Nikhil Khasnabish

(“The Sympathetic Bricklayer” tells a story about kindness. The main character, a bricklayer from Kerala, is tired after his journey on the Coimbatore Express. During the trip, he argues with a girl. Later, he notices a pregnant woman without a seat. Wanting to help, he gives her his seat and stays awake all night.)

Marconi Munda gave a drag on the biri and dropped it in the railway track before stepping into the train. It was Saraighat Express for Guwahati. He was travelling from Kerala, where he worked as a bricklayer. He was tired when he’d got off Coimbatore Express. At Howrah, he’s eaten rice with bhetki fish stew, mixed dal, and bhaji. He needed to sleep. But he was careful with his bag that contained twelve thousand rupees in cash. Every month he’d sent money to his home at Mazbat in the district of Shonitpur. His parents, his two sisters, and his two brothers worked in Mazbat garden. He did his responsible duties as an eldest son.

      After keeping his bag under his berth—it was a lower berth—he looked at his face in the mirror and combed his hair with his callused fingers. He hadn’t got his hair cut for six months though it was necessary. He used to get his hair cut twice a year. But he never remained unshaven. He took enough care for his moustache he considered as a signature of masculinity. His moustache was neither thick nor thin, and it looked like an ornament to decorate his upper lip. His lips were dark and thick. Now they looked dry too. It was January.

Before sitting down, he glanced at the young beautiful girl and tried to judge if she was the age of his elder sister, for whose wedding he was on the way home. His sister would’ve looked more beautiful than her if she’d been fair-complexioned like her. His sisters couldn’t receive even high-school education because of poverty. With mother, they went to pluck tea leaves in garden, where his grandmother had also worked.

      The young girl was reading The Inner Life by Alberto Moravia. Only twice he’d seen her glance up at him. She was engrossed in the novel. She sometimes smiled to herself, and sometimes moved her lips. Her lips were thin and reddish. She didn’t wear lipstick.

*

When the train, which had started at 4:05 pm, stopped at Burdwan, the girl put the book down on her seat, its spine up. She got up to perhaps to go to the toilet. Her seat was on the lower berth opposite to Marconi’s. Not thinking for even a split second whether the girl would get angry and rebuke him for taking the novel, he took it and skipped over the pages, his left finger as a bookmark between the pages she had read. Before he could return the book to its place, the girl came back and fiercely snatched it out of his hands.

      ‘Why did you take the book from here?’ she asked in Hindi, a hint of rebuke in her voice.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ Marconi said in Hindi, sort of cringing.

      ‘Sorry? What sorry? Tell me why you touched the book. Do you know the language of the book?’

      ‘English.’

      ‘Do you understand English?’

      ‘A little bit.’

      A young couple was sitting on Marconi’s berth. The woman was pregnant. She wanted to lie down. It was apparent that keeping sitting straight troubled her. She’d rested her head on her husband’s right shoulder. Averse to talking to passengers, Marconi didn’t strike up conversation with them too. Listening to the conversation of the couple, Marconi came to know that they were travelling with RAC tickets.

      ‘Where will you go?’ Marconi asked.

      ‘To Guwahati,’ the husband replied.

      ‘Don’t worry. She can use my berth.’ Marconi picked up the paper and went to the sports page. Football news was his preference. He was a footballer and played for their garden in the competitions among the gardens.

      The girl looked up from the novel and asked in English, ‘What do you do for a living?’

      ‘I’m a bricklayer,’ he answered in English, though astonished at the abrupt question.

      ‘You talk English?’

      ‘A little bit.’

      ‘Do you always read English newspapers?’

      ‘I can read Assamese newspapers, Bengali newspapers, and Hindi newspapers.’

      ‘It seems that you’re educated. Why do you then work as a bricklayer?’

      ‘Because I’m educated.’

      ‘Did you want to read The Inner Life?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Why did you take it from here?’ She glanced down at where she’d placed the book.

      ‘I like the smell of a book. I can hear a book’s pages talk to me.’

      ‘You’re a strange man.’

      ‘In this train too everyone is strange. We’re just strangers.’

      ‘You’re talking like a philosopher.’

      ‘I’m also a folksinger.’

       ‘Whatever. But try to know the fact that you can never read English fiction with the knowledge of English, which you have. Did you ever read an English fiction book? Tell me frankly. Don’t lie.’ She turned to the window, tucking her legs under her thighs.

      After returning from the toilet, where he’d smoked a biri, when he picked up the novel from upon her bag, she lost her temper and snatched it out of his hand more fiercely than before. She put it inside her bag.

*

‘May we share our meal with you?’ the pregnant woman asked Marconi.

      ‘No. Thanks.’

      ‘The ability of reading a newspaper and speaking broken English doesn’t mean a person can read an English fiction book. I teach college English. Do you understand?’

      Marconi nodded. ‘Can you listen to me for a few minutes? I’ll speak Hindi. Not my broken English.’

      ‘What do you want to speak about?’

      ‘Just agree to listen.’

      She stared into his eyes.

      With a smile, he wiped his lips, scratched his chin, and began in Hindi, ‘Alberto Moravia, “one of the greatest literary craftsmen”, authored 17 novels and 300 short stories. He is read all over the world and admired as a great writer. So, his departure in his early eighties really made his readers pensive.’ He coughed to clear his throat. ‘He wrote the novels and stories in Italian and reached millions of readers through translations. All through his literary career, Moravia wrote only one play, “Beatrice Cenci”. “The Woman of Rome”, “Two Women”, “Conjugal Love”, and “Command and I will Obey You” are some of his international bestsellers read by many of our country too. I can never forget his novel, La Vita Interiore or The Inner Life in English translation. He wrote this novel when he was a seventy-year-old man. Millions of copies of its first edition were sold just in one week.’ He glanced at The Inner Life in her hand. ‘In The Inner Life, the woman protagonist has unscrupulously described her sexual experiences from her girlhood years to the age of her maturity. Though some critics have opined that this protagonist is a woman, who has concupiscence, I don’t think her so. She’s just a strong woman who knows that she’s modern and doesn’t like to repress her strong sexual desire. She’s a symbolic representative of some Italian middle class women. She’s just the opposite of “the cold and frigid” woman character, Emilia, in another novel, A Ghost at Noon. In The Inner Life, all the characters have behaved in markedly different ways at the time of making love. Their human existence has attained full expression in their individual sexual behaviour. I believe that even a prude can’t contradict Moravia’s words, “each character makes love in a markedly different way as an expression of character”. Proceeding with this observation, he made an astonishing discovery of a new way of expression that the language people think to be a boon to civilization has become tired and inadequate. He found words worn thin from excessive uses. So he put emphasis on the language of body and thought the language of body to be more effective than the language of mouth. He also observed that sex should be the means of communication in stories of love.’

      ‘Did you read The Inner Life?’ The girl continued tapping her index and middle fingers on the novel.

      ‘In The Inner Life, Moravia has visually described the contemporary life of the middle class people in Italy. He hasn’t indulged in eroticism in the novel, as alleged, with the low intention of a pornographer. Those, who wish to underrate this novel and call it to be obscene, should better steer their attention to the society Moravia has depicted. To me, this novel is nothing but a bold criticism of the society by an old writer, who was truly the man of hisepoch.’ He swallowed, wiped the corners of his mouth. ‘Moravia observed the want of privacy in modern life. “The only privacy left is deep inside people and that is sex, the libido.” Some prudes wish to nullify this view, telling that this is the aberration of the genius of Moravia.’ He stood up. ‘Please give me a couple of minutes.’

      After smoking a biri, he returned to his seat and began, ‘Alberto Moravia’s real name was Alberto Pincherle. He was born in Rome in 1907 to an architect father. To materialize his literary ambition, he chose the job of a correspondent, and he thought that being a correspondent he’d be able to gather a body of experiences to build the plots and characters of his novels and stories. So, as a foreign correspondent of La Stampa and Gazetta del Popolo from London and Paris, he wrote his first novel with brandnew experiences in 1925. Though Moravia walked with a limp like Byron, he never wrote poetry. But he was interested in politics. In 1984, he contested election with nomination from the Italian Communist Party and got elected to the European Parliament. To satisfy his wanderlust, he travelled across China and Africa too and became much fascinated by China’s cultural grace and splendour, and by Africa’s geographical diversity and great expanse. Moravia lived in Rome till his last days.’ He looked out of the window while adjusting his muffler to cover his ears. ‘So, without dispute, we may tell that Moravia is not a writer of obscenity, but a great modernist who has presented life like life.’

      ‘Are you really a bricklayer?’

      ‘I don’t tell a lie.’

      After making a bed in the aisle, spreading his newspaper on the floor and then a bedspread on the newspaper, he sat on the bed, leaning against the wall, his right hand on his bag. When the husband of the pregnant woman wanted to know if he’d sleep, Marconi smiled. ‘Though some people complain about interrupted sleep in a train, I don’t do so. I sleep like a baby even in a moving train. The movement of a train gives me the feeling of a hammock. The train noises don’t disturb me.’

      ‘I also sleep like a baby in a moving train. Once I failed to get off at the station of my destination. When I woke up, I found my compartment in a shed about half km away from the station. It happened at Rangia, Assam. Another time, all my belongings were stolen away when I was sleeping,’ the man said.

      ‘I’m sorry. I’ve occupied your berth,’ the woman said.

      ‘Father of ourchurch taught us to love people. And to help them in need. I feel thankful to you for giving me an opportunity to help you.’

      The young girl gifted Marconi with The Inner Life. He opened the book and read Rojina Gohain and the mobile number.

      ‘Is it your name? Is it your number?’

      ‘Yeah.’ She licked her lips. ‘Please tell me why you become a bricklayer.’

      He’d remained an absconder for twelve years and eight months for beating the manager of their garden for raping a girl. He’d failed to take the BA final exams because of that offence. His father had to sell their landed property to settle the case. He was now going home to attend the wedding of his sister and to help his father physically and financially. When a part of him told him not to share those personal details with Rojina, he lifted his eyes from Rojina Gohain and her contact number and looked at her eyes. ‘A man can also become a bricklayer.’ He humbly returned her the book. ‘I read it while in Kerala. Good night.’ He lay down, looked at the woman lying on her left, and shut his eyes to wake up at 6 am.