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A Strange Attachment and
Other Stories ONCE upon a time, when dust settled on pathways and fireflies stirred the imagination, a grandparent would yield to hushed entreaties. Then would begin a story-telling session. He would tell stories of beautiful women, gallant men and naughty but courageous children in faraway drowsy lands. He would speak of sinister werewolves, fairies lighter than air and of friendly ghosts; thick forests and sprawling deserts; sparkling palaces and of majestic cities razed to dust. Sometimes, he would delve into myth and memory and make do with whatever came handy, much like serving a quick repast to a hurrying guest. There would be much cunning and plotting, mystery and magic, drama and daring before the storyteller dozed off. This was then, when a boring day in life needn’t make up a whole novel, when what went on inside your head needn’t be as important as what went on outside and when life didn’t come in the cynicism-vanilla flavor only. This was when Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay wrote Pather Panchali, scores of other novels and hundereds of engrossing stories. Bibhutibhushan was a gifted storyteller, but only four of his short stories were translated into English. This volume of translated stories attempts to dust the cobwebs off a precious gift for avid readers. These are true blue tales that bring to you the aroma of food cooked in the kitchens of Bengal’s villages in the early twentieth century. Bibhutibhushan’s stories are like fine filigree work. He crafts in detail the Bengal of his time so that you could cull several handbooks on the birds, vegetables, foods and festivals of that day. It is through his stories that you catch a glimpse of the threadbare existence of a state sucked dry by the British, yet retaining a rich charm; of people preoccupied in living to the extent that neither World Wars nor the struggle for Independence cast a pebble in their tranquil routine. Their struggles are of a different kind. Bibhutibhushan’s stories are peopled with kids ravaged by malaria yearning to play, elders and women abandoned by urbanisation, pining for intimacy or even acknowledgement and men struggling to keep their head above the torrents of modernization, and, of course, there are ghosts. There are memories, too, lots of these, which sometimes entirely make up rather than garnish the tale (Uncle Bhandul’s House and Grandpa). Although the stories revolve around life in rural Bengal, these do deal with complex social and psychological issues. The Festival of Palm Fruits, for example, deals with the issue of exploitation. However, the two innocent children who learn their first lesson of harshness of life touch a chord. The author has used simple devices to reveal the bad behind the good (Abhay’s Insomnia) and the reverse (Uncle Pancu’s Marriage). The Peddler and Canvasser Krishnalal stand in the league of Kabuliwallah, while Basella Trellis and Fennell Flower could give feminists a run for their money. Dr Granoff has done a superb job of capturing the essence of Bibhutibhushan’s works. She makes light of the scholarly work that must have gone into this effort. |