Indexed Stories – 12

“J” stands for jinxed – at least that is what my telephone diaries reveal.  The first diary had twelve names, the second had six names and the last has only three. Of the three that remain two have held there places from the beginning, but, I have not called them in years. This is disappointing as far as relationships are concerned. It is true that many people have dropped out from my life, as I have from theirs and many more have filled in that void. This is not to say that some individuals are replaced by other individuals – it is the time one spends with friends, family and acquaintances that undergo qualitative and sometimes subtle changes – for better or for worse. There are some who have become misty silhouettes and there are others whose memories we cherish and continue to miss.

Apart from the names on the pages of my telephone diaries, there were quite a few whose names started with “J”. The first among them that I can recall is Judhajit Sarkar, two years my senior and my elder brother’s classmate in Guwahati in the mid-sixties. I met him again many years later as a film-maker and we are in touch thanks to Facebook. The next person is Jugabrata Roy a year junior to me in high school in Calcutta, whose elder brother Subrata was my friend – again thanks to Facebook we have connected. I have however, not yet exchanged a word with him nor enquired about Subrata. This social platform has its own set of rules and a very relaxed code of conduct. You may ignore, like, comment, share a status message or picture; join a discussion mid-way and leave abruptly; and you don’t “unfriend” unless the person is absolutely obnoxious. You don’t have to message your friends individually every now and then to reaffirm a friendship. Most interestingly, silence is considered a tacit statement of camaraderie! All it takes to remain “unfriended” is a few clicks of the mouse every now and then. The virtual world is generously undemanding.

Justine De Penning – a pretty looking performer from the USA is one such friend. She arrived on my doorstep one day to discuss a possible collaboration. Things did not happen for a number of reasons. I deleted her temporary Calcutta number but kept in touch on Facebook. Whenever I see a picture of her I simply press the ‘like’ button. It’s like I’m saying “Hey there! I am still aroundJ.”

Getting back to my diaries, I search every name for a story. There are a few obvious ones, but I am loathe to discuss them. There are, for example, a few senior artists on these pages – one more opportunistic than the other – wheeler-dealers all. There is Jayati Bhattacharya my classmate from school. There is Jayati Bose the theatre worker, who married two of my close friends in quick succession. There is Jalil Ali, the carpenter. There is June, the actress (or should that be actor?). Most of them have stories against their names, but these are too private to be published.

This leaves me with little scope to write a story. Should I jump to “K”? I decide to wait and think of a solution to this impasse. But, I have little time. I have committed myself to a weekend deadline and I must keep to it. What kind of madness is this? Why do I have to? What difference would it make if I reneged on a self-imposed deadline and took a few more days?  I mull over the issue in my mind and realize that I am getting obsessed. I leave the computer and start surfing the TV news channels. The usual shenanigans of the political class are on in full swing. Kamduni goes to the President. Sudipto Sen’s Sharada is next and for a moment I see a weak link - I think Jayrambati! “J” at last! But, then I realize I am at a dead end.

I sleep fitfully, tossing and turning in bed and then I am wide awake in the middle of the night. I stare up at the ceiling and when my vision clears - the usual chiaroscuro of patterns made by the street lights two floors below gets my attention. 

The shadow of the Jackfruit tree next to our bedroom window sways gently and stops as the breeze dies down. The shadows are still – very still. My mind suddenly does a flash-back and goes to a scene about 28 years in the past, when we lived on Motilal Nehru Road. There was a Dumur tree next to our window. Our daughter was two and a half years old, maybe three. Power failures were rampant then and the joint family had not invested in a battery inverter set, as the house was quite big and financial resources were in the doldrums. On summer evenings when the power would go, I would lie down on the cool red floor without a shirt and our little daughter, Shohini - clad in rompers would almost on cue lie down beside me, using my rib cage and floor as a stylish recliner. Thus positioned we would stare up at the ceiling. After the initial “tell me a story” wore me out, I invented a game to kill time and to defeat the darkness. Pointing our index fingers we followed the moving shadows up on the ceiling. Every time a car passed by, the headlights would catch the leaves and branches of the Dumur tree and the window grill and cast shadows on the ceiling and upper part of the walls. Then start moving from right to left until it was dark again. The room would be a swirl of wondrous shadows and patterns. As the shadows started emerging with the oncoming car head lights, the two of us – father and daughter would shout out mimicking the sound of a car zooming by, “Oiiii elo elo elo elo elo…!” (There it comes) and as the car passed by and the patches of light melted into darkness once again, we would cry in mock disappointment, “Jaaaa gelo gelo gelo gelo gelo…!” (Oh no…there it goes) and laugh a happy laugh.

“J” stands for “Jaaa gelo gelo gelo gelo!” the ring of simple mirth in this exclamation evokes delight even to this day.

Indexed Stories – 11

On the “I” page of the first telephone diary, my departed father – Inendra Nath Gupta’s name appears. If I were to write about him it would fill many pages. Stories of his boyhood years spent in Rajnandgaon in Madhya Pradesh, the escapades he shared with his two friends Ernie and Bernie and the jeep that had a jerry can strapped to the bonnet instead of a fuel tank held me spellbound. The plots of his oft repeated ghost stories used to get mixed up and we would noisily object at such deviations and navigate him back on track. I suspect that he probably did that on purpose. It was a good ploy that ensured interactive time, as he was almost always away on tour. He and his three brothers were tall, strapping men – they don’t make Bengalees that way anymore. He was not successful in his career, but that did not dim his laughter or of his enjoying the company of friends and Baba was a good cook to boot. Very late in life he started sharing a lot of stories from his past. After a sudden attack of Hypo-glycemia, the last 20-25 years of his memory was completely erased, but he was lucid when recounting earlier times. So, this was the time when I tried to keep up a constant conversation and asked him plenty of questions. He narrated incidents, events and mentioned many names that I had not heard of before. He had this condition that can best be termed “auto-edit malfunction”. So, he volunteered much information that otherwise would not have been shared. The things that he said, people that he mentioned were a kind of revelation to me. He spoke of a few women with a kind of wistfulness. I did not press any further though my interest was aroused. I thought I detected a trace of melancholia in his voice and have often wondered whether he had a Fermina Daza in the recesses of his sub-consciousness. I have been guilty of a few indiscretions, even if they were just imagined ones, so I have absolutely no qualms empathising with his share of dalliances – real or imaginary.

The “I” page also has my elder brother – Indrajit’s name with a Madras number and a cell phone number, because that is where he ultimately settled down after leaving the army and along with his wife Aloka runs a restaurant called Bayleaf.  But protocol demands that I should not write about people when using their real names. Ditto with Indrani, my classmate from school who is still in touch with me and whose daughter Rajashri was our daughter – Shohini’s classmate too.

In the last diary the penultimate name is Ina Puri - a comparatively recent addition. She was a few years my junior in school and she had another name then – Urmimala. We became friends about two years ago thanks to Facebook. But, there is one more name that I will not mention; she was my first crush when I was still in school. We exchanged phone numbers recently when we met at an ATM outlet. I never professed my love or said anything to that effect to her then or even later. In the last forty years or so I have met her maybe thrice and each time I was struck by her bearing and beauty. She is the kind of person that the Fermina Dazas of the world ought to be. When I was reading Love in the time of cholera, I imagined Fermina Daza as this tall and fair Bengali girl I knew. The novel has been made into a movie, but, I do not wish to see it lest my perception of Fermina Daza be compromised.

I have on many occasions wondered how the immense power of a well written story inspires imagination.  Another book had a similar effect on me, although in this case I had seen the movie first. While staying with my friends Kunal and Sushmita in Montreal many years ago, we watched the movie Dona Flor and her two husbands based on a novel by Jorge Amado.  Sônia Braga in the role of Dona Flor was simply beautiful and sensuous. She remained in my memory for years and back home in Calcutta after almost three years (2000) I created a work titled “Confrontation - IV”, but it had a nickname and it was “Dona Flor, her two husbands and I”.

"Confrontation - IV" (2000), acrylic and photo-chemical imaging on canvas.

In 2005 I went to Brazil on a fellowship for two months. I lived on the beautiful property of Sacatar Fundacion on the island of Itaparica. It was about an hour’s launch journey away from the city of Salvador across the Bay of All Saints. On one of my trips to Salvador – I found small booklets being sold behind the Mercado Modelo. I was told that they were called “Cordels”. Books hung up on strings and therefore the name. It was interesting to see that this was a product of folk or local writers and poets and each of them had a wood-cut print on the cover by folk artists. Again another group of people unconnected to the first two sang the songs in front of the Cordel book stalls. The songs are also called Cordels.

Top row: woodcuts by Borges. Bottom: three cordel books and woodcuts by unknown artists.

I also learnt of Jose Francisco Borges – a much celebrated folk artist. I studied his wood-cuts and had the good fortune of a print being gifted to me by my hosts. I decided to create Cordel book covers albeit in a much larger format and Borges the artist was my inspiration. I eventually exhibited these drawings hung from a string at the Galeria Do Conselho in Salvador.

"Celebrating Jose Fransisco Borges" (2005)
ink & water colour on paper.

In between all this and travelling to Salvador with LaShawnda my new found artist friend, I busied myself in the library where I found a copy of Dona Flor and her two husbands – I read it and realized that the story was set in the city of Salvador. My trips to Salvador took on a different meaning from then on. I visited all the streets and locations mentioned in the book, and to LaShawnda’s consternation I kept peering into doorways and taking many unexplained detours. What was more interesting was that the taxi driver we used a few times was called Cigano – the taxi driver in the novel had the same name. I was that close to finding my Dona Flor!

After returning to Calcutta via London with two weeks spent at Kunal and Susmita’s beautiful home in Oxford, I was asked by Unesco to write a report on my experience in Brazil. I answered all the usual questions and sang the usual paeans to Brazilian culture, but, how can a true blue Bengali not find fault in an otherwise impeccable arrangement? I had to be honest to my cultural upbringing. I thus ended the report with a sentence in capital letters …” BUT, I DID NOT FIND DONA FLOR.”

Epilogue:

I took the “lancha” (launch) from behind the Mercado Modelo at the foot of the Elevador Lacerda in Salvador to get to the town of Mar Grande on the island of Itaparica on a day when the sea was unusually choppy. I would have preferred to take the more stable ferry boat from the terminal of Sao Joaquim that would have taken me to Bom Despacho. But, it was late and finding “combis” (VW vans) would have been difficult. I do not like choppy seas, but, left with no option I boarded the launch and found myself a strong iron post to anchor myself. The attendant, who by now knew me, handed me a can of Brahma beer – which was as welcome to me as a security blanket is to children. As I maneuvered myself between the post and an overloaded bench – I noticed a beautiful girl no more than 18 or 19 sitting in the Captain’s cabin. She had a baby in her arms. As the prow went up and then dipped down one wave after another, the salty spray washing the deck, I decided to concentrate on her rather than the scene of people throwing up. With every dip and lunge I saw her for short moments and I never saw her full head – the window came in the way. She had a luminescent bronze complexion and was beautiful beyond words. But, she looked sad and tired. I went back to the drawing board for yet another Cordel book cover titled “O visual Domina” (The visual dominates).

Dona Flor?

For more on cordels follow this link <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wch_7we9jJw>

Indexed Stories – 10

The H-pages on all my telephone diaries include people from many disciplines, starting from industrialists to upholsterers with artists and gallerists thrown in for good measure. The only exception is Haradhan Ghosh, but everyone called him – Ghosh Babu. He was the quintessential Bengali gentleman (bhadralok), a retired head clerk, who was very meticulous with paper work and wore simple but ironed clothes. He could be easily identified from a distance because of his shiny bald pate edged with a horse-shoe shaped band of white hair. Most of you who have lived in Calcutta or still live here must have come across at least one Ghosh Babu in your life. The name is almost generic, as it characterizes a kind.

I met ‘my’ Ghosh Babu under very extenuating circumstances. This was in the early 80’s and the Eastern Metropolitan Bypass was still in its planning stages. Therefore, land to the east of Calcutta was very cheap and many small time real estate brokers were dealing in large tracts of land and selling them as smaller plots, as it was evident that the city would have to expand eastward. At that time I was doing well as a designer and so had some expendable income. I did not understand money management or the share market. All I did was buy insurance policies and that is when someone suggested that I invest in land. I was still living in a rented house that also doubled up as my office-cum-studio. Therefore the idea of buying land appealed to me. I bought up little parcels of land with the intention of selling all but one when the time came. Smriti and I dreamt of a house with a garden, a separate studio and furnace room, may be a small pond – the whole works. But there were no roads leading up to these plots and it was difficult to visit our ‘properties” and we were told that the roads would happen in a few years time. So we waited patiently till the mid 90’s when the bypass had been completed and a road cut through paddy fields to a small village called Mukundapur. A short walk from there took us to Atghara, where our land was situated. By the time we made our first trip, we found that our lands had been taken over by squatters under the patronage of the CPI(M). So, Ghosh Babu - who was one of the plot owners swung into action and organised the Atghara Plot-Holders Association, convened meetings, kept the minutes, maintained the accounts and petitioned the local politicians for help. His efforts bore fruit and for a small amount of money the party would resettle the squatters elsewhere. Dates and times were fixed for the handing over of money in exchange for our land. All seemed well, but, on the appointed day, to our dismay we were told that the squatters could not be moved because they had switched allegiance to the Trinamool Congress!

Ghosh Babu was unflustered by all this. He immediately convened another meeting and decided to start talking to the local Trinamool Congress leaders. At every meeting these functionaries demanded more and more money. I did a quick calculation and realized that if we gave in to their demands, we would incur heavy losses and I had made up my mind to sell off the land anyway. Because by this time I had already moved into our new flat and I had shelved the dream of a home with a garden and studios et al for the time being. As luck would have it a broker approached me and offered me a price – it was not much. I was getting back a little more than my investments, but, holding on could mean a complete loss. When I conveyed my decision to Ghosh Babu, for a fraction of a second I saw accusation in his eyes - “Deserter!” it read. But, he smiled benignly and we parted ways. Today, that area is chock-a-block with non-descript houses resembling a shabby suburban town with unpaved streets and no drainage system.

I had yet to learn from this experience. Brushing aside the Atghara episode as a minor mistake, I took it upon myself to develop a property for my friends and family. I made a deal with a land broker and identified a large piece of land in Nayabad   (just behind what is now the Satyajit Ray Film & Television Institute).  I designed the place with a central park and a common studio and let it lie for a while. By the time I mustered up everyone’s support and garnered resources to build the boundary wall, I found that the land measured much less than what we had bought. The Jadavpur University Employees Cooperative had gobbled up a part of our land. No amount of talking and measuring with the Land Registry Office yielded any solution. Eventually, I set about selling the land and managed to pay back most of the plot holders - barring two. I am still somewhat embarrassed about it after so many years. The upshot was that I lost a part of my savings in the bargain.

However, our dream of owning a home with a garden remained strong. So, we bought a large plot of land in what was then the outskirts of Shantiniketan.  A land dealer showed us the area and asked us to design the roads and select the plot ourselves. So, we designed the roads and chose the best plot of land in the vicinity. It was in different levels and had a forest behind it. We even decided to call the area “Shonajhurir Dhal”. I always liked the station names on the way to Bolpur, like - “Pichkurir Dhal” and “Noadar Dhal”. I even remember a little girl ask her father, “Baba what is the meaning of Noadar Dhal?” A very serious looking gentleman authoritatively answered, “It means there are no other dhals after this!” I had decided then, that there had to be more Dhals. A few of my close friends decided to buy land next to ours too. We put up fences, built a guard room, dug a well and brought in electricity. We planted hedges around the compound and many trees.

We never had an ancestral home. The one that could have been legitimately ours was called Madhabdi - a village near Dhaka, but my grandfather moved to Calcutta sometime in the 1890s. No one from our family ever went back. I always wondered what it would be like to be able to visit it annually like almost everyone does. Therefore Shonajhurir Dhal was to become our adopted homeland, a place that the next generation and after could call ‘ancestral home”.  Thus we decided to call our future home here “Bhitey-Mati” (hearth land).

Visiting "Bhitey-Mati" in Shonajurir Dhal in 1996.

We set about planning the garden and on the west we planted Mangoes, Lichis and Kadambas. On the north-west corner we planted a Jacaranda. The house would be built on the highest level towards the north-west. The care taker’s house and garage would be in the tongue that jutted out in the south-east corner below the Gulmohar. We planted about fifty trees and donated as many to our neighbours and friends. Smriti and I spent a great deal of time designing and planning the house and garden. We would often argue about where we would position a favourite piece of art and if we did not agree, we started designing all over again. We finally decided to meet half way on the fourteenth design.

The place is now quite an eyesore with the ugliest of houses ever built, except the two that our young friend Bidyut designed and the local residents have named that place Shonajhuri Palli – how unimaginative! The trees are doing well, they have grown, but they are not ours anymore – we finally sold the land realizing that Shantiniketan would never become a substitute hearth land. We love the city despite its draw backs. So, instead of a view of the forest and a garden, we have settled on a view of a concrete jungle. Smriti however created this little haven – a roof top garden that she tends with loving care.

View of our roof-top garden in Kolkata.

Indexed Stories – 9

A long period of inactivity has lulled me into a deep and blissful ennui. I am becoming prone to these attacks of utter idleness and a detachment from everything that can be considered as work. For the moment, following the news on TV, the scams and the shenanigans of the ruling class and their cohorts seem to be the most important thing in life. I greedily devour these in large morsels like an awe-struck child listening to fairy tales.  I love to listen to stories and the news channels provide me enough every day. But, I seem to have an insatiable appetite for almost all genres of stories including news – whether they are fact or fiction hardly matters to me.  The only thing that matters is the degree of ludicrousness – the more the merrier.  The biggest scam recently is that of defalcation of depositors’ money by a Chit Fund company.  Every day either a depositor or an agent is committing suicide, millions have lost their life savings. Platitudes and promises are being mouthed, but what takes the cake is the installation of shoe-shine machines in Writer’s Building. The timing is perfectly ludicrous. This is the kind of plot that any of the magic realist would give an arm and a leg for. Maybe someday I will attempt yarns on these lines, but not now. I can barely manage to write about two thousand words, after which my interest wanes. Alas!

 

Tagore wrote that humankind is nurtured on stories, well, not exactly in those words. But on this day- “pnochishey Boishak” - his birth anniversary - I think it will be more apt to translate a passage from “Golpo” written by Tagore. Its simplicity is delightful…

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

 “Tell me a story” he demanded, the moment he learnt to speak.

And grandma began “There was a prince, a merchant’s son, a sheriff’s son…”

“Three times four is twelve” bellowed the teacher.

But, the Demon’s roar was louder and multiplications did not reach the boy’s ear.

The self-righteous locked up the boy in a room and admonished, “Three times four is twelve! That’s the truth; the prince, the merchant’s son and the sheriff’s son, they are untrue, so…”

But, the boy’s imagination by then had sailed to distant lands, to addresses that one could not find on a map. ‘Three times four is twelve’ doggedly followed, but unable to fathom the depths, floundered in mid-sea.

The teacher thought that the boy was just being naughty, nothing that a few strokes of the cane could not correct.

The teacher’s mien stunned grandma into silence. But, this nuisance just wouldn’t go away, one left and another took his place. Then the storyteller arrived and started narrating the episode of a prince banished to the forest.

When the sharp-nailed-she-demon’s nose was being hacked off, the righteous said,” there’s no proof of that in history, but that three times four is twelve is beyond doubt.”

By then Hanuman had leapt sky-high, while history failed to soar to that height. All through school and college they tried to curb the boy’s imagination, but nothing could kill the thirst in him that rang, “Tell me a story!” 

Tagore continues…

…From this we learn that it’s just not children, even adults of all ages are nurtured on stories. Thus through the ages, in every home, by word of mouth, through the written text, the vast collection of stories that this world has accumulated adds up to the most valuable asset of humankind…

…Thus, when two people meet, they ask “What news? What next?” The story of human civilization, our history - has been woven out of these “what next’s” (Tar por?).

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

“What news neighbour?” Gitanjali often asks when we pass each other at the gate. “What news?” asks Gautam da on the phone or whenever we meet.  Some friends ask me “What’s new?” instead.

There are quite a few names in the G pages of all my telephone diaries and most have retained their respective positions. This augurs well – it means that my relationship with them has remained stable and all of them ask me the same question by way of a salutation – “What news?” 

So, my obsession with surfing the news channels is not a compulsive disorder as some would like to believe, it is my inquisitive mind asking “What news?” But, I must admit that my interest in the ludicrous could be a valid cause for concern to many of my well wishers. 

Coming back to Tagore, I wish to share with you a piece I wrote for the Gallerie magazine a while ago…

“Rabindranath Tagore and his impact on Bengal and the world or how he continues to inspire me can be explained as a narrative that implicates my being.

Right from the day I could follow a tune, Tagore and his songs have remained with me. In fact, raised in a middle class Brahmo family, I had an overdose of “Rabindra-Sangeet” to the exclusion of all else – a rare variety of chauvinism had afflicted the so called elite of Bengal into believing that everything else was base and tasteless. He was therefore the only ‘culture’ that mattered. Soon, the single-channeled absoluteness resulted in my disliking the sound of his songs (for no fault of his) – that was my first run-in with Tagore: I was still in my early teens. What mattered to me then was the Calcutta ‘B’ station of All India Radio that aired western music and the occasional clandestine foray into Vividh Bharati and the world of popular Hindi songs – considered an abomination in our insulated world of ‘Rabindrik’ culture.

It was much later when I was exposed to the gamut of musical styles that Bengal’s culture comprised of – I realised that there was much more than just Tagore. After all, there was life before him. Having said that, I must hasten to add that, Tagore was a colossal presence. The sheer volume of his creative output in all the disciplines that he delved into is reason enough to justify our collective inferiority complex. However, despite my early defiance I now stand corrected and more often than not, I catch myself humming his songs.

Whatever may have been the reason for the adulation he continues to receive, he was undoubtedly ‘the’ cultural icon whose brilliance remains undimmed even to this day. Did this and the fact that his dynamism was boundless, elevate him to the status of a super-human? A God?

This is where I come in again. A second run-in with the idea of Tagore happened when I created a work titled “My Prayer”, intended to question this idolisation. Having employed the popular to investigate a popular icon, I received my share of brickbats, some of which were particularly vicious and nasty. The people who worshipped him were very angry indeed!

My prayer (2002), 36 X 65 inches, Acrylics, photographs, ply wood, sequines, etc.

 On the occasion of the tercentenary birthday celebrations of Tagore, everyone seems to have gone on an over-drive. The new political dispensation in West Bengal deemed it necessary to further popularise Tagore, by playing his songs over public address systems at almost every street crossing - to the accompaniment of blaring car horns and the rattle of decrepit buses! 

 

Along with the change that this state has so resoundingly trumpeted, Tagore songs have become the staple for starting and ending election speeches, political rallies and all other state, and private functions. Tagore, I am sure would have found this amusing if he was around.

Finally, not being able to hear myself think because of the blaring loudspeakers, I telephoned the local Police Station to register a complaint. The phone rang at the other end with a caller tune (to my disbelief!) of Tagore’s famous song: 

“Jodi Tor Dak Shune Keu Na Ashye, tobe ekla cholo rey…” 

(“If they answer not to thy call, walk alone…)

Indexed Stories-8

It has been almost two months since my last post. The party season was hectic and the chill this year seemed to justify prolonging the Bacchanalia. All said and done, at the end of all the partying, I decided to hibernate for a while – a situation that I can ill afford.

 

My conscience kept on telling me to get back to work. I tried to, but my heart was just not in it. And then the worst nightmare happened…my computer conked it. This was a good enough alibi for not working at all. The computer is back to working now, except that it gives me a ten minute window for work and then shuts down. I have stopped playing scrabble on the net, not face-booking as much as I used to and my social skills have hit an all time low. Met a few of my friends from the virtual firmament, but could not keep my word of meeting up again. There was one or two that I did not meet at all. Next year I promise to correct that. My New Year resolution included daily walks – which I have assiduously avoided, choosing instead to allow my belly to luxuriate.

Under such circumstances a person inevitably falls prey to hypochondria. The tiniest of blimps on the skin looks potentially cancerous and one is beset with aches and pains, both real and imaginary. One evening while I was trying my best to work in ten minute slots, I thought I felt a bit of pain on the left side of the chest. I felt the area with my fingers and located a spot two inches below the collar bone. Finger as place holder I went to Smriti and asked, “Is this where my heart is?” 

“No, it is generally about a few inches lower than that” she said. I don’t know whether she meant that mine was not in the right place.

While I walked away to my next ten minute slot feeling somewhat let down by her disinterest, I heard Smriti complain about my excessive smoking and drinking. “Why don’t you see a Doctor?” she demanded. Normally I would have let that pass, but hypochondria had the upper hand here. I called the Doctor, who examined me for a long time and found nothing wrong. He diagnosed sleeping posture as the reason and prescribed mild pain relievers. He also advised that I do a series of tests that included an echo cardiogram. “Just to be sure”, he said. This would cost me a few thousand and my pain seemed to proportionately increase. Smriti kept on reminding me of the tests and after delaying it inordinately, I scheduled them at a lab close to home.

I have never been examined so thoroughly before. Blood samples were taken before breakfast and after. I was ushered into a tiny cubicle which had a bed and an array of computers. I was instructed to take off my shirt, lie down and face the wall. Soon, the echo cardiogram test started and I heard the noise of a pump trying to extract what seemed like mud. This I realized was my heartbeat amplified many times with Dolby-like clarity. It suddenly dawned on me what a lot of hard work the heart has to do to keep us alive. I always considered the sound of heartbeats as amorous and romantic. But, this sound was depressing, it went – “squelch blob gluck, squelch blob gluck, squelch blob gluck!”

Like many other beliefs that have gone to the grave before this, the romanticism of heartbeats died that day.

As if I could find answers to such unpleasant revelations, I started scrutinizing my telephone diaries once again. The F page had no names on them except in the last one, which had just one entry – Falke Schnieder, a young German who was in Calcutta for a while and who was Eugene’s German language instructor, but I did not know him well enough. So, there are no stories here. But, this cannot be a reason for not telling a story; whatever might be the protocol I have set. I searched amongst my old sketches which I keep in a deep drawer upstairs and found a few that reminded me of stories located in Rikhiya – a small village on the outskirts of Deoghar.

Rutted road outside Rikhiya village

This was in 1977. I would have been in the final year at the Government Art College if I had not dropped out two years earlier. I was thus a self-employed designer. Rahul must have just returned from his first stint in the Merchant Navy and Kunal by then had joined the Statistical Institute. On that trip our group also included Shovan, Dipu, Subroto and our departed friend Sambit – all were students then.

 

We got off at Baidyanath Dham railway station and took a “Tanga” to Rikhiya. This journey took a little over an hour as the old and emaciated horse made exceedingly slow progress on the undulating road that meandered through a lush and picturesque landscape punctuated with boulders. If you have been anywhere near Chhota Nagpur plateau you will get the picture. As I looked around in wonder, Shovan had this déjà vu trip, which he tried to establish in all earnestness throughout our week long stay in Rikhiya.

As one approaches the village, there is a right fork in the road that leads you to a small clearing around which are small, quaint houses belonging to a handful of Bengali intellectuals who had been nicknamed the ”Boishnobs” as the poet Bishnu Dey was at the centre of this group. Nirod Mazumdar too had a house there. Rahul’s house was on the right of the clearing and had a large compound that slowly sloped away at the back. The garden had huge boulders jutting out of it and was the defining feature of this property. As we unpacked I realized that I had left behind my roll of drawing paper on the train.

Like a dutiful son of a “Boishnob”, Rahul marched us to Bishnu Dey’s house. He introduced us one by one and when my turn came, he introduced me as an artist and added that I had misplaced my roll of paper. On hearing that, the poet rose from his chair and went inside. He returned in a while with a sheaf of papers that were of different sizes and of dubious quality. On closer inspection I found that these were the reverse of old calendars. “Paper is difficult to find in these parts” he explained. I thanked him and we left with the promise to visit him again before we left.

For the next few days we walked around the countryside, went to the haat (local market) and everywhere I attempted to sketch. My friends were always in a hurry to explore more and that left me with no time for elaborate drawings. By the time I had finished most of the sheets, it was time to visit Bishnu Babu’s house once again. Rahul insisted that I take along my sketches to show him. Reluctantly I did just that and placed the bunch on the table in front of the poet. Bishnu Babu looked at each of them intently without a word and arranged them in two neat stacks – the larger stack was about three times the smaller one; he picked up the larger stack and went inside and returned empty handed. I did not know how to react, but the message was clear – his paper, so he had ownership rights! The words Mahajan and Dadon passed through my mind, but I banished them right away…after all he was a respected poet.

The next morning Dipu and I borrowed two bicycles and set off. After the strenuous up-hills, coasting down-hill felt liberating. We ventured onto roads that were rutted and my luck ran out soon enough, as my cycle developed a flat. Dipu pedaled away and I walked the cycle homewards when turning a bend I noticed a shed with the words “Fakir Chand Saikil Ripiyar” scrawled on a piece of tin in Hindi. A well built man with shoulder length hair sat working. He looked quite imposing; actually he looked a countrified version of Amir Khan as Bhagat Singh. He readily agreed to mend the leak and started dismantling the wheel. I looked at him work and then my eyes wandered to the scenery behind the shed. It was beautiful. A shallow meandering brook cut through the red earth and I immediately started sketching it. Fakir looked over my shoulder and said “Iss chhoti si nadi ka ek kissa hai” (This rivulet has a story). I was all ears and politely asked him to tell me the story if that wouldn’t disturb his work. “No. I work with my hands and talk with my mouth. But, you will be drawing pictures and won’t pay attention to my story” he smiled patronisingly. 

“No. I work with my hands and listen with my ears” I said. 

He feigned displeasure at my ready repartee. “Do you know who Ravana was?” he shot back.

“Yes. I know the Ramayana story” I said. 

“This episode (kissa) that I will narrate to you is not in the Ramayana” he said firmly.

It would have been great if I could tell the story the way he did in his Bihari Hindi. But, I don’t remember all of it. Just a few expressions remain with me today and I will tell them as and when these expressions appear in the narrative.

Fakir’s story:

“Ravana was a great devotee of Shiva” (Ravana Raja Shiuji ka burra bhakt thha) he started.

But, Shiva never paid him much attention. But the King of Lanka (Lankeshwar) would not give up. He went to the Himalayas, sat in meditation and prayed for years until Lord Shiva condescended to meet him and came down from Kailash for an audience with Ravana. 

Ravana (detail) by Dhiren Karmakar, Bikna. From our own collection. Notice how the problem of balancing ten heads has been solved!

At this point of the story, Fakir asks me “If Lord Shiva appeared before you, how would He address you?” Fakir did not wait for me to answer. “He would have said - What can I do for you Son (Beta)? But he did not address Ravana as Son. So, what did Shiva say to Ravana? Shiva addressed Ravana as Lankaraj” he continued with his story.

Shiva said “Lankaraj I am displeased with you for having forced me to leave my abode in Kailash to meet you. Yes, I am impressed with your devotion, but I am displeased nevertheless. So, instead of the three boons that I give to my devotees, I will give you only one. Say what you desire and let’s get over with it. I am in a hurry. I haven’t had my daily dose of ganja and that makes me very irritable.”

Ravana the wily King of Lanka had come prepared for this. He possessed a quick mind – after all he who has ten heads, has a definite advantage. With folded hands he said “Lord, I am your ardent devotee and have always wished to take you to my Kingdom and to set up temples in your honour. This is my only wish – grant me this boon.”

Shiva hadn’t come prepared for this. He was dumbstruck. Fakir as an aside said to me “You know the Gods have a way of communicating with their peers and all of Heaven (Swargapuri) were dismayed and started telling Shiva not to accept. How can you go to Demonland (Rakshaspuri)? Quick, use your wits or else the balance of the universe will be endangered.”

Shiva thought for a very long while. It was difficult for him to sort out the problem while Ravana knelt at His feet and waited. All the Gods in Heaven were now frantic and they finally hatched a plan that was duly communicated to Shiva. “You see Swargapuri and Rakshaspuri not only spoke in different languages, they did not communicate with each other (different wavelengths I presume). So, Ravana did not hear any of the conversation that Shiva was having with the other Gods” said Fakir.

So, Shiva finally straightened himself up and said “Lankaraj! I will go with you, but, I have one condition.” Ravana was elated, his happiness knew no bounds. Like a small boy he clapped his hands and danced around Shiva and repeated “Any condition, no problem, any condition, no problem!” not realizing the diabolical plan that the Gods had hatched. Exasperated by such childish behavior Shiva chided him “Stop that! First listen to the condition I have set. I will go with you to Lanka, but, I will not walk, or ride a horse, nor an elephant. I will go piggyback on you and if you set me down before we reach Lanka, you will not be able to budge me from that spot.  Agreed?”

“No big deal” Ravana said. After all he was powerfully built, had ten heads and each head took turns to sleep, which meant that there was always a large part of him that was always awake. So, he lifted Shiva on his shoulders and started walking from the Himalayas to Lanka. When he was right here said Fakir pointing to the floor of his shed, Ravana knew he was in trouble. He had to answer the call of nature and how could he do that with Shiva sitting on his shoulders? That would be sacrilegious! Perspiring, crossing his legs this way and that to hold it in, lest he wet his dhoti, Ravana was at the end of his wits. “Dus mathey se bahut kuch woh kar sakte thhe, lekin peshab roka nahi ja sakta” (He could achieve much with his ten heads but was powerless when it came to holding his pee) explained Fakir.

“Uss samay, hazaro saal aagey idhhar jungle hua karta tha” (at that time thousands of years ago all of this was forested) he continued. As per the plan that the Gods had hatched, Narad Muni in the guise of a simple sadhu appeared from nowhere. Narad behaved as if he felt pity for the King of Lanka and offered to hold Shiva aloft so that Ravana could urinate in peace. Relieved Ravana handed Shiva to Narad and excused himself. The Gods had all this planned because they knew that when Ravana urinated he did so for seven days and seven nights continuously (Saat din aur saat raat beet jata peshab karney mey). That is how this brook was formed said Fakir pointing to the scene that I was drawing.

My bicycle had by now been repaired and as I got up Fakir motioned for me to sit down. “The story does not end here” he said. 

While Ravana was urinating, Narad had dumped Shiva as planned and vanished. Shiva took a few drags of ganja and happily went off to sleep under a tree. When Ravana returned he was shocked. He beseeched Shiva to forgive him and continue on the journey to Lanka. Shiva was adamant and refused to give in. “Hum zuban ke pakkey hain aur yehi asha kartey hain ki tum bhi apna shart rakho” (I keep my word and hope that you too will keep yours) Shiva reminded.

That is why a little distance from here Ravana built a temple to Shiva and is today known as Baidyanath Dham. But Ravana was so angry and frustrated with himself that he dealt a mighty blow on the temple courtyard (Aisan mukka maara) that it tilted permanently. Fakir illustrated the power of the blow by slapping the seat of my bicycle. You can see that yourself when you visit the temple complex. Needless to say we never verified it.

As I rose up to go, Fakir looked at my drawing and said “Looks quite alright, but my story is not in it.”

The brook Ravana is said to have created.

On the last day we went to Usri Falls. I started sketching as usual, but was stopped short by a yell from Sambit. Rahul had sprained his ankle slipping on the wet boulders. He had to be helped back all the way home to Calcutta.

Usri Falls.

The emptiness of the F pages is not empty anymore.


Fakir Chand’s story is now embedded in it and there will always be stories as long as our hearts go “squelch blob gluck, squelch blob gluck, squelch blob gluck!”