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Lost Land Of My Birth Arindam N Sarkar Ref. No. 805001ms Length 137,000 words

Summary

Shatru, a Bengali young man, born in Altona,Germany of East-Pakistani father and an Indian mother. A war broke out between two parts of his father's country and his parents were murdered. As an orphan he was sent to India, his mother's land. Surviving a grim childhood, he joined the Indian Secret Service. Suspicious of his identity and citizenship, his seniors posted Shatru in the harsh high Himalayas bordering Tibet-China. Though his lady love Lila had a different twists of fate, ultimately the ugly face of the system prevailed and the two young lives had to go through desertion and desperation.

From The Book

Chapter – 5

JUNGLE, FISH, ROYAL BENGAL TIGERS AND MUD – THE SUNDARBANS

Chinese tiger-balm, Japanese abacus, Italian tiles, Korean gabardine, Indian hand made palm-leaf fans, date-tree-leaf mats, brooms, old pornographies, cassettes, vegetables, egg-omelets, Darjeeling tea, garden star-turtle, prostitutes, mutton biryani, birds, snakes, hermit crabs, peacock plumes, fruits, goats, meat, computers, fish, fingerlings - rioting display of supplies, everything fresh and cheap – a market by all looks, means and standard!

Are you foxed?

Unfortunately and little painfully too, the answer is, ‘yes.’ Actually, it was the city’s South Railway Station – a place of hectic activity, day and night long – no place for parking and no place for standing either – only selling and buying all around; choking, real pain it is.

Lakhs of commuters scurried in and out, making the open front yard into a sea of human heads surging in all possible (mis)directions. The railways connected the distant gaons by frequent train services - lifelines between the city and its’ source of supplies. The dirty train compartments brought endless resources - everything from ‘smuggled missile parts to maidservants; fish to finger-millets, tomatoes to tiger-teeth….’ endless lists.

The Bengalis love this place. Not scared of bargaining and their passion for real hot spices have made the daily commuters guilty of getting late in the office and leaving early as their addiction to hang around that merchandise has crossed all pleasing limits.

The Bengalis love fish, eat fish, dream fish, talk fish and live on fish. If a symbiotic relationship between water and fish to be best compared to, then, macheer jhool and Bongs would be the most appropriate one. The Bengalis tap the fish (particularly at the belly), raise its pelvic fins, check the gills, spread the dorsal fins, measure the scales, rub the eyes, toss it upside down, open its mouth, droll their own mouth, ogle with greed and lust, indulge in heavy petting all over as if a mad foreplay before sex; count the teeth to make a guesstimate about the age (if the fish is too old it may not be that tasty (sexy?) as it would have been at its youth) and only after being sure about the right savor, the Bongs start for the next process – the big bargain. The entire exercise is to select the right fish.

This inborn passion for fish is not only in their blood, it is deep hidden in their bone marrow and finally mixing up with inexplicable craze they get on to the right mode. Due to lack of insight the way one may miss a virgin in the marriage, similarly due to lack of right approach one may end up with the rotten fish; risky deals.

Whether the fish is from the river or from the sea; whether it was naturally grown or any chemical was used in its treatment and cultivation, whether it was born in the river Ganges or the Padma – accordingly taste will certainly vary and this taste is not immune to seasonal changes too.

Life and death and in between all other activities like annaprashan , engagement, marriage, honeymoon, child birth, house warming, religious activities nothing can be perfect and performed in absence of this creature of water. Great god, they do not end up marrying a crocodile itself or ask for a mermaid as best-man! To cut the long story short, the Bengalis love fish - no compromise – everyday trickling of taste buds is like a social obligation and commitment. Without fish life turns out to be utterly tasteless. Passion for fish is no different from appeal for sex – fish only causes to aggravate the appeal and fecundity. Many attribute their high talent and overtime in the bed to their consistent consumption of it – a proportionate quantity daily invigorates the brain and tunes up the brawn in perfect harmony.

The trains are both a boon and bane to the city-house-wives. If someday, the unenthusiastic ticket checkers were poked up and forced to do little justice to their duties, tensions built up in the city’s kitchens. The poor maidservants - all without tickets - caught, abused, huddled up in iron cages and the younger ones were pestered and misbehaved with by the combined gang of the Railway Police and the Ticket Inspectors. Worse, these government nuts have taken it for granted that the railways are their private property and it is their right to have some free fun with the maidservants as the girls are without tickets. Self gratification at the cost of the government!

Meanwhile, like any other troubled employer in Bengal, the bosses of these maids that is the hassled housewives first fumed, then imprecated the excusing nature of the helping hands and finally cursed their own agonizing fate sitting in the dirty kitchen, full of fish bones. Reminiscence of a bone yard!

Utensils remained un-scrubbed, children got late to school, husbands had to bunk office to compensate the absence of the maids and relatives were completely abhorred off for the day. As the guests are gods, scrubbing grimy plates by them is not the practice in this land!

Imagine if by chance the railways stopped altogether!

The train started moving. No separate classes – except for a few coaches marked for the ladies alone - all the same and common for all. Most of the commuters were jostling at the doors though several seats were vacant; probably they’re preparing to get down at the next-next-station.

The train slowed down. Lila hurriedly pressed a napkin against her nose – instant reaction.

‘Why does the air smell so foul here?’ asked Lila, uncomfortable.

Shatru knew the answer. The city was not alien to him. It is his mother’s hometown; where he was brought at the tender age of one. Here he had realized that he was an orphan; here he had become aware of the fact that his childhood was already a lost dream; he had seen the death of his maternal grand parents, experienced the bites of hunger and he had been thrown out from their house as ‘daughter’s son doesn’t inherit from maternal grand parents’ argued the crooks and the holy law. For some times, missionary school hostels became his residence though and scholarships his means of survival, he was often drifted to in the company of refugees living in shanties in the outskirts of the city. He had lost everything in this very city but Calcutta had also made him what he was.

Lila saw mounds of sand, sawdust and husk at regular intervals on either side of the railway tracks, even over imposing the boundary walls. Trailing between those mounds, were the line up of cows, horses, camels and buffaloes. They were suspended on their necks from bamboo frames with their heads, shoulders, shanks, bents, bellies and butts spread intact. From the train windows it seemed that the animals were busy doing some beam balancing exercise in the morning sun. The raw hides and skins were stuffed with mineral salts, tannic acids, sands and saw dusts filled with water - to avoid shrinkage. After a week, furs were sheared and the emptied pelts were sent away for the final finish – dressed leather; bags, boots, belts endless products.

Yes, those were the tanneries, the largest assemblage of this sort in Eastern India. The owners, mostly Chinese Dahus (tycoons) from China town, owe a lot to those animals for the millions they earned from leather exports.

The pong that disturbed Lila, like most of the other new passengers, was that of raw hide and filth around.

‘Can’t they move these tanneries to some far away and safer place?’

‘Nothing of the sort can be even thought of here.’

‘Why? Why? Any taboo?’ Lila was genuinely surprised. She was unaware of the complex political equations of West Bengal. Over the years, the cadre based communist parties found enough support in the form of those illiterate leather workers. The local activists used the hides and bones as the last bait for their political survival. Inquilab Zindabad !

‘No taboo, but for the constriction of the comrades. They draw blood from these tanneries!’

After an hour’s journey, locality became sparse, stagnant pools became frequent and landscape metamorphosed into waterscapes. The rail lines looked like a floating reed.

‘You must be bored? asked Shatru with a sense of guilt. ‘We’ll reach by evening. We’ve covered only half the distance. The other half, we’ll travel by launch and then by bus and finally on our own.’

Actually, Shatru didn’t know where is and how to reach Fakker Island. He was guided by his self taught knowledge about the area and mostly depended on the advices of the locals what were being poured generously on asking; but at the same time Shatru didn’t want to scare Lila too.

‘Would it be too difficult to go back now?’

‘Going back home, you mean?’ Shatru was a bit surprise.

‘It’s such a long journey!’

‘The island isn’t very far - only a hundred miles from the city,’ Shatru tried to assure her.

The Ganga-Delta region is one of the most vulnerable and inaccessible areas of the country. The incessant and pounding rains had caused huge cavities in it’s metal roads – driving a painstaking experience – almost compelling the vehicles to plunge into roadside ditches full of wild hyacinth; leaving the small wooden boats as the only other viable option for undertaking a voyage. However, those punts had a notoriety of frequent capsizing, if not due to over aging then certainly for overloading; the strong waves and the sucking whirlpools made the act simpler.

Naturally, one was required to be able to beat a hungry shark in swimming competition before boarding the boats. Yes! kumirs (crocodiles), kamats (local name of sharks) and karatmach (swordfish) infested the river waters. Death from the stings of the poisonous barbs of a jelly fish or a thornback ray virtually reduced all the passengers to destiny about the water.

And in the mangrove jungles who is not aware of the lurking death - the Royal Bengal Tigers. When facing the animal turns out to be too tall an asking, then at least have a face mask at the back of your head to deceive the notoriously fearless man-eater. Expert in ambushing from the back, the black striped beauty gets confused allowing a lease of life to the visitor. The mighty cats often swum across the big and fierce rivers in search of prey attacking domestic cattle and sometimes even the villagers themselves – fishermen on boats are easy hunts. Challenging a hungry lion is preferable to even sighting of a full belly Royal Bengal!

Alas! The jungles no more remained a safer place even for the carnivores. Groves disappeared; gunshots prevailed!

‘………don’t worry, we’ll be there.’ Shatru put his arms around her shoulders, to assure again.

The train stopped at a mufassil town - a small railway station - served by three trains, to and fro, daily. Instead of passengers - animals, vegetables, fishes and other possible vendibles over loaded the compartments. Outside the station, Shatru and Lila encountered three things in abundance - fish, dogs and slush – fortunately no tigers yet. Dogs roamed about lose everywhere, in search of anything edible - sometimes bold and cunning enough to steal and snatch.

The town, on the banks of the mighty river which finally drained out into the open bay a few miles down, served as a harbor to the fishermen. Trawlers with huge hauls and country boats with small catch frequented the harbor where the pisces were sorted out and categorized - soft water fish from the upper part of the rivers, ponds and canals and sea fish from the bay.

Demand for the soft water variety was sky-high. It’s a local delicacy. Sea fish was mainly for export, poultry feed, manure and bait.

Lungis folded up to knees, some feet bare, some with the honor of holding worn-out rubber chappals coated with mud and money pouches tied below paunches, the whole-sale-buyers were competing at every auction - bigger the fish, higher was the bid. Shatru noticed that the highest bidder was performing some puja and kissing his fish after every deal – certainly not out of love and devotion, probably for big profits. The stuff was then put into ice, packed, sealed and sent away to cities where it would fetch double the prices. And on the day of any festival when demands struck high, prices hit the sky, digging deep into the pockets of the middle class Bengali eaters – not the fish, it was the cost that left a bitter taste as though biting fish-biles.

Shrimps, krills, prawns and lobsters - technically not fish but earned more dollars and yens than the ‘real’ teleostei. Prawns were not a menu-celebrity before the foreign importers discovered its nutritional property and created a scarcity in its supply. Not long ago, abundantly supplied in local markets and if served in social feasts it use to invite words of distaste from guests. Now, the purveyance of the same is appreciated as a ‘Feast of the year.’

The poor prawn! It never did and still doesn’t know its worth - Rs. 1,000/ per kg for export.

As the co-passengers informed and also direction given by Sanyal, his island should have been somewhere on the other bank of the river, in the Bay of Bengal. Difficult destination – disheartening enough to dissuade any new comer!

The jetty was half a mile away from the railway station. Lila and Shatru started walking towards it but what they saw was enough to make them nervous. The anchored launch was already full of passengers and many more spilled over on the wooden pier. Lila feared that the weak structure would crumble down into the whirlpool of muddy water. But the passengers were least bothered of the danger involved and too busy arguing and elbowing. A stout man with stony looks was standing alone, away from the maddening crowd - eyes pinned on the overloaded launch.

‘Isn’t it time yet? Is the ferry for Fakkar Island?’

The man turned about violently and looked daggers (he was already bugged by the passengers) at Shatru and was about to say –

‘get lost…the idiot…..don’t pester me. You’re not a born-blind, god has given you eyes, I see…… you can see what’s happening there!’

But the man saw Shatru was least provoked and then noticed Lila with him. He couldn’t believe his eyes that such a beauty could ever been there. Occasionally, foreign animal lovers and so called environmentalists had traveled in his launch but he noticed that the chicks in the groups had bony structures with hanging breasts, no bras under loose shirts. They had tiger faces or an egg of a dinosaur printed either on their banians or tattooed on their biceps. He hated them, though for not any explainable reason. But this lady, though with a proper Indian sari and long soft black hair, didn’t look like any Asian leave alone an Indian. The combination of a flawless fair complexion and proportionate growth were a rarity. She seemed sedate, well mannered and her charming appearance made her the center of attraction. The leather chappals were already streaked with mud, sari a bit above her ankles to save it from the river bank muck.

‘I'm the sareng (pilot) of this launch and have been working in these waters for the past eleven years. You want to go by this launch?’ asked the stout looking man.

‘We’ve to go to Fakkar Isl…..’

‘… Gosaba…Kakdwip…Gangasagar…tin ghanta. Akasher saman baro baro dheiough, Sandhyar agya sambhav na…’ prodded the pilot.

Though Lila had picked up little bit broken Bengali after coming to this country, what the pilot expressed in his local dialect sounded like the voice of some alien creature from a distant planet.

She asked Shatru what the pilot was saying.

‘…….We first go to Gosaba, on the other side of the river. It’ll take at least three hours; sky kissing waves in the water and the width of the river is approximately thirty-five miles. Even if the launch cruises at ten to eleven nautical miles per hour yet that time of three hours is not enough. Almost evening it will be. After the launch journey, it is by bus and finally by boat…..’

Though Shatru tried his best to put in plain words, yet there was no clarity about the location of the Fakker Island and the time it will take to reach there.

‘Is it a river or the sea!’ Lila looked at the muddy whirlpool of the powerful estuary. Bewildered.

‘What makes you stand here instead of being in the wheel-cabin?’ asked Lila

‘Today’s the fourth Saturday. In this month, the local people who go to the forest to collect honey, wood and fish, worship the Goddess of Jungle - Bonnbibi. SHE’s powerful and saves her devotees from tigers, crocodiles and hornet’s strings but fails (quite often) to save them from the poachers’ bullets. All these passengers aren’t regular, most of them are devotees and are going to the mela held at Gosaba in honor of their deity.

‘The celebration is nothing but a congregation of a few ‘straw-and-clay deities’ and small shops selling fried papads , boiled eggs and glass bangles - a big festival for the villagers. The capacity of the launch is exactly one-third of the passengers boarding it now. We’d agreed to make two trips (still with some risk of overloading) so everyone can join the festival but all of them want to go in the first trip itself. Madness! At the time of tide, waves rise up to three to four yards, even the normal capacity becomes risky business, the pilot assayed to explain his difficulties. My men have gone to the bazaar and I’m standing here to avoid the crowd’s wrath.’

‘Any chance of going today?’ Shatru asked desparately.

‘These unpretentious folks are crazy; just once in a year! You can imagine! They think if they don’t have a darshan of their Goddess and pray, they’ll be deprived of HER blessings and will be easy bait for tigers in the jungle. I don’t know how they’ll survive now if they all go in the first trip itself – water grave!’

‘What’ll we do now?’ Lila too was genuinely concerned.

Shatru’d no answer to this.

‘There’s a good sarkari-yaatri-nivas behind the bazaar. Only when government officials come here for some work, they stay there, for the night. Else, it remains vacant. The chowkidar is a local old man, prepares very good food. Tomorrow morning we can go.’

The pilot assured them.

Shatru expressed his gratitude for the guest-house-information. It was a saving grace for the moment. What else could have been done in those circumstances? He started walking towards the market seeing no likelihood of leaving for the island - Lila followed him. For how long one could stand in that slush?

‘Aren’t you hungry?’

She didn’t respond to Shatru’s quip. Instead, ‘are you going to stay in that bungalow?’ she asked.

‘Okay, if there’s only one room you stay in, I’ll manage in the veranda. ’ Shatru’s smiling.

‘Don’t be silly! You know I didn’t mean that.’

‘Lila. I’m hungry. Lets eat something first.’

‘I’ve some hamburgers and chocolates. I think we can do with this now.’

‘Hamburgers!’

‘Why, what’s wrong? I thought you’d like them. So, I packed some up.’

‘They must be cold by now and the pork-pie in it will taste like alkatra , I mean solid tar.’ Shatru laughed. ‘We don’t know when we’ll reach Mr. Sanyal’s island. Keep the stuff for the rainy day. We’ll surely get a better chance to do justice to your Hamburg sandwiches.’

‘You mean fasting today!’ Lila’s surprised.

‘Not that.’

He drew her attention and asked her to trail his finger. She couldn’t follow what he’s trying to show.

‘W..h…a…t?’

They came closer to the market.

The shingle should’ve been a hut for the cattle, but it wasn’t. Its small signboard was unable to hold the big fish. The fish tail over-shot the board and to adjust the long tail the ingenious painter used a separate wooden plank fixed horizontally – the identity of the shop.

‘That’s a hotel.’

‘How does that fish say so?’

‘It’s a practice in rural India (as for most of its folks are non-literate) to sketch out the main item of their menu to attract customers. Seeing these healthy animals on the signboards, hungry customers often take it for granted that the hotel would definitely be serving the best curry (bitter experiences too aren’t uncommon) out of those animals. Not only fish – even cows, goats, hens, pigs and what not, the list is endless - even homosapiens!’ Heartily laughed Shatru.

‘Serving flesh!’ shrieked Lila. ‘How can they expect another Idi Amin here, as a customer?’

‘That’s true and mind it, it is India, the land of the so called vegetarians! Yet, what I came across once, seemed so,’ quizzically replied Shatru.

‘Actually, the portrait on the signboard was of the hotel owner’s father’s who’d started the hotel and had attained specialty in the preparation of ghhatt. Even after thirty years, customers’ mouths watered at the name of that dish, a jumble of left over veg. and non-veg. items – smoking, boiling, seasoning, sautéing, frying, simmering are all involved in its preparation. So, as a mark of respect (more so business prospect) the son hung his father up on the hotel hoarding.

Trading acumen it’s!’

‘Quite deceptive!’ Lila laughed, boundless.

‘The message here also is quite deceptive; of course, if you read it verbatim - Old double boiled rice and curry of live fish...’

‘Why? Do the flounders swim in curry?’

‘Actually, what they wanted to convey is – ‘…a customer is our God. Hot rice and fresh macheer jhool are served with homely care. No beef, no extra charges for cleanliness, no tips, no sales tax, no credit, no bargaining either.’

‘Who bargains at an eating joint?’

‘Dissatisfied-displeased-disappointed-discontented-and-disgruntled customers! Should we try?’

‘Not a bad idea!’ Lila was ready.

They moved towards the thatched house with thin fences of jute sticks. A man came out of the hotel – wooing customers – marketing manager.

‘What can I serve you, Sir? Any special order for madam? Murighanta, chachra, ischcha, kakra bharta (paste of boiled crab)...

Shatru stopped the salesman. He knew murighanta but couldn’t understand what the marketing manager meant by chachra and ischcha.

‘Sounds great…try?’

‘No experimenting. Order for something simple and straight,’ cautioned Lila.

‘Do you’ve anything else?’

‘Fried brinjal, aaloo-pataler dum, katla-kari… Sir,’ replied the man, a bit disappointed (he expected some good business from the saherer lok with his exotic curries).

‘Just rice and katla-curry will do.’

‘That’s our khabar jaaiga (dinning table), Sir,’ the man pointed towards a bamboo platform in the river; just a plain raised stage, no roof, no fence, open from all sides – strong current underneath. Greatest dinning table ever!

‘There? Then what’s that house meant for?’

.

‘That’s our Maa Ganga Hotel madam. Boatmen stay there at night. Only when it rains food is served inside.’

‘Hope it doesn’t crumble down under our weight.’ Lila and Shatru climbed the platform, very cautiously, gingerly.

‘Don’t worry Madam, the water is not too deep;’ though the marketing manager tried to assure, it frightened Lila with the fear of a possible fall. And there was certainly a possibility of falling; otherwise, why the manager would swear about the shallow water.

‘When so much space is vacant all around, why have you built it in that water?’

‘It’s not the river though looks so, but low land – just a bit low. Only at the time of tide, water comes up to the stage. Otherwise, it’s as dry as this land,’ indicating at the shore under his feet.

The bamboo canes creaked lazily as they sat down. After a long time, Lila looked relaxed. A cloud overshadowed the sun. Suddenly Lila shouted and stood up.

‘What happened?!’

‘Nothing!’ She madly rubbed her ham.

The creatures weren’t unknown to Shatru. His thick jeans kept him beyond the suckers’ reach; but Lila with her fine sari was an easy victim. The topical insects grew like anything and remained hidden in the narrowest space between bamboo shafts - the bed bugs.

Shatru found a wooden plank for her. She sat down on it, knees close to her chest.

Food was served – silver-white steaming-hot rice and fish curry (the huge piece of carp stranded august like an island in the light gravy- Shatru wished this should have been the Fakker Island, within easy reach). Plates, bowls and glasses were all enamel made. It was a totally new experience for Lila to eat in that type of crockery in such an earthly environment - the smell of rain-soaked soil itself was maddening.

The waiter came with a big bucket – drinking water. Shatru knew that like almost all the foreigners, Lila still had the unknown fear about drinking water in this country. She couldn’t overcome the dreaded phobia of endemic water born diseases like Asian cholera and typhoid. She’s very particular about drinking and eating outside. She opened her own bottle and gave Shatru.

As the openness of the area and the freshness of the air were maddening, Shatru could not avoid the effect; and without any preload and certainly without any preparation unceremoniously declared,

‘just fish and water are more than enough, I don’t require anything else for survival…’

Odds-on he sounded theroid, and rollicking. (Probably, every prospective hermit declares this way. Only later on, do they realize that life’s not all that easy without many things, which were previously considered immaterial, stirring. Their craving for every earthly thing shoots up as for any other human being and they leave the yogashram forever).

‘…frankly, I’ve no other demands.’

‘Not even my companionship?’

Though lively and naughty, her voice sensed hurt. She kept mum for a while and then slowly said,

‘My needs too are very few but I just can’t vow that I can live with this and without that. I don’t know how I’ve become sure that I can’t live without you…I need you to look upon, see in the future…I want to be with you…a part of you…your existence. I’m lonely…alone!’

Suddenly, insecurity overshadowed her face.

Shatru wasn’t ready for such a frank admission. He turned close towards Lila but she’s looking over the troubled waves of the bore – the impending troubles in their lives?

At last, shore of Gosaba was visible, smaller than the previous rail-station-town. From there another ten miles by bus, then again four-five nautical miles by boat to finally reach Mr. Sanyal’s house, the ‘Fakkar Island’ - sounded like Budge Budge, Dum Dum, Brace Bridge - the British legacy – not a country name!

‘Fakkar or Fucker…?’

‘Why are you laughing, what’s wrong with the name?’

‘No, no, nothing of the sort,’ Shatru mischievously smiled at Lila.

At the bus-stand there’s neither a bus nor the stand only a big tamarind tree, standing there probably for hundreds of years. Yielding - cluster of pods hanging downward – over burdened by its own fruits – poor man’s cherry.

‘It’s very sour! Hardly anybody dares to try it unripe and raw. Even if; teeth shiver, mouth tingles and the ladies lose shame! But it’s a favorite with the pregnant women.’

‘Come on, don’t be kidding.’

‘Why, try and see!’

‘No! Thank you! I’m not pregnant. But what’s the harm in losing my shame with you.’

Lila was turning to be too bold and open about her carnal needs. Her craving for sex though not surpassed by any limit of visible graciousness, she was on high for conjugal pairing off. More than the wilderness of the earth, water and air the exclusive company of a young man certainly ignited her feminine desire. Otherwise, such open admittance was not the type of craze one could expect of her.

Shatru had no answer.

Several other people, probably passengers were also loitering around – slothfully - waiting for the bus? After an hour or so she arrived and stopped after going round the tamarind tree as if performing the saatphera to marry the standing timber. The driver ejected out from the cabin like an astronaut from the Discovery Space Shuttle (on its maiden flight of course). The scene was not different from the last muffasil town rail station - a long queue of dogs, goats, chicks and a calf emerged from her (bus’s) womb and then the passengers, very few. Leisurely they got down and claimed their hens and goats and started walking through the green fields, for an unknown destination - no sign of human habitation was visible even at the distant horizon.

The age (or the hassle of journey) had done ruinous damage to the bus. Its body was rusted, splattered with slush, cow dung and smeared with fresh and dry resude of the puke - more along the wooden-window-lines.

Lila’s smiling. Shatru looked around to find the source of her amusement, but failed.

‘What?’

She pointed at the English scribbling on the rear guard of the bus - ‘DO NOT KISS MY TAIL.’

Both of them laughed - loudly - attracting perplexed looks from the people around – some of them even probably thought of the two being shameless. Really, who wants to be kissed on the butt and that too when a chance of an accident is no way less than hundred percent!

Like other passengers, Shatru and Lila too got in. As usual most of them preferred window-seats. A few of them didn't bother for the window or the rear; wherever they got vacant seats, straightway laid down. Stretched, yawned as if prepared for the longest journey - ‘bus is a bed of roses…...’

‘How long will it take?’

Shatru asked – not for that they’re in a hurry; just to strike a sort of conversation about the neighborhood - the man sitting behind them.

‘A little hour, Sir!’

‘One hour,’ shrieked Lila, ‘only for ten miles!’

‘Cool down Madam,’ teasingly rebutted Shatru. -‘it’s not your Express Way!’

There was no trace of the driver. After ‘a little hour’ he appeared; this time like Lord Krishna, all set to drive Arjuna’s ratha - mouthful of pan and a desi bidi tucked on the back of his ear, pied eyed. Not once did he look back to see how many or whether there were any passengers in the bus at all. He started his ratha, only to stop after a few yards to finish some hearty talks with two hizras on the roadside. The bus started again, the hizras (in contrast to the coy Guppies of Vrindavan) blew flying kisses to Lord Krishna, who matched it by tuning to a popular Hindi number - ‘gazab ka hai yeh dil …’

Ditches, dilapidated culverts, open nullahs , loose bricks, mud patches, domesticated cattle with their ropes across the road and what not; the bus rolled ahead with screechy sounds and back breaking jerks - bone shaker. Brakes after brakes, acceleration just to apply another brake, side tracking sleeping ducks, overtaking slow moving herds of goats, escaping fishing nets on dry the ratha of Krishna badly got engaged in war with the enemies of the road - not with the notorious Kauravas of Mahabharata.

The driver proved his dexterity…painful driving. What proved to be quite an experience and vulnerable for Lila and Shatru, the local riders seemed to be absolutely used to it. The man snoring in the rear seat suddenly discovered himself on the floor but interestingly, felt no urge to pull him-self back on the seat; wise enough - not to fall again and again.

Two monkeys, without leashes, were undeterred by the teeter-totter-bus-ride; rather the uneven jerking probably tickled their sex needs and got engaged in real monkey business! Trying not to show much outward excitement, the passengers were enjoying the ‘live show.’ A few shameless ones even peeked at the monkeys and indulged in some sloppy comments. A man was sitting near by, totally motionless and unmindful of his creatures’ activities - must be the charmer and he is quite used to such heated venereal actions.

The bus finally stopped in a village. It was eight O' clock in the evening – black moon night - dark. Had the siren for a blackout been sounded in the village? The dull electric poles with overhead-dead wires (like tresses of the mad woman, Bini. She used to often enter Shatru’s university campus and hurl curses at his and Rustogi’s room. ‘Many years ago, her lover had betrayed her. The betrayer used to stay in that room,’ said the hostel staff) were making their murky presence felt by reflecting occasional light from thundering.

Kerosene lamps were burning in a few courtyards. It was Lila’s first exposure to an Indian village, though a few days’stay in Kohima town was not much different from this. Out of the blue, she was feeling unusually carefree. In the morning she was tensed and after that ghastly killing she was scared though. Now enjoying the exotic and outlandish surroundings! Not once did she ask about reaching Fakkar Island. The passenger who had predicted that it will take ‘a little hour’ probably must had forgotten to take into account the road condition and certainly the mode of the Indian bus drivers. The bus had taken three hours, a little more than the time required to cover the distance on foot.

Immediate concern was to get a ferry or a fishing boat that would take them to Fakkar Island. Very few people lived on the island, no regular ferry arrangement - islanders had their own vatvatis (mechanised-boats). A boat could have been arranged from the villagers at a higher rate or even if any of the villager had any plan for going out fishing towards Fakkar Island, he could have given a sail without charging a paise or even without expecting a thanks. But neither of the options seemed to be materialized at that hour of the dead night.

‘Why there’s no hotel around?’

Lila though asked this to tease Shatru, it was clear from her voice that she certainly would have preferred to stay the night in the village to Fakker Island.

‘Hotel! Here?’ Shatru baffled. ‘Barrel had told me that the very house of Mr. Sanyal on the island, previously was supposed to be a hotel. As there were no clients or customers, the owner sold it off at a throwaway price. (State’s tourism policy also contributed in the process)?

‘No clients! Why, it’s such an exotic place?’

‘Real exotic it is! It takes three hours to travel only ten miles, Madam!’ Now Shatru stung to provoke Lila.

She showed no sign of instigation, rather was amused and calm; and happily said,

‘Yea, for sometimes it’s boring. But it’s not always the place; it’s also the person you’re with; that makes all the difference. We can stay in the village!’ Insouciantly suggested Lila. ‘Heard Indian villagers are good hosts!’

‘Brilliant! Not a bad idea at all! But, how will you tackle the villagers’ wives’ inquest about your relationship with me…?’

Lila directly looked at Shatru as if what’s the difficulty involved in it.

‘It’s a Sundarban-village; not the American permissive society where a man, not having a girl friend or moving with another man is considered to be just a sign of behavioral abnormality’ – Shatru’s hesitation was genuine.

‘The Indians are still hooked on to the basics where a man-woman relationship is considered holy (though cases of incest were higher in India than in advanced western societies, revealed the social scientists to the discomfort of the so-called moralists) and sanctified by fire – lifelong (after life too) bonds (wife commits sati).

And if they’re not satisfied with your reply, then they may not even allow you in the vicinity of their village, let alone their houses. Even if half satisfied, the house owner will ask you to sleep with his wife and you will certainly be sandwiched between at least half a dozen kids with running noses and earthy smell. He will take me to some cow-shed with him to spend the night; mind it, not to sleep! They’re fond of talking and not that aware of the concept of individual privacy. They’ll dig into your private life, the whole night. If you’re happy with that arrangement then I can approach the villagers.’

‘Six babies!’

‘Why not? What’s wrong in it? Haven’t you read Lapierre? - The Indians (truly the Bongs ) are more fertile than their lands. Solid double-boiled-rice with tones of fish and crabs, hot-dumpy weather provide a perfect condition for mass production!’

The sky was already black – prepared for the cats and dogs show. Forked lightning, crooked lightening, heat lightning, ball lightning, St. Elvo’s fire, red sprites, blue jets, green elves and the more, all welcomed the visitors with its orange, greenish and bluish vigor. Clouds to clouds, clouds to air and even some bolts unable to control its rage danced off the clouds and flashes towards the ground to hit the most unfortunate one.

It is said thunders do not hit twice at the same place. Shatru tried hard to gather confidence wishing that the place had already been hit once. Alas! It was not enough! The bus had gone back. Even the nearest lamp was quite a furlong away. Truly not the thunder but within no time the drizzling turned into torrential flows, hammering, mowing along the ground. Is it rain or the river was forcefully coming down from the heaven! Just an hour’s shower was enough to bring the great ‘deluge’ (of Noah’s). Shatru decided to brush away his hesitation and ran towards the hurricane lantern but their acceleration was not enough to match the speed of the precipitation – they got drenched.

‘Presume you’re coming from the city,’ asked the senior most member of the group that was sitting in the temple precincts.

‘Yes, we are, we are to go to the Fakkar Islands. I think it is not possible today. Can we get a place to spend the night? Tomorrow morning we will leave for the Island.’

Clearly replied Shatru to convince the senior. Any perplexity or hesitation could have given enough materials to the villagers to be suspicious or even turn aggressive.

‘Juuni Dipva! Ha, ha, Singhi’s waiting for you.’

The senior promptly instructed another man to call Singhi. Neither Lila nor Shatru could understand what the man was saying. They were still busy with their wet clothes.

‘What is Singhi?’

‘ Hey Ram! Don’t you know him? But he knows you all. I think you’re finding his name a bit peculiar,’ the senior laughed.

Yes, peculiar it was! Singhi is an anaerobic small fish, good in taste but its’ duo-spines on the head are enough to raise fear amongst its enemies, including human beings. It lives in small marshy lands, black in color, can survive even without water for long and is slithery – without scales, catfish category, dances even in the cooking cauldron.

Singhi emerged (not from water) from the darkness. He was certainly not a fish, not even its distant cousin. Around thirty-five years old, clean shaven, not so quick, fat and fair. He directly approached Shatru –

‘Ranger Shahib’s sent me to pick you up, Sir.’ He humbly expressed his difficulties – ‘I should’ve stayed here but since it’d got quite late, I thought you’d not be reaching today. So, I went to the village to give fishing permits and was planning to go back. I’m with the forest department’s Speed Boat Wing, Sir.’

‘Not your fault,’ politely assured Shatru. He realized that Singhi’s Ranger Shahib was none else than Barrel’s nom-de plume, the Deputy Conservator of Forest.

‘If you like, Sir, we can stay here today.’ There’s arrangement at the Panchyat Pradhan’s (village leader) house,’ promptly apprised Singhi.

‘Ha, ha…there’s enough room for everyone,’ the senior cordially invited them to his house. ‘Singhi is the forest guard in charge of water patrolling here and comes to our village every fortnight,’ cordially reported the leader.

Lila looked at Shatru - hopefully – clearly toying the idea of staying back. Such a night in a shore village might not come back again! Still undecided, Shatru could read Lila’s mind but ignored her.

‘But, Sir, if we don't go today, Ranger Shahib will be worrying, Singhi muttered realizing the impact of the village leader’s invitation on Lila.

‘So, where to now?’ Shatru pushed.

‘If you like, Sir, we can directly go to the forest bungalow. But that will be a bit further than Mr. Sanyal’s island.’

‘Let’s go to Mr. Sanyal’s then,’ enjoined Shatru.

‘Why? Why can’t we accept the leader’s hospitality? He’s such a good man and must have a big house. If even small, what’s the problem – how big room do you need!’

Lila clearly protested the idea of Singhi & Shatru for going to Sanyal’s island.

It had stopped raining. The speedboat shoved off. Except for the reflection of the search-light on water nothing else was visible.

Lila and Shatru sat close, too close. Exposure to and experiences of the day gone by were of course horrid and horrifying. It was a hard day through; filled with anxious moments, voidances and despair – so close yet so far! Now it seemed everything in place, delicate and inviting – the world was theirs: the sky, the clouds, the sea, the darkness all welcomed them with their unpretentious color and craving. The perfect set-up very naturally played its right tune. The moon was slowly promising its appearance; though the heavy sky was still sulky, the crescent kissed the shimmering face of the sea.

‘I’m sorry, you had to go through so much all the day long and again this boat ride!’

‘Yeah, but you were with me all through. I never thought that the day would finally end so well like this,’ Lila was really happy and relaxed.

Singhi was busy handling the machine at the rear. The boat was cozy and closed. Lila was already a little coy about how much she liked Shatru’s closeness and the soft diffuseness all around. Both of them were ready; they required no foreplay. Actually it started since the Sailo couple left for Sundarban leaving the two alone at home. Rather all started happening fast, very fast. Nothing could dampen their spirits. Shatru cupped her face between his warm palms and slowly, very slowly drew towards his. Saltiness in the mouth! His fingers, all the fingers he had were all set to crash-land on the chocolate mountains; it was the wet sari, the mysterious and alluring barrier.

She helped - unveiled.

The universe was before him, for him, only for him. He caressed. He sensed.

Maddening blend of mystifying fragrance – dahlia, gladioli, jasmine, lily, marigold, orchid, tulip, tube-rose, rose, peach rose, black rose, yellow rose, red rose – a world of roses, flowers, fulfillments and without full stops.

Taste of sweat – honey of Sundarbans - ecstatic fantasy!

They felt each other's breath, warmth and then everything - perfect union. Promising accomplishment of full-grown vigor and youthfulness – eclipsed the world; ignored the realities. They absorbed each other - brawny, crushing. Mind–body-heart-soul and all the senses, emotions discovered perfect unification.

What she wanted in a dark village hut, she got on the high seas. She opened herself, fully, to accept her man – long cherished dream was fulfilled. Carnality broke all barriers; life meant more meaningful, darkness a blessing – triumph of adolescence. The spotted deer sprang with nimbleness and spread its color all over – the Sundarban, the most beautiful forest.

Hearts never worked so fast and heads were never so lighter – exhaustion and exhilaration of winning a life-time marathon race.

White gulls took wings all over. The waves were now missing in the waters. The world got wrapped in elation and happiness. There was no sound except for the ‘exultant grunting’ of the two-horse-power-live-engine. The boat was perfectly positioned; the oar took its right place and started cruising across the deep seas, smoothly, very smoothly rather.

Singhi forgot his existence – a good man, an exceedingly awfully good man, an extraordinarily perfect host!

Thank you, dear Singhi!

Thank you, the beautiful forest!

Thank you the unknown territory, the rough country, the backwoods, the waste land, the boondocks, the remoteness, the bad roads, the rains, the wet sari, the darkness, the bonds -unending bliss!

-------------*****-------------

About The Author

The Author - Arindam N Sarkar is a career bureaucrat and belongs to the higher Indian Civil Services. He did his Masters from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi. He writes from his own experiences. The facts in this novel have been fictionalized to avoid public outcry, embarrassment and state wrath.

Copyright 2008-2009, Arindam N Sarkar (Expires April 25, 2009)

To request information on this author or a manuscript contact the listed agent or e-mail: dbooth@authorlink.com

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