The Argument and a Bizarre Dream

An argument was going on.

The first arguing mammal was telling that meat is tastier if first fried and then boiled.

The second opposed immediately saying, “Meat cannot be cooked easily if fried first. Hence it is better to boil it well at first and then it can be fried drying excess water in the pan. You don't have proper idea of cooking methods.”

-“What makes you decide that I know nothing of cooking! Not only the meat should be fried, also the spices should be added in the beginning.”

-“Cook-books do not say that.”

-“Forget about cook-books! I have heard from acclaimed chefs that meat has to be first fried - “

-“Don’t you abide by the rules of cook-book?”

 -“No.”

-“May I know why?”

-“Because different cook-books have different opinions. So, opinions of the chefs, who cook on their own everyday should be considered authentic.”

The first arguer seemed little muddled, but his mind started functioning at once. -“Not all chefs have same opinion either!”

-“Chefs who like to first fry meat, are no chefs, but dumb fellows. Do you know what the Japanese do?”

The first arguer lost his patience. He reacted, “I do not know what Japan means. Who are you to humiliate chefs? You uncivilized brat!”

- “Stop it! Hold your tongue! You are not at all as knowledgeable as you claim, still trying to be a bragging arguer - Bonehead!”

-“You are calling me bonehead again!?”

-“I will call you bonehead again and again.”

 - “I see - let me have it out …“

-“You crook!”

The argument turned into a battle.

A jackal was enjoying their dispute sitting nearby. He began laughing seeing them preparing for a battle; said, “Hey, aren’t you both vegetarian? Why do you indulge in a riot over non-veg food? You will be in trouble once your master gets up.”

They were not in a mood to pay attention to his words; started fighting violently with their horns pounding against each other’s.  

The coachman suddenly woke up to find the pair of his bullocks fighting among themselves. He knew the right method to stop them. With appropriate use of his bamboo stick and suitable abusive words, he succeeded to tie the bullocks separately keeping right distance between them. He also placed fodder before them –“Eat! You rascals – don’t try to act smart!”

They were given only rice-straws.

******************************************

I too, woke up all of a sudden. I came out my reverie as well. I found two aggressive young men, who were arguing with each other over the news of Japan and Germany, Hitler and Mussolini etc, already got off. The train stopped – the station was Nathnagar.

Translation of Story “Tarko o swapno” by Balaichand Mukhopadhyay

The Solution

The sky was blue; breeze was soothing; flowers were beautiful and meaning of my name resembles rainbow. Still I was married to a village girl whose name signifies ‘unwanted’. She gave birth to a girl-child after a year and named her ‘Buchi’. I expressed my disagreement over the name-selection. But everyone in my family and the neighbourhood dissuaded me with a true statement, “Do you want to name your dark and ugly daughter ‘a bouquet of flowers’? Such an insane idea of yours….!”

She was really ugly. Not only she was dark, one of her eyes was larger than the other. In addition to that, she seemed dumb; salivated all the time. True, she could not be called ‘a bouquet of flowers’.

After two years…

My wife went to her paternal home taking Buchi along.

It was Sunday. We did not have any work; was spending our lazy hours under the shed of our Durga temple, as usual by discussing different topics. The discussion took an abrupt turn towards me.

Nripen told, “Think of Nihar’s fate. Poor man fathered only a girl child – that too so ugly!”

Shyam Bose told, “So true! He will have a tough time to get her married – will need lot of money.”

Haru uncle took a long puff before telling, “No brothers, only money does not suffice these days. People want not only money, but beauty too. Biggest problem is her asymmetric eyes – God know what will happen.”

Everyone was so worried.

The peon of our post-office came at that moment to deliver me a letter.

Nripen asked, “Whose letter is that?”

I finished reading it and announced, “My wife wrote it – Buchi passed away yesterday.”

Translation of the story "Samadhan" by Balaichand Mukhopadhyay

Unknowingly

Someone asked me once – “Why Banaphul?”

My friend was a classicist – he was comparing Banaphul with Tagore. Well, Banaphul is not Tagore. Tagore seems to me more a philosopher whose short stories are filled with philosophical explanations of what he observes. Difference between Tagore’s short stories and Banaphul’s are same with that between ballad and haiku. Banaphul does not comment – he only observes, and he observes human beings – colourful characters not always bright and cheerful but sometimes dark and ugly. And the multifarious human spirits are drawn on the same layer of the canvas – none with higher importance, none lesser and without any judgment of good bad and ugly from the part of the author. Banaphul’s human characters are so very human – they are honest and dishonest, kind and cruel, virtuous and sinner - none qualifies to be anything superior to a human. He does not have a spiritual attraction for life; neither is he devoted to any specific moral. Neither has he tried to be a descriptive realist, nor a loud satirist.

Another quality in Banaphul’s short stories that attracts me is prudence. You won’t find a single instance where the author uses a word pointlessly. And a few lines composed with few reasonable words draws a complete picture! Bengali readers are fortunate ‘cause whenever we try to translate the fun with words specific to particular language is lost.

Anyway, that is paradox in literary translator’s job – doing something that cannot be done – while it’s difficult to resist translating such wonderful works - only option to introduce speakers of other languages with the treasures captivated in one language.

Here is one instance... J

Unknowingly

I received my salary that day.

I thought of buying a bra for my wife on the way home. She was asking for one since long.

It was dark by the time I found the right one after searching in a few stores. On top of that, rain started pouring in as I was coming out of the store buying the undergarment. What else could I do but waiting? After the downpour reduced a little, I started walking with my umbrella open, hence carrying the packet under my arm. I crossed the main road with ease, but after that I had to take the route through the narrow lane which was dark.

I lost myself in my thought as I entered the narrow lane – “how happy she will be getting the bra after long. Today I will –“

Suddenly I stumbled over someone. That person fell; I too fell down. My gift for her went badly soiled.

I stood and noticed that the man could not still get up. He was trying to stand. I was burning with rage – kicked him as hard as I could.

“You bastard! Can’t see the road? ”

He fell down again as I continued hitting him; but did not reply. His silence made me mad. I went on beating him harder.

My yelling was loud enough to get a door of a nearby house opened. A man came out with a lantern in hand and asked, “What happened?”

“See it yourself! This rascal mudded up my expensive cloth like this! It’s completely wasted! Such a scoundrel  - can't even walk properly – crashed on me like anything!”

“Who is that? – Oh! Please forgive him Sir, don’t beat anymore. That wretched fellow is blind and speech-impaired – a beggar, stays in this lane.”

I looked at the beggar. He was still shivering with the shock of being violently thrashed. His entire body was stained with mud. The poor man was standing before me with folded hands. His blind eyes were gazing at me.

Death of a reader

Banaphul (Balaichand Mukhopadhyay) was the King of Bengali short stories - according to me. Translation of one of his stories.

Almost ten years back.

I was waiting for train at Asansol station. Another person was sitting beside me. He had a book in his hand. It was a thick novel. After we started talking to each other, I came to know that he had to wait the whole day for his train.

My train was supposed to arrive in three hours.

Both of us were Bengali.

Hence, within five minutes we started chatting, I asked him, “May I see the book once?”

“Oh yes, why not?” - I received the answer as I expected.

I possessed the book immediately as he handed it over.

It was an intolerable afternoon of the scorching summer.

We were sitting under the tin roof of Asansol station.

Nothing could bother any longer.

It was a wonderful novel.

The owner of the book looked at me once with the corner of his eyes. A line appeared between his eyebrows for a moment.  He took out a time table then and concentrated in that.

I continued reading breathlessly.

Excellent book!

In fact, I did not read such an appealing novel before.

The lines were almost whipping me.

 

Two hours passed.

The owner of the book browsed through the time table several times in the meantime. Finally he looked at me and told, “I think it is almost time for your train – so...” he cleared his throat once.

I was immersed in the book.

Once I took a quick look at my watch. It was still one hour left for my train. The book was left over a half. I did not want to waste time by talking. Again I concentrated in the book. I was devouring it.

Wonderful book!

That one hour almost flew away.

The bell for my train rang.

The large part book was still left.

I became aggressive.

I told, “I will go by next train – not going to leave before finishing this book.”

The owner of the book coughed once and went silent after this.

The train left – I continued reading.

But I could not finish it – a few pages of at the end of the book were torn.

I told the owner of the book, “Oh – so many pages of the book are torn! What a shame! You could tell me before!”

The man only gazed at me in response. I noticed the veins on his forehead bulging.

I found the book once again after ten years.

It was the in-law’s place of my niece. I accompanied her to her home and was supposed to come back that day only. But my attraction for the book made me stay back.

I picked up the book and started reading once again. I decided to start anew instead of reading arbitrarily from the end.

I felt bizarre after a few pages.

I turned the cover – was it the same book? – It was the same!

Again I started – But another few pages of reading brought me the same feeling –something seemed wrong!

Still I continued.

After some time I realized my inability to carry on reading anymore.

Was it the same book which I was reading breathlessly in the scorching summer afternoon in Asansol station?

How could an author write such rubbish!

It was not at all possible to finish it!

I could not even realise when the curious reader of ten years back had died.

I could not finish the book this time as well.

Vidyapati

Translation of few lines from the 14th century Indian poet (from Mithila)

Dear friend! I could not see her well -

Like thunderbolt passing through cloud, wrapped in veil.

Half her body covered by loose end of her clothing;

Half her face was smiling; her eyes half-sparkling.

Her presence made cupid love struck -

The fair lady moves like a golden vibe of luck.

O God, her beauty trapped me obsessed -

Her pearl-teeth those sensuous lips braced.

Vidyapati laments over his pain in despair,

While eyes cannot satisfy his heart’s desire.

-          Vidyapati

Poem - not a concubine

At times, when head is clogged with too many thoughts, poem seems to be last resort.
At times, even she dissents:

Poem - not a concubine

I have to make a poem my concubine

Dragging her by force –

If she doesn’t come on her own.

I prepare my pen and paper -

My weapons – inks red and black

Colour my lips and eyes.

Baby dawn arrives out of the blue,

Throws its ink-pots

On my paper discoloured;

Tells me: Poem is not a concubine.

With you

How about a pinch of romanticism instead of continuous cash-hunting? :)

I built this home for you.

Drawn your pictures on all my walls,

Decorated my courtyard with plants,

Those make me remember your face.

I sought for you so long -

In the roads of crowded cities,

In the forests and sea-beaches,

In the fields and factories,

Those covered my sky endless.

.

I stood in long queues under scorching sun -

To have a glimpse of yours.

I waited in the middle of profound darkness -

To hear you voice once.

I spend long hours in the twilight zone -  

To tell you my soliloquy.

At the end of my myriad moments

Of searching, listening and uttering monologues -  

I am staying with you here;

In the home that I built for you;

That I filled with your presence,

Wrapped forever in your fragrance.