Pratinidhi Kahaniyan-‘The Stone’

Rendition of “Pathar ki Pukaar” by Shri Jayshankar Prasad.

The evening had set its foot into the bank of the Ganges. Flowing water glistened under the rays of the setting sun while the sky had been painted in purple and blue like the feathers of a peacock.
Nirmal gazed at the farmers treading their way back home and said to Naval in a lost voice,” Patronage of literature is an elation of its own kind Naval.”

Naval replied in a sarcastic tone, ”Ah my friend! I would call it the being a member of the most voiceless support society of the world.”

Nirmal looked at Naval with an uneasy expression on his face. Naval continued with a smirk..” Anyway, so which kind of literature do you find the most intriguing?”

“I see immense beauty in the tragic narrations of the past and in compassion my friend.”

Naval stopped laughing. He said,” Brilliant! Which other treasure is more unusual to us the Indians! Pronouncing the troubles of our past and the compassion of the our present, it still remains our beloved ode, our intoxication!”

Finding himself hurt by the insolence of his own friend, Nirmal started gazing at toward the sunset again. The farmers had left. 
“Where do you want to go? “. Nirmal did not reply back.
“Anyway, I will move for a stroll by the river. See you later Nirmal”. With this, Naval got up and walked away.

After a little while, Nirmal, still lost in his thoughts, walked towards the village. Finding an abandoned square by the outpost, he started trudging towards it. In a corner a dilapidated charpahi has been made to stand by another dilapidated mud wall. A hammer, chisel, a half filled bowl of water and a koochi are lying around unclaimed alongside two huge sandstones. Nirmal carefully made his way to one of the deserted sandstone and for some reason, found himself seated on it. The sandstone was quiet like a rock. Nirmal heard a bleak voice. He looked around. Noone!. He heared again, this time more attentively. It was the second stone that was murmuring something. Nirmal went closer.

“I was merrily a part of my own hill. They blasted me off and you bought me and dumped me here! Where I see nothing more than human vanity. Where my pieces are chipped of and thrown on mortals. O sculptor, you lured me into coming here. I wanted to be carved into a beautiful statuette. To be transformed into a handsome outline. I was even ready to present to you myself, for you to break me off and sever me. That pain would have made me content. The outcome in the form of extols and admiration would have been a trophy for my perseverance making my survival worthwhile for times immemorial.
But Alas! You deserted me at your decrepit door, like busted pottery! How long will I slouch here musing about my future?”

The compassionate call of the stone cramped Nirmal with anger and irritation at the sculptor. Wasn’t this the same tragedy and compassion he had found intriguing earlier? Wasn’t this where he saw the beauty of literature?

Fuming in his anger he marched into the decaying house of the sculptor. “ How long has this stone been lying here? You indolent man! Ah! I can see!… basking around in the house is more pleasure isn’t it? While a stone outside, awaits in lonely abandon to be transformed into a beautiful figurine.” He said in his enraged voice.

An emaciated figure replied back,” Babu Sahib, I have not received an order for days now”

Nirmal retorted,” Ha!..Excuses!, well you could have made one. You would have found many buyers for your statue if your work were good. Can’t you hear the plea of that boulder, don’t you have the heart to heed to its call for mercy?”

The scutptor cleared lump of cough in his throat and said in a shaky yet firm voice,” Nirmal babu, you are the son of a wealthy zamindar. Your upbringing has given you an ear for elegies of the lifeless, the melody of flowing waters, the soft giggling of the winds and you find yourself lost in these subtle voices. They fill you with emotions and sympathy. But you are deaf to the loud cries of deprived souls, which are not the fictional or literary but the existent forms of compassion.”

Nirmal’s love for literary tragedy and compassion suddenly found itself in conflict with his own reasoning. Disappointed, he went outside, and found himself powerless and prostrate on the patched courtyard.