THE ENEMY : Charles Baudelaire : A transcreation

My youth was nothing but a tenebrous storm,
Pierced sometimes by brilliant rays of sun;
The thunder and the rain wreaked such havoc,
That in my garden few fruits are ripe.

Now I’ve reached the autumn of my mind,
And I need the shovels and the rakes
To sow anew the inundated earth,
Where rain dug holes like burial mounds.

Who knows if those new flowers of my dreams
Will find in this washed out soil
The mysterious elements to make them thrive?

O grief ! O grief ! time eats away our lives,
And the dark Enemy gnaws at our heart and sucks
Our blood, on which he thrives.

To my woman

Oh woman of mine...
Why do you want me to be
a mirror, always,
to see yourself
through my eyes.
The primal need,
reflection,
touch for touch,
kiss for kiss,
blow for blow?

You search my eyes
for your own passions,
desires…
Disappointment,
sharp as thorns
make you bleed.
I watch
helpless,
distant.

Dear heart.
Don’t you know,
I love you
I want you
in my own way,
on my terms?
I crave abandon,
of losing myself in you,
your eyes.
your lips
your body.
I crave freedom, too
in wild days, wilder nights,
on my own terms.

But not today, my love,
not just now.
I have to go,
back where I belong.
To my golden cage,
built with infinite patience,
step by tiny step.

I go back there.
Time and time again.
The doors open for me,
the golden perch beckons.
I go inside, I close the door.
comfort, like cotton wool,
delicious, warm,
wraps me up,
smothers me.
And I want to run….
To open skies,
new landscapes,
those ‘sawdust restaurants with oyster shells’
on ‘streets that follow like a tedious argument’
hackneyed images, words, clichés….
with you? without you?

Woman of mine,
when will you understand,
this need to go back
to my creation.
My freedom,
is but a foray,
momentary
a step outside my gilded cage…

I cannot spread my wings,
to embrace
the void
of your existence,
of your world.
Doubts,
longings,
misgivings.
The sudden swings,
agony and ecstasy….

So forgive me, my love.
You, who made me dream.
I cannot tread this path,
this razor’s edge.
I shall forsake
the wild days
the endless nights,
for the safety
of my golden cage.

Picture

MEMORIES OF ANOTHER DAY

TO MEND THE MIND

What do you do when you're feeling blue? Some read, some listen to the music, some get drunk, and yet others go out and seek solace in a crowd. None of these quite work for me. I have a perfect remedy - I go and get my hair done.

I love going to my hair dresser. Its a tiny place, tucked away in a private parking, in the centre of the town. Yet, you won't find your way there, unless you know where to go. Mario, originally from Syria, owns the place. A slim good looking man with a bad back, Mario can be mistaken for a gay - he has that sort of looks. Surrounded by a bevy of equally slim and good looking girls, he welcomes me with his bright white smile. Pauline, the bubbly blonde,  his first assistant, cries out cheery 'Bonjour'. Marion, the stunning brunette with sparkling studs on her eyebrows and ears, smiles her diffident welcome. Emilie and Camiille, the apprentices, the babies of the team, hover around to take my coat and bag, put on the loose robe designed to protect my clothes.

They install me upstairs, in a posh leather chair. They press buttons, and the chair reclines, the foot rest goes up, the massaging device is activated. They offer me a drink - tea, coffee, orange juice or just plain water, which I decline. I watch the other people in the salon while Camille starts washing my hair - the young mousy blonde, unsure of what she wants, just wanting to look good. The confident hard faced woman, totally sure of herself, spelling out her own terms of reference. The diffident young lad struggling to look at these gorgeous girls, trying to mumble out what he needs. The old woman hobbling in with her crutches, swearing at the rainy weather and what it does to her joints. The dignified matron, dressed in her twin set and pearls, there for her weekly blue rinse....

I listen to the babble of voices, rising and falling in the constant drone of hair dryers. The place smells of shampoo, of hair dye, of amonia. The people around me look like specimens from another galaxy. Multi colored pins and curlers under a cling film turban, dazzling white strips in the form of a surreal helmet, the skull showing through the wet hair. I smell decay in the old lady in the chair next to me. I see hope in her brightly painted nails, defying age, defying time.  Emilie helps the lady with the crutches up the five steps, firmly holding on to her elbow, chattering brightly to take her mind off the climb.

I feel the expert fingers massaging my scalp. 'Oh, you're really tense today', murmurs Camille. 'Relax, Madame, let me take care of you' she says. And I close my eyes and relax. Her fingers bring back the memory of childhood, of tender soothing fingers driving back the demons brought on by a high fever. She sighs, content. 'Ah, thats much better - I can feel the knots melting away'. I open my eyes and smile at her.'You're an angel, Camille. Thank you. I feel great.'

Mario takes over now. I start telling him what I want, and end up recounting what I don't want. He smiles.

'Looks like you'll have to trust me here, don't you think? I hope I've understood'..

A moment of panic grips me. 'Er, Mario, let us stick to the regular stuff'....I mumble. He grins.

'Eh bien, Madame, no pains no gains. So what do you say? Trust old Mario?'

His laugh is infectious. I laugh too. 'Okay, let's go for it. But  Mario, be sure I'm going to kill you if I don't look good', I say.

And while he fusses with my hair, I watch the young blonde girl sailing out of the parlour, her hair flowing glamorously in the wind, her head held high. Her eyes sparkle, there is a spring in her step - I feel sure that in her head she's walking the catwalk. The hard faced woman smiles at herself in the mirror and tweaks a strand of hair, a lovely self absorbed smile. The young lad, his hair sticking up with gel, escapes gratefully, flashing a cheeky grin at the girls.  The posh lady compliments Pauline - her rinse is just perfect, she says. The lady with the crutch hobbles downstairs, her hair done in a graceful pile, a diamond pin glistening on the top. She shall attend her grand daughter's wedding reception this evening.

'Dear dear, I look like a young girl' she simpers.

Mario and her crew beam at her. 'No, Madame, you look just lovely' he says, bowing over her hand in a very very old world gesture.

I walk out of the warm steamy parlour, into the driving wind and rain. But I can't help smiling to myself on my way to the car. The pedestrians huddled under their umbrellas and raincoats smile back at me.

[APARAJITA]

NA HANYATE

NA HANYATE

(It does not die)

Last Sunday I came across Marguerite after a very long time. It was a blustery morning; torn clouds chasing across a slate grey sky, a strong wind whistling through the entire city. Rain came down in sudden bursts, drenching the hapless buyers & sellers of our little Sunday market. Marguerite was struggling with the bright pink hood of her anorak that she has been wearing for at least last 10 years. That is what I remember. Maybe she’s had it for even longer. She stood tall and straight behind her flimsy stall, now the hood firmly ties around her strong chin.  

I looked at her in amazement – she did not seem to have aged at all. Those cornflower blue eyes were as sharp as ever, taking in everything, giving nothing away, framed by crisscrossing laughter lines. Her figure stout, feet firmly planted to the ground. Her slender hands strong and supple as she arranged eggs & cheese & other wares behind the counter to protect them from the invading wind & rain. Bending down and standing up, pirouetting like a woman one-third her age. As I looked at her, I had to tell myself over & over again that Marguerite was at least 80 years old! 

I have known Marguerite for a  long time now. We met for the first time when I was attending a sort of ‘Citizen’s Forum’ on organic farming, way back in the late nineties, when it was a relatively new concept in this area of France, where mechanized agriculture with GMO was the rule rather than exception. The vast landholders couldn’t care less about what they considered to be airy fairy ideas touted by ex-hippies turned green. But the ecologists here were persistent. They sought and obtained some financial help from the local government for organizing the very first forum in Caen. I was sent along as a representative of the Regional Council. 

Marguerite owns a (relatively) small farm in a very remote village. Her family has owned the farm forever, she told us during the conference. The only child to survive, she had inherited the farm decades back, and had taken over from her father who suffered from constant ill health. And they have been into organic farming, long before it became a catch word in the fashionable circles in Paris. The yield was just enough to keep the family in relative comfort. ‘I’ve never made any profits in all my life’, she declared proudly ‘all that I earn goes to feed and clothe the family & my animals’. Unlike their neighbors, Marguerite’s family never produced any cereals – they specialized in fruits, vegetables and salads. They raised goats & chicken for cheese and eggs. They had a few milk cows. They were beekeepers too – their verdant orchards guaranteed an excellent quality of honey. Marguerite is a natural story teller – as she spoke I could see that remote farm in front of my eyes – the goats & chickens ranging freely, the fragrance of the fruit orchard, the rancid smell of goat’s cheese, the wet smell of the hay on the mangers of the cowshed.  

The Quesnay family (that’s her maiden name, the one she has always used) had another god given gift – they were all excellent bakers. And they specialized in all types of breads and cookies and biscuits and shortcakes, which they made from home made butter and honey. They sold it to the local bakeries, and often in the open markets of the neighboring villages. In fact, Marguerite’s little stall in our Sunday market is famous for the bread and cookies. She bakes her bread with all types of seeds - sunflower, flax, poppy and sesame seeds that cohabit in perfect harmony with raisins, figs or chocolate chips. She sells small uneven roundels of goat’s cheese wrapped in oak leaves, organic eggs that come in all sizes. No fancy boxes, no calibration. She uses paper bags made from recycled paper, sturdy cardboard boxes for her eggs. Marguerite is a living representation of the green earth. At least that’s what I thought when I first met her. 

I had gone up to talk to her at the end of the conference, all those years ago. Partly from duty, but mostly because I was fascinated by her. And that acquaintance became a kind of friendship, erratic but totally durable. I was a regular visitor of the Sunday market at that time, and made it a point to go to her stall. She was not always there – her son had willingly taken over the arduous task of doing the rounds in the open markets. He was often there with his own family – his wife & two young daughters, all of them lovely. But I was overjoyed every time Marguerite was there. It gave us a chance to have a quiet chat while the younger generation took over the responsibility of selling. Sometimes I met her at other places – she was often invited to share her organic farming experience in forums organized in different places.  

I loved talking to Marguerite. She was a mine of fascinating stories about all sorts of things. I loved listening to her anecdotes about occupied France, the brave young men who left to join the French resistance movement and never came back to the village. About the deep anguish following the D-Day landing on 6th June, 1944 while the allied forces struggled inland, and whining planes flew over her little village to bomb the German fortifications along the coast; about how the entire French society changed in the few years following the end of the second world war, the winds of change sweeping the entire country, right up to the remote village school where she was studying. She left her rural cocoon for long years, leaving everything behind to go to the University in Caen. A very long journey for someone from her background, she assured me. A journey not measurable by time or distance….

Those were exciting days, Marguerite told me. It was the ‘Glorious Thirties’ in France, and everything seemed possible. Marguerite belonged to that new generation, not the ‘bright young things’ of London, but a determined lot that wanted things to change. Women’s rights, mainly, to live as they wished, without the shackles of birth, religion, the social rules - words used by her which I am faithfully quoting from memory. A whole generation of women who recognized their innermost strengths and desires, and fought hard to make them real. At home and at work, in the fields, factories, offices. They made a life for themselves, and lived by their own rules. A ‘city girl’ by now, Marguerite lived her life as she wanted - a free & independent spirit. She participated in the nationwide movement for making abortion legal, to the horror of her own family, who threatened to disown her. She even went to Paris once to participate in a gigantic rally, she told me proudly, following the publication of the ‘343 Manifest’ penned by Simone de Beauvoir and signed by 343 women, known and unknown, who declared having an abortion in the appalling condition prevalent in those days. For those historically inclined, abortion was legalized in France in 1971. 

All this did not prevent Marguerite from getting married at the ripe old age (her words, again) of 30 and starting her own family. And the subsequent return to her father’s farm, leaving behind the city lights. She ‘journeyed back to her roots’, as she likes to say, and has stayed there ever since, toiling the soil, raising her own family & her animals, proud as an Amazon. Her children are well educated – her daughter a nurse turned social worker, her son an agronomist who prefers making the old family farm prosper rather than working for companies like Monsanto. Marguerite is proud of her children, for, as she puts it ‘I managed to make them dream my own dreams’. 

At the age of 80, Marguerite still stands straight and proud, sure and serene, proud of what she has done. She does not lament the modern society like so many of her contemporaries; she still takes on the challenges headlong. Marguerite is a fighter, a survivor, a dreamer, an achiever. She does not brag, she does not flaunt. She stands there, imperturbable, rock solid, tranquil; she lives.  

I wanted to write this eulogy to celebrate the likes of Marguerite, the quiet fighters who permit us to be what we are today – citizens with equal rights and responsibilities. To salute the generation of Marguerite who fought for what they believed in. Quite different from a lot of women I know with ill digested ideas, who think that every conflict is finally a gender issue. Women like me, really, who have hardly ever had to fight for their rights, for their mere existence, for living life by their rules. Compared to the likes of Marguerite, incarnations of Gaea, we are just dwarves. Maybe one day we shall actually be able to acknowledge it. 

APARAJITA

(19 June 2012 at 05:31)

AND THE BEAT GOES ON

And the beat goes on

Nina thinks that she is once again back on the rails. In fact, she is quite insistent about it. She is now her own efficient self once again, the backbone of the small team she works in. She is almost always the first person in the office, the one who switches on the hall lights and sets the coffee percolator going. Other than two days a week when she forces herself to attend the yoga classes under the strict instruction of her doctor, she is also the last person to leave together with the cleaning lady. She eats her frugal lunch in the lunch room, listening but hardly ever participating in the animated conversation of her colleagues around her. She finds it perfectly normal that her female colleagues have now stopped inviting her out for after-work drinks or the ritualistic lunch time window shopping. She does not miss their constant ragging about her plain, almost dowdy clothes, her sensible shoes, her scrubbed face without a trace of makeup….Nina really believes that she is doing fine…

It is true that her life had gone totally out of kilter for a time. The physical pain was quickly taken care of. Not the grey haze that engulfed her everyday life, though. She did not dare to venture outdoors; in fact, she had difficulty getting out of bed. She had gratefully accepted the invitation from her childhood friend Ruby who had travelled hundreds of miles and taken Nina away. To the old brick house with the rambling garden, warmed by the generous sun and the carefree laughter of two lovely children. Nina’s boss had insisted on her going away. Ari had taken care of all her pending work. Nina, who loved the house and loved the whole family, had basked in the warmth, and the fog in her head had gradually cleared. And one day she had said goodbye to them and taken the long train ride back to her home.

She was surprised by the visit of Anita & Ari that Saturday. Too tired to ask too many questions, Nina sat back in her favorite reading chair and watched listlessly as they quickly replaced the lock on her door, screwed on the sliding chain lock, installed the peephole that looked like a fish eye. Anita handed her a sheaf of papers from the telephone company which informed her that her telephone number has been changed on request, and now she had access to a host of free services. Ari set up the speed dialing menu on the phone –police, ambulance, fire brigade, her doctor, her close friends. Her cell phone was programmed likewise, this time with at least five different taxi services. They confiscated her old key ring with the miniature dolphin that had seen better days, and handed her a brand new one – a smart fluorescent rectangle that looked like a USB flash drive, glowed in the dark and acted as a torch. They left after a while, telling her cheerfully that everything was now as safe & secure as can be….

So Nina entered her old life once again. Hesitantly at first, like a child learning to walk, and gradually becoming more confident. She has now stopped looking over her shoulders constantly, of cringing visibly when someone approached her. She is once more able to look at strangers, even speak to them if necessary. But she scrupulously avoids dark streets, over or under passes, street corner musicians, the neighborhood police station. She religiously switches off the radio or the television whenever she hears a sax playing. She has got into the habit of sliding on the chain lock as soon as she returned to her flat. She now knows her new telephone number by heart. And she sleeps with all the lights blazing in her apartment. Yes, Nina has decided that she is fine. She is just waiting for her friends & colleagues to accept the fact as well.

In fact, that was the mainly why she accepted the invitation for the afterhours cocktail that Friday, to the general surprise of her colleagues, which tickled Nina no end. As usual, the majority of the women left early to go home & change. By five pm the office was almost empty. Nina had no intention of going home. But she didn’t feel like working either. It was a bright day, like you sometimes get when winter is not yet quite over and spring is not yet quite there. Looking out of her office window, she saw that Green Park was teeming with people – young mothers pushing prams, small children running around the still bare trees, couples walking hand in hand. She was suddenly filled with the urge to go out into the sun, to dissolve into the anonymous crowd. In her eagerness she forgot all about tidying up her work station and stood tapping her feet impatiently in front of the elevator.

The park was indeed very crowded. But this did not bother Nina today. She decided to walk the narrow path under the tall trees that went around the park, away from the concrete walkway where kids traced out wild trajectories with their skates. She walked under the bare trees, on the slightly muddy path, intent on feeling the still feeble sun on her face. She felt curiously light hearted and happy, for no apparent reason, and for once, she did not delve to understand or rationalize. She thought about the long walks she had taken with her parents in spring and summer, her father teaching her to recognize the plants and flowers that grew wild. ‘I have forgotten a lot’, she thought ruefully. ‘Maybe I should join a nature study circle and learn all over again’. She remembered the taste of the ice creams she had at the end of these walks, and suddenly felt a craving for ice cream. She decided to go to the garden café at the other end of the park….

The café, like the rest of the park, was full too. The tables were pushed out on the grass, and every one of them was taken. The counter, however, was relatively free. Nina stood at the counter, waiting for her strawberry & vanilla cone. A man was standing on the far side of the counter, drinking a large cup of cappuccino. A little girl skipped around the counter, totally ignoring her mother’s admonishments. Nina eagerly started on her cone, and closed her eyes in rapture at the long forgotten taste and all the memories it brought back. When she opened her eyes, the man with the cappuccino was looking straight at her, a chocolate smudge on his long nose. Nina noticed a pair of keen blue eyes crinkled with laughter.

- ‘You must like your ice cream a lot’, he said, now with a broad smile on his face.

- ‘I do, actually’, said Nina crossly. ‘Is there a problem with that?’

- ‘No, no, none at all. Except that you’ve got a pink mustache now. It’s rather comical, you know’.

- ‘Well, you’ve got cappuccino on your nose, and that’s ‘comical’ as well’.

And suddenly both of them were laughing, reaching for the paper napkins. Nina took this opportunity to take a good look at her neighbor. The first thing that caught her eyes was the amount of studs he seemed to have on him – belt, boots, the jacket that was slung on the counter. In fact, he had a rather leathery look, she decided, not totally unpleasant. ‘Probably a biker’, she thought, and now noticed the tattoo on one forearm. The discreet scrutiny had lasted only a couple of seconds, but she was caught at it.

- ‘So what is the verdict, then’? he asked ‘Do I pass the test?’

Nina felt her face burning, not only with shame but with anger as well. At the cheekiness of the man. At being caught out. At being incapable of finding a suitable retort. All she could come out with was a totally lame ‘I don’t know what you mean’.

- ‘I think you do’, he said, ‘but never mind, I was only joking. Hey, it was nice meeting you. Have a nice evening’.

And with that he was off, walking with an easy swinging gait. Nina could see the studs twinkling in the dying rays of the sun. She felt annoyed with herself, but not inordinately. The lovely balmy day definitely had a role to play, she decided. But now the sun was setting, and suddenly she could feel the chill in the air. The park was emptying rapidly now. Mothers were busy zipping up the coats of their children, bundling them in their prams. The young kids were leaving in groups, their roller skates and skate boards tucked under arms. Nina joined the throng and walked out of the park leisurely, feeling rather lighthearted and happy, after a very long time…

***********************************************************************

The lovely weather, however, did not hold –not surprising, given the time of the year. The cold clammy weather was back very soon, grey days with fog or rain. It dampened everybody’s spirits - conversations flagged, there was no chatting around the coffee machine. By six that evening, Nina felt too depressed to stay on in the empty office and equally discouraged to go out in the pouring rain that lashed at the glass doors of the lobby and the wind howled desolately. She looked ruefully at her fragile umbrella – it would be of little use in this weather.

A few people were huddling in front of the glass door, waiting for a lull in the storm. Nina drifted towards the door, and then changed her mind. She suddenly craved for a strong cup of coffee, and so made her way towards the little cafeteria that was tucked at the back of the big entrance hall. The café was completely empty and Lisa was comfortably settled behind the counter with a glossy magazine. She smiled a welcome while Nina settled down on a high stool and asked for her ‘regular’. The coffee tasted strong and sweet and smelt divine. After a few desultory remarks, Lisa went back to her magazine while Nina sat sipping her coffee, mesmerized by the rain that continued unabated. Other than the drumming sound of the rain, everything was quiet – the daytime bustle of the lobby seemed a distant memory. Nina felt safe and warm, reluctant to move, enjoying the warmth of the coffee mug clasped in her hands.

She was awakened from her reverie by a loud clatter just outside the café door. A man walked in, taking off a helmet, shaking rain from his leather jacket, stamping his feet on the door mat drying wet boots. Lisa looked up and her round face creased into a smile, becoming a broad grin as the man addressed her.

- ‘Hello luv, so glad to see you’re still open. Beast of a day, innit? Lucky you, all warm and dry behind that counter. I been up and down and round and round all day, nonstop. Time to go home now, but not before I’ve had a bite to eat.’

- ‘Hey Gary’ Lisa said ‘what can I get you then, honey? I still have a couple of chocolate cakes left. Or would you like something hot?’

Nina was surprised to hear Lisa talking like that. As a rule she was polite, but not effusive. She twisted around on her stool to look at this special person. And found herself staring at the stranger she had met in the garden café that bright sunny day. His face now broke out into a broad grin :

- ‘Now if this ain’t the ice cream lady’ he said. ‘And how are we today?’

- ‘WE are all right, thank you’, Nina said tartly, hoping that the conversation would end there.

- ‘So no ice cream today, eh? Too cold for it, I guess’.

Lisa, serving the man now, looked curiously at Nina.

- ‘You two know each other, then?’ she said, not sounding totally happy.

- ‘No Lisa, I don’t’ said Nina, and couldn’t help adding ‘but it seems you do….’

- ‘Ah yes, we’re mates, aren’t we, Lisa?’ breezed the man presumably called Gary. ‘Wouldn’t have survived with my job if it wasn’t for her café here’, he said.

- ‘My pleasure, Gary. Would feed ya any time, you know that’ said Lisa, almost simpering.

Nina was genuinely amazed at Lisa’s reaction. She smiled to herself. So Lisa did have another face, she thought secretly, and turned around to watch the rain again.

- ‘You work in this building, lady?’

Nina turned back to the man again, her amazement growing with every passing second. She has been working in this building for the past six years, and other than exchanging polite greetings when unavoidable, the people working here did not speak to strangers. Not even when sharing tables in this oft crowded café.

- ‘Yes, I do. But I don’t remember seeing you before’ said Nina.

- ‘Ah, not surprising, that. I’m outdoors a lot. But I have seen you before here’ he said.

Nina had finished her coffee, and started gathering up her things. It was still raining, but the wind seemed to have died down a bit. She waved a general goodbye and walked out of the café. She was walking towards the bus stop when a motor bike screeched to halt beside her. Gary was in full war paint now, complete with helmet, gloves and goggles.

- ‘Want a lift, lady? Saves you walking in the rain. I have a spare helmet in my pannier’

Nina looked at the bike. A bright red Honda, covered with gleaming metal plates. Gary was perched on the seat, waiting for a reply, seemingly oblivious of cars and buses giving him and his bike a wide berth.

- ‘No thank you’, she said, ‘Actually, I’m a bit scared of riding on bikes. But thanks for offering’.

- ‘Please yourself’, he said, ‘but I’m a very safe biker’. And with that he was gone, in a flash of red black & silver. Nina continued her miserable walk towards the bus stand….

***********************************************************************

In the next few weeks, Nina came across Gary quite a few times. He always had a bright smile & a cheery greeting whenever they met – in the hallway or the lift or the café where Nina now went more frequently. She saw him chatting with girls in all these places, blonds, brunettes, redheads, always a different one. During a chance conversation with Lisa she learnt that Gary was employed in an ad company housed in the building. He was a sort of odd job man, but mostly did delivery jobs.

- ‘He’s a real sport’, said Lisa, ‘and he sure likes women’, which confirmed Nina’s observation. ‘Not a bad looking bloke, really, and that crooked smile – a lot of girls in this building are quite enchanted with him, you know’, she confided.

- ‘You seem to be quite fond of him yourself, Lisa, or am I wrong?’

- ‘Oh, I like him all right, like all my other customers. But yes, he does put a smile on many a face. Not like a lot of other men in this building, the poor nerds….’

- ‘You’re right there, Lisa. You know what, I’ve seen him with all sorts of women in these last few days, and they sure seem to enjoy his company. Bit of an Adonis, is he?’

- ‘Ach Nina, I don’t know who Adonis is…..’

***************************************************************************

Winter was on its way out at last. The days started getting longer. The sun, though still pale and weak, was getting warmer every day. The crocuses stuck their tiny heads out first in the small patch of grass that surrounded the glass and chrome building. The daffodils and the buttercups soon followed. The heavy winter coats & scarves were gradually being replaced with lighter and more colorful attire. Cirrus clouds floated high in the blue sky, light as fleece, and equally beautiful. Spring was finally on its way.

Nina chanced across Gary in Green Park one lunch time. She had come out to eat her sandwich in the park, intending to spend some time enjoying the magnificent weather. She had a scientific journal with her, but her attention kept wandering. Life was sprouting all around her, much more exciting than the dry article she had been reading. She practically jumped out of her skin when he spoke to her.

-‘Hello there, little lady. Decided to come out into the open, have you? And a good thing too. Blimey – look at that sun!’ And with that, he plonked down beside Nina. ‘I got a sandwich too. Thought I’d sit out in the sun rather than in that poky old café’.

For a second, Nina did not know what to do. But his good humor was somehow infectious. She found herself smiling broadly. The spring was definitely in the air….

They chatted for a long time. It was not too difficult – Gary was quite a chatterbox. He was easy to talk to, and very funny. He regaled her with all sorts of office gossip, and though Nina did not know anyone he was talking about, she thoroughly enjoyed it. He talked about the bikers club he belonged to, the long road trips, the bonhomie of the members at the end of a long dusty day. He talked about his job, saying that he preferred being outdoors to ‘paper pushing’ in closed offices. ‘Can’t complain with me job, really, given that I have no qualifications,’ he said casually. At this, Nina sat up.

-‘ What do you mean, no qualifications?’

- ‘Well, I got kicked out of school, didn’t I? Never got on with the teachers, in any case. So I got myself a job in a factory, and I’ve been working ever since. But you must have had a good education, eh? You talk real nice and posh’.

- ‘Er, yes, though I too did not always get on with my teachers’.

- ‘Girls are much better at obeying, I guess. All my girlfriends had finished school, at least. Had one lass who was even going to college.’

- ‘You have a lot of girlfriends, then? Nina asked, amused. ‘How do you manage?’

- ‘Oh but I only have one at a time. Never cheat on the filly I’m going out with. That won’t be fair, now, would it?’

Nina looked at her watch & jumped. She would be late for the meeting – it was a good ten minutes walk back to the office. So when Gary offered to drop her at the office on his bike, Nina accepted gratefully.

- ‘See, it was easy, wasn’t it?’ quipped Gary as she was getting off the bike; ‘Now you won’t be afraid anymore.’

**************************************************************************

This is how the whole thing started. Chance meetings, occasional lunches in the park, coffee or ice cream in the café downstairs. Nina was totally fascinated by the man, so different from anyone she had known, so far out of her orbit, her sheltered and aseptic life. He knew very little about her world, and she knew practically nothing about his, except what he told her. Growing up in a small town, with little to do other than going to the pub and chat up girls, inebriated evenings and nights, vicious brawls and fights. ‘Fast bikes, cold beer and hot women’ is the way he put it. She loved listening to his stories, surprised by the knowledge ‘acquired in the school of life’. She hardly had any stories to tell, and realized once again how dull her life so far had been. He made her laugh, and she made him laugh too – not with funny and absurd jokes but her sheer ignorance about a lot of worldly things. Now that spring was there to stay, they went for long walks in the different parks in the city. And Nina now had no qualms about riding pillion on his Honda. She loved the rush of the air in her face, loved the thrill of empty highways in early mornings. In return, she took him to the cinema, to the small Italian restaurant that had become a second home to her. She taught him to use a computer, amazed that in this day & age there were still people who couldn’t care less about being tech savvy. In short, Nina was happy.

In the beginning, she had spent hours thinking about this strange relationship. Images from Pygmalion and Lady Chatterley and Tess of the d’Urbervilles and a host of other books had flocked to her mind. She had stayed awake at night weighing the pros and cons. She had thought about avoiding Gary, which would have been easy to do. But she knew she did not want to.

For once in her life, Nina would go with the flow…..

Aparajita Sen

RAZE THE PRISON TO THE GROUND

RAZE THE PRISONS TO THE GROUND

I am not from Jadavpur University – I am a pure Calcutta University product. Yet my relationship with JU runs deep.  My grandfather, who I never knew, was an engineer from JU. Neither my father nor my uncles went to Jadavpur. My brother did, and a lot of my very close friends.

 I know JU in general and the student politics as it was in the 1980s like the back of my hand. I want to tell you some of the stories of that time, from the point of view of a sister who lived through those tumultuous days. My brother was an early initiate into student politics – he became a member of the FETSU probably in the first few weeks he joined the university. Between 1979 and 1982, he was first the AGS and then GS of the FETSU. He later became the Vice Chairman of the same union and between 1983 & 1984 was the elected student member to court.

 Our home was like an open hostel those days. People came and went, stayed the night, ate the frugal meals my mother prepared. My brother and his comrades (yes, I shall use the word, because it is true) held their study circles in our house. I was mobilized to make tea and serve them snacks while they debated and argued behind closed doors. I was in Presidency College at the time - ruled by the then Chatra Parishad, there was no opposition to speak of. Students steered clear of the ‘Chaap’ members, and that was that. An apolitical student organization raised its timid head, the ‘Steering Committee’ but that was a very token protest…. In short, I was not part of student politics like my brother was.

 This tale is about what happened in 1983 in Jadavpur. I was out of university at that time, working in Reserve Bank of India. I think it was around the month of September that trouble erupted at JU. The then rulers, the CPI(M) were unable to get a toehold in the FETSU, and what resulted should be a black chapter in student politics in West Bengal. I don’t know the inside story, but one day my brother did not come home from the university. We got a phone call that the FETSU members were being hounded by the police and the goons alike. No one knew where they were The campus was closed off, and there were protracted battles between students and the ‘outsiders’. Yes, the outsiders were there even then, with or without political etiquettes..

 Now, I come from a family populated by members who would rush in anywhere and everywhere in any given situation – without much concern about consequences. So my father and my uncle set off in search of my brother in Jadavpur, determined to bring him back to safety. Never ever sparing a thought about their own safety, or how it may put my brother in an impossible situation.

 I don’t have the full details of what happened that day. I only know that when my father and my uncle landed up in front of the closed gates of JU, quite a few of my brother’s comrades had to risk their own lives to escort them back to safety. I know that my brother did not come home either that night or the next day, busy as he was organizing the protest movement.

 In yet another instance, the JU students were protesting against the brutal and unprovoked police firing in Durgapur which resulted in the death of two students of the Regional Engineering College – Arnab and Tarachand. A massive protest erupted in JU, and the students took to the streets. On the day when the students were marching to the Jadavpur Police Station to mark their protest, my brother was in the very front row. I know that while the windows of the police station shattered and a chance missile hit the OC who was standing in front of the station and he started bleeding, he took the safety catch off his revolver. I know that my brother who was right in front told him ‘you shoot me first, and then the rest.’ It was a different epoch – the OC never pulled the trigger. It may have been different today.

 I am telling you this story because maybe a lot of you do not know what happened in your University before, when those like you risked not only their careers but their lives to protest, to ask for justice. To let you know that your university has always had this culture, that the students did not back out fearing individual harm. These guys are still around, they are behind you. They will support your movement, because you protest, not because of any party color.

 I had a very long chat with my brother last night. He and his friends are no longer in organized politics – in fact, they have, as a group, become resigned to the bleak student politics in general. They had lost hope. But no more. You who braved the inclement weather to participate in the protest rally, you who made sure that there was not ONE untoward incident that could have tarred your protest, you who replied with songs and hope against oppression, you who proved once again, and after a very long time that a protest can cut across petty party lines and lead to the mobilization of the normally faceless individual student– you have earned their respect, the respect of these hard boiled activists who braved every storm.

They are behind you, as individuals, just like I am, just like a lot of my friends and acquaintances. We who believe that no one should touch the students - our children, our future, our hope. Do not give up your sense of justice, do not give in to fear, do not give in to political manipulations. The whole country is watching you, maybe the whole world. Fight, dear students and see if you can end the reign of mediocrity, of injustice, of oppression, of fear.

Long live your protest. Long live the revolution.

 I could not resist from quoting a poem by Bertolt Brecht, read long long back, which came to my mind all of a sudden as I was watching the developments unfurl in JU. The context is entirely different, yet there is a thread that connects this movement to Brecht’s poem:

During the war

In a cell of the Italian prison in San Carlo

Full of imprisoned soldiers, drunks and thieves

A socialist soldier, with an indelible pencil, scratched on the wall:

Long live Lenin!

High above, in the semi-dark cell, hardly visible, but

Written in large letters.

As the warders saw it, they sent for a painter with a bucket of lime.

And with a long stemmed brush he whitewashed the threatening inscription. 

Since, however, with his lime, he painted over the letters only

Stood above in the cell, now in chalk:

Long live Lenin!

Next another painter daubed over the whole stretch with a broad brush

So that for hours it disappeared, but towards morning

As the lime dried, the inscription underneath was again conspicuous:

Long live Lenin!

Then dispatched the warder a bricklayer with a chisel against the inscription

And he scratched out letter by letter, one hour long

And as he was done, now colourless, but up above in the wall

But deeply carved, stood the unconquerable inscription:

Long live Lenin!

Now, said the soldier, get rid of the wall!

#hokkolorob

26 September 2014 at 18:51