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.

Pratinidhi Kahaniyan

I was recetly home. And I picked some of my Fathers books. He practises a keen interest in Hindi literature and recommended his book..”Pratinidhi Kahaniyan” by Shri Jayshankar Prasad. For those of you who do not follow Hindi literature, Shri Jayshankar is a poet and novelist who writes in prose form Hindi of a very elite class. He has published Title,Kankaal and Iravati and no I have not read them myself. I need my father to explain the prose form Hindi when I read it. All by myself I would not understand half of it.

Anyway, so talking about the collection of his short stories which I am reading currently, the focus lies mainly on the comtemporary problems of the Indian society in late eigthteenth and early nineteeth century. It is just an urge to translate some of his stories into english. Having said this, I am not qualified to translate the stories of this acclaimed writer, so will call them narrations in the posts to come….

Alone in Heaven -Act 2

(..continued from yesterday)

Roll5.Get set go. Seven bamboos and criss cross threads. The power connection came from the shack. See thru curtains were hanged and fastened randomly. Left half loose so they could sway in with the wind. Bamboo ball lanterns of various shapes, which had been picked from the road side vendors, were tied around for faded lights. 

As oozes of feni, filled up the jar,On a shack by the bay, Santana played his guitar,To the music in the air, the meshes danced by,The Floor became sand and roof became sky. 

Slowly the crowd pulled in,He counted standing by the door.He looked at his sack as they all hit the floor.

The night intoxicated everyone. The sensation came mixed with the Feni, the exhaustion of the day and the happiness to be free. He joined the merry. The boozing and dance.  They danced in the moonlight,As the drunkenness leached deep.He had killed his loneliness in heaven,And then they all went to sleep. 

He opened his sack and waited for the winds to blow strong. He waited until the winds came to greet him. And then he let out the petals packed in the sack towards the sea. The air filled with this scent, will reach her today. In those petals, he sends his gift.As he blew a kiss he whispered.  

“Happy birthday my dear, in my heart you survive.How would you be at twenty five, if you were alive?”

Knowing only the winds will answer back.

Alone in Heaven – Act 1

The itinerary was set. He hit Goa at 7 in the morning. First step was to find out the most pristine beach in an off season Goa. After a day of exploring the southern part of the city, he knew it had to be the baga beach. For him being there was like experiencing a kiss he could never get enough of.

Crowded yet gave him space. The motley of colors speckled on the yellow beach. The waters opening into the sea, like an eagle had just spread its wings to fly. So he had to do it. To kill his loneliness in his self proclaimed heaven.

He kick started the arrangements on his scooter. Had everything running in his head like a film roll. Roll 1. Get the palm leaves. Roll 2. Paint the invitations. Roll 3. Arrange the bamboo. Roll 4…….

By evening invites had been painted on palm leaves and the mesh curtains and lanterns had been arranged. He folded the invitation, put them in a basket and went off to lie down. He never booked a room. Just lay there on the beach near the shacks. Late into the night sometime he d just catch a shack worker who was free and strolling around and they would chat. Most of them fantasized with him about the goris visiting the beach in summer time. The morning ablutions were usually done at the shacks and beach showers. So he dint book a room.

Next morning the commotion began. All the lively morning people will be drunk by the evening. First were the beach visitors. He had 25 invitations and he was looking out on roads, on shops, stalls, shacks, beaches for singles and couples. In all colors, shapes and attires. Hitting Goa to free their mind, body and souls. By two in the afternoon, he had satisfied himself with the surety of 25 attendees. 25 people he hadn’t known before. 25 people he will spend this night with. 25 people to kill his solitude in heaven.

(To be Continued)