What about Mangala? His wife? Despite being a Mahato, heart and soul, she had protested vehemently against the burning of a suspected witch in the Liberated Zone. No one had expected her to. Like the Karam puja and Marangburu, she used to believe in burning witches too. Which was expected. She had had several arguments with Ruhiton about this earlier. A woman who had the ability to cast a spell from a distance to suck out all the milk from a cow’s teats, who could drink the blood of a baby in its mother’s arms, who could set fire to a harvest—how could such a woman possibly be spared from being burnt alive? But Mangala had shown she could be. She had led the protest herself. And everyone had come to know her because of this. Oh yes, wasn’t Mangala the wife of the revolutionary leader Ruhiton Kurmi? Get out, you witch doctors and exorcists.
Ruhiton was helpless. The memories kept rushing back. Whenever he remembered these things, sick and alone in jail, he wished desperately for more. Just as the baby comes to life at its mother’s smell, Mangala used to have the same effect on him with hers. Even after all these years, he could never mistake that smell. Was this not a weakness in Ruhiton Kurmi’s life now? His heart ached with desire to see Budhua, Karma, and Dudhi. Sometimes his heart leapt in anxiety, what if his blind mother had slipped on the loose pebbles near the waterfall and fallen in?
He was Ruhiton Kurmi, from Chunilal village in the Terai. Why should he be thinking of such things? Was it right for him to be anxious about his family? Like the rotten branches of trees, parts of his body were falling off. The rest of his body was rediscovering sensation. He could feel things again physically. He realized that he was recovering. The weakness in his nerves and bones was ebbing away. But the mission of his life now was not simply to overcome his illness. He was still in jail—secluded, sick, alone. Why did his breath stop at times with anxiety for his wife, his children, his mother? Why, for that matter, did the doctor’s words keep coming back? ‘Don’t imagine your life has ended with this illness. You will recover. You will still be able to have children when you go back home to your wife. Yes, you will have healthy children, free of diseases, just like before.’
Really? Really! But why did the doctor tell him all this?
‘Do you understand what listening to all this does to me, Mangli? Which part of my heart does it all go into? And wherever it goes, where does it want to drive my heart? But I am Ruhiton Kurmi. Ruhiton Kurmi.’
At once he remembered that he was a ‘fanla’ Bhumij. The Santhal and Munda girls used the word to describe a lover who cheated, a scoundrel. Mangala addressed him this way sometimes. It was actually an endearment.
But Ruhiton didn’t want to remember all this. He didn’t want to ask why this disease had taken root in his body. For asking this was an unnecessary weakness too. He desperately scoured the list of every person he had met in the life he had left behind. To identify, as the doctor had said, the person who had passed on this disease to him.
But the more the days went by, the more this question retreated from his mind. How would it help, anyway, to remember who it might have been? Instead, he frequently felt a sharp urge, an urgent curiosity, to find out what the Liberated Zone was like now. He had heard different things from people in jail. He didn’t know how true they were, but all of the versions spelt hopelessness and failure. He didn’t wish to hear this. He felt a constant surge of anxiety. How was everyone? Death, injuries, looting, arson in some cases, stockpiling of arms—all of this was true. None of it was a lie. All this had taken place, to create a new world. Ruhiton didn’t deny it. But he never wished to hear that the people from his party in that area were nothing but murderers, robbers, and criminals.
Chapter Fifteen
A YEAR AND some months passed in the leprosy ward in the jail in Calcutta. The original doctor had not visited for several months. A new doctor visited him now. This one spoke and behaved differently. ‘I don’t know,’ was his only answer whenever Ruhiton asked him about the previous doctor. Human beings considered many things strange, but there was nothing stranger in the world than human beings, mused Ruhiton.
But ever since the previous doctor had stopped visiting him, a thought had begun to flash in his mind. Not a thought, but a face. He used to work on Shanilal’s land. His name was Perwa. No one knew why his parents had given him that name, or whether it had been given someone else. Perwa referred to paayra—pigeon. He was from a family of cultivators who had moved from a tea estate. Perwa had been a close friend of his, a constant companion particularly during the time they were creating their Liberated Zone. Perwa had always regretted allowing Shanilal to hoodwink him and escape with his belongings. And when their free zone was attacked, Perwa had died in the firing.
Perwa’s face glinted like a needle amidst a mound of pebbles before Ruhiton’s eyes. Red bulbous sores had erupted on Perwa’s face a few months before his death. His nose, ears, eyebrows and the skin on his face had changed in appearance too. Perwa did use an ointment for ringworm. Ruhiton hadn’t had the time then to observe all this closely although Perwa and he used to be together most of the time.
There were no more wounds left on Ruhiton’s body. But almost none of his toes were left. More than half of his fingers had withered. He would never have nails again in this lifetime. The tip of his nose was completely flattened. His nostrils had been virtually replaced by two openings above his lips, covered by a thin layer of skin. Fresh patches of skin had appeared on his hands and feet, and especially on his face, under his eyes, and on his cheeks and forehead. They looked pink, like the new skin that grows over a wound. His eyelids were as red and as devoid of lashes as before. No hair had grown on his eyebrows. His scalp was bare, shining. Both his earlobes had fallen off. The thick little sticks no longer ran through the holes in his ear that his mother had made for him when he was a child.
Ruhiton saw Perwa in his own hands and feet these days. He felt the urge to say this to his old doctor. But there was no sign of him. The young doctor hadn’t told him he would no longer be visiting him. No matter, he was no longer angry with the person who had passed on this disease to him. On the contrary, he felt saddened at the thought that he would never see Perwa again.
Ruhiton’s cough had worsened of late. He felt feeble after a coughing fit. The doctor here didn’t reveal much.
One day he was suddenly loaded into a van outside the jail, surrounded by armed guards, as before. Only the officer who used to offer him cigarettes and chatter away wasn’t there. Ruhiton didn’t smoke any more, however. It made him cough, hurt his chest.
Ruhiton did not have to go on a long journey from the jail in the van. He was taken into a building. It looked like a hospital. His chest was photographed in a room. What they call an X-ray. He was brought back to the jail immediately afterwards. And exactly seven days after this incident, shortly after lunch, a jail officer arrived. Who knew what sort of officer he was. He wasn’t dressed in any kind of uniform. Ruhiton thought it must be someone junior to the jailer. He was accompanied by a warder. The plainclothes officer made the warder unlock Ruhiton’s cell. Then he told Ruhiton to change from his convict’s outfit into his own clothes from his tin trunk.
Ruhiton knew that questions or protests would be in vain. Maybe some new phase was about to begin. He put on his pyjamas and striped red shirt. He no longer used his rubber sandals. He could neither slip his toeless feet into the sandals, nor walk in them. Ruhiton saw that the warder had picked up his trunk unbidden, saying, ‘Please come along.’
Where? The question was pointless. But now dressed in his own clothes after eight years and a few months, he appeared unfamiliar to himself. It all appeared quite novel to him. As soon as he emerged in his own pyjamas and shirt, the prisoners in the leprosy ward all bade him farewell with different cries and in different languages, their arms raised. What did all this mean? Not all the older patients were still there. Several had left, others had arrived. Ruhiton raised his arm in farewell too.
His gait had changed completely now. Not just b
ecause of the cracked bone above his rectum. Because of his non-existent toes, he had to curl the front half of his foot to grip the ground. It made his arms swing exaggeratedly. And he had to walk very slowly, practically hobbling.
Ruhiton arrived at the jail office with the plainclothes officer and the warder. ‘Khelu babu and the others had implored me to arrange a meeting with them,’ the jailer said as soon as he saw him. ‘But my orders won’t permit it. I had told them that Ruhiton Kurmi has been released. Besides, we don’t have time. Here’s your train ticket. It’s for a three-tier coach. You can sleep on the way.’ About to hand over a packet with two tickets in them, he put them in Ruhiton’s breast pocket instead. ‘Just a minute,’ he continued, ‘we need one or two thumb impressions. But…’ Pausing suddenly, the jailer turned to the plainclothes officer to ask in surprise, ‘How do I get a thumb impression from Ruhiton Kurmi, Mr Majumdar? Where is his thumb?’
Walking up to the desk to examine a ledger, Mr Majumdar said gravely, ‘Take an impression of whichever finger is still intact. Why bother to ask? Besides, this isn’t a particularly important issue.’
A single word kept ringing in Ruhiton’s breast, release. Release? Where would he go? What kind of release was this? He had never thought of release, never sought it either. He wasn’t prepared for it.
‘Sit down, here, sit on this chair,’ said the plainclothes officer, coming up to him. ‘The Darjeeling Mail leaves from Sealdah station every evening. I will take you to Sealdah. If you show them your ticket, the railway people will show you where to sit in the train. The train will stop at New Jalpaiguri. You’ll have to take the bus there. Travelling all the way by train will be very difficult. You’ll have to get off at Kishenganj, change trains, and travel to Galgalia from Purnea. All this boarding and disembarking will be hard for you. You’ll get a bus in Siliguri. You’ll just have to ask someone. Keep this money for your bus fare and expenses on the way.’ When he had finished, the officer tucked some money into his pocket, just as the jailer had.
By bus from Siliguri? To Chunilal village? This meant he really was being released. And had Khelu babu and the rest wanted to meet him because they had got the news? Ruhiton’s heart and head were no longer working. He could feel neither pleasure nor joy. Only his withered hands and feet seemed to be trembling in excitement. He had never imagined such a day would come. He had never imagined being released. The whole thing appeared extraordinary. The undeniable reality that he was Ruhiton Kurmi seemed to have become unreal. Ruhiton Kurmi released! But indeed he had a train ticket in his pocket, and even travelling expenses. But was he really going back to that old tract of land in the Terai? Where… where Mangala and his children were—their Liberated Zone! Beads of perspiration gathered on Ruhiton’s face. He had stopped sweating during the illness. Especially on his hands and feet and face. He was sweating now. His mind was in turmoil, though he couldn’t identify why.
Chapter Sixteen
THIS WAS THE Kharibari region if you defined it by the jurisdiction of police stations. The New Jalpaiguri station was new to Ruhiton. He was familiar with Siliguri station. But he had to take the bus from New Jalpaiguri. From there the road ran through Siliguri, turning east at the Matigara Tea Estate. The Terai railway line ran alongside.
All these roads were familiar, at his fingertips. But the town of Siliguri had changed beyond recognition. Everything had changed so much over the past eight and a half years that Ruhiton was befuddled. He had not been able to recognize many of the places. Not a single person had recognized him on the way. One of the railway employees with a list in his hand had said his name out aloud twice in the train at Sealdah station. Some people had even turned to look at him, looking away indifferently the next moment.
Ruhiton would never have been able to board the bus amidst the crowds at New Jalpaiguri. He had not even been able to identify which of the buses would go towards his home in the southeast. Both tasks had been beyond him. But a complete stranger had come up to him to ask where he was going. Ruhiton had been somewhat astonished. He didn’t know the man, but his manner of asking the question had appeared familiar. He was the one who had pointed out the correct bus.
Ruhiton had had to move around with his tin trunk on his shoulder. He had tried to hold it in his hand from time to time. It was very difficult. He couldn’t curl his fingers around the handle. Nevertheless, he had slipped the remnants of his fingers under the handle so that the trunk could dangle from his palm. He hadn’t been able to hold it this way very long.
No one in the bus had recognized Ruhiton. Nor had he spotted a familiar face. It wasn’t supposed to have been this way. As soon as the bus had left the town to enter the countryside, he had more or less been able to recognize the places they had passed through. He had found a place to sit in the bus. Even a place for his trunk. He had recognized each of the tea estates on the way, along with the roads leading into them. The Bagdogra, Singhijhora, Krishnapur, and Atal tea estates were quite some distance to the east of the Matigara Tea Estate. After Atal, the road descended to the south, towards Naxalbari. Passing the small tea estate in the southern Terai, it went on towards the village and the farms. He had had to get off near the South Terai Tea Estate. He had noticed something new along the way. Frequent police checkposts, tents, and military camps. They were far more numerous than before. What did this mean? All the news of failure that he had received about the Liberated Zone must be horrifyingly true. But what did it mean that he had not yet come across a single familiar face? He knew very well why no one seemed to recognize him. Even if the thought made his heart heavy, what choice did he have but to accept the reason? It wasn’t just his face, his entire appearance had changed.
It wasn’t as though his problems had begun only when he had got off at New Jalpaiguri station. They had started the previous day, in jail. His reasoning, his thoughts, his feelings no longer seemed to be functioning properly. He was shaking inwardly in excitement and this was slowing him down.
The day was well advanced by the time he reached Naxalbari. Some of the passengers mentioned Ramdhan village as soon as they had passed the South Terai Tea Estate. Ruhiton’s heart began to thump uncomfortably in excitement. And yet he didn’t know any of the people who had mentioned the village. He had to get off soon after the large tea estate of the South Terai Company. The rest of the distance could be covered by foot, through the farm.
The place where Ruhiton got off no longer looked as it once did. It was crowded with shops and people now. To the north, the mountain rose against the sky. Mirik, Sukiapokhri, Darjeeling, Pulbazar. There were hidden trails through the jungles of the Terai to the top of the hills. Many local people travelled that way. The border of the Liberated Zone was a little to the north. But the first thing he saw were two policemen in uniform. They were standing on one side of the road, laughing and talking, a cycle balanced between them. They didn’t look like ordinary constables, they must be inspectors. They looked once or twice at Ruhiton. Their eyes were blank. Everyone around appeared indifferent too, most of them didn’t even throw him a glance. The entire picture seemed to convey to Ruhiton that the Liberated Zone, indeed, no longer existed.
Here too, an incident similar to the one in New Jalpaiguri took place. Munching on a paan, a Bengali man in a dhoti and kurta came up to him to ask where he wanted to go. Ruhiton named his destination. To his surprise, the man smiled, then pointed out the way with his finger before disappearing. Ruhiton didn’t remember ever having seen him before. Who was he? And how strange that he couldn’t see one familiar face here either. Except for a single old man. It was the Marwari seth, Deora. He was sitting on a gaddi in the big grocery. Their enormous godown was next door. The man had escaped with his life during the uprising.
Ruhiton began to walk along his route. It would take a long time, for he would have to walk very slowly, his lower abdomen thrust forward, gripping the ground with his toeless feet.
The path that Ruhiton was walking along used to have dense ju
ngles on both sides earlier. They had been cleared. He kept encountering new houses on the way. These were not exactly ordinary farmers’ or labourers’ homes. Who knew who the owners were! The tall, shiny buildings on wooden platforms made it clear that rich people lived in this area now. Ruhiton wasn’t the only one walking along this road; there were others too. They looked very familiar. But he didn’t actually know any of them. Or maybe it was just that he couldn’t recognize them. For he still could not accept any of this as real. His release from jail. His taking the train, then the bus from Siliguri, and, now, going home. He was Ruhiton Kurmi. Only someone possessed by a demon could accept all this. A long time ago, Ruhiton might have believed all of it. But he had long lost faith in possession by a demon. Just as Mangala had stopped believing in witches. Mangala! Mangli!
No, Ruhiton could no longer deny the truth that he had been released from the jail in Calcutta and had returned to Chunilal village. Not just the village, he was actually almost home now. And as soon as he thought of Mangala, his excitement began to quicken. It also prevented him from sizing up the actual situation. But he still couldn’t quite grasp that he was free and returning home.
The further Ruhiton progressed, the thicker the jungle around him became. He took comfort from this. This was the environment he was familiar with. Sal, cotton trees, rain trees, Indian redwoods—a crowd of enormous trees. Farmland could be seen through gaps in the forest, low walls of earth around them to dam the flow from the waterfalls. This wasn’t the time for the Aman crop. Nor for the Boro crop; this was the season prior to that. Still, the fields were almost completely green. The Ravi crop had been harvested earlier. Pumpkins were growing in some of the fields. He had heard of other varieties of rice being introduced. Maybe some of those were growing now. The crops seemed to be ripening.
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