Krishna Dharabasi
His face had started to turn gloomy even before the bus ran over the bridge of the Brahmaputra River. He suddenly became quiet though he had laughed and enjoyed himself all the way, and the lines of reflection appeared on his face. He was lost somewhere. He looked as if he had been all alone on that bus.
After a long time, he uttered slowly, breathing out a long breath, “Krishna, those dumped ships on either side of the river were truly adornments of the breast of the Brahmaputra River at some time in the past. They had linked both Assam and Bengal, enabling them to do their business. Getting on those ships, I have spent many days of my pleasure and happiness on those huge waters of the Brahmaputra. Oh, how pleasurable those days were!”
His eyes appeared to be sinking into somewhere in the past. He said, “These
ships became useless after the construction of this bridge. Today, they are scattered around this bank as derelicts.”
I did not figure out any great meaning in his emotions connected with his talks that frequently included the Brahmaputra River, the bridge, and small ships. But I felt that he was trying to say some other thing, but he was not able to do so.
Breathing out a breath like that of exhaustion, and staring at me with his
brighter and unusual eyes, he added, “What to do? A human being can never obtain what he desires in his life. Considering this, I also became content. Did you hear? I have a deep attachment to these derelict ships, the stretch of the bank around them, sand, and blue cold and clear water. These eyes of mine are filled with tears like the water of the Brahmaputra though I try to stop them. Did you understand Krishna? Love and war are damaging if they last long. Iraq and I are undergoing the same fate now.”
After hearing such a long background, I figured out that he was recalling his love affair of ten years long. He had narrated that tragic love story to me several times, but never did he appear as sentimental as he did today. While he told me the story those times, he would also show a little anger mixed with strong feelings. Yet, today he did not reveal even a shade of anger on his face, or in his eyes and heart. I felt that such an emotion bridged the interval of time, shifting to any foundation of love of ten years’ ago. I asked, “Bharat, why do you open up that old wound again? Let bygones be bygones. Do talk about something else.”
He replied, “Not in the least have I reopened that healed wound. Instead, things such as the Brahmaputra River, its banks, these old ships, the white stretch of sand, blue water and waves rippling on them have rubbed salt into my wound. You say so. But you see, I have already begun to cry.”
Tears were welling up in his eyes. He forcefully pulled me towards his past, and I became a solace in his loneliness.
He went on saying, “When I recall this today also, one question always remains unanswered – why did Anita love me dearly, and then deserted so callously? It was only she who, holding my hand tight in hers, took me round this bank, got me to board the ship, had me dip my feet into this blue and cold water, and taught me to explore life in such tranquil and pleasant places. After her school was over, she would come straight to my classroom, and stand there, without going home. When I came out washing my hands full of chalk dust after the final class, she would keep on waiting for me. Together we would stroll leisurely along the Brahmaputra River. She would say, “Bharat, in this life, this evening is the only for today; tomorrow’s evening is entirely different – belonging to a different day. You see, today you are with me; this condition of being with me is the first and the final in this history of creation. Let’s enjoy this novel opportunity. Let’s savor it to the full, without any hesitation and embarrassment.”
Like a doll or any hypnotized person, I would slowly walk ahead, behind or closer together. Her personality had completely overpowered me. She was also attracted to me because of my passionate nature, my imagination, and writing ability. We equally dominated each other due to our own personal characteristics.
Holidays were like celebrations inviting us to see the peaks of those remaining small rocky mountains that lay far beyond. Together we always were, yet we had no fulfillment of the desire to be in proximity. The city seemed to be boasting of knowing us fully.
Anita was possessed of an unusual kind of bravery and courage. She did not bother herself about her family and society. She would say, “How can the friendships only between two girls or boys become holy? A true friendship sustains merely between a boy and a girl. I really find our friendship very enjoyable and pleasant. What shall I do?”
She was indeed a very intrepid person. She defeated even men in showing her bravery.
It was March of 1987. All of a sudden, the city of Tejpur plunged into violence. Nepalese settlements in many villages were burned to ashes. A multitude of Nepalese became refugees, and they swarmed into cities for security. A few of them packed up their movable property, caught a train, and crossed Mechi River for good. Men were also hiding themselves for their security.
I had not seen Anita for several days because of the violence that had engulfed the whole city. One day, early in the morning, a riot erupted in the city. People had begun to hide in their houses. Fires were breaking out at different places. During this time, many people had witnessed a girl come out of her house holding a Khukuri (Nepalese sword) in her hand. No one made any attempt to stop her.
That girl was none other than Anita. She entered into the crowd, and swung round her Khukuri. Some three or four people got badly injured. But she fell into their hands. Everyone saw them drag her along for a long distance. No one then heard anything of her.
Today, I remember how coward and fearful I was at that time. I could not even prove myself to be as brave as Anita. I hid myself in order to save my life. I am alive today, but I am living on this bank of the Brahmaputra River without her.
She would often encourage me, “Bharat, you have a great potential as a writer. Be a prolific writer. I will always come to your aid in your writing.”
“But Krishna, I have stopped to write. Now, I contain no more emotions, but only repressed feelings, pains and agonies. Why does man thirst for blood precluding him from love, affection, friendship, and intimacy nowadays? Why does he see that he can only live by killing others nowadays?”
I saw the tears of an orphan in his eyes.
I said, “Bharat, why do you want to stay here after all? Why don’t you return to Nepal? This place is always plagued by violence, riot, and crime. What are you waiting for here? Why do you want to wait?”
He stared at me with his eyes of surprise. His look was unusual. He gazed at me as if he was thinking that I had suggested him something bad.
After a long pause, he spoke out, “What are you talking about, Krishna? What a cowardly thing! I will never abandon my country, however fearful and pusillanimous I am. Where has a man overcome hardship by running away from his home? Where does the world of fugitives exist? Fugitives are merely doomed to perish. An uphill struggle or even a war is always a must to survive.”
“Will I feel secure if I enter into Nepal, running away from here? Don’t I become an immigrant? Don’t they call me an Assamese? We are known Nepalese and foreigners here, but if we go to Nepal, we are tagged as immigrants and Assamese.
Because I was born and brought up here, I am very familiar with this land, this soil, this air, the Brahmaputra River, these trees, Assamese language, accent and faces of people, festivals of this place, songs, poems, birds, rats and everything else here. These stones, soil, and the gusts of winds have flown caressing me. How can I desert them? Where shall I flee for fear of these all? How can I subjugate myself to strangers, being frightened of my own affinities? What security does the land of strangers offer to me?
Krishna, to tell the truth, someone’s country is the land where he/she is born. This is my motherland, the land where I fell on dirt. Under no circumstances can I imagine to quit this land.”
With his eyes filled with tears, he spoke, “You see, I have seen this Brahmaputra, its banks, blue water, derelict ships on its banks for many years. These have grown as intimate as my blood inside my body. I have witnessed this sky enshrouded in clouds, struck by lightning, and raged by violent storms. I have also seen injured people and fatalities caused by racial violence on this soil. Despite all these, the unshakable bond of friendliness, love and intimacy also survives. How can I run away from here only because of insecurity? This is indeed the land where a huge expansion of life is contained in me.”
“But isn’t it all your sentiment?” I inquired.
He replied, “Absolutely, the most of it is only sentiment. But doesn’t the human life exist around that sentiment? Otherwise, why are there all these things such as mother, wife, friend, relatives, love and affection? Only has this sentiment prevented me from becoming as uncivilized and callous as animals.
Look at my eyes! I have not shed these tears against this land. This shedding of tears is the expression of my sufferings connected with this soil from birth to birth. There might be a different story as to why my ancestors remained on this land. Now, this is my native land, and this is also my nation and my own land. I am not easily pulled by language, religion, race, and the ideals of the nation, but my home, neighbors, this climate, friends and enemies have held me tightly in their bond. I do not know big talks of books and history. Anita, who loved me and sacrificed herself to the violence, and that Sharma, on whose boat hundreds of people frightened by the violence got on to survive and were drowned, are all dear to me.
Please help me to shed all these tears, my friend. Help me to cry. Do assist me to cry, letting me fondle these sufferings, and become restless of all these pains and violence.
You see, human beings have not fled from Punjab. People have stayed inside, shutting their windows and doors in Kashmir. Tamils did not run to India from Sri Lanka. Who else from Darjeeling has entered into Nepal? Do not arouse me to run away, my friend. Support me to cry over these pains and sufferings. Like Aswathama who had set out to travel with a wound on his forehead for life, I also wish to die, loving this wound or fight here. Help me. Do help me, please.”
He had grown too much sentimental. His eyes turned red. The bus was running at its full speed. I felt his words cogent and heart-touching.
With his unhealed wound of tragic love, he is living on the bank of the Brahmaputra River as the survivor of the riot. Though his relatives have already abandoned their homes, he often reaches there, wandering from different places. He is wandering in both Nepal and Assam because of his love for relatives and his beloved who had sacrificed to the violence that had struck the entire Assam in 1987.
I said, “Bharat, if you want to stay here, settle down with some arrangements. Now, follow the current of a new life.”
He answered, “I will settle down one day once I get the color of life. But I cannot say when that will happen.”
[Translated by Eda Upadhyaya and Pratiksha Shaha]
[Krishna Dharabasi (b. 1967) is a poet, novelist, short story writer, and theorist of high repute. He made his debut in writing in the early nineties and has since then published series of poems, essays, short stories, and novels. His novel Radha, won him Madan Puraskar, Nepal’s most prestigious literary award in 2005, and the work has also been translated into English. He is one of the leading theorists of Leela Lekhan, a post-structural theoretical school of thought, championed by Nepali critics. He lives with his family in Kathmandu.]
