Conrad in Calcutta (a short story)

"Mr. Konrad, Józef, have you considered the possibility of a white man who will never be the captor, the master, the colonist? Of your own possibility?"

This was my first short story in a print magazine of some circulation; this was published in the Caravan in April 2014. Whether such meetings as are described in this story, and the attitudes that the two men are shown to carry into these rendezvouses, could have happened is largely beside the point.

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An older Conrad; the one the story doesn’t know

From the port, the Tilkhurst could have looked like anything, with lanterns perched at various heights conveying only a meagre outline. But there was no one to see it from the shore. On the ship, inside a dank space below the deck, there was a sailors’ feast in progress. 

Both the party and the ship’s overnight anchoring off port had been Captain Edwin John Blake’s orders. He believed it better to spend another night at sea before taking the river. Right now, he was addressing an audience of sailors seated on the floor. Only a few of them were paying heed to their captain’s words about Calcutta and its culture, and those few were amazed in witnessing a complete reversal in their captain’s usually calm demeanour. Józef, the only Pole on the ship, was in this lot, and although he could not entirely comprehend what the captain said in his perfect English, he was nevertheless fascinated, possibly because of the alcohol in his blood, by the way this complex language, this English, always seemed to open the world—unpacked it, so to say. To Józef, who aspired to be one day called a writer, the choice between English and French was becoming somewhat clearer in the head, though only part of it was due to the unpacking quality of English. He could not really hope to write as well as the Frenchmen did, competition in that language would be way tougher, already he knew that Flaubert was inimitable, and so on. To write in Polish was unthinkable anyway. Who wanted to read Polish other than a few Poles?

But the bigger problem that Józef faced on long sea voyages such as this one was that none of his epiphanies, no detail in the progress of his education, could be shared with those around him. The personalities of some in this cabin would be essential to his stories, could be heroes or villains or even minor characters bleached of the notions of good and bad, but none could participate in the process of doubt and resolution. That remained a solitary voyage.

 “And gentlemen,” Captain Blake’s voice became louder, “just as in every great city in the world, the ladies here are most generous. Not far from the dockyard is a chateau that hosts some fine Armenian specimens, blessed in talents necessary for quenching sailors’ thirsts…”

The audience was even more distracted by now. In one corner of the cabin, there was a little riot underway. While avoiding the melee, Józef spilled some wine on his already grimy shirt. It left a stain, and looking at it he saw that the stain’s shapelessness was not all shapelessness.

A sudden fear clasped him. A fear that jeopardized his notions of who or what he could write about. A fear that told him that neither English nor French may do. An old fear—older than him—that he did not comprehend but felt the weight of.

The stain on his shirt scared him even more.

Meanwhile, on the shore, a mile or so away from the Tilkhurst, four fishermen had arrived on a little dinghy from Calcutta. The fishermen could make out the distant ship as a vague shape anchored neither at the port nor at the sea. They did not give it much bother and slowly cast their net into the waters.

*

The Legacy, run by an obsequious Indian not much different from the obsequious hoteliers in other ports of the world, had rooms that were sparse and clean and staff that was efficient. Inside Józef’s room there was a square desk for letter writing, a bed with a little head-stead of very confused arabesques, and a couple of chairs that were straight and upright like stiff English gentlemen, but also of an unappealing carpentry that one could find only in the colonies.

After settling his few things in the room, Józef, still tired by the revelries of the previous night, lay down on the bed and immediately fell asleep. In his dream he saw his uncle’s scrawny face, lovingly chastising him for being a spendthrift. Then the scene changed and he saw a vision that seemed like shadows flitting with great velocity. It was a flipping of pages, millions of pages from thousands of books. And the pages were not blank, although they were flipping with such rapidity that he could not focus on what was written on them, or whether it was in a language that he could decipher. And then he was on the deck of a schooner, with a book in his hand, a book of maritime stories. Now in English. The schooner tilted violently to the left. Then it straightened up and started sinking. Józef found himself hurrying about with the crew. All were faceless now. Everyone was hurrying about and the ship was sinking and sinking, and then Józef was in the water, unable to breathe, gasping, gasping to save himself and the book, keeping the book above the waves. Until he saw a big arm, an arm that was strong and muscular. Fate. The arm was reaching out to save him.

He woke up. An hour had passed. He wondered for a while if it was possible to really die in a dream. Convinced that he was too tired, he decided to sleep again, but before that he made his mind to think of women, for he was sure that this would save his dreams and his sleep.

The next day, for a good three afternoon hours, the Armenian woman Kohar did well to drown all of Józef’s edginess in her voluptuous embrace. Thoroughly entertained, Józef decided to walk through the streets of this bustling city, a city that was more awake in evenings than both Singapore and Madras had been. It was Józef’s first time in Calcutta. But he had been to this land, to British India, last year. He had even traversed it on train, from Madras to Bombay. What a journey that had been! Grisly May heat and the inscrutability of an entire continent. This month, November, was easier. The breeze had a nip.  It reminded him of something familiar, though he could not pin this familiarity to a home or a location in the world.

Józef did not mind getting entangled in the puzzling streets. He was sure that the friendly looking people would offer to accompany him back to The Legacy, in case he got too far away and lost track. But would not his stilted English reveal him? He wondered if their respect for him would diminish if he told them that he was from Poland, not England. Like India, Poland too had a mind of its own and a government of someone else. Though unlike India, Poland’s rulers had the same skin colour as the Polish people. That made things both better and worse.

So Calcutta, the capital of British India! Józef turned into some narrow lanes flanked by diminutive two-storey houses. It was evening, and it smelled of fish and spices, a smell so piquant and appetizing that it almost made him want to barge into a house and demand to be served. At tiny squares where two perpendicular lanes met, there would be tea stalls thronged by men. Some of the men carried books in their hands, and Józef wondered what these books were about, these books that were at times being read collectively. What language were these books in: English? Farsi? Calcuttese? Just what? And how could natives show such conspicuous interest in books? After crossing two or three such tea stalls, Józef decided to stop at the next one and have a cup of tea himself. A white man stopping at a native place would be something unheard of, but was he not already doing something unheard of? Until now, no one on the streets had found his presence strange. Maybe Calcutta was a different city, Józef thought, a city that belonged to a time yet unseen, a time when newer things would matter.

Józef’s reception at the tea stall was dramatic. The men guessed that he was a British officer who had somehow lost his way, and many came to him to ask if this was so. The questions were put forth in the most gentlemanly English. In his own imitation of the British manner, Józef refused the Calcuttan’s assumptions. But not without a tinge of embarrassment: No, it is not that I’ve lost my way. It is here I want to have a cup of tea. With you fine people.

The men welcomed him and an enthusiastic one among them even patted Józef on the back. He was granted a place on a tiny bench and was served in an earthen cup what everyone called cha. Two young men seated opposite him were engrossed in a book and failed to notice his arrival. The cha was very sweet, near cloying, but Józef didn’t completely dislike it.

After a minute or two Józef felt an urge to interrupt the young men. Excuse me, gentlemen, he said. Yes? the young man holding the book said, raising his eyebrows. The surprise in noticing a white man opposite was never betrayed. Perhaps this man had seen me arrive, Józef thought. Yes sir, what may be your question? the young man said. Nothing in particular, Józef began to say, just that I wish to inquire what book is it that you are reading with such passion. L’Education Sentimentale, by Gustave Flaubert, the young man replied. My friend here is translating it to me, he added. Józef was surprised. And what is it that you find interesting in this book, if I may so inquire? he said. I’ve read this fine book, he added. You’re not English, sir, the young man declared. Józef did not reply for a while, and took a sip of the cha. No, I’m not, he said, I’m from Poland. Ah, the young man said, I would not know where that is. It is divided as we speak, between the Germanic state and the Russian one, Józef said. Ah, the young man said. So, the book? Józef asked. Oh yes, we were discussing if a book of such a theme could be written in an Indian setting, the young man said. And what do you mean by an Indian setting? Józef asked. Say Calcutta, the young man answered. The question is: Can this novel be rewritten with an Indian protagonist? I wouldn’t think so, Józef replied. I think so, the young man said. The disagreement struck Józef as plain and final, and he noticed for the first time the young man’s visage, made of the largest eyes and the sharpest nose he had ever seen. The hair was long and the beard young, and it would not be unnatural to presume that this man had a relationship with poetry. My name is Józef Konrad, Józef said. May I know yours? I’m Rabi Thakur, the young man said, and my friend here is Gurunath Thakur. Nice to meet you gentlemen, Józef said. His cha was finished by now. He rose from his seat to pay. The payment was politely refused, with an invitation to visit whenever Józef desired. Józef walked out of the stall, a bit bemused.

A month or so later, Józef received a message in his room. An Indian, Mr. Rabindranath Thakur, from a very eminent Calcutta family, was waiting for him downstairs. Józef dressed and went down to the reception. He saw Rabi and immediately made the connection. I made enquiries, Rabi said, and understood you’d been staying here. Would you like to go on a ride, Mr. Konrad? We could continue our conversation.

Józef agreed without hesitation, and on leaving the foyer he was impressed by the opulence of the horse carriage that awaited them. The horses were tall and well-fed, and the curlicues on the carriage exterior were confident. In fact, so intricate was the woodwork that one could even call it art.

Once inside the carriage, there was an awkward silence. Then Rabi said something about the weather, about the amenable coolness of Bengali winters. Józef concurred, not adding much. The carriage moved towards the countryside, on a misty path alongside the sluggish river. Rabi then broached the conversation of the other day. He mentioned Poland. I must confess, Mr. Konrad, that I lied to you the first time we met, Rabi said. About what? Józef asked. About me not knowing where Poland is, Rabi said. And why did you do that? Joseph said. I wanted to watch your reaction to that, Rabi said. There was silence again. Józef broke it this time. Are you a poet, Mr. Thakur? Józef asked. I believe so, Rabi said, I want to write all my life. And what do you want to write about? Józef asked. As I’ve said earlier, I want to explore the adaptation of Western literary norms into Bengali literature, Rabi said. Bengali literature? Józef asked. Yes, there is a tradition here, Rabi said. Oh, Józef exclaimed. And do you write only in Bengali? he asked further. I write in English too, Rabi said. How do you decide which language to employ? Józef asked. I don’t know, Rabi said.

A silence then. Rabi broke it.

Would you like to listen to something I wrote recently? he asked. It is in English. Please go ahead, Józef said. Rabi took out a paper from his coat pocket and read a poem. It was a poem about a garden full of birds. It was simple and beautiful, Józef thought, and said so. This seemed to encourage Rabi, who took out a small notebook from another pocket and read another poem. And then another. And then another. On and on and on, much to Józef’s liking. And so the carriage circled the entire city of Calcutta, carrying inside it a brown man and a white man indulged in something they only vaguely understood as important, and yet could not avoid.

Afterwards, Józef said that he was glad for an excellent afternoon, one that would have otherwise been thoroughly wasted in common lethargy. And with some confidence that I’ve acquired in our friendship, he added, I must tell you now that I fancy myself as a novelist. I wish to write in English. The next time I have the pleasure of your company, I would like to share my meagre attempts before you.

The pleasure shall be all mine, Rabi said, and his carriage rolled away.

But Józef had two problems. He had promised that he would show Rabi his work. But he had nothing to show Rabi. The only sample of his writing in English that he possessed was a scrappily written letter to a Polish friend, a letter that he had never posted and had utilized only as a document to work his English upon. Józef also did not know where to find Rabi. Four times in a fortnight he went to the tea-house they had first met in. But he never saw Rabi or his friends there.

Nevertheless, with an urgency and intent he had never before felt streaming through him, he worked on that letter. It was about a sailor’s life, about how the sea appears to a sailor’s tired eyes. Józef wanted to include all the heavy words he had acquired from poring through heavy English dictionaries. He wanted to impress Rabi.

And then one fine January morning Rabi’s carriage returned to The Legacy. Józef dressed in a hurry and put the latest version of the letter, horribly scribbled over in itself, inside his coat pocket.

Their talk began in the same English manner, talk of weather and mist and the toil of fishermen. Then Rabi talked about his latest poems and expressed his desire to read them to Józef. Józef intervened, though not with great conviction, and said that while he would love to listen to Rabi’s latest poems, he was wondering if they could start their literary ride with a reading of his work. Rabi agreed. And so Józef opened his document and began to read. But he was too bad at reading; he had difficulty pronouncing his own words. After the first paragraph or so, Rabi requested if he could read Józef’s writing instead. Józef passed him the papers, but because of the multiple crossings on the document, Rabi could not read their contents either. The papers went back to Józef. This time he took to reading from them with great effort, with a level of concentration that even the occasionally bumpy ride could not break. He read on. He read on as they traversed the city of Calcutta and reached the countryside. Rabi listened intently, and it helped that Józef had taken to reading very slowly. When Józef was done, Rabi asked for the carriage to proceed towards The Legacy, not talking about his poetry.

How did you find it? Józef asked after a few uneasy minutes. Rabi did not respond, and as Józef waited he felt his skin come alive and quiver. He waited and waited for Rabi to say something. The hotel arrived. Józef made to step down from the carriage, but just then Rabi held his hand.

“Nature is all that is left in this country of mine, this country of mine that is today ravaged by a kind of man whose greed I find bemusing. I turn to this man’s art because that is the only way I can reach his heart, and I wish to bring that art to my country, in a form relevant to my country. What allows me this bridge is the fact that I understand this man’s language, or have friends who know this man’s language. But you’re not this man, Mr. Konrad. You’re neither me, nor this man that I talk of. You’re a Polish sailor, come on an English ship, come to an Indian city. I’m home. Even a British man is at home in Calcutta. You are not. By all means, write in English, but do not try so hard to supersede the British in being British. I myself am not immune to this tendency, but this tendency needs to be fought against with all the strength it demands. Mr. Konrad, Józef, have you considered the possibility of a white man who will never be the captor, the master, the colonist? Of your own possibility? The white man who can see things from a third perspective, if there could be one. It is then that you may give the British folk something they’ve never had in their own language, something they can never have on their own. 

“My friend, the British eye is sullied by the conquest of the world. Ask questions of this, of the notion of conquest. It is something I cannot do, but is your great privilege, one that I feel you are yet to discover and exercise.”

That night Józef went to the Armenian charnel house and into Kohar’s chamber. But then he demanded that the neighbouring Alin also join them. And then he demanded Pari as well. He got drunk and lost his sense of self. He drowned in bodies, practised debaucheries again and again. He felt a queer vertigo when he was done. But as the vertigo subsided he began to be piqued by shards of the same unnameable fear that he had felt on the last night aboard the Tilkhurst. That fear had exploded, that fear had been shattered. But the shattering had created these shards. And they made him bleed.

That night, when in a drunken stupor he returned to his room at The Legacy, he sat down immediately at his desk and began to write. He wrote and wrote and wrote till the sun broke and the birds bustled in confusion. What he had written was a single scene, of a brown man killing a white man with a dagger that had a handle with intricate curlicues, the scene having no introduction and no resolution, like a senseless dream. Something told Józef that he had written a dream that he had not dreamt yet. He was convinced it was the best he had ever written in his life, in any language.

It was then that the Captain’s voice boomed through The Legacy. Girdle your loins and pack your sacks, sailors!

***