mar 18, 2012 p3

8/2/2019 Mar 18, 2012 P3

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B ANGLES jingled. I lookedaround. I saw no one. Af-ter a while, a bawarchi put

a liquor bottle and a glass beforeBerkley Sahab. He fetched me acup of coffee. Berkley Sahab hadalready started drinking. I, too,started sipping my coffee but my mind was wondering whereChameli Memsaab was.

Berkley Sahab was gulping down one bottle after another. I

  was amazed at his drinking prowess. He was sitting, puffing on his pipe intermittently, im-mune to any external influence.Maybe he understood I was notfeeling at home. He told me he

 was very happy that day becauseI was beside him talking anddrinking coffee.

I felt embarrassed. So I didn’tobject to him. But I couldn’t holdback my curiosity about himanymore. I simply said: “Why don’t you go back to England?”

“Shut up. Who are you to ask that question?” yelled Berkley Sahab, hurling a look of spite andhatred at me, just as a snake

 would spreads its hood imme-diately after being injured.

I bowed my head. Berkley Sa-hab, realising that he had react-ed sharply, walked up to me and

patted my shoulder, and asked

me not to get him wrong.I didn’t misunderstand him.It was getting dark. I took leave

of Berkley Sahab. When I was re-turning home, one thing was lin-gering on my mind: why is thereso much disparity of human life?Someone gets everything in life,someone doesn’t get anything.The pain of not achieving whatone wants can be deeply felt inthe harshest moment of life.Someone experiences that mo-ment, someone doesn’t. Thatmoment did not come to Berkley Sahab either.

In the dead of night, Berkley Sahab told me of things abouthis life, things that were perhaps– or perhaps not – known to oth-ers in the tea estate. But I guessno one knew whatI knew abouthim.

B e r k l e y  Sahab toldme how he fell inlove with agirl, calledC h a m e l i ,

  working inthe teap l a n t a -tion, how h i s

love for her deepened, and how he finally brought her to hisbungalow. He didn’t hide any-thing about his feelings for her;he candidly asked Chameli’s fa-ther, Birbal Sardar, if he wouldallow him to take her to his bun-galow. Birbal Sardar found noreason to disagree. Chameli of Line 2 became Memsaab.Chameli Memsaab.

Days went off well for Berkley Sahab and Chameli Memsaab.It was not long before a misfor-tune befell them. Berkley Sahabhad a gnawing suspicion thatChameli was out of condition,

 which he initially chose to over-look, treating it as a simple thing.He let his physician friend know the matter the day he had comeas a guest to the tea estate. After examining Chameli, the

doctor looked grave. “It’s a caseof leprosy. Her body shows clearsymptoms of the disease,” saidthe doctor. Berkley Sahab

breathed a sigh of frustration.

Chamelic r i e d .Berkley S a h a bcouldn’t

b ea r

seeing her cry. He decided thatChameli would live separately.He had a house built to the eastof the tea plantation. All the peo-ple on the tea estate came toknow of this. Berkley Sahabarranged for her treatment butit yielded no result. After a few months, Chameli gave birth to ababy girl. That day Berkley Sa-hab, forgetting all his sorrow,smiled and so did Chameli. Thencame a day when Chamelilaughed until she wept. Berkley Sahab became very sad again.The growth of the hands and legsof the little girl was not in pro-portion to her age. She had notspoken a single word even afterthree years of her birth. The doc-tor said: “.....”

Berkley Sahab was overcome with grief. The worse was yetto come.

He made a point of seeing Chameli every day but neverstayed with her at night. Thatday, too, he went to Chameli.

  When he wanted to leaveChameli in the still of the night,

she told him that she would

probably never get well, for herentire body was becoming dys-functional. She wished him togive her company as she feltsomething was going to happento her that night.

Berkley Sahab didn’t stay back.He consoled her with deep loveand then went away.

Chameli also left him. And she was gone.

Next morning there was a com-motion on the tea estate. Berkley Sahab arrived at the scene. Thebody of Chameli was still hang-ing at the school. A green saree

 was wrapped around her neck.It was a ghastly sight. Flies wereswarming all over the body anda stench pervaded the air aroundthe school building.

Berkley Sahab told me thosethings impassively. After sometime, he finished off the bottleand asked me to follow him intothe inner part of his bungalow.It was a neatly ordered room

 with a bed in a corner. A mos-quito net hung on the bed. As I

 was hesitant, he himself took meclose to the bed. Pointing to the bed, he said: “Look,she’s sleeping.”

 A girl, as innocent as a flower,

 was sleeping, a girl who will nev-er live like a human being; hersis a living death. On hearing the

  jingle of bangles I turned my head. The ayah was coming. Per-haps, she had woken up fromdeep sleep. She saluted her mas-ter. I looked at the face of the girlthrough the tiny holes in themosquito net. I wanted to see onher face the face of Chameli whoI had never seen but only heardabout. While I was gazing at thegirl, Berkley Sahab said: “I’m just

 waiting for her death. I’ll returnto England once she is dead.” Ilooked at him as though I didn’tunderstand what he said. “Shemust die, my boy ... must die,”said Berkley Sahab. His voice lat-er broke when he cried. I didn’task him anything again. With-out turning back, I came out of the house. I didn’t have thecourage to look back at ChameliMemsaab’s bungalow.

It was well into the night whenI reached home. Pehideu andothers were sleeping. After en-tering my house, I saw food waskept for me in a room. I silently 

  washed my hands andface. I didn’t have any desire to eat. I drank a glass of water be-f o r elight-ing a cig-arette. Niloy 

 w a s

snoring raucously. I opened the window. A light breeze waftedin. I again looked at the bunga-low with the reddish tin roof.Lights were still on there. Per-haps Berkley Sahab was stillthere. Who knows how long he

 will stay like that. I went to bedleaving the window open. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Still,I’ll have to sleep. I’ll have to dri ftoff to forget everything.

The eyes of my mind remainedrestless.

“Xon da, does man become aghost after his death?” This is aquestion from Niloy. Pehideu feels“Berkley Sahab is a bad man, aman of bad character, and hasearned a bad name.”

“She must die, my boy... mustdie...,” Berkley Sahab had said.The smell of green leaves of ver-dant tea bushes... Memsaab...Chameli... Chameli... Chameli...T

POST scriptM A R C H 1 8 , 2 0 1 2

SEVEN SISTERS

NE Lit review

3

Post-colonial Poems

3

 When the birds cried in the blue hills W hen the fields of paddy dripped, dripped in blood

The hills and its forests, and its birds criedPeople’s hearts burst of pale blood

 And the da y when the termites sang in the woods And sang and screamed – And the ships of the merchants waded upstream

Then the tiny boats and their w ounded boatmen All sank, sank deeper, all boats, and river, and blood and men

Scared, shrunk, the poor countrymenThey lost their speech, the y lost their courage

 And dawned then the da wn of the eternal nightOf the w ar for power between those brown and white

On the last day of the war, the crows gasped – Water, w ater, water, water –

The riders of the horses pushed, pushed the bro wnTo one end of the black iron chains And the other end of the heav  y chains were tiedTo the hoofs of the horses of the fair

People cra wling in front of deathCrawling in the mud of life, growing roots

 And metamorphosing into ghosts of glory Chained around neck s, alive in slavery 

the ghosts of glory 

UntitledThis poem is about the Indian bullet.It is about Naga tribes in Manipurand the Meghalaya which wasa part of Assam. This poemis about the island of Majuli.This poem is about the fertility of gunsand the orality of bullets.It is about the reality of the unknownIt is about you, and me, and them.It is about us. This poemis also about flowers.

I don’t have even two bighas of landI work in a tea garden

 As a labourer.I don’t have money, it’sthe famine naThere is nothing to eat, soI eat khichdi everyday.There are three daughters, a family They don’t have clothes so

 After washing them they waitFor the clothes to dry.The zamindar’s men come to sell waterI tell them “no money.Don’t want water.”The bastards, they pour the water onthe ground

 And ask me for payment.

In the tea gardenof Tebhaga

BOOK  ABLENews: Panel Discussion

Eclectic Times, in association withNorth East Writers’ Forum (NEWF),organised a panel discussion on 11March at the NEWF office, NehruStadium, Ulubari. The panelistsincluded Rakhi Kalita Moral andBibhash Choudhury. The eventaimed to enable interactionbetween readers and writers to findout how Northeast Writing inEnglish is distinctive from Indian

 Writing in English as a whole.English writing in the region hasevolved over the decades. With anew breed of writers emerging, adiscussion on the changing trendsof writing and the new voices fromthe Northeast was topical. Many known names in the field of literature, media and academiaattended the discussion which wasquite lively. The discussion was

preceded by an interactive session with Matt Christensen, investmentbanker, traveller and writer and

 with P Datta, author of The Sins of His Father .

Chameli Memsaab

iNKPOTExcerpt 

Nirode Choudhury

Translator: Siba K Gogoi

iNKPOTKamal Kumar Tanti

Translator: Manjeet Baruah

2

 At dawn, one day The Old Spirit of the old treeIn the middle of the muddy poolStood standing next to the lotus bloom.His lonely mind in flight, to theExpanse of the field of the plants of rice

From the field of the plants of riceHad come carried then, screams of neighing Of horses of war

 And had come carried then, a loud load of musicOf their victorious masters…and the last cry of aDying aged man

Famine struck the people And famished people famished towards deathThey remained no longer humanFor human became inhuman

Days passed, and passed into the forgottenNights passed, and passed into the past

The Old Spirit of the old treeHis mind took flight, againTo the expanse of the fieldOf the plants of rice

 At dusk, one day, in the villageThe old and the wiseSaw the lifeless corpse of the Old SpiritIn the naked field of thePlants of rice

Nearby were footprints and hoof marksOf men and their animals

4

 A gust of the Windy wind And swept away were dust of the road, old waste of the fields

But there remained beside the ancient pondSeated our Old Man

 A windful of memory held in his restless thoughts

 We too were ruminating, studying … Of lives perished long ago… Of time that perished long ago.

So we asked our Old Man What is life: … ‘Momentary water slipping off yam leaf’ And what is history: … ‘Tales of rich and famous

… Of people and country bought and sold’… ‘Of minds and thoughts no longer one’s own

… Of wasted shorter routes to being bought and sold’.

 We asked him again Who are we?

‘Nothing and nothing yam leaves, crushed beneath their white feet’‘Muddy waters under stomping hoofs, left behind in the path of riders’‘Startled souls in fear, at the very ringing of a gunshot’

Then who are you? We asked again our Old Man

‘I am History: of two lost centuriesOf centuries lost in the time of the colonialOf centuries lost in the time of the colonized’

1

 We, the guards of the Water Fairy From the depths of the river

 As we reached its bank 

The last ship of the remorseless merchantsLaden with all the river hadHad sailed away, tearing through the darkness

The waters of the river flowed, over the stainsThat stuck to the sands, like greasy Blood stainsLike thick clots of dry bloodThickening and growing, over the ages

The Water Fairy became A woman alive

 And she told us and our robbed wretched people, that‘For long have we stayed silent. Silent witnessTo the suffering and suffering of justice long denied.But today we have got back Our mind and our strengthOur conscience

 And our speech.’ We are guards of the Water Fairy  Alert guards of her water country 

History is on our side now.

ipenSHRUTI SAREEN

DELHI

 Nirode Choudhury, one of the most well known Assamese writers, has writ-ten many stories. A number of his works like ‘Chameli Memsaab’ and ‘Bana-hanxa’ have been made into classic 

movies 

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