Awakening, The

1972. It was early morning in the month of Kartik. The sky, the colour of slate was covered with clouds. The sun was still to rise yet faint streaks of light indicated that the night was over. It was chilly because of the heavy rains in the month of Ashwin. People were sure that the winter would be severe. A procession celebrating the Chhat or sun festival was moving along Christopher Road towards Number Three Bridge. Preparations to worship the sun god were underway well before sunrise. At the head of the procession, girls could be seen rubbing their noses in the dust as they prostrated themselves. The rhythmic beat of a copper gong reverberated in the air. Bringing up the rear was a pushcart laden with bananas covered with thin red cotton. Biju, the little boy who had been pushing the cart, was drenched in sweat. His shirt was soaked through. As he stopped to wipe his streaming face his eyes fell on the tarpaulin covered structure beside the road. The towel remained suspended in midair as his eyes popped open in shock. Sarayuprasad, the leader of the procession had gone far ahead. Seeing Biju he took a few steps back and asked What’s up Biju? Biju couldn’t say a word. Following Biju’s pointed finger Sarayuprasad ran to the edge of the road.

On a bare wooden cot under the tarpaulin slept two figures wrapped up in sheets. Sarayuprasad tried to shake them awake shouting, in Hindi, "Arrey wake up, wake up. A fire has broken out, a fire… ".

As soon as one of the men awoke Sarayuprasad left. He had done what he had to. The girls were far ahead, the pushcart had stopped, it was not possible for him to wait any longer.

Bishu was a young boy. He woke up but covered himself again and promptly went back to sleep. He and Arjun da had slept very late last night, their bodies aching, their heads heavy. Aware of the back breaking labour awaiting him in the morning, Bishu’s eyes still unfocussed and sticky with sleep were about to close again. Arjun who’d also woken up hurriedly was sitting up like one who doesn’t know where he is. Throwing off the sheet covering him, Arjun stared at the darkened workshop for a while.

This bamboo framed space with a thatch of dry coconut leaves was Arjun’s studio. Next to it stood a festering pond, the reason why the owner Bansi Manna charged a lower rent. In this small space were packed all the clay gods. On top of the broken elephant of Lord Vishwakarma, the architect of the world, lay a rolled up mat and a tattered pillow. From the hand of Saraswati, the goddess of knowledge and learning, hung Bishu’s lungi and vest. Unsold, awe-inspiring figurines of Durga, Kali and Lakshmi were there as well. Piles of straw, bamboo and clay cluttered the doorway. The big idols had to be kept outside, there was no where else to keep them.

Four enormous idols of the goddess Jagaddhatri, the protector of the world, sitting astride lions were on fire. The straw stuffing inside the idols had caught fire and the glow was visible through the thin clay cover. The lions were still wrapped in cool clay. It was a strange supernatural sight, the unearthly procession of blazing devis, harbingers of calamitous happenings. Saturday was Jagaddhatri puja and the idols were being prepared for this. But there had been no sun to dry them so Arjun and Bishu had to hang strings of fireballs made of a mixture of earth and coal and dry them with a lamp. These small balls were to be strung on sticks and placed on the neck, stomach and hands. The coal was then lit to dry the clay. Once the idols were painted the decorations would be put on them before delivery on Thursday. Holding that lamp all day and all night had exhausted them so completely that Arjun did not realize that some embers left in the dry straw had caused the fire to spread through the whole structure. All night the straw, covered by the clay, had smouldered.

What an amazing, wondrous sight! Completely forgetting the puja, the delivery deadline or that the fire could engulf his whole studio – Arjun continued to stare with open- mouthed awe. In the process, the heat from the fire went into his blood. On the outside cool Ganges clay and inside raging fire!

It was only many, many days later that it struck Arjun that he had seen his Didi smoulder in just that way. She had smouldered as long as she lived but she had never allowed the heat of the fire within her to touch anyone physically. The result was that after burning a long time it had finally consumed her whole frame and reduced her to ashes.

But on that early morning in 1972, Arjun had not been so philosophical. That blinding unusual yellow-orange glow could have swallowed his shelter because Bishu’s deep slumber had not been disturbed by the heat or smell of the fire. Kunti, Arjun’s Didi, who had gone to fetch the family’s drinking water suddenly stopped seeing the flames. She screamed and shouted to wake Bishu and then shook Arjun out of his exhausted slumber before organizing the colony residents to get water to douse the flames. With the help of some young boys Bishu and Arjun threw water on the burning idols. The air inside the shelter was thick with the smell of burnt straw and damp smoke. Arjun cracked open the plaster coat of the idols and pulled out the burning straw from stomachs and chests and hands. Blisters broke out on his and Bishu’s ash-blackened hands. He had not allowed Didi to touch the straw. Poor thing! After the housework, the cooking, the cleaning, and the washing of clothes she would make time to come to the shelter and sit in a corner on her haunches, working with the clay for hours. Her slim soft fingers could make magical impressions with the moulds, better than anyone else. She would gently press the clay into every corner of the mould to take out the most perfect impressions. Arjun did not want the fire to touch Didi’s artistic fingers.

Baba came running from their Daspara shanty dwelling and so did Ma a while later, on unsteady legs. Arjun and the others were busy patting the cracked plaster with soft cloth, repairing damaged fingers and noses.

The tea had become cold like water and the puffed rice Ma had sent was soggy. A searing pain shot through Arjun and Bishu’s shoulders. Their chests were dripping with sweat. Didi, her head half covered, her face stern, her jaw set and sombre handed them wet pieces of cloth with steady concentration.

People from the colony came and stood at the entrance, watching. Elders came from their gossip stations. One idol was to go to Mallik Bazaar, another to Chandannagar. The members of the Puja Committee would arrive in the afternoon. How would Arjun manage to get the idols ready in time? Would he be able to free the frames from the fire, cover them with clay, paint them and finish the decorations? He wouldn’t be able to do it even if he worked all day and all night. Not unless there was a fire or the sun shone brightly again.

Balai who owned the grocery store in front and remained bare bodied through the year would constantly massage his smooth belly and say, "Chha. Does Aju mould the gods? No it is his didi! First of all she is a low class chamar, the daughter of a shoe maker, then a widow, how else will this whole inauspicious cycle come full circle and cross all limits?"

He now stood a little way off. He hadn’t come close like the others but neither had he stayed in his shop. His tongue had leapt up like the flames. He wanted to be heard by all the residents of the colony, The hands that strip the hide off cows now touch the body of the goddess. They will not only burn themselves but the entire colony. Where is the sanctity of society? See the excesses of the low castes… .

Arjun’s father Rupen Das, alias Rupen Chamar, was listening with his eyes lowered. Short, jet black, nose and eyes carved out of stone, full head of thick grey hair, eye lashes prematurely grey, the old man looked like a black horse down whose trembling muscles the insults were rapidly sliding down. Didi did not raise her head, her face was impassive. When she sat at work lifting impressions, or sculpting fingers and crowns, her head remained uncovered, she did not turn her back to the door. Just like a chamar’s daughter she would sit on her haunches as though to repair shoes with awl and leather and work for hours on end, unmoving. She sat in the same posture today – unmoving. The collected breath of the crowd around her failed to raise even a ripple on the hair falling over her forehead.

Everyone heard what Balai said. The barely clothed children of Daspara nudged each other without comprehending the meaning of the words. The elders and the youth were silent. Balancing on a rough handmade ladder Arjun was repairing the Howrah Goddess’s arm. Sweat poured down his bare body. His taut spine strained with every movement. Everyone stared at his back as though it would actually speak. It was just for a few moments. Suddenly Arjun jumped off the ladder, the crowd parted and he stood in front of Balai. This hand will now strip off your skin as well, do you understand? Do you really have no idea what the low castes are capable of? he said.

Unable to say a word, Balai stepped back. The sudden retaliation caused his tongue to get stuck between his teeth. Now I know from where the fire started. Returning to his shed Arjun shouted to the crowd, Come, come all of you and see for yourselves who are the ones responsible for starting the fire.

Immediately Balai slunk into his shop. He had never imagined the boy would confront him like this. The words ‘chamar’s daughter and that too a widow’ had reached Arjun’s ears almost as soon as they were uttered – after all he did not lack friends in Daspara.

Rupen Das’s back was bent. Maybe it was a consequence of long years of sitting and working with leather. Or perhaps fate intended it to be bent. Anyway it made him look even shorter. After the trouble with Balai he went home and returned again in the afternoon. He carried food for his daughter, Aju and the assistant Bishu who belonged to Harowa. He was a labourer’s son. He lived here during the season, got his wages and ate at Arjun’s house. The workshop had a loft which was piled high with hair, jewellery, a tool box and the boys’ beddings. They ate coarse red grains of rice along with some vegetable and a boiled potato. Once in fifteen days they got dal and thrice a month Bacha fish. Aju said they would eat mutton the day they got paid for the Jagaddhati idols. Aju’s mother sent onions and green chillies with the food. This was the custom in the season. Her son forgot everything but work even if the heaped plate was placed in front of him. Kunti was the same. Even if Bishu or the other workmen were hungry they wouldn’t dare eat if the master hadn’t put a morsel in his mouth!

Rupen Das had never faced such pressure. He always came home to eat in the afternoon. His work, cutting up leather to make shoes was not something that could cost you your life. If there was greater demand, the owners Asgar Ali or Ling Pen simply employed more people. The markets were flooded with shoes during festivals, Puja, Id, Christmas but shoes always looked the same. Rupen Das also worked with wood – people in the colony were fascinated with the lotus flowers he carved out of teak. The bed in his rented shanty room was made by Rupen. It was large enough to accommodate him, his wife and their children. He looked back to the year when his daughter, newly widowed, had to return to the parental home. And to the first time he saw his son Arjun outline the eyes of the Devi with a thin brush dipped in paint mixed on the back of his hand. Arjun was a stranger to him. His older son Bheem made shoes – the intricacies of painting were beyond him. Rupen was well aware of the life of the pat painter. He knew that the pressure of work would make the artist forget food and water. He would forget to bathe, to change his clothes, to oil his hair. Burnt ends of beedis would stack up on the floor and his shirt would hang endlessly from a horizontal pole while his dirty lungi remained unwashed for days on end.

At first, Ma tried to plead and cajole and threaten, Why leave your ancestral profession for idol making?

"We should not be doing this baba. We are chamars, low caste."

What will happen if we make idols?

We commit a sin. What else?

The fourteen year old boy would bunk school. He would run away to Kumortuli, the potters’ colony. Ten years back, Ram Pal from Bangladesh had his workspace on the right side just before the end of the road. Seeing the young uniform clad boy there he tried to shoo him off, but the boy sat patiently at the door moulding birds and animals out of clay with his artistic fingers. Some days Ram Pal looked at him, on others he ignored him. Each day he thought the boy would not return and each day Arjun returned. One day before Durga Puja when time was short and one of Ram Pal’s artisans had not come to work, the other two quietly put Arjun to work. Not on the main goddess but on painting the smaller figures on the side. The owner didn’t notice – he was concentrating with single-minded attention on an open-mouthed lion.

The boy’s hand is good, Gana remarked, his beedi between his teeth. "Aaye boy don’t get us into trouble, he said gesturing with his hands to show the putting down of a paint brush, don’t let the old man know."

Arjun’s childhood was spent thus, giving life to clay images without any payment. Surapati, the second worker at Ram Pal’s studio, did not speak to him at all. He was old and ill and his eyes seemed to bore into Arjun’s back constantly. Surapati did not like Arjun. He was jealous. One day he caught Arjun’s right hand and twisted his fingers viciously. Arjun groaned with pain, fearful he would be heard. Everything came to a standstill in the semi darkness of the studio: in the gathering dusk he could see through the open back door, the large kettle of tea for everyone, the mess of Bonomali Sarkar Street, littered with straw and incomplete frames, the studio walls covered with row upon row of Durga images, open mouthed lions, swaying heads of asuras and demons, horns of buffalo-like soldiers going to war.

This battalion of soldiers seemed to sway somewhat before his pain-filled eyes when Surapati released his fingers. In that instant it dawned on him that he would never be able to retrace his steps, for the path back from Kumortuli could no longer be seen.

Bare-chested, Ram Pal would oversee the work of the artisans. His ancestral home was in Mymensingh and his Bangla accent amused Arjun. It did indeed sound strange in Bonomali Lane, Kolkata, somewhat like rice mixed with sharp kasaundi, mango. Ram Pal told Arjun wondrous stories of tigers that came down from the Garo Hills and Arjun heard every word, completely enthralled by the erstwhile Bangal. He hung on his every word as he gave directions to the artisans.

You left a crack on the elbow, did you? Am I supposed to patch that up? Come on, move.

Gana must have missed that particular crack on the elbow of the right hand. He went away in shame but returned again to take the cloth dipped in clay water from the master’s hand. It was the demon Asura’s hand, a very important part and Gana told Arjun later that if the crack had gone unrepaired, the hand would have hung loose.

Ram Pal went without sleep for the seven days and nights before the delivery of the large idol. Everyone at Kumortuli was in the same state – the sleepless nights were reflected in their unruly hair, red eyes, body aches and the endless rounds of tea in small earthen tumblers.

Arjun recalled that in the late fifties and early sixties, the eyes of the goddess Durga and the demon Asura were focused on each other and that this exchange of looks continued for many years, until the early eighties, in fact. In the seventies, Gorachand Pal too drew the eyeballs of the storm- tossed wild haired goddess in such a way that they met the Asura’s eyes. Yet, even though her eyes slanted downward it seemed as though she was looking deep into her own heart. Arjun too had modelled many such idols.

But just how precisely the head was to be placed on the neck so that the eyes would meet the Asura’s, was an intricate art that Arjun learnt by observing Ram Pal from the shadows. Once the Asura was complete, sitting with his mouth open, ready for war, the head of the Durga idol which was still in its mould, had to be lifted up and placed on the bamboo sticking out of the neck of the statue. It had to be placed at an angle such that even without turning completely, her full gaze was on the Asura. The unfailing deftness and precision with which Ram Pal executed this was something that Arjun stood and observed hour after hour standing in Bonomali lane. The passionate absorption often made his neck throb with pain but his eyes remained focused, unblinking.

After the sari was draped, just before delivery, began the ritual of fixing the sari border with glue mixed copper sulphate. At the feet of the idols were pots of glue, rolls of borders selected by the master and arranged systematically according to size and colour. But even so there was much last minute fretting and fussing.

It is hanging, the sari border is hanging! Gana what is wrong with your eyes? Move over now, move!

This meant that the glue had not been applied evenly, causing the border to hang or to look wrinkled or puffy. The master would drape the sari on the main idol himself but he wouldn’t tolerate shoddy work on the smaller idols of Saraswati, Lakshmi, Ganesh and Kartik either.

Each sari pleat would be held up separately and small invisible nails would fix it onto the frame. Ram Pal would yell and scream till each nail and each placement was correct. The lower half of Durga’s sari had to fall artistically on the back of the singha, the lion, like the petals of a lotus – as though it was a piece of art by itself! Arjun, the chamar’s son who lived in the midst of the stench of leather, whose forefathers had grown hunchbacked, old and frayed before they died, having breathed the acid fumes of tanneries all their lives, was completely won over by the fragrance of straw and earth. With all his senses, his big eyes, his nose, his strong hands, skin and brains all together, he secretly and stealthily gained all the knowledge and skills of his mentor, his guru.

The twin blobs of Durga’s red mouth light up into a smile as soon as the lips are outlined but this alone is not enough to complete the picture. Parallel to the conjunction of the two lips, a fine curved line has to be drawn. And midway between the lips, tiny crimson lines express pain and sorrow. But is it only sorrow or is it also the petulance of a girl leaving her parental home? But even before he had quite figured this out Arjun had learnt to draw the required strokes.

One day, as he worked in secret Arjun got caught. In a way it was Surapati who engineered this. Of course the master would have found out anyway.

It was the dawn of Mahalaya and Ram Pal had climbed up the scaffolding to draw the eyes. Surapati was handing him the cloth brush from below. This was the Hathibagan Netaji Club idol. It was a very Bengali rendition of the goddess decorated with sola or pith which reigned supreme as decoration material even in 1961-62. She had huge eyes painted outward, almost to the ears, on a yellow face.

Ram Pal had dipped his brush and drawn two powerful eyes on the Devi’s face. With his tongue protruding slightly he was now wiping off the extra paint on the edge of the pot when suddenly there was a sound behind him. Startled, the brush fell out of his hand and slipped to the ground.

Eagerly Surapati craned his neck. A glance at the back and he knew what had happened. That chamar’s son has cast his evil eye, how can any auspicious work be done like this? His evil eye can take the skin off an animal, here it has fallen on Ma Durga’s face! His inauspicious glance!

Ram Pal’s curly white hair was plastered with sweat on his forehead. His heavy body was no longer agile and flexible. Stroking the white hair on his chest, Ram Pal tried to understand what had happened.

Arjun had been hiding behind the tin door on the other side of the workshop. Maybe he’d got excited, or may be a mosquito bit him but he had managed to overturn an old paint tin which had rolled out of the door onto the street.

Arjun turned white with fear, his ears were thudding with the sound of his own heart, his throat was parched, as dry as wood. Last evening Surapati had caught him in the dark alley and it was only by fighting desperately, turning and twisting, that he had managed to save himself. Surapati smelt of dry leather and burnt hair. It was nauseous to stand near him. He was totally out of place in this land of scented earth.

A sound like the roar of a tiger arose from the scaffolding.

Hey you Sura, you yourself are the son of a weaver so why do you keep on about chamars eh?

Surapati was bent over trying to retrieve the paint brush. Like a fox who cowers at the sound of a tiger, he stood hunchbacked trying to see what the fuss was about.

Come, come little artist come, called Ram Pal softly to Arjun. From the confusion of paint tins and pieces of wood, rose up a slender small tree. It would break in a storm but not bend, was the language clearly visible on its visage. Either that, or seeing that there was no need to hide anymore, a singular courage had entered his being. Come you will paint Ma’s eyes today.

Come on, hold my hand. The master was holding out his hand, bending down from the scaffolding but Arjun still stood as if turned to stone. The inside of his mouth was dry, his chest was pounding loudly right up to his throat. Was this a reprimand, a punishment? A final flourish before an irrevocable farewell? Fourteen year old Arjun was to paint the Netaji Club idol’s eyes? Suppose they refused to accept the idol? Would the two hundred rupee idol then lie rejected in the workshop? Yet, to refuse would be another kind of rejection for someone who had withstood Surapati’s blows and worked for days in secret, unmindful of the burning heat of the sun. If the master was not happy would anyone bother to teach him the work?

It had taken an hour. One full hour, Arjun remembered. His back ached in unbearable agony, his body was soaking wet, like a sponge, yet Arjun carried on. Everything appeared hazy, Ram Pal standing next to him, Surapati below, the row upon row of warriors standing lifeless in the studio. The young boy could see only the one face, its sorrowful forehead like the terrace of a temple. The expectant look on the sightless face seemed to possess him completely as each stroke flew effortlessly from his fingers to fill it. They seemed to be outside the boy’s control. His hands seemed to be moving of their own accord, with a volition and direction all their own. Whose hands were these? What unbelievable speed – as though they were the dancing limbs of some drunken old Santhals. The black strokes with their lightening speed were teasing and playing with Arjun. Eyebrows, eyes appeared in this way, distinct, different, fluid. The boy then painted a blood red artery over the dried veins of the whites of the eyes. At the core of the warrior goddess, a little sign of weariness had to be made visible and so he drew a web of fine lines that ended quite far away from the iris.

In the deep black pupil of the eye, a yellowish brown spherical ball was then painted, over which came an even finer dark dot and immediately the clay image came to life and gazed at her low-born creator. His grazed elbows and knees continued to sting, his stomach was contracting, burning with hunger.

Seeing him so completely engrossed, Ram Pal gave him a little push and said, The third eye? Who is going to paint that? How come you are sitting silently?

Words finally emerged from Arjun’s dry palate. I can’t do any more. My hands are aching. You paint the eye on the forehead.

Ram Pal had painted the third eye, and had praised Arjun by slapping his back heartily. You have the passion to go deep into your work, eh? From tomorrow come early and I will show you what real work is!"

Many days later, Arjun told Bishe that his mother would have given him a third eye too, given a chance. The master let me go only after he’d fed me a meal. Ma was livid because the rice at home was wasted. Then, hearing that I’d painted the idol’s eyes, she threw a stick at my forehead … how much blood flowed, how much blood.

How much blood, how much blood, suddenly Kunti looked up and made faces at Arjun. Her hands were covered with clay, she was moulding a finger. Her face seemed etched from stone, so rarely did she smile. That day some strange breeze touched it and caused her to show her pearly white teeth for a second.

Liar, Ma never beat you with a stick. She barely touched you with Baba’s wooden clogs – that was enough to make you bleed.

Rupen Das wore his home made wooden clogs all the time since the heels of his feet tended to crack otherwise. You have to understand, Bishu those shoes were lying under the bed and that’s why Ma lifted them.

Ma hadn’t wanted to hit him on the forehead, but the clogs had flown out of her hand. Oh enemy of mine, you have painted the eyes of the goddess on a moonless amavasya night. As it is we have no peace or happiness, surely now this household will be destroyed!

Seeing the blood flowing from her son’s forehead, however, Jadumoni was frightened. She pressed her sari aanchal to his forehead.

Where were you, Didi? asked Bishu.

I was in that house, Kunti said pointing in the direction of her sasural.

If Didi was there would this have happened to me? Would Ma have hit me?

Rupen Das was a quiet man. Seeing Arjun’s condition when he returned home, he became extremely restless. Arjun’s forehead was painful, his body feverish. His stressful labour of the morning and his severe beating of the afternoon were taking their toll on him now. They couldn’t even call a doctor – where was the money for that? All he was being given was a sick person’s diet of watery milk and sago. Rupen Das who