First Rains of the Monsoon: A Collection of Short Stories

In Marquez’s novel, ‘Memories of my Melancholy Whores’ I came across a line, “Sex is the consolation you have when you cannot have love.” This line lingered on in my mind even after I had finished reading the novel. I wrote a story and named it, ‘mosumira prathama barsha’ (First Rains of the Monsoon). I begin the story with this line of Marquez. The story was published in a special issue of Jhankar. Many friends and readers liked the story and telephoned and written me their words of appreciation. I made this the title of my collection of stories published recently by Bharat Bharati, Sutahat, Cuttack.

I am often asked how I write. There are two aspects to this question. First, how do I get the idea/plot for a story or for a novel? A writer may get the idea anywhere like while reading a book as I have mentioned above, or from an event/incident he comes across, or from newspaper or even while looking at a picture.

Often I am provoked when I come across something I cannot digest or approve of, but unable to do anything. My helplessness drives me to write and I, perhaps, get the things done in the story what I cannot do in real life and also I express what I intend to. When the story is appreciated, I believe, the stand I take in the story is also appreciated and I feel encouraged to write more. An example is the story “pheribaku manaa” (Not Allowed to Return; this is the second story of this collection). I have been watching the Naxal movement since my college days or from the days of Charu Mazumdar (died in police luck up in 1972), Jangal Santhal (became an alcoholic, died in 1987), Kanu Sanyal (who hanged himself in 2010), etc. Now also I watch the news of surrender of naxals, assassination by the naxals of persons allegedly suspects of being police informer or destruction of mobile phone towers/ damage of the machines/equipment used for construction work in the naxal affected areas, the kidnappings by the naxal and government’s negotiations and compromise, etc. Pheribaku manaa is a story about a young person who has entered into the movement and cannot understand, and questions the logic behind all the murders and destruction perpetrated by the naxals. This story is appreciated by many including a retired judge who had sent an encouraging letter for the concern shown and stand taken in the story.

The second aspect of the question, particularly asked by my friends and colleagues of the organisation I work for or some other friends and acquaintances, is how I can get time and also think of an idea or a plot to write considering the onerous duty I have to discharge as part of my job. Of course, a person finds time to do something he likes / derives pleasure in doing. I feel I have something to say and I say in form of stories or novels. If for some reasons I cannot write for a week or a fortnight I get restless. I shall stop writing when I feel I have finished saying what I had to say and I have nothing more. Time and pressure of the job are no constraints. I answer to them that the person who is addicted to drinking, or loves womanising gets both time and means to get the bottle or a woman for his pursuits, so do I reach the plot, make the time to think and write.

My friends and readers are of the opinion that the characters of my stories are real and the stories are based on facts/real events. They relate a character to someone they know or we both know. Sometimes I take it as a compliment, but sometimes I feel it an accusation. A few years back when my novel ‘asapurna kahanira anya ek charitra’ (A Character of an Unfinished Story) was published, many readers allege almost with certitude that the story was written on some particular persons. The story was about a woman singer and a lyricist. One of my writer friend names a person relating to a character whose name I heard from him for the first time. A politician, an ex-minister reading the novel alleged that the story was based on the life of one of his politician-friend. In the novel there was reference to corruption in Indira Awaas Yojana (Indira Housing Scheme). After my politician friend told I remembered that there was scam in Indira Awaas Yojana in the constituency his friend represents. A few days back reading my last short story collection (Gabhira Nidrare Iswar: the God is in deep sleep) a senior bureaucrat alleged that what I have written are not stories, but actual events I have recounted, that have occurred in the lives of certain important persons. When my story shesachithi (the last letter), the first story of this collection, was published in a magazine, a woman telephoned me to say the story was an event that must have happened in my life during my youth. I had to explain to her that the main protagonist of story is an aged person, but I am not that aged. Sometimes the compliment/accusation amuses me, but sometimes it also pains.

But the reactions, both compliments or accusations, encourages me to continue with my writing.

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Emptiness

My words betray me

When I translate my sentiments into expression

The changeover connotes different

Other than what I intend to



My image on the mirror

Reminds me of an emptiness

I am not what I used to be



My eyes get misty

Images look blurred

Heart becomes heavy



I am, perhaps, destined to bear

This burden of emptiness

Forever

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In the dream, I was discussing a story with a pretty woman journalist. She claimed to have written the story. But from the first two lines I could know that the story was just translation of a famous story of Marquez. It was nothing but plagiarised. I wanted to show her the original story and looked for Maquez’s book in my book-self. But immediately I could not find. Then I remembered my assignment would end the next day. I could not go back to my old job which was a secure government service that I had left for this assignment. I became gloomy as I had plunged myself into a future of uncertainties by leaving a secure government service.

I woke up and realised it was a dream, and was reassured that I had not the left the present job, and what to talk of leaving the job; I had also no offer of such an assignment as I had dreamt.

Dreams of this kind often visit me. I do not know what the psychoanalysts shall interpret, but I know the reasons. The reason for this kind of dream is I do not enjoy the job I am in even after completing twenty three years. Like many I failed to translate my dreams of young days into achievement and I had to enter into government service with a kind of resolve that I would leave the job after a few years. But I could not.

During my student days, like many, I had lofty ideals. I thought that I would do something for the people. I would travel a lot, mix with the people, take up their cause and highlight it in the media. For that I had to write features/articles. But I did not get into a job to my liking and I had to enter a service in which, I was told, being a government official, I could only write the things academic in nature, and nothing critical of government policy.

I have a law degree. I thought I would leave the job after a few years and pursue my interest. But government service is such a thing that one might find it easy to get, but difficult to leave. In the government service, salary of the person is secure even for one’s inefficiency and for doing nothing. A secure job and an assured salary after the end of the month is what make one lazy, stoic, satisfied and useless. In fact, I have actually made myself useless without my noticing at it. The books I had purchased for practising law are still gathering dust.

After training I was posted to manage a check gate. The purpose of setting up check gates is to check evasion of tax. As the check gate officer, one has to deal with truck drivers, tax evaders, local goons and criminals. I wondered how my reading of political philosophy from Plato to Marx to Gandhi, understanding the social issues like communalism and dowry deaths, political events or economic policies of the Government would help me sort out a simple problem when a drunken driver parked his truck at a wrong place causing traffic problem in the check gate area or when an unscrupulous person attempted at hoodwinking the officer to carry his goods in a vehicle to evade tax.

Frustrated, one day, I was ruminating my past and the present. During those dejected moments, my past days, memories sweet and sour, many incidents and friends with whom I had spent fond moments came to my mind like scenes from a cinema. I wrote a story based on such an incident which I sent to a popular literary magazine.

The story was published and was well received. I got a good number of letters of appreciation that encouraged me to continue writing stories. I have now published ten books so far, and two books are in press. Before that day when I sat frustrated, brooding over my sorry state I had never thought of becoming a short story writer. Of course, I had an ambition of becoming a feature writer/columnist.

After more than twenty years into writing and publishing ten books now I feel a kind of emptiness. Musing over my youthful dreams and my achievement so far, I think, I got my life wasted. I could have lived differently and more meaningfully. I feel I repeat in my stories what I had written twenty years back. I want to write something new, something different. But I cannot. I want to travel a lot, mix with the people, get direct feel of the place, the people and their problems. But the nature of my job with its limitations does not allow me to do. Last year I wrote a story on naxals (Pheribaku Manaa, Not Allowed to Return). Of course, the story was appreciated. But it could have been better had I gone to the place of the problem, met the people and get direct feel of the situation. That was not possible.

Initially I thought of giving up the job for advocating. I could not. In Odisha, one cannot live on his writing. Later, I thought I would quit the job after twenty years as I would be eligible for pension. But I did not dare. I have a daughter and a son. They have not settled and I have parental duty and responsibility to see they are established. By leaving the job, I do not have the confidence of earning enough to match the salary I receive at the end of the month by doing something else. I do not enjoy the job, and at the same time, I cannot quit it also. And it is painful to go to the office every day, tolerate the whims of my boss and the harangues of my Mr Know All Seniors.

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