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heartofashesGoing through my old, extremely old wip drafts, today I stumbled upon a particularly special wip - a snippet from an original novel that I had once thought I’d write, but never quite ended up fully fleshing out. The idea had first come to me the summer after I finished high school - I was a complete nerd for modern Indian history, especially the nationalist anti-colonialism movement and the story I had envisioned was of two best friends, Dhrubo and Borun, who become embroiled within the anti-colonial struggle in 1940s rural Bengal, and how the epic story of their love, romance, longing and coming-of-age plays out against the backdrop of the real historical events of the 1946 Calcutta riots, and the freedom struggle as a whole.
I had conceived this as a historical romance novel in the vein of European wartime fiction like Sebastian Faulks’ Birdsong, or even Ernest Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms, but of course, this comes nothing close to any of them. But I did write a couple of scenes that I was proud of, and I found this particular one which is one of my favourites, and I thought I’d dump it here anyway, since I don’t plan to continue writing this novel in the foreseeable future. Have fun reading (or not reading, lol)
[A bit of background to our heroes:
Dhrubo, full name Dhruboprosad Mukherjee, is the son of a zamindari family from Baruipur, Bengal (for non-Indians: the ‘zamindari’ system was a basically an exploitative and feudalistic land ownership system that existed during the British rule in India, read more about it here). He gets radicalised into anti-British sentiment at a very young age, and deeply resents his wealth and his very toxic family, so he moves to Calcutta - the big city and site of anti-colonial revolution - to become a revolutionary political journalist, writer, and activist, and also become directly involved in the freedom struggle.
Borun, full name Borun Kumar Sarkar, is Dhrubo’s childhood best friend - he was the son of Dhrubo’s father’s assistant, so they pretty much lived in the same neighbourhood and grew up together and were extremely close, to the point that they have been in love with each other forever, but have been in severe denial of their feelings. Dhrubo has always been open about his sexuality, but Borun is more repressed, and afraid of acting on his feelings, hence they have just been caught in this cycle of yearning but feeling like the other doesn’t reciprocate, so trying to get over each other. Borun is a doctor, and someone who doesn’t directly want to get involved in the anti-colonial struggle because he’s afraid of conflict - he’s also extremely worried that Dhrubo might get jailed/murdered by the British for his radical views (which wasn’t uncommon for revolutionaries in those days), and keeps trying to dissuade Dhrubo from doing what he does. That’s why they get into the big fight during the Spring which is vaguely alluded to in this scene. However, in the story I had envisioned, Borun does, in the end, become radicalised too, and him and Dhrubo kiss and confess their feelings and survive the 1946 riots and the freedom struggle and ultimately end up spending the rest of their lives living together in Calcutta as ‘best friends’ and 'companions', which is basically late-40s code for ‘husbands’.
Anyway, without further ado, here goes the snippet:]
Dear brother,
You must be wondering why I, of all people, am writing to you. We both know I’m not the sentimental kind, especially not with anything remotely concerning you. So before you begin to wrinkle your brows and scratch your head over this peculiar missive, let me get straight to the point.
Borun is missing.
He’s left a note, of course – Borun is nothing if not expedient, always in a haste to ensure, even in his darkest moments of distress, that no one worries about him – but the words are so uncharacteristically stilted and formal, that, to my practiced eyes, it all but screams trouble.
No one else seems too bothered about him. They’re all content to believe the blatant lie he’s fed them: that he’s off managing a cholera crisis in the next village. But he hasn’t returned in two whole days, which you very well know is quite unlike him.
Every effort on my part (which have been meticulously thorough, if I were to say so) to reach him has miserably failed. I even had Moni try to retrace his steps to track him down, but that has hardly yielded any concrete results either.
I shouldn’t even be telling you this, after the abominable way you treated both him and me. But despite evidence to the contrary, I do care about his well-being. Not just his well-being, yours too. Regardless of his efforts to ensure the opposite, I’m definitely worried about him, and if I know you (despite your many flaws), you’ll be worried about him too once you read this.
Do with this information what you please, but I trust you to make sure he comes back. Preferably with all his limbs in one piece.
Regards,
Your irate sister,
Anonya Debi.
---
Dhrubo does not consider himself a mathematically inclined person. Quite contrarily, he prefers being the solipsistic soul, aligning his affinities more easily with the literary, the metaphorical, the poetic.
And yet, against all reason, he finds himself counting.
Five months, thirteen days, nineteen hours.
Five months, thirteen days, nineteen hours, two-hundred and sixty-five seconds since he last saw Borun. He’s never gone so long without his best friend - who he supposes is no longer merely a ‘friend’ after what happened in the Spring - not even during that stray moment in their late adolescence when they’d had a somewhat childish feud over a game of cricket.
Dhrubo refuses to be reduced to this. He refuses to be so inextricably attached to the memory of a person that he loses all self-respect, all poise and resolve, over it. Damn it all, he’s made something of himself, hasn’t he? He has escaped the crippling confines of the Mukherjee name, has painstakingly carved a niche here in Calcutta, has outperformed every other writer at the Patrika. He has made himself indispensable, both to his profession and to the nationalist movement. On any given day, Dhrubo is either busy grabbing eyeballs or raising eyebrows through his body of work, but earning his fair share of accolades nonetheless. More accolades than he can count; some even of the more intimate variety.
It’s everything he ever hoped for as a boy. Recognition, adulation, success. And yet...
Goddamnit Borun. Five months, thirteen days, nineteen hours?
Dhrubo’s desperation is unequivocally pathetic.
“You’re awfully quiet today.” Rono says with a smirk, taking the opportunity to sidle closer. A little too close for polite company, considering they are, after all, at a very public social gathering. It’s a Patrika party, with generous offerings of expensive wine and an even generous offering of Calcutta’s intellectual best. It’s a cover, of course. Somewhere in a backroom, nationalist revolutionaries are whispering their secrets, planning their next move against the British. Dhrubo should perhaps join in; take this as a chance to build connections, get closer to the action. But instead, he nurses his glass of whiskey (imported from France, he’s told), and counts the hours.
Rono’s right. Dhrubo is awfully pensive. Unlike what he does in most gatherings like this one, Dhrubo hasn’t mingled much at all this evening. He is usually on high alert, either cruising for his next conquest, or finding inroads into serious political discussions. Despite being a relative newcomer, his innate charm and uncanny ability to excel in every social situation has already put him on the nationalist radar. He’s ruffling feathers, and if he were to continue to working his magic, it won’t be long until he faces off with the British on the very front lines of this battle, ready to unleash the entire length and breadth of all the steam he’s gathered over the past year. But at the moment, he cannot care less about his political ambitions. He cannot stop thinking about Borun.
It’s not like he hasn’t thought about Borun in the five months, thirteen days, nineteen hours (and counting) he’s been apart from him – in fact, he’s thought of his not-quite-best-friend more times than one should normally ruminate upon one’s not-quite-best-friends. But ever since he read Noni’s letter, it’s just been…
Borun can’t have gone missing, can he? If ever there is a more cautious, more self-preserved individual, it is Borun Kumar Sen. Borun isn’t the type to simply go missing and leave only a note full of obvious lies in lieu of explanation. Hell, he isn’t even the type to step outside the confines of their home district of Baruipur.
And yet, that thought alone does nothing to quell the sharp burst of fear which settles deep in his stomach. What if something had truly happened? What if he’s...
Five months, thirteen days...
No, Dhrubo does not want to consider it.
He decides to summon up a half-smile for Rono instead, attempting to focus on the man’s evident advances to drown out his latent worries. Dhrubo doesn’t really feel like taking his bait, but he appreciates the distraction. More accurately, he desperately requires a distraction.
“Just thinking, is all,” Dhrubo replies, aiming for light-hearted banter but not entirely succeeding. His usual effervescent charm has miraculously disappeared today, so he’s grasping at straws. “But I can be persuaded to focus on something else.” He leans in, fixing his gaze squarely on the other man. He hopes it’ll do the trick. “Something more private.”
The innuendo is not lost on Rono, which is fortunate. Dhrubo cannot muster up the energy for banter that’s any more elaborate than this, and hopes that Rono wouldn’t suddenly decide to play coy and prolong the flirtation. Dhrubo needs immediate gratification, and if Rono can’t give him that, he’ll be forced to look somewhere else (which isn’t what he has the energy for at the moment).
“Someone’s impatient,” Rono singsongs. But the suggestive smirk he throws Dhrubo makes it evident that the sentiment is very much reciprocated. Dhrubo lets out a sigh of relief.
This is what he likes about Rono. The man never wastes time when it comes down to the crucial things, whether it’s in the newsroom or the bedroom. “I believe the men’s room is empty.”
Dhrubo is more than willing. Sure, public restrooms can prove unsanitary and often constrictive, but to Dhrubo they are as serviceable as any other location for sexual exploits. All he cares about is the pleasure, not the logistics of its fruition. “Lead the way,” he replies a tad too hurriedly. Rono raises an eyebrow, smirk still firmly in place, but to Dhrubo’s relief he chooses not to comment.
Rono takes his hand, and Dhrubo lets him, content to be all but towed across the room as long as it leads to a satisfying orgasm. “Is it me or is the bathroom a bit far?” He observes in another show of impatience. Rono smirks again (Dhrubo is beginning to suspect it’s his default expression), “You’re practically begging for it, aren’t you?”
Dhrubo wants to kick politeness in the knees and say yes. He wants to tell him that he is indeed quite desperate, that he wants to make this as fast as possible to banish catastrophic thoughts about his best friend (drat it all, Borun is still his best friend, the events of the Spring notwithstanding) possibly dying alone in a ditch somewhere. But before he can so much as begin a sentence, a loud commotion interrupts them both.
They have already made their way away from the main hall so their view remains obstructed, but the unmistakable noises of something crashing to the ground, followed by an ensuing quarrel, alerts them to whatever unseemly situation is unfolding outside. “It’s probably a drunken brawl,” Rono says dismissively. But Dhrubo remains rooted to the spot. The cacophony in the background is too chaotic to make sense of, but a distinct, pleading voice stands out. And it shakes him to the bone.
Dhrubo can recognise that voice anywhere. Even in his sleep. Even if death itself came for him.
Before he knows it, he is extricating himself from Rono’s embrace and turning around. He is walking so determinedly back to the hall that his strides almost make him dizzy.
He can’t concentrate on anything else but the voice. The voice that haunts him, every single night. The voice that sounds brutally jagged around the edges as it currently pleads. “Please, I just want to know if Dhrubo is here.”
He came for him. Dear Lord, he came.
“Wait!” he can hear Rono calling out to him, “Where are you going? What about the-“
“Not tonight Rono,” is all Dhrubo can reply, not even bothering to turn around and look the man in the eye. “Not anymore.”
Not where Borun is here. In Calcutta. At this sodding party, barely two feet away from him.
Not when Borun is here, and begging to see only Dhrubo.
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Date: 2021-02-15 04:18 pm (UTC)Oh god. Unrequited but required pining in the 1930/40s?! I am absolutely seeing and perceiving your genius here. To be quite honest, historical fiction especially of events I'm familiar with has become quite unsavoury for me ever since I started majoring in the subject but this was a breath of fresh air! Gay historical fiction in a famialir context! What a wonder to behold and your writing is so precious and poignant you know exactly what picture you're trying to paint for these characters, it's such a delight to read!!! I know you said you have no plans of continuing this but if you ever feel like sharing more scenes from this or any other og fiction I will gratefully lap it up!!XD
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Date: 2021-02-16 04:49 am (UTC)