William Nithercot lived alone in the palatial house provided by the government as his quarters in the town of Jessore. He refused to bring his family along to the “hell hole” he was appointed to. The summers were too warm, the rainy season meant snakes everywhere, and the winters were barely cold enough. He had been appointed across the length and breadth of this vast sub-continent, and nowhere could he find it pleasant. Nithercot once witnessed an angry wild elephant stampede his fellow officer, charging across the coffee estate in the South. He often hunted tigers for pleasure in the West, and some took up space in his trophy room. The peacocks often roamed the gardens when he was up North, but sometimes even they would peck someone without a cause. “This is a wild country.” He once wrote to his wife back in Britain, refusing her plea to join him. “They are all animals.” His job, although nobody said so to him, was to civilise the brown-skinned Indians as they did with the others across the globe. Nithercot sat with a pipe in his mouth on the porch of his Bangla Bari, looking over the Bhairav meandering in the hot summer as a servant boy fanned over his sweaty bald head. There was an older one at his feet, with its feet up almost on the man’s chest as he massaged it with oils from one of his friend’s newly acquired essential oils businesses. The smell of the eucalyptus oil was irritating. Nithercot kicked the man at his feet.
“That’s enough now, will you do this all day?” He sounded irked. “Kaam Chor Idiots,” he eyed the boy who had stopped fanning, a little shocked. “Do you want one too?” The boy shook his head and started fanning violently. Nithercot felt the sweat from his forehead trickle down to his cheekbone as he grunted. “Stupid country.” He gestured that he was about to get up, and the man at his feet, who had stumbled at his kick, got up and rushed to provide him with his slippers. Nithercot fastened the robe around his body and was about to step inside when footsteps in the garden stopped him.
Jones came rushing down the garden path in his uniform. He was brisk with his salute and stood with an enthusiastic smile on his face.
“Don’t you take a holiday?” Nithercot grunted. “What are you doing outside in this heat?”
Adam Jones seemed unfazed by his superior’s taunting voice.
“Sir, I wanted your permission for something.” Nithercot lowered his pipe, hanging from the edge of his lips and frowned some more. Jones knew the best time of the day to approach Nithercot was while the sun was still up and shining. As soon as the sun set, the man indulged in drinks and damsels.
“That is what happens when you don’t bring your family along.” Mrs. Jones would often tell her husband while nursing her infant. “We are here, what is the harm?” Jones would smile silently at his wife. He did not want to tell her about the troubles that lurked around high-ranking officials like Nithercot and their families. Especially when he behaved the way he did with the natives.
“Will you say what you want? I don’t have all day.” Nithercot grunted. Jones smiled again.
“Sir, my wife and I want to host artists from Hindoostan for an evening at our abode. We have just shifted to the garden house and she thought it's a good idea…” Jones stopped for Nithercot, who had an amused smile on his face.
“So your wife’s idea, eh?” He shook his head. “Has she now befriended the uncivilised buffoons?” Jones stood silently for a moment before continuing.
“We have had the pleasure of meeting some artists here. Writers, poets, painters, sculptors… Hindoostan is so rich and diverse in its art, it is only fair that… we expose it to the world. So I plan to invite some European guests…” Nithercot shook his head.
“And what? You expect me there?” He sounded irked again. “I am not interested in your social causes, Jones, you are trying in vain for these ungrateful…”
“No, Sire.” Jones interrupted his rant. “I know you wouldn’t be interested, and I won’t force you. But I was hoping…” Jones scratched his head. “That you will allow me to talk to Mahini Baejee about a performance.” Nithercot laughed so loudly that two pigeons perched on the ventilator of the room above his head flew away.
“Now you are calling that bitch an artist? You can’t be serious. She is a nautch girl.”
He laughed some more. Jones looked a little awkward. It was futile to tell his superior about the art of dance that had survived through the Baijis, its history from the Mughal court to Lucknow, and finally the Galis of Metia Bruz, to the Heera Mandi at Lahore and so on. Nithercot eyed him as he finished laughing. “Well, I permit you to ask her the next day we visit. I don’t think she would agree.” Jones looked up at Nithercot intentionally. Would she not agree because he would tell her to? He was not sure, so he decided to clarify his intentions.
“The guests will all come with family, and there will be no…” He stopped. He needed to assure his superior that he had no eye for his goods. Nithercot looked amused again.
“Who would ever come to such a boring party?” He chuckled. “Get your head checked, Jones, you have lost it in the heat.”
Sharat had travelled to Itna for the first time. He met with Bonomali at the station and rode a bullock cart to the hideout at the end of the night. He was glad to see everyone there. Jatin updated him on Bina. Sharat was relieved to find out she was alive. “The police have caught Benu again. Although I doubt if it's because of the superintendent’s incident or because of his son.”
“What if he outs us?” Sharat looked unsure at his father. The Leader smiled.
“When I was starting, Benu was one of the most active members of the movement. Just because he sits all day selling Paan doesn’t discredit him.” He eyed Sharat as he continued. “Any news from Kabir and Meera?” One of the men nodded. He proceeded to hand over the papers to the leader. He smiled. “But there is a problem.” The man said, scratching his head. “The prosecutor’s house would have guests over for Basanti Puja. We can’t allow Kabir and Meera to be there. What if someone sees them and …”
“Tell them to leave.” The Leader commanded. “Their mission was a success. Tell them to lie low till the next and not meet each other until I say so.”
Abhaya had observed Sharat telling his mother that he would be gone for a few days. His friend was getting married in Patna, and he was invited there. Nonibala Debi kept lamenting about him not finding a bride till he packed his bags and left. Abhaya knew this was the only time she could search Sharat’s room without suspicion. The leader was not home; he was apparently in Dhaka for a teachers’ conference. Swadhin was in college, and Sharat was finally gone.
“You want to clean his room?” Bimala sounded surprised. “That is a rubbish dump none of us dare to touch.” Protima smiled, agreeing to her words. “Naw Thakurpo doesn’t like his room being organised.”
“Maybe just some dusting?” Abhaya suggested. “I will supervise the maid and…” Nonibala Debi had interrupted.
“Let her do what she wants.” She smiled. “After all, Sharat has nobody to take care of him besides you three.” And so, Abhaya was in the room. She eyed the maid cleaning the floor and discreetly walked up to the drawers. She pulled a handle, but it was locked. Then another. She pretended to look at the books curiously, leafing through them. No pieces of paper fell out. She looked under the bed. There was a locked trunk. Abhaya had a strong desire to break the lock, but she suppressed it. Her eyes fell on the rows of used Panjabi on the hooks on the wall. She walked up to them.
“These should be in the laundry.” She stated as she put her hands in the pockets of the Panjabi to check. A few Annas from one, a packet of smoke from another and then… There was what looked like a memo. The letterhead was in English. Abhaya could not read it. But there was just the name of some institution with a logo on it. And the bill was in Bengali, so she could make out some of the stationery without much struggle. She folded the bill and tucked it in her anchol, tying it up. Abhaya scanned the room as the maid left with the laundry. She could not tell what she was looking for, but anything tying Sharat or the Leader to the activities of the Anarchists would be helpful. She walked back to her room to spend the afternoon studying whatever Swadhin managed to teach her over the weekend. The chalk and slate lay scribbled with words as she leafed through the pictures in the books. That was when Renu peeped into her room, making her sit up.
“Come in, Chordibhai.” She called out as Renu smiled. She tiptoed into the room and perched herself on the edge of the bed, dangling her feet. Abhaya took out some achar she had kept away in a jar under the bed and offered her some.
“What is that?” Renu pointed at the edge of her anchol.
“Oh, that is nothing.” She shook her head. “Found it in a Panjabi pocket and thought it might be important, but I can’t read English.”
“Give me.” Renu urged. Abhaya was unsure whether to trust her. But refusing would draw suspicion. She reluctantly unfolded the edge of her anchol and gave Renu the piece of paper.
“Oh.” She shook her head. “This is not Chorda’s. It's Nawda’s.” Abhaya sat up and asked. “What is it?”
“A bill from the mission.” Renu shrugged. “Adhare Alo.”
“Mission? What mission?” Abhaya asked, trying to sound least interested.
“Oh, you don’t know, Choto Boudi?” Renu shook her head. “Baba used to help a Brahma Samaj Mission, then he got busy, so Naw Da took over.”
“Is that so?” Abhaya raised her brows inquisitively. “What is the mission about?”
“Orphans. People they save.” Renu recollected. “The ones deserted and rejected by society. They say these people are untouchable, too. But why?” Renu asked as Abhaya eyed her. “Have you ever been there?”
“No.” Renu shook her head. “But Uma Didi might have been there. Look! This is Kashipur. That is two villages away from here.”
“Does umm… Baba or Chorda go there too?” Abhaya asked hesitantly.
“No, Boudi, only Nawda.” Uma had called out to Renu, accusing her of stealing her ribbons, again interrupting the conversation. Renu stuck out her tongue and ran, hoping that Didi would not catch her. Abhaya could hear Uma scolding, the girls arguing and then giggles and laughter. Abhaya felt hollow inside. She missed Nirbhaya and Niranjan. She missed Didi. She wondered if Swadhin was looking for her.
“Where did you go?” Her voice trembled. Abhaya was suddenly overwhelmed with sadness.
Meera packed her trunk and pushed it shut. She eyed Kabir, tying the knots on the bedding.
“So they looked convinced?” She asked, breaking the long silence of the room. Kabir had come home from the market and informed her that the leader wanted them out. They spend the afternoon break thinking of an excuse not to vanish from the house and avoid suspicion. Meera had hatched a plan. Kabir wrote a letter that Meera read out to Ma Thakuron and Ranibala Debi with tears in her eyes. It said that the family who had not accepted Padma as Kanailal’s bride realised their mistake. His father was seriously ill, and they wanted them back. His brothers were offering a share of their farmland, and that meant they did not need to work in the city anymore. Ma Thakuron was not pleased as she glared through her heavy-powered glasses. Perhaps because the pain of finding two servants now seemed like a tough job, but Ranibala Debi seemed pleased. Kabir had brought train tickets to a village to show the Babus. They would get down at a station midway and go their separate ways. Until the next mission, perhaps. Kabir nodded at Meera’s question. “Yes, I even showed them our tickets. Come, we have to go to the station.” He got up and eyed Meera, who sighed, looking at the room longingly. Kabir narrowed his eyes at her.
“Don’t tell me you got attached to this house.” He raised his eyebrows with a hint of amusement.
“No. I was just…” She looked up at him and smiled faintly. “Imagining how I have to go back to an empty room in Pishima’s house for a while.”
“Ah, so you will miss me?” Kabir teased as Meera smiled.
“I did not say that. I will miss some company.” She said and surprised Kabir with a hug. Kabir did not expect that, and he took some time to embrace her.
“The next mission will be soon.” There was a sense of longing in his voice. Meera looked up at him. “Something tells me we won’t be together for that one.”
“That’s bad. I kind of liked your company.” He shrugged.
“Even when I force you to buy new shirts?” She smiled, amused.
“Especially then.” Kabir’s eyes hovered from her eyes to the hairline drawn with Sindoor. He realised that come tomorrow, she would not need that again. He stepped back and picked up the holdall and trunk. “Come.” Meera followed him out.
Swadhin was studying in his shared room when the postman arrived at the door of the Mess Bari. Swadhin usually had no letters. Especially since he visited home every weekend. So the arrival of the postman was a happy occasion for only his friend, who could visit home every two or three months and ran to the door.
“Swadhin!” He turned to his friend’s enthusiasm. “You have not one but two letters.”
Swadhin frowned at his words and stood up as the friend teased him. “Someone’s newly married and that shows.” Swadhin was about to say she could not write letters. He would add that even if she could, she would not write to him. But he let the man be satisfied with his teasing before handing him the letters and going back to his bedding. Swadhin sat down at the desk and stared at the envelopes. One had no stamps, just his name and address. He opened it first, eyeing his roommate.
“Meet me at the College gate at 4 pm.” He knew the handwriting. It was Meera’s. He wondered what she was doing in Dhaka. Then he wondered if she knew about Abhaya.
A part of Swadhin was intimidated by the idea of facing Meera after what he did. Then there was another rational part of him that wondered what right Meera had to tell him what to do. He eyed his watch, and it was 3 pm. He grabbed his panjabi to put over his vest before adjusting his glasses. Then he opened the other letter. The first three lines were from Mejo Boudi.
“Teaching Abhaya to write to you, Choto Thakurpo.” He could hear her teasing voice ringing in his warm ears. Then he turned the page, and Abhaya had used a pencil, and he could see that she had rubbed the letter many times. Her handwriting looked like a five-year-old’s and was filled with spelling mistakes. Abhaya wrote in Bangla.
“Mejdibhai insisted. Hope you are well. Everything is fine here. Renu says to bring her some red ribbons from Dhaka. Don’t forget to bring the notebooks you took from me to correct. Have you heard anything about Didi? Iti, Abhaya.” Swadhin smiled. He put the letter between the book he was reading, took his purse, made a mental note to buy ribbons and left.
Meera was standing at the gate, looking around, when Swadhin tapped her from behind. Meera eyed him through her glasses. She was back in her saree, gold earrings, the long braid she wore to college once and a pair of glasses she did not need. She had a Jhola on her shoulder stuffed with what Swadhin could assume from the shape to be clothes. She checked her watch to see if he was right on time and smiled at him. He seemed to have dressed in a hurry and arrived; his hair was not combed, and his Panjabi was wrinkled. He had not shaved either.
“What are you doing here?” Swadhin asked without wasting any time, “Where is Kabir?”
Meera frowned at his words. “No, how are you?” She shook her head. “Where are your manners? Why am I being interrogated?”
“Sorry.” Swadhin shook his head, holding his neck like it hurt. “Can we talk while walking? I have to buy some ribbons.”
“For Abhaya?” Her voice sounded amused, and Swadhin stopped to eye her. So she knew. “Umm, no. Renu. My sister.” Meera nodded as they walked side by side towards the market.
“I am on my way to Pishima’s house. I saw the station and got down from the train without thinking.” Meera sounded unsure. “I was thinking if you were here or…”
“Oh, so you are going on holiday?” Swadhin asked. “When was the last time you visited?”
“I don’t remember. Kabir went home too.” There was something in her voice that made Swadhin stare. “Is he in trouble?” Meera shook her head. “I heard that you…” She suddenly remembered what Kabir had told her. Truth be told, she got down from the train, remembering Kabir’s words about meeting Swadhin again. “Saved Abhaya.” She was careful with her words.
“I know you would not approve…” Swadhin stopped at a ribbon shop, and Meera proceeded to ask for a red pair of ribbons.
“It doesn’t matter whether anyone approves of Swadhin; what matters is your commitment towards what you did. It should not be impulsive.” Meera said as she selected a ribbon. Swadhin took out his purse. The man smiled.
“Good Choice, Boudi. Dada, you should get her more pairs.” Swadhin’s hand stopped at his purse as Meera chuckled. “No thanks, Dada, one is enough.” She said almost immediately. Swadhin handed the man the money. “She is not my wife.” Meera eyed him at his words as the man looked awkward. He turned to Meera, taking the brown paper bag in his hand. “And I was not thinking impulsively.” He said with intent.
Meera stared at Swadhin, wondering if Kabir was right. If experience turned the boy she knew into a man. Meera smiled. “What about her?” She asked. “How is Abhaya doing?” Swadhin inhaled. “She is taking some time to get used to it all, and we can’t blame her. I mean, she is genuinely affectionate towards the women of the house…”
“Be careful, Swadhin.” Meera looked grim as she cut him off. “We can’t lose the leader because of her.”
“The Leader is my father, Meera Di. I know what is at stake. We have our eyes on her and without any proof…” His voice trailed.
“Is it true that her sister is alive?” Meera asked, and Swadhin was silent. Was it possible that his father sent her? Swadhin had to be careful.
“Umm… we don’t know.” He seemed reluctant. They stopped at a busy intersection to cross the road. Meera eyed the coming traffic. Swadhin used his free hand to hold hers and cross the road. Meera was a little taken aback by his touch, but she also realised that she missed it. It was an odd feeling to not miss a person, but how their touch felt. She eyed him as they got onto the pavement on the other side, and he let go of her hand. Meera was contemplating when Swadhin looked up at her face with a faint smile and said, “We should not see each other again unless it’s work, Meera Di.” She looked up at his words, a little surprised. Was she disappointed that Swadhin was not chasing her anymore? Meera smiled. “Why? Your wife would object?”
“No…” Swadhin shook his head. “ I wish not to hurt her with my past.” Meera did not know what to say; she narrowed her brows at him.
“Are you ashamed of your past, Swadhin?” He was surprised at her words. He shook his head.
“Absolutely not, Meera Di. You know me better than that. I learnt a lot from you.” He stopped as Meera now chuckled teasingly. “Really? What did you learn, Swadhin? Does it help please your wife?” He ignored her teasing glance and smiled. “You taught me to be brave, Meera Di. Without knowing you, I would never have been motivated to choose my path. Or choose Abhaya.” Meera’s smile faded at his words. “You are someone I admire and respect, and I wish Abhaya would turn into a woman like you someday.” Meera inhaled. Something in Swadhin’s respect and admiration was off-putting. Meera was amused at how her thoughts were screwed up when it came to him. Once again, Kabir was right. Meera looked up at Swadhin and folded her hands.
“Goodbye, Swadhin. I hope you and Abhaya have a good life together, and if we never meet again, remember that it was always a pleasure knowing you. Take care of her.” Swadhin could barely make sense of her words before she disappeared into the crowd. He stood there, hands folded, for a while before walking back to his room. He sat down at night contemplating whether to write back to Abhaya or not. It was Wednesday. His letter would perhaps reach her after he reached home, then what was the point? Except that, if it arrived after he did and was in the hands of his sisters or sisters-in-law, Abhaya would have to face uncomfortable, endless teasing. He decided against it.
