P.C. Halder and Akhil Gogoi

My Most Dear and loving Simplimoina and Babua,

Long back Mai, you had created a Blog for me in which I had mind to write my daily tweets, as a small part of diary or otherwise, about me, we and my world around. Anyway, courtesy my procrastination, little hesitation to speak on me or lots of other excuses, it was delayed and except my earlier few write-ups and few letters to the editors my Blog has been unattended so far for a long time. Now as my daily list of long planning and with your mother’s full appreciations, whatever I plan and also with little frustrations on me, finally, I made up my mind just to tell you both, both two parts of my little heart, with whom I feel proud to be the father, will share my thoughts, if not daily, but intermittently or may be, frequently. You, specially, Mai, will have now to bear my bad and ‘fantastic’ English!
Mai, you will perhaps remember, the year, 2003, when we all dropped you in I P College , Delhi, a bundle of envelopes pasted with postal stamps were in your pack-up, with a hope we will exchange letters which will be, in future, regarded as letters from Daughter to Father and or from Father to Daughter. We have few precious letters from you, which still your Mon is preserving. The letters were really beautiful with your amazing mixture of all Assamese, English and Hindi. Your addressee, ‘ My Family’, including our doggy Don still reflects the strong bonding which we still are maintaining with all sincerity and spontaneity. In the pack-up of Baba too, we loaded with same sets of stamped envelopes and we are also fortunate parent to have at least one letter, till date, from him for your Mom’s precious record. But his some of the open pages of diaries are unique and according to your Mom these are no less than Chetan Bhagat.
See, if you can still start writing letters, may be occasionally. It is really classic.
Now let me see, what I can do with my effort, according to your Mon, my contacts to the world, trough you, in such unique epistolary form.

I was provoked to write to you just yesterday with two important events in Nagaon, two meetings, one a speech on Ananda Ram Dhekial Phukan memorial lecture by Shri P. C. Halder, the official interlocutor of the terrorist organizations and other a mammoth general meeting at Neherubali of Krishak Mukti Sangarm Samiti, attended by Akhil Gogoi in protest of big dam, transfer of land to Bangaldesh and for the farmers’ right.

NORTH-EAST INDIA : CHALLENGES RESPONSIBIITIES AND OPPORTUNITY FOR YOUTH
Ananda Ram Dhekial Phukan Memorial lecture By P.C. Halder

As I told once Ananda Ram Dhekial Phukan, a legendary personality in the 19th century Assm dreamnt a modrn Assam, and was one of the few architects of in his contemporary times. Stdied in Culcutta, his thrive to place Assam and the independence of Asamese language is simply laudable. We all owe to him. He lived only for 29 years and during this short span of life he devoted his time for us.
The lecture of P.C.Halder is simply th narration of the present da problems and with sonme speculatiove suggestivities and simply without any practical recommendations. For a diplomats it is only expected. Mai is not surprising that Shri Pillai recently, just after his retirement from his service realized that the fasting of irom Sharmila in Manipur is justified and the Spcial Armed Force Act may be repealed from Maipur. Our poet DGP Harekrishna Deka too realized the human righ just after his retirement from his service. Anyway, you will Dhekial Phukan in due course, but I just feel that both of you are now 25 plus and 21 plus and you may recall your srvcice to the State. Our life must be meaningful for the cause of our being. Is not it ?


AKHIL GOGOI’S PUBLIC METING

Akhil Gogoi is only force in present day Assam now, who is fighting for the real cause of Assam and is organizing various awareness meeting in most of the townships of Assam. The meeting of Nagaon was attended by unprecedented gathering and was a success. But the bureaucrats and politician have there own logics to prevent such democratic protests. The respect to the protester is lot in oblivion in Assam. Had there been some police action, neither Anna Hajare nor Kejriwal and any others would have been brutally assaulted. But in Assam , everything is possible. Akhil Gogoi is lathicharged, four policemen carried him in most undignified manner publicly, tear gas shell was sprayed just directly to his face and was virtually dragged y the Police. The respect to the protestor or for that matter to the civil society is almost a total lost.
We only wish, let good sense prevail.

Yours loving

Deta
23.11.2011

Letter to the Editor, The Sentinel, Guwahati 12.05.2011

Expectations of an Ordinary Voter

The countdown is nearing zero. The results of the elections to the Assam Legislative Assembly will finally come out on Friday the 13th of May.

What were the prime issues of this elections? Price rise, corruption and withering of political values. We are all talking of a non-corrupt government for the welfare and the cause of the commoner. As in all earlier elections the manifestoes of all political parties, including the Congress too, have assured a corruption-free State. We are well-experienced with such manifestoes and their implementation. Therefore this year, whoever comes to power, a total corruption-free Assam, is still a faraway dream. But still we hope that proper steps will be initiated to curb this menace of corruption.

Besides, we also have several other burning issues. The peace process, so far initiated by some of the citizen groups and intellectuals of the society and also by the State and the Central governments, have come as a ray of hope. But the people expect meaningful solutions to deal with the core issues along with the various other issues plaguing the State. We’re looking forward to peaceful talks and negotiations.

The development rhetoric has now become routine. Development is the foremost job, the duty and responsibility of any government in power. Construction of roads, bridges should not at all be construed as an achievement by any government.

Value-based politics and overall protection of democratic norms is the need of the hour. We do not want to see pandemonium and uproar in the Legislative Assembly. We do not want to hear about any horse-trading nor see any unparliamentary behaviour among the elected representatives – hitting each other with below-the-belt comments and speeches, fully devoid of any taste and respect towards a colleague and making a mockery of themselves on the floor of the House. We want an end to this.

With the ruling party behaving more like zamindars and expecting all opposition parties to be at their mercy a congenial atmosphere can hardly prevail. This vanity has travelled down the line resulting in the rise of local mafia and musclemen in the ground level too.

What is needed now is the prevalence of social and political tolerance among all. The political party in power is meant to bring about development. The other parties, not in power, need to be vigilant and take efforts for the equal distribution of the benefits due to the people of the State.

Dignity to the civil society is highly expected. The rise of civil society should be respected by all the political parties. Protection and safeguarding of democratic values for the equal growth of the people, irrespective of political parties and ideologies is always expected from a politician and a political party, whether it is in power or not.

Sibananda Kakoti, Fauzdari Patty, Nagaon.

LETTERS TO THE EDITOR THE ASSAM TRIBUNE, PUBLISHED ON 09.04.2011

ROLE OF THE ELECTION COMMISSION



Post T.N Sessan Election Commission of India is gaining its role-clarity ascertained more and more as one of the most powerful, impartial and strong Constitutional entity in India. This time, in Assam, the role of the Election Commission is highly laudable. The present Election Commission in maintaining its legacy with high spirit and competency beyond doubts. Except, perhaps the big road shows, by two of the existing Ministers, actions of which are immediately initiated, all are seem smooth till date. The cities and towns, even the suburban and rural village centers are clean without much ado on election exhibitionism. The recent import of South-Indian-style-cut-out culture, to the voters of Assam, mostly by the ruling party and also by some of the other parties, could not be experienced in a big way. The low key offices are placed inside the residential boundaries with limited banner and posters. Even the sound pollution with PAS too is limited. The effort of the Election Commission is to make the Election to be in the minds of the voters not in the peripheral show-biz. It seems creating an impact in the society only for the strong vigil and impartial implementation of laid down rules and instructions by the Election Commission.
For such unpolluted atmosphere from disproportionate posters and banners, big life-size cut-outs of candidates and their mentors, high voltage sounds, big convoys of bikes or cars, and specially for helping for creation of a candid, peaceful and silent mind of the voters to decide, the Election Commission really deserves credit.
We expect more and more vigilance and strict implementation of rules, specially in the election days, in the polling stations and otherwise, in movement of doubtful vehicles, transaction of so called overnight bribes, direct or indirect pressures by the local goons, touts till the last EVM is counted.
But unfortunately, the speeches of the candidates and most of the leaders are very low, where perhaps the Commission has not in full control. These are neither on policies nor in the manifestoes. These are all playing to the galleries. Most of the speeches are tasteless and devoid of values and ethics. These are of course personal mindset of the individuals. Two major ministers are concentrating mainly with the so called secret-killing or on the personal lives of the opponents. Healthy debates are totally missing. Mutual respect for the conservation and restoration of the democratic values are not at all seen.
The petty citizens including the Election Commission are perhaps the helpless viewers only.
And we get the representatives we deserve!

Yours faithfully,

Sibananda Kakoti
Nagaon, 782 001, Assam
Not for publication 9435060513

Writeup published in The telegraph dtd -04.04.2011 as Guest Column

POLITICS OF RESPECT

Sibananda Kakoti



From the neo Vainsavite movement in the 15th Century , the independent Kingdoms of Guva and other Tiwas , the days of Miles Bronson for resurrection of Assamese language, the confident roles in the pre- independence struggle movement for freedom and so many other important phenomena to the Assam Movement of recent times, the greater district of Nowgong, comprising with present day Nagaon and Marigaon districts, has been the epicenter of most of the major happenings in the life-stream of Assam till today with all its contributions in literary, social, intellectual and political fields. But most unfortunately, the diversified problems faced by this middle part of Assam are still not properly redressed. The focus and concentration was not even at all prominent with so many veteran leaders including one-time most powerful Central Minister and INC President Devakanta Barua to Prafulla Kumar Mahanta, a Chief minister of full two different terms in recent years. The expectations remain unfulfilled and developments are not yet upto the mark. Problems remain perennial and unresolved. As faced by the whole of Assam these greater parts have suffered a lot for the illegal infiltration causing a serious demographical imbalance. Boarder sealing and simultaneous efforts of cultural integration are the need of the hour. The efforts to stop the erosion of the Brahamaputra, conservation of forests and its resources, balance of environment are highly needed for the long term development. While the whole of the area is the most fertile one, the northern and the southern parts are granaries . The horticultural growth along with the pisciculture is immense. But long term efforts for large Green House, Cold Storage, and processing centers both by the Govt or PPP are not at all initiated. A timely plan for capturing the large yields in scientific manner for the long term use and packaging is highly required, which will create direct and indirect employment opportunities in the area immensely .
Since independence, lots of big promises were heard, projects were proposed, but reasons not known, all were shifted finally to elsewhere. A veterinary College was promised and also started functioning but finally was shifted to Guwahati. An IIT was proposed and reported survey was also done at Missa which was finally shifted to North Guwahati. Permanent capital was rumored, a Paper Mill died before it started. A flourished Sugar Mill is in a dying state due to the lack of Govt support and management. An Airdrome is still to be conceived. Such important infrastructural growth is not at all visible in the area and therefore except a little rise of middle class and salaried people no such remarkable development is visible.
An apparent development of infrastructures in some of the constituencies, courtesy National Missions like PMGSY or NRHM etc, are seen which too perhaps needs a balance in distribution. In some parts of the districts these are horrible.
The long term conservation of socio- intellectual growth too, in this area is highly needed. Besides the development as a tourist spot, Batadrava, the birth place of Sankardeva, proper infrastructure with paraphernalia and qualified guidance, an important and scientific study centre with comparative studies of Vaisnavite philosophy of National Standard is most essential as a long term planning. The so called research centers, at present, are not at all in proper shape.
Nagaon too, is one of the integral parts of the peace process, so far initiated by the social intellectuals, some civil society groups, the State and the Central Govts, has shown some rays of hope. A prominent role of this area for a meaningful dealing on the core issues, talks also with others who are still remaining in the deep forest or elsewhere, is much more expected by all. We always look forward to a peaceful society with mutual respect also with equally distributed overall growth..
Besides all these dreams for development, what is more needed is the social and political tolerance which seems lacking amongst most of the political parties. Nagaon seems to be the worst sufferer. The political party in power is always for the services and the other parties, not in power, not necessarily are simply the opposition only. The respect to the opinion of the opposition is always for the healthy democratic values which always deserves respect which seem to be missing day by day.
A vigilant society takes efforts for equal distributions of the rights and benefits offered by the State. The rise of civil society is always important to us. Respect by any political parties to the civil society for the impartial growth is highly expected and compassion is always desirable.
Therefore irrespective of political parties and ideologies, for the equality in the society around, we always expect the respectful protection and safeguard to democratic values from the politicians and political parties, be it in power or not in power.


Sibananda Kakoti is short story writer and a citizen
kaktis@gmail.com

My World My Writings

MY WORLD MY WRITING

(A paper read in the North Eastern and Southern Writers’ Meet of Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi, held recently ( 5-6 Mar 2011) at Trivandram).

Sibananda Kakoti

Distinguished guests and esteemed house, I feel honored to stand before you today to share with you my World and my Writing. I am a humble writer, born in a humble village of yet another humble town of Nagaon, Assam. I like to think of myself as that small turtle, just trying to swim in the vast sea of literature. And therefore, I stand before you today with all my humility, with nothing else, but the small World I carry with me and also with some of the glimpses of my little efforts of writing.. As the paper is “My World My Writings”, I may kindly be excused for being a little autobiographical.

My life started with the different hues of both urban and rural life. I was born in a remote village of Nagaon, Setali, but was brought up till the age of twelve in three different townships of Assam due to my father’s transfers from place to place. Memories from and of the first two places are very faint. I completed my primary level from Jorhat. But just a few months into my fourth standard in Jorhat Boys’ Higher Secondary School, our father was transferred to Nagaon. We came back to the place I was born in, to the place I very soon, learnt to call my home.

I often ask myself, in which World I live in, which World I carry with me ? Is it the fast growing modern World in which I apparently live in or is it the World that has now reduced to a global village or my small world of my village where I was born, passed my days of childhood, my adolescence , my youth and above all where my intricate sense and sensibilities developed ? I often think , perhaps, that was my asset created in my childhood days, in which I stand upright now, in whatever I have so far achieved. Whatever I am writing today is only an extension of the experiences I discovered and experimented with my World at my village.

Setali welcomed me with open arms. It was as if I had never left! Here I encountered a virgin village. I went wild with the joy and enthusiasm of adventure, at finding a place where I could run across huge green fields, dive into wide, blue ponds, run barefooted through the dust on the wide roads, chase cows and return later than sundown. It was in this virgin village that I encountered a village surrounded by indigenous performances of folk and traditional music, simplistic lives and so on.


The Vaishnavite tradition was strongly prevalent. I am still neither an agnostic nor a compartmentalized ritualistic believer. I was deeply emerged in the tradition around. I was a party to the Nam Prasang of the Namghar. I was involved in the Gayan Bayanas and the Bhaonas of the Sankranti. But to me, I remember, all the meanings were different. I was highly moved with the long chantings, the beautiful ragas and geetas of the principal Namati, the Singer. The conducted musical choral of the fellow people including me or the religious musical scores of the Taal- Khol, the Mridangs , the drams and others, the Gayan Bayan, the stylized acting and the story line of the performances made in the Ankia Bhounas, moved me a lot. I took more interest in the prose, lyrics and poetry those written and composed. Here I was spontaneously introduced to the greatest Vaisnavite Saint Assam has ever seen- Mahapurush Srimata Sankardeva and , Madhabdeva. Their prose, their poetry and their plays continued the world to me. Their use of word stating the profound truths of life in the most understandable manner opened another world to me altogether. I always tried to get the meaning, the apparent and the meaning within. My father, a Sanskrit Graduate of late forties, extended all his efforts to make my doors opened to a different world I could so far explored. Now, I realize, why Mahatma Gandhi had his tears with the play Raja Harichandra in his early childhood. Some straits of it can still be seen in my writing and this is an influence I am almost, proud to have.

But the youth was a little different. With my gradual growth I could perhaps able to afford to have a choice. During my last years of matriculation, I gradually leaned towards the progressive thoughts and ideas. My father too with his small library opened to me new doors of thoughts and ideas. It was the early seventies when the whole of India was experimenting with the left ideology. A thin stream of it flowed through the small roads of my village too. I stood by the side of the stream, a little confused but with dreams and imaginations. To me, the meaning of proletariats was not very well defined, but I too dreamt of liberty, the liberty of the masses from long years of poverty and deprival. I did not join in any active left political party , but I was fully charged and had started writing plays, specially for emancipation and the victory of good over evil, angels over devils and light over darkness. Most of my one-act-plays and a few radio plays were written during this time and more or less, around the same lines.

My village helped, readied, watered and nurtured my creativity and thought. I was perhaps a passive observant of the World around.

I was in the IXth standard then. All the youngsters of the village were busy preparing the welcome gate of the pandal for a marriage to happen the next day. Being one of the juniors, I was busy helping the seniors with one little job or the other. A candid comment of one of the seniors engaged in the work struck me and stayed stuck in my mind. He was one of those who were pasting newspapers with different colours, including black, for the gate of the pandal. While doing so, he suddenly looked at the sun, smiled and simply invited all of us to join him in covering the sun in black and make the world dark forever! That summer vacation, I wrote my first one act play ‘Kendra Bihin Britta’ (a circle without a centre) where the first scene of the play had some frustrated youngsters coloring the news papers black to cover up the sun in the sky.

The eighties saw my entry into professional life. For a little period of time in Telephone Exchange then in a Bank, the State Bank of India, from where I still sustain. The material world, with all its strings of career, sustenance, love and existence didn’t deter me. In fact, I feel the eighties was my most formative year, time when I learnt of the flip side of the coin. I most probably hibernated during this period, an animated suspension, a gestation period for the birth of the story teller in me. My first short story, Amrityu Amrit was published in the first year of the nineties.

Even while my village, my parents and my immediate world influenced me, the politics of my state was never far behind. The late seventies and the eighties, when the Assam Movement reached its peak, the rise of regional parties, the discovery of a student force and their collective consciousness in the state saw rapid and major changes of political and social scenarios, which culminated in the birth and rise of ultras. The youth leadership emerged as a major force, and as the ultras became more proactive and incessant with their demands, a suffocating atmosphere prevailed throughout the society. Constant fear, tribulations and stories of atrocities shook the people. My world, very often streaked with blood. Death, killing and tears jarred me not just as a human being, but also as a voice of the people.

It takes a huge effort for the chicken to kick its shell. I too came out of my shell. The political was no longer alien, it was personal. The plight of my people became my plight. There was no other way for me to share it but through my writing. It was in such a situation of fear, with such a frame of mind that I wrote my first short story, Amrityu Amrit, ( Nectur unto Death ), where the protagonist, an absconding militant, returns home disillusioned and tries to mingle with his people, while his sick father and only younger brother face and negotiate their own series of crisis and disillusionments. Critics have referred to this story to be the ‘forecast of an author’. My second story, Sahabosthan, ( Co-existence) portrays the suffocation that my people felt during these years in a society rid with fear. Sahabosthan has the protagonist counting his moments of life and happiness amidst all the engulfing uncertainty, but only till the time he can avoid the bullet that has his name on it.

Youth is a time when everything old is passé. But then, as one grows old, we look more and more towards the past. Everything seems golden and purer than what is today. Just as I crossed my forties, I found myself going back.. My writing too mirrored this and I started a series of short sorties called Barania Alibat, a sequel, (The Silver Roll of Bridle Path’ or ‘Particoloured Path’ as translated by Prof Pradip Acharjee) wherein I recreated the world I grew up in with the stories around the life of little Parama, from the time he came with his father and family to his village and found himself wildly in love with it to the time he leaves it for higher education. The stories have that central setting but are all unique in their own. It started with Parama who had woken up to a whole new world of green when he had opened his sleepy, dazed eyes after the days journey from the town to his village for the first time as a kid. The last story of the sequel has the lament of this same Parama, years later, leaving his village for the town, in a suburban bus, only to be awakened by the harsh, rough and mechanical sounds in his entry to the township. The green was another world, one that got lost in oblivion.

Therefore friends, I still feel deeply , I perhaps live in two Worlds, a World lost in present day global village, and another, a mechanical World, where I still am in quest, if I see my own World again. And here is a petty writer, me, trying my hand to explore both of my Worlds, the World within and the World I live in.

I fear I might not succeed in my life, but when the time comes, I would know, that I tried.

Thank you all for your kind patience.

*****

Email: kakotis@gmail.com
Blog: kakotis.blogspot.com















Sahitya Akademi
cordially invites you to

North-East & Southern Writers’ Meet

on
5-6 March 2011
at

Vyloppil Sanskriti Bhavan
Trivandrum


PROGRAMME

Saturday, 5 March 2011

Inaugural Session: 11.00 a.m. - 1.00 p.m.


Welcome : A. Krishna Murthy
Secretary, Sahitya Akademi

Introductory Remarks : M. Thomas Mathew
Eminent Malayalam Scholar

Presidential Address : Temsula Ao
Eminent Writer from North East

Inauguration : O.N.V. Kurup
Eminent Malayalam Writer

Poetry Readings Dhanada Devi (Assamese)
Pratibha Nandakumar (Kannada)
K. Jayakumar (Malayalam)
Jogeswar Waikhwa (Manipuri)
R.L. Thanmawia (Mizo)
Ravi Subramanian (Tamil)
K. Shiva Reddy (Telugu)

Vote of thanks : K.S. Rao
Deputy Secretary, Sahitya Akademi


TEA: 10.30 – 11.00 a.m.

LUNCH : 1.00 p.m. – 2.00 p.m.

Short Story Readings : 2.00 p.m. - 3.30 p.m.

Chair : Lakshmi Nandan Bora (Assamese)

Readings Janil Kumar Brahma (Bodo )
T.N. Prakash (Malayalam)
Ponneelan (Tamil)
Gudipati (Telugu)


TEA: 3.30 p.m. – 4.00 p.m.

Poetry Readings : 4.00 p.m. – 5.30 p.m.

Chair : Sugatha Kumari (Malayalam)

Poetry Readings Premananda Muchharary (Bodo)
Sri Pragati Chakma (Chakma)
Chintamani Kodlekere (Kannada)
Anitha Thampi (Malayalam)
Ilampirai (Tamil)
Sangaveni Ravindra (Telugu)


5.30 p.m. – 6.30 p.m.

Loka : The Many Voices

Presentation of Bihu Songs & Dances from Assam

Sunday, 6 March 2011

My World, My Writing : 10.00 – 11.30 a.m.

Chair : Kethu Vishwanatha Reddy (Telugu)

Presentations Sibananda Kakoti (Assamese)
Mukund Rao (English)
A. Sethumadhavan (Malayalam)
Nabakumar Nongmeikapam (Manipuri)

TEA : 11.30 a.m. – 12.00 noon
Literary Trends : 12.00 noon – 1.30 p.m.

Chair : Sirpi Balasubramaniam (Tamil)

Papers Sreedevi K. Nair (Malayalam)
Rajjit Dev Goswami (North-East)
S. Nagamalleswara Rao (Telugu)

LUNCH : 1.30 p.m.– 2.30 p.m.
Poets’ Meet : 2.30 p.m. – 4.30 p.m.

Chair : Mamang Dai (North East)

Readers Pranjit Bora (Assamese)
Kamal Bonghcer (Bongcher)
Arif Raza (Kannada)
Pradip Mura Singh (Kokborak)
Anwar (Malayalam)
D. Vinaychandran (Malayalam)
S.D. Dhakal (Nepali)
H.G. Rasool (Tamil)
K.S. Ramana (Telugu)

4.30 p.m. – 5.30 p.m.

Loka : The Many Voices

Manipuri Marshal Arts & Mridanga Dance

__________________

RSVP : (011) 23386626

Visit our Website at : http://www.sahitya-akademi.gov.in

_______________________________________________________________________

SAHITYA AKADEMI BOOK EXHIBITION
5-6 MARCH 2011 10.00 a.m. to 6.00 p.m.
20% DISCOUNT ON ALL PUBLICATIONS
SUBSCRIBE TO SAHITYA AKADEMI JOURNALS
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In Association with Vyloppil Sanskriti Bhavan, Trivandrum

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Assamse Short Story: "Co-Exixtance "

Assamese Short Story

CO-EXISTANCE

Sibananda Kakoti

Translated by Bibhas Choudhury

Basanta almost ran down the stairs. Moving towards the telephone in the casualty room in the storey below, he covered two-three steps at a time as he descended the flight of stairs. Basanta’s mind was now filled with a great sense of relief, peace and satisfaction. He felt immense joy today, as the long eleven years of sterility were brought to an end by Roma’s labour. It was as if he had been having this feeling constantly in all its intensity. Since the child was not actually due today, there was no one beside Roma this evening except Basanta. The pain started suddenly in the afternoon. This pain, which was the outcome of constant exertion and hope, was awaited all these years by Roma and Basanta together. That was why, taking long leave, Basanta had brought Roma to her mother’s home in Guwahati at a safe period, for her situation was delicate and needed care. Roma’s maternal home was close to the Gauhati Medical College Hospital.

The pain, which started in the afternoon, did not cease, and by evening she was taken into the labour room. Basanta was all alone and felt nervous. Roma within and Basanta without. These moments, which were so long hoped for, were anxious moments indeed. But Basanta did not have to wait for long. A nurse opened the door slightly, and looking at everybody, announced, “Roma Dutta, Basanta Dutta.” Basanta rushed to the door, but had hardly reached it when the nurse, saying, “It’s a son” with complete indifference and abruptly closed the door. The nurse did utter Basanta and Roma’s name properly. That meant it was about him and Roma. A glow spread over Basanta’s countenance, and he closed his palms unknowingly. Unclear, yet audible, he uttered in a broken voice – “It’s a son”– and moving forward to the door, asked, “Roma’s all right, isn’t she?” Of course, there was no reply from within. It was only then that he became a little conscious and tried to be normal. Roma was surely doing well, and besides, there was a lot of time for her to be released from the labour room. So the news had to be conveyed to his mother-in-law immediately. He came down to the phone in the casualty, two-three steps at a time.

A joyous and emotional Basanta soon reached the ground floor. A long corridor. He started walking fast. As he got closer, a gradually increasing hum could be heard. Humming of this kind was quite normal in hospital premises. Moreover, in the evening, as the number of visitors grew, the humming naturally increased. But today, when Basanta reached the casualty ward, instead of the regular hum, he discerned an uproar, a clear hue and cry. What was this tumult? The casualty, and the open field outside was filled with people. Why was there such a crowd? Basanta, however, did not need much time to understand the situation. Some moments ago, there had been a bomb blast in the market nearby. The blast was so devastating that even now the number of the dead could not be ascertained, and already about two hundred injured persons had been brought to the hospital. How many people had died? A hundred, two hundred, fifty, ten? The sound was so intense, everything was scattered so far and wide. Could only ten persons be dead? Whether it was ten or two hundred, surely people had died– some were already gone, and many others half-dead. As the news spread, the crowd was growing larger. Everybody was trying to see the faces of the wounded, maybe there was someone of their own among them.

Suddenly, Basanta had some news. One personal, and the other involved the society in which he lived. The news of personal release from the long bondage of sterility received just now, and the news of some extremists playing with the lives of ordinary people, killing and injuring them, just for the sake of some political objective. The culmination of personal sterility and the advent of a social one – Basanta felt as if both of these were his own news. Even then, it seemed that the news of the birth, as against that of the deaths, was a piece of more meaningful social news. Hence, he ploughed his way through the crowd to the phone.

Just when he was about to reach the phone, there was chaos all around again. Two trucks arrived at the hospital gate. No one failed to guess the contents of the trucks. It was as if all the people were trying to jump onto the trucks at once. The crowd surged forward in such a manner that Basanta was forced to move back.

The people surrounded the trucks and started looking inside. Eh! eh!, only eh! No other word escaped their lips. Just one word— eh! and the totally pale and speechless faces expressed all the feelings of guilt, disgust, affliction, consciousness and utter helplessness of the people. Looking at the shaken people who came down from the trucks, Basanta could only now detach himself from his personal elation and happiness. By this time, propelled by the crowd, he reached the gate. All this while, although he was associated with the pain around him, his feeling of intense happiness and joy remained his own. But the arrival of the corpse-laden trucks just now made him too a part of the present atmosphere. It was said that many dead bodies were scattered all around the market even now. Basanta had not seen any dead body properly before. His father died when he was in college— it was a natural death, and besides, he was quite old. Apart from the indispensable ceremony, there was nothing to be sorrowful about. But these people who were suddenly transformed into corpses! Basanta automatically went towards the truck. Peering into the truck, he closed his eyes immediately as he saw the dumped bodies inside. He could not even utter an ‘eh!’ in response. Were these people? If so, were people really like this? Where have these people come from? Holding the wooden plank by the truck with both hands, he started looking from outside to the others in silence. The bodies lay one on top of the other in total disorder, and the floor of the truck was all red with blood. Just adjacent to him, pressed against the plank lay a beautiful girl who appeared to be about ten-twelve years old. She was lying calmly and had an attractive hair cut. It was as if she was just asleep. How did she die then? The lower half of her body was not in this truck. Perhaps it was in the other truck, or maybe it lay beside some grocer’s shed in the market, or it may even be by some butcher’s block. Even though he wanted to come away, Basanta stopped a while. The girl was so close to him that he could have touched her cheeks, but he did not do so, even though he had a desire to do so. He observed the scene once again. Who are these playthings? For whom are these deaths? Where have these people come from? Whose father or mother, whose children, whose husband or the sole earning member of some family? Where are the people who ought to shed tears for these corpses? When will they arrive? How will they know that the man who had come to the market is now sleeping in this truck? How or when will they know? Basanta placed his hand on his shirt-pocket. It was there. He knew that his identity card was there without putting his hand inside the pocket. These were troubled times. Since Basanta moved around all alone in Guwahati, Roma had been telling him to make an identity card. Finally, he had made the card a couple of months ago. Nowadays, he kept the card with him all the time. At least, if he died, the news would reach home soon. Whether the thought just occurred to him or was occasioned by grief, he did not exactly know. He got down from the truck. Gradually, the crowd grew, and he came back to Roma without making the call. Roma had still not come out from the labour room.

(To be continued)

Sibananda Kakoti









When one day he came back, leaving Roma and the three month old infant at home, only then did the lonely Basanta realise that life was becoming increasingly difficult and terrible. He was not alien to a solitary life; but the loneliness was different this time. During these three months with Roma together, not a single day passed when the thought of death did not occur to him in some way. The more he tried to spend the days with his wife and newborn child in natural joy and happiness, the more vividly the heap of bodies after the blast appeared in his mind’s eye; and the mutilated, injured people too. It was as if that picture and his son were attached to each other, and were complementary in nature. He could not isolate one from the other in his mind. Basanta’s son was just like a witness to the whole situation, the entire incident— which he has not been able to or, in fact, cannot forget.

Now that he was all alone, his mental world was peopled only by Roma, his son, and those injured and dead in the bomb blast. The news of murders and deaths had so enveloped the entire environment that it appeared as if everyone was just awaiting further murders and deaths. Deaths and murders had become so commonplace that it could happen in any manner, at any time. It was as if this completely immutable situation was gradually overwhelming him.

Inhibited by the terrible fear of death, Basanta felt that he, too, could die at any moment now. Or the news of somebody else’s death could come to him. Basanta very fearfully moved ahead through this unnatural process of the pathetic condition which was becoming natural to him day by day. In order to be certain about the identity card, he put his hand in his pocket regularly. Any summon like “Sir, there’s a call for you”, made him hasten to the phone. Even when there was a courtesy call, he first suspected that it could be bad news.

Death, in this situation, was no longer bad news. Now, when every news was terrible, death was just ordinary news. In this uneasy yet now natural situation, Basanta was trying very hard to run away from death as much as he could. All the people that he met, worked together with, lived with, walked alongside on the streets, saw shopping in the markets – it was as if a bullet each had been released for everyone. It was as if all the people were trying as much as they could to run away from, and avoid being hit by the bullets in their breasts. He shivered in apprehension whenever he saw unaccounted bags in empty seats of buses or in the grocery markets. It was as if the scattered splinters after the blast from the bag near the tomatoes would come and penetrate his belly. He also feared that a bullet from the swiftly passing motorcycle would go right through the middle of his forehead. The bus in which he was travelling would now fall to pieces, that was how he felt. Basanta, who went home to Tezpur on Saturdays and holidays, during the time of fun and frolic there and on his return to Guwahati, thought quietly— “I will really be seeing them next Saturday, won’t I ?” or “Would they, my mother, my wife and my son, who’s slowly learning to crawl, really see me again?” – and thinking about this, he trembled in trepidation. A troubled and fearful Basanta nowadays even took God’s name.

Basanta waited for the man, even though the office hours were over, in the office itself. A man had come to meet him during his absence at noon. He was told that the man had come quite a few times during the day. The man’s description did not tally with those people who usually came looking for him. Then, who could he be? What kind of news could he have? The man left no message. He kept on waiting for the man by the office phone.

A disturbed and worried Basanta arrived home quite late that evening. He expected the man at home, but he was not there. There was no sign of the man ever being there. In the evening, Basanta was usually very lonely in his large house. Today’s tension made him more fatigued than usual. He was now all alone in this large house, the fast life of the city unable to reach him. Never before had he felt so lonely. Even though he did go to make a cup of tea, he did not light the gas burner. He threw himself on the large double bed in the bedroom without changing his office clothes. After some time, getting up from the bed, he put on the TV, only to turn it off immediately afterwards. An agriculture-related programme. Going out to the balcony outside, he held on to the railing and just waited a while. But he came in soon, his mind restless. This time he went to the cloth-stand, and changing his clothes, put on the half-pant that he usually wore at home. With an inexplicable restlessness, once again he fell on the bed, his body bare except for the half-pant. He did not even want to hold a pillow. What was happening to him? Such an uneasy feeling, such restlessness! He then got up from his sleeping position and just sat down on the bed. Now he came to the study table. Unknown even to Roma, Basanta kept a book in the interior of the lowest drawer of the large table. Taking the book, he lay in the bed again, and started turning the pages of this Scandinavian production. Although every picture in the pages of the book was familiar to him, he felt a natural excitement and thrill every time he went through it. But today he just turned the pictured pages, there was no excitement, no feeling.

Basanta’s fear increased all the more. Closing the book immediately, he got up from the bed and sat down once again. He just could not make life so horrible and lifeless. Discarding the half-pant in the bedroom itself, he slowly went to the bathroom. He started observing himself from his chest upwards in the bathroom light. He stood looking at his own image for some time in the same manner. It was as if he could see his completely bare body in this daily scene – but in another way. Opening the shower to the maximum, he placed himself under it. The shower water which came down in great force upon his body, brought a sense of great peace and pleasure to Basanta, but his fears returned immediately. He felt that the water would press him to death. He came out of the water shaking his head. Wrapping the towel around his body, he came to the balcony and waited for some moments. Holding the railing, he just looked outside. The busy city with its vehicles, the barely. audible sounds of the city, and that the dark skies with the twinkling stars - he spent quite some time in this atmosphere just as he was. Quietly, he decided that he would take long leave and go home.

Just when he was about to take the pen after putting the card in his pocket, the calling bell began to ring. His heart skipped a beat— no one is supposed to come at this moment! He was relieved only on opening the door. It was Aranya, the eldest daughter of his neighbour, Uday Barua. Barua, a high-ranking income-tax officer, lived alone in Dibrugarh, just like Basanta. Mrs. Barua, a lecturer in a local college, lived here with the three grown-up children. Aranya was an engineering student, and the boy had now joined a big firm after completing his computer science course, while the other girl was doing her MA in English at the University. Although Dibrugarh was quite far off, Barua usually came home on Saturdays. They were indeed a happy family in the beautiful bunglow just in front of his house.

“Uncle, am I disturbing you?”

“No, not at all. come.”

“You know, mother’s brought some good cassettes today.” Aranya went on without any preface – “One is Spielberg’s, another based on a novel by Milan Kundera, and the third is Govind Nihalani’s. Mother has invited you to join us in the evening.”

Basanta sometimes used to get invitations like this from Barua’s family. Everybody in Barua’s family knew that he was interested in good cinema.

Arriving from the office a little early, Basanta went to Barua’s house in the evening. Signs of upper middle class taste and maintenance were discernible in the large and attractive drawing room. Everyone was ready. As soon as Basanta came, a new film by Spielberg began— a horror fantasy.

Gradually, the film’s excitement pervaded the entire drawing room. Aranya, with a pillow on her lap, was seated alongside her sister on the divan. Mrs. Barua was on the other side. Basanta and the boy were seated on the sofa in front. All of them were thoroughly enjoying Spielberg’s wonderfully imagined story. Suddenly, the calling bell rang. Glances were exchanged among one another. Eventually, though evidently irritated, Aranya went to the door. There was a police Sub-Inspector outside.

“This is Uday Barua’s house, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“He works in Dibrugarh? In the Tax Department?”

“Yes.” Aranya replied quite loudly.

Mrs Barua came to the door. “What’s the matter?” The police officer held Barua’s card in his hand. “There has been a huge bomb blast in the Guwahati-bound Assam State Transport Corporation bus today. Barua has died in the blast, instantly.”

The sudden and swift transformation of the whole situation took place before Basanta’s eyes. With heart-rending shrieks, all the people ran to the police van in the street. The cassette player was still going on. Spielberg’s fictitious horror now enveloped the whole house in reality. The ascending excitement and joy suddenly collapsed, fell flat and dissolved.

Basanta stopped the film. Watching the tearful members of the family, he began to wonder whether the moments of happiness enjoyed a little earlier would ever come back. Would they ever be able to sit together with such abandon without feeling Barua’s absence? Ah! How stifling, cruel and ruthless is time. The I-card was so unfortunate. It was as if the card was responsible for the entire situation— so quickly did it reveal the dead Barua’s identity. Otherwise— the four, three, two or even half an hour time which could have been enjoyed by the family was only reduced by the card. It did not even allow the film to come to an end. An evening of certain and calm enjoyment was suddenly cut short and everybody was hurled into the depths of eternal darkness.

The entire incident troubled Basanta as he returned from the cremation ground. Everything, from Aranya’s invitation in the morning till the end — the whole situation kept on coming to his mind. Nowadays, when time was becoming so intolerable and hard to get, a few moments of enjoyment were indeed a lot of time ; this was the time of great luck and fortune.

Having prepared himself for the office with the briefcase, pen, purse, etc. Basanta took the card from its place on the table. Just as he was about to put it into his pocket, something stopped him. With one hand on the latch of the door, he threw the card on the table with his free one. The small card bounced around and finally, in a half-open, half-shut manner, stood against a book on the table.

Closing the door, he went out to his office.

• Concluded

Sibananda Kakoti

Assamese Short Story ' UPROOTED "

Translated from Assamese by Madri Kakoti




The speed with which the long acquainted situations and the habitual stability of the mind was changing, Karuna Barua couldn’t even get the hold of it at first. Where did the little town start at first, from which point or centre had it spread, where were its boundaries and borders - none of these questions or queries had any particular or even a clear answer in Barua’s imagination. But one thing was certain, that in these ten years of his retirement, even during all the talks and discussions which took place in the walks he took with his comrades of yesteryears, in the mornings, and the friends of the ‘Ever-walking Club,’ the advent of this very change which was beginning to engulf their unknowingly known surrounding was never clear. It was not even clear during that particular period, on the particular day of the month when he would be busy with various ongoing discussions and talks while waiting for his turn to come in a queue, before a counter in the bank. Probably, none of them knew the change or its speed, not even him.

Nobody could help him either. The morn after the century old college building was stripped of its great magnificent wood and glass dome, the walk of the ‘Ever-walking Club’ was pretty slow. Tired and grieved, right in the morning, they all had wished for the train of progress to pass around the dome, without doing it any harm, through all the free and unoccupied land surrounding it. As if, everyone was filled with sorrow, remembering not their good old days in the college under that very dome, but seeing the one which had stood in the centre of the little town’s universe until the previous evening, like the ever alert guard and guardian, fallen, defeated.

Saikia had given the suggestion, “Shall we go and see it once?”
Barua had exclaimed, “No!”
What was left for them to see in the broken and tattered dome! It was usually Barua who had the last word. Even if someone had the wish to go and see it, none uttered anything. For sometime, all of them kept walking silently, uncertainly.

Finally, it was Barua who broke the silence, “Why don’t we go from that side - around the college? They have dismantled it only yesterday. Let’s go and see the broken dome for the last time!”

The silent little group kept standing by the side of the fallen and defeated structure for some time. As if, finally, Ulysses had fallen. As if, it was his unannounced but far elongated mourning of many minutes - speechless, wordless.

When it was time to return, suddenly Karuna Barua went near the structure. The whole body, with its spire and dome, and the wood and glass panes attached, was fallen, tilted and inclined to one side. The strong frame was still intact, unharmed; even the glass panes. As if the whole structure had just rolled over, and would remain just like that till the labourers came and broke it down to a million pieces. Barua stepped closer to the dome. Slowly and softly he touched its once high and proud spire. He stroked for some time the still-strong and unmoved wooden framework of the structure. Stroking for one last time the structure, from the spire to the fallen wooden dome on which it once stood, Barua suddenly walked away from it. He never looked back again at it.

Just after a few days, a huge concrete mansion took its place. Once, in its place, stood an ancient college -- with more than a century old dome, strong and made of the finest wood available in the country, decorated with bright and sparkling glass panes and a proud pointed spire -- a brown building which had in all the years of its existence churned out many generations of boys and girls…nobody remembered just how many. As if, it was just another of those numerous and rapid changes which nobody could catch hold of. As if, the change in the permanence of the situation had been taken over by yet another new change. As if, the present could now nudge the immediate past into the depths of memory; and as if, everybody forgot that here once stood an old college.

At the wink of an eye, the town’s broad and free ground sprouted many high windowed and tall-spired buildings. Nobody could even realize how fast the roads started being covered by numerous small shops, like the termite nests around an unused ruined building. Various shops now started blocking the old houses from view. Amidst the huge crowd which assembled in the day and the blinding light of the neon tubes in the night, one couldn’t -- or perhaps forgot to -- make out where exactly someone’s house stood. The once broad roads had now turned narrow. They were all the more narrowed by the numerous big and small cars either parked or moving with tremendous speed along them. From noon till evening, one couldn’t walk on the road.

In between all this mayhem, the walks and talks of Barua and his friends of the ‘Ever-walking Club’ continued somehow. The daily exchange of news, snippets and gossip went on, more or less in the same way. Sometimes, one or two of them were absent, and some of them could never come again to enquire about the various news, and give their share of the gossip or to give another bit of another news.

Saikia always brought new information. This morning, it was yet another piece of news, this time about the bank. When all of them were in service, none of them thought much about the bank; it didn’t have any specialty at that time. It was just like another office, to keep money and withdraw it regularly. Even their monthly salaries didn’t come from it. The cashier took their salaries and kept it on their respective tables, or they themselves went and took it from him with a small signature on a salary roll, over a red revenue stamp. But now, after their retirement, the meaning and position of this big building of the city was very much different and special, for each of them in his life. In their homes, their children had taken up almost all the duties and responsibilities of the ageing parents into their own hands. As if it was time to relieve their fathers. But, even after the duties had been handed over, of the ones that were left, this job of coming to the bank on a particular day every month was something none of them wanted to hand over so soon. They wanted to hang on to this work, till a time it was still possible for them, and no one ever wanted to stay back home on this day of the month. The body would begin tickling with excitement from the end of the previous month itself, the mind was preoccupied with this very thought that next week carried with it the day when one had to go to the bank…day after tomorrow…tomorrow…today! This counting of days started way before the actual event …sometimes even a fortnight before it. And on D-day, one would go out, right in the morning, after taking a good long bath and carefully securing the cheque-book and the pass book, to stand in the queue before that counter at the bank.

During this very uneventful - yet eventfully gravid - time of standing in the queue till the cashier arrived or till their turn came, many of them kept on searching and combing the crowd for yet another of the acquainted faces. Conversations kept on in full swing with someone standing at the end of the line or in another queue with expert and adept hand gestures and body language. And with those standing nearby, the subjects usually moved around themselves, their homes, sons, daughters, grand children and several other topics, including desh-duniya, the fallen dome, the tall high-windowed buildings, the narrowing roads…

While talking about this and that, almost all of them kept on the look out for those who had not yet come today. They wondered if, without their knowledge or without telling others, anyone of them had decided never to come again! Yadav Sharma used to come always at nine thirty. It is one o’clock now, then why hasn’t he come yet? Last time, Tarun Saikia had sent his son to collect his pension, but now what? Had the documents and necessary papers been transferred to Mahanta’s wife now …?

Karuna Barua’s job at the bank almost always finished at about eleven in the morning. Dutta sitting at the counter would always give him the money with the delighted smile he so beautifully flashed on almost everyone. He knows many of the pensioners by now. This is probably his permanent counter; they have seen him for many years now. He calls them by their surnames. He can do the necessary work with the required speed and accuracy combined together. Taking the pass book, the cheque, then checking the withdrawals, scribbling some number here and there and then, suddenly as if some teacher was correcting a student’s exercise, marking it with a tick mark, and finally, counting the money with the crisp sound so familiar to them and handing it over to them…while carrying out these many tasks at once, he could also quite casually enquire from the person in front of him about his well being, right from how his health was to how were his sons, daughters, grandchildren, everyone. He was like a multi tasking machine, they would think. Then suddenly all of them would nullify the thought immediately, no, not a machine. Well, actually, people used to give Dutta these bits and pieces of information themselves. Dutta also received these snippets with equal eagerness
as he did the passbooks and the cheque books. Sometimes when Dutta was not there, a tall man used to sit in his place. Perhaps his name is Talukdar. He is quite sober. He didn’t talk much. Perhaps he found the numbers of the pass books and the cheque books jumping out at him more interesting than the people standing alive in front of him.

Sometimes it was a girl who sat there, perhaps one who had recently got into the job. She had lovely long hair and a beautiful round face. A girl who could be the daughter or the grand daughter to many standing in the queue of pensioners. She had a beautiful smile always playing on her lips, which would form the words with equal beauty, when asked something. And when she counted the money, her fingers would talk with the wind, and she would pass on the money with so much care as if the money was made of cotton balls.

When he had come last time, Karuna Barua had brought a bar of chocolate in his pocket. Taking the money from her through the small window at the counter, he had slipped in the huge chocolate bar into her hands. She had almost rolled over the chair in laughter and shyness. And the long column behind him had only laughed with full happiness, so had the nearby counters and the numerous people in the various columns standing in the bank. She had quite prettily slipped her soft hand through the small window into Karuna Barua’s hand and given him a handshake. She couldn’t speak anything with the laughter playing on her face, not even ‘thank you’ came out properly. But still, all of them enjoyed the happiness in those very incomplete and unclear words she uttered. The bank had vibrated with the sound of mirth that day!

Karuna Barua doesn’t leave the bank immediately after taking his pension. There is one place in the bank, a visit to which is most mandatory on his list, after taking the pension. That is a place shaped like bench, a kind of seating arrangement for the customers in the bank. Acquaintances and other known people already keep the place occupied before he can come and take his seat, like the mighty Achilles coming into the battle field of Troy. The reel of conversations is formally let loose after the arrival of Barua. And slowly and steadily, other soldiers join in with their acquainted faces and little talks of this and that. Barua greets almost all of them and almost all of them greet him back. The whole situation is as if each one of them wants to know how is the other, and what turn their life was taking.

The time spent while sitting and talking on the bench seemed to be like the period of certain unexplained and unexpectedly fulfilling happiness for Barua and his old soul mates. It was a kind of unwritten rule, a condition determined before a long time and which everybody followed without any question and of course, happily, that they don’t have any sorrow. They don’t know the evil sorceress called Grief. Even if somebody had something to feel sorry about or some grudge or even some deep sorrow; that was forgotten on this long bench like a forgotten and buried hero, or tossed for the time being into the river that flowed nearby. That’s why, here, on this bench one didn’t have any
sorrow, any grief, anything to cry about…neither here nor anywhere around it. If at all one found anything here, it was happiness, clear and transparent happiness. In the old wrinkled faces, bald or grey haired heads, and the still twinkling eyes hidden behind the thick spectacles…everywhere there was simply happiness. Every month, new people were added to their amazing happiness, and the talks went on in the same way, in the place where days didn’t ferment but bloomed into months and years.

Then, at one time, it is one or one thirty. Slowly, they rise, one by one. With one long uneventful month lying before them, all of them take each other’s leave with the hope of seeing each other again on this very eventful day.

Nobody could understand what Saikia was talking about. Like the falling of the college dome, many changes had started occurring in their surrounding incessantly and rudely without giving anyone any premonition, sometimes unnoticed, sometimes unwanted and almost always, unwelcome and uninvited. Things have been changing so fast that the change that happened just yesterday is old and forgotten today. The present has become so powerful that it has erased all the footprints of the past in the sands of time and leveled it down with concrete. That here once stood a huge dome, how did it look like, what was the wood used for its frame, how were its bright and beautiful glass panes, who remembers it now very clearly and minutely? The tall scrapers and buildings springing up from the ground continuously and rapidly have made people forget that once in their place swayed the big and blooming gardens, the broad fields where the horizon was redefined again and again and the little homes of the people where there used to be courtyards filled with the blades of the greenest grass. Barua often tries to find out the line which divided the time past and the time present, carefully. Maybe, that’s why, Karuna Barua could tell that there was still more to come, soon.

Saikia says that there would be no need to sit on the bench in the bank anymore. ‘Now, without even entering the bank, without crowding the interiors, we would be able to take out our pension money, and yes, in less than a minute. The bank has taken care of that.’

Hazarika replied almost irritated and a bit cross, ‘What rubbish? Pension in one minute? And that too, without even entering the bank. If the Bank is thinking of any brokers and such stuff, then I am changing my bank as soon as possible. And who will give the pension to so many people without any hindrance in less than a minute?’

Everybody was silent for some time. The answer came soon enough. A machine. They are putting up a machine for the job. A cubicle with a small sized, square machine. It would be that very machine where you could enter, press some buttons and get your pension money, or as a matter of fact any deposited money in…less than a minute! The bank is giving away forms at the moment. People are being shown how to open the door to the machine, where to insert the card which looked more like a biscuit, which buttons to press for which function, where the money would come and rest, and finally how to come out of the cubicle by pressing yet another button. They were also being instructed on the need to keep the card safe, and the number with which they operate the account a secret and unknown to anybody, etc.

Somebody asked, ‘Then the old rules? Will they be gone? Will we never be able to take our money like we used to do earlier? Standing in front of the counter with the cheque books and pass books?’

‘We might be able to. But they have done this to probably decrease the crowd that gathers regularly, and to ensure that the transactions occur fast and accurately. They say that actually the system is for our benefit only.’

Karuna Barua didn’t ask anything. Even didn’t comment also. He just listened to everything carefully and imagined the little square machine.

With the card in his hand, Barua inserted it through the narrow slit near the door to that very machine he had imagined days ago. A blue light flashed on. He took the card out, and the door opened like magic. Something which he had practiced over and over with the bank official who had tried to teach them the act.

A minute later, everything was over. Karuna Barua had taken his monthly pension and now it was time to return. Taking the money in his hands, Karuna Barua fell into a dilemma. Whom was he going to thank? Whom to ask, ‘How are you my child?’ Who would now shake his hand by slipping one into his through the small window? Who would now ask him, ‘How are you sir? How is your health…?’

Suddenly Barua advanced a step towards the cold standing machine and put a hand on its hard body, and stroked it. Just like that, he kept his hand there for a few seconds. He unconsciously searched for a hand to shake, a hand to slip a chocolate into, a face to light up with a smile. He strained his ears for some kind of a human sound. Will there come, out of the hard floor beneath the machine, a Dutta’s, a Talukdar’s or anybody else’s voice loaded with the familiar yet happy question, ‘How are you today father? Fine I hope…’

The door behind him opened and another person came in, ‘Haven’t you finished yet?

Pocketing the money he peeped into the bank. Is there somebody inside? Strange! There is not one known face today! There was no one to call out to him like every other time and ask for his health.

It’s a long time till noon. He never comes out of his home to return so soon. Barua has lots of time to spare now.

Hesitatingly, Barua entered the bank and went near the familiar bench, there just might be someone familiar sitting there, one of his comrades and soul mates? Whatever had happened during these days, Barua could catch up with the news now only. The interior of the bank was suddenly decorated with rows and rows of cubicles of sparkling glass and nickel, and on every table is a little machine, and in front of the little machine’s colorful screen which was constantly flashing series of new and newer numbers, a human; separate and secluded from each one, private and secret in his own domain. No one knows the other, let alone knowing the numerous customers who now sprawled the bank’s floor which was now broad and open. Amidst all the newly placed red and little individual chairs, Barua could not find his very own wooden bench, the battlefield where he had defeated sorrow with his happy soldiers; that was now gone.

In the first week of the next month on that very date, Barua went out of his home at his usual time.

Just as the bank opened, he entered it without looking anywhere else and approached a particular counter. He then entered a queue in front of it without looking at anyone’s face, as if he didn’t know anyone or hadn’t noticed.

A young officer was distributing certain forms to all the people standing in queue in front of the various counters. Those very familiar forms which he had filled up probably a month earlier. He could hear snippets of the pep talk he was giving to the people listening to him, the usual and all too familiar phrases, ‘less than a minute’, ‘a biscuit shaped card’, ‘hassle free money withdrawals’ and many more. Barua tried his best to avoid those sounds and phrases for as long as possible.

He was determinedly looking into the ground as if it was so interesting at the moment, when the youngster, who probably knew him, addressed him directly, ‘Haven’t you got a card…?’
‘I have my child…’
‘Then?’
‘Actually I forgot it today…’ In a voice almost inaudible, Barua replied with an uneasy smile, ‘Couldn’t find it when I was about to come…’

And as he was speaking slowly and uneasily, Barua began to notice that just a few turns away from him was Hazarika, and further away was Saikia, all standing in the queue with the pass book and cheque book in hand.

With a simple and infinitely sweet smile on his face, Hazarika told Barua, ‘Actually, I also forgot it today. Can’t remember where I kept it…you know, old age…’

Assamese Short story " AMRITYU AMRIT "

Short story
Amrityu Amrit

Sibananda Kakoti


The truck stopped in the distance after crossing the bridge. Even though from afar, the flickering lights extending to quite a distance on either side of the bridge on the National Highway, looked like two rows of lamps lit for Deepavali, when one comes closer one can make out the kerosene-filled foggy atmosphere. With each lamp, in various ?-vessels were to be found different kinds of fish. Each of those fishermen waiting for customers in two rows along the National Highway, had a few companions with them. Maybe a brother or a son, or perhaps a fellow fisherman or his assistant. Whenever they saw the headlight of an approaching car, the companions get ready, and a competition would start -- whoever could attract the attention of the passengers in the cars by dangling the fish against the light, was going to have the car stopping by him. Then if one could bargain and haggle and sell the fish, their work for the evening was done. It was not as if fishing was the only occupation of the people of that area, most people had a few bighas of land, but many of those who did not have enough for the whole year from working on the fields would, in the evening after finishing their work on the field, would lay a fishing net in a river or a pond. And with the fish they trap in the net come to sit at one or the other end of the bridge along the road. With the money they earn from selling fish, the daily expenses of the house are taken care of. Of course when there is no more paddy in the barn, then the whole family has to survive only on their fish-earnings.

The truck that went and stopped in the distance could not generate any enthusiasm or attract the attention of the fish-sellers. Normally these truckers never buy fish. And when they buy, they waste a lot of time in haggling and bargaining. Of course since it was getting late in the evening, the number of fish-sellers had also decreased. A few of them had got down to the shallow water and were rinsing their vessels. Only those who had not been able to sell any fish at all till then were still sitting in their own places.

Everyone noticed that a young boy got off the truck and was coming towards them. There was a small bag hanging on his shoulder. Although they could not make out at first, as he came closer in the light of the lamps they could recognise the boy.

“Is this not out Amrit?” everyone thought in their minds. At this time, casting a look over all the fishermen, he greeted the one next to him and asked, “Dedai, has my father not come here today?”
The man jumped up on his seat and stood up, shocked. What should he say, how should he say it, not being able to decide this, he tried to control himself. Trying to sound normal he said:
“Looks as if your father has not come here today. He was here yesterday. It seems he is not feeling too well.”
Amrit turned and started to walk back. After going a little distance he turned back and asked his Dedai.
“Can one go through the fields, Dedai?”
“You could go through the fields, but the rains of yesterday have filled the fields very deeply.” Although Ratneswar spoke these words with an almost normal voice, it looked as if he was being too vague. He said again,
“How will you go through the fields so late in the night. You have come after such a long while, you will not be able to fathom your way through the water.”
Without giving a reply, he started walking along the road. Amrit began to think, has he been away from the village for so long that he will not be able to make out his way through the fields? Four years is actually not a long time. He had returned today to his village that he had left suddenly four years ago. For a long time he kept on walking. Suddenly he had the feeling that although he was walking alone, there were many others who were accompanying him. The sound of the rain-water on both banks, the sound of the ?, the splashing movements of the fish in the water, the moon that was trying to pierce and shine through the clouds in the sky – he was immersed in the incredulity of the atmosphere. He had seen many Hills, forests, fields, and a lot of mud and water in the last four years. He has overcome much. But it was as if today this atmosphere was intensely personal, intensely his own. It was as if he was organically connected to this road, the water, the mud, the fields, the sounds of the birds at night,… the whole surrounding was making him restless. He seems to find peace after a few long breadths. For some time he sat down on the pile of stones that the PWD had left on the side of the road.

Although it was not too late in the night, by the time he entered the village he had the feeling that it was past midnight. Except for one of two lamps flickering in a few houses, the rest were all asleep. Those were days for working in the fields. After working the whole day in the fields, the whole family goes to sleep early after having dinner. Early the next morning, they would have to go again to the fields. So the village looked ? now. He felt he was entering a known but empty world on entering the village. As if he had already entered home. The village looked much the same. Almost the same. There was no visible signs of change in these last four years. Amrit thought, how long is four years? After walking on for a bit he thought again, four years is not too short for things to change. He came close to the deka -chang where he and his friends used to spend much of their evenings chatting. That chang looked almost as it was. His mind was filled with the memories of his entire childhood and youth which was associated with that chang. Whenever he has a chance, he always feels proud of this chang in this village. It was not just a place for the village young boys to discuss their sexual urges or the gossip of the nearby families. This chang was like an open stage. At various times, with various people, on this chang is discussed politics of the village and of the country, the news of the nation, intimate contacts, contexts of the time, the monsoons, the buffalo fight at Magh Bihu, the robab tengas of winter, pesticides for the fields, the love of Basanti and Moneswar, Bubul’s exams or Rongai’s disease in the neck and many others. After going a little distance, after crossing a few houses, he noticed another chang. This was the first change he saw, another deka chang. That means there are many young boys in the village in the meanwhile. Too many for one chang. Amrit also had a few doubts – was it that the number of young men was growing or was it that everybody was no longer able to sit at one chang. Still changs were very dear to him. He felt like sitting once in that chang, with had so much to do with his personal and intellectual mental development. No, let it be now, it is already very late. There will be enough time later. now that he ahs returned finally back to his village.

After reaching the approach to their house he observed that their house was completely silent. He went in, pushed the door a couple of times and called out naturally, “Father, Father, Are you already asleep?” Not hearing anybody stirring he called out again after a while, “Moina, Moina, Father, are you all asleep?” No being able to figure out what was happening he went by the side of the house to the back. A little away, near the well, there was Moina, washing the dishes scooping out water from a pail. Near him a weakly glowing earthen lamp. He felt bad. When he had left home, his brother Moina was only six or seven years old, now he was ten or eleven. Their mother had died when they were both young. Their father had worked hard all these years and brought up his two sons. Their father Dinanath, spoke very little, almost not at all, only he kept doing his daily tasks systematically, properly. After their mother dies, many of their relatives had put pressure on him to marry again. Their father was young enough to be able to marry again. But for some reason their scanty-worded father did not marry again. And till today did everything for the two boys himself. To talk of sons, the eldest son Amrit was not there these last 4 years. After passing his Higher Secondary exam and getting admitted to the BA classes, he suddenly disappeared one day, and did not come back. The villagers, their father, Moina everyone had expected a lot from Amrit who had done so well in his exams. But once he went, there was no more news of him. Today, after so much time, he has suddenly returned, to his own home. With the flickering lamp next to him, murmuring or reciting something, Moina was washing the dishes. Amrit went forward and stood behind his brother. How to call him. If he sees him suddenly he might be so shocked that he could start screaming. Moina was singing a little prayer song from school, while washing the dishes. He could understand why Moina was singing that song. Giving the example of Mahatma Gandhi their mother had told them to sing prayers in the evening or night when they were afraid – one got strength that way. Moina was immersed in that song while washing that Amrit did not feel like disturbing him. Just then while getting up to draw some water from the well, Moina saw Amrit. Immediately Amrit said to him,
“Moina, don’t be afraid, it is me, me…”
Holding the pail in his hand, Moina kept staring at Amrit for some time, without responding.
“Is it not you elder brother?” full of incredulity, Moina said inside his mouth.
“Yes, it is me.”
Again Moina stood at the side of the well, staring at Moina for some more time. Then suddenly, he asked a very surprising question to Amrit.
“Have you had dinner, brother?”
Amrit was surely surprised. Even the question was irrelevant at this moment, still from the big question Amrit could figure out that Moina had really grown up. Not only grown up, having to manage the household alone with his father, Moina had also become experienced.

They had not yet put water over the left-over rice. On days when one had to go to plough the fields, it was almost a rule in most houses to cook more at one go the previous night and put water over the excess rice. The next day, one took that rice along with chillies, onions, ginger or black lentils as a snack. After keeping a little rice to put water over, Moina served Amrit the remaining rice. While eating, Amrit asked,
I heard Father is unwell, will he be able to go to the fields tomorrow?
If he doesn’t go, who will go? How did you find out?
Near the bridge.
He is not so ill that he cannot go to the fields. He went to bed a little while ago.
Amrit and Moina went to sleep on the same shack. Moina well asleep after a little while. Amrit however was not able to sleep. One could make out that there was sparkling moonlight outside even while being in. Amrit looked at Moina’s face… The poor boy had fallen asleep in exhaustion. He suddenly remembered the words of Ratneswar dedai. After getting off from the truck near the bridge he had asked Ratneswar dedai about his father. But why did his dedai shoot up into standing position from his sitting position the moment he recognised him? Why did he reply to his questions with an excessively polite tone mixed in fear and doubt? The other people in the village also recognised him. Why did they not ask him, Is it not our Bormoina? Is this not the elder son of our Dina?” But nobody asked him anything. On the other hand, along with Ratneswar dedai all of them had stopped trying to sell their fish but had all stood up and were all looking at him, with fear and trepidation. In his restlessness he felt unhappy. He looked at Moina’s face. The tired Moina was probably fast asleep. Moina, who had grown up holding on to his fingers, the Moina who always used to be with him, was so grown up today that he could serve and give him his dinner. He felt a wave of love for Moina. And then he remembered, after seeing him after such a long time, what a strange and surprising question Moina had asked him, “Brother, have you had your dinner?” By reason and context, many other questions should have been the first question. But why did this last question turn into Moina’s first question. Amrit could not wait any longer, he gently touched Moina’s body and called out, “Moina, Moina, are you asleep?”
Moina was half awake. With closed eyes he replied:
“Yes, what happened?” and after a while continued, “Are you not able to sleep?”
“No, but tell me one thing, why did you first of all ask me whether I had eaten or not?”
“Why?”
“You could have also asked me many other questions first?”
“No, just like that. I asked just like that,” Moina who was facing upwards but still had his eyes closed, replied.
“It can never be just like that. You have become very big these days. I know, Moina, you surely asked that question after having thought of something.”
Moina did not reply, just changed sides and keep quiet for a while. After that he began to speak in a grave voice:
“I thought that you would quickly go away somewhere again. That is why I thought that at least you should hurriedly have some food before you leave again.”
Something hammered at Amrit’s chest. For some time he kept lying still like his brother, then turned to face him. Then after lying on his side for a while, he touched his brother who was facing away from him and asked,
“Moina, where did you think I would go?”
“I don’t know. Did you tell us where you were going before you disappeared? You could have told father, at least.”
Amrit understands their sorrow. Without answering, he kept his hand over Moina and kept quiet. Moina was also still. After a while, he pulled into his chest with great force Moina’s back as if to pull Moina’s entire body into his chest, then put his mouth very close to Moina’s ears and told him slowly yet very clearly:
“Moina, I will not go away again. From now on, I will stay here with you all. Forever.”

* * *

While ploughing his field, only one worry completely engrossed Dinanath. In the morning, when they were letting the cows out for the day, Moina had told him the news of Bormoina’s arrival. but it seems he has come back for good. After having shattered many personal hopes and dreams of Dinanath, he has been away for quite a few years. But now, will he be able to live like he did before? “My son will stay with me and help me,” even thinking of that Dinanath stopped startled. No, Dinanath does not want to hope for anything anymore. He can only tell himself, what is destined to happen, will happen. Just then, ploughing in the adjacent field, Sarukon asked him with a shout,
“Is it true, brother, that Bormoina has returned?’
“Yes,” Dinanath replied gravely.
Dinanath was usually very reserved. When he replied in this very grave tone, Sarukon did not have the nerve to discuss the matter further. As the morning progressed, the fields got filled with farmers and ploughmen. To put mud on the earth, plant saplings, to remove the rubbish from the mud, to carry the saplings, or to carry food for the people working on the fields, the field got filled with various people doing different jobs. The news did not take long to spread. In different places, among different groups, there was only discussion about Bormoina. he must be now a strapping young man – the old lady said almost involuntarily. Just then, Champa, who was planting paddy in the nearby plot shouted out:
“Look, there he is, walking along the little path, taking food to his father.”
All eyes stopped at Bormoina. Slowly Amrit approached his father. He left the bundle with the food on the path and looked towards his father. Then he called out once to his father, “Father,” his father did not respond. His father had seen him for the first time when he had stopped on the path. For the first time after many years. His father looked at Amrit’s whole body. Finishing one complete round with the plough, he stopped his cows, and washed his hands with the water in the fields. And started to eat his snack. Amrit could understand why his father had not spoken to him properly. He could fully appreciate the value and place of the accumulated indignation and hurt of such a long time of his father towards his son.
“Are you feeling better, father?” Amrit wanted to talk to his father.
His father answered only with a nod. Amrit understood that his father had replied in this manner only so that he did not have to speak. Because by just looking at his father’s shattered body, he could guess the condition of his health. He looked at his father, who was eating his snack. Without facing him, his father was quietly eating his meal. After staying for a while like that, he went forward towards the cows and touched the plough. “Come on, move,” on saying that the cows began to move in their specified tracks in the muddy water. Although he was out of practice by many years, since it was an old habit, he had no difficulty in carrying on ploughing again.

After finishing his meal, Dinanath kept sitting on the path for some time. He took a good look at his son who was ploughing as he alternately came closer and receded further. Although his health did not look very good, he still had become a young man. And fit. The radiance of youth seemed to glow all around his body in the morning sun. His hold on the furrow, and the firm step on the muddy water – Dinanath did not continue to look. He wiped his mouth with both hands, got up, and without saying a word, took back the plough from his son.

Without speaking, Dinanath made the cows start up again. Till the cows had completed two rounds around the field, Amrit stood there in the same position, in the middle of the field. It seemed as if he was not able to figure out with what eh should try to begin a conversation again with his father. Still, once when his father came close to him, Amrit spoke out, very naturally, “ Father, I have come back.”
Not answering his father kept going, chasing the pair of cows. Amrit waited as he was. After a while his father came and stopped the cows just near Amrit, After dipping his whip in the mud, he looked at Amrit and said,
“Will you be able to stay here, forever? Think about that…”

* * *

Wading through the water in the paddy fields, he reached the path for the cows. His fathers kept ringing in Amrit’s ears. He thought about it again. Really, will he be able to live here forever? Yes, it is true that he has spent many days and nights in the indecisiveness of great fear and hesitation towards the end. For many reasons, this inability to arrive at a decision had cramped all his powers. Amrit also knows this well that the present situation might not be without danger for him in some situations. oh, he stopped after thinking about it for a while. What is the point of thinking so much? He tried to get rid of all unpleasant thoughts by just shaking his head. In front of him a free atmosphere – village, fields, fish, mud, people, father, Moina, in contact with all these, begins a new ? day for Amrit. He stopped for a while under the banyan tree. In the light of the rising sun, the vast open fields look even more open. And scattered across the entire fields are the groups of people working on the fields. He was suddenly reminded of Niru. Niru! Niru is still the same. Without saying anything, without coming to any decision, without making any complaints. He had seen Niru planting paddy when he had taken food for his father. Niru also saw him. Amrit had stopped briefly. For a while Niru had stopped her work and had stared at him, very emotionally. After that, she began to plant her saplings again, in the same unaccusing manner. He cannot ask anyone why Niru is not married yet, why she is waiting, and for whom she is waiting. Even Niru.

On his way to school Ghanashyam Master passed by his side. He called out suddenly, “Uncle?” A little flustered, Ghanashyam got down from his bicycle:
“O this is our Amrit.”
“Yes, are you going to school?”
“ Yes, gosh I am actually late, let me rush.”
Ghanashyam Master quickly got onto his bicycle and hurried away. He stood there and kept looking after Ghanashyam for a while. Till he was out of sight, Ghanashyam did not look back even once.

* * *

Although he had got over to some extent the uneasiness of the first few days it seemed that in almost every situation his presence made things so strange and unnatural that Amrit was beginning to find it unbearable at times. The hidden memories of the past begin to bother him again. Sometimes Amrit feels that in this whole atmosphere he is the undesirable object. These days he has been roaming here and there in the village. Although he has not been able to go from one house to another as he used to in the olden days, he has tried very hard from his side to bring back the intimacy and the easy atmosphere. He understands that it will take a long time to go from one situation to the other. Still this last month his presence has still remained a subject of unrest and uneasiness. Wherever he went it was as if the atmosphere became grave suddenly. A sort of unnatural artificiality descended on the young men sitting on a chang when he happened to pass by, although a moment ago there were happily laughing or seriously discussing the present situation in the country. The little fights and quarrels going on in the Namghar would come to an end instantly as Amrit appeared at the doorway. Amrit tries very hard to ease the situation, he tries to participate in everything, as was his old habit. But now the whole matter is somewhat different. Now when Amrit speaks, the others only listen. But when he wants to listen, almost nobody ever speaks up. And the few who speak do so maintaining an unnatural restraint and a safe distance. He finds it difficult. He would like to argue about certain topics, which they used to do always before. But now everybody seems to agree to whatever he said. He went to a nearby college recently looking for admission forms. Although the last date for submitting the forms was already over, many of the officers including the Principal reassured him with great eagerness and respect that his form would be accepted and that he should not worry.

Still he had begun to carry out his day-to day activities in a way that was in tune with the rest of the village. As his father’s illness had got worse, he had also had to go to plough the fields a few times. When they saw him in the field, the other farmers and field hands would stop singing whatever they were singing – naams, bihu-songs, bongeets or simply verses from the Ghosa. Although he was hurt by this, he still did not give up his efforts to merge with the main flow. In this situation, except for his little brother Moina, he ahs not been able to relax and chat with any one else so far. Only Moina seems to understand him somewhat. Moina was the only shelter for Amrit’s doubts, fears, loneliness and isolation.

He does not have much conversation with his father. After working the whole day in the fields, after eating and resting a little while in the afternoon, the father would go out again with his fishing net in the evening. Over and above helping out in the fields he also goes to help his father fish sometimes. But his reserved father, remained reserved. Except for a few rare words, he preferred to remain silent most of the time. Sometimes Amrit also finds it hard to understand what the matter is. Seeing his father’s grave face he cannot imagine what is really going on in his father’s mind. Sometimes he feels that it is a massive amount of hurt pride and resentment that is accumulated in his father’s mind towards him. Or that his father knows everything about him or nothing at all but has no desire to find out. Still, although he does not speak he can see for sure that his father is not indifferent. He understand that although he keeps quiet, his father is immersed in deep thought.

He understood the matter a little better when one day, a rather big fish got caught in their net. After laying down the net, father and son were slowly tugging from either end of the net. He could make out from the tautness of the net and told Amrit in a low voice, “the fish could be rather big. Hold on tight.” After ten minutes of concentrated tugging, when they finally managed to heave the net up, they could see that there was a huge fish in the net. As soon as it landed on land the fish started to wriggle and struggle to get away. In the time it took them to fold in the net, the fish began to jump from one place to another. Amrit watched his father very closely as he brought this big procedure to an end, even without uttering a single word. He was also observing the movements of the fish and his desperate attempt to break free, and also saw his father single-mindedly making his way closer and closer to the fish and how he caught it with one hand and tried to get it out of the net with the other. Amrit also tried to help his father untangle the net from the fish’s body. This time he father just held on to the fish’s head so that it could not move any more. Amrit kept removing the net from the fish. After a little while the fish was free from the net. Immediately the fish made such a huge swish with his tail that his father was unable to hold on to the fish and the fish fell out. But the experienced hands of this father caught hold of the fish instantly again and this time pressed the fish’s body against the ground. This time the fish could not wriggle out. It began to move, swishing its tail this way and that. After silently watching the fish’s desperate but futile attempts to free itself, Amrit involuntarily cried out, “Ishhh!”

His father looked up at Amrit. Amrit and his father’s eyes met. After so many days it was as if only now did the father see his son properly. Putting a string around the fish’s mouth and tying the ends, Amrit’s father said, “ When I see the fish struggle, even I feel bad these days.” Amrit did not reply. His father started again, “the fish do not who, who is killing them and why. They are just getting trapped in the nets and dying. We people also have become like these fretting fish in these last years – who is killing, why and for what are they killing, when they are killing, we also do not know. We are only dying.”

Amrit gave no reply to his father’s words.

* * *

Before it was even dawn there was a big confusion in the village. The cows which were going to be let out to graze remained as they were, the housewives had only begun to sweet their courtyards with their brooms when the news spread with lightning speed across the whole village. The sounds of whistles filled all directions of the village. From all sides, the police and the military had surrounded the village. Terrified and worried, all the men and women, boys and girls, old and sick, young men and women, everyone came out to the main street of the village. Saying “Hai, chalo, chalo, sab lok chalo, field me chalo,” and whistling furiously they were getting everyone to leave their houses and move towards the school field. From the other end, the old gaobura came almost running. He ahs tried to explain to the people as he came – “This is the government rule, it seems there is some terrorist young man in his area.
They will inspect everyone carefully and then let them go. Don’t worry, they have spoken to me.” The old gaobura kept repeating the same lines over and over again and the people kept moving towards the school field.

Keeping the old men, ladies and little children on one side, they made all the others stand in rows in the school field. The field was surrounded in all sides by armed police and military. Despite the assurance from the gaobura, everyone was terrified. Among the rows of people there was an unnatural stillness. No body had a word on their lips. In the middle of one such row are standing Amrit and Moina, still. Moina was holding on to one finger of Amrit’s hand. Amrit indifferent, Moina curious. A little while later a new Police Maruti van came and stopped at one end of the field. An officer like person spoke into the mike attached to the vehicle as if making an announcement:
“We are sorry to bother you like this. Once we have identified the persons we are looking for in your midst, the rest of you all will be able to get back to your usual routine.” the man repeated the same words one more time. Immediately, from the rear door of the van, two armed guards kicked out two young men who had their eyes and their hands tied. They made them stand at attention, removed the strip from their eyes, and ordered them in a harsh voice, “Look, are they in this lot?” Saying this they asked the two young men to go by the rows of men. The two youths started walking slowly along the rows, along with them two uniformed guards and the police and the army personnel surrounding the field. After a little while their circumbulation came to an end. Meaning that there is no one they know here. They were blindfolded again and raised into the vehicle. One after the other, all the cars disappeared swiftly.

Amrit and Moina neither of them have been able to speak. It was as if both of them were analysing the incident, in their own ways. The people were beginning to go back in groups, either to the fields or back home. Slowly and lazily, Amrit and Moina was also returning. Suddenly Moina asked Amrit, “Elder brother, do you know the boys?”
“No, of course not.”
“Do they know you?”
“Why should they know me?”
After waiting a while, Moina said again,
“No, you must know them.”

* * *

It did not take long for the news to spread from one village to another. Some newspaper people also came to have a look at the area. It seems some dangerous terrorist was hiding in some village in this area. The police and military are looking for him. There has been a search in one or two neighbouring villages.

Despite this whole sequence of events, Amrit is trying to continue to live like usual. He has not given up his efforts to somehow get accepted back into his world. As his father’s illness had worsened, he had also had to take a bigger share of his father’s work.

The land had been planted but Amrit was faced with another problem. The paddy in the barn was almost finished. His father had not been able to go fishing properly, because of his illness. If they did not catch a big fish in the coming days and could sell it for a good price, it was almost certain that they would have to beg for money from someone. These days, his father had almost not been able to get up from his bed. Although they had brought him medicines from the nearby government dispensary, he was not getting better. Moina and Amrit had got terribly worried with this problem. Although Amrit was trying to fight the situation with a strange calm and balance, sometimes he felt emotionally and mentally very weak. It was not just the people from his own village, it was as if the people from the entire area were pointing a finger towards him. It was as if on everyone’s faces were written the allegation, “Just for you we are all having to suffer.” And what was the situation. Was it just that the police and the military came to the village? The biggest impact of this suffocating atmosphere pervading the entire region was felt in the evening fish-market near the bridge – that was the biggest problem. First nobody had noticed it. They did not think it was something serious as even earlier some fish would remain unsold at the end of the day. But slowly more and more fish began to get stale. They had to take the fish the next morning to the neighbouring town or market. “The cars do not stop any more at night. Not only do they not stop, when they come close to the bridge, they go by with much greater speed. Now, slowly everyone was beginning to understand why this was happening – but nobody says anything openly, or cannot say anything openly. Still the people are going fishing, and are sitting close to the bridge, with the hope of being able to sell their fish and the worry of the fish going stale.

According to Moina, is they could catch one big fish then their problems would be solved for at least a few days. They had started the second part of the maths text in school. They would be able to buy that, their father’s medicines and rice for a few days. Since their father has been unable to go every evening. Moina and Amrit take the net and go fishing. Every day Moina has the same hope – one big fish. Although they have fished every day without a break, the inexperienced Amrit has not been able to be successful. He is saddened by Moina and Moina’s expectations. Contrary to Moina’s great expectations, the frustrations of the day’s failures seem to weigh him down. In the evening while returning, Moina does not talk about fish any more. Next day they go out again with the net.

Very slowly Amrit started the pull the net. With a low voice he called out to Moina, “Come, fast”. Moina came close to Amrit disturbing the water as little as he could. His face was lit up with hope. No sound from anyone. Judging from the pull of the net they thought – that must be a big fish. Slowly, with great care, they raised the net to the bank. Moina was completely overwhelmed with glee and went and hugged Amrit, “Oh, such a big fish! Did I not say we would catch a big fish some day…” Really the fish was unbelievably big. The fish was lying unmoving, tangled in the whole net.

On their way to the road along the bridge, Moina kept chattering away the whole way in glee. Although his mind was filled with satisfaction, not saying anything, Amrit was walking along carrying the fish on his back. When he had lifted the fish onto his back, Moina had wrapped the net loosely around the fish, so that it would be so visible from afar on his brother’s back. So that nobody would directly notice the fish, nor other people’s ill-feelings and jealousy would hurt it.

“Do you know, Brother, I do not remember ever having caught such a big fish. About two years ago, around the time of Magh Bihu, father had caught a fish a little smaller than this one. Everyone thought that fish was very big. I remember selling it then for two hundred rupees by the side of the bridge. A car came and quickly took the fish away.” Moina stopped a little while, then started again, “ In my opinion, even today the fish will be sold immediately. The people prefer fish live fish like this one. They only have to see it.”

Without saying anything, Amrit kept walking. He just had to change sides of the fish on his back a couple of times.

“Maybe I should do one thing,” Moina spoke out automatically. “Let me run through these back yards and give the news to father. He will be very happy to hear that we have caught such a big fish. We were supposed to get some rice from Gohin’s shop today to be paid later. I can tell him not to do that. After selling the fish we can do the shopping on our way back.”

Moina did not wait for Amrit’s response. Walking through the wet fields and the low paddy saplings, Moina ran towards their house. Looking at Moina running through the green fields, Amrit kept walking towards the bridge.

Before he got to the bridge, Moina came and joined him. In his hand was a bag and a ? of thick cloth. Looking for a suitable place near the bridge, he lowered his fish to the ground. The sun had not set yet. A couple of fishermen had already taken their places along the road. Everyone was attracted by Amrit’s fish – really it was very big. Amrit felt a little tired after having put down the fish. He walked down along the little path going down the bridge and washed his hands with water. Sprinkled some water on his eyes and face and then climbed up and took his place near the fish, Moina next to him.

“Did father say something?”

“Father was very happy, He asked us not to waste time in trying to get a higher price – just to get home soon.”

Although a few cars have gone by, Amrit have not really bothered. At some point, the sun disappeared slowly. It was hard to see the fish from the cars. So Amrit held up the fish with the thread through its mouth and began to shake it when cars went by. Along with Amrit's shaking the fish, Moina would cry out, “Fish! Big fish! Live fish!” Cars came and sped away. A couple of cars did approach them, but they wanted only small fish, and now the cars do not seem to stop any more.

Slowly Amrit began to tire of having to lift the fish for every passing car. It was so heavy. Transferring the weight from hand to hand he tried very hard to attract the attention of the cars passing by. But has not been successful till now. Moina was also slowly beginning to dampen. In the middle sometimes Moina had said, "Let me see, this time, let me lift it," and he had lifted it a couple of times. Lifting the big fish somehow and holding it along his chest and stomach when he saw a car approaching, he held it up and started to scream, “Fish, Fish, Fish, Live Fish, Big Fish.” In the brilliant light of the headlights Amrit could clearly see Moina’s hopes and expectations gradually turning to despair and unhappiness. Not knowing what to do, Amrit was burning with anger, sadness, tiredness, indignation…Still he did not give up his efforts. Taking the fish from Moina’s hands, he has once again gone forward towards the light – the artificial light of the mechanical cars. The light that approached him from far away and carried hope with it was crushed by the darkness that followed. “Maybe this time we will succeed.” Again he raises his fish with hope. Again he is enveloped in darkness. Darkness, darkness and darkness. In the end Amrit began to see only the darkness. Even the piercing light of the passing cars seemed like darkness to him. His sadness got converted into disgust for the whole situation. In the end he came to a decision. As it was getting late, he told Moina, “Moina, you wait here a bit, I will go home and come back.”

He ran parting the waters, through the paddy fields he splashed his way towards their house. He was running so fast that the water that he was splashing up had wet his entire body, from head to toe. In one long action he crossed the barrier of their fields. He went and stopped right next to the Kadam tree. He took one more look at the tree, and kneeling down he began to dig the earth as fast as he could. Apart from the sound of the earth that he threw up everything else was still. He did not have to dig too far. He brought out the metallic object wrapped in polythene. He put in the bullets which he had stored inside an old sock, into his waistband. Then, in the same way he leapt over the fence and ran towards the bridge, through the waters of the fields. Although it was an amabasya night, he could feel light being defined through the fire-weapon that was tucked at his waist. Tucked away at his waist, Amrit now had Amrityu Amrit. With grim determination and deep self-confidence arising form his own personal experience, he ran towards the bridge.

He jumped up out of the water and climbed onto the bridge with a leap. On getting on the road he looked once at his brother Moina. In the light of the passing truck he observed Moina’s face, he looked happy and completely thrilled. Seeing Amrit Moina came forward,
“Brother, I sold the fish, at a very good price too.”

(translated from the Asamiya original by Meenaxi Barkotoki on 26.07.09)












Amrityu Amrit

Sibananda Kakoti


The truck stopped at a distance after crossing the bridge. Even though from afar, the flickering lights extending to quite a distance on either side of the bridge on the National Highway, looked like two rows of lamps lit for Deepavali. But when one comes closer one can make out the kerosene-filled foggy atmosphere. With each lamp there were various vessels filled with different kinds of fish. Each of those fishermen waiting for customers in two rows along the National Highway, had a few companions with them. Maybe a brother or a son, or perhaps a fellow fisherman or his assistant. Whenever they saw the headlight of an approaching car, the companions get ready, and a competition would start -- whoever could attract the attention of the passengers in the cars by dangling the fish against the light, was going to have the car stopping by him. And if one could bargain and haggle and sell the fish, their work for the evening was done. Fishing of course, was the only occupation . Most people had a few bighas of land. But those who did not have enough for the whole year from working on the fields would lay a fishing net in a river or a pond. And with the fish trapped in the net, they come to sit at one or the other end of the bridge along the road. With the money they earn from selling fish, the daily expenses of the house are taken care of. Of course when there is no more paddy in the barn, the whole family has to survive on their fish-earnings only.

The truck that went and stopped in the distance could not generate any enthusiasm or attract the attention of the fish-sellers. Normally these truckers never buy fish. And when they buy, they waste a lot of time in haggling and bargaining. Of course since it was getting late in the evening, the number of fish-sellers had also decreased. A few of them had got down to the shallow water and were rinsing their vessels. Only those who had not been able to sell any fish at all were still sitting in their own places.

Everyone noticed that a young boy got off the truck and was coming towards them. There was a small bag hanging on his shoulder. Although they could not make out at first, as he came closer in the light of the lamps they could recognize the boy.

“Is this not our Amrit?” everyone thought in their minds. At this time, casting a look over all the fishermen, he greeted the one next to him and asked, “Dedai, hasn’t my father come here today?”
The man jumped up on his seat and stood up, shocked. Not knowing how to answer him he got startled. Anyway trying to sound normal he said:
“ Probably your father has not come here today. He was here yesterday. May be he is not feeling well.”
Amrit turned and started to walk back. After going a little distance he turned back and asked his Dedai.
“Can one go through the fields, Dedai?”
“ Yes, you can.., but the rains of yesterday have almost filled the fields.” Although Ratneswar tries to speak normally, it looked as if he was being too vague.
He said again, “How will you go through the fields so late in the night. You have come after such a long tome , you will not be able to fathom your way through the water.”
Without giving a reply, he started walking along the road. Amrit began to think, has he been away from the village for so long that he will not be able to make out his way through the fields? Four years is actually not a long time. He had returned today to his village that he left four years ago. For a long time he kept on walking. Suddenly he had the feeling that although he was walking alone, there were many others who were accompanying him. The sound of the rain-water on both banks, the sound of the cicadas, the splashing movements of the fish in the water, the moon that was piercing and shining through the clouds in the sky – he was immersed in the incredulity of the atmosphere. He had seen many hills, forests, fields, and a lot of mud and water in the last four years. He has overcome much. But today's this atmosphere was intensely personal, intensely his own. It was as if he was organically connected to this road, the water, the mud, the fields, the sounds of the birds at night,… the whole surrounding was making him restless. He seems to find peace after a few long breadths. After taking deep breath for some time he sat down on the pile of stones that the PWD had left on the side of the road.

Although it was not too late in the night, by the time he entered the village he had the feeling that it was past midnight. Except for one of two lamps flickering in a few houses, the rest were all asleep. Those were days for working in the fields. After working the whole day in the fields, the whole family goes to sleep early after having dinner. Early the next morning, they would have to go again to the fields. So the village looked ? now. He felt he was entering a known but empty world on entering the village. As if he had already entered home. The village looked much the same. Almost the same. There was no visible signs of change in these last four years. Amrit thought, how long is four years? After walking on for a bit he thought again, four years is not too short for things to change. He came close to the deka -chang where he and his friends used to spend much of their evenings chatting. That chang looked almost as it was. His mind was filled with the memories of his entire childhood and youth which was associated with that chang. Whenever he has a chance, he always feels proud of this chang in this village. It was not just a place for the village young boys to discuss their sexual urges or the gossip of the nearby families. This chang was like an open stage. At various times, with various people, on this chang is discussed politics of the village and of the country, the news of the nation, intimate contacts, contexts of the time, the monsoons, the buffalo fight at Magh Bihu, the robab tengas of winter, pesticides for the fields, the love of Basanti and Moneswar, Bubul’s exams or Rongai’s disease in the neck and many others. After going a little distance, after crossing a few houses, he noticed another chang. This was the first change he saw, another deka chang. That means there are many young boys in the village in the meanwhile. Too many for one chang. Amrit also had a few doubts – was it that the number of young men was growing or was it that everybody was no longer able to sit at one chang. Still changs were very dear to him. He felt like sitting once in that chang, with had so much to do with his personal and intellectual mental development. No, let it be now, it is already very late. There will be enough time later. now that he ahs returned finally back to his village.

After reaching the approach to their house he observed that their house was completely silent. He went in, pushed the door a couple of times and called out naturally, “Father, Father, Are you already asleep?” Not hearing anybody stirring he called out again after a while, “Moina, Moina, Father, are you all asleep?” No being able to figure out what was happening he went by the side of the house to the back. A little away, near the well, there was Moina, washing the dishes scooping out water from a pail. Near him a weakly glowing earthen lamp. He felt bad. When he had left home, his brother Moina was only six or seven years old, now he was ten or eleven. Their mother had died when they were both young. Their father had worked hard all these years and brought up his two sons. Their father Dinanath, spoke very little, almost not at all, only he kept doing his daily tasks systematically, properly. After their mother dies, many of their relatives had put pressure on him to marry again. Their father was young enough to be able to marry again. But for some reason their scanty-worded father did not marry again. And till today did everything for the two boys himself. To talk of sons, the eldest son Amrit was not there these last 4 years. After passing his Higher Secondary exam and getting admitted to the BA classes, he suddenly disappeared one day, and did not come back. The villagers, their father, Moina everyone had expected a lot from Amrit who had done so well in his exams. But once he went, there was no more news of him. Today, after so much time, he has suddenly returned, to his own home. With the flickering lamp next to him, murmuring or reciting something, Moina was washing the dishes. Amrit went forward and stood behind his brother. How to call him. If he sees him suddenly he might be so shocked that he could start screaming. Moina was singing a little prayer song from school, while washing the dishes. He could understand why Moina was singing that song. Giving the example of Mahatma Gandhi their mother had told them to sing prayers in the evening or night when they were afraid – one got strength that way. Moina was immersed in that song while washing that Amrit did not feel like disturbing him. Just then while getting up to draw some water from the well, Moina saw Amrit. Immediately Amrit said to him,
“Moina, don’t be afraid, it is me, me…”
Holding the pail in his hand, Moina kept staring at Amrit for some time, without responding.
“Is it not you elder brother?” full of incredulity, Moina said inside his mouth.
“Yes, it is me.”
Again Moina stood at the side of the well, staring at Moina for some more time. Then suddenly, he asked a very surprising question to Amrit.
“Have you had dinner, brother?”
Amrit was surely surprised. Even the question was irrelevant at this moment, still from the big question Amrit could figure out that Moina had really grown up. Not only grown up, having to manage the household alone with his father, Moina had also become experienced.

They had not yet put water over the left-over rice. On days when one had to go to plough the fields, it was almost a rule in most houses to cook more at one go the previous night and put water over the excess rice. The next day, one took that rice along with chillies, onions, ginger or black lentils as a snack. After keeping a little rice to put water over, Moina served Amrit the remaining rice. While eating, Amrit asked,
I heard Father is unwell, will he be able to go to the fields tomorrow?
If he doesn’t go, who will go? How did you find out?
Near the bridge.
He is not so ill that he cannot go to the fields. He went to bed a little while ago.
Amrit and Moina went to sleep on the same shack. Moina well asleep after a little while. Amrit however was not able to sleep. One could make out that there was sparkling moonlight outside even while being in. Amrit looked at Moina’s face… The poor boy had fallen asleep in exhaustion. He suddenly remembered the words of Ratneswar dedai. After getting off from the truck near the bridge he had asked Ratneswar dedai about his father. But why did his dedai shoot up into standing position from his sitting position the moment he recognised him? Why did he reply to his questions with an excessively polite tone mixed in fear and doubt? The other people in the village also recognised him. Why did they not ask him, Is it not our Bormoina? Is this not the elder son of our Dina?” But nobody asked him anything. On the other hand, along with Ratneswar dedai all of them had stopped trying to sell their fish but had all stood up and were all looking at him, with fear and trepidation. In his restlessness he felt unhappy. He looked at Moina’s face. The tired Moina was probably fast asleep. Moina, who had grown up holding on to his fingers, the Moina who always used to be with him, was so grown up today that he could serve and give him his dinner. He felt a wave of love for Moina. And then he remembered, after seeing him after such a long time, what a strange and surprising question Moina had asked him, “Brother, have you had your dinner?” By reason and context, many other questions should have been the first question. But why did this last question turn into Moina’s first question. Amrit could not wait any longer, he gently touched Moina’s body and called out, “Moina, Moina, are you asleep?”
Moina was half awake. With closed eyes he replied:
“Yes, what happened?” and after a while continued, “Are you not able to sleep?”
“No, but tell me one thing, why did you first of all ask me whether I had eaten or not?”
“Why?”
“You could have also asked me many other questions first?”
“No, just like that. I asked just like that,” Moina who was facing upwards but still had his eyes closed, replied.
“It can never be just like that. You have become very big these days. I know, Moina, you surely asked that question after having thought of something.”
Moina did not reply, just changed sides and keep quiet for a while. After that he began to speak in a grave voice:
“I thought that you would quickly go away somewhere again. That is why I thought that at least you should hurriedly have some food before you leave again.”
Something hammered at Amrit’s chest. For some time he kept lying still like his brother, then turned to face him. Then after lying on his side for a while, he touched his brother who was facing away from him and asked,
“Moina, where did you think I would go?”
“I don’t know. Did you tell us where you were going before you disappeared? You could have told father, at least.”
Amrit understands their sorrow. Without answering, he kept his hand over Moina and kept quiet. Moina was also still. After a while, he pulled into his chest with great force Moina’s back as if to pull Moina’s entire body into his chest, then put his mouth very close to Moina’s ears and told him slowly yet very clearly:
“Moina, I will not go away again. From now on, I will stay here with you all. Forever.”

* * *

While ploughing his field, only one worry completely engrossed Dinanath. In the morning, when they were letting the cows out for the day, Moina had told him the news of Bormoina’s arrival. but it seems he has come back for good. After having shattered many personal hopes and dreams of Dinanath, he has been away for quite a few years. But now, will he be able to live like he did before? “My son will stay with me and help me,” even thinking of that Dinanath stopped startled. No, Dinanath does not want to hope for anything anymore. He can only tell himself, what is destined to happen, will happen. Just then, ploughing in the adjacent field, Sarukon asked him with a shout,
“Is it true, brother, that Bormoina has returned?’
“Yes,” Dinanath replied gravely.
Dinanath was usually very reserved. When he replied in this very grave tone, Sarukon did not have the nerve to discuss the matter further. As the morning progressed, the fields got filled with farmers and ploughmen. To put mud on the earth, plant saplings, to remove the rubbish from the mud, to carry the saplings, or to carry food for the people working on the fields, the field got filled with various people doing different jobs. The news did not take long to spread. In different places, among different groups, there was only discussion about Bormoina. he must be now a strapping young man – the old lady said almost involuntarily. Just then, Champa, who was planting paddy in the nearby plot shouted out:
“Look, there he is, walking along the little path, taking food to his father.”
All eyes stopped at Bormoina. Slowly Amrit approached his father. He left the bundle with the food on the path and looked towards his father. Then he called out once to his father, “Father,” his father did not respond. His father had seen him for the first time when he had stopped on the path. For the first time after many years. His father looked at Amrit’s whole body. Finishing one complete round with the plough, he stopped his cows, and washed his hands with the water in the fields. And started to eat his snack. Amrit could understand why his father had not spoken to him properly. He could fully appreciate the value and place of the accumulated indignation and hurt of such a long time of his father towards his son.
“Are you feeling better, father?” Amrit wanted to talk to his father.
His father answered only with a nod. Amrit understood that his father had replied in this manner only so that he did not have to speak. Because by just looking at his father’s shattered body, he could guess the condition of his health. He looked at his father, who was eating his snack. Without facing him, his father was quietly eating his meal. After staying for a while like that, he went forward towards the cows and touched the plough. “Come on, move,” on saying that the cows began to move in their specified tracks in the muddy water. Although he was out of practice by many years, since it was an old habit, he had no difficulty in carrying on ploughing again.

After finishing his meal, Dinanath kept sitting on the path for some time. He took a good look at his son who was ploughing as he alternately came closer and receded further. Although his health did not look very good, he still had become a young man. And fit. The radiance of youth seemed to glow all around his body in the morning sun. His hold on the furrow, and the firm step on the muddy water – Dinanath did not continue to look. He wiped his mouth with both hands, got up, and without saying a word, took back the plough from his son.

Without speaking, Dinanath made the cows start up again. Till the cows had completed two rounds around the field, Amrit stood there in the same position, in the middle of the field. It seemed as if he was not able to figure out with what eh should try to begin a conversation again with his father. Still, once when his father came close to him, Amrit spoke out, very naturally, “ Father, I have come back.”
Not answering his father kept going, chasing the pair of cows. Amrit waited as he was. After a while his father came and stopped the cows just near Amrit, After dipping his whip in the mud, he looked at Amrit and said,
“Will you be able to stay here, forever? Think about that…”

* * *

Wading through the water in the paddy fields, he reached the path for the cows. His fathers kept ringing in Amrit’s ears. He thought about it again. Really, will he be able to live here forever? Yes, it is true that he has spent many days and nights in the indecisiveness of great fear and hesitation towards the end. For many reasons, this inability to arrive at a decision had cramped all his powers. Amrit also knows this well that the present situation might not be without danger for him in some situations. oh, he stopped after thinking about it for a while. What is the point of thinking so much? He tried to get rid of all unpleasant thoughts by just shaking his head. In front of him a free atmosphere – village, fields, fish, mud, people, father, Moina, in contact with all these, begins a new ? day for Amrit. He stopped for a while under the banyan tree. In the light of the rising sun, the vast open fields look even more open. And scattered across the entire fields are the groups of people working on the fields. He was suddenly reminded of Niru. Niru! Niru is still the same. Without saying anything, without coming to any decision, without making any complaints. He had seen Niru planting paddy when he had taken food for his father. Niru also saw him. Amrit had stopped briefly. For a while Niru had stopped her work and had stared at him, very emotionally. After that, she began to plant her saplings again, in the same unaccusing manner. He cannot ask anyone why Niru is not married yet, why she is waiting, and for whom she is waiting. Even Niru.

On his way to school Ghanashyam Master passed by his side. He called out suddenly, “Uncle?” A little flustered, Ghanashyam got down from his bicycle:
“O this is our Amrit.”
“Yes, are you going to school?”
“ Yes, gosh I am actually late, let me rush.”
Ghanashyam Master quickly got onto his bicycle and hurried away. He stood there and kept looking after Ghanashyam for a while. Till he was out of sight, Ghanashyam did not look back even once.

* * *

Although he had got over to some extent the uneasiness of the first few days it seemed that in almost every situation his presence made things so strange and unnatural that Amrit was beginning to find it unbearable at times. The hidden memories of the past begin to bother him again. Sometimes Amrit feels that in this whole atmosphere he is the undesirable object. These days he has been roaming here and there in the village. Although he has not been able to go from one house to another as he used to in the olden days, he has tried very hard from his side to bring back the intimacy and the easy atmosphere. He understands that it will take a long time to go from one situation to the other. Still this last month his presence has still remained a subject of unrest and uneasiness. Wherever he went it was as if the atmosphere became grave suddenly. A sort of unnatural artificiality descended on the young men sitting on a chang when he happened to pass by, although a moment ago there were happily laughing or seriously discussing the present situation in the country. The little fights and quarrels going on in the Namghar would come to an end instantly as Amrit appeared at the doorway. Amrit tries very hard to ease the situation, he tries to participate in everything, as was his old habit. But now the whole matter is somewhat different. Now when Amrit speaks, the others only listen. But when he wants to listen, almost nobody ever speaks up. And the few who speak do so maintaining an unnatural restraint and a safe distance. He finds it difficult. He would like to argue about certain topics, which they used to do always before. But now everybody seems to agree to whatever he said. He went to a nearby college recently looking for admission forms. Although the last date for submitting the forms was already over, many of the officers including the Principal reassured him with great eagerness and respect that his form would be accepted and that he should not worry.

Still he had begun to carry out his day-to day activities in a way that was in tune with the rest of the village. As his father’s illness had got worse, he had also had to go to plough the fields a few times. When they saw him in the field, the other farmers and field hands would stop singing whatever they were singing – naams, bihu-songs, bongeets or simply verses from the Ghosa. Although he was hurt by this, he still did not give up his efforts to merge with the main flow. In this situation, except for his little brother Moina, he ahs not been able to relax and chat with any one else so far. Only Moina seems to understand him somewhat. Moina was the only shelter for Amrit’s doubts, fears, loneliness and isolation.

He does not have much conversation with his father. After working the whole day in the fields, after eating and resting a little while in the afternoon, the father would go out again with his fishing net in the evening. Over and above helping out in the fields he also goes to help his father fish sometimes. But his reserved father, remained reserved. Except for a few rare words, he preferred to remain silent most of the time. Sometimes Amrit also finds it hard to understand what the matter is. Seeing his father’s grave face he cannot imagine what is really going on in his father’s mind. Sometimes he feels that it is a massive amount of hurt pride and resentment that is accumulated in his father’s mind towards him. Or that his father knows everything about him or nothing at all but has no desire to find out. Still, although he does not speak he can see for sure that his father is not indifferent. He understand that although he keeps quiet, his father is immersed in deep thought.

He understood the matter a little better when one day, a rather big fish got caught in their net. After laying down the net, father and son were slowly tugging from either end of the net. He could make out from the tautness of the net and told Amrit in a low voice, “the fish could be rather big. Hold on tight.” After ten minutes of concentrated tugging, when they finally managed to heave the net up, they could see that there was a huge fish in the net. As soon as it landed on land the fish started to wriggle and struggle to get away. In the time it took them to fold in the net, the fish began to jump from one place to another. Amrit watched his father very closely as he brought this big procedure to an end, even without uttering a single word. He was also observing the movements of the fish and his desperate attempt to break free, and also saw his father single-mindedly making his way closer and closer to the fish and how he caught it with one hand and tried to get it out of the net with the other. Amrit also tried to help his father untangle the net from the fish’s body. This time he father just held on to the fish’s head so that it could not move any more. Amrit kept removing the net from the fish. After a little while the fish was free from the net. Immediately the fish made such a huge swish with his tail that his father was unable to hold on to the fish and the fish fell out. But the experienced hands of this father caught hold of the fish instantly again and this time pressed the fish’s body against the ground. This time the fish could not wriggle out. It began to move, swishing its tail this way and that. After silently watching the fish’s desperate but futile attempts to free itself, Amrit involuntarily cried out, “Ishhh!”

His father looked up at Amrit. Amrit and his father’s eyes met. After so many days it was as if only now did the father see his son properly. Putting a string around the fish’s mouth and tying the ends, Amrit’s father said, “ When I see the fish struggle, even I feel bad these days.” Amrit did not reply. His father started again, “the fish do not who, who is killing them and why. They are just getting trapped in the nets and dying. We people also have become like these fretting fish in these last years – who is killing, why and for what are they killing, when they are killing, we also do not know. We are only dying.”

Amrit gave no reply to his father’s words.

* * *

Before it was even dawn there was a big confusion in the village. The cows which were going to be let out to graze remained as they were, the housewives had only begun to sweet their courtyards with their brooms when the news spread with lightning speed across the whole village. The sounds of whistles filled all directions of the village. From all sides, the police and the military had surrounded the village. Terrified and worried, all the men and women, boys and girls, old and sick, young men and women, everyone came out to the main street of the village. Saying “Hai, chalo, chalo, sab lok chalo, field me chalo,” and whistling furiously they were getting everyone to leave their houses and move towards the school field. From the other end, the old gaobura came almost running. He ahs tried to explain to the people as he came – “This is the government rule, it seems there is some terrorist young man in his area.
They will inspect everyone carefully and then let them go. Don’t worry, they have spoken to me.” The old gaobura kept repeating the same lines over and over again and the people kept moving towards the school field.

Keeping the old men, ladies and little children on one side, they made all the others stand in rows in the school field. The field was surrounded in all sides by armed police and military. Despite the assurance from the gaobura, everyone was terrified. Among the rows of people there was an unnatural stillness. No body had a word on their lips. In the middle of one such row are standing Amrit and Moina, still. Moina was holding on to one finger of Amrit’s hand. Amrit indifferent, Moina curious. A little while later a new Police Maruti van came and stopped at one end of the field. An officer like person spoke into the mike attached to the vehicle as if making an announcement:
“We are sorry to bother you like this. Once we have identified the persons we are looking for in your midst, the rest of you all will be able to get back to your usual routine.” the man repeated the same words one more time. Immediately, from the rear door of the van, two armed guards kicked out two young men who had their eyes and their hands tied. They made them stand at attention, removed the strip from their eyes, and ordered them in a harsh voice, “Look, are they in this lot?” Saying this they asked the two young men to go by the rows of men. The two youths started walking slowly along the rows, along with them two uniformed guards and the police and the army personnel surrounding the field. After a little while their circumbulation came to an end. Meaning that there is no one they know here. They were blindfolded again and raised into the vehicle. One after the other, all the cars disappeared swiftly.

Amrit and Moina neither of them have been able to speak. It was as if both of them were analysing the incident, in their own ways. The people were beginning to go back in groups, either to the fields or back home. Slowly and lazily, Amrit and Moina was also returning. Suddenly Moina asked Amrit, “Elder brother, do you know the boys?”
“No, of course not.”
“Do they know you?”
“Why should they know me?”
After waiting a while, Moina said again,
“No, you must know them.”

* * *

It did not take long for the news to spread from one village to another. Some newspaper people also came to have a look at the area. It seems some dangerous terrorist was hiding in some village in this area. The police and military are looking for him. There has been a search in one or two neighbouring villages.

Despite this whole sequence of events, Amrit is trying to continue to live like usual. He has not given up his efforts to somehow get accepted back into his world. As his father’s illness had worsened, he had also had to take a bigger share of his father’s work.

The land had been planted but Amrit was faced with another problem. The paddy in the barn was almost finished. His father had not been able to go fishing properly, because of his illness. If they did not catch a big fish in the coming days and could sell it for a good price, it was almost certain that they would have to beg for money from someone. These days, his father had almost not been able to get up from his bed. Although they had brought him medicines from the nearby government dispensary, he was not getting better. Moina and Amrit had got terribly worried with this problem. Although Amrit was trying to fight the situation with a strange calm and balance, sometimes he felt emotionally and mentally very weak. It was not just the people from his own village, it was as if the people from the entire area were pointing a finger towards him. It was as if on everyone’s faces were written the allegation, “Just for you we are all having to suffer.” And what was the situation. Was it just that the police and the military came to the village? The biggest impact of this suffocating atmosphere pervading the entire region was felt in the evening fish-market near the bridge – that was the biggest problem. First nobody had noticed it. They did not think it was something serious as even earlier some fish would remain unsold at the end of the day. But slowly more and more fish began to get stale. They had to take the fish the next morning to the neighbouring town or market. “The cars do not stop any more at night. Not only do they not stop, when they come close to the bridge, they go by with much greater speed. Now, slowly everyone was beginning to understand why this was happening – but nobody says anything openly, or cannot say anything openly. Still the people are going fishing, and are sitting close to the bridge, with the hope of being able to sell their fish and the worry of the fish going stale.

According to Moina, is they could catch one big fish then their problems would be solved for at least a few days. They had started the second part of the maths text in school. They would be able to buy that, their father’s medicines and rice for a few days. Since their father has been unable to go every evening. Moina and Amrit take the net and go fishing. Every day Moina has the same hope – one big fish. Although they have fished every day without a break, the inexperienced Amrit has not been able to be successful. He is saddened by Moina and Moina’s expectations. Contrary to Moina’s great expectations, the frustrations of the day’s failures seem to weigh him down. In the evening while returning, Moina does not talk about fish any more. Next day they go out again with the net.

Very slowly Amrit started the pull the net. With a low voice he called out to Moina, “Come, fast”. Moina came close to Amrit disturbing the water as little as he could. His face was lit up with hope. No sound from anyone. Judging from the pull of the net they thought – that must be a big fish. Slowly, with great care, they raised the net to the bank. Moina was completely overwhelmed with glee and went and hugged Amrit, “Oh, such a big fish! Did I not say we would catch a big fish some day…” Really the fish was unbelievably big. The fish was lying unmoving, tangled in the whole net.

On their way to the road along the bridge, Moina kept chattering away the whole way in glee. Although his mind was filled with satisfaction, not saying anything, Amrit was walking along carrying the fish on his back. When he had lifted the fish onto his back, Moina had wrapped the net loosely around the fish, so that it would be so visible from afar on his brother’s back. So that nobody would directly notice the fish, nor other people’s ill-feelings and jealousy would hurt it.

“Do you know, Brother, I do not remember ever having caught such a big fish. About two years ago, around the time of Magh Bihu, father had caught a fish a little smaller than this one. Everyone thought that fish was very big. I remember selling it then for two hundred rupees by the side of the bridge. A car came and quickly took the fish away.” Moina stopped a little while, then started again, “ In my opinion, even today the fish will be sold immediately. The people prefer fish live fish like this one. They only have to see it.”

Without saying anything, Amrit kept walking. He just had to change sides of the fish on his back a couple of times.

“Maybe I should do one thing,” Moina spoke out automatically. “Let me run through these back yards and give the news to father. He will be very happy to hear that we have caught such a big fish. We were supposed to get some rice from Gohin’s shop today to be paid later. I can tell him not to do that. After selling the fish we can do the shopping on our way back.”

Moina did not wait for Amrit’s response. Walking through the wet fields and the low paddy saplings, Moina ran towards their house. Looking at Moina running through the green fields, Amrit kept walking towards the bridge.

Before he got to the bridge, Moina came and joined him. In his hand was a bag and a ? of thick cloth. Looking for a suitable place near the bridge, he lowered his fish to the ground. The sun had not set yet. A couple of fishermen had already taken their places along the road. Everyone was attracted by Amrit’s fish – really it was very big. Amrit felt a little tired after having put down the fish. He walked down along the little path going down the bridge and washed his hands with water. Sprinkled some water on his eyes and face and then climbed up and took his place near the fish, Moina next to him.

“Did father say something?”

“Father was very happy, He asked us not to waste time in trying to get a higher price – just to get home soon.”

Although a few cars have gone by, Amrit have not really bothered. At some point, the sun disappeared slowly. It was hard to see the fish from the cars. So Amrit held up the fish with the thread through its mouth and began to shake it when cars went by. Along with Amrit's shaking the fish, Moina would cry out, “Fish! Big fish! Live fish!” Cars came and sped away. A couple of cars did approach them, but they wanted only small fish, and now the cars do not seem to stop any more.

Slowly Amrit began to tire of having to lift the fish for every passing car. It was so heavy. Transferring the weight from hand to hand he tried very hard to attract the attention of the cars passing by. But has not been successful till now. Moina was also slowly beginning to dampen. In the middle sometimes Moina had said, "Let me see, this time, let me lift it," and he had lifted it a couple of times. Lifting the big fish somehow and holding it along his chest and stomach when he saw a car approaching, he held it up and started to scream, “Fish, Fish, Fish, Live Fish, Big Fish.” In the brilliant light of the headlights Amrit could clearly see Moina’s hopes and expectations gradually turning to despair and unhappiness. Not knowing what to do, Amrit was burning with anger, sadness, tiredness, indignation…Still he did not give up his efforts. Taking the fish from Moina’s hands, he has once again gone forward towards the light – the artificial light of the mechanical cars. The light that approached him from far away and carried hope with it was crushed by the darkness that followed. “Maybe this time we will succeed.” Again he raises his fish with hope. Again he is enveloped in darkness. Darkness, darkness and darkness. In the end Amrit began to see only the darkness. Even the piercing light of the passing cars seemed like darkness to him. His sadness got converted into disgust for the whole situation. In the end he came to a decision. As it was getting late, he told Moina, “Moina, you wait here a bit, I will go home and come back.”

He ran parting the waters, through the paddy fields he splashed his way towards their house. He was running so fast that the water that he was splashing up had wet his entire body, from head to toe. In one long action he crossed the barrier of their fields. He went and stopped right next to the Kadam tree. He took one more look at the tree, and kneeling down he began to dig the earth as fast as he could. Apart from the sound of the earth that he threw up everything else was still. He did not have to dig too far. He brought out the metallic object wrapped in polythene. He put in the bullets which he had stored inside an old sock, into his waistband. Then, in the same way he leapt over the fence and ran towards the bridge, through the waters of the fields. Although it was an amabasya night, he could feel light being defined through the fire-weapon that was tucked at his waist. Tucked away at his waist, Amrit now had Amrityu Amrit. With grim determination and deep self-confidence arising form his own personal experience, he ran towards the bridge.

He jumped up out of the water and climbed onto the bridge with a leap. On getting on the road he looked once at his brother Moina. In the light of the passing truck he observed Moina’s face, he looked happy and completely thrilled. Seeing Amrit Moina came forward,
“Brother, I sold the fish, at a very good price too.”

(translated from the Asamiya original by Meenaxi Barkotoki on 26.07.09)