Raghu: Come back in.
Ash: What is it? What’s the present?
Old woman’s voice: (off) Gayatri! What time is he coming?
Ash: Can’t you give it to me tomorrow?
Raghu: No. This is the only chance you will have.
Ash: What do I have to do?
Old woman’s voice: (off) Raghu! Ae Raghu!
Raghu: (goes to door and yells out) I am busy with preparations for tomorrow! Don’t disturb me! Gayatri, see what she wants!
(Raghu shuts the door and walks slowly towards Ash. A strong wind blows in some flowers again.)
Raghu: Come and stand by the window.
Ash: No, I won’t.
Raghu: Ashwin. Ashwin Kothari.
(Raghu turns off the light. The room is now lit only by the bed lamp, and the night queen is seen in silhouette caused by the street light. It looks almost surreal. Ash walks slowly to the window. The wind continues to blow through the night queen.)
Raghu: Smell that?
Ash: How can I not?
Raghu: (gently) Yes. It is perfect. The perfect night.
Ash: It is very quiet all of a sudden.
Raghu: So it is.
(Pause)
Raghu: It is time to go to sleep.
Ash: Huh?
Raghu: It is time. You said so yourself.
Ash: Did I?
Raghu: At your grandmother’s you said.
Ash: Oh that. That wasn’t me. I told you it was someone else.
Raghu: It is your fantasy. I know about your grandmother, and your village. Gayatri tells me everything.
Ash: And . . . do you tell her everything?
Raghu: No.
(Pause)
Raghu: (adding) Only what she ought to know. And if I feel it necessary. And if circumstances force me to it. Which I am sure they won’t. Will they?
Ash: (sighing) Do what you want.
Raghu: Good. That’s settled. Now what was it you said? Or was it your grandmother? About snakes.
Ash: She said . . . she said, we mustn’t grow night queen near our house. Its fragrance attracts snakes.
Raghu: And you believed her?
Ash: Yes.
Raghu: And yet you planted one.
Ash: No. I didn’t. I imagined I did.
Raghu: Oh that’s even better! Well. You are lucky. This one is real.
Ash: (touching the plant through the window) Yes. There’s no doubt about it.
Raghu: So what do you do now?
Ash: I—I don’t understand.
Raghu: What you do every night. Not now, but . . . How old were you then?
Ash: You mean . . . the first dream?
Raghu: Yes. The first time.
Ash: Oh. Maybe thirteen, fourteen. No! I was fourteen!
Raghu: How are you so sure?
Ash: Because that is the day I saw . . . No! I won’t tell you.
Raghu: So you are fourteen. And this is the day you’ve seen something you won’t tell me.
Ash: Yes. It is night now.
Raghu: Good. Go on.
Ash: It is time to go to sleep.
Raghu: Be my guest. Go on.
(Ash looks at him. He walks to the bed and lies down on it. The light from the bed lamp puts the focus on his face. Raghu begins to pluck some of the blooms. The wind blows again. Raghu goes to Ash.)
Raghu: (placing the flowers on Ash’s abdomen, one by one) The fragrance is intoxicating. It puts you to sleep.
Ash: Hmm.
Raghu: And . . .
Ash: (closing his eyes) I don’t know now.
Raghu: And you dream.
Ash: Yes. That I do.
Raghu: Tell me your dream.
Ash: I—I can’t.
Raghu: You talked about it earlier.
Ash: That was different.
Raghu: Why?
Ash: You didn’t know me then.
Raghu: I don’t know you. I don’t know who you are. So tell me.
Ash: (with some difficulty) I dream that I am sleeping under the shrub. The night is warm, although it has rained. The shrub is of course in full bloom. I look up and I can see the bunches of tiny white flowers. Hundreds of them. And I see the snake. Amidst the flowers. Drinking in the fragrance, like I do. I smile at the snake. He comes down and moves up my legs. He curls up on my abdomen. I am aroused. Like I was aroused that morning when I saw my brother lying on his bed, stroking himself. I watched . . . I watch. The snake turns into a human being. A man. A beautiful man. My brother. My brother makes love to me. And I cry. I am filled with pleasure that I cannot contain . . . I burst with joy. A fountain erupts. Tears and semen flow. My brother vanishes. The snake moves away. The shrub grows. The flowers fade away, leaving nothing.
(Ash opens his eyes and looks up at Raghu. Raghu moves closer to Ash.)
Raghu: So. You see who you are. Don’t you?
Ash: (turning away from him) That is not all!
Raghu: There are more dreams?
Ash: Nightmares! Living ones. Real, not fantasy! Don’t you want to hear them too?
Raghu: No. All I wanted you to do was admit you are gay. You may go now.
Ash: Don’t! You hate me, don’t you? Go on, say it!
Raghu: I pity you.
Ash: Who are you to feel superior? You think you have it easy? Just because you have this—(gesturing to the room and bed) this arrangement, this set-up. Just because you are smart enough and strong enough to defend yourself, you have a sister who understands you, you have a secure job and all that, it doesn’t make you an . . . (stopping) Yes. It does make you superior somehow. You can tell the world to fuck off.
Raghu: (sincerely) I am sorry.
Ash: He beat me up.
(Pause)
Raghu: You don’t have to talk about it, I understand.
Ash: My brother beat me up. I slept with him the next day. I wanted it. For real. I should have been happy just dreaming about it . . . He hit me hard. The next evening, he took me out. To the park. He showed me those guys, looking around, waiting for a sexual partner. A stranger. He told me how unhappy and miserable they were. They looked unhappy and miserable to me. And ugly. And I didn’t want to be a part of that. I didn’t want to be so ugly and repulsive! In my brother’s eyes, they were worse than lepers. And I was my brother’s favourite. In his eyes, I didn’t want to be so ugly. Walking alone at night in a park eyeing strange men. Waiting at corners for someone to stop and stare. Following a man into the bushes. Unloading my burden as quickly as possible. Pulling up my pants and walking away before I could feel the shame. Going home as if nothing had happened. Till the next evening. (Tearful) I saw! You asked me to see myself? I saw myself in my brother’s eyes and I wanted to die. I promised my brother I would change. I told him to help me. I wanted him to help me get out of the hell. (Looking at him) I hate myself.
Raghu: You shouldn’t have asked your brother for help.
Ash: I should have asked you. Where were you when I needed you?
Raghu: I was right there. But you didn’t look for me. You looked for your brother.
Ash: It is too late now.
Raghu: Bullshit.
Ash: I will marry Gayatri.
Raghu: Why?
Ash: I don’t want to be ugly any more.
(Raghu goes up to him and slaps him.)
Raghu: Look at me.
Ash: I don’t want to! You are ugly too.
Raghu: (shouting) Look at me! I am your brother. I am the one you dreamed of. And you look ugly in my eyes! Oh yes! You are ugly. And you will be uglier. Pretending to love her—
Ash: I do.
Raghu: (ignoring him) Pretending that she turns you on. That you are in love with her. That everything will be all right after marriage. Such pretence! And when you sleep with her, you will be groaning extra loud with pleasure, shutting your eyes, thinking of your snake god or whatever, and penetrating her with those images in your mind. Pretending, pretending all the fucking way!
Tha
t’s really shitty ugly! And in case you can’t make those wonderful fountains erupt, she will look at you, questioning you. And you will be ugly enough to lead her to believe that she isn’t good enough. That she doesn’t satisfy you. You will watch her being filled with self-doubt. And you will give your ugly sympathy to her. You will say to her it’s all right, you still love her. And she will be grateful to you! That’s ugly! See that! See all that and tell me if that isn’t ugly.
Ash: No! That won’t happen! I know it won’t!
Raghu: (drowning him) That is not ugly, that is simply repulsive. Hideous! To think it won’t happen. You stink!
Ash: (running to the door) I don’t believe you! I refuse to believe you!
Raghu: (stopping him from opening the door) Why didn’t you say that to your brother? You should have refused to believe him!
Ash: How could I? He is my brother!
Raghu: You don’t exist for your brother! You are ugly to him! He doesn’t want an ugly brother.
Ash: (gasping loudly) No! Noooo!
Raghu: (not letting him off) But he is ugly too. Why don’t you think of him as ugly? In your eyes, he should be ugly.
Ash: (hoarse with crying) But I love him! I love him!
Raghu: (shaking him) But you never asked him to change. Why didn’t you beat him when you saw him masturbating? Why didn’t you beat him up when you saw him with his girlfriend? Why didn’t you tell him that unless he slept with a man, he is as ugly as a leper? Why didn’t he go down on his knees and plead with you to help him? Why?
Ash: I need some air! Why isn’t there any air in this room?
(Ash goes to the window and starts to pull at the shrub.)
Ash: Get rid of this plant! The smell is stifling me!
(Ash starts tearing down the shrub. Raghu watches him.)
Ash: Get rid of this! I will be able to breathe again! Help me! Why won’t anyone help me! (Ash grows weaker as he pulls at more flowers and branches. Finally, he is just hitting at the plant blindly. He gives up after a while, totally exhausted. Ash falls to his knees, spent.)
Ash: God! Why won’t you help me? God!
Raghu: God won’t.
(Ash looks up at him. Pause)
Ash: (rising) But you will.
Raghu: I don’t know. I am just as scared as you are. I too am looking for help—from you. Help me.
(They move towards one another. They embrace. Holding on to each other tightly.)
Ash: Help me, Raghu.
Raghu: Help me, Ashwin.
(They begin to kiss.)
Old woman’s voice: (off) Raghu! Ae Raghu! What are you doing?
(Raghu begins to laugh. His laughter grows. Ash joins him in the laughter.)
Old woman’s voice: (off) Raghu!
Raghu: (shouting) I am playing, Mother! At last I am playing!
(They move clumsily to the bed, still laughing. They grow silent for a while, looking at each other.)
Raghu: We should give each other the chance to bloom—at least at night.
(They sit cross-legged on the bed, facing one another, just looking at each other, too excited now to do anything. Slow fade-out. Fade-out last on the night queen.)
Gandu Bagicha
Namdeo Dhasal
I
No flower
No leaf
No tree
No bird
Only kama’s play
Musk scent
The sound of dry leaves underfoot
Omy love, O the beauty of gardens!
What shall I say
Your full-throated weeping
Morning and night
Silence
And homeguard parades
A romeo
A Councillor
Yellamma’s dancing skirts
An all India Women’s Conference.
Street whores
and gold
Political crows sitting on a branch
The drug addict
Pickpocket, thief
The destroyed jungle of a pained heart
Gandu Bagicha Gay Gardens
What sorrow shall you sing
Boys have become that way now
Praise and blame
Consciousness and torpor
The darkness of doom
The golden shore
The deafening roar of chaos
and the death of doom
The stigma of a secret love
Its life
The dead of separation
The sympathetic grave
Loveliness and magic fear
Behind every word lurks a shamed face
Shall I take you nakedly on a bed?
Gandu Bagicha
The unsatiated lust of Yakshas
I wear your crown
of radiant
African pain
My hurt heart is closed
Words don’t open its doors
Banners and complaints
A bad poet like me
speaks in vernaculars
There’s no recognition
no revelation
Pain peers out of a black burkha
Your life underfoot
Eternity’s stork flutters its wings under a tree
Let me take in the womb-darkness of mud
My dreams are shattered
Let me stay naked
Wipe me with the sky and cast it away like a rag
The shroud of leaves lies in your front yard
The alphabet lost to you
lies among the cemetery’s pigs
Isn’t it nice to become a eunuch
(your hair in womanly tresses)
To be fucked at midnight by a stud?
Sister, one day he too will die, paralysed
It’s only us who are infatuated with our own beauty
The horsemen of the apocalypse flee
Graveyards sprout flowers
Ibsen’s doll is a married Hindu lady
The terror of the labyrinth
Let us spill our seed on each other
Then I’ll kiss your closed lips
Your sallow body I colour with my wings
You do not wish to open your sorrow’s door
sitting silent under a tree
Should I wear shoes on lame legs?
Should I bell the cat?
Should I slay reality:
Light a lamp between a beginning and an end?
II
I’ve forgotten the garden
Ofriend! Fry my torn heart and serve it on onions
Laxman fills my pocket
The Nawab of kababs feeds me
Time sweeps away the dust
in two worlds
Loneliness has been touched
Time’s worm
Time’s blind cockroach eats mud senselessly
autumn touches with its leaves
Illusion’s condom burst
What then are you wearing
on this thing in your trousers?
I’ve forgotten the garden
Ofriend! fry my torn heart
and serve it on onions.
III
Not a soul on the street
Where are you hurrying?
You’ve been touched
by a first touch
Donkeys wag tails
Birds raise an alarm
The flowers have answered you on Death
On victory’s star sleeps many a ghost
At the brothel you lost Galileo’s pendulum
The widow gladdens her heart
The cripples play kabaddi
The lame sleep under rags
The leper cracks what’s left of his knuckles
Homosexuals screw each other
to the strains of the nation’s anthem
The street is soulless
you alone hurry along it.
Translated by Hoshang Merchant and the poet
Moonlight Tandoori
R. Raj Rao
1
During the last three months of my stay in England, I left the University of Warwick and moved into a room above the Moonlight Tandoori restaurant in the city of Coventry. University rules permitted a student to stay on campus for only the first year of his academic programme, and since I was on a one-year fellowship that commenced in January, I had to leave at the beginning of Michaelmas to make room for freshers. The months of October, November and December, when England’s weather got increasingly fouler, I had to fend for myself; and accommodation being a tough and expensive affair, especially for foreign students from Third World countries, it was with the help of an Indian professor teaching at Warwick (I dare not mention his name) that I landed up at the Moonlight Tandoori, bag and baggage.
Moonlight Tandoori. Funny name for a restaurant, but then most Asian restaurants in Britain have names like that, catering to romantic notions about the subcontinent. But the name wasn’t the only strange thing about the restaurant; there were other things too. Take the layout. There was no direct approach to my room from anywhere; to get to it, I had to wade through the over-full kitchen, making my way amid pots and pans and food in different stages of preparation. In the mornings when I left for the university, these and occasionally a couple of gambolling mice were my only hosts bidding me goodbye. But in the evenings when the restaurant opened, there were the cooks and waiters as well, who greeted me in a mixture of Hindi and English.
I soon discovered that my room on the first floor was surrounded by several other abandoned rooms, all in a state of disuse, full of junk. There was one, however, almost adjacent to mine, that housed an ornate dressing-table, and it was in this room that I made friends with him, as he sat in front of the gilded mirror, smoking, admiring his lovely hair.
His first act, as I peeped through the slightly ajar door, was to put out his cigarette and stand up in deference to me, a teacher almost twice his age. But once I assured him that I did not mind if he smoked, that I’d be happy if he treated me as an equal, his confidence was restored, and he offered me a cigarette and told me a little about himself: how, although only seventeen, he had come from Sylhet in Bangladesh to make money and send to his parents; how he hated life in England and hoped to return to Sylhet soon; how he picked up all the Hindi he knew from the Bombay movies that he saw on video, and English from his chums at school.
Though he told me his name on the very day we became friends, it took me a while to remember it. At first, I simply referred to him as the little chap, for his smooth face and swollen cheeks indeed made him a bonny baby. Then I started calling him by his name, Khalid. Initially, I was even put off by his friendliness. Rather, I was suspicious. He came to my room a few days after we’d met and asked for my transistor radio, which I grudgingly gave. He said he wanted to listen to it in the kitchen while cooking. I was sure he was going to ask me for money, and I rarely lend money to fellahs.
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