East-West Part II
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http://parijat69.blogspot.com East-West (Purbo-Paschim) PART TWO by Sunil Gangopadhyay East-West (Part Two): Outside a plush hotel in New York, an Indian youth is seen waiting for an appointment. He is desperately in need of a job. He is Atin, the young boy of Part One who gets mixed up in politics, and is obliged to leave the country, much against his will. He is still a revolutionary at heart, he hates his exile in America. The large canvas of this novel covers three continents, but more particularly the dramatic events following the partition of India, the political unrest in West Bengal, the plight of the refugees and the birth of a new nation, Bangladesh. The social and political reality instead of remaining a backdrop takes on centre stage where simultaneously individual lives unfold, each with it's own account of love, hate, passion and betrayal. The author takes a dispassionate look at the Naxal revolutionaries, exposing their vulnerability, the colossal tragedy of so many promising lives coming to a pointless end. On the other side, in the other Bengal, events move to an inexorable climax, while the fictional characters flit across the stage, the shadow of actual historical figures loom large — Ayub Khan, Yahya Khan, General Niazi and the day by day account of how the mighty Pakistan Army, one of the best in the world was doomed to a most humiliating defeat. This novel of epic proportions is an unique experiment in blending fiction with facts, an attempt to truthfully capture a swiftly moving course of events, a compelling novel difficult to put down. Sunil Gangopadhyay (b. 1934), lost his father quite early and had to struggle hard to support the family. They lost their ancestral home in the partition and settled in Kolkata. Along with doing various odd jobs, Sunil continued his studies and did his masters from the Calcutta University. Poetry was his first love. He spearheaded a poetry movement, started a poetry journal which had a long life of twenty-five years. In 1966 he tried his hand at fiction and made a mark overnight. Since then he has been writing novels and short stories at a prolific rate and is now considered one of the most outstanding of modern Indian writers. Enakshi Chatterjee, a bilingual writer in Bangla and English has won the Rabindra Puraskar for Parmanu Jignasa, a book on the history of science, written jointly with her scientist husband Dr. Santimay. She has a number of books to her credit—biographies, children's fiction, science fiction, popular science and translations. The wide spectrum of Bengali fiction translated by her range from Tarasankar on one end to new and emerging writers like Sohrab Hossain on the other. She is equally at ease with the reverse kind of translation, the most notable being Satpatro, Bengali rendering of Vikram Seth's A Suitable Boy. EAST-WEST PURBO - PASCHIM SUNIL GANGOPADHYAY PART TWO Translated from the Bengali Original by ENAKSHI CHATTERJEE nk SAHITYA AKADEMI East-West (Part Two): An English translation of Sunil Gangopadhyay's Bengali novel Purbo-Paschim by Enakshi Chatterjee, Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi. 2004 Sahitya Akademi Rabindra Bhavan, 35, Ferozeshah Road, New Delhi 110 001 Sales Office 'Swati', Mandir Marg, New Delhi-110 001 Regional Offices Jeevan Tara Building (Fourth Floor), 23A/44X, Diamond Harbour Road, Kolkata 700 053 Central College Campus, Dr. B.R. Ambedkar Veedhi, Bangalore 560 001 172, Mumbai Marathi Grantha Sangrahalaya Marg, Dadar, Mumbai 400 014 Main Building, Guna Buildings (Second Floor), 443 (304), Anna Salai, Teynampet, Chennai 600 018 © English Translation, Sahitya Akademi First Published 2004 ISBN 81-260-1895-X Rupees Two Hundred Seventy Five Cover Design: Biplab Kundu Cover inset: R.K. Yadav Typeset at Printo Graphic Systems, New Delhi and printed by Wellwish Printers, Delhi-110 088 Afterwards 1 LIKE fine puffs of beaten cotton light snow has been floating down since early morning, whitening the treetops. Rows of weeping willows stood leaning towards the river looking sad and morose. There were plenty of other trees too, poplar and maple among them. The road, Riverside Drive goes parallel to the Hudson River. The pedestrian path had plenty of seats, cemented tables for playing cards or chess. The seats however were unoccupied at this time of the day. Cars rolled smoothly along the roads without jerks or honking of horns. There was only the muffled groan of friction as the cars sped through the wind. It was a funny city sound. Atin was slowly walking, gloved hands dug inside the pockets of his overcoat. The gloves had a few holes, he was obliged to keep them away from the cold blast. Atin sported a fashionably cut beard, thick moustaches, a pair of sunglasses and a cap. He looked up once and glanced across the street to a bank building, the clock of which alternately flashed the temperature and time. It was 8- 17 in the morning and minus 4°. The snow had started melting by the middle of March, deceptively heralding the advent of spring. Spring does not come so early in this part of the world. For the last couple of days the sky had been cloudy and snowing had continued. Atin felt a strong urge to smoke but he could not very well light a cigarette with the gloves on. Siddhartha has warned him of frostbite, of losing his fingertips from exposure to the cold. He had come out of home much before time. There was plenty of time to take a slow walk. He had enough warm clothes to fight the cold — woollen vest, a terry wool shirt, a jacket and an overcoat; the cold fresh air made him feel good. He passed other pedestrians. The riverside drive was a favourite spot. It was a working day to day but the city had a lot of people who had no work. Then there were the tourists to throng the city the year round. From the opposite direction two young men with obviously Indian appearance walked towards Atin. Afraid that they might be Bengali, Atin stepped behind a tree to avoid a direct encounter. He was not keen to make acquaintance with unknown Bengalis. He pricked his ears. Yes he was right. They were talking in Bengali though with a strong East Pakistani accent. At exactly five minutes to nine Atin reached the gate of the Central Park facing the Plaza Hotel. He had an appointment at nine. By now the snow had stopped, making way for the sun. Unpredictable weather. To stop his increasingly fast heart beats Atin lit a cigarette. He had half a mind to turn back. He had a few quick puff of his Lucky Strike. Children in bright clothes tumbled about in the park, under the watchful eyes of a woman. An old man hungrily watched them. Perhaps he is childless or forsaken by his children. Atin threw away the cigarette and crossed the street to come to the gilded entrance of the Hotel. Plaza was high profile, patronised by the presidents and vice presidents of big companies and film stars, much beyond the reach of ordinary tourists. Fortunately one had free access to the lobby, that was one thing he liked about this country. You could roam about the hotel or shopping arcades at will: there was nobody to stop you. Perhaps they kept an eye on you. Anyway no coloured person ever dared to enter these hallowed precincts. Atin, looking straight ahead went up the flight of stairs, pushed the revolving glass door and walked in. The counter stood to his right: the staircase was next, then the lift. As he stood in the spacious lobby Atin noticed that everything including the furniture, the doors, the railings looked as though they were made of gold. He wondered if that is what is called gold plated. As he walked up to the counter his heartbeats continued to bother him. What the hell. He should not feel nervous, come what may. Of the five people at the reception counter he chose the one with the most innocent look. Adjusting the knot of his tie, Atin cleared his throat, then asked, Excuse me, I would like to see Mr. Samuel Wheeler please. The blue eyed golden haired youth who could easily have been a film star replied politely, May I know if you have an appointment? The Indian habit of just a nod is often misunderstood by these people. So Atin added, Yes, I have an appointment with Mr. Wheeler. Just a moment. Hotels like these never gave away the room number of their clients. Allowing just anybody to go up was totally out of the question. The young man studied a list, listened to a phone and finally declared, I am afraid sir, nobody is in. All blood drained from Atin's face. What did he mean? Not in? Yesterday he had talked to Samuel Wheeler on the phone and he said Friday at 9 a.m. and he is not in. So much for the words of the white people. On second thought he realised that the gentleman might be downstairs, having breakfast. Can I have a look at the dining halls? He ventured. The receptionist gave him a bland look which must have been part of his training to show faultless good manners minus human warmth. Does he not realise that Atin has come a long way, that he is in a problem? Atin might be but that is not this man's job. Perhaps nobody would have stopped him from looking for Samuel Wheeler but Atin did not know him.