In Silence (by Lipika Datta)

Prakash was feeling alone in his room. Black shadow hurled by the evening’s faint light was making a gray picture of Prakash on the window’s glass pane. He was barely able to reason out anything but forcefully that he would have to settle down something at least their marriage what he sustained for a long time. Tonight Pritha would come and he would treat her as a queen.

Pritha unlocked the door with the key always kept in her handbag. A splashing sound was coming from the bathroom. Prakash was in wash room. The room was properly arranged and everything was neatly placed in their positions. His laptop was on the bed, open, running.

Pritha knocked the door, “You’ve e-mail, from Mitali Roy.”

“Who is Mitali Roy?”

“How do I know?”

“Wait, just coming.”

Prakash hurried, not for the e-mail but for the hug he reserved in himself to give Pritha for a warm welcome. Prakash came out and reached Pritha; hugged her tightly giving a flush on her cheek. He had planned that he would make these small things in their lives precious, more precious than being a writer. During the hugging a flash light sparked in his brain, “Yes, I know Mitali Roy.”

After so many days from where has she came down; Mitali Roy. Yes. Prakash fumbled out the name from the grave of the past. He was then ten years old and she, the dark complexioned sweet faced girl, was around eight or nine years old; the daughter of the new manager of their tea garden. Ordinary enough to be unnoticed, with her simplicity she mixed herself with Prakash friend’s group and became an inevitable companion. Every afternoon they gathered in the playground and wildly played the outdoor games. Prakash was engrossed in the thought, at far away days.

“What happened? Should we fix the date tonight?”

“Which date?”

“Where are you?”

“Before you.”

“The date of our marriage.”

“Obviously, I’ve summoned you for that.”

“Be seated before me. I’ll check my e-,ail first, then have our dinner and then discuss everything for our future.”

Three times. Three times Prakash eyed through the mail. Is it possible? Apparently absurd but brought everything simple like water.

Pritha gazed at him with a great curiosity in her eyes.

“Say something, please say.”

Prakash arranged himself and started to discuss everything happened during the couple of days in his life and stirred him vigorously.

“Because of that you have decided to marry fast and considered all of them as a nightmare.”

“Of course not. It’s a serious talk. Don’t act flippantly.”

“Anyway, what about your mail? Mitali Roy, your new girlfriend?”

“She was my girl friend when I was ten years old.”

“Interesting.”

“More than interesting if you read it.”

“Prakash

            Could you remember me? We have last our contacts before more than fifteen years. I’m Mitali. Once my father was the manager of your Tea garden, Hatipotha. I think you can recall everything. Leaving Hatipotha Tea Estate my father joined a Tea Garden in Darjeeling. Incidentall there I met my better half Michael Roberts and left India. Then I took my new name Mary Roberts. Got it all? I have collected your Publisher’s e-mail address and already informed him everything, everything we witnessed togetheron that fatal day and next day how we shared our feelings while riding on our bicycle on a wriggling way in the dense forest.

He has already convinced. I did not tell him why I refused that I am familiar to you. Now I am revealing the mystery. Can you remember, in our childhoodduring our game of ‘Bar Bou’, you refused to accept me as your ‘bou’, because of my black complexion? Straight forward you told “That black complexioned girl cannot be my wife.” Can you remember it? When the publisher questioned me, I refused to recognize you. Do you know why? I got a chance to get revenge. Keep contact. I’ll send you my original address. Come to our place. My husband, who is much whiter than you are, is eager to meet you.”

The End

In Silence (by Lipika Datta)

Prakash witnessed the knights in the battle scrambling to and fro. Darkness melted into air with the light of thousand torches. A crowd of people herded under the black sky. Birds in the tree started to shrill. The rage of the crowd mounted high and they justified their revenge piercing the boar with a lance. The mother was drooping with grief losing all spirit before the bloody girl. The girl was still, without life.

The retaliators, the tribes of the colony, started to singe the carcass of the boar on fire. Uproar of wild pleasure weaved over the crest, blaze of fire and dissolved into the shrill of wretched mother. The tribes were dancing around the fire accompanied with their drum, tom-tom. The hell stood still in the colony.

It might have been the end of the story but the author and the authoress stretch the story towards a devastating finish where the sum got ready to smash the darkness of the previous night. Just then a pack of boars rushed into the colony asking for revenge. They sprang up the young tribes dancing around the carcass of the boar. They tore them into pieces. They took ten minutes to complete their operation of retaliation.

Episode-2

Prakash was waiting to hear pritha through his mobile set. Pritha lingered and finally answered, “Hello! What’s up? Office bunk?”

“Yah”

“Why?”

“I’m upset today. I need you and one bottle of beer.”

“I think you’re slap-happy today.”

Prakash knew Pritha had just been angry noticing the use of ‘slap’  in her conversation.

“Slap-happy? You have used the first one very coherently. Would you like to give that slap on my cheek?”

“You know why?”

“I know very well you, a sort of feminist, Can’t digest that. But you know Pritha, both of the words cohere from the old age. Love and beer goes together.”

“I’m cutting the line. I have many works in hand.”

“Please, please. Don’t hang up on me. I’m sorry. I’m just kidding. You look tremendous when in anger. Wait, I visualize you clearly.”

“Why you rang me?”

“Truly, I’m very upset today, Please come tonight.”

“Then, I’ll the late. I can reach you after nine. Then?”

“Let your mother know, you have to spend night at your office.”

“Bhuter mukhe ram naam. Would you allow me to spend night with you? What about your virginity?”

“Leave it on me. Today I cannot live without you, my darling.”

“For so many days, I insisted to be with you but you refused. Your reason was, I should not lie to my mom. Today? I have to lie.”

“It is urgent. All normal constitutional procedures are suspended.”

“Opportunist.”

“Say what you want, but positively come at night after office. I’ll prepare the dinner. Would I have to buy a night-dress for you? Or manage with my Bermuda and Tee-shirt?”

“I’ll manage.” She cut the line instantly.

To be continued…

In Silence (by Lipika Dutta)

A background of a Tea Estate belonged to Prakash’s story and to Merry’s a blazing account of some laborers in Golkonda Mines of Derbyshire. Every story of the book, swallowed by Prakash, has been written up about the men around several coal mines. A beautiful description boomed open the door of nature layer by layer. How foolishly Prakash had presumed that that “Beautiful Country” is no other but India. World has wombed spreading over beauties and these beauties were pried and peered by the authoress and inked with placidity of language. Cumberland, Derbyshire, Yourkshire are all are imprisoned into the book named “The Beautiful Country”. “The Wild Boar” is the name of the controversial story. The word “wonder” cannot define the similarity of these two stories, thought Prakash. If there were a word diffuser than the “wonder”, it could have released his exertion. The name of Prakash’s story is “In Silence”. Only difference is there, in their naming. The application of phrases, the appeal of these two stories, the incidents are all the very same, almost ditto. The truth was, there was no connection between the writers. Prakash knew that his story was stolen but he had stolen it from his life, the facts occurred before his eyes till now hovering around. Prakash thought that every author is liable to his experiences stashed away from his own life. Prakash experienced this spectacular event happened before twenty years in a Tea Estate of North Bengal, it was possible that some instance had been retrieved in colony of a coal mine in Derbyshire? It would be a compelling concept. Never he heard her name, reading of her stories was far-fetched. Yet all of these would prove nothing. Since many days he cradled a secret wish for creative writing. Several experiences of his life murmured in his ears like a lullaby and motivated him to hold a pen. It was his destiny which was ready to snatch his dream.

A terrible night. At that night two wild boars crept into the colony; one in the colony of the tea estate, another in Golkonda. At the outskirts of the colony, a dense forest embraced the colony enriching the inhabitants. The boar crawled stealthily and reached a small girl lying on ‘khatya’ at the veranda of a laborer’s quarter. Both the girls of Golkonda and the tea estate of Jalpaiguri in West Bengal were three years old. Shriek of the wretched mother awoke the entire colony. Panic sprouted, sprang up and grew to a height all around the colony. A thousand torches blazed with bravery. In a moment men handed the bows, arrows, spears and lances.    

 To be continued…

Dialogues of karna-kunti (translation by Swastik Roy)

Karna:              Beside the sacred Jahnavi flowing serene, engrossed in my prayer to the evening sun, Karna I’m, son of Adhiratha, the charioteer, born of the womb of Radha, that’s what I’m. Tell me mother, who art thou?

Kunti:               my son, it is me who introduced you to this world in the first dawn of your life. Shedding all my inhibitions I’ve come to thee, just to tell you who I am.

Karna:              Honorable lady, light from those down caste eyes of yours melts my heart like mountain snow melting under the sheer rays of the sun, my name uttered from thy lips, thy voice pierces my ears as a voice from some previous birth I never know, creates a sensation of pain as never before. Tell me, O unknown lady, which unknown bond relates my birth to you.

Kunti:               Behold my child, behold for some time. Let the sun god slide beyond the horizon, let the evening spread its dark wings darker than ever, now I should tell you, o valiant, Kunti I am.

Karna:              Kunti you are, Arjuna’s mother!

Kunti:               Indeed, Arjuna’s mother I am, but my son, does not hate me for that only. Till I remember the day of performance of mastery of weapons in the city of Hastina, with slow confident steps you entered the arena, like the early sun piercing through the star studded eastern horizon. Among all the royal women behind the royal drapes, it was the heart of mine that suffered like being poisoned by a thousand serpents; it was my eyes that showered upon you innumerable kisses of blessings. It was Arjuna’s mother indeed. When Kripa advanced to ask for your parentage with a smile on his face and announced, none without a royal heritage can even challenge Arjuna to compete, speechless you stood, with face reddened and down caste – thou stood still – in whose heart that gleam of embarrassment burnt like fire - Arjuna’s mother it was. Blessed is lad Durjodhon, my child then and there crowned you as the Prince of Anga  - all praises to him – tears streaming down my eyes rushed to overflow your newly crowned head. At that moment, making his way to the arena, entered Adhiratha, the charioteer, overwhelmed with joy. And in those royal gears of yours, midst the curious crowd milling around, you bowed thy head to touch his feet. The friends of the Pandavas smiled cruel and contempt – but right at that moment, it was me, mother of Arjuna, who blessed you, O valiant hero – the warrior of all warriors – it was Arjuna’s mother indeed.

Karna:              Accept my gratitude, noble lady. A royal mother you are. Why are thou alone here. A battleground it is and the commander of the Kourava army I am.

Kunti:               My son, here I am to ask for a favor – shouldn’t I return disheartened.

Karna:              Thou royal mother asking for a favor? From me? Barring my manliness and ethics, I’ll put to thy feet anything thou ask for.

Kunti:               To take you I have come.

Karna:              Where will thou take me?

Kunti:               To the depth of my thirsty bosom, to my motherly lap I’ll take thee.

Karna:              A blessed mother you are with five valiant sons – an ignominious prince ling I am without any royal ancestry where will thou find room for me?

Kunti:               At the summit, above all my sons will be your place, for you are the eldest Karna.

Karna:              By what right would I enter that sanctum? Tell me, who are already cheated of their kingdom, how could I claim a share of motherly love they fully deserve. The divine gift that motherly love is – that can’t be gambled away nor it can be conquered by force.

Kunti:               My son, with that divine right indeed once you had come to this lap of mine, now return by that same right with glory, without any hesitation – and take thou place on my lap, amongst all thou brothers.

Karna:              O lady, your voice sounds like coming from some world of distant dream. Look darkness has descended all around and quiet flows the river, as if nothing remains any more. You have whisked me away off to some land of enchanted dream, a home forgotten long ago as if at the very dawn of my consciousness. Your words are touching the mesmerize soul of mine like some ancestral truth, as if my inchoate infancy, the very obscurity of my mother’s womb is engulfing me. O royal mother, I don’t bother if it is a dream or a reality, come and put your right hand on my cheeks and forehead for a few moments. Many a times I’ve seen in my dreams slowly and softly my mother has come to see me, I felt so bleak and beseeched her in tears, mother, remove thy veil and let me see that face, the moment she vanishes, tearing my thirsty and eager dream. Today trhat dream has come to reality in the disguise of Pandava’s mother on the battlefield this evening beside the Bhagirathi? Behold O royal lady, on the other bank of the river lights are coming on in the Pandava Camp, and on this bank, not far away, in the Kaourav stables a hundred thousand horses are stamping their hooves, the great battle begins tomorrow morning and tonight why did I listen to my mothers voice from Arjuna’s mother? why my name uttered by those lips rings with exquisite music, suddenly my heart rushes to the Pandavas to call them brothers

Kunti:               Then come on my child come along with me

Karna:              Surely I’ll go with you mother, surely I’ll go without asking a single question, without any doubt and discarding all worries. Holy lady, my mother you are, your call has awaken my inner soul from its slumber. The drums beating , the sounds of conch shells signaling victory nothing matters any more. The violence of war, heroic fame, triumphs and defeats – all seem false and meaningless. Take me with thou mother, where I’ve to go?

Kunti:               There, on the other side of the river, where lamps are burning in quiet royal tents over the pale golden sand.

Karna:              And there a motherless son shall get his mother for ever. There the pole star will shine through out the night in the affectionate motherly eyes of yours. Lady, just repeat once more, I’m the son of yours.

Kunti:               My son

Karna:              Then why did you discard me away from you in this cruel inglorious, world of darkness and ignorance amidst the humiliation of being without any identity, far, far away from the affectionate eyes of a mother? Why did you float me away down the stream of contempt, banishing me from my brothers, putting a distance between me and Arjuna, that brotherly attraction of ours has created the subtle enmity that binds us together that can never be ignored. Mother, speechless art thou? Your humiliation, penetrating these layers of darkness is silently touching my soul; barely can I keep my eyes open. Let it be then. Never you have to answer why did you discard me? Mother’s affection that one gets as the first gift from god, why did you snatched that away from your child – you never have to answer that question. But today you tell me why have you come to take me back again?

Kunti:               My son let your reprimands like a hundred thousand thunderclaps rend this heart of mine into a hundred pieces. The curse of casting you away has made my heart still pine like a childless mother, though I’ve five valiant sons close to my bosom. Alas! It is you for whom my open arms go flapping and flailing in this world. It is for you my child deprived, my heart burns itself out to pray to the god of the universe, I’ve come to see thou today, fortunate am I. A crime unpardonable I commit when you were not been able to utter a single word. My son, pardon your cruel mother with words from those lips of yours and let that pardon burn fiercer than any fire of rebuke in my heart, let it reduce my sins to ashes and make me pure again.

Karna:              o mother, allow me to touch the holy dust of thou feet and   let my tears be yours.

Kunti:               I’ve not come to clutch thee to my bosom only my son, but take you back where you deserve to be by your royal rights. Son of a charioteer not you are – from a royal ancestry you are – cast aside all the insults that have been your lot and come where your five valiant brothers are waiting for you.

Karna:              Her Royal Highness, son of a charioteer I am, Radha is my mother. There is no glory greater than that. Let the Pandavas be Pandavas, Kaurabs Kaurabs, I envy none of thee.

Kunti:               Recover the kingdom that is your own by your own puissance of arms my child, Judhistier will sway the whate fan for you, bhima will hold the royal umbrella overhead, the valiant arjuna will be the charioteer of your royal chariot and Dhaumya, the priest will chant the vedic shlokas, and you the conqueror of all, will be the soul ruler of your kingdom in the good company of your kinsman sitting on your jewelled throne.

Karna;              Throne! Indeed , who just refused the affection oh a mother he has long pined for, you are alluring him with the assurance of a kingdom. It is now beyond you to take me back to the riches of you yourself had deprived me once. The moment I was born, my mother, my brother, my family, everything you snatched away from me. Now today if I cheat my foster mother of charioteer caste to accept thy offer of royal motherhood, if I lust and rush for the throne snapping away all my ties with the lord of the Kourava clan, then fie on me.

Kunti:               Blessed you are my child, for a true valiant man you are. Alas! O duty of man, how stern and painful your justice is. How one could expect that the little helpless child I forsook will emerge out some dark ally of life with all these heroism and valiance, only to hurl cruel weapons with his cruel hands on those who are his brother born of the same motherly womb. What a curse is this?

Karna:              Do not get scared mother. Let me predict that victory shall kiss the Pandavas. On the dark canvas of this night of gloom, clearly I read the dire consequences of the war legible in the light of the stars. Sweat of work against hopelessness, a sad music of effort without victory drifts to my ears in this quiet unruffled hours from the sky infinite. Of peace and utter emptiness is the end of it all. Do not ask me to desert the side that is destined to lose. Let Pandu’s sons be victorious and be kings. Let me be allowed to stay among the losers with aspirations unfulfilled. You forsook me to this world homeless, nameless on the very first night of my birth. With that same ruthless heart abandon me again O mother, to my inglorious infamous defeat. But before you leave for ever, bless me that my desire for victory, for fame, for kingdom must never deflect me from the path of a valiant salvation.

For her eyes only (by Arka Datta)

This is so beautiful, this endless field covered with soft green grass, wet by the morning dew. Soft and gentle breeze coming from those palm trees, brushing my hair like a mother. Everything is so beautiful and sunny but something is still missing, my eyes still searching her, we meet here every time since I know her and she never makes me wait this long.

I sat on the ground beside an unknown little red flower with white dots all over it. I was lost in its beauty, its reminding me the most beautiful woman I ever met. Suddenly a cold wind shivered my face and I looked up. She was coming, she was far but I recognized her from her light brown dress, her hair touching her knees. She was wearing her much loved blue necklace with the shining golden plate lynching from it. I always wondered about this plate because of those unknown symbols on it, I noticed the same symbol drawn every place in there village where she took me once, long time ago.

Pocahontas came near me and sat on her knees in front. Wind was playing with her long, beautiful hair. I was so jealous, the wind was touching her hair but I could only look. I could feel a strange aura surrounding her, telling me not to touch her. She moved her hand towards me; I saw a beautiful pink lotus resting on her palms, not completely bloomed but I could see a butterfly sitting inside. She told me something, like always, I could not hear her voice but its been too long since I know her. I knew she wants me to take it. I took my gift and held it tenderly in my hand. I could see the butterfly more clearly, it was blue or I may say a blue I have never seen before, so bright yet so soothing. Suddenly it waved its wings, waken by my presence. And before I could understand anything, the butterfly started to fly away. I knew what was going to happen next, she jumped up and started following it. I silently followed both of them, watched her dancing through the way, she was looking so beautiful, her dancing long hair created a wave on the wind, her beautiful, bright eyes was following the butterfly and my eyes was fixed on her. She was so graceful and the way she was moving can only be compared to a deer playing with him self.

I followed both of them for next fifteen minutes; the grass covered field was feeling so soothing under my bare feet. Our chasing finally came to an end when that butterfly decided to sit on a bush full with red jungle flowers, right beside the pond. This is the same spot where I first saw her playing with two rabbits. I sat beside the pool with my legs touching the water. Pocahontas lay beside me with her eyes closed. I looked at her beautiful face. Early morning sun rays were resting on her face, making her looks like the earth’s most favorite daughter, which she was. I could look at her this way for the rest of my life, I was lost in her. She opened her eyes and looked at me with wonder, maybe she was trying to figure out my mind. It was only she, which was on my mind. Time stopped when she looked at my eyes, nothing was moving, every sound around here lost somewhere between us. I moved towards her more. I felt coldness; it was the aura, telling me not to touch nature’s most beautiful creation ever. I could not stop myself and reached for her hands, I felt something soft like fur.

Constant beeping from my alarm clock notified me its time to get up. Soft sun light was all over my blanket, I was holding a corner of it with my right hand. It has been five years since I was dreaming about her like this but never could have touch her, not even spoke to her for once. My friends used to laugh at me as its like a crime to dream about a Disney princess for a boy, old enough to have a real girl friend but here I am sitting on my bed on a early winter morning, hoping that someday I will be lost in my dreams with her.

I put the blanket aside and stood near the window, Kolkata was on its way to another busy day. Mom was playing sitar in the next room, she is improving everyday. Morning raga hypnotized my mind for next few moments as my day set in motion with a wait for another night to come again when I can sleep and hope my dream, for once, will give me a chance to hold her hand and tell Pocahontas how much I love her.

In Silence (by Lipika Dutta)

The letter came, out of the blue. Prakash gripped the letter in his fist with his long hardy fingers. It was a summer evening; the evening which was engulfing the sultry weather of the scorching day with its soothing breeze. The calm evening was ineffective on the sizzling temperament of Prakash.

Mr. Mihir Bose assured him in his previous letter “Prakash, your story has been selected. It has pleased the editor extremely. Personally he let me know that recently, striking and amazing stories are not being written. This story is totally different”. Mihir uncle wrote again “You will be informed by the editor in time…etc…etc…”.

The letter in the fist of Prakash absolutely reversed the editor’s decision. The letter reads “….I am totally confused. I know you from your very childhood. Though there was hardly any contact between us especially after Bidyut’s death. Your father was an honest and amiable and friendly. The relation between us will never end even not after his death. Anyway, apparently all of these are irrelevant but I think an impact is there so that I am not ready to accept the editor’s opinion. He has insisted that a book named “A beautiful country” written by Merry Roberts was published by “Pan Macmillan” five years ago. The plot of one of these stories is very same as you have plotted in your story. Even some phrases having been translated, are all the same. I have to read Merry’s book otherwise I dare not to write you. I am well acquainted with our editor so I am able to convince him, at least you should be permitted to say something on your own stead. Next 5^th April Sunday is fixed for your appointment. If you want you must keep up the meeting. 12 at noon. In the editor’s room. I will be there. I think, considering all of the situation you must not regard it as my obstinacy. Try to correct Merry’s book……etc….etc.”

Firsthand Prakash had to think whether he was feeling insulted or not. Surprisingly he did not feel any tint of scorn. He had a plump experience of thirty years. He had to face a tremendous adversity after his father’s death. This adversity made him street smart. Now, from his part he would try the best.

The shady allegation must be eliminated. How? He had half hoped, half expected that he would get an upper hand and trust worthy acknowledgement.

A prolonged, tedious couple of days crawled away, at last Prakash got the book “A Beautiful Country”.

By these three days he had done some urgent tasks. He had collected e-mail address of the editor of Pan Macmillan, then informed him elaborately how he was with his shattered hopes. He let him know his nervy wish and asked the authoress’ e-mail address but all in vain. The editor of Pan Macmillan answered regretfully that he was unable to get any consent of the authoress as she was merely unfamiliar to Prakash.

To be continued...