But still, how delighted his father had been. The man had even forgotten his hooch for some time. He had shifted overnight from the tea estate in eastern Naxalbari to the south of the Tukariajhar jungle, to the eastern side of the railway lines. Five miles southwest of the tea estates. Below the village of Ramdhan, slightly above Moynaguri village. The mountains and forests of Mirik were visible to the north. The Mechi was within half a mile to the east, marking the border with Nepal. Morang Kaliajhar was on the other side. Bhadrapur was further south.
But the soil? The fragment of land that Poshpat Kurmi got, thanks to the benevolence of Chowdhury Sahib, was within the perimeter of the plot belonging to Mohan Chhetri the landowner. Most of that fragment was white soil with sand mixed in it. There were also traces of black soil. There was no red soil—what was referred to as fallow farmland. In the mountains and the Terai region with its white, sandy soil, black soil was as valuable as diamonds. Even lime was hard to come by. Silt from the river Mechi was brought and spread out on the white soil. And with it, cow dung manure. This was how fallow land was made suitable for cultivation. But it was the black soil which was considered perfect for planting. Corn and autumn paddy grew on it. But it belonged to the landowner. Even the solitary bamboo grove belonged to him.
Poshpat Kurmi had not been cowed down. In a sense he had been nothing but a landless sharecropper. But still he was a ryot. Perhaps he had harboured hopes and dreams of becoming a contractor, even though it had never happened.
From working as a child labourer on a tea estate, Ruhiton had moved to a farm. He used to scoop and carry mounds of silt from the Mechi, where it curved around the cane grove. He would dam the small waterfalls and the narrow canals nearby to store water. He was the son of Poshpat Kurmi, his father’s desire ran in his blood too. This desire seemed to have given him a powerful physique. And, looking out at the crops, his mother had felt it was time that Ruhiton married. He had been deeply involved with the Rajvanshis’ daughter Tepri at that time. Then Mangala had come…
He was reminded of all their faces, and of their voices, laughing, crying, talking in unison. He could not control the waterfall coursing down his heart. Ruhiton’s eyes were still turned to the right. A green slice of Calcutta, curved like a river. A few people here and there. It wasn’t clear whether they were strolling or running. In the distance, buildings leaned against the sky. But what he actually saw were the blue forests and the Terai region of Mirik. Ruhiton realized he was saying something. ‘I get no news of Chunilal village,’ he rasped. ‘They don’t tell me anything about them. How are they all over there?’
The officer had been about to turn towards Ruhiton. His head seemed to touch the back of Ruhiton’s. Just for a moment. Then he asked in feigned surprise, ‘Chunilal? Oh, you mean your village, your home?’ His head moved away as he spoke.
Ruhiton turned away too, but his body, prickling with the cold, remained alert. A little later, he heard the officer speak from the front seat. ‘I have no news of them,’ he said with the same casual air.
Ruhiton clenched his teeth. His eyes were screwed shut. Not in anger, but in agony. The anguish of self-hatred was like blindness, unable to see any road to salvation.
The officer was probably right, there did seem to be some kind of a relationship between him and Ruhiton. But that wasn’t the only reason for these four meetings. He had not been entrusted with the responsibility of escorting Ruhiton after seven years for this reason. Ruhiton now felt that this man had beaten him every time. This victory over him had been a constant affair. When he had seen this man for the first time ten years ago near the Kharibari Police Station, the man hadn’t known who he was. He hadn’t given Ruhiton a second glance. The second time, Ruhiton was crushed and defeated, smothered in blood. The third time, when he was being tortured mercilessly at the police camp, and had temporarily collapsed from the unbearable pain, this man had given him a cigarette. But he had not tried to extract anything in return. And, now—at his weakest moment, on this dawn the colour of bloodless stale meat—after three days, the man had kicked Ruhiton Kurmi ruthlessly on the mouth. On the mouth, on the chest.
He was right, the man had made no mistake. Ruhiton realized this now. He had stuck to his position, unlike Ruhiton. He had said many things to him over the past three days. Asked many questions. Laughed. Ruhiton had not reacted. He had not broken his silence then, for he knew that the relationship between the two of them was different. He knew, and, despite the man’s incessant chatter, he had kept his mouth shut. But Ruhiton had finally spoken when he shouldn’t have. An old memory had suddenly triggered a cascade of rain in his heart. It could not be stopped.
‘You’ve been to Calcutta at least once.’ The officer’s voice from the front seat was confident. ‘You can make out from the tram and the streets that we’re inside Calcutta now…’
The officer continued talking. Ruhiton couldn’t absorb a thing. A deep-seated anger with himself brought back all the old memories of Calcutta. The day after the meeting, they had marched once more in procession across the city under Khelu Chowdhury’s leadership. The procession had ended at a railway station somewhere outside Calcutta. He had met Diba Bagchi there. Diba Bagchi had appeared badly affected by the experience. His face was skeletal—sick, unhappy, angry. Bhadua Munda had exclaimed, ‘This is the first and the last time. Never again in Calcutta, damn it.’
Even a man like Diba Bagchi had sat there with his head bowed. He hadn’t uttered a word. All of them had been herded into a train in the afternoon. Ruhiton had thought of Mangala as he was boarding. He still had some money in his pocket. He wasn’t supposed to have had any. None of them was supposed to have brought any money. But Ruhiton had some.
Before he had left, Mangala had looked him up and down and chuckled. Ruhiton had felt perplexed. Mangala didn’t usually chuckle this way. ‘What?’ he asked.
Mangala wasn’t one to explain things. She had been pregnant with Budhua at the time. She was like a fecund cow carrying a calf. ‘Nothing,’ she had signalled, shaking her head. Nothing? Was he completely ignorant about women simply because he was a farmer? It had been obvious from her chuckle and the way she had looked at him mischievously that she had had something in mind.
‘Tell me, no harm knowing,’ Ruhiton said.
‘Calcutta, after all,’ Mangala replied. ‘Be careful.’
Was that all that the expressions on her face signified? Ruhiton had knitted his brows.
‘What I’m saying is, are you going to Calcutta only for the revolution?’ Mangala had laughed.
‘Revolution… well, you know. All of us farmers and labourers from all over are gathering in Calcutta to unplug the government’s ears. They cannot hear us any more, you see. It’s a very big event. Farm and factory workers from everywhere will gather, we’ll get to know one another.’
Even this explanation didn’t seem to have wiped the curiosity off Mangala’s deep, dark eyes. She lowered her eyes in embarrassment, then chuckled again and said, ‘It’s a big thing, going to Calcutta. This isn’t the fair at Bijanbari, after all, is it? Not even Adhikari Baba’s winter fair, right? That’s why I’m saying you should get something for Ma. A memento from Calcutta.’
Untying a knot at the end of her sari, she had taken out a piece of paper and a few coins and handed them to Ruhiton. Beads of perspiration had appeared on her nose and chin. She had been radiant with a different sort of beauty at the time. Women acquired a different sort of beauty as soon as they became pregnant. It had nothing in common with their alluring looks during the Karam puja—the ceremony that old men and women were forbidden to participate in. Young men and women moved the pine branches aside to perform their own mating rituals. This was a ritual to make women pregnant. But now, Mangala’s eyes were sunken, fatigue had taken over her body. It wasn’t an illness, however; it was a different kind of loveliness, a pleasing sight, evoking a magical tenderness. Beauty was also a sort of magic.
Ruhiton had looked at the money in
surprise. The piece of paper was actually a five-rupee note. It was like a ball of dirty grass, discovered on the road.
Mangala had probably felt a little uncomfortable at the look in Ruhiton’s eyes. Slightly taken aback, perhaps. ‘I had saved this a long time ago, when I was still living with my parents. I used to work on Master Nasir Mian’s farm.’
Ruhiton had not laughed. He had stared in turn at the money in his hand and Mangala’s face. But it wasn’t as if he didn’t understand the slant of what a woman meant—it wasn’t as if he didn’t understand their smiles and glances. It wasn’t like he wasn’t aware of the implication of what Mangala was passing off as a gift for his mother or a memento of Calcutta. ‘What memento of Calcutta should I get?’ he had asked. ‘Nose rings or glass bangles?’
‘Listen to you,’ Mangala had responded intensely, feigning embarrassment.
Ruhiton wasn’t one to relent easily. As soon as Mangala had tried to run away he had tugged at her hand. ‘What else can I say? I have never been to Calcutta. Tell me what memento of Calcutta to get.’
‘I don’t know,’ Mangala had answered, snuggling up to him.
Ruhiton had thought as much. Mangala could not have responded any other way. There had been no need for an answer either. Lowering his head, he had breathed in Mangala’s scent deeply. Her hand on his back and head, she had said in a low, throaty voice, ‘May Tista Mother protect you.’
Ruhiton had not bought anything in Calcutta. The next morning, after the meeting, Calcutta had seemed transformed. Bhadua Munda had asked everyone for twenty-five paise in the morning, before the meeting. On the way back, far from offering them food, no one had even asked them if they were hungry. Bhadua Munda and Khelu Chowdhury had collected some food for each of them. And busy Calcutta had looked at them with dispassionate eyes. How different the city had appeared then! The speeding vehicles on all sides and their roar seemed intent on swallowing them up.
Led by Khelu Chowdhury, they had boarded a train around one in the afternoon at a station outside the city. The compartments had been packed with people. Some of them tried to push Ruhiton and his friends off the train. Some hadn’t baulked at slapping and kicking them. But they had kept their heads. By then they had been frantic to go back. To their land of blue forests, where the mountains leaned back against the sky. Where the cool, sweet water from the waterfalls was never miserly like the traitorous trader. Where the grass always grew in abundance, where the farmer’s work never ended. But what if it didn’t? This was the way of the land here. When landslides took place, families were rocked. Man and beast tried to survive together. After the landslide of rocks ended, there followed a green landslide of harvest on the high banks of the river, The riches might belong to anyone, but there’s such a thing as a land of one’s own.
At one point during the journey, Diba Bagchi had taken a seat next to Ruhiton on the train. There was no letting up on his cough, nor on his smoking. He had looked like a long-suffering, sick man. Ruhiton had withdrawn into himself. He had not been interested in discussing their expedition to Calcutta. But Diba Bagchi had not brought it up. On the contrary, he had said, ‘There’s no need to say anything, Ruhiton. I understand everything. You can polish lead and make it shine, but it won’t ring out. Am I right?’
This was after Ruhiton’s heart. ‘You’re right,’ he had said wih a smile.
Diba Bagchi had been sunk in thought. He had taken frequent drags of his cigarette, coughing every now and then. His cough was terrifying. He had such a small chest. Would the ribcage be able to withstand it? After a long pause he had continued, ‘But it won’t go on this way forever. All this is just to keep things warm, you see, Ruhiton. I know why it’s happening. Not that there’s any use knowing.’ Taking a drag of his cigarette, he had blown the smoke out through his nose and mouth and coughed, sounding like a flute.
‘Stop smoking for a bit now,’ Ruhiton had said. ‘Give that to me.’ He had taken away the lit cigarette from Diba Bagchi.
‘Why do you want this one, I’ll give you another one.’ Diba Bagchi smiled, his face crinkling.
‘No need.’ Holding the cigarette between two fingers, Ruhiton had balled his fist and taken a deep drag from the opening near his thumb.
‘Did you buy anything for your family?’ Diba Bagchi asked.
‘Buy?’ The cigarette smoke had lodged itself in Ruhiton’s lungs. ‘No, nothing,’ he had answered, choking on the smoke.
‘I saw some people buying soap and ribbons and bangles and hair oil,’ Diba Bagchi had said. ‘That’s why I was asking. Haven’t you brought any money?’
‘I wasn’t supposed to,’ Ruhiton had replied. ‘But my wife gave me some as I was leaving.’ He had displayed the five-rupee note and the coins in his pocket.
‘Are you planning to get something?’ Diba Bagchi had asked.
‘Oh no,’ Ruhiton had said shaking his head. ‘I’ve left Calcutta, I won’t buy anything now. My wife had asked for a memento from Calcutta.’
‘Calcutta is just a name,’ Diba Bagchi had said smiling. ‘You get the same things in Siliguri. The prices are different, that’s all.’
Maybe that’s so, Ruhiton had concluded. Teep for the forehead and alta6 for the feet were available at the Kharibari shops too. The price of teep and alta at the Jalpesh fair at Gadtali was different, however. Or if you bought something at Adhikari Baba’s fair, that wasn’t any old purchase either. The price was different. Those were what Mangala called ‘mementos’. Every place had a different memento to offer. They reminded you of those places afterwards. But Ruhiton didn’t tell Diba Bagchi this.
5 Kurmis and Santhals are tribes of India. Traditionally, Kurmis live on agriculture, while Santhals live on clearing forests and hunting.
6 Teep is a decorative spot or pattern on the forehead, usually used by women. Alta is a solution of red lac used by women to line the edges of the soles of the feet as an adornment.
Chapter Six
MEMORIES OF THE old days returned like the image of his face in the mirror. Once again he was in Calcutta, by the red glow of dawn, surrounded by armed guards in a jeep, with chains on his hands and feet. The more he remembered, the sharper was the pain. Weakness and humiliation cleaved his heart.
Why did he have to ask the officer about Chunilal village all of a sudden? His home was in this village, five miles southeast of Naxalbari. Mangala, his children, and his blind, aged mother lived there. He had not responded to anything that the man had said. Then why did he have to ask this question? Would this officer give him the information that no one at the jail had given him these past seven years?
Had Ruhiton weakened? Had his mind begun to fail along with the fever that had taken hold of him? He had never exposed this weakness. Why today? It had taken several years to mend the broken heart with which he had returned from the congregation of workers in Calcutta. It was Diba Bagchi who had coined their mantra. ‘The cities have to be surrounded by villages. The cities have to be controlled by villages. No congregations in Calcutta. After encircling the towns of the south with villages, Calcutta would also have to be engulfed by villages.’
Ever since, Ruhiton had fought to encircle cities with villages. Stake your life, but don’t allow the enemy to survive. Ruhiton had not allowed the enemy to survive. Eliminate and surround, continuously. That was who he was. Why, then, did his heart ache at the thought of his home after seven years? Why, unable to restrain himself, did he have to ask this officer? Was this connected to his fever? Was this why his appearance was changing, why his ears and nose were thickening? Was this why the reddish brown colour of the snake appeared before his eyes whenever he shut them? The one whose skin—the colour of bloodless, raw meat—was mottled with round red spots? Yes, those red spots had started to appear on his body too.
‘This early morning breeze should feel pleasant.’ The officer’s voice could still be heard. ‘It should make you feel drunk and drowsy, and here you are saying you’re feeling cold. This isn’t right. You
…’
Yet the man had told him categorically that he didn’t have any information of Chunilal village. Ruhiton’s head sank to his chest in misery and humiliation. The blanket covering him slipped from his shoulders again. He tried to stretch his legs out further. He slouched lower, leaning against the back of the front seat. But he opened his eyes on receiving a sudden blow from a hard object on his blanket-wrapped legs. He met the eyes of the two armed guards to his right. They were looking at him too. Their gaze was cold, unblinking. The eyes seemed to be red from having stayed open all this while. But why were they blazing!
Ruhiton glanced at his blanket-covered legs. His eyes blazed too. He looked at the two armed guards to his left. They glared at him like the other two. Pressing his back against the seat, he tried to draw his legs in. But he couldn’t keep his balance. Both legs twisted to the right from the waist downwards. They fell against the legs of the guards. At once one of the guards tried to straighten them with the tip of his boot.
Ruhiton looked at the guard. He was burning with agony, to which was now added the pain of humiliation. He was Ruhiton Kurmi. His spine seemed to straighten in a flash. Raising himself to a height despite the chains on his hands and feet, he leapt on the guards to his right, butting both of them with his head and shoulders.
The two guards on the left jumped on him at once. Two revolvers were cocked from the front seat, pointing at him. ‘What’s happened?’ the officer asked in English.
By then the guards on the right had pushed Ruhiton back on his seat with blows from the butts of their rifles and their fists. The guards on the left had clamped their hands on him. Blood trickled from Ruhiton’s nose and from the corner of his mouth. But he was no longer looking at the guards. He sat with his eyes closed, his teeth clenched.
There had been no impossible idea in his mind. The thick iron frame between his feet, which connected the balls attached to the chains around his ankles, was only six inches long. Each of his feet was over ten inches in length. He couldn’t even walk like a clockwork doll. Nor was it possible to stand straight, leave alone escaping, leave alone battling the guards. He had not even considered getting into an argument with them. Why then had he still attacked them this way? He couldn’t understand the attitude of the armed guards and some of the warders; what was it that made them mistreat prisoners without provocation? Was it fear of the work they did that caused them to harbour hatred and rage in their hearts? Had it been a different occasion, however, he would probably not have attacked them this way. He was not unaware of how high their degrees of torture could go. A rifle-toting guard like this one kicking Ruhiton’s leg away with his boot was hardly a significant incident. Besides, any normal movement was impossible with the handcuffs around his wrists. But still, still, why had he lost his composure?
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