Fever

by Samaresh Basu

  His own father! His mother had explained. Last night Ruhiton’s father was supposed to have sacrificed some pigeons as he had vowed to. Where would he get pigeons at night? So he had taken the ones at home. Vow? Where? There were no rituals or sacrifices in their region at this time of the year. Ruhiton searched every nook and cranny around their house and in the nearby woods. His suspicions had been realized. He had discovered the feathers of the dead pigeons under a pile of leaves. He now knew for certain what had happened. It was the outcome of his parents’ drinking deyong, the local hooch. Drunk on deyong, his father had wanted to eat the pigeons. His mother may have tried to stop him. His father wasn’t one to give up. He had pulled the pigeons out of the coop, twisted their necks, and plucked their feathers. And his mother had cooked the meat. Who knew how late in the night it must have been.

  As soon as he realized this, Ruhiton turned violent. He had run into the field screaming, Haratan by his side. Poshpat had been weeding the fields peacefully alongside others in Mohan Chhetri’s farm. This was a big problem in the Terai. As soon as it rained, weeds sprouted everywhere. Cutting them was crucial. But the feast of pigeon meat last night hadn’t been a bad one. He was still tingling. The heady feeling from the deyong and the pigeon meat had not left him entirely.

  Ruhiton and Haratan raced up in a frenzy, bamboo sticks in hand. Ruhiton had screamed out his father’s name. ‘Where’s Poshpat Kurmi? I’m going to eat the man who ate my pigeons last night!’

  Poshpat stood up in surprise, his sickle in his hand. Their mother had followed Ruhiton and Haratan, screaming out warnings to the father of her sons at the top of her voice. Pashupati had taken a while to grasp the situation. As Ruhiton was about to attack him with the stick, he had taken to his heels. Ruhiton and Haratan had given chase. They had picked up pebbles and lumps of earth to throw at him.

  All the labourers and farmers working on the field had stood up to watch what was happening, piecing the real story together from the warnings shouted out by Ruhiton’s mother. They had started laughing, raising a din. Such entertainment didn’t come their way every day. Everyone had egged the two boys on, yes, it was best to kill a pigeon-eating jackal or civet that resembled a human being.

  The father could probably have overpowered his sons easily. But he had run away from them out of guilt at having stolen their pigeons and eaten them.

  7 Hearts in the suite of playing cards.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘WHERE ARE YOU going? Come here!’ said a voice in Hindi. Ruhiton felt a prod on his back.

  He came to a halt. A small plain door lay ahead. There were walls on either side; a narrow, dank, shaded passage lay in between. The ceiling was low enough to scrape your head against if you stood upright. With one warder in front and another behind, Ruhiton entered the narrow passage. His heart was filled with misery. Memories of the old days hurt him. He didn’t want to recall the past. He didn’t want to remember the life that lay behind him. He didn’t want to think about it. But the memories kept flooding back. The old life and the people in it. And when they did, a dam seemed to burst within him. The misery was unbearable.

  The warder in front stopped. The door set in the wall on the right was closed. It didn’t have iron bars. It was made of thick wood. An iron rod stuck out of the door at an angle. As soon as the warder gave it a shake, a sound rang out on the other side. A section of the door, a few inches wide, opened at once. A pair of eyes peeped out. Ruhiton and the warders returned the gaze. The opening, smaller than a birdcage, closed; the eyes disappeared. There was a rattling of a bunch of keys or chains inside. The door opened.

  The doorstep was a raised block of cement. Ruhiton stepped over it as he followed the warder in front of him into the room. The warder behind him also entered. The door closed again. A different world lay in front of him. It was still a jail. And yet…

  Thirty or forty yards away from the door was a space like a room, with a roof and walls. To the left was a long canopy. Ruhiton didn’t count the number of trees standing on both sides of the courtyard, which was long and wide. The entire place was covered, cool. Prisoners were scattered here and there. A clear stream of water gurgled down the middle through a canal with paved edges. Huddled near the door on the right, a few prisoners in uniform were deep in discussion. Some—Ruhiton didn’t check how many—warders were milling about. Almost all of them had turned towards Ruhiton’s group at the sound of the door opening and closing. Most of their eyes were questioning, radiating suspicion.

  ‘Ruhiton Kurmi! Ruhittton!’ An elated cry rang out, breaking the air of silent suspicion hanging over the courtyard.

  In the blink of an eye a figure raced up to Ruhiton. Wrapping his arms around Ruhiton with all the force he could muster, he shouted again at the top of his voice, ‘Ruhittton! Comrade!’

  Ruhiton had already caught a glimpse of his face. Khelu Chowdhury! He had heard earlier that Khelu Chowdhury had been caught. Just as he had heard that Diba Bagchi had also been caught. He hadn’t believed it. Now there was no choice but to believe it.

  The excitement and exhilaration in Ruhiton’s heart was no less. He had not met such a close friend and party leader in a long time. These were the people who had shown him the way. Everything had started with them. Many more had joined in afterwards but the relationship with these people was special.

  Ruhiton also wrapped his arms around Khelu Chowdhury, hugging him to his chest. He didn’t shout, his voice sounded like a groan. ‘Oy ohey Khelu babu! Ah! Khelu babu hay!’

  Chapter Nine

  VIRTUALLY ALL THE prisoners scattered inside the ward and in the courtyard surged forward to gather around Ruhiton and Khelu Chowdhury. The warders were looking somewhat nonplussed. One or two of them were smiling, however. But they were outnumbered by cold eyes and stern faces. Their expressions reflected wariness.

  Most of the prisoners’ eyes had widened in amazement. There was deference and respect too. Ruhiton heard someone nearby whisper, ‘The Ruhiton Kurmi? From Naxalbari? I had never dreamt of seeing him in person. My life is now worth living. Long live Comrade Ruhiton Kurmi!’

  ‘Long live Ruhiton Kurmi!’ several voices echoed loudly.

  ‘Stop shouting. No one is allowed to make a noise here,’ a deep voice was heard issuing the command.

  ‘Shut up. We’ll burn the place down if you stop us,’ responded a few aggressive voices in protest.

  ‘Don’t forget who’s here,’ some more voices roared in support. ‘This is Ruhiton Kurmi. Mahatma Gandhi stayed in this ward. Now Ruhiton Kurmi is here too.’

  As soon as he heard this, Ruhiton raised his face from Khelu Chowdhury’s shoulder and looked at the others in surprise. His smiling eyes held a question. Mahatma Gandhi—this was the one name with which his life had no relationship. They were as different as day and night. He had heard of Gandhi baba as a child. He had seen his photograph. Among the many pictures on the walls of the labourers’ shanties at the tea estate was one of a smiling old man in glasses. There was probably a red or white tilak on his forehead. He was bare-bodied. There was something of a resemblance between the picture and Chowbey the grocer. But the smile? The smile was even lovelier than his grandfather’s. People didn’t bow before this photograph without reason, Ruhiton had concluded. Chowbey wouldn’t be able to smile this way even in a dozen lifetimes.

  Ruhiton had heard of Gandhi baba from his father and grandfather. They showed their respect when they mentioned his name by raising their hands to their foreheads. But Ruhiton had been more interested in Lebong in the Darjeeling hills. Not to watch the horse races in spring. He had heard from his father that revolutionaries had tried to assassinate Bengal’s Governor ‘Annarson’—Governor General Sir John Anderson—there. Ruhiton was eight years old at the time. The country was ruled by the British. The police had gone on a rampage for some time across the hills of the Terai and the Dooars.

  The incident was engraved in Ruhiton’s memory. Why? This was a unique trait of his character
, he didn’t know the reason himself. It is always preferable to eliminate the enemy. He had never articulated this to himself, but the principle operated in his blood.

  Ruhiton had gone to Lebong. Not by car or train. When he was fourteen or fifteen, he had dressed for the trip and, along with his friends, climbed up the mountainside along a steep trail. They had climbed all the way to Lebong as though it were a game. Lebong, via the tea estates of Mirik and Jor-Bungalow.

  A few years later had come the strike by the railway workers in Darjeeling. Not a single railway engine had run in the entire Terai region. Not a single wheel of a train had turned. Ruhiton’s blood had tingled as he slathered silt from the Mechi on the field. Why? The company sahibs, Marwari and Bihari traders, Bengali Rajvanshis, and Nepali landowners had all become enraged. Having defeated their eternal enemy for once, the poor had felt their blood pounding in their chests. Ruhiton had not been aware that he could have responded to these events this way. Diba babu and his group had staged protests in the hills and in towns at the time. Another group had been involved in the railway strike. The success of that strike was engraved in his memory. So were many subsequent events.

  But the acts for which Ruhiton now stood accused of—murder, robbery, arson, and conspiracy to overturn the state, along with several other charges—explained his opposition to Gandhi baba. Ruhiton knew that they were adversaries because of their divergent viewpoints and methods. Still, the news that Gandhi baba had stayed in this ward evoked wonder in him. Ruhiton had heard that he had waged a different kind of battle against the British, termed the path of non-violence. Ruhiton knew of no equivalent to it. He too had been on fast several times during his seven years in jail. And apparently Gandhi baba was the one who had passed on this weapon. Although Diba Bagchi would say sometimes, with a mixture of anger and mockery, ‘How can fasting be a form of agitation? This is nothing but a quarrel between the prostitute and the client. The prostitute goes on fast when treated badly by the client. Then the client coaxes the prostitute to break her fast. If you forget the medicine for your skin you can get ill in other ways. All this is a prostitute-and-client type of agitation.’

  Initially Ruhiton had agreed. Diba Bagchi and Khelu Chowdhury were experienced at fasting. But Ruhiton was not as convinced today. In jail he had realized that fasting could indeed be a weapon. And he had got results. People like Ruhiton had no choice but to resort to fasting to secure their rights in jail. Everyone in his party had accepted this by now.

  Not only had Ruhiton never seen Gandhi baba—his foe in ideology and in method, a man with whom he had no relationship—with his own eyes, but he also knew nothing, understood nothing, about Gandhi baba except his fasting. But still, he was a great man, all told. His photograph wasn’t the only proof of that; people respected him like a god too, and all of this had convinced Ruhiton that he was an important person. ‘Mahatma Gandhi stayed here too?’ he asked with a surprised smile.

  ‘Yes, apparently he used to pray beneath that tree every day.’ One of the prisoners pointed the spot out to him.

  ‘So what?’ said Khelu Chowdhury. ‘You, Ruhiton Kurmi, are even greater for us.’

  ‘Long live Ruhiton Kurmi,’ someone said.

  ‘Long live Ruhiton Kurmi,’ other voices echoed at once.

  ‘Why are you behaving this way here, Khelu babu?’ one of the Bengali warders said. ‘There’ll be trouble any moment. Why don’t you talk inside the ward? You know very well slogans are not allowed here.’

  ‘We’ll raise slogans for Ruhiton Kurmi even if you beat us to death,’ someone roared.

  Ruhiton wanted to calm everyone. He was enjoying this fervour but he didn’t want a riot to be sparked off. He knew what it was like to be beaten up without having the means to defend oneself. He didn’t want to create such a situation.

  Supporting Ruhiton, Khelu Chowdhury said, ‘All right, never mind the slogans now. Ruhiton bhai has only just arrived, let’s receive him first. We have our greatest pride Ruhiton bhai amidst us today. Let’s get all the news first.’

  Pushing and shoving ensued. ‘Introduce us to Comrade Ruhiton Kurmi, Khelu da,’ the prisoners said in unison, falling in line with Khelu Chowdhury’s proposal.

  ‘Of course I will,’ Khelu Chowdhury said. ‘Come, let’s go inside.’ Turning to Ruhiton, he asked, ‘Ruhiton, don’t you have your things with you?’

  ‘I did have a trunk,’ Ruhiton said, looking around as though he was seeking someone out.

  One of the warders came forward. He was holding the tin trunk.

  ‘Then they will let me stay with all of you, Khelu babu?’ Ruhiton asked.

  Khelu Chowdhury laughed. So did most of the prisoners. ‘Why else would they have brought you here?’ Khelu Chowdhury said. ‘They’ve brought you here under orders. Else we would never have got to know you’d been brought to this jail. When did they bring you here? From where? So many rumours have been floated about you here…’

  ‘Khelu da,’ someone called out before he could finish. Although it wasn’t threatening, the tone was apprehensive, watchful. Khelu da was being warned not to open his mouth in the presence of the warders.

  ‘I was brought here day before yesterday in the afternoon,’ Ruhiton said meanwhile, slipping into the dialect of his region.

  ‘Here?’ Khelu Chowdhury exclaimed. ‘Day before yesterday? Where did they keep you?’ He glanced at the warder. The one who was carrying Ruhiton’s trunk.

  The warder didn’t reply. His small eyes signalled annoyance. He had a baton under his arm; it was obvious from his lower lip that he had a wad of tobacco in his mouth. ‘Where will he stay then?’ he asked in Hindi, referring to Ruhiton.

  ‘Why don’t you tell us what your orders are?’ Khelu Chowdhury replied, his face hardening.

  ‘I’ve been ordered to deposit him in this ward.’ The warder continued using his own language.

  ‘And still you want to know where he’ll stay!’ Khelu Chowdhury spoke sarcastically. ‘You want to create trouble, I can see.’

  The warder transferred his baton to his hand. Another warder said in Hindi, ‘There’ll be no trouble, Khelu babu. Take your friend inside, or find some other place to sit. Your friend will stay here in No. 12, there’s nothing to ask or discuss.’

  ‘We certainly have nothing to discuss,’ said a young man standing next to the warder. His lips were curved in anger, his eyes blazed. ‘It’s this warder who’s talking nonsense,’ he continued.

  Glancing at the young man’s face, the warder stiffened; putting the trunk down, he retreated a step. The prisoners suddenly seemed full of rage. The warders exchanged glances with one another.

  ‘This warder is probably a landowner back home,’ someone quipped.

  Some of the prisoners laughed at this. Khelu Chowdhury and Ruhiton too. ‘Never mind, let it go,’ said Khelu Chowdhury. ‘We’ll demand that this warder should not be sent to this ward any more. Come away, Santu.’

  Santu was the young man standing beside the warder. The situation had clearly become charged. The general workers and prisoners had also stopped whatever they were doing to stand up. Santu and several other young prisoners had turned rigid, steely-eyed. Santu had already been chained and put in solitary confinement twice after getting into scuffles with the warders. The warders always remained vigilant with him. But as soon as Santu moved away under Khelu Chowdhury’s instructions, the situation eased.

  Taking Ruhiton’s hand, Khelu Chowdhury began to walk off towards the ward, saying, ‘Come inside, everyone, we’ll get to know one another there. But…’ He paused, then continued, ‘Ruhiton, you seem to have quite a high temperature. And you look different.’

  ‘I have no idea what it is,’ Ruhiton said lightly. ‘Every now and then I feel as though I have a fever. My skin feels hot, you know. And it’s breaking out in sores and boils. The doctor at the last jail used to put some sort of ointment on it. It didn’t help at all. Who knows what medicines they make me take? I feel quite sick, you know, Khel
u babu. By the way, you know that place in this jail for—what do you call them—under-teral or something?’

  ‘That’s right, the under-trial jail custody,’ said Khelu Chowdhury.

  ‘Yes, probably,’ Ruhiton said. ‘They took me through that place day before yesterday afternoon to a small jail building. A two-storeyed prison.’

  ‘Gora digri,’ one of the warders said.

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard this jail has a ward for Europeans. They call it the gora digri. I’ve never seen it. Oh, so they brought you here day before yesterday? And finally you’re here in this ward today. Here we are, Ruhiton bhai, through this door here. The stairs are to the left. Let’s go and sit upstairs.’ His voice changed at the end.

  The prisoners jostled each other as they tried to enter the ward along with Ruhiton and Khelu Chowdhury. A crowd ended up blocking the narrow door. It was difficult for even two people to enter together. Everyone was excited at seeing Ruhiton Kurmi. His was a special name for all of them.

  Two or three of the youngest prisoners, no older than seventeen or eighteen, squeezed past Ruhiton and Khelu Chowdhury and turned back to stare at Ruhiton with wide, curious, shining, exhilarated eyes. They walked backwards towards the stairs, even climbing them backwards, staring all the while.

  This long room downstairs was shaded, darkened even in broad daylight. Several barred windows, as large as doors, looked out on the field. Some light filtered in through these windows. But this light was feeble, barely illuminating the room.

  Ruhiton glanced at the young prisoners. He knew the look in their eyes. He had seen eyes glowing with excitement in the same way among young men of this age in other jails. He had spoken to them. Most of these people wanted to hear of the battle. They wanted to hear how the police had unexpectedly surrounded their den, how this had been followed by a battle between guns on one side and bows and arrows on the other. Budhua, his eldest son, must now be as old as these boys. Karma was almost the same age. He must be grown-up like them too. Would they stare at Ruhiton in the same way if they saw him? At their father?