gleamingblackwords

Manasi - Chapter Three

2010-08-07T13:46:00.000-07:00

A strange procession made its way into Rani Sasan. Leading the way was Shinga, clutching Shankar’s valise in one hand and a black bag in the other. Four men carried rest of Shankar’s stuff. Shankar brought up the rear, striding behind them heavy overcoat slung over his shoulder, too warm for the gentle Orissa winter.

The farmers cutting the ripe rice into heaps on either side of the road paused to look at them. At the village pond the women and children stopped bathing to stare. They recognized Shinga and the others, of course. But who’s that man walking behind them, who looked like a foreigner? Couple of villagers even asked Shinga. He strode past them, not feeling the necessity to satisfy their idle curiosity.

Shankar looked at the houses of his familiar village. Most of the houses were concrete now with sloping tin roofs, very few earthen houses remained. Before he realized they were approaching his own house. The wide raised verandah on which he used to run around on as a child was now made of cement. A shiver went up Shankar’s spine as they approached the house. A wooden bench and a simple folding chair made of canvas made up the Spartan décor. There was an air of emptiness about the house. Shankar bit his lower lip and vowed to change that.

Shinga dropped his bags with a thud on the veranda and yelled loudly enough to be heard in the neighbouring village “ Babu, Ma…come quickly! See who’s here!”

People poured out of the neighbouring houses startled by Shinga’s loud proclamations. From his own house came out a sweet little boy of about five – smartly dressed in t-shirt and shorts.

“Call grandpa and grandma” Shinga told the little boy excitedly.

“ Grandpa is at the field. Granny is is in the kitchen” the boy replied. A female figure appeared behind the child. She stood by the door, the pallu of her saree covering her face and her head.

“Ma” shouted Singha as he nearly dragged Shankar before the lady “ Can you recognize him?”

Shankar slipped out his shoes quickly and bent down to touch her feet “ Ma… I’m your Budha"

His mother didn’t believe her ears. Peered at him closely from behind the Pallu of her saree. Can this be her long lost son, her Budha? This strapping, handsome young man of twenty seven or so, smiling at her through his tears?

“Budha, my Budha..my baby…my darling” She hugged him tight. She was a flood of tears after that. She dragged Shankar to the inner courtyard and ran her hands feverishly over his forehead, cheeks, through his hair. She hugged him tightly and covered him with kisses scarcely believing her good fortune. Again the unending streams of tears started.

She pulled Shankar to the little room filled with pictures of Gods and blew the conch shell in gratitude. “ Pray” She ordered Shankar. Shankar obediently got down to his knees and touched his forehead to the ground.

When they came out to the inner courtyard again it was teeming curious women and children, who had come out hearing the sound of the conch shell. His mother told Shinga. “ Run to the fields and inform his father” Shinga left in a hurry. Shankar paid off the men who had carried his stuff home.

The little boy who had come to the door was looking at Shankar with his mouth open. Who is the brown haired guy Grandma is happy to see? Could it be his eldest uncle? The one whose stories he’s heard from everyone? The prince charming who had gotten lost in the woods?

In the meantime Shankar, with folded hands was greeting the elderly female members of his extended family, aunts, grandmother. They gave their blessing, pulled his cheeks, congratulated his mom on her good fortune.

The younger women, married and um-married, kept their distance but stared at him – their eyes full of amazement and wonder. He thought he recognised one of the young girls in that crowd. But she wore a white saree and no jewellery, the attire of a widow.

Bamadev Satpathy, his father arrived from the fields, a little out of breath.The women receded to the back ground. Shankar went up to him and bent down to touch his feet. His father grabbed him and clutched him to his chest. His missing first born, about whom he had so many dreams.

“Budha! Shankar!” tears of joy blinded him “ So you came back, my son!”

“Please forgive me, Baba! Punish me the way you deem fit” sobbed Shankar.

“Haven’t we all been punished enough already?” smiled his father.

Bamadev fought to control his feelings and said gruffly to his wife, Shnkar’s mother “ Are we all going to just stand here and stare? Our eldest son is back after so long – how about offering him something to eat?”

“ Oh, how thoughtless of me!” exclaimed Shankar’s mother as she wiped her tears and scurried away towards the kitchen. Bamadev put his arms around Shankar and led him to what was his room a decade back.

'Manasi'- Chapter Two

2010-08-04T12:35:00.000-07:00

Entrusting his bedroll to a coolie, Shankar went up to the Parcels Office to collect his rest of his belongings. It felt strange to have someone else carry his things.The officer-in-charge took one look at his Pan-Am label covered suitcases and gave him priority clearance. Shankar gathered his stuff and walked to the old bus depot, just across the road from the train station.

The bus depot looked the way it looked ten years back - ancient. Nothing changes in Orissa – Shankar smiled to himself. The place was a little cleaner than before, perhaps. But the busses were the same old, small ST buses that created a lot of noise and even more smoke. And were always packed with passengers like tins of sardine.

Shankar noted the obvious westernisation. More people were in shirts and trousers than in traditional Oriya Dhoti- Kurtas. Lit cigarettes dangled nonchalantly from many lips.The juggernaut of progress, smiled Shankar to himself.

His expensive luggage and his dapper suit cowed the conductor of the bus into giving him the best seat. As he squeezed his rather tall frame into the cramped seat, he realized with a jolt how badly spoilt he has been by the West, in the last decade.

Ten years. So much water down the Kathjodi Bridge. So much missed. So much to catch up on.

He bought a few local newspapers from a vendor, weighed them in his hand, glanced at the headlines – not bad. Not exactly The Herald Tribune, but at least the ink didn’t smudge anymore.

The bus started with a shivering roar. Soon the town of Cuttack melted away to unending golden fields of rice. Harvesting was in full swing. In a few fields only the stubble remained. The rest gleamed like a carpet of gold under the weak winter sun.

“Unforgettable….” Shankar hummed Sinatra under his breath, as his eyes moistened suddenly.

“Good harvest this year” offered his co-passenger

“ Huh… sorry, say that again?” Shankar started.

“I said ..looks like we’re in for a good harvest!” repeated the gentleman. Government official, guessed Shankar, from the quiet confidence of his demeanour.

“Un-hun..looks like it” he nodded.

“ Where are you headed?”

“Rani Sasan” Shankar sighed. Welcome to India, he thought. Where everybody’s business is your business.

“Is that your village? Do you have family there?”

“Yes” .

“ I see. ..I remember someone telling me that it’s a very old brahmin settlement. Pretty well known in these parts, actually.” he offered, helpfully.

The bus came to halt after travelling for a couple of hours. It looked like in the middle of an abandoned weekly market. The name of the place came to Shankar suddenly - Kandarpur.

He remembered it from his youth. There weren’t so many shops back then. It was just a dusty, non-descript cross road. One of the roads went to Rani. Sasan, his village. The other went on east. God knows where.

Most of the passengers got down to stretch their legs a bit and sip some hot tea.

“Come, let’s have some chai!” invited the official.

“Why not?” capitulated Shankar and followed him out of the bus.

They went up to a tea stall and official barked at the owner.

“ Two special teas.., and make it fast!”

“ Would you like some snacks with your tea?” he asked, turning to Shankar.

“No, no, nothing else. Thank you so very much” said Shankar.

The anxious owner of the tea stall jumped up from the tin chair on which he was perched and offered it to Shankar.

Shankar shook his head at him and looked back at the road.

An old man sipping his tea in the next stall was staring unblinkingly at him.

Shankar felt uncomfortable under his intent gaze.

A steaming cup of tea before his face was a welcome distraction. The official offered him a pack of cigarettes. Shankar took out his own cigarette case. His companion noted the sterling silver case that snapped open to reveal a neatly laid out row of thin, white cigarettes that looked frightfully expensive. The official was reluctant but Shankar insisted and they both lit up filter tipped camels. they sat and smoked their cigarettes and sipped their tea in silence for sometime.

Suddenly sensing someone Shankar whirled around. The old man who was staring at him before was now just a couple of feet away, peering at him. He was a powerfully built man, his torso wrapped in a green chaddar over his dhoti. A towel with red and white checks was tied tied loosely over his head. He looked like any farmer.

Now the official too noticed the stare of the old man and snapped “ “Hey, you…what do you want?”

“ Nothing sir,” said the old man, suddenly embarrassed ” Just looking at this Sahib here” With that he slunk away to a Paan Shop nearby.

Shankar and the official walked back to the bus now filling up with passengers after the tea break. The driver gave an impatient squeeze to the horn, hurrying everyone up.

“ So…are you on your way back from abroad?” The official asked him as they sat down in their seats.

Shankar nodded and smiled.

Suddenly there was a glint of interest in the official eye.

“And people back home, in your village, in Rani sasan, they know you are on your way back, right? They know you are coming?”

“Un-hun..no” Shankar shook his head, looking out of the window.

The bus was raising a cloud of dust in it’s wake. A canal ran beside the road. People bathing in it’s ghats. People walked on the narrow dusty path along side the tarmac, to villages and markets miles away. People on cycles too.

A couple of overloaded trucks roared past the Bus. The startled bullocks of a cart, started running up the steep canal embankment. The people in the bus gasped collectively as the bullock cart driver fought to control the terrified beasts. Slowly, the bullock cart lurched back to the edge of the narrow road.

“ You said you have family in Rani Sasan, right?” asked the official.

“ Yes”

“ Whom do you know there?”

“ Bamdev Satpathy.”

“ Oh I know him… Famous headmaster, now retired… How’s he is related to you?”

“My father” said Shankar.

Suddenly someone in the seat behind Shankar started yelling “ Stop the bus! Stop the bus!” on the top of his voice. Everyone turned to look at him. The driver swore as he brought the bus to a a screeching halt.

Like a flash, the man in the green chaddar was at Shankar”s feet, grabbing his knees tightly, tears streaming down his face. “Budhaa Babu! I knew it was Budhaa Babu. I knew it. I have been watching you from Cuttack. You came back? After ten years? You can’t recognize me? I am Shinga!”

Shankar gaped at the old man who knew his pet name "Budhaa" ....which meant literally, the Old. In Orissa, in those days of high child mortality, it was common practice to call the young 'Budhaa' or 'Old' so as to escape the attention of Yama, the God of death.

The astonished passengers of the bus gaped at Shankar. Who is this stranger? Why has he not been back to his village in ten years? Where was he all this time?

As Shankar squirmed to get to his feet. Shinga physically carried him out of the bus and set him down on the road outside. Shankar, remembered him clearly now. Shingha was his father’s Man Friday. Tales of Shinga’s strength were folklore in his village.

He chided Shinga gently “ What are you, doing, Shinga? We are on a bus. People are watching. Go, sit in the bus. I am coming back for good. Be calm now” And Shinga calmed down and went back smiling to sit in his place. Shankar got back to his seat and the bus started moving again.

“ Ten years away abroad...that's a long time.." noted the official.

Shankar nodded.

“Whereabouts? The States?”

Shankar nodded. The States. The U.S. of A had a new abbreviation everywhere.

“ What were you doing there? Working?” The official asked.

“ Yeah...sort of” said Shankar and turned to look out of the window. Over the roar of the bus he could hear Shinga, somewhere behind him, regaling the passengers with stories of the returning prodigal son.

The bus reached Rani Sasan. “ Sasan” means “to rule”. A sasan is an old, autonomus brahmin settlement, which ruled itself. Even the king had no say in the ruling of sasans. The “Panchayat’ ruled them.

Shinga got down from the bus first. The conductor climbed on the roof of the bus and untied Shankar’s luggage and handed them down and was tipped generously by Shankar.

Shinga took all the heavy luggage on his head, pushing Shankar away “ I am old, Budha babu, but not that old!”

Sweat glistened on shinga’s brows under the weight of the luggage. “ What’s in it, Budha Babu?” He asked.

“ Gold bullions” Laughed Shankar as he tipped the conductor.

His co-passenger shook hands with him “ I'm Braja Sundar Nayak. I work in the State Agriculture Department. Here on inspection. The inspection bunglow is just a couple of kilometers away”

“ Shankar Satpathy..do drop in if you are passing by” Shankar invited him.

The bus roared away in a cloud of dust. Shankar saw every passenger craning back to catch a glimpse of him. He watched till the bus disappeared round a bunch of trees.

Then he turned and looked at the village that he has dreamt of every night, for the past ten years.

'Manasi'- A novel by Mahesh Chandra Mohapatra:Chapter One

2009-12-19T11:13:00.000-08:00

Shankar awoke with a start. The train was crossing the Mahanadi bridge.

Uff, the ungodly racket! He got up and stood at the door of his compartment,

holding the rails. The eastern sky was reddening. Passengers in berths

nearby were already busy folding their bedsheets and pillows.

Shankar came back to his berth to pull on the grey flannel jacket that was a

little too warm. By the time he buckled his hold-all shut, the train was already

slowing down.

Cuttack station. The same. One of those places that will always be the
same, no matter how much the things in it change. Those old forgotten
familiar stenches assaulted his nose. But Shankar was happy. The
station was more crowded than he remembered. More Oriyas travelling.
Good, he thought. The clothes have improved too. He looked at the
young men and compared them to himself ten years ago. Definitely
better dressed.

A sudden jolt took him by surprise. The train's bogeys were being
rumbled along to the siding. He stood holding the hand-rails till the
train stopped. It was quite bright now. He looked west. Not far into
the distance, a red brick building rose over the trees. Ravenshaw
College. The place he had come there for. There he stood looking up at
the silhouette, a young man in barely the first flushes of youth,
a million dreams in his heart. He hummed some jazz under his breath
as he blinked back sudden tears. He concentrated harder on
humming Davis.

He was among the top few in the Ravenshaw entrance exam. His father
was delighted at Shankar's outstanding performance. Shankar was the
first-born of his school-teacher father. His father was a man with a
liberal outlook - Son of a Brahmin temple priest, he had dared to
study English in those backward times, inspite the massive family
opposition to his decision. He lived life on his own terms. And well
within his means. He taught English to his children himself. He read
with eagerness and relish the English daily The Statesman, which was
always two to three days old by the time it reached his father's house
in the village.

By the time Shankar had finished school, fuelled by his father's
interests and encouragement, he had read essays by Samuel Smile,
Lamb's Shakespeare, and the Samuel Johnson biography by James
Boswell's among other noted works. This was an unheard of literary
exposure and education for a young man studying in a vernacular
medium, in those parts, in those days.

The year was 1942. A terrible war raged in Europe. Japan advanced over
South-East Asia and India burned. The flames of the Quit India
Movement fanned through the country. The British Administration under
Governor Lewis in Cuttack was tough on the people. Shankar joined the
college and stayed in its hostel. The son of an English teacher,
Shankar chose to study science. His father was fine with that. And
soon he was busy excelling in this chosen subject, often getting
praise from fellow students and professors alike.

After the Diwali holidays, there was an incident that caused quite an
uproar at the college. Someone threw a lit fire-cracker at Sujata
Chatterjee - a second-year-chemistry student. Her saree caught
fire and burnt a great deal before it was
finally put out. and she suffered second-degree burns.

Sujata's father happened to be a senior officer with the

Orissa Police force. He rushed to the college as soon as he heard
of the incident; and after sending his daughter off in an abmulance
to the hospital with a police convoy, he confronted

the Dean, 'Find me the culprit or I will take you to court', he thundered.

A master of criminal law, the furious father and police official

painted a scenario so terrifying, the Dean broke into a cold sweat and hastily

summoned an enquiery.

The Kangaroo court found of all people Shankar to be the culprit.
He fell from the skies. In spite of his vociferous protests

he was done in by the testimony of two lecturers and a batchmate

who claimed to be an eye-witness.

Shankar had been in his room studying for the coming exams

during the whole time. And hence, he had no alibi.

The superintendent of his hostel was the only one who protested
'A boy like Shankar... never!'

The rest of the faculty was split in their support and condemnation of
Shankar. The Dean, decided to take the best course of action, given
the situation, and handed Shankar a transfer certificate. Thus,
Shankar was saved the humiliation of expulsion. And this liniency was

because of his excellent grades and otherwise good behaviour.

A stunned and bewildered Shankar stumbled out of the Dean's office, the

transfercertificate in hand. He came back to his deserted hostel. He thought

of his favourite chemistry professor, Dr.Gantayat. He had gone to calcutta to

present a paper a couple of days back but surely he must have returned by now.

He tore a few sheets of paper from his notebook and wrote for a long time.

He stuffing the folded sheets into an envelope and putting it in his pocket started

towards the staff quarters, as evening fell over Cuttack.

He found the professor planting saplings in his front garden. He
called out to Shankar as soon as he saw him, 'Hey Shankar! Come on in, my son"

Shankar pushed open the gates and stood with

his head down next to him, 'I have something to tell you, sir.'

Something in his tone made the old professor stop his gardening and stand up.

Looking at his favourite student he grunted 'yes, I am listening!'

Shankar hesitated,
'Here?'

The professor heded inside the house and motioned shankar to follow him.
'Are you alright? Is everything fine?'

Shankar managed a dry smile.
'I am fine, sir!'

'Why aren't you in your class, then?'

'The classes got over in the day, sir! It's evening now'

Dr. Gantayat lowered his frame into a sofa in his drawing room
'Ah, yes...of course, sit down, sit down! " then he called out to his wife
'Listen! Shankar's here. Can you manage us some tea and snacks ?

'In a moment!" his wife replied

The professor turned and fixed his eyes on Shankar,
" Now, will you tell me what's eating you?'

Shankar stammers,
'Sir ...can you lend me some money?'

'Money? What will you do with money? How much?'

'About two hundred rupees, sir'

The professor's eyes widened. In 1943 Two hundred rupees was a princely amount.

'That's a lot of money, my son! Why do you need so much?"

'Sir, I'm leaving town. You have just come back from Calcutta. You
haven't been to the college yet. The reason why I have to leave town
is written in this letter. But I need the money. if you don't have two
hundred even a hundred rupees will do. But I need the money and I
need it now. I am borrowing this and shall return it to you, I promise.

If you can trust me, please lend me the money!

After this emotional outburst Shankar choked and shut up. Hot tears ran down

his cheeks.He took the envelope from his pocket and put it on the table. The

professor got up without word and went inside. He came back and put two

crisp hundred rupee notes in Shankar's hand.

" Listen son, if you need two hundred, take two hundred. Don't worry about

returning..but tell me why...!"

Shankar interrupted him "Forgive me, sir. I dont answers for any of your questions! Thank you
for this kindness..." he turned and walked out into the gathering darkness blinded by his tears.

The professor watched him leave in silence. His brightest student. A brilliant young mind which had shown such promise.

Dr. Gantayat picked up the envelope and took out Shankar's handwritten pages and started reading them.

His wife breezed in with steaming cups of tea and a plate of hot samosa.
"I have made Gobi Samosas for.... where's Shankar?"

The old professor was lost in the pages. Then he kept them down and

still in his house clothes, he got up and grabbing his walking
stick, strode towards the Dean's residence.

The hot samosas lay untouched on the plate.

Lost in translation

2009-12-19T10:48:00.000-08:00

I have been meaning to do this for years.

To translate my favourite author in any language, Mahesh Chandra Mohapatra, who also happens to be my maternal grandfather. Specifically his romantic novels and short stories which I grew up reading in the long, never-ending summer vacations of my youth.

I have read and re-read his books so many times that the rhythm of his writing is almost internalised. May be I am biased, but few writers handle romance better than Dhurjatee (a name of Shiva), the pseudonym under which my grandfather wrote.

The novel I am translating is Manasi, a three hundred plus pages magnum opus, spread over three continents and two decades. It's a tale of love. Every week I intend to post a translated chapter of the book.

I sincerely hope you enjoy his stories as much as I do.