[Note: The following is presented from scanned pages. Despite an an initial screening, there is bound to remain quite a few errors. If anyone detects such errors, please let us know. Thanks. Also, we deeply appreciate Prof. Kabir Chowdhury for giving the permission to add his translation of Nazrul's novel, Kuhelika, to this site.] 

 

Bangla original novel:
Kuhelika

Kazi Nazrul Islam

English:
Enigma

Translation: Kabir Chowdhury
Publisher: Nazrul Institute, Dhaka, 1994

The Translator

Foreword

Literary, cultural and other personalities, their genius and creative works need to be projected and publicised both at home and abroad through various ways and means for the greater benefit and interest of the nation. Such endeavour, acts and activities not only project and enhance the image and prestige of the concerned men of arts and outstanding personalities, but also glorify the nation as a whole. For the dirth of consciousness, want of initiative and proper planning, we have not yet been able to properly and widely present and project even an outstanding poetic genius and towering literary personality like Kazi Nazrul Islam who is an epoch-making rebel-poet of Bengali Literature and regarded as the national poet of Bangladesh in the international arena.

It is really a misfortune that the literary works of Kazi Nazrul Islam, an outstanding poet, lyricist, musician, playwright, novelist and non-fictional prose-writer of Bengali literature has not been adequately translated into English and other foreign languages. Nazrul's versatile genius and literary creations as well as his chequered career and eventful struggling life could not be widely projected to the outside world up till now. The outside world and non-Bengali-knowing people and even the intellectual and literary figures, knew only minimally that one of the great architects of the independence movement of the sub-continent as well as the resurgence in the social and cultural arena, Kazi Nazrul Islam had vastly enriched and glorified the Bengali language, literature, culture and music with his creative talents and powerful pen. The foreigners and readers of non-Bengali-speaking and even non-English-knowing world seldom know, that though a romantic par- excellence, Nazrul , the soldier-poet as he was used his mighty pen as a weapon of struggle against British rule, bondage of all sorts of  oppressions and superstitions and expressed his sentiments in hi: poems, songs, novels and other writings. One finds in them beauty and love, romantic agony, spirit of revolt against colonial domination and social injustice and, specially patriotic inspiration, Muslim renaissance, message of Hindu-Muslim unity and craving for the emancipation of the distressed humanity.

We very reasonably hope that translations of Nazrul's literary and poetic creations in English and other foreign languages, if properly and efficiently done, will help in knowing the genius of the great poet and facilitate his appreciation by the English-knowing world. It could be mentioned here with some degree of hope and pleasure, that Nazrul's literary works specially his poems and songs, though in a limited scale, had been translated into English, Prof. Kabir Chowdhury, a devoted and well-known translator of Nazrul's poems has made significant contributions in this field. His translation of Nazrul's famous novel "KUHELIKA" (Enigma) into English is a new venture and a much awaited contribution. Translations not only make the relevant original writer and the translator widely known and in many cases famous in the literary horizon of the world, they also sometimes bring coveted literary awards and world-wide recognition, provided the rendering is efficiently done keeping in tact the spirit and literary excellence of the original work as far as possible. Prof. Kabir Chowdhary, a teacher of English literature and himself an eminent writer, while translating Nazrul's "KUHELIKA" kept in mind that translation, in most of the cases, is a very difficult and hazardous undertaking, and yet he did the job with utmost sincerity and devotion and achieved commendable success. The Nazrul Institute deems it an opportunity and pleasure in publishing the book, and we are thankful to Prof, Kabir Chowdhury for his all out co-operation lent to us.

Kabi Bhaban
Dhanmondi
Dhaka, May 1994

Mohammad Mahfuzullah
Executive Director Nazrul Institute

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Introduction 

Great as a revolutionary poet, a romantic lyricist and a versatile composer of music as Kazi Nazrul Islam is, he elicits our admiration as a novelist too. This, notwithstanding the obvious weaknesses of the three novels, BandhonHara (The Man Without Bondage), 1927, MrityuKshudha (Hunger for Death) 1930, and Kuhelika (Enigma), 1931, that he has given us. These novels are clearly written by a poet, full of romantic ardour, rich imagination and intense emotion. Nonetheless, the writer is very much aware of his social milieu. He keenly feels the agony and ignominy of being a member of a subject nation ruled by the colonialist imperialist British. He deeply sympathises with the intrepid young men and women who want to drive the British away by resorting to revolutionary terroristic activities. His heart bleeds at the suffering and indignity that the poor ordinary working people have to bear daily in their struggle for existence. One sees powerful manifestation of the above in Nazrul's MrityuKshudha and Kuhelika. Compared to these two novels Bandhon-Hara, written in epistolary form, is weak and suffers from excessive sentimentalism.

The novel Kuhelika is unique in more than one way. It is among the pioneering political novels in Bengali and the first one to have a Bengali Muslim youth as its revolutionary hero. The novel has pronounced romantic overtones but it also realistically points out the complex psychological situation among a section of the revolutionaries arising out of the distrust between the Muslims and the Hindus. Kuhelika or Enigma has two clear thematic trends: love and politics. Woman is enigmatic, a subject of fathomless mystery. The name of the novel emphasises the romantic aspect, but it is the political context that many readers find particularly exhilarating.

The story, simply told, is this: Jahangeer, a college student lives in a boarding house in Calcutta. He is the son, born out of wedlock, of a wealthy aristocratic landlord. However, he comes to know of his illegitimate birth only much later. Among his friends in the boardinghouse is Haroon, an inveterate romantic, whose serenity is impregnable even against dire poverty and misfortunes of other kinds. A major character of the novel is Promotto. a dedicated patriot, leader of a secret revolutionary group, who is secular in his attitude and beliefs. Promotto strikes the reader as a symbol, an idealized figure who easily gets the total devotion of his followers.

Jahangeer is a member of Promotto's group. During a college vacation Jahangeer goes to Haroon's village home where he meets his friend's young sister Bhuni or Tahmina. Haroon's ailing mother, who went crazy after the death of her eldest son when he was only about thirteen years old, creates an emotional and dramatic situation that leads Tahmina to consider herself as pledged and betrothed to Jahangeer. Our revolutionary hero, however, is not inclined to espouse a peaceful domestic life forsaking his revolutionary activities notwithstanding the romantic attachment he feels for Tahmina. He informs his mother of his predicament who sees in the situation an excellent opportunity to divert his son's mind from the dangerous arena of revolutionary politics to that of marital bliss. When the wedding arrangements are almost finalised the story takes a dramatic turn. Jahangeer, out on an operation with Promotto and Champa, a fiery revolutionary girl member of their clandestine party, is apprehended by the police. He is tried and Sentenced to life transportation. Jahangeer's distraught mother spends large sums of money in an abortive bid to secure his acquittal. Jahangeer, before departing for the prison in the Andaman Islands, asks his mother to give Tahmina one-fourth of his assets and the rest to Champa, the two women in his life who, he thinks, can realize his unfulfilled dreams by serving the poor and the oppressed of his dear motherland. In spite of certain weaknesses in characterisation and plot construction, Enigma is a highly readable novel. It has several moving passages where the language is charged with emotion but quite credible in the particular context. The very fact of making terrorism central to the plot of a Bengali novel is a remarkable feat when one considers the time of its composition. Buddhadeva Bose, the well-known Bengali litterateur says in his book Shahitya Charcha (Literary Pursuits): "Nazrul Islam did not know himself that he was ushering in a new era in the novel." Agreeing with the main tenor of Bose's observation I am however tempted to qualify it and say that Nazrul was perhaps not unaware that when he wrote Kuhelika he was doing something new in the field of the Bengali novel.

The reader will find in the following pages an English rendering by me of Kuhelika. It will probably be the first Nazrul novel to be made available in English.

26 March 1994 "Jhoroka"
Road 28. Gulshan, Dhaka  

Kabir Chowdhury

 

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KUHELlKA

 

The topic was Woman.

Haroon, the young poet, raised his doe-eyes and cooed sweetly like a dove. The woman is like fog.

The discussion went on in what was really a boarding house but had turned into a lively debating club.

On two or three bedsteads sat or lay sprawled twenty or twenty-two youngmen. One of them who looked like a typical vagabond made a friend's knee his pillow, stretched his legs over the shoulder of another friend and went on smoking most unconcernedly. He showed the least interest in the discussion that was going on. His name was Bakhte-Jahangeer or something still more flowery and grandiloquent. but through neglect and non-use no one remembered it now. Now every one calls him slightingly or affectionately Uljhulul, no one could say who (first christened him thus.

Many claimed that distinction but no one's claim  was conclusively established. In any case the name had permanently stuck to him. Uljhulul was a Urdu word. It meant disorganised, unkempt.

When poet Haroon called woman an enigma some laughed, some made ironic comments; only Uljhulul said nothing. Burning up nearly one-third of his cigarette with a huge drag, he blew upwards a cloud of smoke and merely muttered--Hum!

Amjad studied law and diligently tried to write poems. He said, My dear poet, better call her a mystery. Woman is unfathomable. You can swim a mile, yet you can't reach the shore. Having said this he quickly cast searchlight of his eyes over the gathering. Every one seemed to be pleased with his witticism, Only Haroon smiled somewhat archly.

Uljhulul breathed out another cloud of smoke, sighed deeply, and again said. Hum! There was a suggestion of mockery in his expression. Amjad was hurt.

            Ashraf had married a short while ago. She was a thirteen-year-old girl, a just budding young woman. He wrote several letters to her, coaxed, cajoled and begged, but had received only one letter from her in reply. In fact it was not really a reply. It contained only two lines: "A woman's heart, dear friend, can be won only after a devoted pursuit of a thousand years." Ashraf’s young wife was currently reading Rabindranath Tagore. Ashraf heavily struck his right fist on his left palm and said: Woman is pride.

            Uljhulul again said, Hum, but this time more loudly than before. And now there was a touch of dramatic pity mixed in it. Everyone burst into laughter. It sounded like a dozen plates falling and breaking into pieces.

Ashraf jumped up, clutched a lock of Uljhulul's hair, tugged hard at it and said, Eh, baboon, why did you do that?

This kind of roughhousing was common with them.

Uljhulul did not even deign to look at Ashraf. He continued to lie down happily and went on smoking as unconcernedly as before.

Raihan was living in Calcutta for the last five years and was regularly failing at his BA examination. He had married long ago and as an inevitable by-product of marriage had already begotten a number of children. This contributed to his increasing annoyance. And the more annoyed he became the fatter he grew. But his feet and head could not keep pace with the rest of his body. His pet name in the boarding house was 'Mr. Crocodile'.

Mr. Crocodile cleared his throat, coughed and said something. It seemed that someone had thrust into his throat a number of bamboo splints.

An uproar of laughter rose. Uljhulul suddenly sat up like a spring doll and fixing his gaze on Mr. Crocodile's large tummy continued to smoke as before.

Tareq was quite well known as a wit. He followed Uljhulul's gaze and asked: Hey, are you assessing its girth? What would be the measurement? 

Again there was a chorus of laughter. As if a number stone plates were rolled over a stretch of cemented track.

            But Uljhulul appeared to hear nothing. He raised his eyes heavenward, released a cloud of smoke through his lips and mumbled: Woman is the eternal heroine.

They gave a roar of laughter at the way he spoke and at the indifferent attitude he displayed. Someone slapped his back and cried, Bravo!

Yusuf was a little dull. He did not understand involved or complex statements. Did not like them either. He asked Uljhulul to clarify his point. Others, too, joined him.

But Uljhulul was not to be moved. He simply said as before: Woman is the eternal heroine.

At last they gave up and gathered around Haroon.

Haroon was truly a poet. He had already become famous. The fragrance of his fame was not perhaps as pungent and far-reaching as that of the champa or the keya or the bakul, but like the rose's it filled the space it covered with a mild and serene sweetness. Haroon was slim, beautiful, fair-complexioned and always appeared to be lost in some far away thought. As if he did not know who he was. As if he was a stranger to himself. Or even if he knew him he neglected and paid no attention to him. He seemed to have no interest in or curiosity about anything in this world except colour and beauty. His eyes were particularly beautiful. Of course he was handsome but his eyes looked like the eyes of some Mughal princess of bygone days. They, however, appeared pensive. When he rested his full gaze on someone it seemed that it went still further and was looking at something that was beyond his sight.

He would appear at the BA examination this year, but he was not very interested in his studies. That was to say, in reading the books prescribed by his college. He read, however, extensively the kind of books considered “no good". In other words, there was no great writer or pact of this world about whom he did not know a lot.

Still he pursued his formal studies with attention. He was the eldest son of his father. His entire family looked up to him in the way a lame beggar looked at his crutch, his sole prop.

His father was blind. His mother insane. He had two unmarried sisters and a younger brother at home. The pension his father got was just enough to provide them two humble meals a day, no more.

The younger brother who went to the village school looked after the family there.

Haroon met his own living expenses by the money he earned by giving private lessons to some students. He often half-starved himself and managed to send ten taka every month to his younger brother at home.

His home was in the district of Birbhum ... But to continue my story.

His fellow boarders in the mess gathered around Haroon and said. Come poet, tell us what you mean by enigma.

Before Haroon could open his lips someone said, The poet has fallen in love. Someone else said, Don't you see the kind of obscure poems he is writing these days. Another said, Your eyes are looking more and more dreamy every day. Where do you go, dear friend, for your wine and roses? Can't we, too. Get the address, please?

Haroon was not unduly timid.

He said, How can I say anything if you all shout like this? You are saying every thing without giving me a chance.

Mr. Crocodile thundered. I say, quiet, everybody. If I hear anybody say one more word I'll hit him with my paunch and crush him like a puny frog.

Haroon said, Woman is a hint, a suggestion, not a total revelation. We see woman as we see the vast ocean standing on its sandy shore. When we stand on the shore we see only a part of the sea. In the same way we perceive only a part of the woman. The extent of the seawater we can dip into is the extent of the woman we can dip into. She goes on weaving one net of mystery after another and continuously hides herself behind them, That’s her nature.

Haroon seemed to be possessed, Like the chakor he had drunk the honey of the moon and become intoxicated. He seemed to be lying in the land of the fairies and dreaming of flowers about to blossom.

He continued fervently: What a mystery shrouds her eyes and face! She is enchanting like the moon, distant like the stars, mysterious like the Milkyway, only a shadow ... always veiled! She seems to be millions and millions away from the earth. The planets gaze at her with wondering eyes just as a little girl looks at the evening star. Perhaps she can only be seen, never grasped. She can be enshrined but not touched. She is like a decoration around the moon, like the arc of a rainbow one sees across the melancholy clouds through tear-filled eyes resembling a rainy night, To be seen just for a couple of seconds, after which it vanishes into thin air. She is like a wave on the water, the fragrance of a flower, the green of a tree-leaf. Feel her, look at her, but don’t try to grasp her.

They listened to him charmed and amazed. But it was difficult to say if they were really listening to him or were looking at the beautiful, the poet. Suddenly Uljhulul, keeping in tune with Haroon's unfinished rhythm, cried out. Try to grasp the wave and you will drown. Try to grasp the fragrance and you will be pricked by thorns. Try to grasp the green and you will be struck by the branches, The woman is a goddess, she is not to be touched; you can only lay yourself prostrate at her feet ... But, my dear poet, woman is the eternal heroine. There is no other definition of woman except that.

Many smiled without understanding anything. :Some found his words amusing, some failed to understand word of what Haroon said.

Tareq was well known as a most amusing fellow. To live up to his name he was ready even to go about in his birthday suit. Now he made a crooked face and said in a quivering voice. So, my dear sir, that is why your body is getting thinner and thinner every day. Who could tell that you had become a hero? What you have got is dyspepsia. Go and quickly get a bottle of Kuwate-meda and drink it up at once!

A hurricane of laughter rose.

Uljhulul did not pay the slightest heed to it. He went on smoking and raising clouds of smoke as indifferently as before.

He was always like that.

            Though Haroon did not join in this horse-play, it was clear from the look on his face that he was enjoying it.

Usually he said little but when he felt it necessary to speak out he did so at length, almost making his words sound like a lecture.

Haroon commanded a certain easy respect from everybody, not just because he was a poet, but because he was a sound man. No one had ever seen him act frivolously.

So when Haroon asked Uljhulul with a mild smile why woman was the heroine, Uljhulul permitted the tight knot of his indifference to loosen a little. He said, I know that every woman is a heroine. Each one of them is daily creating a short story or a novel. ... All the tight weaving is, however, a sham. Everything comes loose very easily. Woman has created hundreds of Chokher Bali, Ghore Baire, Grihadaha and Charitraheen. How many of them have you come across, my dear poet? Look at a woman intently, carefully, for a couple of days and you will find that none of the adjectives like sweet and dear, given to her by the clever male, fits her in the least. But poor woman, for the sake of the society and its conventions, is all the time desperately trying to become what she is not.             
            Through the ages she has cast herself into the mould desired by the clever male and afforded him happiness, while, the male has been busy leading a merry carefree life and teaching the woman the great dignity of the home and the heart. If you could confront woman as your peer you would have seen her as the heroine you see woman as you would like to see her, while soiled men like us see woman just as she is, not a whit more than that. Those of you who worship woman may be hurt by my ruthlessness, but though I do not worship her I have not the slightest disrespect for her. In fact, perhaps I respect her more than you do. But I do not do it by beautifying her with superfluous ornaments. I do not do it by transforming her into a figure of benediction. I pay homage to the simple woman, the bare woman. I would not like to wrap a six yard sari around a five feet woman and magnify her. I would not like to burden a twenty-two seer Lutfunnesa with a load of diamond and gold and other jewellery and turn her into a one maund woman. Such trickery is not my way of praising the woman. Perhaps you will get angry when you hear me say this, but do you know, I want the beautiful, unadorned Mumtaj. The indignity of sheilding Mumtaj by the Tajmahal deeply pains me. If I had the authority I would have freed Mumtaj from that house of adoration ... if there was any peace in the grave, I would say that Jahanara lay in much greater peace in her grave than poor Mumtaj. Man's pride has not trampled the green carpet of grass covering Jahanara's grave. No stone monument sits on her chest blotting out the light and sky of the outside world.  ....

They were listening spellbound to the outpourings of the half-crazy fellow. Some one said, you know, sometimes even a crazy fellow's words make sense. Uljhulul took a few deep and quick puffs at his cigarette, almost burnt it down to the stub, and continued: Look, you may endow man with all kinds of false attributes and be proud of yourselves feeling that you are thus showing him great respect, but my manner of holding him in respect is different. I have the courage and capacity in me to hold man--be the person a male or a female,--in enough respect taking into consideration whatever man has. At least that's how my attitude has been shaped. I respect the Creator in spite of His having created the devil. You vilify the devil and bring a censure motion against the Creator, indirectly criticising and finding fault with His scheme of creation. I don't do it and there lies the difference. By calling woman a goddess you only want to remind her that she is really a human being and that it would suit her better if she were a goddess. I pray that I may never have the temerity to insult woman in that manner.

Tamiz had not said a word so long. He was too genteel, sort of an extreme moralist. Everyone teased him because of that and called him Betamiz. His ideals were Namananda and Mr. Tushnikumar. He could not stand Uljhulul. Now he flew into a rage and cried, you, crazy chap, will you stop? You don't have to lecture us any more. The world does not go on following the ideals of godforsaken vagabonds like you, nor it ever will.

Uljhulul said with a smile, Why get so angry, dear Betamiz? I am not delivering a lecture at your 'Sadharon Brahmo Mandir' or at the 'Devaloya'. I hit out because I find the hypocrisy and the lies of idealists like you and your guru so utterly intolerable. I have no resentment against the devil, because he does not conceal his own self. No one has any difficulty in recognizing him. But when I see someone hiding his inner self of a greedy selfish merchant, busy counting his profit and loss to the penny behind a saintly beard, I like to tear away the mask of that false beard and reveal before everybody the horrible ugliness lying behind it. Of Course, in order to do it I, too, have to sink pretty low. But let's leave it. If you want further to talk about the lies and hypocrisies of your crooked values I would be happy to do so some other time. For the present let us carryon the discussion we were having.

Haroon said, Do you want to say that all the other images of woman are false? The ministering angel, the figure of love, affection and kindness--are all these images of woman mere deceptions? Has she assumed  these images to reward the male for his homage and adoration? Or because of her craving for getting more of the same from him? Or, has the jealous male moulded her in those images to serve his own selfish ends? Yes, I admit that the male has put a veil over her face, but he has done so only to make her look beautiful. By putting her behind the veil he has intensified the intoxication of his heart to get her. This barrier or hindrance has created all poetry. If there was no barrier like the Chitrakuta before the Yaksha, could the Meghdoot ever be created? Would we have got the Ramayana if Seeta were not abducted by Ravana? We have been privileged to get the great Mahabharata only because the Kouravas had dragged Droupadi by the hair!

As Uljhulul released the accumulated smoke through his nose and mouth in large quantities and got ready to say something, more tea along with sandesh and luchi appeared on the scene.

            It was evident that even to youngmen sandesh; luchi and tea were more welcome than woman. In the deluge of sandesh and luchi woman found herself drowned. The way they devoured everything it seemed that they had come from famine-stricken Bankura or were a group of hungry fugitives from the Great Famine of '76. Mr. Crocodile, thrusting a dozen luchis into one side of his mouth and a dozen sandeshes into another, demonstrated a fantastic feat that made some laugh and inspired some to try to master that art. But some grew angry and one of them took a pinch of snuff between his fingers and forcibly pushed it into Mr. Crocodile's nostrils.

Mr. Crocodile did not take snuff, so naturally the horrible scene that followed should better be left undescribed. Pieces of luchi and sandesh, wet with his saliva, flew from the pit of his mouth liberally sprinkling everybody present there. Forgetting their snacks they beat a hasty retreat in all directions, but Mr. Crocodile by then had started to sneeze violently, which he seemed unable to control. His nose began to run, saliva trickled down the corner of his lips, he sneezed and coughed helplessly. It was an awfully messy affair. Mr. Crocodile's clothes almost came off his body. With each sneeze his huge paunch shook violently like a buoy bobbing up and down on the bosom of the Ganges as a ship passed by. His eyes grew wide and bloodshot like the eyes of Swami Troilanga. His nostrils, running with water caused by his sneezes, looked like a felled palm tree along whose trunk sweet palm juice was trickling down. One man began to pour water on his head, another on his tummy. Tareq started to recite the verses of Sura Yasin from the Holy Quran, which was generally done when a man was about to die. It made everybody laugh. But when Amjad began to give the 'azan', which given at any other time beside the scheduled prayer hours indicated the birth of a new baby in some home in the neighbourhood, the screaming laugher that rose surpassed the merriment produced after Tareq's recitation of Sura Yasin. It made everyone bend double with uncontrollable laughter.

            In short, if a drunk had rushed into the room mistaking it for a cheap pub nobody could have blamed him.  

            Now it was Mr. Crocodile's turn to get angry. It was rather entertaining to tease someone and receive his angry reproaches but it was not like eating luchi and sandesh. Many found Mr. Crocodile's anger difficult to swallow. But let us not talk about it any more. Such incidents were nothing new in a boardinghouse.

            When the gossip session broke up the night had turned on her side. The clock struck one. The cook was obviously annoyed. So they hurriedly gulped down their supper and quickly returned, each to his narrow bed.

            Whether they fell asleep or not I could not tell, for the summer vacation was only a week away. Almost all the colleges would close down for the vacation.

            If one could imagine the thoughts that passed in tbe minds of the youngmen as they lay on their beds shortly before the summer and the puja vacations it would certainly not have pleased the finicky moralists, whatever it might have done to the youngmen themselves. The puritanical moralists might imagine that the youngmen's minds were occupied with thoughts of God. They might even think that the youngmen would wake up early in the morning and say their morning prayers. I sympathise with such pious wishes of those people. But the youngmen did not entertain any such thoughts. I can't tell you about everybody but the mind of most of the youngmen during those hours were occupied, I am sure, with thoughts of certain mango groves, river banks and bathing ghats of village ponds and happy memories associated with them.

            So I couldn't tell who slept that night. At least Uljhulul and Haroon did not.

Uljhulul lived alone in the room that was the smallest in the boarding-house and that had only one bed in it. When the party broke up and the mess became quiet, Haroon dragged into Uljhulul's room his things and filled up its narrow empty space. Uljhulul at that moment was lying on his back and was wandering in a world of smoke. Startled by the noise made by Haroon as he dragged into the room his sleeping board Uljhulul turned over, lay on his chest, and calmly watched his doings. He did not appear to be much surprised. He pushed back from his forehead a shock of unruly hair and the hint of a smile seemed to play about his lips. Which brought a smile to Haroon's lips, too.

Outside it was very quiet and still. Only rarely, at long intervals, the wheels of a passing car created a momentary flutter in the depth of the silence and died away just as a small fruit did when at the dead of night it fell from the branch of a tree overhanging the bank into the dark still waters of a large pond. Innumerable stars shone in the sky along the banks of the Milkyway. They were like fiery bees, the sky was like a blue lotus, the moon its round core.

The world was silent, still. The eyes of the night were heavy with sleep. If a heart felt close to another heart on such a night as this one could wish the night to be an eternity in one's life.

Because he had walked along all the main streets and alleys and bylanes of Calcutta and dirtied his feet with the dust and mud on them, poor Jahangeer had earned for himself the sarcastic name of Uljhulul. Because he was obsessed with the keen desire to pull out and save man from the ashes of a devastating fire and take truth into his hand like a mirror and see it there, he had to suffer the satiric and odious comments of a few finicky moralists who only knew how to utter some inane moral platitudes. Tears welled up in Haroon's eyes. He found it impossible to control himself. He impulsively touched Uljhulul's feet and murmured, O my suffering beautiful, the seeker after truth, the crazy saint, I salute you. I salute you a thousand times. Haroon touched his own forehead with his hands. Uljhulul was then sleeping soundly.

Haroon gazed outside. It seemed to him that the entire sky and air were asleep and dreaming of the moon. A serene peace filled his mind. He fell into a deep sleep.

The sky, the moon and the stars were witnesses of how today a heart came close to another heart only by exchanging smiles.

The earth became more beautiful than before.  
 

2

Whatever name they might call him by at the boarding house we would call Uljhulul by the name of Jahangeer.

His ancestral home was in the district of Comilla, but he was brought up in Calcutta. His father was a weIl-known zamindar and a highly respected man of Comilla. He had passed away about four years ago. Now Jahangeer was the heir of his large estate. But his mother was still living and it was she who looked after the affairs of the estate. Her exceptional ability in conducting the affairs of the estate led people to comment that. given the opportunity, women could not only manage a large estate but could also successfully ride a spirited horse. Under her rule even though tigers and cows did not drink at the same pool, very-large and very small fishes, who lived on her estate, were caught in the same net and suffered an identical rough treatment. Her Hindu tenants called her Rai Baghinee, the Tigress, while her Muslim tenants gave her the name of Khane Dajjal, the Awful Tyrant.

When Jahangeer's father was alive his parents spent the major part of each year in Calcutta. They had a couple of houses in Calcutta but after his father's death Jahangeer's mother let them out, put her son in the Baker Hostel and left for Comilla to personaI1y supervise the affajrs of her estate.

Jahangeer's temperament, however, did not suit the prison-like life of the hostel, which he left and settled himself in a mess.

If he wished he could have rented an independent house and lived there. Why he didn't do it, only his God could tell. His mother's affection for him was so great that she would not have protested much even if he spent a thousand taka a month, but even the most stingy manager of their estate could not accuse Jahangeer of spending more than a hundred taka a month. This clearly pleased his mother but she was hurt by the very ordinary food he ate and the very ordinary clothes he wore. If the future master of such a big estate was so indifferent and apathetic to worldly things and lived like a transient sojourner. for whom was she putting in such labour? But it was useless to make any request or complaint to her son about it. On her request or order Jahangeer would rather try to swallow a stone than permit anyone to interfere with the freedom of his movements and his own lifestyle.

The mother had noticed for a long time on Jahangeer's eyes and face, in his movements and in the Spartan way he conducted his life, a dull indifference and an anguished disrespect to almost everything. She knew the reasons for it, too. But even though she was the mother she was afraid of her Son. As if she was nobody to his son. A big chasm had been created between the mother and the son long ago, but Jahangeer now gave no scope for it to be easily noticed. He said to his mother, What can I do, mother? My nature is like that. I don't seem to find pleasure in anything. Though he said it with a smile his sick heart was clearly visible in the mirror of his face.

His mother checked her tears and quietly wen t away. Her weakness had a history. Let me tell you-

Jahangeer had just learnt to respect his mother and mother-land as greater than heaven when he suddenly and most unexpectedly carne to know that his mother was a well-known professional singer and dancing girl of Calcutta and his father a life-long bachelor. He was the lust-born son of his parents.

From that day the colour of this beautiful earth had changed before his eyes. Someone seemed to have struck out at the joyous lamp of his life and extinguished it. Since then he had been trying to understand anew the meaning of man's life.

He had seen this old and stale world as a multicoloured one through the glass of his idealism. He had added the charm of his own mind to the beauty of simple man and recreated him as more beautiful than ever. But today he was ruthless like a stern judge. He would try this world. Today he would punish creation for the hypocrisy of its glittering commercial make-up that was so like a professional whore's.

Today he had seen truth face to face in the harsh glow of lightning and thunder. Today he was a stern and unforgiving realist.  

3

The flood tide of patriotic fervour was at its height in those days. The British did not yet apprehend the washing away of their empire but they were really afraid of its going under water to some extent. They were not yet engaged in securing the safety of their household goods. but they were busy building a strong embankment. Jahangeer was still a boy, a school student. The imaginative adolescent was just initiated by Promotto, a young teacher of his school, into the doctrine of the mother and the mother-land being superior to heaven itself. No one, except a few students committed to revolution, perhaps not even Lord God, knew of the terrible fact that Promotto was a revolutionary. It was, however, hard to tell if the Lord CID, the Criminal Intelligence Department of the Government, was aware of the fact. That was the difference between Lord God and Lord ClD. What was unknown to the former was known to the latter, even to his finger-tips. One day a student was singing a song! Those first line ran like this, "The eyes cannot see you, in the very eyes do you reside."

Promotto said laughingly, Do you know what Rabindranath Tagore had in mind when he wrote this song?

The boy answered enthusiastically, Sure, sir, He was thinking of God.

Promotto shook his head and said, No, Rabindranath had Mr. Father Lizard, the spy and the detective, in his mind when he wrote it with a feeling of great devotion.

The boys were hugely tickled by this explanation. From that day on whenever they suspected anybody to be a government spy and watcher, as a matter of fact even when they saw a lizard on the wall, they would start singing at the top of their voice: "The eyes cannot see you, in the very eyes do you reside." All the students held Promotto in great regard and loved him dearly, not only because he was a good teacher but also because they knew that he was very fond of them. Most of the students in the higher classes called him Promot-da, considering him as their own elder brother.

No revolutionary had the right to ask his leader the reason for any action of the latter. It did not apply only to Promotto but to all revolutionary leaders. Yet when Promotto ritualistically initiated Jahangeer into the doctrine of the Mother, there was a loud protest by his disciples against that action. Promotto was not a leader of a particularly high stature, but not even prominent revolutionary leaders of the party dared treat. him with- disrespect. Many in the party, prominent and not so prominent, felt that in the coming days he would turn out to be a great revolutionary leader and so looked at him with a certain awe. He could, therefore, easily ignore the protests of the young revolutionaries working under him, but he was really a good person, a decent man. So, though it was against the rule, he allowed a debate on the issue. He said, Listen, I hold our chief Bojropani in greater regard than I do my God, but I find it most painful to accept his view that the muslim youths of Bengal are incapable of embracing the revolutionary ideal. Of course, if he had given a direct and positive embargo I would have never admitted Jahangeer into our group. However fine a boy I considered him. You might say that most muslim boys were either job-seekers or timid. But I see no reason to believe that all their boys are like that. Besides, I don't think we are any less job- seekers or timid than they are. The patriotic zeal has not. blossomed among them because they do not have a leader. And, though their religion is different their bone, marrow and flesh have been created by the climate of this Bengal. The strength, the ardour and the dedication that you have, why should not. they have those, too? Besides, from what I have read of Islam I can emphatically say that it has never highlighted the doctrine of the weak and never declared that nonviolence was the highest religion. The weak may give all kinds of spiritual explanation of nonviolence but the fact that the muslims did not practise it has not brought them any disgrace.

Nowadays some over-wise men are trying to ridicule the royal qualities of the religion of heroism and are anxious to conceal behind it the darkness of their cowardice. But I ask them, are Buddha, Jesus and Nimai alone alive today or will they alone remain so till eternity? What about Rama, Krishna, Arjun, Alexander, Pro tap , Napoleon, Garibaldi, Caesar? Aren't they too, alive today, or will they not remain so till the end of the times? You may say that in the days to come no one will call them great, but before the arrival of that day of yours the life-span of the world will be over. Besides, the Kolki or Mehdi image of the Messiahs of the future that your spiritual saints and nonviolent poets have drawn for you does not appear to be a toothless and careless one. But why am I saying all these things? You see, the doctrine of nonviolence preached by the saints in loin-cloth infuriate me so much that I seem to lose all my common sense. What I was really going to say--

Just then a boy who was a devotee of Tolstoy cried out, But Promot-da, the doctrine that we shall get beaten and by doing so conquer all beatings, is it totally untrue?

Promotto said excitedly, In that case we have become conquerors long ago, haven't we? Because we have taken with such submissiveness so much beating through so many centuries that even those who have beaten us feel dazed. The Aryans have beaten us; the Shakas have beaten us; the Huns have beaten us. We have been kicked by the Arabian horse, punched by the Afghan, knifed by the Iranian, struck by the Turanian's sword. The Mughals and the Pathans fouled up our nationhood; the Portuguese and the Dutch and the French came to exploit our wealth but in the end beat us by their weapons. And the final blow was dealt by the British. The only thing that had not yet been killed was our humanity, which has saved our people from being wiped out in spite of all those beatings. But that, too, was killed by the British. If even after the avalanche of such deaths somebody said that we were keeping ourselves alive through those very deaths, well, I might respect his philosophy but not his intelligence. In fact, he should better examine the spot where his intelligence resided. What I was going to say is this: Shall we. exclude the muslims from our movement? I admit that they have many drawbacks, but they are straightforward and brave. They have sticks in their hand all right. but they do not know how to conceal them behind their back. On the contrary, they brandish them in front of their nose, that's their only fault. But that does not. help us. If we initiated them into Our secret rites perhaps they would turn out to be the best soldiers in the Coming days.

            Promotto seemed lost for a moment in some deep thought. It seemed that with a weak lamp in his hand he was groping for something in the impenetrable darkness of the future.

            Jahangeer's intimate friend Animesh said Promotto-da, I for one can have no objection to admitting Jahangeer to our party. I never considered whether he was a Hindu or a Muslim. I always looked at him as a man, and from that point he is superior to all of us. But I am afraid this might lead to a difference of opinion and create ill-will within the party. We are revolutionaries but we have not yet been able to overcome fanaticism and orthodoxy. We have not yet learnt to look at man without his religion. The chief of another revolutionary organisation, a rival of ours, is responsible for this. You, perhaps, understand who I am thinking of when I say this.

        Promotto smiled significantly, whose meaning many failed to understand.

        Animesh continued: Do you know what he and his partymen say? They say we shall drive away the British with our right hand and the Muslims with our left. And then after occupying London and Mecca. we shall make a truce. Those people do not consider the muslims any the less enemy of theirs than the British. Promotto said with a laugh. And that chief of theirs. can you tell me what he will bring from London after signing the truce papers?

The boys answered in one voice that they could not.

Promotto said. If he goes to London he will come back as a mongrel and a ham-eater and will b-ring with him an English girl. And if he goes to Mecca he will come back as a Hajee and a beef-eater and with a luxurious beard.

The boys roared with laughter, rolling themselves on the ground. Promotto went on: You see. our great men by cultivating religion in our brains helped the British government more than what the latter could do by cultivating ganja in our fields. Our religion has become the hammer to break our teeth with. Do you know what the biggest conspiracy of the British against us is? This our mutual suspicion. this heartfelt hatred and disrespect to each other's religion. If this policy of 'divide'. the iron heels of the English. could be permanently applied on the bosom of India, it would remain there as imperishably as the footprints of Adam on Adam's Peak.

Samaresh who was too much of a Hindu said. Well. Promot-da, we could become independent without the help of the Muslims. Couldn't we?

Surely we could, said Promotto. Many a country has achieved independence in spite of the opposition of at least seventy five per cent of her people but we won't be able to do it. If one could drive away both the British and. the Muslims together. I might have no objection to that. But none of the countries that tolerated the opposition of their own people and became independent ever encouraged the madness to drive them away from there.  

The revolutionaries who say that we will have to drive away the muslims forget the fact that even if they had the superpower to do it the clever English would never allow them to do it. The day India got united as a nation the English would pack up and leave. Not only did the English know this, every common Indian also knew it. The two names, Hindus and Muslims, were like wonder drugs that gave life to the Indian empire of the British and allowed it to survive But you know what? If we sincerely wanted it we could easily conquer the muslims. But not by word, but by love. However, they must be given some exposure to education and culture first, otherwise we won't be able to win them over. Winning them over and imbuing them with the spirit of patriotism would mean wresting off the hands of the English their weapons.

Samaresh said, But Promot-da, there is no limit to their silly demands and absurd requests and obstinate attitude. I admit that the Muslims are weapons in the hands of the English and the latter will always use them against us. But what can we do about it? If We go on giving them concessions we shall not only harm Our cause, we shall also do a great disservice to them. They will never try to stand on their feet.

Promotto: I, too, do not say that we should give them concessions. I, too, say that if your partner in an expedition is a cripple it is better to leave him by the roadside than carry him on your back. But we have not yet started on our expedition, Samaresh. It is the period of recruitment, of collecting raw soldiers. We are only making preparations, nothing more. If we test and see if they, too, can become soldiers in the expedition to be launched in the future it might not advance the date of freeing Our country, but it most certainly will not push it back. Just now you were telling me about their obstinacy and absurd requests. It is not only you, many of our leaders have said so to me. But, you see, diagnosing the disease does not automatically lead to its remedy. Let me agree, for argument's sake, that they make undue and absurd requests, that they consider the British their friends. But did you ever think that behind this is attitude lay the accumulated ignorance, superstition and illiteracy of ages? This is what I was telling you. We have to remove all these by hard, long and dedicated work. We have to spread out among them to educate them and to rouse in them the fervour of patriotism. You will then see that those who are today your obstacles will turn tomorrow your great and most faithful comrades.

Samaresh: But Promot-da, their mullahs and moulvies will never allow this. I don't know, perhaps their moulvies. Mullahs and the self-appointed upholders of religion are simply the spies of the English. Their mullahs will say that our concern for their welfare is only a clever ruse to convert them into Hindus, which will only turn them furiously against us, They will not trust I this loving approach of ours. They will not accept it respectfully.

Promotto: I have paid some thought to it, too. I know that the uprising among the common muslim masses will most hurt the mullahs and the moulvies. It will endanger their bread and butter, and they will oppose it with all their might. But there is also a witch doctor who can stand up against and subdue the evil spirit. It is the muslim student community. If we can bring the muslim youth into our fold we shall be able successfully to fight both the English and the mullahs and the moulvies. It is because of this that I want to carefully select and recruit good muslim youngmen into our party and it is here that I find myself at loggerheads with other revolutionary leaders.

Samaresh: I admire your farseeing attitude, Promot-da. But the majority of the muslim students are hot like Jahangeer.. In fact, they are not even ghosts of Jahangeer. They believe that our swadeshi movement, the movement to free the motherland, means the establishment of Hindu Raj. So they consider it a sin to join this movement. They cast longing lingering looks toward Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq and wait for the day when the muslims from those lands will come marching in, conquer India and give it to them on a platter for them to savour and enjoy. They forget about Nadir Shah and Timur.

Promotto: You can't blame them much, Samaresh, if the muslims fear the establishment of a Hindu Raj. The aim of the leaders of the Matri Samity, the Motherland Association, is, I am told, the establishment of the Hundu Raj. We must remove the fear and apprehension of the muslims by our sincerity, good faith and sacrifice. Otherwise India will never be free. If our organisation, too, believed like the Matri Samity that the muslims were to be driven away from India, I would never have joined it. If the muslims have some faults we must sincerely strive to rid them of those. May we never be obsessed by the insane idea of driving them away from this land. And again, one can't blame them much if they look toward Iran, Iraq and other muslim countries. The weak always look toward others for assistance. It is their nature. They have no power and, aware of their weakness, they look toward the muslims of other countries and try to receive some consolation in their strength, although they know very well that Iran, Iraq, Arabia and Afghanistan are not concerned in the least about the muslims of India and their welfare. Our dedicated and sincere effort should be to turn their other-country-oriented mind toward their native land. We have to remind them of the debt they owe to this dumb soil that nurtures them with its crops, fruits, flowers and water with an affection deeper than mother's, the earth that is all suffering and yet so infinitely patient. We have to fire their blood with this doctrine that if one owes any debt for suckling mother's breast one owes a much greater debt to the motherland whose air and water nourish our mind, body and soul, the land which is the mother of my father, the mother of my mother. Can anyone of you, Samaresh, inject into their blood this doctrine? If you can do it I am sure I'll see on that day the gorgeous figure of Mother India glowing like a great Queen. In fact, I can already see that figure in my mind's eye. Come Samaresh, come Animesh, sing for me the song that is like an elixir to my soul:

            Devi amar, sadhona amar, swarga amar ! amar desh! 
            My goddess, my commitment, my heaven, my country!

            Promotto closed his eyes. Streaming tears fell from his closed eyes. The boys touched his feet and then began to sing:

            Devi amar, sadhona amar. swarga amar, amar desh! 
            And as they sang tears welled up in their eyes, too. )

            The inert map of India lay sprawled before Promotto. He saluted it again- with deep emotion.

            Samaresh said, Promot-da, I have wrongly suspected you all these days of some hidden weakness and attraction for the muslims. It is perhaps true that we have not yet earned the right to be the real revolutionary soldiers of mother India. We have not yet been able to love all the people of India irrespective of caste, creed or religion. Perhaps all our patriotism is mere excitement, a luxury of sacrifice. You have rightly said, Promot-da, we have not yet become true soldiers of our country .

            Aminesh said. Yes, Samar, we are only sacred bulls, we don't have anything to do with the god of revolution.

            Wiping the tears off his eyes Promotto said in a choked voice. Anim, my India is not the India of this map. I am no less sentimental than you, yet I have not loved only the water. air, soil, hills and woods of India: My India is the India of 33 crores of dumb, poor, starving people trodden under the feet of an alien power. It is not the India of the English, it is not Hindustan, it is not the India of trees and shrubs and bushes. My India is the holy shrine washed by the tears of the human soul, oppressed and tortured through the ages. My suffering India has been born of the rich silt formed by the tears of millions of men. 0 my boys, this India is not your India of the temples, this India is not the India of the mosques of the musIims. It is my great India of noble Man.

4

            A few mouths after his initiation into the service of the motherland Jahangeer's father Khan Bahadur Farrokh died of a heart attack. Jahangeer was then a lad of only fifteen years, just promoted to the first class from the second. The sudden mishap badly upset him. As if While walking along the road he had, with no Warning, faIlen into a well. But his mother, Firdous Begum, freed him from his fears. Before their tears dried up she took Charge of her estate and began to look after its affairs personally. Shorn of all anxieties, savoring the joy of complete freedom, Jahangeer snuggled close to his mother, acted like a little baby and filled his mother's soul with indescribable happiness. The mother wiped her tears with the skirt of her sari and kissing her son's forehead said, Why are you so afraid of the matters of the estate? What will happen to you when I am gone? It is a huge estate and I am just a woman. If you don't look after it, how can I manage everything by myself? All will be squandered by outsiders and sycophants.

            She looked at the portrait of the Khan Bahadur on the waIl, bit her lips and checked her tears. Jahangeer understood everything. Tears weIled up in his eyes.. too. He was somewhat afraid of his father, for no reason, but he was also fond of him. Shoving his face into his mother's lap he wept for a long time. The mother let him weep. With deep affection she caressed her son's head as if she was casting off all the evil, all the sorrows, that might befall him His parents seemed to protect Jahangeer with extra caution. Jahangeer considered it nothing but an outcome of their too great affection for him. He had, however, come to realise by now that his father not only did not like him to mix with his kith and kin, he did not also like him even to see and talk to them. Their home and estate were in Comilla but he had not yet visited the place. Whenever his holidays began his parents took him travelling with them to Waltair, Puri, Agra, Fatehpur, Delhi and Lahore. When Mr. Farrokh went to Comilla in connection with the affairs of the estate he went alone. He took neither his wife nor his son with him.

            Jahangeer was somewhat whimsical from his boyhood. People said, Sons of rich men indulge in such eccentricities deliberately, you know. If our fathers had so much money we, too. would have become like that. The truth is too much indulgence and license have spoiled him. This, of course, they said secretly, and they were Mr. Farrokh's own employees.

            There was, however. an order, some sense, in the eccentricities of the sons of rich folks, but the way Jahangeer moved about and talked seemed to have no head or tail. One moment he was talking garrulously. nineteen to the dozen, and the next he was lost in the deep silence of a mystic saint and he could keep up that silence for days together. It was this side of his character, his deep absorption, that attracted Promotto so greatly that he had dared initiate Jahangeer into their secret doctrine of revolution.

            A few days after this Jahangeer rushed in. fell at his mother's feet like a huge tree uprooted by a storm and cried out heartrendingly. Tell me, mother, is it true? What are all these things that I hear?

            Firdous Begum was frightened at the sight of his son whose face looked like a volcano about to erupt into flames and smoke. She could hardly say a word. Summoning all her strength she somehow managed to say, What has happened. my child? Why are you acting like this?

            Jahangeer cried in a thundering voice, Father's nephews have filed a case claiming their right to our property. They say that I---I---that I am a bastard son and you are Munna, the dancing girl. They say that you are not his wedded wife but his kept woman, that I am the son of Khan Bahadur's kept Woman.

            Overcome by anger, excitement and tears Jahangeer's voice cracked. He started to foam at the mouth. He seemed to be burning like a fiery flame. He placed his face on his mother's feet and said in a choking voice, Tell me, mother, that it is a lie. They are all telling lies, aren't they? I can't show my face tinder the sun any more! Mother, O mother! -

            The cause of all this infamy and disgrace stood like a tree struck by thunder as if somebody had burnt her completely. As if a moment's curse had turned her body and soul into a rock.

            Like one gone totally crazy Jahangeer jumped up, shook his mother's hands violently and shouted, Tell me at once or I'll kill you. Are you Khan Bahadur's kept woman or my mother? Answer!

            No Sooner had he said these words than he started as if lashed by a whip. That voice was not his but his father's. He never spoke like that. It was Mr. Farrokh speaking. For the first time he felt his father in him. He became quite still. Then he cast a sharp gaze on his mother like a judge and began to examine her minutely, while his stricken mother continued to stare at her son's face With sad piteous eyes.

            Jahangeer lowered his head like a charmed snake and left the room on unsteady feet without another word. As he walked away it seemed to him that the earth was swallowing his two feet, that a terrible earthquake was raging, that the monstrous earth was about to crack open, draw him in, crunch him into pieces between its jaws and crush him to death.

            As he went he heard his mother crying out weakly like a dying beggar-woman beseeching alms, Come back, my son, come back"!"

            Jahangeer's soul seemed to answer her in these words: 0 poor woman! Jahangeer will probably come back, but your son won't. No, nevermore!

            He turned his feet straight toward Promotto's house. As he walked on he murmured to himself: O mother earth, from today I am your dirty dust- covered child. Let it be my proudest identity. From today I belong to the ashamed band of men and women cast out by society. 0 my all-enduring, all-suffering mother, you who rocked in your lap millions of babies killed in embryo, come, pick me up. rock me, rock me in your lap. In supreme pride you made the son of a virgin a great hero, a noble saint, a prophet-Come, with that same pride mark my forehead with undying glory!

            When Jahangeer arrived at Promotto's house like a mad drunken fellow the evening was shrouding the face of the dead day with her dark coffin cloth. The call for the evening prayer, the azan, sounded sad like the janaja, the funeral prayer for the dead day. Tired crows flew overhead crying aloud as if they were mourning the death of the day. In the courtyard of the grey sky only a single star glistened weakly like the eyes of a grieving mother who had just lost. her son.

            Promotto was shocked to see Jahangeer. Apprehending some danger to his political party he anxiously asked. What's the matter? Is there any bad news? Jal1angeer said, Yes, there is. He got into the room and bolted the door.

        It was a thatched cottage in a slum area. No pains were spared to keep the damp and dirty room as clean as possible, yet its poor state was clearly visible like the frayed beauty of a youth that was long past. In the dim light of a clay lamp you saw only a tattered deer-skin seat and a dull map of India. The smoke coming from aromatic burning sticks mingling with the smell of the earthen floor made the enclosed air of the room heavy. .

            Promotto cried out in an anxious and deeply agitated voice. What's wrong? And where? Tell me! 

            Jahangeer answered in a hard dull voice, Promot-da. I can no longer perform the holy task of serving my motherland.

            Heaving a sigh of relief Promotto said, Thank God, it is not what I feared. So, whom did you quarrel with again?

            Jahangeer said. This time with God, Promot-da. I can no longer shoulder the sacred responsibility. I undertook it without knowing who I was. Punish me any way you like. My blood is unclean - I am a bastard son. Towards the end Jahangeer's voice broke with pain and hatred and Weeping.

            Promotto gave a start. Then he took Jahangeer into his arms with great affection and said, So what I feared has come to pass. But why should you feel ashamed of it? If anyone has to be penitent. it must be they who are responsible for it. No man is responsible for his own birth.

            Jahangeer, lost and groping in a dark path, seemed to feel the touch of a strong hand. He wanted to grip it with all his might.

            He stood up and cried excitedly, Are you telling me the truth. Promot-da? Am I sinless, then? My father's lust, my mother's sin, have they not besmirched me? But they have, they have. I have discovered it today. For the first time today I have seen my bestial father in me. Look Promot-da. I never before uttered an evil word in my life but today I tarnished my tongue by calling a woman my father's whore, and she was none other than the woman who gave birth to me! No, Promot-da, every drop of my blood is defiled. In every drop of my blood run my father's ugly hunger and my mother's soiled passion like a million poisonous scorpions. Any moment they may come out and reveal themselves as they did today. God cannot accept my sacrifice in your noble mission, Promot-da. My life has been sacrificed already at the altar of sin!

            Jahangeer panted violently. It seemed that he would choke and his breathing would cease.

            Promotto said in a calm firm voice. You are forgetting our mantra, Jahangeer. Our sacred mantra is: The mother and the motherland are greater than Heaven. We have no right to judge them.

            His final words sounded like a command.

            Jahangeer threw himself on the ground and cried, It is false! A false mantra! A lie! Not the mother, no, not she, but only the motherland is greater than Heaven.

            Promotto picked up Jahangeer and pressing him to his bosom like an affectionate mother said; Don't cry, Jahangeer. Even if you, have been touched by sin we shall cleanse you with the fire of sorrow and turn you pure and unalloyed.

            Jahangeer lay prostrate on the map of India. With tears trickling down his cheek he went on murmuring: Only you, my motherland, only you are greater than Heaven -none else, none else!

            The pictorial map of India grew wet under his chest.

5

            The summer holidays had started. The young hearts of the students were filled with joy for no reason at all. They dreamed of their distant village home and seemed to smell the new1y sprouted leaves in the mango groves there.

            Haroon was ready to leave for his home. He had packed his things and was now lying on his bare bedstead, lost in some far-away thoughts. There were still five or six hours to go before his train would leave. Just then he felt with a start someone pulling him by the hair. He looked up and saw Jahangeer alias Uljhulul standing near his head. He was smoking a cigarette. Suddenly Jahangeer said, When does your train leave, Haroon?

            With a quiet smile Haroon said, Why ? Do you plan to go with me?

            Jahangeer brought out two tickets from his pocket and showed them to Haroon. He had already purchased two tickets for Suri.

            Haroon, taken completely by surprise, stared at Jahangeer's face and cried out piteously, But you can't go there, my friend.

            Jahangeer raised his eyebrows, yawned lazily and said in a solemn voice, You don't know, Haroon, but I sure can. Even if you can't.

            Haroon burst out laughing at the way Jahangeer said these words. Then he said, But, Jahangeer, you don't know what a wretched Godforsaken village it is. It has mosquitoes as big as cockroaches.

            Before Haroon could say anything more Jahangeer cried out with feigned panic. Yes, it has flies like bats, rats like wild bears, monkeys like Haroon, right? Or, are there other things too? 

            Haroon said despairingly, Please, my dear friend. listen to me. Don't take me amiss. You will have no end of troubles there. First of all, you will have to cover a distance of ten miles from Suri on foot and then cross the river Bakkeswar-

            Jahangeer went on smoking serenely and said, And in that river there are no boats and no boatmen. It has a terrible current and is full of fierce sharks, crocodiles, whales and snakes, right? But I know, Haroon, that none of these things are there. But even if they were there I'll take the name of Allah, make my prophet my main-stay, gird my loins and smoothly sail across the river of this life. Understand? I'll make a fool of the invisible captain of the ship and be at the other bank in the twinkling of an eye.

            Haroon gave up and sat down despairingly on his bed. On the one hand he was delighted that his friend was going to his home, on the other, when he thought of the poor condition of his home he felt most uncomfortable. True, Jahangeer won't starve there but he was the son of a rich landlord. He was brought up amidst great comfort and affectionate care. Haroon and his family members won't be able to provide him with the amenities he was used to. It was the thought of their poverty that hurt him much. His eyes grew moist at the futile tears of a helpless man. But he was also deeply touched by Jahangeer's sincere friendliness, his simplicity and his unconcealed claims as a dear and close one to him. So long Haroon was desperately trying to dissuade Jahangeer from going with him but now he did not protest any more. On the contrary, a strange happiness filled his heart. To his dream-prone imaginative mind all his wants now appeared colourful. His distant village home now seemed more beautiful than ever because of its very inadequacies and imperfection. His naturally melancholy face looked happy as a morning flower.

            Jahangeer deliberately packed some ordinary simple clothes in a small cane box, after which the two friends had their bath. took their meals together and started for the railway station. When their taxi reached the junction of Harrison Road and College Street Jahangeer suddenly jumped off the taxi. Asking the driver to waif. for him he turned to Haroon and said, I'll be back in a minute. He quickly strode towards the College Street market.

            When he returned after nearly half an hour with a huge trunk on his shoulders Haroon seemed lost in some faraway dreamland. Even when Jahangeer put the trunk in the taxi and asked the driver to drive on Haroon did not wake up from his dream.

            Jahangeer pinched hard Haroon's arm and then looking away in another direction began to smoke his cigarette most-solemnly.

            Haroon jumped up and said, Hey, what is this! When did you come back? He rubbed the pinched spot on his arm.

            Jahangeer said distantly, Look, poet, the world had not only the poet's dreams but also the cruel pinches of a non-poet.

            Haroon said with a smile, If I express any doubt about it after what you have done you will probably throw me out of the taxi and say that this earthy world and that side-walk full of Marwari businessmen are truer than the dreamland of the poet, right?

            Suddenly Haroon noticed that the taxi instead of going toward Howrah station was rushing toward Baghbazar. He almost shouted, Hey Jahangeer, we are almost in Baghbazar! Can one get Howrah station there?

            Jahangeer smiled and said, No, but one can get chandu, an intoxicating country drug, and sweet rosogolla.

            Haroon said with a smile, Yes, I understand. It is clear that you have been taking the first item quite liberally these days.

            As the taxi stopped before a sweetmeat shop Jahangeer said, See, even the taxi has a sense of humour and has the light taste. With these words he quickly got down.

            Haroon said with despair, We'll surely miss the train today and have to eat the sweet. sitting on the railway platform.

            It was a hot summer midday. The train sped through fields and meadows. A happy Haroon fell asleep while Jahangeer, thrusting his face out of the window, kept staring at the blazing sky. His mind ran faster than the speeding train towards the hot shimmering sky above, as if he wanted to place his hot temple against the temple of the sky and feel its sting and pain. The blazing midday sun was raining down streams of fire. The earth looked wilted like a child-wife in front of a hot oven in her kitchen. Raising his hand to his forehead Jahangeer saluted the midday sun. His eyes filled with tears. He raised his two eyes to the sun and murmured to himself, Friend, I do not know what makes you suffer so. Stung by what hurt are you burning down this quiet earth? I feel the same pain and suffering within me. But why can't I glow like you, why can't I become like the midday sun? Why can't my burning sensation bestow light, too, along with pain?

            Run! Run! O intrepid child of the machine-king! Run faster, faster, faster still, Take me right into the heart of the sun, that ball of fire. Go, go-O the comet of this earth! Take me to that fiery bath house, plunge into it, the way millions of me to rites plunge into that fiery cauldron.

6

            When they reached Suri the night was far advanced. Haroon said: What shall we do now? Do you want to spend the night here or do you want to go into the city? I have a distant relative there. If you like we can go to his place.

            Jahangeer smiled: I think the platform will be more comfortable than the home of a distant relative, Haroon. Start unpacking. We can easily spend this lovely moonlit night here. But if you prefer crossing your river Bakkeswar tonight I am game for that, too.

            Haroon said: Let's stay here, but the stone-chips under your back will be playing a night-long prank with you.

            Jahangeer sat down on his box and said: You are no poet, Haroon. If even on such a beautiful moonlit night as this you can't forget about stone-chips pricking your back then you are-you are-a jute broker!

            Haroon laughed aloud: What kind of a metaphor is this?

            Jahangeer answered with feigned anger: Damn your metaphor! You will never do any good to mankind by the lace-trimming of your metaphors. A silly dunghill of laziness!

            Haroon said: But, you know. Jahangeer, beautiful flower blossom in those very dung-hills of laziness.

            Jahangeer lighted a cigarette and said: No, my dear poet. they do not blossom there. They blossom in the manure heap of your brain. But to hell with this discussion of poetry, Cigarette smoke will not fill the belly. will it? A cat has already started scratching the inside of my stomach. You stay here and look after the baggage. I am going out in search of food.

            Haroon was going to say something but Jahangeer shut him up with a threatening gesture and left. Helpless, Haroon made his bed neatly on the platform and lay down.

            A summer night full of moon-light. Someone seemed to have put on the heat-ravaged blue body of the sky a tender coating of sandalwood. The sunlight-singed day rested its head on the lap of the cool night and went to sleep. Rows of trees stood like slave-girls fanning it devotedly.

            Haroon felt comforted and sleepy. This dusty earth full of want and sorrows appeared to him enchanting in his dreams. Its smile was full of magic, so were its tears, He wanted to press this enchantress to his bosom as if she was a tender slim young girl.

            Suddenly he was roughly shaken by Jahangeer. He sat up With a start and saw that Jahangeer's search for food was not in vain. Getting hold of almost everything that Suri was famous for he had put them in a basket and brought them here.

            Haroon said: I see that you know more of Suri than I do. So this is what you have done! But if we want to finish all this food we'll have to go on eating till the morning, bidding goodbye to all thoughts of sleep.

            Jahangeer said: Anyway, let's make a start. Then we'll see what your luck and my competence can achieve.

            After their meal Jahangeer began to pace the platform absentmindedly. This did not surprise Haroon and he made no move to interrupt him. He had heard many people say that Jahangeer was eccentric. that he had a bee in his bonnet. He did not believe it. He was friendly enough with Jahangeer. but never indulged in- any extra curiosity to know more about his friend than what he saw with his eyes and felt with his mind. That was his nature. Besides, he considered it bad taste to try to know more about someone than what the person voluntarily chose to make known. He used to say that curiosity was an ugly thing. To put pressure on someone to say something that he did not want to say was uncivilized. When everybody considered Jahangeer a crazy fellow it was Haroon alone who felt that there was a deep spring of pain in his life which made him live like a vagabond. Haroon had never learnt to look at man's pain lightly or with disrespect. That was why he had never tried to explore and dig into the source of Jahangeer's pain.

            He knew nothing of Jahangeer's history, nor did any other student.

            After the death of Jahangeer's father his cousins claimed the property of the deceased and instituted a case in court. His intelligent mother squashed the proceedings and put a firm lid over the. scandal before it could spread. How she did it was known only to three or four people. Of course it led to the reduction by about one-fourth of their huge income from their very large landed property. Jahangeer's cousins were; not very well off. They were in no position to pursue a big law-suit. So what they got, almost as a windfall, satisfied them and they gave up their original claim. In fact they even admitted in court that Jahangeer was the true son of Khan Bahadur's legally wedded wife. There was not the slightest whisper over it in the entire area owned and administered by the "Tigress-Mistress". Many fumed at heart but there was no fire bursting into flames. Jahangeer also felt his mjnd poisoned with the smoke but he was not incinerated. That was his consolation and it became a big asset for his life. By this time he would have perhaps gone really crazy, or he might have committed suicide, but the doctrine of liberating his country inspired him to live and kept aloft the flame of his life.. It he had to die he would die only after shedding on the sin of his birth the glorious radiance of a noble life.

            When Jahangeer was strolling on the platform, lost in his own thoughts, Haroon quietly left the railway station and went toward the city to while away the time. He found the sight of grief-ridden Jahangeer difficult to bear. Whenever he saw Jahangeer in this mood he felt a sharp stab of pain in his heart. Today, too, unable to bear the sight he took himself: off from the scene. He passed in front of Jahangeer but the latter did not say a Word to him. He did not even seem to see him. No one but his God knew the whirlpool of pain he was immersed in at that moment.

            Walking absentmindedly Haroon arrived at the City centre and found that some of the stores there were still open. He stood in front of a departmental store and remembered that before leaving Calcutta he could not buy any present for his brother and sisters for want of money. Now Jahangeer had not allowed him to pay for his ticket. He did not spend anything enroute, either. That led to a saving of about five taka with which he now bought a cake of soap, a comb, some ribbons for the hair etc. for his young brother and sisters. He did not feel happy with the humble things he purchased With the meagre sum at his disposal. This helpless condition' brought tears to his eyes. Suddenly he recalled something and his mind was at once filled with both joy and sorrow. He had not noticed at first Jahangeer's trunk, but after he did he had no doubt that his friend was carrying therein clothes and other gifts for his brother and sisters. He also understood why Jahangeer had purchased so much food a little while ago. He knew that his brother and sisters, brought up in poverty and want, would be pleased with all these gifts. But he did not feel happy about this gesture of Jahangeer, even though he was his friend. He told himself again and again that it would have been better if Jahangeer had not acted in this way and reminded him of his helpless condition. He suffered in silence and felt miserable. He wandered aimlessly for a long time and then returned to the railway station where he found Jahangeer still restlessly pacing the platform. Without a word Haroon lay down.

            The sight of his mad friend seemed to ease the pain in his heart. The tender sympathy and affection of his poetic mind washed away the resentment that had gathered Within him against his friend.

            Today for the first time it struck him that Jahangeer was not only more unhappy than him, he was also poorer. He was an absolute pauper. He had nothing.

7

            It was hardly dawn when the song of an impetuous cuckoo awakened Haroon from his sleep. He had slept all through the night like one heavily drugged without turning on his side even once. He had many dreams throughout the night, happy and sad, and even now his I eyelids were heavy with their residue.

            He was suffering from the ailment of an unprecedented joy, the gift of his budding youth, and he found his body and mind taut like the strings of a highly wrought lyre. He felt in his blood the singing of a tumultuous joy as if he had drunk some powerful intoxicant. It seemed to him that today he did not want the ethereal fairy with whom he usually bedecked his bouquet of poetry. Instead, on this summer morning full of the southern breeze and, the song of the cuckoo he longed for a female of this earth in whom all his poems would be finally exhausted.

            Suddenly he woke up from his dreams. He saw Jahangeer still pacing the platform. Going close to him he noticed that his eyes were bloodshot and his face, on which the pale gas light weakly fell at this closing hour of the night, looked sad and forlorn. His eyes and face looked like the eyes and face of a murderer after killing with his own hands a person very close to him.

            Haroon's poetic mind was like an adolescent girl's, timid as a forest doe, very sensitive. He could not bear the touch of anything harsh and rude. Not to speak of a physical fight, the mere sight of a quarrel made him tremble like a leaf and filled his body and mind with distaste. fear and despair. He prayed with all his heart and asked. God, why this quarrelm this ugly strife, this unrest? When will men become truly men? Oh, God, give them peace! They are making your beautiful creation horrible. They are tearing the flower garden of this earth into shreds like a mad and furious Ravana.

            Looking at Jahangeer's terrible mien Haroon somehow managed to say "Jahangeer!" and then fell silent. Apprehending some unforeseen calamity he began to tremble like an aspen leaf. Jahangeer gave a start and asked: What is it. Haroon? He looked around him and said shyly and with some embarrassment: So the day has already dawned! You were frightened, weren't you? It is nothing. This often happens to me.

            Somewhat reassured. Haroon said: Did you walk all night like this without a wink of sleep while I slept like a log?

            Jahangeer put his left arm around Haroon's neck like a garland and said in a calm voice; It is all right, dear friend. Now let us be off when it is cool and pleasant. Okay? Please have our baggage ready and let me in the mean time go look for the two coolies I arranged for carrying our things.

            Jahangeer left. Like one in a trance Haroon started to get the baggage ready, thinking all the while of the great charm of Jahangeer's self-control. He failed to understand how a terribly harsh face like a murderer's could be transformed in a moment into a serene, smiling one. It suddenly struck him that Jahangeer did not want anybody to share his personal sorrow, however close a friend of his he might be. He would not even tell him the whereabouts of his secret temple of sorrow. He was there all alone, a solitary figure. Even the darkness of a pitch-black night would fail to find its way in the darkness of that mysterious sorrow and would have to turn back disappointed ... 

            Haroon never thought that Jahangeer would be able to walk such a long distance so fast and in such a military style. He almost ran after Jahangeer the whole way and on reaching the border of his own village said, For God's sake, let me rest for a while under this tree! I am nearly done for. God! why didn't you become a mailbag runner? It was no ordinary walk but running in the name of a walking competition! Haroon sat down and began to pant.

            Jahangeer lay down full-length and fastening his eyes upward on the tree remarked: How beautiful is this land of yours, my dear. It is not crowded with trees as in East Bengal. A field, then a tract of barren land, some bushes and shrubs and a little forest, far-flung villages, a thin-waisted river-I can't tell you how good I feel. Coming out of the brick-hole of Calcutta the touch of this beautiful pure breeze on my body, oh, it is wonderful! If I had a cottage in your small village by the Bakkeswar river I could spend the whole day tending cows in the company of those young cowherds over there.

            Hearing such praise of his birthplace Haroon's heart filled with happiness and pride. Tears rose to his eyes for no reason. Haroon went on looking at his village- mother with his two tear-filled eyes in great love and devotion. Perhaps a tear or two rolled down his cheek. He wanted to gather the dust of this village path into his two hands, smear it on his face and head and make himself holy and pure. But with Jahangeer lying close by he felt too shy to do it. He said to Jahangeer embarrassedly, Look, Jahangeer, why don't you wash your hands and feet in the water of the tank over there? The dust has covered you up to your chest. You are, however, looking beautiful with this reddish-brown coating of dust. As if you were a homeless baul. He cast an adoring glance at Jahangeer's disheveled hair and dress.

            Jahangeer, however, was looking with fixed eyes at a beautiful blue bird that sat on the branch of an Arjun tree by the tank. He had never before seen such a beautiful bird. He sat up and said; If I stay here for a month, Haroon, I'll truly become a poet. I think I now understand why such great poets as Joydev and Chandidas were born in this region rather than in any other place.

        He lay down again and said: No, my dear, I am not washing off this dust while I am still on the road. This dust of the roads of Bengal, this dust from the feet of the sad suffering travellers of my motherland-if it covered me not merely up to my chest but right up to my head I would consider myself a blessed one. One must not, my dear, wash off the sacred dust in a hurry.

            Casting his glance over the vast sprawling meadow he said: Look, poet, I do no understand much about poetry. I am a rude and rough sort of person. But today looking at this field of yours it seems to me that none of your poets succeeded in writing a better poem than this. Is there anything that can be compared to the poem written on this field in rhythmic lines sometimes in green and sometimes in colours of gold? Can your ink-filled pens produce more crops of flowers than the ploughs of those peasants? Can the greatest poet of your world with all the load of his works stand beside the creation of the unlettered poets of that field?

            Haroon stared wonderingly at Jahangeer. Was this the hardcore realist Jahangeer, the worshipper of the materials tic world? But he did not ask him any question. He had never understood Jahangeer. He didn't today,. either. He said absentmindedly: You are right, my friend. They are the poets of real flowers while we are only poets of words. When we sit in the darkness of our rooms and weave cobwebs of words like spiders they make the whole land full of beauty and colour with their harvest of flowers. All this wealth, beauty and youth of this earth come from their labour.

            Jahangeer said: This makes me think, Haroon. Such power and life-force and yet look at their poor condition! They create happiness for all but for their own part they swim in a sea of pain and misery. They are indifferent to and totally forgetful of themselves. They are not merely poets. Haroon. they are the real men. They are saints who have renounced everything. They deserve to be worshipped.

            Jahangeer lifted his two hands and saluted them reverently. Haroon's eyes again filled with tears of love and regard. Was this the same Jahangeer who had looked like a murderer at daybreak today?

            The two coolies asked them to get up and hurry. Jahangeer stood up and took from the coolies Haroon's bag and his cane box in his own hand and said: Let's go. Haroon, at his wit's end, looked uncomprehendingly at his friend.

            Jahangeer smiled faintly and said: I have done wrong. my friend. by placing one man's load on the head of another man like me. But we have almost arrived at our destination. Can you pay with mere money the price of one's labour or the service rendered by one with his hands? Even if we carry these two men on our heads along with our baggage for the rest of the way our sins will not be expiated ...  Today I have seen a new aspect of the pain of man. What I saw all these days on the pages of books I saw today right before me with my two eyes--

            Haroon did not understand anything. All that he heard and saw from the moment. Jahangeer accompanied him on this trip left him utterly confused. He walked on like a man in a trance.

            They entered the village. passed two or three houses and arrived at the dilapidated thatched home of the Haroon's. As soon as Haroon reached the door of his home his two sisters rushed out and greeted him touching his feet. In the excess of their joy they did not see at first Jahangeer standing behind their brother. When they did they bit their tongue in embarrassment and beat a hasty retreat.

            Haroon opened the door of the outer room of their home and at once started to make Jahangeer's bed on the rickety bedstead standing there, when Jahangeer, looking at his friend, said With a smile: For God's sake, Haroon, don't be so formal and solicitous. I take it for granted that you are a perfect host and a very hospitable person. But; please, go in and first meet your parents and your brother and sisters.

            Haroon was about to leave him smilingly, when his mother with her dress in total disarray came into the room crying loudly: Have you come, my son? Did you bring my palanquin? Have you brought Mina's cycle? Mina will ride his cycle and I my palanquin and we shall go to the graveyard over there. Yes? Mina's cycle! Mina! She threw herself on the ground and began to weep.

            Haroon's mother was insane. Haroon had another brother, older to him by two years. He was called Mina. He passed away when he was only thirteen years old. The mother went crazy after his death. Some time ago the father, too, had an attack of small pox. He somehow survived but lost his two eyes for good and became blind for the rest of his life.

            As he was dying Mina had continuously Cried out in his delirium, I want to ride a cycle. Please buy me a cycle. Please! The poor mother went crazy but was unable to forget the two Words 'Mina' and 'cycle.'

            When Jahangeer thought of how Haroon passed his days with his two sisters, young brother, insane mother and blind father he felt the blood flowing in his veins grow cold. And yet Haroon had never mentioned to him, even once, about his tragic situation.

            Haroon felt ver