Earthen Lamp Journal - a new literary e-journal
augusto pinto
It's a literary journal that combines poetry, fiction, memoir and so
on. I think that memoir seems to be becoming a favoured literary genre
these days.
Here is one piece from the journal, whose theme for this issue is
sexuality, a memoir called The Sadhu of Nasik.
The Sadhu of Nasik
- Sarabjeet Garcha
I first saw him on an early winter's day. As he got off the
autorickshaw, his milky orange attire triggered my memory of a saintly
scholar on whose death I had wept in secret lest my friends at the
riverside dharamshala, where we lived, laughed at me. This man was
shorter by about six inches than my saint, who had stood at six-two.
Even his beard was not yet fully white, the black strands appearing
like streaks of coal on a landscape that would take many more years to
become snowy. The turban on his head was tied with the same care that
every true Sikh should give to the six-metre-long cloth synonymous
with a man's honour and pride. He wore leather shoes without laces,
his feet sockless. I saw this when I bent down to touch his feet after
saying 'Sat Sri Akal', for which I got a pat on the back and the press
of a palm on my topknot.
So this was the man who had come to fill the void that Babaji, his
guru, had left. I was not sure what the lacuna meant to my neighbours,
but to me it meant nobody to look up to, nobody to genuflect before,
nobody to adore or worship. Everyone knew that the newcomer was to
take over and manage Babaji's property, which consisted of a sprawling
old building as well as a small garden by the left side of the
Godavari.
The construction of the building began, apparently, in 1940, and it
was supposed to be a house of worship offering hospitality to pilgrims
visiting Nasik. When he first came to the riverbank, Babaji, like a
true hermit, lived in a hut and did sadhana all day long. By and by,
he had visitors, who then became his followers. Among these, some
turned into devotees, and like all devotees they couldn't let their
master lead a spartan life. So they got a room built and placed the
Guru Granth Sahib in it. Babaji began to sleep outside this shrine
containing the holy book. Then the disciples had an anteroom made so
that Babaji could live there in as much comfort as he was ready to
allow himself.
With time, more rooms and storeys were added, each bearing a tile on
the wall acknowledging the benefactors with whose generosity the
respective brick-and-mortar structure had come into being. The rich
landowner on whose land the building was raised had sold some of the
land and donated the rest to Babaji. Now, because there were rooms
near the gurdwara, pilgrims began to prolong their stay and slowly
became tenants, thereby conferring dharamshala status to the building.
A few locals who couldn't find a better and cheaper place to live came
forward, too, and contributed to increasing the latter's number. The
gurdwara was moved to the first floor. Babaji had to play landlord.
The riparian dharamshala housed people of such variety and ethnicities
that even advanced students of social sciences could have easily found
copious material on which to base their theses on human nature.
I was far from being a good observer, let alone a keen student, ever
occupied as I was filling colours in my reveries, which sometimes even
flowered into mild hallucinations. In many of these imaginings, I
would see myself conversing with Babaji. Later, I came to know that he
was a scholar of Sanskrit. When he died, at the age of a hundred and
three, I was about eight years old. To everyone in the dharamshala he
was a reverential figure, and no one uttered a 'Sat Sri Akal' to him
without touching his feet. I too picked up this ritual.
Although he rarely went to anyone else's house, everyone was welcome
to his, which had been moved to another part of the building. When we
children visited him, we would get a biscuit each from his maid, an
ex-policewoman. He would jovially call us luchcha and badmaash, and
this mild swearing from someone like him, who otherwise spent long
hours conducting discussions in chaste Sanskrit with fellow pundits of
Nasik, made us laugh out loud. How were we to know that all these days
would come to an end one day?
I didn't mind not getting the free biscuits any longer, but I was not
prepared for the after-school hours that turned lacklustre because
Babaji was no more. I think he had seen it coming long ago, for he had
had a low, square platform built in his garden on the riverbank. He
wanted his body to be cremated there, and his wish was honoured.
That morning, as I had woken up, Ma had said, 'Babaji poorey ho gaye.'
I did not know the meaning of the Punjabi phrase poorey ho jana,
literally 'to become complete', so I asked her what it meant, and she
explained. To die was to become complete.
When I saw his body being cremated in a ghee-emblazoned pyre, the lump
in my throat became too heavy to hold back, so I let go, images of
haggard mourners floating in my eyes and giving me my first taste of
sorrow.
'Does one feel the heat while being burnt after death?' I asked a
classmate of mine the next day.
'A bit,' he replied nonchalantly.
This answer only deepened my grief.
*****
The junior Babaji descended upon the dharamshala like a vulture who
had vowed vengeance against the whole world. Hotheaded, fickle, and
cantankerous, he let his tongue sizzle at the least opportunity with
bone-charring profanities. On one occasion, his altercation with a
mafiaesque tenant who ran an eatery took such an ugly turn that he
couldn't harness his anger. He ran into his house and emerged with a
long sword, flashing it menacingly at the irate restaurateur.
'I'll kill you!' he cried, only to receive the same pronouncement in return.
The neighbours carried out their dharma by watching the arena with
eyes wide open, hands covering mouths every now and then to muffle
giggles interspersed with hosannas. Timely intervention by a couple of
sagacious onlookers saved the courtyard of broken tiles and chipped
concrete slabs opposite Babaji II's house from being drenched in
blood.
This was just one of the many brawls Babaji II was embroiled in.
'He's an imposter, a lout in a sadhu's disguise,' my grandpa would
often say after a Patiala peg of Dahisar, the government-approved
country liquor famous as much for its price as its taste. Now, Grandpa
too had had a tiff with this so-called monster of a monk, so I
understood the reason behind the cursing. However, Babaji II had his
spells of mellowness, during which he'd suddenly change into a person
who kept to himself, if not into someone who necessarily waved to and
beamed at the neighbours who were in fact his tenants. But even during
the ceasefire days, children as well as grown-ups would keep away from
him.
On one such peaceful afternoon, I went up to him to ask if I might go
to the riverside garden to study. He had banned the entry of the
tenants there, except when his maid opened the wrought iron gate with
spiked bars in the evening to light a lamp and burn incense at the
older Babaji's samadhi. At other times, a thick padlock shrieked a
mute 'no trespassing' warning.
A cement bench under the almond tree that stood near the samadhi was
my favourite haunt. I used to sit there for hours, gazing at the river
until it reached the sluice gate beneath the arches of the Ahilyabai
Holkar Bridge, where it suddenly gained speed and fell in short
rapids, continuing its journey. The stone spire of the Sundarnarayan
Temple on the opposite bank looked inviting in its antiquity
smoothened by the elements, and I'd promise myself to visit the temple
someday soon, because I had never been there.
'Sure. Why not?' Babaji II said readily. He seemed to have got up from
a nap. 'Come in, come right in.' I was surprised.
He put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me towards him, giving me
a peck on the cheek. At twelve, I thought myself a bit too grown up to
be getting this kind of affection. The peck was repeated, and then
again, on different parts of my face, and what had appeared to be an
avuncular bear hug became an asphyxiating grip. I was stunned,
repelled, nauseated. I was scrawny and a bit bow-legged, but my knees
began to knock against each other, so severe were the shivers of
dread. With the swiftness of a satyr, he latched the door, and I felt
him standing behind me, assaulting me with frenetic pelvic thrusts. He
was wearing only a light ochre home-made vest and a kachhera, the pair
of baggy underpants that baptized Sikhs wear.
I was convinced that I was trapped.
'Now come on. Take off your jeans,' he said, panting.
'What for?'
'It'll take me just two minutes.'
This, certainly, wasn't an answer to my question, but I knew what he
was up to. My science teacher at school had skipped ('omitted', to use
her word) the chapter on human reproduction, but my friends and I had
read and re-read it religiously and were thrilled at our discoveries.
Our teacher must have thought the chapter too titillating for her
students, but she could not tear off those pages from the textbook. We
knew how babies were made. As far as my knowledge went, the thing
could be done only between opposite sexes. But here was this paunchy
sannyasin, almost five times my age and three times my size, huffing
and puffing like a mongrel on heat, trying to smother me under the
mountainous weight of his libido!
Well, this wasn't the time for philosophizing. I had to save my arse
first. Literally.
'Uh – the maid,' I said, trying to make an excuse.
'She's sound asleep,' he reassured me.
'I'm getting late for the tuition. We'll do it tomorrow.'
'Two minutes . . . just two minutes.'
'No. I'll be late. Please.'
'All right. Tomorrow? Promise?'
'Yes, I promise.'
He let me go. I couldn't believe it. I felt like a goat that had had
the butcher's knife at the jugular vein just a few seconds ago.
*****
'Who asked you to go to that bastard?'
I had thought it my duty to report the matter at home, but I hadn't
expected Grandpa to blame me.
'We've all heard stories about him, haven't we? Thank God the wolf
didn't harm you.'
I was relieved to hear this. A few days later, I overheard Grandpa
speaking to Grandma. I caught snatches of the conversation. 'He sleeps
with the maid,' he was saying, and immediately I knew who he was
talking about. Then why didn't Babaji II sleep with her that
afternoon? I thought. Perhaps he was experimenting, looking for
variety.
Six years later, we moved house, but my aunt and uncle still lived in
the old dharamshala with their kids. Whenever I went to meet them, I
would ask after Babaji II. On one of these visits, I came to know that
he had goitre and was being treated for it. Five years later, he went
to Patiala to have a thyroid surgery, but couldn't make it. He died of
a cardiac arrest on the operating table.
I heard this news, but not without a trace of sadness. This man
belonged to a sect of Sikhism that laid deep emphasis on the
acquisition of knowledge. His guru had been a true adherent of this
cult. No woman could remain under the same roof with him after
sundown. Even the sadhavi who cooked for him was given separate
quarters. He had been celibate by choice, not by compulsion. His
disciple too could have walked in the master's footsteps had he come
to terms with his sexuality, which he tried to hide all his life.
Sarabjeet Garcha is a bilingual poet, book editor and literary
translator based in Delhi. His published poetry books are The
Half-Moon Halo (2004), Vaani Phir Bhi Shoonyamanaa (Even Then Voice Is
Tranquil-Hearted) (2011) and the latest Lullaby of the Ever-Returning
(2012). His full-length published translations, respectively from
Hindi and Marathi, are And the Mystery Remains (2002) and A
Depressingly Monotonous Landscape (2012). He was on the Panel of
Critical Readers for Garner's Modern American Usage, 3rd ed. (2009).
Sarabjeet has selected and edited the Punjabi author Sukhbir's short
stories in Hindi translation, and this book is forthcoming in early
2013. www.sarabjeetgarcha.com
--
Augusto Pinto
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Margaret Mascarenhas
Thanks for this link.
Margaret
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augusto pinto
I also found this one amusing, even (almost) erotic:
Getting Physical
- Kaberi Roychoudhury
(translated from Bengali by Arunava Sinha)
Our village had a lovely name, you know. Dharabaari. The district of twenty-four parganas had not yet been split into two. It was a large area, all told. Trees, a river, ponds – what you'd call the countryside. You people were nowhere around then. You cannot even imagine the life we led back then. Have you ever been to a village?
Ramanimohan arched his eyebrows.
Jaba said, grinning, Gouripur and Birati in the early seventies is as far as my village-viewing goes.
Rubbish. As if you can call them villages! Haven't you read Sarat Chatterjee? That's the kind of village we had. It wasn't just the other day, you know. Nineteen thirty-eight.
What was it like?
Beautiful. Pollution? We hadn't even heard of it. A glorious existence. Swimming in the ponds, stealing fruit, romping in the fields. What more could we ask for?
Jaba had been listening to Ramanimohan open-mouthed. She tried to conjure up a picture of what it must have been like.
A penny for your thoughts.
Me? Nothing. Jaba was embarrassed. She didn't like putting her emotions on display.
Something, surely? Taking his glasses off, Ramanimohan revealed the astonishment in his wide eyes and looked into Jaba's.
Jaba felt uncomfortable. But she was back to her animated self the next moment. I was trying to picture the village from your description, she said. I love imagining things I've never seen. Quite often, all I do is imagine things by myself. Let's say I'm at a party or gathering that I'm not enjoying very much – do you know what I do? I start thinking about a hundred different things. Or let's say I'm on a long-distance journey. My mind starts wandering and, before I know it, I've reached my destination. But then the word destination has a different meaning for me.
How do you mean? I don't understand.
You'll laugh. Do you know what I do? In my head I go to places that may not even exist on this planet. Or, if they do, I'm not aware of it. Now let's say I'm on my way to Delhi while such thoughts are playing around in my head. Consider. Have I really reached my destination?
Excellent! You're a very interesting person!
Actually, from my childhood till now, I haven't travelled a great deal. That may be why I love imagining. You don't need tickets to board an imaginary train, after all. By the way, the name Dharabaari is very sweet.
The name has a history. Although it's hearsay. Apparently, it used to rain a lot there at one time. No one knows why. So Dharabaari – pouring rain.
Don't you go back now?
Of course I do. Whenever I'm back in the country. Roots. No matter how large the tree, the roots will always pull it back towards the soil. What days those were. I used to go to the local school at the time. Torrential rain, water and mud everywhere; lake and river and land were indistinguishable. Splashing through the water to study. Trapping fish in mosquito nets. I had a girlfriend, do you know? She used to thread a garland of flowers for me every day, just like Saratchandra's Parvati. Delicious. Just like a sweet and sour mango.
Who?
Manjuri.
Do you run into her now?
How would I? She got married when she was still a child. Back then village girls were made to marry by eleven or twelve. I met her twice or thrice after her wedding. I went away from the village too, to Calcutta. I entered college. All the relationships built on the village roads began to languish.
Don't you miss her?
Why should I? I'm not particularly emotional. Women are like a trance to me. They come, and then they leave. Like dreams, you might say. We can do as we please in our dreams. We can shake the foundations of any relationship in our dreams. Don't you agree? And women keep me alive, Jaba. You could say they're resources for my survival. When I look at women I think of food, somehow. They appear to me as tender mangos, or ripe berries, or juicy coconuts, or slices of orange or grapefruit ... you get the picture. Ramanimohan was chuckling. He ruffled his own salt-and-pepper hair. His eyes dancing behind his glasses, he said, do you think I haven't looked at you too? I have already.
Jaba wasn't put out in the slightest. She had been introduced to Ramanimohan at a friend's house. He was a friend of her friend's father-in-law's. So, although she addressed him with a dada, he belonged to her father's generation. Nothing to be afraid of. And besides, she was attracted by people's personalities. So she took a quick decision. Why not study him a bit? Human nature after all.
What are you thinking? That I'm a strange man, right?
Why is he saying this? Jaba kept her thoughts to herself. I'm telling my eyes to observe, ears to listen, and the mouth to shut up, she told herself. So Jaba changed the subject. Aren't you going to introduce me to your wife, she asked. It didn't escape her notice that Ramanimohan coloured.
The very next moment he said with a smile, Basanti is obsessed with gods and goddesses. Whenever we're in the country, she rushes around from one temple to another. Early this morning, too, she was off to some shrine or the other. You'll meet her one of these days.
Don't you go with her? You don't believe in god?
Frankly, no. Surprising Jaba, he asked, how old are you?
Thirty-four. Why?
My god. You don't look thirty-four at all. I would have said twenty-five or so. But I appreciate your boldness. Otherwise, no woman who's as tender as a soft green apple would tell the truth about her age. You could easily have said you're twenty-two – no one would doubt it.
What's the use of hiding one's age?
Laughter seemed to be at the core of Ramanimohan's nature. He laughed
again. Full-throatedly. Your lips vibrate exquisitely when you speak,
he said. Have you ever noticed? Like the trembling of the clear sweet
juice of a slice of orange. Lovely. So sweet.
Jaba knew that not everything needed a response. Some statements just
had to be discarded like rubbish. Without getting either agitated or
astonished, she said, where were you during the attacks on the World
Trade Centre?
Leaping to his feet, Ramanimohan said, what an awful experience it was. Just the day before we had gone from our house in New Jersey to our daughter and son-in-law's home in New York. Terrible! He closed his eyes as he spoke. Just for a moment. The very next instant, he said, you're a poet and a writer, aren't you? Got anything you've written?
I do. Poetry.
Read it. I want to hear it.
Ramanimohan stretched out his tall, erect frame in his chair, extending his legs. Taking her notebook out, Jaba began to read the poem she had written the night before. When she got to the tenth line, Ramanimohan sat up, saying, read that line again, please. Astonished, Jaba read out...
'The sex smell blood spit of others, their ejaculation, hit or miss –
Rummaging through these, suddenly one day the girl
Looked up at the sky...'
Ramanimohan stopped Jaba before she could finish. Enough, he said. I don't need to hear any more.
Jaba was surprised. Don't you want to hear the rest, she asked. The sense of the poem won't be obvious unless you hear the whole thing...
Please! Ramanimohan cut her short. Am I supposed to learn from you what poetry is?
No, I'm not saying that. Jaba restrained herself. That's not what I wanted to say... .
I know. I've got the essence of your poem. You have a way with words. And this line of yours has elevated your poetry to a new dimension. No vulgarity whatsoever, and yet you've succeeded in bringing the real truth out beautifully. You're a smart girl. I don't mind telling you that I'm a slightly physical type. You wouldn't believe me, there used to be a pond just for women in our village. All the women, and girls, used to throng the place for a bath every afternoon. And I'd climb a tree and hide amongst the leaves to watch them bathing. Ramanimohan paused for breath. Do you hate me now, he asked.
Jaba shook her head. No, not in the least. Go on.
Ramanimohan picked the thread up. As I was saying, the woman's body is so thrilling, you know, such an amazing affair. I've seen not a few of them in my life. From foreign women to village girls, from green cucumbers to overripe coconuts, I've seen them all, but their appeal hasn't diminished even a bit. Thank goodness you're a liberal thinker. Not stupid and naive.
Jaba was astonished. She had never met a man like this. How could a man who could have been her father talk this way to someone he had known only for two days. Do I dislike him at all, Jaba asked herself? If so, why? Is it because of his candid conversation? Was this broadmindedness or perversion? If it was broadmindedness, what was the definition of the word? Did it refer to the uninhibited discussion of any subject, no matter how private?
Ramanimohan continued, as a matter of fact, there are many people like me. They are in love with women's bodies, but they pretend to be avuncular. Nonsense! Nothing but hypocrisy. I'm a plain speaker, you know. By the way, stand up for a minute, will you?
Why?
I'm asking you to stand up for a minute.
But you must tell me why. Jaba was surprised.
I want to check the size of your waist.
And then?
This is it. This is where you Bengali girls lose.
Jaba was astounded. What she said was, my waist size is not very attractive. Not worth checking.
How can you say this? Ramanimohan was even more astounded.
Why shouldn't I be able to? The truth is the truth.
Now Ramanimohan took off his glasses. His eyes brimmed with curiosity. Smart comeback, he said. I knew the first day I met you that you weren't like run-of-the-mill girls.
Jaba chuckled. He really was turning out to be an unusual man. She quite liked such people. It took all sorts to make the world.
Really, was what she said.
Who named you Jaba?
She was startled once more. What do you mean, she asked.
Why do you keep asking what I mean? Who gave you the name? Despite the smile on his face, Ramanimohan scolded Jaba mildly.
I don't know. But I like your name. Ra-ma-ni-mo-han!
Ramanimohan laughed loudly. Wild laughter. Well said, he remarked, still laughing. But your name has a scent of sex in it, did you know that?
Oh my god. Jaba was turned to stone.
Ramanimohan continued, the gentle smile still on his face ... Bangla was the language we were taught in, so when they taught us reproduction ... the first forbidden whiff came from the union of the stamen with the pistil of the hibiscus, the jaba. That was our first sexual text. And so much excitement over such a small thing. Ever since I met you, I've been thinking of those flowers. They call it association in psychology.
Aren't you thinking of fertilization?
Ramanimohan seemed to pull up short. He took a sip of water and lighted a cigar. Pursing his lips, he looked at Jaba for some time with a peculiar expression. Then he said, very bold.
Jaba laughed. I don't think I did anything particularly bold.
Good. It's a joy talking with you. Don't people fall in love with you?
Maybe they do.
But they don't tell you?
Maybe they lack the courage. Maybe I don't give them the chance.
You're quite pretty. Warm. Don't you enjoy male company? What I mean is...
I know what you mean. You're talking of physical relations, aren't you?
Right.
I'm just a normal girl with normal requirements, Ramani-da. That's all.
Ramanimohan nodded to himself absently. The more I see of you, the more you surprise me, he said. Any other woman would have been embarrassed. And my experience says that in the course of this embarrassment they would have grown voluble within. This is the mystery of womankind. Touch me, but don't watch me. Something like that. Ramanimohan was pleased by his own sense of humour. An expression suggesting that he knew everything there was to know about women appeared on his face, not escaping Jaba's notice. She tried to behave as naturally as possible, saying, but you didn't say anything about the talent, or intelligence, or faculties of women, or even of their minds. Ramanimohan appeared to ponder about this for a while, biting his lower lip as he gazed at Jaba. Shades of different expressions played over his face. Then he said, good question. Then let me confess frankly that intelligent women seem mannish to me. Women should be soft and beautiful.
But didn't you say I'm quite intelligent? What about that?
No, my dear. It's your body that does the talking. Ramanimohan chuckled. His eyes were enraptured. Which is why your intelligence hasn't hardened you. You're a very sweet girl. A juicy fruit.
This was quite a character she was being exposed to. Jaba armed herself mentally. Let's see how far he goes. You're very lively even at this age. Your wife must be very proud of you.
Are you crazy? Do you think wives like all this?
Why not?
Basanti's an excellent wife, ideal for the family. I'm a different type. But women like Basanti are perfect for the home. I see the world differently, though. For instance, I can tell you candidly that I like you. Is that bad?
Not at all. It's not abnormal to like someone.
I'm getting a whiff of my village from your body after all these years. Do you know what the tender black hair peeping out of our armpit through your shirt sleeve reminds me of? Of the hair rising out of a jamrul. And your breasts? You may have restrained them, but they look like a pair of restless pigeons, trying to break free and fly away.
The blood was pounding in Jaba's head. But, maintaining her smile, she said, what else?
Your waist's like betaslata. Because you're in jeans it's obvious that your thighs are like tender thhor. Your bottom is admittedly a bit on the heavy side, but it's nice.
No metaphor? Jaba asked with a questioning look.
Ramanimihan couldn't stop smiling. What a good girl, he said. Your bottom's like an upturned tanpura... Aren't I right? His eyebrows danced. See what a good eye I have?
Definitely worthy of admiration.
You can't have anything without the body, see? Haven't you read how Radha is described? All this Platonic love is just a sham. Those who wrinkle their noses when you talk about physical love are hypocrites. Those who believe in the primacy of the body never resort to shame of hatred or fear. Even death can be prevented by lovemaking, they say. They can even drink substances ejaculated by the body without hesitation. It's called Charichandra Sadhan.
Jaba smiled mentally. She was familiar with all this. But still she gazed at Ramanimohan, feigning great interest. Do you know about the moon when it comes to physical love? Those who believe in physicality think of the human body as possessing twenty-four-and-a-half moons. Thus...
'The body with its twenty-four-and-a-half moons
Ten on the arms, ten on the legs, two on the cheeks
One each on the lips and brow, and half a moon above...'
When a man and a woman make love with their moon-studded bodies, they say that 'there's a moon on the moon.' Do you get it? Without the body, life is arid.
Jaba drank a glass of water and prepared to leave. It was fun chatting with you, she said. I didn't even realize when morning turned into afternoon.
Ramanimohan was out of his chair, too, saying, no one's ever been bored chatting with me. So when are we meeting again?
We will. You're here for some time, aren't you? When do you go back to New Jersey?
Next month. Ramanimohan seemed lost in thought. Are you free tomorrow, he asked.
Yes. Why?
Want to take a trip somewhere close by?
Jaba prepared herself in an instant. Why not, she said. But where?
No way. Planning is for clerks. I don't plan my travel. Come over tomorrow. We'll see.
Jaba looked at him with soft eyes. Ramanimohan melted. Even the chaste can be seduced, he told himself. He was thrilled. When Jaba had left, he went into kitchen and told his wife, the girl who was here is very lively.
Basanti was silent. She was cooking. Nuzzling his wife's neck, Ramanimohan inhaled her scent. It's good for women to be progressive, you know, he said. So many women have never...
Basanti interrupted him. You're getting old. Adventures won't suit you at this age. It's time for your bath.
Ramanimohan had made up his mind to take Jaba to the river. Take a boat ride. He had woken up early. After a bath with fragrant soap, he put on a pair of blue jeans and a kurta the colour of warm blood. His heartbeat quickened. He kept glancing at this watch. Jaba would be here at nine. The minutes seemed to stretch into hours.
Eventually the clock struck nine, and the doorbell chirped. Ramanimohan ran to the door, only to be astonished when he opened it. A boy of about fifteen stood outside. He seemed to be holding a bowl covered with coloured paper. Ramanimohan was extremely irritated. Whom doyou want, he asked.
Didi sent me.
He was furious with Basanti. Whenever she came to Calcutta, she got into an orgy of consuming vegetables and flowers. Most annoying. So which variety of grass have you brought today, he asked. Go right in and hand it over to Boudi.
The boy looked at him in surprise. Didi sent these for you, he said. Here you are.
This time Ramanimohan was more surprised than irked. Tearing open the paper covering he discovered to his utter consternation a brass tray, on which were tastefully arranged a betaslata, two tender pieces of thhor, a pair of jamrul fruits, two ripe bel fruits, two orange slices, and a single cowrie. Baffled, he could make nothing of this at first. What's all this, he asked. Who's sent it?
Didi. There's a letter too. She's asked for a reply. You can give it to me.
Picking up the letter on the tray, Ramanimohan read it swiftly.
Respected Ramani-da,
You know the doctrine of the body. You are particularly learned. But your application is far too unidirectional. Your behaviour is akin to a display of masculine machismo – like that of an elephant drunk with arrogance. That is probably why you can declare with aplomb that an intelligent woman appears mannish to you. Alas!
I have also studied certain aspects of the doctrine of the body. I am aware of how and when this 'ism' came into being. The proponents of physicality had placed human beings on a higher pedestal than religion. This philosophy was formulated to break the people's faith in temples and mosques and the in the priestocracy of both religions. And yet, you yourself flaunt your Brahmin origins with your 'sacred thread'.
Women's bodies are like food for you. I apologize. I was unable to lay my hands on pigeons. I have sent you some bel as a substitute. The equivalent of breasts. I am sending you a cowrie too, symbolizing the vagina. Sending a tanpura would have been far too expensive. The rest are all in accordance with your demand.
Yours truly,
Jaba
Entering the drawing room, Basanti was delighted at the sight of all the fruits on the tray. Did you go to the temple, she asked. I had never expected you to change so much. Give them to me. Oh my god!
Born in Kolkata, Kaberi Roychoudhury has been writing fiction and poetry since 2001. Sixteen of her novels and a hundred and fifty of her short stories have been published till date. She has won several awards for her work, including the Leela Majumder Smriti Puraskar, Shailajananda Smriti Puroskar, and Mallika Sengupta Smriti Puroskar. She lives and writes in Kolkata.
Arunava Sinha is a former journalist. He studied English Literature from Jadavpur University (Kolkata). He has worked for Calcutta Skyline. He has also translated several works by modern and contemporary Bengali writers. He is based in New Delhi.