First Light: Part I
Sunil Gangopadhyay
Trans. by K.L.
Foreword: I love this novel so much that I have (again) decided to continue translating it to English even though one already exists. I do not know whether anyone uses the term "hyperlink historical fiction" to refer to literary works but First Light gives me just the feels of a Jacques Rivette movie (sans the weirdness) so I'll call it just that. At 1200+ pages long, it's quite a daunting task but I figured it would be a good exercise and a very great introduction to me doing large-scale translation work. Moreover, my upcoming original novel that I'm drafting in Bengali (it's apparently inspired by the tragedy of Armenian Genocide and more particularly, the visionary painter Arshile Gorky; one of my foremost icons) should benefit from revisiting a complex classic in the language. I should not have flunked the BN grammar classes back in school but it was and still is SO hard. Anyway, with three concurrent original novels + a shitload of experimental poetry backlog AND a long-ass translation project, I just got too many plugs up in my fucking butt 😹
I.
Today is a rather serene one. There's no scorn in the gentle beams of the sun, while the breeze is steady in its gratitude: and then there's the stark appearance of the mountain-ranges in the horizon to complete it all. Last few days were drenched with incessant rain, it's only by the evening yesterday there was an end, and by today the sky has become spotlessly blue, other than the vibrant castles of the clouds to adorn it. The trees and vegetations in the jungle have just risen from a thorough bath, basked in a newfound vibrancy. They are radiating the joy of it all about. It's as if today is indeed a festive one.
And it seems like the people are in sync too. Coming down from the hills, and moving through the jungles they are heading towards the capital: like the aggregate streams of many rivers which were nonetheless maintaining each of their sovereignty. What they have in common however, is that the number of children and old folks is very low; for the road is long and the path is dependent on footwork, hence: men and women of physical adeptness. All of them are dressed in special outfits, even those who pay no heed for unnecessary flamboyance on regular days. However, there are still not much difference in the way of clothing— tops are more or less similar in type regardless of designs. The women have various jewelleries, hair flourished ornately with flowers or headdresses. Necklaces of flowers. Necklaces made of various bones and then were those made of even rarer flowers. A few select men have crowns made of feathers.
It's looking like the hill itself is caught in that nonmechanical, joyful yet almost ritualised procession. Forestfolks coming out of the foresthills. From Amarpur, Biloniar are marching the flock of Riangs. Composed of almost 200 men, this particular group has a particular discipline. Almost everyone is on feet, there is one person mounted on a horse. A stallion of medium stature, on which rode a dignified yet not-intimidating-in-prescence old man; the situation leaves very little to interpretation that he indeed is the leader of the Riangs. To make sure the leader sustains his dignity, there is someone holding an umbrella over him, and in their wake is a band of two musicians: one is thudding on a drum, the other— making flute resonances. The leader has a special piece of quilt around his shoulders. From the wavering, unfocused gaze of his eyes, it could be assumed that the last night's debauchery is still in residual effect. But still, from moment to moment he would put himself together, and assert non-verbal authority by looking solemnly around his contingent. Not just authority, sometimes the affective demeanour of his eyes betrayed a sense of callousness— he cannot take any instance of disobedience kindly. The leader, in their tongue, is called the Rai. And the second-in-command, the Raikachak, although reaching the threshold of senility already, is not meek at all. He has a muscular physique despite his age: the chest appeared as if a black stone, relayed the black stone's grit as well in his sense of pride; and he has a harpoon in his hand to match the bite. The Raikachak is not dignified on a horse, yet whenever he stopped, there are two servants who would almost dissolve into prostration and cleanse the grime off his feet. Anyway, in the rear end of this moving queue, out of the perceptual range of the leaders, there are young men singing a parodical song, with women of similar age joining their chorus, sometimes they would burst out in laughters that almost hindered their movements. Even after hours upon hours of travelling on feet, there are no signs of exhaustion in them, at least not on their countenances.
Cuntitled #17
Portraits of Leo XI / Gloomyhandsome