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“Hey Doctor! How much more time does Sid have?”
He asked the doctor who was just coming out of the room. But without waiting for a response, he walked into the room and was welcomed with a roomful of angry gazes directed towards him.
His question met their unified irritation as if they were jostled out of the comfortable silence intoxicated by their common grief. Almost everybody started speaking at once, but in whispers. Their voices didn’t reach him, but he could read their lips. “Who informed this insane person? Where did he get the pass to come in? Somebody take him out now…”
With a cursory glance at all the known and unknown faces in the room, he inched step by step towards the bed where Siddharth lay asleep. His eyes fell on the nasal canula running down Siddharth’s nose and a strange pain tightened in his chest.
“Sid!”
That’s the name he called Siddharth with since their college days. He bent down towards Siddharth’s ear and called out his name again, “Sid!” A slight movement of eyelids was all he got as a response. He noticed the dull dark lips of Siddharth, almost the color of black grapes. Has his blood turned completely black, he wondered? He took Siddharth’s frail hand on his. It was dry and yellow as straw.
He realized Sid had reached the stage from which where there was no return. He had seen it before. He lost his sister to this same disease. Her blackened lips and pale frail body were still vivid in his mind. He closed his eyes for a moment to absorb the inevitability of the circumstance. The next moment a sudden realization jolted him back to the present.
“Rumi? Where is Rumi?”
Nobody bothered to answer his question. His eyes moved past every face in the room to the girl silently sitting behind. Shell-shocked and stunned with grief, she rose slowly to take a few steps towards him. Her puffed eyes resembled the smoky grey clouds, tired after incessant rains. Streams of kajal (kohl) ran down her cheeks along with the tears. Who bothers about kohl when accompanying the sick to the hospital? He had seen women come out of theatres with kohl smeared face after watching a tragic movie. Unlike other spectators who found it amusing, this embarrassing fiasco completely annoyed him. However, a wife adorning vermillion and dressing up to accompany dying husband to the hospital was still understandable. The concept of “moral fiber” echoed in his mind. When hopelessness tears you down with not a single ray of sun visible. When darkness surrounds you to the core. It is in those moments that you realize that the presence of your own sun deep within your soul. He read about it somewhere and people in flesh and blood have also affirmed the logic. He remembered the group of persecuted people fleeing from North Korea to escape the barbarism of its ruler. A little girl, one of the few surviving the arduous journey, had said, “We walked through the deserted desert. Not knowing where we were heading to, or if there was a single living soul in this world who would take us as his own. At night we looked up to the stars with teary eyes. Those stars were the only witness, the sole companion of our aimless journey. But as days passed and fangs of hunger bit hard on our stomach, thirst sharpened its claws on our whole body, even the stars couldn’t console us. They could not inspire us to move ahead. The only thing that kept us going at that point of time was the moral fiber within us.”
Oh! Where was he? What was it he wanted to say? He had to shake his head a few times to gather his scattered thoughts and speak to the wife of his almost dying friend, “Rumi, he doesn’t have much time. Keep him embraced in the warmth of your loving hug. Talk of all that you wanted to say to him. Once he is gone you will get a lot of time to cry with the people around. Just be with him for as long as he is breathing.”
His words shook Rumi and she broke down crying out loud. Three years junior to him in college, Rumi later became his friend Siddharth’s wife. Both of them together with their four year old son had just started their family life. But before they could form a stable pace, their journey seemed to end nowhere.
Meanwhile, the discomfort of the people in that room crossed all limits. To stop the situation from becoming worse, his friends Hemant and Romen almost dragged him out of the room citing some lame excuse.
“Just ignore what he said Rumi. He is crazy. Siddharth will get better soon. We are all with you. Never ever think of yourself as alone.” He heard his friend Romen’s wife Bidisha consoling Rumi while he was being led out of the room. He felt the bitter bile rise to his throat. With an exasperated expression on his face, he stepped out of the hospital onto the main road.
Never will he understand the people around him. How could they talk about every irrelevant thing in this universe but focus on what was important. He walked away from the hospital and looked around for a place to eat. His watch said it was three in the afternoon. He had not eaten anything since morning. He wanted to go to the office of the newspaper that published his cartoons. They owed him money but never paid on time. Two days back his house owner had come looking for the unpaid rent. He had to get his money from the office today by any means. On reaching the office he was in for a surprise. Even before he spoke a word, a steaming cup of tea with sweet snack was served to him. A cheque signed with his two months due accompanied the refreshments. While he was there, somebody told him about Sid being admitted in a nearby hospital. His condition was critical and that it was just a matter of time.
He last met Siddharth almost a year and a half back. Wishing to publish a self-composed collection of poems, Siddharth came with a request for him to design the cover page.
“I charge ten thousand rupees for cover page. Not a penny less.”
Siddharth roared with laughter at his words.
“You will charge money for my work?”
He replied with equal seriousness.
“Friend! Will my house owner relieve me of my rent if I tell him that my customer is a high-ranked officer in GMCH?”
“That is fine. I too believe that we should not lend our craft and expertise for free. It is final. You are going to make the cover page.”
Sid continued with a serious tone.
“Actually I do not have much time left in my hands Bijit. Regular dialysis has kept me going since last one year. How long will I survive this way? I am not able to face my son and Rumi these days. I go for dialysis to the hospital twice a week. While I lie down on the bed for four long hours, my thoughts revolve around just one question. Is this how I am going to live?”
Bijit was not aware of Sid’s condition. Actually he took for granted that after marriage and family everybody was busy and happy in their own lives. With teary eyes, Siddharth showed him a photo of Rumi and his child that he carried in his wallet always. The playful discussion of billing Sid for the cover page suddenly turned somber. Sid was Bijit’s only old friend who managed to stay with him for this long. He was an unmatched piece of jigsaw puzzle among his friends. None of them could bear him for long. It was just Sid who accepted him for who he was and continued to be with him in good and rainy days.
About four months after this incident, he got a call from Siddharth informing him that the plan to publish his book had been canceled. They did not speak for long that day.
Bijit never took anything else seriously in his life apart from painting. He was declared a disgrace to the family by his father when he decided to drop out of his BA exam. His father even questioned his mother doubting if he really was his son. That day he saw his mother hide her face in the fringe of her sador to wipe away silent tears.
The other day he was walking through the central road of the city. Might have been sometime near Diwali. The tall buildings on either side of the road were stylishly decorated with lights. Such festivities never reached the shadowy corner of the city where he stayed in a rented house. The aristocracy of this city could only be seen a few twisted lanes away from his dark abode.
The twinkling tiny bulbs looming down from the high-rise buildings surprisingly dragged him to a long forgotten childhood memory.
The timber-framed cemented walls of his humble village hut were hardly whitewashed twice for as long as he could remember. A primary schoolteacher, his father could neither afford to maintain the house nor had he any intention of doing so. The whole focus of his life was to select brilliant students from fourth standard and sharpen their knowledge so that they could qualify for scholarships. He took extra care and even called them home for studies during vacations.
His mother and sister tried their best to polish the mud-floorings and walls during festivals. But the thinning flattened thatched roof made their house look stark and shabby from a distance. However, it was not always so dull. The dry twines of flame vine that lay vain all over the roof during summer bloomed abundantly in winter decorating the entire terrace. Vines adorning vibrant orange flowers looming down the wall caught the attention of any passerby and everybody took a moment to gaze and admire the beauty.
He must have been in ninth standard then. His classmate Rini suddenly visited their home. Daughter of famed engineer Mr. Dulal Baruah, Rini’s family belonged to completely different strata of society. In the entire village, theirs was the only house with an iron gate and they had a car. Rini came to borrow Bijit’s notes. She was sick for a few days and could not attend school. Bijit being the brilliant boy of the class was the right choice to get class notes.
In a beautiful yellow frock, she walked hesitantly through the winter sunlit lane towards his home and enquired with his mom,
“Aunty, can I see Bijit? I am his classmate, Rini.”
He came out in response to his mother’s call. Fluttering like a bright butterfly in the scenic flame vine adorned home, Rini’s presence planted some colorful illusions in his youthful eyes. He handed her his Geometry and English notebooks as requested. Holding them carefully in her bosom, Rini turned to leave. While walking back, she picked up a fallen lone orange flower and giggled looking towards him,
“Ah! This looks exactly like the horn of a gramophone.”
Her laughter trailed behind as she got into the car whose door was held open by her driver. Her words hung on his porch tinkling for a long time after she left with the flower in her hand.
Rini never visited his home ever again. However, every winter the flame vines brought with them her sweet memory to taunt him and cause distress.
Thereafter, two other girls came into Bijit’s life. For a year or two everything went well with the love affair. Problem started when they insisted Bijit to have a job like other boys. Although living a life quite different from the ‘normal’ terms of society, he jealously guarded his self-esteem. His own father tried to crush his self-respect and that was the reason why he stopped visiting his home. Moreover, he was very stubborn and straightforward with no fancy talks. He made his contempt for dual faced people quite clear. These unusual traits paved distances between him and his friends as well as kept well-wishers at bay. His mobile connected him to just two sets of people. Either the publishers and newspapers he was freelancing for, or the writers who wanted his service for cover page design and illustrations.
As such, a sudden unexpected phone call surprised him. A lady speaking in Hindi told him that he was selected as the “staff cartoonist” for a leading national newspaper. She also said that he would soon receive his appointment letter by post. Thereafter, he had to report to the management on the scheduled date. The company would bear his expenses for travel and stay.
The phone call stunned him. Thinking hard for a few minutes reminded him of the newspaper’s advertisement seeking applications for “staff cartoonist”. Three self-made cartoons were to be enclosed along with the application. The entire notification was narrated to him by Nitali, a staff of the magazine house he was working with. He straightaway refused saying these jobs did not suit his purpose. Now he was sure this was Nitali’s doing.
He dialed her number and she picked up in just two rings,
“What’s up Bijit Sir?”
“I need to meet you. Can you come out towards Panbazar during lunchtime?”
“Why not? I will be there. But what’s the urgency? Hanging out with a girl in Panbazar might not go well with the reputation of an artist like you.”
Saying this she broke out in a mischievous laughter but before it could reach his ears, he snapped the call off. This girl is insane. She had put him in such complicated situations a few times before. He should strongly forbid her from repeating this. Confronting her in the office would create unwanted scene in front of the staff members. Moreover, he didn’t want anybody else to know right away about his job selection in Delhi. He should talk with Nitali, or else the news would be all over the office in no time.
At around 2 pm he reached the specific restaurant in Panbazar. People known to him are well aware with this restaurant being his only choice for tea in the entire Panbazar. He was finishing his tea and samosa when Nitali entered and without wasting any time she ordered tea and a bowl of rasamalai for herself.
Her casual actions bemused Bijit.
“You are spreading out all around like a ginger. And you still want rasamalai?”
She cut his words saying,
“How does it affect you? What is the use of working so hard if I can’t eat what I want? You may wish for a lean and thin girlfriend. That doesn’t mean every girl in this world has to be size zero.”
No point in arguing with this girl. Bijit came straight to the point.
“I got a phone call from Delhi yesterday. I have been asked to join as staff cartoonist in the newspaper. I am sure you know about this. You even forged my signature, right?”
“Tell me this is true. You got selected? Wow! I knew it. That’s why I sent the application on your behalf. Forging a signature is just nothing for Nitali Dutta.”
Her last sentence was so dramatically delivered that every eye in the restaurant turned towards their table.
“So…when are you leaving for Delhi?”
Bijit tore his gaze from her excitement filled eyes and answered with all seriousness.
“I am not going. I am earning enough for a single person. Working in my native place is a matter of pride. I will be forty soon. Starting something new at this age is absurd. I am happy living with my people around, talking in my mother-tongue. Life is bliss here.”
“Oh! Really! Instead, why don’t you say that you are scared to go out of your comfort zone? The challenge of new work place will test your expertise. Will bring out how much you know or, do not know. It is better to stay in the dark rent house, isn’t it? And who are your people here in Assam, Bijit Sir? You didn’t even attend your own sister’s funeral to perform the last rites.”
“Nitali, the happenings of my life is not your lookout. Who told you all these?”
“I keep track of all that I want to know.”
Furious with her open accusations, Bijit left the restaurant walking in big strides away from her. He didn’t look back as Nitali kept reprimanding loud after him till he was out of earshot.
She should not have mentioned his sister. It triggered a long suppressed guilt.
It is true he stayed away from his sister’s funeral. It is also true that he caused her a lot of pain even when she was alive. She asked for his address innumerable times. She kept calling him over and over again, requesting him to visit home at least once. But for the past 22 years, never for once did his father ask for his return. His father, who was the roof on his head during his childhood, now turned into a concrete wall separating the members of his family. On one side of the wall was his grief-stricken mother along with his brother Bitu and sister Anu. On the other side was he, alone beyond anyone’s reach.
But he did visit Anu when she was hospitalized. As soon as he entered the room she was sleeping in, a strong smell of dettol and phenyl filled his nostrils. None of his family members were there at that time. Had they been there, he might have turned back right from the door. He lovingly touched Anu’s forehead. A stone-cold sensation traveled all the way from his hand to his heart numbing him for a few seconds. Slowly he took both of her hands in his. Her hands were dry and rough as straw. Just then a nurse walked into the room.
“Any chance?”
The steel faced nurse reacted with a slight frown and shook her head in decisive finality. Bijit slumped on the bed beside Anu’s frail body. Why? A disease so unknown, so mysterious and so deadly. Why did it have to be her? She was born with autoimmune disorder. A malfunction in the body’s defense response where her own immunity kills her healthy cells. This disease had already destroyed most of her kidney filters bringing her to this final stage. Doctors, medicines, dialysis, nothing was working anymore. Anu told all of these to him herself over phone.
He looked at her for one last time and came out of the room. She had only this much to live. And it was better to go away than to live in that painful condition. He consoled himself.
He got down from the bus with all these scattered thoughts running through his mind and walked ahead through the deserted lane strewn over a patch of wild trees. There was another well-lit road for vehicles. But this was a shortcut and his regular path. Municipality used this place to dump cars damaged and destroyed in accidents. Years and years of dumping filled the entire place with old abandoned cars. It was this desolate place in the entire city that Bijit felt at home with. Every car in that place had a desperately sad story resulting in their banishment. It was ironical how a car that you welcome to your home as an auspicious possession could be rejected the moment it failed its service. He realized that his story resembled the junk around. His life was no less than a tragic accident with not a penny’s value, just a waste. His own brother is a respectable professor in university. Had his sister not been defeated by her health, Anu too, would have had a loving home and family of her own.
The next day he woke up rather late. Actually, sleep evaded him until 3 am in the morning. With a severe headache throbbing out his senses, he dragged himself to the kitchen in the hope that a cup of tea would help. He checked the can of tea leaves and a rotten stench almost knocked him off. God knows how old it was. He gave up the idea of preparing tea and went out in search of a place to eat. He placed his usual order,
“Ghoogni-Naan! But first, bring me a cup of tea.”
As he took his first sip, his mobile started ringing. Hesitantly he took the call from an unknown number.
“Hello! Is this Bijit’s number? This is Rumi calling.”
“Oh! Rumi! How are you? Sorry I could not attend Sid’s funeral.”
“Do not say ‘could not’. Say you did not want to.”
Rumi stopped him before he could speak further.
“Forget about the funeral, you did not even bother to know about us in the past one and a half years.”
“I don’t want to put any excuse Rumi. I am a very unsocial person, you know that. Anyways, how are things going on? Are you done with Sid’s official formalities?”
“The files are making rounds of the tables. Our savings are almost over. The never-ending expenditures are difficult to control having a kid to look after. When Siddharth was alive, I never had to step out of the house, never needed to. But now I understand how difficult it is to live. I was going through Siddharth’s phone and saw you number in his contact list. Just felt like calling you. His belongings are all I am left with to search for his essence. I have not yet folded his shirts, you know. They are still on the hangers, ready to wear. I feel he may come any day asking for them.”
Her voice trembled on the last few words. Fearing she would start weeping on the other side, he ended the call. Woman’s laughter and tears both made him very nervous. He had built a cocoon around him as protection from either of these.
In the meantime, his order was served. Keeping all these thoughts aside, he focused on eating his ghoogni and naan. Once done, he went straight to the office of his publishing house. The autumn issue was due and he was assigned a few articles to make illustrations for. The editor had been repeatedly sending him reminders to collect the details.
He met Nitali right in the corridor leading to the editor’s office.
“Bijit Sir, average people like us have to rot in this place forever because we do not have any other alternative. But, I tell you, you will regret if you miss this opportunity.”
Saying so she left hurriedly, leaving Bijit by himself in the corridor. Good riddance, he thought. She seemed determined to make his life hell. A person like him labeled as insane and darkly mysterious was better kept away. Other than Nitali, nobody in the office ever dared to say anything to Bijit.
As he sat in front of the editor, a yellow envelope with the concerned articles was ushered to him. The editor sent for two cups of tea.
“Have you seen the headlines today? Terrorist attack in Kashmir! More than 40 Indian soldiers attained martyrdom. This Islamic terrorism will destroy the whole world.”
The editor was frowning. Concerned by the news from the border, he went on,
“Okay, we agree that terrorism has no religion. Then they should also agree that terrorists use their religion for their selfish motives. I totally believe now that these terrorists have their eye in every country of this world. Any country with a strong sense of regionalism and these people start their provocation. In that way, Assam is soon going to be the next Kashmir. Mark my words.”
“Why don’t you write all these in your editorial? It will have far greater impact that just fuming in front of me.”
This time he provoked the editor.
“You know very well I can’t do that. If I write my honest thoughts, the magazine will soon be doomed. If we write against Assamese sentiment, do you think an Assamese journal can survive? It is suicidal.”
“Sir, I have a completely different perspective about this whole thing. Every country in this world has three characteristics that determine their nature - religious, economic and political. The governance of rich first world countries is ruled by their economy. On the other hand, where neither religion nor economy has a strong foothold, the country runs on diplomatic politics. India is a good example of that. And then there are countries like Pakistan where religion is the supreme. There, governance is decided on the strength of religious slogans. Moreover Sir, other religions have also used religious compassion as a weapon for terrorism. The main base of Khalisthan movement was Amritsar’s swarna mandir. Have you forgotten that Sir?”
The crease on editor’s forehead deepened on hearing Bijit’s factual thoughts. He wanted to go deeper in understanding the topic but something stopped him. May be he realized that at his age it was better to focus of his health than to brave out for country and the world.
He pressed the bell on his table and called for his peon.
“There are apples in my lunch-bag. Cut and bring them here. Make sure you wash them carefully before that.”
Meanwhile Bijit finished his tea. With the yellow envelope in hand, he rose from the chair to leave.
“Are you leaving already? Let us discuss some more.”
“No Sir. I have some other work.”
He spelt out the first excuse that came to his mind and left the office.
As he reached his bike, his thoughts went back to Rumi. May be he should meet her once. He turned his bike towards Khanapara. He once accompanied Siddharth to his new apartment and remembered the address. He went up the staircase to the second floor and pressed the calling bell of the specific door. Rumi answered it.
“Bijit?”
Rumi was so taken aback by his visit that it took her a moment to invite him in. She asked him to sit down and rushed to the kitchen to make him a cup of tea.
Devoid of all marital symbols, her bland attire engulfed the entire room into a desperate doom. To break the gloom, he asked,
“Where is your son?”
“Jishu is with my mother in our village home. My whole day goes in roaming around for the official works. Moreover, it is his school’s vacation time. He is better off with his grandmother. I still have to apply for Siddharth’s provident fund. It is difficult to take care of everything all by myself. Who will do it all, if not me? I will bring him back once I can settle down these things. I miss him terribly though, especially at night.”
She answered to his query from the kitchen.
“So the official work is yet to be finished? I was sure Romen would help you with everything since he was Sid’s colleague. I thought you were close to his family too. I saw Romen’s wife with you when I visited Sid in the hospital.”
“No Bijit. I have seen people changing after Siddharth’s demise. Initially Romen helped me in sorting out the official things. He accompanied me to the offices. But soon people started talking about us. Then one day his wife Bidisha called me to say that the rumors are making their life difficult. She firmly told me not to call Romen for any further work. What could I say? I was not aware of the outside world when Siddharth was alive. But now I know. People are not what they appear to be. Everybody is hiding behind a mask. My house was filled with sympathizing people the day Siddharth left. But now, after a year, no one even cares for how we are. It is not anybody’s fault though. Everybody has their own personal problems they are fighting every day. Just because I am left with no support, I must be looking at things from my perspective. Anyway, let it go. Tell me about yourself. How are you?”
“What about me? I am alive, that’s all.”
“Why don’t you get married? It is not easy to live this entire life alone.”
“Why? You got married right? What did you get out of it? Whatever is written in our fate will happen. I got a new job offer. Though a good opportunity, it needs me to move to Delhi and I am unable to take a decision.”
“Do not reject a good offer just because it is away from Assam. At times of need, money is the only support. The rest are all illusions. People will be there for only a day or two. I have experienced it well in my life.”
Meeting Rumi brought some strange thoughts in his mind. A simple girl like Rumi talked about so many things that day. It seemed like for one and a half years she kept so many emotions hidden in her heart never speaking a word about them to anyone after Siddharth left. Her eyes moistened many times during their conversation. At times she broke into laughter too. How could Sid be so selfish? How could he live behind this simple girl with a child to face the cruel world all alone?
He sat with a cigarette in hand on the bonnet of a long forlorn jeep dumped in the jungle. Cigarette after cigarette, the smoke twirled and swirled around echoing the thoughts going round and round in his head. At one point, his subconscious mind realized a certain resemblance. Rumi’s life was no less than a vehicle destroyed in an accident. What is the fault of the vehicle in an accident? The hands holding the steering wheel decides every move, turn and stop of the vehicle. Just like destiny steers our life and takes us towards an unseen road. After Siddharth, Rumi’s life was just like an addendum. Her only motive was to pass the days with all her mental strength until her body gave in.
These unruly thoughts triggered a strange suffocation within him. He threw his cigarette and almost ran towards the garage where his bike being repaired. Two days back the self-start broke down and so, he left the bike with the mechanic. As soon as the apprentice saw him, he handed over a bill to him along with his bike key. He tested the self-start a few times and was satisfied with the work done. Then he paid the bill and rode off to the main road straight towards the office of the publication house Nitali worked for.
One thing was clear for him. Nitali was the only girl in this entire self-centred city who understood and accepted his insane mind as he was. As soon as he reached the parking lot of the office, he saw her coming out of the office with few other girls. She saw him and hurried towards him leaving her friends behind. Before she could speak anything, he gestured her to take the back seat of the bike.
Despite her continuous questioning, he ignored her queries during the entire ride maneuvering through the crowd moving beyond Uzanbazar towards the other side of Kharguli right on to the bank of river Luit. There he stopped his bike near a rock that was almost touching the waters.
“Bijit Sir, I was hurrying for my home when you asked me to join you. Since then I have asked so many things but you answered none. And now, you have brought me to this worn out secluded place. Am I bothering you so much that you want to push me in the river and get rid of me?”
Bijit didn’t even react to her question. Instead he went ahead and climbed up the rock to light a cigarette. He sat on the rock his eyes steady on the river as if penetrating the heart to the core.
His silence was too much to bear and Nitali could take it no more. “Say something Bijit Sir.” She shook him by his shoulders.
“I need your help Nitali. You have always tried to do good for me even thought I reprimanded you several times. Today the job that has given me the strength to take this decision is also because of you. I have decided to go to Delhi. But before that I want to take my friend’s widowed wife Rumi and her son as my family for life. My conscience doesn’t allow me to leave her all alone in this grueling journey of life. My dead friend left behind his child as his only remaining. I am not able to bring myself to accept that he will grow up without a father’s love and shelter. I know all these may sound superficial coming from a crazy and irresponsible person like me. But somehow I knew you would understand me. You know me. If I go and talk to her, I am sure to mess up and she will definitely misunderstand me. You must have realized that it is very important for Rumi to understand this whole thing in its entirety. You have to tell Rumi all these on my behalf. Will you do that?”
“Why…why not Bijit Sir? I will meet Rumi tomorrow itself and explain everything.” She spoke as if jolted out of a dream but continued in a tone of excitement,
“I am so happy for you. Finally you gave a thought to your own life just as I wished you should. Now get up. No use being so sentimental. Just imagine where I was heading to and where you have brought me. It is long past my time of return. Come, let us go back.”
With double enthusiasm she dragged Bijit up to his feet and threw the cigarette from his hand into the river. Then she literally pushed him towards the road for their journey back to their respective lives. As the evening spread a veil of darkness all around, Bijit never noticed the tiny drops of tears hanging on Nitali’s eyelashes.
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