A short story by Manoranjan Byapari, translated by V. Ramaswamy
Haran babu paced about restlessly on his verandah. The veins on his forehead throbbed in rage. The palms of his clenched hands were sweaty. His eyes, unusually red, were almost like glowing marbles. He wanted nothing more than to rush out of his house at once with a gun. And do something terrible.
From the very core of his being, a terrifying desire for vengeance was hounding him, like an enraged wild buffalo. The sounds of alphabets being recited, wafting in from two hundred yards away, were like veritable hammers pounding away on his head. He was unable to figure out how things had come to such a pass. It was as if, slowly, all his accomplishments were being shattered and ground to dust. No, not at all! He could not let this happen under any circumstances! The murderous blood of his youth – when his very name was enough to make a tiger and a cow drink from the same bank – boiled in his heart. And that was not so long ago. It was only ten years back. How had things come to this in such a short while?Sign in to read more
Manoranjan Byapari was born in 1950 in East Pakistan (present-day Bangladesh), and came to West Bengal, India, in the aftermath of the partition of India. He never attended school. He was jailed in connection with political activity, where he learnt to read and write. He has written a dozen novels and over a hundred short stories, besides essays and poems. He was awarded the Suprova Majumdar Memorial Prize by the Bangla Academy in 2012 for his autobiography, Interrogating My Chandal Life.
V. Ramaswamy translates voices from the margins. He is concluding a project to translate the short-fiction of the Bengali anti-establishment writer Subimal Misra.