Translated Story : The Sky Or The Earth : A View
From Afar
( দূৰৈৰ পৰা আকাশ অথবা পৃথিবী )
Origin : Devabrata Das
Translated by the author
( দূৰৈৰ পৰা আকাশ অথবা পৃথিবী )
Origin : Devabrata Das
Translated by the author
 |
| PC- Achyut Hatimuria |
The teenager and the pilot
:
The
teenager was absorbed in his fishing. Sitting on the banks of the small rivulet
he was gazing intently at the fishing rod. Any sign of fish biting the bait
would mean good news for his family’s dinner. He is from a very very poor
family. They cannot even dream of buying fish from the market. The fish sells
at an exorbitantly high price. What to talk of fish, even simple dal and rice
are so dear now. But he is very fond of fish. As are other members of his
family. That is why today, all throughout the day, he would be sitting on the
sand by the river. Looking for fish.
Suddenly
there was a strange noise, breaking the silence of the environment. Taking his
eyes off the fishing rod, the boy looked up. A small plane is crossing the sky.
The pilot was flying the plane very low. So low, that all the details of the
plane could be seen clearly. Even the pilot could be seen clearly. What a happy
and a content face the pilot has, the boy thought. The pilot must be leading a
very happy life. The pilot’s job is a good job, must be a job with a very
healthy salary. Must be having many other perquisites also. And look at us, the
boy thought, every day the same old drudgery. Search for food, a few morsels of
rice, so that at least the hunger could be satiated somehow. The teenager started
dreaming a fond dream. He thought: if at all someday I could become a pilot of
a plane, like the one I just saw, I would possibly be the happiest person on
earth.
The poet and his environment
:
The
words surround me. The words are my companions. It is with words that I move
around. It is words that I play with. My world is filled with words. Often they
would jostle with one another, force their way out of my heart. They would
bribe my emotions, and my head will bid me to place the words on a blank paper.
The words, like pearls, will then get themselves arranged in a perfect stanza
of some poems. In front of my own eyes they would transform themselves, bind
themselves into a string of pearls. A perfect poem would then get born. And, I
will be filled with joy of creativity. Ah, such bliss! The feeling of having just
then completed writing a poem, is simply
beyond words.
Often,
in such circumstances, I forget that there is a world outside my poetry also.
There is this bitter reality. A stark, real, frill less world of poverty. The
problems. The crises. The, problems of existence. The search for shelter. The
search for food. Any way, I thought the problems will remain. For an average
Indian young man, problems are no strangers. Poverty is nothing alien. One has
to learn to live with them. But I have a world of my own. Besides these
problems, besides these crises, I live in comparative happiness. In a blissful
world of my own creativity. With my poems.
--Bhaiti,
will you go this morning to market ? There are no vegetables in the kitchen.
That
was Ma, my mother. Her reminders escort me back to reality. Ma’s meagre income
is all that is sustaining us. Our small family. She wants me to go to the
market. The market to me means asking for credit in the grocery shop. The
market means a stroll in the fish market, among the pieces of high priced,
blood smeared pieces of freshly cut pieces of fish. The market also means returning
home without buying a piece. The market to me means buying a few pieces of cheap
vegetables, potatoes, onions, and possibly a few brinjals.
Everyday
when I have to leave my secluded exquisite world of words and poetry and come
down to the bitter reality of onions and potatoes. I turn into a lowly creature
even in my own eyes. But there is no escape from reality. The stark harsh truth
of this world of want. One has no other option but to compromise with reality.
One has to live in one’s own environment. Though I was half inclined to give up
my studies and become a full time political worker, working for the upliftment
of the poor in my region of the country and continue my pursuits in poetry side
by side. But I always had to compromise and revise my decision sometime later.
My
youth was a world of want : ------ Ma’s meagre income from her job as a school
teacher, ---------The loans she had to take for my sister’s marriage, -------My
indecision regarding continuance of my college studies. ------- capping it all,
my maternal uncle and his wife’s constant subtle and blatant reminders that we
should leave their house and start living elsewhere.
Father
died when I was only a few months old. Grandfather brought us to his house.
Since then we had been living there. But when grandfather died, uncle made it
clear that we are no more welcome at the house. But where to go? We had no
other shelter.
Ma
had a teacher’s job with a small salary. Somehow the sister could be got
married to another town. Only Ma and me, we remained in the family. We were
staying in a two and a half room part in our uncle’s house. All was well in the
world. At least it seemed to be for the time being. But then, suddenly I met a
girl just after I got admitted in a local college. She was the girl who
introduced poetry to me. And I immediately got myself immersed in the vast
generous and refreshing ocean of poetry. I would then dive day in and day out
in poems written by the great poets of the past and come out discovering pearls
and gems from the ocean of poetry. After some time, it so happened that I
became myself more enamoured of poetry than even the company of that girl. In
my search of good poetry and through the poems, in my search for the reality, I
would first discover the power of poetry. How even poems could be your friend,
your guide, your torch bearer. Some poems showed how the earth is so beautiful.Some
showed how the earth could be made more beautiful. How earth could be turned
into a place where everybody could live in peace and harmony. That was the time
when Neruda, Lorca, Mayakovosky, Sri Sri, Sukanta, Subhash, Bishnu and Jyoti were encouraging me to fight against the
ills of the society. That was also the time when my uncle provoked by his newly
married wife was trying his level best to throw us out of our house.
Uncle
had a job of frequent transfers. He had then just been transferred to the town
from elsewhere. Though he was a moneyed person, though he had a good
prestigious government job, though he could easily have found a residential
quarters elsewhere, he chose to come and stay in the same house where we were
staying. Bitterness prevailed after that. Everyday his wife would come up with
unique excuses to pick a right with our family. Ma and she were always at loggerheads.
One
evening on my return, I found that Ma is not at house. The uncle’s wife did not
seem to know where she had gone. There
must have been a bitter quarrel between them in my absence. Otherwise Ma would
not have left the house. My uncle’s wife was still fuming when I returned. On
my enquiries about my Mother’s whereabouts, she started cursing my mother. She
did not even spare me. Finally she declared that I and my mother would have to
leave the house immediately. Otherwise she would kill herself first rather than
having to live with us. She would thus force her husband to throw us out.
I
did not respond to her outbursts. I simply came out of the house silently with
my head bent out of shame. I stared looking for Ma in the neighbourhood. I did
not have to search for a long time. Ma was sitting in a distant relative’s
house. The relative was a respected person of the locality. Also a lawyer. We
used to call him lawyer uncle. Uncle and several other members of his big
family were all sitting with Ma discussing the quarrel. They all asked me what
had happened when I returned home. I told them everything, including my uncle’s
wife’s threats to throw us out of our shelter. Lawyer uncle asked me – did the
wife really threaten as you had just now described? is it the truth?
I
confirmed. Lawyer uncle then spoke slowly – They have no moral right to
threaten you like they did. After your own maternal grandfather brought you to
stay there. Your uncle’s own father gave you the right to stay there. His wife
cannot cail that you have to leave the house now. Both of you stay in our house
today. Tomorrow morning I shall see what can be done.
The
next day he gathered a few more respected and elderly persons of the
neighbourhood and discussed the whole matter. Then he took us all to our house.
There, the whole group confronted my uncle and his wife.
Lawyer
uncle asked – “ What do you want ? Do you really want to drive these two out of
their shelter? These two – one your own sister who is an unfortunate widow and
this young fellow who is yet to graduate from college? Are they not your own
relatives? Are they not the ones whom your own dead father brought home for
giving them a shelter after your sister’s husband’s untimely death? Tell us
frankly, what you really want?
The
uncle and his wife immediately changed their stance. They immediately hid their
ill motives with their sweet tongue. They admitted to none of the lawyer
uncle’s allegations. Lawyer uncle once again asked then -- If you really do not
want these two to leave home then what prompted the mother to come to my house
seeking shelter yesterday? Why the young man was threatened by your wife that
unless they left she would commit suicide?
One
of assembled persons asked me -- Did she really threaten in such a manner?
I
said - - yes, she did.
It
was now left to the uncle’s wife to start telling lies. Clutching her baby to
her chest, she said – No. No. It’s a lie. It’s a fabrication. I never told
anybody any such thing. Don’t you ever believe it. I swear upon God. I swear upon
the head of my newborn child, I never - - - -
She
started weeping, and I stood amazed at the ease in which she made me look like
a liar, or a criminal in front of all the respectable persons of the locality.
I could not believe my own ears.
Anyway,
confronted by the collected dismay of the neighbourhood, my uncle and his wife decided
to go stay in a Govt. Quarters allotted to them. My mother became more worried
after the quarrel. She started aging fast. One day I overheard her relating her
tale of woes to one of her friends - -
You know my plight. This is my home. Still I can’t stay here much
longer. My own brother wants me out. Whatever savings I had, everything got exhausted
after the daughter’s marriage. The only son I have is also not attentive to his
studies. Day in and day out he is absorbed in poetry. Doesn’t care at all about
our condition. God only knows what is in store for us in future.
I
was relaxing on my bed when she was with her friend. I would hear all her
words. I started to think, how lucky my uncle is. How fortunate they are. The
morning will see his official car enter his house. The driver comes of the car
and salutes my uncle. Uncle tells him to wait. He goes in to change into his
office attire. His wife comes out holding a bag. Handing him the bag and a written list, she tells the
driver - - Nandkishore, please take this bag. On your return, please bring
these items for market.
In
the evening uncle will return with his briefcase filled with currency notes. He
will tell his wife - - keep the money in the locker of the wardrobe. These
amounts are to be kept secret. Cannot be deposited in Banks.
I
keep on thinking. My uncle is so happy. He has such a comfortable job. On top
of his fat salary he receives so many ‘presents’ from interested businessmen.
If I also could get such a job . . . . . . .
I kept on thinking. I thought I was being a very foolish person all
along. Instead of trying wholeheartedly to establish myself as a selfish and a
capable worldly person, I was keeping myself immersed in poetry. I was dreaming
foolish dreams of making the world a better place to live in, through
literature and poetry.
From
then on, my priorities in life changed drastically, I delved wholeheartedly
into my studies. I graduated with honours marks. I sat for a competitive
examination also. And came out successful too. Now I am a senior officer in the
Police department. I left uncle’s house a long time ago. I have now built a
small house of my own in the suburban area of the same town. Because of my
present standing, interested people have found out that I once dabbled in
poetry during my college days. May persons connected with literature now often
frequent my house seeking my blessings. Often I am invited to recite poems in
poets’ get-togethers. But I could sense that more than listening to my poetry
the people are more awed by my official designation. My poems invariably get
the largest applause and I get myself lost in public adulation. I often tend to
forget that this poet whose ordinary poems are so well admired is none other
than the same unscrupulous Govt. Officer who does not think twice in performing
the dirtiest of duties if instructed by his seniors. He is the same person who
does not feel even the slightest pang in his conscience if some black marketeer
comes and offers a bribe. What is this dishonest person doing in a pure and
sacrosanct world of poetry?
Once
on official duty I had to go and visit a town where my sister and her family
stay. I went to meet them. On my sister’s request I decided to stay the night
with them. Theirs was a small house. I was given their only son’s room to stay.
My nephew is still studying. My sister told me that more than his studies he is
interested in the current agitation. The agitation was against the rising
prices in the market.
The
prices had risen possibly because of the govt.’s wrong policies. My sister said
– your nephew is one of the organisers. He is always out of the house. Rarely
does he come home for dinner.
I
was relaxing in my nephew’s room. By his bed side, a heap of books was lying in
disorder. I cast a glance through them. All are books of poetry. A few half
written poems were also lying among the sheaf of papers. I started to read
them, slowly. One sheaf of papers after another I felt as if my nephew is
reliving my own past which I had once
forsaken in my selfish pursuit of success. Suddenly I felt very jealous of my
nephew. Jealous of his sincerity. Jealous of his innocence. Jealous of his pure
and uncompromising youth.
That
day the agitation took a worse turn in the town. In some areas protesting
people turned violent. There were stray cases of stone throwing, two police
firings, and the civil authorities clamped curfew during the night hours as a
precaution. That night I was returning to my sister’s house in a police jeep,
after an official dinner elsewhere Suddenly in the harsh rays of the jeep’s
headlights we could see a few young boys writing graffitis of protest slogan on the walls of a
building. On seeing our approaching jeep, they fled away quickly taking
advantage of the darkness. I looked at the half finished written slogan. It was
not a slogan in the strict sense. It was a piece of poetry. “Desh Bulile Adesh
Nelage” (if it is for the motherland, no one’s bidding is required). A poem
written in protest. I tried to remember the faces of the boys running away
leaving the slogan half written. Was my nephew also among them?
The Pilot and the fisherman
The
pilot was flying the plane very low. He looked down from his window. A person
was sitting on the banks of a small rivulet. He had a fishing rod in front of
him. He was a fisherman. He was totally absorbed waiting for a fish to swallow his
bait.
The
pilot thought – how contented the fisherman looks. As if no worldly worry can
even touch him. The river, the shade of
the trees, the grasses, the still of the noon, and the pleasure of fishing in
idleness. Ah! What a blissful life the fisherman enjoys! And look at me. Day
after day locked inside in this small cockpit. I have been going from place to
place without any worthwhile company. I don’t even know how my children are
growing. In comparison, this fisherman – How happy he looks! How contented is
he!
0 Comments