stood like the ogress Putana at the entrance of Writers’ Building, tree-club in hand! People were paralysed by fear! Many, standing and seeing the situation was grave, began to wonder whether tickets would be available for the matinee show at Metro Cinema.
Weevils finally infested Haran Majhi’s plough. Of course, many did say it wasn’t weevils but termites that destroyed it. Because Haran Majhi had no land, he was a share-cropper on the land of the big landlords of the brahmin hamlet. With the introduction of the practice of recording share-croppers, they did not entrust Haran with their land again.
All India Radio had just announced that hungry people in procession advanced at a speed of one-hundred and eighty-six thousand miles per second.
Haran Majhi’s widow saw the entire nether region of darkness before putting a rope to her neck. Someone laid snares and caught birds. As a large raven called out – kaka – and flew away, the place became a dry desert.
When the Tartars travelled through the desert and the water was spent, and they were close to death with thirst, they killed their own camel and tried to quench their thirst with its blood.
On the boundary ridge sat the peasant’s son, merrily eating cold, stale rice with roasted chilli. Before him was a green thicket; he would stay in the hollow beneath that. A slight distance from there, the creek, on whose waters Haran Majhi’s wife’s dead body floated. And this creek flowed a great distance, went through Tollygunge and touched Kalighat.
There was a lot of commotion at the meeting about the coming elections that had been organized in front of the monument in the Maidan. Trams and buses were set on fire, and the statue of Mahatma Gandhi which stood at the intersection of Park Street and Chowringhee was somehow broken. While everyone lamented saying ‘Oh lord, what a terrible thing has happened!’ America announced they would pay for a golden Gandhi to be made and put up there!
The wife’s necklace, her last consolation. Haran had broken down and wept as he went to sell this precious possession. Of course, even the crows of the world didn’t have a clue that he had wept. ‘Widowed women’s fasting stomachs are the most auspicious places for laying babies… When the shitfuckers can’t wait any longer and take off their clothes and poke the crotch, one doesn’t remember that nothing’s gone to the stomach the whole day, that the belly is hollow. Even being born a dog would have been better than this – oh, how hateful a woman’s life is…’
Haran Majhi used to say, ‘Sons of whores, just don’t let one eat and get by anyhow.’ A few months after that, Haran died. Carrying his plough to the land, an altercation with the landlord, and that eventually culminated in bloodshed. Blood’s thinner than water. Head split in two, crimson blood gushing out, Haran had come to the veranda and fallen unconscious. He never regained consciousness. Haran Majhi’s wife, her child in her arms, stood rooted to the ground and gazed at the sight: the big, stout man rendered lifeless.
In Writers’ Building, there was a commotion. The precise reason why Haran Majhi’s wife committed suicide had not yet been found. According to the government’s calculations, this year, the state of West Bengal had a food-grain surplus! India’s prime minister said in a speech, ‘We won’t let even a single person of our country die stricken by famine… that is, of starvation…’ Some people said: ‘Rats eat up most of our food grains. If we could just eliminate the rat species, we’d be free of anxiety.’
A few jackals dragged Haran Majhi’s wife’s corpse to the bank. Tearing the stomach, they found a live baby inside. In a flash the baby rose up to the sky and shouted out:
The one who will vanquish you is thriving in Gokul!
All over India, people heard this voice, but couldn’t understand who the ‘you’ referred to.
‘Golden statue of Gandhi from America to arrive in this nation very soon!’ newspapers reported in big, bold headlines.
Western social scientists had undertaken epoch-making research, proving that people of the modern age were exceedingly chaste. Haran Majhi’s widow used to say: ‘The old fogy brahmin bastards give a few morsels to eat, and, day or night, only want to squeeze. You bastards will be mongrels in hell in the next life!’
There was a terrible furore everywhere! In the evening, the old landlord from the brahmin hamlet was about to enter his house for his evening prayers after washing his hands and feet at the pond bank, wooden slippers on his feet, when he trod on something soft. He brought a lamp and saw: Haran Majhi’s wife’s corpse! ‘Lord almighty! The whore slept with all and sundry and swelled her stomach and finally popped it in the veranda of a brahmin’s house!’ The city’s mayor got up to go to the bathroom, it was two in the morning. As he entered, he smelt a terrible, foul odour near the door. He turned on the light and saw Haran Majhi’s wife’s corpse lying there! A renowned people’s leader, who was busy the whole day with various kinds of social service, just as he was about to sit at the dining table in the afternoon – a stench. Haran Majhi’s wife’s corpse lay on the table! At dawn, as the tram driver drove the tram, he suddenly pressed a handkerchief to his nose and with exploding eyes saw the road ahead blocked. Haran Majhi’s wife’s corpse lay on the road!
The news spread throughout the city. Everyone moved around with frightened, dead-fish eyes. Under the seats in the rooms of the honourable folk… behind cupboards… on the floor of the dining room… in the darkness of the bathroom… Haran Majhi’s wife’s corpse was discovered!
The one-and-a-half-year-old destitute child cried away in some unknown woman’s bosom. The news reported that the golden Gandhi statue from America had set off for Dum Dum! Innumerable crows and vultures could be seen flying around in the sky. The citizens moved about with handkerchiefs constantly pressed to their faces. Stench pervaded the whole city. Everyone was in panic and terror. Who knew when, who, was going to fall into the clutches of Haran Majhi’s wife’s corpse!
On people’s lips now there was only talk of Haran Majhi’s widow’s corpse. In the morning, the American plane landed at Dum Dum. In every direction, all the honourable people waited. A reverential moment: the golden statue of Gandhiji was on this plane! From within the crowd it was heard: ‘Gandhi is our ideal! We venerate Gandhi.’ The one-and-a-half-year-old orphan child kept crying. Someone raised his hand and pointed to
the crows and vultures flying in the sky.
Now the wooden box was lowered, the lid was about to be opened. Our national leader extended his gloved hand to touch the golden statue of Gandhiji. The military stood in attention in state honour. The national flag of silk fluttered. Drums played to a steady beat. Many useless people craned to see what was up from afar. They were not allowed to approach.
The lid of the box was opened and, immediately, the entire mass of people present saw, to their amazement, Haran Majhi’s wife’s decomposing corpse right on top! The whole assembly was shocked. They put handkerchiefs to their noses and realized that unless Haran Majhi’s wife’s corpse was removed, they wouldn’t be able to reach the golden statue of Gandhi.
1969
Uncle Seer
Uncle Seer lived in the grove’s horse-neem tree. Everyone in the neighbourhood knew him, young and old, men and women. But no one could say exactly where he came from. When the whole region was redolent with the fragrance of neem flowers in the flowering season, Uncle Seer would sit on the highest branch, legs dangling, and say: ‘Tell me, kids, what’s the difference between the smell of flowers and the smell of shit?’ The boys did not understand; they thought it was a big joke, giggled – hee hee! – and ran away.
Uncle Seer’s big grievance was why humans did not move around on all fours, lizard-like. ‘It’s what’s best for humans,’ he said. When golden moonlight fell on the bamboo grove, he descended from the horse-neem tree and somersaulted around. With his tongue he licked the cool feeling of that array of golden leaves. Beside the bamboo grove was a pond in which frogs floated about. Walking on all fours, Uncle Seer would descend into the water. When he emerged, his body covered in mud and slime, and walked about with his chest puffed out, he really looked like some gigantic, prehistoric reptile.
The Golden Gandhi Statue From America Page 1