Father’s Day

 “Who do you love more?”, asked the relative who had come home to the little boy who just had shown off his talents with the tabla. “Amma, of course”, he said loudly, extricated himself from the hold of the relative and ran off to play with his friends. 

Both the parents were beaming at the response. Soon the visiting relatives were gone, and quiet prevailed at home. The wife chose to ask the husband. “Do you feel jealous that our son always says he loves me more than you?”

The husband said, “I feel proud. It was the same with me too. I always said I loved my Amma more than my Appa when anyone asked while I was a kid. It feels like my son too is continuing the tradition”. 

“I sometimes have felt a little scared that you might take it otherwise. Thought I might voice it”. 

“There’s nothing to feel scared about. It is but natural for most children to prefer one parent over the other, and the parents feigning mock disappointment, etc. But, I doubt if you’d be upset had our son preferred me more”. 

“I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it. As a child I always loved my dad more”. 

“From my own growing up experience, I can say this. The love for Amma among sons stays constant throughout. While the love for Appa grows with time and age”. 

“Is that so?”

“As a kid, I remember even resenting my dad and trying to be as different from him as possible. Now, I see all that was futile”. 

“But, I don’t want our son to be like you”. 

“You mean you don’t want him to love me more as he grows older?”, he said with a smile. 

“No, bum! I don’t want him to grow up resenting and resisting his Appa”. 

“Why do women want to control everything once they’re married?”

“Because they’ve missed out on all that until then. Don’t you generalise, now. Let me call my Dad and wish him before I forget!”

“I’ll do that too. But when I wish him, he will chastise me for starting these new rituals!” 

“Men are impossible! They find fault with everything!”, she put a firm end to the discussion with that, and walked away with her phone in hand. 

Back with the Books (A review of ‘Unlove Story’)

 

I got introduced to Sudipto through a WhatsApp group for 40+ people in Bengaluru. I learnt that he had written a book in Bangla which had since been translated into English. I connected with him over social media (Instagram) too. I saw a few updates from him about his book (his profile picture too features him with the book). Soon, I found myself invited to his and his partner’s (Biman) home on the occasion of their anniversary. I could attend it with Sayambhu as I was visiting from Andaman (yeah, I wasn’t yet back in Bengaluru). We met again at another Bengali couple’s home over dinner, but I wasn’t very keen, to pick that book up and read. 

Suddenly, this week I chose to order the book and be done with it. I ordered it along with two other titles. I wasn’t too sure if I wanted to read it yet. Some of my previous experiences of reading the books written by friends and acquaintances weren’t too positive. That was preventing me to dive into this. Now that the book was in my hands there was nothing much else I could do. I chose to read at last. In no time I realised my hesitation was and doubts were unfounded. 

‘Unlove Story’ (translated from Bengali by Arunava Sinha)  tells the tale of Mallar and his ‘Unlove’ over a course of fifteen years. An adolescent, Mallar meets Srijan at his friend, Chikan’s place in his hometown and begins to learn gardening from him. Srijan,  a few years his senior, becomes both his mentor, muse, and inspiration. The inspiration turns to adulation and brings forth the hidden feelings in the young Mallar, to which Srijan responds too. 

What could have been a love story becomes a saga of how not to love, or question, and only live in the moment, as preconditioned by Srijan. Over the years, the starcrossed and besotted boys grow into men, move places, bump into each other once every few years and discover they yet not have lost their attraction towards each other, despite others flitting in and out of their lives.  

Will Mallar forever live by those conditions set by Srijan or will he unshackle himself or both from them and find the love he has always pined for?

The story narrated in a linear fashion without too many flashbacks and back stories or sundry characters as fillers. The atmosphere is evocative of rural Bengal and even when it moves across different places, it weaves them all within beautifully. They add to the characters and the emotions they are going through ever so subtly. The characters stay real and true to life, and make you relate to them. The love story that is not supposed to be draws you in and keeps a hold over you until the end. Once you begin reading there is no way you would want to keep it down and think you would read it later. You may want to again, once you’re done reading in one sitting, this time languorously.  

I had previously too read a few queer titles written by Indians. Barring ‘Mohana Swamy’ a collection of short stories by Vasudhendra, a friend, and to a lesser extent  ‘Don’t Let Him Know’ by Sandip Roy, none other had made an impression. Until now. ‘Unlove Story’ made me feel that not all is lost in queer literature in India. In one phrase, go read it. 

Did I like everything about the book? Like a nitpicker that I am, I could point to some that I couldn’t/didn't agree with. Like, the unravelling of the plot suddenly at the end. Or, the way Mallar frets over lack of clients for paintings (and until then he never sounds like he cared about money so much). But, these are my issues, and most others may think they are the chinks in the character that add to the beauty too. 

A special word of praise is reserved for Arunava Sinha. The translation doesn’t feel like it is. It feels organic, original. Nowhere it feels forced. Having seen how botched translations can get, this is no mean achievement (and I discovered, as I read the print on the book sleeve, Sinha has been nominated for awards both in India and abroad for his amazing translations. Take a bow!). 

I am glad I read Sudipto Pal’s novel. I now hope there would be more stories coming from him, and from other queer people too. The community has millions of tales to tell, and the world needs to know. 

Fortune Cookie

 Weekend. She indulges in a long, leisurely ritual for her bath. First she oils her lustrous, long hair, massages it in, and lets it soak for a while. Then she applies a paste of gooseberry and fenugreek and leaves it on for some more.  

The water is hot now, she thinks, and heads for her shower. When she returns and is towelling her hair gently, in front of the mirror, admiring her own reflection, she notices one of her earring - the right one - is missing.  She panics for a moment, it’s gold and diamond; it’s possible it might have fallen off while showing. 

She heads to the bathroom, and searches all around the floor, but the ring is nowhere in sight. She thinks it might have gone away through the drain. As she steps out, she decides to return and take one final look. There, inside one of the buckets, she finds it. She feels relieved and happy to regain her prized possession - a symbol of her love. 

On a whim, she takes out her phone and searches for omens regarding falling earrings. The google search tells her that if the right earring falls down, it indicates an affirmation of love, and its culmination in marriage soon. She beams. Her mind wanders about thinking of destination weddings, pre-wedding photo shoots, and more!

She heads out for the planned dinner date, almost floating in air. He already is waiting - serious-faced as usual. As she sits down, he takes her hand into his, and tells, “I am glad you’re here. I thought it wise to say this in person than send you a message.”

“Yeah?”, she leans towards him playfully. 

He moves back a little, makes space for himself, lets her hand go. “Sorry to say this, but I don’t think we can continue this relationship anymore”. 

She wonders if she heard him right. Is he mocking her? A prelude to him suggesting a change in the relationship status - from lovers to married couple? But even for a joke it’s in poor taste! 

He continues, “I feel pretty insecure with you, and there is no way I can keep going. I’m stressed. And I’m calling it quits. Sorry”. Was it her fame that made him insecure? Or her confidence? She cannot recall a day or instance where she imposed herself or her opinions on him. Her head spins at the turn of events. 

He gets up, takes something out of his pocket, places it on the table; it’s the ring she had gifted him for his birthday. “Good bye”, he mutters and melts away.

She stays frozen.