The Hero of Twenty Kathas

On the day when the blood in his chest dried into clotted stone, Nityananda made a vow: never again would he set foot into the quicksand of relationships. Better to bang his head against the stony walls of solitude, better to let life pass inside that cave of aloneness. Not only in the empire of the brain but also in the palace of the heart—self-interest reigns supreme. Without self-interest, neither wealth lasts, nor do relationships. And so, Nityananda turned inward, self-absorbed.
 
One day he showed his palm to an astrologer seated on the steps of a museum. The astrologer, peering at his hand, declared: “Your Sun-line rises high—you shall have fame, wealth, glory. This is the hand of a king.” A parrot nearby screeched in harsh rhythm, agreeing with the prophecy. Nityananda asked, “And love?” The astrologer bent low with a magnifying glass, tracing the lines of his palm for some time. Finally he said: “There—there lies Rahu. It devours the Sun, makes him unconscious, ruins men. How many millions of hands ruined by that Rahu! If you go down that path of love, the Sun weakens. Straight lines collapse into chaotic scribbles.” Wrinkles furrowed Nityananda’s forehead. When the Sun-line is at its zenith, it cannot be ignored. It must be nurtured like a holy flame. So with congealed blood he paved his chest with slabs of white marble. Immediately he became like water on a lotus leaf—detached, gliding, serene. From that marble terrace inside his heart, he began to gaze upon the world. Everything seemed beautiful from there.
 
Like blue-blooded creatures crawling across the chest, he trod carefully along life’s path. Out of his loneliness he composed a music of rhythms and silences. One after another, like wrinkles across a forehead, white stones settled on his chest. From a safe distance, the world looked pleasing. Only sometimes the weight of those stones made the inner man heavy. Even stone, Nityananda thought, has weight—it must cause some pain.
 
Yet Nityananda had not come into this world with only a broad, flattened chest. He had also inherited a piece of land. Paternal property. His father, Bhabananda, in 1966 had bought twenty kathas of low-lying land in South Calcutta. At that time, the average man’s yearly income was three thousand rupees. Land sold at the price of bullocks—two hundred rupees per katha. Now, incomes had risen to thirty thousand a year, and land was sold in exchange for a man’s lifetime of earnings. Each katha worth fifty thousand. Nityananda silently admired his father’s foresight.
 
His father, Bhabananda, a man without wealth or lineage, had worked as a clerk in the post office. In those days, banks were rare; people deposited all their treasure in the post office. Bhabananda had a rustic craving for farming. His relatives in East Bengal were all peasants. His forefathers had spent their lives farming. So the pull of land was natural in him. But that dream had been shattered when, as a refugee, he landed in this Bengal like leftover scraps. From refugee camp to the slums of Ultadanga he dragged his family, until he got the post-office job that carried him to South Calcutta. He had dreamt of retiring and building a small mud house on that Panchasayar land, to grow onions, potatoes, cucumbers. For a man who had lived in camps, slums, and rented rooms, that was not a grand dream. He was a nature-drunk man, detached, without greed. But fate was merciless. Just as his civilized life was beginning, one year into his job, his wife died in three days of burning chest pain, leaving behind the infant Nityananda.
 
Bhabananda had loved his wife deeply. For days he wandered like a tetherless bull. He roamed here and there, reckless, messed with women, measured the cheap marketplace of flesh. For a year he lived like that. Then he decided to become a renunciate. But suddenly he returned home, back into family life. By then, Nityananda was a five-year-old orphan. Seeing his motherless boy broke Bhabananda’s heart. He remained unmarried thereafter, raising his son alone.
 
Nityananda grew into manhood on the twenty kathas. Bhabananda stayed a solitary man. But one day, Bhabananda discovered that his son had turned that land into a den for country liquor. Rage boiled in his blood. He grabbed a stick and rushed at him, swearing to drag his wayward son back onto the straight path. But fate had written otherwise. The boy who had cooked for his father since the age of ten, who had stood on his own feet since five, carried the torment of growing up alone. That torment boiled into his blood. On that day, Bhabananda tasted its heat.
 
Nityananda took a razor and slashed his father’s chest. Bhabananda fell, blood gushing. The son said: “You will never set foot on this land again. From now, this soil is mine.” And so Bhabananda’s dream of farming perished. One day he vanished into thin air—no one knew where he went. Perhaps the road itself had claimed him, the eternal path of the refugee written on his brow.
 
On the twenty kathas of Panchasayar, Nityananda’s empire of intoxication flourished. At nightfall, day-laborers in groups came to his shack of spirits. For a few coins they drowned themselves in stupor. By morning, those same walls became a tea stall, earthen cups brimming with steaming brew for passersby. In that strange commerce of glasses and clay cups, Nityananda’s pockets swelled quickly.
 
Inside his body still surged the sound of blood like boiling water. It roared and bubbled in his veins. His skin carried a sticky heat. If his palms met for a moment, sweat gathered instantly. His body burned with hidden fire. Lava often gushed out of him in moments unknown, like sudden eruptions from a volcano.
 
One day, government men arrived from the city. They measured the land. Bricks and sand began to pile on the road outside. A vast black highway was to cut across the mud paths. Five kathas of Nityananda’s land lay buried beneath asphalt. For the first time in his life, he put on pants and shirt and walked straight into the party office. Influence bore fruit. As the saying goes, “Oil too often poured will drip down the face.” The government awarded him one lakh rupees as compensation. A snake had swallowed a frog, and the frog survived—such was his fortune. He lost five kathas, yet gained legality for the rest. Bhabananda had erred in not securing papers; Nityananda did not repeat the mistake. Two months later he held the title deed in his hand. Out of gratitude, he donated twenty-five thousand to the party fund, clearing old dues.
 
Soon the laborers came in droves, squatting along both sides of his land—government men, contractors, clerks, foremen. The place became flooded with people. His liquor trade soared. Alongside, he obtained a labor-contracting license, recruiting workers through middlemen. It was a carnival of commerce. By day too, customers thronged his stall. With the tea kettle came rice and fish for sale. Nityananda soared like a kite in the wind.
 
Then came the storm, the Kalboishakhi. Into Nityananda’s bloodstream it blew a fierce wind. His large, eager eyes fell upon her—the woman sitting on the shop’s porch. “Is there tea?” she asked. “Give me a cup.” Her voice was like the murmur of a spring, water tumbling over rocks. His blood surged with waves. She was striking: two round, wide eyes filled with the infinite longing of the world. Youth rippled across her body like river waves. Her thick black braid gleamed. “Well, master, will you not give me tea?” she asked again. Nityananda lost his senses. A woman’s body is a summons like the call of night-spirits. With trembling hands he offered her a cup of tea. “Who are you? Do you work at the site?” he asked.
Inside, Tapan, a daily customer, was eating rice. With a mouthful in hand, he laughed: “Don’t you know her, Nitya? She’s our head mason’s wife, Komola. Her husband comes to your liquor stall every day, at the back.”
 
The woman blushed as all eyes fixed on her. Nityananda had thought her an unmarried woman. No vermilion in her hair parting, no bangles of marriage. She was the young bride of an old head mason. What divine trick was this, that such a tender body belonged to a decrepit man? She finished her tea and rose. “Take the money from him. I must go,” she said. As if they had known each other for years. Nityananda’s eyes struck hers with a sideways flame.
 
He did not yet understand that the soft land in his chest had been struck by waves of blood. He sighed and drew the waves back into the sea of his heart.
 
Two days later, carrying the drunken head mason to his tin-roofed hut, Nityananda went to see Komola again. At the creak of the door, she stiffened, hastily covering herself as she laid her limp husband on the bed. “Better you had left him at your liquor den, sprawled on the ground,” she said bitterly. Nityananda’s unsatisfied heart, his eager eyes, fastened on her. Her body was like milk boiling—thick cream rising on the surface. In the glow of a kerosene lamp, her eyes glittered. His chest ached.
 
Thus began the silent game of glances. By using the husband as bait, Nityananda drew the wife closer. In ten days, the mason and his wife moved into Nityananda’s fifteen kathas. Komola rejoiced, trading the tin roof for a concrete shelter. Nityananda gave them one room. Secretly, behind her husband’s back, she threw a smile at him. Nityananda knew—the bee had found its honey. Fire spread through his veins.
 
He saw the road curving like a snake across the horizon. From his shop front, the masons slowly departed. In their place, rollers thundered. At that moment, looking behind his house, he saw Komola returning. Their eyes met. She lowered hers—or perhaps it was scorched by his fiery gaze. Business crumbled in his shop. He followed her to the pond. She stepped into the water up to her knees, removing her clothes. His lips went dry at the sight. It felt as if his veins would burst with blood. Hidden behind a banana tree, he watched. She bathed swiftly, slipping on a fresh sari, then glanced around nervously, her youthful body barely contained. Nityananda’s body quivered. She walked like a peacock unfolding its plumes.
 
Entering her room, she shut the door. Sunlight fell through the window upon the floor. As she turned after bolting the latch, she froze. A man stood in the shadows, eyes sharp as a hawk. The owner of fifteen kathas—Nityananda. The woman trembled. She had never seen such a ravenous beast. His presence shook her heart. Slowly, like a predator, he moved toward her. She tried to unlock the door in fear, but already the hunter’s wings enclosed her. His mouth crushed hers. Resistance broke. Her body shuddered—it was the touch she had long craved. Yet the game of snake and charmer ended too soon. She had thought to savor the stolen play longer. But the wild beast knows no patience. Entwined, the two bodies rolled upon the floor. No cot was needed. For such laboring folk, comfort was never a requirement for pleasure.
 
Afterwards, Nityananda found again that everything around him had fallen silent. The half-town had grown into a suburb, noisy all around. Yet within him spread only stillness. In the heart of a new city, Nityananda became its new solitary companion. At night he walked upon the black asphalt road. Twenty years ago, he had seen this road born, rising from the cracked chest of earth. It was like the cry of a mother in childbirth. Now, both sides of the highway glittered with towers—hospitals, malls, a film city. Vehicles rushed like serpents’ bodies carrying countless ambitious men. Once upon a time, his liquor den had stood here. Now there were manicured gardens. Sitting there, he watched the changing world, without clinging to memories. The natural man does not clutch the past. Ancientness cannot bind his speed.
 
Yet destiny is a cruel stage. The laborers’ union men one day beat Nityananda half to death on his twenty kathas. Komola sat silently on the steps of his house, watching. Six months of secret love with the head mason’s wife—that was one crime. But the greater crime was this: all the day-laborers squandered their wages in Nityananda’s liquor den. For long their wives had complained bitterly to the union men. Pressure had grown to shut down this den of ruin. How long could such filth be tolerated in a “respectable” neighborhood? The chance was ripe. A public beating was his legal sentence. Even though he paid the party its monthly bribes, the party could not defend him now. The law of the gentleman prevailed, and the last strength of his chest crumbled.
 
A week in the hospital, three months in jail. When he returned, Nityananda found that the head mason and his wife had tended his precious twenty kathas well. The liquor den had been closed by the police. In its place Komola ran a tea shop. His chest burned with dying embers. For three days he locked himself in his room, refusing to face the world.
 
On the fourth day, Komola came to his window and called softly: “Master, take care of your house and shop now—we are leaving.”
Nityananda crept to the window, ashamed to show his face. Komola stood silently for some time. Then she said: “I am a woman. You gave us a roof. I never knowingly harmed you. My husband is a drunkard. Forgive him. I ask forgiveness on his behalf.”
 
From inside, Nityananda said nothing. She lingered at the window’s corner. At last, in a thin, weak voice, he said: “Komola, if I marry you, will you stay with me?”
 
Silence. Only the drilling of machines over the twenty kathas echoed. Then Komola spoke, voice trembling: “But he is still alive. What will become of him? Who does he have in this world but me? He’ll die sprawled somewhere with his liquor. Besides, by religion, I am already his wife.”
 
Nityananda cried out, impatient: “Religion matters more to you than me? Am I no one? Did you not see how they beat me, how I was almost killed?”
No reply. Only two faint sobs came from the other side. Peering out, he saw Komola with a quilt-bundle on her shoulder, stepping onto the main road.
 
For a month Nityananda mourned. He realized that the commerce of hearts brings only destruction. From nothing he had begun—from plunging a razor into his father’s chest he had built everything. And all of it, every brick, was consumed by the fire of love. Reduced to ashes. He returned once more to nothingness.
 
From emptiness he began again. When he hardened his chest into white marble, no one could stop him. His office now stood in a first-floor chamber of a ten-storied apartment at Panchasayar. The ancient name given by his father was useless. So he reinvented himself—now he was Mr. N. N. Chakraborty. The doorman saluted him. Staff greeted him with “Good morning, sir,” “Good afternoon.” The chauffeur opened the door of his white Ambassador. From there he surveyed his empire of promotion and real estate. People slandered him—that men like him poisoned Calcutta’s soil. Nityananda cared little. The world’s opinion meant nothing.
 
The astrologer’s prophecy ripened again. One of his five-storied buildings collapsed in a thunderous heap. Newspapers splashed his photo. Eight injured. Two dead. He had money, plenty. But now he also had fame. Truly the hand of a king. Soon the matter was buried. Police and administration touched nothing of his empire. No longer was he the naïve fool of earlier days.
 
Yet sometimes loneliness returned to the Hero of Twenty Kathas. His personal assistant, Sushma Sen, would ask: “Sir, are you unwell? Should I drop you home?” He would glare and answer sharply: “Bring me the Kakulia flat file. Tonight will run late.”
 
In the car, he sat astonished, staring at the city in motion. Who can halt the velocity of this earth? All rushing toward some unknowable future, carrying their joys, sorrows, sins, and merits. No end to this journey. Only fleeting sensations remain at the roadside. From the car’s window he loved to watch the world, like a philosopher. For when man becomes a character in a play, others watch him—but he himself performs. Standing before the mirror, he could see the entire drama—along with his own role in it.
 
His car screeched to a halt before a rising twenty-five-storied tower. His dream project. One of the tallest in South Calcutta. Pride swelled his chest. Field engineer Prabir Saha hurried to open the Ambassador’s door, then escorted him to the service lift. “Why is the project dashboard showing such delays? What problems?” Nityananda asked. The engineer reeled off reasons as they ascended.
 
This building, once complete, would be the brightest feather in his crown. On the fifteenth floor he stepped out. Here the model flat would be photographed today. His interview would go with the advertisement. Workers froze, startled by his presence. Nityananda surveyed them.
 
Fortune had favored him beyond ordinary men. Yet the curse of Rahu could not be erased. His gaze drifted to the balcony. There masons huddled over their lunch. Suddenly his chest burned with a hot wave. For there sat Komola, clad in a soiled white sari, a burning bidi between her fingers. She inhaled fiercely, drawing the smoke inside. Her face bore the scuffles of age, yet her bearing remained strong, supple like any laboring soul. Beside her sat a youth of nineteen or twenty, robust.
In a flash, Nityananda’s heart froze. The boy’s face—its resemblance struck like lightning. His father, Bhabananda, appeared before him. Exactly like him, the boy ate with calm precision, focused on his plate of rice. Refugee Bhabananda had once eaten so, with such neatness.
 
At that instant Komola’s eyes met his. She looked straight into the suited, portly figure of Nityananda. Then the boy too glanced up. The ground seemed to vanish beneath Nityananda’s feet. The astrologer’s face floated before his eyes. The chest-born terrace of white marble shattered within him. And Komola, dropping her bidi, curved her lips into a faint, crooked smile.