An English translation of সিহতেও পাহাৰ বগালে They too went up the hill. Original Assamese story by: Saurabh Kumar Chaliha (সিহঁতেও পাহাৰ বগালে) “What light is that in the distance?” “Those are fire-lit torches. That’s a Khasi village; it’s called Smit or something like that. Maybe Laitkor. Or Lum Syiem.” “You are not sure, are you?” ‘It’s been such a long time. I have forgotten.” “What’s going on there?” “This is one of their festival nights.” “Nongkrem dance?” “This isn’t possibly the time for Nongkrem dance. More likely it’s Shad Suk Mynsiem. Or maybe some other festival.” “And that sound, what is that?” “Those are dhols, a kind of local drum, – and you can also faintly hear their flutes and if you listen carefully, there …Those are the strains from a song and can you hear that…That’s someone strumming a guitar.” “Are you sure that’s a guitar?” “Or maybe it’s the Duitara, a Khasi two-stringed instrument. They sound very much like Spanish Guitars.” “Whatever it is, it sounds so beautiful from the distance.” “And look at those tiny dots of light from the torches; don’t they look enchanting from the distance amid the surrounding darkness? If you climb a little higher you would see under your feet dots and dots of light, millions of them, far in the distance.” “And what would be those?” “That would be Shillong.” “Do you know everything about this hill, what are the things you can find in it and where? How does one go to that village down there, do you know?” “No, I don’t know everything. Maybe a little,” “Is this the hill you wrote to me about? Is this where you came trekking and climbing all by yourself?” “Yes, this is the one. This is where I used to come for a climb, when I missed you a lot. At first, when it all started, I wasn’t alone. In those days Bibha, Nibha etc also would come with me for a walk. We used to come here very early in the mornings in those days. As days went by I had come to know the hill quite well myself.” “And Bibha, Nibha and all the others, they must have been quite young at that time, surely?” “Yes, quite young. Maybe six or eight at the most. They all would be quite grownup by now. After all, that was five years ago. Are you tired?” “No, not at all.” “Do you think you can climb some more? Do you feel like it?” “Sure. I can climb some more. And I also want to look down on those lights of Shillong that you keep talking about.” “You know something? Every time I come up this hill, I remember a story I had read a long time ago, I don’t remember the story any more, only its name. It was called ‘They went up the hill’.” “’They went up the hill’. What a lovely name.” “And whenever I remembered that story, I thought of you. I thought that you and I too would climb the hills one day, climb the highest, and the darkest of them. I never imagined that it would really happen to me one day.” “But today here I am, climbing the hill together with you …” “Yes, but even now I can’t somehow believe that we two are really climbing the hill like this. But then climbing the hill is not all that I want; you see, only the hill is not enough. The hill would be incomplete without you. I want the hill and I also want you on it. The way I want the rocks, the stones, the streams, the grass and the pine trees along with the hill.” “And the hill is now yours, so are its streams, its pine trees, its rocks.” “Yes, one of my wishes has come true today.” “And the other wishes?” “I have only one but don’t dare make that wish any more, a wish I had made five years ago. Even now I am tempted to make that wish sometimes, but I don’t dare any more, I feel I don’t have the right… Have you seen anything?” “No, what?” “Maybe because it is getting dark. It must be becoming difficult to make out things. And a little later there will be a thick fog all around to make things even worse. Can you hear the crunch of stones under your feet?” “Yes, I can.” ‘And the wind whistling through the pine trees?” “Hmm, yes.” “And that chirping of cicadas out there somewhere?” “Are those cicadas chirping?” “I am not too sure, but very likely those are cicadas.” “Anyway, I have heard them too.” “Talking of cicadas I remember another book. A book of Japanese poems. ‘The full moon and the chirping cicadas.’ But there is no moon tonight in the sky. Only stars. ” “‘Full moon and chirping cicadas’. What a lovely name. You must have read a lot of things!” “And written a lot too. Do you remember my letters from five years ago? How I sometimes used to rush out from home and come to Shillong seemingly to visit my aunt but kept thinking only of you?” “Yes, I remember. I even remember your words … you are sitting on top of a rock on the hill before dusk begins to fall. Down below in the distance a brook is streaming by like a gleaming strand of thick thread, its soft gargle wafting up the hill to fill the silent, lonely evening ; you keep sitting there for hours and hours, without any sign of life , except for the occasional Khasi lumber suddenly coming out of a bend in the hill and, walk down the twisting road with a load of firewood on his back, passing you as he goes, to disappear from view somewhere down the road – and over the hill, the stream, the pine trees and over you, with all your thoughts and desires, the wind is blowing and whistling and whining , ruffling your hair as it goes and making a mess of the muffler around your neck, and pulling it out this way and that… ” “Yes, you remember alright. Those thoughts and desires have not died out but the courage to act on them is now lacking and I really feel I do not have the right. Are you feeling cold?” “No. The wind is not cold, quite bracing in fact. Did you bring your muffler with you?” “Yes, I did. Isn’t it slightly chilly? Don’t you think you should have my overcoat at least?” “No. I am fine, thank you. And yes, I too have heard the crunch of stones and the squeak of grass under your boots. Would the grass still make those sounds when the fog covers them in the night?” “No, there won’t be any sound then in the night. By the way, have you heard about U Soso Tham?” “U Soso Tham? No, I haven’t. Is that a Khasi name?” “Yes, that’s the name of a Khasi poet. He is dead now. You remind me of one of his poems whose words meant something like this: ‘Dewdrops glitter in the morning light. I too will go far away and look for pearls. Far from home my heart will weep and in the tear drops that fall I will find my pearls’ I too have travelled so far away from home in the last five years… there, you have tripped again. Hold on to my hand. Only two more levels, and then you will see a beautiful thing. “The Shillong lights ?” “No, not the Shillong lights. But a different light. A very ancient light. Maybe it is still there till today.” “What light then? What light is that?” “Wait, you will know in a few moments. Come hold my hand. It’s only a short climb from here. Come.” “I really want to know what light. I am dying of curiosity.” “It’s only a little further up.” “Why don’t you make your wish now? You must still be carrying that hurt I caused you. Because I know that in these last few years I have sent you back four or five times, but then you must understand that I had to. But am I not with you now? Now I am very much with you, I have been climbing up your hill today with you …?” “Right. And do you remember, after sending me back those four or five times you had also told me that where there was no assurance that a wish would ever get fulfilled, when there was no promise that a wish would come true someday, I should rather not make such a wish at all. And I had told you, alright then, I won’t. That I won’t make such a wish anymore.” “Yes I did say that. But you must realize that circumstances had made me say that. Pressure of circumstances.” “Yes, that’s possibly right too.” “And still won’t you forget what I said, but would rather keep remembering only what I had said under pressure?” “Would you like it if I didn’t? I had given you my word after all.” “Yes you did give me your word. And I know you would not forget that…..But tell me, how much longer do we have to climb? What light were you talking about, I really want to know.” “Wait a little longer. Till then why don’t you keep listening to all those lovely sounds coming from the distance, breaking the surrounding silence : that dhol and that guitar in the distant village, think of our stories and listen to their songs, and to those cicadas, watch the flicker of those torches and those clusters of placid, silent stars… Anyway, here we are at last …Come up to this level; now see through those two pine trees… Have you seen it?” “Yes, I have seen it. A star. Oh, what a lovely star!” “See how it has remained poised between the two pine trees. Sometimes when I am here , the star moves away from there and I have to go and stand atop a different rock or move someplace else till I see the star again hanging like this between those two pine trees. And on some other days the star moves too far up or too far down and on those days I have to keep moving all over the place to keep trying to bring it back to make it hang again like this between those two pine trees but I can never bring it back to where I want it- at the same spot between the pines.” “Did you feel bad then?” “Yes then I feel really bad. As if it has ditched me. As if my star isn’t mine any more. ” “But it’s such a lovely star, so beautiful, so bright.” “It was my star, my light, my being. But now it’s your star.” “My star?” “Yes, your star. I am giving it to you.” “Thank you. What a lovely present! So it is my star now, my treasure. Can I use it anyway I like? Will it listen to me?” “Of course it will, why not? It will even give up its life for you if there is any need for that.” “Sure. This star is your present to me. Of course it will listen to me; and will surely give up its life for me if it ever comes to that.” “So now, you have given me my hill; and I have given you your star. On this night of festivities in the Khasi village , when the chirping of cicadas, the gurgle of brooks, and the whistle of pines are all muted by the echoes from the songs of the young Khasi boys and girls, by the rhythmic beats of dhols and the strumming of guitars, when it is a night of rejoicing for the Khasi folks, their night of fulfillment, a night when the glow of the star studded sky and the brilliance of the city lights are dimmed by the light from thousands upon thousands of fiery torches , when the night throbs with the excitement of passion rippling through the lithe limbs of the Kashi boys and girls , when their arms and legs are breaking out with the spontaneity of rhythmic dances, when those dhol beats keep growing faster and faster… And this is the day when I have given you your star : a star that I have been saving so carefully for so long, and this is the day when my wish of ‘giving’ has been fulfilled !” “And your wish of asking something from me? Why don’t you fulfill that wish too?” “ I have told you, I cannot make that wish any more, that needs a promise of certainty, an assurance that my wish would be fulfilled, a wish that needs an inviolable promise… ” “What has to happen so that you get that assurance? What will give you the promise that you would get what you wish?” “I really can’t say, I don’t know.” “Am I myself not that promise?” “No you are not that promise, because it is your promise that I want, your promise itself. No, it is something else, something else.” “Something else? Alright then, it is something else. Soon this moment will go, a little later we will climb on to the highest point of the hill, from down below the lights of Shillong will come up to fill our eyes, we will go back again to the routine of our city life…. And before that, have another look at those distant festive lights, listen again to that distant rhythm of dances, to the music of wish-fulfillment – because this also is the music to accompany the fulfillment of your wish… because I alone am its promise, I alone can give you the assurance that you seek. I don’t know if you believe or not – that if you make a wish as you see a falling star streaking down the sky, that wish is sure to be fulfilled, as if the star gives up its life to make sure of that. Oh, see; see there, how my star is falling down through those two pine trees, see how it is giving up its life for me…” THE END Translated by : Jiban Goswami Translators note : In the penultimate para, I have added on my own the part of its last sentence ....as if the star gives up its life to make sure of that It was not in the original story. I am not sure if I should add it at all. Readers may please comment on that . I personally would have been happier if this part wasnt added . Jiban Goswami
Posted on: Fri, 03 Oct 2014 09:00:25 +0000
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