A Special Day, not to speak of the Appendix

Today is a special day. I don't mean it's not one of those special days you know about in advance and note down your diary or whatever. It is special because it turned out to be fortuitously so. I had no idea about its special status before the day showed up.

I must admit though that it was yesterday itself when I ought to have sensed the arrival of whatever turned out to be special today. Indeed, come to think of it, it was yesterday itself when the specaility seeds were sowed.

And now that I have begun to analyse things and observe them in their proper perspective, yesterday was not really the day when things had started happening. They had actually happened way back in July, 2010. And what happened in July, 2010 could be traced back to an evening around six months prior to that day.

However, it's today that matters ultimately. Unless today had been today, I would possibly not be writing up what I am writing now. The most important thing that's happened today is that I have finished and sent an article on oil prices to an editor who had been threatening to do unknown things to me for a few weeks now. Not only have I finished it now. I have even sent it over. And that means I have royal freedom to waste my time on things the rest of the world might look upon as non-essentials, such posting at IL, reading a book, playing music etc. etc. etc. What's more, I am almost sure that this freedom will last for at least three days. For my next article is due only on the 18th. and I need not even start thinking yet about the theme of the article. Not that such articles are read. But editors often hallucinate.

For want of better thoughts, I therefore began to think about yesterday. I had gone to a party hosted by the electronic media and found myself sitting all by myself close to a swimming pool in the Hyatt Regency Hotel. I realized immediately upon arrival that a whole bunch of beautiful women were strolling by "speaking of Michaelangelo". Michaelangelo must have been the topic of discussion, or else why the fascinating rustle of their super-expensive sarees (bought from that N shop in Chennai probably) or the traces of "perfumes of Arabia"? They were all from the show business and could not care less who I might be. One of the waiters kept visiting me with a whiskey and soda or whatever. That was none of my business either. I kept sending him away and disgusted him finally by asking for a coke!

And as I was about to fall asleep in the midst of all the din, I realized that a beautiful woman was not standing in front of me. Instead it was a man, a beared and somewhat bohemian looking man who stood and smiled. It took me a split second to recognize who this was. It was Joy Goswami. He is a poet of some renown. More importantly, he is still alive. Normally, you need to die to be recognized as famous. Of course, death alone might not confer "famous-hood" on you. For example, after I die, IL might decide to put up an obituary notice such as: "Here lies a man who died probably because he had been born".

Joy Goswami​

Not so for Joy Goswami. Make no mistake. You can look him up on google to know how widely he has been read.

I woke up with a start, without falling into the pool mercifully, for it was clear that he was speaking to me. He took me back to the Bengali New Year day a few months ago when I had met him during a television programme. You'll recall that I have this stupid habit of translating poems and in one of my overly idiotic moments I had decided to do one that Goswami had written. As is my wont, I worked on it for a few months and put it up on websites in July, 2010, but was not surprised that it went unnoticed. I have got so used to my state of invisibility that it scares me to death when someone recognizes me. I usually assume that the police has arrived with a warrant to arrest me for not paying my telphone bills.

But on this particular Bengali New Year day, I had been told in advance that Joy Goswami would be present for the programme. Mithun Chakraborty was supposed to anchor the show, but he didn't anchor it, having been called away to sing and dance in Mahabalipuram for all I know. I have to find out from Cheeniya if he had been hanging around in Mahabalipuram on that day. But Goswami was definitely not in Mahabalipuram. I know this because he was sitting right in front of me at the other end of the room. So don't believe Cheeniya if he tells you Goswami was chatting with him in his club in Chennai.

I had arrived prepared with my translation of his poem and, throwing all caution to the wind, I went across to him and presented him this single piece of printed paper (or the Complete Works of oj), without even caring to introduce myself. I told him what it was and requested that he read it and let me know if it had been worth a read. He nodded in total silence, putting thereby even God to shame. I mean God would probably have hello-ed to me if presented with a page written in praise of his creativity translated into English.

And that was the end of it. While leaving the studio, I noticed a garbage dump and guessed where my sheet of paper had disappeared.

And then, last evening, Joy Goswami was standing in front of me. And even recognized me it seemed as the rag picker who had left the piece of dirt at his doorstep. Without any parapharnelia he began to speak, which incidentally was a bit of a shock, since our previous encounter had suggested that he had forgotten to speak, so absorbed he was in writing. It was I who listened this time in stupefied inaudibility. I don't want to repeat what exactly he told me except for the fact that he wanted to include my thing in the next edition of a book of his translated poems. If that edition ever comes out of course. Apparently it has something to do with his autobiography in English. And by the way, he said he had preserved my piece of paper. Thank heavens, I did not look for it in the garbage heap. It could have given me an infection and I would then have died soon after, forcing IL to put up a notice slightly different from the aforementioned obituary note: "Here lie the scattered remains of a poor soul whose only claim to fame appears to be that he had breathed his last under a garbage heap".

Well that's all I had to inform you folks about this special day. It will hopefully find a place in my never to be written autobiography. But what's the point of an autobiography, even an unwritten one, unless it has an appendix? An appendix lends respectability. Like the smile without the Cheshire cat.

Appendix

A Dialogue between God and a Lover*

'If she were to roast you alive in fire?'
Effortless death's all I'll desire

'If to the top of clouds she lifts you then?'
Into raindrops I'll splinter, sheer droplets of rain

'And if she chooses to grind you into dust?'
Keep on flying wayward then I must

'Fly? Well, if she clips your wings to size?'
Falling, I'll catch her branch, I surmise

'If she throws you off her branch, wretched fool?'
What choice? Embracing her alone I'll keep my cool

Should I say more, Inquisitor, have you warnings still?
'Oh get off and enjoy lifelong agony to your fill!'
​

_______________

*Translation of a Bengali poem by Joy Goswami

 

Dear Sri:

"In sooth", like Antonio, "I know not why I am so sad." But this is a fact. You are right that Joy Goswami brought a modicum of joy the other night, especially when I was sitting lost in a crowd of celebrities. Perhaps the organizers were suffering from a delusion that I was a celebrity too! Since all the celebrities present there were vibrating much like Eliot's vociferous "women who come and go" and I was sitting quite alone by myself, not in benign neglect perhaps, but in supreme boredom, I was not glowing exactly the way a celebrity is supposed to. So I was wondering if the organizers hadn't committed an error of judgement. And I found the time to ruminate over not only the absurdity of my existence but its total emptiness as well. Given this background I may probably be forgiven for finding a sliver of joy in the "praise" Joy showered upon me. After all, that was the closest I had ever come to winning the Nobel Prize!

Soon, however, the joy disappeared. It disappeared when I looked back at the translation and asked what was so good about it? This has been happening to me with increasing frequency recently. After sweating over a piece of writing for over months and finally heaving a sigh of relief, I drown almost immediately into dark depression. This is "not it at all", my inner self (whatever that is) keeps reminding me in merciless refrains. But then what is it that IS it? Can it even exist? I know that it doesn't exist. But CAN it exist?

My total dissatisfaction with everything I produce is a burden that is turning out to be unbearably painful to bear.

I know this is not quite the response the wonderful fb you came out with (especially the first three paragraphs of it) deserves, . But there is nothing better I can come up with now and do please forgive me. I am trying my level best to take a long pending decision. And like all decisions, it calls for a good deal of courage as well as conviction.

oj

 

Dear Kamal:

Thanks for your kind words. I too look forward to the occasion when the three of us can sit together and talk. One of these days, I think I wish to visit Chennai too. For a reason I am not to sure I understand, I like that city. I liked Jaipur as well, but I liked other parts of Rajasthan more. In any case, if Chennai materializes, I should probably get to see not only Cheeniya, but a few others too, Chit + Vish being people I'd love to know.

Well, let's see!

Regards.

oj

 

Dear Satchitananda:

The three day breather is gone and more responsibilities have shown up. I have only tomorrow left to meet the deadlines.

In the meantime though, I think I have been able to come up with the fourth revision of the Buddhadev Bose poem I translated and I am feeling a little better now with the way it looks. Over time, it will possibly change more, but what I have now can at least be posted in my website. I haven't done it yet, but will probably do so soon.

Tomorrow will be a demanding day. Will be coming back around two days later. Or so I hope.

Love.

oj-da