Everyone in the group was crestfallen. All of them were tired and dejected. They sat down beside the rail line and tried to think. No one said anything. Bhutu thought it would have been better if they hadn’t come out like this to see the flight of birds. Would have been better if they’d tried to find a fishing rod, bait and a river and gone fishing instead. He saw the setting sun’s light die in front of his eyes. Some people enthusiastically picked up the fallen feathers from here and there. ‘There definitely used to be birds here. Here’s proof.’ Bhutu fluttered the feathers. Everything inside him changed. He lifted his face and looked in the direction of the rail line. He looked at the broken bridge below and the dry riverbed beneath the bridge. There was water once in this river. There were birds here. But not any more. Someone said, ‘The bird-hunters have killed all the birds.’ Another said, ‘No, there are forests further south. There’s a river there, there’s a lot of greenery there. The birds have flown there.’
Bhutu didn’t like all this. It would have been better not to have come here, only to feel so sad. It would have been fantastic if they’d found fishing gear and bait and a river and gone angling instead. His head was filled with old memories. He hadn’t hugged the naked boy they had passed by. He hadn’t asked the ghomta-drawn women where their father’s home was. He hadn’t touched and felt the black calf with the bell. Sadness filled his heart. It grew. Unable to bear it any more, Bhutu stood up.
Bhutu stood and looked at the rail line, at the steel tracks. The last rays of the setting sun had left the sky. Darkness had descended all around. In that semi-darkness, Bhutu was filled with a desire to find a lot of things. He wished he could search once more in the dark hollows of the broken bridge for the clay doll he had lost as a child. He was sure he had lost the doll here, in this very darkness. Trusting his weight upon the broken, whittled-away bridge, he descended. His mind was filled with a host of memories from times past. The others continued to sit beside the rail line. They cautioned him: ‘Don’t go down there, its dangerous.’ But he couldn’t hear their warnings. He climbed down, descending step by step. He thought he would surely find the lost doll of his childhood among the hollows of the ancient bridge’s ruins.
Descending from the suspended bridge, Bhutu stepped on the ground below. The earth was still soft. There was water here not so long ago. He touched the dry moss on the bridge. He put his hand to his nose to smell the fragrance. A kind of cold, moist, earthy smell. He thought that if he searched around like this for a while, he would surely find his lost doll. Walking sure-footedly, he went deeper and deeper into the semi-darkness. More dense darkness there. He held on to the moss-covered wooden bridge and advanced. The others called out from above, ‘Don’t be stupid, Bhutu! Come back! It’s dangerous there!’ But their warnings didn’t reach his ears. He carried on, entering into greater darkness. He kept searching. Suddenly, his ankle hit something hard. He thought he’d found the lost doll of his childhood. He picked up the object and brought it to his eyes to recognize it. Even in that impossible darkness he could clearly see that it was a dead bird. Its breast was pierced by steel. As he stroked and gazed at it he recalled he had been a hunter ever since his childhood days. He used to kill birds with small balls. Trembling with excitement, Bhutu realized that it was not steel but a pellet of burnt clay that was embedded in the dead bird’s breast.
1971
The Money Tree
Two-and-a-half vulnerable humans reached the shelter of the red light on Park Street after walking long. Pointing excitedly at the red neon advertisement that hung like an icon over their heads, the girl exclaimed to the man, ‘Look! Look how it’s suck’d up the heart’s blood!’ The baby began to cry. A spring breeze wafting down from the Maidan floated by, touching the two-and-a-half humans.
On that smooth-surfaced road, they saw a donkey, white in colour, lying dead. That really white donkey, against the black tarmac, four legs splayed high, was visible from far away. But despite seeing it, no one looked at it. The cars skirted it and passed by. The people walked by, handkerchiefs pressed to faces. Those without handkerchiefs held their noses with their fingers and went by that place.
They went close to the donkey. They saw a stream of red blood that had flowed from its ear, wetting the road. Now that had dried up and the blood’s colour couldn’t be discerned any more. They saw the pupils of the upturned eyes of the donkey. They saw a fly sitting near its belly. The stomach was horribly bloated. They wondered how the donkey came to be here, on this road. But their hunger-crazed minds didn’t worry about such things for long.
The man grabbed the infant from the woman’s bosom and started begging near the cars that stopped at the red light: ‘Babu, just-a-penny!’… The man then had to undertake various acts using his vocal chords and limbs, like hunching up his whole body and bringing his voice to a whining cry, and that utterance had to be relentless because until the ‘Babu, just-a-penny!’ cry drove the people in the cars to despair, they’d not fling him a coin or two. Sometimes, he would have to hit his empty belly. This circus act was vital to prove that he’d really not eaten, or wasn’t being able to eat and, thanks to it, some people would be moved to pity, or assailed by this sound, and throw out some coins.
Apart from doing all this, those two-and-a-half humans also did other things. The woman would lay the baby on the pavement and lie down beside it; the man would shriek and try to grab the attention of the pedestrians: ‘Haven’t eaten. Here, babu, two-pennies!’ Performing all this, on and on, they’d get a few coins. People still indulged in charity in order to achieve pious merit.
Since the evening was advancing, a cool breeze from the Maidan wafted down and passed by, touching them. The baby began whimpering in hunger. The woman pressed the infant to her bosom and gazed blank-eyed at the darkness of the Maidan, at the people on the road, at the trams and buses, at the few youths walking along, looking furtively at her exposed bosom out of the corner of their eyes. She just gazed on.
After a while, their eyes settled upon the white donkey. A few dirty, skinny boys wearing loincloths came and cut out flesh from that dead donkey’s carcass. The girl pointed this out to the man and the two of them gaped at that sight. Soon, there was a crowd of greedy humans. All of them came and cut away meat from that carcass, quickly finishing off the white donkey. They too were tempted. They said something like this:
‘People’re eatin’ white donkey’s meat!’
‘I can see people’re eatin!’
‘Mussay, white donkey’s amazin’, dear!’
Jostling and pushing through the crowd, they tried to get in, and once in, they saw the donkey was almost laid bare. They thought: ‘We shouldn’t delay any more. Everyone’s eating it, why not try some ourselves?’ They somehow cut off a bit of the leg and came away.
The man took a bite. The woman took a bite. Biting into the white donkey’s leg, there was blood around their mouths. They said to each other:
‘Kill’d ’n ate crow once!’
‘How is it?’
‘Hey, it’s sweet!’
‘Nah, it’s bitter!’
‘It’s bitter then!’
‘Nah, sweet!’
‘Mussbe sweet, then!’
‘What’s eaten with the hungry mouth’s sweet!’
As the girl, crazed with hunger, chewed and ate the flesh and bones, two people from across the Maidan crept up like foxes. They stopped under a tree and closely observed their behaviour and movements, especially the girl’s youthful body. And because they were standing concealed in the relative darkness under the canopy of the tree, one couldn’t guess whether they were decent folk or lowly folk, loafers or pimps. Treading warily, they gradually advanced, looked all around, and then gestured to the couple to come towards the darkness.
Though they were somewhat startled at first, eventually they went up to the two men. Their eyes gleaming like foxes, the men studied them. They looked more at the girl. After that, they asked where their village was. They replie
d. They wanted to know how long they had been beggars. They replied. Then, pausing somewhat, and affecting a cough, they finally asked whether they desired pots and pots of money.
Hearing this, the couple just stared agog. One of the men then lightly patted the girl’s bare back and, pointing to the region of darkness in the Maidan, said, ‘There’s a money tree there! Shake it and it rains down! If you’d like to gather some, come along!’
They were scared. They wanted to, but weren’t brave enough. The two men then emboldened them: ‘Don’t be afraid! You’ll come to no harm!… All this money… a money tree!’ Seeing that the man and woman were still frightened, the men put up an act in front of the girl: ‘All this money! Pots of money! A money tree! And when you’ve got money, you won’t have to beg! You won’t have to eat the rotten flesh of a dead donkey! You can eat two square meals a day!’
Going on like this, when the men saw the girl’s eyes lit bright with desire, they knew it was time. They thrust the infant into the man’s arms, caught hold of the girl’s arm and pulled her along. ‘Hey boy, you stand here with the baby. I’ll show your wife the money tree and be back.’ Without waiting for any response, they dragged the girl by her arm into the fold of the darkness. The man simply stared, benumbed, at the dark clump in the Maidan.
Like foxes, the two men swift-footedly reached the centre of the darkness. The girl realized that she was almost entirely enveloped by the darkness. There were so many lights and people all around. She could see all of them, but no one could see her. The men said, ‘You ate the white donkey’s flesh. There’s still some blood on your lips, wipe it off!’ And saying this, one of them took out a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her mouth. The girl gazed vacantly. The men cleared their throats and, fluttering their eyelashes and affecting pious demureness, said, ‘The money tree is a precious resource! You can’t touch it at just any odd time or in just any way you please. You can only touch it when you’re entirely bare. Take your sari off, girl!’
The girl just stared at them. She didn’t quite understand what was happening. The men then started taking off their clothes. They said, ‘Here, look, we’re taking it off too!’ The girl didn’t quite understand what was happening. Then, unable to control themselves any longer, the two men didn’t bother about courtesies any more. They tugged at the girl’s torn, dirty sari.
The girl was completely naked under that undifferentiated darkness. Of course, she didn’t really feel anything, because she had lost all sensation besides hunger. She had long ago lost even the sense of shame at being naked in front of men.
The red neon continued to glow in the heart of the metropolis. The radiance of that colour spread far. Perhaps that glow would light up her face as well. She just stared into the red hue. Maybe she thought about something. Maybe she didn’t. Or maybe she didn’t think like this.
The southern breeze came and touched her body. The night’s chill floated by her uncovered body. Indifferent to everything, she peered into the faces of the two men to find a trace of the money tree.
1970
Times, Bad Times
Waking up, Adri’s eyes first go to the tabletop and then to the letter in red print kept there. Mind blank, Adri gazes at it for a long while. Eventually, he realizes how futile it is for him to just gaze at it like this.
Adri then turns his eyes and looks at the calendar. The picture sways in the gentle breeze. Twenty-second of April, 1967, sways. How much time is left now? It must be seven, half past seven. It will begin at nine in the evening – some fourteen hours or so remain. In these fourteen hours, he has to decide about the present – no, not a present, a gift of love.
Want a cigarette! He picks up the cigarette pack with his left hand and lights one. He doesn’t feel like getting out of bed just yet. He puffs on the cigarette a few times and blows the smoke out into the room. Isn’t everything he values slowly coming to an end – ambition, joy, health, poetry, Ramola…? What remains, other than just this Charminar? He looks at the cigarette and laughs.
Adri laughs away. Holding the cigarette near his ear – there is a kind of hiss of the cigarette burning which he really likes to hear. It also strikes him that it is as if life itself is burning away with the sound.
Adri’s eyes stray – here and there. Searching for something all over the room and not finding it, they wander around restlessly. Bright sunlight outside, but he doesn’t feel like getting up. Just lying, clinging to the bed. Adri realizes he isn’t in good shape nowadays. Long ago, he used to worry about this, not so now. What is the use of worrying unnecessarily about oneself? As long as it runs, let it, after that, one day, pop, die without anyone knowing. No demands from anyone, no dues. But is it really so? Is the world really so bereft for him? Adri tries to take his mind to another subject. Being exposed before oneself is a frightful thing.
The morning advances. Adri is still lying in bed. And as he lies, he keeps thinking. Ramola once said, ‘Look, this unworldly attitude of yours towards everything will destroy you.’ He didn’t think about this so seriously then, now he understands. He realizes how true this is, and how cruel. If someone said that Adri killed himself, it wouldn’t be untrue. Yet there wasn’t really any reason behind this, it wasn’t inevitable.
Lying in bed and thinking – Adri is doing too much of that these days. Simply too much. Why is he winding up his life? Job! So many people can’t get jobs – but how many people waste their lives like this? Nobody has all his aspirations fulfilled, that isn’t possible either. But no one leaves everything and idles because of that. Didn’t Ramola speak about this to him so many times? ‘Look, Adri, do something. How much longer can we go on like this?’
He didn’t reply to that. Eyes eager, Ramola looked intently at him, waiting for some response. ‘Say something, Adri, at least say yes, or no, or anything.’ He silently puffed away at a cigarette, and the lengthening shadows of twilight over the waters of the Ganga deepened. He thought about it. Actually, no reply was possible in such matters. He certainly tried. If he didn’t get a job, what could he do? If he got a job, he was willing to marry Ramola. But if he didn’t, well then, what more could he do? And as far as Ramola was concerned, well, he had never asked her to come close to him – neither did he have a hand in her going away.
Perhaps each day was insufferable for Ramola. He could understand that. She said, ‘You’re terribly cruel, Adri, stone-hearted, there’s no life in you. No compassion, tenderness, love, affection – nothing whatsoever.’ Actually, maybe that is the truth. Every human feeling in him has been exhausted, is coming to an end. But what was Adri to do? He didn’t blame Ramola either. She had borne a lot. She had waited patiently for him so many times. How many times did Adri fail to keep an appointment? So many times he didn’t even speak properly to her because he didn’t feel like it. How many times had she waited in front of a cinema hall, looking repeatedly at her watch, and finally crushed the two tickets into a ball and thrown it away angrily and returned home, face smarting, then fallen to her bed and sobbed her heart out?
Meeting him after that, she fiercely asserted her right to demand a proper explanation, she wanted to know. In reply, Adri merely affected a smile: ‘I didn’t feel like it, so didn’t come.’ Adri realizes how such an explanation would have hurt a woman’s heart, but he was helpless, he had no option. He could have made up something, but what was the point? Rather, it was as well that Ramola became acquainted with this aspect of his character, which was best for both of them. How long could it continue after that? Adri had realized it wouldn’t last much longer like this, it couldn’t.
And it didn’t. Ramola gradually stopped coming, stopped meeting him and, ultimately, all contact was erased. And after so long, suddenly, yesterday evening, this letter, Ramola’s wedding invitation. Adri gazes for a long time at the colourful letter in red print. His mind wanders again and again, but he doesn’t want to be exposed in his own eyes. That would be a terrible thing.
It is getting late, must b
e half past eight or nine, he should get up now. But what is to be achieved by getting up? Adri continues lying and brooding. Would be nice to get a cup of tea! But he is just as fine without it too. Adri lights another cigarette. Actually, this laziness, this lying silently in bed, is his only consolation. Puffing at his cigarette, he sees the spider’s web on the wall. The walls of this room haven’t been whitewashed in ages. In many places, the plaster has broken away, leaving ugly, gaping holes. But Adri is unable to focus his mind on such things.
His eyes keep darting to yesterday’s letter. Has Ramola invited him in order to hurt him? Or just like that? She knows someone in this world called Adrikumar Roy, she has thought it fit to invite him, and so she has. Since yesterday evening, he has been experiencing a great unease, he hasn’t slept well at all at night. Adri realizes he isn’t being able to deal with this as easily as he should have. Somewhere, something is happening, is about to happen. However much he tries to be indifferent to everything, somehow he isn’t quite able to.
All night long, he has had a bizarre dream. A dark-skinned man had signalled to him to come for coffee; he had descended, for a long time, down a stairway, towards some underground chamber. Eventually, they had reached a cold, dark chamber. He and that boy had been drinking coffee. Suddenly, the room was filled with terrible smoke. Adri had tried to escape, but couldn’t find the stairs. Smoke everywhere, he was choking in the smoke, and amidst that smoke he had been searching frantically for the stairs. Adri tries to remember the dream. Why did he have such a dream? Did it point to some repressed desire in his subconscious?
The plain truth is that howsoever indifferent he tries to be, he had felt just the opposite in the dream. In his bid to survive, he had been searching frantically, like a madman, for the stairs. Adri doesn’t want to think any more. He knows well enough that there will be no way out if he is exposed before himself.
The Golden Gandhi Statue From America Page 3