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She could now feel the ache and pain in every inch of her body. She stared at her palm, swollen and burnt with the impression of the metal scrap. Abhaya let out a scream. She wailed. She pulled herself onto the floor and reached the door. She banged on the door of the room, hoping she could bring it down. Hoping someone would help. When she heard the chains being untangled, she moved back as the familiar man once again barged in. He had a homemade balm in a bowl, and as he sat down to apply it, Abhaya resisted.
“Do you want to die?” He snapped at her.
“Let me go,” Abhaya screamed. “I will shout, I will make sure someone looks for me. The police will…” A slap resonated across her face as she felt her red cheeks feeling warm and tingling with pain. She looked up in disbelief.
“Shut up.” The man warned. “If you want to be alive…”
“I know what you will do to me.” Abhaya’s eyes were fiery with disgust and anger. “I know what happens to women…” The man leaned in, crouching on his knees and making her stop.
“Do you? Then you must know what happened to all of our women your father caught?” His words made her throat feel dry. What was he saying? Was this the brainwashing manipulation her brothers often talked of? Abhaya would never believe… Her eyes travelled to the other figure who walked to the threshold now, behind the man. There was a plate of food in his hand, and his lean figure unsurely stepped across the threshold. The man glanced over his shoulder.
“Swadhin. Give her the food.” He got up to leave, "And lock the door again.” The young man in his early twenties was at first startled at the sight of her. Abhaya had known Swadhin Da for as long as she could remember. He looked unsure of her as he adjusted his metal-rimmed glasses and placed down the plate in silence.
“Swadhin Da.” Abhaya startled him by grabbing his hand with her soiled, blood-spattered fingers, clutching onto his skin with her dear life. “Please help me. Please.” She sobbed. “Find my family.” He seemed to get over his initial shock at her approach quite fast as he jerked away from her grip and silently left the room. Abhaya heard the chains clanking again as she screamed, throwing the plate of a half-burnt Roti and Dal across the small, damp chamber.
The only light that came from the Jaali of the ventilator died down with the evening. Abhaya sat in a corner, with her back to the wall, hugging her knees as she wept. Her stomach churned because she was fasting, and she had to take a sip of the water. Even in darkness, there is light. She could make out from the shadows that this place was not someone’s home. It was a hideout. A hideout could only be needed for illegal activities. She spat, disgusted.
After witnessing an extensively heated meeting, Swadhin walked away from the ruins of the old Naat Mandir with its once glorious figurines dancing a celestial dance now covered in moss and growth in a hurry, holding his Dhuti up to avoid the muddied waters. If he made a mess of his clothes, his mother was sure to ask him what he was up to. He was only here for the holidays, and his mother was always scared of the troubles that lurked in every corner of a charged-up land demanding its rights. Swadhin entered his home stealthily, like he did most nights, and looked across the courtyard for any sign of life. The sprawling home with its inhabitants seemed to be in deep slumber. Sighing in relief, he tiptoed to his room and walked across to the window. He lit a cigarette and let the smoke engulf him.
He had never liked Abhaya’s family. Her brothers worked for the Raj. Her father was a notorious police officer whose deeds were quite famous. He knew that once his grandfather was friends with hers, but he did not quite understand why, despite their moral differences, his father kept in touch with this childhood friend. Their family was different. He was closest at home to Naw Da, who helped his father run the school he had started for the poor recently. If he was right, he also helped with the other activities. Swadhin’s involvement, however, was vague and momentary. He did not stay home except for holidays and examination preparations, and he was to concentrate on his studies. As of now, Naw Da would say. Then choose how you serve. He would often be pushed to the idea of treating poor people for free by Naw Da’s hundreds of books, while Borda would laugh and say, “Don’t let that nincompoop affect your career when he has none.”
His help was needed for the first time when a man of the group was wounded. They could not go to a regular doctor, waiting for them to report to the police, so Swadhin, with his kit in the dead of the night, was led by a man to the Naat Mandir, where Naw Da and his father stood. With trembling hands and a sweaty forehead, he had managed to scrape a piece of metal from the groaning man’s abdomen. The man did not survive, but he gave birth to a new direction for Swadhin. The more he saw his father now, the more he felt inspired. That was when he started helping out whenever he was home or back in Dhaka, if one of the men visited.
Today, he got an inkling of the real reason his father was still cordial with the erratic Mukhopadhyay while his relatives steered clear. He now wondered about Abhaya. Nobody seemed to have told her about the bitter truth that bodies were found burnt inside the home. Despite his occasional verbal debates with her brothers, Swadhin was always fond of Abhaya and her sister, Nirbhaya. They were the youngest in the house, much like he was, and just like their names, they seemed to be fearless. Once he had heard of how Abhaya, just at nine, had managed to escape from the grip of her elder sister and gone to the fishing port all by herself with the little Annas she had saved because she wanted to see the nets. It was by god’s grace that she was spotted by a neighbour’s servant who frequented the area for cheap-priced fish and reported it to her brother. That was when she stopped receiving an education. It was a punishment too severe for her misdeed, Swadhin would think. But the girl had no clue of what she had lost because her dark world was never enlightened with knowledge.
One Sunday afternoon, when the mothers got together for a sumptuous lunch at his place, Abhaya had tagged along. He was studying for his Matriculation back then, and Abhaya, in her curiosity, had wandered into his room. Swadhin was too engrossed in his books to acknowledge her until she asked. “Eita ki?”
He had looked up from his books to find a copy of the forbidden novel “Anandamath” under his pillow, which Abhaya had picked up. Naw Da had given it to him. To Swadhin, it felt like he was caught by the police as he sprang up from his chair and grabbed at the book with both hands, startling her.
“That’s a book, can’t you see?” He glared. “Go now, I have to study.”
“Why do you have it?” She asked as he raised his eyebrows.
“What do you mean?” He asked back. Abhaya narrowed her eyes at his hands, now behind his back, holding the book. Her braided hair, tied back with red ribbons on either side, shook a little as she said, “Isn’t that the forbidden book?”
“There is nothing called forbidden when it comes to knowledge.” He snapped, raising his glasses on his nose. “How did you know that? You can’t read.” Abhaya smiled sheepishly.
“I saw them burn the book, I saw the cover.” Swadhin eyed her suspiciously. Should he tell the child not to tell anyone? But did children not do the opposite when forbidden? His nephews and nieces did.
“Don’t worry, Swadhin Da, I won’t tell Baba Moshai. Or Borda. Or Mejh Da. Or…” His glare made her stop as he gestured for the door. Abhaya did not move. Instead, she sat down on the edge of the bed, wondering, almost to herself.
“What is in that book?” She expected an answer, but Swadhin stood quietly. “Why do they want people not to read it?”
“Because they are scared.” Swadhin found himself answering, but unsure whether she would understand. Abhaya looked amused. “Baba Moshai says the Imperial police are not scared of anything or anyone.” Swadhin smiled faintly.
“It is a story of rebellion.” He set the book down between them as he sat down on the edge of his bed. He eyed Abhaya, staring at the book curiously as though touching it would harm her. “I can tell you the story, and you can decide whether it's good or bad.”
“Rebellions are always bad.” Abhaya said intelligently, “They cause chaos and unlawfulness. Borda says…”
“Then go ask them.” Swadhin was irked. "Everything is perspective. What is right to you can be wrong to me, and what is wrong to you is right to me.” Abhaya could sense the seriousness in Swadhin’s voice. She looked up at his grim face as he sighed, shook his head and returned to his chair.
“Go away, Abhaya. I need to study.” He could sense her move from the bed to the threshold. Her anklets faintly twinkled as she moved.
“Swadhin Da, then is my mother right or wrong?” She asked softly, as he frowned cluelessly at her. Her face was a little pale, and her eyes sparkled. “What did she do to deserve the beating?”
“The….” Swadhin opened his mouth, yet he could not utter what she did so normally.
“Every night Baba Moshai …”
“Abhaya!” Her words died in her mouth as she heard her sister-in-law looking for her. Alarmed, she turned and ran down the corridor towards the stairs to the roof. The curtains swayed a little as Swadhin kept staring at them. That day, he felt pity for the girl. He could not imagine something so grave being normal to a child. But he could imagine Animesh Kaku doing terrible things. What surprised him was that he did not even spare his wife. He had been to the house in the morning when the police arrived, and a crowd gathered outside it.
The sooted walls, missing window panes, silence, ashes, and smoke still bellowed from parts of the house. Not a life was in sight. The back door was open, but police suspected it was opened by the intruders. Whether it was revenge or dacoits was still unclear. Especially when the Modus Operandi did not fit the anarchists and still did. The blown-up vehicle was found a few feet away from the house when it was already in flames. His body was barely recognisable. But what was the fuss about missing bodies?
“Two female bodies are fewer than the numbers anticipated.” The police officer had wiped his forehead with his handkerchief on the sweaty summer afternoon as he talked to a man from the Press. Swadhin was lurking around in a curious crowd.
“They either escaped or someone took them, but don’t write that in the news.” Swadhin wondered who the women were and what happened to them. Did the anarchists do this to her family? Or was it someone else? Is someone seeking greater revenge? Personal Vendetta? Who was he to question them? His father was their leader. All he could do was help in his little ways. He suddenly remembered their faces, the little moments he shared, and the conversations he had. His stomach churned. Swadhin did not realise that even in disagreement, these people were part of his world, no matter how small or insignificant. He remembered Abhaya’s face, and he could no longer stand there in the crowd. He moved away and walked as fast as he could towards the other end of the city. It was then that a man summoned him, saying his father was looking for him. It was then that he knew she was alive. But when he returned home, pretending to be aloof, he had heard his mother, sisters, and sisters-in-law crying for the lives lost.
“Why would anyone harm them?” He stared at his mother. “They were so innocent.”
He had braced himself to see her again when his father instructed him to cook for her. He had been in the Mess Bari at Dhaka, but he knew very little about cooking. The Ruti was burnt, and the Dal was salty.
“Enough to keep her from starving.” One of the men sneered. He walked up to his father on the ruins of the Naat Mandir and cleared his throat.
“Kichu Bolbe?” The Leader asked. Swadhin looked up at the man he admired and adjusted his glasses.
“Baba, why are we keeping Abhaya here?” He asked, trying to sound indifferent.
“She saw us, she knows us.” His father seemed aloof. “We can’t let her run to the police. Besides, she might have information…”
“Wha… what do you plan to do with her?” His voice trembled. His father’s jaws tightened. He stared at his son coldly, making him look away. A smile curved the edge of his lips.
“Do you think we are like them?” His question made Swadhin feel guilty. “You think we will do to her what her father did to Benu’s daughter?” Swadhin’s throat was dry.
Benimadhob’s daughter was found in tattered clothes, roaming the streets of Barisal like a madwoman. She could not recognise anyone, not even her father. Last heard, the Imperial Police had picked her up to interrogate her about her brother’s whereabouts when they arrested her father. He had heard the men discuss how they abused her with extreme physical torture and rape, pushing her to insanity. However, Benimadhob had to be let go because of a lack of evidence against him. His freedom became his curse. He had no idea if his son was dead or alive. And he had to keep his daughter indoors, chained and locked, lest someone do to her what she had already suffered from again. Swadhin had not been to the shop since. The child tended to it, but business was down since the policemen were forbidden to go there. It was then that they heard of his arrest. It was weird to see Benu relieved to know his whereabouts, even when he was in Jail. The dates of the hearing were set, and the Leader had talked to a Barrister. They would ask for the death penalty for sure, but he did not sugarcoat it. Our only way is if there was a lack of evidence or tampering with pieces of evidence in court. He had heard his father talk to the associates about the next course of action.
“No,” Swadhin answered firmly. “He was an animal.” But Swadhin still had no answer to his question. Should he ask again?
“Feed her every day.” His father’s command had startled him. He nodded in silence. In his head, Swadhin thought of all the things he could say to Abhaya, to make sure she was not scared, to reassure her of her safety. But when she clung to his arm, Swadhin could not be courageous. He shoved her away and escaped from that room that had suffocated him.
How could he help her? He was a small part of a larger picture. Swadhin picked up the book Pather Dabi from his desk and wiped the cigarette butt out on the ashtray. He turned a leaf and wondered. He was not there with the attackers. But he knew they were going to target the police. What he did not know was that the orchestrated protest would go out of hand and harm her in ways unimaginable to him. She was a pawn in it all.
Words and Explanation:
Anandamath by Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay was a book on the Sanyasi Revolt against the British Raj, which was banned till India gained its Independence in 1947.
Pather Dabi by Sharat Chandra Chattopadhyay was first published in 1926 and was later banned by the government for its anti-government sentiments. It was a book of inspiration for many of the freedom fighters during that time.
