Puppet Story

Subho Maitro

Putting each word carefully poetry can be created. If not? If I write, Rohit is on the Park Street standing in front of Music World, it can be a beginning of a novel. But if I write, Rohit is on the open road of the Park Street, nine thirty evening is lit by neon and fluorescents, sudden rushing cars, patches of darkness…if I write this, what will you say? Short story, novel, poetry, failure?

Rohit doesn’t know anything of this. As a character, as a puppet in my hand, he is standing there, like a nincompoop. Olypub and Sum Place Else are in his front. He can enter either of them at my whim. His original destination was a tailor shop beside Globe Cinema Hall. But that was at six thirty. And now it is nine fifteen. Why is he here now? Me, the writer brought him here three hours after. Why? I am not interested to tell you. I have many reasons, work pressure, sudden meeting with girlfriend, traffic jam. But I am not going to give you the reason. As I am not going to write how Rohit looks, what is he wearing, etcetera, etcetera.

Anyways, Rohit is entering in the watering hole.

Give me wine, women and snuff! Plywood table. Half finished liver curry. Brawl, futility, disillusion dished on every table. And smoke from cigarettes, burning eyes.

-Why will she go to bed with you? How dud he looks, he can give a role.

Same story repeats every day. Only the characters change. Rohit’s tipsy eyes are half closed. Those who are speaking – known. Those who are listening – known. Words entering his ears, he is half listening to them. Only the number of pegs rises. Shall I compare thee to the summer’s day? Huh, where is that green, sunny summer? This is night. Rohit is bound to the eternal night by the black ink of my pen.

Hapless Rohit, will he ever see the morning? He is now dreaming of sunshine over mount Kanchenjunga. He wishes to be in Kalapokhri, from where he has seen that sublime sunrise. But the continuity of my pen kept him enthralled within the haze of Olypub and thin, dark call-girl of Chouringhi and the sleepless paanwallah’s shop at Chetla.

Rohit is leaving Olypub.

-Rohit, where are you going?

- Leaving?

-Arrey, where is he going? Bugger, see how he ran for the cab?

The lights and the glow-signs of the Park Street are now far away. This is a dark alley of Kalighat. Why is he here? I don’t know. My pen is failing to control him. He is becoming like me. But why is he here? This is a gambling den. A dimly lit room in first floor, there is a mat stretched on the floor where he is sitting with three guys. Cards scattered in front of them, there is a quarter finished bottle of cheap country liquor on the mat. They are playing teen patti, Colours, straight, hundred bucks, six hundred, one grand.

-I don’t have money. The torn tee shirt asking for the money to Rohit. I don’t have it now.

-Then why you were playing, Torn Tee hissed, will fuck your mother, give us the money.

- I will not give. What will you do?

The Thin freckled face takes out a razor. The blade is dancing tantalizingly in his fingers, dazzling steel blade. Why is Rohit there? Have I taken him there? The deem lamp sparkling on the razor. I hate blood, wound, pain. Torn Tee catches Rohit by his arms. I only wanted love, poetry… God, what an error. The blade comes down on Rohit’s throat. I didn’t send you there Rohit. Making the green one red. Blood is gushing out. I wanted to give Rohit night, a balmy night, a deep, soothing, quiet, peaceful darkness. Rohit is moving away from my senses. Three pairs of hands lowering a body beside an open drain. There lying, not Rohit, but a body, who was Rohit few hours ago. As long as I was an author.