T H E M A R AT H I C U LT N OV E L

AIWA MARU ANANT SAMANT

PENGUIN BOOKS

AIWA MARU Anant Samant was born on 12 August 1952 in Arnala, a tiny village near Mumbai. After completing high school he got a diploma in hotel management and catering technology from ICTAN, Mumbai. He worked in various hotels and the Maharashtra Tourism Development Corporation. He joined the merchant navy, worked as a chief steward and navigating officer on tankers, container carriers, bulk carriers, livestock carriers, cargo vessels. His literature shocked Marathi readers with its bold style and the never-seen-before world it invoked. His first novel M.T. Aiwa Maru was like a fresh wind gushing in to feed the hunger of younger generations. It was immensely acclaimed and won many prizes too. Even after twenty years it is a bestseller and the only novel of its kind in Marathi literature. Anant Samant has won the Maharashtra Rajya Puraskar four times, the Maharashtra Sahitya Parishad thrice, as well as the Yashwantrao Chavan Mukta Vidyapith, the Mumbai Marathi Patrakar Sangh and Na. Si. Phadke Puraskar, among many others. Prashant Pethe was born in Pune and went out to sea at the age of eighteen, right after high school. Before he went out to sea, a teacher from school tried to dissuade him from doing so by giving him M.T. Aiwa Maru to read. Reading the novel only strengthened Prashant’s determination to become a seaman. During his time out at sea he could never forget Aiwa Maru. His desire to ensure that more people read this novel compelled him to finally translate it. Prashant produced a couple of Marathi movies in 2007 and 2008. Both movies, Valu: The Wild Bull and The Damned Rain, were very successful locally as well as internationally.

Tra n s lated fro m th e Ma rat h i by

PRASHANT PETHE

PENGUIN BOOKS USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia New Zealand | India | South Africa | China Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com Published by Penguin Random House India Pvt. Ltd No: 04-010 to 04-012, 4th Floor, Capital Tower -1, M G Road, Gurugram -122002, Haryana, India

First published in Marathi as M.T. Aiwa Maru by Majestic Prakashan 1989 First published in English by Penguin Books India 2015 Copyright © Anant Samant English translation copyright © Prashant Pethe 2015 All rights reserved 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. ISBN 9780143423133 For sale in the Indian Subcontinent only Typeset in Bembo by Manipal Digital Systems, Manipal

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. www.penguin.co.in

Translator’s Note On learning that I intended to become a sailor, a teacher from my school made me read M.T. Aiwa Maru, so that he could dissuade me from going out to sea. However, reading the novel made me even more determined to follow my dream. This was in 1994. The novel has stayed with me through the years. As I lived and worked out at sea I found I could relate to many things I had read in the novel, especially the notion that a ship is not just a lifeless vessel, but a living entity. Aiwa Maru, a mass of steel, had feelings, her own desires. I could always relate to that whenever I joined a vessel. Right from the first vessel I joined, which was thirty years old, to the last vessel I worked on, a newly built ship which we navigated out of shipyard, I always had an instinctive feel for the vessel—just as she probably had for the people who worked on her. I always wanted the story of Aiwa Maru and Ujjwala to reach a wider audience. Even though first written and published in the seventies, the novel is still very contemporary.Technology might have advanced in leaps and bounds since then, but ships are still as vulnerable in the face of nature’s fury. And Ujjwala . . . At the time when the novel was first published, even though there were many stories like Ujjwala’s, they were hardly talked about in society. Not much has changed in that regard even today, except perhaps the stories might be discussed a little more openly. v

When I decided to translate Aiwa Maru into English, my only qualification were my obsession with the book and some English subtitle work for Marathi films I had produced. Anant Samant wholeheartedly encouraged me. Even before I began work, he informed me that there had been a few attempts to translate Aiwa Maru into English before, but he had never been pleased with the outcome, or else the people concerned simply gave up. He thought the fact that I have been a seaman for almost twenty years might help me find Aiwa Maru, and lead her to a new readership in a new language. And here she is . . . I hope I have been able to do justice to the beautiful ship that was Aiwa Maru. And if you too become obsessed with her, I will think I have done a decent enough job. I would like to take this opportunity to thank some very special people who made this book possible: Mr Pramod Kale, the teacher from school who introduced me to Aiwa Maru; my English teacher Mrs Saroj Subramanium, who patiently read through my raw draft of the translation and made some very valuable suggestions; my dear friend Ms Mrunal Belvalkar who edited the English version of the novel before we sent it off to Penguin; and Sachin Kundalkar, writer, director and good friend who introduced me to Penguin. Thank you very much, Sachin. And last but not the least, Mr Anant Samant for trusting me with his beautiful and beloved Aiwa Maru.

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It hasn’t been that long ago. But it seems like it’s been a while, as though ages have gone by. At the time, the world as we knew it was too big. The oceans vast. The endless sky was . . . well, sky-high. Men were made of steel. And ships were made of wood. Yet those men of steel, calmly supporting the tall sky on their burly shoulders, navigated those vast oceans deftly on those wooden ships. No one had charted the shores on paper at the time. No one had measured the depth of the oceans with sound waves. No one really cared, did they? They didn’t care for their lives. All they had was a deep yearning for the unexplored. The bright white sails—mounted on beautiful wooden ships made of planks as thick as a handspan and as wide as an open palm, moulded efficiently on a pulsating furnace—called out proudly to these sailors. Just one call, and those sailors, who had got lost, albeit just for a moment, rushed back to those ships. Out at sea they felt at home. The sky was their roof. A sun-tanned golden glow was their wealth. They explored and looted the riches of unknown shores— only to splurge it all on their next adventure. Those who live under the tall sky and end up at the bottom of the ocean— why would they care for pennies and cents? They mocked the seas they sailed on and time just smiled at them. vii

Time carried on. At some point of time, those unknown, unexplored shores were charted on paper. Winds, currents were simplified into mathematical equations. The beautiful ships that were made of wood from enormous trees, which don’t much care for time itself, were replaced by lifeless steel. Bulky, hideous funnels replaced proud white sails. They steamed, smearing clear blue skies dark. One by one those aged, out-of-date wooden ships were lost in the bosom of the vast oceans. Along with them those men of steel became extinct too. Now fragile men made of dust sailed those steel ships and ruled the seas. The grace and awe were gone. Soon those new steel ships shed their coats of fresh, feeble paint. The weather-beaten steel plates wore swollen, infected wounds of bleeding rust. The large rivets peeping out looked nauseating, like torn, dead flesh. Things changed. But it wasn’t all over. Instead of raising elegant, beautiful sails, ships started throwing out nasty, black smoke. Eventually they were equipped with radios. Telegraphic machines followed suit. Soon they had telephones and telex machines too. In time, bulkheads changed, engines transformed, machinery updated. Living conditions changed for the better. Yet for the seamen who stood upright against the howling winds, leaping waves . . . their hearts didn’t really change. How could they? Technology, machinery—mere toys of the advanced man who, it has been proved time and again, is far more insignificant than nature herself. They become useless in the face of just a little mischief on the part of nature. Engines stop. Telephones, telex machines suddenly shut down. Even those steel bulkheads crumple like paper. All that remains is a dogged desire to tame the savage sea. viii

Yes, times may have changed a bit. Yes, hands might have turned a bit brittle. Yet that determination to sail steel ships, which can quickly sink, is still unwavering. Along with that, the delicate ridge in a seaman’s heart, which hasn’t spared any effort to hide deep inside that sturdy chest, is still intact. A seaman’s heart still skips a beat if, as the ship leaves shore, the cord raising the flag gets caught on the way or breaks. If the anchor gets fouled, that’s not a good omen. A human mind, which can fly high with its imagination, is filled with doubt when a dead seagull is sighted. A ship is lovingly designated the feminine gender . . . And that’s how it has been for ages. If this rule strengthened by tradition is broken, and another female steps foot on the ship, old, worldly-wise seamen become wary of the imminent wild storm on board caused by the jealousy of the co-wives. And why shouldn’t it be that way? The sky is still endless. The ocean is still vast. Technology may have taken us into space; yet it is a fact that the dark depths of the ocean, its frozen nucleus, is still unknown to science. An enigma. Yes, the ‘Mayday’ distress call broadcasted on the radio, telephone can be heard thousands of miles away. But the help that can save lives cannot reach through the same telephone, can it? It may be possible to guess the direction of the wind in some corner of the world, but no one can guess which direction the flying, whipping wind will come from the next moment. Never mind if the ship is wooden or made of steel. When the seas decide to fly, to lash at the sky, it is the mere human, taking up the challenge of the sea, who has to deal with the wild sea with his bare hands. After bidding farewell to the shore, in that web created by the horizon, the sea is one’s only companion. Sometimes ix

calm, at times wayward. Sometimes it carries you safely all the way, and sometimes it tries to fling you into the air. Why? When? Mathematical equations have no solutions for these questions. All we have are guesses that are bound to go wrong. Based on guesses which have turned out to be right—luckily. No one can guarantee the next stop in the course of a storm that has been creating havoc out at sea. It is impossible to name the sudden meteor that falls through that crowd of bright stars on a dark night. Albeit rarely, but definitely, volcanoes erupt from deep within the belly of an ocean . . . Why? Numerous ships have vanished from the surface of the ocean for no apparent reason and have never been found. Why? There are hardly any answers. Not even science or the latest technology can help a seaman who gets caught up in the cruel games of the sea— unfathomable, wild! But that doesn’t stop a seaman. Seamen, lost in nature’s awe, face the unknown even today. They stubbornly participate in nature’s deadly gambit. Sometimes some lost men do break down. They are shaken to the core by the naked truths that they face on the open seas. Some are overwhelmed. Some get lost in those games wrought by nature. Some lose themselves, their reputations. But some real sons of the sea manage to live with those forces of nature, if not control them. They couldn’t care less for the falling skies, the leaping seas. They rein in the steel floating beneath their feet and tame the seas. These seamen, standing strong, shoulder to shoulder, form a wall of resolve against the largest of waves. In doing so they pass on this human strength to the lifeless steel, which finds herself falling short at times against the wild seas. They x

pour in their blood, sweat, lives into that floating prison. They create a powerful, steel life. They win some. They lose some. Yet they continue to stand their ground, to battle again and again. Stumbling in the darkness of the unknown, steadying the falling skies, these flesh-and-blood seamen still rule these untamed, wild seas. This is a small little story of that struggle, that life, that deadly game, the surging, the crashing. A small story of the unexplored. A tribute . . . To that untamed, wild sea. To that floating steel being. And to the only man who was as great as only a father can be, the one who gave me the strength to be a part of that deadly game: my father, Prabhakar Vasudeo Samant.

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Hong Kong 1 December 1975 It was probably the coldest Hong Kong had ever been in the last hundred years. The days were mostly overcast and, on the rare occasion when they managed to reach the earth, the rays from the sun were too weak to cast shadows. The temperature seldom dipped below two or three degrees Celsius, but it was the wind chill factor that was the real killer. The nights were especially cruel with both the wind and cold playing havoc. On top of that, a tropical cyclone or two hit the shores of Hong Kong once a week, rippling through the tall buildings. Knowing the shitty weather in England, I had avoided London and chosen to come here instead. Not a very smart move. Arrived here in September, checked into Kowloon’s Mariner’s Club, promising myself that I would get a cheap apartment somewhere as soon as I enrolled in the Nautical College so I could cook for myself at least once a day and save some money. Unfortunately, my resolve went the same way promises and resolutions usually do—I was still living at the club. How I had managed to stay here though, I wonder. In the three months that I had been here, I hadn’t made a single friend—hadn’t really tried, to be honest. I have been a loner most of my life. A friend, or an acquaintance even, meant some bullshit, then beer, going out. I had had 1

neither the time for all that, nor the money. The guy who sold milk packets at Chungking Mansions behind the club; Rita, the girl at McDonald’s who mechanically served my order of burger and chips, complete with a milkshake, her name prominently displayed on her even more prominent chest; and the moron at the Multani restaurant in Chungking Mansions, who regularly plonked in front of me tea in a cup with a broken handle, pretty surely unwashed too, were the only three people I smiled at, and I think they smiled back too. Interactions with other acquaintances resulted in frowns, mostly on their part. Like the captain at the Sheraton’s Front Lounge that I frequented to read free newspapers every day; and the steward who cleaned my room, no. 22—what was his name? I called him John. When I first arrived, John had smiled sweetly enough, showing me his yellow-stained teeth. But as the days passed and the books in my suitcase started tumbling out, the lines that usually crinkled around his eyes when he smiled started spreading anxiously across his wide forehead. The sight of both the beds in the room, the windowsill, the table and the floor cluttered with books, notebooks, empty milk packets, half-eaten food trays on a regular basis only deepened the furrows on his brow. He never got a tip yet he had determinedly cleaned up this mess every day for the past three months . . . and I had unleashed it all over again just as regularly. I had seen him muttering to himself lately while cleaning up, cursing probably, or maybe it was a holy Chinese verse. Felt like asking him many times. Never did. Room no. 22 had one single window. Right behind the club, there was an open area where I used to see a young girl hanging clothes to dry, daily between nine and ten in the morning. About thirty feet away stood another building with its dirty behind towards us. All the windows that I could see were always closed. 2

There wasn’t much else to look at in my room, other than the mirror on the wall. Having spent three months in this icecold room I understood what it must be like inside a coffin. When I stepped out, dead bored, I felt helpless, alone. It wasn’t difficult to go someplace . . . just that there was no place to go. I got lost in spite of the crowd around. On the wide streets of Hong Kong one rarely sees single people, only couples mostly. Small, cute girls with tiny eyes and luscious red lips—very, very tempting. It wasn’t a big deal to get a girlfriend, really, but on a budget of thirty Hong Kong dollars per day, this would have been impossible to achieve. Having a good time was simply not affordable. I just went out to college and for meals. The rest of my time was spent in room no. 22. After spending three months this way, a certain numbness had settled over my mind. Nothing made a difference. I stayed put in Hong Kong even after the exams, awaiting the results. Pretty much slept through the day. Lots of sleep kills the appetite, saves money—this is how my mind made all its calculations. If it got too boring, I went to the TV room in the club. The TV was on all the time. If it conked off, a complaint at the reception got it repaired. There wasn’t much else to do and I didn’t particularly feel like doing anything anyway. Inertia had crept in, deep inside. At thirty bucks a day, the thousand dollars left in the bank would easily see me through another month. There was no need to think of home or the job. An indifferent, happy life it had been . . . until today. I had been trying to ignore messages from the office for the past two days. Lethargy had sunk in through the bones, right down to the marrow. After two ‘urgent’ messages, however, I could no longer ignore them. I stepped out of the club. A thirty-eight-storey building stood tall on Harcourt Road—Cards House. The top three floors accommodated the offices of Cards Ship Management. 3

‘One of those special novels in Marathi which have crossed the borders of language and territory with their style and spirit’ Sachin Kundalkar, author of Cobalt Blue Anant, a young Indian seaman sets out on a hazardous voyage from Hong Kong aboard the M.T. Aiwa Maru—a blacklisted vessel that has been banned from sailing. Although wary of the risks involved in his new assignment, he is mesmerized by the ship. But the terrors of the open sea are not the only perils that beset the multiracial crew of the Aiwa Maru. With the arrival of the Second Engineer’s beautiful young wife, Ujjwala, Anant finds himself irresistibly drawn to her even as matters aboard this bewitching vessel spin dangerously out of control. A cult novel in the original Marathi, Aiwa Maru is a dark and thrilling tale of passion, greed, obsession and adventure.

Translated by Prashant Pethe

Fiction

Cover illustration by Pia Hazarika

MRP `499 (incl. of all taxes)

www.penguin.co.in For sale in the Indian Subcontinent only