Arts & Letters

DHAKA TRIBUNE SATURDAY, OCTOBER 1, 2016

Editor Zafar Sobhan

Syed Shamsul Haq crossed into the other world on Sunday, leaving us a vast body of work that touches our lives in myriad ways. We regret to say we’ve failed to feature at least one interview with him or a writeup on how he felt in the last days of his life. Our tribute to Bangladesh’s best and most powerful versatile author begins with the following article. For more translation of his poetry, see page 4.

Editor Arts & Letters Rifat Munim Design Asmaul Hoque Mamun Cover Painting Syed Rashad Imam Tanmoy Illustration Syed Rashad Imam Tanmoy and Priyo

Death of a versatile aesthete

Colour Specialist Shekhar Mondal

n Abdus Selim

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Abdus Selim is a writer and translator. He is professor of English and Linguistics at North South University and Central Women’s University.

ll deaths are tragic but some deaths are more tragic than others. All deaths bring feeling of sadness and sense of loss but some deaths bring extreme feeling of sadness and loss. Such is the death of Syed Shamsul Haq. His is not an ordinary death, for it’s the end of a subtle journey of a versatile writer of our language and literature—a genuine aesthete extraordinaire. He was a writer who excelled in all genres of literature and culture. He wrote verses, fictions, plays, essays, songs and even movie scripts—in fact his aesthetic journey started with script writing—of excellent aesthetic qualities.

Syed Shamsul Haq was also a translator of the highest order, for until now he is befittingly credited to be the most successful translator of Shakespeare’s plays into Bangla. That is why Ataur Rahman, who directed the highest number of Haq’s both original and translated plays, has observed that Syed Shamsul Haq possessed an amazingly miraculous expertise in rendering source language (English) into target language (Bangla) picking same sounding words in the rendered version (phonologically compatible in both languages) without distorting the sense of the original texts, particularly when he translated Shakespear’s verse-plays.

I feel proudly privileged to have been included in the list of his fond names of translators after he had witnessed the performance of my translated play Life of Galileo Galilei by Bertolt Brecht, directed by Ataur Rahman. On different occasions after that we met on and off stage several times in many events, but the one I wish to mention here stands out special in my mind. It was at the International Literary Festival 2014 arranged by Bangla Academy. At that time I was planning to publish a half-yearly compilation of translated works of Bangladeshi writers by the name Translation, and during the tea-break I expressed my willingness to include a few of his translated poems in the first issue. He showed his enthusiasm with a specific stipulation: they should be translated by me, and only me. I agreed and by next week he sent me through a messenger six of his choice poems. I subsequently translated them and mailed him for his approval but received no response for two weeks or so. I became very apprehensive. Then one fine morning the following mail came:

Dear Selim, Unfortunately I had no access to my mail box since about a week. Meanwhile your mail came and on opening today I was very impressed by your rendition of my poems in English. You have done a good job. Please go ahead with the bunch.

Warm regards, Syed Haq Joy Bangla I find the following among them very closely connected with the subject I am discussing here today:

If I had to leave (The Bangla version of the poem is a sonnet but the English rendering is not.)

It’d be good to leave behind certain things of worldly life, Such as leaving your pen on the night table Just like that melody of Sitar, it’s good to leave calmly-And then fly into the innumerable blue stars.

I must have to leave this enchanting dusty highway, I’ll smear myself with the mica flakes of this long journey, Leave behind the worldly life I’m hooked with like Chaitra Chakra, Pitcherful water I’d leave preserved for thirsty wayfarers.

I’d leave behind my expectant cow in the language cowshed, Keep the winter-fire ablaze in the winter of Kurigram.

How pleasing this sun would be once again—when the night dawns!

On this plinth of mine a hut with gold-straw would be built again.

That hut with those posts and that gold-straw of the past-I’d leave behind its blueprint, if I left—I’d leave only then.

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Syed Shamsul Haq (1935-2016)

His is a confluence, not a river n Rifat Munim

Priyo

I

t was around a quarter to six in the afternoon on Tuesday. We were busy giving the final touch to the day’s business. I was too engrossed with the pagination, weighed down under a deadline that was closing in on me.

It was right then someone said, “Syed Shamsul Haq died!” For me the day’s business stopped right there.

It wasn’t even one month since we heard that doctors in England had refused to give him any false hope about the disease that had planted itself invincibly in his body. Cancer, that is. Since then literary editors around the town were looking for an opportunity to meet him, if only for the last time, to hear him talk about literature, culture. Some were chalking out plans to go for an evaluation of his work. I was one of them, no doubt. But none of us, perhaps, had any idea that he’d leave us so early as this.

As for myself, I was laying out an elaborate plan to assess his oeuvre. I was stunned soon enough to realise it was a herculean task, the accomplishment of which is no easy feat, and above all, it demands a substantial amount of time and a whole lot of scholarly articles from a whole lot of writers.

Haq’s oeuvre is not like a river that you can sail along or across, thereby collecting the materials in one sweep to gauge his depth and width.

Because his is a confluence, not a river, and in that confluence has met several rivers to form what is perhaps the richest body of work left by any Bangladeshi author. He has written wonderful poetry; his novels number in dozens many of which have found a lasting place in Bangla fiction; his short stories are formidable; his nearly two dozen plays have imbued our theatre with a national character; his nonfiction and essays are written in a language that flits between poetry and prose ever so often. His Bangla translations are graceful, to say the least. His body of work is vast, which, in terms of diversity, could arguably be compared to Buddhadeb Bose’s. His achievement in every genre is unquestionable. He’s written song lyrics and even tried his hand at painting and sculpting, which garnered praise from many. How can you possibly do justice, in the form of a holistic assessment, to such an oeuvre in the matter of two, or say, three weeks?

He has written a whole lot of modern poetry, and very successfully so, giving a shape to our secular collective consciousness, much like Shamsur Rahman. But he has done a lot more than that in poetry. At the risk of making a sweeping comment, I’d dare say his book of sonnet, Poraner Goheen Bhitor (Deep inside the heart), is his magnum opus in poetry. The only book that can be compared to its artistic success is that by Al Mahmud, Sonali Kabin (Golden Dowry). Both are equally successful in giving the sonnet form a much-needed modern dimension; both display a historical consciousness, siding unequivocally with the lower classes or castes; both evoke a strong sense of heritage which manifests itself in their careful choice of words from the oral traditions of rural Bangla.

But there are differences too and the starkest of them lies in their diction: while Mahmud writes in standard Bangla, Haq picks up a dialect, or several of them to be precise, and applies them successfully in the prosodic structure of sonnet, and what he retains is as much formal as informal, as much standard as vernacular. He is speaking not entirely in a dialect as his verbs at times waver between the sadhu variety of standard Bangla and the vernacular. That’s precisely where Haq’s excellence lies because he has taken up that vernacular form of lyrical narration which is still used in our punthi literature and many other forms of folk tales or ballads. But while the most common prosodic form in punthi is poyar, Haq has elevated it to Okkhorabritto, which is more sophisticated and definitely modern. If you brush aside all these formal aspects and focus only on the appeal it makes to readers, on that front too, this book is one of a piece, the taste of which stays on with you long after you have finished reading it.

What he has achieved in the realm of play is no less towering. The mastery with which he laid the foundation of modern poetic plays in this country is enough to etch his name on that particular plaque that never decays but glows steadily forever. It was he who, spending months in a library in England, had dug out the story of Nuraldin and the rest is history:

his lyrical play on Nuraldin’s struggle and resistance became one of our most precious literary gems.

His novels are usually slim; at least none of them can be said to be spread over a vast canvas, cutting across several generations. They rather deal with a particular time in history, or a particular aspect of society, or a particular type of individuals. Unlike writers from his earlier generation i.e. Zahir Raihan, Alauddin Al Azad, Shawkat Osman, he chose his characters mostly from the middle class. Despite all of these limitations, some of our most powerful indictments of the Pakistan army’s genocide campaign in 1971 come from him: Neel Dangshan (Blue Venom), Nishiddho Loban (Forbidden Incense), Bristi O Bidrohigon (Rain and the Rebels). His Khelaram Khele Ja (Keep Playing, Khelaram) brings us to another road, which is actually an alley, beyond all the city glitz and glamour. A man in his late thirties goes to extra lengths to consummate his many relationships with women, one after another, and the spaces in between are filled with his philosophical digressions into the meaning of life, from the primacy of sexual fulfilment to the ultimate meaninglessness of life. First you’re inclined to believe it is modern, in the very sense Buddhadeb would consider it so, but as you inch towards the end, you begin to realise it is actually a ruthless critique of a profit-driven, capitalist society where the meaning of life, for those in positions of power, has been reduced to non-committal sexual fulfilment.

When it comes to translation of his work, his case is not unlike his peers.

But he is still luckier than most. As part of a series of translation called Library of Bangladesh, two of his novels, Dangshan and Loban, have been recently translated into English and put into a sleek paperback by Bengal Lights. The translation is commendable and the selection, no doubt, superb.

Sonia Nishat Amin has rendered into English his selected poems and Poraner Gohin Bhitor; Afsan Chowdhury has translated his Boishake Rochito Pongktimala (Verses Composed in Boishakh) and Radha Chakravarty his novella Gupto Jibon, Prakashyo Mrittu. Besides, I saw one of his stories translated by Clinton B Seely, anthologised in a book by UPL. These are all quality translations.

Apart from these, I’m sure there are other instances of translations but I believe they are scattered here and there, and are yet to be put together in one or several books.

All in all, translation of his work is meagre compared to the vast body of his fiction, poetry and plays. So a lot more needs to be done on this front.

The English book publication scene is visibly growing in Bangladesh and we believe more and more good publishers will come forward to make sure all of Haq’s seminal works see the light of quality translation. l

Rifat Munim is Editor, Arts & Letters.

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ARTS & LETTERS

Syed Shamsul Haq (1935-2016)

I’ll Stand A While n Syed Shamsul Haq

Translated

by Shamsad Mortuza, professor of English, University of Dhaka (on leave).

He is currently the head of Department of English and Humanities, ULAB.

I’ll stand a while and then take my leave I’ll just stop by before I proceed No, I am not here to stay; This isn’t my travel’s end; I’ll stand a while And take my leave From here.

I’ll go Away from your very city Away from the calculation of your march past And the rotating blades of helicopters --Rapidly I’ll go Away from the ticker-tapes Prying from the windows of your commercial blocks --Now I’ll go Away from the ever watchful Computers containing my Bio-data --Immediately I’ll go Just the way I was going before Slowly and slowly Taking quite a long time I shall move through one Two Three Generations.

I promise I’ll not kiss any of your woman; I promise I’ll not carry any of your child on my lap I promise I’ll not apply for any of your apartment I’ll not apply for a loan from your bank I’ll not try to become a member of your Council I’ll not take part in your polls And I further promise I’ll not give any talk on your radio I’ll not feed any info in your computer I’ll not try to ride your helicopters I’ll not drum up during your march past.

It aches me to be in your apartments It aches me to use your oven It aches me to be at your bank It aches me to be in your Council It aches me to find myself in your mirror It aches me to drink from your glass It aches me to be with your women It aches me to be with your children.

I’ll just stand a while and see After all, the view is just a part of my journey back home, I’ll go home, Your city just happens to be a part of my journey -I’ll move on now.

The apartments you have, I know, lack roofs The ovens you have, I know, lack fire The banks you have, I know, lack wealth The Councils you have lack consensus The mirrors you have shed no reflections The glasses you have drop no drink I know

Your women lack the ability to bear any child I know Your children do not hold a single grain of crops For two or three generations I have felt More than one wars—one peace More than one famines—one crops More than one stillness—one voice More than one genocides—one boat More than one flags—one freedom In the badly bruised body of mine To progress slowlyTowards a house that doesn’t fall apart Towards an oven that doesn’t snuff out Towards a bank that doesn’t go bust Towards a council that doesn’t declare war Towards a mirror that reflect Towards a glass that offer the desired drink Towards a woman who has just let down her hair Towards a child who has just got wet in the rain.

This movement of mine Is actually through yours.

Night after night I proceed like an alert animal Seeking water under the moon Tearing silence apart like cobwebs I am walking like a prisoner in a cave Guided by the sound of the water.

I don’t know whether at the end of the road There awaits a woman or just her severed umbilical cord I don’t know whether I shall see at the end A moon in the lake or a skull in the mud.

Still I need to move on, I need to go, with all the wounds in my body.

While moving through the city If I chance upon a couple Whose song is ready to be borne by the wind I may feel like stopping a while— As I too wanted to be a couple.

If I chance upon torn pieces of paper That have entrapped the words some a poet I may feel like stopping awhile— As I too gripped a pen to write a poem.

If I chance upon a white flower That has the strong scent to paint the dark night I may feel like stopping a while— As I too dreamt of a garden.

I am being called by a woman who is prepared for the night I must go; I am being called by a paper who is inviting me for a poem I must go; I am being called by a garden who is ready with all its plants I must go; I am being called by a child I am being called by a State I am being called by a mirror to appear before it So after stopping for a while I shall keep on going Just the way I was going before Slowly and slowly Taking quite a long time I shall move through one Two Three Generations.

My path has always passed through yours; I have stopped and moved to take my own.

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Poetry

Mohammad Rafique at 73 Mohammad Rafiq is not mentioned as frequently as some of his peers in literary discussions or addas. But critics and poets alike regard him as one of our best poets who, in a career spanning more than five decades, has kept carving for himself newer paths. His poetry has received some commendable translations. A selection of his poems in Carolyn Brown’s translation has been incorporated in the Oxford Anthology of Bangla Literature. During a recent talk, when I asked him why there wasn’t any translated collection of his poems in the market yet, he mentioned Carolyn Brown and Bharati Mukherjee and went on to reminisce about how both of them, during his residency in the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa, USA, had hoped to find a publisher for a collection of translations. But that, he regretted, did not see the light because of his own indifference to the matter. Arts & Letters reached out to Ms Carolyn who has quite extensively translated into English Rafiq’s poems and asked her for new translations, if there was any. She responded instantly, with as much enthusiasm and cheer as was evident in Rafiq’s reminiscences. To mark the poet’s 73rd birth anniversary, which falls on the 23rd of October, we carry a few of Carolyn’s new translations from collections published from 1999 to 2003. Editor’s Note From Biskhale Sandhya (2003) From Matsyagandha (1999)

Paddy

no distance is very far in histories, in epics— from Dhaka to Hostinapur, whether after or before

you’ll go tomorrow on the swollen Jamuna today you were carried back in bundles from the threshing field—husks stick to your legs you’re filled inside and out with paddy’s perfume

side by side, lips to lips the universe in between, crossing one place to another always surrounded by rising water even if you grip the boat’s oars firmly water breaks on the prow with dissatisfied groans, unfailingly the shores of the great sea crush the ocean in the body, village, stalls, marketplace even if you climb the fence at that house and pick flowers in a trance, there are bugs among the petals poison doesn’t melt in poison, fire doesn’t burn in fire

the paddy has been cut, bound, and stacked get up, you have to go, the babus are here, since dusk they’ve been waiting to do business just this one night move, shameless woman—cutting paddy leaves patches of stubble on fields by the hundreds, fallow in winter and summer, bits of straw dry in the sun, molder then rain falls, spreads, washes away—thundering head-pounding currents abate, paddy will be planted

still, the end is the problem plays and long journeys don’t end—however short this story makes all stories clear, the havoc

to fill the babus’ fields again—paddy ripens, stalks fall tomorrow morning, you’ll be left here sprawling

no ending is unending constellations, planets, light and fog, broken dinghy river in between, angry retreating water, mate forever

on the soaked deck

but after the processions and fanfare, they say fields’ worth of ripe paddy piles up in babus’ rooms while the chaff, lodged in dikes and hollows, counts the days till it too is cast far and wide by the drunken monsoon

From Mati Kisku (2000)

The Return this was a long muddy dirt path that day the nearest station ten or twelve miles off the moon overhead was perfectly full then a clump of shadows crept across the fields the wind carried a single whistle from far away wheels stuck or kept spinning on their axles then time limped along ever so slowly until dawn opens all its doors in wonder at a bird’s call Tanni Tamal Piya rushes out to mop the courtyard the first sun’s gaiety bursts forth in all directions— the tongue can’t get rid of the taste of childhood the flavor of sweets and cakes fried in oil perhaps not far away but still a very long ways away—

today that oxcart is still right there abandoned now, wheels off, falling to pieces two oxen, not standing but lying down, chew their cud waiting outside the station grounds now, of course, it’s not evening, the night’s almost over— the child returns home after a long journey today it’s not even very far away the sound of steady shoveling can be heard clearly each down-thrust of the spade is heartrending, cruel where bamboo leaves fall in the unforgiving wind where all the houses become just one house, just one door dirt-covered, shapeless, cold— today there’s no dusty path anymore, it’s paved, smooth no chance of wheels’ sticking in the mud or coming loose the day is bright white with the icy sheen of an outstretched shroud

Carolyn Brown’s first translations from Bengali were of poems

by Mohammad Rafiq. She was inspired by his poetry to learn Bengali and to translate more widely. Her translations of Bengali poetry have appeared in such journals as Modern Poetry in Translation, The Iowa Review, Missouri Review, and Zoland Poetry.

time is leaving the oxcart behind, for a long time

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ARTS & LETTERS

DLF to uphold freedom of thought n Arts & Letters Desk

DLF has always made it a point to promote Bangla poetry and fiction. What is the plan this year?

his year more than ever, Dhaka Lit Fest strives to engage us in writing from around the world, bringing to the Dhaka audience voices from places that we hear of but know very little about. Thinkers and writers rooted in these literatures and cultures will bring unique perspectives to conversations that are needed in our interconnected world when the threat to freedom of expression is felt more than ever before. In a small talk with Arts & Letters, Sadaf Saaz, a director and the producer of Dhaka Lit Fest, explains why this literary congregation is of utmost importance.

We are going into this year’s festival with the irreplaceable loss of an icon – our dear poet and writer Syed Shamsul Haq. It is really an immense loss to the country, and to its literature. Poet Syed Haq was a huge well-wisher of the festival, supporting us from the beginning. We are blessed to have had many wonderful memories with him – not least a beautiful session with Vikram Seth on the lawn of Bangla academy, and his enlightening intellectual exchange with writer Hasan Azizul Haque. We have a rich archive of his critical analysis of literature and poetry. His beautiful poetry

T

DLF is fast appearing as one of the leading literary festivals in Southeast Asia. What do you think distinguishes it from other similar festivals?

Dhaka Lit Fest provides a unique platform which highlights a wide range of cultural and literary forms from Bangladesh, in English and Bangla, capturing the vitality and vibrancy of our literary heritage, as well as the contemporary landscape. We have a rigorous engagement with other literatures, making it truly international. Instead of falling into the trap of Anglophone-centric discourse, new and established voices from around the world, come together pushing the boundaries of thought on a wide range of issues.

Our programme celebrates not only fiction and nonfiction, but poetry in all its glory – not as an afterthought or with a token session. Keeping in mind our rich tradition as well as our love for poetry, bringing the best of contemporary poetry to our audiences has been one of the mainstays of the festival.

Given the assault on freedom of thought and dissent, Dhaka Lit Fest really does provide a crucial space for literary debate and dissent, which is particularly urgent and relevant at this juncture.

Tell us something about DLF 2016. What are the highlights this year?

This year we particularly have a diverse international line-up, perhaps the most wide-ranging to date – with world–class writers and thinkers representing the very best of fiction, non fiction and poetry in the world today. In addition to authors from UK, USA, Europe and Australia, we have writers and poets from Africa, the Middle East and East Asia, and of course from our neighbouring countries, bringing in a wonderful richness and dimension to this year’s festival. We will be having the difficult conversations on matters deeply affecting us, as well as celebrating the plurality and diversity of our cultures. The subtle and overt ways that freedom of thought and expression are being challenged throughout the world, will be a theme running throughout this year’s programme. As ever, women’s voices and stories will be woven into the range of genres, and will strongly come through.

In addition to authors from UK, USA, Europe and Australia, we have writers and poets from Africa, the Middle East and East Asia, and of course from our neighbouring countries, bringing in a wonderful richness and dimension to this year’s festival. We will be having the difficult conversations on matters deeply affecting us, as well as celebrating the plurality and diversity of our cultures

How many writers are going to congregate this year? Could you give us a few names who have agreed to attend?

We will be announcing our speakers list soon – however, the support and response we have received, despite the challenges of the current situation, has been incredible. Over 60 writers and poets have already confirmed their attendance. In line with our wish to expose our audiences to a great range of voices– we have writers who will bring unique perspectives from East, Central Asia, Africa and the Middle East. We are extremely lucky to have with us Hyeonseo Lee, from North Korea – who will be talking about her experiences from a place shrouded in mystery and mis-information. We are also honoured that Iraqi writer Ali Bader, one of the most significant writers in Arabic literature, will be joining us this year, as well as one of the leading young contemporary political and literary voices from Egypt, Nael Eltoukhy.

and prose, and modern sensibility and outlook, are an inspiration - he was a hero to us, and will be dearly missed. Even last week when I was talking to him, he was excited about the crucial role the festival played in encouraging young poets and writers, and discussed the value of writers who have an excellent command of both Bangla and English.

This year we look forward to exploring Bangla literature on both sides of the border, as well as having conversations about the place of Bangla in our world, and beyond. Translation of great Bangla works will definitely be another exciting focus of this year. l

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In this section, we introduce you to some of the big names whose works will be discussed and talks featured in many panels at the DLF. First, there are those who, defying the suppression of their voices, have continued writing and paid the ultimate price: they are dissident Uzbek writer and poet-in-exile, Hamid Ismailov, and the North Korean defector and best-selling author, Hyoenseo Lee. Then there are those from the Middle East, Ali Bader and Neel Eltourkhy, through whose eyes we’d look beyond the Arab Spring and see what is happening there now.

H

yeonseo Lee’s internationally bestselling memoir, The Girl with Seven Names: A North Korean Defector’s Story, has been translated in 18 languages in 25 countries. Over 8 million people have viewed her TED Talk about her life in North Korea, her escape to China and struggle to bring her family to freedom. Oprah called it, “The most riveting Ted Talk ever.” Hyeonseo has given testimony about North Korean human rights in front of a special panel of the UN Security Council in 2014, at the UN Commission on the Status of Women in 2016, and continues to discuss North Korean human rights issues with various officials,

H

amid Ismailov is an Uzbek journalist and writer who was forced to flee Uzbekistan in 1992 and came to the United Kingdom, where he took a job with the BBC World Service. His works are banned in Uzbekistan.

Ismailov has published dozens of books in Uzbek, Russian, French, German, Turkish and other languages.

Ismailov’s novel The Railway, originally written before he left Uzbekistan, was the first to be translated into English, by Robert Chandler, and was published in 2006. A Russian edition was published in Moscow in 1997 under the pseudonym Altaer Magdi.

Another novel, A Poet and Bin-Laden, translated by Andrew Bromfield, was published in September 2012.

His triptych of novels, in English The Underground (published worldwide by Restless Book, Googling for Soul, and Two Lost to Life have also been translated into English. His book “The Dead Lake” was published by Peirene Press early in 2014.

When Hamid Ismailov, one of Uzbekistan’s most widely published writers, was forced into exile in 1992, he thought it would be temporary. But 23 years on, he still can’t return. He can’t pinpoint which work led to his exile. He believes it was the cumulative effect of various articles, plus a freelance job he did with a BBC film crew, when they interviewed leading secular and religious opposition figures in his country. l

A

li Bader is an Iraqi novelist, poet, critic, regarded as the most significant writer to emerge in Arabic world, in the last decade. author of thirteen works of fiction, and several works of non-fiction. His best-known works included Papa Sartre, The tobacco keeper, The Running after the Wolves, and The sinful woman, many of which have won awards. His novels are quite unlike any other

N

ael El Toukhy is a bright light among Egypt’s millennial writers at a breakpoint in Arab culture as well as politics. has published five books of fiction and two books of translation from the Hebrew. His novels include the critically acclaimed Nisaa Al Karantina [Women of Karantina] (2013) and Al Alfenwa seta [Two Thousand and Six] (2009). He is a staff journalist at a number of regional newspapers. In 2009, he started a blog to translate texts from modern Israeli literature.

Women of Karantina: Back in the dog days of the early

including UN Ambassador Samantha Powers.

Hyeonseo has contributed to The New York Times and Wall Street Journal and is a sought-after speaker, commentator and interviewee who has been featured in TIME, Forbes, BBC, CNN, Reuters, AP, AFP, NYT, FOX, CBS, MSNBC’s Morning Joe, Glamour magazine and countless other television, newspaper and radio outlets throughout the world. She is writing her second book with other female North Koreans living in South Korea, and is starting an NGO, “North Star NK,” to help North Korean refugees improve their lives and interact with the international community. l

fictions in Arabic world of our day, it had blended with character study, social criticism, philosophical reflection, and explicit language. Bader was born in Baghdad, where he studied western Philosophy and French Literature. He is living now in Bruxelles. In addition to his work as an author, he is also an Arabic media journalist. His novels are considered unique in Arabic fiction. l

twenty-first century a pair of lovebirds fleeing a murder charge in Cairo pull in to Alexandria’s main train station.

Fugitives, friendless, their young lives blighted at the root, Ali and Injy set about rebuilding, and from the coastal city’s arid soil forge a legend, a kingdom of crime, a revolution: Karantina. Subversive and hilarious, deft and scalpel-sharp, Eltoukhy’s sprawling epic is a masterpiece of modern Egyptian literature. Mahfouz shaken by the tail, a lunatic dream, a future history that is the sanest thing yet written on Egypt’s current woes. l

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ARTS & LETTERS

Interview

Why Borges is important n Arts & Letters Desk

P

oet, essayist and translator Razu Alauddin has been translating and studying Latin American literature since many years now. Famed for translating directly from Spanish into Bangla, he specialises on Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986). Recently he gave the following interview to Bangla Tribune on the occasion of Borges’s 117th birth anniversary. Here’s a truncated translation of the interview.

How did you discover Borges?

Razu Alauddin: It was a discovery indeed for me. I stumbled upon him while going through one of his poems translated by Rafiq Azad in mid1980s. Rafiq bhai translated one of his poems titled “The Knife ” and it caught my attention immediately. I was lured by the poet’s ability to infuse lifeless objects with life. I was introduced to Borges through this poem.

Gradually I became apprised of his short stories and essays. It turned out that his prose attracted me more afterwards.

Why do you think Borges is important?

Between writing poetry and essays, Razu Alauddin translates from Spanish into Bangla.

It is difficult to answer this question in a few words because he brings in many dimensions to his writing in perfect balance. When his book, Historia universal De La Infamia, was published, Spanish literature was confined within national and provincial boundaries. His difference from his contemporaries in terms of subject and form was evident in his first book. He was the first writer in Spanish literature to play with the ideas of protagonist versus antagonist, oriental versus occidental, justice versus injustice, moral versus immoral in a tone of sarcasm and ridicule. His craftsmanship is also remarkable. In order to tell new stories from new angles, he had to craft a new mode of narrative.

So, what are the characteristics of his new narrative? There are actually too many: one, preciseness; two, economy in description; three, inserting the infinite within the finite; four, pushing regionalism to the margins and giving a universal appeal to his stories; fifth, divesting prose narratives of verbosity altogether, and he took terseness to such an extent that he started believing novel was an imperfect narrative mode. There are many other reasons why Borges is important.

For example, in his stories past, present and future co-exist; in his stories good and bad coexist in one person. He blended history, fiction, philosophy and the complexities of human mind, creating an ambience where one is inseparable from another.

He was also perhaps the first author to show us that an author can make use of materials from any source, be it oriental or occidental or Latin American, and successfully incorporate them in his work. It was he who, using an example from The Quran, showed us that even in the absence of any direct reference to one’s time and place, every literary work is intrinsically connected to a time and place. Also, I believe it was he who showed us that philosophy too can be a useful material for fiction, which he explored in his story, “Towson, Uber, Orbis and Tarsias”.

What do you think is the present condition of Borges studies in Bangladesh?

Does anything like that even exist? I am afraid the answer is: abysmal. There is a lot of interest about many western writers and little magazines bring out special issues on them, but I haven’t seen any such interest in exploring Borges. Some work has been done in West Bengal. A few days back I found out that Manoj Chakladar published a collection of all of Borges’s short stories, but the quality of his translation is pretty bad and his introduction is full of wrong information about the author.

In Bangladesh special supplements have been brought out on Marquez and Mario Vargas Yosa, but I haven’t seen anything on Borges.

Still, some writers are writing about him, and the interesting thing to note is the young generation is showing more enthusiasm about him than the older generations. I believe the youths will bring new life to Borges studies.

He was also perhaps the first author to show us that an author can make use of materials from any source, be it oriental or occidental or Latin American, and successfully incorporate them in his work. It was he who, using an example from The Quran, showed us that even in the absence of any direct reference to one’s time and place, every literary work is intrinsically connected to a time and place How much of Borges can be retained in translation?

To begin with, the English translations available to us -- not all of them are good enough. So, if anyone is basing his translation on such a text, I’m not sure how much of Borges can be retained in that kind of translation. Let me read a line from one of his stories to make my point clear.

“Every hundred paces a tower cleft the air, to the eye their color was identical, yet the first of all was yellow, and the last, scarlet, so delicate were the gradations and so long the series.” (Dreamtigers, Jorge Luis Borges, translated by Mildred Boyer and Harold Morland , Texas Press, 1991, p. 44) This line is from his short parable called “Parable of the Palace”. Please notice how he invokes the infinite within the four walls of a palace. The contradiction he brings into play with different colours is very important here. Now if any translator, whicle translating it, thinks this is an umportant line and tries to condense or shorten it in any way, readers will be deprived of Borges’s sheer artistry. Therefore, if we are not careful while translating Borges, we will merely get his skeleton.

What aspect of Borges are you working on now?

At present I am investigating the presence of Shakespeare in Borges. While reading both of them side by side, I found some covert and some overt Shakespearean elements in Borges. So I’m thinking of working on this.

How was the response to your Borges series published by Oitijjho?

I’m not sure if it created a buzz in the market but it has surely been well received by readers and writers. I remember how happy Abdul Mannan Syed was with my work. Within two years of its publication, the story series was sold out and sales of the other series are also well. I think this is quite a big response to a philosophically oriented writer like Borges. l Translated by Hasnin Hasan

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Poetry Schistosomiasis n Sayeeda Ahmed Schistosomas are the ideal pairing I admire most, and the research backs it too.

These flat worms are no black widow, who love ‘em, then eat ‘em, hubby and children, and all.

These worms I aspire to lock in a lifetime embrace.

These worms don’t worry about jobs, unemployment, or rent.

These worms are divine, but now they live in my digestive system.

Deep inside my intestines, wifey nestles inside hubby’s canal and makes babies, thousands of them at a time.

The gynaecophoric canal it’s called, but names don’t matter to her.

My intestines don’t either.

Only hubby, and he knows he found wifey on a hot date in my digestive system and he’s not letting her go.

When she’s done they huddle close, cuddle as tightly as before the baby-making process.

Hubby and wifey are the lifelong couple aspirations I’ve always had, but never reached.

I thought I’d find my fellow schistosoma, and tie the knot, I thought I wouldn’t die unattached, but these parasitic worms found me first.

“Devotees take selfie now” n Urmi Masud We all knelt at the altar with our gout and obese belly, pillow shaped behinds and plastic chest pointing north, and the priest hailing over the map of Cassiopeia, recalled the big bang that birthed nirvana, the ceiling opened to a sky with punctured wounds and a carcass of a melting star harked infamy.

We waited for the time capsule that held god inside, and was proud that finally we have learned what it means to have faith and we fixed our barbed tiaras and brushed our beard straight, both out and within, waiting for the holy man to unveil the secret kept under his laundered rob and hell defiant incense.

And the moment was here at last.

Although the hammer had shattered to pieces a many times before, we have finally learned the secret code that is needed to unravel the huddling deity inside this capsule of the past. In 21st century, gods are supposed to know a thing or two according to social media. No doubt, the time is right for it to descend and prove its existence.

Thus, it happened, finally.

The priest raised his hand and bellowed in revelation.

And we all switched our phones on to check the post on god’s ascendance.

There he was, inside a frozen block of stone, a toothpick and a set of false teeth, the entombed promise land had carried its father home, to its people, at the end of days.

Bangla translation of Faust launched in Kolkata n Arts & Letters Desk

“T

o know Europe, you have to know Goethe. To know Goethe, you have to know Faust.”

These are the words of Debabrata Rej, the undiscovered West Bengal writer, translator and playwright, whose Bangla translation of Goethe’s famous tragic play has finally seen the light of day, almost 50 years after the translator author finished the work.

The most well-known Bangla translation of Faust was done by Ahmed Sofa, published in 1986. Debabrata Rej had completed his translation almost 30 years before that, in 1958, and finalized his version in 1967. Unfortunately enough, he was unable to see the publication of his work before he passed away. His son, Anup Rej, approached UPL to publish his father’s translation of Faust. It was probably one of the best literary discoveries of UPL. The unique value in Rej’s translation comes from the fact that he translated not from any English edition, but from the original German.

The dedication and effort this required was highlighted at the book launch session on September 7, 2016, organized by UPL, as part of the 6th Bangladesh Boimela in Kolkata. The discussants were German language

Courtesy: UPL

Book Launch

scholar Professor Sunanda Bose, and writer Shankarlal Bhattachaya. The session was moderated by an academic and German language expert Dr Subharanjan Dasgupta and the guest of honour for the ceremony was Dr Faizul Latif Chowdhury, director general of Bangladesh National Museum.

Writer Shankarlal Bhattacharya shared, “I finished reading Debabrata Rej’s translation of Goethe in one breath! I was amazed to notice how many different styles he has adopted, and it has successfully retained the theatrical property.” Faizul Latif Chowdhury, an expert on Jibanananda Das, compared Sofa and Rej’s translations, and recommended interested readers to read both. He mentioned that while Sofa took a lot of poetic liberty, Rej was probably truer to the original expressions. Dr Chowdhury congratulated UPL for recognising Debabrata Rej’s monumental effort which would enable Bengali readers to reach a greater level of familiarity and understanding of this celebrated milestone of literature. l

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ARTS & LETTERS

Short fiction

Wasted on the way n S M Shahrukh

H

SM Shahrukh writes poetry and short fiction.

e walks on the street of a nearly empty city.

It’s a holiday and he feels the mild sun in his face; it’s a pleasant feeling. There is a cool breeze after the morning shower, the street still wet from the downpour. He feels the breeze ruffling his hair, a tingling feeling on his scalp, a scalp that is dry and dirty. He feels like scratching it but he doesn’t; his fingernail looks dirty. There are some houses instead of apartment blocks on this side of the locality with decorative bushes in front, beside the sidewalks. The grass is green and well tended; there are flower bushes and the flowers are of various colours. He loves the colours and wishes he knew the names. Is there a rose bush amongst them? Maybe yes. He doesn’t know, never bothered to learn about flowers in his life. He feels good, looking at them. Innocence, he thinks, but doesn’t the evil have colours too? He halts that line of thinking. A whole can of worms, he thinks, so better keep the lid on. He feels tears making his vision blurry.

Up ahead on the street, he sees a small cart with an oven mounted on it. Fried pieces of chicken and other fritters are on display. There’s also a load of noodles on a flat pan, whiffs of steam swirling from the slithery staple; it’s recently cooked. He goes near and looks at the cart; he sees the fritters have a blistery look with the oil still sputtering a bit; he sees the yellow of egg and the orange of carrot splattered on the noodle pan. He has eaten from these carts before but has never paid any heed to the “life” that the foodstuffs display. He sees a man sitting on a bench with a plate of hot noodles and a piece of chicken, trying to finish his food at the soonest; time is money for the go-getter. There is a bag slung across his shoulder, an umbrella peeping from his trouser pocket; his cell phone, lodged in his shirt pocket, rings; he is vexed, wondering whose call it is; he keeps eating, letting the phone ring; he can call back in a minute. Since when have people stopped carrying bags with handles? At a distance is a pair, a man and a woman, young office workers or students; they are sipping sweetened tea and they also have bags slung with a strap across their torso.

The young lady catches him looking at the strap going smoothly along her hidden cleavage. What a wonderful sight, he thinks. Why were these people invisible before?

He thinks of having some fritters but finds the man in charge looking at his teary eyes with wonderment, so he moves on. He finds a cigarette in his shirt pocket, crumpled but still intact enough to be smoked. He asks for a light from a smoker passing by; reluctantly the smoker offers him a lighter

Continued from page 12

while wincing at the crinkled cigarette. He fumbles with the lighter, with shaking hands and teary eyes; the other man lights it for him. He coughs as he puffs on the cigarette, the cigarette paper stained brown with his sweat, or it could have been liquor that spilled on it last night. He doesn’t have a clue but he coughs and keeps walking. He sees a park ahead and enters it; the guard standing at the gate thinks of stopping him but takes pity on him.

He settles on an empty bench.

The serenity of the morning is yet to be destroyed by the rising sun and the breeze is still blowing to soothe people who are now resting after several rounds of walking around the perimeter. He doesn’t feel the pleasure from this peaceful morning anymore as memories rush in. A happy childhood, an adventurous adolescence, the earth-shattering feeling of love, the birth of his children, but dark and foggy days thereafter. But the recent past has poisoned the present and will inevitably ruin the future; a realization filled with despondence. He searches his pockets for another cigarette but finds none. He holds his head in his hands, the sobbing giving him convulsions; he wants to scream but cannot. A man puts a hand on his shoulder and gives him a slight shake, almost out of empathy. He looks up, eyes red from sobbing, trying to extend his shaking hands towards the stranger and his lips failing to utter the words he wants to say. He holds his head in his hands again.

“I wish you were dead!” are the words his son yelled at him earlier in the morning. l

Buying pleasure

Neela sat at her workstation -- there should be two more students in her office, but they hardly came. They worked from home. So Neela was the sole occupant of the room. She read online newspapers, her Facebook newsfeed when she ate her lunch. A month ago, she promised to herself that she would only browse through her Facebook page during the lunch break. She had even stopped using Facebook on her Smartphone, and she considered herself successful in overcoming her addiction to Facebook.

It was a year since Neela had started her PhD. She was not quite sure why she was doing her PhD. She was never a brilliant or meritorious student.

She always had good results, but that was because of her capacity of rote memorisation. She could memorise things well and she studied hard all through her life because she never had had any chance to do anything exciting. Thus, she concentrated only on her studies to obtain good results.

But she had never dreamt that one day she would do a PhD or be a shining academic. Her dream was immediate and small -- getting good grades in math, perhaps an 80% in English, and then a decent degree in a good subject. Life had its own course, Neela thought, and she should be only happy to get this opportunity that many would just love to grab. But she found this highest step of academic ladder very isolating and scary, as though she had reached this point randomly, without any training or skill, and she might just fall off one day. Neela lingered on with her last morsel of already-cold rice and curry, because she did not want to finish her eating.

This fifteen minute was the pleasure that she had bought for herself in the world where pleasure was abundant, though, she did not quite find it anywhere. Like the strong curry smell, she wanted the moment to be here, standing still. l

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Diary of a student

Khitish the man n Rifat Munim

I

(Continued from previous issue) t was evening already. My friends had perched on a sidewalk in front of a small shop that sold spicy betel leaves, three or four shops down the street. This was one of the main thoroughfares in the town, known as the Rail Road, stretched between Sadhona intersection and the now-defunct and flattened railway station. The roadsides were lined with somewhat cozy shops selling flowers, food, jewellery, medicine, newspapers and magazines. Waiting for me, one of them had ordered some sweet-spiced betel leaves. Chewing them is the best weapon to handle the pungent liquor smell, he was explaining, when I joined in.

We turned right and took a gloomily lit, sparsely peopled alley. A few paces down stood Robin’s Tea Stall: a spacious, oblong shop with an earthen floor, and backless wooden benches and tables laid on the sides, some in the middle. It was walled with golpaata and roofed with tin; the back side was open while half the front was blocked with a waist-high mud wall, guarding a huge pot of cow milk being heated on a big kerosene stove.

When heated milk from the pot, scooped with a small tin-mug, poured into small tumblers through a sieve full of tea, a refreshing scent permeated the air all around, a scent we all were addicted to.

The stall was opposite Light Hall Cinema, a place well recorded in the annals of Bagerhat. People of this town, especially those of the romantic lot, owed tons of their sweet memories to this particular cinema because on top of being more modern and better managed, its outer wall on the right side opened onto a grassy patch of land that led to the doors of the town’s night queens who, we had been told, preferred to stay awake at night and sleep by day. The queens were also the best hoarders of hash. Well, they didn’t own this business, we had been told, but were commissioned to sell it.

The reason for our landing around Robin’s explained itself. The liquor shop was nearby, the hash right across the street. But who’d bell the cat?

That was the question. There was a time when crossing this street in the afternoon or evening meant a fabulous show of some famous movie starring Razzaque and Kobori, or Zafar Iqbal and Bobita; but the golden days of cinema had declined years ago and films running now -- it was 2002 -- were full of brutally prolonged scenes of rape, violence and ridiculous acting, providing fodder only for those seeking sadistic gratification. Very few known faces, least of all those with a prestige tag, would be found there for a show now, not even during the day, leave alone in the evening.

So, walking across this street at this time of the evening might mean either of two things: you were in for a tryst with a queen, or you were looking for hash. A stint in hash and alcohol could be condoned, but even a one-off tryst with a queen, if revealed or even misconstrued, might leave a smudge on your character, as permanent as the black mole on your cheek.

We all came from somewhat privileged families, a fact that deprived us of the right to afford that risk. Apart from decent and stable means of income and considerable landed property in villages further down the river, what our families commonly shared was prestige founded on the thin line between the moral and the immoral, and on our ability to shun away from the latter. So, although we’d always desired to pay them visits and imagined cupping their round balls of softness ever so often, we were not allowed to step across the street because there, we had been told, lived the goddess of immorality, with her depraved counsels and debased companions.

“I’ll have to pull a few strings,” Kamal announced. He had political connections: his grandfather was a powerful landlord: two snarling Alsatians and three tall, well-built men with rifles dangling from their shoulders, guarded his sprawling mansion on the fringes of the town.

“Who’re you going to call?” Shakil asked. He sounded worried. Coming of a rich and respectable family, with a clean chit of a character, he had much reason to worry. He did not even flirt with girls.

“I’ll call Khitish the man,” Kamal announced.

“Who?” I said.

“Khitish is the man. I’ll call him and have him buy some liquor and hash for us.”

“We don’t even have to pay him,” Shakil said.

“We’ll take him along and have him roll joints for us,” Kamal added.

“But who’s Khitish?” I repeated.

They ignored my query altogether. Kamal said something about his sister while Shakil stressed, “She’s a whore!” I figured Shakil’s remark was targeted at the sister of Khitish, the subject of this animated conversation.

“Listen, I’ve got an idea. Let’s go see Khitish at his place. Who knows may be we’ll get a glimpse of her? Oh god! She’s a hot pot of burning beauty!

I want a sip of it!” Kamal said.

“Your stomach might get burnt! Oh Allah! You are such a luichcha!”

Shakil reacted and looked at me for approval. Because I went to university and they couldn’t, I was privileged to pacify tensions arising out of debates where my friends, some of whom had no boundaries, set loose their desire for women. Before they could take it to the level of a full-fledged verbal war, I asked, “What’s going on? And who are we actually talking about? Khitish or his sister?”

“Khitish is the man. He’s got the guts to bell the cat,” Kamal replied.

“There he is!” Shakil said loudly, pointing to someone behind me.

Kamal gave him a warm reception. “Khitish my man! We’re about to head towards your home. How can we survive without you?”

“What’s the matter? What is so urgent?” said Khitish the man, standing with his back towards me.

“Well, this friend of ours is in university and visits us only once or twice a year,” Kamal said, gesturing towards me. “Perhaps you know him. We all went to the same high school!”

Khitish turned around, a wide smile painted all over his face. He took a good look at me and I at him and we both went still, like in the bus that afternoon. The person standing in front of me looked more like that failed pick-pocket of mine than any of my school friends. It took me some time to register some sort of familiarity. His eyes were bloodshot and the circles under his eyes darker than in the bus, though, he looked more energetic and jaunty. But the smile left his face, as it did mine.

Overcoming the initial shock exerted on me by the sheer coincidence, when I was sure Khitish and my pick-pocket were the same person, Khitish dashed towards the street, without saying anything, leaving all of us baffled.

Kamal called after him and he paused for a moment, looking over his shoulder, and disappeared across the street, as swiftly as a chipmunk up the torso of a mahogany tree.

“What the fuck was that?” Shakil said.

“I’m not surprised. I hear he’s become a full time junkie. From a part-time pothead to a full time junkie,” Kamal explained. “Junkies can do anything.” l

Rifat Munim is Editor, Arts & Letters.

(To be continued)

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ARTS & LETTERS

Fiction

Buying Pleasure n Rifat Mahbub

N

Rifat Mahbub is assistant professor at the Department of English and Humanities, BRAC University.

eela smelled out cooked vegetables as she entered the common room. She could not locate the source of the smell for she knew that the group of four women -- two Americans, one British and one Swedish -- were all vegetarians. She knew the word vegetarian, though back home, she had not seen one. She had read in many Bangla novels that Hindu women were forced to be vegetarians once they became widows. But after coming here, she learnt that these smart, ready-for-the world young women, doing their PhDs, were vegetarians by choice. She also learnt a new word: vegan. Vegans are extreme vegetarians; they do not even eat eggs and milk.

They search for various alternatives to protein derived from animals.

Neela threw a mild “hi” to everyone. One American -- Steffi -- was munching on a carrot stick dipping it into a pot of peppered hummus.

Hummus was also a new word to Neela; she was not quite sure how it was pronounced. She called it ho-mos, but she knew that native speakers pronounced this Middle Eastern spread in a different way -- something like hou-mous. She could not quite figure it out. Her skill of twisting tongues for new words was limited. The Swedish woman, Ana, held a pot of Greek yogurt; she always ate yogurt during her lunch after she’d had her green-garden salad: a combination of cucumber pieces, sweet corn, and cherry tomatoes. The British woman, Jackie, was having soup, taking sips from her purplecoloured mug that had an embossed “eat healthy, sex healthy” slogan. Neela could not see what the other American woman, Jody, was having.

Their bland diet embarrassed Neela. She was holding her box of lunch, and she was here to warm it up in the microwave oven. Every day she brought her bhaat, daal and chicken in her lunch box. This was cheap and also very easy. She kept the leftover food from the previous night in her box, and in the morning she just tucked it in her backpack. She had convinced herself several times that she’d take it as an opportunity to get rid of the habit of eating bhaat for lunch since she was in a western country where students usually have light lunch. She had tried out some of the options. For a week, right after she had started her PhD, she brought greensalad with a boiled egg. She liked it but soon she started feeling that she did not have lunch. So she had to eat an oat bar and a pack of jelly beans to compensate for the empty stomach. Then for seven days, she ate flat bread wrapped in chicken curry. She liked it as well but she did not make flat bread herself, and she preferred to have home-made food. So, after a few test and try with her lunch, she returned to bhaat again.

There were other non-western students in her department; they were doing much better in avoiding their traditional food for lunch. There was this Indian woman, doing MA here, who ate either a slice of pizza or a pack of instant soup with a bun. And the Nigerian young lady -- oh how Neela loved her hair and figure -- she starved herself all day to have a big but early dinner at six in the evening. Only Neela ate bhaat twice a day, without any change.

She felt embarrassed because of the strong curry smell that swirled off the oven whenever she warmed her food. She knew not everybody

liked the pungent curry smell. There was this old professor who would open the kitchen windows if she found anyone warming up anything with strong smell. Neela also started to keep the windows open, until one day the cleaner lady gave her a round of advice on the hazards of this.

There was a health and safety issue about an open window, the cleaner woman explained to her. Neela understood her advice partly as she found it extremely difficult to follow local English accent. One minute in the microwave made the food piping hot. She got the container out of the wave, the curry smell rolled out like a jinni from a pitcher. She felt embarrassed.

“Oh! It smells lovely--what are you having, Neela”? Jody said curiously.

“Er…curry, chicken curry,” Neela answered.

“I used to love chicken curry before I became a vegetarian,” Jody said.

“Though only on Friday nights. My stomach was too delicate to digest it every day.”

Neela said,”It is pretty mild, full of onions, much like chicken dopiaza.”

The last word Neela learnt recently when she had gone to an Indian curry restaurant with students from her department. Back home, she only knew fish dopiaza. Here, they made dopiazas of chicken and lamb.

“I used to love chicken jalfrezi, my ex-boyfriend loved chicken dopiaza,” said Steffi. “Back in my undergrad uni, we had a housemate named Zahir; he was of Pakistani origin. His parents used to live in New Castle; every weekend they came to meet Zahir, and his mother would bring curry in a big casserole bowl. He would share the food with us, and his mum’s cooking was amazing,” she said, gulping the last bite of her carrot stick.

“Oh! Authentic Indian curry is home-made curry. I always tell my Indian friends that before I had homemade curries, I used to love chicken curries from the local restaurants. But when I had home-made ones, I stopped going to the restaurants,” Jackie added.

“In Sweden, we now have a lot more curry houses than before. Even in my own town, which is small compared to Stockholm, there are at least ten restaurants. They are pretty good; I always go for their vegetarian options,” said Ana. Steffi nodded her head, and in a serious tone she started to tell a story of how one of their neighbours once had a severe nut allergy attack after she had had chicken korma from a local takeaway restaurant.

Neela realised the four women were no longer interested in her or her curry. They were lost in their own streams of conversation. She said a mild “see you soon” to them, and slipped out of the room.  Page 10

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