@mohammed_87hassan; Not right now...there are issues of copyright etc....Somesh had asked the same question to the forum members...@Deb_Ban had said that the copyright is with Ananda Publications...let me finish the whole story...then let's see
After
alighting from the car, Samiran opened the gate and pressed the door-bell.
Curtains were drawn across all the windows, only the dining room was lighted.
Glancing backwards, he saw that the five of them were observing him in front of
the gate. In order to find out the time, he moved to the edge of the verandah
and lifted his left hand in the street light. Two minutes past eight.
The
street was deserted. Since it was film time on television, everything wore a desolate
look. The windows of the adjoining houses were closed to prevent the entry of
mosquitoes.
He
again pressed the bell. Wasn’t there anybody in the house? He pressed his ears
to the door, trying to find out the least sound. If all of them were watching
the television in Auntie’s room, at least the sound of songs and dances or
action scenes of Hindi movies would have floated out. Nothing of the sort could
be heard. The TV was switched off.
Suddenly,
the door opened. Sunilbaran. Samiran was bewildered on seeing his father.
‘What
is the matter, you? Where are they all gone?’ Glancing backward for one moment,
Samiran asked after closing the door. All the rooms were dark, only the dining
room was lighted.
‘Kanu,
Mala and Rekha have gone to Aniruddha Bhattacharya’s house. He has broken his
leg after colliding with a cycle. They have gone to see him.’ Sunilbaran
started climbing up the stairs.
Samiran
started thinking quickly. What could be done now? He was virtually under house
arrest. If he tried to escape, they would force him to get inside the house. In
the morning he would be escorted into Bata Biswas’s pig sty.
Impossible.
If
he said he would not play for Sarathi,
he might be forcibly detained. But come what may, he had to reach Kozhikode
within the 22nd. The camp for the Indian team would not continue for
the whole year, at some point of time they would release the players. Then he
had to return and play in Kolkata. Samiran was in a dilemma. He had to play
either for Sarathi or Jatri. Whichever of the two clubs he
played for, he had to get his name registered at IFA. He had heard that there
had been a rule for the camp players under which they could get themselves
registered even after the scheduled date.
He
went to his room and moving the curtains apart, peered cautiously outside. He
could see one of them on the opposite side of the street leaning on the gate of
Amiya Chatterjee, who had a business in painting. He could not notice the other
four. It seemed that they were strolling. If they all crowded together, people
might suspect them as dacoits. But Samiran was quite sure that the people of
the locality were all educated, hence they would not try to capture a dacoit. A
little bit of courage was needed for that.
But
he could not think of playing for any club in this manner. If he declined going
with them in the morning? Samiran had no idea of what could happen then. He had
heard that a similar sort of incident had happened with Hedayet Ali some six
years back. Hedayet had wanted to sign for Jatri;
Jupiter had forcibly taken him from
Subodh Dhara’s Pataldanga house by bursting bombs. A pedestrian had even died
in that incident. Dhara’s ground floor had been completely ravaged by these
people.
If
they too took recourse to such means. Samiran could feel his brain becoming
numb. He gripped his head with both hands while sitting on the bed in that
darkened room. It seemed that someone was advising him in hushed tones,
‘Escape, escape from here by any means. This very night.’ Bata Biswas’s words
seemed to ring in his ears. ‘They would not hesitate in sacrificing their lives
for you. Nor in taking lives.’ The implication was very clear.
The
bloody, wounded bodies of his father, Auntie, Kanu, Mala flickered in his mind
for a moment before they disappeared. He muttered to himself, ‘Why would these
people be endangered because of me? This cannot happen, it simply cannot be. I
am nothing without them; I have no existence without these people.’
Samiran got up from the bed and
parting the curtains, peered outside again. Not a single soul was present. What
happened? Had they gone away? Should he go to the second floor terrace to have
a look? Just as he was contemplating all these, he saw two people, speaking in low
tones, walking before the house. He recognized one of them, Naran.
So,
they were taking a stroll. Would they continue to do so throughout the whole
night? Samiran could make neither head nor tail out of it. He started pacing
the room.
All
of a sudden the door-bell rang. Samiran sprang up and peered out of the window.
The road was deserted. The sound of Hindi news being telecast on TV could be
heard. Only a corner of the veranda could be glimpsed somehow. He sensed that
his Auntie and the others had arrived.
No
sooner did the bell ring for the second time than Samiran opened the door.
Auntie, Mala and Kanu were standing. He glanced at the gate behind the three of
them. It seemed that someone quickly ducked out of view in the street.
‘Talk
of Bhattacharya-da and his doings. A cycle-rickshaw has gone over his legs,’
Rekha Gupta could hardly control her laughter.
‘He
is screaming so much as if his leg has been split into two,’ said Shyamala.
‘Dada,
how have your talks been progressing? How much did they offer you?’ Himadri
inquired.
‘Sit
down, all of you. We are in danger. Did you see someone roaming the streets?’
Seeing Samiran’s hushed tone and anxiety-ridden face, the expression of the
other three also changed.
‘Why,
what is the danger?’ Rekha Gupta’s voice quivered with an unknown fear.
‘Saw
two people following us on the street…And another man was there at the bend
near the house which has a dog. Can’t remember seeing anyone else,’ Shyamala
said, trying to refresh her memory.
‘Those
guys are hooligans, there are five of them, they are Bata Biswas’s men, and
they have brought me here.’
‘Eh,
why?’
‘Ah,
Aunty, please speak in a low voice,’ Shyamala issued a soft threat.
‘They
would keep a guard on me the whole night. They would escort me back to Bata Biswas
tomorrow morning.’
‘Why?’
Himadri asked.
‘I
have to play for Sarathi. They will not leave me. I have come home only on the condition
that I would talk with Aunty and convey my decision to them tomorrow. They are here
to prevent me lest I give them the slip and steal away to the Jatri camp. I have seen that one of them
has a pistol,’ Samiran said in a slow, silent voice. No one uttered a word. None
of them were in a position to talk, shocked as they were at the suddenness of
the incident.
‘Is
there anarchy here?’ Himadri roared. ‘Am I not at liberty to play where I wish?
Somebody would force me to play and I have to play there?’
Samiran
only stared at his brother’s face silently. Rekha Gupta asked desperately, ‘Couldn’t
we inform the police?’
‘What
will the police do?’ Samiran asked.
‘Arrest
them.’
‘For
what crime?’
‘For
forcibly taking you with them.’
‘Where
is the proof that they want to abduct me? The police do not arrest anybody
merely on the basis of assumptions.’ Samiran sounded frustrated. ‘Also, they
could carry out an attack on you. If only I could escape—.’
‘Aunty,
G.C Dutta was a police officer, couldn’t we approach him?’ Shyamala said.
‘What
would he do?’ Himadri asked, rather slightingly.
‘He
says that he had captured some pistol-wielding Khoka-gunda once. Here too there
is a man with a pistol, he can get hold of him, and Dada could slip out of the
house in the meantime.’ Having proffered a very simple solution, Shyamala began
noticing the reaction of the others.
‘Where
would he go at this hour in the night?’ Himadri wanted to elaborate.
‘Somewhere
here, somebody’s house nearby,’ Shyamala faltered.
‘Then?’
Samiran looked at her with questioning eyes.
‘Mala
is correct, Duttababu might or might
not capture them, he could give them a scare.’ Rekha Gupta immediately got up
and went near the phone.
‘Aunty,
you do not know these people,’ Samiran got up. ‘They are not the sort to get
intimidated by Duttababu.’
I am trying to revive this thread, in spite of a whole lot of problems, especially those related to my father's illness (still very critical and under the supervision of two nurses though he is at home now). Only a short post for now.
Rekha Gupta had by then dialled the
number ‘50’ on the telephone. Resignedly, Samiran came into the room and parting
the curtains, looked outside. He could not see any of them after waiting for
some time. Instead, he saw a husband-wife and a small child walking along the
street. Curious to see if he could find out something by concealing himself
near the wall on the roof, he proceeded towards the stairs. As he was going
beside Aunty, he could hear her speaking, ‘I am telling you this, fantastic
hooligans, just the type you prefer.’
‘Aunty,
tell him that they have a pistol too,’ Shyamala said in an anxious voice.
‘No,
Duttababu might fly into a rage if he
hears all that,’ Samiran could hear Aunty saying, turning her face away and
keeping a hand on the receiver as he was rounding the stairs.
A
curtain was hanging on the door of Sunilbaran’s house. Through a small gap, Samiran
could see that his father, inclined on the table, was writing something. A total of two books were open in front of
him. After crossing the door cautiously, he crouched down and rested his eyes
on the edge of the wall.
Three
people were coming from the left side in a slow pace. A voice floated out from
the distance, ‘Hey! Hey!’
The
three of them turned around. Lifting his face a little, Samiran could make out
the stalwart figure of G.C. Dutta, wearing a lungi and a vest, coming forward at the pace of ‘begging’.
‘Who
are you, what are you doing here at this hour of the night?’ The loud voice of
Dutta drew forth the people of two buildings to their verandas, led to one of
the windows of the ground floor to be opened.
Samiran
could not hear what the three of them replied. That Dutta was not at all
satisfied with the answer was evident from his action. He suddenly grabbed hold
of the shirt collars of the two of them in a policeman like manner.
‘You think you can fool me? Do you think I
cannot understand your purpose? So many years in the police—‘Leaving
the sentence unfinished G.C. Dutta suddenly said ‘Hey, Hey, what is this’ in a
changed voice and clutched his lungi. The very next moment a guttural sound
like ‘eh-eh-eh’ emerged from his throat and he raised his hands over his head instantaneously.
The lungi had by then come down to his ankles.
G.C.
Dutta said something pleadingly. Bapi’s voice could be heard, “Pick it up and
tie it.”
One
of the boys picked up the lungi and fastened it at Dutta’s waist. Samiran could
now see the pistol in Bapi’s hand. Bapi was heard to say something. Dutta
turned round with his arms raised. The verandas of the first floors became
deserted in a moment, the window sills banged shut. Bapi whispered something into
Dutta’s ears and prodded at him with his pistol butt.
Immediately
G.C. Dutta began to retrace his steps homewards, his arms raised. Samiran could
very well realize that had G.C. Dutta not been such a helpful, earnest,
generous person, he would never have rushed out of his house to lend a helping
hand on receiving the phone at such an hour. But he had no connection with the
altered reality. He was still living in the age of the khokagundas and had never faced the likes of hooligans like Bapi.
I know I am responsible for this thread languishing, but believe me there have been so many interruptions in my personal and professional life that I simply could not go about the job. Even now there are umpteen problems but since I had promised to translate the complete story, I have been thinking of giving it another try.
However, I have to admit that there might be a number of intermissions as I often tend to lose focus at times. In fact, I have been feeling so low in recent times-- simply cannot concentrate neither on academic jobs nor personal ones--that I thought that trying to revive this thread (writing/translating has always been a passion) might help me, in whatever little way, to overcome my depression.
Concerned for you. Consider we at IFN around you always (even guys from rival clubs). But please continue your good work in this thread (and elsewhere).
PS: you have lot of pending work to catch up. Didn't finish Nabab da's interview in United SC thread also.
Comments
VII
After alighting from the car, Samiran opened the gate and pressed the door-bell. Curtains were drawn across all the windows, only the dining room was lighted. Glancing backwards, he saw that the five of them were observing him in front of the gate. In order to find out the time, he moved to the edge of the verandah and lifted his left hand in the street light. Two minutes past eight.
The street was deserted. Since it was film time on television, everything wore a desolate look. The windows of the adjoining houses were closed to prevent the entry of mosquitoes.
He again pressed the bell. Wasn’t there anybody in the house? He pressed his ears to the door, trying to find out the least sound. If all of them were watching the television in Auntie’s room, at least the sound of songs and dances or action scenes of Hindi movies would have floated out. Nothing of the sort could be heard. The TV was switched off.
Suddenly, the door opened. Sunilbaran. Samiran was bewildered on seeing his father.
‘What is the matter, you? Where are they all gone?’ Glancing backward for one moment, Samiran asked after closing the door. All the rooms were dark, only the dining room was lighted.
‘Kanu, Mala and Rekha have gone to Aniruddha Bhattacharya’s house. He has broken his leg after colliding with a cycle. They have gone to see him.’ Sunilbaran started climbing up the stairs.
Samiran started thinking quickly. What could be done now? He was virtually under house arrest. If he tried to escape, they would force him to get inside the house. In the morning he would be escorted into Bata Biswas’s pig sty.
Impossible.
If he said he would not play for Sarathi, he might be forcibly detained. But come what may, he had to reach Kozhikode within the 22nd. The camp for the Indian team would not continue for the whole year, at some point of time they would release the players. Then he had to return and play in Kolkata. Samiran was in a dilemma. He had to play either for Sarathi or Jatri. Whichever of the two clubs he played for, he had to get his name registered at IFA. He had heard that there had been a rule for the camp players under which they could get themselves registered even after the scheduled date.
He went to his room and moving the curtains apart, peered cautiously outside. He could see one of them on the opposite side of the street leaning on the gate of Amiya Chatterjee, who had a business in painting. He could not notice the other four. It seemed that they were strolling. If they all crowded together, people might suspect them as dacoits. But Samiran was quite sure that the people of the locality were all educated, hence they would not try to capture a dacoit. A little bit of courage was needed for that.
But he could not think of playing for any club in this manner. If he declined going with them in the morning? Samiran had no idea of what could happen then. He had heard that a similar sort of incident had happened with Hedayet Ali some six years back. Hedayet had wanted to sign for Jatri; Jupiter had forcibly taken him from Subodh Dhara’s Pataldanga house by bursting bombs. A pedestrian had even died in that incident. Dhara’s ground floor had been completely ravaged by these people.
If they too took recourse to such means. Samiran could feel his brain becoming numb. He gripped his head with both hands while sitting on the bed in that darkened room. It seemed that someone was advising him in hushed tones, ‘Escape, escape from here by any means. This very night.’ Bata Biswas’s words seemed to ring in his ears. ‘They would not hesitate in sacrificing their lives for you. Nor in taking lives.’ The implication was very clear.
The bloody, wounded bodies of his father, Auntie, Kanu, Mala flickered in his mind for a moment before they disappeared. He muttered to himself, ‘Why would these people be endangered because of me? This cannot happen, it simply cannot be. I am nothing without them; I have no existence without these people.’
Was just kidding. Extremely happy that you have taken up the unfinished job again, probably at the cost of your festive relaxations.
Samiran got up from the bed and parting the curtains, peered outside again. Not a single soul was present. What happened? Had they gone away? Should he go to the second floor terrace to have a look? Just as he was contemplating all these, he saw two people, speaking in low tones, walking before the house. He recognized one of them, Naran.
So, they were taking a stroll. Would they continue to do so throughout the whole night? Samiran could make neither head nor tail out of it. He started pacing the room.
All of a sudden the door-bell rang. Samiran sprang up and peered out of the window. The road was deserted. The sound of Hindi news being telecast on TV could be heard. Only a corner of the veranda could be glimpsed somehow. He sensed that his Auntie and the others had arrived.
No sooner did the bell ring for the second time than Samiran opened the door. Auntie, Mala and Kanu were standing. He glanced at the gate behind the three of them. It seemed that someone quickly ducked out of view in the street.
‘Talk of Bhattacharya-da and his doings. A cycle-rickshaw has gone over his legs,’ Rekha Gupta could hardly control her laughter.
‘He is screaming so much as if his leg has been split into two,’ said Shyamala.
‘Dada, how have your talks been progressing? How much did they offer you?’ Himadri inquired.
‘Sit down, all of you. We are in danger. Did you see someone roaming the streets?’ Seeing Samiran’s hushed tone and anxiety-ridden face, the expression of the other three also changed.
‘Why, what is the danger?’ Rekha Gupta’s voice quivered with an unknown fear.
‘Saw two people following us on the street…And another man was there at the bend near the house which has a dog. Can’t remember seeing anyone else,’ Shyamala said, trying to refresh her memory.
‘Those guys are hooligans, there are five of them, they are Bata Biswas’s men, and they have brought me here.’
‘Eh, why?’
‘Ah, Aunty, please speak in a low voice,’ Shyamala issued a soft threat.
‘They would keep a guard on me the whole night. They would escort me back to Bata Biswas tomorrow morning.’
‘Why?’ Himadri asked.
‘I have to play for Sarathi. They will not leave me. I have come home only on the condition that I would talk with Aunty and convey my decision to them tomorrow. They are here to prevent me lest I give them the slip and steal away to the Jatri camp. I have seen that one of them has a pistol,’ Samiran said in a slow, silent voice. No one uttered a word. None of them were in a position to talk, shocked as they were at the suddenness of the incident.
‘Is there anarchy here?’ Himadri roared. ‘Am I not at liberty to play where I wish? Somebody would force me to play and I have to play there?’
Samiran only stared at his brother’s face silently. Rekha Gupta asked desperately, ‘Couldn’t we inform the police?’
‘What will the police do?’ Samiran asked.
‘Arrest them.’
‘For what crime?’
‘For forcibly taking you with them.’
‘Where is the proof that they want to abduct me? The police do not arrest anybody merely on the basis of assumptions.’ Samiran sounded frustrated. ‘Also, they could carry out an attack on you. If only I could escape—.’
‘Aunty, G.C Dutta was a police officer, couldn’t we approach him?’ Shyamala said.
‘What would he do?’ Himadri asked, rather slightingly.
‘He says that he had captured some pistol-wielding Khoka-gunda once. Here too there is a man with a pistol, he can get hold of him, and Dada could slip out of the house in the meantime.’ Having proffered a very simple solution, Shyamala began noticing the reaction of the others.
‘Where would he go at this hour in the night?’ Himadri wanted to elaborate.
‘Somewhere here, somebody’s house nearby,’ Shyamala faltered.
‘Then?’ Samiran looked at her with questioning eyes.
‘Mala is correct, Duttababu might or might not capture them, he could give them a scare.’ Rekha Gupta immediately got up and went near the phone.
‘Aunty, you do not know these people,’ Samiran got up. ‘They are not the sort to get intimidated by Duttababu.’
Rekha Gupta had by then dialled the number ‘50’ on the telephone. Resignedly, Samiran came into the room and parting the curtains, looked outside. He could not see any of them after waiting for some time. Instead, he saw a husband-wife and a small child walking along the street. Curious to see if he could find out something by concealing himself near the wall on the roof, he proceeded towards the stairs. As he was going beside Aunty, he could hear her speaking, ‘I am telling you this, fantastic hooligans, just the type you prefer.’
‘Aunty, tell him that they have a pistol too,’ Shyamala said in an anxious voice.
‘No, Duttababu might fly into a rage if he hears all that,’ Samiran could hear Aunty saying, turning her face away and keeping a hand on the receiver as he was rounding the stairs.
A curtain was hanging on the door of Sunilbaran’s house. Through a small gap, Samiran could see that his father, inclined on the table, was writing something. A total of two books were open in front of him. After crossing the door cautiously, he crouched down and rested his eyes on the edge of the wall.
Three people were coming from the left side in a slow pace. A voice floated out from the distance, ‘Hey! Hey!’
The three of them turned around. Lifting his face a little, Samiran could make out the stalwart figure of G.C. Dutta, wearing a lungi and a vest, coming forward at the pace of ‘begging’.
‘Who are you, what are you doing here at this hour of the night?’ The loud voice of Dutta drew forth the people of two buildings to their verandas, led to one of the windows of the ground floor to be opened.
Samiran could not hear what the three of them replied. That Dutta was not at all satisfied with the answer was evident from his action. He suddenly grabbed hold of the shirt collars of the two of them in a policeman like manner.
‘You think you can fool me? Do you think I cannot understand your purpose? So many years in the police—‘Leaving the sentence unfinished G.C. Dutta suddenly said ‘Hey, Hey, what is this’ in a changed voice and clutched his lungi. The very next moment a guttural sound like ‘eh-eh-eh’ emerged from his throat and he raised his hands over his head instantaneously. The lungi had by then come down to his ankles.
G.C. Dutta said something pleadingly. Bapi’s voice could be heard, “Pick it up and tie it.”
One of the boys picked up the lungi and fastened it at Dutta’s waist. Samiran could now see the pistol in Bapi’s hand. Bapi was heard to say something. Dutta turned round with his arms raised. The verandas of the first floors became deserted in a moment, the window sills banged shut. Bapi whispered something into Dutta’s ears and prodded at him with his pistol butt.
Immediately G.C. Dutta began to retrace his steps homewards, his arms raised. Samiran could very well realize that had G.C. Dutta not been such a helpful, earnest, generous person, he would never have rushed out of his house to lend a helping hand on receiving the phone at such an hour. But he had no connection with the altered reality. He was still living in the age of the khokagundas and had never faced the likes of hooligans like Bapi.
I know I am responsible for this thread languishing, but believe me there have been so many interruptions in my personal and professional life that I simply could not go about the job. Even now there are umpteen problems but since I had promised to translate the complete story, I have been thinking of giving it another try.
However, I have to admit that there might be a number of intermissions as I often tend to lose focus at times. In fact, I have been feeling so low in recent times-- simply cannot concentrate neither on academic jobs nor personal ones--that I thought that trying to revive this thread (writing/translating has always been a passion) might help me, in whatever little way, to overcome my depression.
If you are interested, please reply
Thank you all!!