Serendipity and After/54

a novel about publishing of a novel

We entered the minister’s chamber in a joyous mood. I had interest in seeing the Mayakovsky-loving, dhoti-punjabi clad Marxist who had started his working life as a minister — who was in charge of cultural affairs among other things.

“Good afternoon, Comrade!” Subhas said to him. He didn’t respond to him. No nod even. He just shot a glance at us — more at me. We sat in the chair just opposite him a bit snubbed.

He was not really looking like a minister. It seemed like he was in his party office, not in his well-spaced, furnished minister’s chamber. Obviously, he was still greenhorn and had not yet acquired the gravitas of a minister. His face was a bit small; he looked a bit haughty and reserved. I tried to guess his intelligence quotient. But I would need to hear him for that.

“What do you want?” he asked us somewhat curtly. The voice was not exactly baritone or something, but kind of practiced and cultivated. Something contrived hit my senses.

Subhas responded. “Sir, we both work in a newspaper house owned by one Mr Newar.. The house deals in trash and is a reactionary institution acting out against our Marxist ethos and ideology.” He stopped and tried to gauge the minister’s reaction.

“Move on. I’m hearing.” There was no movement in his facial muscles.

“So my friend protested when he was asked to write a lurid sex column. Now they were pressing him to write an astrology column. He doesn’t believe in astrology, he has no knowledge in it. So he protested again…”

The minister now stopped him raising his left hand and addressed me, “Why did you hit him?” I saw his stern eyes fixed at me. I was surprised that he already knew about it. Who was it who brought it to his notice? Police? His party? Or Newar himself?

“I had my back hit the wall, and it was a form of protest under the circumstances. It was a statement. Besides, he hurled abuses at me.”

He seemed a bit shaken.

“Do you know it was violence?”

“Yes, it was violence, but for a cause.”

“We don’t support any kind of violence.”

“So you believe in peaceful revolution?”

His face flustered in rage, but he restrained.

“You work in his paper,” he said to me now in an assertive voice, “You’re supposed to follow his instructions. That’s the rule.”

Subhas came to my rescue. “How can you say this, sir? Marxism doesn’t approve that view.”

He raised his left hand again and cast an angry look at him. “Do I have to learn Marxism from you?” His voice was high-pitched this time around.

The minster looked at me. “So why did you hit him? Answer me.”

“I’ve already answered. I can repeat it if you’ve not understood it.”

“I see you’re quite smart. But you have failed to convince me.”

“It’s not possible to convince one who doesn’t want to be convinced.”

“So you would not admit you did a wrong hitting a senior man and colleague?”

“I’ve already had my say.”

Now he started a lecture or better, a diatribe. He mentioned humanity and degradation of our values — the kind of things the bourgeiosie always trot out when necessary. So who was I hearing from? How could he be a Marxist? I saw Subhas sitting in a hopeless posture.

Now I had this feel that the minister would be defending Mr Newar anyway. He would not hear any logic or reasoning from us. He was full of hubris. He blabbered like crazy. He was speaking like a typical demagogue.

I was waiting for my chance to speak up.

So when he slowed down a bit in his flow of talk, I said in a humble voice, “Sir, why are you so fond of Marwaris? Are they the masses you actually represent?”

He took some time to fully figure it out. He now raised his eye-brow and came out stammering, “What do you mean? Just come out loud and clear.”

“You Bengal Marxists always lick the ass of the Marwaris!”

He went quite bonkers now. He began to fold the end of the left arm of his white punjabi as if as a preparation for an ensuing fight. He stuck out his tongue for a second and tucked it in. Like a snake. He seemed like a comedian.

“I think you’re a Naxalite,” he finally exploded.

Subhas now stood up from his seat. “Sir, I beg to you. Don’t call him a Naxalite. I know him so well. Sir, I’m a reporter. I’m a member of your party. Please, please sir. I’ve brought him here.”

He ignored him completely and spluttered, “I’m sure you’re a Naxalite. Don’t you belong to that union? it’s a Naxalite outfit. I’ve police report with me.”

“You are paranoid!”

“What did you say?”

“You’re hypocrite!”

“Hypocrite? Me?”

“You’re a fake Marxist!”

??

“You’re a sham!”

He began to shake in rage.

I thumped on his table.“You’re an asshole!”

He pressed the alarm.

In moments I saw securities sprang on us as if out of blue, a dozen of them at least, in uniform and in plain dresses, with arms, one with plain rod. They drew us like logs out of the minister’s office into the corridor, then manhandled us down the stairs. They stopped a while at the landing, and then again manhandled down another set of stairs. Landing again. And finally they threw us out of the gate.

We fell on the road like a bundle of heap. I was hurt, but Subhas cried in pain. It took us a while to stand the ground. We dusted the specks of dust from our trousers and shirts. A huge curious crowd had gathered around us. But I was concerned about Subhas. Had he suffered any fracture?

We ignored the crowd and made our way through it. Soon we were on the footpath. “I can’t walk,” Subhas said limping. So I called in a rickshaw-puller and we got on it. “Let us first go to Medical college Emergency,” I said to Subhas.

The richshaw-puller pushed into a lane to avoid the thronging main road. He was ringing his horn constantly.

“Mrinal,” Subhas said to me, “It’s a black day for me. I’m undone. The day Moni-da and you slammed me, I felt shocked. But today I know you were correct. What a naive I’m!”

“Stop it,” I replied, “But one thing I couldn’t figure out. He had reason to deal with me that way, but why didn’t he spare you? You were their comrade!”

Subhas cried out in pain from a hasty pull of the rickshaw at a sharp bend.

“I deserved it,” he said after compromising his pain, “It’s the day of reckoning for me. In a way, I’ve benefited out of this experience despite my shock. But I feel sorry for you. You had to get humiliated such a ghastly way. I’m very sorry. I seek your pardon. I hope you believe I had no intention to hurt you anyway.”

Subhas held my hand beseeching a response.

“Forget it, Subhas. But this is an experience which I want to write about someday, say, when this left regime will be over.”

We alighted from the rickshaw in front of Emergency. The senior OD examined Subhas and sent him for an emergency x-ray of right hip. There was a hair-line crack at head of his femur. “Nothing to worry about,” I said to him, “But you’ve to take rest for some days.”

When we parted at his mess, I asked him to see me next day so I could get him examined by a senior orthopedic surgeon and take his advice.

But Subhas didn’t turn up the next day. Nor on the day next. I was busy with my exam. After the exam, I went back to freelancing and was busy again. I forgot Subhas.

I’ve never seen him ever in my life.

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Arin Basu, So it’s the end of another episode. Noe it’s time for you to comment and come up with your valued judgement and opinion.

Tessa, Did you like the characters in this episode?

Tom Farr, Requesting a read of this chapter. If I remember it right, we had exchanged our thoughts on publishing and social media on Medium a long time ago. I’ll appreciate a feedback from your end. Thanks.