Song of the Red Road

An unbound auburn road bears songs not washed away by the gust of time; songs the sage poet sang to extol the road’s hypnotic effect on the weary traveler’s mind. The road lives, the songs live, too. The road and its songs are one now.

That ruddy road down the village makes my heart stray.
Who does the hand reach out to, only to roll over the dust?

The road makes its own way, unrestricted and haphazard and comes to meet its friend, the giant banyan tree. She knows the sun likes to play behind it, splashing its gleam through the banyan’s curtains.

When I first met that banyan tree, its leaves were the green color of spring. The sky’s fugitive light would flash through its gaps and embrace earth’s shadows on the grass. After that ashadh’s rain came; like the clouds its leaves became somber. Today the pile of leaves is akin to the mature intelligence of the elderly, no outside light can pervade its gaps… This morning, she said to me, dangling her enormous emerald necklace, “Why are you sitting with all those bricks and stones on your head? Come all out in the open like me!”

After sharing her pleasure-pain tales with the banyan, the red road curves toward the shal forests. There, inebriated trees oscillate on the wayward wind’s notes.

This felt nice, this dance of light on leaves
The wild shalbon storm makes my heart quiver.
Haat commuters dart through the auburn road,
A little girl sits alone on the dust and spreads her toys
All this that I see before me strikes the cords of my heart’s veena.

The sun has stopped its play for the day. Dusk joins the red road as she makes her way to commune with her people—those who know the soil and the forests as dear friends. Santhal villagers greet the road with their earthy smile and rustic songs.

The Santhal girl comes and goes
through the pebble-strewn road by the Shimul tree.
A thick sari tightly wraps her dark, slim body.
One of god’s absent-minded artisans
must have lost his way while creating a black bird
and perusing ingredients from monsoon’s clouds and lightning
fashioned that woman.

Then night comes—with the glow of intermittent fireflies flickering through the invisible marshes along pale green ponds. The auburn road doesn’t stop. It continues to sing—all out in the open—where day and night, past and present, work and play are enmeshed with the One.

All of the above is a languid reminiscing of my journey to Shantiniketan in March.

Note: All quoted text written by Rabindranath Tagore, translated feebly by Bhaswati Ghosh.

The End of Cold War (Short Story) -- Part II

By Subodh Ghosh

Read Part I

The college hasn’t closed; neither have the train times changed. The five past ten arrives and leaves every day. Mr. Ticket Checker checks passengers’ tickets near the gate in the same fashion. A month has passed; yet the colored sari’s border isn’t seen waving along the gate.

Nevertheless, Bhagyalakshmi and Ashirbad still face each other with the same ferocity, standing in opposite rows. Nitai inhales his tobacco slowly; Ramcharan chews on his roasted grams without a blink. Neither passes even a slight smile at the other. There is still no exchange of words between them.

Passengers come in so many types. Bhagyalakshmi and Ashirbad, too, ferry tons of travelers. From station to market, market to town. However, this labor is nothing more than mere labor. Bhagyalakshmi and Ashirbad’s horns boom out of sheer habit. The blare doesn’t rouse with the joy of a victory song.

As usual, the five past ten train arrives at the station. It’s late by ten minutes. The swarming crowd of passengers rushes in through the gate. And…Nitai’s eyes light up. Ramcharan’s face quavers. Both rickshaws—Bhagyalakshmi and Ashirbad suddenly shiver. A colored figure is seen to excitedly bypass Mr. Checker, and is seen heading this way.

The tinted face can be identified even through the gaps in the thick crowd. That girl. Nitai gets a firm grip on his cycle’s handle. Ramcharan strikes his seat to shake off the dust and lifts a restless foot on the paddle. The horns of Bhagyalakshmi and Ashirbad blow desperately.

Within moments, a puzzling blow starts to dampen this rush of resentment between the two rickshaws . Bhagyalakshmi’s horn sobs; Ashirbad’s quivers like a cracked throat.

The girl’s appearance has changed. A vermillion strip colors her hair’s parting; there is a veil on her head. She isn’t wearing those small earrings any longer. A huge pair of kanpashas adorns her ears. The girl isn’t alone. There’s someone with her. A young man. He is donning a silk shirt and a Farasganga dhoti. New shoes in the feet. Three rings on the fingers.

The man holds the girl’s hand. He smiles and so does she. Both come this way. Suddenly, they stop. It is as if they cannot see the two rows of rickshaws on the stand. They don’t even cast a single glance on them—not the girl, not her male escort.

They pause in front of a taxi. Before even a minute passes, Sanatan’s shiny new taxi races away on the road, cutting between the two rows of rickshaws, scattering a cloud of smoke all over the place. The girl has left, along with her male companion.

The smoke and burnt petrol smell coming off Sanatan’s new taxi don't hang heavy in the air for too long either. A gust of wind comes and sways the curtains of Bhagyalakshmi and Ashirbad.

All rickshaws leave with passengers. Pakshiraj, Mon re Aamar, Urboshi, Koto Moja, Joy Ma Kali, Pranaram, Shukh-Shanti, and Chol re Chol. Only Bhagyalakshmi and Ashirbad stand quietly, facing each other.

It’s as if fatigue and lethargy have suddenly gripped both the rickshaws. No resentment, none of that colliding resolve. None of them fidgets.

Ramcharan says, “Hey, Nitai, mind giving me a bidi?”

“Here,” Nitai says.


THE END

The End of Cold War (Short Story) -- Part I

By Subodh Ghosh

Translated by Bhaswati Ghosh

A mere mention of the station’s name would make it clear to just about anyone which place is being referred to and how far it is from Calcutta.

Rayer Haat station. One needs to travel about a mile from here to reach the city crowds. There’s a market. A look at the market reveals there must be a mid-sized town nearby, a town that has everything. Court, hospital, theater, college. If one stands close to the market, the names of the roads become visible along with their appearances. College Road, Hospital Road and so on. Even from this distance, the advertisement jingle blaring out of the theater loudspeaker can be heard.

Only when a passenger train arrives does the station come to life with an uproar; it’s always quiet otherwise. Forever silent. At most times of day and night, the station’s life droops with a lazy drowsiness. Two big Nagkeshar trees stand on the platform. A peanut seller sleeps under them. When the sharp whistle of a train’s arrival blows, he wakes up with a start.

On crossing the station gate where tickets are checked, one comes across a staircase, which leads to a pebble-strewn area—packed with a few taxis and around ten cycle rickshaws. The clamor reaches its peak when the passengers jostle their way across the narrow gate to land at this open space. The horns of all taxis and rickshaws start blowing together, accompanied with shouts and calls. “Come here, sir…here, Ma…this way, Babu. Three annas for market, four annas for town.”

Taxis call, “Come, come. One rupee to go to the town.”

All the taxis and rickshaws get passengers. There are always a few travelers who prefer to ride the taxi and don’t hesitate to pay a rupee for a mile.

The rickshaws stand in two rows facing each other. This row includes Bhagyalakshmi, Koto Moja, Joy Ma Kali, Pakshiraj, and Mon re Aamar. That row has Chol re Chol, Shukh Shanti, Urboshi, Ashirbad, and Pranaram. Besides, this row’s Bhagyalakshmi and that row’s Ashirbad are always face to face, as if seething with wrath against each other. Bhagyalakshmi’s Nitai slowly smokes his bidi in, his eyes glaring at Ashirbad’s Ramcharan. And Ramcharan chews on roasted grams while glancing at Nitai from the corner of his eye. The other eight rickshaws display no such tussle. Karali, Bhanu, Siddiq, Girdhari and others wonder why such malice exists between Bhagyalakshmi and Ashirbad. No one understands why Nitai throws such nasty glares at Ramcharan. And why does Ramcharan answer back with his lip-biting mean stare either? It’s a mystery.

In terms of income, neither of them lags behind the other. If one of them earns less in a week, he makes up for it in the next. On days when passengers come for taking a dip in the Ganga, Nitai makes a little more money. But the very next week, Ramcharan’s rickshaw draws countless passengers to the fair.

Nitai and Ramcharan are both stout men. It’s difficult to say who would win if both actually engaged in a duel some day. Nitai wears a short shirt and a dhoti. Ramcharan dons a vest and a half pant. They appear to be of the same age as well. Between twenty and twenty-one.

For as long as these two rickshaws stay in their respective rows at the stand, facing each other, both suffer a silent anxiety. Nitai constantly looks toward the station gate. Ramcharan does, too. Passengers swarm in from the gates and scatter near the stand. They approach the rickshaws. But neither Nitai’s nor Ramcharan’s eyes betray any eagerness to grab passengers. Both of them look with great hope at the gate, expecting the arrival of someone special. Perhaps the person would come; yesterday’s arrival was by the five past ten train. Will it be a no show today?

When the ticket checker’s figure moves away from the gate, when the last passenger is seen crossing the gate, both Nitai and Ramcharan sigh with relief. The person hasn’t come. The anxiety contest lulls a bit, and both of them focus on other passengers.


Bhanu, Siddiq, and Girdhari try to figure it out. Nitai and Ramcharan are no strangers to each other. In fact, there used to a time when they were thick pals. Only since the past six months, the two have started getting distanced. Neither even wants to exchange a simple word with the other. Just six months back Bhagyalakshmi and Ashirbad would stand together in the same row. There have been occasions when on seeing Urboshi standing beside Bhagyalakshmi, Ramcharan created a ruckus, pushing Ashirbad next to Bhagyalakshmi. Bhanu would remark “Ah, it’s as if these two are Ram and Lakshman. Can’t stay without one another.”

Not every day, but at least thrice a week, a girl alights at this station from one of the passenger trains. One look at her reveals her background, the reason she comes to the Rayer Haat station on those three days, and the place she intends to reach.

She goes to the town. Carries books. All the rickshaw-wallahs know she studies in the town college.

But where does she come from? Many know that as well. Bhanu says “She comes from Jaigarh. There’s a new township at Jaigarh, near Tribeni.”

The girl comes and goes back alone. In the evening, she would board upon any rickshaw in the town to catch the five fifty train. Urboshi, Pakshiraj, or Mon re Aamar would bring her from the town.

The responsibility to take her from the station to the town, however, rests with only two rickshaws—Bhagyalakshmi and Ashirbad. Nitai clutches the cycle’s handles strong; Ramcharan’s feet get fidgety on the cycle’s paddle. Both blow their horns as if gripped by a fervent resolve.

As soon as she approaches the stand, two rickshaws leap out of the assembly of vehicles. The front wheels of the two rickshaws collide. The clash of the rickshaws blocks the road. The girl can’t move.

Not that she needs to move. Either Bhagyalakshmi or Ashirbad. One of them would speed out of the stand with its horn shaking the quiet air with a victory song and race through the roads. Empty roads. Their sides replete with small bamboo bushes and old shrines. The rickshaw runs past large mango trees, and a world of joy filled with bird chirpings. Market, College Road, College. The rickshaw’s journey stops; either Bhagyalakshmi or Ashirbad.

Bhanu laughs, “Like Nitai, like Ramcharan; both are shameless”

Siddiq consumes his khaini and says with a smile, “Both have gone crazy.”

Indeed, it is as if they have gone mad. Nitai’s sad eyes suggest that when Ramcharan takes the girl on his rickshaw with a pride and crushes Nitai’s soul with the blow of his horn. For a long time, Nitai stands with a still look. As if he has forgotten all his ability to toil and his doggedness to earn money.

The same crazed look takes over Ramcharan’s face, too. When the girl climbs up Bhagyalakshmi. A long plait dangles, on some days it is a wide knot, green slippers, and a colored sari. Sometimes it’s striped, sometimes dotted, sometimes, printed. Bhagyalakshmi races with a breeze; the girl’s earrings shake in a whirl.

The moment Bhagyalakshmi disappears into the shadows of the mango trees, Ramcharan blows the dust off Ashirbad’s seat with a thud and talks to the approaching passenger. “Where will you go? How many people? I won’t take more than two passengers, Moshai.”

Who knows what has happened? It’s been many days, nearly a month. Winter’s chill has given way to spring’s breeze. The mango trees are laden with florets. But where is that girl?

Part II

Image courtesy:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/jackol/838178/

Subodh Ghosh: Master of Shorts

Great storytellers often tell stories that can be adapted for big and small screens. Some write with that idea in mind, others just spin the yarns they must. While the unceasing debate on how sincere the moving picture adaptation is to the written work carries on, I have to admit, I came to know quite a few writers via the moving images. Subodh Ghosh is one of them.

As a regular follower of a televised series of short stories by different Bengali writers aired on one of the Bengali channels here, I noticed the stories that particularly drew me had one thing in common—their author. Subodh Ghosh’s stories would prick the psyche for days, even while other stories had an impression life of just a few hours. Thhagini or The Con Girl was the first of these stories. When I saw it, the story stunned me for its original approach to the oft-done theme of deception. In the story, a father-daughter duo lives off deceiving unsuspecting victims. Their trick is simple—they pose as a family facing abject penury, the father unable to wed his very marriageable daughter. They keep changing neighbourhoods, carrying along the same story. In every area, some kind man takes pity to their situation, and the girl gets married, usually to a prosperous man. Within the next couple of days, she smartly flees the place, not without the cash and jewelry she begets as the new bride. This keeps happening, and even as the police are desperate to catch the father and daughter, Sudha, the girl, actually falls prey to the love of her third “husband”. In bittersweet irony, she flees again and deceives again—only this time, she runs with her husband and cheats no one else, but her father.

Although I thought Thhagini was the first Subodh Ghosh story that moved me to read more of his work, it turns out he had made an impression on me long ago. In the form of Ijazat, Gulzar’s sensitive adaptation of Ghosh’s Jatugriha (Lac House). Later, of course I would watch the Bengali screen version of the film directed by Tapan Sinha, starring Uttam Kumar, equally sensitive and closer to the original story. And years before that, the thoughtful Bimal Roy made one of the finest films out of Sujata, a novel by Ghosh of the same name. To date, Sujata, the film, remains one of my favourites for its perceptive handling of the issue of caste prejudice and for Roy’s delicate portrayal of a woman’s emotions.

Not just Tapan Sinha, Bimal Roy, and Gulzar, but even Ritwik Ghatak turned to Subodh Ghosh’s work for one of his films—Ajantrik. As little as I have read of Bengali literature, Subodh Ghosh got my vote, thanks to the wonderful screen adaptations of his stories by these brilliant directors.

As I read through an anthology of Subodh Ghosh stories, I am impressed by the realism, the extraordinary insight into the quirks of human nature and the way they play out in relationships, and one of the best weapons of a writer--a deft touch of irony.

Remembering Kolkata: Eating: Flurys

A city of bizarre contrasts, Kolkata doesn't let a visitor go without evoking strong reactions. One moment you hate the city with fuming rage, the next second you feel affectionate toward it. Among the things that make you cling to this enigmatic city is the opportunity to eat good food at no great loss to your wallet.

Flurys...

Is a vignette of Kolkata's glorious eating traditions, going back to when the city was Calcutta. More than 80 years ago by Mr. and Mrs. J. Flury set up this British-style tea shop in the eastern Indian city. The building was renovated a few years ago and stands in the heart of Kolkata's downtown--the pulsating Park Street.


"Do try to keep an evening free for coffee at Flurys," I had been advised. Most of the trip had gone by without heeding that advice. As we entered the last week of our stay in Kolkata, I grew fidgety. How could I leave without eating at Flurys? I had been planning this for months. So one humid evening, we set out to discover the British eating experience. Taking the metro to Park Street meant we literally had to work up an appetite by walking a fair distance as evening wore down to dusk. Once inside, the trek seemed worthwhile.



The atmosphere is elegant yet informal. A great venue for relaxed conversation and some delectable bites. I ordered a cup of cappuccino, a cinnamon roll and a chicken patties. Hey, I did say I walked long to reach this place. I deserved to indulge a bit, did I not? Both my choices proved delicious. The roll was a fluffy, crispy dough, packed with raisins and nuts and smeared with powered sugar on top. The patties wasn't dripping in oil, yet, packed with wholesome minced chicken cooked to perfection.


Flurys has an extensive cakes and pastries collection, along with European chocolates. I am not much of a sugar addict, so I didn't buy any, but these are highly recommended for those with a sweet tooth or two.

An evening well spent and tucked neatly into the memory files. As I passed by the gossamer reflections of a Flurys evening, I thanked my advisers.