It had all begun seven days ago. He had come to know from the jail warder on the morning shift that he was being moved to another jail that day. The warder hadn’t lied. But Ruhiton had guessed why he had let slip the news. Some time later, that is. The authorities must have tutored—meaning, instructed—the jailer to inform Ruhiton that he would be shifted. The warder from the night shift had been present when Ruhiton was informed, as had been a few prisoners. The prisoners had exchanged glances with Ruhiton.
Barring two, he had not known any of the prisoners prior to meeting them in jail. But the charges against all of them had been of the same kind. Murder, causing injury, robbery, arson, and creating anarchy. And, above all, treason and conspiracy to overthrow the state. Their goals were identical too, therefore they were all fellow travellers. Although Ruhiton wasn’t sure whether they were really all fellow travellers, whether they all had the same goals, whether they all belonged to the same party. The very suspicion made him clench his teeth and narrow his eyes like daggers. Hatred flared in his heart. For his experience had been bitter.
The treachery and damage had been horrifying; it could never be avenged. Many so-called fellow travellers had camouflaged themselves like mountain leeches on grass. It was very difficult to tell the spurious apart from the genuine. They lay hidden in the red earth like mud-coloured vipers. They didn’t raise their hoods unexpectedly; they didn’t coil with a hiss or rise with a lethal spring like the more daring snakes. These mud-coloured snakes and the grass-coloured mountain leeches were imported pimps. They were controlled by the authorities, obeying their signals. They struck furtively.
Ruhiton was cautious, on his guard, yet he wanted to trust everyone, wanted to be friendly with all. But this was impossible with some of the prisoners. He had no choice. But did he himself know why he had exchanged glances with those prisoners or, for that matter, why they had exchanged glances with him, that day, a week ago? His eyes had lit up at the news, as had theirs. Why? And why had Ruhiton’s heart started thumping like a drum? Was it out of wild hope? Or a terrible fear?
Fear? He was Ruhiton Kurmi. This was his name. Apparently he had been named by his grandfather, his father’s father. Ruhiton.1 No one knew why his grandfather had named him after a suite of playing cards. His grandfather was a third generation labourer in tea estates. His father was a fourth generation tea garden worker in the Terai. Ruhiton was the fifth generation.
As a child, he had worked on a tea garden for some time. But his father Poshpat—Pashupati—had been the first to quit the tea estate and take up cultivation. Beyond the tea estate, next to the river. Ruhiton had never returned to the tea gardens either. He had become involved in cultivation too, with his father. This line of work meant setting up a home, a household. It wasn’t like life on a tea estate. Being a ryot2 from the Kurmi clan, Poshpat had managed to secure a tract. It was of insignificant dimensions, not big enough to take his name off the ranks of landless cultivators. Tilling the land of the landowners was his real occupation. Still, there was the taste and excitement of reclaiming himself through a change after four generations. There was the hope of settling down, of stability. Not an obsession, but a hankering. A hankering for a household enriched with land, cultivation, settlement. The hankering ran in Ruhiton’s blood.
The world knew the name of that place now.3 Lower, to the southeast of where Ruhiton and his family lived. The wooded area was on the slopes of the waterfall, going up from the sandy beach of the Mechi river in the Terai. Just like the area, the world now knew Ruhiton Kurmi’s name too.
Had the warder’s deliberate indiscretion—that he would be taken to another jail—scared Ruhiton? There is no fear greater than the fear of death. It is the ultimate fear. But if you kill, you know that you must die too. In battle you stake your life. Ruhiton’s fearlessness had not come from the revolution. Ever since he used to lose his way in the forest as a child, playing hunting games with his bow and arrow, living and dying had become one for him. To kill and to die were synonymous in battle. Just as you had to die for killing someone, you had to live precisely so that you could kill. Ruhiton knew this. Witnessing death had taught him this lesson. Watching his friends die had taught him why he needed to live. Outside jail, death had lurked at every step. Inside jail, it stalked him continuously. Fear meant death. He had banished both from his life.
It was not fear but suspicion that had reared its head. And with it, hope. However faint it may have been, it was still extraordinary. Its name was freedom. Or escape. Or an unexpected opportunity. That was why his eyes had flashed. And the suspicion was of death. They might be trying to get rid of him forever on the pretext of taking him to another jail. This was one of the techniques of elimination followed by the police. On the way from one jail to another, they would set him free in a dense forest, or on the bank of a swiftly flowing river in the dead of night—and then, a few bangs from a gun taken from the belt strapped to a waist. There would be no problems. No one would ever know which jail Ruhiton Kurmi was languishing in. Someone might enquire: ‘Which jail is Ruhiton Kurmi in? Which jail?…’ In response, there would be an announcement: ‘Ruhiton Kurmi has escaped.’ This was why his eyes had lit up. In hope and suspicion.
1 Refers to the diamond in the four suites of cards.
2 A cultivator who owned the land he tilled.
3 The first violent action of the armed Marxist-Leninist movement in Bengal took place in Naxalbari, which earned it the sobriquet of the Naxal Movement.
Chapter Two
RUHITON OPENED HIS eyes. After being arrested, he hadn’t been able to sleep for a long time. It hadn’t been possible either. He had not been allowed to sleep. The interrogation and the physical techniques involved made it impossible. It was possible only when they occasionally gave him sleeping pills. But, recently, he had been sleeping. Like the caged tiger that eventually sinks into sleep, exhausted after pacing up and down. It was the kind of sleep that offers no pleasure, no security. The forests to the north and south and west on the far bank of the Mechi, the reddened earth of the Terai stretching to the horizon, the gurgling of the jungle waterfalls beckoned to him. Every moment of the day. He had on two occasions, in two jails, been beaten till he was unconscious, for giving in to their call. But he hadn’t died. His friends had been surprised that they hadn’t killed him. Both attempts had been the result of treachery by other inmates of the jail, but amateurish.
Ruhiton was now in a moving jeep. There was no question of sleeping in a moving vehicle. Still, he closed his eyes. There was nothing to look at. Other than the images of four people and four indistinct rifles in the darkness. The touch of the dawn wind at the back of his neck and ears meant night was ending.
He opened his eyes. He could see a hazy red glow. He shut his eyes at once, facing the covered back instead. What was that red glow? He frowned. A stricken expression appeared on his face.
He was sitting with his back against the front seat of the jeep. Arrangements had been made for him to sit on a small wooden platform between the seats at the back of the jeep. Covered with a black blanket, his legs were stretched out before him. His body was also wrapped in a blanket. The blanket had slipped from his shoulders now. He wished they could be covered again. He was feeling cold. He shouldn’t have been feeling chilled at this hour. He should actually have been feeling comfortable in this familiar early morning wind. But he was cold.
He felt this way frequently now. Even his body seemed flushed. He couldn’t make out whether he had fever or not. He had never told anyone. It had been a year—out of the seven he had spent in jail—since he had been feeling this way. It was not especially uncomfortable or painful. He hadn’t felt like telling anyone about it. But now he wished he could cover his shoulders and throat with the blanket. In the moving vehicle the cold bore into him like needles. But he had no choice. Iron chains were clamped on his wrists and legs. The chains around his legs were attached to his handcuffs. He couldn’t even bend his knees in this conditio
n. The chains were wrapped around his legs like frames from the groin downwards, weighed down with iron balls. The handcuffs were linked to them.
Ruhiton hadn’t been put in ball and chains like these in jail. However, it wasn’t as though he had never been chained. After his two failed attempts at escape, he had had to submit to chains for some time. His movements had been restricted. Chaining him now, though, was a temporary measure. He had been put in chains three days earlier as a precautionary measure. Four guards with rifles were in the back with him. All three people sitting in front were armed—the driver and two officers. The chains were to ensure that Ruhiton Kurmi did not attempt to escape while being transferred. Ruhiton knew that even his corpse was preferable to his escaping. At least that would ensure that these people were pardoned. Otherwise they would not be forgiven. Ruhiton also knew that another vehicle was following them. Every police station on the way, too, had been informed.
His uncertainty was not just about the last three nights. To Ruhiton, everything was uncertain. Was he being taken to another jail at all, or would there be more nights such as this one, and then maybe the jeep would suddenly stop somewhere, and he would be made to get off, and then—suddenly…
Ruhiton was prepared for such a situation and such a moment. Because such a situation and such a moment did not spell an opportunity for these people alone. Ruhiton might find an unexpected opportunity too, although he had calculated that they had exactly seven rifles and pistols between them. He had realized something else. The vehicle was not crossing culverts, long bridges, and mountain slopes; almost the entire stretch was flat. Where did such a long, level road lead?
Exactly a week ago, he had been informed of his transfer by the warder. Two days had passed but there had been no news. The jail authorities told him nothing. But their group of friends discussed things amongst themselves. They knew that even if the warder was lying, there was a motive in his passing on the information. They never opened their mouths without a nefarious purpose, never said anything.
Then, on the third day, he had been summoned to the office. He had been informed in everyone’s presence that he would be moved to a different jail. Ruhiton had expected to be taken that very night. He wasn’t. Instead, after keeping him under armed guard till nine that night, they had placed him in a remote cell in a walled, secluded part of the jail. He had been kept locked up for two nights and an entire day. He had not been allowed to use a toilet outside. A commode (Ruhiton had learnt the name later) on iron legs had been provided within the cell. He was not given an opportunity to bathe. Even his food was brought to his cell.
A few such cells stood next to each other on a plot of wasteland with walls around it. None of the others had been occupied. The cells had been cold, damp. They had smelt of mould and rotting bricks. One warder at a time patrolled the wasteland. Ruhiton had never tried to initiate conversations with them. The warders didn’t talk to him either. A single individual used to bring him his food in that deserted cell. He slipped the food in under the bars. He had appeared twice, his face wrapped in a piece of cloth, to replace the detachable iron bucket beneath the commode. He was accompanied by an armed guard. But none of them addressed a word to him.
You cannot fool yourself. Ruhiton hadn’t asked anyone any questions, but he was far from indifferent to everything that was happening around him. He didn’t know if he really was going to be taken to another jail. Thoughts swirled around in his head. He knew it was pointless to worry. He was mentally prepared to face any kind of event. Event, or rather, accident. But the concerns were inevitable. He tried to guess what they wanted to do with him. There could be several reasons for suddenly isolating him in the same jail. Ruhiton was certain that his friends didn’t have an inkling of his being in here. Possibly no one knew—besides the warders, guards, one or two others who came to his cell, and a few of the jail authorities.
‘Ruhiton!’ A deep voice called out to him from the front of the jeep.
Ruhiton didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t answer. But his eyebrows and facial muscles contracted, as though he had been dealt a blow. The voice from the front seat was neither harsh nor authoritative. On the contrary, although it addressed him by his name, there seemed to be a measure of respect and amiability in the deep voice, virtually unheard of in such situations. Even without getting a response from Ruhiton, the deep voice asked a question from the front seat. ‘Would you like a cigarette?’
Ruhiton didn’t respond immediately. But his mouth moistened at the mention of a cigarette. He had smoked just one cigarette since getting into the jeep. He didn’t know exactly what time it had been. Might have been midnight, might have been two in the morning. It had been going on this way for three nights. Not exactly the same way. Two days earlier, he had been taken back to the office from his isolated cell after nine in the evening.
Before that, his hands and legs had been chained. Two warders had done the job in the presence of armed guards. That was the only time he had asked in surprise, ‘Why are you putting chains on me now?’
‘Orders,’ one of the warders had answered softly but firmly. Ruhiton had glanced at the guards’ and warders’ faces in the yellow light in the cell. His clear-skinned, large body had stiffened. All of them had looked grim and unyielding. Their shadows had covered the entire floor and half of the damp white walls. Instead of meeting his eyes, they had thrown cruel glances at him out of the corners of their eyes. But Ruhiton had felt that they were actually neither cruel nor merciless. He believed that they were so intimidated by having to follow orders that they automatically became wooden. They never met the eyes of the Ruhitons of the world.
After chaining him, they had taken him to the office and allowed him to lie down on a bench in the next room. Ruhiton knew asking questions was futile. He had had his dinner already. There was no problem in lying down when in chains. The difficulty was in getting to a sitting position for it was impossible to bend his knees in any way whatsoever. His hands were bound together near his thighs. Ruhiton had fallen half asleep on the bench, as far as it was possible to sleep on a bench. There was the risk of falling off. Drowsy, dozing at times, he had heard this same deep voice calling out to him. The voice that was now offering him a cigarette from the front seat of the jeep.
Jolted awake, Ruhiton had tried to rise from his seat anxiously. ‘Be careful! You might fall,’ the voice had intervened quickly. Its owner had propped him back up into a sitting position with a hand beneath his shoulder. Ruhiton had glanced at him. He was an officer in a khaki uniform. A holstered revolver was strapped to the belt at his waist. His scalp was practically bare in front, with very little hair. Tall, broad-shouldered, of sturdy build. His snub nose and the wrinkles beneath his eyes gave him a friendly appearance.
But Ruhiton’s nose had twitched, his brow had furrowed. He had recognized the officer. There was no reason not to. This was their fourth meeting. The first time he had seen him was ten years ago. The man had been an inspector at the Kharibari Police Station at the time. A junior inspector. He had been thinner then. And had had a full head of hair. But people can usually be identified by their eyes and nose and eyebrows. Three years later, when Ruhiton had been caught after a skirmish, he had met this man again.
Ruhiton hadn’t been the only one bleeding. This man had been bleeding too. An arrow fired by someone from Ruhiton’s group had pierced his shoulder. It couldn’t have been a poison-tipped arrow; else the man would not have survived. Ruhiton’s group had been ambushed. They had had no opportunity to defend themselves. Moreover, a large cache of their arms had been seized. This man had brandished his revolver as though he might shoot any of the men in Ruhiton’s group instantly. But it was unnecessary. Captured, Ruhiton’s comrades were already crushed. They were cowed down by the beating they had received. The attention of the police had been concentrated on Ruhiton. Not that he had declared his name; on the contrary, he had denied his identity. But that had not helped. The man had waved his gun in his face, speaking
through clenched teeth, ‘If you hadn’t been Ruhiton Kurmi, I would have blown your head off by now. I have seen you kill one of our head constables.’
Ruhiton’s bleeding face had stayed expressionless. He had looked at the man with blank eyes. He had the same wish, too, to blow his head off. But the actions of the police and their words had made him suspect that they knew a great deal. He had wondered whether someone in the group had betrayed them. How had these people known so much about Ruhiton’s party?
Within a few months of this incident, he had met this officer again. Ruhiton had never learnt where the meeting had taken place. It had been a cross between a police camp and an old lock-up. Maybe it was a sub-jail for Kurseong, Kalimpong, or Siliguri. Or the Jalpaiguri Jail. It would have been much colder if it had been the Darjeeling Jail. Ruhiton had been unable to recognize the place. None of his friends had been present either. Only once during his interrogation had he been drawn aside and taken through the trees to a distance. Ordering him to stop at a particular spot, they had instructed him to look to his right.
Ruhiton had seen one of the leaders of his party nearly thirty yards away, smoking a cigarette at a table in a clearing. He was in conversation with someone sitting across the table. Ruhiton had been asked whether he could identify his leader. What leader, Ruhiton had asked. He didn’t know the man. He was told that this very leader had revealed everything about Ruhiton. It was futile for him not to confess.
Ruhiton had clenched his teeth and smiled to himself in loathing and rage. He knew they had made it all up, it was all a lie. A trick to plant doubts in his mind. That particular leader had been as solid as a rock, pure. They had arrested him too. He had not run across any of his friends since then.
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