A Poignant Story

Karuppan could not get rid of the images of the event that happened in the morning. He sat for his lunch and tried his best to get rid of the grueling images that had on their own triggered a slide show on his cerebrum-monitor. Four men in ugly clothes with staves in the hands of each of them that had wiry, elongated, circular iron string with a diameter of thirty centimetres, used as a hooking device to pull in animals like dogs and pigs by letting them connivingly put their snout in it were marching on his street when he was on his way, on his bicycle to buy some screws for the hinges of his impaired toilet door, that was in the process of being mended with the assistance of a carpenter.

Karuppan was followed by 'Vellai' on his way to the ironmonger. 'Vellai', which in Tamil means 'White' was one of the street dogs that had been patronised by Karuppan and his mother. It was the usual habit of the Vellai to follow Karuppan wherever he went and it had its own territorial boundary beyond which it would not follow him and return to his house. As Karuppan was on his way back from the ironmonger he found the four men cleaving the snout of the Vellai with a bamboo staff and it was hollering and writhing in pain and was wringing its body to escape the tight wrench of the grip. Its mouth was sanguine with blood squirting out and the men had managed to tie its legs together with a band and were on the task of tying its snout. The sight made Karuppan jittery. He had seen many carcasses of dogs on his travel, some of them were decapitated, some of the skulls of the carcasses of the dogs were crushed totally to have been one with the layer of the tarmac, some of them lay with a gaping mouth exposing their horrendous fangs and some of them lay quiet as if they were sleeping. He stopped there on the spot where gathered a large number of children watching the act with awe and anguish.

He cried out to one of the men to stop the act and who they were to inflict such suffering on Vellai. One of them told him that they were men from the local municipality and they were catching male dogs at the behest of some superior authority who got public complaint of proliferation of street dogs and unchecked increase in their menace and number. PETA an organisation that fights cruelty to animals strongly opposes the killing of street dogs. Hence the government came with an ingenious idea to make all dogs impotent by ingecting some venomous liquid or castrating them. It was for that that Vellai was caught. It was very unfortunate to have been caught as its brethren were prescient of such ominous act and had found shelter somewhere. Karuppan stood tongue tied as did not know what to do in that circumstance. He wanted them to release Vellai forcibly but the mentioning of an authority made him think twice. He was not afraid of any consequence, how ever he had been a conscientious follower of the dictum of society.

Karuppan was anguished by his idleness and felt humiliated by his act. He thought he was rebellious and could oppose any body if the need arose. He failed miserably that morning in his appraisal of himself. A few minutes later he thought that he should have made them release Vellai, as the recrimination got entrenched by the sight of some of the street dogs (of course male dogs) some of them were patronised by him roamed the street after making themselves quite clear of getting themselves caught. As he sat before his food, the thought that came to him was the puerile attitude of humans who consider seeing four or five dogs on a street is a threat to their safe existence. And making them impotent is one of the holy things in the world to do. Whereas an issue-less couple spends a lot of money to beget a child, being not happy with the status of not contributing to the exploding population. He felt more pain as he was responsible for its plight. Had he not gone out, it would not have followed him and would have dozed off in a remote corner of the street. He wanted to go to the local municipality office to check whether there was such an operation in vogue as he suspected the men. He wanted them to produce some supportive evidence but they told him that the van was waiting on the corner of the street. He had nothing to do except hoping its return as he had believed that they would only castrate Vellai.

'My Name is Black'

I was born in 1555 in Istanbul. My father was a preacher and a teacher of religious texts. He travelled to many places and occasionally returned to Istanbul. He was not in good terms with my mother even in his small stays with us. This made my mother and I took refuge in the house of my mother's younger sister, fearing his cruel treatment to my mother, whose husband is a miniaturist. I called him Enishte, in whose house i saw my cousin Shekure and fell head over heels in love with her. She was twelve years younger than I. I died in 1617. I was resurrected back to life in 1998 by a Turkish Man, who won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2006 for many of his literary achievements including the exhumation of me back to life. Now I live in 'Benim Adim Kirmizi'. I was born to the English audience in 2001 in the book 'My Name is Red'. You can meet me, if you happen to buy a copy, or even borrow from many of the resources, (you may even think of stealing) of the translation 'My Name is Red'. Thanks to Pamuk, who is presently a teacher in Columbia University, i am known to so many. Let me briefly narrate my story.

I returned to Istanbul after wandering in the Ottoman Empire for twelve years having several stints as clerk, bearer of messages, errand man to Pashas and Clerics and Sultans. I chose to be a clerk and did not want to be a miniaturist and a gilder of paintings. My uncle whom you know as 'Enishte' was very much interested in teaching everything about miniature paintings. Two things deterred him from doing so. My imperviousness in knowing and understanding the technicalities of style in painting and my falling in love with his daughter. Shekure was twelve and i was twenty-four but she was the more matured of the two. Sultan Murat III was the ruler of Istanbul when i returned to Istanbul. He was interested in painting and had summoned my uncle secretly in making a book of miniature-paintings. One of the painters or miniaturists was murdered a couple of days before my arrival. He was 'Elegant Effendi', good at gilding and decorating paintings. My uncle sought my help knowing about my return to Istanbul in completing the secret mission, though i was not a good miniaturist or rather even a drawer of images. To be honest what brought me to Istanbul was the countenance of my dear Shekure, which i almost forgot after three or four years after my departure. She fell in love with a Spahi Cavalryman and married him and now was the mother of two boys.

After my return, i first saw her face through a window. She sent me letters through the Jewess. Her husband had been missing for four years now, never returned from war and she had spent a few years in her in-law's house, where she was parrying the overtures of her husband's brother Hasan. She came to stay with her lonely father after sometime. I was a bit confused at the outset reading her letters that whether she was in love with me or not. She returned to me the kerchief i made for her with the drawing of Husrev and Shirin from the story of the twelfth century poet Nizami Aruzi. My love towards Shekure was responsible for me accepting the task from my Enishte for the completion of the secret book. Sultan Murat III summoned my uncle to do a book of miniature paintings that would depict his achievements and contain his self-portrait, a great sin according to Prophet Mohammad and tenets of Islam, on the model of Franks and Europeans. The final picture of the Sultan was responsible for the death of 'Elegant Effendi'. I faced a lot of hardships due to the task i undertook for my love. My uncle was murdered and i was arrested on suspicion. The great miniaturist of that time Master Osman was entrusted with the job of finding the killer.

The killer had left a trail in the well where he had dropped the corpse of 'Elegant'. There was a portrait of a horse which should have been drawn by one of the apprentices of Master Osman. Three of the apprentices were highly talented and nicknamed 'Butterfly', 'Stork', 'Olive'. Olive was a Persian Miniaturist who was also a purist and never wanted the old works of great masters like 'Bihzad' and others to have been polluted through the violation of techniques of them and blind immitation of the works of the infidels (Franks and Europeans). After much struggle, he was caught and he was eventually murdered by my archenemy Hasan. In the meantime, the two of the boys grew hostile towards me and with much effort I was able to gain a position of getting accepted by them. I realised my long dream of thirty-six years marrying Shekure and living with her for twenty-six years. I thank the Turkish Master-Story teller Orhan Pamuk for writing about me and my love with Shekure, which was the one like that was depicted in the miniature paintings on the love of 'Laila and Mejnun', and 'Husrev and Shirin'. The legend has it that Shirin fell love on seeing the painting of Husrev that was hung on the branch of a desolate tree. I got elevated to such position through the story of mine by Pamuk. If you want to know more about style, schools and miniaturists of Ottoman Empire and Persian Empire with the mingling of Mingian and Chinese Style, do read my story as told by the Turkish Master, Pamuk.

Ruma's Story

I first read Jhumpa Lahiri some two years ago, though her first collection of short stories that won the covetous Pulitzer Prize, 'Interpreter of Maladies' was published well over a decade ago. Her charming writing did contain a great luring effect to trap the readers. I am fascinated with her style of writing and i have enjoyed almost all of the stories in that collection. Most, in fact, all of them featured Bengali protagonists. I remember a story in which the main character, a plump woman of thirty comes to stay in an apartment and she does not find any real human to care her. Her intention is to get married and eventually engender children. She is one of those people that we come across in our daily life whom we detest to move with and we do not deign to accept their existence. In an another story a couple who lives in the US does sort out their strained relationship through the grid transformation work of the electricity department. As they sit in darkness at night, nothing else to do in power failure they are reminded of their life immediately after their marriage. A week of grid rectification augurs well in transforming their lives. In another of the stories, a woman who is in love with a married man thinks twice and finally snaps her ties with after visiting the house of another friend who has been ditched by her husband and moving with the young boy of hers.

The attraction to read Lahiri lingered afterwards and i read her much acclaimed novel, 'The Namesake', late after being it was made into a film by Mira Nair. Fortunately i had not seen the film before i read the novel. It was published in 2003 and the film adaptation came in 2007. It discusses the generation gap between the settlers and those who are born in alien soil. Nikoloi Gogol, the namesake of the famous Russian writer was born in the US and does not cling on to the customs and traditions of Bengalis, quite naturally. On the whole it is more less a comment on the inherent liking to go scot-free and freak out on the part of the parents getting reflected in their wards as the wards live in a different and conducive atmosphere to execute their wishes. I am reminded of a Tamil Novel by Sivasankari. The name is 'Paalangal' (Bridges). In it she juxtaposes the lives of three different women who represent the thirties, sixties and the eighties respectively. The novelist does not comment on the actions of the women and just details their lives.


Lahiri's latest is 'Unaccustomed Earth', which is also the title of the first of the stories, a set of short stories, that she is good at writing rather than a big story of more than two-hundred pages. The first is a big story of Ruma, a law professional who lives in Seattle with her husband Adam, a Hedge Fund Manager. The story begins with the description of the European tours that her father, a seventy year old, retired chemical factory employee and a widower undertakes to enjoy himself. He does not communicate to her daughter the place of his stay in Europe, but occasionally sends 'Tourist Post Cards' indicating glimpses of his experience. Ruma is the elder of the two children born to the Bengali Couple who migrated to Pennsylvania from Calcutta. Romi, her brother now lives in New Zealand with his wife. Ruma married Adam, an American (a White) four years ago and is now expecting her second child. Akash, the first one is three years old. Rumi yearns for a companionship that she believes her mother's sudden demise has taken a toll on her. The American does not mind her father to be with her. However the father is in no interest to be part of any family now and he is in good health to take care of himself and has made surprising decisions after his wife's death to go on European tours, to have sold his house without informing anyone.

Rumi is of the opinion that her father never appreciated her mother's work who was a traditional house-wife and a good cook. She wanted to visit Europe which she had flown over many a time on her way to Calcutta. He stood impervious to all her wishes and it was Rumi who arranged for trip to Europe. Unfortunately she died all of sudden, not bearing the anaphylactic drug injected to perform gall bladder operation. Her father now has a new Bengali friend, an old lady in her early sixties, who loved a young man in Calcutta, married and lost him in an accident two years later. She came to the USA and became a professor and never married afterwards and lived all alone. In this context the father visits the new, splurging house of Rumi in Seattle. His stay there for a week kindles the feeling in Rumi of having a great protector. He builds her a garden and plays with his grandchild and wants her to take up her profession once again as he is always afraid of the American marriage being flaccid. He does not want to discuss his new friend whom he became close with in his trips. He writes a post card to her and puts it into the Seattle Map Book and the boy takes it out and plants it in his garden. The father does not stay after his scheduled visit and Rumi comes to know of his new companion only after he has left, through the un-posted letter. Rumi is reminded of herself and her brother when they were young, how they wanted to be free and not wanted their parents to intrude. Now, she needs to be with him. She thinks that her mother would have done in case of her being a widow. In the end, she realises her father's intentions and posts the letter to the address. A fine denouement that clearly portrays the planes of every character. A much matured writing by Lahiri is seen in her latest production.