A Short Story Rehan Koushik

 

Another Amit, Another Labanya

Rehan Koushik

 

Transcreation: Goutam Chakraborty

 

 

Amit has never seen the plateaus of Tibet. Nor has he had the chance to visit the Anatolian plateau in Turkey. After reading Palamau, written by Bankimchandra’s elder brother Sanjibchandra, he had once gone to the Chhotanagpur plateau, with much enthusiasm. Palamau lies in the western part of Jharkhand, spread over the Latehar and Garhwa districts. Be that as it may, lately Amit has developed a curious bad habit: whenever he talks about something, he takes a long detour before coming to the point. Just like he is doing now.

            At this moment, Labanya herself is like a breathtaking plateau—this tent, bathed in the gentle light and shade of Latehar’s rippling forests. Through the slightly displaced curtain of the tent, the soft silvery glow of dawn plays upon Labanya’s nearly bare body.

            Outside the tent lies the world-famous crystal-clear waters of Dawki Lake. The breeze that brushes against that water comes in and tousles Labanya’s already disheveled hair even more.

            Across the vast shore of the lake lie stones of many colors—as if some sculptor, hesitant in his own artistry, didn’t dare to chisel them into form. Instead, he whimsically scattered the colorful stones all across the plain and vanished. Suddenly, Amit wondered—does autumn (the month of Ashwin month) come to Meghalaya as it does in Bengal? For in Bengal’s lakes and wetlands, in the midnight of Ashwin, closed lotus buds slowly begin to bloom. Just before opening, the firm bud stands upright, glistening with dew under the dark sky. Exactly in that same poised elegance stood Labanya’s breasts on her chest.

            Body-centered sexuality is like a ‘house’—made of brick, wood, sand and cement. Heart-centered sexuality is a ‘home’—a priceless album of moments, emotions, memories, fondness, and love. It was right after their first lovemaking that Labanya had said these words to Amit.

            Amit stepped out of the tent with a mug, catching the water flowing down a hollow bamboo pipe. That’s how drinking water is collected near Dawki Lake—a split bamboo fixed on poles through which water runs continuously.

            He poured the water into a kettle, lit the stove, and made coffee. The sound of the stove woke Labanya. She sat up, wrapped in a colorful shawl up to her neck.

            Taking the steaming mug of coffee in her hand, Labanya said, “Amit, how would you feel if someone else touched these lips?”

            Sipping his coffee, Amit said, “I am not as shameless and selfish as the Gods.”

            Labanya was surprised at such a strange reply. “What do you mean?”

            “After the churning of the ocean, what did the Gods do? They used the demons like the laboring class—like corporate owners exploiting workers—and after all that hard work, they looted all the nectar for themselves, giving not even a drop to the demons.”

            “What does that mythological event have to do with someone touching my lips?”

            Amit smiled. “On your lips flows a deep river of nectar. On your chest echoes the tender call of a dawn bird.”

            Labanya felt a sudden sadness. Her entire heart turned bitter—like the coffee she was drinking. At the same time, a deep astonishment awakened within her. What kind of man is this—one who doesn’t even feel disturbed at the thought of another man’s lips touching his lover’s? And also justifies it by invoking mythology! Does she even know this Amit anymore? The man who once wrote poetry under the pen name “Nibaran Chakraborty”, whose words and charm could win a woman’s heart in moments—is ‘this’ the same Amit?

            Labanya said, “When Rabibabu (Tagore) wrote about us, did he know that such darkness of emotionlessness was hidden inside you?”

            Amit looked serious. Sitting cross-legged in the small space of the tent, he said, “Who doesn’t know that Rabindranath is the wisest Bengali ever born! Could one become such a writer without knowing the language of the human heart? Of course not. But I have my doubts—the human mind is as dense and tangled as the Amazon forest. Perhaps even such a wise man could not fully understand it.”

            Labanya stared at Amit in disbelief. Amit continued, “You know, I had come back from England after passing the bar exams. Do you really think it’s so easy to understand every corner of the mind of an England-returned barrister?”

            “You yourself once said that 'fashion' is a mask, and 'style' is the true face. So doesn’t your style reveal the real person inside you?”

            “Oh no, that wasn’t my own line. Rabibabu made me say it—it was his own idea. But tell me, hasn’t life changed in nearly ninety-seven years? Hasn’t the way of living changed? Haven’t human values transformed?”

            “Fashion is still a mask, yes—but what has changed is the truth of ‘style’. Now, even ‘style’ has become a mask. Don’t you see? From politicians, writers, bureaucrats to clerks—everyone’s a clown! Constantly performing on their own stage, wearing masks of lies to make people laugh. Even in the washroom, while bathing, they don’t take off their masks. They’re afraid to face themselves. Their real faces are so ugly that if they ever saw them, they’d die of fright.”

            Labanya stared in surprise. Amit said, “When Rabindranath was writing “Farewell Song” almost ninety-seven years ago, that was when I met him.”

            “In Shillong?”

            “In Bangalore. He didn’t write a single page of ‘Farewell song’ in Shillong. The ailing Rabibabu was in Colombo. That’s where he began the story under the name ‘Mita’. Later, in Bangalore, at Brojendranath Seal’s house, he finished it, changing the name to ‘Farewell Song’.”

            “Be that as it may, when you met Rabindranath, I had just returned from England after passing the bar. And he made me the main character.”

            “Nonsense,” said Labanya in a rough voice.

            “Why? He saw you too, at Rodenstein’s house. When he went to London in 1912 with the manuscript of ‘Gitanjali’, he remembered that exquisite young woman and created you in ‘Farewell Song’! Didn’t you know?”           

            “Are we still so young, even after ninety-seven years?”

            “Not just us—Shobhonlal, Jogmaya, Ketaki are there too. Decades have passed. One Shobhonlal died, Jogmaya and Ketaki. You and I have also died. But we have returned under those names again. That is the wonderful magic of life after death, and death after life, Labanya!”

            Mention of Ketaki made Labanya’s tongue, already bitter from coffee, even more bitter. Ketaki again! Even after nine decades, Ketaki appears—the same Ketaki because of whom her arranged marriage with Amit had fallen through.

            Labanya thought that perhaps a man can never truly celebrate the festival of life with just one woman: just as in every season, different flowers bloom in nature. A man cannot feel his life complete without the companionship of these various blooms. Amit reminded Labanya of this truth.

            She realized she had made a mistake. Even thinking that a date at the tent on Dawki’s riverbank would work was a big mistake. She had assumed Amit had changed with time. He cleverly admitted that Labanya is pond water and Ketaki is water of a pitcher. But later he changed his mind. The thought that Amit would now confine himself to her alone, inside and out, was a wrong assumption.

            Seeing Labanya lost in thought, Amit asked, “Why are you thinking so much? Did my words hurt you?”

            Labanya was silent for a moment. Then, in a sharp tone, she said, “The incident Rabindranath described about us nearly nine decades ago—I will change that narrative, Amit. I will change it.”

            Amit paused slightly at her words. Over the past few years, their love had deepened, yet they had never had a night out together. They had wandered around Shillong, dated in coffee shops, and hung out beneath the scattered pine trees of the city golf course. But they had never imagined spending a night in a tent on Dawki’s riverbank. This plan had been made last week by Labanya herself. She had asked, “What gift do you want for your birthday?”

            Amit shrugged and said, “Give me a river.”

            Immediately, Labanya said, “Okay... right...”

            Amit was genuinely startled. “And you’re crazy, Labanya! You’re going to give me a river?”

            Raising her eyebrows, Labanya said, “Something more. That will be beyond your imagination!”

            In the tent, late at night, with birthday candles lit, Labanya looked at him with her intense eyes. Amit didn’t just see a flowing river; he saw a powerful torrent born within it. And floating helplessly in that torrent, like a tiny wooden boat, was a journey from one peak of the current to another. After the flood, seeing the exhausted, sleeping river in the early dawn, Amit felt as if he were witnessing a magical land.

            Amit said in a quiet, detached voice, “Change it whenever you want.” Then, teasingly, he added, “Even if a Bengali has read Rabindranath’s ‘Farewell Song’ and you want to change it, will it really matter? Will it make the story more meaningful? Whatever, freshen up. I’ll walk around a little and come back.”

            To give Labanya a chance to change, Amit stepped outside the tent. In that brief moment, Labanya’s expression changed completely! The deeper love grows, does the opposite—silent hatred—also grow just as intensely? She seemed to have sent a long WhatsApp text to someone.

            A little later, Amit returned and asked,

            “Ready?”

            “Yes, but we’ll go toward Mawlynnong.”

            “Suddenly!”

            “I felt like it,” Labanya replied briefly.

            In a teasing tone, Amit asked, “Do you really want it as much as changing the ending of ‘Farewell Song’?”

            Labanya didn’t answer. Amit said, “Then we’ll need to arrange a car…”

            “The car is coming. I’ve already asked them to send it.”

            It didn’t take long. Soon, an off-white sedan arrived on the road. The road was quite high above Dawki’s riverbank.

            The car sped along the winding mountain path. Labanya’s face grew tense.

            After an hour and a half, the car suddenly stopped at the side of the road. As they stepped out, a call came—just a few seconds. After finishing the call, Labanya said, “Let’s go that way. We’ll have to climb a bit. There’s a beautiful waterfall there.”

            “Yes. There’s a deep gorge beside it. If someone is killed there, you’d never find the body.”

            Labanya was startled. Amit said, “Is Shobhonlal waiting there, Labanya?”

            Labanya shivered. Amit said, “Since you’ve come, let’s go. Let’s see...”

            There was a thick silence over the hill. The sound of water only enhanced that silence. Not far away, the waterfall was plunging into a deep gorge. Standing a little distance from it was Shobhonlal. As Amit got closer, he laughed heartily and said, “Hey Shobhonlal, Labanya texted you, and here you are, coming like a fool?”

            Shobhonlal was startled. Labanya said, “Do it, Shobonlal.”

            Amit said, “He won’t be able to. I read the text you sent her while standing on Dauki Char.

            “You’ve had a spy app installed on your phone for a long time . Not only that, your location status is shared with my number. So whatever messages you send, wherever you go... I know it all immediately.”

            Labanya and Shobonlal were sweating profusely. Amit said, “Even before coming here, I shared your messages and my location with a close police officer. If I don’t return by evening... you can imagine the rest.

            “Hands out from your pocket, Shobhonlal.”

            Shobhonlal had a homemade pistol in his hand. Amit took it, removed the two bullets, and threw them into the gorge. Then he handed the gun to Labanya and said, “Even this time, the ‘Farewell Song’ didn’t end in the usual way. What a pity!

            Labanya, go back to your previous story. And yes, keep this pistol in your drawing room. Whenever you see it, you’ll remember me. Can a final poem end without Amit? Or can it be?”

            Before descending the hill, Amit told Shobhonlal, “I’ll take the car and leave it at Shillong four-point crossing. Tell the driver over the phone.”

            Amit was descending down the hill. Labanya and Shobhonlal became smaller and smaller on the hilltop, until they were tiny like dots.