Chapter Thirty: Annihilation

Barrister Suresh Kumar Gangopadhyay lived with his wife and infant boy near Sealdah in Calcutta. Their home was a sprawling four-room apartment on one side of a huge mansion that had been sold to multiple families. Suresh was reluctant to return home to Barisal as soon as he started working in Calcutta. The reasons were more than one. And more than what his brothers made out of it. It was not because he forgot his village roots of Lakutiya and became snobbish in the city. It was not because he did not care enough for his parents. If anything, he cared a lot, enough to not hurt them. During his college days in Kolkata, Suresh encountered several kinds of people. Men from other beliefs and provinces away from Bengal. He had become more liberal. As a Kulin Brahmin who grew up in the village environment, he was sure his ways of mingling with the British at parties, drinking and enjoying a bit of dance and drama or even his inclination towards Brahma Samaj, would not go down well with his homely mother. She had never seen a world outside Lakutiya. And his father? He was too busy with the poor orphans to even care about his children. Growing up, all Suresh remembered were his elder brothers helping the younger ones with everything, but their father should have been around for them. He was not one to dismiss the lack of interest on his father’s end as his character. Suresh’s only tie pulling him back home was his mother. So he did go there once a year. Nonibala Debi assumed that marrying her son to a “good” bride to bind him down would help. Marriage did help, but not in the way his mother imagined. Suresh rejected a thousand photographs and proposals to finally stumble upon Kanakbala, whose father was a manager in a British Factory. The dowry was good, even when his father was against it, and it helped him buy the house. Kanakbala was convent-educated and lived most of her life in Chandannagar. One meeting with her made it amply clear to the Barrister groom that she was the kind of woman he needed as a partner. She was opinionated, outgoing and smart about her ways. The only person who kept constant contact with him, even after his marriage, and put the final nail in the coffin of his attachment to Lakutiya was Sharat. They were only two years apart, and Sharat was his friend growing up. Though he looked quirky to most people back home, Suresh was sure his brother had special qualities. While Sharat studied at Presidency College, he came to live with them for six months. In those few months, Suresh was reassured that he had a brother who understood him. They would debate and discuss politics and law. Sharat would read about war and report it to him. When the pandemic hit the world, it was Sharat who insisted on donating to a Christian organisation to help the needy. Suresh wondered what his mother would think about that. He was highly disappointed when Sharat grew tired of life in the city and was homesick enough to leave the brightest opportunities Calcutta offered to go back home to Lakutiya. However, their letters did not stop. Suresh had not visited home in the last one and a half years. Travelling with an infant was not advisable according to British doctors. His wife, however, insisted that he send home some monetary help. As expected, his money was returned by his father. He understood why he was misunderstood by Upendra. But he was not going to explain himself to a man who did not explain his actions. Suresh was a bit surprised when Sharat wrote to him about Swadhin saving Abhaya and marrying her. Suresh knew the Mukhopadhyays well and shared his concern about how Abhaya would fit in. Then the letters abruptly stopped. Suresh was deciding to go home alone for the holidays to check on the family when a telegram arrived, surprising him. It was from Swadhin. It was about Kalyani and Sharat. Suresh was proud of Sharat. As proud as he could be. He decided to host Kalyani and Sharat at his home and give them a wedding party.

“But what about Maa?” He wrote back to Swadhin, worried.  Kanakbala was sure that Shashuri Maa would not be able to accept a widow as her favourite son’s wife. Swadhin wrote back that they would think about it later. As of now, they needed to get them wed.

Kabir had followed Adam Jones to Chitpur disguised as a student. He had been trailing his target for over a month. Adam Jones spent his day in his office, returned home briefly to change his uniform and spent his nights either in Metia Bruz or Chitpur. Kabir was unsure of why Jones was addicted to the world of Tawaifs. Was he actually addicted, or was he there for secret information?

Kabir had left Meera with an abrupt goodbye from their Chattagram home as soon as he was summoned. Meera promised to wait there. It made his heart sink that she hoped against all odds. The ampule of Cyanide hung from his neck as a locket since that day. The instructions came with a gun and the target. “Adam Jones. As soon as possible.” He knew how precious acquiring those bullets was. He had one shot. Or maybe two before Jones’s security gunned him down. He needed to take it at close range. He tried for employment at the house of the new in-charge and failed. Then he tried the office, but they were not hiring. So the only way was to be in the same Mehfil as Jones was. But there, he also found security around him to be tight. Kabir could not reach Jones. So he knew the only way to achieve his goal was if Jones reached out to him. He asked the informant for more information on Jones’ recent travels to Calcutta. For the first few days, he only observed the place, surroundings, people and routines. Then he realised that although Jones goes to these houses, he never enters the Mehfils. He keeps talking to people as if he were looking for someone. That was the opening Kabir needed. He took up a place for rent in the house adjacent to one of the constables constantly following Jones. He then befriended his brother and offered to teach him for free. That prompted the family to call him for dinner.

“Satya.” The constable asked while his wife offered him another piece of fish. “Do you have a family?” Kabir looked up at his words, the morsel in his hand, as he remembered Meera. He had told her to move on and live her life. He was never coming back home. But somewhere, he could see Meera’s stubborn gaze. He could feel that she was as satisfied as he was with their brief homely bliss. She needed no more. Kabir had always wanted someone to mourn him and remember him. He realised he was selfish back then, for now he knew there would be someone who would always mourn him for the rest of her life, when all he wanted was for her to be happy.

“No.” He lied. “I have no time. I am a jobless man looking to feed myself in the big city.” The constable’s wife pitied him. The constable shook his head.

“Tsk Tsk, if you were a woman, it would have been easier,” he joked. Kabir looked up at his words, trying to feign innocence. “How is that?” He asked. The constable laughed.

“My boss goes to these… forbidden houses every day… so many women being gifted jewellery, paid highly by lonely men to spend time with them…”

“Your boss must be a lonely man, then.” He sounded indifferent.

“Nonsense. He goes there, pays them to talk… and leaves…” The constable shook his head. “He is looking for one of them. Perhaps lost his heart in the Bazaar of love.”

Kabir smiled faintly at the constable’s amusement. He went on. “He keeps asking, Do you know Mohini? Do you know Mohini? She must be pretty.” That was all the information Kabir needed.

It was a Friday night when he went into the Kothi Bari in Chitpur, where Jones walked into. He avoided the constable standing guard outside by hiding behind a carriage and sneaking in through the side. Jones was in the corridor asking an elderly woman, “What about a Parbati Bai?” The woman shook her head. He frowned. Kabir bumped into him deliberately and said fluently, “Excuse me, I am sorry…” Jones nodded and looked up at him briefly before continuing the interrogation. 

That Sunday, Adam Jones was invited to the race course by one of his colleagues since he was in Calcutta for the week. Jones accepted the invitation, hoping to gather some more intel. Perhaps more nooks and corners in the city where women kept Kothis and hid others like Mohini. The bidding had started when Kabir walked in, in a suit and hat he had rented from a shop in Park Street. 

“Excuse me, I want a bid on number seven.” He said as Jones looked up at him.

“I have seen you somewhere.” Jones inferred that the other officer stared at him suspiciously. Kabir raised his eyebrows. He shook his head like he did not remember.

“I just came from Purulia.” He said confidently. “You must be mistaken for someone else…” Kabir started walking away as Jones stood there for a brief moment, and then followed him. 

“Excuse me, where in Purulia?” He asked. Kabir looked at him a little suspiciously, narrowing his brows. “I work in rural areas to gather census… There is a village called…Jeledi…” Jones’s face lit up with the name he had heard on Mohini’s lips as she reminisced about her childhood. “Tell me something.” He said urgently. “Was there any woman by the name of… Mohi.. urm… Hiranmayi?” Kabir’s narrowed brows disguised his feeling of accomplishment well. The informant was right. She cost him a night’s pay, but it was worth it.  Jones was too caught up in his wild goose chase to question the coincidence rationally.  

“I have to go back home and check my records… It's a large village, but I think I will know once I see my papers…” Kabir sat on the stand as the announcement was made that the race was about to start. Jones sat down with him. “Can you meet me with the information tomorrow?” He urged. “At Calcutta Club.” Kabir nodded.

On Monday morning, Adam Jones was supposed to leave for his post, but he met Kabir at the Calcutta Club for breakfast. Thankfully, the club provided its security, and the constables were not around. Jones urgently wanted to know about Hiranmoyi.

“There was a woman called Hiranmoyi.” Kabir stood with a smile, refusing Jones’s offer to join him. “A woman in her thirties who started living there quite recently.”

“That is the one.” Jones stood up with sparkling eyes. “That’s her. Tell me how to reach the village. Tell me the fastest route.” Kabir stared at him calmly. “You will go there yourself? She must be important.” Jones nodded. “She is. She holds the key to many doors. She can reassure me that  I am wrong about her.” To other people around them, Jones would appear like he was ranting, but Kabir stared at him with hollow eyes. In Jones, he could see a small glimpse of a man in love or perhaps obsessed with an object of desire. Either way, it was like a harmful drug that refused to wear Jones away. He remembered the leader’s words about not humanising targets. Kabir had his pistol tucked at his waist, hidden from sight. As a guest of Jones, he was not searched. Even if he was, he was ready with an excuse that it was a government-provided safety gun. Jones was too desperate for information to back him. 

Adam Jones stood there briefly and made up his mind.

“Thank you so much.” He shook Kabir’s hand as Kabir eyed the guards and people around him one last time. Jones rushed to his car, asking the Valet to bring it to the portico. His boot tapped on the white marble as he waited eagerly, staring at the car pulling up and then back at his watch. Kabir walked up behind him. 

He took the gun out of his waist in a flash, the cold metal touching against his warm skin in eager anticipation as he called Jones. “Sir?” Jones turned at his voice, and Kabir pulled the trigger with an ear-deafening noise. “Vande Mataram.” His fist pumped in the air as his voice echoed. “Inquilab Zindabad!”

Two bullets lodged into Jones’ heart as he fell backwards, his white shirt stained red. He grunted twice, shaking vigorously as life was sucked out of his open eyes. The police, guards and staff came running through the corridor shouting, “He has a gun. He has a gun! That man in a black suit…” The guests screamed and ran helter-skelter in dismay. They were under attack in broad daylight. One of the policemen flung at Kabir from the side to make sure he dropped his gun. Kabir pushed the ampule of Cyanide between his teeth. He embraced the darkness bravely.

“Evening news! Evening news!” The paperboy ran through the streets. “A British Officer was gunned down in Calcutta. Terrorist killed.” Swadhin was driving back home from the city after a day at the hospital when he stopped the car at the intersection and reached out to the boy. He handed the paper to Swadhin. Adam Jones… An unidentified man… was investigating the weaponry loot at Rupganj. Swadhin rushed back home, agitated. Before he even stepped inside, he could feel something suffocating in the air around the place. He reached the living room to stop, alarmed as everyone looked up at him. It was Abhaya who first reached his side, taking his bag from his hand. He could see her hands shaking a little. Sharat stood there patting Nonibala Debi’s head gently as she cried and lamented, holding on to him. The elder brothers looked grim. The women were scared. Renu was upstairs with the children. Uma stood by her father. Swadhin looked up at the leader. His head was shaved, and he wore a saffron robe. An involuntary gasp escaped his lips as he rushed towards the leader. Upendra looked up at his youngest son and then at the newspaper in his hand.

“Kabir has fired the last shot.” He said. “I told Nonibala everything. It is time they know. For I will be leaving.”

“Where will you go, Baba?” Swadhin asked, worried.

“Somewhere far from all this, so that all of you are safe.” His words made Nonibala Debi sob loudly. Swadhin looked up at his mother and wondered if she was proud of her husband or secretly rebuked him. Upendra smiled faintly. “I leave you with the task of taking Sharat to Calcutta.” He glanced over to Sharat. “And to you, the task of dismantling the group.” Sharat nodded. The women stared at him in disbelief. They could never imagine the eccentric Sharat would know and help his father with something so unimaginable. How could they all be blind? Sharat nodded. “I have sent information to everyone.” The Leader turned to Abhaya now. He gestured at her to come closer, and Swadhin eyed them unsurely. Abhaya stepped forward. She could feel everyone staring at her. 

“I know all you wanted to do was get me captured.” The Leader’s voice was calm. Nonibala Debi stared at her husband and then at Abhaya in disbelief. “I know you want me to pay for your father’s murder.” A gasp escaped Nonibala Debi’s lips as she asked with a trembling voice, “You…killed them?”

“Would you believe me if I said that was not my intention, Bou?” Abhaya stared at Nonibala Debi, closing her eyes and looking away from her husband. “I know you feel disgusted now, perhaps even angry. It is justified if you want to leave me.” Protima and Bimala exchanged scared glances at his words. Has anyone ever heard of their in-laws separating at old age? If they did, what would they tell society? How could they show their face to the world now that he was a sought-after criminal? What was to become of their children’s future? Would they have to leave their home and roots and move to save face?

Nonibala Debi did not speak. Upendra turned to Abhaya again. “You may submit the evidence you gathered about me to the police and tell them the truth. But wait till Swadhin and Sharat leave, and I depart. That way, the innocent would not be in trouble.” Abhaya’s throat felt dry. “Swadhin, take her to the police station. Then leave her wherever she wants to go.” Abhaya eyed Swadhin, looking grim at his father and nodding. He did not look up at Abhaya. The others, however, stared at her like their fate depended on her.

The Leader stood up. “Ashi…” He said as the women started weeping again and the men looked away. “If someday I am alive when India is free, we will meet again.” He touched Nonibala Debi’s head gently with a smile. “You have given me happiness and bliss in life. Children to be proud of. A home to return to. Your love and support meant more to me than I can tell you, Bou. Hope you forgive me.” Nonibala Debi composed herself, drew the Ghomta over her head and touched her husband’s feet. Abhaya stared at them in silence, her fist tightening around the belt of Swadhin’s bag. Upendra blessed Nonibala Debi with a faint smile, removed the ring he wore on his little finger and handed it to her. Nonibala Debi touched it to her forehead.

“I want you to know that even if I don’t return, don’t mourn me as dead. For I am alive, if not as a mortal but as an idea that inspires a thousand others.” Nonibala Debi looked up at his words and nodded. “For as long as I live, I promise to keep you alive.” Her voice shook. Upendra turned to Uma, who was crying with the anchol of her saree pressed against her lips. “Maa.” He said softly, “Every father must teach his children rights and wrongs, values and morals, and eventually give them away to good husbands…” Uma looked up at his words as Upendra smiled. “I entrust your brothers with the latter, for I know I am proud of bringing you up well. Thank you for being so brave in Medinipur.” Uma nodded. She had no heart to tell her father that she had chosen the path for herself. The path Meera Di inspired her to take. “Take care of Renu, she is only a child.” Upendra picked up the bundle at his feet. It was now that Swadhin noticed the very little he had in his possession.

“Give us an address, Baba.” He said, “Somewhere we can write to you. Someone who can tell Maa how you are.” Upendra hugged Swadhin lightly. “You know that is not safe. But do as I say, help Abhaya to do what she wants. She should have the freedom to choose.” Swadhin nodded firmly. Abhaya lowered her gaze to the red floor. The elder brothers murmured amongst themselves before speaking up.

“Send us any kind of sign that you are alive, Baba. It is needed legally for us to…” Sharat stared at them disapprovingly. They meant that if he was not alive legally, they could enjoy the ownership of his properties. Upendra understood. He nodded.

“I will try to.” He lied. He knew he had left the Maya of worldly pleasures behind and chosen a path of spirituality that would give him a way to serve people and the greater good, just in a different way. Honestly, nobody except Nonibala Debi was reason enough to come back home and explain himself. He would have left for Nadia and then Kashi, and ultimately to Kedarnath, without telling a soul. But years of marriage and the way Nonibala Debi had stood by him made Upendra feel guilty. She deserves an explanation, for he knew if not given one, she would blame herself for it. Upendra reached the threshold of the house and turned back. 

It was then that Abhaya dropped the bag clumsily on the floor and rushed to him to touch his feet. Sharat and Swadhin exchanged glances as Abhaya wept, taking his blessings. Upendra placed his hand on her head gently and said, “I apologise to you, Maa. Forgive me.”

“Bless me, please.” Abhaya sobbed as she looked up at Upendra’s calm, smiling face. “I feel weak.”

“No, my child, you are strong. One of the strongest people I know.” Upendra reassured her. “May you find peace and happiness. Sukhi hoyo.” Abhaya stood at the threshold as she saw Upendra walk away with the bundle under his arms into the darkness.