“Oh, he is meditating.” She pointed at the other room. Meera did not wait for her son to stop meditating. She walked into his room and placed the paper down.
“We must leave for Medinipur immediately.” That made him open his eyes. If anyone saw Azad Ahmed’s twenty-five-year-old face, he would remind them of his father. He frowned at his mother’s words. Not the first time he had seen her being impulsive. “Medinipur?” He asked, straightening himself and reaching for the Panjabi. “Why?” Meera placed the paper in front of him. It was an advertisement in the personal column by someone with the name of Sharat Gangopadhyay. It was a Smaran Sabha arranged by him in memory of his father and associates. Azad looked up with questioning eyes.
“ Is this the same Sharat Da you keep talking about?” Meera nodded. “I had no idea he was in Medinipur.” She shook her head. “We must go to pay homage to Master Moshai. And for the sake of your father’s memory.”
“I will arrange for the tickets.” She watched him nod and leave.
The chamber of Dr Swadhin Gangopadhyay in a posh area in Calcutta was crowded with patients when Abhaya Debi made her way through the crowd and reached the reception with her children in tow. She had just picked the teenagers up from school and came straight to the office.
“There is a patient in there.” The receptionist said with a smile. “How are you, Madam?”
“I am fine, let him know we are waiting, it's urgent.” Abhaya smiled. She glared at the younger one making a fuss about the heat and crowd, and sat down in the waiting area of her husband’s office chamber.
The dance class in the middle-class neighbourhood of Kestopur was alive with the sound of Ghungroo of children and elders alike. The board outside the building read “Nritya: Pyari Mohan Bhattacharya’s initiative for art”. Marzi paid the fare of the rickshaw that pulled up to the door and struggled to straighten himself with the help of his cane. He avoided the prying eyes of guardians outside, waiting for their ward's lessons to end as he walked inside with the newspaper under his arms.
Hiranmoyi Debi was helping a child with her Mudra when he walked in and stood at the threshold. Seeing the old man, she dismissed the students for the day and paid Ramdas to bring fresh Kachori and Singara for them. Marzi showed her the advertisement. Hiranmoyi’s eyes lit up.
“We should go.” She said, Marzi shook his head.
“I am too old for this, Mohi. You should go.”
" Can you never call me Hiranmoyi?" She frowned. Marzi smiled a toothless smile.
"I will always know Mohini. I never knew Hiranmoyi." He shrugged.
Jatindranath Ghosh was sipping tea at his neighbourhood shop when his eyes fell on the paper pasted beside the tea shop. He walked up to it and his fingers lingered on the advertisement. He wondered if he went there he could perhaps know where the others have been. How Bina has been.
Kalyani let her daughter help her set the centrepiece with the Rajanigandha and Bel garlands wrapped around the table. The servant was cleaning the huge framed portrait of Upendra Kishore Gangopadhyay. His smiling face and sparkling eyes were something Kalyani fondly remembered from her childhood. Her mother-in-law passed away a few years ago at the age of seventy-five after suffering from Pneumonia. Even on her deathbed, she remembered him. Nobody had heard from him since the day he left home, and the little hope Sharat had died when he did not come home six months after the declaration of India’s independence. Kalyani thought herself fortunate enough to not have to witness the horrors of partition. The idea that her childhood home, the places she was so familiar with, were now so far away behind the barbed wires of another country called East Pakistan was hard to imagine.
When the riots broke out, she feared that Sharat was not someone to sit idle and watch his country burn. After much advice from Suresh and persuasion from Mashima, he had agreed to settle in Medinipur and teach at a school in Kanthi. Kalyani feared that it might all go away with his one decision to rejoin the armed revolution. Sharat was actively in touch with the Bengal Volunteers when they formed active groups in Medinipur almost a decade after the leader left home. Kalyani knew he was not a man to sit and live an ordinary life, and she never expected him to. But the riots scared her. They were not humans but animals on either side of a border drawn overnight that separated people and homes and snatched lives in the name of religion and power. They had no humanity in them. Kalyani’s only relief during the time was the fact that she was pregnant with their second child, and Sharat would not dream of leaving his daughter alone with Kalyani in that state. Something that he often lamented with regret, that his father would be disappointed about. Nonibala Debi had met her only twice. First, they went home with their daughter, hoping for a reconciliation and acceptance from her in vain and the second time, when the family had moved into Suresh’s house after the partition.
It took a year or so for the elder brothers to find jobs and relocate under the refugee schemes of the government, and Nonibala Debi strictly refused to allow Kalyani into her house once again. Sharat feared that Kalyani would be remorseful of such behaviour from the only family they had. Instead, Kalyani expected enough not to be disappointed by the way Protima, Bimala or Nonibala Debi treated her or Abhaya. She was only sad that her marriage to Sharat ended Abhaya’s ties with the family, as they believed she led them on, and finally caused a final nail in the coffin when Kanakbala and Suresh went back home, hoping to help them reunite. The family broke into two, with the elder brothers, their mother and Renu on one side and Suresh, Sharat and Swadhin, along with Uma, on the other. The other sisters, who were long married off and disconnected from the family, refused to entertain the family feud. Uma stayed for a long time with Suresh in Calcutta to complete her graduation and later moved first with Kalyani to help with her newborn and finally with Abhaya when she found a job. Suresh’s children often came to live with them as well. Kalyani and Abhaya made sure that even in their busy schedules, taking care of the household, Kalyani’s singing lessons, Abhaya’s studies and teaching, and the children’s vacations, they took a vacation together as a family once a year reminiscing their childhood days in a distant land their children barely knew or remembered.
Kalyani’s chain of thoughts was interrupted when she found a pair of tiny hands wrapped around her neck, and a voice said, “Say who this is…”
“Oh, if it's not our little Ira.” Kalyani drew the giggling child onto her lap. “Where are Satyen and Subhas?” She questioned as Abhaya came in with a smile. “Don’t spoil her, Didi.” She shook her head. “The three of them are driving me crazy, and their father allows them to dance on his head.”
“Oh, don’t be so harsh, Choto.” Kalyani kissed Ira. “They barely get time with him.”
“And I have to manage everything. Even the teenage tantrums.” Abhaya shook her head.
“Don’t worry, once they grow up a little, they become more like friends. Like my Maya and Meghnad.” Kalyani reassured Abhaya.
“Is he coming from college today?” Abhaya enquired. Kalyani nodded. “So are Shejdibhai and her Bouma.”
Abhaya stared at the picture of Upendra, a little lost in thought, as Maya took Ira inside the house.
“Isn’t that Mohini?” Kalyani gasped as she ran to the gate and hugged a woman in her fifties wearing a pleated Tant Saree with a green border and a simple chain and bangles.
“How are you?” Hiranmoyi Debi wiped away her tears. “I thought I would never see you again…”
“Wait, let me find your Dada. He will be so glad you are here. He thought nobody would show up to the Smaran Sabha.”
“How can we not, Didi?” Mohini shook her head. “But it's Hiranmoyi now. I buried Mohini in the grave of Adam Jones.” Kalyani held her hand with questioning eyes. She smiled faintly. “I do visit his grave and offer flowers once in a while. I know his family would never return here for that.” Kalyani nodded understandingly and rushed inside to look for Sharat.
Swadhin was standing outside the gate with a smoke, watching the men from the village setting up the gate of the Smaran Sabha. He was somehow reluctant to come there. The people they would remember often brought nightmares to him. Swadhin could not tell anyone how many times he had dreamt of Kabir dying in his arms as he helplessly cried for help. How many times Bina’s smiling face made him sweat in his sleep? Sometimes he dreamt of his youth in the old house, with Niranjan running down the corridor and Abhaya in her colourful ribbons following him. Like the dreams were his ghosts of the past. Swadhin also dreamt of Meera Di. She looked sad in his dreams. And he dreamt of the men who came to him with bullet wounds and burns. Men, he could not save. Somehow, the entire event, although organised with good intentions, overwhelmed him. He knew how much it meant to Abhaya to teach the children the value of freedom. The little riots they witnessed in Calcutta were nothing compared to the vast injustice faced by the victims of partition. Swadhin knew that she was right, so he agreed to come along for the sake of bringing up a future generation who would not dare mock or take for granted the freedom their forefathers had gifted them. A car honked, making him look up at the road as it screeched to a halt in front of him. The door opened, and Meera stepped out with a smile on her face.
“Swadhin? Is that you?” She smiled. Swadhin could see the traces of silver in her hair and the wrinkles that formed under her eyes when she smiled. “How are you?”
“I am well.” Swadhin threw the cigarette butt away and doused it under his boot. “This is your son?” He smiled as the young man touched his feet. “I only saw a picture of him as a baby.”
“Where is Abhaya?” Meera asked. “I brought the pictures she asked for.” Swadhin had no idea how often Abhaya kept in touch with Meera. Occasionally, when Azad was an infant, Abhaya would insist on sending Meera clothes and toys because she knew Meera would never take monetary help or come live with them. She refused to listen to Swadhin’s advice of not keeping in touch until things settled down.
The police had raided the Natmandir in Lakutiya and the hideout at Itna and found nothing. However, Kanu had identified Kabir from the police sketch, saying he had a wife. His details did not yield any identification result as no man of his name existed in the said village. A few villagers of Itna had identified suspicious activities across the banks of the Bhairavi by a group of strangers, but everything without a proper name or place seemed to be a dead end. Ramdas was caught by police under suspicion in possession of a weapon and released only when the deed of Independence was signed. He was tortured in the jail cell but did not utter a single name of his associates.
Every year on Adam Jones’s death anniversary, his wife would print an In Memoriam in the Indian Newspapers, hoping to find justice for her husband and find the hands behind his killers. Every year, Mohini would hold the picture of a young Adam Jones in his officer’s uniform wearing a proud smile close to her chest and weep. She dismissed classes for the day and did not step out of her room that day. But Mohini had reached out to Pyari Mohan Babu after much deliberation. One afternoon, when she went with Marzi to look for work, the police came to the mission and asked around for anyone who had left recently. Mohini knew that she needed to leave the orphanage that very night to avoid being caught. It was a narrow escape. Marzi refused to leave her alone and travelled with her through the broad rivers and narrow creeks till they reached Calcutta and finally arrived at Pyari Mohan’s address. He immediately recognised Mohini and offered her a job to assist the dance teacher. Soon she had classes of her own and a small rented place in Kestopur. She started providing more lessons from her home to earn some extra money. Pyari Mohan often lamented how bad Jones’s luck was to be killed in that manner when he was, after all, a good person.
“He taught me not all Goras are bad people.” Mohini would agree. Pyari Mohan never questioned her beyond that and Mohini never explained herself. Their deal was strictly business. Mohini tried to look for Kalyani and Sharat once she settled in Calcutta but she could not find them. Little did she know they lived in Medinipur until she saw the newspaper.
Jatin arrived at the house when Kalyani was helping Meera put Kabir’s framed picture alongside the leader and the others. Jatin’s heart skipped a beat when he saw Bina’s smiling face framed among them. He felt like he could not breathe when he found Sharat in the crowd and asked about her. Bina was caught by the Police when they raided places after Kabir killed Adam Jones. She was already sick and dying of Cholera when they found her. Jatin was stunned. He suddenly remembered Bina’s last words to him. “We will meet again in a new India.” Everything was new indeed. The borders, the states, the people, the chaos. The bruises of struggle were still fresh. The New India was tired after a long battle and needed time to heal. Jatin wondered aloud, “It's a miracle how a few of us survived.” Sharat nodded in agreement. “That is true.”
“I have joined the Congress,” Jatin said. “If things go well, I will be a candidate in the first democratic election.”
“Congratulations then, Mantri Moshai.” Sharat smiled at him. “But tell me honestly, Jatin, is this the freedom we dreamt of? So much poverty, starvation, unrest, homeless refugees, dying poor people on the streets…” Sharat shook his head. Swadhin heard them talk and walked up to them with Meera. “I wonder why all these people gave up everything?” Meera smiled at Sharat as she approached him.
“Don’t question it, Sharat Da. I know the freedom we have is not the one we wanted; it is not ideal.” Meera shook her head. “But I have my hopes.” Sharat silently shook his head as Jatin agreed. “ Our stories, our lives are the small prices that our motherland paid for her freedom,” Swadhin added.
The Smaran Sabha started with Sharat welcoming everyone to his humble home and speaking of his father. It was followed by Suresh putting a garland on the picture of Upendra and lighting a lamp in Shradhyanjali. Then, one by one, everyone came up on the stage and garlanded the pictures of their family and friends. Some of the people talked of the fathers, brothers or husbands they lost. Others of the sons they gave away to Mother India. With tears in her eyes, Meera remembered her husband. She was proud of him and of the cause that brought them together. She took out a rose garland she had brought with her. “It was his favourite flower.” She insisted before asking her son to put the garland on his father’s frame. As Azad garlanded his father’s portrait, everyone could see the resemblance between him and the picture as Meera wiped away her tears with a smile, in the Anchol of her white Dhakai Jamdani. Abhaya was the last to get up on stage, and she had brought with her Shiuli flowers from the garden of Kalyani’s home. She placed the flowers in front of the picture and folded her hands, teary-eyed. Then she straightened her Ghomta and turned to the crowd, unsure of what to say. What story to tell? That of her life as the daughter of a police superintendent or that as the daughter-in-law of a freedom fighter. She wiped away her tears reluctantly when she suddenly saw someone in a saffron robe in the crowd of villagers who had gathered at the gates. Seeing her reluctance to speak, Sharat took the stage and declared that the flag was to be hoisted soon in the courtyard as a mark of respect for the departed souls. Kalyani watched Abhaya rush down the stairs towards the crowd and look for someone there.
“What’s wrong?” Kalyani asked her sister, tapping her shoulder as she narrowed her brows some more.
“I thought I saw…” Abhaya’s eyes searched the crowd again as she sighed. “I must have seen wrong…” But she did see an old man with spectacles like Upendra. But was it possible that he was alive after so many years? Or did she just imagine his presence there? Or was it the universe telling her that he was there?
Abhaya’s thoughts were interrupted by Swadhin asking her to join them for the flag hoisting. Meera hoisted the flag. Sharat, Jatin and the others stood in a circle around it and saluted. Kalyani taught little Ira to imitate them. The younger children’s eyes shone with pride hearing the stories of bravery of their fathers, uncles and grandfathers. The music played on the mouth organ of one of the villagers.
“Today we not only remember our people but all those in Bengal Volunteers, Congress and Azad Hind Fauj we closely worked with and remember with all our heart. Some of them are still working for this nation selflessly as we speak. We remember sons of our soil, Binay, Badal, Dinesh, Netaji, Rashbehari Bose, Chittaranjan Das, Khudiram Bose, Prafulla Chaki, Masterda Surya Sen, Bagha Jatin, and the thousand others whose names are etched on the walls of the jails they were tortured in and hanged,” Sharat said. “We remember the daughters of our soil who fought not only the society but also the imperialists to bring us our freedom with blood, sweat and tears. Bina Das, Banalata Sen, Pritilata Wadekar, Kanaklata Barua, Matangini Hazra, Kalpana Dutta, Suhashini Ganguly and a thousand others like them.”
“Vande Mataram.”
“Vande Mataram.” The crowd echoed.
“Inquilab Zindabad.” Jatin cried.
“Long Live Revolution!”
The End
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