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Great works of art are only great because they are accessible
and comprehensible to everyone
To say that a work of art is good, but incomprehensible to the majority of men,
is the same as saying of some kind of food that it is very good
but that most people can't eat it.

What is Art?
Leo Tolstoy
1897
 G .
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9, 3 L M, &5

Hindol
Year 9, No. 3 Editorial Team :
Malabika Majumdar, Maitrayee Sen,
M, 1424 Ajanta Dutt, Nandan Dasgupta
October, 2017

E-46, Greater Kailash-I,

New Delhi-110048
ohetuk.sabha@gmail.com

ISSN 0976-0989

S
Featured Artists:
Rabindranath Tagore
^ S Asit Kumar Haldar
-630, M? , ~-110019 Kshitindranath Majumdar
92131344879891689053 Sunayani Debi
 S

4 Editorial
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32 L
48 ijL
55 M ,
60 S
62 e
65 &5
69
83 S
87 S
Special Issue - Short Stories
91 Arthur Ryder Kalidasa Translation
92 Rina Dass The Dhaki
98 Chitra Sarkar Book Review -
A Clutch of Indian Masterpieces
100 Kunal Roy Book Review - Tiny Instruments
101 Soumya Mukherjee Ghost Stories
104 Maitrayee Sen Matriheen - Translation of
Prabhat Kumar Mukhopadhyay

Read : http://www.scribd.com/collections/3537598/Hindol
Give : Make your cheques to Ohetuk Sabha
Call : 98110-24547
4

T he short story defies description. It encompasses a

variegated range of subjects, with immense variations in
length, and a plethora of characters with positive emotions
and human failings. As a sub-genre of fictional prose it has
grown and multiplied from vignette to novella, embracing
legends, fables, parables, childrens stories, and even blogs.
Some critics insist that in epics, oral narrators used story-
like diversions to explain the vagaries of the human race. One
such story is told to Achilles regarding the anger of
Meleagros to win Achilles back to war (Iliad, IX). Another
such story is that of Shakuntala in the Adi Parva of The
Mahabharata to elucidate upon dharma.
The present form of short stories came into being in the
mid-19 th century and proliferated into the 20 th century,
especially in the United States. When in 1842 Edgar Allan
Poe wrote a review of Nathaniel Hawthornes Twice- Told
Tales, the short story became a distinctive style of writing,
totally independent of the novel, thoroughly suited for readers
and writers who had less time to spare and needed quick
returns. Poe described its conciseness and pre-conceived
structure by stating, In the whole composition there should
be no word written, of which the tendency, direct or indirect,
is not to the one pre-established design.
Critics agree that the short story can range from just 1000
words to the long short story of 20000 words. In the previous
centuries, these were often popularized in magazines as an
attractive but compact medium of entertainment. The reader

M, 1424
 5

could conclude reading one on his way to work on the local

train or relax with it over afternoon tea. Poe affirms these
tales are nothing but short prose narrative, requiring from a
half-hour to one or two hours in its perusal.
Martin Scofield analyses the genre as A mode of story in
which the overall idea, rather than character, plot or themes
in the usual sense, dominates the conception of the work and
gives it its unity or deliberate disunity. Unlike the novel, the
short story does not need to go into the plot at length or explore
interlinked themes and characters in depth. The action of the
story often begins medias res or in the middle of the matter,
allowing characters thereby to find a solution, but often
leaving them at the moment of crisis. Poes best known tale,
The Fall of the House of Usher fills us with dread as both
siblingsdiseased in mind and bodytake the tale to its
crescendo. The actions within the house, the book the narrator
was reading and his hasty flight into the storm all spill over
into an eerie conclusion:
While I gazed, this fissure rapidly widened there came a
fierce breath of the whirlwind the entire orb of the satellite
burst at once upon my sight my brain reeled as I saw the
mighty walls rushing asunder there was a long tumultuous
shouting sound like the voice of a thousand waters and
the deep and dank tarn at my feet closed sullenly and silently
over the fragments of the House of Usher.
V.S. Pritchett feels that The novel tends to tell us
everything whereas the short story tells us only one thing and
that intensely. Suzanne Ferguson marvels at the integrity
and economy where we are left with a feeling of
completeness, a conviction that we know as much as we need
to know, that all our questions have been answered. In Poes
story, that single memorable moment, the revelation of a
secret, the solving of a mystery, the psychoanalytical conflict,

M, 1424
6

socio-cultural criticism coupled with the confessional, the

omnipresent point of view impacts upon the reader while we
continue to wonder.
Short stories create a deep sense of engagement with the
audience when writers use surprise endings, or add twists to
the tale. Thus who can forget Guy de Maupassants story The
Necklace, where Mme Loisel grows old and ugly, working
to pay off the debt of the lost diamond necklace. In the final
moments when the friend says the original necklace was made
of paste, we suddenly realize the tragic irony of Matildas life
in replacing fake with real of which her friend is not even
aware. The intensity lies in the fact that nothing more needs
to be said.
Another futile sacrifice which however, symbolizes
perfect love lies in O. Henrys story, Gift of the Magi. O.
Henry concludes, But in a last word to the wise of these days
let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the
wisest.They are the magi. For poor Della and Jim have
sacrificed their best loved possessions to buy Christmas gifts
for each othershe her beautiful hair, and he his fob watch.
They buy without telling the other a pair of beautiful combs
and a watch chain which neither has any use foranymore.
Concluding twists also highlight dramatic irony and dark
humour as seen in Roald Dahls story Lamb to the Slaughter.
Mary spontaneously murders her policeman-husband with a
leg of frozen lamb when she realises he is planning to leave
her. She makes elaborate preparations for a dinner-roast before
raising the alarm. At the end of a fruitless search of the house
for the murder weapon, Patricks colleagues from the force
eat up his dinner. In fact one of his friends exclaims through a
mouthful of meat that the blunt instrument used in the crime
is probably right under our very noses. Mary giggles

M, 1424
 7

helplessly in the living room, but we cannot completely

condemn Mary when we read the story!
The most poignant ending for an Indian short story is that
of Toba Tek Singh by Sadaat Hasan Manto. The title and the
protagonist merge in the aftermath of Partition and subsequent
repatriation of madmen-prisoners where political massacre
is tinged with poetic justice. The man who is thoroughly
confused about whether his village is in Hindustan or in
Pakistan finally falls to the ground with a heart-rending scream
which still echoes in this country: In the middle on a strip of
no mans land lay Toba Tek Singh.
Mantos close compatriot and friend, Ismat Chugtai also
writes a most memorable story on homosexuality focusing
on Begum Jaan and her servant, Rabbu in Lihaaf. The child
narrator caught in the cross currents of the unhappy marriage
of the Begum with her indifferent Nawab describes the horror
of being trapped in a bedroom scene she cannot understand:
The quilt crept into my brain and began to grow larger. I
stretched my leg nervously to the other side of the bed to
grope for the switch and turned it on. The elephant
somersaulted inside the quilt which deflated immediately.
During the somersault the corner of the quilt rose by almost a
foot... Good God! I gasped and plunged into my bed.
Some of the endings from Tagores Galpa-Guchho have
become household quotations tracing social evils relevant
even today. Thus the persecution of a childless widow is
terrible because the superstitious villagers cannot believe
Kadambini is not a ghost. So she kills herself to prove she had
been alive previously:
How strange a story is this in comparison to the present times
when a live human being has called himself God and made
lakhs of followers believe it too. Similarly, the sociological

M, 1424
8

ills of dowry are suggested in Dena Paona where there is

relief when the bride dies for now the default in payment can
be made up again in a new marriage for the son:
A perfect solution has indeed
been found.
Short story collections speak in volumes. It may not be
wrong to say that most novelists compose short stories
perhaps to practice the art of writing like Van Gogh who, in a
different context, drew sunflowers every day in later life.
However, the reverse may not always be true; most short story
writers are not novelists too. Arthur Conan Doyle (whose
detective Holmes is a likely descendant of Poes Dupin) pays
fitting tribute when he wonders [w]here was the detective
story until Poe breathed the breath of life into it. Detective
fiction is another complete category of short prose where
The problem and its solution must form the theme, and the
character drawing be limited and subordinate (Conan Doyle
on Poe). That is yet another kind of short story world-wide
audiences enjoy but which we must delve into some other
day.

(Ajanta Dutt)

Opinions and views expressed in Hindol are, as usual, those of the authors.
Editors

M, 1424
 9

The world, I believe, is not overstocked with persons who

discriminate the shades of differences in things;
and when those who can make these distinctions do so, they are
laughed at for their scrupulous nicety
and hair-splitting metaphysics.

Henry Louis Vivian Derozio

This issue of

HINDOL

is supported
by

NEERA BOSE

KRISHNA LAHIRI

ASIT GUPTA

ASHIM ROY

&

DEBJANI MUKHERJI

M, 1424
10

OHETUK SABHA
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M, 1424
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I have already heard myself called both Milton and Kalidas. How
far I deserve the compliment I cannot say, but it is certainly
flattering. I think if spared some years yet, and allowed to go my
own way I shall do better, for I want practice.

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- I suppose you are not aware that my books bring
in a considerable sum of money. The income is likely to increase... If you call
upon I.C Bose to submit an account of the books to you, you will be surprised
to see that during the half year ending in July last they brought about Rs. 1000!

- Mrs. Dutt could live here very comfortably for 250 or 300 Rs. a month.

M, 1424
24

, - I am badly off and have hardly

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you! We are still a degraded people. Who are the "boromanush"
among us? The nobodies of Chorebagan and Burrabazar! Make
money, my Boy, make money! If I haven't done something in the
literary line, if I do possess talents, I have not the means of
cultivating them to their utmost content and our nation must be
satisfied with what I have done.
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I am no longer the same careless, impulsive, thoughtless sort of
fellow; but a bearded scholar, a man who can correspond with his
friends in six European languages and several Asiatic ones. You
cannot imagine what a jolly beard and moustache I have grown... Of
course I am still romantic, for that you know is my nature, for I
am a bit of a poet, and a superabundance of the imaginative faculty
makes a fellow rather a poor 'man of the world'...
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the pretensions of that man to be called ' educated' who is not master
of his own language.
I pray God, that the noble ambition of Milton to do something for
his mother tongue and his native land may animate all men of talent
among us. If there be anyone among us anxious to leave a name
behind him, and not pass away into oblivion like a brute, let him
devote himself to his mother-tongue. That is his legitimate sphere
- his proper element. Europan shcolarship is good in as much as it
renders us masters of the intellectual resources of the most civilied
quarters of the globe, but when we speak to the world, let us speak

M, 1424
 27

in our own language. Let those who feel that they have a spring of
fresh thought in them, fly to their mother-tongue. Here is a bit of
lecture for you and the gents who fancy that they are swarthy
Macaulays and Carlyles and Thackerays! I assure you, they are
nothing of the sort. I should scorn the pretensions of that man to
be called 'educated' who is not master of his own language.
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by the hand; if you ask him he will tell you how shabbily I have
been treated... I have had strength of mind and resoltuion to make
the very best use of my misfortune in learning the three great
continental languaes, Viz, Italian, German and French languages, which
are well worth knowing for their literary worth. You know, my
Gour, that the knowledge of a great European language is like the
acquisition of a vast and well cultivated state - intellectual of course.

M, 1424
28

Should I live to return, I hope to familiarize my educated friends

with these languages through the medium of our own tongue.
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M, 1424
 91

Autumn
In slenderness and grace,
With nodding rice-stems in her hair
And lilies in her face.
In flowers of grasses she is clad;
And as she moves along,
Birds greet her with their cooing glad
Like bracelets tinkling song.
A diadem adorns the night
Of multitudinous stars;
Her silken robe is white moonlight,
Set free from cloudy bars;
And on her face (the radiant moon)
Bewitching smiles are shown:
She seems a slender maid, who soon
Will be a woman grown.
Over the rice-fields, laden plants
Are shivering to the breeze;
While in his brisk caresses dance
The blossom-burdened trees;
He ruffles every lily-pond
Where blossoms kiss and part,
And stirs with lovers fancies fond
The young mans eager heart.

Translated by Arthur Ryder from Kalidasas Ritusamharam

Contributed by: Prof. B.N. Goswamy

M, 1424
92

Rina Dass
Kolkata

The Dhaki

This year, Baba you have to take me to the city for the pujas. You
make promises and then leave me behind. This time I will not take no
for an answer, said Shibu.
Let us take the boy along. Things arent going to change, money is
always a problem. He is growing up. I am getting old, it is difficult for
me to balance the heavy instrument. said Haru, pulling hard at his biri.
Shibu was grateful for his grandfathers intervention. They were a
family of sharecroppers and barely managed to eke out a living. One of
the highlights of the year was the annual Durga Puja that gave them a
chance to earn some extra money. A few years ago they had got a
break in one of the local towns and gradually managed to get a foothold
in the big city.
You will get to eat food that you have not tasted before. It is really
and truly a festival, the city doesnt sleep. Countless people, moving
right through the day and night, the lights, decorations.... Haru closed
his eyes and tried to remember it all.
Dadu, you are only interested in food.
No! No, winked Haru, the women both young and old, they look
like film stars, wandering about the city until the late hours of the night.
Paradise must be filled with apsaras like them.
Of course the city lights were a major attraction but more than that
Shibu wanted to find out firsthand about the music scene in the city.
Though they didnt own a television, he had watched some of the music
and reality tv shows. It was his secret ambition to become a well known

M, 1424
 The Dhaki 93

musician. He didnt want to end up in a forsaken village, playing the

dhak only at festivals.
Shibus enthusiasm knew no bounds. His head was always filled
with a combo of rhythms, the traditional interspersed with some new
ones. Improvisations werent encouraged in villages, more so by the
old folk.
Two days before they were to leave for the city, the dhaks were
readied, cleaned, colourful covers stretched over them. The local deitys
blessings were invoked for a safe trip.
Shibu knew that he didnt have a say, there was no harm in hoping.
May be this time Debu would give into their request. After much talk, a
half- hearted Debu agreed to the old mans proposal. Debu wasnt
feeling too good after a bout of chills and fever. Drum playing required
high energy levels. Right now, he didnt feel up to the task.
You are already looking better, said Haru. Once we set foot in
the city, you will be as good as new. We need the extra money. The roof
is leaking. It wont last another monsoon. Let us take it step by step.
Shibu will be a willing hand.
Finally all three of them set out to earn their fortune. The journey
wasnt very long but for Shibu, it seemed never ending. The coach was
spilling over, passengers hung out from the doors, the incessant noise
and the rolling motion made his head ache. They sighed with relief as
the train entered Sealdah station. It wasnt an easy task to balance the
dhak as well as follow Haru through the never ending masses. Restless
milling crowds, encircled and pushed them out to an open area. Shibu
could hardly catch his breath as he took in the scene. Rapid, staccato
beats announced the presence of several dhakis. There was constant
movement , people swept past, some stopped for a while to look and
listen, others rushed past hurriedly but neither the sounds nor the numbers
ceased altogether. Shibu noticed that there were several men and women
who were clicking away on their phones. A couple of local television
anchors were moving around interviewing onlookers.
Dadu, do you think that last years organizers will hire us? asked
Shibu.
Haru settled himself on a nearby ledge, hoping that the wait wouldnt
be too long. Your father is trying to locate them. Lets hope he is
successful and a deal is struck.

M, 1424
94 The Dhaki

Shibu noticed that the dhakis would start playing loudly to attract
business. May be Haru and he should also start playing to get clients
interested. Tired by the journey, Haru had dozed off; efforts to wake
him up were in vain. The station looked like a huge fairground, there
were hawkers selling toys, balloons, candy floss and so much other
stuff. If the station had such a variety to offer, how much more wonderful
would the puja venues be? If only he could sample a few of them.
Debus appearance with some food was the wake-up signal for
Haru. While Shibu was eating , Debu was in a hurried consultation with
Haru and another man.
Shibu, come and finish your food. Go and have a drink of water
from the tap. Look after my drum while we are gone. Dont move from
this spot, otherwise you will be lost in this maze. No matter how late it
gets, I will come back for you. Hurry up. We dont have all the time in
the world. said Debu.
Shibu dallied for a bit, but fearing his fathers wrath, cut short his
explorations.
Remember to look after the dhak. Dont wander off or you will be
lost forever, warned Debu as he rushed off to seal the contract.
Lost forever! Did his father think that he was incapable of looking
after himself when boys younger than him were running around,
screaming, playing and also trying their luck at begging.
Shibu settled himself comfortably and saw that the number of dhakis
was decreasing though the footfalls were endless. By now his
surroundings appeared common place. He tried chatting with some of
the waifs who were loitering around. Dusk was falling, the street lights
were twinkling, Shibu was restless and a bit scared. Hadnt Debu kept
track of time? The station compound wore a different look, though
neon signs were glittering, car lights were shining right into his eyes,
there were long shadows that made him edgy. Why couldnt they have
taken him along? If they had struck a deal, Haru and Debu might also
be swigging away at the local alcohol den. How long would he have to
wait?
Nervous and unsure, wanting to reassure himself, he touched the
dhak lightly with the drumsticks. He didnt have the strength to carry
and balance the dhak on his shoulder, but he could play while it rested
on the ground. Slowly but steadily he started drumming. First it was the

M, 1424
 The Dhaki 95

traditional beats and then his fingers resonated to his own rhythms. The
drumsticks were obeying his commands. He was oblivious to the small
crowd that had collected around him.
Feeling tired, Shibu stopped and laid down the sticks. A curious
audience had started questioning him. Where are you going to perform?
Have you come by yourself? You dont look strong enough to carry the
dhak?
The questions unsettled the young boy as he looked around to see if
Haru and Shibu were making their way towards him. Out of nowhere,
a young woman touched his shoulder. Who in heavens was this? He
felt trapped, he could hear voices tittering lewd remarks, as the woman
came closer to him.
What is your name? Where do you live? You look just like my
younger brother, she questioned.
Shibu was lost for words. He didnt know anyone in the city.
Definitely he had no sister who looked like her. He was uncomfortable
and his ears were becoming red. He just shook his head to all her other
queries. He didnt wish to speak to her and walk straight into trouble.
I dont mean to harm you in any way but you wont even utter a
word. I am not going to swallow you up. Are you so scared that you
cant even look at me? Every year, I coming looking for my brother.
He was lost in this station. These sweets were for him, you can have
them instead of him. Dont refuse this small gift, she cried as she
handed him the box.
A dumbfounded Shibu was left holding the box. The people around
him cheered while the woman just melted away in the background.
A little further away, a photographer with a video camera had been
shooting away. He was happy with the womans acting. Well done.
That boy was perfect for the situation. He looked every inch the simple
villager. The way he shook his head and blushed was far better than
any rehearsed dialogue. It was a clever move to have noticed him. The
best part is that he didnt realize that he was on camera. Tomorrow we
should be able to wrap up the episode .
The entire incident had been so unexpected that Shibu did the next
best thing, he opened the box of sweets. He was amazed to find just
two or three sweets in such a big box. City people were strange but
something was better than nothing.

M, 1424
96 The Dhaki

A bearded, middle aged man had been listening keenly to Shibu. He

approached slowly , You play very well for a young lad. Has your
group been hired? Is this your first visit for the Pujas?
Shibu found it easier to answer the man and soon an animated
conversation had begun. Shibu sensed his fathers presence and stopped
mid-track. Vineet realised that he would have to change his approach.
Are you this boys guardian? I can see you are in a hurry. Spare
me a minute?
Debu didnt want to lose any more time. It hadnt been easy to get
hired. Shibu give me a hand with the dhaks. The men are waiting for
us in their van.
Yes, I am his father. What do you want? I dont have time to
waste.
My name is Vineet Kumar. Your son is talented enough to join my
band of musicians. I am doing a special show with dhakis and he could
be one of the participants.
Debu didnt want to respond to this offer. He was uneasy about
trusting strangers and that too of allowing his able bodied son to join a
group of unknown musicians.
Vineet Kumar knew that Debu might not be convinced easily. Many
of these villagers were cash strapped and a small amount of money
could make all the difference.
You dont have to decide immediately. Go ahead and carry out
your Puja contract. Here is a card with my name and phone number. If
you are interested, contact me before you leave the city. I am giving
you some money for your bus fare. Dont forget to meet me. Such an
opportunity doesnt come often.
Riding in the van, Shibu was dropping off with tiredness, he could
barely keep his eyes open. There was so much news he had to share.
As he leaned sleepily against his grandfathers shoulder, he heard Harus
voice coming as if from faraway. Debu, once the pujas are over, we
must get in touch with that man. This is Shibus big chance. He doesnt
have to remain a sharecropper all his life. He can become a musician
not just a dhaki who only plays at festivals.
The vans swaying movements, the long eventful day lulled Shibu
to sleep. He smiled in his dreams as he imagined the surprised look on
Dadus face while hearing about the apsara who gave him sweets and

M, 1424
 The Dhaki 97

mistook him for her brother.

Five glorious days of pageantry came to an end as the crowds
made their way towards the river for the immersion of the images.
Leading the way were the dhakis, a note of sadness and farewell
resonated in their drumbeats. Shibu tried to take it all in, the wonder and
excitement would remain with him for a long time.
Payments were settled, promises for next year made, a set of new
clothes handed and the dhakis were set to leave. Shibu nudged his
father, Baba, where is the card that the ustad gave you? We need to
call him. Dont you remember what he said? He will give me a chance.
Debu rummaged in the bag, emptied out his pockets but the card
had vanished into thin air. No amount of looking around, did the magic
trick. Tears streamed down Shibus face, he couldnt speak, he stared
blankly at his father.
I didnt mean to but its lost. Dont cry, may be you will be luckier
next year. was Debus gruff reply.
Do you remember the mans name? asked Haru.
Shibu dried his tears. Yes , I think ,I do. Im not too certain.
Haru had seen the disappointment on his grandsons face. The boy
had the gift, he would benefit being trained by an established musician.
I will ask the puja organisers to enquire. I am sure they will be able
to find out. Debu can give his mobile number to these people. Arent
you always singing about the wonders of mobile phones? I am sure you
will meet the ustad.
Vineet Kumar stood at the station entrance, his practised eyes
scanning for gullible victims among the swirling crowds. Almost every
day there were young runaways looking for better prospects, hopes of
fame and fortune and more often than not an escape from terror, hunger
and poverty. Some days business was bad but chances were always
better in crowded areas though today there were too many cops around.
As they waited at the station platform, Shibu hoped that his
grandfathers words would come true. He had come close to realising
his dream. As they were boarding the train, Shibu heard a woman say,
Doesnt that young dhaki look like the one we saw on the television?
He resembled someone on television? A smile lit Shibus face, life
didnt appear so bleak, the future had many possibilities.
Follow the authors stories on daytimedreamz.blogspot.in

M, 1424
98

A Clutch of Indian
Masterpieces
Extraordinary short stories
from the 19th century to the
present
Edited by David Davidar
Publisher: Aleph
Pages: 544
Rs. 695/-

Is Indian writing in English truly authentic?

Chitra Sarkar, Delhi

This collection of thirty nine short stories belongs on the shelf of every
Indian book-lover. The best tales, by our greatest writers, are all here,
in one place, ready to be re-savoured at will. Most are so iconic, they
are familiar to any erudite reader, but its nice to see them between the
covers of a single hardcover.
The anthology begins with an eerily evocative story by Tagore,
translated by another giant, Amitava Ghosh. Thus the reader is treated
to the double pleasure of reading Tagore through Ghosh. Since Ghosh
has never written a short story himself, he does not reappear on these
pages in his own right. Sadat Hasan Mantos pathetic refugee wails for
his lost home in Toba Tek Singh. Mahasweta Devis Draupadi
incarnates every tribal rebels left-behind wife. Her heroine, Dopdi,
resembles Soni Sori, who was recently tortured and humiliated in
Chhattisgarh after her Maoist husband was arrested by the police. Great
fiction remains eternally relevant.
My personal favourite is Feast, by the Onassis prize-winning author,
Manjula Padmanabhan. When I first read it, I thought the vampire
represented the universal outsider, at a loss in this microcosm that is
India. Did Manjula choose him as an alter-ego because he described
her own sense of alienation in a straitlaced world? I asked her, and she

M, 1424
 Book Review 99

laughed. Are you telling your readers Im a monster? she asked. Of

course not, its a metaphor for someone with an original outlook on life,
especially in India, I told her. Our conversation became an interesting
joust between an authors vision and a critics analysis.
As a child, Manjula used to be fascinated by horror stories. Because
my older sisters would discuss Dracula movies, which I wasnt allowed
to watch! And like many small children, she feared the monsters that
lurked under her bed. So in this story, the now-grown-up author placed
horror on its head. She wove it into a world where its Christian symbolism
became irrelevant. Its the curious vulnerability of vampires, their
susceptibility to the cross, to running water and daylight, that make
them interesting, she said. On one level, she told me, her sympathy lay
with the vampire. His annihilation seemed inevitable when faced with
Indias complex belief systems. When I got to the end of it, I felt
sort of ... elated. It was like I had laid the monster to rest. Without
killing it.
It was an insightful exercise for both of us. The author felt she was
exorcising a childhood demon. I felt that a sensitive artist was reliving a
sense of estrangement in a material-driven world. Another reader could
take a different view.
Many more stories, skillfully selected by David Davidar, throw up
questions which require introspection in a comfortable armchair - or a
hammock under a shady tree.
Who lit the blue light in Bhargavinilayam?
Why did the gods leave?
And finally, is Indian writing in English truly authentic?
Once youve read these stories, you will not need the analysis
contained in Davidars foreword to decide that - yes, without question,
it is.
English has been written and spoken on the Indian sub-continent
for a few hundred years now, certainly longer than the official and
literary Hindi that is our incompletely national language today. If Hindi
is my mother tongue, then English has always been my father tongue. I
write in English (Vikram Chandra)

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Tiny Instruments
Mitchell Bogatz
Cavanaugh Publishing
Price - $14.99
(paperback) on Amazon.

After all we work to see, we still miss so much

Kunal Roy, Minneapolis, USA

Tiny instruments is the heart-wrenching story of Timothy Cothard, a

fifth generation artificial, based off the prominent scientist, built to
perpetuate his intellect so it may contribute to scientific discovery.
TC5 is gifted, not only because his original, the real Timothy Cothard
was such an excellent scientist, but also because after 5 generations,
his intellect was all but perfectly emulated, even enhanced. With such
power, came great responsibility. TC5 was an asset to his facility, widely
recognized and acclaimed for his work. But, none of that mattered to
Tim. The only thing he wanted was to be human, get out of his world
and into what lay outside and experience it like humans do. So it began,
a mental battle there was slim chance of winning and a physical battle
with almost no chance of winning. The world of artificials was strict
and unrelenting, any faults promptly and efficiently handled. What
is clearly a tale for the ages is made endlessly more beautiful by a
writer whose sentences sing, whose philosophies cut deep. Starting
from prose and plot pacing, to characters, setting and world building,
Mitchell Bogatz is a master story teller. It is a journey that draws you in
with the promise of great fiction and makes it a real-life experience that
remains with you, long after you have put down the book.
Five stars from me.

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 101

Soumya Mukherjee
Delhi

Ghost Stories

Since my teenage days I had been fascinated by the idea of ghosts.

From Doyle to Poe to more popular contemporary writers in English
and Saradindu and Ray and others in Bangla I devoured tales of the
supernatural in literature and popular fiction.
Naturally, I was curious to experience the paranormal and tried
visiting so called haunted houses and cremation and burial grounds at
night to catch a glimpse of the nether world without any success. All it
gave me was firing from my parents and a notoriety among my friends.
But on three occasions I came very close to believing in the spirit
world.
* * *
The first time was in a sleepy hill town where we were staying with
some friends in a secluded wooden cottage. The neighbours had warned
us to avoid a particular bend in the road after dusk as spirits of some
accident victims were reputed to haunt that place. It so happened that
walking back from a day trek to the hills, I was a bit late and a drizzle
had reduced visibility to a few feet. I noticed that I was approaching the
notorious bend.
Suddenly I felt a chill down my back. It could have been a sudden
gust but the atmosphere got to me. I confess, I felt slightly uneasy and
tried to quicken my pace. I noticed then that there was another figure
walking a few feet ahead. Encouraged, I hurried down to catch up with
him. But as soon as I reached close by, I froze. My companion did not
have a head. I must have screamed. The headless apparition also stopped

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and to my horror, turned around and came towards me. Just before I
lost consciousness he spoke.
Babuji what are you doing after dark on this bend? Come I will
accompany you home.
I noticed that he was wearing a plastic sheet on his head to stay dry
from the drizzle which gave him the headless look in the mist. I was
glad to have the company of this ex-ghost back to our cottage. But later
no one could figure out who was my unknown benefactor.
* * *
The second time was also in the hills. On the way upto Sikkim, we
had witnessed an accident which killed an old mentally challenged lady
who used to wave down traffic on that road. The locals avoided her but
some passing truck may have mowed her down. Our driver was sad
but said that she was a traffic menace.
On my return journey when passing that same spot towards dusk,
suddenly an old lady leapt in front of our jeep and tried to wave us
down. Our jeep veered dangerously and avoided her but stopped. By
then, she had disappeared in the gloom. Our visibly shaken driver said
this must have been some other lady who has filled in the place of the
crazy one.
* * *
The third time there was no scope for misunderstandings. A good
friend had been brutally murdered by Pakistani terrorists on 26/11 in Taj
Mumbai. The same afternoon she had sent me some joke on SMS and
I had not the heart to delete the number from my phone on her demise.
She was a celebrity foodie and journalist whose husband was my
roommate in college. A year from the incident I received an SMS on
my phone saying,
S.., how come I dont hear from you anymore?
Seeing the name on my phone gave me a shock and I texted back,
Who is this?
I received an immediate response.
Have you already forgotten me?
A chill went down my spine. I was being addressed by name. Could
not be a wrong number. I wanted to call the number but something
stopped me. Instead I texted back,
This is S.., roommate of in college and this number

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belonged to , his wife, who is no more. Please call me.

There was a gap of time. I kept staring at my phone. Then it rang.
The same name showed on screen. Still in shock, I picked it up. A
familiar female voice created goose pimples and said,
Uncle, this is I now use moms sim card. I was calling
my friend S.. as you have the same name and it is saved on moms
sim I called you by mistake. So sorry. Must have really scared you.
Her voice was uncannily like her mother's.

Follow the author on soumyamukherjee8.wordpress

ARTIST : RABINDRANATH TAGORE

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Prabhat Kumar
Mukhopadhyay
(1873-1932)
Translated by
Maitrayee Sen
Delhi

Matriheen

I cannot claim truthfully that I was not a little disappointed the day the
results of the Civil Services Exams revealed that, for the second time, I
had failed.
I had been more or less certain that the name Sarat Kumar Mitra
would not appear in the printed list of successful candidates; the reason
being that due to sundry essential pleasurable activities through the entire
year I had been too preoccupied to apply my mind seriously to the
business of studies. That I would not pass I knew well before I sat for
the exams, and there had been no reason to change that view after
doing so.
My head bowed, I returned to my Bayswater residence. It was the
month of November. The sun had not made an appearance throughout
the day and it was drizzling intermittently. A feeling of dark depression
descended upon me from both outside and inside. There was a shop,
not too distant from my house, called The Artesian, where they sold
therapy for such mental darkness. Summoning my landlady I had a
bottle of that medicine brought from there and after imbibing a few
helpings of this with the helpful combination of soda water, the depression
soon lifted. In its place was revealed before my eyes now the boundless
radiance of the rising sun. I felt, What good fortune that I failed!- or
there would be no incentive at all to appear for the Bar Exam. One
years hard work was all that was necessary and I would be able to
pass all the exams; I had already completed the term anyway. It is
obviously in my destiny to earn immense wealth as a barrister. Who can

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prevent what is preordained!! My father had earned a huge amount in

this profession and it was as clear as daylight that I was about to follow
in his footsteps.
In fact I began to feel rather sorry for those who had sat for the
exams with me and succeeded. Poor things! I thought; Even if they
slogged their entire lives they would never go beyond a monthly income
of more than three thousand rupees. And the renowned High Court
barrister-Mr. Sarat Kumar Mitra ..the jewel among his fellow
barristers! what heights of glory he will have achieved in a matter of
ten years! Actually ten years have passed since that day, and I have
not yet seen any sign of that rare gem in the profession bearing the
name mentioned above.
However my present situation is not the subject matter of this story.
I have taken up my pen in order to relate my experiences in London
during that time.
My thoughts imbuing me with hope and even exhilaration, I dressed
carefully and went out to the theatre that evening. There was no one
with me; I was alone. It was a performance of one of Shakespeares
historical plays. I was completely enthralled. Reaching home around
midnight I helped myself to a few more measures of the medicine
mentioned earlier and prepared to go to bed. But as I mulled over
Shakespeares talent and the beauty of his writing, the number of
measures multiplied and I was filled with a deep sadness that there was
not a single Shakespeare in Bengal. Can I not become the Shakespeare
of Bengal? Indeed, why not? When I was in India, there was a monthly
magazine called Viswadarshan that brought out my poems from time
to time. My friends had then predicted that in time I would become a
great poet. With absolute certitude I recognized sparks of genius in
myself, and there remained not the slightest doubt in my mind that I was
the future Shakespeare of Bengal. Tomorrow itself I would compose a
historical play. Muttering to myself the effect of such a play on Bengali
society, my words seemed strangely to get entangled inside my mouth.
I then retired to my bedroom.
-2-
Rising at nine next morning, I found it snowing outside. After a
quick breakfast, I walked out enthusiastically into the snow, and riding
an omnibus was at the British Museum in no time. Buying a new shiny

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bound notebook for a shilling I entered the Museum Reading Room.

This was the notebook that was to have the honour of bearing the first
masterpiece composed by the Shakespeare of Bengal!
It would not be an exaggeration to declare the Reading Room of
the British Museum the eighth wonder of the world. Here indeed was
stored the entire knowledge of all races of all times.
The ground floor of this huge Reading Room was circular in shape,
with a spacious area in the centre left for the officials. Around this,
again arranged in a circular fashion, stood three massive shelves holding
catalogues divided into more than a thousand volumes in alphabetical
order according to the name and subject of the books. Beyond those,
arranged in semi-circular fashion stood tables with specific numbers,
with seating arrangements, for an enormous number of readers.
The Reading Room remains open from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. On entering
I found that there were not too many people there yet. I took a seat and
going through the catalogues, jotted down the names of two books on
the history of Rajasthan and deposited them at the counter. Ten minutes
later an official came and deposited the two books before me. After
this, opening the books I applied my mind to the task of selecting the
name of my play. For the role of my hero I needed a king - one who had
successfully vanquished his foes at some famous battle or two. Whether
he fought the battles for his country or to protect some personal property
made no difference; I would make him pronounce, when fighting, words
eloquent with fire and patriotism; no need to worry on that score. Of
course a prince would be better than a king, for it is difficult to come
across a bachelor king and the scope of making him fall in love might
prove somewhat difficult. Also, considerable thought must be given to
the name of the damsel the hero was to fall in love with. It would not do
to choose too difficult a name for her. If the name is soft and delicate, it
would not be essential for her to be an expert at music or horse-riding;
I could personally take the responsibility of removing all such
shortcomings.
After more than an hour spent without arriving at any satisfactory
solution, I noticed an old gray haired British lady entering the Reading
Room at a slow pace. She was carrying in her hand a case of black
leather, - the kind that artists keep their articles of paintings in. The lady
advanced towards where I was seated. Coming closer to me, she

M, 1424
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suddenly stopped short, her eyes fixed on me in an incredulous stare.

However she seemed to recover herself soon and passed by slowly,
settling herself about four or five seats away from me.
I took her to be shortsighted and to have mistaken me for someone
else. This unimportant incident soon went out of my mind and I became
once again immersed in the task of hero hunting for my play. Some
more time went by and still not finding a hero up to my expectations, I
rose to look for some more books. As I passed by that lady I noticed
some books of pictures of India spread before her while she sketched a
jungle scene on a paper. A little later, as I again walked by her table I
saw a tiger seated behind some trees in the jungle and a uniformed
British officer, seated on an elephant, aiming his rifle at it.
Soon it was 1 oclock, time for lunch. Replacing the books in their
places, I went out. A short distance away there was an eating-place
called The Vienna Restaurant. I entered it and sat down to eat.
A minute or two later I saw the old lady entering too. Coming to my
table she took the seat opposite me and looking at me with a smile said,
Good afternoon! Werent you at the Reading Room of the Museum
just a while ago?
Returning her greeting I replied, I was only a short distance away
from you.
She said, Forgive me, are you from India?
I am Bengali.
From Calcutta!
Yes, that is where I come from.
After a moments silence the old lady said, I hope you are not
annoyed at my questions. I am not doing this out of idle curiosity.
I replied, I have no doubt about that. Please ask whatever you
would like to know.
Thank you very much. Have you ever traveled in Punjab or Central
India?
I have never been to Central India, but I have seen a few towns in
Punjab.
At this time the waitress came up and stood by her, awaiting her
order.
Please excuse me, she said, taking up the menu card. Having
ordered what she desired, she turned back to me and said. Let me

M, 1424
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explain what I want. I do illustrations for some reputed magazines, and

my special subject is India. Recently an editor has sent me a story on
hunting in India to illustrate. The story goes like this. A rajah from Punjab
and a certain British army officer set out on a hunting expedition on
elephant back. The distant roar of a tiger frightened the rajah and climbing
down from the back of the elephant he ran away. The British army
officer, following the sound, entered deeper into the jungle and shot the
tiger. The editor wants a couple of illustrations for this story, one of the
rajah running away and the other of the tiger being shot. At the moment
I am on the second one. However, there is one problem I am facing
regarding the first. Do the kings in India go hunting in the same attire as
they wear when holding court or is it something different?
Her words set my blood boiling. Exerting the maximum self-control
I could manage I said, Madame, why would the rajah run away hearing
the tiger roaring? It could have been the British officer that ran away
and the rajah could have then gone forward and killed the tiger.
With a slight smile the lady responded, You are perhaps forgetting
that it was not I who wrote the story; I merely draw pictures and earn
some money.
I felt ashamed and said, I was at fault. I lost my calm hearing my
countryman being belittled. Please forgive me.
The lady said, Your sense of patriotism is commendable. Now can
you please answer my question?
I replied, It is somewhat difficult for me to reply to your questions.
The one or two rajahs that I have seen with my own eyes were either
on the streets of Calcutta or while I was traveling on trains. I have not
yet had the opportunity of seeing one out hunting.
The lady remained silent for a few moments, then said, Tomorrow
I will try to find some pictures of kings in hunting gear.
We then talked of other matters. With great hesitation she asked
me how long I had been in the country. Finally, handing me a card, she
said, I live nearby. If you ever have the time do drop in; I can then
show you some of the sketches that I have done.
Thanking her profusely for her invitation I gave her one of my
cards. Glancing down at my name she remarked, Mitra? Was the well-
known late Barrister Mitra of Calcutta a relative of yours?
My chest swelling at this proof of the extent of my fathers fame,

M, 1424
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I replied, I am his son. How did you come to know of my father?

From the newspapers. She replied. In order to get an unbiased
idea of the present India, I sometimes go to the library of India Office
and take a look at the Calcutta papers.- Oh dear! This place is so
crowded today. The heat is suffocating me. I have to leave now. Rising
hurriedly, she left the restaurant.
-3-
After this I did not see the lady for a couple of days. I had by then
decided on the plot for my novel and even started composing it.
On the third day as I was going through the catalogues trying to
find some more books on Rajputanas history, I saw her - I had come to
know from her card that her name was Miss Campbell. She came and
stood by me, greeted me smilingly and extended her hand. Once we
had shaken hands and exchanged greetings, she whispered, You are
looking at Rajputana? It was forbidden to talk in a normal voice in the
Reading Room.
I immediately said, Do you need this book? Please take it. I will
use it once you have finished with it.
Why dont we look at it together? We can go through Rajput history
today in order to find out about hunting apparel of kings. What are you
looking for?
I am writing a play on Rajput history.
You are a playwright?
Slightly embarrassed I replied, I am not a playwright, though it is
true that I am trying to write a play on Rajput history.
Very good! You must tell me the plot one day.
It will be an honour for me to do so. Saying this I selected a few
books for her and then we went to our seats and put our minds to our
respective work.
I visited the Reading Room every day to write my play. Miss
Campbell too came daily. But I did not find her visiting the Vienna
Restaurant ever again. Probably she went home for her lunch.
One day I went up to her and whispered, Can I come to your
house to see your sketches this evening?
She looked delighted. That will be very nice. Please do come! You
must have tea with me. I shall take you with me when I go home.
Many thanks! I said and going back to my seat resumed my work.

M, 1424
110 Matriheen

At three Miss Campbell came up to me and said, Let us go, and,

returning the library books and taking up my notebook, I accompanied
her to her residence. She lived in a flat in a very large building named
Bloomsbury Mansions. One of the rooms she used as her studio and
it was here that she took me and made me sit. Please excuse me for
five minutes; she said, I must go and give instructions to the maid to
bring us our tea. Pointing to the paintings on the wall, she said to me,
You could in the meantime take a look at these. She then left the
room.
I walked round the room slowly, looking at the pictures. Most were
water colours, of nature- blue lakes surrounded by trees, cascading
waterfalls, sandy beaches swept by blue waves etc. There were one or
two oil paintings as well. Placed on the easel was a half completed
painting of a woman.
Soon Miss Campbell returned. She then proceeded to explain the
paintings to me. This is what I like doing, that I do for my love of art.
As for what I have to do to earn my living, like painting kings running
away etc, here they are; you can take a look at them now. And she
brought out a huge portfolio.
What happened to the painting that you were doing?
I had no option but to paint the rajah in his durbar attire. I met the
editor to intimate him of my problem, but he told me that in periodicals
such details did not really matter. He told me to give the king a heavy
rotund figure and dress him in the normal durbar dress. Or how would
the reader know him for a king? So thats what I had to do.
I went through the paintings in the portfolio; most were designed
for stories or novels. While I was still looking at these word came that
tea was ready. Miss Campbell took me to her drawing room and we
continued to talk while having tea. All of a sudden Miss Campbell took
up my notebook that was lying on the table and began to look through it.
She asked, So this is your play?
Yes.
How much have you written?
I am on the third act; there are still two more to come.
Turning the pages slowly, she asked, Why dont you tell me the
plot?
I started to narrate the story to her. As she listened she made a few

M, 1424
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suggestions that I thought were relevant and well-considered. Finally

putting the book down she said, It is indeed a matter of regret to me
that I shall not be able to have the pleasure of reading your play, although
there was a time when I had started to learn Bengali.
Astounded, I exclaimed, Learning Bengali! How wonderful! How
far did you learn?
Very little.
Do you remember any of it?
No. This was many years ago. All that I remember is that there
were two boys named Rakhal and Gopal. I rather liked Rakhal; there
was quite a bit of spirit in him. Gopal was quite hopeless; the type we
call goody goody.
I began laughing, The amount of perseverance I see in you, if you
try again, I am sure you can easily learn Bengali.
What is the point in trying now? When I started I was a twenty-
year old girl. Saying this she looked away. The daylight had started
fading and I could not see her face very clearly, but I rather suspected
there to be tears in her eyes. In order to divert her mind I said, May I
have another cup of tea please?
Flustered, she exclaimed, Please forgive me. I had not noticed that
your cup was empty. My hospitality is by no means exemplary. Laughing,
she took my cup and filling it with tea, said, Do you particularly want to
write a historical play, or would you be interested in family dramas as
well?
In time I would certainly like to write those too.
I can give you a plot for one; it is a true story - a heart-breaking
romance.
Eagerly I said, Many thanks! Can you tell me the plot please?
Finish this play first; I will tell you after that.
We talked on for another ten minutes or so. It was getting dark and
the maid came in to light the gas. I asked Miss Campbell for her
permission to leave.
She rose and accompanied me to the door. Just before I left she
said, Remember that when you finish your play you have to translate
it for me.
I shall be looking forward to that opportunity, I said, and with that
I took my leave.

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112 Matriheen

-4-
I have finished my play; I informed Miss Campbell of this in the
Reading Room itself. In the meantime my closeness with her has
advanced considerably. Twice I have had tea with her at her residence
and her words and behavior seem to indicate that she has developed a
sincere affection towards me.
One day she told me in the Reading Room, Tomorrow I am free.
Why dont you read out your play to me?
Very well, I replied. Tell me what time I should come.
Will you be coming to the Reading Room tomorrow?
Yes.
Then bring along your play with you. We can then go home and
you will have lunch with me.
Will you be coming to the Reading Room tomorrow too?
No, I shall not.
In that case I shall be at your residence at one oclock.
It was the month of December. The cold was extreme. It snowed
almost every day. The next morning I woke to find it again snowing
outside. At nine, when I finished my breakfast, it was still snowing;
even at ten it continued. My landlady, quoting the popular adage assured
me that as the rains had started before seven they would definitely be
over by eleven. However, the moment it struck eleven, as if in protest
against her words they came down harder than ever. It was the same
at twelve. Normally I would not have gone out in this weather. But
today was the first time somebody appreciative was waiting to hear my
first literary composition. How could I ignore that? Calling a cab I started
for Miss Campbells residence.
Seeing me she said, How sweet of you to come in this weather. I
am sure your shoes are wet?
Not much. I did not go to the Museum today but took a cab straight
to your place. However, they might have got a little wet when I got into
the cab or when I stepped out of it.
Unconvinced by my protests she bent down to take a look at my
shoes herself and exclaimed, Of course they are wet. Take them off!
Take them off!
The mere suggestion of taking off my shoes before a lady made me
shudder. Realising this she said Silly boy! Why do you look so horrified?

M, 1424
 Matriheen 113

Every rule has an exception, you know. Take them off or you will fall
really sick.
Feeling rather like a criminal I muttered, They are not really all
that wet. May be if I sit with my feet to the fire they will dry.
She reiterated, They are quite wet. However the water has not
yet reached your socks yet; if it had it would have been really bad. Take
them off and keep them near the fire. There is still some time before
lunch; your shoes will be dry before the maid arrives.
Seeing me still hesitating she finally said, Alright, if you want I
shall leave the room. If your mother were alive, would you not have
taken them off before her? Why dont you think of me as your mother?
Her voice was so kind and gentle and her words so full of compassion
that they touched a special cord in my motherless heart and without any
further qualm I took my shoes off. Sitting before the fire, the two of us
then talked about varied matters. In time it was one-thirty; my shoes
were dry and putting them on I once again turned back into a gentleman.
Miss Campbell then rose and going in, instructed the maid to serve
lunch, and soon after that led me to her dining room. While still chatting
we ate our lunch. Once the maid had cleared the table I began to read
out my play to her in the same room. Several of the scenes I narrated to
her myself. Places where I felt I had excelled myself, I translated to
her. On the whole she seemed happy, telling me at the end, It is very
good for a first attempt. By now it was four oclock. We had tea.
Outside it was still drizzling, the sky remained dark. I said to her,
You promised to give me a plot for a family play. Will you do that
today?
I will, she said. Let us go to the drawing room; this room gets
dark very soon.
We went to the drawing room. The fire in the fireplace had almost
died. All doors and windows likely to let in air from outside were shut,
yet the room was freezing cold. The maid came in and placing a large
amount of coal in the fireplace stoked up the fire vigorously with a
poker so that it sprang back into flames with renewed vigour.
Carefully drawing her warm woollen shawl around her, Miss
Campbell started.
Not far from here, in a suburb of this city of London- you can call
it Hammersmith or Richmond in your play, - there lived a gentleman of

M, 1424
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a middleclass background. He had one son and two daughters. The son
was twenty-one; now, what name can you give him?- George or Frederic
may be. Frederic can endearingly be called Fred; yes, that will sound
nice. Of the two daughters, the elder can be named Elizabeth or Lizzy;
this is your heroine. Does the name sound too old-fashioned to you?-
You can call her Maud in that case or may be Gladys. She was then
nineteen years of age. The youngest, Catherine was two years younger
to Maud.
The elder daughter was deeply interested in studies. She spoke
French, German and Italian fluently and could read Victor Hugo, Goethe
and Dante in the original. She had started learning Greek as well. In the
meantime Fred wrote to his mother that he had an Indian friend - his
class-mate, whom he wanted to bring home for their vacation of one
and a half months. His mother agreed happily. Fred wrote back giving
them the date of their arrival.
However, Maud found herself in a big dilemma. How could they
live in the same house with an Indian? - she asked her parents They
tried to reassure her but her anxiety would not be alleviated. The day
before Fred was to arrive with his friend she left the house and ran
away to her aunts place in London.
Two or three days later, their mother, accompanied by Fred and
his friend, went to their aunts house to fetch Maud back home. When
Maud saw that the Indian did not wear a feathered headgear, did not
paint his face, did not carry bows and arrows, nor was he dressed in
bearskin, she felt assured and agreed to come back with them.
Gradually Maud discovered that he
Interrupting her I asked, What name shall I give the hero?
He was Bengali. You will know better than I what name to give
him.. Call him by any name that you want,
I thought for a while, then said, Charuchandra Dutta.
Alright. Before long Maud came to know that Charu was well-
versed in Sanskrit and persuaded her mother to agree to her learning
the language. On hearing this Charu said, Very well. I have always
wanted to learn French. You teach me French and I shall give you
lessons in Sanskrit.
Thus they became one anothers tutor. It was the month of May.
The sky was a deep blue; their back yard was filled with buttercups,

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primroses and daisies. In the center of the garden grew a lilac tree, the
branches drooping down with their burden of countless blossoms. It
was hot inside the house; so every morning and evening, drawing up a
Chinese wicker table and a couple of light chairs under the lilac tree,
they gave each other lessons. Hidden among the leaves, the whole day
long a pair of mavis birds sang songs of love. Slowly the two fell deeply
in love with one another.
Mauds parents were not aware of this development, but Fred knew.
Some days he took his sisters and Charu to Richmond Park or Kew
Gardens for an outing. Often Maud and Charu would find that the other
two were nowhere around. There was no doubt that this was all Freds
doing.
Gradually Charu began to feel that it would be wrong on his part to
hide their feelings from Mauds parents any longer. He then went to her
father to ask for his permission to propose to her.
When Charu had spoken, her father remained grave. Finally he
summoned Maud there too. In an affectionate tone he then addressed
the two of them. You are both young now and have no experience of
life at all. This attraction that you feel for one another at this moment,
whether it is a lasting love or merely a temporary excitement, needs to
be tested. There is still more than a year left for Charu to pass his Bar
Exams and return home. My suggestion would be that you try yourselves
out during this period. Do not either meet or exchange letters during this
time. If at the end of the year your feelings remain unchanged I shall
give my consent to your marriage.
Although deeply dejected, Both Maud and Charu acknowledged
the rationality of his argument. Charus vacation came to an end; he
and Maud took tearful leave of one another.
With absolute sincerity they remained true to the promise given to
Mauds father. The only news they received of one another was through
Fred. The letters Maud wrote to her brother in Cambridge were shown
by him to Charu; these remained her only solace during that one year.
Again when Fred came home on vacation he showed Maud the letters
written to him by Charu.
The long difficult testing time for the lovers at last came to an end.
With Mauds parents consent they became engaged and the days went
by in a state of bliss.

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Charu was to be called to Bar on the 16th of June. The date of the
wedding was fixed for sometime during the first week of July After the
wedding the newly married couple would go for a fortnights honeymoon
in Italy and then, from Brindisi, set out for India.
Charu had serious doubts in his mind regarding his parents
consenting to his marriage. However he entertained considerable love
and respect for them and could not think of marrying without their consent
either. So he wrote a lengthy epistle giving them the news with ardent
pleas for their permission to marry.
His calculations told him that he could expect his fathers reply
from India two days after the date of his being called to the Bar. The
last week of that waiting was spent in a state of deep dejection; he felt
that without their permission half the joy of getting married would be
lost.
At this time the maid entered to light the gas. Having done so she
once again threw vast quantities of coal into the fireplace so that the
fire leapt up into bright flames again.
The belief had been gaining more and more strength in my mind
that this Maud of her story was none other that Miss Campbell herself.
I asked enthusiastically, What happened then? What reply did he get?
Miss Campbell said, 'No reply came. On 18th June, the anniversary
of the victory of the battle of Waterloo, instead of a reply, arrived Charus
old father himself. He came and fell at Mauds fathers feet, saying,
Forgive me. Charu is my only son, the only support that my wife and I
have. Once he is back in India I shall have him ritually purified and
reinstated in the caste, then get him married according to Hindu law. If
he marries your daughter he must remain a social outcast all his life.
There will be no hope for my entire dynasty to be ever reinstated, I
cannot have him live in my house and at the time of our death he will
not be able to place in our mouths those drops of water that are so
important to us. If he marries your daughter my wife will commit suicide
out of grief and I shall go insane. On the pretext of visiting Kashmir I
came to Bombay and from there took a ship to come here. The entire
journey I have lived on puffed rice alone. Please give me back my son,
he is the most precious thing in my life.
Addressing Maud as mother he continued to talk in the same
manner.

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Mauds father told him, They are both adults and can do whatever
they want to do. I shall certainly not stop them from doing anything..
And you too have no right to do that either. Please remember that this is
not India but Great Britain, an independent nation.
He then summoned Charu. Charu said, I will marry Maud. It is my
great misfortune that I am not getting my fathers permission to do so.
However, I am not prepared to commit the sin of abandoning my
betrothed wife.
What a hardhearted son you are! .. you think abandoning your
betrothed wife is a sinful act; is the killing of your parents a virtuous
one?
Charu remained firm in his resolve but now Maud took a stand
herself. She said, Under such circumstances I am not prepared to marry
Charu.
Her parents, Fred, Catherine all tried to persuade her to change
her mind but she remained firm. Finally Charu took her apart and tried
to persuade her in the name of their love for one another but even that
was of no use. Maud would not give in.
Then Charu told her, I had believed your love for me to be completely
sincere. If it were indeed so you would not have allowed any obstacle
to come in the way of our marriage. Is my belief then false?
Even that elicited no response from Maud.
Charu said, I understand. As our parting seems inevitable, I would
have liked to go with your abiding love in my heart for the rest of my
life, but you want to deprive me of even that consolation!
Maud remained unmoved.
Taking her right hand in his, Charu kissed it again and again while
his tears streamed down upon it. Then he left her for life.
The sad story had brought tears to my eyes as well. Miss Campbell
stopped talking. Clearing my throat I asked, What happened then?
Miss Campbell could not speak for a while either. Tears rolled down
her cheeks. Seeing her in this state, I lowered my eyes.
Somewhat later I heard her faint voice once again. Maud had not
protested then, but one day she will. She is waiting for the day that she
meets Charu once again in their next life to do so. After Charu left
Maud fell seriously ill and there was no hope of her survival; but it was
her destiny to suffer, how could she die so soon? Charu had had two

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pairs of gold bangles brought for her from India. These she wore
constantly. A few years earlier she suddenly noticed in an Indian
newspaper one day that her erstwhile lover was no more. That day she
took off those bangles, for she had heard that on being widowed Hindu
women no longer wore bangles. There is a photograph of her loved one
in her bedroom and she spends her time looking at it and waiting for
their eternal union in their next life.
With these words Miss Campbell fell silent. My eyes still tearful, I
sat with my head bent for some more time, wondering, Who could this
barrister be! I know most of Calcuttas established barristers. If only I
knew which year this incident had occurred, I could easily find out who
he was.
With this in mind I asked, Which year did this happen?
There was no answer.
Looking up I found her body inert, her eyes fixed and her body
drooping to one side. I realized to my dismay that she had fainted. I ran
to the bell attached to the wall and gave the cord a hard pull. The maid
came rushing in crying, Yes Sir!
Your mistress has fainted. Get some water, quick! I told her. She
ran to get water while I threw open all the windows. Icy winds rushed
into the room. I took off the warm shawl from around her body and
splashed on her face some of the freezing cold water that the maid had
brought in by then.. She loosened her dress and held a bottle of smelling
salts to her nostrils. Slowly Miss Campbell raised her head and asked
weakly, What has happened?
The maid told her Madame, the heat of the fire made you faint.
It was a mistake to have such a big fire in the room, with all the
windows shut. I said. How are you feeling now, Miss Campbell?
Did I faint? Please forgive me for the trouble. Now I am alright.
I said to her, Let me help you to your bed.
She agreed and tried to rise but her body gave way and like a
delicate creeper, she sank back on to the chair.
The two of us somehow helped her to her bedroom. Laying her
down on her bed I told the maid I shall run and get the doctor while you
take off some of her outer clothing. Saying this I turned, and immediately
my eyes fell on an oil-painting hanging on the wall - an image of my
father in his youth; in my album there was an identical copy of that

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photograph.
Everything was clear to me now. I ran out and brought the doctor.
With his medicines and our ministrations, by nine oclock Miss Campbell
was herself once more. Making her drink a cup of hot soup, I took my
leave for the night.
-5-
I remained in London for one more year after the incident mentioned
above. I visited Miss Campbell regularly. She loved me like her own
son. When I wrote to her I addressed her as Mother. But I could not
do so when we were face to face; I somehow felt a little shy.
She later told me that on seeing me in the Museum, she had
immediately noticed my strong resemblance to my father. It was in
order to find out more about me that she had followed me to The Vienna
Restaurant that day. Otherwise, eating at public places was something
repugnant to her.
I was, in time, called to the Bar. I pleaded with her again and again
to come to India with me. I said to her, You are old; you need constant
looking after. Come home with me and stay in my home with the dignity
of a mother; allow me to serve you as a son.
She replied, I shall not enjoy any peace of mind if I leave my
country at this age.
After my return I used to dispatch to her a letter by every mail; she
too replied regularly. When I got married she sent those two pairs of
bangles as a gift for my wife, who now wears them regularly.
Then my son arrived. She asked me to take my son and his mother
to see her when he was a little older because it was her dear wish to
see the three of us once before she died. She requested this in several
consecutive letters. That year it was decided that we would go to England
during my Durga Puja vacation and I wrote to her accordingly. The
letter came back after one and a half months. The London Post Office
had put a rubber stamp on the envelope declaring Addressee deceased.
Letter could not be delivered.
For the second time in my life, I lost my mother.

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