INKPOT - Chameli Memsaab : Nirode Choudhury

Translator: Siba K Gogoi

Bangles jingled. I looked around. I saw no one. After a while, a bawarchi put a liquor bottle and a glass before Berkley Sahab. He fetched me a cup of coffee. Berkley Sahab had already started drinking. I, too, started sipping my coffee but my mind was wondering where Chameli Memsaab was.

Berkley Sahab was gulping down one bottle after another. I was amazed at his drinking prowess. He was sitting, puffing on his pipe intermittently, immune to any external influence. Maybe he understood I was not feeling at home. He told me he was very happy that day because I was beside him talking and drinking coffee.

I felt embarrassed. So I didn’t object to him. But I couldn’t hold back my curiosity about him anymore. I simply said: “Why don’t you go back to England?”

“Shut up. Who are you to ask that question?” yelled Berkley Sahab, hurling a look of spite and hatred at me, just as a snake would spreads its hood immediately after being injured.

I bowed my head. Berkley Sahab, realising that he had reacted sharply, walked up to me and patted my shoulder, and asked me not to get him wrong.

I didn’t misunderstand him.

It was getting dark. I took leave of Berkley Sahab. When I was returning home, one thing was lingering on my mind: why is there so much disparity of human life? Someone gets everything in life, someone doesn’t get anything. The pain of not achieving what one wants can be deeply felt in the harshest moment of life. Someone experiences that moment, someone doesn’t. That moment did not come to Berkley Sahab either.

In the dead of night, Berkley Sahab told me of things about his life, things that were perhaps – or perhaps not – known to others in the tea estate. But I guess no one knew what I knew about him.

Berkley Sahab told me how he fell in love with a girl, called Chameli, working in the tea plantation, how his love for her deepened, and how he finally brought her to his bungalow. He didn’t hide anything about his feelings for her; he candidly asked Chameli’s father, Birbal Sardar, if he would allow him to take her to his bungalow. Birbal Sardar found no reason to disagree. Chameli of Line 2 became Memsaab. Chameli Memsaab.

Days went off well for Berkley Sahab and Chameli Memsaab. It was not long before a misfortune befell them. Berkley Sahab had a gnawing suspicion that Chameli was out of condition, which he initially chose to overlook, treating it as a simple thing. He let his physician friend know the matter the day he had come as a guest to the tea estate.

After examining Chameli, the doctor looked grave. “It’s a case of leprosy. Her body shows clear symptoms of the disease,” said the doctor. Berkley Sahab breathed a sigh of frustration. Chameli cried. Berkley Sahab couldn’t bear seeing her cry. He decided that Chameli would live separately. He had a house built to the east of the tea plantation. All the people on the tea estate came to know of this. Berkley Sahab arranged for her treatment but it yielded no result. After a few months, Chameli gave birth to a baby girl. That day Berkley Sahab, forgetting all his sorrow, smiled and so did Chameli. Then came a day when Chameli laughed until she wept. Berkley Sahab became very sad again. The growth of the hands and legs of the little girl was not in proportion to her age. She had not spoken a single word even after three years of her birth. The doctor said: “.....”

Berkley Sahab was overcome with grief. The worse was yet to come. 

He made a point of seeing Chameli every day but never stayed with her at night. That day, too, he went to Chameli. When he wanted to leave Chameli in the still of the night, she told him that she would probably never get well, for her entire body was becoming dysfunctional. She wished him to give her company as she felt something was going to happen to her that night.

Berkley Sahab didn’t stay back. He consoled her with deep love and then went away.

Chameli also left him. And she was gone.

Next morning there was a commotion on the tea estate. Berkley Sahab arrived at the scene. The body of Chameli was still hanging at the school. A green saree was wrapped around her neck. It was a ghastly sight. Flies were swarming all over the body and a stench pervaded the air around the school building.

Berkley Sahab told me those things impassively. After some time, he finished off the bottle and asked me to follow him into the inner part of his bungalow. It was a neatly ordered room with a bed in a corner. A mosquito net hung on the bed. As I was hesitant, he himself took me close to the bed. Pointing to the bed, he said: “Look, she’s sleeping.”

A girl, as innocent as a flower, was sleeping, a girl who will never live like a human being; hers is a living death. On hearing the jingle of bangles I turned my head. The ayah was coming. Perhaps, she had woken up from deep sleep. She saluted her master. I looked at the face of the girl through the tiny holes in the mosquito net. I wanted to see on her face the face of Chameli who I had never seen but only heard about. While I was gazing at the girl, Berkley Sahab said: “I’m just waiting for her death. I’ll return to England once she is dead.” I looked at him as though I didn’t understand what he said. “She must die, my boy ... must die,” said Berkley Sahab. His voice later broke when he cried. I didn’t ask him anything again. Without turning back, I came out of the house. I didn’t have the courage to look back at Chameli Memsaab’s bungalow.

It was well into the night when I reached home. Pehideu and others were sleeping. After entering my house, I saw food was kept for me in a room. I silently washed my hands and face. I didn’t have any desire to eat. I drank a glass of water before lighting a cigarette. Niloy was snoring raucously. I opened the window. A light breeze wafted in. I again looked at the bungalow with the reddish tin roof. Lights were still on there. Perhaps Berkley Sahab was still there. Who knows how long he will stay like that. I went to bed leaving the window open. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Still, I’ll have to sleep. I’ll have to drift off to forget everything.

The eyes of my mind remained restless.

“Xon da, does man become a ghost after his death?” This is a question from Niloy. Pehideu feels “Berkley Sahab is a bad man, a man of bad character, and has earned a bad name.”

“She must die, my boy... must die...,” Berkley Sahab had said. The smell of green leaves of verdant tea bushes... Memsaab... Chameli... Chameli... Chameli...

Nirode Choudhury, one of the most well known Assamese writers, has written many stories. A number of his works like ‘Chameli Memsaab’ and ‘Banahanxa’ have been made into classic movies

INKPOT - One Page Mahabharata and A Tale of Cities : Smriti Kumar Sinha

One-Page Mahabharata

THE otherwise sky-high, royal, gorgeous and long-living banyan tree was now a laughing stock. Its challenge was to reach the TV on the stand. Thanks to those who had cut its roots to size

SUNDAY morning. Cleansing his spectacles with a soft cloth, Narendra sat in front of the television in the drawing room.

“Has it started?” His wife, Surabala, asked him from the kitchen.

“No.”

Surabala was busy preparing breakfast. With the serial about to start, she was in a tearing hurry.

“Hasn’t it started yet?” She repeated.

“No, not yet. I will call you. The background music will let you know,” said Narendra.

At the very moment, a scooter stopped in front of their gate. Narendra peeped through the window.

“Hey, do you hear me? Sunanda and Surendra have arrived!” He rushed to open the door. “What a pleasant surprise! Welcome, welcome. I hardly believed that you would come,” said Narendra.

Surabala, on the other hand, poured two more cups of water in the kettle. In haste, she made a couple of omelettes too.

“Has it started?” Surendra too questioned as he set foot in the verandah.

“About to. We too are waiting,” said Narendra.

While Surendra sat in the drawing room, Sunanda went straight to the kitchen to meet Surabala. After a while, the two women came out with tea and snacks to the drawing room.

“Have you lost your way and landed up here?” Surabala took a dig at Surendra.

Surendra smiled and replied: “Oh no, not like that. We have been planning, you know. It’s to have a glimpse of your newly-built house and, while at it, to enjoy The Mahabharata serial together.”

“It’s nice that you have come,” said Narendra.

“Maybe the birth of Krishna will be screened today.”

“How can that be? In the last episode, just the fourth child was born, while Krishna was the eighth.”

Sunanda, on the other hand, had her eyes on the bonsai banyan tree near the TV. She studied it keenly and said: “Where have you brought this bonsai from?”

“From the horticulture firm at Zoo Road.”

“Beautiful! With its prop roots hanging down, it looks like the old gigantic one near the Mahabhairab temple.”

They all burst into laughter. The otherwise sky-high, royal, gorgeous and long-living banyan tree was now a laughing stock. Its challenge was to reach the TV on the stand. Thanks to those who had cut its roots to size.

The day’s episode of the Mahabharata started. The room wore a mantle of silence. At first, a recap of the last episode was telecast… Daibaki gave birth to her fourth baby in captivity. She was making efforts not to let the guards on duty in the prison know of the newborn. However, a spying guard came to know of the infant and passed the message to King Kangs late at night. The day’s episode started… A beam of light from the dawning sun illuminated a corner of the prison cell. Daibaki, who had to pass a sleepless night, was taken aback by the light. Bewitched by the newborn, Vasudeva, on the other hand, kept looking at the baby in bewilderment. A restless Daibaki was on a desperate lookout for a safe hideout, but to no avail. The guards were about to reach her cell. She was crestfallen when she thought of the fate of her baby when her brother Kangs would…

“Let’s do something. It’s morning. Where to hide the baby?” Daibaki said, and brought Vasudeva back to his senses. He kept looking at her and the newborn. Raising his chained hands up, a helpless Vasudeva kept praying at the beam of sunlight. The oracle went that the eighth son of Daibaki would be their saviour. Oracles always come true, but it’s all the same to parents, whether first or eighth. “Oh God! What an ordeal is this!” Vasudeva rued, and kept gazing at the sky, a piece of which could be seen through the small hole.

“King of Kings, His Highness, King of Mathura, Maharaj Kangs is c-o-m-i-n-g…” an alert sounded by a royal guard. A frenetic Daibaki kept running from one corner to the other to hide the baby. Her chained legs were bleeding profusely. At last she lay on her side and started lactating the baby. She pretended to be oblivious to Kangs, who entered the room and said: “Daibaki, hand over the baby.”

“Baby? What baby? There isn’t any.”

“Don’t hide it. I came with a confirmed tip-off.”

“I’m bowing down to you, spare the life of an innocent infant,” she said. Kangs was bewildered, looking at his most affectionate sister. But he soon came to his senses, and thought: “That can’t be. For my life, the death of Daibaki’s babies is a must. Defending oneself is no sin.” He laughed in her face and took away the infant from her lap, raised it up and smashed it against the wall. Fresh blood kept dripping down the wall…

A commercial break followed. The TV’s volume was low. Pin-drop silence enveloped the drawing room. Only the tic-tac, tic-tac… monotone of the wall-clock continued.

“Detestable!” Sunanda broke the silence indignantly.

“No character in the Mahabharata is as sadistic as that of Kangs,” Surabala remarked.

A commercial advertisement was playing on the screen. Silently the ad showed the preparation of tasty chocolates by the milk collected cooperatively by the women of Gujarat. A success story! The ad, however, failed to accommodate the tale of the calves, deprived of mothers’ milk. 

“A sadist, you know,” taking a piece of the omelette, Narendra continued, “It’s the height of cruelty. For the sake of his own life, so many innocents were slaughtered. Horrible! The director has done the job well, symbolically showing the patches of blood on the wall…a balanced shot.”

“Wait, wait. The omelette is delicious. The taste isn’t like that of firm eggs,” said Sunanda.

“Yeah, we have reared a pair of local fowls. You know, it’s a must for our protein deficiency,” said Surabala.

The commercial break was over. The serial resumed. The fade-in on the screen was the prison of Kangs. Bereaved and wailing Daibaki was slowly losing her senses. A helpless Vasudeva was sprinkling water on her eyes, and kept on massaging her head as a solace. Thus the Mahabharata episode of the day ended there. But a lively discussion on the character, Kangs, continued, till Surendra and Sunanda got up to depart.

“Why have you got up? Let’s have lunch together,” Narendra proposed."

“No, not today. We will, some other day. We have an appointment with the doctor today. Why don’t you hold a feast? We expect such a treat as you have completed your house,” said Surendra.

“It’s great. We will hold one on a holiday,” Narendra said.

“Wait, wait. In the doctor’s chamber too, we will be kept on waiting. Let’s have a look at the newly-built house. We too have a plan to erect one,” said Sunanda.

“It’s our pleasure to show you around.” Narendra and Surabala led the guests to the dining room, the kitchen, bedrooms, the in-house mandir ‒ one by one. The bamboo basket in front of the images of conjugal Radha-Krishna was full of freshly plucked flowers. Half-bloomed or about-to-bloom flowers hanging from their necks reeked off the mundamala with chopped-off baby heads! What was dazzling on the cheeks? Tears? All of them bowed down together.

Chatting about the vastu of the house, they all stepped into the kitchen garden in the backyard. Narendra and Surabala briefed the guests with all the details of the house. Surendra and Sunanda were glued. The blueprint of a dream house seemed to flash in their eyes. Adjacent to the left corner of the boundary walls stood a small poultry shed. Its roof was of abandoned tin cans of mustard oil, embossed with the trade-mark, Tripti ‒ complete satisfaction! The walls were of wire mesh. A pair of snow-white fowls was inside.

Not one or two, but a brigade of four was approaching them. The scared hen in captivity became frenetic. She moved from corner to corner fluffing out her feathers, shedding many of them. She poked the cock and warned it of the impending danger. Finding no way out, the mother hen went round the just laid egg ‒ once, twice, many times, in quick succession. At last, she covered the egg with her bosom and started incubating it. Like every other day, the cock kept gazing up, with its beak pushed out through a grid of the mesh. He kept gazing at the fragment of the sky, looked like a rag of a denim, seen through the juncture of the two moss-covered walls. It gazed and kept waiting, maybe still with the faint hope of an oracle.

 

A Tale of Cities

 

YES, it’s a tale of cities, not of one or two. Take Mumbai, Chennai, Kolkata, Guwahati…as a case study ‒ it’s the same basic storyline. From Google earth, let’s zoom in on any of the cities, say Guwahati…

It’s a sweltering noon. It’s the hustle and bustle of city life, with honking cars lined up. The road on the left leads one to Fancy Bazar. A billboard stands erect on the right. Rich in carbohydrate, vitamins and minerals ‒ reads the advertisement of a baby food. No substitute for breastfeeding, maxim of the WHO, written in a small font size, almost invisible. Oh no! What a stark contrast! A corpse, on the footpath! Could be of a mother. A baby is sucking its breasts, breathlessly. A bagging bowl is lying near, upside down. The crying baby is standing up. Limping… a baby boy. A mass of tangled and matted hair on its head.

Mercy coins keep falling from the pedestrians chatting over mobile phones and commuters busy surfing Internet ‒ broad band Wi-Fi. A digital divide! What else can they do? The kid starts walking over the coins, making thuds. The metallic sound stops. It looks at the other side ‒ a glimmer of hope. Crossing the main road!

The speeding cars break to a halt, with an awful screeching. Oh God! You’re really omnipresent. The kid has crossed the road. The swamping traffic has resumed free flow. The kid is craning his neck to have a better view of a green hoarding. A rhino is grazing in foliage of wild grasses in the Kaziranga National Park ‒ a tourism department’s ad with a tag on the top ‘Incredible India!’ Incredible indeed!

Limping a few steps further, the kid has stood in front of another hoarding. A few kids of his age are playing with colourful toys. ‘Kids’ Dreamland’, an English medium nursery school. A red missed ball is falling down. The kid on the footpath has forgot his stomachache, and extended his hand to catch it ‒ beyond his reach.

The crying baby is limping ahead, thumping against the roadside wall. Stopped! An eye-catching cartoon on the wall. A boy and a girl are playing see-saw sitting on a long and striped wood pencil! Written atop is ‘Let’s all go to school’… Sarba Shiksha Abhiyan… a government mission. The kid has rushed to catch the pencil ‒ a fake one!

It keeps limping till another poster ‒ gloomy orphan faces, matted hair. Tears dripping down their cheeks. Known faces? It has turned back and stood. On the backdrop, fellow faces and a tag ‒ UNICEF HELP. The kid is slowly extending his untutored hands.“Stop it. I’m here,” a street teen has rushed to the spot in a whirlwind. He has held the hand of the kid. A mobile phone in hand, his is a known face. A beggar-turned service provider through his mobile public call office for phoneless pedestrians. An innovation, thanks to Mahammad Yunus!

The kid bursts in hunger. The teen has taken him to a pilfered water pipe, offered him a palm-full. No, not a substitute. A solace? Relinquenched, the kid is clinging, a passionate hug in return ‒ an age-old bond of eMotion amidst eBusiness, eLearning and eGovernannce hoardings.

Let’s zoom in on, say…

 

Note: The story is especially dedicated to famous economist Prof. Mahammad Yunus, Nobel Laureate from Bangladesh, who changed the lives of street children and the poor of South-East Asia.

Smriti Kumar Sinha teaches at Tezpur University and has authored three anthologies of short-stories in Bishnupriya Manipuri.

INKPOT - The Unconnected Bond : Surma Ningombam

Translator: Thingnam Anjulika Samom

Do you still remember me?” The complaint tinged with all the tenderness and love of the world hit my ears and my heart. I don’t know how I replied. She continued again, “Life, isn’t it sweet? Didn’t you once desire that I do not forget you for a single moment?”

She laughed. Maybe because she recalled my unbridled manner of saying whatever I wanted to her. It is that smile of hers today too. Now too I felt the stab of jealousy.

“Tell me, didn’t you remember me even once all these days?”

What should I say? What if I replied, “All this time I didn’t forget you for even a single moment?” Those who used to walk together on a single road, the birds which used to feed together in the same lake, where have they flown away, in which directions? Which partners did they meet and where did they reach? If I give this reply now, would it be appropriate? What if she finds it funny again?

“Haven’t you written anything? Do write something or the other. If not anything else, just write down what you are thinking.”

Why won’t I write? Look … the cupboard in my room, the bed, the table, the chair, everything which my eyes rest upon, I write there. My sunken cheeks, my pale face, look at them, there are many stories written here too. Everything written here is your story, how can my lips reveal it?

“Hmm, don’t look like that.” She waved her hand in front of my eyes and broke my gaze. “I have been doing all the talking, you haven’t given even a single reply.”

True, it seems I haven’t given a reply to any of her questions. I am afraid to give an answer. And then, what rule is there that says that the reply to every question should be given by the lips? That I didn’t reply – that in itself is a reply. In it, for a single question are given a hundred replies.

She asked again, “What dish would you like to have? Today let’s eat together.”

This bond which only
my heart saw as
beautiful has however
no place in our society.
Except as an ugly bond
in which others can’t
see anything beautiful,
by which they are disgusted

I recalled those times in the past when we used to eat together. In a single plate, how lovingly, how happily! She had said then, “The doctor said I shouldn’t eat too much of protein-rich food. But when I eat with you, I always eat it.”

“Humans are destined to die one day,” I replied with an all-knowing attitude, “Why fear death so much?”

“It’s not for fear of death that I say so; is it good to invite bad health?”

What I utter foolishly she would correct. One day too, true to my nature, I had complained sullenly, “It seems you only remember me when I remember you. You never call me.”

“I could call if the phone was in your house. All that calling back and forth as it’s your neighbour’s … that’s why I don’t call.”

She must have surely wanted to laugh at my innocence. But I never saw any sign of it in her. I wasn’t able to know her at that time too. I don’t know her today either. It is amazing. I wanted to laugh at myself.

“Why’re you laughing like that? I’m just asking you what dish you would like to eat.”

Oh! It seems I had laughed aloud. The past which refuses to be unremembered makes me drown in a nightmare every now and then. That which is past. It is the story of the past that keeps me alive. And again whenever I ask myself for the meaning of this existence – to continue living and thinking about the past … heart-breaking and impossible, I want to cease living. It must have been two or three times that I tried to kill myself. But they’re guarding me so closely. They’ve made it impossible to even die freely.

“What’ll I do if I continue living? It has become difficult to continue carrying on with this joke of a life.”

“Asssh! The things you say …” She continued in a changed voice and tone, “Didn’t you say, life is beautiful?”

One day I thought thus – life is so beautiful, so lovely. But today, how can I still say that life is lovely, the way I am living now, the way I am enduring life? What a difference there is between that time and this day! At that time there was lots of hope; the heart was filled with love. There was trust. I believed in myself; I believed in love. Because of that, what did it result in? I remained drowning alone.

“One thing which cannot become possible in our undeveloped society has become my nightmare. I am caught, I am still caught in that nightmare … never waking up.”

“Eh! From where did that come from? Why are you  saying all these unconnected things?”

Saying so, she folded the couple of clothes lying around in my bed. The bangles on her wrist jingled as she moved about. I looked at her hands. I recalled a time in the past. I wanted to hold her hands.

“Wasn’t there something in the lines of your palm that said you will be famous? Let me see it.”

She stretched out her hand as usual. Like this, I had hold her hands and read them so many times. Palmistry, zodiac signs, I didn’t believe them much. By chance I had come across a book of palmistry. Cheiro’s Guide to the Hand, I think it was called. It became an addiction. I don’t know whether she believed it or not. Sometimes during a conversation, I would read her hands. And recalling some of the things in the book, I would foretell. How happy I was at that.

“Ey, tell me, what is there in these lines? You once said there is a huge accident in store for me. How long before it comes?”

Something written in the book had resembled something that was there in the lines on her palm, and so I had said it. What is an accident? Isn’t every happening that occurs everyday an accident? That she had come here today and met me, this too could be an accident. For that matter, this accident of the heart that had occurred to me, could there be any other bigger accident than that? Sitting with her, talking with her, participating in literary functions, telephone, eating together – I wasn’t able to see another world besides that world. I floated along in it, floated endlessly. But suddenly the news of her marriage came. The great accident occurred in my life, on my head.

“Ah, I forgot.” Pulling back her hand from my grasp she took out a book with a colourful cover from her handbag and gave it to me. “This is my new publication. You must read it and say whether it is good or bad.”

Was there ever a time when I had said that her book was bad? Even a single word that she wrote used to be beautiful to me. The first time I had been caught in her dream was her writing. How beautiful it was! What this heart felt, but which I was unable to write out myself, how I had found it all there. In her style of writing which saw the weak and ill, the poor and impoverished with sympathy … I saw the uniqueness in her.  That drew me to her. Not only me … it seems many others were drawn towards her. She had narrated many stories about those men who had asked her to be their life’s partner, regardless of whether they were her match or not, big or small … She might not have known what turbulent waves rose in my heart then?

“You don’t want to read? Why are you just staring like that? Here, take it.”

I stretched out my hand and took her book. I saw her name written large on the cover of the book. Life is very funny. Funnier than that is the mind of people. Of all the words in the world, I found her broken name the most beautiful. That was the depraved nature of the mind.

When God created the world, two types of human beings – men and women – were made. Along with that, there is a natural rule between men and women – of captivating each other. But from time to time, there are errors in God’s creation, this I do not doubt. I myself could be an example of this. The error that God made while creating me is my heart. This bond which only my heart saw as beautiful has, however, no place in our society. Except as an ugly bond in which others can’t see anything beautiful, by which they are disgusted. Therefore, this bond which is of the hearts has continued to exist only as a deceitful bond. I know – she too will not like this bond which the society rejects. At that time she might also find me repulsive. So, I have continued to deceive her also. As this deceit grew, her life also gradually grew farther and farther apart from me and one day, it vanished totally. From that time, through the days and the nights, my mind has not been able to rest. It started thinking wildly, randomly, started worrying.

“I’ll leave, it’s late. There is another function at 2 o’clock.”

Leave! See, this too is like an accident in my mind. I looked at her helplessly.

“Sister Bimola has received an award; it is her reception function.”

How surprising! And also how funny! It is she who knows Ichemma Bimola, her writings. At that time none of us believed that Ichemma Bimola will receive an award. But our society has given its blessings on such impossible things becoming possible. Does she also accept this? One day, she had said, “Our literary circle is very dirty, but we are also helpless about it. Tomorrow when we become the leaders let us try to change it, let’s not incorporate any of the wrongs.”

What a huge hope that was built! That could also be a dream.

“Get well soon! Don’t think too much.”

No, if I don’t think what else will I do? The long afternoons, so many endless nights that I endured unable to sleep, thinking unconnected thoughts. And she says, don’t think. Amazing, doesn’t she know me even now? She knew that I do not like not thinking. And from that time I think more now. It is without wasting even a single moment that I think. It is only my thoughts that have built a world for only the two of us – she and I! What a happy, wonderful world, just the two of us, in solitude, in the moonlight, in the rains, in the mellow light of the mornings. When my dream, my thoughts veered slowly towards the impossible, my bond with people also slowly diminished.

“It’s late. Come out, what’s up?”

She sat up abruptly at the voice coming from the next room. It seems to be the man who had come with her. He must surely be her husband.

“I’ll go, get well.”

Without waiting for my reply, she went out hurriedly. I looked at the door through which she exited. So this must be parting, becoming apart. One day I had said to her, “Let’s never

part; lets remain close our whole lives.”

She had laughed. She must have known earlier that this won’t be possible.

“You are so alike.”

“What time is it now?”

Her voice, “It’s early. I couldn’t just …”

“You’re so comfortable with that madwoman. How many friends like this do you have? Should we go and see another one also? If you meet each of those inside the mental hospital everyday you’ll be able to write a beautiful novel.”

I couldn’t hear her reply to the angry tirade of her husband. As the voice faded away in the distance I realised – my world has not only snapped links with hers but also with the rest of the human world.

This story was first published in Manipuri as “Samnadaba Mari” in the anthology Ithak Macha Machasinggi Wari published in 2007 by Khorjeiroy Khutmarup, Thoubal

INKPOT - LIFE ON THE LONGAI

Extracted from Meleng Pp: 79-82

Translator - Gitanjali Das

“Not Peer Ghat, more like heaven’s banks,” Meher Ali murmured looking at the soi made with jengou paat, “Since the meleng will be anchored there, I will have to decorate it.”

The Longai’s water was still rising. The sandbank was under knee-deep water now. Despite the discomfort, everybody was making melengs. Meher Ali had decorated the soi with dexterity. Meher called Irshaad and pointing at the soi, asked, “Oi. How does it look?”

“Wow! Amazing,” he went inside the soi and checked it. He came out and said, “Is the kundhi broader compared to last time?”

“It has to be.” Meher said in a teasing tone, “Will the melengial alone go inside the soi? Many dreams will also sail.”

Comprehending the implied meaning of the words,

Irshaad laughed.

MELENG

Basanta Das

AnGik Prakashan, 2005

Rs50, 148 pages

Hardcover/ Novel

“My work is done! Now you can set sail in the meleng,” Meher said.

“We will sail at such an hour,” Irshaad said, “so that we reach Peer Ghaat late at night.”

“Eh! Don’t boast so much,” Meher Ali chided, “I have experienced much to reach this age. Get me some tobacco in a silim.”

“There you are!” Irshaad thought looking at his chachajaan’s face, “Chachajaan makes him run on such errands taking advantage of his weakness.” The hookah was already in chachajaan’s hand. He snatched the silim from the hookah and went inside the soi. No fire burnt in the kundhi’s kitchen yet. He took a tikira from a container, prepared the silim and attached it to Meher’s hookah.

At that moment they heard Nimai Das’ voice from the edge of the river bank. He carefully climbed down the bank.

“So why are you so late?” Meher said, “I was waiting for you at the bus-stop.”

“I am late because of problems at home.” Nimai said, “You already know, bhaijaan. We are a joint family. My wife and sister-in-law are always fighting with each other. Now my wife won’t take it anymore. Now our family has broken into two.”

“Eh! That is too bad.” Meher said, “Nimai, there is never any happiness in a family that is in debt, in ill health and quarrelling. Sort out the problems with your brother and bring him back home.” After a moment of silence, Meher asked, “When will the meleng set sail?”

“I have sent the helpers day before yesterday. They have already built the bamboo pola. Once the melengs are tied, we can go upstream.” Nimai asked, “Are you leaving right now?”

“We were thinking about it.”

“All right. Go. We will follow.” Seeing the swollen river, Nimai said, “Pray for us, bhaijaan. See how the river is in spate.”

Meher looked towards the river! Huge currents were forming in the frothing water of the river that had turned saffron from eroding the red soil from the mountains. The damaged trees were signs of the devastation caused by last night’s storm.

Meher smiled. He looked skywards and said, “The badshah of the world exists. If Krishna wishes to save who can kill, if Krishna wishes to kill who can save?”

Irshaad rolled with laughter like an imbecile. Meher looked at him askance and asked, “What has gotten into you that you are laughing like that?”

“Krishna’s name on a miya’s lips”, he kept on laughing.

“Bopai o. He who knows only one religion,” Meher said, “does not know any religion.”

“You have spoken the truth, bhaijaan.”

Meher burped all of a sudden.  He took out a container from where his lungi was knotted around his waist and popped a pinch of soda into his mouth.

“Bhaijaan!” A shocked Nimai looked at Meher’s hands and asked, “Didn’t the three doses of medicine work?”

“It did.” He said sheepishly, “But then you asked me to avoid eating two things, no?”

“Yes. Bengena and xukan maas.”

“And?” Irshaad added, “And what about xukan jolokia?”

Nimai said, “Iss iss, you made a big mistake bhaijaan.”

Nimai’s eyes had fallen on the soi on the meleng and he observed, “The soi looks different.”

“Is it nice?” Seeing the silim dying out, Meher took a few quick puffs till it started glowing again and extended it towards Nimai.

“Will you smoke?”

Nimai took the silim and after a couple of puffs said,

“The meleng looks like a zamidar’s pansoi.”

Meher laughed raucously.

“The flame of gunaah will burn inside the soi.”

Irshaad was tying knots in the meleng. Provoked by what his chachajaan said, he retorted, “Nimai chacha. Our chachajaan always keeps talking about gunaah. Tell me who does not have a fault? Only the dead and the babies do not. Are we dead or babies?”

“Era! Irshaad has learnt how to speak!”

“Nimai,” Meher said, “I am talking to you. Why should this little boy interrupt the conversation between two old people? Insolent boy!”

“It’s ok bhaijaan. He is young.” Nimai said, “I forgot to tell you the main thing. It’s my daughter’s wedding. The 17th day of ahin.”

“That is very good news.” Meher said. “Where are you marrying her off?”

Nimai said sadly, “What do I say, bhaijaan. Foreign land, in Jagiroad.”

“Jagiroad! Are you still a frog in the well?” Meher Ali said laughing, “Are we not people of Axom?”

“We are.”

“Then how can Jagiroad be foreign land?”

“Meher bhai, do you know why I called it foreign land?”

“Why?”

“Isn’t the language different there?”

“It’s different, yet the same.” Meher said, “When we say ‘kita’, ‘kita’, do you think it is Bangla? It’s a branch of Axomiya. The tree has grown strong with all these branches. We are Axomiya because we are all part of this tree.”

“I did not understand you.”

“You did not understand?” Meher closed his eyes for some time and searched in his mind. Finding his expression, he said suddenly, “From Sadia to Baxirhaat, Jonai-Darranga to our own Hailakandi, the same Axom has many different dialects. Does that mean that the people from one place will call another place a foreign land?”

“Ok, I undertand.” Nimai said, “That means the girl will not go far from home.”

“What does the boy do?”

“He is a trader in xukaan maas.”

“That is good. She will live happily.” Meher said, “Invite me, alright?”

“Why won’t I, bhaijaan?” Nimai bid farewell and waded noisily through the water towards his melengs.

Meanwhile, Irshaad split the two ends of the logi and then flattened them a bit, so that it would be easier to row through the water in the middle of the river.

Meher looked at the melengs one last time and set sail. The melengs floated away with the current of the water.

INKPOT - Becoming Tiwa: A mekdo enters the tribal fold : Rita Choudhury

Deu Langkhui

Rita Choudhury

Jyoti Prakashan, 2011 (1st ed 2005)

Rs.190, 416 pages

Hardcover/Novel

Are there such things as small people-big people in your society? You have addressed me as pai. This means you are my younger sister

The Brahmaputra is to the north, Dimoria to the west, Boramoli to the south and Khagorijan to the east. The Tiwas and others, living in this vast region, had forgotten Konsari in the first flush of youth; that old Abi Konsari was also a young girl once. Young Konsari’s looks were as bright as fire. She had an alluring body that could even captivate a god.

Of course, she still has the remnants of her beauty from those days — golden skin, silky hair like the scales of a snake, eyes as deep as a lake and an Apsara-like build. All these have almost remained the same. The shrinking of her skin, however, says it is only a sparkle left over from the past.

After coming to Gobha, Konsari initially felt out of place when she wore the kasyong phaskai. Whenever she stepped out of the palace, passers-by would gaze at her and murmur:

“Hey, look! She looks like a gasani. She is wearing our banat-bathu. You can’t say she is mekdo. She certainly looks like our libung.”

Hearing such comments, margi khamsamai Xounjira, accompanying Konsari, laughed and said:

“Do you know what people are saying, pai? They say you don’t look like a mekdo. You look more like lalung.”

“What is mekdo?” asked Konsari, not comprehending what Xounjira said.

“Mekdo means people belonging to a different community. People are very happy that you are wearing banat-bathu. Pai, you really look beautiful in this dress.”

The present Gobha Raja (right)

Chatty Xounjira’s words made Konsari laugh. She said: “Wearing banat-bathu is not enough, Xounjira. I will have to learn the language spoken here. I will learn it from you.”

“Pai, I’m ashamed to hear this. I’m an illiterate, naive girl. The Deuraja has brought me only to look after you. What will I teach you, pai?”

“You shouldn’t talk like that, Xounjira. Are there such things as small people-big people in your society? You have addressed me as pai. This means you are my younger sister. What is younger sister called in your language?”

“Nanau.”

“Can I call you nanau?”

“You can. But can a khamsamai be addressed as sister, pai? The Deuraja will feel bad if he hears this.”

“Is your Deuraja a person who is upset by such small matters?” Konsari laughed.

“Where will you find a mathinegiri like our king? The king has lighted our land just as the moon makes the night look like day. It takes much good luck to have such a mathinegiri.” Xounjira said this with hands folded in awe of the Deuraja.

These things happened long after Konsari’s arrival in Gobha. Her son Mriganka by that time was fit to be sent to the dekasang. Prior to that, before and after the birth of Mriganka, Konsari had not donned the kasyong phaskai. At that time, she would wear riha mekhela and sador made from cotton yarn. Xadhukumar had those clothes woven in Datiolia village and fetched them through margi khamsamai Xounjira. The silvery silk mekhela and riha, woven with golden threads and yarns obtained from silkworms that fed on pansopa leaves, were still glittering in the cane casket Xadhukumar had given to Konsari. The fog-coloured sador, brought from Manipur, lay wrapped in an eri cloth in the same box. In one corner of the casket was lacquer and stone-studded jewellery covered with a piece of cotton cloth. 

They are still in the same condition.

Konsari has not shown them to any person till date. Nor has she seen them herself. Most of the people who saw those clothes are no more. Among those who are alive is Gobha king Xadhukumar.

Xounjira has not seen those clothes either. In fact, she came much later. Since Konsari did not know the Lalung language, Xadhukumar found Xounjira to work as an interpreter for Konsari, long after she had come to Gobha. Xounjira first saw a morose Konsari, lifeless and lonely, dressed in manganthla, riha, and eri sador. She had stared at Konsari in amazement from the doorstep. She had even forgotten to bow to Konsari.

“What are you staring at? Go to Ranideu. Conduct yourself as I say,” said Xadhukumar, who was standing on the doorstep. Then, looking at Konsari, he said with deference:

Gobha Raja collecting
revenue at the
Jonbeel Mela

“Ranideu, this is Xounjira. She knows both the languages well – our language and your language. She will constantly stay with you and do all your work. Do let us know if you have any problem.”

Xadhukumar went outside, leaving Xounjira with Konsari. Till then, Xadhukumar had lived in the main palace of Gobha. A few days later, he had shifted to the palace at Amsai Marjong. He still stays at

Amsai Marjong. After long intervals, he comes to the palace where Konsari lives but never enters her house. He goes back from the outside room like a guest. He speaks to Konsari only when particularly required and so does Konsari.

It is a strange relationship, founded on courtesy, friendship and love, so near, yet so far; so far, yet so near.

Konsari goes to Amsai Marjong from time to time. She goes there whenever she faces worry and anxiety; whenever she fails to solve a problem. Perhaps Konsari finds an answer to all problems from the man whose mind is as solemn and deep as the Brahmaputra. She finds refuge and solace in him. It seems Konsari always takes from him whatever she wants. If it was not for his benevolence, Konsari, who enjoys queenly status without being a queen in the Gobha palace, would have sunk into the darkness of anonymity and ignominy and lost all the trappings of a dignified lifelong back.

It was only as Xadhukumar’s possession that Konsari had set foot on the soil of Gobha. She had entered the Gobha palace with a future solely dependent on Xadhukumar’s will.

Konsari was so weak and helpless then. If Xadhukumar had so desired, he could have demanded Konsari’s ripe body. He could have commanded her loyalty like a bought slave. 

He could have taken away from her everything that made her a woman.

He didn’t.

He went away to the old palace at Amsai Marjong, leaving Konsari with lifelong self-recrimination and unending mental pain.

IPEN - Bhaba, the mystery! by Pratip Biswas

My life as a student of Jagatpur High School was enriched with numerous anecdotes and stories. I could not forget a particular character of those stories, Bhaba. He was transferred to our school where he became the centre of all chaos. And here is how it all began.

We got promoted to 7th standard and as usual, the first day of school saw a pandemonium. The class teacher, Sunil Thakur sir, entered the classroom and everybody became silent. He was the scariest person we had ever known in our 14-year-old lives. He used his cane, rather than his mouth, to teach us. We used to call him DDT, as in Dandadata Thakur.

After scrutinising every face, he started taking attendance with the register. He stopped at roll number 16 and said, “It seems we have a new import in this class. Bhabani Prasad Purokayastha! 

Who is he? Stand up!”

A boy stood up from a middle-row bench. “Sir, my name is Bhabani Prasad Purokayastha!”

“Ok! Tell me something, Mr Bhabani Prasad Purokaysatha. How did you manage to crawl in your childhood, hauling such a big name? Anyway, where did you study previously?”

“Er… Narayanchandra Memorial Institution for Boys!”

Sunil sir slapped his forehead in mock surprise, “Oh my god! That’s enough, son. You don’t have to tax your tongue anymore uttering mile-long names, please sit down!”

Bhabani sat down; the whole class was laughing at sir’s comment.

A few days later, we saw the real avatar of Bhabani aka Bhaba. He was a big zero when it came to studies. It’s a wonder how he managed to get promoted to 7th standard. If he was asked the name of Humayun’s son, he would answer “Rabindranath Tagore”! Whenever he drew a triangle, you could never find its arms because it was totally round.

I don’t think he knew what a triangle is and naturally he used to flunk mathematics. But no one could beat him when it came to mischief. Putting pepper in Sanskrit sir’s snuffbox or spraying ink on Game teacher’s white shirt were his daily routine. Only because of him, Sanskrit sir quit his addiction to snuffing powder and the Game teacher stopped wearing white.

It was common knowledge that Bhaba didn’t have any idea what the textbooks held inside them. During exams, everybody used to wait eagerly to see what Bhaba did in his papers. Once he sat beside me in a Sanskrit paper. When the time came for sir to hand out our answer sheets, he called Bhaba first.

“Tell me son who sat beside you in the test?”

Seeing Bhaba remain silent, I said that he was sitting beside me.

“Yes, I’ve suspected that much myself!”

Then he burst out at Bhaba, “You rascal! Are you twin brothers or something? How come both of your names are Pratip Biswas? You think this is a circus?”

We were clueless as to what he was talking about. Then we came to know that the great Bhaba had copied my entire answer sheet. He even copied down my name. Sir suspected that he tried to copy my handwriting too. We never laughed so hard in our lives.

The strangest thing was DDT, who was infamous for his thrashings, had never raised a finger on Bhaba. He was our Bengali teacher, but sometimes when he was bored, he would ask us questions from English grammar. One day, he asked Bhaba, “How many genders are there?”

Bhaba, scratching his head, answered, “Three. Masculine gender, feminine gender, and…and…”

“Yes? Go on…,” sir encouraged him. Scratching his head, Bhaba said, “… and Alexander, sir!”

I still can’t forget sir’s expression hearing his answer. Somehow he got himself together and went back to teaching Bengali.

I was intrigued by Sunil sir’s attitude towards him. One day, I pursued Bhaba, bribed him with a few snacks and asked him the reason behind that. After much pestering, he finally agreed to let me in on the secret. He said, “When I first came here, and before anyone knew me, I witnessed something very embarrassing. I had to go out one day to buy sweets. I hid myself in the garden near my house to taste some of those sweets. Sunil sir was passing by the road. As it was a wintry night, I had a white shawl wrapped around me. The night was freakishly silent and I was giving away the impression of something very eerie, spectral. Seeing me there, sir started muttering incoherently and then he fainted. It was quite a job to get him awake. After that day, he never scolded me. There you go, that’s your story!”

“That doesn’t really measure up. What is the real story?”

“Oh well, Sir needed a change of clothes because he couldn’t control his bladder and I am not talking about ‘little toilet break’!”

Bhaba winked and left me wondering if that was what really happened or was it something he had made up to get me off his case. What and why Bhaba did things will always remain a mystery to me. 

Pratip Biswas, Kolkata