“Can you go alone?” “Yes, I can certainly go.”

Munin Gogoi came out of his room and walked with me for a short distance. Then he pointed with his finger and said, “You see this area, its name is Rupahi village. You have to walk for about three kilometers along the main road, taking a south-west turn. Then you will see some large Arjun trees, and just before them, a canal flows on the left. After crossing the rickety bamboo bridge over the canal, you will see a house with a thatched roof surrounded by bamboo groves. That is Ramiz Sheikh’s house.”

I am new to this area. Although I can manage to converse with the local babus of the city, many words remain unknown to me. A doubt has been nagging at me for some time whether I will be able to speak fluently in their language with the peasant masses of the village. Of course, I have also thought that I will overcome this situation very quickly. Since I came to Munin Gogoi’s house last night, I have been carefully observing their way of speaking. Taking leave of Munin Gogoi, I start walking. The sun has peeked from the east. The sweet rays of the sun are glistening on the dewy tips of the autumn grass. Beyond Rupahi village, there are only green paddy fields as far as the eye can see. The distant horizon is covered in a dense, deep green. People have gone out to work with their strong, beaten bodies, their bodies covered up to six inches above the knees with dirty clothes. They are looking at me, I don’t know if there is any unusual behavior in my gait. I think to myself, if they ask me a question, I will be able to satisfy them by answering correctly. That day in Guwahati, while having tea at Bhabesh Sharma’s house in Smaraniya, Bhabesh had praised me, saying, “Comrade, you have learned the language in a very short time. This is very good.”

Seeing the scenic beauty of Guwahati city from the top of the Nilachal Hills, the crowd of touts in front of the Janata Bhavan in Dispur, the bright clamor of the students full of life in the university campus, the faces of the moving crowd on the main roads like Panbazar and Fancy Bazar, and the glittering splendor of various colors on both sides, I could not even imagine that after crossing the Brahmaputra bridge, I would find such a village within a few miles on the other side of the metropolis. Thinking about all this, I am walking forward. A middle-aged peasant brother is chasing his buffalo from behind with a bamboo stick, making a loud noise. I get a little scared. I quickly stand aside on the edge of the road. After they pass, I start walking again. Seeing him chasing the buffalo reminds me of Nenu Mian. Nenu Mian used to hit his donkey-buffalo with a strong whip, making a ‘hurrrr hurrrr’ sound to control it. Along with the thought of Nenu Mian, the faces of Naren Garui and Rajani Das are also floating in my mind. In the darkness of the night, Naren Garui would bend over the seedbed and take one, two, three handfuls of seedlings, filling both his hands. Then, straightening his spine, he would suddenly bend his body and hit his knee with the side of the bundle of seedlings with soil, and then the ‘chherat chherat’ sound would startle the moving village folk in the darkness of the night and make them realize that someone nearby was pulling out seedlings from the seedbed. Rajani Das would push his strong plow through the mud from the darkness of the dawn until the sun became hot. Rajani would pull his legs out of the mud in sync with the pulling of the bullocks. It seemed as if his broad chest was pulling his legs out of the mud.

Centered on the peasant brother chasing the buffalo, the images of Nenu Mian of Barakpar, Naren Garui of Tarai, and Rajani Das of Ratabari float in my mind in succession. The zeal of the peasant liberation movement that has been binding me in an invisible bond day after day, pushing me from here to there, and as a result, the idea that has accumulated in the folds of my subconscious mind is proclaiming that the peasant brother of Rupahi village, Nenu Mian, Naren Garui, and Rajani Das are all one - all are the same. For a moment, I saw them all standing in a circle, raising their clenched fists to the sky, forming an impregnable pyramid. They are shouting in a joint voice, “We have no boundaries. We are all one, we are the same.” This reaction truly disconnects me from my surroundings for quite some time. I didn’t realize how much distance I had covered. Suddenly, hearing the continuous ‘kur, kur, kur… kur kur’ sound of a dove, when I look ahead, I see several large Arjun trees standing like giant demons with matted hair. The sprawling branches of the huge trees have created a cool, shady environment. A little further down the damp, dirt path under the trees, there is a bamboo bridge over a canal on the left. I walk towards it. After crossing the rickety bamboo bridge and walking a little further, I can see a house surrounded by bamboo groves. Through the gaps in the bamboo grove, the small thatched-roof house is also visible to me. Instantly, my mind clearly says that this is Ramiz Sheikh’s house.

Ramiz Sheikh was sitting on the veranda, smoking tobacco. As soon as he saw me, he got up. He came down from the veranda, blowing a cloud of smoke from his nose and mouth, and said to me, “I have been waiting for you since morning.”

“So the news of my coming here has already arrived.”

“Yes, Munin Gogoi gave me the news at the Tangar market the day before yesterday.”

I have walked a long way continuously. Now, if I can sit down, I will get some rest. Thinking this, I get up on the veranda. Ramiz Sheikh pulls a stool for smoking and sits down, extending the hookah to me. I haven’t smoked tobacco or bidis for a long time. I have a bad cold and cough. Smoking bidis or tobacco aggravates it. It’s hard to sleep at night. Still, as fatigue from walking has enveloped my body, I couldn’t resist the temptation to get refreshed by smoking tobacco. I hold the hookah between my two hands and take a drag like an expert smoker.

Ramiz Sheikh also comes and sits opposite me on the veranda. He is observing my tobacco consumption carefully. As soon as I remove the hookah from my mouth, he says to me, “Well, comrade, what’s the news from all around?” Even if Ramiz Sheikh hadn’t asked me this question now, I would have come to this topic. I would have had to rehearse in my mind when and how to start. But now I don’t have to do that. I hand the hookah to Ramiz Sheikh and, becoming a little more comfortable, say directly, “You know, comrade, for the last two or three days, they have set fire to Parama’s village and burned down several houses.”

“Who has burned down the houses?” Ramiz Sheikh asks me in return. “They came in a group. They could not be identified individually.” Munin Gogoi has said that for a few days before the incident, Giridhari Phukan and Barin Chowdhury were roaming around the village. Usually, Giridhari Phukan used to come to the village only once at the beginning of Paush. Last year, he had threatened everyone because the advance was not collected properly. This time, he has already come two or three times. Suddenly, the man has become somewhat different. Tears are welling up in his eyes at the sorrow of the villagers. He is whispering to everyone, “Can’t you see, Parama, how Ramiz Sheikh and his people have taken root? You are about to lose everything because of them. If you don’t do something about it, there is no salvation for you.” Giridhari Phukan is telling everyone these things again and again. Then, while leaving, he whispers in their ears again, “You don’t have to give the advance this time.”

Ramiz Sheikh removes the hookah from his mouth and puts it on the ground. He becomes serious after hearing my words. His dark face with sunken cheeks and a strong jaw becomes even darker. The sockets of his eyes look bigger. His eyes seem to be going deeper through the sockets. Then he suddenly becomes animated and, looking at me, says, “You know, comrade, your words are taking me far away. Very far. A small village on the banks of the Meghna. A small house surrounded by bamboo groves in a small village. The house was thatched like this one. Every year, the house would be twisted and turned by severe storms. To the east of the house was a vast expanse of paddy fields. I have grown crops, fighting desperately against storms, famines, floods, etc. After harvesting the crops, at the time of threshing, Irfan Ali would appear every year without fail. From a distance, one could tell that Irfan Ali was coming by his matka kurta and fez cap. When he stood beside me with his huge body, all my strength would instantly freeze into hard, cold ice. I was afraid to look at his broad face with henna-dyed beard and big red eyes. After threshing, after giving Irfan Ali his share of the paddy, Kanai, Jamini, Latif, all of us would stand speechless, getting some leftovers, and stare blankly at the distant sky, thinking about the unknown future.”

“It was this Irfan Ali who once came to the village and roamed around a lot. Idris Mian and Kalu Sheikh stuck to him like shadows. He would gather the young men of the village and consult with them. Overnight, Irfan Ali became a close one. He would hold meetings in the darkness of the night. In the meetings, he would say to everyone, ‘You tell me, if the country has come for us, then why are the sons of infidels still in possession of the fields and houses?’ After throwing the question, he would roll his big eyes around. Then, seeing that no one was responding, he would say again, ‘By the will of Khodatala, their fields and houses will be yours. If they don’t leave on their own, then make the Meghna red.’ Hearing the words ’their fields and houses will be yours,’ my heart would start to beat faster. What a beautiful paddy field in the eastern village, like a golden plate. Ah, so much land, so much paddy! Sitting in the back row, I was vaguely looking at Irfan Ali’s face. It seemed as if Allah had sent his messenger. Our problems will be solved. Irfan Ali is truly the liberator.”

“Two days later, as usual, at the end of the afternoon, the red sun sank into the western bank of the Meghna. A dark, buffalo-colored darkness rushed in and enveloped the entire area. Idris Mian, Kalu Sheikh, and hundreds of other young men were walking silently to the eastern village. The sound of conch shells and bells was floating from there. Piercing the roar of the Meghna, that sound was तरंगায়িত হয়ে and gradually floating far away. Suddenly, the shout of ‘Allahu Akbar’ made everything go haywire. Idris and Kalu Sheikh and their men entered Jamini’s village and set fire to the houses. The heart-rending cries of children, the elderly, and women were crashing on both banks of the Meghna intermittently. The licking flames of the fire were reaching for the sky. In this way, the devilish frenzy continued for two or three days. Those who survived in Kanai and Jamini’s village fled, leaving their homes and hearths.”

“After the eastern village became empty, I did a lot of calculations in my mind for a few days. On winter nights, I would curl up my body and wrap myself in a torn quilt and think that next winter I would sleep under a warm quilt like the babus. I would also be a partner in the occupation of the vacant land of the eastern village. As long as Idris Mian and Kalu Sheikh don’t cause any trouble. Thinking about these things, my body and mind would become restless with joy. But this joy did not last long. Everything went into the possession of Allah’s messenger, Irfan Ali. Irfan Ali wears a more beautiful fez cap on his head. He not only dyes his beard with henna. As he walks, the smell of attar comes out of his beard. We gradually become destitute. We become weaker after Kanai and Jamini leave. The pain of losing loved ones wells up in my chest from time to time. Finally, one day, helpless and without any support, I set out for the unknown.”

Saying all this, Ramiz Sheikh heaves a long sigh. He picks up the hookah from the ground and, after adjusting it, takes a drag. But no, no smoke comes out. He puts the hookah back on the ground. Then, becoming normal, he says, “Comrade, in Giridhari Phukan’s face, I see the image of Irfan Ali’s face. They are very cunning. They are always weaving a web of conspiracy in their minds to protect their own interests.” Hearing Ramiz Sheikh’s words, I say, “That’s right.”

The time passed very quickly while we were sitting on the veranda and talking. The sun has reached the middle of the sky. As soon as the sun sets, Munin Gogoi will start from his house to come here. When he reaches here, the whole area will be covered in darkness. Before dawn tomorrow, Munin Gogoi, Ramiz Sheikh, and I will have to set out. We have to go far, to Mini’s place. The web that Giridhari has woven has to be torn. Thinking about all this in my mind, I get up from the veranda. Suddenly, like an unaccounted for thing, it comes out of the corner of my lips - “I will break Giridhari’s back. I, Ramiz Sheikh, and Munin Gogoi are there.” Ramiz Sheikh overhears me. He also says, “Yes, we will break the sala’s back. I, you, and Munin Gogoi are there.” I look back at Ramiz Sheikh, and then we both laugh and say together… “Yes, we will definitely break his back. I, you, and Munin Gogoi are there.”

Saying this, we walk with a firm step. By then, the sun has peeked in the eastern sky. Its golden glow is spreading all around.

The Minis came about one hundred and fifty years ago. The Minis came in droves behind Dhaniram Dada. In the tea gardens set up by the white-skinned sahibs like MacLeod and Anderson, where the plains of the valley have marked the boundary at the foot of the hills, they have been plucking two leaves and a bud with skillful hands. Many of the MacLeods and Andersons have, of course, left. In their place are now Bhatinda and Agarwala. But the Minis have remained almost Minis. Chameli Memsahib is one of the lakhs of Minis.

Lying on a bamboo platform in Ramiz Sheikh’s house in the darkness of the night, these thoughts are getting tangled in my head. I can’t sleep at all. Next to me, Munin Gogoi is snoring and sleeping. He has probably worked hard all day. He couldn’t rest in the afternoon like me. Still, I am envious of his sleep. I lie there forcefully, expressionless. I can’t say when sleep came and overpowered me.

In the morning, the chickens from Ramiz Sheikh’s thatched house start crowing loudly. Their crowing wakes me up. The morning light has not yet entered the room. I get up. Ramiz Sheikh has woken up before me. After I get up, I try to wake up Munin Gogoi by shaking him. He is startled at first. Then, composing himself, he stretches his body and gets up from the platform.

We leave Ramiz Sheikh’s house in a hurry. The roads are not clearly visible. First Ramiz Sheikh, then me, and behind me, Munin Gogoi. In this way, we are walking along the narrow path of the village. Slowly, we cross the narrow path and get on the main road. The morning light is breaking. The blue sky. A mesmerizing silence is spreading all around. Suddenly, breaking the silence, a flock of birds flew over our heads, chirping. The birds are flying towards our front. Slowly, they turn into black dots and disappear beyond the horizon.

We are walking. As we walk, only the thoughts of the Minis are floating in my mind. The tea garden is a different environment. There, Mini, Ghutura, Biltu, and Mangla have a different life. On the first night of the payment, they get drunk on country liquor and create a ruckus in Mangla’s slum. They sing Tusu songs to their heart’s content. I am thinking about all this and walking. A rhythm is created between walking and thinking. In tune with the rhythm of walking, it echoes in my mind - “The sardar says work, work; the babu says catch them, and the sahib says I will take the skin off your back.” I hum to myself - “Let’s go to Assam, Mini, there is great sorrow in the country.” But no, in the end, these things get stuck in my mind. The rhythm is broken. I break away from my thoughts and say aloud, “Comrade, we will not let the Minis sing the old songs. If we say, ‘Let’s go to Assam, Mini, there is great sorrow in the country,’ it seems as if we are going around in circles in the same situation as one hundred and fifty or two hundred years ago.” Hearing my words, Ramiz Sheikh said, “You know, comrade, I like songs very much. As soon as I saw a boatman’s boat on the Meghna, it would automatically come out in a loud voice - ‘To which country are you going, boatman, rowing upstream on the Meghna? Tell my brother-in-law to come and take me.’ - Of course, it doesn’t come like that anymore. Still, sometimes, when the hope of a promising, bright harvest flashes in my mind, I come out to plow absent-mindedly and sing, ‘Will you come, my mahut friend, if I go?’”

“Wow, how wonderful! Ramiz Sheikh is not even aware of how he is developing culture by becoming one with the environment.” I was about to say something, thinking this to myself, when Munin Gogoi opened his mouth. He said, “You know, comrade, I had a dream last night.” As soon as he said the word ‘dream,’ Ramiz Sheikh eagerly said to him, “I like funny dreams very much. Tell me, what did you see? We will also enjoy listening to it.”

Munin Gogoi became a little serious. Then he said, “No, it’s not that funny. Last night, I saw ‘Ai Ohom.’ ‘Ai Ohom’ came and stood in front of me. Her face was very sad. A shadow of sadness had fallen over her whole face. ‘Ai Ohom’ said to me, ‘Munin, the Giridharis are setting fire. Everything will be destroyed in this fire.’ Then she said to me, ‘Can’t you guys teach them a lesson?’ I was listening to ‘Ai Ohom’s’ words with rapt attention, and just then you pushed me. I woke up with a start.”

Listening to Munin Gogoi’s words, I also go into a world of thoughts. The festering, wounded form of ‘Ai Ohom’ causes a burning sensation. Like a soliloquy, it comes out of my mouth, “‘Ai Ohom,’ you will be beautiful - we can do it.” Ramiz Sheikh is walking beside me. He said, “Yes, comrade, we can do it. I, you, and Munin Gogoi are there.” Immediately, Munin Gogoi said, “Yes, yes, we can do it, comrade. I, you, and Ramiz Sheikh are there!” Then, I, Ramiz Sheikh, and Munin Gogoi, the three of us, stand facing each other and say together with force - “Yes, yes, we can, we are there.”

Saying this, we walk with a firm step. By then, the sun has peeked in the eastern sky. Its golden glow is spreading all around.

Samakal, October ‘85