Read Online Letters from a Young Poet by Rosinka Chaudhuri - Free Book Online

else’s back! I have heard of the phrase that tells you that it is always best to oil one’s own mill, and I’ve always agreed, but if you are speaking of the back then I’ll freelysay that rather than massage hot mustard oil into my own back, I would much rather
prefer
to knead oil into somebody else’s back. On this subject, my
sentiments
are entirely
unselfish
, in fact
almost Christian
! But let it be; when I have promised not to speak of my back let us not speak of it. Because, apart from the back, man has many other parts to his body; he has a mind, a heart, a soul—but whatever you say, he also has a back—very much so—
I have immersed my mind in enjoyment
    Yet why does my back ache so!
    All around me people move around,
    My back, why does it ache so!
    When one is heartbroken, one comes to the hills to be comforted, but if one’s back is broken, then level ground is the best place. I was thinking of those bolsters in Park Street, and at the same time, a few other memories came to mind—but that’s it—I shall not speak of anything to do with my back any more—I shall forget everything about the time I last suffered from backache; but the ache in my back right now—how do I forget that?—
Keep aside your
bіṇā
, do not sing your song,
    How will my pain be gone?
    Na-didi said there’s a way out—‘
Rus Tox 6th dilution
every two hours.’ I too think so. Sarala is waiting to read my letter and
contradict
me. But the poor thing will be extremely disappointed—there’s no way she can look into what is happening inside my back, her womanly
prying instinct
cannot enter there, for there is
no admittance
there for anything
except
mustard-oil
ointment
. But still, it doesn’t seem as if Sarala will give up. She will not tolerate my receiving any sympathy from all of you in this foreign land. This time, though, you will have to concede that as far as my back is concerned, I remain the most trustworthy informant, even Sarala is not a
better authority
onthis subject. But, Bob, don’t worry about this back of mine at all—I shall silently suffer this back of mine all on my own. But ‘silently’ is the wrong word, because the manner in which I’ve been shouting out loud from time to time when compelled to move about cannot exactly be called silent. And this letter I’ve written to you today can hardly be called silent either. I had thought at first that you would come to know all about my back from Suren’s letter—that I would not speak of or raise the subject of my back with you, that I would not awaken those old memories of oil massages—but look where we’ve ended up! Instead—
All of that, all of that, that lamentation
    Those flowing tears, the backache.
    But I shall not speak about my back any more—mainly because I’m running out of space. If there were space enough, I could continue to speak of it from now up until
Doomsday
. But would I have been able to stand up on
Doomsday
with this back? The trumpet would sound, everybody would stand, and I would be moaning with my hand on my back. But that’s not something to make light of; you might just get a little annoyed. In any case, both my letter and talk of my back end here.

3
    Calcutta
June 1889
    When the train started, Beli sat gravely, looking all around her, thinking, where did my sisters go, where am I going—in this world, where do we come from and where do we go, what is the purpose of life—and as she thought, gradually I saw her yawning repeatedly and, a little later, she put her head down on the ayah’s lap, stretchedher legs, and began to doze. My mind too was weighed down by many worries about the joys and sorrows of our existence, but I couldn’t sleep. So I began to sing the Bhairabі ā
l
ā
p
to myself. You know, perhaps, when you hear the embellishments in Bhairabі, a strange feeling towards the world rises in you—it is as if the hand of habit is endlessly turning the handle of an organ and the pain of that friction