Short Story: Shrouded
Seeing, in half light, two aged gentlemen, my heart missed a beat. Both were wearing dhoti and vest, seated face to face on canned chairs in the veranda. One was probably bald; from the head some reflected light was getting scattered. Another day the scene would have aroused my curiosity, and I would have thought of creating a comic character. I could clearly see the bald gentleman, who was probably her father; recently returned home after a long stay at Varanasi. May be his features had changed, but most likely her father. They did not look towards me and were talking about the state of rented houses in Varanasi. Very interesting conversation and expressions -automatically my hand went to my pocket in search of the pen.
But I knew I would not do the same. My mind was filled with an unknown fear and my thoughts confused. Even as I listened to the talk with pen in hand and tried to draw attention, I feared that this was going to be my last appearance; this half dark stage was our last scene. The bald headed gentleman raised his head and asked “Whom do you want?’ I did not recognise his voice which might have altered
I asked “Is she at home?”
The bald gentleman, looked towards the living room and said ‘Hera someone is looking for ‘Sarumai’ . Most likely he was her father; was due back from Varanasi. They resumed discussion on Varanasi rented houses. The inside curtain fluttered, my body also shook. The veranda light was switched on and the mother came out. Now I could see the two gentlemen in the veranda clearly & observe the situation but I never looked at them. I could not look at her mother’s face. What she was wearing did not catch my eye; I kept looking at her bare feet and repeated –‘Is she at home?’ I could sense that my voice was shaky.
Her mother said that she was not at home, went out with her elder sister.
My voice shaking, I asked, ‘Where has she gone? When will she come?’
The mother replied that they did not go to a particular place; just for the sake of loitering; could not say when they would be back. I could guess that her voice was also shaky. She knew that her daughter knew that I would come today, but decided to go out. She was silent for some time. I understood that she was not able to decide how to say the last lines. I kept looking at her feet. Then I heard her say that they would have to leave very early, tomorrow; packing was yet to be done, therefore probably would be back soon.
I said “ O, tomorrow itself, leaving early in the morning?”
I myself heard my smooth and tremor free voice. I realised that my voice had stopped quivering.
The mother said, “Yes very early, train is at 3-45 and from Pandu- ferry at 4-45.”
“The one on which river crossing at Manihari ghat ? North Bank Express.”
The mother said, “ Yes that’s the one; heard that with luggage lot of difficulty is faced in Manihari ghat –Hakrigalighat section.”
I said, “O really quite troublesome… Then I will make a move.’’
The mother said, “ I will tell her that you came” I was surprised that the tremor in my voice had shifted to the mother, just like the quiver in a child’s voice before breaking into tears. I knew that she desperately wanted to see my face. But I was besieged by an unbelievable self esteem. Knowing that I could not show her my face, I quickly turned & walked towards the path. I kept walking without looking back, till their house was out of sight. Then only I stopped. I was astonished that the commotion created by hundreds of people did not enter my ears. I felt that I was living in a vacuum, surrounded by a veil of emptiness through which voices, car horns, rickshaw bells, hawkers’ shout, children’s uproar could not penetrate. I was only aware that thousands of people were moving around me walking diagonally or in parallel with my steps. Some air flow hit my face & ears. Dust, smoke and some fleeting looks and sound waves were continuously striking me. But I did not feel myself a part of these surroundings. I was like a lonely being, moving away from this maddening noisy atmosphere. I could see that the petrol pump which we used to see earlier from the veranda of her house had been transformed into a modern entity. The building now was like a flat box. Lot more vehicles of different types were stopping and refueling; but the smell of burnt fuel remained same. On the other side of the pump, the ‘Adarsh’ restaurant was not there. The vegetable market had also shifted. In its place there stood a park surrounded by brick walls. A light was glowing in the middle and lot of people were inside. I realised that the population has grown multifold and observed a crowd on the field in front of the Madrasa, a light hanging and a loud speaker tied to it. A young man was speaking in an agitated voice.
I returned towards the overbridge. For the first time I noticed the mushrooming small ‘pan shops’ along the road. I passed a medicine shop displaying red-cross sign, ’a film distributor, a musical instrument shop and a perfect new tea shop named ‘Abak Jalpan.’ ; in all probability owned by a Bengali. I saw rows of ‘jalebis’ & other sweets kept in glass jars. I remembered her telling me that my views were always coiled like ‘jelebis’. Never-ending flow of vehicles, rickshaws, people & cattle were passing through the over-bridge. I could hear voices, in many different languages passing close to me. Seated on the railing a few young men were smoking. A rail engine was shunting below. I went forward. Leaning on the railings I looked towards the Madrassa. Classes of a night school were in progress inside. In one class room a teacher was drawing a diagram on the black board. The benches were full with boys but most of them were looking outside. Some last benchers were either dozing or playing ’naught and crosses’. Absentmindedly I groped for the cigarette packet, lit a cigarette and tried to figure out the diagram. For a long time, I could not. The teacher’s soft but morose face attracted me more. I started deliberating – what would be his character like? Without a thought, a story developed around him. Eventually I guessed that the drawing on a black board was about the geometry theorem which states that the angle of half circle is equal to a right angle. I almost shouted “eureka’. Abruptly my budding story of the teacher came to a stop. I became aware that the story of the geometry teacher was fast fading from my mind. It occurred to me that it would be best to make notes of the theme as I used to do, before I forgot it. Robotically I touched the pen in my pocket to record all the tremulous incidents of the evening, their details, all the first impressions that required to be noted for use in different stories later.
I hurriedly proceeded to the railway station. On the platform numerous foul smelling people, dogs & cats were lying coiled around beddings, utensils amidst hullabaloo of innumerable people. But the sight and accompanying noise did not register in my mind. I saw the Enquiry Office in the front, approached it and enquired about the time of departure of the connecting train linking North East Express. They told me that the train would leave at morning 3 -25 and reach Pandu at 4 AM. I had no need of knowing it, other than using in one of the stories. I climbed the stairs avoiding the sleeping passengers and opened the netted door of the refreshment room. I could not recognise the faces in the room, only saw the familiar face of the waiter coming towards me. I also saw the plump sweet looking girl wearing ear rings and the curly haired boy seated together in a quiet corner: I used to see them quite often. They had found a good corner. I felt that their being here today was not welcome.
I heard the waiter asking “Shall I get an omelet?”
“Omelette, omelette, no, no, no omelette today, only tea, only tea”
I occupied an empty table and lit a cigarette mechanically. Involuntarily I took out the pen from the pocket. I searched the other pockets and brought out some papers, one or two letters, a notebook, a bank cheque, one electricity bill, some white sheets of paper. I felt that these had brought bad luck to me. I tore off the letters and the electricity bill and put the torn pieces on the tray. I observed that the girl was staring at me from time to time. I lowered my head and started writing. I wrote “This evening a part of my life, a part of my existence have been cleaned out, an un-describable loss. I wrote that an emptiness beyond description has engulfed me. I wrote that my heart was torn, as if someone not only stabbed me on the chest, but pulled the knife out to bleed” I realised that these words did not signify anything, express nothing. Reading these words people will laugh. On paper these words looked artificial, hollow, lackluster, useless…….I deleted these words in anger. Thousand of things, came to my mind- dialogues, story materials, stories of union & separation. Leaving all these I was only saying that this evening my life had turned to nothing, my heart was shattered. I know that nobody would believe me.
My tea turned cold, cigarette finished. I looked at the pen. With it I could express beautifully so many thoughts, so much diverse feelings, so minuscule expressions………… because there was an inspiration behind it- a driving force. The pen was only moving in my hand. I have the pen now also, but the driving force is a thing of the past. From today one major element from my writing is going to be absent. Now I am unable to express the simple and harsh truth that a part of my being has been ripped off. My heart is shattered. Tonight I am to start a fresh story for radio. Suddenly I felt lost, became frightened. I was unable to figure out how to begin the story. Long time ago I started writing at a passive and tentative pace. After that an inspiration, a force came to my life and writing. The tip of my pen germinated beauty, fluidity, aroma & glow; then gradually faded away to today’s almost static, slow pace.
I looked at the bespectacled man in the counter. He was preparing bills with his head lowered. Above his head, on top of a cupboard a flower vase with a red flower on a long straight stem stood. Suddenly I remembered a Japanese book of poems having a identical photo on the cover page and recollected a ‘haiku’-
Distant fireworks
Lit up and extinguished
Again darkness
I became annoyed with the Haiku. I was unable to put across in words that my heart was broken. A concealed sob was trying to come out from within me. An overpowering nervousness was causing me great distress. How to bring that in writing?
‘Once again I am seated before the microphone, reading stories, articles. Through the glass I can see them recording it. At last the green table cloth, red light on the wall, the clock and the spotted soundproofing pattern on the wall, bring a flow in my voice. At one point, where it is written ‘But Bandana never even acknowledged it’ I stop. Instead I read ‘ Bandana did not even remember it’ which I think would be more appropriate. To correct it I automatically put my hand on the pocket. The pen is not there. Instantly my face becomes pale. Where did the pen go, where did I leave it? I have stopped reading. They are knocking at the glass, looking at me in astonishment, pointing to the clock. I commence reading once again, but my voice has lost the flow. Crestfallen, I am unable to comprehend what I am reading, my voice does not enter my ears. Mechanically I read at a fast pace and after finishing reading I throw the papers and get up from the chair in hurriedly’.
I reached Machkhowa like in a reverie. I felt that I was living in a vacuum surrounded by a veil of emptiness through which voices, car horns, rickshaw bells, hawkers’ shouts, children’s uproar could not penetrate. I was only aware that thousands of people were moving around me walking diagonally or in parallel with my steps. Some air flow hit my face & ears. Dust, smoke and some fleeting looks and sound waves were continuously striking me. But I did not feel myself a part of these surroundings. I was a lonely creature, moving away from this maddening noisy atmosphere. I knew that today evening a part of my being, have been ruined, lost, finished. The black pen was with me since the school days. It travelled in my pockets day & night, year after year. I stuck to it, in spite of having other costlier pens. Nothing else could satisfy me. I knew that I would not be able to write because there was no hope of recovering the pen. I searched the radio station & other places.
I am unable to figure out how I shall lead my life as before. Without the flair of writing what will I do? Now- what? ’
At Machkhowa, I roamed around stationary buses & rickshaws like a lost person. I barely recognised the faces of people. I saw passengers dismounting from rickshaws. Bells rang, someone started quarrelling with the coolie, someone was holding a foul smelling fish, somewhere a baby was crying. Seeing some known faces coming towards me I hurriedly turned my face and walked outside. An emptiness beyond comprehension filled my mind. I realised that I had felt such sense of loss and emptiness before, this was not new.
I said to myself ‘I will arise now and go about the city, through the streets and squares. I will seek the one I love. I encountered the watchmen on their rounds of the city: “Have you seen the one I love?’ I realised that unknowingly I was reciting from the Holy Bible.
I returned to the bus station. I was relieved to discover that the known faces had disappeared. I sat down on a broken chair smoking and waited for the bus. Thousands of incidents came to my mind. Situations connected with the pen, thousand dialogues given birth by it, raw materials for writing thousand stories. Home – veranda, morning-evening, cities-villages, rivers – hills, sunlight and rain, thousand sleepless nights. It’s silent presence in innumerable stories of union & parting. All these I cannot describe. Only I can say that that today evening my life has turned to nothing, my heart is shattered. A living inspiration ceased. I know that nobody will believe me.
I brought out some papers from my pocket, automatically my hand went to the pocket looking for the pen. Shocked I retracted my hand. Buses came and left, passengers boarded and got down but I remained seated on the broken chair with a bunch of papers. Someone came and sat next to me, sharp smell of fish touched my nose, I found a pencil in my pocket. But I was unable to put across in words that my heart was broken. A concealed sob was trying to come out from within me. An overpowering nervousness was distressing me. How to bring that in writing? How shall I describe the loss? How shall I express my loss?
(Translated from Saurabh Kumar Chaliha’s Assamese short story ‘Achonno’ by Wing Commander (Retd) Sisir Kumar Barua.)
(Saurabh Kumar Chaliha, one of the most popular Assamese short story writers, ad created quite a storm in Assamese literature in the fifties. His short stories were free from the confinements of geography, nationality, ethnicity and even time. rom music to science, he left almost no subject untouched. Less words to express more ideas was the theme of Chaliha’s writings. )
