Sunday, January 6, 2008

India - Mahabharata

Summary of "Mahabharata"


Summarized by Prof. James L. Fitzgerald


The innermost narrative kernel of the Mahabharata tells the story of two sets of paternal first cousins--the five sons of the deceased king Pandu [pronounced PAAN-doo] (the five Pandavas [said as PAAN-da-va-s]) and the one hundred sons of blind King Dhritarashtra [Dhri-ta-RAASH-tra] (the 100 hundred Dhartarashtras [Dhaar-ta-RAASH-tras])--who became bitter rivals, and opposed each other in war for possession of the ancestral Bharata [BHAR-a-ta] kingdom with its capital in the "City of the Elephant," Hastinapura [HAAS-ti-na-pu-ra], on the Ganga river in north central India. What is dramatically interesting within this simple opposition is the large number of individual agendas the many characters pursue, and the numerous personal conflicts, ethical puzzles, subplots, and plot twists that give the story a strikingly powerful development.

The five sons of Pandu were actually fathered by five Gods (sex was mortally dangerous for Pandu, because of a curse) and these heroes were assisted throughout the story by various Gods, seers, and brahmins, including the seer Krishna Dvaipayana Vyasa [VYAA-sa] (who later became the author of the epic poem telling the whole of this story), who was also their actual grandfather (he had engendered Pandu and the blind Dhrtarastra upon their nominal father's widows in order to preserve the lineage). The one hundred Dhartarashtras, on the other hand, had a grotesque, demonic birth, and are said more than once in the text to be human incarnations of the demons who are the perpetual enemies of the Gods. The most dramatic figure of the entire Mahabharata, however, is Krishna Vasudeva [Vaa-su-DAY-va], who was the supreme God Vishnu himself, descended to earth in human form to rescue Law, Good Deeds, Right, and Virtue (all of these words refer to different aspects of "dharma"). Krishna Vasudeva was the cousin of both parties, but he was a friend and advisor to the Pandavas, became the brother-in-law of Arjuna [AR-ju-na] Pandava, and served as Arjuna's mentor and charioteer in the great war. Krishna Vasudeva is portrayed several times as eager to see the purgative war occur, and in many ways the Pandavas were his human instruments for fulfilling that end.

The Dhartarashtra party behaved viciously and brutally toward the Pandavas in many ways, from the time of their early youth onward. Their malice displayed itself most dramatically when they took advantage of the eldest Pandava, Yudhishthira [Yu-DHISH-thir-a] (who had by now become the universal ruler of the land) in a game of dice: The Dhartarashtras 'won' all his brothers, himself, and even the Pandavas' common wife Draupadi [DRAO-pa-dee] (who was an incarnation of the richness and productivity of the Goddess "Earthly-and-Royal Splendor," Shri [Shree]); they humiliated all the Pandavas and physically abused Draupadi; they drove the Pandava party into the wilderness for twelve years, and the twelve years had to be followed by the Pandavas' living somewhere in society, in disguise, without being discovered for one more year.

The Pandavas fulfilled their part of that bargain, but the villainous leader of the Dhartarashtra party, Duryodhana [Dur-YODH-ana], was unwilling to restore the Pandavas to their half of the kingdom when the thirteen years had expired. Both sides then called upon their many allies and two large armies arrayed themselves on 'Kuru's Field' (Kuru was one of the eponymous ancestors of the clan), eleven divisions in the army of Duryodhana against seven divisions for Yudhishthira. Much of the action in the Mahabharata is accompanied by discussion and debate among various interested parties, and the most famous sermon of all time, Krishna Vasudeva's ethical lecture and demonstration of his divinity to his charge Arjuna (the justly famous Bhagavad Gita [BHU-gu-vud GEE-ta]) occurred in the Mahabharata just prior to the commencement of the hostilities of the war. Several of the important ethical and theological themes of the Mahabharata are tied together in this sermon, and this "Song of the Blessed One" has exerted much the same sort of powerful and far-reaching influence in Indian Civilization that the New Testament has in Christendom. The Pandavas won the eighteen day battle, but it was a victory that deeply troubled all except those who were able to understand things on the divine level (chiefly Krishna, Vyasa, and Bhishma [BHEESH-ma], the Bharata patriarch who was emblematic of the virtues of the era now passing away). The Pandavas' five sons by Draupadi, as well as Bhimasena [BHEE-ma-SAY-na] Pandava's and Arjuna Pandava's two sons by two other mothers (respectively, the young warriors Ghatotkaca [Ghat-OT-ka-cha] and Abhimanyu [A-bhi-MUN-you ("mun" rhymes with "nun")]), were all tragic victims in the war. Worse perhaps, the Pandava victory was won by the Pandavas slaying, in succession, four men who were quasi-fathers to them: Bhishma, their teacher Drona [DROE-na], Karna [KAR-na] (who was, though none of the Pandavas knew it, the first born, pre-marital, son of their mother), and their maternal uncle Shalya (all four of these men were, in succession, 'supreme commander' of Duryodhana's army during the war). Equally troubling was the fact that the killing of the first three of these 'fathers,' and of some other enemy warriors as well, was accomplished only through 'crooked stratagems' (jihmopayas), most of which were suggested by Krishna Vasudeva as absolutely required by the circumstances.

The ethical gaps were not resolved to anyone's satisfaction on the surface of the narrative and the aftermath of the war was dominated by a sense of horror and malaise. Yudhishthira alone was terribly troubled, but his sense of the war's wrongfulness persisted to the end of the text, in spite of the fact that everyone else, from his wife to Krishna Vasudeva, told him the war was right and good; in spite of the fact that the dying patriarch Bhishma lectured him at length on all aspects of the Good Law (the Duties and Responsibilities of Kings, which have rightful violence at their center; the ambiguities of Righteousness in abnormal circumstances; and the absolute perspective of a beatitude that ultimately transcends the oppositions of good versus bad, right versus wrong, pleasant versus unpleasant, etc.); in spite of the fact that he performed a grand Horse Sacrifice as expiation for the putative wrong of the war. These debates and instructions and the account of this Horse Sacrifice are told at some length after the massive and grotesque narrative of the battle; they form a deliberate tale of pacification (prashamana, shanti) that aims to neutralize the inevitable miasma of the war.

In the years that follow the war Dhritarashtra and his queen Gandhari [Gaan-DHAAR-ee], and Kunti [Koon-tee], the mother of the Pandavas, lived a life of asceticism in a forest retreat and died with yogic calm in a forest fire. Krishna Vasudeva and his always unruly clan slaughtered each other in a drunken brawl thirty-six years after the war, and Krishna's soul dissolved back into the Supreme God Vishnu (Krishna had been born when a part of Vishnu took birth in the womb of Krishna's mother). When they learned of this, the Pandavas believed it time for them to leave this world too and they embarked upon the 'Great Journey,' which involved walking north toward the polar mountain, that is toward the heavenly worlds, until one's body dropped dead. One by one Draupadi and the younger Pandavas died along the way until Yudhishthira was left alone with a dog that had followed him all the way. Yudhishthira made it to the gate of heaven and there refused the order to drive the dog back, at which point the dog was revealed to be an incarnate form of the God Dharma (the God who was Yudhishthira's actual, physical father), who was there to test Yudhishthira's virtue. Once in heaven Yudhishthira faced one final test of his virtue: He saw only the Dhartarashtras in heaven, and he was told that his brothers were in hell. He insisted on joining his brothers in hell, if that be the case! It was then revealed that they were really in heaven, that this illusion had been one final test for him. So ends the Mahabharata!



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Sunday, October 7, 2007

Bangladesh - BAWO exhibition


From the Bangladesh Artist Welfare Organization

Face Acrylic on Paper


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Philippines - Palaver!

PALAVER!
Koytus Interaptus sa Mai/lakan/iyan

A Play by Alberto Florentino


SETTING: The play carries no date---day, month, or year---since the play never really happened in the real world, only in the city, or the theater, of the mind; thus, a short drama fiction, or fiction drama, a la Jorge Luis Borges' ficciones.

SCENE: A backroom in El Palacio. Lunchtime. El General and a high-class call-girl (aka Sonia) are meeting for a McQuickie, the equivalent of the Big Mac taken at midday.



SONIA: (in a voice Mina Sorvino used in Woody Allen's movie Mighty Aphrodite). And where, Señor Presidente, is your small room?

HENERAL: Please, just call me Heneral. (points to the C.R. and makes as if to accompany her)

SONIA: I'll be back in a sec! Get yourself ready. We don't have much time. (enters the C. R., toting what looks like a lady's make-up kit)

(EL HENERAL primps up: takes out a comb and fixes his Elvis Presley hair, opens the front door, and talks to someone on the other side of the door)

HENERAL: No calls---nothing and nobody---until one thirty.

(HENERAL is about to to remove his coat when SONIA returns from the C.R., brandishing a high-caliber automatic handgun which he aims pointblank at a spot between the HENERAL's eyes.)

SONIA: (in her Mina Sorvino voice) Surprise! Surprise!

HENERAL: (really surprised) Hey! Careful there!

(SONIA takes off her wig and we see YOMA in a drag make-up that matches his/her mini-skirt and high heels.)

HENERAL: (regaining his composure) That . . . surely was . . . the quickest sex-change ever!

YOMA: (speaking in his male voice for the first time) You know who I am? Do I have to shed this off?

HENERAL: (points to handgun) Not one unauthorized firearm has been found inside El Palacio since I took office. How did that pass my security?

YOMA: Remember when Al Pacino goes to the C.R. in Godfather and comes out with gun blazing?

HENERAL: I'm not too fond of movies.

YOMA: Then see Godfather. It's a classic: a lesson on how to run an empire.

HENERAL: May I? (indicates phone)

YOMA: Sure, you're allowed one call. (coolly takes one of the chairs in front of the table, all the time keeping the gun pointed steadily at the HENERAL)

HENERAL: (He lifts the phone and finds it dead. He feels under his desk to press a button but it gives no sound) You've cut all lines---who did---planted the gun---

YOMA: That's my secret M.O. Now, as per your instructions, no one will bother us for the next half-hour while we make love---here on this table?

HENERAL: Cut that out! What do you want?

YOMA: I'll be brief. Call off your plans to stay in office. The constitution limits you to eight years---not one day more.

HENERAL: But if the people want me---

YOMA: Yes, the people want you . . . out!

HENERAL: But the polls say---

YOMA: All your inventions.

HENERAL: And the media---there's not a freer press in the whole world!

YOMA: Nor one more corrupt. You've bought all of them. As you are trying to do with the Camara so they'll amend the constitution to extend your term.

HENERAL: But what if that's what the people want? And the Camara and the Cabinet?

YOMA: All your creations, and all to perpetuate your stay in El Palacio!

HENERAL: I may have got some people to want me to stay, but can you blame me if everyone wants me to continue in power?

YOMA: Everyone?

HENERAL: Well, almost everyone. The millions who signed the petitions!

YOMA: All stamped "bought, sold, and paid for." If one had ten billion pesetas---which your Banco Central can print in one weekend like bottle labels---it can buy you anything, or anyone. For small change, enough to buy them a Big Mac at McDo; the poor millions will sell their votes and elect the monkey in the Palacio petting zoo as President, or vote you to succeed yourself!

HENERAL: Yoma! I bailed you out when you were down and out. Your movies were not making money. I offered you to be my defense secretary, or any Cabinet post. Instead, you ran to the hills, plotted against my government, and staged one unsuccessful coup after another!

YOMA: Señor, we don't have much time. Your security will knock in a few minutes.

HENERAL: Look, Yoma, I know how to forgive. You may have anything you want---anyone---any woman---or any man if that's your---

YOMA: Here's my counter-offer you can't refuse. I want you to abdicate. Give everything up, except what you and your family will need in the next 50 years---you may live in comfort in any country of your choice. It's all here, just sign on the dotted line.

HENERAL: And if I don't?

YOMA: Again, let me quote from the Godfather movie. "Your signature on the dotted line, or your brains." (with his free hand takes out a silencer from his make-up kit and screws it on without relaxing his aim)

HENERAL: (panicking only now) You know me well, Yoma. I'm the immovable wall to your unstoppable bullet. But we can still strike a deal. Drop that gun and you can walk out of here. Or I can make you a "designer amnesty" right now, in my own handwriting. Run under my party and I'll make you President, after my term. I'll annoint you. As sure as the sun rises, you get elected, you get to run this country.

YOMA: After you've sucked it dry? Leaving the country---

HENERAL: Why think of the country at this moment? Think of yourself, your family.

YOMA: All I wanted was to be mayor of Quezon City. I know my limitations, mentally, intellectually.

HENERAL: Why let the people in on it? Why be . . . limited?

YOMA: Stop brainwashing me. I want your signature here---now!

HENERAL: And if I don't? When my secretary and my security enter, you're kaput. You're a dead man walking. That movie I saw, did you . . .

(They hear footsteps and voices outside the door. Both panic. Knocks on the door)

HENERAL: Time's running! If I don't open the door a minute after 1:30, you're DEAD!

YOMA: SIGN! SIGN NOW!

HENERAL: OVER MY DEAD BODY!

YOMA: AS YOU WISH, SIR!

(The clock on the wall rings 1:30. At close range YOMA shoots the HENERAL once between his eyes. The HENERAL's blood splatters on the paper on the table)

YOMA/SONIA: (in a Mina Sorvina voice, looking at the audience) Who was the playwright who once wrote, "If you bring in a gun on stage, it must be fired"?

(YOMA/SONIA quickly puts on his/her wig, and fixing his/her mini-skirt and makeup walks up to the door as knocks and the first voices [the secretary's and the security's] are heard)

YOMA/SONIA: I'm coming out! (opens the door just a foot wide) Just on time! (points to the HENERAL slumped on the table but looking as if he were only taking a nap) The President's resting as you can see.

(The secretary offers a thick envelope to YOMA/SONIA. A security man tries to enter but is stopped by the hesitant secretary blocking the way and by YOMA/SONIA holding the door back)

YOMA/SONIA: If I were you, I wouldn't wake him up yet. Let him finish his siesta. When he wakes up, he will be a young buck again. Here's my card, in case he calls for me, and I know he will. I made sure he will.

(The secretary again offers the envelope to him)

YOMA/SONIA: (refuses the envelope) Oh, no, no, Ma'am, no. This is different, not what you think! If you'll let me pass, I have to meet someone else in the palace and I'll need someone to lead me.

(Then, clinging to the security man's arm, YOMA/SONIA walks through the door, past the secretary and the other security men. Once past the door, the people outside the door peer through the opening. Then slowly, quietly, they close the door and leave the HENERAL to enjoy his presidential Post-coital Siesta)



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Thursday, October 4, 2007

Indonesia - Wayang Kulit

Wayang Kulit
[Image of Shadow Play as seen by an audience]







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Wednesday, October 3, 2007

Japan - Ikuta

IKUTA

by Zembo Motoyaso



PRIEST.
I am one that serves Honen Shonin of Kurodani; and as for this child here,--once when Honen was on a visit to the Temple of Kamo he saw a box lying under a trailing fir-tree; and when he raised the lid, what should he find inside but a lovely man-child one year old! It did not seem to be more than a common foundling, but my master in his compassion took the infant home with him. Ever since then he has had it in his care, doing all that was needful for it; and now the boy is over ten years old. But it is a hard thing to have no father or mother, so one day after his preaching the Shonin told the child's story. And sure enough a young woman stepped out from among the hearers and said it was her child. And when he took her aside and questioned her, he found that the child's father was Taira no Atsumori, who had fallen in battle at Ichi-no-Tani years ago. When the boy was told of this, he longed earnestly to see his father's face, were it but a dream, and the Shonin bade him go and pray at the shrine of Kamo. He was to go every day for a week, and this is the last day. That is why I have brought him out with me. But here we are at the Kamo Shrine. Pray well, boy, pray well!

BOY.
How fills my heart with awe
When I behold the crimson palisade
Of this abode of gods!
Oh may my heart be clean
As the River of Ablution;
And the God's kindness deep
As its unfathomed waters. Show to me,
Though it were but in dream,
My father's face and form.
Is not my heart so ground away with prayer,
So smooth that it will slip
Unfelt into the favour of the gods?
But thou too, Censor of our prayers,
God of Tadasu, on the gods prevail
That what I crave may be!

How strange! While I was praying I fell half-asleep and had a wonderful dream.

PRIEST.
Tell me your wonderful dream.

BOY.
A strange voice spoke to me from within the Treasure Hall, saying, "If you are wanting, though it were but in a dream, to see your father's face, go down from here to the woods of Ikuta in the country of Settsu." That is the marvellous dream I had.

PRIEST.
It is indeed a wonderful message that the God has sent you. And why should I go back at once to Kurodani? I had best take you straight to the forest if Ikuta. Let us be going.

(describing the journey)
From the shrine of Kamo,
From under the shadow of the hills,
We set out swiftly;
Past Yamazaki to the fog-bound
Shores of Minasé;
And onward where the gale
Tears travellers' coats and winds about their bones.
"Autumn has come to woods where yesterday
We might have plucked the green."
To Settsu, to those woods of Ikuta
Lo! we are come.

We have gone so fast that here we are already at the woods of Ikuta in the country of Settsu. I have heard tell in the Capital of the beauty of these woods and the river that runs through them. But what I see no surpasses all that I have heard.

Look! Those meadows must be the Downs of Ikuta. Let us go nearer and admire them.

But while we have been going about looking at one view and another, the day has dusked.

I think I see a light over there. There must be a house. Let us go to it and ask for lodging.

ATSUMORI (speaking from inside a hut).
Beauty, perception, knowledge, motion, consciousness,--
The Five Attributes of Being,--
All are vain mockery.
How comes it that men prize
So weak a thing as body?
For the soul that guards it from corruption
Suddenly to the night-moon flies,
And the poor naked ghost wails desolate
In the autumn wind.

Oh! I am lonely! I am lonely!

PRIEST.
How strange! Inside that grass-hut I see a young soldier dressed in helmet and breastplate. What can he be doing here?

ATSUMORI.
Oh foolish men, was it not to meet me that you came to this place? I am--oh! I am ashamed to say it,--I am the ghost of what once was . . . Atsumori.

BOY.
Atsumori? My father . . .

CHORUS.
And lightly he ran,
Plucked at the warrior's sleeve,
And though his tears might seem like the long woe
Of nightingales that weep,
Yet were they tears of meeting-joy,
Of happiness too great for human heart.
So think we, yet oh that we might change
This fragile dream of joy
Into the lasting love of waking life!

ATSUMORI.
Oh pitiful!
To see this child, born after me,
Darling that should be gay as a flower,
Walking in tattered coat of old black cloth.
Alas!
Child, when your love of me
Led you to Kamo shrine, praying to the God
That, though but in a dream,
You might behold my face,
The God of Kamo, full of pity, came
To Yama, king of Hell.
King Yama listened and ordained for me
A moment's respite, but hereafter, never.

CHORUS.
"The moon is sinking.
Come while the night is dark," he said,
"I will tell my tale."

ATSUMORI.
When the house of Taira was in its pride,
When its glory was young,
Among the flowers we sported,
Among birds, wind and moonlight;
With pipes and strings, with song and verse
We welcomed Springs and Autumns.
Till at last, because our time was come,
Across the bridges of Kiso a host unseen
Swept and devoured us.
Then the whole clan
Our lord leading
Fled from the City of Flowers.
By paths untrodden
To the Western Sea our journey brought us.
Lakes and hills we crossed
Till we ourselves grew to be like wild men.
At last by mountain ways--
We too tossed hither and thither like its waves--
To Suma came we,
To the First Valley and the woods of Ikuta.
And now while all of us,
We children of Taira, were light of heart
Because our homes were near,
Suddenly our foes in great strength appeared.

CHORUS.
Noriyori, Yoshitsune,--their hosts like clouds,
Like mists of spring.
For a little while we fought them,
But the day of our House was ended,
Our hearts weakened
That had been swift as arrows from the bowstring,
We scattered, scattered; till at last
To the deep waters of the Field of Life
We came, but how we found there Death, not Life,
What profit were it to tell?

ATSUMORI.
Who is that?

(Pointing in terror at a figure which he sees off the stage.)

Can it be Yama's messenger? He comes to tell me that I have outstayed my time. The Lord of Hell is angry: he asks why I am late?

CHORUS.
So he spoke. But behold
Suddenly black clouds rise,
Earth and sky resound with the clash of arms;
War-demons innumerable
Flash fierce sparks from brandished spears.

ATSUMORI.
The Shura foes who night and day
Come thick about me!

CHORUS.
He waves his sword and rushes among them,
Hither and Thither he runs slashing furiously;
Fire glints upon the steel.
But in a little while
The dark clouds recede;
The demons have vanished,
The moon shines unsullied;
The sky is ready for dawn.

ATSUMORI.
Oh! I am ashamed . . .
And the child to see me so . . . .

CHORUS.
"To see my misery!
I must go back.
Oh pray for me; pray for me
When I am gone," he said,
And weeping, weeping,
Dropped the child's hand.
He has faded; he dwindles
Like the dew from rush-leaves
Of hazy meadows.
His form has vanished.

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India - Rabindranath Tagore

A monologue from CHITRA

by Rabindranath Tagore


CHITRA: At evening I lay down on a grassy bed strewn with the petals of spring flowers, and recollected the wonderful praise of my beauty I had heard from Arjuna; --drinking drop by drop the honey that I had stored during the long day. The history of my past life like that of my former existences was forgotten. I felt like a flower, which has but a few fleeting hours to listen to all the humming flatteries and whispered murmurs of the woodlands and then must lower its eyes from the sky, bend its head and at a breath give itself up to the dust without a cry, thus ending the short story of a perfect moment that has neither past nor future. The southern breeze caressed me to sleep. From the flowering Malati bower overhead silent kisses dropped over my body. On my hair, my breast, my feet, each flower chose a bed to die on. I slept. And, suddenly in the depth of my sleep, I felt as if some intense eager look, like tapering fingers of flame, touched my slumbering body. I started up and saw the Hermit standing before me. The moon had moved to the west, peering through the leaves to espy this wonder of divine art wrought in a fragile human frame. The air was heavy with perfume; the silence of the night was vocal with the chirping of crickets; the reflections of the trees hung motionless in the lake; and with his staff in his hand he stood, tall and straight and still, like a forest tree. It seemed to me that I had, on opening my eyes, died to all realities of life and undergone a dream birth into a shadow land. Shame slipped to my feet like loosened clothes. I heard his call -- "Beloved, my most beloved!" And all my forgotten lives united as one and responded to it. I said, "Take me, take all I am!" And I stretched out my arms to him. The moon set behind the trees. One curtain of darkness covered all. Heaven and earth, time and space, pleasure and pain, death and life merged together in an unbearable ecstasy. . . . With the first gleam of light, the first twitter of birds, I rose up and sat leaning on my left arm. He lay asleep with a vague smile about his lips like the crescent moon in the morning. The rosy red glow of the dawn fell upon his noble forehead. I sighed and stood up. I drew together the leafy lianas to screen the streaming sun from his face. I looked about me and saw the same old earth. I remembered what I used to be, and ran and ran like a deer afraid of her own shadow, through the forest path strewn with shephali flowers. I found a lonely nook, and sitting down covered my face with both hands, and tried to weep and cry. But no tears came to my eyes.


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Thursday, August 30, 2007

Bengal - Forbidden Openings

Forbidden Openings

by Samaresh Basu

(Translated from Bengali by Prasenjit Gupta)


“Son of a pig!” Kanto Kundu bellows.

“Yes, sir, what is it?” Benda runs completely attentive, reflecting great distress. Before he comes, though, he winks at the boy--who is about his own age, about ten or eleven--standing at the stationery counter.

Kanto Kundu says, “Son of a sheep, are you deaf, or what? Get the tin of sugar-candy from shelf number three for Ishen.” Kanto puffs noisily on his toasted-tobacco cigarette. He looks at the elderly man in dhuti-panjabi standing before him, and says with a laugh, “People don’t know these things. Pyesh with candy settles your stomach. I eat pyesh every day, pyesh with candy.--Yes, what do you want? Oil? There isn’t any.--You? Gur?”

Seated on his large, comfortable cushion behind the cash box, Kanto Kundu asks the customers, one by one, what they want, then tells his workers to measure out the groceries. He turns his head and says, “What’s keeping you, Ishen? How long can it take to weigh out three kilos of sugar-candy?--How much gur? Five kilos? Okay. Hey!--Hey, son of a hyena!”

Benda is talking to the boy standing at the stationery counter: “Potla? The Potla who comes in all the time to buy four lozenges? He scored a goal?--He’s got the legs for it, doesn’t he?”

The boy says, “Yes, I’ve heard he eats turtle meat every day.--Give me a toffee. The six-paisa kind.”

“Okay. So, do they play every evening in the field behind the school?” Then he hears Kanto’s call, “--Son of a hyena!” and answers, “Babu?”

“Come here, rascal, get the gur from shelf number one and give it to Ishen,” commands Kanto Kundu.

Benda signals the boy to wait, and runs to the crammed shelves. Benda is twelve; he could be called Gorachand [“White-Moon,” a name of Chaitanya]. More surprisingly, he isn’t all skin and bone. Maybe even somewhat pudgy. Spiky ashen hair, eyes almost round. Button nose. When he shows his teeth--all healthy new teeth but stained--in a smile, his eyes almost vanish. Gritting his teeth, he lifts the twenty-kilo tin of gur from the shelf. He can’t carry it far, so he pushes it across the floor towards Ishen, and leaves it in front of the scales. Ishen pinches Benda on the buttock, and Benda goes to the stationery counter rubbing his backside. He takes a toffee wrapped in colored paper from the jar and pushes it towards the boy. The boy gives him a five-paisa coin and a one-paisa coin and says, “Can’t you come to the field to watch the game?”

“I can’t get the time off.” Benda says, “But Thursdays I visit my mother in Kanchrapara.--I don’t want to. But if I don’t go, Ma gets angry, and Babu gives me a beating.” He indicates Kanto Kundu with his eyes.

The boy asks “Why don’t you want to visit your mother?”

Benda grimaces, “I don’t like Ma’s man. He makes me do all the heavy work, and he swears at me.”

The boy looks surprised. “Who’s your Ma’s man? Not your father?”

Benda says, “Oh, my pop handed in his gourd a long time ago. Now Ma has a guy. And a bunch of kids. I don’t like it. One of these Thursdays I’m going to take off and go watch the game.”

The boy stares blankly at Benda.

Benda says, “I really want to go out and play. Football. I want to kick the ball so hard I bust it.”

The boy asks, “Don’t you play anything at all?”

Benda leans forward, eyes flashing, and says, “I do, every night I play kill-the-mice.” A hard smile flashes across his face.

“Hey, son of a dog!” comes Kanto Kundu’s bellow. “Fetch five kilos of oil cake from the sack and put it in a bag.”

Before Benda can leave, the boy asks, “Why doesn’t anyone call you by your name?”

Benda, not understanding, stares at the boy. The boy says, “They call you son of a pig and son of a crow--why do they call you these names?”

Benda laughs and says in a low voice, “Oh! They’re all sons of mice.”

“Hey, son of a monkey!” Suddenly, again, Kanto Kundu’s bellow. “Five kilos of oil cake from the sack!”

“Right away, Babu.” Benda runs off.

Kanto Kundu’s shop is always humming. Benda is his youngest worker. He gets food and clothes, and a salary of twenty rupees, which his mother comes and takes every month. Kanto’s first wife is dead; they didn’t have any children. He married again four years ago; no children. This wife is young, pretty. Kanto’s wife calls him turnip--apparently his face resembles a turnip. His own mother calls him many names, most of them not worth repeating. Kanto, too, has many such epithets for him, not worth repeating. All this matters little to Benda. In his mind he calls all of them mice, or sons of mice. All this matters little to him. He lives only for one reason, one passion. His game of kill-the-mice. And with the excitement of the game comes the thrill of money. A small mouse fetches five paise, and a larger field mouse is worth ten paise. Kanto Kundu pays.

It is nine-thirty at night: The front door of the shop has already been closed. At the rear of the shop is a warehouse, where Benda stays at night. There’s a door at the rear of the warehouse, and on the other side, between the door and the surrounding boundary wall, is a narrow patch of land with a toilet in one corner. The boundary wall is crowned with pieces of broken glass set into the cement along the top, and above that three strands of barbed wire.

From the shop to the warehouse there’s only one door. After letting Benda into the warehouse, Kanto Kundu secures the door with four padlocks. Then the outside door: he pulls the collapsible grill across it, puts about a dozen padlocks on it, and goes off. Everything is set for the night.

Benda is now alone in the warehouse. Candle and matches are stored atop a large wooden box. He picks up the matchbox and strikes a match, and lights the thin candle standing on top of the box. From the gap between two sacks of bran he pulls out a blanket and a stained old pillow and lays them down on the sacks.

In the light of the thin candle, the whole warehouse can’t be seen. On either side of the blood-red glow are sacks, boxes, and barrels, and the gaps between all these different things contain little handfuls of darkness. In that darkness and in that red light, Benda’s shadow is immense, his limbs inhuman. With unblinking eyes he begins to look around. Smoke drifts from his mouth and nose. The skin on his face grows taut: his eyes start to burn. Eagerly he listens to every noise, inside or outside. This expression is never seen during his entire day at work. It’s as if he’s preserving his body’s energies by means of some mantra, allowing only his face to show excitement. He puffs on his biri, blows out smoke. His face becomes hard and ferocious. Somewhere in the warehouse there is a slight noise. He doesn’t turn his head; he closes his eyes, tilts his head, listens carefully.

He stops puffing on the biri. He lifts the stub to eye level, then easily pinches it out and throws it away. He reaches behind the barrel and pulls out a bamboo lathi, shiny with oil, one end bulging like a head. He lifts the lathi to his eye and stares at it once. Then he grasps the narrow end in his fist. He turns his head and blows out the candle, and the darkness thuds down like a heavy curtain. Benda slowly, soundlessly walks a few steps away from the box and stands motionless as a figure carved in stone.

Benda’s world, too, is motionless now. The universe is dark; the creature called man ceases to exist. Time is stopped, waiting.

Benda sees two ember-points gleam, high up, near the roof, then move down rapidly and blend into the darkness. Benda is motionless. Four ember-points move across the floor a few feet from him. Benda is carved in stone. Two ember-points hurriedly move close, stop for an instant, and disappear into the darkness behind. Immediately, again, two ember-points come from the left and stop at his feet, then run away to the right.

These pairs of ember-points, high and low, far and near, begin to move and run and jump. Then, as if hypnotized, several ember-points begin to frisk and frolic in front of him. Benda’s fist tightens, the lathi rises and comes down incredibly quickly, violently. Benda jumps around, bringing the head of the lathi down in heavy thudding blows. Then he moves to one side and again stands as still as a stone statue. The world, too, is stopped again, become motionless.

There’s no counting time, no measuring the depth of the darkness. Again pairs of ember-points begin to appear, high and low, on the floor, on the sacks, on the box. Running and jumping, twisting and turning again, some ember-points begin to move, as if in a trance, in front of Benda. Benda’s hands rise again, again the blows fall like lightning. Then he comes back to the box, strikes a match, and lights the candle. The glow of the candle slowly pushes away the darkness. Benda, looking from side to side, picks up from the floor the carcasses of three small mice and a field-mouse. He sets them down on top of the box near the candle. He stares at them with shining eyes; a cruel smile spreads across his excited face. His face and body are slick with sweat, his hair fanned out over his forehead. He says, “Bastard mice, sons of mice.”

He puts the lathi behind the box. He blows out the candle. In the darkness he goes to the blanket laid out on the sacks of grain, stretches out on it, lays his head on the stained pillow, and falls asleep.

After the long day’s hard toil in this nameless life, after many insults and many hungry days, this is his one pleasure. So much pleasure, it doesn’t take him long to fall into a deep sleep. This pleasure and ease last until the dawn. Then, again, another cursed day begins. After nine at night, the game, the excitement, the pleasure, and then the ease of a deep sleep.

Benda has no time to think how some unknown force arranges these days and nights of his life. Where this life will end, he doesn’t know. Sometimes on the surface of this life, on its body, some openings appear for an instant. And in those openings float up images of playing in a large field, the sounds of many children’s delight. All these images and sounds are in the realm of the forbidden. The openings are forbidden.



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Monday, July 9, 2007

Indonesia - Me

Me

By: Chairil Anwar


When my time comes
No one's going to cry for me,
And you won't, either

The hell with all those tears!

I'm a wild beast
Driven out of the herd

Bullets may pierce my skin
But I'll keep coming,

Carrying forward my wounds and my pain
Attacking
Attacking
Until suffering disappears

And I won't give a damn

I want to live another thousand years


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Philippines - Bonsai

Bonsai

By: Edith Tiempo


All that I love
I fold over once
And once again
And keep in a box
Or a slit in a hollow post
Or in my shoe.


All that I love?
Why, yes, but for the moment-
And for all time, both.
Something that folds and keeps easy,
Son's note or Dad's one gaudy tie,
A roto picture of a queen,
A blue Indian shawl, even
A money bill.


It's utter sublimation,
A feat, this heart's control
Moment to moment
To scale all love down
To a cupped hand's size


Till seashells are broken pieces
From God's own bright teeth,
And life and love are real
Things you can run and
Breathless hand over
To the merest child.



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Japan - Kobayashi Issa

By: Kobayashi Issa


oh sake cup
don't go floating away!
a sickle moon


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