All that is solid

In Jorasankor dhaare Abanindranath recorded one of the most evocative descriptions of the city of Calcutta. Towards the beginning in a short passage he describes the sounds he hears in the city from inside his house, may be even his room. We return to it either to remember some street cries that were familiar even some years back, or to read it as an archive of urban ephemera. Recently, while reading Khatanchir khata, published in 1921, I found another fantastic example of writing the city.

Those who are familiar with the story will know that it is a loose adaptation of Peter Pan. There is a young boy dressed in leaves and refusing to grow old. His name is Putu. Here are the kids describing and failing to describe who Putu is:

In Sona and Anguti-Panguti's maps of hidden lands, their mother began to notice the appearance of a half-bird half-human form, in adddition to Sonaton, Bohim, Ink-pot, the red notebook and the house-wife. They had written the word 'Putu' below. The pictures of Putu in Anguti-Panguti's notebooks were a little hazy but a much clearer picture could be seen in Sona's. Putu looked somewhat like a cross between rooster and human.

The children could never tell their mother who Putu was. She searched her memory hard but could find nothing of his kind in the stories they heard as children. What they did know for sure was that Putu would never grow up. He would remain exactly the size he was then. But then Putu starts leaving material traces in their house. They inform their mother that Putu plays the flute and enters the house through a window, dressed in leaves. One day she finds Putu's notebook. It contained everything--where he came from, why he remained ever young and how well he knew the city of Calcutta.

The city we find in Putu's books is one that functions exclusively in the realm of play. The cityscape changes continuously, but that does not prevent the author from presenting it in the form of a map. The map was drawn by one Sukumar Ray.

Maps that accompany literary works have interested me for a while now--you could extend that to spaces and literature more generally. I remember reading how R.L. Stevenson had first drawn a map of the Treasure Island story and only then written the book. But by the time he finished his novel he had lost the original map and had to reconstruct the place from his writing. I wonder what kind of exchanges Abanindranath and Sukumar Ray had while conceiving of this map of Calcutta.

Putu has known the city for many years and where we see offices and houses and tram-ways, he sees what used to be underneath the surface of what is.

In the day-time the buildings appear, but make no mistake, this does not mean the gardens are not there. You see that football field across the Gol-bagan? There is a giant pond with a banyan tree right below that. We used to go fishing in that pond. On some days I can still see the tree and the pond very clearly. How do you think that stork is surviving? Surely it doesn't feed on grass like a cow. At night when the pond comes back from its subterranean hideout, the stork hunts for fish there. That is how it has survived all these years.

As he plays with the vision of the city he must explain the changeability of forms. All that is solid in the city of Calcutta, which at that time was one of the most impressive models of western urbanity in the East, melts into air, giving way to visions of the past and the future. Abanindranath's manner of blending a keen interest in what exists--call it factual knowledge if you will--along with a sense of wonder is unparalleled (for me at least).

If you manage to stay up after two at night, you might take my word seriously. When the shiyals [foxes] of Sealdah start yelping in the dead of night, all the city's bricks turn into woods and gardens. As Putu starts playing her flute all the fairies come out with little lamps. You don't believe me? Wondering how stones and bricks can turn into plants, aren't you? Go to the museum some day. You will see trees that have turned to rocks and rocks that have become trees. You see the stars in the night sky, little specks of light? Once a star had fallen to the earth. They kept it in a glass box at the museum. It doesn't look like a radiant flower, but more like a lump of shiny iron.

 If you must explore the city, follow Putu, because he does not walk. Indeed the city is no more than the absolutely fantastical map and yet infinitely greater than the visible city.¹

The road goes past Jorasanko and converges at the crossing. If you go south at the crossing, you cross Chowringhee and come to Raja-bagan. If you go north, you find Ray-bagan. Between these two great gardens lie two lakes, the size of the seas. In the Raja-bagan you find the rectangular Lal-dighi and at its heart the White Island. Inside the Ray-bagan is the Gol-dighi with the Jambu Island at its centre. The Great Raven with its many offsprings inhabits the Jambu Island, whereas the wingless fairies and faires live on White Island. Beyond the Lal-dighi is the king's fort, and on the banks of the Gol-dighi stand the living rooms of the babus. A picture of a cannon is drawn inside the fort, while a hookah denotes the living room of the babus.
Now let's take a look around Ray-bagan. It would take you fifty years to explore it on foot, but since this is a map we can cover it quicker.

 Not only do images and little symbols denote entire spaces in the city but also stand for the culture of a particular place (the hookah representing the living rooms of the babus), the letters in names of places become part of the map, including in themselves the very house where the reader of his book is.

What are you looking for? Our three-storeyed house? Look at the twin pools of Jorasanko. Notice the circle inside the loop of the 'R' of 'Pirbagan', which is written in the blank space between the pools. The house is right inside that. It's very small, but you can see it.

Sadly, you or I cannot look at the city quite in the same manner as Putu and must take his word about the real map of Calcutta. And why is that?

You see White Island and Jambu Island? No one who doesn't have wings can go there. To this day, I among all the children, have succeeded in visiting that place. You know why? It's because I never wanted to grow up.

---

1 Translations are mine. Quotations from Abanindranath Tagore, Khatanchir khata, in Abanindra Rachanabali Vol. 3, Kolkata: Prakash Bhavan, 1958.

Abanindranath

Having kept quiet for a long time, I return with a post that has little original substance. As I often do in my spare time, I was reading Radharaman Mitra's Kolikata Darpan Vol. II. The second volume was long out of print until very recently when Subarnarekha brought it back. In a chapter titled 'The House of the Two Italians' Radharaman quotes from Abanindranath Tagore's Jorasankor Dhare.

In Calcutta at the time, near Wellesley Square there was the Madrasa College. In front of it was a large pond and the house of Mr Gilardi, an Italian artist, stood just beside it. I visit him every morning to learn, paying the customary fee, pastel drawing and painting. He treats me like one of his family. I paint sitting on one side of the studio, while on the other side his wife feeds one of her sons milk. One or two of the children go to school; at times she is engaged in getting them ready. On occasion she goes to the market in my car. On the ground floor an elderly Italian music master by the name of Manzata resides with his daughter. Father and daughter lead a happy life. Every morning the girl plays the piano, her father plays the violin. The music floats in. Sitting upstairs I paint, listening to these Western tunes.

One morning, I was painting as usual, when the notes of the violin from downstairs reached me. I quite lost myself in the music. I stopped my hand from going on with the brushstrokes. This was not a tune that was playing. It was as if the violin itself was weeping. The music that day made it clear that the strings of the violin and its bow, had become one with the strains of his being. The piano was not playing alongside today. I said to Gilardi, "It sounds as though the violin is weeping today, Sir. Do you know why? It has never sounded like this before." The gentleman said, "Hush! The old man's daughter has left home yesterday and gone away. Haven't you heard?" That day I couldn't paint any more. After a while, quietly I came down. I could see in the room next to the staircase the elderly man sitting with his head bent, his violin rested against the back of his chair. Strands of his silver hair were floating in the breeze of the fan.

(My translation. I am unsure about the spelling of 'Manzata'. Radharaman writes that while Abanindranath has 'মান্ধাটা' ('Mandhata'), Sarala Debi has 'মাঞ্জাটা' ('Manzata'), and Indira Debi spells it 'মাঞ্জাতো' ('Manzatto').)

This got me so interested that I started reading the book. There are certain passages in it that I would really love to share, but I'll take it easy with the translations and return later with those. It is available at dli.gov.in, which is also the source of many other fascinating and diverse books.