The Daily Blackberry (Continued part 1)

ইংরেজী সাহিত্যের ছাত্র হওয়াসূত্রে সবসময়ই বাংলা গদ্য লেখার আগ্রহ ধরে রেখেছি। কারণ ইংরেজী আমার মায়ের ভাষা নয়। ঔপনিবেশিক ভাষায় সাহিত্য চর্চা আমার পক্ষে সম্ভব নয় বলেই আমার বিশ্বাস। তার পরেও নাতিদীর্ঘ প্রবাস জীবনে আমার অ-বাংলাভাষী বন্ধুদের আমার বাংলা উপন্যাসের মলাট আগ্রহভরে ছুঁয়ে দেখতে দেখেছি। ওদের অনুরোধেই ইংরেজীতে লিখতে হলো।
আমার ইংরেজী জ্ঞান সামান্য। এতটা সাহস দেখানো উচিৎ হচ্ছে কী না জানি না। তবে আমার বিশ্বাস অন্ধ হলেও প্রলয় বন্ধ থাকে না। তাই আমার প্রথম ইংরেজী উপন্যাস "দ্য ডেইলী ব্ল্যাক বেইরী"-র প্রথম কিস্তি তুলে দিলাম আপনাদের জন্য।

মন্তব্য দিয়ে আপনাদের প্রতিক্রিয়া জানানোর পাশাপাশি ব্লগে চোখ রাখুন আমার পাতায়। পুরো উপন্যাস আসতে থাকবে ক্রমশ:।

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The Daily Blackberry
- A Long Short-Story
By Maskwaith Ahsan

( All characters and incidents are fictitious. Any resemblance to any one alive or dead is mere coincidence. The author cannot take responsibility for his vivid imagination.)

Lucifera walks as if he is swimming in the wind. An old-fashioned man always suited & booted, his Chaucerian English resounding Beowulf, Luci is fond of talking. But he is a tedious talker of the empty-vessel genre. Now you may ask who is Lucifera and why am I talking about him. Is he a character out of Dr Faustus?

Good question. Our Luci is a sleep-walker still haunted by the colonial century. A man, who missed the ride out on our time-machine. Hairstyle that reminds us of Joseph Conrad's anti-heroes, and a fetish for African food, commonwealth women and blackberry. He boasts of his blackberry as Moses' stick -- a 24-hour-schizophrenia to rule his colony. Till the age of 50, Luci's character was as good as that of Mr Bush: the only monogamic man in the world of Laura. Past 50 Luci tries to add some romanticism to his failing humours: he follows Gordon Brown's hairdo, memorises toxic paras from Don Juan and forgets his lunch-hour if there is a young commonwealth girl sitting across him.

But don't mistake. Luci is a self-made man, started from big zero and approaching an even bigger one. Fishing was always his favourite past-time, but now he doesn't need to visit Scotland or North Sea resorts; colourful fish are easily catchable in his dry office room, his neo-colony, the daily blackberry. Check out Luci's list of catch for the day.

Dialogue with Islam

A four foot eight girl, secular, forward-looking and an emancipated Muslim. Naina alias Nanny, wearing a tight white T-shirt with President Musharraf ambushed on the chest and hipster jeans for the rest. She is a bold campaigner of the war against terrorism, a great admirer of Musharraf because he played a major role in dismantling Taliban hangover in Pakistan.

Lucifera stares at this young star, spellbound and motionless -- short height but what a long sight into politics.
"I have good news for you Nanny. You will get the job."
Nanny waves her eyes from behind specs, not knowing how to thank this pre-old man.
"But how? I can't write."
"Leave that to me darling. You can think, that's enough for us."
"Luci, I know a lot about honour killing too."
Nanny appears almost in tears, "Do you know how badly subjugated are they. Our male-dominated Muslim society treats them like slaves. An inch across the social borderline and the mullah's spell out fatwa to kill them publicly by stoning."
Nanny bursts out in tears. She wails and murmurs for Muslim women. Luci holds her hand, sympathises on her shoulder and promises: "Nanny, you are our symbol. You will break the silence. Blackberry will offer you a strong platform."

Gandhi Ji Seeks Appointment

Luci hates when the phone rings in the middle of his absorbed discussions on honour killings or the war on terror. His secretary reminds him of Rakesh's appointment.
"Tell him to wait."
Rakesh, a senior journalist, has to wait for goddo. Busy with Nanny, Goddo was trying to make her laugh at old Readers' Digest jokes. The door suddenly opens. Out comes Nanny looking like a happy bride with a smiling Goddo smiling beside her.
"Nanny, come to me anytime you like."
With the same wave of his head Luci changes the geography of his jaws, swallowing his smile before turning to Rakesh.
"You have got only ten minutes."
A tribute to the 60th year of Indian Independence, Rakesh is working on Gandhi Ji's philosophy. Why not? After all, Rakesh boasts of an uncanny resemblance to the great leader: semi-bald-headed, round specs and the simplicity of proletariats.
"You have prepared a story on 1946," asks Luci.
"That's 1947, the year of Indian Independence."
"I know, my grandfather was a British soldier stationed in Delhi at that time."
"Will you take a look at what I have written?"
"I am busy right now. Don't get so emotional about the half-naked leader. Make the article short and dry. Is that clear?"
Rakesh has no choice but to understand, as Tahmida, another commonwealth young girl, is already hanging by Luci's door. Walking through Lucifera's long corridor Rakesh has a smile of a son who never had a father, just like that of Gandhi Ji's.

Aborted Journalism

Nobel Laureate Prof. Yunus, the banker of the poor, thinks that poverty is Third World's capital. Indeed, the poor look on Tahmida's face, a lower middle-class helplessness enveloping her body, relay her capability of drawing the attention of the World Bank or IMF. Our own World Bank chief, Wolfowitz, read Lucifera, anxiously asks Tahmida, "What ails you, why do you look shaken and dazed."
"I can't do night-shift. I am ill. The doctor says I need an operation."
Tahmida starts to cry, shaking and sobbing with the fear of the illness-monster. Luci doesn't know how to cry but he gives it a try. "Don't worry, have patience, have faith on me. Now give me a smile. The same dazzling smile you gave me on the piano evening."
The compliment alone appeases Tahmida's pain.
"Luci, there is a mobbing structure in my section. I was scolded by my section-chief for coming late to work. You know we got home late after that piano evening."
"Don't worry, I'll take care of that old hagger. Media scenario is changing fast and there's no room for the oldies here. You are young, I will crown you darling. You are such a gem. If I could clone you, blackberry could topple the Tribune.
Poor eyes glittering like marbles, Tahmida laughs. The room shivers with the echoes of a running horse. Lucifera's warm hug engulfs her in a closeness of a demi-god.
"My mentor, my Luci."
On her way out Tahmida's feels her forehead for the heaviness of the promised crown. It was a bird-twittering summer evening. She pinched an SOS SMS: "Will you not visit me at the hospital?"

Lucifera’s classroom

Luci would have been a very good kindergarten teacher. His instincts to be just that haunt him to the extent that his monthly meetings with fellow journalists reflect a playgroup classroom. Holding court, he feels like none other than Larry King. Point of emphasis being the ‘king’ who owns a harem full of commonwealth probation girls.

Colonial bureaucracy has a parallel system of gradual promotion of clerks to officers, who are affectionately called ‘promotees’. Even non-commissioned soldiers, at times, get commission-brazed as second lieutenants at the twilight of their career. Lucifera’s heading the Blackberry is something similar to that. One fine morning when he unexpectedly finds himself sitting on the king’s chair his euphoric disbelief is a sight for all. God has sent him to this earth to run such a big circus. Why not? I came, I saw, I conquered.

So he enters the classroom like a hero of a mock epic. The biggest gimmick of Luci’s classroom is a power-point presentation. Showing off the tools of journalism, he stands in front of the big screen with the orgasmic smile of Bill Gates’ half-brother. Remember Dr Faustus who believed he was Mr Know All. Luci’s antique English, horde of age-old proverbs and stubborn attempts at proving his intellectual height leave a similar impression. For experienced journalists this classroom is a gas-chamber, whereas the on-probation commonwealth girls eagerly await the Q&A sessions to show their ability at asking stupid questions and put forward laughter-provoking suggestions. Luci’s world order is definitely incomplete without them.

Nanny over and again raises questions and concerns at women emancipation. Tahmida cannot frame questions but her shivering-horse laughter compensates for that. Rakesh is fond of discussions on post-modernism. Towards the end of the class Luci shows his blackberry.
“Write me an e-mail anytime. I’ll will be there for you.”
Confusing. Is he expecting an e-mail or a fe-mail.

Megalomania

The mail department is run by a pre-old woman, Naira. Of Luci’s age group, she wears dozens of pink butterfly clips on her dyed hair, puts on red foundation to hide the geometrical revenge of age and is politically fond of cooking for Luci. Hot, spicy South Asian food that is a regular concern for all those with delicate stomachs and minds. That’s not all. She is a photograph freak, likes the constant flashes standing next to the boss. She longs to become a journalist and so lobbies for her friend Iqbal’s promotion.

Naira, like those crooked typical mothers-in-law characters in Hindi soap opera’s, and Iqbal, carrying the legacy of those native Brutes-type collaborators who helped East India Company rulers, are both ideal for Luci. He likes to have a bunch of clowns to work as informers in different departments, so that he, Luci, can ensure a colony without fear of revolt.

Iqbal tries hard to win his master’s stone-cold soul; butters and repeats Luci’s proverbs like a parrot. Waiting for the master to phone him, Iqbal practices to talk to the invisible crown.

Luci supports another parasite, Gobi, a good-looking, good-for-nothing Indianized Casanova. Gobi’s aptitude for Indological fantasies is seriously recognized by Luci. Gobi follows him around like a shadow in red tie, roaming the office like a ping pong ball. His actual assignment remains unknown till date. A universal cigarette-seeker, especially from girls, Gobi claims to be a social democrat but, really, he stares at Asians the way a neo-conservative does. Luci doesn’t like unofficial social gatherings. So, from time to time, Gobi is assigned to keep an eye on coffee tables for intra-office dynamics.

This is not an era of alienation, but Luci believes otherwise. No one but the chosen few should have friends in the office. He walks alone, all alone, towards the cafeteria; in desperate times accompanied by Gobi, not a friend but a mere Charlie. Sometimes during lunch hour Gobi is sent for snap checking. To find out if anyone has brought spicy South Asian food to share with colleagues. Gobi tries to smell like a German Shepherd, food as well as any inner politics against his master. The tragic part of Gobi’s life is when he has to make do with a dry sausage with his nostrils still trickled by the alluring fragrance of hot Indian food.

Gobi ignites his own sense of importance by feeding Luci with imaginary conspiracy theories. He tries to cash on Luci’s sense of insecurity inherited from his ancestors regarding Indians. When Luci gets to learn from Gobi of the 1857 armed struggle of Indian soldiers against the East India Raj, he suffers many sleepless nights. Once during a cigarette-seeking attempt, Gobi came to know of some details of that struggle from Rakesh. Later, he collected a bollywood movie, Mangal Panday, to impress Luci with his knowledge of Indian history of independence.

Contract on the table

Atmosphere inside the Blackberry is reminiscent of Alex Haley’s Roots; the way black slaves were brought from Africa, the way they were treated, the life and humiliation of Kunta Kinte, desperate attempts to crush down Kunta’s black identity, in short, the saga of human existence. Those days of hatred and racial discrimination are legally over. But Luci’s colonial hangover refuses to wipe out the past. Hiring a South Asian journalist genetically prompts him to convert euros into rupees. For Luci, that’s the vantage point of human identity. For a brown South Asian the lowest of salary package should be enough, he believes. And why not? Think of Mr Bush: either you are with me or against me.

Remember when Gulliver visited Brobdignag and saw an uncouth huge woman, Diya. Now a days she works at the Blackberry as a section chief. A half-German, she knows everything except journalism. Another insecure woman resembling her master, Lucifera. Diya informs him about a girl in her section, Rodela Singh, who doesn’t show sufficient subordination. Rodela is a Rajput, so blind subordination is the last thing one should expect from her. Luci doesn’t want to miss the chance to fence with Rodela’s defences.
“Ms. Singh I have heard that you don’t cooperate with your colleagues.”
“That’s not true, Mr. Luci. I think I have optimum communication skills and I know my job well.”
“Don’t you think you sound over-confident.”
“Look Mr. Luci, I didn’t get any holidays in the last six months. I requested Ms. Diya to at least approve a few days as my mother is visiting. But she refused to do so.”
“You should know Ms. Singh that your contract is on my table and I may not extend it if the management is unhappy with your performance.”
Rodela cannot comprehend the type of performance Luci is expecting from her. Is it that of Nanny and Tahmida who perform in his crazy office room or on those tantalizing piano evenings to satisfy his mid-fifties masculine ego. Much as she wants, Rodela cannot tell Luci that she joined the Blackberry as a journalist, not an entertainer.