Wild Animals Prohibited

by Subimal Misra

  In the dead of night, the smashed body of one Monish lay sprawled across the flyover. It occurred around midnight but even at dawn no one knew about it. Many cars passed by, but nowadays who likes to get embroiled in trouble, knowingly at that? A tallish youth, and hugging him from behind, a girl dressed in black bell-bottoms and a red sweater. The road was so wide and smooth that everybody indulged their foot and pressed down on the accelerator. The motorcycle lay smashed on the flyover. Later they found the twisted, smashed, limp body of Monish lying on one side, and on another side lay Rebecca Chatterjee, unconscious, with a head injury. Monish's wife was at home then, looking at the street, anxiously awaiting him. Cruel fate, in a long, bluish-black barrel. Love does not die. Not even if one lives together forever. Absolutely everything – from the enamel bathtub in the bathroom at home to the brass handle on the door, I just love everything. Impenetrable forest in every direction. A river. The Simlijhora rest-house in the middle of the Western Ghat mountains, under the shadow of an immense tree. One could not help getting ensnared by its desolation. There was a gushing waterfall behind the bungalow. Two cane chairs on a neatly cropped grassy patio in front of the rest-house. Rebecca was sprawled in one of the chairs, and far away was Monish's motorcycle. Dry leaves fluttered in the breeze in the verandah of the bungalow.

  If harshness prevails over scintillating prose, the mercilessness of the event becomes ever more prominent. And self-opposition is part of the work process, a two-pronged process to penetrate into the character – it can also be three-pronged at times. This suspicious investigation should be there at all times.

  A girl writes: I am twenty-six … I am slim … about to take the state civil service exam. I consider it an affront to my dignity to add 'Miss' or 'Mrs' before my name. I wanted to go to Delhi last year to spend a few days with you, out in the open, but I spent all my money in three days.

  This is one side of opposition. That is, me thinking in my own way. In this process, the character keeps asking this and that. The writer feels happy. The curiosity of the character who reads not only his own part but carefully goes through the entire piece of writing naturally makes the writer happy, it makes him feel enthusiastic. All the characters sit together for discussion, they want to know the meaning of every word, what they do, why they do it – they discuss everything threadbare with the writer, and become aware. They even express their opinions. They argue. But often the writer must feel helpless. Does everyone know about that shit? It was only once that he saw the paunchy man clad in a finely pressed dhuti–punjabi get off his car in front of Victoria Memorial after eight p.m. And right then he fathomed the truth – behind the existence of all the male eunuchs of the land, the boys younger than primary school age, and all their typical customers. Rebecca had wanted to know what readers thought of them. In my opinion, the readers' gaze would always be on your black bell-bottoms and bright red sweater … actually it's very bad for a writer to race towards a particular character. They should be allowed to do their own thing.

  Suddenly, all over the country, after exhaustive searches, the police discover huge quantities of illegal firearms and many arms-producing factories. They recover freshly made country bombs and bomb-making chemicals. In just one day of seizures, almost twenty-five thousand firearms were recovered, including rifles, revolvers, pistols and pipe guns.

  Then the fellow – everyone knew him as the mastaan of the neighbourhood – said: Here, take a look, I brought these for home – a mother's shawl, a middle brother's silk punjabi, a youngest brother's wedding shoes – I'll dispose of them in the thieves' market. He said it all right but he did not really feel very comfortable about it. He was in doubt. He was unable to desist but didn't feel any better for doing it. This always happens in the binary construction of a character. They have different objections at different times. The oppositional thing was simply part of the character's working. For sure, the old bloke, the flower-chewing-and-eating old bloke, had admitted that he had a special physical relation with the person he had killed – a romantic relation. After that, both of us transformed ourselves. The romance vanished. There was something else that came in-between the bond between the two of us. As he said this, he laughed loudly. I'm the kind of person who chews and eats raw flowers. All the while, nearby, the girl's face emerges clearly. Meaning, it was she who was on the same motorcycle as Monish on this new flyover. On quite a wide road. At eleven at night. Monish had raced at great speed – he had to reach quickly. His wife Anupama was waiting for him at home. It happened just after that. But there wasn't anything else on Monish's mind, anything different … Monish stands up from among the unseen. With matching prose, he keeps falling into the pose of a speaker. I love lies. I'm happy telling untruths. I like everything that is untrue. All that's prohibited makes me blissful. It is he who now takes Rebecca and … as he reads, he keeps smoking. The characters are seated on scattered chairs, unmoving. Utilizing the opportunity, there's some candid conversation with Rebecca.

  Writer: Are you very fond of going around with boys?

  Rebecca: Of course I am … I like it…

  Writer: Have you ever gone somewhere with your boyfriend, I mean, spent the night there…??

  Rebecca: Is that terribly wrong? But that depends a lot on the situation … sometimes such things happen, you know…

  Writer: What are your views on democracy?

  Rebecca: I don't bother about politics.

  Writer: Do you keep yourself aware of all that is happening around you?

  Rebecca: I do glance through the newspaper, but I don't like politics. There's so much more in my world, it's those things that interest me.

  Writer: Don't you ever think about things you don't like?

  Rebecca: That's right, sir!

  Writer: One more thing … you know Monish is married, he has two grown children … he's happy with his marital life … despite knowing all that…

  Rebecca: Yes, I know. I've thought about it. But what of that?

  The mastaan youth stood up in the midst of the conversation, his hand in his trouser pocket, clutching an unseen revolver. He burst out: Why don't you give me a note, Mr Writer, we'll play the numbers game. He kicked the upturned clay teacup lying beside him.

  Everyone sees but no one says anything. The evenings echo, like the tang of lime in country liquor. A new anxiety-free life. Each person casts twenty to twenty-five votes. They style their hair so that it covers their ears. When the local girls' school is about to get over for the day, they hang around the kerb with their mates, they whistle. The camera pans slowly. One can see an old beggar lying dead at the end of the road. The day continues. The boys of the neighbourhood walk down the lane, carrying the old man's dead body. They chant the Lord's name. Hearing that, a housewife on the second floor automatically knocks her hand on her forehead in pranam. People crane their necks to watch the funeral procession. The red building is a blur in the light and dark of the mist – it is the morgue. Next to the morgue, the slowly trickling river. And beside the river, the cottage of peace. A clay photo frame beside the broken wall. In the corner of the verandah, an old she-goat offers her teats to her jet-black kids, and down below, a full-fledged sparkling river. A large hen accompanied by a troop of chicks runs towards the verandah. The hibiscus shrub in the courtyard is in full bloom. Pumpkins hang from the elevated pumpkin platform. An eleven-or twelve-year-old girl in a striped sari stands up and watches the train go by, far away, at the very end of the fields.

  A commotion breaks out. Nothing of who says what can be heard in the infernal din. The problem arises when I make them, the characters, sit around a table in order to try and understand them. But, but … the flower-chewing old bloke starts off, but eventually he comes. He takes a chair and sits down. Rebecca too comes and sits on one side, although she is somewhat disinterested. She mutters: So what if Monish is married … Monish too arrives, cigarette in hand. Every now and then he puffs absent-mindedly. Most of the cigarette burns out in his hand. Then
he lights another cigarette. The paunchy, non-Bengali businessman in finely pressed dhuti– punjabi comes too. He can't really figure out what's going on. But that fellow, the mastaan, does not want to come at all. He is happy to simply hang about on the neighbourhood kerb and extract gambling money from this, that and the other. With all these people … someone's a lady-killer, someone an old geezer, someone's a half-whore … but the Marwari's a homo of the highest order. The chap buys our wagon-breaking goods for the price of water, meaning he coerces us to sell – to sit on the same table as him – fuck, no! It just isn't possible to have a discussion with everyone. Whether there was any latent affinity between the persons – what may emerge in the course of discussion does not happen at all in reality. The chap stands at the kerb with a long face. Nearby, there is the sound of a country bomb exploding. Windows are being closed. People running for safety. Rebecca stands up. I have to go. I have an appointment. Will you drop me, Monish?

  The 7:55 local news wafts in from the window of the house next door. Ascending twenty yards, a huge concourse of flat stone is clearly visible. And just after that, a dark tunnel to descend through. If one descended the stairs, sticking to the edge of the stairwell, at the very end was the secret coffin-house, the most ancient neighbourhood of this ancient earth. Urine. Patrolling police vehicles. Country and English liquor. Ganja and bel flowers. The aroma of fried onions and snacks suffuse the place. Suddenly the tunnel comes to an end, and the journey of life begins. City and town, field and farm, all packed with humanity. A troop of big black ants at the base of the thick green crop of grass sets out to change location. If one were to observe them closely, one would see that they have all set out in search of high-lying land. So the rain is going to descend very soon. Set in a thicket of screw-pines, the inhabited quarter of the village gets agitated on hearing the cries of the chicken-thieving fox. Somehow, a malevolent fissure begins to accumulate within the blood. Corpses keep burning in the crematorium beside Deerslayer lake. The washerman's mule enters the mango orchard and feeds on the grass, unfazed. There's a crack in the slothfulness. The fissure keeps getting enlarged, its cold blue haze expands.

  But it's just this that's most difficult. Getting all of them together for a discussion. Making the social aspect clear to them in the course of discussion. The strength of the effort lies precisely in this, and it can overcome all existing and associated opposition. But that's what never happens. The blue haze keeps expanding. As before, the mastaan youth stands at the neighbourhood kerb, hands in his trouser pockets. Rebecca keeps going away, she takes Monish along with her. As the bulging paunch stood leaning against the Ambassador car, he said, Sir, I must leave now. Rebecca burst out laughing at the mention of the word 'abortion'. Why should I get it done? This lack of fear on her part to own up is something the writer makes special note of. As well as her habit of owning up in this fashion.

  The mastaan youth had once admitted: Do you know who made us? The country bombs were thrust into our hands. And the money came after the work was done. Hey, go and have some fun, boy! Who the fuck cut us off from normal life? It's the railway yards that now determine Bengal's politics … You don't believe me, do you? The old fogey says: My right arm is not a real one, it's just something I found. I chew and eat flowers raw. From normal life … yeah, me too … Then Rebecca hisses: Believe me, believe me, I am not afraid of the truth. Her hand still holds Monish's thumb. It's impossible to get them all together, to make them sit at one table. Although everyone came, albeit with their 'buts', the mastaan didn't come. He stands at the neighbourhood kerb, unmoving, hands thrust into trouser pockets. He observes who comes and goes. When he spots a new face, he looks carefully to assess whether it might be a fucking cop. Seeing Rebecca strutting along, he says: Why are these half-domestic females here? There's one unoccupied chair at the table, one cup of tea gets cold, it's determined. … There's the red building – the morgue. A rusted collapsible gate. All the bodies have been sent there. The night advances, the story keeps turning towards the night fairies. The same cold blue haze keeps extending. One can see Achilles and the tortoise. The race between Achilles and the tortoise. The tortoise is a thousand yards ahead of Achilles. The race begins from this position. In the time that Achilles covers a thousand yards, the tortoise covers a hundred yards. How long will it take for Achilles to catch up with the tortoise? By the time Achilles closes the thousand-yard gap, the tortoise is a hundred yards ahead. When Achilles runs a hundred yards, the tortoise has advanced by ten yards. Even when Achilles runs these ten yards, the tortoise is one yard ahead. And in this way, there is always a gap between Achilles and the tortoise, all the time, forever…

  _________________

  Babbi, 1981

  Mohandas and Cut-Ball

  Hey, look, there's Gandhi!

  A staff fashioned from seasoned bamboo in his hand, he gazed vacantly at the road in front, towards the profuse line of krishnachura trees, and the people crowded all around, threw money at him, at his standing image; they threw clinking, easy money. The same shaven head (Did Gandhiji have a shaven head? Oh, I don't know!), draped in a thin, sheet-like something, the dhuti he wore not quite touching his knees. Only if you looked carefully could you discern that his staff was not so well-seasoned and had not been pared, while Gandhi's staff had been of seasoned bamboo, finely pared and polished with oil. Cut-Ball did not hold such a finely pared bamboo in his hand.

  Who's this Cut-Ball? People have forgotten his real name. The people in Karnataka's Shimoga district know him as Drama Cut-Ball. When he was about forty or forty-two, while he'd been bathing in the river to the recitation of the Lord's name, a crocodile had chomped on his testicles. Of course, it couldn't bite away everything. He managed to recover quite a bit from its jaws. Half, or even more, was left intact. Thereafter, his name became Cut-Ball. As he often took part in drama performances, his name soon became Drama Cut-Ball. Of course, before this incident, he'd already had two sons. Otherwise, the lineage would have been a goner.

  As he grew older, Cut-Ball searched for some other means of livelihood. He even sold lottery tickets for a while. Exactly two months ago, he went to pray at an important local temple. It was the custom for devotees to shave their heads before praying at this temple. Cut-Ball shaved his head and went to pray, and when he was returning home after doing so, something funny happened. He was walking along with an unpared bamboo staff in his hand. He'd retrieved it from a heap of garbage at the temple. Seeing him, the poor urchins playing in the streets exclaimed, 'Hey! Gandhi Maharaj is coming this way,' and set off a howl, created a stir, and their parents too, hearing the shouts, streamed out from their houses and stared with amazement and disbelief at Gandhi. Perhaps some among them had actually seen Gandhiji. But their sight had lost its sharpness, they could not distinguish between true and false any more, and in particular, they had not noticed the unpared bamboo staff. Or even if they had, they had not attached any significance to the detail.

  Returning home, pondering over how he would feed himself, the incident provided a hint to Drama Cut-Ball regarding a possible source of income. Why, in this country, one could surely make a living playing Gandhi! His head was already shaven, and to make the likeness perfect he decided to get himself a pair of round, nickel-framed spectacles. Keeping a picture of Gandhi in front of him, he dressed in a knee-length dhuti, worn in the exact same way, adroitly wrapping one end of it around himself. It was just like the real Gandhi. But he did not relinquish the knotted bamboo staff. Let that be, after all it was this unpared bamboo that had proved to be providential for me. He went to the main road and stood in a Gandhi-pose for about an hour. There was the clinking of coins flung by passers-by. Quick money, grey coins. Drama Cut-Ball paid inward homage to the father of the nation, to the determiner of the destiny of India. He thought, Bapuji, don't blame me. I'm Cut-Ball, who has to make himself up like you in order to be able to eat. But I am me, and you are you. I can never become you. Don't want that either. That would be a great si
n. Not for a moment do I want to be like you, discarding this unpared bamboo and taking up a fine staff.

  After this, Cut-Ball went ahead towards an even more difficult sadhana. He wanted to stand for hours on end, one foot forward in arrested walking motion, imitating the father of the nation. For a few days at a stretch, if need be. Let there be thousands of spectators crowding around him. Let them behold that in affecting a good likeness of Gandhiji, not a muscle of his body twitched, his chest was no longer rising and falling to his breath, he stood like a replica of Gandhi, cast in stone, before the people of free India – most of whom had never laid eyes on Gandhi – even if they had, they had forgotten to distinguish between true and false. Someone actually said: Here's Gandhi No. 2. Your make-up is great, brother!

  Recently, he stood as Gandhi for seventy-two hours at a stretch, perfect make-up, perfect attire –

  – he stood at the crossroads.

  Where one's eyes go.

  Beneath his feet was green grass.

  A hint of the red of crushed brick in the gaps.

  Just this one sight at the crossroads.

  When he was like that, standing absolutely still for long stretches of time, little boys and girls went up to him, pinched him on his stomach and ran away. Some threw pebbles at him from a distance. As he stood between two red lines of trees, a skinny slum girl came up to him, holding a mug of milk that she'd brought after milking her goat. White foam still frothed on its surface. She said, 'Take it, drink it, it's not bad, it's pure, good milk.' But Cut-Ball's concentration was not broken by this. When he related this incident, he said: 'Actually they want to see if I'm the genuine Gandhi. I have to pass these tests. I don't mind.' When he heard that I was a journalist from Calcutta, from Jyoti Basu's land, who had come to interview him, he paid more attention to me. After talking about this and that, he said: 'Two unemployed sons, the younger one's eleven, he works as a teashop boy, from this age he's started smoking beedis. The wife is not in good health. I've heard one can find a job if one goes to Calcutta. Is it possible to get some kind of job, Dada? Should I send my elder son there?' As he told me about his various joys and sorrows, he was on the verge of tears. It was of great sadness to him that he had not been able to get himself a pocket-watch like the father of the nation had. 'I can barely survive with what I earn. I haven't been able to buy a pocket-watch yet. Can't be a full-fledged Gandhi without a pocket-watch, can I …?'