Meera travelled to her Pishima’s house in Chattogram from Dhaka after meeting Swadhin. She did not linger a moment longer in Dhaka. All through her journey, she couldn't help but think about Swadhin’s safety. He was not a child she could manage, but something in him was different. Like Abhaya had him at her fingertips with her feigned innocence. It disturbed Meera. She had never seen Swadhin that way. Perhaps that was not entirely true. Swadhin was always submissive. Wasn’t that what Meera liked when she was the one dominating him? She sighed. Perhaps it was Abhaya’s turn, and that bothered her. Did it? She wondered if Kabir thought of her concern as something else. Meera had always been fiercely protective of the people she knew and cared for. But she would never be in love with someone as immature as Swadhin. It made her contemplate her own life and experiences.
Meera remembered her father. He was protective of her and often talked of the world like she never understood it, yet she listened to him read the newspaper, sitting on his lap. He would pamper her with gifts, and every time her mother would make her cut vegetables or put the washed clothes in lines to dry, he would scold his wife in his gruff voice and remind her that Meera should be educated and outwardly. She had never felt as safe as she felt in his arms. She was eleven when they passed, one after another, in a mysterious outbreak of fever in the village. Since then, she had been taken in by Pishima and her family. Meera stayed there, but she never felt at home. When her cousins would get new clothes in Puja, she would have to use the old ones they had grown out of. When they went out with their parents, she would be left at home with Nimai’s Maa for the day. She was still grateful that they used her father’s savings to educate her, just like his will said. Her father was a man with the foresight to make a will like that, she often heard her Pishemoshai say with the Churut in between his teeth. But his foresight gave Meera hope for life and made her who she was.
Meera was in college in Dhaka when she met Bimal, who talked of fighting for freedom. He distributed pamphlets and made speeches that moved Meera until one day the police came in and arrested him. They had him for a conspiracy to attack an officer; rumour in the college said so. Bimal was not seen for many days after that. The next time Meera saw him, he was sick, unable to recover from the police brutality that changed him in shape and form. But his spirit was unshaken. He had sent a junior to fetch Meera from college and take her to his hut on the outskirts of a village.
“Meera.” He had held her hand for the first time with his bony, cold fingers. “ Please, can you do me one favour, fulfil my last wish?”
“Don’t say that, Bimal Da. You will recover.” Meera had insisted in tears. Bimal seemed to have given up hope of recovery. He had started coughing blood, and the doctor said his spleen was ruptured. He did not have the money for treatment.
“Do what I could not do. Help the downtrodden, help the motherland. Help her be free. Help yourself.” Bimal’s eyes sparkled as Meera nodded between her sobs. “Bimal Da.” She gasped.
“Tumi Parbe. I have seen the potential in you, Meera. Don’t let me down,” his voice trailed. His eyes looked as though he was in a trance. He was staring at Meera, but saw beyond her.
“I will not, Bimal Da, I will never…” Meera’s words died on her lips as Bimal’s hand slipped off her grip. After her parents, he was the first person she saw dying before her eyes, the first she truly loved.
Meera withdrew into the shell she had once created after her parents’ death. She did not share with anyone that she had met Bimal, and to those who knew him, even his family, he was still missing. Meera could not crush the hopes of his widowed mother. Instead, she visited her from college and helped her. That was when she met his junior again, Sharat. Sharat told Meera that if she wished to fulfil his last wish, he could help. And just like that, with no second thoughts, Meera was part of the anarchists.
Sharat was probably the only one who knew about Bimal. Meera never disclosed his thoughts to anyone, as if they would take away from her, the only story she had that she could call her own. Every time Pishima tried to coax her into talking to some orphan boy living alone in the city, looking for a bride, Meera would brush it off. She started living away and sending money back to make the woman stop. It worked. The family realised that the money would stop once she was married, so nobody bothered her anymore. A postcard and money once a month were the duty she fulfilled towards those who gave her a roof and shelter. Now, going back to the place she knew, she would again face the song she had avoided for so long.
After Bimal, every relationship she had was superficial. She was careful enough not to make them otherwise. There were men before Swadhin, and men would follow after him. Meera wondered if she had ever written a truthful biography that they would name-call her for. But they were not random men she knew. She met them like she would meet any other acquaintances.
One was her professor in college. Meera was his prodigy. Until he started flirting with her behind his wife’s back. Meera was bothered at first. Then, Sharat said he was close to a British Officer who could give her access to the elite parties they hosted in Dhaka. That meant information and access to help the group. Meera flirted back and agreed to be his date for the evening parties. After all, his orthodox wife would never attend a party with alcohol, meat and women being served freely. She did not care when he introduced her as his wife. She had access, and Sharat had the information. The price of that was to go back to the Professor’s empty house whenever his wife and children were at her mother’s for the vacations. She did not mind the escapades. The man had his genius weirdness. They never went beyond making out or lying naked, smoking cigarettes while he read out his research papers to her. Meera praised him unselfishly. That was his attraction to her. She pretended to worship the ground he walked on. His words were truer than any faith she ever had. Sharat often said he had a superiority complex. He had read Alfred Adler’s paper on the research. He was a world-renowned medical practitioner and psychologist who had just named a certain type of behaviour analysis in humans. Sharat often said it would pave the way for a new understanding of human minds. Meera was intrigued by the way Sharat broke his behaviour into science. It ended when the Professor’s wife had a whiff of the affair, and the spineless prick accused Meera of coming on to him.
The next man was the one Meera thought would be her second chance. He was a few years older than her, and his job at the administrative office of the Imperial Government in Barishal was stable enough to get him a fairly large quarter and a car at his disposal. He was introduced to her by Pishima's friend. He had an aura of fatherly protectiveness that Meera craved for. He was also the first person Meera truly made love to. She did not hesitate to go all the way. He promised to marry her. But soon Meera realised he idolised the colonisers. He thought that the country was in a state of doom, darkness, uneducated, misinformed fools with poor conduct, superstitious, and no country for the elite, minorities or women before the British came in. The British civilised Indians. He discarded the argument of India being prosperous long before Great Britain existed, queens ruling the subcontinent long before the Europeans found it right and turned a blind eye to the British evils of witch hunt or dowry, where women had no rights either. When Meera asked what he was doing for his countrymen, he was clear on his stance. What could he do? He supported those who did. Leave it to the government. He said. He was just someone who complained about everything except those who paid for his job. Meera had travelled Bimal’s guided path long enough for her not to be able to take such a stance anymore. She left the man without much explanation and ended up with an older gentleman who frequented the auctions her Pishemoshai often attended in Dhaka and Calcutta. He was a native of Khulna who lived in Chattogram for work.
She had been to auction houses a few times reluctantly with the old man, whose sons and daughters were too busy to go along, and Meera could not say no. The older man’s knowledge of the world and its history attracted her. But soon she felt aloof with his repeated lectures on how the younger generation knew and felt nothing. Meera had found an odd job in Dhaka by then, but soon her involvement in the movement did not allow her to continue. She could, however, still send money back home as long as she worked undercover. That was when, on her first undercover mission, Meera met Kabir.
Kabir’s background was very different from hers, and if rumours were to be believed among the group itself, the Leader found him with one of his informants at Metia Bruz. Over the years, Kabir had become the only friend Meera ever had. He looked out for her and gave her sanity in the turmoil of everyday rush. Meera never let Kabir know how much she valued his opinion and companionship. It was always so easy working with him on any mission when she knew he always had her back. It was not until very recently that Meera understood that Kabir had deeper feelings for her than he intended to have. She respected the way he tried to keep it in, making sure his feelings never came in the way of their friendship or work. Meera knew his feelings were growing in the last mission, and she felt alarmed. The last thing she needed was to ruin the friendship they had. She dreaded the moment she would have to reject his advances. Meera did not like mixing business with pleasure. She had done so before, and it was not pleasant for her.
That is perhaps why she was drawn to someone like Swadhin. She felt liberated because he was timid and fearful of her, never tried asking her questions and did what she wanted from him. Meera did care for Swadhin, but not even as a friend. She cared because she knew he was an emotional fool who could not see through Abhaya the way she did. She cared because she knew his impulsiveness could land Sharat and the Leader in trouble. But she also knew Kabir was right. They were his family; he must know better. Meera made a mental note to tell people that her job demanded her to move to places with the Madam she worked for, a British woman running a charity around India, educating the poor. She had a concrete story that was believable to the family. That way, she would not be pestered to meet another man.
Sharat had left the mission three weeks back to go back to Itna, where the leader was stationed. They briefed the plans for Benu’s son’s trial, which none of them could attend. However, the barrister said that the chances of saving him were bleak. Benu was there too, his frail body bruised with police torture marks, his eyes cold like glass as he heard the group discuss the trial.
“My son will be hanged for the motherland, Mastermoshai.” He said at last. “I have no regrets, and he should be proud too.”
“Write to him once.” Upendra had suggested. Benu shook his head. “No, I will not weaken his determination with pichutaan.” Sharat was amazed by his strength. “Attachments are not for those who want to serve the motherland.” His eyes had involuntarily travelled to his father, who nodded and smiled faintly at Benu’s words and patted his back.
Sharat realised how every time they were away from home, Upendra never enquired about the people left behind: his wife, children, and grandchildren. Once he was home, he would spend time with them like he had nothing better to do. Sharat was more and more inspired by the way Upendra kept his attachments sorted. He knew in his heart, even more so now, that he could never practise detachment the way he hoped to. Away from home, he missed the home-cooked meals, the voices of his sisters, nephews and nieces and even his occasional banter with Abhaya or the other sisters-in-law. He missed his mother’s pestering care. And now he missed visiting the mission often, too. Something in him felt like someone was waiting for him there. He tried to brush away the feeling, pretending like he did not care, but every day as he lay in bed at night or travelled alone from one place to another, his thoughts wandered to the people he had left behind, and he could not help but think of their well-being. Did his father have these thoughts, too? Or was he the one not ready to let go of himself? Sharat could not tell. He hung around in Dhaka next, visiting a friend and not daring to tell his younger brother he was in town. From Dhaka, he was back at the Mission like he was counting days to be here. But as soon as Mohini implied so, it irked him. Benu’s words about attachment and sacrifice rang in his ears as he could only imagine the face of a father watching his son being pushed to the brink of death without tears or regret, proud of what he had done. He could never do that. Could the Leader?
Meera was surprised to see Pishima’s house decorated for festivities. She was awkward to realise she was neither informed nor expected to be a part of whatever they were celebrating. Perhaps she was unwelcome that way. Meera had no other place to go to, so she picked up her bag and walked into the house, only to realise that it was her cousin sister Mitali’s wedding in a month. Ashirbaad was the day before. The house was crammed with guests. Everyone was awkward seeing her, while they started making excuses as to why she was excluded from the celebration.
“We lost your address, dear.”
“We thought you were too caught up in your stenography job to come by.”
“Did Mitali not inform you?” Meera nodded, knowing the real reason was that she was older than Mitali by a few years.
Relatives were already flocking to the house; otherwise, Pishima would have told her to leave. It was better to make excuses for her absence than to explain why they did not care enough for the orphan girl to get her married. Meera congratulated a blushing Mitali, promising her a gift once she returned to work. She touched Pishima’s feet and informed them she was here for the holidays before she handed half of the money she had saved to Pishima for the wedding. She was not going to beat around the bush, and she was aware that she was not welcome. Her sons looked a little flabbergasted, but Meera put them at ease, saying she would leave soon and perhaps not even stay till the wedding.
One good thing about a house full of people was that, apart from the occasional interrogation into what she did and when she was getting married, Meera kept busy with chores, lending a helping hand wherever she could. It kept her thoughts away from everything that mattered for a while. The distraction, however, did not last long.
One afternoon, as the ladies sat around on the mats on the rooftop chatting, having paan and snacks and braiding each other’s hair, a servant came and informed them that a group of ladies from the Naari Seba Kendra had arrived to sell sarees.
“But we have not called anyone.” Pishima quipped.
“Yes, Ma Thakuron,” Nimai’s Ma agreed. “They come by when they hear of weddings and celebrations. These are poor women hand-stitching sarees from Kanthi.” Meera’s hand stopped at the paan she was making for an aunt when she looked up at their words. She had heard of Kanthi. She sprang up. “I would like to see these women. If buying a saree from them improves their lives, they will bless us.” In a minute, everyone seemed to agree, and these women were led into the courtyard with their bundles of colourful nine yards of stitched handloom. Meera’s eyes fell on the girl assisting the woman who seemed to be their leader. She started at Meera and came up to her with a blue Kantha-stitched saree. The others were attending to the other women of the family.
“You must take this, Didimoni.” The girl insisted. Meera shook her head. The girl pushed the saree into her hand, making her frown. “Take it. It's a gift.”
“But I…” Meera eyed the women at a distance, scrutinising the handwork and prices and then asked the girl, “Do I know you?”
The girl shook her head, adjusting the saree over her head like the other women.
“But I know you. Chorda… Swadhin sent me here. I am his sister, Uma.”
Meera’s heart skipped a beat. What was wrong? Was the leader in trouble? Was Sharat caught? Did Abhaya do something she always dreaded? Uma tapped on a pattern in the hem of the saree and nodded. Meera’s brows narrowed. Then she remembered one of the leader’s spy training sessions. Self-stitched coded messages in the hems of sarees and clothes cannot be easily detected. They often used the stitches to pass on messages. What surprised Meera was that Uma worked for them. She had always seen the girl around her clueless mother, learning to sew. So this was why.
Uma smiled and nodded as she grabbed the saree. Meera did not wait for the women to leave. While everyone else was busy, this was her moment. She ran upstairs to the empty roof and held the hem of the saree up to the direct sunlight. A message was coded there. It was no doubt the code they used within the group. It told her to meet at eleven near the crossroad, not far from the house. Meera knew she had to take Nimai’s cycle and sneak out there. But who gave her the message? Was she supposed to leave?
Swadhin was alarmed by a letter he received from his father in the middle of the week. It was unusual for the Leader to write to him at all. Swadhin hurriedly opened the letter, which informed him that Sharat was to accompany Abhaya to the police station. His heart skipped a beat as he looked pale. Did Abhaya go to the police? Was his father in trouble? Swadhin suddenly felt a little hot as he hurried through his mother’s letter. It sounded normal, as though nothing was wrong. She was enquiring about the usual things. Then his eyes fell on Abhaya’s letter. She wrote four lines but informed him how someone from the neighbourhood had told someone else that she was at their place, and the news reached the inspector in charge of her father’s investigation. Upon hearing that she had been summoned to give a witness account to the police, Sharat insisted on going with her. There was no hint of deception in her words, yet Swadhin felt restless. He knew how persuasive the police were. They could easily get the truth out of someone as naive as Abhaya. He sat down to write a letter to Sharat instead, asking him about the details of the interrogation.
Word and Explanations:
Pichu Taan: A Bengali word meaning “Pulling back” that refers to attachments that bind us to someone or something and do not let us get away easily.
.png)
