The Sea Ahead & other short stories

By Suchitra Bhattacharya

A collection of short vignettes, often just half-page long, including The Death of the Reader, The Tailor and Duet Dreams.
Short, concise and with a punch, these stories are those rarely captured small incidents, brief encounters and a subtle change of mood which we forget to observe and enjoy in the rush of life. Giving shape to his experiences derived as a sharp observer of life, these stories are colourful and full of life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Srishti Publishers
• Release date: Dec 10, 2017

Book preview

The Sea Ahead

& other short stories

by Suchitra Bhattacharya

Edited & Translated by

Mridula Nath Chakraborty & Dr. Rani Ray

SRISHTI

Publishers & Distributors

Srishti Publishers & Distributors

Registered Office: N-16, C.R. Park

New Delhi – 110 019

Corporate Office: 212A, Peacock Lane

Shahpur Jat, New Delhi – 110 049

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This eBook edition has been extracted from A Treasury of Bangla Stories

First published by

Srishti Publishers & Distributors in 1999

First published digitally by

Srishti Publishers & Distributors in 2017

Copyright © Srishti Publishers & Distributors 1999

Copyright © for the original language is held by author.

Copyright © for the English translation rest with Srishti Publishers & Distributors.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the permission of the publisher.

SUCHITRA BHATTACHARYA (1950)

Suchitra Bhattacharya writes novels, short stories and other features in Bangla and contributes to most of the leading magazines of West Bengal. She received the Nanjanagudu Thirumalamba Award for her novel Dahan in 1996. In 1997, she received the Indu Bose Smriti Sahitya Award. Her novels include Aami Raikishori, Bhangankal and Kachher Manush. She also has to her credit three collections of short fiction. A graduate of Calcutta University, she is presently an officer for the West Bengal Government.

She is interested in women’s existence in contemporary Bengal, in their various problems and anxieties. And she turns her authorial gaze again and again to the multi-dimensional aspect of man-woman relationship with its complex undertones.

T

he Sown

translated by Mridula Nath Chakraborty

Just as the essence, the core, the heart of clay dries, burns, and finally bursts in the intense heat of the kiln, Goljaan Bibi’s heart was burning to ashes day by day. Not bibi actually, but bewa.

Goljaan s burnt heart had turned coal black long back. It burnt day and night in the heat of doubt and of suspicion. It burnt in the heat of her body. It has been burning since the day when the man of the house went off to sleep under the earth. At that time she had two teeny weeny young saplings in her lap. Just about raising their heads in this world. Since then, she has clung to them within the folds of her heart. In the constant fear that now one of them would be trampled, the other crushed.

As she thought, Goljaan Bibi casually touched her son sleeping next to her. The tiny room with its barred door was pitch dark in the middle of the night. In the darkness, it is impossible to see her own hands and feet, leave alone that of her son. But she can clearly distinguish the sounds. The sound of loved ones. The daughter lay next to the son, and by the far end of the wall, pushed against the straw paddy storage, Maa Budi. The old mother, Aatar Jaan.

Maa Budi’s voice quakes in the dark. O Goljaan, are you asleep?

Goljaan heaves a deep sigh. Nah! I am awake. When do I sleep these days?

This year has been humid even before the coming of Jashti, na?

Huhn. Jashti’s humidity melts in Ashadh. Seems this year, the skies will really open up.

Hai re Allah! Then you won’t be able to sow the crop! It’ll all be swept away in water!

Yes.

Goljaan shuts her eyes. In the dark, it is the same whether you open your eyes or shut them. Even so, better shut them.

Maa Budi calls again. O Goljaan, what have you decided?

What about?

I’m talking ‘about your daughter’s marriage. Don’t refuse. Fix it.

Na-ah. Goljaan’s voice is hard. Can’t accept their demands.

Why? Aatar Budi’s voice too was pungent. Will you get such a match even if you beat your forehead? They want to take our Aasmaan as their bau without any dowry. Not even a blind cowrie.

I know. Instead, they’ll give silver earrings, anklets, bangles. Even a gold nosepin. And whatever else is needed. Sari, blouse, rupees ...

Then? Budi’s throat quavers with emotion. All this is His munificnece, re Goljaan! He’s sent these people to remove your sorrows.

In the dark, Goljaan gropes for the palm-leaf fan. Her back was itching with prickly heat. She scratches them for a while. Then clearing her throat, she says, I know all of that, Maa. But I’ll’never allow them to raise a house on my land. I’ve kept this land carefully for such a long time.

Lo! Even if they do, it’ll belong to your biti and damat. Why do you object?

How was one to explain to Maa Budi where the objection was? Goljaan Bewa turned away soundlessly. Ershad Ali’s words had been like a dream-come-true till yesterday. Unreal, but still one hoped. The girl had recently sprouted branches, but the bud was yet to flower. She would have to be given away any day now. Ershad had arrived with the proposal even before she’d thought of it. On his own. Initially, Goljaan had obviously been a little suspicious. Not only suspicious, but fearful.

Naa Baapu, Won’t have anything to do with those Hindustanis¹. My body shivers when I see foreigners: I won’t agree.

Ershad Ali had laughed. Dur, Are you crazy? Are they foreigners any longer? At one time, their home was in Bihar, or someplace. That’s all. Now they are fully Calcuttans, having lived there for so long. They have a pucca house, with a tiled roof in Entili Bajaar.They have five or six houses all over the place. Aasmaan will reign like a queen there.

I don’t care. I don’t understand a word of Hindi.

Now listen to her! They speak better Bangla than you. The way they talk in the city.

Goljaan had swallowed hard at that. For all she cared, the city may be Calcutta and not some town in Bihar. It was foreign land all the same. She’d been there only once in her life. Right after her marriage. With Aasmaan’s Baajaan. To watch the Moharram procession. Hai go maa! Such huge houses! And the crowds! Ershad Ali went to