HAIBUN BY SUJANMO SAROTHI

 

HAIBUN-1: The Birth of Ananta Das

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How can the tiny brain of a 10-month-old embryo decide to be born or unborn? Ananta was not born; he was delivered, normally—or so he thinks. He came into the world on a lush green banana leaf, freshly harvested from his grandpa's fruit garden and washed in the backyard pond. The village dhai, Rajabala, took out a snail shell from her fabric tote (jholaa) to sever his umbilical cord. She then washed a shivering and wailing Ananta in the hyacinth-ridden pond water. He was wrapped in one of his mother's overworn saris, folded many times to achieve the required size and shape. The baby and the mother were stabilized in the open courtyard. Jet-lagged Ananta and the labor-ravaged mother both soon fell asleep. It was Raksha Bandhan, a full moon night. In his sleep, Ananta first smiled, then wept, and then smiled again—all in silence.

 

                                    Drifting moon

                                    Fleeting clouds and bats

                                    Shadows crisscrossing on babyface canvas

 

 

HAIBUN-2: Indian Love Story-1991

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It was a rainy day in Kolkata, India. Glasnost had just ended. A female classmate from my Russian language class at Gorky Sadan walked up to me in the desolate lobby and asked me to close my eyes and stretch out my right palm. I acted a blind beggar exactly as she wanted me to and felt a cold, metallic touch on my palm.

 

"Now, open your eyes," she insisted. It was an old brown kopek from the by-then non-existent USSR. "With this, I intend to buy you, so that you can be mine forever," she whispered. So naive and innocent was her approach that my heart skipped a beat in joy as I internalized this unexpected gift of love.

 

But, on an otherwise uneventful day following this, the Indian Prime Minister's body was ripped apart by a suicide bomber while addressing a huge pre-election public gathering. Rioting followed on the streets of all major cities. The area between her and me, cut across by empty running local trains, was under curfew for a long time. We never met again.

 

Thirty Valentine's Day and as many wallets down the line, the tiny brown kopek, getting browner with time, can still be found in the purse I use today.

 

                                    Left of left

                                    A lonely beating heart

                                    That is left