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A Moon-Wounded Night
Belal Chowdhury
(freely translated by Khademul Islam)
Ah those days, it made no difference to us whether it was night or day--we didn't know, didn't care to know. What mattered was spending twenty-four hours of the day at the Coffee House on College Street. Its main gate, even though officially it was supposed to open at 9:00 in the morning, we khew that an insistent clamor for opening it began from 8:30 onwards and that by 9:15 it would inevitably begin to loosen and open up. Some of us insiders who knew the real deal would then always slip in early and grab die seats at our favorite tables. At the entrance by the foot of the stairs leading up to the cafe would be Ismail the man from my own side of Bengal from whom we would buy ten-plus-ten totaling to twenty sticks meaning two packs of Charminar cigarettes, which was our invaluable prop while seeking the precious philosopher s stone inside the cafe.
As the day wore on all sorts of people would start to drop by. Some were stooped from the weight of their learning, while others were racked by drugs--everybody from hangman to racetrack addicts, who would not drop by there? By then we were the senior-most of the Coffee-Housians. Until the gates closed at 10:30 at night, who had time for anything else? No sooner would one group depart than the next one would breeze in. All of them were our devotees and hangers-on. Ah, life then was so light and sublime and full of promise! The days blew by in a swirl of good times and laughter.
If Baruna left our table the gap would be filled by Namita. Almost five tall and shapely and chocolate-coloured, Namita had us all buzzing around her like a swarm of bees. We would table-hop all over the place-sometime it would be this table and then it would be that table and time would fly by nobody would know how or where. Especially if it was a winter day. regular. What could one do with one's life except write poetry? With his broad, beguiling smile he informed us that his Uncle S... and his mother had been repeatedly urging him to bring us over to his home, and that today was the very day. That they had heard so many tales about us from him that everybody in his household from old to young now felt as if they had come to know us intimately. His mother seemed touched on hearing all those stories, especially about a certain wretch named Belal Chowdhury, and now seemed to have a store of affection for this fellow far in excess of what she displayed for her own sons and daughters. It would be very good if Namita and the Mitras could also come along, but of course they had households and responsibilities, people to take care of. Whereas among the rest of us all there was one utterly free male named Belal - - if he could be made to tag along then we were assured of not only a chicken-and- rice dinner layout but also some extra cash, say, a little twenty rupee
handout, that could be cadged.
No way! I took a firm stand against such an idea. That would not be allowed to happen. I would announce to his folks from the very first that I had no need of anything. And even if there was, I would ask for it myself. The afternoons then were honeyed. And now that there was no way to get out of this outing then it made sense to waste as little time as possible in hitting the road since that would afford us more time for play and fun. Led by Chandan, by the time we descended from the Bangaon train line at some cow-shit, flyblown off-station, the winter afternoon shadows were beginning to darken and deepen. Dense banks of trees lined the path to Chandan’s village. An equally dense, deep blue dusk began to fall. The moment we entered the neighbourhood his house was in, however, a deep voice made us come to an abrupt halt.
Aha, the voice intoned, from which direction today has the sun god risen today!
Otherwise how can it be that this early, at this time of the day do we get to see our Chandan Babu in our lowly little village, and that too with his friends and boon companions. Are you fellows feeling all right, your bodies fit to do battle, is that it...
It was Chandan himself who stepped forward and introduced the voice to us as his maternal uncle. Who knew about so much, and yet had not the slightest air of affectation about him or a jot of righteousness, talking and mingling with us like some genial lord of the manor: Baba, all of you are very lucky fellows, you have budded forth on a very auspicious day. So what if it's a Kartik night with its cold but sweet air blowing around us-today it's also a Kartik full moon night. The goddess Parvati's son, the six-faced one who is the commander of the heavenly forces, in his abode will enchant us tonight with his playful frolicking and fancies. But, Chandan Babu, listen, why don't you hurry on ahead in the meantime to the house and give my didi Audity advance notice of our guests? By the time you get everything ready I will have shown them the moonrise over on the other side of Dudh Sayer beel and then bring them around.
It did not sit well with me. No matter how dear a mama he was of Chandan I didn't feel like going forward even one step with this gentleman. But what choice did I have? In the tenth circle of hell even the gods become ghosts/And we all know who's to blame for it. And even though I and Chandan grumbled a bit about it, I noted that the others were all for experiencing the Kartik moonrise over on the other side of Dudh Sayerer beel.
After walking a considerable distance I felt as if I no longer even had the energy to listen to the howling and barking of distant foxes and jackals. Mama was striding in front of us like Vasco de Gama and muttering some incantations under his breath. To be perfectly truthful our collective knowledge of Sanskrit was so meager that it was the Shiva-like cries of those jackals that seemed clear and frightening. But Mama was our indisputable leader. Drawing up his dhuti tightly around him and clutching at his sacred paita thread he was murmuring things so obscure and unfathomable that it was impossible for any of us to understand a single word of it. Then all of a sudden Mama stopped at a spot and raising a forefinger at the distant forest line said, look, look at a scene that in this life are you destined to ever see again? Fill your heart with it. If not over a bamboo grove the moon has certainly risen over the tops of the mango orchard, and even if Kajala didi is not here to sing this sloka to you all at least the Mama who is before you will always be eternally with you. And look, look, take a good look across this vast plain to see what a real full moon night can be--oh, what a flood of shimmering light falls down on us.
But, you know, all this while there were jackals, now it Seems that packs of wild dogs have joined them in the baying and howling. Even then I would urge you to take a last look at the moonlight cascading down over the tree line. It was not for nothing that Abanindranath had written: here is one moon/there is another moon/ o brother the moons twine/the moon over the hinchay bush...
The way in which Chandan's mama that night in that remote cow-shit, fly-blown sheltering nook, in leading us to see the moonrise, flayed us with the moon that even today after all this time it seems to me that we are still trapped in some charmed circular maze, going round and round in a trance...
The above article appeared in a special issue titled 'Josna Shonka' in the little magazine Boitha. (editor Shihab Shahriyar, 30 August 2005) featuring nearly every notable Bengali writers. Readers should attempt to get their hands on the issue in order to read Belal Chowdhury's piece in the original Bengali for the sheer play of language, which in some sense rivals the moonrise he describes. All English translations, including this one, can be nothing but poor simulacrums of the original classic.
Khademul Islam is literary editor, The Daily Star.