Apu's Homecoming: Short Story

A short story I wrote years ago has found its home. Apu's Homecoming is up at Asia Writes, one of my favourite sites. Do read it and give your honest (yes, brutal will do) feedback. I would really appreciate it.

Tuntuni and the Cat by Upendrakishore Ray

There’s a brinjal plant in the backyard. Tuntuni has built her nest by stitching the plant’s leaves. Three little fledglings lie in the nest. They are so small they can’t fly or even open their eyes. They just open their mouths and call out “cheen-cheen.”

The family cat is really wicked. She just thinks I shall eat Tuntuni’s fledglings. One day she came near the brinjal plant and said, “What are you doing, dear Tuntuni?”

Tuntuni bowed and leant her head by the branch of the brinjal plant and said, “Salutations, your highness.” The cat went away happily.

She would come every day, Tuntuni would greet her and address her as “Queen” and the cat would go away feeling happy.

Tuntuni’s fledglings have grown up now. They don’t keep their eyes shut anymore. Seeing this, their mother asked them, “My dear ones, can you fly now?”

The little ones said, “Yes, Ma, we can.”

Tuntuni said, “Let’s see if you can hop over to that top branch of that tall Tal tree.”

The fledglings immediately flew over to the top branch. Tuntuni smiled and said, “Let the evil cat come now!”

In a while, the cat walked in and said, “So, what are you up to, Tuntuni?”

Tuntuni gestured a kick at her and said, “Get lost you wretched cat!” With that, she quickly flew away.

Baring her teeth in rage, the naughty cat jumped upon the brinjal plant, but could neither catch Tuntuni, nor eat her babies. She returned home, wounded with the sharp gashes off the thorns of the brinjal plant.

Images:

http://www.mariquita.com

Translated by Bhaswati Ghosh

The Chess Players

"The passion for playing chess is one of the most unaccountable in the world. It slaps the theory of natural selection in the face. It is the most absorbing of occupations. The least satisfying of desires. A nameless excrescence upon life. It annihilates a man. You have, let us say, a promising politician, a rising artist that you wish to destroy. Dagger or bomb are archaic and unreliable - but teach him, inoculate him with chess."

H.G. Wells, Certain Personal Matters, 1898

Never having sat across a chessboard, I should think that observation of Wells is a bit of an acerbic exaggeration. However, if the stories of chess and its lovers were considered, that remark would appear anything but an overstatement. A recent review of The Immortal Game, a book chronicling the history of chess with a touch of personal attachment, took me back to a tale of Shatranj ke Khilari or The Chess Players, a compelling short story by one of the maestros of Urdu-Hindi literature, Munshi Premchand.

The story is, of course, better known for its screen version, directed by the legendary Satyajit Ray. While the film remains a personal favourite for a number of reasons (great overlaying of the parallels between the state of politics and the state of mind of the populace, appropriate casting, sincere recreation of ambience), reading the story itself was a reintroduction to the masterly craftsmanship Premchand wielded with his pen.

It’s a pity I read the story in Bengali translation. Pity because language is such a big part of Premchand’s writing, as indeed it is of the culture his writing mirrors. I have read his stories in the original language before and have been charmed as much by his skillful use of the Hindi/Urdu vocabulary as by his layered writing style and the themes his stories discuss.

The Chess Players is one such layered story. It tracks the chess exploits of two friends, Mirza Sajjad Ali and Mir Roshan Ali, both belonging to the gentry of Lucknow, a city known for its tehzeeb or culture. While Lucknowi traditions and artistic legacy has mostly been the subject of exaltation in most written works, in this story of Premchand, this same legacy becomes the author’s diatribe. That’s mainly because of the period in which the story is set. The time is British India and the setting the luxury-steeped province of Awadh, ruled by Wajid Ali Shah, a king devoted to art, artists and courtesans and equally impervious to matters of the state.



Wajid Ali Shah’s hedonistic ways seem to infect his subjects as well, and the two chess players are no exception to the pattern. Like their Nawab’s obsession with extravagant indulgences, the Mirza and the Mir are obsessed with the game of chess. Morning, noon, and night, it’s the one thing that plays on their minds and the one thing their minds play with. For a while Mirza’s house is the centre of their duels, even as his wife detests the chessboard as if it were her competitor in hogging her husband’s attention. Soon her intolerance for the game reaches the point where she throws away the chessboard even as an intense battle is on between the two players.

Premchand then shifts the scene of chess combats to Mir Roshan Ali’s house. This place has its own set of problems. On the one hand are Roshan Ali’s servants, exasperated to suddenly work round the clock for serving the two playing masters. Not only that; there’s also Mir’s wife, whose adulterous affair with her lover is halted because of the presence of her husband in the house. The lover comes up with a devious plan—posing as a messenger from the king’s court, he announces Wajid Ali Shah has ordered Roshan Ali to appear in the court so as to enlist his services in the military. Alarmed at the possibility of such a scenario, the two friends quickly shift the venue of play again to the ruins of a mosque—their final spot. They select this place because of the privacy it offers. Anything to keep their game from getting interrupted.

The story’s focus is tight; it remains concentrated on the chess players and their keen contests on the 64-square board. The only interjections come in the form of political reportage. As the momentum in the chess battlefield intensifies, so does the battle between the British and Nawab Wajid Ali Shah. The latter is a tepid affair though, and before long, the British hold the king captive. Premchand describes the event in this way:

Never before could the king of an independent country have been defeated so peacefully, without bloodshed, like this. This was not the ahimsa [nonviolence] with which the gods are pleased. This was the kind of cowardice at which even the biggest cowards shed tears. The nawab of the spacious land of Avadh was departing as a prisoner, and Lucknow was drunk in the sleep of sensual pleasure. This was the last extreme of political decay.

[Source: "THE CHESS PLAYERS": FROM PREMCHAND TO SATYAJIT RAY by Frances W. Pritchett]

The climax of the story highlights how a simple pastime, when turned into an obsession, can lead to fierce ego clashes. In the final scene, Mirza Sajjad Ali is seen desperately trying to win at least one round of the game, already having lost thrice in a row. The clouds of his anxious heart seem to find a resonance in the darkness of the evening reverberating with the cacophony of nocturnal creatures. His difficulty in answering the moves of Mir Roshan Ali wasn’t helping either. Soon his restlessness transformed into an incensed verbal attack on the Mir. He accused the latter of foul play and finally delivered check. When the defiant Mir refused to concede defeat, the war of words reached an extreme, where friendship gave way to an acrimonious attack on each other’s ancestors. Shortly, even this wasn’t enough to prove their pride, and a sword fight commenced between the two. Premchand remarks how when their king was captured, it hadn’t bothered either of the chess players, yet when it came to personal egos, they had all the courage in the world to fight for its prestige.

The story ends on a bloody note as the two friends are slain by the edge of each other’s swords. Premchand ends the story and his critique of the prevailing apathy to politics by observing how the two friends had not shown an iota of concern when the British were seizing their territory, yet, to protect the pawns of their artificial battlefield, they were ready to even kill each other. The irony is not lost one bit as the annihilation of the The Chess Players is complete.

Note to self: Buy a Premchand anthology in Hindi as the first New Year purchase.

Premchand, Hindi literature, Chess

Abiding Characters - I

Characters who live. Whose breath conjoins ours from the printed pages on which they appear. Who stay with us long after the book is closed, the story is forgotten. Abiding Characters. A new series.

Raicharan
From Khokababu’s Return by Rabindranath Tagore

First Signs: Hardly anything strikes about Raicharan at first. He enters the household of his masters as a servant boy of twelve. His job is to look after a one-year-old baby. When this baby boy, Anukul, grows up into a man, Raicharan still remains his servant. Although his rights over his master wane once the latter gets married, the space for his unreserved affection is filled in by Anukul’s little son.

What Endures: Even though he is the quintessential servant, ever devoted to his master’s family, Raicharan's unwavering love for Anukul’s toddler, marked by rustic simplicity and endearing awe tugs at the reader’s heart again and again. There is no end to Raicharan’s marvel when the little boy learns to cross the threshold of his room even as he crawls. The servant is even more amazed when the baby utters his first words calling his ma "Ma", his pishi "Pichi" and Raicharan, "Channa". He had in fact declared within months of the little boy’s birth that upon growing up, he will be a judge for sure.

The decisive turn in Raicharan’s life and indeed in the short story comes when the servant accompanies his little master astride his stroller for a late-afternoon promenade. A clear day turns murky as the little child is lost to lure of the Padma River even as Raicharan is busy picking up flowers as demanded by his young boss.

When the child’s mother sends people to look for the child-servant duo the same evening, they find a hapless Raicharan’s yowl—calling out for his junior commandant—tearing through the monsoon winds. However, the judge-to-be isn’t found, his mother accuses Raicharan of stealing her son, and the old servant leaves the household, unable to bear the burden of his guilt of leaving the child alone while plucking flowers.

Soon after his return to his village home, Raicharan is blessed (or cursed as the perspective may be) with a son. Even though his wife dies during childbirth, Raicharan pays no attention to the newborn baby. As a reader, I was at once incredulous and shocked to read this part of the story. For who could think the affectionate man, who went out of his way to fulfill the tantrums of Anukul’s son, could be so dispassionate toward his own child? However, that’s exactly the cause of Raicharan's indifference; to him the child epitomizes deception, trying to claim the love that was the birthright of his previous master.

Only when his son, named Phelna (meaning “rejected”) by his sister, starts crawling across the room’s threshold and demonstrates other signs of intelligence, does Raicharan take note of him. From this point, he begins seeing striking parallels between Phelna and Anukul’s dead son. Convinced that his son is a reincarnation of the dead child, he starts bringing up his son in grand style—buying him expensive clothes and toys and preventing him from befriending other village boys. As the boy grows up, Raicharan takes him to the city and enrolls him into a good school, while taking up a measly job himself. All this while, he raises his son like a prince. The boy takes a liking to Raicharan as well, but not quite in a son-like way. For, as Tagore writes in the story, “In his affection Raicharan was a father and in his service, a servant.”

Years later, when Phelna reaches the age of twelve, Raicharan takes him to Anukul’s home. There, to everyone’s astonishment, he admits to having stolen Anukul’s son and presents Phelna as that stolen child. This dramatic revelation, while delighting the parents of the dead child, turns Anukul hostile toward Raicharan. The most ironic point in the story comes when Anukul orders his old servant to get out of their household and young Phelna, standing proudly along side his ‘parents’, asks his ‘father’ to forgive Raicharan. The boy’s suggestion to keep sending a modest stipend to the former servant is upheld by Anukul. Only, the money comes back from Raicharan’s village address. Nobody is found to live there any longer.

I like Raicharan despite: his obsessive commitment to his master’s family, his near exasperating spirit of sacrifice, and his invitation to emptiness in his own life in order to fill the vacuum in his master’s household. I like him for the humanity he represents. Even if it remains unsung in the end.

Khokababu = Term of endearment for little boy.
Pishi = Aunt (Father's sister).

PAGLA DASHU (Crazy Dashu) -- II, By Sukumar Ray

Missed Part I? Read it here.

The Deeds of Dashu (continued)

On one occasion, just after the vacations, Dashu came to the school with an intriguing box. Master Mashai asked him, "What's in that box, Dashu?" He replied, "My things, sir." A little debate ensued among us regarding the nature of his "things." We noticed Dashu had all the essential school items with him--books, notebooks, pencil, blade. Then what "things" was he talking about? When we asked him, he didn't give a direct reply. Instead, he clutched the box to his chest and said, "I am warning you all. Don't ever mess with my box." Then, he opened the lid slightly with a key and peeked inside while mumbling some calculations. The moment I tried to lean over to catch a glimpse, Dashu locked it up.


Soon, this became a hot topic of discussion for the rest of us. Someone said, "It's his lunch box. He must be hiding food inside it." But I never saw him opening the box during lunch time to eat anything. Some suggested, "It could be his money bag. It must contain a lot of cash. That is why he never parts with it." To this, another boy said, "Why such a big box to keep money? Is he planning to open a money-lending business in the school?"

During lunch one day, Dashu hastily gave me the key to the box and said, "Keep this with yourself, make sure you don't lose it. If I get a little late in returning, please hand over the key to the watchman before you all go to the classroom." With that he went away, leaving the box with the watchman.

We were thrilled! After so long, we had an opportunity; now only the watchman needed to move away for a while. Shortly, the watchman lit his stove to make rotis* and went to the water tap with a few utensils. This was just the moment we were waiting for. Five-seven of us boys bent over the box. I opened it and saw a fat bundle of papers rolled tightly with tattered cloth strings. Quickly opening the knot, we found another paper box inside, which in turn carried yet another small paper bundle. On opening that, a card popped out. One side of the card said, "Eat a green banana,"^ while the other side had the words "Excessive curiosity is not good." We started exchanging stupefied glances with each other. At last someone said, "The lad sure took us for a ride." Another boy said, "Let's tie it up exactly the way it was, so he doesn't have any inkling that we'd opened it. That would teach him a lesson, all right." I said, "Fine. When he returns, you all politely request him to open the box and show what it contains." We quickly wrapped up all the papers with strings and dropped the bundle inside the box.

I was just about to lock the box when we heard a thunderous guffaw. That's when we saw Dashu, seated atop the boundary wall, laughing insanely. The buffoon was actually watching the whole show from a vantage point. We realised the entire chain of events--giving me the key, keeping the box with the watchman, making an excuse of going out at lunch--all these were part of Dashu's prank scheme. He had been carrying that box for all these days just to make us appear like idiots.

Is it without any reason that we call him Crazy Dashu?

* Roti = Indian flat bread
^ Eat a green banana = In Bengal, this phrase is used to mildly snide effect, after fooling someone or to indiacate that a person's wish isn't going to be granted.

[The End]

Translated by: Bhaswati Ghosh


Pagla Dashu, Sukumar Ray, Humor, Bengali Literature

PAGLA DASHU (Crazy Dashu) -- I, By Sukumar Ray

The Deeds of Dashu

Read Part II here

By Sukumar Ray
Translated by Bhaswati Ghosh

In our school, there was hardly anyone who didn't know Crazy Dashu. Even those who knew nobody was familiar with Dashu. One time, a new watchman came to our school; he was totally rustic. No sooner than he heard about Crazy Dashu, had he identified him. That's because from his looks, speech, and movement you could tell Dashu was a bit off in the head. He had big round eyes, unnecessarily long ears, and a scrub of scruffy hair. Whenever he walked fast or spoke in a busy manner, it reminded one of lobsters for some reason.

Not that he was foolish. When it came to arithmetic, especially complex multiplication and division problems, his brain worked rather well. Again, there were occasions when he reveled in duping us with such well-forged plans, that we were left embarrassed and stunned.

At the time Dashu or Dasharathi joined our school, Jagabandhu was famous as the "best boy" of our class. He was good in studies no doubt, but we hadn't seen a jealous wet cat like him. One day, Dashu approached Jagabandhu to ask him the meaning of an English word. Jagabandhu snapped at him without any reason, saying, "Do I have nothing better to do? Today I will teach him English, tomorrow I'll have to help someone else with maths, the next day another one would come to me with a new request. And I'd just go on wasting time on this!" A livid Dashu replied, "Hey, you are such a petty little rascal." Jagabandhu complained to Pandit Mashai, "That new boy is calling me names." Pandit Mashai* gave Dashu such a yelling that the poor fellow just went quiet.

Bishtubabu taught us English. Jagabandhu was his favourite student. While lecturing, whenever he needed to refer to the textbook, Bishtubabu would get it from Jagabandhu. One day, while teaching us grammar, he asked Jagabandhu for the book. Our friend immediately handed him the green-cover-wrapped grammar tome. As he opened the book, Master Mashai^ asked grimly, "Whose book is this?" Broadening his chest in pride Jagabandhu said, "Mine." Master Mashai said, "Hmm, is this a new edition? The entire book has changed, I see." With that, he started reading, "Hair-raising detective tales of Inspector Jashobant."

Unable to understand whatever was happening, Jagabandhu just froze, flabbergasted. Master Mashai rolled his eyes devilishly and said, "So you are learning such higher things, haan?" Jagabandhu tried to mutter something, but Master Mashai cut him short and said, "Just shut up now. No need to act nice and good. Enough of that!" Jagabandhu's ears went red with shame and insult, and we sure were delighted to see that. Later of course, we learned that this was the handiwork of brother Dashu, who had replaced another green-cover book with Jagabandhu's grammar book.

We always poked fun at Dashu, often ridiculing his intelligence and looks, right in front of him. I don't recall him getting upset about it even once. A lot of times, he would colour our comments and make up funny stories about himself. One day he said, "In our neighbourhood, whenever someone makes dry mango candy, I am in big demand. Can you guess why?" "Why?" We asked, "Do you relish mango candy?" He said, "Oh no, that's not the reason. You see, when they spread the candy for drying on the terraces, I go there and show my face a couple of times. That's enough to drive all the crows away from the area. So no one needs to guard the mango candy while it dries."

* Pandit Mashai = Respectable term for teacher.
^ Master Mashai = Respectable term for teacher.

Enjoyed? Read Part II here.

Translated by: Bhaswati Ghosh


Pagla Dashu, Sukumar Ray, Humor, Bengali Literature

Old Story, New Contest

Old story:

Back in June, I took part in the Midnight Road short fiction contest, hosted by Jason. Part of the contest is the learning that comes with it. So here's my entry, in a modified version. I incorporated some of the suggestions Jason gave me in his feedback. Do let me know how you like it. Thanks, Jason.

The Eyewitness

“You know, you should just quit it.” Her words stiffened his limbs every evening, as he lumbered his way back home. They had arrived in the neighborhood just last month, and while everything else seemed okay, the dark stretch vexed her as much as it paralyzed him.

If only he had the luxury of not pursuing the part-time MBA classes after work every evening.

Difficult to admit though it was, he hated the fact that it was the only route back home from college. It was a weird road; he didn't doubt that. No matter how many times the municipality fixed the street light, it would stop functioning.

It’s always midnight here.

“Silly girl, always thinking the worst. I am not the only one who walks on that road,” he would tell her.

Faking reassurance. Easy. Plodding through that dark track every evening. Creepy. In the back of his mind, snapshots lurked—of pickpockets ruffling his trousers’ back pocket…

A .410 handgun did it in the end. It was Diwali eve, and he bought her favorite sweets. As he wound his way through the dark road, humming a song, three gun shots twisted his gait into a red rivulet. Unarmed civilians were the best targets to drive home the demand for a separate state.

His cell phone, lying unclaimed with his corpse, beeped twice. There was just one eyewitness—a live, mute electric pole.

It was midnight when the police contacted her to identify the body.

[The End]

New Contest: Lonely Moon Short Fiction Contest

If the story left you a bit glum, here's something to cheer you up. Our gracious host, Jason Evans, is hosting yet another short fiction contest. Using the picture you see, write a story of 250 words or less. The deadline is August 29, 11 pm, EST. The details are here. Jason's contests keep getting better each time. This time, it takes a big leap with bestselling author, Anne Frasier, joining the event. Anne's new book, Pale Immortal, is going to be launched on September 5. And no less exciting is the fact that the winners of the Lonely Moon contest will get autographed copies of Pale Immortal as prizes.

What are we waiting for then? Let's get busy, writing!

Writing contests, Short Fiction, Pale Immortal