What Will The Poet Do Now? Part-I

artwork by amina

The poet lived near Azimpur Graveyard. From his window could be seen rows and rows of graves. People came to bury their dead; they came to pay respects to the dead. All kinds of people, and scenes, could be witnessed from there. Someday the poet would write an epic poem about all this. Many a time he had penned a few beginning lines--and then scratched them out. Not quite up to the mark. One day it surely would happen. Maybe tonight the lines would come if everything went all right. The cloth bag slung from his shoulders contained all the poet's worldly possessions: Poetry book, pen and paper, cigarette packet, lighter--et cetera, et cetera. Right now among all these there nestled also a slight amount of canai. It was not without reason that the poet was taking the route through Katabon--his secret mission had been to score some canai. Mission accomplished. Tonight canai would be his companion. The weary poet composed a couplet:

Within the bag is canai

Which is playing shehnai

The word "canai" was very postmodern--within parenthesis "marfoti." "Canai" derived from cannabis. Currently a tiny packet cost forty taka. The police had recently rounded up 'Bhabi,' the Katabon cannabis queen, and the story, along with her photo, had been splashed across all the Bengali and English newspapers. Bhabi was released later, and had promptly hiked up the price of canai. A twenty-five taka packet now was forty takas. The amount of dope in it, too, had decreased. What was the country coming to!

The next stop after Katabon was Shahbagh, at Aziz Co-Operative Supermarket. Poets, however, called it 'Poet Aziz Supermarket,' the reason being that the 'Aziz' of Aziz Supermarket had been a certain Mister Syed Azizul Islam, who used to write poetry, which had been published in Desh magazine in West Bengal. A fact! So why shouldn't the market be called 'Poet Aziz Supermarket'? It most certainly should!

In the evenings the poet usually hung out at Poet Aziz Market. He would stand on the footpath or sit with his friends, drink tea, blow smoke from cigarettes, hold forth on the future of poetry. He would have done the same today, too, except it was now January. And today was what, the 20th, the 21st? How many days till the book fair? There was a possibility that a book by the poet would announce its presence at this book fair. But, first, the book cover artwork had to be done. He had to get hold of an artist immediately, otherwise it would never happen. The artist the poet had in mind was known to occasionally hang out at a second-storey shop at the market. Where he apparently came to shoot the breeze with the shopkeeper. So today the poet, foregoing the adda downstairs, instead climbed upstairs to get hold of the artist. Desolately tramped up the stairs. The shop sold vases, earthen jewellery. The shopkeeper said the artist hadn't shown up today. Nor had he done so yesterday. Or the day before.

It was tough to say when he would turn up--the book fair was around the corner, the artist was busy. Very busy--there were so many book covers to do!

The shopkeeper provided a lot of information on the artist. The poet thought, why was this man sitting here? He knew so much, why wasn't he off somewhere writing a biography of the artist? The shopkeeper informed him that the artist could be found in Purana Paltan, on the third floor of a six-storey building in the House Finance Building alley. At Red Dots Graphics, which was where the artist worked, made his book covers.

The poet now had walked to Red Dots Graphics.

He caught up with the artist at Red Dots Graphics.

The weary poet saw the artist. Sitting on a chair with his legs drawn up in front of a computer making a book cover. Saying "Do this," "Do that" to the boy at the keyboard. Busy, engrossed.

The poet stole a glance at the cover. The cover of a novel! Two shadowy eyes of a girl floating against a background of sky blue. The author name and book title were in white--'Alone in Ashwin's Moonlight' by Ishrat Rizvi Muna. Who was this guy? The creator of an "un-novel" certainly--'Alone in Ashwin's Moonlight'! Hah! Where was the moonlight in the cover drawing? And was Ashwin's moonlight really this blue? Never!

Hadn't the artist seen moonlight during the month of Ashwin?

The artist said, "Just a second, Peepul."

Peepul the computer operator said, "Yes?"

"Leave this book cover for now," the artist said. "I'll take a look at it later. Now go to the drawing folder. Isn't there a book cover of Shaukat Rahagir, Time's Song? Open it. Look under T." As he said this the artist spotted the poet. Standing nearby, with a resolute air. The artist said, "Who are you?"

The poet replied meekly, "I have come to see you."

"Oh! Why?" asked the artist.

"Are you very busy?"

"Yes, quite busy. But go ahead."

"I have come about a book cover. Can you give me two minutes?"

"What kind of a book?"

"Poetry. A poetry book."

"Hmmm. Whose?"

"Mine."

The poet introduced himself. Gave the shopkeeper's name as a reference. The artist listened. Seemingly attentively. And after listening, asked, "What is the title of your book?"

"The World Trapped In Illusion's Net."

The artist kept on looking at him.

The poet felt somewhat nervous. Then asked, "You don't like it?"

"The title?" the artist said. "I do like it."

"So will you do my book cover?"

"I have read your poems," the artist said. "'Not Morning,' 'Death' and some of the poems from Nothingness."

The poet was startled. Said, "You read little magazines?"

The artist responded with, "Why? Are commercial artists banned from reading little magazines?"

"No, of course not, please, why should that be?" The poet looked embarrassed. Again, he said, "Why should that be?"

"Basically I'm a fan of Masood Rana's thrillers," the artist elaborated. "I've read all the books in the series."

The poet had never read Masood Rana. He never read anything remotely resembling a thriller. Once he had tried James Hadley Chase's Hippie On The Highway and had been greatly annoyed by it.

The artist asked, "Is the script ready?"

The poet replied, "Yes." Then added, "Should I leave a copy with you? I have a photocopy."

"You may."

"How long will it take to do the cover?"

"When do you need it?"

"Well, it's only nine days to the book fair..."

"Not nine, ten days. It'll be finished by then."

"Should I come around to remind you?"

"No, I'll remember. Come after eight days."

"Eight days? Can't it be done earlier?"

"No. I have to complete a lot of book covers."

"Okay. Eight days it is then."

What else could the poet to do except give his assent?

The artist asked, "So where is the script?"

"I've got it. Here..."

The poet brought out the manuscript from his shoulder bag. Handed it over. Then said, "There's just one more thing..."

"What?"

"My friends are paying for the book," the poet explained. "Could I pay you after publication? After selling copies of the book?"

"You don't have to pay me."

"I don't have to pay you?"

The poet was rendered almost speechless. He mumbled his thanks, unable to formulate any words beyond that. Could this have happened so easily? The artist would do the cover, and not charge him? Why? He had admitted to reading the poet's works. Seemed to have liked them too. Was that the reason? Or could it be something else?

He was to come after eight days. The poet bade goodbye to the artist.

Day One went by; Day Two; Day Three.

Four, five days; six days.

Seven days, eight days.

Then on the eighth day the poet found himself in the artist's company. At the very same Red Dots Graphics. The artist was doing a book cover. A song was playing, a song by Beauty, a Lalon song.

All…

Today the artist spotted the poet first and warmth shone in his eyes. "Ah," he said, "the poet."

"Yes," the poet replied.

"Your book cover is finished. Do you want to see it? But first do sit down. Here."

The poet sat down on a chair.

The artist said, "Peepul, show us the cover."

Peepul said, "Which one?"

The artist said, "Look in the poetry folder."

The song ended, then started again from the beginning.

The track was on "repeat."

The artist was in a rocking mood.

Within his breast the poet felt a certain tumult. Before this one he had published three volumes of poetry. None of the three book covers had been good; none of the designs had worked, in none had the printing been any good. The poet had done one of the covers himself, that of the second book. A drawing by Salvador Dali. A surreal one the colour of clouds on which there had been a black drawing. It hadn't come off. It A terribly exhausting experience.

The artist said, "Look."

The poet looked. On the computer screen was his book cover. 'The World Trapped In Illusion's Net.' The background was the colour of crow wing. A faded watercolour wash. The illusion came through. The book title was in white. The poet was entranced.

The artist said, "Do you like it?"

The song played on.

The poet replied, "Yes. Did you read the script?"

"How can I do the cover without reading it?" the artist laughed. "You're a poet."

Was this a certificate of approval?

The poet, too, laughed. Said, "How do I get this cover art? Are you going to CD-write it?"

"No. You get the film."

"The film?" the poet asked. "How much does that cost, roughly?"

"Not much. Seven, eight hundred takas. Are you thinking about a cover flap?"

"No. But I do have a photograph, black-and-white. Can it be placed anywhere?"

"Why not? Should I put it on the cover?"

Was it jocularity?

Yes, jocularity.

The artist asked, "Do you have it with you?"

The poet answered "Yes," and brought it out. It had been somewhere among all his possessions in the shoulder bag.

The artist looked at the photograph. Asked, "Who is the photographer?"

The poet replied, "Pramith…Pramith Ikhtiar."

"Oh."

The poet said, "One thing..."

"What?"

"Is it possible to have a couple of lines beneath the photo?"

"What lines?"

The poet brought out the lines. He had typed it on A-4 size paper on the computer. It was actually just a single line: "I live in nothingness, pass my time in nothingness."

The artist said, "Okay."

Dhrubo Esh is a well-known Bangladeshi artist. Farhad Ahmed is a free-lance writer/translator.