On the station platform, Chhamru Mian is pacing with a garland of flowers. He walks to the front of the R.M.S. office and then turns back to the east. From a distance, the garland in his hand looks very bright. But it is not made of freshly picked flowers from the garden. He has bought it from a fancy store for a hefty price. He walks on the platform, twisting the garland in his left and right hands, and occasionally glances through the gap in the overbridge. He is checking if the Hill Express is coming. Because today, they are coming in the guise of kings. They must be welcomed properly. Chhamru Mian is getting impatient as the train is late. Luckily, the garland is made of plastic, otherwise it would have wilted by now.
The sun has been very hot since morning. The station platform is gradually getting crowded. The sultry heat is increasing. Still, it is a relief that the piles of dried fish sacks are not in front of the office room today. The makeshift homes of the half-naked, emaciated, and skeletal men and women suffering from malnutrition have been temporarily dismantled. The mixed smell of the platform, arising from the old and fresh morning ablutions of the train passengers in the middle of the railway line, has been eliminated. Today, the platform is crowded with people. Everyone is eagerly looking to the west.
Now, not only Chhamru Mian is walking around with a garland. Several others are waiting excitedly with bouquets and garlands. The crowd is expressing their joy and excitement by talking amongst themselves. The station has lost its normal character and has now been transformed into a new public gathering. The crowd is cheerful and excited. Just pushing and shoving and peeking. Samir, joining the crowd, pushed his way to a slightly elevated spot on the platform.
Within a few moments, the mechanical monster, carrying people crammed inside, entered the platform with a serpentine motion, making a hissing sound. In an instant, the crowd erupted. The crowd shouted, “Padma Barua - Zindabad, Golam Shaukat - Zindabad, Ruparam Barman - Zindabad.” The crowd’s deafening slogans echoed repeatedly in the enclosed space of the platform.
Chhamru Mian had been lying in wait from the beginning. As soon as Padma Barua got off the train, he quickly put the plastic garland around his neck. Immediately, the boys and girls rushed forward from behind and, almost snatching, put garlands around the necks of the “kings” one by one. If this had continued for a little longer, they would have bent under the weight of the garlands. It would have been a scandalous affair. Seeing this, Bechu Dutta, Kala Mamu, Chhamru Mian, and a few others quickly came forward to stop the young and enthusiastic garland-givers. A few of them fell down after being pushed and shoved. Two young boys who fell down made faces and cursed. It didn’t matter. In a very short time, Chhamru Mian, Kala Mamu, and Bechu Dutta very skillfully formed a cordon and protected the king-like leaders from the excesses of the unruly crowd. They have become experts in handling such situations over the past two decades. They dramatically got into a taxi with the “kings.” The taxi roared and, leaving a trail of smoke, drove away, leaving the curious crowd behind.
The net result of the long wait was revealed in a very short time. The platform is no longer bustling. The shouts of the crowd are not echoing intensely within the confined area. Now it is time for the assembled audience to return home after the drama. The crowd is dispersing. The curious crowd is moving out of the station. They are all walking towards the east, on the main road of the city, like various pedestrians, and are disappearing into the sea of people.
The station is now calm, still. The passengers of the Hill Express and the crowd that participated in the “king-darshan” have all vanished. The engineless train is lying lifeless on the fishplates. Samir, like the last hero of the audience, is walking down from the high place, one step at a time.
He walked past the closed Wheeler’s bookstall, past the booking counter, and out of the station. The rickshaw pullers are still waiting in a group, hoping for a suitable passenger. Long-distance passengers are helplessly cajoling them with their boxes, luggage, and children. Taxis and tempos have all disappeared. There is no strong sign of the great “kings” who left a few minutes ago. Only one exception - where a gate was built two years ago at the entrance of the station with the inscription “Long live the sun of Asia’s liberation,” it now says, “Long live the king of the people.”
Samir walked under the gate and crossed the road. The big tea shop at the corner is overwhelmed with customers. Samir thought it would be good to have a cup of tea in this shop. He entered the shop. A thin man with a bell-mark on his forehead is sitting with the cash box in front of him. He must be the owner. As Samir took a chair and sat down, he saw that the room was full of photos of great men. From the great men of ancient times to Indira Gandhi, they have been put up on the wall. “The worthy sons who carry the country’s heritage!” Samir thought to himself and called the boy and ordered a cup of tea.
At the table opposite to where Samir is sitting, four or five people are chatting in a leisurely holiday mood. From their manner of speaking and gestures, it seems that the gathering is in full swing. Samir felt very tempted. It would have been great fun to get involved in such a gathering. But it is very inappropriate to suddenly poke one’s nose into such a gathering of strangers. So Samir controlled his temptation. He started listening to their conversation while drinking his tea.
“You know, they won’t be able to do anything good. Look at those people. Didn’t you see how Bachelor Kalu Mamu and Chhamru Mian posed and got into the ‘kings’’ taxi? They were the queen’s boot-licking sycophants until the other day.”
“Who is Kala Mamu, Vishnu?” “Don’t be so naive, sala. You don’t know Kala Mamu?” “Listen, I’ll tell you. Kala Mamu is a lifelong bachelor, forever young - a great political soul dedicated to the public interest. A true representative of the minority community of the state, like pure gold. Once you cross our area, no one needs to tell you this. Then you can only hear the buzz in the air, ‘Who is the true representative of the minority community of the state? - Who else but Kala Mamu?’”
“Hey, you salas are making fun of my Kala Mamu because his face doesn’t turn red with anger. Actually, there is no one like Kala Mamu. That time, he was invited to Puturani’s daughter’s shashthi ceremony and sat next to me. Seeing me, he smiled so beautifully, showing his teeth. Can anyone smile like that if he is not a good person?” In this way, the strangers are adding one word after another and laughing among themselves. By then, Samir has finished his tea. Although the motivated and sarcastic tone of the people’s conversation did not fully win his support, the words did not sound bad. The people’s words made him smile. A smile appeared on his face. He went to the cash box with a smile on his face, paid the thin man with the bell-mark for the tea, and left. The first part of the “king-darshan” that started in the morning ends here.
For quite some time, the buzz of “saj saj” (get ready, get ready) had been circulating in the market. From the big shots of the newspapers to the completely new and inexperienced ones, everyone had spread the message in all directions that they were coming. After wrestling with the nightmarish days, they are now coming in the guise of kings. After sacrificing autocracy, a new king has been made. The king of hope - the king of the people. Today, in a public meeting, the king of the people will speak to the people. The people are curious, excited, and happy.
The sun had not yet completely set. The sun is gradually setting in the western sky. People have started to gather in the field. The stage from which the king of the people will address the people is being given its final touches. The people from the various streets of the city are now heading towards the field. As time goes by, more and more people are gathering. People from the suburbs, villages, and towns have also gathered. The field was filled with people while the last sweet glow of the sun was still there. On the right side of the stage, some people from the newspapers are loitering. Among them, one or two are walking around with a camera slung over their shoulder with a great sense of importance.
Raman Tanti has come a long way from his home in Burunga. The “king” will surely do something to make his looms work again this time. Rashid Sheikh has come running from the forest-covered land of Auliyaband. This time, he will cultivate paddy on the benami land seized by the landlord Surman Ali Barlaskar. The “king” will surely do something about it. Samir came out of his house in a hurry in the afternoon. He will definitely open a small industry for making scented soap, a long-cherished dream of his. The “king” will do something about it.
“They have come, they have come. The kings have all come.” That’s them, just got out of the black car. The eyes of the assembled crowd are now fixed on that black car. The people sitting on the wooden benches next to the seven drains are getting up in a hurry. The short people behind are standing on their toes to see. Kala Mamu, Bechu Dutta, and Chhamru Mian are protecting them and showing them the way. They are happy and radiant. As soon as they got on the stage, they smiled, raised their hands to greet the people, and sat down. Immediately, there were several flashes of light on the stage. The minions of the news business, standing in a corner of the stage, pulled the shutters of their cameras in a special pose.
Evening is approaching. The towering light of the microwave station behind the stage is gradually becoming clear. Motor vehicles cannot pass with a deafening noise as the people have occupied the Old Road. They are taking a breath from a distance and slowly passing by. All the people gathered in the field are standing still, just watching the actors on the stage with their two eyes. The “king’s” valuable speech will begin now.
Padma Barua. He came and stood in front of the microphone on the stage. For a moment, there was another flash of light on the stage. Padma Barua is now used to all these dazzling flashes of light. After becoming a “king,” wherever he has gone to give a speech at a public meeting, he has been a victim of the frenzy of photography. At first, these things seemed quite out of place. But these days, he has gotten used to them. Later, when his photo appears in the newspaper in various ways, it looks quite good. Although he doesn’t say anything outside, he feels happy. He felt quite good when he realized that a photo had been taken as he stood in front of the microphone. In a cheerful mood, he said to the people in a loud voice, “My dear patriotic struggling brothers and sisters…”
The gentle murmur and whispers of the assembled crowd in the field were silenced as Padma Barua’s powerful appeal came out loudly through the microphone. The chatter of the crowd stopped. Everyone paid attention to listen to Padma Barua’s speech with rapt attention.
At first, he started speaking slowly and haltingly. He told the story of the sorrow of most of the people of our country. He said how the British imperialism had squeezed everything out of Mother India by putting her in the mill of exploitation. How the people of the country have fallen below the poverty line due to the misrule of the last three decades. As he said this, his tone of voice and manner of speaking began to change. Then he said in an excited and dramatic manner, “Friends, you know that the extreme manifestation of that long misrule occurred through the autocracy of the last twenty-one months. But the people did not tolerate that autocracy. Under our traditional correct struggling leadership, the people have peacefully thrown autocracy into the dustbin of history through votes. The main architect of autocracy, rejected by the people, is now desperately running around with his hands up, shouting ‘save me, save me’.”
As soon as he said this, a few people sitting in front of the stage clapped, and immediately the whole field erupted in applause. Samir did not clap. He just thought to himself, why did the “king” say the main architect of autocracy? Shouldn’t he have said the main architect-ess of autocracy? Or is there no such word in grammar? Well, one shouldn’t think too much about these things. This is the work of the master pandits. They will fix it. When the “king” has said architect, then it must be architect. Many valuable words of the “king” have passed through the gap of Samir’s thoughts. He did not hear them. This line of thought might have gone further. But it was interrupted when he heard the “king” Padma Barua say - “Friends, you know that India is an agricultural country. Most of the people of India live in villages. If they do not improve, then our country will not improve as a whole. Now, scientific technology has to be applied in rural cottage industries, small industrial centers, and agriculture.”
The words struck a chord with Samir. As if ignoring the assembled crowd, Padma Barua was speaking directly to him, expressing his own thoughts. To truly develop the country today, the doors of rural economic development must be opened. Thoughtful politicians, progressive members of the Planning Commission, and the top professors of sociology at the universities are broadcasting this on the radio every day. They are publicizing it in newspapers and magazines. Money must come into the hands of the poor farmers of the villages. Cottage industries must be revived. Educated unemployed youth must be encouraged to start small industrial enterprises.
The encouraging publicity through the radio and newspapers and Padma Barua’s now saying, “scientific technology has to be applied in rural cottage industries, small industrial centers, and agriculture,” created a huge enthusiasm in Samir’s mind. His mental strength increased many times over. This time, he will definitely open a small industrial center for making scented soap. As he thought this, a tide of joy flowed through his mind like the Phalgu river. He sees the soap made in his industrial center, ‘Manolobha,’ beautifully packaged and adorning the fancy stores in the market. He sees his soap creating a huge stir. School and college girls are chasing after Manolobha in a competition to make their beauty fresh and tender. He sees a new bride in some remote village sulking with her husband. Even though she had secretly told him when he was going to the market in the town, her husband did not buy Manolobha for her.
Manolobha is carrying Samir away on the wind in the vast expanse of the world of imagination. The roaring and jingling of Manolobha has created a tide of joy in his mind. He is bubbling with joy. But Samir could not enjoy the pleasure of being in the world of imagination for long. Padma Barua’s fiery speech threw him back into harsh reality. - “Friends, we have driven Coca-Cola out of the country.” As soon as he said this, the meeting erupted in applause again. Padma Barua took a breath until the applause died down. Then he said, “You know, the big industrialists have captured the entire market of the country. In cities like Delhi, Kolkata, Bombay, Guwahati, the British bread company is selling bread and biscuits with their label. There, our biscuit makers with less capital are being squeezed and are suffocating. Harlalaka, Jiaji, D.C.M. Morarka, Morarji, and other cloth companies have put our country’s various handloom industries on the streets. In the field of cosmetics, Tata, Hindustan Lever companies in the Parisian and London style are sitting on the country’s market almost like the Himalayan mountains. Due to their influence, the small industrial enterprises of our country are not developing…”
Padma Barua’s last words hit Samir’s chest like an electric shock. The colorful balloon that was swelling in his mind a moment ago is now sprouting seeds of doubt and suspicion. Doubt and suspicion are deflating his joy. A poisonous bite of despair is gnawing at his mind. Will Manolobha not be able to find a place in the market? Will Manolobha die in the delivery room itself?
Padma Barua, while giving his speech, took the assembled crowd to the peak and then suddenly dropped them. The work of the meeting ended right after his speech. The audience started to disperse from the crowd. The rising B-grade leaders are telling each other that the “kings” will have dinner at Juman Mian’s house. They are increasing their own value by spreading advance secret news.
People are walking along the road in front of the district library building. Towards Meenashree cinema along the Old Road. People are going. People are going along Haritola Road and towards Birpur. Silence has descended in a very short time. Pale light from the lampposts is scattered on the martyr’s memorial.
Rashid Sheikh is walking home at a brisk pace after the meeting. If he walks slowly, it will be very late to return home. He is walking fast. He is walking towards Sodpur after crossing the Gamon Bridge. After walking some distance along the main road, the glare of the lights has faded. The darkness of the village is deepening. He is walking briskly along the jungle path of Auliyaband out of habit and thinking to himself. There is no guarantee in Padma Barua’s speech of recovering the land seized by Surman Ali Barlaskar. In the deep darkness, the face of Surman Ali Barlaskar is gradually appearing more hideous, ugly, and terrifying before his eyes.
Ramen Tanti has not received any guarantee of restarting his defunct loom. Like returning home with a gloomy face and empty hands after the Durga immersion, he is returning home after listening to Padma Barua’s speech. He sees the shuttle of the loom sitting still in one place with a gloomy face. It will not run here and there like a swift mouse, making a ‘katas katas’ sound. He is thinking to himself and walking. While thinking, at one point he said to himself, “Who the hell is the government? The son of a merchant is the government. I work the loom all year round and can’t even fill my stomach twice a day. And the son of a bitch sleeps with his legs crossed in a five-story building by speculating on yarn. If he is not the government, then who is the government?”
The feeling of doubt and suspicion has not disappeared from Samir’s mind. He is walking along the Old Road, cherishing it in his mind. His pace changed when he reached the front of the Meenashree cinema hall. There is a huge crowd of vehicles and people on the road. The shops on both sides are glittering with lights of various colors. As he walks, he is only looking at the fancy stores. In all the shops, soaps of various kinds are beautifully dressed and huddled together in the showcases. The soaps are overflowing with beauty and glamour. Seeing Samir, they are bursting into laughter. Seeing all this, Samir’s mind was filled with more sadness. His Manolobha will really not be able to find a place among all this. It will die of suffocation in the delivery room without getting entry into the market. Thinking this way, he came further. He stopped in front of the huge fancy store on Broad Road. In front of the shop, a Tuni set has been wrapped around a photo of a beautiful woman in a special pose. They are lighting up and going out. As the light comes on, the letters written in various ways are becoming beautifully visible. The light is on and he sees Liril soap makes you feel refreshed - Liril protects your tenderness - Liril keeps the radiance of youth intact - the secret of a woman’s beauty is Liril - Liril - Liril - Liril - Liril is surrounding Samir from all sides. In front - behind, right - left, everywhere is only Liril. He sees thousands of Lirils coming furiously. Millions of Lirils are coming furiously. Thousands and millions of Lirils are furiously killing his carefully kept treasure of the heart, Manolobha. Samir could not stand. He almost ran away from there.
Within a few moments, Samir was out of breath. He has quickly escaped from Broad Road and is now walking slowly. As he reached the corner of Gulpukur, he remembered that a boy was standing at the corner of this intersection the other day and speaking into a microphone. He was saying, “A change of ministry does not bring any fundamental change for the vast majority of the people. You know, the small and cottage industries of a country cannot develop if the rights of the big monopoly industrialists there are not curtailed. Will our Padma Babus be able to curtail the rights of the big monopoly capitalists who own the means of production?” The boy was saying many other things. At this moment, Samir cannot remember everything. Only these things are vaguely coming to his mind. In protest against the murder of Manolobha, only the boy’s words are now acting on his mind.
Samakal, October 1978