THE VACANT ROOM

Paranjoy walked towards the room of Menon. He worked as an Associate Professor in National Institute of Business, where Menon worked as the Country Manager. Till yesterday. For the past five years.

The calmness surrounding the room made Paranjoy wistful. Just the day before, it was a room buzzing with activity. Several faculties and students would crowd the room, and animated discussion could be heard from the doors and the adjoining rooms.

Paranjoy stood in that piercing silence for fifteen minutes. He then retraced his steps and went to his room. It was around lunch time, and he had no classes remaining to be taken for that day. He was hungry, but held himself from opening his tiffin box. He used to have lunch with Menon every day, who was rather fond of Paranjoy even though he was his boss. Often they would venture out and have a bite at the nearby KFC during lunch.

Paranjoy couldn’t bring himself to have his lunch. Tears rolled down his cheek. He remembered moments of togetherness he shared with Menon. Often they would go back together after a hard day’s work, with Menon giving him the ‘lift’ in his car. On rare occasions, they even had a drink or two together in the evenings.

The phone rang. It was Menon on the other side of the line.

“How’re you doing?”  he inquired.

The conversation continued for a while. Soon after, Paranjoy said “Yes, I’ll meet you in Lucknow over the weekend. We’ll discuss about it.”

 

The present state of Education has been bothering Paranjoy for long. He has noticed that in his college the students are increasingly deteriorating in standards. The entire Academic system seem to have gone haywire. Lack of accountability and loosening of strictness have created havoc benefitting neither the student nor the faculty. The faculties with a higher pay packet are always on the chopping block. Paranjoy was irked when Menon was handed over the pink slip.

Menon came from a wealthy background. Paranjoy remembered the gala time he had with Menon for three or four days a few months back during their Institute sponsored vacation to Nainital.

“Paranjoy, I’m really fed up with Academics in our country. We’ve such sub-standard students these days, and our employers expect miracles from us. When I am teaching in class, I hardly encounter any intelligent question from the students. But when these deficient students fail to secure any employment, the entire blame is put on the shoulders of faculties, especially higher ups in the ranks like Director, Dean & HOD. The truth is that we aren’t magicians who can work miracles. Our arduous labor can only yield marginal results within this short span of a professional course overloaded with subjects and activities.”

Paranjoy asked “What do you intend to do?”

Menon replied “I have properties in Lucknow, which have acquired the status of a heritage site, besides some agricultural land. I want to set up an independent business in the travel sector. Paranjoy, you started your career in the Airlines sector and have some contact in the Industry too. Why don’t you join me in this endeavour, and we set this up in partnership. I know there is a huge potential in this sector. Initially the earnings may be less, but I am hopeful it will pick up in a few month’s time.

Paranjoy had sought some time to give his decision on the proposal. Even Menon was aware that and erudite Paranjoy felt like a fish out of waterin this murky academic atmosphere, where unethical practices are increasing with every passing day.

That day before leaving his Institute, Paranjoy tendered his resignation at his office. As he kept driving towards his home, several thoughts crowded his mind.

“Have I done the right thing to leave the job?”

For Paranjoy the sacking of a competent Menon was too much of a shock to accept it silently.

It was getting dark. Paranjoy consoled him and drew his inspiration from the words of his favourite poet Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a wood and I – I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference

Soon, he reached home and asked his brother to book him a ticket for  Lucknow.

MODELS

(This is actually a memoir, rather than a short story)

It was evening. I had just returned from the office an hour back and sat lazily sipping a cup of tea. Soon, the lights flickered off and I was plunged into darkness. After quite awhile, when the lights showed no signs of appearing and having nothing better to do, I began leafing through the pages of my memories and embarked on a trip down memory lane.

My recollections of early life, dating a quarter of a century back, now consists mostly of blurred images. Ours was a big joint family with several members. I grew up with numerous brothers, senior to me by a few years, who were my playmates and my heroes. Going to school early in the morning, returning in the afternoon, and then going out to play with my brothers—it was a routine rarely broken. I played almost every game in those days—cricket, football, hockey, badminton, table tennis, kabaddi, lawn tennis, some indigenous Indian games involving sticks, marbles, chess, and so many others.

One person from whom I drew inspiration, someone who still is very much a part of my life force, was my Grandfather. I called him Dadu. Dadu adored me a lot and lovingly called me suvho, while others addressed me by my nickname. His strict disciplined life and his erudition have made him a model for me. Emulating his ideals and applying them to my life will certainly help me to stand in good stead. Above all, it is sure to give me mental peace and happiness, a gift material prosperity can’t provide us.

His knowledge was awe-inspiring. He was endowed with bilingual felicity. Every morning, after being served his morning tea, he would call me and ask for the day’s newspaper. Then, he would meticulously read the entire paper. He really enjoyed reading The Statesman every morning and almost digested the contents therein. He could speak eloquently on those news items, with a flair and an insight that was truly sublime. He would complete his daily routine religiously. He remained a teetotaler and abstained from smoking, drinks and all forms of addictive habits. However, he had a passion—reading. He loved good literature, films and music. He initiated me into the magical world of poetry and poets like Wordsworth, Keats, Whitman,Tagore and Sukanta Bhattacharyya. I can recall him describing the beauty of poems like Daffodils,& Yarrow Unvisited or Sukanta’s Runner with a deep understanding of those gems. I, for one, truly agree with Octavio Paz when he says, Poetry is Man’s only recourse against the meaningless noise and silence. Poetry, which is the perfection of speech – Language speaking to itself – is an invitation to enjoy the whole of life. One of Dadu’s favourite couplets, which he used to hum frequently, was a Tagore piece Ami choncholo he, ami shudoorer o piyashi I am restless, I thirst for what lies beyond the horizon.

I remain indebted to my Dadu for infusing in me a love for the beautiful world of poetry. He served as a high-ranking official in a Govt. office. I have seen many people still utter his name with great reverence. It has been more than three decades since he retired. Unlucky to lose his wife prematurely, he lived the last seventeen years of his life without her. We tried our utmost to fill the void in his life by giving him constant company. He was highly respected by his sons, all of whom are working in respectable positions in various jobs.

Dadu never watched television. In the evening, he would retreat early to his room and relax on his bed. At times, he would call me and we would discuss some topics of interest. In our confabulations, we have discussed the greatness of the works of Sarat Chatterjee, R. K. Narayan, Bhibuti Bannerji and others, the contributions of Sri Aurobindo and Sarojini Naidu, or the cinematic genius of P. C. Barua. His profound knowledge of history and politics dumbfounded me and, on most occasions, I enjoyed being a mute listener.

At 8 P.M. sharp (we stayed in a cold hilly town and that was considered a late hour) he was served his meal and, after it, he said his daily prayers from the Gita and other holy books and went to sleep. He maintained this routine throughout his life. When I passed my Class X board exam with distinction, Dadu presented me with a calculator. I still treasure the gift and it is still one of my prized possession, two decades after it was bought. An area of ignorance for Dadu was the field of science. He was not so knowledgeable in this area and couldn’t comprehend the latest scientific discoveries, inventions and changes. He confessed to me how he was so amazed with science that has changed our lives so much, even though he never really understood the underlying concepts and principles. I am sure he would have been more awestruck by the tremendous changes computers have brought about now in our lives. He lived to see his grandson secure admission in computer science, but didn’t live to see the dawn of email, the Internet and other such mind-boggling developments.

Dadu really had a good knowledge of politics. Had he been alive, he would have been unhappy with the buffoonery that goes on in the name of politics today. He would have been further hurt because the party he advocated, is now in shambles. I am glad he didn’t live to see this day.

The end came when I was about to complete my engineering degree. I wasn’t at his bedside when he breathed his last. No, I couldn’t be, because I was not told about it. I was in an Engineering college in Calcutta, and had to appear in my final exam, so my local guardians held back the news from me until my exam was completed. When the news was broken to me, it was too late. The rituals had all been performed while I was racking my brains in the exam hall.

Dadu will forever remain a source of inspiration for me. It is difficult to bear this wrenching separation.

I was also fortunate to have a very loving and understanding father. When in school, I was a movie fanatic. An interesting incident happened one day. It was a Sunday and when I returned home in the afternoon after playing cricket, I saw my Ma in a furious mood. She soon revealed that some neighbours had sighted me sneaking into a theatre screening a smutty film called Satyam Shivam Sundaram. I was slapped, beaten with a stick and I wailed in agony at this treatment from Ma. I ran away from that place and hid myself in the rear of the house. Suddenly, a tap on my back frightened me. I looked back in fear and trepidation. It was my Baba (my father). Drink this glass of water, he said. I took it from his hand and drank it. Baba was aware of what had happened and why, but he didn’t utter a single word, nor did he ask or rebuke me for my misdemeanour. He reposed implicit faith in me. I was good at studies and Father took me to the circus or films, when something good—suitable entertainment came to our town.

Baba was indeed my best friend. I vividly remember the long hours he devoted to me solely, patiently reading aloud story books in my mother tongue, because I was deficient in that language. He used to discuss every subject with me candidly and meticulously cared for my health’s proper growth and flowering. A very religious man and honest to the core, he is indeed a model of virtue in this present age, when the tentacles of corruption are engulfing us. An avid sports fan, he still watches about six hours of various sports on the tube, while enjoying his retired life.

These two people, Dadu and my Baba (apart from Mommy Dearest ), have been the pillars of my life and, blessed with their love, affection and idealism, I walk the thorn-strewn paths of this journey called life with confidence.

TAJ MAHAL

( This is a translation of a Bengali story, TAJ MAHAL, written
    by Banaphool. Translated by Subhajit Ghosh)

The very first time I went to Agra, it was to see the Taj Mahal.
I still vividly remember my first viewing of the Taj. The train
hadn’t reached Agra when one fellow passenger shouted out loudly,
“look there, you can see the Taj Mahal!” Quickly, I looked out
of the window.

Seeing the Taj, in broad daylight, from a distance, I was
disappointed. It seemed a pretty ordinary Mahal. Is this Taj Mahal?
Yet, I kept on staring. After all, it’s the Taj Mahal! Shahjahan’s
Taj Mahal! … late evenings captive Shahjahan sat on the verandah
of Agra fort and kept on looking at the Taj … Taj was very dear
to Mumtaz … besides Mumtaz another man lies buried here … possibly
still he is there … by the side of the Taj. Dara Sheikh.

Soon, this ordinary looking masjid went out of my view.

It was the following day after full moon. The moon was not
visible as yet. That day, towards late evening I went to see the
Taj for the second time. I can still remember that experience.
On entering by the gate, I could hear an imperceptible cry. No, it
was not emanating from the bushes around. It seemed to be coming from
some distant ages — not imperceptible, but concealed crying. Slowly,
I inched forward. Soon the minar, minaret, the tomb became visible
now. The moon appeared. It now seemed as if Shahjahan & Mumtaz’s
dream was beckoning me. I was spellbound!. I kept on looking in
amazement.

A few days has elapsed since that incident. Which contractor
has earned how much from the Taj, which hotelier turned into a
millionaire because of the Taj, which rickshawpuller extracted
exorbitantly from innocent tourists — all that is stale for me
now. Since then I have seen the Taj on numerous occasions — in
darkness, moonlight, evening, winter, summer, monsoon, autumn –
several times on several occasions. I have seen it so many times
that it no longer appears extraordinary to me now. Even when I
go pass by its sides. I have to pass by its sides quite frequently
these days.

I am working as a physician in a clinic at Agra. Taj Mahal attracts
me no longer. But one day — okay, let me tell you from the
beginning.

That day after my outdoor duty, I was alighting from the
verandah, when an old mussalman entered through the gate. He
was carrying a huge sack on his shoulder. He was barely able to
carry the massive load. I thought he was a fruit seller. When he
lowered the sack, I found he wasn’t. A burkha clad woman was
sitting inside. The man ( i.e the mussalman ) came towards me, gave
me a salaam and in chaste urdu said — he had carried his begum
on his shoulder to show her to me. He was poor. He couldn’t have
paid my fees had he called me to his house. That’s why he brought
her there. If I could attend to her kindly —

When I went near, I could smell a stench. After taking her inside
my clinic I removed her burkha ( she protested a lot ) and could
understand why. Half her visage has become festered. Her right face
was badly disfigured. Her protruding teeth added to the ugliness.
It was extremely difficult to bear such horrid smell. This patient,
carried through great distances on shoulders by her husband couldn’t
be treated effectively. There was no room left in my indoor. So, I
asked them to stay on the verandah of the hospital. But I couldn’t
keep them in the verandah for long. It began stinking horribly.
The other patients began voicing their protest. Even the compounder,
dresser and the sweeper refused to go near her. The old mussalman
remained unruffled. He was all along looking after his wife with
outmost care. When everyone protested, I had to remove them from
the verandah. There was a huge tree near my clinic. I asked them
to stay under its shade. And they did stay there. Everyday the man
came and took relevant medicine from the hospital. At times, I went
to administer her injections. Days were passing thus.

One day, it was raining heavily. I was returning from a ‘call,’
and I saw the old mussalman standing there in the rain. He has
tied a shawl to the end of a tree, and was holding the other
end with his hands. Beneath the shawl, sat his begum.

Unhesistatingly the man stood there trying to shield his wife
in this manner.

I turned my car. Just a shawl could hardly protest his begum
from this downpour. I found her completely wet, and she was
shivering. She smiled in a diabolical manner. Also, I found
she was running a high fever. I said ” Bring her to the verandah
of the hospital.” The old man asked “does she have any chance
to survive, huzoor?”

I had to tell him the truth – “No.”

The old man stood there silently. I came away. The next day,
I found the old mussalman and his wife has disappeared from
there.

A few days later, I was returning again after attending a
‘call’ — while coming through a field I sighted the old
mussalman. He was engrossed in doing something. The scorching
sun was no deterrent for him. What was he doing? Is it something
to do with his dying wife? I inched forward. He was making something
with bricks and mud.

  “What’re you doing, miya sahib?”

The old man got up and respectfully gave me a salaam.

“I’m burying my begum, huzoor”

     “Burying?”

     “yes, huzoor”

I stood there silently for a while. Then I asked him “where do you
     stay?”

     “I move in and around Agra begging for survival, huzoor”

I said ” Strange, I didn’t see you before in Agra. What’s your
     name?”

     “Fakir Shahjahan”

Stunned, I stood there silently.
————- o  —————
About the writer :  Banophool (1899-1979) was educated at Patna
Medical college. His real name was Balaichand Mukhopadhyay.
He was a qualified pathologist. But perhaps, he was more
gifted in writing remarkable stories. His noteworthy novels
includes ‘Jokhom,’ ‘Soptorshi,’ ‘Dana’ ( all in Bengali) and
many others. Winner of several prestiguous awards, he was
conferred the Padma Bhusan by the Indian Govt. in 1975. Several
of his novels have been made into films, noteworthy being
Mrinal Sen’s Bhuvan Shome, Tapan Sinha’s Hatey Bazare & Arohi,
and his real-life brother Arabindo Mukhopadhyay’s directorial
ventures like ‘Agniswar’ and ‘Kichukhon.’

An Encounter

I was spending a few relaxed days in our ancestral home. Suddenly, Benumama came one day. I am very fond of Benumama — a jovial man of varied tastes. In his fifties, he’s a painter by profession. His work has won wide acclaim, both within and outside the country. I feel I have imbibed an aesthetic taste under his influence.

After talking about our relatives and other issues, Benumama said, “Let’s go to Birpara today, we can get there in an hour. There’s a good exhibition on and the items on display — mostly handicrafts by the local artisans, are supposed to be mind-boggling.” I couldn’t refuse the offer.

When we reached Birpara, it was around 3p.m. The fair was already teeming with people. The visitors seemed to be on the lookout for some items at reasonable prices. We moved from stall to stall: “How much is that flower vase?” Benumama asked one stall owner. “Fifteen rupees.” “I’ll pay you thirteen rupees. If you’re willing to sell it to me at that price, I will take it,” Benumama said. After thinking for a while, the stall owner said “O.K. You can have it.”

We saw the other stalls. Benumama bought a few more items. I, too, purchased a beautiful ceramic pot. There were only a few stalls that we hadn’t quite seen yet. In one of the stalls, I found an old man sitting quietly. There were no customers around. Amongst other items in his stall, I was greatly impressed by the artistry of some Tagore statues on display.

“How much does that Tagore statue cost?” I asked. “Twenty rupees, sir” the old man said. I thought that was reasonable priced. I didn’t want to bargain. “Give me two,” I told him. I gave him a fifty-rupee note.

When he handed me the item with the change, I asked him to keep the change. I was preparing to leave after I had the two statues carefully placed in my bag. “Sir!” he called out. “Yes, what?” I turned back and inquired. “Sir, please take the remaining amount back. We’re poor. Yet somehow we’re able to eke out a livelihood. The items you bought today, have been made by me. It took me a few days to make them. When I was young, I went to school and studied Tagore. I was greatly influenced by him. For personal reasons, I had to discontinue studies. I eventually adopted this profession to make a living. It pains me to sell these statues that I have made with so much effort, but I always console myself that my Tagore will adorn the room of one of his admirers. Here, take your ten rupees. Just keep my Tagore properly. I will be pleased.”

I was stunned. I looked at Benumama. Benumama said, “Let’s go. It’s getting late.”

On our return journey, Benumama said, “Some of these craftsmen are incredibly talented and hard-working, but sadly their economic condition doesn’t improve. The businessmen buy their products at very low prices and sell them to foreigners at an inflated price.”

On hearing this, I became silent. Benumama also didn’t speak much for the remaining part of the journey.

One fine day, Benumama came up with an idea. “Let us try to do something for these brilliant sculptors of your town. Your registered cultural club, the Breakthrough Group, can get its member together and try set up an emporium for them wherein they will sell their wares at a certain fair and the prices will be fixed by the government.”

We did translate Benumama’s words into action. I got my club members together and we’ve set up a state emporium in our small town and it gives me a sense of pride to say that many of the local craftsmen have benefited as a consequence of this one gesture.

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