THE CHAIN and Other Stories

THE CHAIN

and Other Stories

Discover other titles by Dr Bhabendra Nath Saikia at Smashwords.com:

Title 1 – The Cavern and Other Stories

Title 2 – The Mistake and Other Stories

A Nirvana Sutra Publication

http://www.nirvanasutra.com/

Smashword Edition

Copyright © Nirvana Sutra, Publisher

Copyright of the Original work © Mrs Preeti Saikia

Translation copyright © Mrs Rashmi Narzary

Cover done by Chandan Chutia

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, the publisher of this book and the holder of the translation copyright.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, media, incidents are either the product of author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Mrs Navanita Hazarika and Mr Mahadananda Hazarika for their support all through the initiation, starting and existence of Nirvana Sutra. Nirvana Sutra exists only because of you people.

Preface

THE CHAIN AND OTHER STORIES

But of course, only a rare maestro like him could do it. Delving, that is, into the nucleus of realms that lay in complete detachment to each other—delving into nuclear physics and at the same time, delving into the art of storytelling. And excelling in both! When he studied Nuclear Physics, he rested not till he attained his Ph.D from the University of London and when he told stories and made movies out of them, in Oxomiya, he rested not till he touched chords in many a heart and went on to win many a laurel.

This rare Maestro. Dr. Bhabendra Nath Saikia.

Having said this, it would be almost sacrilegious to let his amazing stories, plays, essays and children’s literature remain constrained within only those who could read in Oxomiya. And thus, THE CHAIN AND OTHER STORIES is a miniscule effort to make a literary giant’s works reach out to readers across the globe, to let them feel the winds that blew through Assam and Assamese culture through the words of Dr. Bhabendra Nath Saikia.

Translating and editing a small part of Dr. Saikia’s work had been a huge challenge and at the same time, a humbling experience. Certain expressions and situations of the Oxomiya society way back of the early sixties, of the times when the stories were written, may be difficult for the non-Oxomiya of today to relate to, but I have made every possible effort to bring in a sync and at the same time, to recreate that society for today’s generation.

For instance, in the story NECESSITY, Dr. Saikia mentions an upper class and a lower class in a bus. The upper class refers to two benches right behind the bus driver’s seat. These benches were fenced off from the rest of the seats behind them by bars of brass. This system is no longer relevant today and yet, one whole touching story revolving around the upper class and lower class tickets of a grandfather and his granddaughter transcends all barriers of time, place and relevance to strike at the heart-strings even today.

Again, in the story, THE WATCHMAN, the process of newspaper printing described has been vastly replaced today by modern technology and computers but the story yet succeeds in making one think, because that little bit of deviation from the truth and change-of –convenience remain the same even today in the realms of the print as well as the broadcast media.

Time that was yesterday and is today, will yet be tomorrow. Times, they have changed. And yet, time is. And will be. There is no stopping to time. Bringing many into its fold with every passing second.

Likewise...

The maestro’s creations, what they were yesterday, they are today, they will yet be tomorrow. There is no stopping to his creations’ power to overwhelm and awe. They probably will cease to do so only when time itself ceases to be.

And I translate...

To bring many into the folds of this maestro’s powerful creation, unrestricted by hurdles of language.

I translate...

To tell the world, of the genius that the soils of Assam had moulded.

I translate...

To make it possible for those who cannot read in Oxomiya, to access and realize the depth and sensitivity of Dr. Saikia’s works.

I translate...

For you to read on.....

Rashmi Narzary

Table of Content

THE WATCHMAN (CHOKIDAAR)

VRINDAAVAN (BRINDAABAN)

THE FAMINE (DURBHIKKHYO)

THE MASON (RAJMISTRI)

SUNRISE (XURJYUDOY)

ANGEL (DEVADOOT)

THE INFORMATION (KHOBOR)

BLOODRED (ROKTIM)

NECESSITY (PRAYOJON)

THE CHAIN (SHRINKHOL)

THE WATCHMAN

(CHOKIDAAR)

Back to top

A brief introduction into the lives of a class of people earning a meagre income through physical labour was being serially published in the newspaper. Gatekeepers at the cinema hall, peanut and gram vendors, night watchmen, tailors, waiters at a tea stall, bus handymen, etc were the protagonists of the published essays. It was the wish of the newspaper’s owner and editor that these people, hidden among the lower classes of society, should be brought to limelight. The trends and courses of their journey through life ought to be introduced to the readers. The masses ought to see a picture of their joys and sorrows, their smiles and tears.

The column was getting popular. The photograph of a smiling Suresh, a gatekeeper, standing near the open door of the empty cinema hall in the bright afternoon sunshine, appeared. His sadness at never being able to see the first and the last half an hour of most of the movies was published. The picture of moustachioed Ramprasad, with his tin of peanuts and gram upon his shoulders, got published. The amusing news that his own children had absolutely no enthusiasm for peanuts and gram was spread. The beautiful description of night watchman Krishna Bahadur’s romantic arrangement, made by turning days into nights and nights into days, with his wife who stayed at the house three miles away from the office, got published. The pleasure that came upon tailor Niranjan when he saw young girls laughing and giggling as they passed by, wearing blouses he had stitched, was weighed. The news that tea stall boy Rajen’s stomach felt uncomfortable if he had more than two cups of tea in a day was given to readers. Even when there were vacant seats inside, handyman Nurul loved to go hanging at the door way as the bus moved—an attempt was made to analyse this unique behaviour of his.

As a whole, the column was getting popular. It was announced in the last issue—‘In the forthcoming issue: Press Composer Jadav Das.’

Jadav Das worked at the press of the same newspaper. Soon after the manuscript of the words, ‘In the forthcoming issue: Press Composer Jadav Das’ came out of the editorial room, a kind of hue and cry rose among the seventeen composers. Many shouted—Jadav ought to give all of us a treat. It’s no joke--the whole of page fifteen would be about Jadav, along with his photograph. Someone asked— Should the line with the words In the forthcoming issue etc be composed in forty six points?

People liked the idea. Jadav deserved this honour. Though he had only recently come to this press, he had been a composer since very long. Jadav--the trusted, skilled and sincere worker who got onto the machine for last minute corrections towards dawn, with a light in his left hand and a pair of tongs in his right hand. Even as a person, he was intelligent, well-known and amiable. He was the first secretary of the union established this year by the press workers.

Jadav’s mind was filled with a mild excitement. He had composed many things, many a story flowed down through his fingers, but never had his name appeared anywhere in printed letters. But this time round, an entire page would be about him. Wonder what it would be about!

The paper was published on Sunday. In the early part of Thursday, a cameraman from the establishment presented himself at Jadav’s house. A photo of Jadav could have been taken at the press itself but it was the editor’s wish that a photo of his whole family be published. The cameraman had given prior information to Jadav to get ready. Jadav himself had nothing much to get ready about, but his wife got busy with herself and the children since morning. The woman took great care in dressing up and readying the children in whatever dresses they had, trying to make them look their best. She oiled their hair and then rubbed the oily hands on their faces and arms, and on the legs from the knees below. ‘Okay, now don’t run about,’ she cautioned them and finally turned to pay attention to herself. She was worried that the children might run around and make a mess of themselves after all the care she had taken to dress them up. Since long she had a keen desire to take a photograph with her husband and the children. That’s why, with immense enthusiasm, she started to get dressed herself as well. Moreover, the photo would be published in the newspaper, lakhs and lakhs of people would see it, the woman’s heart pounded every now and then.

That very night an assistant editor called Jadav to his room and asked him many things. About his life. On Friday morning, he saw a copy of the photograph. The photo came out very well. This was indeed a great gain. He himself could never have arranged for taking such a photograph. Meanwhile the block of the photo too had been done so Jadav asked for and took the copy of the photo from the editor.

On Saturday, the manuscript of the story of Jadav’s life came out of the editorial room. The composers decided—let Jadav compose the story of his life himself.

With timidity, he got down to do the work. Before looking into the letters in the case, he started reading the whole thing. He was very eager to know what had been written about him. And in the enormity of his eagerness, he read the entire matter of one full page within a very short time. But soon after he finished reading, his face became sombre.

He sat motionless for a while before starting his work. This time he collected the letters one by one and composed the details of his own life, written by someone else. The amount of time that a word took for its composition, that much time that word kept his thoughts in wrap. One by one the sentences poured through his fingers , and each one of those sentences pricked his conscience as they passed through. Gradually, Jadav started feeling frustrated. He started feeling irritated and annoyed. And at night when he was done through composing the last line, he was infuriated.

Why should lies be written?

Many a famous article by many a famous person passed through Jadav’s fingers. He had neither the strength nor the capacity to judge how much of all that was true and how much was false. But it was unbearable when the story of his own life took an untrue form and slipped through his own fingers. Jadav got greatly infuriated when the last proof for correction reached his hands from the editorial room. He was an efficient composer. There was hardly any mistake in the proof. Apart from a punctuation here or a misspelt word there.

The final format would get into the machine late at night. On Saturday night, out of all composers, only Jadav would be on duty. In between , he got a break of two hours to have his dinner. Tonight, just before binding the last format, he took a fistful of letters in his left hand and the pair of tongs in his right hand and approached the format. He headed for some real correction this time! An efficient composer like him would be put to much disgrace if so many mistakes are published. In his life story itself it was written—Jadav was an efficient, skilled, composer.

At one place was written—Having worked the entire night, yet the next morning Das arrived at the press, smiling. Jadav took away the word ‘smiling’.

Beneath the photo was written—Jadav’s happy family of two sons, a daughter and his wife! Jadav replaced the word ‘happy’ with the word ‘sad’.

In one place it said—Das’s wife was contented with the meagre income in the family...! Jadav changed the word ‘contented’ to ‘discontented’.

In yet another place it said—Jadav Das believed that his long experience of hard work would someday open avenues for a new and innovative life for him. Jadav changed the word ‘life’ to ‘death’. In another place, it was written that Jadav found solace upon seeing the faces of his children after he arrived home from work. He changed the word ‘solace’ to ‘agony’.

After finishing the work of correcting every mistake, Jadav stashed away the papers of the first proof into his pocket. He would take them home and set them on fire.

VRINDAAVAN

(BRINDAABAN)

Back to top

Upen recalled the names of everyone in every neighbourhood, starting from one end of the town right across to the other. He also tried his best to remember every one of his colleagues at office. If even a single person was missed out, he would get to hear a lot of malice after the wedding. Catching up on him on the streets, some might say, ‘Got married quietly, eh?’ Yet others might say from afar –Forgot to invite us. Upen had to be prepared to tell a lie if he came across such a person. He would then himself ask, ‘So you didn’t come to the wedding.’ The person might then reply with vanity, ‘If invited, go even to battle, if uninvited, go not even to the feast.’ Upen would then say, ‘Why! Hadn’t you received the invitation card? How irresponsible these boys are, you know! Not just to you but to many others, they said they had delivered the invitation letters though they hadn’t actually! Whereas, I wrote down the names and addresses of everyone in my own hand.’

Instead of running into such possible mayhem, it was better to recollect things as far as possible, with a steady mind, when there was still time. Lying on the table in front of him was a bundle of printed invitation letters and a bundle of envelope. Addresses had been written on some and yet others had postal stamps affixed and ‘book-post’ written on them, for friends far away. Upen put down the pen on the pile of invitation letters and wondered, who else remained to be invited. Just then, pulling aside the curtain of the door that led into the house, Nijora came and stood upon the threshold and called, ‘Mama!’

Upen was thinking about the Marwari locality. There were many there who addressed him as ‘Babuji’ and even offered him the bowl of cardamoms and cinnamons whenever he stepped into their shops. But the problem was, he didn’t know the names properly. If he knew one’s name to be Murarilal, he didn’t know his surname. He knew another to be Aaskaran, but didn’t know what lal he was.

Nijora called out again, this time a little louder, ‘Mama!’

Upen heard and asked, ‘What is it, Nijora?’

‘Eh, you don’t even hear when I call you once!’ And having said the words, she came closer to the table.

Upen said, ‘I, uh, was thinking of something. Tell me, what is it? Why did you call?’

Nijora picked up a few addressed envelopes from the table, absentmindedly turned them over and over and said, ‘Have you sent a letter to him?’

‘Who him?’

‘That person, the one who came to our house one evening,’ she made an effort to make her uncle remember.

Upen said, ‘There are so many people coming to our house every evening. I don’t know who you are speaking of.’

‘O come on! that person, with whom a little girl had also come. The person who, while having tea, broke the handle of the white cup. The one who was as tall as you and who wore dark glasses...’

For a while Upen tried to recall. Then he called out aloud, ‘O yes! Chandra Rajkhowa! Isn’t it? Good that you reminded me, I’d almost forgotten.’ Upen immediately straightened up on his chair, picked up the pen and took an envelope to write the address.

‘Gosh! You forget everything!’ said Nijora and having lightly rested her chin on one corner of the table, picked up an envelope from the pile of folded letters and looked at it intensely, turning it over and over in her hands. Then she put it back again. The next time she picked up a letter without an envelope and unfolded it. Then, like a genius in highly advanced mathematics leafing through the pages of an easy elementary book on arithmetic, she let her gaze rove impassively over the words printed on the letter and asked, ‘You have your name here, don’t you, Mama?’

Upen had written Chandra Rajkhowa’s name on an envelope and was now writing the address and so he asked without looking up, ‘Where?’

Nijora held up the letter and showed, ‘Here.’

‘Upen looked up and answered, ‘Yes.’

The very next moment she made an attempt to make herself taller by resting her elbows on the edge of the table and asked, ‘Who else’s name is here, Mama?’ Her eyes twinkled in anticipation.

Upen