The Discovery of Telenapota by Premendra Mitra

If Saturn and Mars—it must be Mars—are in conjunction, you too, can discover Telenapota some day.

In other words, if a day or two of leave can be obtained unexpectedly, just when you are gasping from work and multitudes of people, and if someone tempts you with the information that in a lake of miracles somewhere, the most simple-minded fish in the world are waiting eagerly to have their hearts impaled on a hook at the end of a rod for the first time in their lives, and if you have never had the good fortune of extracting anything but small fry from the water, then you too might unexpectedly discover Telenapota one day.

To discover Telenapota you must board a bus packed with people and their possessions in the waning sunlight one afternoon, suffer jabs from other passengers’ elbows every time there is a bump on the road, and then, in the August heat, drag your sweaty, dust-caked body off the bus without warning, somewhere along the road. In front of you, you will see the road running over a low swamp like a bridge. After the bus passes along it with an eccentric rumble and disappears around a bend, you will notice that although the sun has not set yet, darkness has descended on the thick jungle all around you. You will not see a soul anywhere. The birds, too, will seem to have forsaken this place. You will become aware of the damp, sultry weather. A cruel, coiled source of venom will rise up slowly from the swamp, its invisible hood poised to strike.

You will have to step off the highway, walk down to the swamp, and wait next to it. It will seem as though someone has dug a muddy canal running through the dense jungle stretching out before you. But even its line has petered out in the distance amidst the bamboo groves and tall, shaggy trees on both sides. You should have two companions for your discovery of Telenapota. They may not be drawn to fishing as you are, and yet they have come with you on this journey—no one knows why.

The three of you will gaze eagerly at the canal in front of you. From time to time you will stamp your feet to prevent the mosquitoes from getting too intimate, while you exchange questioning glances.

A little later, you will no longer be able to see one another’s face in the gathering darkness. The chorus of the mosquitoes will grow sharper. Just as you are wondering whether to return to the highway and wait for a return bus, you will suddenly hear an exquisite sound, wondrous to your senses, from the point where the muddy canal has vanished into the jungle. Someone will seem to force even the silent forest to emit unworldly sobs.

The sound will make your wait restless. But be patient, and your patience will not be in vain. You will see, first, a pinpoint of light swaying in the darkness, and then a bullock cart will emerge slowly from the jungle, rolling from side to side as it moves along the canal. The cart will match the bullocks—it will seem as though this minuscule version of the bullock cart has come from an underground land of the dwarves.

Without wasting words, the three of you will squeeze yourself beneath the hood on the cart, somehow solving the problem posed by three pairs of arms and legs and three heads—how to place the largest of objects in the smallest of spaces.

The bullock cart will then return the way it came, along the canal. In utter wonderment, you will see how the dense and dark jungle reveals the way forward little by little, like a narrow tunnel. At every moment, the wall of darkness will seem impenetrable, but the cart will move ahead slowly, unperturbed, as though clearing a path with its wheels.

For some time you will be uncomfortable and discomposed as you try to position your arms, legs and head suitably. At every moment, there will be inadvertent collisions with your friends, and then you will gradually realize that the last island of consciousness has been submerged in the dense darkness surrounding you. You will feel as though you have left the familiar world somewhere far behind. There is another one here, shrouded in fog, devoid of sensation, where the current of time is stilled, silent.

With time standing still, you will not know how long you have been sunk in this mist. Woken up suddenly by a cacophonous music, you will realize that the stars are visible from beneath the hood, and the driver is beating a tin canister at intervals with great enthusiasm.

Curious, you will ask why, whereupon the driver will inform you indifferently, ‘To get rid of the damned wild animals.’

Once you have grasped this properly, the driver will reassure you before you can ask, your voice trembling, whether beating a canister is sufficient to keep tigers at bay, that he is referring to leopards, and unless the beast is famished, this sound will be enough to keep it at a distance.

While you wonder how a place infested by leopards can exist a mere thirty miles from the metropolis, the bullock cart will cross an enormous field. The delayed waning moon will have risen in the sky by then. Dimly, silently, a succession of giant men on guard will appear to pass slowly on either side of the cart. The ruins of ancient palaces—here a pillar, there the arch of a gate, elsewhere a fragment of a temple will be standing with the futile hope of offering their testimony to eternity.

Sitting as upright as you can in the circumstances, you will feel a shiver run down your body. Something will make you feel you have gone beyond the living world to enter a murky realm of memories from the past.

You won’t know what time of night it is, but it will seem the night never ends here. Everything will be sunk in a deep silence without beginning or end, just like carcasses preserved in formaldehyde at the museum.

After two or three bends in the road, the bullock cart will finally stop. Reclaiming your limbs with great effort from the different places you have deposited them, you and your friends will disembark stiffly, one by one, like wooden marionettes. A foul stench will have been welcoming you for some time. You will realize it is the stink from rotting leaves in a pond. Just such a small lake will catch your eye by the light of the half-moon. Next to it there will be a decrepit palace, standing like the ramparts of a fort with a crumbling roof, collapsed walls and shutterless windows like empty eye sockets.

It is in a relatively habitable part of this ruin that all of you will have to make arrangements to stay. The driver of the cart will fetch a cracked lantern and set it in the room. With it, a pitcher of water. When you enter, you will realize that you are the first representatives of the human race to set foot in this room in a long, long time. Maybe someone has made a vain attempt to clear the cobwebs and the dust and the grime. A slightly musty smell will be evidence of the fact that the resident spirit of the room is unhappy. The slightest movement will cause the worn out plaster to flake off the walls and ceiling, falling on you like the curses of an angry soul. Two or three bats will fight with you all night for possession of the room.

To discover Telenapota, one of your two friends must be partial to the bottle, and the other, a soulmate of Rip Van Winkle. The moment you enter the room, no sooner will a sheet be laid out on the floor than one of them will stretch himself out on it and proceed to snore, while the other will immerse himself in a glass of whisky. The hours will go by. The glass chimney of the cracked lantern will get progressively blacker with soot and eventually go blind. Having been informed by a mysterious wireless message, each and every adult mosquito in the neighbourhood will arrive to welcome the newcomers and establish a blood relationship with them. If you are wise, you will surmise from their manner of perching on the wall and on your body that they are the most aristocratic among mosquitoes—the one and only mount for Lady Malaria, the anopheles. Your companions will by then be unconscious to the world, each for his own specific reason. Therefore, you will abandon your bed slowly to rise to your feet, and then, in a bid to get some relief from the humidity, you will try to climb up the ruined stairs to the roof by the light of a torch.

The danger of plummeting to the ground at any moment, in case a brick or a tile loosens itself beneath your feet, will thwart you for a moment, but some irresistible attraction will make it impossible not to ascend to the terrace.

Up on the roof, you will discover that the railing has crumbled to dust in most places, and the fifth column of the forest has conspired to plant its roots in the cracks to make considerable progress on the task of demolishing this edifice. And, yet, everything will appear mesmerizing by the faint light of the waning moon. If you gaze at all this for a while, you will sense that, in a secret cell somewhere in this enchanted palace under the pall of the sleep of death, an imprisoned princess is sunk in the deepest and longest of slumbers with magic wands of gold and silver at her side. At that very moment, you may see a thin line of light through the window of what had originally appeared to be a ruin across the narrow street. An enigmatic, shadowy figure will appear between you and the light. You will wonder about the identity of this woman at the window at the dead of night, and why she is not asleep, but the answer will elude you. A little later you will think it was a mistake, for the figure will have disappeared, and the light will no longer be there. You will conclude that a dream had momentarily bubbled up to the surface from the depths of the sleep of this ruined palace, appearing fleetingly in the living world before exploding.

You will return downstairs gingerly. And you won’t know when you will make space for yourself next to your two friends and fall asleep.

When you awake, you will be surprised to see that even in this land of the night morning does appear, and the call of birds can be heard everywhere.

Surely, you will not have forgotten the objective of your visit.

Some time later, having made complete arrangements for your act of worshipping the fish, you will settle down at one corner of the moss-covered, dilapidated flight of shallow stairs leading into the lake and lower your hook, complete with suitable divine offerings, into the green water.

The sun will climb higher in the sky. From the tip of a bamboo stalk leaning low over the water on the opposite bank, a kingfisher will repeatedly dive into the lake with an iridescent flash of colours, as though to mock you, and will return to its perch euphoric with its successful hunt to taunt you in an unintelligible tongue. To terrorize you, a long and plump snake will slither out of a crack in the flight of stairs to swim across the lake at a leisurely pace and climb up the bank on the other side. Beating their thin, glassy wings, a pair of dragonflies will compete to alight on the float of your fishing rod, while your mind wanders every now and then at the wistful cry of dove.

Then, a sound in the water will break your spell. There will be waves in the still water, and your float will bob up and down gently on them. Turning your head, you will see a young woman pushing aside the hyacinth to fill her shiny brass pitcher with clear water. There is curiosity in her eyes, but no bashfulness or stiffness in her movements. She will look at you directly, observe the float on your fishing rod, and then look away before balancing her pitcher against her hip.

You will be unable to gauge her age.The serenity and compassion in her expression will suggest that her journey through life has been long and cruel, but her lean, tall and undernourished frame will give the impression that her passage from adolescence to youth has been postponed.

As she leaves with her pitcher, she will suddenly turn back towards you to say—‘What are you waiting for? Reel it in.’

Her voice will be so steady, sweet and composed that it will not seem remotely abnormal that she is spontaneously talking to a stranger. Only, your sudden surprise will make you forget to reel in the line. When the submerged float rises to the surface, you will discover that the bait is no longer on the hook. You will have no choice but to throw her a rueful glance. She will turn away and leave with measured footsteps, but it will seem to you that in that instant before she turned away, her serene, compassionate face had glowed briefly with the hint of a smile.

Your solitude will not be disturbed anymore. Unable to embarrass you, the kingfisher on the opposite bank will have abandoned its efforts and flown away. Probably full of contempt at your abilities, the fish will not be desirous of another round of competition. The recent incident will seem unreal to you.You will be unable to accept that there really can be a woman like her in this desolate place.

Eventually, you will have to pack up your equipment and leave. When you return you may discover that your prowess at fishing has somehow become known to your friends. Upset at their derision, when you ask who told them this story, your tippler friend may say—‘Who do you think! Yamini, of course, who saw it for herself.’ You will have no choice but to ask in curiosity who Yamini is.

Perhaps you will discover that the unreal woman with tragic eyes at the lake is a relation of sorts of your friend who loves his whisky. You will also learn that arrangements for lunch have been made at this woman’s house.

Seen in daylight, the hideous decrepitude of the ruined building, where the fleeting appearance of a shadowy form had given you cause for wonderment last night, will pain you considerably. You would not have imagined that the retreat of the enchanted veil of night would make its bare, dilapidated form so very ugly.

You will be surprised when told that this is where Yamini and her family live. Arrangements for your meal have probably been made in one of the rooms in there. A frugal repast, perhaps Yamini herself will serve all of you. You have already observed that there is no superfluous reserve or awkwardness about her, but her tragic quietude will be even more conspicuous. The unarticulated anguish of this derelict, forgotten and abandoned locality will be reflected on her face. Even though she has seen everything, her eyes are submerged in the depths of exhaustion. As though she too will disappear within these ruins one day.

Still, you will see her looking uneasy and anxious once or twice while serving the three of you. Someone will be calling faintly from a room upstairs. Yamini will hurry out. Every time she returns, the agony on her face will seem a little deeper—and, with it, a helpless, distracted look in her eyes.

Perhaps, you will take a short rest after your meal. Hesitating near the door, Yamini will finally say in desperation, ‘Just a minute, Mani Da.’

Mani Da is the tippler friend of yours. The conversation that will ensue when he goes up to the door will not be in voices low enough to prevent you from hearing.

You will hear Yamini say in a stricken, imperilled tone, ‘Ma simply refuses to listen. I can’t tell you how restless she has become since she heard you’re here.’

‘Still the same thing?’ Mani will ask in irritation. ‘She thinks Niranjan is here?’

‘Yes, she keeps saying, I’m sure he’s here. Just that he’s too embarrassed to see me. I know. You must be hiding it from me. I don’t know what to do. She’s become so impatient since she went blind that she refuses to understand anything I tell her. She flies into a rage and creates such a scene that sometimes I think she’ll die.’

‘This really has become a problem. If she could at least see she would know for herself that neither of them is Niranjan.’

Now all of you will be able to hear the faint but sharp, angry call from upstairs. A distressed Yamini will plead, ‘Come with me Mani Da, maybe you can explain things to her and calm her down.’ ‘Very well, you go along, I’ll come in a while.’ Re-entering the room, Mani will mutter to himself, ‘Such an annoyance. She’s blind and practically paralysed, but she’s vowed not to die.’

Perhaps you will now ask, ‘What’s going on?’ An irked Mani will reply, ‘What do you suppose? When Yamini was still a child, her mother had arranged her marriage to a distant nephew of hers named Niranjan. Four years ago, the fellow had turned up to tell her that he would marry Yamini when he returned from his job abroad. Since then the old woman has been sitting here, in this godforsaken house, counting the days.’

You will not be able to stop yourself from asking, ‘Has Niranjan not returned from his job abroad?’

‘He would have had to go abroad first. He lied to her only because the old woman was so insistent. Why should he be interested in rescuing a pauper’s daughter? He’s long been married. But who’s going to tell her? She won’t believe it, and if she does, she’ll die on the spot. Who wants to carry a burden of sin?’

‘Does Yamini know about Niranjan?’

‘Of course she does. But she can’t tell her mother. Let me go pay for my sins.’ Mani will proceed towards the staircase.

At that moment, you will also rise to your feet, not entirely of your own volition. Perhaps you will say, ‘I’ll come too.’

‘You!’ Mani will look at you in surprise. ‘Yes, do you mind?’

‘No, why should I?’ A perplexed Mani will lead the way.

The room you will reach after climbing the narrow, dark and broken-down staircase will appear to be situated in an underground tunnel rather than on an upper floor. Just the one window, and closed, at that. Coming in from broad daylight, everything will appear blurred at first. Then you will become aware of an emaciated, skeletal figure lying on a dilapidated cot, wrapped in a torn quilt. Yamini will be standing by the bed, turned to stone.

Your footsteps will stir the cadaverous figure into showing signs of animation. ‘Is that Niranjan? You’ve finally remembered your unfortunate aunt. My heart’s been in my mouth waiting for you all this time. I couldn’t even die in peace. You won’t run away again, will you?’

Mani will be about to say something, but you will interrupt him to say, ‘No, I won’t run away again.’

Even without raising your eyes you will sense Mani’s bewilderment and the shock and astonishment on the face of the young woman standing like a statue.You will be staring at the sightless eyes, holding your breath. Two black flames will appear to emerge from the empty eye sockets to lick at your body enquiringly. You will feel the stilled moments falling like dewdrops on the ocean of time. Then you will hear: ‘I know you couldn’t have stayed away. That’s why I have been guarding this haunted house and counting my days.’ The old woman will begin gasping for breath after this long speech. Flashing a glance at Yamini, you will wonder whether something is melting slowly behind her hard mask. It will not be long before the foundations of her stern vow against destiny and existence, fired by hopelessness, begin to crumble.

The old woman will continue, ‘You will be happy with Yamini. It’s not because she’s my daughter, but there isn’t another girl like her. My sorrows and suffering and illness and old age have made me a mad woman, I make her suffer endlessly with my constant nagging—I know only too well I do, but she doesn’t say a word. This is a land of the dead, you’ll have to scour a dozen homes to find a single man, only corpses like me live here, gasping for life and clinging to the ruins, and yet there’s nothing she leaves undone, she’s man and woman rolled into one.’

Despite an ardent desire, you will not have the courage to lift your eyes for a single glance. For then you will no longer be able to conceal the tears in your eyes.

With a small sigh, the old woman will say, ‘You will take Yamini, won’t you? Unless you give me your word I will have no peace even in death.’

All you will be able to say hoarsely is, ‘I promise you. Nothing can shake my resolve.’

Then the bullock cart will draw up at the door again that afternoon. The three of you will get in, one by one. Yamini will come up to you as you are about to leave, raise her wistful eyes to your face and say, ‘You forgot your fishing rod.’

Smiling, you will say, ‘Let it remain here. I may not have been successful this time, but the fish of Telenapota cannot elude me forever.’ Yamini will not look away. Not from her lips, the grateful smile will come from her eyes, floating like white autumnal clouds across the horizon of your heart, gracing it with their beauty.

The cart will begin to roll. A hundred or a hundred and fifty years ago, the first malaria epidemic here had swept Telenapota away like an irresistible flood to this forgotten extremity of life, abandoning it there—perhaps this will be the subject of your friends’ discussion. All this will not penetrate your hearing. The constricted space in the cart will no longer trouble you, the monotonous whining of its wheels will not sound harsh to your ears any more. Only a single phrase will resonate in time with your heartbeat—‘I shall return, I shall return.’

When you reach the crowded, brightly-lit avenues of the metropolis, the memory of Telenapota will still be burning bright in your heart. The days will pass, punctuated by minor obstacles. You will not be aware of whether a fog is gathering in your head or not. Then, the day that you will have overcome all hindrances to prepare to return to Telenapota, you will have to burrow under a quilt because of a sudden headache, shivers and chills. The thermometer will signal one hundred and five degrees, the doctor will ask, ‘Where did you get malaria?’ You will sink into a feverish haze.

Much later, when you drag your weakened body into the sunlight on tottering steps, you will find a good deal of your mind and body wiped clean, unknown to yourself. Like a star that has set, the memory of Telenapota will appear to you as a blurred dream. It will seem as though there isn’t really a place named Telenapota anywhere in the world. With her stern, serious expression and her distant, pensive eyes, the young woman, just like the derelict building, will feel like nothing but a misty figment of your imagination, conjured up in an idle moment of vulnerability.

Having been discovered for a fleeting moment, Telenapota will once again become submerged in the depths of eternal night.

***

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