Harbart by Nabarun Bhattacharya

Author:Nabarun Bhattacharya
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780811224741
Publisher: New Directions
Published: 2019-06-04T18:08:11+00:00

Seven

Oh listen to the chorus

say, that this land

Is no land for lamentation.

—Hironmoyee Devi

April is the cruelest month, when clusters of virulent viruses run riot through the streets of Calcutta.

Street-dwellers, slum-dwellers, had waged heroic wars against these viruses and somehow succeeded, through stubborn skullduggery, to develop resistant antibodies, or else so many of them wouldn’t have lived to die under the slab of the Stoneman—the viruses would have wiped them out, every he and she and their family tree.

Unlike the slum-dwellers, these virus vampires have no trouble slaying the middle classes flat: during the change-of-season, the middle classes inevitably suffer from a lack of Vitamin C. Those adolescent girls whose thoughts of spring revelry, of blissful grazes against macho manes and manly fuzz, set their tender-tendril bodies aflame with acid desir e—in the middle of their dirty dreams, they cry out “oh yes, oh yes” to these viruses and then wake up from their siestas engulfed in phlegm. And the adolescent boys—no sooner do they awaken—hardly opening their eyes—than they’re choking in the viral wrestler’s spiral armpit-hold.

It was just such a viral clusterfuck that found Harbart a sitting duck. As everyone knows, usually it is the higher-ups who hog the eggs hatched by the indefatigable fucking of the ducks. In these cases, however, it’s the doctors who relish them. For the virus-warfare weapons are entirely and only in their control.

It started with an ache in his back and waist and shoulder, and a streaming nose. He’d thought a plateful of deep-fried chilli-fat balls and a concentrated dose of local liquor (“Returning the empty bottles in unbroken condition will result in a Rs 2.05 refund per bottle”) would force the fidge-fidge-nanny of a fever to flee his veins—but the result was the opposite. The fever reared its ugly head and roared. Scorched his senses. Made him vomit. Two days later, when Jyathaima found him unconscious, she shouted for Dhanna-dada. Dhanna grumbled his way to Dr. Shetal, the homeopath, in his chamber beside the saloon, although the outcome of that visit was not very clear. Because the fever soared higher. Made Harbart delirious.

“Got a brick! Got a brick!” he’d scream, and then fall back unconscious again. The fever took him far away. Somewhere else. He was stuck there—he didn’t know where. At a dead end. Full of filth. The ground slippery and wet. But he couldn’t turn back, couldn’t get out. Because on the trash mountain sat a one-eyed mangy cat. Waiting to pounce if he dared move an inch. So Harbart picked up a bit of brick, mustering up courage to throw it at the cat in case he twitched. And screamed: “Just you try and bite me, you mangy cat you, I’ve got a brick. Got a brick.”

The doctor and Somnath silently exchange glances. Koka puts a cold compress on his forehead. So good that feels. Upstairs, up the wooden stairs, up in a room somewhere, the one who had drawn nearer, leaned closer to blow out the candle, that someone was

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