First Love

By

Rashid Karim

(1925-)


Translated by Partha Banerjee



It was August the seventh, nineteen forty-one. I was a tenth grade student. Had spent the whole day at home, doing nothing. Was it a holiday? Can’t remember now. But it wasn’t unusual that the school was in session, yet I was home, or maybe, watching a movie at the local theater – in fact, it was quite regular. Quite a few times I’d miss school for ten or fifteen days in a row, and then get a VIP treatment from my classmates when I’d finally return. My family members for a number of generations had been good students; some were exceptional. Therefore, I didn’t know how they’d accepted my total apathy and indiscretion. I could only guess. The school was more than three miles away; my mother knew about some hazards of the daily commute, and imagined some more. She’d made up a theory about it: her son was passing exams with good grades, so why push him to travel to school everyday endangering his life?

Anyway, this story is not about my school life. Let me come to the core of the matter.

That day, I lay on bed in my favorite second-floor room, read a book all through the morning and almost half of the afternoon, of course with a nice-little lunch break. Then I thought: heck, that was no good to waste an entire day of my life; it would be a much better use watching a matinee movie instead. The curious reader might want to know what the book was that I was reading. I couldn’t remember for sure, but a Sarat Chandra novel would be the best possible candidate. Back in those days, one couldn’t separate me from my Sarat Chandra. Still, I decided to put him down and went out – perhaps because it was a book I’d read several times over, and got tired of it.

Back then, to want to watch a movie and to be able to actually do it were two different things. Often, to make it happen, I’d have to pick a couple of pockets of my family members.

There was a theater hall in Central Calcutta called Rupam. It used to be a popular theater for students. It was popular not because of its aristocracy, but rather because of the lack of it. The new releases already shown for months at first-rate theaters would much later be found at run-down halls such as Rupam. Therefore, the tickets were cheaper here; students would find it easier to go even with their shallow pockets, with a little mandatory indulgence from family members.

I showed up on the street in front of Rupam fifteen minutes before the show. I guess I was a little unmindful. The things that would be common for show time seemed to bemissing. Still, I couldn’t quite figure it out. The big movie posters were hanging on the walls as usual. It was perhaps one of those tear-jerker Bangla movies that was running – the Court Dancer or Royal Actress or something of that sort. It was quite crowded, yet it was not exactly the same, usual movie-going crowd. I went up the stairs to buy my tickets, and then realized that there was no way I could do it: thebig iron gate was locked. Someone hung a cardboard sign on it – itsaid, “The theater is closed today due to the passing of the great poet Rabindranath Tagore”…or an announcement along that line.

So, Tagore is dead?

Then I realized that everyone was talking about the great poet. Everyone wassad and glum. People were crossing over the busy street speaking about him. Even the bubbly Oriya pan vendor who probably never heard about Tagore was acting differently, as if he knew a calamity had occurred; he knew it’d gripped the entire population of Calcutta.

I said to myself, ‘So, what do I do now? All the other theaters must be closed too.’ Of course, there was news for some time that the poet was gravely ill. Some even said that newspapers had already made up their special obituaries in anticipation of the inevitable. It must be true; otherwise how could the papers always manage to put out their special issues immediately after the fact?

I was now deeply saddened at the news; but honestly, it was not particularly for his death. I was sad because I’d missed the movie. Tagore could’ve died tomorrow; why did he choose to die today when it was so important for me to see the film? At that time, I had not read any Tagore other than a few of his poems such as Two Acres of Land, Abracadabra, The Awakening of the Waterfalls, or Shah-Jehan. My school teachers and family members would rank those to be his best poems. Even that Oriya pan vendor would say the same only if he could read Bangla. Much later, however, my esteemed professor Abu Syed Ayub had completely transformed my views about the poet. Back in those days though, I had a special preference for Two Acres of Land, especially those lines that started with, “Salutations to Thee, my beloved beautiful Motherland.” But publicly, I’d always say Shah-Jehan was his best poem – the primary reason was that Emperor Shah-Jehan was a Mussalman .

At that age, however, Sarat Chandra was indeed the one who’d intoxicated me.

Ididn’t know when I started walking again. I walked toward the Calcutta University building on College Street; everyone walked that way. They said that Tagore’s funeral procession was coming that way. By that time, the overarching gloom had touched me too. Like the pan vendor, I now also knew a major disaster had happened.

I stood on the steps of the University building. Thousands of people gathered there.The sidewalks on College Street, Harrison Road, streets to North Calcutta all were filled with people and more people. On balconies and windows of buildings on both sides, women stood with flowers and hand-made garlands. Many wept; some cried out loud. I now understood the magnitude of the event. I’d heard Tagore songs many times; words of some of those songs now came back to me, and haunted me. I got a lump in my throat.

The procession with the poet’s body was coming late. Everyone eagerly waited to see the poet one last time; to most of them, it was probably the first time too. I couldn’t imagine how they’d be able to see him in the midst of this huge sea of people.

Somebody shouted from the top of the stairs, “It’s coming, it’s coming!” Somebody else said, “It’s only the Films Division people on a truck.” Another man announced that a group of famous Tagore singers were riding a separate truck, the group being led by Pankaj Mallick, et al. I remembered the song I’d heard many times on the radio,

“When my footsteps are no longer found here...”

The procession with the poet’s body on a beautifully decorated truck passedon, with thousands of people mourning, wailing, and paying their last respect for the great man. Where did they hold the funeral – at which crematorium? I never remembered those small details. All crematoriums would really be the same, in my opinion.

For the next few days, weeks and months, it was Tagore and Tagore only all over, as if the sun or the moon was missing from the Calcutta sky. There was no other conversation in the city – on trams and buses, in the papers, in living rooms, at the share market, even at the tobacco shops, everyone talked about Tagore – his poetry, songs, art, politics, and all.

It was also the time when the World War waged on. It was dark in the evening: lights would be cut off. We were scared. Everyone was mentally prepared for an inevitable bombing on the city. Sandbags lined up on the streets, lights were turned out, and posters said ‘walls have ears too’, ‘own your own electricity’, etc. However, we didn’t see any major bombing on the city. We had bombs dropped on Calcutta only once ortwice – it didn’t damage much. People would make fun of Japanese bombs: unlike today, Japanese products back in those days didn’t carry much reputation.

My Abba had retired. He’d noticed that I was quite sad and depressed for some time. He’d of course never read any Tagore either. He didn’t even know much Bangla; he’d only speak a little. Infact, in our family, my parents were both Urdu-speaking. My brothers and I were the first to learn Bangla.

We sat to have dinner. He knew my blues had something to do with the death of the poet.

Abba was eating with us. He said, “Was Tagore a great poet?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Greater than Iqbal? ”

I’d never read any Iqbal.

Still, I confirmed, “Yes.”

Abba then asked, “Have you read any Iqbal?”

I had to confess. With great hesitation, I said, “No.”

“Then how do you know Tagore was greater than Iqbal?”

What could I say? I kept mum.

I’d given up Urdu and picked up on Bangla; therefore my father and I would mostly speak in English.

Butmy story is not really about Tagore either. Even though it’s based on him…or rather, his death…it’s actually a trivial incident…perhaps quite insignificant. The real story is somewhere else.

The big memorial meeting for Tagore was held at the Town Hall…was it at Town Hall? The president of the meeting was the famous historian Sir Jadunath Sarkar…or was it him? These were historical facts, and one must not misstate them. But in terms of my story, even those glaring errors would not make much of a difference.

The meeting location was incredibly crowded; moreover, the heat and humidity were unbearable. There was not an inch of space where I could sit or stand. Hundreds of people got denied access and went back to stand on the street. There was perhaps a wooden partition outside the auditorium. I barely stood next to it. There was a swing door nearby; police officers had camped there. Nobody would be allowed to get past the door to enter the hall. I’d never seen so many celebrities in my life. Somebody said Kazi Nazrul Islam and Fazlul Haq were also there . But in that enormous crowd, I couldn’t make them out. A group of girls were working as volunteers. Even in that suffocating condition, I was absorbing it all.

A young woman volunteer showed up. She wore a black, sleeveless silk blouse. An aura of aristocracy emanated off her body, her manners,even the way she walked and talked. And how did she look? “Stunningly beautiful” must be used only for someone like her; no one should use that word more than once in a thousand years.

I no longer remembered Tagore. I stood on this small corner of the wooden partition, like a beggar. I knew I would not be able to enter. The beautiful young woman was very busy. She was greeting someone, moving someone else, and making room to sit others. The special guests spoke with her too.

She looked at me a couple of times. She glanced at me for a moment even in the midst of her very hectic job. Was she curious about me? There were so many other men standing in this little corner; they were all handsome and well-dressed. She didn’t look at them. She looked at me…yes, maybe only for a moment. But she still did it alright. Why? Was it possible that she actually cared about me?

The meeting was about to begin. It became even noisier. Now she was coming up toward this wooden partition. Now I could see her clearly. She was sweating. She looked so beautiful even with her sweat! How old was she –- eighteen, nineteen? She was a little older than me.

The crowd was pushing hard against the partition like crazy to get in.
She now came and stood there. No, she wouldn’t let anyone slip in. Some people showed their invitation cards. Still, no luck for them…it was too late. There were no more seats available at all. Some guests were angry; some started an argument. But she would not be swayed. The police officers were obediently following her instructions. Slowly but surely, the raucous crowd gave up, and grudgingly dispersed.

I still stood there. For an instant, there was nobody else near the swing door.

She now opened the door.

She now said, “Come on in…come, quick.”

Who was she calling – me? I couldn’t believe it!

“Quick, now. More people will be here any moment.”

I still stood there. Did she finally hold my hand and drag me in? Well, perhaps not.

Then she dissolved into the crowd, never to be seen again.

I couldn’t tell who you were, girl. But I shall never forget you. You came to me, and called me in.


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