And as I quietly strayed away from the road leading to the altar I could hear sounds, as if
emanating from a wind-pipe (which later truly transpired to be from the lungs that lay hidden
behind the very feeble ribcage of a tramp who had no special role to play in this show though all
through the way he tried his best to get somehow accommodated even it be doing a cameo).
The gasping sound gained pace and it seemed, as if on spotting me, to follow my trail.
By the time I had reached halfway down the aisle and just below the fleet of steps going out into
a wide meadow, the gasping sound had moved up to my shoulder and I could feel its warmth
behind my left ear. I turned back but nobody was in sight. Only the sound of tired panting tried
to provide me company and this time it was coming from behind the right ear. I tried to move
my right eye-ball further to the right without making any movement of the head, but a fruitless
effort as there was still nobody in sight.
I called out aloud. Even though no one answered, the tramp, still tagging on to the long trail of a
thousand heads that was moving in the direction of the altar waved a hand towards me. As the
daylight diminished leaving behind the busy chirping of homeward swallows and crows, the
descending loneliness, as if in its attempt to knit a bond of affinity, inched towards me, its deep
murky cloak soaked in darkness.
I was not amused at all. I tried to throw away whatever valuable I thought I had on me but my
long and stretched shadow that by now had begun to be wrapped up in the deep murky cloak,
refused to leave and I saw it trying to cover me up, enter into me as if to shield itself from the
darkness outside.
I was feeling shaky and who won’t under sinister circumstances as this as I felt a mild touch of a
very cold finger just on the left side of my temple. I trembled. Turned. It was the tramp. “How
did you arrive here? I never saw you coming.” He looked fascinated and I was first taken back
somewhat because of my ignorance of his source of fascination. He rued,” I ought to have told
you earlier” and grimaced as he started collecting my shadow from my feet and wrap it around
the branch that he collected from the tree that stood by our side.
I was trying to make out the sequence of events as I stood in stark surprise ruminating the
occurrences that have been taking place at a rapid pace since my alienation from the
mainstream a couple of hours back. As my shadow clung on to the dry branch in the hands of
the tramp I suddenly began to feel as if bereft of all my weight. I felt weightless. But I was not
being trained for any space mission. I wasn’t in any vacuum. My head reeled …. reeled …. and
reeled till the moment of losing total consciousness.
It was then that the tramp showed himself up once again. He now had a small flute that he held
up to his lips with his right hand and in his left hand he had a bright little lamp, its yellow hue
imposing a mesmerising effect all around the place. Too weak to utter a word I gestured to him
with my eyes. He seemed to understand. He began playing his flute and swaying the lamp in a
very slow motion from left to right and from right to left.
In one moment I knew the rains were coming once again. Too weak to huddle in a corner I sent
out my eyes to search for an umbrella.
…… I knew they would never return. I tried to move my fingers over the cavity of my eyes.
They were numb like a dead man’s. With the last drop of strength I threw out my arms.
Let the rains come.
Refuge Refused
It was coming any way;
and that in spite of all that had been done,
all that hands could lay upon,
to protract its delayed presence in your existence,
it has continued to manifest itself in your mien.
You know of it,
you had known it all along
yet . . . .
The fast tracks around
the golden dome
are vanishing fast;
to retract into the receding woods –
the swaying silvery leaves
won’t hold any surprise!
Subhashis Gangopadhyay is involved in the movement of postmodern poetry in India and is on the editorial board of Kabita Pakshik, a leading Bengali fortnightly poetry magazine. He has several books to his credit, including a book of selected poetry in Bengali. He has translated into Bengali works by John Ashbery and Peter Gizzi, as well as the works of leading Bengali poets into English. His own work can be found translated into English. He lives and works in Kolkata. 
