The Scarface I Hated Pt. 06

Chapter-21

Our evening passed doing what was destined for the night. Two humans had become one as ordained from the prehistoric times by the act of love transcending times. From caves to homes; from Pithecanthropus to the Neanderthals to the Homo sapiens, the passion remained unchanged.

Imran was insatiable. For a comical moment, it appeared to me that the tiger had returned to the hotel. Just like old British time. We fell asleep in each other's arms till I was awoken by Imran in the dead of the night. He asked me to come out on the terrace. There were no lights but there was a glow outside that lighted up the area in an eerie way.

There was no moon. Sensing my confusion, Imran pointed his fingers towards the sky. And yes, it was a sight I shall treasure forever. The sky lighted up by millions of stars. Suddenly, I was looking at a sky that had not an inch vacant, crammed with stars. The Milky Way glowed and it appeared as if I was looking at some spilt curd in the sky. I kept staring and kept wondering. Imran then pointed towards the edge of our hotel garden. There were thousands of blinking lights, bright and beautiful. The fireflies were everywhere.

The sky had descended on the earth with all its stars.

Time stood frozen and I knew not what time was it. Neither did I want it to move on. I sat on the garden chair and pulled Imran to me. If I could travel to that mysterious land in the sky where there were only stars and maybe Peter Pan with his tiny friends, I would take only him on this magical journey.

No words were spoken till Imran pulled me to him and brought his face close and whispered, "Time now has come to tell you a story that you must know. What you will hear today may change your perceptions towards me, us...but I must take the risk."

So, the time had finally arrived. I replied softly, "There is no risk. You tell and I will listen. And, perceptions? Let's not talk about it."

Imran kept quiet for a long time, perhaps trying best to organize himself. At last, he spoke.

"Mother has told you about my father, Indranath. We, three of us came to Netarhat from Delhi in 1977 and I was three years old. My father was appointed a teacher in the School, which we saw today while coming here. It's a brilliant institution where men are made out of boys. The teachings of life are imparted here with such finesse that makes a person equipped to withstand the uncertainties of life without qualms. I was fortunate to study here. But more of that later.

It is unusual for a boy of three years to remember so many things but I remember each and every incident that happened here. It appears only yesterday.

My mother was initially hesitant to come to this place. Coming from a prestigious University where life was dynamic and academic, she felt that my father would soon grow bored with the placid lifestyle at this place. You can well imagine how life would have been here 23 years back. But, my father had made up my mind to move away from the hullaballoo of Delhi to a more sedentary academic pursuit. As far as my mother was concerned, she had the tremendous ability to adjust according to the requirements of the time. She at once liked the serenity of this place and the people were simple and straightforward. Their simplicity and meager requirements amidst poverty and disease was something that constantly affected her in a profound manner.

Soon, we were well settled here. I started attending a pre-school although it was my mother who was my mentor. My father, in a very short span of time, not only became popular with students but also gained enormous respect among his colleagues and seniors for his brilliant academic insights and lateral knowledge. No function or seminar would be complete without Dr Indranath's incisive comments. Slowly, he became popular in the social circles too. My mother was happy for my father but remained in the background. He was only 30 years then, one of the youngest PhD scholars of the University. He would often go and attend seminars all over the country.

At Netarhat, he gradually developed an ardour for the people who were oppressed by the vicious combination of politics, the absence of education and extreme poverty. He started meeting them regularly and while interacting with them, he found his true passion for life.

Life among that stratum of the society whose back was to the wall!

This obsession of 'undoing the wrong' consumed him fiercely and there were like-minded people who understood his fascination towards his cause. It was like going back to his student days at the University.

My mother was slightly worried because the prevailing political atmosphere was complicated. This area and adjoining Bengal had already seen bloodshed amongst the factions of the leftist movement. The Naxalite strongholds were still active, though at a lower scale. The revolutionary ideas among the youth and their reaction to any provocation were too recent for comfort. The ideology of 'haves and have-nots' was very strong and fringe groups were taking advantage of the chaotic situation.

But, Dr Indranath was composed of sterner stuff. He remained apolitical but intensely married to his thought processes. He would meet and explain his position to anyone who had powers to intervene and bring about a change. On the other hand, he interacted extensively with the local people especially the youth, who was angry and wanted quick solutions to their problems. These young boys and girls were constantly provoked by the disgruntled elements to the anthem of 'guns and bullets'. He reasoned with them to shun the path of violence and his perseverance worked to a large extent. Slowly, the Government too realised the importance of this man and the role he could play in normalising frayed nerves. He was included in many local programs that apparently were poor-oriented but the politics behind all these were still shallow.

Meanwhile, I was growing up and I was five years old when I first joined the School in the first standard. My mother had prepared me well and I was ahead of all my friends. No one was surprised since my father happened to be Dr. Indra. Very few spoke about the contribution of my mother except one man, my father himself. There was a tremendous bond of love and understanding between them without any show of outward affection. I can understand it now, since the time you have come and enriched my wretched life."

I held his fingers tightly and asked, "How was your relationship with your father?"

He paused and thought for a while. He said, "My father loved me a lot. He would take me to the jungles and show me different trees and tell me about them. He used to show me butterflies and moths. Once, he showed me a snake discarding its skin. He was very fascinated but I was scared".

"Did he tell you stories?" I asked.

He replied with a smile, "Not very often. And when he did, he spoke about the difficulties of life and how we were much better off than others. His stories spoke about struggles and retributions that I did not understand. No, he did not tell me stories that a child likes to hear."

We kept quiet for a while. I gently nudged him, "Then?"

He said looking wistfully, "I won many prizes that year. My father was very embarrassed. He felt that his son was cornering all the glories. At the end, he did not allow me to participate in the remaining competitions. I could not understand the reason. My mother consoled me and explained that if only one boy wins everything, the others get de-motivated and many boys and girls who came from very poor background needed to be encouraged. I still did not understand, but my mother's voice somehow made me understand that there were more important things in life than winning prizes."

Imran paused. Somehow, I was feeling miserable for him. Deep down, despite the arguments, I felt that this wasn't justice. Imran too was a child. Was he supposed to understand all this?

I looked at him, he didn't notice my moist eyes and continued, "It was the January of 1980 and it was bitingly cold. People were dying in our area of 'cold wave'. There was no food, no warmth and no hope. My father during these days remained perpetually out of the home, running to government offices to get something done. But, actions were elusive. My mother remained busy with my impending final examinations.

One day he came late at night and called my mother. I was sleepy and they were discussing something in a low tone. I was intrigued and tried to overhear. My father was telling my mother that an extremist group was trying to inflame passions by telling people that all the firewood was being diverted to the rich and influential people and the poor were being left only to die. They were telling them that how people were duped by being paid a pittance for the firewood they get from the jungle. Their moot argument was that the rich were having a comfortable time while they were dying of cold and hunger.

Baba said that there was an extreme degree of annoyance and people were seething with anger.

My mother was listening quietly. After my father finished, she asked whether there was any truth in the allegations. My father said that not everything was untrue but the way they were taking advantage of a social problem; it could result in a major catastrophe.

He then said that he has been requested by the government agencies to meet the leaders of the group involved in the propaganda on their behalf and persuade them to refrain from creating a major issue. My father had been chosen because of his acceptability and clean image among every stakeholder. But the matter was a secret.

My mother implored if he could stay out of this but my father replied that he had agreed to the proposal because the people would listen only to him and he must make all efforts to defuse the crisis.

For the first time, I saw fear in the eyes of my mother. She kept sitting clutching the thin withered shawl she was wearing. Baba turned and slept. She kept sitting.

She didn't sleep and neither did I."

Chapter-22

Imran seemed overwhelmed as if living through the frightful evening that was enacted 20 years back. I allowed him to reorganize his thoughts because I would have broken his train of thought, had I interrupted.

"The next few days, Baba hardly returned home. Whenever he came, it was either for lunch or dinner. He would quickly eat and go out again. He usually returned late at night. Once I saw him return in a police jeep. A lady was driving the jeep. She was wearing a police uniform. My father quickly came in and the jeep left quietly. I suddenly found my mother standing with me looking at the jeep. Her face looked so strained. She was living through a nightmare.

Baba came in and found us waiting for him. He looked a little embarrassed but he quickly recouped his composure. It was already late and my mother sent me to bed. But, I was in no mood to sleep. Though I was a small child, I could feel the tension at home. As if something sinister was going to happen.

My mother confronted Baba. She wanted to know what exactly was going on. Baba was secretive except for saying that he was not in a position to discuss anything because it was a sensitive governmental matter. Maa did not push the matter further. Once Baba said that it was information that even his wife was not privy to, any further query was futile.

Next day, I found Maa making arrangements. Some people were visiting us. That interested me. I never remembered anyone visiting us till date. We never went to our grandparents or for that matter anywhere. I did not know whether I had grandparents or not. They never told and I never asked. In the afternoon Baba came home accompanied by a young couple and a baby. Both of them were very smart and the aunty was beautiful. I had to grudgingly admit that she was more beautiful than my mother, my own limited standard of beauty. The uncle too was handsome and very jolly. In no time, both of them eased the atmosphere by their jovial nature.

I hated the baby. She was only about one year old and fell down whenever she walked. I felt irritated because both my parents were giving her all their attention. I felt left out. The only consolation was that the child was cheerful and seldom cried as expected of a baby. I hated children who wailed. Both my parents were mighty impressed with the baby who didn't cry and swooned over her. I was so irritated that I pulled her hair when no one was looking. She contorted her lips and made arrangements to cry but then she smiled again. I felt a little bad.

After the initial chit-chat and lunch, the three of them got down to business. They spoke in very low tones and wrote down things in a paper. I realised that the two of them had tremendous respect for my father. Whenever he spoke, they listened attentively. He passed them instructions and they frequently nodded their heads in understanding.

Things appeared normal, to a large extent. Only when I looked at mother, I could sense unease in her eyes. She continued her chores in a routine manner, like a machine bereft of emotions. But her eyes gave away her trepidation.

It was cold and the sun had set early. Around five in the evening, my father closed the meeting. All the documents were destroyed. By five thirty, they were ready. At six sharp, a black ambassador car arrived and they were ready to go. Before leaving, my father looked back. My mother was standing with me and the small girl.

He came to her and said, "Don't worry; we will be back by eight."

The beautiful aunty kissed her baby and said, "Be a good girl, I will come and feed you."

They left. The small girl waved at her parents, smiling. We stood still.

We had nothing to do except waiting for 8 o'clock to arrive. My mother continuously moved back and forth, from the window to the kitchen and again to the window. The night was silent. The movements on the street were minimal.

Even the small girl appeared to be hushed.

8 o'clock came. They did not.

We waited. Time refused to move. My mother sat on the bed with the two of us. I had no idea when I dozed off till I was awoken by my mother. Someone was at our door. I saw the time, it was 2 o'clock. I was relieved, they were back.

Maa opened the door. Instead of them, the lady in the police uniform was standing. Smart and rugged. She came in and looked at my mother. She said without a preamble, "Are you, Kiana? Dr Indranath's wife?"

Maa nodded her head.

"Please get ready; you have to come with me." Said the policewoman.

My mother did not react, did not ask a question, did not show any signs of hesitation. She simply picked me up and started to get me ready. The policewoman realised that the children couldn't be left home alone. She picked up the baby girl and we were ready to move.

The police lady drove the Jeep. I and my mother sat behind. The girl was on my mother's lap. The wind seared through our bones, the cold burnt us. We moved through the ghostly night, the headlamps of the Jeep indicating the road forward leaving everything else in darkness. I was dazed. I was too small to understand anything!

After some time, we reached a dark building with a large iron gate. The door opened and the Jeep entered. We got down and entered the building through a narrow door. There were some people sitting there. Among them, there was one person who looked kind but authoritative. There was another man who made me sit on a bench. The man with authority spoke to the policewoman and my mother in a low voice. My mother and the policewoman went inside another room. The man remained outside.

In a short while both came out. The man went near my mother and said in a gentle voice, "Mrs Indranath. Do you recognize any of them? You can tell me. I am the magistrate."

My mother looked at him and then me.

She said in a clear but subdued voice, "I recognize Dr Indranath, my husband. The other two are the parents of this baby girl."

Then she staggered and fell. Everyone rushed to help but she got up on her own and asked the magistrate, "Can I see him once more?"

Chapter-23

As if hit by a rock I stood crushed beneath the emotional might of this incredible woman, a frail woman. And I was equally affected by her offspring, narrating the death of his father as if it was about someone else. This man also happened to be my husband, my friend, and my confidant.

Only Kiana was capable of such an act. On the face of such tragedy, only she could have stood her ground. And she did. I looked at Imran and he looked the other side. All three of us were afflicted with a similar malady. Catharsis by way of lamentation was not our way. We preferred to internalise our sorrows howsoever brutal they were.

I suddenly felt that it was a weakness, not strength.

I tried to figure out Imran's mind. All this while, he had been trying to make me comfortable while hiding within him a grief as large as a mountain. Would it have been possible for me to vocalise such trauma, such torment? I doubt that very much. I had never seen my parents, therefore I never lost them. They just weren't there for me. But for a child of barely six years, to be pulled out of the bed on a cruelly cold night and confronted with a tragedy of such magnitude was a punishment that nothing could measure up to.

I wished that Imran would refrain from speaking further. I wanted him to desist from suffering anymore and his penchant for flogging himself. No, I was not interested in his story anymore. People who were gone were not my concern. The man I was with needed the comfort, the alleviation of pain. He was my priority!

The stars were still brilliantly lit; the fireflies were still swirling around but our minds had become dull with pain. Possibly, Imran could comprehend that and whispered looking towards the sky, "Meher, there is no end to stories in real life. It continues till the life ends. There is still time and I may not have the courage to say it again. I must finish this today."

I moved near him and put my head on his shoulders, hoping it would give him the strength to go on. He turned his face and nuzzled his nose on mine and said hoarsely, "Thank you."

I held him a wee bit stronger.

"We returned back around five in the morning just as the dawn was breaking. It was a morning darker than the night. The redness on the horizon offered us no console. For us, there was no pain, no fear, no assurance, and no expectation. Maa got me ready for the school and then decided against it. And yes, she insisted that the baby is brought back. The policewoman hinted that she was ready to take custody of the child but my mother refused. The girl was still not crying but looking around, probably for her mother!

For the next 3-4 hours, Maa just kept on sitting. For us, there was nothing to do. People started coming in by 10. A lot of people, of different types! Government officials, police, neighbours and so on. Mother remained busy with them. They had a lot of questions. There was a palpable unease. We two remained in-house, closeted in a corner. No one spoke to us except one family who brought in some food and milk. Mother refused to have anything. After some time people with cameras and tape recorders came. The journalists asked questions. A few of them knew my father well. Some of them were aggressive but some were humane.

Everyone had their own agenda. Once that was fulfilled they simply left.

Colleagues of my father and the Principal of the School came in the afternoon. The Principal was a matured person and looked completely shocked. He spoke to my mother very kindly and from his body language, it was clear that he was in actual grief. For the first time, I found my mother sobbing. The teachers were a great source of support. The Principal, at once asked the journalists and the others to leave. No one dared to protest. His personality was such. He arranged food for us and assured us that he will be speaking to all concerned and get to the bottom of everything.