I,Too Climbed a Hill

                                   

                                                                                  Kula Saikia

 Translator: Stuti Goswami

            The light of flaming torches in the far distance, a festive night, could be any festival—where music flows unhindered, where self restraint is let loose, where one rehearses to forget oneself, in just such enthralling  environs, along with music, probably a dotara or a Spanish guitar or a flute—in other words with consistent rhythmic background music, an ambience  created by an unknown web of mellifluous notes—amidst such pristine beauy, they climbed up the hill, a few utterances in between— a story read long ago, it’s title, comes to mind. The forgotten details dying away in talks of the hill they were climbing, the pebbles and the hilly stream, the desires of the grass and the innocent trees, in the jili’s voice, in the sounds of pebbles crushed under the weight of treading feet, together with fragments of Japanese poems and memories.

            The frame hasn’t changed, just the dimensions have broadened, and we can see, a moon-less starry firmament, the hill’s whistle on the background, the jharjhar of the stream, the sound of winds, as if, this moment, a gust of wind howled over our thoughts and desires—and then slowly, in a close-up shot, a lone star shining through two straight lines, and a voice is heard—“My star, my light, my being”

            “Bas, this way, and after this, some other things will follow, but this is  the main thing, I mean such a  vow  or a promise, or something, like you’ve given me the hill, I give you the star.”

            Saying this, he lowered the glasses from his eyes, they should have fallen on the ground with a thud, but they didn’t. His eyes were a little moist, probably with emotion, possibly with the richness of his thoughts. I asked: “ The name?”, and indeed, he turned pensive, may be he hadn’t thought of any; this film’s title could have been the title of any story, and yet, he had to sift the idea in his mind, what could be after all, a special, interest arousing name?

            As he sat on the chair, he spread his legs apart, he felt a niggling sensation as the blood  circulated. He shut his eyes, and tried to peer into a list of new names, an appropriate title which would best reflect a film’s events, emotions, climax—and he jumped up, and said, “They too climbed a hill.”

            After many days, today, I met him; with emptied tea cups on the surrounding tables. The tung taang of glasses and bare plates are to be heard. The crowd is increasing, bringing variety to the adda’s colours. I ask, those two characters, climbing a hill, a friend’s hill, the tiny flickers of light from the familiar town in the distance illuminating their memories, who have given away a solitary star in the sky—from the hollow of an  innocent tree—in short, such a story, or a few montages of a film, or some such kind of a painting on a canvas.

            The crunching sound of the cheap nimki that had come to the plate broke my wave of thoughts. Disheartened, I flung towards him a questioning look, hoping to tell him how one day I had gone searching for him, without an address in hand, just a name on a piece of paper beneath which was written, c/o The City, where in numerous lanes and bye lanes I had searched for such an address—a broken culvert at Lakhimi Nagar, a blurred sign board, probably a coconut tree as the road bend a little ahead, or else Chandra Das’s tea stall, my be  if not a coconut tree then one or two expensive ornamental palm trees, or else Naresh plumber or Mahendra garage in puddles of stone and mud—somewhere in all these might stand such an address—it may not of course. Remember that haze, that feeling of incredulity at the beginning of the story—it may not be Nonkrem festival after all, it could be something else, probably a dotara’s notes, or else, a Spanish guitar’s.

            I wanted to tell him--whether I found him or not, in between these possibilities there might lurk a third, for instance, Aristotle’s arguments do not hold ground in Quantum Physics; or that an electron particle may be here or there; or else the condition of Schrödinger’s cat—dead or living at the same time—in other words, and in all probability, an in-between stage, a middle stage.

            “And this search of mine, looking for him in those two creatures ascending the hill, is that really possible? Often, the right and left halves of the brain are deemed for different purposes, for instance, as I pick the cup with my right hand and bring it to my lips, and then draw in a sip of tea, all the while cooling the air inside my mouth, probably at that very moment, numerous analyses are taking place at different parts of my brain, lakhs of cells are engaged in some other work, at some other instruction—the  neurotransmitters between the  two halves of my brain are not functioning as bridge—that is, right now probably I am a different person, a divided personality, I am not even aware how I am thinking of a hill, the slippery grassy tracts, the whistle of the wind, a few promises, faith—how all these have transformed into tiny microscopic pixels in my mind— to me, these feelings, this emotion-laden man is a stranger—I know not his address, or probably, for me he is an entirely revolutionary state.”

            I waited hoping to hear all these from him, but without a word he continued munching onto the fritters.

            “Another round of tea?”

            “Sure-but before that, a cigarette— “

            A stick emerged out of the box witha  bullock cart printed on the cover, a cheap brand of cigarette was lit. at each puff, the burnt end glowered in that dim room. And now, a table—it’s cups and plate and spoon—all vanished in the puffs of cigarette smoke. The tattered remains of the food we had, the smoke increasingly felt like dense mist and one of the two mountaineers said—“Indeed, the darkness grows denser. Can’t see anything. A little later, a thick blanket of fog would descend. Do you hear the sound of the pebbles beneath your feet.”

            A rustling sound came from beneath the table, out of a pair of weathered shoes.

            Different people areseen  thronging inside the tiny cubicles, their chatter, laughter-jokes come floating towards us—some of these words have incomplete meaning, some words are sheer nonsense.

            These meaningless words, with their rhythm, their wavelength, and their echoes—have some kind of inherent meaning. Probably sometimes we  do notice a kind of harmony, for instance, a man afflicted by Tinnitus too hears various humming, buzzing sounds, in which he may discern some kind of rhythm, some melody—what we may say, coherence within the incoherence of chaos. This powerful and consistent flow of myriad thoughts, which you and I are unaware, and yet, which if we pay a little heed can be aware of –sometimes those thoughts are frozen in our minds, like frames of a cinema shot, or in the smaller canvas of a painting, or else, if it enters the limited pages of a short story—in other words, if we colour our words within the proper contours of those laws which we deem to comprise a cinema or a story, wouldn’t those be a piece of art—cinema, story, painting? They say, Beethoven was afflicted with Tinnitus and probably that smooth surge and ebb of notes in his 9^th symphony had emerged out of the meaning of certain unintelligible and unknown notes—in other words you may say that this is something like that Gestalt philosophy where one added to one is greater than one, i.e. some of these meaningless words of yours have brought in a meaning, which become our source of mirth, the pleasures of reading, the joys of listening.

            Probably I could have said all this, but I remained silent, for I didn’t feel like breaking this stream of silence that was flowing into me incessantly in the midst of such cacophony. My thoughts flowed uninterruptedly, and I contemplated—just like Gödel’s famous theory—in any system of rules we can always see how to go outside those rules—we too can break the boundaries of  those rules that govern cinema-painting-story--, for there is no completeness ever, everything is liberated from the limitations of fulfillment, and such a story too now draws to an end, but this is not closure, a film has ended, but some things have remained unsaid—leaving behind the pleasures of unfulfilment.

            He went away—through the mist of cigarette smoke

            I tried to recall his address, that address which I do not have, but which I now tried to imagine and I felt elated, for “imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.” And I unraveled the endless web of my imaginations—and now, I am ascending an unknown hill, with a dear friend—I read on: “…those thoughts and desires haven’t ended; but that courage is sapped, that right too is no more. Are you feeling cold?”… 

            Even I ascended the hill.

·         *dotara--two stringed instrument, used in folk music

·         *Jili --an insect, a cicada

·         *nimki is a crispy snack..

·         *adda--informal club, where people discuss life,philosophy,films,books,love...women(differs with the people involved in that discussion)

The Queue

 (From the original Assamese short story 'Queue' by Kula Saikia and translated by Stuti Goswami

 published in 'melange' , The Sentinel, on 10th April, 2011.)                                                  

A meaningless exercise—

            As if I had suddenly attained such an insight, I placed myself in the rank of wise men, and mused that indeed, in spite of my repeated resolutions to stay away from such meaningless mental game , I have unknowingly ended up repeating the same, and I realized that every other minute I have been counting the number of people standing in front of me. When I had joined at the end of the queue, it extended till the tall pillar on my left; and now the number of people before is steadily decreasing, while the number behind me, ascending. Gradually the queue has turned snaky and has disappeared behind the wall, and yet the pace at which the queue is growing can be easily surmised.

            “Next?”

            Fatigue was blended with the voice that wafted from behind  the  window with a wire mesh, or so it seemed.

            “Please come closer !”

            The name plate of the reservation clerk showed that he was P.Saharia, but it didn’t tell what name the letter ‘P’ hid—whether it was Prabin, Pulok or Pratap or something else. But then, nor is there any special need for that. If it is Pratap, then it might as well be our friend Pratap, for in spite losing so much hair, one can make out that Pratap’s head too was shaped like his, so were his cheekbones as well as the earlobes fixed to each cheek—

            “Where to?”

             Saharia’s question could not elicit a single word from the man right in front of the train reservation  window. Rather, the curly haired man fixed his gaze on the giant electronic board to his left, a little above his head.

            “I mean, your destination, where will you go, or the name of the station, or say the nearest town.”

            The lady standing just behind advised him to reply quickly, she must have decided the sooner one is relieved from this queue the better. Offering the requisite papers for the ticket the man who had been watching all this while the giant time table lowered his head, and now, he must be telling his destination through the netted window—Saharia swiftly runs his fingers over the letters on the keyboard, glances at the computer screen, and then presses the ‘Enter’ button—“Yes! ”.

     The entire itinerary of the man standing before him now flashes on the computer screen. A satisfied smile appears on Saharia’s face, he asks, “There is a break journey as well?”

            “Something like that!”

            One can easily make out that the round-faced ticket seeker is a man of few words, in one word he could make Saharia understand that between his going and returning journeys he would need two days to halt—had he been garrulous he would have definitely told how he hadn’t been able to make that journey for a long time, though he had nurtured a hope that whenever that place came within his schedule  or when his specific train went in that direction, he would surely alight, there is probably a small station at that place where the bigger trains do not halt, but majestically pass by at night, leaving alone a solitary station master with a black coat and a small lamp flickering in his hands—

            “Here please!”

            The man of few words took out his small money bag, counted his notes and handed it through the window, saying—“Here it is!”

            Saharia’s eyes were fixed to his computer screen. The tea boy had left a cup of tea and a couple of biscuits in the empty space next to him. Without averting his gaze, Saharia extended his right hand towards the cup of steaming tea, and without fail, brought the cup to his lip, and took a sip, with the other he pulled in a biscuit with a crane-like movement—all of these took place in one swift stroke—Saharia too has became another machine, like the one in front of him—

            “Done!”

            With his eyes Saharia seemed to assure the man of few words,“It’s a nice place, you’ll enjoy being there for a couple of days—“

            Saharia must have been at that place before.

            “To get away from the rotten heat, monotonous  life of this place and stay there for a couple of days would be a…”, the remaining words were thwarted by the crunching  of  crispy  biscuits from his mouth.

             The man of few words didn’t show any reaction, as if  many a possibility  was concealed in his placid countenance—for instance, he didn’t want that place to fall in his itinerary this time, for some prior, uncomfortable experience must have taught him that it’s better to stay away from that place, as if each passing moment pulled him into increasing discomfiture, may be  a few familiar-unfamiliar faces, or some incident must have filled him with embarrassment,  out of habit he sits down on the bank of the beautiful wooden bridge over the small river right in the middle of that place, as dusk descends, just before evening lamps light up the area, he doesn’t want Lata, or may be some other name,  to come and sit beside him, on the same bench, and ask him , ‘Do you plan to stay here for a couple of days, or once again this is a break journey like   one of those time pass tactics of yours’ and—after that complain-swelled utterance, he flings a terse reply in her direction,—“Haven’t thought of anything—”

            I tried to think of another possibility, but before I could go further, Saharia’s loud voice thundered again, “Hundred rupees change?”, and the man gearing up for the break-journey was once again seen to take out the money-bag from his pocket, open it and examine the insides of the bag, fiddling with the ten-rupee notes, he is now pushing them in Saharia’s direction.

              “This should definitely do”—as he looks towards Saharia with such an assurance, a photograph falls down from his opened money bag. From where I am, it is difficult to say who’s photograph it is, but it can definitely be said, that the black-and-white photograph is that of a young man about thirty-thirty five years old. Probably, ten-fifteen years ago, he had come to that famous studio in College Road for this very photograph and…

            “Thank you—”

            The man said, picking up the ticket and the change returned with his hand, as he came out of the queue,  however he stopped, and once again standing before the iron mesh fitted window, said, “I’ll remember what you’d said--”

            I assumed he was remarking on Saharia’s advice.

            “Next?”

            Saharia’s voice, little softer this time , was to be heard!

            Of course no one had time  to wait for Saharia’s call. By then a young man wearing a brown coloured    shirt had stepped in to fill the empty space left behind by the ‘break-journey’ man.

            “See, nature hates vacuum—probably some Greek philosopher had said this , and here within a moment the emptiness created by the previous man has been duly filled-”

            A powerful desire to share such thoughts with my neighbour standing in front grips me, but I let it go, for I can see him engrossed in the crossword that has appeared in today’s paper. Suddenly, his mobile phone rings, a cheap song fills the air, drawing the phone near his eyes he tries to see how familiar the number is. He squints his eyes a little, keeping his phone at a particular distance-- probably no, still his eyes  weigh the value of the numbers flashing on his mobile screen.—and now through the phone  glued to his ear he informed that he was Phukan, Pranab Phukan and wanted to know who the caller was. Apparently, the caller was a stranger, “I’m a little busy right now, please call later”, with something of that sort, he hung up though it was apparent that Phukan or Pranab Phukan spent much of the day in his personal work, probably he had wanted to be an architect—for, I can see that leaving his crossword puzzle aside,  he is now scribbling geometric designs on the empty space in the newspaper, observing them from different angles, in the midst of all these, he has drawn the contours of a beautiful house—replete with designs of pillar, door, window, the gate leading to the lawn in front-

            “Such thoughts give me much pleasure as well,-- say a house, or  a multistoried apartment, or a huge palace, old temple-gateway from the days of yore, architecture, design—all those, you know, there seem a lot of hope, aspiration, dream inherent in them, say, an empty plot of land, abandoned with    grass-and-shrubs, and slowly construction material, in ones and twos, sand-stone-bricks-iron rods—all of these get together, at a certain proportion, and gradually a multistoried building proudly raises its head from the mixtures of those  tiny pebbles, sands  and soars towards the skies, just like a living being with the tiny cells dividing, and a new cell was born, the process multiplying in such a way that a machine called heart, a billion-celled brain, some muscles, bones, beautiful eyes—Ha!ha! - just like the way an architect  creates a township ,a giant metro—“’

            Disrupting my entire tide of thoughts, Saharia spoke up in a melancholic voice,

            “May be wait listed, --”

            Before the man facing him could reply, Saharia added, without raising his head from the computer screen, “Should hope for the best, things happen this way itself, you might get a confirmed reservation after a few days.”

            “’The concept of ‘waiting’ is amazing. Everyone waits for the moment when the awaiting  will end, and with such hopes all of us are standing in the queue and then suddenly we would come to know  that the wait is over, this thing called waiting ceases to be, it is exactly as though you were waiting for a shower, and at some moment you realize that two tiny drops of water from above have touched your eyelids, but  some where inside your mind there is still a desire to wait when you look at the  gorgeous  shower over the hills far away --”

Though such thoughts filled my mind, I wasn’t prepared to speak so much.

            “This will do.”

            The passenger assured Saharia on the other side of the iron mesh. There was no change in Saharia’s expression because of this, one couldn’t say if he had heard the man or not, it seemed as though there was no longer any difference between Saharia and the computer, both were engrossed in facing each other, and were not keen to interrupt this continuity—a strange understanding—man and machine!

“Now, the machine in front of him contains all the information that you need to travel to any part of the country—from the railway network to train timings, to the names and destinations of the trains, A.C., non A.,C., fare, reservation, waiting list. How convenient, isn’t it?”

Phukan broke the comfortable silence of an  ‘architect’, I felt he was addressing me—nevertheless, beaming a smile I remarked that in today’s age this machine was directing us. Such a fact-enriched serious utterance must have amused the girl standing in front of  Phukan, she raised her head from the English novel she had been reading all this while.

I suppressed my desire to ask which college she was from. I simply  remarked that Saharia was probably taking more time than was required of him in issuing tickets, but that remark seemed to make the girl a little unhappy, she said, “Such work needs time--”.

Phukan  was delighted, “Indeed, everything requires a definite time of its own, say, studies, degree, job—all of these are bound for a definite time, one cannot get over with them as and when one pleases.”

Phukan’s enthusiastic talk must have pleased the nineteen-twenty year old girl , pushing away her hair from her forehead  she smiled a little  and concentrated on her book.

“I had almost decided to journey by air, but once again I changed my mind.”

I looked towards Phukan, his statement forced me to ask him the reason for his fear, that had made him give up traveling by air.

“According to statistics, today air travel is the safest means of travel”—I added—“Nowadays air travel is much cheaper , open competition has opened up air spaces for us.”

I had believed there was some gravity in my sentence. However Phukan did not reply, rather I saw him ask the girl in front—where does she study, the name of her college, the place—

“Wah! What a coincidence, I mean without any prior scheme suddenly you have met a former student of your college.”

Phukan’s enthusiasm must have overwhelmed the girl. She replied that she was Bornali, she was in her final semester this time, she stayed at the college hostel. She had come home after her semester  examination  and now, when college had reopened she too had to go to her college again , she added that classes had started two days ago.  

“Two different generations, two different individuals—she and I, and yet an unseen bond of familiarity! Since we are of the same college, we can easily gauge each other’s experiences, we can assume, the tenor of the breeze that the classroom fans bring to us or else which wooden pillar often houses the pests or else spiders weave their nets—of course with time things may have changed a little, but till the time the building or the classroom isn’t altered it can be well assumed--”

Though Phukan talks incessantly, his later words are drowned in the powerful horn of a recently arrived train.

“Things have changed a lot today. The earlier structure has changed. Newly designed buildings have come up. Such changes have come over due to the introduction of  new courses and new classes, also the number of students have almost  doubled, there are three hostels now --”

Offering all these informations at one breath, the girl named Bornali looked towards Phukan and said, “if you ever come to our college you’ll be delighted to see all these changes, there are a lot of new things happening, our Professors tell us that everything has changed.--”

The visibly excited and enthused Phukan didn’t seem to hear all these, he simply inclined towards me, and said in a low voice, “I am thinking of a trip to my college after all these years, there’s no other reason--” without completing his sentence Phukan took out his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face and added, “Ha! What else can there be beside the fact that I’ll go to see my college, which I had left a few decades ago—I’ll reminisce those golden years, months, moments, sitting and visiting different places—this is what I was planning actually”

“Good, such a kind of old students’ reunion--”

Before I could finish my sentence, Phukan interupted, “No no, nothing of that sort, just the two of us, Mitali and I—I’ll go from east, and she’ll come from a country in the west. After college, she had won a scholarship and gone abroad, while leaving she had given her word that one day, we’ll come back and sit on in the coffee house once again, and  just that, we will be meeting  there for  college days’meaningless gossips, just both of us  Mitali and I, apart from that we have no idea of the whereabouts of Tanu, Nirmal and the others—for in this busy world hardly has anyone any time to keep a track of what is happening in others’ lives--”

Phukan gazed towards the counter, and continued, “Now I’m thinking, since both of us have time on our hands, we’ll go and give ‘Rendezvous’ coffee house a  visit, and seated at the table on the right corner, go back in time, after that we’ll go out and sit under the exotic palm  tree, on that bench, and talk—there would be nothing to do with the decades that have passed by, rather we would talk about our college’s ‘Manohar Park’, evening walks, and say, some silly argument over something trivial, a few harsh words, then intimate conversations—all these! And  I’m thinking of my first  journey by train to that place long years’ back , with Mitali, moving about for admission into the college —for all of these, I have decided not to go  by air, and instead chosen to travel by train—what do you say?”

Phukan’s bright eyes sought an affirmative answer  from me, and I gestured, implying that it was indeed a good, a beautiful idea—

“Today ‘Manohar Park’ has given way to the new Biotech faculty quarters, there’s a gymnasium next to it, the small lake in the park has dried up, recently a computer laboratory--”

The man standing before Bornali had moved ahead, and so as she moved away from the pillar ,she looked towards Phukan and told him thus.

“, That small house behind the library having the class rooms, ‘Rendezvous’ coffee house—all of these?”

Phukan was shuddering as he asked. A smile rolled over Barnali’s lips. I guessed that she didn’t want to tell Phukan that the classroom, coffee house—all of these have made way for the new building, of new design, unique architecture—in the midst of all these, there is no empty  space for the old type gossips and addas of ‘Rendezvous’—

A train puffed into the station. All voices were drowned. There was a visible excitement amongst the passengers.

It turned out that Phukan had walked away from the queue. Before I could say anything he told me. “Please go ahead; you can take my space--”

I didn’t ask him about his adda over cups of coffee, Manohar Park , about his meeting with Mitali!

Our World

                                                                              Lakhinath Bezbaruah

                                                                         translator: Stuti Goswami 

                                    First Act

(Bhawani is aged 22. Husband Shambhunath is 30. Daughter Senehi is 3 years old. It is nine in the morning. The inner room. Bhawani is lying down on the bed. Shambhu stands nearby.)

Shambhu: But won’t you get up today? Its nine already. Time for me to go to Court. But I see no provisions for breakfast?

           

(ooh! aah! Bhawani groans.) What happened? Why do you groan?

           

(Bhawani groans further) Why don’t you say anything? what’s happened?

Bhawani: What has happened, nothing. Who takes a note if I live or die? Everyone’s concerned simply with eating...eating. ooh! Oh Father! aah--!

Shambhu: What? Is it fever? Let me see.

           

(Shambhu sits on the bed beside Bhawani and puts a hand on her waist.)

Bhawani: only this was left  ooh!aah! ow my!

           

(Senehi enters)

Senehi: aai¹…o aai, I’m hungly, gib me tum pood.

           

(She gets onto the bed and climbs over her mother)

Bhawani: Oh!Oh! Have you come to eat my head as well? Have this--eat—eat my head. The poor woman lies in pain, not able to move even an inch. And here comes everyone bawling over food.

Shambhu: It’s all right if you’re not feeling well. Just lie down, and take some rest. I’ll get you the healing oil from the Bezbaruahs, and the pain will cease. Senehi—come here child, do not disturb your aai today; can’t you see, she is sick. I’ll give you something to eat. Come here.

            (Shambhu picks up the crying Senehi and goes out.)

                                    Second Act

(It is 10 in the morning. Main road.)

Ghinaram Peshkar²: Isn’t that nokolnobis dangoriya³? Hello, sir, do wait for me. I’m coming along too. Seems we’ll be marked absent today. The Hakim nowadays comes early to the Court.

Shambhu: Oh come on. Do not worry. We won’t be marked absent; it’s only ten.

Ghinaram: But sir why do you look so worn out? Couldn’t you have your bath this morning?

Shambhu: Indeed. My wife is sick you see. Therefore, this morning there was no meal cooked, and I had to come to Court unwashed.

Ghinaram: But will you spend the whole day like this? And that too in this weather? Why didn’t you cook a  handful of rice for yourself?

Shambhu: I was so busy reading some worthless papers, that I got late, and so couldn’t—

Ghinaram:  You Brahmins are so tough, just like the durakaaso⁴. You can survive for three days even on air. It is us, sudirs⁵ who would die of stomach burns even if a single meal is missed. You know, we see the stars. There comes the magistrate. Oh! He’s arrived only now.

                                                Third Act

(12 noon. Kitchen. Bhawani is seated beside the souka⁶, cooking. Standing nearby, Senehi prattles on)

Senehi: aai, oi aai, thit big peet of fich id mine, no aai?

Bhawani: Indeed, this big piece of fish is yours. But—let me fry it first; come on don’t disturb me.

Senehi: Oi aai, aai, look at me aai, on’t you cook the cully?

Bhawani: Hey, don’t  blabber on like this, who told you that I won’t cook the curry? Umm..move, let me bring down the bottle of oil.

Senehi: ooo, aai, litten, why do the lite kokbok?

Bhawani: Because the rice boils.

Senehi: No no, becod you pight wid deuta⁷

                                         Fourth Act

(The kitchen floor. Bhawani and Senehi eating out of the same dish.)

Senehi: Oi aai, do not eat my big peet of fich.

Bhawani: I won’t.

Senehi: (crying) ee..eee you taid you on’t eat and now you eat haap my big peet of fich.waa...h . Let deuta⁷ come fom coult today, I’ll tell im, tell im.

1. aai: mother

2. Peshkar: clerk

3. nokolnobis : copyist; dangoriya: sir; a reverent form of address.

4.durakaaso: a smaller variety of tortoise

5. sudir:  lower caste

6. souka:  an arrangement for cooking, made of earth

7. deuta: father

[this story was published as a part of the 'Lakhinath Bezbaruah' section in the fifth edition of Quills the literary folio of Dept. of English, B.Borooah College in 2010]

In the Station

                                                            Kula Saikia          
                                  Translated by--Stuti Goswami   

The bell rings even when the electricity doesn’t flow. Phatik winded the manual bell with his hand, as though it were a key, and then pressed the button fitted to it…trrring…

Bireswar came running in. Phatik asked him to open the window and Bireswar hastened. However with his hand on the bolt, he asked,”Would it do without opening, as a cold wind blows in”?—

Rather than face so many questions, Phatik put down the bell on his table and pushing back his chair he got up, walked towards the window and opened it himself. A chilly gust of wind entered the room, and brought with it, a damp feeling,which Bireswar would have never liked though. He would say-“-winters are a real bother, it brings cough, cold, asthma and so on”.

But Phatik loved the cool breeze that wafted into his room. At least, it cooled the stifling warm air inside. It rejuvenated his mind a little, and he sat down on the table beside the window. He could feel his back bathed in the breezy moonlight; the darkness of the room faded a little, the smell of cheap incense wafted into his nostrils—Ramcharan’s stall must be open, and so must old Piyaari’s little shop selling tea and hot pakoras. Of course, this is not surprising. Actually, their entire business depends on the passengers arriving by the evening train. This train has never followed any definite timings of its arrival or departure. But then, nor has this created any problem for its people, who have adjusted themselves accordingly. They come and go at their own will; the station officers have no say over this. After all, people of this small place are accustomed to running their lives as they please. When he had first joined service, Fatik had firmly believed that changes could be ushered in the system, through new ways of working, by including everyone—high and low—into this crusade that would lend the belief that the authorities were concerned with the people’s welfare, that they valued people’s time and money and would not want to delay them in reaching their destinations. But no—soon enough he gave up such ideas. And after five years in service, Fatik realized that he too is just a cog in one of the innumerable wheels of this train. Even without him, the train can still run its course over two feeble strips of iron— shrieking hoosh hoosh and sending giant puffs of smoke into the wind and the blue sky. It is not hard to see the train sail away thus, smearing the faces of many an Assistant Station Master like him. Realizing thus, he too joined in the system: no longer was he worried whether the train ran at its scheduled time, or was late by two hours, five hours, or didn’t come at all; the sight of harried passengers spending the night on the station verandah—with luggage and without a drop of water to feed a thirsty baby—no longer create any sensation in him. Even if some absurd feeling creeps inside him, he flings that far away, like a funny story.

Today, he’s just a machine like the one before him which sends out a token, with the help of which he can clear the line for a certain train. Phatik too is a machine made of iron, that runs when the current of electricity flows .

Such thoughts should actually make him happy, but he isn’t. Each time, such thoughts would only make him miserable; therefore he avoids such ruminations as much as he can. And yet they come…through some unknown opening in his mind, such thoughts stream in, deceiving him altogether…

“Here it is sir, and this is the matchbox. The current’s gone off early today. God knows when it’ll return.”—Bireswar left the half-burnt candlestick on the big table. Had Phatik desired, he could easily have dispersed the enshrouding darkness in the room by lighting the candle. But he continued to sit on the small table beside the window. He could feel his dangling feet sway to their own rhythm… He looked behind and in the distance noticed the dim lamps on a few rickshaws. At this time of the evening, prior to the load shedding, the crowd is indeed very thin. There are just a few station hands who would carry the passengers’ luggage once they alight from the train. It is in those few minutes when the train halts that the station comes alive: the station hands hurry across, a few rickshaws assemble: gradually the people melt away into the night, as do Bhakat chaiwallah, Pobin the banana-seller, tea-hawkers Tinku, Putul etc. The whole station plunges into a lonesome silence.

Phatik remains seated , his white coat hanging from a hook on the wall, he reclines on the armchair, spreading his legs comfortably and closes his eyes. On many days he has fallen asleep thus—awakened by the trring of the token machine upon which he had summoned Bireswar, given him the necessary instructions¸ sent the message forth that the line was clear, spoken over phone to the men in the cabin on the east-west side… and given his orders—and in a few minutes, with an enormous sound, the goods train would grimly pass through the station. The station house shudders violently in the impact. Sometimes, a familiar driver would let fly a smile his way, as the train proceeds at a speed of twenty kilometer per hour, the dazzling lights of the engine mocking the darkness, illuminating the solitary railway-track and the horde of dancing insects. For a long time, he stares at the passing train that pierces the curtain of darkness with the weapon of light, till the red light at its rear disappears; and yet for long he can feel the thunder of the train reverberating in his heart. For some time, the noise lingers in his ears; the irradiance of the headlight hanging upon the station walls, the railway track, the signal posts and the advertisement hoardings.

“I better light the candle” Bireswar returns to the room, “Such a bother…to sit in the dark, and then fend off the insects once the candle is lit”.

He struck the matchstick, and in a moment, his face was illumined, the flame steadied against the assuring cover of his hands. Bireswar touched the flame against the half-burnt end of the candle, and thrust it into the empty inkpot. This is how they keep a candle into the inkpot. Since the candles are large, sometimes they may run for two or three days. It all depends on the load-shedding schedule of the electricity provider.

“Candles do change, but not the inkpot, ha, ha!”

Phatik didn’t feel like commenting on Bireswar’s fleeting comment.

“It might be late tonight”— Bireswar said and went out.

Though there was no scientific explanation behind his predictions, Phatik knew that in such a place as this, electric bulbs glowing in the evenings are quite an unnatural phenomenon. Ever since he came to this place, he has got accustomed to its ways. Nor has he any regret for such circumstances, so many evenings have passed by in this manner—evenings lit by the candle’s flame. It’s only at night that the station becomes awfully serene. Apart from the two lame dogs, who have made the station their permanent residence, he and the technical staff are trapped in a vast abysmal darkness. After great intervals, one or two goods train or a solitary engine,break the monotony of the night. Often, Phatik doesn’t think of returning to his small quarter nearby, the roti-bhaji Bireswar brings for him suffices the night. Gradually he has got into the habit of making the armchair his resting place for the night.

“Tea?”—Bireswar reentered.

His entry sent the stagnant air inside the room into a tumult, the candle flame quivered.

“Yeah, may be”—

Phatik’s dry response didn’t please Bireswar much. His “anything else sir” that he would otherwise add to his previous query didn’t escape his lips tonight. He opened a drawer and brought out the cup and saucer Phatik generally used. Out of habit, he wiped away the remains of insects perished in the candle’s flame that had littered the table. He looked at Phatik through the corner of his eye, and asked—

“Will it be late sir? There’s no news of it till now”—this time Phatik was sure he was asking about the passenger train. No passenger ever makes the mistake of thinking that the train will run on time. They come to the station at a time they deem proper, which they decide from their long experience. It is possible that sometimes, they might be mistaken in their calculations i.e. the train may be late by another half an hour. But it has never happened, that the train arrives on time, and many passengers are deprived of it.

“How is it outside?”

“Dark”

In a lone word, Bireswar answered Phatik.

“There might be some news from the down—”

“There is still some time for that”— Bireswar answered with the certainty of a veteran. And indeed, being here for several years now, Bireswar is much more experienced. From performing all sorts of technical works to odd jobs like making tea, Bireswar has uncomplainingly been used for different purposes. Till now, he has worked with several Assistant Station Masters who have come and gone away in a year or two. In fact, sometimes the Assistant Station Master has performed all the duties—selling tickets, taking out the tokens, showing the green lamp, and the flag to safely let the train pass by, booking the passengers’ luggage, bringing the kaviraj to treat sick passengers, showing passengers the way when there is no current in the station—in short Phatik has had to play the role of a virtual all rounder. He is not complaining; and then, who will listen if he does?...But the main problem here is not of too much work, but of loneliness, of silence amidst the dust and smoke and chaos of the railway station, of the want of companionship to share his feelings, to laugh without care! Is it possible to bear such a life?

Phatik got up from his seat beside the window, and went to the door. It was a moonlit night. On the other side of the railway track, there was Bhakat, with his tea stall, his figure shadowy in the quivering flame of kerosene lamp; the little boy beside him. On the wall behind them, there was the poster of a detergent soap. Though the bright dresses in the picture were no longer visible, yet Phatik remembered the words on that picture; out of habit, he uttered that in his mind—“unparalleled in removing dirty stains from your clothes”.

For several months now, Phatik has been reading these words, the poster with the picture of a spotless white shirt has turned grimy—covered with smoke, dust, mud, the spit of paan- and tobacco-chewers, etc. To its right there is the name of the stall Bhakat’s Tea stall humbly written with lime; beneath which the day workers crowd every afternoon.

The lame dog crossed the railway line; at once the little boy who sold fried peanuts threw a pebble towards it—t-o-n-g— the iron rang out as the pebble hit it—once again the silence returned. Somebody traced his steps over the railway line—

Phatik walked towards the almirah. He could gauge the machine-like mindlessness in his walk. Somewhere in his mind, the instruction has been programmed—that prior to the arrival of the passenger train, he ought to open the almirah, take out--first the pack of tickets from the box kept inside and then the small money box--after which he is to proceed towards the iron-wired ticket window and sit down on the table beside it with his implements—the pack of tickets, the money box, the fat register. Through the small circular opening of the window, a hand enters—a face virtually hidden by the iron wires, utters the name of a place—“Ha, two tickets please”. And Phatik offers the two tickets. Sometimes, there is jostling, pushing, flaring of tempers, shouting et al—amidst which the stench from a sweating body hits Phatik hard, and gives rise to an unseen stare. The monotonous creaking of the old fan with its large arms creates in him a disgust, a loathing. He wants to say—listen, this train won’t leave you behind; it might be further behind schedule; the previous station is yet to give us the information that the line is clear. It will take its own time, there’s no need for such a hue and cry. This train is never on time. And besides how many of you are actually boarding the train?or rather how many people actually aboard or alight the train at this station?—and Phatik realizes that the crowd has dispersed, the chaos is gradually subsiding, the noise of boxes and bags being dragged too has ceased, the cries of the hawkers recede into the distance, the passengers rush towards the train, in their eagerness to get on board the train; and Phatik sees the train set into motion with a long whistle; gradually like a snake sliding away, the train disappears from sight. He is left behind with his green lamp in hand; the lamp that has oft been a source of pride for him, for which he has oft told himself—that see, the silent signal from your hand lends motion to the journey of multitudes---their hopes, aspirations, wishes, desires all derive energy from the green light emanating from your hand, sowing seeds of the possibility of a new life. But such satisfaction is momentary; once the huge train disappears from sight, such thoughts too vanish. The emptiness of the suddenly deserted station fills him once again with bitterness; he tells himself—“fie! This is the tableau of life, of living!”

But of course, there is no reason for him to feel dejected, for a man’s status or his situation is no longer important, technology and machines have slowly wiped out man’s address, where are you or where am I are no longer a matter of concern in this age of television, mobile phones and wireless technology.

“Is there any coolie or somebody like that?”—

Before he bumps into her suitcase and large bag, the girl asks him. And he replies that there is no such facility in this station; the passengers generally take care of their own luggage.—

He wanted to say, actually there is hardly anyone with heavy luggage who gets onto or gets off from the train at this station. But he checked himself, thinking it would be improper to make the place look even smaller.

He wanted to know where has she begun her journey from. He was told, that she is from the city. If the train runs on time, then in five hours she can reach this place; but since that hasn’t happened, nor is there any hope of that happening ever, it has taken her seven to eight hours to traverse this journey.; her tresses have disobedience nestling in, her sari is no longer neatly draped.

“Probably its your first time here—”

No—one can’t ask such questions. With his finger, he signalled Mantu hawker to take the luggage and the girl to a rickshaw outside—a girl walked away before his eyes, in trying to keep up with Mantu’s long strides, her steps too became faster. From the labels on her luggage, he decided that the girl’s name is Aparna Tamuly.

“They’ve got news about the train, in the cabin”, Bireswar’s words jolted Phatik out of his reverie-and he returned from his ruminations on that small incident that had taken place three months ago, on one such evening when the passenger train had arrived. Of course, his face betrayed no trace of his feelings, he merely asked if people had already assembled near the ticket counter. Bireswar replied that there were a few passengers—all the while removing the traces of perished insects littered around the candle. Phatik took out the bundle of tickets from the almirah and placed it on the table beside the window, along with the register, receipts, money box. But he didn’t feel like sitting there right now. Rather he sat down on the chair beside the table on which the candle was placed.

The candle was burning before him—on its body, molten wax droplets formed a stream flowing down the hillside. A swarm of insects hovered around the quivering flame of the candle. He knows that they have come there, seeking illumination. But he knows not why poets and novelists have imagined this journey as romance or love. He can’t fathom why they believe that such self-death is a matter of pride. When he used to write poems for his college magazine, even then he would feel the pain of a candle burning and melting away till its end; he had thought of this journey of the insects as an eternal inspiration for the pursuit of novelty.

“Say, I’ve known a new place, met new people, had new experiences—I have taken it that way; they teach us to view life from a fresher perspective”—Aparna had told him.

And for the last two months, he has never asked her whether this entire business of coming from the big city to work in an unknown school here is purely due to the objective of employment or there is some other reason. He has just said—see, before you got down on this station as a passenger of this train, each train had meant the same: a conglomerate of nuts and bolts, iron, wheels and axels, spring –it had motion but no life, it ran yes but had never taken breaths, nor had it heartbeat. And today, when every Saturday, you get on this train to travel homewards, I have placed on your hands a bit of official paper that will enable your journey by train –which you have called a ticket—and which I have pushed out of the square window with the lifelessness of a machine. You have safely kept that ticket for six long hours, in your black bag as though it were somwthing precious—and I have thought, in this small place even I have a place that I can call my own. Because, each time you arrive at the station, you enter my room;sitting on this very chair, you have told me learn to love this place, write a few verses on a bit of paper whenerver you feel like, or else, write two lines of my favourite poem on the back side of this ticket that you have given me—and you have said, look at this candle, we look simply at its flame that gives us light, the molten wax is unseen to our eyes—and I have smiled. Probably I could have said something, but then feelings do not always come out as words—consequently you too have smiled and your eyebrows have grown wider, your eyes reflect the image of a burning candle, of molten droplets of wax—I realized that suddenly the mole on your cheek has grown even more beautiful in the candle’s radiance, the gentle wind from the fan plays with your tresses and your blue sari—

Tong tong—the token machine rang in the next room, then the phone rang incessantly, after sometime those sounds were to be heard no more. Phatik realized that Bireswar has already taken out the line clear token, the train will be here in a few minutes, he sat beside the window in the ticket counter, removed the cover from over the square hole, the buzz of people shoving one another came wafting across. With the precision of a mchine he set about his work. He knows that its Saturday and he has to place on Aparna’s hands, her ticket to her home after which he will have Bireswar put her small bag on an unoccupied seat, and then for one full day Aparna will be away from him. Again on Sunday evening she’ll return and at once she’ll ask, is everything ok, this line clear, green flag, block section, station limit, token, signal-red-yellow—ha!ha! the laughter would spread across the dark room, and would roll from his lips, and he would say, see how the candle burns, and melts—

Phatik is aware that the train has already arrived, the people have already alighted boarded and he kept a ticket on the table, and put away his register and ticket bundle. Phatik took the ticket he had kept for Aparna and went out, people were rushing hither-thither , Mantu hawker was busy and so were the others.

Aparna has got down from a rickshaw.

Phatik carefully held the ticket in his hand, for just awhile back, he has written, on the back side of the ticket , with ink, three words from a poem he loves.Those words shouldn’t blot with the sweat from his hands.

“Bireswar need not carry the luggage, the two of us will suffice”—ponting to the new gentleman next to her, Aparna said, and said that he too was from her school, they worked together.

“Give us two tickets today—” Phatik went inside before Aparna could finish, he took out two new tickets and offered them to Aparna—

With a long whistle, the train gradually assimilated into the moonlight. With the green lamp in hand, Phatik came into the candlelit room, the words written on the ticket in his hand had already been blotted with his sweat.

Phatik looks at the candle –burning and melting away —

-----------------------------------xxxxx------------------------------



(Published in the Bihu issue 'melange' on 11th April 2010)

Antique Thumri

Tapan Das
(Translated from the original Assamese story ‘Prachin Thumri’ by Stuti Goswami)


I have often seen your car speed away, especially on holidays-- shredding the city’s melancholic dusk… or some stifling evening. Your glitzy cars sprinkle on the passers-by the fragrance of being ‘freshly bought'... 
Sometimes I grow perplexed counting your cars. So many of them… so many colours, models, shapes, sizes , curves; different companies, different names. Cars—royale, official, personal…
If the interiors of a car is elegant like somebody’s drawing-room, that of another is intricate… for you at least it is. Still, you are accustomed to them all. If one has a classical recital playing on its radio, another has a cricket commentary. You might as well watch some movie or a popular music video. And you are in love with all this …at least its better than listening to the evening news.


Nowhere does your demeanour betray your irritation, your unease. You might find on the seat an empty tiffin box with pictures of Tintin or Shaktimaan. On other days, you’d find Salman Rushdie, J.K.Rowling, Stephen Hawking, One Hundred Years of Solitude or ‘Darjeeling Jamjamaat’. Income Tax, Service Tax files are also there; as are ‘Motor Cycle Diaries’—Che Guevera, ‘Debonair’ or even recent posters of cds-films-theatres. Ramdevji’s Yoga Magazines, newspapers beaming headlines of insurgent activities or student agitations, ‘India Today’, the unruffled cover of a poetry anthology—you flip through all these. Nowhere does your countenance betray the slightest emotion. It is as though you do not think at all, as though you were a motionless unflickering lamp.
Today as well I saw your car; it was hued in bright silver. As the last rays of the setting sun rolled down the edifices of the High Court, I saw your car take a sharp turn southwards, around the fringes of daylight. On its power steering was the hand of your companion. You were seated beside him, on the front seat.
Leaving the bustling city far behind, as your car speeds into the countryside-- in the shadows of hills, touching the margins of the fields-- you inch closer. His left arm wraps around your waist, holding it firmly and drawing you nearer still. One hand on the power steering is enough to steer the car. Further there is the serene countryside, far from the madding crowd; the empty road stretches before your car. Only the white marks in the middle of the road accost you steadily.
A scenic resort. Your car halts. Packing some food and something to drink your car speeds away.
A culvert. You cross it and enter a narrow pebbled road-- that forks out from the highway to the right. Peepul and other trees on either side of the path cast cool dark shadows even under the blazing sun. Your car takes a turn in the direction of the shadows.
A small mulberry farm, a few beel, and a bamboo grove; beyond that a large tract of sugarcane plantation and a tiny  processing unit. Your car halts before them. A gatekeeper hurries out of the wicker gate and salutes the car. Majestically, your sleek car slides into the compound.
Rubbing the shadows of dusk on their skins, the labourers proceed homewards... A gas lamp lights up a tiny room. Made of bamboo and cane this guest room is sparsely yet tastefully decorated. An aesthetic ambience welcomes you warmly, and you feel at home.
Outside, your car awaits you. Music plays softly on its stereo. Swaying to the rise and ebb of its melody, even the car seems to break into a divine dance. The gatekeeper not far off, smiles as he rubs some tobacco on his palm.
When the song ends, the night deepens, and silence prevails, your car dozes off. The darkness, increasingly dense, builds its nest amidst the sugarcane. A gust of wind flutters the tip of the green leaves. Some of the machines in the processing unit shudder at the murmur of dry leaves; as does the swarm of flies lying still over the heap of juiceless fibrous sugarcane...
After some time, forgoing the allure of silence, and shredding the bewitching darkness your car heads homewards.
Once again, you enter the brightly illumined city; but it’s silent now. The concrete mansions-flyovers, bus stop-petrol pumps, markets-malls, streets and roads, nooks and crannies—in all their breath hang the weary stench of a tired night.
Your car halts at the entrance of an alleyway near the railway track. You alight and wave at your car. It continues happily on its way and you –clutching your vanity bag—advance, faster than your car and with unsteady steps, over the broken alley.
You reach a tiny tin-roofed house by the side of a long narrow lane. Like an aged python the lane runs alongside the railway track. This house too is yours. A 40-watt bulb flickers in the verandah - waiting only for you to return.
A little ahead the basti has turned smoky. Noises flow intermittently over the air. Probably a cylinder had burst in the evening or a kerosene stove had burnt some of the hutments. It might even have been some  explosives hidden in somebody’s possession. The fire has doused –and so it is smoking.
When you reach your home, you turn around for a moment. Your opulent, silver car-- now on the even city roads--is gradually dissolving in the distance. Far away, the twinkling red back-light smiles at you, promising to meet again. You smile back. Of course! You are a car yourself …dazzling red, whose perpose It is to douse burning flames!!






                                                         -----------------------------

Meghamallar

Tapan Das
(translated from the original Assamese by Stuti Goswami)
Mustards in full bloom are a succour to the weary eye…
You know, on his beautiful evening, Majuli is swathed in green ink--floating in the swirls of Aapong, the young S.D.O. made vain attempts at scooping out a few flakes of verse.
But then, its true—presently, Majuli is a riot of myriad shades of green.
That patch of mustard on my left is yet to blossom. facing me, the paddy fields that stretch out to the horizon, are luxuriantly green too.
I have indeed come to Majuli in a pleasant clime. It was here that I got acquainted with Pranay Dutta, the young S.D.O. of Majuli. Presently lodged in the Government Circuit House, Dutta helped me finish my work well ahead of time.
“Sir, is your work over?” It was Deben, the chowkidaar of the Circuit House standing beside me, bag in hand.
“Yeah…I’m leaving tomorrow. Are you going to the bazaar?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then please bring me a pack of cigarettes” I took out my wallet and handed him some money.
“But I might be a little late sir. It is only after the evening ferry arrives that the cigarettes will be available”, with these words, Deben left.

This, is Majuli after all. From the man selling knick-knacks to the kerosene-seller, all trade subsists on the ferry that sails from Nimatighat on the other side of the river.
I relax my body on the arm chair. It feels good sitting out here in the verandah.
A warm afternoon in the month of Kati. A multitude of clouds hover in the blue sky above; clouds as white as the conch , … Clouds..megh…meghdoot… messenger of clouds…

In the distance, a number of snow white storks hover about the beel. Lotus leaves float on its surface. There are no flowers.
Onto one of the branches of the giant barren sonaru nearby, two birds are perched … languid, silent. Inside the compound, a black she-goat, along with her brood nibble away at the grass. Two of her little ones tug at the baby leaves of a plant in the unkempt garden; presently though they are seen pulling themselves away from the plant. Apparently, the leaves are not tasty.

Suddenly, the surroundings seem to close in on me—stifling me. Unlike Kalidas however, I am unable to extract even the tiniest drop of rasa out of the present moment. There’s nothing to do, not a soul to be heard; the world is quiet and still . Deben has left already… nobody to share a word. I don’t even feel like reading anything. Clouds, fields, beel till when can one possibly stare at an unchanging naturescape? O how I would cherish a some rain at this moment! Dutta will be back by evening. Even the cigarette supplies are exhausted. What to do…what do I do?

Suddenly I remember the unfinished pack of biscuits on my table. That should do for the moment. I bring the packet from my room and sit down on the verandah. I take out a biscuit and start munching it slowly. In the languid silence, the crunch of the biscuits sound pleasing. I eat as slowly as I can…. This time, I feel the heat. I go in and pour myself a glass of water from the filter. I return to the verandah and once again settle comfortably on my chair.


It is only now that I notice the leaden clouds hoarding the sky. From the west, a massive chunk of thick clouds draw near... As it sweeps the sky, it casts its enormous shadow over the paddy facing me—as though it were a gigantic hairy caterpillar. The sun has in the meanwhile hidden behind the clouds. A light breeze sails through nature. The leaves of the sonaru shiver gently. On the edge of the beel , two storks are fighting over a water snake. The paddy dances in the wind, sending tumultuous waves of green. A pleasant odour tickles my nose buds—I can make out the scent of unripe rice grains, wild flowers and of the mud of the river bank blended in sweet harmony.

Gir-gir-gir… the world reverberates with the thunder. This time around, I can easily smell the chaste intense rain that drawing closer. Gradually the clouds cast their shadow over the land--as far and wide as the eye can see. The wind is in a tumult. The firmament is illumined by incessant flashes of lightning; the sky rings constantly with bellow of thunder.
Outside the compound wall, a calf darts away--tail raised in fright. The family of goats hurriedly gets on to the verandah. The roar of wind drowns the frenzied bleating of the baby goats.

With a sharp creaking sound a branch of the sonaru breaks and falls down. A strong gust of wind forces open the wooden gate of the House. And at that moment in time, a rain descends. At first it falls in large droplets—tup-tup tup-tup. They fall on the tin roof of the Circuit House, evoking melodious notes of tin-tin-tin-tin. It feels as though I have long long awaited these magical notes—tup-tup tin-tin. How beautiful!!

The rain descends in increasingly heavier columns. Nature seems to have ensheathed herself in a sheet of misty silver. The rain, showing no signs of abating, showers over the green paddy. Once in a while a gentle flurry of the wind would unsettle the silvery droplets over the rice plants; making them sways and dance in the wind. Much of the paddy is by now immersed in water. There are puddles here and there, on which silvery raindrops play, like a bunch of toddlers splashing in the rain.
The showering rain sprays its mist over me…and I remain where I am. For the first time in life, I am witnessing such a rain, and I have already fallen in love with it…

It was indeed a heavy downpour …
For a long time, I sat motionless thus, soaking in the rain, like sand dunes in a desert.

I was hardly aware when dusk fell, and darkness wove its curtain all around me. I could only hear the rain falling… jir-jir-jir… and the wind sweeping the world. I got up and pressed the switch; the bulb remained as it was--load shedding. I returned to my chair, and closed my eyes. In this ensheathing darkness, I tried to listen to the faint ektaala playing on the Rain God’s instrument.

I’m not aware till when I was seated thus. Suddenly, I heard somebody clearing his throat; I gently opened my eyes. I could see nothing in the darkness.

“Is it Deben?” I asked.
“No sir, its me”, a deep voice tumbled out, in response. I looked in the direction of the voice, and thought I could discern a man standing, umbrella in hand.
“Whom do you want?” I asked again.
“Isn’t S.D.O. sir around?”
“No”
“I have come with hopes of some monetary help from S.D.O. sir. In the earlier deluge, I had worked hard on his behalf”, the man said
“Kindly wait awhile. He will soon be here..”
“No I can’t. I have a long way to go. Its ok sir, I’ll take your leave.”, without showing any interest in extending the conversation, the stranger turned to leave.
I offered-- “Then please tell me about yourself. May be I could pass on the message when he comes.”
The man paused. In the dark, he fumbled for something, and drew closer—“Here is my address.”
He placed a coarse paper on my outstretched palm. I put it carefully in my pocket. Will have to give it to Dutta when he returns, I thought.
Meanwhile, the man dissolved into the darkness.
Just then, the rain too lightened. I went inside, lit a candle and lay down on my bed. I felt tired, and at once fell into a deep slumber. It was only when Dutta shook me hard that I woke up with a start.

The candle had almost extinguished. Dutta quickly lit it a new one. He took out his bottle of Brandy and pouring some measures into two glasses, offered me one and settling comfortably on my bed, began—
“So, how did you spend your day?”
Just then, Deben arrived with the cigarettes. At Dutta’s order, he hurried to the kitchen.
“Well…tell me—how did you spend your day?” emptying his glass at one gulp, Dutta repeated his question.
“what else? enjoyed the rain…that’s all.”
“Rain!!where…and when?” Dutta seemed surprised
“Since afternoon. Such a heavy downpour!”
“What?? were you dreaming?”, Dutta laughed out loud
“No, I’m not joking. I’m serious. Where were you in the afternoon?” I questioned.
“That is precisely why I’m asking you. Were you dreaming ?I had been at my office since morning. And you know, it’s hardly a furlong from here. Wouldn’t I know if there was rain?” Dutta broke out into peals of laughter.
It felt really awkward. I tried to read Dutta’s expression in the flickering candle light, but couldn’t tell whether he was having fun at my expense.

This time, I elaborated before Dutta the entire experience of the afternoon. I told him, how the rain fell heavily, and how long it lasted. I told him about the broken sonaru branch , the family of goats taking shelter in the verandah, the gate that had opened by itself in the wind. I even told him about the frightened calf that sprang hurriedly in the rain.
But Dutta was in fits. He laughed till he could laugh no more. Controlling himself with some effort, he asked—“ok, if there had been a heavy downpour—as you say—there must be puddles on the ground outside.”
“Yes—definitely” I was confident.
This time, Dutta eyed me with suspicion. Nonetheless he continued—“ok, then let’s go out and see.”
Both of us went.
The night sky was illuminated with a thousand stars. Dutta looked up and smiled. He switched on his torch—its powerful beam swept across the ground beneath his feet. The grass was dry!! He then tore a few leaves from a flower plant in the garden and showed me—a thin film of dust layered the leaves. He next shone his torch on the green corrugated roof of the Circuit House. It was virtually caked with dust.
“Satisfied?” Dutta said.
“One of the branches of the sonaru had broken off!”
“It can break in the wind anyway.Is it necessary to check that?” I was desisted.
Just then, hearing somebody humming a tune just outside, Dutta shouted out—
“Hey—who’s that?”
“Its me—S.D.O. sahib” a crude voice replied.
“Who me?”
“Anil Kamaan--the cartpuller”
“Did it rain here today?”
“What does sahib say—ha ha ha”, laughing, Anil Kamaan moved on pushing his pushcart
This time, Dutta shouted out to deben. He came running out of the kitchen. He too gave a similar answer—
“Rain!!today?where, when? not at all!!”

“Forget it, I suppose you were dreaming…. It happens sometimes though…. Let’s go inside--”with these words, Dutta walked in. Wondering whether I was actually alive, or long dead, I too followed.
Dutta became busy pouring a new peg, while I started scrapping the caverns of my memory to retrieve the experiences of the afternoon.
That beautiful firmament— the firmament hoarded with dark clouds, the incessant falling rain streaks, Nature dancing to the rain’s melody—all this…were all this not there? a mere figment of my imagination?

At about ten that evening, we had our dinner. Candle in hand, Deben took Dutta to his room.
“I suppose the current won’t return tonight after all.”
I changed into my nightshirt. After that I took the candle and went up to the dressing table. Terrified I peered into the mirror. Am I indeed the person standing in front of the mirror?

Suddenly, a lightning struck inside my mind. –“That man!” Of course, there was that man, who had come to meet Dutta. He had come when it was raining heavily. With an umbrella in hand, that man had stood amidst the dark—right there--before my eyes. He’d given me a piece of paper with his address on it, and had left in the rain itself. Yes—that paper, that coarse bit of paper. Where was it now… where had I kept it?
I searched frantically for that paper. That man will certainly know about the rain. He had come amidst the rain itself.
But if it was indeed raining heavily, how come the paper was so dry? How did it dry so easily? Why was there no trace of rain? I was bewildered.
Whatever—the most important thing at the moment was to get that paper with the man’s address on it…where had I kept it?
I remembered—it was in my pant pocket.
I almost hauled the pant from the cloth stand. Thank heavens!!The paper was still there…
At once, I put my hand inside my pocket, and drew it out. At the same moment, I was taken aback.
It was not a piece of paper—but a lotus leaf, folded in the middle. A pleasant scent tickled my nostrils once again—it was the scent of unripe rice grains, of wild flowers and mud of the river bank mix’t in sweet harmony.

Slowly, I opened the folded leaf. On the leaf, with scratch marks made by a light stick, was written in a beautiful hand—“Rainseller”

--------------xxxxxxxxx---------------
( published in 'Cottonian' the college magazine of Cotton College,Guwahati)