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East-West (Purbo-Paschim)

PART TWO by Sunil Gangopadhyay

East-West (Part Two): Outside a plush hotel in New York, an Indian youth is seen waiting for an appointment. He is desperately in need of a job. He is Atin, the young boy of Part One who gets mixed up in politics, and is obliged to leave the country, much against his will. He is still a revolutionary at heart, he hates his exile in America.

The large canvas of this novel covers three continents, but more particularly the dramatic events following the partition of India, the political unrest in West Bengal, the plight of the refugees and the birth of a new nation, Bangladesh. The social and political reality instead of remaining a backdrop takes on centre stage where simultaneously individual lives unfold, each with it's own account of love, hate, passion and betrayal. The author takes a dispassionate look at the Naxal revolutionaries, exposing their vulnerability, the colossal tragedy of so many promising lives coming to a pointless end. On the other side, in the other Bengal, events move to an inexorable climax, while the fictional characters flit across the stage, the shadow of actual historical figures loom large — Ayub Khan, Yahya Khan, General Niazi and the day by day account of how the mighty Pakistan Army, one of the best in the world was doomed to a most humiliating defeat.

This novel of epic proportions is an unique experiment in blending fiction with facts, an attempt to truthfully capture a swiftly moving course of events, a compelling novel difficult to put down.

Sunil Gangopadhyay (b. 1934), lost his father quite early and had to struggle hard to support the family. They lost their ancestral home in the partition and settled in Kolkata. Along with doing various odd jobs, Sunil continued his studies and did his masters from the Calcutta University. Poetry was his first love. He spearheaded a poetry movement, started a poetry journal which had a long life of twenty-five years. In 1966 he tried his hand at fiction and made a mark overnight. Since then he has been writing novels and short stories at a prolific rate and is now considered one of the most outstanding of modern Indian writers.

Enakshi Chatterjee, a bilingual writer in Bangla and English has won the Rabindra Puraskar for Parmanu Jignasa, a book on the history of science, written jointly with her scientist husband Dr. Santimay. She has a number of books to her credit—biographies, children's fiction, science fiction, popular science and translations. The wide spectrum of Bengali fiction translated by her range from Tarasankar on one end to new and emerging writers like Sohrab Hossain on the other. She is equally at ease with the reverse kind of translation, the most notable being Satpatro, Bengali rendering of Vikram Seth's A Suitable Boy. EAST-WEST

PURBO - PASCHIM

SUNIL GANGOPADHYAY

PART TWO

Translated from the Bengali Original

by

ENAKSHI CHATTERJEE

nk SAHITYA AKADEMI

East-West (Part Two): An English translation of Sunil Gangopadhyay's Bengali novel Purbo-Paschim by Enakshi Chatterjee, Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi. 2004

Sahitya Akademi Rabindra Bhavan, 35, Ferozeshah Road, New Delhi 110 001

Sales Office 'Swati', Mandir Marg, New Delhi-110 001

Regional Offices Jeevan Tara Building (Fourth Floor), 23A/44X, Diamond Harbour Road, Kolkata 700 053

Central College Campus, Dr. B.R. Ambedkar Veedhi, Bangalore 560 001

172, Mumbai Marathi Grantha Sangrahalaya Marg, Dadar, Mumbai 400 014

Main Building, Guna Buildings (Second Floor), 443 (304), Anna Salai, Teynampet, Chennai 600 018

© English Translation, Sahitya Akademi First Published 2004

ISBN 81-260-1895-X

Rupees Two Hundred Seventy Five

Cover Design: Biplab Kundu Cover inset: R.K. Yadav

Typeset at Printo Graphic Systems, New Delhi and printed by Wellwish Printers, Delhi-110 088

Afterwards

1

LIKE fine puffs of beaten cotton light snow has been floating down since early morning, whitening the treetops. Rows of weeping willows stood leaning towards the river looking sad and morose. There were plenty of other trees too, poplar and maple among them.

The road, Riverside Drive goes parallel to the Hudson River. The pedestrian path had plenty of seats, cemented tables for playing cards or chess. The seats however were unoccupied at this time of the day.

Cars rolled smoothly along the roads without jerks or honking of horns. There was only the muffled groan of friction as the cars sped through the wind. It was a funny city sound.

Atin was slowly walking, gloved hands dug inside the pockets of his overcoat. The gloves had a few holes, he was obliged to keep them away from the cold blast. Atin sported a fashionably cut beard, thick moustaches, a pair of sunglasses and a cap. He looked up once and glanced across the street to a bank building, the clock of which alternately flashed the temperature and time. It was 8- 17 in the morning and minus 4°.

The snow had started melting by the middle of March, deceptively heralding the advent of spring. Spring does not come so early in this part of the world. For the last couple of days the sky had been cloudy and snowing had continued.

Atin felt a strong urge to smoke but he could not very well light a cigarette with the gloves on. Siddhartha has warned him of frostbite, of losing his fingertips from exposure to the cold.

He had come out of home much before time. There was plenty of time to take a slow walk. He had enough warm clothes to fight the cold — woollen vest, a terry wool shirt, a jacket and an overcoat; the cold fresh air made him feel good.

He passed other pedestrians. The riverside drive was a favourite spot. It was a working day to day but the city had a lot of people who had no work. Then there were the tourists to throng the city the year round.

From the opposite direction two young men with obviously Indian appearance walked towards Atin. Afraid that they might be Bengali, Atin stepped behind a tree to avoid a direct encounter. He was not keen to make acquaintance with unknown Bengalis. He pricked his ears. Yes he was right. They were talking in Bengali though with a strong East Pakistani accent. At exactly five minutes to nine Atin reached the gate of the Central Park facing the Plaza Hotel. He had an appointment at nine. By now the snow had stopped, making way for the sun. Unpredictable weather.

To stop his increasingly fast heart beats Atin lit a cigarette. He had half a mind to turn back.

He had a few quick puff of his Lucky Strike. Children in bright clothes tumbled about in the park, under the watchful eyes of a woman. An old man hungrily watched them. Perhaps he is childless or forsaken by his children.

Atin threw away the cigarette and crossed the street to come to the gilded entrance of the Hotel. Plaza was high profile, patronised by the presidents and vice presidents of big companies and film stars, much beyond the reach of ordinary tourists.

Fortunately one had free access to the lobby, that was one thing he liked about this country. You could roam about the hotel or shopping arcades at will: there was nobody to stop you. Perhaps they kept an eye on you. Anyway no coloured person ever dared to enter these hallowed precincts. Atin, looking straight ahead went up the flight of stairs, pushed the revolving glass door and walked in.

The counter stood to his right: the staircase was next, then the lift. As he stood in the spacious lobby Atin noticed that everything including the furniture, the doors, the railings looked as though they were made of gold. He wondered if that is what is called gold plated.

As he walked up to the counter his heartbeats continued to bother him. What the hell. He should not feel nervous, come what may.

Of the five people at the reception counter he chose the one with the most innocent look. Adjusting the knot of his tie, Atin cleared his throat, then asked, Excuse me, I would like to see Mr. Samuel Wheeler please.

The blue eyed golden haired youth who could easily have been a film star replied politely, May I know if you have an appointment?

The Indian habit of just a nod is often misunderstood by these people. So Atin added, Yes, I have an appointment with Mr. Wheeler.

Just a moment.

Hotels like these never gave away the room number of their clients. Allowing just anybody to go up was totally out of the question.

The young man studied a list, listened to a phone and finally declared, I am afraid sir, nobody is in.

All blood drained from Atin's face. What did he mean? Not in? Yesterday he had talked to Samuel Wheeler on the phone and he said Friday at 9 a.m. and he is not in. So much for the words of the white people.

On second thought he realised that the gentleman might be downstairs, having breakfast. Can I have a look at the dining halls? He ventured. The receptionist gave him a bland look which must have been part of his training to show faultless good manners minus human warmth. Does he not realise that Atin has come a long way, that he is in a problem? Atin might be but that is not this man's job.

Perhaps nobody would have stopped him from looking for Samuel Wheeler but Atin did not know him. It would have been stupid of him to keep asking for the identity of Mr. Wheeler.

The receptionist meanwhile had other people to attend to. Atin waited sheepishly feeling empty inside. Would all his efforts be in vain — all the preparation to the extent of the borrowing of a suit?

Finding Atin still waiting the receptionist turned to the key counter. He hasn't left his key, he said almost to himself. But his expression changed as he discovered a piece of paper in the keyhole.

Sorry sir, he has left an instruction. May I know your name please? Then he checked Atin's card and said,

Mr. Samuel Wheeler is waiting for you at the swimming pool.

Was that man out of his mind? Meet him at the swimming pool in this weather?

Which way is the swimming pool?

The receptionist could not help showing impatience. He has already spent his valuable time — six minutes per dollar for this stranger. He pointed to a wall, which showed arrow marks leading to the swimming pool, the sunbath, the conference hall and other dining halls. How could Atin know that such information is pasted in the wall?

He followed an arrow towards the pool. He has been here for more than a year but was yet to get used to their peculiar ways. Of course there are heated and covered pools for health fanatics who want to swim the year round.

Suppose the pool was crowded, how would he spot Samuel Wheeler? It would be easier for him to spot Atin, the only non-white in this all white zone.

He had to deposit his overcoat at the entrance of the pool. I am not going to swim; I have to see someone, said Atin, handing him his coat. This calls for a tip, he realised, goodness knows how much. For every little service they expect a tip in this country. If you under-tip they give you a contemptuous look. Once he was forced to take a taxi. As he was counting the change the Puerto Rican driver picked up a half-dollar and two quarters on his own. That has taught him the lesson that you have to pay fifteen percent extra.

Fortunately there was only one male swimmer in the pool among a handful of children and women. A young woman with just an underwear the size of a tie sat on the steps, her figure enough to drive one crazy. Her legs were smooth like the peeled trunk of a banana tree; her uncovered breasts like two conch shells just picked from the sea. The feminists of this country have rejected the bra since the sixties, she was a living reminder.

Naturally he could not take his eyes off this shameless beauty but necessity prompted him to turn his gaze to the gentleman. He looked robust and middle aged with a square face and small eyes. The hair on his chest was grey though his head was topped with black hair. He beckoned Atin and swam towards the topless nymph.

Since the interview was in the morning Atin had expected it to be over breakfast and did not have anything in the morning. This man has the audacity to call him at the swimming pool. Atin felt insulted. The tips of his nose and ears grew red.

Obliged to go down on his knees Atin tried to be as civil as possible.

Are you Mr. Samuel Wheeler? I am...

Hi, said Mr. Wheeler. He took a fleeting look at the nymph and added with a twinkle of a smile, You Paki or an Injun?

What on earth was he mumbling? For all his efforts at mastering American English spending three to four hours in front of the television Atin was completely floored. Then it dawned. Of course. He meant Red Indians. Paki was Pakistani. So it was meant as a joke, the great American vice.

Atin gave a very polite reply: Sir, I happen to be an Indian from India.

Good, good. It seemed to please Mr. Wheeler. I like Indians. Have been to India way back in 44, was serving my stint in the army. Bombay, Khajuraho, Ajanta...I remember them. Listen young man. I hope you do not mind my calling you here. You see I must have a swim in the morning. Let us come to business. From which university in India have you acquired your degree in Chemistry?

What kind of an interview was this? Atin was furious. This half naked gorilla of a man notwithstanding his qualities has the audacity to throw questions like this. Would he have dared to subject a white man to this kind of treatment?

He had an impulse to walk away. But something held him back. Only the other day a Bengali engineer in New Jersey was murdered by a fellow Bengali. The police were still on the lookout for the killer. The murdered man had Naxal links back home. It was not very clear if he had killed anyone but chances of a vendetta could not be left out. Quite a lot of Bengali boys came here to study.

This was a warning. Leave New York Siddhartha had advised him. New York state had a sizeable Bengali population, some residents, some on short-term visits. Someone from Siliguri or Jalpaiguri might recognise him and try to take vengeance. For Atin it would be safer to move to Mid West, Arizona or New Mexico. Bengalis or tourists did not frequent them in general.

There was a lot of sense in what he said. In fact Atin had an inkling of it in London. By that time the Naxals of West Bengal were on the run after about two and a half years of dominance. The police and the army were after them, killing Naxals or suspected Naxals indiscriminately. An intellectual like Saroj Dutta out talking a walk in the morning was shot. Naturally these events sent ripples to distant shores. An innocent, nondescript Bengali young man interrupted Atin in a heated argument: You call yourself Atin Majumder, do you come from the Kalighat area? On my last visit home I learnt of the son of a sub judge, Pratap Majumder, your namesake, a murderer, has jumped bail and left the country. Siddhartha was right but America was no longer a job seekers paradise. It is not easy to get a job in the Mid West or Arizona. The scene has changed in the last couple of years. The discovery of petroleum in the Arab countries has caused a jolt. It has been a big mistake to concentrate all their attention to the Soviet Union, the Americans have realised to their chagrin.

He had applied to an advertisement put out by a pharmaceutical company. Siddhartha's brother- in-law knew somebody there. That was how Atin got called for this interview. As a matter of fact he too wanted to leave New York. He easily got worked up, anyone asking him about his past was enough to give him a sleepless night. A flippant tone would lead to bad temper, he was once at the point of strangling someone. He was not a murderer, what he was compelled to do was merely in self-defense.

With great restraint he went on replying to Samuel's queries. Most of the questions were inconsequential. It was conducted within earshot of the semi naked beauty - this was what bothered him most. It was an unfair contest. Atin would have scored better than this hefty fellow if the question was one of winning a favour from the mermaid. But women in this country rated money and power above good looks. What chance did Atin have against someone of importance to whom Atin has come seeking favour.

The girl was drinking beer and giving them a steady stare. Obviously the daily swims took care of the fat which was likely to accumulate from drinking beer.

Samuel kept stealing glances at the bare breasts of the mermaid but Atin had to keep his gaze fixed on Samuel. This was indeed unfair. But what could a poor Indian seeking a job do? He could not afford to be distracted.

The children splashing in the deep blue waters of the pool stared at Atin perhaps because he was the only coloured person or because he was kneeling, fully clothed. The other swimmers were clad in proper swimsuits. Only this girl was determined to show off her figure. Artificial light from the low ceiling fell on her body creating the effect of sun light.

Samuel asked. Do you know Spanish?

A little taken aback, Atin had to blurt out the truth, No sir.

But you will have to go to Mexico often, the knowledge of Spanish is a must.

I will learn it sir, in three months.

Excellent. But I am afraid you will have to shave off your beard. The moustache may stay. Our chairman whose son had gone to Berkeley and turned into a beatnik is allergic to beards.

It looks as though he has got the job. The man is not so bad after all. But he must be wary of the superficial friendliness. Siddhartha has warned him, these people are not like glum faced Indian officers. They are easy and friendly though it may be a put on facade.

But this fellow insists on being personal — learn Spanish, shave your beard. All right, all right, Atin will not mind shaving if it would help him leave New York. A couple of the Bengali residents of New Jersey, for some unknown reason were hostile to him. At least in Arizona nobody knew him. He can start a new life.

Another thing, put in Samuel, you would have to change your name. We are on first name terms in our company, they can't handle your Indian name. I couldn't, how about Tom — short and simple.

Atin was shaken. So he has to change the name given by his parents, all for the sake of a job. It was an ironic reminder of a practice followed at one of his friend, Dhruba's house. The servants were called Ram no matter what their actual names were.

Sammy, are you through? I am going back to the room, said the naked nymph.

It is over darling, said Samuel. What do you think of this boy?

OK, said the nymph, busy cleaning her toes. She did not even look at Atin.

Stunned, Atin tried to figure out the role of this woman in Samuel's life. A wife? A companion? A private secretary? Whoever she may be her opinion seems to matter.

Samuel did not leave the pool. He extended his hand for a wet handshake and said, All right. You will be getting a letter.

Thank you, said Atin, He got up and started to walk mechanically. He even forgot to tip the man who had kept his overcoat. He felt as though he had been slapped hard on the cheeks. Almost at the point of tears, he ran out of the hotel and walked in the snow without putting his overcoat and gloves. He felt flushed; his hands shook as tried to light a cigarette. He, Atin Majumder, son of Pratap Majumder of Malkhanagar, to sink so low. His father never asked for favour except for once and that too for his son.

To think that he was subjected to this indignity by a floating gorilla and a naked girl. Was it just American informality or reluctance to waste time for a coloured Indian.

To hell with the job!

The morning, that began so brilliantly, had turned sour. Before him stretched the famous Fifth Avenue. He can shed tears as much as he liked — nobody was likely to give him a second look. Atin gnashed his teeth and bellowed — son of a bitch!

2

SIDDHARTHA woke him up. It was seven in the evening, not the time to go to bed. The TV was on, the window curtains were drawn, about six beer bottles stood on the bedside table. Siddhartha found Atin fast asleep, one arm dangling from the bed. He pulled his friend by that arm and said, Get up, Bablu.

His voice still drowsy from sleep, Atin grumbled. Will you let me sleep? I can't do any cooking today.

His friend switched off the TV, drew back the curtains and gazed at the city lights. You have a letter from home, he said simply.

It had an immediate effect. Atin sat up. You are joking, he said.

Siddhartha showed him the envelop and put it back in his pocket. Acting Devdas, are you? Drinking alone, pining away, the agony of unemployment. You didn't go to work?

Let me have the letter. Who is it from?

Get up and wash your face first. Change your dirty vest. You have no right to read this letter in dirty clothes. Why have you turned the thermostat so high. It is unhygienic.

Already Atin was feeling the effect of a nap after taking beer during the day. He pressed his temples. Do you happen to have a tablet of tilenol?

A cup of strong coffee is the best thing.

Tidy by nature, Siddhartha put his clothes in the proper places, tidied the room, then turned the thermostat down. Then he went into the kitchen and put the cattle on.

Emerging from the bathroom, Atin found the envelop on the table. The capital letters told him it was from his mother.

There was also a letter from Munni. Baba never wrote, neither did Atin though he was always having imaginary arguments with his father.

He glanced through the two letters quickly, he would read them again over and over. No there was no major news. Neither Ma nor Munni ever wrote about any illness.

Siddhartha came up with two cups of coffee.

From home? he enquired.

Without taking his eyes off the letters, Atin nodded.

Take out the aerogram from the drawer and start writing, smiled Siddhartha. Went to the sea side in the weekend. You know Ma, I have bought a red car, and you should see the roses in my garden. I have had a promotion, my boss took me to a Broadway show and dinner.

Atin put the letters back in the envelope and sipped his coffee.

Our parents back in Calcutta are under the illusion that the son is having a good time in New York, the best city in the world, driving his own car, pockets stuffed with dollars.

Atin dug into his pocket and fished out a ten-dollar bill. So you did go to work after all.

The work meant working as daily labour in a nearby supermarket. It was the meanest work possible, unloading crates of apple from trucks for two dollars an hour. He has to don a blue overall and a cloth cap. No need to talk to anyone, which was a good thing. The crates were heavy, his arm joints ached but he kept mum. What a lot of apples, these people eat like monsters.

So it is ten today. What is the going rate for dollars, five eighty, say six. Sixty rupees is a lot of money. How much did you make at that Siliguri college?

Atin finished his coffee in silence then lit a cigarette. The window-pane had frosted. He drew lines on its surface.

Aren't you hungry, Bablu? Got to cook.

We have some khichri from morning. Would you fry some eggs and sausages, please? I do not feel like cooking.

Nostalgia? The letter from home. Tell me if you want to send some money. Saw an ad in the paper, asking for a chemist in a Brooklyn hospital. Like to try?

Nope.

What do you mean? You will keep on doing odd jobs. That gas station job was better, they paid more.

One fellow used to call me a bastard.

It was a way of speech. It is a land of bastards, after all. People of mixed blood can work harder. You are no good Bablu; you have remained a namby pamby Bengali. We can't be bothered by stray insults, we immigrants. Our only motto is to earn more and more. Earn and save. You know what I am going to do. To say good bye as soon as my bank balance touches one lakh. Then I am going to build a palace in Madhyamgram and grow flowers. Siddhartha snapped at Atin who had just thrown his cigarette butt into the trash can.

How many times do I have to tell you. Want to start a fire? These houses are so fire prone. He took care of the butt before Atin could pick it up.

Tell you what. We are eating out. Get dressed.

I don't feel like going out. We have some left over khichri.

Hell with your khichri. Let's have steak today. I know of a good joint in the village. Get ready.

But it is so cold outside.

You are not going out without clothes, are you? Did you never go out in the cold when you were in England? England is just as cold. Lazy lump. Put on my blue parka, it suits you better.

What about your bank balance? But I can't starve myself. My way is not through abstention; I want to taste happiness through countless bonds. How did the lines go?

Atin who never cared for poetry shook his head.

I had brought two books of poetry, Sanchayita and Abol tabol to cheer me up. Some son of a swine has swiped it.

They went down the rickety staircase, the steps were worn out, the railing was unsteady. The wall was full of obscene remarks. This was the Third Road in the Lower East Side at one end of Manhattan. Siddhartha lived in the attic of a six storied building inhabited by poor Jewish families, Puerto Ricans and Blacks. The place was smelly and dark, more like a concrete slum. The city authorities have issued notices for vacating, they are going to pull down the building which means Siddhartha will soon have to look for a new place to stay.

They reached Washington Square. Tourists crowded the area in spite of the cold. At one time Greenwich Village used to house famous writers and artists, now they have been replaced by fake artists in bizarre costumes. The tourists simply loved them. Poets used to read out their protest verses in the cafes ten years ago, now actors sporting as writers read out dirty poems much to the glee of the tourists who pay to listen. Most shops and eating joints here are open all night. The double doors keep out the cold, through the open doors sound of music comes streaming out once in a while.

I have never been here at night, remarked Atin. What a lot of hotels and restaurants. I bet the whole of Calcutta does not have this many.

Of all the things that Americans waste, Siddhartha was in a mood for some philosophising, the most prominent are electricity and paper. All through the night the shop lights are on. You won't find this anywhere else in the world. The lighted advertisements blink all night. Tell me who is there to look at them? Go to Lincoln tunnel—simply dazzling all twenty-four hours of day and night. And the way they waste paper. You ask for one paper napkin. They will give you five. Who has the time to read the hefty newspapers, the New York Times, hundred and twenty pages. People leaf through it for ten minutes then throw the entire paper away. How I wish I could sell old newspapers.

And to think that we have a scarcity of paper in India.

Forget about your own country, though it is only natural. Do not try to compare, it is mind boggling. This is the other side of the globe, a country where everything is just the opposite of what you would expect. People starve in our country, and these people throw shiploads of grain into the sea.

They may waste paper but books are pretty costly.

They do not believe in low cost. How to reach to your pocket-that is what determines business policy. Toilet paper, which used to be white are now available in pink and blue as well, it matches better with the wall. That is what they are out to convince you. People do not mind paying an extra ten cent for coloured paper. Does it matter, after all you are merely using it to wipe your bum. The more you spend the more you want to earn. The more you earn the more you spend. That is consumer society for you. A maze from which there is no getting out.

They cut across the park, crossed the wide road to enter an alley. As they crossed a brightly-lit restaurant, Siddhartha remarked. Ever heard of Dylan Thomas? British poet used to drown himself in drink. That is how he met his end here, continuous eighteen pegs. And they have proudly put up a notice saying that he did.

Let me show you something nice, one good point about this society. You said you needed a lamp stand. Would this do?

Some cardboard boxes stood next to a parking meter. Heaped on it were magazines, crockery, gramophones, record-stand, a tall lampstand with a beautiful shade.

People discard thing when moving house. No use taking a lot of useless stuff. They don't have any resale value either. So they are left at street corners. You are free to pick them up.

The lamp stand was of polished wood, even the bulb was intact. Siddhartha felt the texture. It seems to be in perfect condition. Why throw it away?

It is not in fashion. In a capitalistic society utility is not the only thing. When your basic needs have been met, you look for fancy things.

But I have seen people beg.

Must be in this area. They are alcoholics, addicts or homeless. A small minority. Come on, pick it up if you want the lamp. Do not feel embarrassed. Most of my furniture has been picked up from the roadside.

Siddhartha examined the records. Pat Boone, all of them, my pet hate. It is the age of tape recorders, who wants to be bothered with heavy records.

Fancy carrying this huge lamp-stand to the restaurant?

Everything goes. My father tells me that in his time you were not allowed inside a good restaurant unless properly dressed. Look at them now. Come summer and the American youth would crowd all the eating places in Tee shirt and slippers. Thanks to the hippies.

Without waiting for Atin, Siddhartha picked up the lamp-stand and walked up to a restaurant. It had no music and seemed to be quite secluded. He said hi to a woman at the entrance. The woman smiled and returned the greeting.

They found a table. You know this girl? asked Atin.

Do you have to know someone in order to say hi? Siddhartha snapped back.

That girl, quite striking looking in her yellow pullover and jeans was at the door, obviously looking for somebody. Let's ask her to join us, suggested Siddhartha. Actually I was introduced to her once. She is so tall that it is difficult to get a date. But she would be OK for you.

Atin glowered at his friend.

What did I say to deserve such a look? All right, what would you like, a steak?

Whatever you please.

Come on. Don't you have a wish of your own? How about lobster. Don't worry about the price.

No, thank you. Nothing costly for me.

For god's sake drop that angry, rebel expression! Since you have landed here, try to take things as they are. Keep smiling, that is the only way to survive.

Atin did not touch the paper napkins offered by his friend. He stared hard.

Wipe your face. Siddhartha ordered. What is there to be so morose about? The new semesters start from April. You have applied in five, you are sure to get something. After all your results are excellent. But you must have patience. So many of the Indian students even with doctorate degrees have to wait for a couple of years. You know what I had to do? Work as door to door vacuum- cleaner salesman.

Excuse me, sir, you are a Bengali, aren't you?

It came from the waiter, about the same age as them. He had a worried smile on his face. There was nothing unusual in finding Indian or Pakistani waiters in New York. They were naturally happy to hear Bengali from customers.

Where are you from? asked Siddhartha.

Chittagong. Been here for two years. Do you have the latest news from Dhaka?

I am afraid the last I had learnt about Dhaka was from New York Times a small news item and that was a couple of weeks ago.

I have read that. Has there been any reconciliation?

After he left Atin turned to his friend, What has happened in Dhaka?

Lot of disturbances in East Pakistan. Yahya Khan had gone for elections, are you aware of it?

Atin had no idea. They could not afford newspapers. The TV was silent about the sub-continent. Siddhartha however had access to newspapers in his office library.

Now he is in trouble, explained Siddhartha. On the basis of the six-point formula the Awami League has had a landslide victory in East Pakistan, in fact they have a majority in entire Pakistan. Mujibur Rahman must be made the Prime Minister. Bhutto will not have it. That has led to trouble. Let us see, what is the date today? The 25th of March, well today they are . . . He went on but Atin was not interested in what was happening in East Pakistan. He was thinking of his comrades. Kaushik and Pompom are in jail. Manikda has gone underground. It has been so long, he muttered. Haven't heard about them.

West Bengal too is in a bad way. I read in the tabloid India Abroad that the government of Siddhartha Ray has employed a new tactics. They are not taking the Naxal boys to court. Instead they are taking them to the maidan ground and releasing them. As soon as their backs are turned they are being shot. This is called killed in police encounter. The actor Uttam Kumar was having a walk. He saw something like this. You are lucky to have escaped, Atin. You would have met your end the same way if you were in jail.

Atin pushed back his chair and stood up. His eyes were red. I am going, he declared harshly.

Siddhartha held him back. Come on, calm down. What is past is past. You can't very well live in the past.

You have no right to insult me.

Don't you have a sense of humour? High strung. That's what you are.

The waiter from Chittagong brought the steak and a bottle of red wine. They had not ordered for wine. With my compliments, sir, said the waiter. Tell me sir, are you from Dhaka?

No, we are from Calcutta.

Someone came from home last week. He said that students have declared independence, free Bangla. The military have killed many people.

That was two weeks ago. Today, 25th March, the assembly is supposed to be on session, Mujib has to be given power. I am sure the papers will have some news tomorrow. Why don't you join us?

Thank you sir but I am on duty. Do let me have your address, I'll drop in.

When the waiter was out of earshot Atin said, Free Bangla my foot. No army regime can allow secession. They had the perfect situation for a revolution but they chose elections.

You know something very peculiar is happening there. It's unique in the world. The leaders were either in jail or lying low. It is the student community; they have been vocal since sixty-nine. Now the leaders are towing their line. Nobody dares raise a voice against the students. A political change has come through student power and what are you people doing in West Bengal? In-fighting, that's all.

It is all very well to criticise your own people sitting in the United States.

Let's go. There is a horror film on TV at eleven-thirty.

On their way back Siddhartha visited a free coffee counter. Good coffee he declared. Good work by Salvation Army. They keep the young people away from drugs. As if a cup of coffee can cure them, the fools.

Atin felt amused. He laughed after a long time. Back in the attic, Siddhartha settled for the movie, stretching on the bed, Atin sat at the table. He must write to his mother who keeps worrying about him. Naturally he had to make up a lot of stories, he couldn't possibly tell Ma that he worked as a daily labour. Siddhartha must have read one of his letters.

A little later Atin after hesitating a good deal asked, Can I put a long distance to Boston?

Wait for ten minutes. It will be cheaper after midnight.

I will pay.

Sure thing. You know what? Boston University is the right place for you. It will save you all these long distance calls. Let me tell you something, if you do not mind. Sharmila is a gem of a girl. How she came to be attracted to a useless oaf like you beats me. Don't you ever ditch her. That would amount to a crime, I'll never speak to you again, understand?

3

AT his Dhanmandi residence sat Sheikh Mujib clad in a simple kurta pajama topped by a sleeveless jacket, a pipe stuck between his lips. An endless stream of people, party workers, well- wishers, singly and in groups and processions surrounded him. He was exhausted from talking. Next to him, in a white kurta pyjama and shawl, sat a very worried looking Tajuddin, a finger on his chin. From time to time Mujib wanted a respite. "Please speak to Tajuddin," he appealed to the visitors, "Let me have some time to think."

A protest day had been observed two days ago, organised by the Free Bangla Student Action Committee and the Free Bangla Worker Action Committee. A strong wave of agitation swept through the country. A new flag fluttered from the roof top of the Mujib residence — a map of East Bengal in a red circle against a backdrop of green. The green stood for the fertile land of Bengal, the red circle a symbol of the sun smeared in the blood shed by the martyrs. Abdul Mannan, the labour leader has hoisted another flag at the gate of the house which was now the focal point, the centre of the aspirations of a majority of students, workers and intellectuals.

Mujib looked disconcerted. What do they mean — Free Bangla? Surely Pakistan has not been dismembered already? Was it so easy? And why would he try to do that? His six-point demand has triumphed, the Bengali Muslims have got absolute majority. Yahya Khan has no other way but to hand over power. The prime ministership of the entire country was waiting for him, why would he want to break Pakistan?

The students have now gone one step ahead and asking for a eleven point demand. Clamouring for free Bangla, as if it was child's play to snatch half the country from the grips of the military rulers. True he has given a call to build forts in every home but he knew that the clay forts of Bengal will not withstand the bombardment from West Pakistani cannons. Mere will power was not enough to fight against powerful armaments. Notwithstanding the ninety eight percent votes in his favour he was not sure of the support of all his countrymen. Can he alone take the responsibility of a long drawn war, the loss of millions of lives?

He was being warned by the extremists in his party not to fall into the trap of the Bhutto-Yahya nexus, not to be lured into talks which was a ploy to gain time, to get more army into the east. Yet Sheikh Mujib hesitated. After all Yahya was not as scheming as Ayub, surely the General would honour the verdict of the people. The talks have not yet reached a blind alley. May be some conclusion can be reached tonight.

The atmosphere was tense with apprehension. There was a rumour that any moment there would be an army crackdown, student and Awami League leaders would be put behind bars.

Not less than fifty-five processions have met Mujib since morning, six of them of women. They all pleaded with him not to yield to the military rulers. Mujib, overwhelmed, assured them in a voice choked with emotion. In case of a civil war who would provide them with arms and support? Would India? Suppose they did not? How can he allow these bright young idealist boys and girls to become cannon fodder? No, let him make a last attempt, across the table. He was scheduled to meet Yahya a little later.

A group from the student action core committee rushed in. Kamrul Alam Khasru, as their spokesman, requested Mujib to go underground. It is not safe, Mujib bhai, he pleaded, Your house is not safe.

Mujib removed the pipe he was smoking and shook his head. You all get ready, do not worry about me. After all what can they do? Take me away? Let them. I can't sneak away like a thief. Besides if they don't find me they will have it out on the general public — can't let that happen.

Fierce arguments followed but Mujib stuck to his gun. He would like to carry on the dialogue to the last.

The students finally left. Sirajul was with them. Well Sheikh Saheb is stubborn but what about Bhabi and the children? Said someone. Sirajul went back to the house. Bhabi and the family have already left for a relative's house at Shamibag.

They proceeded towards Zahirul Haq Hall. This was originally called Iqbal Hall, but the students have renamed it after Zahirul Haq, a victim of army conspiracy. He was convicted in the Agartala Conspiracy Case like Mujib. He was killed in jail. The entire trial was stage-managed.

The students were even keen to change the street named after Jinnah, substituting it by Surya Sen, a freedom fighter.

They stopped at Modhu's canteen, where a meeting was scheduled at eleven at night.

Five cups of tea, Modhuda.

They waited for Shahjahan, Siraj and Najrul Islam. Tell me Sirajul, asked Kader, Why does Babul Mia, your landlord, visit an army major so often?

To have drinks, what else, interrupted another. A lot of our professors are fifth columnists.

As far as I know, said Kader, Babul Choudhury was a decent man. No alcohol, no smoking. As clean as his clothes.

I know, I know, the younger brother of Altaaf. He runs the paper, which did not support the Awami League. In fact the owner Hossain Mia, the hotelwalla contested against the Awami League candidate. The double dealing lot, whole bunch of them.

I was a student of Babul Choudhury. A Marxist, yet supports the army. Recently he went to China.

That is the reason the so called intellectuals pay second fiddle to the army. They ought to be butchered.

Why are you keeping mum, Sirajul? Because you have your meals at Babul Choudhury's you won't raise your voice against him, is that it?

Sirajul looked down. He owed a lot to Babul, it was only due to his magnanimity that he and Monira could come to Dhaka. He used to hold Babul in high esteem like a pir, almost. A man of learning and well-mannered, Babul was a role model.

Now the same Babul has gone down in his esteem. To think that he ridiculed Sheikh Mujib when the entire country was inspired by him. Echoing the Jamat-i-Islami he said the six-point plan was a plan to break Pakistan, that India was financing Awami League, run according to the order of Indira Gandhi. Babul Choudhury had no words of protest against the army atrocities in East Pakistan, the shooting down of innocent students in March. He even visits an army major regularly, has dinner there. People say he has a soft corner for the wife of that Pakistani Major.

He even treats Monju bhabi badly. They are always fighting, Monju bhabi often goes away to her parents. And that Altaaf is a rogue, he ogles at Monira.

No, I do not share my meals with Babul Choudhury, he explained. I am enjoying his hospitality but nothing else. I will move from his place now.

Machine gun shots somewhere near caused them to stop talking. What does this mean? Right now Sheikh Saheb is supposed to be in a meeting with Bhutto and the President.

Kader peeped outside to find people running helter skelter. More shots were heard. A boy named Montu came running. They are here. The army, the army.

A sound like thunder could be heard. Tanks were out. People fled for dear life. They too decided to leave, leaving the money on the café table. Modhuda, down your shutters and take shelter in Jagannath Hall.

There were some bombs and a few 303 rifles in the upstairs room of the Zahirul Hall. Nobody should be allowed in, be it the police or the army. They found some boys leaving in panic, even after Kader's admonitions some fled, some returned. What on earth was happening? It was so confusing. Did it mean that the talks have broken down? The Martial Law should be withdrawn, Sheikh Saheb had assured. In that case the presence of the army seemed funny.

They took position in one of the upstairs rooms. A shell exploded very close, then another. They could not see any army vehicle from the window. Kader flung a couple of bombs, uttering a filthy abuse. Showers of shells followed.

It was still not clear why there would be a crack-down on students at the dead of night. There was no student protest during the day. There must have been some misunderstanding. Shots were fired from the tanks. With shattering of window-panes, the collapse of the walls, screams from the students inside the hall it was hell let loose. Sirajul jumped away to safety.

The first to go was Kader, then Montu. A minute ago Kader was vehemently abusing the Khan army and now with one shot life went out of his body. It was incredible. Sirajul shook the listless body till someone dragged him away. All the students inside the hall were being killed.

The students fled to the terrace but the next spray of shots sent them scuttling downstairs, like rats in a trap. Smoke and screams filled the air.

Haider threw away the rifle Sirajul was still holding. They broke open one window and ran till they came to a garage. They climbed up. Some were lying flat on the floor. They said, keep quiet.

Meanwhile the army had entered the hall, they shot each and every student as though being a student was crime enough. Those who had nothing to do with politics cried, asking for pardon in broken Urdu but the army personnel were determined to finish them off.

Five figures lay very still on the roof of the garage. I am going to die, Sirajul kept thinking. Kader is dead, it is my turn now. It was a mistake to throw the bomb but Kader would have died anyway. The army was here on a pre-planned mission. Could anyone even dream of such monstrosity—killing civilians without any provocation?

Sirajul thought of Monira who kept awake till her husband returned home. She knew that Sirajul would wait for the results of the proposed talk of Sheikh Saheb with the President, he might spend the night in a Hall, if necessary. But will he survive this night? They would be found out if somebody directs a torch in this direction. The entire youth of East Pakistan were being crushed tonight, there was the sound of dying men and the clatter of guns.

More armoured cars now attacked Jagannath Hall, Salimulla Hall, the medical college hostels. Indiscriminate killing, the sky glowed with the endless shooting, of mortars and machine guns.

The students of Jagannath Hall belonged to the minority community. Moreover the idol of the goddess Saraswati was still there. They huddled behind the image, thinking the Khan soldiers would not touch the image.

But they were wrong. The army had been brainwashed into believing that the East Pakistanis were not true Muslims, they were either Hindus or agents of the Hindus. Besides a lot of infiltrators from India were now in Dhaka, inciting the students. The army entered Jagannath Hall, kicked the Saraswati image. Then they lined up the students and shot them. They made other students carry the bodies outside the building. Then it was their turn. So it went on.

The Provost of Jagannath Hall, professor of English, Jyotirmoy with Guha Thakurta met with the same fate. The elderly, Govinda Deb, professor of philosophy came running from his quarters, trying to stop the massacre Do not kill my boys. Let me talk to your superior officer, he appealed. The soldiers turned a deaf ear. You son of a Malaun, they muttered and sprayed bullets on him. His adopted daughter Rokeya Sultana came out carrying her baby. Her husband, in trying to resist got shot. The soldiers were nonplussed to hear Rokeya exclaim Allah; they did not expect it from a Hindu home.

Their next target was the scholar Munirujjaman Saheb, head of the department of Statistics. He was saying his prayers. The army did not spare him or his brother.

The office of the Ittefak was razed to the ground, the office of The People was burnt down, the top of the Shaheed Minar in honour of the martyrs of the language movement was smashed. The barricades put up by the people were removed, nearby houses were set on fire. The people who died did not know why they had to die. Was it just because they were Bengali?

Next afternoon Sirajul and the others came down from the garage roof. With daybreak began a massive operation of burying the dead. Shallow graves were dug in which the bodies were flung with utmost disrespect.

It was only when the sound of military boots had faded away that Sirajul and others could venture out from their hide out. They were dazed and dirty. All through the night Hyder had thrown up. It was his courage which saved Sirajul but he was not in a position to take it any more . . .

Bodies lay scattered. Smoke came out of burnt houses. There was silence everywhere. Dhaka had the looks of a war-ravaged city.

From a lane closeby emerged a man, his face pale, he did not talk to them. The man was Jinnat Ali, the joint president of Zahirul Hall.

The two boys inched forward. The dead bodies were a sad reminder of what they had been through. Were they really alive? What about their people at home?

Who goes there? A soldier standing in the middle of the street shouted. He had a sub machine gun. The two boys, intent on scanning the faces of the dead bodies had not noticed the soldier.

The soldier was a middle-aged Pathan, square jaws and red eyes — he looked like a messenger of death ready to spray them with bullets.

They had been careless, now they have to pay the price. On an impulse Sirajul felt like attacking the soldier. It would be suicidal but his companion might get a chance to escape. But it was easier said than done. The gun was pointed at them; there was no way Sirajul could reach him. In desperation he turned to Zinnat Aii. But no help came from him. The face of Manira flashed before his eyes. Dear God, please keep her safe. The soldier motioned them to come closer. Slowly they went up like rubber dolls.

Curiously enough the soldier had a kind face. Casting a quick look around he asked, what are you doing here?

This is where we live sir, replied Zinnat Ali.

Hindu or Mussalman?

We are all Mussalmans sir, circumcised.

At the soldier's bidding they promptly took off their pajamas. He did not even bother to look. Pointing the gun down he ordered, Get going, get going before the Captain comes. He won't leave you. What is happening in this country? He seemed genuinely concerned. All three ran for their life, pyjamas still untied.

4

A fire broke out one night at the Krishnanagar home of Bimanbehari. They had come down there a few days ago. They had visitors and they had a late night. A sudden storm and a shower of rain at about ten ruled out any natural cause for the fire. The cowshed and the goose-pen both some distances from the kitchen caught fire simultaneously. The fire spread to the main building.

The fire was brought under control after a lot of hassle. Except for the geese who were all burnt in the fire, not much damage was done.

"I tell you the Naxals are behind this. I had warned you earlier Biman," said Rajchandra, a distant cousin.

Bimanbehari did not remember when he had this warning. Rajchandra was one of those people who were in the habit of saying, I told you so.

Why would the Naxals have a grudge against him, wondered Bimanbehari. With only twenty bighas of land, their family could not be termed as zaminder or jotdar. As for him, he was a dealer of books. Perhaps his only fault was retaining the Krishnanagar house. While his cousins dabbled in politics Bimanbehari and his two daughters were apolitical. Why he should be made a target, he could not understand.

Students however were opting for the Naxal ideology in a big way. A triangular fight was on in the districts between Congress, CPM and the Naxals. The newspapers carried news about the murder of young men. Bimanbehari had no sons; his two daughters were busy with their studies and kept themselves away from politics. So who would try to harm them?

About a year back Bimanbehari got a letter written in red ink on the picture of a skeleton. But there was no charge mentioned in that letter. He was not warned for any action, he was only told that he was in the hit list.

Bimanbehari did not panic but he was rather confused. His humble publishing business did not involve exploitation of peasants or workers, why then should he be killed? He had shown the letter to the Police Commissioner. The Police Commissioner was amused. He marked first with a red pencil and then with a green pencil at several places and said, You see Biman there are three spelling mistakes and a grammatical error, hardly the handiwork of Naxals. After all they are good students, educated. Some lumpens are active using the Naxal brand name. Throw away this letter. But if you want I can arrange for police protection.

The idea of having a constable on tow did not appeal to Bimanbehari. The police commissioner went on. The next thing would be a demand for a fat subscription, something like five thousand. Such extortionists are rife. People even pay up — they are so scared. Do inform us if such things happen. The movement is on its way out. China has withdrawn support.

Tell me Runu, asked Bimanbehari. Is it right to kill these boys? They are misguided definitely but they are fighting for a cause, aren't they?

Murder has to be punished. Even a child knows that. This kind of indiscriminate killing did not happen in Russia or China, as far as our knowledge of history goes.

Other people entered the room so they had to stop. The commissioner assured Bimanbehari not to worry. By the way how is that young man, the son of your friend?

A couple of days later a High Court judge was killed in broad day light in Kumartuli. This was followed by more killings, of other judges, professors, even a Vice Chancellor. The well-known writer Tarasankar was obliged to have police security after getting a threatening letter in red ink.

Bimanbehari had tried to keep the letter a secret from his wife, but the police commissioner's wife leaked it. Kalyani was scared to death. The family had to go to Benares.

After the murder of a judge in Kumartuli, Bimanbehari became very worried about his friend Pratap. Pratap was a stubborn person and was not soft spoken. Nowadays one may be stabbed if he refuses to pay subscription for Kali Puja. A large house was rented at Benares. Bimanbehari had invited Pratap to come with his family to Benares, but Pratap did not agree. Bimanbehari personally pleaded to Mamata to come, but she had remarked that you know your friend, once he says no, he does not change his mind.

Bimanbehari was a very sensitive man. He justly understood why Pratap did not agree. Their economic situations differ. When the two families live together at Benares most of the expenses will be borne by Bimanbehari. This will hurt the pride of the Malkhanagar dynasty. When in trouble does not one take help from a friend? What then is friendship for? With Pratap everything is different. Bimanbehari proposed to lend some money to Pratap who said, I already owe so much to you, I do not like to increase the amount any further.

They spent two months at Benares without any trouble. Kalyani was suffering from asthma for some time — she recovered her health. His younger daughter Buli became famous for her musical talent.

On a trip to Agra they met another evacuee from Calcutta, Justice Swarup Mitra. He had rented a house there and was staying there for about three months. It was like the wartime exodus from Calcutta. Only this time it was not a Japanese bomb scare but the threat letters in red ink.

Prabir, the son of Justice Mitra had come down from West Germany to visit the parents. Kalyani took an instant liking to this handsome and well-mannered boy. He would make an ideal match for Oli.

They went for outings together including a visit to the Taj on a moonlit night. Oli got quite friendly with Prabir though she laughed at any hint of a match. Kalyani failed to understand the modern young generation. They mix very freely but it does not necessarily lead to love. During Kalyani's time young girls used to be prepared for marriage as if that was the only thing in life. Now girls think nothing of saying no to very good proposals.

Bimanbehari however was not too keen to get his daughter married. She was already helping him in his business.

Bad news awaited him at Calcutta. Bimanbehari learnt that within a week after his departure to Benares there was an attempt on Pratap though he had narrowly escaped. As Pratap with two of his colleagues was getting into the office car a young man suddenly surfaced before him. He flashed his knife but Pratap was too quick for him. He used his Gladstone bag as a shield as a result the knife merely brushed his right arm. He hit the assailant with his bag but he fled. Two of his companions exploded a bomb and they escaped.

Blood oozed from his arm but Pratap refused to go to a hospital. He bandaged his arm with his handkerchief and went home.

I am sure it was a mistake, Pratap had told Bimanbehari. After all why would they target me? I do not deal with political cases, nor have I convicted any Naxal boy . . .

The motives were not very clear. In fact many personal scores were being settled in the name of Naxal attacks. Killing has now become a regular business. Any murder could be passed off as political murder. The police were not bothered. All they were interested in was finishing off the Naxals.

What Bimanbehari could have told him but did not was the sensitive issue of Bablu. Pratap still believed that his son did not kill anyone in Siliguri, he was only trying to shield a friend.

There was nothing much Bimanbehari could do. Ask his friend to be more careful? How would he be careful for that matter? One could be careful against robbers or thieves but if ordinary middle- class boys turned into killers, what kind of protection could one take? They were like your own children, they have access everywhere, and suddenly they bring out a knife. That was the pattern. Certain streets were to be avoided after dark. Outsiders looking for a particular address were being taken as police spy and stabbed. How on earth was one to know which areas were forbidden? The police had not given any official notice to that effect.

Bimanbehari moved in his car, he employed a durwan at home. But Pratap was undaunted. He got the office car for going to office but rest of the time he used the public transport. That the assailants might target him again did not seem to bother him. He was resigned to fate.

Even this time Bimanbehari wanted Pratap to join him in his visit to Krishnanagar but Pratap declined. Mamata was not well. Bimanbehari knew it was an excuse. Actually a change would have done Mamata good.

Calcutta was no longer a safe city. Foreign tourists gave it a wide berth; even officers or businessmen from other cities tried to avoid Calcutta. Bimanbehari felt much better in Krishnanagar. He was born here; his family had lived here since the time of Raja Krishnachandra. One of his ancestors was a friend of the poet Ramprasad. Two manuscripts written in the handwriting of Ramprasad was one of their valuable possessions.

The local people knew Bimanbehari came here at least four times a year. In fact he had built a new wing in the local school which has been named after his mother. Nor was there any property dispute, he had good relations with his cousins. Who on earth would hear him a grudge? It was not the actual damage to his house but the fact that he was undesirable in his own home was what hurt him more.

None of the cattle were taken or any other valuable. Evidently the miscreants set fire just to destroy. They were neither petty thieves nor robbers.

Oli brought two cups of tea. Why don't you go in Baba, it is no use standing here.

Look at you Oli ma, exclaimed Raj Chandra, Your face has got a dark tan. Don't go near the flame.

Oli wiped her face; three ducks are dead. The other two are not going to survive — what is to be done with them? She sounded sad.

Bimanbehari had no answer. Raj Chandra said, Throw them away. You could ask the people who are working out there.

Could we put Burnol on the two injured birds, asked Oli.

Bimanbehari left. He had lost all desire to communicate but Raj Chandra was determined to pester him. Since he had to get up before dawn he must have it out on someone. A deluge of advice to his cousin was one way of compensating for lost sleep.

He whispered to Bimanbehari, Do not for a moment trust your uncle's children. They may sound polite but you never know when they will hiss like a snake.

Rajuda, protested Bimanbehari, I have no clash of interest with them. They have rushed to help me on their own.

All pretence. How do you know they are not behind this? That is their trick. The left hand is extended to help whereas the right hand is ready to stab. He is getting on in years, thought Bimanbehari. A minute ago he was blaming the Naxals, now it is uncle's boys. He is confused.

Some people get a vicarious pleasure in speaking ill of others for no apparent reason. Raj Chandra was one of those. Bimanbehari did not pay any importance to his words but he was an elder after all. So he could not contradict him.

Though in the wrong side of fifty, Raj Chandra was in perfect health. He never had to work for a living. Costly cigars and other goodies were brought from Calcutta but he never went to the city. The climate did not agree with him.

It is high time you should get Oli married. The two degrees are enough. It would be too late. We have an excellent boy here, good family. I can start negotiating if you wish.

I think you should consult Oli. Nothing would be done against her wish. A slight tinge of impatience in his voice made Raj Chandra change the topic. Can I ask you something Biman? Is it true that you have arranged for a Naxal murderer to escape to England?

It was totally unexpected. Except for three or four people nobody knew of the affair. So it has reached Krishnanagar? And coming from Raj Chandra who had never set foot in the city!

These are troubled times, don't you see. Raj Chandra went on. There are factions among the Naxals. Many may be angry with you for sending one of them out of the country. Be very careful Biman, I tell you.

5

KRISHNANAGAR to Berhampur was an easily negotiable distance. Oli had been to visit the historic sites of Murshidabad crossing Berhampur on the way. They had taken their Mem kakima to the Hazarduari Palace. Oli was still in her frock, She had a snapshot of that trip stuck in her album. In those days they used to be accompanied by some elderly member of the family, now OH can board a train by herself. It is a distance of two and one half hours by the Lalgola Express.

But the fire changed everything. There was a strict order from the father. The girls were not to stir out of the house. Heart broken Bimanbehari wanted to return to Calcutta but the repair of the burnt portion of the house had to be attended to.

Yet Oli had to go to Berhampur on Friday afternoon at any cost. She very well could not argue with her father who was normally quite indulgent. Moreover there has been a fight and bomb explosion in a school building not very far and her parents were jittery with so many cases of arson and murders. People were getting used to such violence. Shops downed their shutters if bombs exploded in the market place only to reopen after a couple of hours. Despite the incidents life went on as usual.

But something happened. As though sent by god an uncle appeared from Berhampur. He was Kalyani's younger brother, Santi mama to Oli and Buli. He with his wife Rita drove down from Berhampur to see a patient. On their way back they visited their sister.

Contrary to her nature Oli pleaded to Rita mami, I would like to go to Berhampur with you. Please ask father to allow me.

Bimanbehari did not like the idea. How would she come back? Santi mama assured him. He knew a lot of regular commuters to Calcutta. One of them would take care of Oli, see that she got down at Krishnanagar safely. From the station Oli could take a rickshaw. What is there to worry in broad daylight. Besides these boys may be creating trouble but they leave young girls alone.

After lunch Bimanbehari almost pushed them out of the house. Get going.

You never know, the car may break down. He was not nervous but after the fire he seemed to lose confidence . . .

A nor'wester broke as they were passing through Palasi. The sky darkened till it was as dark as night. Oli had never seen such darkness during the day. The wild breeze hit the car like a ship on storm-tossed sea, it could overturn any minute. They stopped the car away from the big trees and waited, window glasses rolled up. Already they had come across a broken branch of a sheerish tree lying across the road.

But Santi mama was not upset. He started to sing a Tagore song welcoming the coming of storm, stroking the steering wheel to keep time. Alarmed, Rita mamima asked, Suppose the storm goes on and on, what are we going to do?

What does it matter? We will spend the night here.

If the car gets blown away?

That would be a world record, a flying Ambassador, laughed Santi mama. All credit to the Birlas. Cars as well as planes. But you do have a fertile imagination, I must say. Ever heard of a car being blown away in the wind?

The rain came, making loud pattering sounds on the roof of the car. The road was deserted. Santi mama began another song but stopping midway he asked Oli, Tell me, who set fire to your house? I do not think it is political. Frustrated love, in all likelihood. Were you in love with a local chap? Had a tiff?

It was Rita mamima who replied, No not again. And to someone in Krishnanagar?

What do you mean not again? Is she already in love?

Oli, were you not very friendly with the son of a sub judge friend of Jamaibabu. Where is the boy now? In the States.

What for? To study or to work?

He is doing Ph.D in Chemistry.

And for that he had to go to the States! Santi mama did not like the idea. Well, even then what is stopping a local chap from falling for Oli? Let me tell you of a case I had once. A fellow in Berhampur was in love with the daughter of a lawyer. He was the rowdy type, the father asked the daughter not to have anything to do with him. In desperation the boy threw an acid bulb at the lawyer but it missed the target and hit an uncle. He lost an eye. Just think about it Oli. One of your jilted lovers comes and sticks a knife in my belly. He laughed loudly at his own joke.

Let us start, he suggested. By then the wind had abated though not the shower. It was difficult to see the road. Santimama was obliged to drive very slowly. The front seat next to him was stacked with vegetables from Bimanbehari's garden. Oli and Rita mamima occupied the back seat.

Let me ask you something Oli, said Rita mamima, We are happy to have you with us. But why did you suddenly insist on coming with us? Is it someone you wish to see in Berhampur?

That is a personal question you should not have asked, objected Santi mama. I know her well. She can't lie. She starts stammering. You do not have to answer that Oli if it is too personal.

But Oli was outspoken. I would have told you but please keep it from Baba, will you? I have to see someone at Berhampur jail.

At jail, so a political prisoner, who is he?

A friend.

What do you mean, a friend? Do we know him?

No.

Must be a friend of that Atin, Rita mamima ventured a guess. A Naxal I believe, has fled the country, there was a serious charge against him.

Oli was taken off her guard. So they knew. But how, she wondered. Nothing remains a secret. Santi mama and mamima may have met Babluda at their place but Oli has never talked to them on the subject.

But you need permission for this, Said Santi mama, They won't let you go just like that.

I have a letter of permission on Friday at four thirty. I would have slipped out of the house if you had not come.

So you are a party activist, a soft girl like you.

Believe me, I have nothing to do with the party. Somebody asked me to do this on their behalf.

Santi mama took out a bottle of rum. Please excuse me Oli. But you have to go to the nursing home, said Rita mamima in alarm.

No chance. We cannot reach before nine. Subhankar is on duty. He will manage.

Santi mama took a sip. I will tell you of an incident, he told Oli. Rita you remember what happened that December night. It was a Saturday.

Oh god, it still gives me the creeps.

But they did not misbehave, I must admit. Let me recount the entire incident to you Oli. About three months ago on a late December Saturday I had gone to the D.M.'s bunglow to play cards. It was a cold night. We left at about quarter to midnight. Rita knew that I would be late. I started the car. Five minutes later somebody touched me on the shoulder with a pipe gun. Two boys had been hiding in the car, at the D.M.'s compound, just think of the daring. I admired their courage. Bravo, I could have said.

Stuff and nonsense, scoffed Rita mamima, You must have been half dead with fright.

You are right. So Rita will be a widow, that was the first thought which came to my mind. But all the same I could not help admire their courage. One of them asked me, quite politely, Doctor Babu you have to go and examine a patient. If you do not mind we will drive. Move over. We will put blindfolds on your eyes.

You have got your facts wrong. Corrected Rita mamima, They took you to the riverside before putting the blindfolds on.

Oh yes. One of them did try to drive but the engine kept stalling. So I had to drive up to the riverside. Then I was asked to get down. I had to walk for fifteen minutes, blindfolded. It was bitterly cold, the way was deserted. You know what I was thinking. Usually people run for the doctor at the eleventh hour. Then the patient dies and the poor doctor gets the blame. These are dangerous people and armed. I am sure to be shot through the stomach. Nobody can stop Rita's widowhood. I mentally wrote out my will and said Rita you are still good looking. You must marry again.

Stop this. You are making it up.

Honestly. Such thoughts kept bothering me. If your eyes are tied what can you do except think. They took me inside an abandoned house and opened the blindfold. Someone said, it is too late now. The patient was already dead. Lucky for me. I could not be blamed and Rita was saved from becoming a widow. I was asked to write a death certificate. The dead man was Manik Bhattcharjee, a leader of their outfit.

Oli leaned closer. What did you say the name was? Do you remember what he looked like?

I did not look at the face. All I touched was the hand. But they were very upset. Manikda, Manikda, they kept sobbing. Then one of them escorted me to the car. What a night. The danger to life now became apparent and as they left, leaving me free to start the car I was possessed by fear, a most peculiar feeling. I could not start the car. Inside the car, Oli shed silent tears. Nobody could see her weeping in the dark. Not that she was a regular member of the study circle or keen to keep contact, but she held Manikda in high esteem. It was a kind of affectionate regard one has for ones near ones. In fact Atin and Kaushik often remarked that Manikda was like their mother. Very warm and soft, and he is gone.

Rest of the way Oli could not join in the conversation.

Next day she went to see Kaushik. It was a small room. The iron bars were reinforced by wire mesh so that nothing could reach the prisoner. In the letter she had received from the jail authorities it was clearly mentioned that no gifts are to be taken.

A man stood near the door, listening.

Only the bright eyes and the straight nose told her that he was Kaushik. A thick growth of hair and beard hid the familiar face. The untidy mop of hair could easily harbour lice. The forehead was a shade darker.

Oli's eyes grew moist but she tried to control herself. She must not break down. She felt angry with Babluda. How selfish of him to have escaped. He is now enjoying life, driving a red car in a country he used to hate. And his best friend is rotting in jail . . .

Kaushik was the first to speak. How have you been, Oli?

She simply nodded.

Do you hear from Buludi. Her son was very ill it seems.

It was a fictitious name. Most probably he meant Bablu.

Oh yes. He is much better now.

The red roses in your garden are they in bloom? Haven't seen a red rose since I don't know how long. I wish you had brought me one.

Red roses meant Lalbazar, the police headquarters; lal meaning red. Pompom was taken there and physically tortured to extract information. There was a rumour of her getting mad. Actually she had extraordinary will power. She did pretend to become hysterical only to be shifted to a hospital. Oli had visited her there. She was all right but she had begged Oli to go and see Kaushik at Berhampur jail.

The red roses are gone. We have some white ones, replied Oli.

The guard at the door smiled. He was aware of the hidden meaning behind these meaningless words. Taking a mental note in all probability to be decoded later.

Oli wanted to change to general topics. Do they give you enough to eat? She asked.

Well, we cook our own food, don't you know that?

Are they going to produce you in court soon? Not that I know of.

Suddenly Oli remembered that the jail doctor was an acquaintance of Choto mama. He might arrange to have Kaushik transferred to the hospital where he would get better food and comfort. But Kaushik would not agree to have better living conditions for himself. Still Oli tried. Did you have a check up? You used to have acute pain in the stomach. Can be ulcer.

Kaushik paid no heed. I am fine now, he said. The pain is gone.

Looking at Oli straight to her eye he threw a question. Tell me. How is my mother? Have you met her recently?

Oli had not heard anything about Kaushik's mother. Needless to say she cannot sleep nights with her Naxal son in jail. But she was alive.

You need not worry. Your mother is all right, Oli assured him.

Kaushik repeated the question with emphasis, Have you met my mother? Has she said anything?

Oli understood. He wanted to know about Manikda who was like a mother to them. He could not utter his name. How was she to answer? Lie to him? Tears welled up. She must not break down. Mother could also mean the head of the party, Charu Majumder. He was still at large.

She forced a smile. She is fine, your mother is fine.

6

SIDDHARTHA paid no heed to Atin's protests and dragged him to Santaboudi's party. She was preparing the great fish delicacy ilish, how could Atin resist that?

Atin made no attempt to get up from the bed. His friend threw a shirt in his direction.

After you have been here long enough you would realise what this means to us, expatriates. Only three things we cherish as Bengalis have remained, ilish, Durgapuja and Rabindranath. In Santaboudi's house you get all three.

Though coming from East Bengal Atin had no particular weakness for ilish or for any fish. He could live on sandwiches or hamburgers for weeks. Neither did he feel eager to meet new people. Why should he visit a perfect stranger called Santaboudi?

Such arguments fell on deaf ears. Siddhartha had informed the hostess that he was bringing a friend and Santaboudi insisted that he did. Grumbling, Atin got up. Can't even spend the Saturday lolling in bed. Put on a lot of clothes, coat, shoes and socks as if I have nothing better to do.

His friend laughed. Have you by any chance read Goethe's Poetry of Life?

Poetry is not my cup of tea.

For your information this is prose not poetry. Goethe was giving examples of boredom. An Englishman got so tired of putting on clothes and taking them off day in and day out, that he could not stand it any more and took his own life. That is the bane of civilisation.

Thank god that we do not have to wear formal dress complete with black bow tie like the British. You are free to don your pajama kurta under the overcoat.

Siddhartha took special care to dress up. Instead of a tie he wrapped a batik scarf round his neck, inserted imitation pearl cuff links.

Out in the street he handed his friend a ten-dollar bill. It is customary to bring gifts. Get a bottle of wine from the liquor store, I will get some flowers.

He called after Atin as he was about to enter the wine store. Tell me, what kind of wine?

Any kind, replied Atin. Whatever is available within ten dollars.

Stupid fool, said Siddhartha indulgently. What have you learnt in England? You can't take just any kind of wine. White wine with white meat. We have been invited to an ilish dinner, remember? Take a bottle of Bordeaux.

The bunch of red roses, which Siddhartha bought, was costlier than the wine. They walked up to the Eighth Street crossing where Samir, a friend was supposed to pick them up.

What does the husband of your Santaboudi do? asked Atin.

Panchuda is a real good soul. A mechanical engineer from Shibpur. I wonder how a quiet sort like him survived five years in the hostel. He speaks one word in an hour. Their home is known as Santaboudi's house. She is a singer, an actress, loves to entertain people. You could call her the queen of the Bengali community, quite appropriate, their home too is at Queens.

I do not know a soul. What would I do there?

That is how you get to know people.

I am not feeling well, honestly. Let me go back and lie down.

Want a slap from me, what? You will revive as soon as you get there.

Atin, the natural leader at the Calcutta Coffee House gave Siddhartha a strange look. Siddhartha never dared to defy Atin. Now the roles were reversed. Siddhartha patted Atin's back patronisingly. Come on, cheer up, my boy. Exactly at seven thirty a car pulled up. Get in, get in called Samir, Quick, or I will get a ticket. It was a no parking area. Siddhartha jumped into the front seat, Atin slid into the rear.

Samir's wife Basabi was waiting in front of a drug store. She too got in. Meet my friend Atin. Siddhartha introduced them. Brilliant student. Has been here for a few months.

Atin did a namaskar without any attempt to speak. All through the journey he kept his mouth shut.

The house where Santaboudi lived was in a beautiful secluded spot. Walking across her tiny garden Atin noticed some roses in bloom.

Santaboudi, a tall woman with lush hair answered the bell. She looked like the image of a goddess.

You are late. It must be your fault Samir. She chided, Basabi, I had asked you to come early to help me, didn't I?

I finish at eight, but I took fifteen minutes off.

Santaboudi turned her attention to Atin. So you are Siddhartha's friend. Oh no, you should not have brought the wine, your very first visit, this is not fair and our cellar is quite well stocked.

Lovely, this was for the roses brought by Siddhartha. I can never get this purple in my garden.

Santaboudi looked quite familiar though Atin could not recall where he had seen her. There were about six or seven guests. The men stood up to show courtesy to Basabi. Do introduce yourselves, said Santaboudi, I have to see things in the kitchen. Please lend me a helping hand, Basabi.

An electric heater was emanating heat from the fireplace. Next to it sat Panchuda, the host, in white a kurta pyjama. He was smoking a pipe. Siddhartha sat beside a young girl. A middle-aged man came up to Atin. I am Amiya Mitra, he folded his hands in a namaskar. You have just come from home, it seems. How are things there?

Amiyada, he is my friend Atin. Spent about one year in England before coming here. Siddhartha butted in.

I see, said Amiya Mitra in a nasal voice. I too was there. Seven years! Couldn't stand the weather. Beastly cold, wet — no sun. Not that this country is not cold but the British are a conceited race, difficult to get along with them.

Oh come on. Why don't you admit that chances of making money are better here, said Siddhartha.

Not to be outdone, Mitra said, What you get here is job satisfaction. Plenty of chance if you can prove your merit and efficiency. For research too you get a lot of facilities.

Siddhartha spoke again. Money is more important than job satisfaction. That is what I feel. Dollar is a stronger tonic than pound. Samir who was the bartender came up to Atin. What would you like, scotch or bourbon?

Nothing, Atin said.

Siddhartha looked up. Coming from Atin, who was a heavy drinker and for the last few weeks have been drinking all by himself. Here at Panchuda's place one could get expensive drinks like Chivas Regal, which they could not afford. They could drink as much as they wanted in this house.

How about some beer, suggested Siddhartha. Good Dutch beer.

Atin shook his head. He was not in a mood to have anything, even Coca Cola. He picked up a Newsweek from the table and went on smoking, refusing to be drawn into the conversation.

Meanwhile Amiya Mitra had taken on the role of the principal speaker. He would not give anyone else a chance to speak. He would begin by asking a question and provide the answer himself. That was his style.

He began on a very favourite topic of expatriates -denigrating the home country. His visit to India, two years ago had shocked him so much that he is still full of it. A trip to Calcutta is enough to make you forget English pronunciation. The students do not stand first, they stand fast. The state of the roads was terrible, so was the state of education. The Naxals were burning school and college buildings, beating up teachers . . . even breathing the air was agony.

After a few futile attempts at protest, Siddhartha turned his attention to his young companion. Meanwhile the ladies were grouped together discussing the latest sales. Panchuda puffed at his pipe and smiled to himself.

Atin withdrew to himself as if he was the most shy individual in the universe. As Santaboudi entered it all came back to him in a flash. This was the face of Bulamasi, seen in Deoghar when Atin was a child. She was certainly not the same person, Bulamasi should be much older by now. Once on a trip to the Trikut Hills they had met Bulamasi again. Dada used to give her adoring looks. Now Atin can understand that Dada was in love with her. Two of his poems written in the background of Deoghar must be about her. Where on earth is the poetry notebook?

Had he taken it to Siliguri or left it in the custody of Phuldi? If it was in Siliguri then it is lost forever. Atin should have trusted Phuldi with it.

Dinner is ready, announced Santaboudi, do not let it grow cold.

They moved over to the dining room, stopping Amiya Mitra in his long talk. It was a buffet table. Steaming white rice, ilish and other dishes. This is known as shad in this country. Like everything else in this country this fish is much bigger than the Ganga, Padma variety, each weighing something like three or three and a half kilo. There was an Italian fish seller who knew of the Bengali weakness for shad and telephoned Santaboudi whenever a supply arrived at his shop.

After he had helped himself to rice and dal Atin suddenly made a secret resolve. He was not going to touch the fish, Santaboudi noticed his plate. Why, you have not taken any fish. Let me help you. Atin was determined to be rude. He pushed his plate away. I do not take ilish. It smells, he said.

It was almost a personal affront. Santaboudi turned pale. She turned to Siddhartha. You should have told me. I did not make any meat dish. How will he eat now? Let me fry some salmon then.

Siddhartha did not show his surprise. He has seen Atin having ilish. He simply said cauliflower, parbal fry, brinjal fry, that will do. From where did you get parbal?

Atin finished his dinner quickly and returned to the living room. He knew that he was being rude, not talking to anyone, not joining in the conversation, not complementing Santaboudi on her cooking, these are not usual nor decent manners. But somehow he was not able to be his normal self.

The chatter in the dining room stopped. Probably Siddhartha was discussing him, whispering. Let him.

Baba had brought a pair of ilish late at night. Ma was furious. Atin was having his exams, no, the exams were a few days away, he did not feel like having ilish and made a lot of fuss. They did not have a fridge. Baba threw away the fish. Even today they do not have a fridge. Baba was hurt that night, he had to borrow money to send him abroad, if Atin could send three or four hundred dollars they could buy a fridge, till then he vowed to give up fish, not just ilish but all fish.

The cigarette dropped, burning a hole in the thick carpet. He ought to pick up the burning cigarette, but kept on staring. A small flame shot up, smoke started coming out of the spot. Someone may come in any moment and a hue and cry would follow. People are mortally afraid of fire in this country. It is not that Atin was put off by either Santaboudi or her husband, both had charm and grace, why then was he engaged in this game of destruction? Atin had no answer.

A chorus of laughter in the dining room brought him back to his senses. Hurriedly he picked up the burnt bit of the cigarette and stepped on the fire. There was a black hole the size of an eight- anna coin. It would be noticed. Atin dragged a sofa over it and slumped on the sofa opposite.

The host was the first to enter. Panchuda came up to Atin and spoke softly. You have not got over your home sickness yet. You know I too have . . .

Sickness indeed. To think of home was considered a disease. Atin was ready to explode but controlled himself with effort. Panchuda moved away. He was not expecting an answer.

Presently others were back. Santaboudi was complimented on her cooking though she was profusely apologetic about not having cooked proper vegetarian dishes. Atin must come again for a purely veg meal, she insisted.

Then she sang three Tagore songs on public request. Even to Atin's ears it was good. She had a voice like Rajeswari Dutta. Suddenly he remembered that he had left his plate under the table. In American etiquette this was an offence. Perhaps it was still under the table. He should go and wash it. He got up and entered the dining room in the middle of the singing. But the plate was not there. Who has washed it—Santaboudi or Siddhartha? He wondered. This room was warm and cosy. Barefoot, Atin liked the warmth of the room. He did not go back to the living room but stood staring at the wall. Basabi came in a little later and saw him.

What are you doing here? She asked in surprise.

Just standing, as you can see for yourself. Atin was determined to be rude.

Basabi, not used to this kind of treatment frowned, Well we are leaving. If you want to come with us.

That was the last straw. No, I am not going with you, declared Atin. But Siddhartha peeped from the door. Come along Atin, he ordered and Atin could not refuse.

They climbed into Samir's car, this time Atin sat in front. The young girl Siddhartha was trying to be friendly with sat at the rear with Basabi and Siddhartha. She was not as young as she looked, was doing her Ph.D. Her name was Nita. She was to get down on the way. Siddhartha was slightly drunk and he sang, "There is a gold mine in the sky far away". . . Keeping time by patting Nita's back. Nita spoke to Atin without waiting for a formal introduction.

You think very highly of yourself, don't you? Made no effort to talk. She went on in spite of Siddhartha's signal to stop. The way you were looking at others as though we were a bunch of fools and you the only wise one.

Oh come on, Nita, why are you keen to pick up a quarrel with my buddy? Leave him alone, appealed Siddhartha.

Nita retorted with anger. He has no right to insult Santaboudi. Such a nice lady. Your friend made a farce of eating then left the room when she was singing. That is never done. Santaboudi was hurt though she tried not to show it.

I thought perhaps he was hungry again and I went to the dining room, maybe he needed help. I saw him standing. And when I asked what the matter was he was so rude! Basabi added her bit.

Tell me Atin, were you really hungry, enquired Siddhartha. What were you doing in the dining room?

Why did you refuse to go back in our car? asked Samir.

Cornered by these questions Atin was on the defensive. Must he reply to them?

He does not remember why he went to the dining room. Was it a crime to stand there doing nothing? These people were determined to pester him, hit him with sharp questions, what was Atin to do, he felt helpless . . .

Why, why, why, the attacks persisted. Why did you do this, why did you do that. Atin struggled but the questions will not leave him alone. He tried to close his ears, he had no answer, he could not stand it. On an impulse he snapped open the seatbelt, yanked the door open and sprang out. The girls screamed, blood drained from Siddhartha's face. Miracle, miracle, he mumbled. Meanwhile in a mechanical response Samir had jammed on the brakes and by a fortunate coincidence were saved from a major accident. The car could have turned turtle, it merely went off track and screeched to a halt. Luckily there were no cars right behind him or he would have been hit from the back.

Atin had rolled to the adjoining lane. He should have been smashed to a pulp but he was lucky again. A car braked to a halt though it was hit by the second and the second by the third.

Both Samir and Siddhartha ran to Atin. He lay on the road, just two feet away from the wheels of a Cadillac. He was not hurt, thanks to the timely reaction of Samir. A sudden fall from a moving car, racing at seventy miles could have killed him instantly. Siddhartha pulled him up. There was a bruise on his forehead, nothing else. The man driving the Cadillac approached them. What is going on? I thought you were going to dispose of a dead body. Samir thanked him profusely and told him that the front door had jerked open suddenly. It was an accident.

The middle-aged man came over to examine the car. He fiddled with the door handle. It was an old car and quite rickety. He said to Atin, God has saved me from becoming a killer. If you had been killed it was no fault of mine but I would have been bothered by my conscience all my life.

It was a quarter to midnight but pretty soon cars gathered, a police car arrived on the spot. Nobody shouted or abused. Everything was quiet and orderly. The police took down the name and phone number of the insurance company. Samir's car was insured. Samir had very little drink, he did not smell of alcohol. Neither did Atin. So it could not be a case of drunken driving. The idea that a young man could jump off the car was inconceivable to them. The police let them go.

The ladies sat in petrified silence. After a while Siddhartha broke the silence. It really is a miracle Atin. A miraculous escape. Well next time when you are in the mood for such melodrama please go to the Washington Bridge. For god's sake do not involve others.

Let us not talk about it please, pleaded Samir.

But Siddhartha, too angry to stop went on. Let me tell you Atin, I am giving you a week's notice. Leave my apartment. Find out a place of your own. Enough is enough.

Atin merely turned round at him and smiled.

7

SIDDHARTHA fumbled for the key. Atin who had one key stood by sheepishly. At last after digging into all the pockets of his trousers, jacket, shirt and overcoat Siddhartha found the key. He switched the light on, still fuming. Getting high on such expensive liquor, all gone thanks to you. I was thinking we will have to spend the rest of the night in police custody. He flung his overcoat on the bed. Turning to Atin he growled, Tell me now. Why did you do it? If it was not for the two girls I would have given you a sound thrashing that you would not have forgotten all your life.

The burden of guilt was having its effect. Withdrawing into himself, Atin stood near the door, not taking off the overcoat. Let me leave right now. He said in a low murmur. It will not take more than ten minutes to pack my things . . .

What do you mean leave? Where will you go so late?

I will find out something. Sleep in the subway.

A strong push from Siddhartha had Atin tumbling on the floor. Bloody idiot, said Siddhartha angrily, Don't you try your tricks on me. Explain your behaviour first. Did any of them treat you badly? Why were you so rude?

Please, Siddhartha, can I have some brandy first?

Brandy indeed. No way. I will keep my cupboards locked . . . There is a limit to everything. Shame on you, shame . . .

Siddhartha, my head is reeling, I am feeling sleepy. Couldn't we wait till morning?

Nothing doing. You are getting a good bashing from me right now. Do you realise what you were doing to us?

Atin dropped on a chair. Why did you force me to go to the party. I did not want to go. He said weakly.

Clutching Atin's hair Siddhartha charged. So it was wrong of me to take you to Santaboudi's party. To bring you here. To let you share my apartment? If you are so keen to kill yourself you could have done it back home or any place else but why involve us?

No matter how I try I do not get killed.

Is that so? Siddhartha pushed his friend to the window, opened it. Come on now, dive, dive to your death, let me have the pleasure of seeing you killed.

Atin struggled to free himself. You are hurting me. I admit it was wrong to drag you all to danger. I don't know what came over me. Everybody was insulting me, I felt I had better die.

Nobody insulted you. Santaboudi was so nice to you. It was you who behaved so badly.

You are right. It's all my fault. Should I apologise to Santaboudi right now?

Letting go his grasp Siddhartha said, there is a time for everything. Let me tell you Atin, my patience has a limit. How long can I go on providing support? I can't ask my girl friends to come here because of you, I cannot date. I can't keep on making sacrifices for your sake.

Atin lit a cigarette. You have given me a week's notice. I'll leave earlier, I promise. He said morosely. And settle on a subway platform? You scoundrel. The thought of your parents, of that girl called Sharmila did not cross your mind when you jumped out of the car?

Nobody can help me out of the crisis I am in, not my parents, or friends or anybody. What I have done is a great offence. I can't get out of it. It is better that I should die.

That is an obsession. In a battle you have to kill. War may be wrong but not when you are in the middle of it and obliged to kill. Killing in self-defense. After all you were fighting for an ideal.

Atin's eyes glared, his cheek stiffened, holding his head high he blurted out, No, it certainly was not wrong. It was a good thing to kill that hired goon, an anti-social. After all he was the first to hurl a bomb at us. Manikda was injured, then that ruffian charged with an iron rod. He would have smashed my head if I did not shoot. Not just in self-defence, I had every moral right to kill him. I am glad I did what I did. They cooked up a false case against me but in my heart I know that I have not done any wrong.

Excellent. Since you can defend your act why do you act like a guilty man, shirking people. You are getting morbid day by day. Last night you sobbed in your sleep.

Instantly Atin lost his earlier zeal. He looked down. You know I have done something unpardonable while I was on the run. I was feverish, I did not know what I was doing, I can't tell anyone, I simply do not know what to do.

Can't you make a clean breast of it to me even. You are a perfect idiot. What is a friend for. Brooding by yourself does that serve any purpose?

No friend in this world can help me.

I want to hear all of it to day, right now, it is high time.

Atin related his story.

It was raining that afternoon when Atin fired that shot to the man approaching and ran away. Where will he go? He cannot go to Manikda's place, they have recognised Manikda. He cannot go back to his Calcutta residence. Police will soon find out that place. A few minutes ago Atin did not know that he was to commit a murder. But they made the move, they attacked for no reason, without instigation—the police are on their side—once caught by the police they would torture him, would beat him with sand bags, will try to make him give away the whereabouts of Kanu Sanyal — Khokan Majumder — Will they hang him finally? No Atin will not surrender, a revolutionary never surrenders, has to fight till the end.

Atin spent the first night in a jungle near Matherihat. He was awake all night. What happened in two or three minutes completely changed his life. He is a different man now. He is no longer a son of Mamata and Pratap Majumder. How can he show his face to them. He would have to sever his relation with Oli; he is now a criminal, untouchable in the eyes of Oli's father.

On the same night Atin realised that he can not hide in the jungle all by himself. Once Manikda had hinted that one could cross the border and take shelter in Nepal. But where will he stay in Nepal. He had no money with him and had no contact in Nepal. If there had been a second person he could have talked it over. Where did that Tapan go? Must have fled like a coward.

Next evening when it was dark, he tried to find out Ranjit at Matherihat. Ranjit taught in a school. Atin had met him at Siliguri. He used to visit Manikda, a fellow traveler.

He lived in a shack with tinned roof, seven members of his family huddled in a couple of rooms. How was he to provide shelter and that too to a new comer. In a small place like Matharihat strangers get noticed. Neighbours, all refugees lived in similar shacks built close together. They were constantly dropping in.

The news of the murder had spread already. Manikda had escaped, Atin learnt from Ranjit. The murdered man was actually an anti-social with a number of murder charges against him. But he was also a member of the Forward Block hence the rumour that a member of the Forward Block has been killed by the CPI extremists. Already there was a protest rally in Coochbehar.

It would be wiser to slip to Bihar, away from the jurisdiction of the West Bengal police, advised Ranjit. Atin had not yet been identified as the killer, a few months in Bihar might result in the case being shelved. Ranjit had a cousin in Katihar, he would give Atin all possible help.

Though he had a tough time making both ends meet, Ranjit managed to raise fifty rupees for Atin, and gave him one of his shirts and a letter for his cousin.

Atin got into Bihar through Kishengunj, took a bus to Purnea and from there proceeded to Katihar. At last he felt out of danger. Nobody knew him here.

Atin was supposed to return to Calcutta. He wished he had not written to his mother about his visit. She must have worried herself to death. She must have cooked for him and waited. What could they possibly have done when Atin did not communicate? Send a wire to Siliguri? Did Father go to Siliguri himself? In all probability Kaushik would tell them but how much did Kaushik know? And Pompom? Where was Manikda?

On their way back Oli must have looked for Atin. He would have to write to her explaining everything. But not just now.

Paran, Atin's host in Katihar owned a stationary shop. They too were refugees but instead of living in a camp he has opted for a life of his own. He was roughing it out. Paran, about thirty was lean and thin, had no truck with politics. But after reading Ranjit's letter he did not ask any question and promptly put Atin to work in his shop.

Atin had stopped shaving for sometime. Now he was obliged to take some extra precaution. In order to shake off his city look he took to wearing a dirty dhoti and discarded his shirt. He stopped having regular baths, even combing his hair. Most of the time he kept his mouth shut, merely handing things which the customers demanded.

A couple of days after reaching Katihar, Atin learnt from the newspaper about the fall of the United Front ministry. The land grab movement in north Bengal has all but died down though the student community in Calcutta was organising rallies in support of the armed peasant struggle. Three and a half months were spent in Katihar posing as the stupid assistant of a grocery shop. Atin did not correspond to his family or even to Oli. He was slowly getting used to his exile. The imposition of President’s rule in February gave the police enormous liberty. Dozens were being taken into custody every day.

Meanwhile a message from Ranjit said that Atin must not leave Katihar. That was Manikda's instruction.

Winter passed. Then one stormy evening in the month of Chaitra a stranger appeared. It was closing time. The bearded man forced his way into the shop. Atin was determined not to surrender without a fight. The peculiar dress of the man had fooled him. It was Kaushik. The sudden revelation almost brought tears to his eyes. It was as though he was a part of himself, the dearest person in the world.

They thanked Paran profusely and started off. From Rajmahal they went to Dhanbad, Ranchi and finally to Jamshedpur. The preparation for the armed revolution was not nipped in the bud, Kaushik told Atin, and in fact the underground organisation is even stronger now. Kanu Sanyal, Manikda and other leaders had hoped that a part of CPM followers would break away to join them. That did not happen. About a thousand were purged. That made no difference. But the students have responded in a big way, the ideal has spread to other corners of the country, an All India Co-ordination Committee has been formed. Efforts are on to coordinate the various Maoist organisations from Andhra Pradesh to the Punjab and form a new party. Tough tasks were ahead.

But Atin would have to remain underground for about a year, to avoid being arrested. It was all due to Tapan, who under pressure from the police had divulged the names of Manikda and Atin. But it was only a matter of time. Once the flames of revolution engulfed the nation who would bother about warrant of arrest.

This was the time for consolidation. It was stupid of you to get involved in murder, Kaushik was critical.

It was not planned, replied Atin. All happened at the spur of the moment. Manikda was taking a message from Charubabu to be delivered to Khokon Majumder, when all on a sudden we were attacked.

It was you who fired without provocation, that is what Manikda said. Killing was hardly called for.

Manikda said that? If I had not fired they would have finished us. That was their intention. They had thrown a bomb at Manikda then charged with iron rods. Did you know Kaushik, Manikda always carries a gun?

You could have brandished the gun.

They were not the type to be chased away easily. They saw the gun all right. That did not deter them. It was a matter of seconds. We would have been dead had I been a second late. Tell me something. Tapan that haramzada is such a chicken, told them everything.

We have some of our boys in jail. They are keeping a watch on Tapan. In spite of everything Manikda still trusts him. Where on earth is Manikda?

Sorry. You can't be told. It is a precaution. So that even under torture you can't divulge his whereabouts. It is not a question of distrust, neither are you weak like Tapan. It is just a system we follow. Besides, Manikda's safety is our prime concern. He is sick.

Any news of my family?

They are all right. I went to the court and told meshomoshai not to worry. Bablu is fine, I told him though I did not tell him where you were.

What did Baba say?

Very funny. He did not utter a word. Just went on smoking. I think I will go to your mother and show her a two line letter from you.

And Oli? Did you by any chance meet her?

No I didn't. But she must have heard. But I warn you Bablu, do not communicate through post. Strictly forbidden.

Atin was taken to Jamshedpur, to the home of an engineer named Satish Mishra who had studied in Jadavpur and could speak some Bengali. He was a widower. Atin would be the tutor of his children. Mishra had courage. Aware of Atin's background, he did not demur his presence. Do not go out during the day, he warned Atin.

Kaushik went back, seeing that Atin was well settled at Jamshedpur.

Mishra's next door neighbour was a Bengali family. Their two girls visited the Mishra children frequently, bringing them cooked food and toys. In spite of the beard, the elder of the girls recognised Atin. She was Sharmila, they had met at a tea garden at Jalpaiguri.

Months went by. Now newspapers were available. Atin got all the news. He learnt that Kanu Sanyal was arrested. There was no news of Manikda. The leftists were pressing their demand for a mid term poll. The movement against the President's rule was gaining ground.

Though Kaushik did not return two other messengers came, bringing a letter from Atin's mother. Atin too sent letters through them.

There was a sizeable Bengali population in Jamshedpur. Naturally Durga Puja was a popular festival. There were quite a few pujas. In Sakchi itself there were two puja pandals. Taking advantage of the informal atmosphere Atin stirred out of the house and joined the puja throng not for any religious urge but just to enjoy his freedom.

But his freedom proved to be short lived. At the crack of dawn on the day of the navami a group of policemen surrounded the house and Atin was dragged out of bed. Five days later he was taken to Alipur Central Jail.

Oli's father had a hand in the arrest, he came to know eventually. In spite of all the precaution the news of Atin's stay in Jamshedpur leaked out. His parents knew. Oli too. Oli had expressed her intention to meet Atin confiding to Kaushik but before she could do that her father came to know from Pratap. He lost no time and reported it to the police commissioner. Actually Bimanbehari had a clever plan. He could sense that the leftists were corning back to power. They had promised to release all political prisoners after coming to power. So things would be simpler if Atin could be in jail as a political prisoner.

Subsequent events proved him to be right. The Left Front came back to power. Jyoti Babu became the Home Minister and released all political prisoners as promised. Even Kanu Sanyal, their erstwhile enemy was no exception. But Atin was not allowed to be out. The papers showed that he had a murder charge against him, which made him a convict in a criminal case.

Meanwhile all arrangements were made to send him to the United Kingdom. Pratap had asked his brother-in-law Tridib to give him shelter for some time, to which Tridib readily agreed. Passport and visa were ready but everything went wrong at the last minute.

Bimanbehari did not give up. At great personal risk he released Atin on a bail of five thousand rupees then allowed him to jump bail and set sail for England.

Atin did not want it. But when he realised that the future was bleak, he would at least have to serve a fourteen-year term in jail, then he had no other alternative. Kaushik also persuaded him. It is just a matter of time. Oli’s father knows a lot of top people, he will certainly succeed in giving your case a political angle.

On May Day Kanu Sanyal announced the birth of a new political party — the CPI ML following the thoughts of Mao tse Tung. He flourished the Red Book, claiming this to be the real revolutionary party. The same day Jyoti Babu spoke to a mammoth rally in another part of the maidan. My government can deal with the Naxals in twenty four hours but I would like to leave that to the people. As for their political demands that would be taken care of politically but their anti-social activities would be treated like criminal offence. The next day Atin sailed for England.

I know about the rest of your story, about your stay in England but where does Sharmila come in? Did you meet her in Jamshedpur and fell in love? asked Siddhartha.

It was a difficult question. Was it love or friendship? Atin was not sure, Sharmila happened to be his only companion in his exile, the one person he could talk to. For the first few months she was nothing beyond a friend, Atin did not even look at her as a girl. Oli after all was his only love . . .

But in the magic of lonely afternoons, under high fever Atin took Sharmila to be Oli. He took her in his arms, she forced herself free. She was such a charming girl, innocent, absent minded, pure. There was a healing touch in her fingers and she nursed Atin back to health. He was often sick in those days.

It merely thrilled her to be in the presence of a revolutionary. She liked nursing the helpless man suffering from fever, but for all that she felt no sensation of love. Neither did Atin talk to her of love. That was against the code of the revolutionaries, Sharmila was not told about Atin's background, his family or of Oli. But as the months wore on and he grew weaker from illness, Atin was being irresistibly drawn towards her, from a strong physical urge. He loved Oli but why is she not with him? He felt frustrated, angry. He pined for a touch of the female body.

But Sharmila never encouraged him, leave alone entice. In fact the sex urge was not yet aroused in her. It was difficult for her to be unkind to a sick man, she merely moved away from Atin's excesses.

Three days went by. Then Atin could hold himself no longer. He flung himself against her knees and begged, I want you, only you. It took him seven more days to get her consent. His temperature was hundred and four but he would not let her call a doctor. He wanted Sharmila, only her. At last her resistance broke, she surrendered. In the tide of passion all thoughts of Oli were washed away like a torn piece of paper.

8

THE vast expanse of the Jamuna River stretched before him. Standing at Aricha ghat Mamun pondered at the quirks of destiny. Where is it going to take me now, he wondered.

In the growing darkness the chances of crossing over seemed slim indeed. The normally bustling ferry ghat was deserted. All the ferryboats have been hidden to stop military movement. Many families from Dhaka are stranded here. They were helpless, even the children were too scared to cry.

Some volunteers came up. You better go to the school building for the night. They helped them carry the luggage. Mamun settled in a room on the upper floor along with two other families. Hena and Monju stretched on the floor, Mamun came out with Monju's son Sukhu to look around for food.

Mamun held Sukhu’s hand in a tight grip as he watched truckloads of people rushing to the ferry ghat and finding no boats available, rushing about in panic. The school building was filling up, the shops had run out of food. Some bread and kabab was all he could get. A schoolteacher asked Mamun about what exactly is happening at Dhaka. I have my family there. Haven't heard from them. He was miserable. Mamun did not elaborate. The news is bad, he replied. What else could he say. The whole thing was like an absurd dream. By what logic could one explain the fact that innocent citizens were being butchered in the city, the streets were lined with dead bodies.

The massacre began on the night of the 25th. Mamun could get back home but kept indoors for four days. It was clear that Dhaka was no longer safe for the likes of him. West Pakistani soldiers were going from house to house and killing all members of the Awami League, journalists, teachers and students indiscriminately. Clubs were being gunned down, even the East Pakistan Rifles were disarmed and shot, something unheard of in human history. Has Yahya Khan gone mad? Is he determined to wipe out the Bengali race to rule Pakistan?

There was no news of Sheikh Mujib. Nobody knew if he had gone underground or taken to the cantonment. But resistance has started in various parts of the country. In Chittagong the East Pakistan Rifles were fighting a pitched battle against the West Pakistani army. A Free Bangla Revolutionary radio centre was set up in the Kalurghat transmitting centre, a little away from Chittagong. A major named Ziaur Rahman speaking on behalf of Sheikh Mujib has declared independence.

The previous day Mamun had come across his friend Faiz Ahmed, poet and journalist. He was seriously injured in the shelling of the Press Club, fled the building and took shelter in a mosque. He had warned Mamun, "Get out of Dhaka as soon as you can. They are after those who used to write in Ittefak. Get away, right now."

Feroza Begum was already in Tangyle with her youngest daughter. Mamun could not very well go there. They would hunt him out. Neither was there any way he could send word to his wife. He decided to get out with Hena. Monju joined him. Babul would not leave but he did not object if his wife accompanied Mamun.

He was a strange fellow — Babul . . . The fact that President Yahya Khan left Dhaka secretly on the night of 25th March, before his scheduled meeting with Sheikh Mujib, ordering the army to slaughter innocent unarmed Bengalis did not seem like an act of betrayal to Babul. Things would return to normal within a week, that was his belief. He preferred army rule to a government by the Awami League.

He even pacified his worried wife saying nobody was going to attack them. Look at Jehanara Imam or Kamal or Paltan. Are they flying to India? But strangely enough he changed his opinion when Monju wanted to go to the village with Mamun. But he ignored Monju's appeals to come with them. Do take care, muttered the miserable Monju, Babul merely smiled. ‘I will be all right. You take care.’

They set out on a car borrowed from a neighbour. Curfew was clamped from four in the afternoon. The bridge near Mirpur has been blown up they heard, though the radio denied the report. Mamun look a great risk and proceeded towards Mirpur. The bridge was damaged but negotiable.

Near Aminbazar they encountered an army convoy. Mamun ducked. To think that he was forced to flee his very dear Dhaka like a petty thief! By the time they reached Nayarhat gunshots could be heard. Another spree of senseless killing.

Mamun was not sure about his destination. Perhaps to a childhood friend in Manikganj? Or further away from Dhaka — to Pabna or Bagura? But he never thought that he would be stranded for want of a ferry. It was a vast stretch of water. With so many people wanting to cross would there be enough boats tomorrow? The children and Monju added to his problems. Mamun was withdrawn by nature, not the sort who could get things done in an adverse situation. Back to the school building, he paused near the stairs. A man, dark, of good health, thick moustaches, rich hair paused too. ‘Mamunbhai?' He enquired. Suddenly it came back. The man was a reporter at the Ittefak office, M.R. Akhtar, whom everyone called Mukul. A jolly sort with a hearty laugh. But this was hardly the time for laughs. Everybody was worried; the same words were on all mouths. Who have been killed, who all are missing. After a brief exchange of information Mamun asked Akhtar, If you can arrange for a boat, do let us know.

Of course, of course, replied Akhtar.

At night after the lights were off, the stifled sob of a woman came to Mamun's ears. It was a monotonous whine but there was something in it, which spoke of terrible, intense pain. Presently Monju whispered, Who is crying Mamunmama?

Nobody in this room, whispered Hena. She too was awake. Mamun got up and looked into the other rooms. He found no wailing woman. A shiver ran down his spine. This unearthly lament, was it the combined mourning of countless women who have lost their dear ones? The lament of the country itself?

Fortunately they got a boat and crossed over to Nagarbari the next morning. Pabna was troubled, but Bagura was comparatively safer. The students of Bagura had formed their own Mukti Bahini and driven the army out. So Mamun decided to proceed towards Bagura.

But petrol and diesel stocks had run out, roadblocks were made by the villagers to stop movement of troops. People were trekking to the villages, leaving their city homes.

The bus they found finally had to stop near a blockage. A tree was lying across the road. Fortunately they had just a few bags, so walking was not a problem. Sukhu could walk, he did not like being carried. But a long walk in the strong summer sun was not comfortable for city-breds like Monju or Hena. They went past the Baghabari ghat to come to a rickety old bus, the young conductor shouting for passengers. The king of birds, what do you think. This is the last trip. Hurry, hurry, he went on at the top of his voice.

The bus trundled along but not for long. As they approached a level crossing they found a goods train standing right in front, so that no vehicle could cross over. Once again they were obliged to trudge on foot.

Akhtar Saheb was quite resourceful. He managed to procure rooms at the Ullapara dak bungalow for the night. Mamun as the editor of a paper and seniority was respected in journalist circles but here nobody would have noticed him if it were not for Akhtar.

Nothing was available at the dak bungalow though. For food they had to go to a community kitchen where they were serving only rice and dal. Akhtar Saheb’s children and Sukhu Mia waited after the rice and dal for some vegetables to be served. Simply rice and dal could not be eaten, they were not used it. Monju's eyes filled with tears. Mamun could mutter vaguely, God knows what we have in store. He ran high temperature that night. Was this the time for luxuries like having fever — he was annoyed with himself. Nobody else should know, it would only embarrass others. He suffered silently, trying to avoid the physical proximity of others.

Lots of stories were going the rounds. After a pitched battle in Bagura the Khan army had surrendered. The military camp at Ariabazar had also fallen, the Mukti Bahini was jubilant. Mamun had a brother-in-law in Bogura. He would give them shelter if he was still there.

Boarding a bus was out of the question. Rickshaws, now costly, were the only alternative. One had to pay whatever they demanded.

The ride was far from comfortable, with roads dug up every one mile or so. The passengers would have to help take the vehicle across, that was the contract. In spite of his high fever and ache all over the body, Mamun did not utter a word of protest. He meekly pushed the vehicle as occasion demanded. Before they reached Chandaikona they had to get down nine times. Finally the rickshaw had to be lifted and carried over a fairly wide ditch.

Then the rickshaw-puller refused to go any further. Just when Mamun was at a loss for a possible transport, he was accosted by a man. 'You look familiar. You are the editor of Dinkal, aren't you?’

‘I used to be. Now the proprietor edits the paper. I have been fired.'

'But it was you who started the paper. I loved your articles. I am Ejaz Ahmed, I used to own a bookstall at Bogura. I have seen you a number of times in Dhaka.'

The man bent down for a respectful kadambusi. Mamun tried to stop him. As he touched him the man exclaimed, You are running a fever?

He insisted that Mamun should stay with his family for a few days till he got better. So Mamun had to bid good bye to M.R. Akhtar and his family. It was a tearful farewell.

Ejaz Ahmed came originally from Balurghat in India. He got this house in exchange. A tulsi plant on a platform was evidence that the previous owner was a Hindu. It was a pleasant home, plenty of trees, two ponds and mud houses around a courtyard.

The next twenty-four hours were spent in a daze. An old LMF doctor was summoned. He declared it to be typhoid by just feeling the pulse. Mamun's brother-in-law could not be traced. In the prevailing lawlessness all shops were closed. Things like common salt were scarce.

By sheer will to live Mamun recovered after a week. He had no desire to live but only for the two young girls he could not afford to die. Monju and Hena, worried sick, looked like haunted animals.

But life is full of pleasant surprises. Who would have thought that a family of total strangers would do so much for Mamun. It was as though they were paying back a debt.

The situation, Mamun was told, has changed considerably in one week. The first onslaught on 25th of March took the Bengalis by surprise. Nobody knows how many were killed. Then the EPR and the combined strength of the student and youth freedom fighters began to hit back causing damage to the Pakistani armed forces. They were taken to pieces by the fury of the mob. But gradually the Pak army were gaining lost ground, the Free Bangla Radio station of Chittagong had been razed to the ground. The local EPR had withdrawn towards the Indian border. Villages harbouring freedom fighters were indiscriminately torched. Any Bengali youth was a target, young girls were being dragged from their homes. Army was allowed to indulge in loot and rape. Girls were being raped in full view of their fathers, brothers, husbands. The army had great fun in throwing little children in the air before shooting them.

As if this was not enough, riots broke out in villages between Bengali and non Bengali Muslims. The Bihari Muslims even in the last twenty five years had not integrated with the local people, they supported West Pakistan. The army set them against the local people.

The Mukti Bahini had used up their ammunitions. All they had was courage, their daring efforts at ambush merely resulted in heavy casualties. Ejaz Ahmed brought the news that the Pakistani army had recaptured Parbatipur and moving towards Hili in order to seal the border with India. The Mukti Bahini boys were using this escape route. Then the army would comb the neighbouring area of Naogan and Bogura.

Mamun Bhai, hesitated Ejaz Ahmed, Under the circumstances I do not want to keep you here. It is not safe, particularly for the girls. Escape to India, the border is still open. You have no idea what those beasts are capable of.

Mamun mama, can't we go back to Dhaka, asked Monju.

All roads are blocked, replied Ejaz. Dhaka is even more troubled.

Who would give us shelter in India, asked Mamun. We have no passport or visa either.

Does not matter, said Ejaz. Many are going. Please do not waste time, Mamunbhai. Once the border is sealed, you would not even have that option.

Perhaps M.R. Akhtar Mukul could be of help. But he could not be traced. A riot broke out at Jaipurhat. There was panic everywhere that the army was advancing.

Mamun with his family made for the Hili border in a jeep procured by Ejaz Ahmed. The country, their very own country, was no longer safe for Monju and Hena. It reminded Mamun of the Nazi army's assault on Poland and here it was his own army, people of the same religion from whom they had to flee.

He finally met M.R. Akhtar Mukul at Khetpal, near a wooden bridge, dismantled by the villagers to prevent the movement of armed non-Bengalis towards Dhaka. Mukul persuaded the locals that it was important to set up a parallel government in exile. Otherwise the resistance would be short- lived.

Pray to god, Mamun bhai, said Mukul. That we may reach the border before the army gets here.

They crossed the river, went past Panchbibi and stopped in front of the sugar mill at Joypurhat. They spent the night at the guest house. The next day the Pakistani army started moving in, following the railway track from Parbatipur. At any cost Mamun and party had to reach Hili before they did. A small group of the Bengal Regiment was ready to resist the army.

Two jeeps started for the border at night without any lights. The women kept up a chant of the Surah. Mamun felt depressed. To think that people like him who had fought for the creation of Pakistan were now forced to leave the land of their dreams. Where were Yahya Khan and Bhutto now? They are the preserver and destroyer of Pakistan.

After midnight the two jeeps reached the Hili railway station. Beyond the tracks India beckoned to them. Mamun had traveled this way before but that was before the partition.

The Indian Border Police would allow them to cross over, Mamun was informed by the SDO of Sirajgung, Shamsuddin Saheb. He came up to the railway tracks. Allow me to leave, he said, extending his hand for a hand shake . . .

Aren't you coming with us? Mamun was astonished.

My boys are waiting for me at Baghabari. I can't possibly forsake them. Besides, we must prepare the ground for a free Bengal where you can come back with honour.

Monju broke down. All Mamun could do was to pat her head. These children have been brainwashed into believing that India was a hostile Hindu country. Suppose they refused them entry, insulted them? Where would they go? Mamun had only two thousand Pakistani rupees with them. How long would that last?

They cast a last look at the motherland and crossed the tracks. The Indian officer received them politely. Please step this way. Everything will be all right. You need not worry. You must be tired but just a few formalities to be filled. Then you can retire for the night at the dak bungalow. This way please.

It was one hour past midnight. The police check post was a tiny room, without electricity. The light of a torch was focussed on a fat register before which sat the thin tall daroga. He wore a vest. Stand in single file, out with the details, name, father's name, address, profession.

He looked up once, stopping his scribbling. If you had to quit bag and baggage why make all the fuss in the first place, tell me.

This question had no answer. The man continued — So, what does it feel now; feel like beating the breast, what? Faced with an uncertain future what could those just stepping from across the border reply to this taunt.

The policeman went on. You know something? My home was over on the other end, Barisal. Had to leave with family in the riot of fifty. We felt exactly the same way. Well, god had a lot more in store. Now we find both Hindus and Muslims running away.

Mamun looked at Mukul. He was glum, expression stony. The government officer said impatiently, Come on, hurry up. It is getting late. They have children with them. Two days later they got down from the train at Howrah. They came out to an early dawn over Calcutta, across the bridge. The city of Mamun's youth, of his student days. After twenty-five years who knows how the city has changed.

You shed a lot of tears to come to Calcutta, remember? He told Monju. Well, you are there at last.

9

THERE was a time when Mamun was familiar with north and central Calcutta but everything was a blur after a lapse of twenty-four years. It was a foreign city now; he wondered how he would be received. He did not know where they were going to stay. The only hope was that many of the Awami League leaders and intellectuals had sought refuge m Calcutta. Somehow contact would be made with them. But where would he look for them in this big city?

The first priority was to find a hotel. Do they allow Muslims in the hotels of Calcutta? The memory of the 1946 riots sent a shiver down his spine. In his student days, the area around Chowringhee and Park Street was meant for the white sahibs. Park Circus, Beckbagan, Kolutola, Mirzapur, Kalabagan, Rajabazar were populated mostly by Muslims. The hotels in these areas were run by non-Bengali Muslims. Do they still exist?

The trams and buses confused him. Mamun took a taxi. The driver was a hefty looking Punjabi Sikh, carrying a kripan. Is he one of those Sikhs who harbour a grudge against all Pakistanis who compelled them to leave Lahore and Karachi? Trying to sound as casual as possible, Mamun asked him to drive to Beckbagan.

Hena and Monju cast anxious glances at Mamun. Where were they headed in this strange city? Monju regretted having left Dhaka. Will she ever be reunited with Babul? Why did her husband stay on? It seemed to Monju that he wanted her to be out of his way.

Look at the Howrah Bridge, said Mamun, trying to sound enthusiastic. The longest hanging bridge in Asia. Look at the number of people taking a dip in the river. Three dips and all your sins are washed off, that is the Hindu belief.

Do you know anyone in Beckbagan, Mamun mama? Monju was apprehensive.

Mamun hesitated. He has not kept track of any of his college friends but ever since he crossed the border the thought of Pratap Majumder has been constantly in his mind.

Well, I know quite a few, but have to look for them. That will take time. Then he turned to Sukhu, That is a tramcar. Never seen one before. Lovely, isn't it? Looks like a steamer, said Sukhu wisely, Only it sails on the streets.

You are right. Look, a two-storied bus.

What a lot of people, Baba, Hena was overwhelmed by the bustling crowd.

It was a quarter past six but streams of people thronged the roads. By the time they reached the crossing of Harrison Road Mamun was beginning to realise that this city was very different from the city of his student days. It used to be sparkling, beautiful, full of life, not the worn out, soiled appearance and bursting with people.

Finally they found a hotel after a round of Park Circus and Beckbagan, Hotel Madina, next to a mosque from which the sound of ajan wafted through the microphone.

Mamun was in for a lot of surprises. First of all, the hotel was run by a Urdu speaking Muslim, contrary to his belief that all such people had left India. As far as he could see, the surrounding slums had a Muslim population too.

They were shown a fairly big room with three beds on the second floor for fifty rupees a day, not including food. With the money he had Mamun could not afford this room for more than ten days. Monju and Hena were put off by the cracks in the wall, the damp, the cockroach smell. We can look around and then move on to a better place, Mamun tried to assure them. He asked for some drinking water, carefully avoiding the word pani which was used for water in his part of the country. He was warned by the SDO not to use this word in India. But the hotel-boy bringing water in a tin jug said, here is your pani.

Hena pushed open one of the windows. Calcutta has a funny smell, she declared.

Not like Dhaka. A different smell.

How long do we have to stay here, Mamun mama? Asked Monju.

Her mama did not know the answer. He just mumbled, Everything will work out, everything. Just you wait and see.

Hena came back from the bathroom at the end of the corridor. Gosh, so dirty, she turned up her nose. No room to change clothes.

What could one expect from a hotel like this, thought Mamun. Security was the only concern. It seemed that they need have no worry on that count.

You better freshen up. I am going out. Said Mamun. He found a man reading an English newspaper downstairs. The front page carried a six-column headline about the atrocities of the Pakistan army in Jessore and a picture of three dead bodies on a rickshaw.

The first page also carried stories of violence in West Bengal — struggle between the police and the Naxals, between the CPM and the Congress. Samsuddin saheb had warned him that in some localities of Calcutta, any stranger could be killed by the Naxals. He wanted to buy a Bengali newspaper. As Mamun stepped into the street the sharp April sun pierced his body. The trams were already packed to the brim, people hanging precariously from the doorway. The area seemed vaguely familiar, though crowded. Not an inch of open space anywhere. He reached a four-point crossing. Everything came back. To the left is the old Park Street cemetery. Further on, Michael Madhusudan lay in the new Christian Cemetery. Not too far was the Park Circus maidan. The lodging at Ripon Street where he used to stay would not be too far either.

He bought a copy of the Bengali daily Anandabazar Patrika and entered a teashop. Quite unexpectedly he found most of the customers reading Urdu newspapers and speaking in Urdu. Did they take him to be a Hindu, since he was reading a Bengali paper? When he was an active worker of the Muslim League they had burnt some copies of this paper.

The descriptions of the military oppression seemed genuine enough but who was this Abdul Azad on the fourth page giving an eyewitness's account of the horrors of the 25th night? Mamun did not know anyone of that name. Perhaps the man was using a pseudonym.

The front page also carried pictures and stories of thousands of refugees streaming into India. Well, what am I, thought Mamun. A refugee like these people.

Some people at an adjoining table were heatedly discussing the merits of two popular Bombay film stars. Someone named Dilip Kumar was actually a Muslim. He was a better actor than Raj Kapoor, that was what the argument was about. No other actress was as great as Nargis and Saira Banu. And Muhammad Rafi was head and shoulders over Hemant Kumar.

As he listened to these men Mamun’s astonishment kept growing. Where was he, in his old Mirpur? By some strange magic this teashop has remained fixed in the past, twenty-four years has not made any difference. He noticed a board saying No Beef . . .

Within one hundred miles villages were being destroyed, Muslim women were being raped by Muslim soldiers, thousands of innocent people were being killed and these people here could not care less. What do the Urdu newspapers have to say about such atrocities? Mamun could not read Urdu and he was scared to ask any stranger. A feeling of utter loneliness engulfed him.

After a long nap he debated about his next course of action. Should he go out and look for friends? But who were his friends? He had none. If only he had asked M.R. Akhtar Mukul about his whereabouts. He dozed off again. His body was still not completely fit.

Next morning he forced himself to go out and do something. He would try the newspaper offices first. The journalists would know about the leaders of East Bengal, what was being done to continue the struggle for liberation. At least he could talk to them freely.

He remembered the Burman Street office of the Anandabazar Patrika. But the paper printed a different address. Since the postal zone was 1, it had to be near the GPO.

He was about to leave when Hena asked him, Baba, are we not going for some sight seeing?

All in good time, said Mamun, I will take you everywhere. Give me a couple of days. Monju, her sari disheveled, eyes swollen was the very picture of dejection. Evidently she had been crying. Don't go out of the room, understand? Keep an eye on Sukhu. I will be back in no time.

Mamun had spent about twelve years in the city, he was not likely to lose his way. He got into a tram headed for Esplanade. Finally he located the office of the newspaper though its iron-gate and security staff bore no resemblance to the old office. He was walking past a counter. A hefty whiskered chap almost pounced on him.

Look here mister. Where do you think you are going?

To see the editor.

The editor indeed. Do you have an appointment?

No, I don't.

Then you can't see him. He does not see anyone without appointment.

Can I see the news editor then?

He is a busy man. Has no time for the likes of you.

Well is it possible to see any journalist?

Where are you from? Why are you here?

You see I too am a journalist from Dhaka. I thought if I could talk to some people here.

The man sprang into attention. What did you say? Dhaka? Joi Bangla? Come in, come in. Here, please write your name on this slip. His manner changed completely. He led Mamun to the lift, took him to a gentleman and announced, Amit babu, this gentleman is from Dhaka, a reporter.

Really? Amit babu greeted him warmly. Do take a seat. Which district? Sylhet by any chance?

But Mamun's eyes had strayed to a man at an adjoining table, writing furiously. Mamun touched his back. Gaffar, aren't you? he asked softly.

The man turned, gave him a fixed stare then beamed — Mamun bhai? We had heard of your arrest. How did you escape?

They couldn't arrest me. I escaped through the Hili border.

Gaffar was like a godsend. He introduced Mamun to everybody around. Then he said, Let me take you to Santosh-da, he is the boss.

But Santosh Kumar Ghosh's office was crowded, they could not get in. Mamun was taken to the office of the magazine, Desh. Going up to the editor Gaffar introduced his prize exhibit, Meet Syed Mojammel Haque, Sagar-da. A very respected man of Dhaka, used to edit a daily paper. The army was sure to have chopped his head off but he has given them the slip.

The editor Sagarmoy Ghosh was short, stocky and serious looking. He did not say anything, just joined his palms in a namaskar. I used to be a regular reader of your journal, said Mamun. At least till nineteen sixty-five. Then all newspapers and journals from this side stopped. I am rather out of touch. So glad to meet you.

The editor kept his mouth shut. Gaffar volunteered more information. You know Sagar-da, the way Mamun bhai has traveled hundred and fifty miles with two girls and a child — it is a thrilling story of adventure.

All on a sudden the editor stood up and walked up to the window and spat out the pan juice. That was what had kept him from opening his mouth. Beaming, he turned to Mamun. Do give us an account of your adventure. The readers want to know what is happening in East Pakistan. Can you give it tomorrow?

I am much obliged to you, said Mamun. Of course I will write. I hope you will like it.

A little later Gaffar took Mamun to Santosh Kumar Ghosh. Short of stature, the man fidgeted continually. His silk kurta had food stains. He kept lighting one cigarette after another, casually threw a crumpled paper in a wastebasket, spoke sharply to a person standing before him.

When the man was gone, Gaffar introduced Mamun. Ghose did a salaam. What did you say the name is? Syed Mojammel Haque? Sounds familiar . . . yes of course. Syed Mojammel Haque. You used to write poems in the Saogat. You have a book of poems — Butterfly of the Sky, I have read the book. You edited a paper Dinkal. It ran a column by you under a pseudonym, am I right?

Mamun was speechless, he just stared at this man.

This is Santosh-da for you, explained Gaffar. Fantastic memory! Anything in Bengali print and he has read it. You know what he told me when I was introduced to him? That song about Ekushe February . . . it is written by you, isn't it?

Will you keep quiet? Santosh Kumar snapped at Gaffar. I do not like interruptions. Were you at Dhaka on the night of the twenty-fifth? Have you seen any military action?

Quite a lot, said Mamun.

I want the account tomorrow. Put in some personal touches, not a cut and dried article, understand?

But Sagarmoy Babu of Desh has also asked me write about it. Confessed Mamun.

Hang your Desh. I want you to write here. That is all. After all how much can Desh pay you? You have come as a refugee, you need money. Where have you put up?

In a hotel.

Robbed a bank or what?

Mamun laughed. For all his put-on sternness there was a streak of a naughty child in Santosh Kumar. Santosh Kumar went on. Gaffar is contributing to our paper. Syed saheb you are free to do a regular feature if you want. That will take care of your expenses here.

You can drop that Syed saheb. People call me just Mamun . . . You and I seem to be of the same age.

Santosh Kumar pondered over this. You know something? I used to work for the paper Mohammadi when you wrote poetry in Saogat. I come from Faridpur. You are . . . just a minute, let me guess, you must be from Coomilla, right?

Within half an hour Mamun felt as if he has known this gentleman for a long time. You seem to know a lot of people, he asked, Can you help me trace an old friend, Pratap Majumder?

Pratap Majumder — does he write by any chance? No I do not think so. What is he?

Was a Munsif, must be a District Judge by now, I am not sure.

Well if he has a telephone, his name would be in the phone directory.

I should have thought of that, felt Mamun. Meanwhile Santosh Kumar bellowed at all and sundry. Finally the directory was handed to him. He flipped through its pages. Sorry, nobody of that name. Anybody else you know?

Yes. Bimanbehari. Don't recall the surname.

That is not the way. It will take time. Would you like some advance?

Walking with Gaffar outside the newspaper building, Mamun admitted, I had no idea we have so many well-wishers in this country. But tell me something. Why is this office guarded like a fortress?

The Naxals, that is why. They attack and blow up presses. The leftists hate this newspaper. This is supposed to be a nationalist daily but nationalism somehow is not fashionable in India. You will find posters in praise of the Chinese Chairman.

Ananda Bazar had always been anti-Pakistan. We would not even mention it in Dhaka. Now they are our greatest supporters. You and I would be working for them. Irony of fate!

10

A group of familiar faces, waiting in silence near the entrance of the PG Hospital made Pratap stop in his tracks. There was no need to ask a question. Two police vans waited. Even hospital gates had to be guarded these days. Last minutes efforts at the hospital could not save Kironlal Roy, Justice of the High Court who was shot in front of his house at Kumartuli. He was a good man, a man of learning yet he had to meet an untimely end because a few misguided youth resorted to killing for the sake of killing. Judges, teachers, policemen, government officers were being killed at random. The idea was to spread terror. But they were not targeting businessmen.

Presently Bimanbehari emerged from the compound, his brows puckered more in distaste than in sorrow. It will be quite some time. Would you like to wait? He asked Pratap. Pratap shook his head. Come with me then, said Bimanbehari. We can go to the cremation ground later.

He opened his car door. As both took their seats he snapped. What is going on? Kiron, my boyhood friend, we met last week and he had to come to this end for no reason. Just because some loafers take it into their head. Is there no protection? he was furious.

Pratap was silent. I still refuse to accept this, Bimanbehari went on, What a waste, what a useless waste. Heard about Santosh Bhattacharjee too.

Which Santosh Bhattacharjee? Pratap did not recall anybody of that name. From Berhampur. He has been murdered. I knew him. Was one of our regular buyers. He was a prominent figure in the teachers' movement, in fact he was going to contest in the coming parliament elections. This man was stabbed by some youngsters on his way home. What kind of lawlessness is this, you tell me. If this goes on there would be no civilised life left. Each will be on the other's throat.

Every time I hear of such wanton killing I simply die within. I feel so guilty. Tell me Biman, what can I do to atone for my sins? Pratap said very softly.

Biman Behari's anger evaporated. All blood drained from his face. Oh, do not misunderstand me Pratap, for God's sake. I did not mean to hurt you. Why should you be responsible?

What do you mean? I am not responsible? It is my own son who has started this.

Nonsense. How many times do I have to tell you that Bablu acted in self-defence. Ranjit Gupta has told me so, himself. The murdered man was a confirmed criminal, his gang had attacked Bablu and his friends with bombs and rods. You would have acted in the same way in a similar situation. The statement given by Bablu's friend Tapan and that of the criminals have matched.

From where did Bablu get a revolver? When did he learn shooting? There is no doubt that the shot was fired by him. Pratap was not convinced.

Good thing that he had learnt shooting otherwise you would have lost him too. Moreover, that was a stray incident, nothing to do with these political killings. For god's sake don't be obsessed with that. It is all in the past now.

Is it really? Will Bablu ever come back?

Why not? The case against him will be dropped, sooner or later. Manik Bhatchaj, the accomplice who had supplied the revolver, is dead. The papers related to the case are missing, heard it from Ranjit. With the kind of things happening who will bother about that incident which took place two and a half years ago? Pratap let out a sigh. His friend went on, You can let Bablu know that he is free to come back. Mamata must be missing him.

As they approached Bimanbehari's house a curious scene greeted them. People were rushing about in panic. Screams could be heard. Turn around, turn around, Biman behari ordered the driver. The car negotiated a risky U-turn and sped towards Elgin Road.

What is happening, exclaimed Bimanbehari emotionally. Can't even go back to my own home. Is this a civilised country? Pratap, suppose they have attacked my house!

Why would they?

Is there any logic any more? Why did they set fire to our Krishnanagar house?

Let us go back. After all we are inside the car. We could have waited.

As if sitting inside a car is any protection. Justice Kironlal Roy was inside his car. What should we do now. Inform the police?

I think we should go back and assess the situation. No need to panic.

The sight of us might trigger their anger. They may have a grudge against you.

There was an attempt on your life earlier. Let us not take undue risk. Better to inform Lal Bazar.

Still I feel we should go back and take stock. The women in the house, they need protection. Let us not panic. What is there to fear after all.

The driver too seemed to agree with Pratap. Let us go back, sir. It may be a false alarm.

They came back to Bhowanipur. By now the crowd had dispersed, though a few could be seen at the turn, it was deserted in front of Biman's house . . . Bemanbehari leaned out of the car window. What was the hangama about? He enquired.

A fair youth came forward. Something dangerous, Bimankaka. You see that electrical goods shop over there, a taxi pulled up near the lamppost, three men jumped out and dragged the assistant of the shop keeper and made off with him. The young chap was the owner’s nephew, just arrived from Seuri.

And you stood and watched it?

What could we do? They had daggers and pipe gun. Any attempt to resist would have cost my life.

But why did they take him?

The owner has no clue. He says the boy was a good student, a first class first in his B.A., had no truck with the party. But of course he may not know. . .

The car reached Bimanbehari's house. No, I think it would not be a good idea to ask Bablu to come. Suppose three hoodlums come and pick him up like they did to day, Nothing you or I would be able to do. I would not be surprised if the body of the young chap is found near the rail tracks tomorrow. He asked Pratap to wait in his office while he climbed upstairs. He had something to show Pratap.

Pratap poured some water from the pitcher and drank two glasses. He was absolutely parched. Nothing was impossible these days. Some ruffians could have entered this house, thrown a bomb, destroyed all papers. He picked up the newspaper and tried to concentrate. All full of news of East Pakistan. Familiar names — Rangpur, Coomilla, Mymensing, Chuadanga, Bogura, they have come back again. The Bengali newspapers have started referring to East Pakistan as Bangladesh. What does Bangladesh mean? Who renamed that country? Has Pakistan already given up all claims? Where was Sheikh Mujib? And other leaders of the Awami League?

Presently Bimanbehari was back. He looked upset. Oli is not back. Apparently she has left for the press. She is not to go to the College Street, Amherst Street area, I warned her so many times. What is to be done. The telephone at the press is out of order.

Why don't you send the car to bring her back from the press? suggested Pratap.

Bimanbehari pondered a little then agreed. Pratap turned to the newspaper, to the heartening news of the encounters between the almost unarmed Mukti Bahini and the well equipped Pakistani army. Some of the accounts might be exaggerated. Was a sabre jet really downed in Jessore? The Chittagong airport taken over? The Pakistan army has fled from Mymensing? Some of these might be highly coloured but there was no doubt that a battle was raging. The BBC and its English correspondents confirmed it. They are all praise for the Mukti Bahini . . . After severe torture for a couple of days the Bengali population is hitting back. Resistance has been organised all over the country. It was an unequal fight, between the civilians, helped by some police and border security personnel. A handful of army Majors and Colonels have come over to their side. So the Bengalis have really taken up arms once again as they did in the age of the Baro Bhuian. Pratap's heart swelled in pride.

As concrete proof of the valour of the Mukti Bahini, the newspapers printed photographs of Pakistani soldiers who have crossed over and surrendered to the Indian Border Security Forces. Their huge frames mutilated, faces distorted in fright. They preferred to fall into the hands of the Indians, such was the fear generated by the thinny and skinny Bengali boys.

And to think that the youth this side of the border are indulging in killing their own flesh and blood at a time when the Bengali youth on the other side were locked in a grim battle to regain their national pride, their national honour Blood for blood seems to be the only rule in west Bengal, a meaningless fight for some new interpretation of Marxism given by the Chinese leader Mao tse Dong. Suppose Mao was to say that he was mistaken, would the lost lives come back? Bright young students, honest, idealists have taken up arms merely to kill innocent people, teachers, judges, and clerks. Don't they realise the cowardice of it? The boys on the other side are fighting against automatic rifles and light machine guns and the boys here are content to stab helpless teachers on their way home.

Pratap turned to the report on the Coomilla front. The Mukti Bahini has stopped the onward march of the Khan army who were torching village after village. Seven Pathan soldiers were dumped into the river. The town of Coomilla floated before his eyes. His college friend Mamun, where was he now? And the house where Bula lived — did anyone live there now? Memory of a storm soaked night, trudging across fields to reach Mamun's home, going to Bula's . . .

Pratap kaka, how long have you been here? It was Oli. Beads of perspiration stood on her forehead yet she looked as fresh as an autumn flower.

Where were you? Asked Pratap. We were worried sick. The car has gone to fetch you. You must have heard of the incident.

Oli drew a chair and sat down. Yes, I did. That boy must have been involved in some action at Seuri.

Action. I see. In our days action used to have a different meaning. But every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Are they not aware of this scientific truth?

Oli promptly changed the subject. You know I met an old friend of Babluda's. Wanted to know about how he is doing. Well I do not have the latest news.

Pratap stared at her. Does this mean Bablu is not in touch with her. He writes to his mother fairly regularly. It seems he is having a good time in the States.

Bablu has got a new job, will be moving to the west very soon. He has got his driving license too. Why, don't you hear from him?

Oli smiled. No, he hardly ever writes. Forgotten us it seems. She said casually.

Well he is a poor letter writer. The letters to his mother are never more than ten lines. Very cut and dried. Some new courses he has been taking, busy, that's about all.

You know Pratap kaka, I am planning to go to the States.

Wonderful. I don't think your father would object.

I had applied in seven Universities, three have accepted me. Now it is up to me. The only thing is who would be helping father if I go away.

Don't you worry. We are there.

Mamata would be delighted, thought Pratap. She still worried about her hot tempered son. Oli was the only person who could control him. Who knows, some day they might get married and settle down.

You decide about the university and let me know. I will wire to Bablu. He said.

You need not bother. I want to surprise him.

She went upstairs. Pratap felt strangely elated. When Bimanbehari came down he told him, You know something Biman? Your daughter wants to go abroad to study. Bimanbehari was trying to open the lock of a box he had brought. Let her, if that is what she wants.

He sounded indifferent. What is the matter? Pratap was curious. You do not sound enthusiastic. This is what you had always wanted. Didn't you?

Still intent on opening the box, Bimanbehari replied, You do not know my daughter. She can be very stubborn. I do not want to impose my opinion. That is all. Besides, in these troubled times, the more young people get away from this city, the better.

But she wants it now. With her result she is sure to get a scholarship.

Money is no problem. I can pay for her passage if she does not get the Fulbright or anything else. Meanwhile do not force her.

He opened the lid of the box, Beauty, beauty. Absolutely like new.

To his utter astonishment, Pratap found a pair of revolvers on a dark blue velvet pad.

Mauser guns. Bought by my grandfather from Roda Company. Excellent stuff. Bimanbehari touched the guns with infinite care.

Do you mean Mauser pistols from Roda company . . . Malanga Lane . . . Habu . . .

What is that supposed to mean?

Fifty Mauser pistols were stolen from Malanga Lane during the British rule. A few terrorists disguised as cart pullers did it. That was how the attacks against the English had begun.

But these are not the stolen ones. They were bought by my grandfather, had always been in the family.

I see. But of what use will they be to you? Besides it would be risky if word gets around that you possess arms.

Risk my foot. I will keep one with me. You can keep the other one if you wish. I can get you a license. Those ruffians should be shot like mad dogs. Revolution indeed.

For god's sake Biman. You are not going to do any such thing. You won't be able to. On the other hand, this would be an invitation to them to come and snatch the arms. It is they who will kill you.

Easier said than done. My life is not that cheap. I must resist, I have to. You too. We must act in self-defence. Tit for tat.

Pratap shook his head. He had nothing to say. After all these boys misguided as they were, are like his own Bablu. If they think patricide is a way to bring in revolution then let it be. May be they will repent one day. The future after all is theirs.

Yet he picked up one, so smooth so cold to the touch. He put it against his cheek. He wished he could use it to save the life of a single exploited Bengali across the border.

11

MAMUN woke up with a start. Hena had to call him twice. What is the matter? He asked in a troubled voice. What time is it? I am late.

Four thirty, said Hena, you wanted to be woken up at four thirty.

Monju stood with a cup of tea next to the bed. So the two girls were up already. Mamun felt a little embarrassed. He took long sips.

Would you like some more? asked Monju.

If you have. Be quick. Is there water in the tap?

I filled up the bucket last night. Informed Hena.

Quickly finishing his second cup Mamun lit a cigarette and left for the bathroom.

Three days ago, they had moved to a house in Beckbagan. Two hundred and fifty rupees for a fairly large room with a kitchen. It was much better than the hotel. On the first day at Calcutta Mamun got eighty-eight Indian rupees for one hundred Pakistani rupees, yesterday it had come down to seventy-five. The value of Pakistani money was steadily going down. In a few days nobody in this Bengal would even touch that currency. Fortunately he had converted all his money, not that it was going to last long. He would be obliged to sell gold ornaments which sold for one hundred and eighty-nine per tola. The only hope was money from writing. His first article fetched one hundred fifty. He must publish at least four or five a month.

Hena had toast and omelette ready for him, though it was too early for breakfast. He refused to eat but Monju insisted. Suddenly he knelt down for namaz. He was not religious by nature but it was a special day and he needed to concentrate. It might reassure the two girls.

But the girls looked alarmed. This was very unusual. After he finished, Monju pleaded, Do you have to go, Mamun mama?

Hena joined in. Please baba, don't go. We will be scared without you.

Oh come on, I will not be alone. Don't you worry, I will be back before evening.

But the girls kept insisting. Don't go, not to-day. You may go on some other day.

It took Mamun a lot of persuasion to make them agree. As he changed, he could feel a growing excitement. His heart was thumping like an engine . . . He was going to be witness to a historic event. He went to the adjoining room and kissed the sleeping child, Sukhu. He put his hand on the shoulders of the girls. Be careful. Don't open the door to anyone. Do not budge out of the house.

Monju bent down to touch her uncle's feet for kadambusi. She burst out crying.

Don't be silly, Mamun wiped her tears. Look at Hena, look how strong she is. I'll come back and take you to the Metro for a film show. Meanwhile pray to God for Bangladesh.

Out in the street the Mamun found the sky getting lighter. Even at this hour quite a few people were out. The first trams were trundling by. Mamun remembered many Hindu gentlemen used to take the early trams for a dip in the Ganga. Do they still do it, he wondered. Taxies waited near the Beckbagan crossing. Calcutta was a much bigger metropolis than Dhaka, probably the taxies plied all night.

He took a tram, no use spending money on a taxi. The clang of the tram-car brought back memories of his student days. He got down at the Dharmatala crossing. Quarter to six. Already he noticed the brisk movement of the newspaper hawkers. Old people were out for their morning stroll. Put the once beautiful Curzon Park looked so different that Mamun could hardly recognise it. The Monument somehow looked shorter. The Red Road at least was the same as before, fringed by flowering gulmohur trees. During the Second World War planes used to land here.

He had to ask a few morning walkers to get to the tent where the Press Club was housed. Strange that it should not have a proper building like the Dhaka Press Club. About a dozen cars were parked in front of the Press Club and about thirty journalists stood around. There were some foreigners among them. Nobody spoke. They did not know where they would be taken.

Mamun sought Yusoof Ali out. He was an old acquaintance whom Mamun had accidentally met a few days ago. It was through him that he was here today. But even he was not told about the destination.

He was put in an Ambassador car with some foreign journalists. Yusoof Ali climbed on a jeep and asked the car to follow. His voice cracked with tension.

The convoy sped through Chittaranjan Avenue, past the Shambazar crossing and reached Jessore Road. It was still called Jessore Road, even after twenty-four years of partition. Vendors spread their wares by the roadside, people were busy buying vegetables, three people stood next to a big ox and discussed the sews. Gavaskar has hit his third century in the West Indies, Mamun overheard. A quiet ordinary eventless day. About eighty miles down this road is Jessore where all hell is let loose, fight is on between civilians and the military, village after village was being burnt. Are they headed for this Jessore?

Nobody talked in the car. Mamun did not feel like striking up a conversation with strangers. He stared out of the window, curious and expectant. The names of Dumdum, Madhyamgram, Barasat were familiar but the place was not so crowded then. Only shrubs and cultivated fields.

The convoy stopped at Krishnanagar, apparently a tea break. In actual fact they had to wait for the return of an advance party to find out which part of the border was the safest. The journalists drank tea from the roadside stalls, all tight lipped. They had been asked not to ask questions, because no answer would be given.

Leaving the tarred road the cars proceeded along a dusty track. Mamun experienced a strange thrill. Have they crossed the border to enter East Pakistan? Oh no, it was Bangladesh now, he reminded himself. The landscape was identical, the people, the trees, the mud houses were identical. But some houses bore burn signs, some were broken down. This then was Bangladesh, Mamun was back in his motherland. He felt a flutter in his heart.

At last the cars came to a stop in the middle of a huge mangrove. This was village Baidyanathtala, district Kusthia, subdivision Meherpur. Some men were busy arranging chairs, most of them without hand rests, collected from nearby houses. Armed soldiers circled the area. They looked like a rebel group from East Pakistan Rifles.

Mamun got down from the car. A journalist from one of the Calcutta papers walked up to him. This Kusthia used to be part of Nadia district. Am I right? He asked.

Ji, Replied Mamun.

We crossed Krishnanagar a little while ago, the journalist went on. Close by is the mangogrove of Plassey, where we lost our freedom to the British. To think that in another neighbouring mangogrove in the same district — the free nation of Bangladesh is being born. Interesting thought, isn't it?

Mamun agreed.

Which paper are you from?

Sorry, I am not a reporter. I belong to this Bengal.

I see. A leader of the Awami League. Can you tell me which one is Tajjuddin? Can you arrange for an exclusive interview?

Mamun could not help smiling. I am not a leader. I used to be a journalist like you. Tajjuddin Saheb has not come yet. He needs no identification. He will be speaking.

Is Maulana Vasani coming? Is he with you in this fight?

I believe he has crossed over to India. This means he is not with Pakistan. In fact the demand for a free Bengal was his idea but I am not sure if he would be attending this meeting.

Have you noticed something Syed Saheb. In spite of the strict secrecy, the news has leaked that Mujib Nagar would be set up at this mangrove. Look at the crowd.

True enough people from the neighbouring villages were trying to surge forward. But the armed soldiers would not .allow them in so many were climbing up the trees. Who were these people? Mamun had a sudden sense of premonition. Neither the Muslim League nor the Jamat-e-Islam wanted dismemberment of Pakistan. Some in the crowd could be spies. Once the word reached them how long would it take for the Pakistani planes to fly from Jessore? If all the Awami League leaders were killed or taken into custody the fight for independence would receive a jolt. The Indian Army would not set foot this side of the border, they have made that very clear. The handful of EPR men would not last long before an army onslaught.

Mamun wished they would begin the deliberations soon. A crash was heard. Was it the Pakistani army? No, it was a branch of a tree giving way under pressure of too many people.

Finally the proceedings began after eleven. Tajjuddin, Syed Nazrul Islam all were there but not Sheikh Mujib who was the most important person. His whereabouts were still not known.

Though absent, Sheikh Mujibur Rahman's name was announced as the President. Syed Nazrul Islam would be acting President. Tajjuddin was the Prime Minister. Three names in the cabinet were Khondakar Mustaq Ahmed, H.M. Kamarujjaman and M. Mansur Ali. Retired Col. M. Osmani was Commander in Chief of the Bangladesh Army.

A week ago declaration of an independent Bangladesh was made from a building in Theatre Road, Calcutta, temporary headquarter of Mujib Nagar. Today, on 17th April, formal inauguration of free Bangladesh Government was done on its soil. The historic document was read out by the Chief Whip Yusoof Ali. Then the Acting President received guard of honour from a platoon of I.P.R.

The journalists encircled Tajuddin. He spoke slowly but with confidence, the Prime Minister of a newborn nation.

So you have formed a new government, asked a foreign journalist. But how much of the country has been freed?

Tajjuddin looked around. When he spoke he exuded confidence.

Entire Bangladesh is free except the army installations. We are eventually going to drive out the foreign forces.

The journalist from a Bengali daily who had spoken to Mamun traveled in the same car. He was a handsome man with curly hair and a quick smile. His Hawaiian shirt had a number of pockets. Their earlier apprehension was gone now, everybody looked relaxed and cheerful. Everything ended well. The next day's newspaper would bring a bombshell to the Pakistani rulers.

Arun Sengupta was quite resourceful. He distributed sweets. Nobody knew from where they were procured. Passing a packet of cigarettes, he said, Have one. I am still too stunned to believe that it has happened. Pakistan broken in two. Bangladesh has been born. And to think that we have been witness to this historic event.

The question is, a British newspaperman sounded sceptical. Which countries are going to recognise this Bangladesh?

In my opinion India will do it tonight. Then other friendly nations will follow, said Arun Sengupta.

I did not know India had friends, mocked the British newspaperman.

There was silence for a few seconds. Arun Sengupta was undaunted. Why, there is the Soviet Union, and Nepal, Bhutan, Sikkim . . . Another Bengali journalist mimicked a well known poem and sang, Oh China, for shame golden China . . . Ten years ago we were so Pally, Hindi Chini Bhai Bhai and all that crap. This China is now supporting every barbarian act of Pakistan.

Well the chairman of China happens to be your chairman too if I am to believe your posters. Put in the British media man.

Mamun, his heart still fluttering was in no mood to take part in the conversation. None of these people would understand what was going on in his mind. It was a mixture of jubilation and sadness. So the Pakistan of their dreams could not be saved. A feeling of guilt persisted for having been a part of an earlier no less historic blunder.

At about three they stopped at Krishnanagar for lunch. They had to make do with rice, dal and egg curry. Lunch without fish, smiled Arun Sengupta. Difficult for you people isn't it? You must have dinner with me tonight.

I am fond of egg curry, protested Mamun.

Usually these hotels serve very good fish, smuggled from Pakistan, sorry, Bangladesh. The war may have stopped the supply.

In West Bengal fish is very costly. The people do not get fish, observed Mamun.

Pressure of population, that is what. We get our supply from Punjab and Rajasthan. But no match on the ilish from Padma and rui from Sirajgung, what do you say?

Suddenly he dropped his voice. Tell me something Syed Saheb. In the newly formed cabinet, all are from the Awami League. Do you think that was right?

Why, what is wrong in it? Mamun was surprised. The Awami League got an overwhelming majority in the last election. They would have formed the government if it was not for Yahya Khan and Bhutto.

But that was a different election, under Pakistan government, don't you see? Till you have your own election don't you think the proper thing would have been to form an all party national cabinet? Is the war for independence to be fought only by the Awami League?

Certainly not. The people of Bangladesh are fighting it.

And the Awami League will provide the leadership? Other parties like the leftists, the extremists, the religious organisations may not accept that leadership. This is a time of crisis, a time when you should have looked beyond party considerations.

Mamun hesitated. I suppose you are right. When they extend this small cabinet they will include other parties, hopefully.

Arun Sengupta took out a notebook, Mamun caught hold of his hand. Don't quote me please. I have no truck with politics, not entitled to speak on behalf of Bangladesh government. I am just a refugee. They reached Calcutta. Mamun postponed his dinner with Sengupta for a later date. From the street he saw Monju and Hena waiting for him at the upstairs window. Mamun waved to them then bought some sweets. He went up, humming to himself, amar sonar bangla ami tomay bhalobasi.

A group of young boys were discussing cricket in front of the sweet shop completely oblivious of the stupendous change in the history of the sub-continent. The shop owner exchanged angry words with a customer over a soiled ten-rupee note. How can they be occupied with such trifling things, thought Mamun.

He bought sweets and raced upstairs. Sukhu was at the door. Mamun picked him up and danced a jig. Sukhu Mia my pet, from now on we are no longer Pakistani we are Bengali, Bengali. You know what you are? A Bengali. And your country is Bangladesh . . . Monju, her face beaming asked, Is the war over then?

Well no, not yet but it will be over soon. We shall overcome animal power.

Hena was sceptical. Baba, do you mean to say that you really went inside Bangladesh?

Yes I did, what do you know, stupid girl. Right inside Kushthia, Meherpur. Our army was there. The Pakistanis did not dare to come near.

How far is Madaripur from there? Did you have any news of Ma?

Mamun felt a little ashamed. He put Sukhu down and glanced at Monju. She too looked apprehensive. Mamun felt he should not have been so jubilant. There was no news either of Feroza or Babul. He had to lie to them. So trying to look cheerful he said, From what I heard there is nothing to worry. Dhaka is quiet, so are Chittagong and Faridpur. The Khan army has gone back to the cantonment, they have left the civilians alone. I will send letters to them through the boys of the Mukti Bahini. Come on now, have some sandesh. It is such a happy day. How about a song Monju? Sing that one — amar sonar Bangla ami tomay bhalobasi.

Inside the closed door, Monju began hesitantly, Hena and Sukhu joined. Mamun waved his hands like a conductor and kept saying, encore, encore . . .

After the terrifying days following 25th March this miserable family had at long last an occasion to celebrate.

Mamun fiddled with a cheap transistor he had bought a couple of days ago. He listened to the barrage of falsehood broadcast from Dhaka in the hope that a glimmer of truth might emerge. Usually they observed a total silence about the Mukti Bahini and concentrated on fictitious stories about the forays of the disguised Indian army inside East Pakistan to torture innocent civilians. But to-day Mamun wanted to listen to All India Radio, to find out if India had granted recognition, if the Pakistani Deputy High Commision had joined forces with Bangladesh. The Deputy High Commissioner, Hossain Ali however had been loyal to Pakistan. Was it for the sake of his job? Mamun wondered.

Neither the local news nor the national had anything on this issue. If Indira Gandhi refrained from recognising the newly formed Bangladesh? Tired and emotionally drained, Mamun fell into a deep slumber. The next two days were agonising. Government of India was tight lipped about the new state. There was a feeling that India would not interfere in internal matters of Pakistan or risk war.

However there was a piece of good news. A wrong move by Yahya Khan, a transfer order for the Deputy High Commissioner to Rawalpindi turned out to be the last straw. Hossain Ali's family, afraid that he might be put under bar there refused to let him go. It was common knowledge that no Bengali officer would be kept in high posts.

It was Hossain Ali who got in touch with Tajjuddin this time. He wished to switch over to Bangladesh along with his seventy-one employees. The building of the High Commission would be in their possession.

It created a ripple. A High Commission changing allegiance was direct proof that Pakistan was really breaking up. Thousands of people flocked to that building which was now renamed Bangladesh Mission. The green and gold flag of Bangladesh fluttered over the mission. It was an occasion to celebrate. Journalists, artists, musicians, intellectuals and political leaders who had taken refuge in India all came, happy and jubilant. At long last they had a place to meet.

The sight of someone familiar near the dais on which a musical concert was going on had Mamun startled. While Hemanta Mukhopadhyay sang on and on, Mamun pushed the people around him to get near the platform. He touched the unknown man on the shoulder and exclaimed, his voice choked with emotion, Pratap, Pratap.

The man turned around. He stared at Mamun.

Don't you recognise me Pratap. I am Mamun, We were in college together.

You are making a mistake sir, said the main politely. My name is not Pratap. I do not know you.

12

OFFICIALLY it was spring. A picture of dandelions by the road-side has appeared on the Time. The first call of the robin was heard, claimed a letter writer. Yet, most unpredictably, the temperature dropped by the afternoon, bright sun was followed by icy wind.

The thermometer outside the window showed the mercury dropping below ten. Tutul brought out her overcoat. She had to go to the airport at five. It was quarter to three. The slate coloured sky indicated there was no hope for the sun.

She could not possibly ask anyone to leave work to accompany her to the airport. Shirin was the only one she approached but she refused saying a visit to the airport makes her homesick. So she took an extra overcoat and set out alone. Usually she took the tube but today she brought the car out, checked the petrol and switched on the heater. The chestnut trees had sprouted new leaves. These were actually horse chestnut though Tutul did not know the difference. In fact she did not know much about trees and flowers but in London it was customary to discuss gardens even though your garden may be just a strip. Perhaps she should have bought some roses. No, that would have been a bit too much.

The driver of an overtaking car looked at Tutul and winked. This had taken some getting used to. Tutul found it not so intolerable now. In all probability the man was not English, but either Italian or Greek. Tutul was able to make out the difference by now.

She parked her car at the parking area of the Heathrow airport and proceeded to the area outside the customs where others waited. There were quite a few men and women who seemed to be Indian and Pakistani. She did not know any of them. One salwar-clad lady fixed her gaze at Tutul. They may have met somewhere. But Tutul never spoke to a stranger unless spoken to. That was her problem.

Her first encounter with Alam had been here, at the airport when she first landed. And now she has come to receive him. Circumstances have changed. This was an important day. Tutul tried her best not to show the excitement she was feeling and managed to look unperturbed. Yet she wished somebody was with her. The PIA flight has landed right on time, blared the public address system. The passengers were coming out with a lot of luggage. Alam was not to be seen. Actually Tutul was informed by a stranger on the phone that he might come to-day. Tutul had a few questions but he put the phone down rather abruptly. After the fateful 25th of March, Alam was stranded at Lahore. All his papers including passport and travellers-cheques had been stolen. His friends in London doubted if he would be able to come out of Pakistan at all. There was trouble in Dhaka all through March but Alam insisted that he had to go. But why he left Dhaka for Lahore was a mystery. The exact situation in Pakistan was still not very clear. The British press did publish the news of the crackdown but has been silent ever since. Calcutta newspapers available at the India Office Library indicated a state of civil war in Pakistan. Entire East Pakistan was up in arms against the atrocities of the Pakistan army. Alam's friends however did not believe such stories. They felt those reports were grossly exaggerated in the Indian media. True, the negotiation between the Awami League and Yahya Khan has failed, there have been some skirmishes, but setting the army against innocent civilians was an absurd idea. This cannot happen in the second half of the twentieth century. Neither China, the Soviet Union or America have said anything in protest, the only country to kick up a row was India, Pakistan's sworn enemy. In her letter last week, Tutul's mother did not mention the war, but then her letters never contained any political news. There has been no communication from Dhaka in last one month. Why couldn't Alam write? Was the strange voice on the phone trying a practical joke? Tutul was beginning to grow sceptical. Most of the passengers had come out but Tutul had to stay on till the last one left. Her eyes smarted, she felt dizzy. She has not been keeping well lately. Suddenly Alam's lanky form appeared at the doorway and Tutul's heart missed a beat. She felt her head going round. No, she must be steady, it will not do to faint now. Alam looked distinctly thinner, his suit hung loose over his shoulder. He looked taller. He was busy talking to a well dressed person and did not glance towards Tutul. Tutul left the crowd and walked outside. Alam, she knew was given to melodrama. He might lift her before all these people. She did not want to be embarrassed. But when he saw her he was so surprised that he forgot his theatrical gimmicks. It took him a few seconds to come to grips with the situation. Then a smile lit up his face, So Tultuli my dear, you thought I was dead, didn't you? Tutul bit her lips. He touched her lightly on the chin. Look at me, I am quite alive and kicking though it was a narrow escape. But how did you know I was coming to day? Who told you? Tutul was still too stunned to speak. Meanwhile the other gentleman said, Let me leave now. Good bye.

Just a minute, said Alam. We will drop you. Tutul, I hope you have the car. Let me introduce, This is my girl friend Tutul, Bahnisikha Sarkar, FRCS. This is Shahjahan Choudhury, Indian citizen, from Calcutta, now settled in London. Had gone to West Pakistan on business. Met him on the plane.

Shahjahan folded his hands in a namaste. Please do not bother, he protested mildly. I can take the tube, I have very little luggage.

Of course not. Alam was insistent. It will be on the way.

After the engine was switched on, Tutul spoke. What happened at Lahore?

Exactly like a cheap thriller, you know. You would not believe it but it was a plan to trick me all right. Alam lit a cigarette.

Shahjahan asked from the back seat. But why on earth did you decide to move from Dhaka to Lahore in this situation?

That is mystery number one for you, smiled Alam. Why would I leave the excitement, the declaration of an all out fight for independence by Sheikh Mujib? No question of going to Lahore. It was only for a telegram that my Jafarmama who had brought me up was seriously ill and wanted to see me. His business used to take him to Karachi and Lahore. And here I was, a doctor with an English degree, I would be a namak haram if I refused to respect his wishes. It was on the twenty- fourth. The next day I left Dhaka by the morning flight much against my wishes because everybody knew that something was to be decided once and for all on that day.

On that very day thousands lost their lives in Dhaka, said Shahjahan.

Could be more. A friend of mine, a journalist of Ittefak, was murdered on that day. Added Alam.

Where did you lose your passport? Asked Tutul.

Alam resumed his story. There was a man at the Lahore airport waiting for me. He was a Punjabi, spoke broken Bengali. Said he worked for mamu. But he did not have a car. We proceeded in a taxi. When we were crossing Jubilee Park a police car came from the opposite direction and hit our car head on. It was definitely a staged affair. The driver was dragged out though the poor fellow was hardly to blame. Anyway I did not want to get into an argument. I had to get another taxi. Meanwhile a crowd had gathered. One police officer said I had to go to the police station. My handbag containing my passport, traveler's cheque, return ticket was gone in this hassle.

Were you carrying the handbag? Asked Shahjahan.

No, it was in the taxi. Well I had to go to the police station. In the meantime the man who had been at the airport to receive me had disappeared. Only then I smelt a rat. The whole thing was a trap. They did not let me report, just shoved me behind bars without any reason. I wanted to make a phone call. They did not let me do that either.

So your mama was not ill after all?

Jafarmama did not send any telegram. It was done by the Pakistan Intelligence. They knew everything about me. One fellow came to interrogate me. You are involved in politics, aren't you? He charged. You are connected to two papers in London, papers which have demanded autonomy for East Pakistan.

Did they beat you up? Asked Tultul.

Well no, actually not much.

But they did?

I will tell you later. Listen to this first. Next day I was moved to another building, barbed wires, more or less like a barrack, armed guards keeping watch. A couple of days later I realised that they would kill me. Nobody would know. I was a man without identity. Every time I asked about my lost handbag they laughed. You won't need your passport any more, they said. I was really scared. There was no hope for me, so it seemed then. You know Tutul, I thought I would never see you again. Alam touched her on the shoulder, trying to control his emotions.

Tell me, who was the strange caller on the telephone? He claimed to be your friend from Lahore. How did he know that your money and passport were lost?

That man saved my life. In the barrack-like building I was just given chapati and vegetables, no tea or anything. One day the regular man did not come. The new man seemed to be a Bengali. Before I could ask he whispered to me, Sir, do you know what is happening in Chittagong? It was this cook who told me about what had happened on the night of twenty-fifth March. He supplied food to two Bengali army officers. They were also planning to escape. Initially he was too afraid to help me. Then I had an idea. The people who were interrogating me did not know about my dual citizenship, that I had got British citizenship a year earlier and had not cancelled my Pakistani passport. My British passport was at Dhaka. I had brought the other passport along for encashing my traveler's cheque.

You could have told them that since you were a British citizen, they had no right to detain you. Said Shahjahan.

They would have shot me then and there, I was definite about that. Their intention was to extract information, which of the Bengali Muslims in London were raising funds for the Awami League and so on. They even knew the names of some of my friends. So and so is a leftist of the China school, do they support Mujib too? This shows how well informed they are.

So, what did you do? Tutul was impatient.

It suddenly occurred to me that a childhood friend of mine, Mehdi Ali Imam Mintoo worked as a PRO in the British Deputy High Commission. Only he could save my life. I begged the Bengali cook to post a letter I had written to Mintoo. What followed was a miracle. Perhaps Allah was gracious to me. Mintoo was due to leave for England within six hours of getting that letter. That was a good break. In London he contacted the Foreign Office and charged the Pakistani High Commission of detaining a British citizen. He would be going to the press, he warned them. It was Mintoo who had phoned you. If the whole thing was delayed by two or three days I would have not have been alive. Of course the Bengali cook was arrested the next day.

Thank your lucky stars, admitted Shahjahan. Since I am a supplier in the army I have to entertain the officers. What I keep hearing from them is horrible, unthinkable. They have a grudge against the Bengali people. They are going to reduce the population of East Pakistan by one quarter, they boast. Kill as many as they can and drive the rest to India. If the Hindus are eliminated the population would be reduced automatically. Track the Awami League supporters and shoot them down. This is genocide.

Do you know anything about the Mukti Yodhyas? Is it true they are fighting back?

The army people make fun of them. They claim to have crushed the Bengali resistance in Chittagong. A thousand students have been shot in Dhaka. They are Indian agents, they deserve to die. Alam saab do not be surprised if your East Pakistan goes the Vietnam way.

Killed a thousand students? Exclaimed Alam, all blood drained from his face. And boasting about it? But why would they tell you all these?

Shahjahan gave a queer smile. I live in England, do business with Pakistan, I have a Muslim name, so they took it for granted that I would be anti-Indian, anti-Hindu even though I am Indian citizen. That is what most people think.

They reached South Harrow where Shahjahan was to get down. He fished out a card from his pocket. Before handing it to Alam he looked at Tutul. I have been trying to think where I had seen you before. Are you related to Pratap Majumder?

Surprised, Tutul said, He is my uncle.

This is a small world, said Shahjahan. I used to be a friend of Tridib. You used to visit Sulekha and Tridib with Pratap Babu's son, Piklu. I had seen you then.

Tutul's amazement grew. Oh yes, Tridib mama is here. Have you met him?

Ignoring her question, Shahjahan turned to Alam. Here is my phone number. Do keep in touch. He hurried away.

Alam stretched himself. I am going to sleep for two days. But where. Would you let me stay with you in your Golders Green apartment? What do you say my Tultuli?

You may. Tutul said. I have vacuum cleaned your apartment too. So much of dirt. I had to work hard the whole day last Sunday.

Alam yawned. Which means you do not want to take me to your apartment. You want me to live in exile in mine. What a girl, really. I managed to survive from the clutches of lions and what do I get? Nothing, not even a sweet word or a caress. Who asked you to run after this girl, pray? So many lovely girls were pining for you. Poor Shireen.

Was it my own doing? It was in my stars.

There is still time. Should I drop you at Naseem and Rebecca's? They would be delighted.

Anything to avoid me, is that it? Alam hit her back playfully.

Oh yes. Don't you know it? Tutul turned to him with a faint smile.

Alam put his head on her lap and stretched himself. Tutul, are you more inaccessible than freedom? He asked thickly.

Tutul blushed. Get up, please, I can't put the clutch. People are staring at us.

Let them. This is London after all. How much longer do you intend to keep me away from you? First it was your mother's objection, so let us wait. Then it was the FRCS. Then let us return together. Do you know what was in my mind during my internment in Lahore? I am telling you the truth. I was ready to give up my life for the political and economic freedom of East Pakistan. But in that Lahore Jail I constantly thought of you. Perhaps I may not live to see freedom but I must live to see Tutul. Well, I am free at last. The fight for freedom has started. Sooner or later the country would be free. But will you never be my own? Will you remain inaccessible?

I am not being inaccessible . . . You don't understand.

Why, why won't you be my own? Listen Tutul, I am tired, absolutely blank inside. Just let me be near you for some time. Trust me, I only want to put my head on your lap and talk. I have so much to say. Please turn the car around.

Will you sit up please. Tell me, did they beat you up?

You are changing the subject. I know the reason. OK, I won't ask you again.

What is it that you know?

Sahjahan Saheb referred to your Pikluda and that is it. You cannot forget him. He was a wonderful person, he loved you but he has been dead a long time. So I have to compete with a dead man. This is unfair.

Tutul touched Alam's hair. No, you do not understand a thing. The thought of Pikluda does not hurt me anymore. In fact I feel good. He has stopped at that age, how can he be my companion now? You can't possibly have any rivalry with him. Come on, get up, we are almost there.

13

ATIN was getting ready to go out but as he was tightening his belt the telephone rang. He paused debating whether to pick it up. Nobody calls so late in the afternoon, it can hardly be urgent. He let it ring.

When it stopped he put on his coat and reached for the cigarette packet when it rang again. Somebody seemed to be in trouble. He had to pick it up.

An artificial voice greeted him first. This is a collect call. Shanta Rechardry wants to talk. Would Atin take it?

Yup, said Atin.

Hello Siddhartha, this is Shantaboudi. I am in a bit of a trouble.

Siddhartha isn't back yet. If you have a message. . .

Are you Atinbabu? When would Siddhartha be back?

About time. In about ten minutes I guess.

Are you home? Can I come for a minute? I am very close to your place.

Atin wished he had not picked up the phone. How can he say no. But after that incident at her place he was not particularly keen to face her. He did apologise on the phone but had been refusing her invitations since. Now she is coming right here. Oh god.

But why did she make a collect call from somewhere close? She had some business with Siddhartha, not Atin. What was he to do? Suppose Siddhartha was late for some reason? Annoyed, he kept pacing in the room, opened the fridge door for no apparent reason, peeped out of the window. Not that he was in any particular hurry to get out but the street outside, the fresh air, music in the restaurants seemed to beckon . . .

Shantaboudi arrived within ten minutes. Beaming she said, something terrible has happened. My handbag has been stolen. Everything, money, cheque book, driving license. Luckily I had the car key with me.

Atin froze. How did you lose the bag?

I don't know. It was gone in a minute. I had put it on the grocery shop counter and had gone to look for something. There were about ten people in the shop. Whether it was one of them or some outsider, I have no idea. They searched but . . . your locality is full of shop lifters.

Why did you come all the way from Queens for grocery shopping?

Shantaboudi flopped on a chair. I had some work in Manhattan. Then I bought two off-Broadway theatre tickets, gone with the bag. A grocery in Fifth Street stocks vegetables from all parts of the world. I usually get fresh cabbages whenever I come here . . . Your room is quite warm, it is nice and cool outside.

Atin opened one of the windows. I feel like a fool, continued Shantaboudi. My husband has gone to Chicago, no use phoning home. The parking fee is a couple of dollars. Do not even have the money to buy a train ticket. So I thought of ringing up Siddhartha.

Atin opened the first drawer of the table, where they usually kept the change. They have a way of piling up. The quarters and dimes might add up to eight dollars. This will take care of your parking fee. He told her.

But you see my driving license is in the hand bag. I could have told them about losing my bag and they would have let me go but I can't possibly drive without a license.

That was true. In this car-dependent society having a car involved a lot of headache too, like finding a parking place, keeping to the exact speed limit, keeping your driving license with you. Why can't one drive without it just for once, Atin wondered.

Do you have a license? Then you can drive me home. I have a lot of stuff in the car.

I can't drive.

In that case I have to wait for Siddhartha. Can I have a cup of tea? Do not worry, I will make it.

No no, we have tea bags.

Were you going out? In a hurry, are you?

Well yes. Let me make the tea, Siddhartha will be right back.

Atin put the kettle on the stove, all the time wishing Siddhartha was there. The presence of this woman had him in jitters. He stood with his back to her wondering why her presence annoyed him. She was good looking but not conceited. Even in trouble she had kept her cool. Anyone would love to be with her.

She drew closer and sniffed. You have a bachelor smell in your room. I have a fetish for cleaning you know. You have curry stains in the kitchen wallpaper too.

Sugar? Atin asked dryly.

One please but two tea bags.

Milk or lemon?

You have lemon?

Actually it was a lemon coloured plastic container from which drops of lemon juice came out if you squeezed it.

I have never used it before, said Shantaboudi. I like fresh lemon.

Handing the teacup to her Atin drew back. She was uncomfortably close. If she made any attempt to seduce him she would be taught a lesson. He gave her a sidelong look. Universal boudi indeed. Acts in plays, entertains people and drops into boys' apartments — so much for the great Shantaboudi.

Excellent, said Shantaboudi, sipping her tea. Thank you. Actually I do not know much about you. Are you working or still in school?

I work as a cooli.

Shantaboudi smiled sweetly. Determined to drive the point home, Atin went on, Three days a week I unload goods from a lorry in a supermarket close by.

Such odd jobs are done by many, doing dishes in hotels for instance. In this country they believe in dignity of labour.

Dignity my foot. What dignity is there working as servant after getting educated. People do whatever comes in handy just because you can't survive without money here, not even for a day.

I have a brother-in law who used to work as an attendant in a gas station. At last he has got a white-collar job. You may have to struggle in the initial stage — that is true for everyone.

Oh yes, in the hope of becoming rich one day, do not mind the kicks.

This remarked amused Shantaboudi so much that she spilled some of the tea.

Do you have paper napkins, she asked. After her laughter subsided she gave him a good stare. Irritated, Atin waited for her to begin her advances.

Did you jump from the moving car on your way back from our place?

From where did you get this information?

Does not matter but is it true?

Yes.

Why did you do it?

I had felt like doing it.

She raised her hand. Here she goes, thought Atin. The first step in seduction. Bringing her fair, soft palm close to Atin she said, Look at this cut, somebody wanted to slash my hand. There is another cut, hidden under the hair. She withdrew her hand and sighed. Atin could not make head or tail of it. The next moment she said.

Please lend me two dollars. I will take a train. Siddhartha seems to be late.

She took the changes. Thanks for the tea and the money. Ask Siddhartha to call me. Forget about the car.

You can wait some more. This is the time Siddhartha returns.

No, thank you. I won't waste your time. Well, if I can help in any way, I mean are you used to travelling by train all by yourself?

Yes, she smiled again. I used to work at one time. She turned back from the door. Life has dark as well as lighted spots. It is not right to look only at the dark spots, don't you think? Happiness can come in little things.

Why are you telling me all this?

Oh, just like that. That is the kind of person I am, nobody minds.

You talked of being hit by a knife. Were you scared of me by any chance?

Of course not. You reminded me of my younger brother the day I first saw you. Angry and childish like you and a staunch communist too. Detests this country. Thinks I am an American just because I live here. See you.

Just then the lock turned and in came Siddhartha almost pushing Shantaboudi back.

Another feast Shantaboudi, is that it? When?

Coming Saturday. You must come early this time — not at midnight. We have to make plans for Tagore's birthday.

You could have phoned.

I had come this side, thought I would have a chat with your friend.

What? Chat with him? Does he know how to chat? I hope he did not fight with you.

No, no, why should he, he fights only with himself. Offered me tea. Well got to go now. You must come on Saturday. Bring your friend along if he has no strong objection.

Atin could not understand this woman. Was the story of the lost handbag a lie? But she did not make any move to get friendly using that as an excuse.

He could not help asking, So you have not lost your handbag, have you?

What handbag? Whose? When? Siddhartha was curious.

Giving Atin a look of reproach Shantaboudi said, I did not want to bother him, don't you see? He is just back from office. I will come and get the car tomorrow.

Handbag? Car? What is all this? Tell me Shantaboudi. Why are you in such a tearing hurry?

After hearing the incident Siddhartha's face lit up. You can always take care of yourself, isn't it? What happens to your tall claim now? Poets, tourists and lifters jostle in Greenwich Village, for your information. Do you know what happened to a tourist family? They had asked a stranger to take a group photograph. Before they knew the man ran away with their camera, obviously to a pawn- shop. To buy marijuana.

This is the last time, thank you, said Shantaboudi. Enough of fresh vegetables. Do sit down. The parking lots are open till ten. Don't you worry, I will drive you home. I doubt if this rascal Atin has cooked anything. I am sure I can have some rice and dal at your place. There is another great news today which calls for celebration.

You have bought a car, isn't it?

That is hardly news, said Siddhartha, laughing. You son of a swine, get the beer cans from the fridge if you have not finished them off already. Give me one and one to Shantaboudi.

Shantaboudi protested. No beer for me please. You know I don't like it.

Even if you dislike it you must celebrate with us. You know you have brought good luck to us. Panchuda is not in town so what is the big hurry to get back.

Putting his feet up on the low table Siddhartha loosened his tie. Tell me Santaboudi when exactly did you step into our apartment?

Well, about forty five minutes. Your friend made some tea for me.

I bet he must have boasted a number of times about his job of a cooli. He loves to do it.

You lose, beamed Shantaboudi. He mentioned it only once. Standing in front of the open fridge, Atin gave them a hard look. So he is an object of ridicule. And he could not even give a proper answer.

Siddhartha continued in the patronising vein. Listen you lazy bones. You did not budge out of the room the whole day, did you?

Well, I did, once, was Atin’s prompt answer. But Siddhartha was not to be fooled. Self pity can turn a perfectly good human being into a liar, do you see that? The question was directed to Shantaboudi. Inferiority complex, that is what.

He turned to his friend. You went out and did not even look at the letter box? What do you take me to be for, a moron? He dramatically fished out two envelopes from his pocket, one from India, the other was a long white one. Rags to riches, rags to riches. The great American myth. The cooli from the supermarket is now a respectable scholar. Forgive me Atin, I could not resist opening your letter. You have got that Boston University job, post doctorate studies with an assistantship of six hundred and fifty dollars per month.

Holding two beer cans in his hand, Atin froze. Siddhartha would not joke about such a serious matter. Was it really true? He did not hear from them at the beginning of the semester, but of course this is a summer course.

You owe me three hundred and ninety dollars, remember. Pay back every cent. No stupid sentimentality, how can I possibly pay you back and all that nonsense. Money is money.

Atin felt like hugging him. Siddhartha has spent much more on him but he has a casual air about everything, something Atin could never learn from him. He stood rooted to the spot, hardly believing his good fortune. Boston? Six fifty dollars? That is a lot of money. Really Shantaboudi has brought good luck.

You know something? Siddhartha informed Santaboudi. Every evening he calls a girl named Sharmila long distance. After all my old pal, what could I say. Now he goes to Boston. Lucky dog.

That is wonderful. Said Shantaboudi. I hope his temper would calm down now. What Sharmila, the one who sings?

Here, take them. Siddhartha extended his arm. I did not open the other one. Personal letters are not to be opened.

Atin did not open the all-important letter on which his future depended. Letters from home are rare, they bring with them a feel of the soil. The handwriting on the envelope was familiar. Oli had written after a long long time. Instantly he was on the alert. He always carried on an imaginary conversation with her. She must be hurt. And her letter comes today, of all days.

14

TUNTUNI heard the bell and ran to open the door. She froze to see Paresh, son of the landlord, in a T-shirt and trousers, light blue sun-glasses, trace of talcum powder on the neck. After a blank stare he took off his glasses to reveal a red eye. He had a sticking plaster on his chin. I want to see Pratap babu, he said coldly, like a stranger. He marched straight in, occupied a chair, lit a cigarette and bellowed, Tell Pratap babu, I am in a hurry.

Tuntuni, scared out of her wits, ran to Bablu's room which was now in Munni's possession. Munni, as was her habit, was lying crouching on the bed, books scattered round her, her hair all over her back. Munni, Munni, he has come, whispered Tuntuni.

With some effort Munni came back from seventh century to the present. Tuntuni looked pale and worried. So what? Asked Munni, What does he want?

Didn't tell me. Wants to talk to Mama.

Call Baba.

Suppose he tells Mama everything?

To Munni still possessed with the past, her father suddenly seemed like a middle aged king who has lost his kingdom, with leather shield and sword, angry eyes, tight lips, ready to pounce on betrayers. She smiled. Let him, Baba will teach him a lesson. Haven't you seen the whip on the sitting room wall? Munni would you please go and tell Mama?

I can't, now. Why are you so scared. Tell Baba the truth. Perhaps he wants to marry you.

When Pratap entered the room Paresh stubbed his half-finished cigarette in the ash-tray. Kakababu, he mumbled, I have to talk to you.

Sit down, sit down, said Pratap, How is your father?

Paresh looked down. He fidgeted with the ashtray. Well Kakababu, my sister's marriage has been fixed. Next month . . .

Visibly pleased, Pratap said. That is great news. What does the boy do?

Reader in Science College. He has known . . . well what I was saying Kakababu . . .

Tell your father I am very happy to hear this. Will attend of course. When is it?

Well the date has not been finalised yet, well actually I . . .

Pratap knew the landlord Jnananjan Guha Neogi, a criminal lawyer of repute. He owned three houses in the city but has given up practice because of weakening sight. His sons however did not choose the father's line, they were not any good at studies. His daughter Sumita had been a national scholar, did her Ph.D in Applied Mathematics and now taught in Science College. She was not keen to get married, a resolve which caused a great deal of heart ache to the father. Of what use was his wealth if he could not arrange a magnificent wedding for his daughter?

But Paresh had a different mission. Getting over his initial diffidence he blurted out, Kakababu, I have something different to tell you.

Yes?

We need more space for the wedding, so would you shift to another house?

This was an absurd proposition. Guha Neogy had plenty of other properties. You will need more space did you say? Is the son-in-law coming to live with you?

Paresh spoke with displeasure. Relatives would be coming. The house also needs repair.

Do you want to sell the house? Not a bad idea, considering the rise in land price. Build a four storied mansion here, keep one flat for me. More profit.

We do not have any such plan. Right now we need the house for our own people.

So you want us to leave? Very well. Will do that.

This month.

How can that be. Will have to find an alternative accommodation first.

Have to get the house repaired before the wedding. Looks terrible. Tenants never take care of the house. Pratap puckered his brows. Another incident flitted across his mind. Dhiresh, the elder brother had threatened them with eviction about three years earlier. His father gave him a piece of his mind. As a lawyer he knew perfectly well you cannot evict a tenant who is not a defaulter.

I met your father last week in a sraddha ceremony. He did not tell me anything.

Father does not look after property matters now. I do. I have decided that you have to leave this month.

Then you must also learn the law. You can't possibly give a notice of half a month.

Very well, I am giving you a month's notice right now, you have to vacate by the sixth next month.

I am not going to listen to you. Get me a signed letter from your father. Or do you have power of attorney? Let me have a look.

Do not complicate matters. We are incurring heavy loss by allowing you to stay at this rent.

What do you mean, complicate? Don't you remember what your father did to your brother when he had tried his monkey tricks? You seem to be following his footsteps. Let me have a proper notice with your father's signature, then I will think about it.

You will hear not from father but from a lawyer. With one month's notice.

Get out, shouted Pratap, controlling a strong impulse to slap the fellow hard on the cheek. A lawyer's notice indeed. You are a shame on the good name of your father. Out, out, I say.

Try your temper elsewhere. I know your sort very well. I have been polite to you so far. How dare you ask me to get out. This is my house.

No landlord has the right to enter the premises without permission once it is rented. I forbid you to enter this house. Get out, I do not want to look at your face again.

Mamata rushed to the room and stood guarding her hot headed husband. Will you keep quiet, she tried to paeify Pratap. To Paresh she said, What is it Paresh? Would you like a cup of tea?

Tea? No, thanks, Paresh spoke with deliberate disrespect. I piss on your premises. Let me warn you, if you do not vacate within this month I will push you out in the streets. Let me see what you can do about that. He banged the door dramatically and rushed out.

That rascal came to threaten me. I will bring a criminal case against him. Going to the police station right now.

For God's sake, will you calm down? With your high blood pressure . . . why did you ask him to get out? That was unfair.

Pratap's head reeled just as he was about to move his wife out of the way. He flopped on a chair.

Tuntuni who had been eavesdropping now ran to Munni, all her hopes shattered. He insulted Mama, you know. Mama has fainted. She burst into tears. Munni, still dazed from her history book visualised her father in the role of a defeated king. But these kings have a way of coming back to glory. She accompanied Tuntuni to the room where Pratap slumped on the chair, his eyes closed, with Mamata stroking his head. The fan whirred overhead in full speed. Munni gave Tuntuni a look, the time has come to reveal everything.

After Pratap recovered and went for his bath Munni crept close to her mother. Ma, there is something I would like to talk to you about. The incident had happened two days ago. On her way back from giving tuition Munni was surprised and shocked to find Tuntuni walking along with Paresh in the Hazra Park. This infuriated her. How could Tuntuni be friendly with a boy like Paresh, he was no good, gave dirty looks to girls, Tuntuni was aware of it. Besides Bablu had given Paresh a good thrashing for having said nasty things about Phuldi.

There were many people around so Munni went straight up to the two and said, Come home, Tuntuni.

She is coming to the theatre with me, Paresh was not the type to oblige.

Have you told anybody at home that you are going to the theatre? Munni threw a challenge, looking at Tuntuni straight in the eye. At once Tuntuni balked. No, I won't go to the theatre.

The matter would have ended there but Paresh who had been drinking since afternoon overstepped his limits. He caught hold of Tuntuni's arm and declared in a drunken voice, You bet she will. She is my girl friend, I can take her wherever I want .You go home baby to your mom and drink your milk.

I won't, I won't, struggled Tuntuni. I want to go home. Instantly a group of young men pounced on Paresh. How dare you put your hands on her? Don't you have a mother and sisters at home?

Usually these boys collected at every street corner, having nothing else to do and threw juicy comments at young girls passing by. But by some unwritten law of Kolkata streets physical touch was an unpardonable offence. It outraged the Bengali spirit of chivalry and morality.

A random shower of blows and kicks followed this. The girls had not expected matters to take such a turn but they could do nothing. A middle-aged man advised, Get back home as quickly as you can. Do not get involved in such ugly incidents.

On her way back Tuntuni admitted that Paresh had been making advances, telling her that he loved her. He wanted to take her out, to the Ballygunge Lake, give her ice-cream. Would not listen to her objections. She did not tell Munni though that she had been out with him thrice, had chops and cutlets in enclosed cabins in the Punjabi hotel next to the twin church, even allowed him to kiss her.

Mamata was panic stricken to hear this. She decided at once that they should not stay in this house. Paresh was out to take revenge. His father was now too old to control his son. Pratap would not realise that law alone cannot save anyone. Who was going to protect them from the tyranny of the wicked now that Bablu was not here. The goondas can get in when Pratap left for the court and pass it on the Naxals. As expected Pratap would not hear of it. Leave the house? Of course not. If he had asked me politely I would have thought of it. But threaten me? Let them go to court, the case would linger for years.

Supriti was doing her puja and had not heard the threats. She remonstrated mildly. Where can we get another house at such low rent? But the times are bad, they might assault physically . . .

Biman wanted to give me a revolver, said Pratap. Now it is high time I should go and get it. I know how to deal with these rascals.

Mamata looked on with a stony expression. She knew her husband well enough not to argue. She quietly declared, I am not going to stay in this house.

Are you out of your mind Mamo? Exclaimed Pratap, Threat from a loafer and we run away?

This house is unlucky. Let us get away to Tollygunge or Jadavpur or even further, but not here. When Pratap came back from office he found Mamata looking glum. The girls also kept to their room. So once more house hunting! Sighed Pratap.

The 'To let' notices once so common have vanished. How do people find out about houses? The ones advertised have rents in the range of three thousand. Are there people rich enough to pay so much? How do people earn that kind of money? By robbing?

At last Pratap sought help of his personal ardali cum bodyguard Rajjab Seikh. He said most pan shop owners keep tab on houses for rent, one can also find agents there. Rajjab himself can try for his saheb in Behala, where he lives.

Mamata was determined to leave the Kalighat area. An agent took both Pratap and Mamata on a house hunting tour. His charge was ten rupees for every house shown and a month's rent for a house taken. The four flats they went to were all equally unlivable but they liked the fifth one. The entire first floor of a house in Jatin Das Road, airy and open with three bed rooms, one small room And a spacious balcony. For three hundred and twenty five, which was well within his means. The landlord was a man of small stature, fair and well mannered. It seemed his wife was arthritic and could nor climb stairs, that was why they were letting out the first floor.

This was a much better house than their Kalighat home, in a nice locality. Mamata felt happy, Pratap was relieved. Sipping the tea offered by the landlord Pratap said, Let us finalise then. About the advance . . .

Bechu, I hope you have told him about the conditions. The landlord turned to the agent.

I didn't, said the agent. But that should not be a problem, after all he is a High Court judge.

No, no, not of the High Court, protested Pratap.

Comes to the same thing, said the agent. Sir, the two conditions are, you cannot have a lot of children and the other, a selami of ten thousand rupees.

Selami? Ten thousand? Pratap was flabbergasted. It was not that he had not heard the word before. But reading or hearing about it and finding himself face to face with a situation like this made a lot of difference. So this little man was to be offered a selami and bundles of hundred rupee notes, just because he happened to be the landlord?

Ten thousand? He mumbled again.

It is not possible to settle for less. The landlord gave a sweet smile. Normally this house should fetch at least five hundred. I am asking for much less.

Three hundred for three rooms is quite a lot. Then twenty five more . . . Pratap pleaded.

Look around the market and see for yourself. A Marwari was keen but I wanted to give it to a Bengali. No use asking for more rent, you know what with corporation tax, income tax. Can't take all the money in white, then I am left with sucking my own thumb.

Feeling utterly helpless, Pratap sat without a word. The man was enjoying his discomfiture. He had no idea of the property Pratap had left behind, at least twenty times more in value. But it can't be mentioned here.

Ten thousand was a sum beyond his wildest dreams. They had to sell Mamata's ornaments, take loan from the life insurance and Bimanbehari in order to pay for Bablu's passage. Even a house rent of three hundred and a quarter would mean a strain on the family budget . . .

How many Bengalees are capable of paying this kind of money, he finally said with a sigh.

This amused the landlord. It does not become you to try for a fancy house if the mention of ten thousand has you in jitters, he seemed to say. All he did was laugh a kind of sardonic laugh. Well you are a judge, he said at last. You have many ways of earning.

Mamata quickly stood up to block the gesture this man was trying to make. She knew how hot tempered her husband was. Suddenly the veneer of respectability was gone from the landlord — his laugh was downright obscene. Pratap had a strong impulse to take out his slippers and hit the man hard on the cheeks. But he did nothing of the sort, just walked out of the house with Mamata. The agent left with his fee. So in one afternoon fifty rupees were gone for nothing. Looking back over her shoulders Mamata remarked, I rather liked the house you know. A quiet neighbourhood too.

All the pent-up anger exploded at last. You want me to steal or rob, do you? Bellowed her husband. From where would I get that much money? But Mamata went on thoughtlessly, As if all those who rent houses in Calcutta rob or steal?

At about quarter to one at night two bombs exploded near the entrance of their Kalighat house that very day. The sound woke them up. Mamata was expecting the worst, Paresh with his cronies to enter. But nothing else happened. It was just an expression of the fury, it meant to say that more was to follow. One of the doors got loose from the hinges. It did not even create a ripple among the neighbours. Bombs were a common occurrence, thanks to the Naxals. Since nobody was hurt the police would not even bother.

The next day Pratap tried to phone the landlord only to be told that he was lying in a nursing home in a critical condition. Mamata ordered the two girls not to budge out of the house. To Pratap she conveyed her firm resolve, they must move within a month. Once one is displaced from his ancestral place, he remains a displaced person for ever, pondered Pratap as he sat in the court dispensing justice. His mind strayed from the proceedings of the court. A destitute, that is what he has been reduced to. Perhaps it was obvious from the way he talked otherwise why would all the landlords treat him condescendingly? The house hunting went on, from Dhakuria, Tollygunge to even Khidirpur. But even for a cheap house there the landlord demanded two month's advance.

Only six days to go for the month to end. Meanwhile Pratap had received a formal notice in the letterhead of Jnananjan Babu. Paresh with his gang loitered at the street corner obviously aware of the fact that Pratap was now scared and looking for a house. If only his son was by his side now, thought Pratap, his face dark with worry . . . He was having a good time abroad, driving his own car, leaving the family in ruins. So much for his mission of progress and revolution.

A handsome young man accosted him as he was coming out of the court. Sir I am a newspaper reporter, he said doing a namasker. A Bangladesi gentleman is looking for someone of your name. You are Pratap Majumder, aren't you? He turned to a middle aged bearded man standing a little distance away, Please come here Syed saheb, is he the person . . .?

Twenty-four years had brought about changes in appearance. Pratap had streaks of grey hair, Mamun sported an unkempt beard but as they looked at each other recognition dawned. Mamun! Exclaimed Pratap. When did you arrive? Somehow the words lacked exuberance. A bitter taste still lingered in his mouth as Pratap greeted his long lost friend.

Mamun's reaction too was mixed with guilt. I have been here for some time. Could not trace you. Then the two friends embraced.

All is well that ends well, observed reporter Arun Sengupta. Good bye for now.

The two friends walked hand in hand. He heard about Mamun's thrilling escapade. You have brought your daughter and niece along. Where are they now?

In a rented place near Beckbagan, Mamun said.

Pratap could not ask his friend to bring them over to his house. How could he? There might be another bomb burst to night. How would Mamun understand that Pratap was like a homeless person in the city. He felt depressed.

15

GOLAPI stood under the large tamarind tree. It was midnight. The moon shone with unusual brilliance. Two dogs crept close to her, wagging their tails. They knew her well so did not bark. Far away somewhere a baby cried. There was no other sound. After a day of unbearable heat there was a breeze, lulling people to deep slumber.

As she stood in the shadow Golapi kept looking around, in case anybody saw her . . . She was not afraid, just cautious. She would be visible in the moonlight. Nepi's grandfather was asthmatic, he usually kept sitting on the veranda till late, then there were the watchmen who guarded the godown.

A sudden breeze rustled the leaves of the tree. As though on a cue Golapi broke into a sprint. The dogs followed her for some time then turned back. Golapi went down a slope, turned round the staff quarters, in front of a half-shut door. A candle was burning inside. The store clerk Basudeb Chakrabarty sat on the bed scribbling something very intently. There was no other furniture in the room.

The door creaked as Golapi entered. Basudeb sprang to his feet, bolted the door and led her to the bed. Did anybody see you? He asked in a frightened whisper, looking more upset than Golapi. Closing the only window he whispered again, Was the light on in Sushil-babu's room? Stays up late, that swine.

No, Golapi assured him, a light smile playing on her lips.

I still can't believe my eyes, said Basudeb, standing away from her. Are you thirsty? Want a drink of water? Then he went to the pitcher and poured himself a glass, soaking his vest in the process . . . He took it off. Now he was clad just in a lungi.

With his back to the door he stared at the woman who sat on his bed in just a yellow striped sari, with no underwear. Basudeb was sweating profusely. It was too much to realise that a woman of flesh and blood was there, in front of him.

You asked me to come, sir? Asked Golapi.

Completely at a loss, Basudeb flopped on the ground near Golapi's feet to her utter embarrassment.

Please, do sit up, she pleaded. She tried to move her feet. Basudeb would not let her. Let me sit here and have a good look at you. You know I have never seen a woman so close. I have never touched anyone. Golapi, you are so good, you have been, you are so beautiful.

No, please sit on the bed. Blow the candle out, no use wasting it.

What? Blow it out? The room would be dark!

The light might attract others.

But how can I see you! Besides I would be scared.

It made her laugh. What is there to see in me, after all I am a very ordinary person. What would you be scared of? Me? She touched his arm. Not you. I am just scared. My heart is pounding. You know I can never look at you properly. Let the light be. Would you listen to a poem of mine?

Poem? What do I understand about poems?

Of course you will. Every person understands poetry. It has to be read in the right way.

But I am not educated. Studied up to class four in the Coopers Camp primary school.

Does not matter. I have been dreaming about reading a poem to a woman, sitting at her feet. That is why I asked you to come. Look my heart is still thumping. You have come — it is true.

I can't stay long.

No, no, just two poems. Get me that exercise book please.

His voice shook as he read them out . . . Most of it went above Golapi's head. He finished reading. How did you like them? He asked anxiously.

Absolutely wonderful, replied Golapi, stroking his hair. But do not touch my feet, we are low caste.

Caste? I do not believe in all that nonsense. Women are like mother earth, they bear us, they are way above caste. Can I kiss your feet? Just once. Would you mind?

Golapi could not move her feet. After kissing her feet Basudeb looked up at her. Are you angry Golapi, he asked miserably. Have I done anything wrong? Anybody finding out about your coming to me at night would take me to be wicked. But I have fallen in love with you, what can I do? Shall I read out another poem?

Golapi climbed down from the bed to sit next to Basudeb on the floor. She put her arms round Basudeb's shoulder. A shiver went through his body as Basudeb confessed, I never knew it felt so good, the touch of a woman. I used to dream of this. Let me read to you another poem, they are all about you.. Remember once I saw you coming out of a paddy field on the way to Kondagaon, with mud all over your body, looking like a bheel woman as if you live in a deep forest, a forest goddess. This poem is about a bheel woman — you.

What is a bheel? Where do they live?

I have no idea, read about them in books. But tell me, your father is hot tempered, does he suspect me?

No.

If I could I would have taken you out of this camp, we would have lived in a forest, just you and me, marrying in gandharva style. But that is not possible. I have to look after my five brothers and sisters. I send home two hundred of the two-fifty, I get here. How can I marry unless my didi and the younger sisters get married? Tell me, how can I?

Don't you have land back home? Land? We do not even own a house.

Are you too a refugee like us?

No, no. We would have got some dole from the government if we were. My father was a peon in a post office in Medinipur. Jetha turned us out of his house after father passed away. This job has saved us from starving to death.

Don't people of West Bengal own their own house?

Well, my didi has rented a room in Kalna for thirty-five rupees. You know Golapi, I don't keep the store key with me. Khiti babu steals rice from the store. Balu Singh cheats on weight, I know all that. They wanted me to be a part, but how could I being a poet? Wouldn't Ma Saraswati give me a curse? They think I am a coward. Golapi do you think so too?

Golapi giggled.

Not so loudly, please. Tell me Golapi, your father had beaten up a man called Sudhir Das who worked here? Is that true?

Yes, he and Jogananda broke his knee. He had promised to marry me, the liar.

Good god. I can't marry you even if I want to with three unmarried sisters at home. If your father comes to know . . .

You don't have to marry me. Do read me another poem.

You want to hear another poem, really? Nobody had wanted to, you know. Golapi will you let me kiss your hand, just once? Can I? Have pity on me.

Golapi shook with laughter . . . The candle was all but gone. In the dim light Basudeb stared at her bare breasts in wonderment. He did not dare touch her, just a look was more than he could aspire for He was more than obliged.

You had promised to read some poems to me if I ever visited you, said Golapi. I thought that was an excuse.

No, no. That is the only pleasure I have left in life. I have grown up with want and misery all around. Writing poetry gives me great satisfaction. They are refused by journals but I keep writing. I like it.

Why did you want to read them to me? After all, I am a very common woman, illiterate too.

You are not common. Did I not tell you that at first sight you seemed like a forest goddess to me — an insignificant person like me, it was beyond my wildest dreams that I would be reading out to a woman. People make fun of me because I write poetry. I never talk back, never ill treat the refugees. Tell me, have I done anything wrong? Was it wrong of me to ask you here? I just kissed your hand and feet. That is all.

I have to go now. You will not understand how much this visit has meant to me. Will you come again? You will sit next to me while I read out. This can't be done in the daytime.

Golapi caught hold of Basudeb's hand and placed it on her breast. He quickly withdrew it as thought he had touched a live wire. Then Golapi kissed him on the lips, her eyes brimming with tears.

A little later she came out, crossed the slope and reached the tamarind tree. Two dots of light told her that somebody was standing in the shadow, smoking. She tried to run but the voice of Harit Mondol stopped her. Come here, haramzadi, he bellowed.

She inched forward. Harit grabbed her hair. Brandishing an axe with the other hand he threatened, Shall I cut off your head in one stroke?

Do it, said she softly.

How long can I go on punishing others? You are the source of all evil. I have a mind to finish you off.

Do it father, kill me.

Harit let go of her hair and flung the axe on the ground. I should have finished you off at Coopers Camp. That would have been good riddance for me. Everybody here respects me as a guru and you being my daughter have been bringing shame to me.

Everybody knows that I am not your daughter. I am an orphan, a bad woman. Why did you do so much for me? Why didn't you drive me away?

How can you talk like this? Drive you away?

Nobody can be bad unless she wants to. A woman gets a bad name once and it sticks to her. Nobody likes me, nobody would let me enter their room.

Is that why you visit the babus? You know perfectly well I hate Brahmins and Kayasthas. I look the other way when you carry on with the men of the colony but to do it with the babus . . .

Golapi burst out crying. In between sobs she informed Harit that she hated each and every man of this colony. They dared not talk to her openly but lay hands on her if they found her alone. She hated it. She wanted to get out of this place.

This was an unsolvable problem, sighed Harit. Nobody was ready to marry her; it was well known that she had an illegitimate child, yet all the men were drawn to her body. Was it in Harit's power to teach all of them a lesson? But the thought that the babu class would be laying hands on her was unbearable. It is better for her to die.

Where have you been just now? He wanted to know.

Would you break his bones? I went at my own will. Nobody is to blame. Give me the name. I will complain. They think refugee women are cheap, they do not have honour or dharma.

He honoured me like nobody has done before. He touched my feet, a Brahmin.

Brahmin? Oh I see. The babu of the store. Why did he touch your feet?

He does not believe in caste. Called me a goddess.

Liars! The whole lot haramzadas. Did you accept money from him?

He can't, he is poor, has a lot of dependents.

Poor did you say? The babu of the store? Thieves, that's what they are.

He does not steal. Read some poems to me, that is all.

This floored Harit completely. That was funny — a man calls a woman at night just to read poetry to her! Was he out of his mind or a crooked person of a high order. From what Golapi told him Harit decided to assess that babu of the store, find out the kind of person he really was.

Next day was their weekly ration day. As soon as the store opened, Harit took position. Of the two babus Khitish was tall and hefty, Basudeb was thin and skinny, and flighty as a bird.

Harit settled on a stool and declared, Came to check on you, Singhji. I hope you are weighing correctly.

Balu Singh pretended to be offended. Who says so? Why should I cheat on weight?

Did I say that? Smiled Harit. Why only last week the one kilo arhar dal you gave me turned out to be hundred grams extra.

Khitish could not help laughing. He knew Harit was clever, one never knew from which direction he would attack. But Basudeb did not look up from the ledger, all blood drawn from his face.

Nobody else in the colony would dare to sit on a stool in the ration shop. But Harit enjoyed a special privilege as a leader. Everybody greeted him with a slogan Joy Baba Kalachand and touched his feet. The babus were aware of it.

It is a fact, said Harit, Singhji gives me more. Does that mean somebody else is getting less, I wonder.

Have a cigarette, offered Khitish.

Would not mind, said Harit and extended his hand. How about you Choto Babu, don't you smoke? He added.

No, I don't, replied Basudeb without looking up.

Tell me Baro Babu, do you get this rice from Burma?

Burma? No. But why? This rice is from U. P. During the war our East Bengal had a famine, you must be aware of it. Lots of people starved to death. Then the government gave us a kind of rice in the ration, it was dark and smelling of bed bugs. Some said they have come all the way from Burma. Quite a distance, that is why it smells. Your rice has the same smell, you know.

Why, we don't find any smell.

Is that so? You must have very strong teeth, then.

Khitish tried to change the subject. There is a war on in your country, have you heard?

Startled, Harit asked, war? India Pakistan, again?

No, no. India is not in it. They are fighting among themselves, Mussalmans killing Mussalmans. The newspapers are full of it. Haven't you read?

Do you have the papers?

I go to the main office to read them. A little later I will go for today’s paper. Just think of it. They carved out Pakistan from India, why? Because the Mussalmans wanted a country for themselves, drove you people out. Now they are in soup. The West Pakistanis were bashing up the East Pakistanis, bashing up real bad, now the East Pakistanis have taken up arms and hitting back. Fierce fighting is going on in Jessore, Khulna and Chittagong.

Mussalmans fighting Mussalmans, how can that be? Harit was incredulous.

Khitish sneered. Why not? Didn't the Mughals fight the Pathans? Sher Shah fighting Humayun — all that is in the history books. East Pakistan has been renamed Bangladesh. They want to be independent. And you know something? Refugees are pouring into India, this time Mussalmans. Think of that. The government has enough in its hand and now Mussalman refugees on the top of that. Every day they are streaming into India from the border at Bongaon. They have filled up Calcutta.

Meanwhile Basudeb went to the toilet, came back to his seat and continued his account book. He made no attempt to join in the conservation.

Harit was bewildered. He has not seen any newspaper for the last five years and was totally out of touch with what was happening in East Pakistan. He had heard vaguely that in West Bengal the Communists have won the election and come to power . . . It was a heartening news as the communists had taken up their cause against the congress who had pushed them out to this god forsaken country. The communists were certain to do something for the refugees. But this was unexpected. A civil war in Pakistan! Bangladesh, what a lovely word.

You know what I think? Continued Khitish. This war cannot go on. How long can India government bear the burden of fresh refugees? A little push from India and Pakistan will break into two. That is to your advantage.

To our advantage? Harit was getting more and more puzzled. How do you mean? Simple, if Bangladesh becomes another state India would say, now take back the refugees. They have to. So that is your chance to rush back along with these refugees. Who would bother about who came when . . . You will get back your land and everything.

A golden dream flashed before his eyes as Harit saw the vision of the lost home, the ponds, mango orchards, paddy fields. It would be a thousand times better to starve in that land than facing the humiliation of the camp life here. Would it come true? Guru Kalachand had told him in a dream that good time is coming. He will tell when. But he has not been visiting him in a dream lately.

But you know those of you who live in West Bengal will take this chance. What can you do, living so far away? What do you say Basudeb?

Basudeb, perspiring profusely got up. I need a month's leave, Khitida. Have to go home, he said feebly.

What, in this heat? What on earth for?

I have not taken my earned leave for over a year. I have to go.

A lot of Naxal trouble in your Burdwan. Don't go now. Troubled area.

But my mother is ill. I must go Khitida. I will give the application to the main office. Let me go now.

Promptly Harit got up. So you are going to the main office, chotobabu? Can you double carry me in your cycle? I want to read the newspaper.

Basudeb almost trembled. I can't double carry. I am not very good at cycling.

Carry you, that lakpak singh? Laughed Khitish. Wait a little. I will take you there after the shop is closed.

Don't bother, said Harit. I will walk. Not too far, about eight or nine miles!

He sent word to Parulbala, took Jogananda with him and set off. He must somehow raise the train fare and make a trip to Calcutta. After so many years the police may not be in the look out for him. Once at Calcutta he can make sure of what is happening across the frontier, also look for his son. Tridib and Sulekha would put him up for a few days. It would not be difficult to collect money from the refugee colonies, after all he was known to be a guru. Two rupees per family would take care of his travel expenses.

They reached the main road. Tell me Joga, he asked, if you are given the option of going back home or staying in India, what would you do?

What a thing to ask, Barokaka, replied Jogananda. I will run away from India if I get that chance. But will I ever get the chance?

You never know, said Harit. There is trouble in Pakistan. The Bengali Mussalmans want to separate. They are sure to take us back once they are independent. It were they who drove us out. Why would they take us back?

They might be friendly with India. They have had enough of the West Pakistanis. They might think it is no use fighting with the Hindus, better to live in peace.

I don't trust them. By now they must have taken over our houses.

It might be a good idea to go there and see for ourselves. Our neighbour Mussalmans of our village did not harm us. We were scared because of the riots in the town. Besides, we had tulsi plants in our homes, Mussalmans do not destroy tulsi plants, you know.

To tell you the truth Barokarta, I would give everything to sit by my tulsi platform and munch some muri.

Jogananda wiped his eyes, his voice choked with emotion.

They walked on in the fierce summer sun, bare bodies glistening with sweat. Except for an occasional lorry, there was hardly any traffic. As they turned their heads to see if any lorry was coming their way they saw Basudeb riding a cycle. He got down and stared at the two men as if he was faced with an insurmountable barrier.

Perhaps he wanted to tell them something. Harit came forward, What is it chotobabu?

Basudeb looked as though he would faint. Sunstrokes were not unknown this time of the year, so Harit asked him anxiously, Are you feeling sick?

With great effort Basudeb opened his eyes. You are not going to beat me up, are you? He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

What was that? Harit could not follow. Who would beat you up?

Beat me, as much as you want. I have done wrong. Only spare my right hand so that I am able to write. Break my left arm or a leg but not this hand, please, I beg of you.

Harit roared with laughter. Why should we beat you up? What do you take us for, bandits? For shame. But I ask for a favour from you. You are going home on leave, can you take me along? I do not understand the ways of the railway, how to buy tickets and all. Just take me up to Bardhaman, the rest I can manage. Will you take me with you?

16

JEHANARA Imam sat sewing trousers for her son. He was not taking more than one shoulder bag containing some change of clothes for his indefinite journey. She opened the stitches of the waist band, put ten hundred rupee notes, then stitched it neatly Instead of being happy with her own handiwork, she shed copious tears.

Rumi was leaving today; no amount of persuasion could stop him. For the last one month or so he has been arguing with his mother, he would not go against her wishes. How could Jehanara Imam ignore the logic of his debater son, well-known debater of the university? Her conscious mind accepted his arguments but the mother's heart would not agree. Suppose he never came back?

Rumi, a student of engineering had already got admission in the University of Illinois in the States, he was due to leave in five months. But he refused to think of his own career when all around him friends and relations were being killed.

How much of the torture was true and how much rumour was not clear to Jehanara at first. No newspapers were published from Dhaka after the fateful twenty-fifth March. Now a few were coming out with hardly four pages, which published only government announcements. The television and radio stations sang only praises of the military regime. If Rumi and his friends were to be believed, eminent people were being forced to speak in the electronic media saying everything was normal. They will come to you too, amma and force you to speak the same kind of falsehood.

But the Akasvani, to which everybody listened behind closed doors, told a different story, of fierce fighting by the Mukti Bahini, of areas captured by them. But then some news of the Akasvani turned out to be untrue, like the death of Begum Sufia Kamal and Nilima Ibrahim by the Pakistani army and the killing of Governor Tikka Khan by the Mukti Bahini. How could Akasvani be believed?

A few of the news items may not be true explained Rumi. But what about the shooting of professors like Dr. G.C. Deb, Manirujjaman, F.R. Khan, Jyotirmay GuhaThakurta, Sarafat Ali? You have seen with your own eyes the number of houses burnt down in Dhaka.

Yet doubt persisted. The terrible torture by the army and the police was nothing new. Sheikh Mujib has been arrested at the slightest pretext, student rallies have been shot at, thousands of political workers put behind bars. Military rule has been imposed after the breakdown of talks between the political leaders and the military bosses. Everything died down. The same thing might happen. What is this independence Rumi and his associates are talking of? With what are they going to fight?

Whenever curfew was relaxed Jehanara took the car out and drove around the city. Scenes of devastation greeted her everywhere — from Lalbag to Chakbazar, in Islampur, Shakharipatti, Wiseghat, Patuatuli, Sadarghat, Nababpur razed to the ground by mortar shells. There was the smell of rotting corpses in Shakharipatti, notices of transfer of ownership stuck over the few remaining shops, they have been distributed among non-Bengali Muslims.

By and by the news of the death of near ones trickled in. Those who had fled from Dhaka to Jinjira across the Buriganga have been shot to death.

Villages have been torched, even passenger boats were not spared. A cousin of Jehanara, Bhikhu Choudhury and his entire family has been killed. In the village of Kartia a family had woken up and was getting ready for breakfast when the raiders arrived like messengers of death. Jehanara heard it all from Bhikhu Choudhury’s elder brother in his Dhanmandi home. She was petrified. The army consisted of human beings, not beasts — how could they be so merciless? How could they kill innocent men, women and children in cold blood? Khala Amma who survived the bullet injury spoke about the killing of her son and family. Tears dried on hearing of such atrocities.

Even worse news were to come. Ata Bhai of Narinda, the good humoured happy Ata Bhai full of anecdotes came, upset and distressed. His hands shook, it looked as though he had not slept for many nights. I tell you Jehanara, he said. Their days are numbered. What they are doing in the name of Islam is enough to make God's seat shake. They even shot Kkari saheb in the mosque while he was reading the holy Koran. Killing a man in the house of Khuda! Would Khudatallah tolerate this kind of excess, poking a child to death from the arms of the mother, raping the mother in front of the son!

Rumi corroborated such stories. Let me tell you Amma, we find corpses floating by in the Buriganga, their hands tied. Would you believe it now? Girls are being picked up from villages. They are drawing out blood from many people, like the Nazis. A doctor I know very well was made to do it for them. They had tied up his eyes. You can hear it from him if you want. They are making a list of all young men in Dhaka, they will be rounded up. Two Behari Muslims are keeping an eye on us at the crossing of Elephant Road. And you want me to stay home after all this?

Rumi showed her some clippings from Newsweek describing the news of the war of independence. The temporary Bangladesh government is operating from Mujibnagar, an unknown place near the border, that a war was going on could no longer be denied.

Thousands of young men have plunged into the fight for freedom, how could Rumi, bubbling with youth and enthusiasm stay behind? Though a student of science Rumi was equally interested in literature and poetry, in history and politics. He was a good sportsman too. Jehanara had brought up her two sons to be truthful, idealistic and unselfish.

Perhaps she could have been reconciled to the inevitable if he had left without telling anyone. But no, Rumi was made of different material. He wanted his mother's permission. He argued with his mother endlessly. Then he stopped suddenly and declared All right Amma, if you insist I will go to the States, qualify as an engineer but would carry a guilt stricken conscience all my life. Would you want that?

No, certainly not, she said closing her eyes. Very well, I am making a qurbani, sacrificing you for the country. Go and join the freedom fighters.

So the permission was obtained at last. His younger brother Jami sprang up, clamouring to go. It took a lot of persuasion to convince him that if both of them went away then the military rulers will be suspicious and have it out on the father and grandfather.

The sewing done, Jehanara packed Rumi's bag with tears in her eyes. She put in his favourite mango pickle but put aside a small bottle of ghee, it would only annoy her son. The red striped shirt was his favourite but he would not take it, just three or four vests, that would take care of the summer season. He has already slipped in two books of poetry, Jibanananda and Sukanto.

Rumi, so fond of books was obliged to remove a lot of them after the twenty-fifth, burnt a lot of journals. Books of Marx, Engels, Mao tse Tung, Rabindranath, Che Guevara were put in a sack and hidden in a hole behind the bathroom wall, an operation which caused him great pain. But there was no other way.

The day before was Jehanara's birthday. Usually the boys celebrated it but there was no question of celebration this year. No special food or asking others, she had told them. Each year surprise gifts were given before she left the bed. There were knocks on the door, but the boys looked glum, the mother tearful. They had brought gifts, a dark red rose from Jami, Rumi brought an old book. Give Amma the Bonny Prince, he told his brother. This will give you a lot of mental strength, he told his mother. It is about the resistance movement of the Polish people against the atrocities of the Nazi army. The Nazis treated the Jewish people as less than human and killed them as insects, same as the West Pakistanis who do not recognise us as Muslims. You will find an exact parallel in this account. Read it Amma.

It was 'Mila — 18' by Leon Uris. Jehanara shivered as she held the dark rose, the colour of congealed blood. What a price for freedom! What a lot of blood would be shed.

Rumi was still asleep. Usually Jehanara stroked their heads to put them to sleep. It was always a matter of right, each demanding more time from her. Today Jami willingly gave up his share of the time to his brother. As Jehanara's fingers played in his hair, Rumi softly whistled the tune of "Ekbar biday de ma ghure aasi" Let me bid good bye to you mother. This Rumi used to be so fond of western music. No, tears should not be shed. It will not do to weaken at the last minute. She wiped her eyes and got up to get the breakfast ready.

Rumi finished his bath and came to the breakfast table. Please do not do anything melodramatic, Amma, Drive me to the second gate of the Secretariat. Then drive away; please do not look back. Behave normally.

Jehanara, her voice choked with emotion asked: Just tell me who all will be with you. Where would you be going?

Please do not ask. You know I can't tell lies.

His father Shareef sat at the other end of the table, hiding his face behind a newspaper. He too has allowed his son to leave but nobody knew what was going on in his heart.

The sky was overcast. Jehanara looked up and prayed to Allah to give Rumi a safe passage. Rumi, dangling his air bag climbed on to the back seat as if he was going to college. Next to him sat his father, his face dug in the newspaper.

After they had gone some distance, Rumi turned to look at a two-storied house. Amma, if Babul Choudhury asks do not tell him anything. If others enquire tell them I have gone to stay in the Gulshan house. I will be there for some time.

From his first floor balcony Babul saw the car turning into Elephant Road. Of late he had noticed a strange excitement in Rumi's eyes. Has he left to join the liberation army? He wondered.

Rumi saw Babul and turned away in disgust. This boy who at one time came to him everyday to hear about the elucidation of the Red Book has now turned completely against him. Babul smiled to himself. Young men like Rumi avoided him. What did they take him to be — a traitor? A wave of patriotism seems to have taken over. One time Marxists have overnight turned into devout Bengalis, steeped in narrow patriotism.

Shallow and sentimental, the whole lot of them. Fluently speaking English, dressed in English clothes, dancing American style, the very next day they turn out to be Chinese type Marxists, dreaming of the revolution, again the same boys float in the tide of nationalism. No patience at all, they do not realize that the way Pakistan is going it is only a matter of time before a total revolution would spread. That would be the time to wipe out the exploiting class, lock, stock and barrel. But no, these young men are dancing to the tune of the Awami League leadership. What exactly do they want in the name of independent Bangladesh? If Pakistan really splits another class would replace the Pakistan army to carry on exploitation.

None of his friends keep in touch, neither Zahir nor Kamal. Are they scared? It is true that the army has resorted to repressive measures in order to put down the E P R rebellion and the amateur Mukti Bahini. Kamal and others should not lose sight of the fact that oppression reaches a climax just before breaking out of revolution. Socialist China by helping Pakistan is pushing them to their end. Any fool can see that.

With the university closed, Babul has no place to go to. Life is returning to normal in Dhaka, some shops and offices are open, schools are being forced to reopen but the college and university students do not trust the government.

For some unknown reason Altaaf has fled to India, a country he hated. Hossain Saheb too has disappeared, perhaps he has landed in Karachi. Nobody knows why they closed the paper. It was pro-Pakistan all right. During the Agartala Conspiracy case they had termed Mujib a traitor, an agent of a foreign country, his picture would come out almost every day.

Babul sighed. Monju has gone to India with Mamun mama, taking the child with her. The situation in Dhaka reached such a pass that no young woman was safe even at home. Babul forced her to leave. He was aware of her feelings for Mamun mama though it was not physical but at times such love can be larger than her attachment for her husband. Babul was not jealous, he was much above such petty sentiments but what was a man supposed to feel if he found his wife entertaining another man when he came home, day in and day out? What did she find in a totally confused person like Mamun? Babul could not understand.

Perhaps proximity might disillusion her. Let them stay in India for a while. Babul hoped they would be safe. He missed his son, though. The house was so silent without Sukhu. The occupancy right now was two and a half including Sefu the household help.

Monira stayed downstairs. Sirajul was seen only once after the twenty-fifth. Must have joined the Mukti Bahini. Babul wanted to send Monira to her village home but she was determined to stay on in the hope that Sirajul would be visiting her. The whole thing about the Mukti Bahini was not favoured by Babul but he could not possibly turn Monira out.

Before leaving Monju had made the household help Sefu swear that she would never leave the saheb. It was Sefu who heated up the bath water and made tea for Babul eight times a day. Babul came inside the room, picked up a book and bellowed, Sefu, a cup of tea quick. He was sick and tired of reading. There was nothing else to do. Old man Bhasani too had fled to the safe haven of India and supporting the cause of free Bangladesh. No, Babul must get in touch with his party workers, do something to stop this upsurge of nationalism.

A couple of days later when Babul was having his second cup of tea in bed, Sefu came running, Saab, Saab, the military, the military!

What is it? Why are you jumping?

They are in the house, sir. They have entered Monira appa's room, Sefu was breathless. True enough sound of falling objects came from downstairs. Babul was annoyed. Did not the fools know that he knew Tikka Khan himself? He rushed downstairs without his sleepers. The soldiers had thrown everything out of Monira's room, one fellow grabbed her by the hair.

From the staircase Babul spoke to them in English. Stop this, he commanded. By whose permission have you entered the premises? Let go of this woman. I am calling colonel Ansari right now.

The soldier did not bother to answer. He fired his revolver twice and ordered others, get out of here now.

Falling, Babul was more stupefied than in pain. Am I going to die, he wondered? So this is death, in so insignificant a manner? He could faintly hear Monira's screams for help. The sounds faded, his eyes closed.

17

A small sunlit garden greeted him as Atin moved the window curtains. This was beyond his wildest dreams. Now at last he has a room of his own. Thanks a lot Panchuda, he murmured. You never can tell from where help can come. Panchuda was the self-effacing type, not noticed in a crowd. Nobody bothered about him and perhaps the same applied to him. There was a dinner at Santa boudi's the day before Atin left. He tried his best to make up for his earlier unpleasant behaviour by singing lustily with others — "Arise o prisoner of starvation, arise o wretched of the earth . . ."

In the middle of the din Panchuda had called him to ask where he would be staying in Boston. Actually Atin was worried about accommodation in Boston. He could not afford an entire apartment, so he would try for a seat in a dormitory, putting up with Samir's brother and his wife till he found something, an arrangement he was not at all happy about.

I can ask Satyakinkar, suggested Panchuda. Atin was not enthusiastic. Satyakinkar — what a name! Besides he was a total stranger. Well, no I mean I need some privacy, he tried to explain modestly. The idea of living with a family. That is exactly why, agreed Panchuda. Our people, most of them do not know the meaning of that word. You will have to pay for your room in Satyakinkar's place. You will get a room and the key of the main door, you will be free to come and go. But the kitchen and toilet is common, the rent something like eighty dollars, extra charges for gas and telephone.

This was encouraging. An entire room for eighty? I would love to take it, said Atin. Panchuda reached for the telephone. Let me find out if he has a vacant room. Satyakinkar is a strange man, you might like him. If you don't you are always free to go somewhere else. Everything was fixed in five minutes. Satyakinkar said he had a room in the attic which would be seventy-two dollars.

A strange coincidence indeed. Atin was grateful to Panchuda for caring for him. From his unemotional appearance he would not have thought so. He was a nicer person than his accomplished and popular wife, felt Atin. House rent usually cost a quarter of the salary. Food was comparatively cheaper . . . Clothing and transport too cost quite a lot. Considering all this the room was a bargain. Atin liked it even more for being in the attic. It had a slanting roof as all houses do in areas of snow fall. There was enough furniture, a bed, table and chair, book rack, wardrobe, even blankets. It was a room after his own heart.

It was an eight hour drive from New York. Siddhartha, Samir, Neepa and Basobi were in the car, they had a wild time, nobody slept. They went back on Sunday night. The name Satyakinkar brought visions of a devout Brahmin with sacred thread, fair complexion and a receding hairline. But in actual fact he was a strong man of fifty, a pukka saheb, nobody had ever seen him casually dressed. Has been in this country for twenty three years, married a white. She was called Martha, they had no children.

They rented out rooms to Indian students, even Pakistanis but to ordinary job-holders. They lived in the basement for some inexplicable reason. The rents were very nominal, he could easily have asked for more. Obviously some kind of idealism was operative in the deal. He did not usually interfere with the personal lives of his tenants but as another tenant told Atin he gave notice to those who failed or did badly in their studies.

Atin had found him on his knees, fully dressed, mending the curtains, the vacuum cleaner next to him. Obviously he had vacuum-cleaned the room a little while ago. He just turned his head towards Atin and said casually, Hi. Did you have a good journey?

Atin was a little alarmed. Will this man with an American wife insist on speaking in English all the time? So far Atin had stayed only with Bengalis. Have you ever lived in an attic before? Satyakinkar went on, You might find it a bit cold. There is a room heater but you can ask my wife for extra blankets.

At this point Siddhartha who stood behind Atin butted in, Mr Lahiri, is it possible to make tea in the room? He spoke in Bengali. Satyakinkar paused in his mending and turned to Siddhartha, A Bengali? He asked in Bengali. Panchuda did not tell me that two were to share the room? Atin hurried to reassure him. No, he is a friend. I am Atin Majumder, I will be taking the room. Yes, you can cook in the kitchen downstairs. You can keep foodstuff in the fridge, but no pork or beef please. We have two Muslim boys and a Gujarati. If you want you may have your own TV, phone and fridge in the room but otherwise you are welcome to use the phone and TV in the sitting room. What if I may ask is your discipline? Come here for your doctorate, I suppose?

Atin informed him about his plans, glad that he did not use the familiar "tumi" when speaking in Bengali. Satyakinkar got up when Siddhartha lit a cigarette. I don't mind other people smoking but I can't stand the smell. Please feel free to ask for anything. You can use the ash-tray in the drawer.

His wife Martha, a chubby woman with pink cheeks who looked older than her husband was born of white Russian parents. She could speak a little broken Bengali and thankfully was not formal like her husband. Talkative and motherly, she failed to pronounce Atin's name correctly. Don't you have a nickname, she asked laughing. Bablu was much easier and seemed a very sweet name to her. The very first day she gave Atin a fairly big pizza as a gift. On the whole Atin was delighted with the new arrangement.

His friends stayed for the weekend. Sharmila had gone to Washington D C, to her uncle. She could not cancel it in the last minute. In a way Atin was glad, there is no knowing what Siddhartha would have said in front of her, perhaps told her about Atin's jumping out from the moving car.

She was due to return this afternoon by the three o-clock bus. She did not want him to receive her at the bus station because there would be a cousin with her. After coming to the States Atin had met her only twice and that too in public places, in the New York airport and in a Greyhound bus station. Atin could not afford the bus fare to Boston. Sharmila lived with her cousin, she could not come to New York either. Today for the first time after Jamshedpur they would be by themselves, in this room, his own room.

He made a round of the university campus, though it was still two days to join. Then he had two hotdogs and coffee in a drug store and spent some time reading a thriller. At a loss to kill the time he came back to his room, after all how long could he loiter in the streets of this unknown city. A chilly breeze was blowing even in the month of May, and fine snow. He would have to buy a raincoat.

Satyakinkar was off to work, the students were out to their classes. Only Martha was in, she had left her job of teaching Russian to take up Greek. Atin found it very odd that anybody could leave jobs and found another. Strange country indeed!

In the afternoons the TV had only soap operas or stupid talk shows. CBS was showing an old historical Atin did not much care for. She cannot come before five.

The phone rang. An American female voice purred, Hi darling, how have you been?

Whom do you want? Asked Atin, disappointed. The woman giggled. I want you sweetie. Are you free this evening? He put the phone down but it rang again. The same girl. Atin could have flirted with her but not today. He was excited. Get lost, he bellowed and put down the receiver with a bang.

Suddenly for no reason he thought of Oli. She was coming to this country. No matter how much he wanted to keep the thought away it kept bobbing up. This month, she will be joining some eastern university, will have to pass through New York. May be one of her father's acquaintances lived in New York and she would be staying with them. She would be expecting to see Atin the first thing after getting down. She does not know about Sharmila, neither has he told Sharmila about Oli. He has been cheating them both though he did not mean to hurt either of them. But how was he going to tell them? How could he tell Oli that I do not love you any more, I love another. That would be a lie. He did have very strong feelings for her, any thought of causing hurt to her pained him no end. Sharmila too was a wonderful girl, utterly unselfish. The moment she came to know of Atin's first love she was certain to detach herself and will never let him know how much she missed him.

No, it was out of the question after the involvement he has had with Sharmila. She was so dependent on him that any attempt to jilt her would be cowardly.

It would be easier to write, confess everything in a letter. But he must write it before meeting Oli. Atin will have to meet her at the airport. It would break her heart. At least if she came to know of it earlier she would have time to prepare herself. After all they will remain friends. Atin would give her all possible help once she set foot here. He must hurry up and buy an aerogramme. The letter has to be posted within a couple of days, before it is too late.

The actual reason was that Atin could not make up his mind. Who should be told first, Oli or Sharmila? Must Oli get hurt first because she lives far away. On the other hand Sharmila could very well blame him for not making a clean breast earlier, before Oli's arrival.

The burden of secrecy was becoming unbearable. He was going to confess to Sharmila to-day. He would sit at her feet and appeal, Give me whatever punishment you think tit, but I can't leave you.

The film on the TV was over, a children’s' program started. He ran out of cigarettes but did not want to budge in case Sharmila came or called from the bus station. He could have done some serious studying in the meantime. But he could not concentrate till he saw Sharmila. He has been trying to economize by giving up alcohol. He must send money home, Ma had always wanted a refrigerator. Munni would have written if she had acquired one already.

His life would have been different if he had not met Sharmila. It was only for her that he agreed to flee the country prompted by a shameless urge to live.

Martha came up from the basement. Hi Bablu, are you a TV addict? You love watching soap ads?

Atin smiled. I am going to the market, she continued. Just after she got out a taxi pulled up. She has been extravagant to save time.

Surprisingly the first thought to come to Atin's mind was had it been Oli instead of Sharmila! Then he discovered an odd similarity in the features of the two women. Sharmila wore a light white raincoat over a pink sari. Her hair was loose. She looked shy as usual.

He went forward and caught her hand. You know I had to lie to Sumi, said Sharmila. I did not want to wait even for a minute.

Atin could have kissed her right there on the porch, nobody was around, even Martha was out. But no. He must tell her about Oli first. Lovely house, remarked Sharmila, though a bit far from my place.

Come, see my room.

They climbed up the stairs, Atin's heart pounding hard. What would be her reaction? Suppose she said, shame on you, you want to jilt a girl to make me happy?

As he fumbled in his trouser pocket for the key Atin realised to his chagrin that he was locked out. Martha was out too. She must have a duplicate key. What was to be done now?

Sharmila understood something was wrong. Atin told her.

You are more absent minded than I am. Let me see. She drew Atin aside, pulled a corner of the carpet and discovered a second key. Look, for greenhorns like you. She fished out the key like a magician.

The urge to press her against him and smother her with kisses was strong. But first things first. He handed her the key. Would you open please.

You know I felt so bad, said Sharmila walking into the room. I could have got the room ready for you, oh, it is already spic and span. Who did it?

I found everything here, I just brought my suitcase, books and a stand lamp picked up from New York. Isn't the room nice? Come to the window, you can have a view of the river.

So the room was furnished? Even the bed sheet?

Atin shook his head. Sharmila yanked the bed sheet off the bed. I will get you a new one tomorrow. How can you sleep in somebody else's bed sheet?

Well we do, in hotels.

This is not a hotel. I will spend some of my afternoons here.

Swiftly she started rearranging the room. With feminine touch the room somehow looked different. Atin could not take his eyes off her. She has lost weight, her collar bones stood out, but in spite of it she was so beautiful, so innocent.

Sharmi, I have to talk to you, he said. Sharmila looked at him, she was dusting the top of the table. What is the matter with you? You look so serious.

All restraint gone, Atin rushed towards her and took her in his arms. He kissed her passionately on the lips. Their lips, breasts, belly, thighs touched, they collapsed on the bed. The words remained unspoken.

18

IT was not too long ago, about six years ago that they had traveled this way, singing and shouting all the time. Today they were just two. Pompom made no attempt to talk, she leaned against the window and closed her eyes. Oli tried to read a copy of the National Geographic but her eyes strayed continuously to the two people standing opposite them, eyed them keenly. The local train compartment was crowded, people got on and off at every stop but those two stayed put.

They were sturdily built, did not look like road side Romeos, not particularly young either. Could be plain dress police or hired goondas by some party. They gave Oli a queer feeling. It was eleven in the morning and so many people around but these days murders were committed in broad daylight, a couple of bombs took care that nobody would rush to the rescue.

They got down at Memory along with a lot of other passengers Oli had Pompom's hand in a tight grip in spite of her protests. They crossed the platform and took a rickshaw. Oli could not help giving a backward glance. Yes, those two fellows were there, standing guard, hands dug in their pockets. What would they do now, shoot? They could do that for all she cared, but fortunately they did not follow in another rickshaw.

Soon after three turns they were outside Oli's range of vision. Perhaps they were employed by Pompom's father, Asoke Sengupta to keep an eye on the girls.

Sengupta had won from Maniktala in a bye-election and was an MLA now. It was through his efforts that Pompom was released from jail. She did not want any help from her father and he too had washed his hands of her affairs. The reason given for her release was health, Pompom was totally bed ridden. She stayed with her father in their Maniktala residence for a while but constant advice from well-wishers was more than she could take. Finally she agreed to go to their village home till she recovered but on one condition. She cannot entertain her Naxal friends there. If she did she would be packed off to Bangalore to a mashi. That was the final order from Sengupta.

If the two fellows were Sengupta's men were they keeping an eye on them or watching out for other visitors? Oli wondered but since Pompom had not noticed the men, thought it best not to tell her anything.

Pompom had tremendous will power but had health had broken down. Her legs shook if she walked a few steps, she could not even hold a book. Her face was pale. She never told Oli about the kind of police torture she underwent at Lalbazar. Once in a while she whispered to take revenge.

Oli had gone to visit her at the PG hospital dressed as a nurse. It was possible because the superintendent was a good friend of Oli's uncle. But Pompom was displeased. Why would Oli, who was not a member of their party risk police attention by doing this? Oli was a feminine type like a doll in a box, she would not be able to stand jail atrocities.

But Oli kept visiting her nevertheless, giving her all the information about Kaushik and others now in Berhampur jail. The only piece of news she kept from her was Manikda's death. Nobody came to see Pompom, none of her erstwhile party members, most of whom were in jail. Of the rest there was no way of knowing how many were dead and how many on the run. The sympathisers now gave Pompom a wide berth. Only Oli like a faithful friend visited her everyday.

In the untarred road the rickshaw bumped. Oli held her sick friend in a tight embrace. Last time the distance from the station to Pompom's house had not seemed so long. Babluda kept limping, Oli recalled. He was convinced that his wound had turned septic.

Pompom opened her eyes. Can you send word to Manikda? Haven't seen him for ages.

Without a hitch Oli lied. I will go to Krishnanagar. Will visit him on the way.

How will you go to Krishnanagar all by yourself? Let me get better, I will go with you.

As though she was talking to a baby, Oli tried to pacify her. How can you go now Pompom, the police are sure to follow you.

As if they won't follow you.

They don't know me.

Tell me something Oli. Is Atin still alive? I do not believe that he has been sent abroad. He wouldn't leave Manikda.

There was a murder charge against him. He was forced to leave the country against his wishes.

Were he and Kaushik in the same jail?

Kaushik has broken jail, don't you know?

Pompom sat up. What? What did you say? Why didn't you tell me earlier?

Actually it was a slip. Oli did not want to break it like this. Probably Pompom did not read newspapers.

Get home, have some rest, then I will tell you everything.

No. Pompom snapped. Tell me right now. Where is Kaushik?

As a matter of fact it was something even Oli did not know. A couple of days ago there was an armed fight between the guards of the Dumdum jail and its Naxal inmates. About fifteen were killed and twenty-seven injured, thirty-two had fled. Kaushik who was brought to this place from Berhampur should be among those who had fled. At least Oli hoped so. Kaushik could not die, her will power would keep him alive.

She had cried her heart out hearing about the terrible incident of Dumdum jail. No. Kaushik is not dead, she kept telling herself, he cannot die, he cannot. For her all these people — Kaushik, Pompom, Manikda and Tapan were part of Babluda. Proximity with them gave her a feeling that she was close to her Babluda. In their country house Pompom had a very old grandfather who was almost blind. One uncle looked after the agriculture. There were two widowed aunts. Already there had been a police raid.

Oli stayed on for two days. Pompom would not let her go. Oli could not blame her. Pompom had nobody to talk to. She had no mental affinity with the relations living there. It was true she needed rest, but she also needed a companion. But Oli had so much to do, she could not stay here indefinitely.

The thatched roofs protected them from the scorching heat of May. The trees around the house took away most of the heat. On the second day a nor’wester brought down the temperature, followed by a drizzle. Pompom came out in the porch, helped by Oli to look at the drizzle. Right from morning Oli took care of her like a nurse, washing and feeding her. Nobody had taught her how to, but necessity is the best teacher.

I want to go out in the rain, said Pompom. Haven't seen rain for the last two years. Would it be advisable, wondered Oli. She was too weak. At the same time she has missed rain during her prison days. As she brought her out in the courtyard, one of the aunts cried out, look at her, my goodness. Are you going to kill yourself? Get into your room, get into your room.

Don't pay heed, said Pompom. Let us move to the mango orchard to pick up green mangoes lying under the tree. Haven't done it for so many years. Come, let us go.

Perhaps the pleasure would do her more good than the damage to her health, pondered Oli. She may have her days numbered. But before they could start for the mango orchard a jeep pulled up. The first to get down were two strong men whom Oli had noticed on the train, followed by Pompom's father, clad in a dhoti, looking preoccupied.

Asoke Sengupta looked at the rain-drops, then to his daughter. Soaking in the rain? Feeling better, are you?

Pompom let go of Oli's hand and went back to her room. Presently Asoke Sengupta too walked in. He touched his daughter's forehead. Then he turned to Oli. I am amazed, He said. I have come to know that you were not connected to the party activities, nor do you have any political involvement, yet you are doing so much for my daughter. Do you know the police can mark you?

She is a friend, declared Pompom.

Could be, admitted her father. But your study circle friends have all forsaken you, haven't they?

He sat on the only chair in the room. Aren't you afraid of snakes? He put a direct question to Oli. Saw a snake being killed on my way here. This is when the snakes come out. I used to live in this room. Do you remember Pompom the time a snake was discovered on my mosquito net? Quite a furore it created.

Baba, are you trying to scare Oli? Asked Pompom. You want her to leave, is that it? Her father smiled. His face was heavily lined, there were dark patches under his eyes. He never had much relation with his well to do family. From Congress politics to Marxism, he had been through a lot — terms in jail, beaten up by the police, life had not been a bed of roses. But he harboured no rancour, could laugh easily. Oh, it is for you to scare us, is that it Pompom? He laughed. Would it make you happy to see me murdered by your party workers?

Pompom did not answer; she merely gave him a cold stare.

Ajit Biswas of the Forward Block has been killed yesterday, you may not know. The killers of Hemanta Bose did not spare his substitute from the same seat. What madness is this? He brought out a folded paper from his pocket. The sketch of a human scull below which one line in red ink. "It is now your turn Asoke Sengupta."

He tore the paper to pieces. Oli turned pale but Pompom did not register any emotion. Childish pranks. What good does it serve tell me. Is this what Marxism is all about — these senseless killings? This is your idea of Marxism!

Our party members do not write such letters, said Pompom.

You saw the name of your party on the chit. So this means you do not even have a strong party base. The units are doing whatever comes into their head, No central control, but you have set about to bring about a revolution. Revolution indeed! Marxism has to be applied in different ways depending on the prevailing situation of each country. It is not that easy to bring about a revolution in a country having a democratic structure. One has to capture power through democratic ways — that is why we are trying. And you are set to spoil it all. Don't you see that in a way you are helping the reactionaries?

You are intoxicated by power, snapped Pompom. For you the end has become getting into the Parliament and the Assembly. You get panicky to hear about revolution.

These are textbook jargons, Pompom. There may be exceptions, one or two may develop weakness, but we keep a strong watch. We are gaining in strength by the day. How long do you think this puppet government of Ajay Mukherjee will last? We have report that Mao Tse Tung himself has rebuffed some of you. Who had asked you to write slogans declaring the chairman of China to be your chairman? Some of your party members who had gone to China had been scolded by Chou en Lai. I knew it all along.

Baba, is this a report of your party or of the CIA?

You have no idea of what has been happening, you were in jail. The extremist theory of Charubabu has pushed a lot of brilliant boys and girls to the edge. They are killing or are being killed. The whole thing is senseless. If we could have had these thousands of dedicated young people with us, if Charubabu had accepted our line we could have ousted congress by now.

We do not accept any other means. Revolution, that is what we believe in. Once the process has started . . .

The end is very near. What is it actually, revolution or a romantic adventure? East Pakistan is in turmoil, the centre is not going to tolerate any disorder in West Bengal. Very soon Ajay Mukherjee would be removed, Presidents Rule will follow, the army will begin action. They will target Gopiballavpur, how many more young lives will be lost. You know Pompom I was so fond of Manik. He led you astray . . . I could not control my tears when I heard the news . . . he may have been misguided but he was a sincere worker all right.

Pompom gave Oli a quick glance before asking, Manikda?

Oli looked down. Asoke Sengupta raised his eyebrows, He has been dead a couple of months, didn't you know?

Pompom turned her face away. Under no circumstances was she going to break down before her father.

How much longer can Charubabu keep up, on the run. He is very sick himself. Your party is in shambles.

You simply had no experience in the perfect organising skill needed to run an underground party. Burning school buildings and killing policemen at random — where does this ultra leftism lead you? Extreme right reactionaries will emerge as a reaction. Don't you see? Life for life, why would they take it lying down? You have antagonised the police, they are now letting the prisoners go and shooting them down all in the name of confrontation. For shame, you certainly have not learnt anything from history.

Have you come all the way from Calcutta to lecture me?

I know you will not listen to me. Very well. I am here because I have a meeting in Bardhaman tomorrow, Will spend the night here. But what do you have against me, Pompom?

I am sleepy. Let me sleep.

Do that. Wipe your hair first, it is wet. Another reason I am here is to tell Oli something. He turned to Oli, Your father came to me. You are going to the States, aren't you? You have got your visa but you must get back to Calcutta as quickly as possible.

This was news to Pompom. She looked at her friend in surprise. Embarrassed, Oli was annoyed with Pompom's father. He could have taken Oli aside to tell this.

Pompom turned to the wall and stretched on the bed. Asoke Sengupta stood up. Oli, you better hurry up. Go back to Calcutta tomorrow. For all you know your passport might be impounded, you never know the police. Meanwhile Pompom can go to Bangalore to her uncle and aunt. They will take good care of you Pompom, the weather too is excellent.

I will be alright here, murmured Pompom.

Her father came near the bed, stroked her head and said tenderly, But Khuki you did not answer my question. Will you be happy to see me murdered by your party people?

Pompom began to sob at long last. Her father kept stroking her head. Don't you worry, nothing can go wrong with me. He wiped her tears.

He left. Oli came closer and touched her. As if on a cue Pompom burst out crying, Manikda, Manikda — she kept saying. Then she sat up. Why did you keep it from me? She asked angrily. You thought I wouldn't be able to take it? Who else is dead, tell me, Atin, Tapan, Kaushik, Saroj Dutt, Sushital Roychoudhury, Jayasree, Santosh you must tell me.

I do not know about the others, replied Oli, in tears.

But you knew about Manikda, didn't you?

I heard about it from my mama who is a doctor.

Who are the killers? CPM? Congress?

No, the police. My mama was taken to him for treatment, but before he reached . . .

Why are you sticking to me? This means Atin too is gone.

No, no, Babluda has fled, gone abroad.

What about Kaushik?

I do not know, honestly, no news is good news.

Both of them sat holding hands and mourned for Manikda.

Asoke Sengupta returned the next day, offering Oli a lift in his jeep. But Pompom was so heart broken that Oli could not leave her. That night, two hours after midnight there was somebody at the window, knocking gently. The dogs were barking like mad, Oli woke up to find Pompom listening intently. Please open the door, Oli, she said. They are our boys.

True enough they were. One carried a pistol, the other had a pipe gun. They were Samiran and Bhanu, not known to Oli.

I would have been forced to shoot the dogs, if you had not opened, said Samiran.

From where are you coming? Asked Pompom. This village is not safe for you.

They bolted the door, drew near the bed and said, we do not have much time. We need money for food and medicines. How are you Pompom. We are close by, in the forest. Can you give us some money? About a thousand?

Oli had about a hundred, Pompom had even less. But they needed more for operating Kaushik's leg. He has been shot in the leg.

So Kaushik was alive after all. Oli attributed this to her will power. Pompom heard their story. Listen, she said, normally people in villages do not have a lot of cash at home. But I can give you something. You can sell it for at least eight hundred.

What? Not jewelry I hope, asked Samiran.

No, not jewelry. This can be sold in any grocery shop. Wait a little. Would you come with me, Oli? They tiptoed across the courtyard to a room where Pompom's grandfather slept. The door was kept open. Pompom, in spite of her ill health acted swiftly, dragging out four cloth bundles from under the bed. They were quite heavy.

Betrs nuts, explained Pompom. From our garden. They are very costly. Can be sold for a tidy sum.

Oli had absolutely no idea of the market price of Betrs nuts. Her only regret was not having brought more money. She got an allowance of three hundred every month from her father.

Pompom suddenly stopped on her tracks. Suppose Kaushik has been shot in the chest or the back? They won't tell me. I must go and see for myself. Kaushik has to be saved, at any cost.

How can you go Pompom? They are hiding in the forest, you have to walk on foot. Let me go instead.

How can you go? You have to go back to Calcutta for your visa and all. No, no, I will tell them, they can help me to make the trip.

Oli insisted. You will be sick, you will put them into more trouble. No, I have to go and see Kaushik.

She took an instant decision. Kaushik is Babluda's closest friend. She must do what Babluda would have done under the circumstances.

19

JEHANARA Imam had just sat down for lunch when the doorbell rang. It went on ringing as if someone was not taking his finger off it. A bell at odd hours is scary, and it looked as though someone was determined to show how powerful he was. Still she kept her cool and asked the domestic help, Go and see who the brute is.

But when the visitor came in Jehanara could not believe her own eyes. He was constantly in her thoughts all through her waking hours. Panic stricken, she cried out, Is that you Rumi?

Rumi put down his bag, beaming, as if he was just back from college. But his hair was disheveled, eyes sunken, the shirt has not been changed for several days. I am hungry, ammi, he simply said. He sat down and looked at his mother meaningfully. No questions were to be asked.

The servant brought an extra plate and waited. As Rumi helped himself to rice and fish curry and gulped down the food, Jehanara stared at her son, her expression a mixture of worry and joy. She did not even chide him for not washing his hands. Rumi turned to the servant, Barek, will you go and roast some green pepper for me? Do it on slow heat. As he left he spoke to his mother, Must you hear everything right now? I had to come back because the route we were supposed to take has been ambushed. He went on eating, finishing off with a drink of the remaining dal. Get me some cold water from the fridge, he asked the servant, It is unusually hot this year.

He washed his hand and mouth, picked up the newspapers and went upstairs whistling. Jehanara phoned her husband in his office, cleared the table trying to act as normally as possible. Asking the servant to leave for the afternoon, she ran upstairs to Rumi's room. She locked the door and took her son in her arms. Crying and laughing at the same time she blurted out — Tell me Rumi, tell me what happened. In one unguarded moment she had said I am sacrificing you for the country. This was lying heavy on her conscience.

Rumi detached himself from his mother's embrace. Be quiet amma. I will tell you everything. We crossed Buriganga at Sadarghat, he began.

What do you mean we? How many were there?

I warned you mother. Do not ask too many questions. I cannot divulge names. He spoke as though he was not the bubbling young man he used to be but a much older and experienced person. He then briefly related their adventure.

They were proceeding to the border, Kamal Lohani, Pratap Hazra, two student leaders named Manirul and Ishrak, a habilder who had been hurt and some Hindu families. They had to trudge about eight miles through storm and rain, carrying the habilder. They reached Dhaleswari. The injured habilder was given shelter in a village and they crossed Dhaleswari to reach Syedpur. Eight miles further on was Srinagar, the police station of which was now under the Mukti Bahini. Sirajul and others are waiting there, they will take Rumi and his group to Tripura. That is the plan.

They reached Srinagar in the evening. Spending the night at the house of a doctor, Sukumar Bardhan in nearby Nagarbhanga village. Meanwhile the Pak army had crossed the river and reached Syedpur. They were moving towards Bikrampur, combing the area for outsiders. The people picked up by them are not coming back.

The only way left for them was to cross over by way of Srirampur, Kumilla. But the Pak army had reached Srinagar too. They could neither turn back nor go forward.

Rumi smiled. Amma, do not ask me how we reached Dhaka. It was a roundabout route, highly dangerous, I narrowly missed being shot. A boat overturned, there was just nothing we could do. The army caught one of our smaller groups. I could have been with them.

Jehanara, breathless with worry managed to ask, You narrowly escaped being shot. You could have been among those captured, is it?

Oh yes, said Rumi with a deadpan face, Luckily I was in a different boat.

Jehanara wondered if this boy was her Rumi, the same Rumi, whistling a minute ago, who had stood face to face with death only a couple of days earlier? You know Amma, continued Rumi. Sirajul has shown courage you cannot imagine. He has finished off seven Khan soldiers with his own hands, went looking for the lost group back to Syedpur, right into the lion's den.

Rumi, so you will be staying in Dhaka now, won't you?

What do you mean? Her son snapped. You know the deserters do not even deserve hell! I am joining sector two, under Khaled Mosharef.

But you said all routes are closed, Jehanara said in a small voice.

We will have to find a route, somehow. How long can they hold on before our onslaught. As soon as the word reaches me I will have to leave. Besides they are not going to keep a single young man of Dhaka outside prison. It is enough crime to be a Bengali. Some young men are with the army, they are not Bengali, but Rajakar. Do you want me to be one of them?

Realising that he was hurting his mother Rumi changed his tone. He put his head on his mother's lap. I know Ammi, you are the best Ammi in the world, you won't stop me from doing what I want. Tell me about the news here. How is Motaher chacha? Is it true that the Biharis of Mirpur are stopping buses and killing all the Bengali passengers?

Have you heard about your professor Babul Chaudhury? He has been shot. May not survive.

Rumi did not open his eyes. Good job, he said. Must be someone from one of our gangs. We had taken a vow to finish off the betrayers. He used to do tall talks, but supported the Yahya regime, the scum. Rapport with the army.

But it is the army men who have shot him.

Rumi sat up. What? The army? Are you sure?

We live in the same neighbourhood. The army had come to look for Sirajul. They took away Monira, Babul had come down to stop them . . .

What, they have taken Monira away? Do you have any idea where?

Nobody knows. We heard Monira scream but who would resist the monsters.

Oh my god. What will happen to Sirajul now. Our contact at Dhaka was asked to move Monira to a safe place. We thought she had already gone.

They were late. Such a sweet innocent girl. Hai Allah, how can you allow the blameless to come to this end?

But Sirajul so devoted to his wife, my friends tease him for being joru ka gulam — he will go mad. Look at the irony of fate. Babul Choudhury who was so thick with the fascist regime, was finished off by the same people, Tikka Khan's army. Even Bhasani Saheb, I believe has sent word to China to support Bangladesh. All the pro-Chinese leaders of our college have joined the freedom struggle except a few hard core ultra left like Babul Choudhury. They will meet their end one by one, just like Babul Choudhury. Don't talk like that, Rumi. He is not yet dead. Pray for him. After all he was your teacher, wasn't he? Actually what happened was this. There was a little girl in the house, Sefu, domestic help. She came crying into the street, My Saheb has been shot, please save my Saheb. Already curfew was imposed, who would risk his life. But the girl went on as though her own father lay dying. We could take it no longer. Your Dad and I went into their house to find Babul all stretched out on the last step of the staircase in a pool of blood. But his heart was still beating. How could we leave him there? We put him in our car and took him to Dr. Aziz's polyclinic.

Is he still there?

He has become our responsibility. His parents cannot be contacted in Tangyle. His brother Altaaf has disappeared. His wife has gone to India. If something happens none of his near relations would know.

Pretty soon Rumi fell asleep. He went out in the afternoon, met his father and brother briefly but had no time to talk. Nobody was supposed to ask him questions. When curfew was lifted for the evening Jehanara and Shareef went over to the nursing home.

Dr. Aziz's polyclinic cum nursing home stood on the main road. His wife Sultana too was a doctor. They were treating many freedom fighters secretly free of cost. Aziz was a reserved type but his wife was lively and jolly. She would cheer up particularly depressed patients, patting them on the cheek. Come on, smile, smile. How will you live if you forget to smile.

She welcomed Jehanara and Shareef cheerfully. Good news. Your patient has regained consciousness. I have made him drink half a glass of Horlicks, of course after a lot of coaxing. Two bullets have been taken out from his stomach after operation. He will survive, by the grace of Allah. But he refuses to eat. Please try to make him eat at least one half-boiled egg.

Should she tell Sultana about Rumi's return, wondered Jehanara. On second thought she decided not to. The times are strange, nobody can be trusted.

Babul was in a first floor cabin. The next one had another acquaintance, Saleha. Her husband, Rasul Saheb is a deeply religious person. He sported a black beard, wore a black Jinnah cap, observed every ritual with care. He has a transferable job. His job had taken him to Brahmanberia. For sometime after 25 March, Brahmanberia was under the people who shouted Joi Bangla. Then the bombing started. No war had been declared but village after village was destroyed. Rasul Saheb fled with his family leaving all his belongings. Now at long last he has taken refuge in Dhaka, in the house of a relative. His wife had stepped on a piece of bone in the village road, something they had not taken seriously at first. But now the cut had turned septic, she might lose her leg.

Apolitical Rasul Saheb was totally flabbergasted at the turn of events. It was Jehanara who had put Saleha in this nursing home.

Hearing her moan both Jehanara and her husband entered her cabin. Oh Baro Apa, I am going to die, Saleha's laments grew louder. What will happen to my children? We have lost everything, what are they going to eat?

Jehanara stroked her head. Please stop it. Everything is going to be all right. Saleha shivered. Baro Apa, they are not human — those Khan army people. They certainly are not Muslim. Killed the Hindus and did not spare the Muslims either! Allah, don't you have any law?

Don't shout, Jehanara chided. This is a nursing home. Consider yourself lucky, you were not shot, it is just a piece of bone. They will operate, Sultana told me, you are going to get well.

They moved to the next cabin. At first sight Babul looked perfectly normal. A white sheet hiding the bandages on his stomach. Her delicate feminine face was pale but it was not apparent in the dim light. He knew nothing except books. Now he had a book on economics held before his eyes.

Jehanara exclaimed, Look at him! Babul you are all right now. Allah had listened to our prayers. We prayed for you day and night.

Babul put aside his book and merely stared at her.

Ever since the return of Rumi, Jehanara was in an optimistic mood. Good things were to happen, Saleha would get back the use of her leg, Babul would be walking about. If only, if only the Pakistanis would stop the orgy of murder.

I have sent word in Tangyle, said Shareef, They should be reaching here in a day or two only if the roads are open.

Still Babul said nothing.

Where is Monju in India, do you know? Asked Jehanara. We would try to get in touch. You can phone Calcutta via London, I have been told.

At last obliged to say something, Babul said, Why bother her?

Why don't you eat, Babul? Shareef wanted to know. You must regain your strength, you know. How about a boiled egg?

Tomorrow, not now. Said Babul. Why is the lady next door yelling? Somebody dead?

Not anybody in her immediate family, but she has seen others being killed, good, honest Muslims. It has hurt her faith to find Muslims doing this to fellow Muslims. Said Shareef.

There is no religion involved here, remarked Jehanara, naked struggle for power, that is all.

Babul stared at the ceiling, he had no questions nor answers. After the visitors left he tried to concentrate on the book. But the book slipped from his hand. He has been thinking constantly of his son Sukhu and Monira. She was dragged by the hair by the soldiers of her own country. Will they rape her? Kill her? He wished there was a way he could call Dilara's husband, the colonel saheb.

Where on earth is Sukhu? Does he fret for his father? From somewhere far away came the sound of a child's cry. Babul could never stand a child's cry.

He dozed off but something rushed inside the room and he woke up. All the lights of the city must have gone, it was so dark. From the window ash coloured moonlight streamed in, it must be late in the night. A shadowy figure moved about, perhaps the doctor. The figure flopped on the bed. You son of a bitch, it growled, Where is Monira?

Was it his own conscience, wondered Babul, or his soul? I don't know, he whispered. Would you tell me please?

Stop this nonsense, said the shadow. Trying to be funny! Where have you put her?

I had asked her to join Sirajul, but she didn't. The army took her away.

Liar! You had informed the army, you. Now pretending to be good.

I didn't, I tell you. Why would they shoot me then?

Stray bullet of a stupid soldier may be. It is all staged by you. Let me have a look at your wound, I want to see if you have been really shot.

The shadow pulled away the sheet and began opening up the bandage.

Babul was wide-awake now. He realised it was not the doctor. He was hurting him. He cried out and got a hard slap from the shadow in return. Keep quiet, snapped the shadowy figure. Babul recognised the voice. It was Sirajul, Monira's husband.

Babul made an attempt to say — Sirajul you should have come earlier.

By then Sirajul has opened up the bandage. He switched on his torch to inspect the wound. Yea, he said viciously, but not too late for you, you son of a whore, spy.

You are hurting me, Sirajul, Babul whispered.

You deserve to be hurt more, you boot-licker of the army. Wait till I tear open all the stitches and gorge your stomach out.

Don't kill me, don't, Babul was faint with pain. I did not . . . He could not go on. Meanwhile Sirajul brought out a knife from his bag and proceeded to cut the stitches. Blood spurted out. Two other shadowy figures had entered meanwhile. One of them pushed Sirajul back, What do you think you are doing? He barked.

Leave me alone, roared Sirajul. Let me finish off the dog. A tug of war ensued. Saleha from the next cabin began to scream, They are here, they are here, hai Allah, save us.

The two doctors rushed to the spot. Sirajul was now lying on the floor, held there by force by Rumi and Ishak. Dr. Aziz switched on the light. He looked with dismay at Babul and his bed smeared in blood. What did you do, Rumi, he cried. You have killed him! But Sultana was feeling for heart beats, she cried out, He is alive. Get some hot water, quick. Let me get the injection ready. Turning to the intruders she hissed, Get out. Clear out. Or I am going to call the police.

In spite of it Babul survived. His wound was stitched up again. But even a little bit of food disagreed with him, so he gave up taking anything. He grew thin and skinny. The only visitors were Jehanara and Sefu. Babul was too weak even to read books or talk. Sefu, with tears in her eyes kept to his bedside. Jehanara Imam brought the current news. The Shaheed Minar has been destroyed, a mosque would come up there. The ancient Kalibari of Ramna has been razed to the ground, shops in Baitool Mokarram have been looted. "Pakistan Plunges into Civil War" declares the Newsweek written by Loren Jenkins who was an eye witness to the army crackdown. Pakistan government can no longer fool the world that there was no major problem, just a few skirmishes created by the agents of India.

Babul who was a passive listener asked one day, Aapa, do you too believe that I did not try to save Monira?

Of course not, Sefu has told me everything. A decent person like you would not stand a girl humiliated. Forget about Sirajul, he is not in his senses.

Can you ask him to come and meet me?

He has gone back to action.

Where has he gone?

I have no idea.

But I must see him.

Patients were coming in so Babul was sent home. All he needed was rest. Slowly he got back his strength, started walking, even climbed stairs. He stood at the spot he was shot. No, he did not die but got a new lease of life.

On that day he had a visitor, Apel, Monju's brother. He was the only one to stay on in Dhaka with his family. Rest of the family were sent to their village home. Apel had heard rumours about his Dulabhai being shot. He was surprised to find him up and about. Babul too did not admit that he was shot. All sorts of rumours are making the rounds.

The next day Babul discovered that he could negotiate staircases without trouble. He called Sefu and told her to leave the house. Sefu protested. She had given word to bhabi that she would stick to saheb, not desert him under any circumstances. But Babul explained. You see I have work to do. The military might come here again. You better go to Jehanara Apa. She will take care of you. But if there is no room you go straight to Apel Saheb so that when I come back I know where to look for you.

Babul locked all the doors and closed the windows. You wait here for about half an hour. Do not tell anyone that I have left. I will come back after I finish my work. Don't you worry.

He himself was on the point of tears as he got into a rickshaw and disappeared in the darkness.

20

A thousand strong crowds stopped the bus and started singing and jumping with shouts of 'Jai Baba Kalachand’. Other passengers thought probably it was Harit Mondol, being cheered.

Harit in a saffron lungi and kurta, with a thick growth of beard and flowing though thinning hair, held an oily bamboo staff in his hand. Each family had contributed eight annas to sponsor this trip — they garlanded him with three marigold chains and set off their leader in a search for liberation.

Harit wanted just one companion who would serve as a witness as well. Jogananda was accompanying him. But at the last minute little Naba would not let go of Harit's knees so he was obliged to take him along. Everybody started talking together, nothing could be heard in the pandemonium.

Basudev sat stiffly on a window seat, not daring to look at Golapi. His heart pounded like a rail engine. He wondered what was in store for him, perhaps his limbs would be broken once they proceeded to a safe distance from the colony.

The bus would take them to Raipur where they will get into the train to Calcutta.

The heat was unbearable. Harit put away the garlands and asked Jogananda to buy the tickets. But the conductor, elated at the sight of a sadhu touched Harit's knees respectfully and said, No sadhu baba, you people do not need tickets.

So, a sadhu can move about without tickets. This was good news because Harit and his two companions had set out for West Bengal with only two hundred and twenty-two rupees with them. Actually the disguise was only to fool the police. He did not know if the no entry Order on him still held but he did not want to take any chance.

He touched the head of the conductor, Jita raho, God will look after you.

The urge to smoke a bidi was great but he must behave like a sadhu. He even refused Basubev's offer of tea and jelabi at the bus stop.

At Raipur they had to wait for five hours. The train was due at three in the night. Harit bought tickets only for Jogananda and Naba. On way back he would make them put on saffron as well. If the ticket checker did not respect his sadhu uniform let him do whatever he wants. At most he would be made to get down.

Basudeb brought them to the platform, lonely and silent at this time of the night. Harit and his party had two bags, but Basudeb sat a little away on his suitcase and bedding, reading something in the dim light.

Chotobabu, will you come here please, said Harit. Panic stricken, Basudeb turned to him. Still well built for his age, Harit sat very straight, cross legged like a true sadhu, the bamboo staff lying by his side, puffing at the bidi ganja style. One strike by the lathi and Basudeb's head would be crushed to a pulp.

He almost jumped to crouch before Harit's legs. Have mercy, have mercy please. I apologise. Yes I do, I will be your disciple. Harit moved his legs, embarrassed. What is this? Being a Brahmin you touch my feet! For shame, Do not make me a sinner.

Sadhus do not have a caste. Jai baba Kalachand, Jai baba Kalachand.

You know very well what I am. Dying your dress in saffron does not make you a sadhu.

Please have mercy on me.

Sit up. Tell me something. Did you ask my daughter to visit you at night to read her poems? Tell me the truth.

Yes, I swear. I thought nobody would be about so I would read out some poems.

You mean to say you had no other motive? Did not touch her?

I touched her feet, I swear by Ma Kali.

What poems? Read them to me.

Well they are nothing in particular, you would not like them.

Read to me.

Basudeb had to open his exercise book. He did not dare to read the ones he had written for Golapi but chose a rather innocuous one, dealing with nostalgia, memory of the village and his mother. Harit listened intently. Though he was not educated but being an artist he could follow the emotion expressed in the lines and was touched.

He sighed. You have known pain, Chotobabu. My daughter too had seen a lot of pain. She has not done anything wrong. If for some reason I do not come back from Calcutta, please look after her. Do not pay heed to what people might say.

They chatted till the arrival of the train. They got into one crowded third class compartment. No checker came to ask for tickets.

After Basudeb got down at Kharagpur, the crowd thinned. Yet Harit kept on the pretence of a sadhu. People got on and off, nobody seemed bothered with tickets. For Naba it was a novel experience. Everybody spoke Bengali, the signboards were written in Bengali, even the hawkers were shouting in Bengali.

They reached Howrah at ten and almost floated out of the station in the surge of the office going crowd. Much relieved that no checking was done, Harit decided to have some food first. Crossing the Howrah Bridge, the party set foot on Calcutta. This is where Harit was beaten mercilessly by the police, the memory of which sent tremors through his body. The police would have beaten him to death. Would they recognise him now?

The first thing to be done was to look up his son. Mohanbagan Lane. He remembered the name. Quite far — Taltola would come first. Would Ma Janani give them shelter for the night, he wondered. Come, I will buy a new kind of food you have never had before, he told Naba. From his experience of protest rallies in the Esplanade Dalhousie area, he knew of some cheap eating places. They reached the foot of the Monument and sat before a seller of gram powder — sattu. Heaps of sattu on a shining brass platter with a little salt and green pepper. And a lota of drinking water. It used to cost eighty paisa then, now it was one rupee twenty. He bought some sugar for eight annas, made a mixture adding water, made it into balls and told Naba, Eat, a new kind of sweet.

Naba was too hungry to bother about taste, Jogananda finished off the whole platter with salt and green pepper, but Harit found it difficult to swallow. He had to gulp it down with plenty of water.

They reached Taltola. The house of Tridib and Sulekha now looked a little different. At the gate, which was a new addition stood an indifferent Nepali durwan. But a gentleman from the house came out and welcomed him warmly in Hindi. What is it sadhu baba? Please come in and take a seat.

But Harit did not go in. It seemed the gentleman had bought the house only last year, but not from Tridib and Sulekha. He has not heard of them.

This confused Harit. Has he made a mistake? He walked further up the lane, to the house he had sought refuge in, chased by the police. This was where he had met Tridib. The walls were mouldy, otherwise the building looked just the same. Harit went back to the gate of the house he knew as Tridib's. The police arrested him from here, how could he forget it? The adjoining houses were familiar, only the one in the middle has disappeared.

Are you looking for Tridib babu? Asked a middle aged lungi-clad gentleman from the balcony of the neighbouring house. He has sold the house a long time back. It has changed hands twice after that.

Where are they now? Do you have the address? Asked Harit.

They went to Delhi. When Tridib babu came down to sell the house, he said he was going to England. He is there now, that is what I have heard.

To England? His wife must have gone too.

His wife . . . well something happened. The gentleman paused to consult his wife. He looked thoughtful then replied. We have no idea of what has happened to Sulekha boudi.

Harit stared after him. So he cannot meet the lady, as beautiful as goddess Jagaddhatri, mother to Harit. Harit has never seen a kinder person. In a moment the city seemed empty.

They came to Wellington Square and sat brooding. Naba meanwhile was restless with curiosity, at the sight so many strange objects — trams, cinema posters, tall buildings, ice-cream vendors. Harit was forced to buy him an ice-cream stick, spending eight annas. Naba had his first taste of ice.

The next destination was Mohunbagan Lane. Somehow Harit was losing the urge to meet his son. If he has become a gentleman may be he would not recognise his father. He could have contacted his father. There was no reply to the two postcards Harit had written to him. Probably they have moved. He could neither remember the name or the face of the lady who had taken charge of his son. It was Sulekha's face which kept floating before him. Harit was not the type to break down easily but now he felt close to tears.

From Wellington to Shyambazar was a straight road he recalled. They walked along the tram tracks, not heeding to Naba's appeal for a tram ride. The house at Mohunbagan Lane was finally located. The locality had not changed. The champa tree stood in front of the house. The street was deserted. As Harit banged on the large wooden door it opened a little. Somebody from the other side eyed Harit from top to toe and declared, No beggars, get away, get away.

Harit could not help smiling in spite of the situation. The people of Calcutta saw through the disguise of a sadhu quite easily. But they were not beggars, only refugees. Even in the worst of times they were not reduced to begging.

He bellowed like a real sadhu, Jai Baba Kalachand, Jai Baba Kalachand. The man opened the door a little and snapped, I told you to go elsewhere. You won't get alms.

Now that I am here, why should I go elsewhere? Call your babus. Where is Sucharit babu?

We do not have anybody of that name. You have come to the wrong house.

Sucharit does not live here?

Wrong house, I told you.

Harit tried hard not to show his embarrassment. He could not for the life of him recall the name of that lady. All on a sudden another name flashed across his mind. Asamanjo. He was the one who had taken Sucharit under his care first. But where did he live? Harit had no clue.

Does not Asamanjo babu come here? I have to see him, very urgent — brother.

On hearing this name the man softened. Opening the door wide he asked them to come and sit in the shade. So you are looking for Masterdada. Why didn't you go to the ashram?

Ashram? What ashram? Where?

Who is it, Biru? Asked Anandamohan from upstairs.

Harit had seen him only once, but he recognised the gentleman. So things were looking up.

Sir, we are coming from far.

Clad in dhoti and milk white vest, Anandamohan came down, folded his hands and said, Namaskar. Which ashram are you from?

Harit went forward to touch his feet but Anandamohan drew back. What is this? You are a sadhu. Please don't.

You are a Brahmin, sir. I am not a sadhu, just a refugee. The government had exiled us to Dandakaranya. I have managed to come back to find out something. Harit Mondol! Murmured Anandamohan.

I had met you once, many years ago, you may not recall —

I remember the name all right.

I had put my son in your care. How is he?

I knew you would be back. Sighed Anandamohan. Your son, well, he has not been here for some time.

Rented a place to stay, I suppose?

Anandamohan hesitated. He had no idea of the whereabouts of Sucharit. An old feeling of guilt began to bother him.

Chandra was due to come back from the ashram at Naihati. She would explain. He said, I do not know, but my daughter does. Why don't you come in. Get some tea for them, will you Biru?

They chatted while having tea. For some reason Anandamohan avoided the topic of Sucharit, Harit could guess. Yes, now Chandra, the cigarette smoking woman with coloured lips came back to his mind. She has turned sanyasin, of all things? Strange!

He was given the address of Chandra's ashram and told that they could stay the night in the guest house but Harit went to Kasipur instead, to the garden house of the Sarkar family from where Harit was driven out. It was still occupied by refugees who had turned it into a full fledged colony. Jogananda had never been here and Naba was born outside Bengal.

Each family living there had their areas marked out by fences. The old dance hall was in ruins. The children running about did not look undernourished at all. Posters of a particular political party were visible on the walls. The place where Harit used to live in the right hand corner had lau creepers on the roof. Who lived there, wondered Harit.

Come Joga, he said. These are refugees like us. Let us go and find out how they are doing, better than us perhaps.

Tell me Baro Kaka, they found a place in Calcutta. Why then were we sent away?

They entered the colony. Harit stood under a mango tree and bellowed, Jai Baba Kalachand. Children came rushing, followed by women. One woman held out her hand and appealed, would you tell me what is in my luck, please Baba.

Harit pretended to scan the lines on her palm. Let me see. You come from the Bagmara village in Khulna, am I right? Your father died by drowning. Your husband is Barada Kanta, where is he?

Absolutely floored, the woman stammered. He runs a shop in the market, but . . . Harit went about merrily talking about past events. Nobody could recognise him in the garb of a sadhu. They were bewildered. The men came home late in the afternoon. One of them recognised Harit by his voice. Sona Kaka? He cried out. So you have become a sadhu! Harit patted him on the back. No my dear Nepu, I am not a sadhu but a disciple of the great Kalachand of Jessore. Haven't you heard of him? He is more than a hundred years old, appeared to me in dream. Listen you Harit, he told me, Your good days are about to begin.

The assembled people had not heard of Kalachand but they were ready to believe whatever Harit told them of the miracles wrought by the wonderful sadhu. They exchanged news, of who have died, who are still here. How was the scene at Dandakaranya? Those who have gone to Andaman, how are they doing? The refugees of this colony have to fend for themselves, government dole has stopped, they are organising themselves.

Harit assured one man named Gopal who was uneasy at the sight of their erstwhile leader. Have no worry Gopal, I have not come to occupy my room. We are going back.

Oh no no, do stay here as long as you want. Gopal was instantly apologetic.

Well if I do come back, I won't be alone. But have you heard the news? Pakistan is again at war? I hear the border is not guarded any more.

Nepu jumped up. Oh yes Sona kaka, I had slipped into Jessore. Crowds of people are entering from that side. Jogananda who was silent by nature was startled. You went into Jessore? You touched the earth there and nobody said anything?

No, they did not. Even Mussalmans were hospitable. They curse the Pakistani army and are all praise for India.

Then I would go too. Jogananda’s eyes were about to pop off the sockets. I never thought that . . .

You can count, me with you too, said Harit. I want so much to touch the earth at Jessore and shout, Joi Bangla.

21

THE rail tracks at Petrapol station had rusted, the ticket counter lay under a criss-cross of spider webs. For a long time no trains had passed this way. Now the platform was teeming with people. Hundreds of homeless people had taken refuge there, khichri was being cooked on four huge stoves, the place was noisy. The pandemonium was further increased by the presence of a large number of policemen. But instead of chasing people with their lathi, they were polite. One officer requested the people with folded arms to clear the south platform. You can go and stand on the tracks, everything will be visible from there. Nobody objected. It was a special day to day, the homeless men, women and children waited hopefully. No train would be coming, the tracks were full of people. The sound of dhak was heard, as if to herald Durga Puja. Among the homeless there must have been some professional drummers.

Senior officers of West Bengal and the centre occupied the station master’s room. The public- address system kept blaring announcements in a metallic voice. A boy served tea in small earthen pots from a huge kettle.

Only two people occupied the bench meant for the representatives of the Bangladesh Mission. Mamun and Pratap joined them. One of them craned his neck to ask Pratap — Do you think Bangladesh is going to be recognised today, officially?

What can I say? Answered Pratap modestly, I am nobody of importance.

In fact the two of them were stopped at the entrance, but the identity card of Mamun with a seal of Bangladesh Mission helped them to gain entry. Pratap was allowed entry as a close friend of Mamun. Mamun carried more respect here.

Two big pots of khichri were ready. The volunteers began to serve. There was not the usual pushing about, the crowd though hungry were quite disciplined.

Suddenly hordes of cameramen rushed in, which meant the Prime Minister has arrived. A curious roar went up, strange waves of sound rended the air with the blowing of conch shells, ululations, shouting of slogans — Joi Bangla, Yahya Hoshiyar, India Government Zindabad!

Indira Gandhi walked past Mamun and others, remarkably young for her fifty years, taut skin, beak nose, and an incongruous lock of grey hair, in a light blue handloom sari. She stood on the edge of the platform, made a gesture to stop the slogans but it went on more lustily.

A very old woman in tattered clothes somehow slipped through the cordon. She fell at Indira Gandhi's feet and started sobbing. Two officers tried to pull the woman away but Indira Gandhi stopped them. She spoke to the old woman first in Hindi but a little later in broken Bengali learnt during her stay in Santiniketan. 'Please get up, mother,' She said, Tell me what you want to say.’

Some of the officers explained to the Prime Minister the gist of the tearful speech. Her son was murdered and their village destroyed by arson. Indira Gandhi nodded. The old woman went on, we seek shelter at your feet mother, I have tiny grandchildren, daughter-in-law, save us.

Without waiting for a translation Indira Gandhi assured her. You are our guest, you need not have any fear. The wailing stopped. The poor old woman stroked Indira Gandhi's feet as if caressing a child. All slogan shouts had stopped as all eyes were on this scene. Perhaps too much of melodrama annoyed Indira Gandhi. She told the woman, everything will be all right and briskly walked away to where the khichri was being cooked. She examined the stuff from one and disapproved, Not perfectly boiled, she said. Went on to the next pot, was satisfied with the cooking and started to serve herself.

The First man on the row was a dark young man in his early twenties. He had a bandage on his left arm. He lifted the damaged arm and shouted, We don't need food, give us arms so that we can go back and free our country. Indira Gandhi gave him a good stare then said, You must eat first.

I find it strange, whispered Mamun that no security men are near her. We can't imagine this in Pakistan.

You have rule of the army, answered Pratap. They are afraid to come near common people. In a democracy you are not scared of the people.

She is quite brave, said Mamun admiringly, yet it is risky. Pakistani agents might sneak in, they might shoot. If Pakistan succeeds in fomenting a communal riot in India at this moment then Bangladesh would be finished.

Pratap made no comment. Mamun wanted to tease him. If you are a democracy how come Jawarharlal Nehru's daughter succeeds him? Another dynasty on the throne of Delhi!

That is because all the men are spineless at least in the Congress. Morarji tried but found no supporter.

Who was the other lady with Indira?

Padmaja Naidu, Governor of West Bengal. Remember Sarojini Naidu? Her daughter.

Yes of course, the Nightingale of India. And the gentleman with her, chatting and nodding . . .

The grey haired man is Ajay Mukherjee, now the Chief Minister of West Bengal though he may not be so very long. The handsome smiling man is Siddhartha Ray, Central Minister for Education. You know who he is? Grandson of C.R. Das, the Deshbandhu.

That is interesting — Motilal's granddaughter and C.R. Das's grandson!

Do you recall the tussle between the No-Changers and the Pro-Changers within the Congress? Motilal and Chittaranjan had joined hands, now their grandchildren are in the helm of affairs.

What about the family of Saratbabu and Subhasbabu? None of them are in the limelight?

Indira Gandhi had retired to the Station-Master's room. It was a particularly hot May day, she was soaked all over. Soon she came out to speak. Slogans began, the reporters were ready with notebooks, everybody pricked their ears.

Pausing a little before the microphone Indira Gandhi began first in Bengali. Mothers, Brothers and Sisters, you are our guests, our friends. I am sorry I cannot carry on in Bangla so I will speak in Hindi but very slowly. Please excuse me.

She went on. We are a poor country but we will try our utmost to extend our hospitality. In the last twenty-five years 70 lakh refugees have entered our country from East Pakistan but in the last one and a half months since the 25th of March we have had 20 lakh. They are still coming every day. We will not refuse entry to a single of these tortured people but the world must be made to understand that this massive job of feeding and giving shelter to these displaced people is not the sole responsibility of India. This is an international problem. Why are the powerful nations of the world being a silent spectator? We wish the people of East Pakistan all success in their fight for self- esteem. We hope that in near future all would be able to go back home . . .

The name Bangladesh was not uttered even once, nor did the question of recognition come up. Though full of assurance her speech disappointed many.

From Petropol Indira Gandhi went to the Itkhola camp to give the same speech. She did not bother to answer when some from the crowd asked her directly about recognising Bangladesh.

From there she proceeded to Bongaon. The sleepy town had changed into a bustling place overnight. Over and above the stream of refugees were countless officers, members from various charitable organisations. Swarms of human heads everywhere. There were young men in olive uniform, rifles slung over shoulders, revolvers tucked into belts, shouting Joi Bangla. Suddenly the hawker population has increased, so have cars.

Harit and his group had a glimpse of Indira Gandhi near the Bongaon hospital. She came in an open jeep and left to cheer the sick and the injured. Harit had wanted to talk to her but the surging crowd did not let him come near.

From Haridaspur the Border Security Force were on the alert. The Pakistan army had camped on the other side, so there was no question of crossing the border. There was no way Harit could get into the refugee camps either without a valid identity card. But he met some from Jessore and Khulna and heard about the latest. All said that they could not understand why the army was killing innocent people and setting fire to the villages. They were picking up the Hindus but not sparing the Muslims either. Was it because Sheikh Mujib had won the election and wanted to be the Prime Minister? Was that why they wanted to finish off the Bengalis?

On the train Harit saw three Mukti Bahini soldiers. They sat by a window, smoking, legs stretched out. For all their muddy and dirty clothes, unshaven cheeks they looked like children from well-to-do families. Apparently they were not carrying arms . . .

It was late afternoon. A checker approached. Ticket? He demanded, ignoring other passengers. They stopped talking. The oldest among them stroked his own chin. We do not have any. He said coolly.

Is that so? Taunted the checker. What do you think this to be — your drawing room?

They laughed. The same boy said. It has been a long time since we have relaxed in a drawing room. We are freedom fighters, on our way to Mujibnagar. We need not buy tickets if we can’t afford, we were told at the border.

Freedom fighters! Any identity card to show?

Let me see. One of the boys fished out various items from his pocket one by one like a magician — a cigarette packet, an expensive lighter, some Bangladesi taka, a revolver, chewing gums, five bullets . . . Then in a tone of disappointment he exclaimed, Oh dear, no identity card.

The checker stared at the weapon. O.K., O.K., he said. Where are you from? Your names please? Don't you know, cut in the tallest among them, you are not supposed to ask the names of freedom fighters. Suppose we are Rahim, Karim and Shyam. Coming from Bangladesh.

The checker, his face glowing, moved closer. Do you know I come from Bagerhat in Khulna. What is the latest? Do you think you can push back the Pakistani army?

One of the boys said, yes, I know Bagerhat. Another added, Your Prime minister has not recognised free Bangladesh yet. We can drive back the intruders in ten days flat, but we must have a supply of arms.

Can you, really?

Yes, even without India's help. May be it will take longer — more lives will be lost.

Can I ask you something as a friend? Will you allow us to go and visit our home? You won't be hostile like the Pakistanis?

You are most welcome to visit. But you must leave, do not try to claim.

Oh no, we just want to visit. We had four Shiva temples on hour sides of our tank. Are they still there?

The train stopped at a station. Harit could not hear the rest of the conversation in the ensuing movement of people. Meanwhile the checker drew near their group, guessing them to be travelling without tickets.

A sadhu's garb does not carry respect in West Bengal. You there sadhubaba, let me see your ticket. Demanded the checker.

Sir, we are refugees, no money, sir.

What are you doing outside the camp? You are not supposed to leave your camp. Who has asked you to go to Calcutta?

He gave Harit no chance to explain, pushed them out physically. Standing on the platform, watching the train leave Harit exclaimed. Look at that. We are old refugees so do not deserve special treatment.

What do we do now, baro kaka? Jogananda was confused.

Don't you worry, assured Nepu. We will get into the next train. All trains don't have checkers.

The last lap of the journey passed off without hitch. The next train came late in the afternoon. Harit lost no time in establishing his sadhu identity. He began a song on the goddess Kali lustily. People gathered round him. Naturally checkers gave him a wide berth.

They got down at Dumdum. Sending his companions to the Kasipur colony, Harit started for the ashram at Patipukur. He pondered over his experience at the border and came to the conclusion that the chances of going back to Bangladesh was slim. The future seemed quite uncertain. What he could try to do was to create a contact between all the refugee colonies of West Bengal, try to unite them in the name of Kalachand.

Evening had set in when he reached the Nari Kalyan Ashram at Patipukur. It was the time for the evening arati. Four cars were parked outside the compound. He entered, saw the saffron clad Chandra, hair loose over her back, eyes dazed, sitting in front of the image of the deity. Harit marched up, ignoring the song and the ringing of bells. Namasker, Didimoni, he called, raising his voice.

Chandra opened her eyes, registered no surprise. Harit? Have a seat, she said softly.

The incense smoke stung his eyes Harit craned his neck to spot Sucharit among the crowd, but he was nowhere to be seen. Arati was over, prasad was distributed. This quiet and peaceful atmosphere was such a contrast to what Harit had just witnessed at the border — the millions of helpless faces, hunger, uncertainty, sickness. The people here are not even aware of what was happening sixty miles from here.

Chandra left. Should he follow her, wondered Harit. But as he watched men and women coming out and going in in silent steps it seemed to him that nobody was allowed in without permission. He decided to wait. Presently a widowed woman came to him. Chandra-ma wants to see you, she said.

Harit walked through an office, crossed a courtyard to climb upstairs to the room where Chandra sat on a seat of tiger skin. The room was whitewashed with no furniture. Fruits and sweets were placed on a marble plate and a glass of water. Have a seat Harit, said Chandra sweetly.

Kneeling down, Harit folded his hands, Namaskar. How are you? I am here to enquire about my son.

Yes, later. First you must have these.

Without hesitation Harit drank the water and asked for more. He then attacked the sweets.

Who did you get your initiation from, Harit? Asked Chandra.

Nobody. It is just the dress. But the last time I saw you . . . you were different. Have you come from the Ramakrishna Belur Math . . .

No, I too have my dress coloured in saffron.

Why did you forsake the world?

Did I, really?

Is my son dead?

You can accuse me Harit, but I tried my best to give him a good education. He did not stay. You can't tame a wild kite, can you?

How did he die? Who told you he is dead? He walked out. He is not the type to give up easily. But I had no idea he would come to this end.

So he has taken to stealing, is it?

Everybody calls him a goonda. Uses the knife freely. Works for political parties for money. Has a gang of his own.

Meanwhile Harit had licked the plate clean. Delicious! He had obviously enjoyed his meal. So he is not dead. Well I thought . . . anyway where can I meet him?

Chandra looked down. No idea. About six months age he appeared, it was early morning, I was picking flowers in the garden. She paused, gave Harit a look then went on. I do not know what he has against me. But I was genuinely happy to see him. I said, where have you been, Sucharit? He got hold of my hand and pulled.

Did he recognise you? Did he know that you have become a sadhu?

I haven't changed. No reason why he should not recognise me. He was obviously drunk, eyes were blood red, reeking of drink, so early in the morning. Luckily the durwan saw him. But I felt miserable. He never came again.

Before Harit could speak, in came Asamanjo. He looked grave. Chandra, D C North, Mr. Choudhury wants to see you. It is urgent. He said, ignoring Harit.

The police, inside the ashram? Chandra frowned. No, I can't see them.

Would you step outside, in that case?

What do you mean?

They have a warrant for you, he showed me.

Warrant? What are you saying Asamanjo. He is threatening you.

But I have seen it, Chandra.

Well, bring him in.

Minutes later two police officers walked in. They removed their shoes and kneeled on the floor, folded their hands respectfully. One of them gave Harit a quick look. The other spoke. I am Binayak Choudhury, D C North, this is Amaresh Dasgupta of the S B department. Sorry to disturb you, but this a serious matter.

So the police would never leave him alone, thought Harit, his heart thumping wildly, the beards luckily hid the face gone pale. Let me take your leave now, mother. His voice trembled.

Sit down, said Dasgupta. We have to talk to you too.

But I just came to see her, explained Harit.

We know. You are Harit Mondol, aren't you? Sucharit is your son. But he has not been here in the last six months, said Chandra.

Madam, we have not come here for Sucharit. We would not dream of disturbing you for a trifling matter. Actually you were running the ashram quite well. Why did you get involved with the Naxals? We do not like disturbing a religious place, believe me. But I am sorry to say that we are forced to carry out a search of your ashram.

Who gave you the right? Flared Chandra. Have you brought court order?

Chaudhury stood up. It is no use resisting. That will make our task unpleasant. We did not come here on a hunch, you see. Chandra Devi you have made a serious mistake. Please call our people in, Asamanjo babu.

22

ALAM knocked thrice at the door of Tutul’s apartment in Golders Green. It was eight thirty in the morning, a glorious sunny day, the first such in the year, the kind of weather which turns one out of doors.

There was no answer. Alam knocked again, whistling a tune. He never pressed the bell. How could she go out so early? Her hospital duty did not begin before twelve noon. She may have gone shopping or to visit her Tridib mama who was in town.

Alam opened the door with a copy of the key he kept with him. He was surprised to find her fast asleep, the heating off, a sea blue blanket over her, all the curtains drawn, the room was in semi darkness.

As Alam drew back one curtain the sunlight lit up her face. Even that did not wake her up. Evidently she had taken a sleeping pill, she was in the habit of taking. He gazed at the sleeping princess, her curls spread on the pillow, her chest heaving with the breath. Like the fairy tale princess she would not wake up till the gold and silver sticks at her head and feet were exchanged places.

This young woman is my very own, thought Alam. He has no secrets from her and she too could give her life for him. She was fiercely loyal. By now everybody knew about their affair and left her alone. Yet Tutul fought shy of physical intimacy. There was another unknown barrier separating them, Alam could feel it even when she was in his arms.

Alam's friends made fun of his devotion. How could a slip of a girl tame a dare devil like Alam, they wondered. He knelt down by her bed, caressed her closed eye lids, put his lips on hers. At last Tutul woke up. Her first look was one of terror then as recognition dawned she demurely struggled to sit up but Alam resisted. No, no, no, it is bad for health. Take your time. Obediently Tutul lay her head on the pillow.

You took sleeping pills again. How many?

Tutul did not tell him that she had a terrible headache, the feverish feeling still persisted. She lifted two fingers then asked, How long have you been here?

Since eternity. Tultuli my dear, in this golden rays of the sun you look like a genuine princess. Slave is at your service.

Tutul smiled faintly. I could do with a cup of tea. Please would you put the kettle on?

Of course. I will serve you bed tea, even your breakfast in bed — toast with marmalade, eggs and bacon. I had a bad dream.

Civilised people do not discuss their dreams, particularly bad ones.

Not even to you?

I can guess. You have dreamt that I am dead, right? Which means that I will have a long life.

Alam, I want to go home.

Home? Which home, mine? Come along, at this instant. No use paying the rent for two apartments.

I mean home, to my country.

You mean India? Selfish! Didn't you promise to take me along?

Of course you are coming with me.

Are you mad? How can I go now with the fund raising programme in full swing? This Saturday there is a big rally in Piccadilly. Besides I do not have any leave left.

The kettle whistled. Alam made the tea with care, came to her carrying two cups. Here is your tea, your highness. If my forefathers had seen this they would be turning in their graves. How is it?

Tutul stared at Alam without sipping the tea. All on a sudden she sat up, flung herself on him and wailed, Alam Alam, what if I were to die? Why, why should I be deprived of everything? What have I done?

This must be the effect of last night's nightmare, thought Alam. Normally Tutul was so reserved that she blushed whenever he took her in his arms. Something must be the matter.

Don't be childish, he patted her head. Why should you die? Look at me, Tultuli, tell me the truth.

She refused to look up. I am selfish, wicked. When I first came here I used to be so homesick, but look at me now. It has been four years, I do not even think of going back, I am too busy with myself.

All right, all right, go for a visit. Not just me, you have to come too.

I can't leave London right now; I have a lot of responsibility. You better go, you are the one who is feeling homesick.

Tutul wiped her eyes, settled her sari, she was not yet used to sleeping suits and said, Well you are supposed to hand over the money you are collecting for the Mukti Bahini in person. Can't you do the job? I heard this from Hassan at Sunday's meeting.

Hassan himself is keen to go, besides we are yet to reach the target of five thousand pounds. I can't stop my surgery, that is another reason. You go alone this time, be a good girl. I will get a ticket for you from the travel agency Shireen works in. You can pay later.

You know very well I can't leave you here. This means I can't go home. If I die in the meantime . . .

She was about to break down. Alam said lightly, Blackmail, this is blackmail. I know your motive, naughty girl.

What motive?

You will take me to Calcutta. Consider the following scenario. One fine morning Dr. Miss Bahnisikha Sarkar returns from England with a lot of presents for her mother, mama, mami, nephews and nieces — gifts like tape recorder, camera, perfume, transistor and what not. Great rejoicing at home. Somebody asks, well, who is that guilty looking chap with you? As he is introduced Dr. Miss Bahnisikha’s mother screams, what? Is this that son of a Mussalman whom you want to marry? I will hang myself, I will swallow poison. She faints. Then Dr. Miss Bahnisikha with tears in her eyes says, Dear brother Alam, You saw everything. How can I hurt my mother, my only mother. If she commits suicide I won't be allowed in hell. So farewell my friend, a la Tagore.

Really! You should have written scripts for Bombay films.

Alas, a man of my talents is having his talents wasted.

But you do not know the character of Bahnisikha Sarkar. Remember she had a bad dream before leaving London?

Oh, not that again. On such a glorious day as this! OK, OK, tell me.

I dreamt that I was getting married to an ugly, irresponsible, bohemian Muslim chap.

Did you see his face?

Of course I did. A worthless doctor, involved in a lot of other things. Dreams of early morning always come true which means I will be married to that man before leaving for Calcutta.

For the last two and a half years Alam had been pestering Tutul to marry him but with no result. Now this sudden move from her had him bowled over completely. He hesitated. Was she acting on impulse? He knew of the objection her mother had to this marriage. Now if she could be convinced . . . He said softly. You are desperate I can understand. Homesickness is a strong pull. All right then, You had promised you won't go to Calcutta without me. I release you from that promise. This time you go alone, I won't mind.

Tutul got down from the bed and walked a few steps to the toilet. But she paused. Her head reeled, legs felt weak, a strange pain throbbed between her eye brows. From last night she had a premonition that she did not have much long to live.

She flung herself again on Alam and whispered. Hold me tight. Do not leave me ever.

After forty-five minutes they came out of the building. The sky was still clear, the banks of the Thames were teeming with tourists, old people and young couples. They crossed Waterloo bridge, parked the car and walked along the right embankment, Tutul was feeling much better now. They sat on a bench and watched the boats go by. Alam bought some hot dogs and coffee. They will not have regular meals but walk about aimlessly, perhaps go for a long drive and sit in a village pub.

Is that Shireen? Alam said looking at a sari clad woman walking with a man. Looks like Shireen and Mursheed. He swallowed his food and shouted but the couple did not turn back. They went down the steps briskly and were out of earshot.

They did not hear me, said Alam.

No, they did. In fact Shireen saw me. They are trying to avoid us.

But why for god's sake. She used to be such a good friend.

Yes, used to be. Not anymore. Last week she saw me on the tube and hurriedly got down at the next station. Alam, you must be prepared for the consequences of marrying me. It would displease your friends and relations.

It is not that, said Alam, gravely. More complicated. Shireen married him in February, she could have waited for one more month. It has made a lot of difference.

Tutul did not follow. What difference could possibly happen in a month?

You see, in February we were all Pakistanis, Mursheed and us. But a point of no return has been reached. Would the two wings of Pakistan stay together? Once the war has begun it is inevitable that free Bangladesh would emerge. Do you know that in London the east and west Pakistanis are not on talking terms? In a pub of south London students from Dhaka had a fight with students of Karachi. Murshed is west Pakistani, naturally Shireen is in a spot. She can't face the Bengalis.

But Murshed is a very good friend of us. You will cut him out just because he is a west Pakistani?

Things will normalise later, I suppose. Now tensions are running high, there is distrust. It is indeed difficult to keep up normal relations.

Why should we drag the fight to London for a war being fought in East Pakistan?

Whatever you may say, I would like to invite Murshed to our wedding. You saw for yourself how they avoided us just now.

That evening both of them landed at the Belsize Park residence of Shireen and Murshed without notice. Saewar Mursheed was a brilliant student of history, a favourite of Professor Basham. Though born in Lahore he had spent seven years in Dhaka where his father, a member of the Pakistan Civil Service was posted. It was funny to hear a tall and hefty Pathan like person speak Bengali.

Seeing them Shireen froze but Murshed welcomed them warmly. It was a warm day, the windows were open, white net curtains waved in the breeze, a rare sight in this country.

We have come to invite you. We are getting married coming Saturday. Both of you must come to a party at Tutul's Golders Green apartment.

Shireen gave Tutul an oblique glance. Next Saturday? Exclaimed Murshed. Looks like a hurried decision.

Alam, tapping Tutul gently on the head said, This girl has gone crazy. Marry me, marry me, keeps on saying. I find no way out.

Murshed broke into loud laughter. Good cause for celebration. I have Italian red wine. Let us open the bottle.

No objection, said Alam. Turning to Shireen he snapped, Why are you acting so dumb, baby? Aren't you happy for us?

Oh yea, of course, Shireen smiled with effort. But wouldn't others mind if we attend your party?

What others. Come on. But I am hungry, not just wine, give me some food too.

Shireen persisted. Let me be frank with you, Alam bhai. We are not going to your party if that Hassan Hafiz fellow is there. He goes about saying that I have married an enemy of the Bengalis.

Before Alam could answer, Murshed slapped his hand. Don't you worry, I am going to your party. I am a great admirer of Dr. Bahnisikha Sarkar. He poured the wine in two glasses and asked Tutul, A little for you? Today you must.

All right, said Tutul. But what about Shireen?

Shireen? Like a true Muslim woman she considers alcohol as haram. It is no use telling her that wine is not alcohol. And you know something? She has started speaking to me in Urdu. She wants to become a true Pakistani.

Alam sipped his drink. Let me ask you something. Do you believe that the Pakistan army is killing innocent civilians, torching down villages?

The British newspapers have been reporting some of these incidents I have to believe.

Even Time and Newsweek have brought out terrible reports. America has always been an ally of the military regime of Pakistan so naturally their reports carry more weight. Tell me something, Murshed, how do the people in West Pakistan react to the killing of their own people? You do read Karachi newspapers.

They don't publish these reports.

Is there no protest in West Pakistan, no protest at all? What does the army think, that they will reduce the population of East Pakistan this way. How many can they kill, one crore, two crores? Has anyone ever heard of such a satanic plan? And there is not a single voice in West Pakistan against such horror, the same Pakistan which had produced Faiz Ahmed Faiz and Manto? I find it hard to believe.

I too do not think that the common people are supporting the massacre policy of the army. But the press is gagged, they would not publish the protests. You know what Yahya and his henchmen have succeeded in doing? They have created a feeling that Sheikh Mujib is an Indian spy, the Hindu conspirators have demanded cessation, and all the army is doing is to hold them back. By playing up anti-India and anti-Hindu sentiments they have got support of the common people.

But it is true that the Hindus are instigating, isn't it? Shireen spoke with vehemence. Alam, taken aback looked at her.

Didn't I tell you, laughed Murshed, that your cousin is turning into a west Pakistani very fast? She does not know that my mother is a Hindu, a Brahmin from Uttar Pradesh. When I take Shireen to my home in Lahore, she will be in for a shock. My mother is fairly educated. Her subject too is history. I have specialised in the ancient Aryan period. Very often I talk to my mother in Sanskrit.

I was telling Alam that it is wrong to judge a person by his country or caste, Tutul said softly.

Murshed went on. Each area develops its own special character because of historic reasons. For instance, Bengalis are politically more conscious than the West Pakistanis because political and social movements have started in Bengal from the mid-nineteenth century. The Bengalis have tasted democracy already, the people of west Pakistan do not understand the meaning of the word. West Pakistan has still remained largely feudal, there is hardly any reaction to army rule, unlike in the east. The West is closer to the Arab countries, the East is far away. It is only natural that East Pakistan will have a different culture with close affinity to Hindu culture. Further east, in Indonesia their culture is predominantly influenced by Hindu mythology. On the other hand the Hindus in East Bengal or Uttar Pradesh have absorbed a lot of Muslim culture. How can you deny or suppress such facts. The top army bosses of West Pakistan as also most of their political leaders are stupid, to say the least. They think Bengali is the language of Hindus. How ignorant can you get. Bengali has so many Arabic and Persian words that you can hardly utter three sentences without using Persian or Arabic words. Urdu has a lot of Sanskrit words too. A bunch of idiots, that is what they are . . .

Yet there are a lot of senseless killings, sighed Alam.

With two witnesses, Alam and Tutul got married without much fanfare. Only ten people were invited to the party in the evening. The first guest was Tridib. He has to come down to London quite often. This time he stayed on. He has put on weight his hair has thinned. He brought a lot of gifts, including a bottle of Champagne and Black Label scotch whisky. The Champagne would have to wait till the others arrive, but Tridib was impatient. He poured some whisky for himself. Hasan's wife Bulbul has been there since afternoon, helping in the cooking. Alam attended the guests. The phone rang. It was for Tutul, from America. At first Tutul could not believe her own ears. She kept asking, Who is speaking? Who?

Phuldi, this is me, Bablu, said the voice from the other end, I am in Boston now. Write down my address and phone number. Have you heard from Calcutta? How are they?

Was it really Bablu? Tutul was incredulous. He has never called in the last one year neither does he write. Bablu calling on his own, and this day of all days!

Nobody at home knew. The only link was Tridib mama. That was why she had invited him. And now this unexpected call from her cousin — Tutul was overwhelmed with emotion. She was terribly happy yet felt shy to announce the news. Interrupting Bablu's chatter Tutul blurted out, You know Bablu I am so happy you called today, I got married a little while ago.

It took Bablu a few seconds to digest the news. He asked, What did you say? Got married? To whom?

You had met Dr. Alam here, friend of mine. I have married him. Tridib mama is here too.

Really? So your vow is over.

Vow? What vow?

Congratulations, Phuldi, you are a brave girl.

He broke off, not wanting to pay for extra time. This annoyed Tutul, she wanted to hear Bablu's voice a little longer. He could have made a collect call.

She was debating whether she would call him when Shahjehan Choudhury in a beautiful summer suit made his entrance, carrying a bunch of roses and a velvet box. What entitled him to be among the guests was that he was from Calcutta and a friend of Tridib mama.

He greeted others but as he noticed Tridib he stared at him in disbelief. Tridib finished his scotch in one gulp and turned away, incredulous.

Don't you know each other? Asked the unsuspecting Alam.

Trying his best to be polite, Tridib said, Of course! Hello, Shahjehan.

Shahjehan replied with wooden civility, Hello, Tridib — Ignoring the crowd they glowered at each other, as though poised for a fight. Tutul watched them in dismay, she felt something had gone seriously wrong somewhere. The other were too engrossed in themselves to notice it. We should not have called them both, realised Tutul. Between the two men stood the invisible presence of a woman — Sulekha. Tutul's heart grew heavy even on this very special day of her life.

23

MAMUN stood behind about two hundred people in a long queue at Christopher Lane that had formed since early morning. He has brought Monju, Hena and Sukhu with him. Lorry loads of boys and girls from different clubs were arriving. A procession came, blowing bugles and beating kettledrums. The air was festive.

Both Monju and Hena had bathed early; their eyelashes were still wet and soft. Sukhu was most excited as he, Nazrul Islam has come to his namesake. Sukhu looked so bright in his new kurta pyjama and zari embroidered cap that strangers stopped to pat his cheeks.

The line inched forward. Monju looked at the sky and murmured. It might rain again. It had rained last night bringing down the heat.

Mamun looked about hoping to spot familiar faces. Lines of Nazrul's poems went across his mind. How much longer is it going to take? He thought everything would be over by ten.

Sukhu fidgeted about, he would not keep still. He attracted the attention of a photographer who took a few shots of the child with Mamun trying to keep him away from a gargoyle shaped water tap by the road.

Are you from Joi Bangla? The photographer was curious.

Ji, nodded Mamun.

How long will you stand here with a child. Please come with me.

But I have others, my daughter and niece.

Bring them along. The photographer was smart. He whispered to a few people and Mamun with his party were led into the building where Hosain Ali of the Bangladesh Mission was present with a host of other dignitaries, including the Mayor of Calcutta.

Poet Nazrul Islam sat in the middle of a carpet, garlands and flowers scattered about him. He was not responding to the appeals of the photographers to look up, to face the camera. He tried to tear up the garland presented by the Bangladesh Mission, muttered to himself when a tribute was read by the Mayor, spat out the sweet his daughter-in-law tried to feed him.

Was this the same poet Mamun had admired? The Nazrul Islam who had spoken to him once — So, you are Motaher's son, are you my child — had a glow in his eyes, curly locks all over his head. Mamun turned to look at his companions. Hena looked scared, Monju was tearful. Sukhu could not make out the person they were here to see. He kept asking his mother, Who is it amma, who is it?

They came out, soaked to the skin with perspiration. Not that Mamun did know about the condition of the poet but seeing for him was a shock. He felt so depressed that he could not speak for sometime. Sukhu meanwhile was pestering him for taking them to the zoo as originally promised. Poor child, he never had any chance of going out. As they waited at the Moulali crossing a private car pulled up. A man leaned out of the window. Is that you Huq saheb? When did you come?

Mamun was dumbfounded. Hossain saheb the hotelwala and owner of Deenkaal. It was most unexpected. It would have been more appropriate for him to seek refuge in Karachi or Rawalpindi.

Jubilant, Hossein saheb greeted Mamun, Achhalamo Alaikum, Achhalamo Alaikum! Mamun returned the greeting dryly.

Which way are you going? Get in, get in, Invited Hossain Saheb.

Mamun who had no reason to be happy at the meeting refused the offer. No, thanks. We will take the bus. It was this man who had called him India's agent, dismissed him without notice.

Oh come on, get in. I will drop you where you want. Meeting your own people in a foreign country is really delightful.

But Sukhu, keen to have a ride in a car had already opened the door. Mamun had no way but to follow. It looked like a rented car.

Which way?

To the Victoria Memorial.

Wonderful. Let me go there with you.

He offered Mamun a cigarette from a gold case. Have one. Have you rented a place or do you have a relative here?

Hossain saheb wore a very fine expensive kurta. He had seven or eight diamond and pearl studded rings in his fingers. The lighter too was made of gold.

Had been to Ajmeer Sharif, you know, He said. Have you been there? What a wonderful country India is. Excellent railway service, you can travel anywhere you want. Was in Rajasthan for ten days, the hotels are reasonable.

Well, well, well, wondered Mamun. This Husain Saheb's favourite pastime was India bashing. Wonders never cease!

Where is Altaaf? He is not with you? Mamun wanted to know.

No, he didn't come. Have no idea where he is. Tell me Huq Saheb, can't we bring out a paper from Calcutta? It will publish all news of independent Bangladesh. I have also talked to some hotel owners, if we could start a hotel . . . so many are crossing the border.

But there is a paper, said Mamun.

Oh that one, Joi Bangla of Balu Hakkak Lane. Went to their joint. That paper is useless. We need a spirited editor like you. Mamun burst out laughing. How could some people contradict themselves without batting an eyelid.

I am not joking. Don't worry about the capital, I will take care of that, I have sources. We must sit down and talk. Why don't you come tomorrow, have lunch with me at the Grand hotel?

I have no desire to be an editor again.

It is not a question of desire. It is for the sake of the country. You will get paid in the same scale as any editor in India.

Thanks for the offer. Please look for another editor. Right now I am working for the independent government of Bangladesh, a different kind of work.

The car pulled up at the entrance of Victoria Memorial. Mamun was apprehensive about keeping this man company but Hussain saheb had changed his mind. He gave his card to Mamun, asked him to see him in a couple of day's time and left for Bangladesh Mission where he said he had an appointment.

At the feet of the statue of Queen Victoria Munni was waiting for them. She quickly ran down the steps, touched Mamun's feet and said, Here I am, Mamun kaka.

Sorry for keeping you waiting, said Mamun. The poet's house was teeming with people. How is everybody at home? Your mother is still running a fever?

She is fine now. You are coming for lunch at our place. Baba has asked you.

Why did you go into all the trouble. You have just moved, not settled down yet.

We have settled more or less. Lunch is nothing much.

Why don't you girls look around. I will sit here.

He watched the three young women move on against the background of the marble building then sat down on a bench. His already depressed state of mind on seeing the poet was further aggravated by his meeting with hotelwala Hossain. The die-hard supporter of Pakistan suddenly so enthusiastic about breaking it up seemed fishy. What actually did he have in mind?

This was a matter he had often discussed with his friends. The prevailing impression in India that everybody in East Pakistan is against the rule of Pakistan was not quite true. An all-pervading national spirit was nothing but an illusion. Many still took Hindu India to be an enemy of Islam. To break up Pakistan with India's help would mean walking into a trap laid by India. There are people who are thinking this movement would die out, Pakistan would remain intact.

Are all the people coming from across the border supporting the new nation? Mamun had met some that used to be fundamentalists; they considered Bengali nationalism as anti-Islam. Why are China followers coming over, they never opposed the army rule? From where are people like Hossain saheb getting funds? Is it an attempt to sabotage the movement, to finance the spies who are here to supply information about the secret activities of the government of independent Bangladesh stationed at Calcutta? Dhaka radio obviously has access to such secrets. A war brings with it mistrust, betrayal, espionage and web of intrigues.

Flowers were in bloom, bright in the sunlight. Two ponds with neatly cemented banks brimmed with clear water. In a bush nearby some bulbuls chirped, mynas settled on the trees. A swarm of parrots flew over the black fairy on the dome. In such a delightful surrounding Mamun found himself thinking only of war, intrigue and betrayal! To think that he used to write poetry at one time. What has happened to his poetic feelings? Life seems so peaceful, so relaxed here. Lovers strolled or reclined on the grass. Away in the main street cars sped past. A breeze was swaying the tops of the gulmohar and rain-trees.

Mamun fixed his gaze on a bunch of red rangan flowers but they only brought back images of blood, clots of red bodies of young students lying in front of the university, the blood stained streets he had seen on the twenty-sixth of March.

From the Victoria they walked to the zoo. But the heat was proving to be uncomfortable, Mamun was a little worried for the children, particularly Hena who threw up once. Even the animals seemed to be listless in the hot weather.

They had to change buses twice to come to Pratap's house in Dhakuria. It was about five minutes walk from the main road, facing west - three small rooms and a balcony. The sight of his friend in this place brought back the image of a caged tiger Mamun had just seen. Pratap came down, Why are you late? Munni, did you lose the way?

No. no protested Mamun. It is our fault we were late. Munni-ma has shown us around.

The dark, narrow staircase was quite a contrast to the huge house at Malkhanagar. Pratap had a large heart to match. But now he is crippled by resource crunch. Yet he always played the perfect host, buying tickets for Mamun on public transport, giving gifts of clothes to Monju, Hena and Sukhu.

You must be hungry, said Pratap. Have a wash and sit down to eat.

Let the youngsters eat first, you and I will eat later, said Mamun.

Meanwhile curious neighbours dropped in to have a look at visitors from Joi Bangla. The ladies pelted Monju and Hena with questions. The fact that they spoke perfect Bengali caused surprise. They wore the sari in the same style as in West Bengal and put a dot on the forehead — the neighbours found it amazing. They thought all Dhaka women wore burqua outside home.

Mamun was highly amused to overhear some of their conversation. At one point Monju had to sing a few lines of a song. A little later he asked Pratap, I have not met your didi yet. Where is she?

Actually Supriti had been to Kanu's house to look after the household, as Kanu's wife was sick. But she was back now. Pratap hesitated. May be you can go to her after lunch.

I want to meet her first, Mamun was insistent. This made his friend distinctly uncomfortable. Supriti had declared that guest or no guest she was not to be disturbed. The scene at Mamun's home in Dayudkandi came back to Pratap. Now he could realise what Mamun had felt at his friend's humiliation. Did he ever think that history would be repeating itself, and at his home? Beads of perspiration stood on his forehead, Pratap could not look at his friend in the eye. Supriti who looked upon Mamun as her own younger brother is a different person now. Tutul has made her unreasonable.

Listen Mamun, Pratap tried to explain. Didi is getting on. With age she has become finicky. Why, even we can't touch her after she has had her bath.

Oh come on, laughed Mamun, Do you mean to say she won't let me touch her because I am a Muslim? Don't I know her? I have been to their Baranagar home, had meals there.

As he was about to step out, Pratap restrained him. There is more to it, Mamun. Didi has been through a lot. The untimely death of Jamaibabu, cheated out of her dues, after all she was the daughter-in-law of a rich family . . . the misery she had to face . . .

You too were the son of a rich father.

That is pre-history. Didi's only daughter, very nice girl, a doctor was sent abroad, didi sold her ornaments to send her hoping that after she came back things would look up. But there is a problem.

She has not come back, is that it?

What happened actually was Tutul got friendly with a Muslim chap there, wants to marry him. Didi has exploded.

Why is your niece so obstinate? If her widowed mother does not want it . . . she could easily have married in her community. Mamun seemed annoyed with Tutul.

Well, it is not so easy to judge. She is educated, gone to England, if she likes a particular person . . .

Did you agree to this match?

I was noncommittal.

I would have said no. Your didi has suffered enough already; the daughter should have spared her further pain. Senior people should be given due respect, and their ideas.

They are not married yet. That has been worse. She does not marry, nor would she come back. Didi even refused the money sent by her.

Correct thing to do. But is she having it out on all Muslims, me included? I refuse to believe this.

Leave her alone, please. You may lose your temper before lunch. The girls might overhear you know —

Didi can drive me away, I won't mind. Pratap opened the closed door and announced the presence of Mamun. As Mamun was about to enter Supriti, clad in a white borderless sari, looking like a thin bird spoke sharply, don't. Stay right there.

But I want to touch your feet, didi.

There is no need for that.

You remember didi, how fond Asitda used to be of me. You used to feed me, cooked by your own hands.

May you live happily, said Supriti indifferently.

No way, didi. I have left my wife and a daughter, I keep worrying about them. We have no news of the husband of this niece of mine. This is hardly the time to be happy. But didi, you must meet my daughter. Would you please call them, Pratap?

Wait, wait, snapped Supriti, You don't have to call them. My days are numbered, what does it matter to anyone if I live or die. You all should keep well and happy.

Pratap, considerably relieved that Supriti did not explode led his friend away. The girls were eating in Munni's room. Pratap asked Mamata to serve them on the balcony. Two carpet seats were laid, with special brass utensils. Mamun looked at the items served in separate bowls and exclaimed, Are you mad or something? Three kinds of fish, chicken, two kinds of dal, fries and vegetable dishes. Mamun saw that Pratap had gone all out to give his friend a good treat, going to the length of buying lobsters, so exorbitantly priced.

But Mamun would not start eating. Bouthan, he told Mamata, I will come here often enough to be served by you but today I want didi to serve.

Pratap looked at his friend with helpless appeal. Why was Mamun so intent on making everything so difficult?

Undaunted, Mamun raised his voice. Please tell didi that her younger brother would not eat if she is not serving.

He turned to Pratap. I mean it. He said firmly.

Giving up, Pratap asked his wife, Mamo, would you please tell didi? Munni ran in to come out yelling, Pisima has fainted again.

Both Mamun and Pratap stood up. Supriti lay stretched on the bed, hands closed in tight fist, banging her legs, a moaning sound coming out of her mouth.

Unperturbed, Pratap said, Munni will you go get the smelling salt?

24

ON one side of the Charles River stood Boston, Cambridge on the other. Under any circumstance they cannot be compared to Calcutta and Howrah. This twin city is a delight to the eye, Cambridge with its little cottages and quiet streets looked more like London than any other city. Youthful and colourful students thronged the streets. It was a city of the youth.

Winter was finally over, spring has set in, flowers were in bloom everywhere. On some afternoons Sharmila took Atin around the city. They went to the science museum at the far end of the city, near the embankment on the Charles river. People spoke softly inside the museum, there was no pushing or jostling, one could easily spend three to four hours here.

They spent the entire afternoon there, then crossed the river and loitered aimlessly. Atin was not too keen to visit the sights but Sharmila would not remain indoors on such a beautiful day. She also loved to walk, that, according to her was the best way to know a city.

Atin would have preferred a bus or a train but Sharmila has got it into her head that she would stand in the middle of the Buffalow Bridge and watch the river, as though she had an appointment with a river. She had sudden ideas to visit a particular street or church or park, the way other people make plans to go to a film or theatre or concert. A couple of days ago she rang up to say that she wanted to have tea in a small tea shop at Springfield Street in Somerville. Not that the tea shop was in any way famous. Sharmila just wanted to have a look at the pigeons frisking about in the pavement in front of the shop; she had visualised the scene the first thing in the morning. That was reason enough for her. In spite of mild protests Atin actually enjoyed her crazy capers.

But today he had to be on his legs for a long time after which he was not keen to walk to a bridge, to any bridge in fact. He did not understand what was so special about Longfellow Bridge. For Atin a bridge was a bridge, each no different from the other to which Sharmila protested vehemently. Think of Paris, she said. From each bridge you get a different view of the city. Since Atin has not been to Paris, he did not argue.

The breeze on Longfellow Bridge played havoc with Sharmila's sari, blowing the end over her head like a flag. Atin laughed at her discomfiture. Passers by gave her amused looks.

I wish I had not put on a silk sari, said Sharmila.

Let me hold you to the ground, said Atin, putting his hand on her shoulder.

The late afternoon sky had a red glow, a colour reflected in the surface of the river. However no homing birds could be seen. Instead two helicopters whirred overhead noisily. Many people walked over the bridge. Atin held Sharmila close, their cheeks touched but nobody gave them a second look.

Think of Howrah Bridge and Bali Bridge, said Sharmila. Howrah Bridge is not for walking but it is so wonderful to walk across Bali Bridge.

I have never had that experience though I have gone to Dakshineswar with my mother but don't remember having crossed the bridge. My mother's family live in Dakshineswar, I have been there hundreds of times. You have lived in New York but never visited Brooklyn Bridge or Washington Bridge. So unlike. A look at Manhattan from the Brooklyn side is unforgettable, looks like a city made of gold.

Golden Lanka?

Have you ever swum in a river?

I can't swim.

Goodness, a big boy like you! You must learn swimming, this summer, join a public swimming pool.

For a few fleeting seconds Atin was gripped by that feeling. He was drowning, drowning, water everywhere, hard as iron, trying to take his breath out of him. Suddenly he saw the face of Ids brother, dada, he was going to save him, he put his hands round dada, pressed him with all his might . . .

No, he must wipe out that image. In a desperate attempt he kissed Sharmila. She struggled to free herself. Though people kissed freely in the streets, Sharmila was over bashful, it does not become a girl wearing a sari, she felt.

But Atin would not let her go. He held her head in a tight grip and kissed long and hard. Sharmila was out of breath. She kept hitting him on the chest. Let me go, you are bad, indecent, wicked.

Highly amused, Atin burst out laughing. The image was gone.

Sharmila looked around to find out if they were being watched. She opened her handbag to bring out her lipstick. Atin put his hands around her waist. That is not done, madam. Do not put in lipstick just after a kiss. Go to the toilet a little later. Strange you do not know this etiquette.

How do you know? Sharmila frowned. From a girl friend?

From the TV. The afternoon soaps are all lessons in kissing. Oh the ways they do it.

So you watch the stupid serials in the afternoon, do you?

I used to when I had no job. Tell me Mili, has anyone kissed you before?

Stop it. I have never had a boy friend you know that. I was so shy, only I don't know how I got involved with you.

May be a cousin or a brother-in-law or somebody? I won't mind.

How absurd can you get. Cousins, brother-in-law . . . no sir . . .

Tell me about your childhood. Did you go to school in Jamshedpur?

No, in Patna, father was posted there. You and I must talk about our childhood days.

My childhood was quite uneventful. Mili, it is a little chilly. Let us get back home. I don't feel any chill at all. Let the lights come on, the two towns would look so wonderful.

A newspaper stuck in the railing rustled. Atin tried to shove it in the water but Sharmila held him back.

Don't pollute the river. Keep it till you find a trash can.

Atin spread the paper in front of him — a cheap paper, full of sensational news — murder, rape, robbery, divorce of film stars. The picture of a nine year old girl covered a quarter of the page with a sensational headline.

Sharmila looked at it and closed her eyes, all blood drained from her face. She put her head on the railing. Atin glanced at the pages casually without realising the tumult it was causing in Sharmila. The world spun around her, threatening to shake her off, which had no power to stop. Perhaps Atin too would want to push her off.

She pushed away Atin's hand. What is the matter? Asked Atin.

I am feeling sick. I think I am going to die.

What's wrong?

My head is reeling, feeling weak all over. Bablu, I can't stand, let us go home.

Let's.

I can't walk. My head is spinning.

Well we can't get a taxi or bus on the bridge. Let me try, lean on me. He almost carried her a few steps, as one would support a drunken person. Sharmila stood straight. I think I can manage, she said. But obviously she felt too weak to walk. Luckily they got a taxi after crossing the bridge. Sharmila leaned on the seat, keeping her eyes closed.

Is it very bad? Asked Atin.

Yes, I can't bear it. Take me home, Bablu.

Should I take you to a doctor first?

No, no. I will be all right once I get home.

She pushed his hand away as he tried to pat her head. Rest of the way she kept her mouth shut. They reached the house where Sharmila shared one room with her cousin Sumi who was a kind of stern guardian. It was because of her that Sharmila never asked Atin in. But today Atin decided he would go right in and talk to Sumi.

But Sharmila did not give him the chance. She told him to leave rather rudely and almost ran in, leaving Atin dumbfounded. What had he done to displease her? Was she physically ill or offended for some reason? The taxi had gone. Atin walked all the way to his apartment, troubled and confused. Was it the kiss? But it had pleased her; there was no refusal in her reaction. Why then did she behave in this way, almost treating Atin like a stranger?

After paying the taxi ten dollars and a tip of one to the driver, not much was left except some loose change. Not enough to buy a packet of cigarette. He had run out of cigarettes. In this country you have to buy them in packets. A cloud of anger filled him slowly. Could Sharmila read his mind, he was thinking of Oli on the bridge. He was reminded of the trip across the Ganga from Nabadweep to Krishnagar, Oli singing in the dark — how far away that day had receded. Oli is now half a world away. But nobody could stop Atin from remembering her face. Was Sharmila aware of this, instinctively, and felt cheated?

Some day she has to be told about Oli, but Atin can never cast Oli away from his life. Sharmila must understand this. She is bound to understand, she is so soft, so tender.

In the one hour that Atin spent walking, he kept on an imaginary dialogue with Sharmila. He still felt puzzled and bewildered.

In the living room Somen sat watching the TV. Every evening he had to watch the news, addicted to the voice of Walter Cronkite. Satyakinkar, amateur astronomer, was out in the porch, scanning the night sky.

American courtesy demanded that you have to talk to people you meet, even say hi to total strangers. It has taken Atin some time to get used to this practice. Evening, he said to his landlord. Very clear sky, you can't see so many stars in the sky over Calcutta.

Satyakinkar spoke in his usual soft voice. I have spent my childhood in Pabna. The sky was equally clear there. Look, both Great Bear and Little Bear are distinct . . . What do they call Great Bear in Bengali?

Pretending ignorance, Atin shook his head. Have no idea. He was hardly in a frame of mind to discuss stars. Satyakinkar pointed to various constellations and recited the names. Atin wished he would look down so he could take his leave.

Fortunately Suresh came in. A Gujarati, he was a walking encyclopaedia. Atin left them, climbing steps two at a time. He banged the door shut. Alone at last. Now nobody can disturb him. The room was stuffy, the windows were closed and curtains drawn. He took off his clothes, throwing them at random till he was standing in the middle of the room, naked. The room looked so empty, as if it belonged to somebody else. How was he going to spend month after month under such a sloping ceiling?

They had planned to buy some food and spend the rest of the evening in this room, playing some records on the second hand record player, a gift from Sharmila, chatting and making love. All on a sudden, everything changed.

What could have gone wrong? Stomach ache? Head ache? Sharmila never had such attacks before. Exposure to strong sun sometimes brought on a headache but today the sun was mild. She had pushed his hand away when he tried to .stroke her hair. Why did she resist? Why wouldn't she talk?

He took a cigarette from the packet on the table. Without bothering to dress he opened one window, nobody could see him in the dark, besides no houses stood close by.

Where did I go wrong Sharmila? My hand had brushed your breasts, that was not intentional. You knew that and spoke to me quite naturally after that, laughed. Where was I to blame. You have never ignored me like this.

Atin Majumder, have you fallen so low that you are thinking about a girl, standing stark naked? You have nothing else to do? A girl, that is all you can think of? He gave his own cheeks two tight slaps. His body burned with anger. Sharmila may be simple but too stubborn. What does she think, she can treat Atin just the way she pleases? Atin Majumder is not going to stand her outbursts of temper. She must apologise if ever she comes back. Forget about her.

Quickly he put on a pair of trousers and drew a book. There was no food except a packet of cookies and half a bottle of drink. He was hungry but did not feel like going out. No, he was not going to drink. He munched on the coconut cookies and started taking notes. He could concentrate completely, all other thought were driven from his mind. He must finish his doctorate in one year.

At eleven-thirty his stock of cookies and cigarettes were exhausted. Enough studying for a day. He must have some sleep now. But as he closed his book the face of Sharmila floated back. What is the mystery behind her sudden change of mood, Atin wanted to know. But he would not go see her again, yet . . .

Suddenly he was filled with remorse. How selfish of him, to be thinking only of himself. Sharmila could be seriously ill. She did not want to involve Atin.

He raced downstairs and picked up the phone. Sumi answered.

Sharmila is sleeping, she said dryly.

What is the matter with her?

Not feeling well.

I know that but what exactly is wrong? Have you called a doctor? I know Dr. Sarbadhikari.

No. She had a headache. She is asleep now.

Sumi, I want to talk to her.

Sorry. I can't call her. Goodnight.

She had cut the line. For some reason this girl had not taken kindly to Atin. Moralist. But she had a boy friend. She was reluctant to talk to Atin. It could not be just headache. Atin dialed again. Sumi promptly put it down. Atin felt his skin tingle in anger. Sharmila could have called him, it was not so late after all. Why could not her highness receive a call?

The next time he tried Atin heard an engaged tone. So Sumi had taken the receiver off the cradle. The telephone stood in the middle of the two beds, Sharmila must have heard it. She does not want to answer.

Well, Sharmila, you have yet to know Atin Majumder.

25

IT was seven in the evening, everybody had left but Atin worked lone in the lab. He was free to work as long as he pleased, no durwan or guard would interrupt him, asking him to leave because the doors had to be locked. Most libraries were open till two hours after mid night. Even if there were only two readers an assistant would be there to supply books.

The urge to smoke made him look up. Only then he noticed the deserted lab. They had all gone to watch the Kurasawa movie in the campus hall. Somebody had left a Bunsen Burner burning. Switching it off, Atin walked out of the door to smoke.

Since nobody was there he could easily have smoked inside the lab. But force of habit. He has seen cars stopping at red light in the dead of night with not a soul or another car around. People do it out of habit.

He has been taking driving lessons, it was impossible to get on in this society without driving. Then he would buy a second hand car, they can be had for as little as one hundred and fifty dollars. Old cars are thrown away in automobile graveyards.

Meanwhile he has bought a cycle like most students here. Train or buses cost money. He had learnt to cycle when he was in school. That is coming useful. In Siliguri too he had to use the cycle often.

He realised he was hungry. Had not had anything since a lunch of soup and hamburger in the campus canteen. He has not had a proper meal of rice for the last five days.

Ignoring the pangs of hunger he kept working. At times hunger acted as dope, he felt strangely fresh if he let it grow. To night he will go to bed hungry.

He closed the exercise book, went round the tables to check if any acid jar was open. Then he strolled down the deserted corridor to the guard at the gate. A hefty looking man, he was reading the Time magazine intently. Goodnight, George, Atin said. George looked up. Working late? You don't care for Japanese films? Atin smiled. I am not a film buff. I hardly spend my money for movies.

Good for your health, replied George.

It was drizzling. Atin had neither a raincoat nor an umbrella with him. Instead of waiting for the rain to stop, he decided to set off on his cycle. It was warm in the day but a rain invariably brings down the temperature. It might cause fever. Atin wished to risk it. After Jamshedpur he has never run a temperature again.

Sharmila was away in Washington DC, at her uncle’s. If she was that sick she would not have taken the long trip on a Greyhound all by herself. They had not met after that. It was Sumi who volunteered the information.

Atin did not have the uncle's number. He did not feel like asking Sumi either. Sharmila could have called. It was a ruse to avoid him.

He dug his head to avoid the rain and kept increasing speed. The shining black road seemed to stretch to infinity. No cyclist or pedestrian was on the road but cars wheezed by making a curious music mixed with the sound of rain. Where is he, wondered Atin. What is he doing here? This is not where he is supposed to be. He has no specific work here, no identity, no friends. Was he no better than a whiff of cottonseed floating in the breeze. No, not one moment more in this foreign country, he will cycle straight to the port . . .

A car screeched to a halt. Atin was thrown off the cycle. Unmindfully he was cycling on the left. He kept forgetting that they keep to the right side here.

I will be run over now, smashed to a pulp, he thought as he was hitting the road. The car stopped. Atin sprang up, no, no bones were broken. Atin Majumder would not be killed so easily. Even Death kept guard over him.

The man driving the car eyed him but did not speak. In this town the cycle plying students enjoy special privilege. Convinced that no harm has come to Atin, the man started the ignition and drove away.

Atin picked up the cycle, put the wheels in order. He was soaking wet. He wiped his face. A terrible loneliness gripped him. Nobody came to attend him. May be if he had lain on the road longer the police would have arrived and then an ambulance, more faces looking down at him.

The jolt he had received was really mental. With it he was brought back to reality. No, he is not going to any port but to his apartment where he would have to spend a few more years.

Back home he put the cycle on the porch and locked it. Everything was safe here except cycles. They get stolen every now and then. If ever he loses his own cycle, decided Atin, he would quietly pick up somebody else's and not bother to buy a new one.

Somen called out from the living room, do come here Atin babu, come and watch this. He sounded excited. Normally Atin did not watch TV with others but tonight he craved for company. Standing near the doorway he thought, these people do not know that ten minutes ago he has had a close brush with death. It was a matter of a few seconds. Atin Majumder would have ended his life. He has got a new lease of life. But he did not want to tell them about it, even Sharmila would never know. Oh Sharmila again. Why did she change?

This is highly exciting, please come over. Somen said again.

Three more people were in the room — Suresh, his girl friend Tinni and Abid Hussain. Atin pulled up a chair. Since the landlord was not present he was free to smoke.

It was the popular eight-thirty talk show. On each show a person from a different strata of society is brought to the show to be interviewed by a very intelligent compere, Roy Robson. Roy had a way of bringing out the life story and his presentation gave each story an aura of adventure.

Tonight the guest was Paul Gray, a marine engineer. Somen told Atin. Their ship was marooned in Chittagong for two months. They have just begun.

Roy Robson: What kind of goods do you usually carry in your ship, Mr. Gray?

Paul Gray: Various stuff, machines, cars, well, er, airplane parts.

Roy Robson: You must be carrying arms as well?

Paul Gray: Yes. Light arms.

Roy Robson: What sort of light arms?

Paul Gray: I am not supposed to tell you.

Roy Robson: This time, your ship stranded at Chittagong port must have been loaded with arms?

Paul Gray: Oh no. Just foodstuff — Wheat.

Roy Robson: I see. Just wheat? How long were you stranded there?

Paul Gray: About three weeks. The stuff was not being unloaded. We were getting impatient.

Roy Robson: What was the delay for?

Paul Gray: Some kind of trouble was going on, rebellion you could say. You may not be aware that two communities live in Pakistan — Pakistanis and Bengalis. They were fighting.

Roy Robson: But Bengalis are Pakistani as well. The people of Greek or Italian origin living here in the United States are American, aren't they? What you mean is that a fight was on between the army and the common people.

Paul Gray: Yes. You could say that.

Roy Robson: Your shipload of arms was for the army.

Paul Gray: No, no, no. We were carrying wheat. They are poor, starving. So we help them. Roy Robson: Why then did they delay in unloading if they were starving?

Paul Gray: Perhaps the army intended to starve them to death. The first few days we heard sounds of gun battle but then everything was quiet. The port area was deserted, nobody to unload.

Roy Robson: So you spent all your time on the boat?

Paul Gray: We visited the city. But except for the Chittagong Club there was no place to eat and drink. So we were obliged to go there.

Roy Robson: Was this your first visit to Chittagong?

Paul Gray: No, this was my third. Every time we visited Chittagong Club we developed friendship with some members.

Roy Robson: Any Bengali among them?

Paul Gray: Yes, in the first two visits we met some, but not this time. Where is Mr. Hamid? I had enquired from an army captain. He puckered his nose in disgust. That Hamid? The Bengali. Do not mention his name. In future dogs and Bengalis won't be allowed in this club. But you know I found some dogs loitering. You know something Mr. Robson, I have seen street dogs in big cities of the east. They even get into clubs.

Roy Robson: Interesting. You saw dogs in the grounds of the Chittagong Club but no Bengali. Chittagong is in Bengal, isn't it? Can you imagine a club in San Francisco where the locals are not allowed.

Paul Gray: This is not unusual in the east. It happens in South Africa, in Rhodesia. Even many clubs in Florida do not allow entry to the blacks of Florida.

Roy Robson: Are the Bengalis black?

Paul Gray: Frankly I could not make out any difference in skin colour among the Pakistanis and Bengalis. But the Pakistanis are against the Bengalis. That captain told me that the Bengalis wouldn't be allowed to drive cars. The families owning cars would be eliminated. And each Pakistani soldier would keep a young Bengali woman as mistress.

Roy Robson: So they hate Bengali men but like the women?

Paul Gray: May be. But the captain gave me a different reason. It seems the Bengalis outnumber the Pakistanis. They plan to kill some and the children born to the mistresses would be Pakistani.

Roy Robson: Did you speak to any Bengali this time?

Paul Gray: Couldn't find a single one. They had run away in panic. Some Bengalis were fighting from outside the city.

Roy Robson: So you talked only to the army officers. Did they discuss the ways to unload the arms from the ship? Paul Gray: No, no, not arms, wheat. Besides that was the job of the captain of the ship, not my responsibility.

Roy Robson: Did you witness any of the actual rebellion?

Paul Gray: Just once. On my way to the Chittagong Club I saw about ten or twelve people lined up, facing a barrack room wall. They were rebel police. I took a picture of the shooting.

The picture of some lungi clad, bare bodied men with their back to the camera, hands raised appeared on the television screen. They looked much too weak to be policemen. The picture was taken when they were shot and dropping down dead.

There was a commercial break. The silence was broken at last. Tinni was the first to speak. I can't bear this horror, she exclaimed.

Well, this is the direct experience of an American engineer. Strange that they are showing it on American TV. America happens to be the number one supporter of Pakistani army. Said Suresh. Actually the ship was carrying American arms, that is what Roy Robson was hinting. They are fighting with American arms.

Tinni wrapped her dopatta round her shoulders. I am leaving, she said. I can't stand it.

Suresh left the room to see her off. Abid Hossain sat with his face in his hands, stupefied. A staunch supporter of Pakistan, he had a terrific argument with Somen only a few days ago. He feels Sheikh Mujib had betrayed the country.

What do you say now, Abid saheb? Asked Somen. Or do you think the entire show is concocted?

No Bengalis are allowed in Chittagong Club? Whispered Abid Hossain. Why, my father who is in the Secretariat of the club never told me.

When did you hear from him last?

Abid did not answer. His gaze was fixed on Somen. Slowly his expression changed to one of gloom. Reports were coming about Chittagong in newspapers, now it was from an eyewitness. Nobody can lie to Roy Robson and get away with it.

Atin felt indifferent. He had no comment. It was an encounter between extreme nationalists and a dictatorial rule — he had no support for any of them. Yet innocent civilians were being killed in East Pakistan, that was a fact. American TV channels were private, not bound to tow the official line. In fact they exposed a lot of misdeeds of the American soldiers in Vietnam.

They never give any news from India, do they? He asked Somen. They avoid any news from India.

They gave a terrible story yesterday don't you know? Somen went on excitedly. From Calcutta. Jail break in Dumdum, the biggest in recent times. The Naxal prisoners fought with the prison guards. There was exchange of fire for twenty minutes, just imagine, the Naxalites had smuggled a huge amount of arms inside the prison. 15 Naxals were dead and 32 managed to escape. Atin was as if hit by a thunderbolt. His body trembled, he felt so hot as though he was running very high temperature — Fifteen were killed, did you say? He somehow managed to ask.

They showed a picture of the inside of the jail. How do they get these god knows. They showed the dead bodies. Of course they did not mention how many guards were killed.

Did they mention names?

No. Today's New York Times carries the news, very briefly. But there is another, much bigger news, have you seen? Indira Gandhi has nationalised the insurance companies. That is a serious step. According to the Wall Street Journal the Indira Gandhi government is going over to the Soviet camp. President Nixon is still not bothered.

Atin was in no condition to hear this. Dazed, he walked out of the room. Fifteen dead. Manikda, Kaushik, Pompom, Tapan, Arindam — were they among them? Atin has no news of them.

The struggle is still on. His friends were not ready to give up. They have broken out of jail, again they will get organised to deal a death blow to the exploiters.

And what is he doing, sitting in America, the capitalist nation, their enemy number one. And he is being fed by them, moving about, and courtesy the United States. He rushed upstairs to his room. Not one day more. He has to go back, come what may. He pulled out his suitcase, he must pack only the barest minimum. fifteen dead. Who all were they? Manikda, Kaushik? In which case did he, Atin, have any business to live?

After packing some books and clothes in the initial flush of excitement he realised that a ticket has to be bought. Where would he get the money, from? He can't just walk all the way — two great oceans lay in between. But a lot of money, who would give him the money? But go back, he must, by whatever means. Passenger liners have stopped. One can only fly. Who can give him a loan?

Of course he could borrow from the bank, they gave loans even to students. But his account was new, about ten dollars were left probably. Sharmila could get it, her uncle had a good job. But who is Sharmila to him? She has fled to Washington to avoid him. She must be keen to wipe out all memories, of this bed as well where they had slept together?

He groped in his mind for likely people and the thought of Panchuda exuded confidence. Surely he would understand. Atin would go mad if he has to stay here against his wishes. Fifteen of his friends had been killed in prison and he is immersed in the luxury of earning a degree? To hell with an American degree!

But Panchuda after all was just a new acquaintance. True Santa boudi was a good soul. But suppose they refused? Atin would not be able to stand it.

Siddhartha was the only option left. He has bought a new car, moved to another apartment. He may not have much cash left but he can arrange for a loan. A friend of his, a Punjabi chap, runs a travel agency. He can persuade him. He ran downstairs without bothering to put slippers on. The living room was deserted. Hurriedly he called Siddhartha, hoping he would be home. He was. He seemed annoyed. What a time to call. I was reading out poetry to someone.

Interrupting him Atin cried out, Siddhartha, I want to go back home. Tomorrow.

Really? Come and go as you wish?

But I have to, I have to, I won't stay here a minute longer. I don't want a degree. I want to leave this land of capitalists. It is unbearable.

Stop braying like a donkey. Can't you speak a little softly? Have pity on my ear drums.

They have killed fifteen Naxals in Dumdum jail, have you heard? It came on TV, in the papers.

Yes, I saw it on TV.

And you think I should remain here after that! Am I not made of flesh and blood? Can't you see . . .

Yes I do. This is called pangs of conscience. It shows you have a conscience. Take a sleeping pill and go to bed. Then go back home in your dreams. I do it quite often.

Stop joking. I have decided. Will you lend me the money for a ticket?

Sorry.

I will pay you back, by hook or by crook. Do me a favour.

Sorry old chap. Not a pice.

Siddhartha, I beseech you. This is the last time I am asking for a favour.

Do not pester me about money, not after ten in the night. This is downright obscene.

Who can stop me from going back, I would like to see.

Then jump across the ocean like Hanuman. Land at Kolkata and get caught by the police. Go back like a sentimental fool and rot in jail. Who knows perhaps you will go the way of those 15. Fat lot of help will that be for your cause.

I won't get caught. I will land in Delhi and proceed to Kolkata.

You think Delhi does not have a police force.

Listen Siddhartha . . .

I have no time for such useless talk. I am busy. Siddhartha cut off.

For a few moments Atin stood bewildered and confused. No, there is no way to get back. He has proved himself to be a coward, concerned only with saving his skin. After a long time tears began to flow. A terrible loneliness seemed to tie his limbs in knots. He hit his head against the wall and cried out like a child, Ma, ma . . .

The house was quiet. It rained without stop in the street outside. Very few cars passed by. Atin came out, barefoot with a vest on and stood in the middle of the road. But he knew he would not be run over. Even death gave him a long berth. Come what may, he will stand right here the whole night, out in the rain and get drenched for all he cared.

26

THEY parked the car in front of the university and crossed the tram tracks — Bimanbehari, Mamun and Pratap. Two police cars stood guarding the entrance to College Square, policemen carrying rifles stood back to back, scanning the scene. About twenty or twenty-five people were inside, some carrying flowers, all looking upset.

The statue of Vidyasagar, pioneer of women's education, champion of education was beheaded a few days ago, right here, in the nerve centre of education. Nobody dared to protest. Now the statue had its top covered in a piece of white cloth.

The revolutionary youth were engaged in a frenzy of destruction. Statues of other great men like Rammohun, Rabindranath, Gandhiji and other national leaders had been demolished, their portraits burned. But Vidyasagar seemed to be their target, not just his image but the education system itself. Schools and colleges were not spared from the revolutionary fury. They were armed with hand- grenades, effective in creating earth shattering noise and also killing people. The sight of four such young men would send the passers by running for life. It was as though a new era of burgee marauders have began.

Nobody knew who gave the order to demolish statues and when. Perhaps it happened by chance, in trying to wreck the examination system along with books and furniture some portraits were broken. A hue and cry following this destruction amused them, down with middle class morality, that was their intention. Burn down everything, wipe out the old system.

The Naxal leaders gave their moral support to the spontaneous orgy of destruction. These young men knocking down statues were not members of the CPI(ML) though they too were revolutionaries. They are hastening the process. They were smashing things up because they felt in their guts that this is the way people were thinking. Break old statues so that new statues can come up. Remove Gandhi to make way for Rani of Jhansi. The Gandhi ghat at Barrakpur would be Mangal Pandey ghat. The new generation wanted to sever ties with the reformist past.

Charu Majumder too supported the exuberance. Those statues were symbols of colonial education system and put up by agents of capitalism. Crush them so that a new revolutionary culture might evolve. Armed farmer rebellion is now a reality in Bengal. The student unrest is a direct fall out. Their protest can be seen as part of the armed farmer revolution.

Indiscriminate smashing of statues eventually lead to a mindless orgy of destruction. The emotional Bengali mind was more horrified by a breaking of a statue of a revered leader than an actual murder. The young generation found it highly amusing. The only person to express doubt was Sushital Roychoudhury. You cannot put Rabindranath — Vidyasagar at par with Gandhi, can you? Instead of burning down schools a movement to reform the education system could be started, making use of Rabindranath's bourgeois humanism and anti-colonial stance.

But Charu Majumder issued a note of warning. In a pamphlet he reminded comrade Purna, a name adopted by Sushital, of the Party Congess Convention that the Indian bourgeois is a class of agents right from the start. To single out the bourgeois democrats would go against the party decision. The colonial education system created hatred for the masses. It is the sacred duty of the believers in the thoughts of Mao tse Tung to spread hatred against the system. If that hatred leads to destruction of property no true revolutionary should prevent that.

Saroj Gupta in an inflammatory speech in a secret meeting at Hoogly said, the people can never do wrong. Some excesses were inevitable in times like this. Cultural revolution too would move ahead. Forget the past and the poets of the past. Poets would emerge from the revolutionary farmers. Charu Majumder's message is poetry for us.

So the youth just out of adolescence went on their wild orgy, ignorant of the writing of Tagore, the contribution of Rammohun and only vaguely aware that Vidyasagar did not support the Sepoy Mutiny. The newspapers condemned the smashing but nobody came forward to replace the broken statues.

After the initial success of demolition, the rebels turned to live victims. They turned to take revenge on the police who had been ruthless in Debra, Gopiballavpur, Srikakulam. The policemen were their next targets. The results were spectacular. Four young boys killed a constable in broad daylight with knives. People were panic stricken. There was hardly any resistance. After all the police force were protectors of the capitalist class, killing them was justified. Kill more of them so that they are demoralised and leave.

Arms could be snatched from unsuspecting constables or inspectors, small businessmen or big landlords. That was one way to obtain weapons to bring about revolution. This went on for months — murder, demolition, arms snatching. Revolution seemed just round the corner.

Then reaction started. The government fell. After a stint of President's rule came Siddhartha Ray, a representative of the central government. Instead of the police, the BSF and the CRP were used. The idealist youth, untrained in guerilla warfare, capable only of writing slogans and surreptitious murder were now faced with the automatic weapons of a trained para-military force. Their pipe guns and hand grenades proved to be ineffective.

Congress and the other Marxist parties joined hands with the government. Dead bodies of handsome young men with dreamy expressions could be seen in deserted fields, by the rail tracks. The three pronged attacks were too much for the Naxals. They were butchered and jails began filling up. At long last the broken statues of Rammohun, Vidyasagar, Gandhi attracted attention. The conscience of the nation began to prick.

Every time Bimanbehari passed the beheaded Vidyasagar he turned his face away in pain. His requests to other publishers to get it repaired fell on deaf years. After all was not Vidyasagar a pioneer among publishers as well? But who would come forward, the Naxals might still be lurking in corners.

Now that the Naxals were on the run, many have ventured to resurrect the statue of Vidyasagar. A new head had been installed.

Now at ten in the morning all party leaders have been invited for the opening. Bimanbehari and his friends were a little early.

Mamun was a great admirer of Vidyasagar. He wished there had been someone like him among the Muslims in the last century, then they would have not have fallen behind in education. But talking of women’s education, removal of polygamy and that too from an atheist would have been too much for Muslim society. Can one think of a Muslim social reformer even now, who is a non- believer?

I do not understand their anger against Vidyasagar, observed Mamun. After all these Naxals went to school in the tradition of Vidyasagar, learnt Marxism or whatever. They should be indebted to him.

They feel Vidyasagar made a mistake in supporting the system started by the British, a system of English education for producing clerks, said Pratap.

Bimanbehari contradicted him with impatience How can you say this, Pratap. Education is universal, it depends on how you take it. Every country has produced some clerks, but also thinkers and scholars. After all our Jagadish Bose, C.V. Raman, Radhakrishnan were all products of this education. Did Charu Majumder learn his alphabet in China?

They are determined to demolish statues but whose statues would be put up in their place? Just Mao, Lenin and Karl Marx? This country does not have any great leaders? Asked Mamun.

I saw mention of Lakshmibai, the queen of Jhansi, in one of their leaflets, said Pratap.

Stupid, stupid! Exclaimed Bimanbehari — an uneducated as well. Queen of Jhansi of all persons!

Whatever else they may be, they certainly are not uneducated. Why some of the best boys of Presidency are with them. Put in Pratap.

A student should be considered good if he can think independently. Rani of Jhansi may be a popular heroine but turn the pages of history. No less a person than Ramesh Majumder has written that Rani wrote to the British that the sepoys threatened to blow up her palace if she did not join them. Said Bimanbehari.

Is that so? Mamun was surprised. I had no idea. For us nationalism means the melodrama of the public theatre, Soulful speeches about patriotism. The militant revolutionaries are no different. They think revolution is candy in the hand of a child. At least Mao tse Tung had a long preparation before he started fighting. Look at these youngsters. Do they know the meaning of war? Killed some people for no reason, now they are being killed in return. Bimanbehari added.

The Naxals remind me of the Chittagong armory raid. Do you remember? Said Mamun.

I was much too young then, said Bimanbehari. But I know the story. You call that a revolution? We have coloured it a great deal, made films and what not. The whole thing was a fiasco. The British must have had a good laugh.

You know I met Ananta Singh once, said Mamun. He told me what actually happened. They had gone to raid the armory in Chittagong with absolutely no idea about ammunitions. They ordered food in a hotel and then went for the raid, as if it was so simple a matter. In spite of their ignorance they did succeed due mostly to the carelessness of the British but could not use the looted arms for the simple reason that arms and ammunitions are never kept in the same place. They were not aware of this simple fact.

The ammunition magazine was just a mile away, put in Biman Behari. It was unprotected like the armory but the great revolutionaries could not find it. So much for their noble contribution. Just wasted their lives for nothing.

Pratap frowned. He disagreed with his friends. The armory raid, he said, was not such a trifling matter as you make it out to be. Can you deny the excitement it generated, the inspiration Surya Sen provided to thousands of young men even after his death?

No, no, I am not belittling the armory raid, Said Biman Behari. I have great respect for Surya Sen. What I am talking of is the preparation prior to a revolution. Some stray killings cannot bring about a change of order without adequate public relations, orientation and initiating the common man.

Look at the Naxalites, Added Mamun. They do not seem to have had any training for warfare. Good students with an ideal but totally unprepared.

Pratap threw away his cigarette. Tell me Mamun, your people are fighting against a powerful army. What training did they have?

They have been forced to resist, my dear Pratap. It was a life and death question. Still I think this is no way to subdue the Pakistani army unless help comes from other quarters. It has already been four months. Who knows what is going to happen.

A car pulled up with a bigwig followed by a jeep containing lathi carrying youth. The bodyguards could be carrying guns anticipating a possible Naxal attack. Pratap watched them and wondered if a battle would start over a stone statue. Bimanbehari felt for the revolver under his innocuous khadi kurta.

The Vice-chancellor was late, so the ceremonies could not begin. In the crowd of about eighty a handful of women were present. It was for the women of this country that Vidyasagar had toiled so hard. The sound of a cracker or a tyre-burst sounded at a distance. In these days such sounds were scary. Only yesterday a journalist, Rakhal Naha was killed in Howrah. A Naxal leader Mahadev Mukherjee has escaped from the SSKM hospital. The Naxals have threatened that for every revolutionary killed a hundred enemies would be murdered. Pratap had heard a senior police officer boast — in CPM and Naxal encounters we turn the other way. Let them decide who are greater Marxists — a comment which made Pratap wish to strike him across the cheek. Constant news of killings has made him short-tempered.

Suddenly Mamun spoke. What would happen to us? Your Indira Gandhi is keeping mum. Can't we ever get back?

Why, don't you like it here? Asked Bimanbehari.

Thai is not the point. I am afraid we would be reduced to the status of Tibetan refugees. The world will forget about us.

Bimanbehari said, I believe the number of refugees has crossed seventy lakh — how much longer can the government feed them? Indira Gandhi will be forced to take a measure but her own house has to be taken care of first.

A barefoot young man in his late teens stood listening to this conversation. He wore just a vest on a pair of khaki trousers. His hair was disheveled but his face was tender and handsome, as though carved in wax. He fished out a twisted cigarette from his pocket, crept to Pratap and asked huskily, Can I have a match, dada?

Pratap's immediate impulse was to box his ears. Even at his age he did not smoke before seniors. How impertinent the modern youth can get? He turned away, pretending not to have heard.

The young man nudged him, Here, dada, the match . . .

I don't have a box of matches, said Pratap.

Give me your cigarette then, that will do nicely. The boy persisted.

Seething with fury, Pratap nevertheless obliged. When the boy returned his cigarette Pratap said with contempt, You can throw it away. The boy smiled, took a few puffs from it before throwing it away. Then he asked, What is this celebration for?

Pratap moved back, he had no intention of striking a conversation with this chap. But he could not help noticing round black marks on his shoulders.

You, dada, The boy accosted Mamun, What is the party in aid of?

Well people are here . . . the statue of Vidyasagar . . . mumbled Mamun.

Oh that? So they have got a new head installed. You know who broke it? Yours truly. This Samir Nag, none else.

Mamun and Biman Behari stared at him in disbelief. Oh really? Said Pratap sarcastically, Why, if I may ask? I have done the right thing. Is it any of your business, sala? Spoke the boy roughly.

The way the chap blinked continuously Pratap knew him to be insane. He pulled Bimanbehari away. It was not safe to be anywhere near such a person. They watched him from a distance. Looks like a boy from a good family. No shoes, roaming at large, Mamun spoke with pity.

The chap leaned against the railing and shouted. Listen you sons of swine. It is I who has beheaded that son of a swine Vidyasagar. Excellent work.

Did you notice the marks on his neck? Asked Biman Behari. Beaten up by the police. Let him loose after he became unhinged.

Meanwhile the shouts caught the attention of the crowd. They were here for a solemn occasion, and this madman was trying to disrupt using filthy language.

The madman kept on. I am Samir Nag. Go and ask the son of the police if they know me. I have toppled the dome. Put a new one, I will break that too. To hell with your respect. Burn down the old books, new ones will come up.

The bodyguards of the bigwig came forward. He was talking like a Naxal all right. He may not have broken the statue but he supports the act. One of the bodyguards growled, Get out of here, do you hear me, get out.

The madman uttered an obscene word and tried to kick the bodyguard. A few raised their lathi. One of them banged the mad man's head against the railing. Come here to create trouble, what?

Mamun was scared. Biman, are they going to kill the madman? He asked. Pratap, normally unemotional, felt his eyes tingle. That boy was exactly Bablu's age, in fact he looked somewhat like Bablu. He rushed forward, trying to stop the others. Please don't, let him go, I will take him home.

One of the mastan boys held his hand. Please, I beg of you, appealed Pratap, He will not do any damage, please leave him alone. I know him very well, he happens to be . . . He took the mad youth in his arms.

27

ULTIMATELY Pompom did not let Oli leave by herself. Though considerably weak Pompom's mind was as alert as ever, taut like a bow, eyes sharper for being sunk in the sockets. She swallowed double dose of all the medicines and an hour later jumped about. Then taking down the wash from the clothes line stretched high above the courtyard, she raised hell over the missing bags of betel nut, even expressed a desire to jump from the veranda as she used to do in childhood. That's enough, said Oli. But you look much better today. I can leave for Calcutta with less worry, though frankly speaking I don't want to go.

But you have to, so many formalities have to be attended to. I will see you off at the station.

Oli will have none of it. She can take a rickshaw. There is no need for Pompom to take the trouble.

The rest of the family, the grandfather with impaired eyesight, a widowed aunt, Pompom's kaka and kakima, were strangely indifferent as if it did not matter to them whether she stayed or left. Pompom was treated like an untouchable. Oli could not make out why. Was it because she was involved in a politics different from her father's or because they thought she was raped in police lock up?

Oli did not want to leave Pompom among such hostile relatives but she was reluctant to stay in her Calcutta home. Where then would she stay?

As the afternoon wore on, Oli got restless. She had to catch the five-twenty train. Be a good girl Pompom, she appealed. Don't come to the station, it will get late, I will come back to visit before going abroad.

I have changed my mind, said Pompom. She picked up a bag. I am going with you.

Why don't you wait for your father? He will be coming in a couple of days. You can go with him in the car.

Pompom looked into Oli's eyes for a few seconds. A train ride would be more comfortable than jeep. Since I have come with you let me leave with you too.

Trying her best to discourage Pompom, Oli hesitated. I will not go to Calcutta directly. Go to Krishnanagar. Taking the bus, crossing the river would be too much for you, Pompom.

You are not used to lying, so don't try to fool me.

Pompom, in your state of health it wouldn't be right.

If I don't I will fret so much that it will do more harm. Come on. It is getting late.

The daylong rain has turned into a drizzle. They had to pull down the shade in front of the seat. The jerking caused unbearable pain to Pompom. Her bones seemed to be falling apart. Any movement caused sharp pain in the abdomen creating an urge to urinate. She kept talking in order to keep her mind away from the sensation of pain.

How long have you known Kaushik? She asked Oli. As a friend of Atin?

Yes. He had visited our house with Babluda after their B.Sc. exam. He seemed very shy at first.

He is from the same neighourhood as ours, two houses away in Maniktala. Atulya Ghose used to live in that area. His nephews and nieces were good friends of mine. I used to go to their house. That is where I met Kaushik. You used to go to the house of a Congress leader?

I was much too young to understand but I liked the informal atmosphere there. Used to call Atulyababu — Jethu. He was very nice to us. I saw Prafulla Sen a couple of times in that house, both were so powerful Congress leaders but absolutely unassuming in private life. My father being a CPI leader I have known both Congress men and Communists, many of the elderly communist leaders had been in the congress, even my father was in the congress trade union front before independence. Actually every time I met Atulyababu he used to ask about my mother. As I was saying, I met Kaushik in this house, both of us were small kids. Then Kaushik's family moved to New Alipur, but we were in touch. After my mother's death, I used to visit them, spend a day. His mother was very fond of me.

Abruptly she paused, asked the rickshaw-walla to stop and got down. She walked across to a thick shrub to relieve herself. She has not told anyone about the nagging pain she felt during urinating.

She dragged herself to the rickshaw and climbed up. Do you have a clove with you, Oli? She asked trying hard to look cheerful.

Oli could see through her pretence. They have tortured you at Lalbazar, haven't they?

Never mind. Coming back to Kaushik, he was a brilliant student, much better than Atin. Atin after all did not do well in school final.

Babluda's brother who drowned in the Ganga was really bright. After his death Babluda had to turn to studies for the sake of his parents. Otherwise he was more interested in sports.

His brother has been a chip on his shoulder. You know Atin often regretted this. My dada keeps pulling me back, he would say . . . He would have made ma and baba happy, I would have been free to be on my own. There was a proposal to send him to China, risky journey, but Atin could not go, he could not do this to the parents. But what good was that. He had to leave them finally, hiding somewhere, England or US.

You were talking of Kaushik.

He was really fond of studies. Introvert, used to write poetry. When he was in second year he spoke to me of love.

To you, of all persons?

You think nobody can fall in love with me. Am I such a tedious bore?

Please, don't get me wrong. It is just that you had a different kind of relationship with him.

I had quoted to him a line from the poetry of Subhas Mukhopadhyay: "This is hardly the time to frolic with flowers, Love, now that we are facing doom . . ." I was deep in student politics in those days. The generation of our parents has betrayed us. The word revolution was bandied about at home, among friends of father, party workers. A total revolution could only bring about a change in the social system. That word was electrifying. I used to dream of a total struggle, would visualise myself among them, forging ahead holding a red flag. But instead they opted for the safer road of parliamentary democracy. In the middle of this someone mumbles of love, I could not stand it. But I did not lose temper, I decided to mould him. That was how he came to the party.

He was not involved in politics before, was he?

He never bothered about it. You see he does not have a political background. A typical good student of the bourgeois middle class, he was supposed to go abroad for so called higher education. But how he has changed. A shy person like him, he organised our study circle, he acted as the link between Charu Majumder and the students. He brought Atin to the study circle. Don't you see Oli, if I had not dragged Kaushik your Babluda would not have been involved, he did not have to run away, you did not have to act as my nurse so I am at the root of everything.

The credit should go to your father because he is responsible for bringing you into this world.

That is a natural process. Millions are being born everyday. What I am now is mainly through my efforts. Think of the effort Kaushik has put in to train himself. He has spent nights with me in many odd places but never touched me. That is what I call a man. Now he is struggling for life and you are asking me to save my own skin! Not everybody is as selfish as your Babluda.

Would it have been better for him to serve a term in jail? He could have got a death sentence for murder.

He could have tried to break jail like Kaushik.

I never knew you hate Babluda so much. Well, he was forced to kill a man to save Manikda. Nobody volunteered to help him when he was caught. As far as I know it was Manikda who had wanted him to escape.

Putting her arms round Oli, Pompom said, Sorry, I did not mean it. Actually I am not in my right mind ever since I heard about Kaushik. He does not have his best friend Atin by his side that is what bothers me most. We had not started our annihilation program when he shot that man. In a way he has done the best thing to escape.

I know for certain that Babluda is not selfish. He must be going through hell, so far away from everything. He does not even write.

Pompom said softly, Tell me something, Oli. You did not join our party. Atin had given up. She is the spoilt child of a rich father he used to say. Why did you come back, now when it is more risky?

You are wrong. I have not joined your party. I can't stand bloodshed.

You have done so much for me . . .

People other than party members can be friends too. A friend in need.

OK, So you are helping a friend in need. But why are you going to meet Kaushik, since he is on the run. The police would shoot him down if they find him.

Are they going to shoot me too? Asked Oli innocently. Pompom pressed her lips. The greatest organised hooligans, which are what the police are in this country. They can shoot at woman without blinking an eyelid. I have a pretty good idea of how inhuman they can be.

Pompom, you are shaking all over, said Oli anxiously. Are you sick?

I am OK, What I am telling you Oli that the police might make things difficult for you, like impounding your passport, the US government might refuse a visa. You have only a week to go.

I don't care. In that case I won't go. That is all.

You are being silly. Please listen to me. Go back to Calcutta. Both of us need not visit Kaushik. I am going in any case.

What, a thing to say. You, in this condition? I can't let you go alone. I am not that keen to go abroad.

But you don't understand Oli. I am committed. I have got to go, Kaushik is much more than a friend. You have never been close to him. In fact he has a grudge against you.

Let him. I am going anyway.

It is for Atin, isn't it?

You could say that. They are very close. If it had been Babluda, do you think I wouldn't have gone to him? Besides if I get to the States, the first thing Babluda would ask me would be about Kaushik. What would I tell him? That he broke jail, was wounded, is hiding in a forest and I did not go to him? You know how bad tempered Babluda is. He might give me a hard slap for all you know and ask me never to see him again.

Even then, it is too risky. Get back to Calcutta, I will keep you posted.

They reached the station. Pompom rushed to the toilet leaving Oli to pay the rickshaw fare. Pompom felt her head reeling, pain throbbing in her lower abdomen; she would faint any minute. She leaned against the wall to steady herself. Perhaps she can't make it alone. The two boys who came from Kaushik had talked to Oli about how to contact.

This was the rush hour. They had to keep standing. Oli held the other girl in a tight grip. They got down at Bardhaman station and waited on the platform. By now Oli could make out if they were being followed. Nobody seemed to answer that description. When the crowd dispersed, a cooli approached them. Come, let me take you to a rickshaw.

They followed him, climbed on to a rickshaw and paid the man. After the cooli left the girls exchanged glances. It was Tapan.

But the driver was an unknown person. Take us to Sudha Hotel, Oli gave the direction loudly, so that others could hear. The driver cycled the vehicle away from the city, to the jungle area. Pompom, the effect of the medicines gone, was now feeling weak. The jerking of the rickshaw hurt her. But at any cost she must behave normally in front of Kaushik. After about an hour they reached a Punjabi dhaba. Pompom felt considerably better after two glasses of tea. Then she went to the makeshift toilet at the back of the Dhaba. Beyond this stretched the dark jungle. Oli stared at the darkness, wondering if they had come too early. Presently two soft sounds of cycle bells were heard from the direction of the jungle. Two men stood behind a tree holding cycles, one of them was Tapan.

Why did you come? Tapan chided Pompom.You were not supposed to.

Tapan, much lower in the party hierarchy had no right to raise his voice at Pompom. Amateurish plan, hissed Pompom. The police could have nabbed any minute. How do we go?

We have two cycles. . . . I will carry you, said Tapan.

Again? Shivered Pompom, afraid to think of the ordeal. But there was no other alternative. She settled on the rod of Tapan's cycle.

The cycle ride was bumpy, no track, no light. Pompom had to keep talking to get distracted.

Tell me Tapan, does he know about Manikda?

Shh, replied Tapan.

Answer me.

We can't talk now.

Yes, we can. Very well, let me get down, I will walk all the way.

No you can't, it is eight miles. No, Kaushik does not know about Manikda.

Which leg has he been shot at?

Sorry, can't tell you.

Idiot, I am going to see him in a little while. But tell me honestly, he isn't dead, is he?

No, he isn't.

Has he been shot anywhere else?

Actually he was not shot in the leg. He broke his leg in trying to jump. He has been shot in the stomach and the left shoulder. The bullet in the stomach is there still.

How many casualties? The papers said sixteen.

Liars. At least thirty-five were gunned down. We did not plan a jail-break that day. It was their trick. They opened a couple of gates and set a false alarm and started shooting indiscriminately, wanted to wipe out all the Naxals in one day — the swine of a government. But we had smuggled in some arms and tried to resist. That is how some of us could escape.

Who died? Anybody I know? They were mostly from the Nadia and Murshidabad groups. But let us stop talking, we are approaching a village.

Finally they stopped after one and a half-hour of cycle ride. It was a thatched hut. About seven to eight guards stood in front of the hut the inside of which was lit by a single candle.

Pompom slumped to the ground, her sari wet and smelling of urine. But she stood up and said, I am all right. Nobody is to come in when Oli and I talk to Kaushik.

Kaushik leaned against a stack of hay; his bandaged leg stretched in front, makeshift bandages covered his chest and stomach. Overgrown hair, stubble on chin but over everything hovered the unmistakable shadow of death. The sight of him gave the two girls a jolt.

Some other injured men lay sleeping in the hut. Kaushik looked up and cried out annoyed: Who has brought the girls here? Who gave you the order, Tapan? Bidyut?

Tapan who stood at the door did not answer. Pompom kneeled in front of Kaushik. Now that I am here, she said firmly, I shall give the orders from now on.

Kaushik pushed her hand away as she tried to pat his head. What nonsense is this? The police might come any time. Your presence will only make it more difficult for us. Do you know I have seen Subir die before my eyes?

No, he is alive, spoke Tapan from the door.

Are you sure? Snapped Kaushik. I want to see him.

Has any doctor seen you? Asked Pompom.

Bidyut has. He has studied up to third year medical. I am fine. He raised his voice. Who has brought the two girls here? Ask them to double march and get out.

Calm down, said Pompom. Comrade Kaushik Roy, I have brought an urgent order from Manikda.

What? Kaushik was dumbfounded. Where on earth is Manikda? None of these people could contact him.

Wherever he may be, he has sent word through me.

Have you met him? When?

Of course I have seen him. He has ordered you to disperse from this area. It would be foolish to have confrontation with the police right now.

The tribals here are supporting us. I am the commander here, only problem is I can't get up.

Comrade Kaushik Roy, the special instruction to you is that you have to be removed first to our own hospital in Ghatsheela and from there to Bangalore, to my aunt's place.

Why Bangalore? Will you stop this nonsense, Pompom? Because our Andhra unit will get in touch with you there. Comrade Nagi Reddy will contact you. You are to wait for further instructions. I am to take you to Bangalore.

Can you show me anything in writing?

Manikda is now with Charu Majumder. Does he have the time to write?

I find it difficult to believe you.

Pompom gave Oli a meaningful look. Then said, Oli was with me when Manikda came. She does not tell lies. She can't. Tell him Oli.

With a deadpan face Oli repeated, Manikda has asked Kaushik to go to Ghatsheela. Perhaps he might meet him there. And from there to Bangalore, I have heard this myself.

28

IN spite of his best efforts Atin could not contact any deadly disease except a bad exposure to cold. It was accompanied by a persistent cough. This was the worst thing about catching cold in this country. It does not leave you easily. No wonder these people stuff themselves with clothes and take them off only during sun bathing.

All winter long Atin remained hale and hearty, he had to catch cold in spring. In the morning he does not feel like getting up, feels weak all over. If only someone could bring him a cup of tea in bed. Nobody was likely to call him if he did not get up at all. Nobody would phone either. He did not know anyone except Sharmila.

He dragged himself out of bed, put the kettle on. Making tea was a lot of bother, so he preferred coffee. Since he did not have a fridge in his room he would have to go to the kitchen to fetch milk. It's much better to have black coffee. After three or four cups he has to light the first cigarette. With the first puff the bouts of cough began.

He went on coughing. Already he had got a back-ache from excessive coughing. He was not taking any medicine. In his childhood his mother used to make a concoction with ginger, black pepper, palm candy and god knows what else. He had to take it hot, it tasted wonderful. He put a piece of raw ginger he had bought from the supermarket.

Then he turned to the last letter from mother, which he had already read at least seven times. Not that it had any specific news. Ma never complained or gave bad news. At the end of every letter she writes we are all well. Do take care of yourself.

She wrote every week. Atin had not written for the last three weeks. Ma wants a photograph of the new home. Atin must buy a cheap camera and take some snaps. By eight-thirty he had to reach school, school is what everybody calls the university. In the morning he had to work as lab assistant. His pay would be deducted even for half an hour's delay. Each dollar counted, so he could not afford to miss even if he was sick.

At exactly ten past eight he climbed downstairs, shaved and dressed. In his ground floor room Somen was singing softly with a guitar. It was a folk song the lines of which Atin found strangely appealing. Somen has a good voice; Atin must visit him once and listen to his songs.

He collected his cycle from the porch. It took him fifteen minutes to reach the lab. But the first blast of wind started him coughing again. It was persistent and painful. He felt that any moment he would begin spitting blood.

Sharmila was back in Boston, he knew. Yet she has not made any attempt to contact him. It was incredible how a soft girl like her could turn so cruel. After all, it was only for her that Atin took this job, he had a better offer from Philadelphia.

He had tried to figure out why she was acting in this way. She must have realised suddenly that Atin was a murderer. The stray newspaper with plenty of reports of gruesome murder which they were looking at on the bridge, it was this newspaper which had brought out the change of mood in her. Did she think that Atin was dangerous company that he could strangle her and push her off the bridge? Once a murderer, the stigma remains.

But Atin had made a clean breast of it to her, telling her a number of times why he was forced to pull the trigger in an open field of North Bengal. That man, an anti-social had first hurled a bomb, then charged with an iron rod, intending to kill Manikda, he would not have spared Atin too. Would it have been a glorious death? Every time Sharmila had sympathised, saying it is justified, suppose a mad dog tries to tear you to pieces you would have done the same thing. But in the court the case was given a different colour. Why would a college teacher carry a gun with him, what was he doing in that lonely field. Sharmila had believed him, now she lost her faith all because of a sensational newspaper photograph?

Let her go to hell. Atin must throw her out of his mind. It will take time, her fragrance still lingers in his bed, and her memory makes his heart miss a beat. Things will be all right. This just punishment for ditching Oli. Oli would never have acted this way.

He reached the lab two minutes before time. He quickly donned the overall. The students have not come yet. The best thing is to concentrate in work. He has two objectives before him — to complete his Ph.D. as quickly as possible and save enough money for his passage back home. If he can save enough money he will run away from this country without waiting for his degree.

The lab teachers are what we in India mean by demonstrators. The students make them work really hard. The students too are hard working, mainly because they are spending their hard-earned money, not their fathers. They work for six months in a supermarket or restaurant, save enough for a six-month course. Education is costly, so they try their hardest to pass.

Atin was amazed to see three Indian students working so hard that even their parents would have found surprising. All three worked part time and slogged like slaves. They were spending their own money that is why the urge to do well in studies. There was a Punjabi chap, Bhupinder Singh, son of a rich businessman. Atin had seen him frying French fries in a Macdonald store.

Today Atin was ill at ease because of his cough. His nose kept running in the air-conditioned interior, heaps of tissue papers had to be used and thrown away. Judy from the next desk stared at him every time he coughed.

Americans as a race are terribly health conscious. Cold is a contagious sickness, people give those afflicted with cold a wide berth Judy usually borrowed things from his table, chatted occasionally. But today Atin deliberately stood with his back to her after a formal Hi Judy.

Judy was quite tall for a girl, about five nine, almost as tall as Atin. She was healthy, a giant size. She never combed her hair properly nor took care of her dress. Steve, another lab teacher and a good friend of Atin used to say — you know why Judy does not have a boy friend? Guys want to kiss a girl whose face comes up to their chest, the boy would lean a little and the girl would lift their face — that is the ideal position. Have you noticed that women have longer lower limbs so that their abdomens are at level with the man's when they embrace, even the short girls.

Atin gobbled a few sandwiches during lunch hour then went to the library to read newspapers. The main reason was he too wanted to avoid Sharmila. He made a point of not visiting their favourite joints. He could hide in the library and go through the overseas edition of the Statesman. All this time he deliberately kept away from Indian newspapers but the news of the Dumdum jail break broke through his reserve. Neither Manikda nor Kaushik had written to him, though Kaushik had promised to keep in touch.

The Indian newspapers were full of the news of Pakistan and East Pakistan. The news of revolutionary activities in West Bengal, Andhra and Punjab also featured. Snatching of arms in West Bengal was a frequent event. After the fall of the coalition government they are now having President’s rule. All the O Cs of Birbhum have been transferred. Atin always thought that their strongest bases were in Birbhum and Medinipur. Kanu Sanyal, Asim, Santosh featured in the news from time to time, but no mention of Manikda or Kaushik. He scanned the pages for their names.

Yesterday the unusual news made headlines in all the American newspapers: China's invitation to President Nixon, Henry Kissinger had made a secret trip to Pakistan. Contact with China has been made through Pakistan. So that explains the Kissinger-Nixon weakness for Pakistan.

It did not make sense to Atin. China's declared number one enemy of the exploited class; they have invited the United States of America. Mao tse Tung was to greet him warmly? Chou en Lai had already made a statement that the world's problems are to be solved in a peaceful manner.

Peaceful way indeed! Has Chou en Lai turned into a Gandhi follower overnight?

Atin decided to return home instead of working late at the lab. There was a chilly breeze outside, it might rain in the night. The weather of the seaside towns are so unpredictable. He bought brown bread, butter and salami to save the trouble of going out for dinner. This will do very well. As part of his economy drive he has stopped buying alcoholic beverages. He had stopped taking driving lessons too. What was the use of buying a car? The cycle takes him to places. Actually he wanted a car for the sake of Sharmila. He has gone without a rice meal for one week, a fact that would have shocked mother. Atin had always been addicted to rice, even when he was sick. No matter how late he came back home at night, mother would always heat up the rice for him.

He is a fairly good cook now. His first lessons in cooking were in Siliguri, under Manikda. In the New York apartment of Siddhartha, Atin was in charge of cooking. He had cooked salmon curry for Sharmila. Everything is available here. The masoor dal tastes wonderful, only it is known as lentil here. The brinjals and cauliflower are quite big. Again brinjal is eggplant here. Dahi is not curd but yogurt.

He feels no urge to cook just for himself. He must invite Steve on some holiday, Steve wanted to taste Indian food.

A muffler or a scarf would have helped to protect him against the cold blast. Atin decided to walk with the cycle, that way he felt less cold. Pretty soon Judy was seen coming towards him carrying two huge bags, must be a week's grocery.

Hi Judy, May I carry your bag? Asked Atin.

I wouldn't mind if you carry one, said Judy promptly.

Hitching both the bags to his cycle handles Atin said, let me reach you home.

It is not very far really. I hope I am not keeping you.

Atin shook his head. Looks like it is going to rain, he said.

I love it, the sound of rain at night.

This was surprising. Americans in general do not like rain. They love the sun.

It is rainy season in your country now. Don't you like rain, being an Indian? I was born in Indonesia. My dad was posted there. I have seen a lot of rain.

In my country you don't catch a cold if you get wet in the rain.

Oh yes, Judy seemed to remember. You had a running nose this morning.

Atin felt alarmed. It was not right to keep Judy company in his present state. He should not have touched her bag. It had not occurred to him.

What have you taken for your cold?

Is there any cure for cold?

That is right. But have you tried grog?

Tried what?

It is a concoction. Two years ago when I was in France I had caught a bad cold. Grog was very helpful. How easily these people talk about different parts of the world. Born in Indonesia, been to France, she had also spent some time in South America. The world is their oyster.

They reached the lane where Judy lived in the second floor of a three-storied house. Atin put down the bags on the porch. She will have to make two trips to take them up.

Good night Judy, see you tomorrow. Atin turned to leave.

If you are not busy you can come up. I will make you some grog.

Atin felt grateful for the invitation, she asked him in spite of the cold.

He locked his cycle and carried both the bags upstairs. Like him, Judy too lived in an attic. But she was much more disorganised. Under-wears were scattered over the bed, books lay scattered about, the room had a strong female smell.

Briskly Judy cleaned up the room, her towering figure almost touching the ceiling. Please sit, Atin. It has been a long time since I have had a visitor. You may smoke. Use this saucer as an ash tray.

Atin sat on the only easy chair in the room, clearing the books, which lay heaped on its seat. A large window occupied most of the wall space, there were paintings stuck on the other walls. Atin could recognise Van Gogh's Sunflower.

Judy brought out a bottle of Jamaican rum. Are you used to alcohol? She asked.

Yes, replied Atin.

In that case let me teach you how to make grog.

She poured some rum in a saucepan, put several spoonfuls of sugar, added some black pepper and water, then let the mixture come to a boil. Just after it was brought to boil she took it off the stove, poured the liquid in a glass and said, sip it slowly, you must take it hot.

With the first sip a thin smile twisted Atin's lips. This tasted like the mixture ma used to make. The idea seemed to be the same, have something hot and sweet.

But he could not mention this to Judy. Women in this country are very sensitive to age.

So he just said, this is wonderful, I like it.

You must make it often, good for your cough.

Do you like Jamaican rum?

Actually I am not fond of hard drinks at all. But I keep rum and brandy for cooking. Cooking is my hobby, it is a kind of chemistry, isn't it? Why don't you have dinner with me Atin?

But I have already bought some food.

Keep it in the fridge. Let me start cooking. You can talk to me of India while I cook. She noticed that Atin was perspiring, the effect of the grog. See, it is already working, she told Atin. Let me give you something. No, don't use your hanky.

She soaked a towel in hot water and wiped Atin's face very carefully. This was beyond his wildest dreams. He did not even know her very well. Her large thigh brushed his arm, her breasts touched his head. He closed his eyes in contentment.

Judy soaked the towel again and repeated the procedure. You must do this at least twice every day, it will clear your nose. She said.

Atin remembered the rules of dating which Siddhartha was never tired of telling him . . . You must know the dos and don'ts of dating. You can ask for a date on phone, take your date to a film show or a restaurant but don't start making advances on the very first day. If she asks to be taken home and says good bye from the door then you must leave promptly. But if she lingers instead of saying good night it means she is indulgent. You will kiss her; on the lips but only once. Watch her reaction. If after the kiss she asks you to go up to her room for a drink or coffee what does that mean? Don't stare at me you stupid oaf, it means you have to make full use of the bed room.

Well, this was not a date, they had met on the road by chance. Judy has asked him in, the door is closed, does it have any other meaning? Can't there be any other relation with women except sex?

True he wanted to take Judy in his arms but somehow it was not a strong enough urge. He could not bring himself to touching any other girl except Sharmila, however mad he may feel towards her.

He spent one and a half hours in the room, had another glass of grog, had a dinner of wild rice and minced meat and chatted. Judy was absolutely normal, even when she pulled him to the kitchen, no obvious sex play in her ways.

It was dark in the stairs as Judy came down to see him to the door. She patted him on the shoulder. Feeling much better, aren't you?

On an impulse Atin put his arms round her. Thank you Judy, thank you for everything, he whispered.

Judy did not push his hands away, nor was there any expectation of a kiss. She grinned sweetly. There was no other desire in this embrace except strengthening the bonds of friendship.

Out in the street Atin felt cheerful, he has not felt this good in a long time.

29

MAMUN was at work, writing an article for the newspaper. The deadline was tomorrow. Santosh Kumar Ghosh wanted a long article on the background of the language movement of 1952. Born in East Bengal, Ghosh could vividly describe each mahakuma and street as though he was just coming from there. His knowledge of history too was staggering. He had pointed out two mistakes though of a minor nature in the last article of Mamun.

So he took no chance. Mamun brought two reference books from the temporary address of Mujibnagar in Theatre Road. But he found it difficult to concentrate.

He was obliged to write on the bed since there was no other furniture in the room except two cots. Monju and Hena, listening to Akasvani and the Voice of Free Bangla on the radio by turn occupied the other. There was nothing else for them to do; Mamun could not possibly ask them to switch it off. Sometimes Monju frets to return to Dhaka but she knew that under the circumstances they couldn't. Mamun had to make up a story of meeting two people just come from Dhaka from whom he has learnt that Babul Choudhury was alive and well.

One particular song rang a bell, the familiar Ekusey February written by Abdul Gaffar Choudhury. It can be used in his article on the language movement. Mamun did not recall the words but he quickly jotted down the last two stanzas.

Their dirty kicks are aimed all over Bengal

They don't belong

They are selling out the land

They have taken away food, clothing, and peace of the masses

Ekusey February, Ekusey February.

It is time you wake up, Ekusey February

Our brave sons and brave women die in the prisons of the tyrant

The souls of my martyr brothers send a call to you

Let the latent power of the people flare up in field and market places February is seething with intense anger

Ekusey February, Ekusey February

How can I ever forget you . . .

When Gaffar was in second year of college, recalled Mamun, he had written this poem at the bedside of an injured student in Dhaka Medical College hospital. The student was shot. It was a long time ago, Pakistan was just five years old, but the youth of Bengal were sceptical about them. They don't belong. Mamun, in jail was bitter about the ruling class, though the idea of breaking up Pakistan did not even occur in his dreams. Who is set to dismember Pakistan now — Sheikh Mujib? The rebel Bengali youth? Or the tyrant army rulers of the West? Hena shouted, breaking into his reverie. Abbu, The Ultimatum.

This was the name of a popular radio feature. Mamun never missed it. Though the name of the speaker was not divulged, even Monju and Hena recognised the voice. It was M.R. Akhtar Mukul, their co-traveler on the way to India. He was full of high spirits and could keep a roomful of people entertained even in these difficult times.

The voice on the radio went on in east Bengal dialect, using choice slang words some of which even Mamun could not follow. ". . . It is happening just the way I thought . . . The game is hotting up as the kicks and blows from the Mukti Bahini chaps are gaining momentum. Meanwhile lots of things under Tikka — Niazi are tumbling down. The best soldiers of their three divisions have gone off to sleep in the muddy fields of Bengal. Whoever is sent, from Northern Rangers, Gilgit Scout, Lahore Rangers, armed police from West Pakistan — fall sprawling on the ground. These days the fellows do not even scream. They do not have the time, they have breathed their last. And the fun in the areas under Bangladesh rule, do you want to hear? If the intruding soldiers board a train they are greeted by dynamite, hand grenades are waiting for them in the towns, mines in the streets, risk of drowning in the water. This has been going on for the last four months. Tikka and Niazi after calculating profit and loss had fainted. What is to be done now . . .

After losing two and a half division soldiers now Yahya Khan is blowing hot and cold, war with India, he yells. Let India occupy an inch of land in Bangladesh, I will teach them a lesson. Let the whole world know that I have declared war against India. I am not alone, Mamu is with me, Chacha is with me . . ."

The way the programme went on, it was both amusing and reassuring. Mukti Bahini is on the way to victory. But how much longer must one wait? Mamun turned to his article. Soon the talk ended to be followed by the song 'sonar Bangla ami tomay bhalobasi.’ I love you golden Bengal. Monju joined in.

There was a knock on the door. It was not locked. Sukhu ran to open it. Mamun bhai can I come in? Asked a voice from outside. I am Saukat.

Is that you, Saukat Osman saheb? Mamun was flustered. Please come in, come in.

The man peeped in. No, sir, I am Mir Saukat Ali. Got your address from Kamrul Hassan Saheb.

It all came back to Mamun. Mir Saukat Ali was his private secretary during his editorial days in Dinkaal. After Mamun lost his job, Saukat too lost his and went back to Chittagong. But instead of feeling happy Mamun was annoyed. How was he going to finish the article?

Usually he did not encourage visitors, the reason being lack of space. When somebody dropped in, Monju and Hena had no other option but to go to the kitchen. They could not possibly come in front of outsiders.

With obvious displeasure Mamun greeted the visitor. How are you Saukat? Come in.

I have a gentleman with me, Palash Bhaduri as guide.

Now Mamun could not ignore them. The other visitor was a handsome Hindu. Do come in, no no you don't have to take off your shoes. There is no chair, you have to sit on the bed. He turned to the girls who had switched off the radio and turned their back to the visitors. How about making some tea for the guests. It was a clear signal for them to leave the room.

Mamun bhai, I have crossed the border three days ago. Saukat informed Mamun. These days this was the most important identity. Other expatriates would flock to the new comer for the latest news. But Mamun showed no enthusiasm. The thought of finishing his article was uppermost in his mind. All in good time, he said. Have a seat first.

Palash, of the same age as Saukat, in trousers and a Hawai shirt, sporting a french-cut beard did a namaskar. Mamun Saheb, you have not recognised me. His eyes sparkled with amusement. I had no idea that you were here. Even the chit Saukat gave me had your proper name on it, I did not know that. Then he looked at Hena and asked, This must be your daughter. How she has grown. Next he looked at Monju, How are you Monju? Monju stared at him for a moment then rushed out of the room.

She has not recognised me, smiled Palash, Let me remind you Mamun Saheb, I had visited Dhaka with a friend, Shaheed, that was before sixty five . . .

The tears Monju had shed for these two boys, the awakening of womanhood in a teenage girl, now accompanied the flash of recognition.

Oh now it comes back. So you are Palash, son of Suranjan Bhaduri. You look quite different. Where is Shaheed now?

In North Bengal, looking after their tea estate. He will be coming down next week. I will phone him tomorrow. What a wonderful time we had at your sister's place, the singing sessions.

Mamun went in the kitchen to fetch Monju. You couldn't recognise the fellow you were pining for, Palash, remember?

It was no surprise to her. She recognised him but felt too bashful to appear before him. Mamun had to drag her to the other room.

So, now you are married and clean forgotten us? Palash spoke quite normally . . . Is this your son? Very lovely.

Palashdada is a famous singer now, informed Saukat. I met him day before yesterday in a musical function. I have heard his records back home.

Monju sings wonderfully too. Said Palash. Don't you have records, Monju?

Monju looked down. Mamun answered for her, she left singing after marriage.

We listened to someone singing as we were coming up. Who was it? Asked Saukat.

Why doesn't she perform in any of the shows for Bangladesh, there are so many these days. Said Palash. I have a programme at eight thirty, at Park Circus maidan, would you like to come? Monju shook her head and ran in to bring the tea. Now Mamun shifted his attention to Saukat, keen to hear the news . . .

What Saukat related was the usual story of burning villages and other atrocities by the military, watching dear ones being killed. But Saukat had more to say. He said, Mamun bhai, I met Altaaf at Agartala. He is a commander of the Mukti Fauz now . . .

What? Mamun got a jolt. — Altaaf? Which Altaaf?

The General Manager of our office. Monju bhabi's brother in law, her husband's brother.

This was news. The Altaaf Mamun knew had fled to Germany after a short stint in jail for his revolutionary activities, he came back a fun loving, happy go lucky creature. In the hotel and newspaper business he had become a sycophant of his uncle Hossain saheb, a blind follower of the Pakistani regime during Ayyub Khan's time — that Altaaf now swearing in the name of Mujib, opting for the risky life of the Mukti Bahini?

He has made a name you know, added Saukat, after a couple of successful encounters. He put his hand in his sling bag and brought out a letter. Altaaf had asked me to hand this over to you. The message is urgent and secret.

Quickly Mamun tore open the envelope and glanced through the letter. He went over it again and again. To Monju who was looking on expectantly he said, 'It is top secret. Please convey to the government of Mujibnagar that I will be there tomorrow.’ He folded the letter and put it in his pocket.

His duty done, Saukat now turned to Palash. I hope you are not getting late for your show, Palashdada. What is the time? I had to sell my watch.

Twenty minutes still, answered Palash, consulting his watch. Aren't you coming Monju? We will make Saukat sing too.

The proposal delighted Hena. Poor girl, they were always cloistered in the house. Let us go, Abbu, she pleaded.

Yes, Mamun bhai, you must come along, invited Saukat.

Monju blushed furiously. But she would not go with the two young men unless escorted by Mamun. Mamun was in a dilemma. He had a deadline to keep.

Sorry, I have work to do. You go ahead. Get ready, Monju. He said.

Demure yet willing, Monju said, Let Hena go. I can't.

Oh come on, insisted Palash. All right I won't ask you to sing. Now that I have found you, do you think I will let you go so easily. Shaheed would join us soon. You can't be observing purda here in Calcutta, can you?

Nice place, Calcutta, said Saukat. This was his first visit. You know people listen to musical evenings till ten at night. Some functions go on throughout the night, corrected Palash. This is summer now so whole night programmes aren't possible.

We had no activity in Dhaka in the evening, thanks to martial law and curfew, said Mamun. But Calcutta fortunately is free from such hazards.

Well, not quite, the Naxals are there, said Palash. Still people are fond of music. But Monju, we have to rush now.

You had met Altaaf bhaiya, Monju asked Saukat. Did he say anything about his brother?

Saukat glanced at Mamun for a second then replied, No, he didn't. As far as I know he is still in Dhaka.

Palash did not give Monju any time to dress up. They left taking Sukhu along. Mamun saw them off from the door.

Now he was free to finish his writing at last. But Mamun kept standing, his mind in a whirl. He was not destined to spend even a single day of his exile in peace. With Palash a special memory of Monju's maiden days should have exalted him but he felt no thrill. Having brought Monju with him and having no news of Babul weighed heavily on him. He was not sure if it was right to let her be friendly with Palash and Shaheed. The reason he allowed them to go out was he was a bad actor. Saukat has brought bad tidings.

He went through the letter again. For the last one and a half-month there is no news of his brother, Altaaf has written. The last news was he was badly wounded by gun shot from the army. Sirajul’s wife Monira has been taken away from their home. Even their neighbour Jehanara Begum had no news of Babul. In all likelihood he has been confined to army barracks. May be he has fled to India, but if he has Mamun would know better.

Army barrack! Muttered Mamun.

People taken to army barracks never return. If in the unlikely possibility of his escape to India, a country he disliked, he should have found out the whereabouts of Mamun and returned to his wife and child, the way Saukat has done.

What was he to tell Monju? Tearing the letter to pieces he threw it out of the window. His heart felt heavy with an unspoken sadness.

30

IT was beyond Harit as to why the police spared him their usual treatment. He knew for sure that his aging bones would not be able to stand the bashing. That would be the end of him. But to his utter surprise what he faced were questions for hours on end. The cross-examination was kind of funny. It was as though they knew everything but wanted to hear them from Harit.

What happened at Chandra's ashram was quite puzzling too. In spite of the time gap and his disguise one of the police people called him by the name. But strangely this was not followed by handcuffs or beating. On the contrary he was polite. Please wait, Haritbabu, we want to talk to you, the officer had said.

The first thing they did was to comb the ashram for Naxals. As far as Harit knew the police hardly ever make mistakes; they would find what they were looking for. All the time Chandra did not leave her seat and sat with a deadpan face. Only when the police returned empty handed did she taunt them. Did you search the cow shed? Go and look, only be careful the Bhagalpuri cow is rather wild, it might kick.

The police did go to the cow shed. They did not find anything there. Unlike Chandra, Asamanjo was nervous and followed the police about with a pale face. When no incriminating object was found he got back his confidence and snapped at the police. This is harassment for no reason at all . . . I am going to complain to the Police Commissioner, write to the papers . . .

Keep quiet Asamonjo, Chandra gestured him to stop. They were just doing their duty. She looked at the two officers. So you admit that you were wrong. You deserve some punishment. But I am not going to the press or complain. I just want the two of you to hold your ears and stand up and sit down five times.

As he watched this, Harit's eyes were about to pop off. To ask the police to box their own ears! The height of courage! Did this woman have some supernatural power, she seemed to have a halo round her.

The SB officer Amarendra Das Gupta scratched his head, embarrassed. Can you think of some other punishment? But before that may I ask you a few questions?

You have wasted enough of our time already, said Asamonjo angrily. No more questions. We have important work to do.

Vinayak Choudhury said apologetically, We are really sorry. Just five minutes more. Mr. Das Gupta, would you begin please?

Das Gupta flipped through the pages of his notebook and began, What is the name, the super of your ashram? Oh yes, Kumudini Saha. Where is she now?

Chandra exchanged glances with Asamonjo before speaking. Yes, she used to work here. She has left.

What do you mean, left? Left her job? Or gone home on vacation?

Nobody works for a salary here, so no question of leaving her job. I do not know if she has a home. She may not have liked it here, the inmates used to tease her, called her a tigress. Perhaps she has joined some other ashram. Perhaps. You do not know for sure?

No, I do not.

You had gone to Naihati a couple of days ago, is that right?

Do I have to account for all my movements?

We are just asking for some information. Where exactly did you go in Naihati?

We are opening another ashram there in a house donated by somebody. I had gone to supervise.

Another branch of your Pramila Ashram at Naihati, is that it? The inmates here are destitute women. Who would be living there?

Destitute women. There are some already.

Would you challenge me if I tell you that instead of destitute woman that centre in Naihati is housing wounded Naxals? Two of them were branded criminals, lumpen proletariat in current language. You went there with a doctor day before yesterday.

Binayak Choudhury looked at his wristwatch, Please wind up. Five minutes are over.

Das Gupta brought the notebook close to his eyes. Two revolvers, twenty one bombs, three pipe-guns, three prison uniforms, the pass book of Chandra Devi's bank account at Naihati — all recovered from the ashram there. About five of the escaped prisoners from Dumdum jail were there, two have been caught.

He turned to Harit quickly. Your son Sucharit was there too, he has escaped but we will nab him.

Turning to Chandra he continued. You had sent Kumudini Saha to run that Naxal ashram. I must say she lived up to her nickname tigress. Resisted till the last. She too is in our custody, in the van outside. So you see Chandra Devi, we were not mistaken. Please get ready, you have to come with us.

What nonsense is this? Bellowed Asamonjo. How dare you take her, she is a holy person, spiritual leader of so many devotees. Let me get a lawyer first.

We can arrest without the presence of a lawyer, said Vinayak Choudhury. It is no use shouting.

Tell me Asamonjo babu, asked Das Gupta. You are a Reader of the Calcutta University, one of the trustees of this ashram. Does your trust deed mention the Naihati ashram too? What I mean is, is it your responsibility as well?

No, no, I have nothing to do with the Naihati ashram, protested Asamonjo, all blood drained from his face. In fact I was not even told of it.

Then we have nothing against you. Since we have not found any incriminating objects here, the ashram will run as usual. We entered after your prayers were over and devotees had left. We do not want any bad publicity. Only Chandra devi will be absent. To Chandra whose eyes were fixed on the wall opposite he said, Chandra devi you may take some change of clothes if you want.

Slowly Chandra faced him. You may be in the police force but you belong to this country, don't you? Where is your conscience, you are shooting idealist revolutionary young men as if they are common criminals.

Shut up, roared Choudhury in an unusually high-pitched voice. None of your silly lectures! You are brain washing these kids, talking of false idealism. They are getting killed for nothing.

Undaunted, Chandra went on coldly. You have shot an innocent young man in Naihati, Nisith Sarkar, he was the only child of his widowed mother.

And what about the Congress and CPM boys your people are killing. They could also be only sons of widowed mothers.

Common criminals are trying to pass off as Naxals, using the situation to their advantage, said Das Gupta. This Harit babu here, his son has committed at least three murders. He was the hired goonda of a Congress leader, now turned into a Naxal. What kind of revolution can you have by killing college professors, can you tell us, Asamonjo babu?

I have nothing to do with politics, said Asamonjo hurriedly. I still think you are making a mistake. Chandra never . . . had the arms you have recovered at the Naihati ashram, it could have been hidden there by the Bangladeshi Mukti Bahinin people.

Mukti Bahini at Naihati? Don't make me laugh. Get going Chandra Devi.

Both Chandra and Harit were taken into the same van but they sat far apart. That was the last Harit had seen of Chandra.

It was never mentioned that there was a ban on Harit's entry to West Bengal. They were only interested in Sucharit. The police knew about the movements of Harit ever since he visited Anandamohan in Mohanbagan Lane. Why did he visit the Bongaon border? Was it to meet his son? Has he crossed over to the other side? The Kasipur refugee colony was searched but Sucharit was not there. Harit must have conspired with Chandra to keep him hidden. Where was the place?

They kept hammering on the same thing. That Das Gupta never lost temper. He kept a smiling face. Why don't you understand this Haritbabu. Your son would be safe in police custody but if he is out he is bound to be killed. He has been involved in the murder of a Congress heavy weight, he can never escape the Congress boys out to take revenge . . .

The irony of it was that Harit had to listen to the life history of his son from the police, the son Parulbala had hoped would become a judge or a magistrate some day.

A week later Harit was put on a covered police car already occupied by two prisoners in their early twenties, hands and feet bound in chains. They looked dazed, result of physical torture. Harit was surprised that he was spared this, perhaps due to his sadhu costume. It was late afternoon. The car sped towards the countryside. Presently a storm broke, rain leaked from the ceiling. The two constables covered in rain-coat smoked. Starved of smoking in the jail Harit pined for a puff.

Jai Baba Kalachand. Jai Shankar. Sepahiji please can I say something? He made an appeal.

One of the constables snapped. Shut up.

Harit did not give up. Byom Bholanath. Byom Sankar. Sepahiji I am a poor sadhu. They locked me up by mistake. But I must admit they have taken good care of me. May God bless you, may your children prosper.

He raised his hand in the gesture of giving a blessing. He wished he had procured a sacred thread from somewhere. That would have made the blessing more authentic.

The older man instinctively folded his hands. Taking advantage of his weakness, Harit said, Can I take a few puffs, son? God will reward you, your son will get a job in the police, your daughter will be married to a daroga.

Amused at his eloquence, the older man offered his own cigarette to Harit. The first greedy puff was followed by strong bouts of coughing. In spite of the misery a smoke after all was a delight to an addict.

The other two prisoners moved. Their iron chains clattered prompting a poke of the butt of a rifle. What is the matter? Snarled the young constable. A flash of lightning was followed by thunder.

If only the boys were not tied up, thought Harit, we could have tried to overpower the constables and make an attempt to escape. But the boys seemed to have lost all zest for living. Instead of a sharp reaction all they do is just whine like injured animals.

The car pulled up at the Basirhat police station. Das Gupta was already there, waiting with a tea cup in hand. He ordered the chained boys to be taken away. Come Haritbabu, he spoke the way one receives an honoured guest. Have some tea. You there, bring a chair for him.

Wonder of wonders. Harit was given a seat next to the big officer, was offered a cup of hot steaming tea. How about a cigarette, said Das Gupta. Then he began in a nostalgic tone, Do you know something. I too come from the other side, Khulna. You used to build clay images, didn't you? In our Khulna home we had Durga Puja in a grand scale. The potter, Sristidhar his name was, what a wonderful artist, the image of the goddess was perfect, what eyes, like real. Famous, our image was, all over the land. You know Sristidhar looked somewhat like you. God knows where he is now, in some refugee camp may be.

Harit was too clever to be taken in by such diversions. Why did you bring me so far, sir? Is this the place to hang people?

Startled, Das Gupta said, Hang? Who said you would be hanged? Besides that is a matter of the court. Our job is to investigate. Why did it occur to you? In the prison they were talking of a kind of hanging. Release one from the car then shoot from the back. Clean job. No judge, no magistrate.

Angry, Das Gupta bellowed. What nonsense. Who has told you such lies. I want the names.

How do I know the names, sir? It was too dark even to recognise the faces. I saw some open fields from the car. Would you do me a favour sir? After my death please inform my adopted son, actually my adopted grandson but he calls me baba, Naba by name. Lives in Kasipur Netaji colony.

Haritbabu, would you stop this useless talk? How does the question of your death arise? Have you been tortured yet? I myself come from East Bengal I have strong sympathy for the refugees. The government is trying its level best but the streams of refugees keep staying, and now a fresh flood of them from East Pakistan.

But you did not tell why I was brought so far.

There is a little job for you. Then you are free to go.

Little job? What kind of job?

Drink your tea first. You are soaking wet. Why did you leave your son in Calcutta, Haritbabu? He could have been a real help to you in Dandakaranya. I am sorry to say most of the boys of the refugee colonies around Calcutta are getting mixed up in politics or turning into criminals.

You are from my part of the country as you said yourself. I hope your children are doing well, if I may ask?

Presently the two chained prisoners were brought and pushed into the car, blood oozing out of their nostrils.

Das Gupta went up and asked, They didn't identify, did they? I knew it. Turning to Harit he said, It is your turn now.

Somebody held an umbrella over the head of the officer. Das Gupta drew Harit under the cover. Not used to such good gestures, Harit was scared to death. What is this man up to? Would he kill the father for the crime of his son? Come what may, let him smoke his last good cigarette. He asked for one.

They paused in front of a tin shack. You will get a rude shock by what we are going to show you. I am sorry, but part of our job. Das Gupta told Harit.

In the dim light inside the room a covered body could be seen lying on a stack of hay. A foul smell hung in the air, rats scuttled away screeching. As a constable flipped open the cover Harit exposed to a lot in his life broke into cold swear. From the chest to the stomach of the naked body was chopped and eaten away by mice. Only the face with a hairy head was intact. He looked in his late twenties.

Das Gupta, put a handkerchief in his nose and remarked, the left sole is crooked, he used to limp, was known as langra. Can you find any birthmark? I told you, if he had courted arrest he would have lived. This is a dangerous game, nobody survives. Harit took a few seconds to make up his mind. Then he flung himself on the dead body, wailing. Bhulu, my pet. Is this what fate had in store for us? What am I going to tell your mother, tell me Bhulu. She had all her hopes pinned on you, Bhulu, O Bhulu.

One constable dragged him away by the shoulder. Das Gupta told an associate, Please make a note, he was also known as Bhulu. Let this gentleman cry, after all he is seeing his son after a long time.

The wailing went on. What am I going to tell your mother, Bhulu o my Bhulu. How could you be so cruel. You did not think of her at all? We were hoping you would be educated and bring us good times . . .

After a while Das Gupta asked him. So you are sure this is your son Sucharit? Any other identity mark or birth mark?

Though Harit did not know the meaning of such English words as identity or birthmark, he guessed and pointed to a spot on the nose. Those very eyes, the nose, who has done this to my Bhulu, tell me sir? Not the police, but who?

Never mind, said Das Gupta. The body will go for postmortem. You can get in touch with me in our Lord Sinha Road office for cremation tomorrow or the day after. You may go now, Haritbabu you are free.

He was asked to give his thumb impression on an already prepared report. Harit obliged even though he was literate. The police officer left in the van, leaving Harit to himself. Harit walked on in the rain till he came to an open spot. He threw up his hands and shouted, Jai Baba Kalachand, you are indeed great. Kalachand has been kind to him, he was spared being beaten up by the police and a prolonged stint in jail. Due to the kindness of Kalachand his son was still living. That body of a young man, obviously from a good family belonged to somebody else.

His acting had been real convincing. His face was still streaked with tears.

31

IT was a holiday today, Atin decided to stay indoors, he would not even budge out of his room. He had no place to go to. Let him face himself for a change.

He lingered in bed. He could get the newspaper downstairs but what was the use. What difference would it make if he did not read the newspaper. The post-man delivers letter early in the morning. All the foreign students rushed to open the letter box the first thing in the morning. But Atin has already got his mother's letter this week. He was not expecting any important letter just now. So he stayed put. At nine-thirty he got out of bed. He slept without any clothes. Since he was not going out of the room there was no reason to put on clothes for nothing and in this sticky heat too. The room has a heating system but nothing to take care of the hot weather. Who would have thought that summer can be so intense in the white man's land.

He rushed through breakfast and sat down to study. He has been studying like mad. He must shut off his friends, even Oli or Sharmila from his mind. Get over with his degree then flee this country. But first he must go as far as possible from Boston.

He ran from one corner of the room to the other, book in hand, this helped him to memorise plus it was good exercise. Soon he began to perspire. Now time for a ten-minute recess. He flopped on the bed; the sheet has not been washed for quite some time. Sharmila would have flung it off the bed. But no, she will never step into this room again.

She must have come to know of Oli somehow. Standing on the bridge it must have occurred to her suddenly. Atin has been unfair to Oli. This is the punishment he deserves. Now both Oli and Sharmila have gone out of his life. Let it be. He does not need any of them.

At times he is gripped by depression. Of what use is his life? He has been committing mistakes one after the other. Does life have any meaning? Yet, death always gives him a wide berth. A car had hit his cycle that day, enough to get him killed but he escaped.

Still wet from perspiration, he opened one window hoping to get some breeze. Only the upper part of his body would be visible. Sharp sunlight stung him like a sword. The window overlooked the back garden of a house where a young woman reclined in a deck chair, trying desperately to acquire a tan. She wore just a panty; her body profusely bathed in cream resembled an oil painting.

Atin looked through her, still acutely depressed. What have I done with my life? He could not get rid of this nagging feeling. He was to change the social system but all he has done is to break away from the family, killing one man. But no, he did not kill him. It was death, which would never come near Atin, that hand of death was the killer, Atin was only instrumental. How could he aim correctly, he had never fired a shot in his life. He had also bashed him up with a rod, all the time thinking of avenging the death of Manikda. He thought Manikda was dead. But why hasn't he written, even Kaushik, his best friend — have they all forgotten him?

The girl sun bathing in the garden stood up, revealing her naked upper torso. She drew the chair under the shade of a pear tree. She seemed totally unconcerned about onlookers. These people are fond of showing off their body. Atin could not help notice that her breasts were fairer than the rest of her body.

Somebody tapped on the door. At first Atin was overcome by a sense of guilt as though caught in the act of stealing. Quickly he drew the curtain. Who is it? He asked trying to get into some clothes.

Somen. You have a phone. Said the voice from outside.

I will be down in a second. Ask the caller to hold on.

Stuffing his shirt in the trousers Atin rushed down the stairs to find Abid Hossain alone in the living room, sitting morosely. For quite some time he has had no news from home. As Atin picked up the receiver, the voice on the other end sent a cold shiver down his spine. Sharmila? Could it really be Sharmila?

Sorry Bablu. Did I disturb you? Her voice was cool.

Not really. Atin was indifferent.

I have misplaced a key. Could you help me out?

Key? What key? Asked Atin.

I keep losing keys. This one is of the college file-cabinet. There are some important papers . . .

What can I do?

Have I left it in your room by chance? Did you find a key when you vacuum cleaned?

Atin did not vacuum clean his room after his last meeting with her. But he did not notice any key lying on the floor.

No, I didn't.

Would you please look into your wardrobe?

OK, I will.

Bablu, I must open the cabinet to-morrow, it is related to some work I must submit to-morrow. Would you go and look, please, I am holding.

All right, hold on.

Abid Hossain said glumly, I have booked a call, it might come any moment.

They will intercept, if it comes through, said Atin and rushed upstairs. There was a bitter taste in his mouth. After all these days Sharmila called to talk about a lost key? How artificial and polite she sounded.

He searched the wardrobe thoroughly though he knew the key would not be there. True, she used to hang her handbag in here. Once after a complete drench she had taken off all her clothes and spread them over the room heater to dry. She had put on Atin's clothes. How far away that seems, as if events from a previous birth.

When he picked up the receiver he adopted a hard tone. No I found nothing, neither the key nor anything else.

Extremely sorry to bother you, Sharmila was apologetic. Can't find the key anywhere, I just took a chance. Thanks all the same. Do you have a cough?

Who said so? No, I don't.

You coughed a few times. Take care. Thanks for the advice. He put the receiver down. Turning to Abid Hossain he said. Haven't got your line yet? Well, don't give up. Good luck.

I will keep my window open, decided Atin to get a good view of the semi naked white woman. Delightful sight! He would also have Judy over for dinner one of these days. Judy was a nice girl, not like the usual American girls.

Before going to his room he paused before Somen's door to thank him. However bitter that telephone call had been, Somen deserved thanks. Atin has been to this country long enough to get used to the thank you culture.

He could hear the twang of guitar accompanied by singing inside the room. Obviously Somen had company, most probably his American girl friend. Atin knocked. A handsome stranger stuck out his head and said, Come in.

I want to talk to Somen, said Atin from the door.

The stranger moved back to make way for Somen. I just wanted to thank you, said Atin. But Somen dragged him inside. Come in, come in, join the party. A friend of mine has just come from London.

The room was full of smoke but not of tobacco. Apart from the handsome stranger Somen's girl friend Linda was there, her eyes bleary, has had a few puffs of ganja. Linda was an ex hippie and fanatic about India. For her India was a land of ganja, marijuana, sadhu, ascetic and spirituality.

You know Linda. Let me introduce my friend from London, said Somen. We call him Bappa, his name is Jyoti Ray, pukka saheb. This is my household mate and great scholar Atin Majumder — A real Naxalite leader from Bengal.

The way he was talking, Somen too was under the spell of ganja. But why call Atin a Naxalite leader? They never discussed their personal lives. Funny, how news spreads.

Cut it out, said Linda. Let's hear the song.

Somen picked up the guitar and resumed the Bengali folk song with Linda trying to join in. Her Bengali accent was not bad at all but the friend from England did not seem to enjoy the exercise.

The next song too was a Bengali folk, it used the symbolism of cooking dal with green pepper . . . Dail randhorey kacha morich dya, gurur kachhe louga montor birole bosia, o mon dail randhorey.

Somen paused from time to time to explain the meaning to Linda. Turning to his friend from London he threw a challenge. This pukka saheb does not understand most of the words. What is kacha morich my dear sir?

Jyoti Ray said slowly. I understand the meaning broadly. But what is kacha morich?

Green chilly. Sala, you son of a Bangaal, you don't know kancha morich! You can't make dal without it. My father was a bangaal all right, admitted Jyoti, but I hardly remember visiting that part of our country.

Linda, delighted by that song wanted to hear another. She pointed her finger to Atin. What happened to that guy? She asked. He seems to be bored to death.

Actually Atin was not listening, he wanted an excuse to leave. But he forced a smile. Oh no, Somen babu, carry on please. I do not like talking while singing.

You have a glum face my dear chap. Let me sing one meant for you. He began, Lalpaharir dese ja, rangamatir dese ja, hethay ture manaiche na go, ekkebare manaiche na go (Go to the land of the red hills and the red soil, you look out of place here, absolutely out of place.)

Even after taking his leave the song would not leave Atin. He burst into tears in his room. The lines kept haunting him, you are out of place here, absolutely out of place.

In spite of Linda's persuasion Atin had refused to take ganja but he had to take some of the food Somen had cooked, particularly fish dishes made in honour of the friend from London. Shad was the American version of the Indian ilish, Atin did not relish it at all, ilish always reminded him of his father, he was very fond of ilish. Sometimes he brought ilish in the evening to the great annoyance of Ma. When Atin refused it Baba would be hurt. Now looking back he can realise Baba's sentiments. Finally Baba was obliged to buy only telapia because that was the only fish he could afford.

Memories crowded in. Their Calcutta home does not have a fridge even now although Atin enjoys a common one and one of his own. He keeps thinking of sending mother money to buy a fridge, it should not cost more than four or five hundred dollars He was still finding it difficult to make both ends meet . . . Dada had said he would buy mother an all wave radio once he starts working. He did not live to keep his promise. But what had Atin given his parents? Even Phuldi with her meagre allowance of a house surgeon had bought a radio for the family. No, Atin must send at least one hundred dollars at any cost.

Somen's friend had also opened floodgates. He kept looking Atin in a curious way then asked — where have I seen you before?

Atin froze. This chap must be from north Bengal and would rake up the unpleasant past. He answered stiffly, I was in London for some time, but I don't think we have met before.

Jyoti Ray shook his head. No, not in London. Much earlier. I never forget a face but can't spot you.

Trying to avoid him, Atin moved away from Jyoti Ray. Tall and sturdy, he looked a couple of years older than him. He had sharp eyes and already thinning hair. But Jyoti came up to him again. Let me try again, he said. Did you ever live in a small town in Bihar, Deoghar or Vaidyanathdham, where a relation of yours ran a music school?

Now it came back. He saw a stubborn young teenager through the pukka saheb. Bappa. Bulamasi's son in Deoghar. During a puja holiday they got quite friendly with Bappa though he was closer to Dada, even in that age he used to sing English songs. Watching recognition dawn on Atin's face, Jyoti was jubilant. You see I don't forget faces. That was a long time ago. You used to recite poetry. I remember one particular incident, we had a fight and I punched your nose.

That was my brother.

Is that so? Yes of course, you were two brothers. The likeness is remarkable. You know the fault was mine. I was very impulsive those days. Where is your brother now? In India? When you write to him next please tell him that Jyoti Ray is sincerely sorry, do convey my apologies to him.

Back in his room, Atin went over their Deoghar days. How wonderful life used to be! Yes Dada did have a fight with Bappa once, Dada was not the aggressive type, they had made up soon enough. But nobody had ever told Atin that he looked like his brother.

His decision to concentrate on his studies forgotten, Atin felt nostalgic even tearful. You are out of place here, absolutely out of place — the lines kept haunting him.

His eyes were suddenly caught by something on the table. The keys. Was it by an act of magic? It has been lying here for the last two weeks and he had not noticed it. Perhaps it got under some book or something, there could be no other explanation.

He picked up the key and wondered about the next course of action. Should he call Sharmila and ask her to come over? No, that was out of the question, after the formal tone adopted by her on the phone. Besides she would not believe his story that he did not find it earlier.

The best alternative would be to put the key in an envelope and post it. This was an usual practice here. But in that case she was not likely to get it before day after tomorrow. She needed it tomorrow. He must take it to her, at least for old time’s sake.

So another resolve was broken, that of staying indoors the whole day. He set out without his cycle. The key could be dropped in her letter- box, thus avoiding a direct encounter.

He walked slowly, taking a roundabout way. The sky was cloudy; it was going to rain. By the time he reached Pearl Street it was already dark.

As he saw three American boys and girls chatting on the porch, he stopped on his tracks. He did not want anybody to notice him dropping the key in Sharmila's letterbox. It could be reported to her.

He waited under a street lamp, smoking. Every puff brought about a bout of coughing but he could not just stand there, doing nothing. Why don't these people leave? With the return of the key his relation with Sharmila would come to an end. He has no other trace of her in his room; he had a good look. The presence of the key was indeed a miracle.

He felt rather stupid waiting there. What was the matter with him, he was out of place everywhere — in Somen's party, among fellow Indians or even Americans — even standing here like a fool. You are out of place here, absolutely out of place. The three Americans walked past him, one of them lived in the room next door to Sharmila. After waiting for a couple of minutes Atin proceeded to the rows of letterbox. In the semi darkness he could not make out which one had the name of Sharmila.

All on a sudden the door opened and Sharmila came out. She would have passed him but Atin chose that moment to turn back and she stopped.

Is that you Bablu? She exclaimed.

Holding out an envelope with the key Atin said coldly, Your key.

Genuinely surprised, Sharmila repeated, Key? What key?

Your key. You had lost it. Or have you found it already?

The change in her was swift. She almost broke down. No I haven't. It is lost.

Here you are. It was right on my table. Somehow I had missed it.

She took it without looking at Atin, but the envelope slipped and dropped. Instead of picking it up she turned to the wall and burst into tears. Please pardon me Bablu, if you can, please. I can't show my face to you again.

What kind of melodrama is this? Annoyed, Atin felt after so many days of neglect was it easy to ask for pardon?

There is no question of pardon, he said roughly. I could not find your key earlier, I am sorry for that.

Bablu, do forgive me, I have lied to you. I am spoilt, believe me, I had forgotten it, it was not intentional, sometimes things do slip from my mind.

Lie? What lie?

It is a terrible lie. I had done a great wrong and I had kept it from you. It is unpardonable.

I don't understand. What are you talking about?

You had wanted if I have had any relation with anyone else, if any other person had touched me before. I had said no, but that was a lie. The paper you had picked up on Buffalo bridge suddenly brought back everything. My god, Bablu, I had cheated you, you of all people . . .

Now it was Atin's turn to be flabbergasted. What nonsense was this. Sharmila could be stubborn, moody but never dishonest. She was not the type to cheat anybody.

I refuse to believe that you had lied to me.

My life has lost its meaning, Bablu. There was the picture of a young girl on the newspaper, when I was exactly that age, our tutor, we used to call him masterjethu, he had forced me one day to take off my frock . . . I had fainted I was so scared . . . but I am spoilt, spoilt, and to think that you had trusted me . . . Atin grabbed her hand. What are you talking about? When you were that age, hardly nine . . . something happened for which you are so . . . have you gone mad?

Sharmila struggled to set herself free. No no, don't touch me, I am not fit for you, I am wicked.

Atin took her in his arms but she was in hysterics. Keep quiet Mili, stop crying. Don't you know me well enough? What does it matter if a pervert had touched your body when you were a child, it is not worth bothering about.

You don't hate me, even after this? Asked Sharmila, her face tear stained.

It hardly matters, in fact even if it had happened when you were older it would not have mattered to me. You are absolutely pure.

I wanted to die, in fact I had thought of taking sleeping pills.

Stop it, Mili, do you have any idea how I have suffered.

Atin licked her tears, he did not care if Sumi, the puritan cousin or somebody else might find them. He was shaking all over. Both their bodies were hungry for each other.

Sumi was out. They went in and spent their time laughing and crying. Never before had they dared to make love in this room but they did today. It was a very special day.

When it was over Atin lit a cigarette and lay flat on his back . . . Perhaps this was the time to make a clean breast of his affair with Oli, he wondered. But he changed his mind. His feeling for Oli could not be put at par with that trifling incident in Sharmila's childhood. He had been unfair to Oli but he had no right to belittle her honour. No, he couldn't do it.

32

OLI was to catch a plane that night but she did not get the Reserve Bank permission before one thirty in the afternoon. All Government offices including the Passport Office believe in doing things at the last minute. More than Oli her father was worried sick.

From the bank she ran to take delivery of some clothes from the tailor's shop in Free School Street. Then there was the last minute shopping to do. Varsha was constantly with her as she ran from place to place.

She was supposed to have lunch with Babluda's family, it was late already, they must be waiting. Oli did not know if she should take Varsha long. Perhaps Mamata wanted to talk to her alone. Finally at quarter to three she asked Varsha. Would you mind coming to Babluda's place with me. They would be extremely hurt if I did not go.

Have you gone mad? To accept a lunch invitation when you should rest at home.

I have to go. Oli said. She could not possibly explain everything to Varsha.

Go ahead, but don't take more than an hour. I will be waiting at your place.

It was almost three when Oli reached there breathless and tired. She found all of them waiting, Pratap having left office early.

You look terrible. Exclaimed Mamata. Aren't you leaving tonight?

When Pratap heard the story of the bank clearance he grumbled. I do not understand these officials. A single girl, going on a long trip, the tension they have put her through.

Never mind, said Mamata. All is settled now. Come, sit down to eat first.

I do not feel like eating, masima, demurred Oli.

Mamata patted her head. Yes, I can quite understand. Just eat a little bit. I have made your favourite light jhol of koi. You won't get such fish in that country.

But as she sat down Oli found to her surprise that she was really quite hungry. Everybody watched her. Suddenly she has become the centre of attraction. Only Supriti was not home. She had been hospitalised with acute pain in the kidney. There was no other way but to undergo an operation.

So, what have you decided Oli, asked Pratap. That you will halt in London?

Intent on picking the fish bones, Oli replied, Yes, for three days with a friend of Baba's.

We have written to Tutul, said Mamata. I am sure she will come to the airport. She might force you to put up with her.

Two of the children have left, thought Pratap with a heavy heart. It is as though they are lost forever. The son is on a forced exile but why is Tutul who was so fond of her mother oblivious to her suffering?

Is it all right to tell Tutul of her mother's illness? Asked Mamata. After all, a kidney operation is not such a big deal.

Pratap was silent. So, Mamata decided on her own. It is better not to tell her. Don't tell her, Oli. Say we are all fine.

I must visit Supriti in the hospital, thought Oli. She must be expecting her. But a lot of guests were expected at home, some with gifts for their relations.

At last Pratap spoke. About six weeks ago Tutul had written that she was coming home but since then she has been strangely silent. But she has been writing regularly, protested Mamata. Must be having trouble about getting leave of absence . . .

May be. Yet people do visit their parents, don't they?

Trying to change the subject, Mamata turned to Oli. You must drop a letter from London, remember.

Actually Oli's decision to go to the United States for higher studies has pleased Mamata the most. Such a nice girl, so level headed, not hot tempered like her son. She will be able to keep him in check. Besides the yet unspoken proposal between the two families might happen finally.

When Mamata brought the dessert Oli had to refuse. But Mamata insisted. It was Munni who blurted out the real reason for making the special payesh. Today is Chorda's birthday. Don't you remember Olidi? You must go and tell him. I wonder if he remembers it himself.

The fact that after three years, Mamata was at last able to offer Oli the ceremonial birthday dessert filled her heart with happiness. Ever since he left for North Bengal, Atin has been away on his birthday. But Mamata never forgot to make payesh.

Oli too was thinking of the absentee son as she put the payesh in her mouth. So that was the significance of this day. How hurt they would have been if she had failed the appointment. She took a second helping.

Munni was the one to ask the question which was very much in the mind of the parents. Have you written to Chorda? She asked. Has he written back?

Yes, said Oli shyly. He will come to New York to receive me. I will let him know the time and flight number from London.

Let her go now, said Pratap to his wife. She has to say good bye to a lot of people.

Mamata handed her a packet. This is for you Oli. You can't say no.

Such an expensive tangyle sari! Kakima I have a lot already, let Munni have it.

It is for you and you have to wear it.

Do wear it today, insisted Munni.

Can you take a few more things for Bablu? Mamata asked hesitantly.

Yes of course. Up to twenty kg, that is a lot.

A shirt for Bablu and a bottle of ghee, he loves it with hot rice.

And I will give two cotton hankies for Chorda, a blouse piece and a pair of earrings for Phuldi, added Munni.

And some pickles and papads for Bablu and . . . Began Mamata.

Please. Interrupted Pratap. There is a limit to what she can carry. But there is a sari for Tutul, which I have to give.

That is enough, said Pratap. Their customs do not allow foodstuff.

Tutul is not fond of pickles. Said Mamata. You can give half of the ghee to her. She put her arms round Oli and said, You are going so far, all by yourself, do take care of yourself. And tell that son of mine . . . But her voice choked and she broke down. Crying is so infectious that Oli too shed copious tears though she did not know why.

Pratap had turned the other way. Now he asked Oli to hurry up. I have already told your father that I am going to the airport.

It was not possible to see Bablu off. Like a smuggled object he was sent to Bombay first. Biman Behari did not allow Pratap to go to the Howrah station lest it might draw the attention of the police. He sat patiently in the court, listening to the cases like other days.

Even today was not a good day for him, with Didi lying in the dirty general ward of the hospital. It was painful to put her there, the daughter of the Malkhanagar Majumdars, the wife of the once famous Sarkar family of Baranagar. No cabin was available and Pratap could not afford a nursing home. Supriti had made things more difficult by making him promise not to write to Tutul about her illness.

He himself had not been feeling well lately. A strange reeling in the head kept bothering him, it made him feel like lying down. He could not sleep well at night. But so far he has kept it from others.

But he decided to go to the airport nevertheless. Oli had such an air of innocence and purity about her. Pratap was very fond of her. He came out of the house with Oli. It was four already, time to visit Didi in the hospital.

Can I give you a lift, Kakababu? Asked Oli.

No, no, I will take the train from Dhakuria, much simpler. How long are you going to stay abroad, have you decided?

Two years — not one day more. You can take it from me. I will have to do Masters again but I have no intention of doing Ph.D. I'd rather go for short-term courses in publishing.

That is a good idea. Your parents depend on you. But tell Bablu that he should be in no hurry to come back. Even now the police are after the Naxals. At least for a couple of years more . . .

Tell me, Kakababu is Tutuldi's mother seriously ill? She is sure to ask me.

Pratap took a little time to answer. Then he said, the doctors said not to worry. Do what your Kakima said. Tutul should not know. Tutul had wanted to marry someone over there, do you know anything about it?

Oli shook her head. Pratap went on, Didi is hurt that Tutul took the decision without consulting us. She was a different type. Anyway she never mentions it in her letters. But I should not be keeping you, your family is waiting for you. When Oli returned she found the house full of friends, relations, friends of her father, the house wore a festive look. She could hardly talk to her friends, she was summoned by her mother. Some of the visitors were strangers to her but they all had children or brothers in the UK and the States. They had all brought packets. Oli felt quite bewildered. Where would all the stuff fit in? She was carrying just one suitcase but the piled up packets would require at least two more. The ladies were distributing advice as well. One said, Kalyani I am amazed at your courage. Sending a girl of this age without getting her married first. What if she brings along a saheb son-in-law?

Ever since Oli has come back home after taking Pompom and Kaushik to Ghatsheela, she has been lying right and left. She has lied to her mother and father. To keep her conscience clear she had been going through the lines of William Blake:

A truth told with bad intent

Is worse than all lies that you can invent.

That truth can bring about a great deal of harm she has felt herself. She had lied to Kaushik about Manikda, otherwise he would not have survived. On the train Kaushik was dressed in a sari to hide the bandages all over his body. He put the end of the sari to cover his head and face and pretended to sleep all the way. Two policemen got into the compartment at Kharagpur, one of whom recognised Oli. He had been to their house often, Oil's father had helped him in his studies. He enquired about Oli's destination. Oli coolly told him that she was taking her sick Didi to Ranchi. That worked. The policemen interrogated some other passengers but left Oli and her party alone. Oli's heart was beating like a drum but she kept a passive face. She even invited the policeman to visit them.

Telling the truth would have amounted to manslaughter. Kaushik had a revolver with him, he would have used it. That situation was saved.

She even kept it from Varsha that she had gone to Ghatsheela. That was a forbidden name. She carried with her a huge burden of secrecy. In all her dealings with so many visitors she constantly thought of Pompom and Kaushik, hoping they were safe.

She ran from floor to floor, listened demurely to Baba's friends, the very next minute she was running to her friends, listening to their jokes but nothing registered. Then a funny thing happened. A distantly related cousin of father, an aunt who hardly ever visited them made Oli touch the Gita and take a vow that she would never take beef.

This was a subject Oli had never given any thought to. Normally she was not fond of any kind of meat, probably she would not have taken beef but she disliked the fuss over not eating beef. This aunt believed that any one eating this forbidden food would bring a curse to the family, they would lose their caste.

Kalyani was too polite to protest. Even a month ago Oli would have hesitated to take such a vow but experience has now made her wiser. Truth and falsehood, right and wrong were relative, sticking to them too rigidly made no sense, it might mean a question of life and death. Taking a vow hardly mattered to her now. She would be carrying the burden of secrecy with her. Atin should not be told about Manikda's death, Pompom had insisted. Manikda was absconding, that was what she was to tell Atin.

In London Tutul was not to be told of her mother's illness. That part was not difficult but would she be able to carry on pretence before Babluda? She was apprehensive.

33

IN the quiet and exclusive neighbourhood of Ballygunj Circular Road a small house was the hub centre of activities. Occupied earlier by the office of Tajuddin Ahmed, Prime Minister under the Mujibur government, it was now given over for the use of the radio station of free Bengal. Rehearsals and recordings went on day and night.

It also housed about seventy workers of the radio station. They shared two bathrooms; there was no fixed place for sleeping. They lived on khichri or simple rice and jhol, though most of them came from affluent homes. Nobody complained. Artists are generally an individualistic lot, so there were minor differences but for the noble cause of the country's freedom all fights were made up quickly.

Inspired by their broadcasts, workers from the six radio stations of East Pakistan were crossing over and joining them in large numbers, bringing with them old recordings and tapes. Stories of new atrocities made the rounds.

The most sensational event was the arrival of the Chittagong radio personnel, led by Belal Muhammad. They were accorded a hero's welcome as pioneers of the Independent Bangla Radio station. The Pakistani army cracked down on 25th March, the very next day they had announced independence from the Balurghat Transmission Centre, defying the Government. Ziaur Rahman, a major of East Pakistan Rifles declared the establishment of an Independent Bangladesh in the name of Sheikh Mujib, it brought much needed solace to the exploited, scared yet rebel Bengali population.

The house at Ballygunge Circular Road however did not transmit programmes. The recorded tapes were taken to a secret spot near the border for a fifty- kilowatt transmission. The office of Tajuddin Saheb had been changed into a makeshift studio, plugging all cracks with cloth and cotton. The Indian authorities had lent them two old tape recorders; they had also promised other co- operation which was politely refused. Janab Abdul Mannan of Tangyle, now in charge of publicity said our boys would do the work. Thank you for making arrangements for transmission. You have done enough for us already.

Whatever they lacked in equipment was more than made up by the vitality and enthusiasm of the workers. The artists and intellectuals seeking refuge this side of the border also wanted to participate in the war for liberation. The radio programmes too were a part of the war effort, in the house everything was done on a war footing.

One day Monju and Hena came to visit the centre with Saukat. Mamun stayed home to take care of Sukhu. There was no news of Babul Choudhury so far.

The girls were thrilled to find famous stars like Abdul Jabbar, Apel Mahmood, Ajit Ray, Kaberi Kibria and others in flesh and blood, some of them rehearsing dressed in just a lungi with no vest on top. Kamal Lohani was busy writing the news script. M R. Akhtar Mukul of Ultimatum fame recognised Monju and Hena. Interested in lending your voice? He asked. We need some female voices for our chorus. Samar Das, the music producer used to be a frequent visitor to Monju's home. You are Bilquis Banu, aren't you? He asked. You knew quite a few Nazrul songs, How about singing for us?

Monju blushed. She was out of practice since her marriage. Samar Das looked at his watch. I will be back in forty five minutes. Look around in the meantime. I will sit with you then.

As they left the room Saukat greeted someone. Salaam Alaikum, Jahir Bhai. You too?

He is Janab Jahir Raihan, famous film director and writer, he introduced him to the girls.

Can we listen to your talk? Asked Saokat. Jahir Raihan was going for recording.

I doubt if they will allow you in. But luckily they were, with a reminder not to sneeze or cough. Monju and Hena almost held their breath. They could vaguely sense that they were becoming a part of history.

Jahir Raihan spoke in very clear terms, the title of the talk being — From Pakistan to Bangladesh. He said the people of Bengal are not responsible for the death of Pakistan. It is the ruling coterie who have managed to crush the rights of linguistic regions under millions of corpses. The Bengalis of Bangladesh will not repeat the mistakes made by Pakistan. They will build a social order free from exploitation, where people will live in peace and happiness without restriction.

The recording ended amidst claps. The future was beautifully presented, enough to make them forget their present hardship. Jahir Raihan wiped his forehead. Calcutta seems to be warmer than Dhaka don't you think?

Saukat went one step ahead. And the people, my goodness. You can't walk in the streets without brushing against others.

But there is a pleasant breeze in the evening, from the Bay of Bengal, said Jahir Raihan.

Meanwhile Monju was getting impatient. She nudged Saukat. Let us go home, Saukatbhai.

So you are trying to avoid Samarda, is that it? Nothing doing. You have to give a singing demonstration.

True to his word, Samar Das came back, pressed the sa and pa notes of an harmonium and asked Monju to begin. But Monju blushed furiously and refused to utter a single note in spite of persuasion by Samar Das and Saukat. Finally it was Hena who could break the ice. You know Appa, said Hena, Everybody in Bangladesh listens to this programme. Just think what this would mean to Dulabhai. We can't send letters.

Hena is right. Agreed Saukat. If you sing one of the favourite songs of Babul Choudhury that will be your letter to him.

Monju began a little hesitantly, a song of Tagore, Dukkho jadi na pabe to, dukkho tomar ghuchbe kobe, unless you go through grief, how will you ever overcome it . . .

Samar Das joined her but stopped suddenly. Monju was out of practice, her voice was unsteady, she could not sustain the rhythm either. You need practice, said Samar Das. You are not ready for recording yet.

So the practice began. Barun, a friend of Palas procured a harmonium. The three of them, Saukat, Palas and Barun set out to make a singer out of Monju. For hours they sang with her. Mamun who was fond of music found the musical efforts disturbing. Not that he disliked the boys, after all they were bringing Monju out of her mask of seclusion. Even Hena was inspired and recited the poems of Nazrul for broadcast. But Mamun was finding it hard to concentrate in his writing.

You know Mamunmama too can sing rather well, Monju told her well wishers one day. Unable to refuse their persistent requests Mamun sat before the harmonium. Barun struck a book to keep the beat. Mamun felt years younger, singing and laughing with the youngsters. Barun compared his voice to Dhananjoy Bhatterjee's to which Mamun answered with a counter compliment, When you sing you sound like Hemanta Babu, if I am not looking at you that is.

Within two weeks Monju had a couple of songs recorded and won a great deal of appreciation. By and by she was asked to sing in fund raising functions in the city and places like Barrackpur, Chandannagar or Bardhaman where the artists from Bangladesh were given a boisterous welcome. The house at Ballygunge Circular Road could not accommodate the flood of artists and journalists from across the border. New houses had to be found. Friends volunteered to help. About fifteen such artists were staying in a flat in Lansdowne Road. Almost all their time was spent in rehearsals. Saukat often took the girls there. It gave Mamun the solitude needed for writing yet he was not sure if such free mixing was right for Monju and Hena. In Calcutta this was perfectly normal but the conservative in Mamun felt uncomfortable.

Monju and Hena looked like two sisters. If she dressed with care Monju could easily pass off as an unmarried girl. The attention accorded to them was a source of worry to Mamun. In fact Monju had already suggested a match for Hena with the son of Taufik Imam, a judge of the Calcutta High Court. Imam lived not very far from Mamun's place. The families had grown quite close.

But the proposal alarmed Mamun. The marriage of his daughter can wait. Freedom was the first priority. But in case Hena chose someone, what was he to do?

Meanwhile he had received news of Feroza and his other daughter from his brother in law in London. He too communicated with his family in this roundabout way. Madaripur, where his wife had moved was quite safe. But nobody had any news of Babul. A grand reception was being organised in Serampur for the Bangaladeshi artists, where Saukat wanted to take Monju. Two more women artists would accompany them. Besides Monju was needed for three chorus songs.

Serampur! That is too far. Protested Mamun.

Not at all Mamunbhai, said Saukat. We will drive down and come back by nine thirty or ten. The programme starts at five thirty.

This put Mamun in a dilemma. Frankly he did not want her to go but could not say no to Saukat. Finally he agreed on condition that they also take Hena. The idea was to keep an eye on Monju. But a young girl like Hena could easily lose her head. Mamun was at a loss. He had faith in Saukat but in a strange place there are all kinds of people. A married woman going out with a man unrelated to her to sing in a public place would have been unthinkable some time ago. How times have changed and with it the old value system.

Sukhu was sent to Justice Imam's house, so that Mamun had the house to himself, he would have ample time to complete his writings. But he had become so used to the noise that the solitude disturbed him. He was not able to write a single line. He wandered off to the Park Circus Maidan and bought some peanuts. After the heat of the day the park was crowded now, there was a cool breeze, the moon shone on a clear sky. Couples mostly occupied the benches. Even though this area was the target of Naxalite bombing a few days ago, people were not afraid to venture out.

Mamun's mind went back to Dhaka. The city was under curfew after sunset. What is it like this evening? The moon shining over Calcutta must be as bright over Dhaka, after all it is not very far. Are the streets deserted, with occasional attacks by the brave freedom fighters? Are army tanks patrolling the streets? Do people still go to the Press Club which was bombed on the 25th of March? The people broadcasting ugly propaganda from the official Dhaka radio are Bengalis. Why are they doing it? Don't they want freedom? Or are they scared of the army? Babul Choudhury had never supported the nationalism of the Awami League, he is friendly with the army officers, he should not be in danger. In all likelihood he is working to help the government and his wife is broadcasting songs to boost the morale of the freedom fighters.

He wished he was also asked for the programme in Serampur. That would have saved him the worry. The presence of an older person would have spoilt the fun. However he came back before nine and finished his dinner by nine-thirty. Sukhu would spend the night at Justice Imam's place. Monju and Hena would not have any appetite for dinner after the feast there.

Ten o clock, still no sign of the girls. Saukat did not care to keep his word, irresponsible fellow. He was married to the youngest daughter of Waliul Islam, an old acquaintance of Mamun. Unfortunately the poor girl died in childbirth. Has Saukat married again? What were his feelings for Monju? Suddenly Mamun recalled that Babul and Saukat never got along.

Eleven o clock. Mamun was beginning to get alarmed. The streets were deserted now. Suppose they have had an accident? How would Mamun explain to Monju’s husband? Hena too was with her. It was a foolhardy thing to do. What was he to do now? Inform the police? Or the Bangladesh Mission? Would anybody be there at this time? He went out in the street, pacing up and down. Then he came up and stood at the window. At quarter to one a private car pulled up. Mamun had kept the front door open. He saw Hena running inside. Next to get down was Monju but somebody called from the car and she stopped. It was Palash who got down, there was nobody else in the car. Where on earth was Saukat? Palash handed a packet to Monju, there was an eye contact for a few seconds.

A flame of anger erupted within Mamun. He did not know if it was anger or envy. All he could think of was that this chap, Palash was taking Monju away from him. He had an urge to gouge out his eyes.

34

ABOUT two hundred young men were busy digging a tank since morning, with implements procured from neighbouring villages. The darkening sky was making them apprehensive. Work must be finished before it starts raining.

It was a marshy patch where they worked with fallow land around, ideal for setting up a row of camps. They had realised that for the time being, having a fresh water tank was more important than fighting the enemy. After the fall of Belunia, they had to change the entire strategy. Isolated resistance was not enough.

Every day hundreds of fresh recruits were pouring in. The camps on the Indian border were full to capacity. The sector commanders were at a loss to provide food and shelter to so many, training would come later. They were ready to give up their lives for the country, they could not be asked to go back. The tents were in tatters, the monsoon made matters worse. Rice and dal were all they could be provided. But the stocks were getting exhausted in no time.

Water for drinking and other purposes was no less of a problem. All the tanks near the border camps were already polluted. The hurriedly set up tube-wells were breaking down from overuse. In times of crisis like this one realises that water is far more important than food. Cholera broke in some camps, the panic spread like bonfire. Then a new kind of eye ailment started. The doctors called it Conjunctivitis but it soon acquired the popular name Joi Bangla. This disease infected even Pakistani soldiers. Some said it came from Dhaka, for others the virus came from India. The epidemic of cholera spread to Dhaka and the official radio was never tired of accusing India for germ warfare.

There was no medicine for the eye disease except bathing it with splashes of clean water. Hence the need for new tanks. The freedom fighters were digging with all their might, that was the most important war effort right now. Most of them coming from well to do families were not used to manual labour. Perhaps it was easier to die fighting than carry luggage, nurse cholera victims or dig. A boy from Tangail had brought a family heirloom, a sword with him. For want of any other tool he was using it to dig to the boisterous merriment of his colleagues. Many looked like nothing on earth from constant slipping on the mud.

They carried on without lunch. Drizzle had started. If they could finish the job the rains would fill up the tanks. Professor Hasmat Saheb of Kumilla Victoria College supervised the operation, hopping about, cheering the boys. Faster, boys, faster. If you can finish you will have boiled eggs with khichri tonight. Faster. Faster. All on a sudden he noticed a fair and handsome man in T shirt and trousers with sharp features. In spite of his overgrowth of beard the man looked vaguely familiar. He was not talking to anyone, shoveling up earth into a basket and dumping it in the heap. He had an air of class about him. He looked a little older than the others.

Hasmat thought this was not the right time to renew acquaintances. Besides it would be a variation of the same tragic story of inhumanity and torture. What the Pakistani forces were doing all over Bangladesh has crossed the limits of credibility.

But scuffles and shouts in one place made him rush to the spot of trouble. Such fights were quite common. Old enmities and party differences were hard to die and erupted occasionally. In running the camp Hasmat had realised that only patriotism is not enough. One has to undergo rigorous training and discipline. But where is the time. The recruits are getting hardly more than five days of guerilla training. Each came with the romantic dream of going to action but they had neither the arms nor an extended plan for war. Random actions cannot achieve much.

He was dismayed to find that handsome fellow he had noticed lying on the ground with one already on his chest and about a dozen others screaming, Kill him, kill him, finish him off. He pushed them away and asked angrily, What is it, tell me first.

Spy, spy, Razakar, Al-Badr. Went up a cry in unison.

Spades and shovels were aimed at him but Hasmat raised both his hands. Stop it, I dare you. A spy has to be taken to the Sector Commander for interrogation, that is the order. Hand him over to me.

The very word spy sent electric waves. The prospect of killing a spy was exhilarating. Sirajul who was at the throat of the supposed spy turned his blood shot eyes to the leader. I know him sir, let me have the pleasure of killing him. Sirajul, well known for his heroic deeds was already leading a platoon.

Hasmat told him sternly, Leave him alone.

The victim was promptly tied hand and foot. He was already badly hurt, one eye was closed, his nose was bleeding, and he would have been beaten to death if Hasmat had not intervened. What he could gather from the disjointed accounts was that this man, a total stranger had joined the camp a few days ago. Nobody knew where he was from. He did not communicate with anyone. Finally Sirajul identified him as a collaborator.

I am taking him to Major saheb. All of you get back to work. Said Hasmat. Then just to please the rest he slapped the victim on the cheek. Why don't you open your mouth, man? Who are you? The man cringed but said nothing.

I am coming with you sir, said Sirajul. He pushed the man. Get going, haramzada. But as soon as they had reached the open fields suddenly Sirajul burst into tears, to the utter surprise of Hasmat.

He turned to Sirajul. Goodness, what is the matter with you Sirajul? What is it?

For some time no words came out of Sirajul. He slumped on the ground and screamed, Monira! Monira!

That a daredevil sort like Sirajul could break down like this was incredible. Bewildered, Hasmat kept looking from Sirajul to the prisoner. Yes, he looked familiar. His sad and sensitive face was not that of a spy, it could not be.

The man spoke at last. I have looked everywhere for Monira, I have, believe me Sirajul.

Hasmat recognised the voice. He was Babul Choudhury, his class mate, the topper of the class. Babul! Don't you recognise me? He blurted out. I am Hasmat. Why are you here?

Sirajul sprang on Babul. I am going to strangle him, the rascal Ajrail.

With great effort Hasmat untangled them. Babul was taken to the Sector Commander. But the commander was busy in a meeting so Hasmat was asked to deal with him. Sirajul was taken away. Now Hasmat brought two cups of tea, offered his friend one and said, What a lot of beating. I wish you had got in touch with me earlier. Now, Let me know the entire story.

Babul, too tired to talk, sipped the tea, breathing heavily. He had an urge to lie down. But Hasmat was keen to find out. He asked again. How did you meet Sirajul? Who is Monira? What has happened to her?

Babul stared at his friend but his looks went through him. You know something? He muttered. I saw a mother strangle her own son!

What? Do you mean to say that mother was Monira?

Babul shook his head. Of all the terrible experiences he had gone through one incident stood out, he could not wipe it out from memory.

Every day streams of old people, women and children were trudging towards the border, the able young man having left to join the resistance movement. Babul was with such a party. They walked all through the night, hiding in the day. On the third morning they were almost caught. After crossing a river they came across two armed convoys. Instantly they slipped into an adjoining jute field, the tall stalks provided a good cover. The military cars were so close that they could hear them talking. Suddenly a child cried out. An insect could have bitten it. The mother stopped his face in a tight grip. By the time the army had gone the baby was strangled to death. Nobody felt sorry. What was the life of a baby against the lives of so many? Everybody asked the mother to leave the child in the jute field including the father. But the mother, unable to decide if she was a killer or a saviour ran away holding the baby. From just a glimpse Babul had of the baby it looked exactly like his Sukhu. He had neither the heart nor the language to describe the incident. After leaving home Babul had first looked for his old friends. They had either escaped to India or hidden in remote villages, some had joined the Peace Committee. Paltan was in the Mukti Bahini. Nobody knew where Jahir had gone.

He went up to the army Cantonment to look for Monira but his friend, a Pakistani Colonel did not let him get in.lt would have been too risky. It was sheer madness to think Monira was still alive. The usual end for any woman raped by the soldiers was her body would be thrown to the jackals and vultures. But Babul wanted to see with his own eyes that Morira was dead. He had found out that the Habildar who had dragged Monira with them had been transferred to Chittagong cantonment. Babul was not able to trace him that far.

A heavy shower began just as the sun went down . . . The jubilant group of tank diggers came back, yelling and singing. Meanwhile Hasmat had given up, Babul would just not open his mouth. Don't go anywhere, rest here, he said. I have to report to Major saheb about you.

At last Babul seemed to wake up. He grabbed Hasmat by the hand. I have to talk to Sirajul. I must convince him that I even risked my life trying to save Monira. Let him kill me if he wants, I do not mind.

Sirajul at that moment was in the major's camp with two officers of the Indian Border Security Force. A long interview was on. Hasmat got hold of him as soon as he came out, his face beaming with joy and pride, an altogether different Sirajul. The BSF officers were here to pick up two daring swimmers for a special training. Out of fifteen only Sirajul was selected. Rafikul Islam had patted Sirajul on the back, congratulating him. Soon he will be taken to an undisclosed destination. Naturally it made Sirajul feel very important. His anger against Babul had subsided.

Hasmat took him aside. Listen to me. I have known Babul Choudhury for long. He would not lie. He says he wanted to save your wife, by putting his own life at stake. She must have escaped.

Sirajul gave him a good stare. Have you wondered what a China follower like Babul Choudhury is doing here? He does not support our struggle for freedom. He does not recognise free Bangladesh.

Well, as far as I know, many China followers are joining the liberation struggle.

I don't trust him, sir. He is thick with a number of army officers, a collaborator, that is what he is.

You are wrong, Sirajul. People like Babul Choudhury are made of different stuff. You may not agree with his ideology but he is not a spy. How long have you known him? He came to dig on his own.

Let me tell you frankly sir. Is he ready to go into action? Then send him with one of the ambush teams going for action tonight.

Not so soon. He is sick, physically and mentally. He has no training either.

This is the only way he can atone for his sins. I am telling you sir, he is going to be killed by any freedom fighter who knew him in Dhaka. Even if I don't somebody else will. When both of them went back to Babul he was sitting very still, his eyes glowing. Don't, Sirajul, he said quietly. If you kill me there will be one freedom fighter less.

Get up, you. Sirajul pulled his hand roughly. Take a rifle, you have to go for action tonight. Let us see what kind of a freedom fighter you are.

35

A boy of about ten brought the news. I am Tota Mia, Saab, I study in class four, he introduced himself. He wore oversized shorts, obviously not his own. The innocence of childhood persisted in his lotus soft complexion, his large eyes. But the experience of the last few months have taught him to be wiser than his years, has given a ring of authority to his speech.

But it was difficult to trust even a boy of that age in these treacherous times. In the name of the Peace Committee even educated people were joining hands with the tyrants, giving implicit support to mass slaughter. While the Pakistani army was fighting the Mukti Bahini all along the border, reactionary forces inside the country lent them moral support. They were the Al Badr, Jamat-e- Islami, Al Shams, Mujahid, Razakar, Ipkaf and other armed organisations.

The report of one meeting of the so called Peace Committee, held in Laksum in early May had reached the camps of Horina and Thakurgaon. It had the following resolutions. {1} Let the Central Peace Committee be told about the secret activities, recruitment and fund raising of the Mukti Bahini. A list of names collecting funds for them and those contributing be presented to the Peace Committee. {2} All firearms kept without license be made known {3} Let the Peace Committee Union be instructed to oust all Hindus, all except professional sweepers, malis, dhobis, barbers and fishermen {4} Buddhists living in Pakistan should be given all facilities so that they can have no fear {5} All erstwhile members of the now defunct Awami League be asked to give written declaration that they have nothing to do with that party and declare that {a} the now defunct Awami League used to work for the dismemberment of Pakistan and unification with India {b} that political party used to spread class hatred among Muslims, encouraged ethnic and regional conflicts and are responsible for inflicting damage to Pakistan {6} Let the unions submit lists of military and ex-military personnel {7} Let the officers and workers of government and semi government institutions be encouraged to go back to work and so on.

Members of the Mukti Bahini reading the leaflet went pale with fear. Some started abusing the tyrants in the nastiest language. They were scared stiff for the family members left behind, wondering what kind of atrocities they were undergoing. Some of them broke down, others swore eternal vengeance.

Naturally under the circumstances they doubted Tota Mia. In all likelihood he was an informer, setting a trap for the freedom fighters. Otherwise, how could he rush straight to the camp of the sector commander, running all the way? Saab, saab, he gasped. Two hundred, they have caught two hundred. Going to kill them all. Save them saab, save them. He slumped on the ground.

In Kariabazar, so it seemed from his account, the Pakistani army had captured a group of homeless villagers fleeing towards the border. Their homes had already been burnt down. In keeping with their propaganda that everything is all right inside the country in spite of India's efforts to destabilise, the Pakistani government were shooting down people escaping towards the border. The story of the group of two hundred held captive in Kariabazar was quite credible but the description coming from a boy of that age was so very graphic that it made them wonder. With a stick he drew lines on the soft clay soil. Look, this is the high school, fifty four members of the Punjab regiment are housed here under a major. The prisoners are kept in four shops and an empty building adjacent to the school.

Women and children are put in these two rooms. They have not been given anything to eat for the last two days. They are going be killed in batches. Yesterday afternoon twelve prisoners were lined up under a mango tree. Then the soldiers started target practice. Last night a young girl jumped to her death, setting fire to her body first.

The sector commander kept interrogating the boy. Tell me, who has sent you here? How did you cross the border?

Nobody, answered Tota Mia with the natural innocence of a child. He has come on his own. His father works as a baburchi for the army. That is how Tota had the opportunity to see everything with his own eyes. He knew for sure that in spite of their bulk, the Khan soldiers were scared of the word Mukti. Can't the big Mukti Bahini overpower only fifty-four of them? Otherwise not a single of the prisoners would survive.

That was all the sector commander could get out of Tota Mia. An action was needed if the boy was to be believed. But it could also be a trap.

The spontaneous resistance of the people after the assault of the twenty-fifth of March had caught the Pakistani army off guard. But now they have strengthened their position, having brought two more divisions from West Pakistan. They have taken position all along the border. The Mukti Bahini on the other hand has run out of food, supplies, and ammunitions. One cannot face the enemy with just will power. So they have halted fresh action for the time being and thinking of a new strategy.

As yet, no country has recognised Bangladesh, not even India, though India has allowed the Mukti Bahini soldiers to operate from her border and provided shelter to the streams of refugees, but Indian army was not ready to face the Pakistani army. India did not want a direct war with Pakistan. Right from the start Pakistan had termed India an enemy of the Muslims. It was doubtful if a direct involvement would win support from all sections of people in Bangladesh. It was not enough to overpower the army. Besides it would send wrong signals around the world.

Moreover, a military victory against Pakistan would not be easy for India at the moment. Apprehending another possible Chinese attack, a large section of the Indian Army was deployed in the eastern sector. They had to be vigilant in the West Pakistan border as well. On top of this were the Naga and Mizo rebels, not to speak of the Naxals in West Bengal. With so much trouble in the home front, India was in no position to come forward to help Bangladesh.

Top officers of the Mukti Bahini had met in a secret conference in Theatre Road Calcutta along with the new Prime Minister Tajuddin and the commander in chief M. Osmani. They decided to go in for organised guerilla warfare training. Accordingly entire Bangladesh would be divided into eleven sectors; the number of sub-sectors and troops under each unit were also figured out.

This decision disappointed many. Was Bangladesh going the way of another Vietnam? How long would the guerilla war continue — fifteen years? Twenty? Can the morale of the people withstand it?

Bitter questions were asked, though not openly. Why did Sheikh Mujib launch a call for freedom in the meeting of the seventh of March if they were not prepared for it? Yet he wasted time in useless discussions till the twenty-fifth, giving Yahya the opportunity to bring in battalions of army over to this side. In order to guide the freedom fight he should have gone underground. Instead, the first thing he did was to get arrested. All the other Awami League leaders fled to the safe retreats of Calcutta, leaving the youth, the students, the political workers, EPR, the police and the army people who had broken away from the Pakistan rulers to die a muddy death in the battlefield?

Major Rafikul Islam, commander of Sector One just back from the Calcutta conference was intent on reorganising his forces, putting a stop to all action and ambush for the time being. Meanwhile the wonder boy Tota Mia with his incredible story appeared on the scene. The news spread all over the camps.

Somehow Sirajul felt the boy could be trusted. He gave him something to eat and took him to the Major. There is no reason why we should distrust his story, he told the Major with conviction. The fact that an eleven-year old could run across the border at the risk of his own life proves how much the people of this country have changed. This boy is a symbol of that collective protest against the Razakars and Al Badrs. If this mere boy could be so concerned for the prisoners can't we do anything to save those lives? Are we such cowards?

Sirajul had shown exemplary courage in quite a few actions. His opinion could not be ignored. Only two weeks ago, he had succeeded in disrupting the enemy supply line in Ramgarh-Karerhat Road by an act of great daring. It was practically impossible to move in front of the enemy fire and piercing searchlights. Sirajul had managed to climb up a tree whose branches spread like a canopy over the road and stayed there for the whole day, waiting. At an opportune moment he had dropped on a microbus from the overhanging branch, finishing off the entire crew. The bus lay blocking the road for days. Nobody came to remove the bodies of the dead Pakistani soldiers. Now he was bent on leading a rescue party for the Kariabazar prisoners. At last Major Rafikul Islam agreed but he did not want Sirajul to go. Since he has been selected for an important training programme, he should not take undue risk. But Sirajul insisted. If he was hurt in a rescue action like this then that would mean he is not fit for any special training, he said.

He chose his own men, forty-five trained guerilla fighters. Babul Choudhury was included too.

They set out amidst heavy downpour. The shower had brought the much needed fresh water to the just dug tank but made the military operation extremely difficult. They had rubber slippers for footwear and carried mortars, rocket launchers and rifles. Some were bare bodied. The sky was as dark as can be, no stars could be seen. Trusting the information of an eleven-year-old they proceeded blindly. Sirajul kept Tota right next to him. Listen kid, he warned. If you mislead us we would all die, you too, do you understand?

Oh no, sir, spoke Tota in his little girl voice, the way is straight ahead. I can't make a mistake. It is a good thing it is raining. The Khan soldiers would be sleeping soundly. Insallah, they will be finished tonight, every single one of them.

Was it wise to bring so many freedom fighters on this risky venture based on information provided by a little boy? Wondered Sirajul. Tota could be a spy. But he was acting so natural that it did not seem likely. Even if it is a trap, there was no going back now. They would kill as many Pakistani soldiers as possible before giving up their own lives. Monira could be among those held captive. This possibility egged him on.

They came to a canal, now overflowing with rainwater. Sirajul ordered his troops to lie down and wait. It did not seem that enemy troops were on the other side. About five minutes went by. Sirajul flashed his torch on Babul Choudhury's face. You get into the water and go over to the other side first.

Babul, who has had only two days of shooting practice, did not hesitate to put his feet in the muddy water. Not a sound, warned Sirajul. Barefoot, in mud stained shirt and trousers he proceeded one step at a time in the knee-deep water. The slush and the sticky mud clung to his feet; it was hard to keep his balance. He reached the other side of the canal, stood still for one full minute, listening. But there was no other sound except the patter of rain. Nothing was visible in front; their troop too had disappeared in the darkness. Babul stood alone on a battlefield, a sitting duck for the enemy.

He traced his way back through the sludge. Not much water, he informed Sirajul. No enemy trench on the other side. Way is clear.

Taking Tota with him, Sirajul took the first plunge, followed by his troop. He clutched the boy's shoulder so that he could not run away. They crossed the canal and crept along the base of the high embankment, bending their heads low, Sirajul on the lead. If there were any trap, Sirajul would be the first to find out.

Gradually signs of habitation told them that they were nearing the fringes of the village, Kariabazar. The Pakistani army usually burnt down three sides of the area they occupied, keeping open only one side. The same thing had happened here too. Luckily the Mukti troops had not encountered any hurdle so far.

Which way is the school building? Asked Sirajul.

I know our school so well that I can take you there with my eyes shut. We are almost there. Said Tota.

Standing erect, Sirajul looked around for lights. The village might be deserted but the enemy camps would have lights and sentries outside. The rain had stopped. Dim shapes of trees and huts were visible. No glimmer of light anywhere made him jittery. He clutched the little boy's hair and said to himself, if you turn out to be a traitor, you little rascal, I am going to cut you to pieces.

Undaunted, the little boy held Sirajul by the hand and marched ahead as if he was leading a blind man. They crossed what looked like a fruit orchard. Then Tota pointed to a building about five hundred yards away. Look, sir, this is the school. Two flaming torches in front of the school gate illuminated enough area to reveal five trucks and a bus. No sentries could be seen but murmur ©f voices came from inside the building. Did he hear the shrill cry of a woman? Sirajul was not very sure.

The large trees would provide ideal shelter for them. Did the little boy take this route intentionally? Anyway, now that they are here there was no need to waste time. It was now or never. The trucks were proof of the strength of the enemy. The number of enemies killed would be that many steps towards freedom.

But where are the prisoners? Are they close enough to be hit by the exchange of fire? The shops identified by Tota were close to the school building. A single storied building stood a little far off.

Sirajul ordered his troops to spread to the right. Enemy attack could come from the back in case Tota was playing tricks. Simultaneous attack was to be launched on the school building to give the prisoners a chance to escape. The idea was to keep the enemy inside the building for as long as possible. Once they came out, the Mukti troops won't stand a chance.

The first mortar charge came from Sirajul. Instantly LMGO rifles roared. A rocket landed on the roof of the school building. A truck caught fire from mortar charge.

The Pakistanis were caught off guard. For the first few minutes no counter attack came. Some of their soldiers were seen running about in their underwears.

The Mukti troops shouted in unison, Run. Prisoners, run. But the rooms were locked from outside. The prisoners only screamed in panic. They were not able to get out. By this time firing from the other side started. The Pakistani soldiers understood why the Mukti troops were here so they made the shops their target too. There was no way the Mukti soldiers could run and break the locks.

The enemy soldiers were jumping out of the school windows. Sirajul finished off one after the other, keeping his LMG aimed at them. Another troop moving from the back of the building was facing mortar fire. But this could not go on for long. It was high time Sirajul gave his troops the retreat order.

Meanwhile, the Pakistani army, intent on restraining the Mukti fauj, carried on incessant firing with Chinese machine guns. It looked quite hopeless. But suppose Monira was among the prisoners?

All on a sudden a tall fellow rushed forward, ignoring the light machine gun fire. He was Babul Choudhury, Sirajul could make out. But he turned his attention to mortar charge, he had no time to think.

Tota Mia shot out towards the direction Babul had taken. He showed him the rooms where women were held captive. Babul kept hitting the locks with the butt of his rifle. The fool, why doesn't he shoot? The prisoners poured out of the rooms. They must be saved from the enemy fire. A couple of Pakistant soldiers had moved towards Babul. Without wasting time Sirajul rushed out in the open, followed by others, yelling at the enemy, Come on up you sons of swine, come forward if you dare . . .

The last locked door was opened by Babul. Two enemy soldiers were almost upon him but Sirajul did not give them the chance. He turned his MLG towards them and bellowed. Inshaallah let me finish all the brutes.

What he did next was nothing short of madness. Unable to withstand the firing power the Pakistanis retreated behind the school building. Their purpose served, the Mukti troops should return now. But Sirajul determined to kill the rest of the enemy rushed forward. Finally his second in command, Husmat, restrained him and blew the whistle.

Bodies lay scattered, The Mukti troops did not stop firing though they were retreating making their way through isolated flames still burning. Some of the dead were prisoners. Babul and Sirajul trying to scan the faces stopped suddenly. Nobody had kept an eye on little Tota. He was lying. Hands stretched, blooding coming out of a bullet hole in his chest. Even in death he looked so vulnerable, so innocent.

Handing his rifle to another Babul picked up the still body of the little boy.

36

TUTUL was back from the hospital to her apartment at Golders Green, almost defying the doctor's orders. Her head was bandaged; she was so weak that even talking was a great exertion. Alam was constantly by her side, acting as both doctor and nurse.

Tutul refused her usual dose of tranquilizer in the evening. After two sips of the chicken stew she asked for some brandy. What about that bottle of Remy Martin? She asked Alam.

Pleasantly surprised, Alam exclaimed. So you remember? I thought the doctors had misplaced your brain cells.

I remember every little thing, said Tutul with effort.

Normally she was not fond of alcohol, but Alam knew the reason for her asking for brandy. He poured a little brandy in a liquor glass and kissed her pale lips. Want me to help? He asked.

No, let me have it myself. Just prop me up.

He did as asked, pulling up a golden quilt over her body. Her face seemed to be like the moon under a thin veil of cloud. Tutul looked around her. Everything seemed so dear including the teapot with a broken handle she had been meaning to throw away. She never thought she would come back from the hospital. But this feeling had a tinge of sadness. Would Death demand some other life in exchange of her life? Pikluda and Joydeep had added their lives to her. Suppose Alam had to pay a price? Alam stood near the window, his face beaming with confidence and good humour. No, nothing should happen to him. She won't be able to bear it. She told Alam about her fear but he just laughed.

Oli would not be here for quite some time yet. Will you hand me a pen and a letter pad, please? I have not written to mother for so long.

Alam obliged. But can you write a letter?

Of course. She must be worried stiff.

Let me do it for you. Imitate your writing.

Ma will make out. She will be scared even more.

Let me show you a sample, in rounded letters.

I don't write rounded letters. Go away, don't peer over.

As she began writing Tutul realised she was too weak. She took a sip of the drink and began.

Ma,

You must be mad at me because I could not write to you last week. I had to go out of London.

The word 'London' in Bangla proved to be a problem. She could not get the letters right. Her writing looked like a bad scribble. She felt too drowsy to carry on. Still mustering all her energy she wrote on.

You know it was such a wonderful place. Four of us had gone. Bathed in the sea. I have learnt swimming, you know. How are . . . how are . . . I have told Tridibmama. I am fine . . . gained three pounds . . . pounds.

Alam quietly picked up the pen and writing pad. Tutul woke up with a start. What is the matter?

Look at this letter. Your mother would think you are taking drugs.

My god. I will write to her tomorrow. Can I have your shaving mirror for a second?

The face which stared back at her from the mirror was pale, eyes were dull, the skin rough. Why are my lips dry? She asked softly. Alam kissed her lips. They are not dry any more. He assured her. Tutul touched her bandaged head. Is there any way I can hide this? She asked.

Don't you worry? I will give you such perfect make up that you will look like a film star. Said Alam. And he really did a good job. A Japanese silk scarf hid her bandages. With lipstick, a touch of rouge and a generous dose of cognac she got back a little glow. Alam observed his handiwork from a distance. Listen to me now. He said seriously. Someone from home is coming. She does not know about me. It would be better if I leave you to yourselves.

No, please. I will tell them. Even write to Ma. But for god's sake don't tell them about my illness. Ma would be so shocked she will fall ill herself. She paused a little then added. Don't leave me, please, even for a second.

Oli came exactly at half past seven, accompanied by the daughter of a friend of her father’s — Bishakha. Promptly dropping the empty glass Tutul welcomed them lustily. Come on in. Look at me. Had a bad fall on the beach. It has been two days. Can't get up.

With some of the raindrops sticking to her hair, Oli looked like a perfect picture of health. How wonderful you look, Oli, exclaimed Tutul. It has been a long time.

How did you lose so much weight, Tutuldi? But you look as lovely as ever. Replied Oli.

Was I ever fat? Let me introduce my husband Alam. This is Oli. I have known her since she wore frock.

Of course this was no surprise to Oli. Their marriage was much talked about in London's Bengali circle. Oli folded her hands. So you are my Jamaibabu.

Bishakha corrected her, Dulabhai, that is what they prefer.

Tell me about my mother, Tutul asked Oli. Did you meet her before you left?

Oli had no qualms about telling lies. In fact Pratapkaka too had advised her not to tell the truth about Tutul's mother. Yes, I met her the afternoon I left. She was complaining that you write fewer letters these days. Opening the packet she said, Look a sari for you. Ghee and pickle. Earrings are from Munni. Sorry, nothing for you Dulabhai. You haven't told them about your marriage yet.

Poor me, said Alam in mock grief. No pampering for a son-in-law, it is my bad luck.

Don't you plan to go to Calcutta?

This September, said Tutul emphatically. No putting off now. This time we must.

Take me too? Asked Alam. My mother-in-law would chase me with a broomstick.

Oh come on, protested Oli. Pisimoni is not that kind of a person.

Alam laughed. He had seen the letter in which Tutul's mother had vowed never to see her daughter's face if she married a Muslim. But Tutul kept saying, No, we are going to Calcutta this time for sure.

Bishakha, still unmarried had an Algerian boy friend, a Muslim. Nobody objected to their different religions though her mother did not approve of Tutul and Alam's marriage. Yet strangely enough she was rather fond of the Algerian boy friend. This Hindu Muslim trouble seemed to exist only in the Indian sub continent. Of course there are no Hindus in Algeria.

When are you flying to New York? Asked Tutul. Have you called Bablu yet? No, I will be here for four days.

You haven't? Call right now. Then I too can talk to him. Alam would you get the line please? Make it person to person. It will be a surprise.

This caused Oli to blush a little. How can she talk to Babluda in front of all these people? Besides he already knew the date and time of her arrival in New York.

Alam dialed, talked to the operator then waited. Finally he said, not at home.

Greatly relieved, Oli said, Tutuldi we have cinema tickets. Got to go now.

But I have hardly talked to you. Alam did not even offer you a cup of tea.

Tea after evening is bad for health, said Alam. If you care for wine . . .

No thanks, Oli stood up to go. See you.

You must go to a theatre at least. And don't miss British Museum and Tate Gallery. I could have taken you around if I did not have this sprain.

Bishakha is taking good care of me, said Oli. We have already been to Madam Tousseau. Tomorrow we are going to Stratford-on-Avon.

Looking at Oli straight at her eyes, Tutul asked. Tell me the truth, Oli. How is mother? You know I dreamt one night . . .

Pishimoni is fine now, said Oli with emphasis. About a month ago she was down with cough and cold. She came down the stairs to see me off and pleaded. Do write to me as soon as you get there, Tutul has become so irregular . . .

But please don't tell her about my sprain. I'll write to her about my marriage myself.

Alam walked with them to the lift. He lit a cigarette. He could not smoke inside the room for the sake of Tutul.

So the operation has been successful, she is out of danger now, isn't it? Remarked Oli to the utter surprise of Alam. He stared at her.

Mr. Alam, you are pretty well known in London as a romantic couple, explained Bishakha. Most of the people know about your wife's brain tumor operation.

So we could not fool you, in spite of our best efforts, said Alam.

Women can easily see through camouflage, said Oli. Suppose now you tell me what exactly happened.

The symptoms appeared before our marriage. But the operation has been successful. She will take time to recover, but there is nothing to worry. Tutuldi will get well. I am positive. Oli sounded confident. I won't divulge it to her mother. You must try to convince her that everybody loves her. Nobody at Calcutta would mind at whatever she does.

After they left, Alam threw down his cigarette and came back to Tutul.

What did you think of my acting? Tutul wanted to know.

You are a great actress. With your good looks and acting talent, you must join films.

She asked Alam to sit down on the bed. You know I felt so nostalgic for home. Alam, we have to go to Calcutta this September. Oli used to be so shy, but she is quite smart now. How did you like her?

Yes, quite smart. Now for your medicines. Try to go back to sleep.

Let us talk, I don't feel like sleeping. We are going home this September, what do you say Alam?

You can visit your home but I can't possibly go to Dhaka. Who knows when this war is going to stop.

You must come with me. Ma will understand.

We shall talk about that later. You must get some sleep now. Tridib babu is due to come, he had called. I will talk to him.

But you must not offer him drinks. Then he won't leave easily.

He drinks Scotch. I haven't kept any.

He brings his own drink. Don't give him a glass. Tell him not to smoke in the room.

OK., OK., leave all that to me.

Alam had hardly finished giving her the medicines when the telephone rang. It was Shahjehan.

Interesting, murmured Alam. Shahjehan saheb invariably drops in just when your Tridibmama comes to visit. Evidently they are not on good terms. But what could I do? Couldn't ask him not to come.

I am really sleepy now. Let them come but see that they don't stay late. Another thing. From tomorrow you are going out. You have so many things to attend to.

Shahjehan was the first to come, impeccably dressed with a bunch of flowers. He crept towards the window and asked Alam softly about her health.

Who is it? Tutul could barely open her eyes.

How do you feel Bahnisikha? I am Shahjehan. He asked eagerly.

How are you, Shahjehanbhai? Tutul asked with effort. We are fine, we are fine, it is for you that . . . you must get well quick.

Tutul did not respond. She had already gone back to sleep.

Shahjehan gave her hand a soft caress and went back to Alam. You should take her to Switzerland. I can fix a place for you in Zurich.

Let her recover first. She may not want to go . . . Before he could finish, Tridib made his entrance. He was a completely changed person from the nice, decent well maintained person of his Calcutta days. The teetotaler had turned into an alcoholic, had grown flabby and uncouth. After a few drinks he talked incessantly. His eyes were dull, like a cloudy sky at sunset without the glow.

He made a dramatic entrance as if he was a tragic character from Shakespeare. Rushing to the bed he exclaimed, Tutul, Tutul, how is she? Still unconscious? Raising his hands he lamented, Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little!

Alam pushed him away with a firm hand. Come away, please. Don't disturb her.

Already quite drunk, with a cigar between his lips, Tridib could hardly stand straight. I feel so sorry for Tutul, he was at the point of breaking down. Her surgeon Dr. Robinson told me it is a very critical case. You have to keep your fingers crossed. Tutul, our little girl . . .

Alam interrupted him. That was before the operation. It has been successful, cent per cent.

You are a lucky guy, Alam. Said Tridib, putting his hands on Alam's shoulder. You won't find another girl like her.

Alam took the cigar from his lips. Please take a seat. He said.

But Tridib was tearful. Tell me the truth Alam. She is still unconscious, why did you bring her home?

Let us not disturb her, Shahjehan cut in. Let us move out.

As if he was looking at Shahjehan for the first time, Tridib turned his drunk gaze towards him. Why do you come here so often? Every time I am here I find you too.

It must be a coincidence, replied Shahjehan politely. I could ask you the same question.

Don't. Don't ever come near this girl, said Tridib, frowning, You bring bad luck.

Shahjehan turned red. Keeping his voice cool, he said, What do you mean?

You stick to lovely girls like glue, that is what. Spare Tutul, please, Shahjehan, I beseech you . . .

You have got a dirty mind, Tridib. Suppose you tell me first. Why do you come here so often?

Standing between the two, Alam said roughly. Gentlemen, I am afraid I have to be unpleasant. Would both of you please get out? Look, young chap, Tridib flared up. Don't think you are one up by marrying her. Remember Tutul is a very dear niece of Pratap Majumder. Pratap had a hard time but he never let the family feel it. They are all waiting for Tutul, hoping she would go back home as a great doctor . . .

Suddenly Tutul opened her eyes and sat up. Oh Tridibmama you are here. I just had a dream . . .

Turning round, Tridib yelled in joy, Cordelia my Cordelia, she is back! He was going to flop down on the bed but both the men caught him. Pushing Tridib away from her, Alam caressed her head. It is nothing really. You get back to sleep.

Still in a daze, Tutul went on, I dreamt of Sulekhamami. Alam you don't know, she was Tridibmama's wife. She is lost. I dreamt of her, just now!

Tutul, please, don't talk. Get back to sleep.

No, I am not sleepy now. There is Tridibmama. Tell me, Tridibmama, what has happened to Sulekhamami?

Finding Tutul almost normal brought Tridib back to his senses. He wiped his mouth. Did you say you saw Sulekha in a dream? Lucky you. I never see her. She is fine, fine.

I had dozed off. Then I saw her, Sulekhamamima, over there, near the door. Tutul said.

But that is absurd. How can she come here? She can't. She has gone and she will never appear in my presence. She left me in anger and sorrow. That is why she never comes in a dream.

By now wide awake, Tutul sat up. Tell me Tridibmama, why did she go away? What was she angry about?

This chap knows, this Shahjehan, said Tridib in a hoarse voice. Ask him.

Completely taken aback, Shahjehan said, Who, Me? I have been trying to find out the answer to this question all these years.

Since you have asked me, Tutul, went on Tridib, opening the window to breathe fresh air. I have never talked about this to anyone. Now that you ask me, Tutul . . .

Can't we stop this morbid topic for some other time? Suggested Alam.

Tridib raised his hand gesturing Alam to stop. Let me hear it out, pleaded Tutul. I promise after that I will get back to sleep.

Tridib stood with his back to the window, patted his pockets for a cigar, did not find it, then shrugged. Oh yes, Sulekha, Already she has drifted far away. As god is my witness I have never been mad at Sulekha. Never spoke one word in anger. But nobody is likely to believe it. God never comes down to testify.

I agree with Alam, said Shahjehan. Change the subject, please.

Shut up, said Tridib. Let me finish. You know Tutul why my wife had moved to Delhi, to avoid her fans, admirers and lovers. We were having such a lovely time in Delhi, visiting the Lodhi Gardens every weekend. But every time we came back home, we found some admirer from Calcutta had dropped in. This Shahjehan fellow or Ratul, on some pretext of work. Well I was nice to them, but they came only for her.

Please, Tridib, this is a lie. We were great friends. All three of us, interrupted Shahjehan.

Ignoring him completely, Tridib went on. I was not home that day. This Shahjehan and another friend, Ratul fought over her like two dogs fighting over a piece of bone. I did not count.

Tridib you are wrong, protested Shahjehan. That brute of a man Ratul started it. I wonder how you could be so indulgent to him!

That's enough, Shahjehan. We were indulgent towards everybody, like two prisoners caught in the trap of civility. Since Tutul wants to know, I have to tell her. After I heard the whole story I felt so sad. I felt I was acting like a dog in the manger. The whole world wants her. A sentence slipped out of my tongue, just one sentence, and that ruined two lives. Sulekha, I told her. I am setting you free. You can begin a new life with any one of them. Perhaps Shahjehan.

She let out a heart-rending cry. What? You don't trust me? It was as though my words had set fire to her body. And actually speaking, it did. She shut herself up in a room and finally when I found her she was in flames, real flames. How can I, Tutul . . .

He could not finish, dug his face in his hands and began to sob. Shahjehan left the room silently.

Tutul extended her hand towards Alam. Will you give me a hand, please.

Alam had to oblige. In unsteady steps, Tutul walked towards her uncle. But it is all in the past, Tridibmama. Why do you torture yourself still? You are destroying yourself this way. She put her hand on his back.

Without looking up, Tridib answered. It is not self-destruction, Tutul. I have lost all hope. Nobody expects anything of me anymore. I am neither well nor unwell but carrying on just the same. I don't think of Sulekha in particular. She never comes back in a dream. She is gone, yet she must be somewhere. But look at me. I exist all right but I am not even here.

At last he looked up. Where did you put my cigar? He asked Alam. Don't you have a little whisky in the house? Please let me have a few pegs, I am parched, it is so painful. You Tutul, you must get well soon. We would donate our life span so that you have a long life. You are so good, so good. You must get well.

37

IT has been raining since morning so a meal of khichri seemed most appropriate with mutton and mangoes to go with it. That was how Begum Jehanara and Janab Shareef Imam were celebrating their twenty-fourth anniversary. Usually they invited people but this time nobody was called except one very special guest, if he could be called that. He was no other than their son Rumi who surfaced from time to time most mysteriously. No questions could be asked. He has made a sudden appearance last evening.

For quite some time his whereabouts were unknown. All his family knew was that he was in a camp in an unheard of place called Melabari. A couple of weeks ago two serious looking youths with overgrown hair and mustaches met Jehanara in a relative's house. They gave furtive looks behind them. They had brought out a chit, a note scribbled on a piece of cigarette packet. It said, " Please help the bearers of this letter. I am OK. — Moni." It was the family name of Khaled Mosharraf, an army officer. They did not know that professionals like him had joined the Mukti Bahini. Rumi's parents were informed that Mosharraf was now commander of K Force, Sector 2, at present near Agartala where Rumi was undergoing guerilla training.

The two boys were sent to contact trusted people at Dhaka and to collect supplies. They were tight lipped about other things including the news of Rumi. But the very next week they came and like heavenly angels brought a telegraphic note from Rumi. "I am fine. With Monibhai. Give them what they want. Rumi."

Excited beyond measure, Jehanara was ready to give them her all, sell her jewelry and property if needed. But her husband saw through the ruse. It is bridges they are after, not money. He said, laughing.

The messengers had brought a secret request from their commander. He wanted a list of all bridges and culverts in the country and some information relating to exploding those bridges. Shareef used to work in the design division of the government Roads and Highways. He had already got xeroxed copies of the designs from the office files. And now Rumi is here. Of course he would not tell them why.

They had chatted till the wee hours of the morning. It was twelve noon now and Rumi was still fast asleep. Jehanara let him sleep although lunch was ready.

The city was limping back to normal life but the burnt out slums remained. The damaged halls of the university campus were deserted, The Ekushey February memorial was all but smashed, a signboard proclaiming it to be a mosque hung from the ruins. The ancient Kalibari temple of Ramna had been razed to the ground. In spite of it, shops, offices and courts had started functioning, daily vegetable and fish markets were back to business. People could be seen moving about during daytime. Radio BBC, Akasvani and Free Bangla Radio gave news of the fighting going on at the frontier. Pakistan radio on the other hand contradicted all that news. According to them all Indian agents and anti-socials had been destroyed, law and order has returned to the country. The idea of forging out a free Bangladesh was the pipe dream of some mad people. They have all taken shelter in India. Pakistan is now stronger than ever.

But sounds of explosions rented the air after sundown, spurts of machine gun fire. The concerned citizens had no way of knowing what was happening, nobody dared to come out of the house or even peer from roof tops. Electricity went off for days after those explosions, the water taps dry. Evidently the Mukti Bahini soldiers were making surreptitious attacks on the power stations and government offices. The dare devil freedom fighters grew bolder and appeared during the day too, coming in jeeps or motor cycles like a flash of lightning, sprayed the Pakistan army with bullets and disappeared within seconds. The Pakistani soldiers had no idea what these "Mukti" chaps looked like.

These daylight raids in Dhaka proper were ample proof that the freedom struggle is by no means over, that they are not afraid of the military might of Pakistan.

Though her son was tight lipped, Jehanara could feel that coming back to Dhaka after guerilla training must mean they were planning an attack from inside. The explosions at night in spite of the subsequent inconveniences later made many mothers like Jehanara proud and happy, that their sons are active for the cause. Was life more risky for her son in the undisclosed camps or right here, on his own bed, wondered Jehanara.

She entered Rumi's room and stood staring at his sunburnt body, unkempt hair. To escape the eyes of the enemy they had to spend hours in the water, Rumi had been telling them. Her heart bled. Her Rumi, the first born, the apple of their eye, who had never left the family before, he was supposed to go abroad for higher studies.

As she touched him lightly on the back, Rumi moved back with a jerk. Who is it? He asked.

So this is what guerilla training has taught him, to be alert in sleep. It is me, said Jehanara, laughing.

Wide awake, Rumi asked. What is it Ammy? Is somebody here?

No, nobody. But it is one. Get up and have your bath. Food is ready.

Ah, lovely smell of khichuri. Rumi drew a long breath. Grand! It has been so long since I had a good meal of khichuri laced with ghee. Why didn't you wake me up?

You looked as though you had not slept for months.

Rumi sprang up, did a few exercises to ward off all traces of sleep. Then acting like a four-year old he clutched the ends of his mother's saree. You are going to feed me today, Ammi. Say you will?

In no time Rumi was ready and came down for lunch. Before sitting down he did a kadambusi, touching his mother's feet. It is your marriage anniversary today. Just think where me and Jami would have been if you had not married father?

Don't be silly, admonished his mother, trying to hide a smile. Come on, start eating.

His younger brother Jami who had missed out most of the stories last night was bursting with queries. Bhaiya, they give you khichuri at the camp, don't they?

What do you mean khichuri! Rumi began. Wonderful feasts we have. Biriyani gosth every other day, two eggs for breakfast, chicken twice a week and fish in plenty. Is that so? Both Jehanara and Jami were flabbergasted. Such a lot of food? Who supplies it? We hear that Indian government is having a tough time feeding the refugees.

Mukti soldiers get special treatment. Tell me Jami, does it sound tempting enough for you? Want to join?

But so much food would make you too fat to fight. Jami was not convinced.

Munching the first portion of the food, which Jehanara put into his mouth, Rumi exclaimed. Pure nectar. Not used to such good ghee. I was kidding Jami. We don't get khichuri. What we get is a kind of dal we call horse dal with either rice or roti.

Horse dal ? What on earth is that? Asked his mother, shocked.

A kind of unpeeled dal, given most probably to horses. And the rotis have insects baked with the dough.

Insects in the roti? What do you do, throw away the roti?

Throw away the precious roti? Are you mad? We just pick out the dead insect and throw that, eat the rest.

Jami exchanged glances with his mother. Rumi used to be so fussy about clean plates, would leave the table if he found a speck of some foreign matter.

That roti and horse dal tastes so good, you have no idea. Hunger is the best sauce, now I realise. You know Amma, once we were without food for two days in an action. Finally we plucked a jack fruit from a tree. I had just four segments but one of the chaps was so hungry that he had about twenty. You know what happened afterwards? He writhed in stomach pain and kept rushing to . . .

Enough, enough, said Jehanara. A little more khichuri? Some gravy with it?

Quite a lot for one day. I will be home for some time.

For how long?

Frankly, I don't know. I may stay on tomorrow just to please you.

Tell me Bhaiya, have you killed a Khan soldier with your own hands?

Rumi looked into the eyes of his kid brother and changed expression. Never ask such questions, he replied gravely. Only remember they are tyrants and exploiters. We are fighting for freedom. We don't really kill people, we fight for our legitimate rights.

Rumi washed his hands, came back to the table and lit a cigarette to the utter astonishment of the family. Smoking was not allowed in this home. Jehanara gave her younger son an approving look. In fact Rumi had confessed to her last night that he has acquired this habit at the camp. With long hours of waiting in trenches cigarette seemed the only companion. Jehanara allowed him to smoke in front of her.

Do you have any news of Babul Choudhury? she asked. No. Replied Rumi absent mindedly.

The little maid servant, Shefu often comes to me to ask about him. She is very fond of Babul. God knows where he has disappeared.

Don't know. But I hear of Sirajul. Has made a name as a brave fighter. But he still laments for Monira.

I still shudder to think of the day, they dragged her out of the house. Will she ever come back?

Monira may never be found but the scoundrels who destroyed her will receive their due. We will butcher each and every one of them.

He threw away his cigarette and began to recite:

What do you look like? What kind of clothes?

Do you move about in? Is your long hair tied in knots?

And a halo around your head?

Stick a feather in your cap, or whistle from the top tree branches

Like a bird in clumsy loose fitting robe?

Sit in a shady teashop?

What do you look like, they ask, look for you.

In nooks and crannies. Spies of long experience search for you

In every road, comb through every home . . .

Jehanara listened with rapt attention. Who is this by? She asked. Is it Samsur Rahman by any chance?

Rumi put his finger on his lips. Don't ask, please, he said and left.

The next few days were hectic. Rumi kept going out and coming back on odd hours, often staying out all night. There was no way Jehanara could guess what plans were being hatched in the minds of his friends, all handsome, cheerful boys who came and went with him.

Friends and relatives dropped in all the time. They could not be refused. There was no question of distrusting them either. Yet Jehanara could not get rid of a nagging fear. She heard of houses being searched, kitchen floors being dug up, obviously acting on some information received. Nobody knew what was coming next.

One day Rumi brought two sack loads of arms from a secret camp at a village called Purulia. Everything was chalked out. Two cars hijacked from Dhanmondi — a Mazda and a Fiat. The boys got into the cars, prepared for a few actions that night. Somebody from one of the cars asked, What are your targets? Going which way? The answer came from the other car. Destination unknown, target mobile. Actually they knew their destination and targets all right. First the guards at the Chinese embassy in Dhanmondi, then the Police Lines at Rajarbag, then move on to the house of an army officer at Gulshan. The idea was to create panic, to make the rulers understand that the youth of Bengal could not be put down by torture.

There were six of them in the Mazda, Rumi in the back seat flanked by two. For some reason the house of the Chinese diplomat at road number twenty had no guard. They drove to road number eighteen. About seven or eight policemen sat relaxed in front of one house. They paid no attention to the car, which drove past the house.

They drove straight, turned round at the crossing of Satmasjid and came back. The house would now be to their left. One would keep driving, three would fire simultaneously and the other two would be on the alert. The car slowed a little as they approached the gate. Fire, whispered Alam.

Three stenguns roared aimed at three levels to hit the head, the stomach and the head. Before the policemen could aim their guns they were pierced to the ground. The operation was hundred percent successful. The car drove away, again to road number twenty. The Chinese embassy was still unguarded. What was the matter? Has the diplomat left Dhaka?

Now they needed to contact the other car. Alam drove from road to road till he reached Mirpur Road. Then he sped towards New Market. But cars were lined up. Every passing car was being checked. So the news has traveled already?

Two army trucks were right behind them. A barricade stood in front. Two soldiers were lying on the ground aiming their L M Gs. Two more soldiers walked up gesticulating to stop.

They sat with bated breath, nobody talked. Alam turned the lights off and switched on the right indicator and turned the steering as though he was taking a right turn. One military police swore at him. Stop the car. He roared. Where do you think you are going, bastards!

Swiftly Alam swerved to the left, almost running over the two soldiers. Two lying on the ground, Fire, shouted Rumi. The three stenguns opened fire. It all happened so quickly that the soldiers had no time to retaliate.

Alam sped to road number five of Dhanmondi and drove towards Green Road. Keeping watch from the back seat, Rumi suddenly saw a military jeep coming out of a side road. It was almost upon them. Not a moment was to be lost. Rumi began to fire followed by his two colleagues. The jeep swerved, lost control and crashed into a lamp post. Victory again.

Another jeep and two military trucks chased them. But these Dhaka boys knew all the labyrinthine lanes of the city like the back of their hands. In no time they were in New Elephant Road, outwitting the enemy. Alam switched the headlights on. All six of them roared with laughter, happy to have hit their targets with no casualty at all on their side.

Jehanara rushed out of the kitchen to answer the doorbell, which buzzed non-stop. She was almost pushed back by Rumi and two other boys, their faces flushed, breathing fast. Today Rumi did not keep anything from his mother. Great action, Amma, great action! He blurted out proudly. All of them including Sharif and Jami came up to Rumi's room to listen to the details of the action which took just half an hour.

Look at the blisters on my shoulder, Amma. Explained Rumi. From sten gun sparks. The military would know at once. This means I will have to lie low till they disappear.

Jehanara removed the collar to find little black blisters. His shirt too had tiny holes. She brought some Dettol but Rumi stopped her. A little later! Now we have to go and get the arms. Will you drive the car, Amma. They may not suspect a woman driving a car.

What? You will be going out again? Jehanara was shocked.

It can't be helped. The person keeping it said we must remove them to night. These arms are more precious than our own blood.

I think you should go, said Sharif. Khuda Hafez.

Without a word she brought the car from the garage and sat behind the steering. Rumi lay flat on the back seat. It is not far, f he whispered. The second lane to your right; stop in front of High Saheb's house. Then drive up to the end of the lane and come back just to make sure we are not being followed.

It was a blind lane, quiet and deserted. Several people were playing cards in the living room. Come back and park again right here, instructed Rumi. The stuff lies in two houses beyond. Let me go and check.

He disappeared in the darkness. Jehanara sat still, overcome by a strange sensation. She still could not believe what was happening. She has read about guerilla warfare, seen films but to think that her own son is one of them, in her own country. Even she is involved. Her heart fluttered, she waited anxiously for her son — was all this a dream?

Soon Rumi was back, carrying two loaded sacks. They drove back to a dark house. Sharif had switched all the front lights off. The sacks were carried to Rumi's room. Let me have a look, said Jehanara.

Five stenguns, one pistol and two hand grenades, the last items very aptly called pineapples. The stenguns were scary, life and death depended on who would be using it first. A little while ago her sons had successfully used these arms but in the hands of the Pak army it meant an instrument of torture. They looked bright and smart. Jehanara felt them, thinking people using them were god fearing yet think nothing of killing god's children.

They have to be hidden right now, Rumi told his mother. The safest place was the water reservoir, popularly known as hauz. Eight feet in wide, ten feet deep, it was huge. Jami went down through the manhole taking a stool with him. The sacks were packed securely and placed on the stool at the centre of the hauz.

But Rumi was sceptic. Don't you think the military will not want to have a look at the hauz? What would you have done, Abbu? I would have felt suspicious. Sharif lit his torch. I would have peered into the tank for people hiding there. All I can see now is the shining surface of water. To search thoroughly one has to get down. But the West Pakistanis are afraid of water. I doubt if they will venture inside the tank.

Let them go down, said Rumi. Then I will take care of them.

The next two days he spent in bed, listening to music. Many of his friends dropped in. The events of Dhanmondi and Mirpur Road had given the administration a big jolt. But Rumi and his party came out of it unscathed.

After a couple of days Rumi budged out. More arms were coming in. The nine guerilla groups now in Dhaka were planning a major action simultaneously on the sixth of next month, the day marked for official defense day celebrations.

Rumi left home after breakfast to return late in the evening. From his looks it was obvious that he was not well though he would not admit it to his mother. I have a headache, he just said, would you press my temples a little?

He went to bed after an early dinner. Jehanara combed his hair with her fingers. Jami with another friend crept close to listen to war stories. That was all they talked about these days. The radio blared Indian programmes. One particular song stung Rumi to the quick. It was the celebrated farewell song by Khudiram, the freedom fighter sent to the gallows by the British. The song over which the entire Bengali nation shed tears.

Ekbar biday de ma ghure asi

Ami hasi hasi porbo fansi

Dekhbe jagatbasi . . .

The song went on. — Bid me farewell, mother, I will come back in due time. Let me wear the noose round my neck with pleasure. Let the world be my witness. It was a favourite song but Rumi was a little upset. He had heard the same song, earlier. Was it a coincidence? Jami asked him if he wanted to hear Jim Reeves. Rumi said he was sleepy. Soon he dozed off.

They arrived after midnight with cars screeching to a halt, marching of boots, searchlights. The banging on the gate woke Jehanara up. She spotted at least twenty military men in front of the gate. Rumi and his comrades were standing very still in his room. They had looked through all the widows to find the entire house surrounded. There was no way to escape. The searchlight fell on the garden, the veranda, the garden, their bayonets glistened in the light. Jehanara was suddenly reminded of what Rumi had told her once. You know what our sector commander says? He says no free country wants guerillas alive. They want bloody martyrs. We are prepared to be martyrs, ammi darling. Jehanara grabbed Rumi's hand in terror. The ugly shouts forced Sharif to come down and open the door. One captain, not much older than his son marched in with a subedar and some policemen wielding automatic weapons. The captain could very well have been a college student. In normal circumstances Rumi and he could have played a football match against each other. But now he has come as a killer. Rumi too, would not hesitate to kill him for the sake of his own ideal. The subedar was an Urdu speaking, middle aged Bihari.

They turned the house upside down but did not try to go down the tank, just flashed the torch. No arms were found but they lined up the three men. Pointing to the car in the garage, the captain asked. Your car? Do you know how to drive?

Yes, I do. Said Sharif.

Drive along with us, ordered the captain. Rumi, his brother and father were made to march up front. Jehanara rushed out. Where are you taking them? She cried. I would go too.

Taking them for routine interrogation, to Ramna police station. They will be back soon. Said the captain in a cool voice.

Sharif signaled his wife not to insist.

They were back two nights later, Sharif and Jami, their clothes torn and dirty, black patches under the eyes, with blood stains on the lips and hair, faces pale with humiliation.

Rumi! Rumi! Cried Jehanara. Where is he?

Father and son were in no condition to utter any sound. Their legs felt much too heavy to carry their body weight. They did not release Rumi. They were aware of a lot about him.

38

MAMUN had a feeling that smoke was spiralling into the cabin, perhaps from some coal stove nearby. It changed from blue to dark, wiping out the door from view. He wished any of the hospital sisters or the matron would come, the calling bell had been out of order since morning. He felt suffocated. Gradually the smoke solidified and a human figure emerged. Mamun shut his eyes in panic and groaned loudly.

But how can this be, he forced himself to open his eyes. Was he dying? Could this be a delusion before death? A tall man, stooping a little, with dark glasses, smoke coming out of his mouth, stood at the foot of the bed. Why, he even looked like a familiar figure. Incredible! Was he the devil himself? Mamun never cared for such superstitions. He made an attempt to sit up.

How are you Mojammel Huq Saheb? Said the visitor. Did I wake you up? Of course, he was none other than Musafir, with his usual sunglasses and cigar. Yet there was an aura of the supernatural about him. Mamun had not heard of him in the last four months. How could he materialise in the hospital cabin?

Mamun groped for his Sorbitrate tablets under the pillow. Musafir drew nearer. What are you looking for! Your medicine! Feeling bad?

Mamun put the tablet under his tongue and tried to get back his bearings. A little smoke from the cigar lingered inside the room, it was dark outside. Monju and Hena should have come by now.

Musafir was going to speak but Mamun stopped him. What are you doing here? He wanted to know.

I am a patient like you. My room is on the second floor. I saw you this afternoon.

A normal enough explanation. Mamun need not have panicked. Is something wrong with his thinking process, he wondered.

What is your problem? Heart, is it? Asked Musafir.

This man is supposed to have the power to predict. But it hardly requires psychic powers to make out why Mamun was lying in a hospital bed.

He had blacked out one afternoon near Sealdah after a terrible chest pain. It was his great good fortune that some passersby took him to the Nil Ratan Sarcar Hospital nearby, or he could have been crushed to death in the rush hour stampede. In his student days this hospital was known as the Campbell Hospital. As soon as the doctors realised he was from Joi Bangla; they shifted him from the general ward to a cabin. What he had suffered was an attack of angina pectoris. There was nothing to worry, assured the doctor.

The sky outside grew darker. So nobody came to visit him, not even Pratap whose court was quite close. Finding him alone, Musafir has walked in.

What, may I ask, is your problem? Mamun asked his visitor.

My heart is in the right place, it is my intestine. Digestion trouble.

You were stranded in Dhaka in sixty-five. When did you get back?

Perhaps it was in my destiny to taste the food of your jails. I live close to Berhampur, have nothing much to do with Calcutta. But had to come for treatment. How is the poet Jasimuddin? Has he stayed on in Dhaka?

I have no idea.

Govindachandra Deb, Manirujjaman — have they been killed as the newspapers say? It is incredible.

A lot of things happening after the fateful twenty-fifth of March would seem incredible to the people of India. Mamun sighed. A nurse marched into the room clicking her high heels. She spoke to Musafir sharply. Goodness, you are smoking! Won't you follow any of the hospital rules. I could smell it even from the next room.

I was waiting to be admonished. Replied Musafir sheepishly. I am throwing it right away.

The nurse switched on the light then stuck a thermometer under Mamun's tongue and consulted her watch. Musafir walked up to the window to snuff out the cigar. Look at the clouds, he said. It is a quarter past three but looks like evening. We are going to have floods this year it seems.

With the thermometer in his mouth, Mamun could not speak. So it was only quarter past three? There is still time for visitors. He was getting unduly worried. Such trifling matters can cause misunderstanding. After the nurse left, Mamun turned to Musafir.

If you do not mind, may I ask you some questions?

For a heart patient it is better to be frank. Go ahead, please.

Why do you wear dark glasses even indoors?

Musafir laughed melodramatically. So that I look mysterious . . . actually you would get a fright if you look at my eyes. Better not to see them.

What is your real name? You are known as Musafir . . .

Simple. My parents had named me Rezaul Karim. There is an author of this name. When I started writing I used the pen name Musafir to avoid confusion. The name has stuck.

You have foresight, Musafir. What will be the result of our fight? How long would it go on?

You have a great deal of misery awaiting you.

What? We won't get freedom, is that what you mean?

Who said you wouldn't? But that would not solve your problems. India is a free country. Does that mean the people are not suffering?

For the present the important thing is to get freedom. Once we get it . . .

Depends on what you mean by freedom. Freedom from whom and for whom! You were in a hurry for freedom and divided India.

Did we divide India?

Were you not supporting the Muslim League? Did you not press for partition like an impatient schoolboy?

You can't be serious. Think of all the reasons, about who forced us to press the demand. Study the history of the Congress movement, it was always dominated by Hindu communalism. Even when Jinnah Saheb was in the Congress, that bania Gandhi of Gujrat used to call him a Muslim leader. Under all their nationalist or Indian facade lurked their Hindu identity. That is why it was imperative that we retain our Muslim identity.

And you decided to leave crores of Muslims in Bihar, UP, West Bengal, Assam and got away with Pakistan. Leaving them to an uncertain future?

May be we did not weigh all the pros and con. Can you, Musafir Saheb honestly say that you too did not support the Muslim League in those days?

May be I did. Now I doubt if our demand was justified. The horrendous things that followed partition could have been avoided. Can you think of greater tragedies than those witnessed by us in our lifetime? You built a separate state for Muslims and within a couple of years the east and west wanted to break away, isn't it?

We had not realised that tyrants do not spare people of their own religion.

And now you think that with a monolingual state those tyrants will change over a new leaf? Greed and love of power is no respecter of religion and language. All this talk about language and culture is just a ruse put up by the intellectuals. For common people like us it does not mean a thing.

Why are you being so pessimistic? You think we are wrong to fight for freedom? You have no idea of the situation after sixty-nine. We had no other way but to break away.

The East is East and the West is West and never the twain shall meet — remember the words of Mark Twain?

You are kidding.

Please don't get excited, Mamun Saheb. That is the way I speak. Please, no offence meant. Let me ask you something else now. The lines on your forehead point to a different kind of worry, of a personal nature.

What do you mean?

In spite of your effort to eliminate women from your life, one woman is creating havoc; in fact she is the cause of your heart problem.

I am not impressed by bogus forecasts, Musafir Saheb. I have neither the time nor the inclination to run after mystery women.

How do you write poetry if women mean nothing to you?

Only a fool would say that women are the one and only source of poetry. Besides I do not write poetry any more, perhaps never will. Since you made that aspersion in Dhaka I have been analysing myself. The only other woman I care about is my niece Monju, but it is just affection. Nothing physical! Why do you insist on giving it a different colour?

Chatter of voices outside the cabin told him that Hena and Monju were here, at exactly four as usual. Let me leave you to your visitors. Musafir turned to go.

Don't go. I would like you to meet them. I have lots of things to discuss with you.

I am expecting visitors, said Musafir. I will drop in again. He left before Monju entered. An uncanny thought came to Mamun's mind. Was this strange man really a patient here or did he appear out of nowhere just to scare him?

Barun and Palash accompanied Hena and Monju. Hena ran to her father. You know Abbu, the streets are full of water, knee deep.

Mamun felt her wet hair. Drops of water drifted down her ear lobes. You are drenched, he said, expressing concern. You could have waited. Wipe your hair. He pointed to a towel.

Monju said, Mamunmama you temperature is down to ninety-nine point two, blood report is good too.

Monju looked stunning in a light pink sari. Mamun could not take his eyes off her bright face, shimmering as though she had glitters all over her face. Did she have a touch of lipstick? No, she never used them. Always an admirer of beauty, Mamun was charmed even though she was his own niece. But it was pure admiration, nothing else.

She had certainly dressed up to day, but just for a visit to the hospital? There was no sign of worry on her face for her still untraced husband. Mamun felt a little uncomfortable.

Mamun Saab, you look quite fresh, said Barun Baxi. The nurse and the doctors said you are much better. How much longer are you going to lie down here?

I want to go back. Can you please see to it?

The doctor said you do not move about, went on Barun. Walking is good for the heart. Here, hold my hand. Let us take a turn in the veranda.

Not now, protested Mamun. Let us chat.

Barun brought his head close to Mamun's and whispered. We are going to deliver supplies to the border. Monju and Hena want to come with us. Would that be all right, what do you say?

Mamun shook his head vehemently. No, absolutely not. To the border! Out of the question. We have enemies here . . . the Bihari Muslims . . .

Naturally we can't take them without your permission. We will start very early and come back the same day but so many things can happen, the car might break down.

Can we go Abbu? Pleaded Hena. Nothing will happen.

Casting a stern look at Monju, Mamun said, No.

They don't listen to us, said Barun. Please Mamun Saab, you must tell them to forget about the idea. You never know, stray bullets and all that. During this exchange Palash kept quiet, trying to avoid Mamun's eyes. The dislike was mutual. The young men were taking advantage of Mamun's absence to drop in and spend long hours chatting. That was the reason Mamun wanted to go home. Palash was the one who brought the girls to the hospital every day. Why was he so concerned?

A faint odour of the cigar smoke still lingered. It made Mamun think of what Musafir had told him. Was he really jealous of Palash? Somebody had to accompany the girls, they were not familiar with the streets of the city. No, he has no grudge against Palash. He does not seem to have any bad intentions. In fact it was only because of him that they could get a taxi on their way back from Burdwan the other day. He is a very helpful chap.

Mamun turned to Palash. Are you too going to the border tomorrow?

No, I have a recording tomorrow. Replied Palash politely.

So it was not his idea to take Monju and Hena along. Barun too did not seem very keen, it were the girls who insisted. They, poor kids, have no idea of what a war really means.

Be very careful when you go, Mamun told Barun. Do not take undue risk.

If I can be of the tiniest bit of help, like the squirrel in building the bridge to Lanka, I would consider myself lucky. Have you had tea yet, Mamun Saab? Shall I get you some?

Before he could answer Pratap appeared at the doorway, carrying a box of sweets. His hair was dripping wet. True to the Malkhanagar tradition he never visited Mamun without some gift. Mamun did not feel like having anything, his visitors took care of the food. Barun, delighted to see the sweets cried, Hakim Sahab has brought some sweets. Wonderful! I am starving.

He distributed the sweets with great gusto, even reluctant Mamun was forced to take one. Watching this cheerful boy Mamun felt concerned. He hoped no harm would come to him at the border. Some Indian photo-journalists had crossed over. They have not been heard of since.

How is Didi? Mamun asked Pratap.

Better, replied Pratap. But from his expression Mamun understood that his friend would not tell him even if she was not. Visiting two hospitals after work was no joke. Pratap looked tired.

In the waterlogged streets outside, the traffic was thrown out of gear, Pratap left soon afterwards but the others stayed on till the end of the visiting hour. After they were gone the deserted cabin suddenly took on the appearance of a dark tunnel. In a way the general ward is better, one has company. Nobody would come to the cabin now except a person with the dinner tray. The doctor on his usual eight-thirty round may be held up tonight in the rain.

There is a musical soiree at Mahajati Sadan to night, Hena mentioned. Instantly Palash had cut in. No, it might be stopped in the rain.

That explained. Monju had dressed up because they were on their way to Mahajati Sadan. Here he was, lying in a hospital bed and the girls were having fun. Mamun felt anger bubbling up inside. Of course Monju wanted to keep it back from him. Mamun rubbed his chest. Excitement is not good for him. A moment ago he was ready to excuse Palash, why is he mad at him now? Why should they shut themselves at home and not have fun? After all they were young. In this age they do not bother about the past or the future like old people. Perhaps they will splash through the water, Monju holding Palash's hand, her body swaying in laughter. Mamun could visualise the entire scene.

He was losing control. No, this will not do. He tried to drive away the disturbing thoughts. That is the most natural thing for them. Let them walk on to the Mahajati Sadan, let them enjoy the music. Who knows what the future has in store for them, let them have a good time meanwhile.

39

SOME songs have a way of echoing through the mind for no apparent reason. Atin could not get rid of the song he had heard once, he kept humming it walking down the road. It was beautiful spring weather, flowers were in bloom, some leaves were beginning to turn golden. He wore a pair of jeans and an Egyptian cotton shirt, a gift from Sharmila. He nodded to passers by who said Hi and kept humming to himself — You don't belong, you don't belong.

He passed Science Centre and walked towards Harvard Yard. Next to the Appleton Chapel stood a small shop which stored different kinds of ice-cream. He selected two packets, frozen stiff, not likely to melt on the way. He paid at the counter, all the while humming to himself, then boarded a bus and got down at Sharmila's place.

He pressed the button and heard her voice: Who is it?

Mr. Death. The Boston Strangler, said Atin.

Sharmila pressed her button from her second storey apartment for Atin to enter. It was six- thirty, broad daylight still, sunset would be at eight. Sumi, Sharmila's cousin would not be home, Atin knew. He avoided her if he could help it.

The ancient lift cluttered its way up, feminine perfumes trapped inside the cage. Alone in the lift he sang loudly, You don't belong, you don't belong. He found Sharmila's door slightly ajar. She heard him and spoke from the bathroom. I am taking a shower. Will be with you in a minute.

It was a one-room apartment with attached bath and kitchen. They paid more rent than Atin as two of them stayed here. Atin put the packets of ice-cream in the fridge, drank from a Coca Cola bottle and said, hurry up. I would like to take a shower after you.

A look at the two single beds reminded Atin of Phuldi's room back home, which she shared with Munni. Who is occupying Atin's room now? Perhaps Tuntuni. The phone rang. Sharmila came out of her bath, a housecoat flung on her to answer. She placed one hand over the receiver and asked. Martha. Should I ask her to come over? Atin shook his head. Martha has become quite friendly with Sharmila. They have been asking one another over for meals. In fact Sharmila is concerned for Martha not having any boy friends.

Putting the phone back into the cradle she said, I have asked her to come on Saturday. You can go ahead. I am through. Use the pink towel.

Atin took off his shirt and paused. Tell me something. Is someone about to have his bath allowed to kiss someone who has just had hers?

No, never. Sharmila made an effort not to smile.

Fat lot you know. Those who calculate before kissing are crooked people. He rushed forward and took her in his arms. All his desire to take a bath was gone now. Sharmila had to push him into the bathroom. Behind the closed door Atin went over the lines of the song loudly: You don't belong, you don't belong.

In the meantime Sharmila changed quickly. She feels bashful to dress before others, even Atin. Atin came out of the bath to find her staring at the TV screen with great wonder.

What is the matter? Watching a film?

No. Come here, live from the surface of the moon. People driving.

Atin turned up the volume and knelt down by her side. Scott and Arwin are driving a car. I thought it was science fiction.

It is so clear. That hill over there — Mount Hedley — hill of the moon. Sharmila was visibly excited.

This is Appenine area. Do you notice something? The car is not bumping, it is lunar gravity.

I have goose pimples all over, said Sharmila excitedly. What a tremendous achievement! There should be worldwide celebrations. Human beings, just like us. Just think of what they have accomplished. Sharmila moved the window curtains to get a glimpse of the moon.

Somehow Atin did not share her excitation. Already Neil Armstrong had set foot on the moon. By and by Americans would be sending vehicles, build houses on the moon — that is how science progresses. He looked at the practical side of it instead of romanticizing. Instead of sending rockets, the Americans are sending human beings at a much greater cost and risk. They have to be one up on the Russians.

He too looked out of the window. Daylight still lingered. The moon was not visible yet. Let us go out later and watch the moon from a park, he suggested.

Isn't it strange that we are directly getting the picture as they are moving about on the surface of the moon? Exclaimed Sharmila.

To tell you the truth, I was more surprised to watch Neil Armstrong talking to the American President from the lunar surface, admitted Atin. The lunar landscape faded and advertisements began. The Americans may send men to the moon, but it was equally important to sell soaps and oil.

Let us have a quick dinner and go out, said Sharmila. This is not the time to stay indoors.

They had noodles with corn beef and mayonnaise salad. Atin had brought Sharmila's favourite almond ice-cream. They sat on the bed touching each other, plate in hand and watched TV. A feeling of love radiated from Sharmila's face.

I have to go to New York, day after tomorrow, said Atin, trying to sound casual.

Is Siddhartha throwing a party?

No. The daughter of a close friend of father is coming, have to receive her.

Coming for a visit or to study?

To study. At the University of Maryland.

Will she go straight to Maryland? She can come and stay with us if she wants to come to Boston — Cambridge.

OK. I will tell her.

Monday is a holiday, a long weekend. Suppose I join you?

Atin hesitated for a few seconds before saying, oh yes, why not.

Noticing that hesitation Sharmila laughed. What is it? You don't want me to go? Some special plan with Siddhartha?

No, no. You come along. That would be nice.

What is she called? And her subject of study?

Oli Choudhury. Used to be a student of English literature. I have no idea of what her plans are.

What a lovely name. Oli. Quite unusual. It is a good thing she will be in Maryland. Not too far from here.

Suddenly Sharmila remembered that her Mama from Washington would be coming in the weekend. Though he would put up in a guesthouse, she would have to be around. He was a very learned man and Sharmila was awed by his presence. The full moon shone on a clear sky. Sharmila looked at the moon for a few seconds, held Atin's hand against her cheek and said softly, I am so happy, Bablu. None of them felt any need to talk.

On Friday night Atin boarded the ten 'o-clock bus to New York, a journey of seven hours. He made a last minute request to Sharmila to change her mind but poor Sharmila could not displease her Mama.

He settled on a back seat by the window in order to smoke. Presently lights were switched off, the passengers got ready to sleep. The greyhound bus sped away, no jerks on the smooth highway. People did not chat or shout in public transports, Atin had noticed that. Except for lover couples who giggled and kissed, there was no noise at all.

Two black youths sat in the adjoining seats smoking marijuana. It was against the law to smoke in bus they did not seem to care. They even offered Atin some but he was in no mood to talk to anyone. He lit a cigarette and stared out of the window.

They were passing through miles and miles of deserted moonlit fields. For all its mechanised life this country at night looked like the primeval earth. Clusters of trees appeared once in a while. On turnings long lines of speeding cars with red back- light looked like a luminous procession. More cars plied on the highways at night. These four or five lane highways were perfect to the point of artistic excellence.

Atin was wide-awake. Gazing through the glass he had an illusion. He saw a man running alone the bus. It was actually an image of him; white shirt with rolled up sleeves on gray trousers. Did he run as fast in the field at Jalpaiguri after shooting that troublesome fellow?

All he could think of while running was that he would not get caught. But finally the police caught up, at Jamshedpur town.

If Kaushik had taken him to some other place like Hazaribagh or Daltongunj, the course of his life would have been different. Neither Manikda nor Tapan got caught. He too would have helped the cause of the revolution instead of living in exile here, in a capitalist country. But then he would not have met Sharmila in that case.

He did not regret his relationship with a pure, innocent and brave girl like her. She had helped him restore his mental balance at a very crucial time. He has seen such cases. One chap in New Jersey, an eccentric fellow, one of the gang who killed Gopal Sen of Jadavpur University was on the verge of losing his rationality because he could no longer justify his action. Thanks to Sharmila, Atin has been saved from such a fate. Even after coming here, he was drawn to drinks and womanising, again it was Sharmila who had pulled him up.

But she was yet to be told about Oli. He has just mentioned her name that is all. How was he going to broach the subject to this girl, so gullible, so trusting?

The shadow outside the window knocked on the glass. Who are you? What do you want? Asked Atin.

I am Bablu from Calcutta, son of Pratap Majumdar, spoke the shadow. You have become a Yankee Atin. Don't you know me?

Of course I do. Have I forgotten anything?

Sure, you have. Remember Kaushik?

Certainly. I was just thinking of him.

Do you know that he is dead?

What? No, impossible. Oli wrote to me that he is fine. Oli? Which Oli? Oh, I see the daughter of a friend of your father. Just that.

That is what I had to tell Sharmila, but she will be told by and by. I can't hide anything from her. She trusts me completely.

And keep everything from Oli? Pack her off to Maryland so that she does not get to know Sharmila?

What rubbish. It can't be kept a secret. She is a friend and will remain so. I will do whatever possible to help her. Did I ever promise to marry her?

Certain promises are not spelled out. She made two of her tutors leave because you forced her to. And on your way to Krishnanagar, by the river, later on the rickshaw, what did you tell her?

Stop it, Bablu. Tell me what you just said about Kaushik is a lie.

You are changing the subject.

Get lost, Bablu. Atin lost his temper and went to the toilet, dabbed his neck and forehead with water. This must be the effect of the marijuana smoke from those two boys. But why was he feeling nervous and guilty? He had a feeling that he was about to commit an offence.

Back to his seat he saw the shadowy figure again. It did not leave him, kept running alongside the bus.

It was too early when he reached the sprawling bus terminus in New York. Siddhartha had asked him to come to his Brooklyn apartment straight from there. After a mug of black coffee Atin got down to the subway station, his bag slung over his shoulder.

He slipped into the building as a middle-aged man came out, opening the main door. He gave Atin a look but said nothing. Probably the building housed quite a few Indians and Pakistanis, he was used to the sort.

A white young girl in a silk dressing gown, with no make up opened the door of Siddhartha's eighth floor apartment. Hi. You must be Tintin from Cambridge, She said, smiling. Come in. Your friend is still asleep.

It was not proper to show the surprise that Atin felt. So Siddhartha was living with a white girl? Or was she just an overnight guest? The girl moved about in a way as if she was the mistress of the house. She put the coffee-pot on the stove and said, why don’t you sit down and be comfortable? Atin felt like an outsider.

What happened to that angry young Bengali girl, Neepa or some such name, who Siddhartha used to be friendly with? He was not the sort to stick to one girl. He used to make fun of Atin. You are a fool not to take advantage of this permissive society. Tagged a girl friend along from home. Really!

Tintin, I am Susan. The girl introduced herself and put her cheek forward. As Atin brushed his lips on her cheeks he had a sexy smell, like the smell of Bhatful flowers in the forests of north Bengal. From the door, half ajar he could see his friend stretched out on the bed in his underwear. Atin normally would have dragged him out of the bed but felt too self-conscious before a white stranger. Susan drew her legs under her exposing a good part of her legs. Staring at the wallpaper, Atin asked her, Aren't you going to call him?

We had a late night. Your friend is tired, he said not to wake him up before nine. Let us have coffee and chat in the meantime, said Susan.

Siddhartha joined them a little before nine. Go and get my coffee, he ordered Susan. Then he went back to the bedroom and came back with a key. Without a word he threw it to his friend.

Key to apartment 632. Empty. It is for your use.

Atin stood up to leave.

You would have a nap in the afternoon, wouldn't you? Siddhartha went on. I need to sleep too. Susan will make lunch and call you. The apartment belonged to an East Pakistani who has gone to fight for Bangladesh. You can stay there for a few days with your girl friend from Calcutta. Susan, will you please take him up and help him to unpack?

No, thanks. I can manage. Replied Atin in a dry voice.

Out in the corridor, he tried not to feel offended for almost being pushed out of the apartment. May be Siddhartha has his reasons, the presence of the girl for one.

The East Pakistani boy had a large collection of Bangla books and records, the largest Atin has seen in a long time. Though it was usual in this society, he felt ill at ease in the apartment of a total stranger. Susan could have used this place.

He must put a call to Sharmila, she had insisted. How can he use the phone belonging to someone he did not know? How will he pay? A collect call was the answer, he decided finally.

It was Sharmila who picked up the phone. You know what, Bablu! She sounded happy and excited. Baromama has cancelled his trip, which means I can now come to New York. I wish we had traveled together. That would have been wonderful. Should I come, say on the eleven o'clock bus? Sumi will stay alone. What do you say Bablu?

Atin took a few seconds to answer. Yes, please do. Do come over.

40

OLI spent two days visiting the British Museum and some art galleries. Then she visited the India Office Library with Bishakha. She was dying for some news from home. Glancing through a couple of Bangla newspapers she found a lot of unpleasant news like Malda being cut off by floods . . . a police constable killed at Maniktala, a total of 38 police men have been killed in the last eighteen months, 9 Naxal prisoners killed in an encounter in Asansol jail, seventy lakh refugees have poured into the country so far. She scanned the papers but was somewhat relieved to find nothing on Kaushik and his associates.

They proceeded to Trafalgar Square, where a meeting has been organised by an ex-judge of Bangladesh — Abu Syed Choudhury who was acting as unofficial ambassador of that country to mobilise world opinion in favour of the oppressed Bengalis of East Pakistan. There were Bengalis all over the place, speaking in their own language. It clearly showed that a large number of Bengalis lived in London.

Trafalgar Square, normally crowded with tourists was today the venue of a meeting of about five thousand Bengalis. At first an appeal was read out to release Sheikh Mujib from the prison in West Pakistan, signed by 130 British MPs. Then one by one the speakers described at length the inhuman torture of the Pakistan army all over Bengal. One speaker proposed that Pakistan Airlines should be boycotted internationally as passenger planes were being used illegally to carry arms to Dhaka.

Shouts of cheer interrupted one lecture. Mohiuddin Ahmed, the second secretary of the Pakistan High Commission in London has just resigned and come to express solidarity with Bangladesh. Cheers went up from thousand voices — Joy Bangla, Joy Bangla.

Isn’t that Dr. Alam on the platform? Asked Oli.

Seems like it. Replied Bishakha. Yes, that's him, your Dulabhai.

That means Tutuldi is better. I must meet her before I leave.

I must say, that Tutuldi of yours is a brave woman, said Bishakha.

They left the meeting and set out towards the tube station. It was a fairly warm day. Watching American teenage tourists loitering in their vests Oli was surprised. She had no idea of how warm England could be in summer. A group of teenagers almost collided with them, going up the staircase.

These teenagers in a hurry do not see which way they are going, said Bisakha. Hold on to the railing to your left.

But Oli did not feel any bitterness. She said. You know I like London. It is a little different from what I had thought it to be but very lively on the whole.

Why are you going to the States then? You could have studied English here.

Who would have given me a scholarship here?

But America would give you a greater culture shock. The campuses are full of hippies. First the Beatniks and now the Hippies have shaken their values, even the concept of dress. Couples lie right in front of others on the campus grounds. The new slogan is — make love, not war.

Sounds good, don't the Americans want war? Not the younger generation! The Hippie movement began from opposition to the Vietnam War.

Why is President Nixon supporting the military regime in Pakistan?

That is the state. Pentagon. Pressure from big arms manufacturers. For the first time the American youth have gone against the government policy. Bob Dylan, Allen Ginsberg and others are raising funds for Bangladeshi victims.

The tube was to take Oli to Reading, to her friend Chandana's place. They would come to receive her at the station. In British trains nobody talked. Even the four or five Indian passengers avoided direct eye contact with her. Almost everyone had a book or a newspaper spread in front. Oli has watched such scenes in films but now for the first time she realised that two persons sitting side by side could actually be so distant.

Many passengers were getting down at Reading. Oli, in a hurry to get down was pushed about a bit in the jostling crowd. After stepping into the platform she realised that she did not have her handbag with her. Was it left in the train? No, she was clutching it all the time . . .

Her head reeled. Bisakha's father had warned her about pickpockets. This was the first time she was travelling alone. Somebody in the crowd must have taken her bag.

The bag had her passport, air ticket, about thirty pounds in cash, two hundred dollars in travelers' cheque, an address book, a pair of gold earrings. A series of apprehensions went through her, now she won't be able to board a plane to the States, Babluda would go back from the airport, the date of admission to the university of Maryland would expire, the police would humiliate her and she would be sent back . . .

When Chandana and her husband Manoj came to pick her up they found Oli staring at the rail tracks in the deserted platform, all blood drained from her face. Chandana gave her a good shake. Oli whispered, I am finished, I really am.

Actually all was not lost, as Manoj explained. You would get a duplicate passport and US visa. You have to report to the police station. I hope you have the numbers of the travelers' cheques. The rest of course is gone.

They took Oli to the police station. The officer was a kind man. He said, a gang has been operating on this line. We have reports of such thefts every day. Can you go and have a look at the Gents toilet? He asked Manoj.

He was perfectly right. The thief had thrown the passport and the air ticket in the nearest trash can and made away with other valuables. Oli had not kept the number of the travelers’ cheques so that was gone. Anyway, after the harrowing experience of the last half an hour Oli at last heaved a sigh of relief. She had even contemplated committing suicide.

They were classmates in Presidency College. Chandana came from an upper class background, was a brilliant student but was married off before her graduation and came to England.

Manoj dropped them at his house and drove away to bring back their two and a half year old son from a relative's place. Both of them worked and left the child there. Oli could not help notice the look of strain in Chandana. She worked in a Deaf and Dumb school. What was a bright student like her doing there she did not ask. Manoj was a mechanical engineer. His constant refrain was, I am a workman, have nothing to do with books.

It was a two-bedroom house, quite small. After her day's work Chandana would have to cook for her. Oli would have preferred to have sandwiches but Chandana would not hear of it. Just coming from home, Oli was not particularly keen to have rice and macher jhol but somehow everybody in England was determined to give her Bengali food. Perhaps it was a kind of nostalgic meal for these people.

Manoj was late. Meanwhile Oli tried to help her friend in the kitchen. How is life here, Chandana? She asked casually.

Chandana was chopping onions. She stopped, gave her friend a penetrating glance and said. Frankly, some evenings I wish I could return at once. But next morning I don't feel that way.

You have not gone back to visit even once. Complained Oli.

We are saving money. We are yet to buy a house. Then the baby came. I tell you, Oli, we have to work so hard that I would not want to come back once I reach India. The pleasure of not having to do a thing, that is what you can't have here.

Then why is it that people do not go back?

It is a kind of security. Unadulterated food, the child will have chance for a good education, if both of us work for ten more year we will have enough money for the rest of our lives. People do not seek happiness here, but comfort, material comfort.

Remember how we used to make fun of your indifference about money? We used to think you do not know how to count change. In the coffee house you had asked the bearer to keep the change giving him twenty rupees for a seven and half rupee bill.

I was so innocent and stupid in those days. The problem is that our parents are too protective. But here you have to be careful about money. Go to any Indian here and you will find them talking only about houses and cars. You know what I really think? I think happiness is a philosophical hoax . . . How many people in our country are happy in the real sense? It is no use running after an elusive idea of happiness. Good food, good house and a car — these things give you real comfort, you have a good life that way.

Well there are people who get away from these creature comforts. The best boys of Presidency College are living in out of the way places, organising peasant movements.

I believe Calcutta is in a very bad way, stray killings and all. People here make fun of Calcutta. You have done a wise thing coming here. What happened to that friend of yours, Atin, that's the name. He had broken jail and come over here. Both of you must make up your mind about your future, you know.

Manoj was back with the child, so the conversation ended abruptly. Oli spent the night but since both Manoj and Chandana had to leave for work next morning they could not chat till late. Somehow Oli had a feeling that none of them were happy, she could sense an hidden undercurrent of tension. A cynical statement like happiness is a philosophical hoax, was unthinkable from a girl like Chandana.

Lying in the bed with a baby smell, Oli stayed awake, pondering over a lot of things. Losing the handbag in the station had shaken her badly. As far as law and order was concerned England was no better than India. Fortunately she got back her passport and the air ticket otherwise all her hopes of meeting Babluda would have vanished. She did not want to stay on in London even for a day. Day after tomorrow seemed such a long way off. Did Babluda still have his beard, she wondered.

She stood near the window, watching an English shower falling over English roses in an English garden. The very word England used to thrill her but now that she is in this country she is not feeling any excitement at all. Would America be any different?

The face of Babluda came before her to be replaced by Pompom and Kaushik. Two very close friends, Babluda and Kaushik have drifted far apart. Kaushik had broken jail, using firearms like the great revolutionaries of the Chittagong Armory Raid case, Masterda, Ganesh Ghosh, Ananta Singh. Kaushik must be saved at any cost.

Other party colleagues have misunderstood Babluda. But he has not betrayed them, he had no other option. He would have been killed. She imagined Babluda standing next to the rose shrub, in kurta and pyjama, soaking wet. I will be with you soon, Babluda, she whispered. Very soon. I can't stay away from you any longer.

Next morning, after a hurried breakfast they set out, bundling the still sleeping baby and dropping him at Manoj's sister's place. When Oli got down at Paddington Station, swinging her handbag, she exuded confidence. Let any crook come near to snatch her bag. She had to borrow five pounds from Chandana. She must tell Bisakha to send her a cheque.

Today Bisakha had to go back to work, so Oli was on her own with a tube map as guide. But where would she go? With the notebook she has lost Tutuldi's number and address. Tutuldi would be disappointed.

One good thing about London was you could visit the museums and art galleries free of cost. She visited the Tate Gallery again, watching the historical city, the city of artists and poets unfold before her. Yet somehow the reaction of an Indian visitor, with the hangover of two centuries of British rule, was bound to be different.

She went and sat in Hyde Park corner, watching the world go by. Perhaps her dress caught the attention of the passersby but nobody came forward to talk. Oli was not hurt but surprised at this display of western individualism. You can roam about the entire day in this city without uttering a single word. A sudden shower forced her to rush to the nearest station and come back home.

Next day Bisakha and her father saw her off at the Heathrow airport. Checking in her suitcase, Oli bade good bye to them and entered the security enclosure. From now on she would only have Babluda to lean on. She had no money either. At the New York Airport she would declare dramatically, You know Babluda, I have come to you dead broke, penniless. The thought amused her. The middle-aged passenger in the next seat with a faint garlic smell was obviously from the Middle East. After the plane took off, he unfastened his seat belt and turned to Oli. Pakistani or Indian, he asked.

His warmth and innocence touched Oli, it had a touch of the East. He was from Cairo, going to visit his son who was studying architecture in Chicago.

You had built the Pyramids once and now you are sending your sons out to study architecture! Oli expressed wonder. The man broke into a loud guffaw. She might have found it improper earlier but he sounded like a wild Bedouin. She liked it.

The man ordered whisky for himself and insisted that Oli has some red wine He started a conversation in a rather loud voice. He has seen women in sarees before, they were much softer than Indian men. Of course the Prime Minister of India was a woman. She is up to some tricks with Pakistan. But the President of Pakistan was an army general. Would she be any match for him in a war?

After his third peg he put his hand on Oli's thigh. Gently removing his hand, Oli pleaded, Please, don't. He looked at her, taken aback. Oli repeated. Please, let us remain friends. The magic of the word Friend seemed to work. Instantly, he moved his hand and promptly fell asleep.

Nobody except Babluda had ever touched her. Oli was proud of the fact. Not that anybody had never tried. At Ghatshila, one of Kaushik's friends had put his arms round her with great passion. But Oli shook him off without much ado or melodrama. Babluda was the only one who went ahead in spite of her resistance. That was why, mentally and physically she longed for him.

What were the lies she had to tell him, Oli went over them. He was not to be told about Manikda's death, the precarious condition Kaushik was in, the torture Pompom had to undergo in Lalbazar. They are all well, so is Babluda’s pishimoni. He must not be told about Tutul's operation either. And what else!

Way above the clouds the moon shone brightly. Most of the passengers were fast asleep. But Oli was wide awake. Every minute the plane was taking her closer to Babluda, eight miles per minute.

All through the night she did not doze off even once. Then the lights were switched on, the 'fasten your seat belt’ sign came on. She touched the man next to her lightly and said, Please get up.

Down below the city of New York looked like a picture postcard. Brightly lit sky scrappers. She could spot the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty.

The plane touched down with a mild jerk. The Egyptian asked Oli, Is anyone coming to receive you? I can drop you to any hotel, if you wish.

Thank you, said Oli. Someone is coming for me. It was nice talking to you.

The very next minute she felt apprehensive. Suppose Babluda was not there. She did not even have the money to telephone. But now, she must not be nervous, she told herself. She must have faith in Babluda. She went past the Immigration and Customs. There he was, waving, somehow looking taller and thinner. He has shaved off his beard. Oli wanted to leave her suitcase and make a dash towards him and put her arms round him. So many young couples were kissing in front of others.

As she drew near, Atin shouted in Bangla. Oli, Oli, you are here at last. We have been waiting. The plane was forty minutes late. Without giving Oli a chance to speak, he introduced his companion. This is my friend Sharmila. Sharmila this is Oli. Would both of you mind waiting here? Let me go and find out where Siddhartha has parked the car. He hurried away.

Sharmila took Oli's hand. You must be tired. The journey is quite boring. Please move over here, it is raining. How was the weather in London?

The warmth of this girl touched Oli, though for some reason she found Atin to be evasive. She liked Sharmila at first sight and did not let go of her hand.

41

IT has been raining without stop the whole day. This year the monsoon has been particularly heavy.

All the tanks, ponds, marshlands and canals are full to the brim, rivers are on the verge of overflowing, floods have already started in some districts. Nature has a wet and green look.

The month of Sravan is both a time of joy and distress. Rains are good for paddy, at the same time excessive downpour can spoil the crop. So far the prospects seem to be of a good harvest. But for the daily wage earners, who constitute more than half of the seven and half crore population of Bangladesh, staying home means no meal for the day.

But the rain could not stop the thousands of refugees crossing over the borders of Kushthia, Jessore, Mymensing, Chittagong, Dinajpur to India, already reducing the population of Bangladesh by close to eighty lakhs. They are leaving their ancestral lands for dear life. They have seen villages being burnt to cinders, people being shot for no reason, even children were not spared, and the husband has seen the wife being raped and countless other atrocities. Confused and bewildered, these fugitives do not know what future has in store for them. But they keep on moving as though chased by hounds and very often becoming targets of the tormenting aggressors.

The Indian towns near the border are having a hard time coping with the influx, their population doubling overnight. With countless problems at home, the government of India is at its wit's end in trying to deal with this new burden. Camps are being opened but daily more and more people are coming, an endless stream of human beings. Will this ever end? The rest of the world remains a silent spectator to this tragedy. Some countries have sent some help to ease their conscience but so far nobody has any solution to offer.

It has been raining in Calcutta too, but life has not come to a complete standstill. The city too is groaning under pressure of the population arriving from across the border, seeking shelter. Apart from providing for them, the apprehension of riots looms large. But surprisingly, the local population reacted emotionally, as if they have now become one. Language is proving to be a stronger bond than religion, at least among the educated class. In spite of the political division, they should have kept in touch — that seemed to be the prevailing feeling. People willingly donated a day's pay, nobody objected when the government of India introduced extra postage stamps to meet the cost of the refugees.

But there are skeptics too, not given to emotion. In private conversations doubts are expressed about treating the Muslims like honoured guests. Once everything settles down, the same people will turn into our enemies. All the Bangla euphoria will change into a tilt towards the Arab countries.

People unaffected by partition succumb to Hindu communalism. They are delighted at the prospect of dismemberment and the consequent weakening of Pakistan, Go and have a look at the refugee camps, they whisper. A great majority are Hindus, they are being driven out. Are they going to settle here permanently?

Such doubts however cannot be expressed publicly. The one good fall out of the Pakistan army crackdown was the new realisation among the people of both Bengal of the futility of communal hatred.

Countless people, marooned inside their houses, thousands of exiled people like Mamun stood near the windows, thinking nostalgically about the home they have been forced to leave. It was raining in Dhaka. It was raining in Rajshahi, Bogura, Tangail, Khulna. The fine drops of rain spread the germs of nostalgia all over. Pessimism is giving way to fear. Nobody knew what greater terror the future is going to bring.

All action of the Mukti Bahini had come to a sudden halt in Dhaka. In a combined operation, the police and the military have put thousands of young men under arrest. How many have been killed and thrown into the river is anybody's guess. Neither Rumi nor his friends have returned. In desperation, Jehanara Imam has been visiting pirs and fakirs proclaiming supernatural power. One Pagla Baba, known for his clairvoyance has predicted that he would soon bring the boys back safely.

In the all-pervasive rain, all the freedom fighters are sitting idle, chatting or just brooding in the camps. After the first flush of enthusiasm, there is a lull. The Pakistan army has doubled its offensive which was beyond the power of the Mukti Bahini to counter. What would be their next plan? No country, not even India has recognised Bangladesh. How long can the fight go on with no money, arms, just moral courage. Even moral courage seemed to be dissipating.

In the porch of an abandoned school building sat Babul Choudhury, cleaning a stengun. He paid no attention to the heated arguments among a group on the other side. Soon they resorted to ugly charges and counter charges. Since they had nothing to do, past differences were surfacing between erstwhile Awami League and NAP followers. Three days ago the in-fight had resulted in a murder in this camp. Sirajul has been taken to some undisclosed destination in India for special training. The rain continued in Karatia, Gopalpur, Kodalia, Neyamatpur, Natiapara, Jagannathgunj, Pakulla, Mirzapur, Bhatkura, Bhuapur, Pathrail Chandi, Kalihati and other villages covering the entire sky over Bengal. In spite of the downpour the farmer is out in the field, fishermen are out with their boats; the weavers are busy at the looms even the beggar woman is going from door to door notwithstanding the rain. The stomach is indeed as powerful as god, may be just a little less.

To a great majority of these people concepts like country, freedom has no meaning. They have never been to Dhaka; their lives revolve round a circle of about ten-mile radius. It matters little to them if the rulers of Rawalpindi, Islamabad or Dhaka speak in Urdu or Bangla. Under Hindu zaminders they scarcely got two meals a day; the situation has not changed under Pakistan rule.

A section of the youth of Bangladesh have joined the liberation struggle, another section have formed the Al Badr and Razakar groups, to be used by the Pakistani army for espionage, driving away the Hindus and other destructive efforts. Of the ninety seven percent of the population who had voted for Mujib, a good many have changed colour and turned to the Pakistani despots. Among them are teachers, professors, Presidents of Zila Parishads who are active members of the so called Peace Committees and participants in genocide. In the name of Islam they do not balk at any heinous, inhuman crime. The youngsters just follow the leaders, they have no idea that there is anything wrong in being a Razakar. They get food, money and arms — that are what matters. Besides, the funniest part is they can get away with loot and arson.

One can be driven to any length for dear life. Conversion to another religion is a small matter. Those Hindus who were obliged to stay have been converted to Islam. Propaganda against the Hindus has been intensified. All the streets having Hindu names in Dhaka have been renamed. The Hindus are instigating trouble with support from Hindu India — this is what is being spread in West Pakistan. Naturally they find nothing wrong if the army crushes down on the Hindu secessionists.

The rebels have been eliminated. Schools, colleges, offices, banks, factories have been forced to reopen. Even the sympathisers of the movement have gone back to work. The Peace Committees have been given great power.

In a public meeting in Tangyle, Professor Abdul Khalek, the Secretary of a Peace Committee declared that only Muslims will live in Pakistan. No other religious community has the right to live in an Islamic state. Low caste Hindus like sweepers, washermen, barbers, cobblers will be allowed to stay because Muslims do not go for such lowly jobs. But if a Hindu becomes a Muslim for some motive, he will be killed.

Those Hindus who had refused to desert their ancestral land were panicky. A list of names has already been made, so there is no way to escape either.

A grand conversion ceremony began in the biggest mosque in Tangail. About three hundred Hindus with names like Nikunjabehari Saha, Dulal Karmakar, Asit Neogy, Haripada Sarkar, Badal Basak etc. were lined up outside the mosque. Each was presented a cap, were trained in the rituals of ajju and kalema. To the great crowd gathered to see the fun, Abdul Khalek shouted angrily, What is there to see. They are not Allah's feresta. They are still kafers, not Muslims yet.

But an air of festivity prevailed. The crowd came forward to distribute sweets to the new converts. Nikunja Saha, Dulal Karmakar and the rest went back home as Rahimuddin, Kalimuddin and so on. Then it was the turn of the Hindu women. A short cut process was adopted for the women-in-purdah. As the Imam uttered the kalema from the other side of a saree stretched out like a curtain, the women repeated his words sobbing all the time, a cheer went up from the spectators waiting outside.

The new converts, anxious to prove their loyalty flocked to the mosques in large numbers, outnumbering the old Muslims. Not accustomed to kneeling for prayer, the new converts often lost their balance. A Maulavi was kind enough to permit such persons just to come to the mosque and watch.

Among the curious crowd were a handful of young men who came with a totally different purpose. They were identifying the people committing excesses. When the time comes they would have their vendetta; not a single culprit would go unpunished.

The Pakistani army had brought about a semblance of normalcy in the entire country. But in Tangail sub-division itself a secret group was active. The leader of the extremely powerful brigade was one Qadir Siddiqui, popularly known as Thunder. He had left college to join the army but came back again, rejoined college and made a name as a student leader. Tall, handsome, with beard and whiskers like Fidel Castro, he was well known as a leader of the Tangail Awami League and younger brother of Abdul Latif Siddiqui, an elected member of the Jatiya Parishad.

Tangail, sixty miles from Dhaka was unaffected on the fateful twenty-fifth of March. But the frantic exodus from Dhaka started the next day, the news of the army crack down on innocent citizens reached Tangail. One eyewitness from Dhanmondi spoke of the way Mujibur Rahman was pushed into a car amidst cannon charge and taken to an unknown destination.

Naturally the elected representatives and leaders of all parties had to organise some kind of defense. An armed brigade was formed. Sheikh Mujib, anticipating arrest had already recorded a speech, which was now broadcast over the radio. He had asked the Bengali people to go on fighting for freedom till their last drop of blood.

The red, green and golden flag of Bangladesh replaced the Pakistani flag from all offices and buildings except the Circuit House, which housed one company of soldiers of the Second Bengal Regiment. Of the five officers two were Punjabi. Were the Bengali soldiers willing to join the Mukti Bahini? Why then did they keep the Pakistani flag flying? Already the police and the Ansar troop had surrendered but till the soldiers in the circuit house surrendered, Tangail was not safe.

One midnight, a motley group of about seventy-five marched towards the circuit house armed with outdated three-o-three rifles and a few extra guns. As they were crossing the river some of the overzealous among them fired a few rounds. Instantly the army opened fire from the circuit house. The Chinese machine guns roared, crushing the amateur soldiers to death. The silence of the night was broken by the terrible boom of the canons.

Qadir found himself alone with just a few of his followers. Knowing that they were ill-equipped to face a trained army, Qadir waited till day break. Then he procured some microphones and blared a message to the Bengali soldiers of the Second Bengal Regiment. He did not stop till contact was established with the Bengali Subedar and finally the Bangladesh flag fluttered over the circuit house. The next to join the Mukti Bahini was a brigade of East Pakistan Rifles. With them Qadir and his followers proceeded to a face to face encounter with the Pakistani army coming to Tangail to teach them a lesson. In the first clash the Pakistani army was caught off guard, they lost some vehicles and men. But when they began to charge the Mukti Bahini had had no chance before the barrage and machine gun strafing from helicopters.

Pakistani flags fluttered again from the police stations. Political leaders went underground . . . Some fled to India. Qadir with his men and whatever resources he could mobilise, fled to the hilly tracts.

He built his own brigade with patience and courage. They made sudden forays and destroyed Pakistani army installations, looted weapons. Nobody could see them. An award of one lakh was declared for Qadir, dead or alive. The villagers were warned. Any help to Qadir would be punished with burning down of property. Yet the villagers gave him shelter and food. Qadir also finished off the agents of the enemy after an open trial. Everybody including criminals were afraid of Qadir.

Rumour spread that Qadir alias Thunder possessed supernatural powers. He was renamed Tiger and his group was called Qaderia Fauz.

Other Mukti Bahirii groups had withdrawn to the Indian border and crossed over to India. The Indian Border Security Force trained them in guerilla-warfare. How the Qaderia force was carrying on by itself seemed incredible. Neither the temporary government of Mujib Nagar nor the Indians were ready to believe their existence at first; but by intercepting wireless message of the Pakistani force, they were convinced. The impregnable Pakistani bastions were in disarray by their hit and run attacks. Some foreign newspapers expressed surprise at their mode of operation. It came to be known that a well-disciplined army of six thousand freedom-fighters have been formed under Qadir Siddiqui.

In the open encounter at Ghatail Dhalapara, Qadir was badly wounded. There was rejoicing in the Pakistani camp, that Qadir was dead. But their joy was short lived. A wounded Qadir, trudging one hundred fifty miles on foot, crossing several rivers, surfaced in India to a hero's welcome. He was truly speaking a tiger.

After his treatment was over, Qadir, taking great risk and went back to his own area. He wanted to be with his own men and carry on war till Tangail was free of the invaders.

His forces did something incredible on the river Dhaleswari. Seven steamers and ships loaded with men and ammunitions were going north. Since Tangail and surrounding areas were under Pakistani army control, the ships were not keeping a sharp vigil. But order had reached Qadir's unit at a tiny riverside village to destroy those ships.

But how could a small guerilla unit accomplish such a miracle? But such large amount of ammunitions would strengthen the arms of the army in the north. The Mukti Bahini on the other hand needed arms badly. So they were determined to accomplish the impossible. Commander of the small unit, Major Habib lay in wait with his troops. In fact he had made a trip round one of the ships dressed as a fisherman and chatted to the soldiers on board. They were in a relaxed mood. Habib’s total strength was his eighteen men, three two inch mortars, six LMGs, some rifles and one rocket launcher. The seven ships sailed by, at an equal distance, as Habib's men watched from their hide out, eager to start firing. But Habib had strict instructions that nobody was to start the offensive before he gave the signal. One ship passed, the second, then the third, the boys were getting restless, but their commander sat like a statue.

A large sandbank stretched in the middle of the river. The water was deeper on the eastward channel that was the route taken by the ships. Habib and his men waited on the east bank. Then the last two ships, larger than the others came into view, ammunitions covered with tarpaulin, on which sat soldiers, cracking jokes. As they came within range Habib's LMG began spraying bullets, followed by simultaneous action by his boys.

Strangely enough, there was no reply. After the first group was shot to death, the others jumped into the river. The other ships, instead of coming to help increased their speed and fled towards Sirajgunj. That the Mukti Bahini would dare to launch an attack was beyond their wildest imagination. The last two ships were packed full of gunpowder and firearms. An explosion could blow them up any minute.

The two ships ran aground on the sandbank. Habib, the dare devil that he was, got into one of the ships with some men. The deck was strewn with dead bodies. The entire stock of millions of cartridges, bullets, canons and mortar lay at their disposal.

Volunteers rushed from adjoining villages, helping them unload the arms. About five hundred men working for six hours could not even take away a fourth of the stock. But time was running out, any moment the Pakistanis would be back. After the boats had moved to safe distance, the ships were set on fire.

For the next three days explosions went on intermittently from the burnt ships. Pakistani army, air force launched a fierce bomb attack but by that time Mukti Bahini had left the area. As they retreated, they went on destroying bridges.

This was how arms costing twenty-one crores of rupees were destroyed by a handful of Bengali youth, rank amateurs, who had never even held a gun a few months ago.

42

SIRAJUL took off from Agartala. To be on a flight was beyond his wildest imagination. Airplanes were something he had watched from the ground, carrying well-dressed people in suit and tie. But on this flight he was pleasantly surprised to find common people, carrying bag-full of vegetables. In fact he himself was better dressed with clean clothes, a pair of Reds. He has taken two sets of clothes. It was a clear day. From the window they could spot farmers ploughing, herds of cattle, little houses. Soon this was gone. They saw forests and hills and finally a wide river, tiny boats sailing on the water. Could this be the familiar Meghna wondered Sirajul with a heavy heart. He did not know Indian planes flew over Bangladesh.

He asked Motin who from the next seat was straining to have a view, What river is that?

Motin had no idea of geological features seen from high above. He could not tell. Nirmal and Jehangir in the seat in front constituted their team. None of them had any knowledge of where they were being taken.

Presently pretty airhostesses served tea and a food packet containing two sandwiches, one chop and a sweet. They exchanged glances. Even yesterday they lived on tasteless khichri amidst mud and squalor, the bitter smell of bleaching powder. And look at them now, eating sandwiches wearing babu-like clothes. This was exactly like what happens in films.

Within an hour the plane landed at Dumdum airport. This then was Calcutta. Sirajul had been hearing all sorts of stories about this city from one of his uncles who used to work here. People often get lost here, the shops are open all night, and you can get just about everything, even tiger's milk if you have the money. What he has been hearing now in the camps were more or less the same stories. Leaders like Tajuddin, Syed Nazrul Islam and Commander-in-Chief Colonel Osmani were in this city now. The Naxals kill policemen in the streets, bombs explode every now and then but that does not stop musical concerts. The singer Debabrata Biswas, Sirajul's most favourite can be seen in such functions.

Sirajul's heart beat faster. He began to fantasize, Col. Osmani patting his back, telling him, I have heard a lot about you. You would be given much greater responsibility now.

The four of them along with about thirty more such men were put into a covered army truck. A convoy of four such trucks left the airport and turned right. Soon they were passing through the countryside, as lush and green as in their own country, the same paddy fields, mud huts, bullock carts, many of the pedestrians looked Muslim. The only difference was the prevailing peace. Nobody bothered to look at the convoy. When it was late afternoon the convoy left the road, drove across fields to stop at a place circled with trees. Between forty and fifty tents were set up there, armed soldiers standing guard.

They were made to stand in a line. A Punjabi officer welcomed the Mukti soldiers and said today they could relax, play volleyball if they wanted. In the evening there are film shows in the canteen. Training will begin from five-thirty tomorrow morning. He had just one request, not to leave the camp without permission.

Sirajul and the three others were accommodated in the same tent. You know something? Said Jehangir, excitedly. This is Plassey. I saw the road sign.

Which Plassey, of the history books? Asked Motin.

Is there any other Plassey? This is a historical site. Murshidabad and Berhampur must be close by. There are quite a lot of mango trees, said Nirmal. Must be that famous mango orchard of Plassey. Let us look around.

The camp was spic and span. The canons attached to a dozen armoured-cars looked quite unused. They went close but nobody stopped them. In front of the officers quarters a volleyball match was in progress. All were non-Bengali jawans in khaki shorts and vests. One Sardar fellow asked them to join but the Mukti soldiers were keen to look around.

They entered the canteen. It was a hall with tiled roof. A screen for showing pictures hung on the wall. There was a table tennis table too. They could buy things like cigarettes, chocolates, soaps, blades and things like that. They did some shopping with the two hundred Indian rupees they were given before embarking. Things seemed pretty cheap. Jehangir bought ten bars of chocolate for five rupees. I never thought I would ever have a chocolate again, he said sadly, popping one into his mouth.

They watched Doctor Kotnis Ki Amar Kahani, a film about an Indian doctor working for the revolutionaries in China. A very noble story, but with no songs or dances.

Indians do not get along with the Chinese now, whispered Sirajul. Why are they showing it in the army barrack?

It is an old film, explained Nirmal.

They are showing Mughal-e-Azam this Saturday, saw it on the notice board, informed Motin. That is a good one.

They stretched out on their cots after dinner and smoked. None of them could sleep, everything had a new, unfamiliar smell.

You know, said Motin. The armoured cars we saw to-day. The sight of them used to scare us in the streets of Dhaka. We touched the same kind of cars!

My father used to be a post-master somewhere in this Murshidabad district. He opted to the other side after partition. Just think I am here to have training, the place my father chose to leave.

Remember sixty-five? Said Sirajul. India was our enemy number one. And we are lying in their camp. Isn't that funny? How times change.

All the big officers of the Indian army seem to be Punjabis. Our majors, captains too are Punjabi. Some turn out to be friends, some are enemies, isn't that confusing?

I could have died in Indian bombing, I was stuck in Lahore. Look at me now, having chicken and chapati in the Indian army camp. Destiny, I call it destiny. Jehangir was philosophical.

The chicken curry was a little too hot don't you think? Asked Nirmal.

Sirajul was suddenly reminded of Monira who was fond of hot food. He sighed and turned over.

They woke up at the bugle sound next morning at quarter to five. It was still dark outside but they sprang up to get ready. They had to fall in within fifteen minutes. The first few days they had physical training and jogging. This was followed by a week of swimming practice in a tank and a canal, both overflowing with rainwater. They were divided into small groups and competitions were held. How much time each could spend under water was timed carefully. Sirajul was the best in swimming under water.

One midnight they were woken up. A group of about twelve was taken to a river, a drive of about fifteen minutes. In the pitch dark they had to swim across the river with a pair of fins attached to their feet. This made swimming easier and soundless. This practice went on for some nights. Then something very dramatic happened. A brightly-lit launch was anchored in the middle of the water, dream like in its beauty. Brigadier Gyan Singh gave them limpet mines. They had to swim to the launch and attach them to the body of the launch very quietly. A group of four, led by Sirajul were to finish the job in half an hour.

For Sirajul it was a simple job. This river called Bhagirathi was also known as Ganga. The current was not too strong. Sirajul rubbed oil all over his body and slid into the water swam to the launch where a party seemed to be in progress. They stuck the mines and swam to the shore. Within minutes sounds of machine gun firing rent the air. Strong searchlights were turned on towards the shore. Shadows of people hurrying and scurrying could be seen. What was the matter, was it a Pakistani boat? They were not told anything. They ducked in and swam under water. When they reached the shore more surprises were in store. There was nobody waiting for them. Did they leave thinking them to be dead? If this happens to be under the Pakistani army, not one moment was to be lost. Carrying Motin who was injured they ran for life.

They followed the road by which they had come. What made them desperate was the fact that did not have arms with them. After a while the lights of their camp could be seen. Brigadier Gyan Singh was waiting for them. He took Sirajul in his arms and congratulated him. You have made it. Bravo. Excellent timing!

Now they understood. The whole thing was a part of their training. Motin's injury was not serious, he was more nervous than hurt. The shots were fired at the sky. What had hit Motin was a mere splinter from a cracker.

We have great good news, said the Brigadier. A twenty-year Friendship Treaty has just been signed between Soviet Union and India. Gromyko is in Delhi. He has announced that if India were attacked the Soviet Union would stand by us.

There was jubilation in the camp, feasting and dances. Some jawans danced Bhangra. The Mukti fighters sang Bengali songs.

After exactly a month and five days the training was over. The Mukti fighters were sent to Calcutta and put up in a flat in Ballyganj Circular Road. Their time was all their own now. They moved around, visited the Free Bangla Radio Station, Nakhoda mosque, the Victoria Memorial, Rabindranath's ancestral home at Jorasanko, tasted the celebrated rumali roti and mutton chop of Chitpur's Royal Hotel. Sirajul wanted to meet Colonel Osmani, an appointment was also made. Then they were persuaded to go to the maidan to attend a meeting in support of Bangladesh where many writers and artists would be present. Sirajul hoped his favourite singer Debabrata Biswas would be there. But just as he had stepped on the grass, crossing the street, he heard a woman's voice, You are Sirajul, aren't you?

She could have knocked him down with a feather. All these days Sirajul had only thought of Monira. The thought of Monju had never crossed his mind. Suddenly he saw an extremely beautiful woman before him, everything else vanished from the scene. Monju was also kindness incarnate, she had been a saviour in their time of distress.

Monjubhabi! He exclaimed. Babulbhai is all right. Where are you staying here? How are you?

Monju had tears in her eyes. She felt as though she had met a long lost relative. Her voice shook as she asked when did you come to Calcutta, Sirajul? Why didn't you come to see us?

I had no idea of your whereabouts.

Everybody knows Mamunmama at the Bangladesh mission. Sirajul, where did you meet my husband? Where is he right now?

We are in the same camp. Babulbhai has recovered now, completely.

Recovered from what?

You don't know? Yes of course. How would you? Well, nothing much. He was shot in the leg. He is a freedom fighter, now he has changed.

You are alone Sirajul, where is Monira?

Monira?

His companions tried in vain to stop Monju from asking but Monju could not interpret their warning looks. She asked again. Why did she not come?

Sirajul sank on the ground, oblivious of the place and the time. His friends carried him to a nearby place, they sat under a rain-tree. As Sirajul recounted his tale of woe, both Monju and he shed copious tears. But Mamun would be released from the hospital today, so Monju had to leave. She asked the entire party to have lunch with her the next day. She would write a letter to Babul. Wiping their tears they went their different ways.

But as they returned to their flat, they found the sour looking Major Chopra waiting for them. Pack up your things, he said. You have to leave tonight by an air-force plane.

Leave to-night? But where? Asked Sirajul, agitated.

No questions. It's an order.

He would not listen to their pleadings to stay for one more day in Calcutta. Finally Sirajul protested. He was not bound by Major Chopra's orders. His order has to come either from a commander of the Mukti Fauj or the government of Bangladesh.

Listen my dear chap, explained the major. Operation Jackpot will begin from tomorrow, for which you have been given training. We are not going to force you if you back out of panic. You are neither the Indian army nor BSF recruits. It is your war, now if you do not want to go ahead that is your choice. You are free to go where you please.

There was no question of backing out. Of course we want to join the operation, said Sirajul. It is just one more day that we want here.

No way, Major Chopra was quite firm. The timing is determined after calculating a lot of factors like the full moon, tide, weather, the speed of the breeze and so on. Your commanders, not us, will control operation Jackpot. We are not in the war. We just provided you training because you wanted it that's all. One hundred fifty were given special training, out of which sixty have been selected finally. You are among them. But if you prefer to stay on, have a good time, go ahead. You won't be called again.

His arguments were invincible. When do you want us to be ready, Major Saheb? Asked Jehangir.

So, he won't be able to meet Monjubhabi after all. Sirajul was put off. However they were permitted to stop for ten minutes on their way to the airport to say good bye to Monjubhabi.

They touched the knees of Mamun who sat crosslegged on the bed. Sorry bhabi, apologised Sirajul. Could not make it this time. May be when we come here next time or when you go back to Dhaka, do write a few lines to Babulbhai, the air force plane won't wait for us.

So they were freedom fighters, on their way to a major operation. Mamun stared at the boys. He has never looked at a freedom fighter so close. He was old and sick, not used to fighting with arms but a part of him wanted to accompany these brave hoys to the battlefield.

Have you met Babul? Asked Mamun. So he is all right. I am so relieved. Where is Altaf? He too is a freedom fighter, I believe.

It was a passing phase, said Sirajul with ill-concealed contempt. Nobody knows his whereabouts. But Babulbhai has surprised everyone. He does not know what is fear. He is right in front in every action.

Monju listened to Sirajul with pride mixed with pain. She scribbled a note very fast, most of which consisted of the same phrase: take care of yourself.

Mamun climbed down from the bed to pat them on the back as if he were sending his own sons on a dangerous mission.

Bless us, Mamun saheb, said Sirajul, so that we may come back successful.

To everybody's surprise, Mamun burst out crying. He mumbled something nobody could follow.

The car was already honking downstairs. Sirajul almost snatched the letter from Monju's hand who put it hurriedly in an envelope and said in a voice choked with emotion, Do tell him to send me a reply in whatever way he can.

As Sirajul was about to leave Monju clasped his hand. You will get Monira back, I tell you, you will. They flew to Agartala. The same night they were taken to Horina camp, so Sirajul had no chance to meet Babul.

Operation Jackpot was a simultaneous raid on the two sea ports of Chittagong and Mangala and riverine ports like Chandpur, Daudkandi, Narayangunj, Asugunj, Nagarbari, Khulna, Barisal, Goalando, Fulcharighat and Arichaghat. Sirajul was commanding one of the three units in charge of the Chittagong raid, the most important target. His friends were in the same unit.

Next morning they set out on foot, a journey of four days. Their guide would be changed from time to time. The chances of being caught were so considerable that substitute units were kept in waiting. Their destination was Charlaksha, across the river Karna Phuli, beyond Chittagong.

The difficult bit was going through Chittagong. The curfew made it imperative that they walk by day. But during the day jeeps fitted with machine guns made rounds. There were check posts at street corners; a suspect was shot then and there.

But the guerillas active in the city had procured an ambulance. Early morning after the curfew was lifted Sirajul's party was put in, they crossed seven check posts. They got down near a market by the riverside. Meanwhile they had changed their clothes into those of ordinary villagers, returning from the market. They wore lungi, torn and tattered vests and a gamcha on the shoulder, carrying a big basket. From the market they bought some vegetables and fish. They passed the armed Pakistani soldiers guarding the waterfront and got into a boat. The boat sailed. At last they felt relieved and began to smoke.

The market was yet to pick up business, people were coming in. Naturally the return passengers were fewer. In the boat were some women and children, the two majhis and a strong looking man with close cropped hair, a loose silk kurta, about six gold rings in his fingers.

He was eyeing the seven young men with suspicion. Which village are you guys from? He asked, scratching his abdomen under the lungi.

The reply was well rehearsed. The man was not convinced. He picked up a gourd from one of the baskets and charged, how much?

They are not for sale, Karta, said Sirajul politely. We have bought them.

Ignoring his explanation the man said, you live in Lalsha and haven't heard of me? You ask me to believe that?

He groped into the baskets, taking out the vegetables one by one. He must be a big boss of the Peace Committee. Very soon he would get to the arms hidden in sacks under the vegetables. There was only one way open for them though they were instructed to avoid unnecessary trouble.

Sirajul gave Nirmal a meaningful look. From the back Nirmal struck a blow and pushed the man into the river. The man struggled to raise his head above water but Sirajul leaned and kept his head under water. To assure the other passengers Jehangir folded his hands and said, Please don't be scared. He was a rascal. He instructed the boatmen to row on. They changed boats and reached Charlaksha under a scorching sky. Two huts were kept ready for them. Motin and Jehangir started discussing the incident in the boat but Sirajul interrupted. Not a word! Nothing has happened. We will eat, and catch up on sleep. How about listening to music? He switched on the transistor he had brought hidden in the basket. All India Radio blared songs.

He spent the whole day listening to the radio while the others cooked or took a nap. The night passed without a hitch. The next day an old song was beamed. Sirajul sprang into attention. Get ready, he whispered. We have just twenty-four hours. The next party is on their way.

Jehangir was the most educated of the lot. He was aware of the fact that music broadcast from the BBC was used as coded message during the Second World War. After twenty-four hours a second song would be played. What was that song?

I have not been told about that, said Sirajul. The commander of the other unit knows it. He fished out an envelope from his pocket. Will you do something for me? In case I do not come back, hand this letter to Babul Choudhury.

I like that, exclaimed Jehangir. If you don't come back do you think we will?

Sirajul smiled. For us, getting back is tougher than reaching the target.

The second party arrived in the evening, led by commander Bachchu. After a comparatively dangerous transit, they were absolutely fagged out. They promptly fell asleep.

Next afternoon while the transistor was playing an old favourite of K.L. Saigal, Bachchu announced. One hour after midnight! That is the zero hour.

They had early dinner, had a short nap, then did some work out. Exactly at one they slipped into the water. The tide was over, ebb tide was yet to begin. The water was still. It was dark this side, but the brightly lit jetties of Chittagong port could be seen. Strong searchlight beams combed a good part of the water surface for intruders.

The duty of the port guards would be over at two when a new group would take over. During the last part of the vigil, the sentries were usually less alert. This fact was also taken into account in planning the operation.

M.V.Al Abbas with its 1041 tons of ammunitions was anchored at jetty 12. At 6, the Orient Barge had 276 tons. The largest liner M.V. Hormuz had 9910 tons of stuff, including cannons and tanks. There were other gun boats and barges too.

Fins attached to their feet, a group of young swimmers crossed over to the port. Each was allotted a particular ship. The most daring of them all, Sirajul went beneath the Hormuz and surfaced on the port side, and clung to the body of the ship. The searchlight fell on him. Any moment he could be a target of the guards, if anyone happened to spot him. The limpet mines were attached. By now to their advantage the ebb tide had begun. All they had to do was to let them float with the current. The mission was a hundred percent success. The first explosion went off at 1.40, sending shock waves through the entire city. After five minutes a bigger explosion followed. The great Hormuz was sinking. Then a series of blasts shook the air. The end of the world has come, thought the alarmed citizens.

Instead of going back to Charlaksha, Sirajul and his unit reached village Patia, awaiting the arrival of volunteers who would show then the way. As the sun rose the Pakistani helicopters came flying and the army in launches. They began brush firing the villages. Where are the Mukti soldiers, they began interrogating the villagers.

By now the rescue team had arrived. The unit ran along the bank. Suddenly Sirajul stopped in his tracks. Patia is on fire. They are burning down houses. They are dying for us.

But it was not for them to argue or look back. They had to follow commands. But Sirajul seemed to be possessed. He turned back and began to run in the direction of the village, breaking away from the pull of his compatriots. The villagers were lined up. Overhead a helicopter flew towards them. The shooting was about to begin. To go back would be suicidal. The guerillas are not supposed to face the enemy. But Sirajul, all his suppressed emotion and tension released after the completion of the mission lost his head. This was a common reaction and they were told to guard against it during training.

Come back, Sirajul, cried his friends.

But in the wailing of the women Sirajul could hear Monira. How can he go back without her? I am coming, coming, Monira, he screamed. His voice was drowned in the roar of a helicopter. Haramzada, yelled Sirajul with all his might. Son of a swine! He ran to the village firing his machine gun.

Hai Allah! Jehangir struck his own forehead. He has gone mad.

They had no time to turn back. The very next moment, Sirajul was pierced to the ground, a scene they did not have to witness.

43

AFTER flying across the great expanse of the Atlantic, Oli was so overcome with jet lag that she was hardly in a condition to talk or even keep her eyes open. Sharmila, realising this put her to bed right after reaching the Brooklyn apartment.

Next morning Oli woke up very early to find herself in a place she had never seen before, a stranger, a dark and lovely girl in a pink nightie sleeping next to her. The room was full of posters and pictures of various people. She could only identify Rabindranath, Che Guevara, Sheikh Mujib and Maulana Vasani. Is this Babluda’s room by any chance? But where is he? She got up and tiptoed out to the common passage leading to other apartments. Attached to this room was a kitchenette and a toilet. Where has Babluda gone, leaving her here, she wondered.

The sari she was wearing, a border less yellow half-silk was not her own. Her suitcase stood by the wall, still locked. Who changed her dress? The thought made her blush a deep red.

Gradually the memory of last evening came back. On the way back from the airport there were other people in the car, Babluda kept quiet most of the time. Then she was brought here. Yes, they were looking for the key of the suitcase. It was not in her handbag. Where is it? Did she lose it in the plane, Oli could not remember.

Now she remembered. She changed into a sari Sharmila had given her. She peeked into the toilet to find her own sari hanging from the shower screen. It looked as if Sharmila lived here but the books scattered on the table had a Muslim name scribbled on them. Has Sharmila, like Tutuldi married a Muslim? What is her relation with Babluda? No, no, it can't be.

She searched her other bag for the key. No, the key was not there either. This Sharmila is a nice girl, so kind of her to offer her sari. Oli liked her mild manners though she had expected Babluda would come alone to receive her.

She took out her tooth-brush and tooth-paste from the bag and brushed her teeth quickly. She felt famished. Immediately the thought came back that she has lost her money and travelers cheques. Here she was in a strange country without money. Of course she has seen nothing of the country yet. For her this room was America.

She pulled the curtains back and looked at the landscape from a considerable height. This apartment must be on the sixth or the seventh floor. The window opened to a view of a garden and a rain soaked street beyond, cars parked on both sides. The houses were taller and larger than those in England, the cars were bigger. A remark overheard in the car last evening came back to her; they were going to Brooklyn, somebody had said. How is New York different from Brooklyn? She had no idea. As far as she knew the famous Brooklyn Bridge was in New York.

The fridge must be stuffed with food, but Oli could not bring herself to opening a fridge belonging to a stranger, however hungry she might be. Let Sharmila wake up. She went into the bathroom to change back to her own sari in great haste, as if she had a plane to catch. She felt uncomfortable in other people's clothes.

As she could not help looking at her own image in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door, she felt tears welling up. For some time she wept for no apparent reason. She thought of her father. For all his enthusiasm to send her abroad, did he really want her to go? His idea was that Oli should take charge of his business, he had no son to take it over. Oli had learnt quite a lot about the publishing business. She would certainly go back after a two-year stint here. Would Baba wait for two years? At the Dumdum Airport she had sensed a kind of despondency on his face. What could be the reason? Did he know about Babluda already?

Babluda had all the time acted quite distant, not even touching her hand. He asked general questions about the London weather, nothing at all about his own people in Calcutta. From the way Sharmila was talking to Babluda, with an implicit understanding of trust, quite different from the way she was talking to the other person driving the car — Oli had no doubt at all about their relationship.

She wiped her tears. No, she is not angry with Sharmila. There was no pretence in her manner, she was not acting innocent, she really was. She does not know about Oli, that is all.

It was after a long separation of three years that she was meeting Babluda. Yet he had always remained close. The last meeting was at the bus stand at Siliguri. Then circumstances beyond their control tore them apart. It was a question of life and death. Oli never accused Babluda for that. She knew there would never be any misunderstanding between them. But within minutes of setting foot in New York she felt the common ground of faith between them slipping away. It was a terrible blow. She must have wanted to hide her sorrow in sleep . . . But she was sleepy too, and hurt, so hurt that she felt numb.

If only she had money with her, she would have started for Maryland right away. An apartment is sure to be ready for her there. The old professor and Pulitzer Prize winning writer, Peter Mayer, Oli's mentor in the university had been corresponding with her regularly. She had talked to him on the phone from London. But how can she go out without a penny in her purse. She wished the pickpockets on the London tube had spared her this humiliation.

Where has Babluda gone, leaving her with total strangers? If Sharmila wakes up she can borrow some money from her. But suppose she wakes up late like Bishakha in London used to do on holidays? It was quarter to seven. Oli drew close to the bed and eyed Sharmila critically, as a woman looking at another woman. She was nothing to write home about, tall and slim, the feet smooth from wearing socks all the time, dainty waist, small chin, the lip line spoke of an honest heart, rich hair but cut short. There was a decency in the way she stretched herself. So this peacefully sleeping girl is very close to Babluda.

She sighed. No, she was not going to lose him to this girl under any circumstance. Perhaps the invisible waves touched Sharmila. She opened her eyes and beaming all over asked. So you are up already? Did you sleep well?

Oli nodded. This girl could be a little older than her, by a couple of years at the most. She was using the familiar tumi. Oli reciprocated.

Sitting up, Sharmila rubbed her eyes, shook her head to drive away sleep. You know you were quite restless in your sleep. You gave me a fright. How do you feel now? OK?

Again, Oli nodded. By now Sharmila was up on her feet. You have not had tea or coffee, have you? After all you are not familiar with the place. In fact, I too landed here only day before yesterday. The apartment belongs to a friend of Siddhartha, he has a wonderful collection of Bangla songs.

She put the kettle on the stove and kept on chattering. You know what fun we had last night. You went off to sleep, almost knocked out, we chatted till late at Siddhartha's apartment on the eighth floor. We could not possibly share his apartment, he lives with a girlfriend. Bablu would not sleep here with two girls, we offered him the sofa but hut he was adamant. I could have gone over to a friend who stays close by. But it was too late. Susan offered to share the same bed with you and me, after all the bed is big enough for three. But Bablu would have none of it. Why should Susan sacrifice for our sake, he said. It was just for one night. Can you call it a sacrifice, tell me. Bablu was high, I poured a glass of water on his head but he was still very drunk.

She offered OH some biscuits with a layer of bacon. Are you homesick? She asked. You must be. I used to be, used to cry a lot and wanted to go back. She went on. The boys and girls here leave home, nobody minds. We are too attached to our families, don't you think?

She did not complete the story of last night. Where did Babluda sleep finally? Sharmila made coffee, she took it black, without sugar. Oli was not used to coffee. They always had tea back home.

Sharmila put a record on. She continued her chatter. It is raining. The boys would sleep for quite a while. It is a holiday. Let us have breakfast. I can see you are hungry. She took out eggs, milk and salami from the fridge. You know yesterday Bablu and I went grocery shopping. We are going to be here for a few days. You can look around the city. Would you please put two pieces of bread on the toaster. That is brown bread, ever had it before? Tastes quite different. How do you like your egg, boiled or fried?

How can I stay here? Oli said. I have to reach Maryland today for registration.

Today is a national holiday. The semester is yet to begin. You need not worry. We will drive you down to Maryland.

The professor I would be working under wanted me to call him as soon as I reach here.

Do you have his home number?

Yes, but that is in my suitcase.

And you have lost the key. Never mind, we will think of something. Nobody here calls so early in the morning on a holiday.

Oli bit her lips. She does not even have a dollar with her, she has come empty handed, and Babluda did not even touch that hand. The bell rang. Sharmila, busy with the frying pan asked Oli to attend to the door. Why am I feeling nervous? Oli asked herself. For Babluda! Or she was afraid to face a melodramatic scene?

A gentleman with a sari-clad lady stood outside the door. Taken aback, the lady mumbled, we have come to meet Yusoof.

He is not here, replied Oli.

The gentleman looked at the number on the door and repeated. Yusoof. Yusoof Ali. We are friends of Yusoof Ali.

Now Sharmila had to come forward, in her night dress. Yusoof Ali is not here. She informed them. He has gone to India, I mean Pakistan, no, I mean Bangladesh.

This strange conversation was carried out in English between two sets of Bengalis. After the couple left, Sharmila began to laugh. Frankly, I know nothing about Yusoof Ali. They must have been shocked to find two girls in his room. Perhaps they wanted to come in, after coming all the way in the rain . . .

Babluda is the limit, Oli was thinking. Sleeping away, leaving Oli in a stranger's place. He did not even ask about his parents, his comrades, anybody! Meanwhile Sharmila had made sandwiches with salami, cucumber and mustard. She poured milk into two big glasses when the phone rang again.

You get it, said Sharmila. Oli was sitting next to the phone.

I wouldn't know what to say.

It must be Bablu.

Oli showed no attempt to pick the receiver, so Sharmila was obliged to take it. It was not Bablu, she spoke in English. Oli noticed that she has nice breasts and even the faintest smile lights up her face.

No, no, I will never admit defeat, I won't, Oli thought. But I will never hurt her either.

Susan wants us to join them for breakfast. We will go up later, what do you say?

The kettle whistled. Sharmila was about to make coffee but Oli stopped her. Can I have some tea please. She asked.

We didn't buy tea, but this Yusoof Ali has a good stock. I think there is no harm if we help ourselves to a little bit. He is sure to bring tea from home.

It is eight-thirty, said Sharmila, no sign of Bablu yet.

Where did he spend the night?

At an apartment near by, somebody called Jamini Mukherjee. How silly can you get. He could have shared this room with us.

Do we have to pay for our stay here?

Oh no. People let others use their apartment free of cost. The flower pots need watering, the fridge would be in use. You know your Babluda can sleep till eleven. He lives alone in an attic in Cambridge, sometimes I go and pull him out of bed. Make coffee. You know once I poured water in his ears, god, how he screamed.

How do you open the door?

I have a key.

When did you get married?

Married? Who said we are married? Sharmila stared at Oli in wonder.

Rumour among his friends in Calcutta. Replied Oli with a mischievous twinkle. Blushing furiously, Sharmila said, we are not thinking of marriage yet, before finishing our studies.

Oli kept up the smile. You know Protapkaka had asked me to verify. Why did he not write to us, he said. We would not have objected. You know Sharmiladi, they are wonderful people. I will write to them, saying I have liked the bride, beautiful and accomplished.

Oh come on. How do you know I am accomplished? Besides I am not beautiful at all. A dark girl in our family! My aunts used to tease me. On the other hand you are so pretty, all the Bengali boys will fall for you.

Goodness. Not again.

What do you mean? You already have someone, is that it?

Oli sat silently, staring at the wall. When Sharmila came back after clearing the table she found her in the same position. Have I hurt you in any way? Sharmila asked softly.

No, Sharmiladi. I somehow felt I could confide to you. Actually I made a mistake coming here.

What is wrong?

Oli looked the other way. I have a friend, Shounak. He did not want me to come. Neither did my father. But I did not want to settle down so soon. It was my dream to come to America. But now I feel that I won't be able to stay on for long.

Two years is not a long time. What does this friend of yours do?

He is in active politics. Babluda would be mad if you tell him.

Why?

Shounak is an active member of the CPM. Great hostility between Babluda's party and theirs. Not on talking terms.

Why should they bring ideological differences to personal level?

Please do not tell Babluda just now. May be later. Actually Shounak is a very honest person.

They chatted on. About an hour later Atin came in along with Siddhartha and Susan. Siddhartha admonished Sharmila for not being dressed. Let us go for a long drive, lovely weather like rainy season back home.

Did you sleep well? Atin asked Oli.

Yes. Smiled Oli. Let us go out. Don't want to stay indoor.

Atin lit a cigarette. His eyes were still red, hair disheveled. His eyes kept shifting from Oli to Sharmila. Oli moved to the window to look outside. Shounak, what do you look like? She asked herself. Are you very tall or of medium height? You have a beard? Do you smoke? I will build you up, you will be my creation, my very own. Don’t ever leave me.

44

THE whip with a metal head, its braided leather straps fungus-coated, still decorated the wall of the flat, having survived partition and many change of houses. Pratap's father had bought it on a trip to Puri, many years ago.

Pratap had the good fortune to escape its lashes but he did use it on Bablu once, Kanu a couple of times. In spite of Bablu's objection to having it hanging on the wall for no purpose, neither utility nor decoration, it had remained an integral part of the household furniture.

Mamata found her husband sitting distractedly on the chair which badly needed repair. He sat with the whip in his hand, staring at the floor.

Putting down the cup of tea on the table Mamata asked lightly, Who is the Hakim Saab thinking of right now? Which unfortunate culprit is due for stern punishment?

Startled, Pratap looked up, his expression a mixture of anger and sorrow. A postcard lying on the table, obviously bringing some bad news, must be the cause of his disturbed state, assumed Mamata.

As she tried to pick it up, Pratap grabbed the postcard. Mamata had noticed that it had no foreign stamp, so, somewhat relieved she asked, Who is it from? Don't you want me to read it?

Glaring at her, he replied. No, you don't have to, now. Please leave me alone, will you?

She knew her hotheaded husband only too well so Mamata withdrew to the kitchen. She had plenty of work piled up. But soon after Munni came to her. What is wrong with Baba? She whispered. He is sitting very still, tears flowing down his cheeks. I called him but he did not answer.

Pratap in tears! This was as impossible as a tiger eating grass. Mamata, disturbed, put down the karai from the stove and hurried to the living room to find her husband sitting in the same position, still clutching the whip. Munni was right, he did have tears in his eyes. Apprehensive of his health, Mamata touched his shoulder.

What is the matter? Pain in the chest again?

Pratap shook his head. Then wiping his eyes he asked Munni, where is Tuntuni? Since Tuntuni was not any good at studies, she had been admitted to a typing school near the Gariahat market. But she never came home on time.

Can you go and fetch her? Pratap asked Munni.

But I don't want to be late for college, protested Munni. She will be back by eleven-thirty in any case. But what is it Baba, anything urgent?

Instead of snapping at her, Pratap appealed, his voice hoarse. Go to college a little late, but you must go and call her right away.

Any bad news from Deoghar? Asked Mamata. You did not let me read the letter.

It is a sin to read such a letter. Momo, but I can't keep it from you. Chordi is dead.

This was a bolt from the blue. If it were Biswanath, it would not have come as a surprise. But Santi thakurjhi!

It was a strangely worded letter:

My Dear Pratap,

Let me convey to you a piece of good news. You don't have to worry about us any more. Last Saturday your Chordi had an attack of thrombosis and left us all. She had no attachment for me lately. At long last she will have peace. You may recall, your revered mother had made your Chordi her heir, so with your sister's consent the house has been sold. I have decided to spend the rest of my life in Kashi. Most of the money has gone in settling debts. I am sending you one thousand by money order for Tuntuni's marriage. Adieu, brother, adieu. Whatever God wills, happens. God has not been merciful to us in this life.

Your Ustadji (former),

Biswanath Guha.

Killer! Pratap struck the table with his fist. He has murdered Chordi. Mamata flopped down on the chair opposite and murmured Chordi? She is gone?

Certain thoughts are too unpleasant to be spoken aloud but they come to mind nevertheless. Biswanath, a TB patient, had his days numbered. Mamata had even thought of bringing Santi to them. Recently Supriti was critically ill, but she revived. Not Biswanath, nor Supriti but Santi of all persons, was the one to go. Strange irony of fate!

Compared to her brother and sister, Santi has had a lacklustre life all through. Soft spoken and mild, she had never tried to exert herself in anything. She was the darling of her parents and did not have to leave them even after marriage. Her music mad husband used to visit her a couple of times during the year. She was content with that. But her secure life was shattered once they were obliged to leave their ancestral home and move to Deoghar.

Sold the house! Without letting us know! Then murdered his wife! That man is capable of anything. The crook, the shameless crook. Pratap went on, his voice cracking with emotion.

Please, don't raise your voice, Didi has to be told in good time.

Pratap lowered his voice but went on. I am going to Deoghar today. He can move to Kashi if he wants but I will catch him.

The letter is dated five days ago, Chordi died two days before that, Mamata voiced her thoughts from a more practical plane. Do we have to observe ashouch?

Chordi is dead and you want to know if we have to go for mourning? Pratap was flabbergasted.

Mamata was thinking of the expensive magur fishes on the frying pan. They will have to be thrown away. As far as she knew mourning rituals for a sister does not exceed three days.

What is the use of going to Deoghar, she tried to argue. Let Tuntuni do the sraddha here.

Pratap flared up. What do you mean, what is the use? That drunkard, the cheat, I am not going to let him go unpunished. He had just ordinary cough, it was all a show head us into believing he had TB. A TB patient does not live this long. That man had made my sister's life miserable. He has to pay for it.

Mamata left him to his thoughts. After all she had not seen Santi for a long period at a stretch. It was only natural that Pratap would feel devastated about his sister. Yet Mamata could not help feeling sad for the self effacing sister-in-law who had to go through a lot in her last years. And what after all could Biswanath do except sell the house. That he did not decide to come to Calcutta to be a burden on them was a more comforting thought. In a way she felt grateful.

Supriti took it very calmly, perhaps she was too weak to feel any strong emotion. So she went before me. Ma had called her, she will be with Ma, that is better for her. She added, you need not write to Tutul and Bablu. Mourning is not observed outside your own country. Let Tuntuni wear an iron key next to her skin.

Munni went looking for Tuntuni at the typing school. There was bad news. Apparently Tuntuni had stopped attending the classes long ago. Where on earth does she go then? How was Munni to go back and face Baba? Pondering over various options Munni was just about to cross the street near the Gol Park comer when a Landmaster came to a screeching halt in front of her. A chubby looking person leaned out of the window. Hey, Munni, get in, let me give you a ride.

It was Kanukaka. He rarely visited them these days, it took Munni a few seconds to recognise him. Every time he seems to have gained weight. Now his cheeks bulged like oranges.

Kanukaka now owned fifty percent of a cloth shop in Burrabazar. Every year he brought gifts of expensive saris to Ma and Pisimoni but nothing for Baba.

Tell me, Munni, how is Bardi? Asked Kanu, spitting out paan juice on the street. This was the opportune moment to give the tragic news to Kanukaka. Santipisi was Kanukaka's sister after all. Munni broached the subject. Kanukaka, do you remember Santipisi of Deoghar?

Of course. Why wouldn't I.

He was stunned when he heard of her death. You know, Biswanath jamaibabu had borrowed fifteen hundred from me. No chance of getting it back now.

The cars behind his car began to honk. Kanu's driver took the car to the side to park properly. Kanu, still quite dazed with shock said, another Majumder of Malkhanagar gone. Chordi was a kind soul. You know Munni I had taken my whole family to Deoghar last Puja. We stayed in a rented house in Bahanna Bigha. A huge palatial building, Biswanath jamaibabu had everything fixed for me. I could see that Chordi was quite anemic. I paid for a seer of milk every day but she gave it all to jamaibabu. To think that Chordi . . . come on, Munni, get into the car. I must visit the rest of the family.

Kanu was a man of action. He proved to be extremely useful in arranging for all the ritual, even though on a small scale, but it needed a lot of running about. He did it on his own. But for all his affluence, Pratap never gave him his due recognition.

Mamata brought out a group photograph taken in Deoghar during better days. But even in the photograph, Santi was in the background, one could barely see her face.

After everything was over, one night at bedtime, Mamata lightly brought in the topic of the whip. Why did you sit with the whip in hand when the postcard came? Who were you trying to target — Yama, the god of death, or Biswanath?

Pratap gave no answer. Mamata drew near her husband. She put her hand on the broad shoulder of Pratap and went on. So it was Biswanath Guha, right? He is in Kashi and here you are at Calcutta ready to whip him. Are you mad? Kanu wanted to know why it was hanging there, to punish whom?

No, it will stay there, it is a family heirloom.

Heirloom indeed! All the brass pots and pans of your mother are left behind in Deoghar. You did not let me bring even a couple of plates. No only the whip stays as heirloom.

Do you really want to know why I had not taken it down? So that my wish to use it does not fade. That would be the ultimate compromise.

Stop this, my mad little darling. It does not become you at this age. That night they made love, then Mamata patted him to sleep.

But in no time Pratap was faced with another explosive situation. Tuntuni had just admitted to Mamata that she was pregnant. Paresh, the son of the landlord was her lover and wants to marry her. But as Paresh's father has died and the family is still in mourning, they cannot have a marriage ceremony. They are having a civil marriage that day, arranged by friends. In the evening the bride and groom would come to seek their blessings. Tuntuni would stay here and move to her in-laws after the stipulated period of mourning. Instead of feeling happy Pratap burst out in anger. What? Marry that scoundrel Paresh? Ask that girl to go and hang herself, turn her out of the house, I don't want to see her face again.

Don't be silly, Mamata tried to pacify her husband. These days you have to put up with a lot of things. Besides, the girl is lucky that the boy has agreed to marry her. Suppose he had refused?

Have you forgotten what this Paresh had done? How he had threatened us, thrown bombs! And now I have to welcome him as our son-in-law. Don't we have any pride left just because we are poor? Let him enter this house, I am going to take the hide off his back.

No you won't. Mamata kept her cool. You will not touch that whip. You are obliged to forget a lot of what had happened in the past. The more she argued, the more furious Pratap became. He could not stand the very name of Paresh. He refused to believe that they had got married. It is all a lie, he said. He will never take Tuntuni to his home. They are moneyed people, their brides are supposed to come with sizeable amount of dowry.

They came later in the evening, Tuntuni looking bashful and different in a red Benarasi sari, sindoor in the parting of her hair. Three friends accompanied them. One of them sang three ghazals. Munni served them sweets. A festive atmosphere prevailed. Even Supriti, in spite of her illness made an appearance to bless the couple.

Tell me Kakima, asked Paresh finally, isn't Kakababu at home?

Oh yes, Mamata interrupted Munni who was going to give some excuse. He is having his bath. I will go and call him.

She found Pratap lying on the bed. This is the last time, said Mamata sternly. Are you going to come or not?

Do I have to? Asked Pratap. He sounded miserable.

Get up, wipe your face, and put on a vest.

As he entered, the singing stopped. Everybody stood up. Paresh walked up to him and kneeled at his feet. You must have heard that father has passed away. From now on, I will look upon you as my father.

Pratap felt like giving that rascal a good slap. This was his revenge, he has come to show Pratap that he can do as he likes, play with a girl of this family. Signing on a bit of paper does not make him a good boy. Pratap felt that this so-called marriage is an insult to his father, to his mother, to his Chordi and most of all to him.

He turned to the wall, the whip was gone, an act of precaution by Mamata.

Nevertheless Pratap held an imaginary whip in his hand, the wish to crack the whip must remain with him, whatever are the circumstances.

He could feel the eye language of his wife telling him to bless the bride and groom. For a moment, he felt like saying enough is enough. Now get out. But he could not. His neck was hurting. He held his palm a quarter of an inch above Paresh's head in a gesture of blessing. He was careful not to touch him.

45

TODAY was a working day, so Siddhartha was up and ready by seven-thirty. As he fixed his tie in front of the mirror, he saw Atin sit up and stare with a dazed look.

Susan had left, so Atin spent the night here. You don't have to be up so early, said Siddhartha.

What is the time? Asked Atin. We have to catch the bus.

There is a bus to Boston every hour. What's the hurry. You can take an evening bus.

No, no, protested Atin, up on his feet. Got to take the eight o'clock bus.

The girls are still asleep. You can't make them get ready for the eight o'clock bus. Take your time. Take Sharmila to the Gaugenheim museum, she has not been there He paused and raised his eyebrows. Really, you are having the time of your life, two girls, a real harem, what?

Atin did not bother to reply and went on making coffee. Will you please fry two eggs for me? Asked his friend. There is a lot of left over, you need not cook lunch.

He buttered his toast quickly. I am taking the tube. You can have my car. Take the girls around.

No, thanks, said Atin, his voice heavy. I will go to the bus station direct.

What's the hurry, man? If you are not in the mood for going out, stay at home. Two apartments at your disposal, from one bed to another! Have fun.

Turning round Atin slapped Siddhartha hard across the cheek. Shut your trap, will you? He shouted. Siddhartha picked up the toast which had fallen off in the impact and resumed eating. Atin spoke again. I can't stand silly jokes.

Without looking up Siddhartha declared, get out of my house, right now, lock stock and barrel.

I am sorry, Siddhartha, I lost my temper.

I say clear out. And take those two babies in your arms. Never set foot in my house again.

I apologise, Siddhartha. We are leaving by the ten o'clock bus, I promise.

Apologise! I like that! And all these days I took you to be a friend of mine. How dare you slap me. I have a mind to punch your nose flat but I do not like physical violence. Get out of my house. I will, certainly, just give me a little time . . .

Not a minute more. Right now. I do not want to see your face again. You can do whatever you wish with those two chits . . .

I will not bother you, I mean it. I do not deserve your pardon.

At last Siddhartha burst into a loud guffaw. Wasn't it exactly like a TV soap? Close friends turn into sworn enemies due to some misunderstanding. Come on, where are my fried eggs? What heroics, really! Violence before breakfast — most detestable behaviour. But I must say, the way you are avoiding this new girl, even Susan noticed it. There must be something wrong, she was telling me.

Oh yea, now I will have to make a clean breast to Oli.

About what?

About my relation with Sharmila! I just thought she needs some more time to adjust.

In other words you mean to keep up your deception for some more time. That is unfair. The girl looks so innocent, pure and divinely beautiful, and most probably a virgin.

That is precisely the problem. I can't lie to her. That is the reason I am avoiding her.

Why don't you understand this is humiliating for Sharmila as well? She has been through a lot for you and you are dangling another lover before her — this is utterly ridiculous.

What would you have done?

Me? I should have gone down on my knees at the airport and confessed. Oh my darling, I have slept with another by mistake, so from now on you and I are going to be brother and sister.

Stop it, Siddhartha.

Getting ready for another slap, are you? That was a hard one. Listen, I am serious. What you should do now is spend some time with this Oli alone. Chat about this and that. If you are determined to tell her everything then it will come out.

But she has become so thick with Sharmila, how can I talk to her alone?

You talk a lot of rot. It could be done if you really wanted. I have to go now. Let me take Sharmila with me.

But how? There has to be a plausible reason.

I will show you, idiot. Come with me.

They stood before the door of the other apartment. Who do you think will open the door? Siddhartha asked Atin.

The chances are fifty-fifty. You are wrong. Oli is not likely to open the door, this after all is a new place.

He turned out to be right. Yawning and half asleep, Sharmila opened the door. What's up? What time is it? She asked.

I am extremely sorry, Sharmila, but would you do me a favour? Siddhartha was prompt with an explanation.

Favour? What favour? Sharmila was still drowsy.

I need a guarantor for a loan. I have to go to the bank on my way to office. Will you be my guarantor please?

Why couldn't Bablu do it? Do I have to go?

No, No, Atin has just opened an account. He won't do.

Give me the form. I will sign.

I don't have the form with me. Besides I have to take the guarantor in person, just a formality. You can come back and sleep some more. Oh Sharmila you look so ravishing with hair uncombed, casually dressed. All the people at the bank will fall for you.

Don't be silly. Give me ten minutes.

I give you nine minutes fifty seconds. Bring the key with you let Oli sleep. Meanwhile Atin can go out and bring a loaf of bread.

The men came up to their apartment. I do have to go to the bank, said Siddhartha. No harm if I put in a loan application. Everything regular! Why don't you make me another cup of coffee.

In less than ten minutes, Sharmila came up, hastily dressed. She put the key on the table. Let Oli sleep. I'll be back within an hour, I hope?

Of course, of course! Atin go get a loaf of bread.

You go ahead, said Atin. I'll go a little later.

Siddhartha left with Sharmila but promptly came back on the pretext of having left his lighter. He kicked Atin on the seat of his pants. Tit for tat! You take that. Listen, you fool, make good use of the time, don't dilly dally. Tell her absolutely everything. Forty-five minutes later I will call you from the bank. If I do not get an all clear from you then I am going to tell Sharmila everything. I mean it, understand?

He turned back from the door. Kiss her if she breaks down but nothing more, do you get me rascal?

He closed the door with a bang leaving Atin to his thoughts. He could visualise the blue water swirling around him, oh so heavy! He was suffocating. He wished he had died that day. The world needed a person like his brother, not him. He stood up to face the inevitable. Siddhartha was right. He must make a clean breast of it. He is being unfair to both. He opened the door without making any noise. There she was, asleep, curled up at a corner of the bed. Did he ever see her sleeping? He could not remember. He often barged into Oli's room in their Bhowanipur house, found her lying on the bed, reading. But that was different, there were so many people around. But here you shut the door and you are isolated from the rest of the world.

Atin watched her, her slightly heaving breasts, like a bird while Rabindranath, Maulana Vasani and Che Guevara eyed him intently from their positions of vantage. He called her softly but there was no response. Atin knelt down by her bedside, took her hand in his and called, Oli, Oli.

Opening her eyes, Oli tried to turn away at first. Where is Sharmila? She wanted to know.

She has gone out. Will be back soon.

Why didn't she call me? What is the time now? She tried to break away from Atin's grip but he would not let go of her hand. How have you been Oli? He asked.

For a few seconds she did not speak. Atin resisted the temptation to take her in his arms. His own Oli, his very own! But he realised he can't do that now, it would mean an insult to Sharmila.

Blushing furiously, Oli stared at the floor. Babluda, you must be mad at me. Somebody from Calcutta must have told you everything.

What do you mean?

Didn't you notice I have been trying to avoid you. Babluda will you excuse me?

Frowning, Atin asked, what is it? What have you done?

Keeping her eyes down, Oli kept up the guilty tone. You know why I came all the way to America? Only for you, I mean only to confess face to face. You can't explain everything in a letter.

Atin flopped down on the carpet and groped for a cigarette. What was she trying to say? He had no idea.

I used to feel so lonely, Babluda, after you were gone, Continued Oli. I had no friends. Varsha took a job and left. Pompom was in jail. But one person stood by me, in my time of utter helplessness, with you absconding, nobody knew your whereabouts, even Kaushik, I was a nervous wreck, how could I refuse the person who was there, for me.

So you have become friendly with him? Who is that man? Atin spoke sharply.

You must have seen him. He used to work for Pompom's father in his election campaign — Shounak Banerjee.

Shounak Banerjee, used to work for Pompom's father — so a CPM, is he?

For god's sake Babluda, can you always judge a person by his party affiliation? Believe me, Shounak is a perfect gentleman, he has never tried to take advantage, but he understands me. In many ways he is like you. Please don't get me wrong. I was going insane, if it was not for Shounak. I couldn't wait for you Babluda, I am so sorry. She spoke in a clear voice, all trace of sleep gone. She was building up the image of Shounak bit by bit with great care. Only the eyes were still to be put. She went on and on about Shounak, blushing all the while.

Atin seethed with anger. Obviously that chap has been taking advantage of Oli's vulnerability. Must be after her father's money. Those CPM fellows believe in elections. Power and money, that is what they are after. Careerists the whole lot of them.

He caught hold of Oli's hand but with a different kind of passion. Who is this Shounak, tell me everything. If he is trying to trick you into anything, I will beat the life out of him.

Oli looked up, smiling faintly. Babluda, please. I will remain your Oli, just that the relations will be different. I have given my word to Shounak, please don't be mad at him.

He is CPM, which means you have no contact with Kaushik and the others?

No, it's just the opposite. Shounak never speaks a word against Pompom, Kaushik and their group. He has helped us indirectly. In fact he hates violence and wants that sincere workers like Manikda and all should return to the party.

I would like to meet this character. I don't trust a single one of the CPM fellows. Tell me, where is Kaushik now?

He broke jail, you must have heard. It was so successful, quite a record in the history of jail breaking. He is active, hundred percent.

And Manikda!

Absconding, in the house of someone known to Shounak, of course Manikda does not know it. He talks about you quite often.

Oli felt relieved that the topic had moved away from her imaginary boy friend. The telephone rang. Atin lifted the receiver. It was Siddhartha. Is it all clear, old chap? He asked.

Yes. All clear. Admitted Atin, his tone tired, defeated, morose.

46

EVER since the fateful twenty-fifth of March, the name of Tikka Khan, Governor of East Pakistan and Military Administrator, was enough to cause a flutter of fear in Bengali hearts. Lt. Gen. Tikka Khan had a temper of steel. Operation Searchlight, which was the code name for the army crackdown on universities and newspaper offices, arresting all Bengali officers of the army, the police as well as the opposition leaders, putting Mujib behind bars and creating an atmosphere of panic, was ably conducted by him. He suffered no qualms for the blood bath, as it was for the sake of duty. He was determined to keep Pakistan in one piece.

Within six months he had restored a kind of normalcy in the towns, though skirmishes continued along the borders, aided mainly by the Indian army. When Tikka Khan was basking in self- admiration, order came for his transfer.

After giving orders to put down the rebellious Bengalis at any cost, President Yahya Khan left for Rawalpindi under a veil of secrecy, never to return to the east again. According to sources close to him he was stung to the quick by the betrayal of the Bengalis, who, after all the effort to separate from the idol worshipping Hindus are willing to fall into their clutches. They are half Hindus, these Bengalis. They want to make Pakistan non-Pak. He closed himself into his room with bottles of alcohol and a couple of women companions.

Occasionally, coming back to his senses, he felt a keen heartache. He could not get over the humiliation as a professional chief of army of losing one wing of the nation in spite of the mighty Pakistani army. No matter how much help the rebels get from India, couldn't the Pakistani army resist them? Moreover, the Prime Minister of India is a woman, untrained in the art of war. How can he admit defeat to her, of all people?

He felt like chopping off the head of Sheikh Mujib and go back to Dhaka just to show those fellows who are in authority. In fact he proceeded on the journey but was brought back from Karachi by his advisors. It would not be safe to go to the East right now when subversive activities are going on. Nor would it be a wise thing to chop off Mujib's head because a dead Mujib might turn out to be more dangerous than a live one. A political solution would be a better idea, the advisors said.

Not that Yahya did not try. But that Bhutto of Larkana would not strike a compromise with Mujib. He may be a smart talker but could he extract votes for his party in East Pakistan? When it came to sharing power with Mujib he did not listen to logical arguments. If Pakistan breaks up ultimately, who would be responsible for it — Mujib or Bhutto?

As for India's friendship treaty with the Soviet Union, that did not worry Yahya. After all Pakistan had her allies — China and America, ready to offer all help. But indications are that the allies of Pakistan would favour a lessening of military pressure and try to win back the East Pakistanis. Have another by-election, give some power to the people's representatives, keep the pretence of a democratic structure — that would please the emotional Bengalis.

In early September, Yahya suddenly decided to separate the administration from the army in East Pakistan. His first choice for a civilian Governor was the elderly Nurul Amin who had been a chief minister in the west. He was experienced and against the Awami League, undoubtedly an able person. But Nurul Amin declined on health grounds.

Seventy-five year old Dr. A.M. Malik, dentist by profession, one time trade unionist but long retired from politics, was the next choice. Many dignitaries who attended the oath-taking ceremony wondered why at this time of crisis a doddering old man was replacing iron man Tikka Khan.

With half his power taken away, Tikka Khan felt humiliated. To make matters worse a new chief of East Pakistan army was installed, Lt. Gen. Amir Abdullah Khan Niazi. In his farewell banquet Tikka Khan openly voiced his resentment. I was hurriedly summoned to Rawalpindi on 4th March to take over East Pakistan. I am suddenly asked now to make over my charge to Dr. Malik. I do not want to comment on this decision as the President alone knows the whole situation. As far as I am concerned, I am sorry to leave you in mid-stream. I would have preferred to complete the task assigned to me. Anyhow, don't lose heart. You have an experienced commander, Niazi, who will provide you with the necessary guidance. But keep one thing in mind: don't relax your hold. Keep the lid tight. Otherwise your lives will become miserable . . .

Though an experienced soldier, Amir Abdullah Khan Niazi was known in the army barracks for his loose talk, crude jokes bordering on the banal and his love of wine and women like Yahya. Don't you worry Tikka Khan saheb, I will smash the asses of the Mukti rascals in a way . . . He declared amidst uproarious laughter.

In looking for a political solution, Yahya made another mistake. He released all arrested persons except those charge sheeted and announced sweeping pardon. But it backfired. Now the freedom fighters became more daring and indulged in stray attacks.

This act of the President only exposed the inhuman tortures of the army. Only two hundred prisoners were released from the prison of Joydebpur, Dhaka. Where were all the thousands of young men gone who were not chargesheeted? Rumi, the son of Begum Jehanara Imam was not among the released. Parents like her clung to the hope that perhaps they have fled across the border.

The idea that under pressure from foreign powers, the President would be obliged to release Sheikh Mujib grew strong. This created new hope, even among those who were sceptical about a free Bangladesh. If Mujib comes back he certainly would not stop at anything but freedom. Why should people care for the Pakistani rulers?

Lt. Gen. Niazi loved to brag at the dining table. Remember, he told his colleagues, if India wants a total war it will be on Indian soil. I will allow no harm to my Pakistan.

He went on to say — do you want to see if I am able to shell Calcutta? I can capture Calcutta anytime. Soon we will have dinner in the best hotel there, Insaallah. But you know what? That is a dirty city, I would rather give it a wide berth.

This embarrassed his Press and Public Relations Officer Siddiq Salik when he bragged in front of foreign correspondents. General do you think it is wise to exaggerate about our military strength? He had protested mildly later.

That was nothing, my dear chap. Laughed Niazi. False statistics and fooling — these two are greatest weapons in war, don't you know?

General, if you allow me, aren't we fooling ourselves? War has not been declared yet, but already 3000 sq miles of our border area are under Indian command.

In no time we will recapture those areas. I have seventy thousand trained soldiers. Five more battalions are on their way. On land India is no match for us, my dear chap. But general, we are in no way their equal in naval and air power. What I mean is, they are stationed in the West, not here.

Listen to me, Siddiq. You don't win a war by the number of soldiers or ships. It is the decision of the commander who decides the fate. It is the great good luck of East Pakistan that they have an able commander at the right time.

You are perfectly right sir. But we have double trouble. Our enemies are within as well as outside.

That is your responsibility, officers like you. Change their hearts, sing patriotic songs on the radio, TV, newspapers, sing the praise of Islam, curse Hindu India.

But I have been in Dhaka longer, before the election. We have not been friendly with the Bengalis, to be quite frank, sir.

We seem to think, we of West Pakistan that Bengalis are half-Muslim.

Is that wrong?

Ji, that is totally wrong. I have been in many Bengali homes. They are devout Muslims. They follow Islam from the bottom of their heart. May be some of their rituals are different but that does not matter.

I am sure there are some devout followers of Islam. Are they against Pakistan too?

No sir. Not against Pakistan, but they are for democracy in Pakistan. In the west wing the idea of democracy was never very clear, but democratic movements have started in the east right from the time of the British. The students here are politically more conscious. People of West Pakistan are just out of the feudal age, army rule for them is nothing unusual. But here they can't stand army rule. But we are trying to repress them with the help of the army, we have never tried to prove that the army can be their friend.

There is still time, Siddiq. You try to understand their psychology and campaign in a suitable manner.

May I give you an example, sir? A couple of months ago the editor of a Bengali daily invited me to his home, forced me almost. Do you know why? There was a military raid a few days ago in the house of his sister-in-law and the soldiers raped two girls of the family. The editor thought that my presence might reassure the members of his family.

Were you in uniform?

Ji. He took me inside, introduced me to his mother and sisters. Then he took me to a nicely decorated room where his third wife, a stunning woman was sitting. The editor then left us there saying he had to fetch a guest from Hotel Intercon. I was quite puzzled.

It can only mean one thing. What did you do next, idiot? Rather embarrassing. We could hardly carry on a conversation. Why was this lady keeping me company while the other women were inside. I wondered.

You are an idiot of the highest order. Somebody offers you a plate of kabab and you worry about the price of beef. That coward Bengali had procured a beautiful chick to please you. Third wife indeed! And you did nothing?

Please listen to the rest of the story, sir. The lady seemed educated and sophisticated. After an uncomfortable silence I said I am sorry for the unfortunate incident at your sister's family.

You did not take her in your arms. Bewakoof!

Sir, as soon as I said that the lady hissed like a snake, literally like a kalnagini snake of this part. Sorry, she hissed, You and your sort should be ashamed of yourselves. Destroying houses, killing people, dishonouring women and now you are sorry! Just sorry! I hate you; I hate every thread of that uniform of yours. Each and every West Pakistani soldier is a barbarian. You are one of them.

Why didn't you show her that we could be good lovers too?

Sir, I felt so ashamed of myself. Perhaps she had a hidden box of poison, I thought. If I touch her she will consume that poison. I have never seen such a spirit in an exploited woman. Her face shone. Hanging my head in shame I quietly walked out of that house.

Take me to that spirited woman. Niazi stood up, excited. I want to see her.

But you can't sir, the next day, the whole family left for India.

You are a good for nothing fool, Siddiq. Nazi stamped his feet in rage.

Do you have a cock under that trouser of yours, I would like to know. If all our beautiful women are grabbed by India then that is one more reason to crush that nation.

But this is serious matter, General. If all our soldiers keep on raping Bengali girls how can we win back their hearts?

You are right. The soldiers should not be encouraged. They have to be lovers. Should I introduce a course on the art of lovemaking?

Sir, excuse my saying so but a totally immoral army is no good when it comes to fighting. If you go to the border you will find our soldiers retreating at the slightest attacks. They are scared of the word Mukti.

Angry at last, Niazi flared up. Leave that to me. Come on, I will go and inspect the border.

Within a few days the notorious Monem Khan, former Governor was killed in broad daylight. Explosions occurred in the streets of Dhaka, a part of Hotel Intercon was destroyed, mortar shells landed in the airport runway. News of Pakistani army retreating from the border began to pour in every day. But undaunted Niazi went on a tour of the border, often riding an open jeep. Siddique pointed to the undernourished villagers and said, have you seen such skinny people in West Pakistan? We only accuse them for not being Muslim enough but have we given them enough to eat? They are desperate, please try to understand.

Exasperated, Niazi said. That is politics you are talking about. I don't understand politics. As a soldier my only duty is to protect the integrity of Pakistan. India is trying to stab us from the back, I will teach them a lesson.

In his round, he reached Hili and saw the wreck of an Indian army tank. Proudly Niazi showed the evidence of India's complicity to a group of journalists.

Journalists arranged a dinner in the dak-bungalow, where he answered queries. A young woman asked, do you expect a total war with India? If so, when do you expect it to begin?

Putting a piece of kabab in his mouth Niazi replied, as far as I am concerned the total war is already on.

Everybody laughed. I have some more questions, Sir, said the young girl. Niazi noticed her made up face, short hair and a glint in the eyes enough to set a male heart in flutters. Niazi smiled. I am returning to Dhaka right now. You can come with me. We can have an intimate interview in the Flagstaff House, for as long as you want.

47

IN the smaller American Universities getting a place to stay is no less difficult than gaining admission. All the dorms (American for hostels) were full, nor was any private apartment available. Peter Mayer had fixed a slightly more expensive apartment for Oli to be shared with a Norwegian Professor. But Oli would not hear of such an arrangement. She could not possibly share an apartment with a stranger and a white male at that. Atin and Sharmila were faced with this peculiar problem. The next day was registration. Oli could not go to Boston. Where would she stay?

A possible alternative was to stay with Sharmila's uncle and aunt at the suburb of Washington D.C. But in that case commuting would be costly and time consuming. Oli did not like the idea of imposing on some family who would not accept money.

Professor Peter Mayer suggested two more alternatives. One was to put her up in a motel for about a week. By that time a seat might be vacant in a dorm. But Atin, a self-imposed guardian of Oli did not approve of it. Let us explore the other alternative then, said Peter Mayer. With his unkempt hair and beard, in jeans and T-shirt, tall and slightly stooping, Peter Mayer looked more like a side actor in a historical movie. He was also a writer of novels, three having been published so far, and working on his fourth.

He drove them in his ramshackle car, which he insisted on calling a jalopy. Your Calcutta is very much in the news these days, he told them. I believe millions of refugees are pouring into that over crowded city of yours. What do you think of this Bangladesh problem? Going to end soon, do you think?

None of them were bothered about Bangladesh; their immediate concern was a proper accommodation for Oli. But they had to say something so Atin said indifferently, I don't think it is going to end soon. Religious fundamentalism and military exploitation on one hand and nationalistic- linguistic sentiment on the other—none of these matter to the working class, this is not a revolution, it is not going to solve anything.

Suddenly he lost his cool. It is you people, the Americans who are supplying arms to Pakistan, helping them kill people. President Nixon always leans to Pakistan. He said angrily.

That is only natural, replied Mayer. India has had a military pact with Soviet Russia. You are in the Soviet camp. Naturally America would side with Pakistan.

We have had a friendship pact for twenty years, not a military pact, interrupted Sharmila.

Peter Mayer smiled. Weapons form a part of the deal in any friendship. Why are the Soviet Army chiefs visiting Delhi so often? From where has India got her MIG fighters?

You Americans boast of democracy, Atin said sharply. Yet you are friendly with dictatorships. That is terrible.

Well Pakistan with its army rule is also an ally of China, isn't it? Now the US is sending feelers to China through Pakistan. Right now Kissinger is in Peiking. Communist China has been made a member of the United Nations. India is now quite isolated in South East Asia, isn't that right?

Well India is being forced to join in the arms race because of China and Pakistan. Don't you think America could have applied pressure to Pakistan to make Yahya, Sheikh Mujib and Bhutto sit around a discussion table? A political solution would have spared India the border conflict, the bloodshed and the burden of millions of refugees.

Well, please do not think I blindly support Nixon. Personally I feel that man is stubborn and an idiot.

Though Oli did not participate in the conversation, she noticed Babluda's discomfiture when China was referred to. She also noticed that Sharmila has clear opinion about international affairs and Oli shared her views.

After a pause Peter Mayer began, You know I was deeply moved by a poem of Allen Ginsberg called September on Jessore Road. I could hardly hold back my tears, the moving description of the refugee camps is so touching. Tell me, where exactly is Jessore Road? I would like to go there. At last Oli joined in. Sir, this road stretches from Calcutta to the town called Jessore in East Pakistan. Even after partition it is still called Jessore Road. The refugee camps are by the side of this road. Sir, if you are serious then I can write to my Calcutta friends.

Why do you insist on calling me Sir, like the British? Asked Peter Mayer, amused. Just call me Peter. Yes, I would love to go but not before the novel is done . . .

They left the main road, took a few turns and pulled up before a bluish white two-storied house with a well cared for garden in front. Lovely roses and chrysanthemums were in bloom. Rows of cactus pots and more potted plants on the balcony made it a pleasure to the eye.

Peter parked the car, opened the gate and entered with his gang. As he touched the bell, the growl of a dog could be heard inside. Peter introduced them, this is Friday.

A middle aged woman with snow white hair and tinted glasses opened the door. She just said hi, without displaying any surprise at the sight of so many strangers.

She was Mary Wilson. Peter kissed her thrice on the cheeks and said, Mary I would like you to meet my Indian friends. He pronounced all the three names correctly to Oli's surprise because he was in the habit of calling Oli Ali till he was corrected.

They entered a thickly carpeted room with a huge Japanese painting on one wall and various potted plants, indicative of money and good taste. They were told that Mary used to be a colleague of Peter but after losing one leg she had to quit her job because though she carried on with a wooden leg, she could not get a driving license. She lost her husband in that car accident a little more than two years ago. Now she has taken to painting and has already made a name. She draws only flowers. Anyone buying a new house in Maryland acquires a painting of Mary Wilson. Mary, won't you let us have a look at your newest work?

All in good time, Peter, said Mary. But Peter you haven't told me anything about these three.

Atin and Sharmila told her about what they were studying and where, adding the information that Oli has just landed.

Mary is going to visit the country you are from. She is going to study Himalayan flora and fauna, she is interested in flowers. It is Nepal she is going to, changing her flight in Calcutta.

My travel agent has asked me not to stay in Calcutta, bombs go off in the streets, traffic stops. Of course I will be spending some time in Delhi and Agra.

Oli and Atin exchanged glances. Even Sharmila, not a Calcutta girl did not like the dig at Calcutta.

I too do not think Calcutta is such a good idea, added Peter. With millions of refugees crowding the already packed city. Mary, can I have a beer? I know you do not keep hard drinks.

Sorry, no alcoholic beverage in my home! But you can have soft drinks, if you want.

Both of them went in to get the drinks.

Sharmila said, why has Peter brought us here? She is much too rich to have a paying guest. I can't just stay on as a guest, said Oli.

I think staying with Sharmila's uncle would be much better.

Peter and Mary came back with a Dalmatian. The dog went round them once then sat facing them.

I hope none of you dislike dogs, asked Mary.

Oli used to have dogs at home at one time but she knew that Babluda detested them. He was stiff now and the dog, sensing his feeling was not taking its eyes off him.

Passing on Coke cans Peter began. We have a proposal. In a couple of days Mary is leaving for Nepal. From there she will be going to Singapore and Japan and won't be back before a month. Meanwhile the plants have to be watered and the dog fed. She had asked me but I don't think I can come every day. Oli, do you think you can take charge?

I will be ever grateful to you, explained Mary. I don't want to send Friday to a kennel club. He has already taken a fancy to you. He will not be any trouble. If you agree then that will take a load off my mind.

Of course Mary will be paying you for this service. So this is agreed? Let us go and bring her luggage.

The problem of accommodation was solved so simply that for a few moments none of them knew what to say. Finally Atin stood up and declared. This is perfect. Let us go get her suitcase.

Mary offered more inducements. You are free to use my telephone, call your friends during weekends.

After Peter left, Atin and Sharmila stayed on. They were shown the guestroom. A bed, with clean white sheets, writing desk, telephone, bookrack, a small TV, an attached bathroom complete with a porcelain bathtub, a big wardrobe. You are lucky, said Sharmila. This is as good as a five-star hotel.

Are you sure you won't be scared to live here all by yourself? Asked Atin.

A little distracted by the question, Oli just shook her head.

Be a gardener then, said Atin lightly. Water the plants. But don't refuse the money, Oli. Americans believe in paying, even fathers pay their children for getting work done.

Watering is not a lowly job at all, said Sharmila. Americans believe in dignity of labour. I have done some baby sitting myself. Since the owner has given permission, I will spend some weekends here. I have never lived in such a beautiful house.

She has not asked us for dinner, said Atin. We better leave.

Sharmila quickly unpacked Oli's suitcase which had to be broken open finally and arranged her things. She had very thoughtfully bought a few things Oli might need, like a new sheet with pillow cover, a packet of biscuits, some chocolate slabs and a bottle of perfume. What is all this? Cried Oli. You need not have spent so much.

You will need these things. It will take some time to get to know the shops. Of course I had thought you would be living in a dorm. Well, bye now.

Sharmila held Oli's hand in a warm grip. Please feel free to call us for whatever you need. You will get to know the Bengali population in Virginia by and by.

We will have to catch the six o'clock bus, Atin seemed in a hurry to leave. Oli you need not have any worry, nothing could have been better. We will keep in touch. That Peter Mayer seems to be a nice man.

Oli came down to the gate. You have kept the front door open, warned Sharmila. The dog might get out. Get back, quick.

Oli almost ran in. Mary was in her studio, she will see Oli again at eight. The dog however was lying in the living room. Going upstairs, Oli came out on the balcony and she had a view of the road. In a little while she saw Atin and Sharmila walking by, holding hands. Tears welled up. Babluda has not even touched her hand all this time. She would not touch him ever. No, she must not think of it anymore. Sharmila after all was a good match. I have my Shounak, Oli kept telling herself. He will not leave me. But the tears kept coming. She went to the bathroom to wash her eyes but the pain persisted. She felt as though her heart would break.

No, she must do something, write letters perhaps. There were so many letters to write — to her parents, to Pompom, Varsha, Pratapkaka but Shounak can wait. But teardrops smudged the words, Oli could not help herself. That scene, Babluda holding hands with Sharmila would not leave her.

She forced herself to think of her new landlady. What a remarkable woman! She has lost her husband in an accident, she herself is without one leg yet she has not given up. Going to Nepal to study Himalayan flowers! Unbelievable! Obviously she had already made arrangements for the dog and the plants but she is so polite and kind that she made Oli think that it was Oli who would be doing her a favour. On top of that she offered to pay her. How can Oli accept the money?

She is already a celebrity, and free to go anywhere she wants. But there is an air of sadness about her, in fact the atmosphere of this beautiful house has a loneliness about it.

It had grown dark. As Oli groped for the switch she paused. So Babluda was gone, leaving her all by herself. It was actually her last good bye to him. The entire country was empty for her now. What was the use of staying here? Leaning against the wall she cried as if her heart would break. She was careful not to make any noise. In the dark room she just stood, her hand over her mouth, tears flowing down in a never-ending stream.

48

THE image was now all but ready, painted and polished. All that needed to be done to transform the lifeless clay image of the goddess Durga was putting in the eyes, a most important function.

Since none of the images, Lakshmi and Saraswati included, were dressed yet, they were hidden from public view by jute curtains. Only curious children peeped in, but they were children after all.

Harit was working as an assistant to Haladhar Pal, the potter . They were employed by the jute merchant, the Banerjees of Basirhat who, by tradition had their Durga image built at home and not get it from Kumortuli, the centre for making and selling of images.

The "eye giving” ceremony usually takes place on Panchami, the fifth day after the new moon. The women of the household bathe early and dress in ritual cream silk and spend the day in fast though these days a cup of tea is allowed.

On the insistence of the master artisan Haladhar, Harit Mondol was to paint the eyes. Harit was in deep meditation, trying to visualise the eyes. He too had fasted. The reason why he was given this prestigious task was the dwindling eyesight of Haladhar. He could manage the eyes of other gods and goddesses with a little help, but painting the eyes of Ma Durga was indeed difficult. It had to be done in one stroke.

This has put Harit in a spot. He was not a professional potter, it was just a hobby he had learnt — how to make toys. But today he must finish the task he has undertaken. It was a challenge. After all it was no ordinary image but the face of the mother. He tried hard to see before his eyes the divine face, but the visions floating before his eyes were restless eyes. The eyes, which constantly haunted him, were the serene eyes of Sulekha, the only woman in his life he worshipped as a goddess, but no, she was a mortal after all. It would be a sin to model Durga's eyes after a human. Other faces floated past, his wife's, Golapi's, faces of other women with sunken cheeks, lifeless eyes . . . oh god, what was he to do?

He jerked his thoughts back to his childhood when the eyes of Ma Durga were a source of ceaseless wonder. He used to stare in wonder at the making of the Durga image a month before the puja. The straw structure slowly filled up with layers of clay, then first a coat of white paint . . . every stage was magic to the child . . . in the narrow track between green fields of paddy he clearly saw the boy running along, the music of the dhak in the air . . . the mango tree with its sprawling branches beckoned to him, Harit, Harit . . .

What's the matter with you? It was Haladhar who nudged him gently. You seem to be crying.

Harit came back to the present. He had strayed to a land of dreams. With the brush in hand he stood up, dipped it in black paint and gave the eyeless face a good look. She looks like a beautiful blind woman. Why bother, he thought. What is the use of painting a pair of eyes on her? Gods are blind after all. Do they see the misery, the pain, and the sorrow of the homeless? Do they ever lift a single finger to do anything! In a swift stroke Harit completed the eyebrows first, then the eyeballs and finally the outlines. Haladhar, watching from a distance took Harit in his arms. You are blessed my dear son, blessed. Look at the mother smiling at you. Beautiful! She is blessing you, Harit.

Not quite satisfied with his own handiwork, Harit squinted and examined the eyes critically. It was hardly an inspired work. The eyebrows were not uniform. Anyway, it will not be noticed once the dress and ornaments are in place.

Go and get some rest now suggested Haladhar. I will take care of the little details.

Not yet ready to retire, Harit insisted. Let me do the eyes of the Asur. Have seen quite a lot of them in my life, I think I'll be able to do justice.

Removing the jute curtain, Haladhar announced to the children. Go home and tell the elders that the eye ceremony is over. The children clapped in glee, peeped at the goddess and ran indoor.

The second Babu of the Banerjee family came out. So, you are through, are you now, Haladhar?

Yes, Babu, more or less. Just the dressing up. Another one hour or so said Haladhar.

Without showing any desire to look at the goddess now complete with eyes, he said, you better have some food now. It is quite late. Custom demands that the men folk do not look at the image before the purohit does the ritual of bequeathing her with life.

Puri, alu dum and sweets were served by a slim young girl, a member of the family. Haladhar did not even bother to wash his hands and started eating. But still unhappy with his work, Harit lit a bidi and stared at the image. It could have been better, much better.

By afternoon they finished the rest of the work and set out towards home, a couple of miles away. Haladhar was not talkative by nature but he kept massaging his breast, which drew a comment from Harit, Is anything the matter, dada? Not feeling well?

No, no, it is just that I feel kind of empty within.

Harit understood. He had often felt the same way, after completing something which took months of toil; a kind of sadness, of dissatisfaction comes over him.

They had to cross the market place. The shops are now open till late, there is a festive air, partly because of the drummers who assemble here for getting assignments. The puja organisers have not yet started coming but the dhakis beat their dhaks, a way of letting people know that they are here.

Would you like to take some advance, asked Haladhar. Would you like to do some puja shopping?

Harit shook his head. Nobody is here. After the police arrested him, Jogananda had gone back with Naba. The people of Kasipur colony, apprehensive of the police had bought them return tickets. They were reluctant to have anything to do with Harit.

If that boy was with him, Harit could have bought him a new shirt. Naba loves balloons and ice- cream. Haladhar pulled his hand. Come with me. No hurry to get back. Let us go and have some fun. He took Harit to a joint where cheap local alcohol was sold. They pushed through the crowd and reached the counter. Two files please, asked Haladhar.

It was not that Harit never drank but today he felt a little apprehensive because they had all the payments with them along with two the polic new dhotis. Usually this is a rowdy place, throwing of soda bottles, knife fights were a common affair.

The owner of the joint, Ismail Mia hefty as a Shimul tree controlled the fights with a firm hand. His customers were scared of him, nobody dared to put hands on him. So today only Ismail Mia was their only hope in case of any trouble. He never takes a drop of drink. Today he glistened with sweat as though he has had a coat of polish like the Durga image. His eyes were blood shot.

Here Mia bhai, two glasses for us, asked Haladhar.

Just a minute, Ismail replied. We are running short of glasses. Would clay cups do?

Harit dipped his little finger in the liquid, sprayed it on the ground muttering Joy Baba Kalachand. Haladhar repeated the ritual after him, he too has become a follower of Kalachand. In the general mayhem Harit looked around for familiar faces. A bearded man next to him, quite drunk, was in tears. Though a total stranger, he accosted Harit as though he had known him for ages. No puja in our country, not in Barishal, or Faridpur or Khulna, can you believe it?

His companion slapped his shoulder. Your country, sala! You ought to be ashamed. You have left your Barisal years ago, in fifty, and it still remains your country. For shame!

Of course it is my country, the bearded chap was adamant. My forefathers were born there they died there. My ancestral home for seven generations.

Oh really? His companion made a face. So you too must have been born there. Why don't you go back there to die, instead of crowding here?

The bearded man had no answer, he looked at Harit for support.

Why won't they celebrate puja in Barisal and Faridpur? Harit asked.

The Khan soldiers! Wailed the bearded chap. They would butcher them, even Ma Durga if they find her. All the Hindus have fled.

Did you see, Buroda, called out someone from the crowd. They brought three of your Khan soldiers this side, hands tied. What huge figures, red in the face!

They are Pathans, you see, observed one wisely. Some of them are willingly surrendering to the BSF, because they don't want to torture the Bengalis. They are being brought over to this side of the Ichhamoti river — about two or three every day.

The one who spoke first said, Don't want to torture indeed. That is all nonsense. They are opting to surrender because the Mukti chaps are cutting them up, you fool.

The topic meanwhile had taken a different turn, about the jatra plays coming to perform and their stars like Jharna Kumari, Dulali Chatterjee, Chhanda Pal. I heard that Jharna Kumari is the daughter of a Muslim, is that right?

She comes from a Hindu family actually. She has become a Muslim because she wanted to marry another, leaving her Hindu husband. Like Sharmila Tagore of the films.

One person objected but many others supported this information, they have seen it in the paper.

Sala, I am ready to be a Muslim to get Jharna Kumari — what big breasts, my god. She will serve me kabab and I will be leaning back — how much do I have to pay for that?

You are drooling, man, taunted Ismail. Looks like you will make a kabab of Jharna Kumari first. Ripples of laughter followed their observation. Harit was listening to this and feeling greatly amused. It was a strange world — there are no Hindus and Muslims, no East Bengal West Bengal. They fight but are thick as thieves the next day. There is no Hindusthan Pakistan in a drink den. Men come from across the border to this place where Bihari Muslims carry on their trade. He nudged his companion, How are you doing, dada?

Still feeling empty inside, replied Haladhar.

It will linger the whole day, come on, let us go back.

Haladhar had to be dragged on to a rickshaw. Fortunately the money and the new dhotis were still with them. Within a few minutes Haladhar was fast asleep. Gunshots were heard across the river. The people were so used to these sounds now that nobody bothered. Only the rickshaw-walla that appeared to be a refugee said almost to himself, “The Mukti boys are at it again at the border."

Only about ten miles away a battle was on, people being killed by other people. If only three people sat and talked across a table they could have stopped the senseless bloodshed.

They reached the tin shack where Haladhar lived. His wife, mentally deranged since she lost her children fleeing the country, was sitting on the porch. This is the house where Harit had finally landed after being released from the Basirhat police station. It was pouring outside, Harit had walked up to the veranda where clay dolls, most of them yet to get a coat of paint, lay heaped. At long last Harit had asked for some food. But he was not a beggar even though he was dressed as a sadhu. I can paint the dolls, if you will let me, he had asked Haladhar.

Do you know how to paint? Haladhar was skeptical.

Let me paint one, then you can judge for yourself. Replied Harit.

The images were quite ordinary, all of the goddess Lakshmi, done from a cast. Harit picked one up, finished it with care. Haladhar wanted to know where he was from, obviously impressed by his work.

Harit pointed to across the river. My home used to be there, but I have no home now.

Is that why you have taken to saffron?

They got along very well. Haladhar too was a refugee but he left long ago and never lived in a camp. He was a potter, he could somehow make a living. Not that Harit never thought of doing the same, in fact his wife Parulbala had insisted that they leave the camp but Harit had become a leader and could not betray the trust other refugees bestowed on him.

But the price he had to pay was quite heavy. It was he who got beaten up by the police though he was responsible for occupation of the Kasipur garden house. The irony of it was that the inmates of that colony now did not even provide shelter to his grandson. In his experience the poor can be the greatest enemy of their own kind.

Harit has grown attached to this family. He did not feel like going back to Dandakaranya. After all he came here with a purpose, to find out ways of bringing his people to green and fertile Bengal from that barren stony land. The camps housing the new refugees are no better. There is no question of going back to East Bengal. How can he go back to tell them there is no hope? Of course he has written to Parulbala.

He got back to work with Haladhar before the pujas were over. From now till the beginning of Baishakh, pujas of various deities would go on, one after the other. The first to follow Durga puja would be Lakshmi. Harit has decided to stay on till he has earned some money before going back. Haladhar pays him well.

They had orders for four Lakshmi images from Mollakhali. They were busy giving the finishing touches while the two customers waited, smoking bidi, chatting about their life in the Sunderban forests. They went deep into the tiger infested forest to collect honey. It was customary to worship the goddess of the forest known as Banabibi before venturing into the forest. In fact Haladhar had made the image of that goddess earlier. Harit stopped his work as he listened to the hair-raising tales of the honey collectors. It seems the fiercest of tigers are intimidated and bow down before Banabibi, such is her powers over beasts.

Do tigers ever eat anyone up? Asked Harit.

Oh yes, sometimes, said the speaker indifferently. When one's time is up. Nobody lives forever.

Well, the people going for collection are young like you. Why should their time be up? Harit failed to agree.

There are young people who fight back. Tigers are afraid of human beings.

He pointed to his companion. A son of death once attacked this Basuida here. The tiger had crept up from behind and dived on his shoulder. You know what Basuida did? He struck his axe right on the eyes of the beast and you should have heard the roar. Will you take off your shirt and show them, Basuida?

The other man showed the scar on his shoulder but he did not brag. By the mercy of Banabibi one can ward off a tiger attack but the cruel goddess is Ma Manasa, people die more from snakebite.

The more Harit listened to these stories the more curious he grew. Finally he took leave from Haladhar and got into the boat with the two men of Mollakhali. The boat stank of fish. Early in the morning the fishermen bring basket loads of fish, including men from Joy Bangla to sell their catch this side of the border. Like tigers and snakes the presence of the police and the military does not deter them. The last two are no better or worse than natural disturbances. Speeding across smaller rivers and canals they reached the wide expanse of the Raymangal, full to the brim after the rains — almost as wide as an ocean. Huge waves lashed the coasts. Far away in the horizon stretched the coastline of Joy Bangla. The sight of the water made Harit nostalgic, he drew a deep breath. The names of the villages where they stopped rang a bell. The river was lined with forests on one bank, farm lands on the other. Fishermen flung their nets on the forest side. Boats loaded with passengers plied. Life was following its own slow pattern.

As they passed a small island with overgrowth of trees, Harit wanted to know the name of the village. It is not a village, informed his companion. The island is called Marichjhapi. Further up, we have village Satjelia. To your right is Mollakhali, we are almost there.

Harit stayed in Mollakhali for a few more days, going round in boats to adjoining villages. There was no shadow of war in these settlements of various groups, Muslims, Hindus from Medinipur, refugees from East Bengal, people from Orissa, even some tribal Santhals. They were at peace, carrying their daily struggle for existence.

The fresh green village drew Hark to it, but the pull for his wife, Naba and others of the colony could not be shaken off either. He can carry on a living here but he wanted to live with others, that was the only way he would be happy. He has to go back. He had no news of his son. God knows if he was alive. It would be dangerous to look for him. From the newspapers he has come to know that Chandra the sanyasin has been released. She might know about the whereabouts of his son. But what was the use? Let him live his own life.

By now a plan was taking shape. The people of his camp, a few thousand in all, could easily settle in one of the uninhabited islands. They were not anybody's property nor the garden house of a zaminder . . . They would demand nothing from the government, no ration, no cash dole. Just allow them to live in the soft fertile soil of Bengal. We will till the soil, catch fish in the river we will carry on. We do not want to be a burden on anybody but stand on our own two legs. We might survive or if it is not in our destiny, be wiped out.

Won't the government listen to this appeal? Of course they will. After all they have nothing to lose. On the other hand they will be spared the expense on account of the refugees.

After a long time Harit felt good all over.

49

HOLDING his cigar gone cold between his two fingers, Tridib stood poised to cross over to the other side in Piccadilly Circus. He had been standing there for quite some time as though undecided whether to take the plunge while the traffic light changed, people hurried across, but Tridib made no attempt to budge. It was six-thirty. Men and women were in a hurry to reach the tube station on this dull-cold, windless day. It might start snowing any time. Tridib with a flicker of a smile around his lips patted his overcoat pockets, but he had no idea what exactly he was looking for. He was not drunk now.

A man jostled him inadvertently and came back to apologise. But Tridib paid no attention. He pulled at his cold cigar and realised that he was thirsty. He never visited unknown pubs on principle. About ten minutes of brisk walking took him to one frequented among others, by aspiring theatre actors in peculiar clothes and even more queer mannerisms.. The inside was filled with smoke and so crowded that many were obliged to stand. All the high stools were occupied. Tridib made his way to the counter and shouted to the bar tender, Evening, Mac.

The aging bartender could never remember the name of this customer. He replied, evening, my friend. Your usual?

Tridib nodded and fished out a ten-pound note.

A plate of eggs and sausages followed a big mug of lager bear. By the time the food was finished, Tridib had gulped down the beer. It was quickly replaced by another mug.

An English pub was where people went to chat, discuss everything under the sun, also to spend some time away from the wife. Nobody drank alone. The unwritten law was you stand one round of drinks, then others would do the same. But Tridib was an exception. He was a familiar figure but he never went beyond exchanging nods.

In spite of the heated interior, he had his overcoat on; he carried a lot of things in its pockets. The man next to him left, leaving his high stool, so Tridib got a seat. He brought out not a book but a small white square card, a visiting card. He stared at it with a look of amusement.

Today he had met Ratul in the tube, sitting exactly opposite. His childhood friend Ratul had come back to Calcutta from Bombay, a widower. Their friendship was resumed. So Ratul was in London! He must have noticed Tridib but gave no sign of recognition. Tridib never looked at co-passengers, but some Bangla words made him look up from the book he was reading. Ratul! He could not believe his eyes.

As their eyes met, Ratul stood up. Come, he called the lady with him. Taken aback, the lady tried to protest but Ratul insisted. For a second it seemed to Tridib that it was Sulekha, same height, and wealth of hair, large deep eyes, and same figure. No, how could that be, he rebuked himself. She was gone. Has he already forgotten her face? No other woman could be like Sulekha. She was unique.

Ignoring Tridib completely, Ratul kept proceeding towards the door. Ratul! Exclaimed Tridib in great surprise. When did you come to England?

Ratul frowned. I am afraid — he began with cold politeness.

Don't you recognise me? I am Tridib.

Oh Tridib? Ratul feigned surprise. How different you look. I could not recognise you. The train had slowed down. I have to get down here, said Ratul.

Where do I contact you? Tridib asked anxiously.

But the door had opened, the crowd pushed from the back. Ratul handed his friend a card and said, do telephone. Holding his companion by her waist he got down from the train.

After getting over from the suddenness of the encounter, Tridib wished he had got down too. After all he was in no great hurry to get back. But somehow Ratul was too aloof, he would not have talked to him on his own. Who was that lady with him — his wife? So he has swept Sulekha out of his mind. Lucky chap. The secret of success in life is to forget. But he has kept himself rather well. He could still pass off as a captain of any cricket team.

He had not been in touch after the unfortunate incident. Both Shahjehan and Ratul had accused Tridib for her death as if he was the one who had set fire to her body. Well, they are right in a way. Sulekha had resisted all temptations for his sake yet how could he be so heartless, how could he tell her that he is setting her free. So you want me to go, she had asked, turning pale with humiliation.

He gulped down the third mug, spilling some beer on his shirt. He put down the mug on the counter with a thud and stuck the unlit cigar between his lips. Mac came up, took away his cigar, lit another and offered it to Tridib. This is on the house, he declared. Tridib waved to say thanks, he had no desire to talk.

So Ratul is here. Nobody prints a card for a short visit. He looked at the card with office and residence numbers. Chloride company. Yes of course, that is where he used to work. Tridib too has been to London for six months, changing his job. Deaf to the general racket around him, he kept studying the card as if it contained a long and hidden history. After his fourth mug he remembered something and came out. He took a taxi and came straight to Golders Green.

You are tipsy again, Tridibmama, said Tutul with visible disapproval. Alam does not like it, I have told you before.

Tridib ignored the rebuke. This is the only time I am normal, why don't you understand? Where is Alam?

He has duty in the surgery. He will be late.

Tridib flopped on the sofa, belched loudly, took a sniff. Wonderful smell! Shrimps, isn't it? Why don't you ever ask me for dinner, Tutul?

I may but promise you will come completely sober? We don't keep drinks.

Cut it out, will you? Now that you are the wife of a Muslim, you have turned against drinking, is it? Beer is not alcohol, silly. The real session begins now.

He brought out a small bottle of Scotch from his pocket and took a long swig.

Almost at the point of blowing up, Tutul stopped half way. How could she forget the help she received from Tridibmama on her arrival in this country. Of course she has paid back the two hundred pounds, but he was genuinely attached to her and Alam. For god's sake, Tridibmama, why are you bent on killing yourself? Try to forget the past, stop feeling guilty. People say all sorts of things in the heat of a quarrel.

Tridib gave her a long stare. Tutul has taken some time to recover and is always keen to prove that she is perfectly fit. But she isn't. Alam has not allowed her to go back to work. Today she was in a housecoat instead of a sari, her hair loose, her eyes looked moist.

Oh yes, I will change now, high time . . . saw somebody today; by the way can you give me Shahjehan's address?

No I won't. Tutul was firm. Both of you do nothing but fight.

Nothing of the sort! I would like to apologise to him.

Why don't you write a note and leave it to us? But you must, we are leaving for Calcutta in a couple of weeks.

The news did not interest Tridib. He took another swig from the bottle and stood up. Where is your address book?

How about having some shrimp curry with toast. It won't take me a minute.

You are changing the subject. I never take anything solid after sundown. Have had some eggs and sausages. That is enough.

Why do you have such junk food day in and day out?

Now a doctor is speaking. Will you give me the address?

Why should you visit him? He has been here a number of times after that. You know he understands why you lost your temper. You were upset because you thought I was going to die.

God forbid. If children like you die, the earth will be unlivable. Let me have the notebook.

On a good-looking ivory finish card was printed the name and address of Shahjehan's company along with some other numbers. It was the first one in the side flap of the notebook.

Tridibmama, said Tutul anxiously, promise me . . .

Don't you worry my child. I promise you I won't misbehave with him. You see we have a common bondage!

He put his hand on Tutul's head. Keep living my dear, never even think of death. Death is so cold, so vulgar, and so final.

A little unsteady, he walked out, took a taxi. Shahjehan was taken aback to find him at his door. Yes? He asked coldly.

What do you mean, yes? There are things I want to talk to you about. Don't you know me? Let me get in.

I am engaged. I have guests. So what? I will wait till they leave. There is an important matter to talk over.

He almost pushed his way in to find about six young men and women squatting on the carpet of the living room, papers and pound notes scattered about them. A little ill at ease to find an outsider they stopped talking.

Putting his hands in his trouser pocket Tridib watched the scene with amusement. Muslims — each one! I see. Planning to break up Pakistan! Bangladesh! Balderdash! What good would that serve, Pakistan broken in two! Anyway, you can ignore my presence, I am of no consequence.

The young group looked at Shahjehan who was embarrassed, but tried to save the situation. I think we have come to a decision. He declared. Next campaign will be in Sussex. We will get an appeal from Bernard Russell. OK?

Tridib almost bumped into one in trying to take a seat. All of you are true Mussalman; you meet secretly after sundown but don't drink. But I am a bloody son of a bloody Hindu, and bloody drunk as well. This is my time to drink but I won't come in your way. But may I have a glass and some bloody ice?

Sit down, I will get you everything, said Shahjehan.

From the cupboard he brought out a bottle of Black Label whisky, soda and a glass arid got some ice as well. Please help yourself, he said, putting everything before Tridib.

Help yourself! Mimicked Tridib, already quite intoxicated, having taken swigs from his own bottle. The worst expression in the English language! Most hackneyed — it makes me mad. I will pour my own drink in my own glass .You call that helping yourself! Disgusting! Oh, I am sorry to disturb you. Sorry, sorry, you please go ahead. But Listen Shahjehan bhaiya, I will not touch your fancy Scotch. I don't accept drink from a host who does not drink himself. For me my own bottle will do. OK? You go on with your meeting, I'll remain speak-ti-not.

The young men collected the money and the sheets. While they exchanged words about their next fund raising concert, Tridib quietly sat drinking with a meaningless smile stuck on his lips and a faraway look in his eyes.

After seeing his guests to the door, Shahjehan came back to Tridib. Now, what can I do for you? He asked indifferently.

It took some time to register. Tridib stared at Shahjehan for a few seconds, then said sarcastically, Since when have you turned so ordinary, may I ask? What can I do for you! Is this English or an aberration of the language? Can anybody do anything for anyone? It is a jargon of the shopkeepers. I did not expect this from a Shakespeare expert like you.

Forget Shakespeare, said Shahjehan stiffly. What is it that you want to tell me, out with it. I retire early.

For god's sake Shahjehan, it has been so long since I have exchanged notes with you about Shakespeare. You know these English people can't even recite a line of Shakespeare. Rank idiots. I recited some lines to a shopkeeper, from Hamlet, "mad as the sea and wind, when both contest, which is mightier . . ." the chap just stared at me. Just imagine one of their greatest poets . . .

Excuse me, interrupted Shahjehan, his voice severe, I am in no mood to discuss the subject. If you have anything else to say . . .

I met Ratul today, said Tridib abruptly.

Who? Shahjehan, in a state of shocked disbelief asked, Who was it that you said you have met? His air of indifference was gone.

Ratul, Ratul, don't you remember, laughed Tridib. That athlete lover, mad to get married, a very ordinary individual, I am sorry to say, had never read a line of poetry, the same Ratul is now in London.

Where does he live?

Exactly. That was what came to my mind too. Where does he live, he must be living somewhere. Listen Shahjehan, you and me and Ratul, the old threesome, suppose we meet and call Sulekha through a planchette.

Where did you meet him? Will he be in this country for quite some time?

Well, whatever you may think about planchettes, frankly, I too don't have much faith in it, but if we sit thinking of her, our heads touching — vibration from one carried over to the other, that is how Sulekha will come back to us.

Excited, Shahjehan went on, What nonsense. You are obsessed about Sulekha. What good would that serve? The Sulekha you are thinking of is not the real woman but a figment of your imagination.

Thanks for your advice, taunted Tridib. This is over simplification. You think you can explain everything, don't you? You have no memory of her. Poor Sulekha, she has lost even in death. I think Ratul is doing well, he has found another woman.

Where is he? Asked Shahjehan.

Tridib fished out the card and inspected it as if to assess if it was real or imitation. He is here, right here.

Let me have it.

Another bottle of soda, please, said Tridib. I may have to spend the night here, do you mind? Getting old, ache in the knee you see . . . but we are going to have a get together with Ratul, we will —

Let me have the card Tridib.

No, what is the hurry. I will make arrangements.

As you please, Shahjehan's lips twisted in a strange smile. I saw the phone numbers, I know them by heart. I will meet him soon, but not with you, alone. I have a score to settle.

50

FOR no apparent reason Shahjehan began winding up his export business in London which he had built up alone, without any partnership. He was feeling restless. The same spirit of restlessness did not let him settle down in Dhaka. It was not in his nature to acquire close friends, though he was a perfect gentleman in his dealings. But he felt bored with life.

He did not marry again. Rest of his family including his parents, brothers and sisters lived in Calcutta, but he lived alone in a nice little house in Kensington. Their family business of carpets and garments was flourishing in Calcutta. Though he had a head for business, he did not spend all his waking hours working like other successful people. He led a very ordered and regulated life — a morning walk by the Thames, breakfast in a restaurant, then back home to take care of the correspondences. The entire afternoon would be spent in his office, which he shared in central London with a travel agency. It also involved visiting banks, clearing and insurance agents. In the evening he stayed away from business matters as far as possible, spending all his time reading and listening to music. He did not drink or smoke and for the last six seven years women had ceased to interest him.

But this smooth tenor of life suddenly collapsed like a pack of cards. London no longer had any charm for him. At first he sold the house for a song and moved to a cheap hotel in Southall. Within a week he moved to another hotel. He sold his entire stock to Mark and Spenser and negotiated with Sindhi and Gujrati businessmen to sell the goodwill of his company. It seemed he needed a lot of cash in hand.

He is doing this to avoid Tridib, who like a bull in a china shop surfaced in his home and created havoc, said his acquaintances. That was the only reason for this madness. For a man of taste like Shahjehan those drunken visits were too much.

For the last couple of months he has, willy nilly, got involved in the freedom effort of East Pakistan. Tutul and Alam were responsible for this. Of course Shahjehan never identified himself with any country — India or Pakistan. With his fair complexion, shapely figure, Saville Row suits he could easily pass off as a Britisher but he knew very well that they never considered him as one of them. He liked to think of himself as a world citizen, fond of Shakespeare-Tolstoy-Goethe and Bach- Mozart-Tchaikovsky. The greatest artists of the world do not belong to a particular country, they are part of world culture.

Politics never was his cup of tea. He never had any opinion about the splitting of Pakistan though he was profoundly moved by the atrocities in East Pakistan. Through Tutul and Alam he has been actively drawn into the movement supporting the freedom struggle though initially he had wanted to contribute money and stay away. In the frequent meetings held at his place Tridib was making a regular appearance, in an inebriated state, forcing them to disperse. Shahjehan was much too polite to shut the door to his face. But that was not the real reason for his decision to wind up.

He had no desire to renew his friendship with Tridib, in fact he wanted to leave the Delhi chapter behind him. The memory of Sulekha too was fading. Her memory still hurt but strangely it was less of an agony and more of a lovely sense of nostalgia. At this point the entry of Ratul upset everything. His old anger, grief and resentment returned with a greater force.

He was convinced that it was Ratul who was responsible for the tragedy — his shameless manner had forced her to destroy herself. As for Shahjehan himself, he never crossed the limits of decency, he never made any demands on Sulekha, in fact he enjoyed the company of both the husband and wife, treasured their friendship. Ratul had no place there. Yet Ratul had the audacity to hit him, call him a Pakistani spy! It was by his manipulation that Shahjehan was detained by the police during the Sixty-five war. His family, who owned property in Calcutta, had been staunch Congress supporters for three generations, accused of spying just because he happened to be a Muslim. He could never get over this humiliation. As if Gujratis, Marwaris and Bengalis did not have business dealings with Pakistan!

The news that Ratul was in London had him excited at first but he controlled himself. What is the use of nursing past bitterness. No, he can never pardon Ratul but it was not in his nature to pick up a fight. It was not for Tridib but Ratul that he decided to move out of London. The two of them cannot live in the same city, chance meetings can not be ruled out. Business prospects are good in Amsterdam and Frankfurt, he decided to try out these two places for the time being.

He did not visit Tutul and Alam after selling his house, they were not even aware of his new plans. He kept his plan a closely guarded secret . . . As he walked along Oxford Street he shrugged. Why was he behaving like this? A little while ago he had stood for half an hour in front of the building where Ratul worked . . . What on earth for, he asked himself. Most unbecoming for a man like him!

Yet the next day he was back in the same spot again. He had an appointment but his business was over by three thirty. He walked into a tea shop diagonally opposite Ratul's office building and chose a table with a clear view of the exit. He ordered tea and opened a book most casually.

At four-thirty Ratul was seen coming out, cheerful and debonair in a blue flannel suit, swinging his briefcase. As he kept up with him along the opposite pavement, Shahjehan asked himself: why am I doing this? Why? Why? Why?

Ratul crossed the street and walked up to a woman at Hyde Park corner, who obviously had been waiting for him. Two speakers at different parts of the park were shouting themselves hoarse, one of them a friend of Alam, spewing venom against the Pakistani rulers. Three policemen stood idly watching, ready to intervene if trouble broke out.

Why has Ratul made an appointment in a place like this? But of course, the answer was obvious. She looked like a married woman, with a line of sindoor in her parting of hair. The way Ratul put his hand round her waist indicated illicit relationship. It was just like Ratul to take advantage of other people's wives. They strolled to a lonely part and sat behind a growth of shrubs. Presently they started kissing. My god, Shahjejan admonished himself. Have I sunk so low? Sneaking on others! Let Ratul do whatever he wants.

Normally he enjoyed solitude but today the thought of his lonely hotel room put him off. He called Tutul to ask them out for dinner. You see I will be leaving for Amsterdam soon, won't be seeing you for quite some time. But Tutul was having guests for dinner. Why don't you join us? She invited him. Don't worry, Tridib mama won't be here. We are going to Calcutta soon, that is the reason for this party.

Very formal in matters of invitation, Shahjehan could never accept a last minute call to join a party. He excused himself, saying he had already invited some people. He tried to ring up a Pakistani gentleman, very nice and cultured with whom he got along well. Nobody picked up the phone. Almost at the point of ringing another of his acquaintances, he stopped, ashamed at his desperate craving for company.

He went to a film show but even the throng around him, the moving figures on the screen failed to absorb him. Ratul kissing another woman, the scene kept haunting him, what is more he could not get rid of the feeling that the woman he was kissing was none other than Sulekha.

He left half way and went to Soho Square, determined to try another experiment. Walking into a bar named Contact, he walked up to an empty table on the first floor. He knew about the operations that went on in such places. In the dim light some women hovered near the counter. One of them, a tall woman with overdone make up drew near. Hello, Luv, may I join you. She said.

Shahjehan nodded. Promptly she sat down, her thigh touching his, in a whiff of cheap perfume. What will you have? Asked Shahjehan trying not to show his distaste.

I was having Scotch. Declared the girl.

Two pegs of premium Scotch were served. The girl's glass already had soda mixed with it, which actually had very little whisky in it. The idea, Shahjehan knew was to inflate the bill, cheating the clients.

I am Christine. What's your name, darling?

If you are Christine then I am General Ayub Khan, replied Shahjehan.

She giggled, obviously remembering the fact that the Pakistani President was involved with the notorious Christine Keeler of the Profumo scandal.

He did not even touch his glass but after the girl had downed three, he suggested they go out and have dinner somewhere.

Do you mind going to my apartment? You can relax there. We can pick up some food on our way.

Sounds wonderful, agreed Shahjehan. Can you lend me a hundred and twenty-five pounds? Asked Christine her voice almost down to a whisper, I need it rather urgently.

Just to show that he was not a novice in the game, Shahjehan said, I can spare seventy-five.

Make it one hundred.

He counted the notes and put them on the table. The girl left with the money. Was that the system here? Shahjehan was trying to figure out. Perhaps they don't trust the new clients. The owner has a percentage in all likelihood.

The girl was back. They went out and took a taxi. Most probably the taxi driver was one of the party to fleece vulnerable customers. Inside the taxi, the girl put her hand through his. Are you a Paki or an Indian? She asked.

Neither said Shahjehan. I am Egyptian.

Is that right? She widened her eyes. They make great lovers. Omar Shareef!

But finally the entire effort fizzled out. They bought some food, went to Christine's flat. The girl was simple and frankly curious about lots of things but when she took off her clothes and invited him, Shahjehan felt no urge at all. She embraced him, trying to kiss but he turned away. Cold meat, he said to himself. He was not one of those who can rush into a physical relation with a total stranger. The scene he wanted desperately to forget, that of Ratul kissing a woman, floated back. Did he ever do it with Sulekha? Did he . . .

It was nice chatting to Christine but she felt terribly insulted when he refused her advances. Just to avoid the volley of abuses he fished out another twenty five, put it on the dressing table and walked out of her flat.

A nagging pain persisted, at times becoming unbearable. He knew he was not a homosexual, like Oscar Wilde, never going beyond a handshake with men. Lovely women attracted him, even looking at a beautiful face was a pleasure. But strangely enough something held him back from proceeding further. Perhaps the rest of his life would go on like this, he wondered.

A funny smell in Christine's apartment was bothering him, he did not feel like eating at all. Back to his hotel room, he took a long hot shower. He muttered to himself — Ratul had slapped me but I have forgiven him, I will wipe out all memories of Sulekha, will never see Tridib again. As if it was a promise to himself!

He opened the works of Shakespeare at random, his only solace. He began from the second column of the right hand page:

Of one that loved not wisely but too well;

Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought.

Perplexed in the extreme; of one whose hand, Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away.

Richer than all his tribe; of one whose subdued eyes

Albeit unused to the melting mood . . .

The last part of Othello, he knew it by heart. It seemed to echo his own feelings. He touched his own throat and recited softly: I took by the throat the circumcised dog . . .

No, he wanted to rise above anger, envy, vengeance — Othello was not the right thing. Again he turned the pages of the volume and came across the following lines:

My hate to Marcius. Where I find him, were it

At home, upon my brothers guard, even there

Against the hospitable Canon, would I

Wash my fierce in his heart . . .

Shahjehan closed his eyes. No, vengeance can never give you peace. The tragic heroes are noble only in poetry, in life they merely create havoc. He does not want to hurt anyone, it is much better to withdraw into himself. Two drops of tear rolled down. He tried reading the Koran. Presently he dozed off, but his lips twisted in agony.

The next day he tried to drown himself in work but the afternoon found him again in the vicinity of Ratul's office. He was drawn to this place by some unknown force, probably destiny. He shadowed Ratul for a while, then stopped, so ashamed with himself that he had an impulse to strangle himself. Why had he brought himself to this level and that too for an insignificant creature like Ratul! Turning round he kept walking till he reached Waterloo Bridge. He had an uncontrollable desire to jump into the river, but he just stood there clutching the railings. Something was eating into his soul, he was losing the urge to live. Life has lost all meaning.

He forced himself to go to Bristol to attend a fund raising meeting. He spent the weekend meeting Pakistani and Indian Bengalis. At least he was successful in driving Ratul away from his thoughts. But his next meeting at Glasgow had to be skipped as his secretary called from London to inform him that he had a buyer who wanted to meet him immediately.

As soon as he stepped into London the feeling of bitterness returned. To think that Ratul is somewhere in the city, walking along its streets. Who will teach me how to forgive my greatest enemy, he kept asking himself, to give him unconditional pardon?

He followed him about from afternoon till quarter to eleven, with the keen eyes and keener patience of a professional detective, not for a moment leaving Ratul out of his sight. Ratul met the woman at a restaurant in Belsize Park and went to a play later. Since Shahjehan could not get a ticket he sauntered outside, waiting for them. They came out, walked for some time hand in hand, had ice cream, then she boarded a bus. Obviously they could not meet at home.

He followed Ratul to a tube station and got into the same compartment. There were about ten people inside, but Ratul was too preoccupied to notice him. Today Shahjehan was losing control, he knew he had to face him.

About forty minutes later, the train was nearing the terminus. Many of the passengers got down there, Ratul among them with Shahjehan at his heel. Ratul went to a parking lot where only one car was parked. Soon he would speed away in his car and Shahjehan would have no way to follow.

Fortunately for him the car refused to start, probably the cold coupled with the drizzle had done something to the motor. Ratul came out to open the bonnet and peeped in.

It was destiny again. It would be foolish to lose this chance. Shahjehan went close and said casually, Good evening. Any problem! May I help you?

Startled, Ratul looked at him and stared. There was no reason why he should not recognise this man, he had not changed like Tridib. Not knowing what to say, Ratul blurted out, What the hell!

I saw you getting down at this station. Having problem with the car?

Ratul frowned. What are you doing here at this time of the night? Do you live in Harrow?

Well, you could say that, said Shahjehan airily. Can I take a lift in your car? Meeting after so long, we have lots to talk about. Should I press the accelerator, would that help?

No thanks, replied Ratul, his face growing dark. It is going to be all right.

Ignoring his words Shahjehan got into the driver's seat. But before he did anything the engine came to life.

Moving aside, Shahjehan remarked, see, I turned out to be lucky for you. Get in.

Fastening the seat belt, Ratul began. Listen, let us be straight. I have no hang up about the past. It is all forgotten. I am rather tired today. Sorry, but I can't give you a lift.

It isn't that easy, said Shahjehan. Can you forget so easily? Haven't you met Tridib?

He keeps pestering me on the phone, said Ratul roughly. I have told him in very clear terms that I am not interested in keeping touch. The Calcutta and Delhi chapters are closed. Now if you will please get off . . .

So the old chapters are closed, is it? You have spoilt our lives, Tridib's, mine. And you expect to carry on merrily, love affairs on the sly — wonderful! I suppose you have forgotten that you had got me arrested during the Sixty five war.

Who said that I did! I know it, I have proof. You had assaulted me, accused me of being a Pakistani spy, it happened in Delhi, remember?

You still are a dirty spy. You have been trailing me. All right. What is it? What do you want from me?

You are responsible for Sulekha's death. You behaved like a brute at their place. Tridib, the perfect gentleman that he is, had told Sulekha she was free. Only because of you and that made her set fire to herself. It all happened because of you, you are guilty, not Tridib.

Don't talk like a scoundrel, Shahjehan. I don't want to hear it. Leave me alone, will you?

You have to apologise, for everything.

Ratul raised his hand, perhaps to strike a blow but checked himself. He leaned over to open the car door and pushed Shahjehan. Now, get the hell out of here. He yelled.

As though on a cue Shahjehan fished out a revolver and held it against the nose of the other man. He closed the door with his other hand. I have not finished talking yet. He said. Do not ever shove a man like this — understand. A Mussalman never forgives treachery. You had struck me once, insulted me. I did not pay you back. You dared to try doing it again.

A gun in the hand of a man like Shahjehan was so absurd that Ratul did not take the threat seriously. Exuding pride, fury and confidence he spoke, choosing his words carefully. So after all these years you have come tell me all this nonsense? For your information, Sulekha had agreed to marry me, she said so herself before leaving Calcutta. But you were the dog in the manger, you stuck to them always. Because of you Tridib suspected his wife.

Sulekha would not have . . . a liar, crude, coarse and uncultured brute like you . . .

Before he could finish a scuffle followed. As Ratul tried to push the revolver away, Shahjehan shot him twice at point blank range. The car windows were pulled up so the noise was not carried outside.

He stared at the still, crouching figure for a few seconds. Then whispered, good bye, Ratul. Khuda Hafez.

There was nobody out in the parking lot, no guards either. No house could be seen in the vicinity. In the drizzling rain, Shahjehan walked across the muddy parking area, his hands dug inside his overcoat pockets, the collars turned up. He would walk to the next station and board the train there.

He was feeling light, no feeling of guilt bothered him. That man had destroyed so many, he had no right to live. His body would not be noticed before next morning, perhaps till the afternoon. Who bothers to look at other parked cars? The British police had other more important things to take care of than worry about the murder of an Asian.

He walked on, oblivious of the rain, along the rain soaked street. Nobody was out, not even any police van. When was it that he first thought of killing Ratul, he asked himself. Was it the moment he had heard about his presence in London? Must be, otherwise why should he a carry a revolver since? So his spirit was there, all the time, in the sub conscious? Yet he was ready to forgive him. Pity, Ratul could not prove to be worthy of forgiveness.

Next morning at eight he came to central London, bought a ticket for an European coach and got down at Dover. He checked in his suitcase and waited in the lounge impatiently for the announcement to board the ship. Once he was on the other side of the English Channel he would feel relieved.

The lounge was full of hippies. There were quite a few Indians and Pakistanis. Boarding card in hand, Shahjehan gazed at the immigration control gate. How much longer!

A dog of massive proportions followed by two policemen entered the lounge. Good god, so they have found out already? Shahjehan's heart began to pound. Nobody knew of his connection with the dead man except Tridib. Would Tridib talk to the police?

The policemen looked about then made straight for Shahjehan. One of them asked, Excuse me, are you Mr. Joginder Singh?

No, exploded Shahjehan.

May I see your passport? Said the policeman. At this point the dog growled and sprang towards a man trying to escape. Quickly the passport was returned and the policemen ran to the scene where the dog had got hold of the suspect, perhaps involved in narcotic smuggling.

While this was happening the microphone blared the name of the ship Shahjehan was travelling on. He proceeded, his passport in hand, his heart still pounding.

After the ship was well on its way, he stood on the deck and breathed the air of the English channel. Free! Free at last! A new life is about to begin.

51

TAPAN pushed the door a little and peeped. He found Kaushik lying on his side, sleeping on the cot, without a shirt, his thin and bony body exposed. Books lay strewn all over the room, some left over food on a plate stood in one corner, a lungi was dumped on a pair of crutches.

Should he wake him up, debated Tapan. Kaushik's problem was insomnia. But there was no time to be lost. Tapan came in and closed the door, putting a packet of books and clothes down on the cot. The only opening was a window that was kept closed always. A strong stench of urine hit Tapan as he opened it, so he decided to shut it again and lit a cigarette to get rid of the stench.

There was nothing to sit on except the cot. Tapan leaned against the wall and thought about his next step. How long can he take care of Kaushik. He was not sure. He could not be sent to Bangalore, his condition had deteriorated in Ghatsheela. A doctor was called from Jamshedpur but he could not extract the bullet from his stomach. Meanwhile the police came to know of their hide-out so Kaushik was shifted from one place to the other. His shoulder injury had improved, his legs were much better but strangely enough, he continued to live with a bullet in his kidney. Yet Subir who was not as seriously wounded had succumbed to his injuries . . . The news of his death reached his parents a month later.

Meanwhile the situation has changed considerably. They were out of touch with other members of the party. Some had gone underground, it was risky to try to track them. The earlier sympathisers have turned their backs, all financial help was gone . . . One such patron had flatly refused to see Tapan sending a ten-rupee note through his servant and asking Tapan never to come to him again.

That they would need a place to hide did not occur to them when they broke jail. It was an unplanned, desperate act. They might have been killed if they had stayed, many prisoners had met that fate.

The biggest problem was the cost involved in keeping Kaushik away from the eyes of the police. He cannot walk without a crutch, a fact that would make him an easy target. There was nobody to help. The police kept constant watch over his house so the idea of sending him home was out. Among the others who broke jail, three have been caught. Nobody knows their fate. One has been killed, the others have escaped to faraway places.

Tapan was in no apparent danger. He has gone back to his Dumdum colony, where his political affiliations were not known. As a measure of caution, he was now friendly with the congress boys. He resumed his work for the insurance agency he worked for earlier, now he also sold National Saving Certificates. A good part of his uncertain income went to his uncle's family. He had practically no money of his own.

But how could he leave a helpless and sick friend for the sake of his own security? The reason why other party members cut off all connection was not really their fault. Each was busy saving his own life. Some have retreated to the safe haven of their rich families. Somehow Tapan not being a rich man's son or a bright student eluded the eyes of the police. All that the police knew was that he was in the group of Manik Bhattacharjee — perhaps they could stretch his involvement with the Jalpaiguri murder. But now murders are a dime a dozen, who would remember that incident? Not that the police were not after him, but when the detective officer learnt that Tapan came from Sarail in East Bengal, he softened. In fact it was his idea that Tapan should make friends with the congress boys. But Kaushik was a much sought after criminal and the SB officer from the east, however friendly would certainly not come to Tapan's rescue if he was found to be helping Kaushik.

This room has been rented ten days ago, in a jute mill labour slum. Most of the dwellers were Bihari Muslims, currently much too agitated about the lock-out in the mill to care about the identity of the sick young man. A boy from a nearby hotel brought the meals. But this was not a foolproof arrangement. Kaushik would have to be shifted soon.

He couldn't possibly mention before his friend that money was his chief worry right now. How on earth can he get a doctor to extract the bullet. To think that Kaushik, coming from an upper middle class background, having their own house in New Alipur was lying on a cot in a slum in Naihati indicated a change in class character, a change for the better. But what would be the next step? Tapan wondered. To lose a wonderful person like Kaushik would be a great waste!

He had to catch the evening train to avoid suspicion of his family and neighbours. So against his better judgement, Tapan called the sleeping comrade, Kaushik, Kaushik. There was no response. He touched his forehead and got a shock. Kaushik was running a temperature again.

The first thing Kaushik asked on opening his eyes was, Pompom! Where is Pompom?

Tapan shook his head. For the last couple of months he had lost contact with her, a source of added worry. It was Pompom who was looking after Kaushik. Though she refused financial help from her father, she had contacts with high society people, raising loans was no problem for her. Who will lend money to a chap from a refugee colony?

From Durgapur Kaushik had to be removed at very short notice. It was when Tapan and Pompom were on their way to Bankura to explore chances of finding a shelter that Pompom suddenly fainted in the Howrah station. Tapan was in a real fix. A crowd would invariably bring in the police. They were after Pompom. After President’s Rule in West Bengal the police were having a field day, not sparing the daughter of any ML A. Meanwhile some Naxalite group had hurled a bomb at Pompom's father in his Maniktala home. In the prevailing mess nobody knew what actions were ordered by whom . . . Anyway, Asoke Sengupta had his own image to his party to think of. So he could not let his daughter come to the house.

But Tapan ultimately took her there as no other option was open. A hard boiled political leader like Sengupta broke down completely. The pale and senseless body of his daughter gave the impression that she was dead. When he realised she had fainted he asked Tapan to leave her alone. She needs care and treatment, don't you see? He snapped at Tapan, his eyes still wet. Don't you want her to live?

Two days later Tapan had visited their house. As expected Mr. Sengupta gave him a rebuff. Do you think this is a club or something, you and come and go as you please? No, you can't meet Pompom. She is under treatment.

It was no use explaining the situation to Kaushik. He was in no condition to understand. He was convinced that Tapan was trying to hide the fact of Pompom's arrest.

Sitting up on the bed, Kaushik demanded, won't you tell me where she is?

Have no news yet, but I am trying my best. Her father is not available. I am known to the CPM cadre in that neighbourhood, you see.

Don't come back to me unless you have some news of her, do you follow? Kaushik gave Tapan a shove. Irritable and impatient, he would invariably pick up a quarrel with Tapan whenever he came, as though he was responsible for his present condition.

Hopefully I will know something in a day or two, Tapan said softly. All I can tell you know is that she is not in jail. You talk as though you have made a round of all the jails. Let me have a look at the books you have brought. What a lot of trash. Don't you have any idea of what good books are! He said crossly.

Kaushik was perpetually hungry for books but Tapan found it impossible to keep up the supply line. Tapan could not afford to buy books, he had to borrow from friends whose tastes were different. He has struck a deal with old newspaper sellers who also dealt in second hand or discarded books but Tapan himself was not very well read, so could not choose the right types.

Picking up the other packet, Kaushik asked. What are these? Oh clothes. Who are they for?

It was a thick shirt bought from the footpath for eighteen rupees after a lot of haggling. Tapan found it too much to go on seeing Kaushik in tattered clothes, the boy who was the most well dressed of the lot in the study circle. Recently he has developed a bad cough.

Tapan offered him a packet of Char Minar. Kaushik never smoked earlier, now he cannot do without it. Anything else you need? Asked Tapan. Then he added. Sorry, forgot the blade for shaving.

Answer me first. Kaushik was downright rude. Why the shirt?

How long can we go on like this? Said Tapan by way of a feeble excuse.

I am going to get out as soon as I am strong enough.

Get out where? You know Kaushik you need good nourishment like milk, eggs, But we can't afford them. That is what is worrying me.

Don't be silly. Why should I have milk and eggs, am I a baby? Who has milk and eggs in this busti, tell me.

They are not sick like you. Let me finish. Should I get in touch with your mother?

My mother! Why? You want to send her to jail too?

I will be careful, phone from your uncle's place. Your mother should be informed about you, besides your uncles might be able to help.

I have no mother, no brothers, sisters, uncles, nobody. Once I have left home, how can I go back like a good boy?

I am being practical.

Hang your being practical. You are no good. Couldn't bring any news of Pompom in all these days!

Listen to me. You should go abroad like Atin for treatment, for getting the bullet out of your stomach. Your uncles might help.

I have digested the bullet already, eaten it up, understand? I am going no place, England, America or Soviet Russia. I might go to China or Albenia though.

Your best friend Atin has gone. You are an idiot, you would not understand his case.

Asim Chatterjee has been apprehended in Deoghar, day before yesterday. Manikda is dead. Gurudeb, Sudeb, Shashi they are all gone. In early August the police shot Saroj Dutt. What more is there to happen?

What do you mean? We are alive, so is comrade Charu Majumder. No police in India dares to touch him. Our boys will protect him with the last drop of blood in them. Many will die, that is what the Chairman has said. Such jerks are needed.

But I think we have reached a blind alley.

Suddenly Kaushik grabbed Tapan by the shoulder and charged. Why did you talk of feeding me milk and eggs, you rascal? Having pity, is that it? Charity!

I did not mean that.

Damn it. Who has been supplying you the money? Are you raising money like a beggar?

What nonsense!

Listen Tapan, I care a fig for your charity. I can take care of myself. I forbid you to come to me again.

Don't be childish. Keep your voice down. You are running a temperature.

Stop fussing. Who had asked you to bring a shirt for me? Tell me who bought it? Milk and eggs indeed. So and so has died. What do mean by telling me all that? Others are dying and I will fill myself with good food!

That was not what I meant.

I hate you. Asking me to go abroad for treatment like bourgeois reactionaries? Get out! I don't want to look at you again. Overcome with anger, Kaushik tried to push Tapan out of the room, he was so violent that he did not listen to Tapan's protests.

You are not coming here again, I spit on your charity. Out, out, I say. Kaushik was beyond himself with rage. At last, disgusted, Tapan said, the hell with everything. After all he had rented the room with his hard-earned money, spending his own money to buy the shirt. He was not going to stand all this nonsense. He tried to free himself forcibly, Kaushik who could not walk without a crutch tumbled and fell. Without bothering to look back, Tapan rushed out into the street.

The station was a twenty-five minute walk. As Tapan took long strides he went on talking to himself. There is a limit to everything. After all I have done more than enough. Where are those study circles revolutionaries now, I would like to know. Why don't they come forward to help Kaushik. Who am I after all, from a refugee family, the idea of a total revolution was far away from my mind. It was Kaushik and their sort who had dragged me to the study circle. The others will bag cushy jobs, some will go abroad, but I will remain where I am. How can I possibly take care of Kaushik, I earn barely enough to support myself. Right now I have just seven rupees with me. I have no idea what tomorrow will bring. After briskly walking for five minutes Tapan paused. He was almost on the point of tears. How could Kaushik think that he was collecting donation? Tapan had not asked anyone for a single paisa. Very well, let him fend for himself. Tapan would keep away from all this trouble.

He stood under the street light, conflicting emotions going through him. What would Kaushik have for dinner tonight ? He has no money, not even enough to buy a blade. Actually Tapan had wanted to give six rupees out of the seven to him. A meal of rice, daal and a vegetable costs about twelve annas. He changed his mind and decided to go back and fling the money to his face.

He turned back and was shocked to see Kaushik, balancing on a crutch at the corner of the lane. Where was he trying to go? It was not yet dark, it was suicidal to come out in the open. The area, a hotbed of labour unrest, was constantly raided by the police. If the boys of the other party who hovered near the station, intent on taking revenge, identified him that would be the end.

Kaushik Roy, the great idealist, known for his firm courage, looked so vulnerable, so helpless now. He was reduced to a skeleton, sunken eyes, unable to take a step, nowhere to go. Moved to tears, Tapan hurried back, wiping his eyes in his shirt sleeve. Kaushik was a rare person, his integrity was beyond question. He came closer but all he could say was just utter his name.

Kaushik stared at him in wonderment. He spoke slowly, as if it was in another language: Tapan were you leaving me? Don't you want to come and see me again?

Are you mad? Said Tapan. How can I leave you? I just wanted some fresh air. Let us go in.

52

MAMATA had just finished her lunch when Paresh made his entrance with an LP record and a box of sweets. Now that he was their son-in-law, he dropped in whenever he pleased, at odd hours but always with some gift.

It was Tuntuni who opened the door but Paresh asked, Where is Kakima, raising his voice.

Mamata had to come out from her bedroom. This was Paresh's style. He wanted to show off. Kakima, I have brought a record of Feroza Begum, songs of Nazrul — I know she is your favourite. And these are sandesh from Bhim Nag, specially ordered.

You should not have done it, mumbled Mamata, as she always did on such occasions.

Earlier he had bought a record player, presenting it to Mamata though it stayed in Tuntuni's room.

The whole thing was embarrassing to the extreme, to be accepting gifts from a new son-in-law, without giving him anything in return. Mamata could not afford to buy gifts, yet she was obliged to cut down on household expenses and bought Paresh a shirt piece and suit lengths. She even went to the length of exchanging the gold rings her sons got during their rice eating ceremonies for a new ring for Paresh and a pair of ear rings for Tuntuni. The only thing she put aside was a gold ring, a gift to baby Piklu from his grandfather. She did not have the heart to sell it, the only reminder of the son she had lost.

After marriage Tuntuni had to be given a separate room, Paresh often spent the night here. Poor Munni was obliged to share a narrow dingy room with her aunt. Every time they moved house the area shrank, the rooms get smaller. The way Paresh talked nobody would guess that he was the culprit, responsible for turning them out of the Kalighat home.

Meanwhile Paresh had put the record on. Please come and listen, Kakima, he invited Mamata. Tuntuni, give Kakima a seat.

For all her fondness for Nazrul songs, Mamata's thoughts drifted away. All she could think was what to offer Paresh at such an odd hour when the part time help was not around, Munni was in college, and she could not possibly send Tuntuni to the market. She could make some luchi and fry brinjals. But they could not afford ghee these days, and frying a luchi in dalda was out of the question. After all Paresh was their son-in-law. Some sweets too had to be bought. Mamata came out of the room, wondering how to handle the situation.

She has never gone to the grocers all by herself . . . It was just not done. Today she was forced to do a chore she was not used to. Tears welled up. For no reason she thought of Bablu. He has not written for more than a month and a half. But she bore him no grudge. On the contrary she felt that Bablu has been sent on exile, against his wishes. She wiped her tears.

The door of Tuntuni's room closed slowly. They have no sense of shame at all. Music was on in full volume, drowning any other sound.

Mamata did not change her sari, just put on her slippers and came out. The sweetmeat seller must have taken her for a domestic help. For a mere four rasogollas, he did not give her a look. Unluckily for her the local grocery store was closed, so she was obliged to go a stationary shop where only 250 gram cans of ghee were available. Mamata did not have enough money with her.

But the boy at the counter solved her problem. Take it, mashima, he said. Pay later.

Mamata said stiffly, pay later?

Send it later, said the boy. I know you. You are Munnidi's mother, aren't you? She buys loaves of bread from here.

The boy did not realise what effect his casual comments had on Mamata. She was dying of shame, of not having enough money. She has never been through such experience, perhaps it was common enough but she had no idea. But the boy saved her from the ultimate humiliation.

Smiling in gratitude, she said, my daughter will pay you in the evening. Back in the kitchen she lit the stove and made a dough when Supriti, disturbed by the din next door entered. She was thin like a sparrow, had become very fussy and religious, hardly ever talked to anyone except Munni.

She flopped down on the floor. That Paresh is here again this afternoon. She remarked with disapproval.

Mamata went on rolling out the luchis in silence. Supriti went on, echoing Mamata's feelings: he comes at any odd hour, plays music loudly, brings in friends too. I am afraid Khokon would lose his temper one day.

After all, he is the son-in-law, he can drop in, can't he? Mamata said softly.

Well, in our time the son-in-law would never come unless invited. They were not so shameless.

Times have changed. The present generation does not bother about protocol.

Why can't he take Tuntuni to his own house?

You are forgetting something, didi. It has not been one year since his father died. They cannot get married during this period. That was why it had to be a registry marriage, done without the knowledge of his family.

It is simply disgusting the way they are carrying on, and that too during the period of mourning. I believe they have plenty of money. Let him rent a flat and take his wife there.

Mamata made no answer. It would hardly be proper for her to make that suggestion.

You should have some rest, Mamo, instead of cooking for the jamai. That Tuntuni should have come and taken care of the frying. I saw you going to the shop. Did you have to do that for them?

Well, actually I went to get some ghee . . .

Goodness, Mamo! You, a bride of the Majumder family, it broke my heart. Khokon, our only brother and you are our precious sister-in-law. We are all a burden on Khokon. I was sick and you had to go through such a lot.

The doorbell rang. Who could it be? It was too early for Munni to return. The part time help never came before five. If it was Pratap, back early for some reason then he was sure to make a scene.

Let me see. Supriti got ready to go but both Tuntuni and Paresh had reached the door before her. Two young men of Paresh's age were at the door. Come on in. You are late. Said Paresh in a tone of authority as though it was his house.

Friends of Paresh, said Supriti glumly. What do they think this is — a club house or what? I will tell Tuntuni this won't do. Pratap won't allow such rowdism. He is not in good health.

Mamata made more dough for the extra guests. Supriti, grumbling continuously, cut some more brinjals. Actually Mamata was scared for a different reason. Tuntuni has made a mistake, for which the marriage was the only way out. As yet, Paresh has not told his family. If he stops coming at all and refuses to recognise her as his wife then Pratap will have no option but to maintain Tuntuni and the child for the rest of his life. So it was better that they bear with Paresh for a year after which hopefully they will be rid of them.

Tuntuni came to the kitchen to find the two aunts busy with cooking. Oh my, you are making luchi! She exclaimed. You didn't have to. His friends have brought cutlets, quite a lot.

No, no, ask them not to bring any food, Mamata was hurt. But Supriti unable to bear it left for her room.

At five-thirty Paresh and his gang left with Tuntuni to go a cinema show. He would never come up on his way back because he was scared to meet Pratrap.

Pratap was late. Usually he felt too tired to go out after returning home, so he attended whatever other business he was obliged to right after office. He recounted today's experience to his wife.

You know what happened? He told Mamata as he changed into casual clothes. I had started for Sealdah station when can you guess who I ran into? Nepukaka. You may not recall him, they used to have a house by the big tank, in Malkhanagar. He was a strong man, famous for his muscles, he would cut the sacrificial goat in one stroke, even better than the blacksmith, how proud he used to be of his health. That Nepukaka has grown old, in fact I could not recognise him at first . . .

Pratap was in a reminiscent mood but Mamata was in no mood to listen. For some reason Bablu was in her mind. It has been three years, the last Mamata saw him was when he left for Siliguri. Does he ever feel homesick?

Another nagging thought kept bothering her. Suppose he came back, where would he stay? Supriti has a room, even Tuntuni, but nobody thought of Bablu and Munni.

But Pratap was going on. You know it was Nepukaka who spotted me first. How old would he be now — not more than Sixty five but he has already developed a stoop. Lives in Jadavpur and forced me to visit him there. But I felt so depressed, you know. It is much better not to visit old acquaintances. They are huddled together, a family of five in a forcibly occupied refugee colony, the boy is the youngest. How he has carried on I have no idea.

Shall I get you something? Or would you have dinner? Asked Mamata, not interested in Nepukaka's tale of woe.

Had a couple of samosas there, I am not hungry now. Listen to this, Mamo. We used to call his wife Natun Kakima, she used to be such a beauty, of course nothing of that is left. I heard her fighting with a neighbour, my god, the filthy language she was using. I felt so depressed. Our Natun Kakima, we were so fascinated by her, that kakima has been reduced to this! Nepukaka, instead of stopping them joined in the fight. I wished I had not come. But then Nepukaka insisted that I stayed for some time. A two roomed house with tin roof. Nepukaka's son has a small job, he has married. He is the only earning member. Nepukaka's eldest daughter Saraswati, now widowed is living with them with her three children. Her eldest son, twenty three needs a job. Both Nepukaka and his daughter seemed to believe that I could get him a job since I am a hakim, I have a lot of power.

Pratap sighed. You know what surprised me most was the change in their outlook. They are so narrow minded now. Nepukaka who used to give a lusty cry from the other side of the big tank now nags like an old woman. Living in those dingy little rooms has done this to them. The world has shrunk, everything is related to selfish motives. One can struggle against poverty but if you lose your self respect, what else is left to fight for?

We too are selfish and narrow minded, said Mamata angrily. Even though we are not in a refugee colony . . .

Shocked and hurt, Pratap looked at his wife. That was an unkind comparison.

Have you ever thought where Bablu would stay if he comes back?

Bablu coming back? Has he written that he is returning?

So you don't want him back, is that it?

Have you gone out of your mind? Till he completes his doctorate, the question does not arise. Besides the political situation has to change, it will, that is what Biman says.

You hate Tuntuni — is that a sign of magnanimity?

She should have been whipped for what she has done. I have done nothing.

After all she is your niece. Can you discard her? Didn't you talk of driving them out, Tuntuni and Paresh?

Pratap could not stand criticism or complains. He said stiffly. I am slaving away, doing my utmost to keep the family going and that girl, niece or no niece would act so shamelessly. No, I can't stand it.

I realise how narrow and mean I myself have become. Thakurjhi, your own sister, you brought her here but to be quite honest do I have to spend all my life looking after her? When she was sick I even thought . . .

Will you stop, Mamo, thundered Pratrap.

But Mamata went on. Why blame your Nepukaka alone? Look at us, how cramped we have become living in these cramped quarters. Do you talk to your own didi these days? Ask yourself.

You are always picking up on me.

I blame myself too. I hate it, this constant worry about money. And you refused the money Bablu had sent, his hard earned money. He is struggling so hard.

That is exactly why I had refused it. He should concentrate on his studies, no need to work hard to send us money. In the middle of these domestic tiffs something unexpected happened . . . After taking his bath, Pratap sat down with his files, pretending to ignore Mamata who kept wiping her tears. The atmosphere was not likely to improve but Tuntuni came up with a letter. It had a foreign postmark. Munni examined the stamp and declared that it was not from the States but from England.

It was a thick envelope with letters for everyone. Munni tore it open. Look! She exclaimed. There is a cheque too.

She handed it to her father. Two hundred pounds! Said Pratap. This is a lot of money.

Ma, you can buy a fridge now, said Munni, delighted at the sudden windfall.

Glaring at her husband, Mamata told him. You are not to send it back, do you understand. You and your ego!

Tutul is clever. The cheque is in your name. Remarked Pratap. It was didi who refused the money earlier because she has married a Muslim. This time it is up to you to accept or refuse.

Mamata took the cheque, actually it was a bank draft. And in her name. Two hundred pounds.

Suddenly Mamata felt a wave of affection for Tuntuni. Poor girl, she must have milk regularly from now on.

53

MAMUN came to meet Pratap in the Court, as his house was some distance away. In the few months he had been to Calcutta Mamun has aged considerably, looking much older than his friend. He waited till Pratap finished writing his judgement, chatting with lawyers all of whom were inquisitive about Joy Bangla. Many of them were originally from East Bengal. In any gathering three out of five would be from the east. No wonder the locals resented it, it came out in occasional comments like — Oh, the city has been taken over by the Bangaals!

Presently the two friends were on the street. There was a nip in the air, but Pratap did not wear any warm clothes though Mamun had a shawl wrapped over his kurta pyjama.

They were reminiscing. Do you remember Naren Cabin? Asked Mamun. Our regular haunt for egg chops. Great! Is it still there?

No idea. Has not been to that area for ages. Answered Pratap.

How about going there. If it is all right for you, after all you are a Hakim. Come on. Once you are out in the street there is no difference between a judge and, a criminal. Calcutta is a great equaliser.

Then let’s. Mamun was enthusiastic.

Yes, why not. They had tried to stab me once. I don't think they will attempt a second time.

Mamun stopped on his track. What? Tried to stab you? Who were they?

Pratap shrugged. Difficult to say, could be anyone — Naxal, CPM or Congress. You never know who is stabbing whom. But I think I am in the hit list of Naxals — they have already made some judges their target. The funny thing is my son was in that party.

You should have told me earlier. No, let us drop the idea.

Pratap insisted. No, we will go. One can't be scared of the students, after all they are our children. As a matter of fact the killings are less frequent these days.

They found Naren Cabin exactly as they had last seen it. The same tables and chairs — only the walls are shabbier. The middle-aged man at the counter must be the owner's son. A garland of hibiscus flowers adorned a framed picture of goddess Kali on the wall.

Overwhelmed by nostalgia, Mamun looked around. The teashop was more or less empty, the day students have left, evening shifts are yet to begin. That was our favourite table, pointed Mamun.

He greeted the owner, Namaskar. You know we used to come here during our student days, way back, before the Second World War.

The man folded his hands to return the greeting. So you are from Joy Bangla. Most welcome. What would you like to have, Sir.

Egg chops, said Mamun. This place used to be famous for egg chops. Do you still make them?

Of course! We also have egg devils, mutton ghugni. You can try that too.

After taking their seats Mamun asked Pratap, how could he make out I am from Joy Bangla?

Your accent!

But I have spent so many years here, my Calcutta accent is perfect.

Traces remain, you know. I have been here quite a while but people can make out. But my children don't have any east Bengal accent. You can't change accent in one generation.

Mamun was back in the old times. I believe Ripon College has been renamed Surendranath College, Central College is renamed after Maulana Azad. Have there been other changes?

Oh yes. Plenty! Harrison Road is Mahatma Gandhi Road, I am sure you know.

Yes, I noticed on my visits to College Street. Tell me, do you keep track of our classmates — Subimal, Baidyanath, Lutfar Rahman? I lost touch. Early in my career I was posted in the districts, that is how. But met Subimal once, he is in central government service.

The two friends had a lot of memories to share. They talked of old times. At one point Mamun wanted to know about their boyhood crush — Bula. How is Bula? He asked. Where is she?

You still remember her, your Butterfly of the Sky? Pratap was amused. No, I have not been in touch.

You mean to say you have not met her even once?

Well, I did meet her, on a few occasions. Lives somewhere near Tollygunj, that is all I can tell you.

Would her family mind if we pay her a visit? What does her husband do?

He does not live here. He has no contact with his wife. Their married life has not been happy.

I am sorry. Such a talented girl! I always thought she would be a famous singer one-day. To think that such a life has been wasted.

The thought of Bula roused mixed feelings in Pratap. He did feel fascinated by her, felt an urge to visit her quite often. But could that be called love? It was part guilt, part weakness, and part a sense of possession. It was a peculiar unseen bond.

Tell me something, Pratap. You were devastated to hear of her marriage, weren't you?

You are the one who fanaticised about her, not me. Pratap said lightly. Why should I feel hurt? I never had any such relation with her.

Both of them talked of their boyhood romance with tenderness and detachment. Well, I just wrote poems of appreciation, the way one writes about nature, said Mamun. What else could I do, the son of a Muslim, I couldn't aspire for the hands of a Hindu Brahmin. But you could have married her, you know. She preferred you.

Pratap never had the opportunity to tell his friend that Bula had come to him once, proposing marriage. It was no use bringing it in after all these years.

Why, what is wrong with my wife Mamata? Is she any less desirable?

Embarrassed, Mamun hastened to correct himself. Please, don't get me wrong. Mamata bouthan is unique. I am sorry to have brought this up. Sheer stupidity. Still I feel bad about Bula's unhappy life. I wish I could meet her.

I am sure she would be happy to see you, someone from a neighbouring village.

Let us both go. We were both in love with her, Pratap, admit it. But we were not rivals.

The conversation stopped as the owner of the shop, out of reverence to his guest from Joi Bangla brought the food himself — Egg devils, another name for egg chops and mutton ghugni. Then a group of noisy students entered discussing the subject of Bangladesh at the top of their voices. Mamun and Pratap were obliged to eat in silence. The heated debate was whether Indira Gandhi should or should not recognise Bangladesh. Obviously the boys were just back from refugee camps where they had gone with relief material. Already ninety-three lakhs had poured into India. How long can the India government carry on with this burden? If recognition to this new state is given then that would enable India to help them militarily and that was the only way to rid Bangladesh of Pakistani army.

The others were of opinion that it was far more honourable to fight your own war. If Indian army enters East Pakistan that would be aggression, pure and simple.

These boys used to cry themselves hoarse over American imperialism, China, Mao, Vietnam. I find it surprising that now they have realised that the neighbour's house is on fire. Said Pratap, keeping his voice low.

General Osmani says the same thing you know, about fighting your own war without Indian participation. That is suicidal.

But why! I think that is right and far more honourable.

Why don't you understand the impracticality of it, of carrying on the freedom fight for an indefinite period. The country would be ruined. Thousands of people are being butchered. Looting is rampant. The Mukti fighters with all their courage cannot resist a modern and organised army.

Mamun paused. Then he went on. There is another feature you can hardly ignore. We brag about seven and a half crore of Bengalis wanting freedom. But the actual picture is different. When Yahya Khan cancelled the Jatiya Parishad election and called for a bye-election, we thought Bengalis would boycott it. But on the contrary hundreds of leaders sprang up overnight and offered themselves as candidates. Who are they? What would be their role if Bangladesh does become independent? Other groups like Razakars, Al-Badrs, Al-Shams are flourishing. They are Bengalis. They are after the Mukti boys. Jamaat-i-Islam and Peace Committee members are making Bengali intellectuals their targets. Bengalis killing Bengalis! Our golden Bengal has been reduced to a barren cemetery.

So much of death and destruction! Exclaimed Pratap. Makes me hate the human race itself.

That is not all, went on Mamun. So far the government as well as common people have been exceedingly kind to the ninety-three lakh refugees. But can it last for years? The Pakistani agents can start a riot any time. Let me tell you what happened the other day. I was in the office of our Home Minister Kamrujjaman when some middle level leaders of the Awami League walked in. One of them, just to flatter Kamrujjaman said they had expected him to be the Prime Minister and not Tajjuddin. After all you were the secretary of the All Pakistan Awami League, you had a stronger claim.

I am telling you Pratap, I got a scare. Flattery is a dangerous weapon. But fortunately Kamrujjaman blew his top. You have fled the country, leaving everything behind. I wish you had left your scheming nature too. Want to start a quarrel, what? Try to free the country first then you can go back and start in-fighting to your heart’s content. The din was becoming unbearable, so they got up to settle the bill. But the owner folded his hands. Please, sir, it is on the house.

What for? Mamun was genuinely surprised.

Sir, you are from Joi Bangla. I am greatly obliged that you stepped into my shop and had something. I can't accept money from you.

For your information, said Pratap coldly, I have nothing to do with Joi Bangla. I had brought him here. Why should I not pay? Please accept the money. You can donate it to the Joi Bangla fund if you wish.

Out in the street Mamun said, I find this very touching. None of us have to buy tickets on train, even on public transport if you have some kind of identity card.

You are right about overstaying your hospitality. This cannot continue if you stay here longer.

Tell me Pratap, why did you say you have nothing to do with Joi Bangla? Can you deny your roots? Wouldn't you go visit Malkhanagar once the country becomes free?

Certainly not, Pratap sounded very positive. What is the use? From what I have been hearing the doors and windows of our house have been taken out, the garden by the tank has turned into agricultural land. Some kind of a government office is housed in our outer house. I have no desire to go back and look at these. The main house must have been forcibly occupied. Would the present owner extend a hearty welcome to me? No Mamun, let me retain the beautiful memory of the house. I don't want to spoil it.

Mamun did not try to contradict. They came back to his Park Circus house. Pratap listened for some time to the music practice session of Monju, with Palash, Barun and three or four other youngsters. Hena had gone to attend training courses for first aid and nursing, organised by Begum Sajeda Choudhury. It was the idea of Gouri Ayyub that women of Bangadesh too should participate in the freedom struggle. Mamun liked the idea.

Ever since his heart attack, Mamun was often in a reminiscent mood. A few days later he visited Pratap again and repeated his suggestion to go and meet Bula. A good part of his youth had been dedicated to her. He was aware of the fact that Bula has not retained her youth, but it was not her youth that he was keen to see but a past experience which both had shared.

Though reluctant at first, Pratap had to give in finally. From Esplanade they boarded the tram to Tollygunge. Hoards of young men got in from a football match just over, cheering and shouting obscenities. But Mamun, unmindful of the din carried on with a detailed description of Bula's wedding.

But Pratap was thinking of the days at Deoghar, of how Bula's brother-in-law Satyen called her Choto Ginni, his air of easy familiarity which Pratap found irritating.

Satyen was a person of importance, his name was often in the news. Pratap did not miss anything about him. Recently he has lost his wife, he had put a personal ad in the paper with her photograph. God knows if Bula's husband was alive but he was not around. Now her son too is living abroad. So Bula must be totally under the clutches of that wicked fellow, Satyen. Well, what was there for Pratap to do?

They got down at the Tollygunj tram depot and walked on. After a while Pratap realised his mistake. He told Mamun, let me show you the house. I won't go in.

After coming all the way? Mamun was astonished. Why?

People at home would worry. I did not tell them that I would be late. Bula's in-laws are from Narayangunj, they will welcome you. Her brother-in-law Satyen babu is an important man in the Mukti Joddha Assistance Committee.

Mamun gripped his friend's hand and insisted. Come on, does it matter very much if you are late?

But Pratap was adamant. He pushed his hand free. No, I am not going. How could he tell his friend that it was for the same reason that he never wanted to go back to Malkhanagar.

54

RAINS in winter are somewhat unusual. It was one thing to get wet in the rainy season but getting drenched in the cold season is not very pleasant. So the streets were deserted.

Tapan entered the room where Kaushik lay listlessly in bed and ordered. Get ready, quick. We have to leave this place. He had a rickshaw waiting.

Where do I have to go now? Asked Kaushik, still running a fever. I don't feel like moving.

This place is getting hot. The police may raid any time. A couple of the workers are absconding after killing a manager. The police would recognise you. Come on get up, quick.

Where exactly are we going?

To Pompom, said Tapan trying to hide his anxiety and apprehension in a faint smile.

Kaushik was not convinced. It was his firm conviction that Pompom is either in some unapproachable jail or dead. Otherwise she would have found some way to get in touch.

Where is she? Kaushik asked. He sounded tired.

In a house in Ultodanga, I heard only last night.

Are you telling me the truth? Why should I lie?

Whatever meagre belongings were there Tapan quickly made into a bundle. The books had to be left behind. Kaushik put on a shirt. Please take off that dirty pyjama and put on a pair of trousers. You must look presentable.

The two crutches stood against the wall. What is to be done with those? Asked Kaushik. I think I will be able to manage without them.

That will be better, said Tapan. In the police report your description says you have a broken leg.

The slight drizzle and the growing darkness turned out to be convenient. To be absolutely sure, Tapan asked the rickshaw man to put the waterproof curtain down.

Who has told you about Pompom? Kaushik was impatient.

You wouldn't know him.

Where is she in Ultodanga?

In the house of a distant relative!

What is the matter Tapan, you are fumbling. You must be making it all up.

Why should I?

Who told you that the bustee would be raided.

Someone, very reliable source.

I know these so called reliable sources. They are police informers. If you hand me over, you can pocket ten thousand from the police.

Kaushik, how could you?

I don't trust anyone.

For god's sake, don't start a fight. If I am my father's son, if I have taken my mother's milk, I swear I will never betray you.

Tall talks! Tell me honestly, who has given you the information about Pompom?

Nishithda.

Nishith who? Never heard of him. Nobody from our party.

Nishith Majumder of Maniktala.

I see, a Congressi. How does he come into the picture?

You had lived in Maniktala in your childhood. Nishithda knows both you and Pompom. He is very fond of you. You can't judge everybody by a party label. Certainly. Those who do not believe in class struggle are my enemies, each one of them.

Can we get very far by taking each one to be an enemy? Forget it. The help he is giving us is purely personal. You and Pompom used to go and play with Atulya Ghose's children. Nishithda considers you two like his brother and sister.

To hell with Nishithda and his help. I want to get down right now. I can take care of myself.

Please, don't be foolish. You want to see Pompom, don't you? Tapan had to force an angry Kaushik to sit down. The station was more or less deserted, it being a holiday, the usual office going crowd were not there. In the dim light of the platform a man could be seen standing next to a local train compartment, reading a newspaper. Tapan gave the man a quick look and got into the adjacent compartment. A few seconds before the train started, the man folded the newspaper and jumped into the same compartment. He got down every time the train stopped at a station. Tapan had warned Kaushik not to ask questions but the mystery man had attracted his attention too. Kaushik nudged Tapan. Tapan just shook his head.

The flight of steps at the Ultodanga station proved to be a hurdle for Kaushik but he managed without help. It was still drizzling. No rickshaw was around.

It is about a five-minute walk. Can you make it? Asked Tapan.

Yes, but slowly. Don't hold my hand just walk ahead.

Tapan proceeded, breathing heavily, sweating in the cold weather. After a while he turned back. Yes the man was on his trail. Tapan turned to a lane. The last house looked fairly new. Lights were on in the first floor, but curtains were drawn. Midway in the lane Tapan paused. Kaushik, I had to take this risk, I mean I have lied to you.

Like a beast about to pounce, Kaushik saw the man on their trail standing, guarding the way to the main road.

Sala spy! Growled Kaushik. So all this melodrama is for a ten thousand Rupees reward!

Please listen to me . . .

You call yourself the son of a gentleman? Son of a whore! Trying to turn me over! I am going to kill you, I tell you. You used Pompom as bait.

Listen to me, please. Pompom is not here, but . . .

She is not here? You want to kill me as well? I will cut you into pieces, you nimakharam, you.

All the while Tapan had grabbed his friend's hand. Kaushik bit his hand hard but still Tapan did not let go of his grip. It is your mother. You have to see her.

Puzzled, Kaushik cried, you son of a swine, now it is my mother, is it? Another lie!

No, it is the truth. Your mother was getting hysterical. Nishithda has brought her here.

I have told you already, I have no relation with my mother or my family. What has Mashima done to deserve this? She just wants to have a look to see for her that you are alive.

You stupid fool, you have put my mother in danger. Now the police will be after her. The bastards.

Nobody will know. You needn't be afraid of the man over there. He is only guarding us.

I won't see my mother.

What do you mean? You are dying to see Pompom but not your mother? What kind of revolutionary talk is this?

What can I tell my mother? I cannot go back home.

She just wants to see you, that's all. Tapan dragged Kaushik to the house, entered through the front door to find Nishith Majumder in kurta pyjama standing at the head of the stairs, looking worried. At the sight of the two boys he relaxed. Was everything all right? He asked Tapan.

Everything fine so far, replied Tapan.

Nishith Majumder touched Kaushik on the chin. So this is your Kaushik? I would not have recognised. I have known you since you were six months old — do you know that? So the great hero, broke jail, what? We too broke jail — that was the days of the British. Asokeda, Pompom's father too was with us. He was a Congress worker in those days. He put his hand fondly on Kaushik's shoulder. Let us go in. Boudi has broken down.

He opened the door of the room where Kaushik's mother was waiting. Boudi, here is your son. See for yourself.

Alaka rushed forward, drew her son to her and burst into crying, muttering Kushu, Kushu.

His eyes smarted but Kaushik could not weep, his tears had dried. Breaking himself free, he asked, how are you, Ma, and Pintu, Soma?

All Alaka could say was Kushu!

Please stop crying, Ma, Kaushik was cool. We do not have much time.

Controlling herself with effort, Alaka said, I had asked Nishith to arrange a meeting. How long can this go on? Where are you staying now, Kushu?

No fixed place, Ma.

Why don't you go to our Hooghly house. Nobody would know.

The police will find out all right. I don't want uncle's family to be exposed to danger.

Go abroad then. Atin has gone, others too.

Let them, I am staying right here. Don't you worry, Ma. Nishith Majumder who had left mother and son to themselves now knocked on the door. Boudi, you have to let him go now, he declared.

Bye, Ma. Take care.

Just a minute, Kushu. Alaka opened her handbag to bring out a wad of hundred rupee notes. Keep the whole lot, she said.

Kaushik hesitated. Then picking up just two, he said, this will do.

But I have brought it for you. Keep it, Kushu, Alaka insisted.

No, I am sorry, Ma. In our mission one should rise above greed. Besides it is risky. This will do, I am telling you. Good-bye Ma!

Alaka wiped her tears. Taking out two inland letters from her bag she said, these are from Pompom, she has written to me. Why don't you keep in touch with her?

Kaushik almost pounced on the two short letters and went through them. She has written from a nursing home in Berhampur, asking for Kaushik’s address. It was written in some other handwriting, signed by Pompom in a shaky hand.

At last the tears came. Putting his arms round his mother Kaushik spoke, his voice heavy. Don't you worry about me, Ma. I will be fine. Take care of yourself.

The moment he was out of the room, Kaushik said, I am going to Berhampur.

Let me reach you to the street-corner, said Nishith Majumder. You have nothing to worry about Boudi, Kaushik. The police would leave her alone. Your father had been a great help to us at one time. He took them to a taxi waiting at the corner. The man on their trail now came forward to open the door of the taxi. In a pronounced East Bengal accent he told Tapan, Don't go to Howrah station or Sealdah, or Naihati.

However, he did not get into the taxi but made a signal to start. Meanwhile Kaushik was feeling sick, the strain had been too much. He could not show it in front of his mother. He took two aspro tablets and gulped it down with some distilled water offered by the driver.

Who was the man who followed us all the way and now put us to this taxi? Which party?

Don't get mad, please. He is from the special branch. I know him.

So you are thick with the police these days, is that it?

Kaushik, I had told you about him. We are from the same village, in fact we are related distantly. Do you know the risk he has taken, for my sake? Nobody in his department knows. He is the best person to find out whether we are being followed by the police. It is only for him that we had a safe passage. Kaushik leaned against the seat; he was silent. Would you give me a cigarette please, he said feebly. I am not feeling well at all. Oh, I forgot. Keep this, it is from Ma. He gave Tapan the two hundred rupee notes.

What will I do with it? You keep it.

You are angry with me, aren't you? I am sorry. I don't know what came over me to utter such filthy names.

I do not mind your calling me names, said Tapan coldly. But we are losing faith. You do not trust me any more.

Please forgive me.

What is there to forgive? You believe that I can hand you over, that is what bothers me.

Loneliness, Tapan I am sick and tired of being all by myself. Perhaps that is why such words came out of my mouth, something I really do not believe. When do we start work again?

My present worry is where do I take you for the night.

I am going to Berhampur to night, by any means.

We were warned against going to either Howrah or Sealdah. How do we go to Berhampur? I don't think buses ply at night.

Let us take the train from Dumdum instead of Sealdah. We will spend the night on the train.

Berhampur is a hot spot now. Perhaps we could go to the border and get into a refugee camp.

But I have to go to Berhampur. You really did not know about Pompom? She is not even capable of writing a letter.

They got down at Berhampur and checked into a cheap hotel. Kaushik spent the whole day in bed, in agony, his stomach pain had started. He could feel the presence of the bullet in the stomach from time to time. Tapan meanwhile had made a trip to the nursing home. But no patient with the name of Pompom Sengupta was admitted there. But as soon as Kaushik felt a little better he wanted to be taken there. He was reminded of an incident. Oli had come to visit him once when he was serving a stint in Berhampur jail. She had told him of an uncle of hers, a doctor, by the name of Shakti or Santi Majumder who was sympathetic to the Naxals. Yes, he was absolutely sure, the name was one of the two.

Tapan had no other way but to venture out with Kaushik. Fortunately for them the town was safer, what with the Joi Bangla refugee population and the training camps for Mukti Bahini soldiers, the police vigil was somewhat slack.

They did not have to go far. The nursing home gate had the name of the principal doctor. Kaushik's guess was right, he was Santimay Majumder. He had heard the name from Pompom. There was no doubt that Pompom was here, she has used Oil's connection. This is it, declared Kaushik. Pompom has to be here. Listen Tapan, I would get admitted here. If the doctor does not want to see us, tell them, I am seriously ill. You still have about one hundred and fifty rupees left, Don't you?

He walked up to the man at the counter and said, I would like to see Dr. Majumder, may I?

The man, without giving him a look went on writing something. You can't see him now. He said indifferently. Come tomorrow morning, after nine.

I am in terrible pain. I can't breathe. I might die if no doctor attends me. Please have me admitted. Kaushik pleaded.

Sorry, said the man at the counter. We don't have a spare bed. Please try the hospital.

Kaushik stretched to his full height, took a deep breath and felt his pocket for a revolver, which was not there. He wished he had it. It would have worked like magic. Here he was, without a gun, without strength, even his voice is too feeble to scare a stranger. Tapan was too unimpressive to be of any help.

Please, listen to me, said Kaushik with as much politeness as he could muster. We are from Calcutta, from Oli Choudhury, the daughter of Bimanbehari Choudhury of Bhowanipur. She is Dr. Majumder's niece. He will know. Just tell him that Kaushik Roy from Oli Choudhury is here to see him. It is rather urgent, otherwise we would not have disturbed you at this hour.

It worked. The man led them to an adjoining room. Please wait here. You are in luck. The doctor was going to leave in five minutes.

The doctor, Oli's Chotomama, soon appeared in white shirt, trousers and a white pull over. Which of you two is Kaushik Roy? He demanded, eyed them carefully.

Kaushik stood up, a little nervous. I am Kaushik.

So your Highness has the time to drop in at long last, remarked Santimay with a smile — which was a mix of amusement and mockery. We have been expecting you for the last two months. Like Shabari waiting for Rama in the Ramayana.

I don't get it, said Kaushik.

Yes sir, Santimay kept on the banter. This is a trap by the police. No use looking at the door, you can't get away.

We don't forgive betrayers, said Kaushik, looking at the doctor in the eye. Some day somebody will get back at you.

Bravo, laughed the doctor. Still some spirit is left, well, well. Cool down. I have never allowed the police to enter my premises, ever. But tell me something. Oli is in America. How come she has sent you?

That is a lie, admitted Kaushik. We had to use it to gain entry. We won't detain you. Just tell me, Pompom Sengupta, a close friend of Oli — is she here? Suppose you tell me why another close friend of Pompom by the name of Kaushik Roy is pushing her to death?

What is wrong with Pompom? Kaushik was miserable.

Come see for yourself.

The doctor took them to the second floor, almost carrying the ailing Kaushik who strongly refused to be carried on a stretcher.

You are running a fever, I can make that out, your skin indicates acute anaemia, you have made a thorough wreck of yourself. I know both your legs were broken, you had bullet injuries in stomach and shoulder. The doctor seemed quite well informed.

The bullet is still in his stomach, added Tapan.

Well. People have survived with a bullet inside the body but your anaemia looks bad. Didn't you know that Pompom is here?

My friend Tapan had tried but could not get any trace. We have just heard about this place.

She was determined not to take any help from her father. He wanted to have her treated in a Calcutta nursing home. When she came here she was in no condition to travel by herself. She left a letter for you at home. Didn't you get it?

I have been to her home a number of times but her father never divulged her whereabouts or the letter. Said Tapan.

He has been here. The real problem is her acute depression. Somehow she has got it into her head that Kaushik is dead and Tapan has parted company. As a result she has lost the will to live. What can a doctor do if the patient herself gives up?

Gasping, they reached the second floor. The doctor closed the collapsible gate. This is where I live with my family. Pompom stays with us. We have a guest room on this floor. You can spend this night there.

Pompom was sound asleep on an iron cot. She has grown so thin that she was almost unrecognisable. All three stood at the head of the bed. Santimay lightly touched her forehead. We have to give her heavy sedative, the pain in her stomach is unbearable. We have not been able to do anything about it. I have a feeling it is psychosomatic. I wish I could kill that police chap who had tortured her private parts. You people have killed a lot of constables, don't spare that guy.

No power on earth can save him, said Kaushik, his jaws tight.

What kind of revolution is this, may I ask you, Kaushik Roy? The doctor began, he had moved away from the bed. You should have thought of the wounded and made plans for a squad of doctors. What about providing shelter, modes of communication for those who are going underground. You are snatching guns but have no idea of how to procure bullets. He paused. Excuse me for sermonising. But let me tell you something, Kaushik, Tapan. You must live. You have got to. Otherwise how will you bring about change, improve the lot of the poor, how? Can merely giving up your lives achieve those tasks. True, sacrifices are sometimes needed for a noble cause but then you have to see that the sacrifice does not go in vain. I can't stand the sight of so many promising lives coming to a pointless end. You have to live so that others might live and live a better life. Look at this leader of yours, that Manik Bhatchaj, I had gone to see him. What a futile, meaningless death!

You had been to see Manikda? Asked Kaushik.

If you can call it that, what I saw was a dead body, not the man. It was too late when I was taken there. I have heard about your Manikda from Oli and Pompom. Such a noble man had to give his life for petty party rivalry. What good did it serve? If you want to love everybody, learn how to live your own life first, learn to love your life.

Kaushik said sadly. It was to save Manikda that Atin had to kill a man and flee the country. But the party boys could not save Manikda, what a pity.

A lady entered. The doctor introduced her as Rita, my wife, one of Oli's favourite aunts. Rita, this is mister Kaushik, the name we have been chanting daily.

So you found the time at last, said Rita, angrily. Do you have any idea how Pompom has suffered for you?

It was no use trying to give an account of how he had spent the last two months, so Kaushik kept quiet.

They were there for two days. Tapan did not know that he had contacted TB, in fact he never had the time to take care of himself. On the third day Santimay brought a strange proposal. He wanted Pompom and Kaushik to get married in the nursing home.

You see Kaushik; both of you are sick and miserable. I cannot guarantee you long life but if you stay close, forget all about your revolutionary ideals for the time being, then there is a chance, just a chance that your health may improve. If you recover completely you may go back to your revolutionary work. I will bring another cot here, so that you can sleep in the same room. Both Rita and Tapan enthusiastically seconded the proposal.

Pompom just lay quietly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing but Kaushik raised a feeble protest. Is it necessary to marry just to sleep in the same room?

I am not concerned with the moral or religious aspect, explained Santimay. I have nothing to say if two able bodied and healthy man and woman decide to live together. But you are weak and sickly, for you this social bonding might act as a kind of therapy. What is wrong in getting married?

A marriage registrar was summoned; he occupied a chair between the two beds. A post-dated notice was filled with the necessary details. Pompom, unable to get down because of the catheter attached to her lower limb was dressed in a new sari. She was on glucose the whole day to keep her ache down. She was in complete possession of her senses and even joked about the groom having a growth of beard. Kaushik quipped. I have never seen a bride with a catheter.

No mantras were uttered. The dry legal words were followed by the Registrar's one line speech: let your marriage be long and peaceful.

Tapan brought some flowers and scattered them over the two beds. After a wedding the newly weds have to sleep on a flower bedecked bed, a phul sajjya.

55

TO celebrate the safe arrival of his parents from Chittagong via Calcutta, Abid Hussain was having a party in his room. He has invited Atin and Somen. Of course he was still worried about his two younger brothers who have joined the Mukti army.

Atin was looking forward to the invitation, to home cooking and news of Calcutta but there was a catch. The landlord and his wife were invited too. Satyada was much too formal and Martha did not follow Bengali, so they would have to speak in English and be prim and proper, and would not be able to smoke either. They were keen to hear the latest happenings in Calcutta as well as news of the freedom struggle but all that would have to be carried out in English! That was too much!

Atin had noticed this social problem in all Bengali gatherings he had been to, in New York and Cambridge — the presence of the foreign wives was resented. As it is one had to speak in English in the workplace, in shops and markets. This was where they would have a chance to freely use their own tongue. Don't the people who marry white women realise this? Even if they did, they could not very well leave the wife at home. Perhaps their main attraction was Bengali food, which their wives could not provide at home.

In fact Atin had gone to the length of telling Abid not to ask Satyada. But Abid had a special obligation. Satyada had made an exception to the rule of not having any other family member share the room. He had suggested to Abid to put his parents in a motel. But they had no foreign exchange. Abid's mother insisted on staying with her son. Finally Satyada had to give in. So naturally they were invited to Abid's party.

Fortunately Abid's mother did not know English. Somen took this opportunity and carried on in Bengali with her with great gusto. What have you cooked, Mashima? He asked. I heard you have brought some parbal. So alu and parbal curry must be in the menu. It has been so long since I have had parbal. And daal with panch phoron too! He winked at Atin, adding in Bangla, Thank god I don't have to translate all these in English.

Atin was forced to carry on a conversation with Martha.

Bablu, isn't Mili coming? Asked Martha. Actually the room was not large enough for a big party, but Sharmila, though not formally invited, would be joining them. Justice Abu Syed Choudhury and a couple of other important people were supposed to come. They have been travelling across the world giving talks about the situation in Bangladesh, including the United Nations.

She is supposed to come, said Atin. She said she would be a bit late.

I like her, a sweet girl. Tell me Bablu, are you too from East Pakistan like Abid, what is now being called Bangladesh?

No, I am not, Atin did not hesitate. Though his father came from that part, he had no memories of that country.

What is the relation between the two countries, is it like East and West Germany? Martha was curious.

Well, not exactly.

What really was the relation, Atin wondered. While people in West Germany still thought it was an unreal division, one day they would unite. Did any one in West Bengal think so? Partition was a reality though unpleasant . . . After the independence of Bangladesh would the relations change? The barriers set up during Pakistan would disappear? Atin was doubtful.

Our language and culture are more or less the same. He gave a vague answer. A common language is a great bond don't you think?

No, not necessarily, Martha disagreed. Then changing the topic, she said, you did not tell us that you have bought a car? A red Ford!

She put it lightly but there was an air of accusation. Actually Atin had got it very cheap from Somen's girlfriend, who has joined the ISKCON and left for Los Angeles. Atin got it for three hundred, quite cheap. Actually Somen insisted and lent him part of the money.

In this country cars are parked out in the street, but Atin had kept it in the driveway. Satyada had objected, it was blocking his car.

Atin was on his guard. He said, now I am parking it outside.

I did not mean that. Martha patted his arm. Of course you have to park it outside, you can't possibly park it in the bedroom. But you must give me a ride, take shopping. How about that! Yes of course, said Atin. All the time he was trying to eavesdrop into the other channel of conversation going on. Abid's parents were all praise for Calcutta. The people are kind, the public transport good, a variety of foods available, the safety in the streets. People walk home after a night show.

Was all the praise because of the shelter provided by the city to refugees from another country? In actual fact Calcutta transport was not good at all, even rice was scarce not to speak of other delicacies. Atin hardly ever found anyone saying anything good about the city.

The strangest thing was Satyada had joined the Bangla speaking crowd, leaving his wife. Who would have thought that a pukka saheb like him was so keen about Calcutta. As the saying goes, a dead elephant fetches a lakh, Satyada was saying. That goes for the University of Calcutta. Compared to other universities of India, a degree from Calcutta is worth a lot in this country.

Even that was an overstatement. Atin felt that perhaps when Satyada came here that was true but not any more. Someone from his department had been to Calcutta to work in the Bose Institute, he had told him that nobody in Calcutta did serious work or research. All they do is politics, even that they do not understand.

Let me tell you sir, said Abid's father Saif saheb, I too am a student of Calcutta university, graduated in forty. The house we used to stay in is exactly like that. In Begbagan. I took my wife there.

Abid's mother Naseem begum agreed. What I liked most was the love and kindness shown to us as soon as they knew of our identity. We were offered free cold drinks, charged less for stuff bought from shops, on the whole they treated us like long lost relatives. Yet during Pakistan's rule we thought India was enemy country.

Martha joined in. I would like to know something. We hear a lot of things in the media about East Pakistan. Edward Kennedy was there recently. He said several million refugees have fled to India. Under the circumstances, do you think a war between India and Pakistan is the only solution?

Absolutely, Somen and Saif saheb spoke in a chorus. There is no other way to stop this brutality. Abid, who used to support Pakistan until quite recently, went one step ahead. Not only India but also other powers of the world should come forward to teach Pakistan a lesson. So that they never use the army to torture civilians.

But I don't understand, said Martha. The youth here are against the war in Vietnam, there are protest marches and all. And you are two poor countries, you are talking of war? Are you war monger?

This was too much, even for Atin. He said, that is a silly comparison, Martha. The war in Vietnam is an immoral war. You Americans are flying thousands and thousands of miles to drop bombs on North Vietnam, killing people by napalm gas. What the people of East Pakistan are doing is a fight for survival.

All wars are immoral, said Martha. I do not support any war. All solutions should come from across the table discussions.

Naturally this remark triggered a bitter argument. Naseem begum did not follow English but she was aware of the American government's role in this issue. She refused to serve food to this white woman, who in her eyes was a cousin of sorts of the American President. You serve her, she told her son. I won't.

The other guests did not turn up but Sharmila did. Naseem begum was delighted to have a Bengali-speaking girl for company. To her homesick eyes Sharmila looked exactly like her cousin, she has been untraced after the disturbance. The girls of Calcutta are so good, so versatile, she commented affectionately. They work in the office, cook at home, and take care of the family. She had been invited to a Hindu household in Elgin Road. All the five daughters were so accomplished — jewels all of them, bright in studies, excellent in housework.

Atin promptly pointed out her mistake. Sharmila is not from Calcutta. She is a Bihari, from Jamshedpur.

He wished Oli were here. She was a Calcuttan, how pleased she would have been. As the conversation went on, Atin kept thinking of Oli. What is she doing now, all by herself in that huge house in Maryland. She has never lived alone.

It was a sumptuous spread — biryani, plain rice, roast chicken, salmon curry and four kinds of vegetable dishes. Abid did not serve drinks in the presence of his parents. Atin and Somen had a few drinks before coming here. But instead of creating more appetite Atin lost all desire to eat. His thoughts strayed to Oli. Why isn't she here?

Shortly after dinner, Satyada and Martha took their leave. Ever the pukka saheb, Satyada went to bed punctually at quarter past eight. But even he seemed a little moved. After seventeen years of exile he was keen to know about Comilla, spoke the dialect with Abid's father. Atin could detect a shade of regret on his face.

The company was relieved to see them leave. Good riddance! exclaimed Somen. That idiot Martha, comparing this struggle with the Vietnam war . . .

No, please, don't talk like that. Martha is a kind lady. Protested Sharmila.

Even kind-hearted ladies can be great bores, do you understand Sharmila. For you everyone is kind. But can't we abuse the Americans in our own way? If you have an American lady sitting right there well, you know something. She may not follow our language but you start speaking ill, she will immediately understand.

Why speak ill of them in their presence? said Sharmila.

As if they don't do the same to us, complained Somen. We are dirty beggars.

Others chatted away but Atin felt strangely isolated. All he could see was Oli alone in that house in Maryland, the artist lady having gone away, and the ground floor completely dark. Oli living all by herself in the room upstairs. Nobody can get in, the house has burglar's alarm fitted but solitude itself can be painful. Sharmila calls her often, but Oli has not talked to Atin on the phone, even once.

The party broke up. Atin had a car now. He could easily take Sharmila for a long drive. In fact Sharmila suggested it. Bablu, how about going to Longfellow Bridge. We have not been there after that day.

Not to-day. I am sleepy, said Atin indifferently.

In that case I could have taken a taxi, protested Sharmila. Atin did not speak but took a turn at high speed. Bablu, you have me worried. You will be driving alone after dropping me.

Haven't I told you that I will not die in an accident? I have a charmed life.

Don't boast.

Sharmila understood that something had gone wrong, Atin was in no mood to talk. She resisted the temptation to ask him, he would tell her sooner or later. To change the topic she asked, how do you like my sari? Abid's mother gave me a beautiful jamdani. I had to put it on for her.

Instead of commenting Atin broke into a song, Lalpaharir deshey ja, ranga matir deshey ja, hethay ture manaiche na rey — go to the red hill country, the land of red soil, you are out of place here, totally out of place.

What kind of song is this? Asked Sharmila, puzzled.

This is my national anthem now. I am out place here, in Cambridge, driving a car. Don't I look out of place?

He did not kiss her good bye. He kept on humming the same song on his way back. How could he tell Sharmila that Oli was constantly in his thoughts, but it also pained him to keep it from her. He parked the car. He wanted to talk to Somen but his room was dark. It was no use visiting Abid now. He climbed up, poured some whisky and sat down to read. But the song would not leave him — you are out of place here, totally out of place. He strode downstairs. Nobody was there in the living room, a good time to phone Oli.

She picked up the phone after about one minute. Where were you? Asked Atin impatiently, his voice sounded like an admonition.

Went down to feed the dog. Then I opened the letterbox. Got a letter.

Whose letter!

After a brief pause Oli replied. From Shounak a long letter. I could hear the telephone ring . . .

Who is this goddamn Shounak, Atin exploded. Oli, I want full details about this character. You are mixing with riff-raffs, I do not like it one bit.

What is the matter with you Babluda? Asked Oli sweetly. Why are you mad? How is Sharmila?

How have you been, Oli?

I am fine, Babluda, fine. Actually I have not finished reading Shoumak's letter. He has written about all our friends.

Please, please, Oli, stop talking about that Shounak. Tell me about you.

What's wrong, Babluda? You must have had a fight with Sharmila. Tell me what the problem is, I'll call her. No, no, Oli nothing of the sort. Atin was at the point of breaking down. I just want to know if you are all right. Is there anything I can . . .

Oli giggled.

I keep thinking of you, Oli, you live there alone . . .

Oli interrupted him. But I enjoy being alone, nobody to disturb me. I think of Calcutta.

Atin put the receiver down and stared at the wall for full five minutes. Then he took a sip from the whisky bottle. Before dozing off in his bed he muttered her name. Oli, Oli, Oli, he said sadly, She is not mine any more. Sala Shounak, son of a swine, if you ever misbehave with her . . . like I have done . . . no, no, who am I . . . I am not going to stand between you . . .

56

WOMEN are thrifty by nature, they have to manage the household, save for a rainy day. The gold ornaments most women are so fond of are actually not so much for wearing as a symbol of security. Nice crockery set is kept aside for a special occasion.

But these days the citizens of Dhaka wake up in the morning, a bleak future staring them in the face. They live from day to day. Nobody knows if a person going out of the house will be back at all.

After months of listless living, Jehanara decided to give the rooms a facelift with fresh new sheets on the bed, foreign towels in bathrooms, beautiful lace table cloth on the dining table, set an Italian dinner set with sparkling new cutlery and cut glass tumblers. Shareef and Jami stared at the table. What is the matter? Asked Shareef. A special guest in coming or what!

No, Jehanara was enigmatic. We are our own guests.

Shareef could make no sense of her words. Eight days ago, Eid was celebrated in a simple way, no new clothes, no special food, against the decree of the Pakistani army who wanted Eid to be celebrated with great festivity. None but the very rich and the stooges of the army followed this order. The Mukti Bahini on the other hand in a secret circular had asked the people to refrain from festivities. Jehanara however had cooked special sweets thinking of some who did not turn up.

But what was the occasion to day? At Shareef’s insistence, Jehanara said, No reason. I had saved these for the weddings of my sons but as things stand, it does not seem to be likely. If we are to die suddenly, what will happen to the lovely things. Let us use them as long as we are alive. Who knows what will happen tomorrow. Tomorrow has been declared Crush India day. Nobody had any idea of what it meant. There was a rumour that about a lakh Bengalis will be declared Indian agents and will be shot. This would be a lesson to the Mukti Bahini boys and would induce them to surrender.

Just to lighten the sombre atmosphere of the dining room, Jami began. You know Amma, who was behind the robbery of the Muslim Commercial Bank, next to the Jonaki cinema hall? You wouldn't believe it. Asad, Munir, Feroze and Firdaus.

Really! Jehanara was surprised. How could they do it?

Listen to this. It was great fun. They had acquired just one sten-gun. Asad took it. Munir had a toy revolver. They took Arif’s father Pir saheb's car.

Robbing a bank in Pir saheb's car. Tauba, Tauba! Exclaimed his father.

Pir saheb did not even know, they had changed the number plate. As the car reached the bank, they got an all-clear signal from one of their men who was stationed there. Asad, Munir and Feroz ran in. As soon as they pointed the sten gun on the forehead of the guard and he dropped his rifle, yelling, hai Allah, don't kill me! Munir rushed to the cash counter brandishing his toy pistol. Hands up, he hollered and everybody obliged. The manager came forward. Take as much as you want, he said. We know the Mukti Bahini needs cash.

How much did they collect? Asked Jehanara.

There is more. Jami went on. They had forgotten to take a sack or a bag. How would they carry the bundles of cash the manager was offering? Finally Feroze took off his shirt and made a bundle but by the time they were out of the bank, the notes started dropping from the sleeves.

Real novice, that is what I call them. Remarked Shareef.

Two army trucks stood by the roadside. But they had no inkling till the public started clapping and shouting Joy Bangla as they do in any action by the Mukti Bahini. But before the army could swing into action the bank robbers were gone.

Both Jehanara and Shareef had a hearty laugh in a situation where danger lurked at every step.

Even though Jehanara, in view of the uncertain future was using up her valuable stuff, at the same time she was hoarding clothes, specially woolens. Once she almost got caught. She was buying six sweaters from a footpath stall in Jinnah Avenue. Suddenly a Pakistani soldier appeared before her, demanding why she was buying so many? An answer came to her on the spur of the moment. She said she was buying clothes and stuff for the army jawans to be sent through the All Pakistan Women's Association, APWA.

The men were collecting medicines and hundreds of cigarettes; rice and cash tied in small bundles, buried in the bags of rice. Visitors would drop in any moment. Earlier they came to take only money and cigarettes but as winter was approaching they needed warm clothes. But socks were of no use to them, as most of them did not have shoes. The Mukti soldiers sneaked into Dhaka every now and then, and disappeared after an action. Jehanara waited with bated breath for a midnight knock on the door. Her heart danced with joy when they came, often at unearthly hours.

Every time she expected it to be Rumi. Exactly ninety-eight days ago he was taken by the military and has not been heard of since. Pagla Baba is the only ray of hope; he has assured all the mothers that he will bring the sons back. Was he doing it just to cheer them? Jehanara wondered. Has Rumi broken jail and escaped to India but did not get in touch with the family for reasons of security? When others dropped in Jehanara served them food and appealed for not keeping any news of her son, good or bad, from her. But none of them had any idea.

She heard about Babul Choudhury, however. The youngsters held him in great awe. He never talked, sat for hours staring at nothing in particular. During action he proved himself an extraordinarily brave soldier, who did not care for his own life.

When news came of Khaled Mosharaf’s death, the commander of sector two, the hero of the young generation, the entire city was plunged into grief. But a few days later the correct information trickled in. He was not dead but badly wounded and flown to a hospital in Lucknow.

You know Amma, related the messenger from the camp. The news created a scene like Karbala in our base camp. We beat our breast and cried, I shed tears the whole night. He had tears in his eyes, relating it, but it changed into a smile as he came to the happy conclusion. But we have won the war in Kosba. It is in our control now.

The newspapers of course had a different story. The Indian agents armed with heavy artillery had been repulsed. There was never any mention of the dreaded name of the Mukti Bahini in the newspapers.

The media would have people believe that India was at war with them. Headings like Naked attack by India often appeared in the newspapers. Curfew at all hours, rehearsal of black out did not strengthen the impression — although neither the All India Radio nor the Radio Bangladesh confirmed it. Indira Gandhi was out of the country, touring. Many people in Dhaka were getting impatient, they wondered why was India not starting a war in real earnest. The uncertainty was unbearable.

With the Mukti Fauz intensifying their attacks, the oppression on the general Bengalis assumed inhuman proportions. In this the Bihari Muslims were helping the military. They picked up anybody at random and charging him to be a malaun kicked ruthlessly . . . One person who happened to be the son of a Peace Committee member was shot dead by mistake.

You know Amma, Jami informed his mother one-day. The latest trend among Biharis is to shave their heads and tie a red band across the forehead.

What is it for, asked Jehanara. She too had noticed this.

No idea said Jami. They look like Satan's brothers.

Have you seen Ibrahim of the Ghosh Lane recently? He too has a red band round his shaved head. Goodness! So Ibrahim bhai too has turned into a Razakar? Jami was shocked.

I think he has done it as a precaution. Coward!

Spineless coward! Said Jami, his young face distorted in hate. I don't want to look at him again.

He brought home bits and pieces of news. Any day the Mukti Bahini would enter Dhaka, there would be fighting in the streets. They expected the citizens to join in the offensive. Niazi and his men might set fire to the city if they found no way out. The situation reminded Jehanara of the famous speech of Winston Churchill during the Second World War. We shall fight in the houses; we shall fight in the streets.

Jami and Shareef were determined to take part in the all out war. Jehanara was now resigned to her fate. If freedom comes it will have to be at a tremendous cost, but let it be, at least a new beginning will be made.

A price of a can of kerosene had shot up from eleven to eighteen rupees, then it disappeared from the market. Electricity has been erratic ever since the explosion at Siddhirganj power station. How would the cooking be done? Jehanara sent the old servant in search of kerosene and she took out the car for some necessary purchases.

A din and confusion greeted her as she approached Baitul Mukarram. Cars were speeding away, honking like mad. A bomb had exploded in a shop in broad daylight, right in front of the military. Only a few days ago a Punjabi Major and some women were injured in another bomb blast in Fancy House — a sari shop, killing three army people. Jehanara was glad, as the raiders were Rumi's friends. Rumi could have been one of them. What has happened to him?

Rumi was constantly in her thoughts though she hardly ever talked about him. Her husband was losing weight, she could understand why. But Shareef was always doing something or the other to help the Mukti soldiers. They were like his own children.

Jehanara went to a photography shop to collect a portrait of Rumi. She had given them the negative for enlargement. As she looked at the print, her heart missed a beat. How life like! Rumi, in military uniform, cap at an angle, a belt of cartridges across his shoulder, talking to someone. He looked like a true freedom fighter, not from Vietnam or Bolivia but from this Bengal, Bangladesh!

On her way back Jehanara recited some lines of a poem, one of the favourite lines of Rumi. How crazy he used to be about poetry, particularly Jibanananda —

Abar asibo phirey Dhanshiritir tirey ei Banglay

Hoyto manush noy — hoyto ba shankhochil shalikher beshey . . .

(I will be back again, by the side of the Dhansiri, in this Bengal

May be not as a human, perhaps as a kite or a myna . . .)

Tears streamed down her cheeks, she had to pause between lines to ask the photograph, Rumi, Rumi, won't you be back? When? But you have to don't you see? She put the photograph on a stand in the living room. So innocent a face but how fearless and valiant! Thousands like him have set out on a mission to free the country. Is there any power in the world, which can suppress this land?

I will be back again, here in this Bengal. She wrote in a piece of paper and stuck it at the bottom of the frame. She went back a few steps, admired the photograph. Slowly panic gripped her. What is she doing? Putting up Rumi's photograph here? Was this an assumption that he was not coming back, ever?

She quickly pressed the picture to her heart and muttered, Rumi you have got to come back, to see this country gaining freedom. New work of rebuilding will begin. How can you leave the land at such a time? No, no, a boy like you can never shirk his duty.

57

INDIRA Gandhi came out of the JFK airport in a black overcoat over an orange and yellow sari. No American diplomat could be seen in the five hundred strong crowd gathered there to welcome her, consisting of Indians living in America and Indian officers. Indira Gandhi, in full bloom of youth in spite of her fifty odd years looked somewhat morose. She was biting her lower lip, showing resentment. She did not even smile to the cheering crowd.

Neither did she reply to the flood of questions aimed at her, She will definitely meet them, she assured them but right now she was tired, she wanted to rest.

It was a windy day with a continuous drizzle. She turned up the overcoat collar, briskly walked to the limousine, which was to take her to a hotel in Manhattan's Lexington Avenue where a suite has been booked for her.

She stared out of the car window with unseeing eyes. A diplomat sitting next to her started a conversation. Strange, President Nixon did not agree to give a joint statement. We thought . . .

This had been the greatest blow to her ego. Indira Gandhi looked at the diplomat angrily, her looks meant to convey her unwillingness to discuss the topic. Here she was, the elected Prime Minister of the largest democracy in the world, has had talks with President Nixon for two days, yet Nixon refused to give a joint statement as if the visit of the Indian Prime Minister was of no significance at all.

She has left the country in a time of great crisis, in order to secure moral support from the western nations. Everywhere she was received cordially, in Belgium, Austria, Britain, they sang praises of Indian democracy, expressed sympathy and promised financial help to the refugees. But they were guarded and shirked the actual issue carefully. They were all keeping something back. You will hear it from Big Brother America — that was the unspoken message. Why America, so proud of their democratic culture, continued to support the military ruler of Pakistan, who disregarded the results of the general election, was something that Indira Gandhi could not understand even after coming to Washington D.C. Nixon showed no inclination of going beyond small talk so Indira Gandhi was forced to put it bluntly. Have you given any thought at all to the atrocities of the Pakistan government in the east wing?

Oh yes, of course, replied Nixon evasively. We should not interfere in any problem between India and Pakistan. Both the countries are equal as far as we are concerned. We don't want a war between you two, I am sure you share my views.

The problem is not between India and Pakistan but inside Pakistan. Terrible genocide is going on. It is your media people who have exposed the whole story. Anthony Mascarenhas in his book The Rape of Bangladesh has compared Yahya's army to the Nazi army of Hitler.

Nixon smiled sarcastically. Well if it is Pakistan's internal matter then it is all the more reason for us not to interfere. Neither should you, don't you think?

Your Excellency, replied Indira Gandhi, the whole world gets worried if any two countries go to war. But if a government kills millions of its citizens, tries to annihilate a particular religious community, should the world remain a silent spectator? It is not just a question of politics but humanity. It has got to be stopped right now. You should make an effort to see that the military rulers sit with the elected leaders for a solution. It is only you who can pressurise them to set Sheikh Mujib free.

I still don't understand why India is so perturbed. After all the United Nations is deliberating about it.

The reason India is perturbed is that already ten million refugees have crossed the border and entered India. How can we take care of this tremendous load?

Quite right, quite right, agreed Nixon. Already Senator Kennedy has visited the refugee camps. We are sending relief: food, money, blankets.

We are getting help from other countries too. But Pakistan will push over her excess population to India and we keep on feeding them — how long can this go on?

Well, we can increase the amount of aid, if need be.

Indira Gandhi, red in the face answered. Mr. President, we are a poor country, we have to seek help but I have not come to you with a begging bowl. All I am asking you is to try for a lasting solution. You promise to increase aid on the one hand and supply arms to the military government on the other — what kind of policy do you call this?

It is a lovely sari you have, madam, observed Nixon. Do you still produce muslin? I believe Kashmir is a lot like Switzerland, is that so?

A clearer picture emerged from Indira Gandhi's talk with the Secretary of State, Rogers the next day. A practical man, Rogers, without beating about the bush remarked, Is the Hon'ble Prime Minister aware that at this very moment Mr. Bhutto, as a special envoy of Pakistani President Yahya Khan is engaged in a diplomatic dialogue with Mr. Chou en Lai in China?

It was stunning news. Was not the RAW aware of it? Even the Indian Embassy in Washington had no inkling?

A couple of hours earlier, continued Rogers, Two thousand Chinese boys and girls sang at the airport to welcome Mr. Bhutto.

A shade of gloom darkened the face of the Indian Prime Minister. She did not receive any such reception from the American people. Don't they feel sympathy for the Indian people? The Indian consulates and the embassy have failed to present India properly. Yet there are writers and artists who are raising funds for the refugees. So such people do exist.

From what Rogers said, it appeared that a new axis between China, America and Pakistan is going to be formed. Certain sequence of events have favoured the formation, for instance the mysterious disappearance of Lin piao, who was supposed to be Mao tse Tung's successor. This Lin piao was vehemently anti-American, the role model of Indian Naxalites. Some said he was seriously ill, others said he was dead. Yet other sources said he had left China after an aborted coup. The way is now clear for America. Nixon is likely to visit China soon, thanks to the liaison work done by Kissinger. Pakistan has acted as the medium. Under the circumstance, America does not want to disturb the status quo in Pakistan. A lot of tears have been shed over Hitler's killing of Jews; naturally, the Jews are white and moneyed people. Why should America bother about the massacre of millions of poor Asians, both Hindu and Muslim? Poor people after all die like insects.

What Nixon did not want to tell Indira Gandhi, he had it told by Rogers. America will go on honouring the arms treaty that they have with Pakistan, regardless of how and where they are used. Moreover, India has signed a friendship pact with Soviet Union, which is actually a Military pact. How can India come to the western world for support? This is like eating the cake and having it too. In short it would be a foolish thing if India gets involved in a war with Pakistan, a country having powerful allies. If India wants to drag Soviet Union into the sub-continent then she will usher in another Vietnam.

Nixon met the Indian Prime Minister in a formal dinner. All protocols were followed but there was no joint statement. Indira Gandhi's visit amounted to a big zero.

Indira chalked out another strategy. The American people after all were freedom loving, the young generation was against the war in Vietnam. The American press and TV too were independent and powerful. So she would appeal directly to the people, make them understand the actual picture. This was not a diplomatic war between India and Pakistan but a matter of life and death for millions. All well-meaning people all over the world should raise their voices against the genocide in Pakistan.

Indira spoke in churches, press clubs. In New York she was supposed to speak to the students in Columbia University, a TV interview was also scheduled in a national channel.

She reached the hotel, rested a little, had a bath then came out to meet the Indians waiting for her. In replying to their questions she carefully avoided the name Bangladesh. Neither did she talk about the possibility of war. Please remember, she repeated, we have kept democracy alive in the last twenty-four years, we have not succumbed to pressure from any great power.

She used stronger arguments in the University of Columbia. Is there any logic in the US government's argument that India and Pakistan are equally responsible for the crisis? Pakistan is killing its own people, driving them to flee to India, and India, for humanitarian reason taking care of them. How can you say India is equally responsible?

There is a limit to our patience, she said in the TV interview. Let China and America supply arms to Pakistan as much as they want, India is determined to bring about a solution. A political solution is being talked of. This can only be done through discussion with the elected leaders of East Pakistan. Even the intellectuals of West Pakistan have demanded the release of Sheikh Mujib, yet the American government wouldn't lift a finger!

Indira's next stop was France. The Prime Minister George Pompideau himself came to welcome her at the Orly airport. Indira's command over the French language came in handy, she could communicate with the French Prime Minister without an interpreter. Pompideau was a man of culture and with his usual French chivalry, organised a grand reception for Indira. In the reception Indira spoke highly of the French ideals of equality, fraternity and liberty making this country a role model for the entire world. A visit to France was always an exciting experience because it was more than a nation — it was an ideal.

Pompideau, a good friend of Indira's father was warm and affectionate. Can you tell me what I should do? He asked Indira frankly. We are sitting on the top of a volcano. Many in our country are crying themselves hoarse for going to war. But a prolonged war will be a disaster. Then there is this burden of a hundred million refugees. It is not an easy task to provide for this population for an uncertain period. Pretty soon the local population, already hard pressed for employment will begin to resent their presence. Pakistan will certainly try to instigate communal trouble inside our country, which can flare up at any pretext. Already one thousand Pakistani agents have been arrested in West Bengal alone. A riot would mean a loss of innocent lives. In this situation, we cannot afford to let the crisis in East Pakistan continue.

But the French Prime Minister, too could not give any assurance except saying that in case of war France will not give any assistance to Pakistan and will increase the quota of aid to the refugees.

But there was one good news. In spite of the best efforts of Bhutto, he could not get any joint statement from Chou en Lai. Pakistan wanted to have a military pact with China but no such treaty has been announced. So Bhutto's visit had not been fruitful.

Indira was for good relations with China for two reasons. One, to reduce the defense expenditure of having a large armed force at the northeast border and two, to pacify the terrorist rebels. She asked Pompideau to arrange for a meeting with Chou en Lai.

Before leaving Paris she went to visit the writer Andre Malreaux, one time minister and a friend of her father. Malreaux said he would support any war for freedom and would take up arms himself in case of a war to help Bangladesh. In West Germany she heard more or less the same noncommittal assurances from Willie Brandt. A country, whose memory of the holocaust was still vivid, did not want to bother about the massacre in East Pakistan. After all politics was more important than humanitarian sentiment.

Twenty days later she returned to Delhi, frustrated, humiliated but determined. Her cabinet colleagues asked her about the outcome. What now! They wanted to know. Is there any solution except war?

The only good thing is that I have made it clear that no makeshift solution is possible. The crisis can be solved only with the help of the people of East Pakistan. We will send the refugees back at any cost. Please do not think of war just now but instead, concentrate on spreading communal harmony in your respective constituencies.

You are still not ready to recognise Bangladesh? Asked one of her cabinet colleagues.

Indira did not answer the question. India was broken into two in 1947. Can she take the responsibility of breaking it into three? If the Balkanization continues, will history ever excuse her?

She spent her fifty-fourth birthday at home, quietly. With increasing skirmishes in the border, war clouds loomed ominously overhead. Will it turn into another Vietnam? Floods and other natural disasters have played havoc with the national economy, a war on the top of that would be the last straw. Perhaps the western powers want a collapse of Indian democracy.

Indira noticed that the opposition was no longer being hostile to her. Those who were against the Congress or disliked Nehru's daughter felt enraged at the treatment their Prime Minister got in Europe and America. But Indira had shown exemplary tolerance. Somehow all parties were united in their feeling for the people of Bangladesh. This had not happened in the wars of 62 or 65.

In due course Indira came to Calcutta for a public meeting. President's rule has been imposed in West Bengal. Siddhartha Sankar Roy was acting on behalf of the centre. This has enraged the leftist parties. They are demanding election. The ultra leftists were not wiped out yet, Charu Majumder had gone underground, and trouble kept erupting in the city.

Strangely, no black flags were shown in Indira Gandhi's meeting. She addressed a mammoth gathering at the maidan; people listened with respectful attention. But she mentioned neither war nor any hint of a solution of the Bangladesh crisis. People must be ready for sacrifice, she said.

After the meeting she met writers and artists at the Raj Bhavan. Visibly tired after her speech, she wiped her face with a paper napkin dipped in eau de cologne and asked the assembly, Why is it that the same opening songs are sung at every meeting? Does it mean new songs are not being written after Gurudev Rabindranath?

But nobody was interested in cultural matters. The topic of war was in every mind. Some stray events of aggression have been reported in the paper, photographs of two Pakistani pilots who were shot down in an encounter. Was a total war on the way?

It is not a question of war, explained Indira, but more of whether we would be able to withstand another war. Though the army does the fighting but the civilians have a lot of responsibility too. During the Second World War, I was detained in London. In spite of the bomb attacks all the concert halls were open — entry was free. Music has a great role in times of crisis. It is your duty as artists to keep the people from getting too involved in the excitement of war euphoria.

At this point a Sikh officer in full army regalia was seen at the door. Good god, he is Lieutenant General Arora, Chief of the Eastern Command, whispered someone.

Lieutenant General Aurora saluted and walked in. He handed Indira Gandhi a slip of paper. Indira Gandhi took some time, more in fact than necessary to read the message then she folded it into tiny bits before tearing it up.

Her face did not register any emotion. She completed her dialogue with film star Uttam Kumar. Tea and snacks were brought in.

Indira stood up. Ladies and gentlemen, I am sorry I have to leave, there is some urgent work at Delhi. I will meet you at some other date. Please carry on with the tea.

She walked with brisk steps with Aurora and Siddhartha Sankar Ray. Near the staircase she almost ran like a young girl, jumped into a jeep which took them to the airport. From there she was transported to Delhi in an air force plane.

Within an hour the news spread that Pakistani bombers have attacked five places in the western front. It was a full-fledged war. That was why the Prime Minister had to rush to Delhi. Defense minister Jagjivan Ram was called from Patna. The President declared emergency all over the country. At midnight Indira Gandhi addressed the nation on the radio. War between India and Pakistan was formally announced.

So it was war after all. As long as the war is far away, it creates a kind of festive atmosphere. Many came out in the streets, in spite of the black out, scanning the sky for bombers. Radio sets were on all through the night.

58

THE Head Quarter of the Eastern Army Command has been shifted to a concrete underground shelter, deep down at a secluded spot of the Dhaka cantonment, under a sprawling sheesham tree, for reasons of safety. Entry was restricted to only the high-ranking officers, it has been operating from here since November. In army parlance it was known as the Tactical Head Quarters, TAC in brief.

It was a windless evening in winter, not a leaf stirred in the trees. The silence was broken by the sound of marching boots. General Niazi dressed in summer trousers, a grey bush shirt, a silk scarf round his neck went down the brightly lit underground staircase, two staff officers in tow. He went along a long corridor flanked by rooms and entered a hall. Large operational maps covered the walls. A number of telephones and wireless sets stood on the tables. Other officers were already gathered there — Major General Jamshed, Major General Farman, Rear-Admiral Shariff and thirty others, their faces stony and glum.

General Niazi strode to the middle of the room and declared with great gusto, Cheer up, gentlemen. The war has finally begun.

Finally the uncertainty was over, while Indira Gandhi was addressing the crowd at Calcutta, an all out war was announced from Rawalpindi radio of Pakistan, ending the nerve wracking suspense. A soldier always preferred real action to an endless waiting.

Indira Gandhi had deferred the announcement till 3rd December though war preparations were on in full swing. But the President of Pakistan in a surprise remark had told a Chinese delegation towards end of November that he would be in the battlefield in ten days time. But the battle began even before the ten days were over, war started on both fronts, east and west.

Niazi too was getting impatient. But he was under the impression that India would attack on the day of the Eid to catch them unaware. It did not occur to them that India would never offend the sentiments of the Bengali Muslims.

Explaining his strategy, Niazi said to his officers, Now there is no question of not crossing the international frontier. It is open combat. We will chase our enemies wherever possible and butcher them. Inshallah, from now on the war will be on the Indian soil.

Their decided strategy was to adopt the fortress concept of defence which meant converting border towns into well-equipped fortresses in order to stop enemy advances. The enemy would have to neutralise and bypass them. In order to do this the enemy would have to employ a force at least three times greater than that of the defenders. But in the Eastern sector strength of the Indian and Pakistani forces were almost equal. Hence this strategy would be to Pakistan's advantage.

Ammunition and food for about two months had been stocked at border towns like Jessore, Jhinaidah, Bogura, Rangpur, Jamalpur, Mymensing, Sylhet, Bhairabbazar, Comilla, Chittagong and other smaller towns, making the border impregnable.

Look at my fingers, bragged Niazi. That is the way my soldiers are spread in all border outposts. They will fight from there and then draw back to the forts for reinforced attack, to smash the enemy. He drew his fingers into a tight fist.

A commando unit was ready to destroy the Farakka barrage, plans were finalised to enter Englishbazar in India from Rajsahi, the defense at Chittagong was strong enough to resist any Indian attempt to enter Dhaka from that side.

Niazi told his officers, tell your men that this is a war until the end. If they die they will be martyrs, if they kill the enemy they become Gazi. From now there is no backing out. By the grace of Maulana Ali, victory will be ours. We will keep Pakistan together.

The news brought relief to the officers as well. Eight months of chasing the Mukti soldiers through marshy terrain had tired the soldiers. Moreover they were told that they will be going for a crusade, killing kafirs; but they were demoralised to find that they were obliged to kill fellow Muslims as the Hindus have fled.

Some of the officers were mortified to see for themselves how exploited this part of the country has been, household helps were easily available and at half the salary they paid to them in West Pakistan. Even women beggars roamed the streets — the villagers were under-nourished.

Not all army officers were without conscience. They found the events of the last eight months humiliating specially the cowardly way President Yahya Khan left East Pakistan. On the infamous twenty-fifth of March he had gone to a tea party at the Flagstaff house of the cantonment. The motorcade, which came back to the President House, had a Brigadier disguised as the President. Yahya after the order of army crack down was on his way to Rawalpindi.

He never visited this part in the next nine months. The whole world heard about the army atrocities, millions left their homes but no political leader of any importance came from the western part, not even Bhutto. Nobody made any attempt to pacify the rebel Bengalis. Was this the brotherhood of Islam? Was army rule the only answer? East Pakistan seemed truly a colony of the west, their people second class citizens! The student community and the intellectuals of West Pakistan voiced their protests, even army officers realised that this cannot go on any longer.

The first three days were an indication of which way the war was going. Calcutta was not a target but on the first day Pakistani air force bombed seven targets in the western sector. On third December at forty past two after midnight Indian bombers flew over Dhaka. Pakistan air force replied with machine gun fire of the Light Ack-Ack Regiment. Fighter planes fought the Indian planes in full view of the citizens of Dhaka. They witnessed the fireworks, clapped to see Pakistani planes destroyed, cried out in dismay if Indian planes caught fire. In one day the Pakistani planes had to make 32 sorties, spend 30 thousand rounds of ammunition. The Indian planes suffered some damage on the first day. They came back the next day and dropped six bombs weighing 500 kilograms each on the runway of the Dhaka airport, creating huge craters, rendering the runway unusable. All attempts by the Pakistani technicians to repair the damage were thwarted by fresh bombing. Their Sabre-jets could not leave the ground. The runway at Tejgaon airport was wrecked and so was the new airport being built at Kurmitola. Somebody proposed using the wide highways of the capital as runways but it was not considered technically feasible. By ten in the morning of 6th December the battle of the Pakistani air force was over. The air space over Bangladesh was completely under Indian control.

Pakistani navy too was in a bad way. Their notoriously powerful submarine Gazi was already half way towards East Pakistan to deliver a mortal blow to the Indian Eastern fleet. But the Indian destroyer INS Rajput located the Gazi off the Vishakhapatnam coast and after a brief battle the powerful Gazi went down, an event, which caused nationwide mourning in West Pakistan. INS Vikrant with its Sea Hawk planes stood guard over the Bay of Bengal. There was no hope of any naval help from the west. The Sea Hawks made short sorties and bombed Chittagong and Coxbazar.

Admiral Shariff of East Pakistan Navy had just a few gunboats and frigates. They had taken over some private boats and had them fitted with cannons. On the other hand Indian Navy had aircraft carriers, destroyers and frigates, 14 Sea Hawks, 2 Sea Kings, 2 submarines one minesweeper. The Pakistani gunboat Comilla sank near Chittagong, another named Rajshahi made it to the port in a burnt condition. After that no other gunboat dared to leave the port area. Some gunboats were damaged near Khulna, the rest were hidden in jungles. That was the end of the naval war in East Pakistan.

Only the army was left. There were 1260 officers in East Pakistan, a 41,060 strong army and a paramilitary force of 73,000. The Pakistani armed forces with their sophisticated weapons, procured from the western powers, their disciplined soldiers, well trained officers, was one of the best in the world. Soon after the birth of the nation the military held the reins of power, enormous amount of money was spent every year on the army, it was not easy to oppose this mighty force. Yet this army after first two days of heroic battle began to retreat. What was the reason?

In the east, India had 7 artillery divisions. A large force was deployed along the China border. A surprise Chinese attack at any moment could not be ruled out. To keep the Naga and Mizo rebels from taking advantage of the situation also required army presence. Taking everything into account, it was not possible for India to deploy more than 7 divisions for the Bangladesh war.

But the Bangladesh forces were with Indian army. They were more organised now with three brigades — K Force, S Force and Z Force. 20 thousand armed Bengali soldiers in 9 sectors and one lakh trained guerilla freedom fighters. Last but not the least, they had the support of the common people.

Everybody, from illiterate farmers and fishermen to young children came forward to offer help to the joint command of India and Bangladesh providing them with vital secrets and information. The Commander of Sector One, Rafikul Islam was shown the mine-free spot in a field map by an eight- year old boy. He knew where the mines were but the path he took to graze his cattle was safe. It was impossible to win a war where the people hated their own army but cheered the aggressor.

For the last nine months the Pakistani army were on a rampage, killing, looting, raping. A moral degeneration has set in from which a call for jehad could not pull them up. They realised the futility of defending a people who did not want them. Religion was not the issue at all. They were scared not of the Indian army, who were soldiers after all, but the desperate Mukti Bahini, out to take revenge, most of whom had lost their family in army atrocities. They do not spare the prisoners of war. In any direct combat where defeat loomed large, the Pakistani soldiers surrendered to the Indian army and pleaded not to be handed over to the Mukti Bahini.

False rumours were afloat, misleading both the sides. Pakistan radio said the Indians were on the retreat from Jhenida but the local people saw that Pakistani army had fled two days ago. In his underground headquarter Niazi heard that Indians are retreating in the western sector, Amritsar has fallen. He jumped up and. cheered. Strangely enough, the commander of the eastern sector was more interested in what was happening in the west, under the assumption that a chunk of occupied Indian territory in the west would be an excellent handle for bargain.

But the euphoria was short lived. Amritsar had not fallen as they learnt soon enough. Meanwhile the scene in the eastern front was grim. Niazi's army was withdrawing, communication links had snapped. They could not stop the regular bombing sorties of the Indian air force over Dhaka. The sea route was blocked. Cut off by sea and air, there was no hope of getting reinforcements from the west. Of the eight battalion forces Niazi had asked for, he got only five by November. There was just no way the rest could reach the east.

The commander, normally of a cheerful disposition was sullen and morose. On the fourth day of the battle he was called by the panic stricken Governor to be appraised of the actual situation. Niazi, accompanied by two senior officers entered the Governor House for a private session with the Governor. Niazi paused in the middle of the conversation. An embarrassing silence followed. The Governor, realising that he had to say something, spoke to Niazi. Well, General, there are ups and downs in life. A man used to glory may have to accept defeat. But things change . . .

The hefty figure, already shaking now burst into tears, like a child, a scene which had even old man Malik in tears. Please don't break down, General, he put his hand on the shaking back, Have faith in Allah.

At this precise moment a Bengali waiter entered with a tray of coffee and sandwiches. The two senior officers accompanying Niazi sprang upon him. Get out of the room. The confused waiter withdrew and related this to the other attendants, I saw the Sahebs weeping in the room.

Shhh, warned the others. Not a word of this to anyone!

Pakistan and India had opposite strategy for this war. Pakistan wanted to prolong the battle so that other countries can come in, a debate can be initiated in the United Nations, India can be accused of being an aggressor. India on the other hand wanted a blitzkrieg. From day one they applied full force. All the sector commanders were told that the war could not be allowed to go on beyond two weeks.

Meanwhile Niazi, now somewhat recovered was spending most of his time in the underground TAC which gave rise to a rumour that he has fled. Meanwhile all diplomatic personnel were leaving Dhaka. Some were taking refuge in Hotel Intercontinental, declared neutral area by the Red Cross. Foreign journalists were leaving Dhaka from where no news could be collected.

Before stepping out of the underground TAC Niazi had a telephone conversation with Rawalpindi. How long do we have to wait for our friend? He asked impatiently, meaning the Chinese from the north and American Seventh Fleet from the Bay of Bengal. The answer was, thirty-six hours.

In the midst of a total pandemonium, Niazi reached Hotel Continental. Who has been saying that I have run away. I want the name. He roared. There was no answer. He moved on to inspect a hospital. About a dozen nurses, all from Pakistan surrounded him. Please General save us from the barbarians, the Mukti soldiers. Allow us to fly to Burma. Since the nurses had witnessed the rape cases, they were frightened out of their wits.

Niazi, his normal wit and humour gone snarled, what is there to panic? Help is coming. Even if it does not reach in time, we will finish you off to save you from the Mukti soldiers.

As he went over to inspect the cannons outside the airport, foreign journalists mobbed him. General, how far are the Indians from Dhaka?

Why don't you go and see for yourself? snapped the General. Will you let us know where you stand? the journalist insisted.

I will fight till my last soldier and the last bullet.

Do you have enough force to defend Dhaka?

If Dhaka falls it will happen over my dead body.

On the fourth day, encouraged by the progress on the war front, Indira Gandhi formally recognised the new state of Bangladesh, amidst deafening cheers in the Indian Parliament. Everywhere, including the border camps and in the battlefields across the border people rejoiced, embraced, sweets were distributed. East and West Pakistan will never be one again.

If India recognises Bangladesh can the Soviet camp be far behind? So Bangladesh was no longer a dream. The Pakistani army in that country is the aggressor. Now the only target was to reach Dhaka. How much longer would it take?

59

BABUL Choudhury stood on a river embankment, holding an MLG, a belt of bullets round his waist, his clothes in tatters, his bare feet mud stained, trousers rolled up to the knee, cheeks covered with an overgrowth. His fair, slim body now looked like a rusty iron pole. He stared at the afternoon sky where the afterglow of sunset still lingered.

Are they Chinese, Babul bhai? Whispered Shafi, a boy in his early teens, also holding a rifle. He stood next to Babul.

Paratroopers were descending from a dozen planes circling overhead in low orbits, with deafening roar. Babul could not convince himself that ultimately China, the symbol of oppressed humanity has joined Pakistan to massacre the people of Bangladesh? He was violently upset, he could not speak. Babul will have to fight against the Chinese soldiers? China had taken the side of Pakistan in the United Nations, but it was unbelievable that it would join hands in an open combat.

Babul bhai, said the frightened Shafi, the enemy is not shooting. It must be the Chinese.

In reply Babul just clutched the shoulders of the boy in a tight grip.

Meanwhile Pakistani Major General Kader waited anxiously in the circuit house verandah in Tangail. So the much-awaited help from China has reached. Rawalpindi had been assuring General Niazi of Chinese help, but they kept delaying the deadline. Mymensingh and Jamalpur had already fallen, Major General Kader has been given orders to retreat. Lieutenant Colonel Sultan, injured in a mine blast has somehow managed to reach Tangail, his invincible 31 Baluch Regiment in tatters. The Dhaka Tangail Road is laden with mines. Indians are closing in from all sides, the Mukti soldiers are making sudden forays on the retreating Pak army and inflicting a great deal of damage.

Who are they? General Kader leaned from the verandah to ask a Major, Did you find out? They are going towards Kalihati.

Sir, everyone is saying they are Chinese, answered Major Sarwar.

Not satisfied with the reply, General Kader snapped, Everyone! Who is everyone? Go see for yourself. Identify the planes.

But in ten minutes the sudden ray of hope vanished. They were not Chinese, they were Indian MIG 21 planes, there was no mistake about it. Why would the Indian air force, now in full control over the air space of Bangladesh allow a single Chinese aircraft to enter? Not a single Pakistani plane was there to resist the raid of the Indian paratroopers descending from smaller planes, being escorted by the MIGs.

As the parachutes came closer, the arms they were carrying came into view. Hai Allah, wailed one officer, standing next to General Kader . . . What are those — 3.7 inch cannons?

The retreating Pak force had no cannons of that size. They had nothing to save Tangail. In futile rage General Kadir began firing his stengun finishing off a round of bullets. It was no use, the paratroopers were well above the range of his gun.

Somewhere else, under a large Banyan tree stood freedom fighter Kader Siddiqui with his men, looking up at the sky, their faces beaming. Some began to jump up and down. News had already reached them that today the Indian paratroopers would be coming, the battle for Tangail would begin.

Bangladesh flags were shown from MIG 21 aircrafts flying low. The Mukti soldiers started fires to send out signals to them. At first it looked as though more leaflets were coming down like the countless ones already scattered asking the Pakistan army to surrender. But no, the paper bits soon expanded into what looked like flowers as if it was raining flowers. Slowly the parachutes opened up, like floating umbrellas gently coming down. They were descending in the area between Kalihati and Pungsi, which was a safe zone. The Pakistan army in a hurry to retreat was in no position to resist the advancing paratroopers.

The highway from Madhupur, Gopalpur, Kalihati to Sholapura has been freed by Kader Siddiqui's men. The Pakistani forces in their desperate scramble to retreat were using heaps of jute bags as bridges, the regular bridges were blown up. Every vehicle, packed with men and baggage were obliged to proceed slowly. There was no place for the Razakars, Al Badr, Al Shams and Peace Committee members, they were being kicked, pushed back and abused by the Pakistani soldiers — just reward for betraying their own people. The Mukti Bahini, lying in wait by the roadside was spraying the retreating army with bullets.

Indian Brigadier Klere, having occupied Jamalpur had meanwhile crossed the Brahmaputra and proceeded towards Madhupur. With his contingent was added the paratroopers and the Mukti Bahini — thus it was a three-pronged attack on Tangail. Finding no way to defend Tangail, the Pak Brigadier fled towards Kaliakair. The 93 brigade met him, also on the retreat, unable to withstand the attack of the paratroopers. When they reached the highway it was open target for the Indian fighter planes. The road was laced with mines. Surprise attacks by the Indian Army and the Mukti Bahini had them in total confusion. At least forty vehicles lay all over, turning turtle. The motor of a vehicle they had confiscated from Ajit Home, a businessman of Tangail was stuck on a tree, the vehicle smashed in a mine explosion.

Brigadier Kadir ordered his men to disperse, since it was impossible to move with a big contingent. Try to get to Dhaka in whatever way you can, he said. Let Allah be your guide. He kept 8 officers and 18 soldiers with him, left the main road and marched across a field, taking advantage of the dark night.

But unfamiliar with the terrain, the Pak soldiers soon lost their way, they ran helter skelter and shot at random. Soon they ran out of ammunitions and it was the turn of the villagers, out to take revenge, to chase them and beat them to death. The lucky ones among the Pak troops encountered the Joint Command. They lost no time to raise their hands in surrender. That was the only way to save their lives.

The small group led by Brigadier Kadir, completely at a loss, had no idea of direction. They hid in jungles or ruins during the day, trudged across the muddy terrain in the night . . . For two days they carried on without food and water, drinking the filthy water from the ponds. Brigadier Kadir, sick and exhausted, made desperate attempt to reach Kaliakair, where another of their contingent was supposed to wait. But how far and in which direction was Kaliakair?

Absolutely fagged out, Brigadier Kadir flopped on the ground in an area circled by shrubs. Even a die-hard soldier like him felt close to tears. He would have felt honouerd to give up his life in fighting kafirs and gaddars but he did not know what to make of the High Command's strange instruction to withdraw and that without air cover, without tanks! Niazi was hell bent on saving Dhaka but Dhaka was a mirage as far as Kadir was concerned.

An officer brought him some twigs. You can try the leaves, sir. Tastes sour but not bad.

This was what fate had ordained for the mighty Brigadier, chewing tamarind leaves, squatting on a patch of muddy ground.

We have to take a risk and move forward to look for the 93 Brigade, he spoke slowly. We won't survive in this way; we have got to establish contact. Who would volunteer?

Everybody kept quiet. Then a Major named Zafar raised his hand. I am ready to venture out, sir. There is no way out. Inshallah, we will find them.

Take five jawans with you. Khuda Hafez. Said Kadir.

Zafar crept out with his five jawans. There was no other sound except the drone of crickets. They had to slush through the cold water of a marsh to arrive at a ground with half burnt huts here and there, the rotting smell of carcasses were unmistakable signs of the Pak troops having passed this way. By the time they were half way across the open field they heard muffled sound of vehicles and saw the flash of a car headlight. So a road was ahead. It had to be reached anyhow. Suddenly a spray of bullets with a deafening sound had them lying flat on the ground. One jawan was already dead, another started to scream.

For five minutes they exchanged fire. Under the open sky they were sitting ducks while the other side were under cover. Two soldiers lost their head and stood up trying to run. Bullets went through them. Hiding behind a dead soldier Jafar shouted, I surrender.

From behind a tree emerged Babul Choudhury carrying a light machine gun with the boy Shafi.

Babul did not belong to any sector, he operated on his own, chasing stray runaways from the Pak army. When he ran out of ammunitions he joined any contingent of the Mukti Bahini for a couple of days. He carried a certificate from Khaled Mosharef.

Looking at this man and child, Major Zafar wished he had not wasted his bullets. With a little care he could have dealt with these two. But now without arms, his arms raised, he shook with fear. This is not Indian army, the Mukti Bahini had no use for prisoners of war.

He sprang on the young boy who had moved forward, held a knife against his throat and shouted, I will kill him.

In the moonlit field five dead bodies lay about, the blade of the knife glistened in the moonlight. For a few moments Babul stared at him, his LMG in the ready. Then he shouted back, kill him, kill him. You have already killed twenty-five lakh, what is another boy to you? Shafi, are you afraid to die?

No, Babul bhai, yelled the young voice. Let him kill me then you can throw him to the dogs.

Major Zafar vaguely understood the meaning, but Babul's voice was familiar. He pushed the boy away and exclaimed. You are Choudhury Sa'ab? Babul Chaudhury? I am Major Zafar . . .

Babul delivered a kick on his stomach. Major Zafar, is it? Son of Idrish! Haramzada, where is Monira, where is she?

Thrown on the ground, Major Zafar wailed, save me, please, save my life.

Putting the nozzle of the gun on his forehead Babul continued, Tell me where is Monira, the girl your men had taken away from my house . . .

I have no idea, I swear by god, I don't know . . . I don't know those people, I told you . . .

I will count three, said Babul as he put one foot on Zafar's chest. But footsteps were heard and a group of the Mukti Bahini, attracted by the gunshots rushed to the spot. One of them recognised Babul. He was a student of Dhaka University. Sir, you have killed all of them? He was beyond himself with joy.

But the Indian commander did not let them kill Zafar. He pulled Zafar up, looked at his rank and said. The Mukti boys want to shoot you. But according to international law I can keep you as prisoner of war provided you show us where your companions are. If you don't then I hand you over to the Mukti boys and look the other way.

Still quite stunned, Major Zafar was speechless, he just gripped the hand of the Indian commander.

Hand him over to me, commander, pleaded Babul. I have a personal score to settle.

Stop, cried Zafar, I will show you the way.

With the nozzle of a stengun at his back, Zafar was made to lead to the clump of bushes in a marshland. The joint forces spread all around the bushes. Zafar was made to ask them to surrender. This call was answered by a spray of bullets. The Indian Commander ordered his men not to shoot. He shouted to the Pakistani soldiers, Put down your arms. You are surrounded.

From the cover of the bush a command was heard, Stop firing, stop firing. The Mukti Bahini jawans were the first to rush in, snatching weapons and showering the Pakistani men with kicks and slaps.

Under a tamarind tree stood Brigadier Qadir, all blood drained from his face, the Mukti men too had physically hit him. As the Indian commander noticed his rank, he whistled in surprise. He was lucky to have caught a Brigadier. For a moment the Pakistani Brigadier had thought of shooting himself, but the faces of his wife and children stopped him. He threw his revolver at the feet of the Indian Commander and pleaded, his voice husky, Kill me if you must but please don't hand me over to the Mukti.

You will get all chances as the Geneva Convention says. Said the Indian Commander. Haven't you heard our General Manekshaw's promise on the radio?

Shafi told the Indian Commander in Bengali, this haramzada was about to stick a knife into me. Aren't you going to punish him? Babul interpreted his words. The Indian Commander drew the boy to himself and patted his head. Why have you brought this boy into the battle? He asked Babul. We adults are fighting, is that not enough?

His parents have been killed, he has no place to go to, explained Babul. What else is there for him to do except join in the fighting?

Shafi spat on Zafar's eyes. Babul took him away and walked away when the prisoners were being lined up. Babul wanted to reach Dhaka quickly by way of Kaliachak. The last battle was going to be in Dhaka. There would be fighting in the streets.

Going back to the shade under the tree where Babul had left his shoulder bag, they shared the stale bread he had been carrying. They decided to have an hour of sleep by turn when a rustle in the grass put them on the alert. In clear moonlight they could see at least five figures crawling towards the centre of the field, obviously leaving the main road. Were they enemies or friends? Quickly Babul and Shafi took shelter behind the tree trunk, trying to assess. When they were within fifty yards, it was obvious that they were a breakaway group from the Pakistani army. Babul fired, followed by Shafi. The enemy made no attempt to fire. One of them jumped up and shouted, Surrender! Surrender! They dumped their rifles and a stengun on the ground. But Babul did not take any chance. Hands up, he bellowed from his hide out.

Three proceeded, two were in no position to get up. One of the survivors was a captain. As they came closed, Babul ordered and come out on his knees. When the Pakistanis realised that they were one man and a half, one of them made a desperate attempt to retrieve his gun, But Shafi’s bullet hit him mid-way, another, badly hit rolled over. The Captain folded his hands and appealed, save him, save me, please.

Babul kicked him hard. Where is Monira? Answer me first.

Who? The Captain was puzzled. I don't know her.

Son of a swine! Another kick. Where have you kept her? Babul asked ferociously.

During peaceful days Babul was a frequent visitor to the cantonment. He knew Major Zafar, but this Captain was a stranger. Yet he went on hitting him. The man cried, save me, save me.

Save you indeed! You scoundrel! Did you listen to any of the Bengalis when they begged for life? Finish him, he turned to Shafi. He is the killer of your parents.

After the shot rang out, Babul put his hand on Shaft's shoulder. Let us go back to Dhaka. We can sleep after the war is over.

60

TANGAIL was free at last, Major General Nagra in the circuit house was in full command. The prisoners were kept in the court-house, every hour new contingent were being added. A group of the retreating Pak army was fighting by the Turag river. Brigadier Klere of the Joint Command was dealing with them. It was the responsibility of General Nagra to stop the retreating enemy from reaching Dhaka, withdrawing from the fallen posts of Jamalpur and Mymensing. They cannot reach Dhaka bypassing Tangail.

Nagra, a soldier by profession was feeling a bit nervous about a speech he was supposed to make at a meeting. He had another worry. Who will be the first to liberate Dhaka? 101 Communication Zone of his division was ordered to take position in Tongi, north of the city. So they were not carrying heavy arms or tanks. The original plan was that the Joint Forces coming from Akhaura would launch the first attack on Dhaka. Indian infantry with artillery and tank squad were advancing from Jessore, Khulna, Bogura, Rangpur. But Major General Nagra is the first to reach so close to Dhaka. That Tangail could be taken so quickly by the paratroopers was beyond their expectation. Already Mukti Bahini, led by Kader had blown up bridges and freed some highways. Meanwhile the other soldiers of the Mukti Bahini were getting restless to enter Dhaka. Nagra, at the insistence of Kader Siddiqui, Commander of the Mukti Bahini, had to attend the reception where about a hundred thousand greeted him with deafening cheer. He was drowned by garlands and had to be escorted with great difficulty to the stage at the grounds of the Bindubasini School.

He looked at the mass of humanity while distant gun shots were heard, Indian Air Force planes flew overhead, on way to Dhaka. The battle for Dhaka would take countless lives, it was uncertain how long it would go on but the citizens of Tangail were intoxicated with the heady taste of freedom.

The Indian Commander was given a formal reception on behalf of the Mukti Bahini. About a few dozen soldiers aimed their gun skyward and gave him a gun salute. Maj. Gen. Nagra spoke slowly in simple Hindi. He said, so far we have won, the credit for which goes largely to the Mukti Bahini. Future will recall their heroism and bravery with reverence. I salute your boy from Tangail, Kader Siddiqui. I have yet to see a braver organiser like him. He is truly a tiger. I know you have been through a lot, please have a little more patience. We have liberated eighty percent of area of Bangladesh, in a few hours from now the onslaught on Dhaka would begin. Please give us all cooperation in maintaining law and order. Joy Bangla. Jay Hind . . . Joy Joint Command. Indira Mujib Zindabad.

The meeting would go on but Major General Nagra had to rush back to get in touch with Head Quarters. Struggling his way to the car, to keep back the crowd rushing at him with garlands, he sped away.

The Mukti Bahini was now in total control of Tangail and adjoining villages. Stray Pakistani soldiers, members of the agents and Peace Committee were being rounded up. Khoka, the notorious son of Mucha Talukdar, nicknamed hangman, responsible for the killing of thousands, had been brought to the gathering, tied hand and foot.

After a trial lasting a few minutes, he was brought up. Three Mukti soldiers pierced his stomach with bayonets. People who had lost their family members under Khoka's order howled for blood, it was as though they wanted him to be cut up into little pieces.

In the Circuit House Major General Nagra got new orders from the High Command — the 101 Communication Zone was to take position 15 miles from Dhaka. That was the end of their mission. But if the situation demands, they can move up, the decision of the Commander would be final. Major General Nagra received the order with bated breath. He was not a full general but was the historic credit of capturing Dhaka going to be his?

He got busy in sending instructions to all positions of his troops. Meanwhile All India Radio had been broadcasting the voice of the GOC in C General Manekshaw beamed at the Pakistani troops. Pakistani sipahi, hathiyar daal do. Lay down your arms. Dhaka is well within the range of our guns. To keep on fighting would be an unnecessary loss of life for you. Please surrender. We guarantee you life and honour.

Indian planes were dropping millions of leaflets asking the enemy to surrender. They were also dropping bombs over Dhaka. A part of the Governor's House had collapsed. Governor Malik had promptly signed his resignation and moved to the safe shelter of Hotel Intercontinental. In the underground bunker sat General Niazi, his head dug in his arms. The Head Quarter at Rawalpindi had gone on giving him false assurances. Where are the friends — the Chinese or the Seventh Fleet? All he could feel was a noose closing in, all he could hear were enemy bombers roaring overhead. He had been asked to conduct war operations of this magnitude depending on others!

General Manekshaw gave his last and final warning. He instructed the Joint Command to have a cease-fire for one night. If the Pakistan army did not surrender by next morning, an all out attack would begin on Dhaka, not a single enemy soldier would be spared.

By now, Niazi's big talk of defending Dhaka till his last drop of blood was in tatters. Let East Pakistan go to hell. His only worry was how to save the army and citizens of West Pakistan. Fighting would result in ninety thousand widows and more orphans in West Pakistan. Surrender was the only way open to him. He had sent some proposals to President Yahya Khan to this effect but the President was in deep depression and did not reply.

The noose was tightening. Niazi, in desperation he telephoned Pakistan's Commander in Chief Hamid. Sir, would you please see that something is done and done quickly about my proposals sent to the President?

In a long reply President Yahya asked Niazi to take all necessary measures to stop the fighting and to preserve the lives of armed force personnel and Pakistani citizens. The message was confusing. Did it mean surrender orders for Niazi or to go for a cease-fire? Why should the Indian army, who had already given an ultimatum of a few hours, agree to a cease-fire?

Niazi called Rao Farman Ali to finalise the conditions of the cease-fire. Farman Ali was cool and level headed, unlike Niazi and both of them quickly drafted a proposal for a cease-fire and both of them went over to the American Consul General Mr. Spivack and asked him to negotiate with the Indian side. Spivack received them coldly and declined to negotiate cease-fire terms on their behalf. All I can do is to send your message, he said. But in actual fact he sent it to Washington while Niazi and Farman Ali returned to their command for a long wait. Hours passed but no reply came.

Meanwhile Farman Ali had drafted a second plan. Like all defeated generals, he made arrangements to burn all relevant papers before the final surrender. Moreover, he had plans to teach the traitor Bengalis a lesson. They had high hopes of running an independent state! Very well! What kind of magic are they going to show to the world ruling over an extensive graveyard, scattered all over with bones and skeletons?

A list of Bengali intellectuals had already been made. When the Joint Command was at the fringe of the city, Farman Ali ordered the Al Badr and the Al Shams to finish them off. Why did the Bengali Al Badr and Al Shams agree to this monstrous proposal? No reason can explain this except perhaps the insanity generated by war.

Well known professor and playwright Munir Choudhury had just had his bath at eleven in the morning and had asked his mother to serve food when a group of young men came to see him. Their commander wanted to see the professor. He was waiting at the street corner. It would not take more than five minutes. The young men were polite but carried guns. So Munir Choudhury had to oblige. He came out in his vest and lungi. By the time he reached the turning in the street the Al Badrs had him blindfolded.

In the same way others were called out of their homes — Anwar Pasha from the University Staff Quarter, lawyer AKM Siddiq, physician Abdul Alim Choudhury, scientist Abul Kalam Azad and many more. They were brought to the Mirpur cemetery and shot. The bodies lay in a heap.

Meanwhile in Tangail the Mukti soldiers spent a night sleepless with excitement. Two brigadiers — Sun Singh and Clere under Major General Nagra had already proceeded to Dhaka; some of the over enthusiastic Mukti soldiers have gone along. The rest of the Mukti Bahini boys were up all night, cooking for the twelve thousand Indian troops. The food would be flown to various battle- fields by helicopter.

After a fierce fighting with the enemy at Kadda, Brigadier Clere had set up camp by a river. The Joint Command under Brigadier Sun Singh were moving along the Nabinagar-Savar Road when action began near the Jehangir University at three in the night. The night sky was shattered with roaring guns and cannons.

The enemy camp, in spite of their eight hundred against the three thousand regular army and some Mukti men of the Joint Command put up a courageous defense not willing to surrender. The Indian soldiers could have bypassed them, taking the mud tracks west of the main road and move to Dhaka but Sun Singh did not like the idea of leaving an enemy camp behind. How stubborn were the enemy? Were they determined to be killed! His repeated calls to surrender were answered by a fresh round of bullets. Finally Sun Singh himself advanced with an artillery contingent, restraining the Mukti Bahini boys from rushing ahead. He has had training sessions with the Mukti Bahini and he respected their valour but this was a battle between professionals. The Mukti Bahini would incur unnecessary loss of lives trying to fight the desperate Pakistani troops. Sun Singh shouted commands standing on a wall to the Mukti Bahini. Do not go forward. Take position behind us. But they were in no mood to listen. Adopting a hard tone, he shouted, No shot is to be fired without my orders.

The Pakistani troops had occupied a convenient position behind a water tank in the upper storey of a building. The Indian troops were not able to make much headway. In the middle of the flashes and smoke two figures were seen rushing to the enemy position — a tall figure of a man and a young boy. Were they out of their mind? Sun Singh rushed to them, caught the man by his shoulder and bellowed. You are disobeying my orders. Turn back right now.

Babul Choudhury turned to him. I have to stop the mortar attack, so I am going to the back of the tank. He seemed quite cool.

My jawans will take care of that, it might take some more time, said Sun Singh. They are bound to give in. Please get back, that is my order.

This is our battle, Brigadier, replied Babul Choudhury. Let us do our bit.

Sun Singh snapped at him. It is sheer stupidity. You will get many more chance to fight later. Do not get killed for nothing. This is not the way of guerilla fighters. I order you to move back to the main road. It is no use stopping me, Brigadier — Babul was stubborn. Once we finish them, the road to Dhaka is clear. There is no cannon on Mirpur Bridge; I have seen it for myself.

A mortar was fired towards them. Sun Singh sprang to the ground, taking the boy with him. But Babul rushed forward. Sun Singh took the child behind cover, in spite of his protests. Let me go, let me go. He struggled. Sun Singh said in broken Bengali, My child, this is war, not a football game.

Babul had disappeared in the darkness but the enemy probably had spotted him. A searchlight swept over him followed by a spray of bullets. Sun Singh could see the tall figure roll over but his LMG continued spewing fire. Soon the water tank gave way.

Sun Singh jumped on the wall and ordered, Charge. Take over the bunker on the right. Chase the troops fleeing to the left. Catch them.

After a fierce fighting lasting for one and a half hours, the enemy post at Savar fell. About hundred and fifty of them had been killed, some had fled, the rest laid down their weapons. Sun Singh gave instructions to hold the prisoners captive, sent one contingent towards Mirpur and with a torch in one hand walked up to where Babul Choudhury lay, blood-soaked, by the side of a ditch. Babul had crawled to the back and fired, damaging the tank and taking the enemy unaware. Other bodies had dropped from the upper storey of the building and lay there.

Babul was not dead. At first he made an attempt to aim his gun at him but recognising Shafi he stopped. Have they been finished? He asked the brigadier eagerly.

Enough of bravado! Chided Sun Singh. Hold my hand and try to get up. Let me see the shots. Can you walk up to Tangail hospital?

There is no need to go to a hospital, protested Babul. Look, I can stand on my feet, move my arms, no wound on the head.

Actually he was shot on the neck and in his left arm, not very serious injury. He patted Shafi's back. Come let us march to Dhaka.

By late night news reached Major General Nagra that Mirpur Bridge is unprotected. Instructing Brigadier Clere to proceed in that direction, he got into a helicopter, taking Kader Siddiqui, the hero of Tangail with him. The air space was totally safe. The winter sun was about to rise, the red glow already lighting up the eastern sky.

The smell of gunpowder was still in the air where the helicopter landed on the Savar Mirpur Road. Major General Nagra was appraised of the battle of Jehangirnagar. No resistance remained now. Crossing Mirpur would mean reaching the outskirts of Dhaka. Already about a thousand Mukti soldiers had reached the Mirpur Bridge. Indian troops too were approaching the bridge.

Major General Nagra with a few others walked along the road. He stood on a bridge and focussed his binoculars. Some buildings of the city were clearly visible. He handed the binoculars to Qader and asked him, what building is that?

It is the new assembly of the new capital, Sher-e-Bangla. It has not been used yet. Looking through the binoculars, Nagra asked again. Who are all those people running about in the streets.

Our boys, chasing stray invaders.

I can see one person and a child near Mirpur Bridge, carrying arms. Who are they? Aren't they scared?

They are a peculiar pair, General. I will tell you about them later. Remarked Sun Singh.

Nagra removed his binoculars, called a communication officer and took stock of the latest position. The Joint Command has reached Narayanganj, Daudkandi, Narsingdi. Dhaka has been surrounded, well within cannon range. The air force was there too. If Nagra so wished, his contingent could be the first to enter Dhaka.

Nagra smiled. He knew Niazi quite well. Both were trained together as commissioned officers during the British days. Promotions were quicker in Pakistani army, so Nagra is still a Major General but Niazi has become a General. Nagra thought of the reaction of his erstwhile colleague when they would meet. He was amused.

He scribbled a hasty letter. A personal one to Niazi.

Dear Abdullah,

We are here. We have surrounded you. Your game is up. Choose between surrender or total destruction. We assure you will be treated according to the Geneva Convention, I personally assure you that you have no risk of life.

Yours

Major General Nagra 8.30 A.M., 16.12.71.

A white shirt was tied to the jeep for want of a white flag. Some officers sped to Dhaka to hand over Nagra's letter to Niazi. Within half an hour the letter reached Niazi. Major General Jamshed, Major General Farman Ali and Rear Admiral Shariff were with him. Meanwhile the cease-fire proposal has reached the Indian COC Manekshaw via the American Consul General Spivak. Manekshaw has turned down the proposal. Victory was within sight, why would the Indian side go for cease-fire? Manekshaw wanted surrender and laying down of arms. The promise for security would come after that.

The generals read the note. Farman Ali asked angrily, is this fellow Nagra coming to negotiate the cease fire?

Others kept quiet. The meaning was as clear as daylight. No discussion. Either surrender or fight, fight for every inch of ground.

Do you have any reserve force? Farman Ali asked in Urdu. Uncomprehending, Niazi kept staring at him. The Rear Admiral asked in Punjabi, Kuch palley hai? (Have you anything in the kitty?) Niazi looked at Jamshed and shook his head. Farman Ali said. Then no question of carrying on. Go, bring the messenger with due civility.

In the afternoon the Indian GOC in C, Eastern Command, Jagjit Singh Aurora arrived with his wife in a special plane. Major General Jacob had already flown from Calcutta and finalised the surrender ceremony. Delhi rejected Farman Ali's objection to the phrase India Bangladesh Joint Command. The ceremony was to take place in Ramna Race Course, where in March 7, Mujib had declared independence for Bangladesh. Niazi did not want the humiliation in a public place but he had to concede.

Millions poured into the streets of Dhaka, dancing, screaming like mad. They were throwing flowers to the trucks carrying Indian troops and spitting at the Pakistanis. Elderly people watched from roof-tops. How much the situation has changed between 1965 and 1971 thought some. Who knows what the next five years have in store.

The ceremony was short. The Mukti Bahini boys roamed the streets, shooting at the sky. There was no government in Dhaka. The Indian army could not take complete control of a situation where law and order could collapse any minute. As it is a section of the people were after the blood of the enemy, they would tear them to pieces if they had their way.

Early in the morning some rich West Pakistanis and injured army officers had left by helicopter, leaving the West Pakistani nurses in the hurry. Indian troops were deployed to stop the Mukti soldiers from indulging in vengeance, but in the euphoria of victory they too were overdoing things. Looting began as there was no machinery to stop the looters. Even some of the Indian troops joined hands in looting foreign goods, T.V., carpets, two-in-ones, refrigerators, canned food and piled them in the trucks. But they stayed away from grabbing women, there were strict instructions. After all, their Prime Minister was a woman.

A table was set on the Race Course Maidan. General Aurora and General Niazi sat side by side. Nobody came from the temporary government of Bangladesh, neither General Osmani, the GOC in C of the Bangladesh command who had expected the Pakistan army to surrender only to him. Naturally the Pakistanis did not agree to this absurd proposal. They do not recognise them, they have been defeated by the Indian army. The only representatives from the Bangladesh side were Air Commander A.K. Kund, Major Haidwe, Flight Lieutenant Yusoof and the leader of the Mukti Bahini Qader Siddiqi.

The surrender deed was signed by Lieutenant-General Aurora and Lieutenant General Niazi. The latter's hand shook so much that he had to be given a second pen to sign. Then both stood up. General Niazi took out his revolver and handed it over to General Aurora. One hundred Pakistani army officers and one hundred jawans laid down their arms in a symbolic gesture.

With this the battle on the Western front also stopped. Indira Gandhi in the announcement of this victory spoke with great restraint. We should not boast about the victory, she declared. There has been a lot of casualties on both sides. Our real fight is with poverty, our greatest enemy.

At far end of the Race Course maidan Babul, sick and gasping watched the surrender ceremony with Shafi. So the war is finally over without any street fighting. Leaning on his LMG, like a stick, he told Shafi, Let us go home now. After a few steps he met Qader Siddiqi. Qader, though young enough to be Babul's student, was a commander after all, so Babul saluted to him. You can have my gun, he said, I do not need it any more.

Please keep it, replied Qader. A lot is to be done. We have to bring back Mujib, by launching an attack on Pakistan if necessary.

But Babul laid down his arm. That is for you to do. My job is over, he said.

Qader, impatient to meet Begum Mujib, asked a companion to pick up the arm and jumped into a jeep.

Babul leaned on Shafi and limped his way through a jubilant crowd shouting Joy Bangla, embracing one another. The sound of gun shots was everywhere — the Mukti soldiers firing in the air. The slogan Joi Bangla rumbled like thunder.

Nearing his own road Babul stopped on the tracks. The Bangladesh flag was not fluttering over Jehanara Begum's house. This was incredible. He entered through the open entrance and stepped into the drawing room, it was quiet save for a group of men and women in prayer. So, Rumi was no more.

One of them signaled Babul to sit down. He whispered the account. Three days ago, Jehanara's husband had died of a heart attack. He was taken to the hospital where the main electric switch was turned off for black out. The life saving machine could not be started. Sharif died without any treatment.

Presently Jehanara appeared looking blank like a statue. She saw Babul but did not speak. She ordered a meal to be cooked with all the provisions she had stored for the Mukti Bahini.

Someone cried out. Babul, you are back. The war is over, but where is Rumi?

Others shot questions at him. Where are the others — Basir, Sirajul, Jewel, Montu, Ashraf, Debnath, Majid, Naim, Shaukat, Belu, Najma, Julekha, Qaium, Nurujjaman?

Nobody knew. Yes freedom has come but with a price. Babul started for his own home. Who was that shadowy figure waiting on his doorstep in tatters, dirty and shabby like a ghost? Babul recognised the eyes. She was Monira chewing a bit of sugarcane.

Here you are, Dulabhai, she greeted Babul in a normal voice. But where is that person?

It was for this Monira that Babul had left home. She is back but who would Babul hand her to? Everything seemed to reel, Babul felt faint. This Monira seemed to him to be the symbol of free Bangladesh.

Give me a hand, Shafi, I think I am going to die, He said.

The news of Sirajul's sacrifice had reached him a few days ago. Sirajul, like thousands of other young men were not coming back. Only Monira, raped repeatedly, has come back from the army barrack. She has survived like this country. Panic stricken, Monira asked again, Dulabhai, where is he? Is he still fighting?

Babul had no answer. He blacked out.

61

THE plane was delayed for eleven hours in Beirut. Tutul and Alam were taken to a hotel along with the other passengers. They had nothing to do. Alam suggested they go shopping. I believe perfume is cheap here, said Alam.

But Tutul was not interested in hopping from shop to shop. The excitement of going home after such a long time was proving to be too much for her. They were scheduled to visit Calcutta two months ago but after everything was finalised Tutul fell ill again . . . Luckily she did not have to go for another operation but the doctor had advised her not to undertake a long journey for at least two months. She was not fully fit to travel. But Tutul was stubborn.

She did not look as though she was ill except for a pale look on her face. Though she had taken to wearing trousers she kept her hair long, long enough to get a second look from strangers.

All hotel rooms are as impersonal as hospital cabins. From their sixth floor room they could get a view of the city, houses and roads, church spires and mosque minars, no greenery. The afternoon sky was the colour of gunpowder.

Alam stood by Tutul. As the put his hand on her shoulder he exclaimed in alarm. You are feverish, yes, you are running a temperature.

Tutul pushed his hand away. No, I am fine. I don't feel any temperature.

You had better lie down. These rascals might make us run to the airport at midnight.

Tutul sat on a chair. I would like a cup of tea, she said. Meanwhile Alam had brought out his instrument for taking blood pressure.

No, don't, resisted Tutul. I am fine, I tell you.

Alam gave her a long kiss. I don't need a thermometer, he said. I know you are running one hundred temperature. Let me look at the diastolic and systolic. You look so beautiful today, the most handsome patient in the world. This yellow sari suits you. Cheer up my darling.

How much? Asked Tutul.

A little on the lower side, sixty — hundred ten, nothing abnormal.

That is my normal, said Tutul. I told you I am all right. Of course. You are going home, you must have strength of mind and body. Just a minute, let me order the tea.

There was a knock on the door. It was Ramen Haldar, one of their co-passengers from London.

Have you heard, Mr. Alam? Haldar was excited, his face glowing.

Do come in, said Alam. No, what is it?

The hotel TV in the lobby just announced end of the Indo-Pakistan war. Cease fire since this morning.

Alam was scared. Ceasefire? He asked. Has the United Nations intervened?

No, no, Pakistan has surrendered in Dhaka.

Without a word both Tutul and Alam rushed downstairs. But by that time the news was over, some play was on in an incomprehensible language. A lot of people had gathered, some were trying to tune into BBC in their transistor. The news came on in an hour, a newspaper named Gulf News was also brought in. Yes. Bangladesh was free.

A dispute started among the Indian and Pakistani passengers in the lobby as though it was a mini war. Tutul and Alam were enjoying the situation. They had dinner and returned to their room.

Bother! said Alam, exasperated. My country has attained freedom and I am stuck here in goddamn Beirut. Who knows when the rascals will resume flight.

Tutul, now cheered up considerably, said, Yes, we are like hostages.

Just think of the jubilation in Dhaka and Calcutta. If we had reached in time we would have been there by now.

Tutul wrapped her shawl around Alam and said. Do you know why I feel happy? For a very selfish reason.

What?

You don't have to go to war, that is why. I am so lucky you know. If you had joined the war, I might have lost you forever.

Alam has been working for liberation since sixty-six. But he could not take part in the actual freedom struggle, but he never told Tutul about this deep-seated regret. Perhaps she had guessed it. Alam could not possibly leave her sick and ailing after the operation.

He did the best he could from London, printing and distributing booklets and leaflets about the army atrocities, raising funds. He was carrying five thousand pounds with him right now for the ongoing war.

The reason why Tutul was anxious to return home was for his sake. If they were in Calcutta, Alam could open a hospital in the border. You know, said Tutul. I was thinking of joining you at the front, I could have been of help in the hospital.

Now that the war is over, we have to alter our plan. I will drop you at Calcutta and proceed to Dhaka right away.

Drop me at Calcutta? Tutul was hurt and surprised. Leaving me alone?

You won't be alone, silly. You have your mother and other relatives. I can't wait till I get to Dhaka. I do not know what has happened to my friends. Besides, I have to hand over the money I am carrying.

The war is over. The money can wait. You will hand it over to the Bangladesh government, a couple days won't make any difference. The TV news said fighting is still going on in Chittagong. It is a troubled area.

So what? I have to get to Dhaka as quickly as possible. Why don't you come along too?

Without stopping at Calcutta? Without meeting my mother? How can you say this.

Yes of course. In that case let me go to Dhaka alone. You can join me later.

Can't you stay in Calcutta even for a day?

Well, I don't have a mother but others are there. I am dying to meet them.

That is right.

Are you mad at me?

No, no. This is the best arrangement. You proceed to Dhaka.

She burst into tears behind the closed door of the bathroom beset with the illogical fear that as soon as he out of sight she would lose him, this is her fate.

They lay on the bed, silently waiting for the flight announcement which was blared at midnight.

Next morning at ten when they reached the airport nobody was there to receive them. Nobody knew. Last time Tutul's visit was cancelled at the last minute, hence the precaution.

It was a peculiar feeling to be back with no familiar faces to welcome them. Others were being greeted with emotion, embrace, crying. One young man looked exactly like Bablu. But how could Bablu come here from Boston. Perhaps in some mysterious way he has managed. But a closer look confirmed Tutul of her mistake.

The Dhaka flight was due to take off one and a half hour later, not enough time to take Tutul to the city and come back.

Can you take a taxi? Asked Alam.

Tutul nodded. Let me take you to the taxi. Then I will come back and buy a ticket.

Outside the air was mildly chilly, warmer than London but Tutul shivered. She carried a heavy bag. Alam carried her suitcase. A taxi was obtained. Tutul got in. Don't worry, said Alam. Stay with your mother as long as you want, then fly to Dhaka. Send me a telegram, I will be at the airport. OK?

Tutul nodded.

Take care. Don't start moving about right from the first day. You need rest. Give my namaskar to your mother. Take the medicines, oh yes, I forgot your blood pressure tablets. He dug the bottle from his pocket but Tutul threw it out of the car window.

No, I won't, said Tutul. You wouldn't be there to see. Please start driverji. She bent down in an outburst of sobs.

How silly can you get? Said Alam. Driver saheb, just a minute. He touched her arm. How can I leave you if you keep crying. Do smile.

No, I won't let you go. Tutul clutched his arm, I won't, I won't.

Alam ran back to get his suitcase. Right, he agreed. There is no harm if I reach Dhaka one day late. The Bangladesh Mission will have all the news.

Where do you want to go, saheb? Asked the taxi driver.

Grand Hotel, said Alam.

We are staying in a hotel? Tutul was shocked.

For the present. You had told me that there is no room in your mother's place. You can stay on if your mother wants you to.

Alam saw none of the victory celebrations he had expected at Calcutta. No slogan-shouting, processions, throwing of garlands to the troops returning from the battlefield. It was just an ordinary day, overcrowded buses, traffic jams, honking of horns.

They could not get a room in Grand Hotel. After trying a few other hotels they finally booked a double room in a second rate hotel in Theatre Road. After signing in the register Alam was given the room key. He said, Come, let us go. But Tutul stood very still, not responding. Finally she said, as though in a daze, stay in a hotel? A hotel?

She was finding it indecent to come to Calcutta, to her mother and staying in a hotel, in this city where she was born and brought up. Ma and Pratapmama had to go through a lot to bring her up. She had to count every paisa of her tram fare. Once she had broken the strap of her slippers, she had no money to get it mended and stuck a safety pin to keep it in place. Now she is a foreign returned doctor with a rich husband. Putting up in a hotel. The ultimate snobbery!

I would like to go home first, she whispered. Alam understood. It was no use arguing, so he gave in. All right, let me go and drop you. I hope you have no objection to my staying in a hotel? We will be in the same city.

Suddenly Tutul was in her elements. She pointed to the streets of Calcutta, a city Alam had visited only once as a teenager. Many important citizens of Dhaka were here, Alam scanned the faces of the passersby for familiar faces. He could identify Bangladeshis easily, there was something about them which made them stand out. A crowded jeep with cheering young people sped by. They must be Mukti Bahini fighters, thought Alam.

By the time they reached the Gariahat crossing, Tutul charged Alam. I know the reason why you refused to come with me. You are scared of my mother.

Well, a Muslim son-in-law might be greeted with a broomstick for all you know, Alam smiled faintly.

My mother comes from an aristocratic family, she never swept a floor with a broomstick. Said Tutul with evident pride.

Verbal attacks can be worse. On day one, I will drop you at the door and leave and make my appearance on day two if the coast is clear.

You know I can never leave my mother however harsh she may be on me.

You would rather leave me, is that it?

Tutul fixed her stare on Alam. You can be so funny. Let me finish. I was going to say that I can never leave mother but if she treats you badly I won't ask you to visit our home, I will not mind staying in a hotel either.

That's fine for me. But are we going to go through the test today? Please Tutul, I don't feel up to it, let me get back to the hotel. Please, Tutul.

I have never been to this place before. Don't know the roads.

I will find out the house. Let's get back to the hotel. You can take a taxi in the afternoon.

They did not have to look for the house in Selimpur. Pratap was out in the street talking to a gentleman. There he is, cried Tutul. My mama.

Please do not take the trouble of introducing me, said Alam, giving Tutul a gentle nudge. I will go back in this taxi.

Pratap did not show any surprise. He just said with the effort of a smile. So you are here. Good. Your mother is not well. The doctor just left.

Tutul touched her mama's feet. What is wrong with ma? She asked.

It cannot be diagnosed but she is getting worse day by day.

The doctor has left? I would have talked to him. Then she turned to Alam. Alam, my mother is very ill. Alam had to get down. As he bent to touch his feet Pratap took him in his arms. Come in my son, come in.

Supriti sat propped against three pillows on the bed, flanked by Mamun and Mamata, mumbling something in a hoarse voice. As she looked at her mother's shrunken body, the first thought which came to Tutul was of Joydeep.

She had been dreaming of this meeting, how she would fling herself to her mother’s breast and caress her. Nothing remotely like that happened. Tutul walked up to the bed, touched her feet and asked softly, What is the matter with you, Ma?

Brightening up visibly, Supriti raised her voice. That seems to be my son-in-law, is he? Mamun, look how handsome he is. Is he from the family of Amin Choudhury?

Mamun did not know Alam or his family. Very handsome, he agreed. So you have your daughter and son-in-law, Didi. It is a very happy day today.

The country is free, said Supriti. Have you heard Tutul? Hindustan and Pakistan have become one again. Let us visit home.

Yes, most certainly, Didi, assured Mamun. But you have to get well. It is a long walk from the boat to Malkhanagar, do you remember?

I can walk. Do take me Mamun. You know my mother pleaded till her last breath to be taken to Malkhanagar, but Khokon wouldn't. Will you take me? My son-in-law can take me.

Pratap leaning against the wall, said nothing. Tutul exchanged glances with Alam. They realised that Supriti has cancer, she was becoming incoherent. Tutul'e eyes welled up with tears. Mamata gently stroked her head.

Alam moved close to Supriti. She took his hand. You are Amin Choudhury's eldest; you are a nice boy. Tutul will be a good wife to you, but she is very sensitive. Please don't misunderstand her.

No Ma, I will never do that.

What did you call me, Ma? But you are Amin Choudhury's son; you should call me Amma. That is what they used to say in Malkhanagar.

I use both. For me you will be Ma.

Supriti caressed his hair. It is a huge house you know. We will be together. Cooking will be done on the big stove. Seats will be laid on the northern verandah. You will seat in a row to have meal. How happy Ma would have been. Poor Ma, she did not live to see the new son-in-law.

62

A boisterous group of young men and women climbed up the stairs lustily singing a patriotic song about Bangladesh, oblivious of the racket they were making so late at night.

They reached a closed door on the first floor, stopped singing and knocked first softly then pushed hard, shouting slogans. We will break the locks of the prison and bring Sheikh Mujib out.

Mamun had to get up from bed to open the door. Do you take this to be the prison, what? His welcome was icy.

They were in no mood to listen to him. Monju pushed a sweet into his mouth and laughed. This is from your famous Dwarik Ghosh.

The three young girls and five boys seemed to fill up the room with colour and warmth. They started talking at once. This has been the usual routine for the last few days, groups of young people walking at any hour, chatting till well past midnight, breaking into laughter for no reason and then walking back home. Like magic Calcutta has become a haven of peace, even the Naxals are lying low.

In her orange cardigan over a yellow sari Monju seemed to sparkle. With her was Tahmina, just back from Holland, daughter of barrister Motiur Rahman. She wore strong make up and had no cardigan or shawl. Mamun had not seen the other girl before. Among the boys were Mahbub, Apel, Palash, Sattar, Saokat.

Dragging the harmonium from under the bed Palash started to play and sing a Tagore song: Aaj Bangladesher hriday hote kakhon aaponi . . . At times music could seem like torture even to a music lover like Mamun. He mildly protested.

A lot of sweets are left, who is for one, asked Monju. Mamunmama, have another. You used to talk of Dwarik Ghosh. We went looking for that shop.

Mamun shook his head vehemently. Monju stuck the sweet, oozing with syrup, into Palash’s mouth who could not object as both his hands were on the harmonium. A wild burst of laughter greeted this act.

Mamun felt strangely out of tune with this mirth and jubilation. Perhaps it was the generation gap. He has been feeling empty inside, the result of getting something you had pined for with uncertainty and trepidation. Freedom at last but it has a tinge of sadness as well. Was it for the people who had to sacrifice their lives for it?

When are you returning to Dhaka, Mamunbhai? Asked Saukat.

This question was expected from Monju, felt Mamun as he gave her a piercing glance. So far she has not shown any urgency to return home. This irritated Mamun. Babul Choudhury was untraced. Monju has no worry about her lost husband. So the girls are thinking that they have got the right to do as they want, move around at will till late night? Mamun did not like it.

Let us wait and see, remarked one of the boys. Let things settle down. The Razakars, the sons of swine are roaming the streets of Dhaka. There is no government there. That is not true, protested Saukat. The Bangladesh Government has started functioning from this afternoon. I myself saw off Tajjuddin and others at the airport.

Dhaka is a troubled city all right, agreed Mahboob. The Mukti boys are holding on to their sten- guns. Have you read of the arrest of Qader Siddiqui?

What? Mamun was shocked. Qader Siddiqui of Tangail arrested? But why?

He has not been arrested yet but the Bangla Government has asked the Indian army to arrest him. He wants to take law and order in his own hands. Haven't you heard of his torture, pricking four people with bayonets in front of millions in the Paltan maidan?

But he is a war hero after all. People would not take it lying down if the Indian army does arrest him. Observed Mamun.

There is chaos in the country. It might lead to another civil war if Sheikh Saheb does not return. The guerillas are out to take revenge without waiting for proper trial.

Will you stop this? Monju was disturbed by the way the conversation was going.

Come on, let us sing, joined Tahmina. Don't you wish to celebrate our hard earned freedom?

Who all are for tea? Asked Monju. I am putting the kettle on.

One cup for me, Monju, said Mamun though he had rationed his tea after the heart attack.

Sukhu stayed with the family of Justice Masood. Hena was away in a camp at Krishnanagar working as a nurse. Every evening Monju was out to sing in some victory celebration or the other. She has already made a name as a singer, completely obsessed by the heady sensation of a crowd cheering and clapping. Her record has been brought out by HMV and given wide publicity.

Listening to Palash tuning the harmonium, Mamun could not get rid of the nagging regret for the break up of Pakistan. For the last nine months, he had been wishing and praying for the freedom of Bangladesh, having seen enough of the atrocities of the Pakistani army, their efforts to cripple the Bengali Muslims. Yet in his heart of hearts he thought finally good sense will prevail, President Yahya Khan, disregarding Bhutto's advice would allow Mujib to be the Prime Minister. At least that would have saved Pakistan. But they opted for a break up, persisting in a mistake. The present generation will never know how the dream of Pakistan took shape, the amount of tears and blood shed for the ideal.

Noisy footsteps sounded on the staircase. The group had with them, of all persons, Sakhawat Hossain, hotel tycoon and owner of the newspaper Dinkaal. Mamun has been running into him in Calcutta and except exchanging civilities did not extend hospitality. Why is he here?

Tahmina clapped. Look Naseen, look. Look who is here. I told you don't get nervous, you won't get lost.

With a wide smile Sakhawat said, why should she get lost, she is with you after all. Here is some biryani for you, and some kabab from Siraj. They had run out of murgmassallam. One of his companions carried three huge packets. The rich smell of ghee and cooked meat swept away all traces of music from the room.

Mamun could not be rude on this happy occasion. He offered his chair to the important guest, Salam Alaikum, please have a seat.

Alaikum salam, Huq Saheb, said Hossain, taking Mamun in his arms. We are a free nation. You were right after all. India is our true friend. The haramzada Pakistanis have been taught a lesson, it would take one generation for the wound to heal.

He eased himself into the chair, opened his gold cigarette case, took one out and then on second thought offered one to Mamun.

No, please, Monju promptly intervened. Mamunmama is not supposed to smoke.

It is all right if he smokes just one, today is a big day, said Hossain.

Unable to resist the temptation, Mamun picked up one. Actually he has started smoking already behind Monju's back.

Hossain Saheb, as was his nature, took over. He began, You know where I got the news of the surrender? In Delhi. On way back from my trip to Ajmer Sheriff, I dropped in at Agra, Lucknow and Delhi. What a country — so vast, such variety, Mussalmans, Buddhists, Sikhs, Christians, Hindus living in perfect harmony, And Madam Indira Gandhi, great lady, no one as noble as her, you can't find her match in the world, you know. I was in Delhi on the sixteenth you know, feeling on the top of the world when the news of the surrender came. So we are no longer second class citizens of Pakistan, first class citizens of free Bangla. I saw Madam Indira Gandhi with my own eyes, in front of the Parliament House in Delhi. She has class, but help yourself to the biryani, will you, it is still hot.

Saukat who was afraid to speak in front of Hossain Saheb when he worked for the paper now talked on equal terms. What do you mean by first class citizen of Bangladesh? Would there be other classes too? He asked sarcastically.

Just a way of speaking, Hossain was quick to correct himself. We are all first class citizens in Bangladesh, don't you think? Coming to think of it we can opt for Indian citizenship. Indira might agree if we can convince her. I had a lot of property in India. I had been to visit our house in Park Circus, beautiful building, two mango trees are still there. A Hindu lawyer has taken it in exchange of a house in Purana Paltan. That house will now fetch nine lakhs in Indian money, can you imagine? I wish I could get it back.

You want to have Indian citizenship? Saukat kept up the bantering tone. And leave Bangladesh? How can we get on without you?

Of course not, out of the question. I was thinking of dual citizenship like they have between America and Canada. I was there a month ago.

Mamun kept quiet all through. Hossain Saheb's English has improved considerably in the last few months, he thought. Some left after sharing the biryani at half an hour past midnight. Hossain Saheb went on talking. Mamun was sleepy but could not ask the guests to leave. As Henna was away, Monju went over to Justice Masud's place at night but it is getting late. He wanted to signal to her but she was hypnotised by Hossain's eloquence.

Two songs were sung but as soon as there was a pause, Hossain Saheb began again the greatness of Indira Gandhi and outburst of gratitude to the great people of India.

Two more left after some time. Saukat asked Hossain Saheb about Altaaf. Has he come to India with him?

Oh no, said Hossain Saheb. He had gone to West Germany for treatment of a war wound, but nothing much though. Met him in Delhi, he is fine now. I asked him to remain here, looking after my business interests.

At last Mamun asked, do you know anything about the whereabouts of Babul Choudhury?

Giving Monju a quick look, Hossain replied. But he is a collaborator, isn't he? A communist?

As if that was the last word! He busied himself in lighting his cigarette then looked up. Come on Naseem. Saukat, where should I drop you. My driver must be asleep.

When are you going back to Dhaka? Asked Saukat.

Hossain smiled. Not yet! Have some business deals to finalise. We are going to have a lot of business with India. They did not fight for nothing, I am sure you realise that. Already I have bagged import order of tobacco and paan worth twelve crores. Instead I will export fish. The people of Calcutta are slurping for our fish.

Fish for tobacco? Saukat laughed. Protein for nicotine, that is getting cheated.

All smiles evaporated from Hossain Saheb's face. It is cheating all right. We are going to be cheated for god knows how long. Hindu India did not fight the war for free. They will demand their pound of flesh. In Delhi they are jubilant because the Muslim homeland Pakistan has broken. I have seen it with my own eyes. They care two hoots about Bangladesh, they are happy to be one up on the Muslims. Secular my foot. India is Hindu. And that Indira Gandhi! For all her sugarcoated words, she is going to exploit East Pakistan instead of Yahya Khan. I tell you, Indian army will replace Pakistani army. You can take it from me, the Indian army is not leaving Dhaka soon.

The two girls were scandalised. In spite of Saukat’s meaningful coughs there was no stopping Hossain Saheb. He took Palash to be one of them, misled by his beard.

Palash was a singer, he did not understand politics. Embarrassed by the turn of talk, he got up to leave. But Saukat pulled him down.

Just a minute, he said. I am coming with you. Then he raised his voice. So the Indian army is not coming back, is that it? Well you may not have heard another rumour. All Indian Civil Service officers will be posted in the districts of Bangladesh and run the country.

Who told you this is a rumour. This is the fact, said Hossain. Saukat turned to Mamun. Is that what you think Mamunbhai? The Indian army is not coming back? That Bangladesh will be a colony of India?

Well some of the Indian soldiers will not return — the ones who have lost their lives. Said Mamun.

You may flatter India as much as you want, declared Hossain proudly. I am not afraid to speak the truth. We will have to be under Hindu India. Bangladesh is too small a country for independent existence.

What about Nepal and Burma! Asked Saukat.

Nepal is a Hindu kingdom. The Burmese are Buddhists. You don't go to the bottom of things. Observe the Gandhi's eyes — shrewd, that's what she is. War is nothing but another form of business. She didn't fight it for charity. Now she has to extract the price.

Monju, almost in tears, appealed. Will you stop this? I don't like this kind of talk.

Please stop it, agreed Tahmina. Our relations with India might change later but why so soon? Big brothers are not tolerated. Look at the anti-American feelings in France after all that America has done for them. It has only been four days and you have already started it. That India has done a lot for us can you deny it? Shouldn't we give something in return?

Well we have, already. What about the excrement of the ninety-five lakh refugees! That will be left in the Indian soil, act as fertilisers. Right, Palash?

Palash burst out laughing.

Hossain Saheb left with Naseem, Saukat and Palash. It was one-thirty, Monju did not want to go to Justice Masud's house so late in the night. Tahmina stayed on.

There were two cots. Tahmina would be sharing one with Monju. Mamun was no longer sleepy. His eyes smarted, he was agitated by a strange excitement of having witnessed freedom twice in a lifetime. But the second one was different, the intense happiness of the first time was not there. He did not pay much heed to Hossain Saheb's remarks but a sense of regret persisted.

Monju had gone to complete her nightly toilet — Tahmina crept to him. If you do not mind Mamunmama may I smoke?

For a girl having lived in Europe this was not an unusual request. Mamun said conspiratorially, might I have one too, before Monju is back.

You are a real dear. Tahmina kissed Mamun on the cheek like a European woman.

Mamunmama, she began. That Hossain Saheb is a filthy rich person, isn't he? People of his sort will continue to enjoy the same privileges in the next regime. It gave me a weird feeling the way he turned turtle on Indira Gandhi. I have seen such people in other countries. Hossain Sahebs flourish everywhere. It amused me even more because I happen to be Indian.

Really? Mamun got a start. It is ah interesting story. My father had left India to take up Pakistani citizenship. But I have come back. I was born in Barisal but was sent to Europe while I was still in college. I am married to an Indian doctor, Yusoof Ali. We live in Amsterdam. Though I support Bangladesh wholeheartedly, I hold an Indian passport.

I do not understand you people, your generation, said Mamun.

Monju came out, her hair wet, in a striped handloom sari, humming a tune. It is your turn now, she told Tahmina. Without a word to Monju, Mamun went to his bed, pulled the blanket over himself, covering his face.

But soon a whiff of feminine fragrance told him of Monju's presence. She sat on his bed. Mamun lay very still, holding his breath.

Mamunmama, won't we visit Ajmer Sharief before going to Dhaka? Asked Monju. Mamun did not respond.

She asked again. What about a visit to the Taj Mahal! Mamunmama?

No answer. Monju pulled the blanket from Mamun's face and went on, hurt. You are angry with me. What have I done? Don't you love me any more?

The long lost word love sent electric waves through him. Love in the sense of loving one's country, loving people were commonly bandied about, without much conviction. But the sensation of hearing of love from a woman was a totally different experience.

Mamun sat up and stared at Monju without speaking.

Are you sick? Monju touched his arm with concern.

Mamun shook his head.

She drew closer. We have never been anywhere. Let us visit other places like Darjeeling. Hena wants to study in Santiniketan. She quickly moved away as the bathroom door opened.

Hai Allah, exclaimed Tahmina. It is two a.m. But I am not sleepy at all. How about chatting away the rest of the night?

You can chat but I would like to sleep, said Mamun weakly.

Tahmina giggled. How can you sleep with our chatter? Mamunmama will you recite some poetry to us, I know you are a poet.

The muse has left me. Mamun was not interested. Get some sleep. At six-thirty the part time help will knock on the door.

He pulled the blanket over him and closed his eyes leaving the two girls to a whispered conversation. Mamun could not make out what they were saying, the words of Monju echoed in his ears — Don't you love me any more? Don't you love me any more! Why did she speak of love, a word Mamun has never used talking to her? Love can have different forms, even affection, loving one's mother, loving your pet dog, there are all sorts of love. The anxiety and apprehension of the last nine months had driven away all finer sentiments. Survival had been the topmost priority, but with the coming of freedom natural sentiments have staged a come back. Now Monju is being so soft and caring after all these months.

The conversation in the next bed stopped but Mamun was wide awake. He tossed and turned in the bed. For the last six weeks he had been sleeping alone in this room. Now with the close proximity of two young women something stirred in his aging body. On the threshold of old age, Mamun still hankered for love. He felt attracted towards Monju, burnt with jealousy to find other young men displaying undue familiarity with her. He must protect her as he is committed to Babul Choudhury. But was that the only reason, he was not sure. Babul may be dead. Monju is surrounded by healthy young men, specially that Palash sticks to her. Yet with what genuine eagerness she spoke to him today. Mamunmama, don't you love me? Did it mean she only cared for his love or was it just a way of talking?

He clicked the bed switch on and climbed down from the bed. Both the women were sound asleep, Tahmina turning to the wall, Monju on her back. She is growing lovelier every day. Mamun has not seen anyone more beautiful than her among the women of Calcutta. Somehow she seemed a replica of his first love, Bula. The likeness was stunning.

The man staring at this lovely woman, the rhythmic upheaval of her breasts, was not her uncle but a different person, a poet. He has stopped writing poetry but a poet never dies. Mamun gazed at her stray locks on the forehead, the closed bird like eyes, a hint of a smile.

He went closer prompted by an urge to touch her, to tell her that it is only you I love. I can’t live a moment without you.

But on second thought he restrained himself. No, Tahmina is next to her, she can't be woken up. He felt a slight ache in his heart. Was another heart attack on its way, induced by smoking? If he dies tonight then Dhaka would be beyond his reach, he would die without taking Monju in his arms!

He stumbled away, went over to the window, put a Sorbitrate in his mouth. Tears welled up, no, he can't die now, he would not.

He looked out at the fading darkness of the cold winter sky. He waited expectantly for the ajaan, a call to prayer from an adjoining mosque, the sound which normally disturbed his sleep. He couldn't wait for sunrise.

In spite of the nagging ache in his chest, he felt a tremendous urge to smoke. Equally strong was the urge to take Monju in his arms. Both urges were insane, but he could not help it. No, no, he has to live, to hand over Monju to her husband, Hena to her mother — responsibilities he cannot very well shirk. And last but not the least he pined to look at the new Bangladesh.

Tears streaming down his cheeks, Mamun prayed, Dear Allah, give me strength. Make me forget my desires. Protect my country, bring a new lease of hope to its miserable people. O you all merciful, bring peace to my troubled heart, save me from undesirable urges, from greed. Give me back my poetic skill, please god.

63

A light sheet of snow covered the red car like a silk scarf. Christmas was just two days away - it was going to be a white Christmas. It has been snowing since early December. The holiday spirit was everywhere, the air was clear and refreshing.

Collars of his overcoat turned up, Atin was clearing the driveway with a shovel. It was his turn to day. As he was a late riser, Sharmila had to ring him to wake him up. Now Atin has a phone of his own.

Icicles hung from the tree branches, everything was sparkling in the morning light. The sky was clear but one never knew when it would start snowing again.

Atin turned the car heater on. The ice cover melted, all he had to do by way of cleaning was to wipe it affectionately with a piece of flannel. He was fond of his car, though third hand, it worked beautifully. Strangely enough it was red like the fantasy car he used to write to his mother about at a time when he was so hard up that he had to borrow his tube fare from Siddhartha.

The car was a necessary item like clothing. It saved on transport as well as time. He got his job without any effort. Company people came to recruit prospective workers from Ph. D students. He had had offer from three companies, discussed terms over lunch. He remembered the humiliation of an interview by a pool side in New York, perspiring in a borrowed suit and tie. Now he can go for lunch in jeans and parka. The difference is the stamp of a well-known university on him.

He was supposed to go back home after his doctorate. He went through days of depression before accepting the job. He used to make faces at himself in the mirror. In those difficult days Sharmila gave him constant company, trying to argue why he could not go back now. It would be suicidal. His parents too never hinted that he should go back . . .

In West Bengal the Naxalites were on the run, he heard from Shameek, a cousin of Somen. Only Charu Majumder has avoided arrest. Leaders like Kanu Sanyal, Sushital Roy Choudhury, Asim Chatterjee, all in prison, were critical of Charu Majumder, of his policy of killing, of finishing off. It was not murder which Mao had meant. His idea was to neutralise, to grab power and not indiscriminate killing. But the realisation came too late. Now it was a phase for retaliation, eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. The CPM cadres are killing three for each of their party boys killed. Congress cadres are combing localities to butcher the whole lot of Naxals, the police too is not far behind. Having the slightest Naxal connection would put one's life in jeopardy.

Shameek was younger than Atin but he knew of Atin Majumder. Though he was never a leader but now posters are being written about him, thinking him to be dead. Red salute to Atin Majumder, though if he were to return now, nobody would be there to welcome him with flowers. Knives or guns or the prison cell awaited him.

Atin has given his cycle to Shameek, one could not go to office in a cycle, particularly to negotiate twenty-two miles was out of the question. These are reasons to convince himself, to get over the guilty feeling about buying a car. The car has been paid off, it looks as good as new. Atin just loves it.

This Christmas he will go for a long drive for the first time. Siddhartha has invited them to New York for two days. Then to Buffalo to attend the big party thrown by Panchuda and Shanta boudi. They will visit Niagara Falls and proceed to Toronto. Sharmila's cousin Sumi would join them, and they will pick up Oli from Maryland.

Where are you off to for the holidays? This is a constant refrain here right from the first week of December. Everybody looks forward to it, like our Puja holidays. Their annual vacation to Deoghar was stopped because of Dada's death. One death had changed a lot of things.

Having cleaned his car, Atin went to his room and made a big breakfast of two eggs, salami, four pieces of toast, two cups of coffee and a piece of cake. He skips lunch or has sandwiches. It makes you feel lighter. In his new job Atin has to work hard. Their lab is much bigger than the university lab.

He has his dinner with Sharmila, either eats out or at her apartment. Now Sumi is quite friendly with Atin but most evenings she is out with her steady boyfriend, a Marathi boy.

From office he goes straight to Sharmila's apartment. Today they were eating out. Atin parked his car then ran to the porch. He shook the snow from his shoes. It was minus ten, already it has started snowing.

Sumi in a new hairstyle and a lovely blue overcoat came out. Her boyfriend Vijay Sathe is a good painter, he has been drawing her portrait. Atin offered to give her a lift.

How generous of you! In honour of the new car, is it? No, thanks, I won't disturb the lovebirds. Won't be back before ten.

Atin insisted. But we are going out, Sharmila has some shopping to do. We can drop you at Vijay's.

Sumi did not bother to reply. Instead she gave Atin an odd look. Go face the music. She laughed and ran down the stairs, leaving Atin rather bewildered.

Sharmila was still in a light housecoat, a book lay on the bed, the TV was on. She opened the door and flopped on the bed again.

I thought you wanted to go shopping? Atin asked.

Sharmila kept staring at him as though she was looking at him for the first time. Girls can be most mysterious at times.

The room was quite warm. Atin took off his overcoat, the jacket even the sweater. What is the matter with you? He asked. Not feeling well? Bablu, come sit by me.

He took off his shoes and stretched on the bed. If you don't feel like going out that is fine with me.

Bablu, suppose I were to die all on a sudden?

Atin was going to kiss her but he stopped half way. He gave her a searching look, no there was no trace of illness.

If you die then you just get lost. But why this death wish all on a sudden?

She just clung to him with all her might, pressing her face on his. Atin was at a loss for words. Actually he wanted to give her a good piece of his mind but it might cause her to call him a male chauvinist. He just caressed her back but she broke away and rushed to the bathroom.

Lying flat on his back Atin lit a cigarette and tried to make some sense of this illogical behaviour, something only women are capable of. Has he, unknowingly offended her? May be it was Oli, some remark by her over the phone. The two of them are good friends, have long phone conversations. Frowning, Atin felt at a loss. What should be done now? He was suddenly angry. What nonsense is this? After all he is coming after a long drive along icy roads, after a hard day's work, hungry and fagged out and she is playing some silly game. He felt like banging on the closed bathroom door but just at that moment Sharmila came out. Let us go out, she spoke normally. I have to buy a few things.

While she changed Atin rummaged the fridge and found some left overs like dal, spaghetti, prawn. He took a few sips from a beer can.

Downstairs, he wiped the windscreen of his car and asked casually. May I know why her majesty is in a foul temper today?

Sharmila touched his cheek. Bablu, I love you very very very much. But I am afraid I have done something wrong without telling you.

What is it?

I can't tell you. Please don't insist. Later may be. Hey, you haven't fastened the seat belt.

You fasten yours.

They turned to the downtown. In spite of the snowfall the streets were crowded. The shops were dazzling with illumination. Live Santa Clauses were entertaining kids in front of some shops.

Sharmila leaned against Atin, who was greatly relieved by the symptoms of her affection. So Oli has not told her anything. It must be something quite insignificant that had upset Sharmila. She could be quite silly at times, but that was part of her charm. In this oversensitiveness she was very much like Oli.

I wish I could go to mother and confide to her, murmured Sharmila, talking to herself. I have never kept anything from her, she knows about you too. But how can I tell her about this? About what?

I can't tell her over the telephone. It has to be whispered at night, lying next to her. She will understand.

Take a trip home: You will be through with your research this September. Take a six-week break.

Are you mad? I can't leave you for a minute. If I die I want you to be by me.

Stop this nonsense. Let us be practical. I have problems but you can easily take a five to six week holiday.

No question of my going alone. Let us talk about our New York plan. Have you had another talk with Siddhartha?

Yes, he called me at the office. We are going for a vacation in December so you can easily take a trip home in January. I will book a seat for you. You are feeling homesick.

I am not going home. Are we going to put up at Siddhartha's apartment, so many of us? Vijay will be going too.

Siddhartha will see to it.

Have you talked to Oli? Does she know when we are leaving?

You phone her tonight.

Why can't you do that? It is always me. She never calls me.

You want to tell your mother something yet refuse to go home, what does this mean?

Will you park near that shoe store, please.

To find a parking place is a big problem. Atin stayed in the car, making slow rounds in case the police came to tick him off. Shopping is not his cup of tea.

Sharmila made sorties to three shops after which they went to a Chinese restaurant, at the back of the old Plaza, run by two old ladies.

They found Vijay and Sumi with some more friends. Atin found no way to avoid them though he wanted to be alone with Sharmila. Vijay, a friendly sort stood up to call them. Come and join us, he shouted.

A carafe of red wine was brought on the table. The other couple was a Maharashtrian. Sharmila struck an instant rapport with them but Atin felt ill at ease.

After the meal Atin caught Sumi near the spiral staircase which went down to the washroom. He had gone there to smoke. What are you to up to? He demanded as Sumi emerged from the toilet.

Me? What have I done? Asked Sumi.

Why did you tell me go face the music? What is the matter? Sumi smiled. Sorry, I should not have said that. Actually you are a very unlucky guy to get hitched so soon. Hasn't Sejdi told you?

She is speaking in riddles. She wants to go visit her mother but the next moment she refuses. What is it?

Sumi took her time to wipe her mouth. Then she said, how much longer are you going to wait? Can she propose?

Marry?

Yes. Is this the first time you are hearing the word? Or don't you believe in the institution of marriage?

I never bother about those things. But what is the big hurry to get married?

If you want my opinion marry her in a couple of months. It can be done in the community hall. That is how Anil Sahani and Durga got married. After it is over Sejdi will take time to get over. She is very soft, not like me.

After what is over?

Abortion! It will have a psychological impact.

The word hit Atin like a blow. He stared blankly, uncomprehending.

Sumi went on. You should have taken protection. You are not even aware that Sejdi has conceived. It has been two months.

Conceived? What do you mean? Atin asked like an idiot.

Don't go on saying what do you mean, what do you mean? What do you think you are, a child? All men are like that, shirkers. She is not having her periods for the last two months.

For a twenty-six year old, Atin was ignorant about the female body and its mysterious ways. Period! He again asked in innocent wonder. What happens if it stops?

The urine test showed positive. An early curettage will not involve any risk. Luckily it is legal now, otherwise she would have had to go to Europe. Vijay has a doctor friend. He will have it done after Christmas.

By now the whole thing had registered. Atin, his eyes bulging, sprang towards Sumi. Clutching her shoulder he growled. Curettage? Indeed! Kill it, right? Who says so? Who has dared?

A white woman coming down the stairs saw one coloured youth attacking a coloured girl and looked the other way.

Let go, Sumi snapped. Have you gone mad?

His face unusually bright, eyes glowing, Atin went on, Why was I not told? Who had given the order to kill? I warn you. Pushing him away Sumi said. Don't be childish, Babluda. You should have married her. What is the way out now? An early abortion is not risky. Go now, kneel before my sister and ask for her hand.

She left, leaving Atin dumbfounded. So his child is growing in Sharmila's womb. He is a father. Beads of perspiration stood on his forehead, his head in a whirlwind. He never thought of this possibility during the passionate acts of intimacy.

He marched upstairs, gave Sharmila a piercing look and ordered, get up. We are going home. As he tried to put some money on the table, Vijay held his hand, Want to start a fight?

That was an old joke. A fight decides who is to foot the bill. But Sharmila pleaded, Let us stay. Bablu, why don't you sit down.

Sumi winked at Sharmila. Atin was almost dragging Sharmila out of her chair. Outside the restaurant, Atin turned his angry eyes on her, I am going to tear you to pieces. You don't know me.

I think I do, Sharmila smiled sweetly.

Why didn't you tell me before?

I was so confused myself. When Sumi told me about the urine test and I did it, I could not believe my eyes.

Aren't you supposed to tell me everything? That thing about stopping of period?

How could I? It would have amounted to saying I am pregnant, so marry me. You had said that you won't marry without telling your parents. So I decided to wait. We can't go home now. So the abortion is only alternative.

No! roared Atin. He held Sharmila's hand in a tight grip as though he would break it. You won't. Like hell you won't.

Please stop shouting, Bablu. There is just no other way. It is quite safe, believe me.

Pushing her roughly inside the car, Atin barked. So I am not entitled to an opinion, is it? My child. I don't want any funny business. We are getting married this week. Right here.

Bursting into a sob, Sharmila said, but how can I, without telling my mother? I can't, I can't. Please Bablu.

All his bravado gone, Atin began hitting his head on the steering wheel and howled in a way he had never cried since his birth. Even Sharmila stopped in amazement at the childlike outburst of her stubborn lover.

In a vain attempt to stop him she patted his back and kept saying, Stop it, please, stop it.

I am going to burn this car. Atin went on, I will quit my job, never meet you, I will get lost. I am a worthless bounder, my life has no value, no meaning . . . Khuku, the worst part is even you have not understood me. Don't, Bablu, for god's sake. Can I live without you even for a single day? You know Sumi and the others assured me that abortion is no problem at this stage.

His face wet with tears, Atin said, his tone as miserable as if he has never known happiness, Khuku, I am a good for nothing fellow. My brother, my brilliant brother drowned because of me. I have killed a man with my own hands to save Manikda. I am a killer and now I am on my way to kill my own child. I remain a killer. Is this life worth living?

Without a word Sharmila caressed his face fondly. Then she confessed. It is not that I want it either. I want to die. Come on, let us both end of our lives.

Atin perked up. You mean it? Yes, that is it. We will open the gas and swallow some sleeping pills, it won't hurt . . .

If you say so.

Come let's. Today.

Sharmila placed her face against Atin's chest. I would like to be with you always. Whatever you say . . .

Atin placed his hand on Sharmila's abdomen. No, no, I don't want the baby to die. I can only kill myself. You must live, you and the baby.

I will explain everything to Ma, she will understand, said Sharmila slowly. No matter what people say, we will get married here.

Yes, Siddhartha will make all arrangements. He has a lot of contact in New York. We will go to a marriage registrar.

But it is holiday season.

Does not matter. We will stay on after the New Year.

What about your parents?

There is no time now. I will tell them later.

They wiped their tears. For two determined adults nothing can be a hurdle. Hew foolish of them to think of suicide or infanticide. They came to Atin's apartment. Atin rang up Siddhartha but it went on ringing. Atin decided to call him the next day.

You must tell Oli when she should expect us, suggested Sharmila.

Yes, you better call her, hesitated Atin.

No Bablu, you should tell her, Sharmila insisted.

Atin dialed her number. After a conversation in English Atin turned to Sharmila. I don't understand this. That artist lady said Oli has gone back to India. But how can that be?

Has she moved to another house? No, the lady repeated, she has left for India But that is impossible. It has only been a few months, and without telling us!

When was the last time I talked to her? Sharmila tried to think back. Was it last Monday? No, Sunday, eight days ago. She never told me. OK, let us call Papiya.

Papiya was a Bangladeshi neighbour of Oli in Maryland. She was surprised that Sharmila did not know. Oli had left in a chartered flight four days ago, she told her. The ticket was booked a month ago. She is not coming back. She bade good bye to everybody else except Atin and Sharmila.

I don't know this Shounak. Sighed Atin after a long silence. I hope he will be kind to a simple nice girl like Oli. She was in such a hurry to get back to Shaunak. Khuku, I have no secrets from you except one. It would be unfair not to let you know. I had a relationship with Oli.

I know. The way she looked at you, the way she forced herself to smile.

But we never had, I mean it was nothing physical.

Does it matter? She is in love with you, she came here only for you but I have taken you away from her.

That question does not arise at all. She could not wait for me. She has Shounak now, she told me so herself. But I don't blame her, there was just no way I could keep in touch.

Got to go now. Sharmila stood up.

Go? Where? Atin said in great surprise.

Home. I think we should take some time to think it over.

Stay with me tonight. Atin caught hold of her hand.

Sharmila forced herself free. Just because I am pregnant, you have to marry me! For shame. I have hurt Oli, how can I ever forget that? She is so much better than me. Bring her back, at whatever cost.

Atin held her hands. Wrong, wrong. I do not matter to Oli any more. Shaunak means more to her. I don't want to disturb her. You are all I have, Khuku.

He dragged her to the mirror. You are just not my lover but the mother of my child. Let us give him or her a good life, he or she can go back home, I will live through our child. Let me live, Khuku, please.

They stood before the mirror, their foreheads touching and shed tears together.

Epilogue

1

ON certain days which come very rarely, the sunset sky just before the onset of dusk takes on a splendid glow, the rays of the sun can be seen streaming down almost like the milky way. It is so exquisite as to seem out of this world. On such afternoons old people should not budge out of doors. It is the law of nature. The seuli flowers do not blossom in the month of Magh, cuckoos are silent in summer, the breeze comes to a standstill in late autumn, in the same way there are change of seasons in human life. One has to accept them.

On such an afternoon Pratap Majumder stood idly watching the traffic from his verandah, all by himself in the house and decided to go out. Nobody would be coming home, the thought lay heavy on his mind. He was finding the loneliness too heavy, almost unbearable.

Technically he was an old man now, known as Dadu to the neighbourhood boys instead of the earlier Kakababu. Except for the white hair there was no visible sign of aging in his body, his muscles were tight, he did not use a stick as most Bengalis of his age used to at one time. He always dressed well in his trousers and shoes before going out, it was against his nature to sport slippers like the present generation. The only reason he was considered old was that he was now retired.

The chance-built chance-erected city built by the British was showing signs of rotting already, brought up as it was on a tottering foundation. The roads were subsiding, old palaces looked shabby, the new ones, done without proper planning were a monstrosity. The patchy cosmetic cleaning reminded Pratap of the heavily made up face of an aging prostitute. Not that the image came to him from experience, he was deeply impressed by the painting of a Parisian artist whose name he has forgotten.

The suburbs were even shabbier. The influx of refugees after partition has faded from public memory but like the residue of a flood after the water has receded, the shanties remain, a haphazard growth of human habitation. The temporary thatches have been replaced by brick structures but they do not look like homes with a sentimental history, they are just places to squeeze in somehow.

Pratap was allergic to these suburban colonies but not to the residents. Human beings, their ups and downs fascinate him, almost like a gambler pondering over profit and loss. He has great respect for those people who survive and rise against heavy odds.

Against his own wishes but persuaded, goaded and ordered by his wife, he too has built a house in one of the suburbs he detested, spending all his provident fund money. Most of his working life was spent in rented homes and if he had his way he would have spent the rest of his life that way. He joked to his friends that in important matters like Peace Treaty between Soviet Russia and the US, or the future Prime Minister of India, his opinion was the last word in the domestic front. But in trivial matters like how his earnings should be spent his wife takes the decision.

The white two-storied building stood a little away from the Jadavpur bus depot, on a lane to the right of the Krishna Glass Factory, the fourth house from the corner. He was proud of the house. At long last he was the owner of a plot of land, not a homeless refugee any more. It was a comforting thought. The humiliation of being served a notice by the landlord was gone forever. Moreover, he needed rooms for the children who, hopefully would visit them off and on.

The ground floor had three shops and a garage though Pratap did not have a car of his own. He lived on the upper floor. Today he was alone. Mamata was visiting their daughter at Hardwar, it was the day off for Nanu, the domestic help. Pratap was unmindful by nature so he double-checked the locks before going out.

It was a beautiful day but instead of relishing it Pratap had a sudden feeling of the uselessness of his own life. Such a dangerous thought was obsessing him quite often. He needed company to get over it. But where could he go except at Bimanbehari's. It was the only house he could visit as often as he wished but he wanted to restrict his visits to not more than once a month, as though it was too precious like a Kashmiri shawl, would not stand a lot of wear and tear.

He walked up to the bus stop. His habitual frugality stopped him from taking a taxi. A building was coming up. He watched it with a newfound interest developed after his own involvement with construction. A middle-aged workman came down the ladder. He had an impressive personality in spite of his lungi and torn vest. He collected his tools in a bag and started to walk away and soon disappeared in the crowd.

Where did he live, wondered Pratap. Do all these people building mansions for others have a place of their own? This sad looking workman who just left, will he be back tomorrow? If he doesn't somebody else is sure to carry on his job. The building will take shape, people will fill in all the flats, and happiness will be there. This is the law of the world.

For absolutely no reason whatever, Pratap felt the sad looking workman was his twin brother.

A strong breeze and a pink glow in the sky made him wonder if a storm was on the way. He loved the widespread sweep of sudden gusts in the countryside, swaying huge trees, making bullock carts run helter skelter. In the concrete jungle of a city storms take on a different look.

As he was crossing the road, a man in a dhoti and shirt gave him a knowing look but Pratap could not remember where he had met him. Unwilling to waste his time in useless talk, he looked away. His eyes fell on the show window of a sari shop, to a yellow mannequin and his heart missed a beat . . . It was exactly a replica of Sulekha.

In one's busy working life there is hardly any time for brooding over the past. After a breathless run of fifty years or so, one takes a break, and looks back and wonders how he could survive such a dangerous journey. How was it that I did not go under! From the dim stretch of the past, certain bright and familiar faces emerge. Where did Sulekha go, such a lively, spirited, lovely woman? She was just not the wife of Pratap's brother-in-law, she was loveliness incarnate, and they had a very special relationship. Perhaps the world does not deserve the likes of her. Why did she put an end to such a beautiful life Pratap failed to understand. A criminal waste! Tridib too has not been heard of since. His life is a total ruin.

It has been more than twenty years. Pratap did not see her again after they left for Delhi, her memory was hidden in some deep corner of the mind. Nobody mentioned her any more. But perhaps all is not lost. Who would have thought that she would reappears as a mannequin in a shop at Jadavpur. Who was the artist who had visualised her exact likeness? Pratap had an uncontrollable desire to meet that man.

How are you, sir! It was a tallish man in dhoti and shirt. The voice rang a bell. He had to deal with this man in connection with the buying of three ceiling fans. Out of the three, two did not turn fast enough to drive the mosquitoes away. Instigated by his wife, Pratap had gone to the go-down to have them changed. This man who was in charge had asked him to come after a week as that particular type was not in stock. Pratap, already sour for being forced to do the unpleasant task, coming in a taxi all the way, lost his temper. Blood rushed to his face, he used strong words demanding immediate replacement. Otherwise I am going to take you to court, he had declared firmly.

The man could have been equally rude, but he spoke apologetically. You are getting angry, sir. You must be having high blood pressure. Please have a seat. Would you like a cold drink? They are having a go slow movement at the factory, what is there for us to do sir. If you do not mind sir, are you a Leo, I mean in astrological sign? I have this hobby of guessing people's astrological types from their face . . .

In all the trips that Pratap was obliged to take to that place, the company of this person had helped. He certainly was different, studying the relation between stars and human destiny, in a dark and dingy godown. He had made some queer observations about his past and future. Pratap had no faith in astrology but he enjoyed talking to him.

He did not know his name, just the face looked familiar. It was unlikely that this man remembered Pratap's name and address yet he accosted him as though they were close acquaintances. How are you sir? He asked. I hope the fans are not giving trouble. If you do not mind sir, may I ask you something? Have you been feeling depressed lately? Feel kind of empty inside? My humble advice to you sir, please don't take root vegetables like potatoes, onions, ginger, and radishes — avoid them strictly. You are still under the influence of Jupiter.

Amused, Pratap shirked the question. Is your home in the vicinity?

Home? I have no home, replied the man indifferently. The home I used to have was on the other side, gobbled up by Nehru and Jinnah Saheb.

Pratap persisted. Where do you live, on this side I mean.

Way past Garia. I have taken annual leave, want to visit the ashram of Raman Maharshi. Do drop in one day, said Pratap. He gave him directions to his own house, much to his own surprise. This man is not my social equal — he contemplated. Am I getting weaker? Losing out? Beginning to believe in astrology? Anyway, he seems to be nice company, not after money. Mamata would be happy to meet an amateur astrologer.

Two minibuses pulled up, one after the other. Pratap chose the second one because of a young woman in a pink sari getting into it. Pratap admired the perfect symmetry of her feet, the red slipper, a part of her leg revealing a batter soft texture of the calf muscles. This has been an old habit, to select a good-looking woman in a public transport he was travelling in. Now at the age of sixty-seven, he felt no qualm, this was one way of appreciating the spirit of beauty.

From the back she looked somewhat like Sulekha. For no reason Sulekha was not far from his mind today. Pratap chose a back seat; he did not want to get closer or even to have a glimpse of her face.

He was reminded of an interview published in a newspaper of a ninety-four year old Gandhian social worker. When asked about the secrets of his monastic life, the old man had given an interesting answer. I have not had any intercourse with a woman in the last sixty years, I am dedicated to the service of the country, have not allowed any other thought to distract me. Personal desires have never had a place in my life. But let me be perfectly truthful. Even at this age the sight of a beautiful woman makes me antagonistic to the other males near her. I want them to move back and allow her to come to me and talk to me. How would you define this feeling? Call it restraint or desire?

This was exactly what Pratap used to feel about Sulekha. Talking to her was pure happiness. Who would have guessed that at that age an old man can have that kind of desire. It was the truth, however unnerving.

Getting down at the Hazra crossing, Pratap was obliged to walk, stepping carefully over the dug up road — a preparation for the underground metro. Why do they take so much time, wondered Pratap. Nothing seems to work on time.

The afternoon sky had wrought a change in him, he alternated between cheerfulness and depression, like the ebb and flow in a river. He paused as he reached Bimanbehari's gate. This is not where he had wanted to come. The idea of looking at the sunset from the riverside had crossed his mind once. He liked to sit all by himself by the Ganga where chances of meeting acquaintances were rare.

The gate Bimanbehari was obliged to put up for reasons of security looked incongruous, hiding the open ground from view. The Naxals used to be very active in this area.

The durwan came up to him and saluted respectfully. How are you Saheb? He asked.

Pratap nodded and made the usual inquiries about health. If it were not for the durwan, he would have slipped away quietly. Now he was obliged to enter.

Opening the gate, the durwan informed him, Babu and Ma have left for Krishnanagar that morning. Pratap looked pale as though he has been insulted. It seemed to him like a betrayal. Biman must have driven down, he could have asked me. He forgot that his telephone was out of order for the last month, and they have been out of touch for quite some time.

Please come in, saheb, said the durwan.

No, I don't think I will. When are they coming back?

The news that Bimanbehari will be there for a week made Pratap even more furious. This was the perfect time for him to take a trip, Mamata was not likely to come back before two weeks. Pratap had no particular work in Calcutta. So Biman too has been ignoring him? Who is left then? Friends drop off as people grow older, and Pratap has never been particularly sociable in nature. Lately he was having serious fights with Mamata. He was getting more isolated every day.

Just as he was turning back to go a sweet musical voice rang out, Pratap kaka!

The two sisters loaded with packets were getting down from a taxi. All his displeasure gone, Pratap beamed. Where had the two butterflies gone?

To paradise, pat came the answer from Buli, who had filled up now but was as jolly as ever. She did not treat Pratap with the extra respect due to an older person. May I know why you were turning to go?

Since nobody was home. When did you get here from Bombay?

Day before yesterday, I have a TV recording tomorrow. Sujan Singh, will you carry these packets? Come let us go in, Pratap kaka.

Oli paid the taxi and smiled at Pratap. She had the same slim and tall figure, now she wore glasses. Buli had made a name as a singer. Now after marriage she lived in Bombay but visited Calcutta quite often.

This time I am staying for a couple of weeks. Can we make that trip to Sunderban? You are a big liar. You had promised to book a launch for us, remember?

Both the sisters were keen to take a trip to the Sunderbans. The father of the present director of the tiger project was a colleague of Pratap, and he had promised the sisters but somehow the trip never materialised.

You did not remind me, did you? He put a counter charge to Buli.

I like that, demurred Buli. You never came this way.

You live so far away now. You must let me know when you are coming. I have moved to a godforsaken place.

Come on, said Oli. Jadavpur is not that far from here. Baba was complaining that you hardly ever come. A telegram came from Krishnanagar last evening and Baba had to rush. He wanted to send you a message. But the court hearing was this afternoon, so Baba had no time. That was a logical explanation. Oli was quick to sense that Pratap was hurt. They were having a court case about the joint property.

I have not been to your new house, complained Buli. Tell Kakima that I will be coming tomorrow, after the TV recording. She must make peas kachuri for me.

Your Kakima is in Hardwar.

Why? All by herself! You must have fought with her.

Your Kakima is a free individual now, said Pratap sarcastically. Let make a move now. Have got some work to do.

Work can wait. Have a cup of tea first. Oli touched his arm.

Oli was the only person who could dictate to Pratap. They went up the stairs to the office room, which has now been partitioned. Oli occupied one of the three chambers. The business has expanded, three people worked for Bimanbehari. He had wanted his friend to take charge of the administration but Pratap did not want to have a business relation taint their friendship. He gave the excuse that he wanted to enjoy his retirement.

Let me go and make the tea, said Oli. Jagadish is not home. I hate the tea Parul's mother makes.

Pratap was particular about his tea. He had not enjoyed the tea made by Parul's mother, the last time he was here. Oli has not forgotten that. She is very observant. She keeps herself busy, teaching in a college, helping her father in the publication business, she also finds time for social work. She went over to Pratap's place if his visits were infrequent. One day Mamata was suddenly taken very ill. Pratap's family physician was away, he was in a fix. Oli suddenly appeared like an angel and took charge. Mamata was taken to a nursing home. For everything Mamata depended on Oli. But she avoided Bablu when he was here, though she was very friendly with Sharmila.

She entered with the tea tray. Pratap felt so guilty, he lowered his eyes.

2

AS the car came to a halt near the New Jersey turnpike, Siddhartha lit a cigarette and resumed his story. His real name is Abhaycharan Dey. He went on. He comes from Harrison Road in Calcutta, now known as Mahatma Gandhi Road. He is the son of a cloth merchant, Subarnabanik by caste, of Vaishnab sect. He was a student of Scottish Church College, one-year junior to Subhas Bose, Netaji Subhas, no other.

Good god, that old? Atin exclaimed. But how do you know all this? Met him once, went to him just out of curiosity. Siddhartha started the car. It is a fantastic story. Abhaycharan left college without getting a degree — may be influenced by the anti-British sentiments sweeping the country in those days. Boycott British degrees — that sort of thing. His father got him a job in a medicine firm run by a Bengali. He had to tour a lot, got married, had children, eventually started his own business, opened shops in Calcutta and Allahabad. Being a Vaishnab he was vegetarian, did not even take tea, a bit cranky about religion. That is nothing unusual. Once he went to a sadhu of the Gouriya Math, persuaded by a friend. I hope you know where that is?

Cut it short. Frowned Siddhartha. Since when have we started being interested in temples and shrines?

Just to give you an idea of the background. It is a massive phenomenon, we should know about. It is an unbelievable real-life adventure story. I am not talking about the religious angle. That sadhu of the Gouriya Math said something, which impressed him deeply. You are an educated young man — why don't you spread the message of Sri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu across the world? That of course was an absurd proposition in the nineteen twenties, in a country ruled by the British. But as time went on, Abhaycharan turned more religious, had religious sessions at home. Eventually he left his family. The story goes that his family never approved of his obsession with religion. His wife, unlike him was so fond of tea that if asked to choose between her husband and tea, she would have opted for the latter.

Humbug! Scoffed Atin. One does not leave his wife for such a silly reason.

Actually Abhaycharan was not interested in family life any more. That sadhu had asked him to spread the message of Sri Chaitanya to those who could not read Hindi or Bengali. Keeping this in mind, Abhaycharan left home, put up in a free guesthouse and started a journal in English called Back to Godhead. He was the writer, editor, proofreader as well as salesman. He would sit in front of a teashop and push-sell it. He was in his mid-fifties then.

You do have all sorts, Cracked, Atin lightly.

Right, but they don't last. But this man was adamant. With no money, nor any warm clothing he carried on his self-imposed mission. He started translating the Gita with notes and printed them.

Was his English good enough?

Well in those days graduates knew English fairly well, but wrote in a somewhat bombastic style. He would write letters arid approach people for financial help and got some. There are businessmen who give donations to keep their conscience clear.

You are supposed to take a right turn here. Atin reminded him.

The next one. I will take the tunnel. — will drop you to the airport in time, don't worry. When is your next trip to China?

After I am back from Canada. Possibly in the third week.

Breaking journey at Calcutta, are you? Impossible. Just five days at Shanghai! Ticket is via Tokyo, no scope for going to India.

I have never been to China, you know. They might send me to Hong Kong. In that case I might tag along with your trip. You have been to China twice. Been around? Seen the countryside?

The Chinese are very fussy, I have absolutely no time of my own. Would you do me a favour, Siddhartha? Ron is running fever, do check on him while I am gone. You know how worried Sharmila gets.

Nipa would spend the weekend with her. Oh boy, look at the traffic jam ahead.

Leaning back on his seat, Siddhartha went on. Would you like to hear the rest of the story?

How did the old man finally land in America? Atin was mildly curious.

Sheer willpower. After selling his journal and Gita translations for fifteen years, he decided to spread the message to the West. He had no resources but a method of his own. The most important thing was getting a visa. This he obtained through a business contact, one Mr. Agarwal who obtained a sponsorship from his son Gopal in Pennsylvania. The next hurdle was the ticket. Undaunted Abhaycharan came down to Bombay and met Sumati Morarji.

The shipping tycoon!

That's right. One of the owners of the Scindia Steamship Line, she had at one time donated some money for his Gita publication. That this man in a dhoti and kurta, nearing seventy was determined to go to the States alone, propagating religion was downright absurd. But Abhaycharan was ready to risk his life, but go he must. Finally he was given a passage in one of Scindia ships. Equipped with just a suitcase, an umbrella and some pressed rice, Abhaycharan set out on his journey. He was under the impression that all the food one gets in America is either beef or pork.

Did he carry enough food to last him his entire stay?

No idea. He landed at Brooklyn port in saffron sadhu attire, with sandalwood paste marks on the forehead, a garland of beads and a pair of white rubber shoes — a strange spectacle. That was two years before I came here. He had eight dollars in his pocket and carried a lot of his own pamphlets. He had no idea of the place but he knew that he was here to conquer America.

Day before yesterday thousands of youngsters, some sporting pigtails danced in the streets of Manhattan, stopping all traffic. I saw it on T.V. How could the old man get so many followers?

That is my point. This is a remarkable conquest story by a man who landed here with only eight dollars. Initially that Gopal, son of Agarwal, rented a room in the YMCA hostel where Abhaycharan stayed but came over with his brass cooker to Gopal's house to cook. Just rice and dal and won the heart of Gopal’s wife Sally through this unique vegetarian meal. Many used to have a look at this peculiar sadhu, a cloth cap on his clean-shaven head, always with the umbrella. He had a wonderful memory for names.

How do you know all these details?

I took the trouble of finding out. Meanwhile the traffic started moving though at snail's pace. Siddhartha went on with the rest of the story.

After about a month in Butler, Abhaycharan had a feel of American people. He needed a bigger pasture and moved to New York. A smart young Indian named Dr. Rammurti Mishra who ran a Yoga studio and organised Indian concerts gave him shelter but soon they parted ways. Abhaycharan had changed his name first to Bhaktivedantaswami and later to Prabhupada. He rented a tiny room for seventy-two dollars where he sang kirtans and spoke to disciples. That was his Krishna temple.

Seventy-two dollars plus food! Where did he get the money.

The proceeds from his books and pamphlets. He had no idea of where his next meal would come from but he carried on nevertheless. Already people interested in India and Indian philosophy knew him. Then the Hippies joined. They discovered a new kind of music in his kirtan played with the rhythm of cymbals. The young generation was looking for a new philosophy in the all-pervading shadow of Vietnam War.

Prabhupada had no earthly belongings to call his own except a trunk full of books, a ramshackle typewriter and a tape recorder, the last one a gift from his followers. A burglar broke in one day and took away everything. Prabhupada after an equally disastrous stint in an attic was back on the streets. He had a return ticket with him. He could have returned home but he was made not of ordinary stuff, determined to proclaim the glory of Krishna till his last breath. The seventy-year old man was not to give up. One of his kirtan fans, Michael Grant, was a singer. On his initiative a shop space was rented in Second Avenue. Prabhupada gave the broker a set of Bhagavat Gita and declared, we are going to set up an organisation for Krishna thoughts, you are going to be my first official trustee.

Atin laughed out aloud thinking it to be a joke. Siddhartha was serious. That is what actually happened. This room is not very far from the place we lived in at Lower East Side. That is where ISKCON was established — International Society for Krishna Consciousness. Some had suggested the name God Consciousness but Prabhupada insisted on Krishna. He had come to this country to familiarise the Americans with the name of Krishna, and Krishna it will be. That shop space and the adjoining apartment developed into an ashram. The food was vegetarian, people came in to join in the prayer and kirtan, they had to leave their shoes outside, no drug, drink even cigarettes were not allowed inside. In spite of the austerity, his following increased, including Allen Ginsberg with his group. The next step was singing of Harekrishna songs in Washington Park.

Meanwhile they had entered the brightly-lit Lincoln tunnel, under the sea. The cars were speeding, one accident could result in a chain of smashed cars but nobody seemed to bother, everybody was in a tearing hurry.

Siddhartha, still on the same topic went on. Now almost every city in the US has an ISKCON temple. It has become a religious empire covering even UK, Canada, France, Japan, everywhere. Just imagine an aging middle class businessman from India accomplished all this. It is mind-boggling.

Well, I must admit it is a spectacular success story. But tell me Siddhartha, are you leaning towards spiritualism? No, I look at it from a different angle. This Prabhupada came here penniless with only his conviction to steer him. He has not budged from his standpoint. He has made vegetarians out of a meat eating, sexually permissive race, imposed sexual morality on them. His disciples all have Indian names like Mukunda, Kush, Kamala, Anuradha. The men shave their heads, women don sari. This is not just a craze. And look at us. We are in a hurry to change our names. Everybody calls me Sid in office. We insist on wearing a tie, talk ill of our own country, speak in English with our children. Our children have no interest in the country of their origin. And this old man is injecting Indian culture into thousands of young Americans.

Not Indian culture, idiot, but religion, which can be used as opium still! Religion rejected by us is now selling for a good price in the west.

Who says we have rejected religion? Have you gone mad? I am sorry to say you do not know your own country.

I am talking of people of our background and education. I do not find any Indian in the ISKCON rallies — they are all whites.

He came here with the specific object of taking the name of Krishna to foreigners . . .

I don't find a single Black in the rallies. Prabhupada was not keen to bring solace to the most exploited class, is that it?

Frankly, I find it rather peculiar, the way the Black population is taking to Islam.

The answer is pretty simple. The basic principle of Islam is equality, brotherhood. All Muslims have equal rights and the right to fight for it. And the basics of Hindu religion are renouncing the world; life is an illusion and all such hocus-pocus. Do such lofty ideals have any meaning for those who do not get two square meals a day, nor a roof over their heads? To the White people who rule the world and are kind of tired of plenty, this philosophy has an appeal because it is different.

You are being simplistic, Atin. Think of the inner significance. It is not just some philosophy explained in archaic English.

I know what is wrong with you. You are impressed by the fact that an ordinary Bengali is heading such a big organisation. I do not see it that way, I am sorry. Any organisation in the name of religion is bound to degenerate into sects and sectarian trouble. We must do away with religion altogether if you want the ultimate good of all the people.

You have a rigid mind. Why do you flare up at the mere mention of religion? If somebody finds peace that way, what is wrong with it? It is a fact that millions and millions find solace in religion.

Your brain washing is total. Go then, get initiated, join them if they are ready to take you.

I am not thinking of that. What amazes me is the height one can achieve by one's own conviction. Look at us. No conviction, nothing whatsoever, just earning and spending, changing the model of a car, buying a new house. Do you call this life? This has become an obsession with me. I have decided to go back, face the consequences. You had a bit too much last night it seems. The hangover is still there, smiled Atin. Don't you remember your experience last time you went back?

I am ready to make another experiment. Siddhartha seemed determined.

He dropped Atin at the JFK airport. It was Thanksgiving, a holiday, but Atin had a flight to Chicago. There was no hurry, the flight was not due for some time so he opened his file with details of the business deal he was to attend to and which was sure to bring him a promotion if handled well. But he felt distracted. Ever since they started the topic of the ISKCON, which had made headlines in today's paper because of the traffic jam it had caused, Siddhartha had been harping on it. He used to be such fun to be with but he has changed after the unfortunate accident. His parents had been living with him in his fairly large house. His father, a retired History Professor, a silent, studious type was run over by a car on the highway. An accident is an accident after all, it could have happened in Calcutta. But the incident so upset Siddhartha's mother that she refused to stay here.

Siddhartha was the only child, he wanted his mother to live with them, but she went back to her flat in Calcutta. Siddhartha was deeply hurt. Now from his talks it looked like he was planning to go back. Was he thinking of staying with his mother? Atin hated such cheap sentiments. Was his wife Nipa or his children of no consequence to him?

Evidently his father's death had affected him. Was he looking for a father figure in Prabhupada? Atin is not impressed by the conquest of religious gurus. They are no good. But the subject took him back to Calcutta. Memories, mostly unpleasant kept flooding in.

After Emergency Indira Gandhi lost and the Left Front came to power in West Bengal. All cases against political prisoners were withdrawn. Atin of course had a murder case against him but by some manoeuvering Bimanbehari managed to put him in the other category and the case was withdrawn. The coast was clear and Atin was just waiting for this opportunity. Sharmila was willing. They just had a five-year old daughter, Anita. Ron was yet to be born.

But the Calcutta he went back to was a different city. The local trains were packed to full, people crowding near the door shouted, no room, no room, speaking for the entire country to the likes of Atin and Siddhartha.

Atin had no idea that his father's flat in Selimpur was so small. Their Kalighat house had more space. But Atin did not mind. After all the idea was to live with the family. The pollution bothered Sharmila, she would have preferred to live in Jamshedpur but Atin would not hear of it. We have lived all our life here, it is just a matter of getting used, and he told her. He refused a job offer from TISCO. He wanted to be with his father, make him forget the loss of his other son.

That job at the Drug Research Laboratory still gave him the creeps. Nobody worked, and made fun of others who wanted to work. This is not your America sir, was the constant refrain.

And the meanest forms of jealousy! Siddhartha too had the same kind of experience. Have you ever seen disinterested jealousy? He had asked Atin. That is what they indulge in. They are not going to gain from it, but it is backbiting and jealousy just for the sake of it. He could have gone through it all if he had friends. But he had none. Siddhartha's job took him to Durgapur. Atin was pained to see Kaushik and Pompom. But the person who had hurt him most was Oli.

The security check call came on through the public address system. Atin got up, closing his file. He could not go through a single line. So Siddhartha was having a sentimental phase. Going back indeed. He has to be given a piece of his mind. It is nice to be nostalgic from far.

Sharmila wants to go home this year. She went for a visit three years ago, without Atin. He can't make it this year too, there were repairs to be done to the house, it cost a lot. May be next year.

Oli! Even now the very thought of her sent warm blood rushing through his veins. Anger was all he felt towards her.

3

ONLY a few people lived in the Segun Bagicha mansion, which used to resound with the hub of human voices at one time. Monju's father Samsul Alam, so cheerful and radiant, suffered from acute mental instability in his old age. He read books and newspapers, could recognise people but lapsed into incoherence from time to time. He would take refuge in the corner of a room, flop down on the floor and mutter in fright, they are coming, they are coming. He was taken to London for treatment but nothing worked. When Monju came to visit him after returning from Calcutta, he greeted her affectionately. My darling daughter, so you are back. Good. Where is Sukhu Mian? You have called him Sukhu, but I am afraid there is no sukh, no happiness, in either his destiny or yours.

He often made such terrible predictions. When Sheikh Mujib and his family were killed, Alam Saheb uttered ominous words. The next to go would be Tajjuddin, he declared calmly. Syed Nazrul, Mansur Ahmed, Kamrujjaman — all those who fought for liberty will have to go. Two days before the terrible incidents took place, Shamsul Alam's body was found floating in the adjoining tank. It was not clear if it was accident or suicide.

Of his five surviving children, one was living abroad, two married daughters lived in Chittagong and Rajshahi. A wall divided the house into two parts. Maliha Begum preferred to live separately, away from the second daughter-in-law Zubaida. They did not get along at all. Monju lived with her mother.

Maliha Begum's portion had five bedrooms, two verandahs, two kitchens, two toilets and a large courtyard. Monju's nineteen-year old son was the only male member in a household of three women. Maliha Begum in spite of her age was quite fit, she could climb stairs and often went up to the terrace to catch a glimpse of her grandchildren and son who avoided all contact with her. Monju was now Bilquis Banu, a celebrity singer. Her face, seen often on Bangladesh television was familiar, she was asked for autographs in shops and market places. But Monju rarely went out.

Monira lived with her, she had nobody else to go to. For a long time she had lived with the expectation that Sirajul would come back like thousands of women in the country who had lost their dear ones in the war.

It was ten in the morning, Monju sat with a Japanese synthesiser Kamal had brought her. Every time she played it, she marveled at the skill of the Japanese. This wonderful instrument could simulate sounds of the harmonium, tanpura, esraj, piano, and violin.

The telephone rang. Monju went on practicing, she never picked up the phone. Monira who now acted as her private secretary attended to all her calls. To deal with the TV, cinema and record companies and to keep accounts Monju had another secretary, a young man named Malek.

Monira rushed out of another room, picked up the phone and spoke with some authority, Bilquis Banu is busy, but you may leave a message.

The voice at the other end snapped. Stop fooling Monira — call her.

Monira, red with embarrassment bit her tongue. Kamal Saheb, she announced.

Though Monju did not like to leave her music practice she could not very well ignore Kamal.

Good morning Begum Saheba, greeted Kamal. Are you in a good mood today?

Ji, replied Monju. The recording is at four, I remember.

That is what I am calling you about. It has been cancelled.

What? Cancelled? No recording today!

There is a strike, you won't get transport. Everything is closed.

What is it for?

Oh come on. You live in a different world. Protest call by all opposition parties, against the firing on students of Comilla. I have told Malek, the studio is not available tomorrow. Recording is the day after. Hasn't he told you?

Malek has not come, may be because of the strike.

Did I disturb you Monju? Were you busy?

I was practicing.

Can you sing to me now? Since you never ask me home . . .

Monju was in no mood for this kind of talk; she rang off after some polite exchanges. In the entertainment world Monju was known to be proud and haughty, she had no friends. She never asked anyone to her home. Except for Kamal nobody would dare to adopt a flippant tone with her.

Still quite slim in her light blue cotton Tangail sari, Monju stood for some time, staring blankly.

Strike today, she muttered softly. Monira, where is Sukhu?

No idea, must be in his room, said Monira.

Would you go and see?

The usual racket of pop music was not heard from his second floor room. Sukhu loved stuff like Michael Jackson, Rolling Stones, Police — he did not care for Bangla songs including those of her mother. Before Monira could go he came thumping down the stairs. He was a healthy and handsome young man, quite tall, broad shoulders. He wore a T-shirt over faded jeans.

Ma, give me five hundred bucks, he demanded, without beating about the bush.

Where are you off to now? Monju was worried.

The money, please. To the university!

They have declared a strike today, where would you go?

Don't be funny. He shrugged his shoulders. If everybody sits at home then who will form the rally?

No, please, don't. Monju insisted. There will be trouble.

Sukhu paid no heed. Let me have the money, I have to reach there by eleven.

You mean to say you that one thousand I gave you on Monday is all gone?

So you won't. Very well. He turned around to go.

Sukhu, please, wait a minute. I never said I wouldn't.

But Sukhu stomped down the stairs, glaring at Monira who rushed to stop him. Don't you touch me, he barked.

He was becoming quite stubborn lately. Her mother's words had no effect.

Maliha Begum came out, looking worried. All traffic is closed today and you let him go?

What could Monju do? She walked up to the window trying to check her tears. She did not approve of his lavish ways but was helpless to stop him or to say no to him. By then Sukhu had brought out the motor bike, and was off with a thunderous noise like a spirited horseman.

Mother and daughter watched him without a word, anxious, each knew what was going on in the other's mind. Trouble often flared up in the Dhaka university campus, shots were exchanged, bombs exploded. Sometimes the students fought with the police, at other times it was between rival student groups. The Student League had constant scuffles with the student wing of the Jamat-e-Islami, growing increasingly stronger. It was almost like the days back in seventy-one. Till the students are back home at the end of the day, the parents kept worrying. Hai Allah, will peace never return.

On some nights, Sukhu stays out. He spends the night with his friends, that is what he says. What does he do, make bombs? Monira had seen a revolver in his room. Of course Sukhu had denied it vehemently. But Monju found no reason to doubt the information. From where do the students get the weapons with which they fight the police?

All she had was this son but unfortunately the son had no time for the mother. He never showed any interest in his mother's music, her latest music records or her concerts. For him his only relation with his mother was one of money.

As for herself, Monju, though the top playback singer, spent practically nothing on her dress. No other celebrity came to the stage dressed as simply as she did. She has to sing for the most popular star Selima. In all the hit films of Kamal Hossain, the Bilquis-Selima partnership is a big draw.

All her earnings are for her son. But the way he is going. Monju felt jittery about giving him the kind of money he wants.

Palash Bhaduri who visits Dhaka once in a while is still unmarried. But Monju does not encourage him in any way. She has lost all interest in life. She even refuses invitations from Calcutta.

Throughout the afternoon intermittent gunshots could be heard. Obviously there had been a major disturbance at the campus, which was becoming a central place for trouble. Even the police and the military were scared to enter the campus.

The radio news never reported the actual events. It was becoming more like the days of seventy- one. The strike has failed said the radio news, transport is plying as normal. Yet not a single vehicle was to be seen on the streets. Are there gunshots? Were they signs of peace?

Monira was reminded of the old times, of how she used to wait for her husband with trepidation. But Sirajul would always send a message. Why couldn't Sukhu do that? He has no affection for his mother, he was downright hostile.

Monira tried her level best but Monju would not eat. Watching her mistress sobbing she could bear it no longer and phoned Kamal.

The saying that it is a lucky man who loses his wife has come true in the case of Kamal. Hamida had died from a reaction to an injection. Selima had separated from her husband. Kamal teamed up with Selima and it turned out to be a lucky break. He has no truck with politics now, has severed ties with his old friends. He makes formula films and travels round the world with his wife every year. Once you put on a mask, it is difficult to put it off. The mask becomes the real face.

A big party was going on in full swing at Kamal's New Eskarton residence when Monira rang him. There is a class of people for whom even the scarcest commodities are easily available, they do not have to bother about the disappearance of salt from the market or the spiraling price of rice. In spite of the official ban, they always have access to Scotch whisky.

Kamal has already had a few pegs, he could not identify the caller at first. Raising his voice above the din, he charged, a little irritated, who are you? What do you want? When he recognised Monira he was not pleased. If Monju has suddenly fallen ill that would upset Kamal's plan for his forthcoming picture. Recording had to be done before the shooting, otherwise the lips do not synchronize.

Monju's son has not come home, he was informed. Bother! He frowned. There had been a few casualties in the campus. How foolish could one be, to think that you could overthrow the military regime by burning buses and throwing bombs. The students seem to have forgotten that they are supposed to study.

Anyway, it is always the boys from the suburbs who get killed. The city boys are smart, they use the innocent ones as shields. Why should Monju's son be among the victims? He explained to Monira that Sukhu was safe. There was a police officer at the party. He has assured that nobody by the name Nazrul Islam, which was the formal name of Sukhu, was among the casualties. Nothing to worry. He will be back.

Before putting down the phone Kamal could not help a frivolous comment. 'Monira, Tell your mistress to get married. What she needs is a man, a lord and master in the house. Same goes for you, too. Should I look for a groom?

Monju spent a restless night. Every time a car passed by she and Monira rushed to the window only to find that they were police cars. In spite of the curfew the students moved about. Sukhu had come home on an earlier occasion, defying the curfew.

Next morning, after waiting till eight Monju forced Monira to go to the Dhanmondi house. Monira took a rickshaw and proceeded to the house where she had no desire to step in. Already the traffic was as usual. Movements, police firing, some killing, have now become part of life. There is not much difference between this regime and the earlier Pakistani one.

The old house has undergone a lot of changes. Two new wings have been added, most of it under the possession of Altaaf. Hossain Saheb, all set for a flourishing business in the new regime suddenly died of a heart attack. His sons and sons-in-law lost no time in throwing Altaaf out and ruining the father's business. Altaaf now had a garment industry of his own. He also exported labour to the oil rich Arab countries.

Babul Choudhury occupied the old portion. Monira entered and stood at the foot of the stairs. This was the place where she and Sirajul had lived, she had set up her home out of a store room, a dumping ground for junk. The kitchen used to be over there. This is where the Khan soldiers pushed her, and Babul, shot by them, had collapsed half way down the staircase.

She had come to know later of the impossible feats, going straight into the tiger's den and the number of Khan soldiers Babul had killed, all for her, an ordinary worthless girl. To think that a great scholar like Babul Choudhury took all the risk for her! Yet the same Babul Choudhury now resented her. How peculiar life can be! The first person she met was Sefu, the domestic help. Babul had got her married to an orphan boy he had brought home from the battlefield. Now they lived on a room on the terrace.

The skinny Sefu has put on weight. Monira, talking to her felt too overwhelmed to speak. The best two years of her life were spent in this house. Why did Sirajul give up his life, in return for what?

Who is it, Sefu? Asked Lyla as they went upstairs.

Bhabi, it is me, Monira, replied Monira, awkwardly.

The tall and fair Lyla stood at the door of what used to be Monju's bedroom, her handsome face a little cross. Tears came to Monira's eyes. She could almost visualise Monju bhabi through her tears, the bright, vivacious bhabi as she used to be. This place belongs to her.

Babul was admitted to the nursing home after his return from the battlefield. But Monju and the others were detained in Calcutta for Mamun had suddenly taken ill. The delay was never properly explained nor did Babul want to know. It was only natural for him to feel deeply hurt.

Babul did not feel kindly to those who had fled the country to the safe refuge in Calcutta. Even the leaders chose a life of comfort. Did they sacrifice anything? Even Colonel Osmani could not penetrate the Pakistani bastions during the final assault and stayed back in Calcutta when the surrender took place. For him his own safety was paramount.

Monju in her youthful exuberance would begin to relate to her husband the experience at Calcutta but Babul showed no inclination to listen. He would get away on some pretext or the other. Monju was not very keen to listen to Babul's terrible ordeal.

The bullet wounds took about three months to heal. During this period Babul was getting irritable and cross. The physical suffering led to mental depression. Freedom is here at last but he was frustrated at the way the new country was going. Sheikh Mujib was back with absolute power but he failed to provide a firm foundation to the new state.

While some people romped about in the towns, intoxicated by freedom, life for the common people in the villages was going from bad to worse. Profiteers and black-marketeers gambled with basic necessities, bank robbers were having a field day, and foreign aid was smuggled out of the country. Instead of controlling the criminals with a firm hand, Sheikh Mujib extended pardon indiscriminately. He was so overwhelmed by the fact of his own release and the freedom of his country that he excused all and sundry even those who had opposed the struggle and murdered innocents. Naturally the people close to him made good use of this opportunity.

Babul had gone back to his teaching job. He refused to take any credit for taking part in the freedom struggle. In fact he refused the award offered by the government, making light of his own role in the struggle. I was just a labour in the camps of the freedom fighters, he would say, I used to cook for them. Never knew what it feels like to hold an LMG.

Newspapers began to publish details of atrocities not known before, including the Bengali collaborators. Babul used to keep those clippings. He tried to explain his own stand to Monju. You know for the first three months I too was against the liberation struggle. I was branded a collaborator but you know I did not join the Peace Committee, I never support killing. But when I saw with my own eyes the length to which brute force could go, it was without any logic, then I decided to resist it. You cannot wait till the time of revolution, which would do away with classes. But how can the guilty strut about, the same people who had made lists of intellectuals and handed it over to Farman Ali, who had looted and tortured. They will not be punished? How will Sheikh run the country. Those scoundrels will capture power, I tell you.

One morning Babul had taken Monju to the window and pointed to a man in a silk kurta and lungi. Look, look at that man over there, he said excitedly. He is a Professor of Library Science. And look at Monira coming from the opposite direction.

Monju did not find anything unusual about the scene. She looked surprised.

Babul went on. Monira was raped by at least five soldiers. She had two pregnancies followed by two miscarriages. She became insane, but she has survived, got back her normalcy by sheer vitality.

Did that man . . . I mean did he — Monju panicked.

He does not know Monira. But do you know what I have heard him saying, in front of the University Library? Who says the Pakistani soldiers have raped Bengali girls? He was saying. False propaganda! There is no sin if they indulge in some enjoyment, after all it was jehad. Such things are bound to happen. Consider them as Muta marriages. I sprang on that rascal but others held me back. Now what do you find? In free Bangladesh that rascal is going about, holding his head high! Monju, I have an urge to go and stab him.

Oh no, for god's sake, Monju pulled him back. Please drive such ideas out of your head. Will the killing never end? Hai Allah!

Babul used to have phases of depression. Somehow he had got it into his head that he was responsible for the way things were going. His friends were busy making money. Babul was increasingly getting isolated. The only time he seemed normal was in the company of Sukhu. But he seemed to be hovering on the borderline between sanity and insanity. Monju tried her best to attend to him. But something snapped after Monju conceived again, about seven months after their return from Calcutta.

The news upset Babul terribly. He told Monju, five soldiers raped Monira, who were you raped by? You never told me. Was it your Mamunmama?

Mamun was then having a hard time dealing with the prevailing corruption in the Relief Department of which he had taken charge; it was a request from Kamarujjaman. Never fond of Mamun, Babul considered Mamun to be man behind all the relief scandals and his hatred had increased. The terrible accusation must have been prompted by hatred.

Babul did not take it back. He went on insisting that Mamun had taken Monju to Calcutta to have a good time. They shared the same room. Babul has heard such reports. Hossain Saheb saw it himself.

Notwithstanding her respect for her husband, Monju was shattered. How could you be so mean? She spoke with intense distaste. None would budge an inch. Monju left home without taking anything. She went to her mother. The child however was still born, perhaps because it was unwanted. But Babul refused to take her back. A notice for divorce came from the Kazi. Monju did not contest. As though to teach her a lesson, Babul lost no time in marrying again, he married Lyla, one of his students.

His parents were dead, Babul had nobody to call his own except his elder brother. But he had no respect for Altaaf. The only person he had any attachment for was Jehanara Imam. He would go over and spend hours with this lady grieving over the death of her son. Even Jehanara's efforts to convince him of Monju's innocence failed, Babul was in no condition to listen to anyone.

Outraged by the accusation, Monira too left the Dhanmondi house with Monju. True, she was grateful to Babul but her love for Monju was stronger. Monju was so disillusioned that she never married again. She shrank from the company of men.

Monira was forced to come to this house only thrice but she could never get access to Babul without meeting his wife.

How is everything, Monira? Asked Lyla, combing her hair. Heard your Bhabi on the TV. Not bad but her Nazrul songs are better.

Is saheb home? Enquired Monira.

Yes, he is. Buried in a book. Any message for him?

Ji, I have to give saheb a message.

Can't you tell me? Saheb will be angry if you go to his room.

Sukhu Mian has not come home last night. His mother is miserable. Could Saheb do something?

Suhku? When was he here last, Sefu? Was it yesterday?

No, replied Sefu. That was at least five days ago.

He comes to ask for money. It just shows the way he is being brought up. Gone to the dogs. Don't you go and disturb Saheb now. He is not keeping well. I will tell him in good time.

There was fighting and killing in the campus yesterday. Sukhu had gone there.

Suddenly Babul Choudhury emerged from his room, a book in hand. He looked thin, his eyes had sunk, and there were patches of white in his hair. He was in a lungi and vest, a towel on his shoulder, obviously on his way to have a bath. He reads even in the toilet.

He turned away from Monira as though he had not noticed her. Sefu, have you put hot water in the bathroom, he demanded.

Monira called out, Saheb, Sukhu did not come home last night. He went to the university . . .

Babul paused. What? As Monira briefly recounted the event, Babul changed colour. He threw away the book and the towel and rushed in to get dressed. Then he ran out of the house without a word to Lyla.

4

PRATAP stood near the Hazra Park, undecided. He had nothing to do, no place he could think of going to.

All the people rushing in breakneck speed, all the vehicles trying to overtake one another, unwilling to yield an inch of space, must be going to some destination, for some purpose. Pratap had none.

Krishnanagar would have been pleasant at this time of the year. His phone had been out of order but Pratap felt slighted nevertheless. Bimanbehari could have sent word through someone. He did not know that Pratap was alone. Buli's guess was right, Mamata did have a fight with her husband about this visit. They say domestic differences in old age actually ooze with unspoken affection, like thick syrup from date palm juice. But for Pratap it had left a sense of bitterness, which persisted.

Anunay, his son-in-law was the chief chemist in a drug factory in Hardwar. He was Munni's choice. Pratap liked his hard working, well-mannered son-in-law. He respected his strength of conviction, he was a type which was hard to come by these days. He had a spacious quarter where they were always welcome. Moreover Hardwar was a healthy place particularly for Munni's retired parents.

In spite of such overwhelming factors in favour of their visit, Pratap found no reason to visit his daughter as frequently as his wife wished. As it is Munni's house was full of guests. Relatives, near or distant, whoever visited Delhi, made a point of visiting Hardwar. Mamata too was partly responsible for adding to the flow of guests, little realising the extra burden they would be causing for her daughter.

Last year Pratap had made his first trip to the town, dirty and dingy like all places of pilgrimage. Yet beyond the crowded area, as one went out in the open countryside there was a quiet beauty. The sight of the mighty Himalayan range itself was electrifying.

They had gone to Rishikesh and Lachmanjhula and had plans to go up to Kedar Badri but the monsoons set in early that year and their trip had to be put off.

On their way back, Mamata had suggested they make a trip every year. We have no ties at home now. There are such wonderful places to visit, look at the Har ki Pauri ghat. I simply love it.

Even after forty years of married life, Mamata did not understand her husband well enough to fathom the finer shades of his likes and dislikes. He could not share his wife's exhilaration. Yes, there are many nice things about Hardwar but one particular person had thrown cold water over his enjoyment.

That man was Anunay's father Gorachand. A retired widower, it was only natural that he would spend the last days of his life in the company of grandchildren. Not that he showed any disrespect to Pratap and Mamata, on the contrary he went out of his way to be polite to them yet there was something subtly patronising in his attitude as if he was the lord and master in his son's house and Pratap was a guest.

Mamata felt differently. If Pratap tried to explain she would cut him short. You make too much of a fuss about trifles.

This year Pratap had wanted to take a tour of the south but Mamata had finalised her plans about Kedar Badri when a letter came from Munni informing them that she was expecting her second child in mid-April.

Excellent! Pratap reacted with pleasure. She can't take the trip to Kedar Badri. So let me go and buy tickets for Bangalore. We will make that trip to the south.

Mamata could have been knocked down with a feather. What! She exclaimed. Khuku will be having a baby and we would be hopping across south India! How can you say this!

What use would we be except increasing the crowd. They have good hospitals and competent doctors . . .

But I am her mother; I should be by her side. Since she does not have a mother-in-law to take care of her . . .

Then let her come here and stay for a couple of months. There is a new nursing home near our house . . .

How can they come? Khuki has a new job, her son goes to school . . .

Then let her come for a month.

Don't be silly. And travel with a new born baby? Why can't we go to her? As if you have important work pending.

The mere thought of living in the same house with Gorachand, feeling every minute if they are not overstaying, taxing the hospitality of the son-in-law made Pratap blow his top. He spoke with biting sarcasm, why do you have to rush every time the children have babies? Are you their maidservant or what?

Hurt to the quick, Mamata gave him a searching stare. Except for a few lines beside her nose and dark patches on her fair face, she did not show visible signs of age.

She answered, each word dipped in venom. Yes, don't I know it? All my life I have suffered for your vanity. Have you ever felt for your children? No, all you think of is your own ego. You are vain and proud. Your pride comes before the good of your children. I have seen enough of your stubbornness. I can't forsake my children for your useless whims. It left her husband speechless. So he was vain and proud. But has he done nothing for his children?

Mamata went on. Have you forgotten what you did at Bablu's place?

It came back. Four years ago, after Pratap had turned down Atin's requests to visit them, he had sent two tickets for his parents. Not that Pratap was keen, he would have preferred to go around the country. After all there are so many places to see. But it was a dream come true for Mamata. She wanted to see Paris and London, Europe more that the States. After all she was brought up studying European literature. Munni was married so there was no reason to keep them back.

Tutul and Alam received them in London. For the last six months before her mother's death Tutul stayed with her, nursing her with a care perhaps no other daughter is capable of. Supriti ultimately found peace in the arms of her daughter.

Even after Supriti was gone, Tutul did not want to go back to London. Mamata had a relapse of her old ulcer. But Pratap forced Tutul to return to her husband. It was absurd for a wife to stay in Calcutta while her husband worked in London.

Every year, on their way to Dhaka, Tutul and Alam spent some time in Calcutta. They made a surprise visit when Atin and Sharmila were here. The new house was yet to be ready. The flat at Selimpur was not big enough for all of them with Munni not married yet. But they managed to squeeze in, even Tuntuni with her two kids was brought to the house. They had great fun — for Pratap it was almost like the joint family of Malkhanagar. Tutul, the Phuldi of all the brothers and sisters, was the motivating spirit.

Things changed as soon as they left, Atin had a fight with Paresh, which so hurt Tuntuni that she left immediately. Sharmila could not stand the Calcutta weather. She left for Jamshedpur. Atin had trouble in his work place. In no time, the house was empty again.

That was the only time the family was together, brought under one roof only through Tutul's efforts. But in London, Pratap was pleasantly surprised to find Tutul living in a big family though they had no children of their own. Their Kensington house had free access to friends and friends of friends. People came and went, stayed there, had meals as they wished. At least ten people gathered for lunch and dinner every day. Many young people from Bangladesh stayed with them till they got accommodation. There were five more guests living in that house when Pratap and Mamata arrived in London.

This was the land of his former masters, of whom Pratap did not have pleasant memories. The District Magistrate of Nadia, where Pratap had his first posting had the temper of a tiger, would use choice invectives against Indian leaders like Subhas Bose was a German spy, Nehru was a blabbermouth, an open air barrister. Pratap felt antagonistic not only to him but also to the entire British nation. Walking around the streets of London, he put up an invisible shield round him, lest anybody should treat him with contempt. He was prepared to hit back; after all we are a free nation now, visiting your country at my own expense. What he did not realise was that the past is now forgotten. The average man in the street no longer basked in the glory of the empire that was. If the coloureds are disliked the feeling is less racial and more out of the fear of competition.

The friends of Tutul and Alam treated the British as their equal, they seemed to be unaware of the colonial situation. Some brought English girl friends along, ordered them about. The new generation from Bangladesh impressed Pratap with their assured ways, lack of inferiority complex. They were sprightly, full of health and bright.

There was one thing, which bothered him though. Bangladesh has lost her young sons in the war, the army has wiped out the intellectuals, now if all these bright young boys and girls left the country who would be left for the task of reconstruction? It did not augur well for the new country.

He broached the topic to Alam once. Alam looked sad. You know something Mamababu? Bangladesh has achieved freedom all right, the country that is, not the people. Have our expectations been fulfilled? No wonder all these young people were forced to leave. But compared to the Indians these young people are in closer touch with their mother country. The Indians are cynical, they do not expect anything. But we are still optimistic. Actually our war is still going on.

They spent seven happy days in London. In spite of their heavy schedule, Tutul and Alam took turns to take their uncle and aunt around. Mamata wanted to see the British countryside so they spent two days in Dover. In fact Tutul was so overwhelmed that she decided to take them right up to Atin's house which was a long way from New York. But this plan had to be dropped because Alam's uncle who had brought him up was coming to London for treatment. Pratap insisted that Tutul should attend to him. They could visit them in the States later, at a more convenient time.

Sharmila could not leave her two and a half-month old baby and accompany Atin to the airport. Atin spent the night with his parents in a New York hotel. Next morning he drove them to his house in Troy, a small town quite a distance from New York. Mamata never got tired of describing her first view of her son’s house. It was a picturesque yellow house with a garden in front and a forest at the back. As they got down from the car there was Sharmila to welcome them with the baby in her arms. The baby was kicking its legs and arms lustily. Mamata's heart missed a beat, why it was baby Piklu, an exact likeness.

She gave a gold coin — the only gold left in her possession to welcome her grandchild. The baby slid over to her. It was indeed difficult to move back her tears.

This tiny place was absolutely different from London. But the atmosphere was different in other ways as well. Tutul and Alam's London home was always bubbling over with people and noise. This house was quiet. No guests dropped in except on weekends. Both Sharmila and Atin drove to office, the daughter left for school leaving the grandparents to themselves. Mamata was busy following the carefully chalked out routine of the child but Pratap had nothing to do except watch TV and read.

He never cared for fiction. He tried but a modern novel written by someone called John Updyke so horrified him by its obscene descriptions that he threw it away in disgust. This was nothing but pornography yet critics gave rave reviews as he could see from the blurb. On Sundays they brought New York Times. Pratap was completely floored by its size, hundred and twenty pages, most of it filled by advertisements. There was hardly any news from Calcutta, or India for that matter. One would be inclined to deduce that it meant a refusal to recognise the existence of a country named India. A major train accident in Hyderabad had featured though, in an inside page in which two hundred and fifty had lost their lives, the only piece of news worth reporting from India. Their only interest was in the dead, but what about the living, all seven hundred million of them? The Americans did not care.

The local paper was local in every sense. A cattle disease in some farm made headlines. Space walk by two astronauts made a brief appearance way down in the front page. This is called a newspaper! It was all of thirty-two pages, most of it covered by full page ads containing some coupons offering bargains in supermarkets.

Pratap was sick and tired of the TV soaps, dripping with sobs and endless kissing scenes. Other programmes on cooking or health hints were quite unbearable. At least the commercial spots were an eye opener about the workings of a consumer society. What a lot of fuss about absolutely useless things! A group of young men and women sang and danced waxing eloquent about the virtues of a chewing gum, called bubble gum in this country. He was scandalised to learn that this ad cost something like sixty thousand dollars. Sixty thousand was a lot of money. Would it matter very much if the thing called chewing gum did not exist? There are even ads for trash bags, millions are being spent to persuade people to buy useless stuff. The consumers sweat out the whole week to earn the money to buy the rubbish. Atin and Sharmila had two cars, to maintain the two cars they were forced to earn more. They have a gadget for opening the garage door, how silly can you get?

Pratap was reminded of a news item he had read in the Statesman at Bimanbehari's place. It happened during the visit of the Soviet Prime Minister Khrushchev in the States. The cold war was showing the first signs of thawing. Delighted to see the sweeping wheat fields of America where a single farmer using machines harvested acres and acres of land, Khrushchev was shown other labour saving devices. His remark on being shown a lemon squeezer was — you know I can do the job better with my fingers.

Atin and Sharmila returned late, after a twenty-mile drive, tired. The offices pay well but they extract their pound of flesh too. Atin often stayed up late to finish his work. But Sharmila had amazing vitality. She attends to housework right after her return, putting the baby to sleep, cooking. She would never let Mamata do the cooking. She cooks at least four or five items for every meal and regretted the fact that she could not stay home to attend them during lunch.

It was impossible not to like her childlike ways, her innocence. She was a little forgetful and kept losing things but never grumbled about it. Mamata was all praise for her though Pratap could not treat her with the easy acceptance due to a daughter-in-law. When they first heard about Atin's marriage it was a great shock. It was a betrayal to his best friend, Pratap had felt; though neither Oli nor Bimanbehari displayed any hurt.

Well Mamata has forgotten all that but Pratap had initially found it difficult to accept a daughter- in-law who gave birth to a child after five months of marriage. He had taken her to be a girl of loose morals, trapping his son into marriage, hardly the kind of bride worthy of the Majumders of Malkhanagar. He had seethed with helpless fury, as it was beyond his power to stop this marriage. But he realised that his assessment was wrong as soon as he saw Sharmila. Her face was a reflection of her inner purity. If anyone was to be blamed it was his irresponsible son, not this girl. The very thought that he had taken her to be a girl of easy virtue so embarrassed him now that he felt ill at ease in her presence.

Siddhartha with his family and another couple came over on the first weekend, transforming the atmosphere with laughter and warmth. Somehow Pratap found it easier to open up before Siddhartha than to his own son.

How do you like this country, Mesomashai? Was the first question Siddhartha asked.

Quite nice, replied Pratap.

But you have not seen anything yet. How can you form an opinion? You came straight from the airport to a hotel, spent a night there, then here. You must move around, see the country. I will tell you something, your son is a workaholic. One should not overdo. They make you slog more — the bloodsuckers. Dangle a chance of promotion before your nose to extract the last drop of blood. We, the brown skins are flattered by their patronising pats: You Asians are diligent people. They say. Mesomasai, you must look around, then I would like to have your opinion, the views of your generation.

From the little that I have seen everything is nice and clean. There is a spirit of cheerfulness everywhere. Said Pratap.

That is not the right way to judge I am sorry to say. Yes there are sky scrapers, wide highways, shops stuffed with merchandise, two car families, the jingle of dollars, not just luxury goods but the best of art and culture that money can buy. But please don't be misled by all that glitters. New York has Harlem, Chicago has ghetto. If you visit the mid west countryside, you can see for yourself how conservative the people are. It is a different America.

They had barbecue in the garden, all of them sitting round an iron stove, roasting chicken under a clear night sky. There was a cool breeze, once in a while planes flew past, and children were singing some strange songs and rolling with laughter.

Siddhartha brought out a bottle of Scotch. Meshomoshai, he asked Pratap, would you mind very much if we drink? Your son is too shy to ask your permission. I don't think it would be proper to go to the basement for a few surreptitious sips.

No, of course not, go ahead, said Pratap. I know you have to, in this country.

Yes, it is a cold country after all. Would you like to have a little?

No, thanks. I don't drink. Do not mind me please — go ahead.

Siddhartha clapped his hands in the style of a cricket captain. Listen everybody. Mesomoshai has very kindly allowed us to drink and smoke. I knew, he is very broad minded.

He issued orders. Atin, put the wine bottles in the deep fridge. I have already put two bottles of white wine to chill, said Atin.

Please put in the bottle of Californian Rose I have brought.

White wine goes best with chicken, said Atin.

I like my wine sweet, specially the taste of Rose. Let it get chilled.

All right, all right, if that is what you like, snapped Atin. Red wine should not be chilled idiot. It has to be taken in room temperature, uncork it to get it warmed.

As he was listening to this dialogue, Pratap's eyes were ready to pop out of their sockets. So his son is quite well versed in the etiquette of wines. Well, well, when in Rome do as Romans do. When one of the children asked for root beer instead of coke, the name jarred. He had come to know that it was not an alcoholic beverage but the name beer from a child's lips, he did not like it.

The red wine was poured in beautiful decanters. Meshomoshai, how about trying some? Asked Siddhartha.

Oh no, Pratap drew back. I never . . .

This is not alcohol you know. This is plain and simple grape juice. Have a little and see if it tastes like grapes.

Pratap pushed the glass away. No, please, not for me. He said firmly and with ill-concealed irritation.

Finding Pratap a tough nut to crack, Siddhartha now turned his attention to Mamata who after some initial hesitation took a gingerly sip. Bravo, cried Siddhartha. Our Mashima is a smart lady.

Actually Mamata was brought up in an anglicised atmosphere and was used to seeing drinks being served to English guests. Even after a good part of her life in a different kind of family she still remembered a lot of her spoken English learnt in her childhood. She could carry on English conversation with perfect ease, Pratap could not help noticing.

She was also persuaded to sing. She sang a song of Atulprasad, and even though out of practice, sang it reasonably well. Nobody asked Pratap to sing however.

The house was back to its usual hush and quiet after the party left. Each day was like any other day, with nothing to do, nowhere to go. There was no transport except cars. Taxies were too expensive and Pratap was reluctant to exhaust his own stock of dollars. He could not very well ask for money from his son.

His son and daughter-in-law just had no time. On weekends they went to a river nearby or ate out. If guests came they were obliged to stay home. Atin did make plans for a long trip but something or other very urgent turned up in his office to upset their plan.

Mamata however was having a good time with the grandchildren. Anita, twelve now, could not speak a word of Bengali. She has forgotten all the Bangla she had learnt during her only visit to Calcutta. Pratap used to take her to the Dhakuria lake, she used to chatter incessantly but now she found it difficult to follow her grandfather's English and kept asking, Pardon me? Pardon me? Pratap found American English baffling. They made "cow" sound like "khao", "now" as "nayo". The familiar expression "I beg your pardon" has become "Pardon me".

Somehow Mamata had no language problem with Anita, they had struck a rapport, that was the main thing. The name she chose for her granddaughter however, Ujjaini — was vetoed by her mother. They can't even pronounce my name properly, Ujjaini will just not work. So Anita was chosen, as it was also an American name.

A view of a neighbouring house, the only house in the vicinity revealed a rose garden with a variety of flowers. But unfortunately Pratap could not even enjoy this scene with uninterrupted pleasure. A girl, probably a polio patient lay on a deck chair on the back porch with a young man hanging around. They were there all the time. Didn't they have any school to go to? The girl was in her early teens, almost the same as Anita. The two kissed each other every now and then, an act, which forced Pratap to turn away. He could not stand the spectacle of open kissing in public places and also on TV. One day he found the young boy putting his hand inside the girl's blouse. Pratap turned crimson with anger.

What are you looking at? Mamata had asked him.

Come, have a look. See what level the American children can sink to.

The boy had carried the girl, laid her on the wooden floor and pushed her frock up.

Have you gone out of your mind? Mamata, aghast, pulled back the curtain.

At such a young age — my god! Don't they have any guardians? Pratap was furious. They start this so early, what is left for them? I am not being rigidly moral but can such irresponsible behaviour be good for society? What kind of parents . . .

Are you here as a social reformer? Keep quiet. It is none of your business.

Our Anita is of the same age. Supposing she also.

Goodness, how can you think of such things?

Pratap never raised the topic again though he continued to be skeptical about his granddaughter. When her boyfriends visited her, what did they do behind closed doors? She was surprisingly adult for her age.

One evening they had accompanied Atin and Sharmila to a party, about seventy miles away to another Bengali home. It did not take Pratap long to realise they were unwanted there. They were served dinner with the children then put in a room where they were all by themselves. The Bengali guests were not interested in news from India, the talks revolved round new homes, new cars or New York politics. So what Alam had told him was true after all. In Alam and Tutul’s home, Pratap was very much a part of the crowd, he did not for one moment felt left out.

Another evening they were asked to come to another party, an anniversary of a friend of Atin. They had insisted that Atin and Sharmila should bring along their parents too. But Pratap understood. It was mere politeness, it was expected to be asked and it was also expected that it would be politely refused. This was a society of hollow politeness. Meaningless expressions like — Thank you, How Nice, Isn't It Wonderful are bandied about all the time.

Atin seemed relieved to hear the refusal. In that case Anita and Ron can stay with you, he said.

After Mamata joined her husband in the living room, having put the baby to sleep, Pratap turned his gaze away from the TV. Enough is enough, he said glumly. Let us go home. I will ask Bablu to book our return ticket for next week.

It was a bolt from the blue. What do you mean, go back home? She asked. What is the big hurry?

I have had enough.

But we have hardly seen anything. Bablu is planning to take leave next month.

Do we have to remain prisoners waiting for their convenience?

Who has kept you a prisoner? You can go for a walk, go to the nearest forest, such beautiful apple and cherry trees, for anyone to pick.

You do not understand me, Mamo. I am aging faster here, having nothing to do.

What work would you be doing back home, if I may ask?

Our own home, own country — that is the best place for us. Talking to neighbours, that is some kind of work. Here we do not even have the right to talk to others, no say if a neighbourhood boy misbehaves.

He paused to utter very unkind words. Do you know why they have brought us here? Not out of love. We make excellent babysitters, at no cost.

Mamata, flaring up replied with as much dislike as she could muster. How mean can you be. And so selfish! Ron and Anita are our grandchildren too. Don't we have any responsibility, love? It is not for you to understand the happiness I am getting from their company. Sharmila cares for us.

Pratap stuck to his point of view. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that he was right.

His own flesh and blood! He doubted if that tie could be stretched too far. Distance brings about alienation, most probably Anita and Ron would not recognise them after four or five years. Though Atin and Sharmila did not bring them over just for babysitting but that is what they have become. Pratap has no freedom of movement, he had to depend on the son and daughter-in-law for every little thing. He could not stand it any more.

He stuck to his wish to go back, no amount of persuasion could make him change his decision. He was even ready to come back alone, but Mamata would not hear of it. She has not excused her husband for this. Leaning against the railings of Hazra Park, Pratap realised that he had been standing here for the last one hour. He did not feel like going home but he had no other place to go to. He crossed the road and started to walk to nowhere in particular.

5

THE first stanza of a familiar poem came to his mind but Mamun could not remember the rest after the first four lines. His memory has been playing tricks. Does it make sense to go on living with his memory all gone?

It was a beautiful day, and he was enjoying the pleasant shade under the jamrul tree, seated on a wheel chair, giving admiring looks to his thirteen-year old granddaughter Ayesha. Ayesha had taken after her grandmother and looked much older than her age. Already marriage proposals had started coming. Though brought up in the city, she loved to play with the garden soil. Right now she was busy digging, unmindful of the strong sun. She loved to spend her vacations here, her parents stayed in Chittagong. Mamun’s youngest daughter was now married and lived in Dubai with her husband. She has not visited home for three years.

The past continued to haunt Mamun as he watched his granddaughter with fond appreciation. Sometimes she became Hena, though Hena had no taste for the earth. Ayesha reminded Mamun of the poem Sufia Kamal had written about a young girl called Meherunnisa, of about the same age as Ayesha. Mamun used to know the entire poem by heart.

Was that the roar of a motor-cycle? He looked around anxiously. No, nobody was there to disturb the peace of the quiet morning, only a couple of goats grazed across the road. Lately Mamun was having hallucinations. One afternoon in the past Altaaf had zoomed up in his motor-cycle, life has not been the same ever since.

Would you come over here, Punpuni? Mamun called out, his pet name for Ayesha.

She came up to his chair and asked, what is it? A drink of water?

Mamun felt thirsty all the time. The girl poured a glass from a jug. Mamun asked her again, Another favour, my pet. Light me a cigarette, please.

Again? Ayesha tried to look stern. You have had three already.

With his near paralysed right hand, Mamun had trouble striking a match. In spite of strong protest from all quarters he could not give up smoking. What harm can smoking do after all? He had no desire to go on living. Ayesha went back to the flower shrubs she was tending and Mamun felt much better after a few puffs. The entire poem came back to him, much to his relief. But he was at the same time beset with a feeling of guilt. This was hardly a poem to be related to Ayesha . . . It was about a young girl killed in the freedom struggle. No, Ayesha has a golden future, she should have, a lively, healthy girl like her.

Remorseful, he called her again. Tell me, Punpuni dear, he caressed her back. Would you too be going away to Dubai or America after getting married, leaving your old grandpa? Don't do that darling. Nobody else has any love for this old man.

Would you stop calling yourself an old man. You can walk. Come on try to walk with me. We are going to Dhaka for the Ekushey February celebrations. Ma said you are coming with us.

No, no, wailed Mamun. I am not going to Dhaka again. I can't stand Dhaka.

Ayesha was called in for breakfast. Mamun who had just a few teaspoons of honey and lemon juice in warm water stayed put, his brows puckered. He wanted to wipe out all memories of that city. He has left Dhaka for good, preferring the peace and quiet of the village Madaripur.

He had taken up a government job of rehabilitation persuaded by Tajjuddin. There was a shortage of capable people who could contribute to rebuild the economy. The Pakistani army had wiped out almost all qualified people. In the chaotic condition prevailing just after independence, Mamun worked day and night, taking up his job as a challenge. Trying to deal with misuse of relief material was a tough task. Once he had slapped an employee who was caught red handed. Since he was well known for his integrity, nobody protested. In fact the man fell at his feet and apologised. Sheikh Saheb called Mamun at his Dhanmundi residence to congratulate him.

Just as there were people who took advantage of the situation, there were others like Mamun who worked selflessly. Sheikh Saheb himself slept only for four hours in a day. Dhaka was boiling over with excitement, unsure of what to do with the new found freedom. Many cultural delegations were visiting from India. Suddenly like a bolt from the blue came the divorce between Babul and Monju, and Mamun was held squarely responsible.

Everybody, including the closest friends of Babul were taken aback by this utterly stubborn act. Babul's role in the freedom struggle was a forbidden topic. He was openly critical of those who had fled to India. Yet he had willingly allowed his wife to go with Mamun. How could he harbour such ugly suspicions? Did not Monju do her bit by raising funds, creating popular support for the freedom struggle? Wars are not fought just with weapons.

Desperate to save the marriage, Mamun had visited Babul, only to be heaped with more insults. That a war could transform a person so totally was inconceivable. The language he used, the blind fury, the utter hatred he displayed. It was not just jealousy. He had no love left for Monju. She was carrying Babul’s child, there could be no doubt about the paternity, yet he asked her to leave. I do not want to discuss my personal affair with you, he had told Mamun bitterly. You are no longer welcome in my home. I no longer consider Monju as my wife. She is all yours.

Mamun was ready to bear all humiliation for Monju's sake. She was being punished for no fault of hers. He begged, he appealed, only to be ridiculed by Babul. Perhaps to remain out of sight might bring about reconciliation. In spite of Tajjuddin's request not to do it, Mamun tendered his resignation and left Dhaka for Madaripur. But he was proved wrong. Babul remarried.

Adab, Mamun Saheb. How are you?

Startled, he looked towards the gate. Nobody visited him. But he was sure it was a familiar voice. Govinda Ganguly perhaps.

Is that you, Govinda? Do come in. He raised his voice.

Close to the shrub of marigold where Ayesha was sitting a little while ago, stood Govinda Ganguly, in a lungi and kurta, dark and sturdy, a silver amulet on his right arm.

So you are back, Govinda. Nice to see you. How is the family?

It is all your blessing. My launch is lying at the Madaripur ghat. I have come to get it.

But your launch had sunk, as far as I remember.

I had it recovered. I am not one to give up so easily.

It was an illusion, Mamun could realise. There was no Govinda Ganguly before him. He has long been dead.

How can you start your ferry service? He kept up the conversation. You went to India with your family.

No, Mamun Saheb. I did not go. I sent my family in the same steamer you went in, that was after the murder of Sheikh Mujib. I never left the country. Seen so much in one lifetime.

No, don't get me wrong. I just went to India for treatment, others forced me to go.

Ayesha shook him. What are you muttering Dada? Did you doze off or what? Would you have your bath now? Naboda asked if he should come for your oil massage.

Not now, later. Tell me something Punpuni. When I went to India in seventy-five, was that after the murder of Mujib or before?

Ayesha made a face. How do I know?

Right, right. You were hardly three. I think it was in July that I went. Sheikh was killed in August. Since I would not go to Dhaka, your parents insisted that I go to Calcutta.

Why did they kill Sheikh Mujib, Dada?

I wish I had the answer, my little doll. You have to find the answer after you grow up. Your generation will have to write a true history of the Bangladesh war. How about another cigarette, that's a dear.

No, no more cigarette before lunch! She flew away like a bird, taking the cigarette packet and the box of matches with her. This effort to keep him alive was so futile.

It was true that he was in Calcutta at that time but he could very well visualise the tragic scene of that fateful morning as though he was present at 32 Dhanmondi. They came in a tank, though dressed as soldiers they were Bangladeshi, not Pakistani. Annoyed by the sound of gunshots, Mujib had come out of the bedroom, determined to give them a piece of his mind. As the father of the nation he had the power to intimidate wayward children, that was what he assumed. From the top of the stairs he roared, what makes you barge in like this, you stupid fools! He was answered by a spray of bullets. In his dying moment did fear, pain, or just plain astonishment stun him? Did he have time to know that the assailants had gone upstairs to pierce the rest of the family with bayonets? Did he hear the screams of his baby boy, Russel?

Did he ever, in his wildest imagination imagine this end at the hands of his own people, having survived the Pakistani prison? But then who had thought that Tajjuddin Saheb, the main architect of free Bangladesh would be sacked by Mujib? That he himself would stifle the same democracy for which he had shouted himself hoarse? He was moving towards one party rule, having curbed the rights of the opposition, suppressed freedom of the press. The President Abu Syed Choudhury had to go. Mujib was becoming a dictator. Mamun had a feeling that this was the end of Awami League, the day Tajjuddin was fired.

A story heard during his days of student politics in Calcutta came to his mind. Sir Surenrdanath Banerjee was so respected by the student community that once they had pulled the horse carriage in which he was travelling. But the same Surendranath had received a garland of shoes later on, thanks to the fluctuating nature of politics. But killings were not a common feature in those days. True, Mujib was going in a wrong way but those who killed him were not patriots resenting his undemocratic ways, they were after power. They do not take lessons from history, that uneasy lies the head that wears the crown after succeeding to a bloody throne. Khandkar Mushtak, Khaled Musharef, Ziaur Rahman . . . the list goes on. What exactly had happened to Khaled Musharef? A brilliant boy, he used to visit Mamun's sister, was badly injured in the war. Probably he tried another uprising after the death of Mujib but failed. Leaders of failed uprisings are tragic figures, unwept, unsung, they are thrown into the dustbin of history.

Mujib, standing at the head of the staircase, just out of bed, recognised some of the faces aiming their LMGs at him, frowned. What do you think you are doing? His voice was drowned in the rattle of gunfire, the father of the nation rolled down. Till his last minute he could not believe that his assailants could be his own people.

Mamun, known to be close to Mujib was advised to lie low. He stayed on in Calcutta for six months. Wiping out all the front rank leaders of the Awami League — Tajjuddin, Syed Nazrul Islam, followed the killing of Mujib, it was a repetition of history. Why would Ziaur Rahman be so vindictive, Mamun still believed in him. After all he had fought as the Commander-in-chief of K Force, the first declaration of independence from the Chittagong radio was by him. But it now appeared that he was a reluctant freedom fighter. The only thing he cared for was to wield power. He was intent on eliminating the freedom fighters. The one-time collaborators, with implicit support from him assumed power, some were made minister in Ziaur Rahman's cabinet. Those who had fought selflessly for the country went underground, or were busy erasing that identity. What a sad end to a most extraordinary and historical struggle!

The first mistake Sheikh made was to pardon one and all — the Al Badr, the Razakar, those who had looted and raped. A comprehensive list was made of the offenders but nothing was done. On the other hand officers of the Pakistani army who had fought against the people of Bangladesh were given ranks in the newly formed army, a decision which defied judgement. Mujib, overwhelmed with victory showed indulgence to everybody around him including his friends and relations. He paid no heed to complaints about the gross misuse of Red Cross money. He failed completely as an administrator, yet he happened to be one of the finest opposition leaders the world has seen.

The killers of Mujib went around scot-free. Who killed Tajjuddin and others in jail dressed as soldiers? Such atrocities never occurred even during the Pakistani regime. People whose names should have been written in golden letters lost their precious lives most unceremoniously. Ziaur Rahman was indulgent towards these killers. Many no longer found Bangladesh a safe place and fled to either India or England.

Qader Siddiqui, the brave leader from Tangail too was obliged to leave Bangladesh. How unfortunate for the country, pondered Mamun. Where is he now? He has no right to come to his own country and he had risked his own life for its freedom.

He saw two figures near the marigold shrub, one a little ahead of the other. The one who was nearer had a growth of hair and beard, tall and sturdy, obviously a strong man. He looks familiar. Of course, he is none other than Qader Siddiqui. His eyes glowed with hatred.

Qader, is that you? Whispered Mamun. So you are alive?

Yes, it is me all right. I am not going to die easily. I will come back, Inshaallah, to make the land really free. What have you people been doing, if I may ask Mamun bhai?

Mamun raised his hand. I do not count any more. My days are over.

The other man came up. I too am still living, ready to give my life in the next war.

He was Habib, the hero of the raid on the ships anchored at Dhaleswari. From Narayanganj seven Pakistani ships were on their way to Tangail carrying ammunitions worth twenty-one crores. The Mukti boys led by Habib destroyed the ships, equipped with very little but their iron will power. The last time Mamun had seen Habib in Tangail, he was a shadow of his earlier self, his clothes in tatters, his family starving. He did get a title from the government for his bravery, Vir Vikram. I have come to the city in search of a living, he had told Mujib. If I don't get any job I will pull a rickshaw. It will have a signboard:

"Habib the Vir Vikram."

You know Mamun Saheb, I should have lost my life in the war. I can't stand the cry of the starving children. Habib had confessed to him. I was not afraid to face guns. But what did I get in return? Exile. How could my own people forget us so quickly? What have the people now ruling the country done? Is there nobody to raise this question? You, Mamun bhai!

Stop, stop, Mamun did not want to hear any more.

The two shadows faded. Mamun stared after them. Where is Ayesha? Why am I haunted by memories, wondered Mamun. Is my end drawing near?

Come into the house, it is late. It was Naba, his adopted son. He helped Mamun get up and walk towards the house.

After the death of Firoza, Naba had become Mamun's new guardian.

I need a smoke, appealed Mamun.

No, not now. Naba was firm. You may have one after lunch.

Mamun had picked up this boy in the Sunderbans, during his visit to India on the occasion of the wedding of Munni, Pratap's daughter. Indira Gandhi had lost in the election to the Janata Party who now formed a government at Delhi with Morarji Desai as Prime Minister. In West Bengal too Congress had lost. The Left parties had come to power. The refugees convinced that the present rulers who had opposed their exile would welcome them with open arms started pouring into West Bengal, leaving their Dandakaranya settlements. Even after all these years the label of refugee had stuck to them.

But for the political parties in power it looked ominous. It was one thing to be in the opposition, but running the government was a different matter altogether. They were not willing to bear the extra burden. Already the exodus had started, thousands soon became a million, but for some strange reason they made for the border. Their destination was not Calcutta but Bangladesh.

It was an alarming situation. Mamun then in Calcutta felt that all hell will break loose once this population crosses the border. The Ziaur Regime was strongly anti India. This would convince them that all this has been a plan of the India government. This was why India had helped in the break up of Pakistan. This expatriate Hindus would claim their property. The Muslims who had left India during partition might come back to claim their property. But what has been done cannot be undone. Partition is a fact; it was no use denying it.

The refugees however had other ideas. Instead of crossing the border they wanted to settle in the sparsely populated islands of the Sunderban area, making their living by fishing and agriculture, not depend on government doles any more.

Meanwhile international efforts were on to protect the endangered tiger population of the Sunderbans. Project Tiger saw to it that the forests were retained. On no account should hoards of people be allowed to descend on that preserved habitat of the tigers. Under strict instruction from the centre, the state forced the refugees to return to Dandakaranya. They were not allowed to get employment in West Bengal, they were denied rations. Children and old people died of starvation and disease. Mass funeral pyres were lit in Hasnabad and Basirhat. Empty trains stood by, ready to take them back. So the return exodus began. Those who had hoped to come back to their own people, speak their own language went back, having lost whatever small belongings they had in the process.

But about thirty thousand determined people stayed on. Harit was their leader. He had done a survey of the area and found that human habitation in a few islands would make no difference to the sprawling mangrove forest. He told his followers to be ready to die here, if need be, instead of being subjected to slow death in Dandakaranya.

To stop these stubborn refugees from crossing the river, all boats and steamer services were withdrawn. Not to be outdone, Harit took fifty of his able bodied young men to the riverside and gave a provoking speech. Have you boys forgotten how to swim? He challenged them. Would you prefer human bites to bites by sharks? If you have suckled your mothers’ breasts then come along. Follow me. Joi Baba Kalachand. Good days are coming. Let us jump.

They all jumped into the crocodile infested water. Perhaps the sharks and other ferocious animals were scared of the army of daredevil men. They swam across to where the boats were hidden, took their families and reached the island of Morichjhampi. In an area marked for two tigers, thirty thousand men, women and children landed. In a few months despite local and official opposition, they not only survived but put up tube-wells, set up schools and lived by fishing and wood cutting. Next season they had plans to start sowing crop. Forests were being cleared but at the same time they were also planting trees. They were on their own, living as free human beings.

After attending Munni's wedding, Mamun took his wife and daughter to Ajmer Sharief, Delhi, Agra and Kashmir. On his way back Pratap made him stay in Calcutta for a few more days. This was when Pratap had taken him to a trip to the Sunderban, to a village called Satjelia. Pratap knew someone there. The island of Morichjhampi was not far from this place.

Pratap had heard so much about how the refugees have set up a new colony all on their own in this island that he was curious to go there and see for himself. The Bengali refugees are notorious for their lazy nature, they do not want to exert themselves, and they are a burden on the government. The Punjab refugees on the other hand are hard working, but they were not sent to the barren Dandakaranya. They got Delhi and Haryana instead.

But before Pratap and Mamun could make that visit something terrible happened.

The government did not like the success of the refugees. It would create a bad precedence, they thought. No effort was spared to drive them back to Dandakaranya, the island was surrounded by steamers with armed policemen tempting them with money if they left the island. It did not work, Harit merely ridiculed them.

Around midnight armed ruffians raided the island, setting fire to the cottages, made free use of knives and sticks to deal with any resistance. They were members of a certain political party, according to some, others said they were mercenaries hired by the government. The confused inmates jumped into the water to escape being burnt alive. They were dragged into boats and steamers. The cleaning up operation was over in one night. For two more days and nights the fire smouldered, reducing the dreams of thousands of poor people to ashes. The screams could be heard from as far as Satjelia, Chota Mollakhali and other adjacent villages. The fishermen who take out their boats late at night were eye witnesses to a lot of incidents. All sorts of rumours were afloat. Harit Mondol had disappeared. The police had declared a price of ten thousand for his head. How did he save his valuable head? Nobody had any clear idea. One version said that he has been killed by his own son Sucharit who had turned into a professional killer.

Mamun and Pratap had to hear all the stories when they came to Satjelia. Pratap was stunned, Mamun did not think it proper to comment, after all it concerned the government of another country. But he wished his desire to take back a boy, who had taken refuge in a cow shed, driven away from Morichjhampi. He was Harit Mondol's adopted son, Nabakumar, the police would be looking for him. He wanted to hide in Satjelia, working as a domestic help.

I will take him to Bangladesh, Mamun suddenly made this dramatic announcement.

How can you? Objected Pratap. He does not have a passport. He cannot be a citizen of Bangladesh. How can you keep him? That would be illegal.

I don't care, said Mamun. A lot of illegal things are going on in my country . . . This would be a symbolic gesture. Let me have the satisfaction of taking at least one of the fugitives back to free Bangladesh.

He did not listen to Pratap's arguments. Naba was smuggled out first to Khulna in a fishing boat, where he stayed with Mamun's brother-in-law for some time. Then Mamun brought him over to his own village Madaripur. So far there has not been any trouble. Some Hindu families have stayed on in the village, Naba could very well be one of them. Mamun has gifted him some land, who knows what the future has in store for him. He might have to fight for survival, that is his destiny, wherever he lives.

After a long post lunch nap, Mamun chatted with his granddaughter. Listening to her constant chatter was as refreshing as the music of a rippling stream. While he talked to her he kept hearing the roar of an approaching motor cycle. On most afternoons he has such hallucinations, he thinks of Altaaf, of his first visit.

But no, it was no illusion. Mamun saw an young man wearing a helmet pushing open the gate. His heart missed a beat. Who is it? Would you please go and see Punpuni? He asked his granddaughter.

Ayesha had already seen the visitor. This is Sukhubhai, she exclaimed.

Was Monju's son a messenger of bad tidings? Mamun frowned. Otherwise why would he take the trouble of coming all the way?

Sukhu was dressed as a guerilla fighter. I spent last night with a friend of mine in Madaripur town. Dropped in to see you. How are you, Ayesha?

Sukhu was given hot water for his bath, then he had his lunch and lingered. Mamun assumed he would spend the night here. The visit to a friend was just an excuse, Mamun could see through it. Sukhu was here to see him but why? He was aware of the student movement in Dhaka and the fact that Sukhu has become a student leader, but Mamun intentionally kept aloof from Monju and her son. He had some records of Monju though, which he was never tired of listening to.

Mamun usually went to bed early. He was in bed by nine thirty as usual, trying to read a book when Sukhu entered his room.

I heard about the trouble in your University. How come you are here now? Mamun came straight to the point.

Just to see you. Since you do not bother to keep in touch.

I get to hear all your news. Do your parents know that you have come here? I have a nagging suspicion that you have not told them. They will be worrying.

It is good to keep them worried once in a while. They are too busy with themselves.

Do you meet your father? How is he? His blood pressure?

Everything is fine. Dada, can you give me some money?

Mamun felt greatly relieved. So that is it. You have not paid a courtesy visit. I knew. How much?

Fifty thousand bucks.

Goodness. What will you do with all that money?

Go abroad. Go to London to study. It is not possible to continue studying here.

In that case the entire Dhaka University should be transported to London. No exams for the last two years, is that right?

Can you give me the money? Just tell me that.

I don't have that kind of money. Why didn't you ask your mother?

She won't. She won't even allow me to go abroad. You have to convince her.

Why should she listen to an old foggy like me, rotting in a village?

You bet she will. I know the reason my parents broke apart was you. You have always been a guide to my mother. She holds you in high esteem like a pir or paygamber.

Who has told you this? Your mother?

No. She is so distant and aloof. It was Monira Apa who told me.

What else has she told you?

My father was jealous of you. For nothing!

Are you sure it was for nothing?

Did you really have a love affair with my mother? Sukhu, if you have a gun with you, take me to a riverside and shoot. Make an end of all the trouble.

Why are you getting upset? I am not accusing you. I am just asking for money, it is not blackmail. I just need it.

Sukhu, I cannot lie to you at the fag end of my life. You will get mad, even want to kill me if I tell you the truth. Yes, I did love your mother. What is more, you are my son, your father is not Babul Choudhury.

Surprisingly, this amused Sukhu. He roared with laughter. You can't fool me. No way. I have checked. My parents had been living in Swarupnagar ever since their marriage. I was born there. You had never visited them even once. There is no doubt about the fact that Babul Choudhury is my father, genuine and biological. Not that I would have minded if it was somebody else!

Mamun's voice shook. You have been my son, not physically but in every other way . . . I gave you more love and care than your own father. I have seen you grow up and felt you were my own. I loved your mother, every evening I had to go visit her after work. Naturally Babul was jealous, who wouldn't be? I was trying to steal his wife and child from him. I was a fool not to have seen it. But by Allah, Sukhu, I never had any sinful intentions, I never touched your mother. She is a pure gem. But I have ruined her life, through my love.

Sukhu laughed again. Why do you make such a fuss over nothing. My father is a fool. You had a kind of platonic relationship with your niece, nothing to make a hue and cry for. You are too decent a gentleman to do anything immoral. What that father of mine could not accept was that your affection for my mother was a little more than what it should normally be.

Stupefied at the reaction of Shkhu, Mamun just stared blankly. The language they use. He did not understand the present generation. He thought the boy would want to kill him! But he just laughed it away.

My dear old man, continued Sukhu, why did you leave Dhaka if you were so fond of my mother? What kind of sacrifice is this?

It is not sacrifice. I wanted to make your father understand that my motives were selfless love.

Silly sentiments. But I want to tell you one thing. I consider you a better person than Baba.

Please, don't. Babul has withdrawn himself completely. He was a great freedom fighter. If only he had made use of his talents . . . but then perhaps I am responsible for his withdrawal.

Bullshit. If you have ability, it is bound to come out. Bookworms and theoreticians are no good to the country. But come to the point. Would you give me the money?

If you want I can sell the house for you.

And move around like a poor fakir. You can't even walk properly. Forget it. I have to ask mother, but will you persuade her?

Don't go away Sukhu. What will your mother live for? Who will be here for rebuilding the nation? Sukhu pondered. Then he said, I would stay here for a couple of days. Will you protect me from the police?

Oh I see. No, I am sorry. Who am I to stop you from going to jail? On the other hand it would be good for you. A stint in jail is good education, at least in this country.

The next day both Monju and Babul arrived, at an interval of two hours. They had heard that the police are on the look out for their son. Babul brought passport forms with him determined to send his son to London. Monju wanted him to leave for Calcutta. But Sukhu meanwhile had changed his mind. He won't budge from here. In fact he avoided his parents, played badminton with Ayasha then went to the town with her.

Babul was brusque with Mamun, making it quite clear that it was his son who had drawn him there. Mamun tried to explain. Please do not blame me. I have not asked your son to come here, neither will I force him to stay. Remember he is twenty now, free to make his own choice.

Babul did not argue. Refusing Mamun's invitation to stay for lunch, he proceeded to the friend's car he had borrowed. On his way out he saw Monju, standing with her back to him, intently examining a flowering shrub.

With hesitant steps Babul went up to her. How are you, Monju? He asked softly.

Monju looked at him, her face registering neither anger nor grief. Fine, she said, after a pause, and you?

6

WITH no help from Pratap, Mamata had finalised her plans for a trip to Hardwar but at the last minute she developed cold feet. Kanu, the ever resourceful had got tickets and seen to other details. His smart young daughter China, sitting idle after her part two exams would accompany Mamata. But how could Mamata leave her husband behind?

They had stopped talking after a quarrel but eventually it was Mamata who gave in. Please, do come along, she pleaded. I won't enjoy the trip without you.

Recently Mamata had acquired a secret source of income and had been on a buying spree — a valuable red Kashmiri carpet she had long wanted to possess, an expensive warm coat for Pratap. So you seem to be a rich lady now, showing your money off! Pratap had observed lightly.

It evoked a bitter response. I have slaved away all my life.

You have never given me anything. Was his wife's terse reply. Never given you anything? It was now the husband's turn to be offended. Whatever I did was for you.

Whatever indeed. Charity — that was what it was. Did you ever care to know what I wanted? I was not free to do what I wanted.

After this Pratap never touched the coat. His old coat was good enough. He refused to accompany her to Hardwar. What will I do there? You will be busy with the baby. I will just be a burden. Besides there is a hearing at the Corporation next month . . .

But who would be staying with him in the house? Pratap lost his temper. I am not a child. I will take care of myself. Nanu will be there to cook.

Nanu the domestic help was repeatedly told by Mamata to sleep in the sitting room, to remind the master to take medicine and all other small details. Faithful Nanu had been taking good care of the master. But there was a wedding in the family, so Pratap allowed him to take leave.

He had attended to all his duties mechanically like seeing Mamata off at the Howrah station, filling up her water bottle, fetching a porter. But he felt strangely detached. The way Mamata had said in a fit of anger that she did not need his money to go to Hardwar, she can manage on her own, still rankled. She had trivialised ail his hard work, slogging away for the family — all that amounted to nothing! He took pains to hide his feeling, putting up a brave face, even smiling but that was just a mask.

As he stood on the platform, close to the window of the compartment, Pratap had a sudden feeling of premonition. Perhaps he was not going to see Mamata any more. In all their forty years of married life, Mamata had never gone anywhere without him. Was something going to happen to her? How can he spend the rest of his life without her? No, it cannot be, Pratap tried to blow such thoughts away.

The train lurched forward. Mamata, upset, clutched her husband's hand hard. Promise you will take care of yourself? I have given Nanu all instructions. Don't try to set up the mosquito net, he will do it. You just do the shopping, the rest is Nanu's responsibility. Promise me, you will reply to my letters by return post. I won't be away for more than a month . . .

She looked so vulnerable that Pratap felt sorry for her. Don't you worry, he spoke as though talking to a child. I will be fine. You must be careful. Don't open the compartment door at night. Of course China is with you. She is a smart girl, have a good time China . . .

He walked across the Howrah Bridge for no reason and arrived at Strand Road. On an impulse he bought a ticket for the launch which ferried passengers across and went over to the other side of the river. He was in no hurry to get back home. This is the Ganga, which enters the plain in Hardwar, the place where Mamata has gone. Would she come back? A river goes on but human life has to stop at some point. No, no, why think of such ominous possibilities. She was in perfect good health; this is the time for her to enjoy life after the years of struggle.

It was perfect madness to have crossed the Howrah Bridge only to cross over on a boat. Pratap took the same ferry launch back to Outram Ghat. He sat there for a long time, remembering the past, of the English band playing in Eden Garden, the Industrial Fair they had all visited — Sulekha, Piklu, Bablu, Munni, Mamata. Didi and Tutul too. Only Ma was not with them. They had all come in Tridib's car. Shortly after that he lost Piklu. Where did the others go?

It was the Ganga, which took Piklu, and Mamata was going to the bank of the same river. He hoped Mamata would not make any attempt to have a bath in the supposedly sacred water of the river at Hardwar. After Piklu was gone, Pratap had not gone for a dip in the river, he lost his faith in the Ganga.

At times he was obsessed by a terrible thought, so ugly that he wanted to kill himself. But he could not help thinking about it again. Piklu had tried to save his brother. If instead of Bablu, Piklu had lived he would have made a success of his life. But no, he loved Bablu more, contrary to the idea of his wife. Mamata was convinced that her husband had no love for Bablu. But she is wrong. Bablu was wild, Pratap had to punish him often but he was partial to Bablu. Did he not stake his all to send him abroad? He has never allowed his wife to realise how much he fretted for him. Bablu never wrote to his father but Pratap went over his letters to his mother again and again surreptitiously.

The riverside was full of lover couples and other strollers. Two young men leaning against the railing laughed out loud, somebody was singing somewhere. All on a sudden the scene changed before Pratap's eyes, the faces of the young couple changed. It was an uncanny feeling. Pratap could almost see a vision of the future, of fifty years from now. He will not be here, nor will these people. There will be others. It is just a matter of a few years. Then everything ends.

A shiver ran down his spine. Pratap felt frightened. Why was he obsessed by such useless thoughts, why did he see the vision?

He wished he had gone with Mamata, loneliness can be terrible. All sorts of futile ideas keep crowding the mind. He did not want to admit to himself that he was missing his wife. But he could not stay in the house alone for long, he had to get out. Unfortunately he had no place to go to. He had no friend except Bimanbehari. He even toyed with the idea of taking the train to Krishnanagar but changed his mind. He must attend to the tax hearing case. First things first.

Loitering in the streets has its own pleasures. Pratap overheard a couple, in their early thirties, talking about a flower called brahmakamal. The woman, evidently just back from the Valley of Flowers was describing the strange flower, which withers as soon as you cross the Alaknanda River. It is a mountain flower, which does not survive in the plains. Mamata too has a great fancy for the Valley of Flowers. Oddly enough, Pratap had just come across a signboard proclaiming the charms of that sight. Do you want to go on a tour of Hardwar — Rishikesh — Valley of Flowers. We are there for you. Holiday Travels.

The companion of the woman looked somewhat like Siddhartha. Could it really be him? No, it cannot be. All of Bablu's friends would always visit them with gifts. Sharmila never forgot to send chocolates for her mother-in-law. Mamata often told her of her fondness for ice cream and chocolates. Pratap never cared for sweets, he was strictly non-veg, though he could not relish American meat. He did not eat beef, pork was too high-calorie, the chicken was tasteless, mutton was not available, lamb he found smelly. Bablu used to bring a fish called shad, which tasted like ilish, though hardly as delicious but what he liked best were vegetables and fruits. He has never had such tasty mushrooms in his life.

Walking along Hazra Road, he smiled to himself. Mamata is coming back in all his thoughts, he had no idea he was so attached to her, almost like a hen pecked husband. Instead of enjoying his newfound freedom, he had half a mind to board a train to Hardwar to give her a surprise.

He tried a glass of tea in a roadside stall but the awful liquid tasted like nothing on earth. What do these people glibly serve in the name of tea. Seething with fury, Pratap threw the coins and left the stall. He must have at least a cigarette to get rid of the sour taste.

Three years ago, just to show his wife that he could do it, he had left smoking. It was during one of his worst bouts of cough. Go on smoking, she had taunted. It is not for you to give up smoking. Instantly Pratap threw the packet and the lighter out of the window sending Mamata into fits of laughter. That laughter had acted as a safeguard ever since.

Now that she was not here to ridicule him, Pratap was free to buy a packet. But as he paused in front of a cigarette shop, he seemed to hear her chuckle. He turned round to find two women laughing over something in a balcony close by. Well, if he had to break his promise he would do it in front of Mamata, not like a coward.

The other alternative left was paan. Not that Pratap was addicted to it, in fact the sight of chewing in company irritated him, particularly the red lips of men coloured with paan juice. He went up to a paan shop and asked the stall-keeper, make a paan for me, would you. Make it without khayer.

The paanwala, busy arranging cold drink bottles in a crate did not bother to answer. Pratap watched the passing traffic wondering if all these people had come out to enjoy the pleasant breeze or this was the usual rush hour crowd. After some time he realised that he has not been given the paan.

The paanwala meanwhile had finished arranging the bottles and was busy talking to someone of his own type. He did not seem to realise that he has kept a customer waiting.

It was only natural that a man of Pratap's stature would receive immediate attention from people of this class. The exception to the rule surprised Pratap. Listen, you! He spoke like a judge. Didn't I ask for a paan?

It did not work. The paanwala said casually, yes, just one paan, isn't it? Wait a second.

Turning to the other man he continued to give him some instructions. Then he proceeded very leisurely to wipe his fingers in a piece of wet cloth. Before he could begin making the paan, a young man in kurta pyjama appeared. Bechulal, what about my cigars?

All attention, the paanwala turned to the new customer. Oh yes Babu. It has arrived only this morning. He stood on the platform to bring down cigar boxes of various sizes.

Amazed and furious at his audacity, Pratap had a strong impulse to slap the man hard on the two cheeks. But he could not bring himself to doing it and left, fuming. No, he was not feeling like having any paan. He wished that man could be taught a lesson in some way. Couldn't the police do anything? After all a paan shop was for supplying paan yet he had the cheek to ignore a man like Pratap just because he had asked for one single paan?

The incident lingered as he walked on. Trying to be impartial he judged the man from a business point of view. After all it was only natural to value a customer who came for costly merchandise. Pratap did not mind but he had been kept waiting. At least the paanwala should have had the decency to apologise.

Pretty soon his frustrated anger erupted around an event which was actually a minor traffic mishap. A rickshaw carrying a young woman in a yellow sari overturned near the Hazra and Dover Road crossing. The woman with the books she was carrying lay sprawled in the mud. She stood up, her dress ruined in the dirt and shouted at the rickshaw-wala. A young man in a motor-bike was instantly on the scene. He joined in. What do you think you are doing? He raised his voice. Have just learnt to ply a rickshaw, what? You could have collided with me you know that?

The girl vaguely remembered the roar of the bike seconds before the accident. It is you, she charged. You hit the rickshaw.

No, no, protested the rider. I braked just in time. A taxi was coming from the other side. These rickshaw-walas . . . straight from the village . . .

You hit us, the girl insisted. You should be ashamed of yourself.

Goodness, how can I make you understand? The boy continued to explain. I avoided a serious collision. Would I have come back to help if I had hit you. What can I do now, are you badly hurt?

Within minutes a crowd gathered out of nowhere. It was an ideal situation - a presentable looking girl, a smart motorcycle rider and a confused rickshaw-wala. Of the three the smart young man seemed to be the perfect target. Some in the crowd seemed to be self-imposed guardians of the locality. One tall ruffian, looking quite drunk already had the smart young man by his collar, shouting obscenities.

The crowd had a number of demands. First, the young man has to apologise to the lady. Second the poor rickshaw-wala had to be paid compensation for the damage to his vehicle. The other unspoken demand was the smart young man has no right to drive a bike, his motor bike should be taken away from him.

The young man insisted that he did not hit. Should I have come back if I did? I backed up to see what had happened.

While all this was going on, Pratap arrived on the scene. It was already dark; the streetlights were not on yet, as was usual on most evenings. The stream of traffics flowed on, double-deckers, cars, autos, and pedestrians, unmindful of the little muddle going on.

The situation was getting out of hand. The curious spectators were now replaced by more interested people. Realising her mistake the girl, now almost in tears was pleading for the young man. But the crowd was after blood, they will never allow her to leave. The tall drunken fellow had started assaulting the rider when Pratap came forward. A judge for many years, he could not bear sheer injustice taking place in front of his eyeV He forgot that he was no longer a judge, moreover professional judges restricted their sphere of operation only inside the courtroom. The best thing for him to do was to pass by, looking the other way.

From the face of the rider he was convinced of his honesty. In such cases the offending car or bike fled for life, but this honest and upright young man has come back to help. It was a laudable act. But he was being punished and the language the tall fellow used seemed most objectionable to Pratap.

He faced the tall fallow. Let go of him, he yelled with authority. Why are you holding him by the collar? And mind your language.

Shut up, said the tall man with contempt. I know this son of a swine. Showing off in his motor bike, I have watched him driving by — sala, womanizer . . .

This is none of your business, Dadu, put in somebody from behind. Get lost — get lost.

Is it a crime to drive a motor bike? Charged Pratap. You don't own the road, do you? Let him go. It is a matter between him and the lady.

Will you shut your trap, the tall man said roughly. Clear off, I tell you.

No, not before you leave his collar. Hand him over to the police if you must. Pratap was adamant.

Really? Showing the police, shala. The man suddenly turned violent. He pushed Pratap with his hand. Don't you know who I am? You have the courage to dare me?

His push sent Pratap tumbling down. Nobody said anything. Others moved back. The matter ended in a few minutes. The rickshaw-wala had fled already, the crowd allowed the girl to leave. They fell on their victim with renewed vigour, he was pushed to an alley, his motor cycle gone. Most probably it will be taken apart and parts of it sold by that night in the Mallickbazar market where stolen goods are sold. The incident would pass off as minor unless the boy was killed in the process. Usually the victim after a good deal of thrashing is allowed to get away.

The crowd dispersed, things returned to normal. But Pratap did not shift from his position. He lay half-reclined against the wall, conscious and not badly hurt, having lost the will to stand up. In the dark many people stepped on him but nobody bothered to find if it was a man or a cow.

After some time a man from the shop opposite came up with a lighted torch.

Are you hurt, Dada? He asked with concern. Should I give you a hand?

There was no reply. The man repeated. Are you hurt in the spine? Let me help.

It took some effort but Pratap sat up. After a good look at him the man made a sound expressing regret. You look like a gentleman and an old man, you should not have got involved with them. I didn't. I wouldn't dare to deal with those ruffians, they are capable of sticking a knife into your stomach. Pratap seemed to have lost his power of speech. He declined the kind offer of his saviour to rest a little in his shop.

Well then, sir, the man said. You better hurry back. Try to avoid this area, they would recognise you, you had tried to resist them. They are not likely to forget it.

Pratap walked all the way to Jadavpur as though in a trance, his mind completely blank, his hands and clothes smeared with sludge. He could have been run over by the speeding cars, but he reached home finally, opened the two locks, then collapsed on the bed. He did not know when he lost consciousness.

After four hours he woke up. Where was he? Whose house was this? Was he floating on water? The bed seemed to swing, his head felt heavy.

Slowly he got up and groped his way to the switch board. He pressed the switch but the room remained dark. These days everybody got used to operate in the dark but before proceeding to fetch a candle Pratap pondered. Why did he have such a funny feeling as if he was somebody else. He was not hurt in the legs but they felt strangely light He had a heavy feeling in the chest.

He shook his head to get over that peculiar feeling but it did not go away. It was as though he was another person; the ugly incident, of being pushed by a ruffian had happened to another Pratap Majumder, he was a spectator who felt no grudge, nothing at all. What had happened was part of a scene, he was bewildered.

The door leading down to the staircase was open all along. A thief could have sneaked in. Pratap lit the candle and closed the door. Nanu was on leave to night. Pratap should have been hungry but he had no appetite.

The next thing he did was to look into the four bedrooms for hidden intruders. Only one bedroom was used, others were kept ready for the children. Mamata was very particular about providing a comfortable stay for her son and daughter-in-law. But they are yet to visit this new house. Every winter they plan to come but something or the other came up.

In the dim candlelight, Pratap moved from room to room like a shadow, taking the revolver Bimanbehan had given him at one time. He also had a license. Now aiming the revolver he checked the dark corners, a window which creaked. He looked out, the street seemed deserted. He held the revolver in tight grip in the empty house. Mamata, who knew her hot tempered husband only too well had pleaded him not to take the revolver with him outside the house. If only he had the gun with him he would have shot that scoundrel. It would have served him right.

Nanu had left the dinner on the table — roti, potato with onions, turtle meat with radish, Pratap's favourite and gajar ka halwa. As Mamata did not eat turtle meat, it was not cooked at home. Suddenly the words of the man at the go-down flashed through Pratap's mind: You must give up root vegetables, sir. What was the warning for? The man had no ulterior motive.

He had no desire to heat up the food. Putting the candle and the revolver on the table he sat down to eat. It was then that he noticed the dried cakes of mud on his elbow, the dirt stuck to the sleeves. He needed a bath. But today he even forgot to wash his hands. Nothing seemed to matter. The candle would go out any minute. Let it be. It was too much of an effort to go and look for another. Gloomy and dejected, he realised that he himself was responsible for this evening's mishap. That man from the opposite shop was right. It is not for decent gentlemen to deal with those ruffians who thought nothing of using obscenities, sticking a knife or using a pipe-gun. Sensible people give them a wide berth. But how long would this go on?

Nobody came up to protest when that hoodlum pushed Pratap. Is this a civil society? The young chap at the paan shop could have waited till Pratap was served. But then the motor cycle rider was a different type, upright and honest. But who knows what has happened to him? He might have been killed; it has become so common these days. There are good people but unfortunately you are either a crook or a coward.

When he was in America, Pratap realized that our children are clinging hard in that alien country just to make money. They do not get into the mainstream; they have no sense of belonging. They do not get involved in argument between whites, pretend not to notice if they are slighted because of their colour. Though Pratap had not observed any case of racial discrimination directly but he felt an undercurrent of hostility in many. That is only to be expected. After all whites are always given preference.

But what about his own country? Keep away, keep away they say, to save your skin. Keep away from the misbehaving neighbour boy, if you do you would be asking for trouble. All you can do is perhaps write a letter to the editor.

It was not him but another Pratap Majumder who, driven out of his hearth and home had tried his level best to give him family a decent life, to give the children a good education, had remained honest and uncompromising Where is he now? The children have left; they are busy with their own lives. The neighbours ask with awe, so you have your son in America? Why this respect? Their visits every three or four year with some gadget or perfume, even a tooth paste tube, evoking wonder? Once in a while some money is sent, just a ritual. Well, the same Pratap Majumder, the proud father of a son in America was lying by a ditch, shoved on the dirt by a ruffian, unrecognised. Perhaps he deserved it.

I am superfluous now; nobody needs me, thought Pratap. Tears streamed down his cheeks and fell on the plate when all on a sudden the lights came on. Who needed the light at the dead of night? He tried to turn to the food but everything tasted bitter. He pushed the dishes away; the silence of the night was broken by the clatter of plates. Pratap sat still, his gaze fixed on the revolver.

But no, why was he having it out on the dishes. That was a different Pratap Majumder who like a stupid fool had tried to bring up a family, never thinking of his own role . . . His expectation from his family was great, no wonder he is frustrated now. Foolish of him to think those children would be staying with him forever. He lost one son, may be he would have been no different from the others if he had lived. Why would the other son who lived and worked in a foreign country bother about his parents? Affection like water tends to take a downward course. That is the law of nature.

He picked up the broken pieces of the plate. A man from the shop on the other side of the road had come to help him with a torch as he lay on the dark alley. So there are all sorts, some who push you aside and others who offer a helping hand. He can follow the example of the latter, can't he? Switching off the lights he went to bed, putting the revolver under the pillow. So he is a different man now, it gave him a good feeling.

When he woke up next morning it was quite late. There was no hurry. He made himself a cup of tea. The heavy feeling in the chest was back, as he climbed the steps to fetch the newspaper. A slight bout of coughs was an added bother. He must get his blood pressure checked.

Presently Oli arrived like a breath of fresh air. How are you enjoying your bachelorhood, Pratap- kaka? She asked with a bright smile. Had some work at Jadavpur University, stopped for a cup of tea.

It was an excuse, thought Pratap. She is here to check how he was doing. Really, Oli had eyes for everything.

Where is Nanu? Who made your tea?

Am I so good for nothing that I can't even make a cup of tea? All right, let me make you one. I can also cook an omelet.

Just tea would do, said Oli. She brought out two packets from her shoulder. Buli has made this custard apple dessert for you. She is rather a good cook, you know. Don't give excuses, you must eat. The other box contained some fresh chicken patties.

The house looks so empty without Kakima, observed Oli. Oh yes, Buli asked me to tell you to watch her programme on TV this Saturday.

I will. Normally Mamata watches TV, I don't. Listen, why don't you two have lunch with me to- morrow? Nanu will be coming, he is not a bad cook. You too can cook something if you want. We will have quite a picnic.

I wish you had told me earlier. My trip to Jhargram is all arranged. I am leaving this afternoon.

Why Jhargram, of all places?

To Kaushik and Pompom in Binpur.

Kaushik has stayed on in the village school? Couldn't he get a better job?

Pratapkaka — leave each one to his liking. They enjoy working there.

Still carrying on political activities, is that it?

As I told you, each according to his choice.

She followed him to the kitchen, talking all the time. She seemed to have lost weight but seemed quite happy. Pratap has never seen her morose or sad.

Her presence seemed to fill the house, Pratap wanted her to stay. But Oli had some work in Jadavpur after all and she seemed in a hurry to leave.

You must be a good boy, have your meals regularly. She said straightening a framed print of Rembrandt on the wall. When are you getting back?

May be a week, may be more. My college is closed now. Pompom is not keeping well, you know.

Tell me something Oli. You are taking care of me, Pompom, anybody who is in trouble. Is there anyone who cares for you?

Oh yes, there are people who do, you do.

Will you tell me a truth. You did not marry but is there someone you love?

What a thing to say. I love you, Baba, Kaushik, Anupam, Tapan, Babluda . . . there are many more.

You mentioned Bablu. You haven't seen him for years.

So what, I can go on loving him nevertheless. But the one I love most is Shounak.

Come on, you must rid your mind of such nonsense.

Let me tell you a secret, Pratapkaka. We are not married but Shounak comes to me at night.

She laughed. Pratap had an impulse to stop her, to ask her to stay. But he could not bring himself to say it. He went down the stairs to the gate. He will miss her. Oli moved to the bus stop, on her way she met Nanu and stopped to talk to him. Pratap stepped on the staircase but it seemed like a Herculean effort. His chest felt like bursting. What was happening? Was in an attack of some serious illness? He thought of the revolver under the pillow. The Pratap Majumder who was attacked by a goonda and lay by the gutter did not deserve to lie in bed, sick. He has no right to be nursed by others.

He wanted to rush upstairs but his legs gave way. He fell, calling softly, Oli, Oli . . .

7

ATIN followed by the 'No Smoking' and 'Fasten Your Seatbelt' signs made him look up from an absorbed perusal of his files. So they have reached Denver already. A tip from his colleague Jimmy Garner has taught him not to waste any time on the plane, so that he can reach his destination well prepared to counter any question with a quick answer.

He closed the file, slipped it into his hand baggage and looked out. Below the lights of the Denver city blinked in a symmetrical design. For the last five days he has been flying everyday, spending the day in one city, the night in another. Air travel bored him. This was his first visit to Denver, famous for its deep forests, beautiful mountains and a highway through the snow above fourteen thousand feet but he was not likely to see much beyond the downtown. All downtowns look identical with the same extravagance of concrete, steel and glass.

The night was to be spent in hotel Holiday Inn, to be followed by an interview with the number two of a factory at exactly nine thirty, which would go on till lunch. Then he would discuss the signing of a contract with another before catching the five ten flight to Santa Fe, New Mexico. Everything was chalked out. As the representative of his company he has been flung like a boomerang, supposed to come back on Monday all in one piece, having hit all the targets.

Habits die hard. He instinctively groped for his cigarette then stopped. Most of his friends have given up smoking but he couldn't. It had been a busy day. There were still a few minutes before landing so he glanced over the Los Angeles Times and was relieved not to find any news from India. No news is good news. So his country has had a disaster-free day.

The small world is becoming smaller but India is still far away, beyond the sphere of the everyday concern of the American media. He felt amused to see the four-column headline about labour unrest in Poland with photographs. Well, well, the Americans are feigning a lot of sympathy for the demands of the labour community of a small country. Very kind of them.

It reminded him of what Jimmy Garner had said about the famine in Kalahandi, Orissa. They were always having friendly arguments, Jimmy and Atin. Usually Jimmy loved to provoke. Your Prime Minister Indira Gandhi had boasted of producing enough food for the people when she spoke at the World Food Conference in Cuba, a couple of years ago. Was she lying? People still starve to death in your country, don't they?

Even though he was not an Indira fan, Atin had to defend her. All politicians tell lies. Besides, enough food production has to be coupled with buying power. The government of India has not been able to provide work for all.

Not used to diplomatic beating about the bush, Atin had snapped back. India after all is a poor country. But how come your New York streets have so many homeless people? You can look at the report published in News Week, the statistics of the homeless in New York.

Like all other passengers impatient to be the first to get off, Atin pressed forward though there would be no one to receive him. His eyes swept across the crowd of eager faces, smiling, waving, and throwing kisses.

Actually he knew quite a few people in Denver, like Abid Hossain from Bangladesh, now a successful architect; his school friend Shubhendu Dutt and his wife Bishakha. But he was here on business, business should never be mixed with pleasure. He remembered the wise words of his immediate boss, Robert MacCormick. Five days in the week, you are your company's slave. The weekends are exclusively for your family. Do not mix the two. In weekends I do gardening, go swimming, and spend time with the children, neighbours and friends. You are a young man, you can have more outdoor fun. But the rest of the week all your waking hours must be dedicated for the work we are being paid for . . . You must think even dream of office matters. If you have to meet other parties on business, a solid seven-hour sleep is essential the night before. Drink a little, and take a sleeping pill if necessary. You must keep your faculties razor sharp to tackle your opponents. Concentration is what you need. Alertness. True to the advice of his boss Atin was now on a regulated routine, because each day he was meeting a new competitor. From the airport he would take a taxi, check into a hotel, all more or less identical. Two drinks, a light dinner, watching television for an hour then a sleeping pill before dashing to bed. Of the five cities he was supposed to visit, three jobs have been successfully completed. He has been keeping to his schedule. Two more and he would make a triumphant return to New York.

A film he had seen many years ago, The Man in a Grey Flannel Suit, featuring Gregory Peck, came to his mind. In postwar America people working in offices usually wore grey flannel suits. Every day, thousands of commuters carrying briefcases would emerge from the subway in New York and rush. They were like pegs in a wheel, nobody any different from the other. They were tied in the same routine at home too. Return home, have dinner, chat with the family, watch TV, yawwn. Gregory Peck was no exception. But at times during his office hours or even at home, the past flashed across his mind, from his life as a soldier. In the Normandy coast he had to shoot twenty-one men and women in cold blood. The pained faces of two German young adolescents whom he was obliged to pierce with his bayonet particularly haunted him. Now he was a man in a grey flannel suit like thousands of others, a responsible father of two, and a family man. Nobody could guess his true identity, a killer beneath the disguise.

Atin however preferred stripes, now he had a light blue one. Even though he had a fair complexion grown fairer in this climate but nobody was likely to mistake him for a white. He could be taken for a Mexican at the most. Beneath this garb, his black hair and a serious expression, all his past lay buried.

Tell me Atin, Jimmy would often tease him. How come you are so tall? I thought all Indians are short like Africans. You know poor nations usually are — look at the Italians.

There are many kinds of stupidity, Atin would snap at him . . . But the stupidity of you Americans beats all. You show off your ignorance of history and geography. You know nothing except your own country. Some African tribes like pygmies are short, but Africans in general are quite tall, look at your black population. Most Indians are descendants of the Aryan race, they are anything but short in stature. Did you see the interview of our Satyajit Ray on C.B.S channel last Sunday? Show me an American as tall and handsome as him?

Instead of getting angry, Jimmy burst out laughing. The Americans have strong lungs, they are ready to laugh at any pretext.

You know, I like to taunt you about your country to see you turn red, your eyes popping out. You feel very strongly for your country, don't you? You clean forget that you have a passport. The last taunt leaves Atin speechless. Jimmy makes up by offering beer.

It was a busy airport, with a number of evening flights taking off or landing. As Atin waited for his baggage to arrive, he did not bother to gaze at the crowd dotted with some Indians. His mind was active with the work he had to accomplish. The whole afternoon at Denver was spent in arguing with a customer, who, he guessed must have been Jewish, very stubborn. MacCormik had warned him, be very careful in dealing with the Jews. They always try to dodge a direct answer by throwing a counter question. Even an innocent comment like, It is a nice day, isn't it? Would bring out the following reaction from a Jew, Why, do you think yesterday's sky was less blue?

Proximity with Anglo Saxons may have infected Atin with the prevailing undercurrent of anti Jewish feeling. Because the Jews are doing so well is another cause for hostility. But with all their money power it was highly unlikely for a Jew to be the President of America in the near future. Atin has some Jewish friends, they are nice people but very difficult adversaries. Why, the arguments took such a turn this afternoon that Atin was apprehensive he might have to overstay. That would have meant a change of plan for the next two days. Anyway, he has been successful but a lot depended on the men he was going to meet in Denver.

The matter is so important for the company that Atin was pursuing the Vice President of another company who was holidaying in Santa Fe with his family. Running against time. The terror of Japan loomed large.

A student of science, now Atin has become a glorified salesman. It is his job to discuss the technical details of new products with other companies, American as well as foreign. Recently his company has developed a new kind of fertilizer, named the Magic Fertilizer, capable of a three-fold increase in production. Marketing the product in the States was no problem. But following the recent open up policy, China has floated a global tender for a hundred and fifty million-dollar fertilizer factory. It had to be grabbed by any means before Japan could get it. Forming a syndicate of about five American companies would speed up the process. That is why Atin was chasing the Vice President of the John Dear company, famous for their Caterpillar tractors, who have now diversified into the fertilizer field. A promotion and a higher pay was assured if Atin was able to convince the vice president. He needed the extra money badly for buying a new house. He could send more money to Ma and ask Baba to buy a car. They need not use the public transport at Calcutta at this age.

He could spot his suitcase on the luggage conveyer. Then he heard something vaguely disturbing, as though he was being called. He often had such hallucinations. Once it was very clearly Kaushik, calling out, Bablu, Bablu. He was scared. Did that mean he was dying? Though he knew it was nothing but superstition, but he had heard from his grandmother that the call of a dying man would reach his dear ones, no matter how far away.

He picked up his suitcase and looked up at the TV screen for arrival and departure announcements. He saw his name being flashed there. Atin Majumder of flight number AL 702, there is an urgent message for you. Please contact the counter. The message was being blared in the microphone, he had heard it but the distorted accent made his name quite incomprehensible.

Who could the sender be? Who would know that he would be at the Denver airport now? Nobody at home knew. He had called Sharmila from Chicago to tell her that he might have to stay in Kansas City indefinitely.

It was as unreal as an incident out of a Franz Kafka novel. In fact he himself was not sure he would be here or would be taking this flight, and he finds a message waiting for him.

It has to be from the office. Has the deal fallen through? The Japanese must have bagged it. Has the company changed hands? He has been fired? Anything was possible in this country. The girl at the inquiry counter handed him a chit with just a phone number. It was his home number. Atin felt faint, his head reeled. Something must be terribly wrong; his first thoughts were of the children. Ron has a habit of getting out of the house, which stood very close to a highway. Anita walks back from her friend's house, much to the annoyance of Atin. She was growing up; it was not safe at all.

Something pulled him back; he could not walk to the telephone booth. How can he bear the news if it is the death of his dearest child, Ron. He felt his heart was about to burst.

The girl at the counter could guess something was the matter. She put her hand on the mouthpiece of the phone she was speaking into and asked, can I help you? With her blue eyes and pink hair she looked like a doll.

Is there any other massage? Asked Atin, trying his best to sound natural.

Let me see. Yes, it was a lady, she was Sharm, Sharmaila?

Yes, my wife. What did she say?

Oh I see. Your wife. She asked you to get in touch with her from the airport. Must be some good news. Is it your anniversary by any chance?

Americans are fond of making fun of everything. But Sharmila must have explained the situation to her otherwise she would not have wasted her time. The girl was sympathetic. I find all the booths are full. You can make a collect call from here, if you want.

Thanks a lot. Atin could feel his hand shaking. Steady, steady, he told himself.

His ring was answered by a child's voice. Hi Daddy. Where are you? In Texas?

What relief. So Ron was all right. A great load was off his mind, Atin felt like taking his arms round his son . . .

How are you all, Ronnie? He asked anxiously. What is the matter? Where is Didi?

She is watching T V. A very boring movie, I didn't like it. Daddy, when are you coming home?

So Ron and Anita both were fine. But what about Sharmila!

Ron raised his voice. Mom, Mom, Daddy is calling you. Mom, O Mom . . . Daddy are you really in Texas? Have you met any cowboy?

What nonsense was this? If nothing was the matter he need not be indulgent to his son. He spoke sharply, asking him to call his mother to the phone immediately. Mom was in the bathroom and would not come out before half an hour, he was informed. She would call back in half an hour.

Go, tell your mother to come out right away, ordered Atin. I don't have the time.

Far away in New Jersey, Sharmila was dreaming in her bubble bath, floating in a sky of white clouds. This bath is her greatest luxury. Her daughter stretched on the carpet with a packet of chips and a novel of Ludlum. The TV was on. Her rich hair tied in a blue ribbon; Anita, just past her adolescence, was blossoming into a beautiful woman. His brother had toys spread all about him, equipments for a war game. She calls her brother Dennis the Menace. Ron loves ice cream, chocolates and hamburgers. He hates rice and homemade sandwiches.

When Ron gave him the message for a second time, Sharmila wondered what was wrong. Atin never calls at this hour.

Known to be absent minded, Sharmila very often entered the toilet and pondered why she was there. After she had paid for the gas bill thrice in a month, a man from the gas-company called to find out why she was bent on giving them so much. She looked much younger than her actual age, in fact the slim and tired looking Sharmila of her youth has developed into a real beauty after the birth of her two children.

Then it all came back to her. She washed hurriedly, donned a housecoat and rushed out.

Sorry, Bablu for taking so much time. She spoke into the phone.

What's the joke? Asked her husband angrily.

Extremely sorry, I was having my bath. Did you get my message?

What is the message?

I told your office, called Jimmy Garner, then called Kansas and Denver airports, but they would not take the message, they can't use the public announcement system, they said.

Cut it short, Milly. I am dead tired.

Anita who knew her mother only too well shouted. Ma, somebody from India called. Grandpa is sick, that is the message you wanted to give Dad.

Boosted by her daughter, Sharmila began, yes Bablu, and there was a call from home. Your Lalukaka had called.

Lalukaka? Who is he? Never heard of him.

Well, the sound was not clear.

Anyway, the only kaka I have is Kanukaka. What did he say?

Listen carefully, Bablu, don't get upset. Your father is very ill. You must go to Calcutta immediately.

Who is very ill?

Your father.

For a few seconds the vision of his stubborn and difficult father appeared before Atin. High blood pressure, that must be it. Cardiac arrest or cerebral attack?

What kind of illness? Has he been taken to a hospital? Could not make out. You know Indian telephones. Your Kanu kaka kept on repeating Hello, Hello. He wanted to talk to you. I told him you were not here, he didn't get it. He said he had been trying for three hours. You must get back as soon as you can.

Impossible! How can I go now?

From the way he spoke, it seemed you have to go. It is important.

You have no idea of my responsibilities. You should have asked for details about how critical it really was.

He left in three minutes, most of the time he kept saying hello, hello.

You could ring back.

But where? Your home phone is dead. Kanu kaka did not say from where he was calling.

Kanu kaka has a phone, but I do not have the number. Call up Shanta boudi and Panchu da — they are in Calcutta.

But they are back. Bablu, will you go straight from there or come back to New Jersey first?

How can I go straight from here? It is not an easy thing. I have two appointments tomorrow, the Santa Fe deal is very crucial.

But Bablu, you must go. Your mother has nobody else to help.

If it was that serious why did you take so long to come out of the bathroom?

Don't get mad, please. You know I have fits of amnesia, especially if I am homesick . . .

Let me see what can be done. I will call you later. Bye.

This unprecedented crisis put him in a dilemma. Anger and helplessness pushed back the anxiety, which should have been foremost in his mind. Couldn't his father choose a better time to fall ill? Now that he was chasing the almost obtainable mirage of success, hopping from city to city, news from across fourteen thousand miles comes to upset everything. How can Atin make up his mind under such pressure?

A call from Kanu kaka, who has now acquired a typical businessman of Burrabazar look, hefty and uncouth, never tired of tall talks. He keeps sending people who expect to be taken to the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, arrange trip to Niagara as if Atin has no work to do. He is a hypochondriac; perhaps he has exaggerated the whole thing. Suppose Atin rushes back to Calcutta to find father reclining on a nursing home bed, reading a newspaper, what then? Would anybody understand the price Atin had to pay for the useless trip? Besides illness is only to be expected at Baba's age, does that mean every time Atin has to fly across a distance of fourteen thousand miles? It would not please Baba. Why did you spend good money for me? He would grumble. Am I a doddering old man? I can take care of myself. Actually Baba could afford to get admitted to a nursing home for regular check up. The bank has been instructed to send one hundred dollars every month to his mother. Which meant twelve hundred in Indian currency. Recently the value of dollar has gone up further.

Sharmila has already started shopping for the visit they have been planning this September. A trip now would jeopardise that visit. Besides Baba would understand, after all he had valued duty and responsibility all his life. Unfortunately most people back home were not like him. There was no work culture there. Shirking work was the national pastime. Atin could not very well back out from his responsibility midway; it would be a reflection on his ability. The tough competition with the Japanese made each day important.

He remembered the confession of a Mafia chief he had read in the paper. They have to swear not to utter the names of their parents, not to disobey the orders of the chief even if his wife was on her deathbed. Well, the big commercial houses in America were not much different from the Mafia gangs. Show more results and you get appreciation in the form of a bigger house, a better car, and a holiday in Hawaii. If production falls, you are unceremoniously dropped. Like Mafia groups these big houses also yield considerable power in the government. Already the bosses are pulling strings in Washington DC for securing that Chinese order; they were just not depending on Atin. But their style is perfection, from political influence down to production, management, liaison, packaging — everything has to be just right.

Atin was only supposed to convince some top people about the chemical viability of the new compound. Among them the technical director of the John Dear company, who was now holidaying in Santa Fe.

It would be no use talking to Jo MacCormic about his problem. It was not his business to bother about somebody's father in some far corner of the world, the company pays him to solve their problems and he refuses to think about anything else. If you want to leave your job unfinished at this stage, he is likely to comment, then you better ask your own conscience.

Instead of the expected promotion, Atin might lose his job and acquire a bad name, which would make getting another job almost impossible. No, under the circumstances, the question of going home does not arise.

He went back to the inquiry counter to fetch his suitcase but his way was blocked by a group of ISKCON followers. Everybody at the airport gaped at the strange spectacle of white men and women, singing, the women in saris, the men with shaven heads and flowers tied to the pigtails.

Back to a table with a cup of coffee, Atin faced his thoughts. The bustling airport blurred and he saw his mother standing at the head of a hospitable bed, looking toward him, her eyes swollen from crying. Only once he had seen her crying. That was when he had a good thrashing from his father in childhood for taking a bus to south Calcutta all by himself. Dada was still alive; they used to share the same bed. You are a fool, Dada used to say. You don't realise that Ma loves you more than any of us.

Atin felt strangled, he found it difficult to breathe. There was Ma, waiting for him with tears in her eyes and Atin was still debating if he should go. To hell with his job, go he must. Perhaps Jimmy will be able to help. A few sips of coffee revived him. But how could Jimmy, an accounts man help? He would need time to comprehend the technicalities. Time was the greatest stumbling block.

He struck the table helplessly. Baba, I wish you could give some time, a week at least.

First, a ticket to New York. If he was back tonight he could try booking a ticket for India. He knew it was practically impossible to get a booking in a day. Determined, he proceeded through the lobby but paused. What madness is this! How can he leave without bringing in a substitute? The appointment tomorrow, then Santa Fe. Who would volunteer for the weekend?

Streams of people passed him by. He stood, undecided. It was the greatest dilemma of his life. Only if there was someone to consult.

There was one solution, though. Sharmila could go instead of him. Ron and Anita could stay with Siddhartha’s family. But how could Sharmila go on with her bath, completely forgetting the message. His eyes smarted, he felt sad. If it had been her parents? Sharmila does not even know her in-laws properly.

But this was hardly the time to lose temper. He was beginning to feel weak; he did not have a proper lunch. How about going to the hotel since a room is already booked. He could have a bath, have a meal then think of the next course of action.

It was seven thirty, almost time for the children's dinner in New York time. On Fridays their friends Kalyan and Mitali often asked Sharmila over for a video show. Suppose she has gone there?

Walking over to the telephone booth, Atin recalled what Siddhartha had said about death of parents. Samir, another friend had rushed home but by the time he reached everything was over. You know we have to go only to do the last rites, he had ruefully commented. Siddhartha had added, mother, father, in-laws — four times in all. But you can just send the wife in case of in-laws.

Sharmila, who must have been waiting by the phone, picked it up promptly. There was another call, from Phuldi, your Tutuldi from London. She got a call from Calcutta, they can't get the States. Oli has told her . . .

Who?

Oli, Oli Choudhury. She wants Phuldi to tell you that your father has suddenly fallen ill, he wants to see you . . .

What exactly is the matter, tell me.

He is very sick.

Is it over? Don't keep it from me.

Please Bablu, don't think of the worst. If it is a first attack, the chances of revival are fairly high. But you should go, it might boost him up, that is what Phuldi said. Listen, are you going from there or coming home? How can you be so childish, Khuku. You know the kind of job I am here to do, unless I have the full information . . .

Don't get mad. I thought you might go via the west coast, it is important that you go . . .

How could you? I don't have that kind of money with me. Besides I cannot let my office down . . .

Are you thinking of not going? But it must be urgent otherwise why would they send word through London?

Khuku, I wish you could help me. Can you suggest some way out?

I am insisting, Bablu, you have got to go . . .

Of course I will — but the question is how soon? I have to arrange for some cash, so I must get back home first . . .

I will be at the airport if you are coming back to-night, no matter how late . . .

Absurd. I can't go back before tomorrow afternoon. Meanwhile get in touch with Suresh . . .

Which Suresh?

Good god, don't you know Suresh Bhatia, he runs a travel agency? Ask him to get any ticket in any flight for tomorrow night or the next morning, straight to Calcutta. He must get it anyhow. And do send a telegram to Calcutta saying that I am coming. Will let them know the date and flight later. Remember to do it, don't forget please.

After a pause Sharmila sighed. No, I won't, I am making a note. Bablu, won't you take me with you? I want to see Baba . . .

Both of us can't go, forget it. Bye now . . .

One moment, Bablu, I have a request . . .

What?

You are all alone, I can understand the state of your mind. Everything will work out. They will understand at your office, and please don't drink too much . . .

I will be all right, don't you worry. I have strong nerves.

Atin put down the receiver. He was sweating profusely, his shirt was sticking to his body. Still he felt relieved to have made at least one decision. It is logical to return tomorrow. Something will be arranged by that time, meanwhile he can attend the meeting tomorrow morning. Sharmila is getting scared. Well, life is hard indeed.

He went on with his monologue. The news of my father's death would not have upset me. After all, he is nearing seventy. He has lived his life. People have to go, sooner or later. Good treatment can ensure a life span of at least ten more years. But Ma will be without help. Munni and Anunoy lived quite far. Who else was dependable, certainly not Kanukaka. Ma must be counting on me. In case of a cardiac or cerebral attack nothing much was to be done except rushing him to a nursing home. Ma has some cash, hopefully . . .

I am not upset, Khuku is wrong. Just that I am in a dilemma, between the job in hand and the hassle of booking a ticket. If Baba had died I would not have been in a hurry to go just for the last rites. He never had much faith on rituals of that sort; neither do I. Besides, the sraddha does not take place before ten days. That would have given be a breathing space. When news had come to Baba of Grandfather's illness, he could not reach Malkhanagar in time . . .

A scene took shape before his eyes — their home at Jadavpur, the garbage dumps at the street corner, overcrowded double deckers leaning on one side, terrific honking of horns . . . a nursing home but why should Ma be there in white, where are the others gone? The sky beyond the window is white, the sheet on the bed is white, it is blank space everywhere. Her eyes brimming with tears, Ma is looking at Atin, my god, her gaze has reached him here at Denver, across all that distance.

Atin Majumder, forty-one, confident, running after success, seemed to dissolve into a little boy who had once lost his way in the Dakshineswar temple. He had a strong impulse to throw away all his important papers and get into a plane right away.

Nobody bothers even to look at others in this utterly indifferent society, who cares for the feelings of others. In the sprawling bustling airport Atin stood in his solitary misery, undecided and helpless. After a while he shrugged and came out, took a taxi and started for the hotel where a room was already booked for him. Why does he visualise his mother in a nursing home? With tears in her eyes!

The pull of a mother's love — terrible, terrible! He had never felt it in Siliguri or Jamshedpur or in jail but after coming to London he kept seeing his mother in dreams. About a year ago, just after Christmas, Ron had fractured a leg. Atin had to take him to the hospital. Sharmila was not home. It was nothing serious but that night he woke up sobbing, he had dreamt of mother. He never told Sharmila about it. Nobody would have believed it. People usually leave such silly sentiments back home, if not after the first visit back, then most definitely after the second.

8

AFTER checking in, Atin went up to the fifth-floor room, his personal enclosure for as long as he chose to stay. The smell of the previous occupant still hovered in the air but as he paid the bell boy and locked the door, it was his own, he could do whatever he wished.

First went the shoes and socks, then the tie and the jacket. He felt lighter but parched. He took two gulps from the small whisky bottle he always carried. Sharmila's warning came to his mind and he smiled. Completely naked, he got ready for a shower. He spoke to himself loudly. Don't you worry, Baba, I am on my way. Please wait for me. Ma, I am trying my best to reach as quickly as I can. Believe me, I could not make it before this. I hope Munni and Anunoy have arrived. How are you, Ma?

He opened the bathroom widow and started cleaning the bathtub first. He was finicky about using bathtubs used by others. He turned the taps on to fill up the tub. Something came to his mind. Oli had called Phuldi in London. For some unknown reason she did not call Sharmila, which she could have. There was a subtle equation between them. But Atin could get in touch with Oli.

He came to the phone. Direct dialing between India and the United States has been introduced a few months ago. It is easier to connect from here than the other way. He had Oli's number by heart. Double four double eight one two. Oli had once taught him the easiest way to remember it. First forty-four, then it's double eighty-eight to be followed by eight plus four twelve.

A long distance call from the room would cost more. But Atin had no desire to get dressed to avail of the cheaper service from the lobby. He pressed the buttons — the country code, the city code, the number. No luck, but he must keep trying.

He was calling Oli after more than fifteen years that too urged by self-interest. Let it be. Atin felt angry towards her for the refined vengeance she was bent on taking. Oli was great, there is no one like Oli — he got tired of hearing. When they went back, Oli played the perfect hostess. She is a good actress too. That Shounak she said she was determined to marry was a fictitious character. Nobody had seen him.

It was Oli who stood in his way, he was determined to stay back. But she gave him a guilt feeling, she was not going to forgive him.

Actually the reason he had to come back was more than the obvious ones like bad work culture, accommodation, pollution. He was deeply hurt by Kaushik and Pompom.

People of his generation have other ties except the parents. Friends are more important. Yet Atin felt he was not welcome, they all wanted him to go back. Some of his friends were doing well, busy with good jobs, family, and club life. Only Kaushik and Pompom were still involved in politics. They were downright cold to Atin. They will spend their life expecting the revolution to happen, teaching in a school in a godforsaken place near Jhargram. Kaushik still had the bullet in his stomach. Atin had suggested that he should come to the United States to have it taken out. Kaushik refused. I have digested it, he said sarcastically, just about. A little bit still pricks me, that has kept me going. You see I have not forsaken the idea of a revolution. When he could not take it any longer, Atin had shaken his friend and asked. Why are you treating me like an alien. Is it because I could not come to you in your time of need? Well, I too had to spend a long time alone, under great threat to my life.

It is not that. Smiled Kaushik. Can you leave your present life and stay like us, here, at the grass roots level? We can communicate from the same level. Real work has to begin from here, the foundation . . .

How could Atin oblige him? After all he was a family man now, he had responsibilities. Pompom was hostile, she could not accept Atin's marrying Sharmila. Great moralists, the two of them. It was strange how Pompom, dry as dust could get along so well with Oli.

Five-year old Anita was tired of India within a month. Daddy, let's get back home, she would appeal. We have seen enough of India.

Hush, Atin was horrified. What do you mean, home? India is our home. You have your Dadu and Didu here.

But the little girl would not understand. No. This dirty place is not our home. Our home is in New York. She insisted.

It took Atin some effort to control an impulse to slap her hard. The fault was Sharmila's. She did not have the time to teach her child her language or instill into her any feeling for India. Actually Anita had her own room, toys, and friends there, that was her home. By birth she was an American.

After a few months Anita developed whooping cough and it was for her sake that Atin had to leave Calcutta, bag and baggage. Thank god he still had his green card. He never thought he would join the throng of those who come back from home, bitter and disappointed.

The phone rang finally. Would Oli pick it up? But the voice of someone who sounded like a domestic help kept saying nobody was at home.

Is Oli there? Asked Atin. Or Bimankaka? Kakima? Tell them it is from America, very urgent.

I don't follow you, the girl kept saying. Nobody is home. Atin could not extract any information out of her, got disgusted and rang off.

Why was nobody home? Are they all in Jadavpur then? So everything is over!

He forgot his bath. No, it cannot be, he must see his father for the last time. He has to be told that Atin was not at fault, he did not want to do his Ph.D, but his parents insisted. I do not like it here one bit, it is a mechanical life, working and earning like a machine, I have not struck roots here, neither has Sharmila. She is introspective, people misunderstand her, but she too suffers from homesickness. She is ready to leave this place any time on any condition, but the problem is that the children do not belong to India.

Facing the wall, Atin hollered, Oli, Oli please, for god's sake, stay at my father’s bedside, make him live till I get there. I have to explain certain things to him. I am sure I can ask for this favour, can't I. Well, what was to be done now? Call Sharmila? Phuldi might have called her. But of course, he can call Phuldi, why didn't he think of this before?

The connection to London was no problem. It was Alam who took up the phone. Alam who normally loved to crack jokes was somber. Mr. Brother-in-law, I was expecting your call. I am just back from the airport, seeing your Phuldi off. She is already on her way to Calcutta.

Already? Atin was taken completely aback. When did she get the news?

Last evening. Luckily someone cancelled his flight so that is how we got one ticket. She left early morning. What is the matter in Calcutta?

Haven't you heard everything?

Not everything. How sick is father. Has he . . .

Frankly, I don't know. They underplay, to avoid a sudden shock. If they say critically ill, it means he has expired. Let us hope for the best.

What did Phuldi tell you?

She was crying — very fond of her mama, you know that.

She was crying?

Do not jump to conclusions. She is too soft, for a doctor. When are you going?

Let me see. Tomorrow, most probably. Bye Alam-da.

Just a minute, Bablu. Your mother is not in Calcutta, unfortunately.

What do you mean? Where is she?

In Hardwar, gone to your sister, she is going to have a baby. That is what I gathered from the telephonic conversation. None of you were near him, your father felt depressed naturally. He attempted suicide, that is what I heard.

What?

Don't get upset, Bablu. He didn't succeed. I am sure he will survive this time. Your Phuldi will do whatever needs to be done.

Baba attempted suicide! What on earth for, a man of his temperament! Atin wanted to smash the telephone. Baba is so completely confident, sure of himself, no, it cannot be. Now that all his responsibilities are over, he can enjoy a relaxed life, why would he wish to end it? A man of his conviction does not buckle easily. What did Alam-da want to convey? Ma is not with him. Does she know? It is easier to contact London than Hardwar.

He should have returned to New Jersey tonight. Sharmila was right, he was finding all this too much to tackle. How can he face a shrewd businessman next morning in this unsettled state? Impossible. They always start with odd arguments, which he would be in no condition to refute.

The hotel staff at the counter can get tickets. Atin tried the desk. Can you get me a ticket a ticket to New York or New Ark? It is urgent.

A polite young voice asked, of which date, sir?

Any flight. In a couple of hours from now!

I am sorry sir. No tickets are available for the next three days. No ticket from Denver to New York! Atin was annoyed. There are plenty of flights. Well get one for tomorrow morning the earliest flight.

Sorry Sir. Not a single one is available. Fifteen hundred delegates are returning from a conference of Dentists, just over. Besides, for the New York versus Colorado State football-match day after tomorrow, we have one hundred and fifty-six in the waiting list. Even first classes are all booked.

Well, it was no use losing his temper, thought Atin. It would have meant some commission for the guy at the desk if he could sell a ticket. Yes, he remembered about the ball game. Colorado State is in the final after many years. Spring time rush that was another factor.

Still he found it hard to believe moving from one city to another could be such a hurdle. Instead of wasting his time at the hotel he should check out and wait at the airport. He was sure something would come up.

The phone rang. Have you got a ticket? Asked Atin, picking it up.

It was Sharmila. No, Bablu, she replied. There is a problem. We can't get help from Satish Bhatia, he is away in Toronto. Kalyan is trying, but his travel agent friend says all airlines are heavily booked. No chance in the next five days! On the top of that, an Air France plane has crashed, so Air France is not operating for the time being. The ground staff of Air-India in London is on strike, so everything is disrupted. I called the local Air India manager at home and explained everything. He expressed regret but there is nothing he can do, he said.

OK, let me get home first, then I will work out something. Stop worrying.

His voice was unusually cool. It gave Sharmila a scare. What is it, Bablu? She asked. Are you all right?

Nothing. I am fine, fine.

Kalyan's friend has promised a Japan Airlines ticket on Tuesday, but only up to Bangkok. Then you have to take a chance.

What will I do with a flight on Tuesday? I will work out something, let me get back. Ron and Anita — have they had dinner?

Why are you talking like this, Bablu? What is the matter?

Nothing. Milli, tell me, would you mind if I quit this job?

Not at all.

Just think, I am slaving for an American company to sell Magic Fertiliser in China! You know what Jimmy had told me? Your India needs fertilisers more. Can't you do anything about that. I find this humiliating. No, I have decided to quit.

All right, leave the job. You sound so tired Bablu. You are working so hard it makes no sense. We can all go in the next available flight. I will force Ron and Anita to come. Do you think we can bear them crying to be back? Anita has her exams coming.

He rang off and tried to arrange his thoughts. There was another thing to take care of. What was it? Ma is in Hardwar, with Munni. What about Munni? Can't she come to have a last look at father, she used to be so attached to Baba. Is Baba still there? Why did Phuldi rush home?

He remembered, he must talk to Jimmy, the only friend who would understand.

On a Friday evening people are out. Jimmy's wife Sarah said hesitantly, listen Atin. Jimmy has gone next door to play tennis. Is it very important? Can you call him tomorrow or later tonight?

I am sorry, Sarah, it cannot wait. It is a matter of life and death. Please call him. I will ring back in ten minutes.

In spite of his general dislike for things American, Atin had great regard for people like Jimmy Garner, friendly, ready to help others. True, he often asked silly questions but that was to pull Atin's legs, Jimmy was no fool. In this country which valued specialised knowledge, an economics expert may have very elementary knowledge about history and geography. A science expert would not bother about sociology. Jimmy understands economics, he has been to India. You know if I were an Indian, he had told Atin once, I would have supported socialism. Capitalism is working fine in America. Out of a population of twenty-five crores only twenty-five thousand or so are homeless vagabonds. But thirty crores out of eighty in your country live below the poverty line. Equal distribution seems to be the only answer there.

How stupid can you be, snapped Atin. Socialism cannot survive in a few countries unless the whole world is brought under that system. Capitalism aims at exploiting the weaker states. That is what you are doing, you, Western Europe and Japan. Neither democracy nor socialism in poorer countries can flourish under this system.

What you call exploitation is actually competition. This is happening in nature, you can't expect human beings to behave differently.

This is not competition between men but between states, brandishing powerful weapons.

You are right. Laughed Jimmy. So what we need is an ultimate encounter between the two systems. Who do you think will triumph? Nobody. In an exchange between atom bombs and hydrogen bombs, the end will be destruction.

After ten minutes Atin rang again. A matter of life and death, is it? Asked Jimmy. It had better be true. You know I don't want to be bothered about office matters, leaving my game of tennis.

Jimmy, my father is dying.

OK, understood. What is the matter of life?

I am quitting.

Good. People are doing it all the time. That is nothing new. Was it important enough to bother me so late in the night? It is midnight here. I want your suggestion. I have decided to quit. Now suppose your father was far away and dying, but you are on a very important mission of the office. What would be your priority? Would you consider it immoral to shirk your office responsibility? Would it be wrong?

OK. The first point. My parents got divorced when I was three. I lived with my Mom. I was sent to a hostel after Mom remarried. I have not lived with my own father so I have hardly any feeling for him. Can't even recall his face. For that matter, I have no feeling for Mom either. She was busy with her kids by her second husband. That is not unusual in our society. On the other hand you Orientals have strong family ties, have deep bonds with parents. That is a wonderful thing to have. For instance if you ask Sarah where her parents are right now, she won't be able to tell you. So my feelings and your feelings are bound to be different. I might visit the cemetery but may not go visit my dying father in the hospital. Clear? Is that understood?

But Jimmy, suppose you were close to your father, suppose they were not divorced.

Wait wait. Enough of hypothesis! Let me answer your question. I know you people of the east rush to the deathbed of your sick parents. It is not possible in your case, two huge oceans lie between you and your parents . . . You just cannot leave the country in the next two days, so you better concentrate on your work. Don't be in a hurry to quit. Go to Santa Fe from Denver, finish your work. The company will pay for your trip to Calcutta.

Why can't I leave in the next two days? The rush for tickets you mean? But I will find out some way, I must see my father, at any cost.

Noble wishes, I must say. But it can't be helped. You are no longer an Indian, do you realise that? You have an American passport, you will need a visa for India. Everything is closed in the weekend, where will you get your visa from?

It was a bolt from the blue. He had clean forgotten that only four months ago he had acquired an American passport for practical reasons. He has to travel on business. Indian Passport becomes a hurdle, especially in dealing with China. In fact it was through the initiative of his company that he got an American passport. How could he forget this elementary truth? He is becoming more forgetful than his wife. Or is it because he did not want to remember it?

Taking advantage of his silence, Jimmy pulled his leg. Atin Majumder, you are trapped. You are an American now. You can't visit India whenever you please. You have to have a proper visa. So, that settles it. Don't waste the two days — finish your job. You will be paid promptly, I will see to that.

His bantering tone infuriated Atin. Damn you, damn you, he hollered into the receiver. I am not working for this company, I tell you. My father is dying and you ask me to think about the job?

Still amused, Jimmy said, calm down, calm down. No point shouting at me. Who am I? Would your Indian Embassy people issue you visa on a weekend? I do not think so. Come, let us be practical. Make use of the two days. Let me tell you something, if I may. You said you are in a dilemma, you are bothered if it would not be immoral to evade responsibility. It shows that the west has already bugged you . . . You are thoroughly westernised Atin. If you were not you would not have had any qualms about leaving the job half done. You have learnt the dignity of work. So what is stopping you from completing the assignment. What you have been doing is highly appreciated . . . But Atin continued a high pitched No, No, No . . .

After two hours he was still sitting on the carpet, without his clothes, without bath, even the whisky bottle was left untouched. For some strange reason he kept thinking of Kaushik and Pompom as if what mattered most to him right at that moment was their opinion of him. The vision of his mother clad in the white of a widow flitted across his troubled mind. He could not bear to see his mother this way.

He got up and walked slowly to the window, without bothering to turn off the water taps, which were flooding the bathroom. On opening the window a whiff of fresh air so revived him that he climbed over to the spiral staircase of the fire escape. Anyone looking up from the busy back street could have spotted a naked male figure against the background of the sky.

Leaning over, Atin thought of jumping to his death. But he knew he would not die, it was in his fate to escape sure death, it has happened a number of times He had gone down in the river but survived, he had escaped from a burning bus, a bomb charge which struck Manikda instead, a dive from a speeding car. He was cycling when a car hit him, he escaped without a scratch. A plane he was supposed to fly in but missed crashed in Arizona. How come he is getting his life back, at what cost? He was responsible for taking his brother's life. But no, he did not ask for help. It was Dada who plunged into the water to rescue him. He would have risked his own life a hundred times if it could save his Dada. That was why he tried to save Manikda, he had become his Dada at that moment. Nobody understood not even Manikda. Why did you shoot at point blank range, Manikda had asked him later. Well if he was dead, could he have asked that question? Atin has also killed Oli. He has lost the Oli he used to know in his youth. He had taken Sharmila to be Oli during one of his fits of depression and fever in Jamshedpur. Nobody would ever know this, not even Oli. He did not want to humiliate her by trying to explain. Kaushik and Pompom are wrong. Atin is not stuck here, hypnotised by the tinkle of dollars and stupid material comfort. Oh, Ma, dear Ma, do you also feel the same way?

Sitting naked on the cold iron steps, he sobbed helplessly. Nobody would find him here. If he leaned back just a little he would topple and fall. Stars twinkled in the clear sky washed by moonlight. On a stretch of land flanked by two oceans, the Pacific and the Atlantic sat Atin, trapped without a ticket. Even to go back to his own country he needed a visa.. Perhaps only his tears were reaching home, floating as vapour.

What can he do except cry. Desire and ambition, a wish to begin a new life rush to these shores. Thousands of young men and women in the Indian sub-continent are waiting their turn to step into this soil. Passport, visa, sponsorship, jobs, admission, green card. Any one of these would bring the ultimate fulfillment, an escape from a troubled existence. Time you old gypsy man! It does not stay any place, in any capital. Not too long ago History had an eastward journey — Alexander, Attila, Megasthenes, Magellan, Columbus, and Vasco da Gama. The more you move to the east, the greater the wealth — material and spiritual. Then suddenly an opposite traffic began, from the east to the west. Though gunpowder was first developed in China, the first boom was heard in the west. Not just the lure of a good life, but the dream of freedom — a concept unheard of before, freedom of the individual. Young people are making a beeline from the east to the west. True, a few thousands of white youth are singing the praise of Krishna, clad in Indian dress but millions of young boys and girls in the Indian sub-continent dress in foreign clothes, speak a foreign tongue, they care two figs for their own tradition. In increasing numbers they are going for western songs and dances.

The lure of the west is magnetic, it has the many coloured hues of disaster. You cannot take your eyes off it. The Roman Empire, the western frontier of the Orient at one time was so colourful, so bright. The more it ascended the ladder of luxury, the greater grew the glow of inevitable destruction, like the radiating glow of sunset.

The ancient Egyptian civilisation survived for two thousand and seven hundred years, the Byzantine for a thousand, the Ottoman Empire for five hundred years. How much longer would western capitalism carry on? Would Time, the old gypsy man set up his tent again in the east? Hopefully the world would not fade like a bubble before that. The world has shrunk after the conquest of outer space. Is that why world leaders do not care for it any more? Are they thinking of reducing the population of this planet by a few atomic and hydrogen bombs and settling in some other planet, or go beyond the solar system itself? But there is no getting away from the east and the west. Sooner or later, man has to look into his soul.

Ring, ring, ring. Who could it be — Sharmila or Oli? Is Baba alive or gone? Does it matter any more? Trapped between two oceans, without ticket or visa, Atin is caught in a cage. He cannot possibly jump across the ocean like hanuman. Completely naked, he is now balancing on air, like a primordial beast, neither American nor Indian. So let the phone ring, it is a pleasing sound.

On one side of the globe it was day, the other side was enveloped by night. It is midnight in Denver, almost midday in Calcutta. The date has changed. It is today for Atin but yesterday for the people of Calcutta.

When Atin was staring at the star lit sky at Denver, a small crowd had gathered in front of a nursing home in Calcutta. They have all come to see Pratap, who even a couple of days ago had nowhere to go, nobody to visit. Nobody except Oli was allowed to get into the intensive care unit. Word has been sent to Mamata, she was yet to arrive. Tutul was on her way. No message has come from Atin. But Pratap did not care. He was fully consciousness now and liked the sensation of being caressed on the head by Oli. How did she come? Where was he?

Would you open the window Oli? Pratap wanted to say but he was not able to communicate. Someone opened both the windows. Beyond stretched green fields up to the horizon, Pratap could clearly see. He also saw the fields laden with corn, the river, the abandoned home of the Choudhuries, the courtroom of Suleman chacha, the majar of the Pir Saheb. He seemed to be travelling by boat. Finally the boat stopped at a ghat with a crocodile shaped rock. Good god, this was the exclusive ghat of the Majumders of Malkhanagar. It has not changed one bit. How could he get here without a passport or a visa? It is possible then. Pratap was too pleased to be surprised. Young Suhasini in a blue sari stood waiting for him, just as she used to do when Pratap came home from Calcutta during college vacations. For a second, her last words came back to him. Khokon, can you take me there, just once? Well, Pratap could not obey her last wishes but now she was there, was it not strange?

He looked on, at the house, exactly the same, the thatched shed of the utchala, the rooms flanking the courtyard where the various aunts used to live, the same mango tree, the grapefruit tree, the fishes bobbing up and down in the south side pond, the mysterious forest, everything as it used to be. At any moment Baba would be emerging in his wood slippers. The air is so much nicer than Calcutta.

He winked to Oli as if she was a childhood-playmate. I am going, catch me if you can. There is mother, I am going to her . . . He closed his eyes in great contentment.

But he had to wash his feet before touching Ma. There is mud and dirt on his feet, all over his body. From where did he get them? Oh yes, from the roadside ditch where he lay for sometime. It still sticks, he can’t possibly put his arms round Ma in this state. Not just his feet, he had to cleanse himself thoroughly. He went down the steps to take a plunge, the water felt so cool, so soft, so caring, like a loving touch. So refreshing. Pratap went down, till he was completely submerged.

Author's Note

NOVELS as a rule do not require introductions, notes or excuses. But I have some acknowledgements to make. The contemporary history, political changeovers used as background, the international figures who make direct appearances in the novel, are drawn from various journals and books. I have used extracts from memoirs. For instance the incidents involving Jehanara Imam and her family are lifted from her wartime diaries, which was later published as a book. Footnotes look jarring, so I have refrained from using them. Some readers, not aware of the sources, doubted some of my facts. I had to face strong criticism from journals both in West Bengal and Bangladesh while the novel was coming out serially. Let me give just one example. Religious fundamentalism had raised its ugly head in both the countries during the 65 Indo-Pak war. It was not only terrible and irrational but also ridiculous at times. In Dhaka, some maulavies used to wear tin swords going to the mosque for namaz. It is considered sunnat during jehad. Some critics ascribed it to my intentional ridicule or ignorance. The first accusation is not right at all, the second might be part true. I was not present in Dhaka during the 65 war. I got my material from books. This particular incident is an exact quotation from a book, Swairacharer Das Bachhar (Ten Years of Despotism) by Janab Ataur Rahman Khan, one of the ex-chief ministers of East Pakistan.

A novel however is an imaginary account, it cannot be overloaded with facts. But some readers have asked me about detailed descriptions of certain incidents. For their benefit and also to acknowledge my debt, following is a list of source books used. Some books have already changed hands, so they are not in the list.

1. Ekattorer Dinguli — Jehanara Imam 2. Ami Bijay Dekechi — M.R. Akhtar Mukul 3. Lakhho Praner Binimoye — Rafikul Islam 4. Amar Dekha Rajnitir Panchas Bachhar — Abul Mansur Ahmed 5. Swadhinata '71 (2 vols) — Qader Siddiqui 6. Shaheed Buddhijibi Swamaraney — Mayharul Islam (ed) 7. Bhasha Andoloner Itihas — Bashir Al Helal 8. Swairacharer Dash Bachhar — Ataur Rahman Khan 9. Kaji Nazrul Islam : Jibon O Kobita — Rafikul Islam 10. Pakistani Rajnitir Bees Bachhar — Tafazzal Hossain (Manik Mia) 11. Koran Shareef — translated by Bhai Girish Chandra Sen 12. Hera Parbater Sei Kohinoor — Shah Sufi Alhaaz Sheikh Shamsuddin Ahmed 13. Madhyabitta Samajer Bikash: Samskritir Rupantar — Abdul Maudud 14. Sei Je Amar Nanaranger Deenguli — Jobayda Mirza 15. Bharat Jakhan Swadhin Hochhilo — Maulana Abul Kalam Azad: tr.by Maulana Abdullah Bin Said Jellabadi 16. Bangladesher Sandhane — Mobaswer Ali 17. Banglar Madhyabitter Atmabikash — Kamruddin Ahmed 18. Joy Bangla, Mukti Fauz O Sheikh Mujib — Kaljhan 19. Pak Bharater Ruprekha — Probhas Chandra Lahiri 20. Bhasanir Kagmari Sangram — Shah Ahmed Reza 21. Jatiyatabad Bitarka — Mohammad Jehangir ed 22. Amra Swadhin Holam — Kaji Samsujjaman 23. Ebarer Sangram Swadhinatar Sangram — Gajiul Huq 24. Kathamalar Rajniti (1972 — 79) — Rejowan Siddiqui 25. Ekattorer Ghatok O Dalalera Ke Kothay — Muktijodhha Chetana Bikash Kendra 26. Shaheed Buddhijibi Koshgrantha — Rasheed Haider ed 27. Pratirodh Sangrame Bangladesh — Satyen Sen 28. Bangabandhur Bhashan — Mijanur Rahman Mijan (ed.) 29. Pakistan Kon Pathey — Gourisankar Choudhury 30. Prabhupada — Satswarup Das Goswami 31. Charu Majumdarer Oitihasik Aatti Dalil — Shaheed Smaran Committee 32. Society and Politics in East Pakistan — Badruddin Umer 33. Aaish-E-Chinar — Sheikh Abdullah 34. Dacca — Shartif Uddin Ahmed 35. Financing the Rural Poor — Razia S Ahmed 36. Witness to Surrender — Siddiq Salik 37. The Rape of Bangladesh — Anthony Mascarenhas 38. In the Wake of Naxalbari — Sumanta Banerjee 39. The Naxalite Movement — Sankar Ghosh 40. Naxalbari and After — A Frontier Anthology

And other books

Wikipedia – Sunil Gangopadhyay

Sunil Gangopadhyay

Born 7 September 1934

Faridpur, Bengal, British India(now Bangladesh)

Died 23 October 2012 (aged 78)

Kolkata, West Bengal

Pen name Nil Lohit, Sanatan Pathak, and Nil Upadhyay

Occupation Writer

Language Bengali

Nationality Indian

Ethnicity Bengali Citizenship Indian

Education Master of Arts (Bengali)

Alma mater University of Calcutta (1954)

Period 1953–2012

Notable work(s) First Light (Prathama Alo), Those Days (Sei Somoy)

Notable award(s) Ananda Puraskar (1972, 1989)

Sahitya Akademi Award (1985)

Spouse(s) Swati Bandopadhyay (m. 1967)

Children Souvik Gangopadhyay (b. 1967)

Signature

www.sunilgangopadhyay.org

Sunil Gangopadhyay or Sunil Ganguly (Bengali: সুনীল গ旍গোপোধ্যো붼 Shunil Gônggopaddhae), (7 September 1934 – 23 October 2012) was an Indian poet and novelist. Born in Faridpur, Bangladesh, Gangopadhyay obtained his Master's degree in Bengali from the University of Calcutta, In 1953 he with few of his friends started a Bengali poetry magazine Krittibas. Later he wrote for many different publications.

Ganguly created the Bengali fictional character Kakababu and wrote a series of novels on this character which became significant in Indian children's literature. He received Sahitya Akademi award in 1985 for his novel Those Days (Sei Samaya). Gangopadhyay used the pen names Nil Lohit, Sanatan Pathak, and Nil Upadhyay.

Early life

He was born in Faridpur in what is now Bangladesh. He studied at the Surendranath College, Dum Dum Motijheel College, City College, Kolkata - all affiliated with the University of Calcutta. Thereafter, he obtained his Master's degree in Bengali from the University of Calcutta in 1954.

He married Swati Bandopadhyay on 26 February 1967. Their only son, Souvik, who stays in Boston, was born on 20 November 1967.

Literary career

Krittibas

Sunil in the Krittibas stall in Nandan

Gangopadhyay was the founder editor of Krittibas, a seminal poetry magazine started publishing from 1953, that became a platform for a new generation of poets experimenting with many new forms in poetic themes, rhythms, and words.

Other works

Later, he started writing for various publications of the Ananda Bazar group, a major publishing house in Kolkata and has been continuing it for many years. He became friends with the beat poet Allen Ginsberg while he was travelling in India. Ginsberg mentioned Gangopadhyay most notedly in his poem September on Jessore Road. Gangopadhyay in return mentioned Ginsberg in some of his prose work. After serving five years as the Vice President, he was elected the President of the Sahitya Akademi on 20 February 2008.

Sunil, along with Tarun Sanyal, Jyotirmoy Datta and Satrajit Dutta had volunteered to be defence witnesses in the famous trial of Hungry generation movement poet Malay Roy Choudhury.

Works

Gangopadhyay in Science City, Kolkata in January 2010

Author of well over 200 books, Sunil was a prolific writer who has excelled in different genres but declares poetry to be his "first love". His Nikhilesh and Neera series of poems (some of which have been translated as For You, Neera and Murmur in the Woods) have been extremely popular.

As in poetry, Sunil was known for his unique style in prose. His first novel was Atmaprakash and it was also the first writing from a new comer in literature published in the prestigious magazine- Desh (1965). It was critically acclaimed but some controversy arose for its aggressive and 'obscene' style. Sunil said that he was afraid of this novel and went away from Calcutta for a few days. Satyajit Ray thought to make a film on it but it wasn't possible for reasons. The central character of 'Atmaprakash' is a young man of core-calcutta'- Sunil, who leads a bohemian life-style. The novel had inspiration from ' On the road' by Jack Kerouac, the beat generation writer. His historical fiction Sei Somoy (translated into English by Aruna Chakravorty as Those Days) received the Indian Sahitya Akademi award in 1985. Sei Somoy continues to be a best seller more than two decade after its first publication. The same is true for Prathama Alo (also translated recently by Aruna Chakravorty as First Light), another best selling historical fiction and Purbo-Paschim, a raw depiction of the partition and its aftermath seen through the eyes of three generations of Bengalis in West Bengal, Bangladesh and elsewhere. He is also the winner of the Bankim Puraskar (1982), and the Ananda Puraskar (twice, in 1972 and 1989).

Sunil Gangopadhyay giving autographs to his fans in Kolkata Book Fair 2010

Sunil wrote in many other genres including travelogues, children's fiction, short stories, features, and essays. Among his pen-names are: Nil Lohit, Sanatan Pathak, and Nil Upadhyay.

Though he wrote all types of children's fiction, one character created by him that stands out above the rest, was Kakababu, the crippled adventurist, accompanied by his young adult nephew Santu, and his friend Jojo. Since 1974, Sunil Gangopadhyay wrote over 35 novels of this popular series, most of which appeared in Anandamela magazine.

Film based on his literary works

 Satyajit Ray made two films Pratidwandi and Aranyer Din Ratri based on the works of Ganguly.  One of Sunil Gangopadhyay's cult poems, Smritir Shohor has been turned into a song for the film Iti Mrinalini (2011) directed by Aparna Sen.  Four of his Kakababu series novels have been adapted into big screen—  Sabuj Dwiper Raja (1979) directed by Tapan Sinha  Kakababu Here Gelen? (1996) directed by Pinaki Chaudhuri  Ek Tukro Chand (2003) directed by Pinaki Caudhuri  Mishor Rahasya (2013) directed by Srijit Mukherji  Shyamaprasad adapted his novel 'Hirek Deepti' as Malayalam feature 'Ore Kadal' in 2007, and his novel 'Megh Brishti Alo' short story into the 2012 Malayalam film Arike.  The movie Hothat Nirar Jonyo (2004), is based on Sunil's short story Rani O Abinash.  The movie Aparajita Tumi (2012), directed by Aniruddha Roy Chowdhury, is based on Sunil's novel Dui Nari Hate Tarbari.

Death

Sunil Gangopadhyay died at 2:05 AM on 23 October 2012 at his South Kolkata residence, following a heart attack. He was suffering from prostate cancer for some time and went to Mumbai for treatment. He returned to Kolkata on the day of Mahalaya. Gangopadhyay's body was cremated on 25 October at Keoratola crematorium, Kolkata.

Indian President Pranab Mukherjee condoled the death of Gangopadhyay saying–

Gangopadhyay had enriched Bengali literature through his unique style. He was one of the best intellectuals among his contemporaries. The vacuum created by his death cannot be filled.

Buddhadeb Bhattacharjee, the former Chief Minister of West Bengal, who was closely associated with the writer since 1964, said that Bengali literature would remain indebted to him.

Controversies

 In 1970 Satyajit Ray's film Pratidwandi released which was based on Gangopadhyay's novel. In the novel Gangopadhyay depicted how a poor nurse used to entertain men for some moolah. This arose controversy and nurses across the city of Kolkata protested against such depiction.

 In 2006 Gangopadhyay's novel Ardhek Jibon where he expressed his carnal desire for Hindu goddess Saraswati created some controversies . A retired IPS officer lodged a case against Gangopadhyay in the Calcutta High Court. Against this controversy Gangpadhyay felt– he had no freedom to express what he felt. Another Bengali writer Buddhadeb Guha found this a cheap gimmick and he told– "I don't support such cheap gimmicks. An author should set an example for the younger generations. If an author thinks it's cool to say that he loves to booze and enjoys going to Sonagachhi, then this only speaks poorly of him."

 In September 2012 Bangladeshi author Taslima Nasreen accused Sunil Gangopadhyay of sexually harassing her and other women. She also alleged that Gangopadhyay was involved in banning her novel 'Dwikhandito' and her "banishment" from West Bengal.

List of major works

Poetry

 Eka o Koyekjon  Hathat Nirar Janya  Bhorbelar Upohar  Sada Prishtha tomar sange  Sei Muhurte Nira  Kaydata Shikhe Nebe

Novels

 Atmaprakash (1965)  Chaya Darshon  Anno Jiboner Shad  Shopno Somvob  Suniler Satdin  Rani O Obinash  Kothay Alo  Jol Jongoler Kabbo  Ekti Rat Tinti Jibon  Jomoj Kahini  Madhu Kahini  Otyagsahan  Gonesh Diye Shuru  Unmochoner Muhurte  Adhar Raater Atithi  Aakash Paatal  Aashray  Alpona Aar Shikha  Achena Manush  Aamar Swapna  Nadir Opar  Satyer Aral  Sei Somoy  Pratham Alo  Purbo-Paschim  Nihsanga Samrat (2005)

Kakababu series

 Sabuj Dwiper Raja  Kakababu O Sindukrahasya  Kakababu O Bajralama  Santu Kothay,Kakababu Kothay  Vijaynagarer Hire  Jangaler Modhe Ek Hotel  Bhayankar Sundoor  Santu O Ak Tukro Chand  Kakababu Herey Gelen?  Kolkatar Jongole  Bhopal Rahashya  Pahar Churae Atanka  Khali Jahajer Rohosyo  Agun Pakhir Rohoshyo  Kakababu Bonam Chorashikari  "Sadhubabar haat(Short Story)"  Ulka Rahoshsho  Kakababu O Ek Chhodmobeshi  Ebar Kakababur Protishodh  Mishor Rohoshsho(Mystery in Egypt)  Kakababu O Ashchorjo Dweep  Agneyogirir peter madhye  Kakababu O Jaladashu  Golokdhandhay Kakababu

Translated books

 First Light ISBN 0140004304  Those days ISBN 0140268529  East-West Penguin Books India  The Lovers and the other stories ISBN 81-7189-838-6  Pratidwandi ISBN 81-250-1902-2  Murmur in the Woods ISBN 81-220-0568-3  The Youth ISBN 81-291-0125-4  Ranu O Bhanu Translated by Sheila Sengupta  The Lonely Monarch Translated by Swapna Dutta, ISBN 978-93-5009-628-4

Awards and honours

Awards

 1972: Ananda Puraskar in general category  1979: "National poet" honour was given by Akashbani Kolkata  1983: Bankim Puraskar for the book Sei Somoy  1984: Sahitya Akademi Award for the book Sei Somoy  1989: Ananda Puraskar for the book Purbo-Paschim  1989: Sahitya Setu puroskar  1999: Annada-Snowcem puroskar for the story Nil Lohiter Golpo  2003: Annadashankar puroskar  2004: Saraswati Samman for Prothom Alo  2011: The Hindu Literary Prize, shortlist, The Fakir  2012: Sera Bangali Lifetime Achievement Award by Star Ananda

Honors

 2002: Sheriff of Kolkata.  Honorary D.Litt. from The University of Burdwan

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