Abhijit Sen's novel স্বপ্ন এবং অন্যান্য নীলিমা (Dreams and Other Blues) first appeared about 28 years ago in a special issue of Pratikshan. After considerable revision, it was published as a book in 2000 by Dey's Publishing, Calcutta.

A split bamboo fence ran around Saroj’s house that stood at the back end of a large open ground. The unpaved path outside joined the main road, also unpaved, about twenty or twenty-five cubits away. After Sati got out of Saroj’s place, the first question that crossed her mind was where she could go now.

Sati noticed a middle-aged woman standing in the front verandah of a new single-storied brick house across the road. The woman was looking at her. As Sati came closer, she realized the woman was not just watching but measuring her out with her eyes. She felt uncomfortable walking all the way being watched so thoroughly. By habit, she pulled her sari over her right shoulder to cover herself better. The woman’s eyes still did not move. Sati looked straight at her as she came closer.

“Coming from Jai Bangla I presume?” The sharp-eyed lady spoke out.

“Yes.” Sati slowed a little and tried to smile.

“Must be knowing Saroj Babu from before?”

Sati was surprised and a little annoyed. Thank God Hena wasn’t with her or she would have given a sharp reply.

“No. We are designated in his camp.”

“I see.”

Sati took the opportunity and passed her by. She felt the lady measuring her from behind as she walked away.

On the main road, she found herself at a three-road crossing. She continued on the road in front. Although she had been walking around from the very next day after their arrival, she was still not familiar with the layout of the town. All the houses along the main road were on relatively large plots of land. So, there was less trash on the roadside.

Three men in their mid-thirties were sitting on the platform in front of a house. Sati saw a dark one amongst them and stopped. At first, she thought she was mistaken but all three stopped talking and turned to look at her as she stood. The dark man hesitatingly came forward. Sati was sure that this man was her husband Abu Hena’s brother-in-law Abdul Khalik’s cousin brother Chingis. Out of all the family members of her husband, Chingis was an exception. He was crazy about acting, uninterested in marriage or family, a vagrant, and a loafer.

“Sati bhabi?”

For a specific reason, nobody called her by her nickname in Abu Hena’s family. Chingis again was the exception.

“Chingis bhai!”

Meeting him in such a dire time felt like a blessing for Sati. People running away from East Pakistan didn’t talk with each other about their bad luck or hardship. Everyone had some sorry tale to tell. They all had suffered inhuman torture by the Pakistani soldiers, Al Badr, Shanti Bahini or the paid officers. Sati and Chingis too avoided such topics. But what she had to find out was no less troublesome. She asked about Abu Hena and the family. Because she still had a four-year-old boy there.

Though all relationship with Abu Hena had been over around the end of second year of her marriage, the worry about her son occupied a major part of her mind every day even among all other worries.

Chingis said, “I can tell you about their situation till June. Not after that. They were fine till then. There’s no reason to be otherwise.”

He hinted at what Sati already knew about Abu Hena’s group. They supported the pro-Pakistani faction. Chingis hesitatingly said, “Abu Hena is one of the big shots in the Shanti Committee. Therefore--”

Once more Sati felt sorry for her own life. She knew it was meaningless. Her marriage took place at the insistence of an aunt. Besides a lot of money, Abu Hena had no other qualifications. To Sati’s aunt, and to some extent to her mother, wealth was given the most significance. Sati had just graduated and before she had time to understand the whole matter, she was married off.

“Do you know anything about my father?”

“Why? Didn’t Mansur Sahib come with you?”

There was no question of that. Sati and her mother had already reached their uncle in Dinajpur by February. Hena had gone undersround with the revolutionaries for a while. Alamgir Mansur was in contact with the Awami League. He was in a senior post in the Secretariat in Dhaka. When no news causes any surprise, people lose interest in the news.

“Perhaps my father is murdered by now.” Sati almost sobbed but controlled herself.

Chingis did not say anything to console her. He thought it was prudent to remain quiet about one Alamgir Mansur’s life or death when one to two million people had already been slaughtered.

“Where are you staying?”

Sati told him everything, including her search for a house.

Chingis said, “Come with me. This house is Bikash’s, my childhood friend. We all lived here once. Now in this terrible situation, we are back again for a safe haven.”

They walked across the garden and reached the platform in front. Chingis introduced her to Bikash. The third man had already gone inside. After a few pleasantries Bikash said, “You two talk among yourself. I’ll go finish the daily shopping.”

Chingis said, “No. I want to go with Sati bhabi and see Kuddus sahib.” Sati asked Bikash, “Bikash-da, we need to rent a house urgently. If you can find a cheap one, please--”

“That’s almost impossible in this town.” Bikash replied, “As you can see these houses aren’t made for rent. Middle-class neighborhood. Hardly anybody visited such places before you people showed up. Anyway, Chingis is here, we’ll keep in touch. Besides, we know Saroj too. All of us together will work out something.”

Chingis was shocked to see the condition of Sati’s family in the relief camp. He was barely familiar with Abdul Kuddus, but he knew Sati’s father well. Now, looking at her mother he said, “What a change of fortune! I can’t even imagine.”

Sati’s sister Hena was looking at them sharply. She did not know Chingis. She asked Sati in private, “Is this guy from your previous family?” “What do you mean ‘previous’?” Sati didn’t like the question, “How many marriages have I had?” Hena said, “Sorry, my bad! Coming to a Hindu country my speech has become like the Hindus too.”

Rumela, on the other hand, without realizing it, had started acting like a lady in distress. “Can’t tell you what a horrible state we are in. Can any person survive like this? No house, no shelter, no asset, no money--”

Hena came to her, “Again! Does he have these things?”

Rumela without understanding said, “What do you mean? What does he have?”

“Those shelters, houses, money?”

Rumela was annoyed, “Why do you interrupt all the time? Don’t we have to look for a house?”

Hena rolled her eyes, “That’s what I was asking also.”

Rumela turned her face away. She had enough problems with her younger daughter.

Chingis was not a man to mind such things. He said, “Indeed sister, we must look for a house. Decent folks cannot live like this. Let’s see what can be done. We all are working on it.” He told Sati, “I’ll leave for now. My friend Bikash has a drama troupe. They know lots of people. Besides, I know Sarojbabu too. We’ll figure out something.”

Abdul Kuddus saw Chingis off at the main road. Chingis had left this town in the early fifties and went to the other country. They once had a house in Majher Bondor and some land in the village side. Even after exchanging those, they hadn’t quite managed things in East Pakistan yet to their satisfaction. They got some land in Bagura where his mother and three brothers lived. Chingis lived in Dhaka. He had no regular job. Drama was his hobby, but as yet, there was no income from acting in Dhaka.

Abdul Kuddus found an opening to ask about politics, “You said you were in Dhaka till April. Did they kill all the intellectuals?”

Chingis said. “What? Are all the intellectuals in your group only? There are many in their group too.”

Kuddus said, “The way people here are talking, there is probably not a single person in support of Yahya’s regime.”

Chingis knew Abdul Kuddus’s political ideas. He said, “Even within the Awami League, a powerful sector is against independence.”

Abdul Kuddus said, “That is natural, and very much expected. Otherwise, it will not balance out. We need to sit and talk more about it.”

For some reason, he looked very excited.

6.

That evening, Saroj attended Bikash Sen’s play by invitation. Though Majher Bondor was a small town, it boasted a thriving cultural atmosphere that was high class and quite sophisticated even by Calcutta standards. Three or four literary magazines were in circulation, there were a couple of drama clubs—Bikash’s group Tribritta was the top amongst them. Most surprisingly, in this town of only thirty to forty thousand people, there was an impressive audience of about 2000 for drama performances .

Bikash and Saroj came to know each other through dramas. A college teacher by profession, Bikash was crazy about theaters. They had successfully staged three or four plays already on Tribritta’s new stage. Of course, these were remakes of successful productions already staged in Calcutta under the Group Theatre banner. Bikash felt uneasy at the word ‘remake’. Though, so far, he had staged Two Characters in Search of a Director, Sher Afghan and Also, Indrajit. He was working on Flowers, mango flowers for his next project.

Saroj understood Bikash’ uneasiness—it was because Bikash had enough talent to become a famous director, playwright, and actor all by himself.

“I don’t know why people call them copies. Do you also think they are copies?”

Within two or three months their friendship had become close.

“Let them say it. It’s more important if people are enjoying the plays.”

“Which means you also think the same? See, people are playing Shakespeare’s dramas for five hundred years, nobody is bothered about that.”

Saroj had seen all the plays. In this town, Bikash had to stage at least one play each year to keep his troupe going and to maintain his audience, no matter how enthusiastic they were about dramas.

Saroj had advised, “You better get used to it, Bikash. Every artist—however great he may be—had to start by copying others. It’s a kind of homework. How else will he learn?”

“Exactly!” Bikash had found a place to stand, “I’m not cheating the audience. Isn’t there any merit to good production?”

There were some people who were against his work. In small towns such factionalism was common. Like an annoying eye-gunk, it kept coming back even after removing it. Bikash was gradually separating himself from others. Even through the remakes, his talents were shining bright. It was hard to believe at first that the man next door was suddenly getting taller. But when it becomes unquestionable, a tendency to cut his legs to shorten him is often seen among some people.

After a couple of shows of their new production, Tribritta would invite some noted members for tea and discussion. Bikash’s troupe was already considered somewhat snobbish in town. The new play was inaugurated through healthy debates. Saroj always suggested staging an original play.

“Almost all your plays are adptations of foreign dramas already staged successfully in Calcutta.”

“Well, have you seen any good local play? Atleast, have you read any?”

Saroj had to admit that he had no special experience in this regard. In Calcutta. Bahurupi’s ‘Pagla Ghora (Mad Horse)’, PLT’s ‘Tiner Talowar (Tin Sword)’ and Nandikar’s ‘Tin Paysar Paalaa (Three Penny Opera)’ were running at that time. Saroj had only seen ‘Tiner Talowar’. Earlier he had seen Utpal Dutta’s ‘Teer’, ‘Kallol’, and ‘Barricade’. He mentioned those. Also named some plays by Tagore.

Bikash said, “Forget about Tagore, brother. And leave aside the progressivist plays too. But Utpal Dutta is like my guru. There’s no comparison to his production and direction. I can never do those plays. As for the rest---”

Later Saroj had felt that even though Bikash had excluded Tagore for whatever reason, he understood why he stayed away from the progressive type of plays. The modern plays that could be called ‘great’, according to Bikash, opened up the cruel truisms of life for all to see. As Pirandello had done in his play ‘Looking for a Playwright.’ Where are similar dramas in this country?

It was a restless, tumultuous time. Words like ‘Ideological struggle’ which he had used not too long ago, did not move him anymore. The ideas that had excited and inspired him only a year ago, the arguments that seemed impenetrable at that time, did not seem that way anymore. The play ‘Ebong Indrajit’, going on stage today already had a few performances and a tea-discussion about it. As one who had already seen it in Calcutta, Saroj had to say a few words in the discussion. He used the old theoretical arguments—that did not seem forceful to him anymore—to criticize the play. Both the quality and the subject matter were confusing. It seemed only about a few colorless characters busy with the present time. There didn’t seem to be any meaning to it. Tired and exhausted people going around the same orbit, overcome by despair. There was no historic significance. Saroj felt it was forced down on the Indian audience of the sixties and seventies, when, amid the dialectics of political, economic, and class-related conflicts such a play seemed entirely irrelevant.

It was a confusing time also. Indira Gandhi had just consolidated her position by ousting the senile leaders of the Congress party and tried to impress the public with a few flashy acts like bank nationalization and elimination of the royal purses. She did this in the face of many other problems facing the country. In the meantime, Naxalbari uprisings had become a major national movement. Fearing it would become a guide to future uprisings, the rulers did not wait any longer. They called the Naxals ‘extreme leftists’ and pounced on them with all their might. The leftists in the Parliament also supported them as the ideological struggle was much more bitter and bloody than an armed encounter. These leftists correctly guessed that the Naxalites would have to become nothing but another sect of communists in the parliament. In that historic time, none of them uttered a word against the inhumane acts of the ruling party, in fact, many of them supported those acts to save their own skin.

By that time, Bangladesh was getting ready to be born. As the midwife, Indira Gandhi had prepared herself a long time ago. Arrests, tortures, rapes, and murders were all utilized as house-cleaning methods before starting the war with Pakistan.

With its residents in the service sector and small-to-medium land owners, Majher Bondor was one such tiny middle-class town in the maelstrom of historic times and events. Hard to believe, there was only one cinema hall, even though there were two live theaters. Though not quite like Calcutta, numerous plays were staged here all winter and even during the rest of the year.

Saroj reached the hall a few minutes before the play was to start. Tribritta owned this land, donated by some elderly member. On that land, an improvised stage was created with bamboo, timber, sand, corrugated tin, and other necessary items. In the ghostly light of the entrance, Tall Bhabatosh greeted a group of four with a loud ‘Jai Bangla’. All East Pakistanis were enveloped in that pronoun. It was also used as an all-purpose greeting. These two words uttered by Mujibur Rahman in Ramna maidan in Dhaka, as he surrendered himself to Yahya’s fascist army, were immediately taken up as the slogan by the general public of the subcontinent, even to the consternation of the cynical political analysts. Perhaps the most confused were the communists of East Pakistan. When most of the farmers, workers and progressive intellectuals had started to think of independence as the only means to end their exploitation, China’s prime minister Chou En Lai called it a separatist struggle. Being in the same continent, they were bound by a treaty to support Pakistan. When fascist Pakistan pounced on East Bengal with its incredible animal power, Bengali communist party (Marxist-Leninist) and other Maoist members tried to resist. The Bengalis resorted to guerilla warfare, which quickly gathered strength and spread throughout the rural countryside. In this situation, Peking’s comment caused a crack in the communist solidarity. Nobody told them to map their strategy according to Peking’s opinion, but the Maoists tried to do just that. As a result, the whole front collapsed into a weak movement exhausting themselves fighting against Pakistan’s forces as well as Awami League’s independence-seeking Muktibahini. They also lost much of their initiative and public support.

Saroj noticed that the group, pleased by the greeting, responded to Bhabatosh in their East Bengal dialect before entering the hall. Bhabatosh also greeted Saroj who waited a while to soak in the mood of the theater-loving audience. Even though he was not a groupie, he could appreciate a different kind of energy—different from film, circus, song, or dance recitals--- that permeates a theater audience and spreads inside their bodies, creating a common bond of shared passion. Standing under a low-power light, Saroj enjoyed breathing in that energy.

The play started right on time at half past six. Tribritta's new production Badal sorkar’s “And Indrajeet” was in its third show today. This too was a remake of a successful play from Calcutta. Creative presentation likely made an impact right from the opening scene. Saroj liked the way the audience seems to be engrossed in the play.

After intermission, when the audience was deep in the drama, scattered rocks were thrown on the tin roof above. Bikash was on the stage. Within a few seconds he controlled himself and continued in his role. Next four or five minutes, more rocks and stones were thrown. It was getting difficult to ignore the assault. They had to stop the play, and like most Bengalis, Bikash burst out in English to let go his frustration.

“Look how we stage our production! These bast---”

Bikash always did pranam before stepping on the stage. There was also a portrait of Ramakrishna in the green room. So, with great difficulty he stopped himself at ‘bast’, then more calmly spoke in Bengali, “My dear audience, and honored guests, I plead for your help. I pledge to bring the best dramas for your entertainment. One local club demands ten free passes before each show, otherwise---”

However, the play restarted and more or less ended on time too. Saroj went to the green room to congratulate Bikash and the group. Bikash was still hot under the collar. He said, “I know you don’t like this play, still I’m asking how did you like it? Especially the change in the third sequence?”

Saroj said, “I have no problem with the production. All in all, it was well done. At least it gave some food for thought.”

Bikash knew they would not agree. He wasn’t happy about it. He thought Saroj too was another type of fundamentalist. He refused to understand the drama. But he kept his mouth shut and started taking the paint off his face.

Saroj again said, “The play was good, like I said earlier. But I’m still waiting for Tribritta to stage something original. The audience of Majher Bondor has a standard too.”

Bikash massaged some oil on his face and said, “Why don’t you write me one? You’ll never know how I suffer copying plays from Calcutta!”

Saroj laughed, “I have no such talent. I enjoy plays, like thinking about them, talking to you people outside my daily life—that is my reward. Anyway, you better solve the other problem, or it will get too late playing one drama inside another.”

Someone behind chuckled, loudly appreciating his humor.

Saroj once had made Bikash read an essay on Stanislavski written by a group of Chinese cultural revolutionaries. They had sharply attacked Stanislavski, calling his ways wrong and reactionary. Stanislavski had opined that an actor must become one with his role, only then could he properly portray that character. The Chinese thought that was a reactionary and unreal idea. One must analyze the character with a class perspective, only then can the real character be realized. Stanislavski gained fame in his life by acting in the roles of villains. According to his theory, he too must have become a villain himself. The Chinese critics would say, in such cases, the hatred towards that villain class is the determinant. That hatred would help the actor portray the character truthfully.

Saroj liked the sharp, acute style of the essay that went against the prevailing ideas during the Cultural Revolution. But Bikash politely rejected the essay.

“I don’t think this matter is that simple. An artist—whether a literary figure or an actor—must know much more. I don’t believe just class hatred can help answer all questions. Take for example Shakespeare--”

Saroj did not get into an argument, though he had immense faith on the Chinese about many things. But in the matter of arts and literature, the differences in progressive and reactionary ideas were very confusing. Bikash too didn’t have clear ideas about them. To him, anything that could stir up passion, cause a surprise or satisfy the emotions was interesting and significant. He had little knowledge of classical realism or socialist realism. He knew superficially about what Marx, Lenin, or Mao had said about arts and literature. He could deliver a speech about how arts could socially liberate the masses, but he had problems in other aspects. He didn’t have the broad knowledge to explain why Tagore’s songs touched his heart more than those activist music or why he thought Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina was more significant and enjoyable than Gorky’s Mother. He had heard that Mayakovski even talked about destroying all bourgeoise arts and literature and he had killed himself soon after. He couldn’t tell why he liked Gorky’s Foma Gordeyev more than Mother. Much later, Saroj felt assured to learn that whatever the reason for Mayakovski’s suicide, it was not due to revolution, socialism, or Marxism. But the question as to why would a Marxist, a futurist revolutionary kill himself lodged in his mind along with many other questions about arts and literature.

In spite of his faith in China, Saroj realized the danger of being alone for months on end in a place like Majher Bondor. As it were, there were few people in the world one could easily converse with. That was why he was indebted to Bikash, even though he did not condone many aspects of his habits, nature, and beliefs. In fact, in some matters, he actually pitied him, perhaps even despised him a little about some things.

Saroj said, “You know in Calcutta, the Little Theater Group has to survive by fighting with the goons.”

Another actor of about the same age as Bikash was rubbing out his face paint. He commented, “Utpal Dutta is a communist and those goons attacking him are from the Congress party, The situation here is quite different.”

Bikash decided to ignore the jibe.

He said, “In other words, that Chinese essay perhaps could explain the LTG theater movement but not ours? Hahaha--”

Bikash was trying to make light of the discussion, but the younger members of the group wouldn’t let him go that easily. One of them said clearly, “Whatever you say, one of these days it will come to a head. We wouldn’t care about RSP smarSPs anymore.”

Majher Bondor was already becoming a nidus of club-centric politics. Tribritta was not formally associated with any group but many of the members supported the right-leaning Congress party. Some were quite active in it too. Bikash and other leaders leaned left but stayed away from any internal conflicts in the club. The main reason for that was the inability of the communists to become a major political group in the town. There was a small leftist group in the municipality but even though Bikash was related to some of them, he only remained a silent supporter.

But the theater world of post-forties Bengal was mostly in the hands of the leftists. It was the same in Majher Bondor too. Even with many Congress members, the plays staged were influenced by the left. The ideology of the groups too followed the same path. In fact, soon they stopped plays like ‘Ebong Indrajit’ or ‘Sher Afghan’ and opted for dramas by Bijon Bhattacharya. And their Congress colleagues went along with it. Perhaps, because there were no other theater ideas outside the progressive leftists. So, the theater-crazy Bengalis (a significant group) blended their rightist ideas with the left to create an overall leftist theater community. In Majher Bondor, one more thing contributed. Till the mid-seventies, the leftists, even though anti-Congress in general, did not have a major political front. In Majher Bondor, for any local election, district issues, or school committee selections, the Congress group received support from other non-communist leftist groups.

That might explain the anger expressed by the young actor. Bikash, though not attached to any political parties, grew up among left-leaning family members and friends and naturally supported their politics. His club too was left sympathizer. Bikash handed Saroj a cup of tea and said, “By the bye, just come with me this way for a sec,” and dragged him by his hand to a private corner, “Is there a girl named Farida Mansur in your camp? Pretty and can sing too?”

“How do you catch wind of pretty girls so quickly? Yes, there is one—quite beautiful too. But singing? Yes, I suppose she can sing as well.”

Bikash said, “Can you find out more about her? I’ve been dying to stage ‘Chirakumar Sabha’. But it is so hard to find a suitable girl. Find out if she would agree to act on stage. Introduce her to me please.”

Saroj said, “Sure, I’ll bring her soon. You can ask Chingis too. The girl I’m thinking of also knows Chingis.”

--7--

Saroj had relied on Manish. But Manish accepted him without any excitement. Time had matured him. It was evident at the first sight that this Manish was very different from the student Manish. But Saroj had no other alternative. Even though Manish did not slight him in any way, a hint of disrespect kept nagging at him. But his failure in politics had so discouraged him that he could not muster any initiative within himself. He spent days and months just lolling around. Manish used to remind him of the college days and tell him to write poems, but Saroj could not find any enthusiasm for that even.

Around this time, one day, the independence movement of Bangladesh started. Nobody ever thought that the Bengalis could rise separately and demand independence. Those Bengalis, who Macaulay had thought to be mendacious by nature. Three or four generations before, Clive was amazed at the inactive crowd of people who had gathered to watch the show of the siege of Murshidabad. He knew if each of them threw even one stone, they could have taken down Clive’s troop of a mere five hundred soldiers. But no such thing happened. Macaulay knew that story better than many of his contemporaries. He thought the Bengalis were also natural liars. Following him, many sahibs started thinking that the Bengalis merely robbed others, seized the properties of helpless widows and children, and bragged about being heroic and courageous. They seldom engaged in real battles but somehow, by countless lies, cheating and bribery had occupied this large country and enjoyed for two hundred years.

In truth, preparation for war had been going on for quite some time in this little town adjacent to the border. Firings of cannons and guns could be heard all night long. People have been coming across the bordersince early April. Bangladeshi independence fighters were being trained in the camps of the Indian army. Even amongst all this, Saroj stayed idle. Inertia had seeped into his very marrow. Constant idleness and irritability had only increased his sexual desire.

At this time, Manish left for Calcutta to get married. Before leaving, he told Saroj to do something.

“What do you mean ‘do something’?”

Manish smiled. He was not surprised at Saroj’s reaction.

“A man must do something to live. How long can you stay like this? You will just get wasted.”

“Some job?”

“I mean, you need to do something, don’t you? How can one--”

Thus, Manish offered a reason for Saroj to return to the mainstream. Returning to what he had once thought of as the most polluted, muddy stream. A Deputy Collectorate had come to know about him, perhaps through Manish. In those days, many talented, diligent young men respected the politics of Saroj and his group. Many even felt some sort of guilt or shame after joining a safe and secure job. This Deputy, Tridib, was one such person. Saroj had met him before. Tridib gave him the job of supervising a refugee camp. Thousands of people were fleeing East Pakistan for their lives. Hundreds of relief camps were set up to accommodate them. Before he could figure things out, Saroj found himself in the middle of a strange war-generated situation. Human life was less significant than even an insect. Honor had no value at all. This town, only five hundred kilometers away from Calcutta, barely a hundred kilometers from the national highway No. 34, overnight became a hellhole. Saroj kept track of the daily arrivals of the refugees and made arrangements for their lodging and ration cards. Too many people arriving suddenly in a small space could quickly make a big mess. A few basic rules of hygiene needed to be enforced. Ready-made housing could be erected overnight, and was put up along with the foreign-made latrines that just needed to be put in place. Blankets, sheets, saris, tins, asbestos, straws, canvas, polythene sheets, firewood, medicines, food—hundreds of suppliers built up businesses hundreds of thousands of rupees. Bribery, scams, lost accounts, looting, all went on unopposed. From cheap sex to downright rapes, pedophilia to other abominable practices—everything together transformed this backward town into a carnival of sins.

This was the same deputy Tridib of the Collectorate, through whom Saroj got this temporary job in the refugee camp.

Two days after Sati’s visit, Saroj went to visit Tridib. He didn’t have much to do in the camps. Perhaps there was a lot to do but the provisions were so low that he was forced to step away. Thus, he had time for an occasional afternoon visit to Tridib’s office. Today he had a specific purpose.

Tridib always appreciated his visits.

“Come in, come in. Have some tea. So, have you written something new?”

While in Calcutta, Saroj often wrote in various magazines. He thought those were nothing more than ordinary writings. Still, a few of his essays did cause some stir in the College Street community. Tridib apparently knew about them and had even read them. Of course, he did not know Saroj at that time. Saroj had stopped writing a few years before coming to Majher Bondor and had not written anything since. So, there was no question of old or new writing. He just smiled.

The main building of the Collectorate was in the colonial style. The front of the un-plastered one floor building was painted with red oxide. Red-oxide was the colonial color. Concrete roof was not in vougue when it was built. Over the verandah, bow shaped arches were raised and the overhead roof was of old-fashioned tiles. A open verandah ran around the house which measured about two to three thousand square feet. Large entrance doors on all four sides led into four large rooms. The largest room was for the Collector. The room behind that one was the office of the senior deputy, Tridib. On his right was the Collector’s office or the Collectorate. The leftover large room was divided into smaller chambers for other officers. Amongst these, here and there, sat clerks behind various tables, almirahs, and what nots. There was a definite scarcity of space. This district was divided in two during independence, though this town did not become independent on August 15, ‘47. Due to some clerical error, the Pakistani flag flew here on that day. After sorting it all out, Majher Bondor became part of independent India on August 16.

From that day on, this town was the district headquarters. As the old headquarters fell on the other side, this town had to step in. Thus, the shortage of space. As the collector occupied the office of the S.D.O. (Sub-Divisional Officer), two more small rooms had to be added to accommodate the S.D.O. All this was a temporary arrangement.

Two more officers sat chatting in Tridib’s office. Saroj knew one of them, Rabi Banerjee.

Rabi had been in the army.

After the army, he finished the BCS (Bengal Civil Service) and started this job. Being retired from the military, he was a bit older and passed the exam by grace marks.

For that reason, despite being older than Tridib by five years, he was Tridib’s junior by rank. Age was not counted in the rankings in government jobs. Rabi with his coarse taste and intellect tried to be the center of attention by talking constantly. He never omitted to mention his previous rank of captain while introducing himself. Saroj did not like him.

A bearer came in carrying tea, followed by another army officer.

Tridib hastily welcomed him, “Come in, please come in Captain Joshi. Have a seat.”

As the officer sat down, Tridib introduced him to Rabi and others.

“Meet my friends and colleagues, Captain Banerjee, Alok and Saroj. And this is Captain Joshi.”

Everybody shook hands with Joshi.

As expected, the two captains exchanged news of mutual acquaintances who had been in the army. Why did Rabi retire, which unit, which corps was he posted in, did Joshi know his friend somebody or the other, by now they should have had a couple of promotions, et cetera, et cetera, took some time.

Even though Tridib didn’t say anything, the reason for Joshi’s visit soon became apparent. In a border outpost village named Sundarpur, a woman was raped by two army soldiers. This had created a riot. The villagers beat up the soldiers and soldiers took revenge by attacking the village and assaulting random people. A political group had submitted a petition to the Collector and demanded punishment of the culprits. At the D.M. 's request, Joshi had come to talk about it.

Joshi’s complaint was not quite true.

“There are plenty of willing girls, why should they--”

Tridib smiled, “I wonder too. We also have the same question.”

Tridib was slim with a handsome face. But everybody respected him as a tough man.

Rabi said, “Such things happen during a war. Nothing to make a racket--”

Tridib gave him a stern look. Rabi was a special recruit during the battle of ‘65. He never had to go to the battlefield.

Joshi said, “Well, I don’t agree that our soldiers are undisciplined, Mr. Senior. However, we are sorry for the unfortunate incident. That’s what I want to tell the Collector. We are really sorry.”

Rabi again mentioned the war, whether the Pakistanis may fire the cannons at the Indian army. Joshi replied, “If they do, they will get an appropriate answer. Have faith in us. We will protect our motherland.”

Rabi tried to get closer, after all, he too was a military, “C’mon man, you don’t look so innocent. We can clearly hear how you are targeting various Pakistani positions all night long.”

Joshi replied without blinking, “I don’t know who is providing you with such information. The shelling you hear at night is from the Muktibahini. We are just keeping our eyes on the whole situation.”

Rabi asked, “If a war starts, will this town be a target for the Pakistanis?”

Tridib asked, “What is the aerial distance from here to their Bogra cantonment?”

Joshi ignored Rabi and answered, “About twenty-two kilometers. But for that--”

Except for Tridib, all others fell quiet. Only twenty-two kilometers! In that case, this town could become a pile of rubble in a minute.”

Rabi said, “They have a strong post in Jaipur too, I’ve heard. How far is Jaipur?”

“Eight to ten kilometers. Well, Mr. Senior--”

Tridib said, “Yes, let’s go.”

He rang for the peon and asked, “Go see if there is any visitor in Sahib’s office.”

Rabi again said, “Captain Joshi, looks like this town is surrounded by Pakistanis. Are we going to get overrun?”

Joshi smiled, “Weren’t you in the army? Why so scared? Have faith in us.”

Rabi said, “You had directed to dig bunkers in all the neighborhoods. Is it that serious?”

“Of course. Doesn’t the district administration consider it important too? We will send civil defense to make house-to-house enquiries soon.”

The peon returned to say that there were no visitors with the sahib.

Tridib and Joshi walked out.

The men left in the room stayed silent for some time. Perhaps, after the events of the last few months, for the first time they realized that they were living in a war situation and anytime the violence of modern warfare could pounce on them with all its teeth and claws.

Rabi broke the silence, “In such situations, whether a few girls got raped by the jawans is totally immaterial.”

The bearer brought tea for the rest of them. They sipped the tea, smoked some cigarettes, and soon the terror of the war disappeared into thin air. Saroj too could not find any concern in his mind. Indians of his age had never had any direct experience of war. The battle with the Chinese in ‘62 and with Pakistan in ‘65 were just local skirmishes. Without direct experience, one could not appreciate the reality of war. Saroj wondered why a war felt so impossible till it actually landed on the doorstep.

Rabi was a person of frivolous mind. Plus, he had the tendency of always trying to be the center of attention. He was also unnaturally interested in anything related to sex. He was thirty-five or thirty-six years old but dressed like younger men and tried to imitate them by turning up his collars and folding half sleeves of his shirts. He loved sporting a ‘don’t care’ look and kept long sideburns even with hair thinning on top. He slapped Saroj playfully on the neck saying, “So, brother? How’s life? This is your time. I hear about many delicious girls in your camp. Please share some with us also. It is your golden opportunity, no wife, no children—go row your boat straight to Belgharia, chalao pansi--row your boat straight to Panihati...”

Saroj thought to himself ‘Son of a pig!’ But he smiled and said, “I too am thinking along those lines. Such 'A class’ clients!”

In truth, Saroj never cared for buddy slaps on his back. Especially in this new environment. This was the third time he had seen Rabi, and it had always been in Tridib’s office. Tridib had never formally introduced them, but he still came to know Rabi who always liked to lord over in the meetings and never cared about formal conversation. He never bothered to check if he was crossing any line while asserting himself. During their very first meeting, Saroj had heard of Rabi’s Don Juan-like exploits. How, in his younger days, he had jumped over the roof onto the house next door to have sex with a girl on the open roof with just an umbrella for cover. How the umbrella was flying away in the wind---hahaha---how scandalous---hahaha--- he couldn’t let it go---hahaha---nor hang on to it ----hahaha.

Saroj right away pegged him a son of a pig.

After a while, Tridib returned, alone. The other officers had already left. Now only Saroj and Tridib remained in the office.

“Yes, Saroj?”

“Looks like the authority is slipping away from the district administration.”

Tridib looked up from signing some documents. There was a slight smile on his face.

“This Joshi guy is sensitive. I like him. There was another captain named Surinder Singh. He was totally the opposite. Made us feel very awkward.”

Saroj smiled, “Whatever it may be, there doesn’t seem to be any relief from the army right now. I do need some saris and lungis. Can it be managed?”

Tridib said, “Got to ask around. All the goods for relief are being sold in the open market. I heard the price of rice has fallen a lot; do you know anything about it?

Saroj said, “The rice for relief is of poor quality but is plentiful in amount. So, those who can afford it are buying it through ration cards and selling it in the market for better quality rice. Even the ration dealers are selling rice in the market. No shortage of rice, yet.”

Tridib said, “Plenty of rice is coming in, even from abroad. But at the rate people are coming, I wonder if we could manage it.”

Saroj said, “Strange! Rice is cheaper during the war!”

Tridib asked while perusing a file. “How many in your camp now?”

“In my school building and the adjoining field, there are five to six thousand. I am fully responsible for about a thousand of them. When did you get back from Calcutta?”

“Day before yesterday.”

Saroj hesitatingly asked, “Do you know how many were murdered in Alipur jail?”

“Don’t know the exact number--but heard it was seven or eight. Do you know of anyone?”

“Can’t say for sure. They are not releasing the names. Looks like only the police and military are going to run this country.”

Tridib looked up from his file and smiled, “How long have you been out of Calcutta?”

“Seven months. Honestly, I never lived there continuously. But I used to visit every two or three months. These past seven months -- I haven’t been able to go even once.”

“No need to go there. In the last seven or eight months they’ve murdered at least fifty people in the four jails of Alipur, Medinipur, Dumdum and Bahrampur. If you’d been in Calcutta, you might’ve been one of them.”

“Perhaps.”

Saroj wasn’t in the habit of keeping secrets. But he’d been drawn into such a vortex of politics that he was forced into secrecy at every step. A single breach could mean death. It’d been a strange perilous existence for the last three years. He’d seen every personal or group secret unravel within a few days. That was how Tridib came to know about him and hinted to Manish to make contact. A mutual senior friend forged the connection from Calcutta.

“Float up now,” Tridib had told Saroj, “You can’t go on like this. I’ll ask around. Police don’t know about you, nor do they want to. They won’t mess with anyone new. You can ease into becoming natural again. That is, if you’ve thought about it. You’d six months to do some thinking.”

Two bachelor deputies lived in a government quarter at that time. Tridib was one of them. Saroj had a lot of time in his hand and spent some of it with Tridib. Naturally, Tridib came to know a lot about Saroj’s political life.

“What’s new in Calcutta? Any effect from this war?”

Tridib’s situation, too, was full of conflict. He never knew who would become his adversary. Overall, he was on the side of the oppressed. Even if that person was on the losing side, Tridib would help him--as if he was the keeper of everybody’s weaknesses. For that reason, if his adversary was on the right, he would be on the left, and vice versa.

He smiled, “Calcutta isn’t like the old city anymore. Unlike your dream prophecy, the Red Army isn’t marching up the banks of the Ganga. Most middle- and lower-class neighborhoods are under one or the other ‘world’--some are under congress, some CPM, others Naxal, SUC or Forward Block. It’s hard to tell who is allied with who, or against whom. Every known or unknown face is a possible foe.

“Such a theoretical disaster in determining class enemies probably hasn’t occurred in any other communist revolution. I have a friend in the police. He told me there are quite a few police groups within the Naxals. People are being killed constantly--Naxals, CPM, SUC, RSP, CPI, Forward Block, and of course Congress—everyone sees everyone else as a class enemy. Throw in the traffic police, the crazies, the mules and the beggars among them. Strangely, most of these are from the middle class. The police are indiscriminately choosing their targets from among them. The jails are being emptied out by bullets and bayonets. Have you noticed the newspapers using the word ‘infest’ with the Naxals? Calling places ‘Naxal infested’! No shortage of progressive folks in the news media!”

In the old days, Saroj could’ve countered such remarks with conviction, but now he couldn’t. It’s not that his reasoning had lost its edge. The revolution marched a narrow path shouting ‘Down with the landlords’ only to falter, got mired mid-stride. A major surprise was waiting for him to become isolated. Did he join the revolutionaries to ignite a revolution? Or was it a convenient detour to avoid something else? He said to himself, ‘You know so little Tridib.’ Aloud, he said, "But, can they really kill people inside the jails – with bullets, beatings and bayonets?”

Within three months of his arrival in Majher Bondor, Saroj had to visit Baharampur. Manish’s quarter in the government hospital wasn’t reserved exclusively for the doctors. A few rooms, designated for non-physician lower class employees, were vacant. If needed, physicians could occupy those rooms. Manish had obtained one such quarter.

It was one single-story house meant for two families, each occupying one half. Manish lived in one half. In the other half lived Atashi-di, who had been there for many years with her paralyzed husband Krishnapriya.

Saroj stayed with Manish there and came to know this family. Atashi-di was nearing the end of her tenure as a senior nurse. She addressed the much younger Manish as ‘Sir,’ but called Saroj informally by his name.

They had three children. Sujata the eldest, worked in Calcutta at an insurance company. The second, a son, studied honors in English in a college in Malda, and the youngest son, Dipu, was still in school and lived with his parents. This was where Saroj first came to know the family.

One day, a police van stopped by their door. It was 25th of February 1971. Saroj still remembers the date--it had been just three months since Saroj’s arrival in Majher Bondor. He was stunned. Had his fate finally caught up with him?

The police officer asked for Krishnapriya Gupta and handed him a radiogram. With trembling hands, the paralyzed man unfolded the letter and called out to Saroj in his phlegmatic voice.

Saroj had been watching everything from behind the door.

Manish was at the hospital.

Atashi wasn’t home either.

Krishnapriya cried out again , ‘Saroj!’

The poor man’s effort was beyond his strength. He tried to get off his bed and nearly collapsed before Saroj rushed forward to catch him.

Krishnapriya was spastic, but his education, intellect and good taste always shone through despite his physical disability. He was constantly reading--newspapers, magazines, books, novels or even serious essays. There would always be a pile of reading materials of various kinds on the bed by his side. Seated on the bed, his disability was not immediately apparent. His gaze was vacant, eyes cloudy and always teary. But behind that exterior lay hidden a sharp intellect that sometimes surfaced with startling clarity and focus. His smile was innocent like a child's. It was difficult for him to get out of the bed, he did so to go to the bathroom—the sole moment when he left his bed.

He held out the paper to Saroj, his entire body trembling. In the clipped langiage of a radiogram, it said Bishnupriyo died last night in a clash with the police inside a jail.

Bishnupriyo was their elder son--the one who studied in a college in Malda.

Atashi was called home. They both sat, stunned, holding on to each other. Who can tell how such news affects a mother? After some time, she rose as if ordered by God and said, “Saroj, you take me there. I have no one else who can help.”

It was past sunset. There was no bus available to Malda or Baharampur.

Saroj couldn’t bring himseld to turn her down.

The next morning, as Saroj was getting ready, Manish asked, “Are you going there?”

“Perforce. Nobody else can go.”

“Then?”

“Nothing will happen. No one knows me in that area.”

They reached Malda at noon. Atashi didn’t speak a word the entire way—not even a sip of water passed her lips. It was a hundred-and twenty-kilometer journey with no train connection, and the bus ride took over four hours.

Saroj had no idea where to go. He didn’t know a single person in town. But once they arrived, Atashi stepped down from the bus and said simply, “Come.”

She led Saroj to the house of a distant relative-- Bishnupriyo’s local guardians.

Malda was tense with unrest. They heard that two more local boys had been killed. People were preparing to bring their bodies home.

A man named Moloy Sarkar was overseeing the arrangements. Dressed in a dhoti and shirt, he looked just over forty. With him stood five or six younger men, about twenty to twenty-two years of age. Moloy was a member of the CPM.

Saroj stepped forward to meet him.

Atashi too was lingering around.

“Don’t take Bishnupriyo’s mother with you, Sarojbabu.” Moloy quietely told Saroj, out of Atashi’s earshot.

“How can I avoid her?”

“Any way you can. Leave her at home. We won’t leave until evening and there’s a curfew in Baharampur. I’ve heard they’re not allowing any cars into the city. The DM in Malda doesn’t want to put down anything in writing. We are pressuring him. We can’t take too many people. Besides, taking her… it will complicate things.”

“How are we going?”

“We’ve rented a truck. We’ll try to bring the bodies, but I’m afraid the administration may not allow us.”

Saroj asked Atashi, “You need rest. These boys won’t leave until dusk--we still have a couple of hours. Come, let’s rest for a while.”

Back at her relative’s place, Atashi took a bath. The man of the house was her distant nephew. His wife forced Atashi to eat something. Atashi laid down after eating. It was obvious she was trying her best to fill the emptiness within her.

The wife offered Saroj some food as well. After the meal, he stepped outside for a smoke. He felt an hollow emptiness echo inside him. His brothers had to move three times in the last three years--Park Circus to Behala, from to Baruipur, and finally from Baruipur to Shrirampur. All because of him. Saroj visited the Srirampur house a few times, always arriving after dark and leaving before dawn.

The house was off G.T. Road, only a few minutes from the Ganga. Saroj used to cross the river by ferry to Barackpur and then head to his work.

His mother would follow him out of the house. He would stop and tell her, “Yes, I’ll be careful, Ma. You can go back now.” But she would keep following him like an infallible attraction.

Saroj would feel as if his mother’s legs didn’t belong to her—as if they moved on their own, beyond her will.

After the third or fourth time when he stopped, it wasn’t laughter that came—it was tears.

But he knew crying would ruin everything. He would again say, “You go back now. I’ll come again in a month.”

He didn’t know then where he would stay for the month. Everything had begun to unravel.

He wasn’t alone--there were others who also had no hideout or safe haven. They didn’t have any specific duties either. Five or six of them might be in some distant village, planning among themselves or teaching the facts of class struggle to some poor farmer or day laborer. But all discussions inevitably led to a dead end—the landowners and moneylenders needed to be finished. But when a specific landowner was targeted, there was little time to find out if he really was a landowner or deserved this fate. Such fine analyses would reduce the number of kills and that would produce a strange despondency--because they had nothing else to do. ‘Guerilla uprising’ was a new word that was used a lot in those days.

The guerilla unit was the embryo of the Mukti Fauj.

At some point, their leader Kinkar-da had planned to hang the severed head of a landowner from a high post in Sealdah station.

Their only job was to hunt out the landowners. There were hardly any dangerous landlords in the villages of West Bengal--the classic ones were extremely rare.

But one needed some ‘action’ to spark an ‘uprising’.

They wasted much of their time moving from one place to the next.

Occasionally, a police raid against one of them.

One or two murders would happen on either side.

His mother would stop near the ferry boat landing. Saroj’s feet felt heavy too. He would repeat, “Go back now, please.” His mother would say, “No, I want to see you leave first.”

She never said, “Come back.”

Not once, in these three years.

Why didn’t she?

Was she scared of him?

Did she think there was no point in saying it?

At night, in some rough hideout, he wouldn’t sleep. He had a bad case of body lice at that time-- perhaps someone brought it from a jail. Sometimes he thought it was more urgent to solve the louse problem than revolution. During those exhausting sleepless nights, he would wonder which was the real problem--sex, lice, or revolution. At last, when he had dozed off in exhaustion, he would dream of crazed revolutionaries marching down the streets of Calcutta shouting wild, impossible slogans. He would see bloodshed, chopped heads, headless men still walking. And with all of it came strange, perverted sex fantasies.

He’d seen his mother last at the ghat of the ferry boat. It was the end of October, but he couldn’t go home for the Puja festival. Even Lakshmipuja, Kalipuja, and Bhaiphota were over. Of course, he had stopped caring about such rituals long ago, in childhood. But he had never stopped caring for his mother. That final image of her remained etched in his mind. On a foggy October morning, she stood on the riverbank. She stayed there even after the launch had started. When the boat was mid-river, Saroj could still see her shadowy form--her eyes still luminous. They floated in the fog for a long time. His mother’s memory had now become a blurred, mysterious figure of a woman with two luminous eyes.

Saroj was smoking in the lane outside the house. The young wife of Atashidi’s nephew called out to him.

“Sarojbabu!”

“Yes?”

“You should rest a while too. It’s been a long day.”

“I can’t. I need to leave right now. Listen, I have to tell you something--Atashidi can’t go to Baharampur. I will slip out--you must distract her somehow. We’ve to travel a long way by truck... you understand? Moloybabu doesn’t want her to go. Besides, there’s nothing for her to do there either.”

The woman understood him.

“Okay. Auntie just dozed off. Are you leaving now?”

“Yes. Please hand me the bag, and keep an eye in case she goes out by herself.”

Saroj left the house and arrived at the collectorate. Moloy was still trying to get a permission letter from the District Magistrate so they could bring the corpses back home. The entire city was silent. Three young and healthy kids from this city were cut down so cruelly. Many rumors and news were being circulated. Some said only two were dead, Bishnupriyo’s name was not among them. Some said all three were gone.

At last, the District Magistrate gave a letter of permission. He also wrote a letter to the DM of Murshidabad. While handing them to Moloy he said, “I don’t know if these will be enough, but I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Clearly the man was scared. Who knew what would happen when the dead bodies returned to town--whether two or three it made no difference. Hopefully, the Murshidabad office wouldn’t be so clueless.

By the time they got out of the collector’s office, it was past four. Moloy said, “Get ready. The truck is waiting at Rathbari Crossing. We must leave now.”

Saroj said, “I’m ready!”

Upon reaching the truck they found Atashidi already sitting next to the driver!

Saroj hesitated, “Moloybabu thought it ;d be better if you didn’t go.”

Next to Atashidi was a heavy-set old man, looking bewildered and helpless.

Atashidi said in a quiet, dry voice, “I’m going.”

Moloy said, “Let her be. We can’t do anything now.”

They boarded the truck. Half a dozen young men were already seated--trying in vain to hunker down against the cold wind of February.

The old man next to Atashidi was the father of Shibu--another boy killed by the police. Moloy’s source had said only two boys from Malda were killed. A few from Calcutta had also been arrested. Whether they counted Bishnupriyo or not remained unclear.

In an hour, they reached Khejuriaghat. The sun was setting over the Ganges. Farakka bridge stood ready but not yet open to traffic--perhaps some minor work was still pending. The truck boarded a floating barge. Oil sludges streaked the shoreline. Fishermen were still at work , at the end of a wintry day.

Saroj crossed the Ganga—exactly three months and two days since the last time. As the truck rolled off the barge onto the sandy shore, darkness descended. No one spoke a single word. The old vehicle stumbled along an uneven road. Everybody was silently preparing himself for the funeral procession.

They reached Baharampur by ten. The truck braked abruptly--two jeeps from opposite sides blocked their road. Both filled with armed khaki-clad men.

“Where are you going?”

Before getting out, Moloy warned the boys, “Don’t raise your heads.”

Two pairs of headlights pierced the deep darkness, creating a dramatic glow.

“Where are you off to?”

Moloy showed the permission letter, “To the jail. Here are the papers--”

“To the jail? Turn back, right now!”

Moloy pleaded, “Listen, Sir--”

He had to patiently explain everything to a bunch of unwilling, haughty listeners. The khaki-clad men were nervous with some suppressed excitement. Moloy had to coax and cajole them to allow the truck to go. At last, one of the jeeps led the way. The entire city was dark and silent. The very air laden with trepidation.

There was more excitement outside the jail. Patches of darkness and light at the entrance created an eerie atmosphere. Groups of khakis were seen everywhere. A few officers ran about busily, though it was evident that their bustling had nothing to do with real work. In the background, the jailhouse loomed like a castle occupying three quarters of the sky.

Saroj got off along with the others. Immediately the police surrounded the truck.

Moloy told the boys to keep their eyes on Atashidi and the old man. He asked Saroj to come with him to the DM.

One officer asked, “Where are you coming from?”

“From Malda.”

The man led them to the DM.

The DM was a stutterer, and the situation had made him even more nervous. Before they could begin, Atashidi arrived.

“Where is my son?” She cried, grabbing Saroj’s elbow.

“Who’s your son? What name?”

The man started stuttering.

Saroj grabbed Atashidi who was now trembling like a cane leaf.

Saroj replied, “Bishnupriyo, Bishnupriyo Gupta.”

The DM called the Police Superintendent. The jailor was nearby as well. All three were around forty, though the DM looked quite young. The jailor--who had some mongolian feature--held a list in his hand, perhaps to check the names of the killed and wounded. At DM’s order he glanced at the list and said, “He’s not dead. Injured only—I repeat, only injured.”

The SP was also a non-Bengali. He said, “Thank God. You are surely happy?”

Saroj felt gratitude, but to whom? God, perhaps? Or to these three workers? Were they part of the killing spree? Otherwise, how could such things happen in three different jails within the past six months?

In an emotional voice he said, “Please say it in Bengali, tell his mother.”

“Bishnupriyo is not dead,” The DM managed to stutter in Bangla. “Just hurt. I’m extremely sorry—”

Atashi collapsed into Saroj’s arms. He carried her to the truck. Both were in tears. It was windy, cold, and past midnight. He placed Atashi inside the cab and said, “Please don’t get off again.” As he carried her he was remembering his mother.

Atashi wept silently inside the truck, alone. Saroj found Shibu’s father sitting on the ground a few feet away, supported by one of the boys assigned the task by Moloy. As Saroj went near them the boy said, “Can you please hold Uncle for a while? I need to go over there.”

Saroj sat beside the old man. The light across his face from the tall post inside the jail made him look like a mute animal. In a dull, lifeless voice he asked, “Did you get any news of your boy?”

Saroj hesitated before answering, “Yes, we did.”

“Alive?”

“Yes.”

“My son is not alive anymore.”

“Did Moloybabu bring the news?”

“No. Moloy didn’t come.”

After a while Moloy arrived, “No use Sarojbabu. These folks won’t let us take the bodies to Malda. They are saying everything is arranged here, we must cremate them here.” He disappeared again into the darkness.

After a few minutes, Moloy returned with other boys and said, “Sadhuda, please get up. We need to go to the morgue.”

One boy held the old man’s hand.

The man trembled like a leaf. He muttered something incomprehensible and collapsed into their arms. They somehow managed to lift him up in the truck. He kept muttering to himself.

The truck started. The same police jeep that showed their way earlier now led them to an even eerier, more mysterious place. The acrid rotting smell—lingering at least half a mile around told them where they were headed. Moloy, seasoned by experience, pulled out a large bottle of eucalyptus oil and poured some into everyone’s handkerchiefs.

Moloy, the boys, and the policemen went inside. There was no need to guard the old man. Who sat next to Atashidi--muttering to himself. Saroj stood outside the truck guarding them both.

Dim light. Masses of darkness. It was like a mysterious, secretive conspiracy. Policemen on guard, drunk janitors, fearsome feral dogs. In the foggy cold midnight everything looked unnaturally still . Even the plop of dew drops rang out sharp and clear.

After a while, Moloy and the boys came out, looking embarrassed.

“Can’t recognize any of them, Sarojbabu. All rotten and swollen.”

Saroj feared the answer, but asked anyway, “How many are ours?”

“Only one. But two more from Calcutta-- they were caught in Malda.”

One boy said, “Take Sadhu uncle. He may recognize someone.”

Moloy snapped, “Right! You guys grew up together and still can’t recognize and he’s supposed to?”

A large police van pulled up. Two men carried a stretcher into the morgue and emerged with one body which they loaded in the van.

Moloy said, “This must be Timirbaran. Son of a big shot officer in Calcutta.”

They laid the body in the van and drew a sheet over it. The rear doors remained open-- everything was plainly visible. Saroj’s companions raised their arms in one final salute to their fallen comrade. Flanked by armed police escorts in both front and rear, the van sped towards Calcutta.

Another group arrived, claiming a body. They carried the body tied to a cot, and with a police escort started towards the burial ground. By their dress, Saroj thought the pall bearers were Muslims. One of his saluting companions stepped forward to ask the name of the deceased.

“Nazrul Islam.” One pall bearer replied softly.

Moloy stood dumbfounded, then turned to his boys, “Get Sadhuda down. Let’s see if he can help.”

Two boys held the old man and walked him towards the morgue. Saroj followed them. The old man was still muttering to himself. Palpable, thick stench filled the room. A dim light and two totally drunk janitors.

There were still six or seven corpses in the room, each swollen to double its size. Hot vapors emanated from the bodies. Some had their limbs severed. Abbreviated signs of unnecessary, illegal autopsies made the bodies even more horrifying. Moloy pointed at one body and asked, “Can you recognize Sadhuda? Isn’t he our Shibu?”

The old man only muttered to himself, “Shibu, Shibu...”

Moloy threw up his arms in frustration. It was difficult to even stand inside the room.

The two janitors, however, were totally indifferent.

Whether it's good or bad odor, after a while, the nose got used to it. Saroj said, “Moloybabu, it won’t be wrong if you cremate another body instead of Shibu. Somebody else will cremate Shibu. It’ll even out. Come, this is our Shibu, let’s take him with us.”

Moloy was relieved, “Good idea. Come, let’s load him in the truck.”

The body was tied to a bamboo cot and loaded on the truck. Now they had to go to the cremation ground on the bank of the Ganga. Everything was ready there.

Indeed, everything was ready. Janitors, new clay pot, jute strands, arranged pyre, even a tin of kerosene to get the fire going quickly.

The boys placed Shibu on the pyre and lit the fire. Sadhu sat on the ground while Atashi sat in the cab watching the fire. The reflections of the fire danced for a long time on the glass windows of the truck.

-- Tridib said, “You are at war with the Indian reactionaries.”

Although he was not mocking, there was some irony in what he said.

It was spoken by many Naxal leaders at different times.

Saroj said, “But there are rules for war too. No civilized country would condone such murders of the prisoners of wars.”

Tridib said, “You are right. But the Geneva Convention may not allow showing off the severed heads of the landowners in front of their wives and children either.”

This time his voice held damnation too. He was raising the very questions that had induced Manik to become Saroj.

He hesitatingly replied, “Hope you realize the difference between criminality and idealism. Those you are hinting at, were never criminals.”

Tridib smiled, “Whatever word you may use—murder, annihilation, assassination—it is all basically the same.” This time he sounded pained.

Saroj stayed quiet but could not dismiss the sting of humiliation. But changing from Manik to Saroj had helped him put away the load of endless arguments. Now he did not believe that the truth was only on his side.