The Drummer’s Rhythm
SUDDENLY, THE GIRL in green salwar-kamiz lost the balance and the incense pot fell down. The amber and ash splayed all around. Sudhangshu’s heart missed a beat. “Rumi, be careful”, he wanted to shout. People came running and put out the fire. The girl continued her dance with another incense pot kept ready for such eventualities. But the sticks have already strayed from his ‘Dhak’ (drum played in Bengal during worship) and a discordant sound came out. Boren whispered, “Sudha, be careful!” Sudhangshu could not master the courage to catch up with the beats and withdrew himself from the dancing circle.
Durga Puja Pandal in Tala Park was very crowded on that Saptami evening. The priest was worshipping the goddess with 108 lamps. Sudhangshu, Boren and Nagen had begun a fresh round in their Dhak, ‘dham-kur-kur, ‘dham-kur-kur’. Young boys and girls had been dancing with the incense -pot. Sudhangshu could not concentrate on the beats and had earlier also missed a stroke or two. This time Boren had to admonish him because his own reputation was at stake. There is no dearth of ‘Dhakis’ (drummers) in Bengal and he may be dropped next year.
Boren had reasons to be annoyed. He accepted Sudhangshu in his team only out of respect for Sanatan, despite the rumor that he had created some trouble in Delhi and would not be going there this year. Sanatan requested him repeatedly, “Boren, my Sudha is an accomplished Dhaki. Take him with you to Kolkata. He should not sit idle at home, when all of us will be in puja pandals.”
“Why is he not going to Delhi with you instead? What is his problem?” asked Boren.
“His problem is he himself. If he does not want to go to Delhi, please take him with you to Kolkata. After all, he is like your younger brother.” Sanatan answered.
SUDHANGSHU HAD INHERITED the skills of playing ‘Dhak’ from his ancestors. He had dropped out of school in eighth class after his father died and started accompanying Sanatan, a distant relative, to play the Dhak in nearby towns. He also lost his mother soon after and was sired by Sanatan. Gradually, he picked up the nuances of ‘Taal’ (rhythm) and ‘chaal (movement), to grew into a fine player and a favorite of Sanatan. Whenever he felt lonely he preferred playing Dhak for himself in his hut rather than hanging around with people of his own age and chatting about Hindi films, liquor or girls. Sanatan had been to Delhi with a team of Dhakis a few years back for playing Dhak during Durga Puja festival. Thereafter, he established his own contacts. Every year, in the month of June, he would write a letter to someone in Delhi and after only a week pester Satish, the village Post Master, “Is there any letter for me? Why it is delayed this year? Samit babu is very particular in these matters. Is he not well?”
Once the letter comes Sanatan would be a busy man. He would take out the ‘Dhak’ that very noon; Buy mustard oil from the grocery shop on credit and start polishing the wooden frame of the dhak gently with a little cotton dipped in oil and wash the feathers adorning the Dhak. In the evening the whole Para (hamlet) would resonate with the beats of the Dhak ‘Giza ghin Tak Ta Giza’. His son will accompany him with metal bell, “Tuna Tun Tun Tuna Tun’.
This year, the day he got the letter and confirmed it on phone, he called Sudhangshu and asked, “Sudha, get ready! Samit Babu has asked for three Dhak and one Kansi. We have to buy the tickets.”
Sudhangshu did not look up. In almost an inaudible voice, he said, “Sanatan da, I shall not be able to go this year. Bakul refuses to stay alone for so long”.
“Why don’t you send her to your in-laws? For a week’s absence you will be earning in thousands, let alone dhoti, Sari and other gifts. Who is going to give you as much, here?” Sanatan fumed.
“I have been mulling over this from last year, Sanatan da. There is nobody to look after the cows, vegetable plants, standing crop of ‘Aman’ paddy.” Sudhangshu mumbled to himself.
Sanatan couldn’t believe his ears. Sudha is so passionate about Dhak and so proud of being a good Dhaki; how could he become just a family man overnight and refuse such a good offer. He guessed the reason but he wanted to hear it from him.
He said sternly, “Sudha, am I hearing this from you! You have picked up the ‘Dhak’ beats so well, all the ‘arhas’, ‘Tin-talas’ , ‘Choutalas’, I myself feel proud that I have a disciple like you. I have grown old. It’s you, who has been accompanying the young people dancing with incense pot during the evening worship for the last few years. Tell me frankly, Sudha, what is the problem?”
Sudhangshu kept mum. Sanatan touched his shoulder with his left hand gently and patted a few times. He took out the bundle of biri from his pocket and lighted one. After a deep puff he cleared his throat and asked, “Do you have any problem concerning Rumi didimoni?”
“No! No!” cried out Sudhangshu, as if stung by a bee. “She is no problem. It’s me, who has created this mess in my life.”
Sanatan did not ask anything else. He picked up the bowl of mustard oil from the verandah and moved towards the Dhak kept in another corner. But instead of polishing it he started playing it with bare hand. The ‘Dhak’ sprang into life with the touch of the master, “dim, dim, didim, dim, di, di, dim.”
Sudhangshu’s eyes were fixed at the horizon. The drum beats found its way inside his heart with the mere mention of Rumi.
IT ALL STARTED on ‘Mahastami’, the eighth day of worship. The evening worship of Goddess Durga, the ‘Aarti’, was going on. Sanatan, Sudhangshu, Nibaran were playing the Dhak in unison swirling in a circle around the Dhunuchi dancers. The priest was ringing the bell with his left hand keeping with the rhythm of the ‘Dhak’; five lamps in his right hand making rapid circles; face of the idol glowed in the soothing yellow light of the lamps.
The woman in light yellow Salwar Kameez had been dancing in the middle for quite some time holding the dhunuchi (incense pot) in both hands, keeping pace with the Dhak with deft, graceful movements of her feet. Her ‘mudras’ were so perfect that even an uninitiated can tell the class of dancers she belonged to. It is a drummer’s delight to be able to play the beats with a dancer of her caliber.
The ‘aarti’ had reached its crescendo. The dhakis, the dancers lost themselves in their effort to propitiate the mother through their offerings of music and dance. The priest picked up the camphor lamp. The arena filled up with the fragrance of sandalwood smoke and camphor. Suddenly, the sound of the drums drowned amidst shouts all around. Sudhangshu’s eyes fell on the ball of fire in the middle. The woman’s Kameez had caught fire! She was dancing unaware, as if in a trance. Sudhangshu was the one nearest to her. He dropped the drum and held her with all his might. With one push he pushed her down on the ground along with himself and started rolling with her body tightly held to his chests. By this time people had started pouring water on the ambers and the flame finally died down.
After the adulation and speculations of what could have happened, Sudhangshu came to know that she is Rumi Basu, daughter of Prabal Basu, the President of the Puja Committee and a top executive of a multi-national company.
Next evening Rumi came to meet him at their tent after the ‘aarti. She sat on the mat and asked him about his home, his village, his life. Sudhangshu found in her a sincere listener, eager to hear about his village, learn about the little known instrument like Dhak, the ‘dhakis’. Oblivious of the place, the time, the person he told her everything he wanted to talk about for so long, but could not. His father, a reputed ‘dhaki’, died at a young age from tuberculosis. Sudhangshu, as a child used to accompany him with the bell, whenever he was invited to perform. But, he still remembered those autumn days when his father would go out with the ‘dhak’ to the banks of Babui river, covered with white ‘Kash’ flowers, play the ‘dhak’ in gay abandon, sing songs on top of his voice, where no one else but the river, the trees and birds would be listening. Rumi insisted on hearing a song and he sang a song he learnt from his father:
“You ask me,
Why I come back to you,
Again and again!
To tell you about my love for you,
And ask you about yours
I am ready to take birth on this earth
Thousand more times."
MORE THAN A hundred idols assemble every year on this embankment of Yamuna, named Kalindi, for immersion on the tenth day. Hordes of policemen throng the place in an effort to maintain a semblance of order. But, the devotees try to make most of the opportunity to lose themselves out for the last time before the idol is immersed. The dhakis are offered liquor to bring more spirit into their playing the dhak. Sudhangshu felt exhausted by the time the idol was immersed in Yamuna water turned blue and foamy carrying the poisonous effluents of Delhi. He got separated from the group in the melee that ensued. He was frightened and was searching for known faces in the crowd. Suddenly, he felt a soft touch on his shoulder; he looked back. It was Rumi. He caught hold of her hand so tightly that Rumi cried out, “leave it: leave it! It’s hurting”. He felt a surge of blood to his head and released her hand at a start. Rumi smiled. She was looking like a tom-boy in her jeans and t-shirt. She took over from there and for hours they roamed around the Yamuna bank, ate ‘Papar’, “Ghugni’ and tea. Sudhangshu told her about the ‘Durga Puja’ in his village Rasulpur, the stone idol being worshipped there for hundreds of years in a tiny hut; the huge tamarind tree providing a canopy for the plays staged on all the three days. The ‘Zamindar’, who tried to put the idle in a bigger temple, died mysteriously. The effort to put a permanent canopy over the stage had to be abandoned after snakes dropped on the stage from the tamarind tree. They sat on the bank of Yamuna till it was dark. The darkening horizon over the river, the thinning crowd signaled the end of the festivities connected with the homecoming of the goddess. Rumi sang a song:
Don’t weep Uma, my daughter
A year will pass away like a blink
I shall ask your father to bring you back
And then we will talk to our hearts content
Won’t listen to anybody.
When he came back to the tent Sudhangshu realized that Sanatan was waiting for him on the Yamuna banks for a long time and he had to carry both the ‘Dhak’s all the way to the tent from there.
Next day they were to leave for the station at 3 ‘o clock. Everybody packed their things except Sudhangshu. He was fumbling with his bag; Nibaran made a jibe at him, “Sudha, puja is over; goddess left for home yesterday. It’s our turn today. Don’t look here and there. Now get ready!”
Sudhangshu tied up his things and slowly carried his belongings out of the tent. Along with the tempo hired to take them and their ‘dhak’ to station arrived a car. Rumi got down and came running, straight to Sudhangshu. She took out a packet form a polythene bag and said,
“It’s for you. Don’t hesitate. I wanted to give you something so that you remember me.”
She handed over the packet and left as quickly as she came without giving any chance to him to say anything.
“WHERE DID YOU get the shirt-pant? Who offered these to Ma Durga?” asked Bakul while hunting the bags Sudhangshu brought back.
Sudhangshu could barely answer, “Someone has given those to me”, And sharply came the retort, “But, who is that somebody? They offer the cheapest ‘shari’ to the Goddess and so costly shirt-pant to Mahisasur.”
Sudhangshu tried to avoid details but could not tell a lie, “These are gifts from Rumi didimoni.”
The cloud in Bakul’s eyes got darker. She hissed, “Why would she gift something so costly to you? Had she given these things to Sanatan dada and Nibaran?”
Sudhangshu tasted fear in his mouth, a bitter, clammy fear. It will be useless to explain, but he narrated the incident to her in brief. She was ready with her counter question, “May I know, of all people why you pounced upon her? Where were her friends and relatives? You wanted to be a hero!”
Sudhangshu kept mum. At the very mention of that incident the gentle fragrance, the softness of the body are the only two things, which came to her mind. He was feeling guilty, but what he could do? His silence didn’t mollify her. She thundered, “Don’t think you’ll ever be able to hoodwink me. Your sheepish look says everything. I shall dig out the truth once I talk to Sanatan dada and Nibaran.”
Thereafter it was a long story of slander and humiliation. At the first opportunity Bakul questioned Sanatan and Nibaran about the incident and made out a story herself. The story she told everyone around her had little to with what they said. Initially, Sudhangshu tried to reason with her and explain to others what actually happened. But his efforts to avoid any reference to Rumi and his sensitivity to even a mention of her name exposed him to wry comments. Gradually he decided to better be silent. He became aloof from routine activities at home and outside. The ‘Dhak’ he used to play in the evenings also remained silent.
It was Sanatan, who tried to coax him out of his cocoon for some local programs, occasionally. But the ‘dhaki’ Sudhangshu dancing in gay abandon was missing. After he declined the offer to go to Delhi, Sanatan confronted him and asked, “What do you want Sudha? Do you want to commit suicide because people don’t understand you? Come out of your shell and live your life. Why you should feel guilty? If you don’t want to go to Delhi- don’t go. I have talked to Boren. Go with him to Kolkata.”
Sudhangshu neither looked up nor did he respond. Sanatan loved him.
At last he used his only weapon left and said, “It’s not money. It’s the honor, the awe, with which they look at us when we play the ‘dhak’ is our greatest reward. If Rumi didimoni cared for you at all, it was only because you are the best ‘dhaki’ they had seen so far and not because you saved her. Don’t fail her by running away like this, from the one thing you love and therefore excel.”
Sudhangshu looked up. His eyes searched something on Sanatan’s face. He nodded his head in affirmation and left hurriedly.
THE PRIEST HAD finished the evening ‘aarati’ with a final ringing of the prayer bell. Sudhangshu woke up from his reverie and found himself standing on one side while Boren and Nagen were playing the ‘Dhak’ alongside couple of dancing boys and girls. They were visibly tired but the crowd was in no mood to relent. He saw their ecstatic faces and the mad dancing and suddenly he felt the same surge of blood he had felt all those times he had played the “dhak” for so many years. He tightened the cloth around his waist and picked up the sticks. The dhakis were playing the triple beats signaling the finale for this round. He put the strap of the dhak on his shoulder and his Dhak suddenly sprung into life again with the sound of the cloud, ‘gur..gur..gur..gur. The spectators took their eyes off from the dancing to hear the master and parted to make way for him. Sudhangshu entered the dancing circle to take his place at the center.
Born in 1955 in West Midnapur village, Amar Mudi migrated to Delhi in 1979. A student of English and later Mass Communication, he is an active writer, translator and theatre worker. His poems, short stories, one-act plays, translations and poems have been published in magazines in Kolkata and Delhi, such as Indian Literature, Digangan, Aarambha, Prasad, Baromas, and many others. He has directed three plays so far: Manoj Mitra's Sajano Bagan and Ashwathama adn Badal Sircars Ballavpurer Rupkotha and acted in more than twenty plays. A compilation of his poems 'Jiban zatra' has been published by Japanchitra, Kolkata. Novel 'Kyaap' by Manohar Shyam Joshi translated in Bengali is going to be published shortly.
SUDDENLY, THE GIRL in green salwar-kamiz lost the balance and the incense pot fell down. The amber and ash splayed all around. Sudhangshu’s heart missed a beat. “Rumi, be careful”, he wanted to shout. People came running and put out the fire. The girl continued her dance with another incense pot kept ready for such eventualities. But the sticks have already strayed from his ‘Dhak’ (drum played in Bengal during worship) and a discordant sound came out. Boren whispered, “Sudha, be careful!” Sudhangshu could not master the courage to catch up with the beats and withdrew himself from the dancing circle.
Durga Puja Pandal in Tala Park was very crowded on that Saptami evening. The priest was worshipping the goddess with 108 lamps. Sudhangshu, Boren and Nagen had begun a fresh round in their Dhak, ‘dham-kur-kur, ‘dham-kur-kur’. Young boys and girls had been dancing with the incense -pot. Sudhangshu could not concentrate on the beats and had earlier also missed a stroke or two. This time Boren had to admonish him because his own reputation was at stake. There is no dearth of ‘Dhakis’ (drummers) in Bengal and he may be dropped next year.
Boren had reasons to be annoyed. He accepted Sudhangshu in his team only out of respect for Sanatan, despite the rumor that he had created some trouble in Delhi and would not be going there this year. Sanatan requested him repeatedly, “Boren, my Sudha is an accomplished Dhaki. Take him with you to Kolkata. He should not sit idle at home, when all of us will be in puja pandals.”
“Why is he not going to Delhi with you instead? What is his problem?” asked Boren.
“His problem is he himself. If he does not want to go to Delhi, please take him with you to Kolkata. After all, he is like your younger brother.” Sanatan answered.
SUDHANGSHU HAD INHERITED the skills of playing ‘Dhak’ from his ancestors. He had dropped out of school in eighth class after his father died and started accompanying Sanatan, a distant relative, to play the Dhak in nearby towns. He also lost his mother soon after and was sired by Sanatan. Gradually, he picked up the nuances of ‘Taal’ (rhythm) and ‘chaal (movement), to grew into a fine player and a favorite of Sanatan. Whenever he felt lonely he preferred playing Dhak for himself in his hut rather than hanging around with people of his own age and chatting about Hindi films, liquor or girls. Sanatan had been to Delhi with a team of Dhakis a few years back for playing Dhak during Durga Puja festival. Thereafter, he established his own contacts. Every year, in the month of June, he would write a letter to someone in Delhi and after only a week pester Satish, the village Post Master, “Is there any letter for me? Why it is delayed this year? Samit babu is very particular in these matters. Is he not well?”
Once the letter comes Sanatan would be a busy man. He would take out the ‘Dhak’ that very noon; Buy mustard oil from the grocery shop on credit and start polishing the wooden frame of the dhak gently with a little cotton dipped in oil and wash the feathers adorning the Dhak. In the evening the whole Para (hamlet) would resonate with the beats of the Dhak ‘Giza ghin Tak Ta Giza’. His son will accompany him with metal bell, “Tuna Tun Tun Tuna Tun’.
This year, the day he got the letter and confirmed it on phone, he called Sudhangshu and asked, “Sudha, get ready! Samit Babu has asked for three Dhak and one Kansi. We have to buy the tickets.”
Sudhangshu did not look up. In almost an inaudible voice, he said, “Sanatan da, I shall not be able to go this year. Bakul refuses to stay alone for so long”.
“Why don’t you send her to your in-laws? For a week’s absence you will be earning in thousands, let alone dhoti, Sari and other gifts. Who is going to give you as much, here?” Sanatan fumed.
“I have been mulling over this from last year, Sanatan da. There is nobody to look after the cows, vegetable plants, standing crop of ‘Aman’ paddy.” Sudhangshu mumbled to himself.
Sanatan couldn’t believe his ears. Sudha is so passionate about Dhak and so proud of being a good Dhaki; how could he become just a family man overnight and refuse such a good offer. He guessed the reason but he wanted to hear it from him.
He said sternly, “Sudha, am I hearing this from you! You have picked up the ‘Dhak’ beats so well, all the ‘arhas’, ‘Tin-talas’ , ‘Choutalas’, I myself feel proud that I have a disciple like you. I have grown old. It’s you, who has been accompanying the young people dancing with incense pot during the evening worship for the last few years. Tell me frankly, Sudha, what is the problem?”
Sudhangshu kept mum. Sanatan touched his shoulder with his left hand gently and patted a few times. He took out the bundle of biri from his pocket and lighted one. After a deep puff he cleared his throat and asked, “Do you have any problem concerning Rumi didimoni?”
“No! No!” cried out Sudhangshu, as if stung by a bee. “She is no problem. It’s me, who has created this mess in my life.”
Sanatan did not ask anything else. He picked up the bowl of mustard oil from the verandah and moved towards the Dhak kept in another corner. But instead of polishing it he started playing it with bare hand. The ‘Dhak’ sprang into life with the touch of the master, “dim, dim, didim, dim, di, di, dim.”
Sudhangshu’s eyes were fixed at the horizon. The drum beats found its way inside his heart with the mere mention of Rumi.
IT ALL STARTED on ‘Mahastami’, the eighth day of worship. The evening worship of Goddess Durga, the ‘Aarti’, was going on. Sanatan, Sudhangshu, Nibaran were playing the Dhak in unison swirling in a circle around the Dhunuchi dancers. The priest was ringing the bell with his left hand keeping with the rhythm of the ‘Dhak’; five lamps in his right hand making rapid circles; face of the idol glowed in the soothing yellow light of the lamps.
The woman in light yellow Salwar Kameez had been dancing in the middle for quite some time holding the dhunuchi (incense pot) in both hands, keeping pace with the Dhak with deft, graceful movements of her feet. Her ‘mudras’ were so perfect that even an uninitiated can tell the class of dancers she belonged to. It is a drummer’s delight to be able to play the beats with a dancer of her caliber.
The ‘aarti’ had reached its crescendo. The dhakis, the dancers lost themselves in their effort to propitiate the mother through their offerings of music and dance. The priest picked up the camphor lamp. The arena filled up with the fragrance of sandalwood smoke and camphor. Suddenly, the sound of the drums drowned amidst shouts all around. Sudhangshu’s eyes fell on the ball of fire in the middle. The woman’s Kameez had caught fire! She was dancing unaware, as if in a trance. Sudhangshu was the one nearest to her. He dropped the drum and held her with all his might. With one push he pushed her down on the ground along with himself and started rolling with her body tightly held to his chests. By this time people had started pouring water on the ambers and the flame finally died down.
After the adulation and speculations of what could have happened, Sudhangshu came to know that she is Rumi Basu, daughter of Prabal Basu, the President of the Puja Committee and a top executive of a multi-national company.
Next evening Rumi came to meet him at their tent after the ‘aarti. She sat on the mat and asked him about his home, his village, his life. Sudhangshu found in her a sincere listener, eager to hear about his village, learn about the little known instrument like Dhak, the ‘dhakis’. Oblivious of the place, the time, the person he told her everything he wanted to talk about for so long, but could not. His father, a reputed ‘dhaki’, died at a young age from tuberculosis. Sudhangshu, as a child used to accompany him with the bell, whenever he was invited to perform. But, he still remembered those autumn days when his father would go out with the ‘dhak’ to the banks of Babui river, covered with white ‘Kash’ flowers, play the ‘dhak’ in gay abandon, sing songs on top of his voice, where no one else but the river, the trees and birds would be listening. Rumi insisted on hearing a song and he sang a song he learnt from his father:
“You ask me,
Why I come back to you,
Again and again!
To tell you about my love for you,
And ask you about yours
I am ready to take birth on this earth
Thousand more times."
MORE THAN A hundred idols assemble every year on this embankment of Yamuna, named Kalindi, for immersion on the tenth day. Hordes of policemen throng the place in an effort to maintain a semblance of order. But, the devotees try to make most of the opportunity to lose themselves out for the last time before the idol is immersed. The dhakis are offered liquor to bring more spirit into their playing the dhak. Sudhangshu felt exhausted by the time the idol was immersed in Yamuna water turned blue and foamy carrying the poisonous effluents of Delhi. He got separated from the group in the melee that ensued. He was frightened and was searching for known faces in the crowd. Suddenly, he felt a soft touch on his shoulder; he looked back. It was Rumi. He caught hold of her hand so tightly that Rumi cried out, “leave it: leave it! It’s hurting”. He felt a surge of blood to his head and released her hand at a start. Rumi smiled. She was looking like a tom-boy in her jeans and t-shirt. She took over from there and for hours they roamed around the Yamuna bank, ate ‘Papar’, “Ghugni’ and tea. Sudhangshu told her about the ‘Durga Puja’ in his village Rasulpur, the stone idol being worshipped there for hundreds of years in a tiny hut; the huge tamarind tree providing a canopy for the plays staged on all the three days. The ‘Zamindar’, who tried to put the idle in a bigger temple, died mysteriously. The effort to put a permanent canopy over the stage had to be abandoned after snakes dropped on the stage from the tamarind tree. They sat on the bank of Yamuna till it was dark. The darkening horizon over the river, the thinning crowd signaled the end of the festivities connected with the homecoming of the goddess. Rumi sang a song:
Don’t weep Uma, my daughter
A year will pass away like a blink
I shall ask your father to bring you back
And then we will talk to our hearts content
Won’t listen to anybody.
When he came back to the tent Sudhangshu realized that Sanatan was waiting for him on the Yamuna banks for a long time and he had to carry both the ‘Dhak’s all the way to the tent from there.
Next day they were to leave for the station at 3 ‘o clock. Everybody packed their things except Sudhangshu. He was fumbling with his bag; Nibaran made a jibe at him, “Sudha, puja is over; goddess left for home yesterday. It’s our turn today. Don’t look here and there. Now get ready!”
Sudhangshu tied up his things and slowly carried his belongings out of the tent. Along with the tempo hired to take them and their ‘dhak’ to station arrived a car. Rumi got down and came running, straight to Sudhangshu. She took out a packet form a polythene bag and said,
“It’s for you. Don’t hesitate. I wanted to give you something so that you remember me.”
She handed over the packet and left as quickly as she came without giving any chance to him to say anything.
“WHERE DID YOU get the shirt-pant? Who offered these to Ma Durga?” asked Bakul while hunting the bags Sudhangshu brought back.
Sudhangshu could barely answer, “Someone has given those to me”, And sharply came the retort, “But, who is that somebody? They offer the cheapest ‘shari’ to the Goddess and so costly shirt-pant to Mahisasur.”
Sudhangshu tried to avoid details but could not tell a lie, “These are gifts from Rumi didimoni.”
The cloud in Bakul’s eyes got darker. She hissed, “Why would she gift something so costly to you? Had she given these things to Sanatan dada and Nibaran?”
Sudhangshu tasted fear in his mouth, a bitter, clammy fear. It will be useless to explain, but he narrated the incident to her in brief. She was ready with her counter question, “May I know, of all people why you pounced upon her? Where were her friends and relatives? You wanted to be a hero!”
Sudhangshu kept mum. At the very mention of that incident the gentle fragrance, the softness of the body are the only two things, which came to her mind. He was feeling guilty, but what he could do? His silence didn’t mollify her. She thundered, “Don’t think you’ll ever be able to hoodwink me. Your sheepish look says everything. I shall dig out the truth once I talk to Sanatan dada and Nibaran.”
Thereafter it was a long story of slander and humiliation. At the first opportunity Bakul questioned Sanatan and Nibaran about the incident and made out a story herself. The story she told everyone around her had little to with what they said. Initially, Sudhangshu tried to reason with her and explain to others what actually happened. But his efforts to avoid any reference to Rumi and his sensitivity to even a mention of her name exposed him to wry comments. Gradually he decided to better be silent. He became aloof from routine activities at home and outside. The ‘Dhak’ he used to play in the evenings also remained silent.
It was Sanatan, who tried to coax him out of his cocoon for some local programs, occasionally. But the ‘dhaki’ Sudhangshu dancing in gay abandon was missing. After he declined the offer to go to Delhi, Sanatan confronted him and asked, “What do you want Sudha? Do you want to commit suicide because people don’t understand you? Come out of your shell and live your life. Why you should feel guilty? If you don’t want to go to Delhi- don’t go. I have talked to Boren. Go with him to Kolkata.”
Sudhangshu neither looked up nor did he respond. Sanatan loved him.
At last he used his only weapon left and said, “It’s not money. It’s the honor, the awe, with which they look at us when we play the ‘dhak’ is our greatest reward. If Rumi didimoni cared for you at all, it was only because you are the best ‘dhaki’ they had seen so far and not because you saved her. Don’t fail her by running away like this, from the one thing you love and therefore excel.”
Sudhangshu looked up. His eyes searched something on Sanatan’s face. He nodded his head in affirmation and left hurriedly.
THE PRIEST HAD finished the evening ‘aarati’ with a final ringing of the prayer bell. Sudhangshu woke up from his reverie and found himself standing on one side while Boren and Nagen were playing the ‘Dhak’ alongside couple of dancing boys and girls. They were visibly tired but the crowd was in no mood to relent. He saw their ecstatic faces and the mad dancing and suddenly he felt the same surge of blood he had felt all those times he had played the “dhak” for so many years. He tightened the cloth around his waist and picked up the sticks. The dhakis were playing the triple beats signaling the finale for this round. He put the strap of the dhak on his shoulder and his Dhak suddenly sprung into life again with the sound of the cloud, ‘gur..gur..gur..gur. The spectators took their eyes off from the dancing to hear the master and parted to make way for him. Sudhangshu entered the dancing circle to take his place at the center.
Born in 1955 in West Midnapur village, Amar Mudi migrated to Delhi in 1979. A student of English and later Mass Communication, he is an active writer, translator and theatre worker. His poems, short stories, one-act plays, translations and poems have been published in magazines in Kolkata and Delhi, such as Indian Literature, Digangan, Aarambha, Prasad, Baromas, and many others. He has directed three plays so far: Manoj Mitra's Sajano Bagan and Ashwathama adn Badal Sircars Ballavpurer Rupkotha and acted in more than twenty plays. A compilation of his poems 'Jiban zatra' has been published by Japanchitra, Kolkata. Novel 'Kyaap' by Manohar Shyam Joshi translated in Bengali is going to be published shortly.
