The Naxalite movement had diverted from its initial phase into utter chaos in a matter of two years. Initially, the demands and ideologies of the youth in the movement weren’t entirely wrong. Although I hail from the very class of people they hated, I quite understood their complaints. I wasn’t like Dada, who blindly hated them back. But then, when the movement turned to agitations on the streets of Calcutta and bloodshed in the plateaus of Chotanagpur, I couldn’t help but be intimidated by such unnecessary violence. The government deployed an army in and around the affected areas, and once or twice, the people of Punya had witnessed from their courtyards and houses, peeping eagerly as the army trucks ran through the village using it as a shortcut to some areas.
I had instructed everyone to be home by dusk and avoid venturing out alone. Avoiding the secluded areas around the forestland was comparatively easier, though the maids and servants often took that shortcut to the house from the village. But given their anger towards a particular section of people. I was more worried about Ananta roaming about the village on his cycle. He was very interested in following the developments, but too young to understand them. Once he saw the army trucks, he decided to join the army. India fighting for the freedom of East Pakistan also perhaps developed this sudden sense of patriotism in his young mind.
Although there was nothing left of the Zamindari twenty-odd years after it was abolished, the villagers seemed to be slow to realise that. They still preferred coming to us with their problems, hoping we would talk to the government and solve their issues, and the Panchayat had this sudden idea of making Thamma the face of their elections. Thamma thankfully refrained from entering politics, but that meant they hounded me, over and over, for the same. I lied to them that I didn’t understand politics, hence I would be a waste as a candidate. However, their constant pestering prompted Thamma to reassure them that one of the members of our household, namely me, in the absence of Dada, would attend the Panchayat sessions as an advisor. So every Wednesday morning, I had to be clad in a crisp, ironed white Panjabi and the brown-bordered milk white dhuti and attend the meetings. Without fail, Lata would keep my watch, handkerchief, golden buttons, and comb right in front of my eyes before leaving on Tuesdays, so that I didn’t lose them from under my nose in the morning.
Once, a man in his late teens was the main subject of the Panchayat meeting. He was frail and looked like he hadn’t bathed or eaten for days. He was tied, by his hands and legs, to the pole in the middle, surrounded by angry onlookers. I looked at the Panchayat with questioning eyes.
“He is one of the Naxals.” One of the old men quipped. “We found him in the forest with three grenades.” He pointed to a dirty jute bag in front of him. “We are going to hand him over to the police.” As soon as he spoke, a widowed woman seemed to appear out of the crowd and almost fell at my feet, wailing. I stepped back in horror.
“Please don’t hand him over; he is all I have. He made a mistake, Mejo Jamidar Babu. He will do anything you say. They will kill him.” I was speechless.
“Don’t create drama here.” Someone rebuked, “ What if he attacked the Zamindar bari with those?” My heart skipped a beat at his words. A buzz of gasp and amazement ran through the crowd.
“What if the grenades burst into his house? He lives next door.” Quipped a man. I looked up at the young man who stood defeated, bruises on his body indicating he had been beaten up.
I would definitely hand him over to the government to protect my family. There was no doubt about it. I eyed his mother. If I went home knowing this man would be taken by the police somewhere in the secluded forest, told to run for his life and eventually be shot down in a mock shootout, after giving him up to the police, his mother would definitely go to Thamma wailing. I suddenly felt like Lata would be very disappointed in me. If she were in my place, she would tell the entire village that everyone made mistakes and that everyone was swayed by causes. Everyone deserves a second chance. So did this youth. I looked up at him. Then, around me, in the crowd. The panchayat had reached its verdict. Out of courtesy, they were waiting for my say in the matter. These men, elected to represent the Government in our small province, were doing their jobs right, perhaps unaware of the other side of the coin, the cause of an uprising, the police brutality, and the pain of losing a loved one. I sighed. What was expected of me here? Who was I today? The Choto Jamindar? A responsible citizen? A privileged upper-class man? A protective family head? Or Lata’s Deb da?
The Panchayat had gathered around Thamma the very next day, complaining about the way I personally funded the youth and his mother to move to another location where he could farm on one of our lands, and his mother could sell pots. She looked rather disappointed at first, frowning at the situation. What good came of it? Was I capable of assuring anyone he wouldn’t stray back to his old ways? No. Of course not. I went against the village and even perhaps the Government. If these men alerted authorities, I would be in deep trouble with the law. I knew that. Thamma made her decision. I was no longer a part of the Panchayat. The men were relieved, and so was I. More relieved than them, actually. Lata walked in with the tea for the five men who flocked around Thamma and placed them down one by one on the table, prompting one of the older men to ask her about her studies. She smiled with a slight nod. No words came out of her mouth. But her hand stopped when she heard what I had done. She looked up almost in disbelief at me when she handed me the cup of tea as I stood silently behind Thamma’s chair. I eyed her. She went about her work soon after, with a satisfying, relieved smile on her lips.
It was a few days later, in the afternoon, when she walked into my room with a strange question.
“Where did you send Benu Kakima?” I frowned, half sitting up from my lying-down posture, putting the bookmark in the book. She understood I was quite clueless.
“The woman and her Naxal son.” She clarified. I sat up, a little concerned.
“Stay away from such people, it's not safe,” I commanded.
“I bought pots from her, and they were beautiful. Perfect for the flower plants on the parapets of the roof.” She shrugged.
“The roof?” I was a little clueless. She shook her head.
“Have you never been up there? Or look up even? At your own house? Or even ours?” She looked amazed at my ignorance before murmuring to herself. “I took up gardening in my free time and planted small shrubs with beautiful flowers on the roofs. Nobody cares.”
That night, I was up on the moonlit roof, alone, having a smoke in the darkness, eyeing the lines of plants in colourfully made pots. I looked across at the Chattopadhyay house, the lights dimly lit in two of the rooms even at that hour. The bulb on the balcony was suddenly turned on as I stopped to observe. Lata walked out, her hair falling loosely over her shoulder, as she stood braiding her hair for a while, looking away into the empty road, lost in her own world. Her Kakima called her inside, prompting her to hurry with her braiding. Even if she looked up at our house, across the Singhaduar, it would be impossible for her to spot me in the darkness.
A few weeks later, I went on an inspection of our farmlands. I came back home with large baskets of vegetables, sacks of paddy and freshly ripened fruits as my eager siblings eyed the inspection of their quality by Thamma and her Munshi. I was tired and quickly retreated from the scene of scrutiny to my room. It was perhaps almost dinner time when Lata came by, with a copy in hand.
“Are you busy, Deb da?” She made me open my eyes as I sat up on the bed. “I can come back tomorrow.”
“No, I was looking for you,” I said, making her stop. She handed me the doubts she had noted down in the copy. “Maths in the new class is tough.” She complained.
“There is something for you there.” I gestured at a corner of the room between the wall and the table as I eyed her copy and solved the problems. She walked up to the pointed sack eagerly and sat down on the floor to open it. I could sense her happiness as she gushed.
“You got my pots!”
“The plants are nice. But that doesn’t mean you waste time doing that. You need to study more this year.” I sounded monotonous. She nodded as she came over to understand the solutions.
“There is something magical about the uniform. So powerful.” He spoke as all of us looked up at him. Bibha laughed.
“Yesterday, you ran and hid behind Lata, seeing a lizard.” She reminded him as Thamma patted his hair and dismissed the crazy idea. “You will get educated and help Dada here.” It wasn’t a suggestion but a statement. This was all before he finally inclined towards music, much to Thamma’s detest but Lata’s relief. Her face had turned pale as Ananta casually flirted with the idea of joining the armed forces in one of our study sessions. She had scolded him, much to my surprise.
“Don’t say such things! You aren’t going anywhere.” Her voice was firm. I was sure that even if Ananta convinced Thamma, he could never do so to his Didi.
“Yesterday, you ran and hid behind Lata, seeing a lizard.” She reminded him as Thamma patted his hair and dismissed the crazy idea. “You will get educated and help Dada here.” It wasn’t a suggestion but a statement. This was all before he finally inclined towards music, much to Thamma’s detest but Lata’s relief. Her face had turned pale as Ananta casually flirted with the idea of joining the armed forces in one of our study sessions. She had scolded him, much to my surprise.
“Don’t say such things! You aren’t going anywhere.” Her voice was firm. I was sure that even if Ananta convinced Thamma, he could never do so to his Didi.
Although there was nothing left of the Zamindari twenty-odd years after it was abolished, the villagers seemed to be slow to realise that. They still preferred coming to us with their problems, hoping we would talk to the government and solve their issues, and the Panchayat had this sudden idea of making Thamma the face of their elections. Thamma thankfully refrained from entering politics, but that meant they hounded me, over and over, for the same. I lied to them that I didn’t understand politics, hence I would be a waste as a candidate. However, their constant pestering prompted Thamma to reassure them that one of the members of our household, namely me, in the absence of Dada, would attend the Panchayat sessions as an advisor. So every Wednesday morning, I had to be clad in a crisp, ironed white Panjabi and the brown-bordered milk white dhuti and attend the meetings. Without fail, Lata would keep my watch, handkerchief, golden buttons, and comb right in front of my eyes before leaving on Tuesdays, so that I didn’t lose them from under my nose in the morning.
Once, a man in his late teens was the main subject of the Panchayat meeting. He was frail and looked like he hadn’t bathed or eaten for days. He was tied, by his hands and legs, to the pole in the middle, surrounded by angry onlookers. I looked at the Panchayat with questioning eyes.
“He is one of the Naxals.” One of the old men quipped. “We found him in the forest with three grenades.” He pointed to a dirty jute bag in front of him. “We are going to hand him over to the police.” As soon as he spoke, a widowed woman seemed to appear out of the crowd and almost fell at my feet, wailing. I stepped back in horror.
“Please don’t hand him over; he is all I have. He made a mistake, Mejo Jamidar Babu. He will do anything you say. They will kill him.” I was speechless.
“Don’t create drama here.” Someone rebuked, “ What if he attacked the Zamindar bari with those?” My heart skipped a beat at his words. A buzz of gasp and amazement ran through the crowd.
“What if the grenades burst into his house? He lives next door.” Quipped a man. I looked up at the young man who stood defeated, bruises on his body indicating he had been beaten up.
I would definitely hand him over to the government to protect my family. There was no doubt about it. I eyed his mother. If I went home knowing this man would be taken by the police somewhere in the secluded forest, told to run for his life and eventually be shot down in a mock shootout, after giving him up to the police, his mother would definitely go to Thamma wailing. I suddenly felt like Lata would be very disappointed in me. If she were in my place, she would tell the entire village that everyone made mistakes and that everyone was swayed by causes. Everyone deserves a second chance. So did this youth. I looked up at him. Then, around me, in the crowd. The panchayat had reached its verdict. Out of courtesy, they were waiting for my say in the matter. These men, elected to represent the Government in our small province, were doing their jobs right, perhaps unaware of the other side of the coin, the cause of an uprising, the police brutality, and the pain of losing a loved one. I sighed. What was expected of me here? Who was I today? The Choto Jamindar? A responsible citizen? A privileged upper-class man? A protective family head? Or Lata’s Deb da?
The Panchayat had gathered around Thamma the very next day, complaining about the way I personally funded the youth and his mother to move to another location where he could farm on one of our lands, and his mother could sell pots. She looked rather disappointed at first, frowning at the situation. What good came of it? Was I capable of assuring anyone he wouldn’t stray back to his old ways? No. Of course not. I went against the village and even perhaps the Government. If these men alerted authorities, I would be in deep trouble with the law. I knew that. Thamma made her decision. I was no longer a part of the Panchayat. The men were relieved, and so was I. More relieved than them, actually. Lata walked in with the tea for the five men who flocked around Thamma and placed them down one by one on the table, prompting one of the older men to ask her about her studies. She smiled with a slight nod. No words came out of her mouth. But her hand stopped when she heard what I had done. She looked up almost in disbelief at me when she handed me the cup of tea as I stood silently behind Thamma’s chair. I eyed her. She went about her work soon after, with a satisfying, relieved smile on her lips.
It was a few days later, in the afternoon, when she walked into my room with a strange question.
“Where did you send Benu Kakima?” I frowned, half sitting up from my lying-down posture, putting the bookmark in the book. She understood I was quite clueless.
“The woman and her Naxal son.” She clarified. I sat up, a little concerned.
“Stay away from such people, it's not safe,” I commanded.
“I bought pots from her, and they were beautiful. Perfect for the flower plants on the parapets of the roof.” She shrugged.
“The roof?” I was a little clueless. She shook her head.
“Have you never been up there? Or look up even? At your own house? Or even ours?” She looked amazed at my ignorance before murmuring to herself. “I took up gardening in my free time and planted small shrubs with beautiful flowers on the roofs. Nobody cares.”
That night, I was up on the moonlit roof, alone, having a smoke in the darkness, eyeing the lines of plants in colourfully made pots. I looked across at the Chattopadhyay house, the lights dimly lit in two of the rooms even at that hour. The bulb on the balcony was suddenly turned on as I stopped to observe. Lata walked out, her hair falling loosely over her shoulder, as she stood braiding her hair for a while, looking away into the empty road, lost in her own world. Her Kakima called her inside, prompting her to hurry with her braiding. Even if she looked up at our house, across the Singhaduar, it would be impossible for her to spot me in the darkness.
A few weeks later, I went on an inspection of our farmlands. I came back home with large baskets of vegetables, sacks of paddy and freshly ripened fruits as my eager siblings eyed the inspection of their quality by Thamma and her Munshi. I was tired and quickly retreated from the scene of scrutiny to my room. It was perhaps almost dinner time when Lata came by, with a copy in hand.
“Are you busy, Deb da?” She made me open my eyes as I sat up on the bed. “I can come back tomorrow.”
“No, I was looking for you,” I said, making her stop. She handed me the doubts she had noted down in the copy. “Maths in the new class is tough.” She complained.
“There is something for you there.” I gestured at a corner of the room between the wall and the table as I eyed her copy and solved the problems. She walked up to the pointed sack eagerly and sat down on the floor to open it. I could sense her happiness as she gushed.
“You got my pots!”
“The plants are nice. But that doesn’t mean you waste time doing that. You need to study more this year.” I sounded monotonous. She nodded as she came over to understand the solutions.
