(“Sunjuri” is a small fictional town of Assam where the Assam Movement takes place. Anshuman and Sumit talk about the beauty of Sunjuri town. They talk about its future as well, which provokes deep thoughts in them. Sumit is against the movement.)
“Ansuman, I think you feel quite safe with us here,” Sumit said. He felt happy because Ansuman felt quite safe with them at Sunjuri. Ansuman had told him that he had got very hearty reception at their house.
“But our town is small and sleepy and lacks the razzmatazz of Calcutta.”
“It doesn’t matter to me. The importance of a town depends on its people to a great extent. I’ve found its people cultured and sociable. I’ll never forget my journey to Sunjuri, by bus past the hills and the forests, and your interesting introductory speech on the countryside. Sumit, you don’t look that cheerful today. What’s about your article? I saw a fat envelope on the escritoire.”
“The article was returned to me, with a rejection slip just on its receipt. When I receive a rejected article, I read the postmark. I would have felt happy if the article had been accepted. Through this article, I wanted to disseminate some unknown facts to the readers and explode their wrong notions.”
“Most editors don’t give importance to the unknown writers.” Ansuman went to the veranda and sat on the cane chair.
Sumit looked at Ansuman. Among all the amazing things at Sunjuri, Ansuman liked the hills, the sal and teak forests full of deer, wild boar, monkeys, and various kinds of birds. When Sumit went to the veranda, a rickshaw stopped in front of the gate, and Amit carefully got off the rickshaw, with two tote bags.
After Amit had stood on the veranda, a bag in each hand, Ansuman looked in the bags and asked in English, “From market?”
“Yes. From market,” Amit said and went in.
As Ansuman followed Amit, Sumit sat on the cane chair. The sparrows were flying to and fro. A pair of angry sparrows fell to the dust before him, tangling each other in a fight. He did not stretch out his hands to catch them. He enjoyed their fight. The sparrows whirred from the dust to the eaves. They fell to the dust again, made the dust rise and disappeared in it, for a few moments. Dust was a trigger for his allergy. He clapped his hands loud to frighten the sparrows, the sparrows got frightened, flew away to the roof and, within seconds, tumbled into the grass, still fighting. As he went near them, they felt disturbed and whirred past his ears, and went in.
“We call it rui-fish. What do you call it in Assamese?” Ansuman was looking at the big fish.
“Rou-fish,” Amit said.
Sumit lifted the fish by its tail. “We’ll feast tonight. On the occasion of uruka.”
*
Sumit and Ansuman were sitting on murhas in the kitchen garden, basking in the morning sun and sipping tea together with homemade cakes, the lush vegetation in front of them. Every morning, the sun on his back, he tended the vegetation like a sincere cultivator. “This year, I’ve used only organic manure.”
“Inorganic manure is injurious to health.”
“The vegetables, grown with organic manure, are tastier than the vegetables grown with inorganic manure. Nowadays, the greedy cultivators use a lot of inorganic manure.”
Diganta appeared, loudly reciting:
Have you seen a lissom looker?
Have you seen her hazel eyes?
Have you seen her unstudied brows?
Have you seen her bewitching smile?
Have you seen her ample bosom?
Have you seen her slim waist?
Have you seen her uplifted behind?
Have you seen her round thighs?
Have you seen her shapely feet?
Have you seen her smooth and soft hands?
Have you seen her cloud of hair on her fair and bare back?
I know you haven’t seen them,
I know you haven’t seen them
As you haven’t yet seen my sweet love!
“Oh, I’ve just remembered you, Mr Poet!” Sumit said in Assamese joyfully.
“But you couldn’t go to see me after returning from Calcutta,” Diganta said in Assamese, creasing his forehead.
“He’s Ansuman Bose. He’s come to see our State. He speaks Bengali and English,” Sumit said in English.
“Namaskar.” Diganta joined his hands. “Then I’ll speak my English to you.” He smiled wide.
“He’s Diganta Dihingia, my boon companion. I told you a lot about him. He’s just recited his most favourite poem and proved that I didn’t lie to you.” Sumit glanced at Diganta’s bristles and shock of hair. Ansuman hilariously shook hands with Diganta.
*
Sumit, Ansuman and Diganta entered the sitting-room and sat down. “Ansuman, my poet friend is also entangled in an affair, like you. Like your would-be father-in-law, his would-be father-in-law is also playing a villain’s role. I think the man doesn’t understand this genius. Poetry is his only enthusiasm. One day, he’ll become very famous as a poet.” Sumit smiled.
“May I read your poems?” Ansuman looked at Diganta.
“Most of my poems are in Assamese. Only few of them were translated into English. I’ll get the poems translated into English if you’re really interested to read them,” Diganta said.
Ansuman nodded. “I’m really interested!”
“Sumit, now you’ll have to translate all my poems into English.” Diganta squinted at Sumit.
“Don’t have I any other jobs in the world?” Sumit curled up his lips.
“Mr Bose, he can do many things for me. But he won’t.”
“Why?” Ansuman smiled.
“Because he doesn’t want me to become famous.”
“But he’s already praised your poems. He sounds very optimistic about your future too.”
“That’s right. He is my inspirer. He also fights for me when people make ridiculous comments on my poems.”
“A poet understands the subtle nuances of his poems better than his readers. So you better translate your poems yourself.”
“Oh, my English? Only Sumit can understand it. If I translate the poems into English, I’ll show them to Sumit. He’ll write new lines by cutting mine. Why should he double labour?”
Parag Barkataki came in. “Meet me before you leave,” he said to Diganta and left.
“Where will he go?” Diganta asked Sumit.
“Perhaps to the market. He sits there in a bookstall and reads newspapers and magazines,” Diganta said.
“He’s the retired headmaster of Sunjuri English School,” Diganta said to Ansuman.
“Ansuman knows it.” Sumit chuckled.
“When will he return?” Diganta asked.
“Perhaps after two or three hours.” Sumit scratched the right side of his nose.
“Sumit, I gave you a translated poem for correction. I think it’s in the drawer.” Diganta went up to the escritoire and opened the drawer.
“Look in the bottom drawer.” Sumit snapped his fingers.
Diganta found the poem and returned to his seat. “May I recite it?” he said and began to recite:
My love, you’re a golden plant,
You’re my sole soul and can grant
Me the warmth of a thousand springs.
I don’t feel winter despite it flings
Its snow to make me feel cold
And tremble like a man eighty years old.
My love, you, your bright eyes
And smiles that, like flowers, bloom and rise
In my masculine sight
Are my permanent delight.
I long to be by you always,
I long to be by you when the birds return home,
Owls screech and
The sun flays
The Earth with its first rays.
My love, leave me never.
I just want your warm favour.
If you harbour any secret plan to leave
And don’t want to see me in soreness heave
Then
Take my life
And redden
Your whetted knife!
“Who’re your favourite poets?” Ansuman asked.
“Dylan Thomas and Walt Whitman,” Diganta answered.
“Your poems are really interesting.” Ansuman smiled.
“I’ll write more poems and recite them to you. The poets need inspiring listeners.”
“Don’t break this habit, Mr Dihingia,” Ansuman said.
“I’ll break myself before I break this good habit.” Diganta looked pleased with the note of inspiration in Ansuman’s voice, smiled, got up and went in.
“Ansuman, he is totally devoted to poetry. And your appreciation has hugely inspired him,” Sumit said and wiped his lips on the back of his right hand.
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