> Creative > Literature
(Mojiaat Tez)
the voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground.
Starting off with the interpretation of a favourite poem of his by a renowned poet, he was delivering a prolonged lecture on the poet’s celebration of the humanity. A voyage from English to Assamese literature, from God to nature and from nature to man. A young professor. Poetry was his favourite subject; he had read profusely about poetry. Still in his front were a host of tender souls with bright eyes, interest-induced faces and necks held straight by rapt curiosity. A casual glance outside confronts the eye-burning reality, just two steps outdoors accompany an acrid smell of the air making one throw up, round-the-clock reports of heart-rending news and a tireless wait for more such news----amid all this when in the classroom he saw the unblemished faces of the innocent students his mind felt heavy. Because a matured brain ever-conscious of the consequences sent to his mind a foul message. But he felt enthused also as his mind perhaps vaguely toyed with the idea of keeping them absorbed, with the possibility of keeping the sheen of their faces fresh from the pollution of the newspapers of reality, and he started his lecture taking them to the midst of things known and read, things unknown yet worth knowing, away from the outside reality, even from the narrow confines of the classroom, to a place where they could feel free, breathe easily, sense their happiness unhesitatingly and be surprised without fear. Lost in his lecture, he forgot himself and it did not occur to him that behind all these actually, even he was trying to forget himself perhaps. For it was no less a need for him to forget himself.
The peon came and stood on the doorway with a slip, loathing on his face. He looked up, signalled to the peon to get in; he read, it was from the Principal, a telephone call waited for him. He took leave of the students unwillingly and strode towards the Principal’s chamber hastily.
His bald head was glistening in the light of two florescent bulbs. He advanced his face like a tortoise, the chin placed on the clasped fists and the two elbows resting on the table. The grey moustache, the remaining grey hair bordering the outer edges of the two ears defining the contour of the bald head and a pair of glasses of indefinable age on the eyes; he conjured up the cartoon of a tortoise --an antiquarian living being with a hard and rough shell. The Principal. He didn’t look up to him, listening with rapt attention to a pitiable man sitting in front. Beside the table he stepped towards the receiver of the telephone kept on hold. Startled, the pitiable man turned his eyes at him and again turning them back towards the Principal started searching for the lost thread of the conversation.
He picked up the receiver, put it on his ear, listened, and threw a few questions of a word or two. He stole a glance at the Principal. Listened again and then put the receiver back on the cradle without a sound. Making his way from behind the Principal he hung about by the side of the table, embarrassed. The man finished all that he had to say. The Principal unfastened the fists, picked up the all powerful pen like a weapon and leant against the back of the chair in a leisurely fashion. Making his eyes still through the powerful glasses, he looked at the guardian in front. He said thereafter, “Your son has failed to clear the hurdle of the final exam even after two attempts and why do you want to give him trouble again? Admission has stopped. So no way out. Go and get him to pull the plough on the field and get him married.” He bade the man adieu with his wordplay and looked at him.
“So, what’s up? Phone calls are on the rise.” There was more a sense of accusation than anxiety in it. He responded hurriedly, “Eh, no sir... it was from home...mother is not keeping well...” he left the statement unfinished and stayed conscious to judge whether the lie betrayed any truth.
“Is it? But what will you do by going there all the way from here? Tell her to consult the doctor. What’s her age?” He expressed negative anxiety and got back into the form of a tortoise with the pen in hand.
“Age is not ripe as such, sir. I’m the eldest of the siblings. The illness is somewhat serious. Has consulted the doctor....tomorrow is a Saturday, sir...” he once again kept the statement unfinished.
“Fair enough. Then go in the afternoon shift tomorrow, you can return day after tomorrow, Sunday. Don’t miss classes at this hour,” said he, as if, like his well-wisher.
But he was hopeless with no option left, and there was a need for self-protection. Therefore, perhaps, an instantaneous resistance grew inside him. He blurted out: “No, how about taking leave for tomorrow, sir? Then I’ll be able to get back the day after tomorrow. There is only one class left today. That will be assigned to Pallabi.” He appeared abnormally unhesitant, positive and spontaneous.
The Principal paused, thought for a few moments, measured out what he said and responded: “Okay, go. Tell your Head to manage the classes for tomorrow.”
“Of course, sir. M leaving”, he took leave with his permission, enthused.
“Put in place the application for leave,” the Principal threw his authority unto him. The owner of his rented house had got a new telephone connection; this time, when at home, that number would have to be given to Jugin. Going always to the old soul, attending calls there and manoeuvring lies was a nuisance.
Completing all his chores hastily within an hour he rode on the scooter of Ranjan and somehow caught the bus, sweating. Only this bus plies through his village and if he can go by this he will be able to reach home in three hours in daylight itself.
He dropped the cigarette, bade Ranjan adieu and got himself seated in the bus. Tried to introspect whether everything had been done neatly. The application was submitted, the departmental head informed. The owner was not at home, the information was given to the nearby household. The gas cylinder was supposed to arrive tomorrow, would go back perhaps. The window of the kitchen-- Oh, No!! Shit....let it remain so if it was left open.
A bored-looking elderly man was seated by his side, clad in pale dhoti and punjabi, with a day-old beard and stains of areca nut juice on his face. A teacher, a clerk or a village leader---no idea could be made. On the right side, a Marwari family occupied the four seats. Three small girls with an age -gap of two years presumably; the youngest was on the lap of the mother, an infant, perhaps a boy. The patriarch was there with a tiny mark on his forehead, a mouthful of paan, a layer of melted lime on the tip of his index finger. The girls were debating and quarrelling over something. One of them stood up and pleaded: “Papa, give me also.” The boss admonished: “Hey, shut up. Keep sitting in your respective places.”
The bus moved, stopped, moved, slowed down, stopped again, moved again and at last picked up a uniform speed. He looked outside. Nothing caught his eyes. The mind’s door, closed forcibly thus far, was unbolted.
He heard Jugeen’s voice: “Can you come once? They came today also.”
The entire house was ransacked. None was beaten though. The two younger sisters were not at home. Where did they go? Jugeen was calling from the chowk, was afraid to talk much. He also didn’t want to explore much for the fear of the sharp-eared principal. Tried to visualise the plight of the family inwardly. The two faces of his parents buffeted by oppression and humiliation. Where did the sisters go?
Previously, and first time, he was in the village itself. The summer vacation was in progress. A month and a half back. He was playing carrom with a few friends in front of Kandarpa’s shop. The whiz of a truck came rushing in. Someone said, “The army is coming.”
Hardly had he positioned the striker when two sounds struck his chest. It stopped. He asked dispassionately: “Where is it going?”
“These folks keep moving in trucks. Strike.” His friend said.
“If the chance suits the occasion some day, all will be burst into the wind, the truck and others. Won’t imagine.” A spectator watching the game from behind said in a whispering voice.
There was no danger to the household. He released the striker. The shot pocketed a difficult puck and brought two others to a comfortable position. The attention slid back to the game. The two pucks were pocketed easily. The game became interesting. The opposition pocketed the queen. A silent anxiety was hanging there; the plan was being made to possess the queen by pocketing the following puck. The spectators also were suggesting various techniques. The striker got released from the hand at a smooth and calculated pace. The puck was nearly pocketed but it stopped short. A mixed chatter of happiness and despair ensued. In the midst of all this, he heard someone calling out his name in a fear-stricken voice: “Ramen!”
Raising his head he saw Jugeen, his friend and neighbour.
“The army is barging into your house. Come.”
Turning back, he was about to run but someone grabbed him.
“Wait. It won’t be good for you to go.”
He waited for a few seconds, stupefied.
“Nothing can be predicted about them. Absolutely foul-witted.” Someone else said.
He removed the hand and said: “How can I avoid going there?” He proceeded. Jugeen accompanied him.
The truck crossed the entrance and stopped. Some soldiers positioned themselves at the household beside the truck; elderly people assembled on both sides. Womenfolk and a crowd of children gathered at the courtyard of Jugeen’s house. He saw amongst them his mother and the two younger sisters. Fear writ large on his mother’s face and tears on the sisters’ eyes.
The army officer was standing on the veranda. Soldiers inside and on the doorway. He saw through the window his father inside. The soldiers were carrying out a raid inside.
He read the situation. It was relatively safe, nothing was done to anybody. They were searching for something. He got up the veranda. Read from the chest of the officer....Major Y S Jadav. The officer inquired about his identity. Following a moment’s hesitation he introduced himself as one from the neighbouring household. The officer perhaps could grasp the momentary hesitation and probed again if he actually was the elder brother of Niren. His chest shivered, thought he erred. But said in a bold voice: ‘No.”
The raid concluded at one time. The officer asked for a photograph of Niren from his father repeatedly; warned that they knew he came to his house and if he came again, he should be persuaded and taken to the camp, and there was no way out. Before getting into the truck the officer called him and asked to meet him in the camp in the afternoon.
Setting aside various comments, suggestions and bits of advice, he managed a bicycle in the afternoon to go to the camp. Jugeen forcibly got himself seated on the front of the bicycle.
Major Jadav was very well-mannered; after seating him he brougt out cigarettes and offered him also. Hesitant, he did not take. He looked into the distant horizon, thought over something, puffed out through the mouth and nostrils. Again looked into the distance, and then turning his face towards him, asked in a sedate and calm voice in pure Hindi: “How are you related to Niren Barman?”
“I am his elder brother.” He replied in broken Hindi.
“A college professor?” He knew.
“Yes.”
“Why did you lie in the morning?”
“I was scared.”
He smiled. He was relieved a bit, but no word came out. The throat was drying up.
“He keeps coming home every now and then.” Whether Major Jadav was disseminating information or accusing, could not be known.
“I have not met him. We don’t want him to come. We have no connection with him. This is true.” The officer did not believe him.
“Your family wants him to come. Persuade him. He will listen to you.”
“My father has enlightened him umpteen times. He does not agree. Tell me what can be done. No force can be applied regarding such issues. We’ve left him free.” The officer did not believe.
“You persuade him. Tell him this path will lead him nowhere. This path has no end but meets danger, extreme danger and you all also will run into troubles, won’t you? Terror, trouble, tension.” Major Jadav this time uttered each word with a particular stress on it.
He came up to the veranda to see him off; asked him abruptly: “Do you have a photograph of him?”
“No. I don’t.” This was true.
Jugeen asked him outside: “What did he say?”
“Has told us to get Bapa to surrender.” They reached home with no word exchanged all the way through.
That time, he spent the rest of the vacation at home. Read a few books, laboriously prepared two notes for the students. Tried to pen down something on a topic he had been ruminating on for quite some time. Unable to make much progress, quit it. Went to the chowk on a couple of occasions but didn’t halt there for long. After watching a board or two being played by others, he returned. A few days were left till the vacation ended; Jugeen turned up one day in the evening. Coming close to him, said with subdued excitement: “Bapa is coming.”
Jolted out of his senses, he asked: “Who has told you?”
“Nauda has said somebody saw him in the chowk.” Nauda was the younger brother of Jugeen.
“No vigilance of the army?”
“There was. But he mostly walks his way through the army. None recognises him. His photograph is elusive. Who suspects that lean and thin tiny aspect?” A sense of glory permeated Jugeen’s words.
There was a need to meet him, yet a shadow of agony clouded his face. Suspicion loomed large over someone informing the army of Bapa coming home.
The entire evening he spent sitting in a chair in the dark on the front yard. A spiral of dispersed thoughts. Countless images; some of the past, the rest conjured up, of the future. Endless feelings. Darkness was enveloping everything inside and outside by degrees. Nothing appeared to be clear enough. Nothing could be seen clearly and transparently. The past, present and future all descended into darkness. Just a few years—hardly twenty to be precise—they strode their way through them, developed into human beings---what are they left up to? The people, the village, the society...where are they? What has wrecked all to pieces? When a devastating storm wreaks havoc, takes intriguing twists, even the roots get pulled, extirpated.
“Where is elder brother, Namai?”The voice was Maichana’s, from inside. Perhaps dinner was ready. He came to his senses. Coming out of the darkness, he asked himself who he was waiting for....for Bapa? For the demoniac team of Major Jadav? Both the parties took up arms of destruction for protection.
He stood up, would have to get back in before Maichana arrived. Wanted to shake off the evening. Explored some philosophy of reality, away from dreams.
He kept awake despite rolling on the bed. Though trying to be carefree realised that an unfamiliar restlessness was taking the form of spirals inside the mind. Tired mentally, yet sleep eluded him. Something was being awaited—trouble, uncertainty, terror and necessity—every issue of life is bound up with death—what level has life descended to?
A sound came from somewhere. He sat down. Mother got up. He kept sitting. The chest inside was surging. A sound wafted in form the kitchen. Going stealthily he saw Mother holding the gleaming torch while Bapa was eating rice from the dish in his hands, standing. Who informed mother? Nauda? Jugeen? Sensing his presence there, Bapa paused. Mother turned her eyes towards him.
“Come to me, once done with your meal. Have got something to discuss with you.”
He returned to his room with slow steps. Apprehended every moment the sound of Major Jadav’s truck coming in. Or did he wish so? Mother almost followed him.
“Don’t tell him anything harshly. Guide him calmly. He will understand.” Mother told him but didn’t get any assurance from him. If Major Jadav comes at this moment what will they do? There is no answer. What should be done? No answer. Should everything be handed to destiny? Whatever action wills? Will that be worthwhile also to do? No answer to that either. What does his philosophy suggest? What is reality? A social being, well-educated, capable of thinking, possessed of a fine sense of the ethics and reality—what is his take on this issue?
Bapa came in, mobile like wind yet silent.
“Sit down.”
Bapa kept standing. He perhaps was short on time.
“Just leave this all.” He started in a pretty straightforward way. “Have you seen the plight the family has suffered?” The heart was weak inside, shorn of confidence, yet he wielded enough determination in the voice. Bapa hung around, downcast as usual. He perhaps could guess there was no sting in his words.
“Think about Ma and Pita. Spare a thought for Maichana and Namai. I can’t manage everything, will lose all my wits.” Words eluded him to make him understand better and more clearly. Just expected Bapa would respond, would say something weighty worth its salt---reason, ideology and philosophy---something about these-- heavy, bombastic and debatable. Bapa stayed unmoved, speechless.
“You haven’t got it, the path you are treading will lead you nowhere. This path meets no destination.” Immediately after spelling the words out, he remembered that they were the Assamese translation of Major Jadav’s English sentences. Bapa still kept mum. He thought it worthwhile to sign off at this point, didn’t want a negative reply from Bapa. Left him to think.
“Put a serious thought to the issues. You need not worry. I’ll talk to the army.” Felt ashamed to say that he had already a word with Major Jadav. Looked at Bapa—he appeared downcast, silent and inactive. Both kept standing. Motionless, a still photograph. The air inside, swollen up, was also rendered, as if, immobile.
Stepping forward, he softly rolled over the bed. Bapa kept standing like this for a while. The space where he was standing appeared vacant moments later.
A commotion ensued. The bus stopped with a creaking sound. He regained the senses. The handyman boy was crying out thumping on the body of the bus, the driver was hurling abuses at somebody. The bus picked up its speed again. He noticed the bus appeared emptier than before. There was none on the seat adjacent to him, the teacher or the leader had already got down. The Marwari family was not there; he remembered that the bus had halted at a small town and after the small girls had forced their way out creating a fuss the father dragged the baggage out of the bus. Two boys with collegiate looks about them were seated there; they were looking at him repeatedly; perhaps knew him. On the seat in his front was a woman carrying a baby, it was crying and the mother was calming it with breastfeeding. He saw through the window the familiar dwelling compounds and houses of the village, the trees, the broken bridge and the drying river. Realised that he was nearing his house. His chest swelled with agony and a rootless temper. Pulling out the packet of cigarettes, he saw that only one survived. The packet was exhausted without his knowledge.
It was all light everywhere though the sun was not there. He was striding along the village lane after alighting from the bus. One or two souls cast a curious look at him, still others addressed him with discomfort; he reciprocated them with short reticent replies. Spotting a few souls at a distance he crossed them with drooping eyes. Jugeen was waiting in the chowk. He proceeded without looking at anybody. Jugeen and one more friend accompanied him silently.
Reaching the gateway he stopped. The steel trunk of his college days, an old wooden box and an old suitcase were lying scattered on the courtyard with their faces bare. A heap of books, the harmonium of Maichana along with its box lay disarrayed on the veranda.
“What is all this?” He asked Jugeen out of sheer astonishment.
“All were brought out and ransacked. Papers and photographs were being searched.” Jugeen said.
“Did none feel the need to take them in since morning?” The words came out in a little harsher and sharper tone than necessary.
“They are intended to be shown to the MLA. The MLA is on tour to a meeting, is supposed to arrive in a short while.” Jugeen spewed an unreliable excuse. His father came out to the veranda.
“What the hell will the MLA do? Rather, they will deal a blow to the MLA, if the chance comes their way. Whose brain moots such ideas?” He screamed in utter anger and boredom but restrained himself immediately afterwards.
“Put them in, all of them. Hold it....call Dhan in. Tell Nauda to stop reporting to the MLA.” He stepped inside swiftly. The interior was even a damn eyesore. The table, bed, almirah and even the kitchen—all were ransacked and turned topsy-turvy. Hearing his scream, the mother got busy getting the kitchen back into order. The father remained silent.
He felt bored staying at home in the evening. Could not think out what he should do. What was to be done? Even if there was something to be done, what would ensue out of it, when done? He asked himself angrily. A rootless temper, an indefinable sense of humiliation kept the inner recesses of the mind inflated. He got out of his house. Standing on the gateway of Jugeen’s house he called out to him. Jugeen came out. Both kept standing without a word. He took out cigarettes.
“Will you consult the Major once?” Jugeen asked him hesitantly after a few drags on the cigarette.
“What for should I meet him? Have already told him that we have no relationship with him. What else shall I say? This trouble will hang on...no way out.”
“No. This time, a few of them have.....” Jugeen felt hesitant to speak out.
“Have done what?” He looked at Jugeen. Jugeen turned his eyes away, turned them back again and said uncomfortably: “I mean....they’ve harboured foul intention.”
He looked at Jugeen uninterruptedly and asked him with the intensity of only one word: “What?”
Clueless and a little terrified Jugeen responded with some lethargy: “Have asked about Maichanas.”
He stood still, the chest felt stony, breaths didn’t pass through, the voice muted, words elusive.
“I mean, they’ve just enquired about them.” Jugeen manipulated the tone of assurance trying to ease him off.
“What have they asked?” the question got thrown out of nowhere. He was unaware.
The sentence did not come out of Jugeen’s mouth. “Have asked Prasanna....” he replied.
“What have they asked? He repeated. A harsh but subdued voice. He knew this time the question was his, he wanted an answer.
“Just asked...where the girls were. Said..Iska do bahin tha na..kaha gaya..” Jugeen gave him the full reply.
“Where were they?” His voice still sounded subdued.
“They groped their way in the dark through the backyard of our house and sheltered themselves in.”
Despite being forbidden to go in the evening he managed a bicycle and made for the army camp. Jugeen got himself seated in the front.
The armed guard in the camp let him get in after receiving permission from inside. Jugeen waited outside.
“What is this that you’ve done? I did tell you that we have no relationship whatsoever with Niren Barman.” He started off before taking a seat and on being seated at the gesture of Major Jadav waited for his reply. He tried not to betray any tone of accusation in his words spoken in pure Hindi as far as possible. Major Jadav took out cigarettes, offered him, he accepted this time, friendship with him was necessary. Both lit up cigarettes. Jadav changed his sitting posture and bringing himself to a cosier position replied to him in the tone of a dull statement:
“Your brother was at home on the night day before yesterday. We erred in deciding our time of the raid. We should have gone on the early shift of the night.”
He did not speak anything. He could not decide how he would raise the issue.
“People misunderstand us. But we don’t trouble them for nothing.” Major said. He got a chance and responded immediately: “But your men have inquired about my sisters. What for?” A tone of accusation sneaked into his words. He dragged on the cigarette twice. Kept mum for a few moments. Then looking straight at him, he said: “On the last occasion I told you, you might also run into troubles. These are the troubles. If your brother remains untraced we can nab your father. On charges of giving shelter. Collaborator. You know well how the grilling in an army camp is carried out. Or, just take an example, your brother has been traced, firing has ensued, any innocent family member may fall a victim. And the problem is, I’m not part of the raiding expedition always. That’s not possible too. And you know the soldiers, foul-tempered they are. They don’t remain human beings on many occasions. Identify themselves with beasts. And why not? You are a sensible person. We have to work in such situations. So we work like machines on many occasions. Tell me what can be done. Therefore I told you to persuade him and bring him here.”
“But what are you doing? Why don’t you nab him? Nab him; bring him on trial as per the law. We have no objection.”
Major Jadav felt embarrassed. “We have certain problems.” He said with a tinge of dissatisfaction. He understood there was apparently a problem; they had no photograph of him. The other one was his popularity. Besides he was an insurgent with the weakest prospects. Lean and thin, calm and mild. He walked his way right through them at noon.
He explained that he did not want to terrify him. But there were some practical problems. “What happens and when it happens depends on the situation and one can’t guarantee what consequences will emerge out of what.” He said gravely and squeezed the butt of the cigarette into the ashtray.
Seated on the bicycle outside, Jugeen asked: “What did he say?” He said nothing in reply. He could not share with anyone what Jadav said. Getting off the bicycle at the entrance of Jugeen’s house he handed it back to him. Then said with his head lowered: “Tell Nauda to send a message to him not to come home. Danger will follow.”
He disappeared into darkness without looking at Jugeen’s face.
Before going to bed at night he went into his father’s room. He was lying on the bed. As he entered, he got up and sat. The mother was making arrangements for sleeping, now paused while standing. Unable to decide what he should say, he hung on for a while, looked at his parents one by one. Both appeared ready, as if, to hear him say.
“Forbid him to come home. A disaster will ensue.” He paused. No reaction came. He paused further. Looked at his mother, couldn’t guess anything.
“Ma, have you got it?”He asked her impatiently.
“Got it, dear. We won't let him come. But if he still comes, how can you deny his entry at night?” The mother responded in a distressed voice.
He got extremely agitated but restrained himself.
“Don’t let him in even if he comes. Let him go back. Let him get sulky, no issue. If he sets foot at home even once, that will spell disaster. Ma, you haven’t got the point; Pita, explain it to ma.” He captured the tone of admonition.
The father whooped a cough. Perhaps cleared his throat or egged himself on, mustered some energy in the voice and said: “Taught him a lot. What else can I do? Let that happen, whatever is destined. Let all do what they please. You tell the army. We have no interest in the issue.” The pitch of his voice waned by degrees.
In a dimly-lit room, in the dead silence of the night---the father, mother and brother--- oppressed, humiliated and clueless, stayed put to face a destined future.
He sensed a disaster lying on bed in darkness. The scene that happened a while ago was etched in the mind. As if, a staged scene of a drama! Mother, Father and he himself—three characters like statues, static and upright. Well-planned and meaningful blocking. The hearts rent by strong passions and by cruel reality; the inner being of each shattered by deep-seated pain in different ways. The present was being gobbled up by a future, robbed of any prospects. But was it a drama, was it really? Mother, Father and he, a responsible and dutiful elder brother—were they playing the roles of three impersonal characters, pre-destined in history? Each a tragic character of a drama staged in a distant village of the mundane world? Major Jadav in which the undisputed hero? The feelings—were they true only for those moments of the drama? That reality? And now at moments’ intervals, that scene could be dragged into the mind, reversed or fast-forwarded, described and interpreted, and at an inopportune time switched off and thrown off screen and one could sleep hiding one’s face behind a soft pillow.
Sleep eluded him till late through the night. No thought or image made a lasting imprint on his mind. A restless and uncertain mind started voyaging, as if, through myriad thoughts and a vague exhibition of countless images; and on top of that exhibition was the giant shadow of a demoniac and star-studded Major Jadav. Who was this Major Jadav? Somebody asked him from a distance. He felt embarrassed.
As it was a Sunday, it would have befitted him to depart in the afternoon but he set out for the bus in the morning itself. A sense of edginess and clumsiness was disturbing him at home. He made his way into Jugeen’s house. Gave him the number of the new telephone connection possessed by the owner of his house and instructed him not to make any call to the college.
After crossing the chowk he rather made for the army camp with quick steps than pick up the road where the bus plied. Last night while rummaging through countless thoughts and images of the past and future he saw the giant shadow of Major Jadav and therefore he thought that he would share with him his observations. Yet somebody threw a difficult and disturbing question—who is Jadav?
Outside the camp Major Jadav was on his night attire, sitting and smoking by the side of a table. Offered him cigarettes after he was seated. He sat on. Could not speak anything. What did he come here to say? Why was there no word from his mouth? Jadav was an experienced customer. He waited.
“I am on my way, Jadavji. He wanted to familiarise the relationship.
“All right.” Jadav said and waited further. He kept sitting and took a drag on the cigarette. He was feeling embarrassed.
“Take some tea.” Jadav said.
“No. I’m leaving.” He said but showed no sign of standing up. Just kept dragging on the cigarette.
“I’ve sealed his entry to my home.”---He said abruptly. Jadav listened and looked down. He kept tossing the packet of cigarettes on the table.
“I am extremely worried about my family.” At last, the issue found its way out of his mouth, indirectly though. Jadav nodded and waited. He said then:
“Aren’t you worried about your brother? Jadav looked at him.
Trying to give a quick reply he paused. What was he doing? An all-powerful Jadav.....was he expecting safety of his family from him? Why would Jadav agree? Jadav had already fixed the value of that without uttering a single word. His head smacked of an explosion inside. He looked at him like a lunatic; his imagination never prophesied such an incident; he broke into a choked wail submissively: “Tell me, what I can do. I tried my best. My father told me yesterday, he is helpless. He......”He suddenly hushed his mouth.
“That’s very sad. But perhaps this is the reality of today.” An experienced Jadav quipped.
“Jadavji, you do what you please; do all that you should do; I have no objection. But I don’t want any harm to be done to my family.” He wanted to say even more clearly but something kept his tongue tied.
“I do feel bad for you. I can’t give you any guarantee. Everything depends on the situation. Okay, let’s see.” Jadav said with unhesitating clarity. He understood, he should take his leave.
After attending the last class he entered the staff room in the afternoon; none was there. The mind felt light, sans burden; it called for a dragging on the cigarette with comfort. Coming back from home he had stayed confined to his room, traumatised. Was taking classes as per the routine. Stayed away from the evening adda. Got perplexed trying to find answers to questions raised relentlessly during the confinement at home. Which world was real? A down-to-earth world belonging to the familiar, ignorant and dear people of his village house. Two categories of people in which turned life into a hell with their heavenly promises. Both categories of people perhaps formed a uniform group in essence. And the other world—the ideology of a so-called honest teacher, age-induced youthful vigour of the students, malicious friendship of friends, their soulless relationship, meaningless gossips, purposeless whiling away of time, insoluble riddles—a world amidst all these floating aloft, created by himself. He didn’t feel at home in either world. Neither of them he found real enough from a distance. Each world was constructed with social, biological, moral, intellectual value patterns and everybody thought that was real.
Sandwiched between these two worlds, he stood at an imaginary distance mutilating himself and rendering himself bloody with countless questions and with conflicts between reason and unreason, truth and untruth, reality and illusion. On occasions, burdened with some intriguing question, he was screaming inwardly like a character of a fable: “Am I my brother’s keeper?” And immediately afterwards, his reality was pierced and shrunken by a series of familiar questions. Again, coming out of the battle of questions and ridding himself of all reservations, when in a peaceful state of mind he tried to traverse the realm of philosophy, just then, yet another embarrassing and grave question presented itself like a bolt from the blue: who is Jadav? He searched for an answer within himself, Major Jadav was a force, obviously; he understood that he had the backing of law behind him. He was the state. He was power personified. And now, not the answer but another question alighted his mind—who has given him this power? The power of destruction? His body was shivering. He came out of his mind into the open.
In the morning today, suddenly, he woke up late perhaps, a lively gleam of the sun filtered in and, started dancing about as he opened the window and made its way gently into his bosom. The inner recesses of his mind got rippled. The weight on the head of these days fell off. As soon as he sat down to take tea on the table on the veranda at the backside, the pair of nightingales which frequented the courtyard to eat roti came flying in and perched on the clothesline by his side and demanded roti with silent admonition.
“Sorry, got late getting up today”—he tendered his excuse to them and the mind felt lighter. Sulky, they turned their heads sideways; he tore out the roti into pieces on the veranda. Without objection they got down to the veranda and started eating a little cautiously though. How can humans be so close! He marvelled at himself, and felt a bit conceited at the reliance they placed on him. In spite of suffering a cut while shaving, he set out for college, elated.
Everybody’s mind appeared illuminated today, the reason unknown. Binod Goswami who usually supplicated his hands to somebody else while coming out of the canteen, discovered two cigarettes in his front pocket and offered one to him.
“Attended some marriage yesterday, Goswami?” He asked.
“No, why?”—Goswami mending his cigarette questioned back.
“No, I mean, did the cigarettes make their way from the marriage shed?”
Goswami gave a bashful smile. He said: No, ehm! The rickshaw-puller didn’t have change. It would not have befitted me to buy just one cigarette. And to prevent any smell, it was folded and tucked well beneath.” He extended his cigarette towards the blazing match-stick in his hands.
Making his way out of the library at noontime he saw a few students were awaiting him. He understood they were there on purpose.
“What’s up?” He asked.
“Will you take the Major class today, sir?” One student asked. He now got the purpose.
“Why did you think otherwise?”
“Turmeric exceeded the limit today in dal, sir.” The naughtiest one in the group broke loose. He found himself at his wit’s end and got enraged a bit also.
“What?”— Appearing grave abruptly, he asked.
They kept quiet. Knowing that he was angry, the brilliant and modest girl in front pointed out to his chest with terrified eyes—“Sir, your shirt is saturated with spots of dal spilling over.”
He looked at himself, saw clear spots of dal on his shirt. It did not catch his eyes for so long, he felt uneasy. But immediately afterwards, he broke into a boisterous laughter, glancing towards them. Then wearing a manipulated anger on the face he said: “The salt too went beyond the limit, you’ll know that in the class; let’s go.”
The class interested him, a lot of time elapsed. While coming out, he overheard: “Two hours! Let’s tease him more, will you?” He looked at the watch, smiling.
Remembering those things he smiled even now. He looked at the watch, it was past four, none was there. The watchman was waiting outside to close the door. He came out after trampling the butt of the cigarette. Seeing the Principal’s chamber open, he peeped through, and sought permission to enter in a low voice.
“O yes, come in, come in. Where were you?”
“Was taking classes, sir.”
“Very good. It feels good that the course is making sufficient progress.” He seemed to be on sportive mood. Will he ask for leave?
“Yes sir, I’ve almost wound up.” He said.
“Good. I like this. You must earn your bed. And you should also do something worthwhile; take to some serious study. These stupid gossips, meaningless preoccupations....these will earn you nothing. Though it seems a little hackneyed, all that glitters is not gold. Got the point?”
A sermon from the hilltop! His eyes were directed towards his bald head dazzling in the light of two florescent bulbs. He readily supported him.
“Yes sir, I’ve been observing this always.” He let a few seconds pass by and then lowering the pitch of the voice blurted out:
“Sir, shall I go home on Friday?”
“Why?” His face turned serious suddenly.
“Sir, there has been no news of Pita for a long time. That’s causing me some worry. Sir, you know well, Pita....” He said leaving the sentence unfinished and engineering as much gravity and pity on his face as possible. Thought with some anxiety that last time he had perhaps fabricated the issue of his mother’s illness.
“Have you got some days’ leave intact?” He asked solemnly.
“I’ve got, sir. I usually don’t take leave as far as possible; just try to make do with the Saturdays and Sundays...”
He got satisfied. “Okay, go. Put in place the application.” He bade him adieu.
Coming out of the college he took some rest at his room. Pondered over the idea of giving the information to Jugeen over phone. Since there was no specific message from him, then everything must be all right at home, he thought, and he was going on next Friday anyways. He got up, changed his clothes and made for the evening adda after a prolonged interval.
The friends were smoking in the restaurant. Once in there, he made an announcement:
“Today I’ll throw a party. Got two days’ leave granted from the old guy. Calls for celebration. Hey, serve everyone a paratha.” He threw the packet of cigarettes over to the table after the manner of a hero.
“Two days! Whoops! Haven’t you found a place to fabricate things?—said Ranjan.
“What do you think? The course is finished. Principal is satisfied. I could have availed of the leave from Wednesday itself.” He said and lifted the cigarette to his lips with some disappointment.
“May be. The old chap loves him.” Said Nitya taking a new cigarette out of the packet and lighting it from the one that was ending.”
“You know, this fellow turns into a chain smoker when he finds cigarettes for free.” Pradip said pointing out to Nitya and handed him the empty packet. He crushed the packet within his fist and gestured to throw it at the body of Pradip uttering the word chala.
After dinner, reclining on the bed he switched on the TV. On one channel a black and white movie flashed on the screen. After watching it attentively for a few moments, out of pleasant surprise he mouthed: Are! He sat more comfortably with interest; an old movie that he’d seen way back—“Bicycle Thieves.” He got lost in the movie lighting a cigarette.
After waking up quite late in the morning he discovered that he was lying on bed, arched. The remote control of the TV, the cigarette packet and the match-box lying by the side of his hand. He called to mind the movie on TV. Though wishing to get up at the end of the movie he rather was mulling over the contents of the movie putting the power button of the TV off. The last scene bringing to life the tender hand of the child clasping gently the hand of his robbed, oppressed and humiliated father, the delicate feel of the unfathomable warmth of humanity, the shelter of the humans amid penury, misfortune, pain and downfall. The chest inside felt a crumple.
Putting his hand on the packet of cigarettes he looked at the watch, jumped up like a spring being released; just ten minutes left for the morning class. Leaving everything on the bed he got down to the ground, threw onto the table the daily newspaper making its way in from beneath the door and scuttled to the bathroom.
By the time he combed his hair after dressing himself up, fifteen minutes had elapsed. The owner of his house was making a scream: “Hey Barman, your call is waiting.”
“Dang! Principal! He ran. Just a five minutes’ delay would cause him to call up. What made him give the number to the old fellow? Now there would be curtains on two days’ leave.
Picking up the receiver he burst forth impatiently: “Hello!”
Jugeen!!
Every word mouthed by Jugeen in a low broken voice was rending his heart like a bullet. His eyes were blown off. He grabbed hard the table supporting the telephone. His brain got blown apart along with the skull. He wanted to sit down; there was nothing to sit on. He knelt down. He tried to hold the smooth concrete wall. The following word struck his chest. His heart came to a halt. He sank to the floor.
Jugeen’s voice came to a standstill. The connection got disrupted. The world appeared devastated, gutted, sandy, and void. The time got fossilised.
Notes:
1. Chowk: A township where several roads crisscross and shops are located on all sides.
2. Dal: An Assamese curry of pulses cooked with the addition of turmeric, salt and other spices.
3. Chala: An Assamese interjection expressing dissatisfaction.
4. Are: An Assamese interjection expressing surprise and anger.
5. Ma: An Assamese appellation to address one's mother.
6. Pita: An Assamese appellation to address one's father.
**Translated by Apurbajyoti Hazarika from the original Assamese short story entitled 'Mojiaat Tez' by Apurba Sarmah
About the author
Abour the translator
Navigations 
Quick Contact
Subscribe Us
Quick Mail
