Meera’s eyes sparkled at the document Kanu held up in his hand with a gleeful expression. She had challenged him that it was impossible to take any important paper out of the chambers of the Prosecutor, and he took up the challenge like any boy his age would. Meera eyed the papers in the file Kanu had tucked in the waist of his lungi and brought to her chambers.
“See… I told you…” Kanu said, “Never challenge me.” Meera took the files and turned the cover over.
The first paper was a copy of the arrest warrant with a picture and name. The name was false, perhaps because Benu’s son refused to give his real name, and the picture was of him stripped naked and standing with his back to the wall. There were visible marks of torture on his face and chest. Meera suddenly felt a pang of pain overtake her as she gulped. Although this was perhaps a copy of the originals, it would be enough to help the defence build a case, knowing ahead of time how the prosecutors would build theirs. Kabir stepped up behind her and eyed the document as they exchanged a silent glance.
“Now give it back, I will keep it where it was.” Kanu extended his empty palm at Meera. She smiled.
“You were brave enough to do this, your Didi is brave enough to keep it back.” She smirked. “You also can’t challenge me.” The boy smiled. “Very well, Top drawer of the box behind his chair.” He walked away as he eyed Meera walking towards the office. Meera stopped in her tracks as soon as she heard Kanu close his door. She turned back on her heel, walked back into their chambers and shut the door. Kabir had already taken out his pen and paper.
“We have till dawn.” Meera nodded, taking a paper and pen. “Let's note down alternate pages.” Kabir smiled at her. “I will go to buy Sabzi in the morning market and hand it over.” Meera nodded. She was now seeing hope. “We can help spare his life, right?” Her words were met with silence from Kabir. He had seen the world to know it better. But he did not want to hurt Meera’s hope. He nodded. Perhaps miracles could happen.
“Umm…” Kabir jotted down from the paper pretty fast in the flickering light of the kerosene lamp. “Since I will be going to the market, do you need anything?” Meera looked up at his words before going back to her pen and paper. “Umm… the vermilion is almost over…” Kabir eyed her, saying it in a monotonous tone. He smiled to himself. “And?”
“Bring me a book. Evenings are quite long,” he nodded.
“Also buy yourself a shirt.” She scorned him. Kabir looked up at her words and stopped writing.
“What is wrong with my shirts?” He protested feebly.
“They look shabby and are about to be tattered,” Meera spoke unmindfully. “Every time I fold them, I feel like the sleeves would come off or the pocket…”
“Oh, so it's you who folds my clothes. I was wondering…” Kabir resumed his work.
“Who else would possibly fold your clothes for you?” Meera asked, raising her brows.
“Thank you.” His words were met with silence. He smiled to himself. “What colour shirt do you suggest?”
“You can get those nice stripes from the roadside. In blue or green.” Meera said without looking up. “They will match your Lungis.”
“That was fast.” Kabir shook his head.
“Yes, I have been contemplating buying you a shirt, but Ma Thakuron doesn’t let maids step out alone.” Kabir’s heart suddenly made a funny leap at her words. When was the last time someone noticed what he wore or gifted him something? Not since his mother passed, for sure. He looked up at Meera. She barely talked of home.
“Umm… do you have people… waiting for you?” Meera shook her head. “You mean family? My parents are dead…” Her tone was cold.
“I am sorry, so are mine…” Kabir's face lit up in the light of the lamp while their surroundings were engulfed in darkness.
“I have a Pishima who took me in. Now she knows I work in Dhaka, and as long as I send her a letter every month with some money to Chattogram, I am fine.” Kabir smiled at her tone.
“I have an elder brother in Congress.” He said without waiting to be asked, “His wife and kid are still in the village. I sometimes send them money, letting them know I am alive. But I can’t say I will be missed if I don't write to them. Perhaps the money will be. They never write back.”
“You do know we are not supposed to indulge in each other’s details, right? It is for our safety.” Meera reminded him gently. Kabir smiled. “We are not saying names, so we are safe.” He paused. “You think that someday we can turn on each other and inflict harm with such conversations?” He sounded disappointed. Meera inhaled. Their hands never stopped copying the papers as she spoke. “I am not saying so, but I'd better be safe than sorry.” Kabir suddenly looked grim. “Does Swadhin know nothing about you? Or you about him? Weren’t you at Dhaka once?” Meera frowned at his words.
“Why are you dragging Swadhin in this? He is not one of us.”
“He can never be,” Kabir suddenly murmured. “He is too scared. I sometimes wonder how the Leader and Sharat are related to him.” Meera ignored his rant. She did not protest. Instead, she'd said, “I just wish that when I die, someone would mourn me. Beyond shedding tears for society kind…” Kabir smiled at her words. “Like I would be remembered.”
“I will remember you,” Kabir said, making her look up at him as their eyes met. The reflection of the flickering lamp on their pupils suddenly made them aware that they were staring. Meera’s cheeks grew warm as she looked away, and Kabir, for the first time, saw on her face an expression he had never witnessed before. One softer than her usual smirk and twinkle. Something stirred in him as his gaze made her shift a little and adjust her already neat drape as she cleared her throat.
“Why?” She managed rather softly. Kabir kept his pen down.
“Do you really want to know why?” His voice trembled a little. Meera inhaled as she sprang up from the floor.
“I'd better take this back.” She held the file close to her bosom as if to stop Kabir’s eyes from hovering over her features. His lack of response made her turn and leave.
I know why, Kabir, I am just not strong enough to hear it or reciprocate. Forgive me.
I think you know. But you are scared of hurting me with your rejection, Meera. It is okay, for I expect nothing from you. Kabir shifted from the floor to the bed and stared at his watch. He had to leave for the market in a few minutes.
Abhaya was learning her way around the Gangopadhyay house. It was like another world for her. Unlike her home, the women here did not tiptoe around the men. They laughed and chatted, ran across the corridor when their husbands called out, read books and discussed them while going through the day’s chores. Nonibala Debi even made her daughters and daughters-in-law sit in a line when she applied hot oil on their hair and massaged it herself. Abhaya had never seen this kind of affection from her mother. She was at first awkward when Nonibala Debi offered to oil her hair. But then everyone insisted on it. The Gangopadhyay women also left their homes to go to the Bazaar and did not even ask their husbands about it. Every day started with Abhaya waking up to the sound of the servant sweeping the courtyard. She would then hurry for a bath and rush downstairs. Her sarees were all new and hand-picked by Nonibala Debi. She would join the ladies for the morning prayers as conch shells blew. The men would be ready by the time they hurried through with breakfast. She would help by making the tea or laying the table. Bimala and Protima insisted she would not be cooking for at least one month as a new bride. When the men left, and only Naw Da remained in the house, Abhaya would play with the children for a while. Nonibala said that once Renu and Uma were back home, Abhaya could have better company. She would then observe the ladies in the afternoon, laying achar to dry and speaking of a book they read, or lazily lying in their beds reading. The children would sleep under the care of the maid, and Nonibala Debi spent her afternoons teaching village women to sew.
Abhaya would watch them learn eagerly. Nonibala insisted that what she taught was a new form of stitch they called Kantha. She learnt it from its place of origin at Kanthi in Medinipur, where her sister lived. Abhaya would be eager to see the unmatched patchwork and the straight lines making patterns on the pieces of cloth. Nonibala asked if she wanted to join in. Abhaya shook her head, intimidated by the women who looked at her. These women came from nearby villages and perhaps knew her. Even if they did, they never indulged in a conversation or showed her otherwise. Abhaya would often tiptoe to Naw Da’s threshold as he read or scribbled and offered him the mangoes the children got for her or the achar. Sometimes he thanked her and took it. At other times, he shook his head without looking up from his book. Her interactions with her father-in-law and the elder brothers-in-law were limited to asking if they needed another serving of rice or dal. Then, after the evening prayers and dinner, she would retire to the room and breathe again. She shut the door and eyed Swadhin’s portrait on the wall. She would then proceed to scan the room and move every book and piece of clothing as if she were looking for something. She had the excuse of setting up her things. In a week, she had tidied his desk and wall cupboard and made room for her clothes on his clothes rack. She would make her bed and lie down in the middle of it. And just like that, in a flash, it was Friday. She had entered the kitchen to meet the smiles from the ladies.
“Oh, you should dress up in the evening.” Protima insisted. “Our Nanads are coming home for the puja tomorrow.” Abhaya looked clueless. “What puja?”
“Look at her, so naive!” Bimala smiled. “The Satya Narayan to bless your marital life with. We are planning on giving you a proper Fulsojja.” Abhaya’s ears suddenly grew warm as she gulped awkwardly. “Oh yes, Maa insisted on our shopping for you. Come take a look.” Abhaya knew Bimala was out with her husband the previous evening. Something she never saw in her own house. Her sisters-in-law barely stepped out. If they did, it was either because they were going to their mother during their pregnancies or because their mother took them to some temple to pray. Now she knew they had been to the market.
Abhaya reluctantly followed them into Bimala’s room, where she opened the brown papers and produced a red Benarasi saree. “You did not give us enough time to bring it from Kashi,” Protima said. Bimala put it over Abhaya’s shoulder. “The big Kolka design does suit her, doesn't it?” Bimala smiled, satisfied. “Here, see the jewellery.” She spread out the boxes. A Sitahaar, a necklace, a Jhumka, a chain, a Kamarbandh, three sets of bangles, a Loha Badhano and two smaller studs in gold shone in the reflection of the morning light. Abhaya gasped. “All this is too much, Mejdibhai.”
“Oh, your Dada insisted. So did Maa.” Bimala seemed to brush off her gratitude. “Wait till we dress you up tomorrow, and he sees you.” She gushed. That was when Abhaya realised he would be home soon.
Truth be told, Abhaya initially felt odd for the first two days when Swadhin was not around. He was the only face she had seen in her captivity. But then, when she was alone in the room ransacking through his things, hoping to find a clue in vain, she was relieved he was not around. But his coming home would imply a lot of things. Not only did she have to share the room and bed, but a sudden fear gripped Abhaya. He said he respected the marriage. What if he expected her to be a wife? All the things her sisters-in-law once told her made a shiver run down her spine as her throat dried. How would she keep him away? For how long could she resist, and with what excuse? She felt a fear in the pit of her stomach as it churned. What if he were like her father? What if he were forceful with his expectations? She suddenly remembered his gaze on her in the pond. “He will be back by dawn if he gets on the train tonight.” Protima insisted. “You must be waiting for him.” Abhaya tried hard to fight back her tears. “Oh, don’t cry, we know you miss him.” Protima hugged her. Only if they knew. Only if she could tell them what she truly felt. All through the day, Abhaya was alert, and although she greeted the guests and the teasing sisters of Swadhin with a smile, gracefully accepting their little tokens of affection and silently enduring their teasing, her mind was disturbed.
Abhaya felt like she could not breathe again as she ran to her room at the end of the day. Protima and Bimala had gushed at how shy the new bride was. The sisters insisted they would hear the details of this “love story” from her mouth when she was less shy to speak of it. Abhaya shut the door behind her, and her hand stopped at the lock. They said he would be home by dawn, then he would perhaps like the door to remain open. Abhaya was suddenly scared at the thought of being asleep in his room when he walked in. She cried in muffled silence as she sat down on the floor. Suddenly, the walls were closing in on her, and she found it hard to breathe. She took two deep breaths to reassure herself and calm down. In vain, she stood up, trembling as her eyes fell on the vermilion box. It was a marble one with studded gems, Nonibala gave her upon her arrival. She had religiously put the vermilion on her hairline twice daily without contemplating much on it for the past week. It was not until now that the implications of Swadhin’s words hit her. It would be wrong to say Abhaya was scared to be alone in the room with him last week. She was perhaps too tired to think much about it. Especially because the room was not unfamiliar to her, and neither was he. She had also been watching his every move keenly without inhibition because the implications of the marriage had not set in. Abhaya suddenly remembered what she had heard from behind the closed door. Swadhin and Meera.
Unlike her, he was not naive to the feeling. She won’t ever be his first. Abhaya tried hard not to think about it. The thought of him touching her disgusted her. But how could she escape this, especially when the ladies implied otherwise? How would Swadhin react if she told him to stay away? She suddenly remembered her mother’s words. Let a man do what he wants; you have no right to stop him. As a wife, you must support him, give in, submit and let him rule your mind and body. Abhaya gulped. She had believed the duties of a wife to be exactly what her mother taught her. She knew if she did anything otherwise, that would be against the Dharma she vowed to keep. Her mother would be so disappointed, from wherever she was looking down at her. Suddenly, Abhaya’s fist tightened around her drape. I will not live a life like Maa. I will not let him harm me. Abhaya still struggled to believe Swadhin was capable of things her father did. Yet it was not past him. Abhaya’s thoughts wandered. What if he did not like someone as inexperienced or naive as she was? Especially since he was with Meera and she seemed to know what she was doing. What if he loved her truly and wanted nothing to do with Abhaya? But then he said… Abhaya did not know when she dozed off, thinking of the day.
Swadhin came home around the first hour of dawn when the sky was still dark, and the birds chirped. He had a small trunk with him, which he carried up the stairs and reached his room. At the threshold, the sudden idea of Abhaya sleeping there hit him. Perhaps the door was locked from the inside. Perhaps she was sleeping. Putting the trunk down on the threshold, he contemplated going to the living room. But his mother would be awake soon. What could he tell her? He pushed the door softly, praying that it would not open. He would say that Abhaya forgot to keep it unlocked, and he did not want to wake her up. To his horror, the door creaked open, and he peeped in. Swadhin narrowed his brows as he watched Abhaya half lying on the side of the bed, her feet still dangling on the floor, while her head was on the pillow. She seemed to be in a deep sleep. Did she sleep like that every day? He wondered as he kept his trunk down noiselessly, opened his watch and kept his wallet and newly made spectacles on the table. He eyed her face. It looked like she had cried. Swadhin was worried. His eyes fell on the rack of clothes and then the books. She had rearranged everything. Why? Was she looking for something? He opened his trunk, hoping to find a fresh set of clothes, when the framed pictures fell from a cloth and startled Abhaya. She sprang up, surprised at him as Swadhin looked alarmed, picking up the frame.
“Sorry, Sorry!” He shook his head. “I did not mean to wake you.” He stared at her tired face, unbrushed hair, smudged kohl and faded vermilion. He realised he was staring and looked away. Abhaya stood up in a hurry, adjusting her draped, wrinkled saree.
“When did you come? Why did you not wake me?” She surprised Swadhin by pouring him a glass of water. He murmured thanks and took it, and Abhaya’s eyes travelled to the frame in his hand. Her heart sank.
“What is that?” She asked.
“These are pictures I found in the album. So I thought I would give a gift… umm…” He eyed her, still glaring at him, “Give them to you. You can hang them somewhere in the room.” He held the frames out for her to see. Golden frames with black and white pictures in them. One of the two families is together in a Basanti Puja. Another of her with his sisters. Abhaya took them with unsure glances and trembling hands. Swadhin managed a dry smile.
“You can keep them wherever you…”
“Thakurpo.” Protima interrupted. “You are home.” Swadhin nodded as Abhaya stepped away, keeping the frames on the table.
“Come with me.” She pointed at his trunk. “And take what you need for the day.”
“Pardon?” Swadhin raised his brows, confused.
“Well, you are not going to stay in this room till the puja in the afternoon. After that…” Protima eyed Abhaya and smiled. “We will give you a proper Fulsojja.”
“Boudi… what is the need…” Swadhin’s words died in his mouth as Protima shook her head.
“Orders from the high command. Come with me now.” Protima glared. “I can’t leave you with her alone.” Abhaya was slightly pale at her teasing smile as Swadhin grabbed the things he needed and walked away without sparing Abhaya a glance.
Words:
Lungi: A type of checked and coloured cloth worn as a lower garment by men in East and South India.
Chottogram: A prominent place in East Bengal (now Bangladesh), Chittagong, later called Chottogram (local dialect), was a hub for revolutionary activities by groups such as Anushilan Samiti and Bengal Volunteers, the most famous incident being the weaponry loot by Masterda Surya Sen and his students.
FulSojja: First night after marriage, suhag raat
