Sunlight peeped inside the antique room against the pale whitewashed walls of wood and brick. It was dawn. Still in bed, Jeetu could hear the cawing of a crow. The hoarse cawing saddened him. He saw the crow landing on a branch of the old mango tree. Bird language always fascinates him, but not today.
It was believed the cawing of crow at dawn brings sad news. It was the day of Uruka. In this little hamlet far from the cacophony of the city, he heard the singing of the cuckoo bird. The kopou phool was blooming on the betel nut tree. Rain water created a silver canopy in the paddy field. Frogs are croaking.
Jeetu’s mother Seuti rushed to his room at the end of their L patterned Assam type ancestral house and said,
“Jeetu, please do not go out today. I had a terrible dream. People say the late night dream comes true.”
Seuti left his room busying herself in Uruka preparations, preparing rice cakes, cleaning the house and utensils. She had been a widow for the last 20 years, working hard to raise her two sons, Jeetu and Dhan. Their ancestral house covered ten acres of land full of greenery, bamboos, medicinal herbs, orchids, perennial trees and small tea estates and home to a wide variety of birds and animals, and some ornamental shrubs. The whole surroundings of their house seemed like a small zoo.
Lying on bed, Jeetu saw the house gecko slithering quickly to the web, the silky threads, where the spider left motionless waited to be an easy prey for the gecko. Instead of catching the spider, the gecko moved backward and made its typical sound-tik, tik, tik. The silence of the room, the silence of his mind is amplified by the sounds of the house gecko. Jeetu felt an irritation in his six feet tall athletic physique. Staring at the things of his room, mostly that adorn the walls, he feels an antique presence everywhere. Some artefacts tell about the glorious days of his grandparents and some prized possessions are hung there, an old-fashioned gun used by grandfather for hunting, a hengdang ( a sword used by the Ahoms), some gothic masks designed by some untrained craftsman, and some old black and white photographs . They are brought up listening to a story that his grandfather fought with a chasing tiger and came home with its carcass.
In spite of his mother’s warning, Jeetu came out silently to see the beauty outside, the nature that wears such an amazing beauty in his little village, Rongadiya standing on the bank of river Disang. The beating of the Dhool, and some pastoral bihu songs could be heard as the youths are preparing their husori. He moved towards the tea garden behind their house. The pre-monsoon rain had drenched the tea leaves making them fresh and young. Touching the young delicate leaves, he smelt its fragrance. What a magical beauty and scent! A sense of pride tingles in his body and mind as his brother and he planted the saplings themselves when they had just completed their schooling. Jeetu recalls, his father as a small tea grower carries the legacy of tea cultivation from his forefathers who learnt it from the British tea planters. Walking to and fro, he explores the garden, and looked up to a far distance, the paddy field that stretching out from the bamboo fence meets the horizon on each side. Slowly he sat behind the old blackberry tree standing there, on the edge of their garden proudly for years. The beauty of nature made him oblivious for a few moments.
Suddenly he remembered the words of his science teacher Tapan Boruah: “Lots of youths are joining Muktibahini these days. Do not take this path. Take your works seriously.”
It was a revolution in their little village like Maxim Gorky’s ‘Mother’. An army of young boys joined the Muktibahini for getting freedom. People were welcoming them honouring as saviours, Jeetu was only in class seven when he joined their meetings to listen to their speeches. They name themselves as -Muktibahini and the Nation termed them as insurgents. Having finished the books like ‘Mother’, ’War and Peace’, ‘Guerrilla Warfare’, ‘Ten Days That Shook The World’ in a single breath, Jeetu did carry them under his arms very often though he was a student of geology. His mind, full of thoughts of swadhinata, harboured a dream to be a member of them and he did start to admire their struggle and vision at first. Jeetu like other villagers, sheltered them in spite of his mother’s objections. Seuti always complains that she has already passed a traumatic time after their father’s death and does not want to let her sons in trouble. When he returned joining their meetings at midnight, mother was harsh in her tone, “Don’t you see how the young, healthy boys are tortured, nagged in the name of insurgency domination, how several mothers prepared a funeral for their only child.” Sometimes his mother did come closer to him with red eyes frowning and continued,” This is the wrong path. Give up your thoughts of joining them.”
Naren mama, his maternal uncle too opposed his dream, ” A fight against the Nation is vague. Lots of healthy boys are wasting their time. We need to be skilled to exploit our resources.”
Jeetu sits for an hour under the tree taking shelter in his thoughts. Meanwhile a cuckoo’s singing made his ears more sensitive and shook him out of his reverie. He walked back humming a ballad that wedded to his heart.
The sun is seen overhead and Jeetu silently entered into his room. Opening the wooden almirah that belonged to his grandparents, he searched for some prohibited books that he kept inside a little box. The crinkly pages threw a bad smell. Taking them outside his room, he put them with a bundle of straw and burned down the books that he would carry from the meetings and read secretly. Now they seem useless, he no longer admires them and their works. He recalled how his admiration for Muktubahini made on his own now ended with a sad epilogue. He hates them, their secret killings, kidnapping of innocent people and extortion. The poor people are burdened, they had to shelter them although they had a hard time for a full meal in the entire day. They fear for a knocking at the door at night. A fear that haunts them. If they shelter them, the armed forces beat them. They are helpless.
It was noon. Seuti, looking for Jeetu came to his room and said,
“Jeetu, where are you? I am looking for you. Take bath and your jalpaan, sira-doi is ready. Dhan has already gone to the market to buy the things for Bihu.”
The dream that mother has not shared with him, still worries Jeetu and he asked, “Do you believe in dreams? Once you said you dreamt of losing your front teeth before the death of our father.’’
Seuti seemed unhappy and replied in a sorrowful voice,
“Sometimes it may come true. I have prayed in our Namghar and no one can harm an innocent soul like you.”
Saying this with a melancholic tone, Seuti went for her work. The sun was shining aggressively over the thatched roof and he looked for his mother. She was in the fireplace busy in preparing a dough of rice flour with jaggery and grinding sesame seeds to roast the pithas in the evening. He left her alone who used to talk to herself days and nights to beat her loneliness, engaged herself in various works sometimes without a necessity, sometimes just to kill the boredom of widowed life. She had a loom, brought from her mother’s house as a dowry, as a symbol of pride and she used to weave gamosha, mekhelasador, sometimes curtains in the golden loom. Seuti always raises a seasonal garden, and her little garden full of brinjal, pumpkin, bitter gourds, chilly, and the heaps of cow dung she kept near the fencing to be used as manure. The loom that was hung on the bamboo sticks on the side of the granary carries her long journey from a happily married woman to a solitary widow. He would wonder to see his mother’s various layers of mind, both thorny and soft like a jackfruit. Her struggle is not less than a woodpecker.
On the back side of the house, Jeetu sat on a chair and he took a betel nut to peel off its hard skin. The veranda is facing the granary, lots of things are piled up there, an old lantern, a fishing net, some unused things of a loom, a flat stone used for grinding the spices,and some seeds of rice packed in jute bags. He could smell the roasted sesame seeds drying up in a dola. A swarm of honey bees moving around the wooden box having a hole in it trapped his attention. Now it is the season of harvesting the honey. He has seen, his mother has a good hand at harvesting the honey and she likes to distribute the honey among the relatives, neighbours, mostly among them who have children. Jeetu thinks his mother has a magic in her hand, she knows the art of raising honey bees, the art of raising children. Jeetu felt a strong love for his mother and for her each and every creation.
Uruka could not bring any joy to Jeetu, he avoided his preparations for bihu and lay on his antique bed. Closing his eyes, he reminisced the days of his childhood and the faint memory of his father, his spectacles, his bicycle, his harmonium, his singing of the Borgeet in the morning disturbed him. Jeetu was in third standard when his father succumbed to a minor injury at chest slipping down from his old ambassador when he just placed his one foot on the muddy courtyard. Their Aita was sitting on the verandah and Mother was cleaning the courtyard. Jeetu was playing with six years old Dhan. Within ten minutes, his Father died on the lap of their Mother uttering just “take care of the boys”. His father’s death, a bolt from the blue to the entire family broke off their heart. Jeetu felt a pain and an ache and thought to himself, what he had done wrong, could his mother bear the brunt of any loss in future. They term him as betrayer thinking of misguiding the youths against them. If they kill him…
Returning from the market Dhan said, walking in,
“Kaka, as he fondly calls him, you might be careful these days as I have heard some people are talking about you in the market. Your life might be in danger.”
Jeetu was tensed, smiled happily to hide his confused state of mind and said, “Do not worry, no one can do anything harm to me.”
Dhan suggested, “Kaka, you must stop your visits to the youth club. They doubt your activities. Though you gather them for music and drama.”
Jeetu smiled at him, ” I amn’t doing any wrong.”
Jeetu thought so crazy he was, he would quarrel with Dhan for such mere trifle and sometimes did sing lullabies to him when Mother was ill. And during flood when Dhan jumped into the turbulent waters of the river and caught up a wood in a heroic style to wade through, Jeetu felt desperate on the bank and shouted at him, “come back, come back.” Dhan as his only sibling carries lots of boyhood memories for Jeetu and who only knows the secrets, weakness, and strengths of him. They are like identical twins, when Jeetu fell in fever Dhan also caught up fever, when Jeetu had jaundice Dhan also developed jaundice.
By afternoon, Seuti called them for lunch and they sat on the floor in a circle. The hangover of the dream is killing her. Seuti sweats a lot, she is wiping her forehead and neck several times with the golden bordered edge of her sadar. A fear haunts her, haunts her sons, Jeetu and Dhan. They cannot feel happy for the bihu. A deadly silence surrounds them, the three happy souls.
Seuti breaks the silence, “I have little preparation for Bihu this time. My health won’t support me more.”
She continued, “So, boys, don’t leave home without my permission. Jeetu, you need to serve the Bihu guests tomorrow.”
Jeetu and Dhan nodded. But they could not finish their lunch, Jeetu left the plate mashing the rice and vegetables. Seuti too left unfinished, piling the plates, she went to the sink outside. A shadow of sadness followed her. Dhan went to help her in piping the tube well and in drying up the plate in sunshine. He put the plates in the bamboo saang that was kept near the sink.
The mellowed afternoon sun slowly welcomed the evening. There was bihu in the air and Jeetu felt a strong impulse to visit his Bordeuta’s house. A storehouse of his childhood memories. He liked being there in the evening chatting with Jaya and Jayanta, his two cousins. He stepped out from his room silently when the darkness was hiding him and hiding the old ancestral house that is wearing a pale, moist look day by day. He reached his Bordeuta’s house through the narrow lane surrounded by Nahar trees and flowers. Jaya was baking pithas in the fireplace. Bordeuta went to the Namghar and Jayanta to the husori. Engaging in talks with Jaya about the Bihu preparations, about the weather, about the husori, he helped her passing the firewood to the hearth.
She said, “Brother, You are so happy today. The other days you hardly talk freely with me.”
He smiled, “Guess, in Bihu you may get good news as you know Mother always talks about my marriage complaining she cannot do more work.”
He continued, “She needs a companion, a daughter-in-law.”
Putting a happy smile in her soft face she said, “I will be very happy if you bring a Bou for me.”
Taking a pitha to eat, he suddenly noticed a black figure behind the little window. The beating of dhool by the young lads made his ears more sensitive. The black figure resembles a human. Running to the outside portico to search for a secured place, he tried to find out a safer place, the black figure came inside and he pushed him towards the wall. His voice was shaken with fear when he uttered, “Who are you?”
Jeetu saw only his red, hungry eyes, the face was covered with a black scarf.
“You morose loner. Stop your activities against us. Otherwise I will shoot you.”
The black figure left quickly hitting him on his back with his gun.
Running from the fireplace Juhi hugged him, and cried, ” He cannot kill you. You are not such a coward like him.”
That night Jeetu could not have his dinner, could not relish the delicious dishes. He recalled the black figure, he thought it might be one of his cousins, Kiran who left home six years ago in a winter evening to join the Muktibahini. Yes, he has that courage only to chase Jeetu in their boyhood. A fear, and a sudden fever made his athletic body fragile. Lying on his bed, Jeetu feels suffocated. He could not have slept at all, could not even doze off, he lay on his bed frightened and exhausted at the thought of any misfortune that might come to him at any time.
In the late night slowly a nap cuddles him and a dream takes him to an unaccustomed place, a half-built bamboo shack in a dense jungle. He is imprisoned there, a snake crawls into his body. Again he saw himself standing on a bridge leaning on its hard border. Their red, hungry eyes came closer to him and they shot him several times, blood flushed out from his wounded body and he fell on the ground like a hunted beast. Waking up from his dream, Jeetu shouted at his mother. It was almost dawn. Running to his room, Seuti tells miserably, “Have you dreamt something? A dream is a dream, relax Baba.” She hugged him with all her strength and love. A dream that might come true, makes them broken and shattered.
After six months, Jeetu was missing from his village, he did not come back from the youth club one foggy evening. Dhan and all the villagers searched for him. His missing that seemed mysterious for the villagers and the family, puts a heavy burden on the thin shoulders of Dhan. Waiting in each day for his homecoming, Seuti went in depression, and each evening she passed hours and hours sitting in the open fireplace wrapping her body and face in an errie shawl. Her lean shadow looms in the open courtyard. Her voice was shaken, skin became dark, toes sore, vision blurred, and sometimes she tried a night walk with her wobbly feet under the Bokul tree and sometimes through the narrow lane that joins the main road. She could not count the days and nights, she became muddle headed. In heavy sensations,she sees her son everywhere and she wriggles out of her sitting “Jeetu is coming, Jeetu is coming.”
