“I need it for my maid back where I work.” Meera lied with a straight face. Nimai’s mother did not care; she was getting Didimoni’s beautiful blue Jamdani instead of her tattered clothes; she would not think twice about this unharming exchange.
“Meeting.” The Madam gestured at the maid who would not understand her language. “No.” She shook her head. “Nahi.” She translated. Meera nodded. Just then, almost like luck shone on her like the sun on a rainy day, the door opened and the Magistrate came out with a police officer in tow. Superintendent of District Imperial Police, Animesh Kumar Mukhopadhyay saluted the District Magistrate of Bakerganj, David Collin.
“Don’t worry, Saheb,” Mukhopadhyay said in fluent English, eyeing the house helpers. “You are safe under my supervision. I agree that the anarchists are active around the area, but I will protect you.”
The Magistrate seemed impressed. “But I still need some protection at home. For my wife and children.” Mukhopadhyay agreed, promising to make more efficient plans before taking his leave.
“Is there some kind of danger, dear?” Madam instructed her helper to lay his plate, asking, as the Magistrate sat down for breakfast.
“Nothing to concern you with, Darling.” The Magistrate eyed the servants hovering around. They were local village natives hand-picked for his service. He lowered his voice as he spoke to his wife. “The Superintendent suggested changing routes when I go to work daily to keep them guessing.” She nodded, a little worried. She had heard of what the anarchists did to the last Magistrate. She had begged her husband to quit service and go home to Britain in vain, and then she followed him here.
“How are the children?” He asked.
“The weather seems to have taken a toll on them.” The Madam sat down, concerned. “They are with the nanny.”
“Dorothy.” The Magistrate lowered his voice. “I told you not to trust the Indians.” The Madam seemed to scowl.
“They are always around us, so how can we survive if we trust nobody here? Then send me back to Britain.” The Magistrate sighed at the Madam’s words.
“After the war and pandemic, I am more unsure of life than anything else. I have seen the worst of the flu when I was at war. Am I wrong to fear for my children’s safety now that we are finally settling down, Dear?” The Madam looked up at her husband with a little uncertainty. She shook her head. “But I trust the maids and nannies. They come from good families…”
“So do the terrorists…” The Magistrate murmured as he lit his pipe.
“Madam, Khana… how?” The cook asked in hand gestures and broken English. He was a man in his thirties, with a goatee on his elongated face, wearing an apron over a shabby blue kurta and dhoti with a white skull cap. The Magistrate nodded in silence, eyeing him carefully. The Madam smiled. “Well done, Ismail. You are a quick learner.” Kabir Ahmed smiled sheepishly at the new name. His eyes travelled to Meera, who was now cleaning a brass vase with a wet cloth. She looked up at him and nodded.
“Madam, if you allow… Bazaar… Samaan.” Kabir gestured again in broken words. The Madam nodded. He needed to buy spices and vegetables for the dinner menu Madam had ordered for her guests.
“Don’t let him go alone.” The Magistrate warned. “God knows what he is up to.”
“Amina?” The Madam turned to the maid, who stopped rubbing the vase. “Your child is in school in the market area, right?” Meera nodded, acting confused. “Go with him then, come back with the child, I want to see him.” She nodded again at the Madam with a faint smile. The Madam knew whom to trust. Homely, illiterate women, mothers, sisters, and wives were too scared of the law they had no idea about, too intimidated to rebel. Meera wiped the sweat off her forehead and adjusted her drape.
“Are we being followed?” Kabir asked subtly, glancing back at the crowd in the marketplace. Meera shook her head.
“Madam trusts me, I told her about an abusive drunk husband with tears in my eyes, and she shed a few with me,” Meera reassured him. Kabir eyed her, a little amused.
“Drunken, abusive husband is all it took? I wish the men of the Imperial Police were this vulnerable.” He chuckled. He stopped at Mashoor Mulla’s meat shop first. Meera walked away towards the Barisal Zilla School for Boys. Bina stood there with her five-year-old nephew.
“He doesn’t understand a word of English,” Bina reassured. “I told him we are playing a game and he can go to the Gora’s big house if he plays along.” Meera nodded at Bina and then at the innocent child looking at her with wide, hopeful eyes.
“Your name?” She asked. “Shyamlal.”
“No, you are Adil for this game. I am your mother, understood?” The child nodded.
“And you study in this school.” Meera took his hand from Bina’s. “I will bring him back home by evening.” She reassured as Bina nodded. “His mother is in labour with their fifteenth. She hasn't had time to care for him for a few hours now.”
Mashoor Mulla waited for the customer to disperse and asked Kabir, “The Usual?” Kabir shook his head. “Special today.” Mulla looked concerned and with a gesture, at him to wait. Mashoor let him stand in a corner while he attended to the other customers. Once the shop was empty, he got down from his seat, pulled the flap of the shop half closed, and Kabir looked around carefully before walking straight to the back of his meat shop. Mashoor followed, after keeping his nephew at the counter to keep an eye.
“They are changing routes every day. He told his wife so. Meera is yet to get access to the office room.”
“Cowards. Scared of us.” Mashoor was amused.
“Yes, but we need to inform The Leader,” Kabir spoke seriously. “We can’t do anything on the way.”
“But no matter what way they choose, the destination will be the same.” Mashoor Mullah’s old white brows lifted as Kabir smiled at him. “Exactly.”
Kabir spotted Meera walking towards him with a child in tow, as his brows arched wide.
“You have a child for real? What else do I not know about you?”
“Don’t be stupid.” Meera snapped. “This is Bina’s nephew.”
“Do you know who has been chosen?” He asked discreetly. Meera shook her head. Although she did not know it yet she could sense it. The Leader was suddenly focused on the female members of the anarchy group. They were being trained to shoot, run and indulge in physical exercises. They were given books about spies to read and taught the basics. It will be a girl. Even if not alone.
Benimadhob had a Paan shop near the Imperial Police Station at the Lakutiya Bazaar on the outskirts of the Lakutiya village, where a Haat Bazaar was organised every Wednesday. From where he sat, he could see the police officers running in and out of the station. He could sense the tension and activity at its peak. A constable inevitably came to his shop amidst the chaos.
“Dada, ekta Biri dao.” The constable asked for the cheapest smoke in the shop. Benimadhob handed him the packet.
“What is all the fuss, Bhaya?” He asked without sounding eager, concentrating on watering the heaps of Paan waiting to be sold.
“The Magistrate is visiting the hospital nearby. His son is admitted.” The man spoke, letting out some smoke. “Mukhopadhyay Saheb seems worried. They will shift the sick boy to Dhaka soon.” The Constable now ordered for a Paan. Benu made the best one for him. His nephew, a boy of ten or so, sat close by, counting the coins.
“Recruit?” The constable asked. “Oh, what can I say?” Benu shook his head regretfully. “This is my sister’s eldest. She died recently so his father married again and abandoned the children. He came to stay with me and his sisters went to my elder sister.”
“That is sad. What’s your name, boy?” The constable asked. Benu eyed the nephew.
“Ramdas.” He looked intimidated by the stranger.
“And what about your boy? Why does he not help?” The constable seemed curious. Benimadhob had his Paan shop in the same corner for over twenty years, and his children used to come now and then.
“What can I tell you, Bhaya, that worthless son of mine only steals my savings to gamble away and do drugs.” Benimadhob seemed agitated. “I can never get a hold of him, or I would chain him to the bedpost. Ever since his mother…”
“Be careful,” The constable showed concern. “Heard that the cities are slowly becoming Opium dens.”
The constable walked away. Upon getting a nod from Benu, the boy brushed his pants and stood up. He had to inform the Leader of this opportunity in time. Benimadhob sighed as he resumed making Paan. There was no better glory than dying for the motherland. Today it was his son’s turn. He chanted a soft prayer to the Lord.
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