Emperor of the subaltern

“Let him sleep well. Sleep fixes everything.” That looming first line of the novel Herbert spinned around in my brain as I saw Nabarunda laid up in intense pain in Thakurpukur Cancer Hospital —  straining to open his eyes and then sinking back into the bottomless depth of unconsciousness. When has a modern tale ever begun with such limitless assurance of affection, such declaration of love, such death-defying compassion? No, Nabarunda is not a man to slip into blank and empty sleep. He had told me once — never shut your eyes fully, even in meditation, always keep them half open. Keep in touch with the world even in self-repose. Watch the Buddha, his eyes half-open even in contemplation. Always retain a relationship to people, to reality.

Nabarunda’s last question from the hospital bed was: ‘Next?’ I had asked: ‘Next show of the theatre?’ Never got a reply. He had called me just a few days before he was taken to the hospital, ‘What’s the update of new projects’? — he had asked. He meant the rehearsals of new play Jara Agun Lagay (Max Frisch’s “The Fire Raisers”, translated by Nabarun Bhattacharya) and the script of the next film Auto (based on a novel by Nabarun Bhattacharya). He had an immense wish to come to the opening show of the play on July 13. But the day before the show he called and said that he was no longer ‘confident’ of sitting for two hours of performance. I was meant to narrate the script of Auto to him when he returned from hospital. That never happened. Nabarunda had never defaulted before this day. Nabarunda used to ‘hear’ scripts, never ‘read’ them. He would not get into a long-winding discussion afterwards, simply mentioned a few details. On hearing the script of Hebert, Nabarunda kept mum for quite a while. I worried about what he was thinking. I knew that the day he had submitted the Herbert manuscript to his publisher, he had lain on the floor and wept. What could’ be more cruel, more hurtful than exposing to the world a slice of personal history — relinquishing one’s most intimate love, pain, grief and joy to expression, to society, to the public. Or for that matter, to the market! I feared that a similar dilemma might assail Nabarunda in making Herbert into a film. Eventually, he broke the silence and said, ‘Herbert pours buckets of water over himself and then jumps into the well.’ That image would be explosive in the language of cinema. Those who have seen the film would remember the impact of that particular scene. I remember the premiere of Herbert in Nandan, the writer sitting right next to me. ‘I see right before my eyes my familiar world change; the old days break up, crumble, fall like dust. A storm is coming.’ As Binu dies in hospital, in police custody, reciting these lines, the same Binu who was shot by the police as he tried late at night to paint Mao Tse Tung’s picture on the wall — Nabarunda suddenly walked out. I was mortified. Was he disappointed with this most crucial scene? I came out of the theatre and found him standing in the corner, smoking, eyes filled with tears. He wept like a child. How could one watch a scene like this, watch Binu die? He cried again. Later, after taking hold of himself, he came back to watch the rest of the film.

In his last days, Nabarunda’s intimate, incisive, X-ray eyes had turned yellow.  Looking into those eyes, I remembered the line ‘Never go into the yellow halogen zone if you are drunk on black-market booze’! Later when I opened Fyataroor Bombachak (a collection of stories) to check if I was quoting right, I found that the book was Nabarunda’s gift to me — signed 24-02-2001, ‘To Red Riding Hood’! Nabarunda used to call me Laal (my nick name which means ‘red’). He had dedicated his book of short stories, The Blind Cat and Other Stories, to me — to Suman Mukhopadhyay urf Laal! When Nabarunda looked at my face, his yellow eyes brought memories bubbling to the surface. I remembered those times when Bappada (Nabarunda’s nickname) used to drive his brown Maruti 800 and we would ride with him, drinking raw whisky, parked at roadsides. One day we were passing the Golf Green bus-stop. Nabarunda looked at the waiting crowd and exclaimed — Do you know what those bastards say when they see me driving this car? There goes the communist Bijon Bhattacharya’s son swishing past in a car! So fuckers, would you have preferred Bijon Bhattacharya’s son in rags, begging at the street corner?

One day the king of Fyataroos (subaltern flying people, characters from his stories) will descend with his army, piercing the sky, pushing aside the ghostly, black clouds, swimming past the damp, mossy moon — for the final assault. Many of the familiar ones will accompany him – Madan, Purandar, Balai driver, Kalmon, Mutual Man, Moglai, Biren, the blind cat, quite a few street-dogs, geckos and roaches, all sorts of bugs, gunpowder, bits of dynamite, torn kites, burnt matches etc.  Again, strangers will be there too — people, animals, things. Nabarunda will not let a cheat get away with his con-act, he never had. But while he walked the vast realms of literature, politics, society with so many at his side, Nabarunda became increasingly alone, unique and complete unto himself — ‘nothing will remain of the old days except becoming alone’. As he wrote this testimony to solitude by the blood of his veins, he nurtured many poison trees inside him. He didn’t wait even a year. Kangal Malsat was released just the other day, on August 2, 2013. Late at night, we were sitting on the pavement, celebrating. The heat was slippery, unbearable. The food, the rum, the water and the ice were boiling inside us. Nabarunda exclaimed, ‘Kangal Malsat got its release at last. Motherfuckers, I am damned tickled!’

‘The world has gone to the dogs’ — that was the basic gist of my last few encounters with Nabarunda! 
I have many debts to Nabarunda. Life, living, Manabendranath, Grossman, Calvino, Harigopal’s haunt (a country liquor shop), the ability to read messages in one’s dream — and so much more. He stays with me, will forever do. No genuine Fyataroo, no dedicated saboteur like him would ever leave this roaring carnival, this circus of swindle for the indifference of death. Nabarunda never had faith in exits.  It is my firm belief that Nabarunda would never compromise, never leave behind this unbreachable fort that he had built with his everyday living, with his literary style. He had always defended his den, had always been like a good guerilla, unambiguous about the question of terrain. He would never ever cop out!

The author is a theatre personality and film director
The article has been translated from Bengali to English by Prathama Banerjee, associate professor at the CSDS, Delhi. The article was first published in a Bengali daily Ei Samay