A Non-sense Novelette
Chapter 7
The Making of a Poet
The day came when Chandu’s first poem was published in the college magazine, when the editor in charge finally succumbed to Chandu’s lines.
In the next evening session at Chung Wah, a euphoric Chandu took the printed magazine and reverently laid it down at the feet of his mentor. In a rare display of affection, Paharida ruffled his hair and smiled saying, “it was due, Chandu,” turned his gaze at Chandu’s profile and hurried to the toilet to wash his hands.
Armed with a beatific smile Paharida quickly scanned the magazine and halted at Chandu’s page of glory. He flinched while drowning his first peg, it was a strong punch, the cocktail of whisky and the author’s name and muttered, “I know, I know, it’s an ancestral name you can’t change. But still…”
And then came the hiccup. Paharida’s eyes bulged out like those of an in-heat croaking frog’s, while he hurriedly gulped down two pieces of kebab, and croaked, “These lines, I have seen them before.” Chandu winced though he was half expecting this.
“You have copied these lines.”
“Yes,” replied Chandu. The pupil was picking up the tricks of the trade.
“You have copied them from… Now wait! Don’t tell me. I will tell you. Just order the next round.”
Chandu sipped and waited, though he had no doubts that the great man, his mentor, would in no time let cat out of the bag.
Paharida pondered for what seemed ages with a wrinkled frown and then broke into a gentle amile. “Jibanananda Das. You have copied it from Jibanananda.”
“No, I have copied it from you.”
The bonhomie that had so pleasantly settled in, received a minor jolt.
“This is not right, my boy. This is unethical, not done. This is known as cross copy. And remember, never pinch my lines, my boy. Your readers may not have read Jibanananda, but rest assured, they remember my lines.”
“But you have made a good start,” Paharida conceded. “Remember, always avoid two persons when you decide to sneak and snoop. Me and Rabindranath Thakur.”
“Kabiguru?”
“Yes. Obscure Bengalis in obscure parts of the planet memorize and quote his most obtuse lines. For what purpose, I am not sure, but avoid these lines like red hot coal. Now that you have started, let’s give some serious thought to your name. meanwhile give your heart and soul to some serious original writing.”
“Let me remind you once again. Never try to get fresh with Rabindranath or me. Readers will tear you into shreds. In no time you will be a dead vulture.”
Chandu was not too perturbed while tottering down to his lodging quarters. He had never seen dead vultures. Dead cows, yes! However much you tried to do away with vultures they always returned to the next dead cow. Vultures don’t die.
Lines flowed more easily now and in the next session Paharida reopened the grave issue of the author’s name.
“Don’t fret, my boy. If you are non-padhyay you can’t do much about it. I have come up with a beautiful solution.”
“The only solution,” continued Paharida, “is to become a Ghosh. Ghosh have over the years created a big niche in the Bengali literary world, and all ‘Ghosh’ I believe have a long association with cows, milk and dairy products. Your father should have no objection to your surname being changed to Ghosh. So get set my boy for an affidavit to switch over from Goyala to Ghosh?”
Chandu was quick to point out the demerits, “Won’t do, Paharida. My father’s strongest rival in the milk industry in the district is Balaram Ghosh. My father would surely disinherit me if I ventured in this attempt?”
The answer, when it came, was simple, thanks to the brilliance of Paharida’s serpentine mind. Rupchand Goyala was christened Srirup*, a name that in near future would be reckoned as one of leading poets in Bengal.
“Srirup is a good catchy name and will fire people’s imagination,” elaborated Paharida. “The only hitch in the name is in its implication of a pleasing beautiful appearance. However, as readers will not come face to face with you, we will ignore this aspect. Now concentrate on your work. What are you reading nowadays? If you don’t read you can’t write.”
“Jibanananda.”
“Why so..?”
“Even you purloined from him…”
“Ah! All right. But get out of closed doors. Cross borders and smuggle through frontiers. You know English?” Paharida was never in doubt, but wanted to be sure about the pupil he was grooming.
“Yes. I am studying B.Com. and English is one of the subjects,” Chandu was proud of his achievements.
“Right. You have been doing that for a long time now. Switch over to the English world. That’s a mine and there are enough gems to be picked up from for anybody who wants to. You know Wordsworth?”
“No. Never met him.”
“No? God bless you! I don’t think he has met you either. May his soul rest in peace. Go to the second-hand book shops in College Street and buy all Wordsworth and non-Wordsworth you can and browse.”
The sessions continued, but the student was yet to graduate.
“Now this mist and fog in the Thames won’t do. Bring Wordsworth to Bengal. Think of your own village. You have rowed a country boat?”
“No. there are no rivers in or near my village. I have been on a steamer once though.”
“You must know how to swim?” queried Paharida.
“No. The parrot predicated death by drowning.”
“Are you drunk? What parrot!” Paharida was at a complete loss.
Chandu elaborated, “When I was a small kid, my father took me to an astrologer who predicted the future with the help of his parrot with supernatural powers. We were told that a major catastrophe awaited me in the form of drowning and from then on I have avoiding all tanks and rivers.”
Paharida was not easily pacified, “And I can see the catastrophe. You are drowning in whisky. Now listen carefully—a good theme in Bengali poem is rowing across the river to the unknown. What is ujane by the by?”
“I don’t know.”
“Neither do I. But all poets tend to row ujane. Must be upstream. So row upstream and go to the unknown. A mysterious lady may be waiting for you. Bring in kashful. You are a village boy. Tell me about Kas”
“Kash?” Chandu livened up to the subject he was well familiar with. “Of course, I know Kash. It is a menace. Every year my father has to spend a lot of labour and money to weed them out from paddy fields, but they keep sprouting up.”
The strain of churning out a poet out of a village rustic was becoming too much for Paharida, particularly because he was totally unaware of the mundane aspects of Kash.
“Kash is Bibhutibhusan, Kash is Pather Panchali,” exploded Paharida and then calmed down. “OK, forget kash. Close your eyes and dream. Let your mind wander like a poet’s. What is the mind craving for?”
There was no hesitation in Chandu’s prompt reply, “mutton biriyani.”
“Forget mutton biriyani. No, don’t forget. Order two plates and then dream about the unseen lady love waiting for you in the coconut groves beyond the river. Go upstream alright, tell me about your past amorous adventures and love life.”
“Nani!”
Paharida’s bushy white eyebrows shot upwards at the pronouncement of what appeared to be another of those diary products.
“Nanibala Ghosh. The only daughter of my father’s greatest trade rival,” Chandu’s face lighted up.
“Good. I can see a great Bengali tragedy in the making in its glorious tradition. Describe Nanibala.”
“Large eyes, large udders,” Chandu’s hides gave a bovine ripple while his mind actually wandered to the fodder strewn dark corner of the Ghosh’s cattle shed, “Like a well fed New Jersey.”
For some unfathomable reason Paharida raised anchor and removed himself, casting aside the biriyani, the whisky and Chandu and lumbered on upstream. Tutoring was having its toll on the the tutor.
(To be continued)
