Whether an inhabitant of Antarctica or any region near the Tropic of Cancer, when faced with death, they will desperately try to survive. Be it by resisting or by fleeing. If a man, with a sharp spear or a shiny, sharp sword, attacks me with beastly frenzy, at that very moment, I will certainly not be overwhelmed with sorrow for those brutally killed in some other part of the world. In such a situation, probably no one’s heart becomes heavy with grief. Of course, those who remain safe and unharmed at a distance, those who are not swept away by the onslaught, have the leisure to think. Grief and sorrow fill their hearts. Their hearts ache with anguish for those who have departed from this world in brutal killings.
Kamal thinks this way whenever he sees people getting agitated by the sorrows of others. It has been a few days since he was transferred here. Ever since he came here, he has been spending his leisure time in the afternoons standing at the entrance of the bustling, noisy market. Opposite the main road of the market, a huge five-story mill, with all its machines running, asserts its industrial-area-like noble demeanor with a clattering sound. Various posters are plastered on the walls of this mill. The writing on one of the posters catches Kamal’s eye. It must have been put up a long time ago. The sun and rain have faded its glamour, the letters are indistinct. Yet, with special attention, words like “Nelly’s massacre” and “barbaric” can be deciphered. Reading them, Kamal said to himself, - The sad news of the tragic massacre has also made the hearts of the people here anxious. They have been afflicted with anguish. And yet, I, the bastard, did not get a moment’s respite to grieve for those who were victims of the thrilling, brutal, and demonic carnage of Nellie, Gohpur, and Shilpathar. Kamal could not express his sorrow or grief properly. At that time, it was not that he was directly facing death. Nor was he at a very safe distance. Kamal was surrounded by those who were striving to implement the marathon program of the foreign expulsion movement led by AASU and Gana Sangram Parishad.
Kamal had to be ready to respond to any call from the AASU Gana Sangram Parishad. In the morning, after waking up, as Kamal was thinking about what to do and what not to do, Nagen, the younger brother of contractor Khagen Barua, appeared at his quarters with a few boys. Seeing Kamal sitting in the outer room, he smiled broadly and said, “Kamalda, please ask Boudi not to cook today. The shraddha ceremony of the martyr Tarun Deka, who was killed in police firing in Mokalamua, will be held. All arrangements have been made in the park next to Navin Bardoloi Road. You will go with everyone in the house.” - “Yes, I will go. A tender, fresh life has exhausted itself for the country by shedding its heart’s blood. Shall I not go to pay homage to him? I will surely go.” Kamal replied to Nagen in a grave and emotional tone. Hearing Kamal’s words, Nagen and his group left.
A canopy has been erected in the park. A grand yajna ceremony has been held. From all sides, from the surrounding alleys and lanes, people of all ages are flocking to the park. Everyone is paying homage to the martyr Tarun Deka. Kamal joins them with his wife and son. He stands barefoot in front of the heap of garlands at the martyr’s altar next to the canopy and throws a bunch of flowers with his head bowed in reverence. Kamal had joined the ceremony to show that he was not detached from the masses, but was one of them. But when he threw the flowers at the martyr’s altar, his head truly bowed in reverence. As he was returning from the side of the martyr’s altar, he said to himself - “Martyr Tarun Deka, you will command the respect of all good people. Your mind was not afflicted with the sins of dishonest, disguised patriots or cunning politicians; the inspiration of pure love for my Assam was paramount.” Besides paying homage to the martyr Tarun Deka, Kamal has also paid tribute to the memory of many other martyrs.
Kamal has sent his wife to picket the office in a group with other women. Kamal’s wife has tied her waist tightly with her anchal and raised her clenched fist to the sky, shouting slogans. She has donated money to the movement fund whenever needed, and participation in janata curfews, continuous bandhs, and work stoppages was also mandatory. At first, these things didn’t feel so bad. But towards the end, the matter became complicated. When the government implemented a pay-cut for office absenteeism, Kamal was almost at his wit’s end to manage. On payday, the salary was being given at the cash counter. His colleague, Bimal Saikia, was taking his salary. Kamal was also standing beside him. Due to the pay-cut, everyone’s salary was less this time. Bimal Saikia took the money and counted it two or three times, changing hands. Then he stood by the counter and said loudly, - “How will it work if there are pay-cuts like this? After skipping office, will we now tie a gamcha around our waist and eat air? What is the meaning of this movement?” Bimal Saikia’s words had the magic of a magician’s trick. In an instant, everyone’s eyes were fixed on his face. The cashier stopped counting money at the cash counter. A strange silence suddenly descended upon the entire room.
Atul Bharali, the branch secretary of the employees’ council, was talking with others in a corner of the room. He slowly got up. Standing in front of Bimal Saikia, he said, “Volunteers are giving their heart’s blood for the country. Class one officers like Suren Kalita, the learned scholar of the university, Pandaveshwar Neog, and Dr. Girin Chowdhury are all jumping into the struggle for the question of the endangered nation. They are showing two thumbs up to the government’s nose and making a mockery of the law. Let the job go if it has to. In such a situation, our pay-cut is not such a big loss! It is no loss for the country or the nation.” Finishing his words in an almost speech-like tone, Atul Bharali smiled a satisfied smile. His speech lightened the atmosphere in the room. Like Bimal Saikia, Kamal also had a reaction to the pay-cut. But after hearing Atul Bharali’s speech, he could not say anything. The unexpressed, suppressed anger was churning deep inside his mind, causing uncomfortable burps from time to time. Even though he secretly disliked the agitators, he did not show it in his behavior. He had gradually mastered the special acting ability of expressing joy on the outside while being consumed by a gnawing pain on the inside, for the sake of survival. But even after all this, there was no end to the troubles.
The election is imminent. Elections have to be held to remove the constitutional crisis. Elections have to be held to save both banks from the devastating grasp of the turbulent waves of the Lohit, Burhidihing, Subansiri, and Pagladia. And this election breaks the dam of the solidified, disastrous atmosphere. The drunken dance of destruction begins. The tusked rhinos of Kaziranga seem to have become furiously enraged. The sound of the boots of the CRPF and the military quickly spreads the silence of the cremation ground all around. The government is strict and ruthless in dealing with the election boycott announcement of the AASU Gana Sangram Parishad.
Kamal can’t figure out what to do. The radio is frequently broadcasting news about the Assam elections. He turns the knob of the radio. As soon as the radio is turned on, it is heard, ‘…… The government has strengthened security arrangements to hold the elections. One lakh rupees compensation will be given for the accidental death of any gazetted officer working in the election……..’. Kamal turns off the radio. The more he listens to the radio broadcasts, the more he shrinks in fear. He withdraws into himself like a snail. He says to himself, ‘No, the boundary drawn by the AASU Gana Sangram Parishad cannot be crossed under any circumstances. If I take one step outside the boundary, the demon Ravana will come and grab me.’ Kamal is thinking all this alone at home when the calling bell rings. He goes to the door. He moves the curtain and looks through the transparent glass door to see who has come. Khagen Barua was standing on the veranda, having rung the calling bell. Kamal is relieved to see Khagen Barua. He has been seeing contractor Khagen Barua ever since he was promoted to the post of Divisional Accountant and came here. Within a short time, a sweet relationship had developed with him through work. They had shared puffs from the same hookah. Kamal opens the door for him to come inside. Khagen Barua enters the room and pulls up a chair. He is a staunch supporter of the movement. He brings up the topic of the movement and says to Kamal, “The AASU Gana Sangram Parishad is disrupting the election this time. Many people will take advantage of this opportunity to loot. So, where are you going for election duty?”
– We will not do election duty.
– Why won’t you? There is a lot of spending in the election. Whoever does election duty will get a full month’s extra salary.
– Let them spend as much as they want or let those who are giving it, give. We will not do the duty. Our employees’ council has done the right thing in this matter. When you are forcibly imposing the election, the responsibility is yours. Bring in fresh IAS officers from Delhi or get it done by Biharis, we are not in it. We will not accept the duty, and there is no question of voting.
Khagen Barua is happy to hear Kamal’s words. But he did not express it with excitement. His coppery, swollen face swells even more with a suppressed smile. His eyes become small and twinkle. With a suppressed smile on his face, he says - “There is a big risk in not accepting election duty. In the dead of night, the military will come to the house and say, ‘Accept the duty or go straight to the red house.’ What will you do then?” - “We’ll see when that happens.” Kamal replies lightly. For disobeying the law, the military or CRPF can surround the house and arrest him at any moment. Such whispers are carried by the wind. Many have already left their office quarters and gone into hiding in their village homes using various tricks. Khagen Barua will also leave in two or three days. Before leaving, he gives Kamal a little jolt.
As the day of the election approached, the air was getting heavy. The fresh, invigorating air that refreshed the body and mind gradually became as hard as a stone and pressed down on the chest. The doors and windows of the quarters around Kamal are closed. All the neighbors within a radius of five hundred yards have left their homes. Only Kamal is confined to his house. A strange desolation pervades the entire area. As evening falls, silence envelops the darkness. Only fear and fear. Kamal, huddled with his wife and son on the bed, thinks that their ship has sunk in the middle of the sea. There is no trace of the other passengers. Endless water as far as the eye can see. He is desperately swimming in the ocean of existence to cross over to the shore. After swimming like this for a fortnight, one day, at the end of the storm, he comes out into the morning sunlight and takes a deep breath of fresh air. Kamal has faced similar incidents several more times in the past few decades. Like the natural disasters of floods that inundate both banks every year during the monsoon or the uprooting of trees in the violent dance of the Kalbaishakhi, this matter emerges from the heart of the Brahmaputra every decade.
In the early sixties, Kamal enrolled in Cotton College right after his matriculation examination from Khodamkulai High English School. For the first few days in the college hostel, he was lonely. Later, of course, he made friends. The college lessons and the new experiences of city life brought a tide of joy to his mind. At the end of the holidays, his classmates Biren Mohanta, Sudeep Gohain, Suren Dutta, and many others would go here and there in groups. They had lost count of how many days they had sat on the Kachari ghat in the fading afternoon sun and watched the play of the bright, white, foamy waters of the vast Brahmaputra. Their minds would also dance with the silvery, sparkling waves. At this juncture of life, everything was free, unfettered. They would sit side by side under the open sky and weave a net of colorful hopes for a beautiful future. Just as the bond of intimacy was beginning to strengthen, the news of sporadic incidents of the ‘Bangal Kheda’ movement spread among them in whispers. Their free and independent movement was interrupted. The sultry air quickly thickened, signaling a lack of security.
After a student was killed in police firing in Gureshwar, the situation became unmanageable. A gruesome, demonic frenzy spread everywhere. Kamal’s existence was truly in danger. He was bewildered, lost. Sudeep Gohain helped him to escape from the hostel secretly. In the darkness of the night, Kamal got into a train standing on the Guwahati platform. Then, a lot of things happened. The houses destroyed by the storm were repaired. The homeless people found shelter again. The uprooted trees with shaken roots spread their branches on the broken trunks. Although Kamal lost a year, he persevered and finally got a government job after getting his graduate degree. Slowly, the unknown suspicion, baseless fear, and mental animosity settled deep in his mind. But in the seventies, the air became hot again. News of rivalry, animosity, and murder over the medium of language in the university spread. Kamal, of course, did not witness any of this firsthand. He did not feel endangered. But yes, a few lines in a small letter in an envelope had dejected him. His younger brother had written from Khodamkulai, - “Dada, as you said, I had arranged everything and gone to Jorhat to get admitted to the agricultural college. On the way to the college, some boys deliberately created trouble. I could not get admitted. Like you, I also lost a year.” Reading the letter, Kamal, in his sorrow, was blaming his own fate. Kamal has been seeing since his childhood that a kadam tree in their house had grown up lushly. After it grew big, it could not stand up straight easily. Every year, the storm’s blast would make it bare, no matter which direction the storm came from. Kamal feels that his condition is like that of the bare kadam tree.
In the referendum of ‘47, the ancestral home of Sushobhan Gupta of Surma Valley went to another country. Since it had no hands or feet of its own, the house remained in the same place. Sushobhan Gupta was forced to move with his family to his own country in the Brahmaputra Valley. Kamal came holding his father’s hand. From then on, the house in the Khodamkulai tea garden became their home. In his childhood, the sky and air of Khodamkulai were Kamal’s world. To the north of Khodamkulai, a deep black mountain has merged with the horizon under the sky. To the south, east, and west, there is a green carpet of tea plants shaded by Shirish trees. With the change of seasons, the body of Khodamkulai is touched by a charming beauty. The natural environment of Khodamkulai is dearer to Kamal than heaven. Wherever he is, as soon as he hears the name of Khodamkulai, nostalgia takes over his head and envelops him. But the waves of the movement repeatedly hit him and push him away. In the last three decades, whether the Bangal Kheda, the university language medium, or the foreign expulsion movement was conducted from any point of view, its blow has devastated Kamal. Kamal feels that he is standing like the kadam tree at his house. The storm repeatedly hits it, twists it, and makes its head bare. He is standing desperately just to survive. His two feet are trying their best to take root deep in the soil of Khodamkulai.
Amader Samakal 6th year 2nd-3rd issue