But what was this? Ruhiton stopped abruptly. A building that looked like an office bungalow stood in the shade of the forest—a sparkling red bungalow. A man in police uniform stood near the gate. Had a new police station come up here in the interiors? Hearing a cycle bell and conversation behind him, he turned around to see the two men in khaki uniform he had spotted earlier. The paan-munching man in the dhoti and kurta was there as well. Were they following him?
Ruhiton no longer expected to see remnants of the Liberated Zone. Through the gaps in the dense jungle it appeared that the sunlight was receding towards Siliguri. Were shadows gathering over the Mechi? Was a cold wind descending from the mountain? The sky above the peaks was clear, but it was never a clear blue at this time of day. It was usually streaked with grey. Yet there was a faint red glow every now and then in the Darjeeling sky to the north. It probably came from the snow-capped peak in the distance. The chirping of the crickets was becoming louder. Ruhiton was perspiring. He was tired.
Chapter Seventeen
‘RUHITON KURMI, ISN’T it? It’s me, we’ve met before.’
Ruhiton stopped abruptly on hearing this. Someone had spoken in a tongue similar to the Madesia dialect. Different kinds of dialects were used here—the Santhals, Bhumijs, Mundas, Kurmis, Oraons used their own respective languages within their clans. Just as the Nepalis or the Rajvanshi Kshatriyas did when talking to one another. Besides these, there was also a mixed tongue. This was the one everyone used in general. The Adivasis here were said to be Paschimas—from the west. So were Hindi speakers. Only Marwaris were referred to as Marwari or sethji.
Ruhiton realized that a small crowd of people had gathered. They stared at him with curiosity in their eyes; some appeared astonished, while some were smiling. Ruhiton knew the spot they were gathered at. This was where the ritual community puja for the goddess Kali was conducted. It looked a little different now. A small shed with a roof but no walls had come up beneath the tree. But who were these people? The bearded man in the lungi and kurta looked extremely familiar. It was he who approached Ruhiton with a smile. ‘Do you recognize me?’ he asked. ‘I recognized you right away, mind you. Not that there’s any way to recognize you. But then this disease is Allah’s gift to you, what can you do.’
So the news of his arrival had preceded him. Was this Ruknuddin Ahmed’s brother Kachimuddin? Ruknuddin had been killed by Ruhiton’s party. Ruhiton didn’t remember now whether he had a son or not. But he had a brother, whom Ruhiton used to know. His name was Kachimuddin. Yes, this was the man. He had escaped from Mirik’s Khashmahal to Darjeeling. Kachimuddin was an educated man with contacts everywhere. He had been on friendly terms with senior police officers, top leaders, wealthy tea estate owners, and businessmen. Ruknuddin used to depend on him a lot.
‘We’ve come to receive you, Ruhiton. Give me your trunk now, you needn’t carry it any more.’ Practically snatching the trunk out of Ruhiton’s hand, he looked over his shoulder to say, ‘Take this, one of you.’
A strongly built young man in nothing but a loincloth ran up at once to take the trunk.
‘Now tell me, do you recognize me?’ Kachimuddin repeated.
For the first time, Ruhiton realized that his own voice had turned nasal. ‘Kachimuddin…’ he said hesitantly.
‘Right you are,’ Kachimuddin burst out. ‘We’re old-timers, after all. How would you not recognize us?’ He put an arm round Ruhiton’s shoulder.
Ruhiton’s shoulder stiffened. Was Kachimuddin welcoming him with an arm round his shoulders? What were all these tricks that reality was playing on him?
‘Then you recognize me too?’ asked someone else, running up to him.
It was a well-built young man in a shirt, his dhoti drawn up above his knees. The regional accent of the Rajvanshis was evident. Ruhiton could not recognize him.
‘But this is Baralal,’ Kachimuddin explained. ‘Shanilal’s son.’
Baralal, meaning Barahalal. He had been so young. He was grown up now. Shanilal had survived, Ruhiton thought to himself. He must be living in great comfort now. Where had the Liberated Zone gone and who were these people in whose midst he had arrived?
Turning around, Kachimuddin raised his arm and called out loudly, ‘What’s the matter? Come along, Dil Narayan babu. Why are you hanging back, Achhalal? Come on, Narsing Chhetri. But where are Ruhiton’s sons? Budhua and Karma! Come to your father.’
Ruhiton felt his heart beating so fast he actually thought he would stop breathing. Budhua and Karma! Where were they? The crowd surged forward. But he could not identify Budhua and Karma among them. The ninth year now. That was how long he hadn’t seen them. How much had they grown, what did they look like, he had no idea. They hadn’t been killed, then. Deep in his heart he had harboured the anxiety that his family was no longer alive, that they had probably all died. Yet, even after discovering that his sons were alive, Ruhiton was unable to feel relief or happiness. Nothing seemed real to him.
‘Here, Budhua, Karma.’ Kachimuddin led two strapping young men by their hands to him. ‘Go to your father.’
Ruhiton looked at Budhua and Karma. He could recognize them now. They didn’t resemble each other. The differences had sharpened as they had grown. But he recognized them. Budhua had taken after Mangala, and Karma after him. Karma looked as though he was older. He was taller and broader than Budhua. But although they were the sons of a Kurmi and a Mahato, this wasn’t evident from their appearance. Like Barka Chhetri, they were dressed in trousers and half-sleeved shirts. Both had rubber slippers on their feet. Their hair was heavily oiled and slicked down. Budhua had a watch on his left wrist. Both were staring at Ruhiton. They didn’t take a single step forward towards him. Their eyes were blank, as though they didn’t recognize Ruhiton. As though they were seeing a stranger. And their faces looked solemn and uncomfortable.
Ruhiton realized it must be difficult for his sons to recognize him. Naturally. Love welled up in his heart. Was this how fathers felt? Did a dam burst in the heart on seeing one’s children after a long time? But how stiffly they stood. They showed no sign of coming up to him. Should he be the one to go up to them, to touch them?
Ruhiton couldn’t bring himself to do this. It wasn’t possible to take anyone’s hand after all these years, with no contact, no communication all this time, and especially if they looked so solemn, so stiff. Not even if they were one’s own children. Their expressions were stern, they refused to look at him directly. Their clothes, watch, and appearance were different too. But still, what a surprise!
Ruhiton smiled. He looked at his sons with a smile. His eyes asked silently, ‘How’s your mother? She’s alive, isn’t she? And my blind old mother? And Dudhi? My lovely daughter?’
‘We got the news of your arrival yesterday,’ Kachimuddin said. ‘The inspector at the new police camp told us that you were coming back. We decided on the spot to meet you here and take you home.’
Ruhiton noticed that virtually none of the simple, poor people had come. He didn’t know the people who had gathered. It was true that many years had passed. But did time have no consideration at all? Did it have to turn everything into a lie, make it unreal? Despite all the changes, Ruhiton could sense that none of these people belonged to his world. Dil Narayan, Achhalal, Narsingh Chhetri—all seemed to be traders or landowners.
‘Come along, Ruhiton, there’s no need to wait here any longer.’ Kachimuddin pulled him gently by the arm. ‘Come along home.’
Ruhiton walked with them on his toeless feet. A few children ran on ahead, shouting. A couple of dogs barked.
Chapter Eighteen
RUHITON STOPPED ABRUPTLY on seeing the house from his father’s time. There used to be a slight slope on the west. It had been levelled off with earth. But now the ground dipped to the west again. Like an old man with a damaged hip. But the roof of the eastern portion had been rethatched with fresh grass. And a plump cow was tied to the post. She, too, looked at Ruhiton when she spotted the crowd of people. As
though Mangala herself had raised her eyes to look at him.
‘Why did you stop here?’ Narsingh Chhetri spoke in the mixed tongue. ‘Do you think this is your home?’ He laughed.
Everyone else laughed with him. Ruhiton was surprised. What was so funny? Why should he not recognize his own home? Yes, he had been suffering from a serious illness. His condition was similar to that of a tree battered by a storm. The branches and leaves that had fallen off would not grow back. But he was alive, after all. Every inch of his skin was sensitive now, every part of his body perspired. He was a little hard of hearing. But his eyesight was as good as ever; he could see everything clearly. His voice had become nasal, because a bone in the centre had wasted away and all but disappeared. But it wasn’t hoarse as it once was.
‘How would he know?’ said the man named Dil Narayan. ‘Everything has changed, but he had no way of knowing, did he? He had no contact with his family, they weren’t allowed to go and see him in jail. As far as I know, they didn’t exchange letters.’
Letters. That had simply not been possible. Neither he nor Mangala knew how to read or write in any language.
‘Listen, Ruhiton, this isn’t your house any more,’ said Kachimuddin. ‘That one is.’ He pointed to a wooden building standing on a platform of wood to the east.
Ruhiton looked in that direction in surprise. The wood and the tin roof were painted black. The floor of wooden planks stood on thick stumps of sal. It was practically like a landowner’s or a trader’s house. Houses such as these were not damaged easily by floodwater. A wooden staircase rose upstairs like a ladder. The front portion of the first floor was uncovered, like a veranda. It was almost like Mohan Chhetri’s house, where the granary of the Liberated Zone had been set up. Corn had been planted in the fields in front of and around the house. A few women stood there, looking in his direction.
‘Come.’ Once again it was Kachimuddin who led him by the hand. ‘The government gave your family land to cultivate. They paid for the new house too. Your old house was washed away by the floods three or four years ago. Come along.’ He led Ruhiton towards the new building.
The government had provided land to cultivate, built a new house! For Ruhiton Kurmi’s family?
Kachimuddin was still talking. ‘Whatever may have happened, you are Ruhiton Kurmi. The government cannot be unfair to you. Times have changed, you know. The government is trying to give land to many others like you. But your case is different. You are Ruhiton Kurmi. Our party, even government officers, have been instructed to ensure that your family does not suffer.’
He was Ruhiton Kurmi, Ruhiton thought to himself. But was he the same Ruhiton Kurmi? Even his own name seemed out of place. He walked through the corn fields with everyone else and stopped in front of the house. The crowd surrounded him on all sides.
‘Where are you, Budhua?’ Kachimuddin bellowed. ‘Call your mother. Tell her to bring your wife too.’
The group of women visible from a distance earlier were nowhere to be seen now. A wooden wall ran next to the wooden staircase, taking a turn to the right. A bench was laid out in front. Next to the bench was another small room on four thick posts of sal. It was like the rooms used by landowners to store their grain. A cycle leant against a post near the room.
‘My mother? Where is she?’ Ruhiton looked around and asked a question for the first time, without addressing anyone in particular.
‘She died a long time ago,’ answered Shanilal’s son Barahalal. ‘Two years after all the killing.’
The killing? Was Barahalal referring to the creation of the Liberated Zone? Even as he was asking himself this question, a figure appeared near the wall on the right and came towards him. Ruhiton felt as though his heart were struck by lightning. Mangala! It was Mangli, wasn’t it? But was this also a trick played by the demon? She seemed to have grown younger. There was a reddish-brown gash of sindoor in her hair and a teep on her forehead. Her hair was combed tightly and tied up. Silver bangles on her arms. Were they really silver? She was dressed in a mill-made sari with a red border. Something was shining on her nose too. She was looking at him gravely just like his sons had; her eyes appeared surprised and unfamiliar. She seemed not to recognize Ruhiton. She looked him up and down. There seemed to be fear in her eyes.
Ruhiton was shaken, his excitement dampening. His mother had died; Mangala was staring at him with apprehension and surprise. Should he weep, or should he smile at Mangala? The torrents were flowing freely in his heart. Would Mangala keep her distance too? The sight of her was making his heart murmur. Surely she hadn’t married again?
A girl of thirteen or fourteen with a shy expression and wide eyes came up and stood beside Mangala. Mangala looked at Ruhiton. Then she said, pointing to the girl, ‘Budhua’s wife.’
His son’s wife. Ruhiton’s red, lashless eyelids became moist. But he smiled in silence. Budhua’s young wife slipped away after a single look at Ruhiton. She was embarrassed. Naturally.
‘Dudhi? Where’s Dudhi?’ Ruhiton asked in his nasal voice.
There wasn’t even a ghost of a smile on Mangala’s face. ‘She got married two months ago,’ she answered. ‘She lives in Balaijhora, at the tea estate.’ With a quick glance at the rest of the people, she slipped away too.
‘Sit down now,’ said Kachimuddin, helping Ruhiton to sit down on the bench. ‘Talk to your family. We’ll come again later.’ Signalling to the crowd to leave, he snapped at some children nearby, ‘And what are all of you gaping at? Get out of here.’ He added loudly before leaving, ‘We’re leaving, Budhua. We’ll be back tomorrow.’
The crowd vanished from Ruhiton’s sight. And the shadows of the afternoon darkened too. A few hens and chicks milled around Ruhiton’s feet. Some of them even jumped on him. A dog near the wooden staircase wagged its tail at him suspiciously. The scene suggested a more or less affluent household. Whom did the cycle belong to? Did Budhua and Karma own a cycle now? Was all of this government aid?
Ruhiton raised his eyes at a sudden flurry of movement among the chickens; he saw that Mangala had arrived. She was holding a wicker bowl. She offered it to him. Accepting the bowl, Ruhiton saw it was full of fried kernels of corn. Like a basket of white flowers. Ruhiton suddenly realized he was ravenous. But the impudent chicks were particularly greedy. Although their tiny mouths were too small for the corn, they pounced on the bowl.
‘Should I bring you some tea?’ Mangala asked.
‘Yes, I’ll have some.’ Ruhiton nodded. ‘Everything has changed somehow, hasn’t it, Mangli? And how are you—’
Mangala turned and vanished before Ruhiton could finish what he was saying. He looked after her with reddened eyes. He continued to stare in the direction in which she had disappeared. Darkness was descending rapidly. Indistinct voices could be heard somewhere out of sight.
Turning back, Ruhiton tried to scoop up some corn. Some of it spilled out, some stayed in his paw. He put them in his mouth quickly. The chicks scuttled about with the corn in their mouths. Even in the rapidly descending darkness he could see all kinds of vegetable gardens around the house. Did his sons own all the trees nearby and the bamboo grove to the east? The whole thing still seemed unreal.
The darkness was becoming dense. Ruhiton could hardly see anything. He could guess that there were people moving about nearby. But he couldn’t see any of them. He saw a beam of light approaching. Mangala came into view, a glowing lantern in one hand, an aluminium tumbler in the other. Putting the lantern on the ground, she placed the steaming aluminium glass of tea on the bench. Moving away towards the wooden staircase, she said, ‘It’s bound to change. Everything has changed. Things are nothing like the way they were when you were here. It’s amazing that we’re even alive.’
‘Yes, I felt the same way,’ responded Ruhiton in his nasal voice. ‘I was terrified of never seeing any of you again.’
‘It was almost like that,’ Mangala said. ‘Most of them wanted to kill us. We were saved by the grace of Marangburu.’
/> So Mangala still believed in Marangburu’s grace? Had her belief in burning witches come back too? Holding the wicker bowl near his mouth with both his hands, he thrust his tongue in to lick up some corn. The moment his eyes met Mangala’s, he closed his mouth hurriedly. She seemed to be staring at him with fear and loathing. Ruhiton forgot to chew.
Trying to smile, he said, ‘I cannot eat anything with my hands unless it’s soft and mashed. I could have lost my hands entirely if I hadn’t been treated.’
‘I know, they poisoned you in jail with this illness.’
‘No, I realized the truth later,’ Ruhiton said, shaking his head. ‘Remember our Perwa? He was the one I got this disease from.’
‘From Perwa?’ Mangala’s voice seemed to reverberate. ‘All lies!’
‘Lies!’ said Ruhiton, looking at her with astonishment in his inflamed eyes.
Mangala did not reply. But her face was stiff with suspicion. ‘Never mind. What’s the use of discussing all this?’
Ruhiton’s heart filled with hurt and grief. The entire present seemed like a lie. Yet it was a terrifying reality. Picking the aluminium glass up with both his hands, he sipped the tea. ‘Budhua, Karma—where are all of them?’
‘They’re around somewhere,’ Mangala replied. ‘They’re grown up now, they do as they please. A minister from Delhi is coming to Siliguri, they’re busy with the visit.’
Ruhiton felt unable to absorb the implication of what Mangala had said. But the real meaning had penetrated to his core. He looked at Mangala in shock.
‘That’s why they move around with Kachimuddin these days,’ Mangala continued. ‘Narsingh Chhetri—he’s actually Mohan Chhetri’s nephew. He’s come from Sikkim to look after the property. Budhua and Karma and all of them are in the same party.’
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