‘Excellent food yields excellent health. Excellent health yields excellent thoughts. Excellent thoughts yield excellent work. Excellent work yields excellent remuneration. Excellent remuneration yields every kind of happiness. Happiness is the means to a long life. It is the backbone of a beautiful and successful life.’ Something to this effect is supposed to have been said by Rishi Charvaka of yore. And so, since excellent food is the source of every kind of happiness—if simple and honest means of obtaining it are not available, it would not be wrong to obtain, extort, claim or collect it by any means whatsoever. Justice and injustice are not based on any prescripts laid down by some edict. It is man who defined them. Whatever is in his interest, is just, and that which is not, is unjust.
A long time ago, on a dark, moonless night, Maran, the boy who sheltered near the crematorium, and was wise and thoughtful beyond his years, had said to Jibon: ‘‘Do you know what’s the greatest sin in life? Going without food. The soul dwells in the body. And God, the Supreme Soul, dwells in the soul. When you go without food, the soul suffers. When the soul suffers, God suffers. If you make God suffer, you are a great sinner. You’ll be consigned to hell for that sin.’
The fact was that for most of the eighteen years from the time he was born until he became an adult, Jibon had subjected the Supreme Soul to a lot of hunger and affront. He had thereby sinned a lot. As a result, his body had not received adequate nutrition. It had grown imperfectly, like a bonsai. But what he needed to do now was not through strength of body, but rather through strength of mind. After all, strength of mind was all he could hope to have. But starvation extinguished that too. And so, Jibon had now figured out that in order for the lamp to stay lit, he had to ensure that oil was continuously poured into it. He had to obtain food through strength of mind, so his body could heal. If he could do that, he would become strong and capable.
One morning, Jibon walked to the Bagha Jatin crossing. There were hundreds and thousands of people like him crowding around the place, with hunger in their bellies and hope in their hearts. Everyone was looking for work. For work as day labour. With the wage they would receive at the end of the day for doing such work, they would buy rice powder and return home. The near and dear ones of his family, who were waiting eagerly for his return, would then be able to eat. For some reason, Jibon went and stood at the exact same spot where his father Garib Das once squatted, with his spade and basket. Suddenly a man came and stood in front of him. His name was Dukhe.
Dukhe did not know Jibon, nor could Jibon recognise him. But he should have. Because he had lived for a while on the canalside in Khola-Doltala. Dukhe now lived in a village near there. His father and grandfather were fishermen, drummers and palanquin-bearers. But the canals, lakes and marshes had run dry. There were no fish there anymore. And the electric microphone had replaced the playing of drums, just as palanquins had given way to motor cars. Although time eventually took over and bade farewell to everything, no one had been able to make hunger disappear, or bid it farewell. Modern science had not yet been successful in discovering an alternative means of filling the void in the belly.
And so, Dukhe was compelled to come to Jadavpur in search of work. He did whatever work was available. But his favourite work, which he enjoyed doing, was cooking. He was an experienced assistant in the cooking squad of Naresh Chakraborty, a reputed cook of this locality. Dukhe was able to work with Naresh Thakur for about four or five days a month. Although he had to put in four or six more hours than in other jobs, he preferred it because besides his wages, he also got some good food there, and as a result, his children could eat well. That was the unwritten rule in this line—even if they didn’t give a lot, they had to give at least enough food for one person. At the end of the day, the cook and all his assistants packed their food into bundles. On such days, everyone at their homes was happy.
Seeing Jibon standing in front of him at the Bagha Jatin crossing, Dukhe asked him, ‘‘Ei, kaaje jabi, want to go for work?’’
Who wouldn’t work for a wage! Jibon replied. ‘‘What kind of work?’’
‘‘Cooking. Can you do that?’’
‘‘What kind of cooking?’’
‘‘For a wedding.’’
‘‘But I’ve never cooked for so many people.’’
‘‘You don’t need to cook. The cook will do that. You’ll assist him, that’s all. Like grinding masala, laying the plates, filling water, powdering bread crumbs in the mortar-and-pestle, and so on. We’ll show you what to do. Tell me if you can do it. You’ll get three-and-a-half rupees, as well as food; you can take it home if you want, instead of eating it there.’’
Naresh Thakur’s job that day was a big one. He had to cook for five or six hundred people. There were eight or ten kinds of items. He would not be able to do it with the workmen he had. Dukhe had planned to get his son-in-law from the village for the work, but he hadn’t been able to come. He was down with fever since yesterday. That’s why Dukhe was looking for a helper. He had to take someone or the other along, otherwise his own workload would become unmanageable. This was work which anyone could do, it did not require any special skill or experience.
Jibon said, ‘Since you’ll show me how, sure, I can do it.’ He followed Dukhe to Mahadev Decorators. Naresh Thakur, the cook, was waiting there with his squad. Cooking utensils were being loaded from the decorator’s godown onto a van-rickshaw.
The ‘caterer’ culture imported from abroad had not yet taken over the city of Calcutta. The householder in question still made all the purchases from the market himself, and then employed a professional cook to prepare the food according to an agreed-upon menu. He had his own family members serve the food, and finally, he himself went around the tables to attend to the guests, looking out for who needed more helpings. If he saw any plate empty, he shouted at those serving the food: ‘What the hell are you doing? Can’t you see the empty plate? Go and serve whatever’s required!’
When Dukhe brought Jibon to Naresh Thakur, he asked, ‘‘What’s your name?’’
Owing to a momentary lapse of alertness, Jibon’s actual name and title slipped out of his lips. Hearing that, Naresh Thakur was caught off guard for a moment. But he recovered at once, and told Jibon what he had said to Dukhe one day, ‘Truth doesn’t feed you. You haven’t been possessed by any Yudhisthira that you can’t lie! There’s nothing wrong with the name you use, but just make sure you mention a high-caste title. After all, it’s cooking. If you mention ‘chandal’ and so on, people won’t eat what you touch.’
Naresh Thakur hailed from the Rayna region of Burdwan district in West Bengal. He had had more or less good times for half his life. The rest of his life too would have been spent in the same way if it had not been for litigation between brothers. He lost everything in the lawsuit and was left destitute. That was a long story, and now, compelled by circumstances, he donned a thread on his chest, masqueraded as a ‘Chakraborty’, and earned his livelihood as a cook. From his own life experience, he knew how the lords of caste viewed low-caste folk, and how much they despised them. It was true that adherence to all these notions of pollution and untouchability was much less now than before. A more liberal attitude could be discerned among people of the present generation. But some old-timers still remained. Their outlook had not changed at all, notwithstanding all the calamities of Hindu-Muslim riots and the partition of the country along religious lines.
That day, after work, Jibon had laid out a banana leaf on his gamcha and made a bundle of his food for the night. Because of a sudden downpour, those living far away were unable to attend the wedding. It was almost two miles from the bus stop on the main road to the site in Bikramnagar. It was a muddy road all the way, which got flooded as soon as it rained. Rickshaws were unwilling to ply along that. It was a strange law of the universe that one person’s disaster was someone else’s windfall! While the householder was lamenting the heavy rain and knocking his forehead in despair, Dukhe, Megha and Srinath were secretly smiling in glee —a lot of food would be left over!
It was half past one at night. When it was pretty clear that no one else would arrive, the householder was figuring out what could be kept and eaten tomorrow after heating, and what could be kept in the fridge and saved for a few days. And he had handed over the rest of the food to Naresh Thakur, saying, ‘What am I to do with all this food, I’ll have to throw it all away. It’s better if you people take it.’
Jibon went home late that night with his bundle, walking through rain. He was returning there after almost ten days. Actually, he had to find his way there. Inhuman circumstances had made him forget the road, the house, and the people at home, who should have been his most dearly beloved and intimate ones. In his parents’ eyes, Jibon was a mean rascal, a cruel denizen of hell. And so, Jibon could not go there even if he wanted to. He roamed the city, bearing a burden of grief in his heart. He tramped the streets searching for a way whereby he could find sustenance.
But now Jibon felt as if he had found a feeble ray of hope. If he worked with Naresh Thakur and learnt the job well, then he too could survive, just like so many people in the city did. Jibon wanted to deliver the bundle and convey the news to his parents. He wanted to say: Ma, I have grown up now, I’ve learnt to earn a livelihood! Look, here’s my first remuneration!
It was terribly dark everywhere. And besides, it was raining. Water had leaked through the plastic- sheet roof of Garib Das’ shanty, and it was full of slime inside. His siblings had been made to lie down in a slightly dry spot, while the parents crouched in a corner like accursed souls. Jibon reached the front of the shanty and called out: ‘Mother, open the door.’ After that, he woke up his siblings. He unfolded the bundle in his gamchha, which contained luchis, mutton, fish, chops, pulao, sweets and so much more! Even Garib Das had never eaten such food in all his life.
Jibon’s younger brother, Jatan, had accidentally spilt hot water from a kettle on his foot while working in a tea-shop, and so, he was home too, nursing his blistered feet. He looked at the food with astonishment. ‘What’s this called, Dada?’
‘It’s called fish fry.’
‘And that one?’
‘It’s called … wait, let me remember … it’s called chhanar kaliya. And this is called pulao. This thing here is plastic chutney.’
Plastic! With which mugs and buckets were made! Jugol, Jibon’s youngest brother, took some on his finger, licked it and said, ‘Liar! It’s sweet!’
After several years, on this stormy night, amidst darkness, the five people living in the shanty had all sat down together to eat. It was the first time in any of their lives that they had tasted such delicious food. They didn’t even know the names of many of the items. But at least today, they seemed to be very happy. As if it was a festive night. As if the night had declared that one person’s loss could be the cause of gain for many other people. Well, if one person’s loss turned out to be beneficial to many others, then there was nothing bad about that!
*****
Work became a burden if the person working disliked it. He wouldn’t be able to do it for very long. When someone did something out of compulsion, it never turned out well. But Jibon liked his work very much. Each joyful and festive event in the households where he went to work felt like his own. He felt a part of all the laughter and singing in these households. He gradually learnt to cook from Naresh Thakur. He could make curries and kaliyas, koftas and kormas. He became adept at chorb-chosyo-lehyo-peyo, that is, delicacies to chew, lick, suck and drink. Jibon soon became a culinary craftsman who was capable of making everything. And yet, Jibon thought he was merely picking pebbles at the shore of the vast ocean of knowledge.
The art of cooking was the last of the sixty-four arts, but it was an art which knew no limit, something that could never be complete. Jibon learnt that someone had devised a hundred ways of making an omelette, each one tasting different—something he had thought was ready as soon as one cracked an egg on a hot griddle! And then there was someone who knew how to make twenty-two kinds of biryani. He was apparently paid a fee of five thousand rupees, besides the plane fare, to go to some big hotel to prepare a special kind of biryani. Perhaps it was with such delectable food in mind that a disciple of Sri Ramkrishna had said: ‘Poetry is most excellent, but even more excellent is music. More excellent than even music are women. And more excellent than that is food.’
Jibon was very keen to learn as much as he could. If he could find out about some big guru of the profession, he would happily sit at his feet to learn.
Jibon had grown up a bit now. He joined Naresh Thakur whenever there was work, and on the rest of the days, he went with Dukhe to dig earth, assist masons and do whatever else was available. His father, Garib Das could no longer work, he lay at home most days. Now that Jibon had started working, food was cooked once a day at home. But he was terribly afraid. What would happen if his father died? Jibon’s earnings were so meagre that he wouldn’t even be able to afford to get him cremated.
What would he do in that event? Jibon had recently seen the wife and son of a railway porter who had died, lay his body on the road and beg people for alms so that they could cremate him. Jibon had been shaken to the core seeing the dead body. He would never be able to beg like that for anything. And he would not want anyone to have pity on him. What was the use of that? How could anyone give what they did not possess? The very belief that there was ever something called pity or kindness in the world had died in him. When people who were devoid of kindness and empathy flung ten paise towards a pauper, it was as if that money was tainted with disregard, ridicule, contempt and despise. Jibon no longer believed in the thing called kindness.
Take what happened just a few days ago. Jibon and his fellow-workers were all very poor. And so, a kind man had seemingly taken pity on them. But observing his pity, Jibon’s whole being had blazed in rage. He had badly wanted to land a tight slap on the face of the babu pretending to be a ‘good man’.
By now Jibon was able to handle the work of cooking for a hundred people with one or two assistants. And so, when the pressure of work grew during the wedding season, Naresh Thakur assigned him the responsibility, and sent him somewhere or the other. Jibon had also made a bit of a name for himself as the ‘baby cook’!
On the day in question, Jibon and Dukhe had gone to work in a house. After the wedding feast was over, it was time for them to return home with their food bundles. As usual, the two of them had decided to pack the food and take it home. They spread out their gamchhas and laid banana leaves on them. The babus knew they would take it home. They were prepared for that. They put rice and a bit of all the items on the banana leaves. Considering that to be too little, Dukhe could not help saying, ‘Please give us a bit more, babu, it’s too little.’ The kind man responded by saying, ‘Just try to eat all of what I’ve given you and show me! We’re supposed to provide food to you, not to let you stuff your bundles!’
Although the babu had given rather small quantities of the food items, the pot of rossogollas was full. It was a large earthen pot, of the size that could hold about three kilos of mishti-doi. The kind man said in a most generous tone, ‘Take the whole pot.’ Usually, the colour of rossogollas was white. In fact, if it was not white in colour, one couldn’t even call it a rossogolla. But the rossogollas in question were more yellow than white. There was a reason for that. When the last batch of guests were eating, sweets had rained on their plates. The friends of the groom had used rossogollas as missiles to assault one another with.
‘Hey, serve some on this plate!’
‘No, no, no more, please!’
‘I can’t hear you. You have to eat one more.’
‘My tummy will burst.’
‘It won’t.’
Whatever was eaten, found a place in their stomachs. Whatever wasn’t, remained on their plates. Rather than throwing them away, the rossogollas had been picked up and kept in an empty mishti-doi pot. With which the cooks were being remunerated now. Observing that, blood rushed to Jibon’s head in a surge of rage. ‘What have you given us? We haven’t come to your door to beg. We have been sweating from seven in the morning until twelve at night. We’re merely asking for the remuneration for our labour.’
‘Why are you getting angry? What happened?’
‘What happened, you ask! Please have one of those and show us.’ The kind babu was flabbergasted. Ashamed at his sleight of hand being caught, he rushed inside the house to hide his face. Another person then handed out two rossogollas to each of them and slipped away. So now they were reluctant to give them any more than two pieces!
That’s why Jibon viewed people’s kindness with acute disbelief. After all, he had learnt the hard way. He had also been in another house once, and seen just the opposite of such kindness. On that day too, Dukhe was with him.
Their usual routine for a dinner event was to finish all the cutting in the morning, and then attend to all the boiling and frying required. Once that was done, they would eat something, rest a bit and then start cooking in the evening. In this way, the food served was hot, and there was also no worry about the food going bad by late night. So on that day, by the time they finished all the frying and so on, it was two in the afternoon. After washing his hands and feet, Jibon went to ask for food. ‘Please give us our food now.’
‘Food?’ The householder looked surprised. ‘What food?’
‘Won’t we eat?’
‘What’s it to me whether you eat or do something else?’ The householder’s simple response was, ‘Naresh didn’t tell me I’d have to provide food to you people in the afternoon.’
Dukhe muttered timidly, ‘But that does not have to be said. We never need to say this anywhere. Everyone knows about it. That’s why it’s not mentioned specially.’
‘I don’t know about all that,’ the householder said in no uncertain terms.
They had started working at seven in the morning, and hadn’t had anything since then other than a few cups of tea. They were famished. And there were piles of food in front of them. The two starving cooks sat before all that food all day and half the night. There weren’t even any shops nearby from where they could buy something to eat. They didn’t have the option of pilfering any food either, because a man from the household was sitting on a chair in front of them all the time, keeping watch.
*****
Naresh Thakur was faced with a serious problem today. He had on his hands two big jobs at the same time. If both had been around Jadavpur, he could have handled it. But one of the jobs was in faraway Duttabagan, and the other in Behala. What was he to do now, he wondered. It was almost like they were at the two ends of the world. Where would he get all the required workers now? And simply getting hands was no good, they needed to know culinary work.
There seemed to be a surfeit of weddings this month. Wedding pandals were to be seen wherever one looked, on both sides of any road. Not a single cook Naresh Thakur knew was free. All of them had two or three jobs in hand on the auspicious dates. Naresh Thakur was at a loss regarding what he ought to do now.
When the job in Duttabagan had come up some fifteen days back, he had confirmed that and taken an advance. But the job in Behala suddenly came up a few days after that. And it wasn’t just any ordinary client, but a childhood friend of Mahadev Kundu, the principal partner of Mahadev Decorators. The friend used to live in Jadavpur earlier. He had then built a house in Behala and moved there. But the distance had not affected their friendship. If anything, it had only brought them closer. Mahadev babu had told Naresh Thakur, ‘It’s my friend’s daughter’s wedding. There’ll be seven or eight hundred invitees. You can’t send anyone else there to cook. You have to be there, Naresh. If you pull a fast one on me, you’re not going to get any more work from me. Remember that!’
It was Mahadev Decorators that provided Naresh work twelve months a year. He could not afford to antagonize Mahadev babu. But who would handle Duttabagan, a job that involved cooking for three hundred people?
Would Jibon be able to cook for three hundred people?
It was a simple menu. Rice, begun bhaja, dal, fish kaliya, mutton curry and chutney. Jibon was well trained now, he would be able to do it all right. If the menu had chops and luchis, he wouldn’t be able to manage.
‘Tell me, can you do it?’ Naresh Thakur asked Jibon.
But it was Megha, one of the helpers, who replied, ‘I tell you, Jibon can do it. Send Dukhe along with him.’
The job was for dinner the next day. Naresh Thakur sent them off that very evening. They could get the stoves and fuelwood and so on ready beforehand. He said, ‘When you reach there, tell the babu that Naresh Thakur suddenly came down with fever. That’s why he was unable to come and sent us instead. Make sure you tell him that. And when the job’s done, ask him for the payment. He’s paid an advance of ten rupees, so there’s forty rupees remaining.’
The address had been written on a slip of paper. The directions had also been explained orally. They reached the address after an hour’s journey by train and a further twenty-minute walk. They had no difficulty in finding the house. After all, it was not in the city, where people living in buildings did not know who lived on the floor above them. Duttabagan was a village. Everyone knew everyone else. And it was a well-off region. Although people did not have loads of cash, they were wealthy in terms of their harvest of paddy, jute, sesame, mustard and so on. Almost every family owned a hundred or a hundred-and-fifty bighas of agricultural land, and to cultivate the land, there were ploughs, bullocks, tractors as well as farmhands and cowherds employed throughout the year. Although the government had enacted a land ceiling law in the mid-1950s, which limited land ownership to about seventeen acres, it was full of loopholes. It was a simple matter to retain the land by registering it in others’ names.
Jibon and Dukhe arrived at the ceremonial house in the evening. The compound of the house itself spanned almost three bighas of land. There was a pond, an orchard, a vegetable garden, as well as a cattle shed in the compound. Scattered here and there among the trees and greenery were several pukka and semi-pukka structures. But whatever the condition of the structures might be, there was a large, polished and beautiful courtyard in the middle. The head of the household, the landlord, reclined on an easychair in the courtyard. He did not have the pipe of a hookah in his hand, or else one might have mistaken him for a zamindar in a Bengali film. His bare torso seemed to glisten in the light of the Petromax lamp. He had a muscular body and a hairy chest. There was a bracelet on his wrist and a gold chain around his neck. And a brahmin’s thread slung arrogantly around his chest.
The landlord had seven sons—which was why the house was also known as shaatbheyer bari, or ‘seven brothers’ house’—and one daughter. All of them were married. Each of the daughters-in-law seemed to be walking jewellery stores. There were heaps of jewellery on their hands, ears, necks, heads and everywhere else. Jibon had never seen so much gold except in the showcase of a jewellery store.
The house had not yet been decorated. Or perhaps it was because Jibon was used to seeing the lights and decorations in Calcutta that he did not know what the usual kind of decoration in such parts was like. There were two people at the entrance, putting up bamboo posts on each side. A gateway would come up there.
When Jibon and Dukhe went and stood before the landlord, seeing the ladles and spuds in their hands, he asked brusquely, ‘Where’s Naresh? Hasn’t he come?’ Hearing his voice, Dukhe began to tremble. He remembered an ancient saying of rural Bengal— ‘jaar golay dhan, taar kothay taan, the one with paddy in his granary, has a voice extraordinary’. Hearing his voice, he realised this babu’s granary was indeed large.
In trepidation, Dukhe replied, ‘He suddenly …’
‘He suddenly fell ill, isn’t it?’
‘That’s what he said.’
‘Look there!’
‘Where?’
‘There!’
In an empty space in front was a pile of lengths of hewn wood, stacked high. That would be used for firewood tomorrow. Pointing to that, the landlord said, ‘If the food turns out bad, I’ll break one of those on your backs ... Thinks he’s too clever ... Thinks he can send just anyone here and get away with it. If he couldn’t come he should have said so. Is there any shortage of cooks here! Which of you is the cook?’
Frightened, Jibon pointed at Dukhe, while Dukhe pointed at Jibon. Seeing their nervous state, the landlord said, ‘I don’t need to know who’ll cook. I’ll just look at the food. If it’s bad, I’ll have the skin off your backs, I warn you!’
The cooking area had been readied on one side of the courtyard, under a tarpaulin sheet. Arriving there, Dukhe trembled with fear—who knew what would happen. Hearing that the cooks had arrived, everyone in the house came to have a look. As if a thief had been apprehended, none of those who came had anything nice to say. Everyone seemed to be in a frenzy to thrash thieving imposters, and to sling them right away on gallows.
The place given to them to stay the night was an open verandah outside the house. There was a jute field in front of that. If someone crept through the field, there was no way anyone could spot them. Dukhe was unable to sleep out of fear. Later at night, he whispered to Jibon, ‘Jibon, hey Jibon, let’s run away. One can’t be sure about the cooking. Sometimes it’s good, and sometimes it’s bad. One can’t be certain about who Ma Annapurna is annoyed with and when. If things turn out bad, we won’t be able to leave this house with our lives intact!’
Full of self-confidence, Jibon silenced him. ‘Tomorrow’s job can be thought about tomorrow. It’s only if the food’s bad that he’ll thrash us, he won’t beat us before that. Keep quiet and go to sleep, Dukhe-da. Have faith in me.’
‘But I’m scared ...’
‘There’s nothing to be worried about. Go to sleep.’
Jibon was no great soul blessed with powers of divine speech. What was the guarantee that his words would turn out to be true and that there was really no need to be frightened! Dukhe was indeed scared. It was almost as if his fear had incarnated into a myriad demons who hovered around him with gaping maws. He was unable to sleep. He stayed awake most of the night.
The cooking began the next morning. Dukhe instructed Jibon, ‘You must check each and every item. Get the babu’s approval for salt, spice and taste. Don’t take the food off the fire until they say it’s good. Let’s see whether we can somehow get through this calamity by God’s grace.’
Jibon knew how to ensure that the food turned out to be excellent. The stove had to burn properly, and the food ought not to get burnt. Salt and spice had to be just right. Everything had to be well-cooked. The cook’s sense of application, care and measure was vital. He had to correctly follow the same procedure as during an earlier instance when the cooking was good.
The food did turn out to be excellent. It was indeed a major accomplishment on the part of Jibon at such a young age. The invitees, including those who were practiced frequenters of feasts, relished and ate to their satisfaction, and praised the cooking. One of the guests also took their address; it was they who would cook for his son’s wedding. A smile finally appeared on Dukhe’s face, and Jibon felt the weight of responsibility lifting from his young shoulders. But just then, without any prior intimation, an unexpected calamity landed upon them.
*****
The landlord of the house had seven sons and a daughter. The daughter was married to a man from Jadavpur. The son-in-law was in the transport business. He had a couple of lorries. He had earlier been a local tough, who made the locality tremble in fear. He changed his ways after he got married, and became a worker of a particular political party. It was at his son-in-law’s sister’s wedding that the landlord of this house had tasted Naresh Thakur’s food, and decided that he would bring this cook from Calcutta for his granddaughter’s annoprashon ceremony where the baby would be fed rice for the first time. But now, the son-in-law from Calcutta had recognised Dukhe.
It was very late at night. In rural areas, it was pitch black at this time. All the guests and visitors had eaten, stuffed paan in their mouths and taken their leave. The light from the Petromax lamps was close to extinguishing. Just then, the son-in-law called out to his youngest brother-in-law agitatedly. Pointing at Dukhe, he shouted: ‘You had the cooking done by this fellow! How disgusting!’
The young brother-in-law could not understand what the matter was. He asked, ‘Why, what happened?’
‘This banchod cleaned our drains day-before-yesterday. You fucker, you got some keowra or katua or scavenger to cook for you without bothering to find out what his caste was?’
This was a dire offence indeed. A person who cleaned drains was untouchable. Let alone touching a brahmin’s food, even coming into his sight was an unpardonable offence. It was not only about what he had done – how he had the gall was the main issue now. After all, this was cheating, a fraud, deception.
The son-in-law’s enraged eyes were as red as hibiscus. After having sat in the concealment of the banana grove, downing two bottles of country liquor with hot and spicy mutton liver, his tongue was a bit swollen. His speech slurred. He called Jibon and Dukhe and took them towards the same banana grove, which lay in darkness. ‘Come here! Stand straight. Tell me the correct answers to whatever I ask you! First of all, tell me your names! Tell me your dad’s name!’
Jibon and Dukhe were illiterate, low-caste, labouring folk. They knew how to dig earth, break stones and harvest paddy. They did not know how to make a garland of words like a skilled wordsmith, and prove truth to be false and falsehood to be true. How could two ordinary, ordinary bumpkins from rural Bengal do what was possible on the part of a clever, educated person? And so, with just a bit of interrogation, and some ordinary third-degree treatment, they blurted out their names and personal details in distress. It was found out that one was a Keowra, and the other a Chandal. In the caste system, both were untouchable, polluted—people from whose hands water could not be drunk.
The darkness and desolation of the night seemed to exacerbate the son-in-law’s caste pride. He possessed physical strength, a mean mind, money in his pocket and liquor in his belly. He dragged the two unfortunate wretches to the middle of the empty field on the further side of the banana grove. The slaps and punches that had rained down on them so far were merely by way of routine investigation. Now the court’s verdict was declared: ‘Rub your face on the earth and crawl till that jackfruit tree. Keep saying that you’ll never enter a brahmin’s kitchen!’
On the way back, neither of them said a word. Jibon and Dukhe didn’t even raise their heads to look at anyone. Both of them were scorching to death, each one in his own way, in a secret agony. After a while, Dukhe broke out in a wail, ‘Ora kyan marlo re Jibon! Why did they thrash us?’
Jibon did not know the answer to that. But after a few days, Mahadev babu, of Mahadev Decorators, somehow got the news that they had stolen something and got caught, and that they were thrashed and then let off.
This is an excerpt from the novel, 'The Nemesis', by Manoranjan Byapari, the second part of the author's 'Chandal Jibon Trilogy', to be published by Eka, an imprint of Westland Publications, in 2022. The translator gratefully acknowledges the Charles Wallace India Trust and Literature Across Frontiers for the Fellowship in Creative Writing and Translation at Aberystwyth University that enabled the translation.
Manoranjan Byapari was born in the early-1950s in Barishal, Bangladesh. His family migrated to West Bengal in India when he was three. They were resettled in Bankura at the Shiromanipur refugee camp. They were subsequently forced to shift to the Ghola Doltala refugee camp, in 24 Parganas, and lived there till 1969. However, Byapari had to leave home at the age of fourteen to do odd jobs. In his early twenties, he came into contact with the Naxals, and he landed up in jail after that, where he taught himself to read and write. Subsequently he joined the famous labour activist Shankar Guha Niyogi, founder of the Chhattisgarh Mukti Morcha at the Dalli Rajhara Mines, who were leading a struggle to reclaim Adivasi lands from the feudal lords who had appropriated them. Later, while working as a rickshaw-puller in Kolkata, Byapari had a chance encounter in 1981 with the renowned Bengali writer Mahasweta Devi, who urged him to write for her journal Bartika. He has published twelve novels and over seventy short stories since. Some of his important works include Ittibrite Chandal Jibon (an autobiographt), Amanushik, the Chandal Jibon trilogy of novels, Anya Bhubon and Motua Ek Mukti Senar Naam. Until 2018, he worked as a cook at the Helen Keller Institute for the Deaf and Blind in West Bengal. Byapari's first major recognition came in 2014, when he received the Suprabha Majumdar Prize, awarded by the Paschimbanga Bangla Akademi, for Ittibrite Chandal Jibon. In 2018, Interrogating My Chandal Life, the English translation of this autobiography by Sipra Mukherjee, was awarded the Hindu Prize for non-fiction. He is currently the chairman of the Dalit Sahitya Akademi in Bengal and was elected to the West Bengal Legislative Assembly in 2021.
V. Ramaswamy translates Bengali voices from the margins. He is best known for his long-term engagement with the anti-establishment writer, Subimal Misra, with The Golden Gandhi Statue from America: Early Stories, Wild Animals Prohibited: Stories, Anti-Stories, and This Could Have Become Ramayan Chamar's Tale: Two Anti-Novels. The final Misra volume, The Earth Quakes, is under publication. Ramaswamy's translation of The Runaway Boy, the first novel in the Chandal Jibon trilogy by Manoranjan Byapari, was published in 2020. The Nemesis, the second part of the trilogy, will be published in 2022. He was awarded the first Literature Across Frontiers – Charles Wallace India Trust fellowship in creative writing and translation in 2016 to translate the Chandal Jibon novels. Ramaswamy's translations of Memories of Arrival: A Voice from the Margins, by Adhir BIswas, and Life and Political Reality: Two Novellas, by Shahidul Zahir (of Bangladesh), are also forthcoming in 2022.