Blood Island

by Deep Halder

  ‘Gopalgunj,’ she replies.

  ‘That’s where my parents stay!’ Ranga-bou exclaims. The woman’s name is Aaynamoti, and it turns out that she knows Ranga-bou’s family. She tells Ranga-bou that her parents haven’t left the country. She is a chalice of youth; even such a long and trying journey has not broken her spirit or wiped her smile. Her husband, Akhil, keeps glancing at her as he chats with Sukhchand. The train chugs along.

  Jogeshwar Dihi transit camp, Post Office Koichor, Burdwan zilla, West Bengal, is a small village with tents arranged around a big banyan tree. Nearby there is a large pond filled with lotuses. Red earth is laid out like a dusty carpet for new visitors who have come here after a night’s journey by train, a halt by the riverside and finally a lorry ride.

  Koichor bazaar is held on the other side of the lake twice a week in the mornings. Local vegetables and fish from nearby ponds – skinny and tasteless, unlike the ones from Padma – are sold in rotund pots. The only saving grace is the dheki shaak that Ranga-bou has found growing amongst the wild vegetation around the lake. That and boiled rice, on the first day at the camp, after several half-fed days is king’s meal for Sukhchand.

  In a patch outside their tent, Ranga-bou plants the bottlegourd seeds she has carried all the way from their village. Turning a tent into a new home takes up most of her time. Sukhchand is now the teacher of the camp. Classes are held around the banyan tree. ‘Rabi Thakur took classes like this,’ he mutters to himself and smiles. No chairs or tables; only a stool for Sukhchand and a blackboard, propped up somehow. He teaches the alphabet, multiplication tables and some geography to the camp’s children. To keep the flock together, he dilutes his lessons with tales from the lost land.

  By teaching camp students, Sukhchand starts earning seventy rupees a month. His hope that there would be some relief at last is in vain as a strange illness comes to visit them. People begin to suffer and die of a peculiar fever. After much outcry, with two babies and an old man dead, a city doctor finally comes to examine the patients. Are lives so cheap around here?

  The doctor seems to be a quack. His white pills and red tonic is unable to stop the deaths. Gloom has descended on the camp. Akhil has died, leaving Aaynamoti and their child at the mercy of uncertain fate.

  A year passes by. Ranga-bou is with child again. The feeble sapling she had planted outside their tent is beginning to take the sturdy shape of a tree. Other families have grown vegetables around their tents, pumpkins and chillies, onions and gourds, in an attempt to camouflage the barrenness of their refugee lives. It is time for the ten-armed goddess Durga’s arrival. Sukhchand is now the camp headman. He makes arrangement for pujas and collects what little the families have to offer as chanda. He is also the solution giver. Jogeshwar Dihi transit camp is a mini sea of humanity – people live and die here, couples mate, marriages break, widows find solace in the willing arms of married men … Sukhchand hears every gossip and is privy to every argument. Nothing is too personal or too sacred for this herd of homeless border-crossers.

  Sukhchand’s class has swelled. Two new teachers have been appointed from the village adjacent to the camp. There is a chair and table now, a roof above their heads and a bell to announce the beginning and end of lessons. A proper school!

  One day a boy asks Sukhchand the meaning of ‘refugee’. He had wandered into a locality nearby and, thirsty after a long walk, knocked at a door. When a woman came to the door, the boy had asked for water. She had looked at him with scorn, before turning back to tell her mother-in-law that he looked like a normal boy, not a refugee. Both women had laughed out loud.

  ‘What is a refugee, sir?’ he asks Sukhchand again.

  ‘By legal definition that may be borrowed from the United Nation’s 1951 convention, a refugee is a person compelled to leave his country of nationality as he feels insecure and is afraid of persecution of his life, belief and opinions in his native land.’ Big words, but Sukhchand repeats them for his young student, eyes watering. His pupil repeats the words after him. ‘By legal definition that may be borrowed from the United Nation’s 1951 convention …’

  Sukhchand gets up from his chair, trembling. Men and women have gathered around him, circling the school. A farman has come. They have been told to move again. Trains are ready, the government babus have announced, to take them to Dandakaranya. The Dandakaranya project area is 7,678 square kilometres of land stretching from the districts of Koraput and Kalahandi in Orissa to Bastar in Madhya Pradesh. It is the same place where Rama was banished for fourteen long years. Now, camps have been set up for these Bengali refuges from East Pakistan. If they don’t move, the cash dole will stop.

  ‘Who are we?’ Sukhchand asks.

  ‘We are humanity’s leftovers,’ the crowd shouts back.

  The babus quietly make their exit, but come back at night with men in khakis. They enter tents without warning. The refugees put up a feeble fight, and policemen answer back with lathis and teargas.

  Lorries are waiting outside, which Sukhchand and the others are forced to board. In the chaos, leaders from Leftist parties appear from nowhere. Sukhchand cries for help. This is temporary, they say, Bengali refugees will be brought back to West Bengal. They speak with conviction. ‘Comrades, we will ensure this happens soon. Refugees will be settled in the islands of Sundarbans. But for now, you will have to go to Dandakaranya.’

  The stench of unwashed bodies huddled like cows herded for slaughter houses fills the trucks. Children wail, men and women sit seething with rage or sob, raw wounds dripping blackened blood in their unending ride across unknown lands. The trucks stop thrice a day near eateries and barren spaces for food and defecation. ‘They are transporting animals from one stable to another,’ says Sukhchand.

  Days give in to nights, and nights turn hollow, yellow in an endless cycle before they reach another refugee settlement.

  Malkangiri.

  According to Valmiki’s Ramayana, Rama spent thirteen long years in these forests with his wife Sita and brother Lakshmana. It is from here that Sita was abducted by the Lanka king Ravana, which led to the epic war.

  Camp babus greet them as they make their way to the tents. Like bored shepherd boys counting flock, the babus do a quick roll call. Refugees become numbers again. They are told they would get a cash dole here as well, but they would have to work. And if anyone tries to flee, the dole money for all would be reduced. ‘That is it for the day,’ a babu barks. ‘Go home, now.’

  ‘Home,’ Sukhchand lets out a laugh. ‘Home, indeed!’

  It is dark and dreary. The only sound is the gurgling of the Tamsa river flowing over a bed of pebbles. Behind the tents, a thick forest blocks out everything that lies beyond. This is the land’s end. Their new home: village number six, Malkangiri.

  Work days begin early here. Sal trees, mahua trees, big trees, small trees and trees without names – they all have to be felled, bidi leaves grinded. If you grind a thousand leaves a day, you get two rupees.

  To fell trees, they have to go deep into the forest. Bears come without warning; wild monkeys swoop down from high branches. A week into their arrival, a man is left badly scarred by an enraged monkey. He had gone too deep into the forest. There are snakes on the ground and tigers behind bushes. The men move in packs, watching each other’s back. The women cook, clean and pray for the men’s return, planting saplings around tents like old times.

  ‘Why didn’t tigers attack Rama or Sita? They spent fourteen years inside the jungle,’ a child asks his grandmother one day. ‘Who would have killed Ravana if tigers had attacked Rama?’ she answers with logic no one refutes.

  Bribes are a quick currency to buy peace in Malkangiri. Sukhchand knows this is not how it should be, but they have to grease palms to get their dole on time; to grow crops, they have to bribe; and they have to pay up again if they want a doctor to visit the camp. It is as if one has to bribe to stay alive here.

  Nights fall early in the camp. Tired to their bones, hungry lovers feed o
n each other and whisper into the dark, fearful of being heard. Their muffled lovemaking brings life to the camp as one more night passes into the void.

  There is some commotion outside Sukhchand’s tent. Nabakumar’s mother is scolding him, using harsh cuss words, while some watch the drama with glee. ‘Why can’t you marry that woman you fuck every day in the forest? Mukhpora, you think I don’t know what you are up to? How long will you make me cook and clean for you with my old hands? All my life I have slaved for your father. Now he is gone but I have to work for you.’ Nabakumar sits next to her, cheeks flushed.

  The colony knows there is something cooking between Paunder’s sister (Paunder’s sister has become her only identity) and Nabakumar. Paunder’s mother has complained to Nabakumar’s mother about their affair, angering the old woman. How dare the girl’s mother have the temerity to broach this topic with her! After all, she has the upper hand, being the mother of the boy. She has already decided to marry off her son to some other girl from the camp. She tells Ranga-bou she would talk to Sukhchand about this. Ranga-bou smiles. Roopchand, the bard, sings:

  ‘Who are you that saves me every time?

  Why can I not see you, make you mine?’

  Aaynamoti hides a blush. Ranga-bou sees a hint of happiness on her face after many, many days. Aaynamoti had become a portrait of grief since she lost her husband to the fever, and Roopchand’s music has brought back life to her eyes. ‘Is there something brewing between the two?’ Ranga-bou wonders.

  Old habits. Sukhchand has taken up teaching again. His salary is seventy rupees a month like before. He has chosen the shade of a big tree near the camp as his classroom. From here, you can look afar – beyond the river, below the hills. The tribals have their hutments there; they live on good, cultivable land. The rocky, barren land is where the camp has been set up. Even when it rains, the land is unmoved. The men dig deep, removing pebbles and rocks both small and large. They employ every trick known to farmers to grow rice and sesame. They tend to this land like a mother trying to bring an ailing child back to health.

  The tribals come to talk to them, but it’s a tongue they cannot fathom. Short, dark men with angry eyes speak at length without making sense. They scream, make faces and stomp on the ground. It seems that they are not happy with the farming activities of the refugees.

  The next morning, half their crops vanish. Someone has, in the dead of the night, taken away the produce. Months of hard work has been wasted. There is unrest in the camp; the lads want revenge. They want to cross the river and teach the tribals a lesson, but Sukhchand will have none of it. They will take turns to guard the fields at night, he orders. This is not going to be an easy task. There is fear of a tiger, so they make fire and speak in loud voices to keep the beast away.

  Poush Mela. Back in their Bangla, it used to be a season of celebration. Here, too, Bengali refugees from nearby camps have set up a tent in the distance. Kobi Gaan is being recited all day. At night, they arrange a bioscope: Sitar Banabas, the banishment of Sita.

  Sometime that night, Paunder’s sister goes missing. She never came back after watching Sitar Banabas. Paunder, Nabakumar and others go looking for her. Someone goes to find Sukhchand, who has been working in the forest. They fan out into the forest in groups of two. Where could she be?

  A loud scream is heard. At a corner of the forest, inside a thick bush, Paunder’s sister lies naked with horror frozen in her dead eyes. Her lips have been chewed out, her breasts mangled and legs scratched. Uneven red lines run across her fair skin. A black pool of blood has gathered around her thighs; red ants swimming in it.

  Paunder’s mother reaches the spot; she screams, her face contorted, eyes bloodshot, seething with cold rage. It deafens the men around her and jolts them into a murderous fury.

  Feeble-limbed Sukhchand lets out a war cry. He picks up a lathi, others pick up whatever they can lay their hands on, and they rush at the babus who are on their way to the camp in a jeep. They see murder in the men’s eyes and leap out of the jeep, running for their lives. The camp office is set on fire, along with the abandoned jeep. The men take down everything that stands in their way.

  They do not know who killed Paunder’s sister – the tribals or these babus – and they do not care. They will avenge her.

  Sukhchand has spent a month in jail. News of the camp violence travels east. The press comes to see him from Calcutta, journalists jot down notes in tiny notebooks as he speaks. ‘You are a hero in Calcutta, sir. Your picture is on the front pages of many newspapers as the leader of Bengali-speaking refugees in Dandakaranya.’ Sukhchand smiles indulgently. It is a smile he reserves for children in the camp school who do not know what they are talking about.

  Some Left leaders have made the long journey to Dandakaranya; some of whom Sukhchand has met before when they were forced out of Jogeshwar Dihi transit camp. You should join our party, they say. We need leaders like you with us. Sukhchand smiles again. With so many important visitors coming to see him, the pressure to release him mounts. He gets bail.

  Sukhchand comes out of his hut, smiling. These are good days. He has a beard from the time he has spent in jail, his salary has gone up and he has become a father yet again. More babus have been assigned for the ‘welfare’ of refugees. There are more frequent inspections, and more roll calls to check if anyone has gone missing. Doctors come often and put their stethoscopes in their ears at the sound of the slightest discomfort. Sukhchand knows why their behaviour has changed: elections are nearing. No one wants unrest at a refugee camp.

  But even good days are treacherous. A week after the elections, on a particularly dark and gloomy day, eagles circle the camp and tribals descend like acid rain. They have not forgiven the violence of these talkative strangers on their land. These are weather-hardened men; men without fear or remorse, who fight bears, tigers and snakes, and eat roots and snails. These are men not to be trifled with. Yet, the refugees fight them with all the strength in their hearts. The red earth gets a few shades darker.

  One tribal tries to enter Aaynamoti’s tent and Roopchand attacks him with his dotara. Anything can be used as a weapon. Suckhchand picks up a stick. Dholakaka has picked up his spade; Ranga-bou her kitchen knife. There is blood.

  That night, under a starless sky, camp residents meet as a crowd of broken limbs and bandaged heads. ‘Let us go away from here, Sukhchand,’ Dholakaka, the camp elder, says. ‘Even Pakistan is better than here.’ They talk all night. ‘Let us go back to Bengal. Decades have passed here. That is where we belong.’

  There is a new government in West Bengal: the Left Front government. Their government. They have seen known faces in newspapers. Faces of new ministers. Faces that had given them hope in days of distress. They should go back to Bengal now. ‘Let us go, Sukhchand.’

  Months pass as they plan the perfect escape, carrying whatever they can in the dead of night.

  The central reserved police had taken away a girl from their camp. Unlike Paunder’s sister, she had lived to tell the story of that night. They had taken turns to rape her, then dropped her back in the morning. The camp residents had gone to protest, only to be lathi-charged back to the camp. The men talk of Marichjhapi in the Sundarban islands. Some from other camps have already gone and were starting new lives in the heart of the Sundarbans. Dronopal, Matri, Kanker, Dhamtari, Paralkot railway stations pass. They ride back to where they belong, joined by refugees from Mana Camp.

  1978. Howrah station. A band of unsung men and women squat on the platform. They will wait here till promises are met. They will wait for the ministers to come. Instead, there are flashbulbs and a flurry of queries: Why have you come back? And why in such large numbers?

  What should Sukhchand tell these reporters? Should he tell them about Paunder’s sister, or about Sachin, or of the men who lost life and limb fighting tribals, or recount their failed attempts to make home in the most hostile of places? Instead, he mutters: ‘If we have to die, we die here. We won’t go anywhere el
se.’

  He remembers what that leader had told him when he was in jail: ‘When you return to Bengal, five crore people will raise ten crore hands to greet you.’

  Where were those hands?

  The sun sets every day with their hopes dashed. The government for the casteless and classless margins, the new Left Front government, extends no support. Rehabilitation is a distant dream, and the dole has also stopped. They march to Rajpath; a big procession of shabby men and women, half-fed, fed up with their fate. Khakis come and lathi-charge: ‘Go back, beggars! Go back to your camps.’

  They are back at the station, their belongings packed into tiny bundles. They will go to Marichjhapi by themselves, they decide, with cold resolve in their hearts. They take a late-night train to Barasat. Marichjhapi is a few hours from there, they have been told. There are cops at Barasat station, armed and watching them with narrowed eyes. Walking next to Sukhchand is a sadhu from Mana Camp, a man with eyes red from cheap alcohol. ‘Jai ma Kali!’ he roars.

  They have neither the strength to go further nor the money to buy train tickets. Women sit down on the platform, arrange bricks in the shape of ovens, put dry twigs inside and make fire; the little ones are hungry. Some boiled rice will do. A khaki tries to snatch away a woman’s belongings, but she resists with all her might. He kicks her hard. Half-boiled rice scatters on the platform, and the woman recoils in horror. The red-eyed sadhu roars and pierces the policeman’s thigh with his trident. Drops of blood fall on the rice.

  Sukhchand rushes out of the platform with Ranga-bou and the boys as teargas and lathis rain down on refugees. Screams and gunshots fill the night sky. They hide inside a field, shivering at night. They must move again.

  Hasnabad. Here, homeless wanderers smell good earth after more than a decade in dry land. Small mud islands are spread out against the sea at a distance. They think of the Padma-kissed land they used to call home. But the day’s harsh sun dries up their dreams. Dholakaka’s wife, Roopchand and Aaynamoti have gone missing during the night’s violence. Some have been arrested. Some have gone missing. But more people are coming in trains. People like them; Bengali refugees from various camps in Dandakaranya.