It’s now an evening in December of 1972. Two stray bulls landed up at the intersection of Chowringhee and Lenin Sarani and were butting one another. Rows and rows of traffic had come to a standstill — buses-cars-taxis-trams. Two traffic policemen in white uniforms and black belts, revolvers at their waist, twirled their moustaches and looked on in amusement.
It’s now an evening in December ’72. The film running in Metro cinema was Calcutta 71 — the old octogenarian on the poster, staff in hand, the skin on his face wrinkled, gazing ahead blankly. Near the railing encircling the statue of Lenin, a bare-bodied man wearing a green lungi, a red gamcha tied around his head, squatted down and pissed. Orange-apple-banana-sellers were hawking their wares.
It’s now an evening in December ’72. At the Congress session at Salt Lake City, garibi hatao was being undertaken with forceful steps. Vapid sunlight slouched on the kadam tree in the Maidan. Press workers in West Bengal, conservancy workers in Delhi Corporation, government employees in Gujarat and teachers in Bihar and Haryana were on strike. The Defence of India Rules served to cock a snook at their demands.
It’s now an evening in December ’72. The two bulls at the intersection of Chowringhee and Lenin Sarani were butting each other fiercely. Rows upon rows of cars were at a standstill in all directions. The traffic police were in a quandary regarding what they ought to do. Nearby, at Elfin, at Chhota Bristol and New Cathay, intellectual youths were celebrating Christmas with alcohol. They discussed cricket, literature and culture. Tickets for the film on revolution, Calcutta 71, were selling like hot cakes. Bombs rained down on Vietnam’s populous cities, over hospitals and children’s schools. Hundreds upon hundreds of children and sick people were injured and killed.
It’s now an evening in December ’72. In Bihar and Uttar Pradesh, labourers, workers and peasants were freezing in the cold. West Bengal’s babus and bibis were savouring the temperate climate. Hundreds and hundreds of beggars lay on pavements, streets and railway stations. Many of them did not possess even a torn length of gunny cloth to protect them from the cold.
It’s now an evening in December ’72. Festival-crazy men and women thronged parks, the Maidan and the riverside. Balloons in the hands of children, cricket on the lips of adults. But at the intersection of Chowringhee and Lenin Sarani, the two bulls butted one another fiercely. A traffic jam encompassing the entire Esplanade. The traffic police were unable to bring them under control even after beating them with lathis.
It’s now an evening in December ’72. The two hefty bulls now battled it out right on the thoroughfare of Chowringhee. Cars lay stranded in every direction. Crowds of spectacle-crazy people. And within a small clearing of vacant space, the two derelict bulls continued to spar and battle it out.
It’s now an evening in December ’72. The Christmas-crazy public thronged the entire locality. Afternoon rapidly turned to evening. Hordes of policemen arrived at the site. They tried every kind of trick to move away the two creatures. But the two perverse bulls were really lacking in judgement and reason. It was as if they had come prepared for a final settlement today, in this crowded thoroughfare of Calcutta.
It’s now an evening in December ’72. The news of the battling bulls was carried by the breeze. People who wanted to gape at the spectacle came running to do so. A traffic jam over the entire length of Lenin Sarani. Traffic jams on the roads named after Rabindranath, Chittaranjan and Jawaharlal.
It’s now an evening in December ’72. At the Congress session in Salt Lake City, the garibi hatao programme was being prepared. Vagrant, refugee dwellers were driven away from the surrounding areas. Vapid sunlight hung down on the southern corner of the Maidan. And two bulls created a traffic jam in front of Metro cinema. Now some four or five policemen came together and procured a long bamboo pole. They beat the two bulls hard with it. The public watched from afar. The two crazed bulls became even crazier with the beating and suddenly began running on the road. People moved away in fear. They stumbled and fell over each other as they ran in panic.
The whole road was jammed with traffic — buses-taxis-trams-cars-double-deckers. The two bulls had nowhere to run. There were people on the pavement. There were people on the road. Everyone was trying to fend for himself. In the press of the crowd a bhadramahila wailed out. Two hot-blooded youths seized the opportunity. They groped the body of a bell-bots clad babe and walked on. Pretending not to have felt anything, she desperately tried to protect herself from the groping hands of the crowd. Everywhere, people were trying to run away. Jabbed by the bamboo pole, the two bulls ran around in a tiny circle of space.
A tumult of shouting everywhere. Screaming. Evening descended on the city. The neon lights came on all at once. As was customary, a pimp stood beneath the museum, a red gamcha tied around his head: Like to come, babu — I have a real prize for you! A clanging fire engine approached. But it had no place to move. A terrible traffic jam all around. The two bulls were terrified. They ran helter-skelter senselessly. People were trampled under other people’s feet. Loud screams. The two bulls now clambered on to the pavement of Metro cinema. Fearing for their lives, the people there ran any which way they could. Bamboo pole in hand, traffic policemen chased the bulls. Seized by terror, seeing the gate of Metro cinema open in front of them, they ran inside. Calcutta 71 was being screened in the hall.
At first no one realized anything. Then a few people suddenly became aware and began shouting. Darkness inside the hall. The scene with heavy rain was playing on the screen. A shanty dwelling. Water poured into the room from a hundred holes. Standing in front of the collapsed shanty, holding the hands of his wife and daughter, the impoverished father wondered where they would go now. And just then began the commotion. All the people in the hall rose from their seats and began screaming loudly: Bulls inside the hall! A bhadramahila who affected a coy tone fainted. Darkness. Shouting. Screams. The bulls butted one another. The audience was unable to leave their seats. The film came to a halt. The lights came on. The manager came running from somewhere. The durwans came running, with whatever kind of weapon they could muster.
Bulls! The manager saw, right in front of his eyes, two real-life bulls — here, inside his hall! Someone from the seventy-five paise seats in the front shouted: Dada, don’t worry, I think the bulls just feel like watching a movie! Someone screamed: Open the doors! Open the doors — they’ll get out! At once some people ran and opened the doors. The two bulls had nowhere else to go. They looked this way and that and snorted. Then they turned around. By then the news had been broadcast outside, that two bulls were violating law and order in Metro cinema.
Word had got to the police headquarters in Lalbazar, to Writers’ Building and to Salt Lake City, where the Hon’ble Chief Minister himself was drafting garibi hatao. The Hon’ble Minister became restless. Lighting a cigar, he began pacing up and down. He scratched his sideburns. He phoned the Home Minister. He phoned Lalbazar. After that he quickly changed into the clothes to appear before the public in. He patted his hair to order in the mirror. He gently patted the powder-puff to his neck.
Whatever the situation, he had to face it boldly. The police jeep arrived. The bodyguards arrived. He hopped on to the jeep. The bodyguards sprang on to their motorcycles. The jeep began to move. The Chief Minister began scratching his sideburns. Within minutes, the jeep arrived at Metro cinema. He saw there was a huge gathering of people all around. The police vehicle from Lalbazar had arrived. The Home Minister’s vehicle had arrived. Hundreds of policemen, pacing about, all over the place. The Hon’ble Chief Minister leaped out of the jeep. He looked like a twenty-five year old youth. Crowds of people everywhere. Shouting. Screaming. But notwithstanding all that, he stood with his head raised high. He observed the scene. He saw the two grey coloured bulls running around in front of Metro cinema. He observed that for two seconds. And as he looked he understood everything.
With a snap of his fingers, he summoned the Home Minister. Harekeshto Chatterjee, the Home Minister, rushed up to him. A police wireless van was parked nearby. The Hon’ble Chief Minister leaped onto that. Home Minister, Harekeshto, too did the same. People were amazed seeing all this leaping to and fro by the ministers. Forgetting about the bulls, they began gazing at the ministers. Standing erect atop the van, the Chief Minister reached out for a mike. But there was no mike. Mike! Mike ! The buzz spread in all directions. There was a mike in Lalbazar. It had to be fetched from there. The Chief Minister became annoyed. Why can’t you get one from anywhere nearby! At once someone snatched a hand-held mike from a lottery ticket seller and brought it over. The lottery ticket seller winced as his arm was twisted — he couldn’t figure out what he should say. Someone nearby consoled him: Bokachoda, don’t you know snatching is the norm in this age! The Chief Minister sprang to grab hold of the mike. He rose to his full height. He coughed a bit.
And then he said: Friends, don’t panic! We know who they are. They have come among us specifically in order to scuttle our garibi hatao programme by creating conflict. This is not an isolated incident. No one should be impatient. Don’t indulge in violence. We will take action just now. Saying so, he looked at the Home Minister and smiled. The Home Minister did not like this kind of innuendo-laden speech. He took the mike from the Chief Minister’s hand. Whipping up the tone of his voice to a frenzy in the way he ought to, the Home Minister began to speak: This is Home Minister Harekeshto Chatterjee speaking. Please do not panic. The two bulls are actually not real bulls — communist extremists in the guise of bulls have come among us in order to create a commotion. They want to dislodge this government whose heart bleeds for the people.
But you know that the extremists have hatched such conspiracies many times in the past, they have inflicted limitless murder-injury-terror on the people — but they could never be successful in the past, they cannot today either. Concluding his speech, he communicated eye-to-eye with the Chief Minister. He smiled a bit, from the corner of his lips. The Chief Minister summoned a police officer with a signal. He instructed him on what should be done. The policeman ran off at once. The people began to praise the speeches of the ministers. Dense darkness descended on the Maidan. Two lungi-clad persons were talking in front of New Cinema: Fuck — who wants to see Sheela’s films — her boobs sag, man … Scantily-clad women danced in Park Street’s bars. Marwaris from Burrabazar and moneyed intellectuals enjoyed that, to the accompaniment of drinks. The transistor played at the paan shop: Hare Krishna, Hare Rama, Hare Krishna, Hare Rama.
The Chief Minister’s instructions were immediately conveyed to the police. The two bulls were weary after all the running around, they stood still, panting. The people stood afar. Those who had come to gape at the spectacle were restless. The whole Chowringhee area was awash in neon light. Two policemen took out the service revolvers at their waist and advanced slowly towards the two bulls. At a safe distance they crouched down on their knees on the road. The public waited with bated breath. Someone in the crowd shouted: Hey, that’s Lord Mahadev’s bull — what’s the use of killing them! Another person replied: But bulls too are communist — there’s no sin in killing them! The two policemen aimed their revolvers.
The two bulls were now exhausted, they just stood still. Having obtained a pair or binoculars each, the Chief Minister and the Home Minister observed the entire proceedings. The police had been issued strict instructions that the two bulls were not to get away under any circumstances. The policemen fired two shots each, four in all. The assembled populace was stunned at the sound of the gunshots. After a few futile attempts to run, the two massive bodies collapsed to the ground — the whole place was awash in blood. For as long as the bodies of the two bulls trembled in their death throes before they finally died, the Hon’ble Ministers did not remove the binoculars from their eyes.
After all communists were not to be trusted, they could spring to life from the throes of death. After trembling a while, the four legs of each bull, eight legs in all, became still. The two ministers heaved a sigh of relief and took down the binoculars from their eyes. After having been in a state of astonishment for a long while, some murmurs now arose from the public. What a calamity had befallen them! Thank God the ministers arrived and saved them from imminent danger! Not even in their wildest dreams could they have imagined that communists had come among them in the guise of bulls! The unmoving public began to move. Cars began to blare their horns. The Home Minister and the Chief Minister, their arms over each other’s shoulder, leapt down from the roof of the vehicle. Seeing such leaping around by them thrice within a short space of time, the public realized how fortunate they were to have got such a Chief Minister.
It’s now an evening in December ’72. The film running at Metro cinema is Calcutta 71. On the film poster, the same old octogenarian, staff in hand, the skin on his face wrinkled, gazing fixedly at the Maidan opposite.
It’s now an evening in December ’72. The draft for garibi hatao was being prepared at the Congress session in Salt Lake City. Vapid sunlight drooped on the kadam tree in the Maidan. Press workers in West Bengal, conservancy workers in Delhi Corporation, government employees in Gujarat and teachers in Bihar and Haryana were on strike. Their fundamental rights were being rendered illegal by invoking the Defence of India Rules.
It’s now an evening in December ’72. At Elfin, at Chhota Bristol and New Cathay, intellectual youths were celebrating Christmas with the aid of whiskey. They discussed cricket, literature and culture. Tickets for the film on revolution,
Calcutta 71, sold like hot cakes. Bombs rained down on Vietnam’s populous cities, over hospitals and children’s schools. Hundreds upon hundreds of children and sick people were injured and killed.
It’s now an evening in December ’72. Bands of labourers, workers and peasants in Bihar and Utar Pradesh were freezing. In West Bengal, the babus and bibis savoured the temperate climate. Hundreds of beggars lay on pavements, streets and railway stations.
It’s now an evening in December ’72. Strikes across Bihar, Haryana, Gujarat and West Bengal — the law to make strikes illegal — cricket, literature, cinema, dance dramas at Rabindra Sadan — but two freshly slaughtered bulls lay in front of Metro cinema — their dried-up blood just a few feet away from Lenin’s statue — the stain of blood.
THE END
[January 1973]
Subimal Misra (b. 1943) is an anti-establishment and experimental writer in Bengali and lives in Kolkata. He has written exclusively in small, limited-circulation literary magazines (or little magazines) from the late sixties. About thirty volumes of his stories, novellas, novels, plays and essays have been published. The Golden Gandhi Statue from America, a volume of his early stories in English translation, was published in 2010.
This story has been translated from Bengali by V Ramaswamy, a translator based in Kolkata. His works include rendering in English The Golden Gandhi Statue from America by Subimal Misra, the first of a four-volume series of Misra’s short fiction in English translation.