“The cyclone that hit Bangladesh on May 2nd, 1994, has left parts of Bangladesh and Myanmar devastated. Landslides have been seen in and around Northeast India, and Dumdum Airport has resumed its function after two days. Fishermen are still prohibited from going into the sea. The winds reached up to 215 km/h…” The men grunted at the radio news while sitting on the bench of the tea stall in Kobi Bharat Chandra Road in Chandannagar. One of the older men put away the Ananda Bazar Patrika, picking up his glass of tea while some of the others looked through a notebook. One of them had thick spectacles on and a pen tucked behind his ear, while the younger ones smoked cigarettes and debated about the India-Pakistan match at Sharjah, which Pakistan once again won by thirty-nine runs.
“I am telling you, Poritosh Da, they cheated.” A young man said, letting out smoke. “No way they could have won the final had it not been at Sharjah.”
“Oh, stop your theories. Nobody except Kambli stood up to them and looked at how well Sohail and Bashir played. India is doomed. Tai na, Poritosh Da?” The middle-aged man, addressed by the youngsters, looked up from the notebook.
“All you people care about is the match that happened a week ago; look at what is happening in the cyclone.” The older man, Bapi Da, who had just put away his newspaper, rebuked. He had a thick moustache above his thin lips and a pot belly typical of a middle-aged Bengali man. “Will the captain of India come to feed the people of Sunderban?” The younger men grew quiet. Some acted like they were busy checking their watches, and others straightened their Panjabis.
“We need someone to send help to the Sunderbans. It will be good publicity. The Adivasi villages are all flooded by the cyclone, and the poor people there are suffering.” Bapi spoke again, shaking his head. “Not even two years left for the next election. We must prepare well, and there is no better place to start than with rural voters.” Poritosh nodded.
“But the headquarters…”
“While you kids were debating whether Tendulkar is the next star or Kambli, we asked them, they said we, as representatives of our party in Hooghly, can extend our help however we like. But we will need crowdfunding.” The men grew quiet at the last bit of information. Headquarters will not give them the funds. But then, who will?
“I have an idea.” Poritosh stood up. “Wasn’t Trilochon Babu from Gosaba originally?” He inferred. The men looked excited again and nodded. “Yes, yes, he was. His father came to work in the factory here from a village.”
“As our local councillor, he might help.” Bapi Da stood up and buttoned his faded shirt properly. “Let’s go talk to him.”
They walked through the entrance of a three-storey red house through the black iron gate; a marble plate engraved “Roy Chowdhury Villa” just off Strand Road. The Villa had once looked over the river Ganga, but now a new set of buildings had sprung up around it, obstructing the view. The Roy Chowdhury were originally upper-caste landlords from Alamethi near Gosaba. When the Zamindari system fell through, Trilochon’s father moved to Chandannagar with a managerial job at a reputed factory set up by the British. The rulers in their blood refused to die. While Trilochon Roy Chowdhury once ran a successful business and had dissolved it only to join politics and was elected as the local municipality counsellor, his brother Binoy’s business had expanded beyond Chandannagar. The house itself spoke volumes about the fact that they were there to leave a mark.
The three men walked in and headed towards the porch.
“It would be wiser if they were from the Roy Chowdhury Welfare Organisation itself,” Poritosh said again, and the others seemed to agree.
“Let’s talk to Trilochon Babu and see what he says.” Bapi reminded him.
They walked up the marble stairs and rang the bell. Footsteps were soon heard as someone peeped through the large wooden door.
“Kake chai?” A voice from inside enquired who they were looking for.
“Bihari, it is we, from the party office.” The man asked the servant to open the door a little wider.
“Come in, I will let Kotta Moshai know.” He let the men in and hurried away. The men stood in the large hallway that opened into a sitting area and stairs that led up to the private area. This was the front wing of the house. The back wing was separated by another entrance for the servants and had an Andarmahal-style inner courtyard. The men stopped peeping as soon as they heard footsteps.
“Binoy Da, how are you?” The senior men folded their hands at the man who walked in, about fifty years old. He had a thin moustache and was in grey trousers teamed with a black shirt. He adjusted his metal-rimmed glasses as he spoke.
“Bhalo, You?” He asked, looking at the men.
“We have come from the party office on behalf of Sunderban for flood relief.” Bapi Da gestured at the others.
“Oh, Dada will be here soon.” Binoy nodded as he eyed the staircase briefly.
“We wanted to ask you a favour as well.” Poritosh quipped.
“What is it, Poritosh?” The booming voice and footsteps coming down the stairs made them turn. A man in his late fifties walked up to them in a white Panjabi and dhuti. With his golden-framed glasses and posture, and the ivory cane that once belonged to his grandfather, he looked just like a politician.
“Trilochon Babu. I have come with a request from the party office. For both of you.” He nodded at his brother, who looked confused.
“The party feels it will be impactful if we help them with our resources. If the Roy Chowdhury welfare organisation helps the flooded areas, it can earn you some good name and votes.” Poritosh smiled faintly as Trilochon nodded. “As you might remember, last time, the votes were very close around that area. And you are from there…”
He looked up at his brother.
“I have no problem helping them with our funding, Dada.” Binoy cleared his throat. “But who will go there? We work on a volunteer basis, but they will need someone from the organisation to guide them and represent you.” Bapi asked.
“What about Somnath?” Trilochon frowned. “He goes every time.”
“Dada, Somnath has his exams. I don’t think it's a good idea.” Binoy shook his head. “ And Batuk is too young.”
“What about…” Trilochon looked up. Binoy shook his head. “He just came home. He has lived abroad, Dada, and I don’t think he can adjust to village life even for a week.” Binoy protested. Trilochon nodded.
“Are we talking of Aniruddha Babu here?” Poritosh asked. “He is back?”
“Yes, with a degree.” Trilochon smiled proudly. “He wants to stay a few months before going back.”
Binoy shook his head. “And I obviously can't go.”
“Go where, Baba?” At the threshold stood a man about twenty-four, with ruffled hair, a pair of slippers and a nightgown. “I am sorry I overheard.”
“Oh, you don’t need to be bothered, Aniruddha.” Trilochon smiled. “It's just that some areas of Gosaba are heavily flooded because of the cyclone, and we need volunteers and someone to handle the Welfare project.”
“I can go.” He shrugged, making his father look at him in shock. Poritosh smiled, as did the other men.
“Thank you so much. We came with the hope that you won’t let us go empty-handed. I will contact party representatives in the village who will help you.” He said.
“The Pradhan of Alamethi will surely have men willing to help.” Another quipped.
“Remember this, Trilochon Babu: your nephew will be good publicity before the elections.” Poritosh smiled a wide smile and took their leave.
“You can’t go,” Binoy said as soon as the men left. Aniruddha frowned at his words. “It is not a liveable place. There are snakes and water. Malaria is on the rise and …”
“But people stay there, Baba, if they can…” Aniruddha frowned some more.
“They are not London returned lawyers, Aniruddha.” He shook his head, “Don’t you have any common sense?”
“But I told Jethu that I want to help the Welfare wing in any way possible till I am here.” He looked at Trilochon, who nodded. “I can do this.”
Binoy was about to open his mouth when Trilochon stopped him.
“It’s alright, Binoy. Let me figure something out so that Aniruddha can go, but he can stay at a better accommodation.” Trilochon made Aniruddha smile.
“Thank you, Jethu. You understand me.” He walked inside as Binoy shook his head.
“You don’t have to listen to him always.” Binoy rebuked his brother, who smiled. “You spoil them a lot, you know how he is. The thought of doing good for others moves him.”
“It also helps our political campaign, Binoy. Let him go. I will figure something out.” Trilochon reassured him. “Bring him back in a few weeks or so.”
Saudamini was setting her hair in curls, with the help of a maid, when she heard footsteps approaching her bedroom. She dismissed the maid just in time for Aniruddha to peep in with a smile.
“What are you doing here, so early in the morning?” She smiled at his reflection in the mirror behind her. “I am getting ready for a visit to Kolkata. I will be back in two days.” She made him nod.
“I won’t be here when you come home.” He made her frown.
“What do you mean?” Saudamini glanced over her shoulder as he walked in. “You live just across the street. Are you going back so soon?” She narrowed her eyes, a little disappointed as she stood up to face him, “But you promised to stay longer this time, Ani.” Her voice sounded displeased. “You can’t break your promise to me.” She looked away, annoyed as he laughed.
“Mini, I am not going back right now. They are sending me to some village welfare work. I will be back before you know it, I promise.” He made her blush slightly. “I just wanted you to know.”
Aniruddha was the first friend Saudamini ever made. Her father worked in the same factory as Trilochon’s father, and their house was adjacent to Roy Chowdhury’s across the narrow lane. Unlike their property, her decent two-storey house did not look over the Ganges at a distance and never felt as alive. The two quiet souls that lived there were her father and herself, and a maid came by to help every day. The Roy Chowdhury house had more helpers than it had family members, and their property was always buzzing, either with people from the party offices or friends of the boys and, sometimes, occasional parties they held for acquaintances. Saudamini had attended such gatherings, in Holi and Diwali, on the birthdays and pujas, and they were a mark of the Zamindari that the Roy Chowdhurys often spoke about. Although she was younger than Aniruddha, the two got along well through their teens before Aniruddha went abroad. They lost touch for a few years in the middle when he was in London and Saudamini started college in Kolkata. Now that she had graduated, her father was concerned for her marriage, while she secretly wanted to work in the fashion magazines she kept admiring. But she had no guts to tell her father, knowing very well that he would belittle her choice as uneducated and beneath the status of a Bhodro Barir Meye. Now that Aniruddha was back home, she hoped that he would argue on her behalf the way he did when they were younger. The idea of their friendship blooming into something else did not escape Saudamini either. It was not like they would have to get married immediately, but when they did, she could stay abroad and boast about it to her friends in Kolkata, who looked down upon her because she was from a town in Hooghly. She could even pursue her career choice, as nobody would judge her there.
“Good for you. I don’t have to go barging into your room anymore, fearing being spotted by your Jyatha. He intimidates me.” Saudamini shook her head. He nodded, amused. “I will see you when I get back.” Saudamini wanted to stop him, tell him all about the photoshoot she was attending in Kolkata to build a portfolio, hoping the pictures would help convince her father. But she let him go, watching him stroll away towards the Roy Chowdhury premises in urgency. She stood by her window, staring at the bougainvillaea in full bloom at the entrance of their house, wondering if Aniruddha wanted to inform her because he saw her on par with the family. Although he never said it, his gestures to her were the same as they were for his family, from bringing gifts to sharing personal feelings. He also mentioned no romantic entanglement in London, something which she feared was the case when he did not contact her for five years. She was twenty-one, and she was sure he would be the one to approach her first, as was the norm in romance.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Trilochon stepped into his room and asked as Aniruddha packed his bags. “I mean… if you are doing it for me, you can back out…”
“No, I am fine with it. Besides, you aren’t letting me stay in the village areas.” Trilochon shook his head as he watched Aniruddha close the bag and pull the chain. “I want to see your village, where you grew up. Will you stop me from going to my roots?”
“Of course not, Aniruddha. You will stay at the Gram Pradhan of Alamethi’s house in Sonakhali. I have made arrangements. There is electricity and a network there. You will be more comfortable. He can take you to the villages later.” Aniruddha agreed.
