TRANSLATED FROM THE BENGALI BY CAMELLIA PAUL

 

The height was at least 50 feet, if not more. The colossal holding, adorned with a contrast of red and yellow, clung itself on to the iron framework of beams, its pillars firmly anchored into the roof of the five-story building. At first glance, one could say it had risen straight up. However, it wouldn’t be accurate to say so right away, for one corner towards the west appeared slightly tilted within the frame. If two people lifted the framework using a pair of smaller iron beams, the structure would stand tall.

The task had been underway since morning, with the afternoon now melting away into dusk. As night fell, the words and images would soon come alive amidst their radiant surroundings. A passenger travelling on a bus across the flyover would easily spot the flaming horse from their seat. The iris of the eye, the flowing mane, and the flashy contours of the smooth rear gluteal muscles collectively exuded power and desire – desire to ravish the woman with the silken thighs. The phrase ‘Jeebon Maanei Goti’, life is speed, written in letters of the English alphabet, and – neatly juxtaposed towards the border of the frame – a clutch, an accelerator, and mirror signs on a pair of horns. If that one dangling piece in the western curve could be securely tightened with a screwdriver and fastened to the iron chamber, there still would remain a chance for some twilight stardust to settle on the horse’s body, amidst the soft mellow of the fading dusk. And that was when it happened.

Just while tightening a rusting bolt using a long wrench, suddenly another beam came loose, crashing down, and slicing sharply through Biju – Bijalipada’s shoulder. Pancha watched his fellow worker’s arm swiftly catching the breeze and disappearing in the gusts. Now, only the elbow hung half and limp in the air.

As fate would have it, Biju swiftly seized the nearby frame, extending his left hand, while his two feet clung to a piece of iron. Otherwise, he would have been swept away, floundering and sprawling in the wind, crashing hard onto the ground. And how long would it all last? Perhaps just two to two-and-a-half seconds.

“Bi–ju da!” Pancha called out.

“I’m alright!”

“Your arm?”

“The wrench is gone!”

“Blood?”

“It’ll soon start oozing. Don’t worry.”

“Get down. Why are you shaking?” Pancha felt scared.

“O-Okay.”

Down below, the ground was bustling with people. No one could fathom what had transpired at such a great height. Even if Biju had been whisked away by the wind in a mere two or two-and-a-half seconds, the incident would have undoubtedly made headlines. Biju’s identity, the details of his disfigured body, the incident’s nature — whether accident, homicide, or suicide — Pancha-Nilu-Jadav — interrogation of the remaining three workers, and calls to authorities from other companies — all elements combined, the news would undoubtedly have been far from ordinary.

Three and a half of them descended from the frame onto the terrace. Bijali could no longer be considered a complete person, but merely a half. Nilu and Jadav were wielding hammers on the southern end of the frame. Along with Pancha, they could only be called “three and a half” men.

Bijali’s hand gripped an iron wrench with a long handle. In his left hand, was a horseshoe ring – a remedy for piles. Why the ring had switched hands today while climbing onto the frame eluded Biju’s memory. Under his elbow, a few irritating and scaly rashes marked the spot.

Despite the excruciating burn at the tip of his elbow, there was still no sign of blood. Biju felt as though there was a whirlpool churning in the depths of his body – could it be a maze of veins and countless sinews caught in the labyrinth of nerves and muscles? Perhaps sleep could help – he’d hit the sack and evade all the fears, anxieties, and torments that lingered awake.

Who could predict when this yawning kartik day would drift into slumber as evening settled in! No longer could one discern Biju’s lips fading into uncertainty in the dwindling light. Like a half-blooming crepe jasmine in the crack of dawn.

“Listen,” calling Pancha and Nilu a little aside, Jadav asked, “Where’s the hand?”

“Have I kept track or what?” Pancha answered.

“Not saying that. We’ve got to find it!”

When Pancha wanted to know why, Yadav replied astutely, “Evidence! If the company had filed an insurance claim, the first thing they’ll ask for is the hand.”

Pancha asked, “How will you inform our bosses?”

“That comes later.” Looking behind him, Nilu interjected. “Biju da has fallen asleep.”

Biju had never slumbered at such dizzying heights before. His eyes grew weary, as if the heavens themselves might descend upon him. Or was it the sheer altitude that allowed him to lie flat on his back and imagine a handful of stars drifting down to caress his nose, eyes, and lips? Like a gentle flurry of sleet upon the pumpkin fields below?

Still no blood. Some colourless fluids had saturated the area, leaving behind an intense burning sensation. Like thick sugar syrup.

Biju had been dreaming all this while. It dawned on him now that his arm from the elbow down was gone. Feeling the pang of its absence, Biju let out a whimper.

Pancha said, “Biju! Don’t cry. You need to sleep.”

“My home? Where’s my wife?” Biju asked.

“Everything’s fine,” Pancha reassured.

Pancha remained perplexed by Jadav’s logic. Why bother searching for the missing arm to provide evidence? The stark horror of the maimed, bloodied elbow was in itself the undeniable proof of the situation.

“Why?” Jadav added, “If not an accident, any of you could’ve severed the arm with a single blow.”

“Why?”

“Malice.”

“What malice?”

“It’s not about the whys and whats.” The authorities could very well stick to their rationale for the insurance money.

The dangerously unhinged beam still dangled precariously from a sturdy screw. If Biju had the faintest inkling of what was to come, he would have tightened the screw with the wrench much earlier. In reality, he had been absentmindedly gazing at the horse. With primal urges gleaming in its eyes, the motionless creature appeared alive. Biju couldn’t help but ponder incessantly—even though it was a horse, could it still lust after a woman?

Throughout his life, he had worked for the same company, erecting nearly two hundred and fifty billboards. He had darted across slippery iron beams, clearing countless saplings that had sprouted from wooden frames, nurtured by wind and water. Deliberately, he had dispersed those small saplings into the air, allowing them to vanish into a perpetual state of undisturbed freedom. Pancha said, “Nilu, go to the office. Inform the bosses! I need to go….”

“Where?”

“Need to take Jadav.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’ll check if I can find the evidence.”

“Let Jadav stay with me!”

“Why!”

“The bosses won’t believe me alone… who will keep an eye on Biju da?”

“No need. He’ll soon doze off… Once he’s asleep, he’ll make it through the night.”

“It’s not right to let him fall asleep.”

“Why?”

“The biting pain will pierce through his body.”

“What about medicines? What if it starts rotting?”

“No doctor will agree to come up so high… you stay here, then… if the blood starts to splatter, tie it up carefully. I’m going down.”

Not quite succumbing to sleep, but right before losing consciousness, Bijalipada pondered—how would he explain all this to his wife back home? As he flexed his left hand and examined it closely, a sudden jolt surged through him, and he blacked out. His left hand throbbed with pain, the skin on his wrist, the hairs upon it—the tattoo he had gotten inked at the local fair bearing his name ‘B. P. Halder’—wouldn’t it have cost him much more if it had been his full name, Bijalipada?

Clambering down, Pancha couldn’t decipher if Bijali’s severed hand was visible. The occurrence of such a dreadful mishap amidst such a seemingly ordinary environment would be incredibly hard to believe. Pancha found himself at a loss as to where to begin his search. If anyone were to inquire what he was searching for, what response could he possibly offer? On one side of the five-story building lay the railway line and the flyover, while on the other side sprawled numerous bustee settlements and a few patches of low, marshy land marked with their boundaries. If he ventured into those settlements, Pancha would be met with the scrutiny of thousands of eyes, the listening ears of hundreds, and the relentless curiosity of the locals. Moreover, he would require a powerful torch for the search. 

Suddenly he had a thought, and promptly informed the office boss over the phone from a telephone booth.

“Is the work finished, or still left?”

“A bit left.”

“And you’ve already hit the bar?”

“Sir, please…”

“Report straight to the office, Panchanan.”

“Jadav has left.”

“Where’s Nilu?”

“He’s keeping an eye on Biju.”

“Keeping an eye? What nonsense!”

“Indeed, sir. He’s still on the rooftop of that building.”

Boss angrily slammed the receiver down.

As Pancha proceeded further north along the railway line, the flyover started to blur into the distance. Could the hand have drifted down this far? Occasionally, when Pancha stepped outside in the dead of night to relieve himself, his drowsy eyes would wander for a moment. He’d catch a glimpse of a star twinkling amidst the branches of his mango tree—seemingly within arm’s reach if he were to climb Bhulo’s palm tree. The true distance was quite beyond his grasp.

Pancha had actually gone to the booth to inform one of Nilu’s neighbours that Nilu wouldn’t be returning home that night. Despite those repeated attempts to remember, he ended up mistakenly dialling the number of the boss’s table at work upon reaching the booth. It was now that he recollected the blunder. What if Nilu’s family panicked and reported his absence through the night to the police? Pancha’s own family, too, was unaware of the incident that had occurred at work.

A couple of trains had just thundered down the tracks, their rhythmic clatter echoing along the rails. Pancha had to be cautious, lest he be run over by the speeding trains. People had a habit of discarding all sorts of rubbish by the railway tracks. Pancha was already knee-deep in a nauseating stench, with a few insects crawling up his clothes.

Suddenly, he came to a halt. What would he do if he stumbled upon what he was looking for? What could possibly be his duty? Would he boldly ascend five floors with the arm casually slung over his shoulder, or would he present it as evidence at the boss’s office, supporting the accident claim? Carrying a severed arm or allowing it to dangle from his shoulder would also expose him to danger from any adversary—whether the police, the public, or a political opponent. Instead, he should have left this responsibility to Nilu, while he waited on the fifth-floor terrace. Biju was Pancha’s partner, after all. And Nilu’s partner was Jadav. But dragging in those complications during such difficult times would not be quite right. And if the hand remained undiscovered, would the company deny compensation to Bijali? Moreover, how would he manage to lift the frame with a maimed arm? Yet, with the majestic horse, those alluring silken thighs, the refreshing shower under the waterfall, and the fragrance of the sweet snow lingering in the air for a full twenty-four hours, Biju would undoubtedly imagine the billboards as kites gracefully cutting across the night sky. And this imagination would not be entirely unfounded, as it would be confirmed once the office reopened the next day. But before this, he must make it through the night. Lost in these contemplations, Pancha nearly tripped over a heap of debris, only to realise that what he had lifted from it was actually a glove—a remnant of an old and worn-out pair. As though it had briefly danced across the sky before finally coming to rest amidst the pile of rubbish. The instant he made contact, Pancha squicked. What he had assumed to be the missing hand of his fellow worker, turned out to be a weather-beaten glove, a tool with which one might commit unspeakable nuisance, or—! Or what? Or what they fail to perceive through their eyes, but recognise through touch, or by exposing it under the light when the need arises. Much like how gloved hands extract a baby from its mother’s womb. However, this one appeared rugged and worn. Who could say what misdeeds the faux hand had been involved in? Immediately upon contact, Pancha felt an urgent need for water. He would cleanse and sanitise his hands without delay. It made no sense to linger aimlessly amidst nooks and crannies. He could not even fathom how Biju’s arm had vanished into the labyrinth of lanes and bylanes, terraces and terrains. Instead, it would be wise to file a report at the police station. This way, no accusations would be directed at him the following day—why not inform the police station right away?

Pancha was intimately familiar with the police station, and knew it like the back of his hand. He could tell exactly the language they spoke, the looks they cast, and how they behaved. Perhaps the inspector, reclining comfortably in his chair, would casually remark, “Well, dear fellow, don’t you make any money at all? Must you turn to stealing?”

“No, sir!”

“And if you must resort to stealing, couldn’t you at least do it properly? Why trouble us like this?”

Alternatively, seating someone on a bench, the sub-inspector would casually murmur, “That girl you’ve eloped with bears a striking resemblance to your sister, did you realise that?”

“How am I supposed to understand?”

“Now if she looks you straight in the eye, will you be able to touch her then?”

“See, that’s the problem.”

“Have you even bothered to ask her about her preferences, what she likes to eat, and such?”

Alternatively, giving the driver a friendly pat on the back, the inspector would jest, “Well, my boy, where did you drive the loaded party?”

“Sir, I honestly had no idea!”

“Are you kidding me? You can drive, yet you got lost on the roads?”

“I was completely blindfolded, sir.”

“Then how on earth did you manage to drive? If people like you start fibbing, what will the respectable folks say?”

“I assure you, sir, I’ve been trained since childhood… I can drive blindfolded. I rely on my sense of smell to navigate the roads.”

The pot-bellied inspector would chuckle, visibly amused.

With Pancha being so familiar with the police station, he decided it was best to keep them informed. He then made his way towards it.

Meanwhile, Nilu’s temper started rising as time ticked by. Fear and doubt clouded his mind. Had Pancha deceived him and gone home? Was searching for the missing arm merely an excuse? If news of his absence reached Nilu’s family, wouldn’t one of his three sons have come looking for him?

In truth, Nilu’s eyelids weighed heavily with exhaustion after a day of gruelling labour. He had never spent a night at such a towering altitude. Nights undergo transformations with elevation—altering in appearance, scent, words, and even in thoughts. Whether seated beneath the satellite, on the expanse of a twenty-story rooftop, or within the depths of a mine, each setting imparts a distinct ambience. Suddenly, the scent of the fifth-floor night abruptly engulfed him. Somewhat like the pervasive aroma of burnt rubber.

Bijali lay motionless—one couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead. Meanwhile, the blood began trickling down from his sleeping elbow. Though there was no audible sound, Nilu felt the sensation of dripping water, instilling fear within him. At such a height, if the unconscious person beside him were to suddenly awaken and declare– “Actually, it’s all a trick. I intentionally loosened the beam,”– What would Nilu do, then? Or, just as Biju had no inkling this morning that he would lose an arm by the day’s end, similarly, what if Nilu, too, were to lose his arm!

He had once witnessed a coolie hauling cargo with one hand along the port. Ships remained anchored in the harbour, awaiting their voyage into the ocean. However, the coolie had never hinted to anyone about having seen the ocean, not even amidst the excitement of a romantic date on a holiday night. How would Nilu have ever glimpsed the sea if he hadn’t taken that tourist bus trip to Digha with his wife and kids? Who could predict when they would hand him his clearance bills along with a VRS—thus, Nilu had eagerly seized the opportunity arranged by their local club and set out to Digha without looking back.

Nilu could sense that the night had advanced. Otherwise, the lingering scent of burnt rubber wouldn’t have dissipated, to be replaced by a subtle fragrance permeating the air from all directions. Such was the luck of those damn scents, considering that the corporation Nilu worked for had acquired a majority of the city’s skyscrapers, hoisting their colourful billboards as if to showcase a glimpse of their promising future.

The clocks of Nilu’s bosses seemed to revolve on a 26-hour cycle. They joked about those charming flight attendants, playfully winking, as if they could magically turn the strands of their hair into silk right before the passengers’ eyes. With bars of chocolate clasped between their brightly painted, manicured nails, they were eager to enhance the indulgence with a few extra drops of Brazilian honey. But let’s set that aside. How could Pancha and Jadav simply flee from such a crisis?

Sleepless nights triggered indigestion and acidity, causing him to emit pungent burps. His eyes would sink into their sockets, and his body would tremble from within. Damn it! If Nilu died, who would take care of his family? An accidental death could be covered by insurance. But dying from a natural cause would not yield any additional benefits.

Lying flat on his back a few metres away from Bijali, he gazed up at the sky. Were those stars truly stars? No, no, those were the beliefs instilled by his ancestors, Nilu realized. Yet, in the quiet of the night, amid such lofty heights, such thoughts appeared rather mysterious. With his arms outstretched and the gentle breeze caressing him, Nilu quickly drifted off to sleep, still contemplating amidst the twinkling stars.

Two-and-a-half-hours later, a pair of drunk constables, hauling Pancha along with them, reached the spot. They had suspected him of being an undercover spy, concocting tales to hide his true intentions. The sound of their boots on the stairs failed to disrupt anyone’s slumber. As they stepped onto the rooftop and were greeted by the scent of the night air, they were suddenly rendered speechless.

In hushed silence, the horse had gently leaped out of its frame, its muzzle now nibbling on the slumbering Nilu’s right hand. From the fingers to the wrist, it went across the rusty stains of nuts and bolts, to the delicate nerves and skin. Just as the creature reached Nilu’s elbow, the trio ascended onto the roof. Emitting a soft neigh through its yellowed teeth, the horse vaulted, instantly reverting to a mere image. The sweet fragrance emanating from the animal’s body now intermingled with the surrounding air, leaving an enchanting aroma in its wake.

The following day, the tale of a scarlet horse made headlines in newspapers throughout the city. Yet, nobody believed the creature was capable of devouring an entire human hand. After all, horses only ate grass and chickpeas. Surely, they couldn’t swallow a human hand, could they?

 

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Also, Read Selected Poems From Sovraliminale By Francesca Del Moro, Translated From The Italian By Patrick Williamson and published in The Antonym:

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