Ashish Gadnayak
Translated from the Odia by
Supriya Prasanta
Before we left college, Prabir-da had presented me a knife—he had received it from a neighbour who worked in Calcutta, and had brought it from there. Till I took up a job and got married, I treasured it as a memory. After my first child, a son, was born, I kept it safely among the old brass utensils inside a trunk to avoid his attention. One day, I rummaged around in the trunk for it, but in vain. That day, I beat my son black and blue; my wife had to bear the brunt of my outburst that she had completely spoilt him. The knife was lost forever; I still remember Prabir-da though.
Prabir-da—Prabir Chatterjee. His ancestors lived in Calcutta long ago, his family was settled somewhere in Jamshedpur, Bihar. His father was a geologist. As the law and order situation in Bihar was in disarray, a number of students from Bihar flocked to Odisha for higher studies; so did students from the border pockets of Andhra Pradesh and West Bengal. This had also brought Prabir-da to Cuttack and to the same hostel as mine. I did not know why all his acquaintances called him with respect—Prabir-da. Although I was his classmate, I too addressed him, Prabir-da.
Prabir-da and I became fast friends. We shared the rice pancakes and pickles, which my mother sent to me. I enjoyed absolute freedom to help myself with biscuits from the container in his room. Especially memorable was our smoking together. We bought cigarettes on credit from Raju-bhai’s shop at the College Square. True, initially, I was scared to smoke. My head reeled if I drew a single puff. Prabir-da would tell me of his days spent in Bihar, and also of his days in Calcutta. How daring the Bihari boys were; how smart the Calcutta boys! How even little children gulped down bottles of liquor with ease. He had started smoking since he was a high-school student. I didn’t remember a single occasion when he had got himself drunk, though the non-Odia boys had earned a bad reputation in this matter in the hostel.
After we had our meal at the mess routinely at night, Prabir-da would come to my room, all dressed up, or I went up to his room. We would slip some changes into our trouser pockets and go on a stroll to the railway station. The railway station was close to our hostel, less than half a kilometre. Like all Odia boys, I had a habit of going to bed early—before it struck eleven on the clock. I became habitually nocturnal under Prabir-da’s influence. I would sleep through the day and pass the nights awake, smoking and reading desultorily.
We were never rebuffed by the Nepali police on duty at the College Square when we went to the station at night. College students enjoyed some power those days! Initially, we would go to the station, have a cup of tea or smoke cigars or chew paans at shops that remained open the whole night; we would sit on a cement bench in the station and chat for a while, but we made sure that we came back to our hostel before its gates were closed. Gradually, our routine changed. As we became senior in the hostel, we enjoyed greater power, and the hostel gates opened at our will. Returning to hostel before the gates closed no longer bothered us. Occasionally, we would offer one or two cigars to the watch man, who lay half-asleep at the gate—that was the trick.
Trivandrum bound Guwahati Express reached Cuttack at twelve thirty; Tirupati Howrah Express at quarter to one. The moment a train entered the platform, the station would bustle into life. The tea vendors would run carrying their kettles, crying out ‘Tea, tea’. The shopkeepers who would have fallen asleep would wake up and hallucinate ‘paan, cigarette’ in a sleep-laden voice.
Prabir-da would spring from the bench and peep into the compartments bending down at the windows one after another. Coming back to his seat, he would tell me most of the days—‘Brother, what a girl... Ah! You must say! Damn it, an old fellow, he could be her father, sitting next to her, was awake. Otherwise, you know what!’ I can’t recall any occasion when Prabir-da could attempt anything! He would merely stare at girls in that fashion, and remain content with that much and narrate all this to me.
Prabir-da said that more number of girls and more beautiful girls came in Nilachal Express than in Guwahati Trivandrum Express. I could never see this; or may be, I could not distinguish between their quality and quantity.
We got closely acquainted with two people in the station during such nocturnal visits. One was Murari Soren, a night watchman at the station. And the other one was a tea-vendor—Naba. Nabaghana Behera.
Murari Soren was newly married. As he had not been allotted a government quarter, he stayed in a rented house somewhere in Jobra Durga Chowk. His village was near Thakurmunda, Karanjia in Mayurbhanj district. My father had been posted on duty for some time in Baripada; I had heard him mention the names of places such as Rairangpur, Udala, Kaptipada when I stayed with him in Baripada. At our initial conversations, when I came to learn that Murari Soren’s house was near Thakurmunda, I could recall those places. I told him about the Dola festival of Karanjia, and the Uda jars of Thakurmunda. This helped us relate to each other. Sitting on a cement bench of Cuttack railway station, Soren would tell us in supreme enthusiasm—of his shed in some remote village in Thakurmunda, his parents and the paddy fields along the hills; of mahula, bears, snakes, elephants and tigers. He would tell us of the fragrance of kurei flowers on full moon nights. Born and brought up in a city, Prabir-da would drink his words, his mouth agape.
If we had tea at the station, that must be from Naba. We would fall into small talk, while having tea. Naba would say—he had studied up to class four and had learnt the English alphabets. He could not continue his studies despite his wish to pursue it. He was compelled to drop out from school to help his father at the shop. He filled coal in stove, washed tea glasses. All this happened long back. Now, he solely looked after the business. His father was suffering from tuberculosis, he could hardly work. He also had his mother and sister at home; that was his family. A younger brother could have been now ten or twelve, but he was still-born.
Naba would always grieve over the fact that he was unable to save anything. He wanted to set up a small snacks outlet, but he was unable to. His father’s treatment consumed a lot of money; then the responsibility of his sister’s marriage hung over his head. I would wonder—how much profit would he be making—it would be difficult to make ends meet. How much could he save for his sister’s marriage and his own future out of the meagre earning?
Soren would leave for his house before day break after keeping a watch all night. Naba would be sitting on a cement bench, drowsing, till his mother came from home. She would wash the tea-kettle and glasses. If ever we went to the station early in the morning, we would meet her. As college students and acquaintances of his son, she was fond of us. Sometimes, she would make tea for us. She would talk of her household. How in the slum, there would be a long queue in front of the water pipe in the morning, or how was the boy who came to see her daughter the other day, or how Naba was not at all willing to marry though a number of good proposals are coming and all.
After we got to know each other well, she would treat us like her sons. We too started calling her ‘Aunt’. Aunt told me that her cousin lived in some village near ‘our’ Jajpur road. During his daughter’s marriage, her cousin himself came and invited her to the wedding on the day he had come to Cuttack for marriage shopping. She could not go to attend the wedding as Naba’s father was not well. She had deputed Naba to his house with the customary gift of a sari. Tears would pool in her eyes as she told us about Naba’s father’s disease and her daughter’s impending marriage. We liked her; actually, she was endearingly affectionate.
Constable Soren would narrate to us a number of ‘exciting’ incidents of his career. How he had caught a professional pickpocket. How once someone had left a suitcase, which carried a severed head and a blood-soaked spear, but the culprit could not be found; how he caught the thieves who stole coal from trains, and how once a thief had thrown a slab of coal at him which had hit his head and left a four-inch injury. Soren would lift his cap, separate his hair, and show us the scar mark on his head.
Soren told us how a Bengali broker was caught here while trying to traffic six tribal girls by Howrah Express to Calcutta. I was a novice in these matters, and so asked him why was he taking the girls? Soren pressed his lips to betray a smile like policemen; Prabir-da roared into laughter at my foolishness.
‘To sell them.’
I was dumbstruck. Were the girls fish or green that they would be sold in Calcutta? Slave trade? Or what?
‘Eh, stupid. They would have been sold to brothels. They would have become prostitutes. Whatever money they would have earned through trading their bodies, the brothel keepers would have got it. Can’t you see?’ Prabir-da explained this to me. It was not that I was completely ignorant of such matters—however, I had no idea that simple, ordinary tribal girls could become prostitutes. In movies, I had seen beautiful women, their breasts and navel exposed, dancing on the stage in the banquet hall of a hotel. I presumed that they enacted the role of prostitutes—they were basically young, beautiful women adorned in dazzling dresses. They lived in five-star hotels; they drank foreign liquor; and they were skilled in the fine arts of singing and dancing. Prabir-da, on the other hand, was mature; he did not miss the chance, and asked Soren, ‘Well, do prostitutes live here in the neighbourhood of the station?’
Soren kept quiet. I was stunned—‘Here?’
‘They crowd our Tata station. And what would I say of Calcutta? You just have to throw five rupees,’—quipped Prabir-da.
Perhaps Soren could not stand the boastfulness of a non-Odia; he blurted out—‘Who told you they aren’t here? Ah, you’ve everything only in your Calcutta and Tata. We’ve nothing to offer!’
‘Here?’ I asked in astonishment.
Prabir-da would say—Flesh trade usually took place in shadowy, dark corners of railway stations, or in slums which rise in its neighbourhood. Prostitutes never come out in daylight. Pimps would roam over places on their behalf in search of customers; after the bargain, they would lead customers to the spot—a dark corner of a house or a hut in a slum where a prostitute would be waiting. The pimps took a good share of the deal.
Prostitutes and pimps were afraid of the police to death. Those who worked in big hotels would bribe the police. However, those who lived in slums would not be able to do this—whenever they were caught, they would be sent to jail. Another important thing about them was the petty pimps don’t call out loudly to hook customers nor do they say anything explicitly. The seasoned customer would recognise them—they would be quiet, roaming alone. They would move about without any purpose, like thieves they would look here and there furtively.
Prabir-da would tell me how once while on board from Calcutta to Tata, he sat next to a prostitute, who went into the toilet with an old man and came out of it after half an hour while the train took on speed. On another occasion, while waiting for the next train at midnight, a pimp had invited him to his house for a casual visit to while away time. He had offered him a chair in his room, and left him there saying he would be back in a moment. After a while, a prostitute arrived there. She tried to seduce him through caressing words, sitting close to him; Prabir-da made the excuse of going out for making water, and escaped. He told me about one or two such experiences. After saying this, he would smile an all-knowing smile. He would swell his chest in pride.
I would express my sadness over lack of such novel experiences and confide in him that I desperately wanted to see a prostitute.
Prabir-da would say—‘All right, we’ll try. If it were our Calcutta or Tata, I’d have shown you one anytime you liked. Here it might take a little time.’ Nevertheless, Prabir-da promised me to show me a prostitute. We fell back upon his immense firsthand knowledge and set out on our mission. Now on, this became the major attraction behind our trips to the station at night. Initially, according to Prabir-da’s plan, we dogged some people who we suspected as pimps. One day, at a quiet place, we came across two men arguing over something in a low voice. One was wrapped in a lungi, the other was in a suit. Prabir-da winked. He whispered in my ears—‘Look, that man in lungi is a pimp. He’s busy bargaining with a customer.’
After a while, those two men started walking. We followed them quietly so as not to raise any suspicion. They came out of the station, and the man in suit got on a rickshaw, and the other one lit a cigar, sucked the smoke in, and started pedalling the rickshaw.
We could not proceed further; we did not have a cycle or some other bike with us. That rickshaw ran some way on the road towards Sikharpur before disappearing in the darkness. We returned to hostel despondently. On our way, Prabir-da said—‘These people certainly have a big gang. Otherwise, would they arrange to take their customers on a rickshaw!’ Whatever, we did not succeed to reach near a prostitute by following pimps. Though we tried hard, we could never follow some of them to the end, and if ever we did, we realised that he was not a pimp.
Prabir-da thought deeply and proposed that we should go and search near possible places of brothels. I was scared as natural, but at the same time I was so intensely curious that I agreed to his every proposal. Prabir-da would remark—‘In our place, people would laugh at you that you haven’t seen a prostitute even though you’re a college student. What’s the value of living in a city like Cuttack without knowledge of such things!’ I also realised the truth in his words.
My elder brother had bought an imported torch when he was in college. When I went to college, I acquired it as an inheritance; Prabir-da had that knife made in Japan, which he had gifted me. I had presented him the torch before we left college. We would go on our operation armed with the torch and knife. Prabir-da would lead, torch in hand. He asked me to keep the knife in my pocket, but I did not. I had more faith in him than in myself in such matters. I believed if the need arose, my friend would utilise the small weapon effectively. In the station, freight trains stood in row in the dark. Here and there lay broken, empty bogeys. As Prabir-da would have it, we would stealthily go and look into the empty bogeys of freight trains. We would eavesdrop to catch a hint of sound from inside the closed bogeys. We would throw torch light at the bottom of heaps of coal. We endured much pain in the process. On some days, we would crawl under a bogey; on other occasions, we would jump over them. When we returned, our shirts and trousers would be filled with coal dust. Still, I could not have a glimpse of my desired sight, nor could Prabir-da show me one.
I would hope against hope that while tiptoeing in dark, one day for sure our torch light would fall on the very spot—where a drunken man would have bent on a naked, beautiful young woman—‘Prostitute’! We wasted a lot of time, searching inside dark godowns, beneath freight trains, inside bogeys, on heaps of coal, and amidst overgrown creepers on railway tracks, but without success. Only once, the moment our torch light fell on a heap of coal on a bogey, two people got up stumbling and ran away so fast that we could merely perceive two shadows and nothing else. When we went closer, we spotted a dirty towels and an empty bamboo basket lying on the heap of coal.
‘Rogues! Coal thieves.’ Prabir-da exclaimed. Even then my heart raced.
Now Prabir-da planned to shift our search location to the slums nearby the station. We had to take that risk; we would certainly succeed there—that was his firm belief. I had no option but to acquiesce. On the first day, we went there in the evening and returned with an idea of its roads. Later, we had our meal at night, smoked two cigarettes at the station, and filled some more in our pockets, and entered the slum around half past eleven at night. We had the torch with us. And the knife, too, for emergency. Two, three stray dogs barked at our footsteps, and came menacing towards us. We quietened the dogs with great difficulty, and had proceeded a little on our way when our eyes fell on a man coming from the opposite side. The man was pitch dark and stout; he wore only a lungi; he kept turning and looking at us even after he had crossed us. After a while, I felt somebody was following us, I could hear the sound of footsteps. I looked at Prabir-da, and could assume from his expression he also suspected the same. In no time, we could see the same dark, stout man following us. We halted at a spacious space like a square in order not to arouse any suspicion. After some time, that man emerged from the hazy darkness, and reached there, and asked us intimidatingly—‘Where’re you going?’ Prabir-da asked him if he could tell us the way to the College Square, and how to proceed from there without the slightest hint of fear as though he was a newcomer in the city who had just stepped down from a train. The man could perhaps see through our trick—he stared hard at us, but then said—‘Go straight, and then turn left; after a few wards, you would reach a square; take the road on its right—you’ll reach College Square.’ The man didn’t budge from the spot even after telling us the way; he waited till we left. We could not gather courage to enter the slum again after this incident. The slum-dwellers in Cuttack held great unity among themselves; if they targeted any outsider, they gave him such a thrash that it became impossible to escape with one’s life. All the plans of Prabir-da were doomed to failure one after another. I was beginning to lose my faith in Prabir-da. I could sense that Prabir-da felt ashamed of himself. He had told me earlier of his immense experience in such matters—now that his plans did not work out, he felt uncomfortable as his own words were proving false. At last, one day, Prabir-da shared our problem with constable Soren; I took the chance to express my eagerness. Soren laughed hearing us out—‘Eh, a prostitute? Is she a sight that you would go to see her? She doesn’t look any different from a normal woman. Why are you so eager to see a prostitute, then?’ I was really eager, and hence, adamant. Prabir-da, too, requested him on my behalf. ‘Who would come here just because you want to see her! Nor could I take you to somebody and say, he just wanted to have a glimpse of you! You would pay for it— five or ten rupees, whatever. Why then would you only see...?’ Soren tittered, looking at me. I turned to Prabir-da—whatever he would decide. He thought for a while and said—‘All right.’
‘All right?’ I started. He pulled me towards him and said in a low voice—‘Why do you panic? You’re a man! Do whatever you like. Just talk to her and come back if you like. It’s a matter of five or ten rupees.’ ‘What should we do?,’ asked Prabir-da to Soren.
‘Ask this tea-vendor Nabaghana. He can fix it easily. He belongs to this locality, right?’ ‘No, no,’ I protested. ‘We won’t ask Naba. What impression would he have—such rogues—college students and engaged in these things! He wouldn’t understand our real motif... And then, there’s Aunt. If she came to learn of this...No, let’s think of someone else.’ Soren laughed at my words. Perhaps, he took me as a coward—well, he had not seen me giving speeches before an applauding crowd, nor did he know about the achievements of my ancestors! All the same, we reached the station at the exact time Soren had asked us to. He told us to wait, and called a middle-aged banana-vendor. I must have seen him a number of times before, but I never had any curiosity about him. Soren spoke to the banana-vendor in a low voice; he turned and laughed at us, and nodded his head as though he figured everything out. He came to us and asked—‘Both of you’ll go?’ Prabir-da pushed me to the front—‘No, only he’ll go.’
‘All right, come. I leave my basket here. Please watch over it.’ The banana-vendor asked me and Soren respectively.
‘It’s no time for arrival of any train, don’t worry,’ said Soren, and grinned looking at me—‘Come back without delay...right?’ I nodded, perhaps, in affirmation. Prabir-da came close to me and whispered in my ears—‘Best of luck, buddy. Don’t be nervous. What’s there to be nervous about?’ Why did his voice tremble then? I came out of the station with the banana-vendor; we strode on the main road before taking a narrow lane. I was till that moment intoxicated by a dark passion. We were excited at the prospect after the miserable failure of all our endeavours. But my heart began to palpitate as the actual moment approached. If somebody saw me! If he knew that I was a college student. It might get publicised in the college. Would I be able to walk with my head high after this? Would I not commit suicide? If the police came to know this, if I got caught, it would be even more horrible. Everybody will come to know about it; tomorrow’s newspapers would carry the news—the student of a renowned college of Odisha got arrested from a brothel! It has come to knowledge that he is the middle son of X, and the grandson of Y. Such ominous thoughts crossed my mind, and I tried hard to ignore these. Prabir-da had warned me before I came—‘Mark the roads carefully.’ I should at no cost forget my way back from there! Now that I had come this far, I would not go back. I would face the consequences. Let me see what happens—I would have an experience. At this age, boys get involved in so many things—I would only see a prostitute; at most, I might exchange a few words with her. Only for once—a matter of half-an-hour. I firmed my mind. I made an effort to feel relaxed through such thoughts.
We had entered yet another lane, and then another. Foul smell emanated from drains on both sides. Some times the drain water had flown over to the road. Here and there stood trolleys meant for selling street food, wheeled ice-cream boxes. We walked on cautiously in the torchlight—the banana-vendor held Soren’s torch. My pencil torch was in my pocket, kept for my return journey. The banana-vendor negotiated the roads like someone who was accustomed to this place. I followed him. We did not exchange any word. In the area through which we passed, rows of huts huddled on both sides. Outside, there was no light. Some houses were completely dark. From inside some houses, flickers of light came from chinks of tin or wooden doors. Suddenly, the banana-vendor halted with a start. I was startled, too—‘A snake!’ That reptile of about one-and-half-feet crossed the road, and vanished in the dark waters of the drain. Its tail blazed in the torch light.
‘Don’t be afraid, brother. It’s a harmless snake.’ He resumed walking. Fear had set in my mind. When I walked, pieces of papers, dry leaves that came under my feet—all seemed like some reptile; I would shiver at their touch. Suddenly, a herd of dogs wailed strangely in a distance which came in wave after wave. Dogs did wail in such manner! The banana-vendor asked me to wait at a distance and stopped and knocked on the tin door of a hut. After some time, the door opened slightly with a cringe. The banana-vendor had a word with someone, and then the door closed and he returned. He banged on another door, though it did not open, the response came in a nasal tone of voice from inside, and the banana-vendor came back from there. Again, after walking some distance, the banana-vendor tapped on a tin door, and it opened after some time. The person who had opened the door did not come out though. They argued over something. After two minutes, the banana-vendor came to me and said—‘She wants nine rupees.’ I did not have change with me; I brought out a ten rupees note and offered him. Two more ten rupee notes were kept carefully in the folds of my full-sleeve shirt. Prabir-da had told me to do this. He had counselled me—‘Prostitutes would talk to you coquettishly, and pickpocket you without your knowing it. You would not have a single rupee for a smoke while on your way back.’ The banana-vendor came back and said—‘You may go inside. You needn’t give her any money. I keep one rupee as tips.’ The tin door was still open; inside, it was pitch dark. The banana-vendor showed me the way by torch light; he advised me to close the door from inside. The inside grew even darker after I closed the door, and I stood quietly in the darkness. Where did she go who was here? At this time, the sound of coughing came from a side. Who was coughing? The sound of lighting a matchstick followed, and a glimmer of light was seen. The light became steady in a little while. I could see in that light—I was in a small room. In fact, it was a portion of a large room which had been partitioned into three compartments by the help of two bamboo mattresses. Three compartments—the sound of someone coughing came from one, the light came from another, and I stood in another compartment. And then I heard what I guessed was the sound of opening a tin box and shutting it after some time. I stood quietly in the faint light that spit from the other room. It was not the time for the arrival of any train. No truck plied on the highway. A dog barked somewhere in the distance; the sound of breathing drifted in from a room. Someone was asleep. Everything else was quiet. I should not be nervous now—I kept telling this to myself. And yet, my heart pounded; I could feel my throat growing dry.
‘Why do you stand there? Come here!’ Somebody said this to me. I was taken aback— she was calling me to go to the other side. I was not myself. I moved as though I was in a trance. A passage lay between the two compartments without any door; the moment I stepped in, I started again—‘Prostitute!’ A shiver went down my spine. A woman was arranging the bed. It was a small room— a bed, and two, three broken trunks, and other stuffs underneath. In a corner, an earthen pitcher and a flattened aluminium glass. The flickering dibi was kept in the opposite corner. I could faintly see the woman who was arranging the bed, and her shadow dancing on the wall in the light of the shivering flame. Everything seemed supernatural. I stood silently, and some time passed. I could not see the woman properly although I desperately wanted to. I don’t know why, I could not look straight at her. I would raise my eyes but would lower them again. I sought to form an impression of her figure from the glimpse I had of her while entering the room. The woman was rather fat. She was not at all fair. She wore a sari in a normal fashion. I could not recall anything else in that feeble light. This, after all, was a prostitute! Was she a prostitute or her guardian, like it is shown in movies? What I had gathered, somebody with a figure like her could never be a prostitute. Then, where was she? In the other room? I could hear some sound, but I did not know how to strike a conversation.
‘Why are you still standing there? Sit down on the bed’— said she. Her voice made me start, and I looked up at her. She had arranged the bed and stood there. The light from the dibi fell straight on her face. Aunt! Nabaghana’s mother! I fell from the sky. It seemed as though something broke inside my chest. As though a heavy electric shock hit me; a tremor passed through my body. Oh, one had to face such astounding situation! I was not dreaming, was I? I looked at her carefully. Perhaps, it was not her, but someone who resembled her. No, she was indeed Aunt.
She doesn’t recognise me? She might have long-sightedness, she must have crossed forty. That’s great. Luckily, I haven’t spoken to her. Otherwise, she could have identified me from my voice. Had she recognised me, she could not have uttered a word. Her eyes would have rolled up. An idea occurred to me—before she could recognise me, let me run out of here. She would think that a mad man had come and fled. At this time, someone tapped on the door.
‘Come after an hour or so.’ Aunt shouted from there. Her voice, her obese body—how strange everything about her seemed. Fat and slag belly; thinning, grey hair; dry palms and nails; sunken cheeks, darkened teeth and lips. I had never noticed all this before; I could never notice all this before. She was to us like an aunt. That was it. And now in this dim light, my eyes could scan this all! I was planning to run out of the room before the prostitute came, all decked up, or at the call of Aunt; thus I was making up my mind, at that moment, Aunt said—‘Where’s the other boy? Haven’t you come together?’ I felt stunned for the second time. It seemed as though blood stopped flowing through my veins; my heart became still. I did not think I could ever stand before her with self-respect even after hundreds of birth. I felt there would not be a place in the whole world where I could hide my face.
Aunt has recognised me. She has recognised me from the beginning, and she doesn’t tell me anything nor does she ask me anything. Does she think I have just come to her place on a casual visit? I don’t have any other intention; I never had any intention! I remembered two years back I had narrowly escaped from a fatal accident on our way to college picnic. I had thought of committing suicide after seeing the girl whom I loved silently for a long time with another man; my mother often said how in my childhood I almost drowned while taking bath in the village river. How I wished I had died earlier. I felt it was a folly I had not ended my life…Oh, I would not have to see this day.
Aunt left me even more surprised when she unwind her sari, and hung it on a rope tied on the wall. She came to the bed, and untying her petticoat called me without hesitation, ‘Come, dear. You saw how a scoundrel already knocked at the door; he would be back soon. Come...’ Easy and natural—her voice was so unwavering—it was like my mother calling me after she served me rice—Come dear, have your meal! Come.’
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