The spot at which Tamiz’s father stood with the soles of his feet planted in the mud, craning his neck as high as possible, stretching his nerves taut, waving his jet-black arms to dispel the grey clouds, needs to be noted carefully. A long time ago, when, leave alone Tamiz’s father, even his father had not been born, when his grandfather Bhaghar Majhi the boatman’s birth was still a long way in the future, when Baghar Majhi’s grandfather’s father – or was it his grandfather – had barely been born, or not, and even if he had, was only crawling about on the newly-laid earth in the home built by clearing a part of the forest, on one afternoon during those days, while he was speeding towards Kartowa in order to visit the Mahasthan Killa with several of Majnu Shah’s fakirs, Munshi Barkatullah Shah was flung off his horse after being shot dead by Taylor, the commander of British troops. The hole left in his neck by the bullet was never filled. After his death, with a chain around this neck and his body smeared with ash, and holding an iron pan with fish motifs carved on it, he perched on the fig tree on the northern side of the Katlahar Lake. Ever since then, he became the sunlight during the day and spread himself all over the lake, and reigned over the water all night from the fig tree. Hoping to catch a glimpse of him, Tamiz’s father waved his arms to get rid of the clouds in the sky. Which is all very well, but two or two-and-a-quarter years from now, or maybe two-and-a-half or even three, after drowning to death in the quicksand in one corner of the bank recently sprung from the receding waters of the lake, where would Tamiz’s father surface? Who was going to make room for him? The large jackfruit trees had long been cleared out by the fangs of the big flood, and once Sharafat Mandal’s father had set up his brick factory, the remaining trees would also be swallowed by the kiln. What would happen then? Where would Tamiz’s father float up? The lake dried up rapidly, the dry land was cultivated, people built their homes along its perimeter. Would there be room for a large tree anymore? ---------------- [ Starting the most recklessly ambitious translation project of my life. Khwaabnama. By Akhtaruzzaman Elias. ]
Posted on: Mon, 31 Mar 2014 03:52:26 +0000
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