“Headless Torso” is my translation of the novel , “মুন্ডুহীন ধড়” written by the late author Shaibal Mitra. Shaibal
Mitra , my Bengali teacher in Maulana Azad College of Calcutta , had exceptional authority over Bengali language & its literature. He was also an active
participant during the political turmoil that had taken over Calcutta &
Bengal during the tumultuous days of the late sixties and early seventies. He
had to undergo imprisonment for his
“secessionist” activities during those times.
“মুন্ডুহীন ধড়, ” is part of a genre of 5 novels written by Shaibal
Mitra, brilliantly capturing the troublesome times of Bengal during the
sixties & seventies and is available in a book named , “পাঁচটি বজ্রনির্ঘোষের উপন্যাস.” “বজ্রনির্ঘোষ” loosely refers to the “announcement
of the spring thunder” by the Chinese state-controlled Peking radio in the early
seventies heralding the Naxalite uprising in independent India. “Headless Torso”
captures the lives among college students immersed as they were in rebellious revolutionary
politics, in keeping with the times. It’s written with an embedded
casually-romantic spirit of an young man caught up with the reality around him.
A dry & wry sense of humour is a constant companion in the original book. I
have tried to keep the same spirit in every line of the book . Even the names
of all common items have been retained and hence the translation might appear
to be slightly strange to a non-Calcuttan reader. For a Bengali reader, there can be nothing better than buying the original
Bengali version.
Headless
Torso
Chapter
1: Inner Chamber
In the year 1961, when there
were only 17,000 communists in this state, I had purchased a copy of the “Communist Manifesto”
in Bengali for a princely sum of 75 paisa. This book could be bought only from
one shop in Calcutta. Enquiring at the
shop, I found out that it sold 200-225 copies of the “Communist Manifesto.”
Forty years back, when being a communist meant being under the fear of getting beaten up, it was
not a mean achievement to be selling
200+ copies of the “Communist Manifesto.” Telephones were in so few houses that
one could literally count them on one’s hand. Leave aside television sets, even
transistor radios were not items to be found in every home. Red coloured
double-decker buses, that had tiger’s busts painted on the side, used to
ply on the roads of Calcutta. The beautifully decked-up red double-deckers seemingly portrayed the presence of Royal Bengal Tigers in our neighborhood. The minimum bus-fare was 10 paisa while it
was 3 paisa in the second class coach of a tram. The meter-down fare in taxis
was 50 paisa. A ride from College Street to Dakhshineswar in a taxi would cost
between Rs.7 to Rs.7.50. The practice of paying extra fare over and above the
taxi-meter reading hadn’t started yet. During my student days, I had once accompanied
an young woman to Dakshineswar with the mistaken notion that she could be my
fiancé. In the late evening, we’d taken a boat across the Hoogly to Belur Math and then back again to
Dakshineswar, where we had settled down facing each other inside a curtained cubicle of a restaurant and devoured spicy Cutlets with bottles of Cocacola. A bottle of Cocacola cost
only 50 paisa. Our bill in the restaurant was near about Rs.10. I had bought a pack of cigarettes for 19 paisa. The
cheapest and also the strongest brand of cigarettes used to cost only 19 paisa
for a pack of ten. I never purchased more than half-a-pack at a time although
my daily requirement was about one and a
half packets. Even if I had to share a
couple of sticks with friends, I would ensure to recover them by the end of the day.
Just before reaching home at night , I’d buy my last half-pack. Since it was not possible to pay
9.5 paisa for those 5 sticks, I’d sigh in silence every night for losing those
precious half a paisa. There was a reason for that sigh. My daily pocket-money
was limited to just Rs.1.
During that time ,suddenly
one day with more than a little persuasion from Surjo Ghoshal, I had purchased a copy of
Communist Manifesto. Surjo’s full name was Surjo Shankar Ghoshal. Surjo’s
father, Tara Shankar Ghoshal was a famous doctor in his locality and was
referred by all and sundry as Tara-daktar. Although Tara-daktar was a
mere LMF licence holder (as opposed to a regular MBBS), his reputation was
unparalleled. Its widely believed that Mir Kasim, the last independent Nawab of
Bengal, had gifted a sword to the grandfather of great-grandmother of
Tara-daktar. By generations of inheritance, the sword had become Tara-daktar’s
property and he used it as a surgical instrument to remove piles. Tara-daktar
had completed 17000 piles operations in his 3 decades of practice and he was so
skillful in this unusual use of the sword that patients didn’t feel any pain during the operations.
It was Surjo who had narrated this remarkable tale while describing his
father’s professional success. I had good reasons to believe Surjo. For
Tara-daktar was a popular person and never hankered after money. Although they
were not short of money , either , as was evident from the generous way Surjo used
to spend his money .
I am not sure as to how Surjo had become a
communist. Although I was six years junior to him , in College I would look upto him as a prominent student leader. Couple of
times in a day, he would stand on a small stool in front of the college gate to
deliver his fiery speeches. Impressed by his oratory skills, I soon became
a diehard fan of Surjo. Although Surjo
was only eight years older to me, he had a grave personality, like that of a
family-elder. Surjo would be dressed in a white Dhoti & a white Punjabi. As he used to walk very fast, the end
of the dhoti that was lodged in the pockets of his Punjabi would fall off
frequently. In fact sometimes the back-lock of the Dhoti would also get dislodged. Surjo cared little. Quickly
lodging back the end of his Dhoti in the right place, he’d resume his walking .
Surjo generally would start off from his home at around half past ten &
reach college by noon. Surjo rarely
attended classes. I wasn’t even sure of the time when he’d go back home
although I could guess that it
wasn’t before 11p.m; since I never used
to be free from him till about 9.45p.m. Surjo would always hold me back late as
he was neck-deep in work.
My late-night returns
invited frequent rebukes from my parents. By that time , I was used to them and
generally remained silent. Surjo would often pick me up even before the college
had ended for the day. I would accompany him by foot from Shyambazar to Dharmatola , a number of
times. Surjo would drop by at the party office, at the office of the students’
union or at the canteens of colleges en-route to discuss plans & strategies
with local leaders. A cup of tea was the
usual feature at the canteens and
in case luck was good he’d get sweetmeats like Rosogolla & Rajbhog or salty items like Chops and Cutlets
to go with the tea. Needless to say, I happily partook of my share in them.
Just as I was addicted to cigarettes , Surjo was addicted to Rajbhogs. Surjo’s
father Tara-daktar was addicted to Rabri, introduced to him by the maverick
writer Shibram Chakrabarty. Shibram and Tara-daktar were close friends. Since (
thanks to his father), Rabri was a regular at his home, Surjo’s favourite sweet
was Rajbhog. While on his daily trail from his home to college and then onwards
to Shyambazar, College Street &
Dharmatola; Surjo would stop by at any big sweet shop and devour minimum
four big sized Rajbhogs. Not at one go though but over two to three such stops.
Surjo knew the exact timings at every such shop when piping-hot fresh Rajbhogs were taken off the giant woks. I wasn’t fond of Rajbhogs.
Sometimes when Surjo would insist, I’d partake one. Surjo’s heart and stomach
were very simply designed. As simple as a straight rain-pipe attached to a
house-wall. The Rajbhogs after ingestion would swiftly reach his intestines and
normally they would be excreted in one
of the three familiar houses on the way
from Hedua to Bowbazar. I would then while away my time smoking a cigarette standing
on the footpath. Surjo would be back within 5-7 minutes after clearing his
stomach. This was a daily ritual, often happening more than once.
Gradually I was becoming a
fan of Surjo. One day Surjo informed that he was a member of the communist
party and he wants to make me a party-member too. Just when I was trying hard to rise up to his expectations, I got
separated from Surjo. Rather I was snatched away from Surjo by none other than
Surjo’s friend, Uday Sen. Besides being Surjo’s friend , Uday was also his
leader. It was Uday who enlisted Surjo as a member of the communist party. In a
sense, Uday can be called my leader’s leader. As in a family, the staus of Uday can be likened to
a father’s father or to a grandfather. Uday was in his thirties. He was
employed with Calcutta Corporation as a Ward-master. Uday’s work was to keep a
record of all the garbage-trucks that left at morning from the Moulali garage
of the corporation and then returned at evening. In the hot summer months, Uday
would be standing in front of the garage-gate with his record-book. His head
would be smeared with the juice of Keshut leaves. Uday was losing hair like
nobody’s business. He was as worried about the purity of socialist ideology as
he was with his hair-loss. Uday would
stuff me with stories that Surjo was not only a fake communist but also an
agent of the capitalists and a police informer in disguise. He gave
indisputable proofs to substantiate his stories. When it rains in Peking, real communists would
always leave home with an umbrella but Surjo never did. That was the first
proof. Instead Surjo would roam around
the city with his dark sunglasses whenever it was sunny in Moscow. All
those who followed Soviet Russia over China were fake communists &
informers of the police.
Uday’s reasoning had substance.
His second proof was about Surjo’s fondness with Rajbhogs. The name of the
sweet as such gave ample indication that
it was the food of the ruler-cum-exploiter class. If the sweet was named as
Janatabhog, then there would have been nothing to complain about.
Irrefutable logic! I didn’t
have any other option but to accept it. I believed Uday and ended my relationship with Surjo. I still
hadn’t read the communist manifesto that Surjo had advised me to buy. Actually,
I was overawed by the “Introduction” chapter
of that thin book . The “Introduction” chapter ran into 33 pages covering all the seven
editions that had been published till then. The main part of the book followed
the introduction. But I did read the first line “The history of all societies
is always a history of class-struggles”; as well as the last line ,” Proletariats have nothing to lose but
their chains.” Whatever I had understood
from those two lines was enough for me to declare to Surjo that I had read the
manifesto and had found it extremely meaningful.
Surjo was happy to hear my words.
The first and the last lines of the manifesto were known to him too. In each of
his speeches, Surjo would mention those two lines. Occasionally Surjo would
also tell me those two lines. It wasn’t long before I followed his path. Just
as made-up lines spoken repeatedly appear as absolute truth to an orator, the same phenomenon
happened to me. An idea, that the complete manifesto had been memorized, got
embedded in my psyche. When I would talk about the manifesto for half an hour
without a break, even Surjo used to get impressed. Hardcore socialist theoreticians would shower
praises on my knowledge. Some among my
old friends who knew about my actual
academic abilities started avoiding me. Some would snigger behind my back
calling me an idiot.
But by that time my
fan-following had increased by such an extent that I cared little about who was
silent or who abused me. I was realizing that it wasn’t going to be long for me
to become a real communist. My new guru, the record-keeper of corporation’s
garbage-trucks, Uday Sen would frequently remind me so. Right at that moment,
an incident shook me up completely .
Round about two years prior
to that incident, there was another man who had accompanied me to the shop that
sold the communist manifestos. He was Arindam. We were batch-mates in college.
Arindam was an introvert and spoke very little. That evening along with me,
Arindam had also bought a copy of the
communist manifesto as well as three more books of varying sizes. The subject
matter of all the books was similar; related as they were to socialism. Arindam
knew Surjo but unlike me he was not Surjo’s disciple. Rather he tactfully
avoided Surjo. I didn’t have any idea about Arindam’s guru or whether he had
any at all. But he would mention Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose’s name with
respect. Within a month of buying the manifesto and the other three books,
Arindam had finished reading them and would regularly hustle me to sit
together for a discussion. I would buy
time by giving one excuse or the other. As preparation for the discussion, he
had even given me the other three books, besides the manifesto, to read. Although I had casually flipped
through those books before dropping them in my Jhola, I had hardly found time
to read them.
Arindam was more intelligent
than me. More honest and frank too. Soon
he understood that my reading was limited to my text books.
He was disappointed and never again
mentioned to me about the dates for
discussion. But when he realized that eighty percent of the party-members had
similar knowledge as mine, he was dumbfounded. Whenever he came across in the
college, he’d gaze at me from behind his thick eyeglasses for a moment and walk
away. With cringing uneasiness, I would
mutter to him , “we need to discuss, let’s sit together, soon.”
I could barely hear his
reply. I understood later that in Arindam’s presence some of my five senses
stopped functioning. Since I realized
that till I finish reading the manifesto & the other three books, my senses
would not regain their natural functions; I started arranging the books in
order to read them. Just then the “food-movement” erupted across the
entire state of West Bengal. That was a
tumultuous time. Leftist leaders, half-leaders started filling up the jails in
the state. I too was jailed for a fortnight. While reading a newspaper in the
Alipore jail, I discovered that Arindam
has been killed in police firing at Uttarpara. When I was getting to be sure of
the fact that the “college-student Arindam Sanyal” mentioned in the paper was
actually my batch-mate; news of a death of another Arindam at the hands of
police in Krishnanagar was published within 24 hours of the first news. He too
was a college student but his surname was Bhowmik. While I was getting riddled
whether my friend’s actual surname was Sanyal or Bhowmik; the next-day morning
paper arrived with the news of a death of another Arindam in the Medinipur
town. Although this last news item
didn’t mention his vocation or surname, it did indicate that his age was around
20-21 years. By this time , almost 37 people had died in the food movement. I
wasn’t sure whether anyone else other than myself had noticed that there were
three dead men with the same name. When I mentioned this to my cell-mates in
the jail, they were surprised but didn’t pay much heed to it. That was the
first time, I had a brain-wave erupting in my head. I realized that the path, that I
had travelled along with Surjo Ghoshal
while gorging on Chops, Cutlets
& Rajbhogs from Shyambazar to Bowbazar, didn’t necessarily end at the three toilets along the way. I was praying
deep inside that my college-mate was not one of the three departed Arindams. A discussion with him regarding the
communist manifesto & the other three books was still pending . He has no
right to die before the discussion was over. I will read all the four
books, once I’m released from the
prison. I will read them just as seriously as I have read text books; by shutting
myself in my room and by staying awake
all night.
Even though I wasn’t aware if Arindam was dead or alive;
his ghost was all over me during the last seven days of my stay in the jail.
That ghost which doesn’t have any
shadow. Not dead but a live ghost. They reside within living people. Sometimes
they surface and surprise others. And then they vanish in thin air. People
rarely remember incidents where they see such ghosts. I was reminded during my
stay in jail of two more such incidents where I had seen Arindam’s ghost.
Arindam’s ghost was then wearing a light
yellow coloured Poplin shirt with the sleeves rolled up over a white cotton Dhoti.
I was taken aback on seeing Arindam’s ghost, twice. First time it happened when he played the tabla accompanying
Kalpalata’s vocals during a cultural function of the college. While the second
incident occurred when he had flawlessly recited thirty-five slokes from the Gita,
starting with “jada jadahi dharmashya,” the seventh sloka of the fourth chapter till
the very end. He was reciting the slokas at the weekly prayer class of the Christian college.
Although his voice was drowned amid the chorus of “O God, give us today our
daily bread” inside the big hall of the Christian
college; those who were nearby heard him clearly. I was one of them. On my
right was Daniel Srinivasan of the fourth year, in front was the fresher
Stephen Anadi Mondol but I don’t recall now who was behind me. Although they
were irritated to hear someone reciting slokas during a biblical recital, they
neither stopped praying nor did they look at him. At the end of the prayer ,
they had quietly left the hall. I didn’t realize that Arindam was reciting
slokas from the Gita. I hadn’t read Gita. How many college-students have read
Gita anyway? How many read Gita even after finishing college or university
studies? Gita need not be read as a religious book; it can also be read as a
chapter of the Mahabharata. If one reads the Gita, the Koran or the Bible only for
the sake of reading ; it’s very difficult to stop once having started.
Those were not my words but
Arindam’s. The taciturn Arindam had told me so in private. My sighting of the
ghost happened when I was shocked to hear an ordinary classmate of mine recite
Gita at the Bible class. That was the second time. The first time I saw his
ghost was three months prior to this incident during an evening at the college
cultural function. It was a competition of Hindustani classical vocals among
college students. Some of them were real talented vocalists. They had brought along with them their own musical instruments.
Harmonium, Taanpura and also their own tabla-players. Kalpalata’s turn was third in that event.
During her fresher year, she had won the first prize in classical vocals. Even
in competitive events featuring songs from Nazrul or Tagore, she was the number
one. After her name was announced, the hall fell completely silent. A student carried
her harmonium & the tabla to the
stage. Kalpalata’s friend, Bonani went up carrying the tanpura. Everybody was
awaiting Kalpalata to take the stage with her tabla player. Seconds ticked by.
The judges were whispering among themselves. Impatient listeners were clearing
their throats. At the backstage, it was a dramatic situation. Kalpalata had
tears in her eyes and was unable to even speak. Her regular tabla player, an Ustad, hadn’t yet reached. Her name was already called
thrice over the public announcement
system. Arindam was standing beside me while Bibhash was trying to explain
something to him. As Arindam started to walk away pretending not to hear Bibhash; suddenly Bibhash raised his voice,
“There is a limit to everything, Arindam. You won’t lose anything if you accompany Kalpalata on the table for five minutes.”
Arindam: “I don’t play the tabla.”
Bibhash: “That’s all bunkum.”
Kalpalata was as surprised
as I was hearing the conversation
between Bibhash & Arindam. In order to rescue Kalpalata from the precarious
situation she was in , I had decided to extend my helping hand. In a low tone ,
I had said to Arindam, “Please help her out this time.”
Arindam had acceded to my
request. The same Kalpalata, who had not even cared to cast a glance at Arindam
earlier; now clutched at him just as a drowning person clutches at a straw. “Save me, please.”
I’ve never before heard a
haughty girl like Kalpalata speak in such a soft manner. And never after too. Arindam could not refuse Kalpalata’s plea.
The students present were surprised to
see Kalpalata take the stage along with Arindam. Till he sat at the tabla, none
could guess that he was the tabla-palyer. They couldn’t believe their own eyes.
Kalpalata looked nervous with anxiety as she wasn’t sure what’s going to
happen. Only when Arindam played a couple of notes on the tabla, Kalpalata sat
up straight and laid her fingers on the harmonium reeds. Kalpalata had sung
“Bajubandh khulu khulu jai.” Arindam accompanied her vocals like a professional
musician and once it was over, he left the stage as well as the function . He
wasn’t to be seen for the entire evening
thereafter. Although his performance was highly praised that evening,
there wasn’t any one who remembered it later. The memory of ghost-sighting was
forgotten. Kalpalata got the first prize in classical vocals consecutively for the second time . Her
classmates were highly appreciative. I wasn’t any connoisseur of Hindustani
classical music. My appreciation of music was limited to popular songs, movie-songs
as well as modern Bengali songs played on request from listeners of the radio. I was more
interested in listening to the songs that I know rather than to unknown songs.
Classical music went over my head. Neither did I have any interest in listening
to such music. So, Kalpalata’s rendition of the classic “bajubandh khulu khulu
jai” didn’t particularly leave any
impression on me . But what really was impressive was Arindam’s mastery on the tabla. I’d have
never known that one could extract such perfect & melodic notes from a pair of cheap & grotesque- shaped
percussion instruments like the tabla. I
have never listened to tabla so attentively. How much I tried, I couldn’t think
how Arindam learned to play the tabla .
This first sighting of Arindam’s ghost was repeated again in the bible
class. Although the after-effects of the first incident of ghost-sighting was
unknown but when the ghost was seen for the second time in the Bible class, the
authorities in the college were struck with fear.
The Principal , when he
learned of Arindam’s recitation of slokas from the Gita in the Bible class, had
summoned him from the class by sending a
small note to him. What happened in that meeting was unknown to the other
students. But I was aware of the conversation between the two since I had continuously pestered Arindam to reveal me the details.
The Principal, a Bengali
Christian, was enraged at Arindam for reciting Gita-slokas in a Bible class and
had asked him, in very strong words, to
leave the college for good. Arindam had stood in silence in front of the
Principal. He was afraid. Just before the Principal was intending to summon the
head-clerk for making arrangements to summarily expel Arindam from the college;
Arindam had spoken. “Sir, doesn’t a student of a secular country have the rights to recite slokas from his own
religious book in a religion class?”
Upon hearing his question,
the Principal had been unsettled. After regaining his stern composure, he had
asked Arindam to take his seat. After a few banal exchange of words, the
Principal had discussed about the
religion class with Arindam. A few days later, his order on the same line was
pasted on the college notice board. The summary of the order was , that from
then-on it was not compulsory for all
students to attend the Bible class. Only interested students would be
welcome.
The Principal had requested
Arindam to keep the subject matter of the discussion strictly confidential.
Although the taciturn Arindam wanted to keep it that way, we couldn’t let go
of the opportunity to politicize the
incident. We beat our own drums ,
shouted from rooftops and publicized everywhere the role of the students’ union
in protecting the secular environment of
the college. On Arindam’s earnest request, we had tried our best to keep him
behind the scene. But we had failed. Arindam appeared apologetic whenever he
used to enter the classroom. Later he
vanished from the scene for a few days.
I had noticed his absence but decided to
overlook. A week later, he came to the
college and wanted to fix a date with me for a discussion on the manifesto and
on the three other books. I requested a month’s time under the pretext of some
important work that I was involved with. Arindam gazed at me with painful eyes
for a few seconds and then walked away.
In the next 30 days, I would
have met Arindam a couple of times. Even after a month had passed by, Arindam
didn’t show any inclination to discuss the four books. I was relieved. And
that’s how Arindam’s ghost gradually disappeared from my psyche.
End of Chapter 1.
To be continued..
Copyright of translation: JAS 2013
