Broken Mirror

Baldev Vaid Krishna

Description

The story of Beero and his motley group friends is set against the impending partition of India. Beero s passage through adolescence is told through a series of vignettes involving characters who are each more eccentric than the next wrestler, quack, prostitute; Hindu, Muslim, Sikh. But when partition becomes a reality, in a time of terror and carnage, the insane turn out be the only ones sane.

Informations

• Publié par: Penguin Books Ltd
• Date de parution: 15 avril 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9789351186618
• Langue: English

Extrait

Krishna Baldev Vaid

THE BROKEN MIRROR
Translated from the Hindi by Charles Sparrows and the Author
Contents
About the Author
Dedication
Prologue
LANES
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
THE BAZAAR
LAHORE
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
BORDERLAND
One
Two
Three
Four
Follow Penguin
Copyright Page
PENGUIN MODERN CLASSICS
The Broken Mirror
KRISHNA BALDEV VAID, born in 1927 in Dinga, now in Pakistan, is a major Hindi writer known for his iconoclastic and innovative work. He survived the horrifying carnage that accompanied the partition of the Indian subcontinent, and regards his involuntary transplantation to the Indian side of the border as his most traumatic existential experience.
Vaid was educated at Punjab and Harvard universities, and has taught at Indian and American universities. He has published novels, novellas, short stories, plays, diaries, literary criticism and translations. His work has been translated and published in English, French, German, Italian, Polish, Russian, Japanese and several Indian languages.
CHARLES SPARROWS is a freelance translator with advanced degrees from the University of Chicago. He has travelled extensively in Europe and Asia, and currently lives in Chicago.
for Champa
Prologue
I was alone in the house on the evening Father returned, wasted. Mother had gone to the Shiva temple, where day and night she had been begging and entreating for his safe return, Devi had skipped out to her friend Paro s, and I was dozing in a sweet malaria-induced weakness.
A little while earlier, after taking a look at my own face, I d smashed our frameless mirror against the wall. Pieces of glass lay scattered all around me-I wanted to scoop them up and throw them out but couldn t muster up the energy to get out of bed. Should I hurt myself with a splinter, Mother d pick a fight with Devi and I d scream at them both. Besides worrying about the broken mirror, I was thinking about Father. I closed my eyes and tried to conjure up his face, but I saw nothing except reeling darkness. When I opened my eyes, black streaks wavered before them, as if to tell me Father would never return. Our hope was flagging day by day, as the sense of his absence grew. Still I kept imagining what would happen if Father suddenly materialized before me-what I d ask him, what I d tell him, whether he d laugh or not, whether I d cry or not
A few weeks earlier Father had taken Mother and Kaka to Uncle Raghupat s village at the news of Granny s death. It was far away from town-you had to ride a camel and a mule, in addition to the train. Who knows how many years or months it had been since I, too, had been there with Father While they were gone I closed my eyes and tried to recall dead Granny every night. I couldn t conjure up her image but I could see the cobbled village lanes vividly, where I imagined Kaka toddling around. Kaka was still quite small-I felt a strange consolation thinking that he d yearn for the village, too, when he grew up. In a few days Mother came back all alone with a bundle. She said the villagers had cast an evil eye on poor little Kaka. He d passed away in his sleep. She couldn t get over it. And Father? Well, he d left her at the station and taken off, who knows for where. And he d taken her gold bangles-snatched them. He d met an old crony of his at the station-a gambler and a drunkard. Mother kept cursing the fellow mercilessly. She was sure Father wouldn t return until he had gambled her bangles away, but she clung to the hope that someone would somehow prove her wrong. She d tell every passer-by the whole story and start wailing, My Kaka was one of a kind My bangles weighed a seer My husband s too trusting! I couldn t decide how much of her lamentation was for Kaka, how much for the bangles, and how much for Father.
Amid all the crying and hubbub, I persisted for a while in the hope that one day Father would materialize in the doorway holding Kaka-I d run up to him and he d embrace me, the bangles would be clinking in his pocket and Mother herself dumbstruck with happiness Then gradually this fantasy turned into anger, the anger into despair, and the despair into a fear that Father would never come back
Lying exhausted on my sagging charpoy that evening, I was still dwelling on this fear, when I suddenly saw Father standing in front of me, silent and dishevelled, his eyes downcast. I jumped up and ran over to hug him. He stooped down to lift me-no clinking in his pocket. Red tears glistened in his eyes, yellow questions in mine. Obviously unable to answer them, he pressed me to his chest. Soon I was so happy at the touch of his soft stubble and the sound of his voice that I simply forgot all my questions. I had only one apprehension left-Mother would be back shortly and then all hell would break loose.
- Son, what happened to the mirror?
- I threw it against the wall.
Father didn t get angry but he did loosen his embrace slightly. He put me back on the charpoy and started picking up the glass. I wanted to draw his attention, but without asking any question that might hurt his feelings. I wanted to assure him that I, for one, wasn t bothered by the loss of the bangles.
- Was everyone upset when your Mother returned?
If he d looked at me he d have known I didn t want to answer any questions about Mother. Maybe it was just a pretext to say something, to reach an understanding with me. As I remained silent, he didn t repeat the question. He put the pieces of glass in a broken pot, like an old street performer listlessly collecting scattered pennies after the show, surprised at the miserliness of the spectators. His turban was coming unravelled from bending down repeatedly. How shrunken he looks! Where re his things? How did his clothes get so dirty? I felt a tightening in my throat.
- Nobody came from the office?
- They did.
- When?
- Yesterday.
- Who?
- The peon.
- What did he say?
- He brought a letter.
At this he became more sombre. He put the pot in a corner and sat next to me. He took off his turban and hung it on a post of the charpoy. Now the turban looked like dried-up white cow dung, and his head like a dirty white squash.
- D you know what it said that letter?
- No. Mother tucked it away somewhere.
Father held his head in his hands.
- Where d she go?
- The Shiva temple.
- D you have any idea what it said that letter?
- No.
I was surprised he was so afraid of that piece of paper. I really wanted to say that there was nothing to it. After a little silence he said in a low voice, There re two possibilities-either I ve been fired or transferred. Later we found out it was to inform Father he wasn t entitled to any more leave.
As a diversion, I started to tell him about Mother s fight with Naresh s adoptive mother, called Behenji by everybody except Mother, who preferred the hussy . Father didn t pay any attention and kept on worrying about the letter. I wanted him to tell me himself where he d been, what he d done with the bangles, what had happened to Kaka, where he d gone after he left Mother alone at the station, and why. But as soon as I raised my eyes to his, he lowered his head, and my questions faded away.
I was telling him about Mother and Devi s fights when Devi and Paro appeared at the door. Paro stopped and folded her hands respectfully, while Devi came up and sat down by us. Father caressed her head and she started sobbing. Then Father raised his hand to his forehead. Seeing the strain on his face I choked up again. Paro closed the door and left. For a little while the three of us cried quietly. Then the door flew open with a thud, and Mother came in like a tornado. My tears stopped. Trembling, I got up and closed the door. Instead of going back to the charpoy I went and sat at the kitchen door.
- Where re my bangles?
Mother held out her hand, and her voice started to rise.
- I m asking you-my bangles, where are they?
Her voice was as full of anger and contempt as a balloon is of air. Father hugged his knees like a handcuffed country thief in front of a police officer. Mother advanced and started rifling through his pockets. It seemed like she was tickling him. Devi got up and came over to stand next to me.
- You gave them to a whore!
At the word whore Father got up hastily, and Mother started pounding her chest and forehead with all her might.
- I ll kill myself and shame you in front of the whole town! Where are my bangles?
She lowered her head and started to strike her forehead repeatedly with both hands, like a court singer suddenly gone mad while taking a bow. Father clenched his fists and tightened his jaws-I was afraid he d start beating his forehead, too. But he grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her violently against the front door, which flew open, and the people standing outside in the lane stormed in. Seeing them she started crying. She rubbed her head where it had hit the door bolt, and started to scream when she saw some blood. The women crowded in around her. Then I saw Father pick up his turban and retreat to the small dark room, whose warm desolate smell always reminded me of Mother. I wanted to go hide with him, but he bolted the door from the inside.
I was hoping Mother would quieten down in a while, when she started shrieking, Get that door open! Break it down! If he does anything to himself, what ll become of me and my Beero! I was amazed she didn t mention Devi. Devi was grinding her teeth and hissing at Mother, You and your bangles! You and your bangles! I kept tugging at her salwar to shut her up, afraid that Mother might forget everything and turn full force on her, but also afraid of pulling the salwar open.
The neighbours poured in like invited guests. I turned my face to the dirty kitchen, trying to avoid my friend Keshav s keen look. Some people were calling out to Father, threatening to break down the door or to call the police, while the rest stood by silently taking ever