The wind blew in a symphony, rustling the leaves in the trees, making the silver sheet on the lake’s surface shiver with its caressing touch; it stole the fragrance of the wild blossoms and grew heady with the perfume. But Kunjolota was oblivious to the beauty around her; she had shut out the world and enclosed herself in an impenetrable emotional cocoon. Every nerve in her body was taut, with expectation, with anticipation for her lover Rajen who was to meet her after a year. 365 days of agonizing separation, of hunger that threatened to consume her very being, a yearning that exploded inside her like lava from a dormant volcano. She breathed deeply and trembled with excitement, she glanced at the sky which had broken out with a starry rash.
This had always been their favourite tryst, secluded and secure from the probing eyes of the villagers. It was nestled at the edge of the bamboo plantation, a little clearing through which you could view the shimmering ribbon of the lake on moonlit nights. Here they lived their real lives when they united in body and soul and treasured the precious feeling till they could meet again. It was uncanny how Rajen and Kunjo, as he called her, knew exactly what the other felt, thought, desired. They were like the two hands of a clock; they had meaning in unison and were vain when apart. Kunjo’s plump, fair body glowed with a radiance even now when she thought of that fateful night five years ago when the Raash festival was going on and people thronged to the naamghor to marvel at the miracles of Lord Krishna’s childhood. The whole village was there: Bou, her old widowed mother, her elder brother and his wife with their three sons, Renu Borma and her family, Suniti, her friend, the compounder from the health centre, Tarun Da. Gunidhar Kokaidew the village school teacher. And as the hurricane lamps shone with their butter-yellow luminosity, Kunjolota’s eyes met Rajen’s. The demon’s frightening laughter faded in the distance as Kunjolota and Rajen were locked in an unending stare, a feeling of déjà vu coming over them in an inseverable bond.
Rajen was the son of the village grocer, Das Da. Das Da’s dukaan as everybody called it was the most well-stocked shop in the area. Rajen and Kinjo had seen each other at the regular weddings and Anno-Proxonno ceremonies or the Naams at the Naamghor, but on that evening, something inexplicable happened between them. He was short and thin with lank hair and the eyes of a poet, deep and soulful. She too was short, but plump and fair with slanting eyes and tiny pearl-like teeth. Her brother was the most technically adept man of the village, he ran the village’s cycle repair shop. The cycle shop, two cows, six hens and a kitchen garden helped them meet the family’s earthly needs. Rajen had failed his matriculation examination after underscoring in English and Mathematics but was qualified enough to run his father’s business at the age of 17. Though he had an elder brother, it was rumoured that he had joined a group of insurgents and had not been home for the last two years,
Kunjo stiffened as she sensed Rajen’s presence. Her bosom heaved as she turned and there he was. Their eyes met and then he walked towards her and their bodies met. Kunjo sobbed with the love she felt for him, she offered herself to him like a devotee makes an offering to the Lord. No words were exchanged, these were mere redundancies when your spirits spoke to each other. An hour later Kunjo lay on the damp earth and felt the warmth of the soil where he had just been, next to her. Softly she rose and dressed herself, plaiting her hair and arranging her coarse home-woven sador. Quietly, she picked up her torch with its numerous dents and made her surreptitious way home.
As she walked through the silent dark lanes, the beat of the nagara drums reverberated from the Das’s household. Through the banana trees, she sighted the glimmer of the gas lamps in the canopy set up in the front yard. Sighing deeply, she walked on, it was Rajen’s fifth death anniversary and the Das household was having a Naam in his memory to be followed by a Bhuj. On a cold December dawn, a group of young men had attacked the Das house and fired shots at anyone they could set their eyes on, killing Rajen’s 84-year-old grandmother and wounding his mother. Rajen had put up a fight but had been outnumbered. They put two bullets inside him. The killers had come looking for his elder brother who had betrayed the insurgents by decamping with their cash reserves and was not to be traced.
Kunjo’s family was at the Das’s house, she had stayed back, like she did every year, this time feigning a headache. Noiselessly she opened their bamboo gate, unlocked the door and went in. She increased the flame of the lamp and lay down on the floor, next to her mother’s rickety bed. Her vigil for next year had begun.
Image by Rolanas Valionis from Pixabay
