Abani Dhar : Going to In-Laws' House for Food ( short story )

(Translated by Asrar Chowdhury) Two weeks back I drew rations after managing to scrounge up ten takas. Yesterday was the last date for getting them. I thought if I could somehow unload the children and the wife on my in-laws’ for a few months, they would at least be able to eat two times a day. But the wife would not hear of it. Last year when she had gone to visit her father’s house, she had to put up with a lot of comments about her lack of jewelry. Finally, after lots of endearments, I managed to change her mind. The bus fare? I borrowed the bus fare from Bashu and we started early in the morning. I didn’t buy my ticket. I got off at Shialda, bought some sweetmeats, and then got on again. In the bus I tried to convince my wife– stay at your father’s house for a few months. See if it would be possible to get our son some medical treatment. My wife didn’t say anything. I tried to comfort her: I’m sure something will come up in the meantime. She answered me in a dry voice, “You know all there is to know: Father has retired. Dada is bearing the burden of the family all by himself. The quarter they are staying in is also in his name. There are still four unmarried sisters in the house. I would rather die than have to face Dada…” I bought ten paisas’ worth of peanuts, handed them to my wife and told her, “Your father has a monthly pension. He also received a large gratuity. Both of your dadas have jobs. They are not wanting for anything over there.” My wife chewed the peanuts and said, “But Father first has to build a house, then marry off my sisters…and both my dadas have declared they are doing all they possibly can, that they can’t do anything more.” Mallikpur. The house is a two-storied government-allotted quarter right next to the station. Upstairs-downstairs combined are two small rooms like little caves and a tiny kitchen. Sunlight does not penetrate into the kitchen. One dugout latrine. No way can anyone inform the doctor about the condition of feces. Paper boats float all around the house. I entered the room on the heels of my wife and children. My mother-in-law was wrapped up in a piece of cloth, sewing something in the veranda. On seeing me, she partially veiled her head. I went towards over and touched her feet. My youngest sister-in-law was wearing a loose frock. She came and took my son and said to her mother, “Look Ma, how thin Bura has gotten.” She looked at my wife, “Don’t you feed him?” In the meantime, everybody else in the house gathered around us. The youngest sister-in-law said, biting her lower lip, “You should feed him and fatten him up.” This sister-in-law is the fairest amongst the sisters. She has failed twice in her class exams and is now studying in class eight. My father-in-law had asked me to find a B.A.-degreed groom from a good family for her. I went to the drawing room and sat down. I overheard my mother-in-law rebuking my wife, “Why did you just land here without any prior notice? There is no spare room in the house. You should use some common sense.” I gestured to my wife to give the packet of sweetmeats to my mother-in-law. We had gotten on the bus without eating breakfast. I made a motion with my hand as if to slap my belly to let her know that I was hungry. There was some milk beneath the bedstead. My son somehow spotted it and drank the whole bowl in one long gulp. My mother-in-law clutched her forehead with her hands and sat down, “Oh unfortunate me! I kept that milk for tea!” One of my sisters-in-law ran to my son and snatched the bowl from his hands. I think my wife slapped my son on his back once or twice. After we finished having tea and some bread, my mother-in-law said, “There were biscuits in the house, why didn’t you serve them?” I looked at my wife and she brought me two biscuits. Immediately, my two children started squabbling and then finished off both the biscuits. My father-in-law entered the room. I went forward and touched his feet. He slowly surveyed me from top to bottom and then said with a raised eyebrow, “You look as if you’ve let go of appearances. What do you do now”? Seeing that I remained silent and kept my eyes on the ground–except for a “hmmm”— he again enquired, “What is the source of your income”? I replied, as meekly as possible, “Nothing.” He looked at my son and said, “You seem to have nearly killed him . Haven’t you taken him to the doctor”? My tongue slipped and I said, “Yes, I did.” He looked at me again sternly, “So you don’t have money to buy medicines?” He remained quiet for a while and then murmured almost to himself, “A seer of milk every day and gravy of fish curry, that’s what you need to feed them.” He called out to my wife, “Sadhana, come here, let me take a look at you.” My wife came and bowed down to touch his feet. Looking at the ground my father-in-law sighed and said, “Can’t you take the child to a doctor and at least get him some tonic-fonic?” My wife left the room. From behind a curtain my fair-skinned sister-in-law hissed at him, “You have a lot of money. Why don’t you look after the treatment of your daughter and her husband.” My father-in-law shouted at her to shut up. There were sacks of rice underneath the bedstead, row upon row of them. At one time, I pointed at them and told my wife “If it’s possible to get even one sack…” My wife made a face and left the room. My father-in-law also went out somewhere. I turned on the fan and lay down on the bedstead. My youngest sister-in-law screamed at the top of her voice to my mother-in-law, “Dada said he would no longer pay the electric bills. Dada swore a lot when he saw the bill for the last month. The meter read twenty five takas.” My wife came and turned the fan off. Outside, the light was blinding. One couldn’t see anything clearly in the room unless the lights were on. Where could I go? Lying on the bedstead the smell of rice starch hit my nostrils. I couldn’t tell if it was coming from the kitchen or from beneath the bedstead. I have no idea when I fell asleep. My father-in-law woke me up. I sat beside him at lunch. While we were eating, my father-in-law said, “You can start doing business of some sort, can’t you? Look at your uncle. He has a business, now has a car and his own house. It’s a pleasure talking to people about him.” I ate so much that it was difficult to move afterwards. It was after a long time that I had eaten to my heart’s content. When my wife came to me with betel nuts, I told her, “Is it possible to manage ten takas from your father? There’s mother back home…” She asked me, “What do I tell him when I ask for the money?” I answered her, “Tell them, it’s for a job application, just make up something.” Then added, “Perhaps it’s better if I leave today.” My wife said, “But mother asked for you to stay the night. A sadhu is coming in the evening. She wants to get a talisman from him to give to you.” Hearing this I thought, well, good, maybe they’d let her stay for a few days. In the afternoon, I was strolling by myself on the platform. All over the station, I saw written, in red, blue and black, “Power flows from the barrel of a gun…armed revolution… freedom…leap forward.” I felt a bit excited as I read them. A group of youths wearing shirts and trousers were sitting on a bench arguing about the election. Prickly, stubbled faces. They were staring at me. I moved to a bench farther away. After a while, a working-class man came and sat down beside me. The youths were still looking at me. I was laughing to myself, but at the same time my heart was also beating. The man asked me: “Where do you stay?” “Ashoknagar.” “What’s the news of the election in your area?” “I really don’t know.” “What! You don’t keep abreast of the election?” “Hmm, I don’t actually live there–a little bit outside.” Looking at me angrily, after some time, he started to tear into all the political parties one by one. He looked at me, stone-faced and hot-eyed, and said, “This time not a single vote will drop into the ballot boxes here.” Noticing that I was not responding, he asked me in a grave voice, “Who have you come to see here?” I showed him the Rail quarter. “That is my in-laws’ house.” “Oh! So you are so and so’s son-in-law? Why didn’t you say that before? I thought… You can understand. These days I become suspicious as soon as I see somebody new to the area. Well, that settles it, you are family…” The man passed me a bidi–“Here”–and started almost talking to himself with a disprited face, “This year’s harvest was terrible. The people fought among themselves and ruined whatever little did grow. You know, no matter what they say, parties and politics are not for the likes of us poor people.” Then one of the youths whistled at us.  “That’s my call, I have to go now.” The man got up and walked over to the men. It was now evening. I went back to the quarter to find that my brother-in-laws had returned from office. My youngest brother-in-law, after consulting books, was giving my son homeopathic medicine. The elder brother-in-law was writing down household accounts in a notebook and telling his younger brother, “They cheated you of twenty paisas in sugar.” He stopped talking as soon as I entered the room. It’s been quite a while since my eldest brother-in-law and I have been on talking terms. After dinner I went upstairs and sat down. My eldest brother-in-law shouted at the top of his voice from downstairs, “Tell him that those days are gone. It’s no longer possible to feed the entire family when they come. I have to break my back to earn money.” He told my wife, “Your children are going to sleep by themselves. All this flu, coughing is very contagious. I don’t have money now to spend on medicine.” My father-in-law said, “All right, all right, shut up now.” My eldest brother-in-law was silent for a while, then started up again, “How can anybody get a job just sitting around indulging in adda the whole day? You have to go out and beg people, fall down on hands and knees. This bugger is useless. The only thing to do is to kick his arse out of the house.” I woke up very early. My wife had woken up before me. The maids were washing the pots and pans beneath the tap in the courtyard. I was sitting in the veranda upstairs. I overheard one of the maids saying to somebody else, “So you thought you were the clever one, eh? You thought you could make molasses by stealing the date juice?” I laughed silently upon hearing this. Felt like saying–Good morning! Good morning! My wife returned after washing up and said to me, “Come on, let’s leave while it’s still morning.” I took her hands in mine and said, “Dear sweetheart, please stay back for a few days. Have patience with me. Don’t worry, our time will come one day. Just stay.” She would not listen to me. I tried again, “No use getting angry at their words. Look, I haven’t gotten angry. Come what may, they are family, not outsiders. Please, my dear, stay. Listen to me: Stay.” But my wife wouldn’t listen, so in the end I said, “Make sure you get some money from your father.” Both the brothers-in-law soon left for work. In the meantime, my wife had finished packing. I saw her entering her father’s room. I spotted the fair-skinned sister-in-law looking on from behind the curtain to see what her father gave Didi or said to her. She moved away as soon as I made a coughing sound. My wife left the room after some time with her fists closed, with my sister-in-law following close behind. I tried to signal my wife about it, but she didn’t notice. So then I loudly called my sister-in-law by her name and said, “Do come and visit us.” This time my wife understood, and quickly left the room. It was my father-in-law who bought our tickets. After the bus started, my wife started to laugh, then showed me the bottom of the bucket bag. I put my hand down and felt rice grains. My wife had managed to spirit away some rice from the stack beneath the bedstead. I wanted to hug her tightly and kiss her. But how could one do that in the midst of so many people? Instead, I pressed my wife’s hand and said, “Bravo, Bravo”! Abani Dhar was a member of the Hungryalist movement. He lives in Kolkata. He died in 2007 Asrar Chowdhury teaches Economics at Jahangirnagar University

Malay Roychoudhury's poem STARK ELECTRIC JESUS ( Translation of 'Prachanda Baidyutik Chhutar' )

Oh I'll die I'll die I'll die
My skin is in blazing furore
I do not know what I'll do where I'll go oh I am sick
I'll kick all Arts in the back and go away Shubha
Shubha let me go and live in your cloaked melon
In the unfastened shadow of dark destroyed saffron curtain
The last anchor is leaving me after I got other anchors lifted
I can't resist anymore, a million glasspanes are breaking in my cortex
I know, Shubha, spread out your matrix, give me peace
Each vein is carrying a stream of tears up to the heart
Brains contagious flints are decomposing out of eternal sickness
Mother why didn't you give me birth in the form of a skeleton
I'd have gone two billion light years and kissed God's arse
But nothing pleases me nothing sounds well
I feel nauseated with more than a single kiss
I've forgotten women during copulation and returned to the Muse
In to the sun coloured bladder
I do not know what these happenings are but they are occurring with me
I'll destroy and shatter everything
Draw and elevate Shubha into my hunger
Shubha will have to be given
Oh Malay
Calcutta seems to be a procession of wet and slippery organs today
But I do not know what I'll do now with my own self
My power of recollection is withering away
Let me ascend alone toward death
I haven't had to learn copulation and dying
I haven't had to learn the responsibility of shedding the last drops after urination
Haven't had to learn to go and lie beside Shubha in the darkness
Have not had to learn Usage of French leather while lying on Nandita's bosom
Though I wanted the healthy spirit of Aleya's fresh chinarose matrix
Yet I submitted to the refuge of my brain's cataclysm
I am failing to understand why I still want to live
I am thinking of my debauched Sabarna-Choudhyry ancestors
I'll have to do something different and new
Let me sleep for the last time on a bed soft as the skin of Shubha's bosom
I remember now the sharp-edged radiance of the moment I was born
I want to see my own death before passing away
The world had nothing to do with Malay Roychoudhury
Shubha let me sleep for a few moments in your violent silvery uterus
Give me peace, Shubha, let me have peace
Let my sin-driven skeleton be washed anew in your seasonal bloodstream
Let me create myself in your womb with my own sperm
Would I have been like this if I had different parents
Was Malay alias me possible fron an absolutely different sperm
Would I have been Malay in the womb of other women of my father
Would I have made a professional gentleman of me like my dead brother without Shubha
Oh, answer, let somebody answer these
Shubha, ah Shubha
Let me see the earth through your cellophane hymen
Come back on the green mattress again
As the cathode rays are sucked up with warmth of a magnet's brilliance
I remember the letter of the final decision of 1956
The surroundings of your clitoris were being embellished with coon at that time
Fine rib-smashing roots were descending into your bosom
Stupid relationship inflated in the bypass of senseless neglect
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah
I do not know whether I am going to die
Squandering was roaring within heart's exhaustive impatience
I'll disrupt and destroy
I'll split all inti pieces for the sake of arts
There isn't any other way out for poetry except suicide
Shubha
Let me enter into the immemorial incontinence of your labia majora
In to the absurdity of woeless effort
In the golden chlorophyll of the drunken heart
Why wasn't I lost in my mother's urethra
Why was I driven away in my father's urine after his self-coition
Why wasn't I mixed in the ovum-flux or in the phlegm
With her eyes shut supine beneath me
I felt terribly distressed when I saw comfort seize Shubha
Women could be treacherous even after unfolding a helpless appearance
Today it seems there is nothing treacherous as Women and Art
Now my ferocious heart is running towards an impossible death
Vertigo of water are coming up to my neck from the pierced earth
I will die
Oh what are these happenings within me
I am failing to fetch out my hand and my palm
From the dried sperms on my trousers spreading wings
300000 children gliding toward the district of Shubha's bosom
Millions of needles are now running from my blood into Poetry
Now the smuggling of my obstinate leg is trying to plunge
Into the death-killer sex-wig entangled in the hypnotic kingdom of words
In violent mirrors of each wall of the room I am observing
After letting loose a few naked Malay, his unestablished scramblings

Rasaraj Nath's poem LIVINGWORDS DEADMEN ( Translation of 'Jibitoshabdo Mritomanushera' )

All around me now
living words and
dead men walk
from this life to next--

Me as well...
I can not think anymore 
around my helpless corpse
thousands of ants encircle...

Green as I keep watching
how did it become full of fire
locality as I keep watching
how turned into forest !

Rasaraj Nath's poem EVEN THEN I ( Translation of 'Tathapio Aami' )

I shall write only about myself
though I do not have any
history of that kind
even then, I shall about myself

Am I one of those dead poets
whose haunted souls have become stony calm
with masturbation and surrender ?

From stage to poetry I
from poetry to stage
have returned repeatedly - and
become subject of their stories

I know between rise and fall
human being's frail fear of timewrap

I know
the mountain could not be removed by me
even then I shall give a push
and shall write about myself, my story--

Arup Dutta's poem A STORY ( Translation of 'Ek Kahini' )

I have carried and brought your living corpse
till this distance :
cold night all around
here there is no fire
everybody has gone back
for simultaneous rape and festivity...
I have come so far after crossing dark tunnels
the hurricane of my soul has withered
far away in forest has billowed away
Beethoven's music,
come Dear
in living night once we disrobe ourselves
and mingle with each other
like lights streaming in star's cloud
this body
has become a story today.

Arup Dutta's poem ASHES OF DREAMFALL ( Translation of 'Swapnopatoner Chhai' )

I have entered a heated earth
alone in a crowd of friends and enemies 
air returns after bouncing on chaotic sea waves
pale breaths from fallen leaves
sex starved moon in dark fortnight of female orgasm music
coloured insects descend in this storyless light
and nameless fly species 

I see in the belly of heated earth
unhinged doors of creation
no traveler seeks solace here
uninterrupted language of dawn holds forth the neck-vein
no strange cloud bursts
love's last fall is atomic dusts
mixed in burning grass

My body and soul shiver
in unredeemed heart the hurts are life's only
bloom like incomplete clearance 

This stream of burning alphabets--
stare at lava which can not be crossed
Apollo and Saraswati
not possible to unite in this life
my incomplete letters have burned into ashes
banned music of a lost world,
which covers my incompleteness in pain of loss of grief.

Debojyoti Roy's CONFESSIONS OF A RELIGIOUS OXEN ( Translation of 'Jabanbondi, Dharmer Shnarer' )

People say, I am foolhardy
bohemian, do not have much intelligence
move from this to that locality on my own
when instinct makes a knock behaviour undergoes a change
as if my virility is total farce, serio-comic;
I wag my tail, forage on grass, fire billows inside

Far away from cowsheds' hay and husk's memory
lonely road's dust, tired hooves,
wound on back struck by stones. 
There is no luxury in selecting food;
in my own independent rhythm 
religious people attain emancipation.

Effect of food and sharpness of horns--
their combination result into landslip
on the breast of smiling Shiva's mount in calender.
stoic conduct, with renounced cognition
walking towards Shiv Purana, Upanishad 
I leave behind secret confessions--
this language is blue with poison, revenge similar to cobra

On surface everything is calm, still, reactionless.