The door knocker is a small girl holding a puppy. Admire the creativity. Who would make such a door knocker? Who would purchase one?

The Bird would. The Bird does everything in such a way that nobody else can believe what they’ve done when they see what it is. Door knockers. The way The Bird eats an everything bagel. The way The Bird drives a garbage truck. Each action shines a light on the action or the object The Bird is engaging with and brings forth new insight.

Knock on the door. The Bird answers. You begin your apology. The Bird closes the door. Closes or slams? The shutting doesn’t seem hard, but you can’t help but notice the pain in the eyes of The Bird. They did not squawk at you, but they were close to a squawk. Remind yourself that you were expecting this. There was no reason to believe an apology would be accepted the first time. You will return tomorrow. You do return tomorrow.

Tomorrow is now today. You are here. You will try again. The little girl holds the puppy. You grab the little girl’s shoes and knock robustly. Yesterday, your knock was hesitant. You had a sense of what was coming. You knew you were going to be rejected. Today you will be steered by hope, not fear. Optimism, not pragmatism. Today, you will be forgiven.

The Bird opens the door. You get out a few more words than you got out yesterday, but today, the door is slammed. It is not closed. There’s no denying it. The pain in the eyes is still there, but there is no sign of an oncoming squawk. The Bird does not even ruffle its feathers. Today you are surprised but not surprised. Hope must be adjusted. You must have days of hope. Weeks, even. You will be forgiven. You must be consistent. You will come back tomorrow.

Tomorrow is now today. Today turns into a year ago. It doesn’t take long. Each day the door is opened, and that is why you continue to return. No words are spoken. The Bird can speak, you know it can. You’ve heard it say “Douglas Fairbanks.” You’ve listened as it sang “Moon River.” You’ve carried on a conversation with it back when you two had conversations. The last time you talked, you confessed your betrayal. You told it that you had gone to see the Nest. You had sat among The Eggs. You sat on one, then another. None cracked, but you had crossed a line. Many lines. The Bird listened, cawed a bit under its breath, and then asked you to leave.

You knew it would take time before you were forgiven. You gave it a year. Then another. It was five years before you showed up at the house of The Bird. You had gotten the address from a mutual friend.

“I don’t think you should bother,” the mutual friend advised, “The Bird is still very hurt by the whole situation. You saw the twigs in The Nest. You saw the sticks.”

“I’ve forgotten it all,” you lied, “Could you tell The Bird that I’ve forgotten–”

“I’d rather not get involved.”

You don’t blame them. How could you? They were still in The Bird’s inner circle. They were still invited over for Americanos on Thursdays. They were still taken on a yearly camping trip where The Bird would sit them around a fire and sing “Moon River” and reenact one or two films featuring Doulgas Fairbanks. It was not easy to become a part of The Bird’s life. Once you were in, you fought hard to stay in. You let temptation get the better of you. You chose to see The Nest.

The day you climbed up to it, you knew you were jeopardizing your friendship with The Bird. Each slice of bark that cut into your hands seemed to be a warning. Nothing in The Nest would be worth your transgression. You knew that. You knew that and you kept climbing. When you pulled yourself over the side, and landed on your back, the breath thrust from you, your first sensation was regret. People write poems about regret where it’s heavy and somber. Your regret was sensual. You tried to get air into your lungs as the regret cradled your head. It invited you to explore. It told you that The Bird was trying to be God. It was trying to prevent you from knowing the scope of the world. You believed regret, because you had no other choice. You were already sitting on an Egg.

A decade has passed since then. You no longer have a job. Your job is Forgiveness. Your job is to get something out of The Bird. A phrase. An acknowledgement. Now, when you delicately hold the little girl’s shoes and knock, the knocks are defeated. You can’t help it. Hope has decomposed. Your fingers are moss. Your palms are mold. The Bird opens the door. At times, you’re able to say seven words. Seven is the record. You dream of eight. You tell yourself the eighth word will do it. It will bring about the Great Forgiveness. You have never gotten to eight. Seven is generous, but you won’t admit that to yourself. Seven is, perhaps, when The Bird is simply too tired to close the door quickly.

For The Bird is aging. It is undeniable. Birds do not live forever. You entertain the thought of The Bird dying before it forgives you. This thought acts like a termite in the cedar parts of your brain. You ask your mutual friend how The Bird’s health is. They say–

“I’ve told you before, I don’t wish to talk about The Bird.”

Then–

“But between you and me, they don’t have much time left.”

Go to the house more than once a day. Go twice a day. Three times a day. Plant yourself on the doorstep of The Bird. Dare it to call the authorities. A Lizard walks by, but says nothing. Let the Lizard judge you. What does the Lizard know about friendship? Lizards eat their friends. Everybody knows that. A Lizard could never appreciate what it means to be friends with The Bird.

Late at night, after all the lights in The Bird’s house have been turned off, knock on the door. The little girl’s shoes have had the silver rubbed off them due to excessive knocking. Knock louder. Wake up The Bird. Wake up The Bird if that’s what it takes. Howl. Howl like a Coyote. Howl like a Coyote that needs a kill. Perhaps Forgiveness isn’t soft. Perhaps it’s hard. Perhaps it’s violent. Perhaps it feels like sliding a knife down a spine. Never stabbing, but the threat–

The threat is there.

Forgive me.

Forgive me.

Howl it. Howl for Forgiveness.

A light comes on in one of the upstairs rooms. It might be a bedroom. It has to be a bedroom. A shadow appears in the window. Wings. Those are wings. Those are the wings of The Bird. Listen to the window opening. Listen and you might hear “Moon River.” Listen and you might hear all about the dream maker and the heartbreaker. Listen and you might get your Forgiveness.

Instead, something hits you. Something wet strikes your shoulders and the top of your head. The window closes. The light goes out.

You got your answer.

What else did you expect?

Look at the little girl holding the puppy. She loves that puppy so much. Could that puppy ever hurt her? How bad would the puppy have to hurt her for her to put it down and never pick it back up?

About the Author:
Kevin B is a writer from New England. He has previously been published in Esoterica, Molecule, Havik, Qu, Havik, and New Plains Review. He is the George Lila Award Winner for Short Fiction, and the Barely Seen Featured Author of 2023.

The post Door Knocker by Kevin B first appeared on Prachya Review.

            The idea is that the actor, instead of striving to help everyone deduce their impersonation, rather tries everything they can to trip them up. For example, if the objective is to convey a “pigsty,” the performer wanders around tidying up, vacuuming dust, or straightening books. It all started because Madi realized that she and her classmates often walked around hiding their genuine identities. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a fun way to communicate real emotions as a vehicle to alleviate the anxiety attached to the stigmas they concealed? The original rules did not reflect their true essence. This was a more authentic representation of who they were. It was the reverse kind of exposure and confession that didn’t fit them anymore. 

            In the beginning, I thought the amusement would last a single sleepover, but ten years on, the young ladies still engaged in the activity. Last weekend, while each was home from their various universities, I watched the festivities play out in our basement. 

            Standing in the doorway, I observed Madi’s portrayal. First, she stretched out on the sofa. Next, she primly lifted and opened a book. She placed a pair of glasses on her nose, drew a deep breath, and melted into the cushions. 

            “Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder!” Colleen shouted. They’d been inseparable for over a decade and knew each other like their own reflections. 

            “Yes!” Madi squealed, hopping up and changing places with Colleen. If it were an Olympic sport, they’d be gold medalists. 

            Colleen had always been a delicate little girl but now had grown, or perhaps shrunk, into a woman so slight she could hardly walk upright on such twiggy legs. From neck to feet, she resembled a wishbone. 

            When it was her turn, Colleen walked to the middle of the room and stood perfectly still. For a while, I wasn’t sure if she had started performing, but then I noticed that Madi and Abigail were whispering on the side. They didn’t announce anything yet, but they were devising answers. Colleen slipped a finger down the front of her jeans, tugging them loose from her concave waistline and peering down into them as though she might find something she’d lost.

            “Body Dysmorphic Disorder,” Abigail said. She raised her hands and flapped them back down against her thighs. Abby is what I used to call fat but don’t have a name for anymore, her body so hefty and white that when she wrapped her arms around Colleen it looked like a polar bear hugging a kitten.             Madison joined them, and they embraced for a long time. Abby stroked Colleen’s hair while Madi craned to nuzzle their ears. A low cooing sound rose from their enmeshment. I thought maybe they were still playing the game, but I didn’t dare guess

About the Author:

Simon A. Smith is a Chicago teacher and writer. His stories have appeared in many journals and media outlets, including Hobart, Lit Magazine, Whiskey Island, Chicago Public Radio, and NewCity. He is the author of two novels, Son of Soothsayer and Wellton County Hunters. He lives in Rogers Park with his wife and son. You can find more of his work at his website: simonasmith.com

The post CONTORTIONS by Simon A. Smith first appeared on Prachya Review.

Rituparna Mukherjee teaches English and Communication Studies at Jogamaya
Devi College, under the University of Calcutta. She is currently pursuing Doctoral
degree in Gendered Mobilities in West African and Afro-Diasporic Literature at IIIT
Bhubaneswar. She is a published poet, short fiction writer and a passionate
translator. Her work has been published in many international magazines of repute.
She translates Bengali and Hindi fiction into English and is the chief editor at The
Antonym Magazine. Her first complete work in translation, The One-Legged, has
been published from The Antonym Collections in January 2024. She is also an ELT
trainer and an ESL author.

The post February by Rituparna Mukherjee first appeared on Prachya Review.

‘Baba, don’t touch that. I will make something interesting with it after returning from school.’

Caressing his hair affectionately with my fingers, I say fondly-

‘Why do you call me Baba, son? Don’t call your Ma, Baba, sweetie. Call me Ma.’

Ayon does not reply. With the same grim face, he throws his school bag over his shoulder and boards the school bus. The horrifying news comes around three hours later. A gang of gunmen charged through the school gate and went on a shooting spree on the school grounds, killing many kids and their teachers. Straight after seeing the news on the TV, I, terror-stricken, bolt off to Ayon’s school. Panic grips my lungs on my way, and I start huffing for breath. Upon reaching the school gate, I find the surrounding area teeming with police and journalists. There isn’t even a fingerbreadth of space to step in. They have closed all the doors and are not letting anyone enter the school premises. I ask around about Ayon, but no one knows his whereabouts. The ambient air has already grown heavy with the loud laments of people grieving and bracing up to face the fact.  

‘No one goes inside. Please let us do our job, ‘ cries out a police officer at the top of his lungs every few minutes. 

I keep ferreting out for Ayon, shoving through the crowd. A few boys stand in line at a distance, but Ayon is not to be seen among them. He may not be inside the school, either. Bereft of a single clue about how to find Ayon, I broke into a cold sweat with a resounding muted cry-

‘Where should I look for my son? ‘

Right on cue, I see the school’s Vice-Principal speed walking to the parking lot, wiping sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief. Tearing out of the crowd, I fly into a full-on sprint at him. Barely managing to get a hold of myself and with my heart thudding in my chest, I breathe out apprehensively:  

‘Sir, do you recognize me? I am Ayon’s mom. Ayon is my son. Class two, section B.’

The Vice-Principal stops dead, swabbing sweat off his forehead the second time. Tears welling up in my eyes, I burst into a sob, and quivering with foreboding, I continue-

‘Did you see Ayon? Is he all right? The police are not letting anyone inside the school.’

He is about to say something but suddenly stands stock-still. His mustache bulging above his upper lips, he eventually replies, in a cough-stained voice: 

‘Ayon’s mom came and took him home. They live in the immediate neighborhood. Ayon was in the first group of students who were escorted out of the school compound after the shooting had ceased.’ 

‘What in the world are you saying?’ 

I howl in dead fright as a silent crescendo of fear reverberates up from the depths of my stomach-

I am Ayon’s mom. I am…’

‘Please go home. It is not safe for you to stay here long.’ 

The vice principal’s words spurt out in short bursts, laced with a pang of compassion. 

Without further ado, he resumes his rapid march to his car. Utterly distraught and beyond frazzled, I feel stunted to the ground for a moment. After a while, without much forethought, I make a headlong dash for my apartment complex. As I walk over to the main gate of the complex, the security guard, Gofur, hands me the guest registry book with a pen, saying-

‘As-Salamu-Alaikum. Which flat do you want to go to? Please write your name and address here.’

‘Gofur, it’s me. I want to go to my flat. Flat number seven-A.’

Hearing his name from my mouth, Gofur looks visibly shocked, but only momentarily. Quickly regaining his composure, he turns extra alert, darting a brisk, suspicious glance at me and saying-

‘I am calling the owner madam over the intercom. In the meantime, you, please write your name and address in the guest registry book.’

Gofur’s audacity throws me into a fury. I can feel my thoughts racing like a storm. Mumbling under my breath, I remind myself that I must head to my flat by any means. If anyone has already picked Ayon up from school, I must ensure they have safely dropped him off at home. The good thing is Ayon knows his home address and should be able to make it home himself. In fact, he should be home by now if he has already started from school. Besides, he is well aware that I keep the spare key to our flat under the money plant tree, right next to the staircase. 

‘Hello, madam, here is this lady who claims that flat Seven-A is hers. Yes, yes, that is what she is saying again and again. No, I have never seen her before.’ Stealing a surreptitious glance at me again, Gofur returns to the conversation on the intercom. All livid, I feel like smashing his skull with a heavy object, and eventually, I go off on him- 

‘Gofur, whom did you just speak to?’

Gofur responds sternly, ‘I cannot let you in even if you write your name and address.’ 

‘Just tell me whom you just spoke to on the intercom, ‘ I insist stubbornly.    

‘I spoke to the madam of seven-A. She made it very clear not to let anyone in her flat today.’

‘This is my flat. Don’t you recognize me, for heaven’s sake? Don’t you see me leave for my office every bloody day? Don’t you even see me drop off Ayon at the school bus day after day?’ I bawl out. 

The barrage of questions hurled at him has Gofur gaping at me with overwhelming astonishment. His eyeballs have grown so large that they may bug out of his eyeholes any minute. Clueless about how else to convince Gofur, I soften my voice, peer directly into his eyes, and make an earnest request-

‘Please let me in. My son Ayon is waiting for me.’

Gofur stands rooted, not even moving a muscle. After a while, he speaks in a desperate yet unyielding tone-

‘But I cannot let you in without the owner’s permission. You can talk to her on the intercom and ask her permission to get in. I will of course let you in if you have the owner madam’s permission.’

He dials on the intercom again. This time, I take the receiver from him: 

‘Hello.’

A harsh, unfamiliar voice blurts out irritably from the other side: 

‘See, I do not think I know you. This is not your flat. You are surely mistaken. Your flat may be one floor down, I don’t know. Now stop bothering me.’

My world is torn asunder, and it feels like I am bundled into a chilling void of silence. After a bit, gathering my senses, I look at Gofur and apply my last-ditch resort-

‘Can you please connect me to flat-six A?’

Nodding his head fervidly, Gofur concurs readily and dials the digits for flat-six A.

‘Hello,’ an unknown voice comes floating from the other side.

‘Is this six-A?’

‘Yes, it is. Who is this?’ the voice asks gently.

I utter my name in trembling, adding that the flat is mine.

“You must be misguided, somehow or other,” the voice sounds kind but firm as if dissuading a child throwing a tantrum, and continues-

‘I have been living in this flat for the last nine years. This is my house. I haven’t even heard your name before.’

I want to scream my lungs out but feel downright smothered the next moment. It feels like someone has stifled my throat with their iron fists. I put down the receiver listlessly. Frustration, anger, helplessness, and a slew of unknown feelings wash over me as I mutter to myself-

‘Where do I go now?’

Gofur has been studying me keenly all this time. After a while, clearing his throat, he remarks in a somewhat mortified tone-

‘If I am right, this is not your building, madam. Yours may be the one on the other side of the road. Please go check out the seven-A flat in that building. I understand you are in trouble, but this is not your address.’

‘This is not my address,’ I whisper to myself, preparing to leave. I exit the building complex, lurching towards the street next to it. Suddenly, Ayon’s face surfaces in my mind, giving me a rare wave of comfort. As I reach the main road, I shoot off to the other side in no time, even before the signal turns red, 

All at once, I am struck, perhaps by an epiphany, that I indeed went to the wrong building. Those people must have been right. Maybe I do belong to the building across the street. Upon arriving at my destination, I discover the building has no security guard. ‘This is even better! No one can stop me now.’, I tell myself. When I walk over to the lift, I find it stuck on the third floor, which means it will not come down to the ground floor anytime soon. Who knows if the lift is out of order or if there is a power outage? Whatever the case might be, what difference does it make? Taking the stairs at the rear end of the building, I start clambering up, reminding myself one more time that I must return to my flat. I start sweating profusely but feel relieved that my sweet home is just a few more steps away. Three-four-five…I am almost there. I start hyperventilating at this point and decide to take a brief pause. Soon afterward, I resume my slog upward.  

Good heavens! The building ends right where the seventh floor is supposed to have branched out. I end up on a colossal rooftop and find a water reservoir there. Also, there are a few flowering plants scattered about. This does not seem to be my building at all. Was I at the correct address prior, then? Suddenly, I hear a wheezing sound passing through my ear. It feels like someone is calling me from a faraway place. Following the distant call, I start edging toward the abutting guardrail on the rooftop. 

Once familiar but now estranged, the building on the other side of the road stands arrogantly with its full weight. On the balcony of the seventh-floor apartment stands a little boy with a car tire in one hand and his mother’s hand in the other. I do not know any of them. All at once, I find myself under the spell of a momentous moment that seems to forge the entire universe to hold its breath when I hear the far-off voice murmuring, ‘ This is not your address, either. You do not belong to this world anymore.’ 

About the Author and Translator

Author’s bio: 

Mahrin Ferdous is a novelist, short story writer, feature writer, and translator who writes for adults and children. Her works have drawn heavily on surrealism and magic realism and deal with contemporary social crises. She weaves her story in vivid language with literary flair.  She has authored eleven books since 2010. In 2019, Banglalink Telecom honored her as one of Bangladesh’s five most promising young writers. She is the current Vice-President of the Pencil Foundation, a non-profit organization. Mahrin lives and works in NY.  Email: mahrinauthor@gmail.com

Translator’s bio: 

Rajib Mahmud’s official name is Mohammad Mahmudul Haque. Former Assistant Professor of English in the Department of English and Humanities, BRAC University Dhaka, Bangladesh, Mahmud is a translator and a fiction writer. A two-time recipient of the prestigious Fulbright Scholarship, funded by the US Department of State, he studied and taught in Dhaka, NY, Washington DC, and Toronto. His translations were published from Dhaka, Delhi, and Manchester, and his short story collection titled ‘Hya othoba Na er Galpo’ was published in Dhaka in 2019. Mahmud lives and works in Toronto. Email: mahmud.rajib@gmail.com

The post The Chakra by Mahrin Ferdous (Translated by Rajib Mahmud) first appeared on Prachya Review.

The post Nothing but Facts by Rifat Mahbub first appeared on Prachya Review.

We surely were annoyed, rather uncomfortable, looking at the PDA of the middle-aged couple. 

Dr.Harihar Panda and his wife Mrs.Savita Panda were my guests that evening, along with two other friends from Odisha—Dr. Manas and Dr.Shubhra. All of them except for Savita were in Delhi to attend a conference. Manas and Shubhra were my old friends, I invited them over dinner after the conference. Harihar and Savita came along; in fact they got self invited and I didn’t mind that, because the four of them had come from Bhubaneswar as a team. I had booked three rooms in the university guest house for them—one for the couple and two for the other two. 

Savita had nothing to do during the day when her husband and his friends were busy in the conference. She was restless and very worried about the food, medicines, etc of her husband. She always remained worried about these trivial matters— like many housewives—starting with what he should wear any given day to how much tea he should consume in the evening. Should he apply oil on his hair today? What if he catches cold by a head bath? Should he eat chicken more than once a week? What if it upsets his stomach? Is he talking too much on the mobile? He may get a migraine, so the phone should be switched off. And why is he taking such a long walk? It’s windy today.

 Their children were settled, grown up, and the sixty-year-old wife’s only concern, focus, topic of discussion, life, love, happiness, worry–just everything–was her sixty-plus husband.

Throughout the past couple of days, we were noticing Savita’s overwhelming care and concern for Harihar. Initially, we found it cute. But later, we were annoyed, as expected.

 My friend Manas was a writer, an emotionally charged, intelligent person, somewhat close to my heart. Shubhra was a chirpy, witty, pretty woman; she was most talkative. 

That evening, my friends got introduced to my son Sonu, a humorous, intelligent, and sober teen. They were happy to receive his hospitality. I had cooked quite a few dishes for them, and the guests thoroughly enjoyed the food. We chatted about Odisha; in between, Manas talked about his new stories. He knew I loved his stories; he wanted my complete attention, which I, too, was willingly giving. Shubhra was keen on knowing every detail of my friendship with Manas—when and how did we meet? How come we were so compatible with each other despite his having a happy married life in Odisha; and neither was I his lover or anything like that. She was trying to understand this special bonding.

Harihar was eager to get the attention of me, his hostess; he tried to give his opinion about everything around, talked about his achievements, his admiration of the excellent life I had made for myself in Delhi. In between, he never forgot to praise each dish I had cooked, and I had to thank him politely every time he praised. Overall, it was a pleasant evening.

Beyond all of these, oblivion of us, Savita was in her usual fidgety disposition – checking and serving food on Harihar’s plate, chiding him for eating more of one dish or less of one, restricting his intake of coffee after food. She even asked him if he washed his hands before food. 

I requested, “Madam, you please eat, Sir will help himself; if he needs any help, I’ll look after.” I guess as the hostess, that was my duty.

“No no!! How can he eat if I don’t serve? I’ll eat later; as such I had a lot of snacks(‘snakes’, she said) in the guest house when you all were at the conference. ”

Shubhra has this crooked, uncontrollable sense of humour, which will make anyone laugh. She said, “arre Savita madam, do you always take care of Sir like this? Is he a domestic animal?”(she actually said, ‘gruhapalita pashu’!!).

Unbelievable!! Incorrigible Shubhra!!

I couldn’t control my laughter, nor could Manas and Sonu. I rushed to the kitchen to laugh in the plea of getting some pickles. In the kitchen,while laughing my guts out, I remembered Shakespeare’s Lady Macbeth. Lady Macbeth said, “unsex me today”. This statement paralleled negativity to manhood and power. Was this her reverse feminism? 

Was this over-consciousness Savita’s reverse feminism? What a drama queen! I joined them back with a desire to see a little more of domestic drama, I must confess here.

Dr.Harihar, who was an Associate Professor, and was waiting for his CAS promotion to a Professor’s  position, of course did not like this ‘domestic animal’ adjective. He had to make his stand clear.

By then, Savita had started eating, relaxed, after feeding her husband to her heart’s content.

Harihar cleared his throat and said, looking at me, clearly avoiding Shubhra, “Madam, do you know, Savita is the most loving and caring wife I have ever seen. She takes care of everything. From morning to night, twenty-four into seven, she is there for me. She takes care of my home, my children, me. She cooks, cleans the house, arranges my shattered books, shabby study tables, irons my clothes, feeds me. I simply depend on her for every single thing. In fact, for every small thing I need her.”

Savita had a beaming smile on her lips. “I even make him wear his dress. Else this mindless man would go to his university in his underwear—he is so offhand.” Announced Savita proudly.

“What the …!!!” Shubhra was unrelenting. She wanted more spice for the dinner table. “I mean, Savita Madam, do you actually make him sit on the chair semi-nude, and do his shringaar  before he goes to the university? Every day?! ”

“Oh yes! Definitely. I even give him a bath every morning. I have been doing that forever!”

I looked at Harihar covertly, scornfully, to see if he was feeling embarrassed. But he had a blank, nonchalant expression on his face, like the Monalisa painting. I couldn’t understand what exactly was he thinking at that moment of humiliation. 

Savita got up, washed her hands quickly, and came back to her husband, wiped his mouth with her dupatta, arranged his scanty locks on the bald head, set his shirt collars right, and sat closely beside him, in the most lovey-dovey position, making all of us uncomfortable. 

Sonu is one more witty boy here. He added, “Wow uncle and aunty! You both are young and happening, like characters from a Bollywood film.” And then he left the dinner table, laughing, went to his study, to my utter relief. I didn’t want him to watch this family drama of Savita-Harihar, neither I wanted him to give his expert opinions.

Seeing my awful discomfiture, Manas tried to change the topic. “Leave it Harihar bhai and Bhabhi. Let’s plan something. Shall we all go to Agra, Mathura, Vrindaban over the weekend? We have our flight on Monday morning, so the weekend can be utilized with Madam and Sonu. All of us can fit in a bigger cab.”

I thought, thank God!The topic changed.

But no! Savita and Shubhra didn’t stop there. 

“So, Savita Madam! It’s most impressive that you help your husband so much! My husband will give me a divorce if he sees your example…haha!! What else do you do for Harihar Sir?”

That was quite an ego booster for Savita. “I got married to him when he had just passed his Masters Degree and was newly appointed as a lecturer in a government college. He was lazy-number-one from day one. I could see that. He did not have the training to pick up his wet towel and put that in the washing machine, neither did he know how to make a cup of tea. I took charge of him. Ask him, I am the one who made him do his PhD, I am the one because of whom he wrote his research papers and books. Because of me, he got his promotion. Tomorrow if he is promoted to a higher position in his workplace, it will also be because of me. Minus me, this man is a big zero.”

“I see…”. Shubhra was enjoying the conversation with a crooked smile and in between winking at me and Manas.

At least now, I expected Harihar to object to the discussions around him and his career. But he kept quiet. Nonchalantly, he took two rasagollas in a small bowl. Savita quickly removed one from the bowl, and looked at him like a disciplinarian Principal ma’am of a primary school, chiding her naughty pupil. 

Harihar pleaded for one more rasagolla, with a guilty smile. “No!! You cannot eat more than one.”

Savita went on boasting about her contributions to Harihar’s life, family and career. She took the credit for everything that he had been doing since their wedding some thirty-five years ago—she claimed, he owed her his living and breathing.

I was feeling sick, nauseated. I wished the evening to end there. Manas could see that. He finally got up, wishing me good night. Others too had to leave along.

Till late night I thought about this complex human behavior; to be precise, about this objectionable supremacy of a woman. It was surely a kind of male-harassment to me. The gender theorist inside me was concerned. The humanist in me was thinking, weighing the characters of Harihar and Savita from Masculinity Studies standpoint. To me, it looked like poor Harihar was under a panoptic surveillance. Savita was inspecting him from all directions. I felt he was getting breathless with her attention, but he talked nicely about her love, dedication for him just to save his face before us elites. Maybe he didn’t want us to judge him or Savita. 

Poor thing. He earned my sympathies that night. Next morning, I called Manas showing my inability to go to Agra with them as I had got some urgent work in the university. I also told him what I felt about Dr.Harihar. He didn’t take much interest in their matter; rather he was upset that his poetic evening with me was spoiled because of the couple. It could have been an evening of reading good literature, listening to good music, and a peaceful dinner with me and Sonu, had those stupids not been there. 

He had a point. Even I would have preferred that. 

***

Time flew. 

I almost forgot Harihar-Savita. Manas and Shubhra called me sometimes, but we made it a point not to discuss the couple. It was, we decided, none of our business. Because Harihar had apparently no objection to whatever was happening with him—though I had serious doubts about it. Anyway, Manas asked me to forget them. 

So be it!

Yes, after five months of their visit to Delhi, I happened to visit Utkal University, Bhubaneswar, to deliver a lecture. Dr.Harihar was eager to meet me; but I had no time,being the high-flyer. So I informed him over whatsapp that I won’t be able to meet him.

I mostly have morning-evening-round-trips. Padmashree poet Jayanta Mahapatra was in Bhubaneswar that day, and his car was scheduled to drop me in the airport in the evening. I always have never ending chats with Jayanta Sir, and I was elated spending a couple of hours with him in the long drive. And lo! Harihar was waiting for us in the Bhubaneswar airport! He had gathered this information from someone in the university, that Jayanta Sir would accompany me to the airport. I wasn’t pleased to see him there; anyway both Jayanta Sir and I exchanged formal pleasantries with him, maybe for a few seconds only, before I proceeded to the check in counter. Harihar requested us that he wanted to click our photographs, and Jayanta Sir agreed. So he quickly handed over his mobile to some passerby and got clicked with us, with a grin. I left Bhubaneswar after touching the feet of Jayanta Sir and a casual ‘namaste’ to Harihar.  After a couple of days, I found Harihar had tagged me on Facebook, posted that picture with a long tag-line, “Wonderful time spent with Padmashree Jayanta Mahapatra and the unparalleled poet par excellence, Nandini Sahu, in Bhubaneswar. Had long dialogues with the poets on contemporary Indian literature, and possible future collaborations with both poets.” 

I rather felt pity than contempt and laughed it off. All I remembered was, we spent maximum one minute with him in Bhubaneswar airport, that to, he was an uninvited presence.

Harihar sent me courtesy messages on festivals, functions, special occasions, to which I responded with a wordless ‘namaste’ emoji. Technology sometimes makes life simpler.

After eight more months or so, once Harihar called me with a request to book a room for him in our guest house. He had some work in North-East Delhi. I told him, we are in extreme South Delhi, so he’ll have to travel so much to reach his meeting venue. He said, it was ok, there were no rooms available elsewhere. 

The moment he reached our guest house, he called me. In fact he wanted to meet us the same morning. Anyway, I was busy; also I was trying to avoid him. That day, at 5pm when I reached home, he was already seated comfortably, settled, in our living room. Sonu had offered him tea. He came to  our place without an appointment, uninvited, and said he was getting bored in the guest house. I said, “Dr.Harihar, people who get bored in their own company seem to be in danger.”Maybe I wanted him to talk about his distressed life, or maybe I despised him. He still had my sympathies. Of course, I did not respect him for being so meek and mild a man. 

He took his sweet time, sipping his tea, savoring the snacks we offered. This time he looked relaxed, unlike last time when he was anxious even about a cup of tea or a rasogolla.

Poor thing.

He was relaxed till Savita called him after an hour (apparently, she called him every one hour!). I guessed, he lied to her about the network, and disconnected the phone. Perhaps put that on flight mode after talking to her for a minute.

“Sir, please call her from my phone. I too can wish her my regards.”

“No no Madam!! Let it be. I’ll anyway call her after an hour.”

He talked restlessly, stridently for an hour about his work, his university; poor Sonu had to sit with him nodding his head all the time, as I utilized the time in cooking dinner, and pretending to be listening  to his  blabbering. I was, clearly, impolite. And I wanted him to leave. It was a wastage of time for me to have such meaningless talk. 

He called his wife sharp at 7pm and told her that he was in the guest house, waiting for dinner, and then put the phone again on flight mode. 

I understood. He didn’t want his wife to know that he was sitting with us. Precisely, with me. A single woman.

Sonu asked, “but uncle, you are at our place!! Why did you lie?” 

It was awkward.

Then I lied to him in order to throw him out of my house. “Sir, you may have to please excuse us. Sonu has a lot of homework, and we’ll have to study now.”

“No mama! There is no homework today!” 

 I looked so stupid.

Harihar said, shamelessly, “Madam, can I have dinner before leaving? I didn’t have a proper lunch in the guest house.”

We had a silent, quick, early dinner. Then I offered to drop him back in the guest house in my car, though he had no mood to leave at 7.30pm.

He reluctantly said goodbye to Sonu and sat in my car, of course without forgetting to praise an independent, super-successful woman, driving a car all by herself. How disgusting was that!

Now that I was alone with him in the car, I had no reason to suppress my infuriation for an enslaved, spineless man. He owed me an explanation for lying to Savita that he was eating dinner in the guest house.

“Dr.Harihar, I do not teach any kind of lie and deception  to my son; so what you did at my place was seriously objectionable. I do not know much about you or your family or the values that you people follow. You were introduced to me by common friends. I wanted to respect you, but unfortunately, I could not. I cannot. How can you allow a person to dominate, control you to such an extent? How can you lie to her in front of me, sitting at my place? You have humiliated us and our hospitality. I don’t know for what all  should I reprimand you, neither do I know if at all I should talk to you! You are so laid-back! You don’t have the courage to tell Mrs.Savita  that you are having dinner with a respectable family! And last time your behaviour was such shameful in front of all of us!! How can a man tolerate if a woman steals the entire credit of his life and career?? Have you no dignity? No shame? Are you not suffocated? How do you live such a life??”

I was gasping angrily. I stopped the car in front of the guest house and got down.  He too got down and stood at a distance.

He said, quietly, considerately, “Madam, I thought you are an extremely intelligent person, and you can see the subtext behind this text. Behind this story of ‘subjugation’. But to me, now you sound like Gandhari. To be born blind is not a crime, but to turn a blind eye? How can you not see the hidden depths of this story?”

Ahh…one more drama. 

“Excuse me? I am still not getting what nonsense you are trying to explain. Come to the point.” I was rude.

“Ok, let me come to the point.”

He scratched his head, searching for words, and then said, “My wife Savita is an empty-headed foolish woman; an erudite woman like you may not understand the mindset of such people. She is class three pass(or fail..haha), she cannot even sign in English. She puts her thumb impression on papers I ask her to. She is from a lavish, extravagant family  where she had seen women being dominated by men. She got married to me when she was 18 and I was 25. Her parents offered me a fortune for dowry, and see the bonuses I have! A mansion and couple of nice cars. She can never understand what unproductive stuff she is engaged with. She has no time to think of anything except me and my needs. She cooks, cleans, takes care of all my  wishes— I get great food, clean bed, clean tables to work, fresh towels, clean book shelves, healthy tea, health care, in fact everything for a comfortable living. In return, I ignore her foolish talks, her self-styled supremacy. She feels emancipated, empowered by ‘dominating’ me. Can you believe–she signed her entire property in my name—I mean put her thumb impression—without an inkling of what she was doing. I told her that she had to sign the documents to secure her property.”

I was amazed. My mouth agape, eyes wide open. What a revelation!!

“And Madam, which qualified person in my friend circle will believe that a class-three-fail woman, who looks like a dumb fool, who opens her mouth only to reveal her imprudence, her foolishness, has actually shaped my great academic career? Rather, some laugh at her foolishness, and some, like you, give me their sympathies!! Actually, it’s a win-win situation for me.”

I sat in my car without a goodbye or a good night. Reached home absent-minded, with a void in my cognizance, rethinking, swotting ‘masculinity’.

Author's Bio:

Prof.Nandini Sahu, the Amazon Bestselling Author(2022), is a major voice in contemporary Indian English literature. She has accomplished her doctorate in English literature under the guidance of Late Prof. Niranjan Mohanty, Prof. of English, Visva Bharati, Santiniketan. She has been widely published in India, U.S.A, U.K., Africa, Italy, Australia and Pakistan.  Apart from numerous other literary awards, she is a triple gold medalist in English literature; she has received the Gold Medal from the hon'ble Vice-President of India for her contributions to English Studies in India in the year 2019.  She is the author and editor of twenty books, The Other Voice, The, Recollection as Redemption, The Post-Modernist Delegation to English Language Teaching, The Post Colonial Space: Writing the Self and the Nation, Silver Poems on My Lips, Folklore and the Alternative Modernities (Vol.I), Folklore and the Alternative Modernities (Vol. II), Sukamaa and Other Poems, Suvarnarekha, Sita(A Poem), Dynamics of Children’s Literature, Zero Point and Selected Poems of Nandini Sahu(Winter-2020), Selected Poems of Nandini Sahu(Spring-2021), Re-reading Jayanta Mahapatra, A Song, Half & Half , Shedding the Metaphors, Collected Poems of Nandini Sahu and Collected Poems of Niranjan Mohanty. She is the Former Director, School of Foreign Languages and currently a Professor of English at Indira Gandhi National Open University [IGNOU], New Delhi, India. Her areas of research interest cover Indian Literature, New Literatures, Folklore and Culture Studies, American Literature, Children’s Literature and Critical Theory. She is the Chief Editor/Founder Editor of Interdisciplinary Journal of Literature and Language (IJLL), a bi-annual peer-reviewed journal in English. Professor Sahu has designed multiple academic programmes on Culture Studies, American Literature, Postcolonial Literatures, Children’s Literature, Indian Folk Literature and Indian Philosophical Thoughts for IGNOU and many other universities. Currently she is designing an MA programme in Indian Knowledge Systems which are inclined to comparative Indian literatures and cultures as well as Hindu Studies.

www.kavinandini.blogspot.in
www.nandinisahu.in

The post ALTERNATIVE MASCULINITY(?!) by Nandini Sahu first appeared on Prachya Review.

On a late Sunday afternoon, after a date, I leave a house in Rue Gaston Gallimard.

The cobwebbed stairwell gives off the smells of a mixture of musty air, dusty stonework, fragrance, and exotic vegetables and herbs.  

Stepping onto the street, I have the feeling of leaving a sinking ship. Behind me is guilt, inner turmoil, and ambivalence, the street sinks into the silence of the incoming darkness. I walk down to the near banks of the Seine, pass the house on Quai Voltaire where Lagerfeld lived with his love Jacques de Bascher.

The setting orange sun sinks behind the Île de la Cité and envelopes me in a mood of melancholy, of finality, but also of security.

Last night I was startled by a dream in which I found myself in this bright, warm city and was suddenly afraid of waking up in the street where I had spent my childhood and youth.  Everything in me resisted the notion to return to that place. I woke up drenched in sweat.

Walking along the Seine, I see lonely men and women looking across to the other side as if they could get answers to their questions from there.

I often stood there and stared over to the island in the river.

What is a lonely brooding man or woman looking for in the water?

For something which got lost?

Surely, they will not jump into the water. Why should they? Worries, lovesickness, shame, inner conflict?

Should I ask them? Say, that life is beautiful? But that would be a cheap lie and a platitude. Perhaps they expect to be grabbed by the arm and pulled back. “Sir…Madam… do not do it. Do not run away from your life and destiny.”

“But is there any point?”

One may be laughed at. Find it an intrusion.

I turn away and walk on. I may never know if one of these jumped into the Seine or just finished their cigarette, and continued walking home.

There is no wind, but the plane- and horse chestnut trees rustle along the river which flows in deep grey-green. Time stands still on Sundays. On lonely Sundays.

I cross the Pont d’Arcole through the narrow lanes of the Marais, passing by libraries, wine shops, cafes, and bars. I think of Yves Saint Laurent. In these side streets, he acted out his desire in black dungeons, indulging pain, and new lust in a mist of alkyl nitrite and drugs.

The cracks in the plaster are like mysterious writings known only to those who can read between the lines. Moss lends green punctuation marks to the secret scriptures which speak of weird dreams. Street lanterns cast a dim light on the uneven cobblestone pavement. I am watching my steps. Silence surrounds me, only broken by music fluttering from a distance.

Something led me into this quarter. Was it the music in the background that ignites my thoughts, or was it providence, thoughts materializing in the subconscious?

The melodies come from a Romanian restaurant that I visited years ago. I enter and listen to the violins and cimbaloms performing music that lets the body vibrate.  

The blackboard outside says that Pheasant and wild duck with polenta and potato dumplings on sauerkraut simmered in white wine is served here.

My eyes adjust to the light of the many candles. Windows offer views over the street and the barges, which drift by, the chugging sound of boats on the river can be faintly perceived.  

Most of the places are occupied and I take a seat at the bar.

I recognize the woman behind the bar as the young girl who served at the time when I dined here. However, she has aged, black shadows under her big expressive eyes, her hair bound into a braid.

The place awakes sentiments of déjà vu and unsettling nostalgia, I shake off the dream pictures and order a Cardenal Mendoza cognac and smoke a Gauloise.

Somebody nudges me from behind. A woman with golden earrings, piercing eyes, and radiant black hair. The woman behind the bar tells her something in Romani, to ward her off, but she does not take any notice.

“Stranger, I will read your palm and tell you your future.” 

Hesitantly, I stretch my hand towards her, turn my hand and open the palm. The woman takes my hand into her warm soft hands with gold rings on every finger, looks at the lines in my palm, ponders a while, and suddenly looks at me with a deeply sad glance.

“You will never be happy, you are torn between two different directions.”

“What is happiness? We are not born to be happy”, I respond.

She puts a filterless cigarette between her lips ” Can you share the fire with me?” I nod and hold my cigarette to light hers. She disappears in an incredibly dense cloud of smoke, her eyes emerge once more from the smoke like an apparition and glow like a cat’s eyes.

The man next to me, an artist, judging by his appearance, sits in front of a glass of Absinth and addresses me:

“Do not take notice of these clairvoyants, nobody can look into the future. But they can look into your deepest self and tell you stories about yourself that you would not like to reveal, but they do not reveal the fates of those near you and do not give you forewarning.

A friend of mine, a good close friend, died yesterday of cancer. I never knew that he was sick. Why don’t people talk about these things with someone they are close friends with?

“Maybe to keep something to yourself”? I presumed. ” Not to burden others? Perhaps also to hide the suffering, and sorrows from others.

One cannot share suffering, as is often said, one cannot share the pain, and one cannot share sorrow. We are tempted to hide our own secrets, keep them for ourselves.”

“Do you have something to hide”? the man asks me.

“We all have something to hide,” I say.

The woman behind the counter points to a table that became free.
“I’ll set the table for you, just a moment.”

The artist murmurs: “Be careful, she can see your innermost as well, it’s amazing, she recognises all vices and dispositions.”

I sit down and order a small portion of pheasant with polenta.

A young musician starts to play the violin. He is absorbed in his music, and becomes one with his violin. His eyes with long dreamy eyelashes seem to see a parallel world, he wakes the notes from sleep and fiddles them into an exciting arousal.  

The pheasant was delicious and I leave the restaurant to look for a nightclub and a nightcap.

When I step onto the road, I see that the palmist waits at the end of the street.

I near her hesitantly, pass her, and she asks: “Can I help you?”

“No, nobody can help me. We are all alone, circling around ourselves with one foot nailed to the ground.”

“That are the shadows of your inner strife and struggle”, she says.

The stars radiate flickering light. The mercurial moonlight trembles over the Seine.

Dogs are barking. I cannot locate the barking, or where it comes from. Perhaps the sounds are circling through the cool layers of air as a sounding mirage. The space may have stored these sounds since last summer so that we hear them today or in the following century. Similar to the light from the stars that extinguished millions of years ago.    

I arrive at the doorstep of my abode. The light in the concierge’s lodge is switched off, and all windows in the house are dark.

My footsteps echo in the stairwell, I fear waking the neighbours.

A collection of love poetry talking about friendship, spring, and happiness lies open on my table, I like this soothing poetry by my favourite writer, but find it has fallen out of reality.

I write of the disappointed who lament their lovesickness and disappointments in the taverns to one another, of the endless adventures of loners lost in the darkness of the city on the track of sin or thrill.

But I cannot offer a solution. No writer or poet can.

I write about myself, lost in my own forlornness and ambivalence.

About the Author:
Eduard Schmidt-Zorner is a translator and writer of poetry, haibun, haiku, and short stories. He writes in four languages: English, French, Spanish, and German and holds workshops on Japanese and Chinese style poetry and prose and experimental poetry. Member of four writer groups in Ireland. Lives in County Kerry, Ireland, for more than 30 years and is a proud Irish citizen, born in Germany. Published in over 200 anthologies, literary journals, and broadsheets in USA, UK, Ireland, Australia, Canada, Japan, Sweden, Spain, Italy, Austria, France, Bangladesh, India, Mauritius, Nepal, Pakistan, and Nigeria. He also writes under his penname Eadbhard McGowan.

The post Lonely Sunday in Paris by Eduard Schmidt-Zorner first appeared on Prachya Review.

So I met Mozzel again today! It’s been a while. He is dead for fifteen years. As far as I can remember it was in May or June, one of those hottest days of that year. Well, last time when I met him he was still alive. He vanished for two years and then we found him dead in our Banggari Park. His body lied there unmarked beside the deep water pump. Heard so many rumours about his death! Truth always hides in those rumors, so that we can choose the one that suits us. Even in our home there were four versions of his death. Baba said, not every death would have to have reasons! Ma proclaimed it must be the epilepsy! He suffered a lot in hotter days. Our maid, Mushi’s ma, suspected the ghosts could be behind it! A lonely man in that deserted land! The neck of a thirsty man is ghost’s favourite dinner.

But I like my Dadi’s version better. She thought he died because he couldn’t hold his breath long enough to blow his flute.

I couldn’t go and see Mozzel, lying there dead! I heard people saying he had nothing else but his flute, tucked in his lungi.

Never did I think I would have met him again in Kuakata beach. I couldn’t recognise him but his flute sounded familiar! Mozzel recognised me first, may be from the silhouette of mine, made by night or sea as both were soaked with moonlight or maybe he was already following me, knowing me somehow, somewhere.

“So Dadavai, which hair style are you after, Mithun cut!” Mozzel asks with his age old smile, “Well, this is not your time of Mithun cut.” I smiled. “Rather Ronbirs”. But you probably don’t know them, do you?” Nearby, there was a tree trunk, we sat there facing each other. Ayla flooded this area in 2009, some towns went under, but still there are some trees that rise above during low tides.

“So how did you end up here? “ I ask.

“Father used to tell us stories of sea, sitting next to our river.  He heard those from his father, and he from his father. None of my past, had ever seen the sea. Then the river dries up and becomes a creek, the creek dries up and becomes dirt. Before his death, father, holding my hand, urged, Bapdhon, there is nothing else I expect from you. People dream of their sons becoming doctor or leader but all that my dad wanted was, me embracing the sea that they had never seen.  So I came here last year.  Before that I was in Coxesbazar.”

“So did you manage to like the sea?” my preoccupied mind asks.

“Don’t know, but this land doesn’t attract me, I feel restless. Sea wails like nothing else dadavai!”

“Let’s blow this thing Mozzel!  So many days have passed without your song!  Do you remember those evenings when you played the flute by the pond? Near the pond’s concrete stair! Us sitting around you? Us spellbound by you! Do you remember those days Mozzel? Do you?”

Mozzel stays silent. His eyes reflect the moon or moonlight splashes his eyes, like it does to the sea with its thin crystal lines. Mozzel, now his eyes closed, sitting there like an ascetic spirit, starts to play his flute. He hasn’t changed a bit. He can still cast a spell on me like he could in those days.

When I met Mozzem for the first time, I was only seven day young. Ma wanted him to cut my baby hair. On a hot burning day, he did this under the roof of our golaghar. Dadi was holding me stiff while he was doing his trick. Not only me, he was also the barber of my four other brothers as well as the rest of our village. Once finished cutting, he had lunch with Kathal juice and gorom panta vat. Ma cooked chicken curry for him with the ones from our backyard but Mozzel refused to eat. He even refused when Ma wanted to give him some money. He, just as usual, tied a kilo of rice in his gamcha and quickly walked off. I heard all these from Ma. The day Mozzel died, Ma was incredibly sad and was telling me all those again and again.

Mozzel would be summoned home in one of those Fridays, usually just before Jumma. We, the two immediate brothers, while sitting there bareback, watched how Mozzel sharpened his single edged razor with Baba’s tool sharpener. He would yell,” Mithun or Amitavh?” I would ask for Mithun while my elder brother would go for Amitavh. Funny thing is none of us knew either Mithun or Amitavh. Television had yet to infiltrate our village so I guess even Mozzel wouldn’t know them. Well I might be wrong in that case. The neighbouring village had televisions and Mozzel could go there for his business. He might have seen them in one of those.  The village had three houses with televisions and in every fight we had with them, they would boast about those.

After the haircut, we would examine them in  mirror, but both cuts looked exactly the same. He only knew one cut but gave it different names. His magic was in his words, not in his razor. He also had the same haircut for the whole village irrespective of elders or young.  There was nothing unique in his flute either. He had only one song that he played from evening to mid night. He might have one song but had infinite rhythms. He put his heart in there and every time he played the song, the song became new again.

“Let’s take a walk.” Mozzel says removing his flute.

And so we walk.

“How come it’s so quiet in here while so busy out there? After all the night is not that old!” I ask.

“May be I am here, that’s why!” a naïve answer from Mozzel. “People get scared when they hear me playing but can’t see anyone! It’s that fear that I win the world with!” Mozzel laughs.

“Well if you could use some fear with them, you wouldn’t have to vanish that day!” I say.

Mozzel doesn’t say anything and I don’t know what he is thinking about.

“Trust me I never belonged to that group. But I couldn’t go against them, they were too strong! But if you think my silence was my sign of support, then I made a mistake.” I try to explain to Mozzel.

“That’s ok, Dadavai!  Main thing is you loved my music and that’s the reason we meet here again. Can you believe I am playing for someone again, after such a long time!

“Who did you play for in between these days?”

“Habit! Habit made me playing these days.”

 “Or was it for yourself?”

“May be!” Mozzel answers with indifference. Then he picks up his flute again giving the sea a stern deaf look.

He would go to sleep once every one of us would. Mine would come late. When Mozzel took the walk from one end of our village to another, I would think his music was coming from somewhere else. May be from other side of my dream, from one hidden space of my scream. He would take a break, just before the Fazr Azan. Ma would be angry with me for waking up late every day. I talked about it one day with Mozzel! He laughed. “I don’t play that long dadavai! My breath is finished by Esha Azan!” He would say.

Meanwhile the wind calms down a bit and so does the wailing of the sea. I was always scared of that calm quiet sea! Now I fear nothing. I can feel that the sea is now in deep slumber. The humming is her sound of her peace. Gradually I will get to understand the sea. 

 “Our village has changed, hasn’t it dadavai?” Mozzel stops playing flute.

“Yeah, a lot, long fences along houses, no easy access to homes anymore. The girls seldom go out. Boys do fencidil business at the border. There was a mosque once, barely standing there. Now so many of them, big as palace, wrapped with electric fans. Barber shop is in every corner. All modern machines to do the haircut.”

“Super!” Mozzel sighs unable to add anything else.

“Now television is in every house. Dance and music go nonstop but look they kicked you out just for playing flute! That Safi Huzur, coming from who knows God damn where, gives a fatwa and whole village jump in to drive you out. Can you believe, these same people would struggle if they couldn’t hear your music for even one night! Your sickness would kill them, they would go miles to make you feel better, and they would do anything to make you play the flute again”

“Humm, One day they couldn’t control my high fever, Minu Kabiraj rushed to get grand Kabiraz from Pabna.” Mozzel says interrupting me.

“And look, that same Minu Kabiraz led them to drive you out of the village!”

“Sea is so vast, Dadavai, as if she is holding an eternity inside like a pregnant mother” Mozzel changes the subject.

We keep on walking. There was a tree trunk and we had our endless time. We take a sit facing the sea. I urge Mozzel to play the flute again. I close my eyes, the melody is coming from so far that I have to imagine. I remember I would raise my head from pillow to taste the song like a moist bread. And that what I used to do every day. Mozzel would play under a tree, that didn’t have any name. Mozzel would play while lying there restless on a bamboo stake. Mozzel would play while farewelling the reflected moon on someone else’s docile lake. Mozzel loved his family, he loved his home. He was father of eight- five girls and three boys and every one of them looked so different! Rumor was Mozzel’s wife would meet her lovers, in secret, who would come out of her bed during midnight. She was so fertile that every year she could be pregnant. Once in a while, Mozzel would visit his home. We saw him carrying his daughters on his shoulders when he came outside. Mozzel loved to spend a day or so with his children before going out again with his flute and tools. Seldom did he make contribution to his family and that was like giving four anna lollies to his children. Furious wife would throw them to the creepy mud. Children quickly picked them up, cleaned them in pond and chewed them slowly removing the wraps and that made the other children go crazy. Then Mozzel’s second eldest daughter, eight years old, found dead, bloodied, near the garden. We didn’t know why did that happen. We didn’t ask much about her blood soaked body, our chairman also forbade us to talk about it. Mozzel cried a lot holding his daughter and that was the last time we saw him crying. Just after seven days of his death, his wife gave birth to a baby boy. He looked exactly like Mozzel. The whole village came like a stream to see the baby. I went to see him too. Trust me, I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t go and see him. On his eleventh day, the baby died suddenly. I was thinking whether I should tell him all these things. Then decide to hold it off. May be another day. We have time!

Mozzel tucks his flute inside his Lungi. “I owe you an apology, dadavai!”

“Why? You haven’t done anything!” I ask.

“When the strong current was pulling you away, I tried so hard to save you dadavai but couldn’t. This stupid soul and its will power is useless without the flesh.”

“Don’t worry about these anymore, Mozzel! I too am learning similar things, as I grow older into my days!”

We go back to our silence again. All of a sudden, we feel like two enormous trees that have seen so much that they don’t find anything significant to talk about anymore. As usual the moon was up above like a plate in the sky, as usual the she was going home, crisp and quiet, slowly along her the star-studded path.

About the Writer

Mojaffor Hossain is a Bangladeshi fiction writer, translator and literary critic. He is editor at Shashwatiki.

About the Translator

Mahmud Hasan a Bangladeshi writer. this is his first try in translation. Tried writing poems, travelogues. Too many interests to talk about. Lives in melbourne

The post Mozzel and His Flute by Mojaffor Hossain and Translated by Mahmud Hasan first appeared on Prachya Review.

‘But I don’t want you to live in such an abnormal way,’ you said, kissed my forehead and was about to leave. I clung on to you with both my hands. You disengaged yourself and went away. I wailed loudly in that open field beside the pine forest. I woke up in my bed with my heart racing. Rest of my night was spent sitting in the balcony.”
I keep drawing with my finger on the folds of your chest and ask, “Do you remember these things?”
“Yes, I do. And that’s why I honestly want you to extricate yourself from this. “
I say, “Since then, I haven’t seen you for such a long time. Have been calling you continuously, but you don’t answer them, you switch off your mobile. How horrible! I keep reciting Whitman like rosary, the words turn into my heartbeat and pulsate through my veins, through my every cell:

Blow! Blow! Blow!
Blow up sea-winds, along Paumanok’s shore!
I wait and I wait, till you blow my mate to me.

Soothe! Soothe! Soothe!
Close on its waves soothes the wave behind,
Again another behind, embracing and lapping, 
Everyone close,
But my love soothes not me, not me.

Loud! Loud! Loud!
Loud I call to you, my love!
High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves,
Surely you must know who is here, is here,
You must know who I am, my love.

Land! Land! O Land!
Whichever way I turn
O I think you could give me 
My mate back again.

“Do you remember that stormy day when you suddenly came to our house,” you go on reminiscing. “I was out in my car on an important errand. There were large trees, twisted, distorted branches lying uprooted on the road and the world was submerged in impenetrable darkness. In such inclement weather I returned home to find you sitting in my bedroom. Soaking wet. Shivering like a winter pigeon. Sheltered in my embrace you related how you had been the lone frightened rider in this long journey by bus.” 
I concede, “Yes, I do. I was really scared throughout the ride. The driver’s red eyes were glowing like headlights within the bus.
Another time, after an argument with you, I remember being alone in a rickshaw, crying my heart out. I asked the rickshaw puller to take me around the city just aimlessly, the fares didn’t matter. I called you a lowdown, characterless vagabond after hearing everyone talking about your relationship with that flagpole Snigdha, as tall as you. That bastard woman had been telling my friends about how every now and then she visited your home to punish you. The city was in total blackout and I traversed the streets, crying all the time and cursing you.
You too had exploded on the phone, ‘How dare you call me names on the basis of telltales, without even confirming the veracity of it!’
I pleaded, ‘Don’t you know how much I love you? Don’t you understand how my world goes upside down hearing such rumors involving you? The whole of tonight I’ll roam the streets, cross the Padma to go sleep in its sandbanks, I’ll not return home and you may go on with your peaceful sleep.’ I hung up after this.
I got off near the T Grain Dam and paid off the rickshaw puller. I kept walking along the dam in the silent, deserted, blacked out city. The wakeful trees, the thin currents of the river Padma, and the vast stretch of sandbank – all lay resplendent under the moon-lit sky. In a distance some voices could be heard, of some others also awake and gathered on the dam. I descend the dam to go closer to the river. My feet got tangled in needle-grass, or stuck in mud. In front lay a reed forest. A boat was floating on the river. The breeze carried a damp smell. Serpentine currents of water were slithering by. The clouds were giving the moon a ride towards the sea. Your call came, “Still crying?”
“No.”
“Where are you?”
“By the bank of the Padma.”
“Come to my house in Dhaka, straight into my bedroom.”
“Why do you make me suffer so much?”
I sobbed. On returning to the dam, I took the rickshaw and received your text, “You are my life and your smiling eyes fill my days with sunshine. Stay forever the way you are.”
The whole of the next day I passed in a stupor. In the evening, on the rooftop of Cinderella, I narrated my dream to Ichok Duende. I told him, “You know what? Everyone thinks I’m a sleepyhead. I return from work, have dinner and retire to bed. No TV, no chitchat, no reading books or magazines – nothing. Just a flat life.”
Ichok Duende, mixing dry in the moon-drenched roof and said, “You’re a great girl.”’
In the air-conditioned chill of the room, I snug inside the quilt, take my head off your arms, place a pillow under it and say, “Even now, it’s so embarrassing to remember that incident of the Padma dam. Such abusive words I uttered about you.”
“Well, I don’t remember anything like that,” you respond.
“Can I turn the shower off? I say. “Don’t feel good about such wastage of water. And what do you say about lowering the volume of the TV? By now, everyone must have gone to bed.”
“No, no. not yet. People can still hear you.”
“May God save me from your pointless over-concern, I say. “When I was watching the news of your death in television, all your followers weeping over your body, I knew I didn’t lose you. In fact, I’d be nearer you more than ever.”
I am walking beside you along wild vegetation, a few bald headed hills and some ghost-like baobabs are standing here and there. Some pigeons and eagles are flying in the still air. In the intense heat the landscape shimmers like steam on a burner. On crossing this silent rocky world, there is a black sculpture of a woman sitting on an immense sea fish and beyond that is a lake dotted by a few small islets, inhabited by people of all ages. All of them, including you have shrouds wrapped around them in the style of ancient Roman toga. On the overhead trees are bats, eagles and vultures. Blind storks and flamingoes are sitting on the plants floating on the water and also there are gigantic ferns, as large as coconut palms. Every gust of wind brings in a relentless stream incorporeal sounds like love-talks, lamentations, half-suppressed groans and sighs. A man is eating grapes sitting on the trunk of a dead tree. You whisper his identity to me, “He was a renowned minister and a government servant with the reputation of a good administrator of reasonable honesty. He helped many in his official capacity and never turned down anyone in distress. Thanks to a favorable media, after retirement from the ministry, he became one of the top intellectuals of the country, used to be invited to deliver speeches on almost all strategic situations. During his tenure in government service, he had eliminated through cross-fires many ordinary thieves, prostitutes, brokers, snatchers, drug-dealers, murderers, robbers, eve-teasers and adulterers. When he went to perform the Haj before his ministerial posting, a few jealous colleagues recited the Urdu saying, “Sao chuhe maarke billi hajke chali re”, meaning the cat is going on the pilgrimage after killing a hundred mice. Leaving aside these few begrudging vilifications, he had been highly appreciated by the media and general multitude.”
Near the man, there is a melanin-covered face of a woman sleeping on a stone bench strewn with bird-droppings. With her clavicles sticking out, even in her sleep, she looked very weak. You say, “Her name is Parul. Used to be a prostitute in Gulshan area. Her clients were mostly the caretakers, drivers or guards of the wealthy people. She used to send money to her village home regularly where the neighbors and relatives knew she had some kind of a job in the city. One night, in search of client to earn some extra money for the treatment of her seriously ill father at home, she left her four month old son with an old neighbor, Majeda. That night, Gulshan police, in a drive to uproot immoral elements from society, rounded up some roving prostitutes including Parul. She cried that whole night in front of the police officer on duty, ‘I’ve left my suckling baby with a lame, old woman, sir and he will starve to death.’
The whining of a fallen woman, pining for home and child didn’t move the heart of the police. She was sent to jail within twenty four hours and in five days, she heard of her child’s death, through lack of breast-milk, suffering from diarrhea. Within a week, she died with and ailing body and broken heart.” Pointing at Parul you say, ‘Now that she’s asleep, you can’t see her agony. All her wakeful moments are spent wailing for that lost child.’ 
Then you show me a darkish man of medium height sitting on a rock, singing, “Katobaro bhebechhinu apona bhulia” – How often have I thought of forgetting myself—. The fountain flowing next to him is a hot water spring, he said. Pointing at the man he continued, ‘His name is Babul, once a leader of the East Bengal Communist Party, died in crossfire. He is the happiest man here. Memories of loved ones left in life having covered with the patina of time, his twelve year old daughter constantly keeps him company. She studies in Khulna Coronation Government School, always seemingly engrossed in her study table, giving people the impression of being very studious. In reality, she is constantly talking with her father about her days, her activities with friends, the comments of teachers and companions, what others are doing at home, all the stories piled up during the day must be shared with her father before falling asleep. 
What is interesting is that the child was not from his loins. In fact Babul had been the murderer of her parents. Her father was Chairman of the Union Council. The night Babul entered with his gang into their house to shoot the man, the baby girl was sleeping by his side. When her mother came running in from the next room and screamed at the sight of his bullet-hit body, they shot her too. Babul got perplexed at the sight of the five month old girl, waking up in the blood of her father. He picked up the child as he came out, cleaned the blood off her body from a pond and going home, placed her in his wife’s lap. Most of the time he used to lie hidden underground, but whenever he came home, he would take full charge of the girl, feeding, bathing and even washing her clothes with his own hands. The girl also belonged to her foster father Babul, all heart and soul. And that is the girl who has kept him so happy in this after-life.’
I say, “The whole of next day I was submerged in thoughts of Parul, Babul and his daughter.” “I also used to be amazed at Babul’s happiness,” you say.
I feel extremely uncomfortable at the loud sound of the TV. Your eyes are glazed over, as if glancing at some distant reality. I say, “Please let me turn off the shower and TV.”
“Alright. But speak in whispers,” your caution persists. The moment I switch off the television and enter the bathroom to turn off the shower, I hear sounds of many voices at the door. Looking through the peephole I see a huge congregation – ex-ministers, newspaper editor, journalists, photographers, Arabs, Africans, the Pope, politicians, government officials, the police – all sorts of people in the passage. In the midst of all these, there is a pair of large eyes which, for many, can imply Godlike assurance, but for me, in all my nightmares this large eyed man had been chasing me knife in hand and I had been fleeing him from wilderness to wilderness, from room to room. I say to my lover, “Do you hear that? The large eyed man is here, with knife in hand. He is going to kill us.”
You firmly wrap your arms around me. “Don’t panic,” you say. “Nobody can cause you any harm. There is nobody there.”
By then, the screaming multitude and their ceaseless banging on the door have become part of me, flowing through my veins and nerves. I cling to you in a desperate grasp. Slowly the noise subsides. Total silence returns to the world. Your body starts to feel like cold stone. I slowly open my eyes to realize I am holding a pure white Grecian marble statue in my embrace. What a marvel in art, the sculpted body, the perfect nose, eyes and lips and the crease of the chest! And the next moment, there is nothing. I am lying in a backpackers’ hotel in Sydney. A fan is revolving noisily, hanging from the high ceiling and the morning sun is entering the room through its single window. The window is covered with dust.

About the Author:

Rashida Sultana is a writer and poet. Having studied Economics at the University of Dhaka and Ritsumeikan University in Japan, she served as a civil servant of Bangladesh Government and worked for the United Nations Integrated Mission in Timor Leste and the African Union/ United Nations Hybrid Operations in Darfur, Sudan. She is author of four collections of short stories, an anthology of poem and a novel.

About the Translator:

Sitara Jabeen Ahmed has been teaching, translating and interpreting over a long period of time.

The post The Dreamscape: Original Story by Rashida Sultana and Translated by Sitara Jabeen Ahmed first appeared on Prachya Review.